lancashire idylls. by marshall mather, author of 'life and teachings of john ruskin,' 'popular studies in nineteenth century poets,' etc., etc. london: frederick warne and co. and new york. . introduction. while edwin waugh and ben brierley have done much to perpetuate the rude moorland and busy factory life of lancashire, little has been done to perpetuate the stern puritanism of the hill sects. among these sects there is a poetry and simplicity local in character, yet delightful in spirit; and to recall and record it is the aim of the following idylls. the provincialism of lancashire varies with its valleys. it is only necessary, therefore, to remark that as these idylls are drawn from a once famous valley in the north-east division of the county, the provincialism is peculiar to that valley--indeed, it would be more correct to say, to that section of the valley wherein rehoboth lies. contents. i. mr. penrose's new parish: . a moorland machpelah . a child of the heather . owd enoch's flute ii. the money-lender: . the uttermost farthing . the redemption of moses fletcher . the atonement of moses fletcher iii. amanda stott: . home . light at eventide . the court of souls . the old pastor iv. saved as by fire v. winter sketches: . the candle of the lord . the two mothers . the snow cradle vi. miriam's motherhood: . a woman's secret . how deborah heard the news . 'it's a lad!' . the lead of the little one vii. how malachi o' th' mount won his wife viii. mr. penrose brings home a bride i. mr. penrose's new parish. . a moorland machpelah. . a child of the heather. . owd enoch's flute. lancashire idylls. i. a moorland machpelah. there was a sepulchral tone in the voice, and well there might be, for it was a voice from the grave. floating on the damp autumnal air, and echoing round the forest of tombs, it died away over the moors, on the edge of which the old god's-acre stood. though far from melodious, it was distinct enough to convey to the ear the words of a well-known hymn--a hymn sung in jerky fragments, the concluding syllable always rising and ending with a gasp, as though the singer found his task too heavy, and was bound to pause for breath. the startled listener was none other than mr. penrose, the newly-appointed minister, who was awaiting a funeral, long overdue. looking round, his already pale face became a shade paler as he saw no living form, other than himself. there he stood, alone, a stranger in this moorland haunt, amid falling shadows and rounding gloom, mocked by the mute records and stony memorials of the dead. again the voice was heard--another hymn, and to a tune as old as the mossed headstones that threw around their lengthening shadows. 'i'll praise my maker--while i've breath,' followed by a pause, as though breath had actually forsaken the body of the singer. but in a moment or two the strain continued: 'and when my voice--is lost in death.' whereon the sounds ceased, and there came a final silence, death seeming to take the singer at his word. as mr. penrose looked in the direction from which the voice travelled, he saw a shovel thrown out of a newly-made grave, followed by the steaming head and weather-worn face of old joseph, the sexton, all aglow with the combined task of grave-digging and singing. 'why, joseph, is it you? i couldn't tell where the sound came from. it seems, after all, the grave can praise god, although the prophet tells us it cannot. do you always sing at your work?' 'partly whod. you see it's i' this way, sir,' said joseph; 'grave-diggin's hard wark, and if a felley doesn'd sing a bit o'er it he's like baan to curse, so i sings to stop swears. there's a fearful deal o' oaths spilt in a grave while it's i' th' makin', i can tell yo'; and th' almeety's name is spoken more daan i' th' hoile than it is up aboon, for all th' parson reads it so mich aat of his book. but this funeral's baan to be lat', mr. penrose'; and drawing a huge watch from his fob, he exclaimed: 'another ten minutes and there's no berryin' i' th' yard this afternoon.' 'i don't understand you, joseph,' said mr. penrose wonderingly. 'we never berry here after four o'clock.' 'but there's no law forbidding a funeral at any hour that i know of--is there?' 'there is wi' me. i'm maisther o' this berryin' hoile, whatever yo' may be o' th' chapel. but they're comin', so i'll oppen th' chapel durs.' old joseph, as he was called, had been grave-digger at rehoboth for upwards of fifty years, and so rooted were his customs that none cared to call them in question. for minister and deacons he showed little respect. boys and girls fled from before his shadow; and the village mothers frightened their offspring when naughty by threatening to 'fotch owd joseph to put them in th' berryhoile.' the women held him in awe, declaring that he sat up at night in the graveyard to watch for corpse-candles. even the shrewd and hard-headed did not care to thwart him, preferring to be friends rather than foes. fathers, sons and sons' sons--generation after generation--had been laid to rest by the sinewy arms of joseph. they came, and they departed; but he, like the earth, remained. a gray, gaunt tithonus, him 'only cruel immortality consumed.' the graveyard at rehoboth was his kingdom. here, among the tombs, he reigned with undisputed sway. whether marked by lettered stone or grassy mound, it mattered little--he knew where each rude forefather of the hamlet lay. rich in the family lore of the neighbourhood, he could trace back ancestry and thread his way through the maze of relationship to the third and fourth generations. he could recount the sins which had hurried men to untimely graves, and point to the spot where their bones were rotting; and he could tell of virtues that made the memory of the mouldering dust more fragrant than the sweetbriar and the rose that grew upon the graves. there was one rule which old joseph would never break, and that was that there should be no interments after four o'clock. plead with him, press him, threaten him, it was to no purpose; flinch he would not for rich or for poor, for parson or for people. more than once he had driven the mourners back from the gates, and one winter's afternoon, when the corpse had been brought a long distance, it was left for the night in a neighbouring barn. upon this occasion a riot was with difficulty averted. but old joseph stood firm, and at the risk of his life carried the day. this was long years ago. now, throughout the whole countryside it was known that no corpse passed through rehoboth gates after four o'clock. * * * * * 'you'll happen look in an' see th' owd woman afore yo' go wom',' said joseph to mr. penrose, as the minister finished his entry of the funeral in the chapel register, 'hoo's nobbud cratchenly (shaky).' joseph and his wife lived in the lower room of a three-storied cottage at the end of the chapel, the second and third stories of the said cottage being utilized by the rehoboth members as sunday-schools. entering, mr. penrose saw the old woman crouching over the hearth and doing her best to feed the fast-dying fires of her vitality. as she raised her wrinkled face, crowned with white hair and covered with a coloured kerchief, a gray shawl wrapped round her lean and stooping shoulders, she smiled a welcome, and bade him be seated. 'so yo'n put away owd chris,' she said, as soon as mr. penrose had taken his seat by her side. 'well, he were awlus one for sleepin'. th' owd felley would a slept on a clooas-line if he could a' fun nowhere else to lay hissel. but he'll sleep saander or ever naa. they'll bide some wakkenin' as sleep raand here, mr. penrose. did he come in a yerst, or were he carried?' 'he was carried,' answered the minister, somewhat in uncertainty as to the meaning of the old woman's question. 'i were awlus for carryin'. i make nowt o' poor folk apein' th' quality, and when they're deead and all. them as keeps carriages while they're wick can ride in yersts to their berryin' if they like, it's nowt to me; but when i dee i's be carried, and noan so far, noather.' this moralizing on funerals by the sexton's wife was a new phase of life to mr. penrose. he had never before met with anyone who took an interest in the matter. it was true that in the city from which he had lately come the question of wicker coffins and of cremation was loudly discussed; but the choice between a hearse and 'carrying' as a means of transit to the tomb never dawned on him as being anything else than a question of utility--the speediest and easiest means of transit. after the deliverance of her mind on the snobbishness of poor people in the use of the hearse, she continued: 'it'll noan be so long afore they've to carry me, mr. penrose. i towd joseph yesterneet that his turn 'ud soon come to dig my grave wi' th' rest; and he said, "when thy turn comes, lass, i'll do by thee as thou'd be done by."' 'and how would you be done by?' asked the minister. 'well, it's i' this way, mr. penrose,' said the old woman. 'i want a dry grave, wi' a posy growin' on th' top. i somehaa like posies on graves; they mak' me think of th' owd hymn, '"there everlastin' spring abides, and never-witherin' flaars."' now, mr. penrose was one of the so-called theological young bloods, and held little sympathy with dr. watts's sensuous views of a future state. his common-sense, however, and his discretion came to his rescue, and delivered him from a strong temptation to blast the old woman's paradise with a breath of negative criticism. 'there's a grave daan at th' bottom o' th' yard, mr. penrose, where th' sunleet rests from morn till neet, an' i've axed joseph to lay me there, for it's welly awlus warm, and flaars grow from kesmas to kesmas. th' doctor's little lass lies there. yo never knowd her, mr. penrose. hoo were some pratty, bless her! did yo' ever read what her faither put o'er th' top o' th' stone?' mr. penrose confessed he was in ignorance of the epitaph over the grave of the doctor's child. as yet the history and romance of the graveyard were unknown to him. 'well, it's this,' continued his informant: '"such lilies th' angels gather for th' garden of god." they'll never write that o'er me, mr. penrose. i'm nobbud a withered stalk. hoo were eight--i'm eighty. but for all that i should like a flaar on mi grave, and joseph says i shall hev one.' * * * * * the autumn gave place to a long and cheerless winter, which all too slowly yielded to a late and nipping spring. the wild march wind swept across the moors, roaring loudly around the old conventicle, chasing the last year's leaves in a mad whirl among the rows of headstones, and hissing, as though in anger, through the rank grasses growing on the innumerable mounds that marked the underlying dead, and then careering off, as though wrathful at its powerlessness to disturb the sleepers, to distant farmsteads and lone folds where starved ewes cowered with their early lambs under shivering thorns, and old men complained of the blast that roused the slumbering rheum and played havoc with their feeble frames. scanty snow showers fell late under 'the roaring moon of daffodil,' whitening the moorlands and lying glistening in the morning light, to be gathered up by the rays of the sun that day by day climbed higher in the cold blue of the sky of spring. young blades of green lay scattered like emerald shafts amid the tawny wastes of the winter grass, and swelling branches told of a year's returning life. just as the golden chalice of the first crocus opened on the graves of the rehoboth burial-yard, the old woman at the chapel-house died. * * * * * the funeral was to take place at three o'clock, but long before the hour old joseph's kitchen was filled with a motley group of mourners. they came from far and near, from moor and field, and from the cottages over the way. every branch of the family was represented--sons and daughters, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, even to babies in arms. as they straggled in, the women attired in their best black, and the men wearing their top-hats (a headgear worn by the lancashire operative only on the state occasion of funerals), it seemed as though old joseph, like abraham, was the father of a race as the stars of heaven for multitude, and as the sands by the seashore, innumerable. an oppressive atmosphere filled the room, where, on a table under the window, the open coffin rested, in which lay, exposed to all eyes, the peaceful features and straightened limbs of the dead. as the mourners entered they bent reverently over the corpse, and moistened its immobile features with their tears, whispering kindly words as to the appearance the old woman wore in death, and calling to mind some characteristic grace and virtue in her past life. on another table was stacked a number of long clay pipes with tobacco, from which the men assisted themselves, smoking with the silence and stolidity of indians, the women preserving the same mute attitude, save for an occasional groan and suppressed sigh--the feminine method in lancashire of mourning for the dead. the last mourners had long arrived, and the company was seated in an attitude of hushed and painful expectancy for the officiating minister. there was no sign, however, of his appearance; and the mourners asked themselves in silence if he who was to perform the final rites for the dead had forgotten the hour or the day. the fingers of the old clock slowly crept along the dial-plate towards four, the hour so relentlessly enforced for interments for half a century by the sexton, who was now about to lay away his own wife in the greedy maw of the grave. the monotonous oscillation of the pendulum, sounding as the stroke of a passing bell, gathered solemnity of tone in the felt hush that rested upon all in the room--a hush as deep as that which rested upon the dead. all eyes, under the cover of stealthily drooping lids, stole glances at old joseph, whose face fought hard to hide the emotions running like pulsing tides beneath the surface. at last a woman, whose threescore years and ten was the only warrant for her rude interruption, exclaimed: 'wheer's th' parson? hes he forgetten, thinksto?' 'mr. penrose is ill i' bed,' replied old joseph, 'but i seed mr. hanson fra burnt hill chapel, and he promised as he'd be here in his place.' the clock beat out its seconds with the same monotonous sound, and the finger crept towards the fateful hour. then came the wheeze and whir preliminary to the strokes of four, conveying to familiar ears that only eight more minutes remained. at this warning joseph arose from his seat, and, walking out into the graveyard, made direct to an eminence overlooking the long trend of road, and, raising one hand to shade his now failing sight, looked down the valley to see if the minister was on his way to the grave. it was in vain. tears began to dim his sight, and for a moment the man overcame the sexton. the struggle was but brief; in another moment he was again the sexton. returning to the cottage, he scarcely reached the threshold before he cried out, with all the firmness of his cruelly professional tones: 'parson or no parson, aat o' this dur (door) hoo goes at four o'clock.' as the clock struck the fateful hour the old woman was carried to her grave; and as they lowered her, joseph, with uncovered head, let fall the clods from his own hand, repeating, in a hoarse yet tremulous voice, the words: 'earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.' in another moment the old sexton reeled, and fell into the arms of the men who stood near him. it was but a passing weakness, for he soon pulled himself together, and accompanied the mourners to the funeral tea, which was served in a neighbouring house. never afterwards, however, was old joseph heard to rail at mourners when late, or known to close the rehoboth gates against an overdue funeral. ii. a child of the heather. 'what, milly! sitting in the dark?' asked mr. penrose, as he entered the chamber of the suffering child, who was gazing through the open window at the silent stars. 'i were just lookin' at th' parish candles, as my faither co's 'em; they burn breetsome to-neet, sir.' 'looking at them, or looking for them?' queried the somewhat perplexed divine. 'can i bring the candles to you?' 'yo' cornd bring 'em ony nearer than they are. they're up yon, sithi,' and so saying the child pointed to the evening sky. 'so you call the stars "parish candles," do you?' smilingly inquired mr. penrose. 'i never heard them called by that name before.' 'it's my faither co's 'em "parish candles," not me,' said the child. 'and what do you call them?' 'happen if i tell yo' yo'll laugh at me, as my faither does.' 'no, i shall not. you need not be afraid.' 'well, i co 'em angels' een (eyes).' 'a far prettier name than your father gives to them, milly.' 'an' what dun yo' think hoo co's th' dew as it lies fresh on th' moors in a mornin'?' asked the mother, who was sitting in one of the shadowed corners of the room. 'i cannot say, i am sure, mrs. lord. milly has such wonderful names for everything.' 'why, hoo co's it angels' tears, and says it drops daan fro' th' een o' them as watches fro' aboon at the devilment they see on th' earth.' 'milly, you are a poetess!' exclaimed the delighted minister. 'but do you really think the angels weep? would it not destroy the joy of that place where sorrow and sighing are no more?' 'well, yo' see, it's i' this road, mr. penrose. they say as th' angels are glad when bad folk turn good, and i suppose they'll fret theirsels a bit if th' bad folk keeps bad; and there's mony o' that mak' abaat here.' mr, penrose was silent. once more milly was, unknown to herself furnishing him with thoughts; for, again and again, from the sickbed of this child had he gone forth with fresh fields of revelation opening before him. true, the idea of heaven's grief at earth's sin was not a pleasant one; but if joy at righteousness and repentance, why not grief at wickedness and hardness of heart? while thus musing in the quiet of the darkening chamber, milly turned from her contemplation of the stars with the somewhat startling question: 'mr. penrose, dun yo' think there'll be yethbobs (tufts of heather) i' heaven?' 'that's bothered her a deal latly,' broke in the mother, with a choking voice. 'hoo sez hoo noan cares for heaven if hoo cornd play on th' moors, and yer th' wind, and poo yethbobs when hoo gets there. what dun yo' think abaat it, mr. penrose?' mr. penrose was not long from college, and the metaphysics and dogmatics of the schools were more to his mind than the poetry and religion of this moorland child. if asked to discourse on personality, or expound the latest phase of german thought, he would have felt himself at home. here, however, he who was the idol of the class-room sat silenced and foolish before a peasant girl. true, he could enter into an argument for a future state, and show how spiritual laws opposed the mundane imagination of the child. but, after all, wherein was the use?--perhaps the child was nearer the truth than he was himself. he would leave her to her own pristine fancies. in a moment milly continued: 'th' bible says, mr. penrose, that i' heaven there's a street paved wi' gowd (gold). naa; i'd raither hev a meadow wi' posies, or th' moors when they're covered wi' yethbobs. if heaven's baan to be all streets, i'd as soon stop o' this side--though they be paved wi' gowd an' o'.' 'listen yo', how hoo talks, mr. penrose. hoo's awlus talked i' that feshion sin' hoo were a little un. aar owd minister used to co her "god's child."' mr. penrose was a young man, and thought that 'nature's child' would be, perhaps, a more fitting name, but held his thought unuttered. wishing milly and her mother a 'good-night,' he descended the old stone staircase to the kitchen, where abraham lord sat smoking and looking gloomily into the embers of the fire. 'has th' missus towd thee ought abaat aar milly?' somewhat sullenly interrogated the father. 'nothing of any moment,' said mr. penrose. 'of course she could not; we were never together out of your daughter's presence.' 'then aw'll tell thee. milly's baan to-morn to th' infirmary to hev her leg tan off.' the strong man shook in the convulsive grip of his grief. no tears came to his relief; the storm was deep down in his soul; outlet there was none. 'mr. penrose,' said he, laying a hand on the minister's shoulder; 'mr. penrose, if i'd ha' known afore i were wed that gettin' wed meant a child o' mine being tan fro' me and cut i' pieces by them doctor chaps, i'd never ha' wed, fond o' martha as i wor and am. no, mr. penrose, i never would. they might tak' me, and do what they'n a mind wi' me, at their butcherin' shops. but her--' here the strong man was swept by another convulsive storm of feeling too deep for utterance. subduing his passion by a supreme effort of will, he continued: 'however, them as knows best says as it's her only chance, and i'm noan goin' agen it. i shall go daan wi' her mysel' to-morn.' * * * * * milly, or 'th' little lass o' lord's,' as the villagers called her, was one of those phenomenal child personalities which now and again visit this world as though to defy all laws of heredity, and remind the selfish and the mighty of that kingdom in which the little one is ruler. a bright, bonny, light-haired girl--the vital feelings of delight pulsed through all her being. born amid the moorlands, cradled in the heather, nourished on the breezy heights of rehoboth, she grew up an ideal child of the hills. for years her morning baptism had been a frolic across the dewy uplands; and, evening by evening, the light of setting suns kindled holy fires in her rapturous and wonder-filled eyes. the native heart, too, was in touch with the native heath; for milly's nature was deeply poetic, many of her questions betraying a disposition and sympathy strangely out of harmony with the kindly, yet rude, stock from which she sprang. from a toddling child her eye carried sunshine and her presence peace. unconsciously she leavened the whole village, and toned much of the harsh calvinism that knit together its iron creed. there was not one who did not in some way respond to the magic of her voice, her mood, her presence. even joseph softened as she stood by the yawning graves which he was digging, and questioned him as to the dying and the dead. the old pastor, mr. morell, stern man that he was, used to put his hand on her head, and call her his 'goldilocks'; and he had once been heard to say, after leaving her, 'and a little child shall lead them.' though somewhat lonely, there was neither priggishness nor precocity in her disposition; she was just herself--unspoiled from the hands of god and of nature. shortly after her twelfth birthday she was caught on the moors by a heavy autumnal shower, and, unwilling to miss her ramble by returning home, pursued her way drenched to the skin. a severe illness was the consequence, an illness which left a weakness in her knee, eventually incapacitating her for all exercise whatever, and keeping her a prisoner to the house. the village doctor laboured long, but in vain was all his skill. at last a specialist from the great city beyond the hills was called, who ordered the child to be removed to the royal infirmary, where care, skill, and nourishment would all be within easy reach. so it came to pass one summer morning, as the sun lighted up the wide moors, and the hum of the factories in the valley began to be carried upwards towards the heights, a little crowd of folks gathered round the door of abraham lord's cottage to take a farewell of 'th' little lass.' about eight o'clock the doctor drove up, and in a few moments milly was carried in his and her father's strong arms and gently laid in the cushioned carriage, and then slowly driven away from the home which now for the first time in her life she was leaving. the eyes of the onlookers were as moist as the dewy herbage on which they stood, and many a voice trembled in the farewell given in response to milly's 'good-bye.' throughout the whole of that dark day milly's mother never left the cottage; and when her husband, weary and dispirited, returned at nightfall, she could scarcely nerve herself to question him lest some word of his should add another stab to her already sorely wounded heart. when ten o'clock struck, and abraham lord laid his hand on the key to shoot the lock for the night, he burst into tears, and turning to his wife, said: 'never, my lass, wi' milly on th' wrong side'; and for months the parents slept with an unbarred door. * * * * * 'you have a remarkable patient in milly lord,' said dr. franks to nurse west one morning. 'i have indeed, doctor. i never met with another like her in all my seven years' experience.' 'does she talk much?' 'at times. but i should call her a silent child; at least, she does not talk like other children. when she does talk it is to make some quaint remark, or to ask some strange question.' 'ah,' said the doctor, 'she's just asked me one. i referred her to you and the chaplain. religion, you know, is not much in my line. but for all that, i must own it was a perplexing question.' 'might i ask what it was, doctor?' 'oh! she asked if i thought jesus was sent here to suffer pain in order that god might find out what pain was; and if so, was it not queer that god should allow so much pain to exist. there now, nurse, you have a problem. by the way, do you think the child knows the limb has to be amputated?' 'she has guessed as much, doctor.' 'does she seem to fear the operation?' 'not at all. she talks as though it had to be. do you think it will be successful?' dr. franks shrugged his shoulders, uttering no word by way of reply. 'i should not like milly to slip from us,' continued the nurse. 'nor should i. we'll keep her if we can, and if she'll only help us with a good heart we may possibly manage to pull her through.' and with a mirthless laugh the doctor turned on his heel, removing, when unobserved, his spectacles and wiping the moisture from them and from his eyes. from the day that milly entered the great infirmary, the charm of her childhood laid its spell upon all who came near her. not only was the gloomy ward brighter for her presence, but patients and nurses were infected with her strange personality and undefinable influence. even the doctors lingered a moment longer at her bedside, looking pensively into the light of those eyes whose fires had been kindled under sunny skies, and at the beauty of that face, kissed into loveliness by the wandering winds that played around rehoboth heights. at last the morning of the operation came, and milly was wheeled into the theatre, where a crew of noisy students were joking and indulging in the frolics which, from time immemorial, have been the privilege of their order. as soon, however, as they caught sight of the child every voice was hushed, and quietness prevailed, for not a few already knew something of her winsomeness and beauty. as she was placed on the operating-table the sunlight fell through the lanthorn, and lighted up the golden clusters of her hair, the welcome rays calling forth from her now pale features a responsive smile. in another minute she lay peaceful and motionless under the anæsthetic--a statue, immobile, yet expressionful, as though carved by some master hand. a burly-looking surgeon, with the sleeves of his operating coat neatly turned up, approached the table on which milly was stretched, and in a business-like manner set about his task. carefully handling one of his cold and glittering instruments, he paused; then bending himself over the patient, appeared as though about to make the first incision, yet hesitated. 'what is the matter with old rogers?' asked the students, under their breath; and one or two of the doctors looked knowingly at each other. there was nothing the matter, however, with old rogers for long. he merely muttered something about it being a shame to cut into such flesh as milly's, and proceeded to go calmly through his work, like the old hand that he was. the operation was successful, and yet milly seemed to make no satisfactory progress. the old flow of life returned not, and a settled gloom rested over her once merry heart. she was as one suffering from an indefinable hunger; even she herself knew not what it was she wanted. unremitting was the attention shown, nurses and doctors alike doing their utmost, even to works of supererogation, on her behalf. week by week her parents visited her, while there was not a patient in the ward who would not have sacrificed a half of her own chances of recovery, if by so doing she could have ensured hers. all, however, seemed in vain; rally she could not. the ward oppressed her, and the gloomy autumn clouds that hung over the wilderness of warehouses upon which her eye rested day by day canopied her with despair. she listened for the wind--but all she heard was its monotonous hum along the telegraph wires that stretched overhead. she looked for the birds--but all she saw was the sooty-winged house-sparrow that perched upon the eaves. she longed for the stars--but the little area of sky that grudgingly spared itself for her gaze was oftener clouded than clear as the night hour drew on. the truth was, she was pining for her native heath; but she knew it not, nor did her kindly ministrants. in the next bed to milly's lay a young woman slowly dying of an internal malady, whose home, too, was far away among the moors, and whose husband came week by week to visit her. on one of these visits he brought with him a bunch of flowers--for the most part made up of the 'wildings of nature'--among which was a tuft of heather in all the glory of its autumnal bloom. turning towards the sick child, the poor woman reached out her wasted arm, and throwing a spray on to milly's counterpane, said: 'here, lass, i'll gi' thee that.' in a moment milly's eyes flashed light, and the bloom of the moorland flower reflected itself in the blush of her cheeks. throwing up both hands, and wild with a tide of new life, she cried: 'nurse! nurse! sithee--a yethbob--a yethbob!' from that hour commenced milly's convalescence. what medicine and nursing failed to accomplish was carried to a successful issue by 'a tuft of heather.' for milly did not die--indeed, she still lives; and although unable to roam and romp the moors that lie in great sweeps around her cottage home, she sits and looks at 'th' angels' een'--as she still calls the stars--believing that in those heavenly watchers are the eyes that slumber not, nor sleep. iii. owd enoch's flute. it was a sunny afternoon in june, and old enoch, sitting in the shade of the garden bushes, called forth sweet tones from his flute. no score was before him; that from which he played was scored on his heart. being in that sweet mood when 'pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind,' he was living over again, in the melodies that he played, his chequered past. forms moved before him to the music, and faces, long since dust, smiled at him, and held converse with him, as the plaintive notes rose and fell and died away. winds, sweetened by their sweep over miles of ling and herbage, and spiced with the scents of the garden-flowers that like a zone of colour encircled him, kissed his lips, and stole therefrom his melodies, bearing them onwards to the haunts of the wild fowl, or letting them fall where brooklets from the hills sang their silvery songs. along the path by which he sat, all fringed with london-pride, the leaves spread dappled shadows--a mosaic of nature fit for the tread of angels or the dance of fairy sprites. beyond the fence that fringed the little cottage rolled great waves of upland, shimmering in the heat of the midsummer glare--that hot breathing of the earth when wooed too fiercely by her wanton paramour, the sun--while the horizon discovered lines of dreamy sweep all crowned with haze, the vestibules to other hills grander and more distant. as the afternoon passed its golden hours, it passed them in companionship with the notes of old enoch's flute. oblivious to the time, oblivious to the surroundings, the musician heard not an approaching step, nor knew that a listener stood behind the garden bushes, with ear responsive to his melodies. how long he would have played, how long his listener would have remained undiscovered, it is hard to say--perhaps until the dews fell and the stars glimmered. this was not to be, however, for forth from the cottage door came his wife, who, with voice drowning the strain of the flute, cried: 'enoch, owd lad! dun yo' see th' parson?' ah, heedless enoch! what was parson, what was wife to him? was he not soaring far above theologies and domesticities, over continents traversed only by memory, amid ideals seen only with the eye of hope? but a woman's voice!--what is there it cannot shatter and dispel? 'enoch! enoch! dun yo' yer? doesto see th' parson?' 'no, lass, i doan't,' said he, taking the flute from his lips. 'i welly think he's forgetten us this time, enoch.' 'nod he, lass; he's too fond o' thi butter-cakes and moufins (muffins) to forgeet. he's some fond o' thi bakin', i con tell thaa. didn't he say as when he geet wed he'd bring his missis to thee to larn haa to mak' bread?' 'yi, he did, for sure!' 'and so he will,' said mr. penrose, stepping from behind the garden bush. 'you see your husband is right, mrs. ashworth. i've not forgotten it is baking-day, or that i was due at your house to tea.' 'theyer, enoch, thaa sees what thi tootling on th' owd flute's done for thee,' said the old woman, in her surprise and chagrin. 'thaa cornd be too careful haa thaa talks. thaa sees trees hes yers as weel as stoan walls.' 'ne'er mind, mr. penrose; i were nobbud hevin' her on a bit. hoo thinks a mighty lot o' parsons, i con tell yo'. hoo's never reet but when hoo's oather listenin' to 'em or feedin' 'em,' and the old man quietly broke into a laugh. 'an' dun yo' know what he sez abaat parsons, mr. penrose? i mud as weel tell tales abaat him naa he's started tellin' tales abaat me.' mr. penrose declared he had no idea what old enoch's criticisms on the members of the cloth were, but expressed a strong desire to be made familiar with them. 'weel,' continued mrs. ashworth, 'he sez as he never noather flatters parsons nor women, for noather on 'em con ston' it. naa, then, what dun yo' mak' o' that?' 'he's very wise.' 'what saysto?' 'i only mean as far as the parsons are concerned. as to women--why, i suppose i must be silent.' 'ne'er mind, mr. penrose; tay's waitin', so come along. yo' cornd bridle women folks, and it's happen as weel yo' cornd; for if they mutn't talk they'd scrat, and that 'ud be a deal wur.' during tea mr. penrose apologized for hiding behind the bushes in the garden while old enoch was playing the flute: 'but,' continued he, 'the airs were so sweet that it would have been a sin to mar them by interruption.' upon hearing this enoch's eye brightened, and a flush of pride mantled on his cheek. these signs were at once detected by his quick-eyed wife, who broke out in a triumphant voice: 'an' that's him as wouldn't flatter parsons an' women, cose, as he sez, they cornd ston' it; and he's aside hissel cose yo've cracked up his playin', mr. penrose.' 'all reet, owd lass,' good-humouredly retorted enoch, looking love through his mild blue eyes at his wife, who knew so well how to defend her own, 'all reet; but if thaa durnd mind i'll tell mr. penrose abaat dickey o' wams.' 'an' i'll tell him abaat edge end "messiah," and thi marlock wi' th' owd piccolo.' 'supposing i hear both stories,' said the minister. 'then i can apply both, and judge between you.' 'oh! there's nowt in 'em,' replied enoch. 'sometimes, thaa knows, when hoo's a bit fratchy, i plague her wi' tellin' o' dickey o' wams, who wor talkin' abaat his wife's tantrums, when his maisther stopped him and said, "dickey, wherever did ta pike her up?" and he said, "oh, 'mang a lot more lumber up stackkirk way."' as this story was told with all the dry humour of which enoch possessed so large a share, both the old woman and mr. penrose crowned it with a hearty laugh, the minister turning to his hostess and saying: 'now, mrs. ashworth, it's your turn. what about the edge end "messiah"?' 'mun i tell him, enoch?' 'yi, owd lass; id 'll pleeas thee, and noan hurt me. brast (start) off.' 'well, yo' mun know, mr. penrose, they were givin' th' "messiah" at edge end. eh! dear, enoch,' sighed the old woman, stopping short in her story, 'it's thirty year sin' come next kesmas.' 'yi, lass, it is. there's some snow fallen sin' then.' 'there hes that, an' we've bed our share and o'. but, as i wor tellin' yo', mr. penrose, they wor givin' th' "messiah" at edge end, and bed just getten to "how beautiful are th' feet." naa, it wor arranged that aar enoch mud play th' piccolo accompaniment, and he started fairly weel. happen he wor a bit flat, for th' chapel wor very hot, an' most o' th' instruments aat o' pitch. but, as i say, he started fairly weel, when th' conductor, a chap fra manchester, who thought he knew summat, said, "hooisht, hooisht!" but th' owd lad stuck to his tune. then th' conductor banged his stick on th' music, and, wi' a face as red as a soudger's coite (soldier's coat), called aat agen, "hooisht! doesto yer?--hooisht!" but he'd mistaan his mon, mr. penrose, for enoch nobbud stopped short to say, "thee go on with thi conductin'. if hoo'll sing i'll play." and hoo did sing an' o'. an' enoch welly blew his lips off wi' playin', i con tell thi. but, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i' these parts after, and they never geet enoch to tak' th' piccolo accompaniment agen to "how beautiful are th' feet."' 'nowe, an' they never will. i somehaa think i had summat to do wi' spoilin' th' beauty of "their feet" that neet, mr. penrose, though i've played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin' then, an' mean to do agen.' after tea enoch took mr. penrose for a stroll over the moors. the sun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds, playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leading enoch to say to mr. penrose, 'theer's music for yo'.' the great hills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowly crossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea. along the crests of the far-off hills mystic colours were mingling, deepening, and fading away--the tremulous drapery woven by angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding his splendour and his strength. soft herbage yielded to the tread, and warm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green and gray and gold of what seemed to mr. penrose the shoreless waste of moor. on distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windows glowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low of kine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened into sweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of the evening wind. it was the hour when nature rests, and when man meditates--if the soul of meditation be his. after a silence of some minutes enoch turned to mr. penrose and said: 'jokin' aside, mr. penrose, that owd flute yo' yerd me playin' this afternoon is a part o' my life. let's sit daan i' this nook and i'll tell yo' all abaat it. three times in mi history it's bin mi salvation. th' first wor when i lost mi brass. we lived daan at th' brig then, and i ran th' factory. i wor thirty-five year owd, and hed a tidy bit o' brass, when they geet me to put a twothree hunderd in a speculation. ay, dear! i wor fool enugh not to let weel alone. i did as they wanted me. me, and bill stott's faither, and owd jerry o' th' moss went in together heavy, and we lost every farthin'. i shall never forgeet it. it wor sunday mornin' when th' news coome fro' th' lawyer. i wor i' bed when th' missis gav me th' letter, and i could tell by her face summat wor wrang. "what is it, lass?" i axed. "what a towd thee it would be," hoo said. "we are ruined." "thaa never sez so!" i shaated. "it's paper as says so," hoo said, "noan me," and hoo handed me th' lawyer's letter. i tried to get aat o' bed, mr. penrose, but when i set mi feet on th' floor, i couldn't ston'. "i've lost my legs, missis," i cried. "nay, lad, thank god, thaa's getten thi legs yet; it's thi brass thaa's lost!" i shall never forgeet those days. then came th' sale, and th' flittin', an' all th' black looks. yo' know yor friends when th' brass goes, mr. penrose. poverty's a rare hond for pikin' aat hypocrites. it maks no mistakes; it tells yo' who's who. we'd scarce a friend i' those days. i wor weeks and never held up mi yed, and noabry but th' missis to speak to. then it wor th' owd flute coome to mi help. i'd nobbud to tak' it up, and put it to mi lips, and it ud begin to speyk. yi, an' it cried an' o', and took my sorrow on itsel, and shifted it away fro' me. i've played o' th' neet thro' on these moors, mr. penrose, when i couldn't sleep i' bed, or stay i' th' haas. it's a grond thing, is music, when yo're brokken-hearted. if ever yo' marry and hev childer, teach 'em music--a chap as con play con feight th' devil so much better nor him as cornd.' old enoch took his cap from his head, and wiped his brow, and continued: 'th' flute were my salvation agen, mr. penrose, when our lad deed. he wor just one-and-twenty, and he's bin dead eighteen year. brass is nothin' when it comes to berryin' yor own, mr. penrose. poverty may touch a mon's pride, but death touches his heart. when yo' see yor own go aat o' th' haas feet fermost, and yo' know it's for good an' o', there's summat taan aat o' yo' that nothin' ever maks up for at afterwards. i wor a long time afore i forgave th' almeety for takin' aar joe. and all the time i owed him a grudge, and kep' on blamin' him like; i got wurr and wurr, until i welly went mad. then i coome across th' old flute, and it seemed to say, "i'll help thee agen." "nay, owd brid," i said, "tha cornd. it's noan brass this time, it's mi lad." and th' owd flute seemed to say, "try me." so i tuk it up, and put it to mi lips and blew--yi, aat of a sad heart, mr. penrose--but it wor reet. th' owd flute gi' me back mi prayer--grace for grace, as yo' parsons say, whatever yo' mean by't. and as i sat on th' bench i' th' garden--same bench as yo' saw me sittin' on this afternoon--my missis coome to th' dur, and hoo said, "enoch, what doesto think?" "nay, lass," i said, "i durnd know." "why," hoo says, "i think as thaa's fotched aar joe daan fro' heaven to hear thee playin'; he seems nearer to me naa nor he ever did sin' he left us." and so, ever afterwards, mr. penrose, when we want to feel aar joe near us, i just taks up th' flute and plays, and he awlus comes.' old enoch paused, for his voice was thick, and with his handkerchief he wiped away the moisture from his eyes. in another minute he continued: 'bud, mr. penrose, i'd a wurr trouble than oather o' those i've towd yo' on. a twothree year sin' i wor a reprobate. i don't know how it coom abaat, but somehaa i geet fond o' drink, and i tuk to stopping aat late, and comin' wom' rough like, and turnin' agen th' missus. they coom up to see me from rehoboth, and owd mr. morell prayed wi' me; but it wor all no use. th' devil hissel wor in me. they say, mr. penrose, as yo' durnd believe in a devil; that yo' co evil a principle or summat of that sort. if thaa'd bin like me thaa'd hev no doubts abaat a devil. i've felt him in me, an' i've felt him tak' howd o' me and do as he'd a mind wi' me. one day, when they'd crossed mi name off th' rehoboth register, and th' missus were sobbin' fit to break her heart, aw coom across th' owd flute as aw were rootin' in a box for some medicine. there it lay, long forgetten. as aw seed it, tears coom in my een. aw thought haa it bed helped mi when i lost o' mi brass, and when joe deed, and aw tuk it up and said, "can ta help me naa, thinksto?" an' aw put it together, and went aat on th' moors and began to play; and fro' that hour to this aw've never wanted to sup a drop o' drink. naa, mr. penrose, yo' preachers talk abaat th' cross, and it's o' reet that yo' should; but yo' cannot blame me for talkin' abaat my flute, con yo', when it's bin my salvation? and whenever awm a bit daanhearted, or hardhearted, or fratchy wi' th' missus, or plaguey wi' fo'k, aw goes to th' owd flute, and it helps me o'er th' stile. but it's gettin' lat'; let's be goin' wom'.' arriving at the cottage, enoch told his wife how he had given mr. penrose the history of his old flute, whereupon the good woman wept and said: 'him and me, mr. penrose, has many a time supped sorrow, but th' owd flute has awlus sweetened aar cup, hesn't it, enoch?' 'yi, lass, it awlus hes.' that night, before mr. penrose left the moorland cottage of the ashworths, old enoch took up the flute tenderly, and, with a far-off look in his eyes, commenced to play a plaintive air, which the old woman told mr. penrose was to 'their joe,' who was 'up aboon wi' jesus.' and as the minister descended the brow towards his own home, the sweet, sad music continued to fall in dying strains upon his ears; and that night, and many a night afterwards, did he vex his brain to find out why redemption should be wrought out by a flute, when the creed of rehoboth was powerless. ii. the money-lender. . the uttermost farthing. . the redemption of moses fletcher. . the atonement of moses fletcher. i. the uttermost farthing. 'well! yo' and jim may do as yo' like--but i'm noan baan to turn aat o' th' owd fold till i'm ta'en aat feet fermost.' 'nay, gronny--don't tak' on so. yo' cornd ston' agen law as haa it be; a writ is a writ, and if yo' hevn't got brass it's no use feightin'.' 'a, lass! i'm feared thaa's reet--naa-a-days them as has most gets most, and their own way i' th' bargain.' they were sitting over the hearth, the elder woman gazing wearily into the dying embers of the fire, and nursing her chin on her hand; while the younger, with her clog upon the rocker of a deal cradle, gave to that ark of infancy the gentle and monotonous movement which from time immemorial has soothed the restlessness of child-life. it was a pitiless night--a night the superstitious might well associate with the portent of the downfall of the house around which the storm seemed to rage. the rain beat upon the windows, and the wind with its invisible arms clasped the old farmstead as if to wrench it from its foundations and scatter broadcast its gray stones over the wild moor on the fringe of which it stood. neither of the women, however, heeded the sweep of the tempest, for their bosoms were racked by storms other than those of the elements. with eyes heavy from pent-up floods of tears, and hearts dark with foreboding, they listened for the footfall which both knew would bring with it their impending fate. 'he's here,' said the old woman, quickly raising her head during one of the lulls of the storm. nor was she mistaken, for in a moment the door was thrown open by a tall broad-shouldered man, who, seizing the dripping cap from his head, flung it with an oath into the farthest corner of the room. 'then he'll noan give us another chonce, lad? but thaa cornd mend it wi' swearin'--thaa nobbud makes bad worse by adding thy oaths to his roguery.' 'oaths, mother! oaths didsto say? i can tell thee th' almighty sometimes thinks more o' oaths than prayers. owd moses'll say his to-neet--but my oaths'll get to heaven faster.' 'hooisht, jim! hooisht! ne'er mind moses and his prayers. what did he say about th' mortgage?' 'say! why he said he'd oather hev his brass at ten o'clock to-morn, or skift us wi' law. and he'll do it--that he will.' 'a, lad--thaa says truth. owd moses'll keep his word; he never lies when he threatens poor fo'k like us. but i never thought it ud come to this. i could ha' liked to ha' deed in th' owd chamber aboon, and left th' haas feet fermost when i left it for good.' and the old woman rocked herself in her grief over the dying fire. 'well, gronmother, wee'n all to dee, and i durnd know as it matters where we dee as long as we're ready. it's where we're baan to live as bothers me,' said the hard-headed daughter-in-law. 'i've lived my life, thaa sees, lass. i'm nobbud waitin' to go to them as is gone afore; and i could ha' liked to foller them from th' owd haas. and then thaa'rt noan o' th' owd stock, lass. thy folks ne'er rooted theirsels i' th' soil like mine. it's fifty year come next whisundy (whitsuntide) since jimmie's faither brought me here; and as i come in by wedlock, i could ha' liked to ha' gone out by berryin'.' 'come, mother,' said the now subdued son, 'we'll find a home for thee, and when thaa dees we'll put thee away. durnd tak' on like that.' but the old woman heeded not the kindly words of her son. her thoughts were in the past, and she was reliving the years that were gone. gazing into the expiring embers, she saw the forms of long ago; and talking first to herself, and then to her son and his wife, she continued, in a crooning voice: 'it's fifty year come next whisundy sin thi faither brought me here, lad--fifty year, and it only seems like yesterday. we were wed at th' owd church i' manchester. dan o' nodlocks, as used to live up at th' chapel-hill, drove us there and back in his new spring-cart; and what wi' gettin' there and being spliced, and comin' wom' we were all th' day at th' job. th' sun were just showin' hissel o'er th' hill yonder when we started, and it were goin' daan o'er th' moors when we geet back; and thi faither, jimmy, as he lifted me daan from th' cart and put me in th' porch yonder, kissed me and said: "sunshine aatside, jenny, and sunshine in." an' that's fifty year ago, lad, and i've never slept out o' th' owd haas from that neet to this, and i durnd want to leave it naa.' 'well, durnd tak' on like that, mother; if tha' does thaa'll break my heart. we shall happen stop yet, who knows?' and jim almost choked with the lie which he told in his wild anguish to stay the torrent of his mother's grief. but the crooning old woman heeded him not. with eyes fixed on the fire she continued to read the horoscope of the past: 'we were some happy, those first years, i can tell thee. then little billy wor born. poor little billy! thaa's been a good lad, jim, but i often think what a good un little billy would ha' been if he'd lived! but he deed. ay! i con remember it as though it were nobbud yesterneet. it was abaat th' deead hour, and i wakened up sudden-like, for summat towd me all were not reet wi' th' lad. i made thi faither strike a leet, and then i see'd billy's een were set, and his little mouth twitchin'. thi faither run off, half dressed as he were, for th' doctor. but it wor no use; billy were going cowd in my arms when they both geet back. and then they laid th' little lad aat in th' owd chamber, and i used to creep upstairs when thi faither were in th' meadow, and talk to billy, and ax him to oppen his een. but it wor all no use, he never glent at me agen. i never cried, lad--i couldn't. i felt summat wor taan aat o' me,' and the old woman laid her hand on her heart. 'i was empty-like; and then five years after, as i lay in bed in th' owd chamber aboon--same chamber as billy were laid out in--mary o' sams, who had come to nurse me, said: "thou mun look up, jenny, it's another lad," and she put thee in my arms, and then th' warkin' went, and i were a happy woman again. i could ha' liked to ha' kept little billy, but him aboon knows best: thaa's bin a good lad to me, jimmy.' tears began to stream from the eyes of jimmy's wife; and stooping down, she lifted her sleeping baby from its cradle, and hugged it to her breast. the story of little billy had, for the moment, softened the heart of this practical and common-sense woman. 'that's reet, lass. keep him close to thee, he'll need thee and thaa'll need him afore yo're both done wi' th' world. since thi faither deed, jimmy, i've felt to need thee more and more. it's ten year this last back-end sin' we buried him. and it's nobbud just like yesterday. he wor in th' barn when he wor taan, sudden-like, with apoplex; and he never spoke, or knew me or you at after. and he wor laid aat in th' owd chamber, too, where they laid little billy aat afore him, and where yo' wor born, lad. i thought i should be laid aat there, and all, and i could ha' liked it to be so. but i mun be off to bed, childer, it's gettin' lat'. i shall sleep in th' owd chamber to-neet, wheresomever i sleep to-morn.' and so saying, the grandmother took her lamp, and climbed the worn stone staircase to her room--a staircase trodden so many times in changing moods of joy and sorrow, and with feet now gladsome and now weary with honest toil and household care. when jimmy and his wife were alone, and the sound of the old woman's voice no longer fell upon their ears, they realized, as never before, the anguish of their surroundings. they were spending their last night in what to one had been a life-long home, and to the other a shelter of happiness for ten years of married life. the story was a sad one, and yet, alas! not uncommon. crawshaw fold--the old farmstead--dated back two hundred years, and from the time of its erection to the present, had known neither owners nor occupiers save those of the sturdy yeoman family from which it took its name. it had been the boast of the crawshaws that no alien ever lorded it beneath their roof, or sat as presiding genius at their hearth. they were proud to tell how all the heirs of crawshaw fold only entered its portals by the mystic gate of birth, nor departed until summoned by the passing bell. but families, like individuals, grow old, and with the course of years the richest blood runs thin. bad seasons, which are the friends of the money-lender and mortgagee, are the foes of hereditary descent and family pride, and many are the escutcheons erased and the lines of lineage broken by reverses wrought through their fitful moods. the crawshaws were no exception. a succession of disasters on their little farmstead brought them to sore straits, and for deliverance they sought help of one moses fletcher, who advanced money on the deeds of the property. so bad were the times that james crawshaw was unable to meet the interest, and on the morrow moses was putting in force his claim. this was the shadow that fell across the hearth--the despair that was seated like a hideous ghoul by their fireside. in the morning three generations of crawshaw would be homeless. 'well, lad,' said jimmy's wife, 'it's no use lying daan to dee afore one's time; there's this little un to fend for, and, as i say, th' wick is o' more value than th' deeing. th' owd book says as th' deead is to bury th' deead, but i'm noan deead yet.' 'thaa'rt hard on th' owd woman, lass. it's nobbud natural as hoo should want to lie daan and dee where all her folk has deed afore her.' 'nay, lad, i'm noan hard. hoo'll go where we go, and we's be doin' aar duty both to her and th' child here by workin' for 'em, instead of frettin' and sobbin' as though all wor o'er.' 'happen so; but thaa's more hope nor i hev. i durnd think th' sun will ever shine again for us, lass.' 'get away wi' thee! th' sun 'll shine to-morn for them as has een to see.' throughout this conversation the footfall of the old grandmother was heard distinctly on the chamber floor above, for on reaching her room she did not, as was her wont, seek at once the shelter of her bed, but, placing the lamp on the table, commenced a fond and farewell survey of the old chamber. over the fireplace hung an old sampler, worked by her deft fingers in girlhood's days--her maiden name spelt out in now faded silks, with a tree of paradise on either side and under it the date of a forgotten year; while an old leather-cased bible, in which were inscribed the epochs of the family, lay open upon a chair. withdrawing her eyes from these, she slowly turned towards the clothes-press, and, opening the oaken doors, looked at a suit of black--'the sunday best' of her dead husband, left undisturbed since his sudden decease ten years before. then, turning to a box at the foot of the bed--that historic four-poster whereon the twin messengers of birth and death had so often waited--she knelt and raised the lid, looking into its secrets by the feeble ray emitted from the lamp. what she saw therein we care not to tell. our pen shall not blur the bloom of that romance and association which for her the years could not destroy. enough that this was her ark, within which were relics as precious as the budding rod and pot of manna. she was low before her holy of holies--face to face with a light which falls from the inalienable shrine of every woman who has been wife and mother, who has loved a husband and carried a child. by this time the storm was over, and the winds, lately so tempestuous, were gathered together and slept. a strange hush--a hush as of appeased nature--rested like a benediction over the house. the moon sailed along a swiftly clearing sky of blue, and shot its silver shafts through the great cloud-bastions that still barriered the horizon, and lighted up the chamber in which the old woman was kneeling before her shrine. it was across these god sent his kindly messenger with noiseless tread to bear her sore and sorrowing soul 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.' * * * * * at an early hour the minions of moses fletcher, the money-lender, were hovering round crawshaw fold, not daring, however, to enter until the fateful hour of ten. jimmy, with his wife, sat before an untasted breakfast, wondering how it was his mother was so late in coming downstairs; and when at half-past eight there was no sign of her appearance, he sent his wife, with a strong feeling of foreboding, to find out the reason of the delay. slowly she climbed the stairs to awaken, as she supposed, the old woman for the last tragic act of the drama. when she stood upon the threshold of the chamber, however, she saw at a glance that a kindly hand had drawn the curtain before the enactment of the fateful and final scene. calling her husband, he hurried to her side; and, together, they raised jenny from her kneeling posture before the old chest, and laid her on the bed, thanking god that for her the worst had been forestalled. four days afterwards old jenny was carried out of the fold, feet foremost; and, amid a falling shower of snow, was laid away by the side of little billy and the good man with whom, for forty years, she had shared her life. as the mourners returned, chilled by the winter's blast, sleek moses fletcher crossed their path, an old woman flinging at him the words: 'thaa's had th' uttermost farthin', but thaa's god to square wi' yet.' ii. the redemption of moses fletcher. moses fletcher was suffering from what the doctor called 'nervous shock,' with sundry wounds of a severe nature received in an attempt to rescue his dog in a canine _mêlée_. he was a medium-sized man, with a hatchet face, lit by keen gray eyes, small as a ferret's; and, by way of apology for a mouth, displayed a thin lip-line which fell at either end with a cruel and cynical curve. as he lay in bed, with a face as white as the counterpane which covered him, he now and again extended his bandaged hand to the favourite hound that rested on a plaid shawl at his feet, calling it by endearing names, and welcoming its warm and faithful caresses. the chamber was small, but cosy, with many evidences of comfort. trellised greenery looked in at him through the deep-splayed windows, and tapped a welcome on the diamond panes. he had, however, no ear for this salute. nor did he eye with delight the flowering geraniums that clustered so thickly in the pots filling the sills. nor did he even care for the great bars of sunlight that fell in golden splendour across his bed, causing the old dog to wink, and sneeze, and smile beneath their mellowing beams. no, these were nothing to him; indeed, they never had been--he had lived for years oblivious alike to tree and flower and sun. on the walls of his bedroom hung a number of rude prints, chief among which was a hideous representation of jesus christ driving the money-changers out of the temple--the man of gentleness being represented as a stern, passionless master, the strength of whose person was thrown into a relentless face, and a mighty arm wielding a massive whip. at this figure he often glanced, and now and again a look of recognition seemed to steal over his features, as though the essence of his religion was embodied in that act--a gospel anodyne for a suffering soul. by the side of his bed was a small table on which lay two books, the one bound in morocco, the other in leather--a bible and a ledger--his sole literature during the weary hours of sickness, and wittily denominated by his wife, 'the books of mercy and of judgment.' indeed, she often told him that he knew 'a deal more o' th' book o' judgment than he did o' t'other'; and it was even so. moses languidly took up his bible. it was a veritable study in black and white, many passages being underscored, and many remaining as unsoiled as though seldom read. indeed, the gospels seldom had been read, while the imprecatory psalms and the latter part of the epistle to the romans were greasy and stained with oft perusal. but there was a more remarkable feature about the bible than this--its margin was filled with a number of pen-and-ink notes! figures and calculations of money advanced and interest drawn and due; his clever, sarcastic wife calling this his 'reference bible,' and sometimes telling him he was 'mighty i' th' scriptures' when his own interest was concerned. he laid down the bible and took up his ledger. ah! how he knew that book!--to him actually and literally a book of life. he knew its every page, and every name that headed those pages. true, moses knew the generations of the patriarchs, the names of the sons of jacob, the chronologies of the chronicles, but he knew the families of rehoboth better. these latter were engraved on the palms of his hands, and written with corroding ink on the fleshly tables of his heart. as he turned over the well-thumbed pages he made many mental calculations, sometimes smiling and sometimes sighing as his eye fell on an irreclaimable debt. then, taking up his pencil, he entered an account on the fly-sheet of the bible, and seemed satisfied when he discovered that his illness would not involve him in the loss which he had anticipated; and smiling the smile of selfish gain, he closed his eyes and slept. poor moses fletcher! for with all his riches he was poor--if being a pauper in the sight of heaven is to be poor. how he had lived to make money, and, having made it, how terrible was the cost! old mr. morell once told him that the angels reversed his balance year by year, writing in invisible ink against his material profits his moral and spiritual depreciation. and yet there was one redeeming feature in the character of moses--he loved his dog. 'captain,' as the brute was called, kept one spot warm in his callous nature, a little patch of vegetation on the bare surface of his granite heart. the only noble acts in the life of moses fletcher were acts wrought on behalf of this dog. years ago he risked his life to save it, when, as a whelp, mischievous boys sought to drown it in the green fold lodge; and only a week or two ago he rescued it from the infuriated grip of a bull-terrier, at the expense of injuries from which he was now slowly recovering. wherever moses went he was followed by his dog; and if the dog was seen alone it was known moses was not far distant. now, this dog had to suffer for moses' sins. it was, as mr. penrose used to say, 'a vicarious dog'--the innocent bearing the sins of the guilty. affectionate, faithful, gentle, with no spice of viciousness in its nature, it was none the less stoned by children and tormented by man and woman alike. one of moses' debtors, a stalwart quarryman, once took it on the moors and sent it home with a spray of prickly holly tied under its tail. on another occasion, an irish labourer, whom moses put in the county court, hurled a handful of quicklime in its eye, by which its sight had been in part destroyed; and its glossy skin was all patched with bare spots where outraged housewives had doused it with scalding water. 'we cornd get at _him_,' they used to say, 'but we con get at his dog, and mak' him smart i' that road.' the last outrage, however, was by far the most brutal, and it came about in this manner. it was county court day at a small market town over the hills, and moses, accompanied by his dog, went with his summonses. one of these was served against a man known as 'oliver o' deaf martha's'--himself the owner of the most belligerent dog in the neighbourhood--who, like moses, never moved without his canine friend. when his summons was heard judgment went against him, and he was ordered to pay ten shillings a month until the debt was wiped off. at this he uttered a curse, muttering to moses that he would be even with him, but little thinking his chance would so soon come to hand. passing out of the court into the street, he saw his own dog and that of moses snarling at one another, but harmlessly, as both were muzzled. taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the leather straps that bound the mouth of his own dog, and, throwing it at the other, bade it go to work with its worrying. it needed no second word of encouragement; and in a moment, the other dog, handicapped by its muzzle, was at the mercy of its foe. over and over they rolled, amid jeers, and cheers, and curses, worrying, foaming, and choking, until at last the dog owned by moses was _hors de combat_, and helpless in the other's grip. 'fair play!' cried some among the crowd. 'cut t'other dog's muzzle!' screamed others. 'tak' thy dog off, oliver,' urged a youth, who saw the injustice of the fight. yet none dared to approach. suddenly, moses appeared on the steps of the court-house, and seeing the peril of his much-loved dog, rushed into the fray, defenceless as he was, and seizing his pet, tore it from the grip of its opponent. 'at him!' cried oliver, and in another moment moses and his dog were on the ground, and powerless beneath the attack of the bull-terrier. moses remembered no more. when he came to himself he was lying in his bed, under the smart of the doctor's caustic and his wife's fomentations. 'is th' dog alive, missis?' was the first question he asked. and when told that it was, he faintly breathed a 'thank god!' and fell away into another swoon. * * * * * 'here's mr. penrose to see thee, moses; mun i ax him up?' 'thaa con do as thaa likes.' 'come upstairs, mr. penrose; thaa con see him, he sez, if thaa likes.' 'all right, mrs. fletcher; i'm coming,' and in a moment the minister was at the bedside of the sick man. mr. penrose and moses were not the best of friends. indeed, the latter had threatened to gag the young preacher with the doctrinal deeds of rehoboth, and was only waiting his opportunity. thus mr. penrose hardly knew how to console this sick member of his flock, and words refused to flow from his ministerial lips. after a somewhat awkward pause, however, he ventured to remark: 'this is the second time, i suppose, you have risked your life on behalf of captain, mr. fletcher.' 'yi, it is,' responded mrs. fletcher. 'he geet rheumatic fayver six year sin', when he poo'd it aat o' green fowd lodge; and now he's getten welly worried to deeath by savin' it fro' that bull-terrier o' oliver's o' deaf martha's.' 'ay! they'n welly done for us both this time, hevn't they, captain?' faintly said moses, addressing the dog, and extending his hand wearily for a canine caress. 'but aar time 'll come. wee'n nobbud to wait, and we'll mak' it even wi' 'em yet.' 'but you must not forget the divine injunction, mr. fletcher. "avenge not yourselves; vengeance is mine, i will repay."' 'ay! bless yo',' interrupted the wife, 'they think as he's mad' 'em pay too mich already.' 'who, mrs. fletcher?' asked the minister. 'the almighty?' 'nay; i mean our moses there. they say as he's awlus makin' 'em pay.' 'thee howd thi tung. i know mi business baat bein' helped or hindered by thee, or onybody else.' this last with biting emphasis, as though to include the pastor. then, turning to mr. penrose, he continued: 'hoo'd let 'em off if hoo'd her way, but that's noan o' my creed.' 'i think her creed is the better of the two, though, mr. fletcher. if thine enemy hunger, give him--' 'a summons if he willn'd pay for what he gets.' 'nay, the bible does not say so.' 'ne'er mind th' bible--it's what aw say.' after another painful pause, mrs. fletcher continued: 'eh, mr. penrose, i do wish aar moses 'ud find summat else to do nor lendin' brass and collectin' debts. we haven't a friend i' th' world naa, and we used never bein' baat. mi own fo'k wernd look at me naa, 'cose he caanty-courted aar bella's husband.' 'thee howd thi tung, aw tell thee. aw know mi wark; and if fo'k willn'd pay for what they get, then they mun be made to.' 'but supposing they cannot pay, mr. fletcher--what then?' 'what then? then they mun go up yon,' and moses extended his bandaged hand in the direction of the union workhouse. 'but you know there was one who said, "give to him that asketh thee, and from him that borroweth turn not away."' 'yi, but he didn'd live at rehoboth. th' pulpit's th' place for that mak' o' talk. it'll do for sundo; but fo'k as hes their livin' to ged want noan on't i' th' week.' 'but is getting a living more essential than doing right? if it came to a choice between the two, which would you select?' 'aw durnd know as that's ony business o' yours. th' owd book yo' quote fro' says summat abaat a man stonnin' and falling to his own judge--doesn'd it?' 'why keep all your kindness for your dog, mr. fletcher? why not extend the same acts of mercy to those who are of more value than many dogs? if you did that your dog would not be your only friend, nor would it be called upon to suffer for you as it does.' 'i durnd know, mr. penrose, as i want ony friends.' 'i think there's one friend you cannot do without--the one you recommended me to keep in the pulpit. don't you think we need him in the home as well?' 'ther's noabry kept him aat o' aar haas, as i know on, hes ther, sally?' said moses, turning to his wife. 'doesto think 'at onybody's axed him?' she replied. 'and if he coome, what kind o' a welcome would he ged, thinksto? i know thaa reckons to meet him on a sundo, and when thaa sits at "his table," as tha co's th' sacrament, and at th' deacons' meetings. but that's abaat as mich on him as yo' want, i think.' mr. penrose stood up to leave, but, recollecting himself, he said: 'shall i pray with you, mr. fletcher?' to which he received the curt reply: 'thaa con pleeas thisel.' mr. penrose knelt by the bedside of the poor mammon-worshipper--self-blinded and hardened by the god of this world--and with a full soul cried: 'merciful father! who hast forgiven so much, and in whose continued forgiveness lies our only hope, inspire us with the spirit of thy forgiveness towards all men, and grant that thy great heart, which bears enmity towards none, may so warm these selfish hearts of ours that we may not only love our neighbours but our enemies, with the love wherewith we are loved. pardon our littlenesses, consume our selfishness, and fashion us after him whose strength bore all burdens, whose heart heard all entreaties, and whose love went out alike to friend and foe. amen.' * * * * * it was in the golden autumn weather when moses and his dog, for the first time after the _mêlée_, turned out for an afternoon's stroll. both bore sore evidences of the severity of the struggle, one being bandaged over his forehead, the other following with tell-tale limp and disfigured coat. not caring to face the inquisitorial eye of the villagers, nor hear the rude sarcasm and stinging wit which he knew they would hurl at him from their tongues, moses turned down a foot-road leading from his garden to folly clough, and thus secured the quiet ever found in those deeply-wooded seams that plough into the very heart of the moors. following the water-worn path which wound in tortuous ascent under clustering trees and between slopes of bracken, the two soon gained the head of the clough, and climbed towards the banks of the green fold lodge, a stretch of water into which drained the moisture of vast tracts of uplands, its overflow rushing through flood-gates and pouring its volume through the clough to feed the factories below. seating himself on the bank of the lodge, he recalled the day when he rescued his dog from its chill deeps, and, turning to captain, he said: 'it wor welly bein' thi grave once, owd lad. aw wonder why it wor aw saved thee. thaa's getten many a lickin' (thrashing) sin' then on my accaant.' whereupon the dog bounded round his feet, and held up its head for one of those caresses which moses was never known to extend save to his dog. as they rested together moses continued: 'thaas noan a bad sort, captain; and thaa'd ha' done a deal more good if aw'd a let thee. thaa wor awlus fond o' childer', bud they'd never let thee alone. it wor happen as weel if aw'd a bit more o' thi spirit i' me, owd lad; but if there wor more fo'k like thee there'd be less like me.' and at this captain wagged his tail with delight, and rubbed his cold nose under the palm of moses' hand. 'aw've gin thee a bad name, owd mon, and they'n tried to hang thee for't; but thaa'll happen do summat some day as they'll tee a medal raand thi neck for, and when thaa'rt deead build thee a moniment.' and moses actually laughed at his burst of mirth, which was of rare occurrence in his taciturn life. moses' wit, however, was soon cut short, for he started and stayed his monologue at the sight of a child sailing paper boats on the opposite and deeper side of the reservoir, 'why, yon's that little lad o' oliver o' deaf martha's!' exclaimed moses to himself. 'what a foo' (fool) his mother mun be to let him marlock on th' lodge banks by hissel. by guy! he's i' th' watter!' at that moment captain sprang up, and would have leapt after the child, but moses bade him lie still. the dog, for the first time in its life, resented the command of his master, and a low, ominous growl came from a mouth that displayed a row of threatening teeth. at this moses, for the first time in his life too, raised his foot and kicked the brute he had so lately been apostrophizing, and, seizing it by the collar, held it to the spot. 'thaa doesn't know whose bairn it is, captain, or thaa'd never trouble to go in after it. it's his whose dog welly worried thee and me on th' caanty court day.' but the instinct of captain was nearer the thought of god than was the moral nature of moses, and, despite threat and cuff and kick, the dog so dragged his collar that moses, weak from his long illness, felt he must either let go his hold or follow the leading of the noble creature. and now commenced a terrible struggle in the soul of moses. he turned pale, and great drops of sweat stood upon his brow, as he felt himself in the grasp of a stronger and better nature than his own. looking round to see if his relentless act were watched, he breathed more freely as he saw along the miles of moorland no sign of human life. only his eye, and the eye of captain--and then he realized that other eye that filled all space--the eye that looked down from the cloudless light. fiercely the struggle waged. the voice of moses cried out of the deeps of his own black heart, 'my time has come, as i said it would.' but the words of mr. penrose--heeded not when uttered--rang out clear and telling: 'vengeance is mine, _i_ will repay.' 'but is not _this_ god's vengeance?' replied the voice of the lower man. and then came the reply: 'would god punish oliver through his child as oliver punished you through your dog? am i a man, and not god?' moses looked round, as though someone had spoken in his ear, and, loosing his hold of captain, muttered: 'go, if thaa wants.' a mighty bound, and captain was in mid-stream, and with a few strong and rapid strokes he reached the sinking child. but the flood-gates were open, the reservoir was emptying its overflow down the steep falls into the clough fifty yards below, and child and dog were slowly but unmistakably being carried towards the gorge. again the struggle commenced, and once more moses was the prey of the relentless reasoners--love and self. 'a man's life is worth more than a dog's,' cried self. 'and more than a child's?' asked love. 'but it's oliver o' deaf martha's child, is it not?' 'and your dog is seeking to save it.' 'shamed by a dog!' all the remains of the nobleness so long dormant in the nature of moses--the passion, and valour, and love which he had allowed to die down long, long ago--awakened into life. for the first time for thirty years he forgot himself, and with a great light breaking round him, and sounds of sweetest music in his heart, he leapt into the lodge, struck out for the struggling dog and its fainting burden, and strengthened and steadied both to land. many years before moses had been immersed in the baptistery at rehoboth by the old pastor, mr. morell. he stepped into those waters as moses fletcher, and he was moses fletcher when he came up out of them, despite the benediction breathed on his dedicated soul. but on this autumn afternoon moses fletcher--the cruel, exacting, self-righteous moses fletcher--was buried in baptism, and there stepped out of those moorland waters another man, bearing in his arms a little child. iii. the atonement of moses fletcher. on the evening of the day following the rescue of oliver o' deaf martha's child, moses fletcher was walking over the moors towards his own home, a great peace possessing his soul, and a buoyant step bearing him through a new world. above him the mellow moon of september dreamed in blue distances, the immensities of which were measured by innumerable constellations. around, the great hills loomed dark in shadow, and bulked in relief against the far-off horizon of night. along the troughs and gullies lay streaks of white fog, ever shaping themselves into folds and fringes, and, like wraiths, noiselessly vanishing on the hillside; while over all rested a great stillness, as though for once the fevered earth slept in innocence beneath the benediction of that world so vast, so high, and yet so near. many a time, amid such surroundings, had moses traversed the same path. never before, however, had he passed through the same world. to him it was a new heaven and a new earth, for he carried with him a new soul. crossing the stretch of hill on the crest of which lay the rehoboth burial-ground, moses made his way to the stone wall fencing in that god's acre, and paused to lean his arms on its rude and irregular coping. there stood the old chapel, square and gaunt, its dark outline clearly cut against the moonlit sky, each window coldly gleaming in the pale light, while the scattered headstones, sheeted in mist, stood out like groups of mourners mute in their sorrow over the dead. below lay the village--that little tragic centre of life and death--half its inhabitants in sleep, hushed for a few brief hours in their humble moorland nests. the fall of waters from the weir at the bridge factory came up from the valley in dreamy cadences; a light dimly burned in old joseph's window; and a meteor swept with a mighty arc the western sky. the soul of moses fletcher was at peace. he sprang with a light step over the low wall of boundary, and crossed the wave-like mounds that heaved as a grassy sea, and beneath which lay the unlettered dead, the long grasses writhing and clinging to his feet, as though loath to let him escape the dust upon which they fed and grew so rank. heedless of their greedy embrace, he walked with long stride towards the lower end of the yard, until he stood before a gray and lichen-covered slab, on which were letters old and new. there, by the moonlight, he read the record of a baby boy of two, carrying back the reader forty years. above it was the name of a father, dead these ten years, and between these, all newly cut, were the lines: jinny crawshaw, wife of the above, who departed this life, ----- ----- for some moments moses stood before the stone; then, taking the hat from his head, he knelt down on the cold grass and, kissing the newly-cut name, he vowed a vow. if, with the power of his master, whom he had only just begun to serve, he could have raised the sleeper, as lazarus and the widow's son and the ruler's little child were raised, then the great grief of his heart would have disappeared. but he could not--the past, _his_ past, was irrevocable. but there were the living--jim crawshaw, his wife, his babe--these were still within his reach of recompense. and again he vowed his vow, and the still night air carried it far beyond the distant stars to where he sits who knows the thoughts and tries the reins of men. * * * * * 'thaa'rt lat' to-neet, moses; where hasto bin?' 'nowhere where thaa couldn't go wi' me, lass,' and so saying, moses kissed his wife, an act which he had dexterously and passionately performed several times since his immersion in the green fold lodge on the previous day. 'whatever's come o'er thee, moses? thaa fair maks me shamed. it's thirty year an' more sin' thaa kissed me. hasto lost thi yed?' 'yi, lass, but i've fun mi heart,' and he again clasped his startled wife, and grew young in his caresses. 'i thought thaa kept thi luv for captain, moses. but i durnd mind goin' hawves wi' th' owd dog. i awlus said that a chap as could luv a dog hed summat good abaat him somewhere--and thaa's luved captain sum weel.' 'and others a deal too little, lass. but all that's o'er'--and moses burst into tears. 'nay, lad--forshure thaa'rt takken worse. well, i never seed thee cry afore. mun i ged thee a sooap o' summat hot, thinksto? or mun i run for th' doctor?' and mrs. fletcher looked at her husband with a scared and troubled face. 'why, lass, i've been cryin' all th' day--and that's why i've bin so long away fro' thee--i didn'd want to scare thee. i cornd help but cry. i tell thee i've fun mi heart.' and moses again sobbed like a child. that night, when his wife was in bed, and captain slept soundly on the rug in front of the fire, moses opened a safe that stood in the corner of the room, and, taking therefrom a bundle of deeds, selected one docketed 'crawshaw fold.' he then took from a drawer a number of agreements, and carefully drew forth those which gave him his hold on the crawshaws. these he enclosed with the deeds in a large blue envelope, and in a clerkly hand addressed them, with a note, to james crawshaw. after this he knelt down, and, as he prayed, captain came and laid his head upon the clasped hands of his master. * * * * * 'good-mornin', abram. hasto ought fresh daan i' th' village?' 'plenty, enoch; hasto yerd naught?' 'nowe; i hevn't bin daan fro' th' moors sin' sundo.' 'then yo've yerd naught abaat moses fletcher?' 'nowe; nor i durnd want. when yo' cornd yer owt good abaat a mon yo'd better yer naught at all.' 'but i've summat good to tell thee abaat owd moses.' 'nay, lad, i think nod. th' etheop cornd change his skin, nor th' leopard his spots.' 'but moses hes ged'n aat o' his skin, and changed it for a gradely good un and o'.' 'and what abaat his spots, abram?' 'why, he's weshed 'em all aat in th' green fowd lodge wi' savin' oliver o' deaf martha's little un.' enoch whistled the first bar or two of an old tune, and stood silent in thought, and then exclaimed: 'well, aw'v yerd o' th' seven wonders, but if what thaa sez is true, it mak's th' eighth.' 'yi, owd mon, but there's a bigger wonder nor that. he's gi'n jim crawshaw th' deeds o' crawshaw fowd, and towd him as he can pay him back when he geds th' brass.' 'abram, thaa'rt gammin'.' 'jim crawshaw towd me this mornin', and i seed th' deeds wi' mi own een in his hond, and read th' letter moses bed written.' at this moment mr. penrose came along the field-path, and joined the two men. he, too, was strangely excited about moses fletcher, and, guessing what was uppermost in the minds and conversation of the two men, at once heartily joined them. 'god moves in a mysterious way, doesn'd he, mr. penrose?' said old enoch. 'he does indeed, enoch. here i've been trying to convert moses with my preaching, and the almighty sets aside his servant, and converts the sinner by means of a dog and a little child. after all, there's something can get at the heart besides theology and philosophy. the foolishness of god is greater than the wisdom of man.' 'then yo' think he's convarted, mr. penrose?' 'well, if the new testament test is a true one, he is, for he is indeed bringing forth fruits meet for repentance.' 'he is so,' said enoch, 'it what abram sez is true. i awlus towd my missus that whenever moses gave his furst hawve-craan it 'ud be his fust stride towards th' kingdom o' grace; but if he's gin jim crawshaw his deeds back he's getten a deal further into th' kingdom nor some o' us.' mr. penrose attempted to continue the conversation, but in vain, for a lump rose in his throat, and the landscape was dimmed by the moisture he could not keep back from his eyes. and as with the pastor, so with his companions. a great joy filled all their hearts--a joy too deep for words, but not for tears. in a little while mr. penrose said: 'moses called to see me last night to ask for re-admission into the church. he wants me to baptize him next sunday afternoon week, and would like to give his testimony.' 'but he were baptized thirty year sin' by mr. morell,' said abram. 'why does he want dippin' o'er agen?' 'because, as he says, he never received his testimony before last monday, when he saved oliver's child from drowning.' 'an' are yo' baan to baptize him?' asked enoch. 'why not? if the deacons are willing, i shall be only too glad.' * * * * * it was the first sunday afternoon in october, and along a dozen winding moorland paths there came in scattered groups the worshippers to the rehoboth shrine. old men and women, weary with the weight of years, renewed their youth as they drew near to what had been a veritable sanctuary amid their care and sorrow and sin; while manhood and womanhood, leading by the hand their little ones, felt in their hearts that zeal for the house of prayer so common to the dwellers in rural england. long before the hour of service the chapel-yard was thronged, and from within came the sounds of stringed instruments as they were tuned to pitch by the musicians, who had already taken their place in the singing-pew beneath the pulpit, which stood square and high, canopied with its old-fashioned sounding-board and cornice of plain deal. there was 'owd joel boothman,' who had played the double bass for half a century, resining his bow with a trembling hand; and joe and robert hargreaves fondly caressing their 'cellos. dick o' tootershill and his two sons were delicately touching the trembling strings of their violins; and enoch was polishing, beneath the glossy sleeve of his 'sunday best,' 'th' owd flute' which had been his salvation. in a few minutes mr. penrose ascended the pulpit. never before was there such a congregation to greet him; and as the people rose to join in singing the old tune, devizes, the worm-eaten galleries trembled and creaked beneath the mass of worshippers. then followed prayer and the lessons, the hymn before the address being 'come, ye that love the lord.' with a great swell of harmony from five hundred voices, whose training for song had been the moors, the words of dr. watts went up to heaven, and when the second verse was reached-- 'let those refuse to sing, who never knew our lord,' little milly, who had hobbled to chapel on her crutch, turned to abraham lord, and said: 'sithee, owd moses is singing, faither.' and it was even so. poor moses! for so many years a mute worshipper, and whose voice had been raised only to harry and distress, no longer was silent in the service of song. mr. penrose's address was brief. taking for his text, 'the son of man is come to seek and to save that which is lost,' he said: 'it was the best in man that was longest in being discovered. that which was lost was not the false man, but the true man--the heavenly. we were none of us vile in the sight of god, because god saw himself in us. it was this god-self in us that was lost to us. not knowing it to be the hidden root of our true life, we did not claim our dignity, nor walk as became the sons of god. a man who lost the sense of his freedom, though free, would be fettered still. a man whose sense of beauty was lost would be as in a desert in the paradise of god. a lost sense of freedom meant a slavish mind, and a lost sense of beauty meant a prosaic mind, no matter how free the man, nor how beautiful his environment. so men had lost the sense of their sonship. they did not know their royal descent, their kinship with the father, and therefore they did not act as became sons. a lost sense of relationship begat in them disobedience and alienation. they possessed gold, but were content with brass; and instead of iron they built with clay. the eternal and abiding was in them, but _lost_ to them, covered with incrustations of self and buried deep beneath the lesser and the meaner man. there were times in a man's life when the better nature gave hints of its existence. the mission of christ was to awaken these hints. he came to tell them they were men, that they were souls, that they were sons and not servants, friends and not enemies of god. when he stirred these powers in men he stirred the lost. he set it before the eye of man, and made man see what he had within him, what he was _really_, and at the _root_ of his being--a man, a son of man, a child of god. how hard this was only christ knew. spiritually, men put themselves, through spiritual ignorance, in false relations. this wrong relationship lay at the root of all disorder. it was the secret of discomfiture, misery and sin. men were not lost in badness, not lost in sin, but lost to that which when discovered to them made their badness unbearable--in other words, "took away their sin." lost souls, damned souls, souls in hell--as the theologians termed them--were simply souls lost to their right relationship. and the work of christ was to find _in_ men, and find out _for_ men, what this right relationship was. this was what was meant in the text, the son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost. their friend moses fletcher had found something in himself. he had found love, and courage, and a sense of goodness. these had been discovered to him by the one who was always revealing the good in us if we would but let him, and if we would but open our eyes to see. he, moses fletcher, had seen the good, and believed in it, and he was saved because he allowed the good to move and have its being in him. it was his better self, so long unknown to himself, so long lost in him, and to him, that awoke and led him to save oliver o' deaf martha's child. when he plunged into the green fold lodge he found what had been so long lost to him: he found himself. then was fulfilled the saying, "he that loseth his life shall save it." that was salvation. moses was now a saved man because he had found the sane and whole part of his nature. the divine in him had been awakened. he was at last true to the law of his being.' then, closing his bible, he asked moses fletcher to give his 'testimony.' standing up, and with tremulous tones, which none recognised as the once harsh voice of moses, he said: 'yo' happen willn't let me co yo' friends because i've bin an enemy to so mony on yo'! but him as they co'd a friend o' publicans and sinners hes made me his friend, and he's made me a friend on yo' all. i know haa yo' all hated me, and i gave yo' good cause for doin' so. but he's put his love i' me, and naa owd moses 'll never trouble ony on yo' ony more. owd moses lies i' green fold lodge yonder, and he'll stop theer; it's time he wor done wi'. an' if you'll try me as god's baan to try me, aw think you'll happen larn to love me as i know i'm loved aboon.' as he sat down many in the large congregation would fain have risen and grasped him by the hand, but propriety forbade. in another minute mr. penrose came out of the vestry prepared for the rite of immersion, and moses was a second time baptized in rehoboth. as he stepped out of the waters a cloud passed from before the october sun, and a flood of light poured through the open window above the baptistery, while a white dove from the neighbouring farm perched for a moment on the wooden sill. then milly once more turned to her father and said: 'yon's th' brid, faither, but i don't yer th' voice!' 'what voice?' whispered abraham lord. 'why, faither, thaa knows--"this is my beloved son."' but moses heard that voice in his heart. iii. amanda stott. . home. . light at eventide. . the court of souls. . the old pastor. i. home. she saw from afar the light of her cottage home, and her heart misgave her. it was not wrath she feared; for had the relentless anger of a parent awaited her, her step would have been braver, and her spirit more defiant. but she knew she was forgiven. the feeble ray emitted from the lamp in the far-off gable was the beacon of her forgiveness--the proof that love's fire still burned brightly. this it was that daunted her: she feared the scorch of its healing flame. she had travelled far, having crossed the moors from burnt gap, climbing the ridge as the heavens began to kiss the earth with the peace of sunset. a lingering glory was then haunting the summits and crests and cairn-crowned hills that shut in the quiet of rehoboth and forming an almost impassable rampart to those who, from the farther side, sought its shelter ere the close of day. as she then lifted her eyes to these many-coloured fires lighted by his hand who setteth his glory in the heavens, they had seemed to burn in wrath; while the great moors, dark in the foreground, raised themselves like barriers--uplands of desolation, across which no path of hope stretched its trend for returning feet. as the girl climbed the scar foot the western sky was toning down to grays, while beyond, and seen through an oval-shaped rift in their sombre colours, lay a distant streak of amber that, moment by moment, slowly disappeared under the closing lids of evening cloud--the eye of weary day wooed to slumber by the hush of illimitable sweeps of moor. even so would amanda fain have closed her eyes and sunk to rest amid the purple clouds of heather that, like a great sky, lay for miles around her feet. passing through nockcliffe plantation, a half-mile of woodland that straggled along the steep sides of a clough, a drop of rain fell between the branches and coursed down her cheek--a cheek fevered from want of tears, and flaming with a sense of shame. then a low wind blew--a mere sob, but so preludious, so prophetic!--followed by a silence that discovered, as never before, the sense of her own loneliness, and in which she heard the tread of her own light footfall over the moss and herbage of the path she travelled. emerging from the plantation, an angry gust, laden with cold drops, dashed itself in her face, and she knew from the weather-lore which she, as a child of the hills, had learned in past years, that a wild night was between her and the house whose shelter she sought in her despair. phenomenally rapid was the onrush of the storm. at first the rain fell in short and sudden showers, driven from angry clouds eager for some atmospheric change whereby to be relieved of their pent-up burden. then the wind, as though in answer to the prayer of the clouds, changed its course and stilled its moaning, and the sky 'wept its watery vapours to the ground.' when amanda stood upon the fringe of the great moss that stretched for three miles between the scars and rehoboth her spirit sank within her. the season had been dry, and she knew the path by instinct; but the storm and the darkness seemed like twin enemies determined to bar her advance. she felt that nature was her foe, even as man had been, and as rehoboth would be when it knew of her return. why did the rain hiss, and dash its cold and stinging showers in her face? why did it saturate her thin skirts so that they, in chill folds, wrapped her wasted frame and clung cruelly to her weary limbs to stay her onward travel? and why that strange, weird sound--the sound muttered by miles of herbage when beaten down by rain--the swish and patter and sigh of the long grass and of the bracken, as they bent beneath the continuous fall, and rose in angry protest, to fling off their burden on each other, or shake it to the ground? then a mute sympathy sprang up in her desolate heart as she grew incorporate into this storm-swept, helpless vegetation, and she felt that she, too, like it, was the helpless prey of angry forces. the moss traversed, the twinkling lights of rehoboth broke the darkness. yes, the old chapel was illuminated, the windows of that rude structure glowing with warmth and life; and as she passed the graveyard a hymn, only too well known to her in the happy days of the past, reached her ears. once this had been her sanctuary, a shelter, a home, where as a happy girl she had sung that very strain--then a house of prayer, now a temple of judgment. and she grew rebellious as she saw in her mind the hard faces of its worshippers, and realized that nothing unholy or unclean must enter there. the native instinct, however, was too strong; and passing through the gate, and stealthily crossing the sea of graves, she paused to peep through the window, and, unobserved, took in the scene. the old faces--enoch, and abraham, and moses fletcher, and malachi o' th' mount, and simon o' long john's. yes, the old faces as she knew them five years ago--the old faces, all save one. where was the saintly mr. morell? in his place sat a young man whom she knew not. hastening on, she climbed pinner brow, on the summit of which lay her home. as she scaled the height the beacon in her mother's gable told she was not forgotten. then it was she trembled. a rebuke--a curse--a refusal; these she could face. but forgiveness--welcome--love--_never_! she turned to fly. * * * * * 'amanda!' 'mother!' the great, good god had ordained that the despairing girl should fly into the arms of the one who had not forgotten, and who felt she had nothing to forgive. amanda found herself in the stillest and strongest of all havens--the haven of a mother's breast. in another moment amanda permitted her mother to lead her as that mother had been wont to lead her when the warm, strong hand of the parent was a guiding touch--a magnet of love amid the dangers of an early life--and when, as now, there was but one shelter of safety--the home. no sooner did the two women stand in the light and warmth of the kitchen-hearth, than the elder fell on the neck of the younger, and kissed the cold, rain-washed face of her child, with a love grown fierce by years of hopeless hope and unrequited longing. once again those arms, thin and weak with age, grew strong; and in the resurrection of a mighty passion, all the old womanhood and motherhood of the parent renewed their youth, and filled out the shrunken and decrepit form until she stood majestic in the strength of heaven. to those who had been wont to see amanda's mother bent and crushed with years and sorrow, the woman that now stood in the firelight would not have been recognised as mrs. stott. once the fairest and most lithesome girl in rehoboth, the pride of the village, the sought of many suitors, the proud wife of sam stott of th' clowes, and the still prouder mother of amanda, who matched her alike in beauty and in sprightliness, she had long been a prey to the sling and arrows of outrageous fortune. years had played sad havoc with her, her money taking wings, her husband dying, and her last hope failing in the hour of need. now she was herself again under the renewing hand of love. as soon as amanda recovered from the shock of her mother's appearance, and felt the warmth of her welcome, she gently, yet determinately, released herself and cried: 'durnd, mother, durnd! i'm noan come wom' to be kissed nor forgiven. i've nobbud come wom' to dee.' 'what saysto, lass?' exclaimed mrs. stott. 'come wom' to dee? nay, thaa's bin deead long enugh a'ready; it's time thaa begun to live, and thank god thaa's come back to live at wom'.' the girl shook her head, a stony stare in her eye, her mouth drawn into a hard and immobile line. and then, in cold tones, she continued: 'nay, mother; i've hed enugh o' life. i tell thee i've come wom' to dee.' 'amanda,' sobbed the mother, 'if thaa taks on like that thaa'll kill me. thaa's welly done for me a'ready, but i con live naa thaa's come back, if thaa'll nobbud live an' o', and live wi' me. sit thee daan. there's th' owd cheer (chair) waiting for thee. it's thi cheer, amanda; awlus wor, and awlus will be. sit thee daan. it looks some onely (lonely) baat thee.' there stood amanda's chair, the chair of her girlhood, the chair in which she had sung through the long winter nights, in which her deft fingers had wrought needlework, the envy of rehoboth. the old arms mutely opened as though to welcome her; the rockers, too, seemed ready to yield that oscillation so seductive to the jaded frame. and the trimmings! and the cushion! the same old pattern, somewhat faded, perhaps, but as warm and cosy as in the days of yore. it was the chair, too, at which she used to kneel, the chair that had so often caught the warm breath from her lips as she had whispered, 'our father, which art in heaven.' but had she not forfeited her right to that chair? of that throne of sanctity she felt she was now no longer queen. and again, as her mother pressed her to take her appointed place, she shook her head, her heart steeled with pride and shame, the hardest of all bonds to break when imprisoning a human soul. the poor mother stood at bay--at cruel bay. she had used the mightiest weapon upon which she could lay her hand, and it had seemed to shiver in the conflict. but love's armoury is not easily depleted, and love's spirit is quick to return to the charge. there was still left to her the warmth of a bosom in which long years before amanda had gently stirred, and from which she had drawn her first currents of life; and once more the mother clasped her girl, and pressed her lips on the sin-stained face. 'durnd kiss me, mother,' cried the affrighted girl, stepping back; 'durnd kiss me. thaa munnot dirty thy lips wi' touchin' mine. if thaa knew all, thaa'd spurn me more like.' ''manda,' replied the woman, in the desperation of her love, 'i'll kiss thee if thaa kills me for't. i connot help it; thaa'rt mine.' 'i wor once, i wor once, but nod now.' 'yi! lass, but thaa art. thaa wor mine afore th' devil geet howd on thee, and thaa's bin mine all th' time he's bed thee, and now he's done wi' thee, i mean to keep thee all to mysel.' and afresh the mother bathed the still beautiful face of amanda with her tears. but amanda was firm. old as her mother was, she knew that mother's innocence, and shrank from the thought that one so pure, so womanly, should hang on those lips so sorely blistered by the breath of sin; and, once more stretching out her arm, she said: 'durnd touch me, mother--durnd!' ''manda,' cried the mother, defiantly and grandly, all the passion of maternity rising in her heart, ''manda, thaa cornd unmother me. i carried thee and suckled thee and taught thee thi prayers in that cheer, and doesn'd ta think as him we co'd "aar faither" is aar faither still?' 'happen he's yours, mother; but he's noan o' mine.' 'well, 'manda, if thaa'rt noan his child, thaa'rt mine, and naught shall come 'tween me and thee.' 'and dun yo' mean to say that yo' love me as mich naa, mother, as when aw wor a little un?' asked the girl, her steely eyes moistening, and the firm line of her drawn mouth tremulous with rising emotion. 'yi, lass, and a thaasand times more. thaa wants more luv' naa nor then--doesn't ta? and hoo's a poor mother as connot give more when more's wanted. i'm like th' owd well up th' hill yonder--th' bigger th' druft (drought) th' stronger th' flow. thi mother's heart's noan dry, lass, tho' thi thirst's gone; and i'll luv' thee though thaa splashes mi luv' back in mi face, and spills it on th' graand.' and a third time the woman fell on the girl's neck, and kissed her flesh into flame with the passion of her caress. 'durnd, mother! durnd!' said amanda. 'blame me, if yo' like; curse me, if yo' like. but luv' i connot ston'; it drives me mad.' 'nay, lass; luv' noan drives folk mad. it's sin as does that. as mr. penrose towd 'em at rehoboth t'other sunday, it were luv' as saved th' world, and not wrath; and they say they are baan to bring him up at th' deacons' meeting abaat it. but he's reet. it's luv' as saves. it's saved thee to me; it's kept mi heart warm, and it's kept that lamp leeted every neet for five year.' and then, seeing tears slowly stealing down her daughter's face, the old woman said: 'i think we mud as weel put th' leet aat naa thaa's comed wom', 'manda?' and as the girl gave no more evidence of resistance, the mother went to the window, turned down the lamp, and drew the blind, saying, 'he's answered mi prayers.' at the going out of that light there went out in amanda's heart the false fires of lust and pride and defiance, and in their place was kindled the light of repentance--of forgiveness and of love. for five years that faithfully-trimmed lamp told the whole countryside that widow stott was not forgetful of her own; and when once or twice rebuked by some of the rehoboth deacons at the premium which she seemed to put on sin by thus inviting a wanderer's return, she always replied: 'blame him as mak's a woman so as hoo cornd forget her child.' now that the lamp was out a flutter of excitement was passing through the village, milly lord being the first to discover it. she, poor girl! was sitting at her little window listening to the beat of the rain, and the swish of the grasses that grew in her garden below--sitting and wondering how it was there were no 'angel een' looking down at the earth, and keeping her eye fixed on the gable light of mrs. stott's lone homestead. suddenly this light disappeared. if the sun had gone out at noonday milly would not have been more startled. night after night she had watched that light, and night after night she had heard her mother tell the oft-repeated story of amanda's fall. once, indeed, milly startled her mother in its repetition by saying: 'happen, if i hadn't lost mi leg, mother, i should ha' sinned as amanda did.' and then milly's mother drew the girl close to her heart, and thanked god for a lamb safe in the fold. no wonder when milly saw the light go out that she cried: 'mother! mother! amanda stott's come wom'!' 'whatever will hoo say next?' gasped mrs. lord. 'i tell yo' amanda's come wom'. th' leet's aat--thaa con see for thisel!' and the girl was beside herself with excitement. 'so it is,' said mrs. lord. 'bud it's noan amanda; it's happen her mother as is takken bad. awl put o' mi things, and run up and see.' hurrying up the pinner brow, it was not long before mrs. lord reached the home of amanda, and raising the latch, with the permission which rural friendship grants, she saw the daughter and mother together on the so long lonely hearth. taken aback, and scarcely knowing how to remove the restraint which the sudden interruption was imposing, she fell upon the instinct of her heart, and said: 'well, i never! if our milly isn't reet! hoo said as how hoo know'd amanda bed come back. hoo seed th' leet go aat and co'd aat at th' top o' her voice, "amanda's come back." hoo remembers thee, amanda, an' hoo's never stop't talkin' abaat thee. tha'rt eight year owder nor hoo is--poor lass! hoo's lost her leg sin' thaa seed her. it wor a bad do, aw con tell thee; but hoo's as lively as a cricket, bless her! and often talks abaat thee, and wonders where thaa'd getten to. let's see, lass, it's five years sin thaa left us, isn't it?' and then, remembering the whole story of amanda, which in her excitement she had forgotten, and the great trouble and the great joy which that night fought for supremacy in the little moorland home, she stopped, and with a tear-streamed face rushed up to amanda, and said: 'what am i talkin' abaat, lass? i'd clean forgetten,' and then she, too, imprinted on amanda's lips a caress of welcome. it was late that night when milly asked her father to go up pinner brow and fetch her mother home. when he reached the house he found the two women and the girl upon their knees, for milly's mother was a good woman, and to her goodness was added a mother's heart. her own sorrow had taught her to weep with those who weep, and a great trial through which she had passed in her girlhood days, and through which she had passed scathless, led her to look on amanda with pitying love. abraham paused upon the threshold as he heard the sound of his wife's voice in prayer, and when, half an hour afterwards, they together descended the brow towards their home, he said: 'thaa sees, lass, milly's angel een wor on th' watch a'ter all.' 'yi,' said his wife, 'and they see'd a returnin' sinner. but hoo's safe naa; hoo's getten back to her mother, and hoo's getten back to god.' 'where hes hoo bin, missus, thinksto?' 'nay, lad, i never ax'd her. i know where hoo's getten to, and that's enugh. i'm noan one for sperrin (asking questions) baat th' past.' 'but they'll be wantin' to know up at th' chapel where hoo's bin.' 'they'll happen do more good by doin' by amanda as th' almeety does.' 'doesto mean i' his judgments?' 'nowe! theer's summat more wonderful nor them.' 'what doesto mean?' 'i mean his forgeetfulness.' ii. light at eventide. while amanda's return aroused the curiosity of rehoboth, it drew few callers to the cottage on pinner's brow. not that the villagers were all wanting in kindliness, but amanda's mother, being a woman of strong reserve, had fenced herself off from much friendly approach; while the nature of the trouble through which she was now passing was felt by the rude moorlanders to impose silence, and deter them from all open signs of sympathy. apart from mrs. lord and a girl friend or two of amanda's, the joy of return was pent up in the heart of the mother--a joy which she, poor thing, would fain have sought to share with others had not delicacy of instinct and sense of shame forbade. she felt it to be indeed hard that she could not go among her neighbours and friends and say, 'rejoice with me, for i have found my child which was lost.' but the mother's joy was also mixed with the alloy of amanda's despair. on the day after the return, the girl had taken to her bed; and despite a mother's love and mrs. lord's kind counsel and cheery words, amanda went down into the valley of the shadow. seldom speaking, save to reiterate the statement that she had come home to die, and that all was dark, she lay anticipating the hour when, as she said, 'the great god would punish her according to her sins.' this idea had taken fast hold of her mind: she was going to hell to burn for ever and for ever, and she would only get her deserts; she had sinned--she must suffer. with the strain of constant watching, and the long hours of solitude, and the nightmare of her girl's damnation hanging over her yearning heart, the poor mother's condition verged on madness, until at last she summoned courage to ask mr. penrose to call and drop some crumbs of his gospel of comfort and love at the bedside of her child; for, as she said to mrs. lord, 'even the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from the master's table.' the truth was that hitherto mr. penrose had not cared to risk the scandal which he knew would be created in the village by a visit on his part to amanda stott. when, however, he received his summons from the mother, and a sharp reprimand from dr. hale, who told him that a minister was as free to visit without risk to his character as a doctor, he resolved to throw aside proprieties and obey the call. as mr. penrose was walking up pinner brow, towards the house of mrs. stott, he unexpectedly met amos entwistle, the senior superintendent of the sunday-school, and known to the children as 'owd catechism,' because of his persistent enforcement of the church tenets on their young minds. 'good a'ternoon, mr. penrose. and what may bring yo' in this direction?' 'i'm looking after some of my sheep, amos.' 'not th' black uns, i hope.' 'no! i am looking after the hundredth--the one that went astray.' 'better leave her alone, mr. penrose. there's an owd sayin' i' these parts that yo' cornd go into th' mill baat gettin' dusted. that means in yur talk that yo' cornd touch pitch baat gettin' blacked. if thaa goes to mrs. stott's they'll say thaart goan for naught good. if thaa wur a married mon, naa, and bed childer, it 'ud happen be different; but bein' single, thaa sees, th' aatside o' yon threshold is th' reight side for such as thee and me.' (amos, be it known, was an old bachelor of over seventy years of age.) 'nonsense, amos; you are reversing the teaching of the master. he went after the sinner, did he not?' 'yi, he did; and he lost his repetation o'er it. they co'd him a winebibber, and a friend o' all maks o' bad uns. i couldn't like 'em to say th' same abaat thee. rehoboth 'ud noan ston' it, thaa knows.' mr. penrose did not know whether to laugh or to be serious. seeing, however, that amos was in no laughing mood, he turned somewhat sharply on the old man, and said: 'the stotts are in trouble, and they ask for my presence, good-afternoon; i'm going.' 'howd on a bit,' said amos, still holding the minister by the lapel of his coat. 'naa listen to me. if i were yo' i wouldn't go. th' lass hes made her bed; let her lie on't. durnd yo' risk yor repetation by makkin' it yasier, or by takkin' ony o' th' thorns aat o' her pillow. rehoboth church is praad o' her sheep; and it keeps th' black uns aatside th' fold, and yo'll nobbud ged blacked yorsel if yo' meddle wi' 'em. but young colts 'll goa their own gait, so pleeas yorsel.' at first mr. penrose was inclined to think twice over the old pharisee's advice; but, looking round, he saw mrs. stott's sad face in her cottage doorway, and her look determined his advance. in a moment reputation and propriety were forgotten in what he felt were the claims of a mother's heart and the sufferings of an erring soul. 'ay, mr. penrose, i'm some fain to see yo',' cried the poor woman, as the minister walked up the garden-path. 'amanda's baan fast, and hoo sez 'at it's all dark.' and then, seizing mr. penrose's hand, she cried: 'yo' durnd think hoo's damned, dun yo'?' for years the sound of that mother's voice as she uttered those words haunted mr. penrose. he heard it in the stillness of the night, and in the quiet of his study; it came floating on the winds as he walked the fields and moors; and would sound in mockery as he, from time to time, declared a father's love from the old pulpit at rehoboth. what cruel creed was this, prompting a mother to believe that god would damn the child whom she herself was forced, out of the fulness of her undying love, to take back into her house and into her heart? as the minister and mrs. stott sat down in the kitchen, the poor woman, in the depths of her despair, again raised her eager face and asked: 'but yo' durnd think amanda's damned, dun yo'?' 'no, i do not, mrs. stott.' this was too much for the mother; and now that the highest passions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom she looked up to as the prophet of god, she felt her girl was safe. the fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears of joy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now love god because god had spared to her, and to himself, her only child. 'but, mr. penrose, amanda says _it's all dark_. dun yo' think yo' could lift th' claads a bit?' 'well, we'll do our best; but to the one who loves her the darkness and the light are both alike.' and with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to where the sick girl lay. mr. penrose had often heard of amanda stott, and of that face of hers which had been both her glory and her shame. now, as he looked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, the reflection of a character and a life. there was the gold and the clay. the brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving to the upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth and chin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit other than that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair. it was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, but of struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenly balanced in the soul. but there was victory on it. mr. penrose saw it, read it, understood it. there were still traces of the scorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of a new life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, was again blossoming as the rose. 'amanda, here's mr. penrose to see thee. i've bin tellin' him it's all dark to thee. it is, isn't it?' but amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not. 'amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or twice, and that in the great crises of maternity, fall from woman's lips--'amanda, speyk. tell him what's botherin' thee.' but the girl was silent. mr. penrose was silent also, and nothing was heard in the room save the tremulous beat of an old watch that hung over the chimney-shelf--one of the memorials of a husband and father long since taken, and now almost forgotten. at last amanda, without turning her face towards the pastor, said: 'sir, i'm a sinner--a lost sinner.' 'no, you are not,' replied mr. penrose. and overawed and astonished with the boldness of his statement, he relapsed into silence. amanda turned and looked at him clearly and unflinchingly, and cried: 'how dare yo' say that?' 'because you've repented,' was the quiet reply. 'haa do yo' know i've repented?' 'because repentance is to come home; and you've come home, have you not?' 'repentance is to come wom'?' slowly repeated the girl, as though some ray of light was penetrating the darkness. 'repentance is to come wom', sen yo'?' 'yes.' and then mr. penrose repeated the words: 'and he arose and came to his home; and when he was a great way off his father saw him and ran, and fell on his neck and kissed him.' 'aw dare say; that's what mi mother did to me on th' neet i come wom'. but mi mother's noan god, is hoo?' 'no; but if you had had no god, you could not have had a mother. you tell me your mother kissed you. did you not feel god's kiss in that which your mother gave you?' the girl shook her head; the pastor needed to make his message more plain. 'it's in this way, you know,' continued mr. penrose. 'if there were no rain in the heavens there would be no springs in the valleys, would there? the well is filled because the clouds send down their showers; and so it is with love. your mother's heart is full of love because god, who himself is love, fills it. your mother stands to you for god, and she is most like god when she is doing most for you; and when she kissed you and took you back again home, she was only doing what god made her do, and what god did himself to you through her.' 'but theer's summat else beside forgiveness, mr. penrose. i feel i've lost summat as i con never ged agen. i know i've getten back wom', but i haven't getten back what awv' lost.' 'you may have it back, though, if it's worth having back. there was one who came to seek that which was lost. you are like the woman who lost one of her pieces of silver; but she found it again, and what you have lost jesus will find and restore to you.' 'but theer's th' past, mr. penrose, as well as th' lost. it's all theer afore me. aw see it as plain as aw see yon moors through th' window, only it's noan green and breet wi' sunshine--it's dark.' 'if god forgets the past, amanda, why should you recall it? look out through that window again. there's a cloud just dying away on the horizon yonder. do you see it? it is changing its colour and losing its shape, and in a moment it will be gone. watch it! it is almost gone. see! now it _is_ gone--gone where? gone into the light of that sun which is making the moors so green and bright. now that is what god is doing with your past--with what you call your sins--blotting them out like a cloud. it is god's mercy that stands like the everlasting hills, and it is our sinfulness and our past that pass away like clouds. as you look at those hills you must think of his mercy, and as you watch those vanishing clouds you must think of your past.' once more there was silence in the sick-chamber, and the little watch ran its race with the beating, flickering pulse of amanda. the girl turned her face towards the window that overlooked the moors, and begged her mother to open it so that she might again feel the cool airs that swept across their heathery wastes. mrs. stott at once unhasped the casement, and a tide of life came stealing in, noiselessly lifting the curtains, and cooling the hectic flame that glowed on amanda's wasted cheeks, and bearing, too, on its waves fragrances that recalled a long-lost paradise, and sounds--the echo of days when no discordant note marred the music of her life. these moorland breezes--how redolent, how murmurous of what had been! in a few moments amanda closed her eyes, the wind caressing her into peacefulness and singing her to slumber. * * * * * it was the hour before dawn--the dark hour when minutes walk with leaden feet and the departing vapours of night lay chilliest finger on the sick and dying, and on those who watch at their side. from the mantelshelf the lamp emitted its feeble rays, dimly lighting the lonely chamber, and holding, as with uncertain hand, the shadows which crowded and cowered in the distant corners and recesses of the room, and throwing into rembrandtesque the pallid face of the wakeful mother, and the flushed and fevered face of the slumbering child. the little watch beat bravely to the march of time, eager to keep pace with that never-flagging runner; while the quick and feeble breathing of the girl told how she was fast losing in the race with the all-omnipotent hours. on a small table stood two phials, in which were imprisoned dull-coloured liquids, powerless, despite their supposed potency, to stay the hunger of the disease so rapidly consuming the patient; and by their side was a plate of shrivelled fruit, the departing lusciousness of which had failed to tempt an appetite in her whose mouth was baked with the fever that fed on its own flame. there, gathered into a few cubic feet of space, met the great triune mystery of night, of suffering, of sin--the unfathomable problems of the universe; there god, the soul, and destiny, together and in silence, played out their terribly real parts. as mrs. stott looked at her daughter tossing in restless sleep, the natal hour came back to her, and in memory she again travailed in birth. she recalled the joy of the advent of that life now so fast departing, and tried to say, 'the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord.' the words died on her lips. had it been a blessed thing on the part of god to give to her a child who brought disgrace on her family name? and now that her child was restored, with a possibility of redeeming the past, was it a blessed thing of god to take her? as these hideous thoughts chased one another through her over-wrought mind, they seemed to embody themselves in the terrible shadows that leapt and fought like demons on the wall, mere mockeries of her helplessness and despair. her eye, however, fell on the bible, and taking it up and opening it at random, she read, 'remember, o lord, the children of edom in the day of jerusalem. o daughter of babylon, who art to be destroyed, happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.' hurriedly turning over the leaves, her eyes again fell upon words that went like goads into her heart: 'let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day, because it shut not up the doors of my mother's womb.' 'what!' cried she, the old calvinist life reasserting itself in her soul--'what! have the curses o' god getten howd o' me?' * * * * * 'mother!' it was the voice of amanda, and its sound called back the ebbing tides of maternity as the clear notes of a bugle rally the dispirited and flying forces on an undecided field. 'mother, will yo' draw that blind?' 'what doesto want th' blind drawin' for, amanda?' 'i want to see th' morn break.' 'whatever for, lass?' asked mrs. stott, as she drew the cord with tremulous hand. for a few minutes the girl looked out at the distant horizon with a breaking light in her own eyes. then, taking her mother's hand, she said: 'dun yo' see that rim o' gowd (gold) on the hills yonder?' 'yi, lass; forsure i do. what abaat it?' 'watch it, mother! see yo', it geds broder--more like a ribbin--a brode, yollow ribbin, like that aw wore i' mi hat when i were a little lass. yo' remember, durnd yo'?--i wore it one charity sarmons.' 'aw remember, amanda,' said the parent, choking with the reminiscences of the past which the old hat and its yellow ribbon aroused. 'naa see, mother,' continued the girl, her eye fixed on the opening sky; 'it's like a great sea--a sea o' buttercups, same as used to grow in owd whittam's field when yo' couldn't see grass for flaars.' 'yi, lass, i see,' sobbed mrs. stott. 'and thoose claads, mother! see yo' haa they're goin'. and th' hills and moors? why i con see them plainer and plainer! haa grond they are! they're awlus theer. them, mr. penrose said, stood for god's love, didn't he, mother?--and them claads as are lifting for my sins.' 'yi, lass; he did, forsure.' the dawn advanced, and before its majestic march there fled the shadows of night that for such long hours had made earth desolate. in the light of this dawn were seen those infinite lines of strength which rose from broad and massive bases, and, sweeping upwards, told of illimitable tracts beyond--mighty waves on the surface of the world's great inland seas, on whose crests sat the green and purple foam of herbage, and in whose hollows lay the still life of home and pasture. silent, changeless, secure, perpetual sublimity rested on their summits, and unbroken repose lay along their graceful sweeps. they were the joy-bearers to the poor child of sorrow, who with eager eye looked out on their morning revelations. to her the mountains had brought peace. that day was a new day to amanda--a birthday--a day in which she realized the all-embracing strength and sufficiency of a divine love. as the hours advanced the clouds gathered and showers fell, only, however, to be swept away by the wind, or dissolved into the light of the sun. these ever-changing, ever-dissolving, many-coloured vapours were watched by amanda, who now saw in them the fleeting and perishable sins of her past life, and again and again, as one followed the other into oblivion, she would breathe a sigh of relief, and then allow her eyes to rest on the great hills that changed not, and which seemed to build her in with their strength. from that day forward a great trust came upon her. she ceased to fret, and never again recalled what had been. just as the chill of winter is forgotten in the glory of the springtide, and just as the child in the posied meadow sports in unconsciousness of the nipping frost that a few weeks before forced the tears to his eyes, so amanda, playful, gladsome, and full of wonder in the new world in which she found herself, knew no more her old self, nor remembered any more her old life. the day had broken and the shadows flown, and god's child was like a young hart on the mountains of bether. * * * * * 'mother, dun yo' think they'd put my name on th' church register agen at rehoboth?' 'i cornd say, mi jass, i'm sure. but why doesto ax me?' 'becose i should like to dee a member of th' owd place. yo' know i were a member once. sin' i've been lyin' here i've had some strange thoughts. dun yo' know, i never belonged to god then as i do naa, for all i were baptized and a communicant. it's queer, isn't it?' 'ey, lass; thaa'd better tell that to mr. penrose. i know naught abaat what yo're talkin' on. bud it does seem, as thaa ses, quare that thaa belongs more to god naa nor thaa did when thaa went away.' 'nay, mother, it's noan exactly as yo' put it. i durnd mean as god's changed; it's me as has changed, durnd yo' see? i never knew or loved him afore, and i know and love him naa.' that afternoon, when mr. penrose called, amanda's mother told him all her daughter had said, and made known to him as the pastor of the church the request for readmission and the administration of the sacrament. mr. penrose, however, shook his head. as far as he was concerned, no one would have been more willing. but the deacons ruled his church, and many of them were hard and exacting men--men with the eye and heart of simon of old, who, while they would welcome christ to meat, would put the ban upon 'the woman who was a sinner.' nor dared mr. penrose administer the sacrament to one whose membership was not assured, for he ministered to those of a close sect, and a close sect of the straitest order. as the mother pleaded for her child, he saw rising before him a difficulty of which he had often dreamed, but never before faced--a difficulty of ministering to a church fenced in by deeds, the letter of which he could not in his inner conscience accept. the mother was importunate, however, and eventually the pastor promised to bring the matter before his deacons. what the decision of these deacons was will be told in another idyll of rehoboth. iii. the court of souls. 'i'm noan for bringin' th' lass back into th' church. hoo's noan o'er modest, or hoo would never ax us to tak' her back.' 'same here, amos! what does hoo want amang dacent christian fo'k?' and so saying, elias bradshaw opened a large pocket-knife and closed it again with a sharp click, and then toyed with it in his hand. 'it wur bad enugh for th' owd woman to tak' her back wom', but if we tak' her back into th' church we's be a thaasand times wur,' continued amos. 'but surely,' pleaded mr. penrose, 'if the angels welcome a returning sinner, might we not venture to do the same?' 'we're noan angels yet, mr. penrose,' replied amos. 'it'll be time enugh to do as th' angels do when we live as th' angels live; an' i raither think as yo'd clam if yo' were put o' angels' meat. ony road, ye con try it if yo' like; it'll save us summat i' th' offertory if yo' do.' 'come, amos, thaa's goin' a bit too fur,' interrupted abraham lord. 'if yo're baan to insult th' parson, yo've no need to insult them as is up aboon--"ministerin' sperits," as th' apostle cos em.' 'we know thaa'rt no angel, amos, baat thi tellin' us,' said malachi o' th' mount. 'and it ever they shap thee into one thaa'll tak' some tentin!' (minding). 'i durnd know as i want to be one afore mi time, malachi: an' i'm noan baan to do as they do till i ged amang 'em. i'd as soon pool a warp ony day as play a harp; but when th' almeety skifts me fro' th' brig factory to heaven, mebbe i'll shap as weel at a bit o' music as ony on yo'.' 'wilto play thi music o'er sich as amanda, thinksto?' asked old malachi. 'thee mind thi business, malachi. when th' almeety maks me an angel, i'll do as th' angels do. but noan afore, noather for yo', nor amanda stott, nor mr. penrose, nor onybody else, so naa thaa knows.' 'spokken like a mon,' assented elias bradshaw. 'stick to thi text, amos.' 'and yet, after all,' said dr. hale, 'i think we ought to receive amanda back again into our communion. the only one who ever forgave sins drew no line as to their number, nor shade as to their degree.' 'but durnd yo' think, doctor, that if we do as yo' want us we's be turnin' th' church into a shoddy hoile?' asked elias bradshaw. 'there are no shoddy souls,' said the doctor. 'no,' continued mr. penrose; 'it was not shoddy that christ came to seek and save.' 'who wur it said th' gate were strait and th' road narro'?' cried out an old man who was always known by the name of 'clogs.' 'that's no reason why yo' should want to turn th' gate into a steele-hoile (stile), is it?' retorted malachi. 'gate or steele-hoile, it's narro'; and that's enugh for me, an' it were noan us ut made it narro'; it wur th' almeety hissel',' replied clogs. 'at any rate, he made it wide enough for amanda,' said dr. hale, 'and that is the matter we are now considering.' 'i'm noan so sure o' that, doctor. there's a good bit o' scripter agen yo' if yo' come to texes.' 'then so much the worse for scripture,' was the unguarded, yet honest, retort of mr. penrose; and dr. hale laid a kind hand on the young minister's shoulder to restrain his haste. 'it seems to me,' said elias bradshaw, 'as mr. penrose spends a deal too mich time in poolin' up the stumps and makin' th' strait gate into a gap as ony rubbige con go thro'. i could like to yer him preych fro' the fifteenth verse o' th' last chapter i' revelation. i once yerd a grond sarmon fro' that text i' th' pulpit up aboon here; and when it were oer, dickey o' sams o' the heights went aat o' th' chapel, and tried to draan hissel' i' green fold lodge. naa, that's what i co powerful preychin'!' 'pardon me, mr. bradshaw. we are not here to discuss the merits of preaching. we are here to consider the request of amanda stott--' 'an' axin' yor pardon, mr. penrose, that's whod i wur comin' to. i'm noan a fancy talker like yo'. aw never larned to be, and i'm noan paid to be. whod i wur baan to say, if you'll nobbud let me, wur this: as jesus christ wur a deal more particular who he leet in than who he kept aat. that's all.' 'but who did he keep out?' asked dr. hale. 'haa mony, thinksto, did he leet in, doctor? i could welly caant um o' on both mi hands.' 'it seems to me yo' want to mak' saints as scarce as white crows,' said abraham lord. 'nay, abram; we want to keep th' black 'uns aat o' th' nests.' 'then yo' mud as weel fell th' rookery,' was abraham's sharp retort, which called forth a hearty laugh. 'if i read th' bible reet,' said amos entwistle, returning to the fray, 'if i read th' bible reet, a felley once coome to jesus christ an' axed him if mony or few wur saved; and all he geet for an answer wur, "thee mind and geet saved thisel'; it'll tak' thee all thy time wi'out botherin' abaat others." an' i think it'll tak' us all aar time baat botherin' abaat amanda stott. i move as we tak' no more notice on her axin' to come back amang us. it's geddin' lat, an' my porritch is waitin' for me at wom'.' this was more than mr. penrose could bear, and rising to his feet, he asked, in suppressed tones, that the matter under discussion might receive the care and wisdom and mercy that a soul demanded from those who held in their hands the shaping of its earthly destiny; and then, in a voice stifled with emotion, he ventured to draw the contrast between the last speaker, who would fain hurry, for the sake of an evening meal, decisions that had to deal with the peace of a repentant girl, and he who, in the moments of bodily hunger, putting aside the refreshment brought by his disciples, said, 'i have meat to eat that ye know not of.' nor did mr. penrose plead in vain. those who listened to him were moved by his words, and amos entwistle sat down, to utter no further word against amanda. from this time the tone of the discussion changed. not that mr. penrose devoutly listened; indeed, he was listless, only recovering himself, now and again, as some striking sentence, or scrap of rude philosophy, fell on his indifferent ear. leaning back in his chair, his eye rested on the hard features of the men sitting on either side of the deacons' table. they were men of grit, men of the hills, men whose religious ancestry was right royal. their fathers had fayed out well the foundations on which the old chapel stood, and hewn the stones, and reared the walls, and all for love--and after the close of hard days of toil. they were men who knew nothing of moral half-lights--there were no gradations in their sense of right and wrong. sin was sin, and righteousness was righteousness--the one night and the other day. they drew a line, narrow and inflexible, and knew no debatable zone where those who lingered were neither sinners nor saints. and so with the doctrines they held. severity characterized them. justice became cruelty, and faith superstition. they knew nothing of progressive revelations. the old sinaitic god still ruled; the mountain was still terrible, and dark with the clouds of wrath. fatherhood in the deity was an unknown attribute, and tenderness a note never sounded in the creed they held. they had been bred on meat, and they were strong men. they knew nothing of the tender tones of him whose feet became the throne of the outcast. their god was a consuming fire. as mr. penrose looked into their faces, many bitter thoughts poisoned the waters of his soul. he thought of simon the pharisee; he thought, too, of st. dominic; and of calvin with the cry for green wood, so that servetus might slowly burn. he thought, too, of the curse of spiritual pride--pride that enthroned men as judges over the destiny of their fellows, and damned souls as freely and as coolly as a commander marched his forlorn hope into the yawning breach. and then, realizing that among such his lot was thrown--realizing also the dead hand that rested on his teaching and preaching--his heart went down into a sea of hopelessness, and he felt the chill of despair. the gong of the chapel clock announced the hour of nine, in thin, metallic beats, and looking up, he noted the swealing tapers in the candelabra over his head. in his over-wrought, nervous condition, he imagined he saw in one of the flickering, far-spent lights the waning life of amanda stott, and the horrible thought of eternal extinction at death laid its cold hand on the larger hope which he was struggling to keep aflame in his darkening soul. turning his glances towards the pulpit that rose gaunt and square above the deacons' pew, and over which hung the old sounding-board, as though to mock the voices, now for ever silent, that from time to time had been wont to reverberate from its panels, he began to wonder whether the message the church called revelation was not, after all, as vain as 'laughter over wine'; and as he looked on the frowning galleries and the distant corners of the chapel, gloomy and fearsome--the high-backed pews, peopled with shadows thrown from the waning lights--he felt the force of the words of one of his masters: 'what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue.' suddenly he was recalled to his position as the pastor of the church by the voice of old enoch, mellow as the tones of the flute on which he so often tuned his soul in moods of sorrow and sin. how long enoch had been talking mr. penrose knew not; but what he heard in the rude yet kindly vernacular of the moors was: 'let's show mercy, lads! noan o' us con howd up aar yeds baat it. him as has put us here expects us to show yon lass o' stott's same as he's shown to us hissel'. there's one bit o' readin' i' th' new testament as noan o' yo' has had owt to say abaat--i mean where th' lord tells o' th' two debtors. th' fust geet let off; but when he wouldn't let his mate off, it were a sore job for him. durnd yo' think as th' almeety cares as mich abaat us as we care for aar childer? i somehaa thinks he does. didn't him as played on th' harp say, "like as a faither pitieth his childer, so th' lord pitieth them that fear him"? an' him as said that had a bad lad an' o'--an' didn't he say he'd raither ha' deed than th' lad? aw welly think as th' almeety con find room for amanda, and if he con, i think we mud be like to thrutch (push) her into rehoboth. let's mak' room for her, hoo'l happen not want it so long; and when hoo's gone we's noan be sorry we took her in; who knows but what we shall be takin' in the lord hissel? i'm no scholard, but i've read abaat 'em takin' in angels unawares; and th' lord said if we took onybody in ut wur aat i' th' cowd, we wur takin' him in. if we shut amanda out we's mebbe shut him aat, and if he's aatside, them as is inside will be on th' wrang side. coome, lads, let's show mercy.' there were other voices, however, besides enoch's, and speakers as apt at quotation from the scriptures as he. indeed, the bible was torn into shreds of texts, and--the letter so re-patched as to destroy the pattern wrought by its great principles of mercy and love. the grand words--righteousness, grace, law, were clashed, and wildly rung, like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and the court of souls resembled the vindictiveness of miltonic demons rather than the seat of those who claimed to represent him who said: 'i will have mercy and not sacrifice.' when the vote was taken the door was shut against amanda. passing out of the dimly-lighted chapel into the blackness of the night, dr. hale took the arm of the young minister, saying: 'let me guide you, mr. penrose. i know these roads by instinct.' 'yes, doctor, i not only need your guidance, but that of someone else. black as the night is, it isn't so black as the souls of those benighted inquisitors we've left behind us. there are stars behind those clouds; but there are none hidden behind the murky creed of the deacons of rehoboth. do they expect me, doctor, to carry their decision to mrs. stott and her daughter?' 'i believe they do. hard messages, you know, must be delivered both by ministers and doctors. it is my lot sometimes to tell people that their days are numbered, when i would almost as soon face death myself.' 'well, i have made up my mind, doctor, to face the resignation of rehoboth rather than carry their heartless decision to amanda.' 'wait until morning, and then come on to my house and consult with old mr. morell; he is staying with me for a day or two. you never met with him. perhaps he can guide, or at any rate help you. wisdom lies with the ancients, you know.' 'but are not the men who have refused admission to amanda the spiritual children of mr. morell? if his preaching has brought about what we have seen and heard to-night, what guidance or help can i get from him?' 'just so,' said the doctor. 'i was not thinking of that. it's true he was pastor here for over forty years, and our deacons are his spiritual offspring. for all that, the old man's heart is right if his head is wrong; and, after all, it's the heart that rules the life.' 'nay! no heart could thrive on a creed such as rehoboth's. why, god's heart would grow jean on it.' 'but mr. morell's heart is not lean, mr. penrose. it is not, i assure you,' emphasized the doctor, as his companion uttered a sceptical grunt. 'he is tenderness incarnate. you know _one_ good thing came out of nazareth, despite the scepticism of the disciple.' 'certainly a good thing did come out of nazareth; but nazareth, bad as it was, was not a calvinistic creed. i very much question whether the creed of rehoboth can preserve a tender heart.' 'come and see,' laconically replied dr. hale. 'very well, then, i'll treat my scepticism honestly. i will come and see. to-night the hour is too late. i will look in to-morrow morning.' mr. penrose continued his homeward walk, conscious of the first symptoms of the reaction which follows hours of tension such as those through which he had just passed. he was limp. morally as well as physically his nerve was gone. he thought of the apostle who fought with beasts at ephesus, and envied him his combatants. his fretful impatience with those who differed from him theologically rose to a tide of insane hatred, and he lost himself in a passion against his deacons as bitter as that which they had shown towards amanda stott and himself. entering his lodgings, and lighting his lamp, he threw himself on the couch, resenting in bitterness of spirit the limitations of creeds, and the exactions imposed on men who, like himself, were called to minister to brawling sects. thrice he sat down at his desk; thrice he wrote out his resignation, and thrice he committed it to the flames. then, recalling the words of an old college professor who often used to tell his students that the second epistle of the corinthians was the ministerial panacea in the hour of depression, he took up his testament and read: _'ministers of god, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distress ... by pureness, by knowledge, by long-suffering, by kindness, by love unfeigned, by the holy ghost, by the word of truth, by the power of god.'_ and there came on the young pastor a spirit of power, and of love, and of a new mind, and he slept. iv. the old pastor. on the following morning mr. penrose set out to call on the old pastor at the house of dr. hale, conjuring up as he went pictures of the man whom he knew only by report, and, as he deemed, exaggerated report too. to rehoboth people mr. morell was a prodigy--a veritable prophet of the most high; and his successor's sojourn was not a little embittered by the disparaging contrasts so frequently drawn between the old order and the new. to be for ever told the texts from which mr. morell used to preach, to hear in almost every house some pet saying or scrap of philosophy wont to fall from his lips, to be asked, if not bidden, by the deacons to tread in the footprints of one who was believed to wear the seven-league boots, became intolerable; and had not discretion guarded the speech of mr. penrose, many a time his language of retort would have been strange to covenanted lips. often, too, he asked himself what manner of man he must be who nursed and reared this narrow sect of the hills--a sect setting judgment before mercy, and law before love--a sect narrowing salvation to units, and drawing the limit line of grace around a fragment of mankind. on his arrival at dr. hale's, however, a surprise greeted him, and as he responded to the old pastor's outstretched hand, he knew he met with one in whom firm gentleness and affable dignity were the chief charm of character. there was not, as he anticipated, coarse, crass assertiveness--a semi-cultured man whose narrow creed joined hands with barren intelligence. far otherwise; he stood before one whose presence commanded reverence, one at whose feet he felt he must bow. mr. morell was tall and erect, with a fine greek head whose crown of snowy hair lent dignity to a face sunny with the light of kindness, while every line of expression, those soul-inscriptions written by the years on the plastic flesh, told of thought and culture. the accent, too, was finished, and every gesture betrayed refinement and ease. at first the conversation was restrained, for both men instinctively felt that between them lay a gulf which it would be difficult to bridge; but, as dr. hale played well the part of middleman, the ministers were drawn out towards each other, and in a little while struck mutual chords in one another's hearts. during the morning the two men talked of art, of philosophy, and of history, the discussion of these calling out a light of intelligence and rapture on the old man's face. when, however, the graver questions of theology were broached, his voice became hard and inflexible, a shadow fell, and the radiancy of the man and scholar became lost in the gloom of the divine. whenever mr. penrose ventured to hint on some phase of the broader theology, the old man was provoked to impatience; and when he went so far as to quote browning, and declare that-- 'the loving worm within its clod were diviner than a loveless god amid his worlds,' a gleam of fire shot from the mild eye of mr. morell, significant as a storm-signal across a sea of glass. the younger man was often taken at disadvantage, for, while he was in touch with modern thought, he did not possess the old dialectician's skill. once, as mr. penrose remarked that science was modifying theology, mr. morell, detecting the flaw in his armour, thrust in his lance to the hilt by replying that science and calvinism were logically the same, with the exception that, for heredity and environment, the calvinist introduced grace. whereupon mr. penrose cried with some vehemence: 'no, no, mr. morell! that will not do. i cannot accept your statement at all.' 'can't you?' said the old man, rising from his chair, the war spirit hardening his voice and flaming in his eye. 'can't you? what says science of the first hundred men which will pass you, if you take your stand in the main thoroughfare of the great city over the hills yonder? watch them; one is drunk, another is linked arm in arm with his paramour, a third is handcuffed, and you can see by the conduct of him who follows that he is as reckless of life as though the years were for ever. why these? ask science, and it answers _election_--the election of birth and circumstance. ask calvinism, and it, too, answers election--the election of decrees.' 'but science does not do away with will, mr. morell.' 'well, then, it teaches its impotence, and that is the same thing. it bases will on organization, and traces conduct to material sources. huxley tells us the salvation of a child is to be born with a sound digestion, and calvinism says the salvation of a child is to be born under the election of grace. logically, the basis of both systems is the same; the sources of life differ, that is all. one traces from matter, the other from mind--from the mind and will of the eternal.' 'but science fixes it for earth only--you fix it for eternity,' suggestively hinted the younger man. 'yes, you are right, mr. penrose; we do.' 'then a man is lost because he cannot be saved, and punished for things over which he had no control?' 'ask science,' was the curt reply. 'well, mr. morell, i will ask science, and science will yield hope. science says, take a hundred men and a hundred women, and let them live on a fruitful island and multiply, and in four generations you will have an improved stock--a stock freer from atavism, hysteria, anomalies, and insanities. science holds out hope; you don't. you say god's will and decrees are eternal, and what they were a thousand ages since they will be a thousand ages to come. science does eventually point to a new heaven and new earth, but calvinism throws no light across the gloom.' the old man quietly shifted his ground by asking his opponent if he ever asked himself why he did, and why he did not, do certain things. 'i suppose the reason is because of my choice, is it not?' 'and what governs choice--or, if you like, will?' 'i do, myself.' 'who are you, and what part of you governs it? will cannot govern will, can it? and can you divorce will from personality?' 'tennyson answers your question, mr. morell. '"our wills are ours, we know not how," that is the mystery of existence. '"our wills are ours, to make them thine," that is the mystery of salvation.' 'then, mr. penrose, i ask you--why don't we make our wills god's?' mr. penrose was silent, and then he made a slip, and played into his opponent's hands by saying: 'my faith in a final restitution meets that difficulty. we shall all be god's some time; his love is bound to conquer.' 'suppose what you call will defies god's love, what then?' 'it cannot.' 'then it is no longer will.' 'cannot you conceive of will winning will?' 'i can conceive of will, as you define it, defying will, and that for ever. but we escape your contradictions; we accept the fact that some men are under a divine control they cannot resist--' 'then you both agree as to the principle,' broke in dr. hale; 'you are both calvinists, with this difference: you, mr. morell, say only the few will be called; mr. penrose, here, says all will be called. let us go in for the larger hope.' 'you are right, doctor. i am a calvinistic universalist,' cried mr. penrose in triumph. and mr. morell was bound to admit the doctor had scored. it was not long, however, before mr. penrose found a spring of tenderness hidden beneath the crust of calvinism that lay around the old man's soul, and on which were written in fiery characters the terrors of a merciless law. and the rod that smote this rock and tapped the spring was none other than the story of amanda's return and repentance, told in part by dr. hale and in part by the young pastor himself. as the story was unfolded, the old man evinced much feeling, often raising his hand to shade fast-filling eyes, or to brush away the tears that fell down his furrowed face. they told him of amanda's silence as to the past, and he commended her for it, remarking to mr. penrose that the true penitent seldom talked of the yesterdays of sin; they told him how she counted herself unworthy of home and of love, seeking blame and not welcome from the mother to whom she had returned, and he declared it to be a token of her call; they told him of the great light and peace that fell on her as she rested on the goodness of god, and they heard from him the echo of his master's words over mary--'she hath loved much, for she hath had much forgiven'; and then they told him of her desire for the restoration of her name on the rehoboth register, and he was silent--and for some minutes no sound disturbed his reverie. that silence was god's speaking hour. within the old pastor's soul a voice was whispering before which the thunderings of the creed of a sect were hushed. he, poor man, knew full well that it was a voice which had long striven to make itself heard--a still, small voice that would neither strive nor cry--a haunting voice, a voice constant in its companionship during his later years. how often he would fain have listened to it! but he dared not, for was it not a contradictory voice? did it not traverse the letter which he had sworn to uphold and declare? what if the voice were the voice of god? no! it could not be. god spoke in his book. it was plain. wayfaring men might read, and fools had no need to err. but was god's voice for ever hushed? had he had no message since the seal was fixed to the canon of scripture? what if that which he heard was one of those messages concerning which christ said, 'i have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.' had the _now_ in his life passed? had the _then_ come when a fuller revelation was about to be vouchsafed? nay! even the apostle--the man inspired--only knew in part. why should he, then, try to pry into the clouds and darkness that were round about the awful throne? and yet in him who sat on that throne was no darkness at all. supposing the feelings struggling in his heart now were rays of light from him--rays seeking to pierce the clouds, and bring more truth--truth which, in his highest moments, he had dreamed of, but never dared to follow. was not dr. hale right after all? was it not better to trust what we knew to be best in us, and follow the larger rather than the lesser hope? and so, in the silence, the two voices reasoned in the soul of mr. morell. in a little while mr. morell, roused from his reverie, turned to the young pastor, and said: 'your poet is right, mr. penrose. the loving worm within its clod is diviner than a loveless god amid his worlds. let us go as far as the chapel.' as they walked along the narrow, winding roadways, broken by projecting gables, and fenced by irregular rows of palisades, the old pastor began to re-live the long-departed days. objects, once familiar, on which his eye again rested, restored faded and forgotten colours, and opened page after page in the books of the past. many cottages mutely welcomed him, their time-stained walls memorials of generations with whom he held sacred associations. there was the old fold farm, with its famous fruit-trees, on which, in spring evenings, he used to watch the blanching blossoms blush beneath the glowing caress of the setting sun; and alice o' th' nook's garden, with its beds of camomile, the scent of which brought back, as perfumes are wont to, forms and faces long since summoned by the 'mystic vanishers.' there, too, stood the old manse--now tenantless--so long the temple of his studies and domesticities, the shrine of joys and sorrows known to none save himself. how the history of a life lay hidden there, each wall scored with fateful characters, decipherable only to the eye of him who for so many ears sought the shelter which they gave. on the summit of the hill in front of him was the chapel, its sagging roof silhouetted against the blue of the morning sky, the tombstones, irregular and rude, rising from the billowy sea of grave-mounds that lay around their base. beyond him, in grandly distant sweeps, rose the moors. how well he knew all their contours, their histories, their names! how familiar he used to be with all their moods--moods sombre and gladsome--as now they were capped with mist, now radiant in sunlight, their sweeps dappled with cloud shadows, moving or motionless, or white in the broad eye of day. thus it was, within the distance of a half-mile walk, his past life, like an open scroll, lay before him; and he remarked to mr. penrose that he had that morning found the book of memory to be a book of life and a book of judgment also. as the three men passed through the chapel-gates they were met by old joseph, who was hearty in his welcome of mr. morell. 'eh! mr. morell,' he said, grasping his hand in a hard and earthy palm, 'aw'm some fain to see yo'. we've hed no gradely preachin' sin yo' left rehoboth. this lad here,' pointing to mr. penrose, 'giz us a twothree crumbs betimes; but some on us, i con tell yo', are fair clamming for th' bread o' life. none o' yo'r hawve-kneyded duf (dough), nor your hawve-baked cakes, wi' a pinch o' currants to fotch th' fancy tooth o' th' young uns. nowe, but gradely bread, yo' know.' mr. morell tried to check the brutal volubility and plain-spokenness of joseph, but in vain. he continued the more vehemently. 'it's all luv naa, and no law. what mak' o' a gospel dun yo' co it when there's no law, no thunerins (thunderings), mr. morell, no leetnins? what's th' use o' a gospel wi'out law? no more use nor a chip i' porritch. dun yo' remember that sarmon yo' once preached fro' "jacob have i luved, but esau have i hated"? it wur a grand un, and owd harry o' th' brig went straight aat o' th' chapel to th' george and dragon and geet drunk, 'cose, as he said, he mud as well ged drunk if he wor baan to be damned, as be damned for naught. amos entwistle talks abaat that sarmon naa, and tells bits on it o'er to th' childer i' th' catechism class, and then maks 'em ged it off by heart.' how long old joseph would have continued in this strain it is hard to say, had not mr. morell, who did not seem to care to hear more of his pulpit deliverance of other days, silenced him by demanding the vestry keys. as the three men entered the vestry a close, damp atmosphere smote them--an atmosphere pervading all rooms long shut up from air, and with foundations fed by fattened graves. nor was the vestry itself more inviting. gloomy and low-ceiled, the plaster of its walls, soddened and discoloured from the moisture of the moors, lay peeling off in ragged strips, while its oozing floor of flags seemed to tell of sweating corpses in their narrow beds beneath. through a small window, across which a spider had woven its web, a shaft of sunlight lay tremulous with the dance of multitudinous motes; and, falling on the dust-covered table, lighted up with its halo a corroded pen and stained stone jar, half filled with congealed ink. on the right of this window stood a cupboard, with its panels of dark oak, behind which lay the parchments and papers of the rehoboth church--parchments and papers whose inscriptions were fast fading, whose textures were fast rotting--companioning in their decay the decay of the creeds they sought to preserve and proclaim. it was to this cupboard mr. morell turned, taking therefrom two time-stained, leather-bound volumes--the one a record of the interments of the past hundred years, the other containing the roll of rehoboth communicants since the establishment of the church. laying the former aside, he took up the latter with a tenderness and devoutness becoming one who was touching the sacred books of some fetish of the east. it was, indeed, to him a book to be reverenced; and as he slowly and sadly turned over its time-stained pages, his eye rested on many names entered in his own small handwriting--names which carried him back to companionship with lives for ever past. some he had known from birth to death, blessing them in their advent, and committing them at the grave to him who is the sure and certain hope. there were those, too, whom he piloted along the rocky coasts of youth--those with whom he once wept in their shadowed homes, and from whom he never withheld his joy in their hour of triumph. as name after name met his eye, it was as though he travelled the streets of a ruined city--a city with which in the days of its glory he had been familiar. memories--nothing but memories--greeted him. he heard voices, but they were silent; he saw forms, but they were shadowy. as he turned over page after page he read as never before the record of his half-century's pastorate--his moorland ministry among an ever-changing people, and there passed before him the pageant of a life--not loud in blare, nor brilliant in colour--but sombre, stately, and true. continuing to turn over the pages, he came to where a black line was drawn across the name of amanda stott, and where against the cancelled name a word was written as black as the ink with which it was inscribed. again there came a pause. long and tearfully the old pastor looked at that name disfigured, as she, too, who bore it had been, by the hand of man. then, taking up the corroded pen and filling it, he re-wrote the name in the space between the narrow blue-ruled lines, and, looking up with smiling face, said: 'yet there is room.' and the shaft of sunlight that fell in through the cobwebbed window of the rehoboth vestry lay on the newly-inscribed name, as though heaven sealed with her assent the act of the old man who felt himself the servant of the one who said, 'i will in no wise cast out.' iv. saved as by fire it was a narrow, gloomy yard, paved with rough flags dinted and worn by the wheels of traffic and the tread of many feet. on one side stood the factory, cheerless and gray, with its storied heights, and long rows of windows that on summer evenings flamed with the reflected caresses of the setting sun, and in the shorter days of winter threw the light of their illuminated rooms like beacon fires across the miles of moor. flanking the factory were sheds and outbuildings and warehouses, through the open doors of which were seen skips and trollies and warps, and piles of cloth pieces ready for the market in the great city beyond the hills. within a stone's-throw the sluggish river crept along its blackened bed, no longer a stream fresh from the hills, but foul with the service of selfish man. it was breakfast hour, and the monotonous roar of machinery was hushed, no longer filling the air with the pulsations of mighty manufacture. the thud of the ponderous engines had ceased; the deafening rattle of the looms was no more heard; a myriad spooming spindles were at rest. a dreamy sound of falling waters floated from the weir, and the song of birds in a clump of stunted trees made music in the quiet of the morning light--it was nature's chance to teach man in one of the brief pauses of his toil, had he possessed the ear to hearken or the heart to understand. beneath the shelter of a 'lean-to' a group of men sat, hurriedly gulping their morning meal, finding time, all the same, for loud talk and noisy chaff. they were prosaic, hard-faced men, with lines drawn deeply beneath their eyes, and complexions sallow, despite the breezes of the hills among which they were reared. from childhood they had been the slaves of labour; the bread they ate was earned by sweat and sorrow, while their spare hours were given to boisterous mirth--the rebound of exacting toil. two or three were conning the betting news in a halfpenny paper of the previous evening, and talking familiarly of the chances of the favourites, while others disputed as to sentiments delivered in the last great political speech. in one corner sat amos entwistle, the butt of not a little mirth from a half-dozen sceptics who had gathered round him. they addressed him as 'owd brimstone,' and made a burlesque of his calvinistic faith, one going so far as to call him 'a glory bird,' while another declared he was 'booked for heaven fust-class baat payin' for his ticket.' 'why should he pay for his ticket,' asked an impudent-looking youth, 'when th' almeety's gan it him? th' elect awlus travels for naught, durnd they, amos?' 'thaa's more scripture larning abaat thee nor i thought thaa had,' said amos, withdrawing his wrinkled face from the depths of a can out of which he was drinking tea. 'but it's noan knowledge 'at saves, dan; th' devils believe and tremble.' 'but i noan tremble, amos; i geet too mich brimstone i' yon fire hoile to be flayed at what yo' say is "resarved" for them as isn't called.' (dan's occupation was to feed the boiler fires.) 'if thaa'rt noan flayed, that doesn't say thaa hasn't a devil,' replied amos, again raising the can to his lips. 'well, i'm noan to blame if a' cornd help miself, am i?' but amos remained silent. 'aw say, amos,' said a thoughtful-looking man, 'aw often wonder if thaa'll be content when thaa geets up aboon to see us lot in t'other shop.' 'yi! and when we ax him, as th' rich mon axed lazarus, for a sooap (drink) of summat cool, it'll be hard lines, wirnd (will not) it, owd lad, when thaa cornd help us?' asked the man who sat against him. 'happen it will,' replied amos. 'but thaa knows there'll be no sharin' baggin (tea or refreshment) there. them as hed oil couldn't gi' it to them as hed noan.' 'then thaa'll not come across the gulf and help us, amos?' 'nowe!' cried dan. 'he'd brun (burn) his wings if he did.' and at this all laughed, save the thoughtful man who put the first question to the old calvinist. 'thaa knows, amos,' said he, 'i look at it i' this way. supposin' th' factory geet o' fire this mornin', an' yo' hed th' chance o' savin' that lass o' mine that back-tents for yo', yo'd save her, wouldn't yo'?' 'yi, lad, if i'd th' _chance_,' replied amos. 'then haa is it yo're so mich better nor him, as yo' co th' almeety, for yo' reckon he'll noan save some o' us?' 'i tell thee i'd save th' lass if i hed th' chance. we con nobbud do what we're permitted to do. we're only instruments in th' almeety's honds.' 'but isn't th' almeety his own measter?' 'so he is, but his ways are past findin' out.' 'an' thaa means to say thaa'd save my lass, and th' almeety wouldn't save me?' 'it's decrees, thaa knows, lad, it's decrees,' said amos, unshaken by the argument of his friend. 'then there's summat wrang with th' decrees, that's all, amos. there's been a mistak' somewhere.' 'hooist, lad! hooist! durnd talk like that. woe to th' mon that strives wi' his maker.' 'if thi maker's th' mon thaa maks him aat to be, i'm noan partic'lar abaat oather his woes or his blessin's.' 'no more am i,' cried dan, as he stood up and stretched himself with a yawn. 'we mud as well mak' most o' life if we're booked for t'other shop, though mine's a warm un i' this world, as yo' all know.' 'it is not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of god that showeth mercy,' said amos, in solemn tones. and the whistle sounded for the renewal of work, and the men dispersed. * * * * * the clock in the factory yard pointed to the hour of ten, and four hundred toilers were sweating out their lives in one of manufacture's minting-shops of wealth. overhead the shafting ran in rapid revolutions, communicating its power and speed by lengths of swaying, sagging belts to the machinery that stood so closely packed on the vibrating floors, and between which passed, and behind which stood, the operatives, unconscious of danger, and with scarce a care than how to keep pace with the speed of steam and the flying hours. every eye was strained, and every nerve as highly strung as the gearing of the revolving wheels, the keen glances of the overlookers seeing to it that none paused until the hour of release. the atmosphere was heavy, the temperature high, and flecks of 'fly' floated on the stifling air, wafted by the breath born of whirring wheels, and finding rest on the hair of women and the beards of men until the workers looked as though they were whitened by the snows of a premature decay. women and girls sang snatches of songs, and bits of old familiar airs, with no accompaniment but the roar and rattle around, their voices unheard save when some high-pitched note was struck; and others found odd moments when by lip-signs and dumb show they communicated with their fellow-workers. men and women, boys and girls, passed and repassed one another in narrow alleys and between revolving machinery, crushing together without sense of decency, and whispering hastily in one another's ear some lewd joke or impure word, the moisture from their warm flesh mingling with the smell of oil and cotton, and their semi-nude forms offering pictures for the realistic pen of a zola or a moore. it was but one of the laps in the great race of competition where steam contends with human breath, and iron is pitted against flesh and blood. over the hills were other factories where the same race was going on, where other masters were competing, and other hands were laying down life that they themselves and their little ones might live--examples of the strange paradox that only those can save their lives who lose them. outside was pasturage and moorlands, and the dear, sweet breath of heaven, the flowers of the field, the song of birds, the yearning bosom of nature warm with love towards her children. yet here, within, was a reeking house of flesh--not the lazar ward of the city slum, but the sweating den of a competitive age. in the top story of the factory amos was walking to and fro among his roving frames, and dividing his time between hurried glances at his workers and a small greasy tract he held in his hand, entitled 'an everlasting task for arminians.' turning aside for a moment to drive some weary operative with a word as rough as a driver uses to his over-driven horse, he would return to the 'everlasting task,' and cull some choice sentence or read some twisted text used to buttress up the calvinistic creed. reading aloud to himself the words--'real christian charity is swallowed up in the will of god, nor is it in its nature to extend itself one step beyond, nor desire one thing contrary to, the glory of jehovah. all the charity we possess beyond this may be properly called fleshly charity'--he lifted his eyes to see two of his 'back-tenters' playing behind the frames, and his real christian charity displayed itself in pulling their ears until they tingled and bled, and in freely using his feet in sundry kicks on their shins. and yet, wherein was this man to blame? was he not what commerce and calvinism had made him? the finger of the clock in the factory yard was creeping towards the hour of eleven, when a smell, ominous to every old factory hand, was borne into the nostrils of amos. in a moment his 'everlasting task' was thrust into his shirt-breast, and he ran towards the door from which the stairway of the room descended. no, he was not mistaken, the smell was the smell of fire, and scarcely had he gone down a half-dozen steps before he met a man with blanched face, who barely found breath to say: 'th' scutchin' room's ablaze.' amos carried a cool head. his religion had done one thing for him: it had made him a fatalist, and fatalists are self-contained. in a moment he took in the whole situation. he knew that the stairways would act as a huge draught, up which the flames from the room below would bellow and blaze. he knew, too, that all way of escape being cut off below, screaming women and girls, maddened with fright, would rush to the topmost room of the mill, where probably they would become a holocaust to commerce. he knew, too, that those who sought the windows and let themselves down by ropes and warps would lose their presence of mind, and probably fall mangled and broken on the flag floor of the yard, sixty or seventy feet below. all this passed through his mind ere the old watch in his fob had marked the lapse of five seconds. in a moment his resolve was taken. he went back to the roving-room with steady step, and a face as calm as though he were standing in the light of a summer sun. by the time he reached the room the machinery was beginning to slow down, and a mad stampede was being made by the hands towards the door. raising his arm, he cried: 'go back, lasses; there's no gate daan theer. them of us as 'as to be brunt will be brunt, and them of us as is to escape will ged off wi' our lives. keep cool, lasses; we'll do our best; and remember 'at th' almeety rules.' one thing turned out in the favour of amos and of his rovers. the mad rush from below poured into the room under him, and not, as he expected, into his own, the lower room being one where there was a better chance of escape. seeing this, he barred up his own doorway to prevent the girls and women swarming below, where they would have made confusion worse confounded. then he beat out one of the windows, and proceeded to fix and lower a rope by way of escape. 'now then, lasses,' said he, having rapidly completed his task, 'th' little uns fust,' and in a moment a girl of twelve was swinging seventy feet in the air, while a crowd of roaring humanity below held its breath, and gazed with dilating eyes on the child who hung between life and death. in a minute more the spell of silence broke, and a roar, louder than before, told that the little one had touched earth without injury, save hands all raw from friction with the rope along which she had slidden. child after child followed; then the women were taken in their turn, and lowered safely into the factory yard. by the time it came to the turn of amos, the roar of the fire sounded like the distant beating of many seas along a rock-bound coast. the hot breath was ascending, and thin tongues of flame began to shoot through the floor of the room where he stood. the pungent smell of burnt cotton stung his nostrils and blinded his eyes with pain, and the atmosphere was fevered to such a degree that with difficulty he drew his breath. his turn had come, but was he the last in the room? something told him that he was not, that he must look round and satisfy himself, otherwise his duty was unfulfilled. the tongues of flame became fiercer; he saw them running along the joints of the boarding, and feeding on the oil and waste which had accumulated there for years. he felt his hour was come. but he was calm. god ruled. no mistake could be made by the almighty--nor could any mistake be made by himself, for was he not under divine guidance? calmly he walked along the length of the room, stepping aside to escape the flame, and searching behind each roving-frame in his walk, as though to assure himself that no one remained unsaved. coming to the last frame, he saw the fainting form of one of his back-tenters, the very child whose ears he had so savagely pulled but an hour before. there she lay, with her pallid, pinched face across her arm, the flames creeping towards her as though greedy to feed themselves on her young life. in an instant amos stepped towards the child and raised her in his arms, intending to return to the window and so seek escape. he was too late, however; a wall of fire stretched across the room, and he felt the floor yielding beneath his feet. he was still calm and self-contained. he thought of him who was said to dwell in devouring flames, and was himself a consuming fire. he thought of the three hebrew youths and the sevenfold-heated furnace. he thought of the one who was the wall of fire to his people, and he was not afraid. on swept the blaze. in a few moments he knew the roof must follow the fast-consuming floor. still he was calm. he stepped on to one of the stone sills to secure a moment's respite, and he cried in an unfaltering voice, 'the lord reigneth. let his will be done.' frantic efforts were being made by the crowd below to recall amos, who had been seen to disappear from the window into the room. his name was shouted in wild and entreating cries, and men reared ladders, only to find them too short, while women threw up their arms and fell fainting in excitement on the ground. on swept the flame. still amos held his own on the stone ledge. grand was his demeanour--erect, despite his seventy years, clasping with a death grip the fainting child. all around him was smoke and mingling fire; but the lord reigned--what he willed was right; in him was no darkness at all. suddenly he lifted his eyes, and saw above him a manhole that led into the roof. in a moment he sprang along the frames, and passed in with his burden, and beat his way through the slates which in another minute were to fall in with the final collapse of the old factory. creeping along the ridge, he made his way towards the great chimney-shaft that ran up at one end of the building, and bidding the girl, who by contact with the air was now conscious, cling to his neck, the old man laid hold of the lightning-rod, and began his dangerous descent to the ground. but he knew no fear; there was no tremor in his muscles; steadily he descended, feeling that god held his hands, and he told his rehoboth friends afterwards, when he recounted his escape, that he felt the angels were descending with him. when he reached the ground amid wild and passionate cries of joy, he disengaged the child from his neck, and wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, said: 'the lord's will be done.' dr. hale, who was standing by the side of mr. penrose, and who heard the saying of old amos, turned and said: 'calvinism grows strong men, does it not?' 'yi, doctor, yo're reet,' exclaimed old joseph; 'theer's no stonning agen god's will.' v. winter sketches. . the candle of the lord. . the two mothers. . the snow cradle. i. the candle of the lord. through the summer months the old bridge factory stood in ruins; the only part that remained intact being the tall chimney-shaft, down which amos entwistle had brought the fainting child from out the flames. the days were long and the weather warm, and the inhabitants of rehoboth spent the sunny hours in wandering over the moors, never dreaming of hard times and the closing year. a few of the more frugal and thrifty families had secured employment in a neighbouring valley, returning home at the week end. the many, however, awaited the rebuilding of the mill and the recommencement of work at their old haunt. but when the autumn set in chill and drear, and the october rains swept the trees and soaked the grass--when damp airs hung over the moors morning by morning, and returned to spread their chill canopy at eventide--faces began to wear an anxious look, and hearts lost the buoyancy of the idle summer hours. there is always desolation in the late autumn on the moors. the great hills lose their bold contours, now dying away in a cold gray of sky, through which a blurred sun sheds his watery ray; while the bracken, with its beaten fronds, and the heather with its disenchanted bloom, change the gorgeous carpet of colour into wastes and wilds of cheerless expanse. the wind sobs as though conscious of the coming winter's stress--sad with its prophecy of want, and cold, and decay. little rivulets that ran gleaming like silver threads--the pactolian streams of childhood's home and lover's whisperings--now swell and deepen and complain, as though angry with the burdens of the falling clouds. bared branches and low-browed eaves weep with the darkened and lowering sky, and withered leaves beat piteously at the cottage windows they once shadowed with their greenery, or lie limp and clayey on the roadside and the path. then, in the silent night, there falls the first rime, and in the morning is seen the hoary covering that tells of the year's ageing and declining days. at the corner of the village street the hoarse cough is heard, and around the hearth the children gather closely, no longer sporting amid the flowers, or peopling the cloughs with fairy homes. a dispiriting hand tones down the great orchestra of nature, and all her music is set to a minor key, her 'jubilate' becoming a threnody--a great preludious sob. it was in autumn hours such as these--and only too well known in rehoboth--that old mr. morell used to discourse on the fading leaf, and tell of a harvest past and a summer ended, and bid his flock so number their days that they might apply their hearts unto wisdom. it was now, too, that the dark procession used to creep more frequently up the winding path to the rehoboth grave-yard, and the heavy soil open oftener beneath old joseph's spade, and the voice of the minister in deeper and more measured tones repeat the words, 'we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.' it was now also that the feeble and the aged shunned the darkening shadows of the streets, and crept and cowered over the kindling hearth in the sheltered home. in rehoboth october and november were ever drear; and now that the old bridge factory was in ruins, and work scarce and food scant, the minds of the people were overcast with what threatened to be the winter of a discontent. on an afternoon in mid-november, mr. penrose forsook his study for what he hoped might be an exhilarating walk across the gloomy moors. the snow--the first snow--was beginning to descend, gently and lazily, in pure, feathery flakes, remaining on earth for a moment, and then merging its crystals into the moisture that lay along the village street. turning a corner, he met dr. hale, who, after a hearty greeting, said: 'what is this i hear about your resignation, mr. penrose?' 'i don't know what you've heard, doctor, but i am resigning.' 'nonsense! running away from ignorance, eh? what would you say if i ran away from disease?' 'canst thou minister to a mind diseased?' was mr. penrose's sharp retort. 'no, i cannot. but you can, and it's your duty to do so.' 'you're mistaken, doctor. i cannot go to the root of the moral disease of rehoboth. if it were drink, or profligacy, or greed, i might; but self-righteousness beat jesus, and no wonder it beats me.' taking mr. penrose by the arm, dr. hale said: 'you see that falling snow. why does it disappear as soon as it touches earth?' 'because the earth is higher in temperature than the snow, and therefore melts it,' replied the young man, wondering at the sudden change in the conversation. 'and if it keeps on falling for another hour, why will it cease to disappear? why will it remain?' continued the doctor. 'because its constant falling will so cool the earth that the earth will no longer melt it,' said mr. penrose, growing impatient with his examination in the rudiments of science. 'well said, my friend. and therein lies a parable. you think your teaching falls to disappear. no; it falls to prepare. you must continue to let it fall, and finally it will remain, and lodge itself in the minds of your people. there, now, i have given you one of the treasures of the snow. but here's old moses. good-morning, mr. fletcher; busy as usual?' 'yi, doctor, aw'm findin' these clamming fowk a bit o' brass.' 'how's that, moses?' asked the minister. 'why, yo' know as weel as aw do, mr. penrose. sin' i yerd yo' talk abaat him as gies liberally, i thought aw'd do a bit on mi own accaant.' 'there, now,' said dr. hale, 'the snow is beginning to stay, is it not?' as the doctor and moses said 'good-day,' the pastor continued his walk in a brooding mood, scarce lifting his head from the ground, on which the flakes were falling more thickly and beginning to remain. lost in thought, and continuing his way towards the end of the village, he was startled by a tapping at the window of abraham lord's cottage, and, looking up, he saw milly's beckoning hand. passing up the garden-path and entering the kitchen, he bade the girl a good-afternoon, and asked her if she were waiting for the 'angel een.' 'nay,' said milly; 'i'm baan to be content wi' th' daawn (down) off their wings to-day.' 'so you call the snow "angels' down," do you?' 'ey, mr. penrose,' cried her mother. 'hoo's names for everythin' yo' can think on. hoo seed a great sunbeam on a bank of white claads t' other day, and hoo said hoo thought it were god hissel', because th' owd book said as he made th' clouds his chariot.' 'but why do you call the snow "angels' down," milly?' 'well, it's i' this way, mr. penrose,' replied the girl. 'i've sin th' birds pool th' daawn off their breasts to line th' nest for their young uns. and why shouldn't th' angels do th' same for us? mi faither says as haa snow is th' earth's lappin', and keeps all th' seeds warm, and mak's th' land so as it 'll groo. so i thought happen it wur th' way god feathered aar nest for us. dun yo' see? it's nobbud my fancy.' 'and a beautiful fancy, too, milly.' and all that waning afternoon, as mr. penrose climbed the hills amid the falling flakes, he thought of milly's quaint conceit, and looking round amid the gathering gloom, and seeing the great stretch of snowy covering that now lay on the undulating sweeps, he asked himself wherein lay the difference between the vision of john the divine when he saw the angels holding the four winds of heaven, and milly when she saw the angels giving of their warmth to earth in falling flakes of snow. as the darkness deepened, mr. penrose--fearless of the storm, and at home on the wilds--made his way towards a lone farmstead known as 'granny houses,' and so-called because of an old woman who lived there, and who, by keeping a light in her window on dark winter nights, guided the colliers to a distant pit across the moors. she was the quaint product of the hills and of calvinism, but shrewd withal, and of a kind heart. indeed, the young minister had taken a strong liking to her, and frequently called at her far-away home. 'ey, mr. penrose, whatever's brought yo aat a neet like this?' she cried, as the preacher stood white as a ghost in the doorway of the farmstead. 'come in and dry yorsel. yo're just i' time fur baggin (tea), and there's noan i'm as fain to see as yo'.' 'thank you, mrs. halstead; i'm glad to be here. it's a grand night.' and looking through the open doorway at the great expanse of snow-covered moor, he said, 'what a beautiful world god's world is--is it not?' 'i know noan so mich abaat its beauty, but i know its a fearful cowd (cold) world to-neet. shut that dur afore th' kitchen's filled wi' snow. when yo're as owd as me yo'll noan be marlockin' i' snow at this time o' neet. what's life to young uns is death to owd uns, yo' know. but draw up to th' fire. that's reet; naa then, doff that coite, and hev a soup o' tay. an' haa 'n yo' laft 'em all daan at rehoboth? clammin', i reckon.' 'you're not far from the word, mrs. halstead. many of them don't know where to-morrow's food and to-morrow's fire is coming from.' 'nowe, i dare say. bud if they'd no more sense nor to spend their brass in th' summer, what can they expect? there's some fo'k think they can eyt their cake and hev it. but th' almeety doesn't bake bread o' that mak'. he helps them as helps theirsels. he gay' five to th' chap as bed five, and him as bed nobbud one, and did naught wi' it--why, he tuk it fro' him, didn't he? i'll tell yo' what it is, mr. penrose, there's a deal o' worldly wisdom i' providence. naa come, isn't there?' mr. penrose laughed. 'theer's that oliver o' deaf martha's. naa, i lay aught he's noan so mich, wi' his dog-feightin' and poachin'. his missis wur up here t'other day axin' for some milk for th' childer. an' hoo said ut everybody wur ooined (punished for want of food) at their house but oliver an' th' dog. theer's awlus enugh for them.' 'yes, i believe that is so.' 'it wur that dog as welly killed moses fletcher, wurnd it?' 'i think it was,' replied mr. penrose. 'and haa is owd moses sin yo' dipped him o'er agen? it 'll tak' some watter and grace to mak' him ought like, i reckon. but they tell me he's takken to gien his brass away. it 'll noan dry th' een o' th' poor fo'k he's made weep, tho'--will it, mr. penrose?' 'perhaps not, mrs. halstead; but moses is an altered man.' 'and noan afore it wur time. but what's that noise in th' yard? it saands like th' colliers. what con they be doin' aat o' th' pit at this time? they're noan off the shift afore ten, and it's nobbud hawve-past six.' in another moment the door of the cottage was thrown open and a collier entered, white with falling snow, and breathless. when he had sufficiently recovered, he said: 'gronny, little job wallwork's getten crushed in th' four-foot, and it's a'most up wi' him. they're bringin' on him here.' 'whatever wilto say next, lad? poor little felley, where's he getten hurt? on his yed?' 'nay; he's crushed in his in'ards, and he hasnd spokken sin'. they're carryin' him on owd malachi's coite' (coat). a sound of shuffling feet was heard in the snow, and four men, holding the ends of a greatcoat, bore the pale-faced, swooning boy into the glare of mrs. halstead's kitchen. his thin features were drawn, and a clayey hue overspread his face--a hue which, when she saw with her practised eye, she knew was the shadow of the destroyer. 'poor little felley!' she cried; 'and his mother a widder an' all.' and then, bending down over the settle whereon they had placed the mangled lad, she pressed her lips on the pale brow, clammy with the ooze of death--lips long since forsaken by the early blush of beauty, yet still warm with the instinct which in all true women feeds itself with the wasting years. tears fell from her eyes--tears that told of unfathomed deeps of motherhood, despite her threescore years and ten; while with lean and tremulous hand she combed back the dank masses of hair that lay in clusters about the boy's pallid face. her reverence and love thus manifested--a woman's offering to tortured flesh in the dark chamber of pain--she unbuckled the leathern strap that clasped the little collier's breeches to his waist, and, with a touch gentle enough to carry healing, bared the body, now discoloured and torn, though still the veined and plastic marble--the flesh-wall of the human temple, so fearfully and wonderfully made. the boy lay immobile. scarce a pulse responded to the old woman's touch as she placed the palm of her hand over the valve of his young life. nor did her fomentations rouse him, as feebler grew the protest of the heart to the separation of the little soul from the mangled body. at last the watchers thought the wrench was over, and death the lord of life. then the clayey hue, so long overshadowing the face, faded away in the warmth of a returning tide of life, as a gray dawn is suffused by sunrise. the beat became stronger and more frequent, there was a movement in the passive limbs, and, opening his eyes dreamily, then wonderingly, and at last consciously, the lad looked into the old woman's face and said: 'gronny!' 'yi! it's gronny, lad. and haa doesto feel?' the boy tried to move, and uttered a feeble cry of pain. 'lie thee still, lad. doesto think thaa can ston this?' and the old woman laid another hot flannel on the boy's body. at first he winced, and a look of terrible torture passed over his face. then he smiled and said: 'yi! gronny, aw can bide thee to do ought.' mr. penrose, helpless and silent, stood at the foot of the settle on which lay the dying boy, the colliers seeking the gloomy corners of the large kitchen, where in shadow they awaited in rude fear the death of their little companion. the old woman, cool and self-possessed, plied her task with a tenderness and skill born of long years of experience, cheering with words of endearment the last moments of the sufferer. the boy's rally was brief, for internal hæmorrhage set in, and swiftly wrought its fatal work, sweeping the vital tide along channels through which it no longer returned to the fount of life, and leaving the weary face with a pallor that overmastered the flush that awhile before brought a momentary hope. his eyes grew dim, and the light from the lamp seemed to recede, as though it feared him, and would elude his gaze. the figures in the room became mixed and commingled, and took shapes which at times he failed to recognise. then a sensation of falling seized him, and he planted his hands on the cushion of the settle, as though he would stay his descent. looking at mr. penrose through a ray of consciousness, he said: 'th' cage is goin' daan fearfo quick. pray!' the old woman caught the word, and, turning to the minister, she said: 'he wants thee to mak' a prayer.' mr. penrose drew nearer to the boy, and repeated the grand death-song of the saints: 'yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.' the boy shook his head--for him the words had no meaning. then, raising himself, he said: 'ax god o'meety to leet his candle. i'm baan along th' seam, an' it's fearfo dark!' to mr. penrose the words were strange, and, turning to the colliers, he asked them what the boy wanted. then malachi o' the mount came towards the minister and said: 'th' lad thinks he's i' th' four-foot seam, and he connot find his road, it's so dark, and he wants a leet--a candle, yo' know, same as we use in th' pit. he wants the almeety to leet him along.' still mr. penrose was in darkness. then the boy turned to old malachi, and, with a farewell look of recognition and a last effort of speech, said: 'malachi, ax him as is aboon to leet his great candle, and show me th' road along th' seam. it's some fearsome and dark.' and malachi knelt by the side of the lad, and, in broken accents and rude vernacular, said: 'o god o'meety, little job's baan along th' four-foot seam, an' he connot see his gate (way). leet thy candle, lord--thy great candle--and mak' it as leet as day for th' lad. leet it, lord, and dunnot put it aat till he geds through to wheere they've no need o' candles, becose thaa gies them th' leet o' thysel.' the prayer over, every eye was turned to the boy, on whose face there had broken a great light--a light from above. ii. the two mothers. the royal repose of death reigned over the features of little job as his mother entered the kitchen of the granny houses farm. she had been summoned from rehoboth by a collier, fleet of foot, who, as soon as the injured boy was brought to the pit-bank, started with the sad news to the distant village. no sooner did the woman catch the purport of the news, than she ran out wildly into the snowy air--not waiting to don shawl or clogs, but speeding over the white ground as those only speed who love, and who know their loved ones are in need. a wild wind was blowing from the north, and the fleecy particles fell in fantastic whirls and spirals, to drift in treacherous banks over the gullies and falls that lay along the path; while here and there thin black lines, sinuous in their trend, told where moorland waters flowed, and guided the hurrying mother to her distant goal. the groaning trees, tossed by the tempest, flung off showers of half-frozen flakes, that falling on her flaming cheeks failed to cool the fever of her suspense, while the yielding snow beneath her feet became a tantalus path, delaying her advance, and seeming to make more distant her suffering child. ploughing her way through the green fold clough, she climbed the steeps at the further end, and stood, breathless, on the bank of the great reservoir that lay dark in the hollow of the white hills. her heart beat savagely and loud--so loud that she heard it above the din of the storm; and cruel pain relentlessly stabbed her heaving side, while her breath was fetched in quick respirations. as she thus stood, tamed in her race of love by the imperative call of exhausted nature, dr. hale loomed through the snowy haze, and, reading instinctively who she was and whither she was bound, proffered his assistance for the remaining half of the journey. he had not walked with her for many yards before he saw her exposed condition. her hair was flying in frozen tresses about her unshawled bosom, and no outer covering protected her from the chill blast. 'mrs. wallwork,' said he, 'you ought not to be crossing the moors a night like this, uncovered as you are. you are tempting nature to do her worst with you, you know.' 'ne'er heed me, doctor. it's mi lad yon aw want yo' to heed. i shall be all reet if he's nobbud reet. i con walk faster if yo' con,' and so saying, the jaded woman sprang, like a stung horse, under the spur of love. 'but i have two lives to think of,' replied dr. hale, 'both mother's and son's.' 'mine's naught, doctor, when he's i' danger. who bothers their yeds abaat theirsels when them as they care more for are i' need? let's hurry up, doctor.' and again she sprang forward, to struggle with renewed effort through the yielding snow. then, turning towards her companion, she cried: 'where wur he hurt, doctor? did they tell yo'?' but the doctor was silent. seizing his arm with eager grip, she continued: 'dun yo' think he's livin', doctor? or is he deead? did they say he wur deead?' 'we must be patient a little longer,' was the doctor's kind reply. 'see! there's the light in the window of granny houses!' and there shone the light--distant across the fields, and blurred and indistinct through the falling snow. without waiting to find the path, the mother ran in a direct line towards it, scaling the walls with the nimbleness of youth, to fall exhausted on the threshold of the farmstead. raising herself, she looked round with a blank stare, dazed with the glow of the fire and the light of the lamp. in the further corners of the room, and away from each other, sat the old woman and mr. penrose and malachi o' the mount, while on the settle beneath the window lay the sheeted dead. 'where's th' lad?' cried the mother, the torture of a great fear racking her features and agonizing her voice. there was no reply, the three watchers by the dead helplessly and mutely gazing at the snow-covered figure that stood beneath the open doorway within a yard of her child. 'gronny, doesto yer? where's my lad? and yo', malachi--yo' took him daan th' shaft wi' yo'; what ban yo' done wi' him?' still there was no response. a paralysis silenced each lip. none of the three possessed a heart that dared disclose the secret. seeing the sheeted covering on the settle, the woman, with frantic gesture, tore it aside, and when her eye fell on the little face, grand in death's calm, a great rigor took hold of her, and then she became rigid as the dead on whom her gaze was fixed. in a little while she stooped over the boy, and, baring the cold body, looked long at the crushed and discoloured parts, at last bending low her face and kissing them until they were warm with her caress. then old granny, turning round to mr. penrose, whispered: 'thank god, hoo's weepin'!' 'let her weep,' said dr. hale; 'there's no medicine like tears.' * * * * * that night, long after the snow had ceased to fall, and the tempestuous winds with folded wings were hushed in repose, and distant stars glittered in steely brightness, the two women, holding each other's hand, sat over the hearth of the solitary moorland farmstead. they were widows both, and both now were sisters in the loss of an only child. granny, as she was called, bore that name not from relationship, but from her kindliness and age. it was the pet name given to her by the colliers to whom she so often ministered in their risks and exposures at the adjacent pit. into her life the rain had fallen. after fifteen years of domestic joy, her only child, a son, fell before the breath of fever, and in the shadow of that loss she ever since walked. then her husband succumbed to the exposure of a winter's toil, and now for long she had lived alone. but as she used to say, 'suppin' sorrow had made her to sup others' sorrow with them.' her cup, though deep and full, had not embittered her heart, but led her to drink with those whose cup was deeper than her own. the death of little job had rolled away the stone from the mouth of the sepulchre of her own dead child; and as she held the hand of the lately-bereaved mother she dropped many a word of comfort. 'i'll tell thee what aw've bin thinkin',' said the old woman. 'what han yo' bin thinkin', gronny?' 'why, i've bin thinkin' haa good th' almeety is--he's med angels o' them as we med lads.' 'i durnd know what yo' mean, gronny.' 'why, it's i' this way, lass; my jimmy and yor little job wur aar own, wurnd they?' 'yi, forsure they wur.' 'we feshioned 'em, as the psalmist sez, didn't we?' 'thaa sez truth, gronny,' wept the younger woman. 'and we feshioned 'em lads an' o'.' 'yi, and fine uns; leastways, my little job wur--bless him.' and the mother turned her tearful eyes towards the settle whereon lay the corpse. 'well, cornd yo' see as god hes finished aar wark for us, and what we made lads, he's made angels on?' 'but aw'd sooner ha' kept mine. angels are up aboon, thaa knows; an' heaven's a long way off.' 'happen noan so far as thaa thinks, lass; and then th' almeety will do better by 'em nor we con.' 'nay, noan so, gronny. god cornd love job better nor i loved him.' 'but he willn't ged crushed in a coile seam i' heaven; naa, lass, will he?' 'thaa's reet, gronny, he willn't. but if he mak's us work here, why does he kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad?' 'thaa mun ax mr. penrose that, lass; i'm no scholard.' 'aw'll tell thee what it is, gronny. it noan seems reet that thee and me should be sittin' by th' fire, and little job yonder cowd i' th' shadow. let's pool up th' settle to th' fire; he's one on us, though he's deead.' 'let him alone, lass; he's better off nor them as wants fire; there's no cowd wheer he's goan.' rising from her chair, and turning the sheet once more from off the boy's face, the mother said: 'where hasto goan, lad? tell thi mother, willn't taa?' and then, looking round at the old woman, she said, 'doesto think he yers (hears) me, gronny?' 'aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. he's happen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as is up aboon all abaat thee--who knows?' 'aw say, gronny, jesus made deead fo'k yer him when he spok', didn't he?' 'yi, lass, he did forsure.' 'who wur that lass he spok' to when he turned 'em all aat o' th' room, wi' their noise and shaatin'?' 'tha means th' rich mon's lass, doesndto?' 'yi! did he ever do ought for a poor mon's lass?' 'he did for a poor woman's lad, thaa knows--a widder's son--one like thine.' 'but he's noan here naa, so we's be like to bide by it, ey, dear? mi lad! mi lad!' 'don't tak' on like that, lass; noather on us 'll hev to bide long. it's a long road, i know, when fo'k luk for'ards; but it's soon getten o'er, and when thaa looks back'ards it's nobbud short. i tell thee i've tramped it, and i durnd know as i'm a war woman for the journey. it's hard wark partin' wi' your own; but then theer's th' comfort o' havin' had 'em. i'd rayther hev a child and bury it, nor be baat childer, like miriam heap yonder.' 'aw dare say as yo're reet, gronny; aw's cry and fret a deal over little job, but then aw's hev summat to think abaat, shornd i? aw geet his likeness taken last rehoboth fair by a chap as come in a callivan (caravan), and it hengs o'er th' chimley-piece. but aw's noan see th' leet in his een ony more, nor yer his voice, nor tak' him wi' me to th' chapel on sundos,' and the woman again turned to the dead boy, and fondly lingered over his familiar features, weeping over them her tears of despair. 'come, lass, tha munn't tak' on like that. sit yo' daan, an' i'll tell yo' what owd mr. morell said to me when mi lad lay deead o' th' fayver, and noan on 'em would come near me. he said i mut (must) remember as th' almeety had nobbud takken th' lad upstairs. but aw sez, "mr. morell, theer's mony steps, an' i cornd climb 'em." "yi," sez he, "theer is mony steps, but yo' keep climbin' on 'em every day, and one day yo'll ged to th' top and be i' th' same raam (room) wi' him." an', doesto know, every time as i fretted and felt daan, i used to think o' him as was upstairs, and remember haa aw wur climbin' th' steps an' gettin' nearer him.' 'but yo've noan getten to th' top yet, gronny.' 'no, aw hevn't, but aw'm a deal nearer nor aw wur when he first laft me. an' doesto know, lass, aw feel misel to be gettin' so near naa that aw can welly yer him singin'. there's nobbud a step or two naa, and then we's be i' th' same raam.' 'an' is th' almeety baan to mak' me climb as mony steps as thaa's climbed afore i ged into th' same raam as he's takken little job too, thinksto?' 'ey, lass. aw durnd know; but whether thaa's to climb mony or few thaa'll hev strength gien thee, as aw hev.' 'aw wish god's other room wurnd so far off, gronny--nobbud t'other side o' th' wall instead o' th' story aboon. durnd yo'?' 'nay, lass; they're safer upstairs. thaa knows he put's 'em aat o' harm's way.' 'but aw somehaa think aw could ha' takken care o' little job a bit longer. and when he'd groon up, thaa knows, he could ha' takken care o' me.' 'yi, lass; we're awlus for patchin' th'almeety's work; and if he leet us, we's mak' a sorry mess on it and o'.' 'well, gronny, if i wur god almeety i'd be agen lettin' lumps o' coile fall and crush th' life aat o' lads like aar job. it's a queer way o' takkin 'em upstairs, as yo' co it.' 'hooisht! lass, thaa mornd try to speerit through th' clouds that are raand abaat his throne. he tak's one i' one way, an another i' another; but if he tak's em to hissel they're better off than they'd be wi' us.' 'well, gronny, aw tell thee, aw cornd see it i' that way yet;' and again the mother caressed the body of her son. once more she turned towards the old woman, and said: 'aw shouldn't ha' caared so mich, gronny, if he'd deed as yor lad deed--i' his own bed, an' wi' a fayver; bud he wur crushed wi' a lump o' coile! poor little lad! luk yo' here!' and the mother bared the body and showed the discoloured parts. 'did ta' ever see a child dee o' fayver, lass?' 'not as aw know on. aw've awlus bin flayed, and never gone near 'em.' 'thaa may thank god as thy lad didn't dee of a fayver. aw's never forgeet haa th' measter and i watched and listened to aar lad's ravin's. haa he rached aat wi' his honds, and kept settin' up and makin' jumps at what he fancied he see'd abaat him; and when we co'd him he never knowed us. nowe, lass, he never knowed me until one neet he seemed to come to hissel, and then he looked at me and said, "mother!" but it wur all he said--he never spok' at after.' 'yi; but yo' see'd yur lad dee--and mine deed afore i could get to him.' 'that is so, lass! but as aw stood an' see'd mine deein', i would ha' gien onything if i could ha' shut mi een, or not bin wi' him. i know summat as what hagar felt when hoo said, "let me not see th' deeath o' th' child"--i do so.' the younger woman wept, and the tears brought relief to her pent-up heart. she had found a mother's ear for her mother's sorrow; and the after-calm of a great grief was now falling over her. she leaned her aching head on the shoulders of the older and stronger woman by whose side she sat, and at last her sorrow brought the surcease of sleep. the fire threw its fitful flicker on her haggard face, lighting up in strange relief the lines of agony and the moisture of the freshly fallen tears. now and again she sobbed in her slumber--a sob that shook her soul--but she slept, and sleep brought peace and oblivion. 'sleep on, lass, sleep on, and god ease thi poor heart,' said the old granny, as she held the woman's hand in hers. 'thaa's hed both thi travails naa; thaa's travailed i' birth, and thaa's travailed i' deeath, like mony a poor soul afore thee. there wur joy when thaa brought him into th' world, and theer's sorrow naa he's goan aat afore his time. ey, dear! a mother's life's like an april morn--sunleet and cloud, fleshes o' breetness, and showers o' rain.' and closing her eyes, she, too, slept. and in that lone outlying fold, far away in the snowy bosom of the hills, there was the sleep of weariness, the sleep of sorrow, and the sleep of death. and who shall say that the last was not the kindliest and most welcome? iii. the snow cradle. as mr. penrose and malachi o' th' mount closed the door of granny houses on the sorrowing widowed mother, there opened to them a fairy realm of snow. stepping out on its yielding carpet of crystals, they looked in silent wonder at the fair new world, where wide moors slept in peaceful purity, and distant hills lifted their white summits towards the deep cold blue of the clearing sky. steely stars glittered and magnified their light through the lens of the eager, frosty air, and old landmarks were hidden, and roads familiar to the wayfarer no longer discovered their trend. little hillocks had taken the form of mounds, and stretches of level waste were swept by ranges of drift and shoulders of obstructing snow. no sooner did mr. penrose look out on this new earth than a feeling of _lostness_ came on him, and, linking his arm in that of the old man, he said: 'can you find the way, malachi?' 'wheer to, mr. penrose?' 'why, to rehoboth, of course. where else did you think i wanted to go at this time of night?' 'nay, that's what i wur wonderin' when yo' axed me if i knew th' way,' replied the old man. 'oh! i beg your pardon; i thought perhaps the snow might throw you off the track.' 'throw _me_ off th' track, an' on these moors and o'? nowe, mr. penrose, i hevn't lived on 'em forty years for naught, i con tell yo'.' 'but when you cannot see your way, what then?' 'then i walks by instink.' and by instinct the two men crossed the wastes of snow towards the green fold clough, through which gorge lay the path that led to the village below. just as they traversed the edge of the red moss, old malachi broke the silence by saying: 'well, mr. penrose, what do yo' think o' yon?' 'think of what, malachi?' asked the perplexed divine, for neither of them, for some moments, had spoken. 'think o' yon lad as has getten killed, and o' his mother?' there are times when a man dares not utter his deepest feelings because of the commonplace character of the words through which they only can find expression. if malachi had asked mr. penrose to write the character of god on a blackboard before a class of infants, he would not have been placed in a greater difficulty than that now involved by the question of malachi. already his mind was dark with the problem of suffering. little job's cry for 'the candle of the almeety' had reached depths he knew not were hidden in his heart; while the look in the mother's face, as she stood snow-covered in the doorway of the farmstead, and as the firelight lent its glare to her blanched and pain-wrought face, continued ceaselessly to haunt him. and now malachi wanted to know what he thought of it all! how could he tell him? finding mr. penrose remained silent, malachi continued: 'yon woman's supped sorrow, and no mistak'. hoo buried her husband six months afore yon lad wur born. poor little felley! he never know'd his faither.' 'ah! i never knew that. then she _has_ supped sorrow, as you call it.' 'owd mr. morell used to say as he could awlus see her deead husband's face i' hers until th' child wur born, and then it left her, and hoo carried th' face o' th' little un hoo brought up. but it'll be a deead face hoo'll carry in her een naa, i'll be bun for't.' 'how was it his mother sent him to work in the pit?--such a dangerous calling, and the boy so young.' 'you'll know a bit more, mr. penrose, when yo've lived here a bit longer. his fo'k and hers hev bin colliers further back nor i can remember; and they noan change trades wi' us.' 'but why need he go to work so young?' asked the minister. malachi stopped and gazed in astonishment at the minister, and then said: 'i durnd know as he would ha' worked in th' pit, mr. penrose, if you'd ha' kep' him and his mother and o'. but fo'k mun eat, thaa knows. th' almeety's gan o'er rainin' daan manna fro' heaven, as he used to do in th' wilderness.' mr. penrose did not reply. 'yo' know, mr. penrose,' continued malachi, 'workin' in a coile-pit is like preychin': it's yezzy (easy) enugh when yo' ged used to 't. an' as for danger--why, yo' connot ged away fro' it. as owd amos sez, yo're as safe i' one hoile (workshop) as another.' 'yes; that's sound philosophy,' assented mr. penrose. 'mr. morell once tell'd us in his preychin' abaat a chap as axed a oracle, or summat, what kind of a deeath he would dee; and when he wur towd that he would happen an accident o' some sort, they couldn't geet him to shift aat o' his garden, for fear he'd be killed. but it wur all no use; for one day, as he wur sittin' amang his flaars, a great bird dropped a stooan, and smashed his yed. so yo' see, mr. penrose, if yo've to dee in th' pulpit yo'll dee theer, just as little job deed i' th' coile-pit.' as malachi delivered himself of this bit of calvinistic philosophy, a sound of voices was borne in on the two men from the vale below, and looking in the direction whence it came, the old man and mr. penrose saw a group of dark figures thrown into relief on the background of snow. the sounds were too distant to be distinctly heard, but every now and then there was mingled with them the short, sharp bark of a dog. 'i welly think that's oliver o' deaf martha's dog,' excitedly cried malachi. 'surely he's noan poachin' a neet like this? he's terrible lat' wi' his wark if he is.' 'if i'm not mistaken, that is moses fletcher's voice,' replied mr. penrose. 'listen!' 'you're reet; that's moses' voice, or i'm a jew. what's he doin' aat a neet like this, wi' oliver's dog? i thought he'd bed enough o' that beast to last his lifetime.' the two men were now leaning over a stone wall and looking down into the ravine below. suddenly malachi pricked up his ears, and said: 'an' that's amos's voice an' all. by guy, if it hedn't bin for oliver o' deaf martha's i should ha' said it wur hevin' a prayer-meetin' i' th' snow. what's brought owd amos aat wi' moses--to say naught o' th' dog?' just then an oath reached the ears of the listening men. 'no prayer-meeting, malachi,' said mr. penrose, laughing. 'nowe--nobbud unless they're like ab' o' th' heights, who awlus swore a bit i' his prayers, because, as he said, swearin' wur mighty powerful. but him as swore just naa is oliver hissel--i'll lay mi sunday hat on't.' by this time the moving figures on the snow were approaching the foot of the hill whereon the two men stood, and malachi, raising his hands to his mouth, greeted them with a loud halloo. immediately there came a reply. it was from oliver himself, in a loud, importuning voice: 'han yo' fun him?' 'fun who?' asked malachi. 'why, that chilt o' mine! who didsto think we wur lookin' for?' 'who knew yo' were lookin' for aught but--' 'which child have you lost?' cried mr. penrose, for oliver had a numerous family. 'little billy--him as moses pooled aat o' the lodge.' 'come along, malachi, let us go down and help; it's a search party.' * * * * * everybody in rehoboth knew little billy o' oliver's o' deaf martha's. he was a smart lad of eight years, with a vivid imagination and an active brain. his childish idealism, however, found little food in the squalid cottage in which he dragged out his semi-civilized existence; but among the hills he was at home, and there he roamed, to find in their fastnesses a region of romance, and in their gullies and cloughs the grottoes and falls that to him were a veritable fairy realm. child as he was, in the summer months he roamed the shady plantations, and sailed his chip and paper boats down their brawling streams, feeding on the nuts and berries, and lying for hours asleep beneath the shadows of their branching trees. he was one of the few children into whose mind amos failed to find an inlet for the catechism; and once, during the past summer, he had blown his wickin-whistle in sunday-school class, and been reprimanded by the superintendent because he gathered blackberries during the sacred hours. a few days previous to his disappearance in the snow he had heard the legend of jenny greenteeth, the haunting fairy of the green fold clough, and how that she, who in the summer-time made the flowers grow and the birds sing, hid herself in winter on a shelf of rock above the gin spa well, a lone streamlet that gurgled from out the rocky sides of the gorge. the story laid hold of his young mind, and under the glow of his imagination assumed the proportions of an arabian nights' wonder. he dreamed of it by night, and during the day received thrashings not a few from his zealous schoolmaster, because his thoughts were away from his lessons with jenny greenteeth in her green fold clough retreat. on this, the afternoon of the first snowfall of the autumn, there being a half-holiday, the boy determined once more to explore the haunts of the fairy; and just as mr. penrose turned out of his lodgings to kill the prose of his life, which he felt to be killing him, oliver o' deaf martha's little boy turned out of his father's hovel to feed the poetry that was stirring in his youthful soul. the north wind blew through the rents and seams of his threadbare clothing; but its chill was not felt, so warm with excitement beat his little heart. and when the first flakes fell, he clapped his hands in wild delight, and sang of the plucking of geese by hardy scotchmen, and the sending of their feathers across the intervening leagues. poor little fellow! his was a hard lot when looked at from where plenty spread her table and friends were manifold. but he was not without his compensations. his home was the moors, and his parent was nature. he knew how to leap a brook, and snare a bird, and climb a tree, and shape a boat, and cut a wickin-whistle, and many a time and oft, when bread was scarce, he fed on the berries that only asked to be plucked, and grew so plentifully along the sides of the great hills. the dusk was falling, and the snow beginning to lie thick, as he entered the dark gorge of the clough; but to him darkness and light were alike, and as for the snow, it was more than a transformation-scene is to the petted child of a jaded civilization. he watched the flakes as they came down in their wild race from the sky, and saw them disappear on touching the stream that ran through the heart of the clough. he gathered masses of the flaky substance in his hand, and, squeezing them into balls, threw them at distant objects, and then filled his mouth with the icy particles, and revelled in the shock and chill of the melting substance between his teeth as no connoisseur of wine ever revelled in the juices of the choice vintages of spain and france. then he would shake and clap his hands because of what he called the 'hot ache' that seized them, only to scamper off again after some new object around which to weave another dream of wonder. the dusk gave place to gloom, and still faster fell the snow, white and feathery, silent and sublime. the child felt the charm, and began to lose himself in the impalpable something that, like a curtain of spirit, gathered around. he, too, was now as white as the shrubs through which he wended his way, and every now and then he doffed his cap, and, with a wild laugh of delight, flung its covering of snow upon the ground. then, out of sheer fulness of life and rapport with the scene, he would rush for a yard or two up the steep sides of the clough and roll downwards in the soft substance which lay deeply around. the gloom thickened and nightfall came, but the snow lighted up the dark gorge, and threw out the branching trees, the tall trunks of which rose columnar-like as the pillars of some cathedral nave. did the boy think of home--of fire--of bed? not he! he thought only of jenny greenteeth, the sprite of the clough, and of the gin spa well, above which she was said to sleep; and on he roamed. and now the path became narrower and more tortuous, while on the steep sides the snow was gathering in ominous drifts. undaunted he struggled on, knee-deep, often stumbling, yet always rising to dive afresh into the yielding element that lay between himself and the enchanted ground beyond. in a little time he came to a great bulging bend, around the foot of which the waters flowed in sullen sweeps. here, careful as he was, he slipped, and lay for a moment stunned and chilled with his sudden immersion. struggling to the bank, he regained his foothold, and, rounding the promontory of cliff which had almost defeated his search, he turned the angle that hid the grotto, and found himself at the gin spa well. he heard the 'drip, drip' of falling waters as they oozed from out their rocky bed, and fell into one of those tiny hollows of nature which, overflowing, sent its burden towards the stream below. he looked above, and saw the fabled ledge--its mossy bank all snow-covered--with the entrance to jenny greenteeth's chambers dark against the white that lay around. tired with the search, yet glad at heart with the find, he climbed and entered, the somnolence wrought by the snow soon closing his eyes, and its subtle opiate working on his now wearily excited brain. there he slept--and dreamed. * * * * * as soon as mr. penrose and malachi reached the search party, and heard how the boy had been missing since the afternoon, the minister suggested they should search the clough, as it was his favourite haunt. his advice was at first unheeded, oliver declaring he had been taken off in a gipsy caravan, and amos capping his suspicion by speaking of the judgments of the almighty on little lads who gathered flowers on sunday, and blew wickin-whistles in school, and refused to learn their catechism. second thoughts, however, brought them over to mr. penrose's mind, and they set out for the clough. the descent was far from easy, the banks being steep, and treacherous with their covering of newly-fallen snow. once or twice amos, in his declaration of the divine will, nearly lost his footing, and narrowly escaped falling into the defile, the entrance to which they sought to gain. oliver manifested his anxiety and parental care in sundry oaths, while moses fletcher, who had loved the child ever since saving him from the lodge, said little and retained his wits. when the search party entered the heart of the clough, oliver's dog began to show signs of excitement, that became more and more noticeable as they drew near to the gin spa well. here the brute suddenly stopped and whined, and commenced to wildly caper. 'th' dog's goin' mad,' said amos. 'it's noan as mad as thee, owd lad,' replied moses. 'i'll lay ought we'n noan so far fro' th' chilt.' 'it is always wise to stop when a dog stops,' assented the minister. 'yi; yo' connot stand agen instink,' said malachi. 'good lad! good lad! find him!' sobbed oliver to his dog; and the brute again whined and wagged its tail and ran round and between the legs of the men. 'there's naught here,' impatiently cried amos. i'll tak' a dog's word agen thine ony day, owd lad,' said moses. 'well, thaa's no need to be so fond o' th' dog. it once welly worried thi dog, and thee into th' bargain.' 'yi; it's bin a bruiser i' id time, an' no mistak'; but it's turned o'er a new leaf naa--and it's noan so far off th' child;' and malachi, too, commenced to encourage it in its search. 'it looks to me as th' child's getten up theer somehaa;' and so saying, moses pointed to the ledge of rock where jenny greenteeth was said to slumber through the winter's cold. 'what mut th' child ged up theer for?' asked amos. 'thaa talks like a chap as never hed no childer.' at this rebuff moses was silent; for not only was he a childless man, but until the day he saved the very child they were now seeking from the green fold lodge, children had been nothing to him. now, however, he had learned to love them, and none better than the little lost offspring of oliver o' deaf martha's. while the two men were wrangling, mr. penrose stepped aside and commenced the climb towards the ledge. the snow lay white and undisturbed on the shelving surface, and there was no sign of recent movements. looking round, he discovered the mouth of the recess. there it stood, black and forbidding. in another moment the minister stooped down and looked in; but all was dark and silent, nor did he care to go further along what to him was an unknown way. 'have any of you a light?' asked he of the men below; and malachi handed him his collier's candle and matches, with which he commenced to penetrate the gloom. it was a small cavernous opening out of which, in years past, men had quarried stone. damp dripped from the roof, and ran down its seamed and discoloured sides. autumn leaves, swept there by the wind, strewed its uneven floor, and lay in heaps against the jutting angles. a thin line of snow had drifted in through the mouth, and ran like a river of light along the gloomy entrance, to lose itself in the recesses beyond. the feeble flicker of the candle which mr. penrose held in his hand flung hideous shadows, and lighted up the cave dimly enough to make it more eerie and grotesque. the minister had not searched long before he was startled by a cry--a faint and childish cry: 'arto jenny greenteeth?' 'no, my boy; i'm mr. penrose.' 'it's noan th' parson aw want; aw want th' fairy.' and then the chilled and startled boy was carried down to the men below. in a moment oliver o' deaf martha's seized his boy and wrapped him in the bosom of his coat, hugging and kissing him as though he would impart the warmth of his own life to the little fellow. 'it's noan like thee to mak' a do like that, oliver,' said amos, unmoved, 'but thaa shaps (shapes) weel.' and as the child began to cry and struggle, amos continued, 'sithee! he's feeard on thee. he's noan used to it. he thinks he ought to hev a lickin' or summat.' but oliver continued his caresses. 'well, oliver, i've never sin thee takken th' road afore.' 'nowe, lad! i've never lost a chilt afore.' vi. miriam's motherhood. . a woman's secret. . how deborah heard the news. . 'it's a lad!' . the lead of the little one. i. a woman's secret. on a little mound, within the shadow of her cottage home, and eagerly scanning the moors, stood miriam heap. an exultant light gleamed in her dark eyes, and her bosom rose and fell as though swept with tumultuous passion. ever womanly and beautiful, she was never more a queen than now, as the wind tossed the raven tresses of her crown of hair, and wrapped her dress around the well-proportioned limbs until she looked the draped statue of a classic age. there was that, too, within her breast which filled her with lofty and pardonable pride, for she awaited her husband's return to communicate to him the royal secret of a woman's life. miriam and matthias--or matt, as she called him--had been seven years married, the only shadow of their home being its childlessness. matt's prayers and miriam's tears brought no surcease to this sorrow, while the cruel superstition that dearth of offspring was the curse of heaven and the shame of woman, rested as a perpetual gloom over the otherwise happy home. of late, however, the maternal hope had arisen in the heart of miriam; nor was the hope belied. to her, as to mary of old, the mystic messengers had whispered, and he with whom are the issues of life had regarded the low estate of his handmaiden. that of which she so long fondly dreamed, and of late scarce dared to think of, was now a fact, and a great and unspeakable joy filled her heart. as yet her secret was unshared. even her husband knew it not, for matt was away in a distant town, fitting up machinery in a newly-erected mill. miriam felt it to be as hard to carry alone the burden of a great joy as the burden of a great sorrow. but she resolved that none should know before him, whose right it was to first share the secret with herself; so she kept it, and pondered over it in her heart. and now matt was on his homeward journey, and miriam knew that shortly they would be together in their cottage home. how should she meet him, and greet him, and confess to him the joy that overwhelmed her? what would he say? would he love her more, or would the advent of the little life divide the love hitherto her undisputed own? was the love of father towards mother a greater and stronger and holier love than that of husband towards wife? or did the birth of children draw off from each what was before a mutual interchange? thus she teased her throbbing brain, and vexed her mind with questions she knew not how to solve. and yet her woman's instincts told her that the new love would weld together more closely the old, and that she and matt would become one as never before. and then a dim memory of a sentence in the old creed came upon her--something about 'one in three and three in one, undivided and eternal'--but she knew not what she thought. as miriam stood upon the little mound within the shadow of her roof-tree, eagerly scanning the moors for matt's return, cool airs laden with moorland scents played around her, and masses of snowy cloud sailed along the horizon, flushing beneath the touch of the after-glow with as pure a rose as that mantling on her womanly face. the blue distances overhead were deepening with sundown, and the great sweeps of field and wild were sombre with the hill shadows that began to fall. in a copse near where she stood a little bird was busy with her fledglings, and from a meadow came the plaintive bleat of a late yeaned lamb. from the distant village the wind carried to her ears the cry of an infant--a cry that lingered and echoed and started strange melodies in the awakening soul of miriam. child of the hills as she was, never before in all her thirty years of familiarity with them, and freedom among them, had she seen and felt them as now. a great and holy passion was upon her, and she took all in through the medium of its golden haze. the early flowers at her feet glowed like stars of hope and promise--and the bursting buds of the trees told of spring's teeming womb and dew of youth; while the shadow of her cottage gable and chimney--falling as it did across the little mound on which she stood--recalled to her the promises of him who setteth the solitary in families. then she returned to herself, and to her new and opening world of maternity. no longer would she be the butt at which the rude, though good-natured, jests of her neighbours were thrown, for she too would soon hold up her head proudly among the mothers of rehoboth. and as for matt's mother--fierce calvinist that she was, and whom in the past she had so much feared--what cared she for her now? she would cease to be counted by her as one of the uncovenanted, and told that she had broken the line of promise given to the elect. how well she remembered the night when the old woman, taking up the bible, read out aloud: 'the promise is unto you, and to your children,' afterwards clinching the words by saying: 'thaa sees, miriam, thaas noan in it, for thaa's no childer'; and how, when she gently protested, 'but is not the promise to all that are afar off?' the elect sister of the church and daughter of god destroyed her one ray of hope by saying: 'yi! but only to as mony as the lord aar god shall co.' and matt--poor matt--across whom the cold shadow had so long lain, and which, despite his love of her, would creep now and again like a cloud over the sunshine of his face--matt, too, would be redeemed from his long disappointment, and renewed in strength as he saw a purpose in his life's struggle, even the welfare of his posterity. these thoughts, and many others, all passed through miriam's mind as she stood looking out from the mound upon the sundown moors. dreaming thus, she was startled by a well-known voice; and looking in the direction whence the sound came, she saw her husband in the distance beckoning her to meet him. nor did she wait for his further eager gesticulations, but at once, with fleet foot, descended the slope, towards the path by which he was approaching. ere she reached him, however, she realized as never before the secret she was about to confide, and for the first time in her life became self-conscious. how could she meet matt, and how could she tell him? in a moment her naturalness and girlish buoyancy forsook her. she was lost in a distrait mood. joy changed to shyness; a hot flush, not of shame, but of restraint, mounted her cheeks. then she slackened her pace, and for a moment wished that matt could know all apart from her confession. to how many of nervous temperament is self-consciousness the bane of existence--while the more such try to master it, the more unnatural they become! it separates souls, begetting an aloofness which, misunderstood, ends in mistrust and alienation; and it lies at the root of too many of the fatal misconceptions of life. there are loving hearts that would pay any price to be freed from the self-enfolding toils that wrap them in these crisis hours. and so would miriam's, for she felt herself shrink within herself at the approach of matt. she knew nothing of mental moods, never having heard of them, nor being able to account for, or analyze, them. all she knew, poor girl, was that for the first time in her life she was not herself; and as she responded to matt's warm greeting, she felt she was not the wife, nor the woman, who but a few weeks ago had so affectionately farewelled him, and who but a few moments ago so longed for his return. nor was matt unconscious of this change, for as soon as the greeting was over he said, with tones of anxiety in his voice: 'what ails thee, my lass?' 'who sez as onnythin' ails me?' was her reply, but in a tone of such forced merriment that matt only grew the more concerned. 'who sez as onnything ails thee?' cried he. 'why those bonny een o' thine--an' they ne'er tell lies.' miriam was walking at his side, her dark eyes seeking the ground, and half hidden by the droop of their long-fringed lids. indeed, she was too timid to flash their open searching light, as was her wont, into the face of matt; and when she did look at him, as at times she was forced to, the glance was furtive and the gaze unsteady. 'come, mi bonny brid (bird),' said her husband, betraying in his voice a deeper concern, 'tell thi owd mon what's up wi thee. i've ne'er sin thee look like this afore. durnd look on th' grass so mich. lift that little yed (head) o' thine. thaa's no need to be ashamed o' showing thi face--there's noan so mony at's better lookin'--leastways, i've sin noan.' miriam was silent; but as matt's hand stole gently into hers, and she felt the warm touch of his grasp, her heart leapt, and its pent-up burden found outlet in a sob. then he stayed his steps, and looked at her, as a traveller would pause and look in wonderment at the sudden portent in the heavens of a coming storm, and putting his hand beneath the little drooping chin, he raised the pretty face to find it wet with tears. 'nay! nay! lass, thaa knows i conrot ston salt watter, when it's i' a woman's een. but miriam's tears fell all the faster 'i'll tell yo' what it is, owd lass. i shornd hev to leave yo' agen,' and his arm stole round the little neck, and he drew the sorrowful face to his own, and kissed it. 'but tell yor owd mon what's up wi yo'.' 'ne'er mind naa, matt; i'll--tell--thee--sometime,' sobbed the wife. 'but i mun know naa, lass, or there'll be th' hangments to play. i'll be bun those hens o' whittam's hes been rootin' up thi flaars in th' garden. by gum! if they hev, i'll oather neck 'em, or mak' him pay for th' lumber (mischief).' 'nowe, lad--thaa'rt--mista'en--whittam's hens hesn't bin i' th' garden sin' thaa towd him abaat 'em last.' 'then mi mother's bin botherin' thee agen,' said matt, in a sharp tone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife's sorrow. 'wrang once more,' replied miriam, with a light in her eye; and then, looking up at her husband with a gleam, she said: 'i durnd think as thi mother'll bother me mich more, lad.' 'surely th' old lass isn't deead!' he cried in startled tones. and then, recollecting her treatment of miriam, he continued: 'but i needn't be afeard o' that, for thaa'll never cry when th' old girl geets to heaven. will yo', mi bonnie un?' 'shame on thee, matt,' said miriam, smiling through her tears. 'bless thee for that smile, lass. thaa looks more thisel naa. there's naught like sunleet when it's in a woman's face.' 'thaa means eyeleet,' miriam replied, with a gleam of returning mirth. 'ony kind o' leet, so long as it's love-leet and joy-leet, and i' thi face, an o'. but thaa's noan towd me what made thee so feeard (timid) when aw met thee.' by this time matt and his wife were on the threshold of their cottage, and the woman's heart beat loudly as she felt the moment of her great confession was at hand. 'naa, come, merry' (he always called her merry in the higher moments of their domestic life)--'come, merry, no secrets, thaa knows. there's naught ever come atween thee and me, and if i can help, naught ever shall.' miriam started, and once more wondered if the little life of which matt as yet knew nothing would come in between herself and him, and divide them; or whether it would bind more closely their already sacred union. 'naa, merry,' continued he, seating himself in the rocking-chair, or 'courtin'-cheer,' as he called it, and drawing his blushing, yielding wife gently on his knee, 'naa, merry, whod is it?' 'cornd ta guess?' asked she, hiding her face on his shoulder. 'nowe, lass; aw've tried th' hens and mi mother, and aw'm wrang i' both, an' aw never knew aught bother thee but t' one or t' other on 'em. where mun i go next?' again there were tears in miriam's eyes, and with one supreme effort she raised her blushing face from matt's shoulder to his bushy whiskers, and burying her rosy lips near his ear, whispered something, and then sank on his breast. then matt drew his wife so closely to him that she bit her lips to stifle the cry of pain that his love-clasp brought; and when he let her go, it was that he might shower on her a rain of kisses, diviner than had ever been hers in the seven happy years of their past wedded life. for some minutes matt sat with miriam in his arms, a spell of sanctity and silence filling the room. in that silence both heard a voice--a little voice--preludious of the music of heaven, and they peopled the light which haloed them with a presence, childlike and pure. then it was that miriam looked up at her husband and said: 'th' promise is not brokken, thaa sees, after all. it's to us and to aar childer, for all thi mother hes said so mich abaat it.' 'ey, lass,' replied he, his manhood swept by emotion, 'o' sich is the kingdom o' heaven.' and a gleam of firelight fell on the darkening wall, and lit up an old text which hung there, and they both read, 'children are a heritage from god.' * * * * * 'an' arto baan to keep it a secret, lass?' asked matt, when once the spell of silence was broken. 'why shouldn't i? there's no one as aw know as has any reet to know but thee.' 'but they'll noan be so long i' findin' it aat. then they'll never let us alone, lass. there'll be some gammin', aw con tell thee.' 'i'm noan feared on 'em, matt. i con stan' mi corner if thaa con.' 'yi, a dozen corners naa, lass. thaa knows it used to be hard afore when they were all chaffin' me at th' factory, but they can talk their tungs off naa for aught i care. but they'll soon find it aat.' 'none as soon as thaa thinks, matt. they've gan o'er sperrin (being inquisitive) long sin', and when they're off th' scent they're on th' wrang scent.' 'aw think aw'd tell mi mother, lass, if aw were thee.' 'let her find it aat, as t'others 'll hev to do.' 'as thaa likes, lass. but thaa knows hoo's fretted and prayed and worrited hersel a deal abaat thee for mony a year. and if hoo deed afore th' child were born we sud ne'er forgive aarsels.' 'thaa'rt mebbe reet, lad. it'll pleaz her to know, and hoo's bin a good mother to thee.' 'yi. hoo's often said as if hoo could nobbud be a gron'mother hoo'd say, as owd simeon said, "mine een hev sin thy salvation."' 'well, we'll go up and see her when th' chapel loses to-morrow afternoon. put that leet aat, lad; it's time we closed aar een.' matt turned down the lamp, and shot the bolt of his cottage door, and followed his wife up the worn stone stairway to the room above, to rest and await the dawning of the sabbath. that night, as the moonbeams fell in silver shafts through the little window, and filled the chamber with a haze of subdued light, a mystic presence, unseen, yet felt, filled all with its glory. the old four-poster rested like an ark in a holy of holies, its carved posts of oak gleaming as the faces of watching angels on those whose weary limbs were stretched thereon. the rugged features of matt were touched into grand relief, his hair and beard dark on the snowy pillow and coverlet on which they lay. on his strong, outstretched arm reposed she whom he so dearly, and now so proudly, loved, her large, lustrous eyes looking out into the sheeted night, her pearly teeth gleaming through her half-opened lips, from which came and went her breath in the regular rhythm and sweetness of perfect health. long after her husband slept she lay awake, silently singing her own 'magnificat'--not in mary's words, it is true, but with mary's music and with mary's heart. and then she slept--and the moonbeams paled before the sunrise, and the morning air stirred the foliage of the trees that kissed the window-panes, and little birds came and sang their matins, and another of god's sabbaths spread its gold and glory over the hills of rehoboth. ii. how deborah heard the news. it was sabbath on the moors--on the moors where it was always sabbath. old mr. morell used to say, 'for rest, commend me to these eternal hills;' and so matt heap thought as he threw open his chamber casement and looked on their outline in the light of morning glory. their majesty and strength were so passionless, their repose so undisturbed. how often he wondered to himself why they always slept--not the sleep of weariness, but of strength! and how often, when vexed and jaded, had he shared their calm as his eyes rested on them, or as his feet sought their solitudes! how they stirred the inarticulate poetry of his soul! at times he found himself wondering if their sweeping lines were broken arcs of a circle drawn by an infinite hand; and anon, he would ask if their mighty mounds marked the graves of some primeval age--mounds raised by the gods to the memory of forces long since extinct. as matt looked at these hills, there rolled along their summits snowy cumuli--billowy masses swept from distant cloud tempests, and now spending their force in flecks of white across the blue sky-sea that lay peaceful over awakening rehoboth. a fresh wind travelled from the gates of the sun, laden with upland sweets, and mellowing moment by moment under the directer rays of the eastern king; while the sycamores in the garden, as if in playful protest, bent before the touch of its caress, only to rise and rustle as, for the moment, they escaped the haunting and besetting breeze, lending to their protest the dreamy play of light and shade from newly-unsheathed leaves. there was a strange silence, too--a silence that made mystic music in matt's heart--a silence all the more profound because of the distant low of oxen, and the strain of an old puritan hymn sung by a shepherd in a neighbouring field. matt's heart was full, and, though he knew it not, he was a worshipper--he was in the spirit on the lord's day. 'is that thee, matt?' 'yi, lass, for sure it is. who else should it be, thinksto?' 'nay, i knew it were noabry but thee; but one mun say summat, thaa knows. what arto doin' at th' winder? has th' hens getten in th' garden agen?' 'nowe, not as aw con see.' 'then what arto lookin' at? thaa seems fair gloppened (surprised).' 'i'm nobbud lookin' aat a bit. it's a bonny seet and o', i can tell thee.' 'thaa's sin' it mony a time afore, lad, hesn't ta? is there aught fresh abaat it?' 'there's summat fresh i' mi een, awm thinkin'. like as i never seed th' owd country look as grand as it looks this morn.' 'aw'll hev a look wi' thee, matt; ther'll happen be summat fresh for my een and o'.' and so saying, miriam crept to his side and, in unblushing innocence, took her stand at the window with matt. it was a comely picture which the little birds saw as they twittered round and peeped through the ivy-covered casement where matt and miriam stood framed in the morning radiance and in the glow of domestic love--she with loose tresses lying over her bare shoulders, all glossy in the sunshine, her head resting on the strong arm of him who owned her, and drew her in gentle pride to his beating heart--the two together looking out in all the joy of purity and all the unconscious ease of nature on the sun-flooded moors. 'it's grand, lass, isn't it?' 'yi, matt, it is forsure.' 'and them hills--they're awlus slumberin', am't they? doesto know, i sometimes wish i could be as quiet as they are. they fret noan; weet or fine, it's all th' same to them.' 'they're a bit o'er quiet for me, lad. i'd rather hev a tree misel. it tosses, thaa knows, and tews i' th' tempest, and laughs i' th' sunleet, and fades i' autumn. it's some like a human bein' is a tree.' 'an' aw sometimes think there's summat very like th' almeety i' th' hills.' 'doesto, matt? ey, aw shouldn't like to think he were so far off as they are, nor as cowd (cold) noather.' 'nay, lass, they're noan so far off. didn't owd david say, "as th' mountens are raand abaat jerusalem, so th' lord is raand abaat his people"?' 'he did, forsure. but didn't he say that a good man were like a tree planted by th' brookside?' 'yi; and he said summat else abaat a good woman, didn't he, miriam?' 'what were that, lad?' 'why, didn't th' owd songster say, "thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by th' sides o' thine house, and thi childer like olive plants raand abaat thy table"?' miriam blushed, and held up her lips to be kissed; nor did matt faintly warm them with his caresses. * * * * * that afternoon, as matt and miriam walked down the field-path towards the rehoboth shrine, they wondered how it was that so much praise was rendered to the almighty outside the temple made with hands. both of them had been taught to locate god in a house. rehoboth chapel was his dwelling-place--not the earth with the fulness thereof, and the heavens with their declaration of glory. yet, somehow or other, they felt to-day that moor and meadow were sacred--that their feet trod paths as holy as the worn stone aisle of the conventicle below. the airs of spring swept round them, carrying notes from near and far--whisperings from the foliage of trees, and cadences from moors through whose herbage the wind lisped, and from doughs down which it moaned. early flowers vied with the early greenery carpeting the fields, and the grass was long enough to wave in shadow and intermingle its countless glistening blades. then their hearts went out towards nature's harmonies; and tears started to miriam's eyes as the larks dropped their music from the sunny heights. now they passed patient oxen looking out at them with quiet, impressive eyes, and the plaintive bleat of the little lambs still brought many a throb to miriam's heart. turning down by the clough, they met old enoch and his wife, who, though on their way to rehoboth, were so full of the spirit of the hour and the season that they thought little of the bald ritual and barn-like sanctuary that was drawing their steps. 'this is grond, lad,' said enoch to matt, as he threw back his shoulders to take a deep inspiration of the moorland air. 'it's fair like a breath o' th' almeety.' 'yi; it's comin' fro' th' delectable mountains, for sure it is. i'm just thinkin' it's too fine to go inside this afternoon.' 'i'll tell thee what, matt, i know summat haa that lad jacob felt when he co'd th' moorside th' gate o' heaven.' 'ey, bless thee, enoch, it wernd half as grand as this!' said his wife, as she plucked a spray of may blossom from a hawthorn that overarched the path through the clough. 'mebbe not, lass; but aw know summat haa he felt like.' 'did it ever strike thee, enoch, that there were a deal o' mountain climbin' among th' owd prophets--like as they fun th' almeety on th' brow (hill)?' 'aw never made much o' th' valleys, lad. them as lived in 'em hes bin a bad lot. we may well thank god as we live up as high as we do. but i'll tell yo' what--we're baan to be lat' for the service. step it aat, lasses.' on reaching the chapel yard, they found amos entwistle dismissing his catechism class with a few words of warning as to deportment during service, whilst old joseph was busy cuffing the unruly lads whose predilections for dodging round the gravestones overcame the better instinct of reverence for the day and for the dead. mr. penrose was just entering the vestry, and discordant sounds came through the open door as of stringed instruments in process of tuning. the congregation was soon seated--a hardy race, reared on the hills, and disciplined in the straitest of creeds. stolid and self-complacent, theirs was an unquestioning faith, accepting, as they did, the divine decrees as a mohamedan accepts his fate. what was, was right--all as it should be; elect, or non-elect, according to the fore-knowledge, it was well. sucking in their theology with their mothers' milk, and cradled in sectarian traditions, they loved justice before mercy, and seldom walked humbly before god. and yet these rehoboth mothers had borne and reared a strong offspring--children hard, narrow, and self-righteous, yet of firm fibre, and of real grit withal. the mothers of rehoboth were famous women, and bore the names of the great hebrew women of old. among them were leahs, hannahs, hagars, and ruths, yet none held priority to deborah heap, the mother of matt. tall, gaunt, iron-visaged, with crisp, black locks despite her threescore years, she was a prophetess among her kindred--mighty in the scriptures, and inflexible in faith. hers was the illustrious face of that afternoon's congregation--the face a stranger would first fasten his eye on, and on which his eye would remain; a face, too, he would fear. history was writ large on every line, character had set its seal there, and a crown of superb strength reposed on the brow. she guarded the door of her pew, which door she had guarded since her husband's death; and her deep-set eyes, glowing with suppressed passion, never flinched in their gaze at the preacher. now and again the thin nostrils dilated as mr. penrose smote down some of her idols; but for this occasional sign her martyrdom was mute and inexpressive. no one loved deborah heap, although those who knew her measured out to her degrees of respect. she was never known to wrong friend or foe; and yet no kindly words ever fell from her lips, nor did music of sympathy mellow her voice. her life had been unrelieved by a single deed of charity. she was, in old mr. morell's language, 'a negative saint.' mr. penrose went further, and called her 'a calvinistic pagan.' but none of these things moved her. the grievance of her life was matt's marriage with an alien; for miriam was a child of the established church. great, too, was the grievance that no children gladdened the hearth of the unequally yoked couple; and this the old woman looked on as the curse of the almighty in return for her son's disobedience in sharing his lot with the uncovenanted. and yet matt loved his mother; not, however, as he loved his wife, for whom he held a tender, doating love, which the old woman was quick to see, though silent to resent, save when she said that 'matt were fair soft o'er th' lass.' nothing so pleased him as to be able to respect his mother's wish without giving pain to his wife. always loyal to miriam, he sought to be dutiful to deborah, and, though the struggle was at times hard and taxing, few succeeded better in holding a true balance of behaviour between the twin relations of son and husband. now that miriam had confided to him her secret, he felt sure his mother's anger would be somewhat turned away when she, too, shared it. and all through the afternoon service he moved restlessly, eager for the hour when, at her own fireside, he could convey the glad news to her ears. and when that hour came, it came all too soon, for never were matt and miriam more confused than when they faced each other at the tea-table of deborah. a painful repression was on them; ominous silence sealed their lips, and they flushed with a heightened colour. matt's carefully-prepared speech forsook him--all its prettiness and poetry escaped beyond recall; and miriam was too womanly to rescue him in his dilemma. 'it's some warm,' said matt, drawing his handkerchief over his heated brow. 'aw durnd know as onybody feels it but thisel, lad,' replied his mother; 'but thaa con go i' th' garden, if thaa wants to cool a bit. tea's happen made thee sweat.' then followed another painful pause, in which miriam unconsciously doubled up a spoon, on seeing which the old woman reminded her that her 'siller wurnd for marlockin' wi' i' that fashion'; and no sooner had she administered this rebuke than matt overturned his tea. 'are yo' two reet i' yor yeds (heads)?' snapped his mother. 'yo' sit theer gawmless-like, one on yo' breakin' th' spoons, and t'other turnin' teacups o'er. what's come o'er yo'?' 'mother,' stammered matt, 'miriam has summat to tell yo'.' 'nay, lad, thaa may tell it thisel,' said miriam. 'happen thaa cornd for shame, miriam,' stammered matt. 'i durnd know as i've ought to be ashamed on, but it seems as though thaa hedn't th' pluck.' the old woman grew impatient, and, supposing she was being fooled, rose from the table, and said: 'i want to know noan o' your secrets. i durnd know as i ever axed for 'em, and if yo' wait till aw do, i shall never know 'em.' 'it's happen one as yo'd like to know, though, mother.' 'it's happen one as you'd like to tell, lad,' replied the old woman, softening. 'well, if we durnd tell yo', yo'll know soon enough, for it's one o' them secrets as willn't keep--will it, miriam?' asked matt of his blushing wife. but miriam was silent, and refused to lift her face from the pattern of the plate over which she bent low. 'dun you think yor too owd to be a gronmother?' asked matt of his parent, growing in boldness as he warmed to his confession. 'if i were thee i'd ax mysel if i were young enugh to be a faither, that i would,' said the old woman. 'well, i shall happen be one afore so long, shornd i, miriam?' but tears were streaming from miriam's eyes, and she answered not. and then there dawned on the mind of deborah the cause of her son's confusion, and a light stole across the hard lines of her face as she said: 'is that it, lad? thank god! thaa'rt in th' covenant after all.' iii. 'it's a lad!' 'naa, matt, put on thi coite and fotch th' doctor, an tak' care thaa doesn't let th' grass grow under thi feet.' matt needed no second bidding. in a moment he was ready, and before the old nurse turned to re-ascend the chamber stairs the faithful fellow was on his way towards the village below. it was a morning in november, and as matt hurried along he passed many on their way to a day's work at the bridge factory in the vale. most of them knew him, dark though it was, and greeting him, guessed the errand on which he raced. once or twice he collided with those who were slow to get out of his path, and almost overturned old amos entwistle into the goit as he pushed past him on the bank that afforded the nearest cut to the village. 'naa, lad, who arto pushin' agen, and where arto baan i' that hurry? is th' haase o' fire, or has th' missus taan her bed?' but matt was beyond earshot before the old man finished his rude rebuke. throughout the whole of his journey matt's mind was a prey to wild and foreboding passion--passion largely the product of a rude and superstitious mind. questions painful, if not foolish, haunted and tormented him. would miriam die? had not the seven years of their past life been too happy to last? did not his mother once reverse the old hebrew proverb, and warn him that a night of weeping would follow a morning of joy? would heaven be avenged on his occasional fits of discontent, and grant him his wish for a child at the cost of the life of his wife? he had heard how the almighty discounted his gifts; how selfish men had to pay dearly for what they wrenched against the will of god. as he hurried, these thoughts followed on as fleet feet as his own, and moaned their voices in his ears with the sounds of the wind. it was not long before he reached dr. hale's door, where he so lustily rung, that an immediate response was given to his summons, the man of science putting his head through the window and asking in peremptory tones who was there. 'it's me, doctor--me--matt, yo' know--matt heap--th' missis is i' bed, and some bad an' o'. ne'er mind dressin'. come naa;' and the half-demented man panted for breath. 'i'll be with you in a minute, matt. don't lose your head, that's a good fellow,' and so saying, the doctor withdrew to prepare for the journey. to matt, the doctor's minute seemed unending. he shuffled his feet impatiently along the gravel-path, and beat a tattoo with his fingers on the panels of the door, muttering under his breath words betraying an impatient and agitated mind; and when at last the doctor joined him, ready for departure, the strain of suspense was so great that both tears and sobs wrung themselves from his overstrained nature. the two men walked along in silence, matt being too timid to question the doctor, the doctor not caring to give matt the chance of worrying him with foolish fears. now and again matt in his impatience tried to lead the doctor into a run, but in this the self-possessed man checked him, knowing that he covered the most ground who walked with an even step. for a little time matt submitted to the restraint without a murmur. at last, however, his patience failed him, and he said: 'do yo' never hurry, doctor?' 'sometimes, matt' 'and when is those times, doctor? 'they're bad times, matt--times of emergency, you know.' 'an' durnd yo' think my missis is hevin' a bad time up at th' cottage yonder? i welly think yo' might hurry up a bit, doctor. you'll geet paid for th' job, yo' know. i'm noan afraid o' th' brass.' dr. hale laughed at the importunity of matt, but knowing the doggedness of the man, somewhat quickened his steps, assuring his impatient companion that all would be well. the doctor soon, however, regretted his easy-going optimism, for on mounting the brow before the cottage, malachi o' th' mount's wife met him, and running out towards him, said: 'hurry up, doctor; thaa'rt wanted badly, i con tell thee. hoo's hevin' a bad time on't, and no mistak'.' it did not take the doctor long to see that his patient was in the throes of a crisis, and with a will he set about his trying work, all the more confident because he knew the two women by his side were experienced hands--hands on whom he could rely in hours of emergency such as the one he was now called to face. as for matt, he sat in the silent kitchen with his feet on the fender and an unlighted pipe between his teeth. the morning sun had long since crossed the moors, but its light brought no joy to his eyes--with him, all was darkness. he heard overhead the occasional tread of the doctor's foot, and the movements of the ministering women, while occasionally one of them would steal quietly down for something needed by the patient above. between these breaks--welcome breaks to matt--the silence became distressful, and the suspense a burden. why that hush? what was going on in those fearful pauses? could they not tell him how miriam was? was he not her husband, and had he not a right to know of her who was his own? by what right did the women--good and kind though they were--step in between himself and her whom he loved dearer than life? and as these questions pressed him he rose to climb the stairway and claim a share in ministering to the sufferings of the one who was his own. but when he reached the foot he paused, his nerve forsook him, and he trembled like a leaf beneath the breeze. straining his ear, he listened, but no sound came save a coaxing and encouraging word from the old nurse, or a brief note of instruction from dr. hale. should he call her by her name? should he address her as merry, the pet name which he only addressed to her? he opened his lips, but his tongue lay heavy. he could scarcely move it, and as he moved it in his attempt to speak, he heard its sound as it parted from, or came in contact with, the dry walls of his mouth. how long he could have borne this suspense it would be hard to say, had he not heard his mother's voice at the kitchen-door calling. 'is that yo', mother?' said matt, dragging himself from the foot of the stairway leading to the chamber above. 'is that yo'?' 'ey, matt, whatever's to do wi' thee; aw never see thee look like that afore. is miriam bad, or summat?' 'nay, mother, they willn't tell me. but go yo' upstairs, and when you've sin for yorsel come daan and tell me.' old deborah took her son's advice, and went upstairs to where the suffering woman lay pale and prostrate. she saw, by a glance at the doctor's face, that he was more than anxious, while the mute signs of the nurse and malachi o' th' mount's wife confirmed her worst suspicions. during his mother's absence there returned on matt the horrible suspense which her visit had in part enabled him to throw off. once more he felt the pressure of the silence, and the room in which he sat became haunted with a terrible vacancy--a vacancy cold and shadowy with an unrelieved gloom. there all round him were the familiar household gods; there they stood in their appointed places, but where was the hand that ruled them, the deity that gave grace to that domestic kingdom of the moors? he looked for the shadow of her form as it was wont to fall on the hearth, but there was only a blank. he lent his ear to catch the voice so often raised in merry snatch of song, but not the echo of a sound greeted him. there was a room only, swept and garnished, but empty. then he thought of the great drama of life which was being enacted in the chamber overhead, and he asked himself why the hours were so many and why they walked with such leaden feet. there was she, his merry, torn between the forces of life and death, giving of her own that she might perpetuate life, and braving death that life might be its lord--there was she, fighting alone! save for the feeble help of science and the cheer and succour of kindly care, while he, strong man that he was, sat there, powerless, his very impotence mocking him, and his groans and anguish but the climax of his despair. in a little while matt's mother came downstairs with hopelessness written on every line of her hard face. 'thaa'll hev to mak' up thi mind to say good-bye to miriam, lad. hoo's noan baan to howd aat much longer. hoo's abaat done, poor lass!' 'yo' mornd talk like that to me, mother, or i'll put yo' aat o' the haase. i'm noan baan to say good-bye to merry yet, by ---- i' ammot!' 'well, lad, thaa's no need to be either unnatural nor blasphemous o'er th' job. what he wills, he wills, thaa knows; and if thaa willn't bend, thaa mun break.' 'but i'll do noather, mother. miriam's noan baan to dee yet, i con tell yo'.' just then dr. hale descended from the chamber, and beckoning matt, whispered in his ear that he deemed it right to tell him that he feared the worst would overtake his wife, and that she would like to see him. the words came to matt as the first great blow of his life. true, he had anticipated the worst; but now that it came it was tenfold more severe than his anticipation. looking at dr. hale with eyes too dry for tears, he said: 'aw connot see her, doctor; aw connot see her. yo' an' th' women mun do yor best; and don't forget to ax the almighty to help yo'.' and so saying, matt went out in despair into the wild november day. as he rushed into the raw air the wind dashed the rain in his face as though to beat him back within his cottage home. heedless of these, however, he pressed forward, wild with grief, seeking to lose his own madness amid the whirl and confusion of the storm. low-lying, angry clouds seethed round the summits of the distant hills, and mists, like shrouds, hung over the drear and leafless cloughs. the moorland grasses lay beaten and colourless--great swamps--reservoirs where lodged the moisture of a long autumn's rain, while the roads were limp and sodden, and heavy for the wayfarer's foot. but matt was heedless of these; and striking a drift path that crossed the hills, he followed its trend. along it he walked--nay, raced rather, like a man pursued. and pursued he was; for he sought in vain to escape the passions that preyed on him, tormenting him. sorrow, anguish, death; these were at his heels; and, worse than all, he thought his dying wife was following him, pleading for his return. why had he forsaken her? was it not cowardice--the cowardice and selfishness of his grief? once or twice a fascination took hold of him, and, despite the terror that awed him, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if after all he were pursued by the shadow he so much feared to meet. then the wind began to utter strange sounds--wailings and lamentations--its burden being a wild entreaty to return; and once he thought he heard an infant's cry, and he paused in his despair. a steep and rugged path lay before him--a path that led under trees whose swaying branches flung off raindrops in blinding showers, and a gleam of light shot shaft-like from a rift in the sombre clouds, and falling across his feet, led him to wonder how heaven could shed a fitful smile on sorrow like his own. familiar with the moods of nature, he deemed the hour to be that of noon; nor was he mistaken, for the sky began to clear, and with the light came the return to a calmer mind. he now, for the first time, realized the folly--probably the disaster--of his flight. might he not be needed at the cottage? was not his dying wife's prayer for his presence and succour? had not an unmanly selfishness led him to play the coward? thoughts like these led him to marshal his resolves, and turn his steps towards the valley below. no sooner did he do this than a strong self-possession came to him, and swift was his return. the clouds were now parting, and as they chased one another towards the distant horizon, the sun--the watery november sun--shone out in silver upon the great stretch of moorland, and lit it up like a sea of light. little globes of crystal glistened on the hedgerows, and many-coloured raindrops glowed like jewelled points on the blades of green that lay about his feet. a great arch of sevenfold radiance spanned the valley, based on either side from the twin slopes, and reaching with its crown to the summit of the skies. it was now a passage from hebrew tradition came to his mind, and he thought of him of whom the poet wrote, 'and as he passed over penuel, the sun rose upon him.' and yet his heart failed him as he drew within sight of the cottage door. was it the house of life, or the house of death?--or was it the house where death and life alike were victorious? he paused, and felt the blood flow back to its central seat, while his bones began to shake, and his heart was poured out like water. but the battle was won, though the struggle was not over, and he pressed on towards his home. the first thing he saw on entering the door was dr. hale seated before a cup of steaming tea, with a great weariness in his eye, who, when he saw matt, threw a look of rebuke, and in somewhat stern tones said: 'you can go upstairs, matt, if you like; it's all over.' with a spasm in his throat matt was about to ask what it was that was all over; but he was forestalled by old malachi's wife, who, pushing her head through the staircase doorway into the room, cried: 'it's a lad, matt, and a fine un an' o'!' 'hang th' lad!' cried matt; 'how's miriam?' 'come and see for thisel; hoo's bin waitin' for thee this hawve haar.' with a bound or two matt cleared the stairway and stood by the side of miriam. there she lay, poor girl! limp and exhausted, wrapped in her old gown like a mummy, her long, wet hair, which was scattered in tresses on the pillow, throwing, in its dark frame, her face into still greater pallor. 'thaa munnot speak, miriam,' said the nurse in a low tone. 'if thaa moves tha'll dee. thaa can kiss her, matt; but that's all.' matt kissed his wife, and baptized her with his warm tears. 'and hesn't thaa getten a word for th' child, matt?' cried old deborah, who sat with a pulpy form upon her knees before the fire. 'it's thy lad and no mistak'; it favours no one but thisel. look at its yure (hair), bless it!' and old deborah stooped over it and wept. wept--which she had never done since her girlhood's days. but matt's eyes were fixed on miriam, until she, breaking through the orders of the doctor, said: 'matt, do look at th' baby--it's thine, thaa knows.' and then matt looked at the baby. for the first time in his life he looked at a new-born baby, and at a baby to whom he was linked by ties of paternity, and his heart went out towards the little palpitating prophecy of life--so long expected, and perfected at such a price. and he took it in his arms, while old deborah said: 'thaa sees, lad, god's not forgetten to be gracious. th' promise is still to us and aars.' but malachi's wife sent matt downstairs, saying: 'we'n had enugh preachin' and cryin'. go and ged on wi' thi wark. th' lass is on th' mend, and hoo'll do gradely weel.' iv. the lead of the little one. the child grew, and its first conquest was the heart of old deborah. before the little life she bowed, and what her calvinistic creed was weak to do for her, a love for her grandson accomplished. often and long would she look into his face as he lay in her arms, until at last she, too, caught the child-feature and the child-smile. rehoboth said old deborah was renewing her youth; for she had been known to laugh and croon, and more than once purse up her old lips to sing a snatch of nursery rhyme--a thing which in the past she had denounced as tending to 'mak' childer hush't wi' th' songs o' sin.' the hard look died away from her eyes, and her mouth ceased to wear its sealed and drawn expression. the voice, too, became low and mellow, and her religion, instead of being that of the church, was now that of the home. one morning, while carrying the child through the meadows, she was overtaken by amos entwistle, who stopped her, saying: 'tak' care, deborah, tak' care, or the almeety will overthrow thi idol. thaa'rt settin' thi affections on things o' th' earth; and he'll punish thee for it.' 'an' do yo' co this babby one o' th' things o' th' earth?' cried the old woman fiercely. 'yi, forsure i do. what else mut it be?' 'look yo' here, amos,' said deborah, raising the child in her arms so that her rebuker might look into its little features, ruddy and reposeful--features where god's fresh touch still lingered; 'luk yo' here. han yo' never yerd that childer's angels awlus behold th' face o' their faither aboon?' 'eh! deborah, lass, aw never thought as mr. penrose ud turn thi yed and o'. theer's a fearful few faithful ones laft i' zion naa-a-days. bud aw tell thee, th' lord'll smite thi idol, and it'll be thro' great tribulation that tha'll enter th' kingdom.' 'i'd ha' yo' to know, amos entwistle, that i'm noan in yor catechism class, an' i'm noan baan to be. yo' can tak' an' praitch yor rubbidge somewheer else. yo've no occasion to come to me, i con tell yo'.' and then, looking down at the reposeful little face, she kissed it, and continued, 'did he co thee an idol, my darlin'? ne'er heed him, owd powse ud he is!' before nightfall deborah's encounter with amos was the talk of rehoboth, and it was freely reported that the old woman had become an infidel. whether the cause of her infidelity resulted from mr. penrose's preaching or the advent of her grandchild was a disputed point. old amos declared, however, 'that there were a bit o' both in it, but he feared th' chilt more than th' parson.' deborah's first great spiritual conflict--as they called it in rehoboth--was when her grandchild cut its first teeth. the eye of the grandmother had been quick to note a dulness and sleepiness in the baby--strange to a child of so lively and observant a turn--and judging that the incisors were parting the gums, she wore her finger sore with rubbing the swollen integuments. one morning, as she was continuing these operations, she felt the child stiffen on her knee, and looking, saw the little eyes glide and roll as though drawn by a power foreign to the will. a neighbour, who was hastily called, declared it to be convulsions, and for some hours the little life hung in the balance. it was during these hours that deborah fought her first and only great fight with him whom she had been taught to address as 'th' almeety.' ever since her conflict with amos, she could not free her mind from superstitious thoughts about 'the idol.' did she love the child overmuch, and would her over-love be punished by the child's death? she had heard and read of this penalty which the almighty imposed upon those who loved the creature more than the creator; and she, poor soul, to hinder this, had tried to love both the giver and the gift. nay, did she not love the giver all the more, because she loved the gift so much? this was the question that vexed her. why had god given her something to love if he did not mean her to love it?--and could she love too much what god had given? once she put this question to mr. penrose, and his reply lived in her mind: 'if there is no limit to god's love of us, why should we fear to love one another too dearly or too well?' but now the test had come. the child was in danger; a shadow fell on the idol. was it the shadow of an angry god--a god insulted by a divided love? it was in the torturing hold of questions such as these that she once more met amos, who, laying the flattering unction to his soul that he could forgive his enemies, struck a stab straight at her heart by saying: 'well, deborah, th' chilt's dying, i yer. i towd thee he would. th' almeety goes hawves wi' no one. he'll hev all or noan.' 'what! doesto mak' aat he's as selfish as thisel, amos? nay, i mun hev a better god nor thee.' 'well, a' tell thee, he's baan to tak' th' lad, so thaa mut as weel bow to his will. them as he doesn't bend he breaks.' 'then he'll hev to break me, amos; for aw shall never bend, aw con tell thee.' and the old woman stiffened herself, as though in defiance of the providence which amos preached. 'why, deborah, thaa'rt wur nor a potsherd. thaa knows thi bible: "let the potsherds strive wi' th' potsherds; but woe to th' mon that strives wi' his maker."' 'well, i'm baan to wrostle wi' him, an' if he flings me aw shannot ax yo' to pick me up, noather.' 'thaa mun say, "thy will be done," deborah.' 'nowe! never to th' deeath o' yon chilt.' 'doesto say thaa willn't?' 'yi, amos, aw do!' then amos turned away, groaning in spirit at the rebellious hearts of the children of men. the child came safely through the convulsions, however, and as the sharp edges of the little teeth gleamed through the gums, the old woman would rub her finger over them until she felt the smart, and with tearful eye thank god for the gift he had spared, as well as for the gift he had granted--little dreaming that as she nursed her treasure she nursed also her mentor--one who, though in the feebleness of infancy, was drawing her back to a long-lost childhood, and bidding return to her the days of youth. the old grandmother now became the light of matt and miriam's home. instead of paying the occasional visit at her house, she was ever at theirs--indeed, she could not rest away from the child. miriam long since had ceased to fear her. 'the little un,' as she used to tell matt, 'had drawed th' owd woman's teeth;' to which matt used to reply, 'naa, lass, the teeth's there, but hoo's gi'en o'er bitin'.' not infrequently, both son and daughter would rally her on the many indulgences she granted the child, and matt often told her that what 'he used to ged licked for, th' chilt geet kissed for.' mr. penrose, too, ventured to discuss theology with matt in the old woman's presence, and she no longer eyed him with angry fire as he discoursed from the rehoboth pulpit on the larger hope. as for amos entwistle, he continued to prophesy the death of the child, and when it still lived and throve, in spite of his prediction, he contented himself by saying that 'deborah hed turned the owd testament blessin' into a curse.' * * * * * on sunday afternoons matt and miriam would leave the boy at his grandmother's while they went to the service at rehoboth. then it was the old woman took down the family bible, and showed to him the plates representative of the marvels of old. these began to work on the child's imagination; and once, when the book lay open at revelation, he fastened his little eyes on a hideous representation of the bottomless pit. 'what's that, gronny?' said he, pointing to the picture. 'that, mi lad, is th' hoile where all th' bad fo'k go.' 'who dug it? did owd joseph, gronny?' 'nowe, lad; owd joseph nobbud digs hoiles for fo'k's bodies. that hoile is fer their souls.' 'what's them, gronny?' 'nay, lad! a connot tell thee reet--but it's summat abaat us as we carry wi' us--summat, thaa knows, that never dees.' 'and why do they put it in a hoile, gronny? is it to mak' it better?' 'nay, lad; they put it i' th' hoile because it's noan good.' 'then it's summat like mi dad when i'm naughty, an' he says he'll put me i' th' cellar hoile.' 'but he never does--does he, lad?' asked the grandmother anxiously. 'nowe, gronny. he nobbud sez he will.' and then, after a pause, he continued, 'but, gronny, if god sez he'll put 'em in he'll do as he sez--willn't he?' 'yi, lad; he will, forsure.' 'an' haa long does he keep 'em in when he gets 'em theer? till to-morn t'neet?' 'longer lad.' 'till kesmas?' 'yi, lad.' 'longer nor kesmas?' 'yi, lad. but ne'er heed. here's summat to eat. sithee, i baked thee a pasty.' 'i noan want th' pasty, gronny. i want to yer abaat th' hoile. haa long does god keep bad fo'k in it?' 'ey, lad. i wish thaa'd hooisht! what doesto want botherin' thi little yed wi' such like talk?' 'haa long does he keep 'em i' th' hoile?' persistently asked the boy. 'well, if thaa mun know, he keeps 'em in for ever.' 'an' haa long's that, gronny? is it as long as thee?' 'as long as me, lad! whatever doesto mean?' 'i mean is forever as long as thaa'rt owd? haa owd arto, gronny?' 'i'm sixty-five, lad.' 'well, does he keep 'em i' the hoile sixty-five years?' 'yi, lad. he does, forsure. but thi faither never puts thee i' th' cellar hoile when thaa's naughty, does he?' 'nowe. i tell thee he nobbud sez he will,' 'by guy, lad! if ever he puts thee i' th' cellar hoile--whether thaa'rt naughty or not--thaa mun tell me, and i'll lug his yed for him.' and the old woman became indignant in her mien. 'but if god puts fo'k i' th' hoile, why shuldn't mi faither put me i' th' hoile? it's reet to do as god does--isn't it, gronny?' 'whatever wilto ax me next, lad?' cried the worn-out and perplexed old woman. 'come, shut up th' bible, and eat thi pasty.' but the little fellow's appetite was gone, and as he fell asleep on the settle his slumber was fitful, for dark dreams disturbed him--he had felt the first awful shadow of a dogmatic faith. nor was old deborah less disturbed. sitting by the fire, with one eye on the child and the other on her bible, the gloomy shadows of a shortening day creeping around her, she, too, with her mind's eye, saw the regions of woe--the flaming deeps where hope comes never. what if that were her grandchild's doom!--her grandchild, whose father she would smite if even for a moment he shut his little son up in the cellar of his home! how her heart loathed the passion, the cruelty, that would wreak such an act! and yet he whom she called god had reserved blackness and darkness for ever for the disobedient and rebellious. horror took hold of her, and the sweat moistened her brow. the firelight played on the curls of the sleeping boy, and she started as she thought of that other fire that was never quenched, and she rose and shook her clenched hand at heaven as the possibility of the singeing of a single hair of the child passed through her mind. for a time deborah stood alone, without a god, the faith in which she had been trained, and in which she had sheltered in righteous security, shrinking into space until she found herself in the void of a darkness more terrible than that of the pit which she had been speaking of to the child. she saw how that hitherto she had only believed she believed, and that now, when her soul was touched in its nether deeps, she had never believed at all in the creed which she had fought for and upheld with such bitterness. there, in the twilight of that sabbath evening, she uttered what, to rehoboth, would have been a terrible renunciation, just as a lurid beam shot its level fire across the moors, and as the sun went down, leaving her in the horror of a great darkness. and then, in the gathering gloom, was heard the voice of the child calling: 'gronny! gronny!' 'well, mi lad, what is't?' 'gronny, i don't believe i' th' hoile.' 'bless thee, my darlin'--no more do i.' 'i durnd think as god ud send me where yo' an' mi dad wouldn't let me go--would he, gronny?' 'nowe, lad, he wouldn't, forsure.' and then, lighting the lamp, and turning with the old superstition to her bible to see what the law and the testimony had to say as she opened it at random, her eyes fell on the words: 'if ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him.' that afternoon, when matt and miriam returned from rehoboth, they found old deborah less than the little child she watched over; for she, too, had not only become as a little child, but, as she said, least among the little ones. vii. how malachi o' th' mount won his wife. 'so yo' want to know haa aw geet hand o' my missus, dun yo', mr. penrose? well, if hoo'll nobbud be quiet while aw'm abaat it, aw'll tell yo'.' and so saying, malachi drew his chair to the fire, and blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke towards the rows of oat-cakes that hung on the brade fleygh over his head. 'it's forty year sin' i furst wore shoe-leather i' rehoboth, mr. penrose.' 'nay, lad, it's noan forty year whol candlemas. it were february, thaa knows, when thaa come; and it's nobbud october yet. an' thaa didn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs--clogs as big as boats, mr. penrose; an' they co'd him clitter-clatter for a nickname. hasto forgetten, malachi?' 'aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let a felley get on wi' his tale,' said malachi to his wife. and then, turning to mr. penrose, he continued: 'aw were tryin' to say as it were forty year sin' i come to rehoboth.' 'forty year come candlemas, malachi.' 'yi, forty year come candlemas. aw were bred and born aboon padiham, an' aw come to th' brig factory as cut-looker, an' never laft th' job till aw went to weighin' coil on th' pit bonk.' 'all but that eighteen month thaa were away i' yorksur, when th' cotton panic were on, thaa knows, lad.' 'yi, lass, aw know. naa let me ged on wi' mi tale. well, as aw were sayin', mr. penrose, i come in these parts as cut-looker at th' brig factory, and th' fust lass as brought her piece to me were betty yonder.' 'thaa'rt wrang agen, malachi. th' fust lass as brought her piece to thee were julia smith. aw remember as haa hoo went in afore me, as though it were nobbud yester morn.' 'well, never mind, thaa wur t' fust i seed, an' that's near enugh, isn't it, mr. penrose?' the minister nodded, and smiled at old betty, who so jealously followed the story of her husband's early life. 'well, when hoo put her piece daan afore me, i couldn't tak' mi een off her. aw were fair gloppent (taken by surprise), an' aw did naught but ston' an' stare at her. '"what arto starin' at?" hoo said, flushin' up to her yure (hair). '"at yo'," i said, as gawmless as a nicked goose. '"then thaa'd better use thi een for what th'art paid for, an' look at them pieces i'stead o' lookin' at lasses' faces." 'and hoo walked aat o' th' warehaase like a queaan. an' dun yo' remember, betty, haa th' young gaffer laffed at me, an' said as aw could noan play wi' th' likes o' yo'?' 'yi, aw remember, malachi; but ged on wi' yor tale. mr. penrose here is fair plagued.' 'indeed, i'm not. go on, malachi. take your own time, and tell your story in your own fashion.' 'aw will, mr. penrose, if hoo'll nobbud let me. betty were a four-loom weyver; and i' those days there wernd so many lasses as could tackle th' job. an' th' few that could were awlus piked up pratty quick for wives--for them as married 'em had no need to work theirsels, and had lots o' time on their hands for laking (playing) and such-like. bud that wernd th' reason aw made up to betty. it wernd th' looms that fetched me; it were her een. there's some breetness in 'em yet; bud yo' should ha' sin 'em forty years sin'! they leeted up her bonnie cheeks like dewdrops i' roses; an' noabry 'at looked i' them could see ought wrang i' 'em.' 'malachi, if thaa doesn't hold thi tung i'll smoor (smother) thee wi' this stockin'. thaa'rt as soft as when thaa were a lad;' and the old woman held up the article of clothing that she was darning in her hand, and shook it in a threatening manner at her eloquent spouse. 'in a bit, mr. penrose, i geet as i couldn't for shame to look into betty's een at all; an' then aw took to blushin' every time hoo come i' th' warehouse wi' her pieces, an' when hoo spoke, aw trembled all o'er like a barrow full o' size. one day hoo'd a float in her piece, and aw couldn't find it i' mi heart to bate her. and when th' manager fun it aat, he said if i'd gone soft o'er betty, it were no reason why aw should go soft o'er mi wark, and he towd me to do mi courtin' i' th' fields and not i' th' factory. but it were yeasier said nor done, aw can tell yo', for betty were a shy un, and bided a deal o' gettin' at. 'there used to be a dur (door) leadin' aat o' th' owd warehaase into th' weyvin' shed, an' one day aw get a gimlik an' bored a hoile so as aw could peep thro' an' see betty at her wark. it wernd so often as aw'd a chance, bud whenever th' manager's back were turned, an' aw were alone, i were noan slow to tak' my chance. it were wheer i could just see betty at her looms. bless thee, lass, aw think aw can see thee naa, bendin' o'er thi looms wi' a neck as praad as a swan's, thi fingers almost as nimble as th' shuttle, an' that voice o' thine treblin' like a brid!' 'do ged on wi' yor tale, malachi; what does mr. penrose want to know abaat lasses o' forty year sin'? he's geddin' one o' his own--and that's enough for him, aw'm sure.' 'aw nobbud want him to know that there were bonnie lasses i' aar time as well as i' his--that were all, betty.' 'well, ged on wi' yo', an' durnd be so long abaat it, malachi.' 'one day, mr. penrose, as aw were peepin' through th' hoile i' th' warehaase dur at betty, aw could see that there were summat wrong wi' one o' th' warps, for hoo were reachin' and sweatin' o'er th' loom, an' th' tackler were stannin' at her side, an' a deal too near and o' for my likin', aw con tell yo'. 'just as hoo were stretchin' her arm, and bendin' her shoulders to get owd o' th' ends, the tackler up wi' his an' clips her raand th' waist. 'well, hoo were up like a flesh o' greased leetnin', and fetched him a smack o'er th' face as made him turn the colour o' taller candles. yo' remember that, betty, durnd yo'? 'yi! aw remember that, malachi,' said the old woman, proudly recalling the days of her youthful prowess; 'there were no man 'at ever insulted me twice.' 'when aw see th' tackler put his arm raand betty, i were through th' dur and down th' alley wi' a hop, skip and jump, and hed him on th' floor before yo' could caant twice two. we rowl'd o'er together, for he were a bigger mon nor me, an' i geet my yed jowled agen th' frame o' th' loom. but i were no white-plucked un, an' aw made for him as if aw meant it. he were one too mony, however, for he up wi' his screw-key and laid mi yed open, an' i've carried this mark ever sin'.' and the old man pointed to a scar, long since healed, in his forehead. 'then they poo'd us apart, an' said we mutn't feight among th' machinery, so we geet up an' agreed to feight it aat i' th' far holme meadow that neet, an' we did. we fought for over hawve an haar, summat like fifteen raands, punsin' and o' (kicking with clogs). as aw told yo', he were th' bigger mon; bud then aw hed a bit o' science o' mi side, an' i were feytin' for th' lass aw luved, an' when he come up for th' fifteenth time, i let drive atween his een, and he never seed dayleet for a fortnit.' 'an' thaa were some stiff when it were all o'er, malachi,' said betty. 'yo're reet, lass! aw limped for more nor a week, but aw geet thee, an' aw meant it, if aw'd had to feight fifteen raands more--' 'so, like the knights of olden time, malachi, you fought for your fair lady and won her.' 'nay, mr. penrose, you morn'd think he nobbud won me wi' a feight; he'd summat else to do for me beside that. aw noan put mysel up for a boxin' match, aw con tell yo'.' 'nowe, mr. penrose, th' feight were nobbud th' start like. it were sometime afore th' job were settled. yo' see, i were a shy sort o' a chap and back'ard like at comin' for'ard. one day, haaever, molly o' th' long shay come up to me when th' factory were losin', and hoo said, "malachi, arto baan to let amos entwistle wed that lass o' cronshaw's? for if thaa art thaa'rt a foo' (fool). thaa'rt fond o' her, and hoo's fond o' thee. if hoo's too praad to ax thee to be her husband hoo's noan too praad to say 'yea' if tha'll nobbud ax her to be thi wife." 'molly o' long shay were noan sich a beauty, bud aw felt as aw could aw liked to ha' kuss'd her that day, an' no mistak'. '"ey, molly," aw said, "if aw thought thaa spok' truth, aw'd see betty to-neet." '"see her, mon," hoo said, "an' get th' job sattled." 'well, yo' mun know, mr. penrose, that betty's faither were fond o' rootin' i' plants, an' as aw'd a turn that way mysel i thought aw'd just walk up as far as his haase, and buy a twothree, and try and hev a word wi' betty i' th' bargain. so aw weshed mysel, and donned mi sunday best, and went up. 'when aw geet theer, betty were i' th' garden by hersel, as her faither were gone to a deacons' meetin' at rehoboth. '"what arto doin' up here, malachi?" hoo sez. '"i've nobbud come up to see thi faither abaat some flaars," aw stuttered. '"he'll noan be up for an hour or two yet," hoo said. "he's gone to rehoboth. is it a flaar as aw con get for thee?" '"yi!" aw sez, "yo' con get me th' flaar aw want." '"which is it?" said hoo. "is it one o' those lilies mi faither geet fro' th' hall?" '"nowe," aw said; "it didn't come fro' th' hall; it awlus grow'd here." '"well, if thaa'll tell me which it is, thaa shall hev it; where abaats is it?" 'mr. penrose, did yo' ever try an' shap' your mouth to tell a lass as yo' luved hir?' mr. penrose remained silent. 'well, if ever yo' did, then yo' know haa aw felt when hoo axed me where th' flaar were as aw wanted. aw couldn't for shame to tell her. then hoo turned on me an' said: '"if thaa'll tell me where the flaar is i'll give it thee, but don't stand grinnin' theer." 'then aw plucked up like. aw said: "aw think thaa knows where th' flaar is, betty. an' as thaa said i mun hev it, i'll tak' it." and i gave her a kuss on th' cheek 'at were nearest to me.' 'and did she strike you as she struck the tackler?' asked mr. penrose. 'did hoo strike me--? nowe; hoo turned t'other cheek and geet a better and longer kuss nor th' first.' 'so that is how malachi won you, is it, betty? the story is worth a chapter in a novel.' 'nay, aw wernd so easily won as that, mr. penrose. there were summat else i' th' way, and aw welly thought once he'd ha' lost me.' 'and what was that?' 'well, yo' see,' said malachi, 'betty were a dipper, an' i were a sprinkler. and when i axed th' old mon for betty he said as dippin' and sprinklin' wouldn't piece up. and then hoo were a calvin an' i were a methody, and that were wur and wur. 'th' owd mon stood to his gun, and wouldn't say "yez" till i gave in; an' aw stood to mi gun, and to betty an' o', an' towd her faither 'at aw were as good as ony on 'em. one day th' lass come to me wi' tears in her een, and said: '"malachi, didsto ever read solomon's song?" '"yi, forsure aw did. why doesto ax me that question?" '"doesto remember th' seventh verse o' th' last chapter?" hoo said. '"aw cannot say as 'ow i do. what is it?" '"it's that," said hoo, puttin' her little bible i' my hand. 'and when i tuk it aw read, "many waters cannot quench love." '"well," aw sez, "what abaat that?" '"why," hoo cried, "thaa'rt lettin' rehoboth waters quench thine." '"haa doesto mean?" aw axed. '"why, thaa willn't be dipped for me."' here mr. penrose broke into a hearty laugh, and complimented betty, telling her she was the sort of woman to make 'converts to the cause.' then old malachi put on his wisest look, and continued: 'mr. penrose, aw mut as weel tell yo' afore yo' get wed, that it's no use feightin' agen a woman. they're like bill o' th' goit's donkey, they'll goa their own gate, an' th' more yo' bother wi' 'em th' wur they are. a mon's wife mak's him. hoo shap's everythin' for him, his clooas, his gate, and his religion an' o'. talk abaat clay i' th' honds o' th' potter, why it's naught to a man i' th' honds o' his missus.' 'so you were baptized for the love of betty, were you, malachi?' 'yi; bud i were no hypocrite abaat it, for aw told her aw should never be a calvin, an' aw never have bin. doesto remember what thaa said, betty, when aw tell'd thee aw should never be a calvin?' 'nay, aw forget, lad; it's so long sin'.' 'bud aw haven't forgetten. thaa said, "never mind, thaa's no need to tell mi faither that; thaa can keep it to thisel." aw'll tell yo' what, mr. penrose, a woman's as deep as th' longridge pit shaft.' 'well, thaa's never rued o'er joinin' rehoboth, malachi.' 'i've never rued o'er weddin' thee, lass; an' aw think if thaa'd gone to a wur place nor rehoboth aw should ha' followed thee. leastways, i shouldn't ha' liked thee to 'a' tempted me.' 'but thaa's not tell'd him all, malachi.' 'nowe, lass, aw hevn't, but aw will. have yo' seen yon rose-tree that grows under the winder--that tree that is welly full durin' th' season?' the minister nodded. 'well, when aw fetched her fro' her faither, hoo said aw mun tak a flaar an' o', as aw coomd for one on th' neet as aw geet her. so aw took one o' th' owd felley's rose-trees, an' planted it under aar winder theer, and theer it's stood for nigh on forty year, come blow, come snow, come sun, come shade, an' the roses are still as fresh an' sweet as ever. an' so art thaa, owd lass,' and malachi got up and kissed into bloom the faded, yet healthy, cheek of betty, his conquest of whom he had just narrated to mr. penrose, and whom he still so dearly loved. viii. mr. penrose brings home a bride. when rehoboth heard of the coming marriage of mr. penrose many were its speculations on the woman he was taking for wife. amos entwistle said 'he'd be bun for't that th' lass wouldn't be baat brass noather in her pocket nor in her face'; to which old enoch's wife replied that 'hoo'd need both i' rehoboth, where they fed th' parson on scaplins (stone chippings), and teed his tung with deacons' resolutions.' milly wondered 'if th' lass 'ud be pratty,' and 'what colour her een 'ud be'; while old joseph declared 'hoo'd be mighty high-minded, but that hoo were comin' to wheer hoo'd be takken daan a bit.' the most philosophic judgment was that of malachi o' th' mount, who, turning on amos one evening in the chapel yard, said: 'look here, owd lad; it were yor pleasure to stop single; it were mine to get wed. we both on us pleeased aarsels; let th' parson do th' same. he'll noan ax thee to live wi' th' lass; he'll live wi' her hissel. then let him pleease hissel.' one or two of the women vexed themselves as to whether she would be a martha or a mary; and when deborah heap was appealed to she said, 'let's hope hoo'll be a bit o' both.' old joseph, overhearing this last remark, injected his venom by hinting that 'no doubt hoo'd be a mary, but that th' maister at whose feet hoo'd sit would be a different sort to him as went to bethany.' then it was abraham lord's wife suggested that joseph should 'find th' parson a pair o' wings, so as he might mate hissel wi' a angel, for she was sure naught less 'ud suit rehoboth fo'k.' and oliver o' deaf martha's wife climaxed the discussion by saying, 'if that were bein' a parson's wife, hoo'd rather be where hoo were, although their oliver did tak' drink and ooine (punish) her.' 'i'll tell thee what, lad,' said mrs. lord to her husband on the night of the chapel yard conclave--'i'll tell thee what. i feel fair grieved for that lass th' parson's wed. they'n mad' up their minds they'll never tak' to her; and there's no changin' th' mind o' rehoboth.' 'but we'll tak' to her, mother,' cried milly, crossing, with her crutch, from the window at which she had been sitting, to take her place at her mother's side. 'we'll tak' to her; aw con luv onybody 'at mr. penrose luves.' 'bless thee, lass! aw beleeve thaa con. an' we will tak' to her, as thaa sez. fancy thee leavin' me to get wed, an' livin' i' a strange place, and all th' fo'k set agen thee afore they see thee! it mak's mi heart fair wark (ache).' 'but thaa knows, misses, hoo'll happen not tak' to thee an' milly. hoo'll happen be a bit aboon yo'--high-minded like.' 'hoo'll tak' to milly if hoo's takken to mr. penrose, lad; thaa'll see if hoo doesn't. didn't he read a bit aat o' one o' her letters where hoo said hoo were fain longin' to see milly becose hoo liked th' flaars an' stars an' sich like?' 'yi; he did forsure.' 'aw know hoo'll tak' to me, mother. an' if hoo doesn't, i'll mak' her, that's all.' 'aw don't somehaa think 'at mr. penrose ud wed a praad woman, abram. do yo'?' 'i durnd think he would, lass. bud then th' best o' men mak' mistakes o'er th' women they wed.' 'yi; they say luv's gawmless; but aw welly think mr. penrose knows what he's abaat.' 'th' lord help him, if he doesn't! they say a mon hes to ax his wife if he's to live.' 'aw yerd amos say t'other day, faither, that a chap hed to live thirty year wi' a woman afore he know'd he were wed.' 'did th' owd powse say that, lass?' cried milly's mother. 'i nobbud wish i'd yerd him. he's lived more nor thirty year baat one, an' a bonny speciment he is. bud it's a gradely job for th' woman 'at missed him. he were welly weddin' malachi o' th' mount's wife once over.' 'yi; hoo'd a lucky miss, an' no mistak'. but happen hoo'd ha' snapped him.' 'never, lad. there's some felleys that no woman can shap', and amos is one o' em.' 'aw towd him, faither, that yo' know'd yo' were wed, and yo'd nobbud been agate seventeen year.' 'an' what did he say to that, milly?' asked her mother. 'why, he towd me aw know'd too mich.' and at this both abraham and his wife joined in hearty laughter. 'when does penrose bring his wife to rehoboth, missis?' 'saturday neet. we's see her for th' fust time o' sunday mornin'. hoo's baan to sit wi' dr. hale.' 'there'll be some een on her, aw bet,' said abraham. 'wernd there, just. poor lass! i could fair cry for her when aw think abaat it. an' away fro' her mother, an' o'.' 'but then hoo'll hev her husband, wernd hoo?' asked milly. 'for sure hoo will; bud he'll be i' th' pulpit, and not agen her to keep her fro' bein' 'onely like.' 'ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for a woman to see her felley in a pulpit.' 'don't thee go soft on parsons, lass,' said her father. * * * * * if there had been no other welcome to the minister's wife on her sabbath advent at rehoboth, there was the welcome of nature--the welcome born of the bridal hour of morn with moorland, when the awakening day bends over, and clasps with its glory the underlying and far-reaching hills. from out a cloudless sky--save where wreaths of vapour fringed the rounding blue--the sun put forth his golden arms towards the heathery sweeps that lay with their rounded bosoms greedy for his embrace, and gave himself in wantonness to his bride, kissing her fair face into blushing loveliness, and calling forth from the womb of the morning a myriad forms of life. earth lay breathless in the clasp of heaven--they twain were one, perfect in union, and in spirit undivided. rehoboth was seductive with a sweetness known only to the nuptials of nature in a morning of sunshine on the moors. it wanted two hours before service, and the young wife was wandering among the flowers of the garden of the manse that was to be her home, her spouse seated at his study window intent on the manuscript of his morning's discourse. intent? nay, for his eye often wandered from the underscored pages to the girl-wife who glided with merry heart and lithe footstep from flower to flower, her skirts wet as she swept the dew-jewels that glistened on the lawn and borders of the gay parterres. she, poor girl! supposing herself unwatched, drank deeply of the morning gladness, her joyous step now and again falling into the rhythmic movements of a dance. she even found herself humming airs that were not sacred--airs forbidden even on weekdays in the puritanic precincts of rehoboth--airs she had learned in the distant city once her home. was she not happy? and does not happiness voice itself in song? and is not the song of the happy always sacred--and sacred even on the most sacred of days? alas! alas! little did the young wife know the puritanic mood of rehoboth. behind the privet hedge fencing off the paradise, on this good sunday morning, lurked amos entwistle. the old man, hearing the voice on his way to sunday-school, stopped, and, peeping through the fence, saw what confirmed his bitterest prejudices against the woman whom mr. penrose had married; and before a half-hour was passed every teacher and scholar in rehoboth school was told that 'th' parson bed wed a doncin' lass fro' a theyater.' standing in his desk before the first hymn was announced, amos cried in loud tones: 'aw seed her mysel donce i' th' garden, on god's good sunday morn. i seed her donce like that brazened (impudent) wench did afore king herod, him up i' his study-winder skennin' at her when he ought to ha' bin sayin' o' his prayers. an' aw yerd her sing some mak' o' stuff abaat luv, and sich like rubbidge. what sort o' a wife dun yo' co that? g' me a lass as can strike up _hepzibah_, and mak' a prayer. it's all o' a piece--short weight i' doctrin', and falderdals i' wives.' and as amos finished the delivery of this sentiment, and held the open hymn-book in his hand, he reached over to administer a blow on the ears of a child who was peeping through the window at a little bird trilling joyously on the deep-splayed sill outside. during the pause between the close of sunday-school and the commencement of morning service, congregation and scholars darkened the chapel yard in gossiping groups, each on the tiptoe of curiosity to catch a first glimpse of the bride of their pastor. all eyes were turned towards the crown of the hill which led up from the manse, and on which mr. penrose and his wife would first be seen. more than once an approaching couple were mistaken for them, and more than once disappointment darkened the faces of the waiting folk. with some of the older members weariness overcame curiosity, and they entered the doors, through which came the sound of instruments in process of tuning, while amos entwistle, cuffing and driving the younger scholars into the chapel, upbraided the elder ones by asking them 'if th' parson were the only chap as hed ever getten wed?' at last the well-known form of the preacher was silhouetted on the brow of the hill, and by his side the wife whose advent had created such a prejudice and distaste, unknown though she was, among these moorland folks. the murmur of announcement ran round, and within, as well as without, all knew 'th' parson's wife wor amang 'em.' as the couple entered the chapel yard the people made way, ungraciously somewhat, and shot the young bride through and through with cruel stares. mr. penrose greeted his congregation with a succession of nervous nods, jerky and strained, his wife keeping her eyes fixed on the gravestones over which she was led to the chapel doors. 'sithee! hoo's getten her yers pierced,' said a loudly-dressed girl, a weaver at the factory in the vale. 'yi; an' hoo wears droppers an' o',' replied the friend whom she addressed. 'ey! haa hoo does pinch,' critically remarked libby eastwood, the dressmaker of the village. 'nay, libby; yon's a natural sized waist--hoo's nobbud small made, thaa sees,' said the woman to whom the remark had been made. 'well, aw'd ha' donned a bonnet on a sunday.' 'yi; so would i. an' a married woman an' o'--aw think hoo might be daycent.' 'aw'll tell thee what, mary ann--there's a deal o' mak' up i' that yure (hair), or aw'm mista'en.' 'yo're reet, lass; there is, an' no mistak'.' 'can hoo play th' pianer, thinksto?' 'can hoo dust one?' 'nowe, aw'll warnd hoo cornd.' 'hoo thinks hersel' aboon porritch, does yon lot.' 'dun yo' think hoo can mak' porritch?' sneered amos to the woman who passed the unkindly remark. 'nowe, amos, aw durnd. yon lass'll cost penrose some brass. yo'll see if hoo doesnd.' while this criticism was going on in the chapel yard, mrs. penrose was seated in the pew of dr. hale, somewhat bewildered and not a little overstrained. here, too, poor woman, she was unconsciously giving offence, for on entering she had knelt down in prayer, old clogs declaring that 'hoo were on her knees three minutes and a hawve, by th' chapel clock;' while at the conclusion of the service, after the congregation were on their feet in noisy exit, her devotional attitude led others to brand her both as a 'ritual' and a 'papist.' during the afternoon there was a repetition of the morning's ordeal, and at the service the young wife was again the one on whom all eyes were fixed, and of whom all tongues whispered. never before had she been so called to suffer. if the keen glances of the congregation had been softened by the slightest sympathy she could better have stood the glare of curiosity; but no such ray of sympathy was there blended with the looks. hard, cold, and critical--such was the language of every eye. rehoboth hated what it called 'foreigners'--those who had been born and brought up in districts distant from its own. all strange places were nazareths, and all strangers were nazarenes, and the cry was, 'can any good thing come out therefrom?' and to this question the answer was ever negative. outside rehoboth dwelt the alien. in course of years the prejudice towards the intruder submitted itself to the force of custom, and less suspicious became the looks, and less harsh the tongues. even then, however, the old rehobothite remained a hebrew of hebrews; while the others, at the best, were but proselytes of the gate. it was the first brunt of this storm of suspicion from which the minister's wife was suffering, and she was powerless to stay it, or even allay its stress; nor could her husband come to her deliverance. milly, however, like the good angel that she was, proved her friend in need, and all unconsciously, and yet effectively, turned the tide of cruel and inquisitorial scorn first of all into wonder and then into delight. and it came about in this manner. as the congregation were leaving the chapel at the close of the afternoon service, and poor mrs. penrose, sorely bewildered, was jostled by the staring throng, milly pushed her way with her crutch to the blushing woman, and, handing her a bunch of flowers, said: 'see yo', mrs. penrose, here's a posy for yo'. yo're maister sez as yo' like flaars, an' aw've grow'd these i' my own garden. aw should ha' brought 'em this mornin', but aw couldn't ged aat; an' mi mother wouldn't bring 'em for me, for hoo said aw mun bring 'em mysel.' mrs. penrose could not translate the vernacular in which the child spoke, but she could, and did, translate the gift; and tears came into her eyes as she reached out her hand to take from the crippled girl the big bunch of roses, tiger-lilies and hollyhocks which milly extended towards her. there was a welcome in the flowers of rehoboth, if not in the people, thought she; and, at any rate, one little soul felt warmly towards her. as mrs. penrose looked at the blushing flowers and caught the scents that stole up from them, and as she looked at the little face on which suffering had drawn such deep lines--a little face that told of pity for the lonely bride--a home feeling came over her, and she felt that there was another in rehoboth, as well as her husband, by whom she was loved. to mrs. penrose little milly's gift made the wilderness to rejoice and the desert to blossom as the rose; and, stooping, she kissed the child, while her tears fell fast and starred the flowers she held in her hand. that kiss, and the tears, won half the hearts of the rehoboth congregation. 'hoo's a lady, whatever else hoo is,' said an old woman; 'an' if hoo's aboon porritch, hoo's none aboon kissin' a poor mon's child.' * * * * * that evening, as mr. penrose walked with his wife along the path of the old manse garden, he turned to her, saying: 'this has been a trying sunday, little woman.' 'yes; but i've got over it, thanks to that little lame girl. it was her nosegay that brought me through, walter, and that little face of hers, so full of kindly concern and pity. you don't know how hard my heart was until she came to me--hard even against you for bringing me here.' 'and you kissed milly, didn't you, lucy?' 'yes. i didn't do wrong, did i?' 'no. that kiss of yours has touched hearts my theology cannot touch. you are queen here now.' 'yours--and always!' then he drew her to his side, and kissed her as she had kissed milly, and on lips as sweet and rosy as the petals that fell at their feet. the end. billing and sons, printers, guildford. th' barrel organ by edwin waugh manchester: john heywood, deansgate. london: simkin, marshall & co. i came out at haslingden town-end with my old acquaintance, "rondle o'th nab," better known by the name of "sceawter," a moor-end farmer and cattle dealer. he was telling me a story about a cat that squinted, and grew very fat because--to use his own words--it "catched two mice at one go." when he had finished the tale, he stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and looking round at the hills, he said, "nea then. i'se be like to lev yo here. i mun turn off to 'dick o' rough-cap's' up musbury road. i want to bargain about yon heifer. he's a very fair chap, is dick,--for a cow-jobber. but yo met as weel go up wi' me, an' then go forrud to our house. we'n some singers comin' to neet." "nay," said i, "i think i'll tak up through horncliffe, an' by th' moor-gate, to't 'top o'th hoof.'" "well, then," replied he, "yo mun strike off at th' lift hond, about a mile fur on; an' then up th' hill side, an' through th' delph. fro theer yo mun get upo' th' owd road as weel as yo con; an' when yo'n getten it, keep it. so good day, an' tak care o' yorsel'. barfoot folk should never walk upo' prickles." he then turned, and walked off. before he had gone twenty yards he shouted back, "hey! i say! dunnot forget th' cat." it was a fine autumn day; clear and cool. dead leaves were whirling about the road-side. i toiled slowly up the hill, to the famous horncliffe quarries, where the sounds of picks, chisels, and gavelocks, used by the workmen, rose strangely clear amidst the surrounding stillness. from the quarries i got up by an old pack horse road, to a commanding elevation at the top of the moors. here i sat down on a rude block of mossy stone, upon a bleak point of the hills, overlooking one of the most picturesque parts of the irwell valley. the country around me was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of the forest of rossendale. lodges of water and beautiful reaches of the winding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patches of woodland, far down the vale; and mills, mansions, farmsteads, churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye could see. the moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather, save here and there where a well-defined tract of green showed that cultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pasture land. about eight miles south, a gray cloud hung over the town of bury, and nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railway train along the valley. from a lofty perch of the hills, on the north-west, the sounds of haslingden church bells came sweetly upon the ear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borne away by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gush of melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. up from the valley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the ear of evening as she draws her curtains over the world. a woman's voice floated up from the pastures of an old farm-house, below where i sat, calling the cattle home. the barking of dogs sounded clear in different parts of the vale, and about scattered hamlets, on the hill sides. i could hear the far-off prattle of a company of girls, mingled with the lazy joltings of a cart, the occasional crack of a whip, and the surly call of a driver to his horses, upon the high road, half a mile below me. from a wooded slope, on the opposite side of the valley, the crack of a gun came, waking the echoes for a minute; and then all seemed to sink into a deeper stillness than before, and the dreamy surge of sound broke softer and softer upon the shores of evening, as daylight sobered down. high above the green valley, on both sides, the moorlands stretched away in billowy wildernesses--dark, bleak, and almost soundless, save where the wind harped his wild anthem upon the heathery waste, and where roaring streams filled the lonely cloughs with drowsy uproar. it was a striking scene, and it was an impressive hour. the bold, round, flat-topped height of musbury tor stood gloomily proud, on the opposite side, girdled off from the rest of the hills by a green vale. the lofty outlines of aviside and holcombe were glowing with the gorgeous hues of a cloudless october sunset. along those wild ridges the soldiers of ancient rome marched from manchester to preston, when boars and wolves ranged the woods and thickets of the irwell valley. the stream is now lined all the way with busy populations, and evidences of great wealth and enterprise. but the spot from which i looked down upon it was still naturally wild. the hand of man had left no mark there, except the grass-grown pack-horse road. there was no sound nor sign of life immediately around me. the wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. it was getting too near dark to go by the moor tops, so i made off towards a cottage in the next clough, where an old quarry-man lived, called "jone o'twilter's." the pack-horse road led by the place. once there, i knew that i could spend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, be directed by a short cut down to the great highway in the valley, from whence an hour's walk would bring me near home. i found the place easily, for i had been there in summer. it was a substantial stone-built cottage, or little farm-house, with mullioned windows. a stone-seated porch, white-washed inside, shaded the entrance; and there was a little barn and a shippon, or cow-house attached. by the by, that word "shippon," must have been originally "sheep-pen." the house nestled deep in the clough, upon a shelf of green land, near the moorland stream. on a rude ornamental stone, above the threshold of the porch, the date of the building was quaintly carved, " ," with the initials, "j. s.," and then, a little lower down, and partly between these, the letter "p.," as if intended for "john and sarah pilkington." on the lower slope of the hill, immediately in front of the house there was a kind of kitchen garden, well stocked, and in very fair order. above the garden, the wild moorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering sheep tracts. from the back of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a rocky back. the moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel, a few yards below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of the bank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery. the water rushed and roared here; there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was full of graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn rock, a few yards lower down. a kind of green gloom pervaded the watery chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from the opposite bank. it was a spot that a painter might have chosen for "the kelpie's home." the cottage door was open; and i guessed by the silence inside that old "jone" had not reached home. his wife, nanny, was a hale and cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. i found her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. the carved oak clock-case in the corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. but the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the senses in a drowsy spell. at the end of a long table under the front window, sat nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about twelve years old. she was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed copy of "culpepper's herbal." she smiled, and shut the book, but seemed unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. i do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. life there is like bathing in dreams. but i saw that they had heard me coming; and when i stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm by saying, "nay sure! what; han yo getten thus far? come in, pray yo." "well, nanny," said i; "where's th' owd chap?" "eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. but i see," continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than i thought. he'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, if he doesn't co', an' i hope he'll not, to neet. i'll put th' kettle on. jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale." i sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and jenny brought me an old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed. "toast a bit o' hard brade," said nanny, "an' put it into't." i did so. the old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then, settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her knitting-needles. seeing that i liked my sops, she said, "reitch some moor cake-brade. jenny'll toast it for yo." i thanked her, and reached down another piece; which jenny held to the fire on a fork. and then we were silent for a minute or so. "i'll tell yo what," said nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world." "what's up now, nanny?" replied i. "they say'n that owd bill, at fo' edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. dun yo co' that nought?" before i could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our ears. then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a snatch of country song:-- "owd shoon an' stockins, an' slippers at's made o' red leather! come, betty, wi' me, let's shap to agree, an' hutch of a cowd neet together. "mash-tubs and barrels! a mon connot olez be sober; a mon connot sing to a bonnier thing nor a pitcher o' stingin' october." "jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. it's oather 'skedlock' or 'nathan o' dangler's.'" jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "it's skedlock. he's lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. little joseph's wi' him. they're comin' in. joseph's new clogs on." skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,--a tall, strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. his long, massive features were embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. he was followed by a healthy lad, about twelve years of age,--a kind of pocket-copy of himself. they were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. the lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's. "well, skedlock," said nanny, "thae's getten joseph witho, i see. does he go to schoo yet ?" "nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw." "nay, sure. does he get ony wage?" "nawe," replied skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur. but he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. where's yo'r jone? i want to see him abeawt some plants." "well," said nanny, "sit tho down a minute. hasto no news? thae'rt seldom short of a crack o' some mak." "nay," said skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at aw've aught fresh." but when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing a chair up, he said, "howd, nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th' owd chapel, yesterday?" "nawe." "eh, dear!... well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music up at that chapel, this year or two back. yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, nanny, i' yo'r young days--never a better." "eh, skedlock," said nanny; "aw us't to think i could ha' done a bit, forty year sin--an' i could, too--though i say it mysel. i remember gooin' to a oratory once, at bury. deborah travis wur theer, fro shay. eh! when aw yerd her sing 'let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in. isherwood wur theer; an' her at's mrs wood neaw; an' two or three fro yawshur road on. it wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever i wur at i' my life.... eh, i's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at owd israel grindrod's! johnny brello wur one on 'em. he's bin deead a good while.... that's wheer i let of our sam. he sang bass at that time.... poor johnny! he's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw." "well, but, nanny," said skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's shoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi' a rook o' musicianers. they cap'n the world for bein' diversome, an' jealous, an' bad to plez. well, as i wur sayin'--they'n had a deeal o' trouble about music this year or two back, up at th' owd chapel. th' singers fell out wi' th' players. they mostly dun do. an' th' players did everything they could to plague th' singers. they're so like. but yo' may have a like aim, nanny, what mak' o' harmony they'd get out o' sich wark as that. an' then, when joss o' piper's geet his wage raise't--five shillin' a year--dick o' liddy's said he'd ha' moor too, or else he'd sing no moor at that shop. he're noan beawn to be snape't wi' a tootlin' whipper-snapper like joss,--a bit of a bow-legged whelp, twenty year yunger nor his-sel. then there wur a crack coom i' billy tootle bassoon; an' billy stuck to't that some o'th lot had done it for spite. an' there were sich fratchin an' cabals among 'em as never wur known. an' they natter't, and brawl't, an' back-bote; and played one another o' maks o' ill-contrive't tricks. well, yo' may guess, nanny-- "one sunday mornin', just afore th' sarvice began, some o' th' singers slipt a hawp'oth o' grey peighs an' two young rattons into old thwittler double-bass; an' as soon as he began a-playin', th' little things squeak't an' scutter't about terribly i' th' inside, till thrut o' out o' tune. th' singers couldn't get forrud for laughin'. one on 'em whisper't to thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th' bally-warche. but thwittler never spoke a word. his senses wur leavin' him very fast. at last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in a cowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o' stockin'-needles. an' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reel up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or chighlt. his wife watched him run through th' heawse; but he darted forrud, an' took no notice o' nobody. 'what's up now,' thought betty; an' hoo ran after him. when hoo geet up-stairs th' owd lad had retten croppen into bed; an' he wur ill'd up, e'er th' yed. so betty turned th' quilt deawn, an' hoo said. 'whatever's to do witho, james?' 'howd te noise!' said thwittler, pooin' th' clooas o'er his yed again, 'howd te noise! i'll play no moor at yon shop!' an' th' bed fair wackert again; he 're i' sich a fluster. 'mun i make tho a saup o' gruel?' said betty. 'gruel be ----!' said thwittler, poppin' his yed out o' th' blankets. 'didto ever yer ov onybody layin' the devil wi' meighl-porritch?' an' then he poo'd th' blanket o'er his yed again. 'where's thi fiddle?' said betty. but, as soon as thwittler yerd th' fiddle name't, he gav a sort of wild skrike, an' crope lower down into bed." "well, well," said the old woman, laughing, and laying her knitting down, "aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life." "stop, nanny," said skedlock, "yo'st yer it out, now." "well, yo seen, this mak o' wark went on fro week to week, till everybody geet weary on it; an' at last, th' chapel-wardens summon't a meetin' to see if they couldn't raise a bit o' daycent music, for sundays, beawt o' this trouble. an' they talked back an' forrud about it a good while. tum o'th dingle recommended 'em to have a jew's harp, an' some triangles. but bobby nooker said, 'that's no church music! did onybody ever yer "th' owd hundred," played upov a triangle?' well, at last they agreed that th' best way would be to have some sort of a barrel-organ--one o' thoose that they winden up at th' side, an' then they play'n o' theirsel, beawt ony fingerin' or blowin'. so they ordert one made, wi' some favour-ite tunes in--'burton,' and 'liddy,' an' 'french,' an' 'owd york,' an' sich like. well, it seems that robin o' sceawter's, th' carrier--his feyther went by th' name o' 'cowd an' hungry;' he're a quarryman by trade; a long, hard, brown-looking felley, wi' e'en like gig-lamps, an' yure as strung as a horse's mane. he looked as if he'd bin made out o' owd dur-latches, an' reawsty nails. robin, th' carrier, is his owdest lad; an' he fawurs a chap at's bin brought up o' yirth-bobs an' scaplins. well, it seems that robin brought this box-organ up fro th' town in his cart o'th friday neet; an' as luck would have it, he had to bring a new weshin'-machine at th' same time, for owd isaac buckley, at th' hollins farm. when he geet th' organ in his cart, they towd him to be careful an' keep it th' reet side up; and he wur to mind an' not shake it mich, for it wur a thing that wur yezzy thrut eawt o' flunters. well, i think robin mun ha' bin fuddle't or summat that neet. but i dunnot know; for he's sich a bowster-yed, mon, that aw'll be sunken if aw think he knows th' difference between a weshin'-machine an' a church organ, when he's at th' sharpest. but let that leet as it will. what dun yo think but th' blunderin' foo,--at after o' that had bin said to him,--went and 'liver't th' weshin'-machine at th' church, an' th' organ at th' hollins farm." "well, well," said nanny, "that wur a bonny come off, shuz heaw. but how wenten they on at after?" "well, i'll tell yo, nanny," said skedlock. "th' owd clerk wur noan in when robin geet to th' dur wi' his cart that neet, so his wife coom with a leet in her hond, an' said, 'whatever hasto getten for us this time, robert?' 'why,' said robin, 'it's some mak of a organ. where win yo ha't put, betty?' 'eh, i'm fain thae's brought it,' said betty. 'it's for th' chapel; an' it'll be wanted for sunday. sitho, set it deawn i' this front reawm here; an' mind what thae'rt doin' with it.' so robin, an' barfoot sam, an' little wamble, 'at looks after th' horses at 'th' rompin' kitlin,' geet it eawt o'th cart. when they geet how'd ont, robin said, 'neaw lads; afore yo starten: mind what yo'r doin; an' be as ginger as yo con. that's a thing 'at's soon thrut eawt o' gear--it's a organ.' so they hove, an' poo'd, an' grunted, an' thrutch't, till they geet it set down i'th parlour; an' they pretended to be quite knocked up wi' th' job. 'betty,' said robin, wipin' his face wi' his sleeve, 'it's bin dry weather latly.' so th' owd lass took th' hint, an' fetched 'em a quart o' ale. while they stood i'th middle o'th floor suppin' their ale, betty took th' candle an' went a-lookin' at this organ; and hoo couldn't tell whatever to make on it.... did'n yo ever see a weshin'-machine, nanny?" "never i' my life," said nanny. "nor aw dunnot want. gi me a greight mug, an' some breawn swoap, an' plenty o' soft wayter; an' yo may tak yo'r machines for me." "well," continued skedlock, "it's moor liker a grindlestone nor a organ. but, as i were tellin yo:-- "betty stare't at this thing, an' hoo walked round it an' scrat her yed mony a time, afore hoo ventur't to speak. at last hoo said, 'aw'll tell tho what, robert; it's a quare-shaped 'un. it favvurs a yung mangle! doesto think it'll be reet?' 'reet?' said robin, swipin' his ale off? 'oh, aye; it's reet enough. it's one of a new pattern, at's just com'd up. it's o' reet, betty. yo may see that bith hondle.' 'well,' said betty, 'if it's reet, it's reet. but it's noan sich a nice-lookin' thin--for a church--that isn't!' th' little lass wur i'th parlour at th' same time; an' hoo said, 'yes. see yo, mother. i'm sure it's right. you must turn this here handle; and then it'll play. i seed a man playin' one yesterday; an' he had a monkey with him, dressed like a soldier.' 'keep thy little rootin' fingers off that organ,' said betty. 'theaw knows nought about music. that organ musn't be touched till thi father comes whoam,--mind that, neaw.... but, sartainly,' said betty, takin th' candle up again, 'i cannot help lookin' at this thing. it's sich a quare un. it looks like summat belongin'--maut-grindin', or summat o' that.' 'well,' said robin, 'it has a bit o' that abeawt it, sartainly.... but yo'n find it's o' reet. they're awterin' o' their organs to this pattern, neaw. i believe they're for sellin th' organ at manchester owd church,--so as they can ha' one like this.' 'thou never says!' said betty. 'yigh,' said robin, 'it's true, what i'm telling yo. but aw mun be off, betty. aw 've to go to th' hollins to-neet, yet.' 'why, arto takin' thame summat?' 'aye; some mak of a new fangle't machine, for weshin' shirts an' things.' 'nay, sure!' said betty. 'a'll tell tho what, robert; they 're goin' on at a great rate up at tat shop." 'aye, aye,' said robin. 'mon, there's no end to some folk's pride,--till they come'n to th' floor; an' then there isn't, sometimes.' 'there isn't, robert; there isn't. an' i'll tell tho what; thoose lasses o' theirs,--they're as proud as lucifer. they're donned more like mountebanks' foos, nor gradely folk,--wi' their fither't hats, an' their fleawnces, an' their hoops, an' things. aw wonder how they can for shame' o' their face. a lot o' mee-mawing snickets! but they 're no better nor porritch, robert, when they're looked up.' 'not a bit, betty,--not a bit! but i mun be off. good neet to yo'.' 'good neet robert,' said betty. an' away he went wi' th' cart up to th' hollins." "aw'll tell tho what, skedlock," said nanny; "that woman's a terrible tung!" "aye, hoo has," replied skedlock; "an' her mother wur th' same. but, let me finish my tale, nanny, an' then--" "well, it wur pitch dark when robin geet to th' hollins farm-yard wi' his cart. he gav a ran-tan at th' back dur, wi' his whip-hondle; and when th' little lass coom with a candle, he said, 'aw've getten a weshin'-machine for yo.' as soon as th' little lass yerd that, hoo darted off, tellin' o' th' house that th' new weshin'-machine wur come'd. well, yo known, they'n five daughters; an' very cliver, honsome, tidy lasses they are, too,--as what owd betty says. an' this news brought 'em o' out o' their nooks in a fluster. owd isaac wur sit i'th parlour, havin' a glass wi' a chap that he'd bin sellin' a cowt to. th' little lass went bouncin' into th' reawm to him; an' hoo said, 'eh, father, th' new weshin'-machine's come'd!' 'well, well,' said isaac, pattin' her o'th yed; 'go thi ways an' tell thi mother. aw'm no wesher. thae never sees me weshin', doesto? i bought it for yo lasses; an' yo mun look after it yorsels. tell some o'th men to get it into th' wesh-house.' so they had it carried into th' wesh-house; an' when they geet it unpacked they were quite astonished to see a grand shinin' thing, made o' rose-wood, an' cover't wi' glitterin' kerly-berlys. th' little lass clapped her hands, an' said, 'eh, isn't it a beauty!' but th' owd'st daughter looked hard at it, an' hoo said, 'well, this is th' strangest weshin'-machine that i ever saw!' 'fetch a bucket o' water,' said another, 'an' let's try it!' but they couldn't get it oppen, whatever they did; till, at last, they fund some keys, lapt in a piece of breawn papper. 'here they are,' said mary. mary's th' owd'st daughter, yo known. 'here they are;' an' hoo potter't an' rooted abeawt, tryin' these keys; till hoo fund one that fitted at th' side, an' hoo twirled it round an' round till hoo'd wund it up; an' then,--yo may guess how capt they wur, when it started a-playin' a tune. 'hello?' said robin. 'a psaum-tune, bith mass! a psaum-tune eawt ov a weshin'-machine! heaw's that?' an' he star't like a throttled cat. 'nay,' said mary, 'i cannot tell what to make o' this!' th' owd woman wur theer, an' hoo said, 'mary; mary, my lass, thou 's gone an' spoilt it,--the very first thing, theaw has. theaw's bin tryin' th' wrong keigh, mon; thou has, for sure.' then mary turned to robin, an' hoo said, 'whatever sort of a machine's this, robin?' 'nay,' said robin, 'i dunnot know, beawt it's one o' thoose at's bin made for weshin' surplices.' but robin begun a-smellin' a rat; an', as he didn't want to ha' to tak it back th' same neet, he pike't off out at th' dur, while they wur hearkenin' th' music; an' he drove whoam as fast as he could goo. in a minute or two th' little lass went dancin' into th' parlour to owd isaac an' hoo cried out, 'father, you must come here this minute! th' weshin'-machine's playin' th' owd hundred!' 'it's what?' cried isaac, layin' his pipe down. 'it's playin' th' owd hundred! it is, for sure! oh, it's beautiful! come on!' an' hoo tugged at his lap to get him into th' wesh-house. then th' owd woman coom in, and hoo said, 'isaac, whatever i' the name o' fortin' hasto bin blunderin' and doin' again? come thi ways an' look at this machine thae's brought us. it caps me if yean yowling divle'll do ony weshin'. thae surely doesn't want to ha' thi shirt set to music, doesto? we'n noise enough i' this hole beawt yon startin' or skrikin'. thae'll ha' th' house full o' fiddlers an' doancers in a bit.' 'well, well,' said isaac, 'aw never yerd sich a tale i' my life! yo'n bother't me a good while about a piano; but if we'n getten a weshin'-machine that plays church music, we're set up, wi' a rattle! but aw'll come an' look at it.' an' away he went to th' wesh-house, wi' th' little lass pooin' at him, like a kitlin' drawin' a stone-cart. th' owd woman followed him, grumblin' o' th' road,--'isaac, this is what comes on tho stoppin' so lat' i'th town of a neet. there's olez some blunderin' job or another. aw lippen on tho happenin' a sayrious mischoance, some o' these neets. i towd tho mony a time. but thae tays no moor notis o' me nor if aw 're a milestone, or a turmit, or summat. a mon o' thy years should have a bit o' sense.' "'well, well,' said isaac, hobblin' off, 'do howd thi din, lass! i'll go an' see what ails it. there's olez summat to keep one's spirits up, as ab o' slender's said when he broke his leg.' but as soon as isaac see'd th' weshin'-machine, he brast eawt a-laughin', an' he sed: 'hello! why, this is th' church organ! who's brought it?' 'robin o' sceawter's.' 'it's just like him. where's th' maunderin' foo gone to?' 'he's off whoam.' 'well,' said isaac, 'let it stop where it is. there'll be somebody after this i'th mornin'.' an' they had some rare fun th' next day, afore they geet these things swapt to their gradely places. however, th' last thing o' saturday neet th' weshin'-machine wur brought up fro th' clerk's, an' th' organ wur takken to th' chapel." "well, well," said th' owd woman; "they geet 'em reet at the end of o', then?" "aye," said skedlock; "but aw've noan done yet, nanny." "what, were'n they noan gradely sorted, then, at after o'?" "well," said skedlock, "i'll tell yo. "as i've yerd th' tale, this new organ wur tried for th' first time at mornin' sarvice, th' next day. dick-o'-liddy's, th' bass singer, wur pike't eawt to look after it, as he wur an' owd hond at music; an' th' parson would ha' gan him a bit of a lesson, th' neet before, how to manage it, like. but dick reckon't that nobody'd no 'casion to larn him nought belungin' sich like things as thoose. it wur a bonny come off if a chap that had been a noted bass-singer five-and-forty year, an' could tutor a claronet wi' ony mon i' rosenda forest, couldn't manage a box-organ,--beawt bein' teyched wi' a parson. so they gav him th' keys, and leet him have his own road. well, o' sunday forenoon, as soon as th' first hymn wur gan out, dick whisper't round to th' folk i'th singin'-pew, 'now for't! mind yor hits! aw 'm beawn to set it agate!' an' then he went, an' wun th' organ up, an' it started a-playin' 'french;' an' th' singers followed, as weel as they could, in a slattery sort of a way. but some on 'em didn't like it. they reckon't that they made nought o' singin' to machinery. well, when th' hymn wur done, th' parson said, 'let us pray,' an' down they went o' their knees. but just as folk wur gettin' their e'en nicely shut, an' their faces weel hud i' their hats, th' organ banged off again, wi' th' same tune. 'hello!' said dick, jumpin' up, 'th' divle's oft again, bith mass!' then he darted at th' organ; an' he rooted about wi' th' keys, tryin' to stop it. but th' owd lad wur i' sich a fluster, that istid o' stoppin' it, he swapped th' barrel to another tune. that made him warse nor ever. owd thwittler whisper'd to him, 'thire, dick; thae's shapt that nicely! give it another twirl, owd bird!' well, dick sweat, an' futter't about till he swapped th' barrel again. an' then he looked round th' singin'-pew, as helpless as a kittlin'; an' he said to th' singers, 'whatever mun aw do, folk?' an' tears coom into his e'en. 'roll it o'er,' said thwittler. 'come here, then,' said dick. so they roll't it o'er, as if they wanted to teem th' music out on it, like ale oat of a pitcher. but the organ yowlt on; and dick went wur an' wur. 'come here, yo singers,' said dick, 'come here; let's sit us down on't! here, sarah; come, thee; thou'rt a fat un!' an' they sit 'em down on it; but o' wur no use. th' organ wur reet ony end up; an' they couldn't smoor th' sound. at last dick gav in; an' he leant o'er th' front o' th' singin'-pew, wi' th' sweat runnin' down his face; an' he sheawted across to th' parson, 'aw cannot stop it! i wish yo'd send somebry up.' just then owd pudge, th' bang-beggar, coom runnin' into th' pew, an' he fot dick a sous at back o' th' yed wi' his pow, an' he said, 'come here, dick; thou'rt a foo. tak howd; an' let's carry it eawt.' dick whisked round an' rubbed his yed, an' he said, 'aw say, pudge, keep that pow to thisel', or else i'll send my shoon against thoose ribbed stockin's o' thine.' but he went an' geet howd, an' him an' pudge carried it into th' chapel-yard, to play itsel' out i'th open air. an' it yowlt o' th' way as they went, like a naughty lad bein' turn't out of a reawm for cryin'. th' parson waited till it wur gone; an' then he went on wi' th' sarvice. when they set th' organ down i'th chapel yard, owd pudge wiped his for-yed, an' he said, 'by th' mass, dick, thae'll get th' bag for this job.' 'whau, what for,' said dick. 'aw 've no skill of sich like squallin' boxes as this. if they'd taen my advice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that ony minute. it has made me puff, carryin' that thing. i never once thought that it 'd start again at after th' hymn wur done. eh, i wur some mad! if aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my hond, aw'd hachuck't 'em into't.... yer, tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as nought wur. aye, thae may weel play th' owd hundred, divvleskin. thae's made a funeral o' me this mornin'.... but, aw say, pudge; th' next time at there's aught o' this sort agate again, aw wish thae'd be as good as keep that pow o' thine to thysel', wilto? thae's raise't a nob at th' back o' my yed th' size of a duck-egg; an' it'll be twice as big by mornin'. how would yo like me to slap tho o' th' chops wi' a stockin'-full o' slutch, some sunday, when thae'rt swaggerin' at front o' th' parson?' "while they stood talkin' this way, one o'th singers coom runnin' out o'th chapel bare yed, an' he shouted out 'dick, thae'rt wanted, this minute! where's that pitch-pipe? we'n gated wrang twice o' ready! come in, wi' tho'!' 'by th' mass,' said dick, dartin' back; 'i'd forgetten o' about it. i'se never seen through this job, to my deein' day.' an' off he ran, an' laft owd pudge sit upo' th' organ, grinnin' at him.... that's a nice do, isn't it, nanny?" "eh," said the old woman, "i never yerd sich a tale i' my life. but thae's made part o' that out o' th' owd yed, skedlock." "not a word," said he: "not a word. yo han it as i had it, nanny; as near as i can tell." "well," replied she, "how did they go on at after that?" "well," said he, "i haven't time to stop to-neet, nanny; i'll tell yo some time else, i thought jone would ha' bin here by now. he mun ha' co'de at 'th' rompin' kitlin'; but, i'll look in as i go by.'" "i wish thou would, skedlock. an' dunnot' go an' keep him, now; send him forrud whoam." "i will, nanny--i dunnot want to stop, mysel'. con yo lend me a lantron?" "sure i can. jenny, bring that lantron; an' leet it. it'll be two hours afore th' moon rises. it's a fine neet, but it's dark." when jenny brought the lantern, i bade nanny "good night," and took advantage of owd skedlock's convoy down the broken paths, to the high road in the valley. there we parted; and i had a fine starlight walk to "th' top o' th' hoof," on that breezy october night. after a quiet supper in "owd bob's" little parlour, i took a walk round about the quaint farmstead, and through the grove upon the brow of the hill. the full moon had risen in the cloudless sky; and the view of the valley as i saw it from "grant's tower" that night, was a thing to be remembered with delight for a man's lifetime. proofreading team. [illustration: nicholas assheton and the three doll wangos leaving hoghton hall.] the lancashire witches. a romance of pendle forest. by william harrison ainsworth, esq. _sir jeffery_.--is there a justice in lancashire has so much skill in witches as i have? nay, i'll speak a proud word; you shall turn me loose against any witch-finder in europe. i'd make an ass of hopkins if he were alive.--shadwell. third edition. illustrated by john gilbert. london: george routledge & co., farringdon street. . to james crossley, esq., (of manchester,) president of the chetham society, and the learned editor of "the discoverie of witches in the county of lancaster,"-- the groundwork of the following pages,-- this romance, undertaken at his suggestion, is inscribed by his old, and sincerely attached friend, the author. contents. introduction. the last abbot of whalley. i. the beacon on pendle hill ii. the eruption iii. whalley abbey iv. the malediction v. the midnight mass vi. teter et fortis carcer vii. the abbey mill viii. the executioner ix. wiswall hall x. the holehouses book the first. alizon device. i. the may queen ii. the black cat and the white dove iii. the asshetons iv. alice nutter v. mother chattox vi. the ordeal by swimming vii. the ruined conventual church viii. the revelation ix. the two portraits in the banqueting-hall x. the nocturnal meeting book the second. pendle forest. i. flint ii. read hall iii. the boggart's glen iv. the reeve of the forest v. bess's o' th' booth vi. the temptation vii. the perambulation of the boundaries viii. rough lee ix. how rough lee was defended by nicholas x. roger nowell and his double xi. mother demdike xii. the mysteries of malkin tower xiii. the two familiars xiv. how rough lee was again besieged xv. the phantom monk xvi. one o'clock! xvii. how the beacon fire was extinguished book the third. hoghton tower. i. downham manor-house ii. the penitent's retreat iii. middleton hall iv. the gorge of cliviger v. the end of malkin tower vi. hoghton tower vii. the royal declaration concerning lawful sports on the sunday viii. how king james hunted the hart and the wild-boar in hoghton park ix. the banquet x. evening entertainments xi. fatality xii. the last hour xiii. the masque of death xiv. "one grave" xv. lancaster castle introduction. the last abbot of whalley. chapter i.--the beacon on pendle hill. there were eight watchers by the beacon on pendle hill in lancashire. two were stationed on either side of the north-eastern extremity of the mountain. one looked over the castled heights of clithero; the woody eminences of bowland; the bleak ridges of thornley; the broad moors of bleasdale; the trough of bolland, and wolf crag; and even brought within his ken the black fells overhanging lancaster. the other tracked the stream called pendle water, almost from its source amid the neighbouring hills, and followed its windings through the leafless forest, until it united its waters to those of the calder, and swept on in swifter and clearer current, to wash the base of whalley abbey. but the watcher's survey did not stop here. noting the sharp spire of burnley church, relieved against the rounded masses of timber constituting townley park; as well as the entrance of the gloomy mountain gorge, known as the grange of cliviger; his far-reaching gaze passed over todmorden, and settled upon the distant summits of blackstone edge. dreary was the prospect on all sides. black moor, bleak fell, straggling forest, intersected with sullen streams as black as ink, with here and there a small tarn, or moss-pool, with waters of the same hue--these constituted the chief features of the scene. the whole district was barren and thinly-populated. of towns, only clithero, colne, and burnley--the latter little more than a village--were in view. in the valleys there were a few hamlets and scattered cottages, and on the uplands an occasional "booth," as the hut of the herdsman was termed; but of more important mansions there were only six, as merley, twistleton, alcancoats, saxfeld, ightenhill, and gawthorpe. the "vaccaries" for the cattle, of which the herdsmen had the care, and the "lawnds," or parks within the forest, appertaining to some of the halls before mentioned, offered the only evidences of cultivation. all else was heathy waste, morass, and wood. still, in the eye of the sportsman--and the lancashire gentlemen of the sixteenth century were keen lovers of sport--the country had a strong interest. pendle forest abounded with game. grouse, plover, and bittern were found upon its moors; woodcock and snipe on its marshes; mallard, teal, and widgeon upon its pools. in its chases ranged herds of deer, protected by the terrible forest-laws, then in full force: and the hardier huntsman might follow the wolf to his lair in the mountains; might spear the boar in the oaken glades, or the otter on the river's brink; might unearth the badger or the fox, or smite the fierce cat-a-mountain with a quarrel from his bow. a nobler victim sometimes, also, awaited him in the shape of a wild mountain bull, a denizen of the forest, and a remnant of the herds that had once browsed upon the hills, but which had almost all been captured, and removed to stock the park of the abbot of whalley. the streams and pools were full of fish: the stately heron frequented the meres; and on the craggy heights built the kite, the falcon, and the kingly eagle. there were eight watchers by the beacon. two stood apart from the others, looking to the right and the left of the hill. both were armed with swords and arquebuses, and wore steel caps and coats of buff. their sleeves were embroidered with the five wounds of christ, encircling the name of jesus--the badge of the pilgrimage of grace. between them, on the verge of the mountain, was planted a great banner, displaying a silver cross, the chalice, and the host, together with an ecclesiastical figure, but wearing a helmet instead of a mitre, and holding a sword in place of a crosier, with the unoccupied hand pointing to the two towers of a monastic structure, as if to intimate that he was armed for its defence. this figure, as the device beneath it showed, represented john paslew, abbot of whalley, or, as he styled himself in his military capacity, earl of poverty. there were eight watchers by the beacon. two have been described. of the other six, two were stout herdsmen carrying crooks, and holding a couple of mules, and a richly-caparisoned war-horse by the bridle. near them stood a broad-shouldered, athletic young man, with the fresh complexion, curling brown hair, light eyes, and open saxon countenance, best seen in his native county of lancaster. he wore a lincoln-green tunic, with a bugle suspended from the shoulder by a silken cord; and a silver plate engraved with the three luces, the ensign of the abbot of whalley, hung by a chain from his neck. a hunting knife was in his girdle, and an eagle's plume in his cap, and he leaned upon the but-end of a crossbow, regarding three persons who stood together by a peat fire, on the sheltered side of the beacon. two of these were elderly men, in the white gowns and scapularies of cistertian monks, doubtless from whalley, as the abbey belonged to that order. the third and last, and evidently their superior, was a tall man in a riding dress, wrapped in a long mantle of black velvet, trimmed with minever, and displaying the same badges as those upon the sleeves of the sentinels, only wrought in richer material. his features were strongly marked and stern, and bore traces of age; but his eye was bright, and his carriage erect and dignified. the beacon, near which the watchers stood, consisted of a vast pile of logs of timber, heaped upon a circular range of stones, with openings to admit air, and having the centre filled with fagots, and other quickly combustible materials. torches were placed near at hand, so that the pile could be lighted on the instant. the watch was held one afternoon at the latter end of november, . in that year had arisen a formidable rebellion in the northern counties of england, the members of which, while engaging to respect the person of the king, henry viii., and his issue, bound themselves by solemn oath to accomplish the restoration of papal supremacy throughout the realm, and the restitution of religious establishments and lands to their late ejected possessors. they bound themselves, also, to punish the enemies of the romish church, and suppress heresy. from its religious character the insurrection assumed the name of the pilgrimage of grace, and numbered among its adherents all who had not embraced the new doctrines in yorkshire and lancashire. that such an outbreak should occur on the suppression of the monasteries, was not marvellous. the desecration and spoliation of so many sacred structures--the destruction of shrines and images long regarded with veneration--the ejection of so many ecclesiastics, renowned for hospitality and revered for piety and learning--the violence and rapacity of the commissioners appointed by the vicar-general cromwell to carry out these severe measures--all these outrages were regarded by the people with abhorrence, and disposed them to aid the sufferers in resistance. as yet the wealthier monasteries in the north had been spared, and it was to preserve them from the greedy hands of the visiters, doctors lee and layton, that the insurrection had been undertaken. a simultaneous rising took place in lincolnshire, headed by makarel, abbot of barlings, but it was speedily quelled by the vigour and skill of the duke of suffolk, and its leader executed. but the northern outbreak was better organized, and of greater force, for it now numbered thirty thousand men, under the command of a skilful and resolute leader named robert aske. as may be supposed, the priesthood were main movers in a revolt having their especial benefit for its aim; and many of them, following the example of the abbot of barlings, clothed themselves in steel instead of woollen garments, and girded on the sword and the breastplate for the redress of their grievances and the maintenance of their rights. amongst these were the abbots of jervaux, furness, fountains, rivaulx, and salley, and, lastly, the abbot of whalley, before mentioned; a fiery and energetic prelate, who had ever been constant and determined in his opposition to the aggressive measures of the king. such was the pilgrimage of grace, such its design, and such its supporters. several large towns had already fallen into the hands of the insurgents. york, hull, and pontefract had yielded; skipton castle was besieged, and defended by the earl of cumberland; and battle was offered to the duke of norfolk and the earl of shrewsbury, who headed the king's forces at doncaster. but the object of the royalist leaders was to temporise, and an armistice was offered to the rebels and accepted. terms were next proposed and debated. during the continuance of this armistice all hostilities ceased; but beacons were reared upon the mountains, and their fires were to be taken as a new summons to arms. this signal the eight watchers expected. though late in november, the day had been unusually fine, and, in consequence, the whole hilly ranges around were clearly discernible, but now the shades of evening were fast drawing on. "night is approaching," cried the tall man in the velvet mantle, impatiently; "and still the signal comes not. wherefore this delay? can norfolk have accepted our conditions? impossible. the last messenger from our camp at scawsby lees brought word that the duke's sole terms would be the king's pardon to the whole insurgent army, provided they at once dispersed--except ten persons, six named and four unnamed." "and were you amongst those named, lord abbot?" demanded one of the monks. "john paslew, abbot of whalley, it was said, headed the list," replied the other, with a bitter smile. "next came william trafford, abbot of salley. next adam sudbury, abbot of jervaux. then our leader, robert aske. then john eastgate, monk of whalley--" "how, lord abbot!" exclaimed the monk. "was my name mentioned?" "it was," rejoined the abbot. "and that of william haydocke, also monk of whalley, closed the list." "the unrelenting tyrant!" muttered the other monk. "but these terms could not be accepted?" "assuredly not," replied paslew; "they were rejected with scorn. but the negotiations were continued by sir ralph ellerker and sir robert bowas, who were to claim on our part a free pardon for all; the establishment of a parliament and courts of justice at york; the restoration of the princess mary to the succession; the pope to his jurisdiction; and our brethren to their houses. but such conditions will never be granted. with my consent no armistice should have been agreed to. we are sure to lose by the delay. but i was overruled by the archbishop of york and the lord darcy. their voices prevailed against the abbot of whalley--or, if it please you, the earl of poverty." "it is the assumption of that derisive title which has drawn upon you the full force of the king's resentment, lord abbot," observed father eastgate. "it may be," replied the abbot. "i took it in mockery of cromwell and the ecclesiastical commissioners, and i rejoice that they have felt the sting. the abbot of barlings called himself captain cobbler, because, as he affirmed, the state wanted mending like old shoon. and is not my title equally well chosen? is not the church smitten with poverty? have not ten thousand of our brethren been driven from their homes to beg or to starve? have not the houseless poor, whom we fed at our gates, and lodged within our wards, gone away hungry and without rest? have not the sick, whom we would have relieved, died untended by the hedge-side? i am the head of the poor in lancashire, the redresser of their grievances, and therefore i style myself earl of poverty. have i not done well?" "you have, lord abbot," replied father eastgate. "poverty will not alone be the fate of the church, but of the whole realm, if the rapacious designs of the monarch and his heretical counsellors are carried forth," pursued the abbot. "cromwell, audeley, and rich, have wisely ordained that no infant shall be baptised without tribute to the king; that no man who owns not above twenty pounds a year shall consume wheaten bread, or eat the flesh of fowl or swine without tribute; and that all ploughed land shall pay tribute likewise. thus the church is to be beggared, the poor plundered, and all men burthened, to fatten the king, and fill his exchequer." "this must be a jest," observed father haydocke. "it is a jest no man laughs at," rejoined the abbot, sternly; "any more than the king's counsellors will laugh at the earl of poverty, whose title they themselves have created. but wherefore comes not the signal? can aught have gone wrong? i will not think it. the whole country, from the tweed to the humber, and from the lune to the mersey, is ours; and, if we but hold together, our cause must prevail." "yet we have many and powerful enemies," observed father eastgate; "and the king, it is said, hath sworn never to make terms with us. tidings were brought to the abbey this morning, that the earl of derby is assembling forces at preston, to march upon us." "we will give him a warm reception if he comes," replied paslew, fiercely. "he will find that our walls have not been kernelled and embattled by licence of good king edward the third for nothing; and that our brethren can fight as well as their predecessors fought in the time of abbot holden, when they took tithe by force from sir christopher parsons of slaydburn. the abbey is strong, and right well defended, and we need not fear a surprise. but it grows dark fast, and yet no signal comes." "perchance the waters of the don have again risen, so as to prevent the army from fording the stream," observed father haydocke; "or it may be that some disaster hath befallen our leader." "nay, i will not believe the latter," said the abbot; "robert aske is chosen by heaven to be our deliverer. it has been prophesied that a 'worm with one eye' shall work the redemption of the fallen faith, and you know that robert aske hath been deprived of his left orb by an arrow." "therefore it is," observed father eastgate, "that the pilgrims of grace chant the following ditty:-- "'forth shall come an aske with one eye, he shall be chief of the company-- chief of the northern chivalry.'" "what more?" demanded the abbot, seeing that the monk appeared to hesitate. "nay, i know not whether the rest of the rhymes may please you, lord abbot," replied father eastgate. "let me hear them, and i will judge," said paslew. thus urged, the monk went on:-- "'one shall sit at a solemn feast, half warrior, half priest, the greatest there shall be the least.'" "the last verse," observed the monk, "has been added to the ditty by nicholas demdike. i heard him sing it the other day at the abbey gate." "what, nicholas demdike of worston?" cried the abbot; "he whose wife is a witch?" "the same," replied eastgate. "hoo be so ceawnted, sure eno," remarked the forester, who had been listening attentively to their discourse, and who now stepped forward; "boh dunna yo think it. beleemy, lort abbut, bess demdike's too yunk an too protty for a witch." "thou art bewitched by her thyself, cuthbert," said the abbot, angrily. "i shall impose a penance upon thee, to free thee from the evil influence. thou must recite twenty paternosters daily, fasting, for one month; and afterwards perform a pilgrimage to the shrine of our lady of gilsland. bess demdike is an approved and notorious witch, and hath been seen by credible witnesses attending a devil's sabbath on this very hill--heaven shield us! it is therefore that i have placed her and her husband under the ban of the church; pronounced sentence of excommunication against them; and commanded all my clergy to refuse baptism to their infant daughter, newly born." "wea's me! ey knoas 't reet weel, lort abbut," replied ashbead, "and bess taks t' sentence sore ta 'ert!" "then let her amend her ways, or heavier punishment will befall her," cried paslew, severely. "'_sortilegam non patieris vivere_' saith the levitical law. if she be convicted she shall die the death. that she is comely i admit; but it is the comeliness of a child of sin. dost thou know the man with whom she is wedded--or supposed to be wedded--for i have seen no proof of the marriage? he is a stranger here." "ey knoas neawt abowt him, lort abbut, 'cept that he cum to pendle a twalmont agoa," replied ashbead; "boh ey knoas fu' weel that t'eawtcumbling felly robt me ot prettiest lass i' aw lonkyshiar--aigh, or i' aw englondshiar, fo' t' matter o' that." "what manner of man is he?" inquired the abbot. "oh, he's a feaw teyke--a varra feaw teyke," replied ashbead; "wi' a feace as black as a boggart, sooty shiny hewr loike a mowdywarp, an' een loike a stanniel. boh for running, rostling, an' throwing t' stoan, he'n no match i' this keawntry. ey'n triet him at aw three gams, so ey con speak. for't most part he'n a big, black bandyhewit wi' him, and, by th' mess, ey canna help thinkin he meys free sumtoimes wi' yor lortship's bucks." "ha! this must be looked to," cried the abbot. "you say you know not whence he comes? 'tis strange." "t' missmannert carl'll boide naw questionin', odd rottle him!" replied ashbead. "he awnsurs wi' a gibe, or a thwack o' his staff. whon ey last seet him, he threatened t' raddle me booans weel, boh ey sooan lowert him a peg." "we will find a way of making him speak," said the abbot. "he can speak, and right well if he pleases," remarked father eastgate; "for though ordinarily silent and sullen enough, yet when he doth talk it is not like one of the hinds with whom he consorts, but in good set phrase; and his bearing is as bold as that of one who hath seen service in the field." "my curiosity is aroused," said the abbot. "i must see him." "noa sooner said than done," cried ashbead, "for, be t' lort harry, ey see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though how he'n getten theer t' dule owny knoas." and he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them. "talk of ill, and ill cometh," observed father haydocke. "and see, the wizard hath a black hound with him! it may be his wife, in that likeness." "naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, feyther haydocke," replied the forester; "it's a saint hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. odds loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit i war speaking on." "i like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the abbot; "yet i wish to confront him, and charge him with his midemeanours." "hark; he sings," cried father haydocke. and as he spoke a voice was heard chanting,-- "one shall sit at a solemn feast, half warrior, half priest, the greatest there shall be the least." "the very ditty i heard," cried father eastgate; "but list, he has more of it." and the voice resumed,-- "he shall be rich, yet poor as me, abbot, and earl of poverty. monk and soldier, rich and poor, he shall be hang'd at his own door." loud derisive laughter followed the song. "by our lady of whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot; "send a bolt to silence him, cuthbert." the forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the direction of the singer; but whether his aim were not truly taken, or he meant not to hit the mark, it is certain that demdike remained untouched. the reputed wizard laughed aloud, took off his felt cap in acknowledgment, and marched deliberately down the side of the hill. "thou art not wont to miss thy aim, cuthbert," cried the abbot, with a look of displeasure. "take good heed thou producest this scurril knave before me, when these troublous times are over. but what is this?--he stops--ha! he is practising his devilries on the mountain's side." it would seem that the abbot had good warrant for what he said, as demdike, having paused at a broad green patch on the hill-side, was now busied in tracing a circle round it with his staff. he then spoke aloud some words, which the superstitious beholders construed into an incantation, and after tracing the circle once again, and casting some tufts of dry heather, which he plucked from an adjoining hillock, on three particular spots, he ran quickly downwards, followed by his hound, and leaping a stone wall, surrounding a little orchard at the foot of the hill, disappeared from view. "go and see what he hath done," cried the abbot to the forester, "for i like it not." ashbead instantly obeyed, and on reaching the green spot in question, shouted out that he could discern nothing; but presently added, as he moved about, that the turf heaved like a sway-bed beneath his feet, and he thought--to use his own phraseology--would "brast." the abbot then commanded him to go down to the orchard below, and if he could find demdike to bring him to him instantly. the forester did as he was bidden, ran down the hill, and, leaping the orchard wall as the other had done, was lost to sight. ere long, it became quite dark, and as ashbead did not reappear, the abbot gave vent to his impatience and uneasiness, and was proposing to send one of the herdsmen in search of him, when his attention was suddenly diverted by a loud shout from one of the sentinels, and a fire was seen on a distant hill on the right. "the signal! the signal!" cried paslew, joyfully. "kindle a torch!--quick, quick!" and as he spoke, he seized a brand and plunged it into the peat fire, while his example was followed by the two monks. "it is the beacon on blackstone edge," cried the abbot; "and look! a second blazes over the grange of cliviger--another on ightenhill-- another on boulsworth hill--and the last on the neighbouring heights of padiham. our own comes next. may it light the enemies of our holy church to perdition!" with this, he applied the burning brand to the combustible matter of the beacon. the monks did the same; and in an instant a tall, pointed flame, rose up from a thick cloud of smoke. ere another minute had elapsed, similar fires shot up to the right and the left, on the high lands of trawden forest, on the jagged points of foulridge, on the summit of cowling hill, and so on to skipton. other fires again blazed on the towers of clithero, on longridge and ribchester, on the woody eminences of bowland, on wolf crag, and on fell and scar all the way to lancaster. it seemed the work of enchantment, so suddenly and so strangely did the fires shoot forth. as the beacon flame increased, it lighted up the whole of the extensive table-land on the summit of pendle hill; and a long lurid streak fell on the darkling moss-pool near which the wizard had stood. but when it attained its utmost height, it revealed the depths of the forest below, and a red reflection, here and there, marked the course of pendle water. the excitement of the abbot and his companions momently increased, and the sentinels shouted as each new beacon was lighted. at last, almost every hill had its watch-fire, and so extraordinary was the spectacle, that it seemed as if weird beings were abroad, and holding their revels on the heights. then it was that the abbot, mounting his steed, called out to the monks--"holy fathers, you will follow to the abbey as you may. i shall ride fleetly on, and despatch two hundred archers to huddersfield and wakefield. the abbots of salley and jervaux, with the prior of burlington, will be with me at midnight, and at daybreak we shall march our forces to join the main army. heaven be with you!" "stay!" cried a harsh, imperious voice. "stay!" and, to his surprise, the abbot beheld nicholas demdike standing before him. the aspect of the wizard was dark and forbidding, and, seen by the beacon light, his savage features, blazing eyes, tall gaunt frame, and fantastic garb, made him look like something unearthly. flinging his staff over his shoulder, he slowly approached, with his black hound following close by at his heels. "i have a caution to give you, lord abbot," he said; "hear me speak before you set out for the abbey, or ill will befall you." "ill _will_ befall me if i listen to thee, thou wicked churl," cried the abbot. "what hast thou done with cuthbert ashbead?" "i have seen nothing of him since he sent a bolt after me at your bidding, lord abbot," replied demdike. "beware lest any harm come to him, or thou wilt rue it," cried paslew. "but i have no time to waste on thee. farewell, fathers. high mass will be said in the convent church before we set out on the expedition to-morrow morning. you will both attend it." "you will never set out upon the expedition, lord abbot," cried demdike, planting his staff so suddenly into the ground before the horse's head that the animal reared and nearly threw his rider. "how now, fellow, what mean you?" cried the abbot, furiously. "to warn you," replied demdike. "stand aside," cried the abbot, spurring his steed, "or i will trample you beneath my horse's feet." "i might let you ride to your own doom," rejoined demdike, with a scornful laugh, as he seized the abbot's bridle. "but you shall hear me. i tell you, you will never go forth on this expedition. i tell you that, ere to-morrow, whalley abbey will have passed for ever from your possession; and that, if you go thither again, your life will be forfeited. now will you listen to me?" "i am wrong in doing so," cried the abbot, who could not, however, repress some feelings of misgiving at this alarming address. "speak, what would you say?" "come out of earshot of the others, and i will tell you," replied demdike. and he led the abbot's horse to some distance further on the hill. "your cause will fail, lord abbot," he then said. "nay, it is lost already." "lost!" cried the abbot, out of all patience. "lost! look around. twenty fires are in sight--ay, thirty, and every fire thou seest will summon a hundred men, at the least, to arms. before an hour, five hundred men will be gathered before the gates of whalley abbey." "true," replied demdike; "but they will not own the earl of poverty for their leader." "what leader will they own, then?" demanded the abbot, scornfully. "the earl of derby," replied demdike. "he is on his way thither with lord mounteagle from preston." "ha!" exclaimed paslew, "let me go meet them, then. but thou triflest with me, fellow. thou canst know nothing of this. whence gott'st thou thine information?" "heed it not," replied the other; "thou wilt find it correct. i tell thee, proud abbot, that this grand scheme of thine and of thy fellows, for the restitution of the catholic church, has failed--utterly failed." "i tell thee thou liest, false knave!" cried the abbot, striking him on the hand with his scourge. "quit thy hold, and let me go." "not till i have done," replied demdike, maintaining his grasp. "well hast thou styled thyself earl of poverty, for thou art poor and miserable enough. abbot of whalley thou art no longer. thy possessions will be taken from thee, and if thou returnest thy life also will be taken. if thou fleest, a price will be set upon thy head. i alone can save thee, and i will do so on one condition." "condition! make conditions with thee, bond-slave of satan!" cried the abbot, gnashing his teeth. "i reproach myself that i have listened to thee so long. stand aside, or i will strike thee dead." "you are wholly in my power," cried demdike with a disdainful laugh. and as he spoke he pressed the large sharp bit against the charger's mouth, and backed him quickly to the very edge of the hill, the sides of which here sloped precipitously down. the abbot would have uttered a cry, but surprise and terror kept him silent. "were it my desire to injure you, i could cast you down the mountain-side to certain death," pursued demdike. "but i have no such wish. on the contrary, i will serve you, as i have said, on one condition." "thy condition would imperil my soul," said the abbot, full of wrath and alarm. "thou seekest in vain to terrify me into compliance. _vade retro, sathanas_. i defy thee and all thy works." demdike laughed scornfully. "the thunders of the church do not frighten me," he cried. "but, look," he added, "you doubted my word when i told you the rising was at an end. the beacon fires on boulsworth hill and on the grange of cliviger are extinguished; that on padiham heights is expiring--nay, it is out; and ere many minutes all these mountain watch-fires will have disappeared like lamps at the close of a feast." "by our lady, it is so," cried the abbot, in increasing terror. "what new jugglery is this?" "it is no jugglery, i tell you," replied the other. "the waters of the don have again arisen; the insurgents have accepted the king's pardon, have deserted their leaders, and dispersed. there will be no rising to-night or on the morrow. the abbots of jervaux and salley will strive to capitulate, but in vain. the pilgrimage of grace is ended. the stake for which thou playedst is lost. thirty years hast thou governed here, but thy rule is over. seventeen abbots have there been of whalley--the last thou!--but there shall be none more." "it must be the demon in person that speaks thus to me," cried the abbot, his hair bristling on his head, and a cold perspiration bursting from his pores. "no matter who i am," replied the other; "i have said i will aid thee on one condition. it is not much. remove thy ban from my wife, and baptise her infant daughter, and i am content. i would not ask thee for this service, slight though it be, but the poor soul hath set her mind upon it. wilt thou do it?" "no," replied the abbot, shuddering; "i will not baptise a daughter of satan. i will not sell my soul to the powers of darkness. i adjure thee to depart from me, and tempt me no longer." "vainly thou seekest to cast me off," rejoined demdike. "what if i deliver thine adversaries into thine hands, and revenge thee upon them? even now there are a party of armed men waiting at the foot of the hill to seize thee and thy brethren. shall i show thee how to destroy them?" "who are they?" demanded the abbot, surprised. "their leaders are john braddyll and richard assheton, who shall divide whalley abbey between them, if thou stayest them not," replied demdike. "hell consume them!" cried the abbot. "thy speech shows consent," rejoined demdike. "come this way." and, without awaiting the abbot's reply, he dragged his horse towards the but-end of the mountain. as they went on, the two monks, who had been filled with surprise at the interview, though they did not dare to interrupt it, advanced towards their superior, and looked earnestly and inquiringly at him, but he remained silent; while to the men-at-arms and the herdsmen, who demanded whether their own beacon-fire should be extinguished as the others had been, he answered moodily in the negative. "where are the foes you spoke of?" he asked with some uneasiness, as demdike led his horse slowly and carefully down the hill-side. "you shall see anon," replied the other. "you are taking me to the spot where you traced the magic circle," cried paslew in alarm. "i know it from its unnaturally green hue. i will not go thither." "i do not mean you should, lord abbot," replied demdike, halting. "remain on this firm ground. nay, be not alarmed; you are in no danger. now bid your men advance, and prepare their weapons." the abbot would have demanded wherefore, but at a glance from demdike he complied, and the two men-at-arms, and the herdsmen, arranged themselves beside him, while fathers eastgate and haydocke, who had gotten upon their mules, took up a position behind. scarcely were they thus placed, when a loud shout was raised below, and a band of armed men, to the number of thirty or forty, leapt the stone wall, and began to scale the hill with great rapidity. they came up a deep dry channel, apparently worn in the hill-side by some former torrent, and which led directly to the spot where demdike and the abbot stood. the beacon-fire still blazed brightly, and illuminated the whole proceeding, showing that these men, from their accoutrements, were royalist soldiers. "stir not, as you value your life," said the wizard to paslew; "but observe what shall follow." chapter ii.--the eruption. demdike went a little further down the hill, stopping when he came to the green patch. he then plunged his staff into the sod at the first point where he had cast a tuft of heather, and with such force that it sank more than three feet. the next moment he plucked it forth, as if with a great effort, and a jet of black water spouted into the air; but, heedless of this, he went to the next marked spot, and again plunged the sharp point of the implement into the ground. again it sank to the same depth, and, on being drawn out, a second black jet sprung forth. meanwhile the hostile party continued to advance up the dry channel before mentioned, and shouted on beholding these strange preparations, but they did not relax their speed. once more the staff sank into the ground, and a third black fountain followed its extraction. by this time, the royalist soldiers were close at hand, and the features of their two leaders, john braddyll and richard assheton, could be plainly distinguished, and their voices heard. "'tis he! 'tis the rebel abbot!" vociferated braddyll, pressing forward. "we were not misinformed. he has been watching by the beacon. the devil has delivered him into our hands." "ho! ho!" laughed demdike. "abbot no longer--'tis the earl of poverty you mean," responded assheton. "the villain shall be gibbeted on the spot where he has fired the beacon, as a warning to all traitors." "ha, heretics!--ha, blasphemers!--i can at least avenge myself upon you," cried paslew, striking spurs into his charger. but ere he could execute his purpose, demdike had sprung backward, and, catching the bridle, restrained the animal by a powerful effort. "hold!" he cried, in a voice of thunder, "or you will share their fate." as the words were uttered, a dull, booming, subterranean sound was heard, and instantly afterwards, with a crash like thunder, the whole of the green circle beneath slipped off, and from a yawning rent under it burst forth with irresistible fury, a thick inky-coloured torrent, which, rising almost breast high, fell upon the devoted royalist soldiers, who were advancing right in its course. unable to avoid the watery eruption, or to resist its fury when it came upon them, they were instantly swept from their feet, and carried down the channel. a sight of horror was it to behold the sudden rise of that swarthy stream, whose waters, tinged by the ruddy glare of the beacon-fire, looked like waves of blood. nor less fearful was it to hear the first wild despairing cry raised by the victims, or the quickly stifled shrieks and groans that followed, mixed with the deafening roar of the stream, and the crashing fall of the stones, which accompanied its course. down, down went the poor wretches, now utterly overwhelmed by the torrent, now regaining their feet only to utter a scream, and then be swept off. here a miserable struggler, whirled onward, would clutch at the banks and try to scramble forth, but the soft turf giving way beneath him, he was hurried off to eternity. at another point where the stream encountered some trifling opposition, some two or three managed to gain a footing, but they were unable to extricate themselves. the vast quantity of boggy soil brought down by the current, and which rapidly collected here, embedded them and held them fast, so that the momently deepening water, already up to their chins, threatened speedy immersion. others were stricken down by great masses of turf, or huge rocky fragments, which, bounding from point to point with the torrent, bruised or crushed all they encountered, or, lodging in some difficult place, slightly diverted the course of the torrent, and rendered it yet more dangerous. on one of these stones, larger than the rest, which had been stopped in its course, a man contrived to creep, and with difficulty kept his post amid the raging flood. vainly did he extend his hand to such of his fellows as were swept shrieking past him. he could not lend them aid, while his own position was so desperately hazardous that he did not dare to quit it. to leap on either bank was impossible, and to breast the headlong stream certain death. on goes the current, madly, furiously, as if rejoicing in the work of destruction, while the white foam of its eddies presents a fearful contrast to the prevailing blackness of the surface. over the last declivity it leaps, hissing, foaming, crashing like an avalanche. the stone wall for a moment opposes its force, but falls the next, with a mighty splash, carrying the spray far and wide, while its own fragments roll onwards with the stream. the trees of the orchard are uprooted in an instant, and an old elm falls prostrate. the outbuildings of a cottage are invaded, and the porkers and cattle, divining their danger, squeal and bellow in affright. but they are quickly silenced. the resistless foe has broken down wall and door, and buried the poor creatures in mud and rubbish. the stream next invades the cottage, breaks in through door and window, and filling all the lower part of the tenement, in a few minutes converts it into a heap of ruin. on goes the destroyer, tearing up more trees, levelling more houses, and filling up a small pool, till the latter bursts its banks, and, with an accession to its force, pours itself into a mill-dam. here its waters are stayed until they find a vent underneath, and the action of the stream, as it rushes downwards through this exit, forms a great eddy above, in which swim some living things, cattle and sheep from the fold not yet drowned, mixed with furniture from the cottages, and amidst them the bodies of some of the unfortunate men-at-arms which have been washed hither. but, ha! another thundering crash. the dam has burst. the torrent roars and rushes on furiously as before, joins its forces with pendle water, swells up the river, and devastates the country far and wide.[ ] the abbot and his companions beheld this work of destruction with amazement and dread. blanched terror sat in their cheeks, and the blood was frozen in paslew's veins; for he thought it the work of the powers of darkness, and that he was leagued with them. he tried to mutter a prayer, but his lips refused their office. he would have moved, but his limbs were stiffened and paralysed, and he could only gaze aghast at the terrible spectacle. amidst it all he heard a wild burst of unearthly laughter, proceeding, he thought, from demdike, and it filled him with new dread. but he could not check the sound, neither could he stop his ears, though he would fain have done so. like him, his companions were petrified and speechless with fear. after this had endured for some time, though still the black torrent rushed on impetuously as ever, demdike turned to the abbot and said,-- "your vengeance has been fully gratified. you will now baptise my child?" "never, never, accursed being!" shrieked the abbot. "thou mayst sacrifice her at thine own impious rites. but see, there is one poor wretch yet struggling with the foaming torrent. i may save him." "that is john braddyll, thy worst enemy," replied demdike. "if he lives he shall possess half whalley abbey. thou hadst best also save richard assheton, who yet clings to the great stone below, as if he escapes he shall have the other half. mark him, and make haste, for in five minutes both shall be gone." "i will save them if i can, be the consequence to myself what it may," replied the abbot. and, regardless of the derisive laughter of the other, who yelled in his ears as he went, "bess shall see thee hanged at thy own door!" he dashed down the hill to the spot where a small object, distinguishable above the stream, showed that some one still kept his head above water, his tall stature having preserved him. "is it you, john braddyll?" cried the abbot, as he rode up. "ay," replied the head. "forgive me for the wrong i intended you, and deliver me from this great peril." "i am come for that purpose," replied the abbot, dismounting, and disencumbering himself of his heavy cloak. by this time the two herdsmen had come up, and the abbot, taking a crook from one of them, clutched hold of the fellow, and, plunging fearlessly into the stream, extended it towards the drowning man, who instantly lifted up his hand to grasp it. in doing so braddyll lost his balance, but, as he did not quit his hold, he was plucked forth from the tenacious mud by the combined efforts of the abbot and his assistant, and with some difficulty dragged ashore. "now for the other," cried paslew, as he placed braddyll in safety. "one-half the abbey is gone from thee," shouted a voice in his ears as he rushed on. presently he reached the rocky fragment on which ralph assheton rested. the latter was in great danger from the surging torrent, and the stone on which he had taken refuge tottered at its base, and threatened to roll over. "in heaven's name, help me, lord abbot, as thou thyself shall be holpen at thy need!" shrieked assheton. "be not afraid, richard assheton," replied paslew. "i will deliver thee as i have delivered john braddyll." but the task was not of easy accomplishment. the abbot made his preparations as before; grasped the hand of the herdsman and held out the crook to assheton; but when the latter caught it, the stream swung him round with such force that the abbot must either abandon him or advance further into the water. bent on assheton's preservation, he adopted the latter expedient, and instantly lost his feet; while the herdsman, unable longer to hold him, let go the crook, and the abbot and assheton were swept down the stream together. down--down they went, destruction apparently awaiting them; but the abbot, though sometimes quite under the water, and bruised by the rough stones and gravel with which he came in contact, still retained his self-possession, and encouraged his companion to hope for succour. in this way they were borne down to the foot of the hill, the monks, the herdsmen, and the men-at-arms having given them up as lost. but they yet lived--yet floated--though greatly injured, and almost senseless, when they were cast into a pool formed by the eddying waters at the foot of the hill. here, wholly unable to assist himself, assheton was seized by a black hound belonging to a tall man who stood on the bank, and who shouted to paslew, as he helped the animal to bring the drowning man ashore, "the other half of the abbey is gone from thee. wilt thou baptise my child if i send my dog to save thee?" "never!" replied the other, sinking as he spoke. flashes of fire glanced in the abbot's eyes, and stunning sounds seemed to burst his ears. a few more struggles, and he became senseless. but he was not destined to die thus. what happened afterwards he knew not; but when he recovered full consciousness, he found himself stretched, with aching limbs and throbbing head, upon a couch in a monastic room, with a richly-painted and gilded ceiling, with shields at the corners emblazoned with the three luces of whalley, and with panels hung with tapestry from the looms of flanders, representing divers scriptural subjects. "have i been dreaming?" he murmured. "no," replied a tall man standing by his bedside; "thou hast been saved from one death to suffer another more ignominious." "ha!" cried the abbot, starting up and pressing his hand to his temples; "thou here?" "ay, i am appointed to watch thee," replied demdike. "thou art a prisoner in thine own chamber at whalley. all has befallen as i told thee. the earl of derby is master of the abbey; thy adherents are dispersed; and thy brethren are driven forth. thy two partners in rebellion, the abbots of jervaux and salley, have been conveyed to lancaster castle, whither thou wilt go as soon as thou canst be moved." "i will surrender all--silver and gold, land and possessions--to the king, if i may die in peace," groaned the abbot. "it is not needed," rejoined the other. "attainted of felony, thy lands and abbey will be forfeited to the crown, and they shall be sold, as i have told thee, to john braddyll and richard assheton, who will be rulers here in thy stead." "would i had perished in the flood!" groaned the abbot. "well mayst thou wish so," returned his tormentor; "but thou wert not destined to die by water. as i have said, thou shalt be hanged at thy own door, and my wife shall witness thy end." "who art thou? i have heard thy voice before," cried the abbot. "it is like the voice of one whom i knew years ago, and thy features are like his--though changed--greatly changed. who art thou?" "thou shalt know before thou diest," replied the other, with a look of gratified vengeance. "farewell, and reflect upon thy fate." so saying, he strode towards the door, while the miserable abbot arose, and marching with uncertain steps to a little oratory adjoining, which he himself had built, knelt down before the altar, and strove to pray. chapter iii.--whalley abbey. a sad, sad change hath come over the fair abbey of whalley. it knoweth its old masters no longer. for upwards of two centuries and a half hath the "blessed place"[ ] grown in beauty and riches. seventeen abbots have exercised unbounded hospitality within it, but now they are all gone, save one!--and he is attainted of felony and treason. the grave monk walketh no more in the cloisters, nor seeketh his pallet in the dormitory. vesper or matin-song resound not as of old within the fine conventual church. stripped are the altars of their silver crosses, and the shrines of their votive offerings and saintly relics. pyx and chalice, thuribule and vial, golden-headed pastoral staff, and mitre embossed with pearls, candlestick and christmas ship of silver; salver, basin, and ewer--all are gone--the splendid sacristy hath been despoiled. a sad, sad change hath come over whalley abbey. the libraries, well stored with reverend tomes, have been pillaged, and their contents cast to the flames; and thus long laboured manuscript, the fruit of years of patient industry, with gloriously illuminated missal, are irrecoverably lost. the large infirmary no longer receiveth the sick; in the locutory sitteth no more the guest. no longer in the mighty kitchens are prepared the prodigious supply of meats destined for the support of the poor or the entertainment of the traveller. no kindly porter stands at the gate, to bid the stranger enter and partake of the munificent abbot's hospitality, but a churlish guard bids him hie away, and menaces him if he tarries with his halbert. closed are the buttery-hatches and the pantries; and the daily dole of bread hath ceased. closed, also, to the brethren is the refectory. the cellarer's office is ended. the strong ale which he brewed in october, is tapped in march by roystering troopers. the rich muscadel and malmsey, and the wines of gascoigne and the rhine, are no longer quaffed by the abbot and his more honoured guests, but drunk to his destruction by his foes. the great gallery, a hundred and fifty feet in length, the pride of the abbot's lodging, and a model of architecture, is filled not with white-robed ecclesiastics, but with an armed earl and his retainers. neglected is the little oratory dedicated to our lady of whalley, where night and morn the abbot used to pray. all the old religious and hospitable uses of the abbey are foregone. the reverend stillness of the cloisters, scarce broken by the quiet tread of the monks, is now disturbed by armed heel and clank of sword; while in its saintly courts are heard the ribald song, the profane jest, and the angry brawl. of the brethren, only those tenanting the cemetery are left. all else are gone, driven forth, as vagabonds, with stripes and curses, to seek refuge where they may. a sad, sad change has come over whalley abbey. in the plenitude of its pride and power has it been cast down, desecrated, despoiled. its treasures are carried off, its ornaments sold, its granaries emptied, its possessions wasted, its storehouses sacked, its cattle slaughtered and sold. but, though stripped of its wealth and splendour; though deprived of all the religious graces that, like rich incense, lent an odour to the fane, its external beauty is yet unimpaired, and its vast proportions undiminished. a stately pile was whalley--one of the loveliest as well as the largest in the realm. carefully had it been preserved by its reverend rulers, and where reparations or additions were needed they were judiciously made. thus age had lent it beauty, by mellowing its freshness and toning its hues, while no decay was perceptible. without a struggle had it yielded to the captor, so that no part of its wide belt of walls or towers, though so strongly constructed as to have offered effectual resistance, were injured. never had whalley abbey looked more beautiful than on a bright clear morning in march, when this sad change had been wrought, and when, from a peaceful monastic establishment, it had been converted into a menacing fortress. the sunlight sparkled upon its grey walls, and filled its three great quadrangular courts with light and life, piercing the exquisite carving of its cloisters, and revealing all the intricate beauty and combinations of the arches. stains of painted glass fell upon the floor of the magnificent conventual church, and dyed with rainbow hues the marble tombs of the lacies, the founders of the establishment, brought thither when the monastery was removed from stanlaw in cheshire, and upon the brass-covered gravestones of the abbots in the presbytery. there lay gregory de northbury, eighth abbot of stanlaw and first of whalley, and william rede, the last abbot; but there was never to lie john paslew. the slumber of the ancient prelates was soon to be disturbed, and the sacred structure within which they had so often worshipped, up-reared by sacrilegious hands. but all was bright and beauteous now, and if no solemn strains were heard in the holy pile, its stillness was scarcely less reverential and awe-inspiring. the old abbey wreathed itself in all its attractions, as if to welcome back its former ruler, whereas it was only to receive him as a captive doomed to a felon's death. but this was outward show. within all was terrible preparation. such was the discontented state of the country, that fearing some new revolt, the earl of derby had taken measures for the defence of the abbey, and along the wide-circling walls of the close were placed ordnance and men, and within the grange stores of ammunition. a strong guard was set at each of the gates, and the courts were filled with troops. the bray of the trumpet echoed within the close, where rounds were set for the archers, and martial music resounded within the area of the cloisters. over the great north-eastern gateway, which formed the chief entrance to the abbot's lodging, floated the royal banner. despite these warlike proceedings the fair abbey smiled beneath the sun, in all, or more than all, its pristine beauty, its green hills sloping gently down towards it, and the clear and sparkling calder dashing merrily over the stones at its base. but upon the bridge, and by the river side, and within the little village, many persons were assembled, conversing gravely and anxiously together, and looking out towards the hills, where other groups were gathered, as if in expectation of some afflicting event. most of these were herdsmen and farming men, but some among them were poor monks in the white habits of the cistertian brotherhood, but which were now stained and threadbare, while their countenances bore traces of severest privation and suffering. all the herdsmen and farmers had been retainers of the abbot. the poor monks looked wistfully at their former habitation, but replied not except by a gentle bowing of the head to the cruel scoffs and taunts with which they were greeted by the passing soldiers; but the sturdy rustics did not bear these outrages so tamely, and more than one brawl ensued, in which blood flowed, while a ruffianly arquebussier would have been drowned in the calder but for the exertions to save him of a monk whom he had attacked. this took place on the eleventh of march, --more than three months after the date of the watching by the beacon before recorded--and the event anticipated by the concourse without the abbey, as well as by those within its walls, was the arrival of abbot paslew and fathers eastgate and haydocke, who were to be brought on that day from lancaster, and executed on the following morning before the abbey, according to sentence passed upon them. the gloomiest object in the picture remains to be described, but yet it is necessary to its completion. this was a gallows of unusual form and height, erected on the summit of a gentle hill, rising immediately in front of the abbot's lodgings, called the holehouses, whose rounded, bosomy beauty it completely destroyed. this terrible apparatus of condign punishment was regarded with abhorrence by the rustics, and it required a strong guard to be kept constantly round it to preserve it from demolition. amongst a group of rustics collected on the road leading to the north-east gateway, was cuthbert ashbead, who having been deprived of his forester's office, was now habited in a frieze doublet and hose with a short camlet cloak on his shoulder, and a fox-skin cap, embellished with the grinning jaws of the beast on his head. "eigh, ruchot o' roaph's," he observed to a bystander, "that's a fearfo sect that gallas. yoan been up to t' holehouses to tey a look at it, beloike?" "naw, naw, ey dunna loike such sects," replied ruchot o' roaph's; "besoide there wor a great rabblement at t' geate, an one o' them lunjus archer chaps knockt meh o' t' nob wi' his poike, an towd me he'd hong me wi' t' abbut, if ey didna keep owt ot wey." "an sarve te reet too, theaw craddinly carl!" cried ashbead, doubling his horny fists. "odds flesh! whey didna yo ha' a tussle wi' him? mey honts are itchen for a bowt wi' t' heretic robbers. walladey! walladey! that we should live to see t' oly feythers driven loike hummobees owt o' t' owd neest. whey they sayn ot king harry hon decreet ot we're to ha' naw more monks or friars i' aw englondshiar. ony think o' that. an dunna yo knoa that t' abbuts o' jervaux an salley wor hongt o' tizeday at loncaster castle?" "good lorjus bless us!" exclaimed a sturdy hind, "we'n a protty king. furst he chops off his woife's heaod, an then hongs aw t' priests. whot'll t' warlt cum 'to? "eigh by t' mess, whot _win_ it cum to?" cried ruchot o' roaph's. "but we darrna oppen owr mows fo' fear o' a gog." "naw, beleady! boh eyst oppen moine woide enuff," cried ashbead; "an' if a dozen o' yo chaps win join me, eyn try to set t' poor abbut free whon they brinks him here." "ey'd as leef boide till to-morrow," said ruchot o'roaph's, uneasily. "eigh, thou'rt a timmersome teyke, os ey towd te efore," replied ashbead. "but whot dust theaw say, hal o' nabs?" he added, to the sturdy hind who had recently spoken. "ey'n spill t' last drop o' meh blood i' t' owd abbut's keawse," replied hal o' nabs. "we winna stond by, an see him hongt loike a dog. abbut paslew to t' reskew, lads!" "eigh, abbut paslew to t' reskew!" responded all the others, except ruchot o' roaph's. "this must be prevented," muttered a voice near them. and immediately afterwards a tall man quitted the group. "whoa wor it spoake?" cried hal o' nabs. "oh, ey seen, that he-witch, nick demdike." "nick demdike here!" cried ashbead, looking round in alarm. "has he owerheert us?" "loike enow," replied hal o' nabs. "but ey didna moind him efore." "naw ey noather," cried ruchot o' roaph's, crossing himself, and spitting on the ground. "owr leady o' whalley shielt us fro' t' warlock!" "tawkin o' nick demdike," cried hal o' nabs, "yo'd a strawnge odventer wi' him t' neet o' t' great brast o' pendle hill, hadna yo, cuthbert?" "yeigh, t' firrups tak' him, ey hadn," replied ashbead. "theawst hear aw abowt it if t' will. ey wur sent be t' abbut down t' hill to owen o' gab's, o' perkin's, o' dannel's, o' noll's, o' oamfrey's orchert i' warston lone, to luk efter him. weel, whon ey gets ower t' stoan wa', whot dun yo think ey sees! twanty or throtty poikemen stonding behint it, an they deshes at meh os thick os leet, an efore ey con roor oot, they blintfowlt meh, an clap an iron gog i' meh mouth. weel, i con noather speak nor see, boh ey con use meh feet, soh ey punses at 'em reet an' laft; an be mah troath, lads, yood'n a leawght t' hear how they roart, an ey should a roart too, if i couldn, whon they began to thwack me wi' their raddling pows, and ding'd meh so abowt t' heoad, that ey fell i' a swownd. whon ey cum to, ey wur loyin o' meh back i' rimington moor. every booan i' meh hoide wratcht, an meh hewr war clottert wi' gore, boh t' eebond an t' gog wur gone, soh ey gets o' meh feet, and daddles along os weel os ey con, whon aw ot wunce ey spies a leet glenting efore meh, an dawncing abowt loike an awf or a wull-o'-whisp. thinks ey, that's friar rush an' his lantern, an he'll lead me into a quagmire, soh ey stops a bit, to consider where ey'd getten, for ey didna knoa t' reet road exactly; boh whon ey stood still, t' leet stood still too, on then ey meyd owt that it cum fro an owd ruint tower, an whot ey'd fancied wur one lantern proved twanty, fo' whon ey reacht t' tower an peept in thro' a brok'n winda, ey beheld a seet ey'st neer forgit--apack o' witches--eigh, witches!--sittin' in a ring, wi' their broomsticks an lanterns abowt em!" "good lorjus deys!" cried hal o' nabs. "an whot else didsta see, mon?" "whoy," replied ashbead, "t'owd hags had a little figure i' t' midst on 'em, mowded i' cley, representing t' abbut o' whalley,--ey knoad it be't moitre and crosier,--an efter each o' t' varment had stickt a pin i' its 'eart, a tall black mon stepped for'ard, an teed a cord rownd its throttle, an hongt it up." "an' t' black mon," cried hal o' nabs, breathlessly,--"t' black mon wur nick demdike?" "yoan guest it," replied ashbead, "'t wur he! ey wur so glopp'nt, ey couldna speak, an' meh blud fruz i' meh veins, when ey heerd a fearfo voice ask nick wheere his woife an' chilt were. 'the infant is unbaptised,' roart t' voice, 'at the next meeting it must be sacrificed. see that thou bring it.' demdike then bowed to summat i couldna see; an axt when t' next meeting wur to be held. 'on the night of abbot paslew's execution,' awnsert t' voice. on hearing this, ey could bear nah lunger, boh shouted out, 'witches! devils! lort deliver us fro' ye!' an' os ey spoke, ey tried t' barst thro' t' winda. in a trice, aw t' leets went out; thar wur a great rash to t' dooer; a whirrin sound i' th' air loike a covey o' partriches fleeing off; and then ey heerd nowt more; for a great stoan fell o' meh scoance, an' knockt me down senseless. when i cum' to, i wur i' nick demdike's cottage, wi' his woife watching ower me, and th' unbapteesed chilt i' her arms." all exclamations of wonder on the part of the rustics, and inquiries as to the issue of the adventure, were checked by the approach of a monk, who, joining the assemblage, called their attention to a priestly train slowly advancing along the road. "it is headed," he said, "by fathers chatburne and chester, late bursers of the abbey. alack! alack! they now need the charity themselves which they once so lavishly bestowed on others." "waes me!" ejaculated ashbead. "monry a broad merk han ey getten fro 'em." "they'n been koind to us aw," added the others. "next come father burnley, granger, and father haworth, cellarer," pursued the monk; "and after them father dinkley, sacristan, and father moore, porter." "yo remember feyther moore, lads," cried ashbead. "yeigh, to be sure we done," replied the others; "a good mon, a reet good mon! he never sent away t' poor--naw he!" "after father moore," said the monk, pleased with their warmth, "comes father forrest, the procurator, with fathers rede, clough, and bancroft, and the procession is closed by father smith, the late prior." "down o' yer whirlybooans, lads, as t' oly feythers pass," cried ashbead, "and crave their blessing." and as the priestly train slowly approached, with heads bowed down, and looks fixed sadly upon the ground, the rustic assemblage fell upon their knees, and implored their benediction. the foremost in the procession passed on in silence, but the prior stopped, and extending his hands over the kneeling group, cried in a solemn voice, "heaven bless ye, my children! ye are about to witness a sad spectacle. you will see him who hath clothed you, fed you, and taught you the way to heaven, brought hither a prisoner, to suffer a shameful death." "boh we'st set him free, oly prior," cried ashbead. "we'n meayed up our moinds to 't. yo just wait till he cums." "nay, i command you to desist from the attempt, if any such you meditate," rejoined the prior; "it will avail nothing, and you will only sacrifice your own lives. our enemies are too strong. the abbot himself would give you like counsel." scarcely were the words uttered than from the great gate of the abbey there issued a dozen arquebussiers with an officer at their head, who marched directly towards the kneeling hinds, evidently with the intention of dispersing them. behind them strode nicholas demdike. in an instant the alarmed rustics were on their feet, and ruchot o' roaph's, and some few among them, took to their heels, but ashbead, hal o' nabs, with half a dozen others, stood their ground manfully. the monks remained in the hope of preventing any violence. presently the halberdiers came up. "that is the ringleader," cried the officer, who proved to be richard assheton, pointing out ashbead; "seize him!" "naw mon shall lay honts o' meh," cried cuthbert. and as the guard pushed past the monks to execute their leader's order, he sprang forward, and, wresting a halbert from the foremost of them, stood upon his defence. "seize him, i say!" shouted assheton, irritated at the resistance offered. "keep off," cried ashbead; "yo'd best. loike a stag at bey ey'm dawngerous. waar horns! waar horns! ey sey." the arquebussiers looked irresolute. it was evident ashbead would only be taken with life, and they were not sure that it was their leader's purpose to destroy him. "put down thy weapon, cuthbert," interposed the prior; "it will avail thee nothing against odds like these." "mey be, 'oly prior," rejoined ashbead, flourishing the pike: "boh ey'st ony yield wi' loife." "i will disarm him," cried demdike, stepping forward. "theaw!" retorted ashbead, with a scornful laugh, "cum on, then. hadsta aw t' fiends i' hell at te back, ey shouldna fear thee." "yield!" cried demdike in a voice of thunder, and fixing a terrible glance upon him. "cum on, wizard," rejoined ashbead undauntedly. but, observing that his opponent was wholly unarmed, he gave the pike to hal o' nabs, who was close beside him, observing, "it shall never be said that cuthbert ashbead feawt t' dule himsel unfairly. nah, touch me if theaw dar'st." demdike required no further provocation. with almost supernatural force and quickness he sprung upon the forester, and seized him by the throat. but the active young man freed himself from the gripe, and closed with his assailant. but though of herculean build, it soon became evident that ashbead would have the worst of it; when hal o' nabs, who had watched the struggle with intense interest, could not help coming to his friend's assistance, and made a push at demdike with the halbert. could it be that the wrestlers shifted their position, or that the wizard was indeed aided by the powers of darkness? none could tell, but so it was that the pike pierced the side of ashbead, who instantly fell to the ground, with his adversary upon him. the next instant his hold relaxed, and the wizard sprang to his feet unharmed, but deluged in blood. hal o' nabs uttered a cry of keenest anguish, and, flinging himself upon the body of the forester, tried to staunch the wound; but he was quickly seized by the arquebussiers, and his hands tied behind his back with a thong, while ashbead was lifted up and borne towards the abbey, the monks and rustics following slowly after; but the latter were not permitted to enter the gate. as the unfortunate keeper, who by this time had become insensible from loss of blood, was carried along the walled enclosure leading to the abbot's lodging, a female with a child in her arms was seen advancing from the opposite side. she was tall, finely formed, with features of remarkable beauty, though of a masculine and somewhat savage character, and with magnificent but fierce black eyes. her skin was dark, and her hair raven black, contrasting strongly with the red band wound around it. her kirtle was of murrey-coloured serge; simply, but becomingly fashioned. a glance sufficed to show her how matters stood with poor ashbead, and, uttering a sharp angry cry, she rushed towards him. "what have you done?" she cried, fixing a keen reproachful look on demdike, who walked beside the wounded man. "nothing," replied demdike with a bitter laugh; "the fool has been hurt with a pike. stand out of the way, bess, and let the men pass. they are about to carry him to the cell under the chapter-house." "you shall not take him there," cried bess demdike, fiercely. "he may recover if his wound be dressed. let him go to the infirmary--ha, i forgot--there is no one there now." "father bancroft is at the gate," observed one of the arquebussiers; "he used to act as chirurgeon in the abbey." "no monk must enter the gate except the prisoners when they arrive," observed assheton; "such are the positive orders of the earl of derby." "it is not needed," observed demdike, "no human aid can save the man." "but can other aid save him?" said bess, breathing the words in her husband's ears. "go to!" cried demdike, pushing her roughly aside; "wouldst have me save thy lover?" "take heed," said bess, in a deep whisper; "if thou save him not, by the devil thou servest! thou shalt lose me and thy child." demdike did not think proper to contest the point, but, approaching assheton, requested that the wounded man might be conveyed to an arched recess, which he pointed out. assent being given, ashbead was taken there, and placed upon the ground, after which the arquebussiers and their leader marched off; while bess, kneeling down, supported the head of the wounded man upon her knee, and demdike, taking a small phial from his doublet, poured some of its contents clown his throat. the wizard then took a fold of linen, with which he was likewise provided, and, dipping it in the elixir, applied it to the wound. in a few moments ashbead opened his eyes, and looking round wildly, fixed his gaze upon bess, who placed her finger upon her lips to enjoin silence, but he could not, or would not, understand the sign. "aw's o'er wi' meh, bess," he groaned; "but ey'd reyther dee thus, wi' thee besoide meh, than i' ony other wey." "hush!" exclaimed bess, "nicholas is here." "oh! ey see," replied the wounded man, looking round; "but whot matters it? ey'st be gone soon. ah, bess, dear lass, if theawdst promise to break thy compact wi' satan--to repent and save thy precious sowl--ey should dee content." "oh, do not talk thus!" cried bess. "you will soon be well again." "listen to me," continued ashbead, earnestly; "dust na knoa that if thy babe be na bapteesed efore to-morrow neet, it'll be sacrificed to t' prince o' darkness. go to some o' t' oly feythers--confess thy sins an' implore heaven's forgiveness--an' mayhap they'll save thee an' thy infant." "and be burned as a witch," rejoined bess, fiercely. "it is useless, cuthbert; i have tried them all. i have knelt to them, implored them, but their hearts are hard as flints. they will not heed me. they will not disobey the abbot's cruel injunctions, though he be their superior no longer. but i shall be avenged upon him--terribly avenged." "leave meh, theaw wicked woman." cried ashbead; "ey dunna wish to ha' thee near meh. let meh dee i' peace." "thou wilt not die, i tell thee, cuthbert," cried bess; "nicholas hath staunched thy wound." "he stawncht it, seyst to?" cried ashbead, raising. "ey'st never owe meh loife to him." and before he could be prevented he tore off the bandage, and the blood burst forth anew. "it is not my fault if he perishes now," observed demdike, moodily. "help him--help him!" implored bess. "he shanna touch meh," cried ashbead, struggling and increasing the effusion. "keep him off, ey adjure thee. farewell, bess," he added, sinking back utterly exhausted by the effort. "cuthbert!" screamed bess, terrified by his looks, "cuthbert! art thou really dying? look at me, speak to me! ha!" she cried, as if seized by a sudden idea, "they say the blessing of a dying man will avail. bless my child, cuthbert, bless it!" "give it me!" groaned the forester. bess held the infant towards him; but before he could place his hands upon it all power forsook him, and he fell back and expired. "lost! lost! for ever lost!" cried bess, with a wild shriek. at this moment a loud blast was blown from the gate-tower, and a trumpeter called out, "the abbot and the two other prisoners are coming." "to thy feet, wench!" cried demdike, imperiously, and seizing the bewildered woman by the arm; "to thy feet, and come with me to meet him!" chapter iv.--the malediction. the captive ecclesiastics, together with the strong escort by which they were attended, under the command of john braddyll, the high sheriff of the county, had passed the previous night at whitewell, in bowland forest; and the abbot, before setting out on his final journey, was permitted to spend an hour in prayer in a little chapel on an adjoining hill, overlooking a most picturesque portion of the forest, the beauties of which were enhanced by the windings of the hodder, one of the loveliest streams in lancashire. his devotions performed, paslew, attended by a guard, slowly descended the hill, and gazed his last on scenes familiar to him almost from infancy. noble trees, which now looked like old friends, to whom he was bidding an eternal adieu, stood around him. beneath them, at the end of a glade, couched a herd of deer, which started off at sight of the intruders, and made him envy their freedom and fleetness as he followed them in thought to their solitudes. at the foot of a steep rock ran the hodder, making the pleasant music of other days as it dashed over its pebbly bed, and recalling times, when, free from all care, he had strayed by its wood-fringed banks, to listen to the pleasant sound of running waters, and watch the shining pebbles beneath them, and the swift trout and dainty umber glancing past. a bitter pang was it to part with scenes so fair, and the abbot spoke no word, nor even looked up, until, passing little mitton, he came in sight of whalley abbey. then, collecting all his energies, he prepared for the shock he was about to endure. but nerved as he was, his firmness was sorely tried when he beheld the stately pile, once his own, now gone from him and his for ever. he gave one fond glance towards it, and then painfully averting his gaze, recited, in a low voice, this supplication:-- "_miserere mei, deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam. amplius lava me ab iniquitate meâ, et à peccato meo munda me._" but other thoughts and other emotions crowded upon him, when he beheld the groups of his old retainers advancing to meet him: men, women, and children pouring forth loud lamentations, prostrating themselves at his feet, and deploring his doom. the abbot's fortitude had a severe trial here, and the tears sprung to his eyes. the devotion of these poor people touched him more sharply than the severity of his adversaries. "bless ye! bless ye! my children," he cried; "repine not for me, for i bear my cross with resignation. it is for me to bewail your lot, much fearing that the flock i have so long and so zealously tended will fall into the hands of other and less heedful pastors, or, still worse, of devouring wolves. bless ye, my children, and be comforted. think of the end of abbot paslew, and for what he suffered." "think that he was a traitor to the king, and took up arms in rebellion against him," cried the sheriff, riding up, and speaking in a loud voice; "and that for his heinous offences he was justly condemned to death." murmurs arose at this speech, but they were instantly checked by the escort. "think charitably of me, my children," said the abbot; "and the blessed virgin keep you steadfast in your faith. benedicite!" "be silent, traitor, i command thee," cried the sheriff, striking him with his gauntlet in the face. the abbot's pale check burnt crimson, and his eye flashed fire, but he controlled himself, and answered meekly,-- "thou didst not speak in such wise, john braddyll, when i saved thee from the flood." "which flood thou thyself caused to burst forth by devilish arts," rejoined the sheriff. "i owe thee little for the service. if for naught else, thou deservest death for thy evil doings on that night." the abbot made no reply, for braddyll's allusion conjured up a sombre train of thought within his breast, awakening apprehensions which he could neither account for, nor shake off. meanwhile, the cavalcade slowly approached the north-east gateway of the abbey--passing through crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders;--but so deeply was the abbot engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw them not, and scarce heard their woful lamentations. all at once the cavalcade stopped, and the sheriff rode on to the gate, in the opening of which some ceremony was observed. then it was that paslew raised his eyes, and beheld standing before him a tall man, with a woman beside him bearing an infant in her arms. the eyes of the pair were fixed upon him with vindictive exultation. he would have averted his gaze, but an irresistible fascination withheld him. "thou seest all is prepared," said demdike, coming close up the mule on which paslew was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows, looming above the abbey walls; "wilt them now accede to my request?" and then he added, significantly--"on the same terms as before." the abbot understood his meaning well. life and freedom were offered him by a being, whose power to accomplish his promise he did not doubt. the struggle was hard; but he resisted the temptation, and answered firmly,-- "no." "then die the felon death thou meritest," cried bess, fiercely; "and i will glut mine eyes with the spectacle." incensed beyond endurance, the abbot looked sternly at her, and raised his hand in denunciation. the action and the look were so appalling, that the affrighted woman would have fled if her husband had not restrained her. "by the holy patriarchs and prophets; by the prelates and confessors; by the doctors of the church; by the holy abbots, monks, and eremites, who dwelt in solitudes, in mountains, and in caverns; by the holy saints and martyrs, who suffered torture and death for their faith, i curse thee, witch!" cried paslew. "may the malediction of heaven and all its hosts alight on the head of thy infant--" "oh! holy abbot," shrieked bess, breaking from her husband, and flinging herself at paslew's feet, "curse me, if thou wilt, but spare my innocent child. save it, and we will save thee." "avoid thee, wretched and impious woman," rejoined the abbot; "i have pronounced the dread anathema, and it cannot be recalled. look at the dripping garments of thy child. in blood has it been baptised, and through blood-stained paths shall its course be taken." "ha!" shrieked bess, noticing for the first time the ensanguined condition of the infant's attire. "cuthbert's blood--oh!" "listen to me, wicked woman," pursued the abbot, as if filled with a prophetic spirit. "thy child's life shall be long--beyond the ordinary term of woman--but it shall be a life of woe and ill." "oh! stay him--stay him; or i shall die!" cried bess. but the wizard could not speak. a greater power than his own apparently overmastered him. "children shall she have," continued the abbot, "and children's children, but they shall be a race doomed and accursed--a brood of adders, that the world shall flee from and crush. a thing accursed, and shunned by her fellows, shall thy daughter be--evil reputed and evil doing. no hand to help her--no lip to bless her--life a burden; and death--long, long in coming--finding her in a dismal dungeon. now, depart from me, and trouble me no more." bess made a motion as if she would go, and then turning, partly round, dropped heavily on the ground. demdike caught the child ere she fell. "thou hast killed her!" he cried to the abbot. "a stronger voice than mine hath spoken, if it be so," rejoined paslew. "_fuge miserrime, fuge malefice, quia judex adest iratus_." at this moment the trumpet again sounded, and the cavalcade being put in motion, the abbot and his fellow-captives passed through the gate. dismounting from their mules within the court, before the chapter-house, the captive ecclesiastics, preceded by the sheriff were led to the principal chamber of the structure, where the earl of derby awaited them, seated in the gothic carved oak chair, formerly occupied by the abbots of whalley on the occasions of conferences or elections. the earl was surrounded by his officers, and the chamber was filled with armed men. the abbot slowly advanced towards the earl. his deportment was dignified and firm, even majestic. the exaltation of spirit, occasioned by the interview with demdike and his wife, had passed away, and was succeeded by a profound calm. the hue of his cheek was livid, but otherwise he seemed wholly unmoved. the ceremony of delivering up the bodies of the prisoners to the earl was gone through by the sheriff, and their sentences were then read aloud by a clerk. after this the earl, who had hitherto remained covered, took off his cap, and in a solemn voice spoke:-- "john paslew, somewhile abbot of whalley, but now an attainted and condemned felon, and john eastgate and william haydocke, formerly brethren of the same monastery, and confederates with him in crime, ye have heard your doom. to-morrow you shall die the ignominious death of traitors; but the king in his mercy, having regard not so much to the heinous nature of your offences towards his sovereign majesty as to the sacred offices you once held, and of which you have been shamefully deprived, is graciously pleased to remit that part of your sentence, whereby ye are condemned to be quartered alive, willing that the hearts which conceived so much malice and violence against him should cease to beat within your own bosoms, and that the arms which were raised in rebellion against him should be interred in one common grave with the trunks to which they belong." "god save the high and puissant king, henry the eighth, and free him from all traitors!" cried the clerk. "we humbly thank his majesty for his clemency," said the abbot, amid the profound silence that ensued; "and i pray you, my good lord, when you shall write to the king concerning us, to say to his majesty that we died penitent of many and grave offences, amongst the which is chiefly that of having taken up arms unlawfully against him, but that we did so solely with the view of freeing his highness from evil counsellors, and of re-establishing our holy church, for the which we would willingly die, if our death might in anywise profit it." "amen!" exclaimed father eastgate, who stood with his hands crossed upon his breast, close behind paslew. "the abbot hath uttered my sentiments." "he hath not uttered mine," cried father haydocke. "i ask no grace from the bloody herodias, and will accept none. what i have done i would do again, were the past to return--nay, i would do more--i would find a way to reach the tyrant's heart, and thus free our church from its worst enemy, and the land from a ruthless oppressor." "remove him," said the earl; "the vile traitor shall be dealt with as he merits. for you," he added, as the order was obeyed, and addressing the other prisoners, "and especially you, john paslew, who have shown some compunction for your crimes, and to prove to you that the king is not the ruthless tyrant he hath been just represented, i hereby in his name promise you any boon, which you may ask consistently with your situation. what favour would you have shown you?" the abbot reflected for a moment. "speak thou, john eastgate," said the earl of derby, seeing that the abbot was occupied in thought. "if i may proffer a request, my lord," replied the monk, "it is that our poor distraught brother, william haydocke, be spared the quartering block. he meant not what he said." "well, be it as thou wilt," replied the earl, bending his brows, "though he ill deserves such grace. now, john paslew, what wouldst thou?" thus addressed, the abbot looked up. "i would have made the same request as my brother, john eastgate, if he had not anticipated me, my lord," said paslew; "but since his petition is granted, i would, on my own part, entreat that mass be said for us in the convent church. many of the brethren are without the abbey, and, if permitted, will assist at its performance." "i know not if i shall not incur the king's displeasure in assenting," replied the earl of derby, after a little reflection; "but i will hazard it. mass for the dead shall be said in the church at midnight, and all the brethren who choose to come thither shall be permitted to assist at it. they will attend, i doubt not, for it will be the last time the rites of the romish church will be performed in those walls. they shall have all required for the ceremonial." "heaven's blessings on you, my lord," said the abbot. "but first pledge me your sacred word," said the earl, "by the holy office you once held, and by the saints in whom you trust, that this concession shall not be made the means of any attempt at flight." "i swear it," replied the abbot, earnestly. "and i also swear it," added father eastgate. "enough," said the earl. "i will give the requisite orders. notice of the celebration of mass at midnight shall be proclaimed without the abbey. now remove the prisoners." upon this the captive ecclesiastics were led forth. father eastgate was taken to a strong room in the lower part of the chapter-house, where all acts of discipline had been performed by the monks, and where the knotted lash, the spiked girdle, and the hair shirt had once hung; while the abbot was conveyed to his old chamber, which had been prepared for his reception, and there left alone. chapter v.--the midnight mass. dolefully sounds the all souls' bell from the tower of the convent church. the bell is one of five, and has obtained the name because it is tolled only for those about to pass away from life. now it rings the knell of three souls to depart on the morrow. brightly illumined is the fane, within which no taper hath gleamed since the old worship ceased, showing that preparations are made for the last service. the organ, dumb so long, breathes a low prelude. sad is it to hear that knell--sad to view those gloriously-dyed panes--and to think why the one rings and the other is lighted up. word having gone forth of the midnight mass, all the ejected brethren flock to the abbey. some have toiled through miry and scarce passable roads. others have come down from the hills, and forded deep streams at the hazard of life, rather than go round by the far-off bridge, and arrive too late. others, who conceive themselves in peril from the share they have taken in the late insurrection, quit their secure retreats, and expose themselves to capture. it may be a snare laid for them, but they run the risk. others, coming from a yet greater distance, beholding the illuminated church from afar, and catching the sound of the bell tolling at intervals, hurry on, and reach the gate breathless and wellnigh exhausted. but no questions are asked. all who present themselves in ecclesiastical habits are permitted to enter, and take part in the procession forming in the cloister, or proceed at once to the church, if they prefer it. dolefully sounds the bell. barefooted brethren meet together, sorrowfully salute each other, and form in a long line in the great area of the cloisters. at their head are six monks bearing tall lighted candles. after them come the quiristers, and then one carrying the host, between the incense-bearers. next comes a youth holding the bell. next are placed the dignitaries of the church, the prior ranking first, and the others standing two and two according to their degrees. near the entrance of the refectory, which occupies the whole south side of the quadrangle, stand a band of halberdiers, whose torches cast a ruddy glare on the opposite tower and buttresses of the convent church, revealing the statues not yet plucked from their niches, the crosses on the pinnacles, and the gilt image of saint gregory de northbury, still holding its place over the porch. another band are stationed near the mouth of the vaulted passage, under the chapter-house and vestry, whose grey, irregular walls, pierced by numberless richly ornamented windows, and surmounted by small turrets, form a beautiful boundary on the right; while a third party are planted on the left, in the open space, beneath the dormitory, the torchlight flashing ruddily upon the hoary pillars and groined arches sustaining the vast structure above them. dolefully sounds the bell. and the ghostly procession thrice tracks the four ambulatories of the cloisters, solemnly chanting a requiem for the dead. dolefully sounds the bell. and at its summons all the old retainers of the abbot press to the gate, and sue for admittance, but in vain. they, therefore, mount the neighbouring hill commanding the abbey, and as the solemn sounds float faintly by, and glimpses are caught of the white-robed brethren gliding along the cloisters, and rendered phantom-like by the torchlight, the beholders half imagine it must be a company of sprites, and that the departed monks have been permitted for an hour to assume their old forms, and revisit their old haunts. dolefully sounds the bell. and two biers, covered with palls, are borne slowly towards the church, followed by a tall monk. the clock was on the stroke of twelve. the procession having drawn up within the court in front of the abbot's lodging, the prisoners were brought forth, and at sight of the abbot the whole of the monks fell on their knees. a touching sight was it to see those reverend men prostrate before their ancient superior,--he condemned to die, and they deprived of their monastic home,--and the officer had not the heart to interfere. deeply affected, paslew advanced to the prior, and raising him, affectionately embraced him. after this, he addressed some words of comfort to the others, who arose as he enjoined them, and at a signal from the officer, the procession set out for the church, singing the "_placebo_." the abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with a guard on either side of them. all souls' bell tolled dolefully the while. meanwhile an officer entered the great hall, where the earl of derby was feasting with his retainers, and informed him that the hour appointed for the ceremonial was close at hand. the earl arose and went to the church attended by braddyll and assheton. he entered by the western porch, and, proceeding to the choir, seated himself in the magnificently-carved stall formerly used by paslew, and placed where it stood, a hundred years before, by john eccles, ninth abbot. midnight struck. the great door of the church swung open, and the organ pealed forth the "_de profundis_." the aisles were filled with armed men, but a clear space was left for the procession, which presently entered in the same order as before, and moved slowly along the transept. those who came first thought it a dream, so strange was it to find themselves once again in the old accustomed church. the good prior melted into tears. at length the abbot came. to him the whole scene appeared like a vision. the lights streaming from the altar--the incense loading the air--the deep diapasons rolling overhead--the well-known faces of the brethren--the familiar aspect of the sacred edifice--all these filled him with emotions too painful almost for endurance. it was the last time he should visit this holy place--the last time he should hear those solemn sounds--the last time he should behold those familiar objects--ay, the last! death could have no pang like this! and with heart wellnigh bursting, and limbs scarcely serving their office, he tottered on. another trial awaited him, and one for which he was wholly unprepared. as he drew near the chancel, he looked down an opening on the right, which seemed purposely preserved by the guard. why were those tapers burning in the side chapel? what was within it? he looked again, and beheld two uncovered biers. on one lay the body of a woman. he started. in the beautiful, but fierce features of the dead, he beheld the witch, bess demdike. she was gone to her account before him. the malediction he had pronounced upon her child had killed her. appalled, he turned to the other bier, and recognised cuthbert ashbead. he shuddered, but comforted himself that he was at least guiltless of his death; though he had a strange feeling that the poor forester had in some way perished for him. but his attention was diverted towards a tall monk in the cistertian habit, standing between the bodies, with the cowl drawn over his face. as paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially disclosed features that smote the abbot as if he had beheld a spectre. could it be? could fancy cheat him thus? he looked again. the monk was still standing there, but the cowl had dropped over his face. striving to shake off the horror that possessed him, the abbot staggered forward, and reaching the presbytery, sank upon his knees. the ceremonial then commenced. the solemn requiem was sung by the choir; and three yet living heard the hymn for the repose of their souls. always deeply impressive, the service was unusually so on this sad occasion, and the melodious voices of the singers never sounded so mournfully sweet as then--the demeanour of the prior never seemed so dignified, nor his accents so touching and solemn. the sternest hearts were softened. but the abbot found it impossible to fix his attention on the service. the lights at the altar burnt dimly in his eyes--the loud antiphon and the supplicatory prayer fell upon a listless ear. his whole life was passing in review before him. he saw himself as he was when he first professed his faith, and felt the zeal and holy aspirations that filled him then. years flew by at a glance, and he found himself sub-deacon; the sub-deacon became deacon; and the deacon, sub-prior, and the end of his ambition seemed plain before him. but he had a rival; his fears told him a superior in zeal and learning: one who, though many years younger than he, had risen so rapidly in favour with the ecclesiastical authorities, that he threatened to outstrip him, even now, when the goal was full in view. the darkest passage of his life approached: a crime which should cast a deep shadow over the whole of his brilliant after-career. he would have shunned its contemplation, if he could. in vain. it stood out more palpably than all the rest. his rival was no longer in his path. how he was removed the abbot did not dare to think. but he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he! unable to endure this terrible retrospect, paslew strove to bend his thoughts on other things. the choir was singing the "_dies iræ_," and their voices thundered forth:-- rex tremendæ majestatis, qui salvandos salvas gratis, salva me, fons pietatis! fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of serpents' teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of penance he had performed. but he now found that his penitence had never been sincere and efficacious. this one damning sin obscured all his good actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly. again he fled from the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering forth-- lacrymosa dies illa, quâ resurget ex favillâ judicandus homo reus. huic ergo parce, deus! pie jesu domine! dona eis requiem. "amen!" exclaimed the abbot. and bowing his head to the ground, he earnestly repeated-- "pie jesu domine! dona eis requiem." then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburthen his soul without delay. the offertory and post-communion were over; the "_requiescant in pace_"--awful words addressed to living ears--were pronounced; and the mass was ended. all prepared to depart. the prior descended from the altar to embrace and take leave of the abbot; and at the same time the earl of derby came from the stall. "has all been done to your satisfaction, john paslew?" demanded the earl, as he drew near. "all, my good lord," replied the abbot, lowly inclining his head; "and i pray you think me not importunate, if i prefer one other request. i would fain have a confessor visit me, that i may lay bare my inmost heart to him, and receive absolution." "i have already anticipated the request," replied the earl, "and have provided a priest for you. he shall attend you, within an hour, in your own chamber. you will have ample time between this and daybreak, to settle your accounts with heaven, should they be ever so weighty." "i trust so, my lord," replied paslew; "but a whole life is scarcely long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours. but in regard to the confessor," he continued, filled with misgiving by the earl's manner, "i should be glad to be shriven by father christopher smith, late prior of the abbey." "it may not be," replied the earl, sternly and decidedly. "you will find all you can require in him i shall send." the abbot sighed, seeing that remonstrance was useless. "one further question i would address to you, my lord," he said, "and that refers to the place of my interment. beneath our feet lie buried all my predecessors--abbots of whalley. here lies john eccles, for whom was carved the stall in which your lordship hath sat, and from which i have been dethroned. here rests the learned john lyndelay, fifth abbot; and beside him his immediate predecessor, robert de topcliffe, who, two hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival of saint gregory, our canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us. at that epoch were here enshrined the remains of the saintly gregory, and here were also brought the bodies of helias de workesley and john de belfield, both prelates of piety and wisdom. you may read the names where you stand, my lord. you may count the graves of all the abbots. they are sixteen in number. there is one grave yet unoccupied--one stone yet unfurnished with an effigy in brass." "well!" said the earl of derby. "when i sat in that stall, my lord," pursued paslew, pointing to the abbot's chair; "when i was head of this church, it was my thought to rest here among my brother abbots." "you have forfeited the right," replied the earl, sternly. "all the abbots, whose dust is crumbling beneath us, died in the odour of sanctity; loyal to their sovereigns, and true to their country, whereas you will die an attainted felon and rebel. you can have no place amongst them. concern not yourself further in the matter. i will find a fitting grave for you,--perchance at the foot of the gallows." and, turning abruptly away, he gave the signal for general departure. ere the clock in the church tower had tolled one, the lights were extinguished, and of the priestly train who had recently thronged the fane, all were gone, like a troop of ghosts evoked at midnight by necromantic skill, and then suddenly dismissed. deep silence again brooded in the aisles; hushed was the organ; mute the melodious choir. the only light penetrating the convent church proceeded from the moon, whose rays, shining through the painted windows, fell upon the graves of the old abbots in the presbytery, and on the two biers within the adjoining chapel, whose stark burthens they quickened into fearful semblance of life. chapter vi.--teter et fortis carcer. left alone, and unable to pray, the abbot strove to dissipate his agitation of spirit by walking to and fro within his chamber; and while thus occupied, he was interrupted by a guard, who told him that the priest sent by the earl of derby was without, and immediately afterwards the confessor was ushered in. it was the tall monk, who had been standing between the biers, and his features were still shrouded by his cowl. at sight of him, paslew sank upon a seat and buried his face in his hands. the monk offered him no consolation, but waited in silence till he should again look up. at last paslew took courage and spoke. "who, and what are you?" he demanded. "a brother of the same order as yourself," replied the monk, in deep and thrilling accents, but without raising his hood; "and i am come to hear your confession by command of the earl of derby." "are you of this abbey?" asked paslew, tremblingly. "i was," replied the monk, in a stern tone; "but the monastery is dissolved, and all the brethren ejected." "your name?" cried paslew. "i am not come here to answer questions, but to hear a confession," rejoined the monk. "bethink you of the awful situation in which you are placed, and that before many hours you must answer for the sins you have committed. you have yet time for repentance, if you delay it not." "you are right, father," replied the abbot. "be seated, i pray you, and listen to me, for i have much to tell. thirty and one years ago i was prior of this abbey. up to that period my life had been blameless, or, if not wholly free from fault, i had little wherewith to reproach myself--little to fear from a merciful judge--unless it were that i indulged too strongly the desire of ruling absolutely in the house in which i was then only second. but satan had laid a snare for me, into which i blindly fell. among the brethren was one named borlace alvetham, a young man of rare attainment, and singular skill in the occult sciences. he had risen in favour, and at the time i speak of was elected sub-prior." "go on," said the monk. "it began to be whispered about within the abbey," pursued paslew, "that on the death of william rede, then abbot, borlace alvetham would succeed him, and then it was that bitter feelings of animosity were awakened in my breast against the sub-prior, and, after many struggles, i resolved upon his destruction." "a wicked resolution," cried the monk; "but proceed." "i pondered over the means of accomplishing my purpose," resumed paslew, "and at last decided upon accusing alvetham of sorcery and magical practices. the accusation was easy, for the occult studies in which he indulged laid him open to the charge. he occupied a chamber overlooking the calder, and used to break the monastic rules by wandering forth at night upon the hills. when he was absent thus one night, accompanied by others of the brethren, i visited his chamber, and examined his papers, some of which were covered with mystical figures and cabalistic characters. these papers i seized, and a watch was set to make prisoner of alvetham on his return. before dawn he appeared, and was instantly secured, and placed in close confinement. on the next day he was brought before the assembled conclave in the chapter-house, and examined. his defence was unavailing. i charged him with the terrible crime of witchcraft, and he was found guilty." a hollow groan broke from the monk, but he offered no other interruption. "he was condemned to die a fearful and lingering death," pursued the abbot; "and it devolved upon me to see the sentence carried out." "and no pity for the innocent moved you?" cried the monk. "you had no compunction?" "none," replied the abbot; "i rather rejoiced in the successful accomplishment of my scheme. the prey was fairly in my toils, and i would give him no chance of escape. not to bring scandal upon the abbey, it was decided that alvetham's punishment should be secret." "a wise resolve," observed the monk. "within the thickness of the dormitory walls is contrived a small singularly-formed dungeon," continued the abbot. "it consists of an arched cell, just large enough to hold the body of a captive, and permit him to stretch himself upon a straw pallet. a narrow staircase mounts upwards to a grated aperture in one of the buttresses to admit air and light. other opening is there none. '_teter et fortis carcer_' is this dungeon styled in our monastic rolls, and it is well described, for it is black and strong enough. food is admitted to the miserable inmate of the cell by means of a revolving stone, but no interchange of speech can be held with those without. a large stone is removed from the wall to admit the prisoner, and once immured, the masonry is mortised, and made solid as before. the wretched captive does not long survive his doom, or it may be he lives too long, for death must be a release from such protracted misery. in this dark cell one of the evil-minded brethren, who essayed to stab the abbot of kirkstall in the chapter-house, was thrust, and ere a year was over, the provisions were untouched--and the man being known to be dead, they were stayed. his skeleton was found within the cell when it was opened to admit borlace alvetham." "poor captive!" groaned the monk. "ay, poor captive!" echoed paslew. "mine eyes have often striven to pierce those stone walls, and see him lying there in that narrow chamber, or forcing his way upwards, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky above him. when i have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, i have thought of him." "go on," said the monk. "i scarce can proceed," rejoined paslew. "little time was allowed alvetham for preparation. that very night the fearful sentence was carried out. the stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell. at midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren chanting a doleful hymn. there he stood amidst them, his tall form towering above the rest, and his features pale as death. he protested his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible preparations. when all was ready he was led to the breach. at that awful moment, his eye met mine, and i shall never forget the look. i might have saved him if i had spoken, but i would not speak. i turned away, and he was thrust into the breach. a fearful cry then rang in my ears, but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to fasten up the stone." there was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the abbot. at length, the monk spoke. "and the prisoner perished in the cell?" he demanded in a hollow voice. "i thought so till to-night," replied the abbot. "but if he escaped it, it must have been by miracle; or by aid of those powers with whom he was charged with holding commerce." "he did escape!" thundered the monk, throwing back his hood. "look up, john paslew. look up, false abbot, and recognise thy victim." "borlace alvetham!" cried the abbot. "is it, indeed, you?" "you see, and can you doubt?" replied the other. "but you shall now hear how i avoided the terrible death to which you procured my condemnation. you shall now learn how i am here to repay the wrong you did me. we have changed places, john paslew, since the night when i was thrust into the cell, never, as you hoped, to come forth. you are now the criminal, and i the witness of the punishment." "forgive me! oh, forgive me! borlace alvetham, since you are, indeed, he!" cried the abbot, falling on his knees. "arise, john paslew!" cried the other, sternly. "arise, and listen to me. for the damning offences into which i have been led, i hold you responsible. but for you i might have died free from sin. it is fit you should know the amount of my iniquity. give ear to me, i say. when first shut within that dungeon, i yielded to the promptings of despair. cursing you, i threw myself upon the pallet, resolved to taste no food, and hoping death would soon release me. but love of life prevailed. on the second day i took the bread and water allotted me, and ate and drank; after which i scaled the narrow staircase, and gazed through the thin barred loophole at the bright blue sky above, sometimes catching the shadow of a bird as it flew past. oh, how i yearned for freedom then! oh, how i wished to break through the stone walls that held me fast! oh, what a weight of despair crushed my heart as i crept back to my narrow bed! the cell seemed like a grave, and indeed it was little better. horrible thoughts possessed me. what if i should be wilfully forgotten? what if no food should be given me, and i should be left to perish by the slow pangs of hunger? at this idea i shrieked aloud, but the walls alone returned a dull echo to my cries. i beat my hands against the stones, till the blood flowed from them, but no answer was returned; and at last i desisted from sheer exhaustion. day after day, and night after night, passed in this way. my food regularly came. but i became maddened by solitude; and with terrible imprecations invoked aid from the powers of darkness to set me free. one night, while thus employed, i was startled by a mocking voice which said, "'all this fury is needless. thou hast only to wish for me, and i come.' [illustration: alvetham and john paslew.] "it was profoundly dark. i could see nothing but a pair of red orbs, glowing like flaming carbuncles. "'thou wouldst be free,' continued the voice. 'thou shalt be so. arise, and follow me.' "at this i felt myself grasped by an iron arm, against which all resistance would have been unavailing, even if i had dared to offer it, and in an instant i was dragged up the narrow steps. the stone wall opened before my unseen conductor, and in another moment we were upon the roof of the dormitory. by the bright starbeams shooting down from above, i discerned a tall shadowy figure standing by my side. "'thou art mine,' he cried, in accents graven for ever on my memory; 'but i am a generous master, and will give thee a long term of freedom. thou shalt be avenged upon thine enemy--deeply avenged.' "'grant this, and i am thine,' i replied, a spirit of infernal vengeance possessing me. and i knelt before the fiend. "'but thou must tarry for awhile,' he answered, 'for thine enemy's time will be long in coming; but it _will_ come. i cannot work him immediate harm; but i will lead him to a height from which he will assuredly fall headlong. thou must depart from this place; for it is perilous to thee, and if thou stayest here, ill will befall thee. i will send a rat to thy dungeon, which shall daily devour the provisions, so that the monks shall not know thou hast fled. in thirty and one years shall the abbot's doom be accomplished. two years before that time thou mayst return. then come alone to pendle hill on a friday night, and beat the water of the moss pool on the summit, and i will appear to thee and tell thee more. nine and twenty years, remember!' "with these words the shadowy figure melted away, and i found myself standing alone on the mossy roof of the dormitory. the cold stars were shining down upon me, and i heard the howl of the watch-dogs near the gate. the fair abbey slept in beauty around me, and i gnashed my teeth with rage to think that you had made me an outcast from it, and robbed me of a dignity which might have been mine. i was wroth also that my vengeance should be so long delayed. but i could not remain where i was, so i clambered down the buttress, and fled away." "can this be?" cried the abbot, who had listened in rapt wonderment to the narration. "two years after your immurement in the cell, the food having been for some time untouched, the wall was opened, and upon the pallet was found a decayed carcase in mouldering, monkish vestments." "it was a body taken from the charnel, and placed there by the demon," replied the monk. "of my long wanderings in other lands and beneath brighter skies i need not tell you; but neither absence nor lapse of years cooled my desire of vengeance, and when the appointed time drew nigh i returned to my own country, and came hither in a lowly garb, under the name of nicholas demdike." "ha!" exclaimed the abbot. "i went to pendle hill, as directed," pursued the monk, "and saw the dark shape there as i beheld it on the dormitory roof. all things were then told me, and i learnt how the late rebellion should rise, and how it should be crushed. i learnt also how my vengeance should be satisfied." paslew groaned aloud. a brief pause ensued, and deep emotion marked the accents of the wizard as he proceeded. "when i came back, all this part of lancashire resounded with praises of the beauty of bess blackburn, a rustic lass who dwelt in barrowford. she was called the flower of pendle, and inflamed all the youths with love, and all the maidens with jealousy. but she favoured none except cuthbert ashbead, forester to the abbot of whalley. her mother would fain have given her to the forester in marriage, but bess would not be disposed of so easily. i saw her, and became at once enamoured. i thought my heart was seared; but it was not so. the savage beauty of bess pleased me more than the most refined charms could have done, and her fierce character harmonised with my own. how i won her matters not, but she cast off all thoughts of ashbead, and clung to me. my wild life suited her; and she roamed the wastes with me, scaled the hills in my company, and shrank not from the weird meetings i attended. ill repute quickly attended her, and she became branded as a witch. her aged mother closed her doors upon her, and those who would have gone miles to meet her, now avoided her. bess heeded this little. she was of a nature to repay the world's contumely with like scorn, but when her child was born the case became different. she wished to save it. then it was," pursued demdike, vehemently, and regarding the abbot with flashing eyes--"then it was that i was again mortally injured by you. then your ruthless decree to the clergy went forth. my child was denied baptism, and became subject to the fiend." "alas! alas!" exclaimed paslew. "and as if this were not injury enough," thundered demdike, "you have called down a withering and lasting curse upon its innocent head, and through it transfixed its mother's heart. if you had complied with that poor girl's request, i would have forgiven you your wrong to me, and have saved you." there was a long, fearful silence. at last demdike advanced to the abbot, and, seizing his arm, fixed his eyes upon him, as if to search into his soul. "answer me, john paslew!" he cried; "answer me, as you shall speedily answer your maker. can that malediction be recalled? dare not to trifle with me, or i will tear forth your black heart, and cast it in your face. can that curse be recalled? speak!" "it cannot," replied the abbot, half dead with terror. "away, then!" thundered demdike, casting him from him. "to the gallows!--to the gallows!" and he rushed out of the room. chapter vii.--the abbey mill. for a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible interview. at length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to the oratory. but it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining chamber. a mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be demdike returned. presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his vengeance by taking his life. but he was quickly undeceived, for a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears, "cum along wi' meh, lort abbut. get up, quick--quick!" thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a long bare wood-knife. "dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?" cried the person. "ey'm a freent--hal o' nabs, o' wiswall. yo'n moind wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? dunna be feert, ey sey. ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t' mill." but the abbot stirred not. "quick! quick!" implored hal o' nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's sleeve. "every minute's precious. dunna be feert. ebil croft, t' miller, is below. poor cuthbert ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he couldn; boh that accursed wizard, nick demdike, turned my hont agen him, an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor cuthbert's side. they clapt meh i' a dungeon, boh ebil monaged to get me out, an' ey then swore to do whot poor cuthbert would ha' done, if he'd been livin'--so here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. an' neaw yo knoan aw abowt it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. cum, time presses, an ey'm feert o' t' guard owerhearing us." "i thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart," replied the abbot, rising; "but, however strong may be the temptation of life and liberty which you hold out to me, i cannot yield to it. i have pledged my word to the earl of derby to make no attempt to escape. were the doors thrown open, and the guard removed, i should remain where i am." "whot!" exclaimed hal o' nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "yo winnaw go, neaw aw's prepared. by th' mess, boh yo shan. ey'st nah go back to ebil empty-handed. if yo'n sworn to stay here, ey'n sworn to set yo free, and ey'st keep meh oath. willy nilly, yo shan go wi' meh, lort abbut!" "forbear to urge me further, my good hal," rejoined paslew. "i fully appreciate your devotion; and i only regret that you and abel croft have exposed yourselves to so much peril on my account. poor cuthbert ashbead! when i beheld his body on the bier, i had a sad feeling that he had died in my behalf." "cuthbert meant to rescue yo, lort abbut," replied hal, "and deed resisting nick demdike's attempt to arrest him. boh, be aw t' devils!" he added, brandishing his knife fiercely, "t' warlock shall ha' three inches o' cowd steel betwixt his ribs, t' furst time ey cum across him." "peace, my son," rejoined the abbot, "and forego your bloody design. leave the wretched man to the chastisement of heaven. and now, farewell! all your kindly efforts to induce me to fly are vain." "yo winnaw go?" cried hal o'nabs, scratching his head. "i cannot," replied the abbot. "cum wi' meh to t' windaw, then," pursued hal, "and tell ebil so. he'll think ey'n failed else." "willingly," replied the abbot. and with noiseless footsteps he followed the other across the chamber. the window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder. "yo mun go down a few steps," said hal o' nabs, "or else he'll nah hear yo." the abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder. "i see no one," he said. "t' neet's dark," replied hal o' nabs, who was close behind him. "ebil canna be far off. hist! ey hear him--go on." the abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with, reluctance. presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to be connected with the mill by a covered passage running along the south bank of the calder. scarcely had he set foot there, than hal o' nabs jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus rendering paslew's return impossible. "neaw, lort abbut," he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, "yo hanna brok'n yor word, an ey'n kept moine. yo're free agen your will." "you have destroyed me by your mistaken zeal," cried the abbot, reproachfully. "nowt o't sort," replied hal; "ey'n saved yo' fro' destruction. this way, lort abbut--this way." and taking paslew's arm he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the covered passage before described. half an hour before it had been bright moonlight, but, as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river. "ebil! ebil!" cried hal o' nabs, leaning over the parapet. "here," replied a voice below. "is aw reet? is he wi' yo?" "yeigh," replied hal. "whot han yo dun wi' t' steigh?" cried ebil. "never yo moind," returned hal, "boh help t' abbut down." paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of hal o' nabs and the miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. abel fell on his knees, and pressed the abbot's hand to his lips. "owr blessed leady be praised, yo are free," he cried. "dunna stond tawking here, ebil," interposed hal o' nabs, who by this time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new remonstrance on the abbot's part. "ey'm feerd o' pursuit." "yo' needna be afeerd o' that, hal," replied the miller. "t' guard are safe enough. one o' owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu' o' stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. win it please yo to cum wi' me, lort abbut?" with this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped. a bolt being withdrawn, it was instantly opened to admit the party, after which it was as quickly shut, and secured. in answer to a call from the miller, a light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden steps, and up these paslew, at the entreaty of abel, mounted, and found himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor was strewn with empty sacks and sieves. the person who held the light proved to be the miller's daughter, dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire, with an infant on her knees, was the miller's wife. the latter instantly arose on beholding the abbot, and, placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him, and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. the abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction. "bring your child also to me, that i may bless it," he said, when he concluded. "it's nah my child, lort abbut," replied the miller's wife, taking up the infant and bringing it to him; "it wur brought to me this varry neet by ebil. ey wish it wur far enough, ey'm sure, for it's a deformed little urchon. one o' its een is lower set than t' other; an t' reet looks up, while t' laft looks down." and as she spoke she pointed to the infant's face, which was disfigured as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes, one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. awakened from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny arms to dorothy. "you ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather than reproach it, mother," observed the young damsel. "marry kem eawt!" cried her mother, sharply, "yo'n getten fine feelings wi' your larning fro t' good feythers, dolly. os ey said efore, ey wish t' brat wur far enough." "you forget it has no mother," suggested dorothy, kindly. "an naw great matter, if it hasn't," returned the miller's wife. "bess demdike's neaw great loss." "is this bess demdike's child?" cried paslew, recoiling. "yeigh," exclaimed the miller's wife. and mistaking the cause of paslew's emotion, she added, triumphantly, to her daughter, "ey towd te, wench, ot t' lort abbut would be of my way o' thinking. t' chilt has got the witch's mark plain upon her. look, lort abbut, look!" but paslew heeded her not, but murmured to himself:-- "ever in my path, go where i will. it is vain to struggle with my fate. i will go back and surrender myself to the earl of derby." "nah,--nah!--yo shanna do that," replied hal o' nabs, who, with the miller, was close beside him. "sit down o' that stoo' be t' fire, and take a cup o' wine t' cheer yo, and then we'n set out to pendle forest, where ey'st find yo a safe hiding-place. an t' ony reward ey'n ever ask for t' sarvice shan be, that yo'n perform a marriage sarvice fo' me and dolly one of these days." and he nudged the damsel's elbow, who turned away, covered with blushes. the abbot moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the miller's wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viands and a flask of wine, which she set before paslew. the miller then filled a drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest, who was about to raise it to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below. the knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard calling upon the miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. on the first alarm abel had flown to a small window whence he could reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with terror, to say that a party of arquebussiers, with the sheriff at their head, were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches. "they have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me," observed the abbot rising, but without betraying any anxiety. "do not concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door, and deliver me to them." "nah, nah, that we winnaw," cried hal o' nabs, "yo're neaw taen yet, feyther abbut, an' ey knoa a way to baffle 'em. if y'on let him down into t' river, ebil, ey'n manage to get him off." "weel thowt on, nab," cried the miller, "theawst nah been mey mon seven year fo nowt. theaw knoas t' ways o' t' pleck." "os weel os onny rotten abowt it," replied hal o' nabs. "go down to t' grindin'-room, an ey'n follow i' a troice." and as abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with paslew, hal whispered in dorothy's ears-- "tak care neaw one fonds that chilt, dolly, if they break in. hide it safely; an whon they're gone, tak it to't church, and place it near t' altar, where no ill con cum to it or thee. mey life may hong upon it." and as the poor girl, who, as well as her mother, was almost frightened out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after the others, muttering, as the clamour without was redoubled-- "eigh, roar on till yo're hoarse. yo winnaw get in yet awhile, ey'n promise ye." meantime, the abbot had been led to the chief room of the mill, where all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared, and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable. strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were crossed by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in use at the mill depended, giving the chamber, imperfectly lighted as it now was by the lamp borne by abel, a strange and almost mysterious appearance. three or four of the miller's men, armed with pikes, had followed their master, and, though much alarmed, they vowed to die rather than give up the abbot. by this time hal o' nabs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a raised part of the chamber where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt down, and laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapdoor. the fresh air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound of water, showed that the calder flowed immediately beneath; and, having made some slight preparation, hal let himself down into the stream. at this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller's men cried out that the arquebussiers had burst open the door. "be hondy, then, lads, and let him down!" cried hal o' nabs, who had some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough, stony bottom of the swift stream. passively yielding, the abbot suffered the miller and one of the stoutest of his men to assist him through the trapdoor, while a third held down the lamp, and showed hal o' nabs, up to his middle in the darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. the light fell upon the huge black circle of the watershed now stopped, and upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. in another moment the abbot plunged into the water, the trapdoor was replaced, and bolted underneath by hal, who, while guiding his companion along, and bidding him catch hold of the wood-work of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained admittance. encumbered by his heavy vestments, the abbot could with difficulty contend against the strong current, and he momently expected to be swept away; but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon placed him under shelter of the wheel. the trampling overhead continued for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and hal judged that, finding their search within ineffectual, the enemy would speedily come forth. nor was he deceived. shouts were soon heard at the door of the mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. then it was that hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the masonry, behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins, and where they were completely concealed. scarcely were they thus ensconced, than two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen wading under the archway; but after looking carefully around, and even approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment. by-and-by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower down the river. upon this, hal thought they might venture to quit their retreat, and accordingly, grasping the abbot's arm, he proceeded to wade up the stream. benumbed with cold, and half dead with terror, paslew needed all his companion's support, for he could do little to help himself, added to which, they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a deep hole, so that it required hal's utmost exertion and strength to force a way on. at last they were out of the arch, and though both banks seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, hal deemed it prudent still to keep to the river. their course was completely sheltered from observation by the mist that enveloped them; and after proceeding in this way for some distance, hal stopped to listen, and while debating with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld a black object swimming towards him. taking it for an otter, with which voracious animal the calder, a stream swarming with trout, abounded, and knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked, he paid little attention to it; but he was soon made sensible of his error. his arm was suddenly seized by a large black hound, whose sharp fangs met in his flesh. unable to repress a cry of pain, hal strove to disengage himself from his assailant, and, finding it impossible, flung himself into the water in the hope of drowning him, but, as the hound still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him. but he could not find it, and in his distress applied to paslew. "ha yo onny weepun abowt yo, lort abbut," he cried, "wi' which ey con free mysel fro' this accussed hound?" "alas! no, my son," replied paslew, "and i fear no weapon will prevail against it, for i recognise in the animal the hound of the wizard, demdike." "ey thowt t' dule wur in it," rejoined hal; "boh leave me to fight it owt, and do you gain t' bonk, an mey t' best o' your way to t' wiswall. ey'n join ye os soon os ey con scrush this varment's heaod agen a stoan. ha!" he added, joyfully, "ey'n found t' thwittle. go--go. ey'n soon be efter ye." feeling he should sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to offer any effectual assistance to his companion, the abbot turned to the left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man suddenly came from behind it, seized his hand, and dragged him up forcibly. at the same moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and winding a few notes, he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen armed men ran up, bearing torches. not a word passed between the fugitive and his captor; but when the men came up, and the torchlight fell upon the features of the latter, the abbot's worst fears were realised. it was demdike. "false to your king!--false to your oath!--false to all men!" cried the wizard. "you seek to escape in vain!" "i merit all your reproaches," replied the abbot; "but it may he some satisfaction, to you to learn, that i have endured far greater suffering than if i had patiently awaited my doom." "i am glad of it," rejoined demdike, with a savage laugh; "but you have destroyed others beside yourself. where is the fellow in the water? what, ho, uriel!" but as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the arquebussiers and held it to the river's brink. but he could see neither hound nor man. "strange!" he cried. "he cannot have escaped. uriel is more than a match for any man. secure the prisoner while i examine the stream." with this, he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch far over the water, so as to reveal any thing floating within it, but nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill, when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank. "ah recreant! thou hast let him go," cried demdike, furiously. seeing his master the animal redoubled its efforts, crept ashore, and fell at his feet, with a last effort to lick his hands. demdike held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was quite dead. there was a deep gash in its side, and another in the throat, showing how it had perished. "poor uriel!" he exclaimed; "the only true friend i had. and thou art gone! the villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his life." and hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the fugitive, while accompanied by the two others he conveyed paslew back to the abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no possibility of escape, and a guard set over him. half an hour after this, two of the arquebussiers returned with hal o' nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance, about a mile from the abbey, on the road to wiswall. he was taken to the guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the chapter-house, and demdike was immediately apprised of his arrival. satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen and resolved, demdike proceeded to the great hall, where the earl of derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still sitting with his retainers. an audience was readily obtained by the wizard, and, apparently well pleased with the result, he returned to the guard-room. the prisoner was seated by himself in one corner of the chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leathern thong, and demdike approaching him, told him that, for having aided the escape of a condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king's lieges in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the earl of derby, who had power of life or death in such cases, having so decreed it. and he exhibited the warrant. "soh, yo mean to hong me, eh, wizard?" cried hal o' nabs, kicking his heels with great apparent indifference. "i do," replied demdike; "if for nothing else, for slaying my hound." "ey dunna think it," replied hal. "yo'n alter your moind. do, mon. ey'm nah prepared to dee just yet." "then perish in your sins," cried demdike, "i will not give you an hour's respite." "yo'n be sorry when it's too late," said hal. "tush!" cried demdike, "my only regret will be that uriel's slaughter is paid for by such a worthless life as thine." "then whoy tak it?" demanded hal. "'specially whon yo'n lose your chilt by doing so." "my child!" exclaimed demdike, surprised. "how mean you, sirrah?" "ey mean this," replied hal, coolly; "that if ey dee to-morrow mornin' your chilt dees too. whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey chances, an' tuk precautions eforehond. your chilt's a hostage fo mey safety." "curses on thee and thy cunning," cried demdike; "but i will not be outwitted by a hind like thee. i will have the child, and yet not be baulked of my revenge." "yo'n never ha' it, except os a breathless corpse, 'bowt mey consent," rejoined hal. "we shall see," cried demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards look well to the prisoner. but ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, "thou hast spoken the truth. the infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom i have no power." "ey towdee so, wizard," replied hal, laughing. "hoind os ey be, ey'm a match fo' thee,--ha! ha! neaw, mey life agen t' chilt's. win yo set me free?" demdike deliberated. "harkee, wizard," cried hal, "if yo're hatching treason ey'n dun. t' sartunty o' revenge win sweeten mey last moments." "will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed, if i set you free?" asked demdike. "it's a bargain, wizard," rejoined hal o' nabs; "ey swear. boh yo mun set me free furst, fo' ey winnaw tak your word." demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers, said, "you behold this warrant, guard. the prisoner is committed to my custody. i will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to the earl of derby." one of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon which demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the chamber. no interruption was offered to hal's egress, but he stopped within the court-yard, where demdike awaited him, and unfastened the leathern thong that bound together his hands. "now go and bring the child to me," said the wizard. "nah, ey'st neaw bring it ye myself," rejoined hal. "ey knoas better nor that. be at t' church porch i' half an hour, an t' bantlin shan be delivered to ye safe an sound." and without waiting for a reply, he ran off with great swiftness. at the appointed time demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child, wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but instantly disappeared. demdike, however, recognised in her the miller's daughter, dorothy croft. chapter viii.--the executioner. dawn came at last, after a long and weary night to many within and without the abbey. every thing betokened a dismal day. the atmosphere was damp, and oppressive to the spirits, while the raw cold sensibly affected the frame. all astir were filled with gloom and despondency, and secretly breathed a wish that, the tragical business of the day were ended. the vast range of pendle was obscured by clouds, and ere long the vapours descended into the valleys, and rain began to fall; at first slightly, but afterwards in heavy continuous showers. melancholy was the aspect of the abbey, and it required no stretch of imagination to fancy that the old structure was deploring the fate of its former ruler. to those impressed with the idea--and many there were who were so--the very stones of the convent church seemed dissolving into tears. the statues of the saints appeared to weep, and the great statue of saint gregory de northbury over the porch seemed bowed down with grief. the grotesquely carved heads on the spouts grinned horribly at the abbot's destroyers, and spouted forth cascades of water, as if with the intent of drowning them. so deluging and incessant were the showers, that it seemed, indeed, as if the abbey would be flooded. all the inequalities of ground within the great quadrangle of the cloisters looked like ponds, and the various water-spouts from the dormitory, the refectory, and the chapter-house, continuing to jet forth streams into the court below, the ambulatories were soon filled ankle-deep, and even the lower apartments, on which they opened, invaded. surcharged with moisture, the royal banner on the gate drooped and clung to the staff, as if it too shared in the general depression, or as if the sovereign authority it represented had given way. the countenances and deportment of the men harmonized with the weather; they moved about gloomily and despondently, their bright accoutrements sullied with the wet, and their buskins clogged with mire. a forlorn sight it was to watch the shivering sentinels on the walls; and yet more forlorn to see the groups of the abbot's old retainers gathering without, wrapped in their blue woollen cloaks, patiently enduring the drenching showers, and awaiting the last awful scene. but the saddest sight of all was on the hill, already described, called the holehouses. here two other lesser gibbets had been erected during the night, one on either hand of the loftier instrument of justice, and the carpenters were yet employed in finishing their work, having been delayed by the badness of the weather. half drowned by the torrents that fell upon them, the poor fellows were protected from interference with their disagreeable occupation by half a dozen well-mounted and well-armed troopers, and by as many halberdiers; and this company, completely exposed to the weather, suffered severely from wet and cold. the rain beat against the gallows, ran down its tall naked posts, and collected in pools at its feet. attracted by some strange instinct, which seemed to give them a knowledge of the object of these terrible preparations, two ravens wheeled screaming round the fatal tree, and at length one of them settled on the cross-beam, and could with difficulty be dislodged by the shouts of the men, when it flew away, croaking hoarsely. up this gentle hill, ordinarily so soft and beautiful, but now abhorrent as a golgotha, in the eyes of the beholders, groups of rustics and monks had climbed over ground rendered slippery with moisture, and had gathered round the paling encircling the terrible apparatus, looking the images of despair and woe. even those within the abbey, and sheltered from the storm, shared the all-pervading despondency. the refectory looked dull and comfortless, and the logs on the hearth hissed and sputtered, and would not burn. green wood had been brought instead of dry fuel by the drowsy henchman. the viands on the board provoked not the appetite, and the men emptied their cups of ale, yawned and stretched their arms, as if they would fain sleep an hour or two longer. the sense of discomfort, was heightened by the entrance of those whose term of watch had been relieved, and who cast their dripping cloaks on the floor, while two or three savage dogs, steaming with moisture, stretched their huge lengths before the sullen fire, and disputed all approach to it. within the great hall were already gathered the retainers of the earl of derby, but the nobleman himself had not appeared. having passed the greater part of the night in conference with one person or another, and the abbot's flight having caused him much disquietude, though he did not hear of it till the fugitive was recovered; the earl would not seek his couch until within an hour of daybreak, and his attendants, considering the state of the weather, and that it yet wanted full two hours to the time appointed for the execution, did not think it needful to disturb him. braddyll and assheton, however, were up and ready; but, despite their firmness of nerve, they yielded like the rest to the depressing influence of the weather, and began to have some misgivings as to their own share in the tragedy about to be enacted. the various gentlemen in attendance paced to and fro within the hall, holding but slight converse together, anxiously counting the minutes, for the time appeared to pass on with unwonted slowness, and ever and anon glancing through the diamond panes of the window at the rain pouring down steadily without, and coming back again hopeless of amendment in the weather. if such were the disheartening influence of the day on those who had nothing to apprehend, what must its effect have been on the poor captives! woful indeed. the two monks suffered a complete prostration of spirit. all the resolution which father haydocke had displayed in his interview with the earl of derby, failed him now, and he yielded to the agonies of despair. father eastgate was in little better condition, and gave vent to unavailing lamentations, instead of paying heed to the consolatory discourse of the monk who had been permitted to visit him. the abbot was better sustained. though greatly enfeebled by the occurrences of the night, yet in proportion as his bodily strength decreased, his mental energies rallied. since the confession of his secret offence, and the conviction he had obtained that his supposed victim still lived, a weight seemed taken from his breast, and he had no longer any dread of death. rather he looked to the speedy termination of existence with hopeful pleasure. he prepared himself as decently as the means afforded him permitted for his last appearance before the world, but refused all refreshment except a cup of water, and being left to himself was praying fervently, when a man was admitted into his cell. thinking it might be the executioner come to summon him, he arose, and to his surprise beheld hal o' nabs. the countenance of the rustic was pale, but his bearing was determined. "you here, my son," cried paslew. "i hoped you had escaped." "ey'm i' nah dawnger, feyther abbut," replied hal. "ey'n getten leef to visit ye fo a minute only, so ey mun be brief. mey yourself easy, ye shanna dee be't hongmon's honds." "how, my son!" cried paslew. "i understand you not." "yo'n onderstond me weel enough by-and-by," replied hal. "dunnah be feart whon ye see me next; an comfort yoursel that whotever cums and goes, your death shall be avenged o' your warst foe." paslew would have sought some further explanation, but hal stepped quickly backwards, and striking his foot against the door, it was instantly opened by the guard, and he went forth. not long after this, the earl of derby entered the great hall, and his first inquiry was as to the safety of the prisoners. when satisfied of this, he looked forth, and shuddered at the dismal state of the weather. while he was addressing some remarks on this subject, and on its interference with the tragical exhibition about to take place, an officer entered the hall, followed by several persons of inferior condition, amongst whom was hal o' nabs, and marched up to the earl, while the others remained standing at a respectful distance. "what news do you bring me, sir?" cried the earl, noticing the officer's evident uneasiness of manner. "nothing hath happened to the prisoners? god's death! if it hath, you shall all answer for it with your bodies." "nothing hath happened to them, my lord," said the officer,--"but--" "but what?" interrupted the earl. "out with it quickly." "the executioner from lancaster and his two aids have fled," replied the officer. "fled!" exclaimed the earl, stamping his foot with rage; "now as i live, this is a device to delay the execution till some new attempt at rescue can be made. but it shall fail, if i string up the abbot myself. death! can no other hangmen be found? ha!" "of a surety, my lord; but all have an aversion to the office, and hold it opprobrious, especially to put churchmen to death," replied the officer. "opprobrious or not, it must be done," replied the earl. "see that fitting persons are provided." at this moment hal o' nabs stepped forward. "ey'm willing t' ondertake t' job, my lord, an' t' hong t' abbut, without fee or rewort," he said. "thou bears't him a grudge, i suppose, good fellow," replied the earl, laughing at the rustic's uncouth appearance; "but thou seem'st a stout fellow, and one not likely to flinch, and may discharge the office as well as another. if no better man can be found, let him do it," he added to the officer. "ey humbly thonk your lortship," replied hal, inwardly rejoicing at the success of his scheme. but his countenance fell when he perceived demdike advance from behind the others. "this man is not to be trusted, my lord," said demdike, coming forward; "he has some mischievous design in making the request. so far from bearing enmity to the abbot, it was he who assisted him in his attempt to escape last night." "what!" exclaimed the earl, "is this a new trick? bring the fellow forward, that i may examine him." but hal was gone. instantly divining demdike's purpose, and seeing his chance lost, he mingled with the lookers-on, who covered his retreat. nor could he be found when sought for by the guard. "see you provide a substitute quickly, sir," cried the earl, angrily, to the officer. "it is needless to take further trouble, my lord," replied demdike "i am come to offer myself as executioner." "thou!" exclaimed the earl. "ay," replied the other. "when i heard that the men from lancaster were fled, i instantly knew that some scheme to frustrate the ends of justice was on foot, and i at once resolved to undertake the office myself rather than delay or risk should occur. what this man's aim was, who hath just offered himself, i partly guess, but it hath failed; and if your lordship will intrust the matter to me, i will answer that no further impediment shall arise, but that the sentence shall be fully carried out, and the law satisfied. your lordship can trust me." "i know it," replied the earl. "be it as you will. it is now on the stroke of nine. at ten, let all be in readiness to set out for wiswall hall. the rain may have ceased by that time, but no weather must stay you. go forth with the new executioner, sir," he added to the officer, "and see all necessary preparations made." and as demdike bowed, and departed with the officer, the earl sat down with his retainers to break his fast. chapter ix.--wiswall hall. shortly before ten o'clock a numerous cortège, consisting of a troop of horse in their full equipments, a band of archers with their bows over their shoulders, and a long train of barefoot monks, who had been permitted to attend, set out from the abbey. behind them came a varlet with a paper mitre on his head, and a lathen crosier in his hand, covered with a surcoat, on which was emblazoned, but torn and reversed, the arms of paslew; argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced of the field, a crescent for difference. after him came another varlet bearing a banner, on which was painted a grotesque figure in a half-military, half-monastic garb, representing the "earl of poverty," with this distich beneath it:-- priest and warrior--rich and poor, he shall be hanged at his own door. next followed a tumbrel, drawn by two horses, in which sat the abbot alone, the two other prisoners being kept back for the present. then came demdike, in a leathern jerkin and blood-red hose, fitting closely to his sinewy limbs, and wrapped in a houppeland of the same colour as the hose, with a coil of rope round his neck. he walked between two ill-favoured personages habited in black, whom he had chosen as assistants. a band of halberdiers brought up the rear. the procession moved slowly along,--the passing-bell tolling each minute, and a muffled drum sounding hollowly at intervals. shortly before the procession started the rain ceased, but the air felt damp and chill, and the roads were inundated. passing out at the north-eastern gateway, the gloomy train skirted the south side of the convent church, and went on in the direction of the village of whalley. when near the east end of the holy edifice, the abbot beheld two coffins borne along, and, on inquiry, learnt that they contained the bodies of bess demdike and cuthbert ashbead, who were about to be interred in the cemetery. at this moment his eye for the first time encountered that of his implacable foe, and he then discovered that he was to serve as his executioner. at first paslew felt much trouble at this thought, but the feeling quickly passed away. on reaching whalley, every door was found closed, and every window shut; so that the spectacle was lost upon the inhabitants; and after a brief halt, the cavalcade get out for wiswall hall. sprung from an ancient family residing in the neighbourhood of whalley, abbot paslew was the second son of francis paslew of wiswall hall, a great gloomy stone mansion, situated at the foot of the south-western side of pendle hill, where his brother francis still resided. of a cold and cautious character, francis paslew, second of the name, held aloof from the insurrection, and when his brother was arrested he wholly abandoned him. still the owner of wiswall had not altogether escaped suspicion, and it was probably as much with the view of degrading him as of adding to the abbot's punishment, that the latter was taken to the hall on the morning of his execution. be this as it may, the cortège toiled thither through roads bad in the best of seasons, but now, since the heavy rain, scarcely passable; and it arrived there in about half an hour, and drew up on the broad green lawn. window and door of the hall were closed; no smoke issued from the heavy pile of chimneys; and to all outward seeming the place was utterly deserted. in answer to inquiries, it appeared that francis paslew had departed for northumberland on the previous day, taking all his household with him. in earlier years, a quarrel having occurred between the haughty abbot and the churlish francis, the brothers rarely met, whence it chanced that john paslew had seldom visited the place of his birth of late, though lying so near to the abbey, and, indeed, forming part of its ancient dependencies. it was sad to view it now; and yet the house, gloomy as it was, recalled seasons with which, though they might awaken regret, no guilty associations were connected. dark was the hall, and desolate, but on the fine old trees around it the rooks were settling, and their loud cawings pleased him, and excited gentle emotions. for a few moments he grew young again, and forgot why he was there. fondly surveying the house, the terraced garden, in which, as a boy, he had so often strayed, and the park beyond it, where he had chased the deer; his gaze rose to the cloudy heights of pendle, springing immediately behind the mansion, and up which he had frequently climbed. the flood-gates of memory were opened at once, and a whole tide of long-buried feelings rushed upon his heart. from this half-painful, half-pleasurable retrospect he was aroused by the loud blast of a trumpet, thrice blown. a recapitulation of his offences, together with his sentence, was read by a herald, after which the reversed blazonry was fastened upon the door of the hall, just below a stone escutcheon on which was carved the arms of the family; while the paper mitre was torn and trampled under foot, the lathen crosier broken in twain, and the scurril banner hacked in pieces. while this degrading act was performed, a man in a miller's white garb, with the hood drawn over his face, forced his way towards the tumbrel, and while the attention of the guard was otherwise engaged, whispered in paslew's ear, "ey han failed i' mey scheme, feyther abbut, boh rest assured ey'n avenge you. demdike shan ha' mey sheffield thwittle i' his heart 'efore he's a day older." "the wizard has a charm against steel, my son, and indeed is proof against all weapons forged by men," replied paslew, who recognised the voice of hal o' nabs, and hoped by this assertion to divert him from his purpose. "ha! say yo so, feythur abbut?" cried hal. "then ey'n reach him wi' summot sacred." and he disappeared. at this moment, word was given to return, and in half an hour the cavalcade arrived at the abbey in the same order it had left it. though the rain had ceased, heavy clouds still hung overhead, threatening another deluge, and the aspect of the abbey remained gloomy as ever. the bell continued to toll; drums were beaten; and trumpets sounded from the outer and inner gateway, and from the three quadrangles. the cavalcade drew up in front of the great northern entrance; and its return being announced within, the two other captives were brought forth, each fastened upon a hurdle, harnessed to a stout horse. they looked dead already, so ghastly was the hue of their cheeks. the abbot's turn came next. another hurdle was brought forward, and demdike advanced to the tumbrel. but paslew recoiled from his touch, and sprang to the ground unaided. he was then laid on his back upon the hurdle, and his hands and feet were bound fast with ropes to the twisted timbers. while this painful task was roughly performed by the wizard's two ill-favoured assistants, the crowd of rustics who looked on, murmured and exhibited such strong tokens of displeasure, that the guard thought it prudent to keep them off with their halberts. but when all was done, demdike motioned to a man standing behind him to advance, and the person who was wrapped in a russet cloak complied, drew forth an infant, and held it in such way that the abbot could see it. paslew understood what was meant, but he uttered not a word. demdike then knelt down beside him, as if ascertaining the security of the cords, and whispered in his ear:-- "recall thy malediction, and my dagger shall save thee from the last indignity." "never," replied paslew; "the curse is irrevocable. but i would not recall it if i could. as i have said, thy child shall be a witch, and the mother of witches--but all shall be swept off--all!" "hell's torments seize thee!" cried the wizard, furiously. "nay, thou hast done thy worst to me," rejoined paslew, meekly, "thou canst not harm me beyond the grave. look to thyself, for even as thou speakest, thy child is taken from thee." and so it was. while demdike knelt beside paslew, a hand was put forth, and, before the man who had custody of the infant could prevent it, his little charge was snatched from him. thus the abbot saw, though the wizard perceived it not. the latter instantly sprang to his feet. "where is the child?" he demanded of the fellow in the russet cloak. "it was taken from me by yon tall man who is disappearing through the gateway," replied the other, in great trepidation. "ha! _he_ here!" exclaimed demdike, regarding the dark figure with a look of despair. "it is gone from me for ever!" "ay, for ever!" echoed the abbot, solemnly. "but revenge is still left me--revenge!" cried demdike, with an infuriated gesture. "then glut thyself with it speedily," replied the abbot; "for thy time here is short." "i care not if it be," replied demdike; "i shall live long enough if i survive thee." chapter x.--the holehouses. at this moment the blast of a trumpet resounded from the gateway, and the earl of derby, with the sheriff on his right hand, and assheton on the left, and mounted on a richly caparisoned charger, rode forth. he was preceded by four javelin-men, and followed by two heralds in their tabards. to doleful tolling of bells--to solemn music--to plaintive hymn chanted by monks--to roll of muffled drum at intervals--the sad cortège set forth. loud cries from the bystanders marked its departure, and some of them followed it, but many turned away, unable to endure the sight of horror about to ensue. amongst those who went on was hal o' nabs, but he took care to keep out of the way of the guard, though he was little likely to be recognised, owing to his disguise. despite the miserable state of the weather, a great multitude was assembled at the place of execution, and they watched the approaching cavalcade with moody curiosity. to prevent disturbance, arquebussiers were stationed in parties here and there, and a clear course for the cortège was preserved by two lines of halberdiers with crossed pikes. but notwithstanding this, much difficulty was experienced in mounting the hill. rendered slippery by the wet, and yet more so by the trampling of the crowd, the road was so bad in places that the horses could scarcely drag the hurdles up it, and more than one delay occurred. the stoppages were always denounced by groans, yells, and hootings from the mob, and these neither the menaces of the earl of derby, nor the active measures of the guard, could repress. at length, however, the cavalcade reached its destination. then the crowd struggled forward, and settled into a dense compact ring, round the circular railing enclosing the place of execution, within which were drawn up the earl of derby, the sheriff, assheton, and the principal gentlemen, together with demdike and his assistants; the guard forming a circle three deep round them. paslew was first unloosed, and when he stood up, he found father smith, the late prior, beside him, and tenderly embraced him. "be of good courage, father abbot," said the prior; "a few moments, and you will be numbered with the just." "my hope is in the infinite mercy of heaven, father," replied paslew, sighing deeply. "pray for me at the last." "doubt it not," returned the prior, fervently. "i will pray for you now and ever." meanwhile, the bonds of the two other captives were unfastened, but they were found wholly unable to stand without support. a lofty ladder had been placed against the central scaffold, and up this demdike, having cast off his houppeland, mounted and adjusted the rope. his tall gaunt figure, fully displayed in his tight-fitting red garb, made him look like a hideous scarecrow. his appearance was greeted by the mob with a perfect hurricane of indignant outcries and yells. but he heeded them not, but calmly pursued his task. above him wheeled the two ravens, who had never quitted the place since daybreak, uttering their discordant cries. when all was done, he descended a few steps, and, taking a black hood from his girdle to place over the head of his victim, called out in a voice which had little human in its tone, "i wait for you, john paslew." "are you ready, paslew?" demanded the earl of derby. "i am, my lord," replied the abbot. and embracing the prior for the last time, he added, "_vale, carissime frater, in æternum vale! et dominus tecum sit in ultionem inimicorum nostrorum_!" "it is the king's pleasure that you say not a word in your justification to the mob, paslew," observed the earl. "i had no such intention, my lord," replied the abbot. "then tarry no longer," said the earl; "if you need aid you shall have it." "i require none," replied paslew, resolutely. with this he mounted the ladder, with as much firmness and dignity as if ascending the steps of a tribune. hitherto nothing but yells and angry outcries had stunned the ears of the lookers-on, and several missiles had been hurled at demdike, some of which took effect, though without occasioning discomfiture; but when the abbot appeared above the heads of the guard, the tumult instantly subsided, and profound silence ensued. not a breath was drawn by the spectators. the ravens alone continued their ominous croaking. hal o' nabs, who stood on the outskirts of the ring, saw thus far but he could bear it no longer, and rushed down the hill. just as he reached the level ground, a culverin was fired from the gateway, and the next moment a loud wailing cry bursting from the mob told that the abbot was launched into eternity. hal would not look back, but went slowly on, and presently afterwards other horrid sounds dinned in his ears, telling that all was over with the two other sufferers. sickened and faint, he leaned against a wall for support. how long he continued thus, he knew not, but he heard the cavalcade coming down the hill, and saw the earl of derby and his attendants ride past. glancing toward the place of execution, hal then perceived that the abbot had been cut down, and, rousing himself, he joined the crowd now rushing towards the gate, and ascertained that the body of paslew was to be taken to the convent church, and deposited there till orders were to be given respecting its interment. he learnt, also, that the removal of the corpse was intrusted to demdike. fired by this intelligence, and suddenly conceiving a wild project of vengeance, founded upon what he had heard from the abbot of the wizard being proof against weapons forged by men, he hurried to the church, entered it, the door being thrown open, and rushing up to the gallery, contrived to get out through a window upon the top of the porch, where he secreted himself behind the great stone statue of saint gregory. the information he had obtained proved correct. ere long a mournful train approached the church, and a bier was set down before the porch. a black hood covered the face of the dead, but the vestments showed that it was the body of paslew. at the head of the bearers was demdike, and when the body was set down he advanced towards it, and, removing the hood, gazed at the livid and distorted features. "at length i am fully avenged," he said. "and abbot paslew, also," cried a voice above him. demdike looked up, but the look was his last, for the ponderous statue of saint gregory de northbury, launched from its pedestal, fell upon his head, and crushed him to the ground. a mangled and breathless mass was taken from beneath the image, and the hands and visage of paslew were found spotted with blood dashed from the gory carcass. the author of the wizard's destruction was suspected, but never found, nor was it positively known who had done the deed till years after, when hal o' nabs, who meanwhile had married pretty dorothy croft, and had been blessed by numerous offspring in the union, made his last confession, and then he exhibited no remarkable or becoming penitence for the act, neither was he refused absolution. thus it came to pass that the abbot and his enemy perished together. the mutilated remains of the wizard were placed in a shell, and huddled into the grave where his wife had that morning been laid. but no prayer was said over him. and the superstitious believed that the body was carried off that very night by the fiend, and taken to a witch's sabbath in the ruined tower on rimington moor. certain it was, that the unhallowed grave was disturbed. the body of paslew was decently interred in the north aisle of the parish church of whalley, beneath a stone with a gothic cross sculptured upon it, and bearing the piteous inscription:--"_miserere mei_." but in the belief of the vulgar the abbot did not rest tranquilly. for many years afterwards a white-robed monastic figure was seen to flit along the cloisters, pass out at the gate, and disappear with a wailing cry over the holehouses. and the same ghostly figure was often seen to glide through the corridor in the abbot's lodging, and vanish at the door of the chamber leading to the little oratory. thus whalley abbey was supposed to be haunted, and few liked to wander through its deserted cloisters, or ruined church, after dark. the abbot's tragical end was thus recorded:-- johannes paslew: capitali effectus supplicio. º mensis martii, . as to the infant, upon whom the abbot's malediction fell, it was reserved for the dark destinies shadowed forth in the dread anathema he had uttered: to the development of which the tragic drama about to follow is devoted, and to which the fate of abbot paslew forms a necessary and fitting prologue. thus far the veil of the future may be drawn aside. that infant and her progeny became the lancashire witches. end of the introduction. the lancashire witches. book the first. alizon device. chapter i.--the may queen. on a may-day in the early part of the seventeenth century, and a most lovely may-day, too, admirably adapted to usher in the merriest month of the year, and seemingly made expressly for the occasion, a wake was held at whalley, to which all the neighbouring country folk resorted, and indeed many of the gentry as well, for in the good old times, when england was still merry england, a wake had attractions for all classes alike, and especially in lancashire; for, with pride i speak it, there were no lads who, in running, vaulting, wrestling, dancing, or in any other manly exercise, could compare with the lancashire lads. in archery, above all, none could match them; for were not their ancestors the stout bowmen and billmen whose cloth-yard shafts, and trenchant weapons, won the day at flodden? and were they not true sons of their fathers? and then, i speak it with yet greater pride, there were few, if any, lasses who could compare in comeliness with the rosy-cheeked, dark-haired, bright-eyed lasses of lancashire. assemblages of this kind, therefore, where the best specimens of either sex were to be met with, were sure to be well attended, and in spite of an enactment passed in the preceding reign of elizabeth, prohibiting "piping, playing, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting on the sabbath-days, or on any other days, and also superstitious ringing of bells, wakes, and common feasts," they were not only not interfered with, but rather encouraged by the higher orders. indeed, it was well known that the reigning monarch, james the first, inclined the other way, and, desirous of checking the growing spirit of puritanism throughout the kingdom, had openly expressed himself in favour of honest recreation after evening prayers and upon holidays; and, furthermore, had declared that he liked well the spirit of his good subjects in lancashire, and would not see them punished for indulging in lawful exercises, but that ere long he would pay them a visit in one of his progresses, and judge for himself, and if he found all things as they had been represented to him, he would grant them still further licence. meanwhile, this expression of the royal opinion removed every restriction, and old sports and pastimes, may-games, whitsun-ales, and morris-dances, with rush-bearings, bell-ringings, wakes, and feasts, were as much practised as before the passing of the obnoxious enactment of elizabeth. the puritans and precisians discountenanced them, it is true, as much as ever, and would have put them down, if they could, as savouring of papistry and idolatry, and some rigid divines thundered against them from the pulpit; but with the king and the authorities in their favour, the people little heeded these denunciations against them, and abstained not from any "honest recreation" whenever a holiday occurred. if lancashire was famous for wakes, the wakes of whalley were famous even in lancashire. the men of the district were in general a hardy, handsome race, of the genuine saxon breed, and passionately fond of all kinds of pastime, and the women had their full share of the beauty indigenous to the soil. besides, it was a secluded spot, in the heart of a wild mountainous region, and though occasionally visited by travellers journeying northward, or by others coming from the opposite direction, retained a primitive simplicity of manners, and a great partiality for old customs and habits. the natural beauties of the place, contrasted with the dreary region around it, and heightened by the picturesque ruins of the ancient abbey, part of which, namely, the old abbot's lodgings, had been converted into a residence by the asshetons, and was now occupied by sir ralph assheton, while the other was left to the ravages of time, made it always an object of attraction to those residing near it; but when on the may-day in question, there was not only to be a wake, but a may-pole set on the green, and a rush-bearing with morris-dancers besides, together with whitsun-ale at the abbey, crowds flocked to whalley from wiswall, cold coates, and clithero, from ribchester and blackburn, from padiham and pendle, and even from places more remote. not only was john lawe's of the dragon full, but the chequers, and the swan also, and the roadside alehouse to boot. sir ralph assheton had several guests at the abbey, and others were expected in the course of the day, while doctor ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage. soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and, to the sound of horn, had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock of green boughs and flowering branches of the sweetly-perfumed hawthorn, wild roses, and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, cowslips, primroses, blue-bells, and other wild flowers, and returning in the same order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green bowers within the churchyard, or round about the may-pole set up on the green, and decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. this morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the feet: but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their lusty swains. on the day before the rushes had been gathered, and the rush cart piled, shaped, trimmed, and adorned by those experienced in the task, (and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be seen when the cart itself shall come forth,) while others had borrowed for its adornment, from the abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards, drinking-cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains, and bracelets, so as to make an imposing show. day was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the old parish church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. the whole village was early astir; and as these were times when good hours were kept; and as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends, and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general hospitality. the alehouses were reserved for tippling at a later hour, for it was then customary for both gentleman and commoner, male as well as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment for wine or other liquors. private chambers were, of course, reserved for the gentry; but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their bottle with the other guests. such was the invariable practice in the northern counties in the reign of james the first. soon after mid-day, and when the bells began to peal merrily again (for even ringers must recruit themselves), at a small cottage in the outskirts of the village, and close to the calder, whose waters swept past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were employed in attiring a third, who was to represent maid marian, or queen of may, in the pageant then about to ensue. and, certainly, by sovereign and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. lovelier maiden in the whole county, and however high her degree, than this rustic damsel, it was impossible to find; and though the becoming and fanciful costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms, it certainly displayed them to advantage. upon her smooth and beautiful brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair, covered behind with a scarlet coif, embroidered with gold; and tied with yellow, white, and crimson ribands, but otherwise wholly unconfirmed, swept down almost to the ground. slight and fragile, her figure was of such just proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm. the most courtly dame might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and fancied she could improve them by protecting them against the sun, or by rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic, but this was questionable; nothing certainly could improve the small foot and finely-turned ankle, so well displayed in the red hose and smart little yellow buskin, fringed with gold. a stomacher of scarlet cloth, braided with yellow lace in cross bars, confined her slender waist. her robe was of carnation-coloured silk, with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. over all she wore a surcoat of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with gold. in her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season. so enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely checks, that she might have been taken for a personification of may herself. she was indeed in the very may of life--the mingling of spring and summer in womanhood; and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of purest water, the soft regular features, and the merry mouth, whose ruddy parted lips ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed the similitude to the attributes of the jocund month. her handmaidens, both of whom were simple girls, and though not destitute of some pretensions to beauty themselves, in nowise to be compared with her, were at the moment employed in knotting the ribands in her hair, and adjusting the azure surcoat. attentively watching these proceedings sat on a stool, placed in a corner, a little girl, some nine or ten years old, with a basket of flowers on her knee. the child was very diminutive, even for her age, and her smallness was increased by personal deformity, occasioned by contraction of the chest, and spinal curvature, which raised her back above her shoulders; but her features were sharp and cunning, indeed almost malignant, and there was a singular and unpleasant look about the eyes, which were not placed evenly in the head. altogether she had a strange old-fashioned look, and from her habitual bitterness of speech, as well as from her vindictive character, which, young as she was, had been displayed, with some effect, on more than one occasion, she was no great favourite with any one. it was curious now to watch the eager and envious interest she took in the progress of her sister's adornment--for such was the degree of relationship in which she stood to the may queen--and when the surcoat was finally adjusted, and the last riband tied, she broke forth, having hitherto preserved a sullen silence. [illustration: the may queen.] "weel, sister alizon, ye may a farrently may queen, ey mun say" she observed, spitefully, "but to my mind other suky worseley, or nancy holt, here, would ha' looked prottier." "nah, nah, that we shouldna," rejoined one of the damsels referred to; "there is na a lass i' lonkyshiar to hold a condle near alizon device." "fie upon ye, for an ill-favort minx, jennet," cried nancy holt; "yo're jealous o' your protty sister." "ey jealous," cried jennet, reddening, "an whoy the firrups should ey be jealous, ey, thou saucy jade! whon ey grow older ey'st may a prottier may queen than onny on you, an so the lads aw tell me." "and so you will, jennet," said alizon device, checking, by a gentle look, the jeering laugh in which nancy seemed disposed to indulge--"so you will, my pretty little sister," she added, kissing her; "and i will 'tire you as well and as carefully as susan and nancy have just 'tired me." "mayhap ey shanna live till then," rejoined jennet, peevishly, "and when ey'm dead an' gone, an' laid i' t' cowld churchyard, yo an they win be sorry fo having werreted me so." "i have never intentionally vexed you, jennet, love," said alizon, "and i am sure these two girls love you dearly." "eigh, we may allowance fo her feaw tempers," observed susan worseley; "fo we knoa that ailments an deformities are sure to may folk fretful." "eigh, there it is," cried jennet, sharply. "my high shoulthers an sma size are always thrown i' my feace. boh ey'st grow tall i' time, an get straight--eigh straighter than yo, suky, wi' your broad back an short neck--boh if ey dunna, whot matters it? ey shall be feared at onny rate--ay, feared, wenches, by ye both." "nah doubt on't, theaw little good-fo'-nothin piece o' mischief," muttered susan. "whot's that yo sayn, suky?" cried jennet, whose quick ears had caught the words, "tak care whot ye do to offend me, lass," she added, shaking her thin fingers, armed with talon-like claws, threateningly at her, "or ey'll ask my granddame, mother demdike, to quieten ye." at the mention of this name a sudden shade came over susan's countenance. changing colour, and slightly trembling, she turned away from the child, who, noticing the effect of her threat, could not repress her triumph. but again alizon interposed. "do not be alarmed, susan," she said, "my grandmother will never harm you, i am sure; indeed, she will never harm any one; and do not heed what little jennet says, for she is not aware of the effect of her own words, or of the injury they might do our grandmother, if repeated." "ey dunna wish to repeat them, or to think of em," sobbed susan. "that's good, that's kind of you, susan," replied alizon, taking her hand. "do not be cross any more, jennet. you see you have made her weep." "ey'm glad on it," rejoined the little girl, laughing; "let her cry on. it'll do her good, an teach her to mend her manners, and nah offend me again." "ey didna mean to offend ye, jennet," sobbed susan, "boh yo're so wrythen an marr'd, a body canna speak to please ye." "weel, if ye confess your fault, ey'm satisfied," replied the little girl; "boh let it be a lesson to ye, suky, to keep guard o' your tongue i' future." "it shall, ey promise ye," replied susan, drying her eyes. at this moment a door opened, and a woman entered from an inner room, having a high-crowned, conical-shaped hat on her head, and broad white pinners over her cheeks. her dress was of dark red camlet, with high-heeled shoes. she stooped slightly, and being rather lame, supported herself on a crutch-handled stick. in age she might be between forty and fifty, but she looked much older, and her features were not at all prepossessing from a hooked nose and chin, while their sinister effect was increased by a formation of the eyes similar to that in jennet, only more strongly noticeable in her case. this woman was elizabeth device, widow of john device, about whose death there was a mystery to be inquired into hereafter, and mother of alizon and jennet, though how she came to have a daughter so unlike herself in all respects as the former, no one could conceive; but so it was. "soh, ye ha donned your finery at last, alizon," said elizabeth. "your brother jem has just run up to say that t' rush-cart has set out, and that robin hood and his merry men are comin' for their queen." "and their queen is quite ready for them," replied alizon, moving towards the door. "neigh, let's ha' a look at ye fust, wench," cried elizabeth, staying her; "fine fitthers may fine brids--ey warrant me now yo'n getten these may gewgaws on, yo fancy yourself a queen in arnest." "a queen of a day, mother; a queen of a little village festival; nothing more," replied alizon. "oh, if i were a queen in right earnest, or even a great lady--" "whot would yo do?" demanded elizabeth device, sourly. "i'd make you rich, mother, and build you a grand house to live in," replied alizon; "much grander than browsholme, or downham, or middleton." "pity yo're nah a queen then, alizon," replied elizabeth, relaxing her harsh features into a wintry smile. "whot would ye do fo me, alizon, if ye were a queen?" asked little jennet, looking up at her. "why, let me see," was the reply; "i'd indulge every one of your whims and wishes. you should only need ask to have." "poh--poh--yo'd never content her," observed elizabeth, testily. "it's nah your way to try an content me, mother, even whon ye might," rejoined jennet, who, if she loved few people, loved her mother least of all, and never lost an opportunity of testifying her dislike to her. "awt o'pontee, little wasp," cried her mother; "theaw desarves nowt boh whot theaw dustna get often enough--a good whipping." "yo hanna towd us whot yo'd do fo yurself if yo war a great lady, alizon?" interposed susan. "oh, i haven't thought about myself," replied the other, laughing. "ey con tell ye what she'd do, suky," replied little jennet, knowingly; "she'd marry master richard assheton, o' middleton." "jennet!" exclaimed alizon, blushing crimson. "it's true," replied the little girl; "ye knoa ye would, alizon, look at her feace," she added, with a screaming laugh. "howd te tongue, little plague," cried elizabeth, rapping her knuckles with her stick, "and behave thyself, or theaw shanna go out to t' wake." jennet dealt her mother a bitterly vindictive look, but she neither uttered cry, nor made remark. in the momentary silence that ensued the blithe jingling of bells was heard, accompanied by the merry sound of tabor and pipe. "ah! here come the rush-cart and the morris-dancers," cried alizon, rushing joyously to the window, which, being left partly open, admitted the scent of the woodbine and eglantine by which it was overgrown, as well as the humming sound of the bees by which the flowers were invaded. almost immediately afterwards a frolic troop, like a band of masquers, approached the cottage, and drew up before it, while the jingling of bells ceasing at the same moment, told that the rush-cart had stopped likewise. chief amongst the party was robin hood clad in a suit of lincoln green, with a sheaf of arrows at his back, a bugle dangling from his baldric, a bow in his hand, and a broad-leaved green hat on his head, looped up on one side, and decorated with a heron's feather. the hero of sherwood was personated by a tall, well-limbed fellow, to whom, being really a forester of bowland, the character was natural. beside him stood a very different figure, a jovial friar, with shaven crown, rubicund cheeks, bull throat, and mighty paunch, covered by a russet habit, and girded in by a red cord, decorated with golden twist and tassel. he wore red hose and sandal shoon, and carried in his girdle a wallet, to contain a roast capon, a neat's tongue, or any other dainty given him. friar tuck, for such he was, found his representative in ned huddlestone, porter at the abbey, who, as the largest and stoutest man in the village, was chosen on that account to the part. next to him came a character of no little importance, and upon whom much of the mirth of the pageant depended, and this devolved upon the village cobbler, jack roby, a dapper little fellow, who fitted the part of the fool to a nicety. with bauble in hand, and blue coxcomb hood adorned with long white asses' ears on head, with jerkin of green, striped with yellow; hose of different colours, the left leg being yellow, with a red pantoufle, and the right blue, terminated with a yellow shoe; with bells hung upon various parts of his motley attire, so that he could not move without producing a jingling sound, jack roby looked wonderful indeed; and was constantly dancing about, and dealing a blow with his bauble. next came will scarlet, stukely, and little john, all proper men and tall, attired in lincoln green, like robin hood, and similarly equipped. like him, too, they were all foresters of bowland, owning service to the bow-bearer, mr. parker of browsholme hall; and the representative of little john, who was six feet and a half high, and stout in proportion, was lawrence blackrod, mr. parker's head keeper. after the foresters came tom the piper, a wandering minstrel, habited for the occasion in a blue doublet, with sleeves of the same colour, turned up with yellow, red hose, and brown buskins, red bonnet, and green surcoat lined with yellow. beside the piper was another minstrel, similarly attired, and provided with a tabor. lastly came one of the main features of the pageant, and which, together with the fool, contributed most materially to the amusement of the spectators. this was the hobby-horse. the hue of this, spirited charger was a pinkish white, and his housings were of crimson cloth hanging to the ground, so as to conceal the rider's real legs, though a pair of sham ones dangled at the side. his bit was of gold, and his bridle red morocco leather, while his rider was very sumptuously arrayed in a purple mantle, bordered with gold, with a rich cap of the same regal hue on his head, encircled with gold, and having a red feather stuck in it. the hobby-horse had a plume of nodding feathers on his head, and careered from side to side, now rearing in front, now kicking behind, now prancing, now gently ambling, and in short indulging in playful fancies and vagaries, such as horse never indulged in before, to the imminent danger, it seemed, of his rider, and to the huge delight of the beholders. nor must it be omitted, as it was matter of great wonderment to the lookers-on, that by some legerdemain contrivance the rider of the hobby-horse had a couple of daggers stuck in his cheeks, while from his steed's bridle hung a silver ladle, which he held now and then to the crowd, and in which, when he did so, a few coins were sure to rattle. after the hobby-horse came the may-pole, not the tall pole so called and which was already planted in the green, but a stout staff elevated some six feet above the head of the bearer, with a coronal of flowers atop, and four long garlands hanging down, each held by a morris-dancer. then came the may queen's gentleman usher, a fantastic personage in habiliments of blue guarded with white, and holding a long willow wand in his hand. after the usher came the main troop of morris-dancers--the men attired in a graceful costume, which set off their light active figures to advantage, consisting of a slashed-jerkin of black and white velvet, with cut sleeves left open so as to reveal the snowy shirt beneath, white hose, and shoes of black spanish leather with large roses. ribands were every where in their dresses--ribands and tinsel adorned their caps, ribands crossed their hose, and ribands were tied round their arms. in either hand they held a long white handkerchief knotted with ribands. the female morris-dancers were habited in white, decorated like the dresses of the men; they had ribands and wreaths of flowers round their heads, bows in their hair, and in their hands long white knotted kerchiefs. in the rear of the performers in the pageant came the rush-cart drawn by a team of eight stout horses, with their manes and tails tied with ribands, their collars fringed with red and yellow worsted, and hung with bells, which jingled blithely at every movement, and their heads decked with flowers. the cart itself consisted of an enormous pile of rushes, banded and twisted together, rising to a considerable height, and terminated in a sharp ridge, like the point of a gothic window. the sides and top were decorated with flowers and ribands, and there were eaves in front and at the back, and on the space within them, which was covered with white paper, were strings of gaudy flowers, embedded in moss, amongst which were suspended all the ornaments and finery that could be collected for the occasion: to wit, flagons of silver, spoons, ladles, chains, watches, and bracelets, so as to make a brave and resplendent show. the wonder was how articles of so much value would be trusted forth on such an occasion; but nothing was ever lost. on the top of the rush-cart, and bestriding its sharp ridges, sat half a dozen men, habited somewhat like the morris-dancers, in garments bedecked with tinsel and ribands, holding garlands formed by hoops, decorated with flowers, and attached to poles ornamented with silver paper, cut into various figures and devices, and diminishing gradually in size as they rose to a point, where they were crowned with wreaths of daffodils. a large crowd of rustics, of all ages, accompanied the morris-dancers and rush-cart. this gay troop having come to a halt, as described, before the cottage, the gentleman-usher entered it, and, tapping against the inner door with his wand, took off his cap as soon as it was opened, and bowing deferentially to the ground, said he was come to invite the queen of may to join the pageant, and that it only awaited her presence to proceed to the green. having delivered this speech in as good set phrase as he could command, and being the parish clerk and schoolmaster to boot, sampson harrop by name, he was somewhat more polished than the rest of the hinds; and having, moreover, received a gracious response from the may queen, who condescendingly replied that she was quite ready to accompany him, he took her hand, and led her ceremoniously to the door, whither they were followed by the others. loud was the shout that greeted alizon's appearance, and tremendous was the pushing to obtain a sight of her; and so much was she abashed by the enthusiastic greeting, which was wholly unexpected on her part, that she would have drawn back again, if it had been possible; but the usher led her forward, and robin hood and the foresters having bent the knee before her, the hobby-horse began to curvet anew among the spectators, and tread on their toes, the fool to rap their knuckles with his bauble, the piper to play, the taborer to beat his tambourine, and the morris-dancers to toss their kerchiefs over their heads. thus the pageant being put in motion, the rush-cart began to roll on, its horses' bells jingling merrily, and the spectators cheering lustily. chapter ii.--the black cat and the white dove. little jennet watched her sister's triumphant departure with a look in which there was far more of envy than sympathy, and, when her mother took her hand to lead her forth, she would not go, but saying she did not care for any such idle sights, went back sullenly to the inner room. when there, however, she could not help peeping through the window, and saw susan and nancy join the revel rout, with feelings of increased bitterness. "ey wish it would rain an spile their finery," she said, sitting down on her stool, and plucking the flowers from her basket in pieces. "an yet, why canna ey enjoy such seets like other folk? truth is, ey've nah heart for it." "folks say," she continued, after a pause, "that grandmother demdike is a witch, an con do os she pleases. ey wonder if she made alizon so protty. nah, that canna be, fo' alizon's na favourite o' hern. if she loves onny one it's me. why dunna she make me good-looking, then? they say it's sinfu' to be a witch--if so, how comes grandmother demdike to be one? boh ey'n observed that those folks os caws her witch are afeard on her, so it may be pure spite o' their pert." as she thus mused, a great black cat belonging to her mother, which had followed her into the room, rubbed himself against her, putting up his back, and purring loudly. "ah, tib," said the little girl, "how are ye, tib? ey didna knoa ye were here. lemme ask ye some questions, tib?" the cat mewed, looked up, and fixed his great yellow eyes upon her. "one 'ud think ye onderstud whot wos said to ye, tib," pursued little jennet. "we'n see whot ye say to this! shan ey ever be queen o' may, like sister alizon?" the cat mewed in a manner that the little girl found no difficulty in interpreting the reply into "no." "how's that, tib?" cried jennet, sharply. "if ey thought ye meant it, ey'd beat ye, sirrah. answer me another question, ye saucy knave. who will be luckiest, alizon or me?" this time the cat darted away from her, and made two or three skirmishes round the room, as if gone suddenly mad. "ey con may nowt o' that," observed jennet, laughing. all at once the cat bounded upon the chimney board, over which was placed a sampler, worked with the name "alizon." "why tib really seems to onderstond me, ey declare," observed jennet, uneasily. "ey should like to ask him a few more questions, if ey durst," she added, regarding with some distrust the animal, who now returned, and began rubbing against her as before. "tib--tib!" the cat looked up, and mewed. "protty tib--sweet tib," continued the little girl, coaxingly. "whot mun one do to be a witch like grandmother demdike?" the cat again dashed twice or thrice madly round the room, and then stopping suddenly at the hearth, sprang up the chimney. "ey'n frightened ye away ot onny rate," observed jennet, laughing. "and yet it may mean summot," she added, reflecting a little, "fo ey'n heerd say os how witches fly up chimleys o' broomsticks to attend their sabbaths. ey should like to fly i' that manner, an change myself into another shape--onny shape boh my own. oh that ey could be os protty os alizon! ey dunna knoa whot ey'd nah do to be like her!" again the great black cat was beside her, rubbing against her, and purring. the child was a good deal startled, for she had not seen him return, and the door was shut, though he might have come in through the open window, only she had been looking that way all the time, and had never noticed him. strange! "tib," said the child, patting him, "thou hasna answered my last question--how is one to become a witch?" as she made this inquiry the cat suddenly scratched her in the arm, so that the blood came. the little girl was a good deal frightened, as well as hurt, and, withdrawing her arm quickly, made a motion of striking the animal. but starting backwards, erecting his tail, and spitting, the cat assumed such a formidable appearance, that she did not dare to touch him, and she then perceived that some drops of blood stained her white sleeve, giving the spots a certain resemblance to the letters j. and d., her own initials. at this moment, when she was about to scream for help, though she knew no one was in the house, all having gone away with the may-day revellers, a small white dove flew in at the open window, and skimming round the room, alighted near her. no sooner had the cat caught sight of this beautiful bird, than instead of preparing to pounce upon it, as might have been expected, he instantly abandoned his fierce attitude, and, uttering a sort of howl, sprang up the chimney as before. but the child scarcely observed this, her attention being directed towards the bird, whose extreme beauty delighted her. it seemed quite tame too, and allowed itself to be touched, and even drawn towards her, without an effort to escape. never, surely, was seen so beautiful a bird--with such milkwhite feathers, such red legs, and such pretty yellow eyes, with crimson circles round them! so thought the little girl, as she gazed at it, and pressed it to her bosom. in doing this, gentle and good thoughts came upon her, and she reflected what a nice present this pretty bird would make to her sister alizon on her return from the merry-making, and how pleased she should feel to give it to her. and then she thought of alizon's constant kindness to her, and half reproached herself with the poor return she made for it, wondering she could entertain any feelings of envy towards one so good and amiable. all this while the dove nestled in her bosom. while thus pondering, the little girl felt an unaccountable drowsiness steal over her, and presently afterwards dropped asleep, when she had a very strange dream. it seemed to her that there was a contest going on between two spirits, a good one and a bad,--the bad one being represented by the great black cat, and the good spirit by the white dove. what they were striving about she could not exactly tell, but she felt that the conflict had some relation to herself. the dove at first appeared to have but a poor chance against the claws of its sable adversary, but the sharp talons of the latter made no impression upon the white plumage of the bird, which now shone like silver armour, and in the end the cat fled, yelling as it darted off--"thou art victorious now, but her soul shall yet be mine." something awakened the little sleeper at the same moment, and she felt very much terrified at her dream, as she could not help thinking her own soul might be the one in jeopardy, and her first impulse was to see whether the white dove was safe. yes, there it was still nestling in her bosom, with its head under its wing. just then she was startled at hearing her own name pronounced by a hoarse voice, and, looking up, she beheld a tall young man standing at the window. he had a somewhat gipsy look, having a dark olive complexion, and fine black eyes, though set strangely in his head, like those of jennet and her mother, coal black hair, and very prominent features, of a sullen and almost savage cast. his figure was gaunt but very muscular, his arms being extremely long and his hands unusually large and bony--personal advantages which made him a formidable antagonist in any rustic encounter, and in such he was frequently engaged, being of a very irascible temper, and turbulent disposition. he was clad in a holiday suit of dark-green serge, which fitted him well, and carried a nosegay in one hand, and a stout blackthorn cudgel in the other. this young man was james device, son of elizabeth, and some four or five years older than alizon. he did not live with his mother in whalley, but in pendle forest, near his old relative, mother demdike, and had come over that morning to attend the wake. "whot are ye abowt, jennet?" inquired james device, in tones naturally hoarse and deep, and which he took as little pains to soften, as he did to polish his manners, which were more than ordinarily rude and churlish. "whot are ye abowt, ey sey, wench?" he repeated, "why dunna ye go to t' green to see the morris-dancers foot it round t' may-pow? cum along wi' me." "ey dunna want to go, jem," replied the little girl. "boh yo shan go, ey tell ey," rejoined her brother; "ye shan see your sister dawnce. ye con sit a whoam onny day; boh may-day cums ony wonst a year, an alizon winna be queen twice i' her life. soh cum along wi' me, dereckly, or ey'n may ye." "ey should like to see alizon dance, an so ey win go wi' ye, jem," replied jennet, getting up, "otherwise your orders shouldna may me stir, ey con tell ye." as she came out, she found her brother whistling the blithe air of "green sleeves," cutting strange capers, in imitation of the morris-dancers, and whirling his cudgel over his head instead of a kerchief. the gaiety of the day seemed infectious, and to have seized even him. people stared to see black jem, or surly jem, as he was indifferently called, so joyous, and wondered what it could mean. he then fell to singing a snatch of a local ballad at that time in vogue in the neighbourhood:-- "if thou wi' nah my secret tell, ne bruit abroad i' whalley parish, and swear to keep my counsel well, ey win declare my day of marriage." "cum along, lass," he cried stopping suddenly in his song, and snatching his sister's hand. "what han ye getten there, lapped up i' your kirtle, eh?" "a white dove," replied jennet, determined not to tell him any thing about her strange dream. "a white dove!" echoed jem. "gi' it me, an ey'n wring its neck, an get it roasted for supper." "ye shan do nah such thing, jem," replied jennet. "ey mean to gi' it to alizon." "weel, weel, that's reet," rejoined jem, blandly, "it'll may a protty offering. let's look at it." "nah, nah," said jennet, pressing the bird gently to her bosom, "neaw one shan see it efore alizon." "cum along then," cried jem, rather testily, and mending his pace, "or we'st be too late fo' t' round. whoy yo'n scratted yourself," he added, noticing the red spots on her sleeve. "han ey?" she rejoined, evasively. "oh now ey rekilect, it wos tib did it." "tib!" echoed jem, gravely, and glancing uneasily at the marks. meanwhile, on quitting the cottage, the may-day revellers had proceeded slowly towards the green, increasing the number of their followers at each little tenement they passed, and being welcomed every where with shouts and cheers. the hobby-horse curveted and capered; the fool fleered at the girls, and flouted the men, jesting with every one, and when failing in a point rapping the knuckles of his auditors; friar tuck chucked the pretty girls under the chin, in defiance of their sweethearts, and stole a kiss from every buxom dame that stood in his way, and then snapped his fingers, or made a broad grimace at the husband; the piper played, and the taborer rattled his tambourine; the morris-dancers tossed their kerchiefs aloft; and the bells of the rush-cart jingled merrily; the men on the top being on a level with the roofs of the cottages, and the summits of the haystacks they passed, but in spite of their exalted position jesting with the crowd below. but in spite of these multiplied attractions, and in spite of the gambols of fool and horse, though the latter elicited prodigious laughter, the main attention was fixed on the may queen, who tripped lightly along by the side of her faithful squire, robin hood, followed by the three bold foresters of sherwood, and her usher. in this way they reached the green, where already a large crowd was collected to see them, and where in the midst of it, and above the heads of the assemblage, rose the lofty may-pole, with all its flowery garlands glittering in the sunshine, and its ribands fluttering in the breeze. pleasant was it to see those cheerful groups, composed of happy rustics, youths in their holiday attire, and maidens neatly habited too, and fresh and bright as the day itself. summer sunshine sparkled in their eyes, and weather and circumstance as well as genial natures disposed them to enjoyment. every lass above eighteen had her sweetheart, and old couples nodded and smiled at each other when any tender speech, broadly conveyed but tenderly conceived, reached their ears, and said it recalled the days of their youth. pleasant was it to hear such honest laughter, and such good homely jests. laugh on, my merry lads, you are made of good old english stuff, loyal to church and king, and while you, and such as you, last, our land will be in no danger from foreign foe! laugh on, and praise your sweethearts how you will. laugh on, and blessings on your honest hearts! the frolic train had just reached the precincts of the green, when the usher waving his wand aloft, called a momentary halt, announcing that sir ralph assheton and the gentry were coming forth from the abbey gate to meet them. chapter iii.--the asshetons. between sir ralph assheton of the abbey and the inhabitants of whalley, many of whom were his tenants, he being joint lord of the manor with john braddyll of portfield, the best possible feeling subsisted; for though somewhat austere in manner, and tinctured with puritanism, the worthy knight was sufficiently shrewd, or, more correctly speaking, sufficiently liberal-minded, to be tolerant of the opinions of others, and being moreover sincere in his own religious views, no man could call him in question for them; besides which, he was very hospitable to his friends, very bountiful to the poor, a good landlord, and a humane man. his very austerity of manner, tempered by stately courtesy, added to the respect he inspired, especially as he could now and then relax into gaiety, and, when he did so, his smile was accounted singularly sweet. but in general he was grave and formal; stiff in attire, and stiff in gait; cold and punctilious in manner, precise in speech, and exacting in due respect from both high and low, which was seldom, if ever, refused him. amongst sir ralph's other good qualities, for such it was esteemed by his friends and retainers, and they were, of course, the best judges, was a strong love of the chase, and perhaps he indulged a little too freely in the sports of the field, for a gentleman of a character so staid and decorous; but his popularity was far from being diminished by the circumstance; neither did he suffer the rude and boisterous companionship into which he was brought by indulgence in this his favourite pursuit in any way to affect him. though still young, sir ralph was prematurely grey, and this, combined with the sad severity of his aspect, gave him the air of one considerably past the middle term of life, though this appearance was contradicted again by the youthful fire of his eagle eye. his features were handsome and strongly marked, and he wore a pointed beard and mustaches, with a shaved cheek. sir ralph assheton had married twice, his first wife being a daughter of sir james bellingham of levens, in northumberland, by whom he had two children; while his second choice fell upon eleanor shuttleworth, the lovely and well-endowed heiress of gawthorpe, to whom he had been recently united. in his attire, even when habited for the chase or a merry-making, like the present, the knight of whalley affected a sombre colour, and ordinarily wore a quilted doublet of black silk, immense trunk hose of the same material, stiffened with whalebone, puffed out well-wadded sleeves, falling bands, for he eschewed the ruff as savouring of vanity, boots of black flexible leather, ascending to the hose, and armed with spurs with gigantic rowels, a round-crowned small-brimmed black hat, with an ostrich feather placed in the side and hanging over the top, a long rapier on his hip, and a dagger in his girdle. this buckram attire, it will be easily conceived, contributed no little to the natural stiffness of his thin tall figure. sir ralph assheton was great grandson of richard assheton, who flourished in the time of abbot paslew, and who, in conjunction with john braddyll, fourteen years after the unfortunate prelate's attainder and the dissolution of the monastery, had purchased the abbey and domains of whalley from the crown, subsequently to which, a division of the property so granted took place between them, the abbey and part of the manor falling to the share of richard assheton, whose descendants had now for three generations made it their residence. thus the whole of whalley belonged to the families of assheton and braddyll, which had intermarried; the latter, as has been stated, dwelling at portfield, a fine old seat in the neighbourhood. a very different person from sir ralph was his cousin, nicholas assheton of downham, who, except as regards his puritanism, might be considered a type of the lancashire squire of the day. a precisian in religious notions, and constant in attendance at church and lecture, he put no sort of restraint upon himself, but mixed up fox-hunting, otter-hunting, shooting at the mark, and perhaps shooting with the long-bow, foot-racing, horse-racing, and, in fact, every other kind of country diversion, not forgetting tippling, cards, and dicing, with daily devotion, discourses, and psalm-singing in the oddest way imaginable. a thorough sportsman was squire nicholas assheton, well versed in all the arts and mysteries of hawking and hunting. not a man in the county could ride harder, hunt deer, unkennel fox, unearth badger, or spear otter, better than he. and then, as to tippling, he would sit you a whole afternoon at the alehouse, and be the merriest man there, and drink a bout with every farmer present. and if the parson chanced to be out of hearing, he would never make a mouth at a round oath, nor choose a second expression when the first would serve his turn. then, who so constant at church or lecture as squire nicholas--though he did snore sometimes during the long sermons of his cousin, the rector of middleton? a great man was he at all weddings, christenings, churchings, and funerals, and never neglected his bottle at these ceremonies, nor any sport in doors or out of doors, meanwhile. in short, such a roystering puritan was never known. a good-looking young man was the squire of downham, possessed of a very athletic frame, and a most vigorous constitution, which helped him, together with the prodigious exercise he took, through any excess. he had a sanguine complexion, with a broad, good-natured visage, which he could lengthen at will in a surprising manner. his hair was cropped close to his head, and the razor did daily duty over his cheek and chin, giving him the roundhead look, some years later, characteristic of the puritanical party. nicholas had taken to wife dorothy, daughter of richard greenacres of worston, and was most fortunate in his choice, which is more than can be said for his lady, for i cannot uphold the squire as a model of conjugal fidelity. report affirmed that he loved more than one pretty girl under the rose. squire nicholas was not particular as to the quality or make of his clothes, provided they wore well and protected him against the weather, and was generally to be seen in doublet and hose of stout fustian, which had seen some service, with a broad-leaved hat, originally green, but of late bleached to a much lighter colour; but he was clad on this particular occasion in ash-coloured habiliments fresh from the tailor's hands, with buff boots drawn up to the knee, and a new round hat from york with a green feather in it. his legs were slightly embowed, and he bore himself like a man rarely out of the saddle. downham, the residence of the squire, was a fine old house, very charmingly situated to the north of pendle hill, of which it commanded a magnificent view, and a few miles from clithero. the grounds about it were well-wooded and beautifully broken and diversified, watered by the ribble, and opening upon the lovely and extensive valley deriving its name from that stream. the house was in good order and well maintained, and the stables plentifully furnished with horses, while the hall was adorned with various trophies and implements of the chase; but as i propose paying its owner a visit, i shall defer any further description of the place till an opportunity arrives for examining it in detail. a third cousin of sir ralph's, though in the second degree, likewise present on the may-day in question, was the reverend abdias assheton, rector of middleton, a very worthy man, who, though differing from his kinsmen upon some religious points, and not altogether approving of the conduct of one of them, was on good terms with both. the rector of middleton was portly and middle-aged, fond of ease and reading, and by no means indifferent to the good things of life. he was unmarried, and passed much of his time at middleton hall, the seat of his near relative sir richard assheton, to whose family he was greatly attached, and whose residence closely adjoined the rectory. a fourth cousin, also present, was young richard assheton of middleton, eldest son and heir of the owner of that estate. possessed of all the good qualities largely distributed among his kinsmen, with none of their drawbacks, this young man was as tolerant and bountiful as sir ralph, without his austerity and sectarianism; as keen a sportsman and as bold a rider as nicholas, without his propensities to excess; as studious, at times, and as well read as abdias, without his laziness and self-indulgence; and as courtly and well-bred as his father, sir richard, who was esteemed one of the most perfect gentlemen in the county, without his haughtiness. then he was the handsomest of his race, though the asshetons were accounted the handsomest family in lancashire, and no one minded yielding the palm to young richard, even if it could be contested, he was so modest and unassuming. at this time, richard assheton was about two-and-twenty, tall, gracefully and slightly formed, but possessed of such remarkable vigour, that even his cousin nicholas could scarcely compete with him in athletic exercises. his features were fine and regular, with an almost phrygian precision of outline; his hair was of a dark brown, and fell in clustering curls over his brow and neck; and his complexion was fresh and blooming, and set off by a slight beard and mustache, carefully trimmed and pointed. his dress consisted of a dark-green doublet, with wide velvet hose, embroidered and fringed, descending nearly to the knee, where they were tied with points and ribands, met by dark stockings, and terminated by red velvet shoes with roses in them. a white feather adorned his black broad-leaved hat, and he had a rapier by his side. amongst sir ralph assheton's guests were richard greenacres, of worston, nicholas assheton's father-in-law; richard sherborne of dunnow, near sladeburne, who had married dorothy, nicholas's sister; mistress robinson of raydale house, aunt to the knight and the squire, and two of her sons, both stout youths, with john braddyll and his wife, of portfield. besides these there was master roger nowell, a justice of the peace in the county, and a very active and busy one too, who had been invited for an especial purpose, to be explained hereafter. head of an ancient lancashire family, residing at read, a fine old hall, some little distance from whalley, roger nowell, though a worthy, well-meaning man, dealt hard measure from the bench, and seldom tempered justice with mercy. he was sharp-featured, dry, and sarcastic, and being adverse to country sports, his presence on the occasion was the only thing likely to impose restraint on the revellers. other guests there were, but none of particular note. the ladies of the party consisted of lady assheton, mistress nicholas assheton of downham, dorothy assheton of middleton, sister to richard, a lovely girl of eighteen, with light fleecy hair, summer blue eyes, and a complexion of exquisite purity, mistress sherborne of dunnow, mistress robinson of raydale, and mistress braddyll of portfield, before mentioned, together with the wives and daughters of some others of the neighbouring gentry; most noticeable amongst whom was mistress alice nutter of rough lee, in pendle forest, a widow lady and a relative of the assheton family. mistress nutter might be a year or two turned of forty, but she still retained a very fine figure, and much beauty of feature, though of a cold and disagreeable cast. she was dressed in mourning, though her husband had been dead several years, and her rich dark habiliments well became her pale complexion and raven hair. a proud poor gentleman was richard nutter, her late husband, and his scanty means not enabling him to keep up as large an establishment as he desired, or to be as hospitable as his nature prompted, his temper became soured, and he visited his ill humours upon his wife, who, devotedly attached to him, to all outward appearance at least, never resented his ill treatment. all at once, and without any previous symptoms of ailment, or apparent cause, unless it might be over-fatigue in hunting the day before, richard nutter was seized with a strange and violent illness, which, after three or four days of acute suffering, brought him to the grave. during his illness he was constantly and zealously tended by his wife, but he displayed great aversion to her, declaring himself bewitched, and that an old woman was ever in the corner of his room mumbling wicked enchantments against him. but as no such old woman could be seen, these assertions were treated as delirious ravings. they were not, however, forgotten after his death, and some people said that he had certainly been bewitched, and that a waxen image made in his likeness, and stuck full of pins, had been picked up in his chamber by mistress alice and cast into the fire, and as soon as it melted he had expired. such tales only obtained credence with the common folk; but as pendle forest was a sort of weird region, many reputed witches dwelling in it, they were the more readily believed, even by those who acquitted mistress nutter of all share in the dark transaction. mistress nutter gave the best proof that she respected her husband's memory by not marrying again, and she continued to lead a very secluded life at rough lee, a lonesome house in the heart of the forest. she lived quite by herself, for she had no children, her only daughter having perished somewhat strangely when quite an infant. though a relative of the asshetons, she kept up little intimacy with them, and it was a matter of surprise to all that she had been drawn from her seclusion to attend the present revel. her motive, however, in visiting the abbey, was to obtain the assistance of sir ralph assheton, in settling a dispute between her and roger nowell, relative to the boundary line of part of their properties which came together; and this was the reason why the magistrate had been invited to whalley. after hearing both sides of the question, and examining plans of the estates, which he knew to be accurate, sir ralph, who had been appointed umpire, pronounced a decision in favour of roger nowell, but mistress nutter refusing to abide by it, the settlement of the matter was postponed till the day but one following, between which time the landmarks were to be investigated by a certain little lawyer named potts, who attended on behalf of roger nowell; together with nicholas and richard assheton, on behalf of mistress nutter. upon their evidence it was agreed by both parties that sir ralph should pronounce a final decision, to be accepted by them, and to that effect they signed an agreement. the three persons appointed to the investigation settled to start for rough lee early on the following morning. a word as to master thomas potts. this worthy was an attorney from london, who had officiated as clerk of the court at the assizes at lancaster, where his quickness had so much pleased roger nowell, that he sent for him to read to manage this particular business. a sharp-witted fellow was potts, and versed in all the quirks and tricks of a very subtle profession--not over-scrupulous, provided a client would pay well; prepared to resort to any expedient to gain his object, and quite conversant enough with both practice and precedent to keep himself straight. a bustling, consequential little personage was he, moreover; very fond of delivering an opinion, even when unasked, and of a meddling, make-mischief turn, constantly setting men by the ears. a suit of rusty black, a parchment-coloured skin, small wizen features, a turn-up nose, scant eyebrows, and a great yellow forehead, constituted his external man. he partook of the hospitality at the abbey, but had his quarters at the dragon. he it was who counselled roger nowell to abide by the decision of sir ralph, confidently assuring him that he must carry his point. this dispute was not, however, the only one the knight had to adjust, or in which master potts was concerned. a claim had recently been made by a certain sir thomas metcalfe of nappay, in wensleydale, near bainbridge, to the house and manor of raydale, belonging to his neighbour, john robinson, whose lady, as has been shown, was a relative of the asshetons. robinson himself had gone to london to obtain advice on the subject, while sir thomas metcalfe, who was a man of violent disposition, had threatened to take forcible possession of raydale, if it were not delivered to him without delay, and to eject the robinson family. having consulted potts, however, on the subject, whom he had met at read, the latter strongly dissuaded him from the course, and recommended him to call to his aid the strong arm of the law: but this he rejected, though he ultimately agreed to refer the matter to sir ralph assheton, and for this purpose he had come over to whalley, and was at present a guest at the vicarage. thus it will be seen that sir ralph assheton had his hands full, while the little london lawyer, master potts, was tolerably well occupied. besides sir thomas metcalfe, sir richard molyneux, and mr. parker of browsholme, were guests of dr. ormerod at the vicarage. such was the large company assembled to witness the may-day revels at whalley, and if harmonious feelings did not exist amongst all of them, little outward manifestation was made of enmity. the dresses and appointments of the pageant having been provided by sir ralph assheton, who, puritan as he was, encouraged all harmless country pastimes, it was deemed necessary to pay him every respect, even if no other feeling would have prompted the attention, and therefore the troop had stopped on seeing him and his guests issue from the abbey gate. at pretty nearly the same time doctor ormerod and his party came from the vicarage towards the green. no order of march was observed, but sir ralph and his lady, with two of his children by the former marriage, walked first. then came some of the other ladies, with the rector of middleton, john braddyll, and the two sons of mistress robinson. next came mistress nutter, roger nowell and potts walking after her, eyeing her maliciously, as her proud figure swept on before them. even if she saw their looks or overheard their jeers, she did not deign to notice them. lastly came young richard assheton, of middleton, and squire nicholas, both in high spirits, and laughing and chatting together. "a brave day for the morris-dancers, cousin dick," observed nicholas assheton, as they approached the green, "and plenty of folk to witness the sport. half my lads from downham are here, and i see a good many of your middleton chaps among them. how are you, farmer tetlow?" he added to a stout, hale-looking man, with a blooming country woman by his side--"brought your pretty young wife to the rush-bearing, i see." "yeigh, squoire," rejoined the farmer, "an mightily pleased hoo be wi' it, too." "happy to hear if, master tetlow," replied nicholas, "she'll be better pleased before the day's over, i'll warrant her. i'll dance a round with her myself in the hall at night." "theere now, meg, whoy dunna ye may t' squoire a curtsy, wench, an thonk him," said tetlow, nudging his pretty wife, who had turned away, rather embarrassed by the free gaze of the squire. nicholas, however, did not wait for the curtsy, but went away, laughing, to overtake richard assheton, who had walked on. "ah, here's frank garside," he continued, espying another rustic acquaintance. "halloa, frank, i'll come over one day next week, and try for a fox in easington woods. we missed the last, you know. tom brockholes, are you here? just ridden over from sladeburne, eh? when is that shooting match at the bodkin to come off, eh? mind, it is to be at twenty-two roods' distance. ride over to downham on thursday next, tom. we're to have a foot-race, and i'll show you good sport, and at night we'll have a lusty drinking bout at the alehouse. on friday, we'll take out the great nets, and try for salmon in the ribble. i took some fine fish on monday--one salmon of ten pounds' weight, the largest i've got the whole season.--i brought it with me to-day to the abbey. there's an otter in the river, and i won't hunt him till you come, tom. i shall see you on thursday, eh?" receiving an answer in the affirmative, squire nicholas walked on, nodding right and left, jesting with the farmers, and ogling their pretty wives and daughters. "i tell you what, cousin dick," he said, calling after richard assheton, who had got in advance of him, "i'll match my dun nag against your grey gelding for twenty pieces, that i reach the boundary line of the rough lee lands before you to-morrow. what, you won't have it? you know i shall beat you--ha! ha! well, we'll try the speed of the two tits the first day we hunt the stag in bowland forest. odds my life!" he cried, suddenly altering his deportment and lengthening his visage, "if there isn't our parson here. stay with me, cousin dick, stay with me. give you good-day, worthy mr. dewhurst," he added, taking off his hat to the divine, who respectfully returned his salutation, "i did not look to see your reverence here, taking part in these vanities and idle sports. i propose to call on you on saturday, and pass an hour in serious discourse. i would call to-morrow, but i have to ride over to pendle on business. tarry a moment for me, i pray you, good cousin richard. i fear, reverend sir, that you will see much here that will scandalise you; much lightness and indecorum. pleasanter far would it be to me to see a large congregation of the elders flocking together to a godly meeting, than crowds assembled for such a profane purpose. another moment, richard. my cousin is a young man, mr. dewhurst, and wishes to join the revel. but we must make allowances, worthy and reverend sir, until the world shall improve. an excellent discourse you gave us, good sir, on sunday: viii. rom. and verses: it is graven upon my memory, but i have made a note of it in my diary. i come to you, cousin, i come. i pray you walk on to the abbey, good mr. dewhurst, where you will be right welcome, and call for any refreshment you may desire--a glass of good sack, and a slice of venison pasty, on which we have just dined--and there is some famous old ale, which i would commend to you, but that i know you care not, any more than myself, for creature comforts. farewell, reverend sir. i will join you ere long, for these scenes have little attraction for me. but i must take care that my young cousin falleth not into harm." and as the divine took his way to the abbey, he added, laughingly, to richard,--"a good riddance, dick. i would not have the old fellow play the spy upon us.--ah, giles mercer," he added, stopping again,--"and jeff rushton--well met, lads! what, are you come to the wake? i shall be at john lawe's in the evening, and we'll have a glass together--john brews sack rarely, and spareth not the eggs." "boh yo'n be at th' dawncing at th' abbey, squoire," said one of the farmers. "curse the dancing!" cried nicholas--"i hope the parson didn't hear me," he added, turning round quickly. "well, well, i'll come down when the dancing's over, and we'll make a night of it." and he ran on to overtake richard assheton. by this time the respective parties from the abbey and the vicarage having united, they walked on together, sir ralph assheton, after courteously exchanging salutations with dr. ormerod's guests, still keeping a little in advance of the company. sir thomas metcalfe comported himself with more than his wonted haughtiness, and bowed so superciliously to mistress robinson, that her two sons glanced angrily at each other, as if in doubt whether they should not instantly resent the affront. observing this, as well as what had previously taken place, nicholas assheton stepped quickly up to them, and said-- "keep quiet, lads. leave this dunghill cock to me, and i'll lower his crest." with this he pushed forward, and elbowing sir thomas rudely out of the way, turned round, and, instead of apologising, eyed him coolly and contemptuously from head to foot. "are you drunk, sir, that you forget your manners?" asked sir thomas, laying his hand upon his sword. "not so drunk but that i know how to conduct myself like a gentleman, sir thomas," rejoined nicholas, "which is more than can be said for a certain person of my acquaintance, who, for aught i know, has only taken his morning pint." "you wish to pick a quarrel with me, master nicholas assheton, i perceive," said sir thomas, stepping close up to him, "and i will not disappoint you. you shall render me good reason for this affront before i leave whalley." "when and where you please, sir thomas," rejoined nicholas, laughing. "at any hour, and at any weapon, i am your man." at this moment, master potts, who had scented a quarrel afar, and who would have liked it well enough if its prosecution had not run counter to his own interests, quitted roger nowell, and ran back to metcalfe, and plucking him by the sleeve, said, in a low voice-- "this is not the way to obtain quiet possession of raydale house, sir thomas. master nicholas assheton," he added, turning to him, "i must entreat you, my good sir, to be moderate. gentlemen, both, i caution you that i have my eye upon you. you well know there is a magistrate here, my singular good friend and honoured client, master roger nowell, and if you pursue this quarrel further, i shall hold it my duty to have you bound over by that worthy gentleman in sufficient securities to keep the peace towards our sovereign lord the king and all his lieges, and particularly towards each other. you understand me, gentlemen?" "perfectly," replied nicholas. "i drink at john lawe's to-night, sir thomas." so saying, he walked away. metcalfe would have followed him, but was withheld by potts. "let him go, sir thomas," said the little man of law; "let him go. once master of raydale, you can do as you please. leave the settlement of the matter to me. i'll just whisper a word in sir ralph assheton's ear, and you'll hear no more of it." "fire and fury!" growled sir thomas. "i like not this mode of settling a quarrel; and unless this hot-headed psalm-singing puritan apologises, i shall assuredly cut his throat." "or he yours, good sir thomas," rejoined potts. "better sit in raydale hall, than lie in the abbey vaults." "well, we'll talk over the matter, master potts," replied the knight. "a nice morning's work i've made of it," mused nicholas, as he walked along; "here i have a dance with a farmer's pretty wife, a discourse with a parson, a drinking-bout with a couple of clowns, and a duello with a blustering knight on my hands. quite enough, o' my conscience! but i must get through it the best way i can. and now, hey for the may-pole and the morris-dancers!" nicholas just got up in time to witness the presentation of the may queen to sir ralph assheton and his lady, and like every one else he was greatly struck by her extreme beauty and natural grace. the little ceremony was thus conducted. when the company from the abbey drew near the troop of revellers, the usher taking alizon's hand in the tips of his fingers as before, strutted forward with her to sir ralph and his lady, and falling upon one knee before them, said,--"most worshipful and honoured knight, and you his lovely dame, and you the tender and cherished olive branches growing round about their tables, i hereby crave your gracious permission to present unto your honours our chosen queen of may." somewhat fluttered by the presentation, alizon yet maintained sufficient composure to bend gracefully before lady assheton, and say in a very sweet voice, "i fear your ladyship will think the choice of the village hath fallen ill in alighting upon me; and, indeed, i feel myself altogether unworthy the distinction; nevertheless i will endeavour to discharge my office fittingly, and therefore pray you, fair lady, and the worshipful knight, your husband, together with your beauteous children, and the gentles all by whom you are surrounded, to grace our little festival with your presence, hoping you may find as much pleasure in the sight as we shall do in offering it to you." "a fair maid, and modest as she is fair," observed sir ralph, with a condescending smile. "in sooth is she," replied lady assheton, raising her kindly, and saying, as she did so-- "nay, you must not kneel to us, sweet maid. you are queen of may, and it is for us to show respect to you during your day of sovereignty. your wishes are commands; and, in behalf of my husband, my children, and our guests, i answer, that we will gladly attend your revels on the green." "well said, dear nell," observed sir ralph. "we should be churlish, indeed, were we to refuse the bidding of so lovely a queen." "nay, you have called the roses in earnest to her cheek, now, sir ralph," observed lady assheton, smiling. "lead on, fair queen," she continued, "and tell your companions to begin their sports when they please.--only remember this, that we shall hope to see all your gay troop this evening at the abbey, to a merry dance." "where i will strive to find her majesty a suitable partner," added sir ralph. "stay, she shall make her choice now, as a royal personage should; for you know, nell, a queen ever chooseth her partner, whether it be for the throne or for the brawl. how gay you, fair one? shall it be either of our young cousins, joe or will robinson of raydale; or our cousin who still thinketh himself young, squire nicholas of downham." "ay, let it be me, i implore of you, fair queen," interposed nicholas. "he is engaged already," observed richard assheton, coming forward. "i heard him ask pretty mistress tetlow, the farmer's wife, to dance with him this evening at the abbey." a loud laugh from those around followed this piece of information, but nicholas was in no wise disconcerted. "dick would have her choose him, and that is why he interferes with me," he observed. "how say you, fair queen! shall it be our hopeful cousin? i will answer for him that he danceth the coranto and lavolta indifferently well." on hearing richard assheton's voice, all the colour had forsaken alizon's cheeks; but at this direct appeal to her by nicholas, it returned with additional force, and the change did not escape the quick eye of lady assheton. "you perplex her, cousin nicholas," she said. "not a whit, eleanor," answered the squire; "but if she like not dick assheton, there is another dick, dick sherburne of sladeburn; or our cousin, jack braddyll; or, if she prefer an older and discreeter man, there is father greenacres of worston, or master roger nowell of read--plenty of choice." "nay, if i must choose a partner, it shall be a young one," said alizon. "right, fair queen, right," cried nicholas, laughing. "ever choose a young man if you can. who shall it be?" "you have named him yourself, sir," replied alizon, in a voice which she endeavoured to keep firm, but which, in spite of all her efforts, sounded tremulously--"master richard assheton." "next to choosing me, you could not have chosen better," observed nicholas, approvingly. "dick, lad, i congratulate thee." "i congratulate myself," replied the young man. "fair queen," he added, advancing, "highly flattered am i by your choice, and shall so demean myself, i trust, as to prove myself worthy of it. before i go, i would beg a boon from you--that flower." "this pink," cried alizon. "it is yours, fair sir." young assheton took the flower and took the hand that offered it at the same time, and pressed the latter to his lips; while lady assheton, who had been made a little uneasy by alizon's apparent emotion, and who with true feminine tact immediately detected its cause, called out: "now, forward--forward to the may-pole! we have interrupted the revel too long." upon this the may queen stepped blushingly back with the usher, who, with his white wand in hand, had stood bolt upright behind her, immensely delighted with the scene in which his pupil--for alizon had been tutored by him for the occasion--had taken part. sir ralph then clapped his hands loudly, and at this signal the tabor and pipe struck up; the fool and the hobby-horse, who, though idle all the time, had indulged in a little quiet fun with the rustics, recommenced their gambols; the morris-dancers their lively dance; and the whole train moved towards the may-pole, followed by the rush-cart, with all its bells jingling, and all its garlands waving. as to alizon, her brain was in a whirl, and her bosom heaved so quickly, that she thought she should faint. to think that the choice of a partner in the dance at the abbey had been offered her, and that she should venture to choose master richard assheton! she could scarcely credit her own temerity. and then to think that she should give him a flower, and, more than all, that he should kiss her hand in return for it! she felt the tingling pressure of his lips upon her finger still, and her little heart palpitated strangely. as she approached the may-pole, and the troop again halted for a few minutes, she saw her brother james holding little jennet by the hand, standing in the front line to look at her. "oh, how i'm glad to see you here, jennet!" she cried. "an ey'm glad to see yo, alizon," replied the little girl. "jem has towd me whot a grand partner you're to ha' this e'en." and, she added, with playful malice, "who was wrong whon she said the queen could choose master richard--" "hush, jennet, not a word more," interrupted alizon, blushing. "oh! ey dunna mean to vex ye, ey'm sure," replied jennet. "ey've got a present for ye." "a present for me, jennet," cried alizon; "what is it?" "a beautiful white dove," replied the little girl. "a white dove! where did you get it? let me see it," cried alizon, in a breath. "here it is," replied jennet, opening her kirtle. "a beautiful bird, indeed," cried alizon. "take care of it for me till i come home." "which winna be till late, ey fancy," rejoined jennet, roguishly. "ah!" she added, uttering a cry. the latter exclamation was occasioned by the sudden flight of the dove, which, escaping from her hold, soared aloft. jennet followed the course of its silver wings, as they cleaved the blue sky, and then all at once saw a large hawk, which apparently had been hovering about, swoop down upon it, and bear it off. some white feathers fell down near the little girl, and she picked up one of them and put it in her breast. "poor bird!" exclaimed the may queen. "eigh, poor bird!" echoed jennet, tearfully. "ah, ye dunna knoa aw, alizon." "weel, there's neaw use whimpering abowt a duv," observed jem, gruffly. "ey'n bring ye another t' furst time ey go to cown." "there's nah another bird like that," sobbed the little girl. "shoot that cruel hawk fo' me, jem, win ye." "how conney wench, whon its flown away?" he replied. "boh ey'n rob a hawk's neest fo ye, if that'll do os weel." "yo dunna understand me, jem," replied the child, sadly. at this moment, the music, which had ceased while some arrangements were made, commenced a very lively tune, known as "round about the may-pole," and robin hood, taking the may queen's hand, led her towards the pole, and placing her near it, the whole of her attendants took hands, while a second circle was formed by the morris-dancers, and both began to wheel rapidly round her, the music momently increasing in spirit and quickness. an irresistible desire to join in the measure seized some of the lads and lasses around, and they likewise took hands, and presently a third and still wider circle was formed, wheeling gaily round the other two. other dances were formed here and there, and presently the whole green was in movement. "if you come off heart-whole to-night, dick, i shall be surprised," observed nicholas, who with his young relative had approached as near the may-pole as the three rounds of dancers would allow them. richard assheton made no reply, but glanced at the pink which he had placed in his doublet. "who is the may queen?" inquired sir thomas metcalfe, who had likewise drawn near, of a tall man holding a little girl by the hand. "alizon, dowter of elizabeth device, an mey sister," replied james device, gruffly. "humph!" muttered sir thomas, "she is a well-looking lass. and she dwells here--in whalley, fellow?" he added. "hoo dwells i' whalley," responded jem, sullenly. "i can easily find her abode," muttered the knight, walking away. "what was it sir thomas said to you, jem?" inquired nicholas, who had watched the knight's gestures, coming up. jem related what had passed between them. "what the devil does he want with her?" cried nicholas. "no good, i'm sure. but i'll spoil his sport." "say boh t' word, squoire, an ey'n break every boan i' his body," remarked jem. "no, no, jem," replied nicholas. "take care of your pretty sister, and i'll take care of him." at this juncture, sir thomas, who, in spite of the efforts of the pacific master potts to tranquillise him, had been burning with wrath at the affront he had received from nicholas, came up to richard assheton, and, noticing the pink in his bosom, snatched it away suddenly. "i want a flower," he said, smelling at it. "instantly restore it, sir thomas!" cried richard assheton, pale with rage, "or--" "what will you do, young sir?" rejoined the knight tauntingly, and plucking the flower in pieces. "you can get another from the fair nymph who gave you this." further speech was not allowed the knight, for he received a violent blow on the chest from the hand of richard assheton, which sent him reeling backwards, and would have felled him to the ground if he had not been caught by some of the bystanders. the moment he recovered, sir thomas drew his sword, and furiously assaulted young assheton, who stood ready for him, and after the exchange of a few passes, for none of the bystanders dared to interfere, sent his sword whirling over their heads through the air. "bravo, dick," cried nicholas, stepping up, and clapping his cousin on the back, "you have read him a good lesson, and taught him that he cannot always insult folks with impunity, ha! ha!" and he laughed loudly at the discomfited knight. "he is an insolent coward," said richard assheton. "give him his sword and let him come on again." "no, no," said nicholas, "he has had enough this time. and if he has not, he must settle an account with me. put up your blade, lad." "i'll be revenged upon you both," said sir thomas, taking his sword, which had been brought him by a bystander, and stalking away. "you leave us in mortal dread, doughty knight," cried nicholas, shouting after him, derisively--"ha! ha! ha!" richard assheton's attention was, however, turned in a different direction, for the music suddenly ceasing, and the dancers stopping, he learnt that the may queen had fainted, and presently afterwards the crowd opened to give passage to robin hood, who bore her inanimate form in his arms. chapter iv.--alice nutter. the quarrel between nicholas assheton and sir thomas metcalfe had already been made known to sir ralph by the officious master potts, and though it occasioned the knight much displeasure; as interfering with the amicable arrangement he hoped to effect with sir thomas for his relatives the robinsons, still he felt sure that he had sufficient influence with his hot-headed cousin, the squire, to prevent the dispute from being carried further, and he only waited the conclusion of the sports on the green, to take him to task. what was the knight's surprise and annoyance, therefore, to find that a new brawl had sprung up, and, ignorant of its precise cause, he laid it entirely at the door of the turbulent nicholas. indeed, on the commencement of the fray he imagined that the squire was personally concerned in it, and full of wroth, flew to the scene of action; but before he got there, the affair, which, as has been seen, was of short duration, was fully settled, and he only heard the jeers addressed to the retreating combatant by nicholas. it was not sir ralph's way to vent his choler in words, but the squire knew in an instant, from the expression of his countenance, that he was greatly incensed, and therefore hastened to explain. "what means this unseemly disturbance, nicholas?" cried sir ralph, not allowing the other to speak. "you are ever brawling like an alsatian squire. independently of the ill example set to these good folk, who have met here for tranquil amusement, you have counteracted all my plans for the adjustment of the differences between sir thomas metcalfe and our aunt of raydale. if you forget what is due to yourself, sir, do not forget what is due to me, and to the name you bear." "no one but yourself should say as much to me, sir ralph," rejoined nicholas somewhat haughtily; "but you are under a misapprehension. it is not i who have been fighting, though i should have acted in precisely the same manner as our cousin dick, if i had received the same affront, and so i make bold to say would you. our name shall suffer no discredit from me; and as a gentleman, i assert, that sir thomas metcalfe has only received due chastisement, as you yourself will admit, cousin, when you know all." "i know him to be overbearing," observed sir ralph. "overbearing is not the word, cousin," interrupted nicholas; "he is as proud as a peacock, and would trample upon us all, and gore us too, like one of the wild bulls of bowland, if we would let him have his way. but i would treat him as i would the bull aforesaid, a wild boar, or any other savage and intractable beast, hunt him down, and poll his horns, or pluck out his tusks." "come, come, nicholas, this is no very gentle language," remarked sir ralph. "why, to speak truth, cousin, i do not feel in any very gentle frame of mind," rejoined the squire; "my ire has been roused by this insolent braggart, my blood is up, and i long to be doing." "unchristian feelings, nicholas," said sir ralph, severely, "and should be overcome. turn the other cheek to the smiter. i trust you bear no malice to sir thomas." "i bear him no malice, for i hope malice is not in my nature, cousin," replied nicholas, "but i owe him a grudge, and when a fitting opportunity occurs--" "no more of this, unless you would really incur my displeasure," rejoined sir ralph; "the matter has gone far enough, too far, perhaps for amendment, and if you know it not, i can tell you that sir thomas's claims to raydale will be difficult to dispute, and so our uncle robinson has found since he hath taken counsel on the case." "have a care, sir ralph," said nicholas, noticing that master potts was approaching them, with his ears evidently wide open, "there is that little london lawyer hovering about. but i'll give the cunning fox a double. i'm glad to hear you say so, sir ralph," he added, in a tone calculated to reach potts, "and since our uncle robinson is so sure of his cause, it may be better to let this blustering knight be. perchance, it is the certainty of failure that makes him so insensate." "this is meant to blind me, but it shall not serve your turn, cautelous squire," muttered potts; "i caught enough of what fell just now from sir ralph to satisfy me that he hath strong misgivings. but it is best not to appear too secure.--ah, sir ralph," he added, coming forward, "i was right, you see, in my caution. i am a man of peace, and strive to prevent quarrels and bloodshed. quarrel if you please--and unfortunately men are prone to anger--but always settle your disputes in a court of law; always in a court of law, sir ralph. that is the only arena where a sensible man should ever fight. take good advice, fee your counsel well, and the chances are ten to one in your favour. that is what i say to my worthy and singular good client, sir thomas; but he is somewhat headstrong and vehement, and will not listen to me. he is for settling matters by the sword, for making forcible entries and detainers, and ousting the tenants in possession, whereby he would render himself liable to arrest, fine, ransom, and forfeiture; instead of proceeding cautiously and decorously as the law directs, and as i advise, sir ralph, by writ of _ejectione firmæ_ or action of trespass, the which would assuredly establish his title, and restore him the house and lands. or he may proceed by writ of right, which perhaps, in his case, considering the long absence of possession, and the doubts supposed to perplex the title--though i myself have no doubts about it--would be the most efficacious. these are your only true weapons, sir ralph--your writs of entry, assise, and right--your pleas of novel disseisin, post-disseisin, and re-disseisin--your remitters, your præcipes, your pones, and your recordari faciases. these are the sword, shield, and armour of proof of a wise man." "zounds! you take away one's breath with this hail-storm of writs and pleas, master lawyer!" cried nicholas. "but in one respect i am of your 'worthy and singular good' client's, opinion, and would rather trust to my own hand for the defence of my property than to the law to keep it for me." "then you would do wrong, good master nicholas," rejoined potts, with a smile of supreme contempt; "for the law is the better guardian and the stronger adversary of the two, and so sir thomas will find if he takes my advice, and obtains, as he can and will do, a perfect title _juris et seisinæ conjunctionem_." "sir thomas is still willing to refer the case to my arbitrament, i believe, sir?" demanded sir ralph, uneasily. "he was so, sir ralph," rejoined potts, "unless the assaults and batteries, with intent to do him grievous corporeal hurt, which he hath sustained from your relatives, have induced a change of mind in him. but as i premised, sir ralph, i am a man of peace, and willing to intermediate." "provided you get your fee, master lawyer," observed nicholas, sarcastically. "certainly, i object not to the _quiddam honorarium_, master nicholas," rejoined potts; "and if my client hath the _quid pro quo_, and gaineth his point, he cannot complain.--but what is this? some fresh disturbance!" "something hath happened to the may queen," cried nicholas. "i trust not," said sir ralph, with real concern. "ha! she has fainted. they are bringing her this way. poor maid! what can have occasioned this sudden seizure?" "i think i could give a guess," muttered nicholas. "better remove her to the abbey," he added aloud to the knight. "you are right," said sir ralph. "our cousin dick is near her, i observe. he shall see her conveyed there at once." at this moment lady assheton and mrs. nutter, with some of the other ladies, came up. "just in time, nell," cried the knight. "have you your smelling-bottle about you? the may queen has fainted." "indeed!" exclaimed lady assheton, springing towards alizon, who was now sustained by young richard assheton; the forester having surrendered her to him. "how has this happened?" she inquired, giving her to breathe at a small phial. "that i cannot tell you, cousin," replied richard assheton, "unless from some sudden fright." "that was it, master richard," cried robin hood; "she cried out on hearing the clashing of swords just now, and, i think, pronounced your name, on finding you engaged with sir thomas, and immediately after turned pale, and would have fallen if i had not caught her." "ah, indeed!" exclaimed lady assheton, glancing at richard, whose eyes fell before her inquiring gaze. "but see, she revives," pursued the lady. "let me support her head." as she spoke alizon opened her eyes, and perceiving richard assheton, who had relinquished her to his relative, standing beside her, she exclaimed, "oh! you are safe! i feared"--and then she stopped, greatly embarrassed. "you feared he might be in danger from his fierce adversary," supplied lady assheton; "but no. the conflict is happily over, and he is unhurt." "i am glad of it," said alizon, earnestly. "she had better be taken to the abbey," remarked sir ralph, coming up. "nay, she will be more at ease at home," observed lady assheton with a significant look, which, however, failed in reaching her husband. "yes, truly shall i, gracious lady," replied alizon, "far more so. i have given you trouble enough already." "no trouble at all," said sir ralph, kindly; "her ladyship is too happy to be of service in a case like this. are you not, nell? the faintness will pass off presently. but let her go to the abbey at once, and remain there till the evening's festivities, in which she takes part, commence. give her your arm, dick." sir ralph's word was law, and therefore lady assheton made no remonstrance. but she said quickly, "i will take care of her myself." "i require no assistance, madam," replied alizon, "since sir ralph will have me go. nay, you are too kind, too condescending," she added, reluctantly taking lady assheton's proffered arm. and in this way they proceeded slowly towards the abbey, escorted by richard assheton, and attended by mistress braddyll and some others of the ladies. amongst those who had watched the progress of the may queen's restoration with most interest was mistress nutter, though she had not interfered; and as alizon departed with lady assheton, she observed to nicholas, who was standing near, "can this be the daughter of elizabeth device, and grand-daughter of--" "your old pendle witch, mother demdike," supplied nicholas; "the very same, i assure you, mistress nutter." "she is wholly unlike the family," observed the lady, "and her features resemble some i have seen before." "she does not resemble her mother, undoubtedly," replied nicholas, "though what her grand-dame may have been some sixty years ago, when she was alizon's age, it would be difficult to say.--she is no beauty now." "those finely modelled features, that graceful figure, and those delicate hands, cannot surely belong to one lowly born and bred?" said mistress nutter. "they differ from the ordinary peasant mould, truly," replied nicholas. "if you ask me for the lineage of a steed, i can give a guess at it on sight of the animal, but as regards our own race i'm at fault, mistress nutter." "i must question elizabeth device about her," observed alice. "strange, i should never have seen her before, though i know the family so well." "i wish you did not know mother demdike quite so well, mistress nutter," remarked nicholas--"a mischievous and malignant old witch, who deserves the tar barrel. the only marvel is, that she has not been burned long ago. i am of opinion, with many others, that it was she who bewitched your poor husband, richard nutter." "i do not think it," replied mistress nutter, with a mournful shake of the head. "alas, poor man! he died from hard riding, after hard drinking. that was the only witchcraft in his case. be warned by his fate yourself, nicholas." "hard riding after drinking was more likely to sober him than to kill him," rejoined the squire. "but, as i said just now, i like not this mother demdike, nor her rival in iniquity, old mother chattox. the devil only knows which of the two is worst. but if the former hag did not bewitch your husband to death, as i shrewdly suspect, it is certain that the latter mumbling old miscreant killed my elder brother, richard, by her sorceries." "mother chattox did you a good turn then, nicholas," observed mistress nutter, "in making you master of the fair estates of downham." "so far, perhaps, she might," rejoined nicholas, "but i do not like the manner of it, and would gladly see her burned; nay, i would fire the fagots myself." "you are superstitious as the rest, nicholas," said mistress nutter. "for my part i do not believe in the existence of witches." "not believe in witches, with these two living proofs to the contrary!" cried nicholas, in amazement. "why, pendle forest swarms with witches. they burrow in the hill-side like rabbits in a warren. they are the terror of the whole country. no man's cattle, goods, nor even life, are safe from them; and the only reason why these two old hags, who hold sovereign sway over the others, have 'scaped justice so long, is because every one is afraid to go near them. their solitary habitations are more strongly guarded than fortresses. not believe in witches! why i should as soon misdoubt the holy scriptures." "it may be because i reside near them that i have so little apprehension, or rather no apprehension at all," replied mistress nutter; "but to me mother demdike and mother chattox appear two harmless old women." "they're a couple of dangerous and damnable old hags, and deserve the stake," cried nicholas, emphatically. all this discourse had been swallowed with greedy ears by the ever-vigilant master potts, who had approached the speakers unperceived; and he now threw in a word. "so there are suspected witches in pendle forest, i find," he said. "i shall make it my business to institute inquiries concerning them, when i visit the place to-morrow. even if merely ill-reputed, they must be examined, and if found innocent cleared; if not, punished according to the statute. our sovereign lord the king holdeth witches in especial abhorrence, and would gladly see all such noxious vermin extirpated from the land, and it will rejoice me to promote his laudable designs. i must pray you to afford me all the assistance you can in the discovery of these dreadful delinquents, good master nicholas, and i will care that your services are duly represented in the proper quarter. as i have just said, the king taketh singular interest in witchcraft, as you may judge if the learned tractate he hath put forth, in form of a dialogue, intituled "_dæmonologie_" hath ever met your eye; and he is never so well pleased as when the truth of his tenets are proved by such secret offenders being brought to light, and duly punished." "the king's known superstitious dread of witches makes men seek them out to win his favour," observed mistress nutter. "they have wonderfully increased since the publication of that baneful book!" "not so, madam," replied potts. "our sovereign lord the king hath a wholesome and just hatred of such evil-doers and traitors to himself and heaven, and it may be dread of them, as indeed all good men must have; but he would protect his subjects from them, and therefore, in the first year of his reign, which i trust will be long and prosperous, he hath passed a statute, whereby it is enacted 'that all persons invoking any evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing, feeding, or rewarding any evil spirit; or taking up dead bodies from their graves to be used in any witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment; or killing or otherwise hurting any person by such infernal arts, shall be guilty of felony without benefit of clergy, and suffer death.' this statute, madam, was intended to check the crimes of necromancy, sorcery, and witchcraft, and not to increase them. and i maintain that it has checked them, and will continue to check them." "it is a wicked and bloody statute," observed mrs. nutter, in a deep tone, "and many an innocent life will be sacrificed thereby." "how, madam!" cried master potts, staring aghast. "do you mean to impugn the sagacity and justice of our high and mighty king, the head of the law, and defender of the faith?" "i affirm that this is a sanguinary enactment," replied mistress nutter, "and will put power into hands that will abuse it, and destroy many guiltless persons. it will make more witches than it will find." "some are ready made, methinks," muttered potts, "and we need not go far to find them. you are a zealous advocate for witches, i must say, madam," he added aloud, "and i shall not forget your arguments in their favour." "to my prejudice, i doubt not," she rejoined, bitterly. "no, to the credit of your humanity," he answered, bowing, with pretended conviction. "well, i will aid you in your search for witches, master potts," observed nicholas; "for i would gladly see the country rid of these pests. but i warn you the quest will be attended with risk, and you will get few to accompany you, for all the folk hereabouts are mortally afraid of these terrible old hags." "i fear nothing in the discharge of my duty," replied master potts, courageously, "for as our high and mighty sovereign hath well and learnedly observed--'if witches be but apprehended and detained by any private person, upon other private respects, their power, no doubt, either in escaping, or in doing hurt, is no less than ever it was before. but if, on the other part, their apprehending and detention be by the lawful magistrate upon the just respect of their guiltiness in that craft, their power is then no greater than before that ever they meddled with their master. for where god begins justly to strike by his lawful lieutenants, it is not in the devil's power to defraud or bereave him of the office or effect of his powerful and revenging sceptre.' thus i am safe; and i shall take care to go armed with a proper warrant, which i shall obtain from a magistrate, my honoured friend and singular good client, master roger newell. this will obtain me such assistance as i may require, and for due observance of my authority. i shall likewise take with me a peace-officer, or constable." "you will do well, master potts," said nicholas; "still you must not put faith in all the idle tales told you, for the common folk hereabouts are blindly and foolishly superstitious, and fancy they discern witchcraft in every mischance, however slight, that befalls them. if ale turn sour after a thunder-storm, the witch hath done it; and if the butter cometh not quickly, she hindereth it. if the meat roast ill the witch hath turned the spit; and if the lumber pie taste ill she hath had a finger in it. if your sheep have the foot-rot--your horses the staggers or string-halt--your swine the measles--your hounds a surfeit--or your cow slippeth her calf--the witch is at the bottom of it all. if your maid hath a fit of the sullens, or doeth her work amiss, or your man breaketh a dish, the witch is in fault, and her shoulders can bear the blame. on this very day of the year--namely, may day,--the foolish folk hold any aged crone who fetcheth fire to be a witch, and if they catch a hedge-hog among their cattle, they will instantly beat it to death with sticks, concluding it to be an old hag in that form come to dry up the milk of their kine." "these are what master potts's royal authority would style 'mere old wives' trattles about the fire,'" observed mistress nutter, scornfully. "better be over-credulous than over-sceptical," replied potts. "even at my lodging in chancery lane i have a horseshoe nailed against the door. one cannot be too cautious when one has to fight against the devil, or those in league with him. your witch should be put to every ordeal. she should be scratched with pins to draw blood from her; weighed against the church bible, though this is not always proof; forced to weep, for a witch can only shed three tears, and those only from the left eye; or, as our sovereign lord the king truly observeth--no offence to you, mistress nutter--'not so much as their eyes are able to shed tears, albeit the womenkind especially be able otherwise to shed tears at every light occasion when they will, yea, although it were dissemblingly like the crocodile;' and set on a stool for twenty-four hours, with her legs tied across, and suffered neither to eat, drink, nor sleep during the time. this is the surest way to make her confess her guilt next to swimming. if it fails, then cast her with her thumbs and toes tied across into a pond, and if she sink not then is she certainly a witch. other trials there are, as that by scalding water--sticking knives across--heating of the horseshoe--tying of knots--the sieve and the shears; but the only ordeals safely to be relied on, are the swimming and the stool before mentioned, and from these your witch shall rarely escape. above all, be sure and search carefully for the witch-mark. i doubt not we shall find it fairly and legibly writ in the devil's characters on mother demdike and mother chattox. they shall undergo the stool and the pool, and other trials, if required. these old hags shall no longer vex you, good master nicholas. leave them to me, and doubt not i will bring them to condign punishment." "you will do us good service then, master potts," replied nicholas. "but since you are so learned in the matter of witchcraft, resolve me, i pray you, how it is, that women are so much more addicted to the practice of the black art than our own sex." "the answer to the inquiry hath been given by our british solomon," replied potts, "and i will deliver it to you in his own words. 'the reason is easy,' he saith; 'for as that sex is frailer than man is, so it is easier to be entrapped in those gross snares of the devil, as was overwell proved to be true, by the serpent's deceiving of eva at the beginning, which makes him the homelier with that sex sensine.'" "a good and sufficient reason, master potts," said nicholas, laughing; "is it not so, mistress nutter?" "ay, marry, if it satisfies you," she answered, drily. "it is of a piece with the rest of the reasoning of the royal pedant, whom master potts styles the british solomon." "i only give the learned monarch the title by which he is recognised throughout christendom," rejoined potts, sharply. "well, there is comfort in the thought, that i shall never be taken for a wizard," said the squire. "be not too sure of that, good master nicholas," returned potts. "our present prince seems to have had you in his eye when he penned his description of a wizard, for, he saith, 'a great number of them that ever have been convict or confessors of witchcraft, as may be presently seen by many that have at this time confessed, are some of them rich and worldly-wise; some of them fat or corpulent in their bodies; and most part of them altogether given over to the pleasures of the flesh, continual haunting of company, and all kinds of merriness, lawful and unlawful.' this hitteth you exactly, master nicholas." "zounds!" exclaimed the squire, "if this be exact, it toucheth me too nearly to be altogether agreeable." "the passage is truly quoted, nicholas," observed mistress nutter, with a cold smile. "i perfectly remember it. master potts seems to have the 'dæmonologie' at his fingers' ends." "i have made it my study, madam," replied the lawyer, somewhat mollified by the remark, "as i have the statute on witchcraft, and indeed most other statutes." "we have wasted time enough in this unprofitable talk," said mistress nutter, abruptly quitting them without bestowing the slightest salutation on potts. "i was but jesting in what i said just now, good master nicholas," observed the little lawyer, nowise disconcerted at the slight "though they were the king's exact words i quoted. no one would suspect you of being a wizard--ha!--ha! but i am resolved to prosecute the search, and i calculate upon your aid, and that of master richard assheton, who goes with us." "you shall have mine, at all events, master potts," replied nicholas; "and i doubt not, my cousin dick's, too." "our may queen, alizon device, is mother demdike's grand-daughter, is she not?" asked potts, after a moment's reflection. "ay, why do you ask?" demanded nicholas. "for a good and sufficing reason," replied potts. "she might be an important witness; for, as king james saith, 'bairns or wives may, of our law, serve for sufficient witnesses and proofs.' and he goeth on to say, 'for who but witches can be proofs, and so witnesses of the doings of witches?'" "you do not mean to aver that alizon device is a witch, sir?" cried nicholas, sharply. "i aver nothing," replied potts; "but, as a relative of a suspected witch, she will be the best witness against her." "if you design to meddle with alizon device, expect no assistance from me, master potts," said nicholas, sternly, "but rather the contrary." "nay, i but threw out the hint, good master nicholas," replied potts. "another witness will do equally well. there are other children, no doubt. i rely on you, sir--i rely on you. i shall now go in search of master nowell, and obtain the warrant and the constable." "and i shall go keep my appointment with parson dewhurst, at the abbey," said nicholas, bowing slightly to the attorney, and taking his departure. "it will not do to alarm him at present," said potts, looking after him, "but i'll have that girl as a witness, and i know how to terrify her into compliance. a singular woman, that mistress alice nutter. i must inquire into her history. odd, how obstinately she set her face against witchcraft. and yet she lives at rough lee, in the very heart of a witch district, for such master nicholas assheton calls this pendle forest. i shouldn't wonder if she has dealings with the old hags she defends--mother demdike and mother chattox. chattox! lord bless us, what a name!--there's caldron and broomstick in the very sound! and demdike is little better. both seem of diabolical invention. if i can unearth a pack of witches, i shall gain much credit from my honourable good lords the judges of assize in these northern parts, besides pleasing the king himself, who is sure to hear of it, and reward my praiseworthy zeal. look to yourself, mistress nutter, and take care you are not caught tripping. and now, for master roger nowell." with this, he peered about among the crowd in search of the magistrate, but though he thrust his little turned-up nose in every direction, he could not find him, and therefore set out for the abbey, concluding he had gone thither. as mistress nutter walked along, she perceived james device among the crowd, holding jennet by the hand, and motioned him to come to her. jem instantly understood the sign, and quitting his little sister, drew near. "tell thy mother," said mistress nutter, in a tone calculated only for his hearing, "to come to me, at the abbey, quickly and secretly. i shall be in the ruins of the old convent church. i have somewhat to say to her, that concerns herself as well as me. thou wilt have to go to rough lee and malkin tower to-night." jem nodded, to show his perfect apprehension of what was said and his assent to it, and while mistress nutter moved on with a slow and dignified step, he returned to jennet, and told her she must go home directly, a piece of intelligence which was not received very graciously by the little maiden; but nothing heeding her unwillingness, jem walked her off quickly in the direction of the cottage; but while on the way to it, they accidentally encountered their mother, elizabeth device, and therefore stopped. "yo mun go up to th' abbey directly, mother," said jem, with a wink, "mistress nutter wishes to see ye. yo'n find her i' t' ruins o' t' owd convent church. tak kere yo're neaw seen. yo onderstond." "yeigh," replied elizabeth, nodding her head significantly, "ey'n go at wonst, an see efter alizon ot t' same time. fo ey'm towd hoo has fainted, an been ta'en to th' abbey by lady assheton." "never heed alizon," replied jem, gruffly. "hoo's i' good hands. ye munna be seen, ey tell ye. ey'm going to malkin tower to-neet, if yo'n owt to send." "to-neet, jem," echoed little jennet. "eigh," rejoined jem, sharply. "howd te tongue, wench. dunna lose time, mother." and as he and his little sister pursued their way to the cottage, elizabeth hobbled off towards the abbey, muttering, as she went, "i hope alizon an mistress nutter winna meet. nah that it matters, boh still it's better not. strange, the wench should ha' fainted. boh she's always foolish an timmersome, an ey half fear has lost her heart to young richard assheton. ey'n watch her narrowly, an if it turn out to be so, she mun be cured, or be secured--ha! ha!" and muttering in this way, she passed through the abbey gateway, the wicket being left open, and proceeded towards the ruinous convent church, taking care as much as possible to avoid observation. chapter v.--mother chattox. not far from the green where the may-day revels were held, stood the ancient parish church of whalley, its square tower surmounted with a flag-staff and banner, and shaking with the joyous peals of the ringers. a picturesque and beautiful structure it was, though full of architectural incongruities; and its grey walls and hoary buttresses, with the lancet-shaped windows of the choir, and the ramified tracery of the fine eastern window, could not fail to please any taste not quite so critical as to require absolute harmony and perfection in a building. parts of the venerable fabric were older than the abbey itself, dating back as far as the eleventh century, when a chapel occupied the site; and though many alterations had been made in the subsequent structure at various times, and many beauties destroyed, especially during the period of the reformation, enough of its pristine character remained to render it a very good specimen of an old country church. internally, the cylindrical columns of the north aisle, the construction of the choir, and the three stone seats supported on rounded columns near the altar, proclaimed its high antiquity. within the choir were preserved the eighteen richly-carved stalls once occupying a similar position in the desecrated conventual church: and though exquisite in themselves, they seemed here sadly out of place, not being proportionate to the structure. their elaborately-carved seats projected far into the body of the church, and their crocketed pinnacles shot up almost to the ceiling. but it was well they had not shared the destruction in which almost all the other ornaments of the magnificent fane they once decorated were involved. carefully preserved, the black varnished oak well displayed the quaint and grotesque designs with which many of them--the prior's stall in especial--were embellished. chief among them was the abbot's stall, festooned with sculptured vine wreaths and clustering grapes, and bearing the auspicious inscription: semper gaudentes sint ista sede sedentes: singularly inapplicable, however, to the last prelate who filled it. some fine old monuments, and warlike trophies of neighbouring wealthy families, adorned the walls, and within the nave was a magnificent pew, with a canopy and pillars of elaborately-carved oak, and lattice-work at the sides, allotted to the manor of read, and recently erected by roger nowell; while in the north and south aisles were two small chapels, converted since the reformed faith had obtained, into pews--the one called saint mary's cage, belonging to the assheton family; and the other appertaining to the catterals of little mitton, and designated saint nicholas's cage. under the last-named chapel were interred some of the paslews of wiswall, and here lay the last unfortunate abbot of whalley, between whoso grave, and the assheton and braddyll families, a fatal relation was supposed to subsist. another large pew, allotted to the towneleys, and designated saint anthony's cage, was rendered remarkable, by a characteristic speech of sir john towneley, which gave much offence to the neighbouring dames. called upon to decide as to the position of the sittings in the church, the discourteous knight made choice of saint anthony's cage, already mentioned, declaring, "my man, shuttleworth of hacking, made this form, and here will i sit when i come; and my cousin nowell may make a seat behind me if he please, and my son sherburne shall make one on the other side, and master catteral another behind him, and for the residue the use shall be, first come first speed, and that will make the proud wives of whalley rise betimes to come to church." one can fancy the rough knight's chuckle, as he addressed these words to the old clerk, certain of their being quickly repeated to the "proud wives" in question. within the churchyard grew two fine old yew-trees, now long since decayed and gone, but then spreading their dark-green arms over the little turf-covered graves. reared against the buttresses of the church was an old stone coffin, together with a fragment of a curious monumental effigy, likewise of stone; but the most striking objects in the place, and deservedly ranked amongst the wonders of whalley, were three remarkable obelisk-shaped crosses, set in a line upon pedestals, covered with singular devices in fretwork, and all three differing in size and design. evidently of remotest antiquity, these crosses were traditionally assigned to paullinus, who, according to the venerable bede, first preached the gospel in these parts, in the early part of the seventh century; but other legends were attached to them by the vulgar, and dim mystery brooded over them. vestiges of another people and another faith were likewise here discernible, for where the saxon forefathers of the village prayed and slumbered in death, the roman invaders of the isle had trodden, and perchance performed their religious rites; some traces of an encampment being found in the churchyard by the historian of the spot, while the north boundary of the hallowed precincts was formed by a deep foss, once encompassing the nigh-obliterated fortification. besides these records of an elder people, there was another memento of bygone days and creeds, in a little hermitage and chapel adjoining it, founded in the reign of edward iii., by henry, duke of lancaster, for the support of two recluses and a priest to say masses daily for him and his descendants; but this pious bequest being grievously abused in the subsequent reign of henry vi., by isole de heton, a fair widow, who in the first transports of grief, vowing herself to heaven, took up her abode in the hermitage, and led a very disorderly life therein, to the great scandal of the abbey, and the great prejudice of the morals of its brethren, and at last, tired even of the slight restraint imposed upon her, fled away "contrary to her oath and profession, not willing, nor intending to be restored again;" the hermitage was dissolved by the pious monarch, and masses ordered to be said daily in the parish church for the repose of the soul of the founder. such was the legend attached to the little cell, and tradition went on to say that the anchoress broke her leg in crossing whalley nab, and limped ever afterwards; a just judgment on such a heinous offender. both these little structures were picturesque objects, being overgrown with ivy and woodbine. the chapel was completely in ruins, while the cell, profaned by the misdoings of the dissolute votaress isole, had been converted into a cage for vagrants and offenders, and made secure by a grated window, and a strong door studded with broad-headed nails. the view from the churchyard, embracing the vicarage-house, a comfortable residence, surrounded by a large walled-in garden, well stocked with fruit-trees, and sheltered by a fine grove of rook-haunted timber, extended on the one hand over the village, and on the other over the abbey, and was bounded by the towering and well-wooded heights of whalley nab. on the side of the abbey, the most conspicuous objects were the great north-eastern gateway, with the ruined conventual church. ever beautiful, the view was especially so on the present occasion, from the animated scene combined with it; and the pleasant prospect was enjoyed by a large assemblage, who had adjourned thither to witness the concluding part of the festival. within the green and flower-decked bowers which, as has before been mentioned, were erected in the churchyard, were seated doctor ormerod and sir ralph assheton, with such of their respective guests as had not already retired, including richard and nicholas assheton, both of whom had returned from the abbey; the former having been dismissed by lady assheton from further attendance upon alizon, and the latter having concluded his discourse with parson dewhurst, who, indeed, accompanied him to the church, and was now placed between the vicar and the rector of middleton. from this gentle elevation the gay company on the green could be fully discerned, the tall may-pole, with its garlands and ribands, forming a pivot, about which the throng ever revolved, while stationary amidst the moving masses, the rush-cart reared on high its broad green back, as if to resist the living waves constantly dashed against it. by-and-by a new kind of movement was perceptible, and it soon became evident that a procession was being formed. immediately afterwards, the rush-cart was put in motion, and winded slowly along the narrow street leading to the church, preceded by the morris-dancers and the other may-day revellers, and followed by a great concourse of people, shouting, dancing, and singing. on came the crowd. the jingling of bells, and the sound of music grew louder and louder, and the procession, lost for awhile behind some intervening habitations, though the men bestriding the rush-cart could be discerned over their summits, burst suddenly into view; and the revellers entering the churchyard, drew up on either side of the little path leading to the porch, while the rush-cart coming up the next moment, stopped at the gate. then four young maidens dressed in white, and having baskets in their hands, advanced and scattered flowers along the path; after which ladders were reared against the sides of the rush-cart, and the men, descending from their exalted position, bore the garlands to the church, preceded by the vicar and the two other divines, and followed by robin hood and his band, the morris-dancers, and a troop of little children singing a hymn. the next step was to unfasten the bundles of rushes, of which the cart was composed, and this was very quickly and skilfully performed, the utmost care being taken of the trinkets and valuables with which it was ornamented. these were gathered together in baskets and conveyed to the vestry, and there locked up. this done, the bundles of rushes were taken up by several old women, who strewed the aisles with them, and placed such as had been tied up as mats in the pews. at the same time, two casks of ale set near the gate, and given for the occasion by the vicar, were broached, and their foaming contents freely distributed among the dancers and the thirsty crowd. very merry were they, as may be supposed, in consequence, but their mirth was happily kept within due limits of decorum. when the rush-cart was wellnigh unladen richard assheton entered the church, and greatly pleased with the effect of the flowery garlands with which the various pews were decorated, said as much to the vicar, who smilingly replied, that he was glad to find he approved of the practice, "even though it might savour of superstition;" and as the good doctor walked away, being called forth, the young man almost unconsciously turned into the chapel on the north aisle. here he stood for a few moments gazing round the church, wrapt in pleasing meditation, in which many objects, somewhat foreign to the place and time, passed through his mind, when, chancing to look down, he saw a small funeral wreath, of mingled yew and cypress, lying at his feet, and a slight tremor passed over his frame, as he found he was standing on the ill-omened grave of abbot paslew. before he could ask himself by whom this sad garland had been so deposited, nicholas assheton came up to him, and with a look of great uneasiness cried, "come away instantly, dick. do you know where you are standing?" "on the grave of the last abbot of whalley," replied richard, smiling. "have you forgotten the common saying," cried nicholas--"that the assheton who stands on that unlucky grave shall die within the year? come away at once." "it is too late," replied richard, "i have incurred the fate, if such a fate be attached to the tomb; and as my moving away will not preserve me, so my tarrying here cannot injure me further. but i have no fear." "you have more courage than i possess," rejoined nicholas. "i would not set foot on that accursed stone for half the county. its malign influence on our house has been approved too often. the first to experience the fatal destiny were richard assheton and john braddyll, the purchasers of the abbey. both met here together on the anniversary of the abbot's execution--some forty years after its occurrence, it is true, and when they were both pretty well stricken in years--and within that year, namely , both died, and were buried in the vault on the opposite side of the church, not many paces from their old enemy. the last instance was my poor brother richard, who, being incredulous as you are, was resolved to brave the destiny, and stationed himself upon the tomb during divine service, but he too died within the appointed time." "he was bewitched to death--so, at least, it is affirmed," said richard assheton, with a smile. "but i believe in one evil influence just as much as in the other." "it matters not how the destiny be accomplished, so it come to pass," rejoined the squire, turning away. "heaven shield you from it!" "stay!" said richard, picking up the wreath. "who, think you, can have placed this funeral garland on the abbot's grave?" "i cannot guess!" cried nicholas, staring at it in amazement--"an enemy of ours, most likely. it is neither customary nor lawful in our protestant country so to ornament graves. put it down, dick." "i shall not displace it, certainly," replied richard, laying it down again; "but i as little think it has been placed here by a hostile hand, as i do that harm will ensue to me from standing here. to relieve your anxiety, however, i will come forth," he added, stepping into the aisle. "why should an enemy deposit a garland on the abbot's tomb, since it was by mere chance that it hath met my eyes?" "mere chance!" cried nicholas; "every thing is mere chance with you philosophers. there is more than chance in it. my mind misgives me strangely. that terrible old abbot paslew is as troublesome to us in death, as he was during life to our predecessor, richard assheton. not content with making his tombstone a weapon of destruction to us, he pays the abbey itself an occasional visit, and his appearance always betides some disaster to the family. i have never seen him myself, and trust i never shall; but other people have, and have been nigh scared out of their senses by the apparition." "idle tales, the invention of overheated brains," rejoined richard. "trust me, the abbot's rest will not be broken till the day when all shall rise from their tombs; though if ever the dead (supposing such a thing possible) could be justified in injuring and affrighting the living, it might be in his case, since he mainly owed his destruction to our ancestor. on the same principle it has been held that church-lands are unlucky to their lay possessors; but see how this superstitious notion has been disproved in our own family, to whom whalley abbey and its domains have brought wealth, power, and worldly happiness." "there is something in the notion, nevertheless," replied nicholas; "and though our case may, i hope, continue an exception to the rule, most grantees of ecclesiastical houses have found them a curse, and the time may come when the abbey may prove so to our descendants. but, without discussing the point, there is one instance in which the malignant influence of the vindictive abbot has undoubtedly extended long after his death. you have heard, i suppose, that he pronounced a dreadful anathema upon the child of a man who had the reputation of being a wizard, and who afterwards acted as his executioner. i know not the whole particulars of the dark story, but i know that paslew fixed a curse upon the child, declaring it should become a witch, and the mother of witches. and the prediction has been verified. nigh eighty years have flown by since then, and the infant still lives--a fearful and mischievous witch--and all her family are similarly fated--all are witches." "i never heard the story before," said richard, somewhat thoughtfully; "but i guess to whom you allude--mother demdike of pendle forest, and her family." "precisely," rejoined nicholas; "they are a brood of witches." "in that case alizon device must be a witch," cried richard; "and i think you will hardly venture upon such an assertion after what you have seen of her to-day. if she be a witch, i would there were many such--as fair and gentle. and see you not how easily the matter is explained? 'give a dog an ill name and hang him'--a proverb with which you are familiar enough. so with mother demdike. whether really uttered or not, the abbot's curse upon her and her issue has been bruited abroad, and hence she is made a witch, and her children are supposed to inherit the infamous taint. so it is with yon tomb. it is said to be dangerous to our family, and dangerous no doubt it is to those who believe in the saying, which, luckily, i do not. the prophecy works its own fulfilment. the absurdity and injustice of yielding to the opinion are manifest. no wrong can have been done the abbot by mother demdike, any more than by her children, and yet they are to be punished for the misdeeds of their predecessor." "ay, just as you and i, who are of the third and fourth generation, may be punished for the sins of our fathers," rejoined nicholas. "you have scripture against you, dick. the only thing i see in favour of your argument is, the instance you allege of alizon. she does not look like a witch, certainly; but there is no saying. she may be only the more dangerous for her rare beauty, and apparent innocence!" "i would answer for her truth with my life," cried richard, quickly. "it is impossible to look at her countenance, in which candour and purity shine forth, and doubt her goodness." "she hath cast her spells over you, dick, that is certain," rejoined nicholas, laughing; "but to be serious. alizon, i admit, is an exception to the rest of the family, but that only strengthens the general rule. did you ever remark the strange look they all--save the fair maid in question--have about the eyes?" richard answered in the negative. "it is very singular, and i wonder you have not noticed it," pursued nicholas; "but the question of reputed witchcraft in mother demdike has some chance of being speedily settled; for master potts, the little london lawyer, who goes with us to pendle forest to-morrow, is about to have her arrested and examined before a magistrate." "indeed!" exclaimed richard, "this must be prevented." "why so?" exclaimed nicholas, in surprise. "because the prejudice existing against her is sure to convict and destroy her," replied richard. "her great age, infirmities, and poverty, will be proofs against her. how can she, or any old enfeebled creature like her, whose decrepitude and misery should move compassion rather than excite fear--how can such a person defend herself against charges easily made, and impossible to refute? i do not deny the possibility of witchcraft, even in our own days, though i think it of very unlikely occurrence; but i would determinately resist giving credit to any tales told by the superstitious vulgar, who, naturally prone to cruelty, have so many motives for revenging imaginary wrongs. it is placing a dreadful weapon in their hands, of which they have cunning enough to know the use, but neither mercy nor justice enough to restrain them from using it. better let one guilty person escape, than many innocent perish. so many undefined charges have been brought against mother demdike, that at last they have fixed a stigma on her name, and made her an object of dread and suspicion. she is endowed with mysterious power, which would have no effect if not believed in; and now must be burned because she is called a witch, and is doting and vain enough to accept the title." "there is something in a witch difficult, nay, almost impossible to describe," said nicholas, "but you cannot be mistaken about her. by her general ill course of life, by repeated acts of mischief, and by threats, followed by the consequences menaced, she becomes known. there is much mystery in the matter, not permitted human knowledge entirely to penetrate; but, as we know from the scriptures that the sin of witchcraft did exist, and as we have no evidence that it has ceased, so it is fair to conclude, that there may be practisers of the dark offence in our own days, and such i hold to be mother demdike and mother chattox. rival potentates in evil, they contend which shall do most mischief, but it must be admitted the former bears away the bell." "if all the ill attributed to her were really caused by her machinations, this might be correct," replied richard, "but it only shows her to be more calumniated than the other. in a word, cousin nicholas, i look upon them as two poor old creatures, who, persuaded they really possess the supernatural power accorded to them by the vulgar, strive to act up to their parts, and are mainly assisted in doing so by the credulity and fears of their audience." "admitting the blind credulity of the multitude," said nicholas, "and their proneness to discern the hand of the witch in the most trifling accidents; admitting also, their readiness to accuse any old crone unlucky enough to offend them of sorcery; i still believe that there are actual practisers of the black art, who, for a brief term of power, have entered into a league with satan, worship him and attend his sabbaths, and have a familiar, in the shape of a cat, dog, toad, or mole, to obey their behests, transform themselves into various shapes--as a hound, horse, or hare,--raise storms of wind or hail, maim cattle, bewitch and slay human beings, and ride whither they will on broomsticks. but, holding the contrary opinion, you will not, i apprehend, aid master potts in his quest of witches." "i will not," rejoined richard. "on the contrary, i will oppose him. but enough of this. let us go forth." and they quitted the church together. as they issued into the churchyard, they found the principal arbours occupied by the morris-dancers, robin hood and his troop, doctor ormerod and sir ralph having retired to the vicarage-house. many merry groups were scattered about, talking, laughing, and singing; but two persons, seemingly objects of suspicion and alarm, and shunned by every one who crossed their path, were advancing slowly towards the three crosses of paullinus, which stood in a line, not far from the church-porch. they were females, one about five-and-twenty, very comely, and habited in smart holiday attire, put on with considerable rustic coquetry, so as to display a very neat foot and ankle, and with plenty of ribands in her fine chestnut hair. the other was a very different person, far advanced in years, bent almost double, palsy-stricken, her arms and limbs shaking, her head nodding, her chin wagging, her snowy locks hanging about her wrinkled visage, her brows and upper lip frore, and her eyes almost sightless, the pupils being cased with a thin white film. her dress, of antiquated make and faded stuff, had been once deep red in colour, and her old black hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed. she partly aided herself in walking with a crutch-handled stick, and partly leaned upon her younger companion for support. "why, there is one of the old women we have just been speaking of--mother chattox," said richard, pointing them out, "and with her, her grand-daughter, pretty nan redferne." "so it is," cried nicholas, "what makes the old hag here, i marvel! i will go question her." so saying, he strode quickly towards her. "how now, mother chattox!" he cried. "what mischief is afoot? what makes the darkness-loving owl abroad in the glare of day? what brings the grisly she-wolf from her forest lair? back to thy den, old witch! ar't crazed, as well as blind and palsied, that thou knowest not that this is a merry-making, and not a devil's sabbath? back to thy hut, i say! these sacred precincts are no place for thee." "who is it speaks to me?" demanded the old hag, halting, and fixing her glazed eyes upon him. "one thou hast much injured," replied nicholas. "one into whose house thou hast brought quick-wasting sickness and death by thy infernal arts. one thou hast good reason to fear; for learn, to thy confusion, thou damned and murtherous witch, it is nicholas, brother to thy victim, richard assheton of downham, who speaks to thee." "i know none i have reason to fear," replied mother chattox; "especially thee, nicholas assheton. thy brother was no victim of mine. thou wert the gainer by his death, not i. why should i slay him?" "i will tell thee why, old hag," cried nicholas; "he was inflamed by the beauty of thy grand-daughter nancy here, and it was to please tom redferne, her sweetheart then, but her spouse since, that thou bewitchedst him to death." "that reason will not avail thee, nicholas," rejoined mother chattox, with a derisive laugh. "if i had any hand in his death, it was to serve and pleasure thee, and that all men shall know, if i am questioned on the subject--ha! ha! take me to the crosses, nance." "thou shalt not 'scape thus, thou murtherous hag," cried nicholas, furiously. "nay, let her go her way," said richard, who had drawn near during the colloquy. "no good will come of meddling with her." "who's that?" asked mother chattox, quickly. [illustration: nan redferne and mother chattox.] "master richard assheton, o' middleton," whispered nan redferne. "another of these accursed asshetons," cried mother chattox. "a plague seize them!" "boh he's weel-favourt an kindly," remarked her grand-daughter. "well-favoured or not, kindly or cruel, i hate them all," cried mother chattox. "to the crosses, i say!" but nicholas placed himself in their path. "is it to pray to beelzebub, thy master, that thou wouldst go to the crosses?" he asked. "out of my way, pestilent fool!" cried the hag. "thou shalt not stir till i have had an answer," rejoined nicholas. "they say those are runic obelisks, and not christian crosses, and that the carvings upon them have a magical signification. the first, it is averred, is written o'er with deadly curses, and the forms in which they are traced, as serpentine, triangular, or round, indicate and rule their swift or slow effect. the second bears charms against diseases, storms, and lightning. and on the third is inscribed a verse which will render him who can read it rightly, invisible to mortal view. thou shouldst be learned in such lore, old pythoness. is it so?" the hag's chin wagged fearfully, and her frame trembled with passion, but she spoke not. "have you been in the church, old woman?" interposed richard. "ay, wherefore?" she rejoined. "some one has placed a cypress wreath on abbot paslew's grave. was it you?" he asked. "what! hast thou found it?" cried the hag. "it shall bring thee rare luck, lad--rare luck. now let me pass." "not yet," cried nicholas, forcibly grasping her withered arm. the hag uttered a scream of rage. "let me go, nicholas assheton," she shrieked, "or thou shalt rue it. cramps and aches shall wring and rack thy flesh and bones; fever shall consume thee; ague shake thee--shake thee--ha!" and nicholas recoiled, appalled by her fearful gestures. "you carry your malignity too far, old woman," said richard severely. "and thou darest tell me so," cried the hag. "set me before him, nance, that i may curse him," she added, raising her palsied arm. "nah, nah--yo'n cursed ower much already, grandmother," cried nan redferne, endeavouring to drag her away. but the old woman resisted. "i will teach him to cross my path," she vociferated, in accents shrill and jarring as the cry of the goat-sucker. "handsome he is, it may be, now, but he shall not be so long. the bloom shall fade from his cheek, the fire be extinguished in his eyes, the strength depart from his limbs. sorrow shall be her portion who loves him--sorrow and shame!" "horrible!" exclaimed richard, endeavouring to exclude the voice of the crone, which pierced his ears like some sharp instrument. "ha! ha! you fear me now," she cried. "by this, and this, the spell shall work," she added, describing a circle in the air with her stick, then crossing it twice, and finally scattering over him a handful of grave dust, snatched from an adjoining hillock. "now lead me quickly to the smaller cross, nance," she added, in a low tone. her grand-daughter complied, with a glance of deep commiseration at richard, who remained stupefied at the ominous proceeding. "ah! this must indeed be a witch!" he cried, recovering from the momentary shock. "so you are convinced at last," rejoined nicholas. "i can take breath now the old hell-cat is gone. but she shall not escape us. keep an eye upon her, while i see if simon sparshot, the beadle, be within the churchyard, and if so he shall take her into custody, and lock her in the cage." with this, he ran towards the throng, shouting lustily for the beadle. presently a big, burly fellow, in a scarlet doublet, laced with gold, a black velvet cap trimmed with red ribands, yellow hose, and shoes with great roses in them, and bearing a long silver-headed staff, answered the summons, and upon being told why his services were required, immediately roared out at the top of a stentorian voice, "a witch, lads!--a witch!" all was astir in an instant. robin hood and his merry men, with the morris-dancers, rushed out of their bowers, and the whole churchyard was in agitation. above the din was heard the loud voice of simon sparshot, still shouting, "a witch!--witch!--mother chattox!" "where--where?" demanded several voices. "yonder," replied nicholas, pointing to the further cross. a general movement took place in that direction, the crowd being headed by the squire and the beadle, but when they came up, they found only nan redferne standing behind the obelisk. "where the devil is the old witch gone, dick?" cried nicholas, in dismay. "i thought i saw her standing there with her grand-daughter," replied richard; "but in truth i did not watch very closely." "search for her--search for her," cried nicholas. but neither behind the crosses, nor behind any monument, nor in any hole or corner, nor on the other side of the churchyard wall, nor at the back of the little hermitage or chapel, though all were quickly examined, could the old hag be found. on being questioned, nan redferne refused to say aught concerning her grandmother's flight or place of concealment. "i begin to think there is some truth in that strange legend of the cross," said nicholas. "notwithstanding her blindness, the old hag must have managed to read the magic verse upon it, and so have rendered herself invisible. but we have got the young witch safe." "yeigh, squoire!" responded sparshot, who had seized hold of nance--"hoo be safe enough." "nan redferne is no witch," said richard assheton, authoritatively. "neaw witch, mester ruchot!" cried the beadle in amazement. "no more than any of these lasses around us," said richard. "release her, sparshot." "i forbid him to do so, till she has been examined," cried a sharp voice. and the next moment master potts was seen pushing his way through the crowd. "so you have found a witch, my masters. i heard your shouts, and hurried on as fast as i could. just in time, master nicholas--just in time," he added, rubbing his hands gleefully. "lemme go, simon," besought nance. "neaw, neaw, lass, that munnot be," rejoined sparshot. "help--save me, master richard!" cried the young woman. by this time the crowd had gathered round her, yelling, hooting, and shaking their hands at her, as if about to tear her in pieces; but richard assheton planted himself resolutely before her, and pushed back the foremost of them. "remove her instantly to the abbey, sparshot," he cried, "and let her be kept in safe custody till sir ralph has time to examine her. will that content you, masters?" "neaw--neaw," responded several rough voices; "swim her!--swim her!" "quite right, my worthy friends, quite right," said potts. "_primo_, let us make sure she is a witch--_secundo_, let us take her to the abbey." "there can be no doubt as to her being a witch, master potts," rejoined nicholas; "her old grand-dame, mother chattox, has just vanished from our sight." "has mother chattox been here?" cried potts, opening his round eyes to their widest extent. "not many minutes since," replied nicholas. "in fact, she may be here still for aught i know." "here!--where?" cried potts, looking round. "you won't discover her for all your quickness," replied nicholas. "she has rendered herself invisible, by reciting the magical verses inscribed on that cross." "indeed!" exclaimed the attorney, closely examining the mysterious inscriptions. "what strange, uncouth characters! i can make neither head nor tail, unless it be the devil's tail, of them." at this moment a whoop was raised by jem device, who, having taken his little sister home, had returned to the sports on the green, and now formed part of the assemblage in the churchyard. between the rival witch potentates, mothers demdike and chattox, it has already been said a deadly enmity existed, and the feud was carried on with equal animosity by their descendants; and though jem himself came under the same suspicion as nan redferne, that circumstance created no tie of interest between them, but the contrary, and he was the most active of her assailants. he had set up the above-mentioned cry from observing a large rat running along the side of the wall. "theere hoo goes," whooped jem, "t'owd witch, i' th' shape ov a rotten!--loo-loo-loo!" half the crowd started in pursuit of the animal, and twenty sticks were thrown at it, but a stone cast by jem stayed its progress, and it was instantly despatched. it did not change, however, as was expected by the credulous hinds, into an old woman, and they gave vent to their disappointment and rage in renewed threats against nan redferne. the dead rat was hurled at her by jem, but missing its mark, it hit master potts on the head, and nearly knocked him off the cross, upon which he had mounted to obtain a better view of the proceedings. irritated by this circumstance, as well as by the failure of the experiment, the little attorney jumped down and fell to kicking the unfortunate rat, after which, his fury being somewhat appeased, he turned to nance, who had sunk for support against the pedestal, and said to her--"if you will tell us what has become of the old witch your grandmother, and undertake to bear witness against her, you shall be set free." "ey'n tell ye nowt, mon," replied nance, doggedly. "put me to onny trial ye like, ye shanna get a word fro me." "that remains to be seen," retorted potts, "but i apprehend we shall make you speak, and pretty plainly too, before we've done with you.--you hear what this perverse and wrong-headed young witch declares, masters," he shouted, again clambering upon the cross. "i have offered her liberty, on condition of disclosing to us the manner of her diabolical old relative's evasion, and she rejects it." an angry roar followed, mixed with cries from jem device, of "swim her!--swim her!" "you had better tell them what you know, nance," said richard, in a low tone, "or i shall have difficulty in preserving you from their fury." "ey darena, master richard," she replied, shaking her head; and then she added firmly, "ey winna." finding it useless to reason with her, and fearing also that the infuriated crowd might attempt to put their threats into execution, richard turned to his cousin nicholas, and said: "we must get her away, or violence will be done." "she does not deserve your compassion, dick," replied nicholas; "she is only a few degrees better than the old hag who has escaped. sparshot here tells me she is noted for her skill in modelling clay figures." "yeigh, that hoo be," replied the broad-faced beadle; "hoo's unaccountable cliver ot that sort o' wark. a clay figger os big os a six months' barn, fashiont i' th' likeness o' farmer grimble o' briercliffe lawnd, os died last month, war seen i' her cottage, an monny others besoide. amongst 'em a moddle o' your lamented brother, squoire ruchot assheton o' downham, wi' t' yeod pood off, and th' 'eart pieret thro' an' thro' wi' pins and needles." "ye lien i' your teeth, simon sparshot!" cried nance; regarding him furiously. "if the head were off, simon, i don't see how the likeness to my poor brother could well be recognised," said nicholas, with a half smile. "but let her be put to some mild trial--weighed against the church bible." "be it so," replied potts, jumping down; "but if that fail, we must have recourse to stronger measures. take notice that, with all her fright, she has not been able to shed a tear, not a single tear--a clear witch--a clear witch!" "ey'd scorn to weep fo t' like o' yo!" cried nance, disdainfully, having now completely recovered her natural audacity. "we'll soon break your spirit, young woman, i can promise you," rejoined potts. as soon as it was known what was about to occur, the whole crowd moved towards the church porch, nan redferne walking between richard assheton and the beadle, who kept hold of her arm to prevent any attempt at escape; and by the time they reached the appointed place, ben baggiley, the baker, who had been despatched for the purpose, appeared with an enormous pair of wooden scales, while sampson harrop, the clerk, having visited the pulpit, came forth with the church bible, an immense volume, bound in black, with great silver clasps. "come, that's a good big bible at all events," cried potts, eyeing it with satisfaction. "it looks like my honourable and singular good lord chief-justice sir edward coke's learned 'institutes of the laws of england,' only that that great legal tome is generally bound in calf--law calf, as we say." "large as the book is, it will scarce prove heavy enough to weigh down the witch, i opine," observed nicholas, with a smile. "we shall see, sir," replied potts. "we shall see." by this time, the scales having been affixed to a hook in the porch by baggiley, the sacred volume was placed on one side, and nance set down by the beadle on the other. the result of the experiment was precisely what might have been anticipated--the moment the young woman took her place in the balance, it sank down to the ground, while the other kicked the beam. "i hope you are satisfied now, master potts," cried richard assheton. "by your own trial her innocence is approved." "your pardon, master richard, this is squire nicholas's trial, not mine," replied potts. "i am for the ordeal of swimming. how say you, masters! shall we be content with this doubtful experiment?" "neaw--neaw," responded jem device, who acted as spokesman to the crowd, "swim her--swim her!" "i knew you would have it so," said potts, approvingly. "where is a fitting place for the trial?" "th' abbey pool is nah fur off," replied jem, "or ye con tay her to th' calder." "the river, by all means--nothing like a running stream," said potts. "let cords be procured to bind her." "run fo 'em quickly, ben," said jem to baggiley, who was very zealous in the cause. "oh!" groaned nance, again losing courage, and glancing piteously at richard. "no outrage like this shall be perpetrated," cried the young man, firmly; "i call upon you, cousin nicholas, to help me. go into the church," he added, thrusting nance backward, and presenting his sword at the breast of jem device, who attempted to follow her, and who retired muttering threats and curses; "i will run the first man through the body who attempts to pass." as nan redferne made good her retreat, and shut the church-door after her, master potts, pale with rage, cried out to richard, "you have aided the escape of a desperate and notorious offender--actually in custody, sir, and have rendered yourself liable to indictment for it, sir, with consequences of fine and imprisonment, sir:--heavy fine and long imprisonment, sir. do you mark me, master richard?" "i will answer the consequences of my act to those empowered to question it, sir," replied richard, sternly. "well, sir, i have given you notice," rejoined potts, "due notice. we shall hear what sir ralph will say to the matter, and master roger nowell, and--" "you forget me, good master potts," interrupted nicholas, laughingly; "i entirely disapprove of it. it is a most flagrant breach of duty. nevertheless, i am glad the poor wench has got off." "she is safe within the church," said potts, "and i command master richard, in the king's name, to let us pass. beadle! sharpshot, sparshot, or whatever be your confounded name do your duty, sirrah. enter the church, and bring forth the witch." "ey darna, mester," replied simon; "young mester ruchot ud slit mey weasand os soon os look ot meh." richard put an end to further altercation, by stepping back quickly, locking the door, and then taking out the key, and putting it into his pocket. "she is quite safe now," he cried, with a smile at the discomfited lawyer. "is there no other door?" inquired potts of the beadle, in a low tone. "yeigh, theere be one ot t'other soide," replied sparshot, "boh it be locked, ey reckon, an maybe hoo'n getten out that way." "quick, quick, and let's see," cried potts; "justice must not be thwarted in this shameful manner." while the greater part of the crowd set off after potts and the beadle, richard assheton, anxious to know what had become of the fugitive, and determined not to abandon her while any danger existed, unlocked the church-door, and entered the holy structure, followed by nicholas. on looking around, nance was nowhere to be seen, neither did she answer to his repeated calls, and richard concluded she must have escaped, when all at once a loud exulting shout was heard without, leaving no doubt that the poor young woman had again fallen into the hands of her captors. the next moment a sharp, piercing scream in a female key confirmed the supposition. on hearing this cry, richard instantly flew to the opposite door, through which nance must have passed, but on trying it he found it fastened outside; and filled with sudden misgiving, for he now recollected leaving the key in the other door, he called to nicholas to come with him, and hurried back to it. his apprehensions were verified; the door was locked. at first nicholas was inclined to laugh at the trick played them; but a single look from richard checked his tendency to merriment, and he followed his young relative, who had sprung to a window looking upon that part of the churchyard whence the shouts came, and flung it open. richard's egress, however, was prevented by an iron bar, and he called out loudly and fiercely to the beadle, whom he saw standing in the midst of the crowd, to unlock the door. "have a little patience, good master richard," replied potts, turning up his provoking little visage, now charged with triumphant malice. "you shall come out presently. we are busy just now--engaged in binding the witch, as you see. both keys are safely in my pocket, and i will send you one of them when we start for the river, good master richard. we lawyers are not to be overreached you see--ha! ha!" "you shall repent this conduct when i do get out," cried richard, furiously. "sparshot, i command you to bring the key instantly." but, encouraged by the attorney, the beadle affected not to hear richard's angry vociferations, and the others were unable to aid the young man, if they had been so disposed, and all were too much interested in what was going forward to run off to the vicarage, and acquaint sir ralph with the circumstances in which his relatives were placed, even though enjoined to do so. on being set free by richard, nance had flown quickly through the church, and passed out at the side door, and was making good her retreat at the back of the edifice, when her flying figure was descried by jem device, who, failing in his first attempt, had run round that way, fancying he should catch her. he instantly dashed after her with all the fury of a bloodhound, and, being possessed of remarkable activity, speedily overtook her, and, heedless of her threats and entreaties, secured her. "lemme go, jem," she cried, "an ey win do thee a good turn one o' these days, when theaw may chonce to be i' th' same strait os me." but seeing him inexorable, she added, "my granddame shan rack thy boans sorely, lad, for this." jem replied by a coarse laugh of defiance, and, dragging her along, delivered her to master potts and the beadle, who were then hurrying to the other door of the church. to prevent interruption, the cunning attorney, having ascertained that the two asshetons were inside, instantly gave orders to have both doors locked, and the injunctions being promptly obeyed, he took possession of the keys himself, chuckling at the success of the stratagem. "a fair reprisal," he muttered; "this young milksop shall find he is no match for a skilful lawyer like me. now, the cords--the cords!" it was at the sight of the bonds, which were quickly brought by baggiley, that nance uttered the piercing cry that had roused richard's indignation. feeling secure of his prisoner, and now no longer apprehensive of interruption, master potts was in no hurry to conclude the arrangements, but rather prolonged them to exasperate richard. little consideration was shown the unfortunate captive. the new shoes and stockings of which she had been so vain a short time before, were torn from her feet and limbs by the rude hands of the remorseless jem and the beadle, and bent down by the main force of these two strong men, her thumbs and great toes were tightly bound together, crosswise, by the cords. the churchyard rang with her shrieks, and, with his blood boiling with indignation at the sight, richard redoubled his exertions to burst through the window and fly to her assistance. but though nicholas now lent his powerful aid to the task, their combined efforts to obtain liberation were unavailing; and with rage almost amounting to frenzy, richard beheld the poor young woman borne shrieking away by her captors. nor was nicholas much less incensed, and he swore a deep oath when he did get at liberty that master potts should pay dearly for his rascally conduct. chapter vi.--the ordeal by swimming. bound hand and foot in the painful posture before described, roughly and insolently handled on all sides, in peril of her life from the frightful ordeal to which she was about to be subjected, the miserable captive was borne along on the shoulders of jem device and sparshot, her long, fine chestnut hair trailing upon the ground, her white shoulders exposed to the insolent gaze of the crowd, and her trim holiday attire torn to rags by the rough treatment she had experienced. nance redferne, it has been said, was a very comely young woman; but neither her beauty, her youth, nor her sex, had any effect upon the ferocious crowd, who were too much accustomed to such brutal and debasing exhibitions, to feel any thing but savage delight in the spectacle of a fellow-creature so scandalously treated and tormented, and the only excuse to be offered for their barbarity, is the firm belief they entertained that they were dealing with a witch. and when even in our own day so many revolting scenes are enacted to gratify the brutal passions of the mob, while prize-fights are tolerated, and wretched animals goaded on to tear each other in pieces, it is not to be wondered at that, in times of less enlightenment and refinement, greater cruelties should be practised. indeed, it may be well to consider how far we have really advanced in civilisation since then; for until cruelty, whether to man or beast, be wholly banished from our sports, we cannot justly reproach our ancestors, or congratulate ourselves on our improvement. nance's cries of distress were only answered by jeers, and renewed insults, and wearied out at length, the poor creature ceased struggling and shrieking, the dogged resolution she had before exhibited again coming to her aid. but her fortitude was to be yet more severely tested. revealed by the disorder of her habiliments, and contrasting strongly with the extreme whiteness of her skin, a dun-coloured mole was discovered upon her breast. it was pointed out to potts by jem device, who declared it to be a witch-mark, and the spot where her familiar drained her blood. "this is one of the 'good helps' to the discovery of a witch, pointed out by our sovereign lord the king," said the attorney, narrowly examining the spot. "'the one,' saith our wise prince, 'is the finding of their mark, and the trying the insensibleness thereof. the other is their fleeting on the water.' the water-ordeal will come presently, but the insensibility of the mark might be at once attested." "yeigh, that con soon be tried," cried jem, with a savage laugh. and taking a pin from his sleeve, the ruffian plunged it deeply into the poor creature's flesh. nance winced, but she set her teeth hardly, and repressed the cry that must otherwise have been wrung from her. "a clear witch!" cried jem, drawing forth the pin; "not a drop o' blood flows, an hoo feels nowt!" "feel nowt?" rejoined nance, between her ground teeth. "may ye ha a pang os sharp i' your cancart eart, ye villain." after this barbarous test, the crowd, confirmed by it in their notions of nan's guiltiness, hurried on, their numbers increasing as they proceeded along the main street of the village leading towards the river; all the villagers left at home rushing forth on hearing a witch was about to be swum, and when they came within a bow-shot of the stream, sparshot called to baggiley to lay hold of nance, while he himself, accompanied by several of the crowd, ran over the bridge, the part he had to enact requiring him to be on the other side of the water. meantime, the main party turned down a little footpath protected by a gate on the left, which led between garden hedges to the grassy banks of the calder, and in taking this course they passed by the cottage of elizabeth device. hearing the shouts of the rabble, little jennet, who had been in no very happy frame of mind since she had been brought home, came forth, and seeing her brother, called out to him, in her usual sharp tones, "what's the matter, jem? who han ye gotten there?" "a witch," replied jem, gruffly. "nance redferne, mother chattox's grand-daughter. come an see her swum i' th' calder." jennet readily complied, for her curiosity was aroused, and she shared in the family feelings of dislike to mother chattox and her descendants. "is this nance redferne?" she cried, keeping close to her brother, "ey'm glad yo'n caught her at last. how dun ye find yersel, nance?" "ill at ease, jennet," replied nance, with a bitter look; "boh it ill becomes ye to jeer me, lass, seein' yo're a born witch yoursel." "aha!" cried potts, looking at the little girl, "so this is a born witch--eh, nance?" "a born an' bred witch," rejoined nance; "jist as her brother jem here is a wizard. they're the gran-childer o' mother demdike o' pendle, the greatest witch i' these parts, an childer o' bess device, who's nah much better. ask me to witness agen 'em, that's aw." "howd thy tongue, woman, or ey'n drown thee," muttered jem, in a tone of deep menace. "ye canna, mon, if ey'm the witch ye ca' me," rejoined nance. "jennet's turn'll come os weel os mine, one o' these days. mark my words." "efore that ey shan see ye burned, ye faggot," cried jennet, almost fiercely. "ye'n gotten the fiend's mark o' your sleeve," cried nance. "ey see it written i' letters ov blood." "that's where our cat scratted me," replied jennet, hiding her arm quickly. "good!--very good!" observed potts, rubbing his hands. "'who but witches can be proof against witches?' saith our sagacious sovereign. i shall make something of this girl. she seems a remarkably quick child--remarkably quick--ha, ha!" by this time, the party having gained the broad flat mead through which the calder flowed, took their way quickly towards its banks, the spot selected for the ordeal lying about fifty yards above the weir, where the current, ordinarily rapid, was checked by the dam, offering a smooth surface, with considerable depth of water. if soft natural beauties could have subdued the hearts of those engaged in this cruel and wicked experiment, never was scene better calculated for the purpose than that under contemplation. through a lovely green valley meandered the calder, now winding round some verdant knoll, now washing the base of lofty heights feathered with timber to their very summits, now lost amid thick woods, and only discernible at intervals by a glimmer amongst the trees. immediately in front of the assemblage rose whalley nab, its steep sides and brow partially covered with timber, with green patches in the uplands where sheep and cattle fed. just below the spot where the crowd were collected, the stream, here of some width, passed over the weir, and swept in a foaming cascade over the huge stones supporting the dam, giving the rushing current the semblance and almost the beauty of a natural waterfall. below this the stream ran brawling on in a wider, but shallower channel, making pleasant music as it went, and leaving many dry beds of sand and gravel in the midst; while a hundred yards lower down, it was crossed by the arches of the bridge. further still, a row of tall cypresses lined the bank of the river, and screened that part of the abbey, converted into a residence by the asshetons; and after this came the ruins of the refectory, the cloisters, the dormitory, the conventual church, and other parts of the venerable structure, overshadowed by noble lime-trees and elms. lovelier or more peaceful scene could not be imagined. the green meads, the bright clear stream, with its white foaming weir, the woody heights reflected in the glassy waters, the picturesque old bridge, and the dark grey ruins beyond it, all might have engaged the attention and melted the heart. then the hour, when evening was coming on, and when each beautiful object, deriving new beauty from the medium through which it was viewed, exercised a softening influence, and awakened kindly emotions. to most the scene was familiar, and therefore could have no charm of novelty. to potts, however, it was altogether new; but he was susceptible of few gentle impressions, and neither the tender beauty of the evening, nor the wooing loveliness of the spot, awakened any responsive emotion in his breast. he was dead to every thing except the ruthless experiment about to be made. almost at the same time that jem device and his party reached the near bank of the stream, the beadle and the others appeared on the opposite side. little was said, but instant preparations were made for the ordeal. two long coils of rope having been brought by baggiley, one of them was made fast to the right arm of the victim, and the other to the left; and this done, jem device, shouting to sparshot to look out, flung one coil of rope across the river, where it was caught with much dexterity by the beadle. the assemblage then spread out on the bank, while jem, taking the poor young woman in his arms, who neither spoke nor struggled, but held her breath tightly, approached the river. "dunna drown her, jem," said jennet, who had turned very pale. "be quiet, wench," rejoined jem, gruffly. and without bestowing further attention upon her, he let down his burden carefully into the water; and this achieved, he called out to the beadle, who drew her slowly towards him, while jem guided her with the other rope. the crowd watched the experiment for a few moments in profound silence, but as the poor young woman, who had now reached the centre of the stream, still floated, being supported either by the tension of the cords, or by her woollen apparel, a loud shout was raised that she could not sink, and was, therefore, an undeniable witch. "steady, lads--steady a moment," cried potts, enchanted with the success of the experiment; "leave her where she is, that her buoyancy may be fully attested. you know, masters," he cried, with a loud voice, "the meaning of this water ordeal. our sovereign lord and master the king, in his wisdom, hath graciously vouchsafed to explain the matter thus: 'water,' he saith, 'shall refuse to receive them (meaning witches, of course) in her bosom, that have shaken off their sacred water of baptism, and wilfully refused the benefit thereof.' it is manifest, you see, that this diabolical young woman hath renounced her baptism, for the water rejecteth her. _non potest mergi_, as pliny saith. she floats like a cork, or as if the clear water of the calder had suddenly become like the slab, salt waves of the dead sea, in which, nothing can sink. you behold the marvel with your own eyes, my masters." "ay, ay!" rejoined baggiley and several others. "hoo be a witch fo sartin," cried jem device. but as he spoke, chancing slightly to slacken the rope, the tension of which maintained the equilibrium of the body, the poor woman instantly sank. a groan, as much of disappointment as sympathy, broke from the spectators, but none attempted to aid her; and on seeing her sink, jem abandoned the rope altogether. but assistance was at hand. two persons rushed quickly and furiously to the spot. they were richard and nicholas assheton. the iron bar had at length yielded to their efforts, and the first use they made of their freedom was to hurry to the river. a glance showed them what had occurred, and the younger assheton, unhesitatingly plunging into the water, seized the rope dropped by jem, and calling to the beadle to let go his hold, dragged forth the poor half-drowned young woman, and placed her on the bank, hewing asunder the cords that bound her hands and feet with his sword. but though still sensible, nance was so much exhausted by the shock she had undergone, and her muscles were so severely strained by the painful and unnatural posture to which she had been compelled, that she was wholly unable to move. her thumbs were blackened and swollen, and the cords had cut into the flesh, while blood trickled down from the puncture in her breast. fixing a look of inexpressible gratitude upon her preserver, she made an effort to speak, but the exertion was too great; violent hysterical sobbing came on, and her senses soon after forsook her. richard called loudly for assistance, and the sentiments of the most humane part of the crowd having undergone a change since the failure of the ordeal, some females came forward, and took steps for her restoration. sensibility having returned, a cloak was wrapped around her, and she was conveyed to a neighbouring cottage and put to bed, where her stiffened limbs were chafed and warm drinks administered, and it began to be hoped that no serious consequences would ensue. meanwhile, a catastrophe had wellnigh occurred in another quarter. with eyes flashing with fury, nicholas assheton pushed aside the crowd, and made his way to the bank whereon master potts stood. not liking his looks, the little attorney would have taken to his heels, but finding escape impossible, he called upon baggiley to protect him. but he was instantly in the forcible gripe of the squire, who shouted, "i'll teach you, mongrel hound, to play tricks with gentlemen." "master nicholas," cried the terrified and half-strangled attorney, "my very good sir, i entreat you to let me alone. this is a breach of the king's peace, sir. assault and battery, under aggravated circumstances, and punishable with ignominious corporal penalties, besides fine and imprisonment, sir. i take you to witness the assault, master baggiley. i shall bring my ac--ac--ah--o--o--oh!" "then you shall have something to bring your ac--ac--action for, rascal," cried nicholas. and, seizing the attorney by the nape of the neck with one hand, and the hind wings of his doublet with the other, he cast him to a considerable distance into the river, where he fell with a tremendous splash. "he is no wizard, at all events," laughed nicholas, as potts went down like a lump of lead. but the attorney was not born to be drowned; at least, at this period of his career. on rising to the surface, a few seconds after his immersion, he roared lustily for help, but would infallibly have been carried over the weir, if jem device had not flung him the rope now disengaged from nance redferne, and which he succeeded in catching. in this way he was dragged out; and as he crept up the bank, with the wet pouring from his apparel, which now clung tightly to his lathy limbs, he was greeted by the jeers of nicholas. "how like you the water-ordeal--eh, master attorney? no occasion for a second trial, i think. if jem device had known his own interest, he would have left you to fatten the calder eels; but he will find it out in time." "you will find it out too, master nicholas," rejoined potts, clapping on his wet cap. "take me to the dragon quickly, good fellow," he added, to jem device, "and i will recompense thee for thy pains, as well as for the service thou hast just rendered me. i shall have rheumatism in my joints, pains in my loins, and rheum in my head, oh dear--oh dear!" "in which case you will not be able to pay mother demdike your purposed visit to-morrow," jeered nicholas. "you forgot you were to arrest her, and bring her before a magistrate." "thy arm, good fellow, thy arm!" said potts, to jem device. "to the fiend wi' thee," cried jem, shaking him off roughly. "the squoire is reet. wouldee had let thee drown." "what, have you changed your mind already, jem?" cried nicholas, in a taunting tone. "you'll have your grandmother's thanks for the service you've rendered her, lad--ha! ha!" "fo' t' matter o' two pins ey'd pitch him again," growled jem, eyeing the attorney askance. "no, no, jem," observed nicholas, "things must take their course. what's done is done. but if master potts be wise, he'll take himself out of court without delay." "you'll be glad to get me out of court one of these days, squire," muttered potts, "and so will you too, master james device.--a day of reckoning will come for both--heavy reckoning. ugh! ugh!" he added, shivering, "how my teeth chatter!" "make what haste you can to the dragon," cried the good-natured squire; "get your clothes dried, and bid john lawe brew you a pottle of strong sack, swallow it scalding hot, and you'll never look behind you." "nor before me either," retorted potts, "scalding sack! this bloodthirsty squire has a new design upon my life!" "ey'n go wi' ye to th' dragon, mester," said baggiley; "lean o' me." "thanke'e friend," replied potts, taking his arm. "a word at parting, master nicholas. this is not the only discovery of witchcraft i've made. i've another case, somewhat nearer home. ha! ha!" with this, he hobbled off in the direction of the alehouse, his steps being traceable along the dusty road like the course of a watering-cart. "ey'n go efter him," growled jem. "no you won't, lad," rejoined nicholas, "and if you'll take my advice, you'll get out of whalley as fast as you can. you will be safer on the heath of pendle than here, when sir ralph and master roger nowell come to know what has taken place. and mind this, sirrah--the hounds will be out in the forest to-morrow. d'ye heed?" jem growled something in reply, and, seizing his little sister's hand, strode off with her towards his mother's dwelling, uttering not a word by the way. having seen nance redferne conveyed to the cottage, as before mentioned, richard assheton, regardless of the wet state of his own apparel, now joined his cousin, the squire, and they walked to the abbey together, conversing on what had taken place, while the crowd dispersed, some returning to the bowers in the churchyard, and others to the green, their merriment in nowise damped by the recent occurrences, which they looked upon as part of the day's sport. as some of them passed by, laughing, singing, and dancing, richard assheton remarked, "i can scarcely believe these to be the same people i so lately saw in the churchyard. they then seemed totally devoid of humanity." "pshaw! they are humane enough," rejoined nicholas; "but you cannot expect them to show mercy to a witch, any more than to a wolf, or other savage and devouring beast." "but the means taken to prove her guilt were as absurd as iniquitous," said richard, "and savour of the barbarous ages. if she had perished, all concerned in the trial would have been guilty of murder." "but no judge would condemn them," returned nicholas; "and they have the highest authority in the realm to uphold them. as to leniency to witches, in a general way, i would show none. traitors alike to god and man, and bond slaves of satan, they are out of the pale of christian charity." "no criminal, however great, is out of the pale of christian charity," replied richard; "but such scenes as we have just witnessed are a disgrace to humanity, and a mockery of justice. in seeking to discover and punish one offence, a greater is committed. suppose this poor young woman really guilty--what then? our laws are made for protection, as well as punishment of wrong. she should he arraigned, convicted, and condemned before punishment." "our laws admit of torture, richard," observed nicholas. "true," said the young man, with a shudder, "and it is another relic of a ruthless age. but torture is only allowed under the eye of the law, and can be inflicted by none but its sworn servants. but, supposing this poor young woman innocent of the crime imputed to her, which i really believe her to be, how, then, will you excuse the atrocities to which she has been subjected?" "i do not believe her innocent," rejoined nicholas; "her relationship to a notorious witch, and her fabrication of clay images, make her justly suspected." "then let her be examined by a magistrate," said richard; "but, even then, woe betide her! when i think that alizon device is liable to the same atrocious treatment, in consequence of her relationship to mother demdike, i can scarce contain my indignation." "it is unlucky for her, indeed," rejoined nicholas; "but of all nance's assailants the most infuriated was alizon's brother, jem device." "i saw it," cried richard--an uneasy expression passing over his countenance. "would she could be removed from that family!" "to what purpose?" demanded nicholas, quickly. "her family are more likely to be removed from her if master potts stay in the neighbourhood." "poor girl!" exclaimed richard. and he fell into a reverie which was not broken till they reached the abbey. to return to jem device. on reaching the cottage, the ruffian flung himself into a chair, and for a time seemed lost in reflection. at last he looked up, and said gruffly to jennet, who stood watching him, "see if mother be come whoam?" "eigh, eigh, ey'm here, jem," said elizabeth device, opening the inner door and coming forth. "so, ye ha been swimmin' nance redferne, lad, eh! ey'm glad on it--ha! ha!" jem gave her a significant look, upon which she motioned jennet to withdraw, and the injunction being complied with, though with evident reluctance, by the little girl, she closed the door upon her. "now, jem, what hast got to say to me, lad, eh?" demanded elizabeth, stepping up to him. "neaw great deal, mother," he replied; "boh ey keawnsel ye to look weel efter yersel. we're aw i' dawnger." "ey knoas it, lad, ey knoas it," replied elizabeth; "boh fo my own pert ey'm nah afeerd. they darna touch me; an' if they dun, ey con defend mysel reet weel. here's a letter to thy gran-mother," she added, giving him a sealed packet. "take care on it." "fro mistress nutter, ey suppose?" asked jem. "eigh, who else should it be from?" rejoined elizabeth. "your gran-mother win' ha' enough to do to neet, an so win yo, too, jem, lettin alone the walk fro here to malkin tower." "weel, gi' me mey supper, an ey'n set out," rejoined jem. "so ye ha' seen mistress nutter?" "ey found her i' th' abbey garden," replied elizabeth, "an we had some tawk together, abowt th' boundary line o' th' rough lee estates, and other matters." and, as she spoke, she set a cold pasty, with oat cakes, cheese, and butter, before her son, and next proceeded to draw him a jug of ale. "what other matters dun you mean, mother?" inquired jem, attacking the pasty. "war it owt relatin' to that little lunnon lawyer, mester potts?" "theawst hit it, jem," replied elizabeth, seating herself near him. "that potts means to visit thy gran-mother to morrow." "weel!" said jem, grimly. "an arrest her," pursued elizabeth. "easily said," laughed jem, scornfully, "boh neaw quite so easily done." "nah quite, jem," responded elizabeth, joining in the laugh. "'specially when th' owd dame's prepared, as she win be now." "potts may set out 'o that journey, boh he winna come back again," remarked jem, in a sombre tone. "wait till yo'n seen your gran-mother efore ye do owt, lad," said elizabeth. "ay, wait," added a voice. "what's that?" demanded jem, laving down his knife and fork. elizabeth did not answer in words, but her significant looks were quite response enough for her son. "os ye win, mother," he said in an altered tone. after a pause, employed in eating, he added, "did mistress nutter put onny questions to ye about alizon?" "more nor enough, lad," replied elizabeth; "fo what had ey to tell her? she praised her beauty, an said how unlike she wur to jennet an thee, lad--ha! ha!--an wondert how ey cum to ha such a dowter, an monny other things besoide. an what could ey say to it aw, except--" "except what, mother?" interrupted jem. "except that she wur my child just os much os jennet an thee!" "humph!" exclaimed jem. "humph!" echoed the voice that had previously spoken. jem looked at his mother, and took a long pull at the ale-jug. "any more messages to malkin tower?" he asked, getting up. "neaw--mother will onderstond," replied elizabeth. "bid her be on her guard, fo' the enemy is abroad." "meanin' potts?" said jem. "meaning potts," answered the voice. "there are strange echoes here," said jem, looking round suspiciously. at this moment, tib came from under a piece of furniture, where he had apparently been lying, and rubbed himself familiarly against his legs. "ey needna be afeerd o' owt happenin to ye, mother," said jem, patting the cat's back. "tib win tay care on yo." "eigh, eigh," replied elizabeth, bending down to pat him, "he's a trusty cat." but the ill-tempered animal would not be propitiated, but erected his back, and menaced her with his claws. "yo han offended him, mother," said jem. "one word efore ey start. are ye quite sure potts didna owerhear your conversation wi' mistress nutter?" "why d'ye ask, jem?" she replied. "fro' summat the knave threw out to squoire nicholas just now," rejoined jem. "he said he'd another case o' witchcraft nearer whoam. whot could he mean?" "whot, indeed?" cried elizabeth, quickly. "look at tib," exclaimed her son. as he spoke, the cat sprang towards the inner door, and scratched violently against it. elizabeth immediately raised the latch, and found jennet behind it, with a face like scarlet. "yo'n been listenin, ye young eavesdropper," cried elizabeth, boxing her ears soundly; "take that fo' your pains--an that." "touch me again, an mester potts shan knoa aw ey'n heer'd," said the little girl, repressing her tears. elizabeth regarded her angrily; but the looks of the child were so spiteful, that she did not dare to strike her. she glanced too at tib; but the uncertain cat was now rubbing himself in the most friendly manner against jennet. "yo shan pay for this, lass, presently," said elizabeth. "best nah provoke me, mother," rejoined jennet in a determined tone; "if ye dun, aw secrets shan out. ey knoa why jem's goin' to malkin-tower to-neet--an why yo're afeerd o' mester potts." "howd thy tongue or ey'n choke thee, little pest," cried her mother, fiercely. jennet replied with a mocking laugh, while tib rubbed against her more fondly than ever. "let her alone," interposed jem. "an now ey mun be off. so, fare ye weel, mother,--an yo, too, jennet." and with this, he put on his cap, seized his cudgel, and quitted the cottage. chapter vii.--the ruined conventual church. beneath a wild cherry-tree, planted by chance in the abbey gardens, and of such remarkable size that it almost rivalled the elms and lime trees surrounding it, and when in bloom resembled an enormous garland, stood two young maidens, both of rare beauty, though in totally different styles;--the one being fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a snowy skin tinged with delicate bloom, like that of roses seen through milk, to borrow a simile from old anacreon; while the other far eclipsed her in the brilliancy of her complexion, the dark splendour of her eyes, and the luxuriance of her jetty tresses, which, unbound and knotted with ribands, flowed down almost to the ground. in age, there was little disparity between them, though perhaps the dark-haired girl might be a year nearer twenty than the other, and somewhat more of seriousness, though not much, sat upon her lovely countenance than on the other's laughing features. different were they too, in degree, and here social position was infinitely in favour of the fairer girl, but no one would have judged it so if not previously acquainted with their history. indeed, it was rather the one having least title to be proud (if any one has such title) who now seemed to look up to her companion with mingled admiration and regard; the latter being enthralled at the moment by the rich notes of a thrush poured from a neighbouring lime-tree. pleasant was the garden where the two girls stood, shaded by great trees, laid out in exquisite parterres, with knots and figures, quaint flower-beds, shorn trees and hedges, covered alleys and arbours, terraces and mounds, in the taste of the time, and above all an admirably kept bowling-green. it was bounded on the one hand by the ruined chapter-house and vestry of the old monastic structure, and on the other by the stately pile of buildings formerly making part of the abbot's lodging, in which the long gallery was situated, some of its windows looking upon the bowling-green, and then kept in excellent condition, but now roofless and desolate. behind them, on the right, half hidden by trees, lay the desecrated and despoiled conventual church. reared at such cost, and with so much magnificence, by thirteen abbots--the great work having been commenced, as heretofore stated, by robert de topcliffe, in , and only completed in all its details by john paslew; this splendid structure, surpassing, according to whitaker, "many cathedrals in extent," was now abandoned to the slow ravages of decay. would it had never encountered worse enemy! but some half century later, the hand of man was called in to accelerate its destruction, and it was then almost entirely rased to the ground. at the period in question though partially unroofed, and with some of the walls destroyed, it was still beautiful and picturesque--more picturesque, indeed than in the days of its pride and splendour. the tower with its lofty crocketed spire was still standing, though the latter was cracked and tottering, and the jackdaws roosted within its windows and belfry. two ranges of broken columns told of the bygone glories of the aisles; and the beautiful side chapels having escaped injury better than other parts of the fabric, remained in tolerable preservation. but the choir and high altar were stripped of all their rich carving and ornaments, and the rain descended through the open rood-loft upon the now grass-grown graves of the abbots in the presbytery. here and there the ramified mullions still retained their wealth of painted glass, and the grand eastern window shone gorgeously as of yore. all else was neglect and ruin. briers and turf usurped the place of the marble pavement; many of the pillars were festooned with ivy; and, in some places, the shattered walls were covered with creepers, and trees had taken root in the crevices of the masonry. beautiful at all times were these magnificent ruins; but never so beautiful as when seen by the witching light of the moon--the hour, according to the best authority, when all ruins should be viewed--when the long lines of broken pillars, the mouldering arches, and the still glowing panes over the altar, had a magical effect. in front of the maidens stood a square tower, part of the defences of the religious establishment, erected by abbot lyndelay, in the reign of edward iii., but disused and decaying. it was sustained by high and richly groined arches, crossing the swift mill-race, and faced the river. a path led through the ruined chapter-house to the spacious cloister quadrangle, once used as a cemetery for the monks, but now converted into a kitchen garden, its broad area being planted out, and fruit-trees trained against the hoary walls. little of the old refectory was left, except the dilapidated stairs once conducting to the gallery where the brethren were wont to take their meals, but the inner wall still served to enclose the garden on that side. of the dormitory, formerly constituting the eastern angle of the cloisters, the shell was still left, and it was used partly as a grange, partly as a shed for cattle, the farm-yard and tenements lying on this side. thus it will be seen that the garden and grounds, filling up the ruins of whalley abbey, offered abundant points of picturesque attraction, all of which--with the exception of the ruined conventual church--had been visited by the two girls. they had tracked the labyrinths of passages, scaled the broken staircases, crept into the roofless and neglected chambers, peered timorously into the black and yawning vaults, and now, having finished their investigations, had paused for awhile, previous to extending their ramble to the church, beneath the wild cherry-tree to listen to the warbling of the birds. "you should hear the nightingales at middleton, alizon," observed dorothy assheton, breaking silence; "they sing even more exquisitely than yon thrush. you must come and see me. i should like to show you the old house and gardens, though they are very different from these, and we have no ancient monastic ruins to ornament them. still, they are very beautiful; and, as i find you are fond of flowers, i will show you some i have reared myself, for i am something of a gardener, alizon. promise you will come." "i wish i dared promise it," replied alizon. "and why not, then?" cried dorothy. "what should prevent you? do you know, alizon, what i should like better than all? you are so amiable, and so good, and so--so very pretty; nay, don't blush--there is no one by to hear me--you are so charming altogether, that i should like you to come and live with me. you shall be my handmaiden if you will." "i should desire nothing better, sweet young lady," replied alizon; "but--" "but what?" cried dorothy. "you have only your own consent to obtain." "alas! i have," replied alizon. "how can that be!" cried dorothy, with a disappointed look. "it is not likely your mother will stand in the way of your advancement, and you have not, i suppose, any other tie? nay, forgive me if i appear too inquisitive. my curiosity only proceeds from the interest i take in you." "i know it--i feel it, dear, kind young lady," replied alizon, with the colour again mounting her cheeks. "i have no tie in the world except my family. but i am persuaded my mother will never allow me to quit her, however great the advantage might be to me." "well, though sorry, i am scarcely surprised at it," said dorothy. "she must love you too dearly to part with you." "i wish i could think so," sighed alizon. "proud of me in some sort, though with little reason, she may be, but love me, most assuredly, she does not. nay more, i am persuaded she would be glad to be freed from my presence, which is an evident restraint and annoyance to her, were it not for some motive stronger than natural affection that binds her to me." "now, in good sooth, you amaze me, alizon!" cried dorothy. "what possible motive can it be, if not of affection?" "of interest, i think," replied alizon. "i speak to you without reserve, dear young lady, for the sympathy you have shown me deserves and demands confidence on my part, and there are none with whom i can freely converse, so that every emotion has been locked up in my own bosom. my mother fancies i shall one day be of use to her, and therefore keeps me with her. hints to this effect she has thrown out, when indulging in the uncontrollable fits of passion to which she is liable. and yet i have no just reason to complain; for though she has shown me little maternal tenderness, and repelled all exhibition of affection on my part, she has treated me very differently from her other children, and with much greater consideration. i can make slight boast of education, but the best the village could afford has been given me; and i have derived much religious culture from good doctor ormerod. the kind ladies of the vicarage proposed, as you have done, that i should live with them, but my mother forbade it; enjoining me, on the peril of incurring her displeasure, not to leave her, and reminding me of all the benefits i have received from her, and of the necessity of making an adequate return. and, ungrateful indeed i should be, if i did not comply; for, though her manner is harsh and cold to me, she has never ill-used me, as she has done her favourite child, my little sister jennet, but has always allowed me a separate chamber, where i can retire when i please, to read, or meditate, or pray. for, alas! dear young lady, i dare not pray before my mother. be not shocked at what i tell you, but i cannot hide it. my poor mother denies herself the consolation of religion--never addresses herself to heaven in prayer--never opens the book of life and truth--never enters church. in her own mistaken way she has brought up poor little jennet, who has been taught to make a scoff at religious truths and ordinances, and has never been suffered to keep holy the sabbath-day. happy and thankful am i, that no such evil lessons have been taught me, but rather, that i have profited by the sad example. in my own secret chamber i have prayed, daily and nightly, for both--prayed that their hearts might be turned. often have i besought my mother to let me take jennet to church, but she never would consent. and in that poor misguided child, dear young lady, there is a strange mixture of good and ill. afflicted with personal deformity, and delicate in health, the mind perhaps sympathising with the body, she is wayward and uncertain in temper, but sensitive and keenly alive to kindness, and with a shrewdness beyond her years. at the risk of offending my mother, for i felt confident i was acting rightly, i have endeavoured to instil religious principles into her heart, and to inspire her with a love of truth. sometimes she has listened to me; and i have observed strange struggles in her nature, as if the good were obtaining mastery of the evil principle, and i have striven the more to convince her, and win her over, but never with entire success, for my efforts have been overcome by pernicious counsels, and sceptical sneers. oh, dear young lady, what would i not do to be the instrument of her salvation!" "you pain me much by this relation, alizon," said dorothy assheton, who had listened with profound attention, "and i now wish more ardently than ever to take you from such a family." "i cannot leave them, dear young lady," replied alizon; "for i feel i may be of infinite service--especially to jennet--by staying with them. where there is a soul to be saved, especially the soul of one dear as a sister, no sacrifice can be too great to make--no price too heavy to pay. by the blessing of heaven i hope to save her! and that is the great tie that binds me to a home, only so in name." "i will not oppose your virtuous intentions, dear alizon," replied dorothy; "but i must now mention a circumstance in connexion with your mother, of which you are perhaps in ignorance, but which it is right you should know, and therefore no false delicacy on my part shall restrain me from mentioning it. your grandmother, old demdike, is in very ill depute in pendle, and is stigmatised by the common folk, and even by others, as a witch. your mother, too, shares in the opprobrium attaching to her." "i dreaded this," replied alizon, turning deadly pale, and trembling violently, "i feared you had heard the terrible report. but oh, believe it not! my poor mother is erring enough, but she is not so bad as that. oh, believe it not!" "i will not believe it," said dorothy, "since she is blessed with such a daughter as you. but what i fear is that you--you so kind, so good, so beautiful--may come under the same ban." "i must run this risk also, in the good work i have appointed myself," replied alizon. "if i am ill thought of by men, i shall have the approval of my own conscience to uphold me. whatever betide, and whatever be said, do not you think ill of me, dear young lady." "fear it not," returned dorothy, earnestly. while thus conversing, they gradually strayed away from the cherry-tree, and taking a winding path leading in that direction, entered the conventual church, about the middle of the south aisle. after gazing with wonder and delight at the still majestic pillars, that, like ghosts of the departed brethren, seemed to protest against the desolation around them, they took their way along the nave, through broken arches, and over prostrate fragments of stone, to the eastern extremity of the fane, and having admired the light shafts and clerestory windows of the choir, as well as the magnificent painted glass over the altar, they stopped before an arched doorway on the right, with two gothic niches, in one of which was a small stone statue of saint agnes with her lamb, and in the other a similar representation of saint margaret, crowned, and piercing the dragon with a cross. both were sculptures of much merit, and it was wonderful they had escaped destruction. the door was closed, but it easily opened when tried by dorothy, and they found themselves in a small but beautiful chapel. what struck them chiefly in it was a magnificent monument of white marble, enriched with numerous small shields, painted and gilt, supporting two recumbent figures, representing henry de lacy, one of the founders of the abbey, and his consort. the knight was cased in plate armour, covered with a surcoat, emblazoned with his arms, and his feet resting upon a hound. this superb monument was wholly uninjured, the painting and gilding being still fresh and bright. behind it a flag had been removed, discovering a flight of steep stone steps, leading to a vault, or other subterranean chamber. after looking round this chapel, dorothy remarked, "there is something else that has just occurred to me. when a child, a strange dark tale was told me, to the effect that the last ill-fated abbot of whalley laid his dying curse upon your grandmother, then an infant, predicting that she should be a witch, and the mother of witches." "i have heard the dread tradition, too," rejoined alizon; "but i cannot, will not, believe it. an all-benign power will never sanction such terrible imprecations." "far be it from me to affirm the contrary," replied dorothy; "but it is undoubted that some families have been, and are, under the influence of an inevitable fatality. in one respect, connected also with the same unfortunate prelate, i might instance our own family. abbot paslew is said to be unlucky to us even in his grave. if such a curse, as i have described, hangs over the head of your family, all your efforts to remove it will be ineffectual." "i trust not," said alizon. "oh! dear young lady, you have now penetrated the secret of my heart. the mystery of my life is laid open to you. disguise it as i may, i cannot but believe my mother to be under some baneful influence. her unholy life, her strange actions, all impress me with the idea. and there is the same tendency in jennet." "you have a brother, have you not?" inquired dorothy. "i have," returned alizon, slightly colouring; "but i see little of him, for he lives near my grandmother, in pendle forest, and always avoids me in his rare visits here. you will think it strange when i tell you i have never beheld my grandmother demdike." "i am glad to hear it," exclaimed dorothy. "i have never even been to pendle," pursued alizon, "though jennet and my mother go there frequently. at one time i much wished to see my aged relative, and pressed my mother to take me with her; but she refused, and now i have no desire to go." "strange!" exclaimed dorothy. "every thing you tell me strengthens the idea i conceived, the moment i saw you, and which my brother also entertained, that you are not the daughter of elizabeth device." "did your brother think this?" cried alizon, eagerly. but she immediately cast down her eyes. "he did," replied dorothy, not noticing her confusion. "'it is impossible,' he said, 'that that lovely girl can be sprung from'--but i will not wound you by adding the rest." "i cannot disown my kindred," said alizon. "still, i must confess that some notions of the sort have crossed me, arising, probably, from my mother's extraordinary treatment, and from many other circumstances, which, though trifling in themselves, were not without weight in leading me to the conclusion. hitherto i have treated it only as a passing fancy, but if you and master richard assheton"--and her voice slightly faltered as she pronounced the name--"think so, it may warrant me in more seriously considering the matter." "do consider it most seriously, dear alizon," cried dorothy. "i have made up my mind, and richard has made up his mind, too, that you are not mother demdike's grand-daughter, nor elizabeth device's daughter, nor jennet's sister--nor any relation of theirs. we are sure of it, and we will have you of our mind." the fair and animated speaker could not help noticing the blushes that mantled alizon's cheeks as she spoke, but she attributed them to other than the true cause. nor did she mend the matter as she proceeded. "i am sure you are well born, alizon," she said, "and so it will be found in the end. and richard thinks so, too, for he said so to me; and richard is my oracle, alizon." in spite of herself alizon's eyes sparkled with pleasure; but she speedily checked the emotion. "i must not indulge the dream," she said, with a sigh. "why not?" cried dorothy. "i will have strict inquiries made as to your history." "i cannot consent to it," replied alizon. "i cannot leave one who, if she be not my parent, has stood to me in that relation. neither can i have her brought into trouble on my account. what will she think of me, if she learns i have indulged such a notion? she will say, and with truth, that i am the most ungrateful of human beings, as well as the most unnatural of children. no, dear young lady, it must not be. these fancies are brilliant, but fallacious, and, like bubbles, burst as soon as formed." "i admire your sentiments, though i do not admit the justice of your reasoning," rejoined dorothy. "it is not on your own account merely, though that is much, that the secret of your birth--if there be one--ought to be cleared up; but, for the sake of those with whom you may be connected. there may be a mother, like mine, weeping for you as lost--a brother, like richard, mourning you as dead. think of the sad hearts your restoration will make joyful. as to elizabeth device, no consideration should be shown her. if she has stolen you from your parents, as i suspect, she deserves no pity." "all this is mere surmise, dear young lady," replied alizon. at this juncture they were startled, by seeing an old woman come from behind the monument and plant herself before them. both uttered a cry, and would have fled, but a gesture from the crone detained them. very old was she, and of strange and sinister aspect, almost blind, bent double, with frosted brows and chin, and shaking with palsy. "stay where you are," cried the hag, in an imperious tone. "i want to speak to you. come nearer to me, my pretty wheans; nearer--nearer." and as they complied, drawn towards her by an impulse they could not resist, the old woman caught hold of alizon's arm, and said with a chuckle. "so you are the wench they call alizon device, eh!" "ay," replied alizon, trembling like a dove in the talons of a hawk. "do you know who i am?" cried the hag, grasping her yet more tightly. "do you know who i am, i say? if not, i will tell you. i am mother chattox of pendle forest, the rival of mother demdike, and the enemy of all her accursed brood. now, do you know me, wench? men call me witch. whether i am so or not, i have some power, as they and you shall find. mother demdike has often defied me--often injured me, but i will have my revenge upon her--ha! ha!" "let me go," cried alizon, greatly terrified. "i will run and bring assistance," cried dorothy. and she flew to the door, but it resisted her attempts to open it. "come back," screamed the hag. "you strive in vain. the door is fast shut--fast shut. come back, i say. who are you?" she added, as the maid drew near, ready to sink with terror. "your voice is an assheton's voice. i know you now. you are dorothy assheton--whey-skinned, blue-eyed dorothy. listen to me, dorothy. i owe your family a grudge, and, if you provoke me, i will pay it off in part on you. stir not, as you value your life." the poor girl did not dare to move, and alizon remained as if fascinated by the terrible old woman. "i will tell you what has happened, dorothy," pursued mother chattox. "i came hither to whalley on business of my own; meddling with no one; harming no one. tread upon the adder and it will bite; and, when molested, i bite like the adder. your cousin, nick assheton, came in my way, called me 'witch,' and menaced me. i cursed him--ha! ha! and then your brother, richard--" [illustration: mother chattox, alizon, and dorothy.] "what of him, in heaven's name?" almost shrieked alizon. "how's this?" exclaimed mother chattox, placing her hand on the beating heart of the girl. "what of richard assheton?" repeated alizon. "you love him, i feel you do, wench," cried the old crone with fierce exultation. "release me, wicked woman," cried alizon. "wicked, am i? ha! ha!" rejoined mother chattox, chuckling maliciously, "because, forsooth, i read thy heart, and betray its secrets. wicked, eh! i tell thee wench again, richard assheton is lord and master here. every pulse in thy bosom beats for him--for him alone. but beware of his love. beware of it, i say. it shall bring thee ruin and despair." "for pity's sake, release me," implored alizon. "not yet," replied the inexorable old woman, "not yet. my tale is not half told. my curse fell on richard's head, as it did on nicholas's. and then the hell-hounds thought to catch me; but they were at fault. i tricked them nicely--ha! ha! however, they took my nance--my pretty nance--they seized her, bound her, bore her to the calder--and there swam her. curses light on them all!--all!--but chief on him who did it!" "who was he?" inquired alizon, tremblingly. "jem device," replied the old woman--"it was he who bound her--he who plunged her in the river, he who swam her. but i will pinch and plague him for it, i will strew his couch with nettles, and all wholesome food shall be poison to him. his blood shall be as water, and his flesh shrink from his bones. he shall waste away slowly--slowly--slowly--till he drops like a skeleton into the grave ready digged for him. all connected with him shall feel my fury. i would kill thee now, if thou wert aught of his." "aught of his! what mean you, old woman?" demanded alizon. "why, this," rejoined mother chattox, "and let the knowledge work in thee, to the confusion of bess device. thou art not her daughter." "it is as i thought," cried dorothy assheton, roused by the intelligence from her terror. "i tell thee not this secret to pleasure thee," continued mother chattox, "but to confound elizabeth device. i have no other motive. she hath provoked my vengeance, and she shall feel it. thou art not her child, i say. the secret of thy birth is known to me, but the time is not yet come for its disclosure. it shall out, one day, to the confusion of those who offend me. when thou goest home tell thy reputed mother what i have said, and mark how she takes the information. ha! who comes here?" the hag's last exclamation was occasioned by the sudden appearance of mistress nutter, who opened the door of the chapel, and, staring in astonishment at the group, came quickly forward. "what makes you here, mother chattox?" she cried. "i came here to avoid pursuit," replied the old hag, with a cowed manner, and in accents sounding strangely submissive after her late infuriated tone. "what have you been saying to these girls?" demanded mistress nutter, authoritatively. "ask them," the hag replied. "she declares that alizon is not the daughter of elizabeth device," cried dorothy assheton. "indeed!" exclaimed mistress nutter quickly, and as if a spring of extraordinary interest had been suddenly touched. "what reason hast thou for this assertion?" "no good reason," replied the old woman evasively, yet with evident apprehension of her questioner. "good reason or bad, i will have it," cried mistress nutter. "what you, too, take an interest in the wench, like the rest!" returned mother chattox. "is she so very winning?" "that is no answer to my question," said the lady. "whose child is she?" "ask bess device, or mother demdike," replied mother chattox; "they know more about the matter than me." "i will have thee speak, and to the purpose," cried the lady, angrily. "many an one has lost a child who would gladly have it back again," said the old hag, mysteriously. "who has lost one?" asked mistress nutter. "nay, it passeth me to tell," replied the old woman with affected ignorance. "question those who stole her. i have set you on the track. if you fail in pursuing it, come to me. you know where to find me." "you shall not go thus," said mistress nutter. "i will have a direct answer now." and as she spoke she waved her hands twice or thrice over the old woman. in doing this her figure seemed to dilate, and her countenance underwent a marked and fearful change. all her beauty vanished, her eyes blazed, and terror sat on her wrinkled brow. the hag, on the contrary, crouched lower down, and seemed to dwindle less than her ordinary size. writhing as from heavy blows, and with a mixture of malice and fear in her countenance, she cried, "were i to speak, you would not thank me. let me go." "answer," vociferated mistress nutter, disregarding the caution, and speaking in a sharp piercing voice, strangely contrasting with her ordinary utterance. "answer, i say, or i will beat thee to the dust." and she continued her gestures, while the sufferings of the old hag evidently increased, and she crouched nearer and nearer to the ground, moaning out the words, "do not force me to speak. you will repent it!--you will repent it!" "do not torment her thus, madam," cried alizon, who with dorothy looked at the strange scene with mingled apprehension and wonderment. "much as i desire to know the secret of my birth, i would not obtain it thus." as she uttered these words, the old woman contrived to shuffle off, and disappeared behind the tomb. "why did you interpose, alizon," cried mistress nutter, somewhat angrily, and dropping her hands. "you broke the power i had over her. i would have compelled her to speak." "i thank you, gracious lady, for your consideration," replied alizon, gratefully; "but the sight was too painful." "what has become of her--where is she gone?" cried dorothy, peeping behind the tomb. "she has crept into this vault, i suppose." "do not trouble yourelf about her more, dorothy," said mistress nutter, resuming her wonted voice and wonted looks. "let us return to the house. thus much is ascertained, alizon, that you are no child of your supposed parent. wait a little, and the rest shall be found out for you. and, meantime, be assured that i take strong interest in you." "that we all do," added dorothy. "thank you! thank you!" exclaimed alizon, almost overpowered. with this they went forth, and, traversing the shafted aisle, quitted the conventual church, and took their way along the alley leading to the garden. "say not a word at present to elizabeth device of the information you have obtained, alizon," observed mistress nutter. "i have reasons for this counsel, which i will afterwards explain to you. and do you keep silence on the subject, dorothy." "may i not tell richard?" said the young lady. "not richard--not any one," returned mistress nutter, "or you may seriously affect alizon's prospects." "you have cautioned me in time," cried dorothy, "for here comes my brother with our cousin nicholas." and as she spoke a turn in the alley showed richard and nicholas assheton advancing towards them. a strange revolution had been produced in alizon's feelings by the events of the last half hour. the opinions expressed by dorothy assheton, as to her birth, had been singularly confirmed by mother chattox; but could reliance be placed on the old woman's assertions? might they not have been made with mischievous intent? and was it not possible, nay, probable, that, in her place of concealment behind the tomb, the vindictive hag had overheard the previous conversation with dorothy, and based her own declaration upon it? all these suggestions occurred to alizon, but the previous idea having once gained admission to her breast, soon established itself firmly there, in spite of doubts and misgivings, and began to mix itself up with new thoughts and wishes, with which other persons were connected; for she could not help fancying she might be well-born, and if so the vast distance heretofore existing between her and richard assheton might be greatly diminished, if not altogether removed. so rapid is the progress of thought, that only a few minutes were required for this long train of reflections to pass through her mind, and it was merely put to flight by the approach of the main object of her thoughts. on joining the party, richard assheton saw plainly that something had happened; but as both his sister and alizon laboured under evident embarrassment, he abstained from making inquiries as to its cause for the present, hoping a better opportunity of doing so would occur, and the conversation was kept up by nicholas assheton, who described, in his wonted lively manner, the encounter with mother chattox and nance redferne, the swimming of the latter, and the trickery and punishment of potts. during the recital mistress nutter often glanced uneasily at the two girls, but neither of them offered any interruption until nicholas had finished, when dorothy, taking her brother's hand, said, with a look of affectionate admiration, "you acted like yourself, dear richard." alizon did not venture to give utterance to the same sentiment, but her looks plainly expressed it. "i only wish you had punished that cruel james device, as well as saved poor nance," added dorothy. "hush!" exclaimed richard, glancing at alizon. "you need not be afraid of hurting her feelings," cried the young lady. "she does not mind him now." "what do you mean, dorothy?" cried richard, in surprise. "oh, nothing--nothing," she replied, hastily. "perhaps you will explain," said richard to alizon. "indeed i cannot," she answered in confusion. "you would have laughed to see potts creep out of the river," said nicholas, turning to dorothy; "he looked just like a drowned rat--ha!--ha!" "you have made a bitter enemy of him, nicholas," observed mistress nutter; "so look well to yourself." "i heed him not," rejoined the squire; "he knows me now too well to meddle with me again, and i shall take good care how i put myself in his power. one thing i may mention, to show the impotent malice of the knave. just as he was setting off, he said, 'this is not the only discovery of witchcraft i have made to-day. i have another case nearer home.' what could he mean?" "i know not," replied mistress nutter, a shade of disquietude passing over her countenance. "but he is quite capable of bringing the charge against you or any of us." "he is so," said nicholas. "after what has occurred, i wonder whether he will go over to rough lee to-morrow?" "very likely not," replied mistress nutter, "and in that case master roger nowell must provide some other person competent to examine the boundary-line of the properties on his behalf." "then you are confident of the adjudication being in your favour?" said nicholas. "quite so," replied mistress nutter, with a self-satisfied smile. "the result, i hope, may justify your expectation," said nicholas; "but it is right to tell you, that sir ralph, in consenting to postpone his decision, has only done so out of consideration to you. if the division of the properties be as represented by him, master nowell will unquestionably obtain an award in his favour." "under such circumstances he may," said mistress nutter; "but you will find the contrary turn out to be the fact. i will show you a plan i have had lately prepared, and you can then judge for yourself." while thus conversing, the party passed through a door in the high stone wall dividing the garden from the court, and proceeded towards the principal entrance of the mansion. built out of the ruins of the abbey, which had served as a very convenient quarry for the construction of this edifice, as well as for portfield, the house was large and irregular, planned chiefly with the view of embodying part of the old abbot's lodging, and consisting of a wide front, with two wings, one of which looked into the court, and the other, comprehending the long gallery, into the garden. the old north-east gate of the abbey, with its lofty archway and embattled walls, served as an entrance to the great court-yard, and at its wicket ordinarily stood ned huddlestone, the porter, though he was absent on the present occasion, being occupied with the may-day festivities. immediately opposite the gateway sprang a flight of stone steps, with a double landing-place and a broad balustrade of the same material, on the lowest pillar of which was placed a large escutcheon sculptured with the arms of the family--argent, a mullet sable--with a rebus on the name--an ash on a tun. the great door to which these steps conducted stood wide open, and before it, on the upper landing-place, were collected lady assheton, mistress braddyll, mistress nicholas assheton, and some other dames, laughing and conversing together. some long-eared spaniels, favourites of the lady of the house, were chasing each other up and down the steps, disturbing the slumbers of a couple of fine blood-hounds in the court-yard; or persecuting the proud peafowl that strutted about to display their gorgeous plumage to the spectators. on seeing the party approach, lady assheton came down to meet them. "you have been long absent," she said to dorothy; "but i suppose you have been exploring the ruins?" "yes, we have not left a hole or corner unvisited," was the reply. "that is right," said lady assheton. "i knew you would make a good guide, dorothy. of course you have often seen the old conventual church before, alizon?" "i am ashamed to say i have not, your ladyship," she replied. "indeed!" exclaimed lady assheton; "and yet you have lived all your life in the village?" "quite true, your ladyship," answered alizon; "but these ruins have been prohibited to me." "not by us," said lady assheton; "they are open to every one." "i was forbidden to visit them by my mother," said alizon. and for the first time the word "mother" seemed strange to her. lady assheton looked surprised, but made no remark, and mounting the steps, led the way to a spacious though not very lofty chamber, with huge uncovered rafters, and a floor of polished oak. over a great fireplace at one side, furnished with immense andirons, hung a noble pair of antlers, and similar trophies of the chase were affixed to other parts of the walls. here and there were likewise hung rusty skull-caps, breastplates, two-handed and single-handed swords, maces, halberts, and arquebusses, with chain-shirts, buff-jerkins, matchlocks, and other warlike implements, amongst which were several shields painted with the arms of the asshetons and their alliances. high-backed chairs of gilt leather were ranged against the walls, and ebony cabinets inlaid with ivory were set between them at intervals, supporting rare specimens of glass and earthenware. opposite the fireplace, stood a large clock, curiously painted and decorated with emblematical devices, with the signs of the zodiac, and provided with movable figures to strike the hours on a bell; while from the centre of the roof hung a great chandelier of stag's horn. lady assheton did not tarry long within the entrance hall, for such it was, but conducted her guests through an arched doorway on the right into the long gallery. one hundred and fifty feet in length, and proportionately wide and lofty, this vast chamber had undergone little change since its original construction by the old owners of the abbey. panelled and floored with lustrous oak, and hung in some parts with antique tapestry, representing scriptural subjects, one side was pierced with lofty pointed windows, looking out upon the garden, while the southern extremity boasted a magnificent window, with heavy stone mullions, though of more recent workmanship than the framework, commanding whalley nab and the river. the furniture of the apartment was grand but gloomy, and consisted of antique chairs and tables belonging to the abbey. some curious ecclesiastical sculptures, wood carvings, and saintly images, were placed at intervals near the walls, and on the upper panels were hung a row of family portraits. quitting the rest of the company, and proceeding to the southern window, dorothy invited alizon and her brother to place themselves beside her on the cushioned seats of the deep embrasure. little conversation, however, ensued; alizon's heart being too full for utterance, and recent occurrences engrossing dorothy's thoughts, to the exclusion of every thing else. having made one or two unsuccessful efforts to engage them in talk, richard likewise lapsed into silence, and gazed out on the lovely scenery before him. the evening has been described as beautiful; and the swift calder, as it hurried by, was tinged with rays of the declining sun, whilst the woody heights of whalley nab were steeped in the same rosy light. but the view failed to interest richard in his present mood, and after a brief survey, he stole a look at alizon, and was surprised to find her in tears. "what saddening thoughts cross you, fair girl?" he inquired, with deep interest. "i can hardly account for my sudden despondency," she replied; "but i have heard that great happiness is the precursor of dejection, and the saying i suppose must be true, for i have been happier to-day than i ever was before in my life. but the feeling of sadness is now past," she added, smiling. "i am glad of it," said richard. "may i not know what has occurred to you?" "not at present," interposed dorothy; "but i am sure you will be pleased when you are made acquainted with the circumstance. i would tell you now if i might." "may i guess?" said richard. "i don't know," rejoined dorothy, who was dying to tell him. "may he?" "oh no, no!" cried alizon. "you are very perverse," said richard, with a look of disappointment. "there can be no harm in guessing; and you can please yourself as to giving an answer. i fancy, then, that alizon has made some discovery." dorothy nodded. "relative to her parentage?" pursued richard. another nod. "she has found out she is not elizabeth device's daughter?" said richard. "some witch must have told you this," exclaimed dorothy. "have i indeed guessed rightly?" cried richard, with an eagerness that startled his sister. "do not keep me in suspense. speak plainly." "how am i to answer him, alizon?" said dorothy. "nay, do not appeal to me, dear young lady," she answered, blushing. "i have gone too far to retreat," rejoined dorothy, "and therefore, despite mistress nutter's interdiction, the truth shall out. you have guessed shrewdly, richard. a discovery _has_ been made--a very great discovery. alizon is not the daughter of elizabeth device." "the intelligence delights me, though it scarcely surprises me," cried richard, gazing with heartfelt pleasure at the blushing girl; "for i was sure of the fact from the first. nothing so good and charming as alizon could spring from so foul a source. how and by what means you have derived this information, as well as whose daughter you are, i shall wait patiently to learn. enough for me you are not the sister of james device--enough you are not the grandchild of mother demdike." "you know all i know, in knowing thus much," replied alizon, timidly. "and secrecy has been enjoined by mistress nutter, in order that the rest may be found out. but oh! should the hopes i have--perhaps too hastily--indulged, prove fallacious--" "they cannot be fallacious, alizon," interrupted richard, eagerly. "on that score rest easy. your connexion with that wretched family is for ever broken. but i can see the necessity of caution, and shall observe it. and so mistress nutter takes an interest in you?" "the strongest," replied dorothy; "but see! she comes this way." but we must now go back for a short space. while mistress nutter and nicholas were seated at a table examining a plan of the rough lee estates, the latter was greatly astonished to see the door open and give admittance to master potts, who he fancied snugly lying between a couple of blankets, at the dragon. the attorney was clad in a riding-dress, which he had exchanged for his wet habiliments, and was accompanied by sir ralph assheton and master roger nowell. on seeing nicholas, he instantly stepped up to him. "aha! squire," he cried, "you did not expect to see me again so soon, eh! a pottle of hot sack put my blood into circulation, and having, luckily, a change of raiment in my valise, i am all right again. not so easily got rid of, you see!" "so it appears," replied nicholas, laughing. "we have a trifling account to settle together, sir," said the attorney, putting on a serious look. "whenever you please, sir," replied nicholas, good-humouredly, tapping the hilt of his sword. "not in that way," cried potts, darting quickly back. "i never fight with those weapons--never. our dispute must be settled in a court of law, sir--in a court of law. you understand, master nicholas?" "there is a shrewd maxim, master potts, that he who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client," observed nicholas, drily. "would it not be better to stick to the defence of others, rather than practise in your own behalf?" "you have expressed my opinion, master nicholas," observed roger nowell; "and i hope master potts will not commence any action on his own account till he has finished my business." "assuredly not, sir, since you desire it," replied the attorney, obsequiously. "but my motives must not be mistaken. i have a clear case of assault and battery against master nicholas assheton, or i may proceed against him criminally for an attempt on my life." "have you given him no provocation, sir?" demanded sir ralph, sternly. "no provocation can justify the treatment i have experienced, sir ralph," replied potts. "however, to show i am a man of peace, and harbour no resentment, however just grounds i may have for such a feeling, i am willing to make up the matter with master nicholas, provided--" "he offers you a handsome consideration, eh?" said the squire. "provided he offers me a handsome apology--such as a gentleman may accept," rejoined potts, consequentially. "and which he will not refuse, i am sure," said sir ralph, glancing at his cousin. "i should certainly be sorry to have drowned you," said the squire--"very sorry." "enough--enough--i am content," cried potts, holding out his hand, which nicholas grasped with an energy that brought tears into the little man's eyes. "i am glad the matter is amicably adjusted," observed roger nowell, "for i suspect both parties have been to blame. and i must now request you, master potts, to forego your search, and inquiries after witches, till such time as you have settled this question of the boundary line for me. one matter at a time, my good sir." "but, master nowell," cried potts, "my much esteemed and singular good client--" "i will have no nay," interrupted nowell, peremptorily. "hum!" muttered potts; "i shall lose the best chance of distinction ever thrown in my way." "i care not," said nowell. "just as you came up, master nowell," observed nicholas, "i was examining a plan of the disputed estates in pendle forest. it differs from yours, and, if correct, certainly substantiates mistress nutter's claim." "i have mine with me," replied nowell, producing a plan, and opening it. "we can compare the two, if you please. the line runs thus:--from the foot of pendle hill, beginning with barley booth, the boundary is marked by a stone wall, as far as certain fields in the occupation of john ogden. is it not so?" "it is," replied nicholas, comparing the statement with the other plan. "it then runs on in a northerly direction," pursued nowell, "towards burst clough, and here the landmarks are certain stones placed in the moor, one hundred yards apart, and giving me twenty acres of this land, and mistress nutter ten." "on the contrary," replied nicholas. "this plan gives mistress nutter twenty acres, and you ten." "then the plan is wrong," cried nowell, sharply. "it has been carefully prepared," said mistress nutter, who had approached the table. "no matter; it is wrong, i say," cried nowell, angrily. "you see where the landmarks are placed, master nowell," said nicholas, pointing to the measurement. "i merely go by them." "the landmarks are improperly placed in that plan," cried nowell. "i will examine them myself to-morrow," said potts, taking out a large memorandum-hook; "there cannot be an error of ten acres--ten perches--or ten feet, possibly, but acres--pshaw!" "laugh as you please; but go on," said mrs. nutter. "well, then," pursued nicholas, "the line approaches the bank of a rivulet, called moss brook--a rare place for woodcocks and snipes that moss brook, i may remark--the land on the left consisting of five acres of waste land, marked by a sheepfold, and two posts set up in a line with it, belonging to mistress nutter." "to mistress nutter!" exclaimed nowell, indignantly. "to me, you mean." "it is here set down to mistress nutter," said nicholas. "then it is set down wrongfully," cried nowell. "that plan is altogether incorrect." "on which side of the field does the rivulet flow?" inquired potts. "on the right," replied nicholas. "on the left," cried nowell. "there must be some extraordinary mistake," said potts. "i shall make a note of that, and examine it to-morrow.--n.b. waste land--sheepfold-- rivulet called moss brook, flowing on the left." "on the right," cried mistress nutter. "that remains to be seen," rejoined potts, "i have made the entry as on the left." "go on, master nicholas," said nowell, "i should like to see how many other errors that plan contains." "passing the rivulet," pursued the squire, "we come to a footpath leading to the limestone quarry, about which there can be no mistake. then by cat gallows wood and swallow hole; and then by another path to worston moor, skirting a hut in the occupation of james device--ha! ha! master jem, are you here? i thought you dwelt with your grandmother at malkin tower--excuse me, master nowell, but one must relieve the dulness of this plan by an exclamation or so--and here being waste land again, the landmarks are certain stones set at intervals towards hook cliff, and giving mistress nutter two-thirds of the whole moor, and master roger nowell one-third." "false again," cried nowell, furiously. "the two-thirds are mine, the one-third mistress nutter's." "somebody must be very wrong," cried nicholas. "very wrong indeed," added potts; "and i suspect that that somebody is--" "master nowell," said mistress nutter. "mistress nutter," cried master nowell. "both are wrong and both right, according to your own showing," said nicholas, laughing. "to-morrow will decide the question," said potts. "better wait till then," interposed sir ralph. "take both plans with you, and you will then ascertain which is correct." "agreed," cried nowell. "here is mine." "and here is mine," said mistress nutter. "i will abide by the investigation." "and master potts and i will verify the statements," said nicholas. "we will, sir," replied the attorney, putting his memorandum book in his pocket. "we will." the plans were then delivered to the custody of sir ralph, who promised to hand them over to potts and nicholas on the morrow. the party then separated; mistress nutter shaping her course towards the window where alizon and the two other young people were seated, while potts, plucking the squire's sleeve, said, with a very mysterious look, that he desired a word with him in private. wondering what could be the nature of the communication the attorney desired to make, nicholas withdrew with him into a corner, and nowell, who saw them retire, and could not help watching them with some curiosity, remarked that the squire's hilarious countenance fell as he listened to the attorney, while, on the contrary, the features of the latter gleamed with malicious satisfaction. meanwhile, mistress nutter approached alizon, and beckoning her towards her, they quitted the room together. as the young girl went forth, she cast a wistful look at dorothy and her brother. "you think with me, that that lovely girl is well born?" said dorothy, as alizon disappeared. "it were heresy to doubt it," answered richard. "shall i tell you another secret?" she continued, regarding him fixedly--"if, indeed, it be a secret, for you must be sadly wanting in discernment if you have not found it out ere this. she loves you." "dorothy!" exclaimed richard. "i am sure of it," she rejoined. "but i would not tell you this, if i were not quite equally sure that you love her in return." "on my faith, dorothy, you give yourself credit for wonderful penetration," cried richard. "not a whit more than i am entitled to," she answered. "nay, it will not do to attempt concealment with me. if i had not been certain of the matter before, your manner now would convince me. i am very glad of it. she will make a charming sister, and i shall he very fond of her." "how you do run on, madcap!" cried her brother, trying to look displeased, but totally failing in assuming the expression. "stranger things have come to pass," said dorothy; "and one reads in story-hooks of young nobles marrying village maidens in spite of parental opposition. i dare say you will get nobody's consent to the marriage but mine, richard." "i dare say not," he replied, rather blankly. "that is, if she should not turn out to be somebody's daughter," pursued dorothy; "somebody, i mean, quite as great as the heir of middleton, which i make no doubt she will." "i hope she may," replied richard. "why, you don't mean to say you wouldn't marry her if she didn't!" cried dorothy. "i'm ashamed of you, richard." "it would remove all opposition, at all events," said her brother. "so it would," said dorothy; "and now i'll tell you another notion of mine, richard. somehow or other, it has come into my head that alizon is the daughter of--whom do you think?" "whom!" he cried. "guess," she rejoined. "i can't," he exclaimed, impatiently. "well, then, i'll tell you without more ado," she answered. "mind, it's only my notion, and i've no precise grounds for it. but, in my opinion, she's the daughter of the lady who has just left the room." "of mistress nutter!" ejaculated richard, starting. "what makes you think so?" "the extraordinary and otherwise unaccountable interest she takes in her," replied dorothy. "and, if you recollect, mistress nutter had an infant daughter who was lost in a strange manner." "i thought the child died," replied richard; "but it may be as you say. i hope it is so." "time will show," said dorothy; "but i have made up my mind about the matter." at this moment nicholas assheton came up to them, looking grave and uneasy. "what has happened?" asked richard, anxiously. "i have just received some very unpleasant intelligence," replied nicholas. "i told you of a menace uttered by that confounded potts, on quitting me after his ducking. he has now spoken out plainly, and declares he overheard part of a conversation between mistress nutter and elizabeth device, which took place in the ruins of the convent church this morning, and he is satisfied that--" "well!" cried richard, breathlessly. "that mistress nutter is a witch, and in league with witches," continued nicholas. "ha!" exclaimed richard, turning deathly pale. "i suspect the rascal has invented the charge," said nicholas; "but he is quite unscrupulous enough to make it; and, if made, it will be fatal to our relative's reputation, if not to her life." "it is false, i am sure of it," cried richard, torn by conflicting emotions. "would i could think so!" cried dorothy, suddenly recollecting mistress nutter's strange demeanour in the little chapel, and the unaccountable influence she seemed to exercise over the old crone. "but something has occurred to-day that leads me to a contrary conviction." "what is it? speak!" cried richard. "not now--not now," replied dorothy. "whatever suspicions you may entertain, keep silence, or you will destroy mistress nutter," said nicholas. "fear me not," rejoined dorothy. "oh, alizon!" she murmured, "that this unhappy question should arise at such a moment." "do you indeed believe the charge, dorothy?" asked richard, in a low voice. "i do," she answered in the same tone. "if alizon be her daughter, she can never be your wife." "how?" cried richard. "never--never!" repeated dorothy, emphatically. "the daughter of a witch, be that witch named elizabeth device or alice nutter, is no mate for you." "you prejudge mistress nutter, dorothy," he cried. "alas! richard. i have too good reason for what i say," she answered, sadly. richard uttered an exclamation of despair. and on the instant the lively sounds of tabor and pipe, mixed with the jingling of bells, arose from the court-yard, and presently afterwards an attendant entered to announce that the may-day revellers were without, and directions were given by sir ralph that they should be shown into the great banqueting-hall below the gallery, which had been prepared for their reception. chapter viii.--the revelation. on quitting the long gallery, mistress nutter and alizon ascended a wide staircase, and, traversing a corridor, came to an antique, tapestried chamber, richly but cumbrously furnished, having a carved oak bedstead with sombre hangings, a few high-backed chairs of the same material, and a massive wardrobe, with shrine-work atop, and two finely sculptured figures, of the size of life, in the habits of cistertian monks, placed as supporters at either extremity. at one side of the bed the tapestry was drawn aside, showing the entrance to a closet or inner room, and opposite it there was a great yawning fireplace, with a lofty mantelpiece and chimney projecting beyond the walls. the windows were narrow, and darkened by heavy transom bars and small diamond panes while the view without, looking upon whalley nab, was obstructed by the contiguity of a tall cypress, whose funereal branches added to the general gloom. the room was one of those formerly allotted to their guests by the hospitable abbots, and had undergone little change since their time, except in regard to furniture; and even that appeared old and faded now. what with the gloomy arras, the shrouded bedstead, and the gothic wardrobe with its mysterious figures, the chamber had a grim, ghostly air, and so the young girl thought on entering it. "i have brought you hither, alizon," said mistress nutter, motioning her to a seat, "that we may converse without chance of interruption, for i have much to say. on first seeing you to-day, your appearance, so superior to the rest of the may-day mummers, struck me forcibly, and i resolved to question elizabeth device about you. accordingly i bade her join me in the abbey gardens. she did so, and had not long left me when i accidentally met you and the others in the lacy chapel. when questioned, elizabeth affected great surprise, and denied positively that there was any foundation for the idea that you were other than her child; but, notwithstanding her asseverations, i could see from her confused manner that there was more in the notion than she chose to admit, and i determined to have recourse to other means of arriving at the truth, little expecting my suspicions would be so soon confirmed by mother chattox. to my interrogation of that old woman, you were yourself a party, and i am now rejoiced that you interfered to prevent me from prosecuting my inquiries to the utmost. there was one present from whom the secret of your birth must be strictly kept--at least, for awhile--and my impatience carried me too far." "i only obeyed a natural impulse, madam," said alizon; "but i am at a loss to conceive what claim i can possibly have to the consideration you show me." "listen to me, and you shall learn," replied mistress nutter. "it is a sad tale, and its recital will tear open old wounds, but it must not be withheld on that account. i do not ask you to bury the secrets i am about to impart in the recesses of your bosom. you will do so when you learn them, without my telling you. when little more than your age i was wedded; but not to him i would have chosen if choice had been permitted me. the union i need scarcely say was unhappy--most unhappy--though my discomforts were scrupulously concealed, and i was looked upon as a devoted wife, and my husband as a model of conjugal affection. but this was merely the surface--internally all was strife and misery. erelong my dislike of my husband increased to absolute hate, while on his part, though he still regarded me with as much passion as heretofore, he became frantically jealous--and above all of edward braddyll of portfield, who, as his bosom friend, and my distant relative, was a frequent visiter at the house. to relate the numerous exhibitions of jealousy that occurred would answer little purpose, and it will be enough to say that not a word or look passed between edward and myself but was misconstrued. i took care never to be alone with our guest--nor to give any just ground for suspicion--but my caution availed nothing. an easy remedy would have been to forbid edward the house, but this my husband's pride rejected. he preferred to endure the jealous torment occasioned by the presence of his wife's fancied lover, and inflict needless anguish on her, rather than brook the jeers of a few indifferent acquaintances. the same feeling made him desire to keep up an apparent good understanding with me; and so far i seconded his views, for i shared in his pride, if in nothing else. our quarrels were all in private, when no eye could see us--no ear listen." "yours is a melancholy history, madam," remarked alizon, in a tone of profound interest. "you will think so ere i have done," returned the lady, sadly. "the only person in my confidence, and aware of my secret sorrows, was elizabeth device, who with her husband, john device, then lived at rough lee. serving me in the quality of tire-woman and personal attendant, she could not be kept in ignorance of what took place, and the poor soul offered me all the sympathy in her power. much was it needed, for i had no other sympathy. after awhile, i know not from what cause, unless from some imprudence on the part of edward braddyll, who was wild and reckless, my husband conceived worse suspicions than ever of me, and began to treat me with such harshness and cruelty, that, unable longer to endure his violence, i appealed to my father. but he was of a stern and arbitrary nature, and, having forced me into the match, would not listen to my complaints, but bade me submit. 'it was my duty to do so,' he said, and he added some cutting expressions to the effect that i deserved the treatment i experienced, and dismissed me. driven to desperation, i sought counsel and assistance from one i should most have avoided--from edward braddyll--and he proposed flight from my husband's roof--flight with him." "but you were saved, madam?" cried alizon, greatly shocked by the narration. "you were saved?" "hear me out," rejoined mistress nutter. "outraged as my feelings were, and loathsome as my husband was to me, i spurned the base proposal, and instantly quitted my false friend. nor would i have seen him more, if permitted; but that secret interview with him was my first and last;--for it had been witnessed by my husband." "ha!" exclaimed alizon. "concealed behind the arras, richard nutter heard enough to confirm his worst suspicions," pursued the lady; "but he did not hear my justification. he saw edward braddyll at my feet--he heard him urge me to fly--but he did not wait to learn if i consented, and, looking upon me as guilty, left his hiding-place to take measures for frustrating the plan, he supposed concerted between us. that night i was made prisoner in my room, and endured treatment the most inhuman. but a proposal was made by my husband, that promised some alleviation of my suffering. henceforth we were to meet only in public, when a semblance of affection was to be maintained on both sides. this was done, he said, to save my character, and preserve his own name unspotted in the eyes of others, however tarnished it might be in his own. i willingly consented to the arrangement; and thus for a brief space i became tranquil, if not happy. but another and severer trial awaited me." "alas, madam!" exclaimed alizon, sympathisingly. "my cup of sorrow, i thought, was full," pursued mistress nutter; "but the drop was wanting to make it overflow. it came soon enough. amidst my griefs i expected to be a mother, and with that thought how many fond and cheering anticipations mingled! in my child i hoped to find a balm for my woes: in its smiles and innocent endearments a compensation for the harshness and injustice i had experienced. how little did i foresee that it was to be a new instrument of torture to me; and that i should be cruelly robbed of the only blessing ever vouchsafed me!" "did the child die, madam?" asked alizon. "you shall hear," replied mistress nutter. "a daughter was born to me. i was made happy by its birth. a new existence, bright and unclouded, seemed dawning upon me; but it was like a sunburst on a stormy day. some two months before this event elizabeth device had given birth to a daughter, and she now took my child under her fostering care; for weakness prevented me from affording it the support it is a mother's blessed privilege to bestow. she seemed as fond of it as myself; and never was babe more calculated to win love than my little millicent. oh! how shall i go on? the retrospect i am compelled to take is frightful, but i cannot shun it. the foul and false suspicions entertained by my husband began to settle on the child. he would not believe it to be his own. with violent oaths and threats he first announced his odious suspicions to elizabeth device, and she, full of terror, communicated them to me. the tidings filled me with inexpressible alarm; for i knew, if the dread idea had once taken possession of him, it would never be removed, while what he threatened would be executed. i would have fled at once with my poor babe if i had known where to go; but i had no place of shelter. it would be in vain to seek refuge with my father; and i had no other relative or friend whom i could trust. where then should i fly? at last i bethought me of a retreat, and arranged a plan of escape with elizabeth device. vain were my precautions. on that very night, i was startled from slumber by a sudden cry from the nurse, who was seated by the fire, with the child on her knees. it was long past midnight, and all the household were at rest. two persons had entered the room. one was my ruthless husband, richard nutter; the other was john device, a powerful ruffianly fellow, who planted himself near the door. "marching quickly towards elizabeth, who had arisen on seeing him, my husband snatched the child from her before i could seize it, and with a violent blow on the chest felled me to the ground, where i lay helpless, speechless. with reeling senses i heard elizabeth cry out that it was her own child, and call upon her husband to save it. richard nutter paused, but re-assured by a laugh of disbelief from his ruffianly follower, he told elizabeth the pitiful excuse would not avail to save the brat. and then i saw a weapon gleam--there was a feeble piteous cry--a cry that might have moved a demon--but it did not move _him_. with wicked words and blood-imbrued hands he cast the body on the fire. the horrid sight was too much for me, and i became senseless." "a dreadful tale, indeed, madam!" cried alizon, frozen with horror. "the crime was hidden--hidden from the eyes of men, but mark the retribution that followed," said mistress nutter; her eyes sparkling with vindictive joy. "of the two murderers both perished miserably. john device was drowned in a moss-pool. richard nutter's end was terrible, sharpened by the pangs of remorse, and marked by frightful suffering. but another dark event preceded his death, which may have laid a crime the more on his already heavily-burdened soul. edward braddyll, the object of his jealousy and hate, suddenly sickened of a malady so strange and fearful, that all who saw him affirmed it the result of witchcraft. none thought of my husband's agency in the dark affair except myself; but knowing he had held many secret conferences about the time with mother chattox, i more than suspected him. the sick man died; and from that hour richard nutter knew no rest. ever on horseback, or fiercely carousing, he sought in vain to stifle remorse. visions scared him by night, and vague fears pursued him by day. he would start at shadows, and talk wildly. to me his whole demeanour was altered; and he strove by every means in his power to win my love. but he could not give me back the treasure he had taken. he could not bring to life my murdered babe. like his victim, he fell ill on a sudden, and of a strange and terrible sickness. i saw he could not recover, and therefore tended him carefully. he died; and i shed no tear." "alas!" exclaimed alizon, "though guilty, i cannot but compassionate him." "you are right to do so, alizon," said mistress nutter, rising, while the young girl rose too; "for he was your father." "my father!" she exclaimed, in amazement. "then you are my mother?" "i am--i am," replied mistress nutter, straining her to her bosom. "oh, my child!--my dear child!" she cried. "the voice of nature from the first pleaded eloquently in your behalf, and i should have been deaf to all impulses of affection if i had not listened to the call. i now trace in every feature the lineaments of the babe i thought lost for ever. all is clear to me. the exclamation of elizabeth device, which, like my ruthless husband, i looked upon as an artifice to save the infant's life, i now find to be the truth. her child perished instead of mine. how or why she exchanged the infants on that night remains to be explained, but that she did so is certain; while that she should afterwards conceal the circumstance is easily comprehended, from a natural dread of her own husband as well as of mine. it is possible that from some cause she may still deny the truth, but i can make it her interest to speak plainly. the main difficulty will lie in my public acknowledgment of you. but, at whatever cost, it shall be made." "oh! consider it well;" said alizon, "i will be your daughter in love--in duty--in all but name. but sully not my poor father's honour, which even at the peril of his soul he sought to maintain! how can i be owned as your daughter without involving the discovery of this tragic history?" "you are right, alizon," rejoined mistress nutter, thoughtfully. "it will bring the dark deed to light. but you shall never return to elizabeth device. you shall go with me to rough lee, and take up your abode in the house where i was once so wretched--but where i shall now be full of happiness with you. you shall see the dark spots on the hearth, which i took to be your blood." "if not mine, it was blood spilt by my father," said alizon, with a shudder. was it fancy, or did a low groan break upon her ear? it must be imaginary, for mistress nutter seemed unconscious of the dismal sound. it was now growing rapidly dark, and the more distant objects in the room were wrapped in obscurity; but alizon's gaze rested on the two monkish figures supporting the wardrobe. "look there, mother," she said to mistress nutter. "where?" cried the lady, turning round quickly, "ah! i see. you alarm yourself needlessly, my child. those are only carved figures of two brethren of the abbey. they are said, i know not with what truth--to be statues of john paslew and borlace alvetham." "i thought they stirred," said alizon. "it was mere fancy," replied mistress nutter. "calm yourself, sweet child. let us think of other things--of our newly discovered relationship. henceforth, to me you are millicent nutter; though to others you must still be alizon device. my sweet millicent," she cried, embracing her again and again. "ah, little--little did i think to see you more!" alizon's fears were speedily chased away. "forgive me, dear mother," she cried, "if i have failed to express the full delight i experience in my restitution to you. the shock of your sad tale at first deadened my joy, while the suddenness of the information respecting myself so overwhelmed me, that like one chancing upon a hidden treasure, and gazing at it confounded, i was unable to credit my own good fortune. even now i am quite bewildered; and no wonder, for many thoughts, each of different import, throng upon me. independently of the pleasure and natural pride i must feel in being acknowledged by you as a daughter, it is a source of the deepest satisfaction to me to know that i am not, in any way, connected with elizabeth device--not from her humble station--for poverty weighs little with me in comparison with virtue and goodness--but from her sinfulness. you know the dark offence laid to her charge?" "i do," replied mistress nutter, in a low deep tone, "but i do not believe it." "nor i," returned alizon. "still, she acts as if she were the wicked thing she is called; avoids all religious offices; shuns all places of worship; and derides the holy scriptures. oh, mother! you will comprehend the frequent conflict of feelings i must have endured. you will understand my horror when i have sometimes thought myself the daughter of a witch." "why did you not leave her if you thought so?" said mistress nutter, frowning. "i could not leave her," replied alizon, "for i then thought her my mother." mistress nutter fell upon her daughter's neck, and wept aloud. "you have an excellent heart, my child," she said at length, checking her emotion. "i have nothing to complain of in elizabeth device, dear mother," she replied. "what she denied herself, she did not refuse me; and though i have necessarily many and great deficiencies, you will find in me, i trust, no evil principles. and, oh! shall we not strive to rescue that poor benighted creature from the pit? we may yet save her." "it is too late," replied mistress nutter in a sombre tone. "it cannot be too late," said alizon, confidently. "she cannot be beyond redemption. but even if she should prove intractable, poor little jennet may be preserved. she is yet a child, with some good--though, alas! much evil, also--in her nature. let our united efforts be exerted in this good work, and we must succeed. the weeds extirpated, the flowers will spring up freely, and bloom in beauty." "i can have nothing to do with her," said mistress nutter, in a freezing tone--"nor must you." "oh! say not so, mother," cried alizon. "you rob me of half the happiness i feel in being restored to you. when i was jennets sister, i devoted myself to the task of reclaiming her. i hoped to be her guardian angel--to step between her and the assaults of evil--and i cannot, will not, now abandon her. if no longer my sister, she is still dear to me. and recollect that i owe a deep debt of gratitude to her mother--a debt i can never pay." "how so?" cried mistress nutter. "you owe her nothing--but the contrary." "i owe her a life," said alizon. "was not her infant's blood poured out for mine! and shall i not save the child left her, if i can?" "i shall not oppose your inclinations," replied mistress nutter, with reluctant assent; "but elizabeth, i suspect, will thank you little for your interference." "not now, perhaps," returned alizon; "but a time will come when she will do so." while this conversation took place, it had been rapidly growing dark, and the gloom at length increased so much, that the speakers could scarcely see each other's faces. the sudden and portentous darkness was accounted for by a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a low growl of thunder rumbling over whalley nab. the mother and daughter drew close together, and mistress nutter passed her arm round alizon's neck. the storm came quickly on, with forked and dangerous lightning, and loud claps of thunder threatening mischief. presently, all its fury seemed collected over the abbey. the red flashes hissed, and the peals of thunder rolled overhead. but other terrors were added to alizon's natural dread of the elemental warfare. again she fancied the two monkish figures, which had before excited her alarm, moved, and even shook their arms menacingly at her. at first she attributed this wild idea to her overwrought imagination, and strove to convince herself of its fallacy by keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon them. but each succeeding flash only served to confirm her superstitious apprehensions. another circumstance contributed to heighten her alarm. scared most probably by the storm, a large white owl fluttered down the chimney, and after wheeling twice or thrice round the chamber, settled upon the bed, hooting, puffing, ruffling its feathers, and glaring at her with eyes that glowed like fiery coals. mistress nutter seemed little moved by the storm, though she kept a profound silence, but when alizon gazed in her face, she was frightened by its expression, which reminded her of the terrible aspect she had worn at the interview with mother chattox. all at once mistress nutter arose, and, rapid as the lightning playing around her and revealing her movements, made several passes, with extended hands, over her daughter; and on this the latter instantly fell back, as if fainting, though still retaining her consciousness; and, what was stranger still, though her eyes were closed, her power of sight remained. in this condition she fancied invisible forms were moving about her. strange sounds seemed to salute her ears, like the gibbering of ghosts, and she thought she felt the flapping of unseen wings around her. all at once her attention was drawn--she knew not why--towards the closet, and from out it she fancied she saw issue the tall dark figure of a man. she was sure she saw him; for her imagination could not body forth features charged with such a fiendish expression, or eyes of such unearthly lustre. he was clothed in black, but the fashion of his raiments was unlike aught she had ever seen. his stature was gigantic, and a pale phosphoric light enshrouded him. as he advanced, forked lightnings shot into the room, and the thunder split overhead. the owl hooted fearfully, quitted its perch, and flew off by the way it had entered the chamber. the dark shape came on. it stood beside mistress nutter, and she prostrated herself before it. the gestures of the figure were angry and imperious--those of mistress nutter supplicating. their converse was drowned by the rattling of the storm. at last the figure pointed to alizon, and the word "midnight" broke in tones louder than the thunder from its lips. all consciousness then forsook her. how long she continued in this state she knew not, but the touch of a finger applied to her brow seemed to recall her suddenly to animation. she heaved a deep sigh, and looked around. a wondrous change had occurred. the storm had passed off, and the moon was shining brightly over the top of the cypress-tree, flooding the chamber with its gentle radiance, while her mother was bending over her with looks of tenderest affection. "you are better now, sweet child," said mistress nutter. "you were overcome by the storm. it was sudden and terrible." "terrible, indeed!" replied alizon, imperfectly recalling what had passed. "but it was not alone the storm that frightened me. this chamber has been invaded by evil beings. methought i beheld a dark figure come from out yon closet, and stand before you." "you have been thrown into a state of stupor by the influence of the electric fluid," replied mistress nutter, "and while in that condition visions have passed through your brain. that is all, my child." "oh! i hope so," said alizon. "such ecstasies are of frequent occurrence," replied mistress nutter. "but, since you are quite recovered, we will descend to lady assheton, who may wonder at our absence. you will share this room with me to-night, my child; for, as i have already said, you cannot return to elizabeth device. i will make all needful explanations to lady assheton, and will see elizabeth in the morning--perhaps to-night. reassure yourself, sweet child. there is nothing to fear." "i trust not, mother," replied alizon. "but it would ease my mind to look into that closet." "do so, then, by all means," replied mistress nutter with a forced smile. alizon peeped timorously into the little room, which was lighted up by the moon's rays. there was a faded white habit, like the robe of a cistertian monk, hanging in one corner, and beneath it an old chest. alizon would fain have opened the chest, but mistress nutter called out to her impatiently, "you will discover nothing, i am sure. come, let us go down-stairs." and they quitted the room together. chapter ix.--the two portraits in the banqueting-hall. the banqueting-hall lay immediately under the long gallery, corresponding with it in all but height; and though in this respect it fell somewhat short of the magnificent upper room, it was quite lofty enough to admit of a gallery of its own for spectators and minstrels. great pains had been taken in decorating the hall for the occasion. between the forest of stags' horns that branched from the gallery rails were hung rich carpets, intermixed with garlands of flowers, and banners painted with the arms of the assheton family, were suspended from the corners. over the fireplace, where, despite the advanced season, a pile of turf and wood was burning, were hung two panoplies of arms, and above them, on a bracket, was set a complete suit of mail, once belonging to richard assheton, the first possessor of the mansion. on the opposite wall hung two remarkable portraits--the one representing a religious votaress in a loose robe of black, with wide sleeves, holding a rosary and missal in her hand, and having her brow and neck entirely concealed by the wimple, in which her head and shoulders were enveloped. such of her features as could be seen were of extraordinary loveliness, though of a voluptuous character, the eyes being dark and languishing, and shaded by long lashes, and the lips carnation-hued and full. this was the fair votaress, isole de heton, who brought such scandal on the abbey in the reign of henry vi. the other portrait was that of an abbot, in the white gown and scapulary of the cistertian order. the countenance was proud and stern, but tinctured with melancholy. in a small shield at one corner the arms were blazoned--argent, a fess between three mullets, sable, pierced of the field, a crescent for difference--proving it to be the portrait of john paslew. both pictures had been found in the abbot's lodgings, when taken possession of by richard assheton, but they owed their present position to his descendant, sir ralph, who discovering them in an out-of-the-way closet, where they had been cast aside, and struck with their extraordinary merit, hung them up as above stated. the long oaken table, usually standing in the middle of the hall, had been removed to one side, to allow free scope for dancing and other pastimes, but it was still devoted to hospitable uses, being covered with trenchers and drinking-cups, and spread for a substantial repast. near it stood two carvers, with aprons round their waists, brandishing long knives, while other yeomen of the kitchen and cellar were at hand to keep the trenchers well supplied, and the cups filled with strong ale, or bragget, as might suit the taste of the guests. nor were these the only festive preparations. the upper part of the hall was reserved for sir ralph's immediate friends, and here, on a slightly raised elevation, stood a cross table, spread for a goodly supper, the snowy napery being ornamented with wreaths and ropes of flowers, and shining with costly vessels. at the lower end of the room, beneath the gallery, which it served to support, was a gothic screen, embellishing an open armoury, which made a grand display of silver plates and flagons. through one of the doorways contrived in this screen, the may-day revellers were ushered into the hall by old adam whitworth, the white-headed steward. "i pray you be seated, good masters, and you, too, comely dames," said adam, leading them to the table, and assigning each a place with his wand. "fall to, and spare not, for it is my honoured master's desire you should sup well. you will find that venison pasty worth a trial, and the baked red deer in the centre of the table is a noble dish. the fellow to it was served at sir ralph's own table at dinner, and was pronounced excellent. i pray you try it, masters.--here, ned scargill, mind your office, good fellow, and break me that deer. and you, paul pimlot, exercise your craft on the venison pasty." and as trencher after trencher was rapidly filled by the two carvers, who demeaned themselves in their task like men acquainted with the powers of rustic appetite, the old steward addressed himself to the dames. "what can i do for you, fair mistresses?" he said. "here be sack possets, junkets and cream, for such as like them--french puffs and italian puddings, right good, i warrant you, and especially admired by my honourable good lady. indeed, i am not sure she hath not lent a hand herself in their preparation. then here be fritters in the court fashion, made with curds of sack posset, eggs and ale, and seasoned with nutmeg and pepper. you will taste them, i am sure, for they are favourites with our sovereign lady, the queen. here, gregory, dickon--bestir yourselves, knaves, and pour forth a cup of sack for each of these dames. as you drink, mistresses, neglect not the health of our honourable good master sir ralph, and his lady. it is well--it is well. i will convey to them both your dutiful good wishes. but i must see all your wants supplied. good dame openshaw, you have nought before you. be prevailed upon to taste these dropt raisins or a fond pudding. and you, too, sweet dame tetlow. squire nicholas gave me special caution to take care of you, but the injunction was unneeded, as i should have done so without it.--another cup of canary to dame tetlow, gregory. fill to the brim, knave--to the very brim. to the health of squire nicholas," he added in a low tone, as he handed the brimming goblet to the blushing dame; "and be sure and tell him, if he questions you, that i obeyed his behests to the best of my ability. i pray you taste this pippin jelly, dame. it is as red as rubies, but not so red as your lips, or some leach of almonds, which, lily-white though it be, is not to be compared with the teeth that shall touch it." "odd's heart! mester steward, yo mun ha' larnt that protty speech fro' th' squoire himself," replied dame tetlow, laughing. "it may be the recollection of something said to me by him, brought to mind by your presence," replied adam whitworth, gallantly. "if i can serve you in aught else, sign to me, dame.--now, knaves, fill the cups--ale or bragget, at your pleasure, masters. drink and stint not, and you will the better please your liberal entertainer and my honoured master." thus exhorted, the guests set seriously to work to fulfil the hospitable intentions of the provider of the feast. cups flowed fast and freely, and erelong little was left of the venison pasty but the outer crust, and nothing more than a few fragments of the baked red deer. the lighter articles then came in for a share of attention, and salmon from the ribble, jack, trout, and eels from the hodder and calder, boiled, broiled, stewed, and pickled, and of delicious flavour, were discussed with infinite relish. puddings and pastry were left to more delicate stomachs--the solids only being in request with the men. hitherto, the demolition of the viands had given sufficient employment, but now the edge of appetite beginning to be dulled, tongues were unloosed, and much merriment prevailed. more than eighty in number, the guests were dispersed without any regard to order, and thus the chief actors in the revel were scattered promiscuously about the table, diversifying it with their gay costumes. robin hood sat between two pretty female morris-dancers, whose partners had got to the other end of the table; while ned huddlestone, the representative of friar tuck, was equally fortunate, having a buxom dame on either side of him, towards whom he distributed his favours with singular impartiality. as porter to the abbey, ned made himself at home; and, next to adam whitworth, was perhaps the most important personage present, continually roaring for ale, and pledging the damsels around him. from the way he went on, it seemed highly probable he would be under the table before supper was over; but ned huddlestone, like the burly priest whose gown he wore, had a stout bullet head, proof against all assaults of liquor; and the copious draughts he swallowed, instead of subduing him, only tended to make him more uproarious. blessed also with lusty lungs, his shouts of laughter made the roof ring again. but if the strong liquor failed to make due impression upon him, the like cannot be said of jack roby, who, it will be remembered, took the part of the fool, and who, having drunk overmuch, mistook the hobby-horse for a real steed, and in an effort to bestride it, fell head-foremost on the floor, and, being found incapable of rising, was carried out to an adjoining room, and laid on a bench. this, however, was the only case of excess; for though the sherwood foresters emptied their cups often enough to heighten their mirth, none of them seemed the worse for what they drank. lawrence blackrod, mr. parker's keeper, had fortunately got next to his old flame, sukey worseley; while phil rawson, the forester, who enacted will scarlet, and nancy holt, between whom an equally tender feeling subsisted, had likewise got together. a little beyond them sat the gentleman usher and parish clerk, sampson harrop, who, piquing himself on his good manners, drank very sparingly, and was content to sup on sweetmeats and a bowl of fleetings, as curds separated from whey are termed in this district. tom the piper, and his companion the taborer, ate for the next week, but were somewhat more sparing in the matter of drink, their services as minstrels being required later on. thus the various guests enjoyed themselves according to their bent, and universal hilarity prevailed. it would be strange indeed if it had been otherwise; for what with the good cheer, and the bright eyes around them, the rustics had attained a point of felicity not likely to be surpassed. of the numerous assemblage more than half were of the fairer sex; and of these the greater portion were young and good-looking, while in the case of the morris-dancers, their natural charms were heightened by their fanciful attire. before supper was half over, it became so dark that it was found necessary to illuminate the great lamp suspended from the centre of the roof, while other lights were set on the board, and two flaming torches placed in sockets on either side of the chimney-piece. scarcely was this accomplished when the storm came on, much to the surprise of the weatherwise, who had not calculated upon such an occurrence, not having seen any indications whatever of it in the heavens. but all were too comfortably sheltered, and too well employed, to pay much attention to what was going on without; and, unless when a flash of lightning more than usually vivid dazzled the gaze, or a peal of thunder more appalling than the rest broke overhead, no alarm was expressed, even by the women. to be sure, a little pretty trepidation was now and then evinced by the younger damsels; but even this was only done with the view of exacting attention on the part of their swains, and never failed in effect. the thunder-storm, therefore, instead of putting a stop to the general enjoyment, only tended to increase it. however the last peal was loud enough to silence the most uproarious. the women turned pale, and the men looked at each other anxiously, listening to hear if any damage had been done. but, as nothing transpired, their spirits revived. a few minutes afterwards word was brought that the conventual church had been struck by a thunderbolt, but this was not regarded as a very serious disaster. the bearer of the intelligence was little jennet, who said she had been caught in the ruins by the storm, and after being dreadfully frightened by the lightning, had seen a bolt strike the steeple, and heard some stones rattle down, after which she ran away. no one thought of inquiring what she had been doing there at the time, but room was made for her at the supper-table next to sampson harrop, while the good steward, patting her on the head, filled her a cup of canary with his own hand, and gave her some cates to eat. "ey dunna see alizon" observed the little girl, looking round the table, after she had drunk the wine. "your sister is not here, jennet," replied adam whitworth, with a smile. "she is too great a lady for us now. since she came up with her ladyship from the green she has been treated quite like one of the guests, and has been walking about the garden and ruins all the afternoon with young mistress dorothy, who has taken quite a fancy to her. indeed, for the matter of that, all the ladies seem to have taken a fancy to her, and she is now closeted with mistress nutter in her own room." this was gall and wormwood to jennet. "she'll be hard to please when she goes home again, after playing the fine dame here," pursued the steward. "then ey hope she'll never come home again," rejoined jennet; spitefully, "fo' we dunna want fine dames i' our poor cottage." "for my part i do not wonder alizon pleases the gentle folks," observed sampson harrop, "since such pains have been taken with her manners and education; and i must say she does great credit to her instructor, who, for reasons unnecessary to mention, shall be nameless. i wish i could say the same for you, jennet; but though you're not deficient in ability, you've no perseverance or pleasure in study." "ey knoa os much os ey care to knoa," replied jennet, "an more than yo con teach me, mester harrop. why is alizon always to be thrown i' my teeth?" "because she's the best model you can have," rejoined sampson. "ah! if i'd my own way wi' ye, lass, i'd mend your temper and manners. but you come of an ill stock, ye saucy hussy." "ey come fro' th' same stock as alizon, onny how," said jennet. "unluckily that cannot be denied," replied sampson; "but you're as different from her as light from darkness." jennet eyed him bitterly, and then rose from the table. "ey'n go," she said. "no--no; sit down," interposed the good-natured steward. "the dancing and pastimes will begin presently, and you will see your sister. she will come down with the ladies." "that's the very reason she wishes to go," said sampson harrop. "the spiteful little creature cannot bear to see her sister better treated than herself. go your ways, then. it is the best thing you can do. alizon would blush to see you here." "then ey'n een stay an vex her," replied jennet, sharply; "boh ey winna sit near yo onny longer, mester sampson harrop, who ca' yersel gentleman usher, boh who are nah gentleman at aw, nor owt like it, boh merely parish clerk an schoolmester, an a poor schoolmester to boot. eyn go an sit by sukey worseley an nancy holt, whom ey see yonder." "you've found your match, master harrop," said the steward, laughing, as the little girl walked away. "i should account it a disgrace to bandy words with the like of her, adam," rejoined the clerk, angrily; "but i'm greatly out in my reckoning, if she does not make a second mother demdike, and worse could not well befall her." jennet's society could have been very well dispensed with by her two friends, but she would not be shaken off. on the contrary, finding herself in the way, she only determined the more pertinaciously to remain, and began to exercise all her powers of teasing, which have been described as considerable, and which on this occasion proved eminently successful. and the worst of it was, there was no crushing the plaguy little insect; any effort made to catch her only resulting in an escape on her part, and a new charge on some undefended quarter, with sharper stinging and more intolerable buzzing than ever. out of all patience, sukey worseley at length exclaimed, "ey should loike to see ye swum, crosswise, i' th' calder, jennet, as nance redferne war this efternoon." "may be ye would, sukey," replied the little girl, "boh eym nah so likely to be tried that way as yourself, lass; an if ey war swum ey should sink, while yo, wi' your broad back and shouthers, would be sure to float, an then yo'd be counted a witch." "heed her not, sukey," said blackrod, unable to resist a laugh, though the poor girl was greatly discomfited by this personal allusion; "ye may ha' a broad back o' our own, an the broader the better to my mind, boh mey word on't ye'll never be ta'en fo a witch. yo're far too comely." this assurance was a balm to poor sukey's wounded spirit, and she replied with a well-pleased smile, "ey hope ey dunna look like one, lorry." "not a bit, lass," said blackrod, lifting a huge ale-cup to his lips. "your health, sweetheart." "what think ye then o' nance redferne?" observed jennet. "is she neaw comely?--ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy sukey here--or than nancy holt, wi' her yallo hure an frecklet feace--an yet ye ca' her a witch." "ey ca' thee one, theaw feaw little whean--an the dowter--an grandowter o' one--an that's more," cried nancy. "freckles i' your own feace, ye mismannert minx." "ne'er heed her, nance," said phil rawson, putting his arm round the angry damsel's waist, and drawing her gently down. "every one to his taste, an freckles an yellow hure are so to mine. so dunna fret about it, an spoil your protty lips wi' pouting. better ha' freckles o' your feace than spots o' your heart, loike that ill-favort little hussy." "dunna offend her, phil," said nancy holt, noticing with alarm the malignant look fixed upon her lover by jennet. "she's dawngerous." "firrups tak her!" replied phil eawson. "boh who the dole's that? ey didna notice him efore, an he's neaw one o' our party." the latter observation was occasioned by the entrance of a tall personage, in the garb of a cistertian monk, who issued from one of the doorways in the screen, and glided towards the upper table, attracting general attention and misgiving as he proceeded. his countenance was cadaverous, his lips livid, and his eyes black and deep sunken in their sockets, with a bistre-coloured circle around them. his frame was meagre and bony. what remained of hair on his head was raven black, but either he was bald on the crown, or carried his attention to costume so far as to adopt the priestly tonsure. his forehead was lofty and sallow, and seemed stamped, like his features, with profound gloom. his garments were faded and mouldering, and materially contributed to his ghostly appearance. "who is it?" cried sukey and nance together. but no one could answer the question. "he dusna look loike a bein' o' this warld," observed blackrod, gaping with alarm, for the stout keeper was easily assailable on the side of superstition; "an there is a mowdy air about him, that gies one the shivers to see. ey've often heer'd say the abbey is haanted; an that pale-feaced chap looks like one o' th' owd monks risen fro' his grave to join our revel." "an see, he looks this way," cried phil rawson. "what flaming een! they mey the very flesh crawl o' one's booans." "is it a ghost, lorry?" said sukey, drawing nearer to the stalwart keeper. "by th' maskins, lass, ey conna tell," replied blackrod; "boh whotever it be, ey'll protect ye." "tak care o' me, phil," ejaculated nancy holt, pressing close to her lover's side. "eigh, that i win," rejoined the forester. "ey dunna care for ghosts so long as yo are near me, phil," said nancy, tenderly. "then ey'n never leave ye, nance," replied phil. "ghost or not," said jennet, who had been occupied in regarding the new-comer attentively, "ey'n go an speak to it. ey'm nah afeerd, if yo are." "eigh do, jennet, that's a brave little lass," said blackrod, glad to be rid of her in any way. "stay!" cried adam whitworth, coming up at the moment, and overhearing what was said--"you must not go near the gentleman. i will not have him molested, or even spoken with, till sir ralph appears." meanwhile, the stranger, without returning the glances fixed upon him, or deigning to notice any of the company, pursued his way, and sat down in a chair at the upper table. but his entrance had been witnessed by others besides the rustic guests and servitors. nicholas and richard assheton chanced to be in the gallery at the time, and, greatly struck by the singularity of his appearance, immediately descended to make inquiries respecting him. as they appeared below, the old steward advanced to meet them. "who the devil have you got there, adam?" asked the squire. "it passeth me almost to tell you, master nicholas," replied the steward; "and, not knowing whether the gentleman be invited or not, i am fain to wait sir ralph's pleasure in regard to him." "have you no notion who he is?" inquired richard. "all i know about him may be soon told, master richard," replied adam. "he is a stranger in these parts, and hath very recently taken up his abode in wiswall hall, which has been abandoned of late years, as you know, and suffered to go to decay. some few months ago an aged couple from colne, named hewit, took possession of part of the hall, and were suffered to remain there, though old katty hewit, or mould-heels, as she is familiarly termed by the common folk, is in no very good repute hereabouts, and was driven, it is said from colne, owing to her practices as a witch. be that as it may, soon after these hewits were settled at wiswall, comes this stranger, and fixes himself in another part of the hall. how he lives no one can tell, but it is said he rambles all night long, like a troubled spirit, about the deserted rooms, attended by mother mould-heels; while in the daytime he is never seen." "can he be of sound mind?" asked richard. "hardly so, i should think, master richard," replied the steward. "as to who he may be there are many opinions; and some aver he is francis paslew, grandson of francis, brother to the abbot, and being a jesuit priest, for you know the paslews have all strictly adhered to the old faith--and that is why they have fled the country and abandoned their residence--he is obliged to keep himself concealed." "if such be the case, he must be crazed indeed to venture here," observed nicholas; "and yet i am half inclined to credit the report. look at him, dick. he is the very image of the old abbot." "yon portrait might have been painted for him," said richard, gazing at the picture on the wall, and from it to the monk as he spoke; "the very same garb, too." "there is an old monastic robe up-stairs, in the closet adjoining the room occupied by mistress nutter," observed the steward, "said to be the garment in which abbot paslew suffered death. some stains are upon it, supposed to be the blood of the wizard demdike, who perished in an extraordinary manner on the same day." "i have seen it," cried nicholas, "and the monk's habit looks precisely like it, and, if my eyes deceive me not, is stained in the same manner." "i see the spots plainly on the breast," cried richard. "how can he have procured the robe?" "heaven only knows," replied the old steward. "it is a very strange occurrence." "i will go question him," said richard. so saying, he proceeded to the upper table, accompanied by nicholas. as they drew near, the stranger arose, and fixed a grim look upon richard, who was a little in advance. "it is the abbot's ghost!" cried nicholas, stopping, and detaining his cousin. "you shall not address it." during the contention that ensued, the monk glided towards a side-door at the upper end of the hall, and passed through it. so general was the consternation, that no one attempted to stay him, nor would any one follow to see whither he went. released, at length, from the strong grasp of the squire, richard rushed forth, and not returning, nicholas, after the lapse of a few minutes, went in search of him, but came back presently, and told the old steward he could neither find him nor the monk. "master richard will be back anon, i dare say, adam," he remarked; "if not, i will make further search for him; but you had better not mention this mysterious occurrence to sir ralph, at all events not until the festivities are over, and the ladies have retired. it might disturb them. i fear the appearance of this monk bodes no good to our family; and what makes it worse is, it is not the first ill omen that has befallen us to-day, master richard was unlucky enough to stand on abbot paslew's grave!" "mercy on us! that was unlucky indeed!" cried adam, in great trepidation. "poor dear young gentleman! bid him take especial care of himself, good master nicholas. i noticed just now, that yon fearsome monk regarded him more attentively than you. bid him be careful, i conjure you, sir. but here comes my honoured master and his guests. here, gregory, dickon, bestir yourselves, knaves; and serve supper at the upper table in a trice." any apprehensions nicholas might entertain for richard were at this moment relieved, for as sir ralph and his guests came in at one door, the young man entered by another. he looked deathly pale. nicholas put his finger to his lips in token of silence--a gesture which the other signified that he understood. sir ralph and his guests having taken their places at the table, an excellent and plentiful repast was speedily set before them, and if they did not do quite such ample justice to it as the hungry rustics at the lower board had done to the good things provided for them, the cook could not reasonably complain. no allusion whatever being made to the recent strange occurrence, the cheerfulness of the company was uninterrupted; but the noise in the lower part of the hall had in a great measure subsided, partly out of respect to the host, and partly in consequence of the alarm occasioned by the supposed supernatural visitation. richard continued silent and preoccupied, and neither ate nor drank; but nicholas appearing to think his courage would be best sustained by an extra allowance of clary and sack, applied himself frequently to the goblet with that view, and erelong his spirits improved so wonderfully, and his natural boldness was so much increased, that he was ready to confront abbot paslew, or any other abbot of them all, wherever they might chance to cross him. in this enterprising frame of mind he drew richard aside, and questioned him as to what had taken place in his pursuit of the mysterious monk. "you overtook him, dick, of course?" he said, "and put it to him roundly why he came hither, where neither ghosts nor jesuit priests, whichever he may be, are wanted. what answered he, eh? would i had been there to interrogate him! he should have declared how he became possessed of that old moth-eaten, blood-stained, monkish gown, or i would have unfrocked him, even if he had proved to be a skeleton. but i interrupt you. you have not told me what occurred at the interview?" "there was no interview," replied richard, gravely. "no interview!" echoed nicholas. "s'blood, man!--but i must be careful, for doctor ormerod and parson dewhurst are within hearing, and may lecture me on the wantonness and profanity of swearing. by saint gregory de northbury!--no, that's an oath too, and, what is worse, a popish oath. by--i have several tremendous imprecations at my tongue's end, but they shall not out. it is a sinful propensity, and must be controlled. in a word, then, you let him escape, dick?" "if you were so anxious to stay him, i wonder you came not with me," replied richard; "but you now hold very different language from what you used when i quitted the hall." "ah, true--right--dick," replied nicholas; "my sentiments have undergone a wonderful change since then. i now regret having stopped you. by my troth! if i meet that confounded monk again, he shall give a good account of himself, i promise him. but what said he to you, dick? make an end of your story." "i have not begun it yet," replied richard. "but pay attention, and you shall hear what occurred. when i rushed forth, the monk had already gained the entrance-hall. no one was within it at the time, all the serving-men being busied here with the feasting. i summoned him to stay, but he answered not, and, still grimly regarding me, glided towards the outer door, which (i know not by what chance) stood open, and passing through it, closed it upon me. this delayed me a moment; and when i got out, he had already descended the steps, and was moving towards the garden. it was bright moonlight, so i could see him distinctly. and mark this, nicholas--the two great blood-hounds were running about at large in the court-yard, but they slunk off, as if alarmed at his appearance. the monk had now gained the garden, and was shaping his course swiftly towards the ruined conventual church. determined to overtake him, i quickened my pace; but he gained the old fane before me, and threaded the broken aisles with noiseless celerity. in the choir he paused and confronted me. when within a few yards of him, i paused, arrested by his fixed and terrible gaze. nicholas, his look froze my blood. i would have spoken, but i could not. my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth for very fear. before i could shake off this apprehension the figure raised its hand menacingly thrice, and passed into the lacy chapel. as soon as he was gone my courage returned, and i followed. the little chapel was brilliantly illuminated by the moon; but it was empty. i could only see the white monument of sir henry de lacy glistening in the pale radiance." "i must take a cup of wine after this horrific relation," said nicholas, replenishing his goblet. "it has chilled my blood, as the monk's icy gaze froze yours. body o' me! but this is strange indeed. another oath. lord help me!--i shall never get rid of the infernal--i mean, the evil habit. will you not pledge me, dick?" the young man shook his head. "you are wrong," pursued nicholas,--"decidedly wrong. wine gladdeneth the heart of man, and restoreth courage. a short while ago i was downcast as you, melancholy as an owl, and timorous as a kid, but now i am resolute as an eagle, stout of heart, and cheerful of spirit; and all owing to a cup of wine. try the remedy, dick, and get rid of your gloom. you look like a death's-head at a festival. what if you have stumbled on an ill-omened grave! what if you have been banned by a witch! what if you have stood face to face with the devil--or a ghost! heed them not! drink, and set care at defiance. and, not to gainsay my own counsel, i shall fill my cup again. for, in good sooth, this is rare clary, dick; and, talking of wine, you should taste some of the wonderful rhenish found in the abbot's cellar by our ancestor, richard assheton--a century old if it be a day, and yet cordial and corroborative as ever. those monks were lusty tipplers, dick. i sometimes wish i had been an abbot myself. i should have made a rare father confessor--especially to a pretty penitent. here, gregory, hie thee to the master cellarer, and bid him fill me a goblet of the old rhenish--the wine from the abbot's cellar. thou understandest--or, stay, better bring the flask. i have a profound respect for the venerable bottle, and would pay my devoirs to it. hie away, good fellow!" "you will drink too much if you go on thus," remarked richard. "not a drop," rejoined nicholas. "i am blithe as a lark, and would keep so. that is why i drink. but to return to our ghosts. since this place must be haunted, i would it were visited by spirits of a livelier kind than old paslew. there is isole de heton, for instance. the fair votaress would be the sort of ghost for me. i would not turn my back on her, but face her manfully. look at her picture, dick. was ever countenance sweeter than hers--lips more tempting, or eyes more melting! is she not adorable? zounds!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing, and staring at the portrait--"would you believe it, dick? the fair isole winked at me--i'll swear she did. i mean--i will venture to affirm upon oath, if required, that she winked." "pshaw!" exclaimed richard. "the fumes of the wine have mounted to your brain, and disordered it." "no such thing," cried nicholas, regarding the picture as steadily as he could--"she's leering at me now. by the queen of paphos! another wink. nay, if you doubt me, watch her well yourself. a pleasant adventure this--ha!--ha!" "a truce to this drunken foolery," cried richard, moving away. "drunken! s'death! recall that epithet, dick," cried nicholas, angrily. "i am no more drunk than yourself, you dog. i can walk as steadily, and see as plainly, as you; and i will maintain it at the point of the sword, that the eyes of that picture have lovingly regarded me; nay, that they follow me now." "a common delusion with a portrait," said richard; "they appear to follow _me_." "but they do not wink at you as they do at me," said nicholas, "neither do the lips break into smiles, and display the pearly teeth beneath them, as occurs in my case. grim old abbots frown on you, but fair, though frail, votaresses smile on me. i am the favoured mortal, dick." "were it as you represent, nicholas," replied richard, gravely, "i should say, indeed, that some evil principle was at work to lure you through your passions to perdition. but i know they are all fancies engendered by your heated brain, which in your calmer moments you will discard, as i discard them now. if i have any weight with you, i counsel you to drink no more, or you will commit some mad foolery, of which you will be ashamed hereafter. the discreeter course would be to retire altogether; and for this you have ample excuse, as you will have to arise betimes to-morrow, to set out for pendle forest with master potts." "retire!" exclaimed nicholas, bursting into a loud, contemptuous laugh. "i like thy counsel, lad. yes, i will retire when i have finished the old monastic rhenish which gregory is bringing me. i will retire when i have danced the morisco with the may queen--the cushion dance with dame tetlow--and the brawl with the lovely isole de heton. another wink, dick. by our lady! she assents to my proposition. when i have done all this, and somewhat more, it will be time to think of retiring. but i have the night before me, dick--not to be spent in drowsy unconsciousness, as thou recommendest, but in active, pleasurable enjoyment. no man requires less sleep than i do. ordinarily, i 'retire,' as thou termest it, at ten, and rise with the sun. in summer i am abroad soon after three, and mend that if thou canst, dick. to-night i shall seek my couch about midnight, and yet i'll warrant me i shall be the first stirring in the abbey; and, in any case, i shall be in the saddle before thee." "it may be," replied richard; "but it was to preserve you from extravagance to-night that i volunteered advice, which, from my knowledge of your character, i might as well have withheld. but let me caution you on another point. dance with dame tetlow, or any other dame you please--dance with the fair isole de heton, if you can prevail upon her to descend from her frame and give you her hand; but i object--most decidedly object--to your dancing with alizon device." "why so?" cried nicholas; "why should i not dance with whom i please? and what right hast thou to forbid me alizon? troth, lad, art thou so ignorant of human nature as not to know that forbidden fruit is the sweetest. it hath ever been so since the fall. i am now only the more bent upon dancing with the prohibited damsel. but i would fain know the principle on which thou erectest thyself into her guardian. is it because she fainted when thy sword was crossed with that hot-headed fool, sir thomas metcalfe, that thou flatterest thyself she is in love with thee? be not too sure of it, dick. many a timid wench has swooned at the sight of a naked weapon, without being enamoured of the swordsman. the fainting proves nothing. but grant she loves thee--what then! an end must speedily come of it; so better finish at once, before she be entangled in a mesh from which she cannot be extricated without danger. for hark thee, dick, whatever thou mayst think, i am not so far gone that i know not what i say, neither is my vision so much obscured that i see not some matters plainly enough, and i understand thee and alizon well, and see through you both. this matter must go no further. it has gone too far already. after to-night you must see her no more. i am serious in this--serious _inter pocula_, if such a thing can be. it is necessary to observe caution, for reasons that will at once occur to thee. thou canst not wed this girl--then why trifle with her till her heart be broken." "broken it shall never be by me!" cried richard. "but i tell you it will be broken, if you do not desist at once," rejoined nicholas. "i was but jesting when i said i would rob you of her in the morisco, though it would be charity to both, and spare you many a pang hereafter, were i to put my threat into execution. however, i have a soft heart where aught of love is concerned, and, having pointed out the risk you will incur, i shall leave you to follow your own devices. but, for alizon's sake, stop in time." "you now speak soberly and sensibly enough, nicholas," replied richard, "and i thank you heartily for your counsel; and if i do not follow it by withdrawing at once from a pursuit which may appear to you hopeless, if not dangerous, you will, i hope, give me credit for being actuated by worthy motives. i will at once, and frankly admit, that i love alizon; and loving her, you may rest assured i would sacrifice my life a thousand times rather than endanger her happiness. but there is a point in her history, with which if you were acquainted, it might alter your view of the case; but this is not the season for its disclosure, neither, i am bound to say, does the circumstance so materially alter the apparent posture of affairs as to remove all difficulty. on the contrary, it leaves an insurmountable obstacle behind it." "are you wise, then, in going on?" asked nicholas. "i know not," answered richard, "but i feel as if i were the sport of fate. uncertain whither to turn for the best, i leave the disposition of my course to chance. but, alas!" he added, sadly, "all seems to point out that this meeting with alizon will be my last." "well, cheer up, lad," said nicholas. "these afflictions are hard to bear, it is true; but somehow they are got over. just as if your horse should fling you in the midst of a hedge when you are making a flying leap, you get scratched and bruised, but you scramble out, and in a day or two are on your legs again. love breaks no bones, that's one comfort. when at your age, i was desperately in love, not with mistress nicholas assheton--heaven help the fond soul! but with--never mind with whom; but it was not a very prudent match, and so, in my worldly wisdom, i was obliged to cry off. a sad business it was. i thought i should have died of it, and i made quite sure that the devoted girl would die first, in which case we were to occupy the same grave. but i was not driven to such a dire extremity, for before i had kept house a week, jack walker, the keeper of downham, made his appearance in my room, and after telling me of the mischief done by a pair of otters in the ribble, finding me in a very desponding state, ventured to inquire if i had heard the news. expecting to hear of the death of the girl, i prepared myself for an outburst of grief, and resolved to give immediate directions for a double funeral, when he informed me--what do you think, dick?--that she was going to be married to himself. i recovered at once, and immediately went out to hunt the otters, and rare sport we had. but here comes gregory with the famous old rhenish. better take a cup, dick; this is the best cure for the heartache, and for all other aches and grievances. ah! glorious stuff--miraculous wine!" he added, smacking his lips with extraordinary satisfaction after a deep draught; "those worthy fathers were excellent judges. i have a great reverence for them. but where can alizon be all this while? supper is wellnigh over, and the dancing and pastimes will commence anon, and yet she comes not." "she is here," cried richard. and as he spoke mistress nutter and alizon entered the hall. richard endeavoured to read in the young girl's countenance some intimation of what had passed between her and mistress nutter, but he only remarked that she was paler than before, and had traces of anxiety about her. mistress nutter also looked gloomy and thoughtful, and there was nothing in the manner or deportment of either to lead to the conclusion, that a discovery of relationship between them had taken place. as alizon moved on, her eyes met those of richard--but the look was intercepted by mistress nutter, who instantly called off her daughter's attention to herself; and, while the young man hesitated to join them, his sister came quickly up to him, and drew him away in another direction. left to himself, nicholas tossed off another cup of the miraculous rhenish, which improved in flavour as he discussed it, and then, placing a chair opposite the portrait of isole de heton, filled a bumper, and, uttering the name of the fair votaress, drained it to her. this time he was quite certain he received a significant glance in return, and no one being near to contradict him, he went on indulging the idea of an amorous understanding between himself and the picture, till he had finished the bottle, and obtained as many ogles as he swallowed draughts of wine, upon which he arose and staggered off in search of dame tetlow. meanwhile, mistress nutter having made her excuses to lady assheton for not attending the supper, walked down the hall with her daughter, until such time as the dancing and pastimes should commence. as will be readily supposed under the circumstances, this part of the entertainment was distasteful to both of them; but it could not be avoided without entering into explanations, which mistress nutter was unwilling to make, and she, therefore, counselled her daughter to act in all respects as if she were still alizon device, and in no way connected with her. "i shall take an early opportunity of announcing my intention to adopt you," she said, "and then you can act differently. meantime, keep near me as much as you can. say little to dorothy or richard assheton, and prepare to retire early; for this noisy and riotous assemblage is not much to my taste, and i care not how soon i quit it." alizon assented to what was said, and stole a timid glance towards richard and dorothy; but the latter, who alone perceived it, instantly averted her head, in such way as to make it evident she wished to shun her regards. slight as it was, this circumstance occasioned alizon much pain, for she could not conceive how she had offended her new-made friend, and it was some relief to encounter a party of acquaintances who had risen from the lower table at her approach, though they did not presume to address her while she was with mistress nutter, but waited respectfully at a little distance. alizon, however, flew towards them. "ah, susan!--ah, nancy!" she cried taking the hand of each--"how glad i am to see you here; and you too, lawrence blackrod--and you, phil rawson--and you, also, good master harrop. how happy you all look!" "an wi' good reason, sweet alizon," replied blackrod. "boh we began to be afeerd we'd lost ye, an that wad ha' bin a sore mishap--to lose our may queen--an th' prettiest may queen os ever dawnced i' this ha', or i' onny other ha' i' lonkyshiar." "we ha drunk your health, sweet alizon," added phil--"an wishin' ye may be os happy os ye desarve, wi' the mon o' your heart, if onny sich lucky chap there be." "thank you--thank you both," replied alizon, blushing; "and in return i cannot wish you better fortune, philip, than to be united to the good girl near you, for i know her kindly disposition so well, that i am sure she will make you happy." "ey'm satisfied on't myself," replied rawson; "an ey hope ere long she'll be missus o' a little cot i' bowland forest, an that yo'll pay us a visit, alizon, an see an judge fo' yourself how happy we be. nance win make a rare forester's wife." "not a bit better than my sukey," cried lawrence blackrod. "ye shanna get th' start o' me, phil, fo' by th' mess! the very same day os sees yo wedded to nancy holt shan find me united to sukey worseley. an so alizon win ha' two cottages i' bowland forest to visit i'stead o' one." "and well pleased i shall be to visit them both," she rejoined. at this moment mistress nutter came up. "my good friends," she said, "as you appear to take so much interest in alizon, you may be glad to learn that it is my intention to adopt her as a daughter, having no child of my own; and, though her position henceforth will be very different from what it has been, i am sure she will never forget her old friends." "never, indeed, never!" cried alizon, earnestly. "this is good news, indeed," cried sampson harrop, joyfully, while the others joined in his exclamation. "we all rejoice in alizon's good fortune, and think she richly deserves it. for my own part, i was always sure she would have rare luck, but i did not expect such luck as this." "what's to become o' me?" cried jennet, coming from behind a chair, where she had hitherto concealed herself. "i will always take care of you," replied alizon, stooping, and kissing her. "do not promise more than you may be able to perform, alizon," observed mistress nutter, coldly, and regarding the little girl with a look of disgust; "an ill-favour'd little creature, with the demdike eyes." "and as ill-tempered as she is ill-favoured," rejoined sampson harrop; "and, though she cannot help being ugly, she might help being malicious." jennet gave him a bitter look. "you do her injustice, master harrop," said alizon. "poor little jennet is quick-tempered, but not malevolent." "ey con hate weel if ey conna love," replied jennet, "an con recollect injuries if ey forget kindnesses.--boh dunna trouble yourself about me, sister. ey dunna envy ye your luck. ey dunna want to be adopted by a grand-dame. ey'm content os ey am. boh are na ye gettin' on rayther too fast, lass? mother's consent has to be axed, ey suppose, efore ye leave her." "there is little fear of her refusal," observed mistress nutter. "ey dunna knoa that," rejoined jennet. "if she were to refuse, it wadna surprise me." "nothing spiteful she could do would surprise me," remarked harrop. "but how are you likely to know what your mother will think and do, you forward little hussy?" "ey judge fro circumstances," replied the little girl. "mother has often said she conna weel spare alizon. an mayhap mistress nutter may knoa, that she con be very obstinate when she tays a whim into her head." "i _do_ know it," replied mistress nutter; "and, from my experience of her temper in former days, i should be loath to have you near me, who seem to inherit her obstinacy." "wi' sich misgivings ey wonder ye wish to tak alizon, madam," said jennet; "fo she's os much o' her mother about her os me, onny she dunna choose to show it." "peace, thou mischievous urchin," cried mistress nutter, losing all patience. "shall i take her away?" said harrop--seizing her hand. "ay, do," said mistress nutter. "no, no, let her stay!" cried alizon, quickly; "i shall be miserable if she goes." "oh, ey'm quite ready to go," said jennet, "fo ey care little fo sich seets os this--boh efore ey leave ey wad fain say a few words to mester potts, whom ey see yonder." "what can you want with him, jennet," cried alizon, in surprise. "onny to tell him what brother jem is gone to pendle fo to-neet," replied the little girl, with a significant and malicious look at mistress nutter. "ha!" muttered the lady. "there is more malice in this little wasp than i thought. but i must rob it of its sting." and while thus communing with herself, she fixed a searching look on jennet, and then raising her hand quickly, waved it in her face. "oh!" cried the little girl, falling suddenly backwards. "what's the matter?" demanded alizon, flying to her. "ey dunna reetly knoa," replied jennet. "she's seized with a sudden faintness," said harrop. "better she should go home then at once. i'll find somebody to take her." "neaw, neaw, ey'n sit down here," said jennet; "ey shan be better soon." "come along, alizon," said mistress nutter, apparently unconcerned at the circumstance. having confided the little girl, who was now recovered from the shock, to the care of nancy holt, alizon followed her mother. at this moment sir ralph, who had quitted the supper-table, clapped his hands loudly, thus giving the signal to the minstrels, who, having repaired to the gallery, now struck up a merry tune, and instantly the whole hall was in motion. snatching up his wand sampson harrop hurried after alizon, beseeching her to return with him, and join a procession about to be formed by the revellers, and of course, as may queen, and the most important personage in it, she could not refuse. very short space sufficed the morris-dancers to find their partners; robin hood and the foresters got into their places; the hobby-horse curveted and capered; friar tuck resumed his drolleries; and even jack roby was so far recovered as to be able to get on his legs, though he could not walk very steadily. marshalled by the gentleman-usher, and headed by robin hood and the may queen, the procession marched round the hall, the minstrels playing merrily the while, and then drew up before the upper table, where a brief oration was pronounced by sir ralph. a shout that made the rafters ring again followed the address, after which a couranto was called for by the host, who, taking mistress nicholas assheton by the hand, led her into the body of the hall, whither he was speedily followed by the other guests, who had found partners in like manner. before relating how the ball was opened a word must be bestowed upon mistress nicholas assheton, whom i have neglected nearly as much as she was neglected by her unworthy spouse, and i therefore hasten to repair the injustice by declaring that she was a very amiable and very charming woman, and danced delightfully. and recollect, ladies, these were dancing days--i mean days when knowledge of figures as well as skill was required, more than twenty forgotten dances being in vogue, the very names of which may surprise you as i recapitulate them. there was the passamezzo, a great favourite with queen elizabeth, who used to foot it merrily, when, as you are told by gray-- "the great lord-keeper led the brawls, and seals and maces danced before him!" the grave pavane, likewise a favourite with the virgin queen, and which i should like to see supersede the eternal polka at almack's and elsewhere, and in which-- "five was the number of the music's feet which still the dance did with live paces meet;" the couranto, with its "current traverses," "sliding passages," and solemn tune, wherein, according to sir john davies-- --"that dancer greatest praise hath won who with best order can all order shun;" the lavolta, also delineated by the same knowing hand-- "where arm in arm two dancers are entwined, and whirl themselves with strict embracements bound, their feet an anapest do sound." is not this very much like a waltz? yes, ladies, you have been dancing the lavolta of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries without being aware of it. but there was another waltz still older, called the sauteuse, which i suspect answered to your favourite polka. then there were brawls, galliards, paspys, sarabands, country-dances of various figures, cushion dances (another dance i long to see revived), kissing dances, and rounds, any of which are better than the objectionable polka. thus you will see that there was infinite variety at least at the period under consideration, and that you have rather retrograded than advanced in the saltatory art. but to return to the ball. mistress nicholas assheton, i have said, excelled in the graceful accomplishment of dancing, and that was probably the reason why she had been selected for the couranto by sir ralph, who knew the value of a good partner. by many persons she was accounted the handsomest woman in the room, and in dignity of carriage she was certainly unrivalled. this was precisely what sir ralph required, and having executed a few "current traverses and sliding passages" with her, with a gravity and stateliness worthy of sir christopher hatton himself, when graced by the hand of his sovereign mistress, he conducted her, amid the hushed admiration of the beholders, to a seat. still the dance continued with unabated spirit; all those engaged in it running up and down, or "turning and winding with unlooked-for change." alizon's hand had been claimed by richard assheton, and next to the stately host and his dignified partner, they came in for the largest share of admiration and attention; and if the untutored girl fell short of the accomplished dame in precision and skill, she made up for the want of them in natural grace and freedom of movement, for the display of which the couranto, with its frequent and impromptu changes, afforded ample opportunity. even sir ralph was struck with her extreme gracefulness, and pointed her out to mistress nicholas, who, unenvying and amiable, joined heartily in his praises. overhearing what was said, mrs. nutter thought it a fitting opportunity to announce her intention of adopting the young girl; and though sir ralph seemed a good deal surprised at the suddenness of the declaration, he raised no objection to the plan; but, on the contrary, applauded it. but another person, by no means disposed to regard it in an equally favourable light became acquainted with the intelligence at the same time. this was master potts, who instantly set his wits at work to discover its import. ever on the alert, his little eyes, sharp as needles, had detected jennet amongst the rustic company, and he now made his way towards her, resolved, by dint of cross-questioning and otherwise, to extract all the information he possibly could from her. the dance over, richard and his partner wandered towards a more retired part of the hall. "why does your sister shun me?" inquired alizon, with a look of great distress. "what can i have done to offend her? whenever i regard her she averts her head, and as i approached her just now, she moved away, making it evident she designed to avoid me. if i could think myself in any way different from what i was this morning, when she treated me with such unbounded confidence and kindness, or accuse myself of any offence towards her, even in thought, i could understand it; but as it is, her present coldness appears inexplicable and unreasonable, and gives me great pain. i would not forfeit her regard for worlds, and therefore beseech you to tell me what i have done amiss, that i may endeavour to repair it." "you have done nothing--nothing whatever, sweet girl," replied richard. "it is only caprice on dorothy's part, and except that it distresses you, her conduct, which you justly call 'unreasonable,' does not deserve a moment's serious consideration." "oh no! you cannot deceive me thus," cried alizon. "she is too kind--too well-judging, to be capricious. something must have occurred to make her change her opinion of me, though what it is i cannot conjecture. i have gained much to-day--more than i had any right to expect; but if i have forfeited the good opinion of your sister, the loss of her friendship will counterbalance all the rest." "but you have not lost it, alizon," replied richard, earnestly. "dorothy has got some strange notions into her head, which only require to be combated. she does not like mistress nutter, and is piqued and displeased by the extraordinary interest which that lady displays towards you. that is all." "but why should she not like mistress nutter?" inquired alizon. "nay, there is no accounting for fancies," returned richard, with a faint smile. "i do not attempt to defend her, but simply offer the only excuse in my power for her conduct." "i am concerned to hear it," said alizon, sadly, "because henceforth i shall be so intimately connected with mistress nutter, that this estrangement, which i hoped arose only from some trivial cause, and merely required a little explanation to be set aside, may become widened and lasting. owing every thing to mistress nutter, i must espouse her cause; and if your sister likes her not, she likes me not in consequence, and therefore we must continue divided. but surely her dislike is of very recent date, and cannot have any strong hold upon her; for when she and mistress nutter met this morning, a very different feeling seemed to animate her." "so, indeed, it did," replied richard, visibly embarrassed and distressed. "and since you have made me acquainted with the new tie and interests you have formed, i can only regret alluding to the circumstance." "that you may not misunderstand me," said alizon, "i will explain the extent of my obligations to mistress nutter, and then you will perceive how much i am bounden to her. childless herself, greatly interested in me, and feeling for my unfortunate situation, with infinite goodness of heart she has declared her intention of removing me from all chance of baneful influence, from the family with whom i have been heretofore connected, by adopting me as her daughter." "i should indeed rejoice at this," said richard, "were it not that--" and he stopped, gazing anxiously at her. "were not what?" cried alizon, alarmed by his looks. "what do you mean?" "do not press me further," he rejoined; "i cannot answer you. indeed i have said too much already." "you have said too much or too little," cried alizon. "speak, i implore you. what mean these dark hints which you throw out, and which like shadows elude all attempts to grasp them! do not keep me in this state of suspense and agitation. your looks speak more than your words. oh, give your thoughts utterance!" "i cannot," replied richard. "i do not believe what i have heard, and therefore will not repeat it. it would only increase the mischief. but oh! tell me this! was it, indeed, to remove you from the baneful influence of elizabeth device that mistress nutter adopted you?" "other motives may have swayed her, and i have said they did so," replied alizon; "but that wish, no doubt, had great weight with her. nay, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the family, she has kindly consented to use her best endeavours to preserve little jennet from further ill, as well as to reclaim poor misguided elizabeth herself." "oh! what a weight you have taken from my heart," cried richard, joyfully. "i will tell dorothy what you say, and it will at once remove all her doubts and suspicions. she will now be the same to you as ever, and to mistress nutter." "i will not ask you what those doubts and suspicions were, since you so confidently promise me this, which is all i desire," replied alizon, smiling; "but any unfavourable opinions entertained of mistress nutter are wholly undeserved. poor lady! she has endured many severe trials and sufferings, and whenever you learn the whole of her history, she will, i am sure, have your sincere sympathy." "you have certainly produced a complete revolution in my feelings towards her," said richard, "and i shall not be easy till i have made a like convert of dorothy." at this moment a loud clapping of hands was heard, and nicholas was seen marching towards the centre of the hall, preceded by the minstrels, who had descended for the purpose from the gallery, and bearing in his arms a large red velvet cushion. as soon as the dancers had formed a wide circle round him, a very lively tune called "joan sanderson," from which the dance about to be executed sometimes received its name, was struck up, and the squire, after a few preliminary flourishes, set down the cushion, and gave chase to dame tetlow, who, threading her way rapidly through the ring, contrived to elude him. this chase, accompanied by music, excited shouts of laughter on all hands, and no one knew which most to admire, the eagerness of the squire, or the dexterity of the lissom dame in avoiding him. exhausted at length, and baffled in his quest, nicholas came to a halt before tom the piper, and, taking up the cushion, thus preferred his complaint:--"this dance it can no further go--no further go." whereupon the piper chanted in reply,--"i pray you, good sir, why say you so--why say you so?" amidst general laughter, the squire tenderly and touchingly responded--"because dame tetlow will not come to--will not come to." whereupon tom the piper, waxing furious, blew a shrill whistle, accompanied by an encouraging rattle of the tambarine, and enforcing the mandate by two or three energetic stamps on the floor, delivered himself in this fashion:--"she _must_ come to, and she shall come to. and she must come, whether she will or no." upon this two of the prettiest female morris-dancers, taking each a hand of the blushing and overheated dame tetlow, for she had found the chase rather warm work, led her forward; while the squire advancing very gallantly placed the cushion upon the ground before her, and as she knelt down upon it, bestowed a smacking kiss upon her lips. this ceremony being performed amidst much tittering and flustering, accompanied by many knowing looks and some expressed wishes among the swains, who hoped that their turn might come next, dame tetlow arose, and the squire seizing her hand, they began to whisk round in a sort of jig, singing merrily as they danced-- "prinkum prankum is a fine dance, and we shall go dance it once again! once again, and we shall go dance it once again!" and they made good the words too; for on coming to a stop, dame tetlow snatched up the cushion, and ran in search of the squire, who retreating among the surrounding damsels, made sad havoc among them, scarcely leaving a pretty pair of lips unvisited. oh nicholas! nicholas! i am thoroughly ashamed of you, and regret becoming your historian. you get me into an infinitude of scrapes. but there is a rod in pickle for you, sir, which shall be used with good effect presently. tired of such an unprofitable quest, dame tetlow came to a sudden halt, addressed the piper as nicholas had addressed him, and receiving a like answer, summoned the delinquent to come forward; but as he knelt down on the cushion, instead of receiving the anticipated salute, he got a sound box on the ears, the dame, actuated probably by some feeling of jealousy, taking advantage of the favourable opportunity afforded her of avenging herself. no one could refrain from laughing at this unexpected turn in affairs, and nicholas, to do him justice, took it in excellent part, and laughed louder than the rest. springing to his feet, he snatched the kiss denied him by the spirited dame, and led her to obtain some refreshment at the lower table, of which they both stood in need, while the cushion being appropriated by other couples, other boxes on the ear and kisses were interchanged, leading to an infinitude of merriment. long before this master potts had found his way to jennet, and as he drew near, affecting to notice her for the first time, he made some remarks upon her not looking very well. "'deed, an ey'm nah varry weel," replied the little girl, "boh ey knoa who ey han to thonk fo' my ailment." "your sister, most probably," suggested the attorney. "it must be very vexatious to see her so much noticed, and be yourself so much neglected--very vexatious, indeed--i quite feel for you." "by dunna want your feelin'," replied jennet, nettled by the remark; "boh it wasna my sister os made me ill." "who was it then, my little dear," said potts. "dunna 'dear' me," retorted jennet; "yo're too ceevil by half, os the lamb said to the wolf. boh sin ye mun knoa, it wur mistress nutter." "aha! very good--i mean--very bad," cried potts. "what did mistress nutter do to you, my little dear? don't be afraid of telling me. if i can do any thing for you i shall be very happy. speak out--and don't be afraid." "nay fo' shure, ey'm nah afeerd," returned jennet. "boh whot mays ye so inqueesitive? ye want to get summat out'n me, ey con see that plain enough, an os ye stand there glenting at me wi' your sly little een, ye look loike an owd fox ready to snap up a chicken o' th' furst opportunity." "your comparison is not very flattering, jennet," replied potts; "but i pass it by for the sake of its cleverness. you are a sharp child, jennet--a very sharp child. i remarked that from the first moment i saw you. but in regard to mistress nutter, she seems a very nice lady--and must be a very kind lady, since she has made up her mind to adopt your sister. not that i am surprised at her determination, for really alizon is so superior--so unlike--" "me, ye wad say," interrupted jennet. "dunna be efeerd to speak out, sir." "no, no," replied potts, "on the contrary, there's a very great likeness between you. i saw you were sisters at once. i don't know which is the cleverest or prettiest--but perhaps you are the sharpest. yes, you are the sharpest, undoubtedly, jennet. if i wished to adopt any one, which unfortunately i'm not in a condition to do, having only bachelor's chambers in chancery lane, it should be you. but i can put you in a way of making your fortune, jennet, and that's the next best thing to adopting you. indeed, it's much better in my case." "may my fortune!" cried the little girl, pricking up her ears, "ey should loike to knoa how ye wad contrive that." "i'll show you how directly, jennet," returned potts. "pay particular attention to what i say, and think it over carefully, when you are by yourself. you are quite aware that there is a great talk about witches in these parts; and, i may speak it without offence to you, your own family come under the charge. there is your grandmother demdike, for instance, a notorious witch--your mother, dame device, suspected--your brother james suspected." "weel, sir," cried jennet, eyeing him sharply, "what does all this suspicion tend to?" "you shall hear, my little dear," returned potts. "it would not surprise me, if every one of your family, including yourself, should be arrested, shut up in lancaster castle, and burnt for witches!" "alack a day! an this ye ca' makin my fortin," cried jennet, derisively. "much obleeged to ye, sir, boh ey'd leefer be without the luck." "listen to me," pursued potts, chuckling, "and i will point out to you a way of escaping the general fate of your family--not merely of escaping it--but of acquiring a large reward. and that is by giving evidence against them--by telling all you know--you understand--eh!" "yeigh, ey think ey _do_ onderstond," replied jennet, sullenly. "an so this is your grand scheme, eh, sir?" "this is my scheme, jennet," said potts, "and a notable scheme it is, my little lass. think it over. you're an admissible and indeed a desirable witness; for our sagacious sovereign has expressly observed that 'bairns,' (i believe you call children 'bairns' in lancashire, jennet; your uncouth dialect very much resembles the scottish language, in which our learned monarch writes as well as speaks)--'bairns,' says he, 'or wives, or never so defamed persons, may of our law serve for sufficient witnesses and proofs; for who but witches can be proofs, and so witnesses of the doings of witches.'" "boh, ey am neaw witch, ey tell ye, mon," cried jennet, angrily. "but you're a witch's bairn, my little lassy," replied potts, "and that's just as bad, and you'll grow up to be a witch in due time--that is, if your career be not cut short. i'm sure you must have witnessed some strange things when you visited your grandmother at malkin tower--that, if i mistake not, is the name of her abode?--and a fearful and witch-like name it is;--you must have heard frequent mutterings and curses, spells, charms, and diabolical incantations--beheld strange and monstrous visions--listened to threats uttered against people who have afterwards perished unaccountably." "ey've heerd an seen nowt o't sort," replied jennet; "boh ey' han heerd my mother threaten yo." "ah, indeed," cried potts, forcing a laugh, but looking rather blank afterwards; "and how did she threaten me, jennet, eh?--but no matter. let that pass for the moment. as i was saying, you must have seen mysterious proceedings both at malkin tower and your own house. a black gentleman with a club foot must visit you occasionally, and your mother must, now and then--say once a week--take a fancy to riding on a broomstick. are you quite sure you have never ridden on one yourself, jennet, and got whisked up the chimney without being aware of it? it's the common witch conveyance, and said to be very expeditious and agreeable--but i can't vouch for it myself--ha! ha! possibly--though you are rather young--but possibly, i say, you may have attended a witch's sabbath, and seen a huge he-goat, with four horns on his head, and a large tail, seated in the midst of a large circle of devoted admirers. if you have seen this, and can recollect the names and faces of the assembly, it would be highly important." "when ey see it, ey shanna forget it," replied jennet. "boh ey am nah quite so familiar wi' owd scrat os yo seem to suppose." "has it ever occurred to you that alizon might be addicted to these practices?" pursued potts, "and that she obtained her extraordinary and otherwise unaccountable beauty by some magical process--some charm--some diabolical unguent prepared, as the lord keeper of the privy seals, the singularly learned lord bacon, declares, from fat of unbaptised babes, compounded with henbane, hemlock, mandrake, moonshade, and other terrible ingredients. she could not be so beautiful without some such aid." "that shows how little yo knoaw about it," replied jennet. "alizon is os good as she's protty, and dunna yo think to wheedle me into sayin' out agen her, fo' yo winna do it. ey'd dee rayther than harm a hure o' her heaod." "very praiseworthy, indeed, my little dear," replied potts, ironically. "i honour you for your sisterly affection; but, notwithstanding all this, i cannot help thinking she has bewitched mistress nutter." "licker, mistress nutter has bewitched her," replied jennet. "then you think mistress nutter is a witch, eh?" cried potts, eagerly. "ey'st neaw tell ye what ey think, mon," rejoined jennet, doggedly. "but hear me," cried potts, "i have my own suspicions, also, nay, more than suspicions." "if ye're shure, yo dunna want me," said jennet. "but i want a witness," pursued potts, "and if you'll serve as one--" "whot'll ye gi' me?" said jennet. "whatever you like," rejoined potts. "only name the sum. so you can prove the practice of witchcraft against mistress nutter--eh?" jennet nodded. "wad ye loike to knoa why brother jem is gone to pendle to-neet?" she said. "very much, indeed," replied potts, drawing still nearer to her. "very much, indeed." the little girl was about to speak, but on a sudden a sharp convulsion agitated her frame; her utterance totally failed her; and she fell back in the seat insensible. very much startled, potts flew in search of some restorative, and on doing so, he perceived mistress nutter moving away from this part of the hall. "she has done it," he cried. "a piece of witchcraft before my very eyes. has she killed the child? no; she breathes, and her pulse beats, though faintly. she is only in a swoon, but a deep and deathlike one. it would be useless to attempt to revive her; she must come to in her own way, or at the pleasure of the wicked woman who has thrown her into this condition. i have now an assured witness in this girl. but i must keep watch upon mistress nutter's further movements." and he walked cautiously after her. as richard had anticipated, his explanation was perfectly satisfactory to dorothy; and the young lady, who had suffered greatly from the restraint she had imposed upon herself, flew to alizon, and poured forth excuses, which were as readily accepted as they were freely made. they were instantly as great friends as before, and their brief estrangement only seemed to make them dearer to each other. dorothy could not forgive herself, and alizon assured her there was nothing to be forgiven, and so they took hands upon it, and promised to forget all that had passed. richard stood by, delighted with the change, and wrapped in the contemplation of the object of his love, who, thus engaged, seemed to him more beautiful than he had ever beheld her. towards the close of the evening, while all three were still together. nicholas came up and took richard aside. the squire looked flushed; and there was an undefined expression of alarm in his countenance. "what is the matter?" inquired richard, dreading to hear of some new calamity. "have you not noticed it, dick?" said nicholas, in a hollow tone. "the portrait is gone." "what portrait?" exclaimed richard, forgetting the previous circumstances. "the portrait of isole de heton," returned nicholas, becoming more sepulchral in his accents as he proceeded; "it has vanished from the wall. see and believe." "who has taken it down?" cried richard, remarking that the picture had certainly disappeared. "no mortal hand," replied nicholas. "it has come down of itself. i knew what would happen, dick. i told you the fair votaress gave me the _clin d'oeil_--the wink. you would not believe me then--and now you see your mistake." "i see nothing but the bare wall," said richard. "but you will see something anon, dick," rejoined nicholas, with a hollow laugh, and in a dismally deep tone. "you will see isole herself. i was foolhardy enough to invite her to dance the brawl with me. she smiled her assent, and winked at me thus--very significantly, i protest to you--and she will be as good as her word." "absurd!" exclaimed richard. "absurd, sayest thou--thou art an infidel, and believest nothing, dick," cried nicholas. "dost thou not see that the picture is gone? she will be here presently. ha! the brawl is called for--the very dance i invited her to. she must be in the room now. i will go in search of her. look out, dick. thou wilt behold a sight presently shall make thine hair stand on end." and he moved away with a rapid but uncertain step. "the potent wine has confused his brain," said richard. "i must see that no mischance befalls him." and, waving his hand to his sister, he followed the squire, who moved on, staring inquisitively into the countenance of every pretty damsel he encountered. time had flown fleetly with dorothy and alizon, who, occupied with each other, had taken little note of its progress, and were surprised to find how quickly the hours had gone by. meanwhile several dances had been performed; a morisco, in which all the may-day revellers took part, with the exception of the queen herself, who, notwithstanding the united entreaties of robin hood and her gentleman-usher, could not be prevailed upon to join it: a trenchmore, a sort of long country-dance, extending from top to bottom of the hall, and in which the whole of the rustics stood up: a galliard, confined to the more important guests, and in which both alizon and dorothy were included, the former dancing, of course, with richard, and the latter with one of her cousins, young joseph robinson: and a jig, quite promiscuous and unexclusive, and not the less merry on that account. in this way, what with the dances, which were of some duration--the trenchmore alone occupying more than an hour--and the necessary breathing-time between them, it was on the stroke of ten without any body being aware of it. now this, though a very early hour for a modern party, being about the time when the first guest would arrive, was a very late one even in fashionable assemblages at the period in question, and the guests began to think of retiring, when the brawl, intended to wind up the entertainment, was called. the highest animation still prevailed throughout the company, for the generous host had taken care that the intervals between the dances should be well filled up with refreshments, and large bowls of spiced wines, with burnt oranges and crabs floating in them, were placed on the side-table, and liberally dispensed to all applicants. thus all seemed destined to be brought to a happy conclusion. throughout the evening alizon had been closely watched by mistress nutter, who remarked, with feelings akin to jealousy and distrust, the marked predilection exhibited by her for richard and dorothy assheton, as well as her inattention to her own expressed injunctions in remaining constantly near them. though secretly displeased by this, she put a calm face upon it, and neither remonstrated by word or look. thus alizon, feeling encouraged in the course she had adopted, and prompted by her inclinations, soon forgot the interdiction she had received. mistress nutter even went so far in her duplicity as to promise dorothy, that alizon should pay her an early visit at middleton--though inwardly resolving no such visit should ever take place. however, she now received the proposal very graciously, and made alizon quite happy in acceding to it. "i would fain have her go back with me to middleton when i return," said dorothy, "but i fear you would not like to part with your newly-adopted daughter so soon; neither would it be quite fair to rob you of her. but i shall hold you to your promise of an early visit." mistress nutter replied by a bland smile, and then observed to alizon that it was time for them to retire, and that she had stayed on her account far later than she intended--a mark of consideration duly appreciated by alizon. farewells for the night were then exchanged between the two girls, and alizon looked round to bid adieu to richard, but unfortunately, at this very juncture, he was engaged in pursuit of nicholas. before quitting the hall she made inquiries after jennet, and receiving for answer that she was still in the hall, but had fallen asleep in a chair at one corner of the side-table, and could not be wakened, she instantly flew thither and tried to rouse her, but in vain; when mistress nutter, coming up the next moment, merely touched her brow, and the little girl opened her eyes and gazed about her with a bewildered look. "she is unused to these late hours, poor child," said alizon. "some one must be found to take her home." "you need not go far in search of a convoy," said potts, who had been hovering about, and now stepped up; "i am going to the dragon myself, and shall be happy to take charge of her." "you are over-officious, sir," rejoined mistress nutter, coldly; "when we need your assistance we will ask it. my own servant, simon blackadder, will see her safely home." and at a sign from her, a tall fellow with a dark, scowling countenance, came from among the other serving-men, and, receiving his instructions from his mistress, seized jennet's hand, and strode off with her. during all this time, mistress nutter kept her eyes steadily fixed on the little girl, who spoke not a word, nor replied even by a gesture to alizon's affectionate good-night, retaining her dazed look to the moment of quitting the hall. "i never saw her thus before," said alizon. "what can be the matter with her?" "i think i could tell you," rejoined potts, glancing maliciously and significantly at mistress nutter. the lady darted an ireful and piercing look at him, which seemed to produce much the same consequences as those experienced by jennet, for his visage instantly elongated, and he sank back in a chair. "oh dear!" he cried, putting his hand to his head; "i'm struck all of a heap. i feel a sudden qualm--a giddiness--a sort of don't-know- howishness. ho, there! some aquavitæ--or imperial water--or cinnamon water--or whatever reviving cordial may be at hand. i feel very ill--very ill, indeed--oh dear!" while his requirements were attended to, mistress nutter moved away with her daughter; but they had not proceeded far when they encountered richard, who, having fortunately descried them, came up to say good-night. the brawl, meanwhile, had commenced, and the dancers were whirling round giddily in every direction, somewhat like the couples in a grand polka, danced after a very boisterous, romping, and extravagant fashion. "who is nicholas dancing with?" asked mistress nutter suddenly. "is he dancing with any one?" rejoined richard, looking amidst the crowd. "do you not see her?" said mistress nutter; "a very beautiful woman with flashing eyes: they move so quickly, that i can scarce discern her features; but she is habited like a nun." "like a nun!" cried richard, his blood growing chill in his veins. "'tis she indeed, then! where is he?" "yonder, yonder, whirling madly round," replied mistress nutter. "i see him now," said richard, "but he is alone. he has lost his wits to dance in that strange manner by himself. how wild, too, is his gaze!" "i tell you he is dancing with a very beautiful woman in the habit of a nun," said mistress nutter. "strange i should never have remarked her before. no one in the room is to be compared with her in loveliness--not even alizon. her eyes seem to flash fire, and she bounds like the wild roe." "does she resemble the portrait of isole de heton?" asked richard, shuddering. "she does--she does," replied mistress nutter. "see! she whirls past us now." "i can see no one but nicholas," cried richard. "nor i," added alizon, who shared in the young man's alarm. "are you sure you behold that figure?" said richard, drawing mistress nutter aside, and breathing the words in her ear. "if so, it is a phantom--or he is in the power of the fiend. he was rash enough to invite that wicked votaress, isole de heton, condemned, it is said, to penal fires for her earthly enormities, to dance with him, and she has come." "ha!" exclaimed mistress nutter. "she will whirl him round till he expires," cried richard; "i must free him at all hazards." "stay," said mistress nutter; "it is i who have been deceived. now i look again, i see that nicholas is alone." "but the nun's dress--the wondrous beauty--the flashing eyes!" cried richard. "you described isole exactly." "it was mere fancy," said mistress nutter. "i had just been looking at her portrait, and it dwelt on my mind, and created the image." "the portrait is gone," cried richard, pointing to the empty wall. mistress nutter looked confounded. and without a word more, she took alizon, who was full of alarm and astonishment, by the arm, and hurried her out of the hall. as they disappeared, the young man flew towards nicholas, whose extraordinary proceedings had excited general amazement. the other dancers had moved out of the way, so that free space was left for his mad gyrations. greatly scandalised by the exhibition, which he looked upon as the effect of intoxication, sir ralph called loudly to him to stop, but he paid no attention to the summons, but whirled on with momently-increasing velocity, oversetting old adam whitworth, gregory, and dickon, who severally ventured to place themselves in his path, to enforce their master's injunctions, until at last, just as richard reached him, he uttered a loud cry, and fell to the ground insensible. by sir ralph's command he was instantly lifted up and transported to his own chamber. this unexpected and extraordinary incident put an end to the ball, and the whole of the guests, after taking a respectful and grateful leave of the host, departed--not in "most admired" disorder, but full of wonder. by most persons the squire's "fantastical vagaries," as they were termed, were traced to the vast quantity of wine he had drunk, but a few others shook their heads, and said he was evidently bewitched, and that mother chattox and nance redferne were at the bottom of it. as to the portrait of isole de heton, it was found under the table, and it was said that nicholas himself had pulled it down; but this he obstinately denied, when afterwards taken to task for his indecorous behaviour; and to his dying day he asserted, and believed, that he had danced the brawl with isole de heton. "and never," he would say, "had mortal man such a partner." from that night the two portraits in the banqueting-hall were regarded with great awe by the inmates of the abbey. chapter x.--the nocturnal meeting. on gaining the head of the staircase leading to the corridor, mistress nutter, whose movements had hitherto been extremely rapid, paused with her daughter to listen to the sounds arising from below. suddenly was heard a loud cry, and the music, which had waxed fast and furious in order to keep pace with the frenzied boundings of the squire, ceased at once, showing some interruption had occurred, while from the confused noise that ensued, it was evident the sudden stoppage had been the result of accident. with blanched cheek alizon listened, scarcely daring to look at her mother, whose expression of countenance, revealed by the lamp she held in her hand, almost frightened her; and it was a great relief to hear the voices and laughter of the serving-men as they came forth with nicholas, and bore him towards another part of the mansion; and though much shocked, she was glad when one of them, who appeared to be nicholas's own servant, assured the others "that it was only a drunken fit and that the squire would wake up next morning as if nothing had happened." apparently satisfied with this explanation, mistress nutter moved on; but a new feeling of uneasiness came over alizon as she followed her down the long dusky corridor, in the direction of the mysterious chamber, where they were to pass the night. the fitful flame of the lamp fell upon many a grim painting depicting the sufferings of the early martyrs; and these ghastly representations did not serve to re-assure her. the grotesque carvings on the panels and ribs of the vaulted roof, likewise impressed her with vague terror, and there was one large piece of sculpture--saint theodora subjected to diabolical temptation, as described in the golden legend--that absolutely scared her. their footsteps echoed hollowly overhead, and more than once, deceived by the sound, alizon turned to see if any one was behind them. at the end of the corridor lay the room once occupied by the superior of the religious establishment, and still known from that circumstance as the "abbot's chamber." connected with this apartment was the beautiful oratory built by paslew, wherein he had kept his last vigils; and though now no longer applied to purposes of worship, still wearing from the character of its architecture, its sculptured ornaments, and the painted glass in its casements, a dim religious air. the abbot's room was allotted to dorothy assheton; and from its sombre magnificence, as well as the ghostly tales connected with it, had impressed her with so much superstitious misgiving, that she besought alizon to share her couch with her, but the young girl did not dare to assent. just, however, as mistress nutter was about to enter her own room, dorothy appeared on the corridor, and, calling to alizon to stay a moment, flew quickly towards her, and renewed the proposition. alizon looked at her mother, but the latter decidedly, and somewhat sternly, negatived it. the young girls then said good-night, kissing each other affectionately, after which alizon entered the room with mistress nutter, and the door was closed. two tapers were burning on the dressing-table, and their light fell upon the carved figures of the wardrobe, which still exercised the same weird influence over her. mistress nutter neither seemed disposed to retire to rest immediately, nor willing to talk, but sat down, and was soon lost in thought. after awhile, an impulse of curiosity which she could not resist, prompted alizon to peep into the closet, and pushing aside the tapestry, partly drawn over the entrance, she held the lamp forward so as to throw its light into the little chamber. a mere glance was all she was allowed, but it sufficed to show her the large oak chest, though the monkish robe lately suspended above it, and which had particularly attracted her attention, was gone. mistress nutter had noticed the movement, and instantly and somewhat sharply recalled her. as alizon obeyed, a slight tap was heard at the door. the young girl turned pale, for in her present frame of mind any little matter affected her. nor were her apprehensions materially allayed by the entrance of dorothy, who, looking white as a sheet, said she did not dare to remain in her own room, having been terribly frightened, by seeing a monkish figure in mouldering white garments, exactly resembling one of the carved images on the wardrobe, issue from behind the hangings on the wall, and glide into the oratory, and she entreated mistress nutter to let alizon go back with her. the request was peremptorily refused, and the lady, ridiculing dorothy for her fears, bade her return; but she still lingered. this relation filled alizon with inexpressible alarm, for though she did not dare to allude to the disappearance of the monkish gown, she could not help connecting the circumstance with the ghostly figure seen by dorothy. unable otherwise to get rid of the terrified intruder, whose presence was an evident restraint to her, mistress nutter, at length, consented to accompany her to her room, and convince her of the folly of her fears, by an examination of the oratory. alizon went with them, her mother not choosing to leave her behind, and indeed she herself was most anxious to go. the abbot's chamber was large and gloomy, nearly twice the size of the room occupied by mistress nutter, but resembling it in many respects, as well as in the no interdusky hue of its hangings and furniture, most of which had been undisturbed since the days of paslew. the very bed, of carved oak, was that in which he had slept, and his arms were still displayed upon it, and on the painted glass of the windows. as alizon entered she looked round with apprehension, but nothing occurred to justify her uneasiness. having raised the arras, from behind which dorothy averred the figure had issued, and discovering nothing but a panel of oak; with a smile of incredulity, mistress nutter walked boldly towards the oratory, the two girls, hand in hand, following tremblingly after her; but no fearful object met their view. a dressing-table, with a large mirror upon it, occupied the spot where the altar had formerly stood; but, in spite of this, and of other furniture, the little place of prayer, as has previously been observed, retained much of its original character, and seemed more calculated to inspire sentiments of devotional awe than any other. after remaining for a short time in the oratory, during which she pointed out the impossibility of any one being concealed there, mistress nutter assured dorothy she might rest quite easy that nothing further would occur to alarm her, and recommending her to lose the sense of her fears as speedily as she could in sleep, took her departure with alizon. but the recommendation was of little avail. the poor girl's heart died within her, and all her former terrors returned, and with additional force. sitting down, she looked fixedly at the hangings till her eyes ached, and then covering her face with her hands, and scarcely daring to breathe, she listened intently for the slightest sound. a rustle would have made her scream--but all was still as death, so profoundly quiet, that the very hush and silence became a new cause of disquietude, and longing for some cheerful sound to break it, she would have spoken aloud but from a fear of hearing her own voice. a book lay before her, and she essayed to read it, but in vain. she was ever glancing fearfully round--ever listening intently. this state could not endure for ever, and feeling a drowsiness steal over her she yielded to it, and at length dropped asleep in her chair. her dreams, however, were influenced by her mental condition, and slumber was no refuge, as promised by mistress nutter, from the hauntings of terror. at last a jarring sound aroused her, and she found she had been awakened by the clock striking twelve. her lamp required trimming and burnt dimly, but by its imperfect light she saw the arras move. this could be no fancy, for the next moment the hangings were raised, and a figure looked from behind them; and this time it was not the monk, but a female robed in white. a glimpse of the figure was all dorothy caught, for it instantly retreated, and the tapestry fell back to its place against the wall. scared by this apparition, dorothy rushed out of the room so hurriedly that she forgot to take her lamp, and made her way, she scarcely knew how, to the adjoining chamber. she did not tap at the door, but trying it, and finding it unfastened, opened it softly, and closed it after her, resolved if the occupants of the room were asleep not to disturb them, but to pass the night in a chair, the presence of some living beings beside her sufficing, in some degree, to dispel her terrors. the room was buried in darkness, the tapers being extinguished. advancing on tiptoe she soon discovered a seat, when what was her surprise to find alizon asleep within it. she was sure it was alizon--for she had touched her hair and face, and she felt surprised that the contact had not awakened her. still more surprised did she feel that the young girl had not retired to rest. again she stepped forward in search of another chair, when a gleam of light suddenly shot from one side of the bed, and the tapestry, masking the entrance to the closet, was slowly drawn aside. from behind it, the next moment, appeared the same female figure, robed in white, that she had previously beheld in the abbot's chamber. the figure held a lamp in one hand, and a small box in the other, and, to her unspeakable horror, disclosed the livid and contorted countenance of mistress nutter. [illustration: alizon alarmed at the appearance of mrs. nutter.] dreadful though undefined suspicions crossed her mind, and she feared, if discovered, she should be sacrificed to the fury of this strange and terrible woman. luckily, where she stood, though mistress nutter was revealed to her, she herself was screened from view by the hangings of the bed, and looking around for a hiding-place, she observed that the mysterious wardrobe, close behind her, was open, and without a moment's hesitation, she slipped into the covert and drew the door to, noiselessly. but her curiosity overmastered her fear, and, firmly believing some magical rite was about to be performed, she sought for means of beholding it; nor was she long in discovering a small eyelet-hole in the carving which commanded the room. unconscious of any other presence than that of alizon, whose stupor appeared to occasion her no uneasiness, mistress nutter, placed the lamp upon the table, made fast the door, and, muttering some unintelligible words, unlocked the box. it contained two singularly-shaped glass vessels, the one filled with a bright sparkling liquid, and the other with a greenish-coloured unguent. pouring forth a few drops of the liquid into a glass near her, mistress nutter swallowed them, and then taking some of the unguent upon her hands, proceeded to anoint her face and neck with it, exclaiming as she did so, "emen hetan! emen hetan!"--words that fixed themselves upon the listener's memory. wondering what would follow, dorothy gazed on, when she suddenly lost sight of mistress nutter, and after looking for her as far as her range of vision, limited by the aperture, would extend, she became convinced that she had left the room. all remaining quiet, she ventured, after awhile, to quit her hiding-place, and flying to alizon, tried to waken her, but in vain. the poor girl retained the same moveless attitude, and appeared plunged in a deathly stupor. much frightened, dorothy resolved to alarm the house, but some fears of mistress nutter restrained her, and she crept towards the closet to see whether that dread lady could be there. all was perfectly still; and somewhat emboldened, she returned to the table, where the box, which was left open and its contents unguarded, attracted her attention. what was the liquid in the phial? what could it do? these were questions she asked herself, and longing to try the effect, she ventured at last to pour forth a few drops and taste it. it was like a potent distillation, and she became instantly sensible of a strange bewildering excitement. presently her brain reeled, and she laughed wildly. never before had she felt so light and buoyant, and wings seemed scarcely wanting to enable her to fly. an idea occurred to her. the wondrous liquid might arouse alizon. the experiment should be tried at once, and, dipping her finger in the phial, she touched the lips of the sleeper, who sighed deeply and opened her eyes. another drop, and alizon was on her feet, gazing at her in astonishment, and laughing wildly as herself. poor girls! how wild and strange they looked--and how unlike themselves! "whither are you going?" cried alizon. "to the moon! to the stars!--any where!" rejoined dorothy, with a laugh of frantic glee. "i will go with you," cried alizon, echoing the laugh. "here and there!--here and there!" exclaimed dorothy, taking her hand. "emen hetan! emen hetan!" as the mystic words were uttered they started away. it seemed as if no impediments could stop them; how they crossed the closet, passed through a sliding panel into the abbot's room, entered the oratory, and from it descended, by a secret staircase, to the garden, they knew not--but there they were, gliding swiftly along in the moonlight, like winged spirits. what took them towards the conventual church they could not say. but they were drawn thither, as the ship was irresistibly dragged towards the loadstone rock described in the eastern legend. nothing surprised them then, or they might have been struck by the dense vapour, enveloping the monastic ruins, and shrouding them from view; nor was it until they entered the desecrated fabric, that any consciousness of what was passing around returned to them. their ears were then assailed by a wild hubbub of discordant sounds, hootings and croakings as of owls and ravens, shrieks and jarring cries as of night-birds, bellowings as of cattle, groans and dismal sounds, mixed with unearthly laughter. undefined and extraordinary shapes, whether men or women, beings of this world or of another they could not tell, though they judged them the latter, flew past with wild whoops and piercing cries, flapping the air as if with great leathern bat-like wings, or bestriding black, monstrous, misshapen steeds. fantastical and grotesque were these objects, yet hideous and appalling. now and then a red and fiery star would whiz crackling through the air, and then exploding break into numerous pale phosphoric lights, that danced awhile overhead, and then flitted away among the ruins. the ground seemed to heave and tremble beneath the footsteps, as if the graves were opening to give forth their dead, while toads and hissing reptiles crept forth. appalled, yet partly restored to herself by this confused and horrible din, alizon stood still and kept fast hold of dorothy, who, seemingly under a stronger influence than herself, was drawn towards the eastern end of the fane, where a fire appeared to be blazing, a strong ruddy glare being cast upon the broken roof of the choir, and the mouldering arches around it. the noises around them suddenly ceased, and all the uproar seemed concentrated near the spot where the fire was burning. dorothy besought her friend so earnestly to let her see what was going forward, that alizon reluctantly and tremblingly assented, and they moved slowly towards the transept, taking care to keep under the shelter of the columns. on reaching the last pillar, behind which they remained, an extraordinary and fearful spectacle burst upon them. as they had supposed, a large fire was burning in the midst of the choir, the smoke of which, ascending in eddying wreaths, formed a dark canopy overhead, where it was mixed with the steam issuing from a large black bubbling caldron set on the blazing embers. around the fire were ranged, in a wide circle, an assemblage of men and women, but chiefly the latter, and of these almost all old, hideous, and of malignant aspect, their grim and sinister features looking ghastly in the lurid light. above them, amid the smoke and steam, wheeled bat and flitter-mouse, horned owl and screech-owl, in mazy circles. the weird assemblage chattered together in some wild jargon, mumbling and muttering spells and incantations, chanting fearfully with hoarse, cracked voices a wild chorus, and anon breaking into a loud and long-continued peal of laughter. then there was more mumbling, chattering, and singing, and one of the troop producing a wallet, hobbled forward. she was a fearful old crone; hunchbacked, toothless, blear-eyed, bearded, halt, with huge gouty feet swathed in flannel. as she cast in the ingredients one by one, she chanted thus:-- "head of monkey, brain of cat, eye of weasel, tail of rat, juice of mugwort, mastic, myrrh-- all within the pot i stir." "well sung, mother mould-heels," cried a little old man, whose doublet and hose were of rusty black, with a short cloak, of the same hue, over his shoulders. "well sung, mother mould-heels," he cried, advancing as the old witch retired, amidst a roar of laughter from the others, and chanting as he filled the caldron: "here is foam from a mad dog's lips, gather'd beneath the moon's eclipse, ashes of a shroud consumed, and with deadly vapour fumed. these within the mess i cast-- stir the caldron--stir it fast!" a red-haired witch then took his place, singing, "here are snakes from out the river, bones of toad and sea-calf's liver; swine's flesh fatten'd on her brood, wolf's tooth, hare's foot, weasel's blood. skull of ape and fierce baboon, and panther spotted like the moon; feathers of the horned owl, daw, pie, and other fatal fowl. fruit from fig-tree never sown, seed from cypress never grown. all within the mess i cast, stir the caldron--stir it fast!" nance redferne then advanced, and, taking from her wallet a small clay image, tricked out in attire intended to resemble that of james device, plunged several pins deeply into its breast, singing as she did so, thus,-- "in his likeness it is moulded, in his vestments 'tis enfolded. ye may know it, as i show it! in its breast sharp pins i stick, and i drive them to the quick. they are in--they are in-- and the wretch's pangs begin. now his heart, feels the smart; through his marrow, sharp as arrow, torments quiver he shall shiver, he shall burn, he shall toss, and he shall turn. unavailingly. aches shall rack him, cramps attack him, he shall wail, strength shall fail, till he die miserably!" as nance retired, another witch advanced, and sung thus: "over mountain, over valley, over woodland, over waste, on our gallant broomsticks riding we have come with frantic haste, and the reason of our coming, as ye wot well, is to see who this night, as new-made witch, to our ranks shall added be." a wild burst of laughter followed this address, and another wizard succeeded, chanting thus: "beat the water, demdike's daughter! till the tempest gather o'er us; till the thunder strike with wonder and the lightnings flash before us! beat the water, demdike's daughter! ruin seize our foes and slaughter!" as the words were uttered, a woman stepped from out the circle, and throwing back the grey-hooded cloak in which she was enveloped, disclosed the features of elizabeth device. her presence in that fearful assemblage occasioned no surprise to alizon, though it increased her horror. a pail of water was next set before the witch, and a broom being placed in her hand, she struck the lymph with it, sprinkling it aloft, and uttering this spell: "mount, water, to the skies! bid the sudden storm arise. bid the pitchy clouds advance, bid the forked lightnings glance, bid the angry thunder growl, bid the wild wind fiercely howl! bid the tempest come amain, thunder, lightning, wind, and rain!" [illustration: the incantation.] as she concluded, clouds gathered thickly overhead, obscuring the stars that had hitherto shone down from the heavens. the wind suddenly arose, but in lieu of dispersing the vapours it seemed only to condense them. a flash of forked lightning cut through the air, and a loud peal of thunder rolled overhead. then the whole troop sang together-- "beat the water, demdike's daughter! see the tempests gathers o'er us, lightning flashes--thunder crashes, wild winds sing in lusty chorus!" for a brief space the storm raged fearfully, and recalled the terror of that previously witnessed by alizon, which she now began to think might have originated in a similar manner. the wind raved around the ruined pile, but its breath was not felt within it, and the rain was heard descending in deluging showers without, though no drop came through the open roof. the thunder shook the walls and pillars of the old fabric, and threatened to topple them down from their foundations, but they resisted the shocks. the lightning played around the tall spire springing from this part of the fane, and ran down from its shattered summit to its base, without doing any damage. the red bolts struck the ground innocuously, though they fell at the very feet of the weird assemblage, who laughed wildly at the awful tumult. whilst the storm was at its worst, while the lightning was flashing fiercely, and the thunder rattling loudly, mother chattox, with a chafing-dish in her hand, advanced towards the fire, and placing the pan upon it, threw certain herbs and roots into it, chanting thus:-- "here is juice of poppy bruised, with black hellebore infused; here is mandrake's bleeding root, mixed with moonshade's deadly fruit; viper's bag with venom fill'd, taken ere the beast was kill'd; adder's skin and raven's feather, with shell of beetle blent together; dragonwort and barbatus, hemlock black and poisonous; horn of hart, and storax red, lapwing's blood, at midnight shed. in the heated pan they burn, and to pungent vapours turn. by this strong suffumigation, by this potent invocation, spirits! i compel you here! all who list may call appear!" after a moment's pause, she resumed as follows:-- "white-robed brethren, who of old, nightly paced yon cloisters cold, sleeping now beneath the mould! i bid ye rise. "abbots! by the weakling fear'd, by the credulous revered, who this mighty fabric rear'd! i bid ye rise! "and thou last and guilty one! by thy lust of power undone, whom in death thy fellows shun! i bid thee come! "and thou fair one, who disdain'd to keep the vows thy lips had feign'd; and thy snowy garments stain'd! i bid thee come!" during this invocation, the glee of the assemblage ceased, and they looked around in hushed expectation of the result. slowly then did a long procession of monkish forms, robed in white, glide along the aisles, and gather round the altar. the brass-covered stones within the presbytery were lifted up, as if they moved on hinges, and from the yawning graves beneath them arose solemn shapes, sixteen in number, each with mitre on head and crosier in hand, which likewise proceeded to the altar. then a loud cry was heard, and from a side chapel burst the monkish form, in mouldering garments, which dorothy had seen enter the oratory, and which would have mingled with its brethren at the altar, but they waved it off menacingly. another piercing shriek followed, and a female shape, habited like a nun, and of surpassing loveliness, issued from the opposite chapel, and hovered near the fire. content with this proof of her power, mother chattox waved her hand, and the long shadowy train glided off as they came. the ghostly abbots returned to their tombs, and the stones closed over them. but the shades of paslew and isole de heton still lingered. the storm had wellnigh ceased, the thunder rolled hollowly at intervals, and a flash of lightning now and then licked the walls. the weird crew had resumed their rites, when the door of the lacy chapel flew open, and a tall female figure came forward. alizon doubted if she beheld aright. could that terrific woman in the strangely-fashioned robe of white, girt by a brazen zone graven with mystic characters, with a long glittering blade in her hand, infernal fury in her wildly-rolling orbs, the livid hue of death on her cheeks, and the red brand upon her brow--could that fearful woman, with the black dishevelled tresses floating over her bare shoulders, and whose gestures were so imperious, be mistress nutter? mother no longer, if it indeed were she! how came she there amid that weird assemblage? why did they so humbly salute her, and fall prostrate before her, kissing the hem of her garment? why did she stand proudly in the midst of them, and extend her hand, armed with the knife, over them? was she their sovereign mistress, that they bent so lowly at her coming, and rose so reverentially at her bidding? was this terrible woman, now seated oh a dilapidated tomb, and regarding the dark conclave with the eye of a queen who held their lives in her hands--was she her mother? oh, no!--no!--it could not be! it must be some fiend that usurped her likeness. still, though alizon thus strove to discredit the evidence of her senses, and to hold all she saw to be delusion, and the work of darkness, she could not entirely convince herself, but imperfectly recalling the fearful vision she had witnessed during her former stupor, began to connect it with the scene now passing before her. the storm had wholly ceased, and the stars again twinkled down through the shattered roof. deep silence prevailed, broken only by the hissing and bubbling of the caldron. alizon's gaze was riveted upon her mother, whose slightest gestures she watched. after numbering the assemblage thrice, mistress nutter majestically arose, and motioning mother chattox towards her, the old witch tremblingly advanced, and some words passed between them, the import of which did not reach the listener's ear. in conclusion, however, mistress nutter exclaimed aloud, in accents of command--"go, bring it at once, the sacrifice must be made."--and on this, mother chattox hobbled off to one of the side chapels. a mortal terror seized alizon, and she could scarcely draw breath. dark tales had been told her that unbaptised infants were sometimes sacrificed by witches, and their flesh boiled and devoured at their impious banquets, and dreading lest some such atrocity was now about to be practised, she mustered all her resolution, determined, at any risk, to interfere, and, if possible, prevent its accomplishment. in another moment, mother chattox returned bearing some living thing, wrapped in a white cloth, which struggled feebly for liberation, apparently confirming alizon's suspicions, and she was about to rush forward, when mistress nutter, snatching the bundle from the old witch, opened it, and disclosed a beautiful bird, with plumage white as driven snow, whose legs were tied together, so that it could not escape. conjecturing what was to follow, alizon averted her eyes, and when she looked round again the bird had been slain, while mother chattox was in the act of throwing its body into the caldron, muttering a charm as she did so. mistress nutter held the ensanguined knife aloft, and casting some ruddy drops upon the glowing embers, pronounced, as they hissed and smoked, the following adjuration:-- "thy aid i seek, infernal power! be thy word sent to malkin tower, that the beldame old may know where i will, thou'dst have her go-- what i will, thou'dst have her do!" an immediate response was made by an awful voice issuing apparently from the bowels of the earth. "thou who seek'st the demon's aid, know'st the price that must be paid." the queen witch rejoined-- "i do. but grant the aid i crave, and that thou wishest thou shalt have. another worshipper is won, thine to be, when all is done." again the deep voice spake, with something of mockery in its accents:-- "enough proud witch, i am content. to malkin tower the word is sent, forth to her task the beldame goes, and where she points the streamlet flows; its customary bed forsaking, another distant channel making. round about like elfets tripping, stock and stone, and tree are skipping; halting where she plants her staff, with a wild exulting laugh. ho! ho! 'tis a merry sight, thou hast given the hag to-night. lo! the sheepfold, and the herd, to another site are stirr'd! and the rugged limestone quarry, where 'twas digg'd may no more tarry; while the goblin haunted dingle, with another dell must mingle. pendle moor is in commotion, like the billows of the ocean, when the winds are o'er it ranging, heaving, falling, bursting, changing. ho! ho! 'tis a merry sight thou hast given the hag to-night. lo! the moss-pool sudden flies, in another spot to rise; and the scanty-grown plantation, finds another situation, and a more congenial soil, without needing woodman's toil. now the warren moves--and see! how the burrowing rabbits flee, hither, thither till they find it, with another brake behind it. ho! ho! 'tis a merry sight thou hast given the hag to-night. lo! new lines the witch is tracing, every well-known mark effacing, elsewhere, other bounds erecting, so the old there's no detecting. ho! ho! 'tis a pastime quite, thou hast given the hag to-night! the hind at eve, who wander'd o'er the dreary waste of pendle moor, shall wake at dawn, and in surprise, doubt the strange sight that meets his eyes. the pathway leading to his hut winds differently,--the gate is shut. the ruin on the right that stood. lies on the left, and nigh the wood; the paddock fenced with wall of stone, wcll-stock'd with kine, a mile hath flown, the sheepfold and the herd are gone. through channels new the brooklet rushes, its ancient course conceal'd by bushes. where the hollow was, a mound rises from the upheaved ground. doubting, shouting with surprise, how the fool stares, and rubs his eyes! all's so changed, the simple elf fancies he is changed himself! ho! ho! 'tis a merry sight the hag shall have when dawns the light. but see! she halts and waves her hand. all is done as thou hast plann'd." after a moment's pause the voice added, "i have done as thou hast will'd-- now be thy path straight fulfill'd." "it shall be," replied mistress nutter, whose features gleamed with fierce exultation. "bring forth the proselyte!" she shouted. and at the words, her swarthy serving-man, blackadder, came forth from the lacy chapel, leading jennet by the hand. they were followed by tib, who, dilated to twice his former size, walked with tail erect, and eyes glowing like carbuncles. at sight of her daughter a loud cry of rage and astonishment burst from elizabeth device, and, rushing forward, she would have seized her, if tib had not kept her off by a formidable display of teeth and talons. jennet made no effort to join her mother, but regarded her with a malicious and triumphant grin. "this is my chilt," screamed elizabeth. "she canna be baptised without my consent, an ey refuse it. ey dunna want her to be a witch--at least not yet awhile. what mays yo here, yo little plague?" "ey wur brought here, mother," replied jennet, with affected simplicity. "then get whoam at once, and keep there," rejoined elizabeth, furiously. "nay, eyst nah go just yet," replied jennet. "ey'd fain be a witch as weel as yo." "ho! ho! ho!" laughed the voice from below. "nah, nah--ey forbid it," shrieked elizabeth, "ye shanna be bapteesed. whoy ha ye brought her here, madam?" she added to mistress nutter. "yo ha' stolen her fro' me. boh ey protest agen it." "your consent is not required," replied mistress nutter, waving her off. "your daughter is anxious to become a witch. that is enough." "she is not owd enough to act for herself," said elizabeth. "age matters not," replied mistress nutter. "what mun ey do to become a witch?" asked jennet. "you must renounce all hopes of heaven," replied mistress nutter, "and devote yourself to satan. you will then be baptised in his name, and become one of his worshippers. you will have power to afflict all persons with bodily ailments--to destroy cattle--blight corn--burn dwellings--and, if you be so minded, kill those you hate, or who molest you. do you desire to do all this?" "eigh, that ey do," replied jennet. "ey ha' more pleasure in evil than in good, an wad rayther see folk weep than laugh; an if ey had the power, ey wad so punish them os jeer at me, that they should rue it to their deein' day." "all this you shall do, and more," rejoined mistress nutter. "you renounce all hopes of salvation, then, and devote yourself, soul and body, to the powers of darkness." elizabeth, who was still kept at bay by tib, shaking her arms, and gnashing her teeth, in impotent rage, now groaned aloud; but ere jennet could answer, a piercing cry was heard, which thrilled through mistress nutter's bosom, and alizon, rushing from her place of concealment, passed through the weird circle, and stood beside the group in the midst of it. "forbear, jennet," she cried; "forbear! pronounce not those impious words, or you are lost for ever. come with me, and i will save you." "sister alizon," cried jennet, staring at her in surprise, "what makes you here?" "do not ask--but come," cried alizon, trying to take her hand. "oh! what is this?" cried mistress nutter, now partly recovered from the consternation and astonishment into which she had been thrown by alizon's unexpected appearance. "why are you here? how have you broken the chains of slumber in which i bound you? fly--fly--at once, this girl is past your help. you cannot save her. she is already devoted. fly. i am powerless to protect you here." "ho! ho! ho!" laughed the voice. "do you not hear that laughter?" cried mistress nutter, with a haggard look. "go!" "never, without jennet," replied alizon, firmly. "my child--my child--on my knees i implore you to depart," cried mistress nutter, throwing herself before her--"you know not your danger--oh, fly--fly!" but alizon continued inflexible. "yo are caught i' your own snare, madam," cried elizabeth device, with a taunting laugh. "sin jennet mun be a witch, alizon con be bapteesed os weel. your consent is not required--and age matters not--ha! ha!" "curses upon thy malice," cried mistress nutter, rising. "what can be done in this extremity?" "nothing," replied the voice. "jennet is mine already. if not brought hither by thee, or by her mother, she would have come of her own accord. i have watched her, and marked her for my own. besides, she is fated. the curse of paslew clings to her." as the words were uttered, the shade of the abbot glided forwards, and, touching the shuddering child upon the brow with its finger, vanished with a lamentable cry. "kneel, jennet," cried alizon; "kneel, and pray!" "to me," rejoined the voice; "she can bend to no other power. alice nutter, thou hast sought to deceive me, but in vain. i bade thee bring thy daughter here, and in place of her thou offerest me the child of another, who is mine already. i am not to be thus trifled with. thou knowest my will. sprinkle water over her head, and devote her to me." alizon would fain have thrown herself on her knees, but extremity of horror, or some overmastering influence, held her fast; and she remained with her gaze fixed upon her mother, who seemed torn by conflicting emotions. "is there no way to avoid this?" cried mistress nutter. "no way but one," replied the voice. "i have been offered a new devotee, and i claim fulfilment of the promise. thy daughter or another, it matters not--but not jennet." "i embrace the alternative," cried mistress nutter. "it must be done upon the instant," said the voice. "it shall be," replied mistress nutter. and, stretching her arm in the direction of the mansion, she called in a loud imperious voice, "dorothy assheton, come hither!" a minute elapsed, but no one appeared, and, with a look of disappointment, mistress nutter repeated the gesture and the words. still no one came. "baffled!" she exclaimed, "what can it mean?" "there is a maiden within the south transept, who is not one of my servants," cried the voice. "call her." "'tis she!" cried mistress nutter, stretching her arm towards the transept. "this time i am answered," she added, as with a wild laugh dorothy obeyed the summons. "i have anointed myself with the unguent, and drank of the potion, ha! ha! ha!" cried dorothy, with a wild gesture, and wilder laughter. "ha! this accounts for her presence here," muttered mistress nutter. "but it could not be better. she is in no mood to offer resistance. dorothy, thou shalt be a witch." "a witch!" exclaimed the bewildered maiden. "is alizon a witch?" "we are all witches here," replied mistress nutter. alizon had no power to contradict her. "a merry company!" exclaimed dorothy, laughing loudly. "you will say so anon," replied mistress nutter, waving her hand over her, and muttering a spell; "but you see them not in their true forms, dorothy. look again--what do you behold now?" "in place of a troop of old wrinkled crones in wretched habiliments," replied dorothy, "i behold a band of lovely nymphs in light gauzy attire, wreathed with flowers, and holding myrtle and olive branches in their hands. see they rise, and prepare for the dance. strains of ravishing music salute the ear. i never heard sounds so sweet and stirring. the round is formed. the dance begins. how gracefully--how lightly they move--ha! ha!" alizon could not check her--could not undeceive her--for power of speech as of movement was denied her, but she comprehended the strange delusion under which the poor girl laboured. the figures dorothy described as young and lovely, were still to her the same loathsome and abhorrent witches; the ravishing music jarred discordantly on her ear, as if produced by a shrill cornemuse; and the lightsome dance was a fantastic round, performed with shouts and laughter by the whole unhallowed crew. jennet laughed immoderately, and seemed delighted by the antics of the troop. "ey never wished to dance efore," she cried, "boh ey should like to try now." "join them, then," said mistress nutter. and to the little girl's infinite delight a place was made for her in the round, and, taking hands with mother mould-heels and the red-haired witch, she footed it as merrily as the rest. "who is she in the nunlike habit?" inquired dorothy, pointing to the shade of isole de heton, which still hovered near the weird assemblage. "she seems more beautiful than all the others. will she not dance with me?" "heed her not," said mistress nutter. dorothy, however, would not be gainsaid, but, spite of the caution, beckoned the figure towards her. it came at once, and in another instant its arms were enlaced around her. the same frenzy that had seized nicholas now took possession of dorothy, and her dance with isole might have come to a similar conclusion, if it had not been abruptly checked by mistress nutter, who, waving her hand, and pronouncing a spell, the figure instantly quitted dorothy, and, with a wild shriek, fled. "how like you these diversions?" said mistress nutter to the panting and almost breathless maiden. "marvellously," replied dorothy; "but why have you scared my partner away?" "because she would have done you a mischief," rejoined mistress nutter. "but now let me put a question to you. are you willing to renounce your baptism, and enter into a covenant with the prince of darkness?" dorothy did not seem in the least to comprehend what was said to her; but she nevertheless replied, "i am." "bring water and salt," said mistress nutter to mother chattox. "by these drops i baptise you," she added, dipping her fingers in the liquid, and preparing to sprinkle it over the brow of the proselyte. then it was that alizon, by an almost superhuman effort, burst the spell that bound her, and clasped dorothy in her arms. "you know not what you do, dear dorothy," she cried. "i answer for you. you will not yield to the snares and temptations of satan, however subtly devised. you defy him and all his works. you will make no covenant with him. though surrounded by his bond-slaves, you fear him not. is it not so? speak!" but dorothy could only answer with an insane laugh--"i will be a witch." "it is too late," interposed mistress nutter. "you cannot save her. and, remember! she stands in your place. or you or she must be devoted." "i will never desert her," cried alizon, twining her arms round her. "dorothy--dear dorothy--address yourself to heaven." an angry growl of thunder was heard. "beware!" cried mistress nutter. "i am not to be discouraged," rejoined alizon, firmly. "you cannot gain a victory over a soul in this condition, and i shall effect her deliverance. heaven will aid us, dorothy." a louder roll of thunder was heard, followed by a forked flash of lightning. "provoke not the vengeance of the prince of darkness," said mistress nutter. "i have no fear," replied alizon. "cling to me, dorothy. no harm shall befall you." "be speedy!" cried the voice. "let her go," cried mistress nutter to alizon, "or you will rue this disobedience. why should you interfere with my projects, and bring ruin on yourself! i would save you. what, still obstinate? nay, then, i will no longer show forbearance. help me, sisters. force the new witch from her. but beware how you harm my child." at these words the troop gathered round the two girls. but alizon only clasped her hands more tightly round dorothy; while the latter, on whose brain the maddening potion still worked, laughed frantically at them. it was at this moment that elizabeth device, who had conceived a project of revenge, put it into execution. while near dorothy, she stamped, spat on the ground, and then cast a little mould over her, breathing in her ear, "thou art bewitched--bewitched by alizon device." dorothy instantly struggled to free herself from alizon. "oh! do not you strive against me, dear dorothy," cried alizon. "remain with me, or you are lost." "hence! off! set me free!" shrieked dorothy; "you have bewitched me. i heard it this moment." "do not believe the false suggestion," cried alizon. "it is true," exclaimed all the other witches together. "alizon has bewitched you, and will kill you. shake her off--shake her off!" "away!" cried dorothy, mustering all her force. "away!" but alizon was still too strong for her, and, in spite of her efforts at liberation, detained her. "my patience is wellnigh exhausted," exclaimed the voice. "alizon!" cried mistress nutter, imploringly. and again the witches gathered furiously round the two girls. "kneel, dorothy, kneel!" whispered alizon. and forcing her down, she fell on her knees beside her, exclaiming, with uplifted hands, "gracious heaven! deliver us." as the words were uttered, a fearful cry was heard, and the weird troop fled away screaming, like ill-omened birds. the caldron sank into the ground; the dense mist arose like a curtain; and the moon and stars shone brightly down upon the ruined pile. alizon prayed long and fervently, with clasped hands and closed eyes, for deliverance from evil. when she looked round again, all was so calm, so beautiful, so holy in its rest, that she could scarcely believe in the recent fearful occurrences. her hair and garments were damp with the dews of night; and at her feet lay dorothy, insensible. she tried to raise her--to revive her, but in vain; when at this moment footsteps were heard approaching, and the next moment mistress nutter, accompanied by adam whitworth and some other serving-men, entered the choir. "i see them--they are here!" cried the lady, rushing forward. "heaven be praised you have found them, madam!" exclaimed the old steward, coming quickly after her. "oh! what an alarm you have given me, alizon," said mistress nutter. "what could induce you to go forth secretly at night in this way with dorothy! i dreamed you were here, and missing you when i awoke, roused the house and came in search of you. what is the matter with dorothy? she has been frightened, i suppose. i will give her to breathe at this phial. it will revive her. see, she opens her eyes." dorothy looked round wildly for a moment, and then pointing her finger at alizon, said-- "she has bewitched me." "poor thing! she rambles," observed mistress nutter to adam whitworth, who, with the other serving-men, stared aghast at the accusation; "she has been scared out of her senses by some fearful sight. let her be conveyed quickly to my chamber, and i will see her cared for." the orders were obeyed. dorothy was raised gently by the serving-men, but she still kept pointing to alizon, and repeatedly exclaimed-- "she has bewitched me!" the serving-men shook their heads, and looked significantly at each other, while mistress nutter lingered to speak to her daughter. "you look greatly disturbed, alizon, as if you had been visited by a nightmare in your sleep, and were still under its influence." alizon made no reply. "a few hours' tranquil sleep will restore you," pursued mistress nutter, "and you will forget your fears. you must not indulge in these nocturnal rambles again, or they may be attended with dangerous consequences. i may not have a second warning dream. come to the house." and, as alizon followed her along the garden path, she could not help asking herself, though with little hope in the question, if all she had witnessed was indeed nothing more than a troubled dream. end of the first book. the lancashire witches. book the second. pendle forest. chapter i.--flint. a lovely morning succeeded the strange and terrible night. brightly shone the sun upon the fair calder as it winded along the green meads above the bridge, as it rushed rejoicingly over the weir, and pursued its rapid course through the broad plain below the abbey. a few white vapours hung upon the summit of whalley nab, but the warm rays tinging them with gold, and tipping with fire the tree-tops that pierced through them, augured their speedy dispersion. so beautiful, so tranquil, looked the old monastic fane, that none would have deemed its midnight rest had been broken by the impious rites of a foul troop. the choir, where the unearthly scream and the demon laughter had resounded, was now vocal with the melodies of the blackbird, the thrush, and other songsters of the grove. bells of dew glittered upon the bushes rooted in the walls, and upon the ivy-grown pillars; and gemming the countless spiders' webs stretched from bough to bough, showed they were all unbroken. no traces were visible on the sod where the unhallowed crew had danced their round; nor were any ashes left where the fire had burnt and the caldron had bubbled. the brass-covered tombs of the abbots in the presbytery looked as if a century had passed over them without disturbance; while the graves in the cloister cemetery, obliterated, and only to be detected when a broken coffin or a mouldering bone was turned up by the tiller of the ground, preserved their wonted appearance. the face of nature had received neither impress nor injury from the fantastic freaks and necromantic exhibitions of the witches. every thing looked as it was left overnight; and the only footprints to be detected were those of the two girls, and of the party who came in quest of them. all else had passed by like a vision or a dream. the rooks cawed loudly in the neighbouring trees, as if discussing the question of breakfast, and the jackdaws wheeled merrily round the tall spire, which sprang from the eastern end of the fane. brightly shone the sun upon the noble timber embowering the mansion of the asshetons; upon the ancient gateway, in the upper chamber of which ned huddlestone, the porter, and the burly representative of friar tuck, was rubbing his sleepy eyes, preparatory to habiting himself in his ordinary attire; and upon the wide court-yard, across which nicholas was walking in the direction of the stables. notwithstanding his excesses overnight, the squire was astir, as he had declared he should be, before daybreak; and a plunge into the calder had cooled his feverish limbs and cured his racking headache, while a draught of ale set his stomach right. still, in modern parlance, he looked rather "seedy," and his recollection of the events of the previous night was somewhat confused. aware he had committed many fooleries, he did not desire to investigate matters too closely, and only hoped he should not be reminded of them by sir ralph, or worse still, by parson dewhurst. as to his poor, dear, uncomplaining wife, he never once troubled his head about her, feeling quite sure she would not upbraid him. on his appearance in the court-yard, the two noble blood-hounds and several lesser dogs came forward to greet him, and, attended by this noisy pack, he marched up to a groom, who was rubbing down his horse at the stable-door. "poor robin," he cried to the steed, who neighed at his approach. "poor robin," he said, patting his neck affectionately, "there is not thy match for speed or endurance, for fence or ditch, for beck or stone wall, in the country. half an hour on thy back will make all right with me; but i would rather take thee to bowland forest, and hunt the stag there, than go and perambulate the boundaries of the rough lee estates with a rascally attorney. i wonder how the fellow will be mounted." "if yo be speering about mester potts, squoire," observed the groom, "ey con tell ye. he's to ha' little flint, the welsh pony." "why, zounds, you don't say, peter!" exclaimed nicholas, laughing; "he'll never be able to manage him. flint's the wickedest and most wilful little brute i ever knew. we shall have master potts run away with, or thrown into a moss-pit. better give him something quieter." "it's sir roaph's orders," replied peter, "an ey darna disobey 'em. boh flint's far steadier than when yo seed him last, squoire. ey dar say he'll carry mester potts weel enough, if he dusna mislest him." "you think nothing of the sort, peter," said nicholas. "you expect to see the little gentleman fly over the pony's head, and perhaps break his own at starting. but if sir ralph has ordered it, he must abide by the consequences. i sha'n't interfere further. how goes on the young colt you were breaking in? you should take care to show him the saddle in the manger, let him smell it, and jingle the stirrups in his ears, before you put it on his back. better ground for his first lessons could not be desired than the field below the grange, near the calder. sir ralph was saying yesterday, that the roan mare had pricked her foot. you must wash the sore well with white wine and salt, rub it with the ointment the farriers call ægyptiacum, and then put upon it a hot plaster compounded of flax hards, turpentine, oil and wax, bathing the top of the hoof with bole armeniac and vinegar. this is the best and quickest remedy. and recollect, peter, that for a new strain, vinegar, bole armeniac, whites of eggs, and bean-flour, make the best salve. how goes on sir ralph's black charger, dragon? a brave horse that, peter, and the only one in your master's whole stud to compare with my robin! but dragon, though of high courage and great swiftness, has not the strength and endurance of robin--neither can he leap so well. why, robin would almost clear the calder, peter, and makes nothing of smithies brook, near downham, and you know how wide that stream is. i once tried him at the ribble, at a narrow point, and if horse could have done it, he would--but it was too much to expect." "a great deal, ey should say, squoire," replied the groom, opening his eyes to their widest extent. "whoy, th' ribble, where yo speak on, mun be twenty yards across, if it be an inch; and no nag os ever wur bred could clear that, onless a witch wur on his back." "don't allude to witches, peter," said nicholas. "i've had enough of them. but to come back to our steeds. colour is matter of taste, and a man must please his own eye with bay or grey, chestnut, sorrel, or black; but dun is my fancy. a good horse, peter, should be clean-limbed, short-jointed, strong-hoofed, out-ribbed, broad-chested, deep-necked, loose-throttled, thin-crested, lean-headed, full-eyed, with wide nostrils. a horse with half these points would not be wrong, and robin has them all." "so he has, sure enough, squoire," replied peter, regarding the animal with an approving eye, as nicholas enumerated his merits. "boh, if ey might choose betwixt him an yunk mester ruchot assheton's grey gelding, merlin, ey knoas which ey'd tak." "robin, of course," said nicholas. "nah, squoire, it should be t'other," replied the groom. "you're no judge of a horse, peter," rejoined nicholas, shrugging his shoulders. "may be not," said the groom, "boh ey'm bound to speak truth. an see! tum lomax is bringin' out merlin. we con put th' two nags soide by soide, if yo choose." "they shall be put side by side in the field, peter--that's the way to test their respective merit," returned nicholas, "and they won't remain long together, i'll warrant you. i offered to make a match for twenty pieces with master richard, but he declined the offer. harkee, peter, break an egg in robin's mouth before you put on his bridle. it strengthens the wind, and adds to a horse's power of endurance. you understand?" "parfitly, squoire," replied the groom. "by th' mess! that's a secret worth knoain'. onny more orders?" "no," replied nicholas. "we shall set out in an hour--or it may be sooner." "aw shan be ready," said peter. and he added to himself, as nicholas moved away, "ey'st tak care tum lomax gies an egg to merlin, an that'll may aw fair, if they chance to try their osses' mettle." as nicholas returned to the house, he perceived to his dismay sir ralph and parson dewhurst standing upon the steps; and convinced, from their grave looks, that they were prepared to lecture him, he endeavoured to nerve himself for the infliction. "two to one are awkward odds," said the squire to himself, "especially when they have the 'vantage ground. but i must face them, and make the best fight circumstances will allow. i shall never be able to explain that mad dance with isole de heton. no one but dick will believe me, and the chances are he will not support my story. but i must put on an air of penitence, and sooth to say, in my present state, it is not very difficult to assume." thus pondering, with slow step, affectedly humble demeanour, and surprisingly-lengthened visage, he approached the pair who were waiting for him, and regarding him with severe looks. thinking it the best plan to open the fire himself, nicholas saluted them, and said-- "give you good-day, sir ralph, and you too, worthy master dewhurst. i scarcely expected to see you so early astir, good sirs; but the morning is too beautiful to allow us to be sluggards. for my own part i have been awake for hours, and have passed the time wholly in self-reproaches for my folly and sinfulness last night, as well as in forming resolutions for self-amendment, and better governance in future." "i hope you will adhere to those resolutions, then, nicholas," rejoined sir ralph, sternly; "for change of conduct is absolutely necessary, if you would maintain your character as a gentleman. i can make allowance for high animal spirits, and can excuse some licence, though i do not approve of it; but i will not permit decorum to be outraged in my house, and suffer so ill an example to be set to my tenantry." "fortunately i was not present at the exhibition," said dewhurst; "but i am told you conducted yourself like one possessed, and committed such freaks as are rarely, if ever, acted by a rational being." "i can offer no defence, worthy sir, and you my respected relative," returned nicholas, with a contrite air; "neither can you reprove me more strongly than i deserve, nor than i upbraid myself. i allowed myself to be overcome by wine, and in that condition was undoubtedly guilty of follies i must ever regret." "amongst others, i believe you stood upon your head," remarked dewhurst. "i am not aware of the circumstance, reverend sir," replied nicholas, with difficulty repressing a smile; "but as i certainly lost my head, i may have stood upon it unconsciously. but i do recollect enough to make me heartily ashamed of myself, and determine to avoid all such excesses in future." "in that case, sir," rejoined dewhurst, "the occurrences of last night, though sufficiently discreditable to you, will not be without profit; for i have observed to my infinite regret, that you are apt to indulge in immoderate potations, and when under their influence to lose due command of yourself, and commit follies which your sober reason must condemn. at such times i scarcely recognise you. you speak with unbecoming levity, and even allow oaths to escape your lips." "it is too true, reverend sir," said nicholas; "but, zounds!--a plague upon my tongue--it is an unruly member. forgive me, good sir, but my brain is a little confused." "i do not wonder, from the grievous assaults made upon it last night, nicholas," observed sir ralph. "perhaps you are not aware that your crowning act was whisking wildly round the room by yourself, like a frantic dervish." "i was dancing with isole de heton," said nicholas. "with whom?" inquired dewhurst, in surprise. "with a wicked votaress, who has been dead nearly a couple of centuries," interposed sir ralph; "and who, by her sinful life, merited the punishment she is said to have incurred. this delusion shows how dreadfully intoxicated you were, nicholas. for the time you had quite lost your reason." "i am sober enough now, at all events," rejoined nicholas; "and i am convinced that isole did dance with me, nor will any arguments reason me out of that belief." "i am sorry to hear you say so, nicholas," returned sir ralph. "that you were under the impression at the time i can easily understand; but that you should persist in such a senseless and wicked notion is more than i can comprehend." "i saw her with my own eyes as plainly as i see you, sir ralph," replied nicholas, warmly; "that i declare upon my honour and conscience, and i also felt the pressure of her arms. whether it may not have been the fiend in her likeness i will not take upon me to declare--and indeed i have some misgivings on the subject; but that a beautiful creature, exactly resembling the votaress, danced with me, i will ever maintain." "if so, she was invisible to others, for i beheld her not," said sir ralph; "and, though i cannot yield credence to your explanation, yet, granting it to be correct, i do not see how it mends your case." "on the contrary, it only proves that master nicholas yielded to the snares of satan," said dewhurst, shaking his head. "i would recommend you long fasting and frequent prayer, my good sir, and i shall prepare a lecture for your special edification, which i will propound to you on your return to downham, and, if it fails in effect, i will persevere with other godly discourses." "with your aid, i trust to be set free, reverend sir," returned nicholas; "but, as i have already passed two or three hours in prayer, i hope they may stand me in lieu of any present fasting, and induce you to omit the article of penance, or postpone it to some future occasion, when i may be better able to perform it; for i am just now particularly hungry, and am always better able to resist temptation with a full stomach than an empty one. as i find it displeasing to sir ralph, i will not insist upon my visionary partner in the dance, at least until i am better able to substantiate the fact; and i shall listen to your lectures, worthy sir, with great delight, and, i doubt not, with equal benefit; but in the meantime, as carnal wants must be supplied, and mundane matters attended to, i propose, with our excellent host's permission, that we proceed to breakfast." sir ralph made no answer, but ascended the steps, and was followed by dewhurst, heaving a deep sigh, and turning up the whites of his eyes, and by nicholas, who felt his bosom eased of half its load, and secretly congratulated himself upon getting out of the scrape so easily. in the hall they found richard assheton habited in a riding-dress, booted, spurred, and in all respects prepared for the expedition. there were such evident traces of anxiety and suffering about him, that sir ralph questioned him as to the cause, and richard replied that he had passed a most restless night. he did not add, that he had been made acquainted by adam whitworth with the midnight visit of the two girls to the conventual church, because he was well aware sir ralph would be greatly displeased by the circumstance, and because mistress nutter had expressed a wish that it should be kept secret. sir ralph, however, saw there was more upon his young relative's mind than he chose to confess, but he did not urge any further admission into his confidence. meantime, the party had been increased by the arrival of master potts, who was likewise equipped for the ride. the hour was too early, it might be, for him, or he had not rested well like richard, or had been troubled with bad dreams, but certainly he did not look very well, or in very good-humour. he had slept at the abbey, having been accommodated with a bed after the sudden seizure which he attributed to the instrumentality of mistress nutter. the little attorney bowed obsequiously to sir ralph, who returned his salutation very stiffly, nor was he much better received by the rest of the company. at a sign from sir ralph, his guests then knelt down, and a prayer was uttered by the divine--or rather a discourse, for it partook more of the latter character than the former. in the course of it he took occasion to paint in strong colours the terrible consequences of intemperance, and nicholas was obliged to endure a well-merited lecture of half an hour's duration. but even parson dewhurst could not hold out for ever, and, to the relief of all his hearers, he at length brought this discourse to a close. breakfast at this period was a much more substantial affair than a modern morning repast, and differed little from dinner or supper, except in respect to quantity. on the present occasion, there were carbonadoes of fish and fowl, a cold chine, a huge pasty, a capon, neat's tongues, sausages, botargos, and other matters as provocative of thirst as sufficing to the appetite. nicholas set to work bravely. broiled trout, steaks, and a huge slice of venison pasty, disappeared quickly before him, and he was not quite so sparing of the ale as seemed consistent with his previously-expressed resolutions of temperance. in vain parson dewhurst filled a goblet with water, and looked significantly at him. he would not take the hint, and turned a deaf ear to the admonitory cough of sir ralph. he had little help from the others, for richard ate sparingly, and master potts made a very poor figure beside him. at length, having cleared his plate, emptied his cup, and wiped his lips, the squire arose, and said he must bid adieu to his wife, and should then be ready to attend them. while he quitted the hall for this purpose, mistress nutter entered it. she looked paler than ever, and her eyes seemed larger, darker, and brighter. nicholas shuddered slightly as she approached, and even potts felt a thrill of apprehension pass through his frame. he scarcely, indeed, ventured a look at her, for he dreaded her mysterious power, and feared she could fathom the designs he secretly entertained against her. but she took no notice whatever of him. acknowledging sir ralph's salutation, she motioned richard to follow her to the further end of the room. "your sister is very ill, richard," she said, as the young man attended her, "feverish, and almost light-headed. adam whitworth has told you, i know, that she was imprudent enough, in company with alizon, to visit the ruins of the conventual church late last night, and she there sustained some fright, which has produced a great shock upon her system. when found, she was fainting, and though i have taken every care of her, she still continues much excited, and rambles strangely. you will be surprised as well as grieved when i tell you, that she charges alizon with having bewitched her." "how, madam!" cried richard. "alizon bewitch her! it is impossible." "you are right, richard," replied mistress nutter; "the thing is impossible; but the accusation will find easy credence among the superstitious household here, and may be highly prejudicial, if not fatal to poor alizon. it is most unlucky she should have gone out in this way, for the circumstance cannot be explained, and in itself serves to throw suspicion upon her." "i must see dorothy before i go," said richard; "perhaps i may be able to soothe her." "it was for that end i came hither," replied mistress nutter; "but i thought it well you should be prepared. now come with me." upon this they left the hall together, and proceeded to the abbot's chamber, where dorothy was lodged. richard was greatly shocked at the sight of his sister, so utterly changed was she from the blithe being of yesterday--then so full of health and happiness. her cheeks burnt with fever, her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her fair hair hung about her face in disorder. she kept fast hold of alizon, who stood beside her. "ah, richard!" she cried on seeing him, "i am glad you are come. you will persuade this girl to restore me to reason--to free me from the terrors that beset me. she can do so if she will." "calm yourself, dear sister," said richard, gently endeavouring to free alizon from her grasp. "no, do not take her from me," said dorothy, wildly; "i am better when she is near me--much better. my brow does not throb so violently, and my limbs are not twisted so painfully. do you know what ails me, richard?" "you have caught cold from wandering out indiscreetly last night," said richard. "i am bewitched!" rejoined dorothy, in tones that pierced her brother's brain--"bewitched by alizon device--by your love--ha! ha! she wishes to kill me, richard, because she thinks i am in her way. but you will not let her do it." "you are mistaken, dear dorothy. she means you no harm," said richard. "heaven knows how much i grieve for her, and how fondly i love her!" exclaimed alizon, tearfully. "it is false!" cried dorothy. "she will tell a different tale when you are gone. she is a witch, and you shall never marry her, richard--never!--never!" mistress nutter, who stood at a little distance, anxiously observing what was passing, waved her hand several times towards the sufferer, but without effect. "i have no influence over her," she muttered. "she is really bewitched. i must find other means to quieten her." though both greatly distressed, alizon and richard redoubled their attentions to the poor sufferer. for a few moments she remained quiet, but with her eyes constantly fixed on alizon, and then said, quickly and fiercely, "i have been told, if you scratch one who has bewitched you till you draw blood, you will be cured. i will plunge my nails in her flesh." "i will not oppose you," replied alizon, gently; "tear my flesh if you will. you should have my life's blood if it would cure you; but if the success of the experiment depends on my having bewitched you, it will assuredly fail." "this is dreadful," interposed richard. "leave her, alizon, i entreat of you. she will do you an injury." "i care not," replied the young maid. "i will stay by her till she voluntarily releases me." the almost tigress fury with which dorothy had seized upon the unresisting girl here suddenly deserted her, and, sobbing hysterically, she fell upon her neck. oh, with what delight alizon pressed her to her bosom! "dorothy, dear dorothy!" she cried. "alizon, dear alizon!" responded dorothy. "oh! how could i suspect you of any ill design against me!" "she is no witch, dear sister, be assured of that!" said richard. "oh, no--no--no! i am quite sure she is not," cried dorothy, kissing her affectionately. this change had been wrought by the low-breathed spells of mistress nutter. "the access is over," she mentally ejaculated; "but i must get him away before the fit returns." "you had better go now, richard," she added aloud, and touching his arm, "i will answer for your sister's restoration. an opiate will produce sleep, and if possible, she shall return to middleton to-day." "if i go, alizon must go with me," said dorothy. "well, well, i will not thwart your desires," rejoined mistress nutter. and she made a sign to richard to depart. the young man pressed his sister's hand, bade a tender farewell to alizon, and, infinitely relieved by the improvement which had taken place in the former, and which he firmly believed would speedily lead to her entire restoration, descended to the entrance-hall, where he found sir ralph and parson dewhurst, who told him that nicholas and potts were in the court-yard, and impatient to set out. shouts of laughter saluted the ears of the trio as they descended the steps. the cause of the merriment was speedily explained when they looked towards the stables, and beheld potts struggling for mastery with a stout welsh pony, who showed every disposition, by plunging, kicking, and rearing, to remove him from his seat, though without success, for the attorney was not quite such a contemptible horseman as might be imagined. a wicked-looking little fellow was flint, with a rough, rusty-black coat, a thick tail that swept the ground, a mane to match, and an eye of mixed fire and cunning. when brought forth he had allowed potts to mount him quietly enough; but no sooner was the attorney comfortably in possession, than he was served with a notice of ejectment. down went flint's head and up went his heels; while on the next instant he was rearing aloft, with his fore-feet beating the air, so nearly perpendicular, that the chances seemed in favour of his coming down on his back. then he whirled suddenly round, shook himself violently, threatened to roll over, and performed antics of the most extraordinary kind, to the dismay of his rider, but to the infinite amusement of the spectators, who were ready to split their sides with laughter--indeed, tears fairly streamed down the squire's cheeks. however, when sir ralph appeared, it was thought desirable to put an end to the fun; and peter, the groom, advanced to seize the restive little animal's bridle, but, eluding the grasp, flint started off at full gallop, and, accompanied by the two blood-hounds, careered round the court-yard, as if running in a ring. vainly did poor potts tug at the bridle. flint, having the bit firmly between his teeth, defied his utmost efforts. away he went with the hounds at his heels, as if, said nicholas, "the devil were behind him." though annoyed and angry, sir ralph could not help laughing at the ridiculous scene, and even a smile crossed parson dewhurst's grave countenance as flint and his rider scampered madly past them. sir ralph called to the grooms, and attempts were instantly made to check the furious pony's career; but he baffled them all, swerving suddenly round when an endeavour was made to intercept him, leaping over any trifling obstacle, and occasionally charging any one who stood in his path. what with the grooms running hither and thither, vociferating and swearing, the barking and springing of the hounds, the yelping of lesser dogs, and the screaming of poultry, the whole yard was in a state of uproar and confusion. "flint mun be possessed," cried peter. "ey never seed him go on i' this way efore. ey noticed elizabeth device near th' stables last neet, an ey shouldna wonder if hoo ha' bewitched him." "neaw doubt on't," replied another groom. "howsomever we mun contrive to ketch him, or sir roaph win send us aw abowt our business. "ey wish yo'd contrive to do it, then, tum lomax," replied peter, "fo' ey'm fairly blowd. dang me, if ey ever seed sich hey-go-mad wark i' my born days. what's to be done, squoire?" he added to nicholas. "the devil only knows," replied the latter; "but it seems we must wait till the little rascal chooses to stop." this occurred sooner than was expected. thinking, possibly, that he had done enough to induce master potts to give up all idea of riding him, flint suddenly slackened his pace, and trotted, as if nothing had happened, to the stable-door; but if he had formed any such notion as the above, he was deceived, for the attorney, who was quite as obstinate and wilful as himself, and who through all his perils had managed to maintain his seat, was resolved not to abandon it, and positively refused to dismount when urged to do so by nicholas and the grooms. "he will go quietly enough now, i dare say," observed potts, "and if not, and you will lend me a hunting-whip, i will undertake to cure him of his tricks." flint seemed to understand what was said, for he laid back his ears as if meditating more mischief; but being surrounded by the grooms, he deemed it advisable to postpone the attempt to a more convenient opportunity. in compliance with his request, a heavy hunting-whip was handed to potts, and, armed with this formidable weapon, the little attorney quite longed for an opportunity of effacing his disgrace. meanwhile, sir ralph had come up and ordered a steady horse out for him; but master potts adhered to his resolution, and flint remaining perfectly quiet, the baronet let him have his own way. soon after this, nicholas and richard having mounted their steeds, the party set forth. as they were passing through the gateway, which had been thrown wide open by ned huddlestone, they were joined by simon sparshot, who had been engaged by potts to attend him on the expedition in his capacity of constable. simon was mounted on a mule, and brought word that master roger nowell begged they would ride round by read hall, where he would be ready to accompany them, as he wished to be present at the perambulation of the boundaries. assenting to the arrangement, the party set forth in that direction, richard and nicholas riding a little in advance of the others. chapter ii.--read hall. the road taken by the party on quitting whalley led up the side of a hill, which, broken into picturesque inequalities, and partially clothed with trees, sloped down to the very brink of the calder. winding round the broad green plain, heretofore described, with the lovely knoll in the midst of it, and which formed, with the woody hills encircling it, a perfect amphitheatre, the river was ever an object of beauty--sometimes lost beneath over-hanging boughs or high banks, anon bursting forth where least expected, now rushing swiftly over its shallow and rocky bed, now subsiding into a smooth full current. the abbey and the village were screened from view by the lower part of the hill which the horsemen were scaling; but the old bridge and a few cottages at the foot of whalley nab, with their thin blue smoke mounting into the pure morning air, gave life and interest to the picture. hence, from base to summit, whalley nab stood revealed, and the verdant lawns opening out amidst the woods feathering its heights, were fully discernible. placed by nature as the guardian of this fair valley, the lofty eminence well became the post assigned to it. none of the belt of hills connected with it were so well wooded as their leader, nor so beautiful in form; while some of them were overtopped by the bleak fells of longridge, rising at a distance behind them. nor were those exquisite contrasts wanting, which are only to be seen in full perfection when the day is freshest and the dew is still heavy on the grass. the near side of the hill was plunged in deep shade; thin, gauzy vapour hung on the stream beneath, while on the opposite heights, and where the great boulder stones were visible in the bed of the river, all was sparkling with sunshine. so enchanting was the prospect, that though perfectly familiar with it, the two foremost horsemen drew in the rein to contemplate it. high above them, on a sandbank, through which their giant roots protruded, shot up two tall silver-stemm'd beech-trees, forming with their newly opened foliage a canopy of tenderest green. further on appeared a grove of oaks scarcely in leaf; and below were several fine sycamores, already green and umbrageous, intermingled with elms, ashes, and horse-chestnuts, and overshadowing brakes, covered with maples, alders, and hazels. the other spaces among the trees were enlivened by patches of yellow flowering and odorous gorse. mixed with the warblings of innumerable feathered songsters were heard the cheering notes of the cuckoo; and the newly-arrived swallows were seen chasing the flies along the plain, or skimming over the surface of the river. already had richard's depression yielded to the exhilarating freshness of the morning, and the same kindly influence produced a more salutary effect on nicholas than parson dewhurst's lecture had been able to accomplish. the worthy squire was a true lover of nature; admiring her in all her forms, whether arrayed in pomp of wood and verdure, as in the lovely landscape before him, or dreary and desolate, as in the heathy forest wastes they were about to traverse. while breathing the fresh morning air, inhaling the fragrance of the wild-flowers, and listening to the warbling of the birds, he took a well-pleased survey of the scene, commencing with the bridge, passing over whalley nab and the mountainous circle conjoined with it, till his gaze settled on morton hall, a noble mansion finely situated on a shoulder of the hill beyond him, and commanding the entire valley. "were i not owner of downham," he observed to richard, "i should wish to be master of morton." and then, pointing to the green area below, he added, "what a capital spot for a race! there we might try the speed of our nags for the twenty pieces i talked of yesterday; and the judges of the match and those who chose to look on might station themselves on yon knoll, which seems made for the express purpose. three years ago i remember a fair was held upon that plain, and the foot-races, the wrestling matches, and the various sports and pastimes of the rustics, viewed from the knoll, formed the prettiest sight ever looked upon. but, pleasant as the prospect is, we must not tarry here all day." before setting forward, he cast a glance towards pendle hill, which formed the most prominent object of view on the left, and lay like a leviathan basking in the sunshine. the vast mass rose up gradually until at its further extremity it attained an altitude of more than feet above the sea. at the present moment it was without a cloud, and the whole of its broad outline was distinctly visible. "i love pendle hill," cried nicholas, enthusiastically; "and from whatever side i view it--whether from this place, where i see it from end to end, from its lowest point to its highest; from padiham, where it frowns upon me; from clithero, where it smiles; or from downham, where it rises in full majesty before me--from all points and under all aspects, whether robed in mist or radiant with sunshine, i delight in it. born beneath its giant shadow, i look upon it with filial regard. some folks say pendle hill wants grandeur and sublimity, but they themselves must be wanting in taste. its broad, round, smooth mass is better than the roughest, craggiest, shaggiest, most sharply splintered mountain of them all. and then what a view it commands!--lancaster with its grey old castle on one hand; york with its reverend minster on the other--the irish sea and its wild coast--fell, forest, moor, and valley, watered by the ribble, the hodder, the calder, and the lime--rivers not to be matched for beauty. you recollect the old distich-- 'ingleborough, pendle hill, and pennygent, are the highest hills between scotland and trent.' this vouches for its height, but there are two other doggerel lines still more to the purpose-- 'pendle hill, pennygent, and ingleborough, are three such hills as you'll not find by seeking england thorough.' with this opinion i quite agree. there is no hill in england like pendle hill." "every man to his taste, squire," observed potts; "but to my mind, pendle hill has no other recommendation than its size. i think it a great, brown, ugly, lumpy mass, without beauty of form or any striking character. i hate your bleak lancashire hills, with heathy ranges on the top, fit only for the sustenance of a few poor half-starved sheep; and as to the view from them, it is little else than a continuous range of moors and dwarfed forests. highgate hill is quite mountain enough for me, and hampstead heath wild enough for any civilised purpose." "a veritable son of cockayne!" muttered nicholas, contemptuously. riding on, and entering the grove of oaks, he lost sight of his favourite hill, though glimpses were occasionally caught through the trees of the lovely valley below. soon afterwards the party turned off on the left, and presently arrived at a gate which admitted them to read park. five minutes' canter over the springy turf then brought them to the house. the manor of reved or read came into the possession of the nowell family in the time of edward iii., and extended on one side, within a mile of whalley, from which township it was divided by a deep woody ravine, taking its name from the little village of sabden, and on the other stretched far into pendle forest. the hall was situated on an eminence forming part of the heights of padiham, and faced a wide valley, watered by the calder, and consisting chiefly of barren tracts of moor and forest land, bounded by the high hills near accrington and rossendale. on the left, some half-dozen miles off, lay burnley, and the greater part of the land in this direction, being uninclosed and thinly peopled, had a dark dreary look, that served to enhance the green beauty of the well-cultivated district on the right. behind the mansion, thick woods extended to the very confines of pendle forest, of which, indeed, they originally formed part, and here, if the course of the stream, flowing through the gully of sabden, were followed, every variety of brake, glen, and dingle, might be found. read hall was a large and commodious mansion, forming, with a centre and two advancing wings, three sides of a square, between which was a grass-plot ornamented with a dial. the gardens were laid out in the taste of the time, with trim alleys and parterres, terraces and steps, stone statues, and clipped yews. the house was kept up well and consistently by its owner, who lived like a country gentleman with a good estate, entertained his friends hospitably, but without any parade, and was never needlessly lavish in his expenditure, unless, perhaps, in the instance of the large ostentatious pew erected by him in the parish church of whalley; and which, considering he had a private chapel at home, and maintained a domestic chaplain to do duty in it, seemed little required, and drew upon him the censure of the neighbouring gossips, who said there was more of pride than religion in his pew. with the chapel at the hall a curious history was afterwards connected. converted into a dining-room by a descendant of roger nowell, the apartment was incautiously occupied by the planner of the alterations before the plaster was thoroughly dried; in consequence of which he caught a severe cold, and died in the desecrated chamber, his fate being looked upon as a judgment. with many good qualities roger nowell was little liked. his austere and sarcastic manner repelled his equals, and his harshness made him an object of dislike and dread among his inferiors. besides being the terror of all evil-doers, he was a hard man in his dealings, though he endeavoured to be just, and persuaded himself he was so. a year or two before, having been appointed sheriff of the county, he had discharged the important office with so much zeal and ability, as well as liberality, that he rose considerably in public estimation. it was during this period that master potts came under his notice at lancaster, and the little attorney's shrewdness gained him an excellent client in the owner of read. roger newell was a widower; but his son, who resided with him, was married, and had a family, so that the hall was fully occupied. roger nowell was turned sixty, but he was still in the full vigour of mind and body, his temperate and active habits keeping him healthy; he was of a spare muscular frame, somewhat bent in the shoulders, and had very sharp features, keen grey eyes, a close mouth, and prominent chin. his hair was white as silver, but his eyebrows were still black and bushy. seeing the party approach, the lord of the mansion came forth to meet them, and begged them to dismount for a moment and refresh themselves. richard excused himself, but nicholas sprang from his saddle, and potts, though somewhat more slowly, imitated his example. an open door admitted them to the entrance hall, where a repast was spread, of which the host pressed his guests to partake; but nicholas declined on the score of having just breakfasted, notwithstanding which he was easily prevailed upon to take a cup of ale. leaving him to discuss it, nowell led the attorney to a well-furnished library, where he usually transacted his magisterial business, and held a few minutes' private conference with him, after which they returned to nicholas, and by this time the magistrate's own horse being brought round, the party mounted once more. the attorney regretted abandoning his seat; for flint indulged him with another exhibition somewhat similar to the first, though of less duration, for a vigorous application of the hunting-whip brought the wrong-headed little animal to reason. elated by the victory he had obtained over flint, and anticipating a successful issue to the expedition, master potts was in excellent spirits, and found a great deal to admire in the domain of his honoured and singular good client. though not very genuine, his admiration was deservedly bestowed. the portion of the park they were now traversing was extremely diversified and beautiful, with long sweeping lawns studded with fine trees, among which were many ancient thorns, now in full bloom, and richly scenting the gale. herds of deer were nipping the short grass, browsing the lower spray of the ashes, or couching amid the ferny hollows. it was now that nicholas, who had been all along anxious to try the speed of his horse, proposed to richard a gallop towards a clump of trees about a mile off, and the young man assenting, away they started. master potts started too, for flint did not like to be left behind, but the mettlesome pony was soon distanced. for some time the two horses kept so closely together, that it was difficult to say which would arrive at the goal first; but, by-and-by, robin got a-head. though at first indifferent to the issue of the race, the spirit of emulation soon seized upon richard, and spurring merlin, the noble animal sprang forward, and was once again by the side of his opponent. for a quarter of a mile the ground had been tolerably level, and the sod firm; but they now approached a swamp, and, in his eagerness, nicholas did not take sufficient precaution, and got involved in it before he was aware. richard was more fortunate, having kept on the right, where the ground was hard. seeing nicholas struggling out of the marshy soil, he would have stayed for him; but the latter bade him go on, saying he would soon be up with him, and he made good his words. shortly after this their course was intercepted by a brook, and both horses having cleared it excellently, they kept well together again for a short time, when they neared a deep dyke which lay between them and the clump of trees. on descrying it, richard pointed out a course to the left, but nicholas held on, unheeding the caution. fully expecting to see him break his neck, for the dyke was of formidable width, richard watched him with apprehension, but the squire gave him a re-assuring nod, and went on. neither horse nor man faltered, though failure would have been certain destruction to both. the wide trench now yawned before them--they were upon its edge, and without trusting himself to measure it with his eye, nicholas clapped spurs into robin's sides. the brave horse sprang forward and landed him safely on the opposite bank. hallooing cheerily, as soon as he could check his courser the squire wheeled round, and rode back to look at the dyke he had crossed. its width was terrific, and fairly astounded him. robin snorted loudly, as if proud of his achievement, and showed some disposition to return, but the squire was quite content with what he had done. the exploit afterwards became a theme of wonder throughout the country, and the spot was long afterwards pointed out as "squire nicholas's leap"; but there was not another horseman found daring enough to repeat the experiment. richard had to make a considerable circuit to join his cousin, and, while he was going round, nicholas looked out for the others. in the distance, he could see roger nowell riding leisurely on, followed by sparshot and a couple of grooms, who had come with their master from the hall; while midway, to his surprise, he perceived flint galloping without a rider. a closer examination showed the squire what had happened. like himself, master potts had incautiously approached the swamp, and, getting entangled in it, was thrown, head foremost, into the slough; out of which he was now floundering, covered from head to foot with inky-coloured slime. as soon as they were aware of the accident, the two grooms pushed forward, and one of them galloped after flint, whom he succeeded at last in catching; while the other, with difficulty preserving his countenance at the woful plight of the attorney, who looked as black as a negro, pointed out a cottage in the hollow which belonged to one of the keepers, and offered to conduct him thither. potts gladly assented, and soon gained the little tenement, where he was being washed and rubbed down by a couple of stout wenches when the rest of the party came up. it was impossible to help laughing at him, but potts took the merriment in good part; and, to show he was not disheartened by the misadventure, as soon as circumstances would permit he mounted the unlucky pony, and the cavalcade set forward again. chapter iii.--the boggart's glen. the manor of read, it has been said, was skirted by a deep woody ravine of three or four miles in length, extending from the little village of sabden, in pendle forest, to within a short distance of whalley; and through this gully flowed a stream which, taking its rise near barley, at the foot of pendle hill, added its waters to those of the calder at a place called cock bridge. in summer, or in dry seasons, this stream proceeded quietly enough, and left the greater part of its stony bed unoccupied; but in winter, or after continuous rains, it assumed all the character of a mountain torrent, and swept every thing before it. a narrow bridle road led through the ravine to sabden, and along it, after quitting the park, the cavalcade proceeded, headed by nicholas. the little river danced merrily past them, singing as it went, the sunshine sparkling on its bright clear waters, and glittering on the pebbles beneath them. now the stream would chafe and foam against some larger impediment to its course; now it would dash down some rocky height, and form a beautiful cascade; then it would hurry on for some time with little interruption, till stayed by a projecting bank it would form a small deep basin, where, beneath the far-cast shadow of an overhanging oak, or under its huge twisted and denuded roots, the angler might be sure of finding the speckled trout, the dainty greyling, or their mutual enemy, the voracious jack. the ravine was well wooded throughout, and in many parts singularly beautiful, from the disposition of the timber on its banks, as well as from the varied form and character of the trees. here might be seen an acclivity covered with waving birch, or a top crowned with a mountain ash--there, on a smooth expanse of greensward, stood a range of noble elms, whose mighty arms stretched completely across the ravine. further on, there were chestnut and walnut trees; willows, with hoary stems and silver leaves, almost encroaching upon the stream; larches upon the heights; and here and there, upon some sandy eminence, a spreading beech-tree. for the most part the bottom of the glen was overgrown with brushwood, and, where its sides were too abrupt to admit the growth of larger trees, they were matted with woodbine and brambles. out of these would sometimes start a sharp pinnacle, or fantastically-formed crag, adding greatly to the picturesque beauty of the scene. on such points were not unfrequently found perched a hawk, a falcon, or some large bird of prey; for the gully, with its brakes and thickets, was a favourite haunt of the feathered tribe. the hollies, of which there were plenty, with their green prickly leaves and scarlet berries, afforded shelter and support to the blackbird; the thorns were frequented by the thrush; and numberless lesser songsters filled every other tree. in the covert there were pheasants and partridges in abundance, and snipe and wild-fowl resorted to the river in winter. thither also, at all seasons, repaired the stately heron, to devour the finny race; and thither came, on like errand, the splendidly-plumed kingfisher. the magpie chattered, the jay screamed and flew deeper into the woods as the horsemen approached, and the shy bittern hid herself amid the rushes. occasionally, too, was heard the deep ominous croaking of a raven. [illustration: potts after being thrown from his horse.] hitherto, the glen had been remarkable for its softness and beauty, but it now began to assume a savage and sombre character. the banks drew closer together, and became rugged and precipitous; while the trees met overhead, and, intermingling their branches, formed a canopy impervious to the sun's rays. the stream was likewise contracted in its bed, and its current, which, owing to the gloom, looked black as ink, flowed swiftly on, as if anxious to escape to livelier scenes. a large raven, which had attended the horsemen all the way, now alighted near them, and croaked ominously. this part of the glen was in very ill repute, and was never traversed, even at noonday, without apprehension. its wild and savage aspect, its horrent precipices, its shaggy woods, its strangely-shaped rocks and tenebrous depths, where every imperfectly-seen object appeared doubly frightful--all combined to invest it with mystery and terror. no one willingly lingered here, but hurried on, afraid of the sound of his own footsteps. no one dared to gaze at the rocks, lest he should see some hideous hobgoblin peering out of their fissures. no one glanced at the water, for fear some terrible kelpy, with twining snakes for hair and scaly hide, should issue from it and drag him down to devour him with his shark-like teeth. among the common folk, this part of the ravine was known as "the boggart's glen", and was supposed to be haunted by mischievous beings, who made the unfortunate wanderer their sport. for the last half-mile the road had been so narrow and intricate in its windings, that the party were obliged to proceed singly; but this did not prevent conversation; and nicholas, throwing the bridle over robin's neck, left the surefooted animal to pursue his course unguided, while he himself, leaning back, chatted with roger nowell. at the entrance of the gloomy gorge above described, robin came to a stand, and refusing to move at a jerk from his master, the latter raised himself, and looked forward to see what could be the cause of the stoppage. no impediment was visible, but the animal obstinately refused to go on, though urged both by word and spur. this stoppage necessarily delayed the rest of the cavalcade. well aware of the ill reputation of the place, when simon sparshot and the grooms found that robin would not go on, they declared he must see the boggart, and urged the squire to turn back, or some mischief would befall him. but nicholas, though not without misgivings, did not like to yield thus, especially when urged on by roger nowell. indeed, the party could not get out of the ravine without going back nearly a mile, while sabden was only half that distance from them. what was to be done? robin still continued obstinate, and for the first time paid no attention to his master's commands. the poor animal was evidently a prey to violent terror, and snorted and reared, while his limbs were bathed in cold sweat. dismounting, and leaving him in charge of roger nowell, nicholas walked on by himself to see if he could discover any cause for the horse's alarm; and he had not advanced far, when his eye rested upon a blasted oak forming a conspicuous object on a crag before him, on a scathed branch of which sat the raven. croak! croak! croak! "accursed bird, it is thou who hast frightened my horse," cried nicholas. "would i had a crossbow or an arquebuss to stop thy croaking." and as he picked up a stone to cast at the raven, a crashing noise was heard among the bushes high up on the rock, and the next moment a huge fragment dislodged from the cliff rolled down and would have crushed him, if he had not nimbly avoided it. croak! croak! croak! nicholas almost fancied hoarse laughter was mingled with the cries of the bird. the raven nodded its head and expanded its wings, and the squire, whose recent experience had prepared him for any wonder, fully expected to hear it speak, but it only croaked loudly and exultingly, or if it laughed, the sound was like the creaking of rusty hinges. nicholas did not like it at all, and he resolved to go back; but ere he could do so, he was startled by a buffet on the ear, and turning angrily round to see who had dealt it, he could distinguish no one, but at the same moment received a second buffet on the other ear. the raven croaked merrily. "would i could wring thy neck, accursed bird!" cried the enraged squire. scarcely was the vindictive wish uttered than a shower of blows fell upon him, and kicks from unseen feet were applied to his person. all the while the raven croaked merrily, and flapped his big black wings. infuriated by the attack, the squire hit right and left manfully, and dashed out his feet in every direction; but his blows and kicks only met the empty air, while those of his unseen antagonist told upon his own person with increased effect. the spectacle seemed to afford infinite amusement to the raven. the mischievous bird almost crowed with glee. there was no standing it any longer. so, amid a perfect hurricane of blows and kicks, and with the infernal voice of the raven ringing in his ears, the squire took to his heels. on reaching his companions he found they had not fared much better than himself. the two grooms were belabouring each other lustily; and master potts was exercising his hunting-whip on the broad shoulders of sparshot, who in return was making him acquainted with the taste of a stout ash-plant. assailed in the same manner as the squire, and naturally attributing the attack to their nearest neighbours, they waited for no explanation, but fell upon each other. richard assheton and roger nowell endeavoured to interfere and separate the combatants, and in doing so received some hard knocks for their pains; but all their pacific efforts were fruitless, until the squire appeared, and telling them they were merely the sport of hobgoblins, they desisted, but still the blows fell heavily on them as before, proving the truth of nicholas's assertion. meanwhile the squire had mounted robin, and, finding the horse no longer exhibit the same reluctance to proceed, he dashed at full speed through the haunted glen; but even above the clatter, of hoofs, and the noise of the party galloping after him, he could hear the hoarse exulting croaking of the raven. as the gully expanded, and the sun once more found its way through the trees, and shone upon the river, nicholas began to breathe more freely; but it was not until fairly out of the wood that he relaxed his speed. not caring to enter into any explanation of the occurrence, he rode a little apart to avoid conversation; as the others, who were still smarting from the blows they had received, were in no very good-humour, a sullen silence prevailed throughout the party, as they mounted the bare hill-side in the direction of the few scattered huts constituting the village of sabden. a blight seemed to have fallen upon the place. roger nowell, who had visited it a few months ago, could scarcely believe his eyes, so changed was its appearance. his inquiries as to the cause of its altered condition were every where met by the same answer--the poor people were all bewitched. here a child was ill of a strange sickness, tossed and tumbled in its bed, and contorted its limbs so violently, that its parents could scarcely hold it down. another family was afflicted in a different manner, two of its number pining away and losing strength daily, as if a prey to some consuming disease. in a third, another child was sick, and vomited pins, nails, and other extraordinary substances. a fourth household was tormented by an imp in the form of a monkey, who came at night and pinched them all black and blue, spilt the milk, broke the dishes and platters, got under the bed, and, raising it to the roof, let it fall with a terrible crash; putting them all in mental terror. in the next cottage there was no end to calamities, though they took a more absurd form. sometimes the fire would not burn, or when it did it emitted no heat, so that the pot would not boil, nor the meat roast. then the oatcakes would stick to the bake-stone, and no force could get them away from it till they were burnt and spoiled; the milk turned sour, the cheese became so hard that not even rats' teeth could gnaw it, the stools and settles broke down if sat upon, and the list of petty grievances was completed by a whole side of bacon being devoured in a single night. roger nowell and nicholas listened patiently to a detail of all these grievances, and expressed strong sympathy for the sufferers, promising assistance and redress if possible. all the complainants taxed either mother demdike or mother chattox with afflicting them, and said they had incurred the anger of the two malevolent old witches by refusing to supply them with poultry, eggs, milk, butter, or other articles, which they had demanded. master potts made ample notes of the strange relations, and took down the name of every cottager. at length, they arrived at the last cottage, and here a man, with a very doleful countenance, besought them to stop and listen to his tale. "what is the matter, friend?" demanded roger nowell, halting with the others. "are you bewitched, like your neighbours?" "troth am ey, your warship," replied the man, "an ey hope yo may be able to deliver me. yo mun knoa, that somehow ey wor unlucky enough last yule to offend mother chattox, an ever sin then aw's gone wrang wi' me. th' good-wife con never may butter come without stickin' a redhot poker into t' churn; and last week, when our brindlt sow farrowed, and had fifteen to t' litter, an' fine uns os ever yo seed, seign on um deed. sad wark! sad wark, mesters. the week efore that t' keaw deed; an th' week efore her th' owd mare, so that aw my stock be gone. waes me! waes me! nowt prospers wi' me. my poor dame is besoide hersel, an' th' chilter seems possessed. ey ha' tried every remedy, boh without success. ey ha' followed th' owd witch whoam, plucked a hontle o' thatch fro' her roof, sprinklet it wi' sawt an weter, burnt it an' buried th' ess at th' change o' t' moon. no use, mesters. then again, ey ha' getten a horseshoe, heated it redhot, quenched it i' brine, an' nailed it to t' threshold wi' three nails, heel uppard. no more use nor t'other. then ey ha' taen sawt weter, and put it in a bottle wi' three rusty nails, needles, and pins, boh ey hanna found that th' witch ha' suffered thereby. an, lastly, ey ha' let myself blood, when the moon wur at full, an in opposition to th' owd hag's planet, an minglin' it wi' sawt, ha' burnt it i' a trivet, in hopes of afflictin' her; boh without avail, fo' ey seed her two days ago, an she flouted me an scoffed at me. what mun ey do, good mesters? what mun ey do?" "have you offended any one besides mother chattox, my poor fellow?" said nowell. "mother demdike, may be, your warship," replied the man. "you suspect mother demdike and mother chattox of bewitching you," said potts, taking out his memorandum-book, and making a note in it. "your name, good fellow?" "oamfrey o' will's o' ben's o' tummas' o' sabden," replied the man. "is that all?" asked potts. "what more would you have?" said richard. "the description is sufficiently particular." "scarcely precise enough," returned potts. "however, it may do. we will help you in the matter, good humphrey etcetera. you shall not be troubled with these pestilent witches much longer. the neighbourhood shall be cleared of them." "ey'm reet glad to hear, mester," replied the man. "you promise much, master potts," observed richard. "not a jot more than i am able to perform," replied the attorney. "that remains to be seen," said richard. "if these old women are as powerful as represented, they will not be so readily defeated." "there you are in error, master richard," replied potts. "the devil, whose vassals they are, will deliver them into our hands." "granting what you say to be correct, the devil must have little regard for his servants if he abandons them so easily," observed richard, drily. "what else can you expect from him?" cried potts. "it is his custom to ensnare his victims, and then leave them to their fate." "you are rather describing the course pursued by certain members of your own profession, master potts," said richard. "the devil behaves with greater fairness to his clients." "you are not going to defend him, i hope, sir?" said the attorney. "no; i only desire to give him his due," returned richard. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed nicholas. "you had better have done, master potts; you will never get the better in the argument. but we must be moving, or we shall not get our business done before nightfall. as to you, numps," he added, to the poor man, "we will not forget you. if any thing can be done for your relief, rely upon it, it shall not be neglected." "ay, ay," said nowell, "the matter shall be looked into--and speedily." "and the witches brought to justice," said potts; "comfort yourself with that, good humphrey etcetera." "ay, comfort yourself with that," observed nicholas. soon after this they entered a wide dreary waste forming the bottom of the valley, lying between the heights of padiham and pendle hill, and while wending their way across it, they heard a shout from the hill-side, and presently afterwards perceived a man, mounted on a powerful black horse, galloping swiftly towards them. the party awaited his approach, and the stranger speedily came up. he was a small man habited in a suit of rusty black, and bore a most extraordinary and marked resemblance to master potts. he had the same perky features, the same parchment complexion, the same yellow forehead, as the little attorney. so surprising was the likeness, that nicholas unconsciously looked round for potts, and beheld him staring at the new-comer in angry wonder. chapter iv.--the reeve of the forest. the surprise of the party was by no means diminished when the stranger spoke. his voice exactly resembled the sharp cracked tones of the attorney. "i crave pardon for the freedom i have taken in stopping you, good masters," he said, doffing his cap, and saluting them respectfully; "but, being aware of your errand, i am come to attend you on it." "and who are you, fellow, who thus volunteer your services?" demanded roger nowell, sharply. "i am one of the reeves of the forest of blackburnshire, worshipful sir," replied the stranger, "and as such my presence, at the intended perambulation of the boundaries of her property, has been deemed necessary by mrs. nutter, as i shall have to make a representation of the matter at the next court of swainmote." "indeed!" exclaimed nowell, "but how knew you we were coming?" "mistress nutter sent me word last night," replied the reeve, "that master nicholas assheton and certain other gentlemen, would come to rough lee for the purpose of ascertaining the marks, meres, and boundaries of her property, early this morning, and desired my attendance on the occasion. accordingly i stationed myself on yon high ground to look out for you, and have been on the watch for more than an hour." "humph!" exclaimed roger nowell, "and you live in the forest?" "i live at barrowford, worshipful sir," replied the reeve, "but i have only lately come there, having succeeded maurice mottisfont, the other reeve, who has been removed by the master forester to rossendale, where i formerly dwelt." "that may account for my not having seen you before," rejoined nowell. "you are well mounted, sirrah. i did not know the master forester allowed his men such horses as the one you ride." "this horse does not belong to me, sir," replied the reeve; "it has been lent me by mistress nutter." "aha! i see how it is now," cried nowell; "you are suborned to give false testimony, knave. i object to his attendance, master nicholas." "nay, i think you do the man injustice," said the squire. "he speaks frankly and fairly enough, and seems to know his business. the worst that can be said against him is, that he resembles somewhat too closely our little legal friend there. that, however, ought to be no objection to you, master nowell, but rather the contrary." "well, take the responsibility of the matter upon your own shoulders," said nowell; "if any ill comes of it i shall blame you." "be it so," replied the squire; "my shoulders are broad enough to bear the burthen. you may ride with us, master reeve." "may i inquire your name, friend?" said potts, as the stranger fell back to the rear of the party. "thomas potts, at your service, sir," replied the reeve. "what!--thomas potts!" exclaimed the astonished attorney. "that is my name, sir," replied the reeve, quietly. "why, zounds!" exclaimed nicholas, who overheard the reply, "you do not mean to say your name is thomas potts? this is more wonderful still. you must be this gentleman's twin brother." "the gentleman certainly seems to resemble me very strongly," replied the reeve, apparently surprised in his turn. "is he of these parts?" "no, i am not," returned potts, angrily, "i am from london, where i reside in chancery-lane, and practise the law, though i likewise attend as clerk of the court at the assizes at lancaster, where i may possibly, one of these days, have the pleasure of seeing you, my pretended namesake." "possibly, sir," said the reeve, with provoking calmness. "i myself am from chester, and like yourself was brought up to the law, but i abandoned my profession, or rather it abandoned me, for i had few clients; so i took to an honester calling, and became a forester, as you see. my father was a draper in the city i have mentioned, and dwelt in watergate-street--his name was peter potts." "peter potts your father!" exclaimed the attorney, in the last state of astonishment--"why, he was mine! but i am his only son." "up to this moment i conceived myself an only son," said the reeve; "but it seems i was mistaken, since i find i have an elder brother." "elder brother!" exclaimed potts, wrathfully. "you are older than i am by twenty years. but it is all a fabrication. i deny the relationship entirely." "you cannot make me other than the son of my father," said the reeve, with a smile. "well, master potts," interposed nicholas, laughing, "i see no reason why you should be ashamed of your brother. there is a strong family likeness between you. so old peter potts, the draper of chester, was your father, eh? i was not aware of the circumstance before--ha, ha!" "and, but for this intrusive fellow, you would never have become aware of it," muttered the attorney. "give ear to me, squire," he said, urging flint close up to the other's side, and speaking in a low tone, "i do not like the fellow's looks at all." "i am surprised at that," rejoined the squire, "for he exactly resembles you." "that is why i do not like him," said potts; "i believe him to be a wizard." "you are no wizard to think so," rejoined the squire. and he rode on to join roger nowell, who was a little in advance. "i will try him on the subject of witchcraft," thought potts. "as you dwell in the forest," he said to the reeve, "you have no doubt seen those two terrible beings, mothers demdike and chattox." "frequently," replied the reeve, "but i would rather not talk about them in their own territories. you may judge of their power by the appearance of the village you have just quitted. the inhabitants of that unlucky place refused them their customary tributes, and have therefore incurred their resentment. you will meet other instances of the like kind before you have gone far." "i am glad of it, for i want to collect as many cases as i can of witchcraft," observed potts. "they will be of little use to you," observed the reeve. "how so?" inquired potts. "because if the witches discover what you are about, as they will not fail to do, you will never leave the forest alive," returned the other. "you think not?" cried potts. "i am sure of it," replied the reeve. "i will not be deterred from the performance of my duty," said potts. "i defy the devil and all his works." "you may have reason to repent your temerity," replied the reeve. and anxious, apparently, to avoid further conversation on the subject, he drew in the rein for a moment, and allowed the attorney to pass on. notwithstanding his boasting, master potts was not without much secret misgiving; but his constitutional obstinacy made him determine to prosecute his plans at any risk, and he comforted himself by recalling the opinion of his sovereign authority on such matters. "let me ponder over the exact words of our british solomon," he thought. "i have his learned treatise by heart, and it is fortunate my memory serves me so well, for the sagacious prince's dictum will fortify me in my resolution, which has been somewhat shaken by this fellow, whom i believe to be no better than he should be, for all he calls himself my father's son, and hath assumed my likeness, doubtless for some mischievous purpose. 'if the magistrate,' saith the king, 'be slothful towards witches, god is very able to make them instruments to waken and punish his sloth.' no one can accuse me of slothfulness and want of zeal. my best exertions have been used against the accursed creatures. and now for the rest. 'but if, on the contrary, he be diligent in examining and punishing them, god will not permit their master to trouble or hinder so good a work!' exactly what i have done. i am quite easy now, and shall go on fearlessly as before. i am one of the 'lawful lieutenants' described by the king, and cannot be 'defrauded or deprived' of my office." as these thoughts passed through the attorney's mind a low derisive laugh sounded in his ears, and, connecting it with the reeve, he looked back and found the object of his suspicions gazing at him, and chuckling maliciously. so fiendishly malignant, indeed, was the gaze fixed upon him, that potts was glad to turn his head away to avoid it. "i am confirmed in my suspicions," he thought; "he is evidently a wizard, if he be not--" again the mocking laugh sounded in his ears, but he did not venture to look round this time, being fearful of once more encountering the terrible gaze. meanwhile the party had traversed the valley, and to avoid a dangerous morass stretching across its lower extremity, and shorten the distance--for the ordinary road would have led them too much to the right--they began to climb one of the ridges of pendle hill, which lay between them and the vale they wished to gain. on obtaining the top of this eminence, an extensive view on either side opened upon them. behind was the sterile valley they had just crossed, its black soil, hoary grass, and heathy wastes, only enlivened at one end by patches of bright sulphur-coloured moss, which masked a treacherous quagmire lurking beneath it. some of the cottages in sabden were visible, and, from the sad circumstances connected with them, and which oppressed the thoughts of the beholders, added to the dreary character of the prospect. the day, too, had lost its previous splendour, and there were clouds overhead which cast deep shadows on the ground. but on the crest of pendle hill, which rose above them, a sun-burst fell, and attracted attention from its brilliant contrast to the prevailing gloom. before them lay a deep gully, the sinuosities of which could be traced from the elevated position where they stood, though its termination was hidden by other projecting ridges. further on, the sides of the mountain were bare and rugged, and covered with shelving stone. beyond the defile before mentioned, and over the last mountain ridge, lay a wide valley, bounded on the further side by the hills overlooking colne, and the mountain defile, now laid open to the travellers, exhibiting in the midst of the dark heathy ranges, which were its distinguishing features, some marks of cultivation. in parts it was inclosed and divided into paddocks by stone walls, and here and there a few cottages were collected together, dignified, as in the case of sabden, by the name of a village. amongst these were the hey-houses, an assemblage of small stone tenements, the earliest that arose in the forest; goldshaw booth, now a populous place, and even then the largest hamlet in the district; and in the distance ogden and barley, the two latter scarcely comprising a dozen habitations, and those little better than huts. in some sheltered nook on the hill-side might be discerned the solitary cottage of a cowherd, and not far from it the certain accompaniment of a sheepfold. throughout this weird region, thinly peopled it is true, but still of great extent, and apparently abandoned to the powers of darkness, only one edifice could be found where its inhabitants could meet to pray, and this was an ancient chapel at goldshaw booth, originally erected in the reign of henry iii., though subsequently in part rebuilt in , and which, with its low grey tower peeping from out the trees, was just discernible. two halls were in view; one of which, sabden, was of considerable antiquity, and gave its name to the village; and the other was hoarstones, a much more recently erected mansion, strikingly situated on an acclivity of pendle hill. in general, the upper parts of this mountain monarch of the waste were bare and heathy, while the heights overhanging ogden and barley were rocky, shelving, and precipitous; but the lower ridges were well covered with wood, and a thicket, once forming part of the ancieut forest, ran far out into the plain near goldshaw booth. numerous springs burst from the mountain side, and these collecting their forces, formed a considerable stream, which, under the name of pendle water, flowed through the valley above described, and, after many picturesque windings, entered the rugged glen in which rough lee was situated, and swept past the foot of mistress nutter's residence. descending the hill, and passing through the thicket, the party came within a short distance of goldshaw booth, when they were met by a cowherd, who, with looks of great alarm, told them that john law, the pedlar, had fallen down in a fit in the clough, and would perish if they did not stay to help him. as the poor man in question was well known both to nicholas and roger nowell, they immediately agreed to go to his assistance, and accompanied the cowherd along a by-road which led through the clough to the village. they had not gone far when they heard loud groans, and presently afterwards found the unfortunate pedlar lying on his back, and writhing in agony. he was a large, powerfully-built man, of middle age, and had been in the full enjoyment of health and vigour, so that his sudden prostration was the more terrible. his face was greatly disfigured, the mouth and neck drawn awry, the left eye pulled down, and the whole power of the same side gone. "why, john, this is a bad business," cried nicholas. "you have had a paralytic stroke, i fear." "nah--nah--squoire," replied the sufferer, speaking with difficulty, "it's neaw nat'ral ailment--it's witchcraft." "witchcraft!" exclaimed potts, who had come up, and producing his memorandum book. "another case. your name and description, friend?" "john law o' cown, pedlar," replied the man. "john law of colne, i suppose, petty chapman," said potts, making an entry. "now, john, my good man, be pleased to tell us by whom you have been bewitched?" "by mother demdike," groaned the man. "mother demdike, ah?" exclaimed potts, "good! very good. now, john, as to the cause of your quarrel with the old hag?" "ey con scarcely rekillect it, my head be so confused, mester," replied the pedlar. "make an effort, john," persisted potts; "it is most desirable such a dreadful offender should not escape justice." "weel, weel, ey'n try an tell it then," replied the pedlar. "yo mun knoa ey wur crossing the hill fro' cown to rough lee, wi' my pack upon my shouthers, when who should ey meet boh mother demdike, an hoo axt me to gi' her some scithers an pins, boh, os ill luck wad ha' it, ey refused. 'yo had better do it, john,' hoo said, 'or yo'll rue it efore to-morrow neet.' ey laughed at her, an trudged on, boh when i looked back, an seed her shakin' her skinny hond at me, ey repented and thowt ey would go back, an gi' her the choice o' my wares. boh my pride wur too strong, an ey walked on to barley an ogden, an slept at bess's o th' booth, an woke this mornin' stout and strong, fully persuaded th' owd witch's threat would come to nowt. alack-a-day! ey wur out i' my reckonin', fo' scarcely had ey reached this kloof, o' my way to sabden, than ey wur seized wi' a sudden shock, os if a thunder-bowt had hit me, an ey lost the use o' my lower limbs, an t' laft soide, an should ha' deed most likely, if it hadna bin fo' ebil o' jem's o' dan's who spied me out, an brought me help." "yours is a deplorable case indeed, john," said richard--"especially if it be the result of witchcraft." "you do not surely doubt that it is so, master richard?" cried potts. "i offer no opinion," replied the young man; "but a paralytic stroke would produce the same effect. but, instead of discussing the matter, the best thing we can do will be to transport the poor man to bess's o' th' booth, where he can be attended to." "tom and i can carry him there, if abel will take charge of his pack," said one of the grooms. "that i win," replied the cowherd, unstrapping the box, upon which the sufferer's head rested, and placing it on his own shoulders. meanwhile, a gate having been taken from its hinges by sparshot and the reeve, the poor pedlar, who groaned deeply during the operation, was placed upon it by the men, and borne towards the village, followed by the others, leading their horses. great consternation was occasioned in goldshaw booth by the entrance of the cavalcade, and still more, when it became known that john law, the pedlar, who was a favourite with all, had had a frightful seizure. old and young flocked forth to see him, and the former shook their heads, while the latter were appalled at the hideous sight. master potts took care to tell them that the poor fellow was bewitched by mother demdike; but the information failed to produce the effect he anticipated, and served rather to repress than heighten their sympathy for the sufferer. the attorney concluded, and justly, that they were afraid of incurring the displeasure of the vindictive old hag by an open expression of interest in his fate. so strongly did this feeling operate, that after bestowing a glance of commiseration at the pedlar, most of them returned, without a word, to their dwellings. on their way to the little hostel, whither they were conveying the poor pedlar, the party passed the church, and the sexton, who was digging a grave in the yard, came forward to look at them; but on seeing john law he seemed to understand what had happened, and resumed his employment. a wide-spreading yew-tree grew in this part of the churchyard, and near it stood a small cross rudely carved in granite, marking the spot where, in the reign of henry vi., ralph cliderhow, tenth abbot of whalley, held a meeting of the tenantry, to check encroachments. not far from this ancient cross the sexton, a hale old man, with a fresh complexion and silvery hair, was at work, and while the others went on, master potts paused to say a word to him. "you have a funeral here to-day, i suppose, master sexton?" he said. "yeigh," replied the man, gruffly. "one of the villagers?" inquired the attorney. "neaw; hoo were na o' goldshey," replied the sexton. "where then--who was it?" persevered potts. the sexton seemed disinclined to answer; but at length said, "meary baldwyn, the miller's dowter o' rough lee, os protty a lass os ever yo see, mester. hoo wur the apple o' her feyther's ee, an he hasna had a dry ee sin hoo deed. wall-a-dey! we mun aw go, owd an young--owd an young--an protty meary baldwyn went young enough. poor lass! poor lass!" and he brushed the dew from his eyes with his brawny hand. "was her death sudden?" asked potts. "neaw, not so sudden, mester," replied the sexton. "ruchot baldwyn had fair warnin'. six months ago meary wur ta'en ill, an fro' t' furst he knoad how it wad eend." "how so, friend?" asked potts, whose curiosity began to be aroused. "becose--" replied the sexton, and he stopped suddenly short. "she was bewitched?" suggested potts. the sexton nodded his head, and began to ply his mattock vigorously. "by mother demdike?" inquired potts, taking out his memorandum book. the sexton again nodded his head, but spake no word, and, meeting some obstruction in the ground, took up his pick to remove it. "another case!" muttered potts, making an entry. "mary baldwyn, daughter of richard baldwyn of rough lee, aged--how old was she, sexton?" "throtteen," replied the man; "boh dunna ax me ony more questions, mester. th' berrin takes place i' an hour, an ey hanna half digg'd th' grave." "your own name, master sexton, and i have done?" said potts. "zachariah worms," answered the man. "worms--ha! an excellent name for a sexton," cried potts. "you provide food for your family, eh, zachariah?" "tut--tut," rejoined the sexton, testily, "go an' moind yer own bus'ness, mon, an' leave me to moind mine." "very well, zachariah," replied potts. and having obtained all he required, he proceeded to the little hostel, where, finding the rest of the party had dismounted, he consigned flint to a cowherd, and entered the house. chapter v.--bess's o' th' booth. bess's o' th' booth--for so the little hostel at goldshaw was called, after its mistress bess whitaker--was far more comfortable and commodious than its unpretending exterior seemed to warrant. stouter and brighter ale was not to be drunk in lancashire than bess brewed; nor was better sherris or clary to be found, go where you would, than in her cellars. the traveller crossing those dreary wastes, and riding from burnley to clithero, or from colne to whalley, as the case might be, might well halt at bess's, and be sure of a roast fowl for dinner, with the addition, perhaps, of some trout from pendle water, or, if the season permitted, a heath-cock or a pheasant; or, if he tarried there for the night, he was equally sure of a good supper and fair linen. it has already been mentioned, that at this period it was the custom of all classes in the northern counties, men and women, to resort to the alehouses to drink, and the hostel at goldshaw was the general rendezvous of the neighbourhood. for those who could afford it bess would brew incomparable sack; but if a guest called for wine, and she liked not his looks, she would flatly tell him her ale was good enough for him, and if it pleased him not he should have nothing. submission always followed in such cases, for there was no disputing with bess. neither would she permit the frequenters of the hostel to sit later than she chose, and would clear the house in a way equally characteristic and effectual. at a certain hour, and that by no means a late one, she would take down a large horsewhip, which hung on a convenient peg in the principal room, and after bluntly ordering her guests to go home, if any resistance were offered, she would lay the whip across their shoulders, and forcibly eject them from the premises; but, as her determined character was well known, this violence was seldom necessary. in strength bess was a match for any man, and assistance from her cowherds--for she was a farmer as well as hostess--was at hand if required. as will be surmised from the above, bess was large and masculine-looking, but well-proportioned nevertheless, and possessed a certain coarse kind of beauty, which in earlier years had inflamed richard baldwyn, the miller of rough lee, who made overtures of marriage to her. these were favourably entertained, but a slight quarrel occurring between them, the lover, in her own phrase, got "his jacket soundly dusted" by her, and declared off, taking to wife a more docile and light-handed maiden. as to bess, though she had given this unmistakable proof of her ability to manage a husband, she did not receive a second offer, nor, as she had now attained the mature age of forty, did it seem likely she would ever receive one. bess's o' th' booth was an extremely clean and comfortable house. the floor, it is true, was of hard clay, and the windows little more than narrow slits, with heavy stone frames, further darkened by minute diamond panes; but the benches were scrupulously clean, and so was the long oak table in the centre of the principal and only large room in the house. a roundabout fireplace occupied one end of the chamber, sheltered from the draught of the door by a dark oak screen, with a bench on the warm side of it; and here, or in the deep ingle-nooks, on winter nights, the neighbours would sit and chat by the blazing hearth, discussing pots of "nappy ale, good and stale," as the old ballad hath it; and as persons of both sexes came thither, young as well as old, many a match was struck up by bess's cheery fireside. from the blackened rafters hung a goodly supply of hams, sides of bacon, and dried tongues, with a profusion of oatcakes in a bread-flake; while, in case this store should be exhausted, means of replenishment were at hand in the huge, full-crammed meal-chest standing in one corner. altogether, there was a look of abundance as well as of comfort about the place. great was bess's consternation when the poor pedlar, who had quitted her house little more than an hour ago, full of health and spirits, was brought back to it in such a deplorable condition; and when she saw him deposited at her door, notwithstanding her masculine character, she had some difficulty in repressing a scream. she did not, however, yield to the weakness, but seeing at once what was best to be done, caused him to be transported by the grooms to the chamber he had occupied over-night, and laid upon the bed. medical assistance was fortunately at hand; for it chanced that master sudall, the chirurgeon of colne, was in the house at the time, having been brought to goldshaw by the great sickness that prevailed at sabden and elsewhere in the neighbourhood. sudall was immediately in attendance upon the sufferer, and bled him copiously, after which the poor man seemed much easier; and richard assheton, taking the chirurgeon aside, asked his opinion of the case, and was told by sudall that he did not think the pedlar's life in danger, but he doubted whether he would ever recover the use of his limbs. "you do not attribute the attack to witchcraft, i suppose, master sudall?" said richard. "i do not like to deliver an opinion, sir," replied the chirurgeon. "it is impossible to decide, when all the appearances are precisely like those of an ordinary attack of paralysis. but a sad case has recently come under my observation, as to which i can have no doubt--i mean as to its being the result of witchcraft--but i will tell you more about it presently, for i must now return to my patient." it being agreed among the party to rest for an hour at the little hostel, and partake of some refreshment, nicholas went to look after the horses, while roger nowell and richard remained in the room with the pedlar. bess whitaker owned an extensive farm-yard, provided with cow-houses, stables, and a large barn; and it was to the latter place that the two grooms proposed to repair with sparshot and play a game at loggats on the clay floor. no one knew what had become of the reeve; for, on depositing the poor pedlar at the door of the hostel, he had mounted his horse and ridden away. having ordered some fried eggs and bacon, nicholas wended his way to the stable, while bess, assisted by a stout kitchen wench, busied herself in preparing the eatables, and it was at this juncture that master potts entered the house. bess eyed him narrowly, and was by no means prepossessed by his looks, while the muddy condition of his habiliments did not tend to exalt him in her opinion. "yo mey yersel a' whoam, mon, ey mun say," she observed, as the attorney seated himself on the bench beside her. "to be sure," rejoined potts; "where should a man make himself at home, if not at an inn? those eggs and bacon look very tempting. i'll try some presently; and, as soon as you've done with the frying-pan, i'll have a pottle of sack." "neaw, yo winna," replied bess. "yo'n get nother eggs nor bacon nor sack here, ey can promise ye. ele an whoat-kekes mun sarve your turn. go to t' barn wi' t' other grooms, and play at kittle-pins or nine-holes wi' hin, an ey'n send ye some ele." "i'm quite comfortable where i am, thank you, hostess," replied potts, "and have no desire to play at kittle-pins or nine-holes. but what does this bottle contain?" "sherris," replied bess. "sherris!" echoed potts, "and yet you say i can have no sack. get me some sugar and eggs, and i'll show you how to brew the drink. i was taught the art by my friend, ben jonson--rare ben--ha, ha!" "set the bottle down," cried bess, angrily. "what do you mean, woman!" said potts, staring at her in surprise. "i told you to fetch sugar and eggs, and i now repeat the order--sugar, and half-a-dozen eggs at least." "an ey repeat my order to yo," cried bess, "to set the bottle down, or ey'st may ye." "make me! ha, ha! i like that," cried potts. "let me tell you, woman, i am not accustomed to be ordered in this way. i shall do no such thing. if you will not bring the eggs i shall drink the wine, neat and unsophisticate." and he filled a flagon near him. "if yo dun, yo shan pay dearly for it," said bess, putting aside the frying-pan and taking down the horsewhip. "i daresay i shall," replied potts merrily; "you hostesses generally do make one pay dearly. very good sherris this, i' faith!--the true nutty flavour. now do go and fetch me some eggs, my good woman. you must have plenty, with all the poultry i saw in the farm-yard; and then i'll teach you the whole art and mystery of brewing sack." "ey'n teach yo to dispute my orders," cried bess. and, catching the attorney by the collar, she began to belabour him soundly with the whip. "holloa! ho! what's the meaning of this?" cried potts, struggling to get free. "assault and battery; ho!" "ey'n sawt an batter yo, ay, an baste yo too!" replied bess, continuing to lay on the whip. "why, zounds! this passes a joke," cried the attorney. "how desperately strong she is! i shall be murdered! help! help! the woman must be a witch." "a witch! ey'n teach yo' to ca' me feaw names," cried the enraged hostess, laying on with greater fury. "help! help!" roared potts. at this moment nicholas returned from the stables, and, seeing how matters stood, flew to the attorney's assistance. "come, come, bess," he cried, laying hold of her arm, "you've given him enough. what has master potts been about? not insulting you, i hope?" "neaw, ey'd tak keare he didna do that, squoire," replied the hostess. "ey towd him he'd get nowt boh ele here, an' he made free wi't wine bottle, so ey brought down t' whip jist to teach him manners." "you teach me! you ignorant and insolent hussy," cried potts, furiously; "do you think i'm to be taught manners by an overgrown lancashire witch like you? i'll teach you what it is to assault a gentleman. i'll prefer an instant complaint against you to my singular good friend and client, master roger, who is in your house, and you'll soon find whom you've got to deal with--" "marry--kem--eawt!" exclaimed bess; "who con it be? ey took yo fo' one o't grooms, mon." "fire and fury!" exclaimed potts; "this is intolerable. master nowell shall let you know who i am, woman." "nay, i'll tell you, bess," interposed nicholas, laughing. "this little gentleman is a london lawyer, who is going to rough lee on business with master roger nowell. unluckily, he got pitched into a quagmire in read park, and that is the reason why his countenance and habiliments have got begrimed." "eigh! ey thowt he wur i' a strawnge fettle," replied bess; "an so he be a lawyer fro' lunnon, eh? weel," she added, laughing, and displaying two ranges of very white teeth, "he'll remember bess whitaker, t' next time he comes to pendle forest." "and she'll remember me," rejoined potts. "neaw more sawce, mon," cried bess, "or ey'n raddle thy boans again." "no you won't, woman," cried potts, snatching up his horsewhip, which he had dropped in the previous scuffle, and brandishing it fiercely. "i dare you to touch me." nicholas was obliged once more to interfere, and as he passed his arms round the hostess's waist, he thought a kiss might tend to bring matters to a peaceable issue, so he took one. "ha' done wi' ye, squoire," cried bess, who, however, did not look very seriously offended by the liberty. "by my faith, your lips are so sweet that i must have another," cried nicholas. "i tell you what, bess, you're the finest woman in lancashire, and you owe it to the county to get married." "whoy so?" said bess. "because it would be a pity to lose the breed," replied nicholas. "what say you to master potts there? will he suit you?" "he--pooh! do you think ey'd put up wi' sich powsement os he! neaw; when bess whitaker, the lonleydey o' goldshey, weds, it shan be to a mon, and nah to a ninny-hommer." "bravely resolved, bess," cried nicholas. "you deserve another kiss for your spirit." "ha' done, ey say," cried bess, dealing him a gentle tap that sounded very much like a buffet. "see how yon jobberknow is grinning at ye." "jobberknow and ninny-hammer," cried potts, furiously; "really, woman, i cannot permit such names to be applied to me." "os yo please, boh ey'st gi' ye nah better," rejoined the hostess. "come, bess, a truce to this," observed nicholas; "the eggs and bacon are spoiling, and i'm dying with hunger. there--there," he added, clapping her on the shoulder, "set the dish before us, that's a good soul--a couple of plates, some oatcakes and butter, and we shall do." and while bess attended to these requirements, he observed, "this sudden seizure of poor john law is a bad business." "'deed on it is, squoire," replied bess, "ey wur quite glopp'nt at seet on him. lorjus o' me! whoy, it's scarcely an hour sin he left here, looking os strong an os 'earty os yersel. boh it's a kazzardly onsartin loife we lead. here to-day an gone the morrow, as parson houlden says. wall-a-day!" "true, true, bess," replied the squire, "and the best plan therefore is, to make the most of the passing moment. so brew us each a lusty pottle of sack, and fry us some more eggs and bacon." and while the hostess proceeded to prepare the sack, potts remarked to nicholas, "i have got another case of witchcraft, squire. mary baldwyn, the miller's daughter, of rough lee." "indeed!" exclaimed nicholas. "what, is the poor girl bewitched?" "bewitched to death--that's all," said potts. "eigh--poor meary! hoo's to be berried here this mornin," observed bess, emptying the bottle of sherris into a pot, and placing the latter on the fire. "and you think she was forespoken?" said nicholas, addressing her. "folk sayn so," replied bess; "boh i'd leyther howd my tung about it." "then i suppose you pay tribute to mother chattox, hostess?" cried potts,--"butter, eggs, and milk from the farm, ale and wine from the cellar, with a flitch of bacon now and then, ey?" "nay, by th' maskins! ey gi' her nowt," cried bess. "then you bribe mother demdike, and that comes to the same thing," said potts. "weel, yo're neaw so fur fro' t' mark this time," replied bess, adding eggs, sugar, and spice to the now boiling wine, and stirring up the compound. "i wonder where your brother, the reeve of the forest, can be, master potts!" observed nicholas. "i did not see either him or his horse at the stables." "perhaps the arch impostor has taken himself off altogether," said potts; "and if so, i shall be sorry, for i have not done with him." the sack was now set before them, and pronounced excellent, and while they were engaged in discussing it, together with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon, fried by the kitchen wench, roger nowell came out of the inner room, accompanied by richard and the chirurgeon. "well, master sudall, how goes on your patient?" inquired nicholas of the latter. "much more favourably than i expected, squire," replied the chirurgeon. "he will be better left alone for awhile, and, as i shall not quit the village till evening, i shall be able to look well after him." "you think the attack occasioned by witchcraft of course, sir?" said potts. "the poor fellow affirms it to be so, but i can give no opinion," replied sudall, evasively. "you must make up your mind as to the matter, for i think it right to tell you your evidence will be required," said potts. "perhaps, you may have seen poor mary baldwyn, the miller's daughter of rough lee, and can speak more positively as to her case." "i can, sir," replied the chirurgeon, seating himself beside potts, while roger nowell and richard placed themselves on the opposite side of the table. "this is the case i referred to a short time ago, when answering your inquiries on the same subject, master richard, and a most afflicting one it is. but you shall have the particulars. six months ago, mary baldwyn was as lovely and blooming a lass as could be seen, the joy of her widowed father's heart. a hot-headed, obstinate man is richard baldwyn, and he was unwise enough to incur the displeasure of mother demdike, by favouring her rival, old chattox, to whom he gave flour and meal, while he refused the same tribute to the other. the first time mother demdike was dismissed without the customary dole, one of his millstones broke, and, instead of taking this as a warning, he became more obstinate. she came a second time, and he sent her away with curses. then all his flour grew damp and musty, and no one would buy it. still he remained obstinate, and, when she appeared again, he would have laid hands upon her. but she raised her staff, and the blows fell short. 'i have given thee two warnings, richard,' she said, 'and thou hast paid no heed to them. now i will make thee smart, lad, in right earnest. that which thou lovest best thou shalt lose.' upon this, bethinking him that the dearest thing he had in the world was his daughter mary, and afraid of harm happening to her, richard would fain have made up his quarrel with the old witch; but it had now gone too far, and she would not listen to him, but uttering some words, with which the name of the girl was mingled, shook her staff at the house and departed. the next day poor mary was taken ill, and her father, in despair, applied to old chattox, who promised him help, and did her best, i make no doubt--for she would have willingly thwarted her rival, and robbed her of her prey; but the latter was too strong for her, and the hapless victim got daily worse and worse. her blooming cheek grew white and hollow, her dark eyes glistened with unnatural lustre, and she was seen no more on the banks of pendle water. before this my aid had been called in by the afflicted father--and i did all i could--but i knew she would die--and i told him so. the information i feared had killed him, for he fell down like a stone--and i repented having spoken. however he recovered, and made a last appeal to mother demdike; but the unrelenting hag derided him and cursed him, telling him if he brought her all his mill contained, and added to that all his substance, she would not spare his child. he returned heart-broken, and never quitted the poor girl's bedside till she breathed her last." "poor ruchot! robb'd o' his ownly dowter--an neaw woife to cheer him! ey pity him fro' t' bottom o' my heart," said bess, whose tears had flowed freely during the narration. "he is wellnigh crazed with grief," said the chirurgeon. "i hope he will commit no rash act." expressions of deep commiseration for the untimely death of the miller's daughter had been uttered by all the party, and they were talking over the strange circumstances attending it, when they were roused by the trampling of horses' feet at the door, and the moment after, a middle-aged man, clad in deep mourning, but put on in a manner that betrayed the disorder of his mind, entered the house. his looks were wild and frenzied, his cheeks haggard, and he rushed into the room so abruptly that he did not at first observe the company assembled. "why, richard baldwyn, is that you?" cried the chirurgeon. "what! is this the father?" exclaimed potts, taking out his memorandum-book; "i must prepare to interrogate him." "sit thee down, ruchot,--sit thee down, mon," said bess, taking his hand kindly, and leading him to a bench. "con ey get thee onny thing?" "neaw--neaw, bess," replied the miller; "ey ha lost aw ey vallied i' this warlt, an ey care na how soon ey quit it mysel." "neigh, dunna talk on thus, ruchot," said bess, in accents of sincere sympathy. "theaw win live to see happier an brighter days." "ey win live to be revenged, bess," cried the miller, rising suddenly, and stamping his foot on the ground,--"that accursed witch has robbed me o' my' eart's chief treasure--hoo has crushed a poor innocent os never injured her i' thowt or deed--an has struck the heaviest blow that could be dealt me; but by the heaven above us ey win requite her! a feyther's deep an lasting curse leet on her guilty heoad, an on those of aw her accursed race. nah rest, neet nor day, win ey know, till ey ha brought em to the stake." "right--right--my good friend--an excellent resolution--bring them to the stake!" cried potts. but his enthusiasm was suddenly checked by observing the reeve of the forest peeping from behind the wainscot, and earnestly regarding the miller, and he called the attention of the latter to him. richard baldwyn mechanically followed the expressive gestures of the attorney,--but he saw no one, for the reeve had disappeared. the incident passed unnoticed by the others, who had been, too deeply moved by poor baldwyn's outburst of grief to pay attention to it. after a little while bess whitaker succeeded in prevailing upon the miller to sit down, and when he became more composed he told her that the funeral procession, consisting of some of his neighbours who had undertaken to attend his ill-fated daughter to her last home, was coming from rough lee to goldshaw, but that, unable to bear them company, he had ridden on by himself. it appeared also, from his muttered threats, that he had meditated some wild project of vengeance against mother demdike, which he intended to put into execution, before the day was over; but master potts endeavoured to dissuade him from this course, assuring him that the most certain and efficacious mode of revenge he could adopt would be through the medium of the law, and that he would give him his best advice and assistance in the matter. while they were talking thus, the bell began to toll, and every stroke seemed to vibrate through the heart of the afflicted father, who was at last so overpowered by grief, that the hostess deemed it expedient to lead him into an inner room, where he might indulge his sorrow unobserved. without awaiting the issue of this painful scene, richard, who was much affected by it, went forth, and taking his horse from the stable, with the intention of riding on slowly before the others, led the animal towards the churchyard. when within a short distance of the grey old fabric he paused. the bell continued to toll mournfully, and deepened the melancholy hue of his thoughts. the sad tale he had heard held possession of his mind, and while he pitied poor mary baldwyn, he began to entertain apprehensions that alizon might meet a similar fate. so many strange circumstances had taken place during the morning's ride; he had listened to so many dismal relations, that, coupled with the dark and mysterious events of the previous night, he was quite bewildered, and felt oppressed as if by a hideous nightmare, which it was impossible to shake off. he thought of mothers demdike and chattox. could these dread beings be permitted to exercise such baneful influence over mankind? with all the apparent proofs of their power he had received, he still strove to doubt, and to persuade himself that the various cases of witchcraft described to him were only held to be such by the timid and the credulous. full of these meditations, he tied his horse to a tree and entered the churchyard, and while pursuing a path shaded by a row of young lime-trees leading to the porch, he perceived at a little distance from him, near the cross erected by abbot cliderhow, two persons who attracted his attention. one was the sexton, who was now deep in the grave; and the other an old woman, with her back towards him. neither had remarked his approach, and, influenced by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, he stood still to watch their proceedings. presently, the sexton, who was shovelling out the mould, paused in his task; and the old woman, in a hoarse voice, which seemed familiar to the listener, said, "what hast found, zachariah?" [illustration: richard overhears the mother chattox and the sexton.] "that which yo lack, mother," replied the sexton, "a mazzard wi' aw th' teeth in't." "pluck out eight, and give them me," replied the hag. and, as the sexton complied with her injunction, she added, "now i must have three scalps." "here they be, mother," replied zachariah, uncovering a heap of mould with his spade. "two brain-pans bleached loike snow, an the third wi' more hewr on it than ey ha' o' my own sconce. fro' its size an shape ey should tak it to be a female. ey ha' laid these three skulls aside fo' ye. whot dun yo mean to do wi' 'em?" "question me not, zachariah," said the hag, sternly; "now give me some pieces of the mouldering coffin, and fill this box with the dust of the corpse it contained." the sexton complied with her request. "now yo ha' getten aw yo seek, mother," he said, "ey wad pray you to tay your departure, fo' the berrin folk win be here presently." "i'm going," replied the hag, "but first i must have my funeral rites performed--ha! ha! bury this for me, zachariah," she said, giving him a small clay figure. "bury it deep, and as it moulders away, may she it represents pine and wither, till she come to the grave likewise!" "an whoam doth it represent, mother?" asked the sexton, regarding the image with curiosity. "ey dunna knoa the feace?" "how should you know it, fool, since you have never seen her in whose likeness it is made?" replied the hag. "she is connected with the race i hate." "wi' the demdikes?" inquired the sexton. "ay," replied the hag, "with the demdikes. she passes for one of them--but she is not of them. nevertheless, i hate her as though she were." "yo dunna mean alizon device?" said the sexton. "ey ha' heerd say hoo be varry comely an kind-hearted, an ey should be sorry onny harm befell her." "mary baldwyn, who will soon lie there, was quite as comely and kind-hearted as alizon," cried the hag, "and yet mother demdike had no pity on her." "an that's true," replied the sexton. "weel, weel; ey'n do your bidding." "hold!" exclaimed richard, stepping forward. "i will not suffer this abomination to be practised." "who is it speaks to me?" cried the hag, turning round, and disclosing the hideous countenance of mother chattox. "the voice is that of richard assheton." "it is richard assheton who speaks," cried the young man, "and i command you to desist from this wickedness. give me that clay image," he cried, snatching it from the sexton, and trampling it to dust beneath his feet. "thus i destroy thy impious handiwork, and defeat thy evil intentions." "ah! think'st thou so, lad," rejoined mother chattox. "thou wilt find thyself mistaken. my curse has already alighted upon thee, and it shall work. thou lov'st alizon.--i know it. but she shall never be thine. now, go thy ways." "i will go," replied richard--"but you shall come with me, old woman." "dare you lay hands on me?" screamed the hag. "nay, let her be, mester," interposed the sexton, "yo had better." "you are as bad as she is," said richard, "and deserve equal punishment. you escaped yesterday at whalley, old woman, but you shall not escape me now." "be not too sure of that," cried the hag, disabling him for the moment, by a severe blow on the arm from her staff. and shuffling off with an agility which could scarcely have been expected from her, she passed through a gate near her, and disappeared behind a high wall. richard would have followed, but he was detained by the sexton, who besought him, as he valued his life, not to interfere, and when at last he broke away from the old man, he could see nothing of her, and only heard the sound of horses' feet in the distance. either his eyes deceived him, or at a turn in the woody lane skirting the church he descried the reeve of the forest galloping off with the old woman behind him. this lane led towards rough lee, and, without a moment's hesitation, richard flew to the spot where he had left his horse, and, mounting him, rode swiftly along it. chapter vi.--the temptation. shortly after richard's departure, a round, rosy-faced personage, whose rusty black cassock, hastily huddled over a dark riding-dress, proclaimed him a churchman, entered the hostel. this was the rector of goldshaw, parson holden, a very worthy little man, though rather, perhaps, too fond of the sports of the field and the bottle. to roger nowell and nicholas assheton he was of course well known, and was much esteemed by the latter, often riding over to hunt and fish, or carouse, at downham. parson holden had been sent for by bess to administer spiritual consolation to poor richard baldwyn, who she thought stood in need of it, and having respectfully saluted the magistrate, of whom he stood somewhat in awe, and shaken hands cordially with nicholas, who was delighted to see him, he repaired to the inner room, promising to come back speedily. and he kept his word; for in less than five minutes he reappeared with the satisfactory intelligence that the afflicted miller was considerably calmer, and had listened to his counsels with much edification. "take him a glass of aquavitæ, bess," he said to the hostess. "he is evidently a cup too low, and will be the better for it. strong water is a specific i always recommend under such circumstances, master sudall, and indeed adopt myself, and i am sure you will approve of it.--harkee, bess, when you have ministered to poor baldwyn's wants, i must crave your attention to my own, and beg you to fill me a tankard with your oldest ale, and toast me an oatcake to eat with it.--i must keep up my spirits, worthy sir," he added to roger nowell, "for i have a painful duty to perform. i do not know when i have been more shocked than by the death of poor mary baldwyn. a fair flower, and early nipped." "nipped, indeed, if all we have heard be correct," rejoined newell. "the forest is in a sad state, reverend sir. it would seem as if the enemy of mankind, by means of his abominable agents, were permitted to exercise uncontrolled dominion over it. i must needs say, the forlorn condition of the people reflects little credit on those who have them in charge. the powers of darkness could never have prevailed to such an extent if duly resisted." "i lament to hear you say so, good master nowell," replied the rector. "i have done my best, i assure you, to keep my small and widely-scattered flock together, and to save them from the ravening wolves and cunning foxes that infest the country; and if now and then some sheep have gone astray, or a poor lamb, as in the instance of mary baldwyn, hath fallen a victim, i am scarcely to blame for the mischance. rather let me say, sir, that you, as an active and zealous magistrate, should take the matter in hand, and by severe dealing with the offenders, arrest the progress of the evil. no defence, spiritual or otherwise, as yet set up against them, has proved effectual." "justly remarked, reverend sir," observed potts, looking up from the memorandum book in which he was writing, "and i am sure your advice will not be lost upon master roger nowell. as regards the persons who may be afflicted by witchcraft, hath not our sagacious monarch observed, that 'there are three kind of folks who may be tempted or troubled: the wicked for their horrible sins, to punish them in the like measure; the godly that are sleeping in any great sins or infirmities, and weakness in faith, to waken them up the faster by such an uncouth form; and even some of the best, that their patience may be tried before the world as job's was tried. for why may not god use any kind of extraordinary punishment, when it pleases him, as well as the ordinary rods of sickness, or other adversities?'" "very true, sir," replied holden. "and we are undergoing this severe trial now. fortunate are they who profit by it!" "hear what is said further, sir, by the king," pursued potts. "'no man,' declares that wise prince, 'ought to presume so far as to promise any impunity to himself.' but further on he gives us courage, for he adds, 'and yet we ought not to be afraid for that, of any thing that the devil and his wicked instruments can do against us, for we daily fight against him in a hundred other ways, and therefore as a valiant captain affrays no more being at the combat, nor stays from his purpose for the rummishing shot of a cannon, nor the small clack of a pistolet; not being certain what may light on him; even so ought we boldly to go forward in fighting against the devil without any greater terror, for these his rarest weapons, than the ordinary, whereof we have daily the proof.'" "his majesty is quite right," observed holden, "and i am glad to hear his convincing words so judiciously cited. i myself have no fear of these wicked instruments of satan." "in what manner, may i ask, have you proved your courage, sir?" inquired roger nowell. "have you preached against them, and denounced their wickedness, menacing them with the thunders of the church?" "i cannot say i have," replied holden, rather abashed, "but i shall henceforth adopt a very different course.--ah! here comes the ale!" he added, taking the foaming tankard from bess; "this is the best cordial wherewith to sustain one's courage in these trying times." "some remedy must be found for this intolerable grievance," observed roger nowell, after a few moments' reflection. "till this morning i was not aware of the extent of the evil, but supposed that the two malignant hags, who seem to reign supreme here, confined their operations to blighting corn, maiming cattle, turning milk sour; and even these reports i fancied were greatly exaggerated; but i now find, from what i have seen at sabden and elsewhere, that they fall very far short of the reality." "it would be difficult to increase the darkness of the picture," said the chirurgeon; "but what remedy will you apply?" "the cautery, sir," replied potts,--"the actual cautery--we will burn out this plague-spot. the two old hags and their noxious brood shall be brought to the stake. that will effect a radical cure." "it may when it is accomplished, but i fear it will be long ere that happens," replied the chirurgeon, shaking his head doubtfully. "are you acquainted with mother demdike's history, sir?" he added to potts. "in part," replied the attorney; "but i shall be glad to hear any thing you may have to bring forward on the subject." "the peculiarity in her case," observed sudall, "and the circumstance distinguishing her dark and dread career from that of all other witches is, that it has been shaped out by destiny. when an infant, a malediction was pronounced upon her head by the unfortunate abbot paslew. she is also the offspring of a man reputed to have bartered his soul to the enemy of mankind, while her mother was a witch. both parents perished lamentably, about the time of paslew's execution at whalley." "it is a pity their miserable infant did not perish with them," observed holden. "how much crime and misery would have been spared!" "it was otherwise ordained," replied sudall. "bereft of her parents in this way, the infant was taken charge of and reared by dame croft, the miller's wife of whalley; but even in those early days she exhibited such a malicious and vindictive disposition, and became so unmanageable, that the good dame was glad to get rid of her, and sent her into the forest, where she found a home at rough lee, then occupied by miles nutter, the grandfather of the late richard nutter." "aha!" exclaimed potts, "was mother demdike so early connected with that family? i must make a note of that circumstance." "she remained at rough lee for some years," returned sudall, "and though accounted of an ill disposition, there was nothing to be alleged against her at the time; though afterwards, it was said, that some mishaps that befell the neighbours were owing to her agency, and that she was always attended by a familiar in the form of a rat or a mole. whether this were so or not, i cannot say; but it is certain that she helped miles nutter to get rid of his wife, and procured him a second spouse, in return for which services he bestowed upon her an old ruined tower on his domains." "you mean malkin tower?" said nicholas. "ay, malkin tower," replied the chirurgeon. "there is a legend connected with that structure, which i will relate to you anon, if you desire it. but to proceed. scarcely had bess demdike taken up her abode in this lone tower, than it began to be rumoured that she was a witch, and attended sabbaths on the summit of pendle hill, and on rimington moor. few would consort with her, and ill-luck invariably attended those with whom she quarrelled. though of hideous and forbidding aspect, and with one eye lower set than the other, she had subtlety enough to induce a young man named sothernes to marry her, and two children, a son and a daughter, were the fruit of the union." "the daughter i have seen at whalley," observed potts; "but i have never encountered the son." "christopher demdike still lives, i believe," replied the chirurgeon, "though what has become of him i know not, for he has quitted these parts. he is as ill-reputed as his mother, and has the same strange and fearful look about the eyes." "i shall recognise him if i see him," observed potts. "you are scarcely likely to meet him," returned sudall, "for, as i have said, he has left the forest. but to return to my story. the marriage state was little suitable to bess demdike, and in five years she contrived to free herself from her husband's restraint, and ruled alone in the tower. her malignant influence now began to be felt throughout the whole district, and by dint of menaces and positive acts of mischief, she extorted all she required. whosoever refused her requests speedily experienced her resentment. when she was in the fulness of her power, a rival sprang up in the person of anne whittle, since known by the name of chattox, which she obtained in marriage, and this woman disputed bess demdike's supremacy. each strove to injure the adherents of her rival--and terrible was the mischief they wrought. in the end, however, mother demdike got the upper hand. years have flown over the old hag's head, and her guilty career has been hitherto attended with impunity. plans have been formed to bring her to justice, but they have ever failed. and so in the case of old chattox. her career has been as baneful and as successful as that of mother demdike." "but their course is wellnigh run," said potts, "and the time is come for the extirpation of the old serpents." "ah! who is that at the window?" cried sudall; "but that you are sitting near me, i should declare you were looking in at us." "it must be master potts's brother, the reeve of the forest," observed nicholas, with a laugh. "heed him not," cried the attorney, angrily, "but let us have the promised legend of malkin tower." "willingly!" replied the chirurgeon. "but before i begin i must recruit myself with a can of ale." the flagon being set before him, sudall commenced his story: the legend of malkin tower. "on the brow of a high hill forming part of the range of pendle, and commanding an extensive view over the forest, and the wild and mountainous region around it, stands a stern solitary tower. old as the anglo-saxons, and built as a stronghold by wulstan, a northumbrian thane, in the time of edmund or edred, it is circular in form and very lofty, and serves as a landmark to the country round. placed high up in the building the door was formerly reached by a steep flight of stone steps, but these were removed some fifty or sixty years ago by mother demdike, and a ladder capable of being raised or let down at pleasure substituted for them, affording the only apparent means of entrance. the tower is otherwise inaccessible, the walls being of immense thickness, with no window lower than five-and-twenty feet from the ground, though it is thought there must be a secret outlet; for the old witch, when she wants to come forth, does not wait for the ladder to be let down. but this may be otherwise explained. internally there are three floors, the lowest being placed on a level with the door, and this is the apartment chiefly occupied by the hag. in the centre of this room is a trapdoor opening upon a deep vault, which forms the basement story of the structure, and which was once used as a dungeon, but is now tenanted, it is said, by a fiend, who can be summoned by the witch on stamping her foot. round the room runs a gallery contrived in the thickness of the walls, while the upper chambers are gained by a secret staircase, and closed by movable stones, the machinery of which is only known to the inmate of the tower. all the rooms are lighted by narrow loopholes. thus you will see that the fortress is still capable of sustaining a siege, and old demdike has been heard to declare that she would hold it for a month against a hundred men. hitherto it has proved impregnable. "on the norman invasion, malkin tower was held by ughtred, a descendant of wulstan, who kept possession of pendle forest and the hills around it, and successfully resisted the aggressions of the conquerors. his enemies affirmed he was assisted by a demon, whom he had propitiated by some fearful sacrifice made in the tower, and the notion seemed borne out by the success uniformly attending his conflicts. ughtred's prowess was stained by cruelty and rapine. merciless in the treatment of his captives, putting them to death by horrible tortures, or immuring them in the dark and noisome dungeon of his tower, he would hold his revels over their heads, and deride their groans. heaps of treasure, obtained by pillage, were secured by him in the tower. from his frequent acts of treachery, and the many foul murders he perpetrated, ughtred was styled the 'scourge of the normans.' for a long period he enjoyed complete immunity from punishment; but after the siege of york, and the defeat of the insurgents, his destruction was vowed by ilbert de lacy, lord of blackburnshire, and this fierce chieftain set fire to part of the forest in which the saxon thane and his followers were concealed; drove them to malkin tower; took it after an obstinate and prolonged defence, and considerable loss to himself, and put them all to the sword, except the leader, whom he hanged from the top of his own fortress. in the dungeon were found many carcasses, and the greater part of ughtred's treasure served to enrich the victor. "once again, in the reign of henry vi., malkin tower became a robber's stronghold, and gave protection to a freebooter named blackburn, who, with a band of daring and desperate marauders, took advantage of the troubled state of the country, ravaged it far and wide, and committed unheard of atrocities, even levying contributions upon the abbeys of whalley and salley, and the heads of these religious establishments were glad to make terms with him to save their herds and stores, the rather that all attempts to dislodge him from his mountain fastness, and destroy his band, had failed. blackburn seemed to enjoy the same kind of protection as ughtred, and practised the same atrocities, torturing and imprisoning his captives unless they were heavily ransomed. he also led a life of wildest licence, and, when not engaged in some predatory exploit, spent his time in carousing with his followers. "upon one occasion it chanced that he made a visit in disguise to whalley abbey, and, passing the little hermitage near the church, beheld the votaress who tenanted it. this was isole de heton. ravished by her wondrous beauty, blackburn soon found an opportunity of making his passion known to her, and his handsome though fierce lineaments pleasing her, he did not long sigh in vain. he frequently visited her in the garb of a cistertian monk, and, being taken for one of the brethren, his conduct brought great scandal upon the abbey. the abandoned votaress bore him a daughter, and the infant was conveyed away by the lover, and placed under the care of a peasant's wife, at barrowford. from that child sprung bess blackburn, the mother of old demdike; so that the witch is a direct descendant of isole de heton. "notwithstanding all precautions, isole's dark offence became known, and she would have paid the penalty of it at the stake, if she had not fled. in scaling whalley nab, in the woody heights of which she was to remain concealed till her lover could come to her, she fell from a rock, shattering her limbs, and disfiguring her features. some say she was lamed for life, and became as hideous as she had heretofore been lovely; but this is erroneous, for apprehensive of such a result, attended by the loss of her lover, she invoked the powers of darkness, and proffered her soul in return for five years of unimpaired beauty. "the compact was made, and when blackburn came he found her more beautiful than ever. enraptured, he conveyed her to malkin tower, and lived with her there in security, laughing to scorn the menaces of abbot eccles, by whom he was excommunicated. "time went on, and as isole's charms underwent no change, her lover's ardour continued unabated. five years passed in guilty pleasures, and the last day of the allotted term arrived. no change was manifest in isole's demeanour; neither remorse nor fear were exhibited by her. never had she appeared more lovely, never in higher or more exuberant spirits. she besought her lover, who was still madly intoxicated by her infernal charms, to give a banquet that night to ten of his trustiest followers. he willingly assented, and bade them to the feast. they ate and drank merrily, and the gayest of the company was the lovely isole. her spirits seemed somewhat too wild even to blackburn, but he did not check her, though surprised at the excessive liveliness and freedom of her sallies. her eyes flashed like fire, and there was not a man present but was madly in love with her, and ready to dispute for her smiles with his captain. "the wine flowed freely, and song and jest went on till midnight. when the hour struck, isole filled a cup to the brim, and called upon them to pledge her. all arose, and drained their goblets enthusiastically. 'it was a farewell cup,' she said; 'i am going away with one of you.' 'how!' exclaimed blackburn, in angry surprise. 'let any one but touch your hand, and i will strike him dead at my feet.' the rest of the company regarded each other with surprise, and it was then discovered that a stranger was amongst them; a tall dark man, whose looks were so terrible and demoniacal that no one dared lay hands upon him. 'i am come,' he said, with fearful significance, to isole. 'and i am ready,' she answered boldly. 'i will go with you were it to the bottomless pit,' cried blackburn catching hold of her. 'it is thither i am going,' she answered with a scream of laughter. 'i shall be glad of a companion.' "when the paroxysm of laughter was over, she fell down on the floor. her lover would have raised her, when what was his horror to find that he held in his arms an old woman, with frightfully disfigured features, and evidently in the agonies of death. she fixed one look upon him and expired. "terrified by the occurrence the guests hurried away, and when they returned next day, they found blackburn stretched on the floor, and quite dead. they cast his body, together with that of the wretched isole, into the vault beneath the room where they were lying, and then, taking possession of his treasure, removed to some other retreat. "thenceforth, malkin tower became haunted. though wholly deserted, lights were constantly seen shining from it at night, and sounds of wild revelry, succeeded by shrieks and groans, issued from it. the figure of isole was often seen to come forth, and flit across the wastes in the direction of whalley abbey. on stormy nights a huge black cat, with flaming eyes, was frequently descried on the summit of the structure, whence it obtained its name of grimalkin, or malkin tower. the ill-omened pile ultimately came into the possession of the nutter family, but it was never tenanted, until assigned, as i have already mentioned, to mother demdike." * * * * * the chirurgeon's marvellous story was listened to with great attention by his auditors. most of them were familiar with different versions of it; but to master potts it was altogether new, and he made rapid notes of it, questioning the narrator as to one or two points which appeared to him to require explanation. nicholas, as may be supposed, was particularly interested in that part of the legend which referred to isole de heton. he now for the first time heard of her unhallowed intercourse with the freebooter blackburn, of her compact on whalley nab with the fiend, of her mysterious connection with malkin tower, and of her being the ancestress of mother demdike. the consideration of all these points, coupled with a vivid recollection of his own strange adventure with the impious votaress at the abbey on the previous night, plunged him into a deep train of thought, and he began seriously to consider whether he might not have committed some heinous sin, and, indeed, jeopardised his soul's welfare by dancing with her. "what if i should share the same fate as the robber blackburn," he ruminated, "and be dragged to perdition by her? it is a very awful reflection. but though my fate might operate as a warning to others, i am by no means anxious to be held up as a moral scarecrow. rather let me take warning myself, amend my life, abandon intemperance, which leads to all manner of wickedness, and suffer myself no more to be ensnared by the wiles and delusions of the tempter in the form of a fair woman. no--no--i will alter and amend my life." i regret, however, to say that these praiseworthy resolutions were but transient, and that the squire, quite forgetting that the work of reform, if intended to be really accomplished, ought to commence at once, and by no means be postponed till the morrow, yielded to the seductions of a fresh pottle of sack, which was presented to him at the moment by bess, and in taking it could not help squeezing the hand of the bouncing hostess, and gazing at her more tenderly than became a married man. oh! nicholas--nicholas--the work of reform, i am afraid, proceeds very slowly and imperfectly with you. your friend, parson. dewhurst, would have told you that it is much easier to form good resolutions than to keep them. leaving the squire, however, to his cogitations and his sack, the attorney to his memorandum-book, in which he was still engaged in writing, and the others to their talk, we shall proceed to the chamber whither the poor miller had been led by bess. when visited by the rector, he had been apparently soothed by the worthy man's consolatory advice, but when left alone he speedily relapsed into his former dark and gloomy state of mind. he did not notice bess, who, according to holden's directions, placed the aquavitæ bottle before him, but, as long as she stayed, remained with his face buried in his hands. as soon as she was gone he arose, and began to pace the room to and fro. the window was open, and he could hear the funeral bell tolling mournfully at intervals. each recurrence of the dismal sound added sharpness and intensity to his grief. his sufferings became almost intolerable, and drove him to the very verge of despair and madness. if a weapon had been at hand, he might have seized it, and put a sudden period to his existence. his breast was a chaos of fierce and troubled thoughts, in which one black and terrible idea arose and overpowered all the rest. it was the desire of vengeance, deep and complete, upon her whom he looked upon as the murderess of his child. he cared not how it were accomplished so it were done; but such was the opinion he entertained of the old hag's power, that he doubted his ability to the task. still, as the bell tolled on, the furies at his heart lashed and goaded him on, and yelled in his ear revenge--revenge! now, indeed, he was crazed with grief and rage; he tore off handfuls of hair, plunged his nails deeply into his breast, and while committing these and other wild excesses, with frantic imprecations he called down heaven's judgments on his own head. he was in that lost and helpless state when the enemy of mankind has power over man. nor was the opportunity neglected; for when the wretched baldwyn, who, exhausted by the violence of his motions, had leaned for a moment against the wall, he perceived to his surprise that there was a man in the room--a small personage attired in rusty black, whom he thought had been one of the party in the adjoining chamber. there was an expression of mockery about this person's countenance which did not please the miller, and he asked him, sternly, what he wanted. "leave off grinnin, mon," he said, fiercely, "or ey may be tempted to tay yo be t' throttle, an may yo laugh o't wrong side o' your mouth." "no, no, you will not, richard baldwyn, when you know my errand," replied the man. "you are thirsting for vengeance upon mother demdike. you shall have it." "eigh, eigh, you promised me vengeance efore," cried the miller--"vengeance by the law. boh ey mun wait lung for it. ey wad ha' it swift and sure--deep and deadly. ey wad blast her wi' curses, os hoo blasted my poor meary. ey wad strike her deeod at my feet. that's my vengeance, mon." "you shall have it," replied the other. "yo talk differently fro' what yo did just now, mon," said the miller, regarding him narrowly and distrustfully. "an yo look differently too. there's a queer glimmer abowt your een that ey didna notice efore, and that ey mislike." the man laughed bitterly. "leave off grinnin' or begone," cried baldwyn, furiously. and he raised his hand to strike the man, but he instantly dropped it, appalled by a look which the other threw at him. "who the dule are yo?" "the dule must answer you, since you appeal to him," replied the other, with the same mocking smile; "but you are mistaken in supposing that you have spoken to me before. he with whom you conversed in the other room, resembles me in more respects than one, but he does not possess power equal to mine. the law will not aid you against mother demdike. she will escape all the snares laid for her. but she will not escape _me_." "who are ye?" cried the miller, his hair erecting on his head, and cold damps breaking out upon his brow. "yo are nah mortal, an nah good, to tawk i' this fashion." "heed not who and what i am," replied the other; "i am known here as a reeve of the forest--that is enough. would you have vengeance on the murtheress of your child?" "yeigh," rejoined baldwyn. "and you are willing to pay for it at the price of your soul?" demanded the other, advancing towards him. baldwyn reeled. he saw at once the fearful peril in which he was placed, and averted his gaze from the scorching glance of the reeve. at this moment the door was tried without, and the voice of bess was heard, saying, "who ha' yo got wi' yo, ruchot; and whoy ha' yo fastened t' door?" "your answer?" demanded the reeve. "ey canna gi' it now," replied the miller. "come in, bess; come in." "ey conna," she replied. "open t' door, mon." "your answer, i say?" said the reeve. "gi' me an hour to think on't," said the miller. "agreed," replied the other. "i will be with you after the funeral." and he sprang through the window, and disappeared before baldwyn could open the door and admit bess. chapter vii.--the perambulation of the boundaries. the lane along which richard assheton galloped in pursuit of mother chattox, made so many turns, and was, moreover, so completely hemmed in by high banks and hedges, that he could sec nothing on either side of him, and very little in advance; but, guided by the clatter of hoofs, he urged merlin to his utmost speed, fancying he should soon come up with the fugitives. in this, however, he was deceived. the sound that had led him on became fainter and fainter, till at last it died away altogether; and on quitting the lane and gaining the moor, where the view was wholly uninterrupted, no traces either of witch or reeve could be discerned. with a feeling of angry disappointment, richard was about to turn back, when a large black greyhound came from out an adjoining clough, and made towards him. the singularity of the circumstance induced him to halt and regard the dog with attention. on nearing him, the animal looked wistfully in his face, and seemed to invite him to follow; and the young man was so struck by the dog's manner, that he complied, and had not gone far when a hare of unusual size and grey with age bounded from beneath a gorse-bush and speeded away, the greyhound starting in pursuit. aware of the prevailing notion, that a witch most commonly assumed such a form when desirous of escaping, or performing some act of mischief, such as drying the milk of kine, richard at once came to the conclusion that the hare could be no other than mother chattox; and without pausing to inquire what the hound could be, or why it should appear at such a singular and apparently fortunate juncture, he at once joined the run, and cheered on the dog with whoop and holloa. old as it was, apparently, the hare ran with extraordinary swiftness, clearing every stone wall and other impediment in the way, and more than once cunningly doubling upon its pursuers. but every feint and stratagem were defeated by the fleet and sagacious hound, and the hunted animal at length took to the open waste, where the run became so rapid, that richard had enough to do to keep up with it, though merlin, almost as furiously excited as his master, strained every sinew to the task. in this way the chasers and the chased scoured the dark and heathy plain, skirting moss-pool and clearing dyke, till they almost reached the but-end of pendle hill, which rose like an impassable barrier before them. hitherto the chances had seemed in favour of the hare; but they now began to turn, and as it seemed certain she must fall into the hound's jaws, richard expected every moment to find her resume her natural form. the run having brought him within, a quarter of a mile of barley, the rude hovels composing which little booth were clearly discernible, the young man began to think the hag's dwelling must he among them, and that she was hurrying thither as to a place of refuge. but before this could be accomplished, he hoped to effect her capture, and once more cheered on the hound, and plunged his spurs into merlin's sides. an obstacle, however, occurred which he had not counted on. directly in the course taken by the hare lay a deep, disused limestone quarry, completely screened from view by a fringe of brushwood. when within a few yards of this pit, the hound made a dash at the flying hare, but eluding him, the latter sprang forward, and both went over the edge of the quarry together. richard had wellnigh followed, and in that case would have been inevitably dashed in pieces; but, discovering the danger ere it was too late, by a powerful effort, which threw merlin upon his haunches, he pulled him back on the very brink of the pit. the young man shuddered as he gazed into the depths of the quarry, and saw the jagged points and heaps of broken stone that would have received him; but he looked in vain for the old witch, whose mangled body, together with that of the hound, he expected to behold; and he then asked himself whether the chase might not have been a snare set for him by the hag and her familiar, with the intent of luring him to destruction. if so, he had been providentially preserved. quitting the pit, his first idea was to proceed to barley, which was now only a few hundred yards off, to make inquiries respecting mother chattox, and ascertain whether she really dwelt there; but, on further consideration, he judged it best to return without further delay to goldshaw, lest his friends, ignorant as to what had befallen him, might become alarmed on his account; but he resolved, as soon as he had disposed of the business in hand, to prosecute his search after the hag. riding rapidly, he soon cleared the ground between the quarry and goldshaw lane, and was about to enter the latter, when the sound of voices singing a funeral hymn caught his ear, and, pausing to listen to it, he beheld a little procession, the meaning of which he readily comprehended, wending its slow and melancholy way in the same direction as himself. it was headed by four men in deep mourning, bearing upon their shoulders a small coffin, covered with a pall, and having a garland of white flowers in front of it. behind them followed about a dozen young men and maidens, likewise in mourning, walking two and two, with gait and aspect of unfeigned affliction. many of the women, though merely rustics, seemed to possess considerable personal attraction; but their features were in a great measure concealed by their large white kerchiefs, disposed in the form of hoods. all carried sprigs of rosemary and bunches of flowers in their hands. plaintive was the hymn they sang, and their voices, though untaught, were sweet and touching, and went to the heart of the listener. much moved, richard suffered the funeral procession to precede him along the deep and devious lane, and as it winded beneath the hedges, the sight was inexpressibly affecting. fastening his horse to a tree at the end of the lane, richard followed on foot. notice of the approach of the train having been given in the village, all the inhabitants flocked forth to meet it, and there was scarcely a dry eye among them. arrived within a short distance of the church, the coffin was met by the minister, attended by the clerk, behind whom came roger nowell, nicholas, and the rest of the company from the hostel. with great difficulty poor baldwyn could be brought to take his place as chief mourner. these arrangements completed, the body of the ill-fated girl was borne into the churchyard, the minister reading the solemn texts appointed for the occasion, and leading the way to the grave, beside which stood the sexton, together with the beadle of goldshaw and sparshot. the coffin was then laid on trestles, and amidst profound silence, broken only by the sobs of the mourners, the service was read, and preparations made for lowering the body into the grave. then it was that poor baldwyn, with a wild, heart-piercing cry, flung himself upon the shell containing all that remained of his lost treasure, and could with difficulty be removed from it by bess and sudall, both of whom were in attendance. the bunches of flowers and sprigs of rosemary having been laid upon the coffin by the maidens, amidst loud sobbing and audibly expressed lamentations from the bystanders, it was let down into the grave, and earth thrown over it. earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust. the ceremony was over, the mourners betook themselves to the little hostel, and the spectators slowly dispersed; but the bereaved father still lingered, unable to tear himself away. leaning for support against the yew-tree, he fiercely bade bess, who would have led him home with her, begone. the kind-hearted hostess complied in appearance, but remained nigh at hand though concealed from view. once more the dark cloud overshadowed the spirit of the wretched man--once more the same infernal desire of vengeance possessed him--once more he subjected himself to temptation. striding to the foot of the grave he raised his hand, and with terrible imprecations vowed to lay the murtheress of his child as low as she herself was now laid. at that moment he felt an eye like a burning-glass fixed upon him, and, looking up, beheld the reeve of the forest standing on the further side of the grave. "kneel down, and swear to be mine, and your wish shall be gratified," said the reeve. beside himself with grief and rage, baldwyn would have complied, but he was arrested by a powerful grasp. fearing he was about to commit some rash act, bess rushed forward and caught hold of his doublet. "bethink thee whot theaw has just heerd fro' t' minister, ruchot," she cried in a voice of solemn warning. "'blessed are the dead that dee i' the lord, for they rest fro their labours.' an again, 'suffer us not at our last hour, for onny pains o' death, to fa' fro thee.' oh ruchot, dear! fo' the love theaw hadst fo' thy poor chilt, who is now delivert fro' the burthen o' th' flesh, an' dwellin' i' joy an felicity wi' god an his angels, dunna endanger thy precious sowl. pray that theaw may'st depart hence i' th' lord, wi' whom are the sowls of the faithful, an meary's, ey trust, among the number. pray that thy eend may be like hers." "ey conna pray, bess," replied the miller, striking his breast. "the lord has turned his feace fro' me." "becose thy heart is hardened, ruchot," she replied. "theaw 'rt nourishin' nowt boh black an wicked thowts. cast em off ye, i adjure thee, an come whoam wi me." meanwhile, the reeve had sprung across the grave. "thy answer at once," he said, grasping the miller's arm, and breathing the words in his ears. "vengeance is in thy power. a word, and it is thine." the miller groaned bitterly. he was sorely tempted. "what is that mon sayin' to thee, ruchot?" inquired bess. "dunna ax, boh tak me away," he answered. "ey am lost else." "let him lay a finger on yo if he dare," said bess, sturdily. "leave him alone--yo dunna knoa who he is," whispered the miller. "ey con partly guess," she rejoined; "boh ey care nother fo' mon nor dule when ey'm acting reetly. come along wi' me, ruchot." "fool!" cried the reeve, in the same low tone as before; "you will lose your revenge, but you will not escape me." and he turned away, while bess almost carried the trembling and enfeebled miller towards the hostel. roger nowell and his friends had only waited the conclusion of the funeral to set forth, and their horses being in readiness, they mounted them on leaving the churchyard, and rode slowly along the lane leading towards rough lee. the melancholy scene they had witnessed, and the afflicting circumstances connected with it, had painfully affected the party, and little conversation occurred until they were overtaken by parson holden, who, having been made acquainted with their errand by nicholas, was desirous of accompanying them. soon after this, also, the reeve of the forest joined them, and on seeing him, richard sternly demanded why he had aided mother chattox in her night from the churchyard, and what had become of her. "you are entirely mistaken, sir," replied the reeve, with affected astonishment. "i have seen nothing whatever of the old hag, and would rather lend a hand to her capture than abet her flight. i hold all witches in abhorrence, and mother chattox especially so." "your horse looks fresh enough, certainly," said richard, somewhat shaken in his suspicions. "where have you been during our stay at goldshaw? you did not put up at the hostel?" "i went to farmer johnson's," replied the reeve, "and you will find upon inquiry that my horse has not been out of his stables for the last hour. i myself have been loitering about bess's grange and farmyard, as your grooms will testify, for they have seen me." "humph!" exclaimed richard, "i suppose i must credit assertions made with such confidence, but i could have sworn i saw you ride off with the hag behind you." "i hope i shall never be caught in such bad company, sir," replied the reeve, with a laugh. "if i ride off with any one, it shall not be with an old witch, depend upon it." though by no means satisfied with the explanation, richard was forced to be content with it; but he thought he would address a few more questions to the reeve. "have you any knowledge," he said, "when the boundaries of pendle forest were first settled and appointed?" "the first perambulation was made by henry de lacy, about the middle of the twelfth century," replied the reeve. "pendle forest, you may be aware, sir, is one of the four divisions of the great forest of blackburnshire, of which the lacys were lords, the three other divisions being accrington, trawden, and rossendale, and it comprehends an extent of about twenty-five miles, part of which you have traversed to-day. at a later period, namely in , after the death of another henry de lacy, earl of lincoln, the last of his line, and one of the bravest of edward the first's barons, an inquisition was held in the forest, and it was subdivided into eleven vaccaries, one of which is the place to which you are bound, rough lee." "the learned sir edward coke defines a vaccary to signify a dairy," observed potts. "here it means the farm and land as well," replied the reeve; "and the word 'booth,' which is in general use in this district, signifies the mansion erected upon such vaccary: mistress nutter's residence, for instance, being nothing more than the booth of rough lee: while a 'lawnd,' another local term, is a park inclosed within the forest for the preservation of the deer, and the convenience of the chase, and of such inclosures we have two, namely, the old and new lawnd. by a commission in the reign of henry vii., these vaccaries, originally granted only to tenants at will, were converted into copyholds of inheritance, but--and here is a legal point for your consideration, master potts--as it seems very questionable whether titles obtained under letters-patent are secure, not unreasonable fears are entertained by the holders of the lands lest they should be seized, and appropriated by the crown." "ah! ah! an excellent idea, master reeve," exclaimed potts, his little eyes twinkling with pleasure. "our gracious and sagacious monarch would grasp at the suggestion, ay, and grasp at the lands too--ha! ha! many thanks for the hint, good reeve. i will not fail to profit by it. if their titles are uncertain, the landholders would be glad to compromise the matter with the crown, even to the value of half their estates rather than lose the whole." "most assuredly they would," replied the reeve; "and furthermore, they would pay the lawyer well who could manage the matter adroitly for them. this would answer your purpose better than hunting up witches, master potts." "one pursuit does not interfere with the other in the slightest degree, worthy reeve," observed potts. "i cannot consent to give up my quest of the witches. my honour is concerned in their extermination. but to turn to pendle forest--the greater part of it has been disafforested, i presume?" "it has," replied the other--"and we are now in one of the purlieus." "pourallee is the better word, most excellent reeve," said potts. "i tell you thus much, because you appear to be a man of learning. manwood, our great authority in such matters, declares a pourallee to be 'a certain territory of ground adjoining unto the forest, mered and bounded with immovable marks, meres, and boundaries, known by matter of record only.' and as it applies to the perambulation we are about to make, i may as well repeat what the same learned writer further saith touching marks, meres, and boundaries, and how they may be known. 'for although,' he saith, 'a forest doth lie open, and not inclosed with hedge, ditch, pale, or stone-wall, which some other inclosures have; yet in the eye and consideration of the law, the same hath as strong an inclosure by those marks, meres, and boundaries, as if there were a brick wall to encircle the same.' marks, learned reeve, are deemed unremovable-- _primo, quia omnes metæ forestæ sunt integræ domino regi_--and those who take them away are punishable for the trespass at the assizes of the forest. _secundo_, because the marks are things that cannot be stirred, as rivers, highways, hills, and the like. now, such unremoveable marks, meres, and boundaries we have between the estate of my excellent client, master roger nowell, and that of mistress nutter, so that the matter at issue will be easily decided." a singular smile crossed the reeve's countenance, but he made no observation. "unless the lady can turn aside streams, remove hills, and pluck up huge trees, we shall win," pursued potts, with a chuckle. again the reeve smiled, but he forebore to speak. "you talk of marks, meres, and boundaries, master potts," remarked richard. "are not the words synonymous?" "not precisely so, sir," replied the attorney; "there is a slight difference in their signification, which i will explain to you. the words of the statute are '_metas, meras, et bundas_,'--now _meta_, or mark, is an object rising from the ground, as a church, a wall, or a tree; _mera_, or mere, is the space or interval between the forest and the land adjoining, whereupon the mark may chance to stand; and _bunda_ is the boundary, lying on a level with the forest, as a river, a highway, a pool, or a bog." "i comprehend the distinction," replied richard. "and now, as we are on this subject," he added to the reeve, "i would gladly know the precise nature of your office?" "my duty," replied the other, "is to range daily throughout all the purlieus, or pourallees, as master potts more properly terms them, and disafforested lands, and inquire into all trespasses and offences against vert or venison, and present them at the king's next court of attachment or swainmote. it is also my business to drive into the forest such wild beasts as have strayed from it; to attend to the lawing and expeditation of mastiffs; and to raise hue and cry against any malefactors or trespassers within the forest." "i will give you the exact words of the statute," said potts--'_si quis viderit malefactores infra metas forestæ, debet illos capere secundum posse suum, et si non possit; debet levare hutesium et clamorem_.' and the penalty for refusing to follow hue and cry is heavy fine." "i would that that part of your duty relating to the hock-sinewing, and lawing of mastiffs, could be discontinued," said richard. "i grieve to see a noble animal so mutilated." "in bowland forest, as you are probably aware, sir," rejoined the reeve, "only the larger mastiffs are lamed, a small stirrup or gauge being kept by the master forester, squire robert parker of browsholme, and the dog whose foot will pass through it escapes mutilation." "the practice is a cruel one, and i would it were abolished with some of our other barbarous forest laws," observed richard. while this conversation had been going on, the party had proceeded well on their way. for some time the road, which consisted of little more than tracts of wheels along the turf, led along a plain, thrown up into heathy hillocks, and then passing through a thicket, evidently part of the old forest, it brought them to the foot of a hill, which they mounted, and descended into another valley. here they came upon pendle water, and while skirting its banks, could see at a great depth below, the river rushing over its rocky bed like an alpine torrent. the scenery had now begun to assume a savage and sombre character. the deep rift through which the river ran was evidently the result of some terrible convulsion of the earth, and the rocky strata were strangely and fantastically displayed. on the further side the banks rose up precipitously, consisting for the most part of bare cliffs, though now and then a tree would root itself in some crevice. below this the stream sank over a wide shelf of rock, in a broad full cascade, and boiled and foamed in the stony basin that received it, after which, grown less impetuous, it ran tranquilly on for a couple of hundred yards, and was then artificially restrained by a dam, which, diverting it in part from its course, caused it to turn the wheels of a mill. here was the abode of the unfortunate richard baldwyn, and here had blossomed forth the fair flower so untimely gathered. an air of gloom hung over this once cheerful spot: its very beauty contributing to this saddening effect. the mill-race flowed swiftly and brightly on; but the wheel was stopped, windows and doors were closed, and death kept his grim holiday undisturbed. no one was to be seen about the premises, nor was any sound heard except the bark of the lonely watch-dog. many a sorrowing glance was cast at this forlorn habitation as the party rode past it, and many a sigh was heaved for the poor girl who had so lately been its pride and ornament; but if any one had noticed the bitter sneer curling the reeve's lip, or caught the malignant fire gleaming in his eye, it would scarcely have been thought that he shared in the general regret. after the cavalcade had passed the mill, one or two other cottages appeared on the near side of the river, while the opposite banks began to be clothed with timber. the glen became more and more contracted, and a stone bridge crossed the stream, near which, and on the same side of the river as the party, stood a cluster of cottages constituting the little village of rough lee. on reaching the bridge, mistress nutter's habitation came in view, and it was pointed out by nicholas to potts, who contemplated it with much curiosity. in his eyes it seemed exactly adapted to its owner, and formed to hide dark and guilty deeds. it was a stern, sombre-looking mansion, built of a dark grey stone, with tall square chimneys, and windows with heavy mullions. high stone walls, hoary and moss-grown, ran round the gardens and courts, except on the side of the river, where there was a terrace overlooking the stream, and forming a pleasant summer's walk. at the back of the house were a few ancient oaks and sycamores, and in the gardens were some old clipped yews. part of this ancient mansion is still standing, and retains much of its original character, though subdivided and tenanted by several humble families. the garden is cut up into paddocks, and the approach environed by a labyrinth of low stone walls, while miserable sheds and other buildings are appended to it; the terrace is wholly obliterated; and the grange and offices are pulled down, but sufficient is still left of the place to give an idea of its pristine appearance and character. its situation is striking and peculiar. in front rises a high hill, forming the last link of the chain of pendle, and looking upon barrowford and colne, on the further side of which, and therefore not discernible from the mansion, stood malkin tower. at the period in question the lower part of this hill was well wooded, and washed by the pendle water, which swept past it through banks picturesque and beautiful, though not so bold and rocky as those in the neighbourhood of the mill. in the rear of the house the ground gradually rose for more than a quarter of a mile, when it obtained a considerable elevation, following the course of the stream, and looking down the gorge, another hill appeared, so that the house was completely shut in by mountainous acclivities. in winter, when the snow lay on the heights, or when the mists hung upon them for weeks together, or descended in continuous rain, rough lee was sufficiently desolate, and seemed cut off from all communication with the outer world; but at the season when the party beheld it, though the approaches were rugged and difficult, and almost inaccessible except to the horseman or pedestrian, bidding defiance to any vehicle except of the strongest construction, still the place was not without a certain charm, mainly, however, derived from its seclusion. the scenery was stern and sombre, the hills were dark and dreary; but the very wildness of the place was attractive, and the old house, with its grey walls, its lofty chimneys, its gardens with their clipped yews, and its rook-haunted trees, harmonised well with all around it. as the party drew near the house, the gates were thrown open by an old porter with two other servants, who besought them to stay and partake of some refreshment; but roger nowell haughtily and peremptorily declined the invitation, and rode on, and the others, though some of them would fain have complied, followed him. scarcely were they gone, than james device, who had been in the garden, issued from the gate and speeded after them. passing through a close at the back of the mansion, and tracking a short narrow lane, edged by stone walls, the party, which had received some accessions from the cottages of rough lee, as well as from the huts on the hill-side, again approached the river, and proceeded along its banks. the new-comers, being all of them tenants of mrs. nutter, and acting apparently under the directions of james device, who had now joined the troop, stoutly and loudly maintained that the lady would be found right in the inquiry, with the exception of one old man named henry mitton; and he shook his head gravely when appealed to by jem, and could by no efforts be induced to join him in the clamour. notwithstanding this demonstration, roger nowell and his legal adviser were both very sanguine as to the result of the survey being in their favour, and master potts turned to ascertain from sparshot that the two plans, which had been rolled up and consigned to his custody, were quite safe. meanwhile, the party having followed the course of pendle water through the glen for about half a mile, during which they kept close to the brawling current, entered a little thicket, and then striking off on the left, passed over the foot of a hill, and came to the edge of a wide moor, where a halt was called by nowell. it being now announced that they were on the confines of the disputed property, preparations were immediately made for the survey; the plans were taken out of a quiver, in which they had been carefully deposited by sparshot, and handed to potts, who, giving one to roger nowell and the other to nicholas, and opening his memorandum-book, declared that all was ready, and the two leaders rode slowly forward, while the rest of the troop followed, their curiosity being stimulated to the highest pitch. presently roger nowell again stopped, and pointed to a woody brake. "we are now come," he said, "to a wood forming part of my property, and which from an eruption, caused by a spring, that took place in it many years ago, is called burst clough." "exactly, sir--exactly," cried potts; "burst clough--i have it here--landmarks, five grey stones, lying apart at a distance of one hundred yards or thereabouts, and giving you, sir, twenty acres of moor land. is it not so, master nicholas? the marks are such as i have described, eh?" "they are, sir," replied the squire; "with this slight difference in the allotment of the land--namely, that mistress nutter claims the twenty acres, while she assigns you only ten." "ten devils!" cried roger nowell, furiously. "twenty acres are mine, and i will have them." "to the proof, then," rejoined nicholas. "the first of the grey stones is here." "and the second on the left, in that hollow," said roger nowell. "come on, my masters, come on." "ay, come on!" cried nicholas; "this perambulation will be rare sport. who wins, for a piece of gold, cousin richard?" "nay, i will place no wager on the event," replied the young man. "well, as you please," cried the squire; "but i would lay five to one that mistress nutter beats the magistrate." meanwhile, the whole troop having set forward, they soon arrived at the second stone. grey and moss-grown, it was deeply imbedded in the soil, and to all appearance had rested undisturbed for many a year. "you measure from the clough, i presume, sir?" remarked potts to nowell. "to be sure," replied the magistrate; "but how is this?--this stone seems to me much nearer the clough than it used to be." "yeigh, so it dun, mester," observed old mitton. "it does not appear to have been disturbed, at all events," said nicholas, dismounting and examining it. "it would seem not," said nowell--"and yet it certainly is not in its old place." "yo are mistaen, mester," observed jem device; "ey knoa th' lond weel, an this stoan has stood where it does fo' t' last twenty year. ha'n't it, neeburs?" "yeigh--yeigh," responded several voices. "well, let us go on to the next stone," said potts, looking rather blank. accordingly they went forward, the hinds exchanging significant looks, and roger nowell and nicholas carefully examining their respective maps. "these landmarks exactly tally with my plan," said the squire, as they arrived at the third stone. "but not with mine," said nowell; "this stone ought to be two hundred yards to the right. some trickery has been practised." "impossible!" exclaimed the squire; "these ponderous masses could never have been moved. besides, there are several persons here who know every inch of the ground, and will give you their unbiassed testimony. what say you, my men? are these the old boundary stones?" all answered in the affirmative except old mitton, who still raised a dissenting voice. "they be th' owd boundary marks, sure enough," he said; "boh they are neaw i' their owd places." "it is quite clear that the twenty acres belong to mistress nutter," observed nicholas, "and that you must content yourself with ten, master nowell. make an entry to that effect, master potts, unless you will have the ground measured." "no, it is needless," replied the magistrate, sharply; "let us go on." during this survey, some of the features of the country appeared changed to the rustics, but how or in what way they could not precisely tell, and they were easily induced by james device to give their testimony in mistress nutter's favour. a small rivulet was now reached, and another halt being called upon its sedgy banks, the plans were again consulted. "what have we here, master potts--marks or boundaries?" inquired richard, with a smile. "both," replied potts, angrily. "this rivulet, which i take to be moss brook, is a boundary, and that sheepfold and the two posts standing in a line with it are marks. but hold! how is this?" he cried, regarding the plan in dismay; "the five acres of waste land should be on the left of the brook." "it would doubtless suit master nowell better if it were so," said nicholas; "but as they chance to be on the right, they belong to mistress nutter. i merely speak from the plan." "your plan is naught, sir," cried nowell, furiously, "by what foul practice these changes have been wrought i pretend not to say, though i can give a good guess; but the audacious witch who has thus deluded me shall bitterly rue it." "hold, hold, master nowell!" rejoined nicholas; "i can make great allowance for your anger, which is natural considering your disappointment, but i will not permit such unwarrantable insinuations to be thrown out against mistress nutter. you agreed to abide by sir ralph assheton's award, and you must not complain if it be made against you. do you imagine that this stream can have changed its course in a single night; or that yon sheepfold has been removed to the further side of it?" "i do," replied nowell. "and so do i," cried potts; "it has been accomplished by the aid of--" but feeling himself checked by a glance from the reeve, he stammered out, "of--of mother demdike." "you declared just now that marks, meres, and boundaries, were unremovable, master potts," said the reeve, with a sneer; "you have altered your opinion." the crestfallen attorney was dumb. "master roger nowell must find some better plea than the imputation of witchcraft to set aside mistress nutter's claim," observed richard. "yeigh, that he mun," cried james device, and the hinds who supported him. the magistrate bit his lips with vexation. "there is witchcraft in it, i repeat," he said. "yeigh, that there be," responded old mitton. but the words were scarcely uttered, when he was felled to the ground by the bludgeon of james device. "ey'd sarve thee i' t' same way, fo' two pins," said jem, regarding potts with a savage look. "no violence, jem," cried nicholas, authoritatively--"you do harm to the cause you would serve by your outrageous conduct." "beg pardon, squoire," replied jem, "boh ey winna hear lies towd abowt mistress nutter." "no one shan speak ill on her here," cried the hinds. "well, master nowell," said nicholas, "are you willing to concede the matter at once, or will you pursue the investigation further?" "i will ascertain the extent of the mischief done to me before i stop," rejoined the magistrate, angrily. "forward, then," cried nicholas. "our course now lies along this footpath, with a croft on the left, and an old barn on the right. here the plans correspond, i believe, master potts?" the attorney yielded a reluctant assent. "there is next a small spring and trough on the right, and we then come to a limestone quarry--then by a plantation called cat gallows wood--so named, because some troublesome mouser has been hanged there, i suppose, and next by a deep moss-pit, called swallow hole. all right, eh, master potts? we shall now enter upon worston moor, and come to the hut occupied by jem device, who can, it is presumed, speak positively as to its situation." "very true," cried potts, as if struck by an idea. "let the rascal step forward. i wish to put a few questions to him respecting his tenement. i think i shall catch him now," he added in a low tone to nowell. "here ey be," cried jem, stepping up with an insolent and defying look. "whot d'ye want wi' me?" "first of all i would caution you to speak the truth," commenced potts, impressively, "as i shall take down your answers in my memorandum book, and they will be produced against you hereafter." "if he utters a falsehood i will commit him," said roger nowell, sharply. "speak ceevily, an ey win gi' yo a ceevil answer," rejoined jem, in a surly tone; "boh ey'm nah to be browbeaten." "first, then, is your hut in sight?" asked potts. "neaw," replied jem. "but you can point out its situation, i suppose?" pursued the attorney. "sartinly ey con," replied jem, without heeding a significant glance cast at him by the reeve. "it stonds behind yon kloof, ot soide o' t' moor, wi' a rindle in front." "now mind what you say, sirrah," cried potts. "you are quite sure the hut is behind the clough; and the rindle, which, being interpreted from your base vernacular, i believe means a gutter, in front of it?" the reeve coughed slightly, but failed to attract jem's attention, who replied quickly, that he was quite sure of the circumstances. "very well," said potts--"you have all heard the answer. he is quite sure as to what he states. now, then, i suppose you can tell whether the hut looks to the north or the south; whether the door opens to the moor or to the clough; and whether there is a path leading from it to a spot called hook cliff?" at this moment jem caught the eye of the reeve, and the look given him by the latter completely puzzled him. "ey dunna reetly recollect which way it looks," he answered. "what! you prevaricating rascal, do you pretend to say that you do not know which way your own dwelling stands," thundered roger nowell. "speak out, sirrah, or sparshot shall take you into custody at once." "ey'm ready, your worship," replied the beadle. "weel, then," said jem, imperfectly comprehending the signs made to him by the reeve, "the hut looks nather to t' south naw to t' north, but to t' west; it feaces t' moor; an there is a path fro' it to hook cliff." as he finished speaking, he saw from the reeve's angry gestures that he had made a mistake, but it was now too late to recall his words. however, he determined to make an effort. "now ey bethink me, ey'm naw sure that ey'm reet," he said. "you must be sure, sirrah," said roger nowell, bending his awful brows upon him. "you cannot be mistaken as to your own dwelling. take down his description, master potts, and proceed with your interrogatories if you have any more to put to him." "i wish to ask him whether he has been at home to-day," said potts. "answer, fellow," thundered the magistrate. before replying, jem would fain have consulted the reeve, but the latter had turned away in displeasure. not knowing whether a lie would serve his turn, and fearing he might be contradicted by some of the bystanders, he said he had not been at home for two days, but had returned the night before at a late hour from whalley, and had slept at rough lee. "then you cannot tell what changes may have taken place in your dwelling during your absence?" said potts. "of course not," replied jem, "boh ey dunna see how ony chawnges con ha' happent i' so short a time." "but i do, if you do not, sirrah," said potts. "be pleased to give me your plan, master newell. i have a further question to ask him," he added, after consulting it for a moment. "ey win awnser nowt more," replied jem, gruffly. "you will answer whatever questions master potts may put to you, or you are taken into custody," said the magistrate, sternly. jem would have willingly beaten a retreat; but being surrounded by the two grooms and sparshot, who only waited a sign from nowell to secure him, or knock him down if he attempted to fly, he gave a surly intimation that he was ready to speak. "you are aware that a dyke intersects the heath before us, namely, worston moor?" said potts. jem nodded his head. "i must request particular attention to your plan as i proceed, master nicholas," pursued the attorney. "i now wish to be informed by you, james device, whether that dyke cuts through the middle of the moor, or traverses the side; and if so, which side? i desire also to be informed where it commences, and where, it ends?" jem scratched his head, and reflected a moment. "the matter does not require consideration, sirrah," cried nowell. "i must have an instant answer." "so yo shan," replied jem; "weel, then, th' dyke begins near a little mound ca'd turn heaod, about a hundert yards fro' my dwellin', an runs across th' easterly soide o't moor till it reaches knowl bottom." "you will swear this?" cried potts, scarcely able to conceal his satisfaction. "swere it! eigh," replied jem. "eigh, we'n aw swere it," chorused the hinds. "i'm delighted to hear it," cried potts, radiant with delight, "for your description corresponds exactly with master nowell's plan, and differs materially from that of mistress nutter, as squire nicholas assheton will tell you." "i cannot deny it," replied nicholas, in some confusion. "ey should ha' said 'westerly' i' stead o' 'yeasterly,'" cried jem, "boh yo puzzle a mon so wi' your lawyerly questins, that he dusna knoa his reet hond fro' his laft." "yeigh, yeigh, we aw meant to say 'yeasterly,'" added the hinds. "you have sworn the contrary," cried nowell. "secure him," he added to the grooms and sparshot, "and do not let him go till we have completed the survey. we will now see how far the reality corresponds with the description, and what further devilish tricks have been played with the property." upon this the troop was again put in motion, james device walking between the two grooms, with sparshot behind him. so wonderfully elated was master potts by the successful hit he had just made, and which, in his opinion, quite counterbalanced his previous failure, that he could not help communicating his satisfaction to flint, and this in such manner, that the fiery little animal, who had been for some time exceedingly tractable and good-natured, took umbrage at it, and threatened to dislodge him if he did not desist from his vagaries--delivering the hint so clearly and unmistakeably that it was not lost upon his rider, who endeavoured to calm him down. in proportion as the attorney's spirits rose, those of james device and his followers sank, for they felt they were caught in a snare, from which they could not easily escape. by this time they had reached the borders of worston moor, which had been hitherto concealed by a piece of rising ground, covered with gorse and brushwood, and jem's hut, together with the clough, the rindle, and the dyke, came distinctly into view. the plans were again produced, and, on comparing them, it appeared that the various landmarks were precisely situated as laid down by mistress nutter, while their disposition was entirely at variance with james device's statement. master potts then rose in his stirrups, and calling for silence, addressed the assemblage. "there stands the hut," he said, "and instead of being behind the clough, it is on one side of it, while the door certainly does _not_ face the moor, neither is the rindle in front of the dwelling or near it; while the dyke, which is the main and important boundary line between the properties, runs above two hundred yards further west than formerly. now, observe the original position of these marks, meres, and boundaries--that is, of this hut, this clough, this rindle, and this dyke--exactly corresponds with the description given of them by the man device, who dwells in the place, and who is, therefore, a person most likely to be accurately acquainted with the country; and yet, though he has only been absent two days, changes the most surprising have taken place--changes so surprising, indeed, that he scarcely knows the way to his own house, and certainly never could find the path which he has described as leading to hook cliff, since it is entirely obliterated. observe, further, all these extraordinary and incomprehensible changes in the appearance of the country, and in the situation of the marks, meres, and boundaries, are favourable to mistress nutter, and give her the advantage she seeks over my honoured and honourable client. they are set down in mistress nutter's plan, it is true; but when, let me ask, was that plan prepared? in my opinion it was prepared first, and the changes in the land made after it by diabolical fraud and contrivance. i am sorry to have to declare this to you, master nicholas, and to you, master richard, but such is my firm conviction." "and mine, also," added nowell; "and i here charge mistress nutter with sorcery and witchcraft, and on my return i will immediately issue a warrant for her arrest. sparshot, i command you to attach the person of james device, for aiding and abetting her in her foul practices." "i will help you to take charge of him," said the reeve, riding forward. probably this was done to give jem a chance of escape, and if so, it was successful, for as the reeve pushed among his captors, and thrust sparshot aside, the ruffian broke from them; and running with great swiftness across the moor, plunged into the clough, and disappeared. nicholas and richard instantly gave chase, as did master potts, but the fugitive led them over the treacherous bog in such a manner as to baffle all pursuit. a second disaster here overtook the unlucky attorney, and damped him in his hour of triumph. flint, who had apparently not forgotten or forgiven the joyous kicks he had recently received from the attorney's heels, came to a sudden halt by the side of the quagmire, and, putting down his head, and flinging up his legs, cast him into it. while potts was scrambling out, the animal galloped off in the direction of the clough, and had just reached it when he was seized upon by james device, who suddenly started from the covert, and vaulted upon his back. chapter viii.--rough lee. on returning from their unsuccessful pursuit of james device, the two asshetons found roger nowell haranguing the hinds, who, on the flight of their leader, would have taken to their heels likewise, if they had not been detained, partly by the energetic efforts of sparshot and the grooms, and partly by the exhortations and menaces of the magistrate and holden. as it was, two or three contrived to get away, and fled across the moor, whither the reeve pretended to pursue them; while those left behind were taken sharply to task by roger nowell. "listen to me," he cried, "and take good heed to what i say, for it concerns you nearly. strange and dreadful things have come under my observation on my way hither. i have seen a whole village stricken as by a plague--a poor pedlar deprived of the use of his limbs and put in peril of his life--and a young maiden, once the pride and ornament of your own village, snatched from a fond father's care, and borne to an untimely grave. these things i have seen with my own eyes; and i am resolved that the perpetrators of these enormities, mothers demdike and chattox, shall be brought to justice. as to you, the deluded victims of the impious hags, i can easily understand why you shut your eyes to their evil doings. terrified by their threats you submit to their exactions, and so become their slaves--slaves of the bond-slaves of satan. what miserable servitude is this! by so doing you not only endanger the welfare of your souls, by leaguing with the enemies of heaven, and render yourselves unworthy to be classed with a religious and christian people, but you place your lives in jeopardy by becoming accessories to the crimes of those great offenders, and render yourselves liable to like punishment with them. seeing, then, the imminency of the peril in which you stand, you will do well to avoid it while there is yet time. nor is this your only risk. your servitude to mistress nutter is equally perilous. what if she be owner of the land you till, and the flocks you tend! you owe her no fealty. she has forfeited all title to your service--and, so far from aiding her, you ought to regard her as a great criminal, whom you are bound to bring to justice. i have now incontestable proofs of her dealing in the black art, and can show that by witchcraft she has altered the face of this country, with the intent to rob me of my land." holden now took up the theme. "the finger of heaven is pointed against such robbery," he cried. "'cursed is he,' saith the scripture, 'that removeth his neighbour's landmark.' and again, it is written, 'cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour secretly.' both these things hath mistress nutter done, and for both shall she incur divine vengeance." "neither shall she escape that of man," added nowell, severely; "for our sovereign lord hath enacted that all persons employing or rewarding any evil spirit, shall be held guilty of felony, and shall suffer death. and death will be her portion, for such demoniacal agency most assuredly hath she employed." the magistrate here paused for a moment to regard his audience, and reading in their terrified looks that his address had produced the desired impression, he continued with increased severity-- "these wicked women shall trouble the land no longer. they shall be arrested and brought to judgment; and if you do not heartily bestir yourselves in their capture, and undertake to appear in evidence against them, you shall be held and dealt with as accessories in their crimes." upon this, the hinds, who were greatly alarmed, declared with one accord their willingness to act as the magistrate should direct. "you do wisely," cried potts, who by this time had made his way back to the assemblage, covered from head to foot with ooze, as on his former misadventure. "mistress nutter and the two old hags who hold you in thrall would lead you to destruction. for understand it is the firm determination of my respected client, master roger nowell, as well as of myself, not to relax in our exertions till the whole of these pestilent witches who trouble the country be swept away, and to spare none who assist and uphold them." the hinds stared aghast, for so grim was the appearance of the attorney, that they almost thought hobthurst, the lubber-fiend, was addressing them. at this moment old henry mitton came up. he had partially recovered from the stunning effects of the blow dealt him by james device, but his head was cut open, and his white locks were dabbled in blood. pushing his way through the assemblage, he stood before the magistrate. "if yo want a witness agen that foul murtheress and witch, alice nutter, ca' me, master roger nowell," he said. "ey con tay my bible oath that the whole feace o' this keawntry has been chaunged sin yester neet, by her hondywark. ca' me also to speak to her former life--to her intimacy wi' mother demdike an owd chattox. ca' me to prove her constant attendance at devils' sabbaths on pendle hill, and elsewhere, wi' other black and damning offences--an among 'em the murder, by witchcraft, o' her husband, ruchot nutter." a thrill of horror pervaded the assemblage at this denunciation; and master potts, who was being cleansed from his sable stains by one of the grooms, cried out-- "this is the very man for us, my excellent client. your name and abode, friend?" "harry mitton o' rough lee," replied the old man. "ey ha' dwelt there seventy year an uppards, an ha' known the feyther and granfeyther o' ruchot nutter, an also alice nutter, when hoo war alice assheton. ca' me, sir, an aw' ye want to knoa ye shan larn." "we will call you, my good friend," said potts; "and, if you have sustained any private wrongs from mistress nutter, they shall be amply redressed." "ey ha' endured much ot her honts," rejoined mitton; "boh ey dunna speak o' mysel'. it be high time that owd scrat should ha' his claws clipt, an honest folk be allowed to live in peace." "very true, my worthy friend--very true," assented potts. an immediate return to whalley was now proposed by nowell; but master potts was of opinion that, as they were in the neighbourhood of malkin tower, they should proceed thither at once, and effect the arrest of mother demdike, after which mother chattox could be sought out and secured. the presence of these two witches would be most important, he declared, in the examination of mistress nutter. hue and cry for the fugitive, james device, ought also to be made throughout the forest. confounded by what they heard, richard and nicholas had hitherto taken no part in the proceedings, but they now seconded master potts's proposition, hoping that the time occupied by the visit to malkin tower would prove serviceable to mistress nutter; for they did not doubt that intelligence would be conveyed to her by some of her agents, of nowell's intention to arrest her. additional encouragement was given to the plan by the arrival of richard baldwyn, who, at this juncture, rode furiously up to the party. "weel, han yo settled your business here, mester nowell?" he asked, in breathless anxiety. "we have so far settled it, that we have established proofs of witchcraft against mistress nutter," replied nowell. "can you speak to her character, baldwyn?" "yeigh, that ey con," rejoined the miller, "an nowt good. ey wish to see aw these mischeevous witches burnt; an that's why ey ha' ridden efter yo, mester nowell. ey want your help os a magistrate agen mother demdike. yo ha a constable wi' ye, and so can arrest her at wonst." "you have come most opportunely, baldwyn," observed potts. "we were just considering whether we should go to malkin tower." "then decide upon 't," rejoined the miller, "or th' owd hag win escape ye. tak her unaweares." "i don't know that we shall take her unawares, baldwyn," said potts; "but i am decidedly of opinion that we should go thither without delay. is malkin tower far off?" "about a mile fro' rough lee," replied the miller. "go back wi' me to t' mill, where yo con refresh yourselves, an ey'n get together some dozen o' my friends, an then we'n aw go up to t' tower together." "a very good suggestion," said potts; "and no doubt master nowell will accede to it." "we have force enough already, it appears to me," observed nowell. "i should think so," replied richard. "some dozen men, armed, against a poor defenceless old woman, are surely enough." "owd, boh neaw defenceless, mester ruchot," rejoined baldwyn. "yo canna go i' too great force on an expedition like this. malkin tower is a varry strong place, os yo'n find." "well," said nowell, "since we are here, i agree with master potts, that it would be better to secure these two offenders, and convey them to whalley, where their examination can be taken at the same time with that of mistress nutter. we therefore accept your offer of refreshment, baldwyn, as some of our party may stand in need of it, and will at once proceed to the mill." "well resolved, sir," said potts. "we'n tae th' owd witch, dead or alive," cried baldwyn. "alive--we must have her alive, good baldwyn," said potts. "you must see her perish at the stake." "reet, mon," cried the miller, his eyes blazing with fury; "that's true vengeance. ey'n ride whoam an get aw ready fo ye. yo knoa t' road." so saying, he struck spurs into his horse and galloped off. scarcely was he gone than the reeve, who had kept out of his sight, came forward. "since you have resolved upon going to malkin tower," he said to nowell, "and have a sufficiently numerous party for the purpose, my further attendance can be dispensed with. i will ride in search of james device." "do so," replied the magistrate, "and let hue and cry be made after him." "it shall be," replied the reeve, "and, if taken, he shall be conveyed to whalley." and he made towards the clough, as if with the intention of putting his words into execution. word was now given to set forward, and master potts having been accommodated with a horse by one of the grooms, who proceeded on foot, the party began to retrace their course to the mill. they were soon again by the side of pendle water, and erelong reached rough lee. as they rode through the close at the back of the mansion, roger nowell halted for a moment, and observed with a grim smile to richard-- "never more shall mistress nutter enter that house. within a week she shall be lodged in lancaster castle, as a felon of the darkest dye, and she shall meet a felon's fate. and not only shall she be sent thither, but all her partners in guilt--mother demdike and her accursed brood, the devices; old chattox and her grand-daughter, nance redferne: not one shall escape." "you do not include alizon device in your list?" cried richard. "i include all--i will spare none," rejoined nowell, sternly. "then i will move no further with you," said richard. "how!" cried newell, "are you an upholder of these witches? beware what you do, young man. beware how you take part with them. you will bring suspicion upon yourself, and get entangled in a net from which you will not easily escape." "i care not what may happen to me," rejoined richard; "i will never lend myself to gross injustice--such as you are about to practise. since you announce your intention of including the innocent with the guilty, of exterminating a whole family for the crimes of one or two of its members, i have done. you have made dark accusations against mistress nutter, but you have proved nothing. you assert that, by witchcraft, she has changed the features of your land, but in what way can you make good the charge? old mitton has, indeed, volunteered himself as a witness against her, and has accused her of most heinous offences; but he has at the same time shown that he is her enemy, and his testimony will be regarded with doubt. i will not believe her guilty on mere suspicion, and i deny that you have aught more to proceed upon." "i shall not argue the point with you now, sir," replied nowell; angrily. "mistress nutter will be fairly tried, and if i fail in my proofs against her, she will be acquitted. but i have little fear of such a result," he added, with a sinister smile. "you are confident, sir, because you know there would be every disposition to find her guilty," replied richard. "she will not be fairly tried. all the prejudices of ignorance and superstition, heightened by the published opinions of the king, will be arrayed against her. were she as free from crime, or thought of crime, as the new-born babe, once charged with the horrible and inexplicable offence of witchcraft, she would scarce escape. you go determined to destroy her." "i will not deny it," said roger newell, "and i am satisfied that i shall render good service to society by freeing it from so vile a member. so abhorrent is the crime of witchcraft, that were my own son suspected, i would be the first to deliver him to justice. like a noxious and poisonous plant, the offence has taken deep root in this country, and is spreading its baneful influence around, so that, if it be not extirpated, it may spring up anew, and cause incalculable mischief. but it shall now be effectually checked. of the families i have mentioned, not one shall escape; and if mistress nutter herself had a daughter, she should be brought to judgment. in such cases, children must suffer for the sins of the parents." "you have no regard, then, for their innocence?" said richard, who felt as if a weight of calamity was crushing him down. "their innocence must be proved at the proper tribunal," rejoined nowell. "it is not for me to judge them." "but you do judge them," cried richard, sharply. "in making the charge, you know that you pronounce the sentence of condemnation as well. this is why the humane man--why the just--would hesitate to bring an accusation even where he suspected guilt--but where suspicion could not possibly attach, he would never suffer himself, however urged on by feelings of animosity, to injure the innocent." "you ascribe most unworthy motives to me, young sir," rejoined nowell, sternly. "i am influenced only by a desire to see justice administered, and i shall not swerve from my duty, because my humanity may be called in question by a love-sick boy. i understand why you plead thus warmly for these infamous persons. you are enthralled by the beauty of the young witch, alizon device. i noted how you were struck by her yesterday--and i heard what sir thomas metcalfe said on the subject. but take heed what you do. you may jeopardise both soul and body in the indulgence of this fatal passion. witchcraft is exercised in many ways. its professors have not only power to maim and to kill, and to do other active mischief, but to ensnare the affections and endanger the souls of their victims, by enticing them to unhallowed love. alizon device is comely to view, no doubt, but who shall say whence her beauty is derived? hell may have arrayed her in its fatal charms. sin is beautiful, but all-destructive. and the time will come when you may thank me for delivering you from the snares of this seductive siren." richard uttered an angry exclamation. "not now--i do not expect it--you are too much besotted by her," pursued nowell; "but i conjure you to cast off this wicked and senseless passion, which, unless checked, will lead you to perdition. you have heard what abominable rites are practised at those unholy meetings called devil's sabbaths, and how can you say that some demon may not be your rival in alizon's love?" "you pass all licence, sir," cried richard, infuriated past endurance; "and, if you do not instantly retract the infamous accusation you have made, neither your age nor your office shall protect you." "i can fortunately protect myself, young man," replied nowell, coldly; "and if aught were wanting to confirm my suspicions that you were under some evil influence, it would be supplied by your present conduct. you are bewitched by this girl." "it is false!" cried richard. and he raised his hand against the magistrate, when nicholas quickly interposed. "nay, cousin dick," cried the squire, "this must not be. you must take other means of defending the poor girl, whose innocence i will maintain as stoutly as yourself. but, since master roger nowell is resolved to proceed to extremities, i shall likewise take leave to retire." "your pardon, sir," rejoined nowell; "you will not withdraw till i think fit. master richard assheton, forgetful alike of the respect due to age and constituted authority, has ventured to raise his hand against me, for which, if i chose, i could place him in immediate arrest. but i have no such intention. on the contrary, i am willing to overlook the insult, attributing it to the frenzy by which he is possessed. but both he and you, master nicholas, are mistaken if you suppose i will permit you to retire. as a magistrate in the exercise of my office, i call upon you both to aid me in the capture of the two notorious witches, mothers demdike and chattox, and not to desist or depart from me till such capture be effected. you know the penalty of refusal." "heavy fine or imprisonment, at the option of the magistrate," remarked potts. "my cousin nicholas will do as he pleases," observed richard; "but, for my part, i will not stir a step further." "nor will i," added nicholas, "unless i have master nowell's solemn pledge that he will take no proceedings against alizon device." "you can give no such assurance, sir," whispered potts, seeing that the magistrate wavered in his resolution. "you must go, then," said nowell, "and take the consequences of your refusal to act with me. your relationship to mistress nutter will not tell in your favour." "i understand the implied threat," said nicholas, "and laugh at it. richard, lad, i am with you. let him catch the witches himself, if he can. i will not budge an inch further with him." "farewell, then, gentlemen," replied roger nowell; "i am sorry to part company with you thus, but when next we meet--" and he paused. "we meet as enemies, i presume" supplied nicholas. "we meet no longer as friends," rejoined the magistrate, coldly. with this he moved forward with the rest of the troop, while the two asshetons, after a moment's consultation, passed through a gate and made their way to the back of the mansion, where they found one or two men on the look-out, from whom they received intelligence, which induced them immediately to spring from their horses and hurry into the house. arrived at the principal entrance of the mansion, which was formed by large gates of open iron-work, admitting a view of the garden and front of the house, roger nowell again called a halt, and master potts, at his request, addressed the porter and two other serving-men who were standing in the garden, in this fashion-- "pay attention to what i say to you, my men," he cried in a loud and authoritative voice--"a warrant will this day be issued for the arrest of alice nutter of rough lee, in whose service you have hitherto dwelt, and who is charged with the dreadful crime of witchcraft, and with invoking, consulting, and covenanting with, entertaining, employing, feeding, and rewarding evil spirits, contrary to the laws of god and man, and in express violation of his majesty's statute. now take notice, that if the said alice nutter shall at any time hereafter return to this her former abode, or take refuge within it, you are hereby bound to deliver her up forthwith to the nearest constable, to be by him brought before the worshipful master roger nowell of read, in this county, so that she may be examined by him on these charges. you hear what i have said?" the men exchanged significant glances, but made no reply. potts was about to address them, but to his surprise he saw the central door of the house thrown open, and mistress nutter issue from it. she marched slowly and majestically down the broad gravel walk towards the gate. the attorney could scarcely believe his eyes, and he exclaimed to the magistrate with a chuckle-- "who would have thought of this! we have her safe enough now. ha! ha!" but no corresponding smile played upon nowell's hard lips. his gaze was fixed inquiringly upon the lady. another surprise. from the same door issued alizon device, escorted by nicholas and richard assheton, who walked on either side of her, and the three followed mistress nutter slowly down the broad walk. such a display seemed to argue no want of confidence. alizon did not look towards the group outside the gates, but seemed listening eagerly to what richard was saying to her. "so, master nowell," cried mistress nutter, boldly, "since you find yourself defeated in the claims you have made against my property, you are seeking to revenge yourself, i understand, by bringing charges against me as false as they are calumnious. but i defy your malice, and can defend myself against your violence." "if i could be astonished at any thing in you, madam, i should be at your audacity," rejoined nowell, "but i am glad that you have presented yourself before me; for it was my fixed intention, on my return to whalley, to cause your arrest, and your unexpected appearance here enables me to put my design into execution somewhat sooner than i anticipated." mistress nutter laughed scornfully. "sparshot," vociferated nowell, "enter those gates, and arrest the lady in the king's name." the beadle looked irresolute. he did not like the task. "the gates are fastened," cried mistress nutter. "force them open, then," roared nowell, dismounting and shaking them furiously. "bring me a heavy stone. by heaven i i will not be baulked of my prey." "my servants are armed," cried mistress nutter, "and the first man who enters shall pay the penalty of has rashness with life. bring me a petronel, blackadder." the order was promptly obeyed by the ill-favoured attendant, who was stationed near the gate. "i am in earnest," said mistress nutter, aiming the petronel, "and seldom miss my mark." "give attention to me, my men," cried roger nowell. "i charge you in the king's name to throw open the gate." "and i charge you in mine to keep it fast," rejoined mistress nutter. "we shall see who will be obeyed." one of the grooms now advanced with a large stone taken from an adjoining wall, which he threw with great force against the gates, but though it shook them violently the fastenings continued firm. blackadder and the two other serving-men, all of whom were armed with halberts, now advanced to the gates, and, thrusting the points of their weapons through the bars, drove back those who were near them. a short consultation now took place between nowell and potts, after which the latter, taking care to keep out of the reach of the halberts, thus delivered himself in a loud voice:-- "alice nutter, in order to avoid the serious consequences which might ensue were the necessary measures taken to effect a forcible entrance into your habitation, the worshipful master nowell has thought fit to grant you an hour's respite for reflection; at the expiration of which time he trusts that you, seeing the futility of resisting the law, will quietly yield yourself a prisoner. otherwise, no further leniency will be shown you and those who may uphold you in your contumacy." mistress nutter laughed loudly and contemptuously. "at the same time," pursued potts, on a suggestion from the magistrate, "master roger nowell demands that alizon device, daughter of elizabeth device, whom he beholds in your company, and who is likewise suspected of witchcraft, be likewised delivered up to him." "aught more?" inquired mistress nutter. "only this," replied potts, in a taunting tone, "the worshipful magistrate would offer a friendly counsel to master nicholas assheton, and master richard assheton, whom, to his infinite surprise, he perceives in a hostile position before him, that they in nowise interfere with his injunctions, but, on the contrary, lend their aid in furtherance of them, otherwise he may be compelled to adopt measures towards them, which must be a source of regret to him. i have furthermore to state, on the part of his worship, that strict watch will be kept at all the approaches of your house, and that no one, on any pretence whatever, during the appointed time of respite, will be suffered to enter it, or depart from it. in an hour his worship will return." "and in an hour he shall have my answer," replied mistress nutter, turning away. chapter ix.--how rough lee was defended by nicholas. when skies are darkest, and storms are gathering thickest overhead, the star of love will oft shine out with greatest brilliancy; and so, while mistress nutter was hurling defiance against her foes at the gate, and laughing their menaces to scorn--while those very foes were threatening alizon's liberty and life--she had become wholly insensible to the peril environing her, and almost unconscious of any other presence save that of richard, now her avowed lover; for, impelled by the irresistible violence of his feelings, the young man had chosen that moment, apparently so unpropitious, and so fraught with danger and alarm, for the declaration of his passion, and the offer of his life in her service. a few low-murmured words were all alizon could utter in reply, but they were enough. they told richard his passion was requited, and his devotion fully appreciated. sweet were those moments to both--sweet, though sad. like alizon, her lover had become insensible to all around him. engrossed by one thought and one object, he was lost to aught else, and was only at last aroused to what was passing by the squire, who, having good-naturedly removed to a little distance from the pair, now gave utterance to a low whistle, to let them know that mistress nutter was coming towards them. the lady, however, did not stop, but motioning them to follow, entered the house. "you have heard what has passed," she said. "in an hour master nowell threatens to return and arrest me and alizon." "that shall never be," cried richard, with a passionate look at the young girl. "we will defend you with our lives." "much may be done in an hour," observed nicholas to mistress nutter, "and my advice to you is to use the time allowed you in making good your retreat, so that, when the hawks come back, they may find the doves flown." "i have no intention of quitting my dovecot," replied mistress nutter, with a bitter smile. "unless you are forcibly taken from it, i suppose," said the squire; "a contingency not impossible if you await roger nowell's return. this time, be assured, he will not go away empty-handed." "he may not go away at all," rejoined mistress nutter, sternly. "then you mean to make a determined resistance?" said nicholas. "recollect that you are resisting the law. i wish i could induce you to resort to the safer expedient of flight. this affair is already dark and perplexed enough, and does not require further complication. find any place of concealment, no matter where, till some arrangement can be made with roger nowell." "i should rather urge you to fly, nicholas," rejoined the lady; "for it is evident you have strong misgivings as to the justice of my cause, and would not willingly compromise yourself. i will not surrender to this magistrate, because, by so doing, my life would assuredly be forfeited, for my innocence could never be established before the iniquitous and bloody tribunal to which i should be brought. neither, for the same reason, will i surrender alizon, who, with a refinement of malignity, has been similarly accused. i shall now proceed to make preparations for my defence. go, if you think fitting--or stay--but if you _do_ stay, i shall calculate upon your active services." "you may," replied the squire. "whatever i may think, i admire your spirit, and will stand by you. but time is passing, and the foe will return and find us engaged in deliberation when we ought to be prepared. you have a dozen men on the premises on whom you can rely. half of these must be placed at the back of the house to prevent any entrance from being effected in that quarter. the rest can remain within the entrance hall, and be ready to rush forth when summoned by us; but we will not so summon them unless we are hardly put to it, and their aid is indispensable. all should be well armed, but i trust they will not have to use their weapons. are you agreed to this, madam?" "i am," replied mistress nutter, "and i will give instant directions that your wishes are complied with. all approaches to the back of the house shall be strictly guarded as you direct, and my trusty man, blackadder, on whose fidelity and courage i can entirely rely, shall take the command of the party in the hall, and act under your orders. your prowess will not be unobserved, for alizon and i shall be in the upper room commanding the garden, whence we can see all that takes place." a slight smile was exchanged between the lovers; but it was evident, from her anxious looks, that alizon did not share in richard's confidence. an opportunity, however, was presently afforded him of again endeavouring to reassure her, for mistress nutter went forth to give blackadder his orders, and nicholas betook himself to the back of the house to ascertain, from personal inspection, its chance of security. "you are still uneasy, dear alizon," said richard, taking her hand; "but do not be cast down. no harm shall befall you." "it is not for myself i am apprehensive," she replied, "but for you, who are about to expose yourself to needless risk in this encounter; and, if any thing should happen to you, i shall be for ever wretched. i would far rather you left me to my fate." "and can you think i would allow you to be borne away a captive to ignominy and certain destruction?" cried richard. "no, i will shed my heart's best blood before such a calamity shall occur." "alas!" said alizon, "i have no means of requiting your devotion. all i can offer you in return is my love, and that, i fear, will prove fatal to you." "oh! do not say so," cried richard. "why should this sad presentiment still haunt you? i strove to chase it away just now, and hoped i had succeeded. you are dearer to me than life. why, therefore, should i not risk it in your defence? and why should your love prove fatal to me?" "i know not," replied alizon, in a tone of deepest anguish, "but i feel as if my destiny were evil; and that, against my will, i shall drag those i most love on earth into the same dark gulf with myself. i have the greatest affection for your sister dorothy, and yet i have been the unconscious instrument of injury to her. and you too, richard, who are yet dearer to me, are now put in peril on my account. i fear, too, when you know my whole history, you will think of me as a thing of evil, and shun me." "what mean you, alizon?" he cried. "richard, i can have no secrets from you," she replied; "and though i was forbidden to tell you what i am now about to disclose, i will not withhold it. i was born in this house, and am the daughter of its mistress." "you tell me only what i guessed, alizon," rejoined the young man; "but i see nothing in this why i should shun you." alizon hid her face for a moment in her hands; and then looking up, said wildly and hurriedly, "would i had never known the secret of my birth; or, knowing it, had never seen what i beheld last night!" "what did you behold?" asked richard, greatly agitated. "enough to convince me, that in gaining a mother i was lost myself," replied alizon; "for oh! how can i survive the shock of telling you i am bound, by ties that can never be dissevered, to one abandoned alike of god and man--who has devoted herself to the fiend! pity me, richard--pity me, and shun me!" there was a moment's dreadful pause, which the young man was unable to break. "was i not right in saying my love would be fatal to you?" continued alizon. "fly from me while you can, richard. fly from this house, or you are lost for ever!" "never, never! i will not stir without you," cried richard. "come with me, and escape all the dangers by which you are menaced, and leave your sinning parent to the doom she so richly merits." "no, no; sinful though she be, she is still my mother. i cannot leave her," cried alizon. "if you stay, i stay, be the consequences what they may," replied the young man; "but you have rendered my arm powerless by what you have told me. how can i defend one whom i know to be guilty?" "therefore i urge you to fly," she rejoined. "i can reconcile myself to it thus," said richard--"in defending you, whom i know to be innocent, i cannot avoid defending her. the plea is not a good one, but it will suffice to allay my scruples of conscience." at this moment mistress nutter entered the hall, followed by blackadder and three other men, armed with calivers. "all is ready, richard," she said, "and it wants but a few minutes of the appointed time. perhaps you shrink from the task you have undertaken?" she added, regarding him sharply; "if so, say so at once, and i will adopt my own line of defence." "nay, i shall be ready to go forth in a moment," rejoined the young man, glancing at alizon. "where is nicholas?" "here," replied the squire, clapping him on the shoulder. "all is secure at the back of the house, and the horses are coming round. we must mount at once." richard arose without a word. "blackadder will attend to your orders," said mistress nutter; "he only waits a sign from you to issue forth with his three companions, or to fire through the windows upon the aggressors, if you see occasion for it." "i trust it will not come to such a pass," rejoined the squire; "a few blows from these weapons will convince them we are in earnest, and will, i hope, save further trouble." and as he spoke he took down a couple of stout staves, and gave one of them to richard. "farewell, then, _preux chevaliers_" cried mistress nutter, with affected gaiety; "demean yourselves valiantly, and remember that bright eyes will be upon you. now, alizon, to our chamber." richard did not hazard a look at the young girl as she quitted the hall with her mother, but followed the squire mechanically into the garden, where they found the horses. scarcely were they mounted than a loud hubbub, arising from the little village, proclaimed that their opponents had arrived, and presently after a large company of horse and foot appeared at the gate. at sight of the large force brought against them, the countenance of the squire lost its confident and jovial expression. pie counted nearly forty men, each of whom was armed in some way or other, and began to fear the affair would terminate awkwardly, and entail unpleasant consequences upon himself and his cousin. he was, therefore, by no means at his ease. as to richard, he did not dare to ask himself how things would end, neither did he know how to act. his mind was in utter confusion, and his breast oppressed as if by a nightmare. he cast one look towards the upper window, and beheld at it the white face of mistress nutter, intently gazing at what was going forward, but alizon was not to be seen. within the last half hour the sky had darkened, and a heavy cloud hung over the house, threatening a storm. richard hoped it would come on fiercely and fast. meanwhile, roger newell had dismounted and advanced to the gate. "gentlemen," he cried, addressing the two asshetons, "i expected to find free access given to me and my followers; but as these gates are still barred against me, i call upon you, as loyal subjects of the king, not to resist or impede the course of law, but to throw them instantly open." "you must unbar them yourself, master nowell," replied nicholas. "we shall give you no help." "nor offer any opposition, i hope, sir?" said the magistrate, sternly. "you are twenty to one, or thereabout," returned the squire, with a laugh; "we shall stand a poor chance with you." "but other defensive and offensive preparations have been made, i doubt not," said nowell; "nay, i descry some armed men through the windows of the hall. before coming to extremities, i will make a last appeal to you and your kinsman. i have granted mistress nutter and the girl with her an hour's delay, in the hope that, seeing the futility of resistance, they would quietly surrender. but i find my clemency thrown away, and undue advantage taken of the time allowed for respite; therefore, i shall show them no further consideration. but to you, my friends, i would offer a last warning. forget not that you are acting in direct opposition to the law; that we are here armed with full authority and power to carry out our intentions; and that all opposition on your part will be fruitless, and will be visited upon you hereafter with severe pains and penalties. forget not, also, that your characters will be irrecoverably damaged from your connexion with parties charged with the heinous offence of witchcraft. meddle not, therefore, in the matter, but go your ways, or, if you would act as best becomes you, aid me in the arrest of the offenders." "master roger nowell," replied nicholas, walking his horse slowly towards the gate, "as you have given me a caution, i will give you one in return; and that is, to put a bridle on your tongue when you address gentlemen, or, by my fay, you are likely to get answers little to your taste. you have said that our characters are likely to suffer in this transaction, but, in my humble opinion, they will not suffer so much as your own. the magistrate who uses the arm of the law for purposes of private vengeance, and who brings a false and foul charge against his enemy, knowing that it cannot be repelled, is not entitled to any particular respect or honour. thus have you acted towards mistress nutter. defeated by her in the boundary question, without leaving its decision to those to whom you had referred it, you instantly accuse her of witchcraft, and seek to destroy her, as well as an innocent and unoffending girl, by whom she is attended. is such conduct worthy of you, or likely to redound to your credit? i think not. but this is not all. aided by your crafty and unscrupulous ally, master potts, you get together a number of mistress nutter's tenants, and, by threats and misrepresentations, induce them to become instruments of your vengeance. but when these misguided men come to know the truth of the case--when they learn that you have no proofs whatever against mistress nutter, and that you are influenced solely by animosity to her, they are quite as likely to desert you as to stand by you. at all events, we are determined to resist this unjust arrest, and, at the hazard of our lives, to oppose your entrance into the house." nowell and potts were greatly exasperated by this speech, but they were little prepared for its consequences. many of those who had been induced to accompany them, as has been shown, wavered in their resolution of acting against mistress nutter, but they now began to declare in her favour. in vain potts repeated all his former arguments. they were no longer of any avail. of the troop assembled at the gate more than half marched off, and shaped their course towards the rear of the house--with what intention it was easy to surmise--while of those who remained it was very doubtful whether the whole of them would act. the result of his oration was quite as surprising to nicholas as to his opponents, and, enchanted by the effect of his eloquence, he could not help glancing up at the window, where he perceived mistress nutter, whose smiles showed that she was equally well pleased. seeing that, if any further desertions took place, his chances would be at an end, with a menacing gesture at the squire, roger nowell ordered the attack to commence immediately. while some of his men, amongst whom were baldwyn and old mitton, battered against the gate with stones, another party, headed by potts, scaled the walls, which, though of considerable height, presented no very serious obstacles in the way of active assailants. elevated on the shoulders of sparshot, potts was soon on the summit of the wall, and was about to drop into the garden, when he heard a sound that caused him to suspend his intention. "what are you about to do, cousin nicholas?" inquired richard, as the word of assault was given by the magistrate. "let loose mistress nutter's stag-hounds upon them," replied the squire. "they are kept in leash by a varlet stationed behind yon yew-tree hedge, who only awaits my signal to let them slip; and by my faith it is time he had it." as he spoke, he applied a dog-whistle to his lips, and, blowing a loud call, it was immediately answered by a savage barking, and half a dozen hounds, rough-haired, of prodigious size and power, resembling in make, colour, and ferocity, the irish wolf-hound bounded towards him. "aha!" exclaimed nicholas, clapping his hands to encourage them: "we could have dispersed the whole rout with these assistants. hyke, tristam!--hyke, hubert! upon them!--upon them!" it was the savage barking of the hounds that had caught the ears of the alarmed attorney, and made him desirous to scramble back again. but this was no such easy matter. sparshot's broad shoulders were wanting to place his feet upon, and while he was bruising his knees against the roughened sides of the wall in vain attempts to raise himself to the top of it unaided, hubert's sharp teeth met in the calf of his leg, while those of tristam were fixed in the skirts of his doublet, and penetrated deeply into the flesh that filled it. a terrific yell proclaimed the attorney's anguish and alarm, and he redoubled his efforts to escape. but, if before it was difficult to get up, the feat was now impossible. all he could do was to cling with desperate tenacity to the coping of the wall, for he made no doubt, if dragged down, he should be torn in pieces. roaring lustily for help, he besought nicholas to have compassion upon him; but the squire appeared little moved by his distress, and laughed heartily at his yells and vociferations. "you will not come again on a like errand, in a hurry, i fancy master potts," he said. "i will not, good master nicholas," rejoined potts; "for pity's sake call off these infernal hounds. they will rend me asunder as they would a fox." "you were a cunning fox, in good sooth, to come hither," rejoined nicholas, in a taunting tone; "but will you go hence if i liberate you?" "i will--indeed i will!" replied potts. "and will no more molest mistress nutter?" thundered nicholas. "take heed what you promise," roared nowell from the other side of the wall. "if you do _not_ promise it, the hounds shall pull you down, and make a meal of you!" cried nicholas. "i do--i swear--whatever you desire!" cried the terrified attorney. the hounds were then called off by the squire, and, nerved by fright, potts sprang upon the wall, and tumbled over it upon the other side, alighting upon the head of his respected and singular good client, whom he brought to the ground. meanwhile, all those unlucky persons who had succeeded in scaling the wall were attacked by the hounds, and, unable to stand against them, were chased round the garden, to the infinite amusement of the squire. frightened to death, and unable otherwise to escape, for the gate allowed them no means of exit, the poor wretches fled towards the terrace overlooking pendle water, and, leaping into the stream, gained the opposite bank. there they were safe, for the hounds were not allowed to follow them further. in this way the garden was completely cleared of the enemy, and nicholas and richard were left masters of the field. leaning out of the window, mistress nutter laughingly congratulated them on their success, and, as no further disposition was manifested on the part of nowell and such of his troop that remained to renew the attack, the contest, for the present at least, was supposed to be at an end. by this time, also, intimation had been conveyed by the deserters from nowell's troop, who, it will be remembered, had made their way to the back of the premises, that they were anxious to offer their services to mistress nutter; and, as soon as this was told her, she ordered them to be admitted, and descended to give them welcome. thus things wore a promising aspect for the besieged, while the assailing party were proportionately disheartened. long ere this, baldwyn and old mitton had desisted from their attempts to break open the gate, and, indeed, rejoiced that such a barrier was interposed between them and the hounds, whose furious onslaughts they witnessed. a bolt was launched against these four-footed guardians of the premises by the bearer of the crossbow, but the man proved but an indifferent marksman, for, instead of hitting the hound, he disabled one of his companions who was battling with him. finding things in this state, and that neither nowell nor potts returned to their charge, while their followers were withdrawn from before the gate, nicholas thought he might fairly infer that a victory had been obtained. but, like a prudent leader, he did not choose to expose himself till the enemy had absolutely yielded, and he therefore signed to blackadder and his men to come forth from the hall. the order was obeyed, not only by them, but by the seceders from the hostile troop, and some thirty men issued from the principal door, and, ranging themselves upon the lawn, set up a deafening and triumphant shout, very different from that raised by the same individuals when under the command of nowell. at the same moment mistress nutter and alizon appeared at the door, and at the sight of them the shouting was renewed. the unexpected turn in affairs had not been without its effect upon richard and alizon, and tended to revive the spirits of both. the immediate danger by which they were threatened had vanished, and time was given for the consideration of new plans. richard had been firmly resolved to take no further part in the affray than should be required for the protection of alizon, and, consequently, it was no little satisfaction to him to reflect that the victory had been accomplished without him, and by means which could not afterwards be questioned. meanwhile, mistress nutter had joined nicholas, and the gates being unbarred by blackadder, they passed through them. at a little distance stood roger nowell, now altogether abandoned, except by his own immediate followers, with baldwyn and old mitton. poor potts was lying on the ground, piteously bemoaning the lacerations his skin had undergone. "well, you have got the worst of it, master nowell," said nicholas, as he and mistress nutter approached the discomfited magistrate, "and must own yourself fairly defeated." "defeated as i am, i would rather be in my place than in yours, sir," retorted nowell, sourly. "you have had a wholesome lesson read you, master nowell," said mistress nutter; "but i do not come hither to taunt you. i am quite satisfied with the victory i have obtained, and am anxious to put an end to the misunderstanding between us." "i have no misunderstanding with you, madam," replied nowell; "i do not quarrel with persons like you. but be assured, though you may escape now, a day of reckoning will come." "your chief cause of grievance against me, i am aware," replied mistress nutter, calmly, "is, that i have beaten you in the matter of the land. now, i have a proposal to make to you respecting it." "i cannot listen to it," rejoined nowell, sternly; "i can have no dealings with a witch." at this moment his cloak was plucked behind by potts, who looked at him as much as to say, "do not exasperate her. hear what she has got to offer." "i shall be happy to act as mediator between you, if possible," observed nicholas; "but in that case i must request you, master nowell, to abstain from any offensive language." "what is it you have to propose to me, then, madam!" demanded the magistrate, gruffly. "come with me into the house, and you shall hear," replied mistress nutter. nowell was about to refuse peremptorily, when his cloak was again plucked by potts, who whispered him to go. "this is not a snare laid to entrap me, madam?" he said, regarding the lady suspiciously. "i will answer for her good faith," interposed nicholas. nowell still hesitated, but the counsel of his legal adviser was enforced by a heavy shower of rain, which just then began to descend upon them. "you can take shelter beneath my roof," said mistress nutter; "and before the shower is over we can settle the matter." "and my wounds can be dressed at the same time," said potts, with a groan, "for they pain me sorely." "blackadder has a sovereign balsam, which, with a patch or two of diachylon, will make all right," replied nicholas, unable to repress a laugh. "here, lift him up between you," he added to the grooms, "and convey him into the house." the orders were obeyed, and mistress nutter led the way through the now wide-opened gates; her slow and majestic march by no means accelerated by the drenching shower. what roger nowell's sensations were at following her in such a way, after his previous threats and boastings, may be easily conceived. chapter x.--roger nowell and his double. the magistrate was ushered by the lady into a small chamber, opening out of the entrance-hall, which, in consequence of having only one small narrow window, with a clipped yew-tree before it, was extremely dark and gloomy. the walls were covered with sombre tapestry, and on entering, mistress nutter not only carefully closed the door, but drew the arras before it, so as to prevent the possibility of their conversation being heard outside. these precautions taken, she motioned the magistrate to a chair, and seated herself opposite him. "we can now deal unreservedly with each other, master nowell," she said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him; "and, as our discourse cannot be overheard and repeated, may use perfect freedom of speech." "i am glad of it," replied nowell, "because it will save circumlocution, which i dislike; and therefore, before proceeding further, i must tell you, directly and distinctly, that if there be aught of witchcraft in what you are about to propose to me, i will have nought to do with it, and our conference may as well never begin." "then you really believe me to be a witch?" said the lady. "i do," replied nowell, unflinchingly. "since you believe this, you must also believe that i have absolute power over you," rejoined mistress nutter, "and might strike you with sickness, cripple you, or kill you if i thought fit." "i know not that," returned nowell. "there are limits even to the power of evil beings; and your charms and enchantments, however strong and baneful, may be wholly inoperative against a magistrate in the discharge of his duty. if it were not so, you would scarcely think it worth while to treat with me." "humph!" exclaimed the lady. "now, tell me frankly, what you will do when you depart hence?" "ride off with the utmost speed to whalley," replied nowell, "and, acquainting sir ralph with all that has occurred, claim his assistance; and then, with all the force we can jointly muster, return hither, and finish the work i have left undone." "you will forego this intention," said mistress nutter, with a bitter smile. the magistrate shook his head. "i am not easily turned from my purpose," he remarked. "but you have not yet quitted rough lee," said the lady, "and after such an announcement i shall scarce think of parting with you." "you dare not detain me," replied nowell. "i have nicholas assheton's word for my security, and i know he will not break it. besides, you will gain nothing by my detention. my absence will soon be discovered, and if living i shall be set free; if dead, avenged." "that may, or may not be," replied mistress nutter; "and in any case i can, if i choose, wreak my vengeance upon you. i am glad to have ascertained your intentions, for i now know how to treat with you. you shall not go hence, except on certain conditions. you have said you will proclaim me a witch, and will come back with sufficient force to accomplish my arrest. instead of doing this, i advise you to return to sir ralph assheton, and admit to him that you find yourself in error in respect to the boundaries of the land--" "never," interrupted nowell. "i advise you to do this," pursued the lady, calmly, "and i advise you, also, on quitting this room, to retract all you have uttered to my prejudice, in the presence of nicholas assheton and other credible witnesses; in which case i will not only lay aside all feelings of animosity towards you, but will make over to you the whole of the land under dispute, and that without purchase money on your part." roger nowell was of an avaricious nature, and caught at the bait. "how, madam!" he cried, "the whole of the land mine without payment?" "the whole," she replied. "if she should be arraigned and convicted it will be forfeited to the crown," thought nowell; "the offer is tempting." "your attorney is here, and can prepare the conveyance at once," pursued mistress nutter; "a sum can be stated to lend a colour to the proceeding, and i will give you a private memorandum that i will not claim it. all i require is, that you clear me completely from the dark aspersions cast upon my character, and you abandon your projects against my adopted daughter, alizon, as well as against those two poor old women, mothers demdike and chattox." "how can i be sure that i shall not be deluded in the matter?" asked nowell; "the writing may disappear from the parchment you give me, or the parchment itself may turn to ashes. such things have occurred in transactions with witches. or it be that, by consenting to the compact, i may imperil my own soul." "tush!" exclaimed mistress nutter; "these are idle fears. but it is no idle threat on my part, when i tell you you shall not go forth unless you consent." "you cannot hinder me, woman," cried nowell, rising. "you shall see," rejoined the lady, making two or three rapid passes before him, which instantly stiffened his limbs, and deprived him of the power of motion. "now, stir if you can," she added with a laugh. nowell essayed to cry out, but his tongue refused its office. hearing and sight, however, were left him, and he saw mistress nutter take a large volume, bound in black, from the shelf, and open it at a page covered with cabalistic characters, after which she pronounced some words that sounded like an invocation. as she concluded, the tapestry against the wall was raised, and from behind it appeared a figure in all respects resembling the magistrate: it had the same sharp features, the same keen eyes and bushy eyebrows, the same stoop in the shoulders, the same habiliments. it was, in short, his double. mistress nutter regarded him with a look of triumph. "since you refuse, with my injunctions," she said, "your double will prove more tractable. he will go forth and do all i would have you do, while i have but to stamp upon the floor and a dungeon will yawn beneath your feet, where you will lie immured till doomsday. the same fate will attend your crafty associate, master potts--so that neither of you will be missed--ha! ha!" the unfortunate magistrate fully comprehended his danger, but he could now neither offer remonstrance nor entreaty. what was passing in his breast seemed known to mistress nutter; for she motioned the double to stay, and, touching the brow of nowell with the point of her forefinger, instantly restored his power of speech. "i will give you a last chance," she said. "will you obey me now?" "i must, perforce," replied nowell: "the contest is too unequal." "you may retire, then," she cried to the double. and stepping backwards, the figure lifted up the tapestry, and disappeared behind it. "i can breathe, now that infernal being is gone," cried nowell, sinking into the chair. "oh! madam, you have indeed terrible power." "you will do well not to brave it again," she rejoined. "shall i summon master potts to prepare the conveyance?" "oh! no--no!" cried nowell. "i do not desire the land. i will not have it. i shall pay too dearly for it. only let me get out of this horrible place?" "not so quickly, sir," rejoined mistress nutter. "before you go hence, i must bind you to the performance of my injunctions. pronounce these words after me,--'may i become subject to the fiend if i fail in my promise.'" "i will never utter them!" cried nowell, shuddering. "then i shall recall your double," said the lady. "hold, hold!" exclaimed nowell. "let me know what you require of me." "i require absolute silence on your part, as to all you have seen and heard here, and cessation of hostility towards me and the persons i have already named," replied mistress nutter; "and i require a declaration from you, in the presence of the two asshetons, that you are fully satisfied of the justice of my claims in respect to the land; and that, mortified by your defeat, you have brought a false charge against me, which you now sincerely regret. this i require from you; and you must ratify the promise by the abjuration i have proposed. 'may i become subject to the fiend if i fail in my promise.'" the magistrate repeated the words after her. as he finished, mocking laughter, apparently resounding from below, smote his ears. "enough!" cried mistress nutter, triumphantly; "and now take good heed that you swerve not in the slightest degree from your word, or you are for ever lost." again the mocking laughter was heard, and nowell would have rushed forth, if mistress nutter had not withheld him. "stay!" she cried, "i have not done with you yet! my witnesses must hear your declaration. remember!" and placing her finger upon her lips, in token of silence, she stepped backwards, drew aside the tapestry, and, opening the door, called to the two asshetons, both of whom instantly came to her, and were not a little surprised to learn that all differences had been adjusted, and that roger nowell acknowledged himself entirely in error, retracting all the charges he had brought against her; while, on her part, she was fully satisfied with his explanations and apologies, and promised not to entertain any feelings of resentment towards him. "you have made up the matter, indeed," cried nicholas, "and, as master roger nowell is a widower, perhaps a match may come of it. such an arrangement"-- "this is no occasion for jesting, nicholas," interrupted the lady, sharply. "nay, i but threw out a hint," rejoined the squire. "it would set the question of the land for ever at rest." "it is set at rest--for ever!" replied the lady, with a side look at the magistrate. "'may i become subject to the fiend if i fail in my promise,'" repeated nowell to himself. "those words bind me like a chain of iron. i must get out of this accursed house as fast as i can." as if his thoughts had been divined by mistress nutter, she here observed to him, "to make our reconciliation complete, master nowell, i must entreat you to pass the day with me. i will give you the best entertainment my house affords--nay, i will take no denial; and you too, nicholas, and you, richard, you will stay and keep the worthy magistrate company." the two asshetons willingly assented, but roger nowell would fain have been excused. a look, however, from his hostess enforced compliance. "the proposal will be highly agreeable, i am sure, to master potts," remarked nicholas, with a laugh; "for though much better, in consequence of the balsam applied by blackadder, he is scarcely in condition for the saddle." "i will warrant him well to-morrow morning," said mistress nutter. "where is he?" inquired nowell. "in the library with parson holden," replied nicholas; "making himself as comfortable as circumstances will permit, with a flask of rhenish before him." "i will go to him, then," said nowell. "take care what you say to him," observed mistress nutter, in a low tone, and raising her finger to her lips. heaving a deep sigh, the magistrate then repaired to the library, a small room panelled with black oak, and furnished with a few cases of ancient tomes. the attorney and the divine were seated at a table, with a big square-built bottle and long-stemmed glasses before them, and master potts, with a wry grimace, excused himself from rising on his respected and singular good client's approach. "do not disturb yourself," said nowell, gruffly; "we shall not leave rough lee to-day." "i am glad to hear it," replied potts, moving the cushions on his chair and eyeing the square-built bottle affectionately. "nor to-morrow, it may be--nor the day after--nor at all, possibly," said nowell. "indeed!" exclaimed potts, starting, and wincing with pain. "what is the meaning of all this, worthy sir?" "'may i become the subject of the fiend if i fail in my promise,'" rejoined nowell, with a groan. "what promise, worshipful sir?" cried potts, staring with surprise. the magistrate got out the words, "my promise to--" and then he stopped suddenly. "to mistress nutter?" suggested potts. "don't ask me," exclaimed nowell, fiercely. "don't draw any erroneous conclusions, man. i mean nothing--i say nothing!" "he is certainly bewitched," observed parson holden in an under-tone to the attorney. "it was by your advice i entered this house," thundered nowell, "and may all the ill arising from it alight upon your head!" "my respected client!" implored potts. "i am no longer your client!" shrieked the infuriated magistrate. "i dismiss you. i will have nought to do with you more. i wish i had never seen your ugly little face!" "you were quite right, reverend sir," observed potts aside to the divine; "he is certainly bewitched, or he never would behave in this way to his best friend. my excellent sir," he added to nowell, "i beseech you to calm yourself, and listen to me. my motive for wishing you to comply with mistress nutter's request was this: we were in a dilemma from which there was no escape, my wounded condition preventing me from flight, and all your followers being dispersed. knowing your discretion, i apprehended that, finding the tables turned against you, you would not desire to play a losing game, and i therefore counselled apparent submission as the best means of disarming your antagonist. whatever arrangement you have made with mistress nutter is neither morally nor legally binding upon you." "you think not!" cried nowell. "'may i become subject to the fiend if i violate my promise!'" "what promise have you made, sir?" inquired potts and holden together. "do not question me," cried nowell; "it is sufficient that i am tied and bound by it." the attorney reflected a little, and then observed to holden, "it is evident some unfair practices have been resorted to with our respected friend, to extort a promise from him which he cannot violate. it is also possible, from what he let fall at first, that an attempt may be made to detain us prisoners within this house, and, for aught i know, master nowell may have given his word not to go forth without mistress nutter's permission. under these circumstances, i would beg of you, reverend sir, as an especial favour to us both, to ride over to whalley, and acquaint sir ralph assheton with our situation." as this suggestion was made, nowell's countenance brightened up. the expression was not lost upon the attorney, who perceived he was on the right tack. "tell the worthy baronet," continued potts, "that his old and esteemed friend, master roger nowell, is in great jeopardy--am i not right, sir?" the magistrate nodded. "tell him he is forcibly detained a prisoner, and requires sufficient force to effect his immediate liberation. tell him, also, that master nowell charges mistress nutter with robbing him of his land by witchcraft." "no, no!" interrupted nowell; "do not tell him that. i no longer charge her with it." "then, tell him that i do," cried potts; "and that master nowell has strangely, very strangely, altered his mind." "'may i become subject to the fiend if i violate my promise!'" said the magistrate. "ay, tell him that," cried the attorney--"tell him the worthy gentleman is constantly repeating that sentence. it will explain all. and now, reverend sir, let me entreat you to set out without delay, or your departure may be prevented." "i will go at once," said holden. as he was about to quit the apartment, mistress nutter appeared at the door. confusion was painted on the countenances of all three. "whither go you, sir?" demanded the lady, sharply. "on a mission which cannot be delayed, madam," replied holden. "you cannot quit my house at present," she rejoined, peremptorily. "these gentlemen stay to dine with me, and i cannot dispense with your company." "my duty calls me hence," returned the divine. "with all thanks for your proffered hospitality, i must perforce decline it." "not when i command you to stay," she rejoined, raising her hand; "i am absolute mistress here." "not over the servants of heaven, madam," replied the divine, taking a bible from his pocket, and placing it before him. "by this sacred volume i shield myself against your spells, and command you to let me pass." and as he went forth, mistress nutter, unable to oppose him, shrank back. chapter xi.--mother demdike. the heavy rain, which began to fall as roger nowell entered rough lee, had now ceased, and the sun shone forth again brilliantly, making the garden look so fresh and beautiful that richard proposed a stroll within it to alizon. the young girl seemed doubtful at first whether to comply with the invitation; but she finally assented, and they went forth together alone, for nicholas, fancying they could dispense with his company, only attended them as far as the door, where he remained looking after them, laughing to himself, and wondering how matters would end. "no good will come of it, i fear," mused the worthy squire, shaking his head, "and i am scarcely doing right in allowing dick to entangle himself in this fashion. but where is the use of giving advice to a young man who is over head and ears in love? he will never listen to it, and will only resent interference. dick must take his chance. i have already pointed out the danger to him, and if he chooses to run headlong into the pit, why, i cannot hinder him. after all, i am not much surprised. alizon's beauty is quite irresistible, and, were all smooth and straightforward in her history, there could be no reason why--pshaw! i am as foolish as the lad himself. sir richard assheton, the proudest man in the shire, would disown his son if he married against his inclinations. no, my pretty youthful pair, since nothing but misery awaits you, i advise you to make the most of your brief season of happiness. i should certainly do so were the case my own." meanwhile, the objects of these ruminations had reached the terrace overlooking pendle water, and were pacing slowly backwards and forwards along it. "one might be very happy in this sequestered spot, alizon," observed richard. "to some persons it might appear dull, but to me, if blessed with you, it would be little short of paradise." "alas! richard," she replied, forcing a smile, "why conjure up visions of happiness which never can be realised? but even with you i do not think i could be happy here. there is something about the house which, when i first beheld it, filled me with unaccountable terror. never since i was a mere infant have i been within it till to-day, and yet it was quite familiar to me--horribly familiar. i knew the hall in which we stood together, with its huge arched fireplace, and the armorial bearings upon it, and could point out the stone on which were carved my father's initials 'r.n.,' with the date ' .' i knew the tapestry on the walls, and the painted glass in the long range windows. i knew the old oak staircase, and the gallery beyond it, and the room to which my mother led me. i knew the portraits painted on the panels, and at once recognised my father. i knew the great carved oak bedstead in this room, and the high chimney-piece, and the raised hearthstone, and shuddered as i gazed at it. you will ask me how these things could be familiar to me? i will tell you. i had seen them repeatedly in my dreams. they have haunted me for years, but i only to-day knew they had an actual existence, or were in any way connected with my own history. the sight of that house inspired me with a horror i have not been able to overcome; and i have a presentiment that some ill will befall me within it. i would never willingly dwell there." "the warning voice within you, which should never be despised, prompts you to quit it," cried richard; "and i also urge you in like manner." "in vain," sighed alizon. "this terrace is beautiful," she added, as they resumed their walk, "and i shall often come hither, if i am permitted. at sunset, this river, and the woody heights above it, must be enchanting; and i do not dislike the savage character of the surrounding scenery. it enhances, by contrast, the beauty of this solitude. i only wish the spot commanded a view of pendle hill." "you are like my cousin nicholas, who thinks no prospect complete unless that hill forms part of it," said richard; "but since i find that you will often come hither at sunset, i shall not despair of seeing and conversing with you again, even if i am forbidden the house by mistress nutter. that thicket is an excellent hiding-place, and this stream is easily crossed." "we can have no secret interviews, richard," replied alizon; "i shall come hither to think of you, but not to meet you. you must never return to rough lee again--that is, not unless some change takes place, which i dare not anticipate--but, hist! i am called. i must go back to the house." "the voice came from the other side of the river," said richard--"and, hark! it calls again. who can it be?" "it is jennet," replied alizon; "i see her now." and she pointed out the little girl standing beside an alder on the opposite bank. "yo didna notice me efore, alizon," cried jennet in her sharp tone, and with her customary provoking laugh, "boh ey seed yo plain enuff, an heer'd yo too; and ey heer'd mester ruchot say he wad hide i' this thicket, an cross the river to meet ye at sunset. little pigs, they say, ha' lang ears, an mine werena gi'en me fo' nowt." "they have somewhat misinformed you in this instance," replied alizon; "but how, in the name of wonder, did you come here?" "varry easily," replied jennet, "boh ey hanna time to tell ye now. granny demdike has sent me hither wi' a message to ye and mistress nutter. boh may be ye winna loike mester ruchot to hear what ey ha' getten to tell ye." "i will leave you," said richard, about to depart. "oh! no, no!" cried alizon, "she can have nothing to say which you may not hear." "shan ey go back to granny demdike, an tell her yo're too proud to receive her message?" asked the child. "on no account," whispered richard. "do not let her anger the old hag." "speak, jennet," said alizon, in a tone of kind persuasion. "ey shanna speak onless ye cum ower t' wetur to me," replied the little girl; "an whot ey ha to tell consarns ye mitch." "i can easily cross," observed alizon to richard. "those stones seem placed on purpose." upon this, descending from the terrace to the river's brink, and springing lightly upon the first stone which reared its head above the foaming tide, she bounded to another, and so in an instant was across the stream. richard saw her ascend the opposite bank, and approach jennet, who withdrew behind the alder; and then he fancied he perceived an old beldame, partly concealed by the intervening branches of the tree, advance and seize hold of her. then there was a scream; and the sound had scarcely reached the young man's ears before he was down the bank and across the river, but when he reached the alder, neither alizon, nor jennet, nor the old beldame were to be seen. the terrible conviction that she had been carried off by mother demdike then smote him, and though he continued his search for her among the adjoining bushes, it was with fearful misgivings. no answer was returned to his shouts, nor could he discover any trace of the means by which alizon had been spirited away. after some time spent in ineffectual search, uncertain what course to pursue, and with a heart full of despair, richard crossed the river, and proceeded towards the house, in front of which he found mistress nutter and nicholas, both of whom seemed surprised when they perceived he was unaccompanied by alizon. the lady immediately, and somewhat sharply, questioned him as to what had become of her adopted daughter, and appeared at first to doubt his answer; but at length, unable to question his sincerity, she became violently agitated. "the poor girl has been conveyed away by mother demdike," she cried, "though for what purpose i am at a loss to conceive. the old hag could not cross the running water, and therefore resorted to that stratagem." "alizon must not be left in her hands, madam," said richard. "she must not," replied the lady. "if blackadder, whom i have sent after parson holden, were here, i would despatch him instantly to malkin tower." "i will go instead," said richard. "you had better accept his offer," interposed nicholas; "he will serve you as well as blackadder." "go i shall, madam," cried richard; "if not on your account, on my own." "come, then, with me," said the lady, entering the house, "and i will furnish you with that which shall be your safeguard in the enterprise." with this, she proceeded to the closet where her interview with roger nowell had been held; and, unlocking an ebony cabinet, took from a drawer within it a small flat piece of gold, graven with mystic characters, and having a slender chain of the same metal attached to it. throwing the chain over richard's neck, she said, "place this talisman, which is of sovereign virtue, near your heart, and no witchcraft shall have power over you. but be careful that you are not by any artifice deprived of it, for the old hag will soon discover that you possess some charm to protect you against her spells. you are impatient to be gone, but i have not yet done," she continued, taking down a small silver bugle from a hook, and giving it him. "on reaching malkin tower, wind this horn thrice, and the old witch will appear at the upper window. demand admittance in my name, and she will not dare to refuse you; or, if she does, tell her you know the secret entrance to her stronghold, and will have recourse to it. and in case this should be needful, i will now disclose it to you, but you must not use it till other means fail. when opposite the door, which you will find is high up in the building, take ten paces to the left, and if you examine the masonry at the foot of the tower, you will perceive one stone somewhat darker than the rest. at the bottom of this stone, and concealed by a patch of heath, you will discover a knob of iron. touch it, and it will give you an opening to a vaulted chamber, whence you can mount to the upper room. even then you may experience some difficulty, but with resolution you will surmount all obstacles." "i have no fear of success, madam," replied richard, confidently. and quitting her, he proceeded to the stables, and calling for his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and galloped off towards the bridge. fast as richard rode up the steep hill-side, still faster did the black clouds gather over his head. no natural cause could have produced so instantaneous a change in the aspect of the sky, and the young man viewed it with uneasiness, and wished to get out of the thicket in which he was now involved, before the threatened thunder-storm commenced. but the hill was steep and the road bad, being full of loose stones, and crossed in many places by bare roots of trees. though ordinarily surefooted, merlin stumbled frequently, and richard was obliged to slacken his pace. it grew darker and darker, and the storm seemed ready to burst upon him. the smaller birds ceased singing, and screened themselves under the thickest foliage; the pie chattered incessantly; the jay screamed; the bittern flew past, booming heavily in the air; the raven croaked; the heron arose from the river, and speeded off with his long neck stretched out; and the falcon, who had been hovering over him, sweeped sidelong down and sought shelter beneath an impending rock; the rabbit scudded off to his burrow in the brake; and the hare, erecting himself for a moment, as if to listen to the note of danger, crept timorously off into the long dry grass. it grew so dark at last that the road was difficult to discern, and the dense rows of trees on either side assumed a fantastic appearance in the deep gloom. richard was now more than half-way up the hill, and the thicket had become more tangled and intricate, and the road narrower and more rugged. all at once merlin stopped, quivering in every limb, as if in extremity of terror. before the rider, and right in his path, glared a pair of red fiery orbs, with something dusky and obscure linked to them; but whether of man or beast he could not distinguish. richard called to it. no answer. he struck spurs into the reeking flanks of his horse. the animal refused to stir. just then there was a moaning sound in the wood, as of some one in pain. he turned in the direction, shouted, but received no answer. when he looked back the red eyes were gone. then merlin moved forward of his own accord, but ere he had gone far, the eyes were visible again, glaring at the rider from the wood. this time they approached, dilating, and increasing in glowing intensity, till they scorched him like burning-glasses. bethinking him of the talisman, richard drew it forth. the light was instantly extinguished, and the indistinct figure accompanying it melted into darkness. once more merlin resumed his toilsome way, and richard was marvelling that the storm so long suspended its fury, when the sky was riven by a sudden blaze, and a crackling bolt shot down and struck the earth at his feet. the affrighted steed reared aloft, and was with difficulty prevented from falling backwards upon his rider. almost before he could be brought to his feet, an awful peal of thunder burst overhead, and it required richard's utmost efforts to prevent him from rushing madly down the hill. the storm had now fairly commenced. flash followed flash, and peal succeeded peal, without intermission. the rain descended hissing and spouting, and presently ran down the hill in a torrent, adding to the horseman's other difficulties and dangers. to heighten the terror of the scene, strange shapes, revealed by the lightning, were seen flitting among the trees, and strange sounds were heard, though overpowered by the dreadful rolling of the thunder. but richard's resolution continued unshaken, and he forced merlin on. he had not proceeded far, however, when the animal uttered a cry of fright, and began beating the air with his fore hoofs. the lightning enabled richard to discern the cause of this new distress. coiled round the poor beast's legs, all whose efforts to disengage himself from the terrible assailant were ineffectual, was a large black snake, seemingly about to plunge its poisonous fangs into the flesh. again having recourse to the talisman, and bending down, richard stretched it towards the snake, upon which the reptile instantly darted its arrow-shaped head against him, but instead of wounding him, its forked teeth encountered the piece of gold, and, as if stricken a violent blow, it swiftly untwined itself, and fled, hissing, into the thicket. richard was now obliged to dismount and lead his horse. in this way he toiled slowly up the hill. the storm continued with unabated fury: the red lightning played around him, the brattling thunder stunned him, and the pelting rain poured down upon his head. but he was no more molested. save for the vivid flashes, it had become dark as night, but they served to guide him on his way. at length he got out of the thicket, and trod upon the turf, but it was rendered so slippery by moisture, that he could scarcely keep his feet, while the lightning no longer aided him. fearing he had taken a wrong course, he stood still, and while debating with himself a blaze of light illumined the wide heath, and showed him the object of his search, malkin tower, standing alone, like a beacon, at about a quarter of a mile's distance, on the further side of the hill. was it disturbed fancy, or did he really behold on the summit of the structure a grisly shape resembling--if it resembled any thing human--a gigantic black cat, with roughened staring skin, and flaming eyeballs? nerved by the sight of the tower, richard was on his steed's back in an instant, and the animal, having in some degree recovered his spirits, galloped off with him, and kept his feet in spite of the slippery state of the road. erelong, another flash showed the young man that he was drawing rapidly near the tower, and dismounting, he tied merlin to a tree, and hurried towards the unhallowed pile. when within twenty paces of it, mindful of mistress nutter's injunctions, he placed the bugle to his lips, and winded it thrice. the summons, though clear and loud, sounded strangely in the portentous silence. scarcely had the last notes died away, when a light shone through the dark red curtains hanging before a casement in the upper part of the tower. the next moment these were drawn aside, and a face appeared, so frightful, so charged with infernal wickedness and malice, that richard's blood grew chill at the sight. was it man or woman? the white beard, and the large, broad, masculine character of the countenance, seemed to denote the, former, but the garb was that of a female. the face was at once hideous and fantastic--the eyes set across--the mouth awry--the right cheek marked by a mole shining with black hair, and horrible from its contrast to the rest of the visage, and the brow branded as if by a streak of blood. a black thrum cap constituted the old witch's head-gear, and from beneath it her hoary hair escaped in long elf-locks. the lower part of her person was hidden from view, but she appeared to be as broad-shouldered as a man, and her bulky person was wrapped in a tawny-coloured robe. throwing open the window, she looked forth, and demanded in harsh imperious tones-- "who dares to summon mother demdike?" "a messenger from mistress nutter," replied richard. "i am come in her name to demand the restitution of alizon device, whom thou hast forcibly and wrongfully taken from her." "alizon device is my grand-daughter, and, as such, belongs to me, and not to mistress nutter," rejoined mother demdike. "thou knowest thou speakest false, foul hag!" cried richard. "alizon is no blood of thine. open the door and cast down the ladder, or i will find other means of entrance." "try them, then," rejoined mother demdike. and she closed the casement sharply, and drew the curtains over it. after reconnoitring the building for a moment, richard moved quickly to the left, and counting ten paces, as directed by mistress nutter, began to search among the thick grass growing near the base of the tower for the concealed entrance. it was too dark to distinguish any difference in the colour of the masonry, but he was sure he could not be far wrong, and presently his hand came in contact with a knob of iron. he pressed it, but it did not yield to the touch. again more forcibly, but with like ill success. could he be mistaken? he tried the next stone, and discovered another knob upon it, but this was as immovable as the first. he went on, and then found that each stone was alike, and that if amongst the number he had chanced upon the one worked by the secret spring, it had refused to act. on examining the structure so far as he was able to do in the gloom, he found he had described the whole circle of the tower, and was about to commence the search anew, when a creaking sound was heard above, and a light streamed suddenly down upon him. the door had been opened by the old witch, and she stood there with a lamp in her hand, its yellow flame illumining her hideous visage, and short, square, powerfully built frame. her throat was like that of a bull; her hands of extraordinary size; and her arms, which were bare to the shoulder, brawny and muscular. "what, still outside?" she cried in a jeering tone, and with a wild discordant laugh. "methought thou affirmedst thou couldst find a way into my dwelling." "i do not yet despair of finding it," replied richard. "fool!" screamed the hag. "i tell thee it is in vain to attempt it without my consent. with a word, i could make these walls one solid mass, without window or outlet from base to summit. with a word, i could shower stones upon thy head, and crush thee to dust. with a word, i could make the earth swallow thee up. with a word, i could whisk thee hence to the top of pendle hill. ha! ha! dost fear me now?" "no," replied richard, undauntedly. "and the word thou menacest me with shall never be uttered." "why not?" asked mother demdike, derisively. "because thou wouldst not brave the resentment of one whose power is equal to thine own--if not greater," replied the young man. "greater it is not--neither equal," rejoined the old hag, haughtily; "but i do not desire a quarrel with alice nutter. only let her not meddle with me." "once more, art thou willing to admit me?" demanded richard. "ay, upon one condition," replied mother demdike. "thou shalt learn it anon. stand aside while i let down the ladder." richard obeyed, and a pair of narrow wooden steps dropped to the ground. "now mount, if thou hast the courage," cried the hag. the young man was instantly beside her, but she stood in the doorway, and barred his further progress with her extended staff. now that he was face to face with her, he wondered at his own temerity. there was nothing human in her countenance, and infernal light gleamed in her strangely-set eyes. her personal strength, evidently unimpaired by age, or preserved by magical art, seemed equal to her malice; and she appeared as capable of executing any atrocity, as of conceiving it. she saw the effect produced upon him, and chuckled with malicious satisfaction. "saw'st thou ever face like mine?" she cried. "no, i wot not. but i would rather inspire aversion and terror than love. love!--foh! i would rather see men shrink from me, and shudder at my approach, than smile upon me and court me. i would rather freeze the blood in their veins, than set it boiling with passion. ho! ho!" "thou art a fearful being, indeed!" exclaimed richard, appalled. "fearful, am i?" ejaculated the old witch, with renewed laughter. "at last thou own'st it. why, ay, i _am_ fearful. it is my wish to be so. i live to plague mankind--to blight and blast them--to scare them with my looks--to work them mischief. ho! ho! and now, let us look at thee," she continued, holding the lamp over him. "why, soh?--a comely youth! and the young maids doat upon thee, i doubt not, and praise thy blooming cheeks, thy bright eyes, thy flowing locks, and thy fine limbs. i hate thy beauty, boy, and would mar it!--would canker thy wholesome flesh, dim thy lustrous eyes, and strike thy vigorous limbs with palsy, till they should shake like mine! i am half-minded to do it," she added, raising her staff, and glaring at him with inconceivable malignity. "hold!" exclaimed richard, taking the talisman from his breast, and displaying it to her. "i am armed against thy malice!" mother demdike's staff fell from her grasp. "i knew thou wert in some way protected," she cried furiously. "and so it is a piece of gold--with magic characters upon it, eh?" she added, suddenly changing her tone; "let me look at it." "thou seest it plain enough," rejoined richard. "now, stand aside and let me pass, for thou perceivest i have power to force an entrance." "i see it--i see it," replied mother demdike, with affected humility. "i see it is in vain to struggle with thee, or rather with the potent lady who sent thee. tarry where thou art, and i will bring alizon to thee." "i almost mistrust thee," said richard--"but be speedy." "i will be scarce a moment," said the witch; "but i must warn thee that she is--" "what--what hast thou done to her, thou wicked hag?" cried richard, in alarm. "she is distraught," said mother demdike. "distraught!" echoed richard. "but thou canst easily cure her," said the old hag, significantly. "ay, so i can," cried richard with sudden joy--"the talisman! bring her to me at once." mother demdike departed, leaving him in a state of indescribable agitation. the walls of the tower were of immense thickness, and the entrance to the chamber towards which the arched doorway led was covered by a curtain of old arras, behind which the hag had disappeared. scarcely had she entered the room when a scream was heard, and richard heard his own name pronounced by a voice which, in spite of its agonised tones, he at once recognised. the cries were repeated, and he then heard mother demdike call out, "come hither! come hither!" instantly rushing forward and dashing aside the tapestry, he found himself in a mysterious-looking circular chamber, with a massive oak table in the midst of it. there were many strange objects in the room, but he saw only alizon, who was struggling with the old witch, and clinging desperately to the table. he called to her by name as he advanced, but her bewildered looks proved that she did not know him. "alizon--dear alizon! i am come to free you," he exclaimed. but in place of answering him she uttered a piercing scream. "the talisman, the talisman?" cried the hag. "i cannot undo my own work. place the chain round her neck, and the gold near her heart, that she may experience its full virtue." richard unsuspectingly complied with the suggestion of the temptress; but the moment he had parted with the piece of gold the figure of alizon vanished, the chamber was buried in gloom, and, amidst a hubbub of wild laughter, he was dragged by the powerful arm of the witch through the arched doorway, and flung from it to the ground, the shock of the fall producing immediate insensibility. chapter xii.--the mysteries of malkin tower. it was a subterranean chamber; gloomy, and of vast extent; the roof low, and supported by nine ponderous stone columns, to which rings and rusty chains were attached, still retaining the mouldering bones of those they had held captive in life. amongst others was a gigantic skeleton, quite entire, with an iron girdle round the middle. fragments of mortality were elsewhere scattered about, showing the numbers who had perished in the place. on either side were cells closed by massive doors, secured by bolts and locks. at one end were three immense coffers made of oak, hooped with iron, and fastened by large padlocks. near them stood a large armoury, likewise of oak, and sculptured with the ensigns of whalley abbey, proving it had once belonged to that establishment. probably it had been carried off by some robber band. at the opposite end of the vault were two niches, each occupied by a rough-hewn statue--the one representing a warlike figure, with a visage of extraordinary ferocity, and the other an anchoress, in her hood and wimple, with a rosary in her hand. on the ground beneath lay a plain flag, covering the mortal remains of the wicked pair, and proclaiming them to be isole de heton and blackburn, the freebooter. the pillars were ranged in three lines, so as to form, with the arches above them, a series of short passages, in the midst of which stood an altar, and near it a large caldron. in front, elevated on a block of granite, was a marvellous piece of sculpture, wrought in jet, and representing a demon seated on a throne. the visage was human, but the beard that of a goat, while the feet and lower limbs were like those of the same animal. two curled horns grew behind the ears, and a third, shaped like a conch, sprang from the centre of the forehead, from which burst a blue flame, throwing a ghastly light on the objects surrounding it. the only discernible approach to the vault was a steep narrow stone staircase, closed at the top by a heavy trapdoor. other outlet apparently there was none. some little air was admitted to this foul abode through flues contrived in the walls, the entrances to which were grated, but the light of day never came there. the flame, however, issuing from the brow of the demon image, like the lamps in the sepulchres of the disciples of the rosy cross, was ever-burning. behind the sable statue was a deep well, with water as black as ink, wherein swarmed snakes, and toads, and other noxious reptiles; and as the lurid light fell upon its surface it glittered like a dusky mirror, unless when broken by the horrible things that lurked beneath, or crawled about upon its slimy brim. but snakes and toads were not the only tenants of the vault. at the head of the steps squatted a monstrous and misshapen animal, bearing some resemblance to a cat, but as big as a tiger. its skin was black and shaggy; its eyes glowed like those of the hyæna; and its cry was like that of the same treacherous beast. among the gloomy colonnades other swart and bestial shapes could be indistinctly seen moving to and fro. in this abode of horror were two human beings--one, a young maiden of exquisite beauty; and the other, almost a child, and strangely deformed. the elder, overpowered by terror, was clinging to a pillar for support, while the younger, who might naturally be expected to exhibit the greatest alarm, appeared wholly unconcerned, and derided her companion's fears. "oh, jennet!" exclaimed the elder of the two, "is there no means of escape?" "none whatever," replied the other. "yo mun stay here till granny demdike cums fo ye." "oh! that the earth would open and snatch me from these horrors," cried alizon. "my reason is forsaking me. would i could kneel and pray for deliverance! but something prevents me." "reet!" replied jennet. "it's os mitch os yer loife's worth to kneel an pray here, onless yo choose to ge an throw yersel at th' feet o' yon black image." "kneel to that idol--never!" exclaimed alizon. and while striving to call upon heaven for aid, a sharp convulsion seized her, and deprived her of the power of utterance. "ey towd yo how it wad be," remarked jennet, who watched her narrowly. "yo 're neaw i' a church here, an if yo want to warship, it mun be at yon altar. dunna yo hear how angry the cats are--how they growl an spit? an see how their een gliss'n! they'll tare yo i' pieces, loike so many tigers, if yo offend em." "tell me why i am brought here, jennet?" inquired alizon, after a brief pause. "granny demdike will tell yo that," replied the little girl; "boh to my belief," she added, with a mocking laugh, "hoo means to may a witch o' ye, loike aw the rest on us." "she cannot do that without my consent," cried alizon, "and i would die a thousand deaths rather than yield it." "that remains to be seen," replied jennet, tauntingly. "yo 're obstinate enuff, nah doubt. boh granny demdike is used to deal wi' sich folk." "oh! why was i born?" cried alizon, bitterly. "yo may weel ask that," responded jennet, with a loud unfeeling laugh; "fo ey see neaw great use yo're on, wi' yer protty feace an bright een, onless it be to may one hate ye." "is it possible you can say this to me, jennet?" cried alizon. "what have i done to incur your hatred? i have ever loved you, and striven to please and serve you. i have always taken your part against others, even when you were in the wrong. oh! jennet, you cannot hate me." "boh ey do," replied the little girl, spitefully. "ey hate yo now warser than onny wan else. ey hate yo because yo are neaw lunger my sister--becose yo 're a grand ledy's dowter, an a grand ledy yersel. ey hate yo becose yung ruchot assheton loves yo--an becose yo ha better luck i' aw things than ey have, or con expect to have. that's why i hate yo, alizon. when yo are a witch ey shan love yo, for then we shan be equals once more." "that will never be, jennet," said alizon, sadly, but firmly. "your grandmother may immure me in this dungeon, and scare away my senses; but she will never rob me of my hopes of salvation." as the words were uttered, a clang like that produced by a stricken gong shook the vault; the beasts roared fiercely; the black waters of the fountain bubbled up, and were lashed into foam by the angry reptiles; and a larger jet of flame than before burst from the brow of the demon statue. "ey ha' warned ye, alizon," said jennet, alarmed by these demonstrations; "boh since ye pay no heed to owt ey say, ey'st leave yo to yer fate." "oh! stay with me, stay with me, jennet!" shrieked alizon, "by our past sisterly affection i implore you to remain! you are some protection to me from these dreadful beings." "ey dunna want to protect yo onless yo do os yo're bidd'n," replied jennet! "whoy should yo be better than me?" "ah! why, indeed?" cried alizon. "would i had the power to turn your heart--to open your eyes to evil--to save you, jennet." these words were followed by another clang, louder and more brattling than the first. the solid walls of the dungeon were shaken, and the heavy columns rocked; while, to alizon's affrighted gaze, it seemed as if the sable statue arose upon its ebon throne, and stretched out its arm menacingly towards her. the poor girl was saved from further terror by insensibility. how long she remained in this condition she could not tell, nor did it appear that any efforts were made to restore her; but when she recovered, she found herself stretched upon a rude pallet within an arched recess, the entrance to which was screened by a piece of tapestry. on lifting it aside she perceived she was no longer in the vault, but in an upper chamber, as she judged, and not incorrectly, of the tower. the room was lofty and circular, and the walls of enormous thickness, as shown by the deep embrasures of the windows; in one of which, the outlet having been built up, the pallet was placed. a massive oak table, two or three chairs of antique shape, and a wooden stool, constituted the furniture of the room. the stool was set near the fireplace, and beside it stood a strangely-fashioned spinning-wheel, which had apparently been recently used; but neither the old hag nor her grand-daughter were visible. alizon could not tell whether it was night or day; but a lamp was burning upon the table, its feeble light only imperfectly illumining the chamber, and scarcely revealing several strange objects dangling from the huge beams that supported the roof. faded arras were hung against the walls, representing in one compartment the last banquet of isole de heton and her lover, blackburn; in another, the saxon ughtred hanging from the summit of malkin tower; and in a third, the execution of abbot paslew. the subjects were as large as life, admirably depicted, and evidently worked at wondrous looms. as they swayed to and fro in the gusts, that found entrance into the chamber through some unprotected loopholes, the figures had a grim and ghostly air. weak, trembling, bewildered, alizon stepped forth, and staggering towards the table sank upon a chair beside it. a fearful storm was raging without--thunder, lightning, deluging rain. stunned and blinded, she covered her eyes, and remained thus till the fury of the tempest had in some degree abated. she was roused at length by a creaking sound not far from her, and found it proceeded from a trapdoor rising slowly on its hinges. a thrum cap first appeared above the level of the floor; then a broad, bloated face, the mouth and chin fringed with a white beard like the whiskers of a cat; then a thick, bull throat; then a pair of brawny shoulders; then a square, thick-set frame; and mother demdike stood before her. a malignant smile played upon her hideous countenance, and gleamed from her eyes--those eyes so strangely placed by nature, as if to intimate her doom, and that of her fated race, to whom the horrible blemish was transmitted. as the old witch leaped heavily upon the ground, the trapdoor closed behind her. "soh, you are better, alizon, and have quitted your couch, i find," she cried, striking her staff upon the floor. "but you look faint and feeble still. i will give you something to revive you. i have a wondrous cordial in yon closet--a rare restorative--ha! ha! it will make you well the moment it has passed your lips. i will fetch it at once." "i will have none of it," replied alizon; "i would rather die." "rather die!" echoed mother demdike, sarcastically, "because, forsooth, you are crossed in love. but you shall have the man of your heart yet, if you will only follow my counsel, and do as i bid you. richard assheton shall be yours, and with your mother's consent, provided--" "i understand the condition you annex to the promise," interrupted alizon, "and the terms upon which you would fulfil it: but you seek in vain to tempt me, old woman. i now comprehend why i am brought hither." "ay, indeed!" exclaimed the old witch. "and why is it, then, since you are so quick-witted?" "you desire to make an offering to the evil being you serve," cried alizon, with sudden energy. "you have entered into some dark compact, which compels you to deliver up a victim in each year to the fiend, or your own soul becomes forfeit. thus you have hitherto lengthened out your wretched life, and you hope to extend the term yet farther through me. i have heard this tale before, but i would not believe it. now i do. this is why you have stolen me from my mother--have braved her anger--and brought me to this impious tower." the old hag laughed hoarsely. "the tale thou hast heard respecting me is true," she said. "i _have_ a compact which requires me to make a proselyte to the power i serve within each year, and if i fail in doing so, i must pay the penalty thou hast mentioned. a like compact exists between mistress nutter and the fiend." she paused for a moment, to watch the effect of her words on alizon, and then resumed. "thy mother would have sacrificed thee if thou hadst been left with her; but i have carried thee off, because i conceive i am best entitled to thee. thou wert brought up as my grand-daughter, and therefore i claim thee as my own." "and you think to deal with me as if i were a puppet in your hands?" cried alizon. "ay, marry, do i," rejoined mother demdike, with a scream of laughter, "thou art nothing more than a puppet--a puppet--ho! ho." "and you deem you can dispose of my soul without my consent?" said alizon. "thy full consent will be obtained," rejoined the old hag. "think it not! think it not!" exclaimed alizon. "oh! i shall yet be delivered from this infernal bondage." at this moment the notes of a bugle were heard. "saved! saved!" cried the poor girl, starting. "it is richard come to my rescue!" "how know'st thou that?" cried mother demdike, with a spiteful look. "by an instinct that never deceives," replied alizon, as the blast was again heard. "this must be stopped," said the hag, waving her staff over the maiden, and transfixing her where she sat; after which she took up the lamp, and strode towards the window. the few words that passed between her and richard have been already recounted. having closed the casement and drawn the curtain before it, mother demdike traced a circle on the floor, muttered a spell, and then, waving her staff over alizon, restored her power of speech and motion. "'twas he!" exclaimed the young girl, as soon as she could find utterance. "i heard his voice." "why, ay, 'twas he, sure enough," rejoined the beldame. "he has come on a fool's errand, but he shall never return from it. does mistress nutter think i will give up my prize the moment i have obtained it, for the mere asking? does she imagine she can frighten me as she frightens others? does she know whom she has to deal with? if not, i will tell her. i am the oldest, the boldest, and the strongest of the witches. no mystery of the black art but is known to me. i can do what mischief i will, and my desolating hand has been felt throughout this district. you may trace it like a pestilence. no one has offended me but i have terribly repaid him. i rule over the land like a queen. i exact tributes, and, if they are not rendered, i smite with a sharper edge than the sword. my worship is paid to the prince of darkness. this tower is his temple, and yon subterranean chamber the place where the mystical rites, which thou wouldst call impious and damnable, are performed. countless sabbaths have i attended within it; or upon rumbles moor, or on the summit of pendle hill, or within the ruins of whalley abbey. many proselytes have i made; many unbaptised babes offered up in sacrifice. i am high-priestess to the demon, and thy mother would usurp mine office." "oh! spare me this horrible recital!" exclaimed alizon, vainly trying to shut out the hag's piercing voice. "i will spare thee nothing," pursued mother demdike. "thy mother, i say, would be high-priestess in my stead. there are degrees among witches, as among other sects, and mine is the first. mistress nutter would deprive me of mine office; but not till her hair is as white as mine, her knowledge equal to mine, and her hatred of mankind as intense as mine--not till then shall she have it." "no more of this, in pity!" cried alizon. "often have i aided thy mother in her dark schemes," pursued the implacable hag; "nay, no later than last night i obliterated the old boundaries of her land, and erected new marks to serve her. it was a strong exercise of power; but the command came to me, and i obeyed it. no other witch could have achieved so much, not even the accursed chattox, and she is next to myself. and how does thy mother purpose to requite me? by thrusting me aside, and stepping into my throne." "you must be in error," cried alizon, scarcely knowing what to say. "my information never fails me," replied the hag, with a disdainful laugh. "her plans are made known to me as soon as formed. i have those about her who keep strict watch upon her actions, and report them faithfully. i know why she brought thee so suddenly to rough lee, though thou know'st it not." "she brought me there for safety," remarked the young girl, hoping to allay the beldame's fury, "and because she herself desired to know how the survey of the boundaries would end." "she brought thee there to sacrifice thee to the fiend!" cried the hag, infernal rage and malice blazing in her eyes. "she failed in propitiating him at the meeting in the ruined church of whalley last night, when thou thyself wert present, and deliveredst dorothy assheton from the snare in which she was taken. and since then all has gone wrong with her. having demanded from her familiar the cause why all things ran counter, she was told she had failed in the fulfilment of her promise--that a proselyte was required--and that thou alone wouldst be accepted." "i!" exclaimed alizon, horror-stricken. "ay, thou!" cried the hag. "no choice was allowed her, and the offering must be made to-night. after a long and painful struggle, thy mother consented." "oh! no--impossible! you deceive me," cried the wretched girl. "i tell thee she consented," rejoined mother demdike, coldly; "and on this she made instant arrangements to return home, and in spite--as thou know'st--of sir ralph and lady assheton's efforts to detain her, set forth with thee." "all this i know," observed alizon, sadly--"and intelligence of our departure from the abbey was conveyed to you, i conclude, by jennet, to whom i bade adieu." "thou art right--it was," returned the hag; "but i have yet more to tell thee, for i will lay the secrets of thy mother's dark breast fully before thee. her time is wellnigh run. thou wert made the price of its extension. if she fails in offering thee up to-night, and thou art here in my keeping, the fiend, her master, will abandon her, and she will be delivered up to the justice of man." alizon covered her face with horror. after awhile she looked up, and exclaimed, with unutterable anguish-- "and i cannot help her!" the unpitying hag laughed derisively. "she cannot be utterly lost," continued the young girl. "were i near her, i would show her that heaven is merciful to the greatest sinner who repents; and teach her how to regain the lost path to salvation." "peace!" thundered the witch, shaking her huge hand at her, and stamping her heavy foot upon the ground. "such words must not be uttered here. they are an offence to me. thy mother has renounced all hopes of heaven. she has been baptised in the baptism of hell, and branded on the brow by the red finger of its ruler, and cannot be wrested from him. it is too late." "no, no--it never can be too late!" cried alizon. "it is not even too late for you." "thou know'st not what thou talk'st about, foolish wench," rejoined the hag. "our master would tear us instantly in pieces if but a thought of penitence, as thou callest it, crossed our minds. we are both doomed to an eternity of torture. but thy mother will go first--ay, first. if she had yielded thee up to-night, another term would have been allowed her; but as i hold thee instead, the benefit of the sacrifice will be mine. but, hist! what was that? the youth again! alice nutter must have given him some potent counter-charm." "he comes to deliver me," cried alizon. "richard!" and she arose, and would have flown to the window, but mother demdike waved her staff over her, and rooted her to the ground. "stay there till i require thee," chuckled the hag, moving, with ponderous footsteps, to the door. after parleying with richard, as already related, mother demdike suddenly returned to alizon, and, restoring her to sensibility, placed her hideous face close to her, breathing upon her, and uttering these words, "be thine eyes blinded and thy brain confused, so that thou mayst not know him when thou seest him, but think him another." the spell took instant effect. alizon staggered towards the table, richard was summoned, and on his appearance the scene took place which has already been detailed, and which ended in his losing the talisman, and being ejected from the tower. alizon had been rendered invisible by the old witch, and was afterwards dragged into the arched recess by her, where, snatching the piece of gold from the young girl's neck, she exclaimed triumphantly-- "now i defy thee, alice nutter. thou canst never recover thy child. the offering shall be made to-night, and another year be added to my long term." alizon groaned deeply, but, at a gesture from the hag, she became motionless and speechless. a dusky indistinctly-seen figure hovered near the entrance of the embrasure. mother demdike beckoned it to her. "convey this girl to the vault, and watch over her," she said. "i will descend anon." upon this the shadowy arms enveloped alizon, the trapdoor flew open, and the figure disappeared with its inanimate burthen. chapter xiii.--the two familiars. after seeing richard depart on his perilous mission to malkin tower, mistress nutter retired to her own chamber, and held long and anxious self-communion. the course of her thoughts may be gathered from the terrible revelations made by mother demdike to alizon. a prey to the most agonising emotions, it may be questioned if she could have endured greater torment if her heart had been consumed by living fire, as in the punishment assigned to the damned in the fabled halls of eblis. for the first time remorse assailed her, and she felt compunction for the evil she had committed. the whole of her dark career passed in review before her. the long catalogue of her crimes unfolded itself like a scroll of flame, and at its foot were written in blazing characters the awful words, judgment and condemnation! there was no escape--none! hell, with its unquenchable fires and unimaginable horrors, yawned to receive her; and she felt, with anguish and self-reproach not to be described, how wretched a bargain she had made, and how dearly the brief gratification of her evil passions had been purchased at the cost of an eternity of woe and torture. this change of feeling had been produced by her newly-awakened affection for her daughter, long supposed dead, and now restored to her, only to be snatched away again in a manner which added to the sharpness of the loss. she saw herself the sport of a juggling fiend, whose aim was to win over her daughter's soul through her instrumentality, and she resolved, if possible, to defeat his purposes. this, she was aware, could only be accomplished by her own destruction, but even this dread alternative she was prepared to embrace. alizon's sinless nature and devotion to herself had so wrought upon her, that, though she had at first resisted the better impulses kindled within her bosom, in the end they completely overmastered her. was it, she asked herself, too late to repent? was there no way of breaking her compact? she remembered to have read of a young man who had signed away his own soul, being restored to heaven by the intercession of the great reformer of the church, martin luther. but, on the other hand, she had heard of many others, who, on the slightest manifestation of penitence, had been rent in pieces by the fiend. still the idea recurred to her. might not her daughter, armed with perfect purity and holiness, with a soul free from stain as an unspotted mirror; might not she, who had avouched herself ready to risk all for her--for she had overheard her declaration to richard;--might not she be able to work out her salvation? would confession of her sins and voluntary submission to earthly justice save her? alas!--no. she was without hope. she had an inexorable master to deal with, who would grant her no grace, except upon conditions she would not assent to. she would have thrown herself on her knees, but they refused to bend. she would have prayed, but the words turned to blasphemies. she would have wept, but the fountains of tears were dry. the witch could never weep. then came despair and frenzy, and, like furies, lashed her with whips of scorpions, goading her with the memory of her abominations and idolatries, and her infinite and varied iniquities. they showed her, as in a swiftly-fleeting vision, all who had suffered wrong by her, or whom her malice had afflicted in body or estate. they mocked her with a glimpse of the paradise she had forfeited. she saw her daughter in a beatified state about to enter its golden portals, and would have clung to her robes in the hope of being carried in with her, but she was driven away by an angel with a flaming sword, who cried out, "thou hast abjured heaven, and heaven rejects thee. satan's brand is upon thy brow and, unless it be effaced, thou canst never enter here. down to tophet, thou witch!" then she implored her daughter to touch her brow with the tip of her finger; and, as the latter was about to comply, a dark demoniacal shape suddenly rose, and, seizing her by the hair, plunged with her down--down--millions of miles--till she beheld a world of fire appear beneath her, consisting of a multitude of volcanoes, roaring and raging like furnaces, boiling over with redhot lava, and casting forth huge burning stones. in each of these beds of fire thousands upon thousands of sufferers were writhing, and their groans and lamentations arose in one frightful, incessant wail, too terrible for human hearing. over this place of torment the demon held her suspended. she shrieked aloud in her agony, and, shaking off the oppression, rejoiced to find the vision had been caused by her own distempered imagination. meanwhile, the storm, which had obstructed richard as he climbed the hill, had come on, though mistress nutter had not noticed it; but now a loud peal of thunder shook the room, and rousing herself she walked to the window. the sight she beheld increased her alarm. heavy thunder-clouds rested upon the hill-side, and seemed ready to discharge their artillery upon the course which she knew must be taken by the young man. the chamber in which she stood, it has been said, was large and gloomy, with a wainscoting of dark oak. on one of the panels was painted a picture of herself in her days of youth, innocence, and beauty; and on another, a portrait of her unfortunate husband, who appeared a handsome young man, with a stern countenance, attired in a black velvet doublet and cloak, of the fashion of elizabeth's day. between these paintings stood a carved oak bedstead, with a high tester and dark heavy drapery, opposite which was a wide window, occupying almost the whole length of the room, but darkened by thick bars and glass, crowded with armorial bearings, or otherwise deeply dyed. the high mantelpiece and its carvings have been previously described, as well as the bloody hearthstone, where the tragical incident occurred connected with alizon's early history. as mistress nutter returned to the fireplace, a plaintive cry arose from it, and starting--for the sound revived terrible memories within her breast--she beheld the ineffaceable stains upon the flag traced out by blue phosphoric fire, while above them hovered the shape of a bleeding infant. horror-stricken, she averted her gaze, but it encountered another object, equally appalling--her husband's portrait; or rather, it would seem, a phantom in its place; for the eyes, lighted up by infernal fire, glared at her from beneath the frowning and contracted brows, while the hand significantly pointed to the hearthstone, on which the sanguinary stains had now formed themselves into the fatal word "vengeance!" in a few minutes the fiery characters died away, and the portrait resumed its wonted expression; but ere mistress nutter had recovered from her terror the back of the fireplace opened, and a tall swarthy man stepped out from it. as he appeared, a flash of lightning illumined the chamber, and revealed his fiendish countenance. on seeing him, the lady immediately regained her courage, and addressed him in a haughty and commanding tone-- "why this intrusion? i did not summon thee, and do not require thee." "you are mistaken, madam," he replied; "you had never more occasion for me than at this moment; and, so far from intruding upon you, i have avoided coming near you, even though enjoined to do so by my lord. he is perfectly aware of the change which has just taken place in your opinions, and the anxiety you now feel to break the contract you have entered into with him, and which he has scrupulously fulfilled on his part; but he wishes you distinctly to understand, that he has no intention of abandoning his claims upon you, but will most assuredly enforce them at the proper time. i need not remind you that your term draws to a close, and ere many months must expire; but means of extending it have been offered you, if you choose to avail yourself of them." "i have no such intention," replied mistress nutter, in a decided tone. "so be it, madam," replied the other; "but you will not preserve your daughter, who is in the hands of a tried and faithful servant of my lord, and what you hesitate to do that servant will perform, and so reap the benefit of the sacrifice." "not so," rejoined mistress nutter. "i say yea," retorted the familiar. "thou art my slave, i command thee to bring alizon hither at once." the familiar shook his head. "thou refusest!" cried mistress nutter, menacingly. "knows't thou not i have the means of chastising thee?" "you had, madam," replied the other; "but the moment a thought of penitence crossed your breast, the power you were invested with departed. my lord, however, is willing to give you an hour of grace, when, if you voluntarily renew your oaths to him, he will accept them, and place me at your disposal once more; but if you still continue obstinate--" "he will abandon me," interrupted mistress nutter; "i knew it. fool that i was to trust one who, from the beginning, has been a deceiver." "you have a short memory, and but little gratitude, madam and seem entirely to forget the important favour conferred upon you last night. at your solicitation, the boundaries of your property were changed, and large slips of land filched from another, to be given to you. but if you fail in your duty, you cannot expect this to continue. the boundary marks will be set up in their old places, and the land restored to its rightful owner." "i expected as much," observed mistress nutter, disdainfully. "thus all our pains will be thrown away," pursued the familiar; "and though you may make light of the labour, it is no easy task to change the face of a whole country--to turn streams from their course, move bogs, transplant trees, and shift houses, all of which has been done, and will now have to be undone, because of your inconstancy. i, myself, have been obliged to act as many parts as a poor player to please you, and now you dismiss me at a moment's notice, as if i had played them indifferently, whereas the most fastidious audience would have been ravished with my performance. this morning i was the reeve of the forest, and as such obliged to assume the shape of a rascally attorney. i felt it a degradation, i assure you. nor was i better pleased when you compelled me to put on the likeness of old roger nowell; for, whatever you may think, i am not so entirely destitute of personal vanity as to prefer either of their figures to my own. however, i showed no disinclination to oblige you. you are strangely unreasonable to-day. is it my lord's fault if your desire of vengeance expires in its fruition--if, when you have accomplished an object, you no longer care for it? you ask for revenge--for power. you have them, and cast them aside like childish baubles!" "thy lord is an arch deceiver," rejoined mistress nutter; "and cannot perform his promises. they are empty delusions--profitless, unsubstantial as shadows. his power prevails not against any thing holy, as i myself have just now experienced. his money turns to withered leaves; his treasures are dust and ashes. strong only is he in power of mischief, and even his mischief, like curses, recoils on those who use it. his vengeance is no true vengeance, for it troubles the conscience, and engenders remorse; whereas the servant of heaven heaps coals of fire on the head of his adversary by kindness, and satisfies his own heart." "you should have thought of all this before you vowed yourself to him," said the familiar; "it is too late to reflect now." "perchance not," rejoined mistress nutter. "beware!" thundered the demon, with a terrible gesture; "any overt act of disobedience, and your limbs shall be scattered over this chamber." "if i do not dare thee to it, it is not because i fear thee," replied mistress nutter, in no way dismayed by the threat. "thou canst not control my tongue. thou speakest of the services rendered by thy lord, and i repeat they are like his promises, naught. show me the witch he has enriched. of what profit is her worship of the false deity--of what avail the sacrifices she makes at his foul altars? it is ever the same spilling of blood, ever the same working of mischief. the wheels of crime roll on like the car of the indian idol, crushing all before them. doth thy master ever help his servants in their need? doth he not ever abandon them when they are no longer useful, and can win him no more proselytes? miserable servants--miserable master! look at the murtherous demdike and the malignant chattox, and examine the means whereby they have prolonged their baleful career. enormities of all kinds committed, and all their families devoted to the fiend--all wizards or witches! look at them, i say. what profit to them is their long service? are they rich? are they in possession of unfading youth and beauty? are they splendidly lodged? have they all they desire? no!--the one dwells in a solitary turret, and the other in a wretched hovel; and both are miserable creatures, living only on the dole wrung by threats from terrified peasants, and capable of no gratification but such as results from practices of malice." "is that nothing?" asked the familiar. "to them it is every thing. they care neither for splendid mansions, nor wealth, nor youth, nor beauty. if they did, they could have them all. they care only for the dread and mysterious power they possess, to be able to fascinate with a glance, to transfix by a gesture, to inflict strange ailments by a word, and to kill by a curse. this is the privilege they seek, and this privilege they enjoy." "and what is the end of it all?" demanded mistress nutter, sternly. "erelong, they will be unable to furnish victims to their insatiate master, who will then abandon them. their bodies will go to the hangman, and their souls to endless bale!" the familiar laughed as if a good joke had been repeated to him, and rubbed his hands gleefully. "very true," he said; "very true. you have stated the case exactly, madam. such will certainly be the course of events. but what of that? the old hags will have enjoyed a long term--much longer than might have been anticipated. mother demdike, however, as i have intimated, will extend hers, and it is fortunate for her she is enabled to do so, as it would otherwise expire an hour after midnight, and could not be renewed." "thou liest!" cried mistress nutter--"liest like thy lord, who is the father of lies. my innocent child can never be offered up at his impious shrine. i have no fear for her. neither he, nor mother demdike, nor any of the accursed sisterhood, can harm her. her goodness will cover her like armour, which no evil can penetrate. let him wreak his vengeance, if he will, on me. let him treat me as a slave who has cast off his yoke. let him abridge the scanty time allotted me, and bear me hence to his burning kingdom; but injure my child, he cannot--shall not!" "go to malkin tower at midnight, and thou wilt see," replied the familiar, with a mocking laugh. "i will go there, but it shall be to deliver her," rejoined mistress nutter. "and now get thee gone! i need thee no more." "be not deceived, proud woman," said the familiar. "once dismissed, i may not be recalled, while thou wilt be wholly unable to defend thyself against thy enemies." "i care not," she rejoined; "begone!" the familiar stepped back, and, stamping upon the hearthstone, it sank like a trapdoor, and he disappeared beneath it, a flash of lightning playing round his dusky figure. notwithstanding her vaunted resolution, and the boldness with which she had comported herself before the familiar, mistress nutter now completely gave way, and for awhile abandoned herself to despair. aroused at length by the absolute necessity of action, she again walked to the window and looked forth. the storm still raged furiously without--so furiously, indeed, that it would be madness to brave it, now that she was deprived of her power, and reduced to the ordinary level of humanity. its very violence, however, assured her it must soon cease, and she would then set out for malkin tower. but what chance had she now in a struggle with the old hag, with all the energies of hell at her command?--what hope was there of her being able to effect her daughter's liberation? no matter, however desperate, the attempt should be made. meanwhile, it would be necessary so see what was going on below, and ascertain whether blackadder had returned with parson holden. with this view, she descended to the hall, where she found nicholas assheton fast asleep in a great arm-chair, and rocked rather than disturbed by the loud concussions of thunder. the squire was, no doubt, overcome by the fatigues of the day, or it might be by the potency of the wine he had swallowed, for an empty flask stood on the table beside him. mistress nutter did not awaken him, but proceeded to the chamber where she had left nowell and potts prisoners, both of whom rose on her entrance. "be seated, gentlemen, i pray you," she said, courteously. "i am come to see if you need any thing; for when this fearful storm abates, i am going forth for a short time." "indeed, madam," replied potts. "for myself i require nothing further; but perhaps another bottle of wine might be agreeable to my honoured and singular good client." "speak for yourself, sir," cried roger nowell, sharply. "you shall have it," interposed mistress nutter. "i shall be glad of a word with you before i go, master nowell. i am sorry this dispute has arisen between us." "humph!" exclaimed the magistrate. "very sorry," pursued mistress nutter; "and i wish to make every reparation in my power." "reparation, madam!" cried nowell. "give back the land you have stolen from me--restore the boundary lines--sign the deed in sir ralph's possession--that is the only reparation you can make." "i will," replied mistress nutter. "you will!" exclaimed nowell. "then the fellow did not deceive us, master potts." "has any one been with you?" asked the lady, uneasily. "ay, the reeve of the forest," replied nowell. "he told us you would be with us presently, and would make fair offers to us." "and he told us also _why_ you would make them, madam," added potts, in an insolent and menacing tone; "he told us you would make a merit of doing what you could not help--that your power had gone from you--that your works of darkness would be destroyed--and that, in a word, you were abandoned by the devil, your master." "he deceived you," replied mistress nutter. "i have made you the offer out of pure good-will, and you can reject it or not, as you please. all i stipulate, if you do accept it, is, that you pledge me your word not to bring any charge of witchcraft against me." "do not give the pledge," whispered a voice in the ear of the magistrate. "did you speak?" he said, turning to potts. "no, sir," replied the attorney, in a low tone; "but i thought you cautioned me against--" "hush!" interrupted nowell; "it must be the reeve. we cannot comply with your request, madam," he added, aloud. "certainly not," said potts. "we can make no bargain with an avowed witch. we should gain nothing by it; on the contrary, we should be losers, for we have the positive assurance of a gentleman whom we believe to be upon terms of intimacy with a certain black gentleman of your acquaintance, madam, that the latter has given you up entirely, and that law and justice may, therefore, take their course. we protest against our unlawful detention; but we give ourselves small concern about it, as sir ralph assheton, who will be advised of our situation by parson holden, will speedily come to our liberation." "yes, we are now quite easy on that score, madam," added nowell; "and to-morrow we shall have the pleasure of escorting you to lancaster castle." "and your trial will come on at the next assizes, about the middle of august," said potts, "you have only four months to run." "that is indeed my term," muttered the lady. "i shall not tarry to listen to your taunts," she added, aloud. "you may possibly regret rejecting my proposal." so saying, she quitted the room. as she returned to the hall, nicholas awoke. "what a devil of a storm!" he exclaimed, stretching himself and rubbing his eyes. "zounds! that flash of lightning was enough to blind me, and the thunder wellnigh splits one's ears." "yet you have slept through louder peals, nicholas," said mistress nutter, coming up to him. "richard has not returned from his mission, and i must go myself to malkin tower. in my absence, i must entrust you with the defence of my house." "i am willing to undertake it," replied nicholas, "provided no witchcraft be used." "nay, you need not fear that," said the lady, with a forced smile. "well, then, leave it to me," said the squire; "but you will not set out till the storm is over?" "i must," replied mistress nutter; "there seems no likelihood of its cessation, and each moment is fraught with peril to alizon. if aught happens to me, nicholas--if i should--whatever mischance may befall me--promise me you will stand by her." the squire gave the required promise. "enough, i hold you to your word," said mistress nutter. "take this parchment. it is a deed of gift, assigning this mansion and all my estates to her. under certain circumstances you will produce it." "what circumstances? i am at a loss to understand you, madam," said the squire. "do not question me further, but take especial care of the deed, and produce it, as i have said, at the fitting moment. you will know when that arrives. ha! i am wanted." the latter exclamation had been occasioned by the appearance of an old woman at the further end of the hall, beckoning to her. on seeing her, mistress nutter immediately quitted the squire, and followed her into a small chamber opening from this part of the hall, and into which she retreated. "what brings you here, mother chattox?" exclaimed the lady, closing the door. "can you not guess?" replied the hag. "i am come to help you, not for any love i bear you, but to avenge myself on old demdike. do not interrupt me. my familiar, fancy, has told me all. i know how you are circumstanced. i know alizon is in old demdike's clutches, and you are unable to extricate her. but i can, and will; because if the hateful old hag fails in offering up her sacrifice before the first hour of day, her term will be out, and i shall be rid of her, and reign in her stead. to-morrow she will be on her way to lancaster castle. ha! ha! the dungeon is prepared for her--the stake driven into the ground--the fagots heaped around it. the torch has only to be lighted. ho! ho!" [illustration: the ride through the murky air.] "shall we go to malkin tower?" asked mistress nutter, shuddering. "no; to the summit of pendle hill," rejoined mother chattox; "for there the girl will be taken, and there only can we secure her. but first we must proceed to my hut, and make some preparations. i have three scalps and eight teeth, taken from a grave in goldshaw churchyard this very day. we can make a charm with them." "you must prepare it alone," said mistress nutter; "i can have nought to do with it." "true--true--i had forgotten," cried the hag, with a chuckling laugh--"you are no longer one of us. well, then, i will do it alone. but come with me. you will not object to mount upon my broomstick. it is the only safe conveyance in this storm of the devil's raising. come--away!" and she threw open the window and sprang forth, followed by mistress nutter. through the murky air, and borne as if on the wings of the wind, two dark forms are flying swiftly. over the tops of the tempest-shaken trees they go, and as they gain the skirts of the thicket an oak beneath is shivered by a thunderbolt. they hear the fearful crash, and see the splinters fly far and wide; and the foremost of the two, who, with her skinny arm extended, seems to direct their course, utters a wild scream of laughter, while a raven, speeding on broad black wing before them, croaks hoarsely. now the torrent rages below, and they see its white waters tumbling over a ledge of rock; now they pass over the brow of a hill; now skim over a dreary waste and dangerous morass. fearful it is to behold those two flying figures, as the lightning shows them, bestriding their fantastical steed; the one an old hag with hideous lineaments and distorted person, and the other a proud dame, still beautiful, though no longer young, pale as death, and her loose jetty hair streaming like a meteor in the breeze. the ride is over, and they alight near the door of a solitary hovel. the raven has preceded them, and, perched on the chimney top, flies down it as they enter, and greets them with hoarse croaking. the inside of the hut corresponds with its miserable exterior, consisting only of two rooms, in one of which is a wretched pallet; in the other are a couple of large chests, a crazy table, a bench, a three-legged stool, and a spinning-wheel. a caldron is suspended above a peat fire, smouldering on the hearth. there is only one window, and a thick curtain is drawn across it, to secure the inmate of the hut from prying eyes. mother chattox closes and bars the door, and, motioning mistress nutter to seat herself upon the stool, kneels down near the hearth, and blows the turf into a flame, the raven helping her, by flapping his big black wings, and uttering a variety of strange sounds, as the sparks fly about. heaping on more turf, and shifting the caldron, so that it may receive the full influence of the flame, the hag proceeds to one of the chests, and takes out sundry small matters, which she places one by one with great care on the table. the raven has now fixed his great talons on her shoulder, and chuckles and croaks in her ear as she pursues her occupation. suddenly a piece of bone attracts his attention, and darting out his beak, he seizes it, and hops away. "give me that scalp, thou mischievous imp!" cries the hag, "i need it for the charm i am about to prepare. give it me, i say!" but the raven still held it fast, and hopped here and there so nimbly that she was unable to catch him. at length, when he had exhausted her patience, he alighted on mistress nutter's shoulder, and dropped it into her lap. engrossed by her own painful thoughts, the lady had paid no attention to what was passing, and she shuddered as she took up the fragment of mortality, and placed it upon the table. a few tufts of hair, the texture of which showed they had belonged to a female, still adhered to the scalp. mistress nutter regarded it fixedly, and with an interest for which she could not account. after sharply chiding the raven, mother chattox put forth her hand to grasp the prize she had been robbed of, when mistress nutter checked her by observing, "you said you got this scalp from goldshaw churchyard. know you ought concerning it?" "ay, a good deal," replied the old woman, chuckling. "it comes from a grave near the yew-tree, and not far from abbot cliderhow's cross. old zachariah worms, the sexton, digged it up for me. that yellow skull had once a fair face attached to it, and those few dull tufts were once bright flowing tresses. she who owned them died young; but, young as she was, she survived all her beauty. hollow cheeks and hollow eyes, wasted flesh, and cruel cough, were hers--and she pined and pined away. folks said she was forespoken, and that i had done it. i, forsooth! she had never done me harm. you know whether i was rightly accused, madam." "take it away," cried mistress nutter, hurriedly, and as if struggling against some overmastering feeling. "i cannot bear to look at it. i wanted not this horrible reminder of my crimes." "this was the reason, then, why ralph stole the scalp from me," muttered the hag, as she threw it, together with some other matters, into the caldron. "he wanted to show you his sagacity. i might have guessed as much." "i will go into the other room while you make your preparations," said mistress nutter, rising; "the sight of them disturbs me. you can summon me when you are ready." "i will, madam," replied the old hag, "and you must control your impatience, for the spell requires time for its confection." mistress nutter made no reply, but, walking into the inner room, closed the door, and threw herself upon the pallet. here, despite her anxiety, sleep stole upon her, and though her dreams were troubled, she did not awake till mother chattox stood beside her. "have i slept long?" she inquired. "more than three hours," replied the hag. "three hours!" exclaimed mistress nutter. "why did you not wake me before? you would have saved me from terrible dreams. we are not too late?" "no, no," replied mother chattox; "there is plenty of time. come into the other room. all is ready." as mistress nutter followed the old hag into the adjoining room, a strong odour, arising from a chafing-dish, in which herbs, roots, and other ingredients were burning, assailed her, and, versed in all weird ceremonials, she knew that a powerful suffumigation had been made, though with what intent she had yet to learn. the scanty furniture had been cleared away, and a circle was described on the clay floor by skulls and bones, alternated by dried toads, adders, and other reptiles. in the midst of this magical circle, the caldron, which had been brought from the chimney, was placed, and, the lid being removed, a thick vapour arose from it. mistress nutter looked around for the raven, but the bird was nowhere to be seen, nor did any other living thing appear to be present beside themselves. taking the lady's hand, mother chattox drew her into the circle, and began to mutter a spell; after which, still maintaining her hold of her companion, she bade her look into the caldron, and declare what she saw. "i see nothing," replied the lady, after she had gazed upon the bubbling waters for a few moments. "ah! yes--i discern certain figures, but they are confused by the steam, and broken by the agitation of the water." "caldron--cease boiling! and smoke--disperse!" cried mother chattox, stamping her foot. "now, can you see more plainly?" "i can," replied mistress nutter; "i behold the subterranean chamber beneath malkin tower, with its nine ponderous columns, its altar in the midst of them, its demon image, and the well with waters black as lethe beside it." "the water within the caldron came from that well," said mother chattox, with a chuckling laugh; "my familiar risked his liberty to bring it, but he succeeded. ha! ha! my precious fancy, thou art the best of servants, and shalt have my best blood to reward thee to-morrow--thou shalt, my sweetheart, my chuck, my dandyprat. but hie thee back to malkin tower, and contrive that this lady may hear, as well as see, all that passes. away!" mistress nutter concluded that the injunction would be obeyed; but, as the familiar was invisible to her, she could not detect his departure. "do you see no one within the dungeon?" inquired mother chattox. "ah! yes," exclaimed the lady; "i have at last discovered alizon. she was behind one of the pillars. a little girl is with her. it is jennet device, and, from the spiteful looks of the latter, i judge she is mocking her. oh! what malice lurks in the breast of that hateful child! she is a true descendant of mother demdike. but alizon--sweet, patient alizon--she seems to bear all her taunts with a meekness and resignation enough to move the hardest heart. i would weep for her if i could. and now jennet shakes her hand at her, and leaves her. she is alone. what will she do now? has she no thoughts of escape? oh, yes! she looks about her distractedly--runs round the vault--tries the door of every cell: they are all bolted and barred--there is no outlet--none!" "what next?" inquired the hag. "she shrieks aloud," rejoined mistress nutter, "and the cry thrills through every fibre in my frame. she calls upon me for aid--upon me, her mother, and little thinks i hear her, and am unable to help her. oh! it is horrible. take me to her, good chattox--take me to her, i implore you!" "impossible!" replied the hag: "you must await the fitting time. if you cannot control yourself, i shall remove the caldron." "oh! no, no," cried the distracted lady. "i will be calm. ah! what is this i see?" she added, belying her former words by sudden vehemence, while rage and astonishment were depicted upon her countenance. "what infernal delusion is practised upon my child! this is monstrous-- intolerable. oh! that i could undeceive her--could warn her of the snare!" "what is the nature of the delusion?" asked mother chattox, with some curiosity. "i am so blind i cannot see the figures on the water." "it is an evil spirit in my likeness," replied mistress nutter. "in your likeness!" exclaimed the hag. "a cunning device--and worthy of old demdike--ho! ho!" "i can scarce bear to look on," cried mistress nutter; "but i must, though it tears my heart in pieces to witness such cruelty. the poor girl has rushed to her false parent--has thrown her arms around her, and is weeping on her shoulder. oh! it is a maddening sight. but it is nothing to what follows. the temptress, with the subtlety of the old serpent, is pouring lies into her ear, telling her they both are captives, and both will perish unless she consents to purchase their deliverance at the price of her soul, and she offers her a bond to sign--such a bond as, alas! thou and i, chattox, have signed. but alizon rejects it with horror, and gazes at her false mother as if she suspected the delusion. but the temptress is not to be beaten thus. she renews her entreaties, casts herself on the ground, and clasps my child's knees in humblest supplication. oh! that alizon would place her foot upon her neck and crush her. but it is not so the good act. she raises her, and tells her she will willingly die for her; but her soul was given to her by her creator, and must be returned to him. oh! that i had thought of this." "and what answer makes the spirit?" asked the witch. "it laughs derisively," replied mistress nutter; "and proceeds to use all those sophistical arguments, which we have so often heard, to pervert her mind, and overthrow her principles. but alizon is proof against them all. religion and virtue support her, and make her more than a match for her opponent. equally vain are the spirit's attempts to seduce her by the offer of a life of sinful enjoyment. she rejects it with angry scorn. failing in argument and entreaty, the spirit now endeavours to work upon her fears, and paints, in appalling colours, the tortures she will have to endure, contrasting them with the delight she is voluntarily abandoning, with the lover she might espouse, with the high worldly position she might fill. 'what are worldly joys and honours compared with those of heaven!' exclaims alizon; 'i would not exchange them.' the spirit then, in a vision, shows her her lover, richard, and asks her if she can resist his entreaties. the trial is very sore, as she gazes on that beloved form, seeming, by its passionate gestures, to implore her to assent, but she is firm, and the vision disappears. the ordeal is now over. alizon has triumphed over all their arts. the spirit in my likeness resumes its fiendish shape, and, with a dreadful menace against the poor girl, vanishes from her sight." "mother demdike has not done with her yet," observed chattox. "you are right," replied mistress nutter. "the old hag descends the staircase leading to the vault, and approaches the miserable captive. with her there are no supplications--no arguments; but commands and terrible threats. she is as unsuccessful as her envoy. alizon has gained courage and defies her." "ha! does she so?" exclaimed mother chattox. "i am glad of it." "the solid floor resounds with the stamping of the enraged witch," pursued mistress nutter. "she tells alizon she will take her to pendle hill at midnight, and there offer her up as a sacrifice to the fiend. my child replies that she trusts for her deliverance to heaven--that her body may be destroyed--that her soul cannot be harmed. scarcely are the words uttered than a terrible clangour is heard. the walls of the dungeon seem breaking down, and the ponderous columns reel. the demon statue rises on its throne, and a stream of flame issues from its brow. the doors of the cells burst open, and with the clanking of chains, and other dismal noises, skeleton shapes stalk forth, from them, each with a pale blue light above its head. monstrous beasts, like tiger-cats, with rough black skins and flaming eyes, are moving about, and looking as if they would spring upon the captive. two gravestones are now pushed aside, and from the cold earth arise the forms of blackburn, the robber, and his paramour, the dissolute isole de heton. she joins the grisly throng now approaching the distracted girl, who falls insensible to the ground." "can you see aught more?" asked the hag, as mistress nutter still bent eagerly over the caldron. "no; the whole chamber is buried in darkness," replied the lady; "i can see nothing of my poor child. what will become of her?" "i will question fancy," replied the hag, throwing some fresh ingredients into the chafing-dish; and, as the smoke arose, she vociferated, "come hither, fancy; i want thee, my fondling, my sweet. come quickly! ha! thou art here." the familiar was still invisible to mistress nutter, but a slight sound made her aware of his presence. "and now, my sweet fancy," pursued the hag, "tell us, if thou canst, what will be done with alizon, and what course we must pursue to free her from old demdike?" "at present she is in a state of insensibility," replied a harsh voice, "and she will be kept in that condition till she is conveyed to the summit of pendle hill. i have already told you it is useless to attempt to take her from malkin tower. it is too well guarded. your only chance will be to interrupt the sacrifice." "but how, my sweet fancy? how, my little darling?" inquired the hag. "it is a perplexing question," replied the voice; "for, by showing you how to obtain possession of the girl, i disobey my lord." "ay, but you serve me--you please me, my pretty fancy," cried the hag. "you shall quaff your fill of blood on the morrow, if you do this for me. i want to get rid of my old enemy--to catch her in her own toils--to send her to a dungeon--to burn her--ha! ha! you must help me, my little sweetheart." "i will do all i can," replied the voice; "but mother demdike is cunning and powerful, and high in favour with my lord. you must have mortal aid as well as mine. the officers of justice must be there to seize her at the moment when the victim is snatched from her, or she will baffle all your schemes." "and how shall we accomplish this?" asked mother chattox. "i will tell you," said mistress nutter to the hag. "let him put on the form of richard assheton, and in that guise hasten to rough lee, where he will find the young man's cousin, nicholas, to whom he must make known the dreadful deed about to be enacted on pendle hill. nicholas will at once engage to interrupt it. he can arm himself with the weapons of justice by taking with him roger nowell, the magistrate, and his myrmidon, potts, the attorney, both of whom are detained prisoners in the house by my orders." "the scheme promises well, and shall be adopted," replied the hag; "but suppose richard himself should appear first on the scene. dost know where he is, my sweet fancy?" "when i last saw him," replied the voice, "he was lying senseless on the ground, at the foot of malkin tower, having been precipitated from the doorway by mother demdike. you need apprehend no interference from him." "it is well," replied mother chattox. "then take his form, my pet, though it is not half as handsome as thy own." "a black skin and goat-like limbs are to thy taste, i know," replied the familiar, with a laugh. "let me look upon him before he goes, that i may be sure the likeness is exact," said mistress nutter. "thou hearest, fancy! become visible to her," cried the hag. and as she spoke, a figure in all respects resembling richard stood before them. "what think you of him? will he do?" said mother chattox. "ay," replied the lady; "and now send him off at once. there is no time to lose." "i shall be there in the twinkling of an eye," said the familiar; "but i own i like not the task." "there is no help for it, my sweet fancy," cried the hag. "i cannot forego my triumph over old demdike. now, away with thee, and when thou hast executed thy mission, return and tell us how thou hast sped in the matter." the familiar promised obedience to her commands, and disappeared. chapter xiv.--how rough lee was again besieged. parson holden, it will be remembered, left rough lee, charged by potts with a message to sir ralph assheton, informing him of his detention and that of roger nowell, by mistress nutter, and imploring him to come to their assistance without delay. congratulating himself on his escape, but apprehensive of pursuit, the worthy rector, who, as a keen huntsman, was extremely well mounted, made the best of his way, and had already passed the gloomy gorge through which pendle water swept, had climbed the hill beyond it, and was crossing the moor now alone lying between him and goldshaw, when he heard a shout behind him, and, turning at the sound, beheld blackadder and another mounted serving-man issuing from a thicket, and spurring furiously after him. relying upon the speed of his horse, he disregarded their cries, and accelerated his pace; but, in spite of this, his pursuers gained upon him rapidly. while debating the question of resistance or surrender, the rector descried bess whitaker coming towards him from the opposite direction--a circumstance that greatly rejoiced him; for, aware of her strength and courage, he felt sure he could place as much dependence upon her in this emergency as on any man in the county. bess was riding a stout, rough-looking nag, apparently well able to sustain her weight, and carried the redoubtable horsewhip with her. on the other hand, holden had been recognised by bess, who came up just as he was overtaken and seized by his assailants, one of whom caught hold of his cassock, and tore it from his back, while the other, seizing hold of his bridle, endeavoured, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, to turn his horse round. many oaths, threats, and blows were exchanged during the scuffle, which no doubt would have terminated in the rector's defeat, and his compulsory return to rough lee, had it not been for the opportune arrival of bess, who, swearing as lustily as the serving-men, and brandishing the horsewhip, dashed into the scene of action, and, with a few well-applied cuts, liberated the divine. enraged at her interference, and smarting from the application of the whip, blackadder drew a petronel from his girdle, and levelled it at her head; but, ere he could discharge it, the weapon was stricken from his grasp, and a second blow on the head from the but-end of the whip felled him from his horse. seeing the fate of his companion, the other serving-man fled, leaving bess mistress of the field. the rector thanked her heartily for the service she had rendered him, and complimented her on her prowess. "ey'n neaw dun mitch to boast on i' leatherin' them two seawr-feaced rapscallions," said bess, with becoming modesty. "simon blackadder an ey ha' had mony a tussle together efore this, fo he's a feaw tempert felly, an canna drink abowt fightin', boh he has awlus found me more nor his match. boh save us, your reverence, what were the ill-favort gullions ridin' after ye for? firrups tak 'em! they didna mean to rob ye, surely?" "their object was to make me prisoner, and carry me back to rough lee, bess," replied holden. "they wished to prevent my going to whalley, whither i am bound, to procure help from sir ralph assheton to liberate master roger nowell and his attorney, who are forcibly detained by mistress nutter." "yo may spare yer horse an yersel the jorney, then, reverend sir," replied bess; "for yo'n foind sir tummus metcawfe, wi' some twanty or throtty followers, armed wi' bills, hawberts, petronels, and calivers, at goldshaw, an they win go wi' ye at wanst, ey'm sartin. ey heerd sum o' t' chaps say os ow sir tummus is goin' to tak' possession o' mistress robinson's house, raydale ha', i' wensley dale, boh nah doubt he'n go furst wi' yer rev'rence, 'specially as he bears mistress nutter a grudge." "at all events, i will ask him," said holden. "are he and his followers lodged at your house, bess?" "yeigh," replied the hostess, "some on 'en are i' th' house, some i' th' barn, an some i' th' stables. the place is awtogether owerrun wi' 'em. ey wur so moydert an wurrotit wi' their ca'in an bawlin fo' ele an drink, that ey swore they shouldna ha' another drawp wi' my consent; an, to be os good os my word, ey clapt key o' t' cellar i' my pocket, an leavin' our margit to answer 'em, ey set out os yo see, intendin' to go os far as t' mill, an comfort poor deeavely ruchot baldwyn in his trouble." "a most praiseworthy resolution, bess," said the rector; "but what is to be done with this fellow?" he added, pointing to blackadder, who, though badly hurt, was trying to creep towards the petronel, which was lying at a little distance from him on the ground. perceiving his intention, bess quickly dismounted, and possessing herself of the weapon, stepped aside, and slipping off one of the bands that confined the hose on her well-shaped leg, grasped the wounded man by the shoulders, and with great expedition tied his hands behind his back. she then lifted him up with as much ease as if he had been an infant, and set him upon his horse, with his face towards the tail. this done, she gave the bridle to the rector, and handing him the petronel at the same time, told him to take care of his prisoner, for she must pursue her journey. and with this, in spite of his renewed entreaties that she would go back with him, she sprang on her horse and rode off. on arriving at goldshaw with his prisoner, the rector at once proceeded to the hostel, in front of which he found several of the villagers assembled, attracted by the numerous company within doors, whose shouts and laughter could be heard at a considerable distance. holden's appearance with blackadder occasioned considerable surprise, and all eagerly gathered round him to learn what had occurred; but, without satisfying their curiosity, beyond telling them he had been attacked by the prisoner, he left him in their custody and entered the house, where he found all the benches in the principal room occupied by a crew of half-drunken roysterers, with flagons of ale before them; for, after bess's departure with the key, they had broken into the cellar, and, broaching a cask, helped themselves to its contents. various weapons were scattered about the tables or reared against the walls, and the whole scene looked like a carouse by a band of marauders. little respect was shown the rector, and he was saluted by many a ribald jest as he pushed his way towards the inner room. sir thomas was drinking with a couple of desperadoes, whose long rapiers and tarnished military equipments seemed to announce that they had, at some time or other, belonged to the army, though their ruffianly looks and braggadocio air and discourse, strongly seasoned with oaths and slang, made it evident that they were now little better than alsatian bullies. they had, in fact, been hired by sir thomas for the expedition on which he was bent, as he could find no one in the country upon whom he could so well count as on them. eyeing the rector fiercely, as he intruded upon their privacy, they glanced at their leader to ask whether they should turn him out; but, receiving no encouragement for such rudeness, they contented themselves with scowling at him from beneath their bent brows, twisting up their shaggy mustaches, and trifling with the hilts of their rapiers. holden opened his business at once; and as soon as sir thomas heard it, he sprang to his feet, and, swearing a great oath, declared he would storm rough lee, and burn it to the ground, if mistress nutter did not set the two captives free. "as to the audacious witch herself, i will carry her off, in spite of the devil, her master!" he cried. "how say you, captain gauntlet--and you too, captain storks, is not this an expedition to your tastes--ha?" the two worthies appealed to responded joyously, that it was so; and it was then agreed that blackadder should be brought in and interrogated, as some important information might be obtained from him. upon this, captain gauntlet left the room to fetch him, and presently afterwards returned dragging in the prisoner, who looked dogged and angry, by the shoulders. "harkye, fellow," said sir thomas, sternly, "if you do not answer the questions i shall put to you, truly and satisfactorily, i will have you taken out into the yard, and shot like a dog. thus much premised, i shall proceed with my examination. master roger nowell and master thomas potts, you are aware, are unlawfully detained prisoners by mistress alice nutter. now i have been called upon by the reverend gentleman here to undertake their liberation, but, before doing so, i desire to know from you what defensive and offensive preparations your mistress has made, and whether you judge it likely she will attempt to hold out her house against us?" "most assuredly she will," replied blackadder, "and against twice your force. rough lee is as strong as a castle; and as those within it are well-armed, vigilant, and of good courage, there is little fear of its capture. if your worship should propose terms to my mistress for the release of her prisoners, she may possibly assent to them; but if you approach her in hostile fashion, and demand their liberation, i am well assured she will resist you, and well assured, also, she will resist you effectually." "i shall approach her in no other sort than that of an enemy," rejoined sir thomas; "but thou art over confident, knave. unless thy mistress have a legion of devils at her back, and they hold us in check, we will force a way into her dwelling. fire and fury! dost presume to laugh at me, fellow? take him hence, and let him be soundly cudgeled for his insolence, gauntlet." "pardon me, your worship," cried blackadder, "i only smiled at the strange notions you entertain of my mistress." "why, dost mean to deny that she is a witch?" demanded metcalfe. "nay, if your worship will have it so, it is not for me to contradict you," replied blackadder. "but i ask thee is she not a servant of satan?--dost thou not know it?--canst thou not prove it?" cried the knight. "shall we put him to the torture to make him confess?" "ay, tie his thumbs together till the blood burst forth, sir thomas," said gauntlet. "or hang him up to yon beam by the heels," suggested captain storks. "on no account," interposed holden. "i did not bring him hither to be dealt with in this way, and i will not permit it. if torture is to be administered it must be by the hands of justice, into which i require him to be delivered; and then, if he can testify aught against his mistress, he will be made to do it." "torture shall never wring a word from me, whether wrongfully or rightfully applied," said blackadder, doggedly; "though i could tell much if i chose. now give heed to me, sir thomas. you will never take rough lee, still less its mistress, without my help." "what are thy terms, knave?" exclaimed the knight, pondering upon the offer. "and take heed thou triflest not with me, or i will have thee flogged within an inch of thy life, in spite of parson or justice. what are thy terms, i repeat?" "they are for your worship's ear alone," replied blackadder. "beware what you do, sir thomas," interposed holden. "i hold it my duty to tell you, you are compromising justice in listening to the base proposals of this man, who, while offering to betray his mistress, will assuredly deceive you. you will equally deceive him in feigning to agree to terms which you cannot fulfil." "cannot fulfil!" ejaculated the knight, highly offended; "i would have you to know, sir, that sir thomas metcalfe's word is his bond, and that whatsoever he promises he _will_ fulfil in spite of the devil! body o' me! but for the respect i owe your cloth, i would give you a very different answer, reverend sir. but since you have chosen to thrust yourself unasked into the affair, i take leave to say that i _will_ hear this knave's proposals, and judge for myself of the expediency of acceding to them. i must pray you therefore, to withdraw. nay, if you will not go hence peaceably, you shall perforce. take him away, gentlemen." thus enjoined, the alsatian captains took each an arm of the rector, and forced him out of the room, leaving sir thomas alone with the prisoner. greatly incensed at the treatment he had experienced, holden instantly quitted the house, hastened to the rectory, which adjoined the church, and having given some messages to his household, rode off to whalley, with the intention of acquainting sir ralph assheton with all that had occurred. sir thomas metcalfe remained closeted with the prisoner for a few minutes, and then coming forth, issued orders that all should get ready to start for rough lee without delay; whereupon each man emptied his flagon, pocketed the dice he had been cogging, pushed aside the shuffle-board, left the loggats on the clay floor of the barn, and, grasping his weapon--halbert or caliver, as it might be--prepared to attend his leader. sir thomas did not relate, even to the alsatian captains, what had passed between him and blackadder; but it did not appear that he placed entire confidence in the latter; for though he caused his hands to be unbound, and allowed him in consideration of his wounded state to ride, he secretly directed gauntlet and storks to keep near him, and shoot him through the head if he attempted to escape. both these personages were provided with horses as well as their leader, but all the rest of the party were on foot. metcalfe made some inquiries after the rector, but finding he was gone, he did not concern himself further about him. before starting, the knight, who, with all his recklessness, had a certain sense of honesty, called the girl who had been left in charge of the hostel by bess, and gave her a sum amply sufficient to cover all the excesses of his men, adding a handsome gratuity to herself. the first part of the journey was accomplished without mischance, and the party bade fair to arrive at the end of it in safety; but as they entered the gorge, at the extremity of which rough lee was situated, a terrific storm burst upon them, compelling them to seek shelter in the mill, from which they were luckily not far distant at the time. the house was completely deserted, but they were well able to shift for themselves, and not over scrupulous in the manner of doing so; and as the remains of the funeral feast were not removed from the table, some of the company sat down to them, while others found their way to the cellar. the storm was of long continuance, much longer than was agreeable to sir thomas, and he paced the room to and fro impatiently, ever and anon walking to the window or door, to see whether it had in any degree abated, and was constantly doomed to disappointment. instead of diminishing, it increased in violence, and it was now impossible to quit the house with safety. the lightning blazed, the thunder rattled among the overhanging rocks, and the swollen stream of pendle water roared at their feet. blackadder was left under the care of the two alsatians, but while they had shielded their eyes from the glare of the lightning, he threw open the window, and, springing through it, made good his retreat. in such a storm it was in vain to follow him, even if they had dared to attempt it. in vain sir thomas metcalfe fumed and fretted--in vain he heaped curses upon the bullies for their negligence--in vain he hurled menaces after the fugitive: the former paid little heed to his imprecations, and the latter was beyond his reach. the notion began to gain ground amongst the rest of the troop that the storm was the work of witchcraft, and occasioned general consternation. even the knight's anger yielded to superstitious fear, and as a terrific explosion shook the rafters overhead, and threatened to bring them down upon him, he fell on his knees, and essayed, with unaccustomed lips, to murmur a prayer. but he was interrupted; for amid the deep silence succeeding the awful crash, a mocking laugh was heard, and the villainous countenance of blackadder, rendered doubly hideous by the white lightning, was seen at the casement. the sight restored sir thomas at once. drawing his sword he flew to the window, but before he could reach it blackadder was gone. the next flash showed what had befallen him. in stepping backwards, he tumbled into the mill-race; and the current, increased in depth and force by the deluging rain, instantly swept him away. half an hour after this, the violence of the storm had perceptibly diminished, and sir thomas and his companions began to hope that their speedy release was at hand. latterly the knight had abandoned all idea of attacking rough lee, but with the prospect of fair weather his courage returned, and he once more resolved to attempt it. he was moving about among his followers, striving to dispel their fears, and persuade them that the tempest was only the result of natural causes, when the door was suddenly thrown open, giving entrance to bess whitaker, who bore the miller in her arms. she stared on seeing the party assembled, and knit her brows, but said nothing till she had deposited baldwyn in a seat, when she observed to sir thomas, that he seemed to have little scruple in taking possession of a house in its owner's absence. the knight excused himself for the intrusion by saying, he had been compelled by the storm to take refuge there with his followers--a plea readily admitted by baldwyn, who was now able to speak for himself; and the miller next explained that he had been to rough lee, and after many perilous adventures, into the particulars of which he did not enter, had been brought away by bess, who had carried him home. that home he now felt would be a lonely and insecure one unless she would consent to occupy it with him; and bess, on being thus appealed to, affirmed that the only motive that would induce her to consent to such an arrangement would be her desire to protect him from his mischievous neighbours. while they were thus discoursing, old mitton, who it appeared had followed them, arrived wellnigh exhausted, and baldwyn went in search of some refreshment for him. by this time the storm had sufficiently cleared off to allow the others to take their departure; and though the miller and bess would fain have dissuaded the knight from the enterprise, he was not to be turned aside, but, bidding his men attend him, set forth. the rain had ceased, but it was still very dark. under cover of the gloom, however, they thought they could approach the house unobserved, and obtain an entrance before mistress nutter could be aware of their arrival. in this expectation they pursued their way in silence, and soon stood before the gates. these were fastened, but as no one appeared to be on the watch, sir thomas, in a low tone, ordered some of his men to scale the walls, with the intention of following himself; but scarcely had a head risen above the level of the brickwork than the flash of an arquebuss was seen, and the man jumped backwards, luckily just in time to avoid the bullet that whistled over him. an alarm was then instantly given, voices were heard in the garden, mingled with the furious barking of hounds. a bell was rung from the upper part of the house, and lights appeared at the windows. meanwhile, some of the men, less alarmed than their comrade, contrived to scramble over the wall, and were soon engaged hand to hand with those on the opposite side. but not alone had they to contend with adversaries like themselves. the stag-hounds, which had done so much execution during the first attack upon the house by roger nowell, raged amongst them like so many lions, rending their limbs, and seizing their throats. to free themselves from these formidable antagonists was their first business, and by dint of thrust from pike, cut from sword, and ball from caliver, they succeeded in slaughtering two of them, and driving the others, badly wounded, and savagely howling, away. in doing this, however, they themselves had sustained considerable injury. three of their number were lying on the ground, in no condition, from their broken heads, or shattered limbs, for renewing the combat. thus, so far as the siege had gone, success seemed to declare itself rather for the defenders than the assailants, when a new impulse was given to the latter, by the bursting open of the gates, and the sudden influx of sir thomas metcalfe and the rest of his troop. the knight was closely followed by the alsatian captains, who, with tremendous oaths in their mouths, and slashing blades in their hands, declared they would make minced meat of any one opposing their progress. sir thomas was equally truculent in expression and ferocious in tone, and as the whole party laid about them right and left, they speedily routed the defenders of the garden, and drove them towards the house. flushed by their success, the besiegers shouted loudly, and sir thomas roared out, that ere many minutes nowell and potts should be set free, and alice nutter captured. but before he could reach the main door, nicholas assheton, well armed, and attended by some dozen men, presented himself at it. these were instantly joined by the retreating party, and the whole offered a formidable array of opponents, quite sufficient to check the progress of the besiegers. two or three of the men near nicholas carried torches, and their light revealed the numbers on both sides. "what! is it you, sir thomas metcalfe?" cried the squire. "do you commit such outrages as this--do you break into habitations like a robber, rifle them, and murder their inmates? explain yourself, sir, or i will treat you as i would a common plunderer; shoot you through the head, or hang you to the first tree if i take you." "zounds and fury!" rejoined metcalfe. "do you dare to liken me to a common robber and murderer? take care you do not experience the same fate as that with which you threaten me, with this difference only, that the hangman--the common hangman of lancaster--shall serve your turn. i am come hither to arrest a notorious witch, and to release two gentlemen who are unlawfully detained prisoners by her; and if you do not instantly deliver her up to me, and produce the two individuals in question, master roger nowell and master potts, i will force my way into the house, and all injury done to those who oppose me will rest on your head." "the two gentlemen you have named are perfectly safe and contented in their quarters," replied nicholas; "and as to the foul and false aspersions you have thrown out against mistress nutter, i cast them back in your teeth. your purpose in coming hither is to redress some private wrong. how is it you have such a rout with you? how is it i behold two notorious bravos by your side--men who have stood in the pillory, and undergone other ignominious punishment for their offences? you cannot answer, and their oaths and threats go for nothing. i now tell you, sir thomas, if you do not instantly withdraw your men, and quit these premises, grievous consequences will ensue to you and them." "i will hear no more," cried sir thomas, infuriated to the last degree. "follow me into the house, and spare none who oppose you." "you are not in yet," cried nicholas. and as he spoke a row of pikes bristled around him, holding the knight at bay, while a hook was fixed in the doublet of each of the alsatian captains, and they were plucked forward and dragged into the house. this done, nicholas and his men quickly retreated, and the door was closed and barred upon the enraged and discomfited knight. chapter xv.--the phantom monk. many hours had passed by, and night had come on--a night profoundly dark. richard was still lying where he had fallen at the foot of malkin tower; for though he had regained his sensibility, he was so bruised and shaken as to be wholly unable to move. his limbs, stiffened and powerless, refused their office, and, after each unsuccessful effort, he sank back with a groan. his sole hope was that mistress nutter, alarmed by his prolonged absence, might come to her daughter's assistance, and so discover his forlorn situation; but as time flew by, and nothing occurred, he gave himself up for lost. on a sudden the gloom was dispersed, and a silvery light shed over the scene. the moon had broken through a rack of clouds, and illumined the tall mysterious tower, and the dreary waste around it. with the light a ghostly figure near him became visible to richard, which under other circumstances would have excited terror in his breast, but which now only filled him with wonder. it was that of a cistertian monk; the vestments were old and faded, the visage white and corpse-like. richard at once recognised the phantom he had seen in the banquet-hall at the abbey, and had afterwards so rashly followed to the conventual church. it touched him with its icy fingers, and a dullness like death shot through his heart. "why dost thou trouble me thus, unhappy spirit?" said the young man. "leave me, i adjure thee, and let me die in peace!" "thou wilt not die yet, richard assheton," returned the phantom; "and my intention is not to trouble thee, but to serve thee. without my aid thou wouldst perish where thou liest, but i will raise thee up, and set thee on thy way." "wilt thou help me to liberate alizon?" demanded richard. "do not concern thyself further about her," replied the phantom; "she must pass through an ordeal with which nothing human may interfere. if she escape it you will meet again. if not, it were better thou shouldst be in thy grave than see her. take this phial. drink thou the liquid it contains, and thy strength will return to thee." "how do i know thou art not sent hither by mother demdike to tempt me?" demanded richard, doubtfully. "i have already fallen into her snares," he added, with a groan. [illustration: the phantom monk.] "i am mother demdike's enemy, and the appointed instrument of her punishment," replied the monk, in a tone that did not admit of question. "drink, and fear nothing." richard obeyed, and the next moment sprang to his feet. "thou hast indeed restored me!" he cried. "i would fain reach the secret entrance to the tower." "attempt it not, i charge thee!" cried the phantom; "but depart instantly for pendle hill." "wherefore should i go thither?" demanded richard. "thou wilt learn anon," returned the monk. "i cannot tell thee more now. dismount at the foot of the hill, and proceed to the beacon. thou know'st it?" "i do," replied richard. "there a fire was lighted which was meant to set all england in a blaze." "and which led many good men to destruction," said the monk, in a tone of indescribable sadness. "alas! for him who kindled it. the offence is not yet worked out. but depart without more delay; and look not back." as richard hastened towards the spot where he had left merlin, he fancied he was followed by the phantom; but, obedient to the injunction he received, he did not turn his head. as he mounted the horse, who neighed cheerily as he drew near, he found he was right in supposing the monk to be behind him, for he heard his voice calling out, "linger not by the way. to the beacon!--to the beacon!" thus exhorted, the young man dashed off, and, to his great surprise, found merlin as fresh as if he had undergone no fatigue during the day. it would almost seem, from his spirit, that he had partaken of the same wondrous elixir which had revived his master. down the hill he plunged, regardless of the steep descent, and soon entered the thicket where the storm had fallen upon them, and where so many acts of witchcraft were performed. now, neither accident nor obstacle occurred to check the headlong pace of the animal, though the stones rattled after him as he struck them with his flying hoof. the moonlight quivered on the branches of the trees, and on the tender spray, and all looked as tranquil and beautiful as it had so lately been gloomy and disturbed. the wood was passed, and the last and steepest descent cleared. the little bridge was at hand, and beneath was pendle water, rushing over its rocky bed, and glittering like silver in the moon's rays. but here richard had wellnigh received a check. a party of armed men, it proved, occupied the road leading to rough lee, about a bow-shot from the bridge, and as soon as they perceived he was taking the opposite course, with the apparent intention of avoiding them, they shouted to him to stay. this shout made richard aware of their presence, for he had not before observed them, as they were concealed by the intervention of some small trees; but though surprised at the circumstance, and not without apprehension that they might be there with a hostile design to mistress nutter, he did not slacken his pace. a horseman, who appeared to be their leader, rode after him for a short distance, but finding pursuit futile, he desisted, pouring forth a volley of oaths and threats, in a voice that proclaimed him as sir thomas metcalfe. this discovery confirmed richard in his supposition that mischief was intended mistress nutter; but even this conviction, strengthened by his antipathy to metcalfe, was not sufficiently strong to induce him to stop. promising himself to return on the morrow, and settle accounts with the insolent knight, he speeded on, and, passing the mill, tracked the rocky gorge above it, and began to mount another hill. despite the ascent, merlin never slackened his pace, but, though his master would have restrained him, held on as before. but the brow of the hill attained, richard compelled him to a brief halt. by this time the sky was comparatively clear, but small clouds were sailing across the heavens, and at one moment the moon would be obscured by them, and the next, burst forth with sudden effulgence. these alternations produced corresponding effects on the broad, brown, heathy plain extending below, and fantastic shadows were cast upon it, which it needed not richard's heated imagination to liken to evil beings flying past. the wind, too, lay in the direction of the north end of pendle hill, whither richard was about to shape his course, and the shadows consequently trooped off towards that quarter. the vast mass of pendle rose in gloomy majesty before him, being thrown into shade, except at its crown, where a flood of radiance rested. like an eagle swooping upon his prey, richard descended into the valley, and like a stag pursued by the huntsman he speeded across it. neither dyke, morass, nor stone wall checked him, or made him turn aside; and almost as fast as the clouds hurrying above him, and their shadows travelling at his feet, did he reach the base of pendle hill. making up to a shed, which, though empty, luckily contained a wisp or two of hay, he turned merlin into it, and commenced the ascent of the hill on foot. after attaining a considerable elevation, he looked down from the giddy heights upon the valley he had just traversed. a few huts, forming the little village of barley, lay sleeping in the moonlight beneath him, while further off could be just discerned goldshaw, with its embowered church. a line of thin vapour marked the course of pendle water, and thicker mists hovered over the mosses. the shadows were still passing over the plain. pressing on, richard soon came among the rocks protruding from the higher part of the hill, and as the path was here not more than a foot wide, rarely taken except by the sheep and their guardians, it was necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, as a single false step would have been fatal. after some toil, and not without considerable risk, he reached the summit of the hill. as he bounded over the springy turf, and inhaled the pure air of that exalted region, his spirits revived, and new elasticity was communicated to his limbs. he shaped his course near the edge of the hill, so that the extensive view it commanded was fully displayed. but his eye rested on the mountainous range on the opposite side of the valley, where malkin tower was situated. even in broad day the accursed structure would have been invisible, as it stood on the further side of the hill, overlooking barrowford and colne; but richard knew its position well, and while his gaze was fixed upon the point, he saw a star shoot down from the heavens and apparently alight near the spot. the circumstance alarmed him, for he could not help thinking it ominous of ill to alizon. nothing, however, followed to increase his misgivings, and erelong he came in sight of the beacon. the ground had been gradually rising, and if he had proceeded a few hundred yards further, a vast panorama would have opened upon him, comprising a large part of lancashire on the one hand, and on the other an equally extensive portion of yorkshire. forest and fell, black moor and bright stream, old castle and stately hall, would have then been laid before him as in a map. but other thoughts engrossed him, and he went straight on. as far as he could discern he was alone on the hill top; and the silence and solitude, coupled with the ill report of the place, which at this hour was said to be often visited by foul hags, for the performance of their unhallowed rites, awakened superstitious fears in his breast. he was soon by the side of the beacon. the stones were still standing as they had been reared by paslew, and on looking at them he was astonished to find the hollow within them filled with dry furze, brushwood, and fagots, as if in readiness for another signal. in passing round the circle, his surprise was still further increased by discovering a torch, and not far from it, in one of the interstices of the stones, a dark lantern, in which, on removing the shade, he found a candle burning. it was now clear the beacon was to be kindled that night, though for what end he could not conjecture, and equally clear that he was brought thither to fire it. he put back the lantern into its place, took up the torch, and held himself in readiness. half an hour elapsed, and nothing occurred. during this interval it had become dark. a curtain of clouds was drawn over the moon and stars. suddenly, a hurtling noise was heard in the air, and it seemed to the watcher as if a troop of witches were alighting at a distance from him. a loud hubbub of voices ensued--then there was a trampling of feet, accompanied by discordant strains of music--after which a momentary silence ensued, and a harsh voice asked-- "why are we brought hither?" "it is not for a sabbath," shouted another voice, "for there is neither fire nor caldron." "mother demdike would not summon us without good reason," cried a third. "we shall learn presently what we have to do." "the more mischief the better," rejoined another voice. "ay, mischief! mischief! mischief!" echoed the rest of the crew. "you shall have enough of it to content you," rejoined mother demdike. "i have called you hither to be present at a sacrifice." hideous screams of laughter followed this announcement, and the voice that had spoken first asked-- "a sacrifice of whom?" "an unbaptised babe, stolen from its sleeping mother's breast," rejoined another. "mother demdike has often played that trick before--ho! ho!" "peace!" thundered the hag--"it is no babe i am about to kill, but a full-grown maid--ay, and one of rarest beauty, too. what think ye of alizon device?" "thy grand-daughter!" cried several voices, in surprise. "alice nutter's daughter--for such she is," rejoined the hag. "i have held her captive in malkin tower, and have subjected her to every trial and temptation i could devise, but i have failed in shaking her courage, or in winning her over to our master. all the horrors of the vault have been tried upon her in vain. even the last terrible ordeal, which no one has hitherto sustained, proved ineffectual. she went through it unmoved." "heaven be praised!" murmured richard. "it seems i have no power over her soul" pursued the hag; "but i have over her body, and she shall die here, and by my hand. but mind me, not a drop of blood must fall to the ground." "have no fear," cried several voices, "we will catch it in our palms and quaff it." "hast thou thy knife, mould-heels?" asked mother demdike. "ay," replied the other, "it is long and sharp, and will do thy business well. thy grandson, jem device, notched it by killing swine, and my goodman ground it only yesterday. take it." "i will plunge it to her heart!" cried mother demdike, with an infernal laugh. "and now i will tell you why we have neither fire nor caldron. on questioning the ebon image in the vault as to the place where the sacrifice should be made, i received for answer that it must be here, and in darkness. no human eye but our own must behold it. we are safe on this score, for no one is likely to come hither at this hour. no fire must be kindled, or the sacrifice will result in destruction to us all. ye have heard, and understand?" "we do," replied several husky voices. "and so do i," said richard, taking hold of the dark lantern. "and now for the girl," cried mother demdike. chapter xvi.--one o'clock! mistress nutter and mother chattox were still at the hut, impatiently awaiting the return of fancy. but nearly an hour elapsed before he appeared. "what has detained thee so long?" demanded the hag, sharply, as he stood before them. "you shall hear, mistress," replied fancy: "i have had a busy time of it, i assure you, and thought i should never accomplish my errand. on arriving at rough lee, i found the place invested by sir thomas metcalfe and a host of armed men, who had been sent thither by parson holden, for the joint purpose of arresting you, madam," addressing mistress nutter, "and liberating nowell and potts. the knight was in a great fume; for, in spite of the force brought against it, the house had been stoutly defended by nicholas assheton, who had worsted the besieging party, and captured two alsatian captains, hangers on of sir thomas. appearing in the character of an enemy, i was immediately surrounded by metcalfe and his men, who swore they would cut my throat unless i undertook to procure the liberation of the two bravos in question, as well as that of nowell and potts. i told them i was come for the express purpose of setting free the two last-named gentlemen; but, with respect to the former, i had no instructions, and they must arrange the matter with master nicholas himself. upon this sir thomas became exceedingly wroth and insolent, and proceeded to such lengths that i resolved to chastise him, and in so doing performed a feat which will tend greatly to exalt richard's character for courage and strength." "let us hear it, my doughty champion," cried mother chattox. "while metcalfe was pouring forth his rage, and menacing me with uplifted hand," pursued the familiar, "i seized him by the throat, dragged him from his horse, and in spite of the efforts of his men, whose blows fell upon me thick as hail, and quite as harmlessly, i bore him through the garden to the back of the house, where my shouts soon brought nicholas and others to my assistance, and after delivering my captive to them, i dismounted. the squire, you will imagine, was astonished to see me, and greatly applauded my prowess. i replied, with the modesty becoming my assumed character, that i had done nothing, and, in reality, the feat was nothing to me; but i told him i had something of the utmost importance to communicate, and which could not be delayed a moment; whereupon he led me to a small room adjoining the hall, while the crestfallen knight was left to vent his rage and mortification on the grooms to whose custody he was committed." "you acted your part to perfection," said mistress nutter. "ay, trust my sweet fancy for that," said the hag--"there is no familiar like him--none whatever." "your praises make me blush," rejoined fancy. "but to proceed. i fulfilled your instructions to the letter, and excited nicholas's horror and indignation by the tale i told him. i laughed in my sleeve all the while, but i maintained a very different countenance with him. he thought me full of anguish and despair. he questioned me as to my proceedings at malkin tower, and i amazed him with the description of a fearful storm i had encountered--of my interview with old demdike, and her atrocious treatment of alizon--to all of which he listened with profound interest. richard himself could not have moved him more--perhaps not so much. as soon as i had finished, he vowed he would rescue alizon from the murtherous hag, and prevent the latter from committing further mischief; and bidding me come with him, we repaired to the room in which nowell and potts were confined. we found them both fast asleep in their chairs; but nicholas quickly awakened them, and some explanations ensued, which did not at first appear very clear and satisfactory to either magistrate or attorney, but in the end they agreed to accompany us on the expedition, master potts declaring it would compensate him for all his mischances if he could arrest mother demdike." "i hope he may have his wish," said mother chattox. "ay, but he declared that his next step should be to arrest you, mistress," observed fancy, with a laugh. "arrest me!" cried the hag. "marry, let him touch me, if he dares. my term is not out yet, and, with thee to defend me, my brave fancy, i have no fear." "right!" replied the familiar; "but to go on with my story. sir thomas metcalfe was next brought forward; and after some warm altercation, peace was at length established between him and the squire, and hands were shaken all round. wine was then called for by nicholas, who, at the same time, directed that the two alsatian captains should be brought up from the cellar, where they had been placed for safety. the first part of the order was obeyed, but the second was found impracticable, inasmuch as the two heroes had found their way to the inner cellar, and had emptied so many flasks that they were utterly incapable of moving. while the wine was being discussed, an unexpected arrival took place." "an arrival!--of whom?" inquired mistress nutter, eagerly. "sir ralph assheton and a large party," replied fancy. "parson holden, it seems, not content with sending sir thomas and his rout to the aid of his friends, had proceeded for the same purpose to whalley, and the result was the appearance of the new party. a brief explanation from nicholas and myself served to put sir ralph in possession of all that had occurred, and he declared his readiness to accompany the expedition to pendle hill, and to take all his followers with him. sir thomas metcalfe expressed an equally strong desire to go with him, and of course it was acceded to. i am bound to tell you, madam," added fancy to mistress nutter, "that your conduct is viewed in a most suspicious light by every one of these persons, except nicholas, who made an effort to defend you." "i care not what happens to me, if i succeed in rescuing my child," said the lady. "but have they set out on the expedition?" "by this time, no doubt they have," replied fancy. "i got off by saying i would ride on to pendle hill, and, stationing myself on its summit, give them a signal when they should advance upon their prey. and now, good mistress, i pray you dismiss me. i want to cast off this shape, which i find an incumbrance, and resume my own. i will return when it is time for you to set out." the hag waved her hand, and the familiar was gone. half an hour elapsed, and he returned not. mistress nutter became fearfully impatient. three-quarters, and even the old hag was uneasy. an hour, and he stood before them--dwarfish, fiendish, monstrous. "it is time," he said, in a harsh voice; but the tones were music in the wretched mother's ears. "come, then," she cried, rushing wildly forth. "ay, ay, i come," replied the hag, following her. "not so fast. you cannot go without me." "nor either of you without me," added fancy. "here, good mistress, is your broomstick." "away for pendle hill!" screamed the hag. "ay, for pendle hill!" echoed fancy. and there was a whirling of dark figures through the air as before. presently they alighted on the summit of pendle hill, which seemed to be wrapped in a dense cloud, for mistress nutter could scarcely see a yard before her. fancy's eyes, however, were powerful enough to penetrate the gloom, for stepping back a few yards, he said-- "the expedition is at the foot of the hill, where they have made a halt. we must wait a few moments, till i can ascertain what they mean to do. ah! i see. they are dividing into three parties. one detachment, headed by nicholas assheton, with whom are potts and nowell, is about to make the ascent from the spot where they now stand; another, commanded by sir ralph assheton, is moving towards the but-end of the hill; and the third, headed by sir thomas metcalfe, is proceeding to the right. these are goodly preparations--ha! ha! but, what do i behold? the first detachment have a prisoner with them. it is jem device, whom they have captured on the way, i suppose. i can tell from the rascal's looks that he is planning an escape. patience, madam, i must see how he executes his design. there is no hurry. they are all scrambling up the hill-sides. some one slips, and rolls down, and bruises himself severely against the loose stones. ho! ho! it is master potts. he is picked up by james device, who takes him on his shoulders. what means the knave by such attention? we shall see anon. they continue to fight their way upward, and have now reached the narrow path among the rocks. take heed, or your necks will be broken. ho! ho! well done, jem,--bravo! lad. thy scheme is out now--ho! ho!" "what has he done?" asked mother chattox. "run off with the attorney--with master potts," replied fancy; "disappeared in the gloom, so that it is impossible nicholas can follow him--ho! ho!" "but my child!--where is my child?" cried mistress nutter, in agitated impatience. "come with me, and i will lead you to her," replied fancy, taking her hand; "and do you keep close to us, mistress," he added to mother chattox. moving quickly along the heathy plain, they soon reached a small dry hollow, about a hundred paces from the beacon, in the midst of which, as in a grave, was deposited the inanimate form of alizon. when the spot was indicated to her by fancy, the miserable mother flew to it, and, with indescribable delight, clasped her child to her breast. but the next moment, a new fear seized her, for the limbs were stiff and cold, and the heart had apparently ceased to beat. "she is dead!" exclaimed mistress nutter, frantically. "no; she is only in a magical trance," said fancy; "my mistress can instantly revive her." "prithee do so, then, good chattox," implored the lady. "better defer it till we have taken her hence," rejoined the hag. "oh! no, now--now! let me be assured she lives!" cried mistress nutter. mother chattox reluctantly assented, and, touching alizon with her skinny finger, first upon the heart and then upon the brow, the poor girl began to show symptoms of life. "my child--my child!" cried mistress nutter, straining her to her breast; "i am come to save thee!" "you will scarce succeed, if you tarry here longer," said fancy. "away!" "ay, come away!" shrieked the hag, seizing alizon's arm. "where are you about to take her?" asked mistress nutter. "to my hut," replied mother chattox. "no, no--she shall not go there," returned the lady. "and wherefore not?" screamed the hag. "she is mine now, and i say she _shall_ go." "right, mistress," said fancy; "and leave the lady here if she objects to accompany her. but be quick." "you shall not take her from me!" shrieked mistress nutter, holding her daughter fast. "i see through your diabolical purpose. you have the same dark design as mother demdike, and would sacrifice her; but she shall not go with you, neither will i." "tut!" exclaimed the hag, "you have lost your senses on a sudden. i do not want your daughter. but come away, or mother demdike will surprise us." "do not trifle with her longer," whispered fancy to the hag; "drag the girl away, or you will lose her. a few moments, and it will be too late." mother chattox made an attempt to obey him, but mistress nutter resisted her. "curses on her!" she muttered, "she is too strong for me. do thou help me," she added, appealing to fancy. "i cannot," he replied; "i have done all i dare to help you. you must accomplish the rest yourself." "but, my sweet imp, recollect--" "i recollect i have a master," interrupted the familiar. "and a mistress, too," cried the hag; "and she will chastise thee if thou art disobedient. i command thee to carry off this girl." "i have already told you i dare not, and i now say i will not," replied fancy. "will not!" shrieked the hag. "thou shalt smart for this. i will bury thee in the heart of this mountain, and make thee labour within it like a gnome. i will set thee to count the sands on the river's bed, and the leaves on the forest trees. thou shalt know neither rest nor respite." "ho! ho! ho!" laughed fancy, mockingly. "dost deride me?" cried the hag. "i will do it, thou saucy jackanapes. for the last time, wilt obey me?" "no," replied fancy, "and for this reason--your term is out. it expired at midnight." "it is false!" shrieked the hag, in accents of mixed terror and rage. "i have months to run, and will renew it." "before midnight, you might have done so; but it is now too late--your reign is over," rejoined fancy. "farewell, sweet mistress. we shall meet once again, though scarcely under such pleasant circumstances as heretofore." "it cannot be, my darling fancy; thou art jesting with me," whimpered the hag; "thou wouldst not delude thy doating mistress thus." "i have done with thee, foul hag," rejoined the familiar, "and am right glad my service is ended. i could have saved thee, but would not, and delayed my return for that very purpose. thy soul was forfeited when i came back to thy hut." "then curses on thee for thy treachery," cried the hag, "and on thy master, who deceived me in the bond he placed before me." the familiar laughed hoarsely. "but what of mother demdike?" pursued the hag. "hast thou no comfort for me? tell me her hour is likewise come, and i will forgive thee. but do not let her triumph over me." the familiar made no answer, but, laughing derisively, stamped upon the ground, and it opened to receive him. "alizon!" cried mistress nutter, who in the mean time had vainly endeavoured to rouse her daughter to full consciousness, "fly with me, my child. the enemy is at hand." "what enemy?" asked alizon, faintly. "i have so many, that i know not whom you mean." "but this is the worst of all--this is mother demdike," cried mistress nutter. "she would take your life. if we can but conceal ourselves for a short while, we are safe." "i am too weak to move," said alizon; "besides, i dare not trust you. i have been deceived already. you may be an evil spirit in the likeness of my mother." "oh! no, i am indeed your own--own mother," rejoined mistress nutter. "ask this old woman if it is not so." "she is a witch herself," replied alizon. "i will not trust either of you. you are both in league with mother demdike." "we are in league to save thee from her, foolish wench!" cried mother chattox, "but thy perverseness will defeat all our schemes." "since you will not fly, my child," cried mistress nutter, "kneel down, and pray earnestly for deliverance. pray, while there is yet time." as she spoke, a growl like thunder was heard in the air, and the earth trembled beneath their feet. "nay, now i am sure you are my mother!" cried alizon, flinging herself into mistress nutter's arms; "and i will go with you." but before they could move, several dusky figures were seen rushing towards them. "be on your guard!" cried mother chattox; "here comes old demdike with her troop. i will aid you all i can." "down on your knees!" exclaimed mistress nutter. alizon obeyed, but ere a word could pass her lips, the infuriated hag, attended by her beldame band, stood beside them. "ha! who is here?" she cried. "let me see who dares interrupt my mystic rites." and raising her hand, the black cloud hanging over the hill was rent asunder, and the moon shone down upon them, revealing the old witch, armed with the sacrificial knife, her limbs shaking with fury, and her eyes flashing with preternatural light. it revealed, also, her weird attendants, as well as the group before her, consisting of the kneeling figure of alizon, protected by the outstretched arms of her mother, and further defended by mother chattox, who planted herself in front of them. mother demdike eyed the group for a moment as if she would, annihilate them. "out of my way, chattox!" she vociferated--"out of my way, or i will drive my knife to thy heart." and as her old antagonist maintained her ground, she unhesitatingly advanced upon her, smote her with the weapon, and, as she fell to the ground, stepped over her bleeding body. "now what dost thou here, alice nutter?" she cried, menacing her with the reeking blade. "i am come for my child, whom thou hast stolen from me," replied the lady. "thou art come to witness her slaughter," replied the witch, fiercely. "begone, or i will serve thee as i have just served old chattox." "i am not sped yet," cried the wounded hag; "i shall live to see thee bound hand and foot by the officers of justice, and, certain thou wilt perish miserably, i shall die content." "spit out thy last drops of venom, black viper," rejoined mother demdike; "when i have done with the others, i will return and finish thee. alice nutter, thou knowest it is vain to struggle with me. give me up the girl." "wilt thou accept my life for hers?" said mistress nutter. "of what account would thy life be to me?" rejoined mother demdike, disdainfully. "if it would profit me to take it, i would do so without thy consent, but i am about to make an oblation to our master, and thou art his already. snatch her child from her--we waste time," she added, to her attendants. and immediately the weird crew rushed forward, and in spite of the miserable mother's efforts tore alizon from her. "i told you it was in vain to contend with me," said mother demdike. "oh, that i could call down heaven's vengeance upon thy accursed head!" cried mistress nutter; "but i am forsaken alike of god and man, and shall die despairing." "rave on, thou wilt have ample leisure," replied the hag. "and now bring the girl this way," she added to the beldames; "the sacrifice must be made near the beacon." and as alizon was borne away, mistress nutter uttered a cry of anguish. "do not stay here," said mother chattox, raising herself with difficulty. "go after her; you may yet save your daughter." "but how?" cried mistress nutter, distractedly. "i have no power now." as she spoke a dusky form rose up beside her. it was her familiar. "will you return to your duty if i help you in this extremity?" he said. "ay, do, do!" cried mother chattox. "anything to avenge yourself upon that murtherous hag." "peace!" cried the familiar, spurning her with his cloven foot. "i do not want vengeance," said mistress nutter; "i only want to save my child." "then you consent on that condition?" said the familiar. "no!" replied mistress nutter, firmly. "i now perceive i am not utterly lost, since you try to regain me. i have renounced thy master, and will make no new bargain with him. get hence, tempter!" "think not to escape us," cried the familiar; "no penitence--no absolution can save thee. thy name is written on the judgment scroll, and cannot be effaced. i would have aided thee, but, since my offer is rejected, i leave thee." "you will not let him go!" screamed mother chattox. "oh that the chance were mine!" "be silent, or i will beat thy brains out!" said the familiar. "once more, am i dismissed?" "ay, for ever!" replied mistress nutter. and as the familiar disappeared, she flew to the spot where her child had been taken. about twenty paces from the beacon, a circle had again been formed by the unhallowed crew, in the midst of which stood mother demdike, with the gory knife in her hand, muttering spells and incantations, and performing mystical ceremonials. every now and then her companions joined in these rites, and chanted a song couched in a wild, unintelligible jargon. beside the witch knelt alizon, with her hands tied behind her back, so that she could not raise them in supplication; her hair unbound, and cast loosely over her person, and a thick bandage fastened over her eyes and mouth. the initiatory ceremonies over, the old hag approached her victim, when mistress nutter forced herself through the circle, and cast herself at her feet. "spare her!" she cried, clinging to her knees; "it shall be well for thee if thou dost so." "again interrupted!" cried the witch, furiously. "this time i will show thee no mercy. take thy fate, meddlesome woman!" and she raised the knife, but ere the weapon could descend, it was seized by mistress nutter, and wrested from her grasp. in another instant, alizon's arms were liberated, and the bandage removed from her eyes. "now it is my turn to threaten. i have thee in my power, infernal hag!" cried mistress nutter, holding the knife to the witch's throat, and clasping her daughter with the other arm. "wilt let us go?" "no!" replied mother demdike, springing nimbly backwards. "you shall both die. i will soon disarm thee." and making one or two passes with her hands, mistress nutter dropped the weapon, and instantly became fixed and motionless, with her daughter, equally rigid, in her arms. they looked as if suddenly turned to marble. "now to complete the ceremonial," cried mother demdike, picking up the knife. and then she began to mutter an impious address preparatory to the sacrifice, when a loud clangour was heard like the stroke of a hammer upon a bell. "what was that?" exclaimed the witch, in alarm. "were there a clock here, i should say it had struck one," replied mould-heels. "it must be our master's timepiece," said another witch. "one o'clock!" exclaimed mother demdike, who appeared stupefied with fear, "and the sacrifice not made--then i am lost!" a derisive laugh reached her ears. it proceeded from mother chattox, who had contrived to raise herself to her feet, and, tottering forward, now passed through the appalled circle. "ay, thy term is out--thy soul is forfeited like mine--ha! ha!" and she fell to the ground. "perhaps it may not be too late," cried mother demdike, grasping the knife, and rushing towards alizon. but at this moment a bright flame shot up from the beacon. astonishment and terror seized the hag, and she uttered a loud cry, which was echoed by the rest of the crew. the flame mounted higher and higher, and burnt each moment more brightly, illumining the whole summit of the hill. by its light could be seen a band of men, some of whom were on horseback, speeding towards the place of meeting. scared by the sight, the witches fled, but were turned by another band advancing from the opposite quarter. they then made towards the spot where their broomsticks were deposited, but ere they could reach it, a third party gained the summit of the hill at this precise point, and immediately started in pursuit of them. meanwhile, a young man issuing from behind the beacon, flew towards mistress nutter and her daughter. the moment the flame burst forth, the spell cast over them by mother demdike was broken, and motion and speech restored. "alizon!" exclaimed the young man, as he came up, "your trials are over. you are safe." "oh, richard!" she replied, falling into his arms, "have we been preserved by you?" "i am a mere instrument in the hands of heaven," he replied. mother demdike made no attempt at flight with the rest of the witches, but remained for a few moments absorbed in contemplation of the flaming beacon. her hand still grasped the murderous weapon she had raised against alizon, but it had dropped to her side when the fire burst forth. at length she turned fiercely to richard, and demanded-- "was it thou who kindled the beacon?" "it was!" replied the young man. "and who bade thee do it--who brought thee hither?" pursued the witch. "an enemy of thine, old woman!" replied richard, "his vengeance has been slow in coming, but it has arrived at last." "but who is he? i see him not!" rejoined mother demdike. "you will see him before yon flame expires," said richard. "i should have come to your assistance sooner, alizon," he continued, turning to her, "but i was forbidden. and i knew i should best ensure your safety by compliance with the injunctions i had received." "some guardian spirit must have interposed to preserve us," replied alizon; "for such only could have successfully combated with the evil beings from whom we have been delivered." "thy spirit is unable to preserve thee now!" cried mother demdike, aiming a deadly blow at her with the knife. but, fortunately, the attempt was foreseen by richard, who caught her arm, and wrested the weapon from her. "curses on thee, richard assheton!" cried the infuriated hag,--"and on thee too, alizon device, i cannot work ye the immediate ill i wish. i cannot make ye loathsome in one another's eyes. i cannot maim your limbs, or blight your beauty. i cannot deliver you over to devilish possession. but i can bequeath you a legacy of hate. what i say will come to pass. thou, alizon, wilt never wed richard assheton--never! vainly shall ye struggle with your destiny--vainly indulge hopes of happiness. misery and despair, and an early grave, are in store for both of you. he shall be to you your worst enemy, and you shall be to him destruction. think of the witch's prediction and tremble, and may her deadliest curse rest upon your heads." "oh, richard!" exclaimed alizon, who would have sunk to the ground if he had not sustained her. "why did you not prevent this terrible malediction?" "he could not," replied mother demdike, with a laugh of exultation; "it shall work, and thy doom shall be accomplished. and now to make an end of old chattox, and then they may take me where they please." and she was approaching her old enemy with the intention of putting her threat into execution, when james device, who appeared to start from the ground, rushed swiftly towards her. "what art thou doing here, jem?" cried the hag, regarding him with angry surprise. "dost thou not see we are surrounded by enemies. i cannot escape them--but thou art young and active. away with thee!" "not without yo, granny," replied jem. "ey ha' run os fast os ey could to help yo. stick fast howld on me," he added, snatching her up in his arms, "an ey'n bring yo clear off yet." and he set off at a rapid pace with his burthen, richard being too much occupied with alizon to oppose him. chapter xvii.--how the beacon fire was extinguished. soon after this, nicholas assheton, attended by two or three men, came up, and asked whither the old witch had flown. mistress nutter pointed out the course taken by the fugitive, who had run towards the northern extremity of the hill, down the sides of which he had already plunged. "she has been carried off by her grandson, jem device," said mistress nutter; "be quick, or you will lose her." "ay, be quick--be quick!" added mother chattox. "yonder they went, to the back of the beacon." casting a look at the wretched speaker, and finding she was too grievously wounded to be able to move, nicholas bestowed no further thought upon her, but set off with his companions in the direction pointed out. he speedily arrived at the edge of the hill, and, looking down it, sought in vain for any appearance of the fugitives. the sides were here steep and shelving, and some hundred yards lower down were broken into ridges, behind one of which it was possible the old witch and her grandson might be concealed; so, without a moment's hesitation, the squire descended, and began to search about in the hollows, scrambling over the loose stones, or sliding down for some paces with the uncertain boggy soil, when he fancied he heard a plaintive cry. he looked around, but could see no one. the whole side of the mountain was lighted up by the fire from the beacon, which, instead of diminishing, burnt with increased ardour, so that every object was as easily to be discerned as in the day-time; but, notwithstanding this, he could not detect whence the sound proceeded. it was repeated, but more faintly than before, and nicholas almost persuaded himself it was the voice of potts calling for help. motioning to his followers, who were engaged in the search like himself, to keep still, the squire listened intently, and again caught the sound, being this time convinced it arose from the ground. was it possible the unfortunate attorney had been buried alive? or had he been thrust into some hole, and a stone placed over it, which he found it impossible to remove? the latter idea seemed the more probable, and nicholas was guided by a feeble repetition of the noise towards a large fragment of rock, which, on examination, had evidently been rolled from a point immediately over the mouth of a hollow. the squire instantly set himself to work to dislodge the ponderous stone, and, aided by two of his men, who lent their broad shoulders to the task, quickly accomplished his object, disclosing what appeared to be the mouth of a cavernous recess. from out of this, as soon as the stone was removed, popped the head of master potts, and nicholas, bidding him be of good cheer, laid hold of him to draw him forth, as he seemed to have some difficulty in extricating himself, when the attorney cried out-- "do not pull so hard, squire! that accursed jem device has got hold of my legs. not so hard, sir, i entreat." "bid him let go," said nicholas, unable to refrain from laughing, "or we will unearth him from his badger's hole." "he pays no heed to what i say to him," cried potts. "oh, dear! oh, dear! he is dragging me down again!" and, as he spoke, the attorney, notwithstanding all nicholas's efforts to restrain him, was pulled down into the hole. the squire was at a loss what to do, and was considering whether he should resort to the tedious process of digging him out, when a scrambling noise was heard, and the captive's head once more appeared above ground. "are you coming out now?" asked nicholas. "alas, no!" replied the attorney, "unless you will make terms with the rascal. he declares he will strangle me, if you do not promise to set him and his grandmother free." "is mother demdike with him?" asked nicholas. "to be sure," replied potts; "and we are as badly off for room as three foxes in a hole." "and there is no other outlet said the squire?" "i conclude not," replied the attorney. "i groped about like a mole when i was first thrust into the cavern by jem device, but i could find no means of exit. the entrance was blocked up by the great stone which you had some difficulty in moving, but which jem could shift at will; for he pushed it aside in a moment, and brought it back to its place, when he returned just now with the old hag; but probably that was effected by witchcraft." "most likely," said nicholas, "but for your being in it, we would stop up this hole, and bury the two wretches alive." "get me out first, good master nicholas, i implore of you, and then do what you please," cried potts. "jem is tugging at my legs as if he would pull them off." "we will try who is strongest," said nicholas, again seizing hold of potts by the shoulders. "oh, dear! oh, dear! i can't bear it--let go!" shrieked the attorney. "i shall be stretched to twice my natural length. my joints are starting from their sockets, my legs are coming off--oh! oh!" "lend a hand here, one of you," cried nicholas to the men; "we'll have him out, whatever be the consequence." "but i won't come!" roared potts. "you have no right to use me thus. torture! oh! oh! my loins are ruptured--my back is breaking--i am a dead man.--the hag has got hold of my right leg, while jem is tugging with all his force at the left." "pull away!" cried nicholas; "he is coming." "my legs are off," yelled potts, as he was plucked suddenly forth, with a jerk that threw the squire and his assistants on their backs. "i shall never be able to walk more. no, heaven be praised!" he added, looking down on his lower limbs, "i have only lost my boots." "never mind it, then," cried nicholas; "but thank your stars you are above ground once more. hark'ee, jem!" he continued, shouting down the hole; "if you don't come forth at once, and bring mother demdike with you, we'll close up the mouth of this hole in such a way that you sha'n't require another grave. d'ye hear?" "yeigh," replied jem, his voice coming hoarsely and hollowly up like the accents of a ghost. "am ey to go free if ey comply?" "certainly not," replied the squire. "you have a choice between this hole and the hangman's cord at lancaster, that is all. in either case you will die by suffocation. but be quick--we have wasted time enough already with you." "then if that's aw yo'll do fo' me, squire, eyn e'en stay wheere ey am," rejoined jem. "very well," replied nicholas. "here, my man, stop up this hole with earth and stones. master potts, you will lend a hand to the task." "readily, sir," replied the attorney, "though i shall lose the pleasure i had anticipated of seeing that old carrion crow roasted alive." "stay a bit, squoire," roared jem, as preparations were actively made for carrying nicholas's orders into execution. "stay a bit, an ey'n cum owt, an bring t' owd woman wi' me." "i thought you'd change your mind," replied nicholas, laughing. "be upon your guard," he added, in a low tone to the others, "and seize him the moment he appears." but jem evidently found it no easy matter to perform his promise, for stifled shrieks and other noises proclaimed that a desperate struggle was going on between him and his grandmother. "aha!" exclaimed nicholas, placing his ear to the hole. "the old hag is unwilling to come forth, and spits and scratches like a cat-a-mountain, while jem gripes her like a terrier. it is a hard tussle between them, but he is getting the better of it, and is pushing her forth. now look out." and as he spoke, mother demdike's terrible head protruded from the ground, and, despite of the execrations she poured forth upon her enemies, she was instantly seized by them, drawn out of the cavern, and secured. while the men were thus engaged, and while nicholas's attention was for an instant diverted, jem bounded forth as suddenly as a wolf from his lair, and, dashing aside all opposition, plunged down the hill. "it is useless to pursue him," said nicholas. "he will not escape. the whole country will be roused by the beacon fire, and hue and cry shall be made after him." "right!" exclaimed potts; "and now let some one creep into that cavern, and bring out my boots, and then i shall be in a better condition to attend you." the request being complied with, and the attorney being once more equipped for walking, the party climbed the hill-side, and, bringing mother demdike with them, shaped their course towards the beacon. and now to see what had taken place in the interim. scarcely had the squire quitted mistress nutter than sir ralph assheton rode up to her. "why do you loiter here, madam?" he said, in a stern tone, somewhat tempered by sorrow. "i have held back to give you an opportunity of escape. the hill is invested by your enemies. on that side roger nowell is advancing, and on this sir thomas metcalfe and his followers. you may possibly effect a retreat in the opposite direction, but not a moment must be lost." "i will go with you," said alizon. "no, no," interposed richard. "you have not strength for the effort, and will only retard her." "i thank you for your devotion, my child," said mistress nutter, with a look of grateful tenderness; "but it is unneeded. i have no intention of flying. i shall surrender myself into the hands of justice." "do not mistake the matter, madam," said sir ralph, "and delude yourself with the notion that either your rank or wealth will screen you from punishment. your guilt is too clearly established to allow you a chance of escape, and, though i myself am acting wrongfully in counselling flight to you, i am led to do so from the friendship once subsisting between us, and the relationship which, unfortunately, i cannot destroy." "it is you who are mistaken, not i, sir ralph," replied mistress nutter. "i have no thought of turning aside the sword of justice, but shall court its sharpest edge, hoping by a full avowal of my offences, in some degree to atone for them. my only regret is, that i shall leave my child unprotected, and that my fate will bring dishonour upon her." "oh, think not of me, dear mother!" cried alizon, "but persist unhesitatingly in the course you have laid down. far rather would i see you act thus--far rather hear the sentiments you have uttered, even though they may be attended by the saddest, consequences, than behold you in your former proud position, and impenitent. think not of me, then. or, rather, think only how i rejoice that your eyes are at length opened, and that you have cast off the bonds of iniquity. i can now pray for you with the full hope that my intercessions will prevail, and in parting with you in this world shall be sustained by the conviction that we shall meet in eternal happiness hereafter." mistress nutter threw her arms about her daughter's neck, and they mingled their tears together, sir ralph assheton was much moved. "it is a pity she should fall into their hands," he observed to richard. "i know not how to advise," replied the latter, greatly troubled. "ah! it is too late," exclaimed the knight; "here come nowell and metcalfe. the poor lady's firmness will be severely tested." the next moment the magistrate and the knight came up, with such of their attendants as were not engaged in pursuing the witches, several of whom had already been captured. on seeing mistress nutter, sir thomas metcalfe sprang from his horse, and would have seized her, but sir ralph interposed, saying "she has surrendered herself to me. i will be answerable for her safe custody." "your pardon, sir ralph," observed nowell; "the arrest must be formally made, and by a constable. sparshot, execute your warrant." upon this, the official, leaping from his horse, displayed his staff and a piece of parchment to mistress nutter, telling her she was his prisoner. the lady bowed her head. "shan ey tee her hands, yer warship?" demanded the constable of the magistrate. "on no account, fellow," interposed sir ralph. "i will have no indignity offered her. i have already said i will be responsible for her." "you will recollect she is arrested for witchcraft, sir ralph," observed nowell. "she shall answer to the charges brought against her. i pledge myself to that," replied sir ralph. "and by a full confession," said mistress nutter. "you may pledge yourself to that also, sir ralph." "she avows her guilt," cried nowell. "i take you all to witness it." "i shall not forget it," said sir thomas metcalfe. "nor i--nor i!" cried sparshot, and two or three others of the attendants. "this girl is my prisoner," said sir thomas metcalfe, dismounting, and advancing towards alizon, "she is a witch, as well as the rest." "it is false," cried richard! "and if you attempt to lay hands upon her i will strike you to the earth." "'sdeath!" exclaimed metcalfe, drawing his sword, "i will not let this insolence pass unpunished. i have other affronts to chastise. stand aside, or i will cut your throat." "hold, sir thomas," cried sir ralph assheton, authoritatively. "settle your quarrels hereafter, if you have any to adjust; but i will have no fighting now. alizon is no witch. you are well aware that she was about to be impiously and cruelly sacrificed by mother demdike, and her rescue was the main object of our coming hither." "still suspicion attaches to her," said metcalfe; "whether she be the daughter of elizabeth device or alice nutter, she comes of a bad stock, and i protest against her being allowed to go free. however, if you are resolved upon it, i have nothing more to say. i shall find other time and place to adjust my differences with master richard assheton." "when you please, sir," replied the young man, sternly. "and i will answer for the propriety of the course i have pursued," said sir ralph; "but here comes nicholas with mother demdike." "demdike taken! i am glad of it," cried mother chattox, slightly raising herself as she spoke. "kill her, or she will 'scape you." when nicholas came up with the old hag, both sir ralph assheton and roger nowell put several questions to her, but she refused to answer their interrogations; and, horrified by her blasphemies and imprecations, they caused her to be removed to a short distance, while a consultation was held as to the course to be pursued. "we have made half a dozen of these miscreants prisoners," said roger nowell, "and the whole of them had better be taken to whalley, where they can be safely confined in the old dungeons of the abbey, and after their examination on the morrow can be removed to lancaster castle." "be it so," replied sir ralph; "but must yon unfortunate lady," he added, pointing to mistress nutter, "be taken with them?" "assuredly," replied nowell. "we can make no distinction among such offenders; or, if there are any degrees in guilt, hers is of the highest class." "you had better take leave of your daughter," said sir ralph to mistress nutter. "i thank you for the hint," replied the lady. "farewell, dear alizon," she added, straining her to her bosom. "we must part for some time. once more before i quit this world, in which i have played so wicked a part, i would fain look upon you--fain bless you, if i have the power--but this must be at the last, when my trials are wellnigh over, and when all is about to close upon me!" "oh! must it be thus?" exclaimed alizon, in a voice half suffocated by emotion. "it must," replied her mother. "do not attempt to shake my resolution, my sweet child--do not weep for me. amidst all the terrors that surround me, i am happier now than i have been for years. i shall strive to work out my redemption by prayers." "and you will succeed!" cried alizon. "not so!" shrieked mother demdike; "the fiend will have his own. she is bound to him by a compact which nought can annul." "i should like to see the instrument," said potts. "i might give a legal opinion upon it. perhaps it might be avoided; and in any case its production in court would have an admirable effect. i think i see the counsel examining it, and hear the judges calling for it to be placed before them. his infernal majesty's signature must be a curiosity in its way. our gracious and sagacious monarch would delight in it." "peace!" exclaimed nicholas; "and take care," he cried, "that no further interruptions are offered by that infernal hag. have you done, madam?" he added to mistress nutter, who still remained with her daughter folded in her arms. "not yet," replied the lady. "oh! what happiness i have thrown away! what anguish--what remorse brought upon myself by the evil life i have led! as i gaze on this fair face, and think it might long, long have brightened my dark and desolate life with its sunshine--as i think upon all this, my fortitude wellnigh deserts me, and i have need of support from on high to carry me through my trial. but i fear it will be denied me. nicholas assheton, you have the deed of the gift of rough lee in your possession. henceforth alizon is mistress of the mansion and domains." "provided always they are not forfeited to the crown, which i apprehend will be the case," suggested potts. "i will take care she is put in possession of them," said nicholas. "as to you, richard," continued mistress nutter, "the time may come when your devotion to my daughter may be rewarded and i could not bestow a greater boon upon you than by giving you her hand. it may be well i should give my consent now, and, if no other obstacle should arise to the union, may she be yours, and happiness i am sure will attend you!" overpowered by conflicting emotions, alizon hid her face in her mother's bosom, and richard, who was almost equally overcome, was about to reply, when mother demdike broke upon them. "they will never be united!" she screamed. "never! i have said it, and my words will come true. think'st thou a witch like thee can bless an union, alice nutter? thy blessings are curses, thy wishes disappointments and despair. thriftless love shall be alizon's, and the grave shall be her bridal bed. the witch's daughter shall share the witch's fate." these boding words produced a terrible effect upon the hearers. "heed her not, my sweet child--she speaks falsely," said mistress nutter, endeavouring to re-assure her daughter; but the tone in which the words were uttered showed that she herself was greatly alarmed. "i have cursed them both, and i will curse them again," yelled mother demdike. "away with the old screech-owl," cried nicholas. "take her to the beacon, and, if she continues troublesome, hurl her into the flame." and, notwithstanding the hag's struggles and imprecations, she was removed. "whatever may betide, alizon," cried richard, "my life shall be devoted to you; and, if you should not be mine, i will have no other bride. with your permission, madam," he added, to mistress nutter, "i will take your daughter to middleton, where she will find companionship and solace, i trust, in the attentions of my sister, who has the strongest affection for her." "i could wish nothing better," replied the lady, "and now to put an end to this harrowing scene. farewell, my child. take her, richard, take her!" she cried, as she disengaged herself from the relaxing embrace of her daughter. "now, master nowell, i am ready." "it is well, madam," he replied. "you will join the other prisoners, and we will set forth." but at this juncture a terrific shriek was heard, which drew all eyes towards the beacon. when mother demdike had been removed, in accordance with the squire's directions, her conduct became more violent and outrageous than ever, and those who had charge of her threatened, if she did not desist, to carry out the full instructions they had received, and cast her into the flames. the old hag defied and incensed them to such a degree by her violence and blasphemies, that they carried her to the very edge of the fire. at this moment the figure of a monk, in mouldering white habiliments, came from behind the beacon, and stood beside the old hag. he slowly raised his hood, and disclosed features that looked like those of the dead. "thy hour is come, accursed woman!" cried the phantom, in thrilling accents. "thy term on earth is ended, and thou shalt be delivered to unquenchable fire. the curse of paslew is fulfilled upon thee, and will be fulfilled upon all thy viperous brood." "art thou the abbot's shade?" demanded the hag. "i am thy implacable enemy," replied the phantom. "thy judgment and thy punishment are committed to me. to the flames with her!" such was the awe inspired by the monk, and such the authority of his tones and gesture, that the command was unhesitatingly obeyed, and the witch was cast, shrieking, into the fire. she was instantly swallowed up as in a gulf of flame, which raged, and roared, and shot up in a hundred lambent points, as if exulting in its prey. the wretched creature was seen for a moment to rise up in it in extremity of anguish, with arms extended, and uttering a dreadful yell, but the flames wreathed round her, and she sank for ever. when those who had assisted at this fearful execution looked around for the mysterious being who had commanded it, they could nowhere behold him. then was heard a laugh of gratified hate--such a laugh as only a demon, or one bound to a demon, can utter--and the appalled listeners looked around, and beheld mother chattox standing behind them. "my rival is gone!" cried the hag. "i have seen the last of her. she is burnt--ah! ah!" further triumph was not allowed her. with one accord, and as if prompted by an irresistible impulse, the men rushed upon her, seized her, and cast her into the fire. her wild laughter was heard for a moment above the roaring of the flames, and then ceased altogether. again the flame shot high in air, again roared and raged, again broke into a multitude of lambent points, after which it suddenly expired. all was darkness on the summit of pendle hill. and in silence and in gloom scarcely more profound than that weighing in every breast, the melancholy troop pursued its way to whalley. end of the second book. book the third. hoghton tower chapter i.--downham manor-house. on a lovely morning, about the middle of july, in the same year as the events previously narrated, nicholas assheton, always astir with the lark, issued from his own dwelling, and sauntered across the smooth lawn in front of it. the green eminence on which he stood was sheltered on the right by a grove of sycamores, forming the boundary of the park, and sloped down into a valley threaded by a small clear stream, whose murmuring, as it danced over its pebbly bed, distinctly reached his ear in the stillness of early day. on the left, partly in the valley, and partly on the side of the acclivity on which the hall was situated, nestled the little village whose inhabitants owned nicholas as lord; and, to judge from their habitations, they had reason to rejoice in their master; for certainly there was a cheerful air about downham which the neighbouring hamlets, especially those in pendle forest, sadly wanted. on the left of the mansion, and only separated from it by the garden walls, stood the church, a venerable structure, dating back to a period more remote even than whalley abbey. from the churchyard a view, almost similar to that enjoyed by the squire, was obtained, though partially interrupted by the thick rounded foliage of a large tree growing beneath it; and many a traveller who came that way lingered within the hallowed precincts to contemplate the prospect. at the foot of the hill was a small stone bridge crossing the stream. across the road, and scarce thirty paces from the church-gate, stood a little alehouse, whose comfortable fireside nook and good liquors were not disdained by the squire. in fact, to his shame be it spoken, he was quite as often to be found there of an evening as at the hall. this had more particularly been the case since the house was tenanted by richard baldwyn, who having given up the mill at rough lee, and taken to wife bess whitaker of goldshaw booth, had removed with her to downham, where he now flourished under the special protection of the squire. bess had lost none of her old habits of command, and it must be confessed that poor richard played a very secondary part in the establishment. nicholas, as may be supposed, was permitted considerable licence by her, but even he had limits, which she took good care he should not exceed. the downham domains were well cultivated; the line of demarcation between them and the heathy wastes adjoining, being clearly traced out, and you had only to follow the course of the brook to see at a glance where the purlieus of the forest ended, and where nicholas assheton's property commenced: the one being a dreary moor, with here and there a thicket upon it, but more frequently a dangerous morass, covered with sulphur-coloured moss; and the other consisting of green meadows, bordered in most instances by magnificent timber. the contrast, however, was not without its charm; and while the sterile wastes set off the fair and fertile fields around them, and enhanced their beauty, they offered a wide, uninterrupted expanse, over which the eye could range at will. on the further side of the valley, and immediately opposite the lawn whereon nicholas stood, the ground gradually arose, until it reached the foot of pendle hill, which here assuming its most majestic aspect, constituted the grand and peculiar feature of the scene. nowhere could the lordly eminence be seen to the same advantage as from this point, and nicholas contemplated it with feelings of rapture, which no familiarity could diminish. the sun shone brightly upon its rounded summit, and upon its seamy sides, revealing all its rifts and ridges; adding depth of tint to its dusky soil, laid bare in places by the winter torrents; lending new beauty to its purple heath, and making its grey sod glow as with fire. so exhilarating was the prospect, that nicholas felt half tempted to cross the valley and scale the hill before breaking his fast; but other feelings checked him, and he turned towards the right. here, beyond a paddock and some outbuildings, lay the park, small in extent, but beautifully diversified, well stocked with deer, and boasting much noble timber. in the midst was an exquisite knoll, which, besides commanding a fine view of pendle hill, downham, and all the adjacent country, brought within its scope, on the one hand, the ancient castle of clithero and the heights overlooking whalley; and, on the other, the lovely and extensive vale through which the ribble wandered. this, also, was a favourite point of view with the squire, and he had some idea of walking towards it, when he was arrested by a person who came from the house, and who shouted to him, hoarsely but blithely, to stay. the new-comer was a man of middle age, with a skin almost as tawny as a gipsy's, a hooked nose, black beetling brows, and eyes so strangely set in his head, that they communicated a sinister expression to his countenance. he possessed a burly frame, square, and somewhat heavy, though not so much so as to impede his activity. in deportment and stature, though not in feature, he resembled the squire himself; and the likeness was heightened by his habiliments being part of nicholas's old wardrobe, the doublet and hose, and even the green hat and boots, being those in which nicholas made his first appearance in this history. the personage who thus condescended to be fed and clothed at the squire's expense, and who filled a situation something between guest and menial, without receiving the precise attention of the one or the wages of the other, but who made himself so useful to nicholas that he could not dispense with him--neither, perhaps would he have been shaken off, even if it had been desired--was named lawrence fogg, an entire stranger to the country, whom nicholas had picked up at colne, and whom he had invited to downham for a few weeks' hunting, and had never been able to get rid of him since. lawrence fogg liked his quarters immensely, and determined to remain in them; and as a means to so desirable an end, he studied all the squire's weak points and peculiarities, and these not being very difficult to be understood, he soon mastered them, and mastered the squire into the bargain, but without allowing his success to become manifest. nicholas was delighted to find one with tastes so congenial to his own, who was so willing to hunt or fish with him--who could train a hawk as well as phil royle, the falconer--diet a fighting-cock as well as tom shaw, the cock-master--enter a hound better than charlie crouch, the old huntsman--shoot with the long-bow further than any one except himself, and was willing to toss off a pot with him, or sing a merry stave whenever he felt inclined. such a companion was invaluable, and nicholas congratulated himself upon the discovery, especially when he found lawrence fogg not unwilling to undertake some delicate commissions for him, which he could not well execute himself, and which he was unwilling should reach mistress assheton's ears. these were managed with equal adroitness and caution. about the same time, too, nicholas finding money scarce, and, not liking to borrow it in person, delegated fogg, and sent him round to his friends to ask for a loan; but, in this instance, the mission was attended with very indifferent success, for not one of them would lend him so small a sum as thirty pounds, all averring they stood in need of it quite as much as himself. though somewhat inconvenienced by their refusal, nicholas bore the disappointment with his customary equanimity, and made merry with his friend as if nothing had happened. fogg showed an equal accommodating spirit in all religious observances, and, though much against his inclination, attended morning discourses and lectures with his patron, and even made an attempt at psalm-singing; but on one occasion, missing the tune and coming in with a bacchanalian chorus, he was severely rebuked by the minister, and enjoined to keep silence in future. such was the friendly relation subsisting between the parties when they met together on the lawn on the morning in question. "well, fogg," cried nicholas, after exchanging salutations with his friend, "what say you to hunting the otter in the ribble after breakfast? 'tis a rare day for the sport, and the hounds are in excellent order. there is an old dam and her litter whom we must kill, for she has been playing the very devil with the fish for a space of more than two miles; and if we let her off for another week, we shall have neither salmon, trout, nor umber, as all will have passed down the maws of her voracious brood." "and that would be a pity, in good sooth, squire," replied fogg; "for there are no fish like those of the ribble. nothing i should prefer to the sport you promise; but i thought you had other business for me to-day? another attempt to borrow money--eh?" "ay, from my cousin, dick assheton," rejoined nicholas; "he will lend me the thirty pounds, i am quite sure. but you had better defer the visit till to-morrow, when his father, sir richard, will be at whalley, and when you can have him to yourself. dick will not say you nay, depend on't; he is too good a fellow for that. a murrain on those close-fisted curmudgeons, roger nowell, nicholas townley, and tom whitaker. they ought to be delighted to oblige me." "but they declare they have no money," said fogg. "no money!--pshaw!" exclaimed nicholas; "an idle excuse. they have chests full. would i had all roger nowell's gold, i should not require another supply for years. but, 'sdeath! i will not trouble myself for a paltry thirty pounds." "if i might venture to suggest, squire, while you are about it, i would ask for a hundred pounds, or even two or three hundred," said fogg. "your friends will think all the better of you, and feel more satisfied you intend to repay them." "do you think so!" cried nicholas. "then, by plutus, it shall be three hundred pounds--three hundred at interest. dick will have to borrow the amount to lend it to me; but, no matter, he will easily obtain it. harkye, fogg, while you are at middleton, endeavour to ascertain whether any thing has been arranged about the marriage of a certain young lady to a certain young gentleman. i am curious to know the precise state of affairs in that quarter." "i will arrive at the truth, if possible, squire," replied fogg; "but i should scarcely think sir richard would assent to his son's union with the daughter of a notorious witch." "sir richard's son is scarcely likely to ask sir richard's consent," said nicholas; "and as to mistress nutter, though heavy charges have been brought against her, nothing has been proved, for you know she escaped, or rather was rescued, on her way to lancaster castle." "i am fully aware of it, squire," replied fogg; "and i more than suspect a worthy friend of mine had a hand in her deliverance and could tell where to find her if needful. but that is neither here nor there. the lady is quite innocent, i dare say. indeed, i am quite sure of it, since you espouse her cause so warmly. but the world is malicious, and strange things are reported of her." "heed not the world, fogg," rejoined nicholas. "the world speaks well of no man, be his deserts what they may. the world says that i waste my estate in wine, women, and horseflesh--that i spend time in pleasures which might be profitably employed--that i neglect my wife, forget my religious observances, am on horseback when i should be afoot, at the alehouse when i should be at home, at a marriage when i should be at a funeral, shooting when i should be keeping my books--in short, it has not a good word to say for me. and as for thee, fogg, it says thou art an idle, good-for-nothing fellow; or, if thou art good for aught, it is only for something that leads to evil. it says thou drinkest prodigiously, liest confoundedly, and swearest most profanely; that thou art ever more ready to go to the alehouse than to church, and that none of the girls can 'scape thee. nay, the slanderers even go so far as to assert thou wouldst not hesitate to say, 'stand and deliver!' to a true man on the highway. that is what the world says of thee. but, hang it! never look chapfallen, man. let us go to the stables, and then we will in to breakfast; after which we will proceed to the ribble, and spear the old otter." a fine old manorial residence was downham, and beautifully situated, as has been shown, on a woody eminence to the north of pendle hill. it was of great antiquity, and first came into the possession of the assheton family in . considerable additions had been made to it by its present owner, nicholas, and the outlay necessarily required, combined with his lavish expenditure, had contributed to embarrass him. the stables were large, and full of horses; the kennels on the same scale, and equally well supplied with hounds; and there was a princely retinue of servants in the yard--grooms, keepers, falconers, huntsmen, and their assistants--to say nothing of their fellows within doors. in short, if it had been your fortune to accompany the squire and his friend round the premises--if you had walked through the stables and counted the horses--if you had viewed the kennels and examined the various hounds--the great lancashire dogs, tall, shaggy, and heavy, a race now extinct; the worcestershire hounds, then also in much repute; the greyhounds, the harriers, the beagles, the lurchers, and, lastly, the verminers, or, as we should call them, the terriers,--if you had seen all these, you would not have wondered that money was scarce with him. still further would your surprise at such a consequence have diminished if you had gone on to the falconry, and seen on the perches the goshawk and her tercel, the sparrowhawk and her musket, under the care of the ostringer; and further on the falcon-gentle, the gerfalcon, the lanner, the merlin, and the hobby, all of which were attended to by the head falconer. it would have done you good to hear nicholas inquiring from his men if they had "set out their birds that morning, and weathered them;" if they had mummy powder in readiness, then esteemed a sovereign remedy; if the lures, hoods, jesses, buets, and all other needful furniture, were in good order; and if the meat were sweet and wholesome. you might next have followed him to the pens where the fighting cocks were kept, and where you would have found another source of expense in the cock-master, tom shaw--a knave who not only got high wages from his master, but understood so well the dieting of his birds that he could make them win or lose a battle as he thought proper. here, again, nicholas had much to say, and was in raptures with one cock, which he told fogg he would back to any amount, utterly unconscious of a significant look that passed between his friend and the cock-master. "look at him," cried the squire; "how proud and erect he stands! his head is as small as that of a sparrowhawk, his eye large and quick, his body thick, his leg strong in the beam, and his spurs long, rough, and sharp. that is the bird for me. i will take him over to the cockpit at prescot next week, and match him against any bird sir john talbot, or my cousin braddyll, can bring." "and yo'n win, squoire," replied the cock-master; "ey ha' been feedin' him these five weeks, so he'll be i' rare condition then, and winna fail yo. yo may lay what yo loike upon him," he added, with a sly wink at fogg. "you may win the thirty pounds you want," observed the latter, in a low tone to the squire. "or, mayhap, lose it," replied nicholas. "i shall not risk so much, unless i get the three hundred from dick assheton. i have been unlucky of late. you beat me constantly at tables now, fogg, and when i first knew you this was not wont to be the case. nay, never make any excuses, man; you cannot help it. let us in to breakfast." with this, he proceeded towards the house, followed by fogg and a couple of large lancashire hounds, and, entering at the back of the premises, made his way through the scullery into the kitchen. here there were plentiful evidences of the hospitality, not to say profusion, reigning throughout the mansion. an open door showed a larder stocked with all kinds of provisions, and before the fire joints of meat and poultry were roasting. pies were baking in the oven; and over the flames, in the chimney, was suspended a black pot large enough for a witch's caldron. the cook was busied in preparing for the gridiron some freshly-caught trout, intended for the squire's own breakfast; and a kitchen-maid was toasting oatcakes, of which there was a large supply in the bread-flake depending from the ceiling. casting a look around, and exchanging a few words with the cook, nicholas moved on, still followed by fogg and the hounds, and, tracking a long stone passage, entered the great hall. here the same disorder and irregularity prevailed as in his own character and conduct. all was litter and confusion. around the walls were hung breastplates and buff-coats, morions, shields, and two-handed swords; but they were half hidden by fishing-nets, fowling-nets, dogs' collars, saddles and bridles, housings, cross-bows, long-bows, quivers, baldricks, horns, spears, guns, and every other implement then used in the sports of the river or the field. the floor was in an equal state of disorder. the rushes were filled with half-gnawed bones, brought thither by the hounds; and in one corner, on a mat, was a favourite spaniel and her whelps. the squire however was, happily, insensible to the condition of the chamber, and looked around it with an air of satisfaction, as if he thought it the perfection of comfort. a table was spread for breakfast, near a window looking out upon the lawn, and two covers only were laid, for mistress nicholas assheton did not make her appearance at this early hour. and now was exhibited one of those strange contradictions of which the squire's character was composed. kneeling down by the side of the table, and without noticing the mocking expression of fogg's countenance as he followed his example, nicholas prayed loudly and fervently for upwards of ten minutes, after which he arose and gave a shout which proved that his lungs were unimpaired, and not only roused the whole house, but set all the dogs barking. presently a couple of serving-men answered this lusty summons, and the table was covered with good and substantial dishes, which he and his companion attacked with a vigour such as only the most valiant trencherman can display. already has it been remarked that a breakfast at the period in question resembled a modern dinner; and better proof could not have been afforded of the correctness of the description than the meal under discussion, which comprised fish, flesh, and fowl, boiled, broiled, and roast, together with strong ale and sack. after an hour thus agreeably employed, and while they were still seated, though breakfast had pretty nearly come to an end, a serving-man entered, announcing master richard sherborne of dunnow. the squire instantly sprang to his feet, and hastened to welcome his brother-in-law. "ah! good-day to you, dick," he cried, shaking him heartily by the hand; "what happy chance brings you here so early? but first sit down and eat--eat, and talk afterwards. here, roger, harry, bring another platter and napkin, and let us have more broiled trout and a cold capon, a pasty, or whatever you can find in the larder. try some of this gammon meanwhile, dick. it will help down a can of ale. and now what brings thee hither, lad? pressing business, no doubt. thou mayest speak before fogg. i have no secrets from him. he is my second self." "i have no secrets to divulge, nicholas," replied sherborne, "and i will tell you at once what i am come about. have you heard that the king is about to visit hoghton tower in august?" "no; this is news to me," replied nicholas; "does your business relate to his visit?" "it does," replied sherborne. "last night a messenger came to me from sir richard hoghton, entreating me to move you to do him the favour and courtesy to attend him at the king's coming, and wear his livery." "i wear his livery!" exclaimed nicholas, indignantly. "'sdeath! what do you take me for, cousin dick?" "for a right good fellow, who i am sure will comply with his friend's request, especially when he finds there is no sort of degradation in it," replied sherborne. "why, i shall wear sir richard's cloth, and so will several others of our friends. there will be rare doings at hoghton--masquings, mummings, and all sorts of revels, besides hunting, shooting, racing, wrestling, and the devil knows what. you may feast and carouse to your heart's content. the dukes of buckingham and richmond will be there, and the earls of nottingham and pembroke, and sir gilbert hoghton, the king's great favourite, who married the duchess of buckingham's sister. besides these, you will have all the beauty of lancashire. i would not miss the sight for thirty pounds." "thirty pounds!" echoed nicholas, as if struck with a sudden thought. "do you think sir thomas hoghton would lend me that sum if i consent to wear his cloth, and attend him?" "i have no doubt of it," replied sherborne; "and if he won't, i will." "then i will put my pride in my pocket, and go," said nicholas. "and now, dick, dispatch your breakfast as quickly as you can, and then i will take you to the ribble, and show you some sport with an otter." sherborne was not long in concluding his repast, and having received an otter spear from the squire, who had already provided himself and fogg with like weapons, all three adjourned to the kennels, where they found the old huntsman, charlie crouch, awaiting them, attended by four stout varlets, armed with forked staves, meant for the double purpose of beating the river's banks, and striking the poor beast they were about to hunt, and each man having a couple of hounds, well entered for the chase, in leash. old crouch was a thin, grey-bearded fellow, but possessed of a tough, muscular frame, which served him quite as well in the long run as the younger, and apparently more vigorous, limbs of his assistants. his cheek was hale, and his eye still bright and quick, and a certain fierceness was imparted to his countenance by a large aquiline nose. he was attired in a greasy leathern jerkin, tight hose of the same material, and had a bugle suspended from his neck, and a sharp hunting-knife thrust into his girdle. in his hand he bore a spear like his master, and was followed by a grey old lurcher, who, though wanting an ear and an eye, and disfigured by sundry scars on throat and back, was hardy, untiring, and sagacious. this ancient dog was called grip, from his tenacity in holding any thing he set his teeth upon, and he and crouch were inseparable. great was the clamour occasioned by the squire's appearance in the yard. the coupled hounds gave tongue at once, and sang out most melodiously, and all the other dogs within the kennels, or roaming at will about the yard, joined the concert. after much swearing, cracking of whips, and yelping consequent upon the cracking, silence was in some degree restored, and a consultation was then held between nicholas and crouch as to where their steps should first be bent. the old huntsman was for drawing the river near a place called bean hill wood, as the trees thereabouts, growing close to the water's edge, it was pretty certain the otter would have her couch amid the roots of some of them. this was objected to by one of the varlets, who declared that the beast lodged in a hollow tree, standing on a bank nearly a mile higher up the stream, and close by the point of junction between swanside beck and the ribble. he was certain of the fact, he avouched, because he had noticed her marks on the moist grass near the tree. "hoo goes theere to fish, mon?" cried crouch, "for it is the natur o' the wary varmint to feed at a distance fro' her lodgin; boh ey'm sure we shan leet on her among the roots o' them big trees o'erhanging th' river near bean hill wood, an if the squire 'll tay my advice, he'n go theere first." "i put myself entirely under your guidance, crouch," said nicholas. "an yo'n be aw reet, sir," replied the huntsman; "we'n beat the bonks weel, an two o' these chaps shan go up the stream, an two down, one o' one side, and one o' t'other; an i' that manner hoo canna escape us, fo' grip can swim an dive os weel as onny otter i' aw englondshiar, an he'n be efter her an her litter the moment they tak to t' wotur. some folk, os maybe yo ha' seen, squoire, tak howd on a cord by both eends, an droppin it into t' river, draw it slowly along, so that they can tell by th' jerk when th' otter touches it; boh this is an onsartin method, an is nowt like grip's plan, for wherever yo see him swimmin, t'other beast yo may be sure is nah far ahead." "a brave dog, but confoundedly ugly!" exclaimed the squire, regarding the old one-eared, one-eyed lurcher with mingled admiration and disgust; "and now, that all is arranged, let us be off." accordingly they quitted the court-yard, and, shaping their course in the direction indicated by the huntsman, entered the park, and proceeded along a glade, checkered by the early sunbeams. here the noise they made in their progress speedily disturbed a herd of deer browsing beneath the trees, and, as the dappled foresters darted off to a thicker covert, great difficulty was experienced by the varlets in restraining the hounds, who struggled eagerly to follow them, and made the welkin resound with their baying. "yonder is a tall fellow," cried nicholas, pointing out a noble buck to crouch; "i must kill him next week, for i want to send a haunch of venison to middleton, and another to whalley abbey for sir ralph." "better hunt him, squoire," said crouch; "he will gi' ye good sport." soon after this they attained an eminence, where a charming sweep of country opened upon them, including the finest part of ribblesdale, with its richly-wooded plains, and the swift and beautiful river from which it derived its name. the view was enchanting, and the squire and his companions paused for a moment to contemplate it, and then, stepping gleefully forward, made their way over the elastic turf towards a small thicket skirting the park. all were in high spirits, for the freshness and beauty of the morning had not been without effect, and the squire's tongue kept pace with his legs as he strode briskly along; but as they entered the thicket in question, and caught sight of the river through the trees, the old huntsman enjoined silence, and he was obliged to put a check upon his loquacity. when within a bowshot from the water, the party came to a halt, and two of the men were directed by crouch to cross the stream at different points, and then commence beating the banks, while the other two were ordered to pursue a like course, but to keep on the near side of the river. the hounds were next uncoupled, and the men set off to execute the orders they had received, and soon afterwards the crashing of branches, and the splashing of water, accompanied by the deep baying of the hounds, told they were at work. meanwhile, nicholas and the others had not remained idle. as the varlets struck off in different directions, they went straight on, and forcing their way through the brushwood, came to a high bank overlooking the ribble, on the top of which grew three or four large trees, whose roots, laid bare on the further side by the swollen currents of winter, formed a convenient resting-place for the fish-loving creature they hoped to surprise. receiving a hint from crouch to make for the central tree, nicholas grasped his spear, and sprang forward; but, quick as he was, he was too late, though he saw enough to convince him that the crafty old huntsman had been correct in his judgment; for a dark, slimy object dropped from out the roots of the tree beneath him, and glided into the water as swiftly and as noiselessly as if its skin had been oiled. a few bubbles rose to the surface of the water, but these were all the indications marking the course of the wondrous diver. but other eyes, sharper than those of nicholas, were on the watch, and the old huntsman shouted out, "there hoo goes, grip--efter her, lad, efter her!" the words were scarcely uttered when the dog sprang from the top of the bank and sank under the water. for some seconds no trace could be observed of either animal, and then the shaggy nose of the lurcher was seen nearly fifty yards higher up the river, and after sniffing around for a moment, and fixing his single eye on his master, who was standing on the bank, and encouraging him with his voice and gesture, he dived again. "station yourselves on the bank, fifty paces apart," cried crouch; "run, run, or yo'n be too late, an' strike os quick os leet if yo've a chance. stay wheere you are, squoire," he added, to nicholas. "yo canna be better placed." all was now animation and excitement. perceiving from the noise that the otter had been found, the four varlets hastened towards the scene of action, and, by their shouts and the clatter of their staves, contributed greatly to its spirit. two were on one side of the stream, and two on the other, and up to this moment the hounds were similarly separated; but now most of them had taken to the water, some swimming about, others standing up to the middle in the shallower part of the current, watching with keen gaze for the appearance of their anticipated victim. having descended the bank, nicholas had so placed himself among the huge twisted roots of the tree, that if the otter, alarmed by the presence of so many foes, and unable to escape either up or down the river, should return to her couch, he made certain of striking her. at first there seemed little chance of such an occurrence, for fogg, who had gone a hundred yards higher up, suddenly dashed into the stream, and, plunging his spear into the mud, cried out that he had hit the beast; but the next moment, when he drew the weapon forth, and exhibited a large rat which he had transfixed, his mistake excited much merriment. old crouch, meantime, did not suffer his attention to be drawn from his dog. every now and then he saw him come to the surface to breathe, but as he kept within a short distance, though rising at different points, the old huntsman felt certain the otter had not got away, and, having the utmost reliance upon grip's perseverance and sagacity, he felt confident he would bring the quarry to him if the thing were possible. the varlets kept up an incessant clatter, beating the water with their staves, and casting large stones into it, while the hounds bayed furiously, so that the poor fugitive was turned on whichever side she attempted a retreat. while this was going on, nicholas was cautioned by the huntsman to look out, and scarcely had the admonition reached him than the sleek shining body of the otter emerged from the water, and wreathed itself among the roots. the squire instantly dealt a blow which he expected to prove fatal, but his mortification was excessive when he found he had driven the spear-head so deeply into the tree that he could scarcely disengage it, while an almost noiseless plunge told that his prey had escaped. almost at the same moment that the poor hunted beast had sought its old lodging, the untiring lurcher had appeared at the edge of the bank, and, as the former again went down, he dived likewise. secretly laughing at the squire's failure, the old huntsman prepared to take advantage of a similar opportunity if it should present itself, and with this view ensconced himself behind a pollard willow, which stood close beside the stream, and whence he could watch closely all that passed, without being exposed to view. the prudence of the step was soon manifest. after the lapse of a few seconds, during which neither dog nor otter had risen to breathe, a slight, very slight, undulation was perceptible on the surface of the water. crouch's grasp tightened upon his staff--he waited another moment--then dashed forward, struck down his spear, and raised it aloft, with the poor otter transfixed and writhing upon its point. loudly and exultingly did the old man shout at his triumph, and loudly were his vociferations answered by the others. all flew to the spot where he was standing, and the hounds, gathering round him, yelled furiously at the otter, and showed every disposition to tear her in pieces, if they could get at her. kicking the noisiest and fiercest of them out of the way, crouch approached the river's brink, and lowered the spear-head till it came within reach of his favourite grip, who had not yet come out of the water, but stood within his depth, with his one red eye fixed on the enemy he had so hotly pursued, and fully expecting his reward. it now came; his sharp teeth instantly met in the otter's throat, and when crouch swung them both in the air, he still maintained his hold, showing how well he deserved his name, nor could he be disengaged until long after the sufferings of the tortured animal had ceased. to say that nicholas was neither chagrined at his ill success, nor jealous of the old huntsman's superior skill, would be to affirm an untruth; but he put the best face he could upon the matter, and praised grip very highly, alleging that the whole merit of the hunt rested with him. old crouch let him go on, and when he had done, quietly observed that the otter they had destroyed was not the one they came in search of, as they had seen nothing of her litter; and that, most likely, the beast that had done so much mischief had her lodging in the hollow tree near the swanside beck, as described by the varlet, and he wished to know whether the squire would like to go and hunt her. nicholas replied that he was quite willing to do so, and hoped he should have better luck on the second occasion; and with this they set forward again, taking their way along the side of the stream, beating the banks as they went, but without rousing any thing beyond an occasional water-rat, which was killed almost as soon as found by grip. somehow or other, without any one being aware what led to it the conversation fell upon the two old witches, mothers demdike and chattox, and the strange manner in which their career had terminated on the summit of pendle hill--if, indeed it could be said to have terminated, when their spirits were reported to haunt the spot, and might be seen, it was asserted, at midnight, flitting round the beacon, and shrieking dismally. the restless shades were pursued, it was added, by the figure of a monk in white mouldering robes, supposed to be the ghost of paslew. it was difficult to understand how these apparitions could be witnessed, since no one, even for a reward, could be prevailed upon to ascend pendle hill after nightfall; but the shepherds affirmed they had seen them from below, and that was testimony sufficient to shake the most sceptical. one singular circumstance was mentioned, which must not be passed by without notice; and this was, that when the cinders of the extinct beacon-fire came to be examined, no remains whatever of the two hags could be discovered, though the ashes were carefully sifted, and it was quite certain that the flames had expired long before their bodies could be consumed. the explanation attempted for this marvel was, that satan had carried them off while yet living, to finish their combustion in a still more fiery region. mention of mother demdike naturally led to her grandson, jem device, who, having escaped in a remarkable manner on the night in question, notwithstanding the hue and cry made after him, had not, as yet, been captured, though he had been occasionally seen at night, and under peculiar circumstances, by various individuals, and amongst others by old crouch, who, however, declared he had been unable to lay hands upon him. allusion was then made to mistress nutter, whereupon it was observed that the squire changed the conversation quickly; while sundry sly winks and shrugs were exchanged among the varlets of the kennel, seeming to intimate that they knew more about the matter than they cared to admit. nothing more, however, was elicited than that the escort conducting her to lancaster castle, together with the other witches, after their examination before the magistrates at whalley, and committal, had been attacked, while it was passing through a woody defile in bowland forest, by a party of men in the garb of foresters, and the lady set free. nor had she been heard of since. what made this rescue the more extraordinary was, that none of the other witches were liberated at the same time, but some of them who seemed disposed to take advantage of the favourable interposition, and endeavoured to get away, were brought back by the foresters to the officers of justice; thus clearly proving that the attempt was solely made on mistress nutter's account, and must have been undertaken by her friends. nothing, it was asserted, could equal the rage and mortification of roger nowell and potts, on learning that their chief prey had thus escaped them; and by their directions, for more than a week, the strictest search was made for the fugitive throughout the neighbourhood, but without effect--no clue could be discovered to her retreat. suspicion naturally fell upon the two asshetons, nicholas and richard, and roger nowell roundly taxed them with contriving and executing the enterprise in person; while potts told them they were guilty of misprision of felony, and threatened them with imprisonment for life, forfeiture of goods and of rents, for the offence; but as the charge could not be proved against them, notwithstanding all the efforts of the magistrate and attorney, it fell to the ground; and master potts, full of chagrin at this unexpected and vexatious termination of the affair, returned to london, and settled himself in his chambers in chancery lane. his duties, however, as clerk of the court, would necessarily call him to lancaster in august, when the assizes commenced, and when he would assist at the trials of such of the witches as were still in durance. from mother demdike it was natural that the conversation should turn to her weird retreat, malkin tower; and richard sherborne expressed his surprise that the unhallowed structure should be suffered to remain standing after her removal. nicholas said he was equally anxious with his brother-in-law for its demolition, but it was not so easily to be accomplished as it might appear; for the deserted structure was in such ill repute with the common folk, as well as every one else, that no one dared approach it, even in the daytime. a boggart, it was said, had taken possession of its vaults, and scared away all who ventured near it; sometimes showing himself in one frightful shape, and sometimes in another; now as a monstrous goat, now as an equally monstrous cat, uttering fearful cries, glaring with fiery eyes from out of the windows, or appearing in all his terror on the summit of the tower. moreover, the haunted structure was frequently lighted up at dead of night, strains of unearthly music were heard resounding from it, and wild figures were seen flitting past the windows, as if engaged in dancing and revelry; so that it appeared that no alteration for the better had taken place there, and that things were still quite as improperly conducted now, as they had been in the time of mother demdike, or in those of her predecessors, isole de heton and blackburn, the robber. the common opinion was, that satan and all his imps had taken up their abode in the tower, and, as they liked their quarters, led a jolly life there, dancing and drinking all night long, it would be useless at present to give them notice to quit, still less to attempt to pull down the house about their ears. richard sherborne heard this wondrous relation in silence, but with a look of incredulity; and when it was done he winked slily at his brother-in-law. a strange expression, half comical, half suspicious, might also have been observed on fogg's countenance; and he narrowly watched the squire as the latter spoke. "but with the disappearance of the malignant old hags who had so long infested the neighbourhood, had all mischief and calamity ceased, or were people as much afflicted as heretofore? were there, in short, so many cases of witchcraft, real or supposed?" this was the question next addressed by sherborne to nicholas. the squire answered decidedly there were not. since the burning of the two old beldames, and the imprisonment of the others, the whole district of pendle had improved. all those who had been smitten with strange illnesses had recovered; and the inhabitants of the little village of sabden, who had experienced the fullest effects of their malignity, were entirely free from sickness. and not only had they and their families suddenly regained health and strength, but all belonging to them had undergone a similar beneficial change. the kine that had lost their milk now yielded it abundantly; the lame horse halted no longer; the murrain ceased among the sheep; the pigs that had grown lean amidst abundance fattened rapidly; and though the farrows that had perished during the evil ascendency of the witches could not be brought back again, their place promised speedily to be supplied by others. the corn blighted early in the year had sprung forth anew, and the trees nipped in the bud were laden with fruit. in short, all was as fair and as flourishing as it had recently been the reverse. amongst others, john law, the pedlar, who had been deprived of the use of his limbs by the damnable arts of mother demdike, had marvellously recovered on the very night of her destruction, and was now as strong and as active as ever. "such happy results having followed the removal of the witches, it was to be hoped," sherborne said, "that the riddance would be complete, and that none of the obnoxious brood would be left to inflict future miseries on their fellows. this could not be the case so long as james device was allowed to go at large; nor while his mother, elizabeth device, a notorious witch, was suffered to escape with impunity. there was also jennet, elizabeth's daughter, a mischievous and ill-favoured little creature, who inherited all the ill qualities of her parents. these were the spawn of the old snake, and, until they were entirely exterminated, there could be no security against a recurrence of the evil. again, there was nance redferne, old chattox's grand-daughter, a comely woman enough, but a reputed witch, and an undoubted fabricator of clay images. she was still at liberty, though she ought to be with the rest in the dungeons of lancaster castle. it was useless to allege that with the destruction of the old hags all danger had ceased. common prudence would keep the others quiet now; but the moment the storm passed over, they would resume their atrocious practices, and all would be as bad as ever. no, no! the tree must be utterly uprooted, or it would inevitably burst forth anew." with these opinions nicholas generally concurred; but he expressed some sympathy for nance redferne, whom he thought far too good-looking to be as wicked and malicious as represented. but however that might be, and however much he might desire to get rid of the family of the devices, he feared such a step might be attended with danger to alizon, and that she might in some way or other be implicated with them. this last remark he addressed in an under-tone to his brother-in-law. sherborne did not at first feel any apprehension on that score, but, on reflection, he admitted that nicholas was perhaps right; and though alizon was now the recognised daughter of mistress nutter, yet her long and intimate connection with the device family might operate to her prejudice, while her near relationship to an avowed witch would not tend to remove the unfavourable impression. sherborne then went on to speak in the most rapturous terms of the beauty and goodness of the young girl who formed the subject of their conversation, and declared he was not in the least surprised that richard assheton was so much in love with her. and yet, he added, a most extraordinary change had taken place in her since the dreadful night on pendle hill, when her mother's guilt had been proclaimed, and when her arrest had taken place as an offender of the darkest dye. alizon, he said, had lost none of her beauty, but her light and joyous expression of countenance had been supplanted by a look of profound sadness, which nothing could remove. gentle and meek in her deportment, she seemed to look upon herself as under a ban, and as if she were unfit to associate with the rest of the world. in vain richard assheton and his sister endeavoured to remove this impression by the tenderest assiduities; in vain they sought to induce her to enter into amusements consistent with her years; she declined all society but their own, and passed the greater part of her time in prayer. sherborne had seen her so engaged, and the expression of her countenance, he declared, was seraphic. on the extreme verge of a high bank situated at the point of junction between swanside beck and the ribble, stood an old, decayed oak. little of the once mighty tree beyond the gnarled trunk was left, and this was completely hollow; while there was a great rift near the bottom through which a man might easily creep, and, when once in, stand erect without inconvenience. beneath the bank the river was deep and still, forming a pool, where the largest and fattest fish were to be met with. in addition to this, the spot was extremely secluded, being rarely visited by the angler on account of the thick copse by which it was surrounded and which extended along the back, from the point of confluence between the lesser and the larger stream, to downham mill, nearly half a mile distant. the sides of the ribble were here, as elsewhere, beautifully wooded, and as the clear stream winded along through banks of every diversity of shape and character, and covered by forest trees of every description, and of the most luxuriant growth, the effect was enchanting; the more so, that the sun, having now risen high in the heavens, poured down a flood of summer heat and radiance, that rendered these cool shades inexpressibly delightful. pleasant was it, as the huntsmen leaped from stone to stone, to listen to the sound of the waters rushing past them. pleasant as they sprang upon some green holm or fairy islet, standing in the midst of the stream, and dividing its lucid waters, to suffer the eye to follow the course of the rapid current, and to see it here sparkling in the bright sunshine, there plunged in shade by the overhanging trees--now fringed with osiers and rushes, now embanked with smoothest sward of emerald green; anon defended by steep rocks, sometimes bold and bare, but more frequently clothed with timber; then sinking down by one of those sudden but exquisite transitions, which nature alone dares display, from this savage and sombre character into the softest and gentlest expression; every where varied, yet every where beautiful. through such scenes of silvan loveliness had the huntsmen passed on their way to the hollow oak, and they had ample leisure to enjoy them, because the squire and his brother-in-law being engaged in conversation, as before related, made frequent pauses, and, during these, the others halted likewise; and even the hounds, glad of a respite, stood still, or amused themselves by splashing about amid the shallows without any definite object unless of cooling themselves. then, as the leaders once more moved forward, arose the cheering shout, the loud deep bay, the clattering of staves, the crashing of branches, and all the other inspiriting noises accompanying the progress of the hunt. but for some minutes these had again ceased, and as nicholas and sherborne lingered beneath the shade of a wide-spread beech-tree growing on a sandy hillock near the stream, and seemed deeply interested in their talk--as well they might, for it related to alizon--the whole troop, including fogg, held respectfully aloof, and awaited their pleasure to go on. the signal to move was, at length, given by the squire, who saw they were now not more than a hundred yards from the bank on which stood the hollow tree they were anxious to reach. as the river here made a turn, and swept round the point in question, forming, owing to this detention, the deep pool previously mentioned, the bank almost faced them, and, as nothing intervened, they could almost look into the rift near the base of the tree, forming, they supposed, the entrance to the otter's couch. but, though this was easily distinguished, no traces of the predatory animal could be seen; and though many sharp eyes were fixed upon the spot during the prolonged discourse of the two gentlemen, nothing had occurred to attract their attention, and to prove that the object of their quest was really there. after some little consultation between the squire and crouch, it was agreed that the former should alone force his way to the tree, while the others were to station themselves with the hounds at various points of the stream, above and below the bank, so that, if the otter and her litter escaped their first assailant, they should infallibly perish by the hands of some of the others. this being agreed upon, the plan was instantly put into execution--two of the varlets remaining where they were--two going higher up; while sherborne and fogg stationed themselves on great stones in the middle of the stream, whence they could command all around them, and crouch, wading on with grip, planted himself at the entrance of swanside beck into the ribble. meanwhile, the squire having scaled the bank, entered the thick covert encircling it, and, not without some damage to his face and hands from the numerous thorns and brambles growing amongst it, forced his way upwards until he reached the bare space surrounding the hollow tree; and this attained, his first business was to ascertain that all was in readiness below before commencing the attack. a glance showed him on one side old crouch standing up to his middle in the beck, grasping his long otter spear, and with grip beating the water in front of him in anxious expectation of employment; and in front fogg, sherborne, and two of the varlets, with their hounds so disposed that they could immediately advance upon the otter if it plunged into the river, while its passage up or down would be stopped by their comrades. all this he discerned at a glance; and comprehending from a sign made him by the old huntsman that he should not delay, he advanced towards the tree, and was about to plunge his spear into the hole, hoping to transfix one at least of its occupants, when he was startled by hearing a deep voice apparently issue from the hollows of the timber, bidding him "beware!" nicholas recoiled aghast, for he thought it might be hobthurst, or the demon of the wood, who thus bespoke him. "what accursed thing addresses me?" he said, standing on his guard. "what is it? speak!" "get hence, nicholas assheton," replied the voice; "an' meddle not wi' them os meddles not wi' thee." "aha!" exclaimed the squire, recovering courage, for he thought this did not sound like the language of a demon. "i am known am i? why should i go hence, and at whose bidding?" "ask neaw questions, mon, boh ge," replied the voice, "or it shan be warse fo' thee. ey am the boggart o' th' clough, an' if theaw bringst me out, ey'n tear thee i' pieces wi' my claws, an' cast thee into t' ribble, so that thine own hounts shan eat thee up." "ha! say'st thou so, master boggart," cried nicholas. "for a spirit, thou usest the vernacular of the county fairly enough. but before trying whether thy hide be proof against mortal weapons i command thee to come forth and declare thyself, that i may judge what manner of thing thou art." "thoud'st best lem me be, ey tell thee," replied the boggart gruffly. "ah! methinks i should know those accents," exclaimed the squire; "they marvellously resemble the voice of an offender who has too long evaded justice, and whom i have now fairly entrapped. jem device, thou art known, lad, and if thou dost not surrender at discretion, i will strike my spear through this rotten tree, and spit thee as i would the beast i came in quest of." "an' which yo wad more easily than me," retorted jem. and suddenly springing from the hole at the foot of the tree, he passed between the squire's legs with great promptitude, and flinging him face foremost upon the ground, crawled to the edge of the bank, and thence dropped into the deep pool below. the plunge roused all the spectators, who, though they had heard what had passed, and had seen the squire upset in the manner described, had been so much astounded that they could render no assistance; but they now, one and all, bestirred themselves actively to seize the diver when he should rise to the surface. but though every eye was on the look-out, and every arm raised; though the hounds were as eager as their masters, and yelling fiercely, swam round the pool, ready to pounce upon the swimmer as upon a duck, all were disappointed; for, even after a longer interval than their patience could brook, he did not appear. by this time, nicholas had regained his legs, and, infuriated by his discomfiture, approached the edge of the bank, and peering down below, hoped to detect the fugitive immediately beneath him, resolved to show him no mercy when he caught him. but he was equally at fault with the others, and after more than five minutes spent in ineffectual search, he ordered crouch to send grip into the pool. the old keeper replied that the dog was not used to this kind of chase, and might not display his usual skill in it; but as the squire would take no nay, he was obliged to consent, and the other hounds were called off lest they should puzzle him. twice did the shrewd lurcher swim round the pool, sniffing the air, after which he approached the shore, and scented close to the bank; still it was evident he could detect nothing, and nicholas began to despair, when the dog suddenly dived. expectation was then raised to the utmost, and all were on the watch again, nicholas leaning over the edge of the bank with his spear in hand, prepared to strike; but the dog was so long in reappearing, that all had given him up for lost, and his master was giving utterance to ejaculations of grief and rage, and vowing vengeance against the warlock, when grip's grisly head was once more seen above the surface of the water, and this time he had a piece of blue serge in his jaws, proving that he had had hold of the raiments of the fugitive, and that therefore the latter could not be far off, but had most probably got into some hole beneath the bank. no sooner was this notion suggested than it was acted on by the old huntsman and fogg, and, wading forward, they pricked the bank with their spears at various points below the level of the water. all at once fogg fell forward. his spear had entered a hole, and had penetrated so deeply that he had lost his balance. but though, soused over head and ears, he had made a successful hit, for the next moment jem device appeared above the water, and ere he could dive again his throat was seized by grip, and while struggling to free himself from the fangs of the tenacious animal, he was laid hold of by crouch, and the varlets rushing forward to the latter's assistance, the ruffian was captured. some difficulty was experienced in rescuing the captive from the jaws of the hounds, who, infuriated by his struggles, and perhaps mistaking him for some strange beast of chase, made their sharp teeth meet in various parts of his person, rending his garments from his limbs, and would no doubt have rent the flesh also, if they had been permitted. at length, after much fighting and struggling, mingled with yells and vociferations, jem was borne ashore, and flung on the ground, where he presented a wretched spectacle; bleeding, half-drowned, and covered with slime acquired during his occupation of the hole in the bank. but though unable to offer further resistance, his spirit was not quelled, and his eye glared terribly at his captors. fearing they might have further trouble with him when he recovered from his present exhausted condition, crouch had his hands bound tightly together with one of the dog leashes, and then would fain have questioned him as to how he managed to breathe in a hole below the level of the water; but jem refused to satisfy his curiosity, and returned only a sullen rejoinder to any questions addressed to him, until the squire, who had crossed the river at some stepping-stones lower down, came up, and the ruffian then inquired, in a half-menacing tone, what he meant to do with him? "what do i mean to do with you?" cried nicholas. "i will tell you, lad. i shall send you at once to whalley to be examined before the magistrates; and, as the proofs are pretty clear against you, you will be forwarded without any material delay to lancaster castle." "an yo winna rescue me by the way, os yo ha dun a sartin notorious witch an murtheress!" replied jem, fiercely. "tak heed whot yo dun, squoire. if ey speak at aw, ey shan speak out, and to some purpose, ey'n warrant ye. if ey ge to lonkester castle, ey winna ge alone. wan o' yer friends shan ge wi' me." "cursed villain! i guess thy meaning," replied nicholas; "but thy vindictive purposes will be frustrated. no credence will be attached to thy false charges; while, as to the lady thou aimest at, she is luckily beyond reach of thy malice." "dunna be too sure o' that, squoire," replied jem. "ey con put t' officers o' jestis os surely on her track os owd crouch could set these hounds on an otter. lay yer account on it, ey winna dee unavenged." "heed him not," interposed sherborne, seeing that the squire was shaken by his threat, and taking him apart; "it will not do to let such a villain escape. he can do you no injury, and as to mistress nutter, if you know where she is, it will be easy to give her a hint to get out of the way." "i don't know that," replied nicholas, thoughtfully. "if ey might be so bowd os offer my advice, squoire," said old crouch, advancing towards his master, "ey'd tee a heavy stoan round the felly's throttle, an chuck him into t' poo', an' he'n tell no teles fo' all his bragging." "that would silence him effectually, no doubt, crouch," replied nicholas, laughing; "but a dog's death is too good for him, and besides i am pretty sure his destiny is not drowning. no, no--at all risks he shall go to whalley. harkee, fogg," he added, beckoning that worthy to him, "i commit the conduct and custody of the prisoner to you. clap him on a horse, get on another yourself, take these four varlets with you, and deliver him into the hands of sir ralph assheton, who will relieve you of all further trouble and responsibility. but you may add this to the baronet from me," he continued, in an under-tone. "i recommend him to place under immediate arrest elizabeth device, the prisoner's mother, and her daughter jennet. you understand, fogg--eh?" "perfectly," returned the other, with a somewhat singular look; "and your instructions shall be fulfilled to the letter. have you any thing more to commit to me?" "only this," said nicholas; "you may tell sir ralph that i propose to sleep at the abbey to-night. i shall ride over to middleton in the course of the day, to confer with dick assheton upon what has just occurred, and get the money from him--the three hundred pounds, you understand--and when my errand is done, i will turn bridle towards whalley. i shall return by todmorden, and through the gorge of cliviger. you may as well tarry for me at the abbey, for sir ralph will be glad of thy company, and we can return together to downham to-morrow." as the squire thus spoke, he noticed a singular sparkle in fogg's ill-set eyes; but he thought nothing of it at the time, though it subsequently occurred to his recollection. meanwhile, the prisoner, finding no grace likely to be shown him, shouted out to the squire, that if he were set free, he would make certain important disclosures to him respecting fogg, who was not what he represented himself; but nicholas treated the offer with disdain; and the individual mainly interested in the matter, who appeared highly incensed by jem's malignity, cut a short peg by way of gag, and, thrusting it into the ruffian's mouth, effectually checked any more revelations on his part. fogg then ordered the varlets to bring on the prisoner; but as jem obstinately refused to move, they were under the necessity of taking him on their shoulders, and transporting him in this manner to the stables, where he was placed on a horse, as directed by the squire. chapter ii.--the penitent's retreat. nicholas and sherborne returned by a different road from that taken by the others, and loitered so much by the way that they did not arrive at the manor-house until the prisoner and his escort had set out. probably this was designed, as nicholas seemed relieved when he learnt they were gone. having entered the house with his brother-in-law, and conducted him to an apartment opening out of the hall, usually occupied by mistress assheton, and where, in fact, they found that amiable lady employed at her embroidery, he left sherborne with her, and, making some excuse for his own hasty retreat, betook himself to another part of the house. mounting the principal staircase, which was of dark oak, with richly-carved railing, he turned into a gallery communicating with the sleeping apartments, and, after proceeding more than half-way down it, halted before a door, which he unlocked, and entered a spacious but evidently disused chamber, hung round with faded tapestry, and containing a large gloomy-looking bedstead. securing the door carefully after him, nicholas raised the hangings in one corner of the room, and pressing against a spring, a sliding panel flew open. a screen was placed within, so as to hide from view the inmate of the secret chamber, and nicholas, having coughed slightly, to announce his presence, and received an answer in a low, melancholy female voice, stepped through the aperture, and stood within a small closet. it was tenanted by a lady, whose features and figure bore the strongest marks of affliction. her person was so attenuated that she looked little more than a skeleton--her fingers were long and thin--her cheeks hollow and deathly pale--her eyes lustreless and deep sunken in their sockets--and her hair, once jetty as the raven's wing, prematurely blanched. such was the profound gloom stamped upon her countenance, that it was impossible to look upon her without compassion; while, in spite of her wo-begone looks, there was a noble character about her that elevated the feeling into deep interest, blended with respect. she was kneeling beside a small desk, with an open bible laid upon it, which she was intently studying when the squire appeared. "here is a terrible text for you, nicholas," she said, regarding him, mournfully. "listen to it, and judge of its effect on me. thus it is written in deuteronomy:--'there shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.' a witch, nicholas--do you mark the word? and yet more particular is the next verse, wherein it is said;--'or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer.' and then cometh the denunciation of divine anger against such offenders in these awful words:--'for all that do these things are an abomination unto the lord: and because of these abominations, the lord thy god doth drive them out from before thee.' again, it is said in leviticus, that 'the lord setteth his face against such, to cut them off.' and in exodus, the law is expressly laid down thus--'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' there is no escape for her, you see. by the divine command she must perish, and human justice must; carry out the decree. nicholas, i am one of the offenders thus denounced, thus condemned. i have practised witchcraft, consulted with familiar spirits, and done other abominations in the sight of heaven; and i ought to pay the full penalty of my offences." "do not, i beseech you, madam," replied the squire, "continue to take this view of your case. however you have sinned, you have made amends by the depth and sincerity of your repentance. your days and nights--for you allow yourself only such rest as nature forces on you, and take even that most unwillingly--are passed in constant prayer. your abstinence is severer than any anchoress ever practised, for i am sure for the last month you have not taken as much food altogether as i consume in a day; while, not content with this, you perform acts of penance that afflict me beyond measure to think upon, and which i have striven in vain to induce you to forego. there will be no occasion to deliver yourself up to justice, madam; for, if you go on thus, and do not deal with yourself a little more mildly, your accounts with this world will be speedily settled." "and i should rejoice to think so, nicholas," replied mistress nutter, "if i had any hope in the world to come. but, alas! i have none. i cannot, by any act of penitence and contrition, expiate my offences. my soul is darkened by despair. i know i ought to give myself up--that heaven and man alike require my life, and i cannot reconcile myself to avoiding my just doom." "it is the evil one who puts these thoughts into your head," replied nicholas, "and who fills your heart with promptings of despair, that he may again obtain the mastery over it. but take a calmer and more consolatory view of your condition. human justice may require a public sacrifice as an example, but heaven, will be satisfied with contrition in secret." "i trust so," replied the lady, vainly striving to draw comfort from his words. "oh, nicholas! you do not know the temptations i am exposed to in this chamber--the difficulty i experience in keeping my thoughts fixed on one object--the distractions i undergo--the mental obscurations--the faintings of spirit--the bodily prostration--the terrors, the inconceivable terrors, that assail me. sometimes i wish my spirit would flee away, and be at rest. rest! there is none for me--none in the grave--none beyond the grave--and therefore i am afraid of death, and still more of the judgment after death! man might inflict all the tortures he could devise upon this poor frame. i would bear them all with patience, with delight, if i thought they would purchase me immunity hereafter! but with the dread conviction, the almost certainty, that it will be otherwise, i can only look to the final consummation with despair!" "again i tell you these suggestions are evil," said nicholas. "the son of god, who sacrificed himself for man, and by whose atonement all mankind hope for salvation, has assured us that the greatest sinner who repents shall be forgiven, and, indeed, is more acceptable in the eyes of heaven than him who has never erred. far be it from me to attempt to exculpate you in your own eyes, or extenuate your former criminality. you have sinned deeply, so deeply that you may well shrink aghast from the contemplation of your past life--may well recoil in abhorrence from yourself--and may fitly devote yourself to constant prayer and acts of penitence. but having cast off your iniquity, and sincerely repented, i bid you hope--i bid you place a confident reliance in the clemency of an all-merciful power." "you give me much comfort, nicholas," said the lady, "and if tears of blood can wash away my sin they shall be shed; but much as you know of my wickedness, even you cannot conceive its extent. in my madness, for it was nothing else, i cast off all hopes of heaven, renounced my redeemer, was baptised by the demon, and entered into a compact by which--i shudder to speak it--my soul was surrendered to him." "you placed yourself in fearful jeopardy, no doubt," rejoined nicholas; "but you have broken the contract in time, and an all righteous judge will not permit the penalty of the bond to be exacted. seeing your penitence, satan has relinquished all claim to your soul." "i do not think it," replied the lady. "he will contest the point to the last, and it is only at the last that it will be decided." as she spoke, a sound like mocking laughter reached the ears of nicholas. "did you hear that?" demanded mistress nutter, in accents of wildest terror. "he is ever on the watch. i knew it--i knew it." clasping her hands together, and fixing her looks on high she then addressed the most fervent supplications to heaven for deliverance from evil, and erelong her troubled countenance began to resume its former serenity, proving that the surest balm for a "mind diseased" is prayer. her example had been followed by nicholas, who, greatly alarmed, had dropped upon his knees likewise, and now arose with somewhat more composure in his demeanour and aspect. "i am sorry i do not bring you good news, madam," he said; "but jem device has been arrested this morning, and as the fellow is greatly exasperated against me, he threatens to betray your retreat to the officers; and though he is, probably, unacquainted with it notwithstanding his boasting, still he may cause search to be made, and, therefore, i think you had better be removed to some other hiding-place." "deliver me up without more ado, i pray you, nicholas," said the lady. "you know my resolution on that point, madam," he replied, "and, therefore, it is idle to attempt to shake it. for your daughter's sake, if not for your own, i will save you, in spite of yourself. you would not fix a brand for ever on alizon's name; you would not destroy her?" "i would not," replied the wretched lady. "but have you heard from her--have you seen her? tell me, is she well and happy?" "she is well, and would be happy, were it not for her anxiety about you," replied nicholas, evasively. "but for her sake--mine--your own--i must urge you to seek some other place of refuge to night, for if you are discovered here you will bring ruin on us all." "i will no longer debate the point," replied mistress nutter. "where shall i go?" "there is one place of absolute security, but i do not like to mention it," replied nicholas. "yet still, as it will only be necessary to remain for a day or two, till the search is over, when you can return here, it cannot much matter." "where is it?" asked mistress nutter. "malkin tower," answered the squire, with some hesitation. "i will never go to that accursed place," cried the lady. "send me hence when you will--now, or at midnight--and let me seek shelter on the bleak fells or on the desolate moors, but bid me not go there!" "and yet it is the best and safest place for you," returned nicholas, somewhat testily; "and for this reason, that, being reputed to be haunted, no one will venture to molest you. as to mother demdike, i suppose you are not afraid of her ghost; and if the evil beings you apprehend were able or inclined to do you mischief, they would not wait till you got there to execute their purpose." "true," said mistress nutter, "i was wrong to hesitate. i will go." "you will be as safe there as here--ay, and safer," rejoined nicholas, "or i would not urge the retreat upon you. i am about to ride over to middleton this morning to see your daughter and richard assheton, and shall sleep at whalley, so that i shall not be able to accompany you to the tower to-night; but old crouch the huntsman shall be in waiting for you, as soon as it grows dusk, in the summer-house, with which, as you know, the secret staircase connected with this room communicates, and he shall have a horse in readiness to take you, together with such matters as you may require, to the place of refuge. heaven guard you, madam!" "amen!" responded the lady. "and now farewell!" said nicholas. "i shall hope to see you back again ere many days be gone, when your quietude will not again be disturbed." so saying, he stepped back, and, passing through the panel, closed it after him. chapter iii.--middleton hall. middleton hall, the residence of sir richard assheton, was a large quadrangular structure, built entirely of timber, and painted externally in black and white checker-work, fanciful and varied in design, in the style peculiar to the better class of tudor houses in south lancashire and cheshire. surrounded by a deep moat, supplied by a neighbouring stream, and crossed by four drawbridges, each faced by a gateway, this vast pile of building was divided into two spacious courts, one of which contained the stables, barns, and offices, while the other was reserved for the family and the guests by whom the hospitable mansion was almost constantly crowded. in the last-mentioned part of the house was a great gallery, with deeply embayed windows filled with painted glass, a floor of polished oak, walls of the same dark lustrous material, hung with portraits of stiff beauties, some in ruff and farthingale, and some in a costume of an earlier period among whom was margaret barton, who brought the manor of middleton into the family; frowning warriors, beginning with sir ralph assheton, knight-marshal of england in the reign of edward iv., and surnamed "the black of assheton-under-line," the founder of the house, and husband of margaret barton before mentioned, and ending with sir richard assheton, grandfather of the present owner of the mansion, and one of the heroes of flodden; grave lawyers, or graver divines--a likeness running through all, and showing they belonged to one line--a huge carved mantelpiece, massive tables of walnut or oak, and black and shining as ebony, set round with high-backed chairs. here, also, above stairs, there were long corridors looking out through lattices upon the court, and communicating with the almost countless dormitories; while, on the floor beneath, corresponding passages led to all the principal chambers, and terminated in the grand entrance hall, the roof of which being open and intersected by enormous rafters, and crooks of oak, like the ribs of some "tall ammiral," was thought from this circumstance, as well as from its form, to resemble "a ship turned upside down." the lower beams were elaborately carved and ornamented with gilded bosses and sculptured images, sustaining shields emblazoned with the armorial bearings of the asshetons. as many as three hundred matchlocks, in good and serviceable condition, were ranged round the entrance-hall, besides corselets, almayne rivets, steel caps, and other accoutrements; this stand of arms having been collected by sir richard's predecessor, during the military muster made in the country in , when he had raised and equipped a troop of horse for queen elizabeth. outside the mansion was a garden, charmingly laid out in parterres and walks, and not only carried to the edge of the moat, but continued beyond it till it reached a high knoll crowned with beech-trees. a crest of tall twisted chimneys, a high roof with quaintly carved gables, surmounted by many gilt vanes, may serve to complete the picture of middleton hall. on a lovely summer evening, two young persons of opposite sexes were seated on a bench placed at the foot of one of the largest and most umbrageous of the beech-trees crowning the pleasant eminence before mentioned; and though differing in aspect and character, the one being excessively fair, with tresses as light and fleecy as the clouds above them, and eyes as blue and tender as the skies--and the other distinguished by great manly beauty, though in a totally different style; still there was a sufficiently strong likeness between them, to proclaim them brother and sister. profound melancholy pervaded the countenance of the young man, whose handsome brow was clouded by care--while the girl, though sad, seemed so only from sympathy. they were conversing together in deep and earnest tones, showing how greatly they were interested; and, as they proceeded, many an involuntary sigh was heaved by richard assheton, while a tear, more than once, dimmed the brightness of his sister's eyes, and her hand sought by its gentle pressure to re-assure him. they were talking of alizon, of her peculiar and distressing situation, and of the young man's hopeless love for her. she was the general theme of their discourse, for richard's sole comfort was in pouring forth his griefs into his sister's willing ear; but new causes of anxiety had been given them by nicholas, who had arrived that afternoon, bringing intelligence of james device's capture, and of his threats against mistress nutter. the squire had only just departed, having succeeded in the twofold object of his visit--which was, firstly, to borrow three hundred pounds from his cousin--and, secondly, to induce him to attend the meeting at hoghton tower. with the first request richard willingly complied, and he assented, though with some reluctance, to the second, provided nothing of serious moment should occur in the interim. nicholas tried to rally him on his despondency, endeavouring to convince him all would come right in time, and that his misgivings were causeless; but his arguments were ineffectual, and he was soon compelled to desist. the squire would fain also have seen alizon, but, understanding she always remained secluded in her chamber till eventide, he did not press the point. richard urged him to stay over the night, alleging the length of the ride, and the speedy approach of evening, as inducements to him to remain; but on this score the squire was resolute--and having carefully secured the large sum of money he had obtained beneath his doublet, he mounted his favourite steed, robin, who seemed as fresh as if he had not achieved upwards of thirty miles that morning, and rode off. richard watched him cross the drawbridge, and take the road towards rochdale, and, after exchanging a farewell wave of the hand with him, returned to the hall and sought out his sister. dorothy was easily persuaded to take a turn in the garden with her brother, and during their walk he confided to her all he had heard from nicholas. her alarm at jem device's threat was much greater than his own; and, though she entertained a strong and unconquerable aversion to mistress nutter, and could not be brought to believe in the sincerity of her penitence, still, for alizon's sake, she dreaded lest any harm should befall her, and more particularly desired to avoid the disgrace which would be inflicted by a public execution. alizon she was sure would not survive such a catastrophe, and therefore, at all risks, it must be averted. richard did not share, to the same extent, in her apprehensions, because he had been assured by nicholas that mistress nutter would be removed to a place of perfect security, and because he was disposed, with the squire, to regard the prisoner's threats as mere ravings of impotent malice. still he could not help feeling great uneasiness. vague fears, too, beset him, which he found it in vain to shake off, but he did not communicate them to his sister, as he knew the terrifying effect they would have upon her timid nature; and he, therefore, kept the mental anguish he endured to himself, hoping erelong it would diminish in intensity. but in this he was deceived, for, instead of abating, his gloom and depression momently increased. almost unconsciously, richard and his sister had quitted the garden, proceeding with slow and melancholy steps to the beech-crowned knoll. the seat they had chosen was a favourite one with alizon, and she came thither on most evenings, either accompanied by dorothy or alone. here it was that richard had more than once passionately besought her to become his bride, receiving on both occasions a same meek yet firm refusal. to dorothy also, who pleaded her brother's cause with all the eloquence and fervour of which she was mistress, alizon replied that her affections were fixed upon richard; but that, while her mother lived, and needed her constant prayers, they must not be withheld; and that, looking upon any earthly passion as a criminal interference with this paramount duty, she did not dare to indulge it. dorothy represented to her that the sacrifice was greater than she was called upon to make, that her health was visibly declining, and that she might fall a victim to her over-zeal; but alizon was deaf to her remonstrances, as she had been to the entreaties of richard. with hearts less burthened, the contemplation of the scene before them could not have failed to give delight to richard and his sister, and, even amid the adverse circumstances under which it was viewed, its beauty and tranquillity produced a soothing influence. evening was gradually stealing on, and all the exquisite tints marking that delightful hour, were spreading over the landscape. the sun was setting gorgeously, and a flood of radiance fell upon the old mansion beneath them, and upon the grey and venerable church, situated on a hill adjoining it. the sounds were all in unison with the hour, and the lowing of cattle, the voices of the husbandmen returning from their work, mingled with the cawing of the rooks newly alighted on the high trees near the church, told them that bird, man, and beast were seeking their home for the night. but though richard's eye dwelt upon the fair garden beneath him, embracing all its terraces, green slopes, and trim pastures; though it fell upon the moat belting the hall like a glittering zone; though it rested upon the church tower; and, roaming over the park beyond it, finally settled upon the range of hills bounding the horizon, which have not inaptly been termed the english apennines; though he saw all these things, he thought not of them, neither was he conscious of the sounds that met his ear, and which all spoke of rest from labour, and peace. darker and deeper grew his melancholy. he began to persuade himself he was not long for this world; and, while gazing upon the beautiful prospect before him, was perhaps looking upon it for the last time. for some minutes dorothy watched him anxiously, and at last receiving no answer to her questions, and alarmed by the expression of his countenance, she flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. it was now richard's turn to console her, and he inquired with much anxiety as to the cause of this sudden outburst of grief. "you yourself are the cause of it, dear richard," replied dorothy, regarding him with brimming eyes; "i cannot bear to see you so unhappy. if you suffer this melancholy to grow upon you, it will affect both mind and body. just now your countenance wore an expression most distressing to look upon. try to smile, dear richard, if only to cheer me, or else i shall grow as sad as you. ah, me! i have known the day, and not long since either, when on a pleasant summer evening like this you would propose a stroll into the park with me; and, when there, would trip along the glades as fleetly as a deer, and defy me to catch you. but you always took care i should, though--ha! ha! come, there is a little attempt at a smile. that's something. you look more like yourself now. how happy we used to be in those days, to be sure!--and how merry! you would make the courts ring with your blithe laughter, and wellnigh kill me with your jests. if love is to make one mope like an owl, and sigh like the wind through a half-shut casement; if it is to cause one to lose one's rosy complexion and gay spirit, and forget how to dance and sing--take no pleasure in hawking and hunting, or any kind of sport--walk about with eyes fixed upon the ground, muttering, and with disordered attire--if it is to make one silent when one should be talkative, grave when one should be gay, heedless when one should listen--if it is to do all this, defend me from the tender passion! i hope i shall never fall in love." "i hope you never will, dear dorothy," replied richard, pressing her hand affectionately, "if your love is to be attended with such unhappy results as mine. i know not how it is, but i feel unusually despondent this evening, and am haunted by a thousand dismal fancies. but i will do my best to dismiss them, and with your help no doubt i shall succeed." "there!--there was a smile in earnest!" cried dorothy, brightening up. "oh, richard! i am quite happy now. and after all i do not see why you should take such a gloomy view of things. i have no doubt there is a great deal, a very great deal, of happiness in store for you and alizon--i must couple her name with yours, or you will not allow it to be happiness--if you can only be brought to think so. i am quite sure of it; and you shall see how nicely i can make the matter out. as thus. mistress nutter is certain to die soon--such a wicked woman cannot live long. don't be angry with me for calling her wicked, richard; but you know i never can forget her unhallowed proceedings in the convent church at whalley, where i was so nearly becoming a witch myself. well, as i was saying, she cannot live long, and when she goes--and heaven grant it may be soon!--alizon, no doubt, will mourn for her though i shall not, and after a decent interval--then, richard, then she will no longer say you nay, but will make you happy as your wife. nay, do not look so sad again, dear brother. i thought i should make you quite cheerful by the picture i was drawing." "it is because i fear it will never be realized that i am sad, dorothy," replied richard. "my own anticipations are the opposite of yours, and paint alizon sinking into an early grave before her mother; while as to myself, if such be the case, i shall not long survive her." "nay, now you will make me weep again," cried dorothy, her tears flowing afresh. "but i will not allow you to indulge such gloomy ideas, richard. if i seriously thought mistress nutter likely to occasion all this fresh mischief, i would cause her to be delivered up to justice, and hanged out of the way. you may look cross at me, but i would. what is an old witch like her, compared with two young handsome persons, dying for love of each other, and yet not able to marry on her account?" "dorothy, dorothy, you must put some restraint on your tongue," said richard; "you give it sadly too much licence. you forget it is the wish of the unhappy lady you refer to, to expiate her offences at the stake, and that it is only out of consideration to her daughter that she has been induced to remain in concealment. what will be the issue of it all, i dare scarcely conjecture. wo to her, i fear! wo to alizon! wo to me!" "alas! richard, that you should link yourself to her fate!" exclaimed dorothy, half mournfully, half reproachfully. "i cannot help it," he replied. "it is my destiny--a deplorable destiny, if you will--but not to be avoided. that mistress nutter will escape the consequences of her crimes, i can scarcely believe. her penitence is profound and sincere, and that is a great consolation; for i trust she will not perish, body and soul. i should wish her to have some spiritual assistance, but this nicholas will not for the present permit, alleging that no churchman would consent to screen her from justice when he became aware, as he must by her confession, of the nature and magnitude of her offences. this may be true; but when the wretches who have been leagued with her in iniquity are disposed of, the reason will no longer exist, and i will see that she is cared for. but, apart from her mother, i have another source of anxiety respecting alizon. it is this: orders have been this day given for the arrest of elizabeth device and her daughter, jennet, and alizon will be the chief witness against them. this will be a great trouble to her." "undoubtedly," rejoined dorothy, with much concern. "but can it not be avoided?" "i fear not," said richard, "and i blamed nicholas much for his precipitancy in giving the order; but he replied he had been held up latterly as a favourer of witches, and must endeavour to redeem his character by a display of severity. were it not for alizon, i should rejoice that the noxious brood should at last be utterly exterminated." "and so should i, in good sooth," responded dorothy. "as to elizabeth device, she is bad enough for any thing, and capable of almost any mischief: but she is nothing to jennet, who, i am persuaded, would become a second mother demdike if her career were not cut short. you have seen the child, and know what an ill-favoured, deformed little creature she is, with round high shoulders, eyes set strangely in her face, and such a malicious expression--oh! i shudder to think of it." and she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out some unpleasant object. "poor, predestined child of sin, branded by nature from her birth, and charged with wicked passions, as the snake with venom, i cannot but pity her!" exclaimed richard. "compassion is entirely thrown away," he added, with a sudden change of manner, and as if trying to shake off a weakness. "the poisonous fruit must, however, be nipped in the bud. better she should perish now, even though comparatively guiltless, than hereafter with a soul stained with crime, like her mother." as he concluded, he put his hand quickly to his side, for a sharp and sudden pang shot through his heart; and so acute was the pain, that, after struggling against it for a moment, he groaned deeply, and would have fallen, if his sister, greatly alarmed, and with difficulty repressing a scream, had not lent him support. neither of them were aware of the presence of a little girl, who had approached the place where they were sitting, with footsteps so light that the grass scarcely seemed to bend beneath them, and who, ensconcing herself behind the tree, drank in their discourse with eager ears. she was attended by a large black cat, who, climbing the tree, placed himself on a bough above her. during the latter part of the conversation, and when it turned upon the arrest of jennet and her mother, the expression of the child's countenance, malicious enough to begin with, became desperately malignant, and she was only restrained by certain signs from the cat, which appeared to be intelligible to her, from some act of mischief. at last even this failed, and before the animal could descend and check her, she crept round the bole of the tree, so as to bring herself close to richard, and muttering a spell, made one or two passes behind his back, touched him with the point of her finger, but so lightly that he was unconscious of the pressure, and then hastily retreated with the cat, who glared furiously at her from his flaming orbs. it was at the moment she touched him that richard felt as if an arrow were quivering in his heart. poor dorothy's alarm was so great that she could not even scream for assistance, and she feared, if she quitted her brother, he would expire before her return; but the agony, though great, was speedily over, and as the spasm ceased, he looked up, and, with a faint smile, strove to re-assure her. "do not be alarmed," he said; "it is nothing--a momentary faintness--that is all." but the damp upon his brow, and the deathly hue of his cheek, contradicted the assertion, and showed how much he had endured. "it was more than momentary faintness, dear richard," replied dorothy. "it was a frightful seizure--so frightful that i almost feared; but no matter--you know i am easily alarmed. thank god! here is some colour coming into your cheeks. you are better now, i see. lean upon me, and let us return to the house." "i can walk unassisted," said richard, rising with an effort. "do not despise my feeble aid," replied dorothy, taking his arm under her own. "you will be quite well soon." "i am quite well now," said richard, halting after he had advanced a few paces, "the attack is altogether passed. do you not see alizon coming towards us? not a word of this sudden seizure to her. do you mind, dorothy?" alizon was soon close behind them, and though, in obedience to richard's injunctions, no allusion was made to his recent illness, she at once perceived he was suffering greatly, and with much solicitude inquired into the cause. richard avoided giving a direct answer, and, immediately entering upon nicholas's visit, tried to divert her attention from himself. so great a change had been wrought in alizon's appearance and manner during the last few weeks, that she could scarcely be recognised. still beautiful as ever, her beauty had lost its earthly character, and had become in the highest degree spiritualised and refined. humility of deportment and resignation of look, blended with an expression of religious fervour, gave her the appearance of one of the early martyrs. unremitting ardour in the pursuance of her devotional exercises by day, and long vigils at night, had worn down her frame, and robbed it of some of its grace and fulness of outline; but this attenuation had a charm of its own, and gave a touching interest to her figure, which was wanting before. if her check was thinner and paler, her eyes looked larger and brighter, and more akin to the stars in splendour; and if she appeared less childlike, less joyous, less free from care, the want of these qualities was more than counterbalanced by increased gentleness, resignation, and serenity. deeply interested in all richard told her of her mother, she was greatly concerned to hear of the intended arrest of elizabeth and jennet device, especially the latter. for this unhappy and misguided child she had once entertained the affection of a sister, and it could not but be a source of grief to her to reflect upon her probable fate. little more passed between them, for richard, feeling his strength again fail him, was anxious to reach the house, and dorothy was quite unequal to conversation. they parted at the door, and as alizon, after taking leave of her friends, turned to continue her walk in the garden, richard staggered into the entrance-hall, and sank upon a chair. alizon desired to be alone, for she did not wish to have a witness to the grief that overpowered her, and which, when she had gained a retired part of the garden, where she supposed herself free from all observation, found relief in a flood of tears. for some minutes she was a prey to violent and irrepressible emotion, and had scarcely regained a show of composure, when she heard herself addressed, as she thought, in the voice of the very child whose unlucky fate she was deploring. looking round in surprise, and seeing no one, she began to think fancy must have cheated her, when a low malicious laugh, arising from a shrubbery near her, convinced her that jennet was hidden there. and the next moment the little girl stepped from out the trees. alizon's first impulse was to catch the child in her arms, and press her to her bosom; but there was something in jennet's look that deterred her, and so embarrassed her, that she was unable to bestow upon her the ordinary greeting of affection, or even approach her. jennet seemed to enjoy her confusion, and laughed spitefully. "yo dunna seem ower glad to see me, sister alizon," said jennet, at length. "_sister_ alizon!" there was something in the term that now jarred upon the young girl's ears, but she strove to conquer the feeling, as unworthy of her. "she was once my sister," she thought, "and shall be so still. i will save her, if it be possible." "jennet," she added aloud, "i know not what chance brings you here, and though i may not give you the welcome you expect, i am rejoiced to see you, because i may be the means of serving you. do not be alarmed at what i am going to tell you. the danger i hope is passed, or at all events may be avoided. your liberty is threatened, and at the very moment i see you here i was lamenting your supposed condition as a prisoner." jennet laughed louder and more spitefully than before, and looked so like a little fury that alizon's blood ran cold at the sight of it. "ey knoa it aw, sister alizon," she cried, "an that is why ey ha cum'd here. brother jem is a pris'ner i' whalley abbey. mother is a pris'ner theere, too. an ey should ha kept em company, if tib hadna brought me off. now, listen to me, alizon, fo' this is my bus'ness wi' yo. yo mun get mother an jem out to-neet--eigh, to-neet. yo con do it, if yo win. an onless yo do--boh ey winna threaten till ey get yer answer." "how am i to set them free?" asked alizon, greatly alarmed. "yo need only say the word to young ruchot assheton, an the job's done," replied jennet. "i refuse--positively refuse to do so!" rejoined alizon, indignantly. "varry weel," cried jennet, with a look of concentrated malice and fury; "then tak the consequences. they win be ta'en to lonkester castle, an lose their lives theere. bo ye shan go, too--ay, an be brunt os a witch--a witch--d'ye mark, wench? eh!" "i defy your malice!" cried alizon. "defy me!" screamed jennet. "what, ho! tib!" and at the call the huge black cat sprang from out the shrubbery. "tear her flesh from her bones!" cried the little girl, pointing to alizon, and stamping furiously on the ground. tib erected his back, and glared like a tiger, but he seemed unwilling or unable to obey the order. alizon, who had completely recovered her courage, regarded him fixedly, and apparently without terror. "whoy dusna seize her, an tear her i' pieces?" cried the infuriated child. "he dares not--he has no power over me," said alizon. "oh, jennet! cast him off. your wicked agent appears to befriend you now, but he will lead you to certain destruction. come with me, and i will save you." "off!" cried jennet, repelling her with furious gestures. "off! ey winna ge wi' ye. ey winna be saved, os yo term it. ey hate yo more than ever, an wad strike yo dead at my feet, if ey could. boh as ey conna do it, ey win find some other means o' injurin' ye. soh look to yersel, proud ledy--look to yersel? ey ha already smitten you in a place where ye win feel it sore, an ey win repeat the blow. ey now leave yo, boh we shan meet again. come along, tib!" so saying, she sprang into the shrubbery, followed by the cat, leaving alizon appalled by her frightful malignity. [illustration: alizon defies jennet.] chapter iv.--the gorge of cliviger. the sun had already set as nicholas assheton reached todmorden, then a very small village indeed, and alighting at a little inn near the church, found the ale so good, and so many boon companions assembled to discuss it, that he would fain have tarried with them for an hour or so; but prudence, for once, getting the better of inclination, and suggesting that he had fifteen or sixteen miles still to ride, over a rough and lonely road, part of which lay through the gorge of cliviger, a long and solitary pass among the english apennines, and, moreover, had a large sum of money about him, he tore himself away by a great effort. on quitting the smiling valley of todmorden, and drawing near the dangerous defile before mentioned, some misgivings crossed him, and he almost reproached himself with foolhardiness in venturing within it at such an hour, and wholly unattended. several recent cases of robbery, some of them attended by murder, had occurred within the pass; and these now occurred so forcibly to the squire, that he was half inclined to ride back to todmorden, and engage two or three of the topers he had left at the inn to serve him as an escort as far as burnley, but he dismissed the idea almost as soon as formed, and, casting one look at the green and woody slopes around him, struck spurs into robin, and dashed into the gorge. on the right towered a precipice, on the bare crest of which stood a heap of stones piled like a column--the remains, probably, of a cairn. on this commanding point nicholas perceived a female figure, dilated to gigantic proportions against the sky, who, as far as he could distinguish, seemed watching him, and making signs to him, apparently to go back; but he paid little regard to them, and soon afterwards lost sight of her. precipitous and almost inaccessible rocks, of every variety of form and hue; some springing perpendicularly up like the spire of a church, others running along in broken ridges, or presenting the appearance of high embattled walls; here riven into deep gullies, there opening into wild savage glens, fit spots for robber ambuscade; now presenting a fair smooth surface, now jagged, shattered, shelving, roughened with brushwood; sometimes bleached and hoary, as in the case of the pinnacled crag called the white kirk; sometimes green with moss or grey with lichen; sometimes, though but rarely, shaded with timber, as in the approach to the cavern named the earl's bower; but generally bold and naked, and sombre in tint as the colours employed by the savage rosa. such were the distinguishing features of the gorge of cliviger when nicholas traversed it. now the high embankments and mighty arches of a railway fill up its recesses and span its gullies; the roar of the engine is heard where the cry of the bird of prey alone resounded; and clouds of steam usurp the place of the mist-wreaths on its crags. formerly, the high cliffs abounded with hawks; the rocks echoed with their yells and screeches, and the spots adjoining their nests resembled, in the words of the historian of the district, whitaker, "little charnel-houses for the bones of game." formerly, also, on some inaccessible point built the rock-eagle, and reared its brood from year to year. the gaunt wolf had once ravaged the glens, and the sly fox and fierce cat-a-mountain still harboured within them. nor were those the only objects of dread. the superstitious declared the gorge was haunted by a frightful, hirsute demon, yclept hobthurst. the general savage character of the ravine was relieved by some spots of exquisite beauty, where the traveller might have lingered with delight, if apprehension of assault from robber, or visit from hobthurst, had not urged him on. numberless waterfalls, gushing from fissures in the hills, coursed down their seamy sides, looking like threads of silver as they sprang from point to point. one of the most beautiful of these cascades, issuing from a gully in the rocks near the cavern called the earl's bower, fell, in rainy seasons, in one unbroken sheet of a hundred and fifty feet. through the midst of the gorge ran a swift and brawling stream, known by the appellation of the calder; but it must not be confounded with the river flowing past whalley abbey. the course of this impetuous current was not always restrained within its rocky channel, and when swollen by heavy rains, it would frequently invade the narrow causeway running beside it, and, spreading over the whole width of the gorge, render the road almost impassable. through this rocky and sombre defile, and by the side of the brawling calder, which dashed swiftly past him, nicholas took his way. the hawks were yelling overhead; the rooks were cawing on the topmost branches of some tall timber, on which they built; a raven was croaking lustily in the wood; and a pair of eagles were soaring in the still glowing sky. by-and-by, the glen contracted, and a wall of steep rocks on either side hemmed the shuddering traveller in. instinctively, he struck spurs into his horse, and accelerated his pace. the narrow glen expands, the precipices fall further back, and the traveller breathes more freely. still, he does not relax his speed, for his imagination has been at work in the gloom, peopling his path with lurking robbers or grinning boggarts. he begins to fear he shall lose his gold, and execrates his folly for incurring such heedless risk. but it is too late now to turn back. it grows rapidly dusk, and objects became less and less distinct, assuming fantastical and fearful forms. a blasted tree, clinging to a rock, and thrusting a bare branch across the road, looks to the squire like a bandit; and a white owl bursting from a bush, scares him as if it had been hobthurst himself. however, in spite of these and other alarms, for which he is indebted to excited fancy, he hurries on, and is proceeding at a thundering pace, when all at once his horse comes to a stop, arrested by a tall female figure, resembling that seen near the mountain cairn at the entrance of the gorge. nicholas's blood ran cold, for though in this case he could not apprehend plunder, he was fearful of personal injury, for he believed the woman to be a witch. mustering up courage, however, he forced robin to proceed. if his progress was meant to be barred, a better spot for the purpose could not have been selected. a narrow road, scarcely two feet in width, ran round the ledge of a tremendous crag, jutting so far into the glen that it almost met the steep barrier of rocks opposite it. between these precipitous crags dashed the river in a foaming cascade, nearly twelve feet in height, and the steep narrow causeway winding beside it, as above described, was rendered excessively slippery and dangerous from the constant cloud of spray arising from the fall. at the highest and narrowest point of the ledge, and occupying nearly the whole of its space, with an overhanging rock on one side of her, and a roaring torrent on the other, stood the tall woman, determined apparently, from her attitude and deportment, to oppose the squire's further progress. as nicholas advanced, he became convinced that it was the same person he had seen near the cairn; but, when her features grew distinguishable, he found to his surprise that it was nance redferne. "halloa! nance," he cried. "what are you doing here, lass, eh?" "cum to warn ye, squoire," she replied; "yo once did me a sarvice, an ey hanna forgetten it. that's why i watched ye fro' the cairn cliffs, an motioned ye to ge back. boh ye didna onderstand my signs, or wouldna heed 'em, so ey be cum'd here to stay ye. yo're i' dawnger, ey tell ye." "in danger of what, my good woman?" demanded the squire uneasily. "o' bein' robbed, and plundered o' your gowd," replied nance; "there are five men waitin' to set upon ye a mile further on, at the bowder stoans." "indeed!" exclaimed nicholas; "they will get little for their pains. i have no money about me." "dunna think to deceive me, squoire," rejoined nance; "ey knoa yo ha borrowed three hundert punds i' gowd fro' yung ruchot assheton; an os surely os ye ha it aw under your jerkin, so surely win yo lose it, if yo dunna turn back, or ge on without me keepin' ye company." "i have no objection on earth to your company, nance," replied the squire; "quite the contrary. but how the devil should these rascals expect me? and, above all, how should they conjecture i should come so well provided? for, sooth to say, such is not ordinarily the case with me." "ey knoa it weel, squoire," replied nance, with a laugh; boh they ha received sartin information o' your movements." "there is only one person who could give them such information," cried nicholas; "but i cannot, will not suspect him." "if yor're thinkin' o' lawrence fogg, yo're na far wide o' th' mark, squoire," replied nance. "what! fogg leagued with robbers--impossible!" exclaimed nicholas. "neaw, it's nah so unpossible os aw that," returned nance; "yo 'n stare when ey tell yo he has robbed yo mony a time without your being aware on it. yo were onwise enough to send him round to your friends to borrow money for yo." "true, so i was. but, luckily, no one would lend me any," said nicholas. "there yo're wrong, squoire--fo' unluckily they aw did," replied nance, with a scarcely-suppressed laugh. "roger nowell gied him one hundred; tummus whitaker of holme, another; ruchot parker o' browsholme, another. an more i' th' same way." "and the rascal pocketed it all, and never brought me back one farthing," cried nicholas, in a transport of rage. "i'll have him hanged--pshaw! hanging's too good for him. to deceive me, his friend, his benefactor, his patron, in such a manner; to dwell in my house, eat at my table, drink my wine, wear my habiliments, ride my horses, hunt with my hounds! has the dog no conscience?" "varry little, ey'm afear'd," replied nance. "and the worst of it is," continued the squire--new lights breaking upon him, "i shall be liable for all the sums he has received. he was my confidential agent, and the lenders will come upon me. it must be six or seven hundred pounds that he has obtained in this nefarious way. zounds! i shall go mad." "yo wur to blame fo' trustin him, squoire," rejoined nance. "yo ought to ha' made proper inquiries about him at first, an then yo'd ha' found out what sort o' chap he wur. boh now ey'n tell ye. lawrence fogg is chief o' a band o' robbers, an aw the black an villanous deeds done of late i' this place, ha' been parpetrated by his men. a poor gentleman wur murdert by 'em i' this varry spot th' week efore last, an his body cast into t' river. fogg, of course, had no hont in the fow deed, boh he would na ha interfered to prevent it if he had bin here, fo' he never scrupled shedding blood. an if he had bin content wi' robbin' yo, squoire, ey wadna ha betrayed him; boh when he proposed to cut your throttle, bekose, os he said, dead men tell neaw teles, ey could howd out nah longer, an resolved to gi' yo warnin." "what a monstrous and unheard-of villain!" cried the squire. "but is he one of the ambuscade?" nance replied in the affirmative. "then, by heaven! i will confront him--i will hew him down," pursued nicholas, griping the hilt of his sword. "neaw use, ey tell ye--yo'n be overpowert an kilt," said nance. "tak me wi' yo, an ey'n carry yo safely through em aw; boh ge alone, or yo'n ne'er see downham again. an now it's reet ey should tell ye who lawrence fogg really is." "what new wonder is in store for me?" cried nicholas. "who is he?" "maybe yo ha heerd tell that mother demdike had a son and a dowter," replied nance; "the dowter bein', of course, elizabeth device; and the son, christopher demdike, being supposed to be dead. howsomever, this is not the case, for lawrence fogg is he." "i guessed as much when you began," cried nicholas. "he has a cursedly bad look about the eyes--a damned demdike physiognomy. what an infernal villain the fellow must be! without a jot of natural feeling. why, he has this very day assisted at his nephew's capture, and caused his own sister to be arrested. oh, i have been properly duped! to lodge a son of that infernal hag in my house--feed him, clothe him, make him my friend--take him, the viper! to my bosom! i have been rightly served. but he shall hang!--he shall hang! that is some consolation, though slight. but how do you know all this, nance?" "dunna ax me," she replied. "whatever ey ha' been to christopher demdike, ey bear him neaw love now; fo', as ey ha towd yo, he is a black-hearted murtherin' villain. boh lemme get up behind yo, an ey'n bring yo through scatheless. an to-morrow yo may arrest the whole band at malkin tower." "malkin tower!" exclaimed the squire, in fresh surprise. "what, have these robbers taken up their quarters there? this accounts for all the strange sights said to have been seen there of late, and which i treated as mere fables. but, ah! a terrible thought crosses me. what have i done? mistress nutter will be there to-night. and i have sent her. death and destruction! she will fall into their hands. i must go there at once. i cannot take any assistance with me. that would betray the poor lady." "if yo'n trust me, ey'n help yo through the difficulty," replied nance. "get up then quickly, lass, since it must be so," rejoined nicholas. with this he moved forward, and giving her his hand, she was instantly seated behind him upon robin, who seemed no way incommoded by his double burthen, but dashed down the further side of the causeway, in answer to a sharp application of the spur. passing her arms round the squire's waist, nance maintained her seat well; and in this way they rattled along, heedless of the increasing difficulties of the road, or the fast-gathering gloom. the mile was quickly passed, and nance whispered in the squire's ear that they were approaching the boulder stones. presently they came to a narrow glen, half-filled with huge rocky fragments, detached from the toppling precipices on either side, and forming an admirable place of ambuscade. one rock, larger than the rest, completely commanded the pass, and, as the squire advanced, a thundering voice from it called to him to stay; and the injunction being disregarded, the barrel of a gun was protruded from the bushes covering its brow, and a shot fired at him. though well aimed, the ball struck the ground beneath his horse's feet, and nicholas continued his way unmoved, while the faulty marksman jumped down the crag. at the same time four other men started from their places of concealment behind the stones, and, levelling their calivers at the fugitives, fired. the sharp discharges echoed along the gorge, and the shots rattled against the rocks, but none of them took effect, and nicholas might have gone on without further hindrance; but, despite nance's remonstrances, who urged him to go on, he pulled up to await the coming of the person who had first challenged him. scarcely an instant elapsed before he was beside the squire, and presented a petronel at his head. notwithstanding the gloom, nicholas recognised him. "ah! is it thou, accursed traitor?" cried nicholas. "i could scarcely believe in thy villainy, but now i am convinced." "the jade you have got behind you has told you who i am, i see," replied fogg. "i will settle with her anon. but this will save further explanations with you!" and he discharged the petronel full at the squire. but the ball rebounded, as if his doublet had been quilted. it was in fact lined with gold. on seeing the squire unhurt, the robber captain uttered an exclamation of rage and astonishment. "you are mistaken, you see, perfidious villain," cried nicholas. "you have yet to render an account of all the wrongs you have done me, but meantime you shall not pass unpunished." and as he spoke, he snatched the petronel from fogg, and with the but-end dealt him a tremendous blow on the head, felling him to the ground. by this time the other robbers had descended from the rocks, and, seeing the fall of their leader, rushed forward to avenge him, but nicholas did not tarry for any further encounter; but, fully satisfied with what he had done, struck spurs into robin, and galloped off. for a few minutes he could hear the shouts of the men, but they soon afterwards died away. little more than half the ravine had been traversed when the rencounter above described took place; but, though the road was still difficult and dangerous, and rendered doubly so by the obscurity, no further hindrance occurred till just as nicholas was quitting the gloomy intricacies of the gorge, and approaching the more open country beyond it. at this point robin fell, throwing both him and nance, and when the animal rose again he was found to be so much injured that it was impossible to mount him. there was no resource but to proceed to burnley, which was still three or four miles distant, on foot. in this dilemma, nance volunteered to provide the squire with another steed, but he resolutely refused the offer. "no, no--none of your broomsticks for me," he cried; "no devil's horses--i don't know where they may carry me. my own legs must serve me now. i'll just take poor robin out of the road, and then trudge off for burnley as fast as i can." with this, he led the horse to a small green mead skirting the stream, and taking off his saddle and bridle, and depositing them carefully under a tree, he patted the animal on the neck, promising to return for him on the morrow, and then set off at a brisk pace, with nance walking beside him. they had not gone far, however, when the clattering of hoofs was heard behind them, and it was evident that several horsemen were rapidly approaching. nance stopped, listened for a moment, and then declaring that it was demdike and his band in pursuit, seized the squire's arm and drew him out of the road, and under the shelter of some bushes of hazel. the robber captain could only have been stunned, it appeared; and, as soon as he had recovered from the effects of the blow, had mounted his horse, which was concealed, with those of his men, behind the rocks, and started after the fugitives. such was the construction put upon the matter by nance, and the event proved it correct. a loud shout from the horsemen, and a sudden halt, proclaimed that poor robin had been discovered; and this circumstance seemed to give great satisfaction to demdike, who loudly declared that they were now sure of overtaking the runaways. "they cannot be far off," he cried; "but they will most likely attempt to hide themselves, so look well about you." so saying, he rode on, and it was evident from the noise, that the men implicitly obeyed his injunctions. nothing, however, was found, and ere many minutes demdike came up, and glancing at the hazels, behind which the fugitives were hidden, he discharged a petronel into the largest tree, but as no movement followed the report, he said-- "i thought i saw something move here, but i suppose i was mistaken. no doubt they have got on further than we expected, or have retired into some of the cloughs, in which case it will be useless to search for them. however, we will make sure of them in this way. two of you shall form an ambuscade near holme and two further on within half a mile of burnley, and shall remain on the watch till dawn, so that you will be sure to capture them, and when taken, make away with them without hesitation. unless my skull had been of the strongest, that butcherly squire would have cracked it, so he shall have no grace from me; and as to that treacherous witch, nance redferne, she deserves death at our hands, and she shall have her deserts. i have long suspected her, and, indeed, was a fool to trust one of the vile chattox brood, who are all my natural enemies--but no matter, i shall have my revenge." the men having promised compliance with their captain's command, he went on-- "as to myself," he said, "i shall go forthwith, and as fast as my horse can carry me, to malkin tower, and i will tell you why. it is not that i dislike the game we are upon, but i have better to play just now. tom shaw, the cock-master at downham, who is in my pay, rode over to whalley this afternoon, to bring me word that a certain lady, who has long been concealed in the manor-house, will be taken to malkin tower to-night. the intelligence is certain, for he had obtained it from old crouch, the huntsman, who is to escort her. thus, mistress nutter, for you all know whom i mean, will fall naturally into our hands, and we can wring any sums of money we like out of her; for though she has abandoned her property to her daughter, alizon, she can no doubt have as much as she wants, and i will take care she asks for plenty, or i will try the effect of some of those instruments of torture which i was lucky enough to find in the dungeons of malkin tower, and which were used for a like purpose by my predecessor, blackburn, the freebooter. are you content, my lads?" "ay, ay, captain demdike," they replied. upon this the whole party set forward, and were speedily out of hearing. as soon as they thought it prudent to come forth, the squire and nance emerged from their place of shelter. "what is to be done?" exclaimed the former, who was almost in a state of distraction. "the villain has announced his intention of going to malkin tower, and mistress nutter will assuredly fall into his hands. oh! that i could stop him, or get there before him!" "yo shan, if yo like to ride wi' me," said nance. "but how--in what way?" asked nicholas. "leave that to me," replied nance, breaking off a long branch of hazel. "tak howld o' this," she cried. the squire obeyed, and was instantly carried off his legs, and whisked through the air at a prodigious rate. he felt giddy and confused, but did not dare to leave go, lest he should be dashed in pieces, while nance's wild laughter rang in his ears. over the bleached and perpendicular crag--startling the eagle from his eyry--over the yawning gully with the torrent roaring beneath him--over the sharp ridges of the hill--over townley park--over burnley steeple--over the wide valley beyond, he went--until at last, bewildered, out of breath, and like one in a dream, he alighted on a brown, bare, heathy expanse, and within a hundred yards of a tall, circular stone structure, which he knew to be malkin tower. chapter v.--the end of malkin tower. the shades of night had fallen on downham manor-house, and with an aching heart, and a strong presentiment of ill, mistress nutter prepared to quit the little chamber which had sheltered her for more than two months, and where she would willingly have breathed her latest sigh, if it had been so permitted her. closing the bible she had been reading, she placed the sacred volume under her arm, and taking up a small bundle, containing her slender preparations for travel, extinguished the taper, and then descending by a secret staircase, passed through a door, fashioned externally like a cupboard, and entered a summer-house, where she found old crouch awaiting her. a few whispered words only passed between her and the huntsman, and informing her that the horses were in waiting at the back of the garden, he took the bundle from her, and would fain have relieved her also of the bible, but she would not part with it, and pressing it more closely to her bosom, said she was quite ready to attend him. it was a beautiful, starlight night; the air soft and balmy, and laden with the perfume of the flowers. a nightingale was singing plaintively in an adjoining tree, and presently came a response equally tender from another part of the grove. mistress nutter could not choose but listen, and the melody so touched her that she was half suffocated by repressed emotion, for, alas! the relief of tears was denied her. motioning her somewhat impatiently to come on, crouch struck into a sombre alley, edged by clipped yew-trees, and terminating in a plantation, through which a winding path led to the foot of the hill whereon the mansion was situated. by daylight this was a beautiful walk, affording exquisite glimpses through the trees of the surrounding scenery, and commanding a noble view of pendle hill, the dominant point in the prospect. but even now to the poor lady, so long immured in her cell-like chamber, and deprived of many of nature's choicest blessings, it appeared delightful. the fresh air, redolent of new-mown hay, fanned her pale cheek and feverish brow, and allayed her agitation and excitement. the perfect stillness, broken only by the lowing of the cattle in the adjoining pastures, by the drowsy hum of the dor-fly, or the rippling of the beck in the valley, further calmed her; and the soothing influence was completed by a contemplation of the serene heavens, wherein were seen the starry host, with the thin bright crescent of the new moon in the midst of them, diffusing a pearly light around her. one blot alone appeared in the otherwise smiling sky, and this was a great, ugly, black cloud lowering over the summit of pendle hill. mistress nutter noticed the portentous cloud, and noticed also its shadow on the hill, which might have been cast by the fiend himself, so like was it to a demoniacal shape with outstretched wings; but, though shuddering at the idea it suggested, she would not suffer it to obtain possession of her mind, but resolutely fixed her attention on other and more pleasing objects. by this time they had reached the foot of the hill, and a gate admitted them to a road running by the side of downham beck. here they found the horses in charge of a man in the dark red livery of nicholas assheton, and who was no other than tom shaw, the rascally cock-master. delivering the bridles to crouch, the knave hastily strode away, but he lingered at a little distance to see the lady mount; and then leaping the hedge, struck through the plantation towards the hall, chinking the money in his pockets as he went, and thinking how cleverly he had earned it. but he did not go unpunished; for it is a satisfaction to record that, in walking through the woods, he was caught in a gin placed there by crouch, which held him fast in its iron teeth till morning, when he was discovered by one of the under-keepers while going his rounds, in a deplorable condition, and lamed for life. meanwhile, unconscious either of the manner in which she had been betrayed, or of the punishment awaiting her betrayer, mistress nutter followed her conductor in silence. for a while the road continued by the side of the brook, and then quitting it, commenced a long and tedious ascent, running between high banks fringed with trees. the overhanging boughs rendered it so dark that mistress nutter could scarcely distinguish the old huntsman, though he was not many yards in advance of her, but she heard the tramp of his horse, and that was enough. all at once, where the boughs were thickest, and the road darkest, she perceived a small fiery object on the bank, and in her alarm called out to the huntsman, who, looking back for a moment, laughed, and told her not to be uneasy, for it was only a glow-worm. ashamed of her idle fears she rode on, but had not proceeded far, when, looking again at the bank, she saw it studded with the same lights. this time she did not call out or scream, but gazed steadily at the twinkling fires, hoping to get the better of her fears. her alarm, however, rose to absolute terror, as she beheld the glow-worms--if glow-worms they were--twist together and form themselves into a flaming brand, such as she had seen in her vision, grasped by the angel who had driven her from the gates of paradise. averting her gaze, she would have hastened on, but a hand suddenly laid upon her bridle, held back her horse; and she then perceived a tall dark man, mounted on a sable steed, riding beside her. the supernatural character of the horseman was manifest, inasmuch as no sound was caused by the tread of his steed, nor did he appear to be visible to crouch when the latter looked back. mistress nutter maintained her seat with difficulty. she well knew who was her companion. "soh, alice nutter," said the horseman at length, in a low deep tone, "you have chosen to shut yourself up in a narrow cell, like a recluse, for more than two months, denying yourself all sort of enjoyment, practising severest abstinence, and passing your whole time in useless prayer--ay, useless, for if you were to pray from now till doomsday--come when it will, a thousand years hence, or to-morrow--it will not save you. when you signed that bond to my master, sentence was recorded against you, and no power can recall it. why, then, these unavailing lamentations? why utter prayers which are rejected, and supplications which are scorned? shake off this weakness, alice, and be yourself again. once you had pride enough, and a little of it would now be of service to you. you would then see the folly of this abject conduct--humbling yourself to the dust only to be spurned, and suing for mercy only to be derided. pray as loud and as long as you will, the ears of heaven will remain ever deaf to you." "i hope otherwise," rejoined the lady, meekly. "do not deceive yourself," replied the horseman. "the term granted you by your compact will not be abridged, but it is your own fault if it be not extended. your daughter is destroying herself in the vain hope of saving you. her prayers are unavailing as your own, and recoil from the judgment throne unheard. the youth upon whom her affections are fixed is stricken with a deadly ailment. it is in your power to save them both." mistress nutter groaned deeply. "it is in your power, i say, to save them," continued the horseman, "by returning to your allegiance to your master. he will forgive your disobedience if you prove yourself zealous in his service; will restore you to your former worldly position; avenge you of your enemies; and accomplish all you may desire with respect to your daughter." "he cannot do it," replied mistress nutter. "cannot!" echoed the horseman. "try him! for many years i have served you as familiar; and you have never set me the task i have failed to execute. i am ready to become your servant again, and to offer you a yet larger range of control. put no limits to your desires or ambition. if you are tired of this narrow sphere, take a wider. look abroad. but do not shut yourself up in a narrow cell, and persuade yourself you are accomplishing your ultimate deliverance, when you are only wasting precious time, which might be more advantageously and far more agreeably employed. while laughing at your folly, my master deplores it; and he has, therefore, sent me as to one for whom notwithstanding all derelictions from duty, he has still a regard, with an offer of full forgiveness, provided you return to him at once, and renew your covenant, proving your sincerity by casting from you the book you hold under your arm." "your snares are not laid subtle enough to catch me," replied mistress nutter. "i will never part with this holy volume, which is my present safeguard, and on which i build my hopes of salvation--hopes which your very proposals have revived in my breast; for i am well assured your master would not make them if he felt confident of his power over me. no; i defy him and you, and i command you in heaven's name to get hence, and to tempt me no longer." as the words were uttered, with a howl of rage and mortification, like the roar of a wild beast, the dark horseman and his steed vanished. alarmed by the sound, crouch stopped, and questioned the lady as to its cause; but receiving no satisfactory explanation from her, he bade her ride quickly on, affirming it must be the boggart of the clough. soon after this they again came upon downham beck, and were about to cross it, when their purpose was arrested by a joyous barking, and the next moment grip came up. the dog, it appeared, had been shut up in the stable, his company not being desired on the expedition; but contriving in some way or other to get out, he had scented his master's course, and in the end overtaken him. crouch did not know whether to be angry or pleased, and at first gave utterance to an oath, and raised his whip to chastise him, but almost instantly the latter feeling predominated, and he welcomed the faithful animal with a few kind words. "ey suppose theaw thowt ey couldna do without thee, grip," he said, "and mayhap theaw'rt reet." they are now across the beck, and speeding over the wide brown waste. the huntsman warily shapes his course so as to avoid any limestone-quarries or turf-pits. he points out a jack-o'-lantern dancing merrily on the surface of a dangerous morass, and tells a dismal tale of a traveller lured into it by the delusive light, and swallowed up. mistress nutter pays little heed to him, but ever and anon looks back, as if in dread of some one behind her. but no one is visible, and she only sees the great black cloud still hovering over pendle hill. on--on--they go; their horses' hoofs now splashing through the wet sod, now beating upon the firm but elastic turf. a merry ride it would be if their errand were different, and their hearts free from care. the air is fresh and reviving, and the rapid motion exhilarating. the stars shine out, and the crescent moon is still glittering in the heavens, but the black cloud hangs motionless on pendle hill. now and then some bird of night flies past them, and they hear the whooping of the owl, and see him skimming like a ghost over the waste. then more fen fires arise, showing that other treacherous quagmires are at hand; but crouch skirts them safely. now the bull-frog croaks in the marsh, and a deep booming tells of a bittern passing by. they see the mighty bird above them, with his wide heavy wings and long neck. grip howls at him, but is instantly checked by his master, and they gallop on. they are now by the side of pendle water, and within sight of rough lee. what tumultuous thoughts agitate the lady's breast! the ground she tramples on was once her own; the woods by the river side were planted by her; the mansion before her once owned her as mistress, and now she dares not approach it. nor does she desire to do so, for the sight of it brings back terrible recollections, and fills her again with despair. they are now close upon it, and it appears dark, silent, and deserted. how different from what it was of yore in her husband's days--the husband she had foully slain! speed on, old huntsman!--lash your panting horse, or the remorseful lady will far outstrip you, for she rides as if the avenging furies were at her heels. she is rattling over the bridge, and crouch, toiling after her, and with grip toiling after him, shouts to her to moderate her pace. she looks back, and beholds the grim old house frowning full upon her, and hurries on. huntsman and dog are left behind for awhile, but the steep ascent soon compels her to slacken speed, and they come up, crouch swearing lustily, and grip, with his tongue out of his mouth, limping as if foot-sore. the road now leads through a thicket. the horses stumble frequently, for the stones are loose, and the footing consequently uncertain. crouch has a fall, and ere he can remount the lady is gone. it is useless to hurry after her, and he is proceeding slowly, when grip, who is a little in advance, growls fiercely, and looks back at his master, as if to intimate that danger is at hand. the huntsman presses on, but he is too late, if, indeed, he could at any time have rendered effectual assistance. a clearing in the thicket shows him the lady dismounted, and surrounded by several wild-looking men armed with calivers. part of the band bear her shrieking off, and the rest fire at him, but without effect, and then chase him as far as the steepest part of the hill, down which he dashes, followed by grip. arrived at the bottom, he pauses to listen if he is pursued, and hearing nothing further to alarm him, debates with himself what is best to be done; and, not liking to alarm the village, for that would be to betray mistress nutter, he gets off his horse, ties him to a tree, and with grip close at his heels, commences the ascent of the hill by a different road from that he had previously taken. meanwhile, mistress nutter's captors dragged her forcibly towards the tower. their arms and appearance left her no doubt they were depredators, and she sought to convince them she had neither money nor valuables in her possession. they laughed at her assertions, but made no other reply. her sole consolation was, that they did not seek to deprive her of her bible. on reaching the tower, a signal was given by one of the foremost of the band, and the steps being lowered from the high doorway, she was compelled to ascend them, and being pushed along a short passage, obscured by a piece of thick tapestry, but which was drawn aside as she advanced, she found herself in a circular chamber, in the midst of which was a massive table covered with flasks and drinking-cups, and stained with wine. from the roof, which was crossed by great black beams of oak, was suspended a lamp with three burners, whose light showed that the walls were garnished with petronels, rapiers, poniards, and other murderous weapons; besides these there were hung from pegs long riding-cloaks, sombreros, vizards, and other robber accoutrements, including a variety of disguises, from the clown's frieze jerkin to the gentleman's velvet doublet, ready to be assumed on an emergency. here and there was an open valise, or a pair of saddle-bags with their contents strewn about the floor, and on a bench were a dice-box and shuffle-board, showing, with the flasks and goblets on the table, how the occupants of the tower passed their time. a steep ladder-like flight of steps led to the upper chamber, and down these, at the very moment of mistress nutter's entrance, descended a stalwart personage, who eyed her fiercely as he leapt upon the floor. there was something in the man's truculent physiognomy, and strange and oblique vision, that reminded her of mother demdike. "welcome to malkin tower, madam," said the robber with a grin, and doffing his cap with affected courtesy. "we have met before, but it is many years ago, and i dare say you have forgotten me. you will guess who i am when i tell you my mother occupied this tower before me." finding mistress nutter made no remark, he went on. "i am christopher demdike, madam--captain demdike, i should say. the brave fellows who have brought you hither are part of my band, and till lately northumberland and the borders of scotland used to be our scene of action; but chancing to hear of my worthy old mother's death, i thought we could not do better than take possession of her stronghold, which devolved upon me by right of inheritance. since our arrival here we have kept ourselves very quiet, and the country folk, taking us for spirits or demons, never approach our hiding-place; while, as all our depredations are confined to distant parts, our retreat has never been suspected." "this concerns me little," observed mistress nutter, coldly. "pardon me, madam, it concerns you much, as you will learn anon. but be seated, i pray you," he said, with mock civility. "i am keeping you standing all this while." but as the lady declined the attention, he went on. "i was fortunate enough, on first coming back to this part of the country, to pick up an acquaintance with your relative, nicholas assheton, who invited me to stay with him at downham, and was so well pleased with my society that he could not endure to part with me." "indeed!" exclaimed mistress nutter, "are you the person he called lawrence fogg?" "the same," replied demdike; "and no doubt you would hear a good report of me, madam. well, it suited my purpose to stay; for i was very hospitably entertained by the squire, who, except being rather too much addicted to lectures and psalm-singing, is as pleasant a host as one could desire; besides which, he was obliging enough to employ me to borrow money for him, and what i got, i kept, you may be sure." "i would willingly be spared the details of your knavery," said mistress nutter, somewhat impatiently. "i am coming to an end," rejoined demdike, "and then, perhaps, you may wish i had prolonged them. all the squire's secrets were committed to me, and i was fully aware of your concealment in the hall, but i could never ascertain precisely where you were lodged. i meant to carry you off, and only awaited the opportunity which has presented itself to-night." "if you think to obtain money from me, you will find yourself mistaken," said mistress nutter. "i have parted with all my possessions." "but to whom, madam?" cried demdike, with a sinister smile--"to your daughter. and i am sure she is too gentle, too tender-hearted, to allow you to suffer when she can relieve you. you must get us a good round sum from her or you will be detained here long. the dungeons are dark and unwholesome, and my band are apt to be harsh in their treatment of captives. they have found in the vaults some instruments of torture belonging to old blackburn, the freebooter, the efficacy of which in an obstinate case i fear they might be inclined to try. you now begin to see the drift of my discourse, madam, and understand the sort of men you have to deal with--barbarous fellows, madam--inhuman dogs!" and he laughed coarsely at his own jocularity. "it may put an end to this discussion," said mistress nutter firmly, "if i declare that no torture shall induce me to make any such demand from my daughter." "you think, perhaps, i am jesting with you, madam," rejoined demdike. "oh! no, i believe you capable of any atrocity," replied the lady. "you do not, either in feature or deeds, belie your parentage." "ah! say you so, madam?" cried demdike. "you have a sharp tongue, i find. courtesy is thrown away upon you. what, ho! lads--kenyon and lowton, take the lady down to the vaults, and there let her have an hour for solitary reflection. she may change her mind in that time." "do not think it," cried mistress nutter, resolutely. "if you continue obstinate, we will find means to move you," rejoined demdike, in a taunting tone. "but what has she got beneath her arm? give me the book. what's this?--a bible! a witch with a bible! it should be a grimoire. ha! ha!" "give it me back, i implore of you," shrieked the lady. "i shall be destroyed, soul and body, if i have it not with me." "what! you are afraid the devil may carry you off without it--ho! ho!" roared demdike. "well, that would not suit my purpose at present. here, take it--and now off with her, lads, without more ado!" and as he spoke, a trapdoor was opened by one of the robbers, disclosing a flight of steps leading to the subterranean chambers, down which the miserable lady was dragged. presently the two men re-appeared with a grim smile on their ruffianly countenances, and, as they closed the trapdoor, one of them observed to the captain that they had chained her to a pillar, by removing the band from the great skeleton, and passing it round her body. "you have done well, lads," replied demdike, approvingly; "and now go all of you and scour the hill-top, and return in an hour, and we will decide upon what is to be done with this woman." the two men then joined the rest of their comrades outside, and the whole troop descended the steps, which were afterwards drawn up by demdike. this done, the robber captain returned to the circular chamber, and for some time paced to and fro, revolving his dark schemes. he then paused, and placing his ear near the trapdoor, listened, but as no sound reached him, he sat down at the table, and soon grew so much absorbed as to be unconscious that a dark figure was creeping stealthily down the narrow staircase behind him. "i cannot get rid of nicholas assheton," he exclaimed at length. "i somehow fancy we shall meet again; and yet all should be over with him by this time." "look round!" thundered a voice behind him. "nicholas assheton is not to be got rid of so easily." at this unexpected summons, demdike started to his feet, and recoiled aghast, as he saw what he took to be the ghost of the murdered squire standing before him. a second look, however, convinced him that it was no phantom he beheld, but a living man, armed for vengeance, and determined upon it. "get a weapon, villain," cried nicholas, in tones of concentrated fury. "i do not wish to take unfair advantage, even of thee." without a word of reply, demdike snatched a sword from the wall, and the next moment was engaged in deadly strife with the squire. they were well matched, for both were powerful men, both expert in the use of their weapons, and the combat might have been protracted and of doubtful issue but for the irresistible fury of nicholas, who assaulted his adversary with such vigour and determination that he speedily drove him against the wall, where the latter made an attempt to seize a petronel hanging beside him, but his purpose being divined, he received a thrust through the arm, and, dropping his blade, lay at the squire's mercy. nicholas shortened his sword, but forbore to strike. seizing his enemy by the throat, he hurled him to the ground, and, planting his knee on his chest, called out, "what, ho, nance!" "nance!" exclaimed demdike,--"then it was that mischievous jade who brought you here." "ay," replied the squire, as the young woman came quickly down the steps,--"and i refused her aid in the conflict because i felt certain of mastering thee, and because i would not take odds even against such a treacherous villain as thou art." "better dispatch him, squire," said nance; "he may do yo a mischief yet." "no--no," replied nicholas, "he is unworthy of a gentleman's sword. besides, i have sworn to hang him, and i will keep my word. go down into the vaults and liberate mistress nutter, while i bind him, for we must take him with us. to-morrow, he shall lie in lancaster castle with his kinsfolk." "that remains to be seen," muttered demdike. "be on your guard, squire," cried nance, as she lifted a small lamp, and raised the trapdoor. with this caution, she descended to the vaults, while nicholas looked about for a thong, and perceiving a rope dangling down the wall near him, he seized it, drawing it with some force towards him. a sudden sound reached his ears--clang! clang! he had rung the alarm-bell violently. clang! clang! clang! would it never stop? taking advantage of his surprise and consternation, demdike got from under him, sprang to his feet, and rushing to the doorway, instantly let fall the steps, roaring out,-- "treason! to the rescue, my men! to the rescue!" his cries were immediately answered from without, and it was evident from the tumult that the whole of the band were hurrying to his assistance. not a moment was to be lost by the squire. plunging through the trapdoor, he closed it after him, and bolted it underneath at the very moment the robbers entered the chamber. demdike's rage at finding him gone was increased, when all the combined efforts of his men failed in forcing open the trapdoor. "take hatchets and hew it open!" he cried; "we must have them. i have heard there is a secret outlet below, and though i have never been able to discover it, it may be known to nance. i will go outside, and watch. if you hear me whistle, come forth instantly." and, rushing forth, he was making the circuit, of the tower, and examining some bushes at its base, when his throat was suddenly seized by a dog, and before he could even utter an exclamation, much less sound his whistle, or use his arms, he was grappled by the old huntsman, and dragged off to a considerable distance, the dog still clinging to his throat. meanwhile, nicholas had hurried down into the vaults, where he found nance sustaining mistress nutter, who was half fainting, and hastily explaining what had occurred, she consigned the lady to him, and then led the way through the central range of pillars, and past the ebon image, until she approached the wall, when, holding up the lamp, she revealed a black marble slab between the statues of blackburn and isole. pressing against it, the slab moved on one side, and disclosed a flight of steps. "go up there," cried nance to the squire, "and when ye get to th' top, yo'n find another stoan, wi' a nob in it. yo canna miss it. go on." "but you!" cried the squire. "will you not come with us?" "ey'n come presently," replied nance, with a strange smile. "ey ha summat to do first. that cunning fox demdike has set a trap fo' himsel an aw his followers,--and it's fo' me to ketch 'em. wait fo' me about a hundert yorts fro' th' tower. nah nearer--yo onderstand?" nicholas did not very clearly understand, but concluding nance had some hidden meaning in what she said, he resolved unhesitatingly to obey her. having got clear of the tower, as directed, with mistress nutter, he ran on with her to some distance, when what was his surprise to find crouch and grip keeping watch over the prostrate robber chief. a few words from the huntsman sufficed to explain how this had come about, but they were scarcely uttered when nance rushed up in breathless haste, crying out--"off! further off! as yo value your lives!" seeing from her manner that delay would be dangerous, nicholas and crouch laid hold of the prisoner and bore him away between them, while nance assisted mistress nutter along. they had not gone far when a rumbling sound like that preceding an earthquake was heard. all looked back towards malkin tower. the structure was seen to rock--flames burst from the earth--and with a tremendous explosion heard for miles ground, and which shook the ground even where nicholas and the others stood, the whole of the unhallowed fabric, from base to summit, was blown into the air, some of the stones being projected to an extraordinary distance. a mine charged with gunpowder, it appeared, had been laid beneath its vaults by demdike, with a view to its destruction at some future period, and this circumstance being known to nance, she had fired the train. not one of the robbers within the tower escaped. the bodies of all were found next day, crushed, burned, or frightfully mutilated. chapter vi.--hoghton tower. about a month after the occurrence last described, and early on a fine morning in august, nicholas assheton and richard sherborne rode forth together from the proud town of preston. both were gaily attired in doublets and hose of yellow velvet, slashed with white silk, with mantles to match, the latter being somewhat conspicuously embroidered on the shoulder with a wild bull worked in gold, and underneath it the motto, "_malgré le tort_." followed at a respectful distance by four mounted attendants, the two gentlemen had crossed the bridge over the ribble, and were wending their way along the banks of a tributary stream, the darwen, within a short distance of the charming village of walton-le-dale, when they perceived a horseman advancing slowly towards them, whom they instantly hailed as richard assheton, and pushing forward, were soon beside him. both were much shocked by the young man's haggard looks, and inquired anxiously as to his health, but richard bade them, with a melancholy smile, not be uneasy, for all would be well with him erelong. "all will be over with you, lad, if you don't mind; and that's, perhaps, what you mean," replied nicholas; "but as soon as the royal festivities at hoghton are over, i'll set about your cure; and, what's more, i'll accomplish it--for i know where the seat of the disease lies better than dr. morphew, your family physician at middleton. 'tis near the heart, dick--near the heart. ha! i see i have touched you, lad. but, beshrew me, you are very strangely attired--in a suit of sable velvet, with a black spanish hat and feather, for a festival! you look as if going to a funeral i am fearful his majesty may take it amiss. why not wear the livery of our house?" "nay, if it comes to that," rejoined richard, "why do not you and sherborne wear it, instead of flaunting like daws in borrowed plumage? i scarce know you in your strange garb, and certainly should not take you for an assheton, or aught pertaining to our family, from your gaudy colours and the strange badge on your shoulder." "i don't wonder at it, dick," said nicholas; "i scarce know myself; and though the clothes i wear are well made enough, they seem to sit awkwardly on me, and trouble me as much as the shirt of nessus did hercules of old. for the nonce i am sir richard hoghton's retainer. i must own i was angry with myself when i saw sir ralph assheton with his long train of gentlemen, all in murrey-coloured cloaks and doublets, at myerscough lodge, while i, his cousin, was habited like one of another house. and when i would have excused my apparent defection to sir ralph, he answered coldly, 'it was better as it was, for he could scarcely have found room for me among his friends.'" "do not fret yourself, nicholas," rejoined sherborne; "sir ralph cannot reasonably take offence at a mere piece of good-nature on your part. but this does not explain why richard affects a colour so sombre." "i am the retainer of one whose livery is sombre," replied the young man, with a ghastly smile. "but enough of this," he added, endeavouring to assume a livelier air; "i suppose you are on the way to hoghton tower. i thought to reach preston before you were up, but i might have recollected you are no lag-a-bed, nicholas, not even after hard drinking overnight, as witness your feats at whalley. to be frank with you, i feared being led into like excesses, and so preferred passing the night at the quiet little inn at walton-le-dale, to coming on to you at the castle at preston, which i knew would be full of noisy roysterers." "full it was, even to overflowing," replied the squire; "but you should have come, dick, for, by my troth! we had a right merry night of it. stephen hamerton, of hellyfield peel, with his wife, and her sister, sweet mistress doll lister, supped with us; and we had music, dancing, and singing, and abundance of good cheer. nouns! dick, doll lister is a delightful lass, and if you can only get alizon out of your head, would be just the wife for you. she sings like an angel, has the most captivating sigh-and-die-away manner, and the prettiest rounded figure ever bodice kept in. were i in your place i should know where to choose. but you will see her at hoghton to-day, for she is to be at the banquet and masque." "your description does not tempt me," said richard; "i have no taste for sigh-and-die-away damsels. dorothy lister, however, is accounted fair enough; but, were she fascinating as venus herself, in my present mood i should not regard her." "i' faith, lad, i pity you, if such be the case," shrugging his shoulders, more in contempt than compassion. "waste not your sympathy upon me," replied richard; "but, tell me, how went the show at preston yesterday?" "excellently well, and much to his majesty's satisfaction," answered the squire. "proud preston never was so proud before, and never with such good reason; for if the people be poor, according to the proverb, they take good care to hide their poverty. bombards were fired from the bridge, and the church bells rang loud enough to crack the steeple, and bring it down about the ears of the deafened lieges. the houses were hung with carpets and arras; the streets strewn ankle deep with sand and sawdust; the cross in the market-place was bedecked with garlands of flowers like a may-pole; and the conduit near it ran wine. at noon there was more firing; and, amidst flourishes of trumpets, rolling of drums, squeaking of fifes, and prodigious shouting, bonnie king jamie came to the cross, where a speech was made him by master breares, the recorder; after which the corporation presented his majesty with a huge silver bowl, in token of their love and loyalty. the king seemed highly pleased with the gift, and observed to the duke of buckingham, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, who reported his speech to me, 'god's santie! it's a braw bicker, steenie, and might serve for a christening-cup, if we had need of siccan a vessel, which, heaven be praised, we ha'e na!' after this there was a grand banquet in the town-hall; and when the heat of the day was over the king left with his train for hoghton tower, visiting the alum mines on the way thither. we are bidden to breakfast by sir richard, so we must push on, dick, for his majesty is an early riser, like myself. we are to have rare sport to-day. hunting in the morning, a banquet, and, as i have already intimated, a masque at night, in which sir george goring and sir john finett will play, and in which i have been solicited to take the drolling part of jem tospot--nay, laugh not, dick, sherborne says i shall play it to the life--as well as to find some mirthful dame to enact the companion part of doll wango. i have spoken with two or three on the subject, and fancy one of them will oblige me. there is another matter on which i am engaged. i am to present a petition to his majesty from a great number of the lower orders in this county, praying they may be allowed to take their diversions, as of old accustomed, after divine service on sundays; and, though i am the last man to desire any violation of the sabbath, being somewhat puritanically inclined as they now phrase it, yet i cannot think any harm can ensue from lawful recreation and honest exercise. still, i would any one were chosen to present the petition rather than myself." "have no misgivings on the subject," said richard, "but urge the matter strongly; and if you need support, i will give you all i can, for i feel we are best observing the divine mandate by making the sabbath a day of rest, and observing it cheerfully. and this, i apprehend, is the substance of your petition?" "the whole sum and substance," replied nicholas; "and i have reason to believe his majesty's wishes are in accordance with it." "they are known to be so," said sherborne. "i am glad to hear it," cried richard. "god save king james, the friend of the people!" "ay, god save king james!" echoed nicholas; "and if he i grant this petition he will prove himself their friend, for he will i have all the clergy against him, and will be preached against from half the pulpits in the kingdom." "little harm will ensue if it should be so," replied richard; "for he will be cheered and protected by the prayers of a grateful and happy people." they then rode on for a few minutes in silence, after which; richard inquired-- "you had brave doings at myerscough lodge, i suppose, nicholas?" "ay, marry had we," answered the squire, "and the feasting must have cost ned tyldesley a pretty penny. besides the king and his own particular attendants, there were some dozen noblemen and their followers, including the duke of buckingham, who moves about like a king himself, and i know not how many knights and gentlemen. sherborne and i rode over from dunnow, and reached the forest immediately after the king had entered it in his coach; so we took a short cut through the woods, and came up just in time to join sir richard hoghton's train as he was riding up to his majesty. fancy a wide glade, down which a great gilded coach is slowly moving, drawn by eight horses, and followed by a host of noblemen and gentlemen in splendid apparel, their esquires and pages equally richly arrayed, and equally well mounted; and, after these, numerous falconers, huntsmen, prickers, foresters, and yeomen, with staghounds in leash, and hawk on fist, all ready for the sport. fancy all this if you can, dick, and then conceive what a brave sight it must have been. well, as i said, we came up in the very nick of time, for presently the royal coach stopped, and sir richard hoghton, calling all his gentlemen around him, and bidding us dismount, and we followed him, and drew up, bareheaded, before the king, while sir richard pointed out to his majesty the boundaries of the royal forest, and told him he would find it as well stocked with deer as any in his kingdom. before putting an end to the conference, the king complimented the worthy knight on the gallant appearance of his train, and on learning we were all gentlemen, graciously signified his pleasure that some of us should be presented to him. amongst others, i was brought forward by sir richard, and liking my looks, i suppose, the king was condescending enough to enter into conversation with me; and as his discourse chiefly turned on sporting matters, i was at home with him at once, and he presently grew so familiar with me, that i almost forgot the presence in which i stood. however, his majesty seemed in no way offended by my freedom, but, on the contrary, clapped me on the shoulder, and said, 'maister assheton, for a country gentleman, you're weel-mannered and weel-informed, and i shall be glad to see more of you while i stay in these parts.' after this, the good-natured monarch mounted his horse, and the hunting began, and a famous day's work we made of it, his majesty killing no fewer than five fine bucks with his own hand." "you are clearly on the road to preferment, nicholas," observed richard, with a smile. "you will outstrip buckingham himself, if you go on in this way." "so i tell him," observed sherborne, laughing; "and, by my faith! young sir gilbert hoghton, who, owing to his connexion by marriage with buckingham, is a greater man than his father, sir richard, looked quite jealous; for the king more than once called out to nicholas in the chase, and took the wood-knife from him when he broke up the last deer, which is accounted a mark of especial favour." "well, gentlemen," said the squire, "i shall not stand in my own light, depend upon it; and, if i should bask in court-sunshine, you shall partake of the rays. if i do become master of the household, in lieu of the duke of richmond, or master of the horse and cupbearer to his majesty, in place of his grace of buckingham, i will not forget you." "we are greatly indebted to you, my lord marquess of downham and duke of pendle hill, that is to be," rejoined sherborne, taking off his cap with mock reverence; "and perhaps, for the sake of your sweet sister and my spouse, dorothy, you will make interest to have me appointed gentleman of the bedchamber?" "doubt it not--doubt it not," replied nicholas, in a patronising tone. "my ambition soars higher than yours, sherborne," said richard; "i must be lord-keeper of the privy seal, or nothing." "oh! what you will, gentlemen, what you will!" cried nicholas; "you can ask me nothing i will not grant--always provided i have the means." a turn in the road now showed them hoghton tower, crowning the summit of an isolated and conical hill, about two miles off. rising proudly in the midst of a fair and fertile plain, watered by the ribble and the darwen, the stately edifice seemed to command the whole country. and so king james thought, as, from the window of his chamber, he looked down upon the magnificent prospect around him, comprehending on the one hand the vast forests of myerscough and bowland, stretching as far as the fells near lancaster; and, on the other, an open but still undulating country, beautifully diversified with wood and water, well-peopled and well-cultivated, green with luxuriant pastures, yellow with golden grain, or embowered with orchards, boasting many villages and small towns, as well as two lovely rivers, which, combining their currents at walton-le-dale, gradually expanded till they neared the sea, which could be seen gleaming through openings in the distant hills. as the king surveyed this fair scene, and thought how strong was the position of the mansion, situated as it was upon high cliffs springing abruptly from the darwen, and how favourably circumstanced, with its forests and park, for the enjoyment of the chase, of which he was passionately fond, how capable of defence, and how well adapted for a hunting-seat, he sighed to think it did not belong to the crown. nor was he wrong in his estimate of its strength, for in after years, during the civil wars, it held out stoutly against the parliamentary forces, and was only reduced at last by treachery, when part of its gate-tower was blown up, destroying an officer and two hundred men, "in that blast most wofully." though the hour was so early, the road was already thronged, not only with horsemen and pedestrians of every degree from preston, but with rude lumbering vehicles from the neighbouring villages of plessington, brockholes and cuerden, driven by farmers, who, with their buxom dames and cherry-cheeked daughters, decked out in holiday finery, hoped to gain admittance to hoghton tower, or, at all events, obtain a peep of the king as he rode out to hunt. most of these were saluted by nicholas, who scrupled not to promise them admission to the outer court of the tower, and even went so far as to offer some of the comelier damsels a presentation to the king. occasionally, the road was enlivened by strains of music from a band of minstrels, by a song or a chorus from others, or by the gamesome tricks of a party of mummers. at one place, a couple of tumblers and a clown were performing their feats on a cloth stretched on the grass beneath a tree. here the crowd collected for a few minutes, but presently gave way to loud shouts, attended by the cracking of whips, proceeding from two grooms in the yellow and white livery of sir richard hoghton, who headed some half-dozen carts filled with provisions, carcases of sheep and oxen, turkeys and geese, pullets and capons, fish, bread, and vegetables, all bent for hoghton tower; for though sir richard had made vast preparations for his guests, he found his supplies, great as they were, wholly inadequate to their wants. cracking their whips in answer to the shouts with which they were greeted, the purveyors galloped on, many a hungry wight looking wistfully after them. nicholas and his companions were now at the entrance to hoghton park, through which the darwen coursed, after washing the base of the rocky heights on which the mansion was situated. here four yeomen of the guard, armed with halberts, and an officer, were stationed, and no one was admitted without an order from sir richard hoghton. possessing a pass, the squire and his companions with their attendants were, of course, allowed to enter; but the throng accompanying them were sent over the bridge, and along a devious road skirting the park, which, though it went more than a mile round, eventually brought them to their destination. hoghton park, though not very extensive, boasted a great deal of magnificent timber, and in some places was so thickly wooded, that, according to dr. kuerden, "a man passing through it could scarcely have seen the sun shine at middle of day." into one of these tenebrous groves the horsemen now plunged, and for some moments were buried in the gloom produced by matted and overhanging boughs. issuing once more into the warm sunshine, they traversed a long and beautiful silvan glade, skirted by ancient oaks, with mighty arms and gnarled limbs--the patriarchs of the forest. in the open ground on the left were scattered a few ash-trees, and beneath them browsed a herd of fallow deer; while crossing the lower end of the glade was a large herd of red deer, for which the park was famous, the hinds tripping nimbly and timidly away, but the lordly stags, with their branching antlers, standing for a moment at gaze, and disdainfully regarding the intruders on their domain. little did they think how soon and severely their courage would be tried, or how soon the _mort_ would be sounded for their _pryse_ by the huntsman. but if, happily for themselves, the poor leathern-coated fools could not foresee their doom, it was not equally hidden from nicholas, who predicted what would ensue, and pointed out one noble hart which he thought worthy to die by the king's own hand. as if he understood him, the stately beast tossed his antlered head aloft, and plunged into the adjoining thicket; but the squire noted the spot where he had disappeared. the glade led them into the chase, a glorious hunting-ground of about two miles in circumference, surrounded by an amphitheatre of wood, and studded by noble forest trees. variety and beauty were lent to it by an occasional knoll crowned with timber, or by numerous ferny dells and dingles. as the horsemen entered upon the chase, they observed at a short distance from them a herd of the beautiful, but fierce wild cattle, originally from bowland forest, and still preserved in the park. white and spangled in colour, with short sharp horns, fine eyes, and small shapely limbs, these animals were of untameable fierceness, possessed of great cunning, and ever ready to assault any one who approached them. they would often attack a solitary individual, gore him, and trample him to death. consequently, they were far more dreaded than the wild-boars, with which, as with every other sort of game, the neighbouring woods were plentifully stocked. well aware of the danger they ran, the party watched the herd narrowly and distrustfully, and would have galloped on; but this would only have provoked pursuit, and the wild cattle were swifter than any horses. suddenly, a milkwhite bull trotted out from the rest of the herd, bellowing fiercely, lashing his sides with his tail, and lowering his head to the ground, as if meditating an attack. his example was speedily followed by the others, and the whole herd began to beat ground and roar loudly. much alarmed by these hostile manifestations, the party were debating whether to stand the onset, or trust to the fleetness of their steeds for safety; when just as the whole herd, with tails erect and dilated nostrils, were galloping towards them, assistance appeared in the persons of some ten or a dozen mounted prickers, who, armed with long poles pointed with iron, issued with loud shouts from an avenue opening upon the chase. at sight of them, the whole herd wheeled round and fled, but were pursued by the prickers till they were driven into the depths of the furthest thicket. six of the prickers remained watching over them during the day, in order that the royal hunting-party might not be disturbed, and the woods echoed with the bellowing of the angry brutes. while this was going forward, the squire and his companions, congratulating themselves on their narrow escape, galloped off, and entered the long avenue of sycamores, from which the prickers had emerged. at the head of a steep ascent, partly hewn out of the rock, and partly skirted by venerable and majestic trees, forming a continuation of the avenue, rose the embattled gate-tower of the proud edifice they were approaching, and which now held the monarch of the land, and the highest and noblest of his court as guests within its halls. from the top of the central tower of the gateway floated the royal banner, while at the very moment the party reached the foot of the hill, they were saluted by a loud peal of ordnance discharged from the side-towers, proclaiming that the king had arisen; and, as the smoke from the culverins wreathed round the standard, a flourish of trumpets was blown from the walls, and martial music resounded from the court. roused by these stirring sounds, nicholas spurred his horse up the rocky ascent; and followed closely by his companions, who were both nearly as much excited as himself, speedily gained the great gateway--a massive and majestic structure, occupying the centre of the western front of the mansion, and consisting of three towers of great strength and beauty, the mid-tower far overtopping the other two, as in the arms of old castile, and sustaining, as was its right, the royal standard. on the platform stood the trumpeters with their silk-fringed clarions, and the iron mouths of the culverins, which had been recently discharged, protruded through the battlements. the arms and motto of the hoghtons, carved in stone, were placed upon the gateway, with the letters t.h., the initials of the founder of the tower. immediately above the arched entrance was the sculptured figure of a knight slaying a dragon. in front of the gateway a large crowd of persons were assembled, consisting of the inferior gentry of the neighbourhood, with their wives, daughters, and servants, clergymen, attorneys, chirurgeons, farmers, and tradesmen of all kind from the adjoining towns of blackburn, preston, chorley, haslingden, garstang, and even lancaster. representatives in some sort or other of almost every town and village in the county might be found amongst the motley assemblage, which, early as it was, numbered several hundreds, many of those from the more distant places having quitted their homes soon after midnight. admittance was naturally sought by all; but here the same rule was observed as at the park gate, and no one was allowed to enter, even the base court, without authority from the lord of the mansion. the great gates were closed, and two files of halberdiers were drawn up under the deep archway, to keep the passage clear, and quell disturbance in case any should occur; while a gigantic porter, stationed in front of the wicket, rigorously scrutinised the passes. these precautions naturally produced delay; and, though many of the better part of the crowd were entitled to admission, it was not without much pushing and squeezing, and considerable detriment to their gay apparel, that they were enabled to effect their object. the comfort of those outside the walls had not, however, been altogether neglected by sir richard hoghton, for sheds were reared under the trees, where stout march beer, together with cheese and bread, or oaten cakes and butter, were freely distributed to all applicants; so that, if some were disappointed, few were discontented, especially when told that the gates would be thrown open at noon, when, during the time the king and the nobles feasted in the great banquet-hall, they might partake of a wild bull from the park, slaughtered expressly for the occasion, which was now being roasted whole within the base court. that the latter was no idle promise they had the assurance of thick smoke rising above the walls, laden with the scent of roast meat, and, moreover, they could see through the wicket a great fire blazing and crackling on the green, with a huge carcass on an immense spit before it, and a couple of turn-broaches basting it. as nicholas and his companions forced their way through this crowd, which was momently receiving additions as fresh arrivals took place, the squire recognised many old acquaintances, and was nodding familiarly right and left, when he encountered a woman's eye fixed keenly upon him, and to his surprise beheld nance redferne. nance, who had lost none of her good looks, was very gaily attired, with her fine chestnut hair knotted with ribbons, her stomacher similarly adorned, and her red petticoat looped up, so as to display an exceedingly trim ankle and small foot; and, under other circumstances, nicholas might not have minded staying to chat with her, but just now it was out of the question, and he hastily turned his head another way. as ill luck, however, would have it, a stoppage occurred at the moment, during which nance forced her way up to him, and, taking hold of his arm, said in a low tone-- "yo mun tae me in wi' ye, squoire." "take you in with me--impossible!" cried nicholas. "nah! it's neaw impossible," rejoined nance, pertinaciously; "yo con do it, an yo shan. yo owe me a good turn, and mun repay it now." "but why the devil do you want to go in?" cried nicholas, impatiently. "you know the king is the sworn enemy of all witches, and, amongst this concourse, some one is sure to recognise you and betray you. i cannot answer for your safety if i do take you in. in my opinion, you were extremely unwise to venture here at all." "ne'er heed my wisdom or my folly, boh do as ey bid yo, or yo'n repent it," said nance. "why, you can get in without my aid," observed the squire, trying to laugh it off. "you can easily fly over the walls." "ey ha' left my broomstick a-whoam," replied nance--"boh no more jesting. win yo do it?" "well, well, i suppose i must," replied nicholas, "but i wash my hands of the consequences. if ill comes of it, i am not to blame. you must go in as doll wango--that is, as a character in the masque to be enacted to-night--d'ye mark?" nance signified that she perfectly understood him. the whole of this hurried discourse, conducted in an under-tone, passed unheard and unnoticed by the bystanders. just then, an opening took place amid the crowd, and the squire pushed through it, hoping to get rid of his companion, but he hoped in vain, for, clinging to his saddle, she went on along with him. they were soon under the deep groined and ribbed arch of the gate, and nance would have been here turned back by the foremost halberdier, if nicholas had not signified somewhat hastily that she belonged to his party. the man smiled, and offered no further opposition; and the gigantic porter next advancing, nicholas exhibited his pass to him, which appearing sufficiently comprehensive to procure admission for richard and sherborne, they instantly availed themselves of the licence, while the squire fumbled in his doublet for a further order for nance. at last he produced it, and after reading it, the gigantic warder exclaimed, with a smile illumining his broad features-- "ah! i see;--this is an order from his worship, sir richard, to admit a certain woman, who is to enact doll wango in the masque. this is she, i suppose?" he added, looking at nance. "ay, ay!" replied the squire. "a comely wench, by the mass!" exclaimed the porter. "open the gate." "no--not yet--not yet, good porter, till my claim be adjusted," cried another woman, pushing forward, quite as young and comely as nance, and equally gaily dressed. "i am the real doll wango, though i be generally known as dame tetlow. the squire engaged me to play the part before the king, and now this saucy hussy has taken my place. but i'll have my rights, that i will." "odd's heart! two doll wangos!" exclaimed the porter, opening his eyes. "two!--nay, beleedy! boh there be three!" exclaimed an immensely tall, stoutly proportioned woman, stepping up, to the increased confusion of the squire, and the infinite merriment of the bystanders, whose laughter had been already excited by the previous part of the scene. "didna yo tell me at myerscough to come here, squire, an ey, bess baldwyn, should play doll wango to your jem tospot?" "play the devil! for that's what you all seem bent upon doing," exclaimed the squire, impatiently. "away with you! i can have nothing to say to you!" "you gave me the same promise at the castle at preston last night," said dame tetlow. "i had been drinking, and knew not what i said," rejoined nicholas, angrily. "boh yo promised me a few minutes ago, an yo're sober enough now," cried nance. "ey dunna knoa that," rejoined dame baldwyn, looking reproachfully at him. "boh what ey dun knoa is, that nother o' these squemous queans shan ge in efore me." and she looked menacingly at them, as if determined to oppose their ingress, much to the alarm of the timorous dame tetlow, though nance returned her angry glances unmoved. "for heaven's sake, my good fellow, let them all three in!" said nicholas, in a low tone to the porter, at the same time slipping a gold piece into his hand, "or there's no saying what may be the consequence, for they're three infernal viragos. i'll take the responsibility of their admittance upon myself with sir richard." "well, as your worship says, i don't like to see quarrelling amongst women," returned the porter, in a bland tone, "so all three shall go in; and as to who is to play doll wango, the master of the ceremonies will settle that, so you need give yourself no more concern about it; but if i were called on to decide," he added, with an amorous leer at dame baldwyn, whose proportions so well matched his own, "i know where my choice would light. there, now!" he shouted, "open wide the gate for squire nicholas assheton of downham, and the three doll wangos." and, all obstacles being thus removed, nicholas passed on with the three females amidst the renewed laughter of the bystanders. but he got rid of his plagues as soon as he could; for, dismounting and throwing his bridle to an attendant, he vouchsafed not a word to any of them, but stepped quickly after richard and sherborne, who had already reached the great fire with the bull roasting before it. appropriated chiefly to stables and other offices, the base court of hoghton tower consisted of buildings of various dates, the greater part belonging to elizabeth's time, though some might be assigned to an earlier period, while many alterations and additions had been recently made, in anticipation of the king's visit. dating back as far as henry ii., the family had originally fixed their residence at the foot of the hill, on the banks of the darwen; but in process of time, swayed by prouder notions, they mounted the craggy heights above, and built a tower upon their crest. it is melancholy to think that so glorious a pile, teeming with so many historical recollections, and so magnificently situated, should be abandoned, and suffered to go to decay;--the family having, many years ago, quitted it for walton hall, near walton-le-dale, and consigned it to the occupation of a few gamekeepers. bereft of its venerable timber, its courts grass-grown, its fine oak staircase rotting and dilapidated, its domestic chapel neglected, its marble chamber broken and ruinous, its wainscotings and ceilings cracked and mouldering, its paintings mildewed and half effaced, hoghton tower presents only the wreck of its former grandeur. desolate indeed are its halls, and their glory for ever departed! however, this history has to do with it in the season of its greatest splendour; when it glistened with silks and velvets, and resounded with loud laughter and blithe music; when stately nobles and lovely dames were seen in the gallery, and a royal banquet was served in the great hall; when its countless chambers were filled to overflowing, and its passages echoed with hasty feet; when the base court was full of huntsmen and falconers, and enlivened by the neighing of steeds and the baying of hounds; when there was daily hunting in the park, and nightly dancing and diversion in the hall,--it is with hoghton tower at this season that the present tale has to do, and not with it as it is now--silent, solitary, squalid, saddening, but still whispering of the glories of the past, still telling of the kingly pageant that once graced it. the base court was divided from the court of lodging by the great hall and domestic chapel. a narrow vaulted passage on either side led to the upper quadrangle, the facade of which was magnificent, and far superior in uniformity of design and style to the rest of the structure, the irregularity of which, however, was not unpleasing. the whole frontage of the upper court was richly moulded and filleted, with ranges of mullion and transom windows, capitals, and carved parapets crowned with stone balls. marble pillars, in the italian style, had been recently placed near the porch, with two rows of pilasters above them, supporting a heavy marble cornice, on which rested the carved escutcheon of the family. a flight of stone steps led up to the porch, and within was a wide oak staircase, so gentle of ascent that a man on horseback could easily mount it--a feat often practised in later days by one of the descendants of the house. in this part of the mansion all the principal apartments were situated, and here james was lodged. here also was the green room, so called from its hangings, which he used for private conferences, and which was hung round with portraits of his unfortunate mother, mary, queen of scots; of her implacable enemy, queen elizabeth; of his consort, anne of bohemia: and of sir thomas hoghton, the founder of the tower. adjoining it was the star-chamber, occupied by the duke of buckingham, with its napkin panelling, and ceiling "fretted with golden fires;" and in the same angle were rooms occupied by the duke of richmond, the earls of pembroke and nottingham, and lord howard of effingham. below was the library, whither doctor thomas moreton, bishop of chester, and his majesty's chaplain, with the three puisné judges of the king's bench, sir john doddridge, sir john crooke, and sir robert hoghton, all of whom were guests of sir richard, resorted; and in the adjoining wing was the great gallery, where the whole of the nobles and courtiers passed such of their time--and that was not much--as was not occupied in feasting or out-of-doors' amusements. long corridors ran round the upper stories in this part of the mansion, and communicated with an endless series of rooms, which, numerous as they were, were all occupied, and, accommodation being found impossible for the whole of the guests, many were sent to the new erections in the base court, which had been planned to meet the emergency by the magnificent and provident host. the nobles and gentlemen were, however, far outnumbered by their servants, and the confusion occasioned by the running to and fro of the various grooms of the chambers, was indescribable. doublets had to be brushed, ruffs plaited, hair curled, beards trimmed, and all with the greatest possible expedition; so that, as soon as day dawned upon hoghton tower, there was a prodigious racket from one end of it to the other. many favoured servants slept in truckle-beds in their masters' rooms; but others, not so fortunate, and unable to find accommodation even in the garrets--for the smallest rooms, and those nearest the roof, were put in requisition--slept upon the benches in the hall, while several sat up all night carousing in the great kitchen, keeping company with the cooks and their assistants, who were busied all the time in preparations for the feasting of the morrow. such was the state of things inside hoghton tower early on the eventful morning in question, and out of doors, especially in the base court which nicholas was traversing, the noise, bustle, and confusion were equally great. wide as was the area, it was filled with various personages, some newly arrived, and seeking information as to their quarters--not very easily obtained, for it seemed every body's business to ask questions, and no one's to answer them--some gathered in groups round the falconers and huntsmen, who had suddenly risen into great importance; others, and these were for the most part smart young pages, in brilliant liveries, chattering, and making love to every pretty damsel they encountered, putting them out of countenance by their licence and strange oaths, and rousing the anger of their parents, and the jealousy of their rustic admirers; others, of a graver sort, with dress of formal cut, and puritanical expression of countenance, shrugging their shoulders, and looking sourly on the whole proceedings--luckily they were in the minority, for the generality of the groups were composed of lively and light-hearted people, bent apparently upon amusement, and tolerably certain of finding it. through these various groups numerous lackeys were passing swiftly and continuously to and fro, bearing a cap, a mantle, or a sword, and pushing aside all who interfered with their progress, with a "by your leave, my masters--your pardon, fair mistress"--or, "out of my way, knave!" and, as the stables occupied one entire angle of the court, there were grooms without end dressing the horses at the doors, watering them at the troughs, or leading them about amid the admiring or criticising bystanders. the king's horses were, of course, objects of special attraction, and such as could obtain a glimpse of them and of the royal coach thought themselves especially favoured. besides what was going forward below, the windows looking into the court were all full of curious observers, and much loud conversation took place between those placed at them and their friends underneath. from all this some idea will be formed of the tremendous din that prevailed; but though with much confusion there was no positive disorder, still less brawling, for yeomen of the guard being stationed at various points, perfect order was maintained. several minstrels, mummers, and merry-makers, in various fantastic habits, swelled the throng, enlivening it with their strains or feats; and amongst other privileged characters admitted was a tom o' bedlam, a half-crazed licensed beggar, in a singular and picturesque garb, with a plate of tin engraved with his name attached to his left arm, and a great ox's horn, which he was continually blowing, suspended by a leathern baldric from his neck. scarcely had nicholas joined his companions, than word was given that the king was about to attend morning prayers in the domestic chapel. upon this, an immediate rush was made in that direction by the crowd; but the greater part were kept back by the guard, who crossed their halberts to prevent their ingress, and a few only were allowed to enter the antechamber leading to the chapel, amongst whom were the squire and his companions. here they were detained within it till service was over, and, as prayers were read by the bishop of chester, and the whole court was present, this was a great disappointment to them. at the end of half an hour two very courtly personages came forth, each bearing a white wand, and, announcing that the king was coming forth, the assemblage immediately divided into two lines to allow a passage for the monarch. nicholas assheton informed richard in a whisper that the foremost and stateliest of the two gentlemen was lord stanhope of harrington, the vice-chamberlain, and the other, a handsome young man of slight figure and somewhat libertine expression of countenance, was the renowned sir john finett, master of the ceremonies. notwithstanding his licentiousness, however, which was the vice of the age and the stain of the court, sir john was a man of wit and address, and perfectly conversant with the duties of his office, of which he has left satisfactory evidence in an amusing tractate, "finetti philoxenis." some little time elapsed before the king made his appearance, during which the curiosity of such as had not seen him, as was the case with richard, was greatly excited. the young man wondered whether the pedantic monarch, whose character perplexed the shrewdest, would answer his preconceived notions, and whether it would turn out that his portraits were like him. while these thoughts were passing through his mind, a shuffling noise was heard without, and king james appeared at the doorway. he paused there for a moment to place his plumed and jewelled cap upon his head, and to speak a word with sir john finett, and during this richard had an opportunity of observing him. the portraits _were_ like, but the artists had flattered him, though not much. there was great shrewdness of look, but there was also a vacant expression, which seemed to contradict the idea of profound wisdom generally ascribed to him. when in perfect repose, which they were not for more than a minute, the features were thoughtful, benevolent, and pleasing, and richard began to think him quite handsome, when another change was wrought by some remark of sir john finett. as the master of the ceremonies told his tale, the king's fine dark eyes blazed with an unpleasant light, and he laughed so loudly and indecorously at the close of the narrative, with his great tongue hanging out of his mouth, and tears running down his cheeks, that the young man was quite sickened. the king's face was thin and long, the cheeks shaven, but the lips clothed with mustaches, and a scanty beard covered his chin. the hair was brushed away from the face, and the cap placed at the back of the head, so as to exhibit a high bald forehead, of which he was prodigiously vain. james was fully equipped for the chase, and wore a green silk doublet, quilted, as all his garments were, so as to be dagger-proof, enormous trunk-hose, likewise thickly stuffed, and buff boots, fitting closely to the leg, and turned slightly over at the knee, with the edges fringed with gold. this was almost the only appearance of finery about the dress, except a row of gold buttons down the jerkin. attached to his girdle he wore a large pouch, with the mouth drawn together by silken cords, and a small silver bugle was suspended from his neck by a baldric of green silk. stiffly-starched bands, edged with lace, and slightly turned down on either side of the face, completed his attire. there was nothing majestic, but the very reverse, in the king's deportment, and he seemed only kept upright by the exceeding stiffness of his cumbersome clothes. with the appearance of being corpulent, he was not so in reality, and his weak legs and bent knees were scarcely able to support his frame. he always used a stick, and generally sought the additional aid of a favourite's arm. in this instance the person selected was sir gilbert hoghton, the eldest son of sir richard, and subsequent owner of hoghton tower. indebted for the high court favour he enjoyed partly to his graceful person and accomplishments, and partly to his marriage, having espoused a daughter of sir john aston of cranford, who, as sister of the duchess of buckingham, and a descendant of the blood royal of the stuarts, was a great help to his rapid rise, the handsome young knight was skilled in all manly exercises, and cited as a model of grace in the dance. constant in attendance upon the court, he frequently took part in the masques performed before it. like the king, he was fully equipped for hunting; but greater contrast could not have been found than between his tall fine form and the king's ungainly figure. sir gilbert had remained behind with the rest of the courtiers in the chapel; but, calling him, james seized his arm, and set forward at his usual shambling pace. as he went on, nodding his head in return to the profound salutations of the assemblage, his eye rolled round them until it alighted on richard assheton, and, nudging sir gilbert, he asked-- "wha's that?--a bonnie lad, but waesome pale." sir gilbert, however, was unable to answer the inquiry; but nicholas, who stood beside the young man, was determined not to lose the opportunity of introducing him, and accordingly moved a step forward, and made a profound obeisance. "this youth, may it please your majesty," he said, "is my cousin, richard assheton, son and heir of sir richard assheton of middleton, one of your majesty's most loyal and devoted servants, and who, i trust, will have the honour of being presented to you in the course of the day." "we trust so, too, maister nicholas assheton--for that, if we dinna forget, is your ain name," replied james; "and if the sire resembles the son, whilk is not always the case, as our gude freend, sir gilbert, is evidence, being as unlike his worthy father as a man weel can be; if, as we say, sir richard resembles this callant, he must be a weel-faur'd gentleman. but, god's santie, lad! how cam you in sic sad and sombre abulyiements? hae ye nae braw claes to put on to grace our coming? black isna the fashion at our court, as sir gilbert will tell ye, and, though a suit o' sables may become you, it's no pleasing in our sight. let us see you in gayer apparel at dinner." richard, who was considerably embarrassed by the royal address, merely bowed, and nicholas again took upon himself to answer for him. "your majesty will be pleased to pardon him," he said; "but he is unaccustomed to court fashions, having passed all his time in a wild and uncivilized district, where, except on rare and happy occasions like the present, the refined graces of life seldom reach us." "weel, we wouldna be hard upon him," said the king, good-naturedly; "and mayhap the family has sustained some recent loss, and he is in mourning." "i cannot offer that excuse for him, sire," replied nicholas, who began to flatter himself he was making considerable progress in the monarch's good graces. "it is simply an affair of the heart." "puir chiel! we pity him," cried the king. "and sae it is a hopeless suit, young sir?" he added to richard. "canna we throw in a good word for ye? do we ken the lassie, and is she to be here to-day?" "i am quite at a loss how to answer your majesty's questions," replied richard, "and my cousin nicholas has very unfairly betrayed my secret." "hoot, toot! na, lad," exclaimed james; "it wasna he wha betrayed your secret, but our ain discernment that revealed it to us. we kenned your ailment at a glance. few things are hidden from the king's eye, and we could tell ye mair aboot yoursel', and the lassie you're deeing for, if we cared to speak it; but just now we have other fish to fry, and must awa' and break our fast, of the which, if truth maun be spoken, we stand greatly in need; for creature comforts maun be aye looked to as weel as spiritual wants, though the latter should be ever cared for first, as is our ain rule; and in so doing we offer an example to our subjects, which they will do weel to follow. later in the day, we will talk further to you on the subject; but, meanwhile, gie us the name of your lassie loo." "oh! spare me, your majesty," cried richard. "her name is alizon nutter," interposed nicholas. "what! a daughter of alice nutter of rough lee?" exclaimed james. "the same, sire," replied nicholas, much surprised at the extent of information manifested by the king. "why, saul o' my body! man, she's a witch--a witch! d'ye ken that?" cried the king, with a look of abhorrence; "a mischievous and malignant vermin, with which this pairt of our realm is sair plagued, but which, with god's help, we will thoroughly extirpate. sae the lass is a daughter of alice nutter, ha! that accounts for your grewsome looks, lad. odd's life! i see it all now. i understand what is the matter with you. look at him, sir gilbert--look at him, i say! does naething strike you as strange about him?" "nothing more than that he is naturally embarrassed by your majesty's mode of speech," replied the knight. "you lack the penetration of the king, sir gilbert," cried james. "i will tell you what ails him. he is bewitchit--forespoken." exclamations were uttered by all the bystanders, and every eye was fixed on richard, who felt ready to sink to the ground. "i affirm he is bewitchit," continued the king; "and wha sae likely to do it as the glamouring hizzie that has ensnared him? she has ill bluid in her veins, and can chant deevil's cantrips as weel as the mither, or ony gyre-carline o' them a'." "you are mistaken, sire," cried richard, earnestly. "alizon will be here to-day with my father and sister, and, if you deign to receive her, i am sure you will judge her differently." "we shall perpend the point of receiving her," replied the king, gravely. "but we are rarely mista'en, young man, and seldom change our opinion except upon gude grounds, and those you arena like to offer us. belike ye hae been lang ill?" "oh! no, your majesty, i was suddenly seized, about a month ago," replied richard. "suddenly seized--eh!" exclaimed james, winking cunningly at those near him; "and ye swarfit awa' wi' the pain? i guessed it. and whaur was alizon the while?" "at that time she was a guest at middleton," replied richard; "but it is impossible my illness can in any way be attributed to her. i will answer with my life for her perfect innocence." "you may have to answer wi' your life for your misplaced faith in her," said the king; "but i tell you naething--naething wicked, at all events--is impossible to witches, and the haill case, even by your own showin', is very suspicious. i have heard somewhat of the story of alice nutter, but not the haill truth--but there are folk here wha can enlighten us mair fully. thus much i do ken--that she is a notorious witch, and a fugitive from justice; though siblins you, maister nicholas assheton, could give an inkling of her hiding-place if you were so disposed. nay, never look doited, man," he added, laughing, "i bring nae charges against you. ye arena on your trial noo. but this is a serious matter, and maun be seriously considered before we dismiss it. you say alizon will be here to-day. sae far weel. canna you contrive to produce the mother, too, maister nicholas?" "sire!" exclaimed nicholas. "nay, then, we maun gang our ain way to wark," continued james. "we are tauld ye hae a petition to offer us, and our will and pleasure is that you present it afore we go forth to the chase, and after we have partaken of our matutinal refection, whilk we will nae langer delay; for, sooth to say, we are weel nigh famished. look ye, sirs. neither of you is to quit hoghton tower without our permission had and obtained. we do not place you under arrest, neither do we inhibit you from the chase, or from any other sports; but you are to remain here at our sovereign pleasure. have we your word that you will not attempt to disobey the injunction?" "you have mine, undoubtedly, sire," replied richard. "and mine, too," added nicholas. "and i hope to justify myself before your majesty." "we shall be weel pleased to hear ye do it, man," rejoined the king, laughing, and shuffling on. "but we hae our doubts--we hae our doubts!" "his majesty talks of going to breakfast, and says he is famished," observed nicholas to sherborne, as the king departed; "but he has completely taken away my appetite." "no wonder," replied the other. chapter vii.--the royal declaration concerning lawful sports on the sunday. not many paces after the king marched the duke of buckingham, then in the zenith of his power, and in the full perfection of his unequalled beauty, eclipsing all the rest of the nobles in splendour of apparel, as he did in stateliness of deportment. haughtily returning the salutations made him, which were scarcely less reverential than those addressed to the monarch himself, the prime favourite moved on, all eyes following his majestic figure to the door. buckingham walked alone, as if he had been a prince of the blood; but after him came a throng of nobles, consisting of the earl of pembroke, high chamberlain; the duke of richmond, master of the household; the earl of nottingham, lord high admiral; viscount brackley, lord howard of effingham, lord zouche, president of wales; with the lords knollys, mordaunt, conipton, and grey of groby. one or two of the noblemen seemed inclined to question richard as to what had passed between him and the king; but the young man's reserved and somewhat stern manner deterred them. next came the three judges, doddridge, crooke, and hoghton, whose countenances wore an enforced gravity; for if any faith could be placed in rubicund cheeks and portly persons, they were not indisposed to self-indulgence and conviviality. after the judges came the bishop of chester, the king's chaplain, who had officiated on the present occasion, and who was in his full pontifical robes. he was accompanied by the lord of the mansion, sir richard hoghton, a hale handsome man between fifty and sixty, with silvery hair and beard, a robust but commanding person, a fresh complexion, and features, by no means warranting, from any marked dissimilarity to those of his son, the king's scandalous jest. a crowd of baronets and knights succeeded, including sir arthur capel, sir thomas brudenell, sir edward montague, sir edmund trafford, sheriff of the county, sir edward mosley, and sir ralph assheton. the latter looked grave and anxious, and, as he passed his relatives, said in a low tone to richard-- "i am told alizon is to be here to-day. is it so?" "she is," replied the young man; "but why do you ask? is she in danger? if so, let her be warned against coming." "on no account," replied sir ralph; "that would only increase the suspicion already attaching to her. no; she must face the danger, and i hope will be able to avert it." "but what _is_ the danger?" asked richard. "in heaven's name, speak more plainly." "i cannot do so now," replied sir ralph. "we will take counsel together anon. her enemies are at work; and, if you tarry here a few minutes longer, you will understand whom i mean." and he passed on. a large crowd now poured indiscriminately out of the chapel and amongst it nicholas perceived many of his friends and neighbours, mr. townley of townley park, mr. parker of browsholme, mr. shuttleworth of gawthorpe, sir thomas metcalfe, and roger nowell. with the latter was master potts, and richard was then at no loss to understand against whom sir ralph had warned him. a fierce light blazed in roger nowell's keen eyes as he first remarked the two asshetons, and a smile of gratified vengeance played about his lips; but he quelled the fire in a moment, and, compressing his hard mouth more closely, bowed coldly and ceremoniously to them. metcalfe did the same. not so master potts. halting for a moment, he said, with a spiteful look, "look to yourself, master nicholas; and you too, master richard. a day of reckoning is coming for both of you." and with this he sprang nimbly after his client. "what means the fellow?" cried nicholas. "but that we are here, as it were, in the precincts of a palace, i would after him and cudgel him soundly for his insolence." "and wha's that ye'd be after dinging, man?" cried a sharp voice behind him. "no that puir feckless body that has jist skippit aff. if sae, ye'll tak the wrang soo by the lugg, and i counsel you to let him bide, for he's high i' favour wi' the king." turning at this address, nicholas recognised the king's jester, archie armstrong, a merry little knave, with light blue eyes, long yellow hair hanging about his ears, and a sandy beard. there was a great deal of mother wit about archie, and quite as much shrewdness as folly. he wore no distinctive dress as jester--the bauble and coxcomb having been long discontinued--but was simply clad in the royal livery. "and so master potts is in favour with his majesty, eh, archie?" asked the squire, hoping to obtain some information from him. "and sae war you the day efore yesterday, when you hunted at myerscough," replied the jester. "but how have i forfeited the king's good opinion?" asked nicholas. "come, you are a good fellow, archie, and will tell me." "dinna think to fleech me, man," replied the jester, cunningly.--"i ken what i ken, and that's mair than you'll get frae me wi' a' your speering. the king's secrets are safe wi' archie--and for a good reason, that he is never tauld them. you're a gude huntsman, and sae is his majesty; but there's ae kind o' game he likes better than anither, and that's to be found maistly i' these pairts--i mean witches, and sic like fearfu' carlines. we maun hae the country rid o' them, and that's what his majesty intends, and if you're a wise man you'll lend him a helping hand. but i maun in to disjune." and with this the jester capered off, leaving nicholas like one stupefied. he was roused, however, by a smart slap on the shoulder from sir john finett. "what! pondering over the masque, master nicholas, or thinking of the petition you have to present to his majesty?" cried the master of the ceremonies, "let neither trouble you. the one will be well played, i doubt not, and the other well received, i am sure, for i know the king's sentiments on the subject. but touching the dame, master nicholas--have you found one willing and able to take part in the masque?" "i have found several willing, sir john," replied nicholas; "but as to their ability that is another question. however, one of them may do as a make-shift. they are all in the base court, and shall wait on you when you please, and then you can make your election." "so far well," replied finett; "it may be that we shall have ben jonson here to-day--rare ben, the prince of poets and masque-writers. sir richard hoghton expects him. ben is preparing a masque for christmas, to be called 'the vision of delight,' in which his highness the prince is to be a principal actor, and some verses which have been recited to me are amongst the daintiest ever indited by the bard." "it will be a singular pleasure to me to see him," said nicholas; "for i hold ben jonson in the highest esteem as a poet--ay, above them all, unless it be will shakspeare." "ay, you do well to except shakspeare," rejoined sir john finett. "great as ben jonson is, and for wit and learning no man surpasses him, he is not to be compared with shakspeare, who for profound knowledge of nature, and of all the highest qualities of dramatic art, is unapproachable. but ours is a learned court, master nicholas, and therefore we have a learned poet; but a right good fellow is ben jonson, and a boon companion, though somewhat prone to sarcasm, as you will find if you drink with him. over his cups he will rail at courts and courtiers in good set terms, i promise you, and i myself have come in for his gibes. however, i love him none the less for his quips, for i know it is his humour to utter them, and so overlook what in another and less deserving person i should assuredly resent. but is not that young man, who is now going forth, your cousin, richard assheton? i thought so. the king has had a strange tale whispered in his ear, that the youth has been bewitched by a maiden--alizon nutter, i think she is named--of whom he is enamoured. i know not what truth may be in the charge, but the youth himself seems to warrant it, for he looks ghastly ill. a letter was sent to his majesty at myerscough, communicating this and certain other particulars with which i am not acquainted; but i know they relate to some professors of the black art in your country, the soil of which seems favourable to the growth of such noxious weeds, and at first he was much disturbed by it, but in the end decided that both parties should be brought hither without being made aware of his design, that he might see and judge for himself in the matter. accordingly a messenger was sent over to middleton hall as from sir richard hoghton, inviting the whole family to the tower, and giving sir richard assheton to understand it was the king's pleasure he should bring with him a certain young damsel, named alizon nutter, of whom mention had been made to him. sir richard had no choice but to obey, and promised compliance with his majesty's injunctions. an officer, however, was left on the watch, and this very morning reported to his majesty that young richard assheton had already set out with the intention of going to preston, but had passed the night at walton-le-dale, and that sir richard, his daughter dorothy, and alizon nutter, would be here before noon." "his majesty has laid his plans carefully," replied nicholas, "and i can easily conjecture from whom he received the information, which is as false as it is malicious. but are you aware, sir john, upon what evidence the charge is supported--for mere suspicion is not enough?" "in cases of witchcraft suspicion _is_ enough," replied the knight, gravely. "slender proofs are required. the girl is the daughter of a notorious witch--that is against her. the young man is ailing--that is against her, too. but a witness, i believe, will be produced, though who i cannot say." "gracious heaven! what wickedness there must be in the world when such a charge can be brought against one so good and so unoffending," cried nicholas. "a maiden more devout than alizon never existed, nor one holding the crime she is charged with in greater abhorrence. she injure richard! she would lay down her life for him--and would have been his wife, but for scruples the most delicate and disinterested on her part. but we will establish her innocence before his majesty, and confound her enemies." "it is with that hope that i have given you this information, sir, of which i am sure you will make no improper use," replied sir john. "i have heard a similar character to that you have given of alizon, and am unwilling she should fall a victim to art or malice. be upon your guard, too, master nicholas; for other investigations will take place at the same time, and some matters may come forth in which you are concerned. the king's arms are long, and reach and strike far--and his eyes see clearly when not hoodwinked--or when other people see for him. and now, good sir, you must want breakfast. here faryngton," he added to an attendant, "show master nicholas assheton to his lodging in the base court, and attend upon him as if he were your master. i will come for you, sir, when it is time to present the petition to the king." so saying, he bowed and walked forth, turning into the upper quadrangle, while nicholas followed faryngton into the lower court, where he found his friends waiting for him. speedily ascertaining where their lodgings were situated, faryngton led them to a building on the left, almost opposite to the great bonfire, and, ascending a flight of steps, ushered them into a commodious and well-furnished room, looking into the court. this done, he disappeared, but soon afterwards returned with two yeomen of the kitchen, one carrying a tray of provisions upon his head, and the other sustaining a basket of wine under his arm, and a snowy napkin being laid upon the table, trenchers viands, and flasks were soon arranged in very tempting order--so tempting, indeed, that the squire, notwithstanding his assertion, that his appetite had been taken away, fell to work with his customary vigour, and plied a flask of excellent bordeaux so incessantly, that another had to be placed before him. sherborne did equal justice to the good cheer, and richard not only forced himself to eat, but to the squire's great surprise swallowed more than one deep draught of wine. having thus administered to the wants of the guests, and seeing his presence was no longer either necessary or desired, faryngton vanished, first promising to go and see that all was got ready for them in the sleeping apartments. notwithstanding the man's civility, there was an over-officiousness about him that made nicholas suspect he was placed over them by sir john finett to watch their movements, and he resolved to be upon his guard. "i am glad to see you drink, lad," he observed to richard, as soon as they were alone; "a cup of wine will do you good." "do you think so?" replied richard, filling his goblet anew. "i want to get back my spirits and strength--to sustain myself no matter how--to look well--ha! ha! if i can only make this frail machine carry me stoutly through the king's visit, i care not how soon it falls to pieces afterwards." "i see your motive, dick," replied nicholas. "you hope to turn away suspicion from alizon by this device; but you must not go to excess, or you will defeat your scheme." "i will do something to convince the king he is mistaken in me--that i am not bewitched," cried richard, rising and striding across the room. "bewitched! and by alizon, too! i could laugh at the charge, but that it is too horrible. had any other than the king breathed it, i would have slain him." "his majesty has been abused by the malice of that knavish attorney, potts, who has always manifested the greatest hostility towards alizon," said nicholas; "but he will not prevail, for she has only to show herself to dispel all prejudice." "you are right, nicholas," cried richard; "and yet the king seems already to have prejudged her, and his obstinacy may lead to her destruction." "speak not so loudly, dick, in heaven's name!" said the squire, in alarm; "these walls may have ears, and echoes may repeat every word you utter." "then let them tell the king that alizon is innocent," cried richard, stopping, and replenishing his goblet, "here's to her health, and confusion to her enemies!" "i'll drink that toast with pleasure, dick," replied the squire; "but i must forbid you more wine. you are not used to it, and the fumes will mount to your brain." "come and sit down beside us, that we may talk," said sherborne. richard obeyed, and, leaning over the table, asked in a low deep tone, "where is mistress nutter, nicholas?" the squire looked towards the door before he answered, and then said-- "i will tell you. after the destruction of malkin tower and the band of robbers, she was taken to a solitary hut near barley booth, at the foot of pendle hill, and the next day was conveyed across bowland forest to poulton in the fyld, on the borders of morecambe bay, with the intention of getting her on board some vessel bound for the isle of man. arrangements were made for this purpose; but when the time came, she refused to go, and was brought secretly back to the hut near barley, where she has been ever since, though her place of concealment was hidden even from you and her daughter." "the captain of the robbers, fogg or demdike, escaped--did he not?" said richard. "ay, in the confusion occasioned by the blowing up of the tower he managed to get away," replied nicholas, "and we were unable to follow him, as our attentions had to be bestowed upon mistress nutter. this was the more unlucky, as through his instrumentality jem and his mother elizabeth were liberated from the dungeon in which they were placed in whalley abbey, prior to their removal to lancaster castle, and none of them have been heard of since." "and i hope will never be heard of again," cried richard. "but is mistress nutter's retreat secure, think you?--may it not be discovered by some of nowell's emissaries?" "i trust not," replied nicholas; "but her voluntary surrender is more to be apprehended, for when i last saw her, on the night before starting for myerscough, she told me she was determined to give herself up for trial; and her motives could scarce be combated, for she declares that, unless she submits herself to the justice of man, and expiates her offences, she cannot be saved. she now seems as resolute in good as she was heretofore resolute in evil." "if she perishes thus, her self-sacrifice, for thus it becomes, will be alizon's death-blow," cried richard. "so i told her," replied nicholas--"but she continued inflexible. 'i am born to be the cause of misery to others, and most to those i love most,' she said; 'but i cannot fly from justice. there is no escape for me.'" "she is right," cried richard; "there is no escape but the grave, whither we are all three hurrying. a terrible fatality attaches to us." "nay, say not so, dick," rejoined nicholas; "you are young, and, though this shock may be severe, yet when it is passed, you will be recompensed, i hope, by many years of happiness." "i am not to be deceived," said richard. "look me in the face, and say honestly if you think me long-lived. you cannot do it. i have been smitten by a mortal illness, and am wasting gradually away. i am dying--i feel it--know it; but though it may abridge my brief term of life, i will purchase present health and spirits at any cost, and save alizon. ah!" he exclaimed, putting his hand to his heart, with a fearful expression of anguish. "what is the matter?" cried the two gentlemen, greatly alarmed, and springing towards him. but the young man could not reply. another and another agonising spasm shook his frame, and cold damps broke out upon his pallid brow, showing the intensity of his suffering. nicholas and sherborne regarded each other anxiously, as if doubtful how to act. "shall i summon assistance?" said the latter in a low tone. but, softly as the words were uttered, they reached the ears of richard. rousing himself by a great effort, he said-- "on no account--the fit is over. i am glad it has seized me now, for i shall not be liable to a recurrence of it throughout the day. lead me to the window. the air will presently revive me." his friends complied with the request, and placed him at the open casement. great bustle was observable below, and the cause was soon manifest, as the chief huntsman, clad in green, with buff boots drawn high up on the thigh, a horn about his neck, and mounted on a strong black curtal, rode forth from the stables. he was attended by a noble bloodhound, and on gaining the middle of the court, put his bugle to his lips, and blew a loud blithe call that made the walls ring again. the summons was immediately answered by a number of grooms and pages, leading a multitude of richly-caparisoned horses towards the upper end of the court, where a gallant troop of dames, nobles, and gentlemen, all attired for the chase, awaited them; and where, amidst much mirth, and bandying of lively jest and compliment, a general mounting took place, the ladies, of course, being placed first on their steeds. while this was going forward, the hounds were brought from the kennel in couples--relays having been sent down into the park more than an hour before--and the yard resounded with their joyous baying, and the neighing of the impatient steeds. by this time, also, the chief huntsman had collected his forces, consisting of a dozen prickers, six habited like himself in green, and six in russet, and all mounted on stout curtals. those in green were intended to hunt the hart, and those in russet the wild-boar, the former being provided with hunting-poles, and the latter with spears. their girdles were well lined with beef and pudding, and each of them, acting upon the advice of worthy master george turbervile, had a stone bottle of good wine at the pummel of his saddle. besides these, there were a whole host of varlets of the chase on foot. the chief falconer, with a long-winged hawk in her hood and jesses upon his wrist, was stationed somewhat near the gateway, and close to him were his attendants, each having on his fist a falcon gentle, a barbary falcon, a merlin, a goshawk, or a sparrowhawk. thus all was in readiness, and hound, hawk, and man seemed equally impatient for the sport. at this juncture, the door was thrown open by faryngton, who announced sir john finett. "it is time, master nicholas assheton," said the master of the ceremonies. "i am ready to attend you, sir john," replied nicholas, taking a parchment from his doublet, and unfolding it, "the petition is well signed." "so i see, sir," replied the knight, glancing at it. "will not your friends come with you?" "most assuredly," replied richard, who had risen on the knight's appearance. and he followed the others down the staircase. by direction of the master of the ceremonies, nearly a hundred of the more important gentlemen of the county had been got together, and this train was subsequently swelled to thrice the amount, from the accessions it received from persons of inferior rank when its object became known. at the head of this large assemblage nicholas was now placed, and, accompanied by sir john finett, who gave the word to the procession to follow them, he moved slowly up the court. passing through the brilliant crowd of equestrians, the procession halted at a short distance from the doorway of the great hall, and james, who had been waiting for its approach within, now came forth, amid the cheers and plaudits of the spectators. sir john finett then led nicholas forward, and the latter, dropping on one knee, said-- "may it please your majesty, i hold in my hand a petition, signed as, if you will deign to cast your eyes over it, you will perceive, by many hundreds of the lower orders of your loving subjects in this your county of lancaster, representing that they are debarred from lawful recreations upon sunday after afternoon service, and upon holidays, and praying that the restrictions imposed in , by the earls of derby and huntingdon, and by william, bishop of chester, commissioners to her late highness, elizabeth, of glorious memory, your majesty's predecessor, may be withdrawn." and with this he placed in the king's hands the petition, which was very graciously received. "the complaint of our loving subjects in lancashire shall not pass unnoticed, sir," said james. "sorry are we to say it, but this county of ours is sair infested wi' folk inclining to puritanism and papistry, baith of which sects are adverse to the cause of true religion. honest mirth is not only tolerable but praiseworthy, and the prohibition of it is likely to breed discontent, and this our enemies ken fu' weel; for when," he continued, loudly and emphatically--"when shall the common people have leave to exercise if not upon sundays and holidays, seeing they must labour and win their living on all other days?" "your majesty speaks like king solomon himself," observed nicholas, amid the loud cheering. "our will and pleasure then is," pursued james, "that our good people be not deprived of any lawful recreation that shall not tend to a breach of the laws, or a violation of the kirk; but that, after the end of divine service, they shall not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from, any lawful recreation--as dancing and sic like, either of men or women, archery, leaping, vaulting, or ony ither harmless recreation; nor frae the having of may-games, whitsun ales, or morris dancing; nor frae setting up of may-poles, and ither sports, therewith used, provided the same be had in due and convenient time, without impediment or neglect of divine service. and our will further is, that women shall have leave to carry rushes to the church, for the decoring of it, according to auld custom. but we prohibit all unlawful games on sundays, as bear-baiting and bull-baiting, interludes, and, by the common folk--mark ye that, sir--playing at bowls."[ ] the royal declaration was received with loud and reiterated cheers, amidst which james mounted his steed, a large black docile-looking charger, and rode out of the court, followed by the whole cavalcade. trumpets were sounded from the battlements as he passed through the gateway, and shouting crowds attended him all the way down the hill, until he entered the avenue leading to the park. at the conclusion of the royal address, the procession headed by nicholas immediately dispersed, and such as meant to join the chase set off in quest of steeds. foremost amongst these was the squire himself, and on approaching the stables, he was glad to find richard and sherborne already mounted, the former holding his horse by the bridle, so that he had nothing to do but vault upon his back. there was an impatience about richard, very different from his ordinary manner, that surprised and startled him, and the expression of the young man's countenance long afterwards haunted him. the face was deathly pale, except that on either cheek burned a red feverish spot, and the eyes blazed with unnatural light. so much was the squire struck by his cousin's looks, that he would have dissuaded him from going forth; but he saw from his manner that the attempt would fail, while a significant gesture from his brother-in-law told him he was equally uneasy. scarcely had the principal nobles passed through the gateway, than, in spite of all efforts to detain him, richard struck spurs into his horse, and dashed amidst the cavalcade, creating great disorder, and rousing the ire of the earl of pembroke, to whom the marshalling of the train was entrusted. but richard paid little heed to his wrath, and perhaps did not hear the angry expressions addressed to him; for no sooner was he outside the gate, than instead of pursuing the road down which the king was proceeding, and which has been described as hewn out of the rock, he struck into a thicket on the right, and, in defiance of all attempts to stop him, and at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, rode down the precipitous sides of the hill, and reaching the bottom in safety, long before the royal cavalcade had attained the same point, took the direction of the park. his friends watched him commence this perilous descent in dismay; but, though much alarmed, they were unable to follow him. "poor lad! i am fearful he has lost his senses," said sherborne. "he is what the king would call 'fey,' and not long for this world," replied nicholas, shaking his head. chapter viii.--how king james hunted the hart and the wild-boar in hoghton park. galloping on fast and furiously, richard tracked a narrow path of greensward, lying between the tall trees composing the right line of the avenue and the adjoining wood. within it grew many fine old thorns, diverting him now and then from his course, but he still held on until he came within a short distance of the chase, when his attention was caught by a very singular figure. it was an old man, clad in a robe of coarse brown serge, with a cowl drawn partly over his head, a rope girdle like that used by a cordelier, sandal shoon, and a venerable white beard descending to his waist. the features of the hermit, for such he seemed, were majestic and benevolent. seated on a bank overgrown with wild thyme, beneath the shade of a broad-armed elm, he appeared so intently engaged in the perusal of a large open volume laid on his knee, that he did not notice richard's approach. deeply interested, however, by his appearance, the young man determined to address him, and, reining in his horse, said respectfully, "save you, father!" "pass on, my son," replied the old man, without raising his eyes, "and hinder not my studies." but richard would not be thus dismissed. "perchance you are not aware, father," he said, "that the king is about to hunt within the park this morning. the royal cavalcade has already left hoghton tower, and will be here ere many minutes." "the king and his retinue will pass along the broad avenue, as you should have done, and not through this retired road," replied the hermit. "they will not disturb me." "i would fain know the subject of your studies, father?" inquired richard. "you are inquisitive, young man," returned the hermit, looking up and fixing a pair of keen grey eyes upon him. "but i will satisfy your curiosity, if by so doing i shall rid me of your presence. i am reading the book of fate." richard uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "and in it your destiny is written," pursued the old man; "and a sad one it is. consumed by a strange and incurable disease, which may at any moment prove fatal, you are scarcely likely to survive the next three days, in which case she you love better than existence will perish miserably, being adjudged to have destroyed you by witchcraft." "it must indeed be the book of fate that tells you this," cried richard, springing from his horse, and approaching close to the old man. "may i cast eyes upon it?" "no, my son," replied the old man, closing the volume. "you would not comprehend the mystic characters--but no eye, except my own, must look upon them. what is written will be fulfilled. again, i bid you pass on. i must speedily return to my hermit cell in the forest." "may i attend you thither, father?" asked richard. "to what purpose?" rejoined the old man. "you have not many hours of life. go, then, and pass them in the fierce excitement of the chase. pull down the lordly stag--slaughter the savage boar; and, as you see the poor denizens of the forest perish, think that your own end is not far off. hark! do you hear that boding cry?" "it is the croak of a raven newly alighted in the tree above us," replied richard. "the sagacious bird will ever attend the huntsman in the chase, in the hope of obtaining a morsel when they break up deer." "such is the custom of the bird i wot well," said the old man; "but it is not in joyous expectation of the raven's-bone that he croaks now, but because his fell instinct informs him that the living-dead is beneath him." and, as if in answer to the remark, the raven croaked exultingly; and, rising from the tree, wheeled in a circle above them. "is there no way of averting my terrible destiny, father?" cried richard, despairingly. "ay, if you choose to adopt it," replied the old man. "when i said your ailment was incurable, i meant by ordinary remedies, but it will yield to such as i alone can employ. the malignant and fatal influence under which you labour may be removed, and then your instant restoration to health and vigour will follow." "but how, father--how?" cried richard, eagerly. "you have simply to sign your name in this book," rejoined the hermit, "and what you desire shall be done. here is a pen," he added, taking one from his girdle. "but the ink?" cried richard. "prick your arm with your dagger, and dip the pen in the blood," replied the old man. "that will suffice." "and what follows if i sign?" demanded richard, staring at him. "your instant cure. i will give you to drink of a wondrous elixir." "but to what do i bind myself?" asked richard. "to serve me," replied the hermit, smiling; "but it is a light service, and only involves your appearance in this wood once a-year. are you agreed?" "i know not," replied the young man distractedly. "you must make up your mind speedily," said the hermit; "for i hear the approach of the royal cavalcade." and as he spoke, the mellow notes of a bugle, followed by the baying of hounds, the jingling of bridles, and the trampling of a large troop of horse, were heard at a short distance down the avenue. "tell me who you are?" cried richard. "i am the hermit of the wood," replied the old man. "some people call me hobthurst, and some by other names, but you will have no difficulty in finding me out. look yonder!" he added, pointing through the trees. and, glancing in the direction indicated, richard beheld a small party on horseback advancing across the plain, consisting of his father, his sister, and alizon, with their attendants. "'tis she!--'tis she!" he cried. "can you hesitate, when it is to save _her_?" demanded the old man. "heaven help me, or i am lost!" fervently ejaculated richard, gazing on high while making the appeal. when he looked down again the old man was gone, and he saw only a large black snake gliding off among the bushes. muttering a few words of thankfulness for his deliverance, he sprang upon his horse. "it may be the arch-tempter is right," he cried, "and that but few hours of life remain to me; but if so, they shall be employed in endeavours to vindicate alizon, and defeat the snares by which she is beset." with this resolve, he struck spurs into his horse, and set off in the direction of the little troop. before, however, he could come up to them, their progress was arrested by a pursuivant, who, riding in advance of the royal cavalcade, motioned them to stay till it had passed, and the same person also perceiving richard's purpose, called to him, authoritatively, to keep back. the young man might have disregarded the injunction, but at the same moment the king himself appeared at the head of the avenue, and remarking richard, who was not more than fifty yards off on the right, instantly recognised him, and shouted out, "come hither, young man--come hither!" thus, baffled in his design, richard was forced to comply, and, uncovering his head, rode slowly towards the monarch. as he approached, james fixed on him a glance of sharpest scrutiny. "odds life! ye hae been ganging a fine gait, young sir," he cried. "ye maun be demented to ride down a hill i' that fashion, and as if your craig war of nae account. it's weel ye hae come aff scaithless. are ye tired o' life--or was it the muckle deil himsel' that drove ye on? canna ye find an excuse, man? nay, then, i'll gi'e ye ane. the loadstane will draw nails out of a door, and there be lassies wi' een strang as loadstanes, that drag men to their perdition. stands the magnet yonder, eh?" he added, glancing towards the little group before them. "gude faith! the lass maun be a potent witch to exercise sic influence, and we wad fain see the effect she has on you when near. sir richard hoghton," he called out to the knight, who rode a few paces behind him, "we pray you present sir richard assheton and his daughter to us." had he dared so to do, richard would have thrown himself at the king's feet, but all he could venture upon was to say in a low earnest tone, "do not prejudge alizon, sire. on my soul she is innocent!" "the king prejudges nae man," replied james, in a tone of rebuke; "and like the wise prince of israel, whom it is his wish to resemble, he sees with his ain een, and hears with his ain ears, afore he forms conclusions." "that is all i can desire, sire," replied richard. "far be it from me to doubt your majesty's discrimination or love of justice." "ye shall hae proofs of baith, man, afore we hae done," said james. "ah! here comes our host, an the twa lassies wi' him. she wi' the lintwhite locks is your sister, we guess, and the ither is alizon--and, by our troth, a weel-faur'd lass. but satan is aye delusive. we maun resist his snares." the party now came on, and were formally presented to the monarch by sir richard hoghton. sir richard assheton, a middle-aged gentleman, with handsome features, though somewhat haughty in expression, and stately deportment, was very graciously received, and james thought fit to pay a few compliments to dorothy, covertly regarding alizon the while, yet not neglecting richard, being ready to intercept any signal that should pass between them. none, however, was attempted, for the young man felt he should only alarm and embarrass alizon by any attempt to caution her, and he therefore endeavoured to assume an unconcerned aspect and demeanour. "we hae heard the beauty of the lancashire lassies highly commended," said the king; "but, faith! it passes expectation. twa lovelier damsels than these we never beheld. baith are rare specimens o' nature's handiwark." "your majesty is pleased to be complimentary," rejoined sir richard assheton. "na, sir richard," returned james. "we arena gien to flichtering, though aften beflummed oursel'. baith are bonnie lassies, we repeat. an sae this is alizon nutter--it wad be ailsie in our ain scottish tongue, to which your lancashire vernacular closely approximates, sir richard. aweel, fair alizon," he added, eyeing her narrowly, "ye hae lost your mither, we understand?" the young girl was not discomposed by this question, but answered in a firm, melancholy tone--"your majesty, i fear, is too well acquainted with my unfortunate mother's history." "aweel, we winna deny having heard somewhat to her disadvantage," replied the king--"but your ain looks gang far to contradict the reports, fair maid." "place no faith in them then, sire," replied alizon, sadly. "eh! what!--then you admit your mother's guilt?" cried the king, sharply. "i neither admit it nor deny it, sire," she replied. "it must be for your majesty to judge her." "weel answered," muttered james,--"but i mustna forget, that the deil himsel' can quote scripture to serve his purpose. but you hold in abhorrence the crime laid to your mother's charge--eh?" he added aloud. "in utter abhorrence," replied alizon. "gude--vera gude," rejoined the king. "but, entertaining this feeling, how conies it you screen so heinous an offender frae justice? nae natural feeling should be allowed to weigh in sic a case." "nor should it, sire, with me," replied alizon--"because i believe my poor mother's eternal welfare would be best consulted if she underwent temporal punishment. neither is she herself anxious to avoid it." "then why does she keep out of the way--why does she not surrender herself?" cried the king. "because--" and alizon stopped. "because what?" demanded james. "pardon me, sire, i must decline answering further questions on the subject," replied alizon. "whatever concerns myself or my mother alone, i will state freely, but i cannot compromise others." "aha! then there are others concerned in it?" cried james. "we thought as much. we will interrogate you further hereafter--but a word mair. we trust ye are devout, and constant in your religious exercises, damsel." "i will answer for that, sire," interposed sir richard assheton. "alizon's whole time is spent in prayer for her unfortunate mother. if there be a fault it is that she goes too far, and injures her health by her zeal." "a gude fault that, sir richard," observed the king, approvingly. "it beseems me not to speak of myself, sire," said alizon, "and i am loth to do so--but i beseech your majesty to believe, that if my life might be offered as an atonement for my mother, i would freely yield it." "i' gude faith she staggers me in my opinion," muttered james, "and i maun look into the matter mair closely. the lass is far different frae what i imagined her. but the wiles o' satan arena to be comprehended, and he will put on the semblance of righteousness when seeking to beguile the righteous. aweel, damsel," he added aloud, "ye speak feelingly and properly, and as a daughter should speak, and we respect your feelings--provided they be sic as ye represent them. and now dispose yourselves for the chase." "i must pray your majesty to dismiss me," said alizon. "it is a sight in which at any time i take small pleasure, and now it is especially distasteful to me. with your permission, i will proceed to hoghton tower." "i also crave your majesty's leave to go with her," said dorothy. "i will attend them," interposed richard. "na, you maun stay wi' us, young sir," cried the king. "your gude father will gang wi' 'em. sir john finett," he added, calling to the master of the ceremonies, and speaking in his ear, "see that they be followed, and that a special watch be kept over alizon, and also over this youth,--d'ye mark me?--in fact, ower a' the assheton clan. and now," he cried in a loud voice, "let them blaw the strake." the chief huntsman having placed the bugle to his lips, and blown a strike with two winds, a short consultation was held between him and james, who loved to display his knowledge as a woodsman; and while this was going forward, nicholas and sherborne having come up, the squire dismounted, and committing robin to his brother-in-law, approached the monarch. "if i may be so bold as to put in a word, my liege," he said, "i can show you where a hart of ten is assuredly harboured. i viewed him as i rode through the park this morning, and cannot, therefore, be mistaken. his head is high and well palmed, great beamed and in good proportion, well burred and well pearled. he is stately in height, long, and well fed." "did you mark the slot, sir?" inquired james. "i did, my liege," replied nicholas. "and a long slot it was; the toes great, with round short joint-bones, large shin-bones, and the dew-claws close together. i will uphold him for a great old hart as ever proffered, and one that shall shew your majesty rare sport." "and we'll tak your word for the matter, sir," said james; "for ye're as gude a woodman as any we hae in our dominions. bring us to him, then." "will it please your majesty to ride towards yon glade?" said nicholas, "and, before you reach it, the hart shall be roused." james, assenting to the arrangement, nicholas sprang upon his steed, and, calling to the chief huntsman, they galloped off together, accompanied by the bloodhound, the royal cavalcade following somewhat more slowly in the same direction. a fair sight it was to see that splendid company careering over the plain, their feathered caps and gay mantles glittering in the sun, which shone brightly upon them. the morning was lovely, giving promise that the day, when further advanced, would be intensely hot, but at present it was fresh and delightful, and the whole company, exhilarated by the exercise, and by animated conversation, were in high spirits; and perhaps amongst the huge party, which numbered nearly three hundred persons, one alone was a prey to despair. but though richard assheton suffered thus internally, he bore his anguish with spartan firmness, resolved, if possible, to let no trace of it be visible in his features or deportment; and he so far succeeded in conquering himself, that the king, who kept a watchful eye upon him, remarked to sir john finett as they rode along, that a singular improvement had taken place in the young man's appearance. the cavalcade was rapidly approaching the glade at the lower end of the chase, when the lively notes of a horn were heard from the adjoining wood, followed by the deep baying of a bloodhound. "aha! they have roused him," cried the king, joyfully placing his own bugle to his lips, and sounding an answer. upon this the whole company halted in anxious expectation, the hounds baying loudly. the next moment, a noble hart burst from the wood, whence he had been driven by the shouts of nicholas and the chief huntsman, both of whom appeared immediately afterwards. "by my faith! a great hart as ever was hunted," exclaimed the king. "there boys, there! to him! to him!" dashing after the flying hart, the hounds made the welkin ring with their cries. many lovely damsels were there, but none thought of the cruelty of the sport--none sympathised with the noble animal they were running to death. the cries of the hounds--now loud and ringing--now deep and doling, accompanied by the whooping of the huntsmen, formed a stirring concert, which found a response in many a gentle bosom. the whole cavalcade was spread widely about, for none were allowed to ride near the king. over the plain they scoured, fleet as the wind, and the hart seemed making for a fell, forming part of the hill near the mansion. but ere he reached it, the relays stationed within a covert burst forth, and, turning him aside, he once more dashed fleetly across the broad expanse, as if about to return to his old lair. now he was seen plunging into some bosky dell; and, after being lost to view for a moment, bounding up the opposite bank, and stretching across a tract thickly covered with fern. here he gained upon the hounds, who were lost in the green wilderness, and their cries were hushed for a brief space--but anon they burst forth anew, and the pack were soon again in full cry, and speeding over the open ground. at first the cavalcade had kept pretty well together, but on the return the case was very different; and many of the dames, being unable to keep up with the hounds, fell off, and, as a natural consequence, many of the gallants lingered behind, too. thus only the keenest huntsmen held on. amongst these, and about fifty yards behind the king, were richard and nicholas. the squire was right when he predicted that the hart would show them good sport. plunging into the wood, the hard-pressed beast knocked up another stag, and took possession of his lair, but was speedily roused again by nicholas and the chief huntsman. once more he is crossing the wide plain, with hounds and huntsmen after him--once more he is turned by a new relay; but this time he shapes his course towards the woods skirting the darwen. it is a piteous sight to see him now; his coat black and glistening with sweat, his mouth embossed with foam, his eyes dull, big tears coursing down his cheeks, and his noble head carried low. his end seems nigh--for the hounds, though weary too, redouble their energies, and the monarch cheers them on. again the poor beast erects his head--if he can only reach yon coppice he is safe. despair nerves him, and with gigantic bounds he clears the intervening space, and disappears beneath the branches. quickly as the hounds come after him, they are at fault. "he has taken to the soil, sire," cried nicholas coming up. "to the river--to the river! you may see by the broken branches he has gone this way." forcing his way through the wood, james was soon on the banks of the darwen, which here ran deep and slow. the hart was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any slot on the further side to denote that he had gone forth. it was evident, therefore, that he had swam down the stream. at this moment a shout was heard a hundred yards lower down, proceeding from nicholas; and, riding in the direction of the sound, the king found the hart at bay on the further side of the stream, and nearly up to his haunches in the water. the king regarded him for a moment anxiously. the poor animal was now in his last extremity, but he seemed determined to sell his life dearly. he stood on a bank projecting into the stream, round which the water flowed deeply, and could not be approached without difficulty and danger. he had already gored several hounds, whose bleeding bodies were swept down the current; and, though the others bayed round him, they did not dare to approach him, and could not get behind him, as a high bank arose in his rear. "have i your majesty's permission to despatch him?" asked nicholas. "ay, marry, if you can, sir," replied james. "but 'ware the tynes!--'ware the tynes!--'if thou be hurt with hart it brings thee to thy bier,' as the auld ballad hath it, and the adage is true, as we oursel's have seen." nicholas, however, heeded not the caution, but, drawing his wood-knife, and disencumbering himself of his cloak, he plunged into the stream, and with one or two strokes reached the bank. the hart watched his approach, as if divining his purpose, with a look half menacing, half reproachful, and when he came near, dashed his antlered head at him. nimbly eluding the blow, which, if it had taken effect, might have proved serious, nicholas plunged his weapon into the poor brute's throat, who instantly fell with a heavy splash into the water. "weel stricken! weel stricken!" shouted james, who had witnessed the performance from the opposite bank. "but how shall we get the carcase here?" "that is easily done, sire," replied nicholas. and taking hold of the horns, he guided the body to a low bank, a little below where the king stood. as soon as it was dragged ashore by the prickers, james put his bugle to his lips and blew a mort. a pryse was thrice sounded by nicholas, and soon afterwards the whole company came flocking round the spot, whooping the death-note. meanwhile, the hounds had gathered round the fallen hart, and were allowed to wreak their fury on him by tearing his throat, happily after sensibility was gone; while nicholas, again baring his knife, cut off the right fore-foot, and presented it to the king. while this ceremony was performed, the varlets of the kennel having cut down a great heap of green branches, and strewn them on the ground, laid the hart upon them, on his back, and then bore him to an open space in the wood, where he was broken up by the king, who prided himself upon his skill in all matters of woodcraft. while this office was in course of execution a bowl of wine was poured out for the monarch, which he took, adverting, as he did so, to the common superstition, that if a huntsman should break up a deer without drinking, the venison would putrefy. having drained the cup, he caused it to be filled again, and gave it to nicholas, saying the liquor was needful to him after the drenching he had undergone. james then proceeded with his task, and just before he completed it, he was reminded, by a loud croak above him, that a raven was at hand, and accordingly taking a piece of gristle from the spoon of the brisket, he cast it on the ground, and the bird immediately pounced down upon it and carried it off in his huge beak. after a brief interval, the seek was again winded, another hart was roused, and after a short but swift chase, pulled down by the hounds, and dispatched with his own hand by james. sir richard hoghton then besought the king to follow him, and led the way to a verdant hollow surrounded by trees, in which shady and delicious retreat preparations had been made for a slight silvan repast. upon a mossy bank beneath a tree, a cushion was placed for the king, and before it on the sward was laid a cloth spread with many dainties, including "neats' tongues powder'd well, and jambons of the hog, with sausages and savoury knacks to set men's minds agog"-- cold capons, and pigeon pies. close at hand was a clear cold spring, in which numerous flasks of wine were immersed. a few embers, too, had been lighted, on which carbonadoes of venison were prepared. no great form or ceremony was observed at the entertainment. sir john finett and sir thomas hoghton were in close attendance upon the monarch, and ministered to his wants; but several of the nobles and gentlemen stretched themselves on the sward, and addressed themselves to the viands set before them by the pages. none of the dames dismounted, and few could be prevailed upon to take any refreshment. besides the flasks of wine, there were two barrels of ale in a small cart, drawn by a mule, both of which were broached. the whole scene was picturesque and pleasing, and well calculated to gratify one so fond of silvan sports as the monarch for whom it was provided. in the midst of all this tranquillity and enjoyment an incident occurred which interrupted it as completely as if a thunder-storm had suddenly come on. just when the mirth was at the highest, and when the flowing cup was at many a lip, a tremendous bellowing, followed by the crashing of branches, was heard in the adjoining thicket. all started to their feet at the appalling sound, and the king himself turned pale. "what in heaven's name can it be, sir richard?" he inquired. "it must be a drove of wild cattle," replied the baronet, trembling. "wild cattle!" ejaculated james, in great alarm; "and sae near us. zounds! we shall be trampled and gored to death by these bulls of basan. sir richard, ye are a fause traitor thus to endanger the safety o' your sovereign, and ye shall answer for it, if harm come o' it." "i am unable to account for it, sire," stammered the frightened baronet. "i gave special directions to the prickers to drive the beasts away." "ye shouldna keep sic deevils i' your park, man," cried the monarch. "eh! what's that?" amidst all this consternation and confusion the bellowing was redoubled, and the crashing of branches drew nearer and nearer, and nicholas assheton rushed forward with the king's horse, saying, "mount, sire; mount, and away!" but james was so much alarmed that his limbs refused to perform their office, and he was unable to put foot in the stirrup. seeing his condition, nicholas cried out, "pardon, my liege; but at a moment of peril like the present, one must not stand on ceremony." so saying, he took the king round the waist, and placed him on his steed. at this juncture, a loud cry was heard, and a man in extremity of terror issued from the wood, and dashed towards the hollow. close on his heels came the drove of wild cattle, and, just as he gained the very verge of the descent, the foremost of the herd overtook him, and lowering his curled head, caught him on the points of his horns, and threw him forwards to such a distance that he alighted with a heavy crash almost at the king's feet. satisfied, apparently, with their vengeance, or alarmed by the numerous assemblage, the drove instantly turned tail and were pursued into the depths of the forest by the prickers. having recovered his composure, james bade some of the attendants raise the poor wretch, who was lying groaning upon the ground, evidently so much injured as to be unable to move without assistance. his garb was that of a forester, and his bulk--for he was stoutly and squarely built--had contributed, no doubt, to the severity of the fall. when he was lifted from the ground, nicholas instantly recognised in his blackened and distorted features those of christopher demdike. "what?" he exclaimed, rushing towards him. "is it thou, villain?" the sufferer only replied by a look of intense malignity. "eh! what--d'ye ken wha it is?" demanded james. "by my saul! i fear the puir fellow has maist of his banes broken." "no great matter if they be," replied nicholas, "and it may save the application of torture in case your majesty desires to put any question to him. chance has most strangely thrown into your hands one of the most heinous offenders in the kingdom, who has long escaped justice, but who will at length meet the punishment of his crimes. the villain is christopher demdike, son of the foul hag who perished in the flames on the summit of pendle hill, and captain of a band of robbers." "what! is the knave a warlock and a riever?" demanded james, regarding demdike with abhorrence, mingled with alarm. "both, sire," replied nicholas, "and an assassin to boot. he is a diabolical villain." "let him be taken to hoghton tower, and kept in some strong and secure place till we have leisure to examine him," said james,--"and see that he be visited by some skilful chirurgeon, for we wadna hae him dee, and sae rob the woodie." demdike, who appeared to be in great agony, now forced himself to speak. "i can make important disclosures to your majesty," he said, in hoarse and broken tones, "if you will hear them. i am not the only offender who has escaped from justice," he added, glancing vindictively at nicholas--"there is another, a notorious witch and murderess, who is still screened from justice. i can reveal her hiding-place." "your majesty will not give heed to such a villain's fabrications?" said nicholas. "are they fabrications, sir?" rejoined james, somewhat sharply. "we maun hear and judge. the snake, though scotched, will still bite, it seems. we hae hangit a highland cateran without trial afore this, and we may be tempted to tak the law into our ain hands again. bear the villain hence. see he be disposed of as already directed, and take good care he is strictly guarded. and now gie us a crossbow, sir richard hoghton, and bid the prickers drive the deer afore us, for we wad try our skill as a marksman." and while demdike was placed on the litter of green boughs which had recently sustained a nobler burthen in the fallen hart, and in this sort was conveyed to hoghton tower, james rode with his retinue towards a long glade, where, receiving a crossbow from the huntsman, he took up a favourable position behind a large oak, and several herds of deer being driven before him, he selected his quarries, and deliberately took aim at them, contriving in the course of an hour to bring down four fat bucks, and to maim as many others, which were pulled down by the hounds. and with this slaughter he was content. sir richard hoghton then informed his majesty that a huge boar, which, in sporting phrase, had left the sounder five years, had broken into the park the night before, and had been routing amongst the fern. the age and size of the animal were known by the print of the feet, the toes being round and thick, the edge of the hoof worn and blunt, the heel large, and the guards, or dew-claws, great and open, from all which appearances it was adjudged by the baronet to be "a great old boar, not to be refused." james at once agreed to hunt him, and the hounds being taken away, six couples of magnificent mastiffs, of the lancashire breed, were brought forward, and the monarch, under the guidance of sir richard hoghton and the chief huntsman, repaired to an adjoining thicket, in which the boar fed and couched. on arriving near his den, a boar-spear was given to the king, and the prickers advancing into the wood, presently afterwards reared the enormous brute. sallying forth, and freaming furiously, he was instantly assailed by the mastiffs; but, notwithstanding the number of his assailants, he made light of them, shaking them from his bristly hide, crushing them beneath his horny feet, thrusting at them with his sharpened tusks, and committing terrible devastation among them. repeated charges were made upon the savage animal by james, but it was next to impossible to get a blow at him for some time; and when at length the monarch made the attempt, he struck too low, and hit him on the snout, upon which the infuriated boar, finding himself wounded, sprang towards the horse, and ripped him open with his tusks. the noble charger instantly rolled over on his side, exposing the royal huntsman to the fury of his merciless assailant, whose tusks must have ploughed his flesh, if at this moment a young man had not ridden forward, and at the greatest personal risk approached the boar, and, striking straight downwards, cleft the heart of the fierce brute with his spear. meanwhile, the king, having been disengaged by the prickers from his wounded steed, which was instantly put out of its agony by the sword of the chief huntsman, looked for his deliverer, and, discovering him to be richard assheton, was loud in his expressions of gratitude. "faith! ye maun claim a boon at our hands," said james. "it maun never be said the king is ungrateful. what can we do for you, lad?" "for myself nothing, sire," replied richard. "but for another meikle--is that what ye wad hae us infer?" cried the king, with a smile. "aweel, the lassie shall hae strict justice done her; but for your ain sake we maun inquire into the matter. meantime, wear this," he added, taking a magnificent sapphire ring from his finger, "and, if you should ever need our aid, send it to us as a token." richard took the gift, and knelt to kiss the hand so graciously extended to him. by this time another horse had been provided for the monarch, and the enormous boar, with his feet upwards and tied together, was suspended upon a pole, and borne on the shoulders of four stout varlets as the grand trophy of the chase. when the royal company issued from the wood a strike of nine was blown by the chief huntsman, and such of the cavalcade as still remained on the field being collected together, the party crossed the chase, and took the direction of hoghton tower. chapter ix.--the banquet. on the king's return to hoghton tower, orders were given by sir richard for the immediate service of the banquet; it being the hospitable baronet's desire that festivities should succeed each other so rapidly as to allow of no tedium. the _coup-d'oeil_ of the banquet hall on the monarch's entrance was magnificent. panelled with black lustrous oak, and lighted by mullion windows, filled with stained glass and emblazoned with the armorial bearings of the family, the vast and lofty hall was hung with banners, and decorated with panoplies and trophies of the chase. three long tables ran down it, each containing a hundred covers. at the lower end were stationed the heralds, the pursuivants, and a band of yeomen of the guard, with the royal badge, a demi-rose crowned, impaled with a demi-thistle, woven in gold on their doublets, and having fringed pole-axes over their shoulders. behind them was a richly carved oak screen, concealing the passages leading to the buttery and kitchens, in which the clerk of the kitchen, the pantlers, and the yeomen of the cellar and ewery, were hurrying to and fro. above the screen was a gallery, occupied by the trumpeters and minstrels; and over all was a noble rafter roof. the tables were profusely spread, and glittered with silver dishes of extraordinary size and splendour, as well as with flagons and goblets of the same material, and rare design. the guests, all of whom were assembled, were outnumbered by the prodigious array of serving-men, pages, and yeomen waiters in the yellow and red liveries of the stuart. flourishes of trumpets announced the coming of the monarch, who was preceded by sir richard hoghton, bearing a white wand, and ushered with much ceremony to his place. at the upper end of the hall was a raised floor, and on either side of it an oriel window, glowing with painted glass. on this dais the king's table was placed, underneath a canopy of state, embroidered with the royal arms, and bearing james's kindly motto, "_beati pacifici_." seats were reserved at it for the dukes of buckingham and richmond, the earls of pembroke and nottingham, the lords howard of effingham and grey of groby, sir gilbert hoghton, and the bishop of chester. these constituted the favoured guests. grace having been said by the bishop, the whole company took their seats, and the general stillness hitherto prevailing throughout the vast hall was broken instantaneously by the clatter of trenchers. a famous feast it was, and worthy of commemoration. masters morris and miller, the two cooks who contrived it, as well as the labourers for the ranges, for the pastries, for the boiled meats, and for the pullets, performed their respective parts to admiration. the result was all that could be desired. the fare was solid and substantial, consisting of dishes which could be cut and come to again. amongst the roast meats were chines of beef, haunches of venison, gigots of mutton, fatted geese, capons, turkeys, and sucking pigs; amongst the boiled, pullets, lamb, and veal; but baked meats chiefly abounded, and amongst them were to be found red-deer pasty, hare-pie, gammon-of-bacon pie, and baked wild-boar. with the salads, which were nothing more than what would, now-a-days be termed "vegetables," were mixed all kinds of soused fish, arranged according to the sewer's directions--"the salads spread about the tables, the fricassees mixed with them, the boiled meats among the fricassees, roast meats amongst the boiled, baked meats amongst the roast, and carbonadoes amongst the baked." this was the first course merely. in the second were all kinds of game and wild-fowl, roast herons three in a dish, bitterns, cranes, bustards, curlews, dotterels, and pewits. besides these there were lumbar pies, marrow pies, quince pies, artichoke pies, florentines, and innumerable other good things. some dishes were specially reserved for the king's table, as a baked swan, a roast peacock, and the jowl of a sturgeon soused. these and a piece of roast beef formed the principal dishes. the attendants at the royal table comprised such gentlemen as wore sir richard hoghton's liveries, and amongst these, of course, were nicholas assheton and sherborne. on seeing the former, the king immediately inquired about his deliverer, and on hearing he was at the lower tables, desired he might be sent for, and, as richard soon afterwards appeared, having on his return from the chase changed his sombre apparel for gayer attire, james smiled graciously upon him, and more than once, as a mark of especial favour, took the wine-cup from his hands. the king did ample justice to the good things before him, and especially to the beef, which he found so excellent, that the carver had to help him for the second time. sir richard hoghton ventured to express his gratification that his majesty found the meat good--"indeed, it is generally admitted," he said, "that our lancashire beef is well fed, and well flavoured." "weel flavoured!" exclaimed james, as he swallowed the last juicy morsel; "it is delicious! finer beef nae man ever put teeth into, an i only wish a' my loving subjects had as gude a dinner as i hae this day eaten. what joint do ye ca' it, sir richard?" he asked, with eyes evidently twinkling with a premeditated jest. "this dish," replied the host, somewhat surprised "this, sire, is a loin of beef." "a loin!" exclaimed james, taking the carving-knife from the sewer, who stood by, "by my faith that is not title honourable enough for joint sae worthy. it wants a dignity, and it shall hae it. henceforth," he added, touching the meat with the flat of the long blade, as if placing the sword on the back of a knight expectant, "henceforth, it shall be sir-loin, an see ye ca' it sae. give me a cup of wine, master richard assheton." all the nobles at the table laughed loudly at the monarch's jest, and as it was soon past down to those at the lower table, the hall resounded with laughter, in which page and attendant of every degree joined, to the great satisfaction of the good-natured originator of the merriment.[ ] "my dear dad and gossip appears in unwonted good spirits to-day," observed the duke of buckingham. "an wi' gude reason, steenie," replied the king, "for we dinna mind when we hae had better sport--always excepting the boar-hunt, when we should hae been rippit up by the cursed creature's tusks but for this braw laddie," he added, pointing to richard. "ye maun see what can be done for him, steenie. we maun hae him at court." "your majesty's wishes have only to be expressed to be fulfilled," replied buckingham, somewhat drily. "were i the lad i wadna place ower meikle dependence on the duke's promises," remarked archie armstrong, in a low tone, to nicholas. "has your majesty made any further inquiries about the girl suspected of witchcraft?" inquired buckingham, renewing the conversation. "whist, steenie, whist!" cried james. "didna ye see her yoursel' this morning?" he added, in a low tone. "ah! i recollect ye werena at the chase. aweel, i hae conferred wi' her, an am sair perplexed i' the matter. she is a well-faur'd lassie as ony i' the realm, and answers decorously and doucely. sooth to say, her looks and manners are mightily in her favour." "then you mean to dismiss the matter without further investigation?" observed buckingham. "i always thought your majesty delighted to exercise your sagacity in detecting the illusions practised by satan and his worshippers." "an sae we do," replied james. "but bend your bonnie head this way till we whisper in your ear. we hae a device for finding it a' out, which canna fail; and when you ken it you will applaud your dear dad's wisdom, and perfit maistery o' the haill science o' kingcraft." "i would your majesty would make me acquainted with this notable scheme," replied buckingham, with ill-concealed contempt. "i might make it more certain of success." "na--na--we shanna let the cat out of the bag just yet," returned the king. "we mean it as a surprise to ye a'." "then, whatever be the result, it is certain to answer the effect intended," observed the duke. "gae wa'! ye are ever sceptical, steenie--ever misdoubting your ain dear dad and gossip," rejoined james; "but ye shall find we haena earned the title o' the british solomon for naething." soon after this the king arose, and was ushered to his apartments by sir richard hoghton with the same ceremony as had been observed on his entrance. he was followed by all the nobles; and nicholas and the others, being released from their duties, repaired to the lower end of the hall to dine. the revel was now sufficiently boisterous; for, as the dames had departed at the same time as the monarch, all restraint was cast aside. the wine-cup flowed freely, and the rafters rang with laughter. under ordinary circumstances richard would have shrunk from such a scene; but he had now a part to play, and therefore essayed to laugh at each jest, and to appear as reckless as his neighbours. he was glad, however, when the signal for general dispersion was given; for though sir richard hoghton was unwilling to stint his guests, he was fearful, if they sat too long over their wine, some disturbances might ensue; and indeed, when the revellers came forth and dispersed within the base court, their flushed cheeks, loud voices, and unsteady gait, showed that their potations had already been deep enough. meanwhile, quite as much mirth was taking place out of doors as had occurred within the banqueting-hall. as soon as the king sat down to dinner, according to promise the gates were thrown open, and the crowd outside admitted. the huge roast was then taken down, carved, and distributed among them; the only difficulty experienced being in regard to trenchers, and various and extraordinary were the contrivances resorted to to supply the deficiency. this circumstance, however, served to heighten the fun, and, as several casks of stout ale were broached at the same time, universal hilarity prevailed. still, in the midst of so vast a concourse, many component parts of which had now began to experience the effects of the potent liquor, some little manifestation of disorder might naturally be expected; but all such was speedily quelled by the yeomen of the guard, and other officials appointed for the purpose, and, amidst the uproar and confusion, harmony generally prevailed. while elbowing his way through the crowd, nicholas felt his sleeve plucked, and turning, perceived nance redferne, who signed him to follow her, and there was something in her manner that left him no alternative but compliance. nance passed on rapidly, and entered the doorway of a building, where it might be supposed they would be free from interruption. "what do you want with me, nance?" asked the squire, somewhat impatiently. "i must beg to observe that i cannot be troubled further on your account, and am greatly afraid aspersions may be thrown on my character, if i am seen talking with you." "a few words wi' me winna injure your character, squire," rejoined nance, "an it's on your account an naw on my own that ey ha' brought you here. ey ha' important information to gie ye. what win yo say when ey tell yo that jem device, elizabeth device, an' her dowter jennet are here--aw breedin mischief agen yo, ruchot assheton, and alizon?" "the devil!" ejaculated nicholas. "eigh, yo'n find it the devil, ey con promise ye, onless their plans be frustrated," said nance. "that can be easily done," replied nicholas. "i'll cause them to be arrested at once." "nah, nah--that canna be," rejoined nance--"yo mun bide your time." "what! and allow such miscreants to go at large, and work any malice they please against me and my friends!" replied nicholas. "show me where they are, nance, or i must make you a prisoner." "nah! yo winna do that, squire," she replied in a tone of good-humoured defiance. "ye winna do it for two good reasons: first, becose yo'd be harming a freend who wants to sarve yo, and _win_ do so, if yo'n let her; and secondly, becose if yo wur to raise a finger agen me, ey'd deprive yo of speech an motion. when the reet moment comes yo shan strike--boh it's nah come yet. the fruit is nah ripe eneugh to gather. ey am os anxious os you con be, that the whole o' the demdike brood should be swept away--an it shan be, if yo'n leave it to me." "well, i commit the matter entirely to you," said nicholas. "apparently, it cannot be in better hands. but are you aware that christopher demdike is a prisoner here in hoghton tower? he was taken this morning in the park." "ey knoa it," replied nance; "an ey knoa also why he went there, an it wur my intention to ha' revealed his black design to yo. however, it has bin ordert differently. boh in respect to t'others, wait till i gie yo the signal. they are disguised; boh even if ye see 'em, an recognise 'em, dunna let it appear till ey gie the word, or yo'n spoil aw." "your injunctions shall be obeyed implicitly, nance," rejoined, nicholas. "i have now perfect reliance upon you. but when shall i see you again?" "that depends upon circumstances," she replied. "to-neet, may be--may be to-morrow neet. my plans maun be guided by those of others. boh when next yo see me you win ha' to act." and, without waiting an answer, she rushed out of the doorway, and, mingling with the crowd, was instantly lost to view; while nicholas, full of the intelligence he had received, betook himself slowly to his lodgings. scarcely were they gone when a door, which had been standing ajar, near them, was opened wide, and disclosed the keen visage of master potts. "here's a pretty plot hatching--here's a nice discovery i have made!" soliloquised the attorney. "the whole demdike family, with the exception of the old witch herself, whom i saw burnt on pendle hill, are at hoghton tower. this shall be made known to the king. i'll have nicholas assheton arrested at once, and the woman with him, whom i recognise as nance redferne. it will be a wonderful stroke, and will raise me highly in his majesty's estimation. yet stay! will not this interfere with my other plans with jennet? let me reflect. i must go cautiously to work. besides, if i cause nicholas to be arrested, nance will escape, and then i shall have no clue to the others. no--no; i must watch nicholas closely, and take upon myself all the credit of the discovery. perhaps through jennet i may be able to detect their disguises. at all events, i will keep a sharp look-out. affairs are now drawing to a close, and i have only, like a wary and experienced fowler, to lay my nets cleverly to catch the whole covey." and with these ruminations, he likewise went forth into the base court. the rest of the day was one round of festivity and enjoyment, in which all classes participated. there were trials of skill and strength, running, wrestling, and cudgeling-matches, with an infinite variety of country games and shows. towards five o'clock a rush-cart, decked with flowers and ribbons, and bestridden by men bearing garlands, was drawn up in front of the central building of the tower, in an open window of which sat james--a well-pleased spectator of the different pastimes going forward; and several lively dances were executed by a troop of male and female morris-dancers, accompanied by a tabor and pipe. but though this show was sufficiently attractive, it lacked the spirit of that performed at whalley; while the character of maid marian, which then found so charming a representative in alizon, was now personated by a man--and if nicholas assheton, who was amongst the bystanders, was not deceived, that man was jem device. enraged by this discovery, the squire was about to seize the ruffian; but, calling to mind nance's counsel, he refrained, and jem (if it indeed were he) retired with a largess, bestowed by the royal hand as a reward for his uncouth gambols. the rush-cart and morris-dancers having disappeared, another drollery was exhibited, called the "fool and his five sons," the names of the hopeful offspring of the sapient sire being pickle herring, blue hose, pepper hose, ginger hose, and jack allspice. the humour of this piece, though not particularly refined, seemed to be appreciated by the audience generally, as well as by the monarch, who laughed heartily at its coarse buffoonery. next followed "the plough and sword dance;" the principal actors being a number of grotesque figures armed with swords, some of whom were yoked to a plough, on which sat a piper, playing lustily while dragged along. the plough was guided by a man clothed in a bear-skin, with a fur cap on his head, and a long tail, like that of a lion, dangling behind him. in this hirsute personage, who was intended to represent the wood-demon, hobthurst, nicholas again detected jem device, and again was strongly tempted to disobey nance's injunctions, and denounce him--the rather that he recognised in an attendant female, in a fantastic dress, the ruffian's mother, elizabeth; but he once more desisted. as soon as the mummers arrived in front of the king, the dance began. with their swords held upright, the party took hands and wheeled rapidly round the plough, keeping time to a merry measure played by the piper, who still maintained his seat. suddenly the ring was enlarged to double its former size, each man extending his sword to his neighbour, who took hold of the point; after which an hexagonal figure was formed, all the blades being brought together. the swords were then quickly withdrawn, flashing like sunbeams, and a four square figure was presented, the dancers vaulting actively over each other's heads. other variations succeeded, not necessary to be specified--and the sport concluded by a general clashing of swords, intended to represent a melee. meanwhile, nicholas had been joined by richard assheton, and the latter was not long in detecting the two devices through their disguises. on making this discovery he mentioned it to the squire, and was surprised to find him already aware of the circumstance, and not less astonished when he was advised to let them alone; the squire adding he was unable at that time to give his reasons for such counsel, but, being good and conclusive, richard would be satisfied of their propriety hereafter. the young man, however, thought otherwise, and, notwithstanding his relative's attempts to dissuade him, announced his intention of causing the parties to be arrested at once; and with this design he went in search of an officer of the guard, that the capture might be effected without disturbance. but the throng was so close round the dancers that he could not pierce it, and being compelled to return and take another course, he got nearer to the mazy ring, and was unceremoniously pushed aside by the mummers. at this moment both his arms were forcibly grasped, and a deep voice on the right whispered in his ear--"meddle not with us, and we will not meddle with you," while similar counsel was given him in other equally menacing tones, though in a different key, on the left. richard would have shaken off his assailants, and seized them in his turn, but power to do so was wanting to him. for the moment he was deprived of speech and motion; but while thus situated he felt that the sapphire ring given him by the king was snatched from his finger by the first speaker, whom he knew to be jem device, while a fearful spell was muttered over him by elizabeth. as this occurred at the time when the rattling of the swords engaged the whole attention of the spectators, no one noticed what was going forward except nicholas, and, before he could get up to the young man, the two miscreants were gone, nor could any one tell what had become of them. "have the wretches done you a mischief?" asked the squire, in a low tone, of richard. "they have stolen the king's ring, which i meant to use in alizon's behalf," replied the young man, who by this time had recovered his speech. "that is unlucky, indeed," said nicholas. "but we can defeat any ill design they may intend, by acquainting sir john finett with the circumstance." "let them be," said a voice in his ear. "the time is not yet come." the squire did not look round, for he well knew that the caution proceeded from nance redferne. and, accordingly, he observed to richard--"tarry awhile, and you will be amply avenged." and with this assurance the young man was fain to be content. just then a trumpet was sounded, and a herald stationed on the summit of the broad flight of steps leading to the great hall, proclaimed in a loud voice that a tilting-match was about to take place between archie armstrong, jester to his most gracious majesty, and davy droman, who filled the same honourable office to his grace the duke of buckingham, and that a pair of gilt-heel'd chopines would be the reward of the successful combatant. this announcement was received with cheers, and preparations were instantly made for the mock tourney. a large circle being formed by the yeomen of the guard, with an alley leading to it on either side, the two combatants, mounted on gaudy-caparisoned hobby-horses, rode into the ring. both were armed to the teeth, each having a dish-cover braced around him in lieu of a breastplate, a newly-scoured brass porringer on his head, a large pewter platter instead of a buckler, and a spit with a bung at the point, to prevent mischief, in place of a lance. the duke's jester was an obese little fellow, and his appearance in this warlike gear was so eminently ridiculous, that it provoked roars of laughter, while archie was scarcely less ridiculous. after curveting round the arena in imitation of knights of chivalry, and performing "their careers, their prankers, their false trots, their smooth ambles, and canterbury paces," the two champions took up a position opposite each other, with difficulty, as it seemed, reining in their pawing chargers, and awaiting the signal of attack to be given by sir john finett, the judge of the tournament. this was not long delayed, and the "laissez aller" being pronounced, the preux chevaliers started forward with so much fury, and so little discretion, that meeting half-way with a tremendous shock, and butting against each other like two rams, both were thrown violently backwards, exhibiting, amid the shouts of the spectators, their heels, no longer hidden by the trappings of their steeds, kicking in the air. encumbered as they were, some little time elapsed before they could regain their feet, and their lances having been removed in the mean time, by order of sir john finett, as being weapons of too dangerous a description for such truculent combatants, they attacked each other with their broad lathen daggers, dealing sounding blows upon helm, habergeon, and shield, but doing little personal mischief. the strife raged furiously for some time, and, as the champions appeared pretty well matched, it was not easy to say how it would terminate, when chance seemed to decide in favour of davy droman; for, in dealing a heavier blow than usual, archie's dagger snapped in twain, leaving him at the mercy of his opponent. on this the doughty davy, crowing lustily like chanticleer, called upon him to yield; but archie was so wroth at his misadventure, that, instead of complying, he sprang forward, and with the hilt of his broken weapon dealt his elated opponent a severe blow on the side of the head, not only knocking off the porringer, but stretching him on the ground beside it. the punishment he had received was enough for poor davy. he made no attempt to rise, and archie, crowing in his turn, trampling upon the body of his prostrate foe, and then capering joyously round it, was declared the victor, and received the gilt chopines from the judge, amidst the laughter and acclamations of the beholders. with this the public sports concluded; and, as evening was drawing on apace, such of the guests as were not invited to pass the night within the tower, took their departure; while shortly afterwards, supper being served in the banqueting-hall on a scale of profusion and magnificence quite equal to the earlier repast, the king and the whole of his train sat down to it. chapter x.--evening entertainments. other amusements were reserved for the evening. while revelry was again held in the great hall; while the tables groaned, for the third time since morning, with good cheer, and the ruby wine, which seemed to gush from inexhaustible fountains, mantled in the silver flagons; while seneschal, sewer, and pantler, with the yeomen of the buttery and kitchen, were again actively engaged in their vocations; while of the three hundred guests more than half, as if insatiate, again vied with each other in prowess with the trencher and the goblet; while in the words of old taylor, the water poet, but who was no water-drinker--and who thus sang of the hospitality of the men of manchester, in the early part of the seventeenth century--they had "roast, boil'd, bak'd, too, too much, white, claret, sack. nothing they thought too heavy or too hot, can follow'd can, and pot succeeded pot." --during this time preparations were making for fresh entertainments out of doors. the gardens at hoghton tower, though necessarily confined in space, owing to their situation on the brow of a hill, were beautifully laid out, and commanded from their balustred terraces magnificent views of the surrounding country. below them lay the well-wooded park, skirted by the silvery darwen, with the fair village of walton-le-dale immediately beyond it, the proud town of preston further on, and the single-coned nese point rising majestically in the distance. the principal garden constituted a square, and was divided with mathematical precision, according to the formal taste of the time, into smaller squares, with a broad well-kept gravel walk at each angle. these plots were arranged in various figures and devices--such as the cinq-foil, the flower-de-luce, the trefoil, the lozenge, the fret, the diamond, the crossbow, and the oval--all very elaborate and intricate in design. besides these knots, as they were termed, there were labyrinths, and clipped yew-tree walks, and that indispensable requisite to a garden at the period, a maze. in the centre was a grassy eminence, surmounted by a pavilion, in front of which spread a grass-plot of smoothest turf, ordinarily used as a bowling-green. at the lower end of this a temporary stage was erected, for the masque about to be represented before the king. torches were kindled, and numerous lamps burned in the branches of the adjoining trees; but they were scarcely needed, for the moon being at the full, the glorious effulgence shed by her upon the scene rendered all other light pale and ineffectual. after supper, at which the drinking was deeper than at dinner, the whole of the revellers repaired to the garden, full of frolic and merriment, and well-disposed for any diversion in store for them. the king was conducted to the bowling-green by his host, preceded by a crowd of attendants bearing odoriferous torches; but the royal gait being somewhat unsteady, the aid of sir gilbert hoghton's arm was required to keep the monarch from stumbling. the rest of the bacchanalians followed, and, elated as they were, it will not be wondered that they put very little restraint upon themselves, but shouted, sang, danced, and indulged in all kinds of licence. opposite the stage prepared for the masquers a platform had been reared, in front of which was a chair for the king, with seats for the nobles and principal guests behind it. the sides were hung with curtains of crimson velvet fringed with gold; the roof decorated like a canopy; so that it had a very magnificent effect. james lolled back in his chair, and jested loudly and rather indecorously with the various personages as they took their places around him. in less than five minutes the whole of the green was filled with revellers, and great was the pushing and jostling, the laughing and screaming, that ensued among them. silence was then enjoined by sir john finett, who had stationed himself on the steps of the stage, and at this command the assemblage became comparatively quiet, though now and then a half-suppressed titter or a smothered scream would break out. amid this silence the king's voice could be distinctly heard, and his coarse jests reached the ears of all the astonished audience, provoking many a severe comment from the elders, and much secret laughter from the juniors. the masque began. two tutelar deities appeared on the stage. they were followed by a band of foresters clad in lincoln green, with bows at their backs. the first deity wore a white linen tunic, with flesh-coloured hose and red buskins, and had a purple taffeta mantle over his shoulders. in his hand he held a palm branch, and a garland of the same leaves was woven round his brow. the second household god was a big brawny varlet, wild and shaggy in appearance, being clothed in the skins of beasts, with sandals of untanned cowhide. on his head was a garland of oak leaves; and from his neck hung a horn. he was armed with a hunting-spear and wood-knife, and attended by a large lancashire mastiff. advancing to the front of the stage, the foremost personage thus addressed the monarch-- "this day--great king for government admired! which these thy subjects have so much desired-- shall be kept holy in their heart's best treasure, and vow'd to james as is this month to cæsar. and now the landlord of this ancient tower, thrice fortunate to see this happy hour, whose trembling heart thy presence sets on fire, unto this house--the heart of all our shire-- does bid thee cordial welcome, and would speak it in higher notes, but extreme joy doth break it. he makes his guests most welcome, in his eyes love tears do sit, not he that shouts and cries. and we the antique guardians of this place,-- i of this house--he of the fruitful chase,-- since the bold hoghtons from this hill took name, who with the stiff, unbridled saxons came, and so have flourish'd in this fairer clime successively from that to this our time, still offering up to our immortal powers sweet incense, wine, and odoriferous flowers; while sacred vesta, in her virgin tire, with vows and wishes tends the hallow'd fire. now seeing that thy majesty is thus greater than household deities like us, we render up to thy more powerful guard, this tower. this knight is thine--he is thy ward, for by thy helping and auspicious hand, he and his home shall ever, ever stand and flourish, in despite of envious fate; and then live, like augustus, fortunate. and long, long mayst thou live!--to which both men and guardian angels cry--"amen! amen!" james, who had demeaned himself critically during the delivery of the address, observed at its close to sir richard hoghton, who was standing immediately behind his chair, "we cannot say meikle for the rhymes, which are but indifferently strung together, but the sentiments are leal and gude, and that is a' we care for." on this the second tutelar divinity advanced, and throwing himself into an attitude, as if bewildered by the august presence in which he stood, exclaimed-- "thou greatest of mortals!"-- and then stopped, as if utterly confounded. the king looked at him for a moment, and then roared out--"weel, gudeman, your commencement is pertinent and true enough; and though we be 'the greatest of mortals,' as ye style us, dinna fash yoursel' about our grandeur, but go on, as if we were nae better nor wiser than your ain simple sel'." but, instead of encouraging the dumbfounded deity, this speech completely upset him. he hastily retreated; and, in trying to screen himself behind the huntsman, fell back from the stage, and his hound leapt after him. the incident, whether premeditated or not, amused the spectators much more than any speech he could have delivered, and the king joined heartily in the merriment. silence being again restored, the first divinity came forward once more, and spoke thus:-- 'dread lord! thy majesty hath stricken dumb his weaker god-head; if to himself he come, unto thy service straight he will commend these foresters, and charge them to attend thy pleasure in this park, and show such sport; to the chief huntsman and thy princely court, as the small circle of this round affords, and be more ready than he was in words."[ ] "weel spoken, and to the purpose, gude fallow," cried james. "and we take this opportunity of assuring our worthy host, in the presence of his other guests, that we have never had better sport in park or forest than we have this day enjoyed--have never eaten better cheer, nor quaffed better wine than at his board--and, altogether, have never been more hospitably welcomed." sir richard was overwhelmed by his majesty's commendation. "i have done nothing, my gracious liege," he said, "to merit such acknowledgment on your part, and the delight i experience is only tempered by my utter unworthiness." "hoot-toot! man," replied james, jocularly, "ye merit a vast deal mair than we hae said to you. but gude folk dinna always get their deserts. ye ken that, sir richard. and now, hae ye not some ither drolleries in store for us?" the baronet replied in the affirmative, and soon afterwards the stage was occupied by a new class of performers, and a drollery commenced which kept the audience in one continual roar of laughter so long as it lasted. and yet none of the parts had been studied, the actors entirely trusting to their own powers of comedy to carry it out. the principal character was the cap justice, enacted by sir john finett, who took occasion in the course of the performance to lampoon and satirise most of the eminent legal characters of the day, mimicking the voices and manner of the three justices--crooke, hoghton, and doddridge--so admirably, that his hearers were wellnigh convulsed; and the three learned gentlemen, who sat near the king, though fully conscious of the ridicule applied to them, were obliged to laugh with the rest. but the unsparing satirist was not content with this, but went on, with most of the other attendants upon the king, and being intimately versed in court scandal, he directed his lash with telling effect. as a contrast to the malicious pleasantry of the cap justice, were the gambols and jests of robin goodfellow--a merry imp, who, if he led people into mischief, was always ready to get them out of it. then there was a dance by bill huckler, old crambo, and tom o' bedlam, the half-crazed individual already mentioned as being among the crowd in the base court. this was applauded to the echo, and consequently repeated. but the most diverting scene of all was that in which jem tospot and the three doll wangos appeared. though given in the broadest vernacular of the county, and scarcely intelligible to the whole of the company, the dialogue of this part of the piece was so lifelike and natural, that every one recognised its truth; while the situations, arranged with the slightest effort, and on the spur of the moment, were extremely ludicrous. the scene was supposed to take place in a small lancashire alehouse, where a jovial pedlar was carousing, and where, being visited by his three sweethearts--each of whom he privately declared to be the favourite--he had to reconcile their differences, and keep them all in good-humour. familiar with the character in all its aspects, nicholas played it to the life; and, to do them justice, dames baldwyn, tetlow, and nance redferne, were but little if at all inferior to him. there was a reality in their jealous quarrelling that gave infinite zest to the performance. "saul o' my body!" exclaimed james, admiringly, "those are three braw women. ane of them maun be sax feet if she is an inch, and weel made and weel favourt too. zounds! sir richard, there's nae standing the spells o' your lancashire witches. high-born and low-born, they are a' alike. i wad their only witchcraft lay in their een. i should then hae the less fear of 'em. but have you aught mair? for it is growing late, and ye ken we hae something to do in that pavilion." "only a merry dance, my liege, in which a man will appear in a dendrological foliage of fronds," replied the baronet. james laughed at the description, and soon afterwards a party of mummers, male and female, clad in various grotesque garbs, appeared on the stage. in the midst of them was the "dendrological man," enclosed in a framework of green boughs, like that borne by a modern jack-in-the-green. a ring was formed by the mummers, and the round commenced to lively music. while the mazy measure was proceeding, nance redferne, who had quitted the stage with nicholas, and now stood close to him among the spectators, said in a low tone, "look there!" the squire glanced in the direction indicated, and to his surprise and terror, distinguished, among the crowd at a little distance, the figure of a cistertian monk. "he is invisible to every eye except our own," whispered nance, "and is come to tell me it is time." "time for what?" demanded nicholas. "time for you to seize those two accursed devices, jem and his mother," replied nance. "they are both on yon boards. jem is the man in the tree, and elizabeth is the owd crone in the red kirtle and high-crowned hat. yo win knoa her feaw feace when yo pluck off her mask." "the monk is gone," cried nicholas; "i have kept my eyes steadily fixed on him, and he has melted into air. what has he to do with the devices?" "he is their fate," returned nance, "an ey ha' acted under his orders. boh mount, an seize them. ey win ge wi' ye." forcing his way through the crowd, nicholas ran up the steps, and, followed by nance, sprang upon the stage. his appearance occasioned considerable surprise; but as he was recognised by the spectators as the jolly jem tospot, who had so recently diverted them, and his companion as one of the three doll wangos, in anticipation of some more fun they received him with a round of applause. but without stopping to acknowledge it, or being for a moment diverted from his purpose, nicholas seized the old crone, and, consigning her to nance, caught hold of the leafy frame in which the man was encased, and pulled him from under it. but he began to think he had unkennelled the wrong fox, for the man, though a tall fellow, bore no resemblance to jem device; while, when the crone's mask was plucked off, she was found to be a comely young woman. meanwhile, all around was in an uproar, and amidst a hurricane of hisses, yells, and other indications of displeasure from the spectators, several of the mummers demanded the meaning of such a strange and unwarrantable proceeding. "they are a couple of witches," cried nicholas; "this is jem device and his mother elizabeth." "my name is nother jem nor device," cried the man. "nor mine elizabeth," screamed the woman. "we know the devices," cried two or three voices, "and these are none of 'em." nicholas was perplexed. the storm increased; threats accompanied the hisses; when luckily he espied a ring on the man's finger. he instantly seized his hand, and held it up to the general gaze. "a proof!--a proof!" he cried. "this sapphire ring was given by the king to my cousin, richard assheton, this morning, and stolen from him by jem device." "examine their features again," said nance redferne, waving her hands over them. "yo win aw knoa them now." the woman's face instantly altered. many years being added to it in a breath. the man changed equally. the utmost astonishment was evinced by all at the transformation, and the bystanders who had spoken before, now cried out loudly--"we know them perfectly now. they are the two devices." by this time an officer, attended by a party of halberdiers, had mounted the boards, and the two prisoners were delivered to their custody by nicholas. "howd!" cried the man; "ey win no longer deny my name. ey am jem device, an this is my mother, elizabeth. boh a warse offender than either on us stonds afore yo. this woman is nance redferne, grandowter of the owd hag, mother chattox. ey charge her wi' makin' wax images, an' stickin' pins in 'em, wi' intent to kill folk. hoo wad ha' kilt me mysel', wi' her devilry, if ey hadna bin too strong for her--an' that's why hoo bears me malice, an' has betrayed me to squoire nicholas assheton. seize her, an' ca' me as a witness agen her." and as nance was secured, he laughed malignantly. "ey care not," replied nance. "ey am now revenged on you both." while this impromptu performance took place, as much to the surprise of james as of any one else, and while he was desiring sir richard hoghton to ascertain what it all meant--at the very moment that the two devices and nance removed from the stage, an usher approached the monarch, and said that master potts entreated a moment's audience of his majesty. "potts!" exclaimed james, somewhat confused. "wha is he?--ah, yes! i recollect--a witch-finder. weel, let him approach." accordingly, the next moment the little attorney, whose face was evidently charged with some tremendous intelligence, was ushered into the king's presence. after a profound reverence, he said, "may it please your majesty, i have something for your private ear." "aweel, then," replied james, "approach us mair closely. what hae ye got to say, sir? aught mair anent these witches?" "a great deal, sire," said potts, in an impressive tone. "something dreadful has happened--something terrible." "eh! what?" exclaimed james, looking alarmed. "what is it, man? speak!" "murder? sire,--murder has been done," said potts, in low thrilling accents. "murder!" exclaimed james, horror-stricken. "tell us a' about it, and without more ado." but potts was still circumspect. with an air of deepest mystery, he approached his head as near as he dared to that of the monarch, and whispered in his ear. "can this be true?" cried james. "if sae--it's very shocking--very sad." "it is too true, as your majesty will find on investigation," replied potts. "the little girl i told you of, jennet device, saw it done." "weel, weel, there is nae accounting for human frailty and wickedness," said james. "let a' necessary steps be taken at once. we will consider what to do. but--d'ye hear, sir?--dinna let the bairn jennet go. haud her fast. d'ye mind that? now go, and cause the guilty party to be put under arrest." and on receiving this command master potts departed. scarcely was he gone than nicholas assheton came up to the railing of the platform, and, imploring his majesty's forgiveness for the disturbance he had occasioned, explained that it had been owing to the seizure of the two devices, who, for some wicked but unexplained purpose, had contrived to introduce themselves, under various disguises, into the tower. "ye did right to arrest the miscreants, sir," said james. "but hae ye heard what has happened?" "no, my liege," replied nicholas, alarmed by the king's manner; "what is it?" "come nearer, and ye shall learn," replied james; "for we wadna hae it bruited abroad, though if true, as we canna doubt, it will be known soon enough." and as the squire bent forward, he imparted some intelligence to him, which instantly changed the expression of the latter to one of mingled horror and rage. "it is false, sire!" he cried. "i will answer for her innocence with my life. she could not do it. your majesty's patience is abused. it is jennet who has done it--not she. but i will unravel the terrible mystery. you have the other two wretches prisoners, and can enforce the truth from them." "we will essay to do so," replied james; "but we have also another prisoner." "christopher demdike?" said nicholas. "ay, christopher demdike," rejoined james. "but another besides him--mistress nutter. you stare, sir; but it is true. she is in yonder pavilion. we ken fu' weel wha assisted her flight, and wha concealed her. maister potts has told us a'. it is weel for you that your puir kinsman, richard assheton, did us sic gude service at the boar-hunt to-day. we shall not now be unmindful of it, even though he cannot send us the ring we gave him." "it is here, sire," replied nicholas. "it was stolen from him by the villain, jem device. the poor youth meant to use it for alizon. i now deliver it to your majesty as coming from him in her behalf." "and we sae receive it," replied the monarch, brushing away the moisture that gathered thickly in his eyes. at this moment a tall personage, wrapped in a cloak, who appeared to be an officer of the guard, approached the railing. "i am come to inform your majesty that christopher demdike has just died of his wounds," said this personage. "and sae he has had a strae death, after a'!" rejoined james. "weel, we are sorry for it." "his portion will be eternal bale," observed the officer. "how know you that, sir?" demanded the king, sharply. "you are not his judge." "i witnessed his end, sire," replied the officer; "and no man who died as he died can be saved. the fiend was beside him at the death-throes." "save us!" exclaimed james. "ye dinna say so? god's santie! man, but this is grewsome, and gars the flesh creep on one's banes. let his foul carcase be taen awa', and hangit on a gibbet on the hill where malkin tower aince stood, as a warning to a' sic heinous offenders." as the king ceased speaking, master potts appeared out of breath, and greatly excited. "she has escaped, sire!" he cried. "wha! jennet!" exclaimed james. "if sae, we will tang you in her stead." "no, sire--alizon," replied potts. "i can nowhere find her; nor--" and he hesitated. "weel--weel--it is nae great matter," replied james, as if relieved, and with a glance of satisfaction at nicholas. "i know where alizon is, sire," said the officer. "indeed!" exclaimed james. "this fellow is strangely officious," he muttered to himself. "and where may she be, sir?" he added, aloud. "i will produce her within a quarter of an hour in yonder pavilion," replied the officer, "and all that master potts has been unable to find." "your majesty may trust him," observed nicholas, who had attentively regarded the officer. "depend upon it he will make good his words." "you think so?" cried the king. "then we will put him to the test. you will engage to confront alizon with her mother?" he added, to the officer. "i will, sire," replied the other. "but i shall require the assistance of a dozen men." "tak twenty, if you will," replied the king,--"i am impatient to see what you can do." "in a quarter of a minute all shall be ready within the pavilion, sire," replied the officer. "you have seen one masque to-night;--but you shall now behold a different one--the masque of death." and he disappeared. nicholas felt sure he would accomplish his task, for he had recognised in him the cistertian monk. "where is sir richard assheton of middleton?" inquired the king. "he left the tower with his daughter dorothy, immediately after the banquet," replied nicholas. "i am glad of it--right glad," replied the monarch; "the terrible intelligence can be the better broken to them. if it had come upon them suddenly, it might have been fatal--especially to the puir lassie. let sir ralph assheton of whalley come to me--and master roger nowell of read." "your majesty shall be obeyed," replied sir richard hoghton. the king then gave some instructions respecting the prisoners, and bade master potts have jennet in readiness. and now to see what terrible thing had happened. chapter xi.--fatality. along the eastern terrace a youth and maiden were pacing slowly. they had stolen forth unperceived from the revel, and, passing through a door standing invitingly open, had entered the garden. though overjoyed in each other's presence, the solemn beauty of the night, so powerful in its contrast to the riotous scene they had just quitted, profoundly impressed them. above, were the deep serene heavens, lighted up by the starry host and their radiant queen--below, the immemorial woods, steeped in silvery mists arising from the stream flowing past them. all nature was hushed in holy rest. in opposition to the flood of soft light emanating from the lovely planet overhead, and which turned all it fell on, whether tree, or tower, or stream, to beauty, was the artificial glare caused by the torches near the pavilion; while the discordant sounds occasioned by the minstrels tuning their instruments, disturbed the repose. as they went on, however, these sounds were lost in the distance, and the glare of the torches was excluded by intervening trees. then the moon looked down lovingly upon them, and the only music that reached their ears arose from the nightingales. after a pause, they walked on again, hand-in-hand, gazing at each other, at the glorious heavens, and drinking in the thrilling melody of the songsters of the grove. at the angle of the terrace was a small arbour placed in the midst of a bosquet, and they sat down within it. then, and not till then, did their thoughts find vent in words. forgetting the sorrows they had endured, and the perils by which they were environed, they found in their deep mutual love a shield against the sharpest arrows of fate. in low gentle accents they breathed their passion, solemnly plighting their faith before all-seeing heaven. poor souls! they were happy then--intensely happy. alas! that their happiness should be so short; for those few moments of bliss, stolen from a waste of tears, were all that were allowed them. inexorable fate still dogged their footsteps. amidst the bosquet stood a listener to their converse--a little girl with high shoulders and sharp features, on which diabolical malice was stamped. two yellow eyes glistened through the leaves beside her, marking the presence of a cat. as the lovers breathed their vows, and indulged in hopes never to be realised, the wicked child grinned, clenched her hands, and, grudging them their short-lived happiness, seemed inclined to interrupt it. some stronger motive, however, kept her quiet. what are the pair talking of now?--she hears her own name mentioned by the maiden, who speaks of her with pity, almost with affection--pardons her for the mischief she has done her, and hopes heaven will pardon her likewise. but she knows not the full extent of the girl's malignity, or even her gentle heart must have been roused to resentment. the little girl, however, feels no compunction. infernal malice has taken possession of her heart, and crushed every kindly feeling within it. she hates all those that compassionate her, and returns evil for good. what are the lovers talking of now? of their first meeting at whalley abbey, when one was may queen, and by her beauty and simplicity won the other's heart, losing her own at the same time. a bright unclouded career seemed to lie before them then. wofully had it darkened since. alas! alas! the little girl smiles. she hopes they will go on. she likes to hear them talk thus. past happiness is ever remembered with a pang by the wretched, and they _were_ happy then. go on--go on! but they are silent for awhile, for they wish to dwell on that hopeful, that blissful season. and a nightingale, alighting on a bough above them, pours forth its sweet plaint, as if in response to their tender emotions. they praise the bird's song, and it suddenly ceases. for the little girl, full of malevolence, stretches forth her hand, and it drops to the ground, as if stricken by a dart. "is thy heart broken, poor bird?" exclaimed the young man, taking up the hapless songster, yet warm and palpitating. "to die in the midst of thy song--'tis hard." "very hard!" replied the maiden, tearfully. "its fate seems a type of our own." the little girl laughed, but in a low tone, and to herself. the pair then grew sad. this slight incident had touched them deeply, and their conversation took a melancholy turn. they spoke of the blights that had nipped their love in the bud--of the canker that had eaten into its heart--of the destiny that so relentlessly pursued them, threatening to separate them for ever. the little girl laughed merrily. then they spoke of the grave--and of hope beyond the grave; and they spoke cheerfully. the little girl could laugh no longer, for with her all beyond the grave was despair. after that they spoke of the terrible power that satan had lately obtained in that unhappy district, of the arts he had employed, and of the votaries he had won. both prayed fervently that his snares might be circumvented, and his rule destroyed. during this part of the discourse the cat swelled to the size of a tiger, and his eyes glowed like fiery coals. he made a motion as if he would spring forward, but the voice of prayer arrested him, and he shrank back to his former size. "poor jennet is ensnared by the fiend," murmured the maiden, "and will perish eternally. would i could save her!" "it cannot be," replied the young man. "she is beyond redemption." the little girl gnashed her teeth with rage. "but my mother--i do not now despair of her," said alizon. "she has broken the bondage by which she was enchained, and, if she resists temptation to the last, i am assured will be saved." "heaven aid her!" exclaimed richard. scarcely were the words uttered, than the cat disappeared. "why, tib!--where are yo, tib? ey want yo!" cried the little girl in a low tone. but the familiar did not respond to the call. "where con he ha' gone?" cried jennet; "tib! tib!" still the cat came not. "then ey mun do the wark without him," pursued the little girl; "an ey win no longer delay it." and with this she crept stealthily round the arbour, and, approaching the side where richard sat, watched an opportunity of touching him unperceived. as her finger came in contact with his frame, a pang like death shot through his heart, and he fell upon alizon's shoulder. "are you ill?" she exclaimed, gazing at his pallid features, rendered ghastly white by the moonlight. richard could make no reply, and alizon, becoming dreadfully alarmed, was about to fly for assistance, but the young man, by a great effort, detained her. "ey mun now run an tell mester potts, so that hoo may be found wi' him," muttered jennet, creeping away. just then richard recovered his speech, but his words were faintly uttered, and with difficulty. "alizon," he said, "i will not attempt to disguise my condition from you. i am dying. and my death will be attributed to you--for evil-minded persons have persuaded the king that you have bewitched me, and he will believe the charge now. oh! if you would ease the pangs of death for me--if you would console my latest moments--leave me, and quit this place, before it be too late." "oh! richard," she cried distractedly; "you ask more than i can perform. if you are indeed in such imminent danger, i will stay with you--will die with you." "no! live for me--live--save yourself, alizon," implored the young man. "your danger is greater than mine. a dreadful death awaits you at the stake! oh! mercy, mercy, heaven! spare her--in pity spare her!--have we not suffered enough? i can no more. farewell for ever, alizon--one kiss--the last." and as their lips met, his strength utterly forsook him, and he fell backwards. "one grave!" he murmured; "one grave, alizon!"--and so, without a groan, he expired. alizon neither screamed nor swooned, but remained in a state of stupefaction, gazing at the body. as the moon fell upon the placid features, they looked as if locked in slumber. there he lay--the young, the brave, the beautiful, the loving, the beloved. fate had triumphed. death had done his work; but he had only performed half his task. "one grave--one grave--it was his last wish--it shall be so!" she cried, in frenzied tones, "i shall thus escape my enemies, and avoid the horrible and shameful death to which they would doom me." and she snatched the dagger from the ill-fated youth's side. "now, fate, i defy thee!" she cried, with a fearful laugh. one last look at that calm beautiful face--one kiss of the cold lips, which can no more return the endearment--and the dagger is pointed at her breast. but she is withheld by an arm of iron, and the weapon falls from her grasp. she looks up. a tall figure, clothed in the mouldering habiliments of a cistertian monk, stands beside her. she knows the vestments at once, for she has seen them before, hanging up in the closet adjoining her mother's chamber at whalley abbey--and the features of the ghostly monk seem familiar to her. "raise not thy hand against thyself," said the phantom, in a tone of awful reproof. "it is the fiend prompts thee to do it. he would take advantage of thy misery to destroy thee." "i took thee for the fiend," replied alizon, gazing at him with wonder rather than with terror. "who art thou?" "the enemy of thy enemies, and therefore thy friend," replied the monk. "i would have saved thy lover if i could, but his destiny was not to be averted. but, rest content, i will avenge him." "i do not want vengeance--i want to be with him," she replied, frantically embracing the body. "thou wilt soon be with him," said the phantom, in tones of deep significance. "arise, and come with me. thy mother needs thy assistance." "my mother!" exclaimed alizon, clearing the blinding tresses from her brow. "where is she?" "follow me, and i will bring thee to her," said the monk. "and leave him? i cannot!" cried alizon, gazing wildly at the body. "you must. a soul is at stake, and will perish if you come not," said the monk. "he is at rest, and you will speedily rejoin him." "with that assurance i will go," replied alizon, with a last look at the object of her love. "one grave--lay us in one grave!" "it shall be done according to your wish," said the monk. and he glided on with noiseless footsteps. alizon followed him along the terrace. presently they came to a dark yew-tree walk, leading to a labyrinth, and tracking it swiftly, as well as the overarched and intricate path to which it conducted, they entered a grotto, whence a flight of steps descended to a subterranean passage, hewn out of the rock. along this passage, which was of some extent, the monk proceeded, and alizon followed him. at last they came to another flight of steps, and here the monk stopped. "we are now beneath the pavilion, where you will find your mother," he said. "mount! the way is clear before you. i have other work to do." alizon obeyed; and, as she advanced, was surprised to find the monk gone. he had neither passed her nor ascended the steps, and must, therefore, have sunk into the earth. chapter xii.--the last hour. within the pavilion sat alice nutter. she was clad in deep mourning, but her dress seemed disordered as if by hasty travel. her looks were full of anguish and terror; her blanched tresses, once so dark and beautiful, hung dishevelled over her shoulders; and her thin hands were clasped in supplication. her cheeks were ashy pale, but on her brow was a bright red mark, as if traced by a finger dipped in blood. a lamp was burning on the table beside her. near it was a skull, and near this emblem of mortality an hourglass, running fast. the windows and doors of the building were closed, and it would seem the unhappy lady was a prisoner. she had been brought there secretly that night, with what intent she knew not; but she felt sure it was with no friendly design towards herself. early in the day three horsemen had arrived at her retreat in pendle forest, and without making any charge against her, or explaining whither they meant to take her, or indeed answering any inquiry, had brought her off with them, and, proceeding across the country, had arrived at a forester's hut on the outskirts of hoghton park. here they tarried till evening, placing her in a room by herself, and keeping strict watch over her; and when the shadows of night fell, they conveyed her through the woods, and by a private entrance to the gardens of the tower, and with equal secresy to the pavilion, where, setting a lamp before her, they left her to her meditations. all refused to answer her inquiries, but one of them, with a sinister smile, placed the hourglass and skull beside her. left alone, the wretched lady vainly sought some solution of the enigma--why she had been brought thither. she could not solve it; but she determined, if her capture had been made by any lawful authorities, to confess her guilt and submit to condign punishment. though the windows and doors were closed as before mentioned, sounds from without reached her, and she heard confused and tumultuous noises as if from a large assemblage. for what purpose were they met? could it be for her execution? no--there were strains of music, and bursts of laughter. and yet she had heard that the burning of a witch was a spectacle in which the populace delighted--that they looked upon it as a show, like any other; and why should they not laugh, and have music at it? but could she be executed without trial, without judgment? she knew not. all she knew was she was guilty, and deserved to die. but when this idea took possession of her, the laughter sounded in her ears like the yells of demons, and the strains like the fearful harmonies she had heard at weird sabbaths. all at once she recollected with indescribable terror, that on this very night the compact she had entered into with the fiend expired. that at midnight, unless by her penitence and prayers she had worked out her salvation, he could claim her. she recollected also, and with increased uneasiness, that the man who had set the hourglass on the table, and who had regarded her with a sinister smile as he did so, had said it was eleven o'clock! her last hour then had arrived--nay, was partly spent, and the moments were passing swiftly by. the agony she endured at this thought was intense. she felt as if reason were forsaking her, and, but for her determined efforts to resist it, such a crisis might have occurred. but she knew that her eternal welfare depended upon the preservation of her mental balance, and she strove to maintain it, and in the end succeeded. her gaze was fixed intently on the hourglass. she saw the sand trickling silently but swiftly down, like a current of life-blood, which, when it ceased, life would cease with it. she saw the shining grains above insensibly diminishing in quantity, and, as if she could arrest her destiny by the act, she seized the glass, and would have turned it, but the folly of the proceeding arrested her, and she set it down again. then horrible thoughts came upon her, crushing her and overwhelming her, and she felt by anticipation all the torments she would speedily have to endure. oceans of fire, in which miserable souls were for ever tossing, rolled before her. yells, such as no human anguish can produce, smote her ears. monsters of frightful form yawned to devour her. fiends, armed with terrible implements of torture, such as the wildest imagination cannot paint, menaced her. all hell, and its horrors, was there, its dreadful gulf, its roaring furnaces, its rivers of molten metal, ever burning, yet never consuming its victims. a hot sulphureous atmosphere oppressed her, and a film of blood dimmed her sight. she endeavoured to pray, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. she looked about for her bible, but it had been left behind when she was taken from her retreat. she had no safeguard--none. still the sand ran on. new agonies assailed her. hell was before her again, but in a new form, and with new torments. she closed her eyes. she shut her ears. but she saw it still, and heard its terrific yells. again she consults the hourglass. the sand is running on--ever diminishing. new torments assail her. she thinks of all she loves most on earth--of her daughter! oh! if alizon were near her, she might pray for her--might scare away these frightful visions--might save her. she calls to her--but she answers not. no, she is utterly abandoned of god and man, and must perish eternally. again she consults the hourglass. one quarter of an hour is all that remains to her. oh! that she could employ it in prayer! oh! that she could kneel--or even weep! a large mirror hangs against the wall, and she is drawn towards it by an irresistible impulse. she sees a figure within it--but she does not know herself. can that cadaverous object, with the white hair, that seems newly-arisen from the grave, be she? it must be a phantom. no--she touches her cheek, and finds it is real. but, ah! what is this red brand upon her brow? it must be the seal of the demon. she tries to efface it--but it will not come out. on the contrary, it becomes redder and deeper. again she consults the glass. the sand is still running on. how many minutes remain to her? "ten!" cried a voice, replying to her mental inquiry.--"ten!" and, turning, she perceived her familiar standing beside her. "thy time is wellnigh out, alice nutter," he said. "in ten minutes my lord will claim thee." "my compact with thy master is broken," she replied, summoning up all her resolution. "i have long ceased to use the power bestowed upon me; but, even if i had wished it, thou hast refused to serve me." "i have refused to serve you, madam, because you have disobeyed the express injunctions of my master," replied the familiar; "but your apostasy does not free you from bondage. you have merely lost advantages which you might have enjoyed. if you chose to dismiss me i could not help it. neither i nor my lord have been to blame. we have performed our part of the contract." "why am i brought hither?" demanded mistress nutter. "i will tell you," replied the familiar. "you were brought here by order of the king. your retreat was revealed to him by master potts, who learnt it from jennet device. the sapient sovereign intended to confront you with your daughter alizon, who, like yourself, is accused of witchcraft; but he will be disappointed--for when he comes for you, you will be out of his reach--ha! ha!" and he rubbed his hands at the jest. "alizon accused of witchcraft--say'st thou?" cried mistress nutter. "ay," replied the familiar. "she is suspected of bewitching richard assheton, who has been done to death by jennet device. for one so young, the little girl has certainly a rare turn for mischief. but no one will know the real author of the crime, and alizon will suffer for it." "heaven will not suffer such iniquity," said the lady. "as you have nothing to do with heaven, madam, it is needless to refer to it," said the familiar. "but it certainly is rather hard that one so young as alizon should perish." "can you save her?" asked mistress nutter. "oh! yes, i _could_ save her, but she will not let me," replied the familiar, with a grin. "no--no--it is impossible," cried the wretched woman. "and i cannot help her." "perhaps you might," observed the tempter. "my master, whom you accuse of harshness, is ever willing to oblige you. you have a few minutes left--do you wish him to aid her? command me, and i will obey you." "this is some snare," thought mistress nutter; "i will resist it." "you cannot be worse off than you are," remarked the familiar. "i know not that," replied the lady. "what would'st thou do?" "whatever you command me, madam. i can, do nothing of my own accord. shall i bring your daughter here? say so, and it shall be done." "no--thou would'st ensnare me," she replied. "i well know thou hast no power over her. thou would'st place some phantasm before me. i would see her, but not through thy agency." "she is here," cried alizon, opening the door of a closet, and rushing towards her mother, who instantly locked her in her arms. "pray for me, my child," cried mistress nutter, mastering her emotion, "or i shall be snatched from you for ever. my moments are numbered. pray--pray!" alizon fell on her knees, and prayed fervently. "you waste your breath," cried the familiar, in a mocking tone. "never till the brand shall disappear from her brow, and the writing, traced in her blood, shall vanish from this parchment, can she be saved. she is mine." "pray, alizon, pray!" shrieked mistress nutter. "i will tear her in pieces if she does not cease," cried the familiar, assuming a terrible shape, and menacing her with claws like those of a wild beast. "pray thou, mother!" cried alizon. "i cannot," replied the lady. "i will kill her if she but makes the attempt," howled the demon. "but try, mother, try!" cried alizon. the poor lady dropped on her knees, and raised her hands in humble supplication--"heaven forgive me!" she exclaimed. the demon seized the hourglass. "the sand is out--her term has expired--she is mine!" he cried. "clasp thy arms tightly round me, my child. he cannot take me from thee," shrieked the agonised woman. "release her, alizon, or i will slay thee likewise," roared the demon. "never," she replied; "thou canst not overcome me. ha!" she added joyfully, "the brand has disappeared from her brow." "and the writing from the parchment," howled the demon; "but i will have her notwithstanding." and he plunged his claws into alice nutter's flesh. but her daughter held her fast. "oh! hold me, my child--hold me, or i am lost!" shrieked the lady. "be warned, and let her go, or thy life shall pay for her's," cried the demon. "my life for her's, willingly," replied alizon. "then take thy fate," rejoined the evil spirit. and placing his hand upon her heart, it instantly ceased to beat. "mother, thou art saved--saved!" exclaimed alizon, throwing out her arms. and gazing at her for an instant with a seraphic look, she fell backwards, and expired. "thou art mine," roared the demon, seizing mistress nutter by the hair, and dragging her from her daughter's body, to which she clung desperately. "help!--help!" she cried. "thou mayst call, but thy cries will be unheeded," rejoined the familiar with mocking laughter. "thou liest, false fiend!" said mistress nutter. "heaven will help me now." and, as she spoke, the cistertian monk stood before them. "hence!" he cried with an imperious gesture to the demon. "she is no longer in thy power. hence!" and with a howl of rage and disappointment the familiar vanished. "alice nutter," continued the monk, "thy safety has been purchased at the price of thy daughter's life. but it is of little moment, for she could not live long. her gentle heart was broken, and, when the demon stopped it for ever, he performed unintentionally a merciful act. she must rest in the same grave with him she loved so well during life. this tell to those who will come to thee anon. thou art delivered from the yoke of satan. full expiation has been made. but earthly justice must be satisfied. thou must pay the penalty for crimes committed in the flesh, but what thou sufferest here shall avail thee hereafter." "i am content," she replied. "pass the rest of thy life in penitence and prayer," pursued the monk, "and let nothing divert thee from it; for, though free now, thou wilt be subject to evil influence and temptations to the last. remember this." "i will--i will," she rejoined. "and now," he said, "kneel beside thy daughter's body and pray. i will return to thee ere many minutes be passed. one task more, and then my mission is ended." chapter xiii.--the masque of death. short time as he had to await, james was unable to control his impatience. at last he arose, and, completely sobered by the recent strange events, descended the steps of the platform, and walked on without assistance. "let the yeomen of the guard keep back the crowd," he said to an officer, "and let none follow me but sir ralph assheton, master nicholas assheton, and master roger nowell. when i call, let the prisoners be brought forward." "your majesty shall be obeyed," replied the baronet, giving the necessary directions. james then moved slowly forward in the direction of the pavilion; and, as he went, called nicholas assheton to him. "wha was that officer?" he asked. "your pardon, my liege, but i cannot answer the question," replied nicholas. "and why not, sir?" demanded the monarch, sharply. "for reasons i will hereafter render to your majesty, and which i am persuaded you will find satisfactory," rejoined the squire. "weel, weel, i dare say you are right," said the king. "but do you think he will keep his word?" "i am sure of it," returned nicholas. "the time is come, then!" exclaimed james impatiently, and looking up at the pavilion. "the time is come!" echoed a sepulchral voice. "did you speak?" inquired the monarch. "no, sire," replied nicholas; "but some one seemed to give you intimation that all is ready. will it please you to go on?" "enter!" cried the voice. "wha speaks?" demanded the king. and, as no answer was returned, he continued--"i will not set foot in the structure. it may be a snare of satan." at this moment, the shutters of the windows flew open, showing that the pavilion was lighted up by many tapers within, while solemn strains of music issued from it. "enter!" repeated the voice. "have no fear, sire," said nicholas. "that canna be the wark o' the deil," cried james. "he does not delight in holy hymns and sweet music." "that is a solemn dirge for the dead," observed nicholas, as melodious voices mingled with the music. "weel, weel, i will go on at a' hazards," said james. the doors flew open as the king and his attendants approached, and, as soon as they had passed through them, the valves swung back to their places. a strange sad spectacle met their gaze. in the midst of the chamber stood a bier, covered with a velvet pall, and on it the bodies of a youth and maiden were deposited. pale and beautiful were they as sculptured marble, and a smile sat upon their features. side by side they were lying, with their arms enfolded, as if they had died in each other's embrace. a wreath of yew and cypress was placed above their heads, and flowers were scattered round them. they were richard and alizon. it was a deeply touching sight, and for some time none spake. the solemn dirge continued, interrupted only by the stifled sobs of the listeners. "both gone!" exclaimed nicholas, in accents broken by emotion; "and so young--so good--so beautiful! alas! alas!" "she could not have bewitched him," said the king. "alizon was all purity and goodness," cried nicholas, "and is now numbered with the angels." "the guilty one is in thy hands, o king!" said the voice. "it is for thee to punish." "and i will not hold my hand," said james. "the devices shall assuredly perish. when i go from this chamber, i will have them conveyed under a strong escort to lancaster castle. they shall die by the hands of the common executioner." "my mission, then, is complete," replied the voice. "i can rest in peace.". "who art thou?" demanded the king. "one who sinned deeply, but is now pardoned," replied the voice. the king was for a moment lost in reflection, and then turned to depart. at this moment a kneeling figure, whom no one had hitherto noticed, arose from behind the bier. it was a lady, robed in mourning. so ghastly pale were her features, and so skeleton-like her attenuated frame, that james thought he beheld a spectre, and recoiled in terror. the figure advanced slowly towards him. "who, and what art thou, in heaven's name?" he exclaimed. "i am alice nutter, sire," replied the lady, prostrating herself before him. "alice nutter, the witch!" cried the king. "why--ay, i recollect thou wert here. i sent for thee, but recent terrible events had put thee clean out of my head. but expect no grace from me, evil woman. i will show thee none." "i ask none, sire," replied the penitent. "i came to place myself in your hands, that justice may be done upon me." "ah!" exclaimed james. "dost thou, indeed, repent thee of thy iniquities? dost thou abjure the devil and all his works?" "i do," replied the lady, fervently. "my compact with the evil one has been broken by the prayers of my devoted daughter, who sacrificed herself for me, and thereby saved my soul alive. but human justice requires an expiation, and i am anxious to make it." "arise, ill-fated woman," said the king, much moved. "you must go to lancaster, but, in consideration of your penitence, no indignity shall be shown you. you must be strictly guarded, but you shall not be taken with the other prisoners." "i humbly thank your majesty," replied the lady. "may i take a last farewell of my child?" "do so," replied james. alice nutter then approached the bier, and, after gazing for a moment with deepest fondness upon the features of her daughter, imprinted a kiss upon her marble brow. in doing this her tears fell fast. "you can weep, i see," observed the king. "you are a witch no longer." "ay, heaven be praised! i can weep," she replied; "and so ease my over-burthened heart. oh! sire, none but those who have experienced it can tell the agony of being denied this relief of nature. farewell for ever, my blessed child!" she exclaimed, kissing her brow again; "and you, too, her beloved. nicholas assheton--it was her wish to be buried in the same grave with richard. you will see it done, nicholas?" "i will--i will!" replied the squire, in a voice of deepest emotion. "and i likewise promise it," said sir ralph assheton. "they shall rest together in whalley churchyard. it is well that sir richard and dorothy are gone," he observed to nicholas. "it is indeed," said the squire, "or we should have had another funeral to perform. pray heaven it be not so now!" "have you any other request to prefer?" demanded the king. "none whatever, sire," replied the lady, "except that i wish to make full restitution of all the land i have robbed him of, to master roger nowell; and, as some compensation, i would fain add certain lands adjoining, which have been conveyed over to sir ralph and nicholas assheton, only annexing the condition that a small sum annually be given in dole to the poor of the parish, that i may be remembered in their prayers." "we will see it done," said sir ralph and nicholas. "and i will see my part fulfilled," said nowell. "for any wrong you have done me i now freely and fully forgive you, and may heaven in its infinite mercy forgive you likewise!" "amen!" ejaculated the monarch. and all the others joined in the ejaculation. the king then moved to the door, which was opened for him by the two asshetons. at the foot of the steps stood master potts, attended by an officer of the guard and a party of halberdiers. in the midst of them, with their hands tied behind their backs, were jem device, his mother, jennet, and poor nance redferne. jem looked dogged and sullen, elizabeth downcast, but jennet retained her accustomed malignant expression. poor nance was the only one who excited any sympathy. jennet's malice seemed now directed against master potts, whom she charged with having betrayed and deceived her. "if tib had na deserted me he should tear thee i' pieces, thou ill-favourt little monster," she cried. "monster in your own face, you hideous little wretch," exclaimed the indignant attorney. "if you use such opprobrious epithets i will have you gagged. you will be taken to lancaster castle, and hanged." "yo are os bad as ey am, and warse," replied jennet, "and deserve hanging os weel, and the king shan knoa of your tricks," she vociferated, as james appeared at the door of the pavilion. "yo wished to ensnare alizon. yo wished me to kill her. ey was only your instrument." "stop her mouth--gag her!" cried potts. "nah, nah!--they shanna stap my mouth--they shanna gag me," cried jennet. "ey win speak out. the king shan hear me. you are as bad os me." "all malice, your majesty--all malice," cried the attorney. "malice, nae doubt, in great pairt," replied james; "but some truth as weel, i fear, sir. and in any case it will prevent my doing any thing for you." "there, you have ruined my hopes, you little wretch!" cried potts, furiously. "ey'm reet glad on't," said jennet. "yo may tay me to lonkester castle, boh yo conna hong me. ey knoa that fu' weel. ey shan get out, and then look to yersel, lad; for, os sure os ey'm mother demdike's grandowter, ey'n plague the life out o' ye." "take the prisoners away, and let them be conveyed under a strict escort to lancaster castle," said james. "and, as the assizes commence next week, quick work will be made with them, your majesty," observed potts. "their guilt can be incontestably proved, so they are sure to be found guilty, sure to be hanged, sire." as the prisoners were removed, nance redferne looked round her, and, catching the eye of nicholas, made a slight motion with her head, as if bidding him farewell. the squire returned the mute valediction. "poor nance!" he exclaimed, compassionately, "i sincerely pity her. would there was any means of saving her!" "there is none," observed sir ralph assheton. "and you may be thankful you are not brought in as her accomplice." as jennet was taken away, she continued to hurl threats and imprecations against potts. another officer of the guard was then summoned, and when he came, james said, "one other prisoner remains within the pavilion. she likewise must be conveyed to lancaster castle but in a litter, and not with the other prisoners." attended by sir richard hoghton, the monarch then proceeded to his lodgings in the tower. chapter xiv.--"one grave." notwithstanding the sad occurrences above detailed, james remained for two more days the guest of sir richard hoghton, enjoying his princely hospitality, hunting in the park, carousing in the great hall, and witnessing all kinds of sports. nothing, indeed, was left to remind him of the sad events that had occurred. the prisoners were taken that night to lancaster castle, and master potts accompanied the escort, to be ready for the assizes. the three judges proceeded thither at the end of the week. the attendance of roger nowell, nicholas, and sir ralph assheton, was also required as witnesses at the trial of the witches. sir richard assheton and dorothy had returned, as already stated, to middleton; and, though the intelligence of the death of richard and alizon was communicated to them with infinite caution, the shock to both was very great, especially to dorothy, who was long--very long--in recovering from it. nicholas's vivacity of temperament made him feel the loss of his cousin at first very keenly, but it soon wore off. he vowed amendment and reformation on the model of john bruen, whose life offered so striking a contrast to his own, that it has very properly been placed in opposition by a reverend moralist; but i regret to say that he did not carry out his praiseworthy intentions. he was apt to make a joke of john bruen, instead of imitating his example. he professed to devote himself to his excellent wife--but his old habits would break out; and, i am sorry to say, he was often to be found in the alehouse, and was just as fond of horse-racing, cock-fighting, hunting, fishing, and all other sports, as ever. occasionally he occupied a leisure or a rainy day with a journal,[ ] parts of which have been preserved; but he set down in it few of the terrible events here related, probably because they were of too painful a nature to be recorded. he died in --at the early age of thirty-five. but to go back. a few days after the tragical events at hoghton tower, the whole village of whalley was astir. but it was no festive occasion--no merry-making--that called forth the inhabitants, for grief sat upon every countenance. the day, too, was gloomy. the feathered summits of whalley nab were wreathed in mist, and a fine rain descended in the valley. the calder looked dull and discoloured as it flowed past the walls of the ancient abbey. the church bell tolled mournfully, and a large concourse was gathered in the churchyard. not far from one of the three crosses of paulinus, which stood nearest the church porch, a grave had been digged, and almost every one looked into it. the grave, it was said, was intended to hold two coffins. soon after this, a train of mourners issued from the ancient abbey gateway, and sure enough there were two coffins on the shoulders of the bearers; they were met at the gate by doctor ormerod, who was so deeply affected as scarcely to be able to perform the needful offices for the dead. the principal mourners were sir richard assheton of middleton, sir ralph assheton, and nicholas. amid the tears and sobs of all the bystanders, the bodies of richard and alizon were committed to the earth--laid together in one grave. thus was their latest wish fulfilled. flowers grew upon the turf that covered them, and there was the earliest primrose seen, and the latest violet. many a fond youth and trusting maiden have visited their lowly tomb, and many a tear, fresh from the heart, has dropped upon the sod covering the ill-fated lovers. chapter xv.--lancaster castle. behold the grim and giant fabric, rebuilt and strengthened by "old john of gaunt, time-honour'd lancaster!" within one of its turrets called john of gaunt's chair, and at eventide, stands a lady under the care of a jailer. it is the last sunset she will ever see--the last time she will look upon the beauties of earth; for she is a prisoner, condemned to die an ignominious and terrible death, and her execution will take place on the morrow. leaving her alone within the turret, the jailer locks the door and stands outside it. the lady casts a long, lingering look around. all nature seems so beautiful--so attractive. the sunset upon the broad watery sands of morecambe bay is exquisite in varied tints. the fells of furness look black and bold, and the windings of the lune are clearly traced out. but she casts a wistful glance towards the mountainous ridges of lancashire, and fancies she can detect amongst the heights the rounded summit of pendle hill. then her gaze settles upon the grey old town beneath her, and, as her glance wanders over it, certain terrible objects arrest it. in the area before the castle she sees a ring of tall stakes. she knows well their purpose, and counts them. they are thirteen in number. thirteen wretched beings are to be burned on the morrow. not far from the stakes are an enormous pile of fagots. all is prepared. fascinated by the sight, she remains gazing at the place of execution for some time, and when she turns, she beholds a tall dark man standing beside her. at first she thinks it is the jailer, and is about to tell the man she is ready to descend to her cell, when she recognises him, and recoils in terror. "thou here--again!" she cried. "i can save thee from the stake, if thou wilt, alice nutter," he said. "hence!" she exclaimed. "thou temptest me in vain. hence!" and with a howl of rage the demon disappeared. conveyed back to her cell, situated within the dread dungeon tower, alice nutter passed the whole of that night in prayer. towards four o'clock, wearied out, she dropped into a slumber; and when the clergyman, from whom she had received spiritual consolation, came to her cell, he found her still sleeping, but with a sweet smile upon her lips--the first he had ever beheld there. unwilling to disturb her, he knelt down and prayed by her side. at length the jailer came, and the executioner's aids. the divine then laid his hand upon her shoulder, and she instantly arose. "i am ready," she said, cheerfully. "you have had a happy dream, daughter," he observed. "a blessed dream, reverend sir," she replied. "i thought i saw my children, richard and alizon, in a fair garden--oh! how angelic they looked--and they told me i should be with them soon." "and i doubt not the vision will be realised," replied the clergyman. "your redemption is fully worked out, and your salvation, i trust, secured. and now you must prepare for your last trial." "i am fully prepared," she replied; "but will you not go to the others?" "alas! my dear daughter," he replied, "they all, excepting nance redferne, refuse my services, and will perish in their iniquities." "then go to her, sir, i entreat of you," she said; "she may yet be saved. but what of jennet? is she, too, to die?" "no," replied the divine; "being evidence against her relatives, her life is spared." "heaven grant she do no more mischief!" exclaimed alice nutter. she then submitted herself to the executioner's assistants, and was led forth. on issuing into the open air a change came over her, and such an exceeding faintness that she had to be supported. she was led towards the stake in this state; but she grew fainter and fainter, and at last fell back in the arms of the men that supported her. still they carried her on. when the executioner put out his hand to receive her from his aids, she was found to be quite dead. nevertheless, he tied her to the stake, and her body was consumed. hundreds of spectators beheld those terrible fires, and exulted in the torments of the miserable sufferers. their shrieks and blasphemies were terrific, and the place resembled a hell upon earth. jennet escaped, to the dismay of master potts, who feared she would wreak her threatened vengeance upon him. and, indeed, he did suffer from aches and cramps, which he attributed to her; but which were more reasonably supposed to be owing to rheum caught in the marshes of pendle forest. he had, however, the pleasure of assisting at her execution, when some years afterwards retributive justice overtook her. jennet was the last of the lancashire witches. ever since then witchcraft has taken a new form with the ladies of the county--though their fascination and spells are as potent as ever. few can now escape them,--few desire to do so. but to all who are afraid of a bright eye and a blooming cheek, and who desire to adhere to a bachelor's condition--to such i should say, "beware of the lancashire witches!" the end. m'corquodale and co., printers, london--works, newton. footnotes: [footnote : a similar eruption occurred at pendle hill in august, , and has been described by mr. charles townley, in a letter cited by dr. whitaker in his excellent "history of whalley." other and more formidable eruptions had taken place previously, occasioning much damage to the country. the cause of the phenomenon is thus explained by mr. townley: "the colour of the water, its coming down to the place where it breaks forth between the rock and the earth, with that other particular of its bringing nothing along but stones and earth, are evident signs that it hath not its origin from the very bowels of the mountain; but that it is only rain water coloured first in the moss-pits, of which the top of the hill, being a great and considerable plain, is full, shrunk down into some receptacle fit to contain it, until at last by its weight, or some other cause, it finds a passage to the sides of the hill, and then away between the rock and swarth, until it break the latter and violently rush out."] [footnote : locus benedictus de whalley.] [footnote : this speech is in substance the monarch's actual declaration concerning lawful sports, promulgated in , in a little tractate, generally known as the "book of sports;" by which he would have conferred a great boon on the lower orders, if his kindly purpose had not been misapprehended by some, and ultimately defeated by bigots and fanatics. king james deserves to be remembered with gratitude, if only for this manifestation of sympathy with the enjoyments of the people. he had himself discovered that the restrictions imposed upon them had "setup filthy tipplings and drunkenness, and bred a number of idle and discontented speeches in the alehouses."] [footnote : "there is a laughable tradition," says nichols, "still generally current in lancashire, that our knight-making monarch knighted at the banquet in hoghton tower a loin of beef; the part ever since called the sir-loin." and it is added by the same authority, "if the king did not give the sir-loin its name, he might, notwithstanding, have indulged in a pun on the already coined word, the etymology of which was then, as now, as little regarded as the thing signified is well approved."--_nichols's progresses of james i._, vol. iii.] [footnote : these speeches, given by _nichols_ as derived from the family records of sir henry philip hoghton, bart., were actually delivered at a masque represented on occasion of king james's visit to hoghton tower.] [footnote : published by the chetham society, and admirably edited, with notes, exhibiting an extraordinary amount of research and information, by the rev. f.r. raines, m.a., f.s.a., of milnrow parsonage, near rochdale.] lancashire [illustration: emigrants at liverpool] lancashire brief historical and descriptive notes by leo h. grindon author of 'the manchester flora'; 'manchester banks and bankers'; 'life, its nature, varieties, and phenomena'; etc. with many illustrations london seeley and co., limited essex street, strand preface the following chapters were written for the _portfolio_ of , in which they appeared month by month. only a limited space being allowed for them, though liberally enlarged whenever practicable, not one of the many subjects demanding notice could be dealt with at length. while reprinting, a few additional particulars have been introduced; but even with these, in many cases where there should be pages there is only a paragraph. lancashire is not a county to be disposed of so briefly. the present work makes no pretension to be more than an index to the principal facts of interest which pertain to it, the details, in almost every instance, still awaiting the treatment they so well deserve. if i have succeeded in marking out the foundations for a superstructure to be raised some day by an abler hand, i shall be content. it is for every man to begin something, to the best of his power, that may be useful to his fellow-creatures, though it may not be permitted to him to enjoy the greater pleasure of completing it. some of the commendations passed upon lancashire may seem to come of the partiality of a man for his own county. it may be well for me to say that, although a resident in manchester for forty years, my native place is bristol. leo grindon. contents i. leading characteristics of the county ii. liverpool iii. the cotton district and the manufacture of cotton iv. manchester v. miscellaneous industrial occupations vi. peculiarities of character, dialect, and pastimes vii. the inland scenery south of lancaster viii. the seashore and the lake district ix. the ancient castles and monastic buildings x. the old churches and the old halls xi. the old halls (_continued_) xii. the natural history and the fossils list of illustrations emigrants at liverpool _by g. p. jacomb hood_ shipping on the mersey _by a. brunet-debaines_ american wheat at liverpool ran away to sea st. nicholas church, liverpool _by h. toussaint_ the custom-house, liverpool st. george's hall, liverpool the exchange, liverpool _by r. kent thomas_ wigan warrington the dinner hour pay-day in a cotton mill _by g. p. jacomb hood_ in a cotton factory manchester cathedral st. anne's square, manchester town hall, manchester _by t. riley_ deansgate, manchester in the wire works making coke smelting glass-blowing _by g. p. jacomb hood_ on the bridgewater canal _by g. p. jacomb hood_ on the bridgewater canal blackstone edge the lake at littleborough waterfall in cliviger in the burnley valley the ribble at clitheroe coniston _by david law_ near the copper mines, coniston lancaster _by david law_ clitheroe castle furness abbey furness abbey _by r. kent thomas_ darcy lever, near bolton speke hall _by t. riley_ hale hall hall in the wood _by r. kent thomas_ hoghton tower stonyhurst _by r. kent thomas_ lancashire i leading characteristics of the county directly connected with the whole world, through the medium of its shipping and manufactures, lancashire is commercially to great britain what the forum was to ancient rome--the centre from which roads led towards every principal province of the empire. being nearer to the atlantic, liverpool commands a larger portion of our commerce with north america even than london: it is from the mersey that the great westward steamers chiefly sail. the biographies of the distinguished men who had their birthplace in lancashire, and lived there always, many of them living still, would fill a volume. a second would hardly suffice to tell of those who, though not natives, have identified themselves at various periods with lancashire movements and occupations. no county has drawn into its population a larger number of individuals of the powerful classes, some taking up their permanent abode in it, others coming for temporary purposes. in cultivated circles in the large towns the veritable lancashire men are always fewer in number than those born elsewhere, or whose fathers did not belong to lancashire. no trifling item is it in the county annals that the immortal author of the _advancement of learning_ represented, as member of parliament, for four years ( - ) the town which in gave birth to william ewart gladstone, and which, during the boyhood of the latter, sent canning to the house of commons.[ ] in days to come england will point to lancashire as the cradle also of the stanleys, one generation after another, of sir robert peel, john bright, and richard cobden. the value to the country of the several men, the soundness of their legislative policy, the consistency of their lines of reasoning, is at this moment not the question. they are types of the vigorous constructive genius which has made england great and free, and so far they are types of the aboriginal lancashire temper. lancashire has been the birthplace also of a larger number of mechanical inventions, invaluable to the human race; and the scene of a larger number of the applications of science to great purposes, than any other fragment of the earth's surface of equal dimensions. it is in lancashire that we find the principal portion of the early history of steam and steam-engines, the first railway of pretension to magnitude forming a part of it. the same county had already led the way in regard to the english canal system--that mighty network of inland navigation of which the manchester ship canal, now in process of construction, will, when complete, be the member wonderful above all others. no trivial undertaking can that be considered; no distrust can there be of one in regard to its promise for the future, which has the support of no fewer than , shareholders. here, too, in lancashire, we have the most interesting part of the early history of the use of gas for lighting purposes. in lancashire, again, were laid the foundations of the whole of the stupendous industry represented in the cotton-manufacture, with calico-printing, and the allied arts of pattern design. the literary work of lancashire has been abreast of the county industry and scientific life. mr. sutton's _list of lancashire authors_, published in , since which time many others have come to the front, contains the names of nearly , three-fourths of whom, he tells us, were born within the frontiers--men widely various, of necessity, in wit and aim, more various still in fertility, some never going beyond a pamphlet or an "article,"--useful, nevertheless, in their generation, and deserving a place in the honourable catalogue. historians, antiquaries, poets, novelists, biographers, financiers, find a place in it, with scholars, critics, naturalists, divines. every one acquainted with books knows that william roscoe wrote in liverpool. bailey's _festus_, one of the most remarkable poems of the age, was originally published in manchester. the standard work upon british bryology was produced in warrington, and, like the life of lorenzo de medici, by a solicitor--the late william wilson. nowhere in the provinces have there been more conspicuous examples of exact and delicate philosophical and mathematical experiment and observation than such as in manchester enabled dalton to determine the profoundest law in chemistry; and horrox, the young curate of hoole, long before, to be the first of mankind to watch a transit of venus, providing thereby for astronomers the means towards new departures of the highest moment. during the franco-prussian war, when communication with the interior of paris was manageable only by the employment of carrier-pigeons and the use of micro-photography, it was again a lancashire man who had to be thanked for the art of concentrating a page of newspaper to the size of a postage-stamp. possibly there were two or three contemporaneous inventors, but the first to make micro-photography--after the spectroscope, the most exquisite combination of chemical and optical science yet introduced to the world--public and practical, was the late mr. j. b. dancer, of manchester. [ ] _vide_ blue book, , part i. p. . the first return of bacon for st. albans was not until . roger ascham, whose influence upon education was even profounder than bacon's, sat for another lancashire town--preston--in the parliament of . generous and substantial designs for promoting the education of the people, and their enjoyment,--habits also of thrift and of self-culture, are characteristic of lancashire. some have had their origin upon the middle social platform; others have sprung from the civilised among the rich.[ ] the co-operative system, with its varied capacities for rendering good service to the provident and careful, had its beginning in rochdale. the first place to copy dr. birkbeck's mechanics' institution was manchester, in which town the first provincial school of medicine was founded, and which to-day holds the headquarters of the victoria university. manchester, again, was the first town in england to take advantage of the free libraries act of , opening on september d, , with liverpool in its immediate wake. the chetham free library (manchester) had already existed for years, conferring benefits upon the community which it would be difficult to over-estimate. other lancashire towns--darwen, oldham, southport, and preston, for example, have latterly possessed themselves of capital libraries, so that, including the fine old collection at warrington, the number of books now within reach of lancashire readers, _pro rata_ for the population, certainly has no parallel out of london. an excellent feature in the management of several of these libraries consists in the effort made to attain completeness in special departments. rochdale aims at a complete collection of books relating to wool; wigan desires to possess all that has been written about engineering; the manchester library contains nearly eight hundred volumes having reference to cotton. in the last-named will also be found the nucleus of a collection which promises to be the finest in the country, of books illustrative of english dialects. the manchester libraries collectively, or free and subscription taken together, are specially rich in botanical and horticultural works--many of them magnificently illustrated and running to several volumes--the sum of the titles amounting to considerably over a thousand. liverpool, too, is well provided with books of this description, counting among them that splendid lancashire work, roscoe's _monandrian plants_, the drawings for which were chiefly made in the liverpool botanic garden--the fourth founded in england, or first after chelsea, oxford, and cambridge, and specially interesting in having been set on foot, in , by roscoe himself. [ ] it is necessary to say the "civilised," because in lancashire, as in all other industrial communities, especially manufacturing ones, there are plenty of selfish and vulgar rich. the legitimate and healthful recreation of the multitude is in lancashire, with the thoughtful, as constant an object as their intellectual succour. the public parks in the suburbs of many of the principal lancashire towns, with their playgrounds and gymnasia, are unexcelled. manchester has no fewer than five, including the recent noble gift of the "whitworth." salford has good reason to be proud of its "peel park." blackburn, preston, oldham, lancaster, wigan, southport, and heywood have also done their best. in lancashire have always been witnessed the most vigorous and persistent struggles made in this country for civil and political liberty and the amendment of unjust laws. sometimes, unhappily, they have seemed to indicate disaffection; and enthusiasts, well-meaning but extremely unwise--so commonly the case with their class--have never failed to obtain plenty of support, often prejudicial to the very cause they sought to uphold. but the ways of the people, considered as a community, deducting the intemperate and the zealots, have always been patriotic, and there has never been lack of determination to uphold the throne. the modern volunteer movement, as the late sir james picton once reminded us, may be fairly said to have originated in liverpool; the first lancashire rifles, which claims to be the oldest volunteer company, having been organised there in . in any case the promptitude of the act showed the vitality of that fine old lancashire disposition to defend the right, which at the commencement of the civil wars rendered the county so conspicuous for its loyalty. it was in lancashire that the first blood was shed on behalf of charles the first, and that the last effort, before worcester, was made in favour of his son--this in the celebrated battle of wigan lane. it was the same loyalty which, in , sustained charlotte de la tremouille, countess of derby, in the famous three months' defence of lathom house, when besieged by fairfax. charlotte, a lady of french extraction, might quite excusably be supposed to have had less care for the king than an englishwoman. but she was now the wife of a lancashire man, and that was enough for her heart; she attuned herself to the earl's own devotedness, became practically a lancashire woman, and took equal shares with him in his unflinching fervour. the faithfulness to great trusts which always marks the noble wife, however humble her social position, however exalted her rank and title, with concurrent temptations to wrongdoing, doubtless lay at the foundation of charlotte's personal heroism. but it was her pasturing, so to speak, in lancashire, which brought it up to fruition. of course, she owed much to the fidelity of her lancashire garrison. without it, her own brave spirit would not have sufficed. lancashire men have always made good soldiers. several were knighted "when the fight was done" at poitiers and agincourt. the middleton archers distinguished themselves at flodden. the gallant th--the "lancashire lads"--were at the alma, and at inkerman formed part of the "thin red line." there is equally good promise for the future, should occasion arise. at the great windsor review of the volunteers in july , when , were brought together, it was unanimously allowed by the military critics that, without the slightest disrespect to the many other fine regiments upon the ground, the most distinguished for steadiness, physique, and discipline, as well as the numerically strongest, was the st manchester. so striking was the spectacle that the queen inquired specially for the name of the corps which reflected so much honour upon its county. in the return published in the general orders of the army, february , it is stated that the d battalion of the south lancashire had then attained the proud distinction of being its "best signalling corps." the efforts made in lancashire to obtain changes for the better in the statute-book had remarkable illustration in the establishment of the anti-corn-law league, the original idea of which was of much earlier date than is commonly supposed, having occupied men's minds, both in manchester and liverpool, as far back as the year . the celebrated cry six years later for reform in the representation was not heard more loudly even in birmingham than in the metropolis of the cotton trade. the pioneers of every kind of religious movement have, like the leaders in civil and political reform, always found lancashire responsive; and, as with practical scientific inventions, it is to this county that the most interesting part of the early history of non-conforming bodies very generally pertains. george fox, the founder of the "society of friends," commenced his earnest work in the neighbourhood of ulverston. "denominations" of every kind have also in this county maintained themselves vigorously, and there are none which do not here still exist in their strength. the "established church," as elsewhere, holds the foremost place, and pursues, as always, the even tenour of its way. during the forty-three years that manchester has been the centre of a diocese, there have been built within the bishopric (including certain rebuildings on a larger scale) not fewer than new churches. the late tireless bishop fraser "confirmed" young people at the rate of , every year. the strength of the wesleyans is declared by their contributions to the great thanksgiving fund, which amounted, on th november , to nearly a quarter of the entire sum then subscribed, viz. to about £ , out of the £ , . they possess a college at didsbury; not far from which, at withington, the congregationalists likewise have one of their own. the long standing and the power of the presbyterians is illustrated in their owning the oldest place of worship in manchester next to the "cathedral,"--the "chapel" in cross street,--a building which dates from the early part of the sixteenth century. the sympathy of lancashire with the church of rome has been noted from time immemorial;--perhaps it would be more accurately said that there has been a stauncher allegiance here than in many other places to hereditary creed. the catholic diocese of salford (in which manchester and several of the neighbouring towns are included) claimed in a seventh of the entire population.[ ] stonyhurst, near clitheroe, is the seat of the chief provincial jesuit college. lastly, it is an interesting concurrent fact, that of the seventy societies or congregations in england which profess the faith called the "new jerusalem," lancashire contains no fewer than twenty-four. [ ] namely, , catholic, as against , , non-catholic. the historical associations offered in many parts of lancashire are by no means inferior to those of other counties. one of the most interesting of the old roman roads crosses blackstone edge. names of places near the south-west coast tell of the scandinavian vikings. in robert bruce and his army of scots ravaged the northern districts and nearly destroyed preston. the neighbourhood of that town witnessed the stuart enterprise of , and of prince charles edward's march through the county in many memorials still exist. the ruins of two of the most renowned of the old english abbeys are also here--whalley, with its long record of benevolence, and furness, scarcely surpassed in manifold interest even by fountains. one of the very few remaining examples of an ancient castle belongs to the famous old town from which john o' gaunt received his title.[ ] parish churches of remote foundation, with sculptures and lettered monuments, supply the antiquary with pleasing variety. old halls are numerous; and connected with these, with the abbeys, and other relics of the past, we find innumerable entertaining legends and traditions, often rendered so much the more attractive through preserving, in part, the county speech of the olden time, to be dealt with by and by. [ ] ..."next to whom was john of gaunt, the duke of lancaster." _king henry vi._, part d, ii. . the _first_ duke of lancaster was henry, previously earl of derby, whose daughter blanche was married by john of gaunt, the latter succeeding to the title. in the sports, manners, and customs which still linger where not superseded by modern ones, there is yet further curious material for observation, and the same may be said of the recreations of the staid and reflecting among the operative classes. it is in lancashire that "science in humble life" has always had its most numerous and remarkable illustrations. natural history, in particular, forms one of the established pastimes in the cotton districts and among the men who are connected with the daylight work of the collieries. many of the working-men botanists are banded into societies or clubs, which often possess libraries, and were founded before any living can remember. music, especially choral and part-singing, has been cultivated in lancashire with a devotion equalled only perhaps in yorkshire, and certainly nowhere excelled. both the air and the words of the most popular christmas hymn in use among protestants, "christians, awake!" were composed within the sound, or nearly so, of the manchester old church bells. the verses were written by dr. byrom, of stenographic fame;[ ] the music, which compares well with the "adeste fideles" itself,--the song of christmas with other communions,--was the production of john wainwright. on a lower level we find the far-famed lancashire hand-bell ringers. the facilities provided in lancashire for self-culture have already been spoken of. that private education and school discipline are effective may be assumed, perhaps, from the circumstance that in october the girl who at the oxford local examinations stood highest in all england belonged to liverpool. [ ] originally published in the _manchester mercury_, th october . not without significance either is it that the coveted distinction of "senior wrangler" was won by a lancashire man on five occasions within the twenty years ending february . three of the victors went up from liverpool, one from manchester, and one from the wigan grammar-school. lancashire may well be proud of such a list as this; feeling added pleasure in knowing that the gold medal, with prize of ten guineas, offered by the council of trinity college, london, for the best essay on "middle-class education, its influence on commercial pursuits," was won in by a lancashire lady--miss agnes amy bulley, of the manchester college for women. the list of artists, chiefly painters, identified with the county appears from mr. nodal's researches to be not far short of a hundred, the earliest having been hamlet winstanley, of warrington, where he died in . many of his productions, family portraits and views in the neighbourhood, are contained in the knowsley collection. two of these lancashire artists--joseph farrington, r.a., and william green--were among the first to disclose the beauties of the lake district, by means of lithography or engraved views prepared from their drawings. farrington's twenty views appeared in . green's series of sixty was issued from ambleside in . a very curious circumstance connected with art in its way, is that focardi's well-known droll statuette, "the dirty boy," was produced in lancashire! focardi happened to be in preston looking for employment. waiting one morning for breakfast, and going downstairs to ascertain the cause of the delay, through a half-open door he descried the identical old woman and the identical dirty boy! here at last was a subject for his chisel. he got £ for the marble, and the purchasers acknowledge that it was the most profitable investment they ever made. the scenery presented in many portions of the county vies with the choicest to be found anywhere south of the tweed. the artist turns with reluctance from the banks of the lune and the duddon. the largest and loveliest of the english lakes, supreme windermere, belongs essentially to lancashire: peaceful coniston and lucid esthwaite are entirely within the borders, and close by rise some of the loftiest of the english mountains. the top of "coniston old man"--_alt maen_, or "the high rock"--is feet above the sea. the part which contains the lakes and mountains is detached, and properly belongs to the lake district, emphatically so called, being reached from the south only by passing over the lowermost portion of westmoreland, though accessible by a perilous way, when the tide is out, across the morecambe sands. still it is lancashire, a circumstance often surprising to those who, very naturally, associate the idea of the "lakes" with the homes of southey and wordsworth, with ambleside, and helvellyn, and lodore. the geological character of this outlying piece being altogether different from that of the county in general, lancashire presents a variety of surface entirely its own. at one extremity we have the cold, soft clay so useful to brickmakers; on reaching the lakes we find the slate rocks of the very earliest ages. much of the eastern edge of the county is skirted by the broad bare hills which constitute the central vertebræ of the "backbone of england," the imposing "pennine range," which extends from derbyshire to the cheviots, and conceals the three longest of the english railway tunnels, one of which both begins and ends in lancashire. the rock composing them is millstone-grit, with its customary gray and weather-beaten crags and ferny ravines. plenty of tell-tale gullies declare the vehemence of the winter storms that beat above, and in many of these the rush of water never ceases. those who seek solitude, the romantic, and the picturesque, know these hills well; in parts, where there is moorland, the sportsman resorts to them for grouse. in various places the rise of the ground is very considerable, far greater than would be anticipated when first sallying forth from manchester, though on clear days, looking northwards, when a view can be obtained, there is pleasant intimation of distant hills. rivington pike, not far from bolton, is feet above the sea-level. pendle, near clitheroe, where the rock changes to limestone, is . the millstone-grit reappears intermittently as far as lancaster, but afterwards limestone becomes predominant, continuing nearly to the slate rocks. it is to the limestone that grange, one of the prettiest places in this part of the country, owes much of its scenic charm as well as salubrity. not only does it give the bold and ivied tors which usually indicate calcareous rock. suiting many kinds of ornamental trees, especially those which retain their foliage throughout the year, we owe to it in no slight measure the innumerable shining evergreens which at grange, even in mid-winter, constantly tempt one to exclaim with virgil, when caressing his beloved italy, "hic ver assiduum!" the southernmost part of the county has for its surface-rock chiefly the upper new red sandstone, a formation not favourable to fine hill-scenery, though the long ridges for which it is distinguished, at all events in lancashire and cheshire, often give a decided character to the landscape. the highest point in the extreme south-west, or near liverpool, occupied by everton church, has an elevation of no more than feet, or less than a tenth of that of "coniston old man." ashurst, between wigan and ormskirk, and billinge, between wigan and st. helens, make amends, the beacon upon the latter being feet above the sea. the prospects from the two last named are very fine. they are interesting to the topographer as having been first resorted to as fit spots for beacons and signal-fires when the spanish armada was expected, watchers upon the airy heights of rivington, pendle, and brown wardle, standing ready to transmit the news farther inland. it is interesting to recall to mind that the news of the sailing of the armada in the memorable july of was brought to england by one of the old liverpool mariners, the captain of a little vessel that traded with the mediterranean and the coast of africa. very different is the western margin of this changeful county, the whole extent from the mersey to duddon bridge being washed by the irish sea. but, although maritime, it has none of the prime factors of seaside scenery,--broken rocks and cliffs,--not, at least, until after passing morecambe bay. from liverpool onwards there is only level sand, and, to the casual visitor, apparently never anything besides; for the tide, which is swift to go out, recedes very far, and seldom seems anxious to come in. blackpool is exceptional. here the roll of the water is often glorious, and the dimples in calm weather are such as would have satisfied old �schylus. on the whole, however, the coast must be pronounced monotonous, and the country that borders on it uninteresting. but whatever may be wanting in the way of rocks and cliffs, the need is fully compensated by the exceeding beauty in parts of the sandhills, especially near birkdale and st. anne's, where for miles they have the semblance of a miniature mountain range. intervening there are broad, green, peaty plateaux, which, becoming saturated after rain, allow of the growth of countless wild-flowers. orchises of several sorts, the pearly grass of parnassus, the pyrola that imitates the lily of the valley--all come to these wild sandhills to rejoice in the breath of the ocean, which, like that of the heavens, here "smells wooingly." looking seawards, though it is seldom that we have tossing surge, there is further compensation very generally in the beauty of sunset--the old-fashioned but inestimable privilege of the western coast of our island--part of the "daily bread" of those who thank god consistently for his infinite bounty to man's soul as well as body, and which no people in the world command more perfectly than the inhabitants of the coast of lancashire. seated on those quiet sandhills, on a calm september evening, one may often contemplate on the trembling water a path of crimson light more beautiful than one of velvet laid down for the feet of a queen. at the northern extremity of the county, as near ulverstone, there are rocky and turf-clad promontories; but even at humphrey head, owing to the flatness of the adjacent sands, there is seldom any considerable amount of surf. the most remarkable feature of the sea-margin of lancashire consists in the number of its estuaries. the largest of these form the outlets of the ribble and the wyre, at the mouth of the last of which is the comparatively new port of fleetwood. the estuary of the mersey (the southern shore of which belongs to cheshire) is peculiarly interesting, on account of the seemingly recent origin of most of the lower portion. ptolemy, the roman geographer, writing about a.d. , though he speaks of the dee and the ribble, makes no mention of the mersey, which, had the river existed in its present form and width, he could hardly have overlooked.[ ] no mention is made of it either in the antonine itinerary; and as stumps of old oaks of considerable magnitude, which had evidently grown _in situ_, were not very long ago distinguishable on the northern margin when the tide was out, near where the liverpool people used to bathe, the conclusion is quite legitimate that the level of the bed of the estuary must in the celtic times, at the part where the ferry steamers go, have been much higher, and the stream proportionately narrow, perhaps a mere brook, with salt-marshes right and left. "liverpool" was originally the name, simply and purely, of the estuary, indicating, in its derivation, not a town, or a village, but simply water. how far upwards the brook, with its swamp or morass, extended, it is not possible to tell, though probably there was always a sheet of water near the present runcorn. depression of the shore, with plenty of old tree-stumps, certifying an extinct forest, is plainly observable a few miles distant on the cheshire coast, just below new brighton. [ ] unless, possibly, as contended by mr. t. g. rylands in the _manchester literary and philosophical society's proceedings_ for , vol. xvii. p. , following horsley and keith johnston, pliny intended the mersey by his "belisama." but west, professor william smith, and authors in general, consider that the "belisama" was the modern ribble. in several parts of lancashire, especially in the extreme south-east, the surface is occupied by wet and dreary wastes, composed of peat, and locally called "mosses." that they have been formed since the commencement of the christian era there can be little doubt, abundance of remains of the branches of trees being found near the clay floor upon which the peat has gradually arisen. the most noted of these desolate flats is that one called chat, or st. chad's moss, the scene of the special difficulty in the construction of the original liverpool and manchester railway. nothing can exceed the dismalness of the mosses during nine or ten months of the year. absolutely level, stretching for several miles, treeless, and with a covering only of brown and wiry scrub, nature seems expiring in them. june kindly brings a change. everything has its festival some time. for a short period they are strewed with the summer snow of the cotton-sedge,--the "cana" of ossian, "her bosom was whiter than the down of cana"; and again, in september, they are amethyst-tinted for two or three weeks with the bloom of the heather. during the last quarter of a century the extent of these mosses has been much reduced, by draining and cultivation at the margins, and in course of time they will probably disappear. forests were once a feature of a good part of lancashire. long subsequently to the time of the conquest, much of the county was still covered with trees. the celebrated "_carta de foresta_," or "forest charter," under which the clearing of the ground of england for farming purposes first became general and continuous, was granted only in the reign of henry iii., a.d. , or contemporaneously with the uprise of salisbury cathedral, a date thus rendered easy of remembrance. here and there the trees were allowed to remain; and among these reserved portions of the original lancashire "wild wood" it is interesting to find west derby, the "western home of wild animals," thus named because so valuable as a hunting-ground.[ ] no forest, in the current sense of the word, has survived in lancashire to the present day. even single trees of patriarchal age are almost unknown. agriculture, when commenced, proceeded vigorously, chiefly, however, in regard to meadow and pasture; cornfields have never been either numerous or extensive, except in the district beyond preston called the fylde--an immense breadth of alluvial drift, grateful in almost all parts for good farming. [ ] retained to this day as the name of one of the principal lancashire "hundreds," it is west derby which gives title to the earls of the house of stanley, and not, as often supposed, the city in the midland counties. ii liverpool the situation of this great city is in some respects one of the most enviable in the country. stretching along the upper bank of an unrivalled estuary, yards across where narrowest, and the river current of which flows westwards, it is near enough to the sea to be called a maritime town, yet sufficiently far inland never to suffer any of the discomforts of the open coast. upon the opposite side of the water the ground rises gently. birkenhead, the energetic new liverpool of the last fifty years, covers the nearer slopes; in the distance there are towers and spires, with glimpses of trees, and even of windmills that tell of wheat not far away. liverpool itself is pleasantly undulated. walking through the busy streets there is constant sense of rise and fall. an ascent that can be called toilsome is never met with; nor, except concurrently with the docks, and in some of the remoter parts of the town, is there any long continuity of flatness. [illustration: shipping on the mersey] compared with the other two principal english seaports, london and bristol, the superiority of position is incontestable. a town situated upon the edge of an estuary must needs have quite exceptional advantages. london is indebted for its wealth and grandeur more to its having been the metropolis for a thousand years than to the service directly rendered by the thames; and as for bristol, the wonder is that with a stream like the avon it should still count with the trio, and retain its ancient title of queen of the west. away from the water-side, liverpool loses. there are no green downs and "shadowy woods" reached in half-an-hour from the inmost of the city, such as give character to clifton; nor, upon the whole, can the scenery of the neighbourhood be said to present any but the very mildest and simplest features. only in the district which includes mossley, allerton, toxteth, and otterspool, is there any approach to the picturesque. hereabouts we find meadows and rural lanes; and a few miles up the stream, the cheshire hills begin to show plainly. yet not far from the prince's park there is a little ravine that aforetime, when farther away from the borough boundaries, and when the name was given, would seem to have been another kelvin grove,-- "where the rose, in all its pride, paints the hollow dingle side, and the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, o!" fairyland, tram-cars, and the hard facts of a great city, present few points of contact--liverpool contrives to unite them in "exchange to dingle, d. inside." among the dainty little poems left us by roscoe, who was quick to recognise natural beauty, there is one upon the disappearance of the brooklet which, descending from springs now dried up, once babbled down this pretty dell with its tribute to the river. to the stranger approaching liverpool by railway, these inviting bits of the adjacent country are, unfortunately, not visible. but let him not murmur. when, after passing through the town, he steps upon the landing-stage and looks out upon the heaving water, with its countless craft, endless in variety, and representing every nation that possesses ships, he is compensated. the whole world does not present anything in its way more abounding with life. a third of a mile in length, broad enough for the parade of troops, imperceptibly adjusting itself to every condition of the tide, the liverpool landing-stage, regarded simply as a work of constructive art, is a wonderful sight. it is the scene of the daily movement of many thousands of human beings, some departing, others just arrived; and, above all there is the many-hued outlook right and left. [illustration: american wheat at liverpool] thoroughly to appreciate the nobleness, the capacities, and the use made of this magnificent river, a couple of little voyages should be undertaken: one towards the entrance, where the tall white shaft of the lighthouse comes in view; the other, ascending the stream as far as rock ferry. by this means the extent of the docks and the magnitude of the neighbouring warehouses may in some degree be estimated. up the river and down, from the middle portion of the landing-stage, without reckoning birkenhead, the line of sea-wall measures more than six miles. the water area of the docks approaches acres; the length of surrounding quay-margin is nearly twenty miles. the double voyage gives opportunity also for observation of the many majestic vessels which are either moving or at anchor in mid-channel. merchantmen predominate, but in addition there are almost invariably two or three of the superb steamers which have their proper home upon the atlantic, and in a few hours will be away. the great companies whose names are so familiar--the cunard, the allan, the white star, the inman, and five or six others--despatch between them no fewer than ten of these splendid vessels every week, and fortnightly two extra, the same number arriving at similar intervals. columbus's largest ship was about ninety tons; the steamers spoken of are mostly from to tons; a few are of or tons. besides these, there are the south americans, the steamers to the east and west indies, china, japan, and the west coast of africa, the weight varying from to tons, more than fifty of these mighty vessels going out every month, and as many coming in. the total number of ships and steamers actually _in_ the docks, birkenhead included, on the th of december was . a fairly fine day, a sunshiny one if possible, should be selected for these little voyages, not merely because of its pleasantness, but in order to observe the astonishing distance to which the river-life extends. like every other town in our island, liverpool knows full well what is meant by fog and rain. "some days must be dark and dreary." at times it is scarcely possible for the ferry-boats to find their way across, and not a sound is to be heard except to convey warning or alarm. but the gloomy hours, fortunately, do not come often. the local meteorologists acknowledge an excellent average of cheerful weather,--the prevailing kind along the whole extent of the lower lancashire coast, the hills being too distant to arrest the passage of the clouds,--and the man who misses his boat two or three times running must indeed be unlucky. happily, these uncertainties and vexations of the bygones, actual and possible, have now been neutralised, say since th january , by the construction of the cheshire lines tunnel under the river. [illustration: ran away to sea] nothing, on a fine day, can be more exhilarating than three or four hours upon the mersey. liverpool, go where we may, is, in the better parts, a place emphatically of exhilarations. the activity of the river-life is prefigured in the jauntiness of the movement in the streets; the display in the shop-windows, at all events where one has to make way for the current of well-dressed ladies which at noon adds in no slight measure to the various gaiety of the scene, is a constant stimulus to the fancy--felt so much the more if one's railway ticket for the day has been purchased in homely stockport, or dull bury, or unadorned middleton, or even in thronged manchester. still it is upon the water that the impression is most animating. high up the river, generally near the rock ferry pier, a guardship is stationed--usually an ironclad. beyond this we come upon four old men-of-war used as training-ships. the _conway_, a naval school for young officers, accommodates , including many of good birth, who pay £ a-year apiece. the _indefatigable_ gives gratuitous teaching to the sons of sailors, orphans, and other homeless boys. the _akbar_ and the _clarence_ are reformatory schools, the first for misbehaving protestant lads, the other for catholics. the good work done by these reformatories is immense. during the three years to , the number passed out of the two vessels was , and of these no fewer than had been converted into capital young seamen.[ ] [ ] _vide_ mr. inglis's twenty-third report to government on the certified and industrial schools of great britain, december . who will write us a book upon the immeasurable _minor_ privileges of life, the things we are apt to pass by and take no note of, because "common"? sailing upon this glorious river, how beautiful overhead the gleam, against the azure, of the sea-gulls! liverpool is just near enough to the saltwater for them to come as daily visitants, just far enough for them to be never so many as to spoil the sweet charm of the unexpected: for the moment they make one forget even the ships. man's most precious and enduring possessions are the loveliness and the significance of nature. were all things valued as they deserve, perhaps these cheery sea-birds would have their due. the liverpool docks are more remarkable than those even of london. some of the famed receptacles fed from the thames are more capacious, and the number of vessels they contain when full is proportionately greater than is possible in the largest of the liverpool. but in london there are not so many, nor is there so great a variety of cargo seen upon the quays, nor is the quantity of certain imports so vast. in the single month of october liverpool imported from north america of apples alone no fewer than , barrels. most of the docks are devoted to particular classes of ships or steamers, or to special branches of trade. the king's dock is the chief scene of the reception of tobacco, the quantity of which brought into liverpool is second only to the london import; while the brunswick is chiefly devoted to the ships bringing timber. the magnificent langton and alexandra docks, opened in september , are reserved for the ocean steamers, which previously had to lie at anchor in the channel, considerably to the disadvantage of all concerned, but which now enjoy all the privileges of the smallest craft. at intervals along the quays there are huge cranes for lifting; and very interesting is it to note the care taken that their strength, though herculean, shall not be overtaxed, every crane being marked according to its power, "not to lift more than two tons," or whatever other weight it is adapted to. like old bristol, liverpool holds her docks in her arms. in london, as an entertaining german traveller told his countrymen some fifty years ago, a merchant, when he wants to despatch an order to his ship in the docks, "must often send his clerk down by the railroad; in liverpool he may almost make himself heard in the docks out of his counting-house."[ ] this comes mainly of the town and the docks having grown up together. [ ] j. g. kohl. _england, scotland, and ireland_, vol. iii. p. . . the "dockmen" are well worth notice. none of the loading and unloading of the ships is done by the sailors. as soon as the vessel is safely "berthed," the consignees contract with an intermediate operator called a stevedore,[ ] who engages as many men as he requires, paying them s. d. per day, and for half-days and quarter-days in proportion. nowhere do we see a better illustration than is supplied in liverpool of the primitive judean market-places, "why stand ye here all the day idle?" "because no man hath hired us." work enough for all there never is: a circumstance not surprising when we consider that the total number of day-labourers in liverpool is estimated at , . the non-employed, who are believed to be always about one-half, or , , congregate near the water; a favourite place of assembly appears to be the pavement adjoining the baths. the dockmen correspond to the male adults among the operatives in the cotton-mill districts, with the great distinction that they are employed and paid by time, and that they are not helped by the girls and women of their families, who in the factories are quite as useful and important as the rougher sex. they correspond also to the "pitmen" of collieries, and to journeymen labourers in general. most of them are irish--as many, it is said, as nine-tenths of the , --and as usual with that race of people, they have their homes near together. these are chiefly in the district including scotland road, where a very different scene awaits the tourist. faction-fights are the established recreation; the men engage in the streets, the women hurl missiles from the roofs of the houses. liverpool has a profoundly mournful as well as a brilliant side: canon kingsley once said that the handsomest set of men he had ever beheld at one view was the group assembled within the quadrangle of the liverpool exchange: the income-tax assessment of liverpool amounts to nearly sixteen millions sterling: the people claim to be "evangelical" beyond compare; and that they have intellectual power none will dispute:--behind the scenes the fact remains that nowhere in our island is there deeper destitution and profounder spiritual darkness.[ ] when the famished and ignorant have to be dealt with, it is better to begin with supply of good food than with aëriform benedictions. lady hope (_née_ miss elizabeth r. cotton) has shown that among the genuine levers of civilisation there are none more substantial than good warm coffee and cocoa. liverpool, fully understanding this, is giving to the philanthropic all over england a lesson which, if discreetly taken up, cannot fail to tell immensely on the morals, as well as the physical needs, of the poor and destitute. all along the line of the docks there are "cocoa-shops," some of them upon wheels, metallic tickets, called "cocoa-pennies," giving access. [ ] for the derivation of this curious word, see _notes and queries_, sixth series, vol. ii. pp. and . . [ ] vide _the dark side of liverpool_, by the rev. r. h. lundie, _weekly review_, th november , p. . liverpool is a town of comparatively modern date, being far younger than warrington, preston, lancaster, and many another which commercially it has superseded. the name does not occur in domesday book, compiled a.d. , nor till the time of king john does even the river seem to have been much used. english commerce during the era of the crusades did not extend beyond continental europe, the communications with which were confined to london, bristol, and a few inconsiderable places on the southern coasts. passengers to ireland went chiefly by way of the dee, and upon the mersey there were only a few fishing-boats. at the commencement of the thirteenth century came a change. the advantages of the mersey as a harbour were perceived, and the fishing village upon the northern shore asked for a charter, which in was granted. liverpool, as a borough, is thus now in its th year. that this great and opulent city should virtually have begun life just at the period indicated is a circumstance of no mean interest, since the reign of john, up till the time of the barons' gathering at runnymede, was utterly bare of historical incident, and the condition of the country in general was poor and depressed. coeur de lion, the popular idol, though scarcely ever seen at home, was dead. john, the basest monarch who ever sat upon the throne of england, had himself extinguished every spark of loyal sentiment by his cruel murder of prince arthur. art was nearly passive, and literature, except in the person of layamon, had no existence. such was the age, overcast and silent, in which the foundations of liverpool were laid: contemplating the times, and all that has come of the event, one cannot but think of acorn-planting in winter, and recall the image in _faust_,-- "ein theil der finsterniss die sich das licht gebar." (part of the darkness which brought forth light!) [illustration: st. nicholas church, liverpool] the growth of the new borough was for a long period very slow. in , the year of the accession of edward i., liverpool consisted of only houses, occupied (computing on the usual basis) by about people; and even a century later, when edward iii. appealed to the nation to support him in his attack upon france, though bristol supplied twenty-four vessels and men, liverpool could furnish no more than one solitary barque with a crew of six. it was shortly after this date that the original church of "our lady and st. nicholas" was erected. were the building, as it existed for upwards of years, still intact, or nearly so, liverpool would possess no memorial of the past more attractive. but in the first place, in , the body was taken down and rebuilt. then, in , the same was done with the tower, the architect wisely superseding the primitive spire with the beautiful lantern by which st. nicholas's is now recognised even from the opposite side of the water. of the original ecclesiastical establishment all that remains is the graveyard, once embellished with trees, and in particular with a "great thorne," in summer white and fragrant, which the tasteless and ruthless old rector of the time was formally and most justly impeached for destroying "without leave or license." wilful and needless slaying of ornamental trees, such as no money can buy or replace, and which have taken perhaps a century or more to grow, is always an act of ingratitude, if not of the nature of a crime, and never less excusable than when committed on consecrated ground. the dedication to st. nicholas shows that the old liverpool townsfolk were superstitious, if not pious. it is st. nicholas who on the strength of the legend is found in dibdin as "the sweet little cherub"-- "that sits up aloft, and takes care of the life of poor jack." up to the building in question was only the "chappell of leverpoole," the parish in which the town lay being walton. in , or shortly afterwards, temp. henry viii., john leland visited liverpool, which he describes as being "a pavid towne," with a castle, and a "stone howse," the residence of the "erle of derbe." he adds, that there was a small custom-house, at which the dues were paid upon linen-yarn brought from dublin and belfast for transmission to manchester[ ]. a fortunate circumstance it has always been for ireland that she possesses so near and ready a customer for her various produce as wealthy liverpool. fifty years later, camden describes the town as "neat and populous"--the former epithet needing translation; and by the time of cromwell the amount of shipping had nearly doubled: the mersey, it hardly needs saying, is the natural westward channel for the commerce of the whole of the active district which has manchester for its centre, and the value of this was now fast becoming apparent. by the end of the sixteenth century south-east lancashire was becoming distinguished for its productive power. a large and constantly increasing supply of manufactures adapted for export implied imports. the interests of manchester and liverpool soon declared themselves alike. of no two places in the world can it be said with more truth, that they have "lived and loved together, through many changing years"; though it may be a question whether they have always "wept each other's tears." in addition to the impulse given to shippers by extended manufacturing, the captains who sailed upon the irish sea found in the mersey their securest haven, the more so since the dee was now silting up--a misfortune for once so favoured chester which at last threw it commercially quite into the shade. the lune was also destined to lose in favour: an event not without a certain kind of pathos, since cotton was imported into lancaster long before it was brought to liverpool. conditions of all kinds being so happy, prosperity was assured. liverpool had now only to be thankful, industrious, honest, and prudent. [ ] _itinerary_, vol. vii. p. . oxford, . singular to say, in the year liverpool was not thought worthy of a place in the map of england. in selden's _mare clausum, seu de dominio maris_ there is a map in which preston, wigan, manchester, and chester, are all set down, but, although the mersey lies in readiness, there is no liverpool! the period of the restoration was particularly eventful. the great plague of and the great fire of led to a large migration of londoners into lancashire, and especially to liverpool, trade with the north american "plantations," and with the sugar-producing islands of the caribbean sea, being now rapidly progressive. contemporaneously there was a flocking thither of younger sons of country squires, who, anticipating the duke of argyll of to-day, saw that commerce is the best of tutors. from these descended some of the most eminent of the old liverpool families. the increasing demand for sugar in england led, unfortunately, to sad self-contamination. following the example of bristol, liverpool gave itself to the slave-trade, and for ninety-seven years, to , the whole tone and tendency of the local sentiment were debased by it. the roscoes, the rathbones, and others among the high-minded, did their best to arouse their brother merchants to the iniquity of the traffic, and to counteract the moral damage to the community; but mischief of such a character sinks deep, and the lapse of generations is required to efface it entirely. mr. w. w. briggs considers that the shadow is still perceptible.[ ] politely called the "west india trade," no doubt legitimate commerce was bound up with the shocking misdeed, but the kernel was the same. it began with barter of the manufactures of manchester, sheffield, and birmingham, for the negroes demanded, first, by the sugar-planters, and afterwards, in virginia, for the tobacco-farms. infamous fraud could not but follow; and a certain callousness, attributable in part to ignorance of the methods employed, was engendered even in those who had no interest in the results. when george iii. was but newly crowned, slaves of both sexes were at times openly sold by advertisement in liverpool! money was made fast by the trade in human beings, and many men accumulated great fortunes, memorials of which it would not be hard to find. all this, we may be thankful, is now done with for ever. to recall the story is painful but unavoidable, since no sketch of the history of liverpool can be complete without reference to it. there is no need, however, to dwell further upon it. escape always from the thought of crime as soon as possible. every one, at all events, must acknowledge that, notwithstanding the outcry by the interested that the total ruin of liverpool, with downfall of church and state, would ensue upon abolition, the town has done better without the slave-trade. [ ] vide _liverpool mercury_, th december . the period of most astonishing expansion has been that which, as in manchester, may be termed the strictly modern one. the best of the public buildings have been erected within the memory of living men. most of the docks have been constructed since . the first steamboat upon the mersey turned its paddles in . the first steam voyage to new york commemorates . in liverpool, it should not be forgotten, originated directly afterwards the great scheme which gave rise to the "peninsular and oriental," upon which followed in turn the suez railway, and then the suez canal. the current era has also witnessed an immense influx into liverpool of well-informed american, canadian, and continental merchants, germans particularly. these have brought (and every year sees new arrivals) the habits of thought, the special views, and the fruits of the widely diverse social and political training peculiar to the respective nationalities. [illustration: the custom-house, liverpool] a very considerable number of the native english liverpool merchants have resided, sometimes for a lengthened period, in foreign countries. maintaining correspondence with those countries, having connections one with another all over the world, they are kept alive to everything that has relation to commerce. they can tell us about the harvests in all parts of the world, the value of gold and silver, and the operation of legal enactments. residence abroad supplies new and more liberal ideas, and enables men to judge more accurately. the result is that, although liverpool, like other places, contains its full quota of the incurably ignorant and prejudiced, the spirit and the method of the mercantile community are in the aggregate thoughtful, inviting, and enjoyable. the occupations of the better class of merchants, and their constant consociation with one another, require and develop not only business powers, but the courtesies which distinguish gentlemen. a stamp is given quite different from that which comes of life spent habitually among "hands";[ ] the impression upon the mind of the visitor is that, whatever may be the case elsewhere, in liverpool ability and good manners are in partnership. and this not only in commercial transactions: the characteristics observable in office hours reappear in the privacy of home. [ ] in liverpool, strictly speaking, there are _no_ "hands," no troops of workpeople, that is to say, young and old, male and female, equivalent as regards relation to employer to the operatives of oldham and stalybridge. the description of business transacted in liverpool is almost peculiar to the place. after the shipbuilders and the manufacturers of shipping adjuncts, chain-cables, etc., there are few men in the superior mercantile class who produce anything. liverpool is a city of agents. its function is not to make, but to transfer. nearly every bale or box of merchandise that enters the town is purely _en route_. hence it comes that liverpool gathers up coin even when times are "bad." whether the owner of the merchandise eventually loses or gains, liverpool has to be paid the expenses of the passing through. much of the raw material that comes from abroad changes hands several times before the final despatch, though not by any means through the ordinary old-fashioned processes of mere buying and selling. in the daily reports of the cotton-market a certain quantity is always distinguished as bought "upon speculation." the adventurous do not wait for the actual arrival of the particular article they devote their attention to. like the covent garden wholesale fruitmen, who risk purchase of the produce of the kentish cherry-orchards while the trees are only in bloom, the liverpool cotton brokers deal in what they call "futures." another curious feature is the problematical character of every man's day. the owner of a cotton-mill or an iron-foundry proceeds, like a train upon the rails, according to a definite and preconcerted plan. a liverpool foreign merchant, when leaving home in the morning, is seldom able to forecast what will happen before night. telegrams from distant countries are prone to bring news that changes the whole complexion of affairs. the limitless foreign connections tend also to render his sympathies cosmopolitan rather than such as pertain to old-fashioned citizens pure and simple. once a day at least his thoughts and desires are in some far-away part of the globe. broadly speaking, the merchants, like their ships in the river, are only at anchor in liverpool. the owner of a "works" must remain with his bricks and mortar; the liverpool merchant, if he pleases, can weigh and depart. though the day is marked by conjecture, it is natural to hope for good. hence much of the sprightliness of the liverpool character--the perennial uncertainty underlying the equally well-marked disposition to "eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die," or, at all events, may die. this in turn seems to account for the high percentage of shops of the glittering class and that deal in luxuries. making their money in the way they do, the liverpool people care less to hoard it than to indulge in the spending. how open-handed they can be when called upon is declared by the sums raised for the bishopric and the university college. in proportion, they have more money than other people, the inhabitants of london alone excepted. the income-tax assessment has already been mentioned as nearly sixteen millions. the actual sum for the year ending th april was £ , , , against manchester, £ , , , birmingham, £ , , , london, £ , , . the superiority in comparison with manchester may come partly, perhaps, of certain firms in the last-named place returning from the country towns or villages where their "works" are situated. liverpool is self-contained, manchester is diffused. [illustration: st. george's hall, liverpool] liverpool may well be proud of her public buildings. opinions differ in regard to the large block which includes the custom-house, commonly called "revenue buildings"; but none dispute the claim of the sumptuous edifice known as st. george's hall to represent the architecture of ancient greece in the most successful degree yet attained in england. the eastern façade is more than feet in length; at the southern extremity there is an octostyle corinthian portico, the tympanum filled with ornament. strange, considering the local wealth and the local claim of a character for thoroughness and taste, that this magnificent structure should be allowed to remain unfinished, still wanting, as it does, the sculptures which formed an integral part of mr. elmes' carefully considered whole. closely adjacent are the free library and the new art gallery, and, in dale street, the public offices, the townhall, and the exchange, which is arcaded. among other meritorious buildings, either classical or in the italian palazzo style, we find the philharmonic hall and the adelphi hotel. the free library is one of the best-frequented places in liverpool. the number of readers exceeded in , in proportion to the population, that of every other large town in england where a free library exists. in leeds, during the year ending at michaelmas, the number was , ; in birmingham, , ; in manchester, , ; in liverpool, , , . in the reference department the excess was similar, the issues therefrom having been in liverpool one-half; in leeds and birmingham, two-fifths; in manchester, one-fifth. the liverpool people seem apt to take advantage of their opportunities of every kind. when the naturalists' field club starts for the country, the number is three or four times greater in proportion to the whole number of members than in other places where, with similar objects, clubs have been founded. many, of course, join in the trips for the sake of the social enjoyment; whether as much work is accomplished when out is undecided. they are warm supporters also of literary and scientific institutions, the number of which, as well as of societies devoted to music and the fine arts, is in liverpool exceptionally high. at the last "associated soirée," the presidents of no fewer than fifteen were present. educational, charitable, and curative institutions exist in equal plenty. it was liverpool that in led the way in the foundation of asylums for the blind. the finest ecclesiastical establishment belongs to the catholics, who in liverpool, as in lancashire generally, have stood firm to the faith of their fathers ever since , and were never so powerful a body as at present. the new art gallery seems to introduce an agreeable prophecy. liverpool has for more than years striven unsuccessfully to give effect to the honourable project of , when it sought to tread in the steps of the royal academy, founded a few months previously. there are now fair indications of rejuvenescence, and, if we mistake not, there is a quickening appreciation of the intrinsically pure and worthy, coupled with indifference to the qualities which catch and content the vulgar--mere bigness and showiness. slender as the appreciation may be, still how much more precious than the bestowal of patronage, in ostentation of pocket, beginning there and ending there, which all true and noble art disdains. [illustration: the exchange, liverpool] liverpool must not be quitted without a parting word upon a feature certainly by no means peculiar to the town, but which to the observant is profoundly interesting and suggestive. this consists in the through movement of the emigrants, and the arrangements made for their departure. our views and vignettes give some idea of what may be seen upon the river and on board the ships. but it is impossible to render in full the interesting spectacle presented by the strangers who come in the first instance from northern europe. these arrive, by way of hull, chiefly from sweden and denmark, and, to a small extent, from russia and germany--german emigrants to america usually going from their own ports, and by way of the english channel. truly astonishing are the piles of luggage on view at the railway stations during the few hours or days which elapse before they go on board. while waiting, they saunter about the streets in parties of six or eight, full of wonder and curiosity, but still impressing every one with their honest countenances and inoffensive manners and behaviour. there are very few children among these foreigners, most of whom appear to be in the prime of life, an aged parent now and then accompanying son or daughter. in there left liverpool as emigrants the prodigious number of , . analysis gave--english, , ; scotch, ; irish, , ; foreigners, , . iii the cotton district and the manufacture of cotton first in the long list of lancashire manufacturing towns, by reason of its magnitude and wealth, comes manchester. by and by we shall speak of this great city in particular. for the present the name must be taken in the broader sense, equally its own, which carries with it the idea of an immense district. lancashire, eastwards from warrington, upwards as far as preston, is dotted over with little manchesters, and these in turn often possess satellites. the idea of manchester as a place of cotton factories covers also a portion of cheshire, and extends even into derbyshire and yorkshire--stockport, hyde, stalybridge, dukinfield, saddleworth, glossop, essentially belong to it. to all these towns and villages manchester stands in the relation of a royal exchange. it is the reservoir, at the same time, into which they pour their various produce. manchester acquired this distinguished position partly by accident, mainly through its very easy access to liverpool. at one time it had powerful rivals in blackburn and bolton. blackburn lost its chance through the frantic hostility of the lower orders towards machinery, inconsiderate men of property giving them countenance--excusably only under the law that mental delusions, like bodily ailments, are impartial in choice of victims. bolton, on the other hand, though sensible, was too near to compete permanently, neither had it similar access to liverpool. the old salerooms in bolton, with their galleries and piazzas, now all gone, were ninety years ago a striking and singular feature of that busy hive of spinning and weaving bees. most of these little manchesters are places of comparatively new growth. a century ago nearly all were insignificant villages or hamlets. even the names of the greater portion were scarcely known beyond the boundaries of their respective parishes. how unimportant they were in earlier times is declared by the vast area of many of the latter, the parishes in lancashire, as everywhere else, having been marked out according to the ability of the population to maintain a church and pastor. it is not in manufacturing lancashire as in the old-fashioned rural counties,--kent, sussex, hampshire, and appled somerset,--where on every side one is allured by some beautiful memorial of the lang syne. "sweet auburn, loveliest village of the plain" is not here. everything, where cotton reigns, presents the newness of aspect of an australian colony. the archæological scraps--such few as there may be--are usually submerged, even in the older towns, in the "full sea" of recent building. even in the graveyards, the places of all others which in their tombstones and inscriptions unite past and present so tenderly, the imagination has usually to turn away unfed. in place of yew-trees old as york minster, if there be anything in the way of green monument, it is a soiled and disconsolate shrub from the nearest nursery garden. the situation of these towns is often pleasing enough: sometimes it is picturesque, and even romantic. having begun in simple homesteads, pitched where comfort and safety seemed best assured, they are often found upon gentle eminences, the crests of which, as at oldham, they now overlap; others, like stalybridge, lie in deep hollows, or, like blackburn, have gradually spread from the margin of a stream. not a few of these primitive sites have the ancient character pleasingly commemorated in their names, as haslingden, the "place of hazel-nuts." the eastern border of the county being characterised by lofty and rocky hills, the localities of the towns and villages are there often really favoured in regard to scenery. this also gives great interest to the approaches, as when, after leaving todmorden, we move through the sinuous gorge that, bordered by cliviger, "mother of rocks," leads on to burnley. the higher grounds are bleak and sterile, but the warmth and fertility of the valleys make amends. in any case, there is never any lack of the beauty which comes of the impregnation of wild nature with the outcome of human intelligence. manchester itself occupies part of a broad level, usually clay-floored, and with peat-mosses touching the frontiers. in the bygones nothing was sooner found than standing water: the world probably never contained a town that only thirty to a hundred years ago possessed so many ponds, many of them still in easy recollection, to say nothing of as many more within the compass of an afternoon's walk. rising under the influence of a builder so unambitious as the genius of factories and operatives' cottages, no wonder that a very few years ago the lancashire cotton towns seemed to vie with one another which should best deserve the character of cold, hard, dreary, and utterly unprepossessing. the streets, excepting the principal artery (originally the road through the primitive village, as in the case of newton lane, manchester), not being susceptible of material change, mostly remain as they were--narrow, irregular, and close-built. happily, of late there has been improvement. praiseworthy aspirations in regard to public buildings are not uncommon, and even in the meanest towns are at times undeniably successful. in the principal centres--manchester, bolton, rochdale, and another or two--the old meagreness and unsightliness are daily becoming less marked, and a good deal that is really magnificent is in progress as well as completed. unfortunately, the efforts of the architect fall only too soon under the relentless influence of the factory and the foundry. manchester is in this respect an illustration of the whole group; the noblest and most elegant buildings sooner or later get smoke-begrimed. sombre as the lancashire towns become under that influence, if there be collieries in the neighbourhood, as in the case of well-named "coaly wigan," the dismal hue is intensified, and in dull and rainy weather grows still worse. on sunshiny days one is reminded of a sullen countenance constrained to smile against the will. [illustration: wigan] a "lancashire scene" has been said to resolve into "bare hills and chimneys"; and as regards the cotton districts the description is, upon the whole, not inaccurate. chimneys predominate innumerably in the landscape, a dark pennon usually undulating from every summit--perhaps not pretty pictorially, but in any case a gladsome sight, since it means work, wages, food, for those below, and a fire upon the hearth at home. though the sculptor may look with dismay upon his ornaments in marble once white as a lily, now under its visitation gray as november, never mind--the smoke denotes human happiness and content for thousands: when her chimneys are smokeless, operative lancashire is hungry and sad. in the towns most of the chimneys belong to the factories--buildings of remarkable appearance. the very large ones are many storeys high, their broad and lofty fronts presenting tier upon tier of monotonous square windows. decoration seems to be studiously avoided, though there is often plenty of scope for inexpensive architectural effects that, to say the least, would be welcome. seen by day, they seem deserted; after dark, when the innumerable windows are lighted up, the spectacle changes and becomes unique. were it desired to illuminate in honour of a prince, to render a factory more brilliant from the interior would be scarcely possible. like all other great masses of masonry, the very large ones, though somewhat suggestive of prisons, if not grand, are impressive. in semi-rural localities, where less tarnished by smoke, especially when tolerably new, and not obscured by the contact of inferior buildings, they are certainly very fine objects. the material, it is scarcely needful to say, is red brick. all the towns belonging to the manchester family-circle present more or less decidedly the features mentioned. they differ from one another not in style, or habits, or physiognomy; the difference is simply that one makes calico, another muslins, and that they cover a less or greater extent of ground. the social, moral, and intellectual qualities of the various places form quite another subject of consideration. for the present it must wait; except with the remark that a lancashire manufacturing town, however humble, is seldom without a lyceum, or some similar institution; and if wealthy, is prone to emulate cities. witness the beautiful art exhibition held not long ago at darwen! [illustration: warrington] the industrial history of the important lancashire cotton towns, although their modern development covers less than ninety years, dates from the beginning of the fourteenth century. as early as a.d. , temp. edward ii., friezes were manufactured at colne, but, as elsewhere in the country, they would seem to have been coarse and of little value. "the english at that time," says quaint old fuller, "knew no more what to do with their wool than the sheep that weare it, as to any artificial curious drapery." the great bulk of the native produce of wool was transmitted to flanders and the rhenish provinces, where it was woven, england repurchasing the cloth. edward iii., allowing himself to be guided by the far-reaching sagacity of his wise queen, philippa, resolved that the manufacture should be kept at home. parties of the flemish weavers were easily induced to come over, the more so because wretchedly treated in their own country. manchester, bolton, rochdale, and warrington, were tenanted almost immediately, and a new character was at once given to the textile productions both of the district and the island in general. furness abbey was then in its glory; its fertile pastures supplied the wants of these industrious people: they seem, however, not to have cared to push their establishments so far, keeping in the south and east of the county, over which they gradually spread, carrying, wherever they went, the "merry music of the loom." the same period witnessed the original use of coal--again, it is believed, through the advice of philippa; the two great sources of lancashire prosperity being thus in their rise contemporaneous. the numerous little rivers and waterfalls of east lancashire contributed to the success of the new adventurers. fulling-mills and dye-works were erected upon the margins: the particular spots are now only conjectural; mementoes of these ancient works are nevertheless preserved in the springing up occasionally, to the present day, on the lower lancashire river-banks, of plants botanically alien to the neighbourhood. these are specially the fullers' teasel, _dipsacus fullonum_, and the dyers' weed, _reseda luteola_, both of which were regularly used, the refuse, with seeds, cast into the stream being carried many miles down and deposited where the plants now renew themselves. the retention of their vitality by seeds properly ripened, when buried too deep for the operation of the atmosphere, sunshine, and moisture, all at once, is well known to naturalists, as well as their germination when brought near enough to the surface of the ground. this ancient woollen manufacture endured for quite years. cotton then became a competitor, and gradually superseded it; rochdale and a few other places alone vindicating the old traditions. the flemings also introduced the national _sabots_, from which have descended the wooden clogs heard in operative lancashire wherever pavement allows of the clatter, only that while the _sabots_ were wholly wooden, with a lining of lambskin, the lancashire clogs have leathern tops. in the writings of the period before us, and in others long afterwards, the flemings' woollens are called "cottonnes," a circumstance which has led to much misapprehension as to the date of the original use in england of cotton _ipsissima_. in - , temp. edward vi., an "acte" passed for the making of "woollen clothe" prescribes the length and breadth of "all and everie cottonnes called manchester, lancashire, and cheshire cottonnes." leland, in the following reign, mentions in similar phrase, that "divers villagers in the moores about bolton do make cottons." genuine cotton fabrics manufactured abroad were known in england, no doubt, though the raw material had not been seen. chaucer habits his knight in "fustian," a word which points to spain as the probable source. the truth as regards the "cottonnes" would seem to be that certain woollens were made so as to resemble cotton, and called by the same name, just as to-day certain calicoes have the look of linen given to them, and are sold as "imitation irish," and as gloves made of the skins of uncertain animals are passed off as "french kid"; unless, indeed, as conjectured by some, the word "cottonnes" was a corruption of "coatings." the employment of cotton for manufacturing in england is mentioned first in , when it was brought to london from cyprus and smyrna. the word "cotton" itself, we need hardly say, is of oriental origin, taking one back to india, the old-world birthplace of the plant. used there as the clothing material from time immemorial, it is singular that the movement westward should have been so slow. the people who introduced it, practically, to europe, were the moors, who in the tenth century cultivated cotton in old granada, simultaneously with rice, the sugar-cane, and the orange-tree, all brought by themselves from asia. in those days moslems and christians declined to be friendly, and thus, although the looms were never still, the superabundance of the manufacture went exclusively to africa and the levant. the cotton-plant being indigenous also to mexico and the west indies, when commerce arose with the latter, cyprus and smyrna no longer had the monopoly. precise dates, however, are wanting till the first years of the eighteenth century, when the united states and the mersey of to-day had their prototype in barbadoes and the lune, already mentioned as having been a cotton port long anterior to liverpool. lancaster city itself is not accessible by ships. the cotton was usually landed on the curious _lingula_ which juts into the irish sea where the estuary disappears, and hither the country people used to come to wonder at it.[ ] the first advertisement of a sale of cotton in liverpool appeared in november , but thirty years after that lancaster was still the principal lancashire seat of import. one of the most distinguished of the "lancashire worthies," old mr. john blackburne, of orford mount, near warrington, an enthusiastic gardener, cultivated the cotton-plant so successfully that he was able to provide his wife with a muslin dress, worn by her on some state occasion in or about , the material derived wholly from the greenhouse he loved so fondly. strange that, except occasionally in an engine-room, we scarcely ever see the cotton-plant in the county it has filled with riches--the very place where one would expect to find it cherished. how well would it occupy a few inches of the space so generally devoted to the pomps and vanities of mere colour-worship! apart from the associations, it is beautiful; the leaves resemble those of the grape-vine; the flowers are like single yellow roses. there never was a flood without its ark. one man a few years ago did his part with becoming zeal--the late mr. r. h. alcock, of bury. lancashire, it may be allowed here to remind the reader, is the only manufacturing district in england which depends entirely upon foreign countries for the supply of its raw material. one great distinction between england and other countries is that the latter send away the whole, or very much, of their natural produce, usually as gathered together, england importing it and working it up. how terribly the dependence in question was proved at the time of the federal and confederate war, all who were cognisant of the great cotton-famine will remember. next in order would come sugar and timber, a dearth of either of which would unquestionably be disastrous; but not like want of cotton in lancashire--the stranding of a whole community. [ ] _vide_ the _autobiography of wm. stout_, the old quaker grocer, ironmonger, and general merchant of lancaster. he mentions receiving cotton from barbadoes in , and onwards to , when the price advanced "from d. to near s. d. the lb." the lancashire cotton towns owe their existence essentially to the magic touch of modern mechanical art. during all the long procession of centuries that had elapsed since the time of the "white-armed" daughter of alcinous, her maidens, and their spinning-wheels, and of the swarthy weavers of ancient egypt, the primeval modes of manufacture had been followed almost implicitly. the work of the flemings themselves was little in advance of that of the hebrews under solomon. in comparison with that long period, the time covered by the change induced by machinery was but a moment, and the growth of the weaving communities, compared with that of previous times, like a lightning-flash. the movement commenced about . up till long after the time of elizabeth, the staple manufacture of lancashire, as we have seen, was woollen. flax, in the sixteenth century, began to be imported largely, both from ireland and the continent, and when cotton at last arrived the two materials were combined. flax was used for the "warp" or longitudinal threads, which in weaving require to be stronger than the "woof," while cotton was employed only for the latter--technically the "weft." fabrics composed wholly of cotton do not appear to have been made in lancashire before the time of george ii., bolton leading the way with cotton velvets about . the cotton weft was spun by the people in their own cottages, chiefly by the women, literally the "spinsters" of the family, representative eighteen centuries afterwards, of the good housewife of the _�neid_ and of the still older one in the book of proverbs, though as the years rolled on so greatly did the demand increase that every child had work of one kind or another. thus began "infant labour," afterwards so much abused. the employment of children over thirteen in the modern factory is quite a different thing. placed under legal restrictions, it is a blessing alike to themselves and to their parents, since if not there, the children now earning their bread would be idling, and probably in mischief. those, it has been well said, who have to live by labour should early be trained to labour. diligent as they were, the spinsters could not produce weft fast enough for the weavers. sitting at their looms, which were also in the cottages, thoughtful men pondered the possibilities of quicker methods. presently the dream took shape, and from the successive inventions of whyatt, kay, highs, and hargreaves, emerged the famous "spinning-jenny,"[ ] a machine which did as much work in the same time as a dozen pair of hands. abreast of it came the warping-mill, the carding-engine, and the roving-frame: the latter particularly opportune, since the difficulty had always been to disentangle the fibres of the cotton prior to twisting, and to lay them exactly parallel. arkwright now came on the scene. he himself never invented anything; but he had marvellous powers of combination, such as enabled him to assimilate all that was good in the ideas of other men, and to give them unity and new vitality. the result was machinery that gave exquisite evenness and attenuation to the "rovings," and a patent having been granted th july , arkwright is properly regarded as the founder of the modern modes of manufacture. arkwright possessed, in addition, a thoroughly feminine capacity for good management and perseverance, with that most excellent adjunct, the art of obtaining ascendancy over capitalists. among the immediate results were the disuse of linen warp, the new frames enabling cotton warp to be made strong enough; and the concentration of all the early processes, spinning included, in special buildings, with employment of horse or water-power. the weaving, however, long remained with the cottagers, and survives to a slight extent even to the present day. the lancashire cotton manufacture, strictly so called, is thus very little more than a century old. no further back than in , fabrics made wholly of cotton were declared by statute to have been "lately introduced," and a "lawful and laudable manufacture." [ ] that the spinning-jenny was so named after a wife or daughter of one of the inventors is fable. the original wheel was the "jenny," a term corresponding with others well known in lancashire,--the "peggy" and the "dolly,"--and the new contrivance became the "_spinning_-jenny." [illustration: the dinner hour] the following year, , saw the perfecting of crompton's celebrated "mule," which produced, at less expense, a much finer and softer yarn than arkwright's machine. it was specially suitable for muslins; and from this date most assuredly should be reckoned the elevation of the manufacture to its highest platform. like the jenny, it was used at first in private houses, but a nobler application was close at hand--a new revolution--the superseding of hand, and horse, and water power, all at one moment, by steam. had the former remained the only artificial sources of help--even supposing rivers and brooks not subject to negation by drought, the cotton manufacture must needs have been confined within narrow limits, and the greatest conceivable supply of the raw material would not have altered the case. steam, which, like lord chatham, "tramples upon impossibilities," at once gave absolute freedom; and manufacturing, in the space of thirty years, eclipsed its history during . the "mule" was now transferred to the mill, and the factory system became complete. power-looms were first employed in manchester in . stockport followed, and by degrees they became general, improvements going on up till as late as , when the crowning triumph of cotton machinery was patented as the "self-acting mule." the pride of lancashire, it must be remembered, consists, after all, not in the delicacy and the beauty of its cottons, for in these respects india has not yet been out-run; but in the rapidity, the cheapness, and the boundless potentialities of the manufacture, which enable it to meet, if called upon, the requirements of every nation in the world. while any human creature remains imperfectly clad, lancashire still has its work to do. to be entrusted with this great business is a privilege, and in the honourable execution consists its true and essential glory. "over-production," while any are naked, is a phrase without meaning. that which wants correcting is deficient absorption. [illustration: pay-day in a cotton mill] reviewing the whole matter, the specially interesting point--rendered so through inciting to profoundest reflection--is that those poor and unlettered men--hargreaves, arkwright, crompton, and the others--were the instruments, under providence (for such things do not happen fortuitously), by which the world became possessed of an entirely new industrial power, fraught with infinite capacities for promoting human welfare; and which, in its application, introduced quite new styles of thinking and reasoning, and gave new bias to the policy of a great nation. hargreaves, arkwright, crompton, had no prescience of what would come of their efforts. in no part of the transformation was there any precedent or example; it had neither lineage nor inheritance; it was anticipated in momentousness only by the inventions of caxton and gioia;[ ] and if in our own day the electric telegraph and the telephone reveal natural laws scarcely distinguishable from those of miracle, it may still be questioned if these latter discoveries surpass in intrinsic value the three or four that gave life to the modern cotton manufacture. [ ] inventor of the mariners' compass. the interior of a great cotton factory, when at work, presents a spectacle altogether unimaginable. the vast area of the rooms, or "flats," filled in every part with machinery, admits of no comparison with anything else in england, being found in the factory alone. a thousand great iron frames, exquisitely composite, and kept fastidiously clean, some by self-acting dusters, are in simultaneous movement, the arms of some rising and falling, while parts of others march in and out, and to and fro, giving perfect illustrations of order, reciprocal adaptation, and interdependence, and seeming not only alive, but conscious. nothing is more striking, perhaps, than to watch the shuttles as they dart alternately right and left, every movement meaning an added thread to the beautiful offspring. the poets are supposed by some to concern themselves only with fiction. men and women who write verses are poets only when they deal with truth, though presented in the garb of fable; and assuredly, for a poet's theme, there is nothing to excel a skilfully conducted human manufacture. erasmus darwin, it will be remembered, describes the whole series of processes in connection with cotton as observed by him in arkwright's original factory upon the derwent. a common practice is to have the looms in a "shed" upon the surface of the ground. to be as near the earth as possible is a desire no less with the spinner, who, like the weaver, finds the lower atmospheric conditions much more favourable to his work than the upper. in any case, where the power-looms are, long lines of slender pillars support the roof, presenting an unbroken and almost endless perspective; and between the machinery and the ceiling, connected with the horizontal shafts which revolve just below it, are innumerable strong brown leather straps that quiver as they run their courses. according to the department we may be in, either threads or coils of cotton whiter than pearl, and of infinite number, give occupation to those thousand obedient and tireless slaves--not of the ring or the lamp, but of the mighty engine that invisibly is governing the whole; and in attendance are men and women, boys and girls, again beyond the counting. their occupations are in no degree laborious: all the heavy work is done by the steam-engine; muscular power is not wanted so much as delicacy and readiness of hand and finger. hence in the factory and the cotton-mill there is opportunity for those who are too weak for other vocations. machinery in all cases has the merit of at once increasing the workman's wages and lessening his fatigue. the precision in the working of the machinery enforces upon those who attend to it a corresponding regularity of action. there is no re-twisting or re-weaving; everything, if done at all, must be done properly and at the proper moment. apart from its being a place wherein to earn creditably the daily bread, if there be anything in the world which conduces pre-eminently to the acquisition of habits such as lie at the foundation of good morals,--order, care, cleanliness, punctuality, industry, early rising,--assuredly it is the wholesome discipline of the well-ordered cotton factory. whatever may befall _outside_, there is nothing deleterious _inside_; the personal intercourse of the people employed is itself reduced to a minimum; if they corrupt one another, it is as people _not_ in factories do. in the rooms and "sheds" devoted to weaving, the rattle of the machinery forbids even conversation, except when the voice is adjusted to it. in the quieter parts the girls show their contentedness not infrequently by singing-- "the joyful token of a happy mind." [illustration: in a cotton factory] "how often," says the type of the true lancashire poet, most genial of his race,--the late edwin waugh,--"how often have i heard some fine psalm-tune streaming in chorus from female voices when passing cotton-mills at work, and mingling with the spoom of thousands of spindles." that the girls in particular are not unhappy is shown by their preference of the cotton-mill to domestic service. their health is as good as that of any other class of operatives; and though they have to keep upon their feet, it is not for so long a time as young women in city shops. of course there is a shadowy side to life identified with the factory. the hands do not live in elysium, any more than the agricultural labourer does in arcadia. the masters, as everywhere else, are both good and bad: in the aggregate they are no worse than their fellows in other places, and to expect them to be better would be premature. in case of grievance or abuse there is an "inspector" to apply to for remedy. the wages are as good as those earned by any other large class of english work-people; and if the towns in which so many abide are unlovely, the lancashire cotton-operatives at all events know little or nothing of the vice and filth of metropolitan st. giles'. iv manchester the writer of the entertaining article in the _cornhill_ for february upon "the origin of london" shows that had the choice of the best site for a capital to be made _now_, and for the first time, the selection would naturally fall upon south-east lancashire, and on the particular spot covered by modern manchester. geographically, as the author points out, it is the centre of the three kingdoms; and its advantageousness in regard to commerce, all things considered, is paramount. these facts alone suffice to give interest to the locality; and that the town itself should have acquired the importance now possessed, in some respects almost metropolitan, looks not so much like accident or good fortune as the fulfilment of a law of nature. the locality in question is by no means picturesque. the ground, as said before, is, on the cheshire side, and westwards, nearly level, the country being here bordered by the mersey, a river, as pennant long ago remarked, utterly devoid along its course of the charms usually identified with fairly broad and winding streams. at northen there are some pleasant shaded pathways, with willows and poplars like those upon which _oenone_ was carved; but the bank, if much above the level, is artificial, the original having been raised with a view to protecting the adjacent fields from inundation in time of floods, such as occur not infrequently--the mersey being formed in the beginning by the confluence of several minor streams, which gather their waters from the moors and the derbyshire hills, and are apt to be well filled and of rapid movement. at a few miles' distance in other directions, or receding from the mersey, the ground becomes slightly elevated, and in parts agreeably broken, as at prestwich, and near heywood, where there are numberless little dells and ravines, ferny and full of trees. these are a pleasant change after the flatness on the cheshire side, but are too far away to be called manchester. to the mersey manchester makes no claim: three other rivers are distinctly its own--the irwell, which divides the town from salford, with its tributaries, the medlock, and the irk; and of these, though the colour is inexpressible, unless we go to mythology for a term, it is proud, since no three rivers in the world do harder work. all three pass their earlier life in valleys which in the bygones must have been delightful, and in some parts romantic. traditions exist to this day of the times when in their upper reaches they were "silver-eddied." for a long distance before entering, and all the way while passing through, they have now for many years been converted into scavengers; the trout, once so plentiful, are extinct; there are water-rats instead. this, perhaps, is inevitable in a district which, though once green and tranquil, has been transformed into an empire of workshops. the manchester rivers do not stand alone in their illustration of what can be accomplished by the defiling energy of "works." in the strictly manufacturing parts of south lancashire it would be difficult to find a single watercourse of steady volume that any longer "makes music with the enamelled stones." the heroine of verona[ ] would to-day be impelled less to poetical similes than to epitaphs; no sylvan glade, however hidden, if there be water in it, has escaped the visitation of the tormentors. are we then to murmur?--to feel as if robbed? by no means. nothing can be regretful that is inseparable from the conditions of the industry and the prosperity of a great nation. the holidays will be here by and by. a couple of hours' railway journey enables any one to listen to the "liquid lapse" of streams clear and bright as cherith. everything lovely has its place of safety somewhere. however doleful the destiny of the south lancashire streams, a thousand others that can never be sullied await us at a little distance. [ ] _two gentlemen_, ii. . little can be said in praise of the manchester climate, and that little, it must be confessed, however reluctantly, is only negative. the physicians are not more prosperous than elsewhere, and the work of the registrar-general is no heavier. on the other hand, the peach and the apricot cannot ripen, and there is an almost total absence of the christmas evergreens one is accustomed to see in the southern counties--the ilex to wit, the bay, the arbutus, and the laurustinus. in the flourishing of these consists the true test of geniality of climate; rhododendrons and gay flower-gardens, both of which manchester possesses in plenty, certify nothing. not that the climate is positively cold, though as a rule damp and rainy. snow is often seen in the midlands when in manchester there is none. the special feature, again negative, is deficiency of bright, warm, encouraging sunshine. brilliant days come at times, and sultry ones; but often for weeks together, even in summer, so misty is the atmosphere that where the sun should be in view, except for an hour or two, there is only a luminous patch. the history of manchester dates, the authorities tell us, from the time of the "ancient britons." there is no need to go so far back. the genuine beginnings of our english cities and large towns coincide with the establishment of the roman power. they may have been preceded in many instances by entrenched and perhaps rudely ramparted clusters of huts, but it is only upon civilisation that a "town" arises. laying claim, quite legitimately, to be one of the eight primitive lancashire towns founded by agricola, a.d. , its veritable age, to be exact, is years, or nearly the same as that of warrington, where the invaders, who came from chester, found the river fordable, as declared in the existing name of the cheshire suburb, and where they fixed their original lancashire stronghold. what is thought to have happened in manchester during their stay may be read in whitaker. the only traces remaining of their ancient presence are some fragments of the "road" which led northwards over the present kersal moor, and which are commemorated in the names of certain houses at higher broughton. the fact in the local history which connects the living present with the past is that the de traffords of trafford hall possess lands held by their ancestor in the time of canute. how it came to pass that the family was not displaced by some norman baron, an ingenious novelist may be able perhaps to tell. private policy, secret betrothals, doubtless lay in the heart of as many adjustments of the eleventh century as behind many enigmas of the nineteenth. the traffords reside close to "throstlenest," a name occurring frequently in lancashire, where the spirit of poetry has always been vigorous, and never more marked than in appellations having reference to the simple beauty of unmolested nature. at moston there is also throstle-glen, one of the haunts, half a century ago, of samuel bamford. at the time spoken of the county was divided into "tithe-shires." the "hundred of salford" was called "salford-shire," and in this last was included manchester; so that whatever dignity may accrue therefrom belongs properly to the town across the river, which was the first, moreover, to be constituted a free borough, receiving its charter in the time of henry iii., who died in , whereas the original manchester charter was not granted till . to all practical intents and purposes, the two places now constitute a social and commercial unity. similar occupations are pursued in both, and the intercourse is as constant as that of the people who dwell on the opposite sides of the thames. the really important date in the history of manchester is that of the arrival of the flemish weavers in the reign of edward iii. though referable in the first instance, as above mentioned, to the action of the king and the far-seeing philippa, their coming to manchester seems to have been specially promoted by the feudal ruler of the time--de la warre, heir of the de grelleys, and predecessor of de lacy--men all of great distinction in old manchester records. leading his retainers to the field of battle, de la warre literally, when all was over, turned the spear into the pruning-hook, bringing home with him some of these industrious people, and with their help converting soldiers into useful artisans. a wooden church had been erected at a very early period upon the sandstone cliff by the river, where the outlook was pleasant over the meadows and the arriving irk. by , so much had the town increased, it sufficed no longer, and then was built the noble and beautiful "old church," the "cathedral" of to-day, the body of which is thus now nearly years old.[ ] [ ] the original tower remained till , when, being considered insecure, it was taken down, and the existing _facsimile_ erected in its place. up till the windows of this fine church, in conformity with the first principles of all high-class plantagenet and tudor ecclesiastical architecture, were coloured and pictorial; the design being that they should represent to the congregation assembled inside some grand or touching scripture incident, making palpable to the eye what the ear might be slow to apprehend. in the year mentioned they were broken to pieces by the republicans, one of the reasons, perhaps, why the statue of cromwell--the gloomy figure in the street close by--has been so placed as for the ill-used building to be behind it. while the church was in its full beauty the town was visited by leland, who on his way through cheshire passed rostherne mere, evidently, from his language, as lovely then as it is to-day: "states fall, arts fade, but nature doth not die!" "manchestre," he tells us, was at that period (temp. henry viii.) "the fairest, best-builded, quikkest, and most populous tounne of lancastreshire" (v. ). whatever the precise comparative meaning of "fairest and best-builded," there can be no doubt that in leland's time, and for a long subsequent period, manchester was rich in houses of the elizabethan type, including many occupied by families of note. the greater number of these would be "magpie," or wood and plaster fronted, in black and white, the patterns, though simple, often very ingenious, as indicated in relics which have only lately disappeared, and in the old country halls of the same period still perfect, which we shall come to by and by. the style of the inferior kind is shown in an old tavern, the "seven stars," in withy-grove. [illustration: manchester cathedral] at the commencement of the civil wars manchester was important enough to be a scene of heavy contest. the sympathies of the town, as a whole, were with the parliament; not in antagonism to royalty, but because of the suspicion that charles secretly befriended popery. it was the same belief which estranged bolton--a place never in heart disloyal, so long as the ruler does his own part in faithfulness and honour. standing in the cathedral graveyard, it is hard to imagine that the original of the bridge now called the "victoria" was once the scene of a deadly struggle, troops filling the graveyard itself. here, however, it was that the severest assault was made by the royalists, unsuccessfully, as were all the other attacks, though manchester never possessed a castle, nor even regularly constructed fortifications. the town was then "a mile in length," and the streets were "open and clean." words change their meaning with lapse of time, and the visitor who in thus describes them may have been given a little to overpraise; but if manchester deserved such epithets, alas for the condition of the streets elsewhere! as the town increased in size, the complexion may also very possibly have deteriorated. the fact remains, that after the lapse of another years, say in , it was inexpressibly mean and common, continuing so in a very considerable degree up to a period quite recent. people who know manchester only as it looks to-day can form no conception of the beggarly appearance of most of the central part no further back than during the reign of george iv. several years after he came to the throne, where market street now is, there was only a miserable one-horse lane, with a footpath of less than twenty-four inches. narrow "entries" led to adjacent "courts." railed steps led down to cellars, which were used for front parlours. the shops were dark and lowbrowed; of ornament there was not a scrap. mosley street, king street, and one or two others comparatively modern, presented, no doubt a very decided contrast. still it was without the slightest injustice that so late as in or about mr. cobden described manchester as the shabbiest city in europe for its wealth. that the town needed some improvement is indicated rather suggestively by the fact, that between and the authorities paved, drained, and flagged the footways of no fewer than streets, measuring upwards of sixty miles in length. many of them, certainly, were new, but the great mass of the gracious work was retrospective. these matters are worth recalling, since it is only by comparison with the past that modern manchester can be appreciated. shortly after the restoration there was a considerable influx, as into liverpool, from the surrounding country; and by again had the population so much increased that a second church became necessary, and st. anne's was erected, cornfields giving place to the "square." st. anne's being the "new" church, the existing one was thenceforwards distinguished as the "old."[ ] commerce shortly afterwards received important stimulus by the irwell being made navigable to its point of confluence with the mersey, and by the erection of the original manchester exchange. in warrington, the first town in lancashire to publish a newspaper, was imitated in the famous old _manchester mercury_. then came the grand inventions above described, upon which quickly arose the modern cotton manufacture. in a bank and insurance office were found necessary, and in less than a year afterwards the renowned "jones loyds" had its beginning. social and intellectual movements were accelerated by the now fast developing manchester trade. liverpool had founded a subscription library in : manchester followed suit in . in a literary and philosophical society was set on foot, and in assembly rooms were built. [ ] st. anne's was so named in compliment to the queen then on the throne. "st. ann's," like "market-_street_ lane," came of carelessness or something worse. the thoroughfare so called was properly market-_stead_ lane--_i.e._ the lane leading to the market-place. [illustration: st. anne's square, manchester] new streets were now laid out,--to-day, so vast has been the subsequent growth, embedded in the heart of the town,--the names often taken from those of the metropolis, as cannon street, pall mall, cheapside, and spring gardens, and at a little later period bond street and piccadilly. factories sprang up in not a few of the principal thoroughfares: perhaps it would be more correct to say that the building of factories often led to the formation of new streets. the kind of variety they conferred on the frontages is declared to the present day in oxford road. similar buildings, though not so large, existed till very lately where now not a vestige of them remains. the "manchester and salford bank" occupies the site of a once important silk-mill. gathering round them the inferior class of the population,--the class unable to move into more select neighbourhoods when the town is relished no longer,--it is easy to understand how, in most parts of manchester that are fifty years old, splendour and poverty are never far asunder. in london, bath, leicester, it is possible to escape from the sight of rags and squalor: in manchester they are within a bow-shot of everything upon which the town most prides itself. the circumstance referred to may be accounted for perhaps in part by the extreme density of the population, which exceeds that of all other english manufacturing towns, and is surpassed only in liverpool.[ ] manchester, it may be added, has no "court-end." when the rich took flight they dispersed themselves in all directions. they might well depart. the reputation of manchester in respect of "smuts," that, like the rain in shelley, are "falling for ever," is only too well deserved; and, despite of legal enactments, it is to be feared is inalienable. [ ] the population per statute acre of the towns referred to, and of one or two others, which may be usefully put in contrast, is as follows: liverpool manchester plymouth london bristol birmingham salford oldham nottingham sheffield leeds norwich architecturally, modern manchester takes quite a foremost place among the cities by reason of its two great achievements in gothic--the assize courts and the new town-hall. classical models were followed up till about , as in the original town-hall ( - )--now the city free library; the royal institution, the concert hall ( - ), and the corn exchange--one of the happiest efforts of a man of real ability, the late mr. lane. the new exchange also presents a fine example of the corinthian portico. after mr. lane, the town was fortunate in possessing mr. walters, since it was he who introduced artistic details into warehouse fronts, previously to his time bald and vacant as the face of a cotton-mill. very interesting examples of the _primitive_ manchester warehouse style are extant in peel street and thereabouts. manchester is now employed in rebuilding itself, to a considerable extent, under the inspiration received originally from mr. walters, and here and there very chastely. would that his impress could have been seen upon the whole of the newly-contrived. we should then have been spared the not uncommon spectacle of the grotesque, to say nothing of the grimaces of the last few years. it is not to be overlooked that the whole of the improvement in manchester street architecture has been effected since . four-fifths of all the meritorious public buildings, the modern banks also, and nearly all the ecclesiastical architecture that deserves the name, may be referred to the same period. the assize courts and the new town-hall are both from designs by mr. waterhouse completed. the former were in , but not used till july , three months after which time the first stone was laid of the superb pile in albert square. the gilt ball at the apex of the tower, feet high, was fixed th january . the dimensions may be imagined from the number of separate apartments ( ), mostly spacious, and approached, as far as possible, by corridors, which are as well proportioned as elaborate in finish. the cost up to th september , when much remained to be done, including nearly the whole of the internal decoration, was £ , . in designing the coloured windows, mr. waterhouse is said to have had the assistance of a lady. without pressing for the secret, it is undeniable that the tints are blended with a sense of delicate harmony purely feminine. some people prefer the assize courts--a glorious building, peculiarly distinguished for its calmness. structures of such character cannot possibly correspond. perhaps it may be allowed to say that the assize courts seem to present in greater perfection the unity of feeling indispensable to all great works of art, however varied and fanciful the details. due regard being paid to the intrinsic fitness of things and their moral significance, which in art, when aspiring to the perfect, should always be a prime consideration, it may be inquired, after all, whether gothic is the legitimate style for municipal offices. we cannot here discuss the point. liverpool would have to be heard upon the other side. better, in any case, to have a gothic town hall than to see churches and chapels copy the temples devoted a couple of thousand years ago to the deities of pagan greece and rome. it is not pleasant on a sunday forenoon to be reminded of venus, apollo, and diana. the new owens college buildings, oxford road, are early fourteenth century gothic, and when complete will present one of the finest groups of the kind in england. the architect (mr. waterhouse), it has been well said, has here, as elsewhere, "not fettered himself with ancient traditions, but endeavoured to make his learning a basis rather than a limit of thought." a great treat awaits the stranger also in the catholic "church of the holy name," a few steps beyond the owens college. for a passer-by to help noting the beautiful western front and the maze of lofty buttresses and pinnacles is impossible. ornament has been expended with a lavish but not indiscriminate profusion, the general effect being one of perfect symmetry--a character possessed equally by the interior. the style is geometric gothic of the thirteenth century, to the capacities of which, all will acknowledge, mr. hanson has done full justice. the very gracefully designed tudor buildings at old trafford, well known as the asylums for the blind and the deaf and dumb, were erected in . [illustration: town hall, manchester] manchester is much less of a manufacturing town at present, in proportion to its extent and the entire breadth of its business life, than when the cotton trade was young. now, as described in the preceding chapter, the towns and villages outside are all devoted to spinning and weaving. while liverpool is one great wharf, the middle of manchester is one great warehouse--a reservoir for the production of the whole district. the trade falls under two principal heads--the home and the export. in either case, the produce of the looms, wherever situate, is bought just as it flows from them--rough, or, technically, "in the grey." it is then put into the hands of bleachers, dyers, or printers, according to requirement, and afterwards handed to auxiliaries called "makers-up." very interesting is it to observe, in going through a great warehouse, not only how huge is the quantity waiting transfer, but how differently the various fabrics have to be folded and ornamented so as to meet the taste of the nations and foreign countries they are intended for. some prefer the absolutely plain; others like little pictures; some want bright colours, and embellishment with gold and silver. the uniformity of the general business of manchester allowed of agreement, in november , to shut all doors upon saturdays at one o'clock. the warehouse half-holiday movement soon became universal, and now, by four or five p.m. on saturdays large portions of the middle of the town are as quiet as upon sundays. the composition of the manchester community is extremely miscellaneous. a steady influx of newcomers from all parts of great britain--scotland very particularly--has been in progress for eighty or ninety years, and seems likely to continue. not very long ago the suburb called greenheys was regarded as a german colony. many levantine greeks have also settled in manchester, and of jews the estimated number is ten thousand. notwithstanding the influence which these newcomers have almost necessarily, though undesignedly, brought to bear upon the general spirit of the town, the original lancashire character is still prominent, though greatly modified, both for the better and the worse. primitive lancashire is now confined perhaps to rossendale, where, after all, it would be felt that manchester is the better place to live in. the people were distinguished of old by industry and intense frugality, the women in particular being noted for their thrift. they were enterprising, vigilant, shrewd, and possessed of marvellous aptitude for business; they had judgment, and the capacity for minute and sleepless care which is quite as needful as courage to success in life, and which to many a man has been better capital to start with than a well-filled purse. hence the countless instances in south lancashire of men who, additionally fortunate in being born at the favourable moment, though at first earning wages of perhaps fifteen shillings a-week as porters or mill-hands, rose by degrees to opulence, and in many cases laid the foundation of families now in the front rank of local importance. considering the general history, it is easy to understand why carriage-heraldry, except of the worthless purchaseable kind, is scanty; and not difficult either to account for the pervading local shyness as to pedigrees and genealogies. curiously in contrast, one of the very rare instances of an untitled family having supporters to the heraldic shield is found in ashton-under-lyne, mr. coulthart the banker being entitled to them by virtue of descent from one of the ancient scottish kings. to a lancashire magnate of the old school it was sufficient that he was _himself_. the disposition is still locally vigorous, and truly many of the living prove that to be so is a man's recommendation. none of the excellent attributes possessed by, for instance, the original peels and ainsworths, have disappeared, though it cannot be denied that in other cases there has been inheritance of the selfish habits, contracted ideas, and coarsely-moulded character, so often met with in men who have risen from the ranks. given to saying and doing the things natural to them, no people were ever more devoid than the genuine lancashire men, as they are still, of frigid affectations, or less given to assumption of qualities they did not possess. if sometimes startled by their impetuosities, we can generally trust to their candour and whole-heartedness, especially when disposed to be friendly, the more so since they are little inclined to pay compliments, and not at all to flatter. [illustration: deansgate, manchester] that men of small beginnings, and who have had little or no education, are apt, on becoming rich, to be irritable, jealous, and overbearing, is true perhaps everywhere; in lancashire it has been observed with satisfaction that the exceptions are more numerous than the rule. whatever the stint and privations in the morning of life, these, it has been again observed, have seldom led to miserly habits when old. most of the modern lancashire wealthy (or their fathers, at all events, before them) began with a trifle. hence the legitimate pride they take in their commercial belongings--a genuine lancashire man would rather you praised his mill or warehouse than his mansion. so far from becoming miserly, no one in the world deteriorates less. most lancashire capitalists are well aware that it is no credit to a man of wealth to be in arrears with the public, and when money is wanted for some noble purpose are quick in response. this, however, represents them but imperfectly. of a thousand it might be said with as much truth as of the late sir benjamin heywood, the eminent manchester banker, "he dared to trust god with his charities, and without a witness, and _risk the consequences_." so much for the lancashire heart; though on many of its excellent attributes, wanting space, we have not touched. the prime characteristic of the _head_ seems to consist, not in the preponderance of any particular faculty, but in the good working order of the faculties in general; so that the whole can be brought to bear at once upon whatever is taken in hand.[ ] [ ] for delineations of local and personal character in full we look to the novelists. after supreme _scarsdale_, and the well-known tales by mrs. gaskell and mrs. banks, may be mentioned, as instructive in regard to lancashire ways and manners, _coultour's factory_, by miss emily rodwell, and the first portion of mr. hirst's _hiram greg_. lord beaconsfield's admirable portrait of millbank, the lancashire manufacturer, given in _coningsby_ in , had for its original the late mr. edmund ashworth of turton, whose mills had been visited by the author, then mr. disraeli, the previous year. the lancashire man has plenty of faults and weaknesses. his energy is by no means of that admirable kind which is distinguished by never degenerating into restlessness; neither in disputes is he prone to courtly forbearance. sincerity, whether in friend or foe, he admires nevertheless; whence the exceptional toleration in lancashire of all sorts of individual opinions. possessed of good, old-fashioned common-sense, when educated and reflective he is seldom astray in his estimate of the essentially worthy and true; so that, however novel occasionally his action, we may be pretty sure that underneath it there is some definite principle of equity. manchester put forth the original programme of the "free and open church" system; and from one of the suburbs came the first cry for the enfranchisement of women. lancashire, if nothing else, is frank, cordial, sagacious, and given to the sterling humanities of life. these always revolve upon freedom, whence, yet again in illustration of the lancashire heart, the establishment of the society (original in idea, if not unique) for the preservation of ancient footpaths.[ ] the large infusion of the german element has been immensely beneficial, not only in relation to commerce, but to the general culture of the town. it is owing in no slight degree to the presence of educated germans that the manchester "shippers," in their better portion, now resemble the corresponding class in liverpool. the change for the better, since the time when coleridge met with his odd reception, is quite as marked, no doubt, among the leaders of the home commerce, in whose ranks are plenty of peers of the liverpool "gentlemen." records of the past are never without their interest. during the siege, the command of the defence was in the hands of colonel rosworm, a celebrated german engineer, who, when all was over, considered himself ill-used, and published a pamphlet complaining of the town's injustice, enumerating the opportunities he had had of betraying it to the royalists, and of dividing the inhabitants against themselves. "but then," he adds, "i should have been a manchester man, for never let an unthankful one, or a promise-breaker, bear another name!" on the titlepage of "the pole booke for manchester, d may ," an old list of the inhabitants, printed by the chetham society, the aforetime owner has written, "generation of vipers!" [ ] founded in . see the interesting particulars in mr. prentice's _historical sketches and personal recollections_, pp. - . . manchester is now, like liverpool, if not a school of refinement, one of the principal seats of english culture. it possesses not fewer than ten or twelve fine libraries, including the branches of the city free library, established under mr. ewart's act, which last are available on sundays, and are freely used by the class of people the opening was designed to benefit. the staff of assistants at the city library and its branches consists very largely of young women. there is another first-class free library in salford, with, in the same building, a free gallery of paintings, and a well-arranged and thoroughly useful museum. the "athenæum" provides its members with , newspapers per annum, and, in addition, weekly, and monthly and quarterly magazines. societies devoted to science, literature, and the fine arts exist, as in liverpool, in plenty. the exhibitions of paintings at the royal institution have always been attractive, and never more so than during the last few years, when on sunday afternoons they have been thrown open to the public _gratis_. the "school of design," founded in october , now called the "school of art," recently provided itself with a proper home in grosvenor square. there is also a society expressly of "women painters," the works of many of whom have earned honourable places. in addition to its learned societies, manchester stands alone, perhaps, among english cities in having quite seven or eight set on foot purely with a view to rational enjoyment in the fields, the observation of nature in its most pleasing and suggestive forms, and the obtaining accurate knowledge of its details--the birds, the trees, and the wild-flowers. the oldest of these is the "field-naturalists and archæologists," founded in . the members of the youngest go by the name of the "grasshoppers." flower-shows, again, are a great feature in manchester: some held in the townhall, others in the botanical gardens. in august the greatest and richest horticultural exhibition of which there is record was held at old trafford, in the gardens, lasting five days, and with award in prizes of upwards of £ . laid out within a few yards of the ground occupied in by the celebrated fine art treasures exhibition, the only one of the kind ever attempted in england, it was no less brilliant to the visitor than creditable to the promoters. no single spot of earth has ever been devoted to illustrations so exquisite of the most beautiful forms of living nature, and of the artistic talent of man than were then brought together. music is cultivated in manchester with a zest quite proportionate to its value. the original "gentlemen's concert club" was founded as far back as the year of alarm . the local love of glees and madrigals preserves the best traditions of the saxon "glee-men." on th march the veteran charles hallé, who quite recently had been earning new and glorious laurels at prague, vienna, and pesth, led the _five hundredth_ of his great concerts in the free-trade hall. "our town," remarked the _guardian_ in its next day's report of the proceedings, "is at present the city of music _par excellence_ in england.... the outside world knows three things of manchester--that it is a city of cotton, a city of economic ideas, and a city of music. since then the old character has been more than well sustained. cobden was perhaps the first who made all the world see that manchester had a turn for the things of the mind as well as for the production of calico and the amassing of money. similarly, mr. hallé has made it evident to all the world that there is in manchester a public which can appreciate the best music conveyed in the best way." it is but fair to the sister city to add that the first musical festival in the north of england was held in liverpool in , and that the erection of st. george's hall had its germ in the local musical tastes and desire for their full expression. a good deal might be said in regard to the religious and ecclesiastical history of manchester, a curious fact in connection with which is, that between and , though the population had augmented by , , nothing was done on their behalf by the episcopate. the wesleyan body dates from th may , when its founder preached at salford cross--a little apartment in a house on the banks of the irwell, where there were hand-looms, being insufficient to accommodate the congregation assembled to hear him. the literary history of manchester is also well worthy of extended treatment; and, above all, that of the local thought and private spirit, the underlying current which has rendered the last sixty or seventy years a period of steady and exemplary advance. to some it may seem a mere coincidence, a part only of the general progress of the country; but advance, whether local or national, implies impetus received; and assuredly far more than simple coincidence is involved in the great reality that the growth of the town in all goodly respects, subsequently to the uprise of the cotton trade, has been exactly contemporaneous with the life and influence of the newspaper just quoted--the _manchester guardian_--the first number of which was published th may . v miscellaneous industrial occupations lancashire is not only the principal seat of the english cotton manufacture. over and above the processes which are auxiliary to it and complete it, many are carried on of a nature altogether independent, and upon a scale so vast as again to give this busy county the preeminence. the mind is arrested not more by the variety than by the magnitude of lancashire work. contemplating the inexpressible activity, all directed to a common end, one cannot but recall the famous description of the building of carthage, with the simile which makes it vivid for all ages. like all other manifold work, it presents also its amusing phases. in manchester there are professional "knockers-up"--men whose business it is to tap at up-stair windows with a long wand, when the time comes to arouse the sleeper from his pillow. the industrial occupations specially identified with the cotton trade are bleaching, dyeing, and calico-printing. bleaching, the plainest and simplest, was effected originally by exposure of the cloth to the open air and solar light. spread over the meadows and pastures, as long as summer lasted, the country, wherever a "whiter" or "whitster" pursued his calling, was more wintry-looking in july than often at christmas. the process itself was tedious, requiring incessant attention, as well as being liable to serious hindrance, and involving much loss to the merchant through the usually long delay. above all, it conduced to the moral damage of the community, since the bleaching crofts were of necessity accessible, and furnished to the ill-disposed an incentive to the crime which figures so lamentably in their history. that changes and events, both good and evil, are prone to come in clusters is a very ancient matter of observation. at the precise moment when the ingenious machinery produced by hargreaves, arkwright, and crompton, was developing its powers, a complete revolution took place in regard to bleaching. scheele discovered that vegetable colours gave way to chlorine. berthollet and dr. henry (the latter residing in manchester) extended and perfected the application. by the bleaching process had been shortened one-half; the meadows and pastures were released; the summer sunshine fell once more upon verdure, "diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis"; and by about the art became what we have it to-day, one purely for indoors. the new method was first practised successfully in the neighbourhood of bolton, which place has preserved its original reputation, though long since rivalled in every part of the cotton-manufacturing district, and often in more distant spots, a copious supply of clean water being indispensable, and outweighing in its value the advantages of proximity to town. many successive steps have to be taken before perfect whiteness can be secured, these demanding the utmost care and the strictest order of procedure. finally, unless destined for the dye-house or the print-works, the cloth is stiffened with starch made from wheaten flour, the consumption of which article is very large also in the factories, where it is employed to give tenacity to the yarn, reacting beneficially upon the agricultural interest; then, in order to give it the beautiful smoothness and gloss which remind one of the petals of the snowdrop, it is pressed between huge rollers which play against one another under the influence of powerful engines. on emerging from them it is said to have been "cylindered," or, corruptly, "calendered." bleaching, it will appear from this, is a process which but slightly taxes human strength. very interesting is it to note how, in the presence of chemistry and steam, the old word "manufacture" has in modern times changed its meaning. to-day the office of human fingers is less to "make" than to guide the forces of nature, all the harder work being delegated to inanimate wood and iron. the time ordinarily allowed for bleaching is one or two days, though, if needful, the entire process can be accelerated. the cost is about a halfpenny per yard. dyeing is carried on in lancashire quite as extensively as bleaching. here, again, the exactest chemical knowledge is wanted. the managers are usually men well versed in science. a visit to an important dye-works always awakens the liveliest sentiments of admiration, and were it not for the relentless fouling of the streams which receive the refuse, few scenes of industry would live longer in pleasant memory. for although dye-works exist in towns and their suburbs, they are more frequently established out in the country, where there are babbling brooks and "shallow falls," with a view to obtaining a plentiful and steady supply of clean water. factories also are sometimes found amid the fields, occupying quite isolated positions, the object being similar--the command of some definite local advantage. when at the foot of a hill it is interesting to observe that the chimney is placed half-way up the slope, a preliminary underground passage inducing a more powerful draught. it is in the neighbourhood of these rural establishments that the hurt done by manufacturing to the pristine beauty of the country becomes conspicuous. near the towns the results are simply dirt, withered hedges, and a general withdrawal of meadow adornment. in the country we perceive how the picturesque becomes affected. railways are not more cruel. cotton, with all its kindliness, reverses the celestial process which makes the wilderness blossom as the rose. there are differences in degree--the upper portion of the irwell valley, near summerseat, is in a measure exceptional; but we must never expect to find a spot wholly devoid of illustrations of blight and mischief. against the destruction of natural beauty, when works and factories assume the sway, of course must be set not only the employment of the industrious, but the enormous rise in the value of the land; since rise of such character is a sign of advancing civilisation, which in due time will more than compensate the damage. in the manufacturing parts of lancashire land available for farming purposes commands ten times the rental of a century ago. mr. henry ashworth's paper on the increase in the value of lancashire property, published in , showed that since the rise in bolton had been six hundredfold. the highest place in the trio of beautiful arts now before us is held undeniably by calico-printing, since it not only "paints" the woven fabric "with delight," but in its power to multiply and vary the cheerful pictures is practically inexhaustible; thus representing, and in the most charming manner, the outcome of the sweet facility of the seasons. next to the diversities of living flowers assuredly come the devices of the pattern-designer who discreetly goes to nature for his inspiration. much of his work must of necessity be conventionalised, and some of it cannot be other than arbitrary and artificial; but there is no reason why, in its steadiest practice, strictly natural forms and colours should not always be regarded as truest and best. the tendency is daily more and more in this direction, so that calico-printing may justly anticipate a future even more distinguished than its present and its past. the "past," if we press for the birthday, is an ancient one indeed. not to mention the chintzes of india, in the days of calidasa, pliny shows us very plainly that printing by means of mordants was practised in egypt in the first century of the christian era. when introduced into western europe is not known; for our present sketch it is enough that in england it began about a.d. , coming, like many other excellent things, of the short-sighted efforts of selfishness, which, fortunately for mankind, always invites the retaliations of generosity. in the year mentioned, , with a view to favouring the manufacturers of woollen and silk, the importation of prints from india was forbidden. experiments were at once made with a view to production of similar work at home. this was soon discovered to be practicable, and preparations were made for printing upon a large scale, and at a moderate cost, when a new hindrance arose--say rather that the old malignant one, jealous opposition, reappeared. for a time this was successful, but at last the privilege to print in england was conceded, burdened, however, with the condition that the metropolis and the immediate vicinity should alone possess the right--a circumstance which recalls to mind the original law as to joint-stock banks. the monopoly wrought its own destruction, for there was one county at least, a despised but courageous one in the north, which was not likely to remain a passive spectator. contemporaneously with the new bleaching process above described, contemporaneously also with the employment of the new cotton machinery, calico-printing obtained the provincial footing which from that time forwards has never ceased to strengthen, and which now renders lancashire the most important district in the world in regard alike to the immensity of production and the inexpressible beauty of the workmanship. it is not too much to say, with an eminent author, that the calico-printing works of lancashire are entitled to count with the most distinguished english seats of useful science, and the most interesting scenes of the exercise of tasteful invention. the earliest enterprise was in manchester itself, in , the year of the visit of prince charles and his army, the original lancashire efforts having been made, so history says, by the grandfather of the late distinguished surgeon, mr. joseph jordan. the "works" were situated on the banks of the irwell, close to st. mary's church. blackburn soon followed, and under the influence of the supreme abilities of the peels, remained for many years the uncontested centre. print-works are now met with in every little recess where there is supply of water, doubtless the first thing looked for when they were founded. the natural current sufficed at first; but it soon became customary to construct home or private reservoirs, and upon these the dependence is now essentially placed. no county in england needs so much water as lancashire, and certainly there is not one that presents so many little bits of water-surface artificially prepared. it is pleasant to observe that the reservoirs belonging to "works," when belonging to a man of taste, have often been rendered extremely pretty by the introduction of water-lilies: flowers not only of unrivalled queenliness among aquatics, but distinguished among our native vegetation by the pensive languor always associated with the idea of the oriental--the water-lilies' birthright--for, as a race, they are much more asiatic than european, and by happy coincidence the most appropriate that could be placed there, the water-lily being the emblem not more of the nile than of the ganges. the multiplicity of the printing processes, and their complexity, call for many distinct buildings. hence, when large, and isolated away in the country, as very generally happens, a print-works has quite the look of a rising village. there is a laboratory, with library, for the managing chemist, a suite of apartments for the designers, and a house and fruitful garden for the resident partner, with, in addition, not uncommonly, a schoolroom for the children. when the designers have completed their sketches, the engraver's work begins--a business in itself, and carried on almost exclusively in town, and especially in manchester. originally the pattern was cut upon a block of wood, usually sycamore, the success of the transfer to the cloth depending chiefly upon the dexterity of the workman. in this very primitive mode was superseded by "cylinder-printing," the pattern being engraved upon copper rollers, as many as there are colours; and though "block-printing" shares the unquenchable vitality of hand-loom weaving, the roller may now be considered universal. the employment of copper supplies another very interesting illustration of the resort made to this metal in almost every kind of high decorative art, and prepares us to understand the fitness of the ancient mythological use, and why associated with the goddess of love and beauty. these great undertakings--the bleaching, the dyeing, and the printing of the calico--demand steady supplies of the chemicals and other agents by means of which the various objects are attained. hence in lancashire the unrivalled number and extent of the manufacturing chemical works; and, especially in manchester, the business,--never heard of in many english counties, here locally distinguished as the "drysalter's." the drysalter sees to the importation from foreign countries of the indigo, the madder, and other dye-stuffs in daily request; he deals also in the manifold kinds of gum constantly asked for, supplying himself partly from abroad, _viâ_ liverpool, partly from works close by which prepare it artificially. a well-known sight in manchester is that of a cartload of logs of some curious tropical dyewood, rudely hewn by the axe, and still retaining in the cavities of the bark little relics of the mosses and lichens of their native forest. the chemical works are located principally in the extreme south-west, especially near widnes, a place which at once betrays itself to the passing traveller in the almost suffocating atmosphere, and the total extinction of the beauty of trees and hedges, spectres and gaunt skeletons alone remaining where once was verdure. here we find in its utmost vigour the manufacture of "soda-ash" (an impure carbonate), and of chloride of lime, both for the use of bleachers; also, prepared from the first-named, "caustic soda," for the soap-boilers of liverpool and warrington; and chlorate of potash, peculiarly for the dyers. nitric acid also is made in immense quantity, the basis being chilian saltpetre, though for their materials for the soda-products the manufacturers have no need to go further than cheshire, the supply of salt being drawn entirely from the northwich mines. the discharge of stifling vapours was much worse before the passing of the alkali act than at present; and, curiously enough, though by no means without a parallel, involved positive loss to the manufacturer, who now manages to detain a considerable amount of good residuum previously wasted. the act permits a limited quantity of noxious matter to go up the chimney; the stream is tested every day to see that the right is not abused: how terrible is the action even of that little the surrounding fields are themselves not slow to testify; everything, even in summer, looks dirty, lean, and dejected. sulphuric acid is likewise manufactured on a great scale, especially at newton-le-willows, the basis (except when required to be very pure, when sulphur is employed) being iron pyrites imported from spain. hundreds of thousands of tons are prepared every year. there is probably not a single manufacturing process carried on in england in which chemical agency is involved which does not call for it. hence, in the consumption of sulphuric acid, we have always a capital index to the state of trade, so far as regards appeal to the activity of the producing classes. in the extent of its manufacture of all the substances above mentioned, lancashire is far ahead of every competitor in the world; germany comes next, and then probably france. carbolic acid is of peculiarly lancashire origin, having been originally introduced commercially by the late dr. crace calvert. supplies are in daily request for the production of colour: the employment for antiseptic purposes is larger yet; the export is also very considerable. other immensely important chemicals prepared in south lancashire, and on a scale almost incredible,--manchester helping the widnes corner,--are sulphate of soda and sulphate of copper, the last-named being now in unlimited demand, not only by the dyers and calico-printers, but for the batteries used in electric telegraphy. in the presence of all this marvellous work, how quaintly reads the history of the lancashire chemistry of years ago. it had then not emerged from alchemy, which, after being forbidden by henry iv., and again legalised by henry vi., was warmly encouraged by the credulous edward iii., and had no devouter adherents than the asshetons and the traffords, who in their loyalty undertook to supply the king with silver and gold to the extent of his needs--so soon as the "philosopher's stone" should be discovered! before we laugh at their misdirected zeal, it may be well to inquire whether the world has suffered more from scornful and premature rejection, or from honest and simple enthusiasm, such as in playing with alchemy brought to life the germs of the profoundest and most variously useful of the sciences. though lancashire tries no longer to transmute the baser metals into the precious ones by means of alchemy, it succeeds by the honester and less circuitous route of industry. lead is obtained, though not in large quantity, at anglezark, near rivington pike; and iron, in the excellent form of hæmatite, plentifully in the ulverston and furness district. the smelting is carried on chiefly at barrow, where the business will no doubt continue to prosper, though hæmatite of late years has somewhat lost its ancient supremacy, methods having been discovered by which ores hitherto deemed inferior are practically changed to good and useful ones. [illustration: in the wire works] in any case the triumphs of lancashire will continue to be shown, as heretofore, in her foundries and engine-works, the latter innumerable. whitworth, fairbairn, nasmyth, are names too well known to need more than citation. nasmyth's steam-hammer in itself is unique. irresistible when it smites with a will, a giant in power and emphasis, it can assume, when it pleases, the lightsome manners of a butterfly. let a lady place her hand upon the anvil, the mighty creature just gives it a kiss, gently, courteously, and retires. it is rather a misfortune for the stupendous products of the foundry and engine-works that, except in the case of the locomotive, as soon as completed they are hidden away for evermore, embedded where completely lost to view, and thought of as little as the human heart. happily in the streets of manchester there is frequent reminder, in the shape of some leviathan drawn slowly by a team of eight, ten, twelve, or even fourteen superb horses. bradford, one of the suburbs of manchester, supplies the world with the visible factor of its nervous system--those mysterious-looking threads which now everywhere show against the sky, and literally allow of intercourse between "indus and the pole." in addition to their manufacture of telegraph-wire, the messrs. johnson prepare the whole of what is wanted for the wire-rope bridges now common in america. large quantities of wire are produced also at warrington; here, however, of kinds adapted more particularly for domestic use. in connection with metal it is worthy also of note that lancashire is the principal seat of the manufacture of the impregnable safes which, laughing at thieves and fire, challenge even the earthquake. they are made in liverpool by milner and company, and near bolton by the chatwoods. lancashire was long distinguished for its manufacture of silk, though it never acquired the importance held by macclesfield. in europe this beautiful art came to the front as one of the results of the later crusades--enterprises which, though productive of untold suffering, awoke the mind of all the civilised parts of the continent from its slumber of ages, enlarging the sphere of popular thought, reviving the taste for elegant practices forgotten since the fall of the western empire, and extending commerce and knowledge in general. to lancashire men the history is thus one of special interest. italy led the way in the manufacture; spain and france soon followed, the latter acquiring distinction, and at the close of the sixteenth century the english channel was crossed. tyranny, as in the case of calico-printing, was the prime cause, the original spitalfields weavers having been part of the crowd of protestants who at that period were constrained, like the unhappy and forlorn in more modern times, to seek the refuge always afforded in our sea-girt isle.[ ] james i. was so strongly impressed with the importance of the manufacture that, hoping to promote it at home, he procured many thousands of young mulberry-trees, some of which, or their immediate descendants, are still to be found, venerable but not exhausted, in the grounds and gardens of old country houses. the civil wars gave a heavy check to further progress. little more was done till , when a silk-mill, worked by a water-wheel, was built at derby. this in time had to close its doors awhile, through the refusal of the king of sardinia to permit the exportation of the raw material, always so difficult to procure in quantity. at last there was recovery; the manufacture crept into cheshire, and at the commencement of the present century into lancashire, taking root especially in the ancient villages of middleton and eccles, and gradually spreading to the adjacent hamlets. [ ] the late greatly respected mr. e. r. le mare, who came to manchester in , and was long distinguished among the local silk-merchants, belonged by descent to one of these identical old huguenot families. died at clevedon, th february , aged eighty-four. [illustration: making coke] the arrival was opportune, and helped to break the fall of the hand-loom cotton weavers, many of whom could not endure the loss of freedom imposed by the rules of the factory, and whose latent love of beauty, as disclosed in their taste for floriculture, was called forth in a new and agreeable manner. silk-weaving was further congenial to these men in being more cleanly and less laborious than the former work, requiring more care and vigilance, and rather more skill, thus exactly suiting a race of worshippers of the auricula, the polyanthus, and the carnation. the auricula, locally called the "basier," a corruption of "bear's ear," is the subject of a charming little poem by one of the old swinton weavers, preserved intact, reprinted in wilkinson's _lancashire ballads_, and peculiarly valuable in respect of the light it throws upon the temperament of a simple and worthy race, now almost extinct. we may be allowed to quote two of the verses: come and listen awhile unto what we shall say concerning the season, the month we call may; for the flowers they are springing, the birds they do sing, and the basiers are sweet in the morning of may. when the trees are in bloom, and the meadows are green, the sweet-smelling cowslips are plain to be seen; the sweet ties of nature we plainly do say, for the basiers are sweet in the morning of may! the silk-weavers about middleton were renowned also for their zest in entomology, and truly wonderful were their cabinets of lepidoptera. unfortunately, when all was prosperous, there came a change. ever since , the year of the new, and still current, silk-treaties with france, whereby its original command of the trade was restored, the manufacture of silk in lancashire, and everywhere else in england, has been steadily and hopelessly declining; and at the present day, compared with half a century ago, the production is less than a tenth of what it was. power-looms naturally have the preference with employers, since they represent invested capital; whereas the hand-loom weaver, if there is no work for him, has merely to be told so. the latter, as a consequence, is now seldom met with. the trade, such as remains, gathers chiefly about leigh. middleton, once so famous for its "broad silks,"--those adapted for ladies' dresses,--now spends its time chiefly in the preparation of "trimmings"; and wherever carried on the manufacture is almost wholly of the kind called "mixed," or cotton and silk combined, this being more in demand, because lower in price, though not wearing so well. [illustration] from silk that befits empresses to hemp, the material of sackcloth, the way is long. but it must not be overlooked, in regard to the textile manufactures of lancashire, that each extreme is familiar. warrington, in the bygones, prepared more than half the entire quantity of sailcloth required for the navy. it was a ship laden with hemp from the baltic for use in lancashire which, touching at the isle of skye, brought the first news of prince charles edward's landing there. lancashire produces one-sixth of all the paper made in england. in other words, there are in this county about fifty of the nearly english paper-mills, including the very largest of them--messrs. wrigley and sons', near bury. the first to be established was crompton's, at farnworth, near bolton, which dates from , or exactly eighty-eight years after the building of the famous kentish one referred to by shakspere,[ ] which itself followed, by just a century, the primeval one at stevenage. every description of paper, except that required for bank-notes, is made in lancashire. the mills themselves, like the dyeworks, haunt the river-sides, though they no longer draw their supplies of water from the stream. paper-works cannot possibly prosper if there be iron in the water they use, or decomposed vegetable matter. hence in lancashire it is now customary to sink wells of considerable depth, and in any case to provide for elaborate filtration. no spectacle in its way is more wonderful than that of a paper-machine at work. there is no limit to the length of the piece it is able to produce continuously, save that which is imposed by its own restricted dimensions. a roll could be made--as it is--of three or four miles in length, the cylinder gradually gathering up the pulp till it can hold no more. very interesting also is it to observe the variety of material now employed. esparto, or "spanish grass," is brought to liverpool (as to cardiff and newcastle) in exchange for coal, and wood-pulp from norway and sweden _viâ_ hull. [ ] sir john spielman's, at dartford.--_vide_ nd henry vi., act iv. scene . at darwen we find the largest and most important production in england of the ornamental wall-papers which now take the place of the distemper painting of ancient egypt, herculaneum, and pompeii. the manufacture was originally very similar to block calico-printing. in or about messrs. c. & j. g. potter introduced "rollers," with the additional novelty of the pattern being cut in relief; and this is now almost universal, the messrs. potter having progeny, as it were, all over the country, though they themselves still produce quite one-half of the quantity consumed. they have customers in every part of the civilised world, and adapt their work to the diverse and often fantastic tastes of all in turn, directed not uncommonly, as in the case of the hindoos and the japanese, by native designs, which they are required to follow implicitly. [illustration: glass-blowing] to go further into the story of modern lancashire manufacturing is not possible, since there is scarcely a british industry which in this county is without example, and to treat of the whole even briefly would require thrice the space already occupied. among the foremost scenes to be described would be the plate-glass works at st. helens; and the manchester india-rubber works, the original, now sixty-seven years old, still carried on under the familiar name of charles macintosh & co. the first were established in glasgow; london, and then manchester, were the next following centres, beginning with simple waterproof, but now producing articles of every conceivable variety. thread, tape, pins, carpenters' tools, nails, screws, terra-cotta, bottles, aniline, soap, brass, and pewter-work, are also lancashire staples. gunpowder is manufactured near the foot of windermere; and at prescot and thereabouts the people employ themselves, as they have done now for nearly three centuries, in manufacturing the delicate "works" and "movements" required for watches. not without significance either, in regard to the general capabilities of the county, is the preparation at newton by messrs. m'corquodale of the whole of the requirements of the government, both for home use and in india, in the way of stationery and account-books. for the government alone they manufacture forty millions of envelopes every year. they also execute the enormous amount of printing demanded by the l. & n. w. railway company. the great ship-building works at barrow now need no more than a reference. the magnificent atlantic inman steamer, the _city of rome_, a ship with a gross tonnage of , and propelled by, upon the lowest estimate, indicated horse-power, was launched here in june . after the ill-fated _great eastern_, this was the largest vessel then afloat. all has come into existence since about , when the population of this out-of-the-way lancashire village was under , though now nearly , , a growth without parallel except in the united states. [illustration: on the bridgewater canal] omitting a considerable number of minor activities, there is, in addition to the above, the vast sphere of industry, part of the very life of working lancashire, though not a manufacture, indicated by the little word "coal." in their value and importance the lancashire collieries vie with the cotton-mills, declaring once again how close and constant is the dependence of the prosperity of a great manufacturing district upon its geology. coalfields lying below the surface leave the soil above them free for the purposes of the farmer and the builder; in other words, for the raising of human food and the development of useful constructive arts. where there is plenty of coal double the number of people can exist; the enormous population of lancashire south of the ribble has unquestionably come as much of its coalfields as of the invention of the spinning-jenny. the prevailing rock in this portion of lancashire is the well-known new red sandstone, the same as that which overlies all our other best english coal deposits. concurrently with it, and with the millstone-grit, the measures which have brought so much wealth to the county, extend from pendleton, two miles from manchester, to colne in the north-east, and to st. helen's in the west, many vast branches running out in various directions from the principal mass. what the exact thickness may be of course is not known, but, according to mr. dickinson, it may be estimated at feet. some of the deepest pits in the country have been sunk in it, as at the rosebridge colliery, near wigan, where the depth already reached is nearly feet, and the ashton-moss pit, near ashton-under-lyne, which goes still lower,--it is said to feet,--in which case this last will be the deepest in england. the direction of the dip is described by the colliers in a very pretty way. they say it is towards "the rising sun," or "the setting sun," the different points included between these opposites being similarly expressed by "dipping towards nine-o'clock sun," "twelve-o'clock sun," and so on. the sun is thus their compass, though few men see less of it during their hours of labour. the neighbourhood of a colliery is generally well declared. independently of the apparatus over the opening of the pit, there is no mistaking the significance of the row of neat cottages, all fashioned on the same architectural model, a few stray ones here and there, a trim little front garden seldom wanting, with close by a few shops, a school-house, a chapel, both very plain, and the proprietor's or agent's residence, somewhat ornate, and garnished with evergreen shrubs, ready always for the washing of a kindly shower. in many places, as at wigan, atherton, tyldesley, and st. helens, women, both single and married, work at the collieries, but only above ground, or at the bank. they are prohibited by statute from descending the pit, and their names and ages are all exactly registered. up to the waist they are dressed like men. above the knees, instead of a coat, they have a peculiarly fashioned tunic, a compromise between gown and jacket, by which they may be distinguished from afar: a limp bonnet tied under the chin protects the head, but never conceals the ear-rings and plaited hair. many of these women are plainly equal to their masculine colleagues in physical power, yet they earn only two-thirds of the wages given to men. the decorum of their behaviour while at work is unimpeachable; on sundays they do their best to dress like ladies. the lancashire quarries are also remarkable, though little resorted to by the architect. commercial prosperity is always most conspicuous where the buildings are principally not of stone, but of brick. [illustration: on the bridgewater canal] nothing does more to sustain and encourage the industry of a working population than a steady system of transit, and a well-timed delivery, alike of the natural products of the ground and of the articles manufactured. hence the early development in lancashire of the idea of the canal, and, sixty years afterwards, of that of the railway. the history of the bridgewater canal is one of the most interesting connected with the county enterprise, the more so since all other canals were imitations of it. many, however, are not aware that the celebrated peer under whose dictation it was constructed--francis egerton, the third and last duke of bridgewater--was led to devote himself for solace sake to engineering through a disappointment in love. that women, when troubled or bereaved, should take refuge in works of charity, and that when wealthy they should found hospitals and build orphanages, is very natural, and has plenty of exemplification; but for a man to turn when similarly circumstanced to science is phenomenal, and the records of search for consolation after this manner would probably be sifted in vain for a parallel case. several versions of the story are afloat; whichever way be the true one, it is beyond a doubt that one of the greatest industrial achievements ever witnessed in england had for its prime cause the caprice or the temper of the widowed duchess of hamilton,--to whom a second coronet was offered,--she who in her early days was the celebrated belle elizabeth gunning. there is a waterway of this description in lancashire more remarkable in some respects even than the duke's canal--that one called the leeds and liverpool, the lancashire portion of which curls round from the great seaport by way of ormskirk, southport, wigan, chorley, burnley, and colne, where the yorkshire boundary is crossed. near the towns, and especially in the south-west and south-east, these useful highways are dreary and uninteresting; but in rural districts, such as they must needs traverse, often for lengths of many miles, the borders sometimes acquire an unlooked-for picturesqueness, and are gaily dressed with wild-flowers. in any case they never fail in possession of the rude charms of the gliding boat, the slow-paced horse, and artless guide. the lancashire railway system, it may be remarked, extends to within a trifle of miles. vi peculiarities of character, dialect, and pastimes the primitive lancashire character--industrious, frugal, sanguine, persevering, inflexible in determination--has already been sketched in brief. some additional features, observable more particularly among the operatives and away in the country, deserve notice, the more so since it is in a people's average temperament that the key is usually found to their pursuits in playtime--after the songs, the most interesting chapter in a local history. the sum total of the private morals of working lancashire probably does not differ _pro rata_ from that which would be disclosed by a census of any other county. so with the manners and customs, for although in lancashire the suavity of the south is soon missed, and though there is little touching of the hat or saying of "sir," the absence of a courteous spirit is more apparent than real, and in any case is amply compensated by a thoroughness of kindly sentiment which more polished communities do not always share. the "factory-folk," the colliers, and others, are usually considered turbulent and given to outrages. they are not so by nature. though often rough, self-willed, and obstinate, the working population as a whole is too thoroughly saxon for the riotousness one looks for while in the presence of the celt. social conflicts, when they arise, are set on foot by mischief-makers and noisy idlers whose personal interest it is to promote antagonisms. save for these veritable "disturbers of the peace" the probability is that there would be few or none of the "strikes" and "turn-outs" which bring so much misery to the unfortunate women and children who have no say in the matter. the people who "strike" are in the mass more to be pitied than held chargeable with love of disorder, for, as a rule, they have been cruelly misled into the notion that it is the master's interest to pay as little as possible for their labour, the truth being that for his own sake he pays them the utmost the business will justify, so that they shall be strong enough, healthy enough, cheerful and good-tempered enough, to work with a will, thus augmenting his personal profits. every master of common-sense understands the principle, and _does_ so pay. it may be useful to remind the reader that the profits made by a lancashire "cotton-lord" differ totally in their composition from the payment received for his work by an artist, a physician, or a barrister. the cotton-manufacturer's profits consist of an infinite number of particles, an atom per head on the work of , and often assistants. to the outside and afar-off public, who hear of contentions over pennies, the sum seems nothing, and the man who refuses the penny a sordid fellow. but to the employer it very soon means hundreds of pounds, and represents perhaps half a year's income. in lancashire, whatever may be the case elsewhere, the people who "strike" are deceived in no slight measure through their own honesty and sincerity of purpose. one of the original characteristics of the county is to be fair and unsuspecting; no people in the world have a stronger dislike of deceit; one of the reasons why a genuine lancashire man can usually be trusted is, that he is so little inclined to overstate or misrepresent. the very circumstance that wins our esteem thus renders him vulnerable. disposed to be honest themselves, the operatives fall so much more readily a prey to unscrupulous agitators. it is amusing, at the same time, to note how soon, when he detects an impostor, a lancashire man will put him out of countenance; and how quick he is, in excellent balance, to perceive the meritorious, either in person or subject, and, perceiving, to appreciate. a remarkable instance of the promotion of strikes by mischief-makers occurred at the commencement of the spring of , when the colliers stood out for six weeks, at a loss to themselves of no less than £ , in wages, such as otherwise they would have earned. the chairman of the london and north-western railway company explained it at the shareholders' meeting on th july, pointing out at the same time the immense collateral harm inflicted: "they might remember that at the beginning of the year there was a settlement made with the colliers of lancashire and their employers with regard to a mutual insurance fund against accident; but a member of parliament went down and persuaded these poor, unhappy people that they had better not accept it, but take care of themselves. he also persuaded them to make a strike, the result of which was disaster to every one. prices did not go up, and unless prices went up wages could not; and the men afterwards suffered great distress. from this cause they estimated that the company had lost traffic to the amount of about £ , ." another result was the permanent loss of an important market to the local colliery proprietors. many thousands of tons of lancashire steam-coal were previously being sent weekly to birkenhead; but during the stoppage of the wigan collieries the coal masters of north and south wales obtained possession of the market, and the quantity now sent to birkenhead is confined to only a few hundreds of tons. the general question as to strikes, and of the kind of grievances that may sometimes be not unreasonably complained of, is no doubt a very large and complex one. but whatever may be the case elsewhere, it is impossible for the "strikers" to deny that in the aggregate, and in the long run, the tendency of the lancashire masters' doings is to create and diffuse social happiness among the employed. it is the master's interest that his people should be not only strong and healthy and good workmen, but good men. comfortable homes are prepared for their families. schools were provided by innumerable lancashire masters long before they were required to do so by law. many an employer is noted for the pains he takes, and the money he spends, with a view to the operatives' enjoyments. during the continuance of these ill-advised "strikes," and when the depression of trade--quite as distasteful to the master as to the man--involves "short time"--four or five days' work in the week, or even less, instead of six, another capital feature of the lancashire character comes to the front. no people in the world are capable of profounder fortitude. patience under suffering never fails. though pinched by hunger, such is the manly and womanly pride of the lancashire operatives that they care less about privations than to be constrained to surrender any portion, however trifling, of their independence. that the large-hearted and intelligent among mankind are always the last to complain in the hour of trial no one needs telling. people of this character are probably more numerous everywhere than may be thought, for the simple reason that they are the least likely to be heard of; but it is worth putting on paper that no better illustrations are to be found than exist in plenty in working lancashire. it is refreshing also to note the hearty kindness of the lancashire operatives one to another in time of distress. not upon "trades' union" principles, but upon the broad and unselfish basis of strong, natural, human sympathy, familiar to the friendly visitor; and which, when elevated, as it often is, by religion, and warmed and expanded by personal affection, becomes so beautiful that in its presence all short-comings are forgotten. these good qualities are unfolded very specially on the occurrence of a terrible accident, such as a coal-pit explosion. in the yearning to be foremost in help to rescue; in the gentleness, the deference to authority, the obedience to discipline, the resignation then exhibited,--this last coming not of indifference, but of calmness,--a capacity is plainly shown for the highest conceivable moral development. _the dialect._--the original county dialect of lancashire is of twofold interest. still heard among the rustics, it is peculiarly valuable to the student of the english language. "our south lancashire speech," says its most accomplished interpreter, "is second to none in england in the vestiges which it contains of the tongue of other days.... to explain anglo-saxon there is no speech so original and important as our own south lancashire _patois_."[ ] to the ears of strangers who know nothing about it the sound is often uncouth and barbarous. that it is far from being so is proved by the use long made of this dialect for lyric poetry and for tales both racy and pathetic.[ ] there is conclusive evidence also of its sweet and meaningful pathos in the resorting to it in times of deep emotion by people of the highest culture, who then unconsciously throw aside the learning and the vocabulary of school and college for the simplicity that never fails to touch the heart. the titles of the stories hold a conspicuous place in mr. axon's list of the no fewer than publications illustrative of the general subject of the lancashire dialect;[ ] the literature of which, he justly remarks in the introduction, is richer than that of the popular speech of any other english county. this is so much the more noteworthy since, with the famous manufacturing epoch of , everything belonging to primitive lancashire began to experience change and decay. in a certain sense it may be said that the dialect has not only survived unhurt, but has risen, during the last thirty or forty years, to a position worthy of the native talent; and that the latter, in days to come, will have no better commemoration than the metrical literature. two particulars at once arrest attention. no english dialect more abounds in interesting archaisms; and certainly not one is so little tainted with expressions of the nature of slang.[ ] [ ] _on the south lancashire dialect_. by thomas heywood, f.s.a. chetham society. vol. lvii. pp. , . [ ] _vide_ mr. george milner, "on the lancashire dialect considered as a vehicle for poetry," _manchester literary club papers_, vol. i. p. . . [ ] _vide_ mr. george milner, "on the lancashire dialect considered as a vehicle for poetry," _manchester literary club papers_, appendix to the vol. for . [ ] the modern slang of great towns is of course quite a different thing from the ancient dialect of a rural population. affected misspellings, as of "kuntry" for country, are also to be distinguished _in toto_ from the phonetic representation of sounds purely dialectical. rochdale occupies the centre of the most distinctively lancashire-dialect region. as ordinarily employed, the phrase vaguely denotes the rural speech of the manufacturing districts. but beyond the ribble, and more particularly beyond the lune, there is unmistakable variation from the genuine lancashire of "tim bobbin"; and in furness there is an echo of cumberland. in genuine lancashire we have first the old-accustomed permutations of the vowels. then come elisions of consonants, transpositions, and condensations of entire syllables, whereby words are often oddly transformed. ancient idioms attract us next; and lastly, there are many of the energetic old words, unknown to current dictionaries, which five centuries ago were an integral part of the english vernacular. the vowel permutations are illustrated in the universal "wayter," "feyther," "reet," "oi," "aw," "neaw," used instead of water, father, right, i, now. "owt" stands for aught, "nowt" for naught. elisions and contractions appear in a thousand such forms as "dunnoyo" for "do you not," "welly" for "well-nigh." "you" constantly varies to thee and thou, whence the common "artu" for "art thou," "wiltohameh" for "wilt thou have me." a final _g_ is seldom heard; there is also a characteristic rejection of the guttural in such words as scratched, pronounced "scrat." the transpositions are as usual, though it is only perhaps in lancashire that gaily painted butterflies are "brids," and that the little field-flowers elsewhere called birds' eye are "brid een." the old grammatical forms and the archaic words refer the careful listener, if not to the anglo-saxon of king alfred, at all events to the _canterbury tales_; they take us pleasantly to chaucer, and chaucer in turn introduces us agreeably to lancashire, where "she" is always "hoo," through abiding in the primitive "he, heo, hit;" and where the verbs still end in _n_: "we, ye, they loven," as in the prologue-- "for he had geten him yet no benefice." very interesting is it also when the ear catches the antiquated _his_ and _it_ where to-day we say _it_ and _its_. often supposed to correspond with the poetical use of "his" in personifications (often found in the authorised version of scripture), the lancashire employment of _his_ is in truth the common shaksperean one, _his_ in the county palatine being the simple genitive of the old english _hit_, as in _hamlet_, iv. -- "there is a willow grows aslant the brook, that shows _his_ hoar leaves in the glassy stream." so with the obsolete possessive _it_. when a lancashire woman says, "come to it mammy!" how plain the reminder of the lines in _king john_-- do, child, go to _it_ grandam, child; give grandam kingdom, and _it_ grandam will give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig; there's a good grandam. archaic words are illustrated in many a familiar phrase. a lancashire girl in quest of something "speers" for it (anglo-saxon _spirian_, to inquire). if alarmed, she "dithers"; if comely and well conducted, she behaves herself "farrantly"; if delicately sensitive, she is "nesh"-- it seemeth for love his herte is tendre and neshe. so when the poor "clem" for want of food--"hard is the choice," says ben jonson, "when the valiant must eat their arms or clem." very many others which, though not obsolete in polite society, are seldom heard, help to give flavour to this inviting old dialect. to embrace is in lancashire to "clip"; to move house is to "flit"; when the rain descends heavily, "it teems"; rather is expressed by "lief" or "liefer," as in _troilus and cresseide_-- yet had i levre unwist for sorrow die. _pastimes and recreations._--the pastimes and recreations of the lancashire people fall, as elsewhere, under two distinct heads; those which arise upon the poetic sentiment, the love of purity, order, and beauty, and those which come of simple desire to be entertained. where poesy has a stronghold, we have never long to wait for the "touches of sweet harmony"; hence a characteristic of working lancashire, immemorial as to date, is devotedness to music. in all europe it would be difficult to find a province where the first and finest of the fine arts is better understood, or more reverently practised. high-class sacred music--german music in particular--fills many a retired cottage in leisure hours with solace and joy; and very generally in villages, as well as in the large towns, there are clubs and societies instituted purely for its promotion. "on the wild hills, where whin and heather grow, it is not uncommon to meet working-men with their musical instruments on their way to take part in some village oratorio many miles distant.... up in the forest of rossendale, between derply moor and the wild hill called swinshaw, there is a little lone valley, a green cup in the mountains, called dean. the inhabitants of this valley are so notable for their love of music that they are known all through the neighbouring country as 'th' deign layrocks.'"[ ] in many of the large country manufacturing establishments--the printworks, for instance--the operatives have regularly organised "bands,"--the employers giving encouragement,--the value of which, in regard to moral culture, is shown in the members being usually the trusted men. [ ] _i.e._ the larks, or singing birds, of dean. edwin waugh, _sketches_, p. . the same primitive inclination towards the poetic would seem to underlie the boundless lancashire love of flowers and gardens. not that the passion is universal. the chief seat, as of the intrinsically best of the dialect, is the south-eastern part of the county: the portion abutting on yorkshire is unfavourably cold, and though in the north occur fine examples of individual enthusiasm, there is little illustration of confederated work. societies strong and skilful enough to hold beautiful exhibitions are dotted all over the congenial parts of the cotton district. they attend as diligently to the economic as to the decorative; one never knows whether most to admire the onions, the beans, and the celery, or the splendid asters, dahlias, and phloxes--in many parts there is ancient renown also for gooseberries. after the manner of the wise in other matters, the operative lancashire gardeners, if they cannot grow the things they might prefer, give their whole hearts to liking those they have at command. the rivalry and ambition in regard to gooseberries is unique. while the fruit is ripening upon the bushes it is sacrilege for a stranger to approach within a distance of many yards. on cold and hurtful nights the owner sits up to watch it, like a nurse with an invalid, supplying or removing defence according to the conditions, and on the show day the excitement compares in its innocent measure with that of epsom. the exhibitors gather round a table: the chairman sits with scales and weights before him, calling in turn for the heaviest red, the heaviest yellow, and so on, every eye watching the balance; the end of all being a bright new kettle for the wife at home. many of the operative gardeners are assiduous cultivators of "alpines," the vegetable _bijouterie_ of the mountains; others are enamoured of ferns, and these last are usually possessed of good botanical knowledge. the beginning would seem to date from the time of elizabeth, thus from the time of shakspere, when other immigrations of the flemish weavers took place. things of home too dear to leave behind them, they brought with them their favourite flowers, the tulip and the polyanthus. these early growers would doubtless for a time be shyly looked upon as aliens. nothing is known definitely of the work of the ensuing century, but there is certain proof that by lancashire had already become distinguished for its "florists' flowers," the cultivation lying almost entirely in the hands of the artisans, who have never for an instant slackened, though to-day the activity is often expressed in new directions. it is owing, without doubt, to the example of the operative lancashire gardeners of the last century and a half that floriculture at the present moment holds equal place with classical music among the enjoyments also of the wealthy; especially those whose early family ties were favourable to observation of the early methods. more greenhouses, hothouses, and conservatories; more collections of valuable orchids and other plants of special beauty and lustre exist in south lancashire, and especially in the immediate neighbourhood of manchester, than in any other district away from the metropolis. orchid culture was practised here, as in macclesfield and birmingham, long before what orchids are was even a question in many parts. the name of one of the noblest species yet discovered, the _cattleya mossiæ_, commemorates an old liverpool merchant, mr. john moss, one of the first to grow these matchless flowers; while in that of the _anguloa clowesii_ we are reminded of the beautiful collection formed at higher broughton by the rev. john clowes, which, after the decease of the possessor, went to kew. a very remarkable and encouraging fact is that orchids, the queenliest and most fragrant of indoor flowers, can, like auriculas, with skilful management be brought to the highest possible state of perfection in an atmosphere in which many plants can barely exist--the smoky and soot-laden one of manchester. the proof was supplied by the late dr. r. f. ainsworth of cliff point, to whom flower-show honours were as familiar as to benjamin simonite of sheffield, that astonishing old florist whose auriculas are grown where the idea of a garden seems absurd. these very practical proofs of the life and soundness of the poetic sentiment in working lancashire prepare us for a county feature in its way quite as interesting and remarkable--the wide-spread and very deep-seated local taste for myth, legend, and superstition, which, in truth, is no other than the poetic sentiment uncultured and gone astray. faith in "folklore" is by no means to be confounded with inane credulity. the folk-lore of a civilised nation is the _débris_ of the grand old spirit-worship--vague, but exquisitely picturesque, and figuratively significant, which, in the popular religion of the pre-christian world, filled every sweet and romantic scene with invisible beings--dryads, who loved the woodland; naïads, that sported in the stream and waterfall; oreads, who sat and sang where now we gather their own fragrant _oreopteris_,[ ] and which assigned maidens even to the sea--the nereids, never yet lost. "nothing," it has been well said, "that has at any time had a meaning for mankind ever absolutely dies." how much of the primeval faith shall survive with any particular race or people--to what extent it shall be transformed--depends upon their own culture, spiritual insight, and ideas of the omnipresence of the almighty, of which the fancies as to the nymphs, etc., declared a dim recognition: it is affected also very materially by the physical character and complexion of their country. this has been illustrated in the completest manner as regards the eastern borders of lancashire by the accomplished author of _scarsdale_[ ] already named: the influence of the daily spectacle of the wild moor, the evening walk homewards through the shadowy and silent ravine, the sweet mysteries of the green and ferny clough, with its rushing stream, all telling powerfully, he shows us with perennial grace, upon the imagination of a simple-hearted race, constitutionally predisposed towards the marvellous, and to whom it was nourishment. nobody is really happy without illusions of some kind, and none can be more harmless than belief in the mildly supernatural. the local fairy tales having now been pretty well collected and classified,[ ] it remains only to recognise their immense ethnographical value, since there is probably not a single legend or superstition afloat in lancashire that, like an ancient coin, does not refer the curious student to distant lands and long past ages. lancashire, we must remember, has been successively inhabited, or occupied, more or less, by a celtic people,--by romans, danes, and anglo-saxons,--all of whom have left their footprints. no one can reside a year in lancashire without hearing of its "boggarts"--familiar in another form in the devonshire pixies, and in the "merry wanderer of the night," titania's "sweet puck." absurd to the logician, the tales and the terrors connected with the boggarts carry with them, like all other fables, a profound interior truth--the truth for which, as carlyle says, "reason will always inquire, while half-reason stands indifferent and mocking." the nucleus of the boggart idea is, that the power of the human mind, exercised with firmness and consistency, triumphs over all obstacles, and reduces even spirits to its will; while, contrariwise, the weak and undetermined are plagued and domineered over by the very same imps whom the resolute can direct and control. so with the superstitions as to omens. when in spring the anglers start for a day's enjoyment, they look anxiously for "pynots," or magpies, _one_ being unlucky, while _two_ portend good fortune. the simple fact, so the ornithologists tell us, is that in cold and ungenial weather prejudicial to sport with the rod, one of every pair of birds always stays in the nest, whereas in fine weather, good for angling, both birds come out. illustrations of this nature might be multiplied a hundred-fold, and to unabating advantage. time is never ill-spent upon interpretation of the mythic. the effort, at all events, is a kindly one that seeks-- to unbind the charms that round slight fables lie, and show that truth is truest poësy. [ ] _lastrea oreopteris_, "sweet mountain-fern," abundant in south-east lancashire. [ ] the late sir james philips kay-shuttleworth, bart. [ ] _lancashire folk-lore._ by john harland and t. t. wilkinson. . the dialect itself is full of metaphor, images of great beauty not infrequently turning up. some of them seem inherited from the primevals. that light and sound are reciprocally representative needs, for instance, no saying. from the earliest ages the idea of music has always accompanied that of sunrise. though to-day the heavens declare the glory of god silently, in the beginning "the morning stars sang together":--old homer's "rosy-fingered morn" is in lancashire the "skryke" or cry "of day." though much that is deplorably brutal occurs among the lowest lancashire classes, the character of the popular pastimes is in general free from stain; and the amusements themselves are often eminently interesting, since in honest and _bona fide_ rustic sports there is always archæology. the tales they tell of the past now constitute in truth the chief attraction of the older ones. the social influences of the railway system have told no less upon the village-green than on the streets of cities; any picture that may now be drawn must needs owe its best colours to the retrospective. contemplating what remains of them, it is pleasant, however, to note the intense vitality of customs and ceremonials having their root in feelings of _reverence_; such, for example, as the annual "rush-bearing" still current in many parts, and not unknown even in the streets of modern manchester. that in the olden time, prior to the introduction of carpets, the practice was to strew floors and indoor pavements with green rushes every one knows. among the charges brought against cardinal wolsey was his extravagance in the too frequent and ostentatious spreading of clean ones. employed also in churches and cathedrals on the anniversary of the feast of the saint to whom the building was dedicated, when renewed it was with special solemnity. in an age when processions full of pomp and splendour were greatly delighted in, no wonder that the renewal became an excuse for a showy pageant; and thus, although to-day we have only the rush-cart, the morris-dancers, the drums and trumpets, and the flags--the past, in association, lives over again. small events and great ones are seldom far asunder. in the magnificent "rush-bearing" got up for the delectation of james i. when at hoghton tower, sunday, th august , lay one of the secret causes of the stuart downfall. sports on the sabbath day had been forbidden by his predecessor. james, admitting as argument that the cause of the reformed religion had suffered by the prohibition, gave his "good people of lancashire" leave to resume them. the puritans took offence; the wound was deepened by charles; and when the time of trial came it was remembered. "pace-egging" (a corruption of pasche or pasque-egging) is another immemorial lancashire custom, observed, as the term indicates, at easter, the egg taking its place as an emblem of the resurrection. perverted and degraded, though in the beginning decorous, if not pious, the original house-to-house visitation has long had engrafted upon it a kind of rude drama supposed to represent the combat of st. george and the dragon--the victory of good over evil, of life over death. so with "simnel-sunday," a term derived from the anglo-saxon _symblian_, to banquet, or _symbel_, a feast, a "simnel" being literally "banquet-bread."[ ] this corresponds with the midlent-sunday of other counties, and, particularly in bury, is a time of special festivity. the annual village "wakes" observed everywhere in lancashire, and equivalent to the local rush-bearings, partake, it is to be feared, of the general destiny of such things. happily the railway system has brought with it an inestimable choice of pleasure for the rational. the emphatically staple enjoyment of the working lancashire population to-day consists in the whitsun-week trip to some distant place of wonder or wholesome gratification, the seaside always securing the preference. in lancashire it is not nearly or so much whitsun-monday or whitsun-tuesday as the whole of the four following days. in the south-eastern part of the county, manchester particularly, business almost disappears; and very delightful is it then to observe how many little parties of the toiling thrifty are away to north wales, scotland, ireland, and even to france. the factory system always implies _masses_. the people work in masses, and suffer in masses, and rejoice in masses. in whitsun-week, fifty miles, a hundred miles away, we find in a score of places five hundred, perhaps a thousand. there are salutary home-pleasures ready besides. manchester does wisely in holding its principal flower-show during this great annual holiday, drawing, in fair weather, some , visitors. the example is a good one, since with the growing disposition of the english people to enjoy their holidays, it behoves all those who have the management of places of healthy recreation to supply the most humanising that may be possible, and thus mitigate the influence of the hurtful ones. the staple game of muscular lancashire was formerly that of bowls. a history of manchester would be incomplete without plenty of lively chat about it; and in regard to the more modern pastime, the cricket match, it is no vaunt to add that while the chief cricketing in england lies in the hands of only nine out of its forty counties, the premiership has once at all events, say in , been claimed as fairly by lancashire as by its great rival on the banks of the trent. nottinghamshire, moreover, had held its position without half the difficulties in the way that lancashire had to contend with. [ ] in the anglo-saxon version of the old testament there are many examples of derivative words. in exodus xxiii. , , feasting-time is _symbel-tid_; xxii. , a feast-day is _symbel-dæg_. in psalm lxxxi. , we have _symelnys_, a feast-day. vii the inland scenery south of lancaster scenery more diversified than that of lancashire, taking the duddon as its northern boundary, does not exist in any english county. for the present we shall keep to the portion south of the lune, deferring the lake district to the next chapter, to which may also be left the little that has to be said concerning the shore south of that river. the eastern parts have attractions quite as decided as those of the north, though of a character totally different. every acknowledged element of the picturesque may be discovered there, sometimes in abundance. the only portion of the county entirely devoid of landscape beauty is that which is traversed by the liverpool and southport railway, not unjustly regarded as the dullest in the kingdom. the best that can be said of this dreary district is, that at intervals it is relieved by the cheerful hues of cultivation. [illustration: blackstone edge] from liverpool northwards to the banks of the ribble, excepting at some distance from the sea, and eastwards to manchester, the ground is nearly level. nothing must be expected where it borders upon the mersey above the estuary. to quote the precise terms employed by pennant, "the mersey is by no means a pleasing water." the country bordering upon it, he might have added, appeals very slenderly to the imagination; and most assuredly, since the old topographer passed along, nature has made no change for the better as regards the river, while man has done his best to efface any pretty features it may once have owned. but we have not to go far from the modern tyre in order to find hills and the picturesque. newborough and the vicinity present a remarkable contrast to the plains beneath. here the country begins to grow really beautiful, and thenceforward it constantly improves. some of the slopes are treeless, and smooth as a lawn; others are broken by deep and wooded glades, with streamlets bound for the douglas (an affluent of the ribble), one of the loveliest dells of the kind in south lancashire occurring near gathurst. on the summits, at ashurst particularly, a sweet and pleasant air never fails to "invite our gentle senses." here too we get our first lesson in what may be truly said, once for all, of lancashire--that wherever the ground is sufficiently bold and elevated we are sure not only of fine air and an extensive prospect, but a glorious one. at ashurst, while liverpool is not too far for the clear discerning of its towers and spires, in the south are plainly distinguished the innumerable delamere pines, rising in dark masses like islands out of the sea; and far away, beyond the dee, the soft swell of the hills of north wales, moel vamma never wanting. this celebrated eminence, almost as well known in south lancashire as in denbighshire, may be descried even at eccles, four or five miles from the manchester exchange. eastwards of the great arterial line of railway which, running from manchester to lancaster through bolton and preston, almost exactly bisects the county, the scenery is rich in the eloquent features which come of wild and interminable surges of broad and massive hill, often rocky, with heights of fantastic form, the irregularities giving token, in their turn, of deep chasms and clefts, that subdivide into pretty lateral glens and moist hollows crowded with ferns. the larger glens constitute the "cloughs" so famous in local legend, and the names of which recur so frequently in lancashire literature. as yorkshire is approached, the long succession of uplands increases in volume, rising at last in parts to a maximum altitude of nearly feet. were a survey possible from overhead, the scene would be that of a tempest-ruffled ocean, the waves suddenly made solid. [illustration: the lake at littleborough] very much of this vast hill-surface consists of desolate, heathery, unsheltered moorland. the amount of unreclaimed land still existing in lancashire, and which must needs remain for ever as it is, constitutes in truth one of the striking characteristics of the county. not merely in the portion now specially under notice are there cold and savage wastes such as laugh the plough to scorn. the "fells" of the more northern districts present enormous breadths of similar character, incapable of supporting more than the poorest aboriginal vegetation, affording only the scantiest pasturage for a few scattered mountain-sheep, thus leaving the farmer without a chance. in itself the fact of course is in no degree remarkable, since there are plenty of hopeless acres elsewhere. the singular circumstance is the association of so much barrenness with the stupendous industries of the busiest people in the world. it is but in keeping after all with the general idea of old england,-- "this precious gem, set in the silver sea,"-- the pride of which consists in the constant blending of the most diverse elements. if we have grim and hungry solitudes, rugged and gloomy wildernesses, not very far off, be sure there is counterpoise in placid and fruitful vale and mead. lancashire may not supply the cornfield: the soil and climate, though good for potatoes, are unfriendly to the cerealia; there is no need either to be too exacting; if the sickle has no work, there is plenty for the scythe and the spade. [illustration: waterfall in cliviger] a few miles beyond bolton the hills begin to rise with dignity. here we find far-famed and far-seen rivington pike, conspicuous, like ashurst, through ascending almost immediately out of the plain. "pike" is in lancashire, and in parts of the country closely adjacent, the equivalent of "peak," the highest point of a hilly neighbourhood, though by no means implying an exactly conical or pyramidal figure, and very generally no more than considerable elevation, as in the case of the "peak of derbyshire." rivington well deserves its name, presenting from many points of view one of those beautiful, evenly swelling, and gently rounded eminences which the ancient greeks were accustomed to call [greek: titthoi] and [greek: mastoi], as in the case of the classic mound at samos which callimachus connects so elegantly with the name of the lady parthenia. there are spots, however, where the mamelon disappears. from all parts of the summit the prospect is delightful. under our feet, unrolled like a carpet, is a verdant flat which stretches unbrokenly to the sea-margin, twenty miles distant, declared, nevertheless, by a soft, sweet gleam of silver or molten gold, according to the position of the sun in the heavens. the estuary of the ribble, if the tide be in, renews that lovely shining; and beyond, in the remote distance, if the atmosphere be fairly clear, say fifty or sixty miles away, may be discerned the grand mountains that cast their shadows into coniston. working lancashire, though it has lakes of its own, has made others! from the summit of rivington we now look down upon half a dozen immense reservoirs, so located that to believe them the work of man is scarcely possible. fed by the inflow of several little streams, and no pains taken to enforce straight margins, except when necessary, these ample waters exemplify in the best manner how art and science are able at times to recompense nature-- "leaving that beautiful which always was, and making that which was not." after heavy and continuous rain, the overflow gives rise to musical waterfalls. up in the glen called deanwood there is also a natural and nearly permanent cascade.[ ] [ ] these vast reservoirs belong to the liverpool waterworks, which first used them in january . the surface, when they are full, is acres. another great sheet of water, a mile in length, for local service, occurs at entwistle, near turton. the eastern slopes of the rivington range descend into the spacious valley which, beginning just outside manchester, extends nearly to agricola's ribchester, and in the roman times was a soldiers' thoroughfare. in this valley lie turton, darwen, and blackburn. the hills, both right and left, again supply prospects of great extent, and are especially attractive through containing many fine recesses, sometimes as round as amphitheatres. features of much the same kind pertain to the nearly parallel valley in which summerseat nestles, with the pleasurable additions that come of care to preserve and to compensate in case of injury. by this route we may proceed, for variety, to whalley, the mecca of the local archæologist; thence on to clitheroe, and to the foot of famous pendle. at whalley we find "nab's hill," to ascend which is pastime enough for a summer's evening. inconsiderable in comparison with some of its neighbours, this favoured eminence gives testimony once again to the advantages conferred by situation and surroundings, when the rival claims consist in mere bulk and altitude. lord byron might have intended it in the immortal lines: "green and of mild declivity, the last, as 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, save that there was no sea to lave its base, but a most living landscape." westwards, from the summit the eye ranges, as at rivington, over a broad champaign, the fairest in the district, the turrets of princely stonyhurst rising amid a green throng of oaks and beeches. in the north it rests upon the flanks of airy longridge, the immediate scene accentuated by the ruined keep of the ancient castle of the de lacys. on the right towers pendle itself, most massive of english mountains, its "broad bare back" literally "upheaved into the sky"; and completing the harmonious picture,--since no landscape is perfect without water,--below runs the babbling calder. whalley nab has been planted very liberally with trees. how easy it is for good taste to confer embellishment! pendle, the most distinguished and prominent feature in the physical geography of mid-lancashire, is not, like mountains in general, broken by vast defiles, but fashioned after the manner of the dundry range in somersetshire, presenting itself as a huge and almost uniform green mound, several miles in length, and with a nearly level sky-line. dundry, however, is much less steep. the highest point is at the upper or north-east extremity, stated by the ordnance survey to be feet above the sea. the superficial extent is estimated at , statute acres, or about square miles, including the great gorge upon the southern side called ogden clough--a broad, deep, and mysterious-looking hollow, which contributes not a little to the fine effect of this gigantic hill as seen from the yorkshire side. the slope which looks upon yorkshire marks the boundary of the famous "forest of pendle," a territory of nearly , acres--not to be understood as now or at any former period covered with great and aged trees, but simply as a tract which, when the property was first apportioned, lay _ad foras_, or outside the lands deemed valuable for domestic purposes, and which was left undisputed to the wild animals of the country. immense breadths of land of this description existed in england in early times, and in no part was the proportion larger than in lancashire, where many of the ancient "forests" still retain their primitive appellation, and are peculiarly interesting in the marked survival among the inhabitants of the language, manners, and customs of their ancestors. generally speaking, these ancient "forests" are distinguished also by dearth of primitive architecture and of rude primeval fences, the forest laws having forbidden all artificial hindrances to the chase, which in the refuges thus afforded to "deer," both large and small, had its most ample and enjoyable scope. from the summit of pendle, all that is seen from whalley nab, now diminutive, is renewed on a scale quite proportionate to its own nobleness. the glistening waters of the irish sea in the far west; in the north the mountains of westmoreland; proximately the smiling valleys of the ribble, the hodder, and the calder; and, turning to the east, the land as far towards the german ocean as the power of the eye can reach. when the atmosphere is in its highest state of transparency even the towers of york minster become visible. well might the old historian of whalley commend the prospect from mighty pendle as one upon which "the eye, the memory, and the imagination rest with equal delight." to the same author we owe the showing that the common lancashire term pendle-_hill_ is incorrect, seeing that the sense of "hill" is already conveyed, as in penmanmawr and penyghent. "nab's hill" would seem to involve a corresponding repetition, "nab" being a form of the scandinavian _nebbé_ or _nibba_, a promontory--as in nab-scar, near rydal, and nab-crag, in patterdale. all these grand peaks belong essentially to the range reached another time by going from manchester to littleborough, ascending from which place we find ourselves upon blackstone edge, so lofty ( feet), and, when climbed, so impressive in all its circumstances, that we seem to be pacing the walls of an empire. all the topmost part is moorland; below, or upon the sides, there is abundance of the picturesque; precipitous crags and rocky knolls, receding dells and ravines, occurring frequently. many of the dells in summer bear witness to the descent in winter of furious torrents; the broad bed of the now tiny streamlets that fall from ledge to ledge being strewed with stones and boulders, evidently washed down from the higher channel by the vehement water, heedlessly tossed about and then abandoned. the desolate complexion of these winter-torrent gullies (in lancashire phrase "water-gaits") in its way is unique, though often mitigated by the innumerable green fern-plumes upon the borders. the naturalist's enjoyment is further quickened by the occurrence, not infrequently, of fragments of calamites and other fossils. the ascent to the crest is by no means arduous. attaining it, provided the atmosphere is free from mist, the prospect--now an old story--is once again magnificent, and, as at rivington, made perfect by water. nowhere perhaps in england has so much landscape beauty been provided artificially and undesignedly by the construction of great reservoirs as in the country of twenty miles radius around manchester. the waters at lymm and taxal belong respectively to cheshire and derbyshire. independently of those at rivington, lancashire excels both of them in the romantic lake below blackstone edge, well known to every pleasure-seeker as "hollingworth." the measurement round the margin is quite two miles; hills almost completely encircle it, and, as seen from the edge, near robin hood's crags, so utterly is it detached from all that pertains to towns and cities as to recall the remotest wilds beyond the tweed. hollingworth lake was constructed about ninety years ago with a view to steady maintenance of the rochdale canal. among the hills upon the opposite or north-western side of the valley, brown wardle, often named in story, is conspicuous; and adorning the lofty general outline may be seen--best, perhaps, from near "middleton junction"--another mamelon--this one believed in local story to be a haunt of the maidens of the _midsummer night's dream_. [illustration: in the burnley valley] looking westward from the robin hood pinnacles, the prospect includes the valleys of the roch and the spodden--the last-named stream in parts wild and wilful. at healey its walls of rock appear to have been riven at different times. here, struggling through a lengthened and tortuous cleft, and forming more than one lively cascade before losing itself in the dingle below, so plainly does the water seem to have forced a passage, asserting mastery over all impediments, that in the vernacular this spot is called the "thrutch." the first phrase heard in a lancashire crowd is, "where are you thrutching?" the perennial attrition of the broken and impending rocks causes many of them to terminate in sharp ridges, and in one part has given birth to the "fairies' chapel." the streams spoken of have their beginning in the lofty grounds which intervene between rochdale and cliviger, and include aspiring thieveley pike. thieveley in the bygones served the important use of a station for beacon-fires, signalling on the one hand to pendle, on the other to buckton castle. the prospect from the top, feet above the sea, comprehends, to the north, almost the whole of craven, with ingleborough, and the wilds of trawden forest. the nearer portions of the lake district mountains, now familiar, are discernible; and on sunny evenings, when the river is full, once more the bright-faced estuary of the ribble. the view reaches also to north wales and derbyshire, the extremities of this great map being quite sixty miles asunder. cliviger, after all, is the locality which most astonishes and delights the visitor to this part of lancashire. soon after quitting rochdale, the railway passes through the great "summit tunnel," and so into the todmorden valley, there very soon passing the frontier formed by the calder,[ ] and entering yorkshire. the valley is noted for its scenery, new combinations of the most varied elements, rude but not inhospitable, rising right and left in quick succession. turning up the burnley valley, we enter cliviger proper: a district having a circuit of nearly twenty miles, and presenting an endless variety of the most romantic features possible to mingled rock and pastured slope, constantly lifted to mountain-height, the charm of the huge gray bluffs of projecting gritstone augmented in many parts by abundance of trees, the predominant forms the graceful ones of larch, birch, and mountain-ash. the trees are now very nearly a century old, having been planted during the fifteen years ending with , yet, to appearance, still in the prime of their calm existence. a striking characteristic of this admired valley is the frequent apparent closing-in of the passage by protruding crags, which nevertheless soon give way to verdant curves. cliviger in every part is more or less marked by crags and curves, so that we incessantly come upon vast green bowls or hemispherical cavities, the bases of which change at times into circular plateaux, at midsummer overlaid with carpets of the prettiest botanical offspring of the province,-- "in emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white, like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery." [ ] this, of course, is not the calder seen at whalley, there being three rivers in lancashire of the name--the west calder, the east calder, and a little stream which enters the wyre near garstang. the west calder enters the ribble half way between whalley and stonyhurst; the eastern, after a course of forty miles, joins the aire in the neighbourhood of wakefield. for introduction to these choice bits it is needful, of course, to leave the main thoroughfares and take one of the innumerable by-paths which lead away to the lonely and impressive silence of the moors, which, though desolate and sometimes bleak, have a profoundly delightful influence upon the mind. their interest is heightened by the portions which are vividly green with bog-moss, being the birthplace of important streams. no slight matter is it to stand at any time where rivers are cradled. here the flow of water is at once both east and westwards--a phenomenon witnessed several times in the english apennine, and always bidding the traveller pause awhile. the ribble and the wharf begin this way; so do the lune and the swale: playmates in childhood, then parting for ever. similarly, in cliviger dean the two calders issue from the same fragment of watery waste, destined immediately for opposite courses. hard by, in a stream called erewell, at the foot of derply hill, on the verge of rossendale, may be seen the birthplace of the manchester irwell. the promise given at newborough in regard to the scenery of east lancashire is thus perfectly fulfilled. it does not terminate either with cliviger, being renewed, after passing pendle, all the way to the borders of westmoreland. ward-stone, eight or nine miles south-east of lancaster, part of the littledale fells, has an altitude exceeding even that of pendle. asking for the best portions of the lancashire river scenery, they are soon found, pertaining to streams not really its own--the lune, approaching from westmoreland by way of kirby lonsdale, to which place it gives name; and the ribble, descending from the high moorlands of craven, first passing ingleborough, then settle, and bolton abbey. the only two important streams which actually rise within the confines of the county are the wyre and the much-enduring irwell. lancashire is rich in home-born _minor_ streams, a circumstance said to be recognised in the ancient british name of the district,--literally, according to whitaker, the "well-watered,"[ ]--and many of these, the affluents in particular, do, no doubt, lend themselves freely to the production of the picturesque, as in the case of the darwen,[ ] which glides almost without a sound beneath hoghton tower, joining the ribble at walton; and the wenning, which, after bathing the feet of a thousand water-flags and forget-me-nots, strengthens the well-pleased lune. tributaries,--the little primitive streamlets which swell the affluents,--since they begin almost always among the mountains, are at all times, all over the world, wherever they run, in their youth pure and companionable. one joyous consideration there is open to us always, namely, that if we go to the beginning of things we are fairly well assured of purity; whatever may be the later history, the fountain is usually a synonym for the undefiled, as very pleasantly certified by the erewell springs; the beginnings of the unhappy irwell itself are clear and limpid. still, as regards claims to high distinction, the river scenery of lancashire is that, as we have said, which pertains to its welcome guests, the ribble and the lune. when proud and wealthy ribchester was in existence fifteen centuries ago, there is reason to believe that the ribble, for many miles above preston, was considerably broader and deeper than at present, or at all events that the tide came very much farther up than it does to-day. it did so as late as the time of leland. the change, as regards the bed of the river, would thus be exactly the reverse of the helpful one to which modern liverpool owes its harbour. england nowhere contains scenery of its kind more suave than that of the ribble, from ribchester upwards. in parts the current is impetuous. whether rapid or calm, it is the life of a peaceful dale, from which the hills retire in the gentlest way imaginable, presenting as they go, green, smooth faces fit for pasture; then, through the unexpected changefulness which is always so much more congenial to the fancy than repetition, even of the most excellent things, wooded banks and shaded recesses, followed by more green lawns and woods again, the last seeming to lean against the sky. when the outline drops sufficiently, in the distance, according to the point of observation, rises proud old pendle, or penyghent, or wharnside. near mitton, where yorkshire darts so curiously into lancashire, the channel is somewhat shallow. here, after a busy and romantic course of its own, the hodder surrenders its waters, thus in good time to take part in the wonderful whirl, or "wheel," at salesbury, a little lower down, an eddy of nearly twenty yards in depth, and locally known as "sale-wheel." if a haven ever existed at the mouth of the ribble, it has now disappeared. the sands at the bar continually shift with high tides, so that navigation is hazardous, and vessels of light draught can alone attempt the passage. [ ] it may not be amiss here to mention the names, in exact order, of the lancashire rivers, giving first those which enter the sea, the affluents and their tributaries coming afterwards: ( ) the mersey, formed of the union of the non-lancashire tame, etherowe, and goyt. affluents and tributaries--the irwell, the roche, the spodden, the medlock, the irk. ( ) the alt. ( ) the ribble. affluents and tributaries--the douglas, the golforden, the darwen, the west calder, the lostock, the yarrow, the brun. ( ) the wyre, which receives the third of the calders, the brock, and several others. ( ) the lune, or loyne. affluents and tributaries--the wenning, the conder, the greta, the leck, the hindburn. then, north of lancaster, the keer, the bela, the kent, the winster, the leven (from windermere), the crake (from coniston water), and the duddon. [ ] the river immortalised by milton, alluding to the conflict of th august : "and darwen stream with blood of scots imbrued." [illustration: the ribble at clitheroe] the very interesting portion of the scenery on the banks of the lune, so far as concerns lancashire, lies just above lancaster itself. nearly all the elements of perfect landscape intermingle in this part of the valley. if either side of the stream possesses an advantage, perhaps it will belong to the road along the southern border, or that which proceeds by way of melon and caton to hornby, distant from lancaster about nine miles. the river winds so waywardly that in many parts it seems a string of lakelets. masses of woodland creep down to the edge, and whichever way the eye is turned, green hills form pictures that leave nothing to be desired. _the roman road._--the portion of roman road referred to at the outset as crossing blackstone edge presents, like all similar remains in our island, one of the most conclusive as well as interesting memorials we possess of the thorough conquest of the country by the cæsars. labour and skill, such as were so plainly devoted to the construction of these wonderful roads, would be expended only by conquerors determined on full and permanent possession, such as the romans maintained for three hundred and seventy years:--the blackstone edge road has in addition the special interest which attaches to features not found anywhere else, at all events nowhere else in england. the roads in question were designed not more to facilitate the movements of the troops than for the easier transport of merchandise and provisions, a purpose which this one on blackstone edge seems to indicate perfectly. in the district we to-day call "lancashire" there were several roads of the principal class, these serving to connect warrington, manchester, ribchester, and lancaster, from which last place there was continuation to carlisle, and furnishing ready access to modern "yorkshire," thus to ilkley--the olicana of ptolemy--and york, the famous city which saw the death of severus and the birth of constantine. manchester and ribchester were the two most important strongholds in western brigantia, standing on the direct great western line from the south to the north. there were also many branch or vicinal roads leading to minor stations; those, for instance, represented to-day by wigan, colne, burnley, kirkham, urswick, walton-le-dale, and overborough. the lines of most of these roads have been accurately determined, the chief of them having been usually straight as an arrow, carried forward with undeviating precision, regardless of all obstacles. they were formed generally in lancashire of huge boulder stones, probably got from neighbouring watercourses, or of fragments of rock embedded in gravel, and varied in width from four yards to perhaps fourteen. the stones have in most places disappeared--made use of, no doubt, by after-comers for building purposes; as exemplified on blackstone edge itself, where the materials of which the wall near the road has been constructed point only too plainly to their source. complete remains continuous for any considerable distance are found only upon elevated and unfrequented moorlands; where also the substance of the road appears to have been more rigid. the blackstone edge road, one of this kind, ascends the hill at a point about two miles beyond littleborough--an ancient roman station, here consisting of a strip of pavement exactly sixteen feet wide. it is composed of square blocks of millstone-grit, obtained upon the spot, laid with consummate care, and presenting, wherever the dense growth of whortleberry and other coarse herbage has been cleared away, a surface so fresh and even, that for seventeen centuries to have elapsed since its construction seems incredible. the unique feature of the road consists in the middle being formed of blocks considerably larger than those used at the sides, harder, and altogether of better quality, laid end to end, and having a continuous longitudinal groove, obviously the work of the chisel. this groove, or "trough," evidently extended down the entire roadway where steep, beginning at the top of the hill. nothing like it, as said above, is found anywhere else in england, for the simple reason, it would appear, that no other british roman road descends by so steep an incline. for it can hardly be doubted that dr. march is correct in his conjecture, that it was intended to steady the passage of wagons or other vehicles when heavily laden; brakes adjusted to the wheels retarding their progress as indicated by marks still distinguishable. in some parts there are indications also of lateral trenches cut for the downflow of water, the road itself being kept dry by a slight convexity of surface. over the crest of the hill the descent is easy, and here the paving seems to have been discontinued. the robin hood rocks close by present remarkably fine examples of typical millstone-grit. rising to the height of fifty feet and fantastically "weathered," on the summits there are basin-like cavities, popularly attributed, like so many other things they had no hand in, to the druids; but palpably referable to a far less mythical agency--the quiet action, during thousands of years, of the rain and the atmosphere. viii the seashore and the lake district the coast of lancashire has already been described as presenting, from the mersey upwards as far as the estuary of the kent, an almost unbroken surface of level sand. in several parts, as near birkdale, the western sea-breeze, pursuing its work for ages, has heaped up the sand atom by atom into hills that have a romantic and attractive beauty all their own. but of overhanging rocks and crags there are no examples, except when at heysham, in morecambe bay, the millstone grit cropping out so as to form a little promontory, gives pleasing change. almost immediately after entering this celebrated bay--although the vast expanse of sand remains unaltered--the mountains begin to draw nearer, and for the rest of the distance, up to the estuary of the duddon, where cumberland begins, the scenery close inshore is picturesque. the peculiar feature of the coast consists, perhaps, in its estuaries. no seaside county in england has its margin interrupted by so many as there are in lancashire, every one of the rivers which leave it for the irish sea, excepting the insignificant alt (six or eight miles north of liverpool), widening immensely as the sands are approached. embouchures more remarkable than those of the ribble, the wyre, the lune, and the various minor streams which enter morecambe bay, are certainly not to be found, and there are none that through association awaken interest more curious. when, accordingly, the visitor to any one of the lancashire watering-places south of the ribble desires scenery, he must be content with the spectacle of the sea itself, and the glimpses obtained in fair weather of the mountains of maritime north wales. at blackpool it is possible also, on clear evenings, to descry the lofty peaks of the isle of man, and occasionally even cumberland black combe. at fleetwood these quite compensate the dearth of inland beauty, and with every step northwards more glorious becomes the outlook. not to mention the noble sea in front--an ocean when the tide is in--all the higher grounds of cartmel and furness are plainly in view. upon these follow the fells of coniston, and a little more to the east the dim blue cones which mark the near neighbourhood of the head of windermere. everything is renewed at morecambe, and upon a scale still more commanding: the last reflection, as one turns homeward from that favoured spot, is that the supreme seaside scenery of old england pertains, after all, to the many-sided county of the cotton-mills. the watering-places themselves are healthful, well-conducted, and ambitious. none of them had substantial existence seventy or eighty years ago. southport, the most important and the most advanced in all that is honourable, is a daughter of the primitive neighbouring village of churchtown,--_filia pulchrior_ very emphatically. blackpool, in , was only a rabbit-warren, the sunward slopes, like those of original birkdale and churchtown, a playground for quick-eyed lizards, their descendants, both gray and green, not yet extinct. fleetwood has grown up within easy recollection; morecambe is a creation almost of yesterday. unexcelled, in summer, for the visitor in search of health, in its cool, firm, ample sands, fleetwood aspires to become important also commercially. morecambe, though destitute of a deep channel, and unable to offer the security of a natural harbour, is making vigorous efforts in the same direction. sir j. e. smith, in his account of the evening-primrose in _english botany_, a.d. , described the lancashire coast as a sort of _ultima thule_:--to-day, at southport, there is the finest winter garden out of london; and at a couple of miles distance, reached by tram-car, a botanical garden, including fernery and conservatories, that puts to shame many an ancient and wealthy city. a drawback to these south lancashire watering-places, as mentioned before, is that the water, at low tide, recedes so far, and ordinarily is so reluctant to return. but is the tide everything? when out, there is the serene pleasure of silent stroll upon the vast expanse, the inspiring solitude beyond which there is only sea. on these smooth and limitless sands there is plenty alike for repair of body, the imagination, and the solace of the naturalist. shells may be gathered in plenty, and in different parts, of very various kinds: solens, long and straight; mactras, dentalias, that resemble miniature elephant's tusks; the fragile pholas; tellinas, that seem scattered rose-petals; and towards fleetwood pearly trochuses, dappled with lilac. a more delicious seaside walk for those who love the sound of the rolling surge, the sense of infinite tranquillity, total seclusion from every circumstance of town and city life, and the sight of old ocean's playthings, may be sought the world over, and not found more readily than by pursuing the five or six miles between fleetwood and blackpool, one's face turned all the while to the poetic west. wanting rocks, upon these quiet sands there are no native seaweeds, though fragments lie about, torn from beaches far away, and stranded. very distinct interest attaches to the physical history of this part of the coast, the elevation of which was at some not very remotely distant period, almost without doubt, much higher. mr. joseph dickinson, the well-known geologist, and government inspector of mines, believes that in certain portions it has subsided through the solution of rock-salt in the strata below--the circumstance to which the formation of most, if not all, of the natural cheshire meres is attributed. the existence of the rock-salt has been clearly proved by the sinking of a shaft and subsequent borings, near preesal, a village about a mile and a half south-east of fleetwood. the thickness of the deposit is similar to that met with in the salt districts of cheshire, at port clarence, near the mouth of the tees, and at stoke prior, worcestershire. the subsidence of the shore at blackpool is, on the northern side, very palpable. here the path to rossall is pursued for some distance along the brow of an earthy, crumbling cliff, not very far from which, exposed at the lowest of low tides, there is a little insulated mound, upon which, according to well-sustained tradition, there once stood a cottage long since overwhelmed by envious neptune. the great rampart of sand-hills which stretches for so many leagues, and which has been calculated to have an area of twenty-two square miles, is thought by another distinguished geologist--mr. t. melland reade--to have taken certainly not less than years to form, probably a much longer time. some of the mounds, however, are manifestly quite recent, interstratifications of cinders and matter thrown up from wrecks, being found near the base. a strong westerly wind brings up the sand vehemently, and very curious then becomes the spectacle of its travel, which resembles the flow of thin waves of translucent smoke. the wind alternately heaps up the sand and disperses it, except where a firm hold has been obtained by the maram,[ ] or star-grass, the roots of which bind and hold all together. decoration of the smooth surface of the sloping sand-hills is supplied by the wind-whirling of the slender stalks half way round, and sometimes quite so, when there is room for free play: circles and semicircles are then grooved, smaller ones often inside, as perfect as if drawn with compasses. another curious result of the steady blowing of the sea-breeze is that on the shore there are innumerable little cones of sand, originating in shells, or fragments of shells, which arrest the drifting particles, and are, in truth, rudiments of sand-hills, such as form the barrier a little further in. [ ] maram, the popular name of the _ammophila arenaria_, is probably the danish _marhalm_, sea-haulm or straw, a term applied in norway to the zostera. further north the shore has little to offer in the way of curiosities, nor is there any agreeable bathing-ground; not even at grange. never mind. the further we advance towards the county frontier, the more wonderful become the sands, these spreading, at low water, like a sahara, with the difference, that the breath of ocean, nowhere in the world sweeter, blows across them for ever and ever. on a moonlight night, when the tide is at the full, morecambe bay, surveyed from kent's bank, presents an aspect of inexpressible fascination, the rippled lustre being such as a shallow sea, gently moving, alone can yield. "splendet tremulo sub lumine pontus." moving onwards, or towards cumberland, we find that lancashire is not without its island. this is walney, off the estuary of the duddon, closely abutting on the mainland of furness--a very singular bank or strip of mingled sand, pebbles, and shingle, nearly ten miles in length, and half a mile broad where widest. barren as it may seem from the description, the soil is in parts so fertile that capital crops of grain are reaped. there are people on it, likewise, though the inhabitants are chiefly sea-gulls. walney island is the only known locality for that beautiful wild-flower the _geranium lancastriense_, a variety of the _sanguineum_, the petals, instead of blood-colour, as at fleetwood, on st. vincent's rocks, and elsewhere, cream-white netted with rose. the seaward or western side of walney is defended by a prodigious heap of pebbles, the mass of which is constantly augmenting, though left dry at low water. at the lower extremity of the island there is a light-house, sixty-eight feet high, and adjacent to it there are one or two islets. the portion of lancashire to which walney belongs, or that which, as it is locally said, lies "north of the sands" (the sands specially intended being those of morecambe bay), agrees, in natural composition, with westmoreland and cumberland. it is distinguished by mountain-summits, greatly exceeding in elevation those found upon the confines of yorkshire, and the lower slopes of which are, as a rule, no longer naked, but dressed with shrubs and various trees. concealed among these noble mountains are many deep and romantic glens, while at their feet are lakes of matchless purity. no feature is more striking than the exchange of the broad and bulky masses of such hills as pendle for the rugged and jutting outlines characteristic of the older rocks, and particularly, as here, of the unstratified. before commencing the exploration, it is well to contemplate the general structure of the country from some near vantage-ground, such as the newly-opened public park at lancaster; or better still, that unspeakably grand terrace upon the westmoreland side of the kent, called stack-head, where the "fairy steps" give access to the plain and valley below, and which is reached so pleasantly by way of milnthorpe, proceeding thence through dallam park, the village of beetham, and the pine-wood--in itself worth all the journey. the view from the stack-head terrace (profoundly interesting also, geologically) comprises all that is majestic and beautiful as regards the elements of the picturesque, and to the lancashire man is peculiarly delightful, since, although he stands actually in westmoreland, all the best part of it, arnside knot alone excepted, is within the borders of his own county.[ ] whether the most pleasing first impressions of the scenery of the lake district are obtained in the way indicated; or by taking the alternative, very different route, by way of fleetwood and piel, is nevertheless an open question. the advantage of the lancaster route consists in the early introduction it gives to the mountains themselves--to go _viâ_ fleetwood and piel involves one of those inspiring little initiative voyages which harmonise so well with hopes and visions of new enjoyment, alluring the imagination no less agreeably than they gratify the senses. [ ] "knot," in the lake district, probably denotes a rocky protuberance upon a hill. but it is often used, as in the present instance, for the hill in its entirety. hard knot, in eskdale, and farleton knot, near kendal, are parallel examples. the lancaster route implies, in the first instance, quiet and unpretending silverdale; then, after crossing the estuary of the kent, leafy grange--unrivalled upon the north-west coast, not only for salubrity, but for the exhaustless charms of the neighbouring country. whatever the final intentions in visiting this part of england, a few days' delay at grange will never be regretted: it is one of those happy places which are distinguished by wild nature cordially shaking hands with civilisation. sallying forth from the village in an easterly direction, or up the winding and shady road which leads primarily to lindal, we may, if we please, proceed almost direct to windermere, distant about ten miles. turn, before this, up the green slope just beyond ellerhow, the village on the left, perched conspicuously on the highest hill in front, thus reaching hampsfell. many beautiful views will have been enjoyed upon the way, land and sea contributing equally; all, at the top of hampsfell, are renewed threefold, innumerable trees remembering that no witchery is perfect in the absence of graceful apparel; while in the valley below, gray and secluded cartmel talks of a remote historic past. fully to realise the absorbing beauty of the scene, there must be no hesitation in ascending to the hospice, where the "herald voice" of "good tidings" heard at lindal is proved not to have uttered a single syllable in excess. hampsfell may be reached also by a path through the eggerslack woods, noted for the abundance of their hazel-nuts, and entered almost immediately after emerging from grange; and again by a third, somewhat circuitous, near the towering limestone crags called yewbarrow. kent's bank, a couple of miles beyond grange, supplies hill scenery little inferior. the heights above allithwaite cover almost the whole of the fine outlook characteristic of the northern shore of morecambe bay. kirkhead and humphrey head also give unlimited prospects, especially when the tide is in. the man who loves solitude will find them lonely enough for hermitages:--blackberries beyond measure grow on the slopes. humphrey head presents features rarely met with, consisting of a limestone promontory, the sides, in part, nearly vertical, thus closely resembling the rock at the south-western extremity of clevedon, with which many associate tennyson and the mournful verses which have for their burden, "break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, o sea!" grange, kent's bank, kirkhead, and humphrey head, constantly awaken recollections of the beautiful village on the eastern edge of the bristol channel. the scenery corresponds, and in productions there is again a very interesting similarity, though clevedon has a decided advantage in regard to diversity of species. hampsfell and allithwaite recur at intervals all the way to the borders of the leven; thence, constantly varying, westward to the banks of the duddon, and southward to the furness valley: not, indeed, until we reach piel--the little cape where the boats arrive from fleetwood--is there surrender. piel, as said above, is preferable as a route to the lake district, because of the preliminary half hour upon the water, which is generally smooth and exhilarating. it offers the most interesting way of approach, also, to duddon bridge, where the coast of lancashire ends--a place itself of many attractions. the river, it is scarcely necessary to say, is the duddon immortalised by wordsworth, one of whose sonnets describes the "liquid lapse serene" of this too-seldom visited stream as it moves through dunnerdale, after entering, near newfield, through a rent in the rocky screen which adds so much to the romantic features of its early existence. the bridge gives ready approach to black combe, most gloomy and austere of the cumberland mountains, but affording full compensation in the magnificence of the prospects, the height being little short of feet. close by, in lancashire, we find the ancient village of broughton, the lords of which, four or five centuries ago, gave their name to a well-known suburb of manchester--so curious is the history of estates. the railway, after touching at broughton, leads right away to coniston, then to the foot of the "old man," the summit, feet above the level of the sea, so remarkable in its lines and curves that, once exactly distinguished from the crowd of lower heights, like the head of ingleborough, it is impossible to be mistaken. towards the village it throws out a ridge, upon which the houses are chiefly placed. a deep valley intervenes, and then the mountain rises abruptly, the walls in some places nearly perpendicular, but in others disappearing, so that, if well selected, the path upwards is by no means toilsome, or even difficult, though impeded here and there by rocks and stones. the climbing is well repaid. from the brows of the old giant are seen mountains innumerable, lakes, rivers, woods, deep valleys, velvety meads, with, in addition, the accessories of every perfect landscape,--those which come of its being impregnated with the outcome of human intelligence and human feeling, the love of gardens, and of refined and comfortable homes. looking south, south-west, and south-east, there are changing views of morecambe bay, flooded with brightness; the estuaries of the kent, the leven, and the duddon; the capes and promontories that break the sea margin; walney island, the shining irish sea, with the isle of man beyond, and the whole of the long line of coast which runs on to the portals of the wyre and more distant ribble. over the mouth of the leven, lancaster castle is distinguishable. far away, in the same line, the lofty ranges of the craven district come in view; and when the atmosphere is very clear a dim blue mountain wave on the side where sunset will be indicates snowdon. in other directions the views are somewhat circumscribed, coniston being situated upon the frontiers rather than within the actual area of the hill country it so greatly enriches. the figure in general, of all that is seen, so far as the nature of the barriers will allow, is nevertheless majestic, and in itself worth all the labour of the ascent. the old man, it must be admitted, is prone to hide his ancient brows in mist and vapour; the time for climbing must therefore be chosen carefully and deliberately. [illustration: coniston] the lake, called coniston water, extends to a length of about six miles. it is in no part quite a mile in breadth, but although so narrow never gives the slightest idea of restriction; thus agreeing with windermere, to which, however, coniston bears not the least resemblance in detail, differing rather in every particular, and decidedly surpassing it in respect of the wildness and purple sublimity of the surroundings. the immediate borders, by reason of the frequently recurring showers of rain, are refreshingly green all the year round; they allure, also, at every season, by the daintiness and the generosity with which the greater portion has been planted. beyond the line to which the handiwork of man has been continued, or where the ground becomes steep and rocky, there are brown and heathy slopes, fissures and winding ravines, redolent of light and shade, the sunward parts often laced with little white streamlet waterfalls, that in the distance seem not cascades, but veins of unmelted winter snow. the slopes, in turn, like the arches in a gothic cathedral, lead the eye upwards to outlines that please so much the more because imperfectly translatable; since when the clouds hover round the summits of these soaring peaks, they change to mystery and fable, wooing the mind with the incomparable charm that always waits upon the margin of the undiscovered. from what particular point the best views, either of the lake or of the adjacent mountains, are readily obtainable, must of necessity be very much a matter of taste. perhaps it is discreetest to take, in the first instance, the view _up_ the lake, or from nibthwaite, where the waters contract, and become the little river crake--the stream which, in conjunction with the leven from windermere, forms the estuary named after the latter. contemplated from nibthwaite, the mountains in which the lake is bosomed are certainly less impressive than when viewed from some distance farther up; but the mind is touched with a more agreeable idea of symmetry, and the water itself seems to acquire amplitude. none of the mountains are out of sight; the merit of this particular view consists jointly in their presence, and in the dignified composure with which they seem to stand somewhat aloof. the view _down_ the lake,--that which is obtained by approaching coniston _viâ_ hawkshead and waterhead, is indescribably grand, the imposing forms of the adjacent mountains, those in particular of the furness fells (the altitude of which is nearly or quite feet), being here realised perfectly, the more distant summits fading delicately, the nearer ones dark and solemn. to our own fancy, the most impressive idea alike of the water and its framework is obtained, after all, not from either extremity, but from the surface, resting upon one's oars, as nearly as possible in the middle. coniston water contains a couple of islets, the upper one named, after its abundant highland pines, "fir island." many streamlets contribute to its maintenance, the principal being coniston beck and black beck. no celebrated waterfall occurs very near. all the famous lake waterfalls bearing names belong either to cumberland or westmoreland. windermere, or more correctly, as in the well-known line: "wooded winandermere, the river-lake," is nearly twice the length of coniston water, but of little more than the same average width. superficially it belongs to westmoreland; the greater portion of the margin is, nevertheless, in lancashire, without leaving which county the beauty of the english zurich may be gathered perfectly. the finest view of the lake, as a whole, is obtained near ambleside, on the road through the valley of troutbeck, where it is visible for nearly the whole extent, the islands seeming clustered in the middle. yet nothing can be lovelier, as regards detail, than the views obtained by ascending from newby bridge, the point at which the leven issues. the scenery commences long before the lake is actually reached, the river having a fall, in the short space of four miles, of no less than feet, consequently flowing with great rapidity, and supplying a suitable introduction to the charms above its source. newby bridge deserves every word of the praise so often bestowed upon it. lofty and wood-mantled hills enclose the valley on every side, and whichever way we turn the impression is one of eden-like retirement. the pine-crowned summit of finsthwaite, reached by a woodland path having its base near the river-side, commands a prospect of admirable variety, the lake extending in one direction, while on the other the eye ranges over morecambe bay. the water of windermere is clear as crystal--so limpid that the bottom in the shallower parts shows quite plainly, the little fishes darting hither and thither over the pebbles. taken in its entirety, windermere is the deepest of the english lakes, excepting only wastwater, the level of the surface being, in parts, upwards of feet above the bed. the maximum depth of wastwater is feet. whether, on quitting newby bridge, the onward course be made by boat, or, more wisely, on foot or by carriage, along the road upon the eastern margin of the lake, the prevailing character of the scenery, for a considerable distance, will be found to consist in consummate softness and a delicacy of finish that it may be permitted to call artistic. [illustration: near the copper mines, coniston] not until we reach the neighbourhood of storrs hall (half way to ambleside), where lancashire ends and westmoreland begins, is there much for the artist. the scenery so far has been captivating, but never grand. here, however, and of rarest hues, especially towards sunset, come in view the majestic langdale pikes, with mountains of every form, and windermere proves itself the veritable "gate beautiful." everywhere, upon the borders, oak and ash fling out their green boughs, seeking amiably others that spring from neighbours as earnest. woodbine loves to mingle its fragrant coronals of pink, white, and amber with the foliage amid which the spirals "gently entwist;" and at all seasons there is the rich lustre of the peerless "ivy green." the largest of the windermere islands (in the lake district, as in the bristol channel, called "holms") has an area of thirty acres. esthwaite, the third and last of the trio of lakes claimed by lancashire, is a quiet, unassuming water, so cheerful, withal, and so different in character from both coniston and windermere, that a day is well devoted to it. the length is not quite three miles; the width, at the broadest part, is about three furlongs; the best approach is by the ferry across windermere, then ascending the mountain-path among trees, the lake presently appearing upon the left, silvery and unexpected, so suddenly does it come in view. esthwaite, like the duddon, has been immortalised by wordsworth, who received his education at hawkshead, the little town at the northern extremity. the outlet is by a stream called the cunsey, which carries the overflow into windermere. ix the ancient castles and monastic buildings at the period so memorable in history when wiclif was giving his countrymen the first complete english bible--this under the kindly wing of john o' gaunt, who shielded the daring reformer in many a perilous hour--lancashire possessed six or seven baronial castles; and no fewer than ten, or rather more, of the religious houses distinguished by the general name of abbeys and priories. every one of the castles, except john o' gaunt's own, has disappeared; or if relics exist, they are the merest fragments. liverpool castle, which held out for twenty-four days against prince rupert, was demolished more than years ago. rochdale, bury, standish, penwortham, are not sure even of the exact spots their citadels occupied. a fate in some respects heavier has overtaken the monastic buildings, these having gone in every instance; though the ruins of one or two are so beautiful architecturally, that in their silent pathos there is compensation for the ruthless overthrow: one is reconciled to the havoc by the exquisite ornaments they confer, as our english ruins do universally, on parts of the country already picturesque. "i do love these ancient ruins! we never tread among them, but we set our foot upon some reverend history." lancaster castle, the only survivor of the fortresses, stands upon the site of an extremely ancient stronghold; though very little, somewhat singularly, is known about it, or indeed of the early history of the town. the latter would seem to have been the bremetonacis of the romans, traces of the fosse constructed by whom around the castle hill are still observable upon the northern side. on the establishment of the saxon dynasty the roman name was superseded by the current one; the saxon practice being to apply the term _caster_, in different shapes, to important former seats of the departed roman power, in the front rank of which was unquestionably the aged city touched by the waters of the winding lune. omitting fractions, the name of lancaster is thus just a thousand years old. the saxons seem to have allowed the castle to fall into decay. the powerful norman baron, roger de poictou (leader of the centre at the battle of hastings)--who received from the conqueror, as his reward, immense portions of lancashire territory from the mersey northwards--gave it new life. he, it is believed, was the builder of the massive lungess tower, though some assign this part of the work to the time of william rufus. in any case, the ancient glory of the place was restored not later than a.d. . after the disgrace of roger de poictou, who had stirred up sundry small insurrections, the possession was transferred to stephen, earl of boulogne, inheritor of the crown, and from that time forwards, for at least two centuries, the history of lancaster castle becomes identified with that of the sovereigns of our island to a degree seldom equalled in the annals of any other away from london. king john, in , held his court here for a time, receiving within the stately walls an embassy from france. subsequent monarchs followed in his wake. during the reign, in particular, of henry iv., festivities, in which a brilliant chivalry had no slight share, filled the courtyard with indescribable animation. the gateway tower was not built till a later period, or the castle would probably not have suffered so severely as it did when the scots, after defeating edward ii. at bannockburn, pushed into lancashire, slaying and marauding. the erection of this splendid tower, perhaps the finest of its kind in the country, is generally ascribed to john o' gaunt (fourth son of edward iii.), who, as above mentioned, was created second duke of lancaster ( th june ) by virtue of his marriage to blanche, daughter of the first duke, previously earl of derby, and thus acquired a direct personal interest in the place. but certain portions of the interior--the inner flat-pointed archway, for instance, the passage with the vaulted roof, and a portion of the north-west corner--are apparently thirteenth-century work; and although it is quite possible that the two superb semi-angular towers and the front wall as high as the niche containing the statue may have been built by this famous personage, the probabilities point rather toward henry, prince of wales, eventually henry v. ten years after the death of john o' gaunt, or in , this prince was himself created duke of lancaster, and may reasonably be supposed to have commemorated the event in a manner at once substantial and agreeable to the citizens. the presumption is strongly supported by the heraldic shield, which could not possibly have been john o' gaunt's, since the quartering for france consists of only three fleurs de lys. the original bearing of the french monarchy, as historians are well aware, was _azure_, semée de fleur de lys, _or_. edward iii. assumed these arms, with the title of king of france, in . in the french reduced the number of fleurs de lys to the three we are so familiar with, and in due time england followed suit. but this was not until , when john o' gaunt had been in his grave nearly four years. the shield in question is thus plainly of a period too late for the husband of the lady blanche. but whoever the builder, how glorious the features! how palatial the proportions! placed at the south-east corner of the castle, and overlooking the town, this superb gateway tower is not more admirably placed than exalted in design. the height, sixty-six feet, prepares us for the graceful termination of the lofty wings in octagonal turrets, and for the thickness of the walls, which is nearly, or quite, three yards: it is scarcely possible to imagine a more skilfully proportioned blending of strength, regal authority, and the air of peacefulness. the statue of john o' gaunt above the archway is modern, having been placed there only in . but the past is soon recalled by the opening for the descent of the portcullis, though the ancient oaken doors have disappeared. the entire area of lancaster castle measures feet by without reckoning the terrace outside the walls. the oldest portion--probably, as said above, roger de poictou's--is the lower part of the massive lungess tower, an impressive monument of the impregnable masonry of the time, feet square, with walls feet in thickness, and the original norman windows intact. the upper portion was rebuilt temp. queen elizabeth, who specially commended lancaster castle to the faithful defenders of her kingdom against the spaniards. the height is feet; a turret at the south-west corner, popularly called john o' gaunt's chair, adding another ten to the elevation. delightful views are obtained from the summit as, indeed, from the terrace. the chapel, situated in the basement, feet by , here, as elsewhere in the ancient english castles, tells of the piety as well as the dignity of their founders and owners. in this, at suitable times, the sacraments would be administered, not alone to the inmates, but to the foresters, the shepherds, and other retainers of the baron or noble lady of the place; the chapel was no less an integral part of the establishment than the well of spring water; the old english castle was not only a stronghold but a sanctuary. unhappily in contrast but in equal harmony with the times, there are dungeons in two storeys below the level of the ground. the lancaster castle of is, after all, by no means the lancaster castle of the plantagenets. as seen from morecambe and many another spot a few miles distant, the old fortress presents an appearance that, if not romantic, is strikingly picturesque: "distance lends enchantment to the view," and the church alongside adds graciously to the effect, seeming to unite with the antique outlines. but so much of the building has been altered and remodelled in order to adapt it to its modern uses--those of law-courts and prison; the sharpness of the new architecture so sadly interferes with enjoyment of the blurred and wasted old; the fitness of things has been so violated that the sentiment of the associations is with difficulty sustained even in the ample inner space once so gay with knights and pageantry. the castle was employed for the trial of criminals as early as , but seems to be the date of its final surrender of royal pride. no sumptuous halls or storied corridors now exist in it. contrariwise, everything is there that renders the building convenient for assizes; and it is pleasing to observe that with all the medley of modern adaptations there has been preserved, as far as practicable, a uniformity of style--the ecclesiastical of temp. henry vii. [illustration: lancaster] clitheroe castle, so called, consists to-day of no more than the keep and a portion of the outermost surrounding wall. the situation and general character of this remarkable ruin are perhaps without a match. half a mile south of the ribble, on the great green plain which stretches westwards from the foot of pendle, there suddenly rises a rugged limestone crag, like an island out of the sea. whether it betokens an upheaval of the underlying strata more or fewer millions of years ago, or whether it is a mass of harder material which withstood the powerful descending currents known to have swept in primæval times across the country from east to west, the geologists must decide. our present concern is with the fine old feudal relic perched on the summit, and which, like lancaster castle, belongs to the days of roger de poictou and his immediate successors, though a stronghold of some kind no doubt existed there long previously--a lofty and insulated rock in a country not abounding in strong military positions, being too valuable to be neglected even by barbarians. the probability is, that although founded by roger de poictou, the chief builders were the de lacys, those renowned norman lords whose headquarters were at pontefract, and who could travel hither, fifty miles, without calling at any hostelrie not virtually their own. they came here periodically to receive tribute and to dispense justice. there was never any important residence upon the rock. the space is not sufficient for more than might be needed for urgent and temporary purposes; and although a gentleman's house now stands upon the slope, it occupies very little of the old foundation. the inside measurement of the keep is twenty feet square; the walls are ten feet thick, and so slight has been the touch, so far, of the "effacing fingers," that they seem assured of another long seven centuries. the chapel was under the protection of the monks of whalley abbey. not a vestige of it now remains; every stone, after the dismantling of the castle in , having been carried away, as in so many other instances, and used in the building of cottages and walls. after four generations, or in little more than a hundred years, the line of the de lacys became extinct. do we think often enough, and with commensurate thankfulness, of the immense service they and the other old norman lords rendered our country during their lifetimes? the normans, like the romans, were scribes, architects, reclaimers of the waste, instruments of civilisation--all the most artistic and interesting relics of the norman age old england possesses bear norman impress. how voiceful, to go no further, their cathedrals--hereford, peterborough, durham, gloucester! contemplating their castles, few things more touch the imagination than the presence, abreast of the aged stones, of the shrubs and flowers of countries they never heard of. here, for instance, sheltering at the knee of old clitheroe castle keep, perchance in the identical spot where a plumed de lacy once leaned, rejoicing in the sunshine, there is a vigorous young nepalese cotoneaster. surely it is the gardener, perpetuator of the earliest of ennobling professions, who, by transfer of plants and fruits from one country to another, shows that art and taste co-operating, as at clitheroe, do most literally "make the whole world kin." how welcome will be the volume which some day will be devoted to thorough survey of the benevolent work! from whatever point approached, the ancient keep salutes the eye long before we can possibly reach it: no one who may seek it will pronounce the visit unrewarded. [illustration: clitheroe castle] nor will the tourist exploring lancashire think the time lost that he may spend among the sea-beaten remains of the peel of fouldrey,--the cluster of historic towers which forms so conspicuous an object when proceeding by water to piel pier, _en route_ for furness abbey and the lakes. the castle owes its existence to the furness abbots, who, alarmed by the terrible raid of the scots in , repeated in , temp. edward ii., discreetly constructed a place for personal safety, and for deposit of their principal treasures. no site could have been found more trustworthy than the little island off the southern extreme of walney. while artillery was unknown fouldrey must have been impregnable, for it was not only wave-girt but defended by artificial moats, and of substance so well knit that although masses of tumbled wall are now strewn upon the beach, they refuse to disintegrate. these huge lumps are composed partly of pebbles, and of cement now hard as rock. the keep is still standing, with portions of the inner and outer defences. traces of the chapel are also discoverable, indicating the period of the erection; but there is nothing anywhere in the shape of ornament. the charm of fouldrey is now purely for the imagination. hither came the little skiffs that brought such supplies to the abbey as its own broad lands could not contribute. here was given the welcome to all distinguished visitors arriving by sea, and from fouldrey sailed all those who went afar. to-day all is still. no voices are heard save those of the unmusical seafowl, and of the waves that toss up their foam-- "where all-devouring time sits on his throne of ruins hoar, and winds and tempests sweep his various lyre." "peel," a term unknown in the south of england, was anciently, in the north, a common appellation for castellets built as refuges in times of peril. they were often no more than single towers, square, with turrets at the angles, and having the door at a considerable height above the ground. the word is variously spelt. pele, pile, pylle, and two or three other forms, occur in old writers, the whole resolving, apparently, into a mediæval _pelum_, which would seem to be in turn the latin _pila_, a mole or jetty, as in the fine simile in virgil, where the trojan falls smitten by a dart: "qualis in euboico baiarum litore quondam saxea pila cadit," etc.--_�neid_, ix. , . fouldrey itself is not assured of immortality, for there can be no doubt that much of the present sea in this part of morecambe bay covers, as at norbreck, surface that aforetime was dry, and where fir-trees grew and hazel-nuts. stagnant water had converted the ground into moss, even before the invasion of the sea; for peat is found by digging deep enough into the sands, with roots of trees and trunks that lie with their heads eastwards. walney, fouldrey, and the adjacent islets, were themselves probably formed by ancient inrush of the water. the beach hereabouts, as said by camden, certainly "once lay out a great way westward into the ocean, which the sea ceased not to slash and mangle ... until it swallowed up the shore at some boisterous tide, and thereby made three huge bays." sand and pebbles still perseveringly accumulate in various parts. relentless in its rejection of the soft and perishable, these are the things which old ocean loves to amass. the castle was dismantled by its own builders at the commencement of the fifteenth century, probably because too expensive to maintain. from that time forwards it has been slowly breaking up, though gaining perhaps in pictorial interest; and seen, as it is, many miles across the water, never fails to excite the liveliest sentiments of curiosity. one of the abbots of furness was probably the builder also of the curious old square tower still standing in the market-place of dalton, and locally called the "castle." the architecture is of the fourteenth century. furness abbey, seven miles south-west of ulverston, once the most extensive and beautiful of the english cistercian houses,--which held charters from twelve successive kings, and whose abbots had jurisdiction, not only ecclesiastical but civil, over the whole of the great peninsula formed by the duddon, the leven, windermere, and the sea,--still attests in the variety and the stateliness of the remains that the "pomp and circumstance" of monastic authority must here have been played forth to the utmost limit. in its day the building must have been perfect alike in design and commodiousness. the outermost walls enclosed no less than sixty-five acres of ground, including the portion used as a garden. this great area was traversed by a clear and swiftly flowing stream, which still runs on its ancient way; and the slopes of the sequestered glen chosen with so much sagacity as the site, were covered with trees. to-day their descendants mingle also with the broken arches; these last receiving comfort again from the faithful campanula, which in its season decks every ledge and crumbling corbel, flowering, after its manner, luxuriantly--a reflex of the "heavens' own tinct," smiling, as nature always does, upon the devastation she so loves to adorn. the contrast of the lively hues of the vegetation with the gray-red tint of the native sandstone employed by the builders, now softened and subdued by the touch of centuries, the painter alone can portray. when sunbeams glance through, falling on the shattered arcades with the subtle tenderness which makes sunshine, when it creeps into such places, seem, like our own footsteps, conscious and reverent, the effects are chaste and animating beyond expression. even when the skies are clouded, the long perspectives, the boldness with which the venerable walls rise out of the sod, the infinite diversity of the parts,--to say nothing of the associations,--render this glorious ruin one of the most fascinating in our country. furness abbey was founded in the year , the twenty-sixth of henry i., and sixty-first after the norman conquest. the original patron was the above-named stephen, earl of boulogne, afterwards king of england, a crowned likeness of whom, with a corresponding one of his queen, matilda, still exists upon the outer mouldings of the east window. the carving is very slightly abraded, probably through the sculptor's selection of a harder material than that of the edifice, which presents, in its worn condition, a strong contrast to the solid, though simple, masonry. the furness monks were seated, in the first instance, on the ribble, near preston, coming from normandy as early as , then as benedictines. on removal to the retired and fertile "valley of nightshade," a choice consonant with their custom, they assumed the dress of the cistercian order, changing their gray habiliments for white ones, and from that day forwards ( th july ) they never ceased to grow steadily in wealth and power. the dedication of the abbey, as usual with the cistercians, was to our lady, the virgin mary. the building, however, was not completed for many years, transition work being abundant, and the lofty belfry tower at the extreme west plainly not older than the early part of the fifteenth century, by which time the primitive objection with the cistercians to aspiring towers had become lax, if not surrendered altogether. the oldest portions in all likelihood are the nave and transepts of the conventual church, the whole of which was completed perhaps by the year . eight pillars upon each side, alternately clustered and circular, their bases still conspicuous above the turf, divided the nave from the aisles, the wall of the southern one still standing. beneath the window of the north transept the original early norman doorway (the principal entrance) is intact, a rich and delectable arch retiring circle within circle. upon the eastern side of the grand cloister quadrangle ( feet by ) there are five other deeply-recessed round arches, the middle one leading into the vestibule of the chapterhouse--the fretted roof of which, supported by six pillars, fell in only about a hundred years ago. the great east window, feet in height, - / in width, and rising nearly from the ground, retains little of its original detail, but is imposing in general effect. [illustration: furness abbey] scrutinising the various parts, the visitor will find very many other beautiful elements. with the space at our command it is impossible here even to mention them, or to do more than concentrate material for a volume into the simple remark that furness abbey remains one of the most striking mementoes england possesses, alike of the tasteful constructive art of the men who reared it and of the havoc wrought, when for four centuries it had been a centre of public usefulness, by the royal thirst, not for reformation, but for spoil. the overthrow of the abbeys no doubt prepared the way for the advent of a better order of things; but it is not to be forgotten that the destruction of furness abbey brought quite a hundred years of decay and misery to its own domain. [illustration: furness abbey] of whalley abbey, within a pleasant walk from clitheroe, there is little new to be said; few, however, of the old monasteries have a more interesting history. the original establishment, as with furness, was at a distance, the primitive seat of the monks to whose energy it owed its existence having been at stanlaw, a place at the confluence of the gowy with the mersey. in greenland itself there is not a spot more desolate, bleak, and lonely. it was selected, it would seem, in imitation of the ascetic fathers of the order, who chose citeaux--whence their name--because of the utter sterility. after a time the rule was prudently set aside, and in , after years of dismal endurance, the whole party migrated to the green spot under the shadow of whalley nab where now we find the ruins of their famous home. the abbey grounds, exceeding thirty-six acres in extent, were encircled, where not protected by the river, by a deep trench, crossed by two bridges, each with a strong and ornamental gatehouse tower, happily still in existence. the principal buildings appear to have been disposed in three quadrangles, but the merest scraps now remain, though amply sufficient to instruct the student of monastic architecture as to the position and uses of the various parts. portions of massive walls, dilapidated archways, little courts and avenues, tell their own tale; and in addition there are piles of sculptured stones, some with curiously wrought bosses bearing the sacred monogram "m," referring to the virgin, to whom, as said above, all cistercian monasteries were dedicated. the abbot's house did not share in the general demolition, but it has undergone so much modernising that little can now be distinguished of the original structure. the abbot's oratory has been more fortunate, and is now dressed with ivy. the severest damage to this once glorious building was not done, as commonly supposed, temp. henry viii., nor yet during the reign of his eldest daughter, when so great a panic seized the protestant possessors of the abolished abbeys, and the mischief in general was so cruel. "for now," says quaint old fuller (meaning temp. mary), "the edifices of abbeys which were still entire looked lovingly again on their ancient owners; in prevention whereof, such as for the present possessed them, plucked out their eyes by levelling them to the ground, and shaving from them as much as they could of abbey characters." whatever the time of the chief destruction wrought at furness, that of whalley did not take place till the beginning of the reign of charles ii. third in order of rank and territorial possessions among the old lancashire religious houses came cokersand abbey, founded in on a bit of seaside sandy wilderness about five miles south of lancaster, near the estuary of the streamlet called the coker. there is no reason to believe that the edifice was in any degree remarkable, in point either of extent or of architectural merit. nothing now remains of it but the chapter-house, an octagonal building thirty feet in diameter, the roof supported upon a solitary anglo-norman shaft, which leads up to the pointed arches of a groined ceiling. the oaken canopies of the stalls, when the building was dismantled, were removed, very properly, to the parish church of lancaster. burscough priory, two miles and a half north-east of ormskirk, founded temp. richard i., and for a long time the burial-place of the earls of derby, has suffered even more heavily than cokersand abbey. nothing remains but a portion of the centre archway of the church. burscough has interest, nevertheless, for the antiquary and the artist; the former of whom, though not the latter, finds pleasure also in the extant morsel of the ancient priory of cartmel--a solitary gateway, standing almost due west of the church, close to the little river ea, and containing some of the original windows, the trefoil mouldings of which appear to indicate the early part of the fourteenth century. the foundation of the edifice, as a whole, is referred to the year , the name then given being "the priory of the blessed mary of kartmell." the demolition took place very shortly after the fatal , when the church, much older, was also doomed, but spared as being the parochial one. contemplating old cartmel, one scarcely thinks of shakspere, but it was to the "william mareshall, earl of pembroke," in _king john_, that the priory owed its birth. of conishead priory, two miles south of ulverston, there are but atoms remaining, and these are concealed by the modern mansion which preserves the name. the memory of good deeds has more vitality than the work of the mason:--the monks of conishead were entrusted with the safe conveyance of travellers across the treacherous sands at the outlet of the leven; the priory was also a hospital for the sick and maimed. upholland priory, near wigan, dates from , though a chantry existed there at a period still earlier. one of the lateral walls still exists, with a row of small windows, all covered with ivy. some fragments of penwortham priory, near preston, also remain; and lastly, for the curious there is the never-finished building called lydiate abbey, four miles south-west of ormskirk, the date of which appears to be temp. henry viii., when the zeal of the catholic founders received a sudden check. the walls are covered with ivy, "never sere," and the aspect in general is picturesque; so calmly and constantly always arises out of the calamities of the past nutriment for pleasure in the present. x the old churches and the old halls christianity in lancashire--so far, at all events, as concerns the outward expression through the medium of places of worship--had a very early beginning, the period being that of paulinus, one of the missionaries brought into england by augustine. in the kingdom of northumbria, which included the northern portions of the modern county of lancaster, had for its monarch the celebrated edwin--he who espoused the christian princess edilberga, daughter of the king of kent--the pious woman to whom the royal conversion was no doubt as largely owing as to the exhortations of the priest who found in her court welcome and protection. the story is told at length by bede. there is no necessity to recapitulate it. the king was baptized, and christianity became the state religion of the northern angles. paulinus nowhere in his great diocese--that of york--found listeners more willing than the ancestors of the people of east lancashire; and as nearly as possible twelve and a half centuries ago, the foundations were laid at whalley of the mother church of the district so legitimately proud to-day of a memorial almost unique. three stone crosses, much defaced by exposure to the weather, still exist in the graveyard. they are considered by antiquaries to have been erected in the time of paulinus himself, and possibly by his direction; similar crosses occurring near burnley church, and at dewsbury and ilkley in yorkshire. the site is a few yards to the north of that one afterwards chosen for the abbey. the primitive anglo-saxon churches, it is scarcely requisite to say, were constructed chiefly, and often entirely, of wood.[ ] hence their extreme perishableness, especially in the humid climate of lancashire; hence also the long step to the next extant mementoes of ecclesiastical movement in this county; for these, with one solitary exception, pertain, like the old castles, to the early norman times. the saxon relic is one of the most interesting in the north of england; and is peculiarly distinguished by the mournful circumstances of the story which envelops it, though the particular incidents are beyond discovery. at heysham, as before mentioned, four miles from lancaster, on the edge of morecambe bay, there is a little projecting rock, the only one thereabouts. upon the summit formerly stood "st. patrick's chapel," destroyed ages ago, though the site is still traceable; fragments of stonework used in the building of the diminutive norman church beneath, and others in the graveyard, adding their testimony. that, however, which attracts the visitor is the existence to this day, upon the bare and exposed surface of the rock, of half a dozen excavations adapted to hold the remains of human beings of various stature--children as well as adults. these "coffins," as the villagers call them, tell their own tale. upon this perilous and deceitful coast, one dark and tempestuous night a thousand years ago, an entire family would seem to have lost their lives by shipwreck. the bodies were laid side by side in these only too significant cavities; the oratory or "chapel" was built as a monument by their relatives, with, in addition, upon the highest point of the hill, a beacon or sort of rude lighthouse, with the maintenance of which the priest and his household were charged. on this lone little north lancashire promontory, where no sound is ever heard but that of the sea, the heart is touched well-nigh as deeply as by the busiest scenes of liverpool commerce. [ ] thus in conformity with their general architectural practice, and as expressed in the anglo-saxon word for "to build"--_getymbrian_. the church architecture of the norman times has plenty of examples in lancashire. it is well known also that many modern churches occupy old norman and even saxon sites, though nothing of the original structure has been preserved. the remains in question usually consist, as elsewhere, of the massive pillars always employed by the norman architects for the nave, or of the ornamented arch which it was their custom to place at the entrance of the choir. examples of norman pillars exist at colne, lancaster, hawkshead, cartmel, whalley, and rochdale; the last-named, with the arches above, bringing to mind the choir of canterbury cathedral; at clitheroe we find a chancel-arch; and at the cheerful and pretty village of melling, eleven miles north-west of lancaster, a norman doorway, equalled perhaps in merit by another at bispham, near blackpool. chorley parish church also declares itself of norman origin, and at blackburn are preserved various sculptured stones, plainly from norman tools, and which belonged to the church now gone, as rebuilt or restored in the de lacy times. the most ancient ecclesiastical building in lancashire is stede, or styd, chapel, a mile and a half north of the site of ribchester. the period of the erection would appear to be that of stephen, thus corresponding with the foundation of furness abbey. the windows are narrow lancet; the doors, though rather pointed, are enriched with norman ornaments; the floor is strewed with ancient gravestones. in this quiet little place divine service is still, or was recently, held once a month. whalley church, as we have it to-day--a building commemorative in site of the introduction of the christian faith into this part of england--dates apparently, in its oldest portion--the pillars in the north aisle--from the twelfth century. the choir is a little later, probably of about , from which time forwards it is evident that building was continued for quite years, so that whalley, like york minster, is an epitome of architectural progress. the sedilia and piscina recall times antecedent to the reformation. every portion of the church is crowded with antiquities, many of them heraldic; very specially inviting among them are the stalls in the chancel, eighteen in number, transferred hither from the conventual church at the time of the spoliation. the luxuriant carving of the abbot's stall is in itself enough to repay an artist's journey. at the head of one of the compartments of the east window we have the lancastrian rose; the flower of course tinctured gules, and almost the only representation of it in the county: "let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer, but dare maintain the party of the truth, pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me." i _henry vi._, ii. . the floral badge of the house of lancaster, it may be well to say, is the purely heraldic rose, the outline being conventionalised, as is the case also with the white rose of york. when used as the emblem of england, and associated with the thistle and the shamrock, the queen of flowers is represented as an artist would draw it--_i.e._ truthfully to nature, or with stalk, leaves, and buds, the petals still, as in the lancastrian, of a soft crimson hue, "rose-colour" emphatically. the titles of the various subjects are all in old black letter. the history of cartmel church reads like a romance. the original building was of earlier date than the conquest, but changes subsequently made bring it very considerably forwards--up indeed to the time of edward iii. it was then that the windows of the south aisle of the chancel were inserted, and painted as usual in that glorious art-epoch, as shown by the few portions which remain. other portions of the coloured glass were probably brought from the priory when broken up by the unhallowed hands of henry viii., under whose rule the church was threatened with a similar fate, but spared, in answer to the cry of the parishioners, who were allowed to purchase it at an indulgent price, with the loss of the roof of the chancel. thus laid open to the rain and snow, these were allowed to beat into it for eighty years, with results still plainly visible upon the woodwork. a partial restoration of the fabric was then effected, and within these last few years every part has been put in perfect order. the ground-plan of this interesting old church is that of a greek cross. the nave, sixty-four feet in length (furness exceeding it by only a few inches), leads us through angular pillars, crowned with the plain abacus, to a choir of unusual proportionate magnitude; and here, in contrast to the pointed nave-arches, the form changes to round, while the faces are carved. in one of the chapels to which the chancel-arches lead there is some fine perpendicular work. similar windows occur in the transepts; and elsewhere there are examples of late decorated. the old priory-stalls, twenty-six in number, are preserved here, as at whalley. externally, cartmel church presents one of the most curious architectural objects existing in lancashire, the tower being placed diagonally to the body of the edifice, a square crossways upon a square, as if turned from its first and proper position half-way round. what particular object was in view, or what was the motive for this unprecedented deviation from the customary style of building,--a parallel to which, in point of the singularity, is found, perhaps, only in wells cathedral,--does not appear. we owe to it, however, four pillars of great beauty and strength, necessarily placed at the points of the intersection of the transepts. the interior of the church is encrusted with fine monuments, many of them modern, but including a fair number that give pleasure to the antiquary. the most ancient belong to a tomb upon the north side of the altar, within a plain arch, and inscribed, upon an uninjured slab of gray marble, in longobardic characters, _hic jacet frator willemus de walton, prior de cartmel_. opposite this there will be found record of one of the celebrated old local family of harrington--probably the sir john who in , when edward i. was bound for scotland, was summoned by that monarch to meet him at carlisle. an effigy of the knight's lady lies abreast of that of the warrior; the arch above it is of pleasing open work, covered with the grotesque figures of which the monks were so fond. had exact annals been preserved of early church-building in lancashire in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, they would tell most assuredly of many important foundations. the beginning of eccles church, near manchester, on the west, is referred by the archæologists to about the year , but probably it is one of the two mentioned in "domesday book" in connection with manchester. the first distinct reference to eccles occurs in the "coucher book" of whalley abbey, or about thirty years later than . the whalley monks held large estates both in eccles and the neighbourhood, with granaries, etc.,--the modern "monton" is probably a contraction of "monks' town," and the very name is thought to indicate a church settlement. ecclesiastical relics of age quite, or nearly, corresponding are found also near preston, especially in the tower and chancel near the church of walton-le-dale, the former of no great elevation, but very strong, buttressed and embattled. placed in a skilfully chosen position on the crest of a little hill near the confluence of the darwen with the ribble, the aspect of the old place is distinctly picturesque; the site at the same moment explaining the local appellation of "low church,"--the anglo-saxon _low_ or _law_ denoting an isolated eminence, as in the case of cheshire werneth low and shuttlings low. the date assigned to this ancient tower is ; to about thirty years after which time the oldest existing portions of samlesbury, a few miles distant, appear to belong, the relics of the original here including the baptismal font. didsbury church, near manchester, represents a chapel built about , originally for the private use of the lord of the manor and a few families of local distinction, but a century afterwards made parochial.[ ] [ ] the existing church dates only from , and in many of its details only from and . there are numerous indications also of ecclesiastical energy, if not of enthusiasm, temp. edward iii., to which period seem to belong the choir of rochdale church, with its rich window tracery, the choir, probably, of burnley church, and perhaps the older portions of wigan church. as happens with many others, the history of the last-named is very broken. a church existed at wigan in , but the larger portion of the present pile belongs to two centuries later. that it cannot be the original is proved by the monument to the memory of sir william bradshaigh and the unfortunate lady, his wife, the principal figure in the legend of mab's, or mabel's cross. the knight is cross-legged, in coat of mail, and in the act of unsheathing his sword; the lady is veiled, with hands uplifted and conjoined as if in prayer. the deaths of these two occurred about the time of the flemish weavers' settling in lancashire, and of philippa's intercession for the burghers of calais. manchester "old church," since the "cathedral," was founded, as before stated, in , the last year of henry v. and first of henry vi.--that unhappy sovereign whose fate reflects so dismally upon the history of lancashire faithfulness. the site had previously been occupied by an edifice of timber, portions of which are thought to have been carried away and employed in the building of certain of the old halls for which the neighbourhood was long noted, the arms of the respective families (who, doubtless, were contributors to the cost of the new structure) being displayed in different parts. but there does not appear to be any genuine ground for the belief; and at a period when oak timber was so readily procurable as in the time of henry vi., it is scarcely probable that men who could afford to build handsome halls for their abode would care to introduce second-hand material, unless in very small quantity, and then merely as commemorative of the occasion. choice of a quarry by the builders of the new church was not in their power. they were constrained to use the red-brown friable sandstone of the immediate vicinity, still plainly visible here and there by the river-side. the exterior of the building has thus required no little care and cost to preserve, to say nothing of the injury done by the smoke of a manufacturing town. there was a time when thoresby's quotation from the canticles in reference to st. peter's at leeds would have been quite as appropriate in regard to the manchester "cathedral"--"i am black, but comely." the style of the building, with its square and pinnacled tower, feet high, is the florid gothic of the time of the west front and south porch of gloucester. the interior, in its loftiness and elaborate fretwork, its well-schemed proportions and ample windows, excites the liveliest admiration. the chancel-screen is one for an artist to revel in; the tabernacle work is, if possible, more beautiful yet. the second best of the old lancashire ecclesiastical interiors belongs to sefton, near liverpool, a building of the time of henry viii., upon the site of a pre-conquest church. the screen, which contains sixteen stalls, presents a choice example of carved work. there is also a fine carved-canopy over the pulpit, though time with the latter has been pitiless. striking architectural details are also plentiful with, in addition, some remarkable monuments of knights templars with triangular shields. sefton church is further distinguished as one of the few in lancashire more than a hundred years old which possesses a spire, the favourite style of tower in the bygones having been the square, solid, and rather stunted--never in any degree comparable with the gems found in somerset, or with the circular towers that give so much character to the churches of norfolk and suffolk. a very handsome octangular tower exists at hornby, on the banks of the lune, built about the middle of the sixteenth century. winwick church, an ancient and far-seen edifice near warrington, supplies another example of a spire; and at ormskirk we have the odd conjunction of spire and square tower side by side. leland makes no mention of the circumstance--one which could hardly have escaped his notice. the local tale which proposes to explain it may be dismissed. the probability is that the intention was to provide a place for the bells from burscough priory, some of the monuments belonging to which were also removed hither when the priory was dissolved. many remains show that in lancashire, in the time of henry viii., the spirit of church extension was again in full flow. indications of it occur at warrington, burnley, colne, and st. michael-le-wyre, near garstang, also in the aisles of middleton church, and in the towers of rochdale, haslingden, padiham, and warton, near lancaster. here, however, we must pause; the history of the old lancashire churches treated in full would be a theme as broad and various as that of the lives and writings of its men of letters. there is one, nevertheless, which justly claims the special privilege of an added word, the very interesting little edifice called langho chapel, four miles from blackburn, the materials of which it was built consisting of part of the wreck of whalley abbey. sculptured stones, with heraldic shields and other devices, though much battered and disfigured, declare the source from which they were derived; and in the heads of some of the windows, which resemble the relics of others at the abbey, are fragments of coloured glass in all likelihood of similar origin. the date of the building would seem to have been about , though the first mention of it does not occur until . how curious and suggestive are the reminders one meets with in our own country (comparing the small with the great), of the quarrying of the coliseum by the masons of mediæval rome! in old halls, mansions, and manor-houses, especially of sixteenth-century style, lancashire abounds. a few are intact, held, like widnes house, by a descendant of the original owners; or preserved through transfer to some wealthy merchant or manufacturer from the town, who takes an equal pride in maintaining the integrity of all he found--a circumstance to which we are indebted for some of the most beautiful archæological relics the county possesses. on the contrary, as would be expected, the half-ruined largely predominate, and these in many cases are now devoted to ignoble purposes. a considerable number of stronger substance have been modernised, often being converted into what are sometimes disrespectfully called "farmhouses," as if the home of the agriculturist were not one of the most honourable in the land;--now and then they have been divided into cottages. still, they are there; attractive very generally to the artist in their quaintness, always dear to the antiquary and historian, and interesting, if no more, to all who appreciate the fond care which clings to memorials of the past, whether personal or outside, as treasures which once lost can never be recovered. they tell of a class of worthy and industrious men who were neither barons nor vassals, who had good taste, and were fairly well off in purse, and loved field-sports--for a kennel for harriers and otter hounds is not rare,--who were hospitable, and generous, and mindful of the poor. the history of these old halls is, in truth very often, the history of the aboriginal county families. as wealth increased, and abreast of it a longing for the refinements of a more elevated civilisation, the proprietors usually deserted them for a new abode; the primitive one became the "old," then followed the changes indicated, with departure, alas! only too often, of the ancient dignity. in the far north a few remains occur which point to a still earlier period, or when the disposition to render the manorial home a fortress was very natural. moats, or the depressions they once occupied, are common in all parts, even where there was least danger of attack. in the neighbourhood of morecambe bay the building was often as strong as a castle, as in the case of the old home of the harringtons at gleaston, two miles east of furness abbey. these celebrated ruins, which lie in a hollow in one of the valleys running seawards, are apparently of the fourteenth century, the windows in the lower storey being acutely pointed single lights, very narrow outside, but widely splayed within. portions of three square towers and part of the curtain-wall connecting them attest, with the extent of the enclosure ( feet by where widest), that the ancient lords of aldingham were alike powerful and sagacious. on the way to gleaston, starting from grange, a little south of the village of allithwaite, wraysholme tells of similar times, though all that now remains is a massive tower, the walls - / feet thick as they rise from the sod. it was near wraysholme, it will be remembered, that according to tradition and the ballad, the last of the english wolves was killed. the fine old tower of hornby castle, the only remaining portion of a stronghold commenced soon after the conquest, is of much later date, having been built in or about . that without being originally designed to withstand the attack of a violent enemy, more than one of these substantial old lancashire private houses held its own against besiegers in the time of the civil wars is matter of well-known history. lathom house (the original, long since demolished) has already been mentioned as the scene of the memorable discomfiture of fairfax by charlotte, countess of derby, the illustrious lady in whom loyalty and conjugal love were interwoven. the elizabethan halls so termed, though some of them belong to the time of james i., are of two distinct kinds,--the half-timbered, black-and-white, or "magpie," and the purely stone, the latter occurring in districts where wood was less plentiful or more costly. nothing in south lancashire, and in the adjacent parts of cheshire, sooner catches the eye of the stranger than the beautiful old patterned front of one of the former;--bars vertical and horizontal, angles and curves, mingling curiously but always elegantly, indian ink upon snow, many gables breaking the sky-line, while the entrance is usually by a porch or ornamental gateway, the windows on either side low but wide, with many mullions, and usually casemented. the features in question rivet the mind so much the more because of the proof given in these old half-timbered houses of the enduring vitality of the idea of the gothic cathedral, and its new expression when cathedral-building ceased, in the subdued and modified form appropriate to english homes--the things next best, when perfect, to the fanes themselves. the gables repeat the high-pitched roof; the cathedral window, as to the rectangular portion, or as far as the spring of the arch, is rendered absolutely; the filagree in black-and-white, ogee curves appearing not infrequently, is a varied utterance of the sculpture; the pinnacles and finials, the coloured glass, and the porch complete the likeness. anything that can be associated with a gothic cathedral is thereby ennobled;--upon this one simple basis, the architecture we are speaking of becomes artistic, while its lessons are pure and salutary. drawing near, at the sides of the porch, are found seats usually of stone. in front, closing the entrance to the house, there is a strong oaken door studded with heads of great iron nails. inside are chambers and corridors, many and varied, an easy and antique staircase leading to the single upper storey, the walls everywhere hidden by oaken panels grooved and carved, and in the daintier parts divided by fluted pilasters; while across the ceilings, which are usually low, run the ancient beams which support the floor above. so lavish is the employment of oak, that, when this place was built, surely one thinks a forest must have been felled. but those were the days of giant trees, the equals of which in this country will probably never be seen again, though in the landscape they are not missed. inside, again, how cheery the capacious and friendly hearth, spanned by a vast arch; above it, not uncommonly, a pair of huge antlers that talk of joy in the chase. inside, again, one gets glimpses of heraldic imagery, commemorative of ancient family honours, rude perhaps in execution, but redeemed by that greatest of artists, the sunshine, that streaming through shows the colours and casts the shadows. halls such as these existed until quite lately even in the immediate suburbs of manchester, in the original streets of which town there were many black-and-white fronts, as to the present moment in chester, ludlow, and shrewsbury. some of the finest of those still remaining in the rural parts of lancashire will be noticed in the next chapter. our illustrations give for the present an idea of them. when gone to decay and draped with ivy, like coniston hall, the ancient home of the le flemings, whatever may be the architecture, they become keynotes to poems that float over the mind like the sound of the sea. in any case there is the sense, when dismemberment and modernising have not wrought their mischief, that while the structure is always peculiarly well fitted for its situation, the outlines are essentially english. it may be added that in these old lancashire halls and mansions the occurrence of a secret chamber is not rare. lancashire was always a stronghold of catholicism, and although the hiding-places doubtless often gave shelter to cavaliers and other objects of purely political enmity, the popular appellation of "priest's room," or "priest's hole," points plainly to their more usual service. they were usually embedded in the chimney-stacks, communication with a private cabinet of the owner of the house being provided for by means of sliding shutters. very curious and interesting refuges of this character exist to this day at speke, lydiate, widnes, and stonyhurst, and in an old house in goosenargh, in the centre wall of which, four feet thick, there are two of the kind. in a similar "hole" at mains hall, in the parish of kirkham, tradition says that cardinal allen was once concealed. xi the old halls (_continued_) although the few perfect remaining examples of the old timbered lancashire halls are preserved with the fondest reverence by their owners, the number of those which have been allowed to fall into a state of partial decay diminishes every year. they disappear, one by one, perhaps inevitably, and of many, it is to be feared, not a trace will soon be left. repairs and restorations are expensive; to preserve such buildings needs, moreover, a strong sense of duty, and a profounder devotedness to "reliquism," as some author terms it, than perhaps can ever be expected to be general. the duty to preserve is plain. the wilful neglect, not to say the reckless destruction of interesting old buildings that can be maintained, at no great cost, in fair condition and as objects of picturesque beauty, is, to say the least of it, unpatriotic. the possessors of fine old memorials of the past are not more the possessors in their own right than trustees of property belonging to the nation, and the nation is entitled to insist upon their safe keeping and protection. the oaks of sherwood, festooned with stories of robin hood and maid marian, are not more a ducal inheritance, than, as long as they may survive, every englishman's by birthright. architectural remains, in particular, when charged with historical interest, and that discourse of the manners and customs of "the lang syne," are sacred. let opulence and good taste construct as much more as they please on modern lines. every addition to the architectural adornment of the country reflects honour upon the person introducing it, and the donor deserves, though he may not always receive, sincere gratitude. let the builder go further, pull down, and, if he so fancies, reconstruct his own particular work. but no man who calls himself master of a romantic or sweet old place, consecrated by time, has any right, by destroying, to steal it from the people of england; he is bound not even to mutilate it. there are occasions, no doubt, when to preserve is no longer practicable, and when to alter may be legitimate; we refer not to these, but to needless and wanton overthrow--such as unhappily has had examples only too many. there was no need to destroy that immemorial mansion, reddish old hall, near the banks of the tame, now known only through the medium of a faithful picture;[ ] nor was there excuse for the merciless pulling to pieces of radcliffe old hall, on the banks of the irwell, a building so massive in its under-structure that the utmost labour was required to beat it down. we need not talk of alaric, the goths, and the vandals, when englishmen are not ashamed to behave as badly. [ ] in the chetham society's nd vol., p. . [illustration: darcy lever, near bolton] of the venerated and unmolested, speke hall is, perhaps, the oldest in south lancashire that remains as an example of the "magpie," or black-and-white half-timbered style. it stands upon the margin of the estuary of the mersey, a few miles above liverpool, with approach at the rear by an avenue of trees from the water's edge. as with all the rest of its class, the foundations are of solid masonry, the house itself consisting of a framework of immensely strong vertical timbers, connected by horizontal beams, with diagonal bracings, oak in every instance, the interstices filled with laths upon which is laid a peculiar composition of lime and clay. the complexion of the principal front is represented in our drawing, but no pencil can give a perfect idea of the repose, the tender hues, antique but not wasted, the far-reaching though silent spell with which it catches and holds both eye and fancy. over the principal entrance, in quaint letters, "this worke," it is said, " yards long, was wolly built by edw. n., esq., anno ." the n. stands for norreys, the surname of one of the primitive lancashire families, still represented in the county, though not at speke. a baronial mansion belonging to them existed here as early as , but of this not a stone that can be recognised remains. a broad moat once surrounded the newer hall, but, as in most other instances, the water has long since given way to green turf. sometimes, in lancashire, the ancient moats have been converted into orchards. inside, speke is distinguished by the beauty of the corridors and of the great hall, which latter contains some carved wainscoting brought from holyrood by the sir wm. norreys who, serving his commander, lord stanley, well at flodden, a.d. , got leave to despoil the palace of the unfortunate monarch there defeated. the galleries look into a spacious and perfectly square central court of the kind usually pertaining to these old halls, though now very seldom found with all four of the enclosing blocks of building. the court at speke is remarkable for its pair of aged yew trees; one of each sex, the female decked in autumn with its characteristic scarlet berries--a place for trees so exceptional that it probably has no counterpart. everywhere and at all times the most imperturbable of trees, yews never fail to give an impression of long inheritance and of a history abreast of dynasties, and at speke the association is sustained perfectly. [illustration: speke hall] [illustration: hale hall] near bolton there are several such buildings, all in a state of praiseworthy preservation. in the time of the stuarts and the republicans they must have been numerous. smithills, or smethells, a most beautiful structure placed at the head of a little glen, occupies the site of an ancient saxon royal residence. after the conquest, the estate and the original hall passed through various successive hands, those of the ratcliffes included. at present it is possessed, fortunately, by one of the ainsworth family above mentioned (p. ), so that, although very extensive changes have been made from time to time, including the erection of a new east front in stone, and the substitution of modern windows for the primitive casements, the permanency of all, as we have it to-day, is guaranteed. the interior is rich in ancient wood-carving. quaint but charmingly artistic decoration prevails in all the chief apartments; some of the panels are emblazoned in colours; everywhere, too, there is the sense of strength and comfort. in the quadrangle, open on one side, and now a rose-garden, amid the flower-borders, and in the neighbouring shrubberies, it is interesting to observe once again how the botanical aspect of old england is slowly but surely undergoing transformation, through the liberal planting of decorative exotics. speke suggests the idea of botanical metamorphosis even more powerfully than smithills. at each place the ancient occupiers, full of the native spirit of "never say die," the oak, the hawthorn, and the silver birch,--trees that decked the soil in the days of caractacus,--wonder who are these new-comers, the rhododendrons and the strange conifers from japan and the antipodes. they bid them welcome all the same. as at clitheroe, they stand arm in arm; we are reminded at every step of the good householder "which bringeth forth out of his treasure things both new and old." hall i' th' wood, not far off, so called because once hidden in the heart of a forest containing wild boars, stands on the brow of a precipitous cliff at the base of which flows the eagley. possessed of a large bay window, hall i' th' wood may justly be pronounced one of the best existing specimens of old english domestic architecture--that of the franklins, or aboriginal country gentlemen, not only of lancashire, but of the soil in general, though some of the external ornaments are of later date than the house itself. the oldest part seems never to have suffered "improvements" of any kind; in any case, hall i' th' wood is to the historian one of the most interesting spots in england, since it was here, in the room with the remarkable twenty-four-light window, that crompton devised and constructed his cotton-machine. the noble old trees have long since vanished. when the oaks were put to death, so large were they that no cross-cut saw long enough for the purpose could be procured, and the workmen were obliged to begin with making deep incisions in the trunks, and removing large masses of the ironlike timber. this was only a trifle more than a century ago. turton tower, near bolton, an old turreted and embattled building, partly stone, partly black-and-white, the latter portion gabled, originally belonged to the orrells, afterwards to the chethams, the most distinguished of whom, humphrey chetham, founder of the chetham free library, died here in . the upper storeys, there being four in all, successively project or overhang, after the manner of those of many of the primitive manchester houses. the square form of the building gives it an aspect of great solidity; the ancient door is oak, and passing this, we come once again upon abundance of elaborate wood-carving, with enriched ceilings, as at speke. turton has, in part, been restored, but with strict regard to the original style and fashion, both within and without. the neighbourhood also of wigan is celebrated for its old halls, pre-eminent among which is ince, the ancient seat of the gerards, and the subject of another of our sketches. ince stands about a mile to the south-east of the comparatively modern building of the same name, and in its many gables surmounting the front, and long ranges of windows, is not more tasteful as a work of art than conspicuous to the traveller who is so fortunate as to pass near enough to enjoy the sight of it. lostock old hall, black-and-white, and dated , possesses a handsome stone gateway, and has most of the rooms wainscoted. standish hall, three and a half miles n.n.w., is also well worth a visit; and after these time is well given to pemberton old hall, half timbered (two miles w.s.w.), birchley hall, winstanley hall, and haigh hall. winstanley, built of stone, though partly modernised, retains the ancient transom windows, opposing a quiet and successful resistance to the ravages of time and fashion. haigh hall, for many ages the seat of the bradshaigh family (from which, through females, lord lindsay, the distinguished lancashire author and art-critic, descended), is a stately mansion of various periods--the chapel as old apparently as the reign of edward ii. placed upon the brow of the hill above the town, it commands a prospect scarcely surpassed by the view from billinge. [illustration: hall in the wood] the old halls of manchester and the immediate neighbourhood would a hundred years ago have required many chapters to themselves. it has already been mentioned that a great portion of the original town was "black-and-white," and most of the halls belonging to the local gentry, it would seem, were similar. those which stood in the way of the fast-striding bricks and mortar of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, if not gone entirely, have been mutilated beyond recognition. in the fields close to garratt hall partridges were shot only seventy or eighty years ago: to-day there is scarcely a fragment of it left! hulme hall, which stood upon a rise of the red sandstone rock close to the irwell, overlooking the ancient ford to ordsall,--once the seat of the loyal and generous prestwich family,--is remembered by plenty of the living as the point aimed for in summer evenings by those who loved the sight of hedges covered with the white bells of the convolvulus--galatea's own pretty flower. workshops now cover the ground; and though ordsall hall, its neighbour across the water, not long ago a mile from any public road, is still extant, it is hall only in name. ordsall, happily, is in the possession of a firm of wealthy manufacturers, who have converted the available portions into a sort of institute for their workpeople.[ ] crumpsall old hall; hough hall, near moston; ancoats old hall, now the ancoats art gallery; barton old hall, near eccles; urmston old hall, and several others, may be named as examples of ancient beauty and dignity now given over to the spirit of change. leaving them to their destiny, it is pleasant to note one here and there among the fields still unspoiled, as in the case of "hough end," a building of modest proportions, but an excellent example of the style in brick which prevailed at the close of the reign of elizabeth; the windows square-headed, with substantial stone mullions, and transomed. hough end was originally the home of the mosleys, having been erected by sir nicholas mosley, lord mayor of london in , "whom god," says the old biographer, "from a small and low estate, raysed up to riches and honour." one of the prettiest of the always pretty "magpie" style is kersall cell, near the banks of the irwell, at agecroft, so named because on the site of an ancient monkish retreat or hermitage, the predecessor of which in turn was a little oratory among the rocks at ordsall, lower down the stream, founded temp. henry ii. worsley old hall, another example of "magpie," though less known to the general public than the adjacent modern worsley hall, the seat of the earl of ellesmere, is one of the most imposing edifices of its character in south lancashire. with the exception of worsley hall, manchester possesses no princely or really patrician residences. the earl of wilton's, heaton park, though well placed, claims to be nothing more than of the classical type so common to its class. [ ] messrs. r. howarth & co., whose "weaving-shed," it may be added, is the largest and most astonishing in the world. when relics only exist, they in many cases become specially interesting through containing some personal memorial. barlow hall, for instance, originally black-and-white, with quadrangle, now so changed by modernising and additions that we have only a hint of the primitive aspect, is rich in the possession of an oriel with stained glass devoted to heraldry. one of the shields--parted per pale, apparently to provide a place for the barlow arms, not inserted--shows on the dexter side those of edward stanley, third earl of derby, in seventeen quarterings--stanley, lathom, the isle of man, harrington, whalley abbey, hooton, and eleven others. the date of this, as of the sundial, is . the country immediately around liverpool is deficient in old halls of the kind so abundant near bolton and manchester. this perhaps is in no degree surprising when we consider how thinly that part of lancashire was inhabited when the manufacturing south-east corner was already populous. speke is the only perfect example thereabouts of its particular class, the black-and-white; and of a first-class contemporaneous baronial mansion, the remains of the hutte, near hale, furnish an almost solitary memorial. the transom of the lower window, the upper smaller windows, the stack of kitchen chimneys, the antique mantelpiece, the moat, still untouched, with its drawbridge, combine to show how important this place must have been in the bygones, while the residence of the irelands. it was quitted in , when the comparatively new "hale hall" was erected, a solid and commodious building of the indefinite style. liverpool as a district is correspondingly deficient in palatial modern residences, though there are many of considerable magnitude. knowsley, the seat of the earl of derby, is eminently miscellaneous, a mixture of gothic and classical, and of various periods, beginning with temp. henry vi. the front was built in , the back in . croxteth hall, the earl of sefton's, is a stone building of the negative character indicative of the time of queen anne and george i. childwall abbey, a mansion belonging to the marquis of salisbury, is gothic of the kind which is recommended neither by taste nor by fidelity to exact principles. lathom, on the other hand, is consistent, though opinions vary as to the amount of genius displayed in the detail--the very part in which genius is always declared. would that there existed, were it ever so tiny, a fragment of the original lathom house, that noble first home of the stanleys, which had no fewer than eighteen towers, without reckoning the lofty "eagle" in the centre--its outer walls protected by a fosse of eight yards in width, and its gateway one that in nobleness would satisfy kings. henry vii. came here in , the occasion when "to the women that songe before the kinge and the quene," as appears in the entertaining privy purse expenses of the royal progress that pleasant summer, there was given "in reward, s. d." so thorough was the demolition of the old place that now there is no certain knowledge even of the site. the present mansion was built during the ten years succeeding . it has a rustic basement, with double flight of steps, above which are rows of ionic columns. the length of the northern or principal front, including the wings, is feet; the south front overlooks the garden, and an abundantly wooded park. an italian architect, giacomo leoni, was entrusted with the decoration of the interior, which upon the whole is deservedly admired. ince blundell is distinguished, not so much for its architecture, as for the collection of works of art contained in the entrance-hall, a model, one-third size, of the pantheon. the sculptures, of various kinds, above in number, are chiefly illustrative of the later period of roman art, though including some gems of ancient greek conception; the paintings include works of high repute in all the principal continental schools, as well as english, the former representing, among others, paul veronese, andrea del sarto, and jan van eyck. the ince blundell collection is certainly without equal in lancashire, and is pronounced by connoisseurs one of the finest of its kind in the country. the neighbourhood of blackburn is enviable in the possession of hoghton tower, five and a half miles to the w.s.w., a building surpassed in its various interest only by lancaster castle and the abbeys; in beauty of situation little inferior to stirling castle, and as a specimen of old baronial architecture well worthy of comparison with haddon hall. the estate was in the possession of the hoghton family as early as temp. henry ii., when the original manor-house, superseded by the tower, stood at the foot of the hill, by the river-side. the existing edifice dates from the reign of elizabeth, having been erected by the thomas hoghton whose departure from "merry england" is the theme of the pathetic old ballad, "the blessed conscience." he was one of the "obstinate" people who, having been educated in the catholic faith, refused to conform to the requirements of the new protestant powers, and was obliged in consequence to take refuge in a foreign country, dying an exile at liege, d june . "oh! hoghton high, which is a bower of sports and lordly pleasure, i wept, and left that lordly tower which was my chiefest treasure. to save my soul, and lose the rest, it was my true pretence; like frighted bird, i left my nest, to keep my consciènce. "fair england! now ten times adieu! and friends that therein dwell; farewell, my brother richard true, whom i did love so well-- farewell, farewell, good people all, and learn experiènce; love not too much the golden ball, but keep your consciènce." [illustration: hoghton tower] the "tower," so called, occupies the summit of a lofty ridge, on its eastern side bold and rugged, steep and difficult of access, though to the north and west sloping gently. below the declivity meanders the darwen, in parts smooth and noiseless; but in the "orr," so named from the sound, tumbling over huge heaps of rock loosened from the opposite bank, where the wall of stone is almost vertical. in the time of its pride the hill was almost entirely clothed with trees, but now it is chiefly turf, and the extent of the prospect, which includes the village of walton-le-dale, down in the valley of the ribble, is enjoyed perfectly. the ground-plan of the building presents two capacious courts, the wall with three square towers in front, the middle one protecting the gateway. the outer court is large enough for the easy movement of men; the inner one is approached by a noble flight of steps. the portion designed for the abode of the family contains noble staircases, branching out into long galleries, which lead, in turn, to the many chambers. one of the rooms, called james the first's, is wainscoted. the stay of his majesty at hoghton for a few days in august, , has already been referred to. it is this which has been so admirably commemorated in cattermole's best painting. with a view to rendering his picture, containing some fifty figures, as historically correct as might be possible, the artist was assisted with all the records and portraits in existence, so that the imagination has little place in it beyond the marshalling. regarded as a semi-ruin, hoghton tower is a national monument, a treasure which belongs not more to the distinguished baronet by whom it has lately been in some degree restored after the neglect of generations, than, as said above, like all others of its kind, to the people of england, who, in course of time, it is to be hoped, will rightly estimate the value of their heirlooms. stonyhurst, now the principal english jesuit college, was originally the home of the sherburne family, one of whom attended queen philippa at calais, while upon another, two centuries later, elizabeth looked so graciously that, although a catholic, she allowed him to retain his private chapel and domestic priest. it was under the latter that the existing edifice took the place of one more ancient, though the builder did not live to complete his work. the completion, in truth, may be said to be yet barely effected, so many additions, all in thorough keeping, have been projected. not that they interfere with the design of the stately original, its lofty and battlemented centre, and noble cupolas. the new is in perfect harmony with the old, and the general effect, we may be sure, is no less imposing to-day than it was three hundred years ago. the interior corresponds; the galleries and apartments leave nothing to be desired: they are stored, moreover, with works of art, and with archæological and historical curiosities; so richly, indeed, that whatever the value of the museums in some of the lancashire large towns, in the entire county there is no collection of the kind that can take precedence of stonyhurst. the house was converted to its present purpose in , when the founders of the college, driven from liege by the terrors of the french revolution, obtained possession of it. they brought with them all they could that was specially valuable, and hence, in large measure, the varied interest of what it contains. in the philosophical apparatus room there is a _descent from the cross_, by annibale caracci. elsewhere there are some carvings in ivory, and a _crucifixion_, by michel angelo, with ancient missals, a copy of the office of the virgin which belonged to mary, queen of scots, and antiques of miscellaneous character innumerable, those of the christian ages supplemented by a roman altar from ribchester. a curious circumstance connected with stonyhurst is, that the house and grounds occupy, as nearly as possible, the same area as that of the famous city which once adorned the banks of the ribble. [illustration: stonyhurst] a pilgrimage to the neighbourhood of stonyhurst is rewarded by the sight of old fashioned manor-houses scarcely inferior in manifold interest to those left behind in the southern part of the county. little mitton hall (so named in order to distinguish it from great mitton, on the yorkshire side of the stream) supplies an example of the architecture of the time of henry vii. the basement is of stone, the upper storey of wood; the presence-chamber, with its embayed window-screen and gallery above, and the roof ceiled with oak in wrought compartments, are alike curious and interesting. salesbury hall, partly stone and partly wood, once possessed of a quadrangular court, now a farmhouse, was originally the seat of the talbots, one of whom, in , was keeper of the records in the tower of london. salmesbury, monographed by mr. james croston, dates from the close of the fourteenth century. this is a truly fascinating old place, the inner doors all without either panel or lock, and opened, like those of cottages, with a latch and a string. townley hall, near burnley, one of the most ancient seats in the county, is rich in personal history. the banks of the lune in turn supply examples of the ancient mansion such as befit a valley picturesque in every winding, hornby castle and borwick hall counting as chief among them. the list of lancashire remains of this character could be considerably enlarged. scarisbrick and rufford, near ormskirk; yealand redmayne, nine miles north of lancaster; swarthmoor, extwistle, and many others, present features of various interest, and in the aggregate supply materials for one of the most delightful chapters still to be written for the history not only of lancashire but of england. but here we must desist. xii the natural history and the fossils an extended account of the flora of lancashire, or of its fauna, or of the organic remains preserved in the rocks and the coal strata, is impossible in the space now at command: it is not demanded either by pages which profess to supply no more than general hints as to where to look for what is worthy or curious. a bird's-eye view of lancashire, its contents and characteristics, would nevertheless be incomplete without some notice, however brief, of the indigenous trees and plants, the birds ordinarily met with, and the fossils. the zest with which natural history has been followed in lancashire, for over a century, has resulted in so accurate a discrimination of all the principal forms of life, that the numbers, and the degree of diffusion of the various species, can now be spoken of without fear of error. in those departments alone which require the use of the microscope is there much remaining to be done, and these, in truth, are practically inexhaustible. being so varied in its geology, and possessed of a hundred miles of coast, lancashire presents a very good average flora, though wanting many of the pretty plants which deck the meadows and waysides of most of the southern counties. the wild clematis which at clifton festoons every old thorn is sought in vain. in lancashire no cornfield is ever flooded as in surrey with scarlet poppies; the sweet-briar and the scented violet are scarcely known, except, of course, in gardens; even the mallow is a curiosity. many flowers, on the other hand, occur in plenty, which, though not confined to lancashire, are in the south seldom seen, and which in beauty compare with the best. mr. bentham, in his _handbook of the british flora_, describes native flowering plants, and of the cryptogamia--the ferns and their allies--or a total of . of these the present writer has personally observed in lancashire more than . in the remoter corners another score or two, without doubt, await the finding. in any case, the proportion borne by the lancashire flora to that of the entire island is, in reality, much higher than the figures seem to indicate, since quite a sixth part of the consists of plants confined to three or four localities, and thus not entitled to count with the general vegetation of the country. it is not, after all, the multitude or the variety of the species found in a given spot that renders it enviable. the excellent things of the world are not the rare and costly ones, but those which give joy to the largest number of intelligent human beings; and assuredly more delight has arisen to mankind from the primrose, the anemone, and the forget-me-not, than from all the botanist's prizes put together. better, moreover, at any time, than the possession of mere quantity, the ceaseless pleasure that comes of watching manners and customs, or a life-history--such, for example, as that of the parnassia. not to mention all that precedes and follows, how beautiful the spectacle of the milk-white cups when newly open, the golden anthers kneeling round the lilac ovary; then, after a while, in succession rising up, bestowing a kiss, and retiring, so that at last they form a five-rayed star, the ovary now impurpled. in connection with the dethronement of the natural beauty of the streams in the cotton manufacturing districts, it is interesting to note that, while the primroses, the anemones, and the forget-me-nots, that once grew in profusion, here and there, along the margins, have disappeared, the "azured harebell"[ ] holds its own. even when the whitethorn stands dismayed, the harebell still sheets many a slope and shelving bank with its deep-dyed blue. [ ] usually miscalled "blue bell," _vide_ "the shakspere flora." on the great hills along the eastern side of the county, and especially in the moorland parts, the flora is meagre in the extreme. acres innumerable produce little besides heather and whortle-berry. when the latter decreases, it is to make room for the empetrum, or the vitis idæa, "the grape of mount ida"--a name enough in itself to fling poetry over the solitude. harsh and wiry grasses and obdurate rushes fill the interspaces, except where green with the hard-fern. occasionally, as upon foledge, the parsley-fern and the club-moss tell of the altitude, as upon pendle the pinguicula and the cloud-berry. the hills behind grange are in part densely covered with juniper, and the characteristic grass is the beautiful blue sesleria, the colour contrasting singularly with that of the hay-field grasses. the choicest of the english green-flowered plants, the trulove, _paris quadrifolia_, is plentiful in the woods close by, and extends to those upon the banks of the duddon. everywhere north of morecambe bay, as these names go far to indicate, the flora is more diversified than to the south; here, too, particular kinds of flowers occur in far greater plenty. at grange the meadows teem with cowslips, in many parts of lancashire almost unknown. crimson orchises--ophelia's "long-purples," the tway-blade, the fly-orchis, the lady's tresses, the butterfly-orchis, that smells only after twilight, add their charms to this beautiful neighbourhood, which, save for birkdale, would seem the lancashire orchids' patrimony. the total number of orchideous plants occurring wild in the county is fourteen; and of these birkdale lays very special claim to two--the marsh epipactis and the _orchis latifolia_. in the moist hollows among the sand-hills, called the "slacks," they grow in profusion, occurring also in similar habitats beyond the ribble. the abundance is easily accounted for; the seeds of the orchids, of every kind, are innumerable as the motes that glisten i' the sunbeam, and when discharged, the wind scatters them in all directions. the orchids' birkdale home is that also of the parnassia, which springs up less frequently alone than in clusters of from six or eight to twenty or thirty. here, too, grows that particular form of the pyrola, hitherto unnoticed elsewhere, which counts as the lancashire botanical specialty, looking when in bloom like the lily of the valley, though different in leaf, and emulating not only the fashion but the odour. it would much better deserve the epithet of "lancashire" than the asphodel so called, for the latter is found in bogs wherever they occur. never mind; it is more than enough that there is whisper in it of the "yellow meads," and that in high summer it shows its bright gold, arriving just when the cotton-grass is beginning to waft away, and the sundews are displaying their diamonds, albeit so treacherously, for in another week or two every leaf will be dotted with corpses. no little creature of tender wing ever touches a sundew except under penalty of death. only two other english counties--york and cornwall--lend their name to a wild-flower, so that lancashire may still be proud of its classic asphodel. no single kind of wild-flower occurs in lancashire so abundantly as to give character to the county, nor is it marked by any particular kind of fern. the most general, perhaps, is the broad-leaved sylvan shield-fern (_lastrea dilatata_), though in some parts superseded by the amber-spangled polypody. neither is any one kind of tree more conspicuous than another, unless it be the sycamore. fair dimensions are attained by the wych-elm, which in lancashire holds the place given south of birmingham to that princely exotic, the _campestris_--the "ancestral elm" of the poet, and chief home of the sable rook--a tree of comparative rarity, and in lancashire never majestic. the wild cherry is often remarkable also for its fine development, especially north of the sands. the abele, on the other hand, the maple, and the silver willow, are seldom seen; and of the spindle-tree, the wayfaring-tree, and the dogwood, there is scarcely an example. they do not blend in lancashire, as in the south, with the crimson pea and the pencilled wood-vetch. when a climber of the summer, after the bindweed, ascends the hedge, it is the tamus, that charming plant which never seems so much to have risen out of the earth as to be a cataract of foliage tumbling from some hidden fount above. wood-nuts are plentiful in the northern parts of the county; and in the southern wild raspberries, these equal in flavour and fragrance to those of garden growth, wanting only in size. bistort makes pink islands amid hay grass that waits the scythe. foxgloves as tall as a man adorn all dry and shady groves. the golden-rod, the water septfoil, and the lady's mantle, require no searching for. at blackpool the sea-rocket blooms again towards christmas. on the extremest verge of the county, where a leap across the streamlet would plant the feet in westmoreland, the banks are dotted for many miles with the bird's-eye primula. the birds[ ] [ ] condensed in part from the chapter on lancashire birds in _manchester walks and wild-flowers_, , long since out of print. with the lancashire birds, as with the botany, it is not the exhaustive catalogue that possesses the prime interest. this lies in the habits, the odd and pretty ways, the instincts, the songs, the migrations, that lift birds, in their endless variety, so near to our own personal human nature. adding to the list of birds known to be permanent residents in great britain, the names of those which visit our islands periodically, either in summer or winter, the total approaches . besides the regular immigrants, about a hundred others come occasionally; some, perchance, by force of accident, as when, after heavy weather at sea, the stormy petrel is blown ashore. in lancashire there appear to be, of the first-class, about seventy: the summer visitors average about thirty; and of winter visitors there have been noticed about a score, the aggregate being thus, as nearly as possible, one-half of the proper ornithology of the country. the parts of the county richest in species are naturally those which abound in woods and well-cultivated land, as near windermere, and where there are orchards and plenty of market-gardens, as on the broad plain south-west of manchester, which is inviting also in the pleasant character of the climate. here, with the first dawn of spring, when the catkins hang on the hazels, the song-thrush begins to pipe. the missel-thrush in the same district is also very early, and is often, like the chief musician, remarkable for size, plumage, and power of song. upon the seaside sand-hills it is interesting to observe how ingeniously the throstle deals with the snails. every here and there in the sand a large pebble is lodged, and against this the bird breaks the shells, so that at last the stone becomes the centre of a heap of fragments that recall the tales of the giants and their bone-strewed caverns. this, too, where the peacefulness is so profound, and where never a thought of slaughter and rapine, save for the deeds of the thrushes, would enter the mind. the snails are persecuted also by the blackbirds--in gardens more inveterately even than on the sand-hills--in the former to such a degree that none can refuse forgiveness of the havoc wrought among the strawberries and ripening cherries. both thrush and blackbird have their own cruel enemy--the cunning and inexorable sparrow-hawk. when captured, the unfortunate minstrel is conveyed to an eminence, sometimes an old nest, if one can be near, and there devoured. in almost all parts of lancashire where there are gardens, that cheerful little creature, the hedge-sparrow or dunnock, lifts up its voice. birds commence their song at very various hours. the dunnock usually begins towards sunset, first mounting to the loftiest twig it can discover that will bear its weight. the sweet and simple note, if one would hear it to perfection, must be caught just at that moment. the song is one of those that seem to be a varied utterance of the words of men. listen attentively, and the lay is as nearly as may be--"home, home, sweet, sweet home; my work's done, so's yours; good night, all's well." heard in mild seasons as early as january, the little dunnock sings as late as august. it rears a second brood while the summer is in progress, building a nest of moss, lining it with hair, and depositing five immaculate blue eggs. the robin, plentiful everywhere in the rural districts, and always equal to the production of a delightful song, never hesitates to visit the suburbs even of large and noisy towns, singing throughout the year, though not so much noticed in spring and summer, because of the chorus of other birds. the country lads still call it by the old shaksperean name: ... "the ruddock would, with charitable bill (o bill, sore-shaming those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie without a monument!) bring thee all this; yea, and furr'd moss besides."--_cymbeline_, iv. . the great titmouse is almost as generally distributed as the robin, and in gardens never a stranger, being busy most of its time looking for insects. were coincidences in nature rare and phenomenal, instead of, to the contemplative, matter of everyday delight, we should think more of its note as the token of the time of blooming of the daffodils. making the oddest of noises, as if trying to imitate other birds, poor innocent, it only too often gets shot for its pains, the sportsman wondering what queer thing can this be now? the blue titmouse, like the great, would seem to be very generally diffused. exquisite in plumage, it attracts attention still more particularly while building, both the male and the female working so hard. the meadow pipit, or titling, loves the peat-mosses (those decked with the asphodel), upon which the nests are often plentiful, a circumstance the cuckoos, when they arrive, are swift to take advantage of. no bird that builds on the ground has more work to do for the "herald of summer." from the end of april onwards--the cuckoo arriving in the third week--the titlings, whether they like it or not, get no respite. the young cuckoos are always hungry, and never in the least anxious to go away. how exemplary the fondness of the cuckoo for its mate! though apparently void of affection for its offspring, no bird, not even the turtle-dove, is more strongly attached to the one it has taken "for better for worse." where either of the pair is seen, the other is sure never to be far away. greenfinches and chaffinches are plentiful, the song of the former sweet, though monotonous, the latter rendered liberally, and always welcome. the chaffinch becomes interesting through choice of materials so very curious for its nest. one has been found--where but in lancashire could it occur?--constructed entirely of raw cotton. the nest-building and the choice of abode constitute, in truth, a chapter in bird-life more charming even than the various outflow of the melody. the pied wagtail goes to the very localities that most other birds dislike--rough and stony places, near the water and under bridges; the tree-sparrow resorts to aged and hollow oaks, rarely building elsewhere; the long-tailed titmouse constructs a beautiful little nest not unlike a beehive, using moss, lichens, and feathers; while the redpole prefers dead roots of herbaceous plants, tying the fibres together with the bark of last year's withered nettle-stalks, and lining the cavity with the glossy white pappus of the coltsfoot, just ripe to its hand, and softer than silk. the common wren,--a frequent lancashire bird,--a lovely little creature, sometimes with wings entirely white, and not infrequently with a few scattered feathers of that colour, is one of the birds that prefigure character in man. when the time for building arrives the hen commences a nest on her own private account, goes on with it, and completes it. her consort meantime begins two or three in succession, but tires, and never finishes anything. among the lancashire permanent residents, and birds only partially periodical, may also be named, as birds of singular attractiveness in their ways,--though not perhaps always tuneful, or graceful in form, or gay in plumage,--the skylark that "at heaven's gate sings"; the common linnet, a bird of the heaths and hedgerows, captured, whenever possible, for the cage; the magpie, the common bunting, the yellow-ammer, the peewit, and the starling or shepster. the starlings travel in companies, and lively parties they always seem. the "close order" flight of the peewit is well known; that of the starling is, if possible, even more wonderful. the sudden move to the right or left of thousands perfectly close together upon the wing; the rise, at a given signal, like a cloud, from the pastures where they have been feeding, is a spectacle almost unique in its singularity. near the sea the list is augmented by the marsh bunting, the curlew, and gulls of different kinds, including the kittiwake. in very tempestuous seasons gulls are often blown inland, as far as manchester, falling when exhausted in the fields. they also come of their own accord, and may be seen feeding upon the mosses. upon the sand-hills a curious and frequent sight is that of the hovering of the kestrel over its intended prey, which here consists very generally of young rabbits. the kestrel has little skill in building. talents differ as much in birds as in mankind. seldom its own architect, it selects and repairs an old and deserted crow's or magpie's nest, or any other it can find sufficiently capacious for its needs. the history of the lancashire summer visitants is crowded with interest of equal variety. the nightingale stays away. she has come now and then to the edge of cheshire, but no farther. very often, however, she is thought to have ventured at last, the midnight note of the sedge-warbler being in some respects not unlike that of philomel herself. the earliest to arrive, often preceding the swallows, appear to be the wheatear and the willow-wren. the sand-martin is also a very early comer. it cannot afford, in truth, to be dilatory, the nest being constructed in a gallery first made in some soft cliff, usually sandstone. while building it never alights upon the ground, collecting the green blades of grass used for the outer part, and the feathers for the lining, while still on the wing. the advent of the cuckoo has already been mentioned. in the middle of may comes the spotted fly-catcher, an unobtrusive and confiding little creature; and about the same time the various "warblers" make their appearance. the males usually precede the females by a week or two; the black-cap going, like the hedge-sparrow, to the highest pinnacle it can find, and singing till joined by the hen; while the garden-warbler keeps to the bushes and gardens, and is silent till she arrives. the whinchat, the yellow wagtail, and the stone-chat, haunter of the open wastes where gorse grows freely, never forget. neither do the dotterel and the ring-ouzel, the latter in song so mellow, both moving on speedily into the hilly districts. to many the voice of the corncrake, though harsh and tuneless, becomes a genuine pleasure, for she is heard best during those balmy summer evening hours while, though still too light for the stars, the planets peer forth in their beautiful lustre, clear and young as when first noted by the chaldean shepherds, bryony in bloom in the hedgerows, "listening wheat" on either hand. the winter visitants comprehend chiefly the fieldfare and the redwing. in october and november these birds, breeding in norway and sweden, appear in immense flocks. winging its way to the vicinity of farms and orchards, the one piercing cry of the redwing may be heard overhead any still night, no matter how dark. siskins come at uncertain intervals; and in very severe seasons the snow-bunting is sometimes noticed. such are the ornithological facts which in lancashire give new attraction to the quiet and rewarding study of wild nature. the few that have been mentioned--for they are not the hundredth part of what might be cited were the subject dealt with _in extenso_--do not pretend to be in the slightest degree novel. they may serve, nevertheless, to indicate that in lancashire there is lifelong pastime for the lover of birds no less than for the botanist. the fossils[ ] [ ] one or two paragraphs condensed from the seventh chapter of _summer rambles_, . long since out of print. although the new red sandstone, so general in the southern parts, offers scarcely any attractions to the palæontologist, lancashire is still a rich locality in regard to fossils. the coal-fields and the mountain limestone, the latter so abundant near clitheroe, make amends. the organic remains found in the mountain limestone almost invariably have their forms preserved perfectly as regards clearness and sharpness of outline. the history of this rock begins in that of primeval sea; the quantity of remains which it entombs is beyond the power of fancy to conceive, large masses owing their existence to the myriads, once alive, of a single species of creature. a third characteristic is that, notwithstanding the general hardness, the surface wears away under the influence of the carbonic acid brought down by the rain, so that the fossils become liberated, and may often be gathered up as easily as shells from the wet wrinkles of the sands. access to the mountain limestone is thus peculiarly favourable to the pursuits of the student who makes researches into the history of the life of the globe on which we dwell. how much can be done towards it was shown forty or fifty years ago by the preston apothecary, william gilbertson, whose collection--transferred after his death to the british museum--was pronounced by professor phillips in the _geology of yorkshire_ at that moment "unrivalled." gilbertson's specimens were chiefly collected in the small district of bolland, upon longridge, where also at considerable heights marine shells of the same species as those which lie upon our existing shores may be found, showing that the elevation of the land has taken place since their first appearance upon the face of the earth. the quarries near clitheroe and chatburn supply specimens quite as abundantly as those of longridge. innumerable terebratulæ, the beautiful broad-hinged and deeply-striated spirifers, and the euomphalos, reward a very slight amount of labour. here, too, are countless specimens of the petrified relics of the lovely creatures called, from their resemblance to an expanded lily-blossom and its long peduncle, the crinoidea, a race now nearly extinct. a very curious circumstance connected with these at clitheroe is that of some of the species, as of the _platycrinus triacontadactylos_, or the "thirty-rayed," there are myriads of fossilised _heads_ but no bodies. the presumed explanation of this singular fact is, that at the time when the creatures were in the quiet enjoyment of their innocent lives, great floods swept the shores upon which they were seated, breaking off, washing away, and piling up the tender and flowerlike upper portions, just as at the present day the petals of the pear-tree exposed to the tempest are torn down and heaped like a snowdrift by the wayside, the pillar-like stems remaining fast to the ground. there is no need to conjecture where the _bodies_ of the creatures may be. at castleton, in derbyshire, where the encrinital limestone is also well exhibited, there are innumerable specimens of these, and few or no examples of heads. the bodies of other species are plentiful at clitheroe, where the actinocrinus is also extremely abundant, and may be detected, like the generality of these beautiful fossils, in nearly every one of the great flat stones set up edgeways in place of stiles between the fields that lie adjacent to the quarries. the organic remains found in the coal strata rival those of the mountain limestone both in abundance and exquisite lineaments. in some parts there are incalculable quantities of relics of fossil fishes, scales of fishes, and shells resembling mussels. the glory of these wonderful subterranean museums consists, however, in the infinite numbers and the inexpressible beauty of the impressions of fern-leaves, and of fragments of the stems--well known under the names of calamites, sigillaria, and lepidodendra--of the great plants which in the pre-adamite times composed the woods and groves. in some of the mines--the robin hood, for instance, at clifton, five miles from manchester--the roof declares, in its flattened sculptures, the ancient existence hereabouts of a vast forest of these plants. at dixonfold, close by, when the railway was in course of construction, there were found the lower portions of the fossilised trunks of half a dozen noble trees, one of the stone pillars eleven feet high, with a circumference at the base of over fifteen feet, and at the top, where the trunk was snapped when the tree was destroyed, of more than seven feet. these marvellous dixonfold relics have been carefully preserved by roofing over, and are shown to any one passing that way who cares to inquire for them. beneath the coal which lies in the plane of the roots, enclosed in nodules of clay, there are countless lepidostrobi, the fossilised fruits, it is supposed, of one or other of the coal-strata trees. two miles beyond, at halliwell, they occur in equal profusion; and here, too, unflattened trunks occur, by the miners aptly designated "fossil reeds." leaves of palms are also met with. the locality which in wealth of this class of fossils excels all others in south lancashire would appear to be peel delph. in it are found calamites varying from the thickness of a straw to a diameter of two or three feet, and as round as when swayed by the wind of untold ages ago. the markings upon the lepidodendra are as clear as the impress of an engraver's seal. in another part there is a stratum of some four feet in depth, consisting apparently of nothing besides the fossil fruits called trigonocarpa and the sandy material in which they are lodged. with these curious triangular nuts, no stems, or leaves, or plant-remains of any description have as yet been found associated. all that can be said of them is that they resemble the fruits of the many-sided japanese tree called the salisburia. at peel delph again a stratum of argillaceous shale, five or six feet in thickness, contains innumerable impressions of the primeval ferns, the dark tint thrown forward most elegantly by the yellow of the surface upon which they repose. the neighbourhood of bolton in general is rich in fossil ferns, though ashton-under-lyne claims perhaps an equal place, and in diversity of species is possibly superior. * * * * * thus whether considered in regard to its magnificent modern developments in art, science, literature, and useful industries, its scenery and natural productions, or its wealth in the marvellous relics which talk of an immemorial past, lancashire appeals to every sentiment of curiosity and admiration. _printed by_ r. & r. clark, _edinburgh_ * * * * * transcriber's note: archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation were retained. historic sites of lancashire and cheshire. historic sites of lancashire and cheshire. a wayfarer's notes in the palatine counties, historical, legendary, genealogical, and descriptive. by james croston, f.s.a. _fellow of the royal historical society of great britain; member of the architectural, archæological and historic society of chester; member of the council of the record society._ author of "on foot through the peak," "a history of samlesbury," "historical memorials of the church in prestbury," "old manchester and its worthies," "nooks and corners of lancashire and cheshire," etc., etc. john heywood, deansgate and ridgefield, manchester; and ii, paternoster buildings, london. . to john leigh, esq., of the manor house, hale, cheshire, the president and one of the founders of the society for the reprinting of the rarer poetical literature of the spenserian age, in testimony of lengthened friendship and literary obligation, and in appreciation of his efforts to rescue from oblivion the legends and traditions which cast the halo of romance round many of the old halls and manor houses of lancashire and cheshire, this book is inscribed with the best wishes of his sincere friend, the author. preface. the favourable reception accorded both by the public and the press to a former work--nooks and corners of lancashire and cheshire--has encouraged the author to prepare the present volume, which is issued with the hope that it may be found not less worthy of acceptance. like the one which preceded it, it illustrates, in a certain degree, the history and romance of the two palatine counties, the author's aim having been to give to particular localities an individuality and freshness, by presenting in an entertaining and popular form the "sites" of remarkable scenes and incidents of bygone days. "england," says a well-known writer, "is pre-eminently the country (compared with the rest of europe) in which the monuments that embody historical associations, and link the present with a far-reaching past are most thickly strewn;" and in lancashire and cheshire the soil is plentifully studded with the memorials of ancient days, that stand out in refreshing and instructive relief among the crowding evidences of modern power and civilisation--places hallowed by associations and as the homes of those whose memories we would not willingly let die, and scenes that are identified with much of the history, tradition and romance of the centuries that are gone. no pretention is made to what is commonly called the dignity of history, which usually means the placing of important personages and great events in prominent relief without regard to minor incidents or the relations the figures in the background bear to the occurrences recorded, the author's purpose having been rather to combine with well-attested facts, topographical description, personal narrative and local legend, and to snatch from oblivion's spoils the shadowy fragments of tradition that have floated down through centuries of time--things that the ordinary historian casts aside as unworthy of his notice, but which, though oftentimes inexact in detail, are generally founded upon a substratum of fact, and tend therefore to throw additional light on human thought and action in the past. the agreeable duty remains for the author to express his obligations to those friends who, by information communicated and in other ways, have aided him in his enterprise. his thanks are due to miss abraham, of grassendale park, liverpool; the rev. edward j. bell, m.a., rector of alderley; john leigh, esq., the manor house, hale; thomas helsby, esq., lincoln's inn, the learned editor of "ormerod's cheshire;" j. p. earwaker, esq., m.a., f.s.a., pensarn, abergele, the historian of east cheshire; thomas middleton, esq., springfield, adlington; edward t. cunliffe, esq., the parsonage, handforth; mr. john owen, mile end, stockport; and mr. d. bennett, shakspeare terrace, ardwick. upton hall, prestbury, cheshire, september, . contents. chapter i. page swarthmoor hall and the founder of the society of friends chapter ii. old alderley and its memories--the stanleys--edward stanley, pastor and prelate--the home of dean stanley chapter iii. rivington and the lords willoughby--the pilkingtons--the story of a lancashire bishop chapter iv. handforth hall--the breretons--sir william brereton chapter v. newby bridge and the lake country--an autumn day at cartmel--the priory church chapter vi. disley--a may day at lyme--lyme hall and the leghs chapter vii. "jemmy dawson" and the fatal ' chapter viii. a morning at little moreton chapter ix. wardley hall l'envoi illustrations. page swarthmoor hall george fox's bible george fox's chair ulverston church autograph of margaret fell george fox's meeting house meeting of fox and cromwell autograph of thomas fell fac-simile of fox's handwriting gateway, lancaster castle autograph of william penn autograph of daniel abraham dean stanley alderley church alderley school alderley rectory autograph of edward stanley autograph of the bishop of norwich autograph of dean stanley rivington church interior, durham cathedral durham castle nantwich autograph of sir william brereton sir william brereton the "swan," newby bridge lyme hall windmill at crescy autograph of sir peter legh autograph of richard legh traitors' gate, the tower legh arms mr. byrom's house at the cross wardley hall subscribers. accrington and church co-operative society, accrington. adshead, g. h., esq., fern villas, bolton road, pendleton. andrews, p. s., esq., accountant, ashton-under-lyne. anningson, joseph william, esq., l.r.c.p., , yorkshire street, burnley. ardern, lawrence, esq., mile end, stockport. ashworth, joseph, esq., albion place, bury. ashworth, j., esq., , cannon street, manchester. ashworth, walter, esq., the hollies, bury. aspland, l. m., esq., , linden gardens, bayswater, london, w. atherton, james, esq., miles platting, manchester. attock, fred, esq., somerset house, newton heath, manchester. auchincloss, p. w., esq., prestbury. axon, w. e. a., esq., f.r.s.l., fern bank, higher broughton. ayre, rev. l. r., m.a., holy trinity vicarage, ulverston. bagnall, benjamin, esq., eaton gardens house, brighton, sussex. bagnall, j. ffreeman, esq., runcorn. bailey, j. e., esq., f.s.a., stretford. baker, william, esq., messrs. cassell & co. barnes, isaac, esq., corporation inn, ashton-under-lyne ( copies). barlow, j. r., esq., j.p., edgeworth, bolton. barlow, w. wycliffe, esq., ashford, wilmslow, cheshire. barratt, peter, esq., greengate lane, prestwich. barnes, alfred, esq., farnworth, near bolton. barnston, miss, , cambridge road, brighton. bayley, william, esq., cray brow, lymm. bazley, sir thos., bart., eyford park, stow-on-the-wold. beard, james, esq., the grange, burnage. beales, robert, esq., m.d., congleton. bell, rev. e. j., m.a., rural dean, rector of alderley. bentley, a. f., esq., albion place, bury. beswick, john, esq., , great ducie street, manchester. birley, the late hugh, esq., m.p., moorland, withington. birley, james, esq., huskisson street, liverpool. bland, george, esq., park green, macclesfield. blomfield, rev. canon, mollington hall, chester. boddington, henry, junr., esq., strangeways brewery, manchester. copies boddington, henry, esq., the cove, silverdale, carnforth. boddington, w. slater, esq., monton house, eccles. bodleian library, oxford. booth, c. h., esq., solicitor, ashton-under-lyne. booth, john gregory, esq., knight hills, padiham. boote, d., esq., oakfield, ashton-on-mersey. boston athenÆum, boston, mass. boston public library, boston, mass. bostock, robert chignell, esq., little langtons, chislehurst, kent. boulton, isaac w., esq., j.p., stamford house, ashton-under-lyne. bowdler, wm. henry, esq., j.p., kirkham, lancashire. boyle, rev. j. r., , normanton terrace, newcastle-on-tyne. bradshaw, christopher, esq., kenwood, ellesmere park, eccles. braddon, c. h., esq., m.d., cheetham hill, manchester. bradshaw, george paris, esq., , gloucester street, warwick square, london, s.w. bragg, harry, esq., the mount, blackburn. bride, dr., wilmslow. bridgeman, the hon. and rev. canon, the hall, wigan. broadbent, edwin, esq., reddish, near stockport. brocklehurst, william coare, esq., butley hall, prestbury. bromley, f. w. esq., solicitor, ashton-under-lyne. brook, j., esq., sunnyside, old trafford. brooke, sir r., bart., norton priory, runcorn. brownell, john, esq., hazlecroft, alderley edge. brown, rev. canon, m.a. staley vicarage, staleybridge. brown, r., esq., mosley grange, cheadle hulme. brown, councillor w., , rochdale road, manchester. buckley, r. j., esq., strangeways brewery, manchester. buckley, r. j. e., victoria street, manchester. bullock, thos. esq. (the late), rock house, sutton, macclesfield. burrow, joseph, esq., agincourt, bury. burton, alfred, esq., , cross street, manchester. carrington, h. h. smith, esq., whalley bridge. east cheshire. charlton, henry, esq., tytherington hall, macclesfield. chetham's library, manchester. connell, thos. r., esq., wavertree, near liverpool. chorlton, thos., esq., , brazenose street. chorlton, wm., esq., fairfield, near manchester. chrystal, r. s., esq., flixton. clarke, matthew, esq., , cumberland street, macclesfield. coates, the misses, sunny side, crawshawbooth. collins, james, esq., ada villa, old trafford, manchester. cooper, thos., esq., mossleigh house, congleton. coppock, russell, esq., solicitor, stockport. cordinley, d., esq., surveyor, ashton-under-lyne. coultate, william miller, esq., f.r.c.s., j.p., , york street, burnley. craven, thos., esq., merlewood, chorlton-cum-hardy. creeke, major, a. b., esq., monkholme, burnley. crofton, mrs., , sussex gardens, hyde park, london, w. crompton, george, esq., laund, brierfield, burnley. cronkshaw, john, esq., white bull hotel, blackburn. cross, john, esq., cambridge villa, heaton norris. cross, the right hon. sir r. a., m.p., eccle riggs, broughton-in-furness. croston, mrs. s. w., claremont villas, twickenham. cunliffe, ed. t., the parsonage, handforth. dale, john, esq., cornbrook, manchester. dale, thos, esq., j.p., f.g.s., bank house, southport. darrah, charles, holly point, heaton mersey. davenport, e. h., esq., heathlands, malvern wells. davenport, john mason, esq., marland, rochdale. davies-colley, thos., esq., m.d., newton, chester. deakin, edward carr, esq., hill top, belmont, near bolton. dean of chester, the very rev. the deanery, chester. dean, thomas, esq., m.d., medical officer of health, burnley. dickenson, r., esq., sunnyside, hunby road, dudley. dillon, rev. godfrey, , water street, radcliffe. dixon, g., esq., astle hall, chelford, crewe. dobson, matthew, esq., mosley house, cheadle. dodgson, mr. joseph, , park row, leeds. dooley, mr. henry, stockport. dorrington, j. t., esq., bonishall, near macclesfield. downing, william, esq., springfield, olton, acock's green, near birmingham. dransfield, wm., esq., ranmoor, sheffield. dugdale, joseph, esq., park house, blackburn. duncan, c. w., esq., stanley place, chester. dyer, a. c., esq., manchester. eastwood, j. a., esq., , princess street, manchester. eckersley, chas., esq., fulwell house, tyldesley. eckersley, j. c., esq., j.p., standish hall, near wigan. edgar, r. a., esq., seymour lodge, heaton chapel. egerton, the hon. algernon, m.p., worsley old hall, near manchester. elwen, g., esq., , knoll street, h. broughton. enion, j. e., esq., south king street, manchester. evans, john, esq., , mytton street, greenheys. eyre, rev. w. h., stonyhurst college, blackburn. fairbrother, henry, esq., holmlea, altrincham. feather, rev. g., glazebury vicarage, leigh, lanc. fielden, miss, mollington hall, chester. fielden, joshua, esq., m.p., nutfield priory, redhill, surrey. foden, william, esq., beech lane, macclesfield. folds, o., esq., brunshaw, burnley. france, james, esq., eversley place, taunton road, ashton-under-lyne. frankland, george, esq., express office, burnley. free library, town hall, ashton. free library, blackburn, per d. geddes, esq. free public library, town hall, heywood. free public library, liverpool. free public library, town hall, manchester. free public library, town hall, rochdale. free public library, peel park, salford. free public library, town hall, st. helens. free public library, stockport. free public library, sydney, new south wales. free public library, wigan. freeman, william charles, esq., district bank, leigh, lanc. freston, t. w. esq., , watling street, manchester. fryer, dr. alfred, wilmslow. galloway, f. c., esq., , bowling old lane, bradford, yorks. gamble, col., windlehurst, st. helens. gaskell, a. e., esq., trafford mount, old trafford. gaskell, josiah, esq., burgrave lodge, ashton-in-makerfield. gerrard, joseph, esq., acres field, bolton. gibbon, benjamin, esq., woodleigh, knutsford. goodman, davenport, esq., eccles house, chapel-en-le-frith. gosling, samuel f., esq., biddulph, congleton. greenhalgh, joseph dodson, esq., gladstone cottage, bolton. graham, rev. p., turncroft, darwen. grantham, john, esq., , rothsay place, old trafford. gratrix, s., esq., west point, whalley range. gray, mr. henry, antiquarian and topographical bookseller, , cathedral yard, manchester. greg, francis, esq., chancery place, manchester. grey, robert, esq., greenfield house, boro' arcade, hyde. greenall, col., lingholme, keswick. greenall, sir gilbert, bart., walton hall, warrington. greenup, joseph, esq., johnson square, miles platting. greenwood, charles, esq., , akeds road, halifax. greenway, c., esq., j.p., darwen bank, darwen. grundy, alfred, esq., whitefield, near manchester. grundy, harry, esq., fernsholme, bury. guest, w. h., esq. , cross street, manchester. hague, john scholes, esq., northwood, buxton. hall, john, esq., the grange, hale, cheshire. hall, joshua, esq., kingston house, hyde. hall, john albert, esq., park hill, congleton. hall, robert, esq., acres house, hyde. halstead, louis, esq., redwaterfoot, cornholme. hampson, j. taylor, esq., solicitor, ashton-under-lyne. hampson, j. r., esq., old trafford. hampson, wm., esq., rose hill, marple. hammersley, t. g., esq., brownhills, tunstall. hanby, richard, esq., chetham's library, manchester. hardwick, charles, esq., , talbot street, moss side. hargreaves, percy, moss bank, halliwell, near bolton. harrison, vevers, esq., dukinfield. harlow, miss, heaton norris, stockport. hartley, mrs., brierfield house, near burnley. hartley, job w., esq., westgate, burnley. harvard college library, cambridge, mass., u.s.a. heywood, abel and son, oldham street, manchester. hibbert, henry, esq., broughton grove, grange-over-sands. hibbert, percy j., esq., ibstock, ashby-de-la-zouch. higgins, james, esq., woodhey, kersall. higinbottom, thomas, esq., , york street, city. hiley, b., bookseller, salford. hilton, william h., esq., messrs. sale, seddon, hilton, and lord, manchester. hindley, thomas, esq., stockport. hodgkinson, s., esq., woodville, marple. hodkinson, john, esq., , mill street, macclesfield. holden, arthur t., solicitor, bolton. holden, thomas, esq., springfield, bolton. holm, a., esq., elysée house, mossley hill, liverpool. holmes, james, esq., egerton road, fallowfield. holt, robt. (the late), bookseller, manchester. hooley, s. j., esq., manchester and liverpool bank, tunstall. hornby, james, esq., standishgate, wigan. howard, dr., altoft, normanton. howard, edward carrington, esq., j.p., poynton birches, near stockport. howell, e., esq., and , church street, liverpool. hughes, thos., f.s.a., esq., the groves, chester. hulme, james, esq., marple. humberston, miss a., newton hall, chester. hutton, t., fairfield house, ormskirk. hyde, w., esq., town clerk, stockport. jackson, hartley, esq., pickup terrace, burnley. jackson, h. j., esq., ashton-under-lyne. jolley, thos., esq., legh street, warrington. jones, john joseph, esq., abberley hall, stourport. jones, tom h., esq., , sloane street, manchester. kay, jacob, esq., , booth street, manchester. keene, richard, esq., all saints, derby. kenyon, w., bookseller, , church street, newton heath, manchester. kenderdine, t., esq., morningside, old trafford. knott, james, esq., higher ardwick, manchester. lallemand, g. e., esq., park grange, macclesfield. lawton, g. f., esq., cranbourne terrace, ashton-under-lyne. leathes, fred de m., esq., , tavistock place, london. lees, c. percy, esq., the limes, middlewich. lees, e. b., esq., kelbarrow, grasmere. lees, samuel, esq., park bridge, ashton-under-lyne. leece, joseph, esq., mansfield villas, urmston. legh, mrs., adlington, macclesfield. leigh, arthur g., esq., f.a.s., , market street, chorley. leigh, charles, esq., bank terrace, wigan. leigh, john, esq., the manor house, hale, cheshire. ( copies). leigh, joseph, esq., j.p., brinington hall, stockport. leyland, john, esq., hindley grange, wigan. lingard-monk, r. b. m., esq., fulshaw hall, wilmslow. liptrott, t. c., esq., rivington, lancashire. littlewood, james, ashton-under-lyne. long, j. f., esq., ancoats. longden, a. w., esq., hawk green, marple. longton, e. j., m.d., the priory, southport. longshaw, mrs., beach priory, southport. lord, henry, esq., , john dalton street, manchester. lord, w. c., esq., elm lodge, eccles. lowe, j. w., esq., the ridge, chapel-en-le-frith. lowcock, john, esq., greengate mills, salford. lupton, arthur, esq., , manchester road, burnley. lupton, albert, cumberland place, burnley. lupton, benjamin, esq., , manchester road, burnley. lupton, joseph townend, esq., , manchester road, burnley. marson, james, esq., hill cliffe, warrington. massie, admiral, stanley place, chester. may, j. f., esq., prestbury. may, john, esq., ridge hill, sutton, macclesfield. mcquhae, mr., , stamford street, brooks's bar, manchester. mellin, mr., ridgefield, manchester. mellor, james w., esq., lydgate view, huddersfield. metcalfe, wm., esq., , vernon avenue, eccles. middleton, thos., esq., springfield, adlington. ( copies). milne, j. d., esq., burnside, cheadle. milnes, ernest s., esq., plas ffron, wrexham. minshull and hughes, messrs., chester. mitchell, wm., esq., golbourne house, golbourne. moorhouse, chris., esq., st. paul's road, kersal. moorhouse, fred, esq., kingston mount, didsbury. morton, w., esq., , birchfield place, stockport road, manchester. mosley, sir tonman, bart., j.p., rolleston hall, burton-on-trent. moulton, geo., esq., hall's crescent, collyhurst. myers, henry, esq., , west road, congleton, cheshire. napier, g. w., esq., merchistoun, alderley edge. nash, tom, esq., m.a., st. james's square, manchester. neal, john, esq., borough comptroller, longendale mount, ashton-under-lyne. needham, james, esq., anglesea place, stockport. newton, james thomas, esq., barton house, upper brook street, manchester. nield, geo. b., esq., , queen's road, oldham. nixon, edward, esq., methley. owen, wm., esq., f.r.i.b.a., palmyra square, warrington. parrott, peter, esq., greenbank, sutton, macclesfield. patteson, ald., j.p., manchester. peacock, r., esq., j.p., gorton hall, near manchester. pilkington, j., esq., swinithwaite hall, bedale, yorkshire. pink, w. d., esq., king street, leigh, lancashire. pearse, percival, warrington. penrose, rev. j. t., rector of gawsworth, macclesfield. perkins, stanhope, esq., , healey terrace, fairfield, near manchester. pierpoint, benjamin, esq., bank, macclesfield. pooley, c. j., esq., toft road, knutsford. portico library, mosley street, manchester. potts, arthur, esq., hoole hall, chester. potter, thos., esq., sanitary superintendant, wellington road, ashton-under-lyne. powell, francis sharpe, esq., horton old hall, bradford, yorkshire. preston, thomas, esq., manchester road, burnley. ralphs, samuel, esq., sandy lane, stockport. redhead, r. milne, esq., f.l.s., holden clough, bolton-by-bowland. reiss, fritz, esq., quay street, manchester. reid, wm., esq., bewsey road, warrington. reynolds, rev. g. w., st. mark's church, cheetham. richmond, james, esq., moseley house, burnley. richmond, thos. g., esq., ford house, prestbury. robson, thos. wm., esq., , aytoun street, manchester. rose, josiah, esq., f.r.h.s., , bond street, leigh, lanc. rothwell, chas., m.d., chorley new road, bolton. royle, john, esq., , port street, manchester. roylance, e. w., esq., brookfield, bury old road, manchester. rushton, john latham, esq., m.d., macclesfield. rushton, thos. lever, esq., moor platt, horwich, near bolton. ryder, t. d., esq., manchester. rylands, t. glazebrook, esq., f.s.a., f.r.a.s., f.l.s., highfields, thelwall. rylands, j. paul, esq., f.s.a., , stanley gardens, belsize park, hampstead, london. rylands, w. h., esq., f.s.a., , lincoln's inn fields, london. saxby, miss, brookhill house, wokingham, berkshire. saxby, charles, esq., a, george street, manchester. scholes, jas. c., esq., , newport street, bolton. schofield, alderman thomas, j.p., thornfield, old trafford. scott, c. p., esq., the firs, fallowfield. shann, t. t., esq., the hollies, heaton moor. shaw, giles, esq., , manchester road, oldham. sidebotham, joseph, esq., f.s.a., erlesdene, bowdon. slark, mr., j., , fishergate, preston. slark, mr., a., , fishergate, preston. simpkin, e., esq., , spring street, bury. skelhorn, mrs., , fern bank, old trafford. smith, mrs., c. taylor, broadwood park, lanchester, durham. smith, miss, gilda brook, eccles. smith, geo. j. w., esq., savings' bank, stockport. smith, g. feredy, esq., grove hurst, tunbridge wells. smith, hubert, esq., st. leonards, bridgenorth, shropshire. smith, jos., jun., esq., legh street, warrington. smith, j. j., esq., holly bank, heywood. smith, rev.--, liverpool. smith, thos. c., esq., longridge, near preston. smith, w., esq., adswood grove, stockport. smith, w. h., & son, , strand, london. sneyd, dryden h., esq., j.p., ashcombe park, near leek, staffordshire. sowler, lieut.-col., oak bank, victoria park, manchester. stanley, the hon. colonel, m.p., halecote, grange-over-sands. stanning, rev. j. h., m.a., the vicarage, leigh. stanton, h., esq., greenfield, thelwall, warrington. stevens, ed., esq., alderley edge. stevens, james, esq., f.r.i.b.a., lime tree house, macclesfield. strangeways, w. n., esq., , westmoreland road, newcastle-on-tyne. stubs, peter, esq., statham lodge, warrington. subscription library, bolton. sutcliffe, frederick, esq., ash street, bacup. syddall, james, esq., chadkirk, romiley, cheshire. sykes, arthur h., esq., j.p., edgeley mount, stockport. sykes, thos. hardcastle, esq., cringle house, cheadle. swindells, g. h., esq., oak villa, heaton moor. swindlehurst, robert henry, chorley old road, bolton. taylor, henry, esq., , st. ann's churchyard, manchester. taylor, thomas, esq., , st. james street, burnley. thompson, alderman joseph, j.p., riversdale, wilmslow. thorp, j. w. h., esq., sunnyside cottage, macclesfield. tolley, thos., esq., legh, near warrington. topp, a. w., esq., dean house, rochdale. tubbs, h. h., esq., romiley. turner, rev. e. c., m.a., the vicarage, macclesfield. turner, enoch, esq., stamford crescent, ashton-under-lyne. turner, j., vale house, bowdon. turner, joseph, esq., , albion street, leeds. turner, w., esq., plymouth grove. tweedale, charles lakeman, esq., holmefield house, crawshawbooth. uttley, jas., esq., sowerby street, sowerby bridge. veevers, harrison, esq., c.e., dukinfield. vickers, william, esq., rose hill, smedley lane, cheetham hill, manchester. vickerstaff, t. j., esq., , mill street, macclesfield. waddington, william, esq., market superintendent, burnley. wakefield, samuel, esq., heaton norris, stockport. walker, thos., esq., oldfield, altrincham. walkden,--, esq., , nicholas street, manchester. walmsley, geo., esq., j.p., paddock house, church. walmesley, oswald, esq., shevington hall, near wigan. walters, c., esq., clegg street, oldham. warburton, sam, esq., sunny hill, crumpsall. warburton, m. j., esq., fairleigh villas, fallowfield. warrington museum and library. wardleworth, t. r., , brown street, manchester. wardleworth, t. r., , bank street, rawtenstall. ware, t. hibbert, esq., , bell place, bowdon. watts, john, esq., ph.d., spring gardens, manchester. watts, lady, abney hall, cheadle. webb, f. w., esq., chester place, crewe. webster, w., esq., abbotsfield, st. helens. weston, john, esq., the heysoms, hartford. white, charles, esq., holly house, warrington. whittle, ald. r, esq., j.p., ashton house, crewe. whittaker, w. wilkinson, esq., cornbrook, manchester. whitworth, jno., esq., pitt and nelson hotel, ashton-under-lyne. whitehead, edwin, esq., the hurst, ashton-under-lyne. wigglesworth, jonathan, esq., , corporation street. wild, robert, esq., , st. james street, burnley. wilkinson, aaron, esq., westbourne grove, harpurhey. wilkinson, john, esq., , manor street, ardwick. wilkinson, t. r., esq., polygon, ardwick. wilkinson, wm., esq., m.a., middlewood, clitheroe. wilson, rev. canon, m.a., prestbury vicarage, cheshire. wilson, c. m., esq., broughton park, manchester. wilson, wm., esq., savings' bank, stockport. winterburn, george, junior, the freehold, bolton. wood, john, esq., j.p., arden, near stockport. wood, richard, esq., j.p., plumpton hall, heywood. wood, r., esq., mount pleasant, macclesfield. wood, robt. j., esq., drywood hall, worsley. wood, w. c., esq., brimscall hall, chorley. wright, e. a., esq., castle park, frodsham, cheshire. wrigley, fred, esq., broadoaks, bury. wrigley, james, esq., holbeck, windermere. young, harold, esq., wavertree, liverpool. yates, j. m., esq., ellesmere park, eccles. yates, james, esq., public library, leeds. booksellers. brown & son, , mill street, macclesfield. burgess, henry, northwich. butler, samuel, altrincham. cornish, j. e., st. ann's square, manchester. cornish, j. e., piccadilly, manchester. day, t. j., market street, manchester. dodgson, joseph, leeds. dooley, h., stockport. dunning, thos., nantwich. dutton, thos., horwich. gray, henry, cathedral yard, manchester. hall, henry, oldham street, manchester. heywood, a. & son, oldham street, manchester. heywood, john, ridgefield and deansgate, manchester. holden, a., , church street, liverpool. howell, e., liverpool. hutton, t., ormskirk. kenyon, w., newton heath. littlewood, j., ashton. lupton, j. & a., burnley. mills, thos., middleton. minshull & hughes, chester. platt, richard, wigan. pearse, p., warrington. porter, miss, ashton. slark, j. & a., messrs., preston. smith & son, new brown street, manchester. smith & son, london. smith & son, l. & n. w., london road, manchester. smith & son, m. s. & l., manchester. stock, elliot, , paternoster row, london. ( copies). trÜbner & co., messrs., ludgate hill, london. tubbs, brook, & chrystal, messrs., market street, manchester. walmsley, gilbert g., liverpool. wardleworth, t. r., manchester. winterburn, g., bolton. young, henry, liverpool. _list of subscribers' names_ omitted to be printed in the first series of "nooks and corners of lancashire and cheshire." auchincloss, p. w., esq., prestbury. baillie, edmund g., eaton road, chester. bland, george, esq., park green, macclesfield. bostock, robt. chignel, esq., little langtons, chislehurst, kent. bradshaw, j. e., esq., fair oak park, bishopstoke, hants. brocklehurst, william coare, esq., butley hall, prestbury. bryham, wm., esq., j.p., ince hall, wigan. bullock, thomas, esq. (the late), rock house, sutton, macclesfield. burton, mrs. r. lingen, abbey house, shrewsbury. chester, the very rev. the dean of, the deanery, chester. clarke, edward, esq., park cottage, macclesfield. clarke, matthew, esq., , cumberland street, macclesfield. colley, thos. davies, esq., m.d., newton, chester. dixon, george, esq., astle hall, chelford, crewe. duncan, chas. w., esq., stanley place, chester. eckersley, j. c., esq., j.p., standish hall, wigan. egerton, the honble. wilbraham, m.p., rostherne manor, knutsford. ennion, thos., esq., high street, newmarket, suffolk. fielden, miss, mollington hall, chester. gosling, samuel f., esq., biddulph, congleton. greenhalgh, james, esq., greenhill, deane, bolton. hilton, j. s., esq., cranbourne terrace, ashton-under-lyne. howard, j., esq., normanton. hughes, h. r., esq., kinmel park, abergele. hughes, thos., esq., f.s.a., the groves, chester. hulme, james, esq., marple. humberston, col., glan-y-wern, denbigh. humberston, miss a., newton hall, chester. jackson, miss eva, durley lodge, bishops waltham, hants. leathes, fredk. de m., esq., , tavistock place, london, w. massie, admiral, stanley place, chester. may, john, esq., ridge hill, sutton, macclesfield. minshull and hughes, booksellers, chester. paine, cornelius, esq., , lewes crescent, brighton, sussex. parrott, peter, esq., greenbank, sutton, macclesfield. pierpoint, benjamin, esq., bank, macclesfield. powell, francis sharpe, horton old hall, bradford, yorks. rushton, john latham, esq., m.d., macclesfield. sainter, j. d., esq., king edward street, macclesfield. starkie, lieut.-col. le gendre, huntroyde, burnley. sturkey, thos., esq., newtown, montgomeryshire. tomkinson, mrs., , lower seymour street, portman square, london. vickerstaff, t. j., esq., , mill street, macclesfield. viles, edward, esq., pendryl hall, codsall wood, wolverhampton. weston, john, esq., the heysoms, hartford. wilson, rev. canon, prestbury vicarage. wilson, j., esq., ll.d., town clerk of congleton. historic sites of lancashire and cheshire. chapter i. swarthmoor hall and the founder of the society of friends. the traveller who, by chance, finds himself in the quaint old town of ulverston with a few hours at his disposal will find no difficulty in occupying them pleasantly and profitably. in the busy capital of furness he is on the very threshold of that great storehouse of english scenic beauty, the lake country; almost at his feet is the broad estuary of the leven, and beyond, spreads morecambe bay with its green indented shores, presenting alternately a flood of waters and a trackless waste of shifting sand. in that pleasant region there is many a picturesque corner, many a place of historic note, and many an ancient building that wakes the memories of bygone days. one of the historic sites, and certainly not the least interesting, is within the compass of a short half hour's walk--swarthmoor hall, for years the resort, and, for a time, the home of george fox, the founder of the society of friends; and scarcely less interesting is the primitive-looking little structure that stands within a few hundred yards of it, the first regularly constituted meeting-house in which fox's disciples, the "friends of truth," or the "children of light," as they were indifferently called, worshipped. the locality is one he always loved. here he gained his most enthusiastic converts, achieved his greatest triumphs, and suffered his severest persecutions; it was here, too, he won his faithful wife, and here, also, in the later years of his life, he loved to retire to recruit his weakened energies and prepare himself for a renewal of his arduous work. it was a warm summer's evening when we set forth upon our short pilgrimage; the air was unusually clear, a dreamy quietude spread around, and the sun, as it declined towards the west, glowed grandly upon the distant woods and fells. as we slowly mounted the ascending road we could see the lonely sands gleaming in the mellow light, and the broad expanse of water that lay far out in the offing calm and smooth as a mirror; while in rear, and upon the right, the wild mountains stood out in picturesque disorder, dark, rugged, and forbidding, save where here and there a golden radiance brightened their loftiest peaks. a short distance beyond the railway we turned off the road and struck into a pleasant meadow path on the right that soon brought us to a green and bosky dell, at the bottom of which a mountain stream, the levy beck, meandered freakishly beneath the embracing trees, prattling with the rough boulder stones and aquatic plants along its course, and telling its admiration in a never-ending song of gladness as it rippled onwards towards the sea. the little bowery, untrodden nook is just the place for fays and fairies to secrete themselves, the spot of all others where john ruskin would expect to catch sight of pan, apollo, and the muses. every sight and sound is suggestive of peaceful quietude, and, while the lazy wind stirs the over-arching branches for the warm sunshine to steal through, we are tempted to linger in the vernal solitude, watching the playful ripples on the water and listening to the gentle murmuring around---- nature's ceaseless hum, voice of the desert, never dumb. an old-fashioned bridge bestrides the stream, and the stump of a tree offers an inviting seat. while we stay to contemplate the scene, the soft zephyrs that play about and the alternate sunshine and shade as the light clouds float overhead induce a dreamy forgetfulness of outer things. then we are up again, and, crossing the stream, follow a rough and miry cart-way that climbs up the opposite height, and brings us in a few minutes to the breezy summit. swarthmoor, for that is the name, possesses historic renown. it lies just where the parishes of ulverston, pennington, and urswick join each other, and is said by tradition to have derived its name from the flemish general, "bold martin swart," or swartz, a valiant soldier of noble family, who, in , with lord lovel and the earls of lincoln and kildare, encamped here with an invading army of , german and irish troops, who had landed at the pile of fouldrey with the object of placing lambert simnel on the throne of england. but tradition in this instance, is at fault; for the name has a much earlier origin, and is met with as _warte_ as far back as the time of duke william of normandy. at a later date, when the soldiers of king charles had entered furness and "plundered the place very sore," as the old chronicle has it, colonel rigby, the parliamentarian commander, temporarily withdrew from thurland castle and started in hot pursuit; and we are told that the roundheads, after stopping on swarthmoor to pray, marched on to lindale, a couple of miles further, where they fought with such vehemence and resolution that the unlucky cavaliers were put to flight. but swarthmoor has other and more peaceful associations. on reaching the summit of the moor, which is now enclosed, you see in front of you a large, irregular, and somewhat lofty pile of building, of ancient date, which, though by no means pretentious in its outward appearance, still wears an air of sober dignity that well accords with the memories that gather round. evil times have fallen upon it, and it is now occupied as a farmhouse; but in its pristine days it was successively the home of judge fell and george fox. from the high table-land on which it stands you can look round upon a scene but little changed from what it must have been when the father of quakerism gazed upon it, more than two centuries ago. the old hills and the wild fells still lift their heads to the breezes of heaven; the tide ebbs and flows over those broad sands as it did of yore; there are the same bleak moorlands, the same broad fields, the same crops of golden wheat, and the same sun ripening for the harvest; but how changed are all human affairs since earnest george fox, "the man in leather breeches," discoursed in ulverston church, and judge fell's wife "stood up in her pew and wondered at his doctrine, for she had never heard the like before." the hall evidently dates from the latter part of elizabeth's reign, and, though it has been altered from time to time to meet the wants of successive occupants, it still retains many of the architectural features of that period. the roof is gabled; the windows are square, with the usual latticed panes and heavy mullions and transoms--they have in places been bricked up, but their original position may be determined by the moulded dripstones which still remain--and on one side a square bay of three storeys projects from the line of the main structure, the only feature specially noticeable in the building. externally the place has a forlorn and neglected appearance, and exhibits unequivocal signs of heedless indifference and unseemly disrespect. it is partially surrounded with barns, shippons, and outhouses, and heaps of refuse and farmyard litter strewn about give an air of meanness and disorder that but ill accord with its earlier associations as the abode of a vice-chancellor and circuit judge. [illustration: swarthmoor hall.] [illustration: the gift of george fox to this meeting] we loitered about for some time, and then, pushing back the gate, crossed a little enclosure which seems to have been at some time a garden, but is now only so by courtesy, and entered by a narrow doorway a passage that communicates with the "hall." though shorn of its original proportions, it is still a spacious apartment; plain, however, to a degree, and exhibiting the gloomy character common to many houses of the tudor period; it has a plain flagged floor, some remains of oak wainscotting, and a huge fireplace that seems to have been intended to make up in warmth what was lacking in cheerfulness. in this room the earlier meetings of the friends were held, and here it is said that for forty years they were in the habit of assembling, after which the chapel on swarthmoor was built by george fox's order and at his cost. on one side of the room is a deep embayed recess with a slightly raised floor--a cosy nook, with mullioned and quaint latticed windows lighting it on three sides, and here is preserved an old-fashioned oak desk, a treasured relic of the great reformer. a couple of stone steps lead into a small and dimly-lighted room which tradition affirms to have been the study of judge fell and afterwards of george fox. the upper chambers are large and airy, and one of them, more pretentious than the others, exhibits some remains of ancient ornamentation. an old four-post bedstead of carved oak, on which it is said that fox slept, still remains, and we were told that the privilege of sleeping upon it is never denied to any member of the society of friends, but that it is one very rarely availed of. from one of the chambers on this floor a door opens to the outside, though at a considerable distance from the ground, leading to the belief that there has been at some time or other a projecting balcony, and it is said that within the memory of persons still living there was such a projection with a sort of canopy above it. it is commonly affirmed that from this elevated position fox was wont to address his followers assembled in the garden below, when the number was too large to admit of their being conveniently accommodated in the house. we were standing upon the self-same spot where the hardy, earnest, and fearless, though imaginative and rhapsodical, puritan preacher stood more than two hundred years ago, while on the green sward below, the little band of his own faith listened with wondering awe to the outpourings of his prayers and the torrent of his eloquence, and worshipped with silent, contemplative, "waiting" reverence of soul. as we gazed upon the scene the events of that period of tumult and strife crowded upon the memory. a more fitting time for our visit could hardly have been chosen. the shadows were drawing on, and the soft, mellow sunshine fading into the warm grey light of evening, seemed to wrap every object in its dreamy embrace; the distant hills were fading from view and a calm and solemn stillness prevailed that well accorded with the impressive memories associated with the place. [illustration: not captioned--chair] of the early history of swarthmoor hall comparatively little is known. shortly after the commencement of the troublous reign of the first charles, it was in the occupation of thomas fell, a barrister of gray's inn, and afterwards a justice of the quorum, a worthy legal brother and contemporary of sir matthew hale. though nominally a churchman, the owner of swarthmoor strongly inclined towards independency, and, on the breaking out of hostilities, took the side of the parliament party, but he does not appear to have at any time engaged in active military operations, though it is more than probable his house afforded hospitable shelter to colonel rigby and his friends, when they and their small army marched to lindale close to give battle to the cavaliers under colonel huddleston. the year in which the first shot in that great struggle was fired, an ordinance was addressed by the parliament to lord newburgh, chancellor of the duchy of lancaster, requiring him to place certain gentlemen named on the commission of the peace for the county, and the name of thomas fell occurs among the fourteen mentioned. three years afterwards ( ) he was returned with his neighbour, sir robert bindloss, of borwick hall, as representative in parliament of the borough of lancaster. when the parliament found itself sufficiently powerful to sequestrate the estates of those who had taken up arms in the cause of the king and had refused to take the national covenant, committees of sequestration were appointed, and on the th of august, , mr. fell was named on the one for dealing with the estates of "delinquents" in the county of lancaster. in he, with colonel assheton and major brooke, was deputed to organise the defence of the county against the anticipated advance of the army of the duke of hamilton; in the succeeding year he was appointed to the office of vice-chancellor of the duchy of lancaster; and he was also named as one of the judges of assize for the circuit of west chester and north wales. his name also occurs in on the commission for the survey of church livings and the provision of a competent maintenance for preaching ministers in the several parishes throughout england and wales. fell was much esteemed in his own locality, and is described as a wise and learned man, incorruptible as a judge, honoured and feared as a magistrate, and beloved by his neighbours. in john fell took to himself a wife in the person of margaret askew, a lady of good family and exemplary piety, the daughter of john askew, of marsh grange, in the adjoining parish of dalton-in-furness, he being at the time years of age, and his bride not quite . mrs. fell inherited an historic name that she was in every way worthy of, her great-grandmother being ann askew, the most notable of the victims of the horrible persecutions which dishonoured the closing years of the reign of henry viii. ann askew was well known at court, if indeed, she was not actually employed about the person of queen catherine parr, whose lutheran tendencies were more than suspected, she herself being an avowed believer in the reformed doctrines. she had been married against her will, and had been discarded by her bigoted husband on account of the strength of her convictions. her religious zeal outran her discretion, and, having expressed her opinions of the doctrine of transubstantiation with imprudent frankness, she was subjected to an examination by the bishop of london; she escaped on that occasion, but was subsequently examined before the council, when she was less fortunate, being sentenced to be burnt at the stake in smithfield after having undergone the torture of the rack. the barbarous scene is thus described in a letter addressed by a london merchant, otwell johnson, to his brother at calais:--"quondam bishop saxon (shaxton), mistress askew, christopher white, one of mistress fayre's sons, and a tailor that came from colchester or thereabouts, were arraigned at the guildhall, and received their judgments of my lord chancellor (wriothesley) and the council to be burned, and so were committed to newgate again. but since that time the aforesaid saxon and white have renounced their opinions; and the talk goeth that they shall chance to escape the fire for this viage. but the gentlewoman and the other men remain in steadfast mind; and yet she hath been racked since her condemnation, as men say; which is a strange thing in my understanding. the lord be merciful to us all." burnet says that he had seen an original journal of the transaction in the tower, which shows that "they caused her to be laid on the rack, and gave her a taste of it;" but he doubts the accuracy of the statement of fox, the martyrologist, that the chancellor, when the lieutenant of the tower refused "to stretch her more," threw off his gown, and himself "drew the rack so severely that he almost tore her body asunder." lord campbell gives this horrid story without noticing the doubt of burnet, and adds that griffin, the solicitor-general, assisted in the detestable crime. let us hope that in this case human nature was not so utterly degraded as the somewhat credulous historian of the english martyrs has represented. there was a disgusting scene in smithfield which soon followed the torture of the high-minded woman, who, amidst her sufferings, would not utter one word to implicate her friends. upon a bench under st. bartholomew's church sit the lord chancellor, the duke of norfolk, the earl of bedford, the lord mayor, and other dignitaries. there are three martyrs, each tied to a stake. the apostate shaxton is to preach the sermon. it is rumoured that gunpowder has been placed about the condemned to shorten their sufferings. the chancellor and the other high functionaries have no compunction for their victims, but they are in terror for their own safety. will not the exploding gunpowder drive the firewood where they sit? they hold a grave consultation, and are persuaded to sit out the scene. the gentlewoman and her fellow sufferers die heroically--a noble contrast to the cowardice that quakes in the extremity of its selfishness upon the bench under st. bartholomew's church. such was one of the scenes that marked the closing days of the life of henry the eighth.[ ] ann askew had a son, william, who became heir to the marsh grange estate on the death without issue of hugh askew, on whom it had been bestowed by the crown in . this william had a son, john, the father of margaret askew, who, before she had well attained to womanhood, became the wife of lawyer fell, and the mistress of swarthmoor. margaret fell, as we shall see, proved herself a worthy great-granddaughter of the martyr ann askew. the period that immediately preceded the great and bitter conflict in which many of the dearest interests of england were involved, and much of her best blood shed, was one of great religious activity and excitement. the seeds sown at the reformation had ripened, and there had been a steady continuity and successive advance towards calvinism and the rejection of all ceremonial not directly authorised by scripture. the church had been purged of the most flagrant of the romish superstitions, but the book of common prayer retained many things in the ritual it enjoined which, to those who assumed a superior sanctity and claimed to hold the bible as their only rule, were held to savour of popery and idolatry. preferring to do what was right in their own eyes, they rejected the liturgy and the episcopal form of government. they disliked the surplice and would not wear it, and they objected to many of the ceremonies the church prescribed. there were great divergencies of opinion; the public mind was much exercised with the controversies that arose; and the feeling of hostility was increased by the intolerant and persecuting spirit manifested by the authorities of the day. the puritans, as they were called, had gained considerable ascendancy, and, though they had not withdrawn themselves from the church, they had become a powerful party within its pale, and asserted their peculiar views with much tenacity. it is difficult to say what a more moderate policy might have produced, but the determination of laud to reduce them to submission, instead of serving the interests of the church, only drove them into more open resistance, and converted religious enthusiasts into political agitators. such was the condition of religious parties in england at the time when thomas fell and his youthful spouse became the occupants of swarthmoor hall. at that time there was living in the little rural hamlet of drayton-in-the-clay, in leicestershire, a weaver of the name of christopher fox, a zealous attender on the ordinances of the church, and who, from his integrity and piety, was known among his neighbours by the _sobriquet_ of "righteous christer." his wife, mary lago, was a woman imbued with strong religious feelings, well read, and of an education superior to that usually possessed by persons in her station of life. to this couple was born a son--george fox--who at the time of thomas fell's marriage with the great-granddaughter of the martyr, ann askew, was eight years of age. his childhood and youth were passed in the quietude and seclusion of his leicestershire home, with little idea of the great world beyond or the questions that were then stirring the minds of men. he grew up silent, pensive, and thoughtful. after receiving a scanty education, he was placed with a relative who combined the several occupations of wool dealer, shoemaker, and grazier. in pursuing his humble calling, young fox frequently attended the country fairs, but, finding his occupation distasteful, he forsook his wool dealing and sheep-herding and betook himself to the neighbouring town of lutterworth, the place from which, two centuries and a half previously, john wycliffe had sent forth his itinerant preachers--the "poor priests," as he designated them--who traversed nearly the whole kingdom, disseminating his opinions as they went. of a taciturn and meditative turn of mind, with no settled occupation, but possessing an earnest desire for holiness, fox became unsettled in his views and controversial in his habits. he conferred with one divine after another in his efforts to obtain light and peace--churchman and presbyterian, independent and baptist, each in their turn, but could not satisfy himself with any. he remarks: "neither them (the episcopalians) nor any of the dissenting people could i join with, but was a stranger to all, relying wholly upon the lord jesus christ." as macaulay says: "he wandered from congregation to congregation; he heard priests argue against puritans; he heard puritans harangue against priests; and he in vain applied for spiritual direction and consolation to doctors of both parties.... after some time he came to the conclusion that no human being was competent to instruct him in divine things, and that the truth had been communicated to him by direct inspiration from heaven." he had spent much of his time in studying the scriptures alone, in the fields and orchards, and in the deep gloom of his native woods, and in this way had acquired a ready aptitude in quoting particular texts. believing that the time had arrived for promulgating his own peculiar views of christian truth and ecclesiastical polity, he wandered from place to place disputing with some and rebuking others. in he began to hold meetings, and astonished those who heard him by his earnestness and fluency of speech. the quiet pastoral regions of the trent valley and the derbyshire hills formed the scene of his earliest labours, and here quakerism may be said to have had its birth. at nottingham, seeing the church upon a hill, he went there, and found, as he expressed it, that "the people looked like fallow ground, and the priest like a great lump of earth stood up in the pulpit above." he interrupted the preacher, and for doing so was cast into prison. on regaining his liberty he proceeded to mansfield-woodhouse, where he was again "moved to go into the steeple-house and declare the truth to the priest and people;" but the people fell upon him, put him in the stocks, and threatened him with "dog-whips and horse-whips." continuing his itinerant ministry, we next find him at derby, where, in accordance with his usual practice, he proceeded to church, and after the service stood up to address the people. for uttering "blasphemous opinions" he was taken to prison, and brought before justice bennett, whom he bade to "tremble at the word of the lord," an expression which caused the magistrate to apply to him the term _quaker_--a nickname that has ever since attached to his followers, who previously had designated themselves the "children of light." after these rough experiences he visited yorkshire, traversed the picturesque wensleydale, grisedale, and lunedale, and thence passed into westmoreland. here, on the high fells between kendal and sedbergh, he preached a sermon memorable in the annals of quakerism. it was delivered from the summit of a weather-beaten rock adjoining the bleak moorland chapel of firbank, whither a great company of zealous preachers and laymen had assembled from the surrounding district for a conference. fox preached a sermon of three hours' duration, and with such earnestness that many of his hearers in their enthusiasm resolved to devote themselves to the work of promulgating his views. in all, it is said that about sixty energetic preachers formed the harvest of this northern mission, who traversed the country on foot, spreading the quaker doctrines over the entire kingdom, many of them wearing out their lives in the hardships, privations, and persecutions they had to endure. journeying southwards, fox climbed to the top of pendle hill, which rises within the borders of lancashire. "as we travelled," he says in his _journal_, "we came near a very great hill, called pendle hill, and i was moved of the lord to go up to the top of it, which i did with difficulty, it was so very steep and high. when i came to the top, i saw the sea bordering upon lancashire. from the top of this hill the lord let me see in what places he had a great people to be gathered. as i went down i found a spring of water in the side of the hill, with which i refreshed myself, having eaten or drunk but little for several days before." the spring is still there, and in the neighbourhood is commonly known even at this day as george fox's well. [illustration: ulverston church.] the district comprehended within his view became the scene of his most important labours. he spent several years among the pleasant valleys of the lune and the kent, and along the breezy shores of morecambe bay. in his wanderings he never missed an opportunity of rebuking the "priests," in their "steeple-houses." at staveley, close by the foot of windermere, he disputed with the minister, and was roughly treated in consequence. the same afternoon, at lindale-in-cartmel, a picturesque spot a couple of miles north of grange, he, with more prudence, waited till the service was over before he commenced his harangue. thence he proceeded to ulverston; his fame had gone before him, and the people flocked to listen to his utterances. the visit was a memorable incident in his life, for it was the occasion on which he first met the courtly but courageous woman who afterwards became his wife. he was taken by a friend to swarthmoor hall, where he stayed all night; the next morning being a fast-day, he attended service at the old church of st. mary's. when he entered, lampitt, the puritan vicar, whom he describes as "a high notionist, who would make it appear that he knew all things, was singing with his people; but his spirit was so foul, and the matter they sang so unsuitable to their states, that, after they had done singing, i was moved of the lord to speak to him and the people"--a practice that was sometimes permitted in that age, provided it was done with courtesy and decorum; conditions, however, that fox did not always observe. it must have been a stirring scene; the tall and powerfully-built "man in leather breeches"--the stern, uncompromising reformer, who had almost turned the religious world upside down--clad in his strange, uncouth garb, wearing his broad-leaved immovable hat--which, by the way, had not then become the accepted badge of quakerism--his long, lank hair depending upon his shoulders, and his eyes flashing with light as he declaimed against "hypocritical professors," and "hireling priests." standing on one of the seats, he delivered a stirring address on the necessity of sincerity in religious profession. the people marvelled at his eloquence, and many of them were moved by his earnestness. as he proceeded the fervour increased and rose to a pitch of intense excitement, the heart of many a listener was touched, and the stifled sob and the heaving sigh told of the powerful effect of his utterances. judge fell was not there, being away at the time discharging his judicial functions on the welsh circuit, but his wife, margaret fell, was present, and her heart was stirred by the enthusiasm of the preacher. "i stood up in my pew," she says, "and wondered at his doctrine, for i had never heard such before;" and then, after describing the sermon, she adds, "i saw clearly we were all wrong; so i sat down in my pew again, and cried bitterly; and i cried in my spirit to the lord, 'we have taken the scriptures in words, and know nothing of them in ourselves.'" fox's hearers were not, however, all moved by the same spirit. justice sawrey, who was amongst the congregation, denounced the intruder, and ordered him to be taken away, but he continued his address until he was forcibly removed, and then preached in the churchyard, when a crowd gathered round, maltreated him, and drove him out. according to his own version his sufferings were cruelly severe. he thus describes in his _journal_ the scene that occurred on the occasion of another of his visits to the "steeple-house" at ulverston: the people were in a rage, and fell upon me in the steeple-house before his (justice sawrey's) face, knocked me down, kicked me, and trampled upon me. so great was the uproar, that some tumbled over their seats for fear. at last he came and took me from the people, led me out of the steeple-house, and put me into the hands of the constables and other officers, bidding them whip me, and put me out of the town. many friendly people being come to the market, and some to the steeple-house to hear me, divers of these they knocked down also, and broke their heads, so that the blood ran down several; and judge fell's son running after to see what they would do with me, they threw him into a ditch of water, some of them crying: "knock the teeth out of his head." when they had hauled me to the common moss-side, a multitude of people following, the constables and other officers gave me some blows over my back with willow rods and thrust me among the rude multitude, who, having furnished themselves with staves, hedge-stakes, and holme or holly bushes, fell upon me, and beat me upon the head, arms, and shoulders, till they had deprived me of sense; so that i fell down upon the wet common. when i recovered again and saw myself lying in a watery common, and the people standing about me, i lay still a little while, and the power of the lord sprang through me, and the eternal refreshings revived me, so that i stood up again in the strengthening power of the eternal god, and stretching out my arms against them, i said with a loud voice: "strike again! here are my arms, head, and cheeks!" then they began to fall out among themselves. whilst we honour the great quaker evangelist for the unfaltering testimony he bore to his principles and admire his honesty and fortitude, it must be admitted that he provoked much of the persecution he was subjected to by his obtrusive and intolerant disputations, and his disregard for ministerial authority and ecclesiastical sanctities. swarthmoor hall, the home of the fells, was then known far and wide for the hospitality of its owner, and to none was a heartier welcome accorded than to the professors and teachers of religion. the evening following his first harangue in the church at ulverston fox was a guest within its walls; at the request of his hostess he preached to the family and servants, and with such effect that the whole household became converted to his principles. two or three weeks afterwards mrs. fell's husband returned to his lancashire home. as he crossed the trackless waste of the leven sands, the only way at that time from lancaster into furness, a company of his friends and neighbours went out to meet him and apprise him of the events that had occurred at swarthmoor in his absence. "a deal of the captains," writes margaret fell, "and great ones of the county went to meet my then husband as he was coming home, and informed him that a great disaster was befallen among his family, and that they were witched, and that they had taken us out of our religion; and that he might either set them away, or all the country would be undone." the judge, as may be supposed, was greatly concerned at the intelligence and much incensed against the man who had "bewitched" his family and wrought such trouble in his house. mrs. fell told her husband the true state of things, and at night fox, who was still in the neighbourhood, was sent for. on his arrival he answered all his interrogator's objections in so satisfactory a manner that the judge "assented to the truth and reasonableness thereof;" he set forth in detail the points of his new doctrine, and inveighed against the conduct of the clergy. margaret fell thus records the result of the interview:--"and so my husband came to see clearly the truth of what he spoke, and was very quiet, that night, said no more, and went to bed. the next morning came lampitt priest of ulverston, and got my husband into the garden and spoke much to him there; but my husband had seen so much the night before that the priest got little entrance upon him." the judge must have been greatly impressed with the arguments of his guest, for from that time he offered no further objection to the quakerism of his household; though he himself remained a churchman to the end of his days he was a steady friend to the members of the new sect and its founder on all occasions when it was in his power, and in token of his sympathy gave them permission to hold their meetings in his house, there being no other place in the neighbourhood where they could assemble. "he let us have," said his wife, "a meeting in his house the next first day after, which was the first public meeting that was at swarthmoor; our meetings being kept at swarthmoor about thirty-eight years, until a new meeting-house was built by george fox's order and cost, near swarthmoor hall." [illustration: handwritten as follows; thy dutyfull wife till death margaret fell ' feb: ] [illustration: not captioned--meeting house] the "new meeting-house" remains to this day, and is still resorted to for religious worship by the friends of ulverston and the surrounding district. it is a modest, unpretending structure, standing within a little walled enclosure, and, of course, perfectly unadorned. in the house, which forms part of the structure, is still preserved the bible given by fox, with the original chain by which it was fastened to the reader's desk, and also his "great elbow chair."[ ] we passed through the open gate into the flagged space in front to make a sketch of the building, on which at the time of our visit the sun was casting its evening benison of golden radiance. in front is a small gabled porch with a panel over the doorway bearing the inscription:--"ex dono, g. f., ," the year of english freedom. that modest little structure, unostentatiously religious and impressive in its simplicity, was to us more "spirit-moving" than many a more pretentious monument. in that lowly building quakerism was cradled. the quakers may almost be called a lancashire sect, for the palatine county was the scene of the earliest and most successful labours of the founder, and it was from the immediate district that the largest accessions to their ranks were obtained, results that were no doubt largely due to the influence which george fox acquired over the household at swarthmoor, and to the protection and encouragement given to him by judge fell himself. after the disorderly scene in ulverston church and churchyard, fox proceeded to the market place, where he was subjected to the same rough treatment, and beaten with sticks until he lost consciousness. close behind him, close beside, foul of mouth and evil eyed, pressed the mob in fury. on recovering his senses he returned to swarthmoor, where he found the inmates of the hall busy dressing the heads of the friends who had tried to protect him from the violence of the mob in the town. a fortnight afterwards he visited the isle of walney, off the adjacent coast, where he met with similar treatment, so that his friends had to hurry him back to the boat for safety; but here they found themselves in a dilemma, for when they attempted to land on the other side the people of dalton "rose up with pitchforks, flails, and staves, to keep him out of the town, crying 'kill him, kill him, knock him on the head, bring the cart and carry him away to the churchyard.'" mrs fell, hearing of his misfortune, sent a horse to convey him to swarthmoor, when thomas fell issued warrants against his assailants, some of whom deemed it expedient to leave the country. shortly afterwards warrants were issued by two magistrates, sawrey and thompson, against fox himself for having spoken blasphemy, and he was required to appear at the sessions at lancaster to answer the charge. thomas fell and colonel west were present, and stood him in good stead on the occasion, pointing out the discrepancies in the evidence and reproving the witnesses. the charge could not be sustained and fox was liberated, having achieved a triumph in that he had had an excellent opportunity of proclaiming his principles to a large assembly of the local magistracy. after the sessions he held a meeting in the town and gained many converts, among them being colonel gervase benson, major ripon, then mayor of lancaster, and thomas briggs, who afterwards became an active missionary among the friends and accompanied the founder when he went out to the west indies in . having held several meetings in the town, in spite of the threats of the "baser sort of people" to throw him over the bridge into the lune, he returned to his old quarters at swarthmoor, but was not long before he found that another information had been laid against him. at the following assize at lancaster, windham, the presiding judge, directed a warrant to be issued, but colonel west, the clerk of assize, spoke boldly in his defence, and resolutely refused to prepare the warrant, and so the matter fell to the ground. from lancaster fox again returned to swarthmoor, and occupied the closing months of the year ( ) in visiting various parts of north lancashire and adjoining parts of westmoreland, exhorting the people, declaiming against "steeple-houses," and unceremoniously interrupting those who taught therein by loudly contradicting their statements of doctrine and proclaiming them to be "hypocritical professors." before quitting swarthmoor he addressed several vigorous protests to the local magistrates and ministers, especially those who had been the most active among his opponents, including sawrey and lampitt, the vicar of ulverston, and some of the epistles he was "moved" to write it must be confessed were not remarkable as manifesting a spirit of meekness and forgiveness. thus he writes to his old enemy, sawrey:--"thou was the first stirrer up of strikers, stoners, persecutors, mockers, and imprisoners in the north, and of revilers, slanderers, railers, and false accusers! how wilt thou be gnawed and burned one day, when thou shalt feel the flame, and have the plagues of god poured upon thee, and then begin to gnaw thy tongue because of the plagues! thou shalt have thy reward according to thy works. thou canst not escape. the lord's righteous judgments will find thee out."[ ] lampitt, the puritan vicar, he designates "a deceiver, surfeited and drunk with the earthy spirit," and "a right hypocrite in the steps of the pharisee," adding "when thou art in thy torment (though now thou swellest in thy vanity and livest in wickedness) remember thou wast warned in thy lifetime...." having thus cleared his conscience to the priest and people of ulverston he went into westmoreland, but returned in the spring of to his friends in furness, and about this time he writes in his _journal_:--"being one day in swarthmoor hall, when judge fell and justice benson were talking of the news, and of the parliament then sitting, which was called the long parliament, i was moved to tell them, that before that day two weeks, the parliament should be broken up, and the speaker plucked out of his chair. and," he adds, "that day two weeks, justice benson coming thither again, told judge fell, that now he saw george was a true prophet, for oliver had broken up the parliament." that event, which will be ever memorable in the annals of england, occurred on the th april, ; colonel worsley, manchester's first parliamentary representative, on a signal from cromwell, entered the house with a force of men, expelled the members from their chamber, and "took away the bauble," and so the long parliament, which for twelve years, under a variety of forms, had alternately defended and invaded the liberties of the nation, fell by the parricidal hands of its own children without a struggle and without regret. from swarthmoor fox travelled further north, visiting cumberland, durham, and northumberland, where he frequently came in contact with the baptists, a sect that had anticipated many of the doctrines and much of the system of discipline adopted by the friends, and many of whom became followers of fox. in the border city he preached in the castle, at the market cross, and then went into the "steeple-house," where a tumult arose. "the magistrates' wives," he says, "were in a rage, and strove mightily to be at me;" then "the rude people of the city rose and came with staves and stones into the steeple-house, crying 'down with these round-headed rogues.'" for interrupting the services in the church he was committed to gaol and subjected to many hardships; wilfrid lawson, a predecessor, but not an ancestor of the present baronet of that name, who was then high sheriff, "stirred them up to take away his life," and his peace was disturbed at night by "a company of bitter scotch priests, presbyterians made up of envy and malice" and "foul-mouthed." he lay in the prison at carlisle for several months. on regaining his liberty he passed into westmoreland, and thence to his constant friends, the fells, of swarthmoor. fox had now fought and won the decisive battles of his life; quakerism had become an established fact, and had taken a firm hold on the minds of many of the people in the north, and not a few of the converts had begun to preach the new doctrines in other parts of the country. having, as he considered, concluded his great pioneering work, he took his departure from the hospitable mansion at swarthmoor in the spring of , and travelled through the midland and southern districts of england. while in his native county, preaching, disputing, and holding conferences, he was taken prisoner by a company of the parliamentary troopers, and sent by colonel hacker to cromwell under the charge of captain drury. when in the presence of the protector, at whitehall, he exhorted him to keep in the fear of god; and cromwell, having patiently listened to his lecture, parted with him, saying, "come again to my house, for if thou and i were but an hour a day together, we should be nearer one to the other. i wish no more harm to thee than i do to my own soul." fox found a friend in cromwell, and on another occasion, when he and some of his friends had been dispersing "base books against the lord protector," as major-general goffe informed thurloe, cromwell sent the quaker away, on receiving from him a written promise that he would do nothing against his government. the age was characterised by much religious enthusiasm and extravagance. george fox and his "quaking men in their leather coats" were becoming formidable from their increasing numbers, and attracted much attention. their opposition, obstinacy, and self-sufficiency, too, in denying the authority of presbyteries and synods, and all ecclesiastical officers, frequently brought them into collision with the magistrates. so numerous had they become that it has been computed there were at this period seldom fewer than i, of them in prison, some for disturbing the peace, some for refusing to pay tithes, and others because they would not do violence to their principles by taking the oath of allegiance or uncovering their heads in the presence of the magistrates. so frequent and severe were the prosecutions to which the friends were then subjected that margaret fell addressed several letters to cromwell, drawing his attention to the sufferings they were compelled to undergo. in one of them, written in , she warned the protector that the wickedness of the oppressor would come to an end, and praying that his understanding might be lightened, and that he might exercise justice and judgment without fear, favour, or affection. in the three years from to fox travelled over nearly the whole of the south of england and wales. in the autumn of he turned his steps in the direction of swarthmoor, passing through chester and liverpool on the way, and calling at malpas; whence he proceeded to manchester. his reception in the last-named town he thus describes in his _journal_:-- thence we came to manchester; and the sessions being there that day, many rude people were come out of the country. in the meeting they threw at me coals, clods, stones, and water. yet the lord's power bore me up over them, that they could not strike me down. at last, when they saw that they could not prevail by throwing water, stones, and dirt at me, they went and informed the justices in the sessions; who thereupon sent officers to fetch me before them. the officers came in while i was declaring the word of life to the people, plucked me down, and haled me up into their court. when i came there all the court was in disorder and noise. wherefore i asked, where were the magistrates that they did not keep the people civil? some of the justices said they were magistrates. i asked them why then did they did not appease the people, and keep them sober? for one cried "i'll swear," and another cried, "i'll swear." i declared to the justices how we were abused in our meeting by the rude people, who threw stones, clods, dirt, and water; and how i was haled out of the meeting and brought thither, contrary to the instrument of government, which said, "none should be molested in their meetings that professed god and owned the lord jesus christ;" which i did. so the truth came over them, that when one of the rude fellows cried "he would swear," one of the justices checked him, saying, "what will you swear? hold your tongue." at last they bid the constable take me to my lodging; and there be secured till morning, till they sent for me again. so the constable had me to my lodging; and as we went the people were exceedingly rude; but i let them see "the fruits of their teachers, and how they shamed christianity, and dishonoured the name of jesus, which they professed." at night we went to a justice's house in the town, who was pretty moderate; and i had much discourse with him. next morning we sent to the constable to know if he had anything more to say to us. and he sent us word "he had nothing to say to us; but that we might go whither we would." "the lord hath since raised up a people"--he adds--"to stand for his name and truth in that town over those chaffy professors." from manchester he went to preston, and thence to lancaster, where, at his inn, he met with his former friend, colonel west. shortly afterwards he crossed the sandy shores of morecambe bay to swarthmoor, where, he says, "the friends were glad to see me;" and, he adds, "i stayed there two first days, visiting friends in their meetings thereaways." from swarthmoor he went through westmoreland and cumberland into scotland, where he remained some time, visiting edinburgh, glasgow, stirling, dunbar, the highlands, and other places; returning through durham and yorkshire into furness, where for a few weeks during the winter he was again the guest of the fells. in the beginning of he made another journey into the southern counties, and on that occasion he had another interview with cromwell--a very brief one, and his last, for it was a few days before the protector's death. in his _journal_ he tells us something of the great man's appearance at the time when london was gay with ambassadors extraordinary from france, and mazarin's nephew was assuring the protector of the profound veneration his uncle had for him--"the greatest man that ever was." but the day was passed for pomps and flatteries. "taking boat," says fox, "i went to kingston, and thence to hampton court, to speak with the protector about the sufferings of the friends. i met him riding into hampton court park; and before i came to him as he rode at the head of his life guard i saw and felt a waft (or apparition) of death go forth against him; and when i came to him he looked like a dead man. after i had laid the sufferings of the friends before him, he bid me come to his house. so i returned to kingston, and next day went to hampton court to speak further with him. but when i came he was sick, and--harvey, who was one that waited on him, told me the doctors were not willing i should speak with him. so i passed away, and never saw him more." carlyle thus characteristically comments upon fox's narrative:-- "i saw and felt a waft of death go forth against him." or in favour of him, george? his life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing for the man, now or heretofore! i fancy he has been looking this long while to give it up, whenever the commander-in-chief required. to quit his laborious sentry-post, honourably lay up his arms, and begone to his rest--all eternity to rest in, george! was thy own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree, clad permanently in leather? and does the kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds instead of stitching coarse shoes, make it any merrier? the waft of death is not against _him_, i think--perhaps against thee, and me, and others. o george, when the nell gwynne defender and two centuries of all-victorious cant have come in upon us, my unfortunate george. [illustration: meeting between fox and cromwell.] cromwell died on the rd september; and in little more than one short month fox lost another, and that his truest, friend. for some time previously the health of judge fell had been declining; on the th of october he passed away from the scene of his earthly labours, and a few days later was buried by torchlight in a grave under his family pew, in the old church of st. mary, at ulverston. writing long afterwards, his widow, margaret fell, thus recorded her loss:-- we lived together years, in which time we had nine children, and one that sought after god in the best way that was made known to him. he was much esteemed in this country, and valued and honoured in his day, by all sorts of people, for his justice, wisdom, moderation, and mercy.... he was about years of age. he left one son and seven daughters, all unpreferred; but left a good and competent estate for them.[ ] [illustration: tho: fell] by his will, which bears date september , , he left various legacies in trust for poor and aged persons in the parishes of ulverston and dalton, and also for the maintenance of a schoolmaster at ulverston. among other bequests is one to his "very honourable and noble friend, the lord bradshaw" (john bradshaw, the regicide), of "ten pounds to buy a ring therewith, whom i humbly beseech to accept thereof as all the acknowledgment i can make, and thankfulness for his ancient and continued favours and kindness undeservedly vouchsafed unto me since our first acquaintance." bradshaw did not live long to wear the memento of the departed judge's friendship, for within a year he had found a grave in the mausoleum of kings at westminster. under the provisions of thomas fell's will, swarthmoor hall, with its appurtenances and fifty acres of land, were reserved to the use of his widow during the remainder of her life, or until such times as she should marry again, when the property was to pass to daniel abraham, the husband of his daughter rachel. mrs. fell remained in the occupancy of the old mansion, and the meetings of the friends were held in the house weekly, as they had been during the judge's lifetime. it was not, however, until after the restoration that george fox paid another visit to the place. in , he returned from the south, and, after holding a general meeting for all the friends in westmoreland, cumberland, and lancashire at arnside, he proceeded once more into furness, and took up his abode at swarthmoor; but he had scarcely done so when major porter, then mayor of lancaster, issued a warrant for his apprehension. he was forcibly carried away from the hall to the constable's house at ulverston, where he remained for the night; and the following morning was conveyed across the sands to lancaster, when he was committed by porter on the charge of being "an enemy to the king, and that he had endeavoured to raise a new war, and imbrue the nation in blood again." in vindication of his innocence, fox denied that he was "a disturber of the nation's peace;" and affirmed that he was "never an enemy to the king, nor to any man's person upon the earth." margaret fell, who considered that an injustice was done to herself by his removal from her house, also addressed a letter of remonstrance to "all the magistrates concerned in his wrong taking up and imprisoning;" and, failing to obtain redress, determined on proceeding to london, in order that her case might be laid before the king. "having a great family," she says in her "testimony," "and he being taken in my house, i was moved of the lord to go to the king at whitehall; and took with me a declaration, and an information, of our principles; and a long time, and much ado, i had to get to him. but, at last, when i got to him, i told him if he was guilty of these things, i was guilty, for he was taken in my house; and i gave him the paper of our principles, and desired that he would set him at liberty, as he had promised that none should suffer for tender consciences; and we were of tender consciences, and desired nothing but the liberty of our consciences. then, with much ado, after he had been kept prisoner near half a year at lancaster, we got a habeas corpus, and removed him to the king's bench, when he was released." to send the delinquent quaker all the way to london guarded by a party of horse was a serious matter, and after much deliberation george chetham, of clayton and turton tower--a nephew of humphrey, the founder of the chetham hospital at manchester--who was then sheriff, to avoid the expense of conducting his prisoner, liberated him on his promise to appear before the judges in town on a day fixed. from lancaster he went straight to swarthmoor, where he stayed two or three days; and then set out for london, passing through cheshire and staffordshire, and holding meetings at several places on the way. when he arrived in london "multitudes of people," he says, "were gathered together to see the burning of the bowels of some of the old king's (charles i.) judges, who had been hung, drawn, and quartered." the following morning he proceeded to the king's bench, and, pulling out of his pocket the writ charging him with embroiling the nation in blood and making a new war, presented it to the judges, who, as may be supposed, were a good deal astonished and amused at the inconsistency of paroling a prisoner accounted such a dangerous personage, and permitting him to travel a distance of miles without guard or restraint. none of his accusers appearing, and there being nothing sufficiently serious to warrant his committal, the matter was referred to the king, who at once gave orders for his release. in the summer of fox was again at swarthmoor, when, after a brief stay, he went over to arnside to attend a meeting, and thence travelled through northumberland and cumberland, returning to the hospitable home of mrs. fell in the autumn of the same year. on his arrival he was informed that colonel kirkby, a neighbouring justice and a member of parliament, had, on the preceding day, sent his officers to search the house in the expectation of finding fox there. undismayed, fox went the next morning to the colonel's house, kirkby hall, when he found the flemings, of rydal, and several other of the neighbouring gentry assembled to take leave of the colonel before his departure to london to attend to his parliamentary duties. fox, in the presence of the company, asked if there was any charge against him; and he was told, in reply, that "as he," colonel kirkby, "was a gentleman, he had nothing against him. but," he added, "mistress fell must not keep great meetings at her house, for they meet contrary to the act."[ ] a few days later he was again apprehended and conveyed to holker hall, the residence of justice preston, the brave-hearted margaret fell accompanying him; when, after being examined, he was ordered to appear at the sessions at lancaster. he then returned with mrs. fell to swarthmoor; and shortly afterwards, while the friends were peaceably assembled at a meeting in the hall, the door was opened, and william kirkby, of adgarley, a half-brother to colonel kirkby, entered with the constables, exclaiming, "how now, mr. fox! you have a fine company here!" and at once proceeded to take the names of those present; any who refused being handed over to the custody of the officers. this proceeding led to margaret fell herself being examined and committed for trial. having traversed from the spring assizes, she was brought up on the th june, , her chief offence being that of having had meetings for worship in her house at swarthmoor. it would appear from the evidence she had received an intimation that, on her giving security to discontinue the meetings, the prosecution would be abandoned; and the offer was again made that, if she would give the required security, the case against her would be dismissed. but she refused, and the jury found for the king. a respite was allowed; but, she remaining obstinate, sentence of premunire was passed against her in september of the same year, and she was committed to prison, where she remained until the summer of . fox, who was also a prisoner for being a "rebel" and a dangerous character, was for a time more successful, his shrewdness and acumen enabling him to discover several errors in the indictment; but he was immediately questioned again, the oath was tendered and refused, and, being once more put upon trial, he traversed to the next assizes. the sufferings of both were very severe; each prisoner wrote an account of their trials, and the descriptions they give furnish some interesting particulars respecting the condition of the prison at lancaster at the time. from the narrative of margaret fell it appears that, after her trial, the judge said:--"mistress fell, you wrote to me concerning your prisons, that they are bad and rain in, and are not fit for people to lie in; and (she says) i answered, the sheriff doth know, and hath been told of it several times; and now it is raining, if you will send to see, at this present, you may see whether they be fit for people to lie in or no. and colonel kirkby stood up and spoke to the judge to excuse the sheriff and the badness of the room, and i spoke to him, and said if you were to lie in it yourselves you would think it hard; but your minds is only in cruelty to commit others, as william kirkby hath done, who hath committed ten of our friends, and put them into a cold room, where there are nothing but bare boards to lie on, where they have laid several nights, some of them old ancient men, above three score years of age, and known to be honest men in their country where they live. and when william kirkby was asked why they might not have liberty to shift for themselves for beds, he answered and said, they were to commit them to prison, but not to provide prisons for them. and we asked him who should do it, then? and he said the king; and then the judge spoke to him, and said, they should not do so, but let them have prisons fit for men." george fox also made complaint. he says:--"i desired the judge to send some to see my prison, being so bad, they would put no creature they had in it, it was so windy and rainy; and so i was had away to my prison, and some justices, with colonel kirkby, went up to see it; and when they came up in it, they durst scarcely go in it, it was so bad, rainy, and windy, and the badness of the floor, and others that came up said it was ... i being removed out of the prison i was in formerly; and so colonel kirkby told me i should be removed from that place ere long." while lying in this deplorable state in the gaol at lancaster, he says he was so starved with cold and rain that his body became greatly swelled, and his limbs much benumbed. well might macaulay say of those times, "the prisons were hells on earth, seminaries of every crime and of every disease. at the assizes the lean and yellow culprits brought with them from their cells to the dock an atmosphere of stench and pestilence which sometimes avenged them signally on bench, bar, and jury." [illustration: handwritten note] [illustration: gateway, lancaster castle.] after some time fox was transferred from lancaster to the castle at scarborough, where, during his incarceration, he was visited by the widow of general fairfax. his condition there was no better than at lancaster. the room in which he was placed, he says, "being to the seaside, and lying much open, drove in the wind forcibly, so that the rain came over my bed and ran over the room, that i was fain to skim it up with a platter. and when my clothes were wet i had no fire to dry them; so that my body was benumbed with cold and my fingers swelled, that one was grown as big as two." his friends were forbidden to supply him with any comforts, and he remarks, "commonly a threepenny loaf served me three weeks and sometimes longer, and most of my drink was water with wormwood steeped or bruised in it." after he had been two years in confinement an order for his release was obtained from the king, procured, as it would seem, through the influence of a friend at court, one "esquire marsh," to whom he had been long known, and who declared that, if necessary, "he would go a hundred miles barefoot for the liberty of george fox." he was set at liberty on saturday, the st of september, , and he notes in his _journal_ that "the very next day after my release (sunday, september ), the fire broke out in london and the report of it came quickly down into the country." the date is confirmed by the gossiping secretary of the navy, samuel pepys, who, as he tells us in his "diary," on that said sunday morning rose at three o'clock, slipped on his nightgown, and looked out of the window of his house in seething lane, at the east end of the city, but, thinking the fire far enough off, "went to bed again and to sleep." after his release from a severe imprisonment of two years and nine months, fox was greatly weakened in body, and it seemed at the time unlikely he could long survive the hardships he had had to endure. on his release, he thus moralises upon his oppressors:--"and, indeed, i could not but take notice how the hand of the lord turned against those of my persecutors who had been the cause of my imprisonment, or had been abusive or cruel to me in it. for the officer that fetched me to howlker hall wasted his estate, and very soon after fled into ireland. and most of the justices that were upon the bench at the sessions when i was sent to prison died in a while after," and, he adds, "when i came into that country again, most of those that dwelt in lancashire were dead, and others ruined in their estates. so that, though i did not seek revenge upon them for their acting against me contrary to law, yet the lord had executed his judgments upon many of them." it was not until that george fox again visited lancashire. in that year he was at william barnes's, near warrington, whence he sent letters into westmorland and other places by leonard fell and robert widders; monthly meetings of the friends were held, and to one of them he says:--"margaret fell, being a prisoner, got liberty to come, and went with me to jane milner's in cheshire, where we parted." in the summer of the following year ( ) mrs. fell was set at liberty, and, on regaining her freedom, went into cornwall with her daughter mary, and her son-in-law, thomas lower. shortly afterwards fox proceeded to ireland, and on his return he met with margaret fell at bristol, she being, at the time, on a visit to another married daughter, isabel yeomans. "i had seen from the lord a considerable time before," says fox, "that i should take margaret fell to be my wife, and when i first mentioned it to her, she felt the answer of life from god thereunto. but, though the lord had opened this thing to me, yet i had not received a command from the lord for the accomplishment of it then. wherefore i let the thing rest, and went on in the work and service of the lord as before, according as he led me; travelling up and down in this nation and through ireland." his conduct in respect to his marriage was honourable and disinterested. before finally deciding, he consulted the seven daughters of his intended wife and her sons-in-law, and obtained their sanction to the proposal, and, further, took care that the provision for the children of judge fell was settled and secured before the marriage. the judge's son was the only member of the family who disapproved of the union, but, as he is described as irreligious and of irregular habits, his opinion was disregarded. in his _journal_ fox thus records the attendant circumstances:-- but now, being at bristol, and finding margaret fell there, it opened in me from the lord, that the thing should be accomplished. after we had discoursed the matter together, i told her, "if she also was satisfied with the accomplishing of it now, she should first send for her children," which she did. when the rest of her daughters, were come, i asked both them and her sons-in-law, "if they had anything against it, or for it," and they all severally expressed their satisfaction therein. then i asked margaret (mrs. fell) "if she had fulfilled and performed her husband's will to her children." she replied, "the children knew that." whereupon i asked them, "whether, if their mother married, they should not lose by it?" and i asked margaret, "whether she had done anything in lieu of it, which might answer it to the children?" the children said she had answered it to them, and desired me to speak no more of it. i told them, he adds, "i was plain, and would have all things done plainly; for i sought not any outward advantage to myself." so, after i had thus acquainted the children with it, our intention of marriage was laid before the friends, both privately and publicly, to their full satisfaction; many of them gave testimony thereunto that it was of god. afterwards, a meeting being appointed for the accomplishing thereof, in the meeting-house, at broadmead, in bristol, we took each other, the lord joining us together in the honourable marriage, in the everlasting covenant and immortal seed of life. the marriage of george fox with margaret fell, which took place on the th of october, , eleven years after the death of thomas fell, occasioned very little interruption to fox's ministerial activity. after a brief "honeymoon" of ten days they took leave of each other, he going on a religious mission through the country, while his wife returned to her own home at swarthmoor. a few months after margaret fox's return her old adversary, colonel kirkby, caused her to be again arrested and recommitted at the age of to lancaster castle. "the sheriff of lancaster," she writes, "sent his bailiff and pulled me out of my own house, and had me prisoner to lancaster castle (upon the old _præmunire_[ ]), where i continued a whole year, and most of that time i was sick and weakly." at length, in april, , through the intercession of influential friends, a discharge under the great seal was obtained and she was set at liberty, the sentence of _præmunire_ passed seven years before being annulled. "then," she says, "i was to go up to london again, for my husband was intending for america." [illustration: handwritten note] the founder of quakerism had determined upon a voyage across the atlantic for the purpose of organising the numerous friends who had been gathered in the far west by the earlier quaker preachers. in these days such a voyage is accounted as little more than a mere pleasure trip to those who like, or do not absolutely dislike the sea, but in the days of the stuart kings it was a serious undertaking; nothing, however, could daunt the spirit of fox or obstruct his progress when once an enterprise was determined upon. on the th of june, , the little yacht, the "industry," with its living freight of fifty passengers, including fox and the twelve preachers, who had agreed to accompany him on his mission, sailed down the thames, margaret fox and several friends going with them as far as gravesend. on the voyage they were chased by barbary pirates, and after their landing they underwent many perils and hardships, for travelling in the then primitive condition of the american colonies was arduous work, involving constant camping out at night, fording deep rivers, wading through swamps and quagmires, and penetrating vast forests and wildernesses. fox was generally welcomed, and received more kindness and courtesy from all classes than in his own country. the journey occupied two years, and in one of his letters he thus summarises it: "we have had great travail by land and sea, and rivers and bays and creeks, in new england, new jersey, delaware, maryland, virginia, carolina; where we have had great service among friends and governours and others, and with the indians and their king and emperor." on the st march, , he set sail for england, and after a tempestuous voyage reached bristol harbour on the th of the following month. his wife went up from swarthmoor to meet him, accompanied by her son-in-law, thomas lower, and two of her daughters. it was the time of bristol fair; great meetings were held, and the occasion was a memorable one, for it was amid the rant and turmoil of the fair that george fox first made the acquaintance of william penn. the great reformer had just landed from america, and there can be little doubt that this meeting led penn to investigate human nature in the new world. a close intimacy sprang up between the two; they travelled much together, and in fox's journal the name of the fearless and honest lawgiver--the future founder of pennsylvania--is frequently mentioned. they visited at each other's houses. fox was a guest at worminghurst while penn and his family resided there; and there is a well-founded tradition that he visited fox at his abode at swarthmoor, in lancashire. in january, , fox again found himself placed in durance on account of his preaching at worcester; thomas lower, margaret fox's son-in-law, being imprisoned with him. he suffered from a lingering sickness, his life at one time being despaired of. after remaining in attendance upon him for seventeen weeks, his faithful wife went up to london, wrote a letter to the king beseeching him to release her husband, and took it herself to whitehall, where she had an interview with charles. her pleading was unsuccessful; but eventually, after being in confinement for a year or more, a writ of habeas corpus was again obtained. he was paroled until the time of his trial, when the indictment against him was quashed, and he was set at liberty, being allowed to pass the remaining fifteen years of his life in peace, unmolested by gaolers, writs, or assizes. while he lay in the gaol at worcester his aged mother died, her end being hastened, it is said, by bitter sorrow at her son's inability to come and take leave of her. on regaining his liberty fox returned northwards, accompanied by his wife. at lancaster there was great gathering of the friends; and having stayed there two nights and a day, they went over sands to swarthmoor, where they arrived on the th of june, . here they were visited by many friends from different parts of the country, and among others their old antagonist, colonel kirkby, called to bid them welcome into the country, and, as the account says, "carried himself in appearance very lovingly;" though he immediately afterwards instructed the constables of ulverston to inform fox that "they must have no more meetings at swarthmoor; for if they had, they were commanded to break them up." the imprisonment at worcester had told seriously upon his health, and it was a year and eight months before he was again able to leave swarthmoor. his time, however, was fully occupied in writing pamphlets, epistles, and controversial papers. early in fox left his northern home, his spirit being "drawn again towards the south;" and he did not return until the summer of the following year. in the interval, in company with william penn and robert barclay, he spent several months preaching in holland and germany, after which he returned to london, where he stayed some time, and then proceeded to swarthmoor, remaining there uninterrupted for a period of two years. during his absence from swarthmoor he vigilantly watched over his wife's interests, and took measures to protect her from the persecutions of some of the neighbouring clergy and magistrates. thus, in a letter written from london on the th august, , he says:--"dearly beloved,--there is a rumour here that one of the justice kirkbys (but which i cannot tell) took one of our fat oxen and killed him for his own table, in his own house, which ox was destrained and taken away from thee on account of your meeting at swarthmoor. now of the truth of this i desire to know, and, with a witness or two, to prove it; for justices of peace do not deny appeals here." and he concludes with the words: "therefore, sweetheart, i do entreat thee to let me soon know the truth of all these things, and what thou writes let it be proved by witnesses." it was in the same year that fox and his wife were sued in the cartmel wapentake court for the small tithes of the swarthmoor hall estate; he demurred to the jurisdiction of the court, when the plaintiffs carried the suit into the exchequer court at westminster, where, he says, "they ran us up a writ of rebellion for not answering the bill upon oath, and got an order from the sergeant to take me and my wife into custody." in his answer to the plaintiffs' bill he stated that his wife had lived forty-three years at swarthmoor hall, and that during all that time no tithes had been either paid or demanded. other proofs were given, but the answer could not be received without an oath, which the uncompromising quaker would not take, and so, he says, "the court granted a sequestration against me and my wife together. thereupon, by advice of counsel, we moved for a limitation, which was granted, and that much defeated our adversary's design in suing out the sequestration, for this limited the plaintiff from taking no more than was proved." on the same occasion william mead, who had married one of judge fell's daughters, bore testimony to fox's disinterested conduct, and informed the court that "he had before marriage engaged himself not to meddle with his wife's estate;" a statement the judges could scarcely credit until the documents in proof of it were produced. fox derived from his own property an income amply sufficient for his personal requirements without trenching upon that of his wife. though he had never actively embarked in business he held shares in two small vessels trading from the port of scarborough, and he had also an interest in other undertakings, besides moneys deposited in the hands of various friends. in addition, he had in pennsylvania a thousand acres of land which were given to him by william penn, though there is no evidence that he ever received any income from that source. the only lands he possessed were about three acres he had purchased at swarthmoor for the maintenance of the meeting house, which, in , the year of english freedom, he had there erected for his disciples, and which, shortly before his death, he conveyed by a deed of assignment to the friends for ever. "it is," he says, "all the land and house i have in england; and it is given up to the lord, for it is for his service, and for his children." the declining years of his life were passed in comparative tranquillity, and its evening was soothed with the sunshine of many precious friendships. his time was spent chiefly either at swarthmoor hall or in london, where he had many followers, and where several meeting-houses had been established, the most notable being the one in aldgate street, named from its proximity to the celebrated old hostelry, the bull and mouth, now, as mr. cunningham justly says, "foolishly called the queen's hotel;"[ ] and occasionally he made quiet journeys through some of the counties. in april, , he was present for the last time at the annual gathering of the friends from all parts of the kingdom, held in london; through the following winter he continued to attend the meetings of the society; and on sunday, january the th, - , he attended a large meeting at gracechurch street, when he preached for the last time "fully and effectually." on leaving he went to henry goldney's in white hart court, close by, when he remarked that he "felt the cold strike to his heart as he came out of the meeting." he survived but two days, dying on tuesday, january th, in the th year of his age, his last words being, "the power of god is over all." three days after his remains, followed by a procession of , friends, were conveyed to their last resting place in that _campo santo_ of nonconformists--bunhill fields. fox lived long enough to see a considerable relaxation in the severity of the penal laws against nonconformists, and the dawn of more peaceful times. after the accession of james ii., the condition of the quakers was much improved, the king permitting them to substitute an affirmation for the oath, when one of the chief causes of persecution was removed. william penn, too, was high in favour at court at this time; he had opened an asylum for the friends in his new state of pennsylvania, and, enjoying the personal favour of the king and the chief officers of the state, he won the means of securing further toleration for his co-religionists. then followed the peaceful revolution which placed william of orange upon the throne of england, when the rights of conscience were still more fully recognised, and the act of toleration put an end to the miseries and persecutions the friends had so long been subjected to. if the church was too severe in the punishments she awarded to her truant children, and oftentimes provoked them by her harshness to forsake the sanctuary and wander forth until new tabernacles sprang up in the wilderness of the world, it cannot be said that quakers fared better under the sway of the presbyterians or the rule of the protectorate, for puritanism itself was then a grinding social tyranny, too strict in its discipline, too little regardful of human weaknesses, and too fully persuaded that there could be no truth or godliness outside its own conceptions. unfortunately for themselves, the quakers were accounted a distinct community, with whom neither episcopalians nor protestant dissenters had any legal or religious connection. the religious mind of the nation was entrenched within what it persuaded itself were the limits of christianity, and the new sect which had sprung up was declared to be beyond the pale. the bitterness of spirit with which the disciples of fox were regarded may be gathered from the resolution passed by the delegates and ministers of the congregational churches in london who assembled on the occasion of the abdication of richard cromwell. they then declared, among other things, that while "we greatly prize our christian liberties, yet we profess our utter dislike and abhorrence of a universal toleration, as being contrary to the mind of god in his word.... it is our desire that countenance be not given, or trust reposed in, the hands of the quakers, they being persons of such principles as are destructive to the gospel, and inconsistent with the peace of civil societies." it was a persecuting age, and not on one side alone of the great civil strife of the th century does the stigma of bigotry and intolerance remain; happily, out of the weakness, the foulness, and the darkness of those times, the nation, the church, and the people have emerged with a strong hold on better things, the ascetic piety of the puritan and the breadth of view of the churchman--the religion of herbert and of laud, of sibbes and of milton--have mingled together and become elements of the national life and fruitful for the common good. the followers of fox were subjected to unparalleled hardships, but to their honour be it said their general acts were in strict accord with their religious professions, for during those long years of suffering for conscience sake there is not a single instance recorded of vindictive retaliation on their part, or of recourse being had to any weapon sharper than a text of scripture. fox, it is true, shared the extravagances of his age, and, like all teachers of his class and time, he was for a period more of an alarmist than a comforter; prone, like pious enthusiasts of the present day, to plough up the hearts of the people and discover sins which before they dreamt not of. in one respect he and his followers were certainly most reprehensible, in disturbing the worship of those differing in religion with themselves, for it must be admitted by those who respect their principles and admire their honesty and fortitude that they provoked much of the persecution they so patiently endured. the best principles of quakerism--peace, and love, and brotherhood--remain, but the distinctive formula is on the decline, and those characteristics which made them obnoxious to other religious professors have disappeared altogether. as dr. halley justly observes, "a modern 'friend,' mild, pleasant, neatly dressed, carefully educated, perfected in proprieties, is as unlike as possible, except in a few 'principles,' to the obtrusive, intolerant, rude, coarse, disputatious quaker of the early days of their sect."[ ] margaret fox survived her husband years, her death occurring at swarthmoor on the rd february, , in the th year of her age. at the time of her marriage with the founder of the society of friends she had one son and seven daughters. swarthmoor hall, at her death, passed to her youngest daughter, rachel, who had become the wife of daniel, son of john abraham, of manchester; to them was born, in , a son, john abraham, who succeeded to the property, and who appears to have made some alterations and additions to the old mansion, as evidenced by a stone in the wall of one of the outbuildings, inscribed t f, , and j a, ; the initials answering to thomas fell and john abraham. owing, as is supposed, to losses from some unsuccessful mining speculations in which john abraham had embarked, the property became much encumbered, and in , was finally brought to the hammer and disposed of in lots, when the family removed to skerton, near lancaster. [illustration: handwritten signature] of the descendants of margaret fox by her first husband, thomas fell, it was recorded a few years ago that there were then living ninety, of whom forty-three were members of the society which their ancestress had so largely helped to found. concerning john, the father of daniel abraham, who married the daughter of margaret fell, the following particulars are given in a publication called the _british friend_, published at glasgow, :-- in market street (manchester) is a pile of building called abraham's court. this was the property of john abraham. he was a man of good parentage, and of standing and estate, of a family originally descended, it is said, from the abrahams of abram near wigan; but his immediate ancestors resided at or near warrington, where he was brought up to the trade of a grocer.[ ] after his marriage he carried on his business in manchester with great prudence and honesty, and to a large extent. he was one of the first who joined friends, and suffered in the cause of truth. in he travelled southward. in kent he was pulled down by the informers whilst preaching in a friend's house, and taken to an inn with other friends, but soon after dismissed: but the magistrate seized his horse, and two others, belonging to a poor man, which they ordered to be sold; the owner of the house was fined £ for allowing the meeting to be held, and £ for the pretended poverty of john abraham, though he told them where he dwelt, and that he had an estate of his own at manchester. for these fines, the owner of the house suffered distraint of goods from his house and warehouse to the amount of £ , equivalent to upwards of £ in those days. no account of john abraham has ever appeared. he was interred in the deansgate burial ground; a stone marks his corporeal resting-place, and the society's register of deaths records that "he was a minister, and travelled in ireland and scotland." john abraham had, in addition to his son, daniel, a daughter, mary, who became the wife of edward chetham, of cheetham, nuthurst, and, ultimately, of turton tower, the representative of manchester's great benefactor, humphrey chetham, the founder of the hospital and library which bears his name, and from the marriage descends the present right hon. sir henry bartle-frere, bart., g.c.b., g.c.s.i. the third in descent from john abraham, who removed to skerton, was likewise named john; he married in maria hayes, daughter of john tyerman, of liverpool, and his wife, mary mitford. he resided at grassendale, a pleasant suburb of liverpool, and died february th, , leaving as his heir thomas fell abraham, and, with other issue, emma clarke abraham, a lady to whom the author is indebted for many interesting particulars concerning the fell and abraham families. such are some of the memories of swarthmoor. by the time we had completed the inspection of the old mansion and the primitive-looking little meeting-house, impressive in its severe and unostentatious simplicity, the sun was rapidly sinking in the west, and the shadows of objects were growing longer and longer, as if drawing themselves closer to the earth; the dark range of hills looked solemnly down upon us, and night's sable curtains were gradually closing over the scene. turning to depart, we retraced our steps and descended the rugged track which soon brought us to the bottom of the dingle again. then mounting the opposite eminence we reached the highway, and a few minutes later were comfortably settled in a cosy room in the "sun," at ulverston. chapter ii. old alderley and its memories--the stanleys--edward stanley, pastor and prelate--the home of dean stanley. men travel far to see the dwelling-places and the costly tombs of kings and conquerors in their desire to recall the memory and the mighty deeds of the great ones who have gone before, and surely the homes of those who have taught goodness by example to high and low, and shed a holy and a happy influence through their country, are shrines equally worthy of our homage. it is in that spirit, and with the desire to keep green within the sanctuary of the heart the memory of good men, that we enter upon our present pilgrimage. it is to the place where bishop stanley spent his happiest years, and where his son, dean stanley, passed his boyhood's days--the one, the "good bishop" who united in himself the apostolical charity of a tillotson and the pastoral energy of a burnet; and the other, that loving and large-hearted divine who so lately passed into his rest, and whose removal from our midst sent a thrill of sadness through the land, and moved the sensibilities not of englishmen alone but of the world. [illustration: dean stanley.] alderley, or old alderley as we prefer to call it in contradistinction to the aggregation of modern swiss chalets, italian villas, and imitation castles which manchester's merchant princes have built for themselves on the wooded hill yclept alderley edge, is one of the most charmingly picturesque spots in the county--we had almost said in the kingdom; the sort of place where, if lowered with overwork and worry, you would wish to retire to for perfect peace and quietude--and of a truth the wearied toiler might wander hither and thither for many a day before he could find a retreat more to his liking. the country is rich and varied, and there is an air of wild and untrimmed prodigality in the woods and plantations that is delighting to the eye. it is not a village--it can hardly be called a hamlet, the houses are so few. on a little triangular spot where four roads meet is what is emphatically called "the cross," and a little way above, standing by the wayside, may be seen an antiquated hostelry that might be called the house of many gables. time was when the tired wayfarer might find within its cosy parlour a hearty welcome, and be able to refresh himself with nut-brown ale; but good things are oftentimes abused, and so, now-a-days, to enforce sobriety, though the traveller may receive the welcome he must content himself with tea and coffee or such harmless beverages as lemonade and ginger ale. near the inn is the old corn mill, a building that, with its surroundings, has formed the subject for many a picture, as the walls of our local exhibitions testify; in the rear, half hidden among the trees, is the old-fashioned rectory, standing in the midst of its equally old-fashioned garden, in which the old mulberry trees still flourish. the garden reaches up to the churchyard, reminding us of wordsworth's exquisite description-- where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, is marked by no distinguishable line. the turf unites, the pathways intertwine, and wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, and neighbours rest together, here confound their several features, mingled like the sound of many waters, or as evening blends with shady night. the place belongs entirely to the past; the shadows of bygone centuries seem to spread around, and everything bears the impress of hoar antiquity and undisturbed respectability; while even the few homesteads you see retain the picturesque features their builders imparted to them long ages ago. the church tower, grey and weather worn, and overgrown in places with ivy, looks with placid serenity over the broad pastures and the green country that stretches southwards and away to the west until it seems interminable, and the eye becomes wearied in trying to follow it to its furthest limits. a sombre-looking yew that has braved the winter's blasts through long centuries of time flanks the gateway; the tall trees that partly surround the churchyard throw their shadows across the grass-grown hillocks, the grasshopper skips about and the white moth flits to and fro, and above the blackbirds and the thrushes pour forth their sweetest music. the ancient fane itself is thoroughly english in its character, a church such as an artist loves to paint, and of which a true-hearted englishman would carry away many a pleasant remembrance. it exhibits many architectural diversities; the tower is broad and massive, and nave, and chancel, and porch are picturesque in their grouping. on the north side a curious dormer window rises above the roof, and on the south the attention is arrested by the old stone staircase that leads up from the outside to the stanley pew, a feature that may smack somewhat of exclusiveness, but quaint and pleasant to look upon notwithstanding. as you enter you see at a glance that the fabric has been cared for both within and without, for though the "restorer" has been at work he has dealt tenderly and lovingly with it, repairing only where repairs where needed. the old pews in which somnolent bucolics were wont to recline during sermon-time have been taken away; the flat painted ceiling has disappeared and the whitewash of a dozen generations of churchwardens has been removed from wall and pillar, but everything that was worth preserving has been carefully retained, and-- so absent is the stamp of modern days that, in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stain'd with saintly legend, to reflection's gaze the star of eld seems not yet to have waned. [illustration: alderley church.] the only part that has been modernised is the chancel. it was rebuilt thirty years ago, and in it you may see many sepulchral memorials of the stanleys and other local notabilities. on the south side is the monumental effigy of john thomas, the first lord stanley, who died in , and on the opposite side, on an altar-tomb, richly inlaid with mosaic work, is the sculptured form of the last lord, who died in ; it is an exquisite work of art, and as you gaze upon the chiselled features you are struck with the remarkable resemblance they bear to the late dean of westminster. against the wall on the same side of the chancel is a tablet of white marble in memory of edward stanley--the bishop of norwich--and his wife and their two sons, charles edward and owen stanley, and their daughter mary. from these marble memorials of the dead you turn to the galleried pew where, in life, those they commemorate were wont to worship. the front of that little enclosure is resplendent with heraldic blazonries, and tells, in the language of the "noble science," the story of the marriages of the lords of alderley for a couple of centuries or more. the stanleys are evidently proud of their armorial ensigns, for they are displayed on every hand, and as you gaze upon the oft-repeated shields the memory wanders back along the dim avenues of the past to the time when, ages ago, a sir william stanley, by his marriage with the heiress of bamville, obtained the forest of wyrral, and with it the right to bear, as his device, the three bucks' heads upon a cross-belt of cerulean hue; and to the time, too, when that sir william's great-grandson married the heiress of the house of lathom, and thereafter assumed as his crest the eagle and child--the "brid and babby," as lancashire people prefer to call it--which tradition commemorates the circumstance of an infant being found in an eagle's nest by a lathom, who adopted it, and, being childless, made it heir of all his lands. the church is not a large building, but it is exceedingly picturesque, and its interest is nothing lessened by the consciousness that within its walls the voice of praise and thanksgiving has been heard for five hundred years and more. everything about it is decent and comely, as befits the house of god, and if a stranger should happen to be there on a sunday he will find the services creditably sung by a choir of boys, and the prayers devoutly read by a clergyman who is a sound churchman, and a worthy successor of good old edward stanley. on one side of the entrance to the churchyard an aged yewtree, weather-beaten and decayed, but still fighting time gallantly, flanks the churchyard gate--the emblem of immortality reminding the living that the spirits of those laid low have passed to the life beyond. on the other side is the little school-house, with its quaint windows, and mullions and masonry of red sandstone, a structure that was not reared yesterday, as its grey lichen-stained walls testify. as you enter the garden of the dead your ears are greeted with the pleasant music of young voices, and your attention is arrested by the number of green mounds where successive generations are sleeping their last sleep. a summer's day might be spent here in meditation among the nameless but hallowed graves, and in conning over the "uncouth rhymes" that the weather and the green moss are fast obliterating from the crumbling memorials on which they are inscribed. you may note, too, in places bunches of simple wild flowers that have been placed by loving hands upon the newly upheaved turf--the offerings of that tender affection which longs for "the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is still." near the east end, under the shade of a yew, is a plain white marble cross, with a small tablet at its base, embedded in the rock, on which is the following inscription:-- here rests catherine stanley died march , aged the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits without partiality and without hypocrisy [illustration: alderly school.] it is to the memory of the wife of bishop stanley--the mother of the late dean of westminster--who entered into the dark valley while her son was accompanying the prince of wales on his journey through egypt and palestine. that grave has been once reopened--on the nd of december, , it received the remains of the dean's sister, mary stanley, a lady whose memory will be gratefully remembered for her heroic efforts to mitigate the sufferings of our soldiers during the crimean war. the th of march, on which catherine stanley passed away, was ash wednesday, a day that ever after had its saddening associations for her son, who on another ash wednesday (march st, ), had to endure another and more terrible trial, for on that day he stood by the death bed of her who had loved, supported, and comforted him when the spirit of his mother had passed away--his wife. my mother--on that fatal day, o'er seas and deserts far apart, the guardian genius passed away that nursed my very mind and heart-- the oracle that never failed, the faith serene that never quailed, the kindred soul that knew my thought before its speech or form was wrought. my wife--when clos'd that fatal night, my being turned once more to stone, i watched her spirit take its flight, and found myself again alone. the sunshine of the heart was dead, the glory of the home was fled, the smile that made the dark world bright, the love that made all duty light. now that those scenes of bliss are gone, now that the long years roll away, the two ash wednesdays blend in one, one sad yet almost festal day: the emblem of that union blest, where lofty souls together rest, star differing each from star in glory, yet telling each its own high story. in another part of the graveyard is an altar-tomb with a latin inscription perpetuating the name of thomas deane, of the park--a house near monk's heath--who endowed the parish school, and who is described as a lover of god, his church, his king, and of all good deeds. not far distant is an old disused font that was dug up half a century ago; it has a circular bowl capacious enough to immerse a child in, and, in its general outline, much resembles the one at prestbury, both being probably of the same age. from the churchyard we step into the rector's garden. the rectory house presents much the same appearance that it did fifty years ago, when edward stanley was its occupant; indeed, so little is it changed that it would require but little stretch of the imagination to picture the kindly-hearted old pastor watching the movements of his feathered friends, or, mounted upon his little black cob, setting out on a mission of mercy to some member of his rustic flock, his pockets the while filled with sweets and gingerbread for the children, with whom he was ever a favourite. the house is the _beau-ideal_ of a country clergyman's home. it has no architectural beauties or peculiarities to boast of, and there is nothing pretentious about it; but it is a roomy, enjoyable sort of place, with an air of comfort and contentment pervading it that suggests the idea of the happy domestic life peculiar to england. a trellis work that forms a kind of verandah extends along the front, with honeysuckles, roses, and creeping plants climbing round the supports, and meeting overhead in a bower of vernal beauty. of that verandah, which forms a kind of balcony, the dean's mother thus wrote in one of her letters:-- give me credit for coming from my balcony, from the sky, the stars, the moon, the heavenly air, to write to you. but it is not quite coming from them; my door is open, and i look now and then to the church tower, standing out so clear from the moonlight sky, which has scarcely yet lost its sunlight tinge--and my summer furniture of mignonette and sweet peas outside, to say nothing of the roses below or the trellis and the honeysuckle above--their united perfume all come streaming in the air. when i think of your imprisonment and your present deprivations of such a day as this, whose healing influences you so well would feel, i rejoice in your power of sympathy with the enjoyments as well as the sufferings of others, which makes me feel that i am refreshing rather than tantalizing you by placing my present position before you. the door of the house stands invitingly open, and the wide entrance hall into which the visitor is ushered is in itself suggestive of the welcome awaiting the coming guest. the rooms are spacious, and lead one into another in a social sort of way, and the windows, reaching down to the floor and opening on to the lawn, give a bright prospect of the beautiful world without, of the pleasure grounds and the green grass carpet, chequered as we look upon it with the woodland shade and a moving group of laughing, bright-eyed nymphs engaged in a garden game. oftentimes from those windows, as well as in his walks and rides, did the good old rector pursue his favourite study. "close before the window of our observation," he says in his "familiar history of birds," "a well-mown, short-grassed lawn is spread before him (the starling)--it is his dining-room; there in the spring he is allowed to revel, but seldom molested, on the plentiful supply of worms, which he collects pretty much in the same manner as the thrush, already described. close at hand, within half-a-stone's throw, stands an ivy-mantled parish church, with its mossy grey tower, from the turreted pinnacle of which rises a flagstaff, crowned by its weathercock; under the eaves and within the hollows and chinks of the masonry of the tower are his nursery establishments. on the battlements and projecting grotesque tracery of its gothic ornaments he retires to enjoy himself, looking down on the rural world below; while, at other times, a still more elevated party will crowd together on the letters of the weathercock, or, accustomed to its motion, sociably twitter away their chattering song, as the vane creaks slowly round with every change of wind." but alderley has other attractions besides its venerable church and its pleasant old-fashioned rectory. we are not now going to speak of the edge--of the castle rock, of the holy well, of stormy point, of the weather-beaten beacon and the glorious view over the cheshire plain which it commands; nor yet to repeat the legend of the wizard, the iron gates, and the enchanted cave in which stand the innumerable milk-white horses with the warriors beside them, all in a profound sleep and so-- doomed to remain till that fell day, when foemen, marshalled in array, and feuds intestine, shall combine to seal the ruin of our line. the park, the beech woods, and radnor mere are well worthy of a passing notice, and the story of the stanleys deserves to be told, for alderley, though a small place, has a history behind it, and one which it need not be ashamed to own. [illustration: alderley rectory.] alderley park, "the fair domain" of the stanleys, lies on the opposite side of the road to the church and the rectory. it is not so extensive as tatton or lyme, but it is equal to either for sylvan beauty and the charming views it affords. the rising grounds that extend in the direction of the edge are clothed with a thick umbrage, the tall "patrician trees" mingling with the "plebeian underwood;" many of the older denizens of the wood are curled and distorted into all sorts of weird shapes, and bear the marks of the rough warfare they have had for ages to wage against the elements. here and there pleasant vistas open out and from the high ground you can look over the fairest portion of the vale royal of england, over miles and miles of woodland and pastures and green fields, dotted at intervals with old farm houses and still older churches, a prospect such as no other country but our own can show, and which many a wanderer in distant lands would give a year of his life to see again. it is thoroughly pastoral in character, and imparts an undefinable sensation of quietude and rest, suggesting the idea of eternal tranquillity and peace. the view is charming at all seasons, but never more so than in the spring-time, when the trees have put on their fresh leafage, when the air is laden with the sweet odours of the scented thorn, and the thrush and the blackbird pour forth their melodious notes as if to make perfect the charm and witchery of our english scenery. from among the time-worn fathers of the grove a little rindle winds its way with many a curve and sinuosity until it empties itself in a broad lake, formerly called radnor mere, but now more commonly known as alderley mere--a relic, so tradition affirms, of the great lake that in pre-historic times is believed to have extended as far as high legh, a dozen miles or so away, and of which tatton mere, rostherne mere, and mere mere formed a part. but the glory of the park is the beech wood which reaches down almost to the edge of the mere; it was planted, so the local chroniclers tell us, more than a couple of centuries ago by sir thomas stanley, the first baronet, who obtained a supply of beech mast from his father-in-law's grounds at kyre, in worcestershire, the tree being then uncommon in cheshire. possibly he was influenced by the advice which john evelyn about that time had been giving in his "discourse of forest trees," and desired to supply his tenantry with stuffing for their beds. the author of "sylva" says:--"but there is yet another benefit which this tree (the beech) presents us; its very leaves, which make a natural and most agreeable canopy all the summer, being gathered about the fall, and somewhat before they are much frost-bitten, afford the best and easiest mattresses in the world to lay under our quilts instead of straw, because, besides their tenderness and loose lying together, they continue sweet for seven or eight years, long before which time straw becomes musty and hard." it would be interesting to know if the primitive custom to which evelyn referred continues in any part of rural england at the present day, or if it has been entirely discarded. more stately trees than the alderley beeches we have seldom seen in any part of the country; they stand thick in the background, giving a forest-like character to the scene, and the pathways that wind beneath them in a wild and wandering sort of way afford as delightful a sylvan walk as the foot of man can tread. the dead leaves lie the whole year round upon the turf, and overhead the branches meet in a verdant canopy, imparting a mysterious gloom that seems like a perpetual twilight. no one who longs for seclusion needs "fly to a lodge in some vast wilderness," for here he may wander for a day without the sound of a fellow mortal to disturb him or hearing any footfall but his own, and can, if so disposed, realise the full meaning of the words-- one impulse from a vernal wood will teach thee more of man, of moral evil, and of good than all the sages can. well do we remember a summer evening's saunter through the park and the old beech wood in the pleasant companionship of the worthy rector of alderley, beguiling the time with cheerful chat. 'twas summer tide; the eve was sweet as mortal eye has e'er beholden; the grass look'd warm with sunny heat; perhaps some fairy's glowing feet had lightly touch'd and left it golden. entering by a gate near the old corn-mill we struck across the park in an easterly direction and soon reached the edge of the wood, from which there is a good view of the hall and the old deer house, with the mere in front, feathered down almost to the water's edge with stately trees. the wilder parts of the grounds are alive with rabbits, and as we strode over the green sward they started up from the fern and the thick grass and scampered off to their warrens in all directions; but no other sign of life was visible, and, save that now and then we could hear the distant croaking of the corn-crake and the thrush chanting a requiem to the departing day from a neighbouring copse, even the birds seemed to have sunk to rest in their foliaged homes. the woods were in the fulness of their summer verdure, displaying a thousand varied tints of green and yellow; to the right we could see the great plain of cheshire stretching away towards the frodsham hills and the estuary of the dee, the green meadow-breadths looking almost golden in the sunset sheen. a warm aërial haze suffused itself over the landscape, softening into beauty every object; the breeze which so lately frolicked through the trees had died away, and the wide mere lay spread before us calm, and still, and bright as a mirror, while its surface, unruffled by a single ripple, gave back with wonderful minuteness the outline of the plumy woods, the amber radiance of the sky, and the moving forms of the reeds and water flags that fringe its margin; the effect being heightened as now and then a shaft of ruddy light quivered through the foliage and shed an almost unearthly splendour upon the water. no stir of air was there, not so much life as on a summer day robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, but where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. that scene has been so exquisitely described in the "journal" of catherine stanley that we are tempted to transcribe it:-- the purplish brown of the wood rising above the softened reflection of it in the water, and a few touches of brighter brown in the shrubs and ferns near the edge; the boathouse relieved by the dark wood behind it; a line of yellowish brown reeds breaking the reflection of it in the water, and another still brighter yellow-and-brown island coming immediately before it; the soft blue haze spread over the water and softening the reflected outlines of the wood without weakening the effect, contrasted here and there with the vivid and determinate outline of a few leaves or weeds lying on the surface of the water; the scene enlivened now and then by a wild duck darting from the reeds across the lake, making a flutter and foam before her, and leaving a line of clear light behind her on her path, her wild cry distinctly echoed from the wood and deerhouse together--such a simplicity yet variety of tint, such a force of effect, and such a softness of shade and colour! artists, one and all, hide your diminished heads! the home of the stanleys is a stone building of no great antiquity and very little architectural merit, and, considering the many advantageous sites the park affords, has been placed with a singular disregard for the charms of situation. until the family resided at the old hall near the church, but in the spring of that year it was burnt down, and until the present mansion was built they were obliged to take up their abode at the park house, a tenement formerly part of the estates held in alderley by the abbey of dieulacres, near leek. the hon. miss stanley, in her description of "alderley edge and its neighbourhood," says: "the old hall of alderley was burnt down in the spring of the year . sir john stanley was absent at the time; he was on the road home, returning from chester, where he had gone the day before--he arrived when the whole was nearly consumed--very little of the furniture was saved. it was never known how the fire originated. the house stood in the village of alderley, close to the mill. it was surrounded by a moat spreading out into a large sheet of water on the east side, and on the west filling a channel cut out of the solid rock. when the house was burnt, it consisted of three sides of (comparatively speaking) a modern built mansion, a large hall of an older date occupying the other side, and offices behind the hall. a handsome stone bridge of two arches crossed the moat from the ground entrance and west side to a stone terrace, which commanded views of the park, the church, and the plain of cheshire, and by a flight of steps led to a handsome stone arched gateway close to the road, built by sir thomas, the first baronet." the inscription on the tombstone in alderley church of sir thomas stanley, who died in , says: "he rebuilt the houses of alderley and weever," from which it is evident there was a still earlier mansion upon the site; the house he erected was doubtless the "large hall of an older date" referred to by miss stanley, the other portions of the building having been added about the beginning of the last century. the two end pillars, bearing the crest of the stanleys--the eagle and child--with a portion of the wall, may be seen abutting upon the roadside; but, with these exceptions, not a vestige of the old mansion remains. the connection of the stanleys with alderley dates back about four hundred and fifty years or thereabouts, when the estate was acquired by the marriage of john stanley, a brother of the first earl of derby, with elizabeth, the daughter and heiress of thomas weever, of weever and alderley. this john's father, sir thomas stanley, of lathom, after serving as lord lieutenant of ireland, emerged from among the country gentlemen as lord stanley, and was made controller of the household of the "meek usurper," henry vi., when, in consideration of his services, he had granted to him by favour of the king the wardship and marriage of thomas weever's heiress, and he, with commendable care for the worldly well-being of his younger son, bestowed the lady and her lands upon him. the house of stanley, which ranks among the greatest of our governing families, is one of the most ancient as it is one of the most distinguished in the page of history, comprising at the present day, in addition to the baronetcy enjoyed by the elder line--the stanleys, of hooton in wirral--two peerages, the earldom of derby of knowsley, in lancashire, and the barony of stanley of alderley, in cheshire, besides the younger branches in staffordshire, sussex, kent, and hertfordshire. the first known ancestor was one adam de aldithlegh, so named from his paternal estate of audithlegh, in normandy, who came over with william the conqueror. acquitting himself bravely on the field of hastings, he was rewarded with large territorial estates in the newly conquered country. he was accompanied in the expedition by his two sons, lydulph or lyulph and adam de aldithlegh. these sons married, and in due course two grandsons were born to the old norman warrior, both of whom married into a saxon family of noble rank and ancient lineage, which had been fortunate enough to retain possession of its estates, while confiscation had been the lot of those around it. the family derived its name from the manor of stanley or stoneley, the stony lea or stony field according to the anglo-saxon meaning, a little hamlet lying about three miles south-west of the small manufacturing town of leek, in staffordshire, a place which, erdswick, the old topographer, remarks "seems to take its name of the nature of the soil, which, though it be in the moorlands, is yet a rough and stony place, and many craggy rocks are about it." one of the grandsons, adam, the son of lyulph de audithlegh, became in right of his wife lord of stanley, and was ancestor of the lord audley of ancient times, and is represented through the female line by the touchets, lords audley of the present day. the other grandson, william, the son of adam de audithlegh, acquired with his wife the lordship of thalck, better known as talk o' th' hill, in the same county. this william seems to have conceived a liking for the stony lea before referred to, and exchanged his lordship of talk with his cousin for it. thenceforward he made stanley his seat, and, as the old chronicles tell us, in honour of his wife and of the great antiquity of her family, assumed her maiden name and became immediate founder of the stanleys, a race the most illustrious in the country's annals, and associated with the most stirring events of history. sir william stanley, the fourth in descent from the william who first assumed the name, gave an impetus to the fortunes of the family by one of those matrimonial alliances to which the house of stanley owes so much of its prosperity. he took to himself a wife in the person of joan, the youthful daughter and co-heir of sir philip bamville, master forester of wirral, and lord of storeton, a place some few miles south of birkenhead. associated with this match is a love story that in its romantic incidents is scarcely less interesting than the one related of the fair heiress of haddon, dorothy vernon. the daughter of the house of storeton had given her heart to young stanley, and to escape the misery of a forced marriage with one for whom she had no love she determined to elope. while a banquet was being given to her father, she stole unobserved away, and, being joined by young william stanley, the anxious lovers rode swiftly across the country to astbury church, and there, in the presence of adam hoton and dawe coupelond, plighted their troth to each other. six hundred years have rolled away since that scene was enacted, but it requires little stretch of the imagination to picture the resolute maiden hastening with tremulous steps from her father's house, the exciting ride across country, and the hurried joining of hands and hearts in the old church at astbury, and forgetting that all this occurred long ages ago, we wish from our hearts all happiness to the pair. the story is no mere legend, for the facts are to be found in those musty and unromantic records, the cheshire inquisitions, which have been unearthed, and their contents made accessible to the world, by the deputy keeper of the public records. in a return to a writ of enquiry as to the betrothal of william stanley, the inquisition sets forth-- that on the sunday after the feast of st. matthew the apostle and evangelist, two years ago, viz., on the th september, , philip de bamville, with his wife and family, was at a banquet given by master john de stanley (an ecclesiastic apparently, priests at that time who had an academical degree being entitled to be called master), on which occasion joan (bamville), suspecting that her father intended to marry her to her step-mother's son, took means to avoid it by repairing with william de stanley to astbury church, where they uttered the following mutual promise, he saying, "joan, i plight thee my troth to take and hold thee as my lawful wife until my life's end," and she replying, "i joan take thee william as my lawful husband." the witnesses were adam de hoton and dawe de coupelond. by this marriage william stanley became owner of one-third of the manor of storeton (the remaining two-thirds he subsequently acquired), and also the hereditary bailiwick or chief rangership of the forest of wirral, which then overspread the peninsula lying between the estuaries of the mersey and the dee, and which was so thickly wooded that, according to the old saying:-- from blacon point to hilbree a squirrel may leap from tree to tree. after this marriage the stanleys migrated from the stony-lea in staffordshire to their newly acquired home in cheshire, and at the same time sir william, in allusion to his office of hereditary forester of wirral, assumed the arms which have ever since been used by his descendants in place of those borne by his ancestors, viz., _argent_, on a bend _azure_, three bucks' heads caboshed _or_; in other words, over a shield of silver a belt of blue crossed diagonally with three bucks' heads displayed thereon. another and still more important addition was made to the patrimonial lands of the stanleys through the marriage of sir william de stanley, the fourth in direct descent from the first of the name who held the forestership of wirral, with margery, only daughter and heir of sir william de hooton of hooton, a township midway between chester and birkenhead, and occupying one of the most delightful situations which the banks of the estuary can boast, commanding, as ormerod says, "a peculiarly beautiful view of the forest hills, the bend of the mersey, and the opposite shore of hale, and shaded with venerable oaks which the wirral breezes have elsewhere rarely afforded." from this marriage descended the stanleys of hooton and their offshoots, among whom may be mentioned that sir william stanley who, in the reign of elizabeth, betrayed the trust committed to him by the english government in the base surrender of deventer to the king of spain. the younger line of the stanleys, with whose fortunes we are more immediately concerned, commences properly with a younger brother of sir william stanley of hooton, sir john stanley, who married isabel, the daughter and sole heir of sir thomas lathom, lord of lathom, whose ancestress had also been heir of sir thomas de knowsley, lord of knowsley, and who thus, in right of his wife, became master of the extensive estates around which his descendants' princely property has accreted. by the marriage with the heiress of bamville the stanleys acquired the three bucks' heads which have continued ever since to be the distinguishing charge on their heraldic coat; and in like manner, by the marriage with the heiress of lathom, they obtained the remarkable crest which to the present day continues to surmount their arms, the well-known eagle and child, in heraldic language described as--on a chapeau _gules_ turned up ermine, an eagle with wings elevated _or_, preying upon an infant swaddled of the first, banded _argent_. many are the stories that are told respecting sir john's elopement with the heiress of lathom, and great is the amount of legendary lore that gathers round the crest which he adopted in her honour. the tradition has often been related, and the curious who wish to know more respecting it will find much interesting information in the _miscellanea palatina_ ( ) and in a contribution to nichol's _collectanea_ by the learned historian of cheshire. the greatness of the stanleys may be said to have commenced with sir john--a cool, shrewd, and efficient man--who in his lifetime raised the family from the rank of simple country gentlemen. we need not recount all the honours and distinctions bestowed, or the steady shower of royal benefactions that descended upon him. a knight _sans peur et sans reproche_, he was a rare instance of a courtier who could carry himself through four successive reigns with ever increasing prosperity--and without once sustaining a reverse. his eldest son, sir john stanley, fully sustained the dignity of the family, and his grandson, sir thomas, in whose person the elevation of the stanleys to the peerage took place, increased it. but it remained for the son of the last-named sir thomas to carry the fortunes of the house to heights before unknown. living in an age when the spirit of chivalry had given place to a policy of subtlety and success depending less on strength of arm than astuteness of head, he ran a career of successful faithlessness that has scarcely a parallel in english history. looking always to his own interest, fighting always for his own hand, and changing sides at his own discretion, but always changing to the dominant party, he received as the reward of his consummate tact enormous royal grants which went to swell the originally great possessions of his house; and, finally, by the boldest and most adroit stroke of his whole life--when the rival roses met on the field of bosworth and he had beguiled both combatants with promises of sympathy, after the fate of the battle was decided he went over to the side of the victor, and completed his services by placing the battered crown of the vanquished richard upon the brow of the triumphant richmond, exclaiming-- courageous richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! lo, here, this long-usurped royalty, from the dead temples of this bloody wretch have i plucked off, to grace thy brows withal; wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. thus thomas stanley earned for himself and his descendants the earldom of derby. through his eldest son, george lord strange, who succeeded to the title, thomas, earl of derby, was progenitor of a race of illustrious men, conspicuous among whom were james, the "martyr earl," distinguished for his attachment to the royal cause during the civil wars, and the eminent statesman of more recent times, edward geoffrey smith-stanley, th earl, who died in --the father of the present holder of the title. the stanleys of alderley trace their descent from john, a younger brother of thomas the first earl, who became possessed of the manor of alderley by his marriage with the heiress of thomas weever, lord of weever and alderley. when duke william of normandy parcelled out the land in the newly-conquered country among his faithful followers alderley fell to the share of william fitz nigel, the builder and fortifier of halton castle, and was held by him as of his manor of halton. in he granted over alderley to one roger throsle, who in turn gave it as a marriage portion to his daughter margery when she became the wife of edmund downes. subsequently it passed into the possession of the ardernes, who held it for two or three generations. peter de arderne, the last male representative of this line, had an only surviving daughter, the heiress of all his lands; wishing in his life-time to secure a suitable match for her he, in the reign of edward iii., purchased from sir john de arderne, lord of aldford and the paramount lord of weever, the wardship and marriage of richard, son and heir of thomas de weever, paying for the same marks (£ s. d.), an investment he turned to profitable account by marrying his young ward to his daughter. in this way the estates of weever and alderley became united, and so they continued until the reign of henry vi. in thomas de weever, the great-grandson of richard de weever and margaret arderne his wife, died, leaving an only daughter, elizabeth, who thus became heiress of the lands in weever and alderley. being under age at the time of her father's death she became a ward of the king, and he, as previously mentioned, gave the disposal of her in marriage to his favourite, thomas, the first lord stanley, who made the most of his opportunity by marrying her to his third son, thomas stanley, thus securing for him and his descendants a very handsome patrimony, embracing the manor of weever and the lands in over and nether alderley, &c.. weever remained in their possession until , when it passed by sale to the wilbrahams of townsend, now represented by george fortescue wilbraham, esq., of delamere house, but alderley was retained and still continues the chief residence of the family, who have held it in continuous succession for a period of more than four hundred years. it is not our purpose to trace the descent of the stanleys through successive generations, we therefore pass over the history of the ancient house to the time of sir thomas stanley, the sixth in direct descent from john stanley, who married the heiress of weever, and the one who added a baronetcy to the honours of the alderley line--an interval of nearly two centuries, during which time the family estates had been largely increased, partly from the possessions of the dissolved abbey of dieulacres, and partly from lands acquired at different times through prudent marriages, as evidenced by the inquisition taken in , after the death of sir thomas stanley, knight, who had married the heiress of sir peter warburton of grafton, chief justice of the common pleas, and which shows that at his decease he held the manors of weever, over alderley, nether alderley, clive, little meols, and pulton launcelyn; and lands in those and the following places: barretspool, wimbaldesley, stanthorne, spittle, middlewich, rushton, bredbury, upton near macclesfield, chorley, hough, warford, chelford, astle, birtles, mobberley, ollerton, torkington, offerton, norbury, occleston, sutton, &c., all in the county of chester. this thomas, who had been knighted by james i. while at worksop manor on his progress towards london, after the death of elizabeth, a journey during which he shed the honours of knighthood on no less than two hundred and thirty-seven gentlemen who were presented to him, was succeeded by his eldest son, thomas stanley, who was only eight years of age at the time of the father's death. shortly after he came of age thomas stanley married elizabeth, daughter of sir james pytts, of kyre, in worcestershire, and in he was honoured with the shrievalty of his native county. the time was an anxious one. it was the year preceding the arbitrary levy of ship-money, when the storm was gathering that ere long was to break with such disastrous force upon the head of the ill-fated charles. when the sword was drawn the head of the alderley stanleys ranged himself on the side of those who contended for the privileges of parliament in opposition to kingly prerogative, and who were resolved upon upholding the bulwark of the national liberties; he does not appear, however, to have engaged in any of the great military enterprises which marked that stirring period, the help he rendered to the cause being limited in a great measure to the discharge of the civil functions which devolved upon him as a magistrate, and in the performance of which he was very zealous and energetic. his name is of frequent occurrence in the church books in his own part of the county, and when, during the time of the usurpation, marriage, as a religious ceremony, was forbidden by the law, and transformed into a civil contract to be entered into before a justice of the peace, mr. stanley appears to have been one of the magistrates most frequently performing the office. though a staunch puritan, he can hardly be said to have been a violent supporter of the party, and except in the assiduous discharge of his magisterial office he took little part in the events that were then transpiring. possibly it was the moderation shown in those exciting times that led to his being one of the cheshire gentlemen selected for a baronetcy on the occasion of the restoration of charles ii., and curiously enough his name appears first on the list from the county on whom that dignity was conferred. the hall at weever had up to this time been the principal residence of the family. some time before thomas stanley added to his possessions by the purchase of chorley hall, an old mansion of the davenports, in wilmslow parish; afterwards he greatly improved the ancestral home at alderley, and erected in front of it a handsome stone-arched gateway, two of the pillars of which may still be seen in the wall bordering the roadside; it is said that he also planted the beech woods bordering upon the mere, which now form such a pleasant adjunct of the park. until the present century the succeeding generations of the stanleys took little active interest in national affairs, preferring the quieter and less exciting life of country gentlemen, passing much of their time in cheshire improving their estates, and spending much of their leisure in the indulgence of their literary tastes. sir peter stanley, who succeeded as second baronet on the death of his father, sir thomas, in , served the office of sheriff in . he died in , having had by his wife, elizabeth, daughter of sir john leigh of northcourt, in the isle of wight, two sons and seven daughters. thomas stanley, the eldest son, who succeeded to the barony and estates, was born at alderley on the th march, , and baptized there on the th april following. he added to the family estates by his marriage with christiana, daughter and heiress of sir stephen leonard, of west wickham, kent, bart. during his time the old hall of weever, a half-timbered mansion, pleasantly situated on an acclivity that rises from the banks of the river of the same name, and which had come into the possession of the stanleys as early as the reign of henry vi., and been their principal residence until or thereabouts, was sold, the purchaser being randle wilbraham, of townshend, direct ancestor of the wilbrahams of delamere house. lady stanley, who died february , - , bore him in addition to two daughters, both of whom died unmarried, two sons, who in turn succeeded to the honours and estates of the family. sir thomas stanley died at west wickham in , when the eldest of his two sons, james stanley, succeeded as heir. he married in november, , frances, youngest daughter of george butler, of ballyragget, in the county kilkenny, in ireland, but by her had no issue. he seems to have been a somewhat eccentric personage, if we may judge from a remark made by miss stanley. she says, quoting from the recollections of john finlow, an old retainer of the family, that "sir james used to drive up to the edge almost daily in his carriage drawn by four black long-tailed mares, always accompanied by a running footman of the name of critchley." she adds that her informant, finlow, was a lad then, and used to get up behind the carriage. notwithstanding his little foibles the old baronet is represented as having been of a remarkably mild and placid temperament, a character that seems to be borne out by some lines he is believed to have written, and which were found among his papers after his death-- the grace of god and a quiet life, a mind content, and an honest wife, a good report and a friend in store, what need a man to wish for more. sir james stanley died march th, - , when the baronetcy as well as the patrimonial lands devolved upon his younger brother, edward, who succeeded as fifth baronet. he did not, however, long enjoy possession of the estates, for in , while returning from adlington, where he had been on a visit to charles legh, he was suddenly seized with a fit of apoplexy, and died in his carriage before he could be conveyed home. by his marriage with mary, daughter of thomas ward, a wealthy banker, of london, who survived him and died at bath in , he had two sons, james stanley, who died in infancy, and john thomas, born th march, , who succeeded as sixth baronet. he was in his twenty-first year at the time of his father's decease, and married in april, , margaret, daughter and heiress of hugh owen, of penrhos, in anglesey, a well-wooded estate, about a mile from the town and harbour of holyhead. when he came into possession of the family estates the steep rocky promontory known as the edge, and with which every manchester holiday-maker is familiar, was a wild dreary common, without any sign of cultivation, except the few clumps of hardy fir trees which had been planted by his father and by his uncle, sir james stanley, between the years and . it is recorded that in he enclosed the edge, with other waste lands on the estate, and, at the same time repaired or rebuilt the old beacon which had been in existence from the time of elizabeth, if not from a still earlier date, and which was then in a state of decay, covering in the square chamber with the pyramidal roof which, until it became obscured by the thick umbrage around, made it one of the chief landmarks in cheshire. sir john thomas stanley died in london, november th, , and was buried at south audley. by his wife, who survived him, and died february st, , he had a numerous family--two sons and five daughters. of the sons, the eldest, born november th, , and named after himself, succeeded as seventh baronet, and in was elevated to the peerage by the title of baron stanley of alderley. the other son, edward, the youngest of seven children, was born at his father's residence in london, january st, . while the baronetcy and the broad lands of alderley were reserved for the eldest son of sir john thomas stanley, the family living--the rectory and the pleasant old rectory house--was the portion that edward, the youngest son, could look forward to, for the stanleys were then, as now, patrons of the church, as well as lords of the manor of alderley. the future rector, as we have seen, first saw the light on new year's day, . he was born at his father's residence in london, and his birth and baptism are thus recorded in the church register at alderley:-- . feb. .--edward, son of sir john thomas stanley and margaret, lady stanley, was born in the parish of st. george's, hanover square, co. middlesex, the st of january, , and baptized on the st of the same month (by the rev. ralph carr, rector of alderley) at sir john's house, in the said parish of st. george's. though born, as it were, to the prospect of taking holy orders, edward stanley's sanguine temperament, his love of adventure and spirit of enterprise, led him in early years to long for the excitement and the perils of a naval life, a passion that is said to have been inspired by a visit he made, when a child of three or four years, to weymouth, where he first saw an english man-of-war. though the boyish fancy was overruled by circumstances beyond his own control, the impression made upon his mind was never eradicated, and his enthusiastic love for a profession from which he was excluded remained and gave a colour to his whole after life. as his son in later years observed, "the sight of a ship, the society of sailors, the embarkation on a voyage, were always sufficient to inspire and delight him wherever he might be." a bright, happy, eager childhood seems to have been his. of amiable disposition, with a cheerful flow of animal spirits, fertility of resource, activity of mind and body, and an exuberance of boyish mirth and daring, he carried with him into the active business of life those natural characteristics which enabled him, when he had attained to manhood, to overcome whatever difficulties might beset his path--characteristics that were especially useful to him when he entered upon his university career, for it can hardly be said that up to that time his education and training were such as to specially fit him for the sacred calling in which he was to find his vocation, or such as were ordinarily given to boys destined for the church. his early life was passed in a succession of removals from one private school or tutor to another; subsequently he was placed in the grammar school at macclesfield, under the rev. dr. inglis, whose classical attainments had earned for the school a high reputation in the universities. in he entered at st john's college, cambridge, to find, however, that he had to begin his course of study almost from the very foundation. dean stanley, in his "memoirs," to which we are indebted for many interesting particulars of his life, says: "of greek he was entirely, of latin almost entirely, ignorant; and of mathematics he knew only what he had acquired at one of the private schools where he had been placed when quite a child." his earnest application and indomitable perseverance, however, soon enabled him to make up for these deficiencies, and to make such progress that in he appeared as th wrangler in the mathematical tripos. of him it might with truth be said that "he applied his heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom," and we might almost fancy him to have been the subject of the portrait of an english clergyman which a fellow of his own college, w. mackworth praed, drew with such a skilful hand-- sit in the vicar's seat: you'll hear the doctrine of a _gentle johnian_, whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, whose phrase is very ciceronian. he cherished a grateful recollection of the advantages he gained from his academic course at cambridge, and his affection for his _alma mater_ was shown in the spirited letter he addressed to a local journal when, a generation later, an attack was made upon the university by mr. beverley. "i can never," he says, "be sufficiently grateful for the benefits i received within those college walls; and to the last hour of my life i shall feel a deep sense of thankfulness to those tutors and authorities for the effects of that discipline and invaluable course of study which rescued me from ignorance, and infused an abiding thirst for knowledge, the means of intellectual enjoyment, and those habits and principles which have not only been an enduring source of personal gratification, but tended much to qualify me, from the period of my taking orders to the present day, for performing the duties of an extensive parish." having taken his b.a., he made a continental tour, visiting switzerland, italy, spain, and portugal. on his return he was admitted to holy orders and ordained to the curacy of windleshaw, in surrey, where he remained for about three years, when the rectory of alderley became vacant, by the resignation of the rev. ralph carr, who had held it for the long period of forty-three years, the greater part of which time he had been non-resident. this was in --the year in which he proceeded to his degree of m.a.--and he was then presented by his father to the vacant living and inducted november th. though little of his early life had been passed at alderley, the place was endeared to him by many family associations, and from his first entering upon the ministerial office the ardent desire of his heart was to do something for the people, who, through the apathy and long continued absence of his predecessor, had been as sheep having no shepherd. at that time the religious life of england was at a very low ebb; ministerial neglect was the rule rather than the exception, and the conduct of the clergy generally was not regulated by any very high standard of morality or excellence. among the changes that have been wrought in our national institutions during the present century none have been more remarkable than those in the church--not in its abstract constitution, but in the character and conduct of its ministers. the clerical "lights of other days" shone but dimly. those who resided upon their benefices were content to spend their days in an easy hand-in-glove kind of association with their people, but seldom or never rose above the ordinary routine of the stated services of the church. with the wise man they believed that "in much study is a weariness of the flesh," and to avoid that "weariness" they were wont to give more time to the foxes than to the fathers. the typical clergyman of eighty years ago preferred conviviality to controversy; he was more concerned about his pigs than his preaching, and dreaded distemper in his herd a great deal more than he did dissent in his flock. alderley was no exception to the general condition of the country, and many are the stories of clerical shortcomings that still linger in the memory of the older inhabitants. rector carr had made it his boast that he "never set a foot in a sick person's cottage," and it is related that when service was held in the church "the clerk used to go to the churchyard stile to see whether there were any more coming to church, for there were seldom enough to make a congregation." a parish which had remained so long in a state of spiritual torpor presented many difficulties to a new comer filled with a desire to promote the well-being of his people, and whose creed was-- of hope, and virtue, and affection full. surrounded by so much ignorance and indifference the enthusiasm of his fervent spirit was enkindled, and his ardent nature, combined with his strong sense of duty, acted as an incentive, and increased the desire to minister to the wants, both temporal and spiritual, of his flock, and faithfully to fulfil the sacred trust committed to him in his parochial cure. but those among whom he was called to minister were untaught in the first rudiments of the christian faith, and upon ground so unprepared it was clear that the seed of the word read and preached in the church, and the services of the liturgy, however reverently said or sung, could profit little, and that it was only by clothing his thoughts in language suited to their capacity--by giving in the plainest words such simple instruction as should touch their hearts, and by a kindly sympathy in all their concerns that he could hope to become "a father and a leader" to his hitherto neglected parishioners, and sustain among them a higher standard of conduct than was then common among an agricultural population. to be, in short-- a pastor such as chaucer's verse portrays; such as the heaven-taught skill of herbert drew; and tender goldsmith crown'd with deathless praise. with him duty seemed to be a delight, and piety an instinct; though among the indolent, easy-going divines of the old school, in whom the true liturgical teaching of the church had withered down into a mere lifeless form, his unwearying devotion to the charge committed to his care was looked upon as only the fervid zeal of an enthusiastic visionary. edward stanley had nearly completed his twenty-seventh year when he entered upon his ministry at alderley. in his twenty-ninth year he became engaged to the lady who may with truth be said to have been the sunshine of his heart, who took an unfailing interest and pride in his labours, and who was his constant stay and support through life--catherine leycester, the eldest of the two daughters of the rev. oswald leycester, at the time rector of stoke-upon-terne, but who, in edward stanley's boyhood, had been curate of alderley, a position he resigned on being presented by his brother, george leycester, to the living of the neighbouring church of knutsford. they were married in , as maria leycester in her family notes, transcribed in "memorials of a quiet life," thus records: "on the th of may, , my sister was married in stoke church, to edward stanley, rector of alderley. upon her marriage i left leighton cottage, and until my mother's death i remained at home. my father gave me lessons in--it must be confessed--_bad_ french and italian, but it was my sister who still directed my studies by letter, constantly sending me questions on the books which i read, and expecting me to write her the answers.... edward stanley was to me the kindest of brothers, and great was the amusement he gave by the playful verses he wrote to please me." the leycesters of toft, of which house oswald leycester was a younger son, were an offshoot of the leycesters of tabley, now represented by lord de tabley. the family held high rank among the cheshire squirearchy, and between them and the stanleys a friendship had long existed, the intimacy being increased by near neighbourship, for toft, their ancestral home--a charmingly situated manor-house, where, before his removal to stoke, oswald leycester resided with his widowed mother--was only a few miles distant, and a continuous intercourse was kept up between the two families. "my great delight," wrote maria leycester, "was to go to alderley park and play with the 'miss stanleys;' and it was a joy when, standing by the breakfast table, i heard it settled that the carriage was to be ordered to go to alderley, and that i was to be of the party." the leycesters could boast a lineage as ancient as that of the stanleys, and through the tofts, whose estates they had acquired by marriage with a heiress of that family in the reign of richard ii., were able to trace their descent from gunnora, duchess of normandy, the grandmother of william the conqueror. edward stanley was approaching his thirty-second year at the time of his marriage--his wife had then just passed her nineteenth birthday. but, young as she was, she had, owing to the delicate health of her mother, been taught, almost from the time of leaving school, to think and act for herself, and had had moreover the responsibility cast upon her of educating her younger sister, maria leycester. "hers was a porcelain understanding," said sydney smith; her journal and the letters written in her earlier life give a true reflex of her mind, and justify the remark of her son that "there was a quiet wisdom, a rare usefulness, a calm discrimination, a firm decision, which made her judgment and her influence felt through the whole circle in which she lived." to the old rectory house at alderley, edward stanley took his bride, and in that happy home five children were brought up. of the every-day life in that household we get many pleasant glimpses in the journal of maria leycester, to which reference has already been made. she writes upon one occasion:-- we live here (alderley rectory) in such perfect retirement and tranquillity that it is more like stoke than alderley, and i enjoy excessively the exemption from all interruption to the happiness of my life here. i believe you will not have any difficulty in imagining how great that happiness is, in the society of two people that one loves excessively, with children that are as interesting to one as if they were one's own, and with all the luxury of delicious spring weather (this was written may , ) in beech woods and green fields. i would defy you to tantalise me with the greatest temptations london could offer; as far as happiness, real _true_ happiness is concerned, nothing in london could present to me half as much as one perfectly retired uninterrupted day at alderley. in one of her letters to miss clinton, written from stoke rectory in the early summer of , she says:-- that i have not written to you before you will easily understand to have arisen from my unwillingness to lose a single hour of my last days at alderley. they were indeed very precious to me, and after staying there for four months uninterruptedly you may well imagine how painful it was to me to leave all those who were more than usually endeared to me by the comfort they had offered me during a time when nothing else could have pleased or interested. certainly, too, altogether, with its inhabitants, its abundance of books, of drawing, liberty unrestrained, beautiful walks and rides and seats, luxuriance of flowers, and, in delicious weather, there cannot on earth be so perfect a paradise. during the hot weather we generally went on the mere--or rode in the evenings. every morning, before breakfast, lucy and i met in the wood at the old moss house, where we spent an hour together, and owen (edward stanley's eldest son) came to ferry me home. with so much around to interest and please me, i put away self as much as possible, and endeavoured as much as i could to enjoy the present. you know how dearly i love all those children, and it was such a pleasure to see them all so happy together. to be sure it would be singular if they were not different from other children, with the advantages they have, when education is made so interesting and amusing as it is to them.... while others of their age are plodding through the dull histories, of which they remember nothing, of unconnected countries and ages, k.'s (katharine stanley's) system is to take one particular era, perhaps, and upon the basis of the general history, pick out for them from different books all that bears upon that one subject, whether in memoirs or literature, making it at once an interesting study to herself and them. the old rectory house at alderley was not the home of the parson only--it was, in a sense, the home of the parish, and became the resort of all who were in trouble or difficulty, or who needed counsel or assistance. the house was, as it were, thrown open, and every one knew that in it they had a friend ready to listen to their little grievances, and equally ready to remedy them where it was in his power to do so--one who could "weep with them that wept, and rejoice with them that rejoiced"--who had a kindly sympathy in all their concerns, and could enter into their interests with the feelings of a father and a friend. the good man's delight in ministering to the temporal comforts of his people was extreme, and he took an especial pleasure in drawing them around him, in order that he might turn any passing circumstance to profitable account, and speak to them more familiarly and more directly upon matters connected with the parish that might be commented upon or set right. he preferred kneeling by the sick bed in a cottage to the cushioned ease of a mansion, and a serious conversation with the poor to the small talk of the drawing-room. it was this feature in his ministerial career that left a never-fading recollection in the minds of those he ministered to, and many a good deed done in secret only came to light when he was removed to another sphere of duty, and but for that removal would probably never have been disclosed. mounted upon his little black cob, he might be seen daily going his rounds among his parishioners, advising them in their difficulties, comforting them in their sorrows, and encouraging or reproving them as he saw occasion. the sound of his horse's feet was as music in the ears of the rustic cottagers, who would hasten to their doors to greet his approach, while their children, with bobbing courtesies, would stand in eager expectation of the "goodies" that were sure to be the reward of those who were clean and tidy. "when he entered a sick chamber," it was said, "he never failed to express the joy which order and neatness gave him, or to reprove where he found it otherwise," and whatever was proposed for the general good was sure to receive his active support; he took so much trouble, the people said, in whatever he did--never sparing himself in whatever he took in hand. he felt that he was in a measure a temporal as well as a spiritual guide, a leader and encourager of sobriety, good order, and peacefulness, as well as a teacher of sound doctrine and an example of christian practice, and that his mission was rather to raise the rude and uncultivated to his own level than to lower himself to theirs. in those days pastoral life was not so charmingly innocent, nor the colins and phoebes nearly so amiable and virtuous, as imaginative poets and painters have pictured them to us. in alderley, as in many other places, drunkenness was the besetting sin; immorality, as a matter of course, followed in its train; and what should have been a kind of arcadia was oftentimes the scene of riotous disorder. the good rector spared no pains to repress the evil, and whenever he heard of any drunken fight in the village he would, with the dash and daring of an english sailor, hurry off to put a stop to it. it is related that on one occasion word was brought to him that a riotous crowd had assembled on the confines of his parish to witness a desperate prize fight. "the whole field," so a rustic spectator described it, "was filled, and all the trees round about, when in about a quarter of an hour i saw the rector coming up the road on his little black horse as quick as lightning, and i trembled for fear they should harm him. he rode into the field, and just looked quick round (as if he thought the same) to see who there was that would be on his side. but it was not needed--he rode into the midst of the crowd, and in one moment it was all over; there was a great calm; the blows stopped; it was as if they would all have wished to cover themselves up in the earth--all from the trees they dropped down directly--no one said a word, and all went away humble." the following day he sent for the two men, but instead of scolding he reasoned with them, and sent each away with a bible in his hand. he was the centre from which whatever there was of spiritual life in the parish emanated. self-reliant, resolute and unwearied, but kind and conciliatory, and withal cautious and discreet in his operations, he exhibited a thoroughness of character that enabled him to exercise a controlling influence over his charge, and his self-devotedness was often gladdened by the sympathy and encouraged by the affection of those whom he had won from the slavery of sin to the freedom of christian life. when he settled down with his young wife among the scattered units that in the aggregate constituted his flock, he found them for the most part sunk in ignorance, mental and moral; and the parents, indifferent themselves, had allowed their children to grow up in the same indifference. to reclaim the young, he set about gathering them into the village schools, in the successful working of which he ever manifested the deepest interest. public elementary education had then made but little progress, and the proverbial three r's, with perhaps a dash of unintelligible geography and history, made up the total of the knowledge usually imparted. edward stanley was far in advance of many of his clerical brethren in the desire to place the means of instruction within the reach of even the poorest classes of society, as well as to improve the methods of conveying it; and his zeal in this direction has been testified to by a former chancellor of the diocese of chester, the rev. henry raikes. "he was the first," said the chancellor, "who distinctly saw and boldly advocated the advantages of general education for the lower classes. schools had been founded; he had borne his part--and a most active part--in the first movement, but i think that he first set the example of the extent to which general knowledge might be communicated--and beneficially communicated--in a parochial school. i well remember the appearance," he says, "of the school at alderley, where, in addition to the usual range of desks and books, the apparatus for gymnastic exercises was seen suspended from the roof. i remember the admiration excited at a lecture which he delivered in chester, where he exhibited a 'hortus siccus' of the plants found in the parish, made by one of the girls in the school; and, though few or none did more than wonder at what was accomplished at alderley, an impression was created that a large amount of useful secular knowledge might be added without any deduction from what would be considered the proper objects of a school." his love of learning manifested itself in other ways. when half a century ago the british association had sprung into existence, causing a flutter among church dignitaries, who failed to see that christianity had everything to hope and nothing to fear from the advancement of science, and very reverend deans were addressing letters of remonstrance to its promoters on the "dangers of peripatetic philosophy," edward stanley courageously came forward as its advocate, and was enrolled as one of its early vice-presidents. a one-sided development of the mind was then the characteristic of the older universities, and men often-times left college without a single idea concerning the common things of every-day life or the slightest knowledge of any of god's works. the rector of alderley was in many respects self-educated; dependent in a great measure upon his own resources, he had discovered that dead literature could not be made the parent of living science or active industry, and was one of the first clergymen to direct popular attention to the wondrous history of the stones of the field, the birds of the air, and the "gnats above the summer stream." "the perversions of men," he was wont to say, "would have made an infidel of him but for the counteracting impressions of divine providence in the works of nature." like gilbert white, at selborne, he devoted much of his leisure in noting the instincts of animals and the phenomena of ever-changing nature. ornithology was his favourite subject of study, and the staircases and corridors of his rectory house, adorned as they were with cuttings from "bewick," bore testimony to his love of birds, while their habits and peculiarities formed a constant source of interest and amusement to him in his rambles through the fields and along the rural lanes of his parish. the result of his labours he embodied in a pleasantly-written work, published by the christian knowledge society--"a familiar history of birds: their nature, habits, and instincts"--a work that has passed through several editions--in which are recorded many of the observations made at alderley. on the th of june, , the rector's heart was gladdened by the birth of a son, who, in compliment to his grandmother, was named owen. owen stanley inherited his father's passionate desire for the naval profession, and the wish was indulged from a recollection of the painful effort it cost the father in his boyhood to overcome the same impulse. another child, a daughter, was born on the th december, , mary stanley, and his happiness was added to by the birth of a second son, on the th december, --arthur penrhyn stanley, the future dean of westminster. of the home life in the pleasant old parsonage house many glimpses are given us in that tribute of filial affection from the pen of arthur penrhyn stanley to which reference has previously been made, as well as in that delightful chronicle of english domestic life--its comfort, its quiet, and its innocence, written by arthur stanley's kinsman--"memorials of a quiet life." writing to her sister in may, , mrs. stanley remarks:-- how i have enjoyed these fine days--and one's pleasure is doubled, or rather, i should say, trebled, in the enjoyment of the three little children basking in the sunshine on the lawns, and picking up daisies, and finding new flowers every day--and in seeing arthur expand like one of the flowers in the fine weather. owen trots away to school at nine o'clock every morning, with his latin grammar under his arm, leaving mary (his sister) with a strict charge to unfurl his flag, which he leaves carefully furled, through the little gothic gate, as soon as the clock strikes twelve. so mary unfurls the flag and then watches till owen comes in sight, and as soon as he spies her signal he sets off full gallop towards it, and mary creeps through the gate to meet him, and then comes with as much joy to announce owen's being come back as if he was returned from the north pole. meanwhile i am sitting with the doors open into the trellice, so that i can see and hear all that passes. two years later the fond mother writes:-- i have been taking a domestic walk with the three children and the pony to owen's favourite cavern, mary and arthur taking it in turns to ride. arthur was sorely puzzled between his fear and his curiosity. owen and mary, full of adventurous spirit, went with mademoiselle to explore. arthur stayed with me and the pony, but when i said i would go, he said, colouring, he would go, he _thought_. "but, mamma, do you think there are any wild dogs in the cavern?" then we picked up various specimens of cobalt, &c., and we carried them in a basket, and we called at mrs. barber's, and we got some string, and we tied the basket to the pony with some trouble, and we got home very safe, and i finished the delights of the evening by reading _paul and virginia_ to owen and mary, with which they were much delighted and so was i. you would have given a good deal for a peep at arthur this evening, making hay with all his little strength--such a beautiful colour, and such soft animation in his blue eyes. among the letters of mrs. stanley is one that has more than a local or domestic interest. she was one of the spectators on the occasion of the opening of the liverpool and manchester railway on that memorable th september, , when the duke of wellington, who was then prime minister, came down to preside at the ceremony, and poor william huskisson, who had been such a strenuous and eager supporter of the enterprise, met his death. after a vivid account of the scene and the incident that gave such a mournful interest to it, she describes a visit she made a year or two after to high legh. she says:-- we are a party of twenty-six in the house. there are so many that one's presence or absence is perfectly immaterial and unremarked. there is one person who interests me very much--mrs. tom blackburne, "the vicaress" of eccles, who received poor mrs. huskisson, and immortalised herself by her activity, sense, and conduct all through. she made one ashamed of the ease and idleness of one's own life, compared with hers. they have to deal with such a population-- , souls. she has been the ruling spirit evidently; and under her guidance, and the help of a sound head and heart her husband has become the very man for the place, with quickness and presence of mind for any sudden emergency: and she describes the people--all manchester weavers--as grateful and sensitive, far beyond our agricultural experience. he is in general at home to parishioners from till and from to every day, and often fully occupied all the time; but during the four days mrs. huskisson was in the house, none of them entered the gates. she asked afterwards why it was, and one of them said, "eh, we knowed what you were at, and so we did without." i made her give me the details of those days. she said the most painful thing she had to do was waking mrs. huskisson out of her sound heavy sleep the morning after. she went three times into the room before she had resolution to wake her outright, as was necessary. mrs. h. went into the most violent hysterics the moment she opened her eyes and saw mrs. blackburne. lord granville, hearing her screams, came to mrs. blackburne's assistance. he and his valet were her chief assistants all through. she said the advantage of having such people to deal with was great. many would have thought it an additional trouble to have great people in such circumstances--she found it just the reverse; the high breeding and true gentlemanliness that come out smooths over every difficulty and awkwardness of strangers in such close quarters. lord granville, in particular, entered into every feeling with a woman's delicacy. poor mrs. huskisson was alternately in paroxysms of grief and a still more dreadful calmness, especially the day after, when it was wished to relieve her of all business, and she insisted on doing everything herself. just before she left the house, she locked herself into the room, and after violent hysterics, during which mrs. blackburne tried in vain to get to her assistance, she heard her praying for her and her husband, and all connected with them. she desired mrs. blackburne to remember her to lady elizabeth belgrave, and to hope she had not suffered from the shock (she was near her confinement). "what should i have felt if you had been in her situation?" this she said to mrs. blackburne, who was at the moment within three months of her time. of course mrs. blackburne said nothing, but wrote to her after her confinement, and mrs. huskisson answered her that it was the first ray of sunshine that had come to her, for she had afterwards found it out, and it had weighed heavily upon her. some months afterwards she sent mr. blackburne a bible with gold clasps, and in the purple silk lining inside, these words in gilt letters:--"i was a stranger and ye took me in." both last christmas and this she sent also £ to him to distribute amongst his poor, well knowing that she could not make him a more acceptable present. [illustration: handwritten signature] for thirty-two years edward stanley continued to minister to the wants--temporal as well as spiritual--of the population of his pleasant little rural parish, looked up to by the cottage as a father and a friend, and endeared to all by his earnestness, his simplicity, and his geniality; his faithful coadjutor during the whole of that long period being the rev. isaac bell, his curate, the father of the present worthy rector of alderley, the rev. edward john bell. for a time ( to ) he enjoyed the friendly co-operation of the rector of the adjoining parish of wilmslow--the rev. j. mathias turner,[ ] who afterwards became bishop of calcutta, and many were the schemes of parochial improvement then formed, and which, doubtless, afterwards influenced in no small degree the church work in the dioceses to which the two rectors were respectively appointed. stanley could never find happiness in repose; his intervals of leisure, as we have said, were mainly devoted to the study of ornithology, but he also found time for literary pursuits. in addition to the pamphlets which he issued from time to time in the form of addresses to his people--"a few words on behalf of our roman catholic brethren," "a few observations on religion and education in ireland," and "a country rector's address to his parishioners"--he contributed to the "british magazine," to "blackwood," and to other periodicals, the results of his studies and the records of his brief holiday excursions; one of these latter, an account of an adventure in the alps, on the "mauvais pas," is believed to have suggested to sir walter scott the opening scene in his novel of "anne of geierstein." among the results of his scientific and antiquarian investigations is a history of the parish of alderley, still preserved in ms., which it is hoped will at no distant day be given to the world. but the time came when the literary occupations and the scientific investigations with which he had so pleasantly beguiled his leisure hours at alderley were to be laid aside--when he was to be wrenched out of his rural surroundings to undertake the episcopal supervision of an important diocese. when it was proposed to erect manchester into a see the rector of alderley declined the invitation to become its first bishop, but in , at the instance of the then prime minister, lord melbourne, he was, after much deliberation and a severe struggle which almost broke down his health, induced to accept the nomination to the bishopric of norwich. to leave the quiet, peaceful parsonage where so many happy years had been passed, and where all his children had been born and reared--to part from those among whom he had so long laboured--was a sore trial, and the news of the preferment which was to sever the tie that had so long bound pastor and people was received by the parishioners amidst an uncontrollable outburst of grief. it is not our purpose to dwell at any length upon the labours of edward stanley as a bishop of the church of england; suffice it to say that on leaving alderley, where so many years of his useful life had been spent, and which was endeared to him by so many ties of affection and sympathy, he turned with alacrity to the work which lay before him, and with the same spirit of energy, and the same dauntless courage, applied himself to the development of those schemes of practical usefulness that lay within his grasp, in order that his cathedral city might become the centre of the moral and religious life of the diocese. broad in his sympathies, courageous in his outspeaking, and impetuous in his temperament, he oftentimes brought himself in conflict with those who were content with things as they had been, and in the earlier years of his episcopate he found his diocese anything but a bed of roses, for during the closing years of the long rule of his predecessor, bishop bathurst, norwich had been a byword for laxity among the sees of the english church, a condition of things the new prelate could not endure. stanley's whole life had been a protest against the lethargy and inactivity which was then only too common a characteristic of the clergy, yet his broad liberality, his fatherly sympathy, and his geniality and simplicity enabled him, while correcting abuses, always to leave peace behind. his personal kindness won the hearts of the clergy of his diocese as thoroughly as it had previously won those of the cottagers in his parish. "i felt," said one of them, after a visit from the bishop, "as if a sunbeam had passed through my parish, and had left me to rejoice in its genial and cheerful warmth. from that day i would have died to serve him; and i believe that not a few of my humble flock were animated in a greater or less degree by the same kind of feeling." [illustration: handwritten signature] amid the cares inseparable from the active supervision of an important diocese, he never forgot his old parish of alderley, and his attachment for the scene of his early labours continued unshaken. "it would be vain and useless," he said, on commencing his primary visitation, "to speak to others of what none could feel so deeply as myself. what it cost me to leave alderley, it is for myself alone to feel." on parting with his parishioners he had given a sacred pledge that he would visit them every year, and the annual recurrence of the time when he could again make the familiar round of visits to those he had known and loved during his long ministerial intercourse, and who themselves looked forward to his coming as the greatest pleasure of their lives, was anticipated with fond delight. "i have been," he wrote to a friend, a few months before his death, "in various directions over the parish, visiting many welcome faces, laughing with the living, weeping over the dying. it is gratifying to see the cordial familiarity with which they receive me; and norwich clergy would scarcely know me sitting by cottage firesides, talking over old times, with their hands clasped in mine, as an old and dear friend." on the last day of december, , the eve of his seventieth birthday, he wrote in his journal:-- in a few hours i shall have attained the threescore years and ten and closed the eleventh year of my episcopal life ... and though these latter years have been accompanied with much labour and pain and sorrow, more and more alive as i am to the difficulties presenting themselves, still i feel satisfaction in what i have been instrumental in doing. how many parishes have been supplied with resident clergy, in which no pastoral care had been for years manifested? how many churches have had the full measure of services prescribed, in which from time immemorial the most scanty administration had sufficed? and how many schools have been established for the benefit of the thousands who had been, with the most culpable negligence, permitted to remain brutalised and uncivilised and perishing for lack of knowledge? before another year had passed away, the good prelate was numbered among those who "fell asleep and were laid unto their fathers." during the summer the state of his health had been such as to cause anxiety to his family; his overtaxed faculties needed rest, and, after an ordination at norwich, he was induced to start with his wife and daughters on a short tour in scotland. while at brahan castle, in ross-shire, a change for the worse occurred; this was on the rd of september; on the following day he rallied a little, and expressed a desire to go down to the warm sunshine of the bright autumnal morning which lay on the greensward under his window, and rose to attempt it, but the effort was more than his strength would bear, and he sank down upon the bed never in life to rise again. for two days the struggle with nature continued, and on the evening of the th, in the presence of his wife and daughters and his son, arthur penrhyn stanley, calmly and unconsciously, as if in a dream, he passed into his rest. in life he had expressed a desire to be buried in the churchyard of alderley, among those with whom he had so long lived, unless that "circumstances and the wishes and judgment" of those on whom he most confided "might decide upon the spot which had been the last scene of his ministerial labours." their decision was that he should rest within the precincts of his own cathedral; and there, on the st of september, his remains were interred, a vast multitude attending to pay the last tribute of respect to his memory. "i can give you the facts," wrote one who was present, "but i can give you no notion of how impressive it was, nor how affecting. there were such sobs and tears from the school children, and from the clergy who so loved their dear bishop. a beautiful sunshine lit up everything, shining into the cathedral just at the time. arthur was quite calm, and looked like an angel, with a sister on each side." in the centre of the nave of norwich cathedral, where the warm rays of the setting sun as they steal through the great west window which he had desired should be restored as a memorial of him, dye the pavement with rainbow hues, a plain black marble tablet marks the spot where his ashes lie. it is inscribed:-- installed aug. , born jan. , . in the faith of christ here rests from his labours edward stanley years rector of alderley, years bishop of norwich; buried amidst the mourning of the diocese which he had animated, the city which he had served, the poor whom he had visited, the schools which he had fostered, the family which he had loved, and of all christian people with whom, howsoever divided, he had joined in whatever things were true, and honest, and just, and pure, and lovely, and of good report. died sept. , , aged . interred sept. , while the solemn sound from the great bell-tower of the cathedral announced to the citizens of norwich that the mortal frame of him who had won the hearts of all sorts and conditions of men was being committed to the tomb, a mournful knell echoed from the grey tower of the quiet old church of alderley, cleaving the silent air with its funereal tone--the tongue of death with mournful accents laden--conveying a message to the living from the dead that awoke a feeling of sorrow as touching and unfeigned as that more openly manifested at norwich; for though twelve years had gone by since edward stanley had been withdrawn from the parish, and many changes had taken place, the feeling of affection which had gathered round him during the thirty-two years of his ministry was fresh and green in the hearts of the people, and the tidings of his death were received with a burst of grief that was all the more affecting from the simple language in which it found utterance; a sorrowful gloom spread over the parish, many a cottage was darkened, and many an eye was dimmed with tears at the consciousness that the same hand which had deprived the church of one of her worthiest sons had reft them of a sincere and devoted friend. when the bishop's papers came to be examined, it was found he had not forgotten those who held him in such loving regard. among the documents were two addresses, one to the parishioners and the other to the school children of alderley, with a request that a copy of each might be sent to every house in the parish. bishop stanley was spared one affliction. his youngest son, charles edward stanley, who had entered the service of the royal engineers, and was afterwards appointed private secretary to sir william denison, governor of van diemen's land, was suddenly cut off by fever at his official post in tasmania on the th of august, . the news had not reached england at the time of the prelate's decease, and it was not until december that the widowed mother became acquainted with the fact of her son's death. to add to her sorrow, intelligence was received in the course of the following summer that the eldest son, captain owen stanley, had been found dead in his cabin on board ship at sydney, a few days after receiving the tidings of his father's and his brother's death. the two brothers remain in those distant regions, one in st. george's churchyard, hobart town; the other in a secluded spot in the graveyard of st. leonard's, which owen stanley had chosen as his resting-place in the event of his dying in australia. thus, of the three sons of edward stanley, only one survived to be a stay and comfort to the widowed mother--arthur penhryn stanley, the profound scholar and the earnest and fearless thinker, who afterwards became dean of westminster. born and brought up in his father's rectory, he to the last retained an affectionate interest in the place where his boyhood was passed; when he had attained to manhood he was in the habit of regularly visiting his old nurse, ellen baskerville, and when she died, only a few years ago, he came down from westminster to read the burial service over her body. a brief notice of arthur stanley's early days may fittingly conclude our notice of alderley and the stanleys. the letters already quoted have given us a side glance into the happy home in which his boyhood was passed. unlike his brothers, who were strong, robust, and full of spirit and adventure, the little arthur was weak and delicate, thoughtful and reserved in his manner, with a shyness in his disposition that caused him to shun the companionship of other boys of his own age. mrs. stanley's happy method of imparting instruction had awakened in his young mind a passion for poetry and romance, and his imagination was stirred by the many weird legends and quaint traditions that gathered around the neighbourhood of his home, and which, though now fast dying from the memories of the inhabitants, were then implicitly believed. his ideas frequently found vent in rhyme, and at the early age of twelve he is said to have written some verses on the occasion of his watching the sun rise from the tower of alderley church. when nine years of age he was sent to a private school at seaforth, near liverpool. twelve months after his aunt, maria leycester, who was on a visit at his father's rectory, wrote to one of the family:-- july, .--you know how dearly i love all these children and it has been such a pleasure to see them all so happy together. owen, the hero upon whom all their little eyes were fixed, and the delicate arthur, able to take his own share of boyish amusements with them, and telling out his little store of literary wonders to charlie and catherine. school has not transformed him into a rough boy yet. he is a little less shy, but not much. he brought back from school a beautiful prize book for history, of which he is not a little proud; and mr. rawson has told several people, unconnected with the stanleys, that he never had a more amiable, attentive, or clever boy than arthur stanley, and that he never has had to find fault with him since he came. my sister finds in examining him, that he not only knows what he has learnt himself, but that he picks up all the knowledge gained by the other boys in their lessons, and can tell what each boy in the school has read, &c. his delight in reading _madoc_ and _thalaba_ is excessive. again, writing from her father's rectory at stoke-upon-terne, under date august , , maria leycester remarks:-- my alderley children are more interesting than ever. arthur is giving mary quite a literary taste, and is the greatest advantage to her possible, for they are now quite inseparable companions, reading, drawing, and writing together. arthur has written a poem on the life of a peacock butterfly in the spenserian stanza, with all the old words, with references to chaucer, &c., at the bottom of the page.... i never saw anything equal to arthur's memory and quickness in picking up knowledge; seeming to have just the sort of intuitive sense of everything relating to books that owen had in ships--and then there is such affection and sweetness of disposition in him.... you will not be tired of all this detail of those so near my heart. it is always such a pleasure to me to write of the rectory, and i can always do it better when i am away from it and it rises before my mental vision. at the age of thirteen, that is in , arthur stanley had his first experience of foreign travel, having in that year accompanied his parents and some other relatives in a tour to bordeaux and the pyrenees. the sight of the snow-tipped peaks rising above the masses of cloud filled his mind with wonder, and in a thrill of childish delight he exclaimed, "what shall i do? what shall i do?" in the spring of the following year he was sent to rugby, where dr. arnold had, only a few months before, been appointed to the head-mastership. it was an anxious time for all at the rectory, for the weak, timid, bashful boy, accustomed only to the peaceful seclusion of his native village and the quietude of the private school at seaforth, was but ill-fitted to cope with the active, strong-limbed youths he would be sure to encounter in a large public school, where might oftentimes takes the place of right, to say nothing of the terrors of prepostors and fagging. under the judicious training of dr. arnold, however, his native diffidence was in a great degree overcome; he began to take his part in the manly exercises in which all rugbeians were expected to perfect themselves, and made for himself many friends, among them being one who in after life became associated with him by closer ties--the rev. charles j. vaughan, d.d., master of the temple, who in married his youngest sister, catherine maria stanley. we get a glimpse of him during his school life from one of his mother's letters written in february, . she says:-- charlie writes word from school, "i am very miserable, not that i want anything, except to be at home." arthur does not mind going half so much. he says he does not know why, but all the boys seem fond of him, and he never gets plagued in any way like the others; his study is left untouched, his things unbroke, his books undisturbed. charlie is so fond of him and deservedly so. you would have been so pleased one night, when charlie all of a sudden burst into violent distress at not having finished his french task for the holydays, by arthur's judicious good nature in showing him how to help himself, entirely leaving what he was about of his own employment. from a child he had manifested a tender spirit of piety, and it is related on good authority that he was the original arthur who won the heart of tom brown at rugby, by kneeling down at his little bed in the presence of a rough crowd of boys, and saying his prayers before retiring, the practical effect of which was that several of his schoolfellows who from shame had given up all habit of prayer were emboldened to begin the practice again. for five years arthur stanley was the favourite pupil of dr. arnold, but the friendship then formed continued until the great schoolmaster's sudden and memorable death on the eve of his birthday in . in stanley entered at university college, oxford, and was elected a scholar on that foundation in , the year in which his father removed from alderley to norwich. on the th of june in the same year he recited in the sheldonian theatre his newdegate prize poem, "the gipsies;" his father was a listener, and when he beheld the tumult of applause with which it was received, he burst into tears. in the following year he graduated b.a.; shortly after he proceeded to the higher degree of m.a., and in the autumn of was ordained. it does not come within the scope of this brief sketch to relate in detail his progress at the university, or his career as a divine of the church of england--they are familiar to everyone. as was truly remarked in a sermon preached in the old church of alderley by the present rector on the occasion of his death, he "combined in a singular degree not only the excellences of his father and the virtues of his accomplished mother, but he inherited also their combined intellects. it was not, however, so much his high and refined intellect or his graphic writings which endeared him to those who knew him, as the more genial and gentle virtues of his private life." he had the widest sympathies, and he manifested them with remarkable tact and delicacy; indeed, the great work of his life seemed not so much the writing of books or the preaching of sermons as the broadening of the foundations of christian charity, and the furthering of a spirit of christian union. few men were less influenced by theological dogma. he was always ready to draw moral lessons from christian doctrines, but it is doubtful if he had any very definite conception regarding those doctrines, or subjected them to any serious sifting. it was this loose hold on theology--this indifferentism in regard to inspiration that, while it made him popular among laymen, created a feeling of irritation among those of his brethren who had definite ideas on the most momentous of subjects. to him such questions served mainly as a background to a high morality and wide charity. with clear calm eye he fronted faith, and she, despite the clamorous crowd smiled, knowing her soul-loyal votary at no slave's altar bowed. with forward glance beyond polemic scope, he scanned the sweep of time, and everywhere changed looks with blue-eyed hope, victress o'er doubt and crime. but inward turning, he, of gentle heart, and spirit, mild as free, most gladly welcomed, as life's better part, the rule of charity. [illustration: handwritten note] after a brief illness, which was not at first regarded as serious, erysipelas supervened, and shortly before midnight, on monday, the th of july, , in the deanery house, at westminster, quietly and without suffering, the spirit winged its flight from earth. on the monday following his body was deposited in the grave in henry vii. chapel, westminster, where, on the th of march, , his wife, lady augusta stanley, had been laid to rest. dean stanley's visits to alderley were frequent. the last time he occupied the pulpit of the old church was on the th of may, , when he preached before a crowded congregation in aid of the fund for restoring the church. on a more recent visit, though pressed for time, he stopped by the way at the cottage of a suffering parishioner, offered words of comfort and prayer by his bedside--"the same prayer," as he afterwards remarked, "that he had used by the bedside of his own dear wife." his final visit was in the autumn of , on his return from a short sojourn in the isle of man, when he visited the rectory and his mother's and sister's grave, accompanied by his friend, the bishop of manchester. chapter iii. rivington and the lords willoughby--the pilkingtons--the story of a lancashire bishop. "no, sir, hardly a vestige of the old house remains, and even the willoughby coat of arms with the supporters, the ivy-wreathed savage and the horseshoe-eating ostrich, that once adorned and gave dignity to the outbuilding, has been taken away by sacrilegious hands, and now only a blank space remains to show where once it was." such was the remark of a friend at whose hospitable abode in heath-charnock we were spending a few days, a year or two ago, in reply to our inquiries as to the present condition of shaw place, an ancient habitation on the confines of rivington, once the home of the lords willoughby of parham. but rivington and its vicinity have other associations to claim attention not less interesting than the fading memories of the extinct willoughbys. the tower-crowned summit of the pike, rising to the height of , feet above the sea level, calls to remembrance the stirring times of the armada, and the scarcely less anxious days of nearly a century ago when our grandfathers were in daily dread of invasion, and constant watch was kept in order that the beacon fire might flash the signal of danger from hill to hill should their fears be realised; and the "two-lads," a double pile of stones on the further side, has its tale of disaster to beguile the time if we care to listen to it. those bleak mountain ridges that stretch away towards the south were once included within the limits of the great forest of horwich, "a place of great sport," as the old chroniclers have it, with its aëries of eagles, of hawks, and of herons. rivington was for centuries the home of the pilkingtons, "gentlemen of repute in their shire before the conquest," as old fuller tells us; if tradition is to be relied on, the chief of them bore himself bravely upon the red field of hastings, and when sought for by the victors for espousing the cause of the defeated harold, to avoid discovery, disguised himself as a mower, in commemoration of which circumstance his descendants have ever since borne the man and scythe for their crest. a scion of this ancient house, richard pilkington, in the days of the eighth harry or shortly after, founded the church of rivington, and his son, james pilkington, who had suffered exile for the reformed faith in the time of the marian persecutions, was nominated by queen elizabeth first protestant bishop of the palatinate see of durham, and was also founder of the grammar school at rivington, an institution that to this day perpetuates his name. our host having suggested a walk as far, we were nothing loth to act upon his advice and renew acquaintance with a locality familiar to us in earlier years. it was not the most favourable day for a pedestrian ramble, for, though the rays of the february sun had made some feeble attempts to wake the firstlings of the year from their long winter sleep, the indications of spring had proved delusive, and king frost still held the vegetable world fast bound in his icy fetters. of a verity it might be said that the lingering winter chilled the lap of spring, for though we had entered upon the month of march the crocus, which, according to the old saw-- blows before the shrine at vernal dawn of st. valentine had not yet ventured forth as the harbinger of returning animation, and even the tiny snowdrop, forerunner of the glorious train of summer flowers, hid its drooping head beneath the fleecy robe of nature's weaving from which it takes its name. winter had returned upon us with old-fashioned severity, and his keen breath had again begun-- to glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods, and periwig with snow the bald-pate woods. the snow, which had fallen heavily during the night, enfolding the earth in a downy mantle, had nearly ceased, and only a few stray feathery flakes descended; the broad breezy moors that stretched their length across the landscape were thickly covered, and it lay deep in the cloughs and dingles that the storms of ages had channelled down their sides. the hedgerows in their fleecy garniture assumed quaint and indefinite shapes, and chequered the cold snow with their fantastic shadows, and the few trees bordering the wayside stretched their naked boles across the path, looking weird and gaunt and grim; but there was neither colour nor savagery enough to make a picture--nothing but a dull leaden gloom that left a saddening and depressing influence upon the senses, instead of making glad the heart of the beholder. the eddying wind that blew from the west broke in fitful gusts, and drove the dark leaden cloud-rack and drifted sea-fog swiftly athwart the sky, betokening a coming change; there was a rawness, too, in the atmosphere that sent a chill through your veins, and everything seemed cold and comfortless; while the few wayfarers you met looked sad and woe-begone, and as sullen and ungenial as the weather. we missed the cheery sunshine, and the sharp, crisp, nipping air of a clear, frosty day; but for all that we trudged along with light heart and steady step, though the roads were heavy, for the snow had melted in places, and now and then we plunged ankle-deep in thick icy sludge that oozed through the sodden ground. the rounded summit of rivington pike--riven pike, as it was anciently written--stands out boldly against the dull background of mist and murkiness, and the little square tower that crowns its highest point looks as if it had suddenly thrust its dark form up through the surrounding whiteness. as we mount the higher ground the prospect widens, and looking round the eye takes in a broad expanse of country. in front, in addition to the "pike," are the bleak moors of rivington and anglezark; below, half hidden by the leafless woods, we get occasional glimpses of the long lake-like reservoirs of the liverpool corporation waterworks. northwards, where the smoke hangs like a pall, is chorley; and further on, had the day been clear, we might have seen the tall chimneys of preston and the gleaming waters of the ribble estuary. duxbury, for centuries the home of the standishes, reminds us of the puritan captain, miles standish, whom longfellow has immortalised:-- he was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly back to hugh standish, of duxbury hall, in lancashire, england, who was the son of ralph, and grandson of thurstan de standish--heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded; still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock, argent--combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. hall-o'-th'-hill was the dwelling place of the asshawes, who were also lords of flixton; one of them--sir ralph--mr. m'dougall has made the subject of the most pathetic of his legendary ballads; while another--ann--was the wife of that richard pilkington who built rivington church, and the mother of james, the puritan prelate, who founded the school. adlington lies below us; and beyond the view takes in the great plain that stretches away to the fylde, dotted over with collieries and mills and loomsheds, that bear testimony to the active industry of the people. westwards, crowning a rocky ridge that rises abruptly from the banks of the douglas, we see the village of blackrod, with the battlemented tower of its ancient church rising above the lowly habitations that gather round. the remains of a roman causeway, it is said, may still be traced along the summit, and learned antiquaries confidently assure us that here the subjects of the cæsars had a military station--the _coccium_ of antoninus, and the _rigodunum_ of ptolemy; though other antiquaries, equally learned, with no less confidence and much more show of reason, tell us that the old roman station was not at blackrod, but further north, at walton, on the ribble. whether the masters of the ancient world bore the imperial eagles along those heights, and awoke the echoes with the cry of "ave! cæsar imperator!" we will not stay to inquire, but leave others to determine. the snow lies like a great white carpet upon the scene, spreading over moss and moor, and field and fell--a wide wilderness of unsullied purity, broken only where the lanes wander and the hedgerows cross and recross each other, or where a wooded bluff, a solitary homestead, or some manufacturing hamlet stands out in bold relief. occasionally a faint gleam steals through a rift in the shifting clouds, lighting up and beautifying some distant spot upon the landscape; but the brightness is only transient, and the scene soon resumes its cold grey monotonous gloom. presently the road bends to the right, and in a few minutes we reach the entrance to a long straight avenue of beeches that leads down to where the home of the willoughbys once stood. tall patrician trees they are that border the way, and meet almost in a canopy overhead, very patriarchs of their kind, that have withstood the winter's blast and summer's sunshine, and budded and blossomed and shed their leaves through long ages; but what time has failed to do sulphurous fumes from a neighbouring tile kiln have effectually accomplished, and now they present only the scathed and blighted semblance of their former glory. at the end of the gravelled walk may still be seen the two tall gate-posts that once flanked the entrance to the garden court; they are massive in character, rusticated at the joints, and surmounted by ball ornaments of ponderous size. to the right is a long range of outbuilding, with a tablet high up on the gable bearing the inscription w h h and the date , from which we gather that it was erected by hugh, the twelfth lord willoughby, and the lady honora, his wife, in the earlier years of queen anne's reign. on the side is a square panel that was formerly adorned with the armorial ensigns of the house, but the carved stone-work was taken away some few years ago, and, as we were told, when last heard of was waiting for a claimant at a remote railway station. the house itself has been rebuilt, and is now tenanted by a farmer, a fragment of masonry on one side being the only portion of the original mansion remaining. the connection of the willoughbys with this part of lancashire dates from about the middle of the seventeenth century, when thomas willoughby acquired lands in the neighbourhood by his marriage with eleanor, daughter of hugh whittal, or whittle, of horwich, the representative of an old puritan family, ranking as substantial yeomen, and a descendant, in all likelihood, of that ralph whittal of whom oliver heywood makes mention when, alluding to his boyish experiences, he says:--"many days of prayer have i known my father keep among god's people; yea, i remember a whole night wherein he, dr. bradshaw, adam fearniside, thomas crompton, and several more did pray all night in a parlour at ralph whittal's, upon occasion of king charles demanding the five members of the house of commons.[ ] such a night of prayers, tears, and groans i was never present at in all my life. the case was extraordinary and the work extraordinary."[ ] the willoughbys were a family of ancient and illustrious lineage, deriving their patronymic from the manor of the same name in lincolnshire, where the parent stock had been seated almost from the time of duke william of normandy. one of them, sir william willoughby, in the reign of henry iii., signed the cross--in those days the highest object of human ambition--and accompanied the young prince edward in the expedition to palestine to recover the holy places from the moslem, and, in allusion to some now long forgotten exploit there, adopted a saracen's head for his crest, which, on the darwinian principle, has since developed into the "black lad," the sign, at the present day, of the village hostelry at rivington. his warlike spirit was inherited by his descendants, who shared in the glories of crescy, poitiers, and agincourt, and on many a well-fought field besides; bore their part in the sanguinary struggle between the rival houses of york and lancaster, and were present at the final fight on bosworth field--which alike put an end to feudalism and the power of the barons--when the victorious richmond ascended the throne and terminated the fratricidal strife by twining the white rose with the red. in acknowledgment of their valorous deeds, they were at different times ennobled by the titles of lords willoughby of eresby, of broke, of parham, and of monblay and beaumesguil. of this illustrious stock was one of whom we know just enough to make us wish to know more--the brave sir hugh willoughby, who defended lauder castle in berwickshire against both the french and scots; and, though suffering the severest privations, with a mere handful of men, held it until peace was proclaimed; and who, as we are told, "by reason of his goodly personage, as also for his singular skill in war," was in chosen by "the mystery, company, and fellowship of merchant adventurers," to command the first arctic expedition that ever left the english shores--an expedition that was fated never to return, for before a year had passed sir hugh, with the crews of two of his ships, in all about men, were frozen to death in the north sea, about the very time that his grand-niece, the lady jane grey, and her husband, lord guildford dudley, perished upon the scaffold. such was the briton's fate, as with first prow (what have not britons dared!) he for the passage sought attempted since so much in vain, and seeming to be shut by jealous nature with eternal bar, in these fell regions in arzina caught, and to the stony deep his idle ship immediate seal'd; he with his hapless crew each full exerted at his several task, froze into statues; to the cordage glued the sailor, and the pilot to the helm. scarcely had the solemn sound heard from the bell-towers of england, announcing the decease of king henry the eighth, died away, when sir william willoughby--descended through a younger line from william, fifth lord willoughby de eresby--was raised to the dignity of baron willoughby of parham, in suffolk, the patent of his nobility bearing date february , , the very day on which the remains of the defunct king were committed to the dust at windsor. this lord william, from whom the future owners of shaw place derived their descent, lived to a ripe old age, and died in , leaving a son charles, who succeeded to the barony, and who was then married to the lady margaret clinton, a daughter of queen elizabeth's lord high admiral, edward clinton, first earl of lincoln. by her he had several sons, among them william, the eldest, who died in the lifetime of his father; sir ambrose; and thomas, whose descendants we shall have occasion to refer to hereafter. charles lord willoughby died in , and was succeeded in the honours of his house by his grandson william, who had espoused the lady francis manners, daughter of john, fourth earl of rutland, by whom he had three sons, henry, francis, and william, who successively became fourth, fifth, and sixth lords willoughby. henry enjoyed the title only for a short time, and died before attaining his majority. francis, who succeeded, married elizabeth cecil, a great granddaughter of the famous lord treasurer, william cecil, lord burghley. on the breaking out of the great civil war, he took sides against the king, and had a command in the parliament's army, but did not achieve any great distinction; indeed he seems rather to have lacked the qualities that generals are made of. early in the summer of he seized gainsborough, and held it for the parliament; but on the news reaching the marquis of newcastle, he despatched a force out of yorkshire under general cavendish, who laid siege to the town, whereupon, cromwell, who had just taken burleigh house, the seat of the cecils, hastened with his huntingdonshire troopers, and a few regiments of lincolnshire and nottinghamshire horse to the relief of the beleaguered garrison, and attacked and defeated the royalist forces, cavendish being killed in the encounter. in connection with lord willoughby's occupation of gainsborough an incident occurred which is worth recording. on the capture of the town several persons of rank were made prisoners, including robert pierrepoint, earl of kingston, surnamed the "good." when it was known that the royalists were advancing, willoughby, to prevent the earl's escape, had him placed in a pinnace and conveyed to hull. while on the voyage cavendish, in ignorance that so distinguished a companion in arms was on board, ordered his men to fire upon the vessel, and an unlucky shot struck his lordship and killed him on the spot. mrs. lucy hutchinson, in her "memoirs" of her husband, gives the popular version of the story, from which it appears that when kingston was first invited to join the royalists, "he made a serious imprecation on himself: 'when,' said he, 'i take arms with the king against the parliament, or with the parliament against the king, let a cannon bullet divide me between them,'" "which god," she says, "was pleased to bring to pass a few months after; for he, going into gainsborough, and there taking up arms for the king, was surprised by my lord willoughby, and, after a handsome defence of himself, yielded, and was put prisoner into a pinnace, and sent down the river to hull, when my lord newcastle's army, marching along the shore, shot at the pinnace, and, being in danger, the earl of kingston went up upon the deck to show himself, and to prevail on them to forbear shooting; but as soon as he appeared a cannon bullet flew from the king's army and divided him in the middle, being then in the parliament's pinnace; who thus perished according to his own unhappy imprecation." the "notable victory," as he phrased it, gained by the embryo lord protector at gainsborough, though it proved insufficient in raising the siege, yet afforded an early example of that decision, energy, and valour for which cromwell subsequently became so famous. whitelocke, in his "memorials," says that this gallant encounter with newcastle's forces was "the beginning of cromwell's great fortunes, and he now began to appear in the world." if it made the name of the lord of the fens, as he had been previously designated, a familiar word throughout england, it did not add much lustre to that of lord willoughby. he was obliged to surrender gainsborough; and lincoln, whither he had retreated, had also to be given up to the victorious royalists. in a desponding letter to cromwell, written from boston, august th, , he says:--"since the business of gainsborough the hearts of our men have been so deaded that we have lost most of them, by running away, so that we were forced to leave lincoln upon a sudden; and if i had not done it then i should have been left alone." his position even at boston seems to have been very precarious, for he adds, "if you will endeavour to stop my lord of newcastle, you must presently draw them (the parliamentarian forces) to him and fight him, for without we be masters of the field we shall be pulled out by the ears one after the other." in the same letter he pathetically remarks, "you see by this how sadly your affairs stand. it's no longer disputing, but out instantly all you can; raise all your bands, send them to huntingdon; get up what volunteers you can; hasten your horses; send these letters to norfolk, sussex, and essex, without delay. i beseech you spare not, but be expeditious and industrious. almost all our foot have left stamford; there is nothing to interrupt the enemy but our horse. you must act lively; do it without distraction. neglect no means." willoughby was evidently not the kind of general that a soldier of cromwell's daring and resource could patiently act under, and that worthy was not long in expressing his opinion to the parliament, for we find him a few months later in the house of commons complaining of "my lord willoughby's backwardness as a general." he who could not "hold out" at gainsborough and lincoln, and who wrote from boston expecting himself and his men to be "pulled out by the ears one after the other," was certainly not the right man in the right place according to the ironside standard; and it was not long, therefore, before he was, on cromwell's suggestion, removed from his command and the earl of manchester appointed in his stead. though as a general lord willoughby might not come up to cromwell's standard, he nevertheless did "very considerable service for the parliament in lincolnshire," as whitelocke affirms, "and manifested as much courage and gallantry as any man in the service," and it is evident that, for some time at least, he retained the confidence and esteem of the ruling powers, for in december, , on the close of the first war, his name appears among those who were to have dignities and honours conferred upon them, an earldom being assigned to him; and about the same time, in the overtures for pacification, he was named one of the commissioners to the scots' army, then lying before newark, an appointment that gave great umbrage to the war party. willoughby was a staunch presbyterian, determinedly opposed to kingly prerogative, a devoted admirer of the parliament, and possessed withal of much real zeal for the liberties of his country, but he was not altogether destitute of loyal feeling or prepared to hew the throne down to a block. dissension had sprung up in the ranks of the two great rebel factions, resulting in a general confusion of political principles in the dread of political supremacy. fearing for the safety of the constitution, and believing that his associates were proceeding to too great lengths, he went over to the side of the king, a procedure that aroused the hatred of the parliament party, who became as eager to effect his overthrow as they had previously been to compass the death of strafford. on the th of september, , he was impeached of high treason by the commons, but, the impeachment for some cause or other not being proceeded with, he appealed to the lords, on the th january following, to be set at liberty. his request was complied with, and on regaining his freedom he immediately sought refuge in holland, the house subsequently, "being in a good humour," as we are told, discharging the impeachment. whitelocke says:-- he was in the beginning of the troubles very hearty and strong for the parliament, and manifested great personal courage, honour, and military as well as civil abilities, as appears by his actions and letters, whilst he was in the service of the parliament. in whose favour and esteem he was so high that they voted him to be general of the horse under the earl of essex, and afterwards to be an earl. but having taken a disgust of the parliament's declining of a personal treaty with the king, and being jealous that monarchy, and consequently degrees and titles and honour, were in danger to be wholly abolished, he was too forward in countenancing and assisting the late tumults in the city, when the members of parliament were driven away from westminster to the army. upon the return of the members he was, with other lords, impeached of high treason for that action, and rather than appear and stand a trial for it he left his country and revolted to the king, and was now with the prince in his navy, for which the commons voted his estates to be secured. rupert was at the time carrying on privateering hostilities against the parliament with such energy that, as was said, a packet-boat could hardly sail from dover without being pillaged, unless it had a convoy. willoughby accepted a commission, and became admiral of the prince's fleet, and in the month of august, , while in the downs, was fortunate enough to intercept and capture a vessel returning from guiana with a cargo of merchandise and £ , in gold. the year following the execution of the king he went out to barbadoes, established himself as governor, and proclaimed charles ii. king. on hearing of this exploit, cromwell's government despatched sir george ascue with a fleet to effect the reduction of the place; after several ineffectual attempts to obtain submission he landed a force and stormed the fortress, when lord willoughby, fearing a revolt of the garrison, yielded on honourable terms, which included protection for the enjoyment of his estates. he then returned to england, but the republicans, being doubtful of his loyalty to the commonwealth, caused him to be committed to the tower (june, ) on the charge of high treason. he must have remained in confinement for a considerable period, for two years later we find him petitioning cromwell for permission to go into the country to despatch some necessary business in relation to his estates, and promising to return to prison--a request that was complied with. he subsequently obtained his release, and, after the death of cromwell, appears to have co-operated with monk in effecting the dissolution of the commonwealth and the recall of the exiled stuarts. the year which followed the restoration was to lord willoughby a year of sorrow, and the joy with which he had greeted that event was quickly overshadowed by a great domestic affliction. ere a year had rolled round from the time when charles landed at dover he lost, within the short space of a few days, both his eldest son and his wife. samuel hartleb, in two of his letters written at the time to his friend dr. worthington,[ ] alludes to these painful events. writing on march , , he says: "my lord willoughby's eldest son is dead. my lady willoughby is also dangerously sick, which is all i have to add;" and a week later he writes: "his (mr. brereton's)[ ] mother-in-law (lady willoughby) is dead also." shortly afterwards lord willoughby was appointed to the governorship of barbadoes, a post he continued to hold until , when he was unfortunately drowned during a hurricane that swept over the island, an occurrence that pepys thus alludes to in his "diary:"-- november th ( ). i late at the office, and all the news i hear i put into a letter this night to my lord brouncker at chatham, thus--"i doubt not of your lordship's hearing of sir thomas clifford's succeeding sir h. pollard in the controllership of the king's house; but perhaps our ill (but confirmed) tidings from the barbadoes may not have reached you yet, it coming but yesterday; viz., that about eleven ships (whereof two of the king's, the hope and coventry), going thence to attack st. christopher's, were seized by a violent hurricane and all sank, two only of thirteen escaping, and these with loss of masts, &c. my lord willoughby himself is involved in the disaster, and i think two ships thrown upon an island of the french, and so all the men ( ) became prisoners." lord willoughby having no surviving male issue, the titles and estates devolved upon his younger brother, william, who, in , was also appointed governor of barbadoes, and to whom evelyn, in his diary, thus refers:-- april th ( ). sat in council preparing lord willoughby's commission and instructions as governor of barbadoes and the caribbé islands. he died at barbadoes, april th, , having held the post barely a year. his lordship married ann, one of the daughters of sir philip carey, of stanwell, county middlesex, who bore him with other issue, three sons--george, his heir, and john and charles, who eventually through failure of direct descent successively inherited the honours of the house. george, the eldest son, who succeeded, died in the following year, leaving by his wife elizabeth, eldest daughter and co-heir of henry fynes-clinton, of kirkstead, in lincolnshire, grandson of henry, second earl of lincoln, a son, john willoughby, who succeeded, but he dying issueless in , the barony reverted to his uncle, john, son of george, the seventh lord. this nobleman died before the close of the year, and, having no surviving male issue, the title and estates passed to his younger brother, charles, who succeeded as tenth baron, and who was then married to mary, daughter of sir beaumont dixie. he did not, however, long enjoy the honours, his death occurring in the following year, and being, like so many of his predecessors, childless, the barony remained for a time in abeyance; the vast estates in lincolnshire passing meanwhile, in accordance with the provisions of his will, to his niece elizabeth, only daughter of george, seventh lord willoughby, and then wife of the hon. james bertie, eventually second earl of lincoln. on the failure of the elder line by the death of lord charles without issue, the barony should by right have reverted to the heir of sir ambrose, second son of charles, the second lord willoughby; but sir ambrose's grandson, henry willoughby, being then settled in virginia, whither the "pilgrim fathers," who, "well weaned from the delicate milk of their mother-country," had gone some years before, and having no knowledge of the failure, took no steps to establish his claim. under these circumstances, and in the belief that the line of sir ambrose was extinct, the barony was erroneously adjudged to sir thomas willoughby, son and heir of sir thomas, the fifth and youngest son of charles, the second lord, who, as previously stated, was then settled in lancashire, having married eleanor, daughter of hugh whittle, of horwich, the representative of a noted puritan family, whose religious opinions he had embraced. the broad lands of the oldest line of the willoughbys, as we have seen, passed by distaff to the earls of abingdon; the representative of the younger stock, who had summons to parliament th may, , being left the while to support the title with an estate of very modest proportions--the fortune his father had acquired in marriage with a yeoman's daughter. sir thomas willoughby had attained to the ripe old age of when he succeeded to the barony, and he lived to enjoy it for a period of nearly seven years, his death occurring in february, - . born in the last year of elizabeth's golden reign, he had witnessed the accession of james, and lived through the eventful reigns of the stuart sovereigns. he had passed the meridian of life when charles was brought to the block; had experienced republicanism under cromwell; had seen the restoration of monarchy in the person of charles's son; the re-establishment of episcopacy, and the "black bartholomew," as the dissenters love to designate the day on which the nonconforming divines, preferring conscience to emolument, withdrew from the church; and had lived long enough to see the feudal supremacy of the crown, which had lasted for nearly six hundred years, abolished, when the second james was sent by his betrayed subjects to expiate his offences in exile, and the "bloodless revolution" set the prince of orange upon the throne, and paved the way for the succession of the house of brunswick. lord willoughby's wife, eleanor whittle, who died in , bore him, with other issue, two sons--hugh, who succeeded as his heir, and francis, who married eleanor rothwell, of haigh, and by her had three sons, thomas, who died unmarried, and edward and charles, who, on the death of their uncle, succeeded in turn to the title and estates. hugh willoughby, who, on the death of his father in - , succeeded as twelfth baron, was then years of age, having been born in . he had married in early life anne, daughter of lawrence halliwell, of tockholes, in blackburn parish, and by her had a son, thomas, who died in infancy; she died in , at the age of , and shortly after his accession to the barony he again entered the marriage state, taking for his second wife the youthful widow of sir william egerton, k.b., of worsley, brother of john, third earl of bridgewater--the lady honora, daughter of sir thomas leigh, son and heir of thomas lord leigh, of stoneleigh, and the great-granddaughter of sir thomas egerton, the renowned lord chancellor--the lady numbering summers, while lord willoughby had attained the mature age of . his lordship was an uncompromising, and, it is to be feared, not over scrupulous presbyterian. sir henry ashurst, in a dedication of the life of nathaniel heywood, the puritan vicar of ormskirk, written by his brother oliver, to this lord hugh, speaks of his "exemplary piety and zeal for our holy religion in such a degenerate and licentious age, and the countenance he gave to serious piety, wherever he found it, among all the different parties into which we are so unhappily broken," but the occasional references to him in henry newcome's autobiography, leads us to doubt the justness of the presbyterian writer's panegyric. under date thursday, september , , newcome writes:-- we went with several others to welcome the lord willoughby to house, and stayed till after eight, in much freedom; and parted with a psalm and prayer. the occasion would probably be that of his lordship's first coming to his wife's house--the old hall of worsley, in eccles parish, where he spent a good deal of his time--but it was not long before the old puritan divine had occasion to speak in a less cheerful tone. thus, he writes:-- may ( ). the lord willoughby was with me, and the lord helped me, to deal plainly with him, and he took it as i could desire. and a few months later:-- aug. . i was troubled about lord willoughby and went out to have spoken with him, but though he was not at home, he called on me on his return, and i eased myself by speaking freely to him; and he seemed to take it well, and i hope it may do him good. this greatly revived me. lord willoughby busied himself greatly in the religious affairs of the county, and was not unfrequently a cause of disquiet to episcopal dignitaries from his confused ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_ in regard to ecclesiastical funds. the parson of horwich found him an exceedingly unpleasant neighbour, and poor james rothwell, the vicar of dean, complained bitterly to the bishop of his wrong doing. rothwell's predecessor, richard hatton, had not renounced the covenant; but had, nevertheless been inducted into the vicarage by a kind of dispensing power. one illegal appointment led to another. the nonconforming vicar of the church appointed a nonconforming preacher to the episcopal chapel. the dissenters having thus got the chapel into their hands through the "contrivance" of lord willoughby, held possession for many years, and were only induced in the long run to surrender to the ecclesiastical authorities to escape a costly litigation. when rothwell had got rid of the intruders, and recovered possession of the chapel, he found that he could not get possession of the endowment, as the trustees, who were presbyterians, were appropriating it to the support of a minister of their own persuasion, and, "against justice and honesty," were going to "build a meeting house with part of the money, and apply the remaining part towards supporting a presbyterian teacher." he had complained to the bishop, but failing, as it would seem, to obtain redress, addressed the following letter to dr. wroe--"silver-tongued wroe"--the warden of manchester, urging his intercession:-- bolton sep. , . revd sr.--i thought it necessary to send you ye following account of horwich chappel, wch i desire you to transmit to my lord bishop of chester. this chappel is three miles distant from ye parish church, & ye revenue belonging to it is commonly said to be about or li. p. ann. being ye interest of about li. belonging to it, & for a more full proof of ys, i here give my following testimony. but in ye first place it may be convenient to acquaint you yt ys chappel has for above ys years last past been in ye hands of ye dissenters through ye contrivance of ye late lord willoughby, and ye connivance of my predecessour (richard hatton.) but wn my lord bp. of chester was upon his visitation at manchester, i acquainted his lordship wth ys matter, & his lordship commanded me to give mr. walker ye dissenting teacher notice to desist, wch accordingly i did, & he submitted to his lordship's commands. immediately after ys i put into ye chappel a conformable clergyman, who has supplied ye cure ever since, wch is above one whole year; and tho' i gave him ye surplice dues of ye chappelray wch is all yt belongs to me in yt part of ye parish, & two pounds p. ann. besides, yet ys wth his contributions, wch is all yt he has had to subsist on thus far, has not exceeded li. and when he demanded ye interest of ye chappel stock during ye time of his incumbency, ye trustees for ys money being dissenters, tell me they will not pay it, till they be forced to do it. now one of these trustees has told me, & several others, yt ye chappel stock is one hundred & ninety pounds; & about two months ago he showed some bonds yt was made unto him upon ye account, to ye sum of about li. and there are now several living witnesses, yt can & do testify, yt ye interest of ye said chappel stock was paid to episcopal conforming clergy men, yt officiated at horwich chappel during ye reigns of king charles ye nd: king james ye nd: and till some time after ye revolution; and tho' ys money as it is said was given to all intents & purposes towards mentaining a curate yt should supply ye sd chappel, yet both against justice and honesty these trustees have sent me word, yt they will build a meeting house wth part of ys money, & apply ye remaining part towards supporting a presbyterian teacher; wt now is to be done in ys affair, i humbly desire my lord bp. of chester's opinion & direction with your own, who am your most humble & most obedient servt: ja: rothwell for the reverend dr. wroe, warden of manchester. bishop gastrell, in his "notitia," describes the chapel as "ancient" and "consecrated." it certainly was in existence in , for in that year it was visited by the commissioners for removing superstitious ornaments. the money which through the "contrivance" of lord willoughby and the dissenting trustees was being thus misapplied is said to have been recovered (that is, so much of it as was not lost in expensive litigation) in . on another occasion, at coppul, a neighbouring township, we find lord willoughby busying himself in church affairs, and joining with others in open resistance to constituted authority; breaking open the doors of the episcopal chapel, and defying the bishop when he sought to remove an unlicensed curate, mr. ingham, who had given offence by his immoral life and the solemnisation of clandestine marriages. ellenbrook, also an episcopal chapel, in close proximity to lady willoughby's house at worsley, had also unpleasant experience of his lordship's active but mistaken zeal, for bishop gastrell, in his "notitia cestriensis," remarks:--"there was a suit depending about this chap.(el) an.(no) , bet.(ween) the bp. and ld. willoughby of parham. v.(ide) mr. kenyon's letters." the chapel had been endowed in by dorothy, daughter of sir richard egerton, of ridley, and wife of sir richard brereton, of worsley, who in her widowhood married sir peter legh, of lyme, knt., and her endowment would appear to have fallen into the hands of nonconformists during the period of the usurpation. lord willoughby died in june, , at the age of ; his wife the lady honora, survived him and maintained her widowhood for the long period of years, dying in , at the age of . having no surviving issue, the title and estates devolved upon his nephew, edward--the eldest surviving son of francis, second son of thomas, the eleventh in succession in the barony, and his wife, eleanor rothwell, of haigh--who was at the time serving as a private soldier in the confederate army in flanders. he enjoyed the title only for a few months, his death occurring in april of the following year. being childless, the family honours and possessions reverted to his younger brother, charles, who married hester, daughter of henry davenport, of darcy lever, an offshoot of the old cheshire family of that name, and by her had issue, in addition to a son hugh, his heir, two daughters, helena and elizabeth. hugh, who succeeded as fifteenth lord willoughby, was an infant at the time of his father's decease (july , ). he was brought up in the presbyterian faith, but appears to have been less demonstrative in the assertion of it than some of his progenitors; at all events his neighbours found him much less troublesome in that respect than his grandfather had been. cole, the cambridge antiquary, describes him as a presbyterian "of the most rigid class," and remarks that he had heard "mr. coventry, of magdalen college, cambridge, declare that his conscience was so nice that he could not bring himself to receive the sacrament in the church of england on his knees without scruple and thought it idolatry." he resided for the most part in london, but when at shaw place he usually attended the nonconformist chapel at rivington. it is said, though apparently on slender foundation, that when in london he professed himself a strict churchman, and that some of his friends there, hearing that he was in the habit of worshipping with the nonconformists when at rivington, took him to task, whereupon he forsook the chapel and became a worshipper at horwich church. the accuracy of the story may very well be doubted. his lordship lived and died in the faith of his fathers; the canopied pew he was wont to occupy in rivington chapel may still be seen, though the glories of its decoration have become somewhat faded; and at his death he bequeathed £ , the interest of which helps to pay its minister's stipend at the present day. he was more of a philosopher than a polemic, and a liberal patron of literature and art. in he succeeded martin foulkes as vice-president of the royal society, and two years later he was elected to the honourable position of president of the society of antiquaries. it was in this latter capacity that john byrom, of manchester, addressed to him his famous poetical letter "on the patron of england," and facetiously started the question whether _georgius_ was not a mistake for _gregorius_, contending for the non-existence of st. george of cappadocia or any other george as patron saint of england, and calling upon the society to say whether england's patron was a knight or a pope. the _jeu d'esprit_ startled the sedate president, and drew forth a serious rejoinder from the learned dr. pegge in his "observations on the history of st. george."[ ] lord willoughby filled the office of chairman of committees of the house of lords for a considerable period; he was also a trustee of the british museum, one of the commissioners of longitude, and vice-president of the society for the encouragement of the fine arts. when the dissenting academy, at warrington, was founded in the latter half of the last century, his lordship was chosen to be the first president, the presbyterians, as dr. halley says, being "with pardonable vanity in their declension fond of exhibiting the relics of their former glory." he died unmarried, at his residence in london, february , , at the age of , and, in accordance with his expressed desire, was buried in the family vault at horwich church. when some years ago the present fabric was erected on a site a few yards distant from the old structure, his remains were, at the expense of his grand-nephew, mr. charles leigh, of wigan, removed from their resting place in front of the communion rails, and placed in a vault in the churchyard, over which a stone bearing the family arms and the following inscription was placed:-- in memory of the right hon. hugh, th baron willoughby, of parham, who resided at shaw place, in this county, and who died on the st of january, , at his house in london, unmarried, aged years. also of eleanor, daughter of william wood, of aspull, esq., and wife of charles leigh, grand-nephew of the above hugh. she died st of january, , in the th year of her age. of the two sisters of lord willoughby, helena, the eldest, became the wife of baxter roscoe, by whom she had two daughters and a son, ebenezer roscoe, who married his cousin hannah, daughter of john shaw, and dying in january, , left an only daughter, helena, who died at the age of in . the eldest of the two daughters married mr. fisher, and the younger became the wife of mr. leigh, from whom mr. charles leigh, mentioned in the inscription just cited, claimed descent. elizabeth, the younger sister of lord willoughby, became the wife of john shaw, of rivington, and had by him a son, named after his father, and a daughter hannah, who, as already stated, married her cousin, ebenezer roscoe. surviving him, she again entered the marriage state, her second husband being the rev. william heaton, incumbent of rivington, and head master of bishop pilkington's grammar school. on the death of lord willoughby the barony again fell into abeyance. for a period of years, that is from , when sir thomas willoughby had summons to parliament, to the decease of hugh, lord willoughby, in , the bearers of the title had been only suppositious lords. as previously stated, the honours should of right have reverted to the descendants of sir ambrose, the second son of charles, the second baron, but they, having settled in america and remaining in ignorance of the default, did not put forward their claim, and hence the barony was erroneously adjudged. henry willoughby, the grandson of sir ambrose, who settled in virginia, died there in , leaving a son of the same name, who married elizabeth, daughter of william pidgeon, of stepney, near london, and by her had, with other issue, two sons, henry and fortune. this henry, when the barony fell into abeyance in , claimed to be the representative of sir ambrose, and in his right was established by a decree of the house of lords as the great-grandson and heir male of the body of sir ambrose, and consequently heir male of sir william willoughby, who was elevated to the dignity of a baron by the title of lord willoughby of parham in . mr. henry willoughby thereupon became sixteenth lord, and took his seat in the upper house on april th, . he died january th, , leaving by his wife susannah, daughter of robert gresswell, an only daughter, elizabeth, who married (first) john halsey, of tower hill, london, and (second) edward argles. his lordship having no male heir, the title devolved upon his nephew george, son of fortune willoughby by his wife hannah, daughter of thomas barrow, and widow of cooke pollitt, of swanscombe, who succeeded as seventeenth baron, but dying issueless in the barony, which had been in existence from the first year of edward the sixth's reign, became extinct. after a brief inspection of the modernised home of the willoughbys and the ancient outbuilding adjacent, which happily still remains--"standing," as has been well said, "like a faded, tarnished court-train wearing out in the service of the descendants of its original proprietor's lady's maid"--we bent our steps in the direction of the old chapel at rivington, where the family worshipped, and where many of their kin sleep their long sleep. descending into the valley, we pass through a plantation that has been formed by the side of one of the large reservoirs of the liverpool corporation waterworks. the tall trees stand out in all their nakedness against the background of snow, looking black, and grim, and spectral like, though relieved in some measure by the bright-hued holly bushes, the glossy-leaved laurels, and the other hardy shrubs, that try to look cheery and make a pretty show. below, where, in summer time, the far-spreading water reflects the surrounding beauty and flashes and glitters in the mellow sunlight, there is now only a dull leaden glaze, for the returning spring has not yet thawed the mantle of ice in which the hard hand of winter has enfolded it. across the valley the smoke curls upwards from some unseen habitation, else we might fancy the inhabitants had fled, for neither flocks nor herds are to be seen in the fields; even the rook as he sails listlessly overhead looks dull and dejected, and the fieldfares huddle themselves up in the leafless branches as if they had lost heart; all around is still and cold and lifeless, save that now and then the hedge sparrows set up a twittering as unmusical as the grating of a knife-grinder's wheel, and that sprightly little fellow, the red-breasted robin, trills out his song from the naked hawthorn spray where the tiny buds are striving to break forth. presently we come to a little lodge, and then, turning to the left, cross the embankment that separates the lower from the upper and larger rivington lake. at the other end a short length of road straggles upwards towards the village--rough and stony withal, and fenced in places with patches of broken wall, built up of loose stones that time has softened into beauty and decked with moss and lichen and a wealth of clingy ivy. [illustration: rivington church.] a quiet, picturesque spot is this same little village of rivington. there is an air of calm repose and pastoral serenity about it that is pleasant to contemplate. here the busy hum of looms and spindles is never heard, and, though the shrill whistle of the locomotive may occasionally find an echo, the railway itself maintains a respectful distance, and hides away as if afraid to disturb the peaceful quietude. the church stands a little way back from the road upon a gentle acclivity, from which it overlooks the humbler dwellings that gather round, but without the least air of pretentiousness. it has an ancient and weather-worn appearance, though the present fabric dates no further back than the time of the second charles; a little octagon cupola rises from the western gable, and the crumbling ruins of an old campanile that now serves as a depository for lumber may be seen in a corner of the quiet graveyard. a little higher up on the other side, crowning a grassy knoll, is the modest meeting-house we are in search of; on the lower slope of what answers for the village green two or three cottages stand at irregular distances from each other and on the opposite side of a little hollow that intervenes is, or rather was, the old grammar school, for it is "old" no longer, the reforming charity commissioners having lately overhauled the good bishop's foundation, and caused a new elementary school to be erected on the site; and, in addition, have built a larger and more convenient grammar school near the southern end of the lower lake. the houses are few in number, and are scattered irregularly about in a promiscuous, hap-hazard, stand-at-ease sort of way, without any regard to order or uniformity, so that it is hard to say where the village proper really begins, unless we assume that the village hostelry below the church bank, standing, as it does, with its door invitingly open, may be taken as indicating the threshold. but the "black-boy," which perpetuates, though very imperfectly, the heraldic honours of the willoughbys, submitting to the onward march of events, has had to change its position, the site its more primitive possessor occupied having been absorbed when the adjacent reservoir was made. the memory of a former boniface of that ancient hostelry is still cherished by the villagers, and quaint stories are told respecting him. the old worthy, it seems, combined with the duties of host on week-days those of chief musician at the chapel on sundays; his chosen instrument being the violoncello, or "th' great-gronfaither fiddle," as the inhabitants of the little arcadia were wont to call it; a clarionet and a deep-mouthed but somewhat hiccupy bassoon completing the orchestra, the performers being chosen, like cremona fiddles, more for age than looks or excellence, enough if only they could produce a sufficient foundation of sound whereon the congregation might raise their superstructure of song. anniversary sermons and similar high days and festivals were those on which the host of the "black-boy" put forth his utmost energies, and showed to greatest advantage. surrounded by a troop of school children, and a galaxy of rustic beauty arrayed in white, and his choir strengthened by the addition of the flute, and the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife, he then laboured at his bass viol with such energy, that, as is related, on one occasion, being overcome with the sense of his own importance, and the extra exertion necessary for the successful rendering of "fixed in his everlasting seat," he missed the centre of gravity, toppled over and smashed his monster fiddle. the chapel in which the willoughbys worshipped stands, as we have said, at the further end of the village; it is a modest looking structure, and, in its externals at least, plain and simple enough to satisfy the requirements of the most rigid and lugubrious puritan. but the authoress of "lancashire memories" has given such an exquisite description of it that we cannot refrain from reproducing her sketch: "a little gray, old stone building," she says, "half covered with ivy, and one bell that rang, and rang, from ten o'clock until the minister was fairly seated in the pulpit. the pews were gray and worm-eaten, of all sizes and shapes. some seemed not to have borne age so well as their neighbours, and to have sunk a little on one side under their infirmities. one was distinguished by a wooden canopy over it, and had once belonged to that _rara avis_, a dissenting peer. one of his descendants, no other than the village schoolmaster, occupied the pew, and in the pride of his descent had painted on the door 'lord hugh willoughby.' when did dissenters know anything of heraldry? or the difference between lord hugh and hugh lord? it converted the baronial ancestor into quite another person. but it did just as well; a lord's a lord all the world over, and burke's extinct peerage had not come out. there was no vestry in the chapel; but the minister wore no gown, so no robing room was required. the bier stood at one end, a perpetual _memento mori_, and over it hung the bell-rope, looped up on a peg. the minister walked straight into the pulpit from the outer door, and the service began with the clerk giving out the hymn in a thin, feeble, snuffling voice, and, lest any of the congregation had not caught the number, assisted their memories by writing it in chalk on a slate, and suspending it from a nail from the pulpit over his head; the rubbing out of this chalk, ready for the next hymn, occupying a good deal of his time and attention during the succeeding prayer. the music was a bassoon and a violoncello, with a pitchpipe to enable them to start fair, and the singing was confided to the congregation in general. the doors and windows were left open in summer, for no sound could enter more disturbing than the twitter of a bird or the bleat of a lamb. flies came buzzing in, or a bee hummed her way round, and perhaps settled in one of the posies carried on sundays by the country girls, and esteemed a sovereign remedy against sleeping during service. it would be difficult to sleep anywhere with such a rich combination of sight and scent as those nosegays of lad's-love and thyme, wall flowers, pinks, and roses. the graveyard was grassy, still, and peaceful; not a gravel walk up to the door; all was grass, silent and calm. the weekly worshippers held it in affectionate reverence, for there they had laid their own kindred, and there they expected to be laid in turn. after service the congregation dispersed seriously and quietly; those who lived in the same direction walking together, discussing the sermon or enquiring after each other's affairs; but all in a hushed, subdued tone that belongs to sunday in the country. i could fancy there was a stillness in the air peculiar to the day, as if all nature, animate and inanimate, rested the one day in seven, and worshipped in reverential silence." the chapel of rivington, with which the memory of the willoughbys is so closely associated, presents a venerable aspect, though it has no very great antiquity to boast of. at the passing of the act of uniformity, samuel newton, who had been minister of the episcopal chapel, withdrew, but returning some time after and his place remaining unoccupied, he was allowed "to preach in the church without disturbance." when the conventicle act was in force the good people of the place frequently assembled to celebrate public worship in the open air at a place called winter-hill, a part of the mountainous ridge of which rivington pike forms so prominent a feature. seats were cut out of the side of the hill so as to form a kind of amphitheatre, and in the centre a stone pulpit was erected from whence the assembled throng were usually addressed. the present chapel was built in the early part of queen anne's reign--in , it is said, and about the time that hugh, lord willoughby, the first of that name, with his co-trustees were causing so much anxiety to poor vicar rothwell by retaining the funds of horwich episcopal chapel, and threatening "against justice and honesty" to build a meeting-house with them. like many other chapels erected contemporaneously, it was built and endowed for the promulgation of doctrines accordant with those of the church, but enforced by a presbyterian form of government; eventually arian sentiments were introduced, and it has experienced the declension almost universal with english presbyterian congregations. there is a tradition current that when these changes were introduced they were received with so much disfavour that a worthy couple in the neighbourhood who had a child born to them at the time, determined that it should be named ichabod, believing, as they said, the glory to have departed. the building, clothed in its mantle of verdant ivy, stands a little way back from the wayside in the midst of its own graveyard and encompassed by a grey stone fence that looks as old as the structure itself. having obtained the key, we passed through the little wicket into the enclosure-- where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. a few shrubs grasp the cold earth, and you can see where flowers have been planted by loving hands, but there is no gravelled path, and so you have to pick your way round the grass-grown hillocks, stepping from dwelling to dwelling of the listless dead, and over the half-sunken flag-stones, many of them bemossed with age and appearing as if about to sink into the graves of those they commemorate. time, as hawthorne says, gnaws an english gravestone with wonderful aptitude. our climate soon gives an antiquity of aspect, and the moisture encourages the moss and lichens to fill up the lettered furrows with a living green that obliterates the inscription while the beloved name it records is yet fresh upon the survivor's heart-- the record some fond hand hath traced, to mark thy burial spot, the lichen will have soon effaced, to write thy doom--forgot. unlocking the door, we entered the little sanctuary, which looks as though it had remained undisturbed since the time when the willoughbys were in the heyday of their power. the interior is plain and simple almost to ugliness, and a chill pervades the place that tends more to inspire a melancholy gloom than to attune the mind to reverent devotion; the pavement is damp and uneven, and the mildewed and worm-eaten pews, though doubtless favourable to the quiet slumbers of bucolic rivingtonians, suggest the idea that the worshippers in this nonconformist zion have little sympathy with demonstrative worship, and are not much given to indulgence in æsthetic gewgaws--at all events, that whatever their tabernacle may have done for the promotion of piety, it is not likely to do much for the cultivation of taste. the pulpit is placed in the centre against the wall, and directly opposite is the high seat of the synagogue--the pew or enclosure set apart, when the chapel could boast a peer among its worshippers, for the lordly owners of shaw-place--importance being given by a wooden canopy, somewhat faded and decrepid in appearance, that overshadows it, and nowadays spinsters or bachelors who occupy the seat of honour are liable to have their thoughts distracted by the notice that stares them obtrusively in the face, "marriages may be solemnised in this chapel," a reminder that might have been useful in former days when, as we have seen, there was an apparent forgetfulness, if not reluctance, on the part of some of the lordly occupants to enter the holy estate. there is not much display of mural literature; a small marble tablet perpetuates the name of thomas lowe, of rivington, and alice his wife, but the only sepulchral memorial deserving of especial notice is a singular coffin-shaped slab, inscribed with a pretentious pedigree and a long laudatory epitaph, erected in recent years by a descendant of the willoughbys who had evidently less mercy for the marble-cutter than admiration of the hereditary dignities of his departed ancestors. it is about four or five yards in height, and adorned with a number of small shields blazoned with the armorial ensigns of the family alliances. here is the inscription:-- in memory of thomas eleventh lord willoughby of parham in suffolk, of horwich, adlington and shaw-place in this county who died february th, , aged . also of eleanor, lady willoughby, who died in , aged . and hugh their eldest son, twelfth lord willoughby, who died in june , aged . also of anne, his lordship's first wife, who died in , aged . likewise the lady honora, his second wife, eldest daughter of lord leigh of stoneleigh, and relict of sir william egerton of worsley, knight of the bath, second son of john, earl of bridgewater and his countess elizabeth, daughter of his grace the duke of newcastle. she died in , aged . a truly congenial pair, fondly attached to rural scenes and retirements, and endeared to all around them by the urbanity, benevolence, and purity of their lives, evinced at their favourite retreat worsley hall, lord willoughby in pursuits like the noble earl himself, a spirited agriculturist affording employment to vast numbers on that fine domain, a dower possessed in right of her ladyship's first espousal, having issue thereby john and honora egerton. also in memory of edward the thirteenth lord who died unmarried, in flanders, valiantly fighting under the renowned duke of marlborough, in april , aged years. also of charles, his brother, the fourteenth lord, who died june th, , aged , sons of the honourable francis. also hester, lady willoughby, his wife, who died in , aged years, youngest daughter of henry davenport, esqr., of darcy lever, a surviving branch of the ancient family of the davenports of davenport in the county of chester, and eventually heiress to her brother and sister, an eminently distinguished family amongst the dissenters of that period. educated in the adjoining township under their relative, the venerable oliver heywood, m.a., the father of the nonconformist divines, and a native of little lever. lastly in memory of the right honble. hugh, their only son, and fifteenth baron willoughby of parham, who expired at his house in london, unmarried, january th, , aged . interred by his lordship's express desire in the family vault of his ancestors within horwich church, february th, and had a befitting funeral for so exalted a character and peer of the realm; the nobility, officers of state, patrons and directors of the various institutions joining the solemn cavalcade through the city to st. alban's on its route to lancashire which journey occupied nigh three weeks; in whom too the male line of this branch became extinct. a constant attender and supporter with his revered and early widowed and exemplary mother of this chapel and to which he bequeathed the sum of £ . here, as the son, the brother, the friend, above all as the christian his name is perpetuated. an elegant and accomplished scholar who, after enjoying the advantage of foreign travel for some years returned to england, filled with a patriotic devotion for his native country. open, kind-hearted, and magnanimous, he commenced his onerous parliamentary duties, and soon gave evidence of that legislative talent which afterwards shone forth with so much splendour, conferring upon him, by being unanimously chosen chairman of the committees of the house of peers, an official reward and the lasting esteem of his most gracious sovereigns george ii. and iii. to the close of a transcendently brilliant political career. with his universally acknowledged refinement of taste, enriched abroad and extensively cultivated at home, and his judicious bestowal of patronage, exercised in the promotion of literature, science and the arts, in whatever walk his comprehensive mind discerned genius or oppressed worth, his fostering hand brought forth the "flower born to blush unseen," which in speedy requital for such true greatness of soul obtained for him the additional very high appointments, viz., president of the society of antiquaries, and vice-president of the royal society, succeeding the learned martin foulkes, esq., vice-president of the society for the encouragement of the fine arts; a trustee of the british museum, and one of the commissioners of longitude. a nobleman who adorned the title derived from his forefathers by his own social and domestic virtues; leaving a grateful nation to deplore his unexpected removal from this sublunary state and two sisters, his co-heiresses at law, the honble. helena, wife of baxter roscoe, esqr., and the honble. elizabeth, the wife of john shaw, esqr. as a tribute of affectionate regard due to so lamented a servant, philanthropist and relative, this monument is erected by his grand-nephews and nieces. friends we have had--the years flew by, how many have they borne away? man like the hours is born to die, the last year's hours, oh, where are they? catch then, o catch the transient hour, improve each moment as it flies, so teach us in our solemn hour, that we ourselves are dying flowers. he dies--alas! how soon he dies, yet all these flowers now lost by death in other worlds shall brightly bloom, spring with fresh life, immortal breath, and burst the confines of the tomb. recorded in the museum:--"the illustrious lord willoughby, who holds a distinguished place in the temple of science and as a pre-eminent personage elected to fill the two offices vacant by the demise of the justly celebrated martin foulkes, esqr., powerfully aided in design and furtherance of its object this stupendous structure, by his unremitting zeal and matured conception as a virtuoso. founded in his th year a.d. ." extract from lysons:--"his lordship's stipend from government was , guineas per annum. he was a father to the poor, a benefactor and protector of indigent deserving authors, a munificent patron of learning, music, painting, and poetry, and a statesman who sought without fear or favour the common good." these mementoes of five generations and alliances of a patrician race summoned to parliament th edward ii., , are faithfully detailed from authentic documents possessed only by the writer himself, who snatched them from oblivion, and compiled chiefly for the antiquary and herald, every vestige beside regarding them being flagrantly destroyed with the ancient sacred edifice wherein reposed their bodies. after this fulsome eulogy, which offends alike against piety, simplicity, and truth, may we not exclaim with sir thomas browne in his _hydriotaphia_, "man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave, solemnising nativities and deaths with equal lustre." any account of the willoughbys would be incomplete that did not make mention of that _preux chevalier_, the hero of zutphen, the friend of sir philip sidney, and the idol of popular fame, who, if he did not bear the name, was yet of the blood of the willoughbys--peregrine bertie, lord willoughby of eresby, whose valour was proved on many a hard-fought field, and whose name so often rang on the plains of the netherlands-- the brave lord willoughby, of courage fierce and fell, who would not give one inch of way for all the devils in hell. his mother, the lady katharine willoughby, the only daughter and heiress of william the ninth lord by a spanish lady of high birth, mary salmes, after the death of her first husband, charles brandon, duke of suffolk, brother-in-law of king henry viii., became the wife of richard bertie. on the accession of queen mary she was forced to fly from her own country to escape the cruelties and persecutions of bishop gardiner, whose enmity she had drawn upon herself by some imprudent manifestations of her dislike of his character in the preceding reign. accompanied by her husband, she sought refuge in the low countries. "on an october evening," says lucy aikin in her "memoirs of the court of elizabeth," "followed only by two maid-servants, on foot, through rain and mire and darkness, the forlorn wanderers began their march to wesel, one of the hanse towns. on their arrival, their wild and wretched appearance gave them, in the eyes of the inhabitants, so suspicious an appearance that no one would harbour them; and while her husband ran from inn to inn vainly imploring admittance the afflicted duchess was compelled to betake herself to the shelter of a church porch; and there, in that misery and desolation and want of everything, was delivered of a child, to whom, in memory of the circumstance, she gave the name of peregrine." the son who first saw the light under these inauspicious circumstances was, at her death in , and in her right, summoned to parliament as tenth lord willoughby. two years afterwards, when elizabeth, on account of the hostility of philip of spain, was desirous of cultivating a closer friendship with the northern powers, lord willoughby was selected as her special envoy to the king of denmark to invest him with the garter as a token of her goodwill. subsequently, when the battle between the two great principles that divided europe was being fought out by england and spain, he had many opportunities of distinguishing himself and won undying fame. elizabeth had sent an army to assist the protestant people of the low countries to maintain their civil privileges and their religious faith against philip and against rome. leicester, who had the chief command, was unable to cope with so skilled a general as the prince of parma, and the campaign was a disastrous one. among the heroes in that little band was the rare scholar, the accomplished writer, the perfect gentleman, the darling of the english people, sir philip sidney, and with him his intimate friend, the brilliant and quick-witted--the bravest of the brave on the battle-field--the "good lord willoughby"--"good peregrine," as his "most loving sovereign," elizabeth, familiarly styled him in one of her letters. the following story of his prowess at the battle of zutphen, in which sidney received his mortal wound, is related in a comparatively modern work, "five generations of a loyal house":-- on the nd september, , an affray took place, in which lord willoughby pre-eminently distinguished himself by valour and conduct, and many others with him upheld the glory of the english name. sir john norreis and sir william stanley[ ] were that day reconciled; the former coming forward to say, "let us die together in her majesty's cause." the enemy were desirous of throwing supplies into zutphen, a place of which they entertained some doubt; and a convoy, accordingly, by orders of the prince of parma, brought in a store, though an insufficient one, of provisions. a second, commanded by george cressiac, an albanois, was despatched for the same purpose, the morning being foggy. lord willoughby, lord audley, sir john norreis, and sir philip sidney encountering the convoy in a fog an engagement began. the spaniards had the advantage of position, and had it in their power to discharge two or three volleys of shot upon the english, who, nevertheless, stood their ground. lord willoughby himself, with his lance in rest, met with the leader, george cressiac, engaged with, and, after a short combat, unhorsed him. he fell into a ditch, crying aloud to his victor: "i yield myself to you, for that you be a seemly knight," who, satisfied with the submission, and having other matters in hand, threw himself into the thickest of the combat, while the captive was conducted to the tent of the general, lord leicester. the engagement was hot, and cost the enemy many lives, but few of the english were missing. willoughby was extremely forward in the combat; at one moment his basses, or mantle, was torn from him, but recaptured. when all was over, captain cressiac, being still in his excellency's tent, refused to acknowledge himself prisoner to any but the knight to whom he had submitted on the field. there is something in this and the like incidents of the period, which recall us very agreeably to the recollection of earlier days of chivalry and romance. cressiac added, that if he were to see again the knight to whom he had surrendered himself, in the armour he then wore, he should immediately recognise him, and that to him and him only would he yield. accordingly, when lord willoughby presented himself before him, in complete armour, he immediately exclaimed: "i yield to you!" and was adjudged to him as his prisoner. it was in this skirmish that the gallant and lamented sir philip sidney, the boast of his age, and the hope of many admiring friends, received the fatal wound which cut short the thread of a brief but brilliant existence. during the whole day he had been one of the foremost in action, and once rushed to the assistance of his friend, lord willoughby, on observing him "nearly surrounded by the enemy," and in imminent peril: after seeing him in safety, he continued the combat with great spirit, until he received a shot in the thigh, as he was remounting a second horse, the first having been killed under him. the story of sidney's death has been told by his friend lord brooke, and the affecting anecdote of his demeanour when he was carried faint and bleeding from the walls of zutphen inspires a love and reverence for his name, which never ceases to cling about the hearts of his countrymen. "passing along by the rear of the army," says his biographer, "where his uncle (the earl of leicester) the general was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for some drink, which was presently brought him. but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had eaten his last at the same feast, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle; which sir philip perceiving took it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man with these words,'thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'" when the earl of leicester abruptly left for england lord willoughby was by his direction appointed to the chief command, in which he was subsequently confirmed by the queen herself. he was not less magnanimous than brave; and, disdaining the servility of a court life, is thought to have enjoyed on this account less of the queen's favour than her admiration of military merit would otherwise have prompted her to bestow upon him. some time after the defeat of the armada he retired to spa, ostensibly for the recovery of his health, but more probably in resentment of some injury inflicted by a venal and treacherous court, the intrigues of which his noble nature scorned; but elizabeth, unwilling to lose the support of one of her bravest and most popular captains, addressed a letter of recall to him. he does not appear, however, to have been actively engaged in any of the expeditions against spain which ensued; though he was subsequently appointed governor of berwick, an appointment he held until his death in . his son was afterwards created earl of lindsay, and the title of duke of ancaster has been borne by his descendants. there are other names associated with the annals of rivington of equal historic interest with those of the former lords of shaw place, and foremost among them must be ranked that of the worthy prelate, who in the golden days of the maiden queen, when he had risen to be bishop of durham, and out of the love he bore to his native county founded the free school at rivington for the "bringing up, teaching, and instructing children and youth in grammar and other good learning, to continue for ever." in good bishop pilkington's early days the opportunities of learning were few; the well-born might get admission to the house of some great territorial lord and there receive a scholastic training, but to those of lowlier birth the monasteries were almost the only available sources, and the youths there educated were usually trained for the priesthood. the heaviest reproach that shakespeare's jack cade could heap upon lord say was "that he had most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school." little progress had, however, been made in "corrupting the youth" of lancashire, for at the time of the reformation there were only three such schools in the county--farnworth, manchester, and warrington--and they had then been only recently founded; hence the common people, as may be supposed, were rude and uncultured, and, though the merriest of englishmen, were as illiterate as they were merry; even the thrifty manufacturers were in very little better case, for in only very few instances did they know how to write their names.[ ] the pilkingtons derived their patronymic from the manor of that name in prestwich parish, where they were located shortly after the conquest, though fuller in his "worthies of england" assigns, but without any apparent authority, a much earlier date, and tells us that one of them fought under harold at the battle of hastings, and, being pressed, put on the dress of a thatcher and so escaped; whence the family crest and the allusive motto, "_now thus, now thus_." but in this the pleasant old chronicler is clearly at fault, for the crest of the pilkingtons is not a thresher but a mower, and the motto imputed to the family belongs to the traffords. fuller says he had the story from his "good friend, master william riley, norroy king of arms," a lancashire man. whatever its origin--and tradition, if never wholly accurate, is seldom entirely destitute of foundation--it is a singular coincidence that the same, or nearly the same, story is applied to the traffords, the levers, and the bridgeman family. an offshoot of the pilkingtons was settled at rivington in the first half of the fourteenth century, and the old hall was the residence of this branch of the family for many generations. the earlier history of the family is involved in much obscurity, but in the th edward iii. ( - ) robert, a younger son of sir roger de pilkington and his wife alice, sister and heiress of henry de bury, obtained a grant of the manor of rivington from alexander, son of cicely de rivington. this robert pilkington was in the time of richard ii. a juror in the great scrope and grosvenor cause, which occupied the court of the lord marshall of england four years in determining the conflicting claims of sir richard le scrope and sir robert le grosvenor to bear for arms on a field azure, a bend or--a golden bar placed diagonally across the shield. heraldry in those days was the recognised mark of hereditary honour and gentility, and coat armour had an intrinsic value. the suit in which robert pilkington, of rivington, took part has scarcely a parallel in history; deeds, chronicles, monastic records, and muniments that purported to date back to the fabulous days of king arthur were submitted; and john o'gaunt, owen glendower, geoffrey chaucer, and scores of lords, knights, and esquires, the surviving veterans from the wars of edward iii., who had beheld the blazonry borne before the walls of ascalon, in the crusades, in northern france, under the standard of the black prince, on the plains of crescy and poictiers, and many other famous places and fields of fame, were called as witnesses. as the humourist has it-- would you know more, you must look at "the roll," which records the dispute, and the subsequent suit, commenced in "thirteen sev'nty-five,"--which took root in le grosvenor's assuming the arms le scroope swore that none but _his_ ancestors, ever before, in foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, to wit "_on a prussian-blue field, a bend or_;" while the grosvenor averr'd that his ancestor bore the same, and scroope lied like a--somebody tore off the simile--so i can tell you no more, till some a double s shall the fragment restore. robert pilkington, by his wife katharine, daughter of j. de aynesworth, had a son alexander, his heir, who, as appears by an inquisition taken th henry v. ( - ), held seven parts of the manor of rivington of his cousin, sir john pilkington, knight; he settled his estates th henry vi. ( - ), and was succeeded in turn by his son, ralph pilkington, who died th january, th edward iv. ( ). his inquisition was taken at eccles on monday before the purification of the virgin, th edward iv. ( th january, ), when it was found that robert pilkington, who was then years of age, was his son and next heir. the battle of bosworth field proved as fatal to the fortunes of the parent stock of the pilkingtons as to the power of their royal master, richard iii. they were devoted adherents of the house of york, and bore a part in the bloody contest which ended the struggle between the red and white roses, and alike terminated the power of the feudal barons, the line of the plantagenet kings, and the political system under which england had been governed by them for more than three centuries. for his adherence to the fortunes of the fallen monarch sir thomas pilkington's estates were forfeited to the victorious richmond, and by him bestowed upon his crafty stepfather, thomas, lord stanley, first earl of derby, the only noble who survived the wars of the roses with added power and splendour, he having given to him almost all the lands forfeited in the north; the originally great possessions of his house being swollen by enormous grants of the estates of sir thomas broughton, of broughton; of sir james harrington, of hornby; of francis, viscount lovel; of sir thomas pilkington, and what sir thomas had inherited by descent from the heiress of chetham--in fact, from these forfeited possessions of the pilkingtons came all the lands which the stanleys obtained in the salford hundred. if there is any foundation for the story of a pilkington having disguised himself to escape his pursuers, it must have been after the fatal fight at bosworth, and not at hastings, as fuller affirms. there is a common belief that sir thomas pilkington was captured on the occasion of richard's overthrow, sent prisoner to leicester, and there put to death; but the statement is incorrect, for this devoted servant of the fallen king was afterwards in arms against henry vii., and took part in the action at stoke field, near newark, where he lost his life, june , , the occasion being that on which lambert simnel, the pretended edward plantagenet, was taken prisoner. though robert pilkington, of rivington, also fought on the side of the yorkists at bosworth, his lands appear to have escaped the general wreck, and his descendants continued in the occupation of the ancestral home for several generations. richard pilkington, a son or grandson of this robert, was born in , and had to wife alice, daughter of lawrence asshawe, of hall-on-the-hill, in heath-charnock, a township adjoining rivington, which would appear to have come into the possession of the asshawes by marriage with a heiress of the harringtons of westby. the asshawes at a later date also owned lands in flixton, where they had a residence, asshawe hall, which still exists. round this family mr. m'dougall has thrown the halo of romance, and under the title of "the ladye of asshawe" has enshrined in verse a lingering tradition that possibly possesses some faint glimmerings of truth, with, however, much that is undoubtedly apocryphal. a branch of the family was seated at high bullough, in anglezark, in the reign of henry viii.; and from this line, through james, younger son of john asshawe or shaw, as the name began to be written, who married mary gerard, a daughter of the house of ince, descended the shaws who were seated at shaw place, in heath charnock, before that mansion passed into the possession of the willoughbys, and were residing there when sir william dugdale, norroy king of arms, made his visitation in , peter shaw then registering a pedigree of six descents. we shall make acquaintance with the shaws of high bullough and shaw place in the course of our inquiries. fuller says, and the statement has obtained currency by frequent repetition, that richard pilkington, who married the daughter of lawrence asshawe, built the church of rivington, but the statement is not strictly accurate, though it was no doubt through his exertions that the building then existing received consecration. that there was an ecclesiastical foundation here at an earlier date is evident from the "humble complaint" which richard sim, the churchwarden, and other inhabitants of the chapelry in addressed to bishop bridgeman. it appears that a claim had been set up by one thomas breers to the inheritance of the church and churchyard as his lay fee, on the ground that it had formed part of the possessions of richard pilkington, and had been conveyed by his grandson, robert pilkington, to thomas breers, the elder, the claimant's father. a reply was filed declaring that long before the inquisition taken on the death of richard pilkington ( ) the inhabitants of rivington, anglezark, hemshaw, and foulds, in the parish of bolton-le-moors, and who were then reckoned to number five hundred, at their own cost had built the said chapel "upon a little toft and quillit of land" in rivington, there to celebrate divine service, sacraments, and sacramentals, which were performed accordingly "for manie yeres of antiquitie;" and that afterwards richard pilkington made great labour and took great pains with dr. bird, the bishop of chester, and desired him to dedicate the same chapel and chapelyard to god and his holy and divine service, and the same was consecrated the th day of october, . they further showed that queen elizabeth, by a grant under the great seal dated at westminster th may, in the eighth year of her reign ( ), did, amongst other things, at the petition of james pilkington (son of richard), bishop of durham, grant to the governors of the grammar school in rivington and their successors, that from time to time and ever afterwards there should be in the said chapel sacraments and sacramentals celebrated, and other divine services used, and also baptising of infants, celebration of matrimony, burying and inhumation of the dead within the said chapel and chapelyard, and all other rites, celebrations, prayers, and services in the said chapel for ever, there to be used in all and every construction and purpose, as is, are, or ought to be used in the parish church of bolton-in-the-moors. and that ever afterwards the people and inhabitants within rivington, anglezark, hemshaw, and foulds on their own proper costs should find, from time to time, one discreet, learned, and fit chaplain or minister to serve in the said chapel, and make his residence there, and to perform all divine offices in the said chapel, and all other things there which may or ought to belong to the office of rector (_sic_) of the said parish church of bolton, or any other rector or curate or parish church of england. and that the said inhabitants should not be compelled or bound to repair to the parish church of bolton, or to any other church or chapel, to hear divine service, or to receive the sacraments, to bury their dead, or to celebrate matrimony, but only to the chapel of rivington. they also offered to depose and prove that, time beyond the memory of man, they and their ancestors had quietly enjoyed the said church or chapel and chapelyard, with all the freedoms, privileges, and immunities thereof, and had continually repaired, maintained and upholden the same, and had also as then kept and provided a sufficient minister and preacher at the same, and they therefore besought the bishop to continue the privileges to them, their heirs, and successors for ever. the inhabitants established their case, and under date november th, , the bishop confirmed all their rights to them. it would thus seem that originally rivington had been a kind of minor (succursal) chapel of ease, erected for the accommodation of the people, who, residing in a remote hamlet, found it inconvenient on all occasions to resort to the mother church, and had been licensed for public worship, without, however, possessing the full privileges and characteristics of a church until, through the influence and exertions of richard pilkington, the bishop of chester was induced to consecrate it. it will be seen that at that early date the good people of rivington appointed their own minister, a circumstance that goes far to confirm the belief that, though the pilkingtons might have been liberal benefactors, they were not the actual founders of the church. the inhabitants have ever since continued to exercise the right of patronage, the incumbent whenever a vacancy occurs being elected by the votes of the ratepayers, a practice that is not without its disadvantages, as people of all religious beliefs and of no religious belief at all have equal rights in the selection of the minister, and exercise them, not always with a view to the church's efficiency or usefulness. the old chapel--doubtless a very primitive-looking structure--was rebuilt in , and within the last few years has undergone a thorough restoration. by whomsoever founded, it is clear that one of the most liberal contributors to the endowment was george shaw, of high bullough, a kinsman of richard pilkington's wife, whose name is perpetuated in the following inscription on a small brass placed below one of the windows on the north side:-- here lyeth the bodye of george shaw, gentleman, who was the fourth sonne of laurence shaw of high bullough in the county of lancaster, who in his lyfe time gave £ to be as stocke for ever for the use of the church of rivington, the profitts whereof to be paid yearly to a preaching minister at this church. and at his death hee gave, besides other large legacies to his kinsfolkes and friends, the sume of £ to be as stocke for ever, the profitts whereof to be yearly distributed amongst the poor inhabitants of rivington, andlesargh, heath charnock and anderton, on peter's day and michael's day, by even portions; and £ (being the remainder of his estate) hee also gave to be bestowed on land or laid upon a rent charge for ever, the profitts whereof to be lent from tyme to tyme gratis to the poore tennants within the townes aforesaid towards the paying of their fynes for such tyme and at the discretion of mr. alexander feeilden and mr. george shaw his executors, and their heires, and others named in his last will. hee dyed november the viii day, anno doni, , being of the age of years. the memory of the pilkingtons is preserved in the following inscription on a memorial in the church:-- _vivit post funera virtus. richard pilkington qui templum hoc condidit hic sepeliebatur año dñi , et maii , tunc doñica trinitatis, ac ætatis suoe , bonæ memoriæ vir._ _alicia asshaw ei uxor liberos ei peperit, è quibus tres concionatores fuerunt et cantabrigiensis à collegio s. johannis ac ea vivit octogenaria._ fathers teach yor children nurtur & learning of the lorde. _jacobus istorum filius creat' episcop' dunelme martii año , et ætatis suæ , hanc scholam aperuit anno et templum._ children obey yor parents in ye lord. richard pilkington, who married alice asshawe, and died on the th may, , had a numerous family. one of his daughters, katharine, became the wife of john, son of james shaw, of shaw place, in heath charnock. of the sons, charles, the eldest, died young; george succeeded to the family inheritance, and left a son, robert, his heir, who by his will dated th november, , left the manor of rivington, with his other estates, in trust to mr. serjeant hutton, thomas tildesley, esq., and mrs. katharine pilkington, who sold the manor to robert lever, of darcy lever. his only daughter and heiress, jane, in , became the second wife of her kinsman, john andrews, of little lever, son and heir of nicholas andrews, of the city of london, an offshoot of the old northamptonshire family of the andrews of charwelton, and his wife, heath, daughter of thomas lever, of little lever hall, a captain in cromwell's army; and the lordship has continued in their descendants to the present time. james, the third son of richard pilkington, became bishop of durham, and of this distinguished member of the family we shall have more to say anon. francis pilkington, the fourth son, died in . leonard, the fifth son, became master of st. john's college, rector of whitburne and prebendary of durham; his grandson, a stout church-and-king man, who had to compound for his estates on account of his adherence to the cause of the unfortunate charles i., acquired extensive possessions in ireland, and founded the line of the pilkingtons of tore, in the county of westmeath, represented at the present day by henry mulock pilkington, esq., as well as that of pilkington of carrick, in queen's county. john, the sixth son, like his brothers, james and leonard, was in holy orders, and became archdeacon of durham with a prebendal stall in that cathedral, three of the sons of richard pilkington thus attaining to distinguished positions in the church, and holding, respectively, the offices of bishop, archdeacon, and prebendary of durham. james pilkington, "the good old bishop of durham," as strype calls him, first saw the light in the year , three years after good hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, had founded his grammar school at manchester, when wolsey was in the plenitude of his power, and the learned erasmus was winning renown by his greek translation of the new testament; the year in which martin luther, by his denunciation of the new-fangled doctrine of indulgences, shook the foundation of the papacy, and cleared the way for that mighty change in religious thought and sentiment the full meaning of which is tersely comprehended in the one word which marks the epoch--the reformation. young pilkington received his earliest instruction in the seminary where so many puritans were trained--the grammar school at farnworth, which had been then lately founded by william smyth, of widnes, bishop of lincoln, the companion in his boyhood's days of hugh oldham, of exeter, manchester's great benefactor. it is probable that thomas lever, a younger son of john lever, of lever hall, so intimately associated with pilkington in later years of study, labour, and exile--the future master of st john's, cambridge, and the favourite preacher of queen elizabeth--was attending the same school at the time, so that the two, being about the same age, may very likely, as dr. halley suggests, have been taught by the same teacher, and whipped with the same birch. pilkington subsequently entered at st. john's, cambridge, at that time a stronghold of the reformed doctrine and a favourite resort of lancashire men, where he had his quondam schoolfellow, young lever, as a fellow collegian. at the university he greatly distinguished himself by his zeal in promoting the revival of greek literature. in due time he obtained the degree of doctor of divinity, and was also elected a fellow of his college. he became famous for his eloquence and his success as a preacher of the reformed doctrines; and in december, , he was presented by the young king edward to the vicarage of kendal, but did not enjoy that preferment very long. on the death of his royal patron he ranged himself on the side of the partisans of the hapless lady jane grey, but he does not appear to have been very actively concerned in the futile attempt to place her upon the throne. on the accession of queen mary the fires of martyrdom were kindled. john bradford's preaching brought him to the stake, and pilkington would doubtless have shared the fate of the manchester martyr had he not prudently withdrawn from his vicarage and sought safety abroad, where he remained for some years a voluntary exile, three other lancashire men being his associates in adversity--his old companion, lever, who afterwards became archdeacon of coventry; alexander nowell, of read, in whalley parish, the future dean of st paul's; and edwin sandys, of hawkshead, in furness, whom queen elizabeth promoted to the bishopric of worcester, and who subsequently became archbishop of york. while at geneva, basle, and zurich pilkington read lectures and became associated with the leading calvinistic reformers, whose views in relation to ecclesiastical rites and ceremonies he warmly espoused, though when he attained to power, strict puritan as he was, he was never so rigorous in enforcing them as his friend lever. with the close of the short reign of mary the glare of the smithfield fires died out. on the accession of elizabeth, pilkington, being no longer in peril, returned to his own country, and on the th of july in the following year ( ) was elected master of st. john's college, cambridge--that in which he had graduated. he was one of the six divines appointed to revise the book of common prayer, and for these and other services he was, on the th december, , nominated to the vacant see of durham. on the th february following, elizabeth issued her warrant for his election to the palatinate. he was consecrated on the nd of march, received part of the temporalities on the th, and on the th of april following was enthroned at durham, where his cathedral, huge and vast, looks down upon the wear,-- the "great high place"-- deep in durham's gothic shade, where in earlier days the prince-bishop, whose worldly franchises invested him with a faint shadow of sovereign power, bearing alike the sword and the pastoral staff, "looked down," as dr. freeman says, "from his fortified height, on a flock which he had to guard no less against worldly than against ghostly foes." there is a wide-spread belief among the people of rivington that pilkington was the first protestant bishop appointed by queen elizabeth, but this is undoubtedly an error. parker had been appointed to the archiepiscopal see of canterbury in the preceding year, and many other vacant sees had also been filled up, but those of york and durham had been purposely kept open for a year, in the hope that the former holders--heath and tunstall--would conform. nothing, perhaps, more forcibly illustrates the sturdy independence and inflexible determination of the old lancashire divine than his uncompromising resistance to the unjust attempt made by elizabeth to appropriate to her own use, or that of some of her favourites, a portion of the temporalities of his bishopric. the revenues of the cathedral church of durham had attracted the cupidity of the sordid minions of the court, who were anxious to enlarge their hereditary estates by the seizure of the church's lands, and, at their instigation, the queen, following the example of her father, henry viii., on pilkington's nomination, had excepted out of the restitution several valuable manors and estates, a procedure that the newly-enthroned prelate, whose manly spirit, disdaining the slavish obsequiousness which characterised many of his episcopal brethren, refused to acquiesce in. he at once took measures for the recovery of the detained estates, and prosecuted his claim with so much firmness and energy, that elizabeth, who was wont to speak of "unfrocking" contumacious bishops, had in the long run to yield, and pilkington in had the good fortune to obtain the restoration of the whole of his lands, with the exception of norhamshire, charged, however, with the payment of an annuity to the crown of £ , . the bishop was no respecter of persons. if he was ready to brave the displeasure of the queen in guarding the rights of the church in his own diocese, he was equally willing to defend her interests elsewhere, and, as we shall hereafter see, did not scruple even to rebuke both a bishop and an archbishop in doing so. [illustration: interior of durham cathedral.] the church has seldom had a more faithful pastor or zealous administrator than worthy james pilkington. in the month of october, , the first year of his episcopate, he made a visitation of his diocese, passing through his native county on his way north, and that would appear to have been the occasion on which he addressed a letter of admonition to parker, archbishop of canterbury, on the lamentable state of ecclesiastical affairs in lancashire, and a deplorable picture his letter presents of the church at that time. the archbishop was the patron and rector of the three great parishes of rochdale, blackburn, and whalley, then embracing within their limits a large number of chapelries, the incumbents of which were as ill-paid as their cures were badly served; indeed, the position of the clergy was much worse after the reformation than before, partly because of the extensive confiscations of parochial property, and partly because they lost many of the fees that had been customarily paid for religious services. william downham was bishop of chester at the time--an easy-going prelate, who was not much troubled with earnest scruples of any kind. the bishop was negligent, and, as might be expected, his clergy were, for the most part, wanting in earnestness; many of them, too, were miserably poor, lamentably incompetent, sadly ignorant, and some grossly immoral. the archbishop of york had compounded with the bishop of chester for the visitation of the diocese, and that prelate contented himself with simply receiving the visitation fees, which were collected for him by a deputy, alleging, as an excuse for his personal negligence, the difficulty of travelling in the wild parts of lancashire; while the jocund demeanour of the bishop of man, who had taken up his abode in the county away from his own charge, was not likely to induce much veneration for his episcopal office. two of the archbishop's parishes--blackburn and whalley--were very sorrily supplied, james hylton, the vicar of the first-named, being obliged eventually to resign on account of his ignorance, negligence, and utter incompetence; whilst george dobson, the vicar of whalley, was a cleric of low habits and licentious character, grossly ignorant, unable to read intelligently, and altogether incapable of discharging the duties of his office. the dependent chapelries were in even worse plight; in many, the services were neglectfully performed, and in some not at all, or only on the occasion of the visit of some itinerant preacher. such was the condition of affairs at the time pilkington visited his native county. no wonder that so energetic and zealous a worker should have addressed the following letter of complaint to the negligent archbishop:-- it is to be lamented to see and hear how negligently they say any service, and how seldom. i have heard of a commission for ecclesiastical matters directed to my lord of york, &c. but because i know not the truth of it, i meddle not. your cures all, except rachdale, be as far out of order as the worst in all the country. the old vicar of blackburn resigned for a pension, and now livest with sir john biron. whalley hath as ill a vicar as the worst. and there is one come thither that has been deprived or changed his name, and now teacheth school there; of evil to make them worse. if your grace's officers list, they might amend many things. i speak this for the amendment of the country, and that your grace's parishes might be better spoken of and ordered. if your grace would, either yourself or by my lord of york, amend these things, it were very easy. one little examination or commandment to the contrary would take away all these and more. the bishop of man liveth here at ease, and as merry as pope joan. the bishop of chester hath compounded with my lord of york for his visitation, and gathered up the money by his servants; but never a word spoken of any visitation or reformation. and that, he saith, he doth of friendship, because he will not trouble the country, nor put them to charge in calling them together. i beseech you, be not weary of well-doing, but with authority and council help to amend that is amiss. thus after commendations i am boldly to write, wishing good to my country, and furtherance of god's glory. god be merciful to us, and grant _ut liberè currat evangelium_. _vale in christo, cras profecturus dunelmum, volente deo._ _tuus ja._ [greek: dunelmen] though pilkington kept his puritanism well under control, he was uncompromising in the assertion of his protestant principles, and the boldness with which he proclaimed them not unfrequently provoked the anger of the papal party. the beautiful spire of st. paul's cathedral, the loftiest in the kingdom, which had been restored so recently as the year when queen mary ascended the throne, was in stricken, as was alleged, by lightning[ ] and destroyed, together with the bells and the roof of the nave and aisles. the roman catholics represented the accident as a judgment of heaven for the discontinuance of the matins and other services which had used to be performed in the church; whereupon the bishop preached a sermon at paul's cross in which he accepted it as a judgment, but on the sins of london in general, and particularly on the abuses by which the church had formerly been polluted, and concluded by exhorting his hearers "to take the dreadful devastation of the church to be a warning of a greater plague to follow if amendment of life were not had in all estates." his observations were supposed to reflect upon the papists, who immediately circulated a paper about the city declaring the chief cause of the destruction to be "that the old fathers and the old ways were left, together with blaspheming god in lying sermons preached there, polluting the temple with schismatical service, and destroying and pulling down altars set up by blessed men, and where the sacrifice of the mass was ministered." pilkington, in vindication of his sermon, published a tract giving an animated description of the practices that had prevailed, and which is interesting at the present day as pourtraying the curious scenes and incidents of which st paul's was then the theatre. "no place," he said, "had been more abused than paul's had been, nor more against the receiving of christ's gospel; wherefore it was more wonder that god had spared it so long, than that he overthrew it now.... from the top of the spire, at coronations or other solemn triumphs, some for vain glory had used to throw themselves down by rope, and so killed themselves vainly to please other men's eyes. at the battlement of the steeple, sundry times were used popish anthems, to call upon their gods, with torch and paper in the evenings. in the top of one of the pinnacles was lollard's tower, where many an innocent soul had been by them cruelly tormented and murdered. in the middest alley was their long censer, reaching from the roof to the ground; as though the holy ghost came down in their censing, in likeness of a dove. in the arches men commonly complained of wrong and delayed judgments in ecclesiastical causes; and divers had been condemned there by annas and caiaphas for christ's cause. their images hung on every wall, pillar, and door, with their pilgrimages and worshippings of them; passing over their massing, and many altars, and the rest of their popish service. the south alley was for usury and popery, the north for simony and the horsefair, in the midst of all kinds of bargains, meetings, brawlings, murders, conspiracies. the font for ordinary payments of money as well known to all men as the beggar knows his dish.... so that within and without, above the ground and under, over the roof and beneath, from the top of the steeple and spire down to the low floor, not one spot was free from wickedness."[ ] in his prosperity the bishop was by no means unmindful of those who had been his associates in adversity. shortly after his elevation to the bishopric of durham, thomas lever, the companion of his boyhood, his fellow-collegian at cambridge and his friend in exile, was collated to a prebendal stall in his cathedral; and his brother, john lever, was appointed archdeacon of northumberland, and subsequently became prebendary of durham. in pilkington made another visitation of his cathedral, when, doubtless, he felt little or no reluctance in carrying out the instructions of the queen's commissioners for the removal of superstitious books and ornaments and effacing idolatrous figures from church plate. it was shortly after this visitation, and while he occupied the see of durham, that the unhappy enterprise, the "rising of the north," occurred, when the earls of northumberland and westmoreland took up arms and proclaimed their design of restoring the old religion. the insurrection was precipitated by the arrest of thomas duke of norfolk, "the most powerful and the most popular man in england," but who, allured by ambition, and animated by a chivalrous feeling for the beautiful but ill-fated queen of scots, then the captive of the implacable elizabeth, formed the intention of effecting her release and then marrying her, a project that eventually proved fatal to his own peace and life. the earls of northumberland and westmoreland, who were believed to be implicated, were ordered to repair to court, but, apprehensive of the fate that might await them, northumberland marched with his vassals to join westmoreland at brancepeth castle; richard norton, of rylstone, had been called to their aid, and a proclamation was issued to those professing the catholic faith, who in the thinly-inhabited border counties were numerous as well as desperate. bishop pilkington, by his energetic zeal in the cause of protestantism, had made himself particularly obnoxious to the insurgents, and their first efforts were directed against his episcopal stronghold. they entered the city without opposition, and thence proceeded to the cathedral, where they tore up and trampled under foot the english bibles and books of common prayer, and then celebrated mass. the rebels marched under a banner representing the bleeding saviour--"the banner of the five wounds"-- the wounds of hands and feet and side, and the sacred cross on which jesus died, which was borne by the venerable lord of rylstone, richard norton, a brave old man, whose fate and the fate of his eight sons have been preserved from the oblivion of dry annals, by the legends which a true poet[ ] has invested with almost historical reality:-- now was the north in arms; they shine in warlike trim from tweed to tyne, at percy's voice: and neville sees his followers gathering in from tees, from wear, and all the little rills concealed among the forked hills. seven hundred knights, retainers all of neville, at their master's call had sat together in raby hall; such strength that earldom held of yore; nor wanted at this time rich store, of well appointed chivalry, not loth the sleepy lance to wield, and greet the old paternal shield. they heard the summons; and, furthermore, came foot and horseman of each degree, unbound by pledge of fealty; appeared, with free and open hate of novelties in church and state; knight, burgher, yeomen and esquier, and the romish priest, in priest's attire, and thus, in arms, a zealous band proceeding under joint command, to durham first their course they bear, and in st. cuthbert's ancient seat sang mass,--and tore the book of prayer,-- and trod the bible beneath their feet. the revolt was quickly suppressed, and a terrible vengeance followed. martial law was carried out and the triumph of was disgraced by fearful executions; an alderman, a priest, and above sixty others were hanged in durham alone, and many others suffered in every market town between newcastle and wetherby, the "reverend grey beard," richard norton, and his eight sons being among the number. thee, norton, with thy eight good sons, they doom'd to dye, alas! for ruth! thy reverend lockes thee could not save, nor them their faire and blooming youthe. the princely house of neville was entirely ruined, and the immense estates of the castles of raby and brancepeth, with the dependent manors, were seized by the crown. these properties should, by right, have vested in the bishopric, according to the full right of forfeitures for treason and felony within the palatinate, but elizabeth continued to retain possession on pretence of covering the expenses incurred in suppressing the rebellion. pilkington claimed the forfeitures in right of his palatinate, and, in support of his claim, brought an action against the queen for the recovery of the forfeited estates, which he prosecuted with so much vigour and success that nothing but the interposition of parliament prevented the sovereign being beaten by a subject in her own courts; the act decreeing that "the convictions, outlawries, and attainders of charles, earl of westmoreland, and fifty-seven others, attainted of high treason, for open rebellion in the north parts," should be confirmed, and "that her majesty, her heirs, and successors, should have, for that time, all the lands and goods, which any of the said persons, attainted within the bishopric of durham, had, against the bishop and his successors, though he claimeth _jura regalia_, and challengeth all the said forfeitures in right of his church." after the failure of his suit the bishop, whose health seems to have given way under the anxieties of prolonged litigation, petitioned for liberty to pass the winter in the south, with the hope, perhaps, and the desire of being removed to some other diocese. on the first alarm of northumberland and westmoreland's rising, pilkington, conscious that his reforming zeal, as well as the fact of his being a married prelate, would be likely to provoke the fury of the insurgents, removed with his family into the south, and there remained until all danger was passed. fuller says that his two daughters were conveyed away in beggars' clothes to prevent the papists killing them; there was, however, only one child of the marriage born at the time of the outbreak. his wife, alice, was a daughter of sir john kingsmill, a hampshire knight, but it is not known with certainty when they were married, the fact having probably been kept secret for some time on account of the strong prejudice that society--protestant as well as roman catholic, acting under the influence of old traditions--had against married priests; for marriage with the clergy was then accounted as hardly respectable, and even the wives of bishops--bishops' women as they were sometimes contemptuously styled--occupied an unpleasant position in the ranks in which their right reverend husbands were accustomed to move. [illustration: durham castle.] elizabeth had a rooted aversion to married priests, and took delight in subjecting them to annoyance and humiliation. it is recorded that in a progress she made into essex and suffolk in , the year of pilkington's appointment to the see of durham, she expressed high displeasure at finding so many of the clergy married and the cathedrals and colleges so filled with women and children. in consequence she addressed to archbishop parker a royal injunction, "that no head or member of any college or cathedral should bring a wife or any other woman into the precincts of it, to abide in the same, on pain of forfeiture of all ecclesiastical promotion," and when the archbishop ventured to remonstrate with her against the popish prohibition she replied that she repented having made any married bishops. it was to parker's own wife that, in a fit of ill-humour, she addressed the ungracious and humiliating remark, when acknowledging the magnificent hospitality with which she had been entertained at the archiepiscopal palace: "madam, i may not call you; mistress, i am ashamed to call you; and so i know not what to call you; but, howsoever, i thank you."[ ] pilkington's wife bore him four children, two sons and two daughters, all of whom were born during his occupancy of the see of durham. the sons, joshua and isaac, both died young, and concerning them there is a curious tradition still current in the neighbourhood of rivington, though possessing no historical value. on the highest point of wilders moor, a bleak mountain ridge within the limits of the old forest of horwich, and about three-quarters of a mile to the south-east of rivington pike, are two rude piles of stone known as the wilder lads, or, more commonly, the two lads, which, according to popular belief, were erected in memory of two unfortunate youths who were "wildered" (_i.e._ bewildered) and lost in the snow at this place. baines says (hist. lanc.) a tradition prevails in the neighbourhood that the two unfortunate youths lost in the storm, to whose memory these two piles are supposed to be erected, were the sons of bishop pilkington, but, he adds, there is no evidence to support this supposition except the coincidence that the bishop had two sons and they both died young. of the prelate's two daughters, ruth became the wife of -- dantze or dauntesy, of bucks, a representative probably of the family of that name of west lavington, in wiltshire, and agecroft, in the parish of prestwich, in lancashire, and deborah, baptised at auckland, october th, , who, at the time of her father's decease, was said to be engaged to sir thomas gargrave, knight, but who married sir henry harrington, of exton, son of sir john harrington by his wife lucy, daughter of sir william sidney, of penshurst, and had by him a daughter, anne, who became the wife of sir thomas roper, knight, who for his military exploits was ennobled by the titles of baron bantry and viscount baltinglass, and was mother of, with other children, mary, who became the wife of the wise and witty divine, dr. thomas fuller, the church historian and the author of "england's worthies"--quaint old fuller--the "dear, fine, silly, old angel," as charles lamb delighted to call him. of the three lancashire reformers, the friends in exile during the marian persecutions, james pilkington was the first who finished his work. on the rd of january, - , "the good old bishop of durham, a grave and truly reverend man, of great learning and piety, and such frugality of life as well became a modest christian prelate," entered into his rest. he died at bishop auckland, and was buried there in accordance with his expressed desire with "as few popish ceremonies as may be, or vain cost," but his remains were subsequently transferred to his cathedral at durham, where a sumptuous monument, bearing a long latin inscription, was erected to his memory. his "frugality of life"--for the pomp and estate usually observed by the prelates of durham, prince-bishops of the palatinate see, were not much to his mind--enabled him to accumulate, what in those days was deemed a considerable estate, sufficient to admit of his giving his daughters, when they married, portions equal in amount (_£_ , each, it is said) to those possessed by the princesses frances, duchess of suffolk, and eleanor, duchess of cumberland, nieces of henry the eighth, a circumstance which so greatly excited the jealousy of queen elizabeth, who "scorned that a bishop's daughter should equal a princess," that she afterwards took _£_ , a year from the see and gave it to the town of berwick for garrison expenses. possibly the queen had not forgotten the courageous manner in which the sturdy lancashire prelate had asserted the right of the church to retain her ancient patrimony and the fearlessness with which he had resisted her unconstitutional exercise of the royal prerogative. pilkington's will was proved on the th of december, , by his widow and executrix, whom he therein names as "alice kingsmill, my now known wife," an expression that tends to confirm the belief that his marriage was, for some time at least, kept secret, though it must have been openly avowed at the time, or shortly after his elevation to the see of durham, for in his _confutation of an addition_, printed in , the year of his preferment, in his argument against the prevailing prejudice with respect to the marriage of ecclesiastics, he says, "i am sure that many will judge that i speak this to please my wife," an evidence that his own marriage was then generally known. though some of his contemporaries might be indolent in the discharge of their episcopal duties, pilkington himself was a worthy son of the church, and performed the functions of his office with all diligence and fidelity. "a bishop," he wrote, "is a name of office, labour, and pains, rather than of dignity, ease, wealth, or idleness. the word _episcopus_ is greek, and signifies a scout-watch, an overlooker, or spy; because he should ever be watching and warning that the devil our enemy do not enter to spoil or destroy." though he had, while at geneva, imbibed the principles of puritanism, he duly conformed to the practices of the church, from his respect to constituted authority, but all through his episcopate he manifested a strong disposition to deal tenderly with his nonconforming brethren. he was a prolific writer as well as an able and energetic administrator, and his literary productions, which are, for the most part, of a controversial character, are marked by much colloquial force, and a terseness and vigour of language that is strongly indicative of the lancashire mind. his collected works were reprinted in by the parker society,[ ] and include his "sermon on bucer and phagius, ;" "exposition upon the prophet haggai, - ;" "exposition upon the prophet obadiah, ;" "the burning of st. paul's church;" "confutation of an addition, ;" "answers to popish questions, ;" "letter to the earl of leicester on behalf of the refusers of the habits, ;" "_de prædestinatione, tractatus jacobi pilkington dum erat studens cantabrigiæ_; _epistola ad andriam kingsmill_, ;" and "exposition upon certain chapters of nehemiah," the last-named work having been published after his death by his friend foxe, the martyrologist, in . in one respect pilkington may be said to have been in advance of his age. brought up in a county where the practice of astrology and alchemy extensively prevailed, where the belief in supernatural powers was cherished and preserved long after an improved education had driven it from more civilised communities, and where witchcraft could boast its greatest number of votaries; living at a time, too, when a conjuror was reckoned a necessary official in the household of an earl of derby, when bishops gave authority and a form of licensing to their clergy to cast out devils, when jewell, in a sermon preached before the queen, could lament "the marvellous increase of witches," and when elizabeth herself was consulting the english faust, dr. dee, the future warden of manchester, as to the most lucky day for her coronation, it is pleasant to find the old lancashire divine, with all the vigour of his robust intellect, exposing the generally prevailing delusions, and protesting against the casting of horoscopes and the belief in lucky and unlucky days. "what can we say for ourselves," he remarks, "but that we put great superstition in days, when we put openly in calendars and almanacks, and say, these days be unfortunate, and great matters are not to be taken in hand these days, as though we were of god's privy council? but why are they unfortunate? is god asleep on those days? or doth he not rule the world and all things those days as well as on other days? is he weary, that he must rest him in those days? or doth he give the ruling of those days to some evil spirit or planet? if god gave to stars such power that things cannot prosper on those days, then god is the author of evil. if stars do rule men those days, then man is their servant. but god made man to rule, and not to be ruled; and all creatures should serve him." though himself of ancient and honourable lineage, pilkington had little respect for the "pride of ancestry" or reverence for mere "gentle" descent, as will be seen by the following passage in his writings:-- and to rejoice in ancient blood, what can be more vain? do we not all come of adam, our earthly father? and say we not all, "our father which art in heaven, hallowed, &c."? how can we crack then of our ancient stock, seeing we came all both of one earthly and heavenly father? if ye mark the common saying, how gentle blood came up, ye shall see how true it is:-- when adam delved, and eve span, who was then a gentleman? up start the carle, and gathered good, and thereof came the gentle blood. and although no nation has anything to rejoice in of themselves, yet england has less than any other. we glory much to be called britons; but if we consider what a vagabond brutus was, and what a company he brought with him, there is small cause of glory. for the saxons, of whom we came also, there is less cause to crack. so that of brutus we may well be called brutes for our brutish conditions, and of the saxons _saxi_, that is, stout and hard-hearted; but if we go up to cain, japhet, and such other fathers of us gentiles, we may be ashamed of our ancestors, for of all these we came, that knew no god. all this is doubtless true, but the converse equally holds good, for however we may affect to despise hereditary rank there can be no doubt that the personal virtues as well as the heroic deeds of ancestors who have signalised themselves in tournament, or on the tented field, tends to inspire a feeling of emulation in the breast of their descendants, and even pilkington himself was not unmindful of the outward marks of honour, gentility, and family distinction. the great legal luminary, lord chief justice coke, affirmed that every gentleman must be "_arma gerens_," and that the best test of gentle blood was the bearing of arms; so we find pilkington, on his preferment to durham, showing his regard for hereditary distinctions, as well as his respect for the noble science, by establishing his claim to bear arms, and obtaining from sir gilbert dethick, garter king, an honourable augmentation--_quibus ex antiquo tempore ulebatur_. the grant, which bears date february , , sets forth that the _reverendus in christe pater d. jacobus pilkenten theologiæ baccalaureus dunelmensis episcopus est ex nobili et antiquâ familiâ ortus gerens arma vel insignia_; the hereditary coat--_argent_, a cross patonce, voided _gules_--having the addition of a chief _vert_, thereon three suns _or_; and examples of this coat may still be seen in the restored picture in rivington church, one impaling the arms of the see of durham and the other those of kingsmill, the bishop's wife--_argent_, semée of cross-crosslets fitchée _sable_, a chevron _ermine_, between three mill-rinds of the second; a chief _ermine_. of the monument erected to pilkington's memory in durham cathedral scarce a fragment remains, but one of a more enduring character survives to perpetuate his name--the free grammar school which he founded in his native village, and endowed with lands and rents, situate in the county of durham, for the "bringing up, teaching, and instructing children and youth in grammar and other good learning, to continue for ever;" the school to be open, as the queen's patent expressed it, to "all our faithful and liege people, whosoever they bee." the statutes for the government of the school contained many curious directions. the management was vested in six governors, who were "to choose one of the wisest and discreetest among themselves to be spokesman (_i.e._, president) for the year." the voters had to take an oath before the election, the governors and spokesman at election. the regulations respecting the election of voters and those entitled to vote were carefully laid down, and the oath to be taken by the voters as well as that to be made by the governor-elect is prescribed. the duties of the governors, of the scholars, and of the masters and ushers are also defined, those regulating the conduct of the scholars in regard to their apparel, their pastimes, and their manners at meals being curiously minute, and throwing much light on the school-life of a grammar-school boy, as well as on the habits of the poorer classes of the time. the devotional exercises for early morning, as well as the prayers for midday and evening, and the grace before and after meat are set forth. "after that they have prayed in the morning they shall dress their beds, comb their head, wash their hands, and see their apparel be cleanly; their hose shall not hang about their heels, nor out of their shoes, nor their shoes be torn; for though their apparel need not be costly, yet it is a shame to wear it slovenly; their coats and hosen shall not be costly furnished, cut, graded, nor jagged; no nor torn, slovenly worn, nor ragged; nor caps with feathers or aglets. no kind of staff-dagger nor weapon shall they wear, except a penknife, nor go to the fencing school, but their chief pastime shall be shooting, and that in honest company and small game, or none for money. at meat they shall not be full of talk, but rather hear what their elders and betters say; if they be asked a question they shall reverently take off their cap and answer with as few words as may be; and they shall not eat greedily nor lye on the table slovenly." no doubt these precepts were necessary in an age when there was little disposition to value manners above morals, or to regard pleasantness as better than honesty; and when, if one may judge from the "bokes of nurture" and "curtasy" then in vogue, the hopes-of-england even in the higher ranks were but dirty, ill-mannered, awkward young gawks. it was strictly enjoined that neither the schoolmaster nor usher should serve as curate of the church; the holidays were specified, and the modes of correction particularised. as the school was not intended for rudimentary instruction, none were to be admitted who could not read "except in great need," when the usher should teach it; but "in learning to read much time was not to be spent, for the continual exercise of learning other things should make it perfect." the children were to be taught english grammar, and the usher was to teach them the latin of every noun and verb, "that by this means he and others that hear may learn what everything is called in latin, and so be more ready to understand every word what it signifieth in english when they come to construction. as first to begin with latin words for every part of a man and his apparel; of a house and household stuff, as bedding, kitchen, buttery meats, beasts, herbs, flowers, birds, fishes, with all parts of them; virtues, vices, merchandise, and all occupations, as weavers, tanners, carpenters, ploughers, wheelwrights, tailors, tilers, and shoemakers; and cause them to write every word that belongs to one thing, together in order." some interesting particulars respecting the state of pilkington's school a century after his death are given in a return made to mr. christopher wase, one of the superior bedells in oxford university, who, in the latter half of the seventeenth century had conceived the idea of publishing an account of the whole of the grammar schools in england, with a view of showing whether those foundations were being rightly used or not. the work was never published, but the returns obtained are included in the ms. collection of mr. wase, now preserved in the library of corpus christi college, oxford. for the following transcript of that relating to rivington we are indebted to the industrious research of mr. j. p. earwaker, f.s.a. there is no date appended to the return, but it was presumably written in - :-- rivington free schoole. sir,--i received a paper from your office purportinge a designe of a gentleman in oxon to report the state of the present english ffree schoolis, which paper desires my answer to and resolution of sundry queries touchinge the free gramar school of rivington, which accordinge to desire is done and herewith sent to your office, which you may please to take and represent as followeth. _imprimis._--the fabrick of the free gramar school of rivington in the parish of bolton was built at the charge and by the appointment of the pious and learned prelate james pilkington, bishopp of duresme, son of richard pilkington of rivington aforesaid esqr. who also endowed the said school with lands and tenements of the clear yearly value of li. s. d., part whereof ariseth out of lands lying in lancashire viz. li. s. d. the remainder ariseth out of lands scituate and lying in the bishoprick of durham. other accession of revenue by benefactors the school hath none, except with improvement the governors of the said school successively have made, which amounts not to above or li. per annum. ( ). the said schoole at the humble suite of the said reverend and pious prelate made to queen elizabeth of happy memory was founded, created, erected and established by her royal grant in the nature of letters patents (bearinge date the th of may in the eighth year of her reigne) by the name of the free gramar school of queen elisabeth in rovington _alias_ rivington, whereby one master or teacher and one usher or under teacher are ordained to continue for ever, and also six governors by the name of the governors of the possessions, revenues, and goods of the free gramar school of queen elizabeth in rovington _alias_ rivington to bee one body corporate and politick of themselves for ever incorporate and elected by the name of the governors of the possessions, revenues, and goods of the free gramar school of queen elisabeth in rovington _alias_ rivington in the county of lancashire. ( ). the names of the governors expressly assigned chosen nominated and appointed by the foresaid grant or letters patents were thomas ashawe, esq., george pilkington, esq., thomas shaw, gentleman, richard rivington, john green, and ralphe whittle, yeomen. the names of the governours now in beinge are thomas willoughby, gentleman, john walker, clark, thurstan bradley, george shaw, richard brownlow, and thomas rivington, yeomen. ( ). patron of the said school was the good bishop himself _durante vita_, and after his decease, the master and seniors of the colledge of st. john the evangelist in the university of cambridge for the time being, as also the bishops of durham and chester all which are instructed and authorised by the said grant in some cases and with some limitacons to chuse nominate and appoint who shall succeed in the governors school master and ushers office h. e. when and so often as the governors of the said school shall faile in and not execute the power and trust committed to them. ( ). to whom of right it belongs to visit i can not say, but 'tis averred by some intelligent persons that it peculiarly appertains to the jurisdiction of the dutchy of lancaster and that it is solely subjected to the inspection of the honourable chancellor of the dutchy. _sed de hoc quære._ ( ). the school hath not any exhibition in either of the universities. ( ). school masters of the foresaid school i find to have been many, but have not seen or heard of anything printed by any of them, a catalogue of their names you may take as followeth. mr. robert dewhurst, master of arts was appointed schoolmaster by the said patron or donor himself. mr. hallstead, mr. saunders, mr. brindle, mr. ainsworth, mr. rudall famous, mr. bodurda, mr. shaw, mr. duckworth, mr. crook, mr. ffielden famous, mr. breeres, whose successor i was. ( ). some bookes (and by many tis believed a considerable quantity) were left by the patron or donor to the school. but by one ill means or other how or when is not known they are reduced to a small and inconsiderable number. neither is there any library within any town near adjoining except such as the school near of bolton can give a more perfect accompt of them i. from schoolmaster of rivington. john bradley. leave this at the regesters office in chester according to desire and direction to bee communicated to whom it concernes. in later years the trustees obtained from parliament an act by which they were enabled to exchange the lands and tenements in durham for property in the more immediate neighbourhood of the school, and the revenues having largely increased the charity commissioners have lately propounded a scheme for the better regulation of the foundation, under the provisions of which the old school has been rebuilt, and is now used for the purposes of an elementary school, and a new grammar school has been erected on the confines of the township. such is the story of the school that good bishop pilkington launched three centuries ago, and which, through many changes and vicissitudes, has floated down the stream of time to our own day and generation. well does the generous-hearted founder deserve the niche which fuller has accorded to him in his gallery of "the worthies of england." if he gathered wealth he did not forget the divine injunction, "to do good and to distribute;" he did his best according to his lights to make his surplus wealth available for the benefit of the community to which he belonged. though "pillared bust" or "storied urn" may no longer mark his resting place, he has himself left a more enduring monument, for the glory of one fair and virtuous action is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb, or silken banners over us. his name will ever be held in honoured remembrance by lancashire men, who will be ready to say, as fuller said of another "lancashire worthy"--humphrey chetham--"god send us more such men." chapter iv. handforth hall--the breretons--sir william brereton. the stranger who perchance for the first time finds himself a worshipper within the ancient church of cheadle, in cheshire, may haply have his mind diverted from his devotions by the sight of a curiously-wrought oaken screen which separates an old chantry chapel, at the east end of the aisle, on the south side, from the remaining portions of the church. it is an interesting relic of bygone days, black with age, and carved with many a quaint device, and, withal, of such excellent design and workmanship as to prove that our forefathers were by no means deficient in the higher graces of architecture; the cornice is battered and broken in places, but upon it you may still trace a running figure representing the stem and foliage of the briar, with the figure of a cask or tun, and the letters v and b frequently repeated. in the east window are some fragments of heraldic glass commemorating one of the heroes of flodden field, and within the enclosure, placed side by side, is a group of altar tombs of more than passing interest; upon them are the recumbent figures of knights armed cap-à-pie, each with his hands uplifted and conjoined upon his breast as if in supplication. two of them are of alabaster and of ancient date; whatever there may have been of armorial insignia among their decorations has long since disappeared, but a collar of ss round the neck of each denotes the rank of esquire of the body of the sovereign, and the character of the armour in which they are encased shows that they must have played their parts in the time of that long and bloody struggle between the adherents of the rival roses which terminated on the field of bosworth when the sun of the plantagenets went down and the flower of english chivalry was destroyed. those days of ruin when york and lancaster drew forth the battles, when, like a matron butchered by her sons, and cast beside some common way, a spectacle of horror and affright to passers by, our groaning country bled at every pore. the third of these sepulchral memorials, the only one that bears an inscription, is of stone, and perpetuates the name of the last scion of an illustrious house. the verger, if encouraged, will recount, with delight, the valorous deeds of-- the ancient knights whose sculptured glories the aisle adorn and tell you that the grim warriors graven in stone represent some of the earlier lords of handforth, one of the manors within the parish; that this old chantry was their burial place; and that the letters with the briar and the tun that have attracted your attention are the initials and the punning rebus of sir urian brereton, who, in the reign of henry the eighth, of pious memory, acquired the handforth estate by his marriage with the heiress of that name; "buylded" or rather rebuilt the "haulle" there, and erected the curious piece of carpentry in cheadle church for the greater sanctity of the place where repose the remains of his wife's progenitors. within that little enclosure the gathered ashes of long centuries rest; there many a warlike honford and many a valorous brereton sleep in peace; but tabard and helm, sword and buckler, have disappeared, and scarce a relic remains to remind us of their daring and their prowess, or even to perpetuate their names, for-- monuments themselves memorials need. the frail carving on the screen commemorates the first of the breretons, who resided at handforth, and the name of the last of them is written upon one of the altar-tombs, but of that sir william brereton whose name figures so prominently in cheshire history, and who played so conspicuous a part in the great struggle between king and parliament that preceded the commonwealth, not a single memento has been preserved. the church registers thus record his death:-- . sir william brereton, barronet, died at croyden ye th of april. this, and nothing more. he died at the archiepiscopal palace, which had been granted to him by the parliament after the execution of laud, and where he resided during the protectorate, and his body was sent down into cheshire for interment in the sanctuary that canopies the bones of so many of his ancestors. did he find a resting-place there? old gossips shake their heads mysteriously when you inquire, and relate the strange legend that has shaped itself in the popular mind, and which, through the medium of oral tradition, has floated down through the long avenues of time--how that fate, which had permitted the stern republican to see the king "enjoy his own again," willed that his body should not, after death, find a resting-place in the church which, in life, he had despoiled; that when those who accompanied the body from london were approaching the village of cheadle a fearful storm arose in the night; trees were blown down, houses were unroofed, the rain descended in torrents, and the rivers were flooded, so much so that when they came to ford one of them the coffin, with its lifeless occupant, was swept away by the surging current, and never seen again. such is the legend that has been handed down through successive generations, but which, in this unromantic age, is fast fading from the memory of the inhabitants. for its trustworthiness we fear we can ascribe no higher authority than-- tradition's dubious light, that hovers 'twixt the day and night, dazzling, alternately, and dim-- it belongs, we suspect, to that native spirit of romance that gilds to its own satisfaction, and without which the world with all its natural delights would be but a dull reality. certain it is, that there has not been preserved a single memento of cheshire's greatest puritan soldier--the captor of her cathedral city, and the despoiler of the stronghold of beeston. any particular description of these tombs, or of the individuals whose dust they enshrine, we will defer until after our visit to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated mansion in which their occupants lived and had their being. from cheadle the old hall is distant a good three miles, but from the railway station at handforth it is only a few minutes' walk. it was a cold december morning when we started upon our quest; the sunshine and the warmth of summer had passed away, winter was upon us, and the year was fast hastening to its close. there was a stillness in the atmosphere and a dull leaden light in the sky that betokened a fall; the meadows far and near were covered with a thin coating of crisp white snow that gathered in heaps about the twisted roots of the trees, and through the haze we could see the umbraged heights of alderley edge looming spectral-like, while the hills, forming the eastern boundary of the county, were thickly covered with a fleecy mantle of nature's weaving; the little pools and runnels by the wayside were congealed, the ice-gems decked the branches of the trees, making them look like so many fairy fountains, and the hoar-frost glittered on every plant and shrub. there were not many signs of human life about; some sheep were vainly endeavouring to find pasturage, and a few stirks stood gazing vacantly in the meadow, their breath visible in the frosty air. as we strode along the sound of our steps reverberated from the hard and frost-bound road, the crisp brown autumn leaves crackled beneath our feet, and the keen air drove the blood from the surface of the skin and sent it back into the heart like freezing water. handforth, or handforth-cum-bosden, as it is officially called--the manor of handforth with that of bosden forming a joint township in the parish of cheadle--is still only an inconsiderable village, though in its outward aspect it has changed materially since the time when, in - , sir william brereton, then a young man of thirty or thereabouts, recorded his adventures in other lands and made favourable comparisons between his native place and those he visited. thus, complaining of the scanty provision he had to put up with after a forty miles' ride in ayrshire, he says: "the entertainment we accepted, in a poorer house than any upon handforth green, was tharck-cake (_i.e._, oatcakes), two eggs, and some dried fish buttered;"[ ] in ireland he fared no better, for at carrick, he says, "here, in this town, is the poorest tavern i ever saw; a little, low, thatched irish house, not to be compared unto jane kelsall's, of the green, at handforth."[ ] of poor jane kelsall and her humble hostelry, in which, possibly, the lord of handford, before he went a "colonelling," may have occasionally enjoyed his cup of sack, not even a memory has been preserved, and the village green is now only so called by courtesy, for the railway traverses a part, and what remains has been enclosed, though the name lingers in a meadow which is still known as the "green" field. from the railway station a pleasant rural lane that crosses the line descends into a little valley, at the bottom of which a tiny rindle hurries on to add its tributary waters to the river dean; crossing this the road ascends and presently brings us in front of the old mansion, a quaint half-timbered structure with black beams and a diaper-like pattern traced in places upon the white ground of intervening plaster, and built after the fashion of so many of the cheshire houses with projecting gables and overhanging chambers. approaching more nearly we note that much of the old timber work has been removed and replaced with brick painted in imitation of the original oaken framework to deceive the eye of the casual observer; the old mullioned windows, too, have disappeared, and their place has been supplied with others of later date, though of a considerable age, as evidenced by the small latticed panes. ormerod says the building was originally quadrangular in plan; though there is nothing to indicate that such was the case there can be no doubt it has been shorn of its former proud and graceful proportions; its palmy state belongs to other days, but there is, nevertheless, much left to show what it has been, with the added interest that the halo of antiquity and romance throws around it. the portion that remains has for many years been used as a farmhouse, and the occupants, as may be supposed, have attached but small import to the interest it derives from old associations--alterations have been made to adapt it to its present purposes, and repairs that have been effected have not always been done in the most judicious manner or in the best taste. it is an oblong structure with two gables projecting from the principal front, one of them forming the porch or main entrance, and this constitutes one of the principal features of the exterior. the sideposts and the lintel of the wide open doorway are elaborately carved, and on the transverse beam above is the following inscription in old english characters:-- this haulle was buylded in the yeare of oure lord god mccccclxii by uryan breretonn knight whom maryed margaret daughter and heyre of wyllyam handforth of handforthe esquyer and had issue vi sonnes and ii daughters. the inner mouldings of the sideposts are enriched with the running figure of the stem and foliage of the briar, similar to that carved on the screen in cheadle church, and the same ornament is continued along the under side of the lintel, with the addition of a tun in the centre, and the initials v and b placed one at each angle. the outer face of each sidepost had an arabesque ornament carved in low relief, the one on the left terminating in a shield of arms now so much worn by exposure to the weather as to be scarcely decipherable, though in its perfect state it represented the coat of brereton impaling honford or handforth--the sinister half, quarterly, first and fourth, _argent_ two bars _sable_, on the upper bar a crescent of the first, between the bars a cross fleury _gules_, charged with five bezants for brereton; second and third, _argent_ a chevron between three crescents _gules_ for ipstones. on the dexter half, quarterly, first and fourth, _sable_ an estoile _argent_ for honford; second and third _gules_, a scythe _argent_ for praers. on the sidepost on the right of the doorway the carved ornamentation terminates in the brereton crest--a bear's head erased ppr., muzzled _or_, on the neck a cross patée for difference. the interior in its general arrangement has in the course of years undergone considerable change, alterations having been made from time to time as the requirements or convenience of successive occupants have dictated; but, notwithstanding the altered purposes to which many of the apartments are now applied, it still exhibits a good deal of its ancient character, and happily the oaken panelling and other carvings that remain have escaped alike the common infliction of whitewash and the sacrilegious touch of the painter's brush. the most remarkable feature is the wide and handsome oak staircase that is no doubt coeval with the erection of the building. it is in a perfect state, and furnishes a more than usually good example of the carpentry of the elizabethan period; the balusters of the same material are flat, the upper portion being enriched with a series of small enarchments and other decorations, with the addition of a broad heavy handrail, bright with the rubbings of successive generations. this staircase communicates with a landing on the upper storey, admission to which is gained by a large panelled folding-door, black with age and ornamented with fleurs-de-lis, &c. on the slope below the hall the searching eye may still discover traces of the old plesaunce with the fish-ponds and terraces that existed when it was in truth a pleasure ground, when the parterres were garnished with thick borders of yew and thyme and bushes of sweet-smelling briar, and the dainty masses of greenness were bespangled with flowers of every hue, for our forefathers knew the true uses of a garden as well as of a house, and were not restricted by the ideas that guide their successors in the present day. the hand of improvement, like the "spectral bunch of digits," in the fairy tale, is fast plucking our ancient monuments from the soil. handforth remains, but its palmy days have long since passed away, never to return; but even in its present abject state, whether considered as a relic of antiquity or as associated with some of the most important events in the history of the county and the country, it will, while it exists, have strong claims upon attention and call up imaginative fancies as to the fate of those who lived and died within it, for how many a volume of happy or mournful history--of deep affection and patient endurance--of daring deeds and heroic actions--may we not read as we tread its dismantled apartments and gaze upon its venerable walls, for-- here the warrior dwelt, and in this mansion, children of his own, or kindred, gathered round him. as a tree that falls and disappears, the house is gone; and, through our improvidence or want of love for ancient worth and honourable things, the spear and shield are vanished, which the knight hung in his castle hall. the manor of handforth was owned for many generations by a family who derived their patronymic from their estate. it is not known with certainty when or how they acquired possession, but the name occurs in the local records as early as the reign of henry iii., at which time (circa - ) robert de stokeport granted to henry de honford the ville or town of bosden, forming part of the lands of his barony of stockport. a descendant of this henry, roger de honford, accompanied edward the black prince in his expedition against the king of france, and, as we learn from an entry on the cheshire recognisance rolls preserved in the record office, he was rewarded by the prince, who was also earl of chester, for his "services in gascony, and particularly at the battle of poitiers." those were days in which-- each sturt bowman, dauntless, ready, true, scoured through the glades and twanged his bow of yew. the men of cheshire were noted for their skill in archery. they looked upon the earls of their palatinate as their titular sovereigns, and fighting under their banner gained much renown in the wars of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and nowhere did they display greater bravery or win more renown for england than on the morning of that memorable monday in september, --ten years after the fight at crescy--when the black prince, with his small force of , , found himself surprised by the king of france, with an army of , men. the result we know; rather than beat a dishonourable retreat or yield to superior numbers, the prince accepted battle, and, ere midday was reached, the red oriflamme, with its golden lilies, was laid in the dust; the mighty host of france was completely routed, those who escaped with life flying from the fields of beauvoir and maupertuis to the very gates of the city of poitiers; and the french king himself, with his youthful son, prince philip, were prisoners in the english camp. in a locality full of the recollections of the glory of france; where clovis defeated alaric, king of the goths, and established the faith of the creed of st. athanasius--where charles martel drove back the host of invading saracens and saved europe from mahometanism--england added to her laurels her proudest and most brilliant victory--poitiers. in that death struggle the flower of cheshire chivalry were engaged, and the cheshire bowmen bore themselves bravely and well. roger de honford shared in the glories, and greatly distinguished himself on that memorable day; and it was well for him, perhaps, that he had the opportunity of atoning by his bravery for certain offences that he would seem to have been previously guilty of, for it is recorded on the recognisance roll that on the th may in the following year ( ) a warrant was granted by edward the black prince for a pardon to him and one william de neuton or newton, of all felonies, &c., committed by them in the county of chester, except the death of the prince's ministers and of bertram de norden and richard de bechton. mr. earwaker, in his "history of east cheshire," tells us that another member of the family, geoffrey, son of john de honford, met with his death in by foul means. in what way is not stated, but in all probability it was in one of the forays that in those days were of such frequent occurrence between the owners of neighbouring lands, when in the case of a feud one or other of the disputants, impatient of the dilatory and uncertain processes of the law, would be tempted to adopt the simpler and less tardy method of taking the adjustment of his differences into his own hands and making a raid upon his adversary's possessions, for on the rd november, and edward iii. ( ), edward prince of wales, earl of chester, granted a pardon to john de hyde, knight, apparently the head of the house of norbury and hyde; william, son of john de hyde; john, son of william de hyde; and hugh frensshye, servant of sir john de hyde, for the death of geoffrey, son of john de honford, on the payment of marks (£ s. d.). the name of the servant implicated, frensshye, suggests the idea that he may have been brought over, possibly as a captive, from france by some representative of the house of hyde. geoffrey de honford left an only daughter, katharine, his heir, then under age, and as appears by an enrolment of january , - , robert de legh, the younger, had a grant of the custody of the lands, together with the wardship and marriage of the said katharine. subsequently to this time the name is of frequent occurrence in the public records, but the actual relationship of the persons mentioned has not been ascertained, and it is not until near the close of the century that we meet with anything like a continuous record. in an inquisition was taken after the death of john, the son of henry de honford, who had by his wife, margaret, the daughter and co-heir of william de praers, who predeceased him, an elder son, john, who succeeded as heir; and in addition a son, william de honford, who attained to considerable note in the county. in he was appointed with robert de newton, of longdendale, and others, collector of a subsidy in the hundred of macclesfield granted to the king. there appears to have been some irregularity respecting the descent of the land which he inherited from his mother, margaret, one of william de praers's co-heiresses, for, in , henry prince of wales granted him a lease of the lands and tenements in wylaston, near alvendeston, belonging to alexander de venables and his wife, and which were then in the prince's hands by reason of their having been alienated to william de praers without licence being first obtained. he married isabel, the widow of her kinsman, robert de legh, of adlington, who had died of the pestilence at harfleur, just before the battle of agincourt was fought, in , and having, in , acquired lands in chorley, in wilmslow parish, he founded the line of the honfords, of chorley hall. in john de honford, who, four years previously, had succeeded as heir to the paternal estate of handforth, had a grant from the crown of an annuity of s., the king having retained him in his service for life. he did not, however, long enjoy it, his death occurring in , when john de honford, his son, then only nine years of age, succeeded as heir. this john, on attaining to manhood, well sustained the martial fame of his progenitors, and served with distinction in the french wars in the reigns of henry v. and vi. in he took part in the famous battle of verneuil (august ), when the regent, the duke of bedford, utterly routed the french army in an engagement that is described on the rolls of parliament as "the greatest deed done by englishmen in our days, save the battle of agincourt," and it is not unlikely that it was here he won his spurs; so conspicuous was he in the battle that in acknowledgment of his bravery a pension of £ tournois was granted him for life out of the forfeited possessions of john tancrope, as fully set forth in an ancient document preserved among the adlington mss. in the chetham library. the victory at verneuil was followed by a reverse in . for some time the war was carried on without any decided success on either side, but in the year just named the forces of the duke of bedford sustained a severe defeat, which compelled them to raise the siege of montarges, and it is more than probable that sir john de honford, who had participated in the glories of the previous victory, shared in the mortification of that disaster, for his name occurs on the cheshire rolls in that year as being "about to depart for france." from that time misfortune followed upon misfortune. a simple country girl--joan of arc, the maid of orleans--had been wonderfully raised up to serve her country's need; victory followed wherever she led, and after several actions the english, in , were compelled to raise the siege of orleans. no story of ancient heroism reads more like a romance. the english never recovered the blow struck by the maid for the freedom of her country. their hold upon the soil of france gradually relaxed, and one by one the territories which had been won by the sword were surrendered. the duke of bedford gathered a vast force for the prosecution of the war; sir john de honford was in his retinue, and in a contemporary document his name occurs as holding, in , the important post of keeper of the bridge over the seine at rouen for the regent bedford, with one horseman, three lance soldiers on foot, and twenty bowmen. ("_pons de rone super aquam de sayne: johannes hanneford, chevalier locum tenens domini regentis (cum) i lanceam equestrem iij lanceas pedesires et xx archers._") those were evil times for england; harfleur, the first trophy of henry v., had been recaptured in , and in the peace of arras was concluded between charles vii. and the duke of burgundy, the news of which caused the young king henry to weep. at this important crisis in her history england sustained an irreparable loss by the death of the duke of bedford, who expired at rouen september , , at the very time the negotiations for the peace were being concluded. sir john de honford must have quitted his post at rouen, for before the close of the year he with other influential knights and gentry of the shire were summoned to the king's council at chester for the purpose of granting a subsidy to enable him to carry on the war. whether he returned to normandy with the reinforcements or took part in the engagements in which harfleur was retaken, and the brave lord talbot won such renown, is not clear, but his martial spirit could not find happiness in repose, and in (october ) we find him entering into an engagement with humphrey earl (afterwards duke) of buckingham, then owner of the fortified stronghold of macclesfield, to serve him in a military capacity for the remainder of his life in consideration of an annual fee of £ chargeable on the manor of thornbury, in gloucestershire. there was no standing army in england then; fighting was done by contract, and such agreements were therefore not of uncommon occurrence. upon emergencies forces were raised by the king's letters under the privy seal; lords, knights, and esquires quickly responded to the summons of the sovereign, and an army was readily got together if the means of paying the adventurous spirits who comprised it were forthcoming. but it must not be supposed that the fighting englishmen of those days were taken from the plough without any previous military training. the casque and the morion were hung up in the cottage of the serf as well as in the castle of the feudatory chief, and the good yew bow was suspended in the halls of the knights and esquires for the use of their servants and retainers, in accordance with the statute (ii henry iv.) to shoot at the butts on every sunday and high festival, the municipal authorities at the same time being required to see that the youths in their respective districts were taught to send the "light flight-arrow" to the legal distance of yards, so that when they had grown to lusty manhood they might perform the same feat with the heavy war-arrow. hence, in those days there were to be found locksleys in every village to whom the long range offered no difficulty when the king's letter came, whether direct or through the chief landowner to his subinfeudatory tenants and partisans. three years after sir john honford had entered into the agreement with the earl of buckingham he was appointed one of the justices in eyre for the three hundreds of cheshire, and in he is again found on active service in normandy--this time with the army commanded by the duke of somerset. the truce agreed to in had been broken, complications had arisen, the town of fougiers in brittann had been seized, and in the month of april sir john ("messire jehan hanneford, chevalier," as he is styled) was specially commissioned to return to england and report to the king the outrages that had been committed. it was the beginning of the end. one by one the provinces which had been won had been surrendered, and even those which henry had inherited were given up. in july the french king invaded normandy, somerset had to submit to the capitulation of rouen. cherbourg was the last town to yield, it surrendered august , , and thus in one campaign, almost without a struggle, england lost the large and fertile province of normandy, containing more than a hundred fortified towns; calais was the only possession retained in france, and that queen mary lost a century later; yet with a strange infatuation the kings of england paraded the empty title of kings of france and bore the golden lilies upon their heraldic shield until the first day of the present century, when by royal proclamation they were removed. of sir john honford's subsequent adventures little or nothing is known, and even the time of his death has not been ascertained with certainty; but it must have been about , for in that year the manor of honford was conveyed to his son, also named john. mr. earwaker says it is possible he died abroad; but this is scarcely likely, for there was then little for an english soldier to do abroad, and much to occupy his attention at home; and we can hardly suppose that such a veteran as sir john de honford would let his sword remain in the scabbard when in england the storm-cloud of war had burst, and the rival houses of york and lancaster were in their death struggle--"the convulsive and bleeding agony of the feudal power." it was the year which ended the inglorious and unhappy reign of the "meek usurper" henry vi., that in which edward of york was borne to the throne upon the shoulders of the people--the year of mortimer's cross, of the second battle of st. alban's and of towton, the crowning victory of the white rose. though there is no record of the fact, it is more than probable that his remains were interred in the chantry at cheadle, and from its appearance and general characteristics it would seem likely that the older of the two alabaster effigies there was placed over them to perpetuate his memory. though the sword has disappeared, the figure of the old warrior, in its rich suit of ornamented armour, still remains comparatively perfect; the uncovered head resting upon his helmet, a pillow not much softer than that which henry v. regretted that his faithful follower, sir thomas erpingham, had to repose on, when, on the night before the fight at agincourt, he exclaimed-- a good soft pillow for that good white head were better than a churlish turf of france. john honford, who succeeded as heir on the death of his father, had married in margery, one of the daughters of sir laurence warren, of poynton. he died in october, , and was succeeded by his son, also named john, who had to wife margaret, daughter of sir john savage, of clifton. by this lady, who survived him and married for her second husband sir edmund trafford, of trafford, he had two sons; john, the eldest, predeceased him, and william, the younger, succeeded as heir. he was under age at the time of his father's death in , and, fortunately for him, the wardship of his lands and the sale of his hand in marriage was given to his grandfather, sir john savage, who in turn granted them to his stepfather, sir edmund trafford. of this member of the family but few records have been preserved. in , in the month of may, he appeared in the amiable character of a peacemaker between sir john warburton and sir william boothe, two neighbouring knights, who had quarrelled over the rights they respectively claimed to cut turf on warburton moss; and william honford, sir thomas boteler, sir richard bold, and laurence marbury drew up a deed by which the matters in dispute were amicably adjusted. it was one of the latest acts of william honford's life, for ere four months had passed, or the warm golden tints of autumn had deepened upon the landscape, he had met a soldier's fate. on the th of september, , the battle of flodden field was fought, and when night closed upon the scene the moon looked down upon sir william's corpse as it lay stiffening on branksome moor. there is, perhaps, no event in the annals of the country that has been the subject of so much exultation on the part of lancashire and cheshire men, or that has formed the ground-work of so many traditions and furnished so fruitful a theme for ballad writers as the victory of flodden field. contemporary records are full of the achievements of the heroes of that memorable day, and the valiant deeds of those who bore a part in the fight have oft been celebrated in prose and rhyme. to town and tower, to down and dale, to tell red flodden's dismal tale, and raise the universal wail, tradition, legend, tune, and song, shall many an age that wail prolong; still from the sire the son shall hear of the stern strife, and carnage drear, of flodden's fatal field, when shivered was fair scotland's spear, and broken was her shield. it was an overthrow which spread sorrow and dismay through scotland; patriots bewailed it, poets sang dirges over it, and long was it remembered as one of the greatest calamities that country had sustained. henry viii. was at the time besieging terouenne, and the scottish king, thinking it a favourable opportunity for a descent upon england, mustered a large force, crossed the tweed, and sat down before the castle of norham, which surrendered in a few days; three other border fortresses fell in quick succession, when the invading host continued its march southwards. the report of this plundering raid fired the ardour of the english people, and roused the men of lancashire and cheshire to enthusiasm. the war note which had been sounded met with a ready response; william honford prepared himself for the field, and he and many of his neighbours summoned their retainers, and, mustering under the banners of their respective leaders, marched to meet king james of scotland, their force consisting for the most part of archers and billmen, and, as the tablet formerly preserved in the old church of bolton-le-sands expressed it-- the bolt shot well, i ween, from arablast of yew tree green, many nobles prostrate lay on the glorious flodden day. on reaching hornby the lancashire and cheshire forces placed themselves under the command of sir edward stanley-- from lancashire and cheshire, too, to stanley came a noble train to hornby, from whence he withdrew and forward set with all his train. the two armies met on the th september, on the banks of the till, a branch of the tweed, that flows by the foot of the cheviot hills, and the battle began on the afternoon of the following day, the scots having descended from their position on the heights of flodden. the earl of surrey, who had been entrusted by the queen regent with the command, divided his forces into two parts; the vanguard he confided to his son, the lord admiral, and the rear he headed himself. sir edmund howard commanded the right wing, and sir edward stanley the left. the fight began about four o'clock, and the contest was fierce and furious. the first report was that the cheshire men, overwhelmed by a large body of scottish spearmen, had wavered and fallen back; and, as ill news always travels apace, this report, it is said, was the first that reached king henry, then at terouenne. the battle swayed to and fro for some time until the scottish ranks were thinned by the murderous discharges of the english archers; their king, james iv., surrounded by a strong body of knights, fought on foot, and seeing the english standard almost, as he thought, within his grasp, marched with steady step to secure it. it was the agony and very turning point of the contest, for at the same moment sir edward stanley, heading the lancashire and cheshire bowmen, led the famous charge which scott has enshrined in imperishable verse-- victory! charge, chester, charge! on, stanley, on! were the last words of marmion. it turned the fortunes of the day. the shock was irresistible, and the scottish force fell into disorder; , of the bravest of scotia's warriors were slain, and her king fell a lifeless corpse almost within a spear's length of the feet of surrey. among those who bit the dust that day were the archbishop of st. andrews, two bishops, two abbots, twelve earls, thirteen barons, five eldest sons of barons, and fifty other persons of distinction, including the french ambassador, the king's secretary, and, last and saddest of all, the king himself. "scarce a family of eminence," says scott, "but has an ancestor killed at flodden," as the scottish minstrel laments:-- dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the border! the english for ance, by guile wan the day; the flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, the prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. we'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe milking; women and bairns are heartless and wae; sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. the english loss was also very severe, the number slain being estimated at seven thousand; but the men of rank who fell were not nearly so numerous. cheshire lost many of her sons, among them william honford, of handforth, with his neighbours, thomas venables, the baron of kinderton; christopher savage, the valiant mayor of macclesfield; and many substantial burgesses of that town.[ ] as the ancient poem of "scottish feilde," believed to have been written by a cheshire man--a legh, of baguley--expresses it-- the barne (baron) of kinderton full kenely, was killed them beside; so was honforde, i you hete, that was a hynde swyer![ ] fulleswise[ ] full feil, was fallen to the grounde! christopher savadge was downecaste that kere[ ] might be never! another of the heroes of flodden, more fortunate than william honford, we shall meet with anon--sir john stanley, who afterwards became lord of handforth hall. with the death of william honford the direct line of the house of honford terminated, the estates devolving upon his only daughter, margaret, a child of ten years at the time her father lost his life. his widow, sibyl, some twelve years later became the second wife of laurence warren, of poynton, esquire. william honford's inquisition, from some cause or other, was not taken until january, ; his daughter margaret, then twelve years of age, was found to be his heir, and in the interval between the victory at flodden and the taking of the inquisition she had been married by her feoffees to sir john stanley, william honford's companion in arms. sir john stanley, who was about seven years older than his youthful bride, was an illegitimate son of james stanley, warden of manchester, and afterwards bishop of ely, a younger son of that thomas, lord stanley, who according to popular tradition, which, by the way, is in this instance a popular error, placed the crown of the vanquished richard upon the head of the victorious henry of richmond on the field of bosworth.[ ] the mother of sir john was doubtless the lady to whom fuller in his quaint fashion refers, when, commenting upon the bishop's frailty in the infraction of his vow of celibacy, he says that he blamed him not "for passing the summer with his brother (? nephew) the earl of derby, in lancashire, but for living all the winter at somersham, in huntingdonshire, with one who was not his sister, and who wanted nothing to make her his wife save marriage." when the war note had been sounded, and the enthusiasm of the lancashire men had been roused by the threat of invasion, bishop stanley, with ready response, summoned his retainers and dependents, but, unlike the abbot of vale royal, who led his contingent to the field in person, and by his presence gave the sanction of religion to the cause, placed them under the charge of his young son, john stanley--"that child so young," as weber calls him in one of his ballads--to whom the writer of the metrical story of the "scottish feilde" has incorrectly assigned the place of honour as the real commander in the decisive attack in the battle, instead of his uncle, sir edward stanley, who, as we know, for his bravery, was in the following year created lord monteagle. sir john stanley that stowte knight, that stern was of deedes! with four thousand fursemen[ ] that followed him after; they were tenantes that they tooke, that tenden on the bishopp. of his household, i you hete hope ye no other, every burne had on his breast browdered with goulde; a fote of the faireste foule that ever flowe on winge! with their crownes full cleare all of pure goulde! yt was a semely sight, to see them togeder, fourtene thousand egill feete,[ ] feteled in arraye. that the bishop of ely raised so large a contingent as , may be very much doubted, but, whatever their number, his son, who had the command, displayed such prowess that he was knighted upon the field. about the time of sir john stanley's marriage with the heiress of william honford, his father, the bishop of ely, died. while holding the wardenship of manchester he had built the spacious chapel on the north side of the collegiate church, now the cathedral, known in the present day as the derby chapel; this was completed in the year in which flodden was fought, and at the time of his death, in , he was employed in erecting a smaller chapel adjoining it, in which his tomb is placed. this chapel sir john, in accordance with his father's directions, completed, and placed over the door the arms of himself and his wife with a supplicatory inscription, prefaced by his favourite motto, _vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas_. in he was appointed with sir peter legh, of lyme, william swetenham, of somerford, and john holynworth, collector of a subsidy within the hundred of macclesfield. four years afterwards he became involved in a dispute with his neighbour, george legh, of adlington, respecting the renewal of the lease of the tithes of prestbury, a grant of which he had contrived to obtain from the abbot of st. werburgh, at chester, the particulars of which are more fully set forth in the account of adlington hall and the leghs.[ ] sir john, having refused to surrender his lease, was committed to the fleet at the instance of cardinal wolsey, a high-handed procedure that subsequently formed one of the charges in the articles of impeachment exhibited against that ecclesiastic, and it was not until he had undergone a twelve months' imprisonment that he could be induced to yield. the ardent soldier who had displayed such valour in the field at flodden on attaining maturer years became somewhat of a religious enthusiast, and while yet comparatively a young man, being little more than thirty, retired from the world, and sought the seclusion of the cloister, from, as has been said, "displeasure taken in heart" at the treatment he had received at wolsey's hands. in - he obtained "letters of fraternity" from the abbot of westminster, and in a volume of ms. pedigrees at tabley, near knutsford, there is still preserved the original grant under the convent seal of the abbey, dated january th, under which john, abbot of that house, grants to sir john stanley and dame margaret, his wife; john stanley, their heir; and anne stanley, their sister; that they shall be prayed for in that monastery, "_in vita pariter et in morte_," and all other places in their order through england, and that their names shall be enrolled on the fraternity's martyrology _post obitum_. whatever may have been the cause of sir john's withdrawal from society, certain it is that, having arranged all his worldly affairs, he and his wife, in , prayed for a divorce in order that they might severally devote themselves to a religious life and be quit of the world. the divorce was granted, sir john and his wife were released from their marriage vows, and put asunder one from the other for ever. he entered the abbey of westminster, and assumed the cowl and tonsure of a monk, and it is believed that his death occurred shortly afterwards. mr. william beamont, in his "notes on the lancashire stanleys," thus sums up his character:--"his mind turned towards seriousness if not sadness. he loved the preacher's motto 'all is vanity,' and where he could he liked to inscribe it openly. this natural tendency was deepened and increased by the stigma of his birth and other circumstances which he could not forget. the stain on his father's life, and his death excommunicated, would not let him, even in the inscription on his grave, where he supplicates for him the prayers of the faithful, call the bishop by the sacred name of father, and in the letters of fraternity all mention of his father's name is avoided. sir john's mind dwelt too much upon chantries, burial-places, obits, indulgences, and the like. it was his favourite subject, and he crowned this part of his career by retreating from the world and disappearing in the deep shadow of the cloister." sir john left an only son, bearing his own baptismal name, who was an infant at the time of his parents' divorce. his father's will provided that he should be placed under the care of the abbess of barkyng until he should attain the age of twelve years, when he was to be transferred to the care of the abbot of westminster, with whom it was directed he should remain until he was twenty-one, when, and not before, he was to be at liberty to choose himself a wife, with the advice of the abbot of westminster and edmund trafford, esq. of his subsequent career little is known. he attained to manhood, when he married ellen, daughter of sir edward fitton, of gawsworth, knight, but does not appear to have had any issue by her. he was living in , but after that all trace of him is lost, and with him the line terminated. in the east window of the little chantry chapel in cheadle church, to which reference has already been made, there are some remains of heraldic glass, very fragmentary in character, but which still serve to perpetuate the memory of sir john stanley and his wife margaret, the heiress of handforth. the mantling and the helmet, with a part of the crest, are there; but the shield itself has been much mutilated. sufficient, however, remains to indicate what the charges have been, and on one side may still be seen a label bearing the words "_vanitas vanitatum_," the other side, doubtless, having had at one time a corresponding label inscribed with the remainder of sir john stanley's mournful motto--"_et omnia vanitas_." in its pristine state the shield was divided paleways, the dexter half--_or_, three eagles' feet erased _gules_, on a chief indented _azure_ three stags' heads caboshed _or_ for stanley of handforth; the sinister half--quarterly first and fourth, _sable_, an estoile _argent_ for honford, second and third, _gules_, a scythe _argent_ for praers. crest an eagle's head erased _or_, holding in its mouth an eagle's claw erased _gules_. only the chief of the stanley coat and the second and fourth quarters of the sinister pale with a fragment of the crest remain. dame margaret stanley, the wife of sir john, who appears to have shared in some degree the religious fervour of her husband, had also evidently intended entering a religious house, but when the divorce was obtained and sir john had been comfortably settled among the monkish fraternity at westminster her opinions underwent a change. she was still young, being only about five-and-twenty, and the world, it would seem, had not altogether lost its attractions, for she abandoned the idea of becoming a recluse, and again entered the marriage state, choosing for her second husband a scion of the ancient house of brereton, a family that boasted an antiquity equal to that of any house in cheshire, tracing its descent back very nearly to the time when duke william of normandy parcelled out the newly-conquered country among his warlike followers. the original breretons, who derived their patronymic from the manor of that name, if we may judge from the arms they bore, were kinsmen, if not actually direct descendants of gilbert venables, the first norman baron of kinderton, and from them descended sir urian brereton, who became the second husband of william honford's daughter and heiress, and the builder of the present hall of handforth. sir william brereton, who was lord of brereton in the reign of edward iii., had by his second wife, margaret, daughter of henry done, of utkinton, a younger son, randolph, who received the honour of knighthood, and had to wife alice, daughter and heir of william de ipstones, through whom he acquired considerable territorial possessions, and became the founder of the line of brereton of shocklach and malpas, in cheshire. his great-grandson, also a sir randle, was chamberlain of chester in the reign of henry vii., and one of the knights of the body to that king. he is mentioned generally as chamberlain to henry vii., and he acted in the same capacity to henry's son and successor, henry viii., holding the same office under both sovereigns for the long period of twenty-six years. at the time that william brereton, of honford, and his compatriots were engaged in the death struggle at flodden, king henry, as previously stated, was with an army at terouenne; sir randle brereton was with him, and for his distinguished services there and at tourney he was made a knight banneret. he built the brereton chancel in malpas church in , and carved upon the oaken screen this supplication:-- pray good people for the prosperous estate of sir rondulph brereton, of thys werke edificatour, wyth his wyfe dame helenour, and after thys lyfe transytorie to obtegne eternal felicitie. amen. amen. his wife, "dame helenour," bore him a family of nine sons and three daughters. sir randle, the eldest, continued the malpas line; sir richard founded the line of brereton of tatton; sir william brereton, the seventh son, succeeded his father as chamberlain of chester, and was also made groom of the chamber to king henry viii., an office that involved him in the ruin that befell the second of that sovereign's wives. he married elizabeth, widow of sir john savage, and the daughter of charles somerset, earl of worcester; and on the th may, , when only twenty-eight years of age, and then recently married, was beheaded along with lord rochfort, the queen's brother; sir henry norris, groom of the stole; francis weston, a gentleman of the bedchamber; and mark smeaton, a musician, on the questionable charge of criminal intercourse with queen anne boleyn, the queen herself submitting to the same unhappy fate on tower green two days later; a hideous crime that has found an apologist in a modern historian--froude--who, in his exuberant admiration of henry's self-asserting force of character, has sought to prove a "human being sinful whom the world has ruled to be innocent," oblivious of the fact that, while on the one hand there is a total absence of satisfactory proof against anne, there is undeniable evidence of heartless cruelty, wilfulness, revenge, and shameless lust on the part of her husband. on the morrow of her death the king married jane seymour; but getting rid of one wife in order to obtain another was not a solitary act in the life of henry. the memory of that cruel wrong long rankled in the mind of the breretons, and the recollection may not improbably have had its influence on sir william brereton, who a century later did so much to accomplish the overthrow of monarchy, and who in this way may be said to have avenged the death of his kinsman, and thus have added one of those retributive parallels of which history furnishes so many instances. sir william brereton, who came to so untimely an end in , had a younger brother, urian brereton, who in his earlier life was also one of the grooms of the privy chamber. in he was appointed ranger of delamere forest, and the same year escheater of cheshire, the latter an office he also held in the successive reigns of edward vi., mary, and elizabeth, until his death in . on the voluntary seclusion of sir john stanley, urian brereton married his divorced wife, margaret, the daughter of william honford, and thus became the founder of the line of brereton of handforth. the vindictive feeling which henry manifested towards sir william brereton was not extended to the person of his younger brother, for the king, as if to mark the appeasement of his wrath, not only retained him in his position as groom of the privy chamber, but also conferred other offices of distinction upon him. on the th july, , he had a grant for life of the office of attorney of the king in the counties of chester and flint; and on the st of august following he had a grant for life in survivorship of the office of sheriff of the county of flint on the surrender of the same by his kinsman, john brereton, on whom it had been bestowed four months previously, and on the th of june, , he and randle cholmondeley had conferred upon them the appointment for life, in survivorship, of the office of attorney of the earl of chester (the young prince edward) in the counties of chester and flint. in he accompanied the earl of hertford in the expedition to scotland to demand the infant queen mary, who had been promised in marriage to the king's son, edward earl of chester, and he was present at the burning of leith, where, in acknowledgment of his valorous deeds, he received the honour of knighthood. shortly after the expedition to scotland sir urian brereton had the misfortune to lose his wife, dame margaret, who died at handforth hall, though the exact date of her decease has not been ascertained, the registers of cheadle, where doubtless she was buried, not commencing until . her manors and lands descended to the son by her first husband, john stanley, who on the th may, edward vi. ( ) entered into a covenant with sir urian brereton under which the estates were settled between them. on the th of july, , sir urian and his relative, richard brereton, esq., had conferred upon them for life, in survivorship, the office of escheater of the county of flint, and shortly after he commenced the rebuilding of the hall of handforth, completing it in , as the inscription over the door, which has been already given, testifies. he also about the same time erected the handsome carved oak screen in the brereton chantry at cheadle church, placing upon it his initials, v. b., and his punning rebus, a briar and a tun. after the death of dame margaret sir urian again entered the marriage state, his second wife being alice, the third daughter of sir edmund trafford, of trafford, esq., and the widow of sir william leyland, of morleys hall, in astley. his death occurred at handforth hall on the th of march, , and twelve days later his remains were interred at cheadle. by his first wife he had, as the inscription over the porch at handforth records, six sons and two daughters, and by his second wife, who survived him little more than a year, one son and four daughters. his inquisition was taken at knutsford on the th march, , when randle brereton, his eldest son, then of the age of forty, was found to be his heir; he did not, however, long enjoy possession, his death occurring on the th december, , when, being unmarried, the estates, in accordance with a deed of settlement of , devolved upon his younger brother, william brereton, who five years previously, had been united in marriage with katherine, daughter of roger hurleston, of chester, and who was at the time described as "of the nunneryes, chester," a house and lands which the "defender of the faith" had taken from the fair nuns of chester and given to his favourite, sir urian brereton, the founder of the handforth line. this william served the office of sheriff of the county in , and died at handforth on the th june, , at the age of fifty-three. he was buried at cheadle, and mr. earwaker gives a copy of his funeral certificate transcribed from the lansdowne mss. in the british museum ( fo. ):-- william brereton of honford esquier died the fifth day of june a.d. ; he maryed katherine daughter of roger hurlestonne of chester, gent. and has issue three sonnes and two daughters, viz. urian first sonne died young, richard third sonne died young, jane eldest daughter died young. william brereton sonne and heire married margaret daughter of richard holland of denton in the county of lancaster esq. dorothie brereton only daughter now living. his widow, katherine, became the second wife of sir randle mainwaring, of over peover, knight. william brereton, the second and only surviving son, who succeeded as heir, was only sixteen years of age at the time of his father's death. by this marriage he became allied with a family which had for many generations been resident on their lands at denton, and who claimed descent from the hollands of up-holland, in lancashire, a family whose members played an active part in the most picturesque and chivalrous period of english history; who figured among the founders of the order of the garter, allied themselves repeatedly with the royal family, attained the highest rank in the peerage, and it may be added, experienced the greatest vicissitudes of fortune; one of them, henry holland, duke of exeter, doubly descended from the plantagenets and the brother-in-law of king edward iv., being reduced to such extremities that philip de commines, as he relates, saw him "walking barefoot after the duke of burgundy's train, and earning his bread by begging from door to door." the denton hollands from the time of the reformation had been noted for their leanings towards puritanism. richard holland, the father of william brereton's wife, when high sheriff of lancashire, received the thanks of queen elizabeth for his services in prosecuting popish recusants and zealously promoting the protestant religion, and his nephew, colonel holland, was one of the earliest to take up arms in the puritan cause in the great struggle between charles and his parliament, and had the command of manchester when it was besieged by the royalist forces in . william brereton died on the th february, - , and was buried at cheadle on the th of the same month, his widow surviving him only a few days, the cheadle registers recording her burial there on the th april following. he left issue--in addition to two younger sons, richard and urian, and a daughter, margaret--a son, william, then only five years of age, who succeeded as heir, and who in after years was destined to play a conspicuous part in his country's affairs, his military exploits becoming inseparably interwoven with the history of his native county. it is not known with certainty when the future parliamentarian general first saw the light, but, as he was baptized at the collegiate church of manchester, the probabilities are that he was born at his grandfather's house, denton hall, which is situate within the limits of the ancient parish of manchester. of the events of his early life but little is known. they were apparently few, simple, and common-place, and there is nothing in the record of them to foreshadow those strong political and religious prejudices which afterwards developed in his mind, or to indicate the possession of that military genius for which he became so distinguished. he succeeded to the family inheritance at a very early age, and being deprived of the guidance of both father and mother was left to the care of his mother's relatives, and doubtless imbibed from them those strong puritan sentiments which had then become traditional in the holland family. he came of age in , and on the th march, - , he had a baronetcy conferred upon him by charles i., who had only recently ascended the throne, though the gathering clouds were even then heralding a political tempest. whether he had undertaken to perform the conditions on which the distinction was supposed to be conferred--the furnishing of thirty men at d. per day for three years for the settlement and defence of ulster--or had compounded by the payment of a lump sum, to replenish an exhausted exchequer, is not recorded, but we may be well assured that william brereton was made of sterner stuff than to have bowed in the ante-room of either the coarse and faithless james or his successor, the proud and dignified charles. in the following year ( ) he was elected as the representative of his native shire in the parliament which assembled on the th march,--a year famous as that in which the name of oliver cromwell for the first time appears, and in which, to secure the voting of supplies for the war, charles assented to the demands of the petition of rights, confirming those liberties which were already the birthright of englishmen. he also represented the county in the parliament which met on the th april, , to be so speedily dissolved, and, again, in that which assembled on the rd november in the same year--the most extraordinary and eventful of any in england's history--the long parliament. william brereton loved worthily, and, when he had attained to man's estate, he married whom he loved--the daughter of sir george booth, of dunham, "free, grave, godly, brave booth, the flower of cheshire," as he was described by writers of the day--a "person," as clarendon says, "of one of the best fortunes and interest in cheshire, and, for the memory of his grandfather, of absolute power with the presbyterians," and the "chief corner stone" of their cause in the county. his lot seemed an especially happy one. boasting an old and honourable lineage, possessed of an ample estate, which had doubtless been increased during his long minority, successful in his marriage, endowed with every domestic enjoyment, and surrounded by the children of his love, of cultivated taste, too, with a mind stored with knowledge which had expanded and ripened under the experience gained in foreign travel, and, withal, possessing a healthy and vigorous frame that enabled him to enjoy all outdoor pursuits, the cultivation of his lands, and the participation in such harmless sports as country gentlemen in his day were wont to indulge, he could only have been induced to leave the privacy of the home life he so much loved by the stern duties of times in which pleasure and self-gratification must unmurmuringly yield. clarendon speaks of his notorious aversion to the church. this was undoubtedly true, so far as her form of government was concerned, and was in all likelihood heightened by the circumstances under which he received his early training, as well as by the connections formed in later life. yet he was a professed member, and in his name occurs in the parish register of wanstead, in surrey, with those of about fifty of the principal inhabitants, as signing a protestation expressive of their attachment to the church of england and their abhorrence of popish innovations. he was of a sober, serious turn, and imbued with strong religious feelings, but his attachment to the church could neither have been very strong nor very exclusive; he was fond of "spicy" sermons, and seems to have listened with equal satisfaction and delight to the discourses of a brownist or anabaptist as to the ministrations of the most eminent of the preachers of the church of which he professed himself a member. in , when the great and awful conflict in which many of the dearest interests of england were involved seemed as yet far distant, sir william brereton made a lengthened tour in holland and the united provinces, and in the following year he travelled over a great part of england, scotland, and ireland. on his return he wrote an account of his journeyings from the brief notes made on the way, and this journal, the original ms. of which is in the possession of sir philip de malpas grey egerton, of oulton, has been published by the chetham society. singular to say, there is nothing in it to lead us to suppose that at that time the writer felt any interest in military affairs; nor is there any reference to the great political and religious questions which were then agitating the public mind in his own country, and in which it might naturally be supposed he would feel much concern. the narrative is, as mr. hawkins, the editor, expresses it, "a plain, unimpassioned statement of what he saw and observed. the beauties of nature never warm him into admiration; nor do the feelings, habits, or phenomena of the people, or the countries which he visited, seduce him into any philosophical investigation." he was not a deep thinker, and evidently looked at things from a purely matter of fact point of view; his observations are confined in a great measure to a description of what he saw and heard, and not unfrequently comparison is drawn between the places he visited and those of a kindred character in his own country, generally to the advantage of the latter. he describes pleasantly the "stately city of rotterdam" and the "fair maiden town of dort;" schiedam he describes as a "dainty, sweet, pleasant town, larger than namptwich," with "a delicate, spacious, market-place, a fine church, and a great channel walled on both sides with free-stone, running along the middle of the street, whereunto their ships come." he descants upon land tillage, tells the prices of dairy and farm produce, and generally expresses his opinion on the system of agriculture pursued; but that which seems most to have attracted his attention was the method adopted in different places of taking wild fowl by decoys, a hobby he appears to have indulged in at his cheshire home, where he says he also had a decoy, probably in the low-lying grounds, watered by the deane in the valley below handforth hall. at amsterdam he "dined with mr. pageatt," where he had "a neat dinner and strawberries." it is pleasant to find him thus making acquaintance with a noted cheshire worthy, john paget, the author of "the defence of presbyterian church government," who had been minister of nantwich in , but who, in , the year following that in which brereton was born, had been compelled to retire on account of his nonconformity, when he settled at amsterdam, where, in , he had a call to the pastorate of the english church, in which he continued to minister for the long period of thirty years.[ ] in sir william brereton returned from his travels in ireland. in may of the following year he was in london, visiting, at westminster and the temple, his younger brother urian, whom mr. earwaker incorrectly represents as dying in ,[ ] but who in was apparently following the law. while there he was laid up with sickness, and "feared a violent, burning fever," but happily was soon restored to health. in the early summer of the succeeding year a great sorrow fell upon him, and the gloom of sadness overshadowed his house. on the last day of may, , the solemn knell that echoed from the bell towers of cheadle and bowdon churches proclaimed to hall and hamlet that the mistress of handforth, the beloved and cherished wife of william brereton, had passed away, and on the th of june her remains were laid beside those of her progenitors in the quiet old church of bowdon. the tender and affectionate wife, the woman of his early love, the mother of his young children, for they were still in their infancy, was taken from him at the time when her counsel was needed most. the trial was a sore one, and his domestic sorrow seemed to have loosened the cords of life; his habits were entirely changed; the green lanes, the wooded uplands, and the bosky dells that surrounded his cheshire home were no longer pleasant to look upon; his decoys had lost their attractions, and he ceased to find enjoyment in those rural pastimes and pursuits in which he had previously delighted. it was a sorrowful episode in his life, but there was another sorrow deepening in the country that helped to obliterate the remembrance of it. the funeral plumes that waved over the coffin of his wife were stirred by the trumpet blast of discontent that swept over the country. a blow had been struck at the liberty of englishmen; the writ for the levying of "ship money"--that word of lasting memory in the annals of the nation--had been issued; a tax as startling as it was novel, that had been raked up from among the dust of forgotten records, had been reimposed. hampden had resisted it, and earned for himself thereby a cheap immortality. ship money was in all men's ears a hated word; brereton's heart was stirred within him, and he quitted his rural retirement, with its mournful associations, to join in the great struggle against kingly prerogative. it was the levying of this obnoxious tax that first brought him into collision with the constituted authorities. as previously stated, he had inherited an estate in chester--the nunneries, given by henry viii. to his ancestor, sir urian brereton. he maintained that these lands were exempted from rating. the mayor of chester ignored his claim, and much personal animosity between himself and the city was engendered in consequence. the blood of sir william brereton, which had been so unrighteously shed by king henry, had not been avenged; the memory of that cruel wrong still lingered, and when, in obedience to the command of charles, a levy was made upon his property for the payment of the hated ship money, the slumbering feeling of discontent was fanned into the flame of open resistance; and when the commission of array was issued he was the first to incite the citizens of chester into insurrection. on the th june, , thomas cowper, of overleigh, then mayor of chester, the earls of derby and rivers, and viscount cholmondeley, were appointed by charles the commissioners of array for the county of the city; and on the monday, the th august, sir william brereton, being at the time one of the members for the shire,[ ] caused a drum to be beaten publicly in the streets for the purpose of enlisting recruits in the service of the parliament, in consequence of which he narrowly escaped falling a victim to the indignation of the populace, whose sympathies were on the side of the king. hemingway, in his _history of chester_, thus records the circumstance:-- information of this treason having been given to the mayor, mr. thomas cowper, this intrepid magistrate immediately directed some constables to apprehend the leaders of the tumult, but the latter forcibly resisted, and compelled the constables to retire, upon which the mayor stepped forward in person to expostulate with them on their conduct, and upon being disrespectfully treated, he boldly advanced up to one of the parliamentarians, and, seizing him by the collar, delivered him to the civil officers, at the same time wresting a broad sword from another of the party, with which he instantly cut the drum to pieces, securing the drummer and several others. the firm and manly demeanour on the part of the mayor effectually put an end to the tumult, and finally repressed it. during the affray the common bell was rung, the citizens lent their cheerful aid to the chief magistrate, and when they had seen him in a state of personal security the city was restored to peace. sir william brereton, a gentleman of competent fortune in the county, and knight for the shire, and who was a strong partizan for the parliament, was brought before the magistrates at the pentice, to answer for the part he had taken in the above disturbance, though he owed his rescue from the popular fury to the personal interference of the mayor; he was, however, discharged.... his subsequent severities are stated to have proceeded from his resentment on this occasion, and [hemingway adds] it has been a subject of regret to many of his political opponents, that the active interposition of the mayor had rescued from the popular fury a man who afterwards proved to be so severe a scourge to the city.[ ] if the men of chester were loyal to their sovereign, the prevailing feeling in the county was decidedly in favour of the parliament; the popular party were able to prevent the commissioners of array from carrying the royal proclamation into effect, while at the same time their own levies proceeded with little interruption. the attempt to maintain the neutrality of the county by the treaty of pacification, as it was called, which enjoined an absolute cessation of arms and the demolition of the fortifications made by either party in chester, nantwich, stockport, knutsford, and any other town, having failed, each of the hostile parties set to work to procure military stores in anticipation of the approaching conflict. the commission of array established itself at chester, nantwich being at the same time made the head-quarters of those in arms against the king. sir william brereton was entrusted by the parliament with the arming of the county, to him was also confided the seizure of the goods and weapons of the "delinquents," as the royalists were called, and he was subsequently appointed commander-in-chief of the parliamentarian forces in cheshire, staffordshire, and shropshire, his kinsman, colonel robert dukenfield, of dukenfield, and colonel henry bradshaw, of marple, the elder brother of the future judge of the high commission court, being two of his most active officers. eager for the conflict, sir william brereton was unable to restrain his impetuosity. before any commissions were issued the sword of the restless and robust puritan had left the scabbard, and the blast of his trumpet had been heard as he gathered together his dependents and the friends of the "cause," and trained them to the use of arms; staunch and stern enthusiasts they were, who quickly caught the spirit of their leader, whom we can picture in imagination marshalling them in the leafy valley of the deane, or upon the broad plateau of handforth green. on the th of august, , charles appeared at nottingham, with a few troops of horse, and about six hundred foot, the mere shadow of an army; the blood-red ensign, blazoned with the royal arms, and bearing the suggestive motto, "render unto cæsar the things which are cæsar's," was set up on the hill adjoining the castle. it was a hasty and imprudent act--a terrible symbol, reviving the traditions of feudality, and virtually proclaiming that the kingdom was in a state of war and the ordinary course of law at an end. such a ceremony had not been witnessed in england since the time when richard iii. raised his standard on the field of bosworth, a century and a half previously. the auspices were not favourable; the weather was sullen and tempestuous; the dark clouds heralded a storm, and the gloom of the lowering sky was in harmony with the shadow that lay on men's minds. scarcely had the streamer been unfurled than a fierce gust of wind swept with wild moan over the hill top and laid the emblem of sovereignty prostrate upon the ground. it was an unhappy omen, and whispered words of sorrowful misgiving passed from man to man. the next day the ceremony was repeated, the trumpet sounded, the herald read the proclamation, and the few friends assembled shouted, "god save the king." thus the olive branch was cast aside, king and parliament were divided, and the royal sanction given to the wasting calamity of war--war that was to determine whether the monarchical or the democratic estate of the kingdom should possess the ruling power, and in which the best and bravest blood of england was to be shed. in that memorable struggle which convulsed the kingdom and drenched it in civil slaughter--a struggle that may be said to have begun with a tumult in manchester, when a poor linen weaver looking on was accidentally shot,[ ] and parliament, to inflame the people, magnified the event into "the beginning of the civil wars in england, or terrible news from the north," and which ended with the restoration of monarchy in the person of charles ii., when the same old puritan town, to do honour to the occasion, put on its peacock's feathers, and made the conduit to flow with wine, and the gutters to swell with strong beer--the lord of handforth played a very conspicuous part, and there can be little doubt that much of the ultimate success of the republican party was due to his unwearying energy and military skill. his delight lay in the din of arms, the rattle of musketry, and the clatter of troops; and a record of his doings would be little else than a chronicle of the events that were then occurring in the northern parts of the kingdom. a circumstantial account of his military exploits is given by contemporary writers. burghall, the puritan vicar of acton, in his "providence improved,"[ ] makes frequent mention of him, and in josiah rycroft's "survey of england's champions and truth's faithfull patriots," , and john vicars's "england's worthies," published in the same year, are "lively pourtraitures" of cheshire's famous general. the rejection of the bill for regulating the militia, passed by the commons in february, , and which, if confirmed, would have transferred the power of levying armies to the republican party, widened the breach between king and parliament. from that hour the link which bound them together was riven. it was evident that the difficulty could be only adjusted by an appeal to arms, and, as the spring advanced, both sides began in earnest to prepare for the conflict, though each was anxious to avoid the responsibility of commencing it. the fast decaying traditions of the miseries attendant upon the old domestic feuds--the struggles of the barons, and the wars of the roses--were wholly drowned by the loud beating of the warlike pulse; men were suddenly withdrawn from the plough, the anvil, and the loom; the services of foreign mercenaries were eagerly sought, and on every hand the signs of preparation were apparent. [illustration: nantwich.] sir william brereton, one of the deputy-lieutenants, as well as one of the members for cheshire, was authorised by the parliament to put in force the ordinance concerning the militia, and as the harvest-time approached he proceeded to nantwich for that purpose. the king's commission of array, who were at chester, hearing of his intention, marched with a body of men towards ravensmoor to prevent him. on the th august both parties met on beam heath, when an altercation arose, which would most likely have ended in bloodshed but for the mediation of mr. werden, of chester, on the one side, and mr. wilbraham of dorfold on the other. nantwich commanding, as it did, one of the approaches into north wales, was an important strategical position, and the inhabitants being for the most part favourable to the puritan cause, the place was barricaded, and made the head-quarters of the parliament party, of which, as we have said, sir william brereton had the chief command. charles remained at nottingham after the royal standard had been erected until his army had been increased by reinforcements from various quarters, when he set forward, marching across derbyshire in the direction of the welsh borders, intending to establish his head-quarters at shrewsbury, where considerable promises of support had been given. about the same time lord grandison, on behalf of the king, presented himself at nantwich, and on the th september, accompanied by lord cholmondeley and a considerable body of horse entered the town, the inhabitants, fearing the approach of the royal army, which was then at shrewsbury, having quickly made terms for the surrender of the same, as well as of their arms, ammunition, and accoutrements; and at the same time woodhay, doddington, haslington, baddiley, and other houses in the neighbourhood, the owners of which were known to be disaffected, were subjected to the same treatment. two days later the king, having advanced from shrewsbury, entered the ancient city of chester, where he received a welcome as enthusiastic as that accorded to his father, five-and-twenty years before. the mayor and corporation entertained him sumptuously at the pentice and presented him with £ , bestowing at the same time £ upon the prince of wales, their titular earl, who accompanied him. his majesty took up his abode at the episcopal palace, whence a summons was issued through the sheriff requiring sir richard wilbraham of woodhay, sir thomas delves of doddington, mr. mainwaring of peover, and mr. wilbraham of dorfold, to await the king's pleasure. they repaired to shrewsbury in charge of the sheriff, and remained there for three weeks in the hope of being discharged, but the two wilbrahams were detained prisoners, sir richard dying in april of the following year, while still in confinement there. the king returned to shrewsbury, and thence proceeded towards london. on the rd october, when the morning dawned, he saw from the brow of the wild ridge of hills that overlook the vale of the red horse, near kineton, in warwickshire, the army of the earl of essex drawn up in order of battle upon the plain below. on that day edgehill, the first great battle of the great civil war, was fought; thirty thousand of the best and bravest of englishmen were put in array against each other, and on that cold autumn night, as the keen searching wind sighed through the heath and furze and along the unsheltered slopes of edgehill, darkness closed upon the field of carnage, where five thousand men lay in their death agony--so many sacrifices to the moloch of intestine strife--without any substantial advantage having been gained by either side. after the battle, the king continued his march southwards; but colonel hastings, who had also taken part in it, repaired into cheshire with a small force, and occupied himself during the winter months in harassing those opposed to the royalist cause. on the rd of december a kind of peace--the treaty of pacification, as it was called--was entered into at bunbury, but was immediately afterwards broken. in january, - , a skirmish took place outside nantwich between a small force of royalists, led by sir thomas aston, and a company of parliamentarians, commanded by captain bramhall, the former being compelled to retire, when sir william brereton followed in hot pursuit, took one hundred prisoners, and pillage to the value of £ , ; at the same time, as vicars affirms, "making sir vincent corbet fly in a pannick feare for his life." in the same month a list of instructions was drawn up by parliament and transmitted to sir william for his guidance in relation to the conduct of military affairs in the county, and in accordance therewith he sent out his warrants requiring the train bands and other forces of the shire to muster at tarporley and frodsham on the st of february, hearing of which the royalists issued from chester with two pieces of ordnance, and entrenched themselves at ruddyheath, when, on the morning of the nd, the opposing forces met. a few shots were fired on both sides, but little or no harm was done. what, however, was of more importance occurred on the preceding night, when a small force of parliamentarians from nantwich, taking advantage of the darkness, scaled the lofty eminence of beeston and took possession of the castle, which was at once repaired and put in a state of defence. some of them coming down to brereton's assistance were met by a troop of royalist horse on tiverton town field, when a slight skirmish took place, and lives were lost on both sides. the army at nantwich had by this time been largely reinforced, colonel mainwaring, captain dukenfield, captain hyde, captain marbury, with other gentlemen, and their companies of horse and foot, having joined. on the th of march, sir thomas aston having made a descent upon middlewich and plundered the town, sir william brereton advanced from nantwich to give him battle; an engagement ensued, the royalists were driven out of the town, and many prisoners taken. a characteristic account of the attack, from the pen of a puritan writer, who appears to have been present and to have taken part, is thus given in a pamphlet published at the time:-- sir thomas aston and his partie, recovering strength after their late overthrow, exercised the same in mischiefe, and all wicked outrages; for besides their plundering and wasting of all the countrie neere chester, they laid such intolerable taxes both on the citie and countrie thereabout, that their own partie was embittered against them; yea, before we secured northwich, whiles some of our forces were in that countrie, they plundered weverham and the county about; they carried old men out of their houses, bound them together, tyed them to a cart, drave them through mire and water above the knees, and so brought them to that dungeon, where they lie without fire or light, and now through extremities are so diseased, that they are ready to yield up the ghost. on the sabbath, march , having a little before advanced to middlewich, they plundered all that day, as a most proper season for it, commanded the carts in all that countrie about to carrie away the goods, kept a faire that day neere torperley to sell these goods. in over when they had plundered they left ratbane in the house wrapt in papers, for the children, which by god's providence was taken from them before they could eate it, after their parents durst returne to them; and being a considerable body they sent for more strength, and by their warrant to the churches about, commanded all the countrie to come in with such insolent and imperious expressions, that they were hatefull to some malignants, and concluded to give no quarter to any roundheads, and were confident quickly to carry all downe before them. sir william (brereton) was at that time at northwitch with a considerable partie; many gentlemen of his partie were at namptwich, with about seven or eight hundred armed men; their generous spirits were enrag'd to see such outrages committed; it wrought alike in all sir william's forces to provoke us for to fall upon the enemy, though wee could not easily communicate our purposes one to another. at namptwich we agreed to assault them the next morning, signified the same to sir will(iam). he was as forward as we. our gent. desired a minister to come to their chambers, upon the alarum to be given at twelve o'clock, that commending them to god in prayer, they might speed the better. some ministers and others fell to the worke that day by prayer and fasting, though not as moses, aaron, and hur, in prospect of the armies, yet wrestling as jacob did, and putting their mouthes in the dust, if so bee there might be hope, of which they had a gracious returne by three o'clock. the business of that day was carried thus:--sir william being foure miles from the enemy, assaulted that side of the towne by eight o'clock, march the th, and continued the fight for about three or foure houres before we came to his help; in which time this accident fell out, that his powder was all spilt, excepting about seven pound they tooke councell upon it, and it was concluded they must retreite because their partie from namptwich was not come in to their assistance, but sir william was resolute not to retreit but to send to northwitch for more powder, and to keep them in play as well as they could till the powder came, which accordingly they did; betwixt eleven and twelve o'clock we came to their assistance, which they knew not of till they heard us in hot service on the other side of the town; when we began their powder came. the enemy had chief advantages, their ordinance planted; we had none; they layd about musquetiers in an hole convenient for them. they layd their ambuskadoes in the hedges, musquetiers in the church and steeple, and had every way so strengthened themselves that they seemed impregnable; but god led on our men with incredible courage--captaine george booth fac'd the towne with his troope whilst they plaid on with their ordinance, which once graz'd before them, and then mounted cleare over them in another; in another that it dash't the water and mire in his and two other captaines faces, but there it dies. this was no discouragement to our men; they marched upon all their ambuskadoes, drave them all out of them into the towne, entered the towne upon the mouths of the cannon and storme of the muskets, our major (a right scottish blade)[ ] brought them up in two files, with which he lined the walls and kept the street open, went up to their ordinance, which he tooke; then the enemy fled to the church; sir thomas aston would have gone after them but they durst not let him in, lest we should enter with him: then he mounted his horse and fled with all speed by kinderton, and divers others with him, for that way only was open, all the rest we had surrounded; we slew divers upon the top of the steeple, and some, they say, within the church. in this encounter royalists were taken prisoners, among them several officers of rank, including captain massie, of coddington, captain john hurleston, colonel ellis, major gilmore, captain corbet, captain starky, of stretton, and captain morris; a lancashire man was also numbered among those captured--sir edward mosley, of hough end and aldport lodge, in manchester, at that time sheriff of staffordshire, who for his "delinquency" had to compound for his estates by the payment to the committee of sequestrations of £ , , which greatly impoverished him. by the defeat at nantwich the royalist army was greatly weakened, and brereton found himself free to turn his attention in other directions. hearing that the earl of northampton was marching northwards, he immediately set out to the assistance of sir john gell, who was then in the neighbourhood of stafford. it was a short fortnight after the siege of lichfield close, whither sir john, with a body of fighting men, had gone to reinforce the army of lord brooke, who had himself fallen a victim to the unerring aim of the keen-eyed dyott, a bullet from whose arquebus had passed through the visor of his helm and pierced his brain--the time when fanatic brooke the fair cathedral stormed and took, but, thanks to heaven, and good st. chad, a guerdon meet the spoiler had. hearing of the attack on moated lichfield's lofty pile, the earl of northampton hastened with a strong party of horse to relieve the beleaguered city, when gell, knowing himself to be in no condition to cope with him, retired towards stafford. brereton, whose new strung vigour and eager impetuosity seldom permitted him to leave the saddle or let his sword rest in the scabbard, marched at once with , horsemen from nantwich, by way of newcastle and stone, until he reached salt heath, a place about three miles north-east of stafford, where, on the th of march, a week after the fight at middlewich, he joined the forces of sir john gell. at hopton heath, adjoining salt heath, the earl of northampton fell upon their rear, and an engagement ensued. the parliamentarians numbered in all , horse and foot, and the royalists about half that number. brereton posted his horse in two bodies in front of the infantry, and awaited the attack from the earl, who charged the main body and dispersed them, the second attack being followed by the same result; but the royalist victory was quickly turned to mourning. the earl's cavalry, pursuing their advantage with rash precipitation, threw themselves among the ranks of sir john gell's foot; in this encounter the earl of northampton had his horse shot under him, and while on foot was quickly surrounded by his foes. quarter was offered but refused, when a trooper with his heavy matchlock smote off his helm, and another from behind dashed his halberd into his brain. sir thomas byron, who commanded the prince of wales's troop, followed up the attack, but night coming on both armies drew off, each claiming the victory. the advantage, however, would appear to have remained with the parliamentarians, who were enabled to drive their opponents out of the county. sir william brereton, in the fanatical phraseology so characteristic of the time, thus concludes his account of the transaction:-- in the success of this battle the lord was pleased much to shewe himselfe to bee the lord of hosts and god of victory; for, when the day was theirs and the field wonne, he was pleased mightily to interpose for the rescue and deliverance of these that trusted in him. and, as my lord generall (essex) said concerning keinton (edge-hill) battle, soe may it bee said of this, that there was much of god and nothing of man, that did contribute to this victorie. to him i desire the sole glory may be ascribed, and that this may be a further encouragement to trust in him, and an engagement to adhere unto this cause, as well in the midst of daungers and streights as when they are more remote. to this end i beseech you assist with your prayers those who often stand in neede thereof; and believe that there is none that doth more earnestly pray for and desire the encrease of all comfort and happiness then your most faithfull frend, [illustration: handwritten signature] apart from the horrors inseparable from fratricidal strife, or the results which civil war may ultimately secure, there are attendant circumstances that make such an upheaval of the national life not altogether an unmixed evil. if in the great social convulsions of the past there has been much that we must deprecate and condemn, much that must lead us to rejoice that our lot has been cast in more peaceful times, there has been also much that is morally good and dear to our every feeling of existence. if there were barbarism and selfishness and ruthlessness, there were also high achievements and flashes of heroism that will not be forgotten while great qualities find a sanctuary in the human heart, even though we may not be able to approve the ends to which they were devoted. while the coarser passions may have found vent in heartless violence, honour has been as often roused from the embrace of luxury, and a spirit of patriotism evoked that might never else have struggled into light. through the fissures caused by such dislocations of the social strata, genius and virtue and devotion have forced their way; men have struggled for principles as men struggle for life, and have renewed their nobility in something nobler than in name. accustomed to a life of luxury and ease, upholding the puritan doctrines in which he believed, and watching, it may be from afar, the widening breach between king and people, william brereton had taken but little active interest in public affairs; but when the trumpet-blast of war sounded in his ears his courage, promptitude, and zeal were instantly aroused. forced by the troublous times from the lethargy of security and passionless ease, he quickly evidenced the possession of qualities of which he had never given even a crude or ostentatious promise. in what he conceived to be the path of duty he was prodigal of his personal safety, and in that great struggle against prerogative no man was less mindful of the hardships and the dangers inseparable from a soldier's life. it was no boyish enthusiasm that led him to take down the spear and the arquebus from the ancestral wall and to don the armour of his forefathers; for, when he entered the arena of civil strife, he was verging upon forty years of age, and the blaze of youth had sunk into the burning fire of middle life. noble was the idea he had set before him. to contend with the oppressor and to battle for right and justice was a high work. it is not our province to enter upon the merits of the great civil war of the seventeenth century; we reverence the principles of civil and religious truth for which the puritans professed invincible attachment, but we cannot close our eyes to the fact that some of those who pleaded so loudly for conscience, and offered such uncompromising resistance to despotism, when they got the power into their own hands, instead of righting the wrongs of which they had complained, merely changed the venue and transferred a grinding social tyranny from the hand of one faction to that of another. as old fuller, in his quaint way, observes, "they girt their own garment closest about the consciences of others." we can sympathise with the puritanism of brereton in the effort for the advance of civil and religious liberty and the purity of moral life, but we cannot sympathise with the puritanism that manifested itself in fanatical excesses and the profane handling of things that ought to have been sacred, even to fanatics, if they believed in the cause for which they contended. sir william brereton could no longer find happiness in repose; his new-born zeal knew no restraint. scarcely had he returned from the fight at hopton heath than he was again in the saddle, and marching with his troops to northwich. on easter monday, april rd, he advanced from that place towards warrington, with the object of assisting the manchester men in wresting that town from the earl of derby, who then held it for the king. an engagement took place at stockton heath, when the earl, being worsted, fell back upon warrington, which was shortly afterwards invested; but as he destroyed some of the buildings, and threatened to lay the remainder in ashes rather than surrender, the siege was raised, and brereton with his army returned to nantwich. the period which followed was one of considerable activity. before the month had closed he was again in staffordshire, and at drayton encountered sir vincent corbet, whom he a second time defeated, sir vincent, as burghall tells us, escaping "in his shirt and waistcoat, leaving his clothes behind him, which captain whitney took, with all his money and his letters found in his pockets." on the th may, brereton's dragoons, having been joined by some companies from leek and newcastle-under-lyme, entered the town of stafford in the middle of the night, while the people were in their beds, took possession, and made several prisoners; among them captain biddulph, probably of the family of biddulph hall, and captain legh, of adlington. from stafford the victorious parliamentarians proceeded to wolverhampton, which was speedily taken; they then returned into cheshire, and advanced to warrington to join the manchestrians in renewing the attack upon the town, which had been left by the earl of derby to the care of colonel edward norris, of speke; and on saturday, may th, "after a week's siege, the royalists were obliged to surrender this key of the county," when, as we learn from burghall, "sir george booth (brereton's brother-in-law), being lord of the town, entered it, and was joyfully entertained by the inhabitants." sir william knew no rest. two days later we find him marching at midnight from nantwich with a force of eight hundred men to whitchurch, where lord capel had fixed his head-quarters, arriving there at three o'clock in the morning; when, after two hours' sharp fighting, the place surrendered, and the victors returned to nantwich laden with "cheese, malt, wheat, bacon, and ammunition," and other spoils of war. during the preceding months the vale of the weaver had been harassed and made the scene of many a predatory descent from capel's forces, aided occasionally by the royalists from cholmondeley; the country round, but nantwich more especially, had been plundered, the rich meadows and pasture lands which had been brought under cultivation in pre-reformation times by the monks of combermere being more productive than other parts of the county offered a strong inducement; whilst the inhabitants, having for the most part sided with the republican party, were accounted as fitting subjects for royalist vengeance. moss house, near burley dam, dorfold hall, acton, ravensmoor, and sound are named as being plundered of horses, cows, young beasts, and household stuffs during the occasional absences of general brereton from head-quarters. in retaliation, cholmondeley hall was itself attacked, the nantwich troops issuing from their entrenchments by the north road; then, passing mr. wilbraham's house at dorfold, they quitted the chester road and proceeded by monk's lane, passing acton church and vicarage--the latter at the time the residence of edward burghall, the puritan diarist--and thence over ravensmoor to the stone cross near where stood the entrance to woodhay, the owner of which, sir richard wilbraham, had died only a few days before, a prisoner in the castle at shrewsbury. soon cholmondeley was reached. the royalists, being apprised of their intention, turned out to meet them, and an engagement took place, when the cavaliers, having sustained some loss, withdrew to the shelter of the hall, and their opponents returned to nantwich with a booty of six hundred horse. shortly after this some of the nantwich men sustained a severe reverse. the troops left in possession of whitchurch, having imprudently advanced beyond hanmer into wales, were met by lord capel and the welsh forces of the king, who had been lying in ambush. they were attacked and dispersed, several of their number being killed or wounded, and many taken prisoners. it was a sorrowful day for them, and burghall laments that it was "the worst day's work the nantwich soldiers did from the beginning of the war." it was a sorrowful day elsewhere, for on the preceding day john hampden-- the noblest roman of them all, received his death wound on chalgrove field, the avenging ball of a royalist having shivered his vigorous right arm on the very spot where he had first executed the ordinance of the militia and engaged his tenantry and serving men in rebellion, and he then lay at thame, where, with the grace and dignity of the old roman, but with the fortitude and trusting faith of the true christian, he died after six days' agony. it does not appear that sir william brereton was present at the disaster which befell his troops in the welsh marches; had he been, it is possible the result might have been different. a few days before, he was at liverpool, directing the unlading of a ship which had arrived freighted with ordinance and ammunition from london. this misfortune was, however, speedily made up for by an attack on eccleshall castle, which surrendered with all its ordinance, arms, and ammunition on the th june, and on returning to nantwich he was, we are told, "received with much joy." on thursday, july th, having received reinforcements from staffordshire and manchester, he set out for chester; but there his usual good luck failed him; an assault was made, but the city was found to be strongly fortified, and learning that lord capel, with the shropshire forces, was advancing, he deemed it prudent to withdraw his men and return to nantwich. he did not long remain there, for, hearing that colonel hastings had marched with four hundred horse from lichfield to relieve the royalists, who were then holding out at stafford castle, he set out with , men to the help of the besiegers, bivouacking for the night at stone. on his approach the garrison fled in dismay, when the castle was taken and demolished, except the keep. taking advantage of his absence, the royalists, who, though driven out of whitchurch, still hung about the welsh border, determined upon attacking nantwich. lord capel advanced with a considerable force by way of baddington-lane, when the parliamentarians, fearing they might be outnumbered, prudently retired within the town, having sustained but slight loss. on that warm summer's night, august rd, the royalists lay on ravensmoor, and the next morning, taking advantage of a thick mist that hid them from view, set upon the town, directing their fire from the meadows lying between marsh lane and the left bank of the weaver. the attack lasted from six o'clock in the morning until nine or ten, when the sun dispelled the mist, and capel, finding himself too near, withdrew his men. the report that capel had threatened the town caused reinforcements to be sent from lancashire and staffordshire to the aid of the cheshire men, but finding he had fallen back they returned to their respective counties, the "moorland dragoons" from staffordshire marching by way of aslington, where they quartered on the night of the th of august, and then, continuing their march, "they gave," as the puritan vicar of acton relates, "a strong alarm to mr. biddulph's house (biddulph old hall) in staffordshire, where was a garrison. this biddulph," he adds, "was a great papist," a name of reproach applied by the presbyterians to many a good protestant. at the time of capel's descent on nantwich, brereton was with the parliamentary army in the neighbourhood of wem, where he remained for some time, having fortified the town, and being thus enabled to make frequent predatory incursions from it into the surrounding country, to the alarm of the royalists who then garrisoned shrewsbury. taking advantage of his prolonged absence, lord capel resolved once more on attacking the great puritan stronghold of nantwich. on the th of october, he set out with a force of , men and artillery, moving by way of whitchurch, combermere, and marbury; his men reached acton at noon on the th, when, finding that some of the nantwich troops were approaching, they took up a position in the church, which they fortified along with the neighbouring mansion of dorfold, but hearing that brereton was returning from wem they deemed it unsafe to hazard an engagement, and, during the night, withdrew. brereton did not remain many days at nantwich. on the th november, accompanied by sir thomas middleton, he set out for wales. when night closed on that short november day they had got no further than sir richard wilbraham's house at woodhay, where they bivouacked for the night. on the following day they were joined by the lancashire forces, when an attack was made upon holt castle, the royalists were driven out, and the victors then marched to wrexham, whence they would seem to have directed their march towards chester, for on saturday, november , sir william, in company with alderman edwards, who had been mayor of the city in , and a small force, set out for hawarden castle, which surrendered on their approach without so much as a shot being fired. on the thursday following brereton sent a summons from hawarden to sir abraham shipman, the governor of chester, demanding the surrender of the city, and threatening severe punishment in case of refusal. to this demand the gallant old royalist sent a curt and characteristic reply assuring sir william that he was not to be terrified by words, and that if he wanted the city he must first come and win it. in the meantime, in anticipation of any attack that might be made, he caused the handbridge suburbs to be destroyed to prevent the roundheads sheltering in them, and at the same time demolished overlegh hall, bache hall, and flookersbrook hall, with their outhousing, lest enemies from other quarters might effect lodgments therein. happily for the inhabitants the landing at mostyn of a body of the king's troops, returning from employment against the rebels in ireland, saved the city from immediate danger. brereton returned to his quarters at nantwich, and the lancashire men hastened homewards. burghall says "it was a wonder they made such haste to relieve hawarden castle, a stronghold, lately taken, only they left one mr. ince, an able and faithful minister, and about soldiers in it, with little provision, and in great danger. it was also thought strange, that they should leave wales, which in a manner, was quite subdued a little before, and so many good friends who had come to them, were left to the mercy of the enemy." brereton was doubtless a better judge of the exigencies of the case than the puritan divine whose ideas on military tactics were in this instance at fault. retreat had become necessary, for had the royalists with the large reinforcements from ireland have moved on nantwich in his absence they would in all likelihood have been successful, and not only have deprived the parliamentarians of that important position, but also have cut off the retreat of their army, and have forced them to fight under great disadvantage in the rocky defiles of the welsh border, which at that season of the year would have been all but impassable for troops encumbered with heavy ordinance. hawarden castle, being left comparatively unprotected, was, as burghall says, "in great danger," but the little garrison held out bravely. on the st of november colonel mann sent a trumpeter to demand the castle for his majesty's use; the demand was refused, and a week latter captain standford, who commanded the irish force then just landed, sent the following peremptory summons:-- gentlemen,--i presume you very well know, or have heard, of my condition and disposition, and that i neither give or take quarter; i am now with my firelocks, who never yet neglected opportunity to correct rebels; ready to use you as i have done the irish, but loth i am to spill my countrymen's blood; wherefore, by these, i advise you to your fealty and obedience towards his majesty, and shew yourselves faithful subjects by delivering the castle into my hands for his majesty's use; in so doing you shall be received into mercy, &c. otherwise, if you put me to the least trouble, or loss of blood, to force you, expect no quarter for man, woman, or child. i hear you have some of our late irish army in your company; they very well know me, and that my firelocks used not parly.--be not unadvised, but think of your liberty, for i vow all hopes of relief are taken from you, and our intents are not to starve you, but to batter and storm you, and then hang you all, and follow the rest of that rebel crew. i am no bread and cheese rogue, but as ever a loyalist, and will ever be whilst i can write or name nov. th, . tho. sandford, cap. of firelocks. i expect your speedy answer this tuesday night at broadlane hall, where i now am your near neighbour. to the officer commanding in chief at hawarden castle and his consorts there. on this summons the stout-hearted defenders of hawarden also refused to surrender. the besiegers then made application for assistance from chester, and a force of of the citizens and trainbands having arrived, the attack commenced on the rd december; on the following day a white flag was hung out and the garrison capitulated; the castle being surrendered early on the next morning on the condition that its defenders should be free to march out with half arms, and two pairs of colours, one flying and the other furled, and to be safely conveyed either to wem or nantwich. the cheshire men who sided with the parliament party appear to have had a wholesome terror of captain sandford and his notorious firelocks. an assailant whose cardinal principle is neither to ask or give quarter is not a pleasant person to encounter, and hence the cestrians were by no means desirous of cultivating acquaintance with a soldier who had not only declared his intention of putting to the sword all who presumed to offer opposition to his demands, but who, on previous occasions, had shown that he could be as good as his word. following up their success at hawarden, the cavaliers advanced to beeston; the garrison there, having heard of brereton's retreat, had become demoralised, and surrendered the castle to sandford without even the semblance of a struggle. burghall thus relates the story of the capture:-- december th ( ) a little before day captain sandford (a zealous royalist) who came out of ireland, with eight of his firelocks, crept up the steep hill of beeston castle, and got into the upper ward and took possession there. it must be done by treachery for the place was most impregnable. captain steel, who kept it for the parliament, was accused and suffered for it; but it was verily thought he had not betrayed it wilfully; but some of his men proving false, he had not courage enough to withstand sandford to try it out with him. what made much against steel was he took sandford down into his chamber, where they dined together, and much beer was sent up to sandford's men, and the castle after a short parley was delivered up; steel and his men having leave to march with their arms and colours to nantwich, but as soon as he was come into the town the soldiers were so enraged against him that they would have pulled him in pieces had he not been immediately clapped in prison. there were much wealth and goods in the castle belonging to gentlemen and neighbours, who had brought it thither for safety, besides ammunition and provisions for half a year at least; all which the enemy got. the surrender of beeston was a great discouragement to the parliamentarians, and so exasperated were the nantwich men at what they believed to be the treachery of steel, that shortly after he was "shot to death" in tinker's croft, by two soldiers, according to judgment against him. whether steel was actuated by treachery or cowardice is a matter of doubt, but, in any case, an example was required to be made, and the stern puritans could hardly have pronounced a milder sentence; for the dining with sandford, and the regaling of his men with "much beer" must have told greatly against him. with the loss of beeston the way lay open from chester; the garrison at nantwich had in consequence a busy time of it, being kept in a state of perpetual alarm by the oft repeated rumours of the approach of sandford and the much-dreaded firelocks. the town, we are told by an old chronicler, had no rest day or night, and a guard had to be kept continually upon the walls to give warning in the event of the enemies coming. danger increased on every hand, the royalists had been reinforced by the anglo-irish contingent sent over by the marquis of ormond, and the whole district lay at the mercy of lord byron, who had the chief command, and who, elated with his successes, advanced without much loss of time with the intention of attacking brereton in his own quarters. on the sunday following the capture of beeston, "during sermon time," as we are told, news came that the cavaliers were at burford, a place about a mile distant. sergeant-major lothian, with a company of soldiers, went out to meet them, but the sergeant got the worst of it, and in the encounter was made prisoner, when his men took to their heels. immediately after stoke, hurleston, brindley, wrenbury, and the country round was ravaged, and much injury was inflicted. on the nd december the royalists crossed the river to audlem, hankelow, buerton, and hatherton; on the saturday they reached barthomley and dispersed a number of brereton's men, who had established themselves in the church; and on christmas day and the day after they plundered barthomley, crewe, haslington, and sandbach. on the last-named day brereton, having left a guard at nantwich, marched with a considerable force towards middlewich, holmes chapel and sandbach, and at booth lane, about a mile from the last mentioned town, he was overtaken by the royalists, when a fierce battle was fought, and he had to retreat to middlewich, whither he was pursued, again attacked, and finally compelled to seek safety in flight, leaving his magazines behind him and two hundred prisoners. after this disaster he made his way northwards, when, as we learn from the "briefe summary" of the troubles mr. william davenport had to undergo, he was on new year's day "about stopport, when with captain sankey, captain francis dukinfield and a few soldiers, he made a raid upon mr. davenport's house at bramhall, helped himself to what he could find, took away all the horses, about twenty in number, and all the arms he could lay his hands on. meanwhile the victorious cavaliers were by no means inactive; crewe hall was captured, but surrendered again the next day; dorfold was taken on the nd of january ( - ) and on the th doddington yielded without a struggle. nantwich had been invested and subjected to intermittent attacks, and on thursday, january ," after being besieged for five weeks and suffering great privation, it was assaulted on all sides; in the attack captain sandford met a soldier's death under the guns of his own hot battery, and within a few days of that on which captain steel was led out to execution. the siege lasted for more than a week, when general fairfax, fresh from his victories in yorkshire, passed through manchester, and, being joined by the forces of sir william brereton, marched to the relief of the beleaguered town. the advancing army mustered in all three thousand five hundred and fifty horse, and five thousand foot; after a slight skirmish in delamere forest, in which forty prisoners were taken, their progress was arrested for a while at barr bridge, where a small force of royalists had posted themselves behind hurlestone brook, the main body of byron's army, however, remaining in the neighbourhood of acton church. the frost which had continued for some time, suddenly broke up, and the flooding of the weaver, consequent upon the rapid thaw, placed the royalists at a considerable disadvantage; a temporary bridge which they had constructed was swept away; communication between the cavalry and the infantry was thus cut off, and the former, being confined in deep lanes with great high hedges, were unable to sustain or relieve the suffering infantry, and, in fact, could only reach them by a detour of five miles. about half-past three in the afternoon of the th of january the two armies were put in array against each other in the fields lying between acton church and ravensmoor, and on that raw winter's afternoon, before darkness had closed upon the scene, the royalist infantry had given way and sought refuge in acton church, where they were surrounded and compelled to surrender. about one thousand six hundred of their number were made prisoners, among them colonel monk, who was sent to the tower, the same who, after he had brought about the restoration, developed into the earl of albemarle. the slain were very few, considering the large number of men engaged, only about fifty in all; their bodies were buried in a field belonging to sir thomas wilbraham of woodhay, which to this day retains the name of the "dead man's field." the relief of the town was an occasion of much rejoicing; thanksgivings were held, and for many years after, on st. paul's day (january th), the anniversary of their deliverance, the townsmen wore sprigs of holly in their hats in commemoration of the event. clarendon, in his history of the rebellion, observes that nantwich was the only garrison which the parliament had then left in cheshire, and that from the beginning of the troubles it had been the only refuge for the disaffected in that county and the counties adjacent. he adds that the pride of the late success, and the terror which the royal soldiers believed their names carried with them, led them before this place at the most unseasonable time of the year, but that "it cannot be denied that the reducing of this place at that time would have been of unspeakable importance to the king's affairs, there being between that and carlisle no one town of moment (manchester only excepted) which declared against the king; and those two populous counties of chester and lancashire, if they had been united against the parliament, would have been a strong bulwark against the scots." with the disaster at nantwich the power of the anglo-irish army which the marquis of ormond had sent over to the help of the royalist cause in england was wholly destroyed, and fairfax was free to return to yorkshire, where some months after he took part in the decisive battle of marston moor. shortly after the raising of the siege of nantwich brereton's men made an assault on crewe hall, which surrendered on the th of february. three days later doddington hall was given up, and on the th adlington hall, after bravely holding out for a whole fortnight, was delivered up to colonel dukinfield, who, a month later, in accordance with an order of parliament, handed over the possession to colonel brereton, who pillaged the house, and seized the family possessions into his own hands. while these events were transpiring a kinsman of sir william brereton's, lord brereton of brereton, who had been collecting arms and ammunition for the king's service, became alarmed, forsook his own residence, brereton hall, and, with his wife and son, took up his abode at biddulph hall, a fortified manor-house on the confines of staffordshire, which was at once put into a state of defence. angry at this proceeding, sir william brereton determined on its reduction, and at once set out with an armed force to accomplish that object. on the way one of the unlovely elements in the puritan character manifested itself--the fanatical soldiery broke into the church at astbury, one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical edifices in the county, defaced the costly architecture, broke the painted windows, demolished the carved screen-work, turned the fabric into a stable, and carried the organ away to a field close by, where they set it on fire--the spot retaining the name of the "organ field" to this day. having performed these exploits, brereton and his men resumed their march towards biddulph, passing over congleton edge on the way. on the th of february the siege began, but the besiegers held out for a lengthened period--three months, it is said. mr. j. eglinton bailey, in a paper recently read before the members of the manchester literary club, gives the following interesting particulars:-- the ordnance was first planted on congleton edge, but little or no mischief was done from that standpoint. a fragment of an old song is remembered in which lord brereton, seeing sir william on the edge, is made to say-- "yonder my uncle stands, and he will not come near, because he is a roundhead, and i a cavalier." ... during this time the investment was pretty close. communication with the neighbourhood is said to have been held by means of a servant appropriately named "trusty," who had nightly egress by an underground passage, through which victuals were taken in. the parliamentary army frequently changed the position of their camp. meanwhile the garrison became expert marksmen. a person riding through whitemore wood towards the army at congleton edge had his horse struck by a shot, and the rider took to his heels, not staying to remove the horse's bridle. it is also said that when mr. bowyer, of knypersley hall, was galloping over bradley green a ball from biddulph took off the heel of his boot. at length the besieging party fetched from stafford a large cannon, bearing the feminine name of "roaring meg," which was planted on the west side. the gun was next tried on a battery on the rising ground on the east side, the country people having informed the general that that was the weakest side of the hall. the old record is that from this site the artillerymen battered furiously for some time; that at last a ball accidentally struck the end of a beam supporting the hall, thus giving the building such a shake that its defenders thought it would have fallen down; and that thereupon lady brereton was so much affrighted that at her earnest entreaty the place was surrendered. a number of prisoners were taken, including lord and lady brereton and their son and heir; three hundred stand of arms, with ammunition, also fell into the hands of the victors, who sacked the mansion and bore off the plunder to stafford castle. in the accounts of the old corporate town of congleton there are several entries of moneys expended on the occasion of the visit of sir william brereton and his followers while on their way to biddulph. they appear to have had a fondness for the good cheer for which the place was even then noted; thus we read of "meat and drink to sir william brereton's men on the way, £ s. d.;" "paid in meat and drink to sir william brereton's men, £ s.;" "more, £ s. d.;" "spent on captain manwaring and captain ---- from london in burned ale and victuals, £ s. d.;" "burned ale to colonel duckenfield, £ s. d." "burned ale" was a beverage the puritan soldiers seemed to have been rather partial to, and they had almost an equal fondness for congleton sack[ ], if we may judge from the frequency with which they were regaled with it. the attack made by sir william brereton upon his relative, lord brereton, at biddulph, furnishes a characteristic picture of the social disorder and confusion that prevailed in every rank and station of life during that unnatural struggle; the ties of consanguinity were forgotten in the bitterness of party strife, and relationship was no longer recognised as influencing families or individuals, except in so far that men oftentimes found their most inveterate foes were those of their own household. in the depth of the inclement winter, after the relief of nantwich, sir thomas fairfax, in obedience to the orders of the parliament, marched back into yorkshire to join his father, lord fairfax, who was hastening to unite his forces with the scottish army, which, led by lesley, earl of leven, had crossed the border and marched knee-deep in snow upon the soil of england, preparatory to an attack upon york. brereton, after the fall of biddulph, would appear to have followed him, for in a contemporary document which mr. earwaker discovered among the harleian mss.--"accompts made and sworne unto by sev'all inhabitants of the towneshippe of hollingworth in the p'ish of mottram in longdendale and county of chester"--the following entry occurs:-- in the "accompts" of mr. john hollingworth, of hollingworth: li s d itm. when sr william brereton kt. marched wth his fforces towardes yorke there was quartered wth mee seaven score horse whereby i was dampnified itm. when sr william brereton marched towards yorke wth cheshire fforces ffor ye assistance of that county, there was horse and rydrs quartered at my house; the damage i had by them in eatinge my meadowe, killinge my sheepe and plunderinge some of my goods privily, and consuminge my victuals they found in my house, to ye value att ye least of tie markes these particulars give some idea of the losses and annoyance the people were then subjected to, and furnish some interesting details of the way in which the war was conducted. ere the month of june was ended, the fiery prince rupert, in obedience to the king's command, had marched from lathom house, in lancashire, and effected the relief of york. on the nd of july , subjects of the king met upon the heath and among the corn fields on marston moor, almost within sight of the walls of york city, where the boom of the distant cannon would strike upon the inhabitants as the death knell of friend or brother. for two long hours they remained gazing with silent, yet settled determination, each waiting from the other the signal of battle. the sun was sinking in the west on that warm summer's evening when the strife began. by the time it had set, and the twilight had deepened into night, the carnage was ended, and five thousand dead bodies of englishmen lay heaped upon the fatal ground. the distinctions that in life had separated those sons of a common country seemed as nothing now. the plumed helmet and the rude morion, the glistening corslet and the buff jerkin, embraced as they rolled on the heath together, and the loose love-lock of the careless cavalier lay drenched in the dark blood of the stern and uncompromising roundhead. on marston heath met front to front, the ranks of death; flourished the trumpets fierce, and now fired was each eye, and flushed each brow; on either side loud clamours ring, "god and the cause!"--"god and the king!" right english all, they rushed to blows with nought to win and all to lose. it was the first great battle in which cromwell and his invincible ironsides had borne a part, and it was their irresistible bravery that decided the day. rupert was fairly swept off the field, and the hopes of charles were completely wrecked. it was the greatest achievement of the war, and left the whole of the northern counties open to the parliament's sway. the discomfited rupert, with the wreck of his army, retreated towards chester, and thence into lancashire, where he had the mortification to see all the strongholds he had recently gained speedily retaken, and among them the castle of liverpool. brereton was quickly marching in the same direction. halton castle still held out for the king, though, as we learn from a letter addressed by goring to prince rupert, it was then threatened by the garrison of warrington. it shortly afterwards surrendered, and on the nd july was taken possession of by the parliamentary troops under brereton. a few weeks later colonel marrow, the governor of chester, with a small force marched from that city towards northwich, "plundering some poor men's cattle by the way;" when near hartford he was met by a party of brereton's men. marrow retreated towards sandiway, and there faced about, when a skirmish took place. fifteen of brereton's soldiers were captured, but the victory was dearly bought, for marrow himself, "a most pestilent atheisticall royalist," as vicars calls him, received a shot, from the effects of which he died the following day. this was on sunday, the th of august. a few days later the nantwich men, with the assistance of brereton's cavalry and some troops from halton, attacked the royalists in their quarters near tarvin, and defeated them, and on the th they were again engaged near malpas, when the cavaliers sustained some serious losses. hearing that lord herbert, of cherbury, was besieged in montgomery castle, brereton, with sir wm. meldran, sir wm. fairfax, and thirty-two troops of horse out of lancashire, and other companies out of staffordshire, in all about three thousand men, set out to relieve him. on tuesday, the th september, they compelled the royalists to raise the siege, which led to a desperate encounter on the following day, when the king's troops were defeated with a loss of five hundred slain and fourteen hundred prisoners, among the latter being that "_chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_," major-general sir thomas tyldesley. among the slain on the parliament side was sir william fairfax. a week after this exploit brereton and his forces returned to nantwich. in the scattered but authentic records of the period we get frequent glimpses of him hurrying hither and thither during the dark winter months. in february, - , the town and castle of shrewsbury, with the ordnance, arms, and ammunition, and a considerable body of prisoners, surrendered to him, and, as the spring advanced, his forces began to gather by degrees round the castle of beeston and the city of chester, which still held out for the king; but news coming that the princes rupert and maurice were approaching to the relief, his men fell back upon nantwich, and the relieving force of royalists, having accomplished their object, retired, first plundering bunbury and burning beeston hall. scarcely had they departed, however, when the siege of chester was renewed. on the th of may the king left oxford, and marched with his forces in the direction of the city, but when within twenty miles of it brereton, hearing of his advance, raised the siege and retired into lancashire. this movement left his majesty free to commence operations in another direction, and he suddenly appeared before leicester and carried the town by storm. on the th of june the battle of naseby was fought--the most decisive and disastrous to the king of all his military engagements--the royalists losing all their artillery, baggage, the king's private cabinet, and eight thousand stand of arms, while the parliamentarians were put in possession of nearly all the chief cities of the kingdom. the siege of bristol followed; on the th of september the city was stormed and taken, and victory seemed everywhere to attend the movements of the king's opponents. charles, who was now at hereford, resolved on proceeding to chester, hoping to reach it by a circuitous route over the welsh mountains, and intending thence to make his way northward by lancashire and cumberland, to join montrose. the march through that wild and inhospitable region occupied five days, the king and his party being exposed the while to many hardships and privations. he had arranged his plans in the full belief that chester was safe from any meditated attack, but, to his dismay, on approaching the city he found the people in a state of excitement and alarm, sir william brereton having collected a powerful body of troops, including the force with which colonel jones and the redoubtable adjutant-general lowthian had been investing beeston castle, and was then preparing to attack it, having, indeed, on the very day his majesty left hereford, surprised and possessed himself of the mayor's house, and with it the sword and mace of the corporation, as well as of st. john's church, boughton, and some of the eastern suburbs. on learning the position of affairs, the king ordered sir marmaduke langdale--he who had fought so gallantly at naseby--to cross the dee eastwards above chester, whilst himself, with his guards, lord gerard, and the remainder of the horse, would enter the city by the west, intending thus to dislodge the republican soldiers by a simultaneous attack upon their front and rear. but these plans were disconcerted by the unexpected appearance of major-general poyntz, who had been following in the king's track, and had advanced from whitchurch to the help of brereton's forces. the king reached the city, on the night of wednesday, the th of september, , sir marmaduke langdale having in the meantime crossed the river at holt bridge, and drawn up his men on rowton heath, some two miles distant. on the following morning poyntz came upon the scene, when he was attacked by langdale and repulsed with considerable loss, but a party of brereton's men, headed by colonel jones and lowthian, hastened to their assistance, when langdale was in turn overpowered and compelled to seek shelter beneath the city walls, where the royal guards, commanded by the young earl of lichfield and the lords gerard and lindsey, were ready to support them. the contest now became fierce and general. from the leads on the phoenix tower on chester walls the ill-fated charles watched the fluctuating progress of this last effort for the maintenance of the royal power; amid the broken surges of the battle he saw his own battalions alternately retreating and rallying until at length, overpowered by numbers, they were compelled to retreat, and he saw, too, his gallant kinsman, bernard stuart, earl of lichfield--the third brother of that illustrious family who had sacrificed their lives in the cause--with many a gentleman besides fall dead at his feet, and all that had hitherto survived of his broken remnant of a host either taken prisoners or driven in headlong rout and ruin from the fatal field. "thenceforward the king's sword was a useless bauble, less significant than the 'george' upon his breast." charles bore his misfortune with a dignity and composure that reminds us of his valorous predecessor, the fifth harry, when in similar peril. upon his royal face there is no note how dread a peril hath enrounded him; nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour unto the weary and all-watched night; but freshly looks, and overbears attaint, with cheerful semblance and sweet majesty. chester still held out, and its preservation was of the utmost importance to the royal cause, for it was the only place at which the king could hope to land the reinforcements expected from ireland. it was inexpedient, however, for him to incur the risk of being shut up within the beleaguered city, and so at the close of that fatal thursday when the fight on rowton heath was ended, and the grey twilight of the autumn evening was deepening into the sombre gloom of night, the ill-starred monarch--a monarch only in name--accompanied by a small guard and a few faithful followers, passed over the dee bridge a fugitive on his way to denbigh. everything which charles or his friends attempted seemed to bear upon it the impress of a failing or utterly fallen cause. the defeated, powerless, almost friendless monarch was as unsuccessful in the business of diplomacy as he was in that of war; and whatever was indiscreetly planned was sure to be as rashly undertaken. power had passed from his grasp; but suffering had hardly as yet wreathed its halo round his discrowned brow or lent his life the dignity of woe. while at denbigh, whither he had sought refuge on the discomfiture of his troops before chester, he received the mortifying intelligence that montrose had been surprised near berwick by lesley's steel-clad troopers, and that his men, after a brief but gallant resistance, had laid down their arms on the promise of quarter. all hope from that direction was now at an end, and the idea of moving northwards was abandoned. turning his steps southwards, the fallen monarch, accompanied by a few broken squadrons, retreated by way of chirk, bridgenorth, and lichfield to newark: whence the march was continued until the evening of the th of november, when the tired fugitives entered the city of oxford, charles having, as his affectionate historian writes, "finished the most tedious and grievous march that ever king was exercised in." on the th of november, three weeks after the defeat of the royalist army on rowton heath, the garrison of beeston, after bravely holding out for well-nigh twelve months, and undergoing the severest privations, surrendered to sir william brereton. the loss of the great cheshire stronghold was a severe blow, but the hopes of charles had not entirely vanished. chester still held out, and through the long months of that dreary winter its gallant defenders persistently refused to yield. on the th of december brereton's army was reinforced, in accordance with an order of the parliament, by the lancashire forces commanded by colonel booth, who were then flushed with their recent successes at lathom house; but rather than surrender the loyal citizens elected to keep a "lenten christmas," and, as the old chronicler has it, "to feed on horses, dogs, and cats." on the st of january, - , brereton sent a preliminary summons to the governor, lord byron,[ ] demanding that the city should be immediately given up; but the summons was disregarded; and subsequent demands were treated with the same contumely, until at last, on the rd of february, when the brave defenders had become reduced to the last extremity by famine, the city and castle were given up to brereton, after having withstood a close siege for fully twenty weeks. the following extract from a letter preserved among the ms. collection of walker, the historian, of "the sufferings of the clergy," in the bodleian library, in which the writer, mr. edward seddon, a native of chester, describing the sufferings his father had to endure during and after the siege, gives a vivid picture of the hardships our forefathers had to face in that great struggle:-- in pursuance of a promise i formerly made in a letter to mr. webber, i have here sent you the following account of my most honoured father's sufferings in the late times of rebellion and confusion, wherein, though, perhaps, i may be under some mistakes, in not adjusting every passage to its proper time, or mis-nomen of some persons mentioned in it, yet i have not willingly and knowingly trespas'd upon ye truth in any material part of my relation, which i hope you'l therefore peruse with candour as follows;--the reverend mr. william seddon m.a. of magdalen coll. in camb., being about the year of our lord , setl'd a preacher in one of ye parish churches, i think st. maries in ye city of chester, was then also possess'd of a vicarage at eastham (about six miles distant from ye city, value li. per annum), where he liv'd with his wife and family in a very happy condition, till ye civil wars breaking out, and ye parliament forces drawing on to besiege chester, he was compel'd to withdraw his family and effects into ye city for succour, where his great and good friend and pastor, ye lord bishop bridgman, then lord bishop of chester, accommodated him with several rooms and lodgings in his own palace; and yet the aged bishop dreading the hardships of a siege, voided the place, leaving my father in his palace, who continued diligent in his ministry, and frequent preaching to ye garrison there. and the city being closely besieg'd and frequently storm'd, my mother was on ye th day of octob., , delivered of me, her th child (all the then living) and said to be ye last yt was publickly baptiz'd in ye font of yt cathedral there before ye restoracion in . the city being surrendred upon articles my father was shortly apprehended and made prisoner, and after some short durance was demanded by ye prevailing powers, why he had not, according to ye articles of surrender, march'd off with ye garrison to ye king's quarters, to which he reply'd, yt he thought his cassock had vnconcern'd him in those articles, being a minister in ye city, but above all he had a wife, and many small children there, which if he could see tolerably dispos'd of he would, not vnwillingly, accept the articles. but many complaints being made against him, yt he had in his preaching reflected upon the proceedings of the prevailing party, had animated ye garrison to resist even unto blood, &c., he was remanded to prison again, and his house permitted to be plunder'd by ye souldiers, who despoil'd him not of his goods only, but of his books and papers, which they exposed to sale at a very low rate; and so by private directions to some of his friends, he repurchas'd some of the most necessary for his own use. but then an order was drawn up to export his wife and children out of ye city to eastham (which accordingly was done, several of ye younger sort being put into a wagon with other goods which had escap'd the pillage) where though they had only ye bare walls of a vicarage house to resort to, yet they found a hearty welcome from ye loial part of the parishioners there, amongst whom they dispers'd themselves, and in a short time after, my father's confinement was somewhat enlarg'd and his escape conniv'd at, which gave him ye liberty of going in quest of his wife and children, whom he found in pretty good circumstances among his loial friends. but another minister (whose name and character i have utterly forgot)[ ] being despatch'd with orders from ye ruling powers at chester to supply the vicarage at eastham, and a rumour dispsd, yt my father must be apprehended again, and reduc'd as prisoner to chester, he scamper'd about privately to the houses of ye loyal gentry, to whom his character and condition were well known, and then despatched a letter to his elder brother mr. peter seddon of outwood in lancashire (ye place of my father's nativity) who was then, at that rate of ye times, turn'd zealous presbiterian too, and had a son a captain in ye parliament's army, acquainting him with ye storm he was under, and requesting him to cover either all or part of his ffamily, till he could weather ye storm; _to which letter ye main of ye answers he had was yt would he conform himself to ye godly party, his own merits would protect and prefer him_, which so incens'd my father yet he never more held any correspondence with him.[ ] after the reduction of chester, brereton was free to turn his attention in other directions. lichfield surrendered to his arms on the th of march; on the st of april tutbury was delivered into his possession; seven days later bridgewater yielded, and on the th of may dudley castle was taken. "these, with many other victories," says rycroft, "hath this valiant knight performed which will to after ages stand a monument to his due praise." thus restless souls send to eternall rest! and active spirits in a righteous way find peace within, though much with war opprest; this bravest brereton of his name could say. and now triumps, maugre those nimrods dead, _aston_, _capell_, _byron_, and _northampton_ dead. the slaughter'd irish, and his native soile now quiet show his courage, love, and toile. the parliament was not slow in rewarding him for the important services rendered to the cause. in addition to being made commander-in-chief of the parliament's forces in cheshire, staffordshire, and shropshire, he had conferred upon him the chief forestership of macclesfield forest, as well as the seneschalship of the hundred; he received other rewards, too, in the shape of grants of money and lands out of the sequestered estates of "delinquent" royalists and papists, and on the termination of the war had bestowed upon him the archiepiscopal palace of croydon, in which he fixed his residence during the protectorate. brereton, though professedly a churchman, was notorious for his aversion to the episcopal form of church government; anxious that his country should enjoy the blessings of the kirk discipline, he busied himself in the brief intervals he could snatch from his military engagements in the direction of the ecclesiastical affairs of his native county, and the accounts and other memoranda preserved in the parish chest of many a village church in cheshire bear testimony to the suffering and misery inflicted on many a worthy clergyman by his rough and ready method of effecting reforms. poor william seddon was not the only one who felt the weight of his displeasure, for the cheshire parsons had in many instances the mortification of seeing their churches and rectory houses sacked, their livings sequestered, and themselves driven from their flocks and their homes, and, being non-combatants, left powerless to help themselves or their families. liberty had been clamoured for, but those who clamoured when they got the power, as fuller says, "girt their own garment closest about the consciences of others." presbyterianism was as bigoted as episcopacy, and independency, which followed, was as intolerant as either. brereton lived to see the restoration of monarchy in the person of charles ii., but he did not long survive that event, his death occurring at the palace of croydon, april th, . his remains were brought down into cheshire for interment in the honford chapel attached to cheadle church, where many of his progenitors lie, but there is no record of his burial there, though curiously enough in the parish register there is an entry of his death at croydon. as previously stated, there is no memorial of him in the church, and tradition accounts for the absence by the story that while the body was being conveyed to what was intended to be its last resting place a river that had to be forded had become swollen by a storm during the night, and that, when endeavouring to cross, the coffin, with its ghastly occupant, was carried away by the surging waters and never recovered. whether the deft and inquiring local antiquary will ever discover any genuine metal by the smelting of the rude ore of this old wife's fable remains to be seen. that sir william brereton possessed great natural talents and abilities no one can doubt, for without any proper military training he rapidly rose to distinction, and was incontestably one of the greatest military characters that his county has produced. the exigencies of those times demanded military rather than political celebrities, and brereton was one of the few men possessing the genius needed. it was the great upheaval in the national life that brought him into prominence and gave him the opportunity, and but for that it is more than probable he would never have attained to any special pre-eminence. his character exhibits a happy blending of adroitness and force, and illustrates in a strong degree the prodigious but coarse energy which marked that unhappy age. his thirst for freedom hurried him into open resistance to prerogative, while his religious feelings deepened into something approaching very nearly to fanaticism. the gospel as exhibited in presbyterianism, and liberty as exemplified in the parliament, constituted, in his belief, the cause of god and truth, and this was the secret of his influence. his discernment enabled him to gather around him those in whom the same sentiments were blended--stern, dogged, self-reliant puritans, who believed in god and in the destinies of their leader--and by the master-power of his energy and zeal he succeeded in moulding them to his will. clarendon speaks of the devotion of the lower orders to "sir william brereton and his companions, and their readiness to supply them with intelligence;" and, though he allows their education had but ill-fitted them for the conduct of a war, praises their execution of "their commands with notable sobriety and indefatigable industry (virtues not so well practised in the king's quarters), insomuch as the best soldiers who encountered with them had no cause to despise them." brereton shared the opinion which cromwell expressed to his cousin hampden that an army of "decayed serving men and tapsters" would never be able to encounter "gentlemen that have honour and courage and resolution in them," and therefore he chose only "such men as had the fear of god before them and made some conscience of what they did." such enthusiasts knew no fear, and had small respect for rank and power so far as outward demeanour was concerned; they had an ever-present belief that they were doing "the lord's work," and, whether starving in a fortress or ridden down by men in steel, they would not be moved with dread of death to flight or foul retreat. brereton was their chief, but he was their comrade also; if he trained and disciplined them he shared also their hardships, their dangers, and their privations. he was prodigal of his own safety, and his prodigality increased their faith and inspired their confidence, and thus enabled them not only to withstand the reckless daring--the chivalrous bravery of the cavaliers--but eventually to overcome and scatter those who counted their lives as nothing in defence of their sovereign's cause. both rycroft and vicars[ ] give what purport to be portraits of brereton, but they are rude and unsatisfactory, and there is a doubt as to their authenticity. an unfriendly hand ("mysteries of the good old cause," mo., , p. ) has described him as "a notable man at a thanksgiving dinner, having terrible long teeth and a prodigious stomach to turn the archbishop's chapel at croydon into a kitchen, also to swallow up that palace and lands at a morsel." the subsequent history of handforth hall is soon told, as previously stated, sir william brereton lost his first wife--a daughter of sir george booth, of dunham--before the breaking out of the civil wars; he again entered the marriage state, his second wife being cicely, daughter of sir william skeffington, of fisherwick, in leicestershire, the widow of his former comrade in arms, edward mytton, of weston, in staffordshire, but as no mention is made of this lady in his will the presumption is that she also predeceased him. at the time of his death there were living four daughters, two by the first and two by the second marriage, and one son, thomas brereton, the sole heir, who succeeded to the baronetcy, and who was then married to the lady theodosia, youngest daughter of humble, first baron ward, of birmingham, ancestor of the present lord dudley. this sir thomas, who was born in , died childless on the th of january, , and was buried on the th of the same month in the handforth chapel, at cheadle, where there is now a handsome altar tomb to his memory with his recumbent effigy resting thereon. he is represented in the plate armour of the period, with the hands uplifted and conjoined as if in supplication; the figure is bareheaded, with the long-flowing hair characteristic of the later carolinian period, and the head rests upon a helmet surmounted with a plume of feathers. at one end is a shield, representing the arms of brereton impaling those of ward, and on the side are two shields--brereton with a crescent as a mark of cadency and the badge of baronetcy, and ward, and between these on a tablet is the following inscription:-- here lyeth the body of sr thomas brereton of handforth, barronett, who married theodosia daughter to the right honourable humble lord ward and the lady frances barronesse dudly. hee departed this life the th of january anno dom: Ætatis suæ . [illustration: sir william brereton.] with the death of sir thomas brereton the line once so firmly established in cheshire terminated, and nothing now remains but the old ancestral home, the recollections of the name, and the memories that surround it. after the decease of his widow, who remarried charles brereton, and died in childbed, february , , frequent disputes respecting the disposition of the estates arose between nathaniel booth, of mottram-andrew, who claimed as heir under a deed of trust executed in the lifetime of sir thomas, and william ward, the eldest son of frances lady ward, who claimed on the ground of kinship. eventually they descended to nathaniel booth, of hampstead, heir to nathaniel booth, of mottram-andrew, who succeeded to the baronetcy, and also to the barony of delamere. on the th of june, , the manor, &c., passed from this nathaniel by purchase to edward wrench, of chester, and his nephew and heir, edward omaney wrench, sold the same in , to joseph cooper, of handforth, yeoman, whose trustees in turn resold it in to william pass, of altrincham, from whom it was purchased by the late stephen symonds, then of handforth, but subsequently of broadwater hall, worthing, the father of the present rector of stockport, and james cunliffe, who held the manor jointly until the dissolution of their partnership in , when it continued in the sole possession of mr. symonds until the year , when he resold it to edward t. cunliffe, who is the present lord of the manor. [illustration: the "swan," newby bridge.] chapter v. newby bridge and the lake country--an autumn day at cartmel--the priory church. it was theodore hook, if we remember rightly, who, when the _new monthly_ was in its prime and he was in one of his most playful moods, sang the praises of the "swan" at ditton. our own memory recalls a pleasant visit to that quaint resting place, famous in the records of thames anglers and cockney pleasure parties, when, after much happy and harmless enjoyment upon the rippling silver stream that in the sunshine bubbles, we steered our tiny bark through a small flotilla of boats, round the picturesque aits, and beneath the overhanging willows, to seek the much needed refreshment the ancient hostelry affords. but while we would not willingly decry the attractions of the "snug inn" that hook's rhyming fancy has made for ever famous, or deny that-- the "swan," snug inn, good fare affords as table e'er was put on, and worthier quite of loftier boards its poultry, fish, and mutton; and while sound wine mine host supplies, with beer of meux or tritton, mine hostess, with her bright blue eyes, invites to stay at ditton, we must confess that, for peaceful quietude, the beauty of the scenery without and the comforts to be found within, we give a preference to the "swan" at newby. the old mansion-like inn is familiar, if not indeed endeared, to everyone who has sojourned upon the green shores of wooded windermere, and in the old coaching days, ere the shrill whistle of the locomotive had awoke the echoes in those peace-breathing valleys, it was as much in favour with the turtle doves and as much sought after by the votaries of hymen as the "low wood" is at the present time. it stands on the banks of the leven, near its outlet from the lake, and at the very foot of that bleak range of fir-clad melancholy hills that rise like a mountain barrier to guard the lake country from the inroads of the treacherous sea. the clear river glides smoothly along by the front of the house, a quaint old bridge of five arches with queer little recesses on either side bestrides the stream, and, just below, its waters are dammed up by a weir, over which they fall in sheets of whitened foam, making a perpetual music that awakes the drowsy echoes of the vale. simple are the details, but charming is the combination--the old bridge, grey and weather-worn and lichen-stained, the white front of the pleasant old hostelry repeating itself in the still clear waters of the leven, the little patch of unpretentious garden with a trim pleasure-boat moored to its bank, and the clump of tall trees at the foot of the bridge that bend gracefully over the stream and now and then dip their pensile branches in the current, together make up as attractive a picture as the eye of an artist would wish to rest upon. if you have an hour to spare, you cannot better employ it than by climbing the wooded hill that rises from behind the inn, crowned with a square tower, the "folly," as it is called, erected in memory of england's naval victories. from the top of finsthwaite, for that is the name, you have one of the most varied and charming prospects that even the lake country affords. beneath you, lying like an outstretched panorama, may be seen the whole length of windermere, with its verdant slopes, its green isles, its wooded hills, and heather-clad fells. the water, in the intensity of its blueness, rivals the azure dome above; and the eye, as it ranges along the placid surface, can trace the river-like course of the lake and note every jutting headland and every indentation along its shores. just beyond the ferry is bowness, and, further north, near the head of the lake, is a cluster of mountain peaks, the advanced guard of the mighty helvellyn, wansfell, loughrigg, and the twin pikes of langdale rising prominently among them. from the summit of this tree-clad eminence the prospect is delightful at all seasons--in the early morning when the thin filmy mists of night are gathering up their skirts and stealing lazily up the mountain sides, or when evening comes on calm, and golden, and the slanting beams of the declining sun stream upon you with dazzling, almost blinding, brilliance. if you can choose your opportunity at the season when the summer's green is changing to the russet brown which tells of the waning of the year and are fortunate enough before the gloaming begins to catch the sunset effects as the warm rays tip with roseate hue the stony coronal of gummer how, and shed a flood of golden light upon the wild fells already purpled with autumnal splendour, you will linger long to gaze upon the scene of ever-changeful beauty, and mark the varied combinations and the exquisite gradations of colour as the yellow light changes into a gorgeous crimson and the crimson deepens into purple until all becomes shadowy and vague. southwards the view is of an entirely different character. you may trace the course of the leven as it winds its way beneath the precipitous hills, through the deep-wooded glen, and by the rocky gorge at backbarrow, where there is a cotton mill that seems strangely out of place, to the shores of morecambe bay; the puffs of white steam that ever and anon steal through the umbrage mark the line of the railway from lakeside to ulverston, and show the close companionship the rail and the river keep. eastwards, across the valley where the lower slopes of the bleak cartmel fells sink down into a carpet of verdure, is the little village of staveley, with its modest house of prayer in which good old edmund law,[ ] the father of a bishop, the grandfather of two bishops and a lord chief justice, and the great-grandfather of a governor general of india (lord ellenborough), ministered for half a century in consideration of the modest stipend of £ a year. but we are wandering from our story, for it is not newby bridge and its surroundings, but cartmel and its venerable priory church--the only monastic institution that escaped mutilation when the defender of the faith suppressed the religious houses--that now attract our attention. a part of the hamlet of newby bridge is in the parish of cartmel, but the mother church lies on the other side of the fell, and is at least six miles distant. if the visitor is stout in lung and strong of limb he cannot do better than make the journey afoot, taking the way over the breezy moors, where every turn of the roads reveals some new object of interest, and when he has scaled the last ascent he can look down into the peaceful valley, at the bottom of which the quaint old village with its ancient church, almost cathedral-like in its proportions, may be seen nestling in serene seclusion. the less adventurous will find a more easy way by rail from lakeside to ulverstone, and thence to cark or grange, from which places it is distant a couple of miles or so, though, to our thinking, the pleasantest way is to secure the box-seat on mr. rigg's coach, which calls every day at the "swan" on the way to and from grange. you are sure of a capital team and a chatty and communicative driver, who knows all the places of interest about, and possesses an inexhaustible fund of anecdote. for a distance of three miles the road is a continuous ascent, the country presenting little else than an undulating expanse of wild moors, relieved in places with plantations of fir and larch. at newton, a little straggling village, cold, bleak, and stony looking, you come in sight of the valley through which flows the winster, the milnthorp sands, and the broad expanse of morecambe bay. then the road begins to descend; buck crag, at the foot of which edmund law had his dwelling, is on the left; presently the pretty little hamlet of lindale--the scene of one of mrs. gaskell's most charming stories--is reached, after which you pass beneath the wooded heights of blawith and aggerslack, and a few minutes later reach the seaside village of grange. from this place the walk is about three miles, and a good part of it is uphill. passing along the steep straggling street that comprises what ever there is of town, you reach the church, a modest little gothic structure crowning a grassy knoll that overlooks the bay, the groves of yew-barrow, and the long stretch of coast that sweeps round by silverdale and carnforth towards the lune. here the road tends to the right, skirting the slopes of hampsfell, on the summit of which is the well-known "hospice," a square stone tower, built by a former incumbent of cartmel, the rev. thomas remington, for the comfort and convenience of those who traverse the lonely fell. continuing for some distance along a pleasant tree-shaded lane, where the scenery is fresh at every turn, you come presently to the summit of the high ground where the road divides, one path leading to allithwaite, another to cark, and the third, taking a northerly course, descends into the vale of cartmel. hedgerows border the way, alternating now and then with patches of stone wall, grey and jagged and lichen-stained, and half hidden in places with copse and brushwood. on the left the slope is steep, and at the bottom a small stream--the ea--winds its way freakishly in and out, circling with playful eddies round the moss-clad stones that nature's careless hand has strewn along its channel, and then hurrying on to go with the leven to the sea. the plumy woods about holker come well in view, and in front are the green acclivities of broughton, backed by a cluster of swelling hills, with the furness fells and the range about coniston--the alt maen or old man and its hoary companions stretching away into the shadowy distance. we meet few wayfarers, and, with the exception of a solitary homestead or two, we do not see a house until we come close upon the town. near the entrance, on the left, is a small, unpretending building, half chapel, half school in appearance; a meeting house of the society of friends, which some would-be humorist has described as a centre of gravity. a few yards further on is the village school, and, passing this, we enter the town, which comprises a few groups of houses scattered irregularly round the grand old priory church, the lofty battlemented walls of which, whitened by the storms of six hundred years, tower above them with an air of solemn grandeur. it is a secluded out-of-the-world sort of place, with a quaintness about it that almost leads you to believe it has seen little change since william mareschall, earl of pembroke, in the year , gave its lands to the monks of the order of st augustine--the same earl whose name is brought before us in shakespeare's "king john," and whose recumbent effigy may still be seen in the round tower of the temple church in london. antiquaries tell us that the name cartmel is of british origin,[ ] and signifies the entrenched camp of fortification among the fells, an opinion that is in some measure borne out by the number of british as well as roman antiquities that have been discovered at different times. the site of the camp is supposed to have been in the fields on the bank of the little river ea, now called the beck, a little to the north-west of the church, and which to this day are known as the castle meadows. the earliest mention we have of it is in the life of st. cuthbert, written by one of the monkish historians, from which it appears that some time between the years and , ecgfrith, king of the northumbrian angles, having conquered cumberland, westmoreland, and the adjoining districts, gave to cuthbert, whom he had caused to be consecrated bishop of lindisfarne, "the whole of the lands called cartmel, with all the britons in it," a phrase which goes to show that, though the aboriginal britons had been reduced to slavery by their saxon oppressors, they had for two centuries and a half been permitted to retain their ancient home among the hills of this wild and almost insulated tract of country. from this time a chasm of something like five centuries occurs in the history. whether the monks retained possession of the lands after the death of cuthbert, or whether the place was ravaged by the danish invaders, is not known with certainty, but, as no mention of it occurs in the doomsday survey, it is not unreasonable to assume that the place had been laid waste during some of the danish incursions, and the church which cuthbert reared destroyed. there is, however, undoubted evidence that a religious establishment existed at cartmel before the priory church was founded, several of the deeds conveying lands to the neighbouring abbey of furness being attested by ecclesiastics of cartmel; for example, in the name of "willelmus clericus de kertmel" appears as witness to a deed of gift, and in that of "uccheman, parsona de chertmel," occurs in a like capacity. some time during the reign of the lion-hearted king, richard the first, william, earl of pembroke, influenced by the spirit of the times, conceived the idea of founding a house for a fraternity of canons regular of the order of st. augustine, the brotherhood being so named to distinguish them from those secular canons who abandoned the practice of living in community. to carry out his purpose he obtained from john, earl of morteign, afterwards king john, a grant of lands in cartmel for the permanent endowment of his house. here tradition comes upon the scene, and with the warm colouring of romance fills in the cold outlines of historic fact. as in many other places, a marvellous story is related of the way in which earl pembroke's pious canons discovered and were led to make choice of this green nook hidden away among the bleak mountain solitudes. wandering about, it is said, in search of a settlement, they somehow or other found their way into this remote corner of lancashire, where they discovered a hill commanding an agreeable prospect and suitable in every way for their purpose. having marked out their foundation, they were proceeding to build, when a mysterious voice was heard directing them to remove to another locality, described as "a valley between two rivers, where the one runs north and the other south." why the particular spot was not more clearly defined the old monkish chroniclers have omitted to tell us, but the poor homeless fathers in obedience to the supernatural command, abandoned their work, and wandered up and down in search of a spot answering to the description so vaguely given. failing in their efforts, they determined on retracing their steps; plodding their way wearily through the tangled forests, they eventually reached the pleasant vale of cartmel, when, to their joy, they came unexpectedly upon a small stream, the flow of which was towards the north, and, crossing it, they arrived presently at another running in the opposite direction, the hill which they had originally selected being in close proximity. here, then, midway between the two streams, they determined on erecting their church, dedicating it when completed to the virgin. afterwards they built a small chapel on the hill where they had heard the mysterious voice, dedicating it to st. bernard, though st. vox, if there is such a saint in the roman calendar, would have been more appropriate. the church remains a lasting monument of their architectural skill, but the chapel has long since disappeared, though the tree-clad hill on which it stood still retains the name of st. bernard's mount. leaving the shadowy realm of legend and romance, and confining ourselves to the prosaic facts of history, we find that in , when the pious pembroke endowed the religious house at cartmel, he directed that it should be free and released from all subjection to any other house. with the view of preventing its ever being transformed into an abbey he further directed that from time to time, on the death of a prior, the canons should select two of their number and present them to him as the patron, or his heirs, and from them should be chosen the one that should serve as prior in succession, and who should have the name and office of prior only, and that an abbey should never be made of the priory, the charter of foundation concluding in these words:--"this house have i founded for the increase of holy religion, giving and conceding to it every kind of liberty that the mouth can utter or the heart of man conceive: whosoever, therefore, shall cause loss or injury to the said house or its immunities, may he incur the curse of god, and of the blessed virgin mary, and of all the other saints of god, besides my particular malediction." how far the invoked curses of the blessed virgin or the "particular malediction" of william earl of pembroke tended to the protection of the priory of cartmel we shall hereafter see. william mareschall, earl of pembroke, the founder of the priory of cartmel, was a notable personage, and filled a large space in the history of his generation. his first wife was a daughter of the redoubtable strongbow, the real conqueror of ireland, and the one who in the reign of henry ii. first brought that country under the dominion of the english crown. after her death, he married for his second wife a daughter of that faithless tyrant king john, a fortunate circumstance for both king and country, for the earl became the trusted adviser of the sovereign, and by his tact and judgment won from him the great charter of english liberties, and in so doing enabled the recreant monarch to retain his crown. when pembroke founded his priory of canons at cartmel the sturdy old warrior and statesman made ample provision for its future maintenance, for he endowed it with the manor and all his lands in the district of cartmel, together with the advowson of the then existing church, the funds of that more ancient ecclesiastical foundation being merged in the priory revenues, the parishioners in turn being permitted to retain a part of the priory as their parish church, and one of the canons being required to officiate as their priest. the earl further bestowed upon his foundation the fishery of the kaen, the church of balifar, and chapel of balunadan with its appendages, and the town of kinross in ireland, with the advowson of its church and all that pertained thereto. the "priory of the blessed virgin mary of kartmele," as it was anciently written, was subsequently enriched by many grants, donations, and other "offerings of the faithful." when king john ascended the throne he confirmed by royal charter the foundation grant of the earl of pembroke, the only thing he did for his son-in-law's foundation, for that not very religious, or at all events not very scrupulous, monarch was more anxious to "shake the bags of the hoarding abbots" than to add to their contents, and if we except the abbey of beaulieu, in hampshire, and the monastery of hales owen, in shropshire, there is no record of his having either founded or endowed any religious house during his lifetime. the charter confirming the foundation grant also ratified the gift of gilbert de boelton of lands on the rocky promontory of hunfride-heved, or humphrey head as it is now called, where, as tradition affirms, the last wolf in england was hunted down; and also an acre of land there and the close of kirkepoll, the present kirkhead, which one simon, the son of ukeman, had bestowed. william de walton was appointed the first prior of the newly-founded house. settling down in this quiet green nook in lancashire--the very spot for a life of religious seclusion--under the protection of their pious patron, the powerful pembroke, the fraternity continued to lead a life of sanctity and single-blessedness, and on the whole they must have had rather a pleasant time of it, for, if history is to be relied on, the monotony of a religious life was varied by a considerate attention to their worldly well-being; they tilled their lands, made home improvements, now and then they busied themselves in building a grange in which to garner their produce, and occasionally a mill, where they and their tenants might grind their corn. the prior seems to have been early imbued with the principles of free trade, for as far back as the year we find him "obtaining letters patent" empowering him to export corn from his possessions in ireland; later on we find the same worthy in a court of law defending his fishery rights, when ralph de bethom had been poaching in the waters of the kaen, and it would be unjust to the memory of the fraternity to say that they ever neglected any opportunity of augmenting the privileges or the wealth of their house. numerous additions to the original endowments were made by pious benefactors, and, as an incentive to benevolent effort, walter gray, abbot of york, promised an indulgence of twenty days of pardon to all who should charitably relieve with their goods the fabric of the church of st. mary, of "kertmell." in , cartmel having submitted to the authority of the holy roman father, received a special mark of his paternal regard. among the duchy muniments, transferred some years ago to the record office, london, is a papal bull of protection granted by gregory ix. "to his beloved children the prior of st. mary of karmel and to his brethren, present and future, professing the religious life for ever." mr. herford, the editor of the second volume of baines's "lancashire," has given a careful translation of this remarkable document, which is of considerable length. it begins with the declaration that "it is fit that apostolic succour should attend those who choose the religious life, lest by chance some fit of rashness should call them back from what they have proposed, or take away the sacred power of religion. therefore my chosen children in the lord, we graciously assent to your just request, and have taken the church of the holy mother of god, the virgin mary of kermel, in which ye are engaged in divine service, under the protection of the blessed peter and ourselves, and favour you with the privilege of the present writing." the grant then decrees that the church shall enjoy certain immunities, ordains that the canonical orders of st. augustine shall be observed, and confirms to the church all its possessions, and, further, gives licence to perform, during a general interdict, religious service, provided it was done in a low voice and without ringing of bells, those interdicted and excommunicated being excluded, and the doors kept closed--a general interdict being the occasion when, under the orders of the sovereign pontiff, public prayers and all ecclesiastical rites were to be laid aside, the sacraments to be no longer administered, except to infants and dying persons, and the dead to be cast into ditches by the wayside without any religious ceremonial. power was also given to prohibit the building of any chapel or oratory within the limits of the parish, and any ecclesiastic or layman knowingly contravening the provisions of the bull was threatened with the terrors of excommunication. during the palmy days of its prosperity the head of the house at cartmel was an important personage; his priory not only held the privilege of exemption from general interdicts, but he himself was free from the various spiritual and temporal ills that monastic flesh was heir to, and had, moreover, the right of holding his court and trying and deciding disputes within the manor, with liberty to inflict punishment upon offenders; and when his claim was disputed, as it was in , though the rights to wreck of the sea and waifs which he had claimed were declared forfeit to the king, his demand of the privileges of sok, sak, tol, theam, infangthef, and utfangthef, as they are expressed in the jargon of the day, was conceded, which means that he was entitled to the privileges of a manorial lord to hold the pleas in his own court in matters arising out of disputes with his own tenants; of imposing fines therein and enforcing his decrees; of judging bondsmen and villeins as well as of punishing thieves found within his own lands, and requiring that those dwelling within his manor, if taken for felony beyond, be tried within his own court. the time was, however, approaching when the iron rod of this disposer of the lives and liberties of those settled around him was to be broken in pieces and the people delivered from priestly domination. a mighty change in religious thought and action was taking place which gradually gained strength, and culminated in that great event which swept like a tornado over the land when the once zealous champion of the romish system, to replenish his exhausted exchequer, became the plunderer of the church that had bestowed on him the title of "defender of the faith," and swept away prior and abbot, pride, pomp and power, and shrines and relics from their ancient and accustomed places. in the king ordered a general visitation of the religious houses. in the autumn of that year leyton, lee, and petre, with dr. john london, dean of wallingford, the commissioners, made their appearance and summoned the prior and monks to give an account of their worldly possessions. in the ms. surveys then made the total income varies in amount from £ s. d. to £ s. d., while speed, the antiquary, rates it at £ s. d., the lowest computation being equal to an annual income of £ , s. at the present day. in the following year the act was passed confiscating to the crown all the religious houses whose yearly income did not amount to £ , and cartmel was included in the list of those doomed by the king. we need not dwell upon the way in which the royal tyrant's edict went forth, or how the good and the bad, the honest and the corrupt, among the religious houses were ordered to be dismantled. the brotherhood of cartmel, however, made a vigorous protest against this invasion of their rights, and petitioned for a new survey on the ground that the previous valuation did not include the whole of the sources from which their income was derived. commissioners were again sent down, when the prior presented a return which included the income derived from lands and the tithes collected at the tithe-barns of godderside, flookburgh, and allithwaite, and also the oblations made "at the relyke of the holy crosse," preserved within their priory church, the total revenue being thus increased from £ s. d. to £ s. d. a copy of this survey is preserved among the duchy records in the record office, and is especially interesting from the circumstance of its giving the names of the canons on the foundation at that time, the number and names of the servants, artificers, and husbandmen employed about the establishment, with the nature of their respective occupations. richard preston was then the prior, and "of the age of forty-one yerys;" james eskerige was sub-prior, and there were in addition eight canons. the "waytyng s'v'ntes" numbered ten "wayters," two "woodeleaders," two "shep'des," and one hunter. the "comon officers and artyfycers of the house" included the brewer, baker, barber, cook "skulyan," "butler of the ffratrye," "keeper of the woode," milner, ffysher, wryght, pulter, ffestman, and maltmaker, with two others whose occupations are obliterated in the manuscript, and in addition to these there were eight hinds, making a total of thirty-eight, in addition to the ten ecclesiastics, a number that seems out of proportion to the religious inmates of the house, notwithstanding that there were considerable demesne lands under cultivation. but the protestations of the prior were of little avail. thomas holcroft had conceived a desire to become owner of the groves of cartmel, and that mighty trafficker in church lands was a man not easily moved from his purpose; cartmel was doomed, and richard preston had no choice but to surrender his high trust or run the risk of being hanged at the gate of his own priory, as some ecclesiastics were who hesitated to avow their belief that henry viii. was god's vicegerent on earth, or who refused to voluntarily give up to his minions the fair places that had been their homes to become wanderers like so many cains over the face of the earth. though the act which authorised the suppression of the priory was passed in april, , it was not until the following year that the king's commissioners proceeded to the accomplishment of their task. the earls of derby and sussex, with their satellites, southwell, tunstall, leybourne, byron, sandford, and holcroft, were deputed to undertake the work; fit instruments they were, and very effectually they accomplished their purpose. they demolished the walls of the cloisters and levelled to the dust the other portions of the monastic buildings which then extended across the river on arches up to the tower gateway, the only vestige of the house which now remains. the work of destruction fell less heavily upon the church, not because it was less suited to the purposes of the levellers, but because it was parochial as well as monastic, and the parishioners claimed it as belonging to them, though it must be confessed they had not done much to entitle them to consideration at the hands of the rapacious henry. if tradition is to be relied on, they had urged their prior to join the insurrection instigated by the northern monks, commonly known as the "pilgrimage of grace," but that cautious and time-serving ecclesiastic fled to preston, where the earl of derby was engaged raising an army for the suppression of the revolt, and claimed his protection, returning to his priory only to be a few short months later ejected from it for ever. when the parishioners interposed, pleading that the church was parochial and therefore beyond the control of his majesty's commissioners, the matter was referred to head-quarters in these words:-- item, for ye church of cartmell, being the priorie and also ye p'ich church, whether to stand unplucked down or not? answer--ord. by mr. chancellor of the duchie to stand styll. it'm, for a suet of coopes (suit of copes) claymed by ye inhabitants of cartmell to belong to ye church thereof, the gift of oon brigg? answer--ord. that the p'ochians shall have them styll. item, for a chales (chalice), a masse booke, a vestyment, with other things necessarie for a p'sh church claymed by saide p'ochians to be customablie found by ye p'son of said church? no answer. though the commissioners were restrained in their "unplucking down" of the church, much havoc and destruction had been done to the sacred fane before their hands were stayed. they destroyed the painted windows, mutilated the carved work, stripped off the roof of the piper choir and other parts of the fabric, and thus effectually got rid of the inmates, and in that state the church was allowed to remain for a period of eighty years, when mr. george preston, of holker, with some assistance from the parishioners, repaired the dilapidated edifice generally, and decorated the inside with a stuccoed ceiling, and the choir and chancel with a profusion of curiously and elaborately carved wood work. in henry viii. granted the site of the priory to thomas holcroft, an unscrupulous agent whom an unscrupulous master afterwards knighted, but he did not keep it long, having in henry viii. exchanged it with the king for other lands in the south of england, when it again came into possession of the crown as part of the duchy of lancaster, and so continued until the time of charles i., when, with other lands forming part of the manor of cartmel, which had been granted by king james to thomas emmerson and richard cowdall, it was conveyed to george, son of christopher preston, of holker, whose great-granddaughter katharine conveyed it in marriage to sir william lowther; and her grandson, also sir william lowther, dying issueless in , the property passed to his cousin, lord george augustus cavendish, from whom it has descended with other cartmel property to the present duke of devonshire, who is also patron and lay rector; the advowson with the tithes of cartmel, which, in , were annexed to the see of chester, having been granted in by the bishop of chester to the george preston, of holker, before named. cartmel has a quiet, staid respectable aspect, with a dignified and decorous serenity about it that almost leads you to believe the old place must be conscious of its claim to consideration. you might fancy it to be a minster town, the air of cloisteral seclusion that prevails so well according with the superiorities of the church. many of the houses have an old-world look about them, and, with a searching eye, you may find bits of unmistakable antiquity--random corners and architectural phantasies--enough to store the note-book of any artist fond of crooked and accidental diversities of grouping. the market place, which, with one or two straggling streets, constitutes what there is of town, is an irregular square with a tall stone obelisk that serves the double purpose of market cross and lamp-post standing in the middle; the fish stones are on one side, and surrounding it are a few old-fashioned dwellings ranged in an in-and-out sort of fashion, as if elbowing one another for frontage. on market days, when the farmers and the country people come in from the surrounding villages, the place puts on an air of bustle and activity, but at other times it is quiet and dreamy enough for the grass to grow upon the pavement. but for a chance pilgrim from grange or cark you might look in vain for a passer by; the people, too, seem as if the railway had not yet accustomed them to the novelty of strange faces, for as you go by they peer at you from their windows, and the shopkeeper who deals in groceries, drapery, and hardware, and everything besides, comes out on to his doorstep to gaze after you, wondering what possible business can have brought a stranger to such a secluded by-way of the world. on one side of the square is a picturesque relic of the middle ages, the ancient gateway that once formed the principal approach to the conventual buildings. it has fallen from its former dignity and been roughly dealt with by the modern goths and vandals, but in its forlorn and dilapidated state it retains the unmistakable hoariness of age upon it. the walls are of considerable thickness, and within them are queer recesses and secret passages that were, doubtless, intended for safety in time of danger. the groining of the arch has disappeared, and it is now covered with a coating of plaster; the niche which, doubtless, once contained the image of the virgin is tenantless, and the window lighting the room in which it is said the priors of cartmel were wont to hold their manorial court and deal out a rough and ready kind of justice to their tenantry has lost its mullions, though happily the trefoil carvings still remain. after the prior and his canons had been turned adrift, the old gatehouse was purchased by the inhabitants from george preston for the sum of £ and converted into a "publike schoole-house," and for a period of one hundred and sixty-six years,--from to , when another school was built--it continued to be used for that purpose, the children aforetime having been taught in the church by a "scriphener." from the gateway you can trace the outer walls and note the general arrangement of the priory buildings, the area comprising all being about twenty-two statute acres. but the old priory church is the great attraction of cartmel. it is a noble monument of architectural skill, and we may thank the guardians of the centuries that the hand of time has been restrained from pressing heavily upon it. it overshadows every other building, and gives an air of dignity and importance to the humble erections that gather round. let us take our stand by the low wall that forms the boundary of the quiet graveyard while we gaze upon the venerable fabric and drink in the genius of the place. it is an october evening, and the sun is sinking like a great red ball behind the darkening hills; the woods are touched with russet and gold, and though the air is breathlessly calm a few leaves flutter down from the trees that skirt the churchyard wall. the ancient fane is worth going far to see--a huge pile of masonry, grey with age, and picturesque by its very diversities of style. it is cruciform in plan, with a low square tower--low by comparison, for the apex of the nave roof is nearly as high--rising from the intersection of the cross to a height of ft., and surmounted by another tower of smaller dimensions, also square in plan, but placed diagonally to the base of the lower one, as if it were an afterthought of the builder's, an arrangement so unusual that your attention is arrested by its oddness. the western front is good, but the master work is the choir, with its majestic window of nine lofty mullioned lights, and richly traceried head, ft. in height, and occupying nearly the whole of the eastern gable. a cursory glance is sufficient to show that the building has been erected at different periods--norman and early english--decorated and perpendicular mingling in curious combination. how thoroughly the old monastic builders understood their work. whatever may have been their faults and frailties, they were imbued with a noble enthusiasm which in its religious development found vent in the sublime conceptions embodied in the magnificent structures which adorn the land, and which illustrate the rise, the progress, and the decay of gothic art. unfettered by the rules which curb and restrain the hand of the architect of modern days, their genius imparted its own spirit to the hand of the mason, whose skill is manifested in the glorious creations which command our admiration by the vastness of their proportions, the simple grace and beauty of their design, and the elegance of their ornamentation; while their sculptures and carvings, in which burlesque and satire oftentimes ran riot, were marked by a quaintness of conceit, every touch of the chisel seeming to impart a life and character and spirit that you look for in vain in the productions of the craftsman of modern times. look with loving eyes upon the grand old pile as it reposes in the evening sunshine; a saintly stillness prevails, and a soft, shadowy haze is gradually shrouding the distant landscape from view. the mellowing light, as it falls on battlement and buttress, corbel and gargoyle, brings out every projection and inequality with wondrous effect, and softens into beauty every scar and furrow which the corrosive hand of time has made upon it. you long to linger upon the scene, and not without a wish that time would retrace his steps and show you the place as it was in its pristine glory before the men of religion had begun "to draw too proud a breath" and general aske and his , ragamuffins had entered upon that perilous enterprise "the pilgrimage of grace." but our reverie is cut short; for while we have been gazing upon the scene of quiet beauty, william lancaster, the parish clerk, has left his saddlery and brought his keys, in order to show us over the fabric, and an intelligent and companionable guide he is, neither fussy nor obtrusive, but possessing a fund of reliable information that is serviceable to the stranger who wishes to spend a pleasant hour in examining the details. the first thought that strikes the visitor on entering is the loftiness of the interior, and the long perspective of the nave and choir. the pillars which support the central tower are of norman character and of massive proportions, the arches springing from them being pointed and of somewhat later date. in the centre of the roof is a panel with the inscription, _gloria in excelsis deo aedif._, . _renov._ , upon a garter, and on the other parts are four heraldic shields, on which are blazoned the arms of ( ) william mareschall, earl of pembroke, the founder; ( ) the prestons, of holker; ( ) the archiepiscopal see of york; and ( ) the arms of the see of carlisle. the inscription on the centre panel shows that the church was renovated in . the work has been thorough and complete, under the direction of mr. paley, of lancaster, who, while carefully retaining whatever was worth preserving, has succeeded in bringing to light many interesting features that were previously hidden from view, and has thus entitled himself to the gratitude of every lover of mediæval art. the flat ceilings have been removed, the galleries cleared away, the walls stripped of their plaster covering, the triforium arcade reopened, and the carved masonry relieved of the paint and whitewash with which successive generations of churchwardens had industriously clogged every bit of ornament they could find, so that the building now presents much the same appearance that it must have done in its palmy days. the choir is of unusually large dimensions, and worthy almost of a cathedral. it is separated from the chapels by two circular arches of norman character, with elaborately ornamented mouldings; above them is a fine triforium arcade of twenty-two pointed arches on each side, springing from cylindrical shafts, with a passage running behind that seems to have been originally carried round the east end. the grand east window contains some remains of ancient glass, sufficient to show how exquisitely beautiful it must have been ere "maister thomas houlcrofte" and his myrmidons made such havoc with it. the reredos occupying the space between the sill of the window and the top of the communion table is divided into panels and filled in with a series of frescoes in gold and colour that display considerable artistic skill; they are the work of lady louisa egerton, the wife of captain egerton, r.n., and daughter of the duke of devonshire. an interesting feature in the choir is the series of stalls, twenty-six in number, that were used by the canons before the priory was dissolved; they are of perpendicular character and handsomely carved, though unfortunately the ornamentation has been much injured by exposure to the weather during the long years the church remained unroofed. each stall has its miserere or projecting bracket on the under side of the seat, which, as was customary in pre-reformation times, works upon a kind of hinge, so that when turned up it would, without actually forming a seat, afford considerable relief to the ecclesiastics during those long services of the roman catholic church in which they were required to remain in a standing posture. these seats will well repay examination; each is elaborately carved, and the artist has given full play to his fancy. one of them displays the emblems of the saviour's passion, but, in addition to the usual crown of thorns and the nails, we have the ear which peter struck off the head of the high priest's servant, the sword with which that rash act was performed, the basin in which pilate washed his hands, the dice with which the soldiers cast lots for the saviour's vesture, and the sponge that, when filled with vinegar, was presented to him while on the cross. another seat symbolises the trinity by the carving of three faces on one head; the favourite device of the mermaid with the usual attributes--the comb and mirror--also appears, and a common subject of mediæval sculpture--a pelican feeding its young, or "in piety," as the heralds phrase it--is also represented. the other carvings are for the most part grotesque heads, winged beasts, and foliage. the canopies over the stalls are of much later date, and were the gift of george preston, of holker, who in repaired and re-roofed the building. the columns supporting them have richly carved corinthian capitals, and are interesting as showing that in that comparatively early period the classic forms of ornamentation had come into vogue in this remote corner of lancashire, and that grecian had then begun to take the place of gothic art. the year marked the inauguration of a happy era in the history of cartmel; it was that in which the much-needed renovation of the church may be said to have begun. the zeal which prompted george preston in to restore the ruined sanctuary to something like its pristine beauty found imitators. in that year mr. remington, the vicar, appealed for funds to enable him to put the decayed and crumbling edifice in a state of decent repair. his appeal was liberally responded to, and he had the satisfaction of seeing many of the hideous obstructions which past ages had crowded together removed, the flat plaster ceiling which disfigured the centre of the church cleared away, and the walls and pillars denuded of their accumulations of paint and whitewash. the work which he began was carried on with increased energy by his successor, mr. hubbersty, and extended throughout the nave and the north and south transepts. the progress was slow, but continuous; seventeen years were occupied upon it, and in the autumn of it was pronounced to be complete. the windows-- all garlanded with carven imageries and diamonded with panes of quaint device-- which once told the story of the line of jesse and dyed the pavement with their many-hued reflections had been despoiled of their painted glass, not by the ruthless reformers of the sixteenth century, but, as mr. stockdale, the historian of cartmel, with good reason affirms, many years before, when a portion of the glass was carried off to beautify the church at bowness, where it may still be seen; the few fragments, however, that remained were carefully preserved and protected from further risk of injury. that monopoliser of church property, thomas holcroft, took away everything he could lay his hands on, including, as the survey expresses it, the "belles, lede, and goodes," destroying at the same time whatever in his opinion might be described as relics of superstitious devotion. what he left undone the iconoclasts of a later date very effectually accomplished. it is worthy of note, however, that in the troublous times of the civil wars cartmel suffered little as compared with many other churches in the kingdom, the only injury it sustained being the perforation of the door at the west end of the south aisle with a number of shot holes--the work, as the inhabitants assure you, of cromwell's troopers, which, if the story is to be relied on, must have been in , when colonel rigby and his men, after plundering dalton, passed the night at cartmel on their way to thurland castle. it is more likely, however, to have been some of prince rupert's soldiers who thus left their mark behind them, for though thomas preston, of holker, the patron of the church, was a staunch royalist, the parson and the people of cartmel were attached to the cause of the parliament; and john shaw, the puritan rector of lymm, records in his diary that when he was there for a time, "preaching and catechising in season and out of season," he had "frequently some thousands of hearers," and that "usually the churches were so thronged by nine o'clock in the morning that he had much adoe to get to the pulpit." the diarist adds, "how the prince rupert's soldiers there caryed themselves at and near cartmel, that country will tell to posterity," though, if it did, the "posterity" to whom it was told neglected to hand down the story. it is only fair to say that some of the most reprehensible acts of vandalism to which the edifice has been subjected have been perpetrated within the present century. from the time of the commonwealth until the victorian era ecclesiastical architecture was comparatively neglected, and it is perhaps fortunate for the present generation that it should have been, else we might have seen many a grand old gothic pile of pre-reformation date destroyed to make room for miserable monstrosities of brick of the fashion of the queen anne and the georgian periods, a style that a wretched taste has within the last few years sought to resuscitate. little more than two generations ago architectural art was at its lowest ebb, with little prospect of its ever being revived. utilitarianism was the order of the day, and, much as we are disposed to blame country churchwardens for their misdoings, half our indignation vanishes when we remember that they only followed the example set them by their betters. fifty years ago or thereabouts the "improvers" were let loose upon the ancient fane at cartmel, when, as mr. stockdale in his _annales caermoelensis_ tells us, "the wooden rails of the harrington monument, split with the axe out of logs of oak, before the use of the plane or the general use of the saw (indices of high antiquity), were torn down and committed to the flames, and a smart iron railing put up in their stead. the quaintly-fashioned old font, at which the whole population of the parish of cartmel--generation after generation--had been christened for nearly seven hundred years, was subjected anew to the mason's chisel, and fashioned into its present shape, and a modern date ( ) cut in large figures upon it. the old matin bell, which had summoned the monks of st. mary to prayers for three hundred and fifty years, and afterwards the townspeople of cartmel and the neighbourhood to their duties on saints' days and sundays for nearly three hundred and fifty years more, was torn down from its resting place, and sold to a neighbouring gentleman--not to call his workmen and labourers to their prayers, but to warn them that the hour for the commencement of their daily toil had arrived." since then, however, happier days have dawned upon the place. it is somewhat remarkable that a church of so much historic interest and antiquity should possess so few sepulchral memorials of pre-reformation date. the oldest known to exist is the tomb of william walton, the first prior; it stands beneath a plain pointed arch on the north side of the high altar, and is covered with a grey marble slab, in the centre of which is an incised cross of floreated character, and the following inscription in longobardic characters carved upon the edge-- hic. iacet. frater. wilelmvs. de. waltona. prior. de. kertmel. there are some other memorials of departed priors, though the inscriptions are too much worn to admit of their being deciphered; but the most imposing is a canopied tomb on which are the recumbent figures of a knight and his lady, placed beneath an arch on the south side of the choir. it is commonly known as the harrington monument, and has long been a source of perplexity to antiquaries; there is no date discernible upon it, and considerable doubt exists as to where it came from--for it is clearly not _in situ_--and which of the harringtons it was intended to commemorate. it has been variously assigned to sir john harrington of hornby, who was knighted by edward iii. in recognition of his services in scotland; to sir thomas harrington, who married a daughter of the house of dacre, and fell fighting on the side of the white rose at wakefield on the st of december, --a day fatal to the house of york and scarcely less fatal to the victorious lancastrians--and also to his son, sir john harrington, the brother-in-law of the black-faced clifford, who received his death-blow fighting by his father's side in the same battle. for the benefit of those who are curious in epitaphs we quote the following from a marble slab on one of the walls of the south transept:-- here before lyeth interred etheldred thornbvrgh corps in dvst in lyfe at death styll fyrmely fixed on god to rest her steadfast trvst hir father justice carvs was hir mother katherine his wiffe hir husband william thornbvrgh was whylst here she ledd this mortail lyff the thyrde of martch a year of grace one thowsand fyve hundred ninetie six hir sowle departed this earthly plase of aage nighe fortie yeares a six to whose sweet sovle heavenlye dwelling ovr saviovr grant everlastinge. there are other parts of the church that bespeak our attention. the north aisle, commonly known as the piper choir--though how it acquired that name nobody seems to know--retains its original stone vaulting, and is lighted by perpendicular windows, in which some fragments of mediæval painted glass still remain. the south aisle is perfect, and appears to have been widened at some period subsequent to its original foundation. in the church books it is described as "lord harrington's queare," but is now usually designated the parish or town choir, from the supposition that it constituted the former parish church, which the prior and his canons had been obliged to enlarge owing to some dispute between the parishioners and themselves. the windows lighting it are of early decorated character of varied design, and on one side is the original sedilia for the officiating priests, as well as the piscina in which it was their custom to rinse the chalice at the time of the celebration of the mass. having completed our inspection of the various chapels, the faithful custos who accompanied us, and who, by the way, though a _rusticus abnormis sapiens_, is an enthusiast about the church, led the way up to the triforium, and thence to the top of the lower lantern or tower, where we had an opportunity of examining more closely the peculiar disposition of the superstructure. it would seem that a century or two after the completion of the original tower the fraternity took it into their heads to erect a bell-tower, but instead of removing the parapet and raising the walls of the existing structure, as at kirkstall, or building a new tower like that of prior moon at bolton abbey, they determined on making the most of the one they possessed, and constructed four cross arches, each springing from the centre of the side walls, on which they reared their campanile with a result that said more for their originality than their regard for architectural effect. a few steps lead up to the roof of the second tower, whence a good view of the surrounding country is obtained, though the range is somewhat restricted by reason of the comparatively low position the church occupies and the nearness of the hills which environ the cartmel vale. descending again into the body of the church, we passed through the piper choir, and were next ushered into the vestry, where, to our surprise, we found in addition to the ordinary registers and churchwardens' accounts a library of some three hundred volumes, including many rare and curious works bequeathed to the parish in by thomas preston, of holker, including a black-letter bible in six volumes, printed at basle in ; a copy of the works, also in black-letter, of thomas aquinas, printed at vienna in ; an incomplete copy of spenser's "faerie queene," dated ; a virgil of the same date; a curious little volume, "apophthegemes new and old, collected by the right honourable francis lo. verulam, viscount st. albans, ;" and a folio copy of foxe's book of martyrs. the old clerk sets great store by his literary treasures, and well he may, for they are such as few church libraries can equal, and are in themselves enough to make a collector covetous. the parish registers, which begin in , contain many curious entries relating to local families, and many a sad story of lives lost in crossing the treacherous sands of morecambe bay; one of the entries records the disaster which befel a pleasure party, of whom nine were drowned, while crossing the leven sands on their return from ulverston whitsuntide fair, where they had been to purchase the wedding garments for two of their number who were about to be married.[ ] the church accounts contain, among other things, a very complete record of the doings of the "twenty-four sworn men,"[ ] an influential body whose jurisdiction extended over a parish nearly fourteen miles in length, and whose duties were as multifarious as they were onerous, embracing almost everything, from exterminating mouldiwarpes (moles) and choosing churchwardens to repairing organs and regaling fox-hunters. but there are other curiosities preserved in the vestry at cartmel; among them is an umbrella of ancient date and cumbrous proportions, which our cicerone tells us was used in times past to protect the clergyman from the weather when performing the burial service in the graveyard.[ ] it is of immense weight, and has a thick oilcloth cover that reminds us of swift's lines in the _tatler_-- the tuck'd-up seamstress walks with hasty strides while streams run down her _oiled umbrella_ sides, as well as of gay's _trivia_-- good housewives all the winter's rage despise, defended by the riding-hood's disguise; or underneath th' _umbrella's oily shed_, safe through the wet in clinking pattens tread. the twilight was deepening when we passed out of the stately old pile, and, bidding adieu to our pleasant, gossiping guide, turned to depart. the sun had gone down in the western heavens, and the mists were gathering thick among the surrounding hills, shrouding them in a dreamy obscurity; the lofty gables and broad squat tower clad in night's sober livery seemed to have gained additional massiveness and seen through the dun medium assumed a shadowy weird-like form; the old market-place seemed to have lulled itself into a still deeper quietude; a few of the villagers were lingering about their cottage doors, and as we passed on our way a light might now and then be seen glimmering from the casement of some humble dwelling, but there was nought to disturb the sense of calmness and repose. the stillness deepened as the light declined, and everything seemed to have become wrapped in slumber, save that now and then we could hear the faint gurgling of some tiny rill trickling down the hill side, or the baying of a watchdog at some distant moorland farm mingling with the subdued rumble of a railway train bearing its living freight across the leven sands. one by one the silent watchers came forth to begin their nightly vigil, guarding the slumbering earth as 'twere a sleeping child, and then the pale queen of night, rising slowly from behind the lonely fells, hung her silver crescent in the blue vault above, and spread a tender radiance on the tranquil world below. keeping the dark woods of holker on our right, a short half-hour's walk along a lonely road brought us to the little village of cark, where-- somewhat back from the village street stands the old-fashioned country seat-- cark hall, an old gabled manor house, for generations the residence of the curwens and the rawlinsons. cark is a station on the furness line, and a few minutes after our arrival we were seated in the railway carriage and rolling along at a rapid rate beneath the wild limestone crags, over the wild estuary of the leven, and through the devious windings of the valleys of greenodd and haverthwaite on the way to our comfortable resting place upon the shores of windermere, bent on doing justice to the good fare the "swan" at newby bridge affords, and with the mind stored with pleasant memories of quiet cartmel and its grand old priory church. chapter vi. disley--a may day at lyme--lyme hall and the leghs. lyme! what a host of memories are conjured up on the very mention of the name! what a world of legend and tradition; what tales of love and gramarye, of chivalry and romance gather round. to cross the threshold of the old mansion is to step back into the shade of vanished centuries; the spirit of the past breathes through the place; and as you pace the tapestried halls and panelled chambers visions of crescy, of poictiers, and of agincourt float before the eye, for the lords of lyme--men stout of heart and steady of hand-- bore their part in many a gallant exploit and in many a daring enterprise in the stirring times of the edwards and the henrys. their dwelling place is a perpetual reminder of the england of yore, and, though its history may be more associated with peace and hospitality than with predatory war and feudal strife, the storied and poetical associations that are interwoven with its annals place it in the forefront of the historic homes of which the fair and fertile county of chester possesses so many notable examples. placed, too, in a district remarkable for its natural beauty, and on the very border-land of that great storehouse of english scenery--the peak of derbyshire--and withal within easy distance of the great hives of manufacturing industry, no wonder that it should have become one of the favourite resorts of holiday makers. why don't those acred sirs throw up their parks some dozen times a year, and let the people breathe? asks the poet laureate, in a spirit that savours of reproach; but here at least his desire has been anticipated, for by the kindness and liberality of the present worthy representative of the ancient lords of lyme, not only the park, but the state apartments, with their many historic mementoes, are made accessible alike to peer and peasant, a welcome boon to the sons and daughters of toil, who may obtain health and amusement beneath the tall patrician trees, and intellectual enjoyment in the contemplation of the valued heirlooms and countless treasures that the mansion enshrines. [illustration: lyme hall.] disley is a convenient starting point for our visit; it is within a mile of the park gates, and can be easily reached by road or rail; it possesses, too, one of the pleasantest and cosiest inns in the kingdom, and that, to say the least, is a recommendation. the "ram's head," for that is the name, was a noted house of entertainment long ere the shrill whistle of the locomotive had broken in upon the peaceful quietude of this happy valley or a "line" had been thought of. it is a relic of the pleasant old coaching days when the well-appointed derby "mail" was an institution, and old burdett, gorgeously apparelled in gold lace and scarlet, awoke the echoes with his bugle to the heart-stirring strains of "the girl i left behind me." unlike many of its contemporaries, however, it still retains its popularity, and is in as high favour as ever, if we may judge from the numerous pic-nic and pleasure parties, the field flirtations, and what our yankee cousins irreverently term "bug-hunters," who avail themselves of its hospitality. the house stands away back from the road, with the crest of the leghs (the ram's head) carved in stone over its ample portal, and in the rear is an old-fashioned but pleasant and well-trimmed garden that a month hence will display quite a world of floral beauty--a tranquil resting place where, beneath the spreading trees or in the quiet shadowy nooks, you can calmly contemplate the natural charms of the surrounding scenery. very inviting is the open door of the old hostelrie, but it is the ancestral home of the leghs that claims our attention at the present moment, and we are not to be lured from our purpose. the time of our visit is a bright sunny afternoon, and the month that one proverbial for its mirth and gladness; the one of which milton sings-- the flowery may, who from her green lap throws the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. a road leads up from the end of the hotel, and crowning the summit of a gentle eminence that rises on the left is the church, an antiquated structure, grey with the weather strains of more than three centuries, with an embattled tower and a curious porch that looks like an excrescence projecting from the front of it. it was originally a chantry chapel, dedicated to "our lady," and built in the earlier part of the eighth harry's reign by sir piers legh, of lyme, a gentleman, a soldier, and a priest, in atonement, as was long believed, and as popular tradition still affirms, for his having slain sir thomas butler, of bewsey; though trustworthy antiquaries of modern times assure us there is no foundation for the story, inasmuch as sir thomas had yielded up the ghost before sir piers was born. but this is an age of scepticism and unbelief, a time when our most cherished fancies are in peril of being dispelled by the prosaic logic of facts and the ruthless researches of unimaginative dryasdusts, who would take as much delight in proving the swan of avon to be an impostor as they do in proclaiming that robin hood was a myth and "cinderella and her slipper" only a scandinavian conception. a history handed from ages down; a nurse's tale which children opened-eyed and mouth'd devour, and thus, as garrulous ignorance relates, we learn it and believe. the interior of the church well deserves inspection. there are some mementoes of the leghs though none of ancient date, and the usual complement of sepulchral memorials. there are also some interesting examples of old foreign stained glass, collected by the late thomas legh, and placed here in lieu of some of heraldic character that were at the same time removed to the hall, where they may still be seen. but we must defer our examination of the old edifice for another opportunity. for some little distance the road runs parallel with the railway, which lies below us on the right, and from our elevated position we can overlook the village and the wild expanse of country environed with the long ridges of bleak moorland that stretch away to the peak country. though may has come in, there is a chilliness in the atmosphere that reminds us that we have not yet done with the east winds charles kingsley affected to delight in, but the coldness is tempered by the warm sunbeams which steal down between the ponderous white cloud peaks that sail majestically overhead, looking like floating islands in an azure sea. what a change the refreshing rains of the last few days have brought about; it seems as if nature had undergone a transformation; mother earth has cast aside her russet robe and donned a mantle of brightest emerald. the fruit trees against yon garden wall are just beginning to put forth their snow-white petals, safe we would hope now from being, as is too often the case-- nipp'd by the lagging rear of winter's frost. on the wooded bank that rises from the opposite side of the pool which the railway intersects there is abundant evidence that the green is asserting itself over the grey, for-- the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen fringed tenderly with living green. the oaks and the ash trees are almost as black and bare as they were in the depth of winter, and there are dark, unrelieved patches here and there, but the golden palm-like foliage depending in graceful festoons from the tall spines of the larches show with distinct vividness; whilst the luminous, almost golden, yellow of the poplars is contrasted by the sombre brown of the limes and birches, whose budding twigs have not yet spread out their fan to catch the breezy air. presently the road descends, and we continue along a wild old wandering gipsy-haunted lane that looks like an avenue in places where the trees almost meet overhead; the sun-light falls in leafy shadows and works a flickering pattern on every foot of the causeway, and the broad strips of grass on either side encroach upon it as if striving for the mastery. on the sloping meadow breadths the daisy--"day's eye," as the poets loved to call it--with its "golden bosom fringed with snow," displays a little galaxy of star blossoms, and helps to remind us of chaucer's "legend of good women;" of the unfortunate margaret of anjou, who chose it as her device, and whose nobles in the sunshine of her prosperity wore it embroidered upon their robes; and of another margaret--she of valois, the friend of erasmus and of calvin, the marguerite of marguerites, who had it worn in her honour. on the bank sides and beneath the hedgerows the dewcup of the frail anemone peeps above the wreck of last year's vegetation. here and there the pale primrose may also be seen lifting its delicate blossoms to the passing zephyrs, that prettiest of woodland flowers that folds its shamrock-shaped leaves when "the storm sings in the wind;" the wood sorrel--alleluya, as the apothecaries of old times were wont to call it--studs the high banks, and if we thrust aside the tall grass and the crumpled leaves and withered bracken that yet remain we may see the young ferns unfolding their corinthian scrolls. the sun seems to have the same influence on the birds that it has on leaf and blossom. every bush and thicket is vocal. perched on the topmost twig of a spreading lime a thrush makes the welkin ring again with his mellifluous lay, challenging like a troubadour of old the admiration of his lady love, who makes responsive call from her nest near by; and high overhead--a speck in the blue above--a lark rains down his "harmonious madness;" the plaintive wail--"pewit, pewit"--comes clear and strong from the white-breasted plover, anxious to distract our attention from its nest in the thick grass, and from the distant copse the soft, mysterious, dreamy note of the cuckoo proclaims that the long looked for harbinger of summer has at last arrived. o! cuckoo, shall i call thee bird, or but a wandering voice? presently our ears are assailed by the merry voices of children, and a troop of youngsters come struggling through a gap in the fence, laden with buttercups and daisies, and laughing and crowing with infantile delight, as they bear their floral treasures away. a few minutes brings us to the lodge entrance. here the road forks, and passing through the gate we wind away towards the left, mounting the upper slopes as we advance. to the right the ground falls away, and in the hollow, between us and elmer hurst, a tiny rindle threads its way, after performing some little industrial service at the mill higher up. across the green expanse there is a good sprinkling of trees, oaks and thorns, some of them aged, and wrinkled and weather-beaten enough to have borne the blasts of centuries; lime trees too are plentiful, sufficient to suggest the idea that they had given name to the place, did we not know that the true derivation was from the limes,--_i.e._, the limits or confines of the county. eastwards the ground rises in hilly ridges, backed by great treeless wastes of moorland that rise and fall like the heaving billows of a tempestous sea suddenly arrested in their motion--a picture of bleak desolation, the dreariness of which is only relieved by a few patches of plantation, or a clump of storm-rent pines here and there dotting their heathy slopes. the green expanse before us lacks the fertility and richness of detail the southerner is accustomed to, and, when we remember that the park forms part of what was once the great forest of macclesfield, we are apt to think that the forests of those days but ill accorded with our notions of what a forest should be. as we round the shoulder of a grassy slope, lyme cage comes in sight--a square, grey, tower-like structure of stone, crowning an eminence on the left, that rises to the height of eight hundred and eighty-two feet it is three storeys high, and flanked at each angle with square projections that rise above the roof in the form of turrets, and is surmounted by a cornice and open balustrade. the building is now occupied as a dwelling by one of the shepherds; when it was built, or for what purpose, is not known with certainty, but in all probability it was originally designed, like the hunting tower at chatsworth, as a place where the ladies of lyme might enjoy the pleasures of the chase without danger or fatigue, though tradition, which delights in the tragic, assigns a different origin, and, reckoning back its history for centuries, tells us that it was designed for the incarceration of offenders against the forest laws when lyme chase was in its glory, and its owners gave short shrift to those who made too free with their venison. the cage forms a prominent landmark, and from the summit a delightful prospect is obtained in a westerly direction of the great cheshire plain--a broad, picturesque panorama of villages and undulating meadows and pastures, including the high grounds of alderley and bowdon, and extending, when the day is clear, to the frodsham hills and chester, and the line of welsh mountains beyond. northward, where the smoke overhangs the landscape, is stockport, and sweeping round, we catch sight of the tower of marple old church--the new church has not yet got its tower completed--standing, sentinel-like, on the summit of a lofty ridge, and the shadowy peak of kinderscout--the highest point of the peak range--rising far behind; while eastwards the view is shut in by whaley moor, and the long range of heathery wastes and lonely promontories that enclose the picturesque valley of the goyt. the sunlight reveals every inequality and every indention that time and storm have furrowed down the hillsides; it brings out, too, an infinite variety of colour that adds an ineffable charm, and we can note the changing effects of the cloud-shadows, as they slowly chase each other across the broad and breezy expanse. a few sheep are cropping the herbage on the uplands, and the "full-uddered kine" are grazing upon the sunny slopes, and luxuriating in the lush pastures below; but the wild cattle for which lyme was once so famous, are nowhere to be seen, the few that still survive being herded in another and more secluded part of the park. the lyme cattle, by the way, deserve a passing note, for, like the lyme mastiffs, they are accounted among the peculiarities of cheshire. thirty years ago there was a considerable number of them, but since then, from various causes, the stock has been reduced, until now only very few remain, and there is danger that they may at no distant date become extinct, a circumstance that would be much to be regretted. these ancient british wild cattle are indigenous, and for centuries past have formed one of the features of lyme; they are of a sand white colour, with red ears, and in some respects resemble the wild cattle at chillingham and chartley, and those at gisburne, in yorkshire. unfortunately little is known about them, but from their peculiarities of form and their immense strength they are evidently of the buffalo type. they are untameable, and could never be brought to herd with the other cattle in the park, though occasionally cross breeds have been obtained, and so unmanageable are they that no keeper can ever approach them, a rifle being necessary whenever they have to be slaughtered for the table. these wild bovines are not, however, without their uses, for it is said that that part of the park in which they are placed, though literally overrun with game, is always secure from the predatory incursions of the poacher. a treatise on natural history is not, however, our present theme, and so we resume our journeying. the birds are all alive, and are looking alive too, with no end of business which they are striving to get through with all possible alacrity. on the sunny sward below a company of rooks are grubbing away with commendable diligence, gathering food for their young offspring at home. a many-wintered crow who long has "led the clanging rookery home" sits aloft in a tree to give warning of the approach of danger; with quick eye he watches our movements, and as they are pronounced unsatisfactory, the alarm is sounded, when, in an instant, every bird is upon the wing and off in search of pastures new, with a sonorous, dignified cawing that sounds like a chorus of corvine laughter, contrasting oddly with the pert, consequential "jackle" of a self-assertive jackdaw who has attached himself to the community. the green expanses around us, if wanting somewhat in fertility, possess a charm in their natural wildness, and the bright sunlight adds to the sense of beauty. as we advance we notice a few rugged thorns by the wayside that have already put on their attire of fresh green leaves, but the ash trees close by are still nude, reminding us of the poet's pretty imagery-- delaying, as the tender ash delays to clothe itself when all the woods are green; and we begin to furbish up our weather wisdom, and speculate as to whether it or the oak will leaf first, for, as the knowing ones tell us-- if the oak's before the ash, we shall only get a splash; if the ash precede the oak, we shall surely get a soak. a few minutes more and we come to a bend in the road, and then the stately mansion of lyme, with its long lofty front, unexpectedly bursts upon the view, lying in a deep wooded hollow, and sheltered from the winds by the encircling hills. lyme park was originally included within the bounds of the royal forest of macclesfield--a vast tract of country that comprised little of wood and much of wilderness--and so continued until the time of richard ii., when it was granted to an ancestor of its present owner. common report says there was a house here as early as the reign of king john, but the story is unsupported by any existing evidence; if there were a dwelling at all it could only have been a kind of hunting lodge. certainly there was no "faire hall" existing before the close of the fourteenth century, and the earliest mention we have is in a rental of the manor in , when there was said to be "one fair hall with a high chamber, a kitchen, a bakehouse, and a brewhouse, with a granary, stable, and bailiff's house, and a fair park surrounded by palings, and divers fields and hays (_i.e._, hedged enclosures)" of the value of £ a year. there is a widespread belief that the manor of lyme was granted to sir piers legh, commonly called perkyn a legh, for his good services at the battle of crescy, where he is said to have taken prisoner the count de tankerville, the chamberlain of france, and to have relieved the standard of the black prince when it was in danger of being captured by the enemy. but as piers legh, to whom, with his wife, the grant was made, was not born until , fifteen years after crescy was fought, it is tolerably certain that he could not have rendered any very distinguished services on that memorable occasion. yet the story is generally credited. like many another popular legend, it has floated down through the mists of centuries and become distorted in its transmission through various media. everybody believes it, and the domestics who show you over the house accept it as unimpeachable history, which to doubt, even, would be rank heresy. they repeat the tradition with variations, with many embellishments, and not a few anachronisms; tell you how the valorous perkyn a legh cut down the standard-bearer of the king of france, for that is the popular version, and, if you venture to hint a doubt as to whether that functionary ever was annihilated, will show you the heraldic device of the arm and banner emblazoned on ceiling, wall, and window, and point with confidence and pardonable pride to the armour sir perkyn wore on that eventful day, to the golden spurs which the black prince gave him when he knighted him upon the field, and, more than all, to the veritable sword, a huge, two-handled blade, with which the doughty deed was done--in their eyes confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ. this usually settles the business, even if it fails to carry conviction, though upon one occasion we remember a facetious unbeliever, taking up the ponderous weapon and the parable, exclaiming in the nasal twang which sight-showers seem to think indispensable-- this is the sword of perkyn a legh, a blade both true and trusty, that frenchman's blood was ne'er wiped off; which makes it look so rusty-- when the stately cicerone strode out of the room, evidently offended at his unbecoming levity. poor old flower, norroy king of arms, we fear has much to answer for in giving the stamp of his authority to, and thus perpetuating the fable. but in the days of the maiden queen the heralds were somewhat credulous genealogists, and much less exacting than their predecessors in the stirring times of the plantagenet kings. in , during his "visitation" of cheshire, flower was a guest at lyme, when, influenced possibly by the sumptuous hospitality of his entertainer, he not only allowed the then lord of lyme the arms his progenitors had borne, but added to them an honourable augmentation in the shape of "an escucheon or shield of augmentacon sable, replenished with mollets silver, therein a man's arme bowed, holding in the hand a standard silver, to be by the sayd piers and his posterity for ever hereafter borne and to be used as a testimony of his ancestour's good deserts." the "shield of augmentacon," which we now see so profusely displayed at lyme, was a handsome and well-merited addition to the coat armour of the family, but the garrulous old herald--he was then approaching eighty--in granting it, unfortunately repeated the old story, which ascribed to sir piers legh, instead of to his wife's father, sir thomas d'anyers, the valorous deeds by which lyme was won, and on the strength of that grant sir peter added the following lines to the inscription on the monumental brass of his ancestor, which may still be seen in the lyme chapel in macclesfield church:-- this perkin serv'd king edward the third and the black prince his sonne in all their warres in france and was at the battle of cressie, and had lyme given him for that service. raphael hollinshead, the chronicler, a cheshire man and a contemporary of flower, in his work, published in , repeats the statement with much circumstantial detail and an equal lack of accuracy. describing the scene on that glorious august day, he says:-- when the constable [of france] understood the good will of the people of the town [to go forth and fight the english outside the town] he was contented to allow them to follow their desire and so forth they went in good order, and made good face to put their lives in hazard; but when they saw the englishmen approach in good order divided into three battles, and the archers ready to shoot, which they of caen had not seen before, they were sore afraid and fled away toward the town, without any order or array, for all that the constable could do to stay them. the englishmen followed, and in the chase slew many and entered the town with their enemies. the constable and the earl of tancarville betook themselves to a tower at the bridge-foot, thinking there to save themselves; but perceiving the place to be of no force, nor able to hold out long, they submitted themselves unto sir thomas holland. but here he adds: whatsoever froissart doth report of the taking of this tower, and the yielding of these two noble men, it is to be proved that the said earl of tancarville was taken by one surnamed legh, ancestor to sir peter legh now [ ] living, whether in the fight or in the tower, i have not to say; but for the taking of the said earl and for his other manlike prowess showed there and elsewhere in this journey, king edward in recompense of his agreeable service, gave to him a lordship in the county of chester, called hanley [lyme handley] which the said sir peter legh now living doth enjoy and possess as successor and heir to his ancestor, the foresaid legh, to whom it was so first given.[ ] it is curious how many different versions of this notable incident in england's greatest victory have been given by the old chroniclers, and what a cloud of doubt and mystery they have in consequence created. to the statement that sir piers was present at crescy, dugdale adds that he acted as standard bearer to the black prince on that memorable occasion; equally fallacious is the statement given in gregson's "lancashire fragments" that the augmentation was an honourable addition after the battle of poictiers, in which he served under the black prince, for that battle was fought in , five years before he was born, and two years after sir thomas d'anyers had been laid in his grave. gregson's statement was doubtless made on the authority of an old pedigree still preserved among the muniments of lyme, and which, after representing him as receiving a free gift of lyme and hanley, for his valuable services at poictiers, makes a curious mistake by assigning an erroneous day and year as that on which the battle was fought. it is somewhat remarkable that froissart, who was a witness of many of the scenes he describes, and probably bore a part in the fight at crescy, makes no mention of either piers legh or his father-in-law, sir thomas d'anyers, but ascribes the capture of the earl of tankerville to sir thomas holland, a lancashire knight. he says:-- when the french were put to flight, the english, who spared none, made great havoc among them, which, when the constable of france, the earl of tancarville, and those with them, who had taken refuge within the city gate, saw, they began to fear lest they themselves should fall into the hands of some of the english archers who did not know them. seeing, therefore, a knight named sir thomas holland, who had but one eye (whom they had formerly known in prussia and grenada), coming towards them in company with five or six other knights, they called to him and asked him if he would take them as his prisoners. upon which sir thomas and his company advanced to the gate, and dismounting, ascended to the top with sixteen others, where he found the constable and the earl and twenty-five more who surrendered themselves to sir thomas.[ ] [illustration: windmill at crescy.] the omission of d'anyers name may be accounted for by the fact that sir thomas holland, who had married the heiress of edmund plantagent--joan, "the fair maid of kent," the future wife of the black prince--had a chief command in the prince's army, and that sir thomas d'anyers, who, we know, was in the retinue of the gallant young prince, his engagement to serve being dated th may, , may be assumed to have been in sir thomas holland's company, and therefore one of those who ascended the tower and received the earl of tankerville's surrender. one thing is very certain; it was at caen and not at crescy that the french king's chamberlain was captured, though it was at the last named place that the stalwart warrior, with his strong right arm, drove back the advancing host, and rescued the standard of the "boy prince"--his palatine earl--at the time when king edward watched his exploits from a neighbouring height, refused his succour, and with more chivalry than sound generalship "bade his boy win his spurs and the honour of the day for himself." amid all this conflicting evidence, there is one document that has been unearthed by mr. beamont, in which the services of sir thomas d'anyers are duly recognised--the original record of the grant of land, made jointly to sir peter legh and margaret, his wife, which appears on the cheshire recognisance rolls, now preserved in the rolls office, london, of which the following is a translation:-- letters patent to piers de legh and margaret his wife of a certain piece of land called hanley. richard, by the grace of god, king, &c. to all to whom these presents shall come greeting. know ye that whereas our well-beloved squire piers de legh and margaret his wife the daughter and heir of sir thomas d'anyers, knight, deceased, have made known to us that our most honourable lord and father, whom god asoyle, for the good and gracious service which the said thomas had rendered to him, not only by taking prisoner the chamberlain de tankerville, but also by rescuing our said father's standard at the battle of crescy; by his letters patent had granted to the said thomas forty marks a year out of his manor of frodsham in the county of chester, at the feasts of the annunciation of the blessed virgin mary and st. michael in equal portions, until our said father should provide him the aforesaid thomas with lands of the value of £ a year in some convenient place, to have and to hold to him and his heirs for ever as in the said letters patent of our said lord and father is more fully contained; the which said annuity of forty marks, after the death of the said thomas, came into our hands (to pay) before any grant of the aforesaid £ in lands or any part thereof, had been made him according to the tenor of our said father's grant, as the aforesaid piers and margaret have given us to understand. wherefore of our special grace and in consideration as well of what has been recited, as of the good and gracious service which the said piers hath rendered and will render to us, and because the aforesaid piers and margaret are willing to give the said letters patent of our said father of the said annuity of forty marks to the said thomas into our exchequer at chester to be cancelled we have given and granted to the said piers and the aforesaid margaret his wife a piece of land and pasture called hanley, lying in our forest of macclesfield in the county of chester, which aforetime was let to farm at twenty marks a year, as we are given to understand. to have and to hold the same to the aforesaid piers and margaret his wife and the heirs male of their bodies lawfully begotten, of us and our heirs by the payment of six pence to us and our heirs yearly at the feast of st. michael the archangel for all service in satisfaction of the said £ of land and notwithstanding that the said piece of land is situated within the demesne of our forest aforesaid. saving altogether to us and our heirs all oaks growing there, and also sufficient pasture for our deer there, as much as to the extent of land within our forest aforesaid appertaineth. in testimony whereof we have caused these our letters patent to be sealed with the seal of our exchequer at chester. dated at chester the fourth day of january in the twenty-first year of our reign ( ) by writ of privy seal. in this grant we have incontrovertible evidence of the real hero whose achievements in arms are commemorated on the armorial shield of the leghs, of lyme, in itself a notable illustration of the true character and intent of heraldic blazonry. sir thomas d'anyers, who bore himself so bravely at caen as well as on the field at crescy, when, if popular story is to be believed, "villainous saltpetre" was first employed and the roar of artillery first heard, fighting by the side of the gallant prince-- who on the french ground play'd a tragedy, making defeat on the full power of france; whilst his most mighty father on a hill stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp forage in blood of french nobility-- was the representative of a family who owned lands at bradley, in appleton. william d'anyers, who, in , purchased lands in daresbury from henry de norreys, married agnes, daughter of agnes, heir of richard de legh, of high legh, by the first of her three husbands, richard, younger son of hugh de limme, who took the name of legh after his marriage. by him she had, in addition to a son, william d'anyers, of daresbury, thomas d'anyers, of bradley, in appleton, who, by his first wife, margaret, daughter of adam de tabley, was the father of sir thomas d'anyers, the hero of crescy, and also of john d'anyers, of gropenhall, a soldier who for his services, likewise received a grant from the crown. sir thomas d'anyers, who must have been early initiated in the exercise of arms, was twice married; by his first wife, matilda, he had no surviving issue, and at her death he married isabel, the daughter and heir of sir william de baguley and his wife, clemence, daughter and co-heir of sir roger chedle, _alias_ sir roger dutton, of chedle in cheshire, who survived him, and by whom he had an only daughter, margaret, who became his heir. after the battle of crescy he appears to have retired to his house at bradley, but the laurels he had won in his campaigns abroad had helped to shorten his days, and in , while yet comparatively young, he was carried to the grave, having predeceased his father. an inquisition was taken after his death of the lands he held, and the jury found that his daughter, whose name they did not know, was his next heir. his estate, which was never at any time large, had not improved during his absences in the wars, and margaret d'anyers, who at the time of his death could only have been very young, succeeded to an inheritance that had become considerably attenuated, for in an extent of the manor the jurors found that "the messuage (bradley hall), with its enclosures, which had belonged to sir thomas, in bradley, with the gardens there, was not worth anything; that the dove-house was not worth anything, being destroyed by a weasel; that the fishery in the moat round the house was not worth anything, being destroyed by an otter; but that there were two carucates of land there containing sixty acres, worth sixpence an acre." margaret d'anyers, who was doubly an heiress, having inherited clifton, gropenhall, and a moiety of chedle from her mother, was three times wooed and won. shortly after her father's death she was taken from her mother by john de radcliffe, who had obtained a grant of her marriage, and eventually married her himself. there was no issue of the union, and their married life must have been short, for before the month of april, , he had died, and she had again bestowed her hand, her second husband being sir john savage, of clifton. by him she had a son, john savage, to whom, in , she granted the heraldic coat of d'anyers, without any difference, together with the white unicorn's head, the crest of her father--a coat he might well be proud of, though it was in reality that which his ancestress, agnes de legh, had inherited from her father, richard de limme, with the tinctures changed--and this coat continued to be borne by the savages down to the reign of elizabeth.[ ] sir john savage died about the year , and in the following year negotiations were set on foot for a marriage between his widow and piers, younger son of robert de legh, of adlington, by his second wife, maud, daughter and heiress of sir adam de norley. as they were within the prohibited degrees of consanguinity, piers de legh being descended from agnes de legh, by her third husband, william venables, and his intended bride from the same agnes, by her first husband, richard de limme, a dispensation for the marriage was deemed necessary. this instrument, which bears date november th, , was "given in the house of the carmelite brethren at london," and within a few days of its being granted margaret d'anyers, successively the widow of sir john radcliffe and sir john savage, had become the wife of her kinsman, piers legh. piers legh was then twenty-seven years of age, and his wife, if not fat, fair, and forty, had at all events reached her thirty-ninth year. they became--he on the paternal, she on the maternal side--the founders of the house of legh, of lyme. piers legh's mother, as already stated, was the heiress of sir adam de norley, the owner of the manor of that name in lancashire, and she in her husband's lifetime had executed a deed conveying all her estates in trust for the benefit of her son upon his coming of age, and, in accordance with the custom of the time, piers legh on succeeding to his mother's inheritance relinquished his paternal coat and assumed that of norley--_gules_, a cross engrailed _argent_, which has ever since been borne by the leghs of lyme, with the addition since elizabeth's reign of the escutcheon of pretence, which old flower, the herald, gave them. cheshire, which plumes itself on being "the seedplot of nobility," and of possessing a greater number of old county families than any other english shire, boasts no worthier or more ancient stock than the leghs; their history is closely interwoven with the history of the palatinate, and they claim a high antiquity, tracing their descent in this country back to the time of the conquest, when an ancestor came over in the retinue of duke william, the norman invader. the leghs of adlington, of which house was piers legh, the founder of the house of lyme, were descended from gilbert or le galliard, the younger son of eudo or eules, the second of that name, earl of blois, byre, and chartres, and the ancestor of stephen, earl of blois, who, on the death of henry i., usurped the english crown. this gilbert, who from the patronymic he adopted, venables (_venator abilis_), we may assume to have been a mighty hunter, was in the retinue of william of normandy, and for his bravery at hastings was knighted by the conqueror upon the battle-field. afterwards, he had considerable estates bestowed upon him out of the newly-conquered country in requital of his services against edgar atheling and the welsh, and when that singular compound of sensuality and ferocity, hugh d'avranches, more generally known as hugh lupus, the conqueror's nephew, was made earl palatine of chester, he conferred upon gilbert venables the barony of kinderton. sir william venables, the sixth in descent from this gilbert, had a younger son, also named william, to whom he gave the manor of bradwell, near sandbach. william venables, the younger, was twice married, his second wife being agnes, the daughter and heir of richard de legh, of the west hall, in high legh, and the widow of richard de limme or lymm, the common ancestress of the leghs of adlington and the d'anyers of bradley. their son, john de venables, adopted the name of legh, the maiden name of his mother, as well as of the place where he was born. he married ellen de corona, the great-aunt of thomas de corona, the last of the family of that name, who owned the extensive manor of adlington, and about the year he purchased the estate of norbury booths, near knutsford, where he fixed his residence. thomas de corona does not appear ever to have married; certainly he had no issue, and before his death he settled his estates, when, by an agreement made at chester, october th, , and another dated at "le bouthes" in the following year, he granted all his lands at adlington, after his death, to his grand-niece ellen and her husband, john legh, for their lives, with remainder to their son, robert de legh. thomas de corona died about the year , and john legh must have pre-deceased him, for at the time ellen de corona was a widow, and obtained the grant of a pardon from isabella, queen of edward ii., who styled herself "lady of macclesfield," and who had claimed adlington that it was held of her as of her manor of macclesfield, and had been alienated without licence. ellen legh survived her husband for the long period of twenty-seven years, and continued in the enjoyment of the manor of adlington, which had been re-granted to her on the purchase of the pardon before referred to, until her death in , when her son, robert de legh, succeeded, in accordance with thomas de corona's settlement, and became the ancestor of a family whose direct male heirs held the manor of adlington for the long period of four hundred years. robert de legh was twice married, his first wife being sybil, daughter of henry de honford, of handforth, and after her death he espoused matilda, the daughter and heiress of sir adam de norley, of norley or northleigh, in lancashire, who, according to an old ms. pedigree, was his second cousin and very much his junior. the eldest of the two sons of this second marriage was piers legh, who, as previously stated, in became the third husband of his kinswoman, margaret, daughter and heir of sir thomas d'anyers, the hero of crescy, and the widow successively of sir john radcliffe and sir john savage, and from them descended the leghs of lyme and the leghs of ridge, near macclesfield. concerning the mother of piers leigh, an incident is recorded which puts her character in an unfavourable light. robert de leigh, her husband, before his death settled certain of his lands in broome, near lymm (not lyme, as is sometimes supposed,), upon two of his sons by his first marriage. he died about the year , and five years afterwards his widow was indicted for having, in conjunction with one thomas le par, forged a settlement in the name of adam de kingsley, the trustee, in fraud of her two stepsons and in favour of her own son, piers leigh, and his two younger brothers. piers leigh was a person of considerable importance, and held many offices of trust and responsibility. shortly after his coming of age, in , he was, with his brother john, appointed by joan, princess of wales, once the "fair maid of kent," and the widow of edward the black prince, bailiff of her manor of macclesfield, and steward of all her courts within the hundred and forest, an office his father held previously. in the following year he obtained a lease of the herbage of hanley within the forest, and was entrusted by the princess with the conduct of her affairs with other of her tenants within the manor and forest. in the following year he had a lease of the herbage of the forest of macclesfield, and about the same time, the princess joan being then dead, he and his brother john were appointed attorneys to serve for the surveyor of the forest of macclesfield. in , richard ii., who had then been ten years upon the throne, attained his majority. a self-willed youth, impatient of the restraint which had been imposed upon him while under the guardianship of his three uncles, the dukes of lancaster (john o' gaunt), york, and gloucester, he determined to free himself from their control. with a view of ingratiating himself with his cheshire subjects, between whom and the sovereign, from the time when a king's son was first created palatine earl, there had been a close relationship, he made a progress into the county and remained some time at chester, where he received many marks of popular favour. he confirmed many of the cheshire men in the offices and emoluments previously conferred upon them by his uncle, john o' gaunt, who was constable of chester and lord of halton, and amongst other things confirmed to piers leigh the annuity of cs, which had been made to him by john o' gaunt's son-in-law, john de holland. in the following year, however, piers legh had the misfortune to fall under the king's displeasure. in that year the real struggle between richard and his uncle, the duke of gloucester, began. under the pretence of removing the king's favourites, and especially robert de vere, earl of oxford, whom he had created duke of ireland--one of the five obnoxious members who had met at nottingham, and all of whom had been accused of treason before the king at westminster--he assembled an army at highgate, whereupon de vere fled into the north, and on the authority of the royal letters summoned the cheshire forces, and with them, and some auxiliaries from lancashire, numbering in all about , men, set out to meet him. the two armies encountered each other at radcot bridge, in oxfordshire, on the th of december, and a battle was fought in which the soldiers of the duke of ireland were completely routed. the duke himself only escaped by swimming the isis, and fled to the north, whence he sought refuge in the low countries. piers legh would seem either to have shared in the general indignation against de vere, or to have been brought under the influence of the duke of gloucester, for he immediately seized the whole of the duke of ireland's movables in cheshire and lodged them in chester castle. angered at this treatment of his fallen favourite, the humiliated king issued his warrant, dated january st, , commanding piers legh, under a penalty of £ , , to surrender and restore the goods he had taken. whether the mandate was obeyed and the goods and chattels restored is not stated, but probably the difficulty was removed by the death of de vere, which occurred shortly afterwards. while these events were transpiring negotiations were set on foot for a marriage, for which a dispensation was obtained, the contracting parties being, as stated, related in the fourth as well as the third degree of consanguinity, and before the year had closed piers legh had taken to himself a wife in the person of his kinswoman, margaret d'anyers, the widow of sir john savage. by this time, or shortly after, he must have regained the king's favour, for in august, , a commission was issued directing him and others therein named to hear and determine all felonies committed within the borough of macclesfield, and a second commission empowered him to determine in like manner all felonies, misdemeanours, and breaches of the peace committed within the forest and hundred of macclesfield. at that time the forest comprised about one-third of the entire hundred, and included within its limits the larger portion of the great parish of prestbury. it had belonged to the earls of chester until the extinction of the local earldom in , when it passed to the crown, and was thereafter reserved for the royal hunting and made subject to the forest laws, which were very severe against any who should presume to make free with the king's venison--the killing of a deer being accounted an offence as serious as the killing of a man, and punishable with equal severity. a further evidence of the renewed confidence of the king is found in the fact that on the th april, , piers legh was appointed by the queen consort--"the good queen anne," as she was called by the people--steward of her lands in the macclesfield hundred. in the month of august following, he was commanded to arrest all malefactors and disturbers of the peace within the hundred, and made one of the king's justices for the same, with directions to hold three courts itinerant or _in eyre_, the proceedings at which were of the nature of those at a court of assize, the penalty for non-attendance when summoned thereto being outlawry, with forfeiture of goods. in january, , he was named equitator or rider of the forest, his special duties being to attend the king in person whenever he should hunt in the forest; and this office he had subsequently conferred upon him for life, and also, in conjunction with his brother, that of keeper of the park of macclesfield. the struggle for supremacy between richard and his uncle, the duke of gloucester, was now approaching a crisis, and, by a proceeding which resembled very much what is known in modern times as a _coup d'état_, he resolved to break the power of the turbulent gloucester and his cabal of nobles. the duke was surprised in his castle at plashy, in essex, hurried on board ship, and conveyed to calais; at the same time the earl of warwick, while enjoying the royal hospitality, was seized and sent to tintagel castle, in cornwall, and, simultaneously, and with equal duplicity, the earl of arundel was summoned to a conference, and, while there, arrested and lodged in carisbrook castle. a parliament was immediately summoned to meet at westminster, at which the fate of the three captive nobles--one a prince of the blood--was to be determined. great were the preparations made, and a wooden building of large extent was erected near westminster hall for the reception of the numerous assembly. on the th september, , the parliament met; the assembly was surrounded by the king's troops, and the sovereign himself had a body guard, consisting mainly of his cheshire archers, all of whom wore his cognizance of the white hart lodged--the badge of his mother, joan of kent, which he had adopted--and there is every reason to believe that piers legh held a command among the feudal retainers--the archers of the crown, as they were called--who rendered personal service on that memorable occasion; memorable as the time when the chief objects of the king's displeasure were condemned for high treason and a despotic power established under the sanction of parliamentary forms. it is worthy of note that in this short-lived parliament cheshire was raised to the dignity of a principality, the king adding to his titles that of prince of chester; but the honour was not long enjoyed, the act under which it was created being repealed in the first year of henry the fourth's reign. in the following year piers legh had an annuity of cs granted him by the king, probably as a reward for his services on the occasion just referred to, and about the same time the annuity of forty marks (£ s. d.) which had been granted to sir thomas d'anyers was exchanged for the lands in lyme hanley--an exchange that may be said to have been the foundation of the fortunes of the house of lyme. in the succeeding year richard had again occasion for the services of his trusty cheshire archers. to avenge the death of roger mortimer, earl of march, the presumptive heir to his crown, he determined on bringing the kingdom of ireland to a more perfect subjection. with this view, and for the purpose of increasing the strength of his cheshire guard, he had a levy made of the archers within the several hundreds of the palatinate qualified to serve, and with these he set sail from milford haven on the th june, . while he was leading his forces into the irish bogs and thickets to chastise the presumption of the native chiefs, henry bolingbroke, the son of the old lancastrian duke, john o' gaunt, who had been banished the kingdom, landed with a force at ravenspur, in yorkshire, and marched southwards; castles and towns surrendered to him, and in an incredibly short space of time he had made himself master of half the kingdom. rebellion had stalked unchecked through the land for weeks before the absent monarch could receive intelligence of bolingbroke's designs, and ere he could reach the english coast on his return the revolution was accomplished. on the th august, little more than a couple of months from the time of his departure, he landed in wales; a number of his faithful cheshire men met him on his arrival, though piers legh was not of the number, being at the time in command at chester, and this may have been the occasion when, as the old chronicler says, the cheshire men exclaimed--"dycon, slep secury quile we wake, and drede nought quile we lyve sefton; for giff thou hadst wedded perkyn, daughter of lye, thou may well holde alone day with any man in cheshire schire, i' faith." piers legh's daughter margaret was then only in her infancy, but that must have been a matter of small consequence in the days when children were accounted as of marriageable age. the unhappy monarch, with a few followers, wandered from castle to castle, and at length found a resting-place at conway. meanwhile the victorious henry was advancing by rapid marches through gloucester and herefordshire towards shrewsbury, with the intention of occupying chester, crying, "havoc and destruction on cheshire and the cheshire men." on the th august, the day that richard landed from ireland, he entered the city and promised peace to the people, a promise, however, that was to be quickly violated, for on the next day he gave orders for the seizure of the king's loving and loyal subject, sir piers legh, who must have been actively defending the interests of his master. probably he had the command of the castle, though he is said to have been at the time chief justice of chester.[ ] whatever his office his motto was _loyal à la mort_, and, like old adam in "as you like it," he might have exclaimed-- master, go on, and i will follow thee to the last gasp with love and loyalty. to remove an obstacle to the accomplishment of his ambitious designs bolingbroke hurried him away to execution. his policy, so our greatest dramatist tells us, was to-- cut off the heads of all the favourites that the absent king in deputation left behind him, when he was personal in the irish wars. and the "absent king" had no greater favourite or more faithful follower than piers legh. the rev. john wall, the translator of the french metrical history of the deposition of richard ii.[ ] in referring to his tragic end, says the king was at the time at conway; and daniel, in his "civil wars between york and lancaster," thus alludes to the event:-- nor thou, magnanimous legh, must not be left in darkness; for thy rare fidelity to save thy faith content to lose thy head, that reverent head, of good men honoured. by the order of bolingbroke, the head of sir piers was placed on the highest gate of the city, and there it remained for a time, when it was removed by the carmelite monks and buried with his body within their own church. afterwards it was conveyed to macclesfield, where, on the south side of the lyme chancel of the old church, the following epitaph, once cut in stone, but now graven in brass, may still be seen:-- here lyeth the bodie of perkyn a legh that for king richard the death did die betrayed for rightevsnes and the bones of sir peers his sonne that with king henry the fift did wonne in paris. to which, as we have previously stated, after old flower's grant of an heraldic augmentation, sir peter legh in elizabeth's reign added the apocryphal inscription regarding his doings at crescy. for loyally serving his fallen master and king, and while yet a young man, for he was only thirty-eight years of age, thus perished the first of the lords of lyme. the distance between the throne and the grave of a deposed monarch is but short. bolingbroke, finding himself everywhere enthusiastically received, resolved upon wresting the sceptre from the feeble grasp of his vacillating cousin, and within a few short months of the decapitation of piers legh, richard of bordeaux had lost both his crown and his life. when the revolution had seated the house of lancaster upon the throne, richard, on relinquishing his sovereignty, expressed the hope that his cousin would be "good lord to him," but the hope was delusive. he was deposed in september, and ere the snows of winter had melted his end had been accomplished, either by the pole-axe of the assassin, or the more protracted misery of famine. of a verity, those were stirring times, and whatever tenure men might have of their lands they had but little of their heads. henry gained the throne almost without a struggle, but his daring act of usurpation was but the sowing of the seed which ripened and bore fruit in that "purple testimony of bleeding war," the fierce struggle of the red and white roses--a contest which, after having for well nigh half a century filled the country with commotion and drenched it in civil slaughter, left it in a state of exhaustion, with the flower of its nobility destroyed. piers legh had not completed more than ten years of his married life when the unrelenting bolingbroke caused his head to be placed on the highest pinnacle of the east gate of chester. his widow, margaret d'anyers, survived him nearly thirty years, her death occurring june , . the issue of the marriage was, in addition to a daughter, margaret, who became the wife of sir john de ashton, two sons--peter, who succeeded as heir, and john, who married alice, daughter and heiress of john alcock, of ridge, an estate in the township of sutton, near macclesfield, and from them sprang the leghs of ridge, rushall, stoneleigh, and stockwell; the last representative of the parent line, edward legh, up to the time of his death, which occurred only a few years ago, residing at the limes, lewisham, near london. peter, the eldest son of piers legh, could only have been a youth of some eight summers when his father met his untimely end. if-- left by his sire, too young such loss to know, it was well for him that he had a prudent counsellor in the person of his widowed mother. in she gave him her moiety of gropenhall, which had been acquired by one of the d'anyers in marriage with the heiress of boydell, of gropenhall and had come to her through failure of male issue in her father's family; and he, thereupon, quartered the arms of boydell with his paternal coat, an augmentation that has ever since been retained. about the same time he added largely to his possessions by his marriage with joanna, the daughter and heiress of sir gilbert de haydock, of haydock, near newton-le-willows, a wealthy lancashire knight; by this alliance he ultimately acquired the extensive estates of the haydocks, viz.: haydock, bradley, burtonwood, warrington, overford, sonkey, bold, newton, lowton, golborne, and walton-le-dale, an acquisition that explains the close connection of the leghs of lyme with lancashire. his mother was yet in possession of lyme, and he therefore fixed his abode at bradley, in burtonwood, which became the principal residence of the family and so continued until about the year , when the erection of the present mansion of lyme was begun. leyland, the antiquary, writing in the time of henry viii., says:--"syr perse de lee hath his place at bradley in a park two miles from newton." the old house has long since disappeared, but the picturesque ruins of the arched and buttressed gate tower, which formed the principal approach, with a portion of the bastille above for the detention of offenders and doubtful visitors, still remain, a memorial of its ancient stateliness. the manor continued in possession of the family until after the death of thomas peter legh, of lyme, when it passed by settlement to his son, the rev. peter legh, incumbent of st. peter's, newton, who sold it to the late samuel brooks, esq., of manchester. though peter legh was old enough to take to himself a wife it was fortunate for him that he was as yet too young to take part in the stirring scenes that marked the opening years of the usurper's reign, when the blood of richard, shed on pomfret stones, called for retribution, and the realm was filled with turbulence and disquiet, else he might have shared the fate which befel so many other cheshire men, who, unable to forget the misfortunes of their former master, met at sandiway, in delamere forest, and joined the valiant hotspur, renowned in song and story, who was sweet fortune's minion and her pride, and glendower, the welsh chieftain, in their insurrection, when at the market cross of shrewsbury, after the bloody strife on hately field, where falstaff "fought a long hour by shrewsbury clock," and his ragamuffins got well peppered, the baron of kinderton and sir richard vernon, the baron of shipbrooke, with the earl of worcester, paid the penalty of their revolt with the same horrible barbarities that a hundred years before had been inflicted upon david, prince of wales, the brother of llewellynn. henry, prince of wales, the whilom roysterer and tavern brawler--hotspur's "nimble-footed, madcap harry"--was also earl of chester, and passed much of his time within his palatinate. anxious, as it would seem, to make some amends for the wrongs his father made in compassing the crown, he took the youthful peter legh into his favour. by a deed, dated july, henry iv. ( ), he granted him certain lands in macclesfield forest, near to his domain of lyme, called heghlegh, together with the office of forester, which had been held by the hegleghs and savages successively, designing his gift apparently as a peace-offering and a token of his royal favour, and with a view probably to services that might be rendered him in the future. on the th of march, , the troubled reign of henry the fourth drew to a close. the throne of the usurper had proved but a bed of thorns, for no sovereign ever was more harassed by plots and insurrections. the violent animosities and contentions that prevailed during his reign reduced his frame to premature decay, and at the early age of forty-six he breathed his last in the abbot's lodgings at westminster. his son and successor, henry the fifth, was not slow in observing the dying injunctions of his royal father not to allow the kingdom to remain long at peace lest it should breed intestine commotion. wise in his generation, he believed that a foreign war might divert the attention of his subjects from a too close examination of the justness of his own pretensions to the crown, and the excuse for such an enterprise was not far to seek. france was at the time in a state of deplorable disorder; and as the victories of crescy and poictiers were yet fresh in the memories of the english people and the favourite theme of song and story, france seemed to furnish the opportunity which the new king so greatly desired. anxious to quarter its lilies with the lions of england, henry, shortly after his coronation, resolved upon asserting the claim to the crown of that kingdom which his great grandfather, edward the third, had urged with so much confidence and success--a crown to which, it must be admitted, he had about as much right as rob roy had to the cattle he "lifted," or to the spoils of the raids and forays he engaged in. parliament made him a liberal grant in aid of the expedition; free gifts were received from the clergy; he borrowed from all who could be prevailed upon to lend, and to procure money pawned his plate, jewels, and even his crown. with much diligence he collected men, arms, provisions, ships, and, in short, everything necessary to enforce his demands and aggrandise himself at the expense of his distracted neighbours. the armies of the kings of england in those days were made up of contingents, brought into the field by adventurous spirits, who entered into indenture with the sovereign to serve in person with a certain number of followers for a fixed period, and on such terms as were agreed upon--men of strong limbs and daring spirit, who were influenced less by the abstract justice of the cause for which they were to fight than the consciousness that they would receive their due share of the _gaines de guerre_. copies of many such indentures or contracts between the king and the persons who undertook to provide a stated number of men at arms and archers, as well as with those who agreed to procure carpenters, masons, waggons, bows, arrows, &c., are printed in rymer's _foedera_, and these documents furnish much interesting information on the military arrangements of the age. among the persons who entered into such a covenant was peter legh, of bradley and lyme, and in the muster roll printed in sir n. harris nicolas's "battle of agincourt" we find him thus entered:-- monsr. piers de legh, ov sa retenu, robert orell hugh de orell thomas sutton john pygott george de asheley. those who formed his retinue, were probably archers; the two first named men, apparently lancashire men, hailing from orell, near wigan, and the others, judging by their patronymic, were cheshire men. indeed, from the liberal contingents sent up, the two counties seem to have furnished a very large proportion of the eight thousand fighting men who mustered at southampton. as the rhyming chronicler has it-- they recruited cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills that were so free; tho' no married man, nor no widow's son, they recruited three thousand men and three. great was the bustle and preparation, and exciting were the scenes then witnessed. michael drayton, writing three centuries ago, thus describes the separation between those comprising the invading force and their relatives and friends:-- there might a man have seen in ev'ry street, the father bidding farewell to his son; small children kneeling at their father's feet; the wife with her dear husband ne'er had done: brother, his brother, with adieu to greet; one friend to take leave of another run; the maiden with her best belov'd to part, gave him her hand, who took away her heart. the nobler youth, the common rank above, on their curvetting coursers mounted fair; one wore his mistress' garter, one her glove; and he a lock of his dear lady's hair; and he her colours, whom he most did love; there was not one but did some favour wear: and each one took it, on his happy speed, to make it famous for some knightly deed. many of those engaged in the expedition entered into arrangements for their wives and families that they might have some safe retreat during their absence; in the case of peter legh's wife, however, the probabilities are that she would take up her abode with her widowed mother-in-law, dame margaret legh. on the th of august ( ) the royal standard was unfurled, the trumpets flared, and with all the pomp and circumstance of war, the king and his suite embarked on board the trinity royal. the ships cast off their moorings, and peter legh, with fluellen and williams, and nym--who was hanged for stealing a "pyx"--a very motley force indeed, drifted slowly down southampton water upon their venturous quest. fifteen hundred vessels were comprised in the fleet, and fifteen hundred sails were set; but more than a week elapsed before the voyage, which can now be made in a few hours, was accomplished, and the vessels had cast anchor in the seine off kidecaws (_i.e._, chef de caux), about three miles from harfleur, a place not unknown in cheshire annals, for it was a knight of that country who bestowed honours upon the du guesclin, when he succeeded in capturing the great cheshire hero, sir hugh calveley. after a siege of thirty-six days, harfleur surrendered to the english king, whose triumph the poet sings:-- he sette a sege, the sothe for to say, to harflue toune with ryal array; that toune he wan, and made a fray, that fraunce will rywe 'tyl domesday. deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria. the victory, however, was dearly bought, for while the siege was proceeding, dysentery broke out in the english camp from the overflowing marshes, and raged with such severity that about five thousand fell victims, among them being peter legh's kinsman, sir robert de legh, of adlington, who died five days after the city surrendered. on the nd september, the governor of harfleur, having failed to obtain succours, opened the gates, exclaiming-- our expedition hath this day an end. the dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, returns us that his powers are not yet ready to raise so great a siege. therefore, great king, we yield our lives and town to thy soft mercy. enter our gates, dispose of us and ours, for we are no longer defensible. the earl of dorset was put in possession of the town and garrison, and, after a short rest, henry moved forward with the remnant of his army towards calais, intending to ford the somme at blanchetaque, where edward iii. had crossed before the battle of crescy, but on arriving at maisoncelle, on the evening of the th of october, he found an army of fifty thousand men prepared to dispute his further progress, their position being between the woods of agincourt and tramecourt. when the day dawned on the morrow, st. crispin's day, the two armies were face to face, but for some hours neither made any movement, when at last old sir thomas erpingham, an english knight, grown grey with age and honour, flung his truncheon into the air, and called "nestrocque" (now strike), and dismounted, and every man advanced shouting the national "hurrah." the first discharge of the cloth-yard shafts by the lancashire and cheshire bowmen threw the enemy's men-at-arms into confusion, their horses became unmanageable, and the fight raged with uncommon fury; the english archers when they had discharged all their arrows, threw away their bows and fought with their swords and bills; the contest becoming more a slaughter than a battle. in three hours the struggle was ended, and more than ten thousand frenchmen had been made to bite the dust. our great dramatist represents henry as exclaiming just before he entered upon the fight:-- we few, we happy few, we band of brothers: for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition! peter legh was one of the "band of brothers;" he was in the thick of the fight, shed his blood, and for services was knighted and made a banneret upon the field. as an old ballad expresses it: than for sothe that knyght comely, in agincourt feld he faught manly; thorow grace of god most mighty, he had bothe the felde, and the victory. deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria! it is very commonly asserted that he died in paris of the wounds he had received at agincourt, but the statement can hardly be correct, for six years after the battle was fought his name occurs as party to a marriage settlement, and his death did not take place until . the wound he received at agincourt did not incapacitate him from taking part a few years later in a foray that arose out of some quarrel between sir peter dutton of dutton, in cheshire, and sir william atherton of atherton, in lancashire, knight, the two having made inroads on each other's possessions. the circumstance is related by sir peter leycester, who says that-- great contention fell between sir peter dutton and sir william athurton, of athurton, in lancashire, insomuch that they made inroads and invasions one upon the other; and the said sir piers dutton and his adherents, to wit, sir rafe bostock of bostock, richard warburton of budworth, thomas warburton of halton, john done of utkinton, junior, john manley of manley, hugh dutton of halton, the elder, william leycester, of nether-tabley, sir peter legh of clifton,[ ] and john carington of carington, were all sued by sir william athurton, for taking away forty of his oxen and forty cows, out of his closes at athurton, and for beating of his servants. but the variance was composed between them by the award of john duke of bedford, earl of richmond and kendal, constable of england, and regent of the kingdom in the absence of henry the fifth, dated aprilis hen. v. , restitution being awarded on both sides: the horses and saddles taken by sir william to be restored to sir piers dutton, and the cattel taken by sir piers to be restored to the said sir william. our ancestors, it is to be feared, were of a quarrelsome disposition, and, much as we may boast of "the good old times," it must be confessed that they lose much of their charm when from our modern standpoint we begin to examine closely the lives and habits of those who figured in them. there is no reason to suppose that sir peter legh was more disorderly than his neighbours, similar outrages to those committed on sir william atherton's lands being then of common occurrence. sir peter legh was not the man to find happiness in repose. when, in the summer of , the king embarked on his second expedition to france, he again unsheathed his sword and served under the standard of his sovereign. he had returned to england in , though his stay could only have been very short, for in the following year he was again with the army of the king, and took part in the protracted siege of meaux, when henry lost so many of his soldiers by epidemic sickness. the fortress held out for seven months, the garrison only yielding when starved out. in the attack, sir peter would seem to have received a wound which eventually proved fatal, his death occurring in paris on the nd june, , a few days after the festivities with which the public entry into that city was celebrated. his body was brought over to england, and buried in the church of macclesfield, in the rebuilding of which he had in his lifetime been a liberal contributor, as evidenced by the prominent position assigned to his armorial shield on the west front of the tower. thus the second of the house of lyme died from the wounds he had received while fighting under the banner of the son and successor of the lancastrian usurper who had condemned his father to the block for his loyalty to his lawful sovereign and the house of york. sir peter legh could have been little more than thirty years of age when he died of the honourable wounds he had received while serving under the standard of his king. among those who had fought by his side at agincourt was sir richard molineux, of sefton, a lancashire knight of considerable wealth and influence. sir richard was himself a widower at the time, and naturally felt compassion for his comrade's widow in her bereavement. his compassion, however, ripened into a warmer feeling; the feeling was mutual, and when the days of mourning were accomplished sir peter legh's youthful relict bestowed her hand upon him, and thus became ancestress of the earls of sefton as well as of the leghs of lyme. she survived her second husband several years, her death occurring at croxteth on the st of january, . she was buried at sefton church, where a stately stone altar-tomb was erected over her remains, which may still be seen with a long latin inscription upon it, now in part obliterated, but interesting as showing the extent of the possessions which she, as heiress of the house of haydock, added to the patrimonial lands of the leghs. hic jacet domina johanna, quonda uxor petri legh militis, et postea uxor richardi molineux militis, quæ fuit dña de bradley, haydoke, et similiter tertiæ partis villar. de werington, mikille sonke, et burtonwode ac eciam dña diversarû parcellarû terrarû et tenement, infra villas de newton, golborn, lauton, bold et walton le dale. quæ obiit in festo s. sulpitii epi. a. dni mccccxxxix cujus animæ ppitietur deus. amen. sir peter legh's only son, who bore his own baptismal appellation, was born at clifton, near halton castle, a seat of the savages, on the th of june, , the eve of the father's departure to engage in the contest at agincourt, and had therefore just completed his seventh year. when his mother remarried he was removed from clifton and brought up in the household at croxteth, where, in addition to his mother's guardianship, he had the advantage of the friendly interest and supervision of the head of the great lancashire house of molineux. in his grandmother, margaret, d'anyers, settled a portion of her cheshire estates upon him, and the remainder, including lyme, he succeeded to on her death, june , . he had then, at the early age of thirteen, become the owner of large territorial estates, and for the better protection of the fair patrimony that had come to him his stepfather in the same year obtained the custody of all his lands in cheshire until he should be of age, as well as the right of contracting him in marriage, a right he exercised by covenanting to marry him to his own daughter, margaret, whom he had had by his first wife, ellen, daughter of sir william haryngton, of hornby. the year saw the contract carried into effect and the betrothed couple united. doubtless it was a season of bustle and business, and we may suppose the stately halls of croxteth to have been crowded with a gay company assembled to witness and do honour to the espousals of the young people. four years later he made proof of age, the inquiry being held at macclesfield, and he was then put in possession of the splendid inheritance which, by their successful marriages, his progenitors had accreted. during his minority his patrimony had been greatly improved under the careful management of his stepfather, and in the critical times in which his earlier life was passed he appears to have acted with much prudence and caution, taking more interest in the development of his estate than in the fierce contests that were then being waged. it was a time when craft and subtlety had gradually superseded the old spirit of chivalry--when strength of arm was of little avail without astuteness of head in shifting from side to side in the changing fortunes of contending parties; and, living in this age of political chaos, the youthful lord of lyme skilfully contrived to keep neutral between the factions into which the dominant party was split. though holding no higher rank than that of esquire, his large territorial possessions gave him considerable influence in the two palatine counties; in the cheshire records his name is of frequent occurrence, and, like many of his ancestors, he had various offices of trust in connection with the hundred and forest of macclesfield. though his father had received many marks of favour from, and had died in the service of, the lancastrian king, he inherited a predilection for the house of york, from the representative of which, richard ii., his grandfather had received many substantial benefits, including the grant of the manor of lyme. he was too shrewd and cautious, however, to allow his preferences to betray him into any act of open hostility to the reigning sovereign, though his intimate relations with a powerful lancashire baron, henry holland, duke of exeter, who had married the sister of richard plantagenet, duke of york, and who, in opposition to the wishes of henry vi. and his intrepid wife, margaret of anjou, had been made regent during the king's sickness, brought him under suspicion and resulted in a letter being addressed by the king to the sheriff of lancashire in , commanding him to deliver letters of privy seal to "thomas pilkington and piers legh, squires," a significant warning which had the desired effect in restraining peter legh, for a time at all events, from engaging in any perilous enterprise or openly espousing the cause of either party. a few years before this he had the misfortune to lose his wife, her death occurring at bradley, may , . she was buried at winwick, in the chantry chapel which sir gilbert haydock, her husband's maternal ancestor, had founded. in october of the following year peter legh again entered the marriage state, his second wife being elizabeth, the widow of sir john pilkington, of pilkington, and one of the daughters of edmund trafford, of trafford, by his wife, alice, eldest daughter and co-heir of sir william venables, of bolyn. the great struggle between the red and white roses was now in its birth-throes. the duke of york had been expelled from the regency; thirsting for revenge, he levied an army in the north and marched to st. albans, where he found the king's forces encamped in the town, which was assaulted with great fury. the battle lasted but one short hour, but it was disastrous to the cause of henry; five thousand of his troops were left dead upon the field, among the slain being the dukes of somerset and buckingham, the earls of northumberland and stafford, and lord clifford, while the king himself, who during the fight had been wounded in the neck by an arrow, was made prisoner. the blood shed at st albans on that fatal nd of may, , was the first that flowed in the bitter contest which came to an end only when thirty years had come and gone, when thirteen pitched battles had been fought, and the victory on bosworth field had been achieved--a strife so deadly that, as michael drayton tells us, the ties of blood and kindred were forgotten, and the nearest relations fought on opposite sides-- then dutton dutton kills, a done doth kill a done; a booth a booth, and leigh by leigh is overthrown; a venables against a venables doth stand; a troutbeck fighteth with a troutbeck hand to hand; there molineux doth make a molineux to die; and egerton the strength of egerton doth try. peter legh doubtless rejoiced in the yorkist victory at st. albans, but the warning which henry vi. addressed to him the year before had deterred him from bearing any part in it, and he appears to have acted with equal prudence four years later, when the reconciliation between the duke of york and queen margaret--the "dissimulated unity and concord," as the city chronicler called it--came to an end and civil war broke out afresh. in that year ( ) the yorkist forces were once more marshalled against those of the king. the earl of salisbury raised the standard of the white rose, and with an army of , men marched through cheshire into staffordshire, almost within sight of lyme, and then by way of congleton and newcastle-under-lyme to drayton. before he could join the duke he was overtaken by lord audley at the head of a superior force of lancastrians, and on the rd september the battle of blore-heath, where the head of the house of stanley amused both sides with promises of support without venturing to strike a blow for either, was fought. the struggle was long and sanguinary, but victory again declared in favour of the yorkists, henry's adherents leaving , dead upon the field, many of whom were from lancashire and cheshire, among them being the brother of peter legh's first wife, sir richard molineux, who fell fighting in the cause to which peter legh was in his heart opposed. at northampton in july of the following year the fortunes of the yorkists were again in the ascendant, and we read that queen margaret and her son, who had sought safety in flight, had a narrow escape of being captured near chester by a retainer of the stanleys. the struggle of the roses was now at fever heat, and in the short space of a single year no less than three great and bloody battles were fought. peter legh's prudence and circumspection failed him; his sympathy with the house of york could no longer be restrained, and, drawing the sword, he openly cast in his lot with the insurgent yorkists who were then gathering at sandal castle in yorkshire. margaret of anjou, repudiating the compromise by which on the death of henry vi. the duke of york was to succeed to the crown to the exclusion of her son, collected a numerous army out of lancashire and cheshire, and posted herself near wakefield, whither the duke of york advanced to meet her, but with a much inferior force. conceiving that his courage would be compromised if he refused to meet a woman in battle, he, without waiting for his expected reinforcements, risked a contest, hoping by skill and daring to make up for deficiency in numbers. in that bloody fray peter legh "fleshed his maiden sword;" he was conspicuous for his valour, and for his daring deeds his princely leader made him a banneret upon the field. but the tide of success had turned; the yorkists were entirely routed, and the triumph of the lancastrians was complete. after performing prodigies of valour the duke of york himself was slain. the queen, proud of such a trophy, ordered the duke's head to be struck off and placed upon the gates of york, adorned with a paper crown to indicate the frailty of his claims-- off with his head, and set it on york gates; so york may overlook the town of york. an unfeminine speech that did not cause her much feeling of remorse, for afterwards, when gazing upon the terrible spectacle as she entered the city, she exclaimed to henry-- welcome, my lord, to this brave town of york; yonder's the head of that arch enemy; does not the object cheer your heart, my lord? and lord clifford--the "black-faced clifford," as he has been called--more sanguinary than his royal mistress, when the battle was over plunged his sword into the breast of the duke's youngest son, the earl of rutland, in revenge, as he alleged, for the death of his father at st. albans. if the battle of wakefield was fatal to the house of york, it proved no less fatal to the victors, for the cruelties perpetrated by the black clifford were repaid a few months after with tenfold vengeance at towton, a contest in which, there is reason to believe, peter legh also bore a part. on the th of march ( ), the young duke of york assumed the crown and sceptre, but the ceremonies attendant upon his accession to the throne were few and brief. queen margaret was in the field with a powerful army, and on the th of march edward marched out of london northward to give her battle. on the eve of palm sunday (march th) the opposing forces met on towton heath; at four o'clock the battle began; the hours of darkness brought no rest, and through the long night and until the afternoon of the next day, amidst a fall of snow, it raged with unrelenting fury. it was the bloodiest battle in all the wars of the roses, and when the sun went down thirty-three thousand englishmen lay dead upon the field. some of them were buried in the neighbouring church at saxton, but by far the greater number sleep where they fell, and the red and white roses which bloom on the field of their last strife form their touching and appropriate memorial. the carnage of this terrible field is appalling. if we are to believe the statements of contemporary writers, for weeks afterwards the blood stood in puddles and stagnated in the gutters.[ ] among the slain was the "black-faced" clifford, who slew rutland at wakefield, and of those whom the sword spared upon the field not a few fell beneath the headsman's axe. well might warwick, dealing out a poetic justice, then say to the victorious edward-- from off the gates of york fetch down the head-- your father's head which clifford placed there; instead whereof let this supply the room, measure for measure must be answered. the fate of the cliffords has been consecrated by the poet. the widow of the "black-faced" lord and her infant boy fled "to the caves and to the brooks;" the child led a solitary life-- on carrock's side a shepherd boy-- wandering at will through "mosedale's groves" and in "blencathra's rugged caves" until the-- weary time that brought him up to manhood's prime. when the victory at bosworth again placed the lancastrians upon the throne his estates and honours were restored. though unable to read or write when called to parliament, he had, during his shepherd life, learnt purer and wiser lessons than those through which his progenitors had brought destruction on themselves. the triumph at towton field broke the hopes of the lancastrian party, and left edward unquestionably king. the services which peter legh had rendered at wakefield and elsewhere did not long remain unrewarded; within six weeks of the fight he was appointed governor and constable of the castle of rhuddlan in flintshire, for life, with a salary of £ a year, and two years later he was made escheater of flint during the king's pleasure. it was not long before his services were again called in requisition. in the unconquerable activity of the resolute queen margaret had once more inspired the hopes of the lancastrian party. having raised an army of adventurers in france, she landed on the northern coasts in october; edward was quickly at the head of a great force to meet her, and among those who went out with him, on the feast of st. andrew the apostle, as we learn from old stowe the chronicler, was peter legh, of lyme, who appears on the list as "sir peirce a'leigh," and is included among the knights who engaged in the enterprise, from which it is evident that that honour had been conferred upon him either at towton or immediately after.[ ] there was little occasion for his services. on the advance of edward, margaret escaped to her ships, which were scattered by a tempest, and a portion of her forces, being cast on holy island, were pursued and destroyed. for a time the country was comparatively tranquil, and sir peter legh, if he did not turn his sword into a pruning hook, was content to lay it aside and repair to his home at bradley, where he employed his leisure in adorning his mansion and improving his estate. while so engaged he drew up a minute account of the territorial possessions of the family in lancashire and cheshire, which is still preserved among the muniments at lyme. it is closely written in latin on vellum, and forms a thick volume of folios. that portion which relates to warrington has been transcribed and translated for the members of the chetham society[ ] by mr. william beamont, and to the same authority we are indebted for the following description of lyme, which shows that it had been emparked and that a mansion had been erected there as early as :-- rental of lyme, its manor and park, with over hanley and nether hanley in the forest of macclesfield, in the parish of prestbury and county of chester, belonging to sir peter legh, knight, at the feasts of the nativity of st. john the baptist and st. martin in winter, written and described on the march in the year of our lord and in the sixth of king edward iv. after the conquest. in the first place the said peter holds the aforesaid manor of lyme, in the county of chester, to him, his heirs and assigns for ever; that is to say, one fair hall with a high chamber, a kitchen, a bakehouse, and a brewhouse, with a granary, stable, and a bailiff's house, and a fair park, surrounded by palings, and divers fields and hays (hedged enclosures) contained in the same park, with the woods, underwoods, meadows, feedings, and pastures thereunto belonging, which are worth to the said peter xli (£ ) a year. the other lands belonging to the estate are then described, the total rental being set down at £ s., but no mention is made of any deer or of the famous wild cattle. occupied in more peaceful pursuits, we do not meet with the name of sir peter at hedgeley moor, at hexham, or in any other of the contests that occurred in the subsequent years of edward's reign. in a sorrow fell upon his home caused by the death of his only son, peter legh, which occurred at macclesfield on the nd of august, and on the th april, , his second wife was taken from him. both were buried by the side of his ancestors at winwick. four years later he set about the fulfilment of a project he had long had in contemplation, the endowment of the chantry chapel of the holy trinity in winwick church, which his mother's kinsman, sir gilbert de haydock, had founded. his charter bears date th november, and he must then have felt his end approaching, for he died at bradley on the th of the same month at the age of ; and a few days later, amid the sorrowing regrets of his dependents and neighbours, he was borne to his last resting place in the family chapel to which he had so recently been a liberal benefactor. sir peter legh's only son, who had predeceased him, and who bore the same baptismal name, married at a very early age a rich lancashire heiress--mabel, the elder of the two daughters and co-heirs of james croft, of dalton-in-lonsdale--sir james croft, as flower, the herald, erroneously styles him--acquiring in right of his wife, as a note to an ancient latin pedigree of the leghs expresses it, "the inheritance of the manor of dalton and ye presentation of ye parsonage of claughton _alternis vicibus_," thus greatly enlarging the already extensive possessions of his house. alison, the sister of mabel croft, conveyed her portion in marriage to geoffrey middleton, of middleton in kirby-lonsdale. these two ladies were double heiresses, their mother being a heiress of the butlers, who owned lands in freckleton, within the parish of kirkham. the alternate advowson which the leghs thus acquired remained in their possession until , when it was sold to the fenwicks, and once more became united with the lordship of the manor. while sir peter legh was busied in repairing and enlarging the ancestral home at bradley, his son peter and his young wife took up their abode at lowton, an estate inherited from the haydocks. the times were full of trouble, for though edward iv. was seated upon the throne, and, as stowe, the ancient chronicler, solemnly assures us, an angel had come down from heaven and "censed him" when the crown was put upon his head in st paul's, and the pontiff had written him a letter of congratulation, the angry billows of civil war were heaving and breaking in different parts of the country and kept the government in continuous alarm. the king's secret marriage with elizabeth woodville, the widow of a lancastrian, led to an estrangement with warwick which threatened a renewal of internecine strife. the wise caution and far-sighted sagacity which had so often kept sir peter legh from embarking in rash and dangerous enterprises was not exemplified in his son, who, forgetting the traditions of his house, would seem to have fallen under suspicion of favouring the lancastrians and sympathising with the efforts made by the king-making warwick to restore the same henry vi. whom his father had helped to dethrone. mr. beamont inclines to the belief that for some imprudent act he had been bound over to keep the peace, and unable to find sureties had been committed to the gaol at chester. we learn from the cheshire records that under date september th, th edward iv. ( ), peter legh, of lowton, esquire, was lodged in the city prison in the custody of agnes darby--a fact we commend to the notice of the advocates of women's rights, for women must surely have been exercising their rights when one of them could hold such an important trust. the nature of peter legh's offence is not stated, but in an age when knights and gentlemen not unfrequently had recourse to acts of violence in preference to the slow processes of the law, in defence of their fancied rights, it is just possible that it was some such rough-and-ready dispensation of justice and not a political offence that subjected peter legh to the ward of agnes darby. in any case he must have quickly recovered his liberty and the king's favour as well, for in the following year he was free and had demised to him for a term of six years ( th october, ) the king's town of vaynoll, with the pleas and issues of his court of the town of rhuddlan, with the tolls of the markets and fairs (excepting the pleas of the crown), and also the town of bagilt--then written baghegre--together with a corn-mill there with its toll and mulcture. his death occurred in the following year at the early age of thirty-five. his widow survived him a few years only, and died at dalton, in , where she would appear to have been living after his death. her will, which has been printed by the chetham society, bears date th july in that year, and in it she names four of her sons, but omits all mention of the fifth, robert, who is known to have been living in . it will thus be seen that sir peter legh outlived both his son and his son's widow. after his death in an inquisition was taken in accordance with custom, when it was found that piers legh, his grandson, then twenty-three years of age, was his next heir. this piers or peter, who was the fifth in direct succession bearing the same name, had succeeded to his mother's estates on her death in . seven years previously, and when he could only have been about twelve years of age, he had, with the consent of his father, been united in marriage, with ellen, the daughter of sir john savage, of clifton, an alliance that brought him in close connection with the stanleys, his wife's mother being katherine, daughter of thomas lord stanley, of lathom, and sister of the first earl of derby. they were in close kinship, and hence it was necessary, to make the marriage valid, to obtain a papal dispensation, which was accordingly done. in mediæval times mercenary considerations entered rather largely into matrimonial arrangements, and marriages were frequently contracted at a very early age, the parties most directly concerned being rarely consulted as to the choice of their respective partners, a practice that the then state of the law almost necessitated. indeed, a prudent father generally deemed it a parental duty to seek out a suitable match for his heir and marry him in his lifetime, lest, in the event of his dying and leaving him unmarried, he might fall into the hands of some greedy courtier, who under pretence of taking care of his lands, but in reality to enrich himself, might obtain his wardship and dispose of him in marriage to the highest bidder without any regard to inclination or mutual liking. this state of things will sufficiently account for piers legh, the heir apparent to so large an estate, being married at such an early age. the name of this piers is unpleasantly associated with a tragic act alleged to have been committed at bewsey hall, near warrington, the recollection of which tradition, that delights in passion and revenge, has preserved. much mystery hangs about this terrible deed, and the versions that have come down to us through succeeding ages are manifestly untrue in many particulars, though the main facts are doubtless correct. in the dodsworth mss., in the bodleian library, the story is told as follows:-- sir john boteler, knight, was slain in his bed by the lord stanley's procurement, sir piers legh and mister willm savage joininge with him in that action, corruptinge his servants, his porter settinge a light in a windowe to give knowledge upon the water (_i.e._ the moat) that was about his house at bewsaye when the watch that watched about his house at bewsaye where your way to ... (bold?) comes, were gone awaye to their own homes and then they came over the moate in lether boates and soe to his chambre where one of his servants called houlcrofte was slaine, being his chamberlaine, the other brother betrayed his mr. they promised him a great reward and he going with them a way they hanged him at a tree in bewsaye park. after this sir john boteler's lady pursued those that slewe her husband, and indyted xx men for that sarte (_i.e._, assault), but being marryed to lord gray, he made her suites voyd, for which cause she parted from her husband, the lord graye, and came into lancastershyre and sayd if my lord wyll not helpe me that i may have my wyll of mine enemies, yet my bodye shall be berryed by him, and she caused a tombe of alabaster to be made where she lyeth upon the right hand of her husband, sir john boteler. another paper in the dodsworth collection represents the murder as being perpetrated in the reign of henry vii., and assigns as the cause of the quarrel the refusal of the botelers to wear the livery of the stanleys on the occasion of king henry's visit to his brother-in-law, the earl of derby, in the summer of . the earl is stated to have sent a messenger to bewsey desiring its lord to wear "his cloath at that tyme," but, in the absence of sir john, his lady, with becoming regard for her lord's dignity, said, "she scorned that her husband should wayte on her brother, being as well able to entertayne the king as he was." a note in the shakerley papers states that "sir peter (legh) slewe sir thomas butteler of bewseye knight, and for the same was forced to build disley church for his penalty at his own cost and charges ." the late mr. roby, in his "traditions of lancashire," has made the tragedy the theme of one of his legendary lyrics, and describes the struggle with much circumstantial detail; and since then a resident of warrington, mr. john fitchett, in a poem of considerable merit, "bewsey," has told the story, incorporating in it an incident traditionary in the neighbourhood, though not referred to in the dodsworth papers--that when the assassins broke into the hall they were resisted by a faithful negro, who was killed in the melée:-- tradition tells, a faithful negro brav'd singly their savage rage, and bold oppos'd their passage to the room where thoughtless slept his dearly honour'd master, till at last, o'erpower'd by numbers, and o'erwhelm'd with wounds, alas! he nobly fell. their reeking hands unsated yet, had still to execute deeds of black import, and dire schemes of blood: for ah! unarm'd, and in his bed surpris'd, vilely they butchered the devoted lord! meanwhile a servant maid, with pious guile, bore in her apron, artfully conceal'd, the infant heir; and many a danger brav'd, saved him uninjured from the ruffian's sword, the negro's valour fav'ring his escape. the interest in the story has been rather increased than lessened by the recovery of the ancient ballad of "sir john butler," printed by the early english text society from bishop percy's folio ms. (v. iii. p. ). in the following ballad the story as related in the dodsworth mss. is adhered to with tolerable accuracy:-- listen, lords and ladies fair and gentles, to my roundelay. list, youths and maidens debonnaire, to this most doleful tragedy. of pincerna, the noble race, that botiller was yclept, i say; and bewsey hall, that goodly place, where traitors did the butler slay. fatal the feud 'tween him and one whose sister was his wedded wife; the proud earl derby, whose false son did plot to take the butler's life. savage by name and nature too, piers legh, that pierced all too free, join'd with lord stanley and his crew, and bought the warder's treacherie. a light shone from the warder's tow'r, when all the house lay sunk in sleep, to guide those murd'rers, fell and stour, across the moat, dark, wide, and deep. in leathern boats they cross'd and then the warder softly oped the gate: bold fronted them the chamberlain; holcrofte his master warn'd too late. him they slew first, and then the knight, while sleeping, 'neath their daggers bled:-- a faithful negro, black as night, snatcht up the infant heir and fled. the felon porter craved reward for treach'rous guiding in the dark: they paid him; then for his false guard they hung him on a tree i' th' park. in vain they sought--the child was saved; but gallant butler was no more: that night his wife in london dreamt that bewsey hall did swim with gore. when that she learn'd the foul deed done, she pray'd they might have felon's doom; but might 'gainst right the struggle won; then sigh'd she forth in bitter gloom:-- "if by my lord's fell foes and mine "my will in life is thus denied; "and i must live, bereaved, to pine, "death nor the grave shall us divide," an alabaster tomb she made, to her lov'd husband's mem'ry true; and on her death her corse was laid close by his side, 'neath aged yew. mourn for the brave, the fair, and true, sleeping in love, and hope, and faith; may ruthless ruffians ever rue their murder foul, brave butler's death! the "alabaster tomb" in the butler chantry in warrington parish church still exists, and the effigies of sir john and his wife are recumbent upon it; and there also is an effigy of the faithful negro reposing near to that of his murdered master, or at least what common report proclaims as such, only that, unfortunately for the story, the darkened figure is that of a former lady of bewsey, and not the faithful servitor of the botelers, and is, moreover, believed to have been brought from warrington friary, since the time when randle holme made his church notes in . the tragic story of bewsey, which is so involved in obscurity and contradiction, and overlaid with so much legendary exaggeration, has been a cause of perplexity for many a long year to local antiquaries. no one of the alleged actors, no one of the facts, and no one of the causes of the supposed quarrel can be true. sir john butler's death occurred before the earldom of derby had been conferred on lord stanley; when king henry visited lathom, the earl's sister, sir john butler's widow, was sleeping her last sleep, and at the time of sir john's death piers legh was a mere child of eight years, so that unless he was very precocious his share in the outrage is purely mythical, and we may therefore dismiss the story of his being sentenced, as a penance for his participation in the murder, to build disley church. and yet the story has, doubtless, a foundation in fact, though the _actores fabulæ_ may be phantoms. sir john butler died on the th of february, ; the cause of his death is shrouded in mystery, but that he died by violence is not altogether improbable. in those days, when feuds were rife and outrages of daily occurrence, the crime of murder was held of small account, and one that ofttimes might be expiated by the payment of a sum of money. the botelers had ranged themselves on the side of the lancastrians. lord stanley, who was a consistent supporter of the party of good luck, was then a yorkist, as was also his nephew, piers legh, and piers legh's brother-in-law, william savage. was the boteler, whichever of the family he might be, whose life was sacrificed the victim of some political feud arising out of the contentions of the rival houses of york and lancaster? in the summer of england was in a state of commotion; edward had quarrelled with james iii. of scotland and concluded a treaty of alliance with the duke of albany, the brother of the scottish king, who was then aspiring to the royal authority, and had agreed to hold scotland as a fief of england in return for the support that had been promised him. the duke of gloucester--so soon to become richard iii.--who was lord of the marches, had the chief command of an invading force and marched northwards. the wily chief of the house of lathom, thomas lord stanley, commanded the right wing, some , strong, and piers legh, of lyme and bradley, who four years before had succeeded to the full enjoyment of his patrimony, buckled on his armour and marched under his banner. by july they had reached the old border town which overlooks the estuary of the silvery tweed, the scene of so many stirring events--berwick, which the "meek usurper," henry vi., had surrendered when he fled to scotland after his defeat at towton. the town quickly yielded, but, as the castle held out, gloucester, unwilling to lose time, marched northwards towards edinburgh, leaving lord stanley and his force to prosecute the siege. on the th of august the garrison capitulated, and from that time to the present berwick has remained severed from the sister kingdom. peter legh by his dash and daring gained golden opinions, and gained the right to wear his golden spurs as well, for he was made a banneret on hutton field. had gloucester had sufficient discernment he might during that expedition have discovered how little reliance was to be placed on the fidelity of a stanley. tradition says that either in going or returning dissensions and jealous bickerings arose between the two commanders; the spirit of hostility spread to the ranks of their followers, and several frays occurred between richard's and stanley's men, in one of which, near salford bridge, the latter had the best of it and succeeded in capturing one of gloucester's banners, an incident commemorated in glover's rhyming chronicle-- jack of wigan he did take the duke of gloucester's banner, and hung it up in wigan church a monument of honour. on the th of april in the succeeding year edward iv. died. gloucester was at the time at york, and it is said that he attended the minster with a retinue of six hundred knights and esquires to observe the obsequies of his departed brother, and swear fealty to his nephew, the boy-king--edward v.--the king whose death he was so soon to compass. having performed these duties he hastened southwards with the intention of intercepting the king before he could reach london, and it is said that on his way he spent a night under sir peter legh's roof at bradley, when, in the hope, as it would seem, of securing the future services of his host, he granted him an annuity of £ for life. on the th of july richard and his queen, anne, were crowned at westminster, when, "the lord stanley bare the mace before the king, and my lady of richmond (his wife) bare the queen's train," for the stanleys were fated to flourish whatever party was in the ascendant. but "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," especially when the head is that of a usurper, as richard had painful experience. his cruelties had made him unpopular with the people; the lancastrian party, which still numbered many adherents, took heart in the hope of being able to displace him and seat henry of richmond, lord stanley's stepson, upon the throne, and ere long the standard of revolt was raised. in january, , commissions were addressed "to all knights, esquires, gentlemen, and all other of the king's subjects" in the counties of lancaster and chester. the cheshire commission notified all concerned that "the king hath deputed the lord stanley, the lord strange, and sir william stanley to have the rule and leading of all persons appointed to do the king's service when they be warned against the king's rebels, and if any rebels arrived in those parts that then all the power that they could make should be ready to assist the said lords and knight upon their faith and (al) legiances." the lancashire commission required the "knights, esquires, and gentlemen, and others" of the county "to give their attendance upon the lords stanley and strange to do the king's grace service against his rebels in whatsover place within this royaume (realm) they fortuned to tarry." yet at that very moment lord stanley was pledged to richmond's cause, and as steward of the royal household was sending him information of all richard's plans. thus did the misguided crouchback thrust into the hands of the stanleys the power which, a few short months later, upon the field of bosworth, was to be used against him with such fatal effect. the records of lyme as well as the old annalists and chroniclers are silent as to the part which sir peter legh bore in the great struggle on redland heath[ ] when the sun of the plantagenets went down, and the claims of the rival roses were finally decided; but we may be well assured that when commissions were addressed to "all the knights, esquires, and gentlemen" of lancashire and cheshire, and lord stanley was to "have their rule and leading," sir peter would not be idle or allow his armour to rust unused. his house owed allegiance to the white rose. richard had been his guest at bradley, and had then conferred an annuity upon him; duty and gratitude should, therefore, equally have bound him to the cause of his sovereign, but whether he was with the "stout fellows in white surcoats and hoods" who followed his cousin sir john savage into the thick of the fight, or in the camp of lord stanley, who looked down upon the fray with calculating judgment, beguiling both combatants with promises and assurances of sympathy while waiting to see on which side victory was likely to fall, we have no means of knowing. at ten o'clock on the morning of that memorable nd of august, , while the sun, mounting high in the heavens, flashed on pike, and corslet, and helm, and brightened every pennon that lagged in the lazy air, with a great shout and a rattling shower of arrows the fight began. "lord! how hastily," says holinshed, "the soldiers buckled their helmets--how quickly the archers bent their bows and frushed their feathers--how readily the billmen shook their bills and proved their staves, ready to approach and join when the terrible trumpet should sound the bloody blast to victory or death." the duke of norfolk, who led the van of the royal army, singled out the earl of oxford, and engaged him in a personal encounter, for in those days the leaders deemed it a point of honour to fight hand to hand; his vizor was hewn off by a single blow, an arrow from a distance pierced his brain through his broken helmet, and he fell lifeless to the ground. the brave surrey, hurrying up to avenge the death of his father, was overpowered by sir john savage, who led the left wing of richmond's army, when he requested that his life might be taken to save him from dying by an ignoble hand. he was led to the rear, but lived to be the surrey of flodden field, and the worthy transmitter of "all the blood of all the howards," but the men whom richard had loaded with benefits deserted him in the hour of his need with a treachery that proclaimed that the knell of chivalry was rung. lord stanley, who three nights before had held a secret interview with richmond at atherstone, stirred not a finger, nor moved a man, until the fate of the battle was decided, when he threw off his disguise and charged boldly against his master on his stepson's side. no strategy could now be of avail, and, in the effort of despair, richard made the final charge upon his rival. descrying richmond, he put spurs to his horse, and with lance in rest rushed towards him, when, in the nick of time, sir william stanley, "with three thousand tall men," closed in and richard fell overpowered, with wounds enough to have let out a hundred lives, and murmuring with his last breath, "treason! treason! treason!" the royal army was but a rope of sand, and when the shout went up that richard king of england had bitten the turf his troops, three-fourths of whom were ready to side with the strongest, rushed in inglorious retreat, the victors following in hot pursuit the fight lasted but two short hours, yet on the morrow many a whimpled dame mourned the loss of her belted lord, and many a sobbing joan and village winifred grieved for husband and lover slain at bosworth field. when the fight was ended, lord stanley, ever the faithful adherent of the party of good luck, led the descendant of cadwallader to the slope of the hill at stoke golding, ever after called crown hill. a knight handed him the battered circlet of gold which adorned the chapeau of estate richard had worn upon his salade or head piece, and, commanding the attendants to kneel, he placed it on the brow of the victorious earl and proclaimed him "conqueror and king." meanwhile the stripped and mutilated corpse of him who at the morning's rise led a gallant army to assured victory, "trussed like a calf and naked as he came into the world," was flung across a horse and carried in triumph behind a pursuivant at arms to leicester, where, after being exposed to the gaze of the scornful mob for two hot summer days, it was buried without ceremony in the church of the gray friars. henry of richmond came out of the field of bosworth a victor to ascend the throne of a nation bleeding at every pore, and the leading nobles of which had been swept away. he was not ungrateful. one of his first acts was to seize the estates of the adherents of the fallen richard. with them he was able to reward his faithful followers, and the originally great possessions of the stanleys became swollen by enormous grants out of the yorkists' confiscated lands. the leghs of lyme fared but indifferently in comparison; at all events, there is no evidence of sir peter having come out of that struggle with any addition to his territorial possessions. on the th of january following the houses of york and lancaster were united by the marriage of the king with elizabeth of york, and on the th of september, with almost undue punctuality, the popular wish was realised in the birth of a prince--a bud from the peaceful grafting of the white rose upon the red--for whom lord stanley, or rather lord derby, for he had then been elevated to the earldom, was one of the two sponsors. but the partiality for the house of york was not yet extinguished among the men of lancashire and cheshire. as lord bacon says, the memory of the ill-fated richard "lay like lees at the bottom of their hearts, and would come up if the vessel was but stirred;" it was not long before a spirit of resistance began to manifest itself, and henry found himself threatened with the loss of his ill-gotten sovereignty from a source as unexpected as it was deemed contemptible. in a youth appeared in ireland calling himself edward plantagenet, earl of warwick, but whose real name was lambert simnel. he was proclaimed as edward vi., and the duchess of burgundy, favouring the imposture, sent over from flanders an experienced captain, martin swartz, with two thousand men to his aid. in the "merry month of may" they landed on the barren island of fouldrey, and took possession of the castle--the peel of fouldrey, as it was called--a fortress commanding the entrance to morecambe bay, which had been built by the monks of furness as a retreat from the ravages of the scots. thence they marched southwards through yorkshire into nottinghamshire, where they were joined by lord lovel. henry, with his usual promptitude, hastened to give the insurgents battle; sir peter legh, who had again buckled on his armour, served under the banner of the king, and bravely bore his part in the battle of stokefield, near newark, where, on the th of june, the two armies were put in array against each other. the issue was quickly decided, and resulted in the complete overthrow of the insurgents, one half of whom were slaughtered. this appears to have been the last military exploit in which sir peter legh had any share. the sword was returned to the scabbard, never again to be unsheathed, the remainder of his days being passed in more peaceful pursuits. it is not unlikely that his abandonment of the profession of arms thus early--for he was only in his thirty-second year when the battle at stokefield was fought--was caused by the death of his wife, which occurred on the th may, , at bewgenet, a small village in sussex, where she appears to have been staying, and where her body was buried. though wealth and honours were not lavished on sir peter legh in the way they had been on the stanleys, yet the services he had rendered at stokefield and elsewhere were not allowed to go entirely unrequited, though it must be admitted that his reward came somewhat late. by letters patent, dated at lancaster, rd march, henry vii. ( ), he was, in consideration of services he had rendered to the king, as the grant states, appointed successor to the earl of derby in the important and lucrative office of seneschal or steward of blackburnshire, including tottington, rochdale, and clitheroe, within the county of lancaster--a vast tract of country embracing within its limits the forests of blackburnshire and bowland. these forests or chases were extensive wastes inhabited by the roe, the stag, and the wolf, and also the wild ox, which latter is said to have been imported into these northern wilds from the forest of blackley, on the confines of manchester. according to popular tradition, the wild cattle which still constitute one of the peculiarities of lyme date their existence there from the time that sir peter legh held the seneschalship of blackburnshire, having, it is said, been conveyed by him from the lancashire forests to his chase at lyme. sir peter continued in his office for a period of six years, and with the exception of an occasional lawsuit, when he was supposed to have exceeded his powers, he appears to have discharged the duties of his office to the general satisfaction of both sovereign and subject. in he resigned his post, the reason for which will hereafter appear. he was then verging upon sixty, and had been a widower twenty years; his sons had all attained to man's estate, and his only daughter had been suitably mated, her husband being lawrence, son and heir of sir john warren, of poynton. he seems, therefore, to have had a desire to withdraw from the more active duties of life, and to spend his few remaining years in peaceful quietude. the year which followed his wife's death was that in which her brother, thomas savage, was made bishop of rochester, from which see he was subsequently translated to london, whence he was elevated to the archbishopric of york, and doubtless his brother-in-law's advice and counsel would be sought. be that as it may, sir peter legh determined upon entering the church, and took orders, thenceforward describing himself as "knight and priest," and about the same time he set about the foundation of a chantry chapel upon his estate at lyme--the present church at disley. the time was one of much religious energy and life, notwithstanding that the faith might be in a dim lantern and obscured by not a few superstitions and scandals, but it must not be assumed that the only object of sir peter legh's foundation was that prayers might be offered for the dead by the officiating priest. the place was removed from the mother church, which at some seasons would be almost inaccessible, especially to the aged and infirm; it would seem therefore to have been intended more as a kind of oratory or domestic chapel appurtenant to his manor house, and available for the neighbouring population, who would thus have some of the ministrations of religion if not all the public means of grace carried almost to their own doors. in the erection of it he took counsel with the parsons of wilmslow, prestwich, and gawsworth, and also with mr. brygges, the master of sir john percival's grammar school at macclesfield, then just founded; but curiously enough no mention is made of the parson of stockport, in whose parish it was to be situate, and who would claim sacerdotal superiority. sir peter died before his work was completed, but prior to his decease he bound his son by solemn promises to finish the work he had begun. his idea seems to have been to found a kind of ecclesiastical college, with three priests and two deacons, but unfortunately he did not define the exact character of the foundation he contemplated, and the omission gave rise to protracted litigation and much ill-feeling between the executors under his will and his son and successor. it was of little consequence, however, for within a very few years the act was passed for the suppression of the minor religious houses, and sir peter legh's chantry chapel at disley shared the common fate, the various lands and tenements belonging to it being seized into the hands of the king's commissioners. sir peter, who must have begun to feel the weight of years upon him, made his will in , but omitted to name his executors. in the following year he executed two other wills, the latest of which, dated december , , has been printed by mr. earwaker from the original in the muniments at lyme, and is interesting from the very specific directions given respecting his funeral, the ceremonies to be observed at it, the monument to be erected over his remains, and especially the adorning of it "wt a pictor aftr me and my wieff and or armes," all which his executors carefully observed. two years after the execution of his last will he is said to have erected the structure known as lyme cage, the precursor of the present building, the precise purpose of which it is difficult to define, unless it was intended as a stand from which the ladies of lyme might, without fatigue, enjoy the pleasures of the chase. about the same time, too, he is found helping in the work of rebuilding the tower of lyme church, and inviting the "contributions of all pious persons," without whose help, so the appeal declares, "the parish was not able to finish the work." his death occurred at lyme, august th, , at the ripe age of seventy-two, and in accordance with his testamentary instructions his body was removed for burial by the side of his ancestors in the old church at winwick, where a sepulchral brass, with the "pictors" of himself and his wife, was placed to his memory, which still remains in a tolerable state of preservation, and which is more than usually interesting on account of the peculiar character of his effigy. he is represented in the plate-armour of the period, with a sword upon his side, and wearing the spurs of knighthood; whilst over the armour of the soldier is represented the chasuble and other vestments of the ecclesiastic. his head is bare, with a tonsured crown denoting his priestly office. his hands are uplifted, though not closed, and between them is a shield of six quarterings. by his side is the effigy of his wife, habited in a long robe, and wearing a headdress with lappets that depend on each side; a girdle encircles her waist, and the hands are uplifted as if in supplication. at their feet are graven the figures of their several children, and there is also this inscription in black-letter characters:-- orate pro aiab' provi viri, dni petri legh, militis, hic tumulati, et dnÆ elene, ux. ejus, filie johis savage, militis, cujus quid elene corpus sepelitr. apud bewgenett ° die mensis maij, anno domini millesimo cccclxxxxj. idemq. petrus, post ipius elenÆ mortem i. sacerdotem canonice, consecrat obiit apud lyme i. hanley xi. die augusti ao. di mvcxxvij. sir peter legh had issue five sons and one daughter. his third son, galfred or gowther legh, who resided at woodcroft, founded the grammar school at winwick; his will bears date "apryll , ," and a lengthy abstract from the original in the registry at york will be found in the "lancashire chantries," edited for the chetham society by the late canon raines. when sir peter legh's body had been peacefully committed to the grave, and his executors, in accordance with his expressed desire, had provided the sumptuous tomb with its coverings of "marbull" and its "pictors in brass," an inquiry was held before the escheator of the county of chester respecting the lands he had held at the time of his death, and it was then found that peter legh was his son and heir, and of the age of . on the nd june, , he had writ of livery granted him of his patrimonial estates, and he then entered upon possession. the document, which is on the recognizance rolls of chester, is a lengthy one, and recites several family deeds and settlements, and gives a clear idea of the extent of the family estates at that time. peter legh had then passed the meridian of life, and had been twice married. his first wife, jane, daughter of sir thomas gerard, of bryn, to whom he had been contracted in marriage by his father in , when he was only seven years of age, died on the th may, , leaving him two daughters, the eldest of whom, cicely, had been given in marriage three years previously to thomas, son of sir thomas boteler, of bewsey, the match having probably been arranged with the hope of putting an end to the feud that had so long existed between the two families, just as in the year before the contention of the rival houses of york and lancaster had been terminated by the union of the red and white roses; though if this were the expectation of the promoters of the match their hopes were doomed to disappointment, for the heads of the houses of lyme and bewsey had still to appeal very frequently to the law courts for help in the adjustment of their difficulties. a year or two after the death of his first wife peter legh entered into a marriage with margaret, daughter of nicholas tyldesley, and by her he had a numerous family--three sons and seven daughters. he is said to have been afflicted with lameness, the result, it is supposed, of a wound he had received at flodden, in , when his kinsman christopher savage, the valiant mayor, and so many of the burgesses of macclesfield were numbered among the slain. possibly the pain and inconvenience experienced from his lameness had tended to sour his temper, for he appears to have been of a more than usually litigious disposition if we may judge from the many occasions in which he figured in the law courts, sometimes at the instance of his neighbours, often in connection with the botelers, and occasionally to answer charges brought by his father's trustees, who accused him of improperly receiving and retaining the rents and property belonging to the chantry at disley, which he had founded. how far these last-named accusations were well founded is not clear. possibly the religious feelings of the son were not as intense as those of the sire, and hence the neglect of a duty on the delegated performance of which the father had partly rested his hopes of salvation; or it may be that he took a charitable view of things and believed that his father's faults were not of a very flagrant or inexpiable character, and therefore not requiring a continuance of the posthumous invocations he had provided for. certain it is that when peter legh the younger made his own will in anticipation of his approaching end, he made provision for the services of a chaplain who should continue "only for seven years," evidently believing that that period would be sufficient for his probation in the purgatorial region. peter legh ended his days at bradley on the th december, , and on the th january following, an inquisition as to his cheshire estates was taken at chester, when his eldest son by his second wife, who also bore the name of peter, and was then aged twenty-eight years, was found to be his heir. the year in which the battle of flodden was fought was that in which peter legh the younger first saw the light. in , while still an infant, for he was only five years of age, he was united in marriage with his kinswoman, margaret, daughter of sir thomas gerard, of bryn, the church's dispensation having been first obtained--a match that brought him, it may be hoped, more happiness than fell to the lot of his younger sister, joan legh, who when six years old was married to his wife's brother, the son and heir of sir thomas gerard, from whom she was afterwards divorced. in may, , two years after he had entered upon his patrimony, he joined the expedition headed by the earl of hertford to demand the surrender of the infant queen of scotland, whom henry had intended uniting in marriage with his son, and in this way securing the union of the two kingdoms. the force marched upon edinburgh, which was speedily captured, pillaged, and burnt. after this rough kind of courtship, and when they had plundered and destroyed the towns and villages in the neighbourhood, the army moved on to leith, which was also demolished. before taking ship on their return the earl of hertford distributed honours to those who had been conspicuous by their bravery; peter legh, of lyme, was one of them, and was then advanced to the rank of banneret. after the accession of edward vi. he was entrusted with the shrievalty of lancashire, and on the th november, , the first year of queen mary's reign, he was appointed to the office of sheriff of the county of chester, and re-appointed to the same office "during pleasure" in the following year, an evidence that he enjoyed the confidence of both sovereigns. the times were, however, troublous. a great religious revolution, the seeds of which had been sown by "the preacher of lutterworth," attained to maturity in the time of henry viii. in the "infant reign" of edward vi. the reformation continued to advance with steady step, but at his death his sister mary ascended the throne, popery was restored, and many of the people returned to the religious observances of their fathers. the then earl of derby, acting upon the maxims of his family, had been able to accommodate himself to the changing circumstances of the times. though a staunch protestant under edward, he became an uncompromising roman catholic under mary, orthodox in every article of the faith except the restitution of the property which he had filched from the church, and about which his conscience was somewhat tender, restitution being, in his estimation, inconsistent with the traditional canon of "good luck;" his heresies on this head, however, were amply atoned for by his readiness to persecute those who adhered to the reformed doctrines. when george marsh, the lancashire martyr, was taken before justice barton, at smithell's hall, for preaching false doctrine in the church of dean, the justice sent him to the earl of derby, at lathom, for further examination. "then was i called," says marsh, "to my lord and his council, and was brought into the chamber of presence, where were sir william norris, sir piers a lee (sir peter legh), mr. sherburn, the parson of grapnel, mr. moore, and others. my lord asked me whether i was one of those that sowed evil seed and dissension amongst the people; which thing i denied, desiring to know my accusers, and what could be laid against me, but that i could not know. then he and his counsel would examine me themselves." sir peter does not seem to have liked the office of inquisitor, for, though an active member of lord derby's council, he took care to absent himself when marsh was brought up a second time for examination. very likely his own religious opinions were a little undecided, and the patience, meekness, and tranquillity of the martyr may have inclined him towards the faith for which so worthy a man was to suffer so terrible a death. in the year in which sir peter was appointed to the shrievalty of cheshire a general muster of soldiers was ordered from the respective hundreds of the county of lancaster, and his name occurs in the muster for west derby as holding a command under the earl of derby. three years later a commission was issued to array, inspect, and exercise all men-at-arms, and men capable of bearing arms, as well archers as horse and foot men, so that they might be arrayed in arms to serve their country in case of need. but all this preparation was of little avail, for, after a short siege of eight days, the fortress of calais, which had cost the conquerors of crescy eleven months to acquire, and which for two hundred years had been held as the key to the dominions of the the french king, was surrendered, and england found herself expelled from the continent of europe. the loss filled the kingdom with murmurs, and overwhelmed the queen with despair, and at the age of forty-two years she descended childless to the grave, leaving the throne to her half-sister elizabeth, whose masculine habits and resolute will made her better fitted to wield the sceptre. in the year of elizabeth's accession sir peter legh caused the church at disley to be consecrated for protestant worship, and dedicated to the virgin mary. at the same time he added a peal of bells,[ ] one of which bore the following inscription:-- all people may behold and see the works of good sir peter legh. and, as bishop gastrill states in his _notitia_, the church was "made parochiall upon a composition between sir peter legh of lyme and other inhabitants of disley, and sir edward warren, patron of stockport, and the inhabitants of that parish. the inhabitants of disley to repair their chapel, and to pay all dues to the mother church (of stockport)." the building which sir peter's grandfather had caused to be erected would seem to have remained unoccupied, for between the legal disputations and the religious commotions that were simultaneously taking place the property intended for the endowment had never been actually conveyed. having performed this duty, sir peter next set about the improvement of his cheshire estates, and obtained licence from the queen to enclose and empark his estate of lyme, and to have free warren therein, as well as in his adjoining lands. hitherto the family had resided chiefly at bradley, a larger and more stately mansion than lyme, which, if a house of much antiquity, was one of comparatively small dimensions. sir peter legh was a man of considerable culture; he was a scholar and an architect as well as a soldier, and during his time some important additions were made to his cheshire home. with his love of architecture it was natural he should combine a taste for heraldry, and in the pursuit of this study he received considerable help from william flower, norroy king of arms, who had previously held the post of chester herald. about this time flower was making his "visitation" of cheshire; he was a welcome guest at lyme, and, doubtless, he was equally pleased to find a congenial spirit, for in that age of religious zeal, persecution, and piety there were many who, acting upon st. paul's advice to timothy, avoided "giving heed to fables and endless genealogies which minister questions rather than godly edifying," and who were indifferent about preserving their distinctions of rank, and others who had no special taste for the investigations of their descent, and were unable therefore to render the professional herald any substantial help in the elucidation of their family lineage. very pleasant, no doubt, were the discourses and learned the discussions of those two worthies as they roamed about the chase, wandered over the knight's low, or sauntered beneath the shadow of the lyme hills. but heralds are human, and are apt to be credulous when dealing with knights and gentlemen possessing kindred tastes and given to hospitality. flower listened to the story of the former peter legh's supposed share in the victory at crescy, accepted parole evidence, and endorsed the fable, giving it the stamp of official confirmation in the special armorial augmentation--the hand and banner to which we have previously referred--which sir peter caused to be so profusely displayed in his mansion; he would seem also to have rendered assistance in the tricking out of the fine series of heraldic shields that were placed in the church of disley, but which were removed some fifty years ago to grace the windows of the drawing-room at lyme, where they may still be seen. but other and more urgent matters demanded the attention of the lord of lyme. the country was much divided on the subjects of religion and politics, and many of the old county families were anxious to see the catholic faith re-established. in november, , occurred the "rising in the north," headed by the earl of northumberland. earl percy there his ancyent spread, the half moone shining all soe faire; the norton's ancyent had the crosse, and the five wounds our lord did beare. no sooner was it suppressed than another abortive act of treason occurred. the earl of derby was at the head of the lieutenancy of lancashire and cheshire, and to guard against any fresh attempt to disturb the public tranquillity, levies of troops, armour, and money were made. forced loans were also had recourse to--loans that might more correctly have been termed benevolences or compulsory gifts, for they were never intended to be repaid. in april, , a letter under the privy seal was sent to sir peter legh, requiring him as the owner of estates in cheshire to furnish a "loan" of one hundred marks, and simultaneously, as a lancashire landowner, to lend £ . on the th october, , died edward, the great and munificent earl of derby, with whose death, in the opinion of camden, "the glory of english hospitality seemed to fall asleep." the funeral obsequies were characterised with a splendour and magnificence that befitted the semi-regal state he had maintained when living. such a funeral lancashire had never seen before. the representatives of all the great county families, with their banners and other heraldic insignia, were there. sir peter legh was present as one of the mourners, and was joined with another mourner in offering the deceased earl's sword. it must have been a sorrowful day for him, for he had enjoyed a large share of the earl's confidence, and often had they taken counsel together on the great questions that were then occupying the public mind. but the confidence which had been shown by the father was manifested in an equal degree by the son, and the letters still preserved among the lyme muniments show that sir peter legh's advice and counsel on private, as well as on public questions, was frequently sought by the "great" earl's successor. in , when the spaniards were threatening a descent on the english coasts and the alarm of invasion spread through the country, henry, earl of derby, was appointed by the queen lord lieutenant of the two counties of lancaster and chester, with power to appoint his own provost marshal, whose duty was to enforce discipline and maintain order among the troops who were to be drilled and trained and kept in readiness to repel the common enemy. sir peter legh owned extensive estates in both counties. he was the tried and trusted friend of the stanleys, and to him, therefore, was committed the responsible office of provost marshal for the two shires. we next hear of him, in his capacity of "provost marshal and justice of peace for lancashire and cheshire," committing one randolph norbury--who had been charged with "uttering very heinous words" against the queen's favourite, the earl of leicester, who had succeeded to the lancashire estates of the botelers of bewsey--to the keeper of the castle of chester to be detained until he should be discharged by due course of law. the storm which had long been threatening was now about to burst. the haughty spaniard, impatient for conquest, and offended at drake's threatening to "singe his beard," ordered the "invincible armada," as he presumptuously phrased it, to be prepared for sea. great was the preparation and intense the excitement in england. all along the coast anxious watch was kept for days; from tower and turret and from every vantage ground warders scanned the horizon with eager eyes. at length the beacon fires were lit, proclaiming to englishmen that the enemy was in view, and tongues of flame shot up from every cliff and hill-- for swift to east and swift to west the warning radiance spread-- high on st. michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head. far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. sir peter legh's kinsman, thomas legh, of adlington, was the "stout old sheriff" of cheshire that year. he himself was still provost marshal of the two palatine counties, and we may be sure at such a time he would be by no means idle. he was too old to again unsheath the sword, but if he were unable to render personal help he could yet render pecuniary aid, and that he readily did, for we read that in response to the queen's appeal he contributed one hundred pounds--a substantial sum in those days, and a welcome addition to an exchequer by no means overflowing. it was almost his last public act, for before two more winters had passed over his head he had sunk peacefully to his rest, full of years and honours. he died at lyme, on the th december, , at the age of seventy-six; his body was carried to winwick, and there buried in the family chapel where so many of his race had been laid before him. what has been truly called the "great eliza's golden time" seems to have been the golden era of lyme as it was the golden age of england. the sir peter legh of that day was a scholar as well as a gentleman, a courtier as well as a soldier; brave and generous, graceful and gifted, with a knowledge of the world, and a large experience, united with consummate prudence. he was the friend of essex and of leicester, and the trusted counsellor of two successive earls of derby; a frequent visitor at lathom, he was familiar with the semi-regal state and munificence there maintained, and in his own house at lyme he observed a dignity and bounteous hospitality such as none of his predecessors had equalled. the age was one of growing refinement and general activity of intellect, resulting from the growing opulence of the country. england had recovered from the state of exhaustion in which the wars of the roses had left her, and men had more leisure for the cultivation of the elegances of life. while those daring spirits, drake and hawkins, and howard, and frobisher, were founding our naval supremacy, sackville and spencer, and marlowe and sidney were calling up a great native literature. raleigh was in his teens, and in the yeoman's house at stratford was budding into manhood he who was to show, sustain, and nourish all the world. england had then become a true garden of the hesperides; musical talent had spread from the court to the people; literature was cultivated; and the drama, "which taught the unlearned the knowledge of many famous histories," was emerging from childishness into vigorous life, and producing its effect upon the national character. with the great diffusion of wealth men took pleasure and pride in adding to the stateliness and beauty of their permanent abodes. architecture is said to mark the growth and development of human society, and to express the needs and ideas of changeful centuries. the age of elizabeth was truly a building age; the day of the gloomy keep, the drawbridge, and the portcullis--the time when men built less against the elements than their next neighbours was passed. property was secure; and the fortified castle had given place to the stately mansion, and in almost every parish the country gentleman had taken the place of the feudal barons or the mitred abbots who had previously been the owners of vast territorial districts. as william brown, in his "pastorals," remarked-- here on some mount a house of pleasure vaunted, where once the warring cannon had been planted. sir peter legh, as we have seen, greatly enlarged, if he did not entirely rebuild, his mansion at lyme; he greatly improved his estate, and had his demesne emparked, so that the fallow deer which tenanted it could be separated from the wild cattle that roamed over the moorland wastes of macclesfield forest. his progenitors for generations had been foresters in fee; he not only enjoyed the privilege, but, as the deputy of the earl of derby, exercised various offices in connection with the forest. hunting was his favourite pastime, and he appears to have been generous in the distribution of game and venison among his friends and neighbours. in the "shuttleworth accounts" there are frequent references to sir peter's bounty. thus we read--"paid for twoe pounds of peper that wente to lyme when the staggs were sent to london, s. d.;" "to the keeper at lyme for killing two staggs, s.;" "unto a man who broughte a shoulder of a stagge from lyme, xijd.;" "unto a keeper of sir pyeres legh who brought venison, s." later on we read--"given unto a mane of sir peteres lyghte which broughte rabettes and pigiones, xijd.;" "to a man of sir peter lyghe, which broughte fisshe to the smitheles, ijs.;" "to a mane of sir peter lyghe, which broughte a fatte buke to smytheles, vs.;" "to lytell robin which brought smelts from my ladie lyge, iiijd.;" "to sir peter lyghe's mane which brought a fatte buke to smytheles, vis.;" "sir peter lyghe's keeper, which brought the buke to gawthorpe, xs." in the great earl of leicester, elizabeth's favourite, is found writing to sir peter, thanking him for a hind he had sent, and also for a hound, probably one of the lyme mastiffs, a breed that was famous it seems even then. we have already said that the lord of lyme enjoyed the friendship of the earl of essex, leicester's great rival. essex was a guest at lyme, and wilson, the historian, who was in his retinue, in his journal records a curious incident respecting the hunting of the deer on that occasion. he writes:-- sir peter lee, of lime in cheshire, invited my lord one summer to hunt the stagg. and having a great stagg in chase, and many gentlemen in pursuite, the stagg took soyle; and divers (whereof i was one) alighted and stood with swords drawne to have a cut at him at his coming out of the water. the staggs there being wonderfull fierce and dangerous made us youthes more eager to be at him. but he escaped us all. and it was my misfortune to be hindered of coming near him, the way being sliperie, as by a fall; which gave occasion to some who did not know mee, to speake as if i had falne for feare, which being told mee, i left the stagg, and followed the gentleman who first spoke it. but i found him of that cold temper, that, it seems, his words made an escape from him, as by his denial and repentance it appeared. but this made mee more violent in persuite of the stagg, to recover my reputation. and i happened to be the only horseman in when the dogs set him up at bay; and approaching nere him on horseback, he broke through the dogs and run at mee, and tore my horse's side with his hornes close to my thigh. then i quitted my horse, and grew more cunning (for the dogs had set him up again), stealing behind him with my sword and cut his hamstrings, and then got upon his back and cut his throate: which as i was doing, the company came in and blamed my rashness for running such a hazard. sir peter legh believed that-- the forest music is to hear the hounds rend the thin air and with a lusty cry awake the drowsy echo, and confound their perfect language in a mingled voice. but though, like percy, in chevy chase, he delighted-- to drive the deer with hound and horn, hunting the stag was not the only amusement he provided for his friends. the mysteries and miracle plays had then given place to "stage-plays, interludes, and comedies;" though the drama was only in its puling infancy, it was rising into popular favour. my lord of leicester had his company of players, who performed before the queen at the kenilworth revels in , when the whole country side flocked to the great earl's great castle. doubtless there was amongst the spectators the bright son of the well-to-do burgess of stratford, who would probably there received his first impressions of the drama, as he witnessed the rude masques, the storial shows of gascoigne, and the allegory of the lady of the lake. the great earl of derby had a company of players in lancashire, who, according to the stanley papers, relieved the dulness of the puritan chaplain's preaching on the sunday morning by a theatrical performance before the household in the same mansion on the sunday evening; and sir peter legh, not to be behind hand, had a company of his own. the severe moralists of the age were strongly opposed to stage plays, and accounted them greater abominations than drinking, dicing, bear-baiting, and cock-fighting, and the law defined as "vagabonds" all players who were "not belonging to any baron of this realm, or towards any other person of greater degree." sir peter legh's actors not only performed at lyme and enlivened the houses of his neighbours, but we read in the shuttleworth accounts already referred to that in the "armada" year they appeared at gawthorpe and were paid for a performance in the hall there. sir peter's liberality and munificence added to his popularity, and caused him to be looked up to with reverence and respect as well by his equals as by the common people. as we have said, he died in , at the ripe age of ; but dame margaret, his wife, must have survived him several years, for among the family portraits at lyme there is one of her, taken in , when she was in her ninetieth year. by her sir peter had a numerous issue--five sons and two daughters. the youngest of the two daughters, margery, married for her first husband sir robert barton, of smithells, in lancashire, and concerning their union tradition tells a pathetic story which mr. leigh has enshrined in verse and given to the world in his entertaining "lays and legends of cheshire," under the title of "the loves of sir robert barton and margery legh." sir peter legh outlived his eldest son, also named peter, who died at haydock about the year , and was succeeded by his grandson, who bore the same baptismal name. he was born in , and must therefore have been in his twenty-seventh year when he succeeded to the patrimonial lands. while yet a minor he had received a training well fitted to enable him to discharge the duties that would devolve upon him as the owner of extensive estates. he had been a frequent guest of the earl of derby, and in the lordly hall of lathom and at the kingly court of castle rushen he acquired a grace and dignity of manner, and at gray's inn, where he entered as a student, he gained a knowledge of the laws which in due course he would be called to administer. when a youth of fourteen he acted as page to henry, earl of derby, and held up his train when he made a visit of ceremony to the town of liverpool, and seven years later he was in the same earl's suite as "one of his gentlemen waiters," when, as elizabeth's ambassador, he went to invest the king of france with the order of the garter. in september, , four months after he had entered at gray's inn, he married margaret, daughter of sir gilbert gerard, of bromley, master of the rolls. for some cause or other the marriage had been delayed, as the settlement bears date st june, . in the following year he was called upon to bear his part in the great council of the nation, being chosen one of the representatives in parliament for the ancient borough of wigan, his wife's kinsman, william gerard, being his co-representative. the time was one of much anxiety, consequent upon the well-founded apprehensions of a spanish invasion and the decisive indications of plots for the deposition of elizabeth and the recognition of mary's claim to the english crown--that in which the fierce indignation in england against the bigoted king of spain led the government to break through the superstitious love of peace and boldly encounter philip on his own territory. in mr. legh was again elected one of the representatives of wigan, and in the following year his grandfather, sir peter legh, passed to his rest, when he succeeded as next heir male to the family estates. his wealth and social status marked him as a fitting person to be entrusted with the shrievalty of cheshire, and in that dignity was conferred upon him. proud of his ancestry, he was no less proud of the home of his ancestors. his grandfather had rebuilt the mansion at lyme and spent much of his time there, maintaining great estate; the older mansion of bradley had in consequence been comparatively neglected and allowed to fall into decay, and in , as appears by an inscription on one of the beams, he set about repairing the ravages which time had made, thoroughly reinstated it, and at the same time adorned the wall of the great staircase with an heraldic shield of eight quarterings, which may be seen at the present day. on the nd july, , just a month before the death of the illustrious lord burleigh, the hoary minister, in whom old experience did attain to something like prophetic strain, he attended at the royal palace in greenwich, and there received the honour of knighthood at the hands of queen elizabeth. two years later-- elizabeth--he was elected to represent the county of chester in parliament, in the place of sir william beeston of beeston, knight, his co-representative being sir thomas holcroft, of vale royal, and the same year, having completed the restoration of his house at bradley, he rendered the like good service to the church which his ancestors had founded at disley, re-roofing it and putting the fabric in a state of complete repair. while this work was going on he was busied in making important additions to his territorial estate, having entered into a contract with roger and hamer bruche for the purchase of their ancestral domain of bruche, with the hall and lands pertaining to it, which thenceforward formed part of the legh estates. on the th march, , the most glorious reign in our country's annals was brought to a close; it was a sad day for "merrie england," for it was that on which, in the royal palace at richmond, in the seventieth year of her age, and the forty-fifth of her reign, worn out with the cares of state and wearied with the fierce contest between her intensely womanly nature and her sense of duty as the queen of a great people, the most powerful and most beloved monarch in europe, queen elizabeth, lay upon her cushions wrestling with death, and terminated a long life of power, prosperity, and glory. within three short months of that day death had cast a shadow over the home of sir peter legh. on the rd july, , he had the misfortune to lose his wife, the lady margaret legh, who was then in her thirty-third year. she appears to have been staying in london at the time, for her body was buried in the church of fulham, in middlesex, where a sumptuous monument with her effigy upon it was erected to her memory, and which may still be seen near the north door of the chancel. she is represented as seated beneath an arched canopy with an infant upon her lap and another by her side. over the head is a shield of arms, and on the face of the tomb is the following inscription:-- to ye memy. or what else dearer remayneth of yt verteous lady, la. margaret legh, daughter of him yt sometimes was sir gilbert gerrard, knt. and mr of ye rolles in ye highe court of chancery, wife to sir peter legh of lyme, in ye county of chester, kt., and by him ye mother of seven sons, pierce, frauncis, radcliffe, thomas, peter, gilbert, and john, with two daughters, anne and catherine; of wch radcliffe, gilbert, and john, deceased infants, the rest yet surviving to the happy increase of ther house. the years she enjoyed ye world were . yt her husband enjoyed her , at which period she yielded her soul to the blessedness of long rest and her body to the earth, july rd, . this inscription in ye note of piety and love by her sad husband is here devotedly placed. among the family portraits at lyme there is one in the "state bedroom" of the deceased lady--a full length--"sir peter legh's first lady that was lord gerard of bromley's daughter, master of the rolls." she is represented in the costume of the elizabethan era, with the large hooped petticoats, ruff, &c. when james of scotland was proclaimed as the successor of elizabeth on the english throne, sir peter legh deemed it expedient to sue out a general pardon; not that he was conscious of having done any wrong, but in those days it was a convenient mode of settling old scores, for by paying a fine into the exchequer a general absolution could be obtained for all sins of omission or commission, real or imaginary. having paid his money and obtained the bill of indemnity which enabled him to begin the new reign without a blot, he was free to take unto himself a second wife, and he found a suitable partner in the person of dorothy egerton, the daughter of sir richard egerton, of ridley, and the widow of richard brereton, of worsley, in lancashire, and tatton, in cheshire--the _quasi_ sister of thomas egerton lord viscount brackley, elizabeth's lord keeper, and subsequently james the first's famous lord chancellor, the progenitor of the earls and dukes of bridgewater that were, and the earls of ellesmere, and lords egerton of tatton that are. the marriage settlement, which is among the lyme deeds, bears date th march, , dame brereton having then been a widow more than five years, while sir peter had been a widower only eight months. the match was in many respects a wise one; the lady was of good birth, richly dowered, kind hearted and benevolent, and, being childless herself, she had the good fortune to gain the affection and respect of sir peter's children. a few years after the marriage, sir peter, who united with the love of letters a love of art, had her portrait painted as he had previously had those of himself and his first wife. the picture is said, though on somewhat doubtful authority, to be the work of cornelius jansen; it is a three-quarters, and one of the finest in the collection at lyme. the lady is represented as habited in the costume of the time, with a lace ruff and necklace of beads, and a pet dog sitting upon the table by her side. in one corner is depicted a shield, with the arms of egerton, of ridley, and three other quarterings, and in the opposite corner is the inscription:-- "_Ætatissuæ , anno dni. ._" for some years after his second marriage, sir peter seems to have led a comparatively uneventful life. when not engaged in the fulfilment of his duties as lieutenant-governor, or captain of the isle of man, he spent much of his time on his lancashire and cheshire estates; lyme was his favourite residence, and was frequented by the best company, and often the scene of much gaiety and display. the only shadow that darkened his path was cast by his eldest son, piers, who, while at magdalene college, cambridge, appears to have disappointed his hopes, or been guilty of some irregularity that necessitated his sending for him home, being, as he says, "enforced to do so for cause." this was not the only trouble, for about the year the young man married, presumably without his father's consent, and probably without his knowledge, though the lady was in every way of equal rank with himself, being the daughter of sir john saville, of howley, in yorkshire, the first lord saville of pontefract. mr. beamont inclines to the opinion that the great difference between the political views of the two houses of lyme and howley was very likely the reason which occasioned piers legh to marry anne saville without waiting for his father's consent. be that as it may, the father was much displeased, an estrangement ensued, and his intercourse with his son was never renewed. piers legh's married life seems to have been brief; little is known respecting him, and it is not known with certainty when he died or when he was buried, but it was commonly believed, though erroneously, as will hereafter be seen, that he predeceased his father some years, having by his wife, who survived him many years, one son and three daughters. sir peter legh attained to a greater age than many of his ancestors; born near the beginning of elizabeth's reign, it was his lot to serve three successive sovereigns--the maiden queen, james the first, and charles the first--and he appears to have been hale and strong until within a short period of his death, which occurred at lyme on the th february, - . three days after, his body was buried at winwick in accordance with his expressed desire, and from the unusual haste with which the funeral arrangements were carried out it has been surmised that he must have fallen a victim to the plague or some other infectious disease. in his will, which was executed on the th january immediately preceding his death, he desired that his body might be buried with little pomp, and a stone with a brass placed over his grave. the brass still remains, the only memorial recording his burial, and bears this inscription:-- here underneath this stone lyeth buried the body of sir peter legh, kt., who departed this life, february th, . Ætatis suæ . sir peter's _inquisition post mortem_ was taken at wigan on the th april, , and some idea of the extent of the territorial possessions of the family may be gathered from the following list of messuages, mills, lands, wards, rents, &c., in lancashire, cheshire, and westmoreland, given as having been held by him at the time of his death:--bradley manor, burtonwood manor, haydock manor, bruch manor, and hanley manor; halton, pemberton, norley, bridgemore, newton-in-makerfield, lawton, golborne, fernhead, hindley, kenion, warrington, sankey magna and parva, overforde, wolstone, penketh, garston, ollerton, much woulton, much hoole, walton-le-dale, ulnes walton, bretherton, eccleston-juxta-crofton, bold, childwall, croston, poulton, the advowson of claughton-juxta-horneby, the church of shevington, and the church near prescott. lands, &c., in westmorland, lyme, grapnall, disley, broome, heatley, sutton, marple, offerton, norbury, weyley (whaley), macclesfield, latchford, warburton, kettleshulme, and bridgemoor. by the same inquisition it was found that sir peter legh's next heir was his grandson, also named peter, and that he was then of the age of thirteen and upwards. being a minor, his mother, then describing herself as "anne legh, of ripley in the countie of yorke, widowe," obtained from the courts of wards and liveries the custody, wardship, and marriage of her son piers, paying to the king the sum of £ , as the consideration. before he had attained his majority the young lord of lyme was chosen as one of the representatives of newton in the parliament which assembled at westminster on the rd november, --the most memorable in the annals of england--the long parliament, which endured for thirteen years, and which has been the theme of the most extravagant hatred and the most exaggerated praise. he did not, however, long enjoy his senatorial honours, for happening to become involved in one of the quarrels so common in those days, a duel was the result, and he was mortally wounded in the encounter. the affair is thus referred to in "the perfect diurnall of passages in parliament," under date friday, january th, - :-- this evening sir peter lee, a member of the house of commons, was hurt dangerously in a duell by one master mansfield. there is an inaccuracy in styling him "sir" peter, for he had not received the honour of knighthood, and there is an error, too, in the name of his antagonist, whom lord herbert of cherbury describes as his nephew, the son of sir john browne, and who, he says, "had the fortune to kill one lee of a great family in lancashire."[ ] he lingered for some days--sufficiently long to enable him to dispose of his affairs, as will be seen by the following copy of his will with the codicil annexed:-- january, .--peter legh, esqr., being dangerouslie wounded maketh his desires and requests as followeth, viz. the barron of kinderton to take the moneyes in his trunk which is about li. desired him to speake to his unckle frauncis to be good to his mother and sisters. sir willm. gerrarde to have his dun nage. february, .--he desireth his unckle frauncis over and above his owne bountie to his sisters, that he will for his sake give them cli. a peece. to his man ralph arnefielde the xiiijli. he oweth him to be made upe xlli. the boy here with him, myles leighe vli., his footboy at blackley vli., and every servant at blackley xs. a peece. ralphe swindells xli. he giveth his greye nage he had of mr. brathwates [his sister's husband] to captain broughton. his sword at his lodging in towne to mr. carrel mulineux and praieth god he may make better use of it than he hath done, and his case of pistoles. his watche to his aunt lettice leigh. his cloathes to his three servants, the boy at blakeley, ralphe arnfield, and myles leighe. desireth his father to see his bodie buried at winwicke, and mr. jones, who hath beene with him at his sickness, to preach at his funerall. to his brother tom his sword at blakeley, and a gray nage he bought of the barron. to his father his white mare and best saddle. praieth his unkele frauncis to consider the debts he oweth sir wm. gerrarde and all the debts he oweth to others. to his friend mr. roger moston his caen. to his unkele frauncis the sword that was his grandfather's, his great seale ringe, and his greate fowlinge piece. desireth his unkle to give his mother cli. a year during her life if she give the porcon in money she hath to his sisters, which if she otherwaies dispose of them cli. in money. [illustration: handwritten signature] i say my hand. witnesses hereof raphe assheton k. john jones roger mostyn tho. munckas. . in this will he expressly mentions his father as then living, a statement that is in conflict with the decree of the court of wards and livery of november nd, , which represents him as having "dyed in his (father's) displeasure." the later years of the father's life are shrouded in much mystery, and it may be that after the quarrel with sir peter legh he had disappeared, and, being for a time unheard of, was supposed to be dead; certain it is that he was not among the mourners at sir peter's funeral at winwick, in , and he is not named in the inquisition taken after his death, his son being therein named as the heir to his grandfather. the "unkele frauncis" whom young peter legh so affectionately remembers in his will was the second son of sir peter. he resided at blackley hall, near manchester, which, with the demesne, had been conveyed to him in by ralph assheton, of middleton, "in consideracon of the full somme of two thousand pounds of currant english money." peter legh died on the nd february, the day after he had added the codicil to his will. his body was brought from london and interred in the family vault at winwick, the burial being thus recorded in the parish register:-- - feb. . mr. peter legh grandchild of sir peter lee of lime, slaine in london by mr. browne, and buried at winwicke ye day. peter had never married, and by this fatality the direct succession to the territorial possessions of the family was broken after having passed uninterruptedly through eleven generations, in every one of which the eldest son bore the name of peter or piers. on the th april, , an inquisition was taken at wigan before the escheator of lancashire. it is a lengthy document, and, after reciting many family deeds and settlements, states that peter legh had died while under age; that his sisters frances, margaret, and elizabeth were his heirs, and that francis legh (of blackley, his uncle) was heir male of the body of sir peter legh, and then of the age of fifty and more. he did not long enjoy possession of the estates, his death occurring february nd, - . he had to wife anne, the daughter and heiress of sir edward fenner, of hampton, in oxfordshire, knight; but as this lady, who survived, bore him no issue, the estates at his death, reverted to his nephew, richard legh, the second surviving son of his brother, the rev. thomas legh, d.d., rector of sefton and walton, in lancashire, by his wife, lettice, daughter and co-heiress of sir george calveley, of lea, a descendant of sir hugh calveley, the famous cheshire hero, who fought so gallantly at auray and navarette in the days of the third edward. born on the th may, , francis legh was under ten years of age when he succeeded to the family inheritance; his father had been dead five years, but his mother was still living, though she did not survive many years, her death occurring october , . her body was interred in the lyme chapel in macclesfield church, where, against the east wall, there is a black marble tablet to her memory bearing a long latin inscription. it was a fortunate circumstance that richard legh, when he so unexpectedly succeeded to the lordship of lyme and the vast territorial possessions in lancashire and westmorland his progenitors had acquired, was too young to be entrusted with the control of his own affairs. he had not completed his tenth year at the time of his uncle's decease. it was an eventful period in england's history: the storm which had so long been gathering upon the political horizon had burst; eighteen months before, the shot which signalled the commencement of the great civil war had been fired at manchester; edgehill had been fought; and england's purest patriot had been laid to rest, uncenotaphed but not forgotten, in the church at great hampden, beneath the shadow of the chiltern hills. sovereign and subject were separated for ever, and each, wearied of the other, no longer sought for peace; the loud beating of the warlike pulse drowned the faint, decaying traditions of the miseries which had attended the ancient domestic feuds; hostile armies were marching and countermarching; every manor house was put by its owner in a position of defence, and every englishman declared for king or parliament and prepared himself for the struggle, never swerving for a moment from what he believed to be the path of honourable, though perilous duty. amid these political distractions richard legh's youthfulness stood him in good stead; too young to take any part in the strife then being waged, he escaped many of the services and exactions he would otherwise have been subjected to had he been suspected of any strong partiality either for the cavaliers or the roundheads. on the th may, , he attained his majority, and in the following year he was returned as one of the members for cheshire in the parliament which assembled at westminster on the th september, , his colleagues in the representation being sir george booth, of dunham; thomas marbury, of marbury; and peter brooke, of mere--a parliament notable as that in which the ancient privileges were violated on the broadest scale, no member being admitted who could not produce a certificate that he was "approved by his highness's council." as richard legh was not among the excluded members, he must have satisfied the requirements of the "council," and been therefore accounted one of the "betrayers of the liberties of england;" but he took little part in the proceedings, and when his name was called on the memorable occasion when it was intended that the protector should be invested with the powers and the title of king he was reported to have gone away into the country "dangerously sick." after the death of cromwell, in , and when his son richard had been proclaimed as his successor in the protectorate, a new parliament was called, and mr. legh was again returned as one of the members for cheshire; john bradshaw, the regicide, being returned with him. it had, however, but a very brief existence. the members assembled on the th january ( ); on the th april a proclamation was issued dissolving it, and the members returned to their own homes. with the fall of the parliament fell richard cromwell; the sceptre which had proved too heavy for his grasp, was laid aside, and, as thurloe wrote to lockhart, he was "excluded from having any share in the government," and "retired as a private gentleman." mr. legh appears to have been concerned in the royalist insurrection--the "cheshire rising," as it was called--which occurred in the following year, when sir george booth appeared in arms and obtained possession of the city of chester, the object being the recall of the exiled stuarts, and he was for a time incarcerated in york castle; but the unsuccessful "rising" was quickly followed by the accomplishment of the design it failed in; charles was restored to the crown, and mr. legh regained his liberty. on the th may, , charles the second passed in triumphal procession through the streets of london. the delirium of joy manifested on that occasion was no mere exuberance of delight, but the expression of the nation's belief that the government of england had again a solid foundation upon which peace and security, liberty and religion, might be established. peace and good order being restored, mr. legh, who had now attained the age of twenty-six, had time to attend to matters affecting his own domestic happiness. on the st january, - , he took to himself a wife in the person of elizabeth, one of the daughters of sir thomas chicheley, of wimpole, in cambridgeshire, descended from a brother of archbishop chicheley, the munificent founder of all souls', oxford, and himself charles the second's master of the ordnance and the chancellor of the duchy of lancaster. on the rd of april following the king was crowned at westminster, and it is not improbable that richard legh and his young bride were among the guests in westminster hall on the occasion when samuel pepys was so dazzled with the fine hangings, and the brave ladies, and the "musique" of the violins; though they could hardly have been among the "many great gallants, men and women," who laid hold of the garrulous diarist, and would have him drink the king's health upon his knees, kneeling upon a faggot, which he did. certain it is that the lord of lyme was in favour with the court, and when charles proposed to found the new order of the "knights of the royal oak," in which only those distinguished for their loyalty were to be admitted, his name was placed among those on whom the distinction was proposed to be conferred. the order was, however, soon abolished, "it being wisely judged," as noble, in his "memoirs of the cromwell family," remarks, "that it was calculated only to keep awake animosities which it was the part of wisdom to lull to sleep." in the same year mr. legh purchased from sir thomas fleetwood the barony of newton-in-makerfield, or newton-in-the-willows, as it is more generally styled, thus adding considerably to the territorial possessions of his house as well as to his social status in the county. newton, which in saxon times was of sufficient importance to give name to one of the hundreds of lancashire, by virtue of a charter granted in the first year of elizabeth's reign, had the privilege of returning two members to parliament conferred upon it, a dignity it retained until disfranchised by the reform bill of . the nomination of members was in the baron of newton until the year , when the franchise became vested in the burgesses possessing freeholds of the value of s. a year and upwards, but this was only a nominal change, for, the burgage tenures being chiefly in the lord of the manor, the election was as much in him after the right came nominally into the hands of the burgesses as it was before, the place continuing to rank among the nomination boroughs until the reform act, and thus the leghs acquired with the barony a seat in the legislature whenever they might choose to seek that honour. mr. legh sat as one of the members for the borough in the convention parliament of , and again in that which assembled a few days after the king's coronation. in the succeeding year (september , ) he was appointed a deputy-lieutenant of cheshire, and on the th april the same office in lancashire was, by the king's command, conferred upon him by the earl of bridgewater. it was while holding these offices that mr. legh found himself in a position of some difficulty with regard to a distinguished visitor who it was intimated had expressed his intention of becoming a guest at lyme. the duke of monmouth, the eldest of the many illegitimate children of charles ii.--"the duke whom," as evelyn says, "for distinction they called the protestant duke, though the son of an abandoned woman the people made their idol," had suddenly returned from temporary exile and set up a claim to be considered the legitimate heir to the throne in opposition to the duke of york, who, on account of his popish proclivities, the whigs of the time sought to disinherit. the vanity of the bastard son of lucy waters being inflamed by the enthusiastic demonstrations of the people, he made a "glorious progress" through the country, which is referred to by dryden in his "absalom and achitophel," who thus represents the earl of shaftesbury as remonstrating with him on his doubts and apprehensions when a crown was within his view:-- did you for this expose yourself to show, and to the crowd bow popularly low? for this your glorious progress next ordain, with chariots, horsemen, and a numerous train? cheshire was among the counties in which he sought to keep alive the political cry by appealing to popular opinion against the dreaded predominance of popery, and in we find one of his partisans, caryll, lord molineux, thus writing to mr. legh:--"at chester they are in consternation how to treat the monmouth duke. you, i hope, are settled in your resolution of entertaining him when he comes to lyme, which, i hear, will be very soon." but mr. legh was not so "settled;" on the contrary, we find him with two of his brother magistrates busied in taking the depositions of certain individuals respecting the duke and his progress, and transmitting them to the secretary of state, for which he received his majesty's thanks. [illustration: handwritten signature] monmouth's progress through cheshire was attended with considerable tumult, and he is said to have given countenance to riotous assemblies, whose violence was such that they forced open the doors of the cathedral at chester, destroyed most of the painted glass, and tore the surplices of the clergy into rags; they also broke the font to pieces, pulled down some of the monuments, attempted to demolish the organ, and committed other outrages. a memoir of his reception in the city mentions several arts to gain popularity not unworthy of notice. the infant of the mayor was christened henrietta, monmouth acting as sponsor, and the following day (august , ,) it is said that he went to the horse races at wallasey in wirral, where he rode his own horse and won the plate, which he presented in the evening to his goddaughter. while these events were transpiring mr. legh occupied himself with rebuilding the old episcopal chapel of st. peter on his newton estate, and providing for the better maintenance of the incumbent. two years later, on the accession of james ii., he was reappointed deputy-lieutenant of cheshire, but he did not long retain the office, his death occurring at lyme on the st august, , at the age of . his body was removed to winwick, and there interred in the family vault on the th of the following month, when a sermon, entitled "the christian's triumph over death," was preached by the rev. william shippen, rector of stockport. this sermon, which was afterwards published, contains a brief sketch of his life and character, which mr. earwaker, in his "east cheshire," thus summarises:-- the greatest excellencies of his ancestors seem'd to concenter in his person. the singular piety of his grandfather, sir peter; the extraordinary charity and benignity of his uncle, francis; the constancy and fixedness of religion of his father; the quickness and gaiety of spirit of his mother. educated at the university in his "blooming youth", and "refined and finished afterwards at city and court," he was "rendered a most accomplished and useful gentleman both to his prince and country." he added "the parliamentary burrough and barony of newton" to his other estates, and his "mansion house (lyme hall) he so far rebuilt and ennobled, partly in effect, and partly in design and preparations for its finishing." ... "there was such an affluence of all things, so great a resort of persons of quality, ... that his house might very well be styled a country court, and lime the palace to the county palatine of chester." he engaged in the cheshire rising to restore his exiled sovereign, though being surprised by the enemy, he was prevented from appearing in that successful enterprise, of which both the palatine counties (the stage of the action) and york castle (the place of his imprisonment) are unquestionable witnesses. "although he was actually in every parliament during his whole reign (i.e., of charles ii.), yet he never joyn'd any faction in the house." ... "his present majesty (james ii.) in his royal progress at chester heard of his last fatal indisposition." ... "he never fail'd of his daily service in his domestick chapel." ... "his love and zeal for the church of england" are shown "in his parish (winwick) where he has at his own proper charges built a decent and elegant chapel, and taken care to establish a competent maintenance for the constant ministry therein for the publick worship of god." in the church at winwick there is a handsome monument to his memory with marble busts of himself and his wife, and in the hall at lyme there are several portraits of both. by his wife, who survived him and retained her widowhood for the long period of forty-one years, he had a family of six sons and seven daughters, all of whom, with the exception of two daughters, sarah and anne, who died in infancy, were living at the time of his decease. peter legh, the eldest son, who succeeded, though under age, had been married some few months at the time of his father's death, the lady being his own cousin, frances, only surviving daughter of piers legh, of bruche, and eventually heiress of her brother of the same name; the bruche estates thus becoming reunited with the patrimonial lands. peter legh, like his father, was a staunch adherent of the stuarts, and after the abdication of james ii. and the "peaceful revolution" had placed the prince and princess of orange upon the english throne, it is not surprising that he should have been suspected of entertaining opinions hostile to the reigning family, and of opening communications with the irish supporters of king james, with a view to the restoration of the exiled monarch. many protestant royalists, whose fathers had fought for charles the first, although opposed to the designs of james upon the church, avowed their attachment to his inviolable person and crown, and professed themselves bound by their oath of allegiance, from which, as they affirmed, no personal misconduct of the king could release them. some of the more enthusiastic armed their tenantry in defence of the stuarts, and began to prepare themselves, as they had done fifty years before, to unite in rallying round the standard of their legitimate king. suspicion having been excited by the landing of several irishmen on the coast, and by the discovery of arms in transit from london to lancashire, lord delamere issued a proclamation summoning the friends of liberty, and the new government to meet him on bowdon downs, a proceeding that served to quell the spirit of disaffection among the jacobites, and preserve the tranquility of the two counties. at this time an attempt was made by a common informer, one john lunt, to fix on mr. legh the charge of treason, in having, as was alleged, accepted a colonel's commission in king james's service. mr. beamont gives the following interesting particulars respecting his arrest and imprisonment:-- on the th of july, , while mr. legh was still a very young man, a king's messenger, with lunt, the informer, attended by fourteen dutch troopers, each wearing a blue cloak, and armed with a case of pistols, arrived at lyme, where mr. legh was living, between the hours of six and seven in the morning. the messenger, with one oldham, their guide, and two or three of the troopers, immediately ascended the great staircase, and having found mr. legh, who was in his dressing-room and not yet dressed, they apprehended him under a secretary of state's warrant, charging him with high treason. from his dressing-room they led him, attired only in his night gown, to his closet, where were mr. lunt and two or three more of the troopers. there the messenger and mr. lunt began to search his papers, and continued their search until noon, selecting and putting by from time to time, to be carried away, such of them as they thought fit. the alleged colonel's commission, had it been found, would have raised a damning presumption; and the only wonder is that, like the witness against spratt, bishop of rochester, lunt, who was evidently aware of this practice, had not so contrived as to hide where it should be found a forged commission somewhere in the house at lyme. after being allowed to dress himself, mr. legh was taken downstairs into the parlour, and there left in charge of two of the troopers, while a search for arms was made in every part of the house; the result, however, must have disappointed the searchers, for, except a case of pistols and a carbine found in mr. legh's closet, which they seized and carried away, nothing whatever was found. their quest being ended, mr. legh was taken from his house, and conveyed the same night, guarded by twelve troopers, to knutsford, lunt setting his own saddle on one of mr. legh's horses and riding away with it. from knutsford mr. legh was conveyed by the troopers to chester castle, where he remained a prisoner until about the first of september following, when lord molyneux, sir william gerard, sir thomas clifton, philip langton, esq., william blundell, esq., and some others were conducted to london, guarded by four messengers, and an escort of twenty-one dutch troopers, commanded by captain baker. on arriving at st. giles's the prisoners were all committed to the custody of the messengers, who, at the end of three days, brought them, by command, before the duke of shrewsbury, his majesty's principal secretary of state, when his grace, having heard and considered the charge against mr. legh, remanded him for three days, and then committed him to the tower on a warrant, of which the following is a copy:--'these are in their majesty's names to authorise you to receive and take into your custody, the body of peter legh, of lyme, esquire, herewith sent you, being charged before me for high treason in levying warr against their majestys, and adhering to their majesty's enemies; and you are to keep him safe and close until he shall be delivered by due course of law, and for so doing this shall be your warrant. given at the court at whitehall, the th september, .--shrewsbury. the right honourable robert lucas, governor-in-chief of the tower, or his deputy.' [illustration: traitors' gate,--the tower.] the closing years of the seventeenth century were distinguished if not disgraced by a succession of intrigues and conspiracies for the overthrow of the reigning dynasty. the country was in a state of political ferment, and the public mind, ever eager for some new sensation, caught with avidity and believed every story of real or pretended attempts to involve the nation in bloodshed. plots were innumerable, and plot-hunting became as gainful a trade among unscrupulous knaves as witch-finding had been with their great-grandfathers nearly a century previously. that peter legh entertained strong jacobite sympathies and desired to see the return of king james there can scarcely be a doubt, but that he took up arms or engaged in any treasonable enterprise against the person and government of the "dutch usurper," as the disaffected styled the prince of orange, is extremely improbable. john lunt, who seems to have taken the leading part in attempting to fasten the charge of treason upon him, was a miscreant of the most infamous type and actuated by the basest of motives; he had been a highwayman, one of his accomplices was a convicted cattle lifter, and at the time of the trial he made such a ridiculous figure that the jury were compelled to treat his evidence as altogether unworthy of belief. for some time after his committal to the tower mr. legh was subjected to very harsh treatment, and denied all communication with his friends or counsel. at no time could the tower be said to be an agreeable place of residence, but lodged as he was in its worst room, with the atmosphere poisoned by the polluted exhalations of the surrounding ditch and the ague-giving marshes which then stretched east and west, and without any opportunity for outdoor exercise, the confinement must have been exceedingly trying, and especially to a constitution such as his, accustomed to the breezy moors of lyme. happily the rigidity of his imprisonment was after a while relaxed, and at the instance of the queen permission was given for mrs. legh and a maid-servant to be with him if they were willing to share his confinement; and subsequently a further order was given that he should be allowed "such liberty of walking within the tower at convenient times" as might be consistent with his safe keeping--conversation, however, being strictly forbidden. this latter injunction seems to have been strictly enforced, for it is recorded that when mr. legh's mother, madam legh, who was busied in getting up the evidence for his defence, came under the window of the room in which he was confined to inquire how he was, the sentinel pointed his musket and declared he would shoot her if she spoke another word. at length the order came that he was to prepare for trial at chester,[ ] and, guarded by a party of horse, the gentleman porter, gentleman gaoler, and two warders of the tower, he was reconducted to chester castle, when, without even being put on his trial, he was called to the bar and discharged, the evidence in support of the accusation which the informer lunt had trumped up having, it would seem, been of so worthless and unsatisfactory a character as to leave no doubt of his innocence. barely eighteen months, however, elapsed before mr. legh was again arrested and lodged in chester gaol charged with similar treasonable offences, but no evidence was adduced, and when he was placed at the bar, no witnesses appearing, he was at once acquitted, and in accordance with the following order, dated june nd, , and addressed to the high sheriff directing his release, was discharged:--"mr. legh, charged with high treason and treasonable practices, in consequence of his majesty's gracious directions." the treatment mr. legh received at the hands of the state left upon his mind a sense of injustice that was never wholly removed, for in some directions respecting his burial, given nearly half a century after these occurrences, he wrote as follows:-- i would have no monument set over me, but a plain brass nailed to the wall to express my innocency in that wicked conspiracy (to ruin me) by false witnesses, imprisonments, and trials in and , and that i die a member of the church of england, looking on it to be the best and purest of churches; and that i do most sincerely wish it may continue for ever. on the whole, however, it was perhaps not an unmixed evil that at so early a period of his career mr. legh should have had painful experience of the perils that political partizanship sometimes entails; for the remembrance of the dangers he had so narrowly escaped would necessarily have a salutary effect, and, on a later occasion, doubtless inspired that prudence which saved him from the ruin and destruction that befel so many of the partizans of the house of stuart after the abortive rising in favour of the chevalier de st. george in . certain it is that when in that year the members of the cheshire jacobite club met to discuss the prospects of the rising in favour of the stuarts, mr. legh's advice that they should abstain from taking any part in the revolt was acted upon, and, finding it difficult to harmonise their belief in the divine right of kings with their faith in the principles of the reformation, they contented themselves with drinking the health of the king over a bowl of water, thus figuratively expressing their allegiance to the exiled monarch "over the water."[ ] though mr. legh never entered parliament and took but little interest in the conduct of public affairs, not being even upon the commission of the peace, he was by no means neglectful of the social duties that lay nearer home. in him the reputation of the ancient lords of lyme was well sustained, and the old ancestral home continued to be the scene of munificence and hospitality, being accounted the centre of whatever there was of society and life in the county. john byrom, the laureate of the jacobites, as he has been sometimes styled, was frequently a guest at lyme at this time, and mr. legh, who was one of his shorthand pupils, is often named in his letters to mrs. byrom. another visitor was the eccentric genius, samuel johnson, better known by his _sobriquet_ of lord flame, who, in the epistle dedicatory of his play of "hurlothrumbo'" enumerates "the integrity of leigh of lime" among the many virtues possessed by his patroness, the lady delves. in mr. legh found employment for his time in founding and liberally endowing the school at newton-in-makerfield; and ten years later he was busied in erecting the church of the holy trinity for the spiritual benefit of the tenantry on his warrington estates, and, as the trust deeds recite, "upon trust and confidence, that the same might be used and employed for a chapel, for all the inhabitants of warrington to resort unto and hear divine service and sermons, according to the liturgy, rites and usage of the church of england, as by law established." in mr. legh had the misfortune to lose his son and heir, the only issue of his marriage, piers legh, who died unmarried, and was buried at winwick on the th of june, and not long after (february , - ) his fond and faithful wife, who had so cheerfully shared the privations of his prison life in the tower, madam frances legh, was called to her rest, her remains being laid beside those of her son on the rd february. before the close of the year, having no direct heir, he made a settlement of lyme and the other estates in favour of the four surviving sons of his younger brother, thomas legh, of bank, who, in the event of his own death without issue, were to inherit in succession in tail male. these sons were peter, who eventually succeeded; piers, a merchant of liverpool, engaged in the african trade, who died unmarried may, ; ashburnham legh, who became rector of davenham, in cheshire, and died at golborne in , and henry, who died young. mr. legh survived his wife several years, his death occurring in january, - , at the ripe age of , and on the th of that month his body was committed to its last resting place at winwick. peter legh, the second, but eldest surviving son of thomas legh, of bank, who succeeded, was thirty-six years of age at the time of his uncle's decease, and had then been married several years, his wife being martha, the only child of thomas bennet, of salthrop, in wiltshire. in november of the year following his accession to the estates the country was thrown into a state of ferment by the announcement that charles edward stuart, the young pretender, at the head of an army of highlanders, had crossed the borders, taken the city of carlisle, and was then marching southwards-- the stuart leaning on the scot, pierc'd to the very centre of the realm, in hopes to seize his abdicated helm. in cheshire the partizans of the exiled family were greatly excited, and a meeting of such of the members of the old jacobite club as still survived was held. peter legh was present, but, profiting by the experiences of his uncle, he counselled caution, and his counsel was acted upon, the more ardent spirits who had been anxious to don the white cockade having cause to rejoice that they had taken his advice. he subsequently entered parliament as representative of the family borough of newton, in november, , and he was also returned to the parliament which sat from may , , to march , , and in those which assembled in , , and , the last-named continuing until , the year which witnessed the beginning of the struggle between england and her transatlantic colonies which culminated in american independence. the year which followed mr. legh's second return to parliament was a year of sorrow, for it was that in which he lost his only surviving son, benet legh, who died on the th july, aged eight years; his eldest son, peter benet legh, who also died in childhood, he had buried a few years previously, and thus the lord of lyme was again left without a direct heir to succeed him in the possession of the ancestral lands. after his retirement from parliament mr. legh took little part in public affairs, occupying his time chiefly in dispensing hospitalities and discharging those minor duties which devolved upon him as a country gentleman. in the later years of his life he began the work of remodelling the mansion at lyme, under the direction of the then famous architect giacomo leoni; a great portion was rebuilt, and what of the original was left was so altered as to entirely change its appearance and give it the characteristics of an italian building. after fifty years' enjoyment of married life he had the misfortune to lose his wife, madam martha legh, who died at lyme on the st june, ; shortly afterwards (october , ) he made his will, and on the th may, , having reached the patriarchal age of eighty-five, he was removed by death. his remains were interred in the church at disley, where on the south side of the nave is a tablet to his memory, with a shield quartering the arms of himself and his wife, and the following inscription:-- sacred to the memory of peter legh, esqre, once the owner of lyme park, and all its large appendages.... obit may , . Ætat . having no male heir, the entailed estates passed in accordance with the terms of the settlement to his nephew, thomas peter, the eldest son of his younger brother, ashburnham legh, rector of davenham, by his wife, elizabeth charlotte, daughter of sir holland egerton, of heaton park, near manchester. mr. legh was a bachelor of the mature age of forty at the time his uncle's death placed him in possession of the estates, and he had then sat in parliament for several years as representative of the family borough of newton, having been returned in , in , and again in . he was a man of much public spirit, and on the breaking out of the war with france at the time of the revolution in , he raised a regiment of horse for the defence of the country. reilly, the historian of manchester, says, "he proposed to raise six troops of cavalry, and did so in fourteen days." of this regiment, the third lancashire light dragoons, he had the colonelcy, and it is recorded that, in addition to the government grant, he expended upon it no less a sum than £ , of his own money. he was again returned as representative of newton, in the parliament elected in , but he did not long enjoy the dignity, his death occurring suddenly on the th august, in the following year, while serving with his regiment at edinburgh. his body was removed to winwick, and there buried in the family chapel. colonel legh, who was only forty-four years of age at the time of his death, had never married; having no legitimate issue, and his only brother having predeceased him, he bequeathed lyme and the other possessions of the family, with the barony of newton, to his eldest (natural) son, thomas legh, for life, with remainder to his issue in tail male, and on failure with like remainder to his second natural son, william legh. thomas legh, who thus succeeded as tenant for life of the family estates, was only four years of age at the time of his father's decease. he entered at oxford, but before he had completed his curriculum in that university, hearing that napoleon had escaped from elba and was then at the head of a large army, he, like many other adventurous spirits, made his way to belgium, and was at brussels on the eve of the battle of waterloo where he offered himself as a volunteer, and served as an extra aide-de-camp to the duke of wellington during the whole of that memorable engagement. shortly afterwards he went a voyage to greece and albania, whence he extended his researches to egypt and nubia. early in his travels he was at zante, where he witnessed the arrival of the celebrated frieze discovered in the temple of apollo, at phigalia. in the excavation and removal of the beautiful sculptures composing that frieze, now one of the chief ornaments of the british museum, mr. legh was largely instrumental, both by his purse and his active personal exertions, and he was fortunate enough to obtain a complete set of the casts of these sculptures, which, with the various other treasures of art and antiquity he collected in his travels, now adorn the corridor of the mansion at lyme. he subsequently published an account of his journeyings in egypt and the country beyond the cataracts, in which he also drew attention to the slave trade, with its attendant horrors, as then existing in the country of the pharaohs. in , the year in which he attained his majority, he was returned to parliament for the borough of newton, and re-elected in ; but after the dissolution in he did not again seek parliamentary honours, his tastes and inclinations leading him to prefer a more adventurous life in the exploration of distant and unknown lands. he married, at prestbury, january , , ellen, daughter and heiress of william turner, m.p., of shrigley park, adjacent to lyme, the innocent subject of the wakefield abduction case,[ ] and by her he had an only daughter, ellen jane legh, who married in the rev. brabazon lowther, since deceased, the brother of her father's second wife, and on whom the shrigley estates were settled. mrs. legh died on the th january, , at the early age of . her remains are deposited in the family vault at winwick, where mr. legh erected a handsome sculptured monument to her memory bearing the following inscription:-- in the vaults of this chapel are deposited the remains of ellen, the dearly beloved wife of thomas legh, esquire, of lyme hall, cheshire, and daughter of william turner, esquire, of shrigley park, in the same county. born feb. . died jany. . leaving an only surviving child, born feb. . mr. legh again entered the marriage state, his second wife being maud, fourth daughter of george lowther, of hampton hall, somersetshire, descended from william, fifth son of sir christopher lowther, of lowther, who, surviving him, married, secondly, a. j. deschamps de la tour, esq., of milford, hampshire, but by her he had no issue. mr. legh, who was a magistrate and deputy-lieutenant for the counties of lancaster and chester, ll. d. and f.r.s., died at milford lodge, lymington, hampshire, on the th may, , in the th year of his age, and was buried at disley, when the cheshire estates, with the extensive properties in lancashire, passed to his nephew, william john legh, the fourth but eldest surviving son of his younger brother, william legh, of brymbo hall, in denbighshire, and of hordle, hampshire, by his wife, mary anne, eldest daughter of john wilkinson, of castlehead in furness, the celebrated ironmaster. william john legh, the present owner of lyme, was born in , and at the time his uncle's decease placed him in possession of the family estates, was serving as captain of the st fusiliers in the crimea, where he greatly distinguished himself; he was in the trenches, and also shared in the glories of inkermann. at the general election in he was returned as one of the members for south lancashire, and in he was elected senior representative of the eastern division of the county of chester, a constituency for which he has ever since sat. mr. legh married in emily jane, daughter of the rev. charles nourse wodehouse, canon of norwich, by his wife dulcibella jane hay, daughter of william, fifteenth earl of errol, by whom he has, with other issue, thomas wodehouse legh, born march , , his eldest son, and the heir-apparent of the ancestral home and the broad lands of the historic house of lyme. the old ancestral abode of the leghs--the lordly house of lyme, as it is often styled--ranks among the more important of the "stately homes" that glorify and give dignity to the county which claims to be the vale royal of england. "stately" it is from its architectural merits and peculiarities, its picturesque surroundings, its stores of natural beauties and acquired treasures, its historical associations, and, more than all, as a perpetual reminder of the eventful past, its memories being indissolubly linked with those of the leading heroes and worthies of the shire. no precise date can be fixed as that of its erection, but well nigh five centuries have passed since the progenitors of the present owner first held sway over its destinies. tradition tells us that a house--a hunting lodge, as it would seem--existed here in the days of king john, at which time the domain of lyme was included within the limits of the royal forest of macclesfield. from a document we have previously quoted, we know that a sir peter legh had his "fair hall with a high chamber" here more than four hundred years ago, and, though since his day the house has received many additions and undergone many changes, it still retains some of its more ancient rooms in a state of excellent preservation. thanks to the generosity of its owner, not only is the park open to all comers, who are free to make holiday and seek health and pleasure upon the verdant sward and beneath the shadow of the "tall patrician trees," but under certain regulations the public are admitted to the hall and shown the more interesting and attractive of its apartments. and much that is curious and interesting do those apartments contain. they are literally full of treasures of art--costly examples of the artists of the middle ages, as well as of those who have earned renown in more modern times; the walls are covered with historical portraits of fair women and brave men, that look down with stately dignity, and carry the mind back into the mists of bygone centuries; "storied windows" there are that glow with the rich colourings of their heraldic blazonries, and dye the oaken flooring with their rainbow hues; tapestries on which the gobelins have lavished their skill and taste, relating in embroidery the stories of the gods; marble treasures from egypt and the east; carvings, rich and rare, that have been produced by the magic hand of grinling gibbons; and specimens of english handicraft, the work of bygone days, when unstinted labour was bestowed on even the most common-place articles of every day use. there are stately apartments, rich in the grandeur of their fittings, their upholstery and their decorations; and there are, too, old and dimly-lighted chambers--panelled, roofed, and floored with oak, containing specimens of antique furniture that might serve as models for æsthetic revivalists of the present day; chairs, presses, and seats of various kinds, and stately beds withal that have been honoured with the repose of royal personages, so tradition alleges, the ill-fated mary of scotland being among the number; and where is the house of ancient fame in which that hapless queen has not at some time or other sought repose? armorial blazonries are displayed on wall and window, on ceiling and corridor, and the much-prized hand and banner, commemorative of the great deed at crescy, meets the eye at every turn. here, too, are examples of ancient arms and armour, suits of mail, helmets, breast plates, and battle-axes, with pikes, and pistols, and petronels, and two-handed swords too ponderous for anyone in these degenerate days to wield, but which, in the grasp of a stalwart legh, may have been bathed in gore on the plains of agincourt. [illustration: shield] as we have before said, the mansion in all its antique stateliness comes unexpectedly upon the view, being hidden from sight on all sides by the high grounds of the park and the bleak moorlands beyond that stretch away in the direction of the peak hills. it looks, indeed, as if, in selecting the situation for his building, the architect had sacrificed effect to protection from the weather, and the noble appearance it would have possessed if built upon an eminence is entirely lost. the plan is quadrangular, enclosing an extensive court, and the architecture like that of many other old mansions, of different periods, a portion dating from the time of the last of the tudor sovereigns, whilst another part--the south front, with its noble corinthian columned portion--is a fine specimen of palladian architecture, erected by leoni, a century and a half ago; though the effect is greatly marred by a modern square lantern, with stone balustrades, that was added by wyatt in . the north front, which is first seen on approaching from the disley side,--that by which visitors are generally admitted--is not particularly striking in appearance; it is approached through a square court enclosed by iron palisades, and entered by an arched gateway. the main entrance is in the centre of this front, which projects slightly from the main structure, and constitutes the oldest and most characteristic part of the building, having been left comparatively untouched by leoni, his alterations having been restricted to the side wings, which are of more modern construction, and ornamented with corinthian pilasters. a couple of hunting horns, relics of the old forestering days, depend from the wall, and over the rounded archway is a shield of eight quarterings, representing the principal heraldic achievements of the family, the arms being:--( ), corona; ( ), legh, with an escutcheon over both representing the crescy augmentation granted by flower; ( ), boteler; ( ), croft; ( ), haydock; ( ), boydell of poulscroft; ( ), boydell of gropenhall; and ( ), ashton. the shield is encircled by a garter bearing the motto _en dieu est ma foi_, and over all is the ram's head, the crest of the family. a sun-dial is placed above the shield, and formerly the structure was surmounted by a lofty octagon lantern, which leoni removed to an elevated part of the grounds, and replaced by a statue of minerva. a noble mastiff of the lyme breed--a lion couchant in appearance--guards the entrance; a brief survey satisfies him, apparently, as to the harmlessness of our intentions, and we are permitted without molestation to pass through the archway, when we are handed over to the care of a prim and somewhat stately domestic, who obligingly condescends for the time to lionize us. the entrance communicates with a spacious quadrangle, round three sides of which a piazza is carried, the fourth, or east side, being occupied by a flight of stone stairs leading to the entrance hall, to which we are first conducted. it is a large and well proportioned room, fifty feet by forty-two, but much modernised, having been remodelled by wyatt in , the decorations being of the ionic order. it is divided lengthways by lofty columns, and surrounded by a deep cornice, adorned with the horns of the red deer and other trophies of the chase. the stone chimneypiece was erected by wyatt, but, though massive, it is poor in detail when compared with the one in the drawing-room, which dates from the time of elizabeth. over the fireplace, with one hand grasping his sword, and the other resting upon a helmet, is a portrait of sir peter legh, the "founder" of the family, as our cicerone assures us, and the one who for his loyalty to king richard, suffered decapitation at chester in , but which in reality represents sir peter, who was knighted at leith in , the friend of flower, and the restorer and rebuilder of lyme. we gaze upon the lineaments of the ancient worthy and think of the doughty deeds in which he bore a part, but our reverie is rudely dispelled when our garrulous guide informs us that the gorgeous frame in which the picture is placed belonged to the duke of york, and was purchased at a sale of his royal highness's effects--a piece of information we would most willingly have dispensed with. a noteworthy feature in the room is an opening concealed by panelling near the centre of the north wall, that affords a glimpse of the drawing-room beyond; on one side of the panel which forms the door is a full length portrait of edward iii., armed cap-à-pie, and on the other a full-length of his gallant son, the black prince. in the same room we are shown some specimens of ancient armour, a pair of long-rowelled gilt spurs, said to have been presented by the black prince, and the famous two-handed sword--"the blade both true and trusty"--which credulous sightseers are gravely told is the veritable weapon with which perkin a legh cut down the standard-bearer of the king of france, and earned for himself the broad lands of lyme; for here, as in many another "ancestral home," the attendants who undertake to enlighten you on the past fortunes of the house generally contrive to blend fable with fact in pretty equal proportions, so that the thoughtful enquirer is apt to become perplexed with the curious mosaic of history and romance that is put before him. the walls are hung with family portraits, some of them of considerable interest; two are believed to be those of the sir peter legh before referred to, but taken at different periods of his life; on one side is a portrait of richard legh, who represented cheshire in parliament during the commonwealth; there is also one of his wife's father, sir thomas chicheley, of wimpole, charles the second's master of ordnance; close by is a portrait of richard legh's son, piers legh, whose jacobite leanings brought him into trouble, and occasioned his being charged with treason and imprisoned in the tower; and there is another of the late thomas legh, the enterprising eastern traveller, who is depicted in an albanian costume, with one arm resting upon his horse's neck, and an arab attendant reclining at his feet. "would you like to see the chapel?" inquires our guide. "certainly," is the reply, and accordingly we descend from the entrance-hall by a flight of stairs to the domestic sanctuary of the lords of lyme, which is situate immediately beneath the drawing-room, at the north-east angle of the building. the date of its erection is uncertain, but it was probably added at the time sir peter legh re-edified and enlarged the hall, near the close of the sixteenth century. the font, in which for generations past the scions of the house have been baptised, is adorned with shields of arms, and is said to have been removed from the old home at bradley; here are also preserved two ancient runic crosses that were dug up on a farm at disley about forty years ago; they are of sandstone, completely covered with the interlaced saxon knot, and are exceedingly interesting, one remarkable feature being the greek key, which is introduced as an ornament on the edge of each. the drawing-room, to which we are next conducted, is a spacious apartment, forty-three feet by thirty, and remarkable for the richness of its decoration. the walls are covered with wainscot, elaborately carved, the lower stage being worked in a succession of intersecting arches. the mantel-piece, which reaches nearly to the ceiling, is a good example of renaissance work; duplicated columns of ionic character support the entablature, and above that are caryatides bearing a pediment, the intervening compartment being occupied with the royal arms of elizabeth--france (modern), and england, quarterly--carved in high relief; the shield is encircled by the garter, and has the lion and dragon for supporters. additional beauty is given to this room by a deeply-recessed oriel, lighted on three sides by long windows filled with stained glass that is said to have been brought from disley church in the beginning of the present century. in the upper part of the central light appear the royal arms of the tudor period in old glass, but by an unaccountable blunder some modern herald has added the lion and unicorn, which were not assumed as supporters by the english sovereigns until after the accession of james. beneath is a small portrait of the sir peter legh at whose instance, no doubt, these heraldic decorations were originally designed, with the favourite cognizance--the hand and banner--on one side, and the ram's head, the crest of the lyme leghs, on the other, and beneath are several shields representing the alliances of the family. the two side lights are also enriched with heraldic shields, the greater portion being those of knights of the garter living in elizabeth's reign. there are three other windows in this room similarly decorated, and, taken altogether, they form perhaps the finest and most interesting collection of heraldic insignia in glass to be met with in any house in the kingdom. we have not space at our disposal to enumerate even the ancient worthies whose-- devices blazoned on the shield in their own tinct are here displayed. they are, doubtless, the joint production of sir peter legh and flower about the time of that famous herald's visit to lyme in the sixteenth century.[ ] the stag parlour--an ante-room between the drawing and dining rooms--next invites our attention. it retains much of its ancient character, and is so named from the decorations upon the frieze and cornice, representing in twelve compartments the various incidents of the chase worked in stucco. one of these compartments, the one over the fireplace, has a representation of the hall of lyme, as it appeared three hundred years ago, with a gay company of horsemen engaged in the exciting pursuit of "driving the deer," a custom that must have been observed at lyme from the golden days of the virgin queen. the custom was usually observed about the months of may and june; the deer were collected in a drove before the house called the deer clad, and then made to swim across a piece of water, with which the exhibition ended. there is an engraving at lyme by vivarres, after a painting by t. smith, representing this custom. the same custom is traditionally said to have been observed at townley hall, in lancashire, formerly the seat of a collateral line of the leghs. the ceiling of the stag parlour is panelled and the walls are draped with tapestry, and hung with family portraits, and other pictures. the central compartment of the chimney-piece has a shield representing the coat of legh quartering those of the family alliances, the crescy cognizance occupying one of the side panels, and the ram's head the other, the whole being surmounted by the royal arms of james i., with the garter and motto, between two allegorical figures of peace and plenty. in this room we were shown the dagger of charles the first, on which the name "carolus" may still be discerned, and the gloves he wore; and another memento of the ill-fated monarch--six antique chairs, the coverings of which are said to have been made from the cloak in which he appeared when on the scaffold. in continuing our examination of the interior of lyme, we pass from the stag parlour, as it is called, to the dining-room, which extends along a portion of the eastern front. the general characteristics of this room are of later date than of the one we have just left; the ceiling is highly ornamented, and the walls are divided into panelled compartments, the upper portions being adorned with scrolls carved in high relief, that form a kind of frieze. over the fireplace is an exquisite carving in wood by grinling gibbons, the finest we remember to have seen, except, perhaps, that in trinity chapel, oxford, which, by the way, is from the same hand. the group comprises fish, fishing tackle, and wild fowl, so truthfully rendered that we may almost fancy them to have been just brought in by the sportsman, and that the unyielding wood is even yet quivering with life. well might walpole say of gibbons:--"there is no instance of a man before him who gave to wood the loose and airy lightness of flowers, and chained together the various productions of the elements with a free disorder natural to each species." and surely no finer examples of the artist's skill are to be found either at burleigh or at chatsworth. the furniture in this room calls for little note, but the portraits which adorn the walls have especial interest. the melancholy visage of charles i., painted by vandyke, looks down from the framed canvas; there are portraits, too, of successive owners of lyme, and one by housman of the lady anne, daughter of lord keeper coventry--the mother of the last of the savilles who held the marquisate of halifax. the ante-room through which we have to pass to the library is hung with tapestry of ancient date, illustrative of the rape of europa, and we see-- the sweet europa's mantle blue unclasp'd from off her shoulder backward borne; from one hand droop'd a crocus; one hand grasp'd the wild bull's golden horn. the library itself is a spacious apartment remodelled by wyatt, and stored with-- many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. it contains some basso-relievos brought from greece by the late mr. thomas legh, rare antiques from the east, and an ancient urn from pompeii, that once contained the ashes of a semi-illustrious hero, but which is now applied to less sacred uses, being filled with dried rose-leaves. imperial cæsar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away. on one side a deeply-recessed bay-window lures you to enjoy the quietude, and dream the hours away in the luxurious ease it offers. delightful is the prospect from this window; in front are seen the smooth shaven lawns and terraces, with their richly-coloured parterres, and the water flashing in the bright sunlight; and, beyond, the natural landscape with its wooded slopes and the brown heathy wastes that shut out the view of the more distant hills. but the time is passing rapidly, and we must not loiter, so we follow our conductress up flights of stairs, along galleries and corridors, and through interminable suites of rooms, where we have to look to our footing, the polished oak parquetrie being perilous to walk upon. the grand staircase, which leads to a corridor above, resting on six corinthian columns, is of oak, with a handsome ceiling adorned with pendants and armorial ensigns of the family. it is hung with pictures, two of them being by sir william beechy, and representing george iv. and his brother the duke of york. facing us as we ascend the first flight is an interesting portrait, a full length, of john watson, the famous keeper,--an ancient servitor, who died in , at the age of years. it bears this inscription:-- io watson, who in the th year of his age, anno , commenced keeper of lime park; in wch service he continued years, and anno , in the nd year of his age. he hunted a buck, a chase near six hours, at wch hunting one gentleman was present whose ancesters he had hunted with for four generations before, he being the fifth generation he had hunted with. watson, who was grandfather of the celebrated rev. john watson, m.a., f.s.a., rector of stockport, and author of "memorials of the earls of warren and surrey," lies buried at disley, where, in the middle aisle of the church, is a tombstone with an inscription to his memory. concerning this ancient worthy we have the following obituary notice:-- mr. joseph watson died in the th year of his age, and was buried at disley in cheshire, the rd of june, . he was born at mossley common, in the parish of leigh, in lancashire, and married his wife from eccles, near manchester, in the same county. they lived a happy couple years. she died in the th year of her age. he was park keeper to the late peter legh, esqre., of lyme and his father years. he drove and shewed the red deer to most of the nobility and gentry in that part of the kingdom to the surprise and satisfaction of them and all others that saw that performance, as he could command them at his pleasure the same as if they had been common horned cattle. in the reign of queen anne sqr. legh was in company with some gentlemen at macclesfield, in cheshire, amongst which was sir roger moston then one of the members of parliament for the same county. for their merry conversation sqr. legh said his keeper should drive brace of stags to the forest of windsor a present to the queen. sir roger, thinking it impracticable, proposed a wager of £ that neither his keeper nor no other person could drive brace of red deer from lyme park to windsor forest on any account whatever. sqr. legh accepted the wager and immediately sent for his keeper, who directly came to his master, who told him he must directly prepare to drive brace of stags to windsor forest upon a wager. he gave his master for answer, that upon any wager or upon his command he would drive him brace of stags to windsor forest or to any other part of the kingdom when he pleased to direct, upon forfeiture of his life and fortune. he was a man of low stature, not bulky, fresh complexion, and pleasant countenance. he believed he had drunk a gallon of malt liquor a day, one day with another, for years; he drank plentifully the latter part of his life, but no more than was agreeable to his constitution and a comfort to himself. he was of a mild temper, engaging company, and fine behaviour, and allowed to be the best keeper in england, in his time. in the rd year of his age he was at the hunting and killing a buck with the honble george warren, in his park at pointon, whose activity gave pleasure and surprize to all spectators then present. sir george was the th generation of the warren family he had performed that diversion with in pointon park. as we pass along the corridor our attention is arrested by two marble busts, one of the massive head and rugged features of the late thomas legh, the famous traveller, and the other that of his second wife, maud lowther. we are next ushered into the long gallery, a noble chamber one hundred and twenty feet in length and twenty-eight feet wide, fronting the east, and exhibiting the architectural characteristics of the elizabethan era--one of those long narrow galleries that are frequently met with in mansions of that period, and, like the one at haddon, used as a ballroom and on occasions of special festivity. the walls are of dark oak, elaborately ornamented, the panels being wrought in intersecting arches and relieved at intervals with flat pilasters; in the centre a huge fireplace reaches from floor to ceiling, it is handsomely carved and bears the arms of queen elizabeth with the lion and dragon as supporters, an evidence that it dates from that sovereign's reign. on one side we noticed an antiquated spinet that has been doubtless played upon by many a fair daughter of the house of lyme. a few portraits adorn the walls, among them one of the lady margaret gerard, wife of sir peter legh, holding in her arms her great-grandchild, anne legh, who afterwards married richard bold, of bold. the picture bears the following inscription, apparently added at a later date:--"sir piers' lady ætatis suæ , a.d. ," and underneath the child--"ætatis suæ anno primo after marryed to bold;" there is also a portrait of the rev. john dod, the decalogist, and another of the unfortunate divine dr. john hewitt, a son of thomas hewitt, of eccles, who was chaplain to charles i., and who for his loyalty to charles ii. was beheaded on tower hill, june th, ; here, too, are portraits after the style of holbein, one of the warlike henry iv., and another of bluff king hal, the first defender of the faith. continuing our tour of inspection, we are led from corridor to corridor and from room to room, pausing now and then, as a relief from the examination of the treasures within, to look upon the glad world without, where the sun is shining brightly on the green sward and the lush pastures. then we are hurried on through tapestried chambers and state bedrooms with grotesquely-carved four-posters shadowed with a huge pomp of stiff brocade. in one of them we are shown the bed used by mary queen of scots on the occasion of her visit to lyme, with its original hangings of crimson silk, now, alas, much tarnished and dilapidated, and, if we are so disposed, we may refresh our memories with the tragic story of hero and leander as in part pourtrayed on the faded tapestry that adorns the walls of this and the adjoining dressing-room. there are other chambers on this floor that deserve inspection--the state bedroom, the mahogany, the velvet, and the yellow bedrooms, with their corresponding dressing-rooms, all hung with portraits more or less interesting. then we pass to an oaken-panelled chamber called the knight's room, and to the stone parlour--two apartments that have remained untouched since elizabeth's time--and so to the gallery which extends on the upper floor round the quadrangle, the walls of which are adorned with casts from the phigalian marbles--antique friezes, representing the contest between the centaurs and lapithæ, and the greeks and amazons, which formerly ornamented the cella of the temple of apollo epicurus at phigalia in arcadia, and the originals of which are now in the british museum, having been brought to england by the late thomas legh. another chamber is pointed out which is said to be the oldest in the building, and on that account is called king john's room, though we should be much inclined to doubt the fact of its having been in existence in that monarch's reign; then we are ushered into another apartment named after the black prince, which is also known as the ghost room, for lyme, like every other old mansion of respectability, has its ghost story, as the talented author of "lays and legends of cheshire," who, besides being laureate of lyme, can claim kindred with its ancient lords, can tell us; and we are asked to believe that a secret passage leads from it to the "cage," a mile away, though we cannot learn that anyone within the recollection of that respectable personage, the oldest inhabitant, has ever explored it, but such means of exit we are assured were necessary in the turbulent times when this part of the hall was built. having completed our perambulation, we ascended to the gallery at the top of the house, from whence we can survey the country that lies spread like a rich panorama at our feet, looking more than usually fair and brilliant as the mellow sunlight brings out every inequality and brightens every object with its magical radiance. but we may not loiter, for there are yet other things to interest us, and so, having seen all that is usually shown to visitors, we take leave of our courteous attendant and wend our way across the park in a south-easterly direction and then mount the hill, on the summit of which is an ancient memorial that has long exercised the ingenuity of antiquaries to discover its age and purpose--the bowstones, as it is called--two upright pillars, much worn with age, springing from a double-socketed base. they are believed to have been of saxon or danish origin, though some authorities incline to the opinion that they are of later date and were intended as boundary stones. half a mile westward of the bowstones is a conical hill to which the name of "the knight's low" has been given, from a tradition that has floated down through long centuries of time that it was the burial place of one of the earlier lords of lyme. the shaping power of the imagination has supplied the minor accessories of the story, and the dependents of the family delight to relate how that at midnight a muffled sound, as of a distant funeral peal, is often borne on the wind, and that at this time a shadowy procession of mourners may be seen wending its way towards the knight's low, bearing a coffin and pall, and followed by a lady arrayed in white and apparently in deep distress. to add to the mystery there is a tale that the shadowy form of the old knight's wife--the lady "draped in white and silver sheen"--issues forth at midnight from a field adjoining a stream that runs through the park, commonly known as "the field of the white lady," or "the lady's grave," and flits silently across the grass in the direction of the knight's low. mr. leigh has made the tradition the theme of one of his legendary ballads, "sir percy legh," though to suit the purposes of his story he has dealt rather unceremoniously with history and dates, things the votaries of the muses do not always stand much in awe of-- they buried him within the park which he had left so blithe of blee; and followed in the mourners' track, all gaily dressed, poor agnes legh. they heaped a mound upon his corse-- a mound whereon the fir trees grow; and many a wail is heard at night, coming from the good knight's low. she rambled all the night forlorn, she rambled forth all drearilie, till on the river's bank one morn was found the corse of agnes legh. they buried her where she was found-- they buried her near the river's wave; and ever since the land around is known but as the lady's grave. at length our progress is ended. while the westering sun and the lengthening shadows remind us that evening is rapidly drawing on, we retrace our steps, passing by the north front of the hall, along the grassy slopes where the deer are crouching and the kine are ruminating at will, past lyme cage, through the gates by which we originally entered, and along the quiet tree-shaded road to disley, and in a few minutes find ourselves in the cosy parlour of the "ram's head," with the mind laden with the lore of ancient days, and impressed with a succession of pictures of endless suites of rooms stored with carvings of cunning device, curious enamels, and cabinets of costly workmanship; with tapestry, pictures, and a wealth of natural and artistic treasures such as few, if any, of the "stately homes" of cheshire can equal and none surpass. we have not attempted in our notice of this old historic mansion to speak of every room, to notice every object of interest, and many details have been purposely omitted. in recounting the fortunes of the former lords we have endeavoured to call up visions of the past--to arrest momentarily the hand of time, which is fast drawing the curtain of oblivion over bygone scenes, and, though our task has been but imperfectly performed, at least we may hope to have contributed something towards a better knowledge and appreciation of "lyme hall and the leghs." chapter vii. "jemmy dawson" and the fatal ' . who that has read harrison ainsworth's story of the "manchester rebels" can fail to remember the vivid picture he has drawn of the ferment into which the whilom puritan town was thrown when, on the morning of the th november, , a recruiting sergeant, with a drummer boy and a scotch lassie, crossed the old salford bridge into manchester, passed along cateaton street and the millgate, to the market cross, and after proclaiming "king james the third," began beating up for recruits for "the yellow-haired laddie," who on the following day joined them with the main body of the rebel clans; of the rejoicings and festivities, the illuminations and the fireworks; of the enthusiasm of the jacobite ladies, who sat up all night at mr. byrom's at the cross making white cockades, and the joyous excitement of john byrom's gossiping daughter, "beppy" byrom, who, as she confesses, got completely "fuddled" with drinking the prince's health in champagne after having had the honour of kissing his hand; when the orange plumes paled before the blaze of tartan in which female manchester had arrayed itself, and colonel townley laboured with unwearying zeal in mustering and enrolling a manchester regiment, and parson coppock and the irrepressible tom syddall exhorted their fellow townsmen in the name of their god to enlist in the service of their rightful sovereign. and who that has read shenstone's pathetic ballad, "jemmy dawson," that tale so sad, so tender, and so true, but has "heaved a sigh" at the touching episode connected with lancashire's share in the rebellion which it records? but for mickle's wonderfully woven web of truth and fiction, the haunted towers of cumnor hall and the sorrows of amy robsart would never have excited special interest; and had not shenstone, with the same marvellous gift of nature, commemorated in imperishable verse the sad fate of the plighted fair one of captain dawson, our interest and our sympathy with the victim of that revolting tragedy might never have been awakened, and the name even of the amiable and unfortunate subject of the stanzas have become forgotten. but who, it may be asked, was "jemmy dawson," where was his abode, and what was the name of the hapless maid whose fortunes were so sadly linked with his own? mr. robert chambers, in his history of the rebellion of ' , says: james dawson, the son of a gentleman of lancashire, was attached to a young lady of good family and fortune, when some youthful excesses induced him to run away from college and join the insurgents. had he obtained the royal mercy or been acquitted, the day of his enlargement was to have been that of his marriage. when it was ascertained that he was to suffer death, the inconsolable young lady determined to witness the execution, and she accordingly followed the sledges in a hackney-coach, accompanied by a gentleman nearly related to her and one female friend. she got near enough to see all the dreadful preparations without betraying any extravagant emotions; she also succeeded in restraining her feelings during the progress of the bloody tragedy; but when all was over, and the shouts of the multitude rang in her ears, she drew her head back again into the coach and crying, "my dear! i follow thee--i follow thee! sweet jesus receive both our souls together!" fell upon the neck of her companion and expired in the very moment she was speaking. [illustration: mr. byrom's house at the cross.] the information thus given is of the scantiest nature, and, meagre as it is, it is inaccurate in some details. of the family of "jemmy dawson" unfortunately but few particulars can be gleaned, but the little we know is sufficiently interesting to make us long to know more. of the lady to whom he was betrothed we know absolutely nothing, and her name even has never been satisfactorily established. in the "legends of lancashire" (p. ) it is stated, though on what authority does not appear, that her name was katherine norton, that she was an orphan, and that her parents had been of illustrious rank. "she had travelled," it is said, "with a maiden aunt, and as they were residing for a few weeks in the vicinity of cambridge, she had met with young dawson, and thus commenced an ardent attachment between them." the dawsons, who were a family of some note in manchester, came originally from yorkshire, where, at barnsley, towards the close of the seventeenth century, was residing james dawson, who is described as a trader, a phrase that had a different significance a couple of centuries ago than it has now, a trader then being equal in social status to the merchant or manufacturer of the present day. the trader of barnsley in due time took to himself a wife in the person of jane wolstenholme, of hopwood, near middleton, and to this worthy couple was born on the th march, - , a son and heir, william dawson, who, after he had attained to man's estate, settled in manchester, where he practised as an apothecary, and was known to his neighbours as dr. dawson. he was successful in his profession, and eventually became the owner of a considerable real estate, including a house at barnsley, which he had probably inherited from his father, and another called "the cottage," in manchester; the latter a dwelling-house with gardens and pleasure grounds attached, occupying the site of the present concert hall--then a pleasant suburb of the town, to which we shall have occasion hereafter more particularly to refer. dr. dawson appears also to have had in the later years of his life a town residence near the top of the present king street, a fashionable quarter, where some of the clergy of the "old church" had located themselves, and which was then known as st. james's square, a name that was abandoned when the hanoverian sovereigns had finally asserted their prerogative against the claims of the jacobite pretender; the two squares--st. james's and st. ann's--being memorials of a conflict which is now but a matter of history. william dawson, the apothecary, married for his first wife elizabeth, one of the daughters of mr. richard allen, a gentleman residing at redivales, near bury, the representative of a family of somewhat more than local fame, claiming descent from the stock of the same name seated at rossal, in lancashire, of which house was the well known cardinal allen, the apologist of sir william stanley's perfidy and treason in surrendering deventer to the king of spain, and a branch of which was located in salford, their home being the quaint old black and white gabled building still standing in greengate, and for many years past occupied as a tavern, and bearing the sign of the "bull's head." this match brought the young apothecary in close alliance with some of the best families in the neighbourhood. mrs. dawson's aunt, dorothy allen, had married the wealthy draper of kersall, and she was, therefore, own cousin to his sons, edward byrom the younger, and john byrom, the amiable and gifted poet and strong, though prudent, partisan of the jacobite cause. her great-grandmother was the wife of the rev. isaac allen, rector of prestwich, a staunch churchman and royalist, who, for refusing to take the covenant, was turned out of his living during the cromwellian period, but reinstated shortly after the restoration in . the children of william dawson, by his first wife, elizabeth allen, were james, the hero of shenstone's ballad, of whom anon; william, who was educated for the law and entered at lincoln's inn, and two daughters, elizabeth and sarah. in , the year in which his eldest son entered at the university, mr. dawson had the misfortune to lose his wife, her death occurring on the rd of may, at the age of forty-one. some time afterwards he married for his second wife mary, the eldest daughter of william greenwood, of liversage hall, previously of middlewood hall, near barnsley, and the widow of joseph greenwood, of leeds; but by this lady, who survived him nearly twenty years, and died january , , he had no children. james dawson, the eldest son, the rebel captain, who was born about the year , would, in all probability, receive his early education at the grammar school of his native town, where thomas coppock, the pseudo bishop of carlisle, was also a pupil. in , being then twenty years of age, he proceeded to cambridge, where, on the st october, he was admitted to st. john's college, the register describing him as:-- jocobus dawson, lancastriensis filius natu major gulielmi dawson pharmacopolæ mancunii natus et literis institutus apud salford in eodem comitatu sub magistro clayton, admissus pensionarius minor tutore et fide jussore magistro wrigley, oct. , , anno Ætatis ^(mo.) the "magistro clayton" referred to was doubtless the rev. john clayton, of the sacred trinity church in salford, an ardent jacobite, who preached in the church and prayed openly in the street in salford for charles edward at the time of his visit to manchester, and whose appearance in the pulpit of st. ann's in the interval between the death of one rector and the appointment of another caused so much dissatisfaction to the hanoverian worshippers that, as miss byrom in her diary tells us, some of them "went out of church because he preached." the story related by chambers and others that young dawson had been induced to run away from his college, fearing that he might be expelled on account of some youthful excesses, and that after leaving cambridge he joined the ranks of the young pretender, does not appear to rest on any reliable foundation. there is extant a letter written by the registrar of the university of cambridge, dated th october, , which states that "the only document concerning him in the university records is his signature on matriculation, which took place on the th of december, , when he was matriculated as a pensioner. he wrote a bold hand. he never took a degree, nor does he appear to have been subjected to any punishment for irregularity in the university court held by the vice-chancellor." a century had wrought a mighty change in the political sentiments of the people of manchester. when the great struggle between charles the first and his parliament began, led by the eloquence of warden heyricke, they took sides against the king, but they quickly changed their opinions, and when charles's son, the "merry monarch," was restored to the crown they were jubilant, and in the exuberance of their joy caused the conduit to flow with wine and the gutters to swell with strong beer. the sons of those men held by the political opinions of their fathers, and were, for the most part, ardent supporters of the hereditary claims of the house of stuart. there were two factions in the town--whigs and tories, or hanoverians and jacobites as they were more commonly called, the latter being by far the more numerous and influential. they met at their respective taverns--the hanoverians at the "angel" in the market street lane, and the jacobites at "john shaw's" and the "bull's head" in the market place--drank punch, a beverage for which they seem to have had a special partiality, and toasted the king, and denounced the pretender with a mental reservation as to who pretender was, and who was king. thirty years previously the town had been stirred to its inmost depths by the claims the first pretender had advanced. many of the sympathisers of ' were still alive, and the old spirit of strife, though it might have slumbered, was still strong. james dawson's kinsman, dr. byrom, who was then in the heyday of his popularity, was warmly attached to the cause of the exiled stuarts, and was accounted the laureate of the party; his jacobitism was, however, under the control of a cautious possessor, and in proclaiming his political faith he was sufficiently prudent to avoid imperilling either his personal or his family interests. he nevertheless exercised a marvellous influence over his fellow townsmen, and largely helped to fan the flame of disaffection. a wit, a scholar, and a poet, his playful epigrams and clever _jeux d'esprit_ caused his society to be sought after by both parties, and linked him in close intimacy, if not, indeed, in close friendship, with men whose political creeds were at variance with his own. byrom's versatile powers and refined and courteous demeanour acted as a charm, and enabled him, if not to turn hanoverians into jacobites, at least to bias their practice and take the sting out of their whiggism. brought within the range of his seductive influence, we can scarcely wonder that byrom's relative, young dawson, then fresh from college, impressionable, impulsive, and enthusiastic, should have imbibed his jacobite principles. the time was one of political excitement. england was in a state of agitation, and the rumours which had reached manchester of the successful rising in the north sufficed to stir the fire of youthful enthusiasm and inspire devotion to the pretender's cause. the young chevalier was in the field at the head of the highland clans; france had promised substantial support, not because france had any particular liking for the stuarts, but because she was not unwilling to pay off some old scores by finding occupation for her traditional foe; sir john cope had been beaten at prestonpans, and the victorious charles edward was then at carlisle on his way south. francis townley, a scion of an old lancashire family, who had figured at the court of louis xv. and seen service and earned distinction abroad, was entrusted with a colonel's commission from the french king; the commission authorised him to raise forces on behalf of the prince, and with that object he repaired to manchester, the reputed stronghold of the jacobite party, to beat up for recruits; the town was excited, the bolder spirits were jubilant and eager in their desire to don the white cockade, some money was raised and more was promised but never paid, and what is known to history as the "manchester regiment" was enrolled. in that regiment james dawson was honoured with a captaincy; what that captaincy cost him we shall hereafter see. saturday, the th of november, , was an eventful day for manchester, and one the townsmen had cause long to remember, for it was that on which the young chevalier, prince charles edward, made his appearance, after having taken lancaster, preston, and wigan, on his progress from the north. about ten o'clock in the morning the main body of his army entered the town; regiment after regiment, with their glittering firelocks, their tartan sashes, and gay and picturesque dresses, marched over the old bridge and into st. ann's-square, then lately built, where they halted. it was an inauspicious moment, for at the precise time the remains of the first rector of st. ann's, the rev. joseph hoole, were being committed to the grave. as the men entered the square, the warlike notes of the bagpipes were instantly hushed, and, with instinctive reverence for the dead, the officers drew near the churchyard, unbonneted, and joined devoutly in the service while the coffin was being lowered to its final resting-place. it was an ominous incident, and seemed premonitory of the fate that was shortly to overtake so many of those assembled. as the historian of st ann's observes:--"white cockade and black scarf were at one in the presence of death. many a white cockade was laid low ere a month was gone." scarcely was the mournful scene ended than prince charles himself, dressed in highland garb--the stuart plaid belted with a blue sash, and wearing a light wig with a blue bonnet, in which was fixed a white rose, entered the town amid the applauding acclamations of the people. as he passed through salford on his way, parson clayton, then one of the chaplains of the collegiate church, and previously young dawson's instructor at the grammar school, dropped on his knees, and in fervent tones prayed that the enterprise might be successful, and that the divine blessing would rest upon the prince's head. colonel townley had made previous arrangements for his reception, and on his arrival he was conducted to his quarters at the house of mr. dickenson,[ ] a residence in market street lane, thenceforward dignified with the name of "the palace," a name still perpetuated in palace buildings, which mark the site. the head-quarters of the officers were fixed at the "bull's head," in the market place, then the principal inn in the town, and lord george murray, the prince's secretary, stationed himself at the dog inn, in deansgate, for the purpose of distributing the french king's commissions to officers who were willing to purchase. in the course of the day "his majesty king james the third" was proclaimed at the market cross, poor james waller, of ridgefield, a loyal subject of the house of brunswick, who was content with monarchy as it stood, being compelled to pocket his political principles, and become the medium of communication between prince and people, by conveying the demands of the rebel army to his fellow-townsmen for the payment of all the money they had collected for the taxes; and in the evening bonfires were lit, the streets were illuminated, drums beat, pipes played, and the bells rang loud peals from the old church steeple in honour of the event. no pains were spared to fan the flame of enthusiasm. receptions were held by the prince, and jacobite sympathisers of both sexes, wearing tartan favours, thronged the house of mr. dickenson, anxious to be presented and to have the honour of kissing the prince's hand. recruiting, meanwhile, was carried on with energy; the manchester regiment was enrolled, and by the chevalier's orders colonel francis townley, who had joined the forces at preston, was nominated commander; thomas coppock, the son of a manchester tailor, residing in the old millgate, and a quondam companion of james dawson, who had lately graduated at brasenose, oxford, where he had been an exhibitioner from hugh oldham's grammar school, was appointed chaplain; tom syddall, the son of a peruke-maker, who had been hanged and his head fixed on the market cross for the share he had in destroying the cross street meeting-house in , and who, from the hour he had seen his father's exposed and insulted countenance, had conceived an implacable hatred for dissenters, whigs, and all the hanoverian race, was made adjutant; and james dawson was one of the first to be enrolled as captain. coppock, dressed in full canonicals, accompanied a drummer through the town, exhorting the people to take up arms in the stuart cause, and his efforts were ably seconded by dr. deacon,[ ] the minister of a non-juring congregation assembling in fennel street, whose three sons, on the advice of the father, and with his prayers and blessings, were among the earliest to obtain commissions; but the number recruited through their efforts fell far short of their expectations, not more than three hundred men being added to the strength of the rebel army, and of those comparatively few were resident in the town. the people were noisy and enthusiastic enough, but they were not sufficiently ardent to risk their lives and property in the chivalrous defence of the antiquated doctrine of the divine right of kings. the reason may not be far to seek. manchester men had thriven upon their manufacture of fustians and dimities, and become a comparatively wealthy community--they had something to lose; their interests were bound up with more peaceful pursuits; insurrection and civil war do not generally conduce to the prosperity of trade, and hence they had little fondness for fighting. the day which followed the prince's arrival was a great day for the jacobites. it was sunday, and st. andrew's day withal. the bells rang out from the old church tower; the streets were filled with highland soldiers; colonel townley's manchester regiment mustered in the churchyard, the men in their blue and white cockades gathering round their flag, which bore on one side the inscription "church and country," and on the other "liberty and property." never did the ancient fane itself present a brighter or more animated appearance; the nave was crowded with armed men, whose gaily-coloured attire and glittering claymores, targets, and other accoutrements produced a striking effect. the townspeople occupied the side aisles, and such a display of tartan had never before been witnessed; everybody wore stuart favours, and the ladies were ablaze with tartan ribbons, shaws, and furbelows. the prince occupied the warden's seat in the choir, his retinue being accommodated in the stalls close by. warden peploe, a staunch whig, but lacking the spirit of his father, who, thirty years before, when the insurgents occupied preston, had stood before the pretender's soldiery and prayed for king george and the house of brunswick,[ ] had consulted his safety by withdrawing from the town. young parson coppock, the chaplain of the manchester regiment, supplied his place, and preached from the text, "the lord is king; the earth may be glad thereof" (psalm xcvii., v. ); and from the same pulpit whence, a century before, warden heyricke, on his "drum ecclesiastic," had stirred the hearts of the manchester people by his trumpet-tongued sermons, and roused them into active resistance to the stuart king and the "papistical malignants" who had gained possession of him, was now only heard a mild oration larded with flattering eulogies of his popish descendant. when the service was concluded, the manchester regiment was inspected by the prince, and on the following day, with the rest of the rebel army, they set forward on their march southwards, advancing in two divisions by different routes towards macclesfield, which had been fixed as the limit of the first day's march. at cheadle ford, where the bridge now bestrides the mersey, a temporary bridge, formed of the trunks and branches of poplar trees, was constructed for the horse and artillery to pass over, and here the prince, with two regiments, crossed, buoyant with hope and full of energy. on reaching the opposite bank he was welcomed by a number of the cheshire gentry, who had come out to meet him; with them was the venerable mrs. skyring, of whom lord mahon relates the following affecting story ("forty-five," p. ):--"as a child, she had been lifted up in her mother's arms to view the happy landing at dover of charles the second. her father, an old cavalier, had afterwards to undergo, not merely neglect, but oppression from that thankless monarch; still, however, he and his wife continued devoted to the royal cause, and their daughter grew up as devoted as they. after the expulsion of the stuarts all her thoughts, her hopes, her prayers, were directed to another restoration. ever afterwards she had, with rigid punctuality, laid aside one-half of her yearly income to remit for the exiled family abroad, concealing only the name of the giver, which she said was of no importance to them, and might give them pain if they remembered the unkind treatment she had formerly received. she had now parted with her jewels, her plate, and every little article she possessed, the price of which she laid in a purse at the feet of prince charles, while straining her dim eyes to gaze on his features, and pressing his hand to her shrivelled lips, she exclaimed with affectionate rapture, 'lord! now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!'" it is added that she did not survive the shock when, a few days afterwards, she was told of the retreat. the ancient lady, who is represented as somewhat irreverently employing the sacred words of the _nunc dimittis_, may be a pretty object to contemplate through the haze of a century or more, but the story lord mahon so pathetically relates is of doubtful origin, and should be received with caution. on reaching macclesfield the two divisions of the prince's army were united, and the manchester men were drawn up in the churchyard, when arms were distributed to those who had not previously received them. the rebel forces met with little encouragement in the town, and the next day, after having searched adlington hall and some other houses of note in the neighbourhood, and taken what arms they could find, they continued their march by way of congleton and leek to derby, which town was reached on december th, having, incredible as it may appear, met with little or no opposition on the way. of the subsequent movements of the manchester regiment we need not say much; the record of its doings is part of the country's history. some who joined may have been led by a love of adventure, but others were influenced by higher considerations. sincere and enthusiastic in their support of the exiled dynasty, they were willing to forfeit their lives for their prince, and the forfeit, as we shall see, was rigorously enacted. their progress was as disastrous as it was brief. hearing, while at derby, that the duke of cumberland, with an army of veterans, was in the neighbourhood, and distrusting the skill of their own officers, they beat a retreat northwards, carrying with them whatever in the way of booty they could lay their hands on. on the th december the advanced guard reached manchester, where, instead of meeting with the welcome they had received ten short days before, they were assailed by a shower of stones from the mob; the regiment raised by captain townley was broken up, and many of the men dispersed, but captain dawson, with coppock, syddall, the three deacons, and several other of the more resolute supporters of the prince, determined upon sharing his fortunes, and pushed on with him to carlisle, hotly pursued by the duke of cumberland. in opposition to the advice of lord george murray, it was determined that a garrison should be left in the border city. there was at the time a gloomy anticipation of the fate awaiting those who should remain, yet none hesitated to make the almost certain sacrifice; colonel townley volunteered for the desperate service, and was accordingly made governor of the city; with him were captain dawson, adjutant syddall, the deacons, coppock, who had been dubbed bishop of carlisle, and the remnant of the manchester regiment, one hundred and twenty strong, with two hundred and seventy of the highlanders and lowland scots, and a handful of french officers and privates. soon after the prince's departure the duke of cumberland, with marshal wade, appeared before the city, and summoned the garrison to surrender; after a brief resistance they were obliged to yield on the hard conditions that, instead of being put to the sword, they should be reserved for the king's pleasure. coppock, after being imprisoned for some time, was executed at gallows green, harrowby, about a mile south of carlisle, meeting his death, as did his companions in arms, with firmness to the last, and expressing his belief in the justice of the cause he had embraced. the other officers, twenty in number, were conveyed in waggons under a strong guard to london. great efforts had been made to inflame the minds of the populace against them by representing them all as papists, who, if they had succeeded, would have roasted the duke of cumberland to death, burned the bishops, and destroyed all heretics--men, women, and children; and on their arrival in the metropolis they were led in a sort of triumph through the streets, where the greatest indignation was offered them by the excited throng. as they had served under commissions from the french king, they expected to have been treated as ordinary prisoners of war, and that they would be regularly exchanged. their fate, however, was far otherwise. imprisoned first in the cells of newgate, and afterwards in the new prison in southwark, they passed thence to the scaffold. the head of syddall was sent to manchester and fixed on a spike in front of the exchange, near where that of his father had been fixed thirty years before. captain thomas deacon was treated in like manner, and it is recorded of his father, the nonjuring divine, that he never afterwards passed the spot where the mutilated head of his son had been exposed without reverently raising his hat as a token of respect. a local poet has embalmed the memory of these manchester martyrs in the following quaint lines:-- the deel has set their heads to view, and stickt them upon poles; poor deel! 'twas all that he could do, since god has ta'en their souls. it is with the fate of captain dawson, however, that we are more immediately concerned. it had been determined that the full vengeance of the law should fall upon the unfortunate victims belonging to the manchester regiment, and those who were in newgate were, after a lapse of six months, ordered to prepare for trial previous to their removal to the prison of southwark. dawson, as previously stated, had while at cambridge been betrothed to a young lady, a miss katherine norton, it is said. she appears to have engaged all his thoughts, and it is stated that during his confinement he employed himself in writing verses on his unhappy fate. the trials commenced on the th july, , in the courthouse at st. margaret's hill, before the high commissioners appointed for the purpose. townley, the colonel of the regiment, was the first arraigned. his behaviour during the trial was firm and undaunted, and when sentence of death was pronounced he was not in the least discomposed, nor did his countenance undergo any change of colour. the trials lasted three days, and the whole of the prisoners arraigned were found guilty. james dawson was indicted for high treason (committed th november, , five days before the taking of carlisle by the rebels), and accused by witnesses for the prosecution of "having appeared as captain, at review, at macclesfield;" "beaten up for volunteers at derby;" "been at the head of company, at penrith and other places;" "and also been one of the rebel garrison taken at carlisle on the th december, ." he, like the others, was found guilty and sentenced to death, which was ordered to take place at kennington on the th july, along with eight other officers of the manchester regiment. in the interval between his condemnation and his execution he employed himself in preparing a written declaration of the motives and sentiments which had influenced him in joining the standard of the pretender, a copy of which, as made and signed by himself, we give herewith:-- blessed are they that suffer persecution for righteousness sake, for theirs is ye kingdom of heaven.--mat. ye and . friends, brethren, and countrymen, i am come to this place (and it's with cheerfulness and resignation i say it) to lay down my life in defence of my king, and in support of the liberties and properties of you his natural-born subjects, and blessed be the will of god, who (unworthy as i am) has deign'd to look upon me as no unfit instrument of executing his divine pleasure. i am now on the very last scene of life, and shall in a very few minutes launch into eternity; i therefore solemnly declare, as i shall answer it at the awful and impartial tribunal before which i must shortly appear, that i firmly believe, and in my conscience am persuaded, that james the rd is my only true, lawful, and indisputable sovereign; that the present possessor of this crown and kingdom is a usurper; that my taking up arms against him was so far from being a crime that it was my indispensible and bounden duty; if i had ten thousand lives, i ought sooner to devote them all to his and my country's service than to see right overpowered by oppression, or rebellion prevailing over justice. i die, my dear friends, in the fellowship and communion of the church of england, and in perfect love and charity with all men. i humbly ask pardon of all those whom i have in any shape, or in any manner, either injured, affronted, or offended, as i do from the bottom of my heart forgive all my enemies, persecutors, and slanderers, and in an especial manner mr. maddock,[ ] who has not only sworn away mine but several other innocent persons' lives (an unchristian-like return for relieving and supporting him when destitute of almost every necessary of life); but this i mention not to upbraid him, god forbid i should. no, my dear countrymen, i only beg that this, his fatal unhappy delusion, may be a lively and instructive warning both to you and posterity, never to add cruelty to injustice, or to injure your benefactors only for having partaken of their benefits. and i likewise here solemnly declare that i sincerely forgive the ... [illegible] of the counsel, the partiality of my judges, and the misguided zeal of my jury.--"lay not, o god, my blood to their charge, neither let this my murder rise up against them. forgive them, oh! my father, for they not know what they do." and now, oh! my god and merciful father, having thus addressed the throne of grace for mine enemies, let me now supplicate thy mercy for my poor unworthy self. i now with humility prostrate myself before thee, and beseech thee of thine infinite goodness, to deign to forgive me all my sins, negligences, and ignorances; excuse the frailties and infirmities of my nature, and pardon every levity, excess, and indecency which i have committed against thy divine majesty; plead thou my cause, oh, my sweet saviour; oh! let not the transgressions of my youth, or the faults which i have been betrayed into, either through fear, forgetfulness, or surprise, be alleged against me at the great day of judgment. let that precious blood which was spilt at thy most bitter death on the cross be a sweet-smelling sacrifice to turn away thy wrath from thy servant, who is not only now persecuted, but going to die for truth and righteousness' sake. in proportion to the humility of my desires, and the purity of my intention, heighten, oh, christ, my reward hereafter. into thy hands i commend my soul; vouchsafe to save all those whom thou hast redeemed with thy precious blood, and make me to be remembered with thy saints in glory everlasting. amen. if we could close the narrative of manchester's share in the dynastic contest of ' without reference to the afflicting details of the barbarities the victors deemed it necessary to perpetrate we should not have necessarily to excite the indignation of our readers against atrocities for the commission of which neither passion nor party zeal can furnish even the shadow of an excuse. the th of july was the day on which captain dawson and the four officers of the manchester regiment were to be subjected to the hideous penalties the law had awarded for their active partisanship of the exiled stuarts--a day not less of shame than of triumph to the ruling powers, and one constituting in itself a very black page in the annals of the country. on that day there was to be enacted a scene such as england had happily not witnessed for thirty years or more. when the manchester men surrendered at carlisle they were told that they would be reserved for the king's pleasure--their fate is a dismal memorial of his tender mercies. indifferent to the dishonour he was bringing upon the nation, and unmindful of the odium that must attach to his name, the elector of hanover looked upon rebellion as a crime that could only be dealt with in a spirit of revenge, and by the perpetration of cruelties so exceptionally revolting that they could not be repeated without greater danger to the throne than the insurrectionary feeling they were intended to crush. on the morning of the day named the whole of the condemned men were bound on three hurdles, and in this ignominious manner dragged from the new gaol at southwark to the place of execution on kennington common, escorted by a strong party of soldiers. a gallows had been previously erected, and near it were the hideous adjuncts of all executions for treason--a pile of faggots and a block on which was laid the executioner's knife. on their arrival the victims were unbound and transferred from the hurdles to a cart placed under the "fatal tree," and at the same time the fire was lit, the faggots blazing up and crackling, before the doomed men's eyes. having spent some time in their devotions, they severally delivered the declarations which they had written to the sheriff, the cart was withdrawn, and they were launched into eternity, all dying calm and composed. at the end of five minutes after suspension--before life was extinct, and while the body was yet quivering--captain townley was cut down, stripped, and placed on the block, when the hangman with his cleaver severed his head from the body, and then took out his heart and bowels and cast them into the fire. captain dawson underwent the same barbarous treatment; the others in succession shared his fate; and when the heart of the last was thrown into the fire the grim finisher of the law exclaimed, "god save king george!" the assembled crowd answering with a loud shout. connected with this melancholy exhibition an incident is recorded that has a more enduring interest even than the catastrophe itself. among the spectators of the tragic scene was the plighted fair one of captain dawson. when all hope of the royal clemency was at an end the inconsolable young lady, impelled by frenzy and despair, determined upon following her betrothed to the place of execution and witnessing the dreadful spectacle that was to be enacted. accompanied by a relative she, with heroic fortitude, followed the sledges in a hackney coach, beheld the preparations that were being made, watched her lover mount the gallows, and saw his lifeless body cut down and placed upon the block to be mutilated, without betraying any extravagant emotion, but when the executioner flung his victim's heart into the flames the sight was more than human nature could sustain. withdrawing her gaze, she leaned back in the carriage, breathed his name, and was no more. shenstone has made the incident the theme of a ballad which has alike immortalised its hero and its author. the following version, which differs slightly from some of the printed copies, is from percy's "reliques":-- come listen to my mournful tale, ye tender hearts and lovers dear; nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, nor will you blush to shed a tear. and thou, dear kitty, peerless maid, do thou a pensive ear incline; for thou canst weep at every woe, and pity every plaint but mine. young dawson was a gallant youth, a brighter, never trod the plain; and well he lov'd one charming maid, and dearly was he lov'd again. one tender maid, she lov'd him dear; of gentle blood the damsel came, and faultless was her beauteous form, and spotless was her virgin fame. but curse on party's hateful strife that led the favoured youth astray, the day the rebel clans appear'd: o had he never seen that day! their colours and their sash he wore, and in the fatal dress was found; and now he must that death endure, which gives the brave the keenest wound. how pale was then his true love's cheek, when jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! for never yet did alpine snows so pale, or yet so chill appear. with faltering voice she weeping said: "o dawson, monarch of my heart, think not thy death shall end our loves, for thou and i will never part. "yet might sweet mercy find a place, and bring relief to jemmy's woes, o george, without a prayer for thee my orisons should never close. "the gracious prince that gave him life, would crown a never-dying flame, and every tender babe i bore, should learn to lisp the giver's name. "but though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragg'd to yonder ignominious tree, thou shalt not want a faithful friend to share thy bitter fate with thee." o then her mourning coach was call'd, the sledge mov'd slowly on before; though borne in a triumphal car, she had not lov'd her favourite more. she follow'd him prepared to view the terrible behests of law; and the last scene of jemmy's woe with calm and steadfast eye she saw. distorted was that blooming face which she had fondly lov'd so long; and stifled was that tuneful breath which in her praise had sweetly sung. and sever'd was that beauteous neck round which her arms had fondly closed and mangled was that beauteous breast on which her love-sick head reposed; and ravish'd was that constant heart she did to every heart prefer; for though it could its king forget, 'twas true and loyal still to her, amid those unrelenting flames she bore this constant heart to see; but when 'twas moulder'd into dust, "now, now," she cried, "i'll follow thee. "my death, my death alone can show the pure and lasting love i bore; accept, o heaven, of woes like ours, and let us, let us weep no more." the dismal scene was o'er and past, the lover's mournful hearse retired; the maid drew back her languid head, and, sighing forth his name, expired. though justice ever must prevail, the tear my kitty sheds is due; for seldom shall she hear a tale so sad, so tender, and so true. doubts have been entertained as to the genuineness of the story which shenstone has narrated with such simple tenderness and pathos, and a belief expressed that for some of the more tragic details he has had recourse to the poet's licence. but apart from the circumstance that the incident commemorated has been a tradition in each of the three branches of the dawson family, and accepted as an unimpeachable fact, there is extant sufficient contemporary evidence to remove any misgivings as to its authenticity. "seldom shall you hear a tale so sad, so tender, and," as the poet adds, "so true." shenstone, "whose mind," as has been said, "was not very comprehensive, nor his curiosity active," was content to take the event of his song from a narrative first published in the _parrot_ of august , , three days after the "dismal scene" recorded. it is there stated that, "on the young lady being informed that mr. dawson was to be executed, not all the persuasions of her kindred could prevent her from going to the place of execution. she accordingly followed the sledge in a hackney coach, accompanied by a gentleman nearly related to her and a female friend. having arrived at the place of execution, she got near enough to see the fire kindled that was to consume him, and all the other dreadful preparations, without betraying any of those emotions her friends apprehended. but when all was over, and she found he was no more, she drew her head back in the coach, and ejaculating, 'my dear, i follow thee! lord jesus, receive our souls together!' fell on the neck of her companion, and expired the very moment she had done speaking. most excessive grief," the narrative adds, "which the force of her resolution had kept smothered within her breast, is thought to have put a stop to the vital motion, and suffocated at once all the animal spirits." the story is copied from the _parrot_ into the _whitehall evening post_ of august th, , and the remark appended that, "upon inquiry, every circumstance was literally true." it has been repeatedly stated, though incorrectly, that, after the execution, the head of captain dawson, with those of syddall and one of the deacons, was sent down to manchester and spiked upon the old exchange. concerning the final disposition of the relics of poor mortality which were so long left to moulder in the sun and rain--the memorials of a barbarous and unchristian revenge--the following communication was some years ago addressed to mr. proctor, the author of "memorials of manchester streets," and which, though somewhat lengthy, we venture to transcribe:-- i was dining some years ago, with the late dr. s. l. (s. a.?) bardsley. when the cloth was removed, the conversation took a more narrative character than is usual. many personal recollections were told, and at length one of the guests incidentally mentioned the traditions of manchester at the time of the jacobite disturbances. upon this our host observed how singular it was that the authorities of that day had never discovered the persons who had removed from the manchester exchange the heads of jemmy dawson (the hero of shenstone's ballad) and the two deacons which had been exposed there, after their execution, as participators in the jacobite troubles. he added that he was the only person living who could then solve the mystery. he went on to say, that many years previously (i forget the exact date) [ ] he was in attendance upon one miss hale (miss frances hall?) who lived in king street, and who had been a great partisan of charles edward. the old lady, who was then about ninety years of age, and believed herself to be dying, as was in fact the case, dismissed all her attendants from the room except the doctor; and having ascertained from him that she had not many hours to live, told him that her brother, who was then dead, was the person who had removed the heads in question, and that they were then buried in the garden at the back of the house in which she was living. she concluded by making him promise, that when she was gone, he would have them taken up and placed in consecrated ground. i need hardly add that dr. bardsley strictly fulfilled her wishes. three skulls were found in the garden, as she had stated, and they were placed, as i understand, in st. ann's churchyard. this is the more probable as there are now tombs of the deacons to be found there. this note introduces us to a family that for a century or more occupied a prominent position in the society of manchester, and the members of which were in each generation distinguished alike for their public spirit and private worth. richard edward hall, who resided in an old half-timbered house in deansgate, at the corner of bridge-street, and afterwards in hulme, where he died september th, , at the age of ninety, was an eminent surgeon at the time of the pretender's visit, the friend of john byrom[ ] and dr. dawson, and an ardent jacobite withal. two of his sons, edward hall and richard hall, adopted the father's profession, and were surgeons to the infirmary, and it must have been one of them who removed the rebel heads from the exchange. the survivors of the family were their two sisters, frances and elizabeth hall, who remained unmarried, and died at an advanced age, the last-named in , at the age of eighty, and miss frances hall, june th, , aged eighty-four. these two ladies, after their father's death, resided, with the other members of the family, in a house near the top of king street, at the point where spring gardens has lately been carried through; their home was a large old-fashioned dwelling of stately exterior, with a spacious garden extending in rear to chancery lane, and a clump of tall trees, in which a colony of rooks had established themselves. the rookery remained within the recollection of the present generation, and only disappeared when garden and greensward were taken possession of by the builder, and the tumultuous occupants became but a memory of the past. when prince charles edward passed through the town in frances hall was a child in arms, and had in all probability been held up to view the gay cavalcade; her brother edward was then a youth of fourteen, and, inheriting his father's attachment to the exiled race, it is easy to understand his desire to remove from their ignominious position, the ghastly relics of those whose lives had been sacrificed for their devotion to the stuart cause. the halls were as wealthy as they were prominent, and when miss frances hall died in she left by her will no less a sum than £ , to the royal infirmary, house of recovery, lying-in hospital, ladies' jubilee school, and other charities in her native town. she is buried in the derby chapel within the cathedral, where a monument by chantrey was erected to her memory in , which has since been removed to the derby chapel. it is stated in the communication we have quoted that three heads were removed from the exchange--those of jemmy dawson and the two deacons--but this is clearly an error. dawson's head was not exposed in manchester, and there is no record of more than two being placed upon the exchange--those of adjutant syddall and captain thomas theodorus deacon. in the constable's accounts for the year the cost of placing them is thus recorded:-- : expenses tending the sheriff this morning for syddall's and deacon's heads put up. and it is worthy of note that when the exchange was pulled down in the two iron rods on which they had been spiked remained fixed in one of the stones. the statements that have come down to us respecting the disposal of the heads of the unhappy jacobites are singularly vague and conflicting. baines adopts the oft-repeated statement that the head of colonel townley, with that of captain fletcher, another officer of the manchester regiment, was fixed on temple bar, the "city golgotha" as it came to be called; but this statement, so far as townley is concerned, is incorrect, that part of his sentence having, at the intercession of friends, been remitted, and an undertaker at pancras allowed to take charge of his corpse, by whom it was buried. there were, however, two heads exposed on the bar; one of them was captain fletcher's, and there is good reason to believe that the other was that of captain dawson. walpole, writing to montague, august , , says:--"i have been this morning at the tower, and passed under the new heads at temple bar, where people make a trade of letting spying-glasses at a halfpenny a look." for several weeks people flocked to the revolting exhibition, which afforded to many a savage pleasure, and a print, published at the time, gives a view of temple bar with the heads spiked on the top, and the following doggrel lines beneath:-- while trembling rebels at the fabric gaze, and dread their fate with horror and amaze, let briton's sons the emblematic view, and plainly see what is rebellion's due. dr. johnson relates the impression which the sight of these trunkless heads made upon him. "i remember," he says, "once being with goldsmith in westminster abbey. while he surveyed poet's corner, i said to him-- forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur illis. when we got to the temple bar, he stopped me, pointed to the heads upon it, and slily whispered-- forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur _istis_." goldsmith's rejoinder is so charmingly witty that we make no apology for repeating it. after this we have little mention of these relics of the victims of hanoverian vengeance--the lips that love had kissed, the cheeks that children had patted were left to blacken and rot until the st of march, , when one of the heads was blown down, and shortly afterwards the remaining one was also swept down by a stormy gust; the cruel-looking spikes, however, remained until the beginning of the present century, when they were removed, and since then the bar itself, with its ponderous gates--black, weather-worn, and dilapidated--successively a protection, an ornament, and an obstruction, have disappeared, and is now only remembered as belonging to the past. the sun of the stuarts went down with the rout and slaughter of the rebel army at culloden. on that memorable th of april, , a dynastic contest of fifty-seven years was conclusively ended in less than fifty-seven minutes; the visions of thrones and sceptres vanished, the hopes and aspirations of the youthful adventurer were blighted, and he who, one short hour before, had been a nominal king, was reduced to the condition of a luckless and forlorn outcast, shunned by every one except those who sought his destruction. though the friends of the exiled house adhered to their mystically significant toasts, drank "the king over the water," and sang "the king shall enjoy his own again," jacobitism as a principle, may from that time be said to have waned, and to have become extinct as a profession of faith with the death of charles edward in ; for though the prince's younger brother, cardinal york, issued a medal bearing his name as "_henricus nonus dei gratia rex_," with the meek addition, "_haud desideriis hominum, sed voluntate dei_," his assumption of the regal title excited little interest or feeling among the english people. the jacobites had a firm belief in the right divine of kings, and viewed the case of the stuarts as that of a family deprived of its rights by unjust means. influenced by that belief, their conduct in seeking to affect a restoration of the dynasty was both logical and generous. the effort they made in was in many respects a brilliant one, but it was out of time; the house of brunswick had then become firmly seated upon the throne, and there was little chance of effecting its overthrow. from the first the enterprise was hopeless; the country gentlemen sympathised with it, but the great mass of the people were indifferent and had certainly no attachment or prejudice in favour of the house of stuart. but while we may condemn an attempt dictated by youth and presumption, and conducted without art or resolution, we cannot but admire the heroic efforts, and pity the sufferings of those engaged in it. though the hope of a restoration of the exiled family was finally extinguished, the bitterness of party feeling long continued to manifest itself in manchester, where political and religious excitement was maintained at fever heat by the two contending factions. the partisans of the house of brunswick had regained the ascendancy; inflamed with the sense of victory, they made an ostentatious parade of their loyalty, and in their exultation treated their opponents with every contumely, accounting jacobites, tories, and non-jurors as the equivalent of jews, infidels, and heretics. the local magistrates were energetic in the discharge of their office, and as severe as they were energetic, everyone whose hanoverian sympathies were not of the most pronounced character being compelled by them to take the oath of allegiance to the reigning sovereign. but the fiercest feuds must some time come to an end, for society cannot continue in a state of perpetual antagonism; if party principles were maintained, party feeling gradually subsided, and king _de facto_ men and partisans of the pretender eventually laid aside their differences and settled down to the calm enjoyment of social intercourse and the ordinary amenities of civilised life. with the suppression of the rebellion and the renewal of active business life we may leave the story of the "'forty-five," with all its painful memories, to note some few particulars respecting the family of the luckless jemmy dawson. dr. dawson, the father of the rebel captain, as previously stated, had his town residence in the upper part of king street--but then known as st. james's square--a fashionable quarter, intended, originally, to be what the name imported, a square, and a rival in stateliness and substantial dignity, to the one lower down, named after the hanoverian queen. in addition, he had become the owner of a house called the "cottage," which stood in the fields near the site of the present concert hall--a pleasant out of-town abode, with a walled garden, orchard, and pleasure ground, contiguous to which, on the high ground called the mount, stood an antiquated windmill that gave name to windmill street; mosley street, which commemorates the former manorial lords, and "the most elegant and retired street in the town," as dr. dalton afterwards described it, was then mosley street only in name, and the narrow alleys and streetlets leading into it had not come into existence. the lower part of the street, from the present nicholas street to st. peter's church (erected many years afterwards), was then called dawson street, and led directly to mr. dawson's house, standing within its own grounds in the open country. when the street came to be built upon, it was inhabited by some of the best families in the town, and numbered at one time among its residents nathan meyer rothschild and the well-known major shakspeare phillips. mr. dawson's family consisted, in addition to the ill-starred subject of shenstone's ballad, of a son, william dawson, and two daughters, elizabeth and sarah. in the earlier years of his married life there was residing with him a lady, the circumstances of whose life are shrouded in much mystery--the lady barbara fitzroy, one of the daughters of charles duke of cleveland by his second wife, ann, daughter of sir william pulteney, of misterton, in leicestershire--a lady in whose veins coursed the blood of the stuarts, the duke, her father, being one of the children which charles ii. had by the notorious lady castlemaine, a vain and volatile beauty, whose pretty face helped to undo a nation. lady fitzroy had withdrawn from her own family when she took up her abode with the dawsons, but the circumstances which led to the alienation and her being disowned by her mother are not known, and we fail to discover by what means her fortunes became identified with those of the family of "jemmy dawson," though, doubtless, the connection helped to strengthen his attachment to the stuart cause. she was born february th, - , and died january th, , in her th year. robert thyer, the accomplished scholar and critic, writing to john byrom under date january th, - , says "my lady barbara fitzroy, that lived with mrs. dawson, and mrs. mort were both buried this week. my lady has made mr. dawson her heir, if he can but come at the money." mr. dawson did not "come at the money," and neither he nor any of his family benefited by lady barbara's benevolent intentions. she is buried in the choir of the cathedral, where upon her gravestone, is a brass with the inscription-- lady barbara fitz roy, eldest daughter of the most noble charles duke of cleveland and southampton. died january th, . above the inscription on a lozenge shield are the arms of charles ii., differenced with a baton sinister flanked on each side with the usual emblems of mortality, a skull, cross-bones, winged hour-glass and scythe, and a candle nearly extinguished. dr. dawson died at his house in king-street, then called st. james's street, march th, . he is buried in the cathedral by the side of his wife (who died before her son came to his tragic end) and one of his daughters. the gravestone is inscribed-- guls. dawson de mancr. gen. ob. mo mar. a.s. , æt . eliz. ux. gul. dawson ob maij anno salutis , ætatis suæ . saræ filia prædic. obt. mo maij . mr. dawson was succeeded by his second but eldest surviving son, william dawson, who, as previously stated, had entered at lincoln's inn and been called to the bar. he resided at the "cottage" before referred to, and from the little that is known respecting him appears to have been a somewhat eccentric personage. when john byrom's son, edward byrom, the banker, established himself in quay street and conceived the idea of founding st. john's church, mr. dawson associated with him in the good work, but from some cause or other a dispute arose which led him to withdraw from the undertaking after contributing to the cost of the erection. while travelling in italy he had purchased the picture by annibal carracci of "the descent from the cross," which he intended should grace the altar recess of st. john's, but when the misunderstanding arose the intention was abandoned, and some years after his death, when st. peter's was erected in close proximity to his house, and became, by the attractiveness of its services, if not the carriage-way to heaven, at least the shrine to which the "fashionable idlers" and "genteel sinners" of mosley street and dawson street turned their steps one day in seven, the picture was placed there, over the communion table, where it still remains. several years before his death he had engaged mr. bottomley, an engraver in the town, to inscribe the plate which he purposed having placed over his remains, and this, according to dr. hibbert-ware, he kept in his room as a memento until the day of his death. _sapiens, qui, dum vivat sibi monumentum parat._ he died unmarried at "the cottage, near the mount," on thursday, the th august, , and was buried on the following sunday in the grave in which forty-six years before his friend and patron lady barbara fitzroy had been laid. the plate before referred to, which is placed on the lower compartment of the stone, bears the following inscription:-- here are deposited the remains of william dawson, esq., who died the th day of august, , and in the th year of his age. he desired to be buried with the above named lady, not only to testify his gratitude to the memory of a kind benefactress: although he never reaped any of those advantages from her bounty to his family she intended. but because his fate was similar to her's. for she was disowned by her mother. and he was disinherited by his father. above the inscription is a shield of arms and crest, but, by some unaccountable mistake, instead of the dawson's those of the allens of redivales are depicted, a family from which mr. dawson was descended through the female line. in mr. barritt's mss. in the chetham library we have the following particulars respecting mr. dawson:-- this gentleman was buried agreeably to his request, in the following dress, ruffled shirt, and cravat, nightcap of brown fur, morning gown striped orange and white, deep crimson-coloured waistcoat and breeches, white silk stockings, and red morocco slippers. in his bosom was put a folded piece of white paper, which enclosed two locks of hair cut from the heads of two boys that died, for whom mr. dawson had a great regard; they being the children of mr. cooper, his steward, with whom mr. dawson liv ed, and likewise became his heir at his death. nothing is known of the circumstance that led to the differences between mr. dawson and his father; the breach, however, would seem never to have been healed, and the son, as the inscription on his grave evidences, retained an unpleasant recollection of it to the last. mr. dawson was a prominent figure in the manchester society of the last century, and many were the stories that used to be told of his foibles and peculiarities. by his will he bequeathed the greater part of his property to mr. william cooper, the steward referred to in barritt's mss., and constituted him his sole executor. mr. cooper thus became the owner and occupier of the "cottage," which thenceforward became commonly known as "cooper's cottage," a name it retained until half a century ago, when it was pulled down to make room for the present concert hall; and as the patronymic of its former possessor was commemorated in dawson-street, so, in like manner, cooper-street perpetuates the name of its subsequent owner. in concluding our account of the dawsons it only remains to notice one other member of the family,--elizabeth, the younger of the two daughters of dr. dawson. the eldest daughter, sarah, as we have seen, died unmarried in ; elizabeth dawson married some time before march , , william broome, the representative of a family which had then been settled for half a century or more at didsbury, and the heads of which held the position of legal agents to sir john bland, of hulme, and also of the barlows, of barlow hall. tradition points to this lady, "bessy dawson," as the one who accompanied "jemmy dawson's" affianced bride on the morning of the sad th of july, , to witness the terrible tragedy to be enacted on kennington common, and the same authority tells us that afterwards, having formed an attachment for the handsome young lawyer of didsbury, and failing to obtain her father's consent to the match, she eloped with him and was married clandestinely, a procedure which gave such offence to her father that he never forgave her. the first part of this statement has such an air of probability about it that we would not willingly spoil the effect by questioning its accuracy, but the story of the elopement does not appear to rest upon any reliable foundation. elizabeth dawson died february, . by her marriage with william broome she had several children; the eldest, named after his father, married and had issue a daughter, mary, his heir, who became the wife of henry fielding, of didsbury, and by him had a son, robert fielding, who married ann, eldest daughter of sir john parker mosley, of ancoats. the eldest son by this marriage was the rev. robert mosley fielding, rector of bebbington, in cheshire, who died in , leaving with other issue a son--lieutenant-colonel robert fielding, of dulas court, hereford, high sheriff of that county in , who is the present representative of this branch of the fieldings, as well as of the old manchester families of broome and dawson. colonel fielding married in his second cousin, louisa willis, fifth daughter of joseph fielding, of witton park, formerly m.p. for blackburn, and sister of major-general randle joseph fielding, m.p. for north lancashire, by whom he has a numerous issue. in thus relating the story of "jemmy dawson," we have endeavoured to rescue from oblivion some few particulars respecting the life and family connections of one of the most notable of the manchester victims of hanoverian vengeance, and one whose tragic end forms a dark page in the history of the fatal ' . chapter viii. a morning at little moreton. in that interesting old national record, the dome bock, or doomsday book, as it is commonly called--a survey which william the norman caused to be made of all the possessions of the crown, and which for eight hundred years has been a perpetual register of appeal for those whose title to their estates has at any time been questioned--mention is made of the township or ville of rode, which even at a period so remote as the saxon era, as appears, had been divided into the two manors of moreton and rode, places that at a subsequent date gave names to two distinct families. moreton, or little moreton, as it is usually designated, to distinguish it from the adjoining township of moreton-cum-aucumlow, or great moreton, is situated at the extreme corner of cheshire, in the midst of rich level meadow-breadths that stretch away from the foot of the wild moorland ridge that here divides the county from staffordshire--a spur, so to speak, thrown out from the lofty pennine range, or "back-bone of england," and which, in olden times, was included within the limits of the great forests of leek and macclesfield. these bold outliers of sandstone rock, from their coarse conglomerate and smoothly-rounded outlines towards the plain, show unmistakably that they were deposited in water and moulded to their present form by the great icebergs that in the glacial period swept past and ground down their rugged forms to mix with and enrich the soil below. picturesque are they in appearance as they stretch away towards the north in wild heathery wastes, where, in the pleasant autumn time, the "hech-hech" of the startled grouse and the sound of the sportsman's gun may oftentimes be heard. just above little moreton the well-known mow cop[ ]--the "high-crowned mole cop," as michael drayton calls it--rises to a height of , feet, its summit crested with an imitation ruin that, as tradition says, was built by randle wilbraham, of rode, nearly a century and a half ago; and further north the range terminates in the bold promontory of cloud end, which descends in a series of steep shelving crags towards the dane, a gentle stream that comes down from the hills near bosley, and, after performing some little acts of industry at congleton, and receiving the indignities of that ancient borough in return, wanders freakishly onwards to add its tribute to the waters of the weaver. the notice in the norman survey, brief though it is, gives us a side glance of the condition of the country in the far off days of gurth and wamba; it tells us of the woods that spread over the hill sides, of the aerie for hawks, and of the enclosures for taking wild deer; and as we read it we picture in imagination the wild scenes of sylvan solitude when the serfs and bondmen of the saxon thegn tended their herds beneath the wide-branched oaks, and the swineherd, winding his horn, gathered his scattered porkers to fatten on the luxurious banquet of acorns and beech-mast which the forest supplied. as ben jonson, in the "sad shepherd," says: like a prince of swineherds! syke he seeks delight in the spoils of those he feeds, a mighty lord of swine! but the reign of the country-loving saxon came to an end. when william of normandy came out of the gory field of senlac a victor, and strengthened his claim to the english throne by his military successes, he, in conformity with existing usage, seized upon the lands of the vanquished harold and his adherents, and bestowed them upon the hordes of needy adventurers who had in truth placed the crown upon his head, and who looked for their recompense in the unreserved plunder of the saxon people; for the chief having taken what he could by force of arms, the knights who helped him took what they could of what was left: _chascun sur sa main forte_: the saxons were to them, in fact, what the arabs call "damalafong," things to be plundered, and plundered they were by the unanswerable right of "_la main forte_," the strong norman hand. the earldom of chester was granted by the conqueror to that pious profligate hugh d'avranches, better know from his savage characteristics as hugh lupus, or hugh the wolf, and he in turn distributed the lands among his feudatory followers. rode has its reminiscences of the predatory adventurers who accompanied duke william, for at the time of the survey it had been wrested from the possession of its saxon owner and had passed into the hands of two norman grantees, hugh de mara, progenitor of the barons of montalt, and william fitznigel, baron of halton, a grandson, it is said, of that ivo de constance who encountered the english whom king ethelred sent to france and slew them as they stepped ashore. the manor of moreton was held under the barony of halton by knight service by a family who took their surname from their possessions. some time during the long reign of henry iii. letitia or lettice moreton, who, through failure of the direct male line, had become heiress, conveyed the lands in marriage to a neighbouring knight, sir gralam de lostock, of lostock gralam, near northwich, the fourth in direct descent from another norman warrior, hugh de runchamp; and their grandson, also named gralam, adopted his grandmother's patronymic. from this time the estate continued in strict male descent until the time of sir william moreton, knight, recorder of london, who died childless in march, , when the estates passed by will to his sister's son, the rev. richard taylor, rector of west dean and vicar of west firle, in sussex, who, in accordance with his uncle's directions, assumed the surname of moreton. he died in , leaving, with two daughters, a son who succeeded as heir, the rev. william moreton, who died some few years ago, leaving two daughters his co-heiresses, frances annabella, of maison moreton, pau, in france, widow of john craigie, esq., formerly sheriff-substitute of roxburghshire, and elizabeth moreton, a sister of mercy at clewer, near windsor, the present owners of the moreton moiety of the manor of rode, and the picturesque old moated manor house that forms the subject of our present paper. as already stated, the other moiety of the manor of rode gave name to a family who were settled there as early as the reign of king john. whether they were descended, like the moretons, from the lostocks of lostock gralam, as mr. ormerod seems to believe, is not very clear, but if they were their kinship did not strengthen the ties of friendship or put them on more neighbourly terms with each other, for the recognisance rolls and other public records bear testimony to the frequent feuds that arose between the two families, and tell of the many occasions on which the chiefs of each house were bound over in heavy recognisances to keep the peace towards each other. one of their disputes was of a sufficiently humorous character to make it worth recording. in the chancel of astbury church is a chapel or side aisle that appears to have belonged jointly to the two manors, and in the fifth year of henry the eighth's reign a quarrel arose between william moreton and thomas rode, the owners of two moieties, as to "which should sit highest in the church, and foremost goo in procession." it was a weighty matter, and sir william brereton was eventually entrusted by george bromley, lieutenant justice of chester, who had been joined with him in the arbitration, with the responsibility of determining which of these sticklers for precedence should have the highest seat in the synagogue, and, as we learn from the award, which is printed at length in the _magna britannia_, "the said william brereton, calling to him xii. of the most auncyent men inhabiting within the parish of astebery," somewhat comically decided "that whyther of the said gentylmen may dispende in landes, by title of inheritance, marks or above more than the other, that he shall have the pre-eminence in sitting in the churche, and in gooing in procession, with all other lyke causes in that behalf;" a decision that is worthy of being classed with the direction given a few years later ( ) by one of the townleys of townley, who, when called upon to issue an order regulating precedence to the seats in whalley church, in lancashire, decreed that the earliest comers should take precedence in the highest seats nearest the choir, observing that it might operate beneficially on "the proud wives of whalley," who would not "rise betimes to come to church." the award signed by sir william brereton is preserved among the archives of the moreton family, but which of the disputants outdid the other in liberality--acquiring priority by purchase--history hath failed to record. the william moreton who was a party to this pretty quarrel married alice, one of the daughters of sir andrew brereton, lord of brereton, by whom he had, with other issue, a son, william moreton, born a year or two after the accession of henry viii., and there is good reason to believe that he was the one who began the erection of the present manor house of little moreton on the site of an earlier building, his son, john moreton, who died about the end of elizabeth's reign, completing the work the father had begun. a grandson of this john moreton, dr. edward moreton, who was rector of tattenhall, barrow, and sephton, married a niece of william laud, archbishop of canterbury, and by her was father of the right reverend william moreton, bishop of kildare, in ireland, and afterwards bishop of meath, who died in dublin, november st, , leaving an only son, sir william moreton, of moreton, recorder of london, before referred to, the last of the direct male line who owned the manor. there were formerly in the moreton chapel in astbury church some altar tombs and other sepulchral memorials of this ancient race, but these have, in the course of ages, disappeared, with the exception of a monumental slab, east of the altar steps, which bears an inscription to the memory of the last male representative of the stock--"sir william moreton knt. recorder of the city of london, who died march aged and his wife dame jane moreton (widow of john lawton of lawton) who died february aged ." on the same tomb there is also an inscription to the memory of sir william's mother, dame mary jones, who died april th, , aged , the second wife of william moreton, of moreton, who afterwards married sir arthur jones. king, in his "vale royal," referring to the ancestral home of the moretons, says:--"near the foot of that famous mountain called mow cop begins the water of the whelock, making his first passage near unto moreton, wherein are two very fair demeans and houses of worthy gentlemen and esquires, of most antient continuance--the one of the same name of moreton, and which, as i have heard, gave breeding to that famous bishop moreton, who in the time of richard iii. contrived that project of the marriage of the two heirs of the houses of york and lancaster, from whence proceeded the happiness that we enjoy at this day." the old chronicler is here alluding to cardinal john moreton, or morton, master of the rolls in , created bishop of ely and lord chancellor in , and archbishop of canterbury in . sir thomas more, who was well qualified to appreciate his character, has given an account of this prelate in his "utopia." godwin and fuller both incline to the opinion that he was a native of dorsetshire, but differ as to the exact place of his birth, the former fixing it at bere regis and the other at st. andrew's, milborne; others say he was born in cheshire, but there is no evidence, so far as can be discovered, confirmatory of king's statement that the old manor house at moreton "gave breeding to that famous bishop." from mow cop to little moreton is but a few minutes' walk. it may be reached by a short path across the fields or by the high road--the london road of the old coaching days, leading through congleton and the potteries--which is a little more circuitous, though not much. the country is for the most part level, the base of the hills being a mile or so to the eastward, and, though not pre-eminently beautiful or impressive, presents nevertheless many charms of situation and rural and scenic attractions enough to leave a pleasant impress upon the memory. the land is devoted to crops and pasture, and the pleasant green lanes winding in sun and shadow between meadows and corn lands, with glimpses here and there of rustic cottages and blooming apple orchards, call up thoughts and fancies ever new and ever beautiful. it was a bright, clear morning, near the close of the pleasant autumn time, when our visit was made; a cheery november day, with an exhilarating freshness in the atmosphere that made us almost think the mild october was trying to hold its own, though the drift of withered leaves that crackled beneath our feet, the tall trees half stripped of their vernal pride, and the naked underwood and brambles told unmistakably that summer had passed away, and that winter was rapidly advancing in the background to-- reign triumphant o'er the conquer'd year. the red leaves rent from the shivering branches descended in flaky showers, reminding us of william allingham's lines on "robin redbreast"-- bright yellow, red, and orange, the leaves come down in hosts; the trees are indian princes, but soon they'll turn to ghosts; the leathery pears and apples hang russet on the bough, it's autumn, autumn, autumn late, 'twill soon be winter now. turning off the highway a gate admits us to a private road that leads across a pasture field in which a few stirks and young stock are grazing; the tall trees that border it, divested of their summer garniture, look gaunt and grim and bare; the intricate network of twigs overhead shows like a pattern in lace against the sky, and their nakedness reveals to us the many happy nests that in the warm summer time were upon those boughs, which shake against the cold-- bare, ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. below us a little rindle that comes down from the neighbouring heights, courses its way with many a freakish twist and sinuosity, and in front the long moorland ridge, sullen and sombre looking, stretches across the plain towards congleton edge and the gigantic cloud, its rugged slopes softened in places with patches of scrub and gorse. a few minutes brings us in full view of the curious old mansion we are in search of--the "old hall" as it is called, to distinguish it from the more pretentious residence hard by, which has vainly endeavoured to assume its name. it attracts the eye from a distance, but it is not until you are close upon it that you fully realise the effect of its picturesquely broken outlines, its projecting upper storeys and numerous gabled roofs, its quaint casemented windows, its curious columnar chimneys partially draped with ivy, and its walls chequered in black and white and diapered in patterns wrought in trefoils and quatrefoils and chevrons and lozenges upon the white ground of intervening plaster. it is a singularly interesting specimen of the half-timbered manor-house of the early part of the sixteenth century, and, though in a decayed and dilapidated state, still preserves more nearly its original form and features than perhaps any other example of domestic architecture of equal antiquity in the country. drawing near we see that it is encompassed by a moat, now partially choked with rubbish, which encloses altogether about a statute acre of land, and which on the south side is spanned by an antiquated bridge of one arch, with the arms of its owners carved in relief on a panel in one of the battlements. the south side constitutes the principal front, and presents a surprising variety and fancifulness in its parts. it is of three storeys, the uppermost being much narrower than the others, and rising like the clerestory of a church from the sloping roof of the lower apartments. from near the centre of the main structure a lofty gable is advanced towards the bridge, the ground story of which forms a covered gateway, giving admission to the inner quadrangle. the doorway merits special attention by the richness and profusion of its carvings; the framework enclosing the door is composed of an elaborate series of round, fillet, and hollow mouldings, and the huge outer posts are worked with double cable mouldings, enclosing an elaborate scroll work of foliage, the frieze above, which is supported by double brackets, having a running ornament of arabesque character. above this doorway, divided by dwarf pilasters, is a double row of panels, with trefoiled heads, the spandrels of which are in each case enriched with carved work, and in one of them is placed an horologe of antique date. surmounting them is a large square window, lighting the porch chamber, divided by moulded mullions into five rows of lights, double transomed. in the storey above, which slightly projects from a coved cornice, is another window of similar character but of larger dimensions: an overhanging gable with barge boards and carved pendants crowning the whole. the general effect of the exterior is light and graceful, exhibiting that picturesque irregularity of outline so favourable to external beauty which our ancestors knew how to produce without unnecessary sacrifice of internal comfort. as we cross the threshold our attention is drawn to an old stone horse block standing in a corner behind the gate, from which, doubtless, in days gone by, many a stately matron and many a graceful maiden has mounted to her palfrey to follow hawk and hound. a door opens on each side of the gateway, one communicating with some small rooms, and the other admitting to a small chamber that has evidently served as the porter's lodge. at the opposite end, entering into the quadrangle, is a wide doorway, the sideposts of which are deserving of special notice; they are elaborately ornamented, the upper portion of each being adorned with the carved representation of a soldier holding a partisan or bill in his hand; and from the morion or head piece and the other accessories, we are able to fix pretty nearly the period when this part of the mansion was built. within the covered porch a stair winds spirally round the trunk of an immense tree that reaches from floor to roof, giving admission to several panelled chambers--the state rooms, as they are commonly designated, though, alas! they have now little stateliness to boast of--and also to the gallery occupying the third or uppermost storey of the south front, extending, with the exception of a small withdrawing room, the entire length of that part of the building from east to west. the length of this gallery is seventy-one feet, with a width of twelve feet, and the height to the centre of the roof, which is of open timber work adorned with quatrefoils, is seventeen feet. the lower portions of the walls are covered with oak wainscoting, arranged in panels, and above is a continuous line of windows extending all round, with the exception of a space in the centre, where a small chamber projects over the gateway, the profusion of light thus gained reminding us of lord bacon's complaint that in his day the houses "were so full of glass that you cannot tell where to come to be out of the sun or the cold." the glazing of these windows is very remarkable; it is arranged in a kind of diaper work, and exhibits a marvellous variety of intricate forms. scratched with a diamond on one of the panes we noticed the following couplet-- i stay here both day and night to keep out cold and let in light. the long gallery bears a close resemblance to the one formerly existing at bramall hall, near stockport, and, though smaller, is not unlike in its proportions and general arrangement the grand gallery or banqueting hall at haddon. it is difficult to determine what purpose it could have been intended to serve, for the width is hardly sufficient to allow of its being used for a dancing room. at the east end is a female figure representing fate, holding a pair of compasses in one hand and in the other a sword, with which she is piercing a globe placed above her head, the following inscription being carved in two panel-like compartments; one on either side:-- the speare whose ruler of destinye is knowledge. at the opposite end is another female figure in flowing drapery representing fortune blindfolded, with the right hand raised above the head pointing to her wheel, on the rim of which is inscribed--_qui modo scandit corruet statim_ (he who is climbing now will shortly be falling down), and at the sides are two panels inscribed-- the wheele whose rule is of fortune ignorance. the small chamber leading from the gallery before referred to is wainscoted, and has an elaborately ornamented fireplace with the figures of justice and mercy on the sides, and between them a heraldic shield with the arms of moreton quartering those of macclesfield and surmounted by the moreton crest, the quartering having allusion to the marriage of john de moreton in the reign of edward iii. with margaret, daughter of jordan and sister and co-heir of john de macclesfield. projecting at right angles from the building just described, and forming the eastern side of the quadrangle, is a long uniform wing of two storeys, extending up to the main body of the hall, and containing a number of small gloomy apartments now covered with dirt and dust and litter, and apparently appropriated originally to the use of the servants and retainers. at the end nearest to the entrance is the domestic chapel, extending in a direction east and west; it is approached by a separate entrance, and is of small dimensions compared with the other parts of the building, suggesting the idea that in former times the good people of moreton, while taking up a very considerable amount of space for the transaction of their temporal concerns, were able to manage their spiritual affairs within extremely moderate limits. the entire length of the structure is thirty feet, but the chapel proper is not more than twelve feet by nine feet. the old sanctuary is now in a sadly dilapidated condition, and damp and dreary enough to remind one of longfellow's lines-- what a darksome and dismal place! i wonder that any man has the face to call such a hole the house of the lord. the pavement is broken and dislocated, the walls are stained with damp and mildew, and altogether it exhibits signs of indifference and unseemly disrespect enough to sear the eye and grieve the heart of any one in whom the sense of veneration is not entirely extinguished. it is now made a depository for useless lumber, and has been applied to even baser uses, cattle having been stalled, where of yore the mass was sung and matins and vespers were said. this part of the hall is approached by an ante-chapel, the doorway of which is enriched with a series of half-round and hollow mouldings of late perpendicular date; a part of the old oak screen separating the chancel from the nave remains, but from the upper portion, where the rood formerly existed, a plastered wall is carried up to the roof, which is flat and worked in panels. at the further, or eastern, end is a pointed window divided by mullions into five lights carried up to the head with a drip-mould protecting it on the outside. at the opposite end is a small square-headed window of four lights, and there are indications of another window having at some time or other existed on the south side. the plaster work of the chapel is enriched with an ornamentation of renaissance character, and the walls in places are strewn with scripture texts in black letter characters and of earlier date than the authorised version, but they are now so much defaced as to be hardly decipherable. between architecture and history there exists a closer connection than is commonly supposed, for the former subtly expresses the needs, the habits, and the ideas of changeful centuries, epitomises much of the poetry and romance of the past, and marks the gradual growth and development of human society during successive centuries. in england's homes we may read much of england's history--the old dwelling-places of the people are the types and emblems of the changing life of the country, and even in their decay, when having outlived their vital purpose and they survive only in ruin, they serve as memorials to show us how men lived and acted in the days that are gone before. little moreton, though not one of the most pretentious, is certainly one of the most complete and genuine relics of mediæval england. the exterior, as we have previously said, is remarkable for the variety and picturesqueness of grouping, but the interior is even more interesting. the master feature of the whole building, and that which most attracts the attention of visitors, is the portion extending along the north side of the quadrangle comprising the entrance, the great hall, and the principal entertaining-rooms. the effect of the entire facade, as viewed from the gateway, is very striking, and it is doubtful whether, for variety of design, peculiarity of construction, and excellence of workmanship, it is equalled by any other timber house in the kingdom. upon this part the architect seems to have lavished all his ingenuity and skill, and to have endeavoured to combine as much lightness and delicacy of detail as was consistent with stability of structure. projecting from the main line of frontage are two singularly picturesque bay-windows, each forming five sides of an octagon, but of unequal dimensions. they are each of two storeys, the upper range of windows overhang the lower, and they are in turn surmounted by projecting roofs that form a series of small gablets, from which hang elaborately-ornamented pendants. the glazing of these windows, as in the case of those in the long gallery before referred to, is very remarkable, the panes being small and joined together by slips of lead in such a way as to represent stars, crosses, roses, and other devices as varied in form as the figures in a kaleidoscope. on a band ornamented with scroll-work carried round the upper tiers are the following inscriptions:-- god is al in al thing this windovs whire made by william moreton in the yeare of oure lorde mdlii rychard dale carpeder made theis by the grace of go doubtless "rychard dale" was proud of the work to which he affixed his name, and just cause he had to be. it looks as if the taste of a life-time had been expended upon it, the delicate mouldings and rich carving evidencing the skill of the workman, and proving incontestably that our ancestors knew how to impart grace and elegance to whatever material they might employ in the useful or ornamental purposes of architecture. beautiful it must have been in its pristine state, but it could hardly have possessed the charm of romance or have been so picturesque to look upon then as now. time lovingly clothes with added beauty the decayed memorials of the past, and the peculiar warmth and richness of colouring which age has given--the sombre tints of the oaken framework, the creamy white of the plaster, the faded reds and yellows of the old roofs, and the sober green of the dark-hued ivy wrapping itself round the tall chimney-shafts being wanting in the days of its proud estate. the entrance is by a porch, occupying the north-east corner, and advanced several feet from the main structure. what a wonderful old doorway it is that we pass through. on those clustered and twisted pillars that form the side posts richard dale, the "carpeder," seems to have lavished his greatest skill, every part of the timber work where the carver's tool could be employed being wrought with all the nicety of art; the spandrels of the low tudor arch are adorned with figures of dragons, and the lintel over them has a running zig-zag ornament carved in relief. the space above is occupied with a double row of exquisitely-carved and moulded dwarf pilasters, the spaces between being filled in with quatrefoils, while over them, springing from a coved cornice, is a projecting window that reaches across the entire width of the bay, surmounted by a gabled roof. from the doorway a passage leads across the western end of the main structure, communicating on the one side with the kitchens, buttery, and other domestic offices, and on the other with the great hall which faces the entrance gateway. it is a spacious apartment ft. by ft., exclusive of the large bay which projects far out into the court-yard, and is open to the roof-timbers. it is in much better condition than the other parts of the fabric, and if adorned with tapestry, arms and armour, and family portraits would resume much of its original character. in the earlier days of the moretons it was the principal entertaining-room, and many a scene of boisterous revelry has doubtless been witnessed within its walls in the days when "the two-hooped pot" was indeed "a four-hooped pot," and it was accounted fell felony to drink small beer. though its glories are greatly faded, it is still a magnificent feature of the old mansion, and, being in part used as a living room by the present tenant, is better cared for than the parts unoccupied; it retains, too, indications of old english hospitality that once prevailed in its huge fireplace, and the ponderous dining table of carved oak, imposing in its very massiveness, and as antiquated in appearance as the building itself. the screen that once separated the room from the vestibule and the kitchens, and that customary appendage of an ancient dining hall, the musicians' gallery, which doubtless once existed, have gone with it. a cursory examination of the construction of the projecting oriel is sufficient to show that it forms no part of the original structure, but was added at a later date. in one of the lights is the heraldic coat of the moretons, a greyhound statant. a passage behind the hall conducts to the parlour or drawing-room, ft. long and ft. wide. like the dining hall, it is lighted by a bold oriel looking into the quadrangle; the walls are wainscoted, and the roof is covered with oak panelling arranged in squares. the fireplace is spacious, and reaches from floor to roof; in the space above the opening is displayed the heraldic insignia of queen elizabeth--france (modern) and england, quarterly with the lion and dragon as supporters--an achievement that by a curious mistake mr. markland (britton's architectural antiquities, v. ii., p. ) has described as that of john o'gaunt, duke of lancaster. the window still retains some other of its ancient heraldic blazonries, among them being a shield representing the coat of brereton with its quarterings, placed there doubtless in compliment to alice, daughter of sir andrew brereton, of brereton, the mother of william moreton, whose name is inscribed above the windows on the exterior. in one of the lights appears a greyhound, the coat of moreton, and in another the crest of the family--a greyhound's head couped and collared with a twisted wreath. there is also displayed the red rose and crown, the badge of lancaster, to the princes of which house the moretons, as military tenants, owed allegiance. a room of somewhat smaller dimensions opens out of the drawing-room, and there are several chambers on the upper story that merit examination. the glass in the windows of these rooms, as in the case of those below, exhibits the same variety of pattern, and they are rendered additionally interesting by the names and inscriptions traced upon the panes by former occupants and guests. on one of them is written the names of "jonath'n woodnothe" and "marie woodnothe," with the date , and beneath is the following couplet-- man can noe more know weomen's mind by kaire then by her shadow hede ye what clothes shee weare. jonathan woodnoth was the heir of shavington, and married mary, elder daughter of william moreton, of moreton, but what made him so spiteful against womankind is a mystery that is likely to remain for ever unsolved. there are in other places the signatures of "somerford oldfield of apr. ;" "henry mainwaring. all change i scorne;" and "margaret moreton aug. ;" the last named being doubtless the niece of archbishop laud, who married edward moreton, and was sister-in-law of mary woodnoth. though there is no evidence of the date when the present mansion was erected, the mouldings and other architectural features show clearly that it cannot be of earlier date than that of the first of the tudor sovereigns; probably, it was built upon the site of a more ancient structure in the later years of henry vii.'s reign, and most likely by the william moreton who married the daughter of sir andrew brereton, and that the house needing repair, or the space being too circumscribed, his son and successor, also a william moreton, half a century later of thereabouts, added the beautiful oriel windows that give so much character to the house, completing them, as the inscription on the outside testifies, in . within the moated enclosure, near the north-west angle, is a circular mound on which is placed a sun dial, and there were, according to lysons, formerly standing in front of the house the steps of an ancient cross much resembling those at lymm, but they were removed about the year . there is a tradition current in the neighbourhood that queen elizabeth was a guest at little moreton during one of her royal progresses, and that she then danced in the long gallery, but the story we suspect rests on no better foundation than the creative power of the imagination which assigns a similar honour to brereton hall, a mansion a few miles distant, and to almost every old house of note in the kingdom; and to the same unreliable source we fear we must assign the story of the underground passages that extend beneath the moat, as well as the subterranean chambers to which, according to common belief, they lead. but moreton has sufficient interest in itself, without the mythical attractions which village gossips so much delight in, to make it worth a pilgrimage. it is one of the few old places that have been preserved to our day "unimproved" by the modern "renovator," but time has, alas made sad havoc among its beauties and peculiarities, and those who should have preserved it as the apple of their eye have unfortunately allowed it to fall into a state of dilapidation and decay. let us hope that some effort may be made to arrest the further progress of needless destruction. surely in this utilitarian age there may be found some who-- passing by this monument that stoops with age, whose ruins plead for a repair, pity the fall of such a goodly pile. unless some friendly hand is stretched out, and that without loss of time, to guard it from further injury, we may soon have to mourn the loss of another of the ancient landmarks of our ancestors. chapter ix. wardley hall. lying away near the north-eastern confines of the great parish of eccles, and within a distance of six miles of the manufacturing metropolis, is the little hamlet of swinton, a place that, if not particularly attractive in its outward aspects, yet possesses historical associations that are neither few nor poor. a great part of the district was formerly held by that renowned military and religious brotherhood which for centuries had its _chef lieu_ in clerkenwell--the knights hospitallers of st. john of jerusalem--and antiquaries have been puzzled to determine whether it derived its name from the fact of its being the abode or "town" of the saxon swineherd, or that it may have, as is supposed, formed part of the possessions of the rainy saint of winchester, the rival of st. médard and st. godeliève--st. swithin. we will leave the learned dryasdusts to settle the knotty point of swinton's etymology and ferret out the evidences of its early dignity, if such are to be found, for it is not our present purpose to steal fire-- from the fountains of the past, to glorify the present, or to picture the sylvan solitudes of the place in the days when the son of beowulph tended the swine of cedric, the saxon thegn, in the primeval forests, and filled himself with the acorns and the mast that fell thick in the autumn time. [illustration: wardley hall.] though a mighty change has been wrought in the physical aspects of the locality, which now presents an appearance singularly at variance with the associations awakened by the contemplation of the memorials of the storied past, the immediate vicinity is not without the indications of its former dignity and consequence. within a short distance, running almost parallel with the modern railway, may still be traced the line of the old roman highway--the stanney street--along which the victorious legionaries have ofttimes marched-- when rome, the mistress of the world, of yore her eagle-wings unfurled, the names which still cling to surrounding localities remind us of the "dark middle age" of our national history when the light-haired, blue-eyed saxon held sway before the predatory dane and the proud norman, cognate tribes of the great scandinavian stock, had successively established themselves as masters of the soil, or those offshoots of the teutonic family had become welded in the one great, powerful, and noble race, that "happy breed of men," the english people. the halls of wardley, agecroft, kempnough, worsley, and booths carry us along the dim avenues of the past to the days of the plantagenet and the tudor sovereigns, and they still remain the lingering memorials reminding us of the condition of social life as well as the condition of the country in this corner of the palatinate ere nature had been expelled by commerce, or the old easy-going manorial lords had given place to, or been elbowed out by, a race of striving money-getting manufacturers. the country hereabouts has lost much of its rural characteristics and pristine beauty. cotton has little in common with arcadia, and the lancashire industries generally can hardly be said to be conducive to the picturesque, the tendency being rather to reverse the process which is said to make the wilderness blossom as the rose. the signs of busy life are everywhere apparent; far as the eye can reach it encounters little else than smoke and steam, the outward evidences of active labour--the beating of one great artery in the heart of england--and the tall spectral-like machinery, rising above the pit openings, for drawing to the surface the coal without which that labour would be of little avail in its efforts to clothe the nations of the world; while overhead the atmosphere is dense and heavy with vapour that leaves its blighting mark upon the country for miles around, withering the hedgerows, making the few trees that endure to grace the landscape stunted and sickly, and the fields as if they had never been clothed with a mantle of living green. uninviting as the surroundings are to the passionate lover of the open field and the clear sky, the antiquary may yet find much to interest him, and return with the belief that the time he has spent in a visit to this same little hamlet of swinton has not been altogether unprofitably employed. leaving the cluster of humble dwellings that constitute what there is of village, and continuing along the north or chorley-road, a few minutes' walk brings him to a bye-road rejoicing in the name of red cat-lane; a quarter of a mile further a private road branches off on the left, leading down past a colliery, and following this for a short distance an old-fashioned timbered house comes in view. it is a quaint old mansion, patterned all over in black and white, with a broad arched gateway, flanked on each side by clustered chimneys that rise to a considerable height above the gabled roof, and is surrounded on three sides by a moat that spreads out considerably on the easterly side, assuming the character of a small lake, in which the diapered framework of the building, the overhanging cornices, the quaint casement windows, and the shrubs that partially environ it are distinctly reflected. wardley hall, for that is the name of the house, has its history; it has been successively the home of the worsleys, the tyldesleys, and the downes, and many and various are the legends and romantic incidents associated with it. of its earlier history we know little, and that little belongs as much to legend as to actual ascertained fact. the first possessors of whom any record has been preserved were the worsleys, or de workedeleghs, as anciently they wrote their name, or rather had it written for them, who were owners almost from the time of the conquest. one of them, a certain elias or elizeus de workeslegh, lord of worsley, accompanied duke robert of normandy in the expedition to the holy land projected by peter the hermit, when europe sent forth the flower of its chivalry to do battle on the plains of palestine for the recovery of the holy places from the paynim foe; he was of such strength and valour as to be reputed a giant, and, according to the old scribes, was in consequence designated elias gigas, or elias the giant. mention is made of this hero of ancient romance in hopkinson's ms. pedigrees, and the quaint chronicler tells us "he fought many duells, combats, &c., for the love of our saviour jesus christ, and obtained many victories," and another writer[ ] adds that after many triumphs over the infidels he died at rhodes, and was there buried. the son and heir of this sturdy old warrior was richard workedeley, whose name occurs in a deed, without date, but apparently of the time of henry i., conveying land in pendlebury, or penultsbury, as it was then called, and north deyne, with the pasture of swinton, to adam de penultsbury. the same richard, with roger de workedelegh (probably his son), was one of the witnesses to a deed recorded in the chartulary of whalley abbey, by which gilbert, son of william de norton, who married about the year , edith, lady of the manor of barton, granted to god, st. mary, and to the church of eccles, and to the clerks and to their men dwelling in that ville, free common throughout all his lands in the parish of eccles. the third in decent from this richard was geoffrey de workesley, living in the time of henry iii., who by his wife agnes had two sons--richard, who succeeded as heir, and roger, who founded the line of the worsleys of kempnough, an old half-timbered house, still existing, about a mile distant, and which in the time of elizabeth obtained an unenviable notoriety on account of the supposed demoniacal possession for a period of two years of some members of the family then inhabiting it. richard, the eldest son of geoffery de workesley, who was living in , had a son henry, who succeeded as heir; roger, who married cecilia de rowynton; and a third son, jordan de workesley, the first of the family whose name occurs as owner of wardley. the family were among the early benefactors of the ancient church of eccles, in which parish both worsley and wardley halls are located. by a deed, dated at eccles on sunday of the octave of st. martin the bishop, in winter (november th), , henry, the eldest son of richard de workesley, the one last named, gave to god and to the high altar (so called to distinguish it from the small altars in the chantries or side chapels) of the church of the blessed mary of eccles, yearly for ever, for the salvation of joan, his wife, and of his father richard, his predecessors and successors, and of the souls of all the faithful dead, at the feast of st. martin, in the winter (november th), one pound of wax, faithfully offered (in fulfilment of a vow), so that whoever should be rector of the church might compel him, by ecclesiastical censure, or by the lesser or greater excommunication, to make the offering at the feast, if it should be neglected. the wax was no doubt intended for the large candles to be burned on the high altar and the other lights used during the services of the roman catholic church.[ ] henry de workesley had a son robert, married to cecilia de bromhall, and living in , to whom he gave five hundred acres of wood and five hundred acres of pasture, called the boothes, and from him descended the worsleys of boothes, also in worsley township. of the same family was helias de workesley, who became abbot of whalley in , but resigned his charge and died before ; and also henry de workesley, who about the time of edward iii. married johanna, daughter and co-heiress of sir richard de greenacres, and in her right became owner of half the manor of twiston, in the parish of whalley. another branch of the family was located at worsley meyne, near wigan, of whom, according to an epitaph in st. mary's, chester, was ralph worsley, yeoman of the wardrobe, (_pagettus garderoboe robarum_) to henry viii., who appointed him towards the latter end of his life to the wardenship of the tower. the worsleys of manchester were another branch, a pedigree given in the harleian mss. ( , , fo. ), "collected," as it states, "from deeds of ye auntient family of worsley of worsley," connecting with the ancient stock nicholas worsley, of manchester, living in , the scion with whose name the pedigree in dugdale's "visitation of lancashire" in commences, and who is said to have been the son and heir of otwell, or otes, worsley, of newnham green, near worsley, by his wife cicely, daughter of nicholas rigby, of harrock. a younger son of this nicholas, charles worsley, diverged into trade, and established himself in manchester as a "haberdasher," a phrase that had then a much wider significance than now. he married, at the old church of manchester in , elizabeth, daughter of ralph gee, the sister of alice, wife of george clarke, the munificent founder of the manchester charity that still bears that worthy's name; and, prospering in business, he, in , purchased from sir oswald mosley certain lands in rusholme. his son and successor, ralph worsley, extended the business, and with such success that he was able in to add to the paternal purchase of the lands in rusholme the estate in the same township called "the platt," thus founding the line of the worsleys of platt, in the old manor house of which place was born to him, in , a son and heir, charles worsley, who acquired distinction as the first member for manchester in the cromwellian parliament, and who was one of the protector's most trusted generals, and the immediate instrument of the famous _coup d'état_ when cromwell, dismissing the "rump" parliament, ordered general worsley to "take away the bauble." with jordan, the younger son of richard de worsley, the brother of henry, the benefactor of the church at eccles, who, as we have seen, was lord of wardley in the reign of edward i., may be said to have begun and ended the line of worsley of wardley, for at his death, in the succeeding reign, the estate was conveyed in marriage by margaret, one of his daughters and co-heiresses, to thurstan, son of thomas de tyldesley, lord of the mesne manor of tyldesley, and from this match sprang the several branches of the famous house of tyldesley of tyldesley, of wardley hall in worsley, morley's hall in astley, the lodge in myerscough park, an outlying portion of quernmore forest, in lancaster parish, and of fox hall, blackpool, in bispham parish. the tyldesleys were a family of considerable note and influence in the county, deriving their patronymic from the place of their abode, which was held by feudal service as the tenth part of a knight's fee under the norman barony of warrington. in the _testa de nevill_, or _liber feudorum_ as it is sometimes called--a return of the nomina villarum, serjeanties and knights' fees in the several counties, made, as is generally supposed, either in the year or by ralph nevill, an accountant of the exchequer, or jollan de nevil, of weathersfield, a justice itinerant--henry de tyldesley, the great-grandfather of the thurstan just named, is mentioned as being then in possession of the manor of tyldesley, and as holding of william fitz almeric pincerna or boteler, the seventh baron of warrington, the tenth part of a knight's fee, which henry de tyldesley (his father) held of the heirs of almeric pincerna, and he of the earl of ferrers, who held of the king. the name of the same henry also occurs first on the list of jurors for the hundred of west derby, or wapentake of derbyshire, as it is called in the return when de nevill's inquisition was taken. a younger brother of henry de tyldesley, the juror, adam de tyldesley, had a son geoffrey, who became owner of shakerley, a hamlet in the higher division of tyldesley. following the practice of the age, he assumed the name of the place in which he was located, and became progenitor of the family of shakerley, now represented through the female line by sir charles watkin shakerley, of somerford, cheshire, baronet. to return to henry de tyldesley; his grandson thomas, son of richard de tyldesley, as appears by an inquisition taken after the death of john tyldesley, dec. , , married and had four sons, john, nicholas, and ralph, who each died issueless, and thurstan, who, as previously stated, married the daughter and co-heiress of jordan de worsley; in right of his wife he became lord of wardley, and by her was founder of the family of tyldesley of that house. the first-born of this marriage was a son, thomas de tyldesley, who became serjeant-at-law to king henry iv., but, dying without issue, the estates on the death of the father descended to his younger brother, hugh de tyldesley. from an early date a close intimacy had existed between the tyldesleys and the stanleys of knowsley, who were then rapidly rising to power, having in the revolution which seated the house of lancaster upon the throne contrived to add immensely to their territorial possessions. a steady shower of royal benefactions descended to them during henry the fourth's reign, not the least important being the transfer from the old earls of northumberland of the lordship of the isle of man, after the unsuccessful revolt of the percies, and with it such an absolute ownership of soil and jurisdiction over the islanders as to make their position as lords of man little less than regal, the homage to be paid in consideration being the presentation of two falcons on coronation days. the intimate relations that long existed between the two families of stanley and tyldesley account for the frequent occurrence of the name of tyldesley in the annals of the island. in - henry iv. granted a letter of protection to william de stanley, knight, john de tyldesley, and others, on their going to the isle of man to take possession of the island and the castle, which had then been wrested from the percies. in sir john de stanley, who is styled "king and lord of man," being called to england, left thurstan de tyldesley, "a wise and severe magistrate" as he is described, and roger haysnap, his commissioner, with instructions to settle the people. the thurstan last named was, doubtless, the son of hugh de tyldesley, and the one who is commonly supposed to have erected the present hall of wardley on the foundation of an earlier structure. his grandson, thomas de tyldesley, who died in - , left a son thurstan, who succeeded as heir to tyldesley and wardley; he married mary, the daughter of henry keighley, of keighley and inskip, the sister of sir henry keighley, knt. inskip was a manor in the parish of st. michael-le-wyre, in the hundred of amounderness, held at one time by the keighleys and cliftons, but which subsequently passed into the exclusive tenure of the first-named family, in whose descendants it remained until about the reign of james i., when anne, daughter and co-heiress of henry keighley, conveyed it in marriage to william cavendish, afterwards created earl of devonshire. at the time of thurstan tyldesley's marriage with the co-heiress of inskip his family had, in addition to the old manor house at tyldesley and the more modern mansion at wardley, a residence known as the lodge, in myerscough park, in the neighbouring parish of lancaster,--a part of the ancient forest land of the duchy. in the reign of henry viii. the earl of derby was keeper of the park of myerscough, which was in reality within the limits of the forest of quernmore, and the tyldesley's were "deputy keepers," "deputy master-foresters," and "farmers of the herbage," and in the proceedings of the duchy court of lancaster it is recorded that in thurstan tyldesley was plaintiff in an action brought against henry keighley for "deer killing in broks gille, mirescoghe park." the defendant was, doubtless, his wife's kinsman, but whether father or brother, or what other relationship he stood in, is not known. the lodge in myerscough, where the family occasionally resided, and to which we shall have occasion hereafter to refer, is now occupied as a farm house, but, though it has undergone many transformations, it still retains the evidences of its former state and dignity. twice it has been the temporary abode of royalty, once in , when james i. slept in it for a night or two in his progress from edinburgh to london, and subsequently on the th august, , when charles ii. "lodged one night at myerscoe, sir thomas tyldesley's house," on his advance from preston to worcester. the lodge stands a short distance from the hall of the same name, on the westerly side of the road leading from preston to lancaster, and within about three or four miles of the old home of the keighleys at inskip. it is approached by a small bridge spanning an expanse of water that appears to have been originally extended for ornamental purposes. a portion of the main building has been cased with brick, but in other parts the original timber framework remains exposed to view, with some of the old mullioned windows, the irregular gables, and the huge buttressed chimney stacks--the latter, from their peculiar construction suggesting the idea that they were intended more for the purpose of concealment in times of danger than for that which their outward form would seem to indicate. the principal entertaining-room is on the north-west side; it is wainscoted from floor to ceiling, and has a spacious fireplace on one side with a handsome chimney-piece of carved oak. the portion above the mantel is arranged in a double row of panels,--eight in all,--each of those in the lower stage being ornamented by a medallion head, encircled by a wreath and carved in high relief. on the first of the upper row of panels is a shield charged with the arms of tyldesley--_arg._ three rushhills _vert_, with the initials tt beneath. in the second shield are displayed the arms of the isle of man, with an eagle's claw--an ancient crest of the stanleys--beneath. on an adjoining shield is a representation of the eagle and child, the crest of the earls of derby; and on the fourth panel is a shield bearing the arms of langton, which seems to fix the period when the work was executed as in the time of thurstan, the grandson of thurstan tyldesley and mary keighley, who had for his second wife jane, daughter of ralph langton, baron of newton, the initials on the first panel also answering to his name. opposite the principal entrance a broad staircase of oak, with massive and highly-decorated balusters, leads to the upper chambers, one of which, at the east end of the building, is traditionally said to be that in which the two kings slept on the occasions of their respective visits to the lodge. thurstan tyldesley, by his wife mary keighley, had a son, thomas, who was receiver-general and one of the council of thomas stanley, first earl of derby--the wily soldier and astute politician whose fickle but far-sighted adhesions secured for his house additional wealth and power with every change of dynasty, and whose matrimonial affairs were managed with fully as much prudence and success--his first marriage making him the brother-in-law of a king-maker and his second the stepfather of a king. he married a daughter of sir alexander radcliffe, the head of the knightly house of ordsall, an alliance that is commemorated by a device in one of the windows of that ancient mansion--that lighting the room commonly known from its decorations as the star chamber--where still may be discerned the faint outlines of an heraldic shield charged with three rushhills, the tyldesley coat. the issue of this marriage were, in addition to a son, thurstan, who succeeded as heir, thomas, and a younger son, alexander, who became a monk at the charter house, and a daughter, ellena, the second of the two wives of sir alexander osbaldeston, of osbaldeston. this lady by her will, which bears date , directed three stones with inscriptions in brass to be laid in the osbaldeston chapel within blackburn church over herself, her husband, and thomas tyldesley, her brother. thurstan tyldesley, who succeeded to the patrimonial lands at his father's death, is mentioned as being in the commission of the peace and a grand juryman for the county palatine of lancaster in . following the example of his progenitors, he maintained a close friendship with the stanleys of knowsley, and in his name occurs as receiver-general for the isle of man. he was twice married--in the first instance to parnell, daughter of geoffrey shakerley, of shakerley, descended from adam, younger son of henry de tyldesley, living in the time of henry iii., whose son geoffrey, as we have seen, assumed the name of shakerley; in the second, to jane, daughter of ralph langton, baron of newton; and by each he had issue. by his will, which bears date edward vi., he left to the children of his first marriage tyldesley and wardley, and to those of the second the estate at myerscough. thomas tyldesley, his son by the first marriage, was, doubtless, the one whose name occurs in as deputy captain of the isle of man, george stanley being at the time captain. about this time, as appears by chalmer's treatise of the isle (manx society's publications, v. ), mention is made of a robert tynsley (a corruption probably of tyldesley), but in what relation he stood to the lancashire tyldesleys is not clear. thomas tyldesley had a sister alice, who became the wife of richard worsley, of the booths. he died in , and was buried at eccles, having had by his wife jane, daughter and heiress of hugh birkenhead, whom he married in , six sons and three daughters. thomas, the eldest son, born in , married margaret, daughter of sir william norreys, of speke, who bore him, in addition to three sons, james, gilbert, and alexander, a son thomas, of gray's inn, attorney-general for the county of lancaster, who received the honour of knighthood; he was one of the learned council of the north, and added to the ancestral estates by his marriage with anne, daughter and sole heiress of thomas norreys, of orford, near warrington, the issue of the union being--in addition to two daughters, elizabeth and anne, married respectively to edward breres, of brockhall, and ( ) to thomas southworth, of samlesbury, ( ) adam mort, of preston--three sons, thomas, who died in infancy, ; edward, who also died in infancy; and richard, who survived his father only a few years and died unmarried in , thus terminating the male line of the elder branch of the family. to return to the issue of thurstan tyldesley by his second wife, jane langton. besides three daughters--mary, wife of ralph standish, of standish; anne, wife of richard massey, of rixton; and dorothy, wife of richard brereton, of worsley--he had a son, edward tyldesley, who, by a fortunate though clandestine marriage, about the year , with anne, daughter and sole heiress of thomas leyland, became, in right of his wife, owner of morleys hall, in astley, in the parish of leigh. popular tradition has cast the glamour of romance around this marriage, and tells how that the young heiress of the leylands, having formed an attachment for the younger son of the house of tyldesley, in opposition to the wishes of her father, was confined in her room, but, verifying the truth of the old adage that love laughs at locksmiths, she contrived to possess herself of a rope, one end of which she fastened to her person and the other she threw from the window to her expectant lover on the other side of the moat; then, casting herself into the water, which was thirty feet wide, she was drawn to land, when the pair rode off, and before morning dawned, or the lady's family had become aware of her escape, the marriage ceremony had been performed and the twain made one. of the old mansion of the leylands, which thus became an inheritance of the tyldesleys, we have an interesting description in leland's "itinerary" (vol. v. pp. - , ed. ):--"morle in darbyshire [the hundred of west derby is meant] mr. leland's place is buildid saving the foundation of stone squarid, that risith within a great moote a vi. foote above the water; al of tymbre after the commune sorte of building of houses of the gentilmen for most of lancastreshire. ther is as much pleasur of orchardes of great varite of frute, and fair made walkes and gardines as ther is in any place of lancastreshire. he brenneth [burneth] al turfes and petes for the commodite of mosses and mores [near] at hand.... and yet by morle as in hegge rowes and grovettes is meately good plenti of wood, but good husbandes keepe hit for a jewell." nearly every old historic home is linked to romance by some story of love or adventure, and endeared to the memory by the image of some fair woman whose name is associated with some particular incident or bit of legendary lore that tradition has preserved, and which, if not actually attested fact, is yet not without some glimmering of truth that reflects light upon familiar history. at morleys it is the tender tale of the loves of anne leyland, the heiress of her father's lands, and edward tyldesley, a young scion of the house of wardley, that excites the interest and which has for many a generation furnished food for the village gossips. they had looked upon each other and loved. the spark that had been kindled in their young hearts was fanned into a flame, but-- ah me! for aught that ever i could read, could ever hear of tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth. at morleys it was the old old story. to prevent the tender passion ripening into a union an unsympathising father forbade the lovers meeting, and to prevent the chances of clandestine intercourse kept his daughter within the strict seclusion of her own chamber. the result may be guessed. rather than be kept asunder from the object of her affection, anne leyland determined on braving the stormy temper of her father. risking all dangers and throwing aside all obstacles, she cast herself into the moat surrounding her home, whence she was drawn ashore, and under cover of the darkness escaped in the arms of her expectant lover, and before night's candles had burned out and-- the first low fluttering breath of waking day had stirred the wide air-- the two were united in the indissoluble bonds of wedlock. it may well be supposed that thomas leyland's ire when he learned the real circumstances of the case was not of the mildest character; be that as it may, his anger must eventually have been appeased, for in , two years after the marriage of the runaways, he made his will, and in token of his affection for his infant grandson, gave "unto thomas tyldesley sonne unto my sonne in lawe edward tyldesley twoe silvr spones and one angell off gold." the old man was a staunch papist and determined persecutor of heretics. when the brother-in-law of george marsh, the martyr--"jeffrey hurst, of shakerley, who was preserved by god's providence from burning in queen mary's time"--absented himself from his parish church because of the romish ritual that had been reintroduced, and encouraged the teachers of the reformed faith to secretly assemble in his house "for sermon and prayer," "justice" leyland went with his "mass-priest" to hurst's cottage to search for heretical books, and having found tyndale's testament, which was pronounced to be "plain heresy and none worse," and some latin books which neither he nor the mass-priest could read, he, by a stretch of authority not unfrequent in those days, bound the mother and brother of hurst in the penalty of £ to produce him within fourteen days. hurst appeared at the appointed time and was committed to lancaster, but news of queen mary's death arriving about the same time, he was set free. thomas leyland died july, , at the age of fifty years. his end appears to have been very sudden. it is recorded that "in july, as the foresaid thos. lelond sate in his chair talking with his friends, he fell down suddenly dead, not much moving any joint; and such was his end; from such god us defend." his will, which bears date april , , was proved on the rd september following his death, when his son-in-law, edward tyldesley, in right of his wife, succeeded to the estates. from this union descended the younger branch of the tyldesleys, a line that in successive generations manifested a devoted attachment to the cause of the ill-fated stuarts. in addition to the estate of morleys acquired through his wife, edward tyldesley inherited from his father the lodge at myerscough and also the paternal estate of tyldesley, which, however, continued to pay quit-rents to wardley hall, probably in right of the appendent estate of wardley, where the elder branch of the family was settled. he appears to have been the first, if not the only one, of the family who had any difference or dispute with its early patrons, the stanleys of knowsley and lathom. in the proceedings of the duchy court of lancaster, without date, but of the time of edward vi. or philip and mary, edward, earl of derby, "keeper of myerskoo park," and elsewhere called "master of the game," appears as plaintiff in an action against edward tyldesley, "farmer of the herbage," the dispute having arisen out of some claim to turbary or the right of cutting turves on the land of the superior lord. edward tyldesley died in - , having had by his wife, anne leyland, a family of three sons and three daughters. thomas, the eldest son, who succeeded as heir, enjoyed possession of the estate for four years only, his death occurring in . he married elizabeth, daughter of christopher anderton, of lostock hall, near bolton, who bore him, in addition to three daughters--anne, who became the wife of sir cuthbert clifton, of westby, knight; dorothy, who married john poole, of poole hall, in cheshire; and elizabeth, who became abbess of the religious house of gravelines, in flanders--one son, edward tyldesley, who was only four years of age at the time of his father's decease. he succeeded as heir to the tyldesley estates as well as to morleys and myerscough, and entertained king james the first at the last named seat in august, , on the occasion of his memorable visit to lancashire--memorable for the reason that it was the occasion of the presentation of a petition from a number of lancashire peasants, tradesmen, and others while on his progress (some authorities say while at myerscough) that led to the publication of the famous "book of sports,"--the beginning of a course of events which led through the civil war and the temporary subversion of the throne and the church to the ultimate exclusion of the stuarts from the crown. edward tyldesley did not long survive the honour of entertaining his sovereign, his death occurring in the following year at the comparatively early age of . by his wife, elizabeth, daughter of christopher preston, of holker, in cartmel parish, an off-shoot of the prestons, of preston patrick and levens hall, who survived him and re-married ( ) thomas lathom, of parbold, and ( ) thomas westby, of bourne hall, he had, in addition to edward, who died in infancy, a son, thomas, who succeeded as heir, the most distinguished member of the family--a _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_--certainly the ablest soldier who fought on the side of the king in lancashire during the civil wars, and probably the most active, resolute, and uncompromising partisan, for, as has been well said, if lord strange was the head of the king's forces in lancashire, sir thomas tyldesley was their right hand, or rather, their heart and soul, and living power. he was one of those cavaliers whose deeds were more suited to the pages of a romance than to those of history, and who, by his dauntless courage, may be said to have cast a halo round the cause he espoused. born near the close of elizabeth's reign, he early embraced the profession of arms, and served with distinction in the wars in the low countries. a soldier by temperament, as well as by profession--brave, proud, generous, enthusiastically loyal--he raised and equipped troops at his own expense, and immediately on the breaking out of the war joined the king and served as lieutenant-colonel when the two armies were first put in array against each other at edgehill, october , . in the preceding month colonel tyldesley accompanied lord strange, afterwards earl of derby, to manchester, and in person led the attack on the deansgate entrance to the town, but, after firing a barn or two and destroying some trifling defences, his men were obliged to retire, and eventually, through the stubborn and successful resistance of the townsmen, were compelled to abandon the siege. what rigby was to the cause of the parliament, colonel tyldesley may be said to have been to that of the king. connected by birth and marriage with the best families in the county his influence was unbounded. of indomitable zeal, irrepressible energy, and reckless daring, he became the head and heart and hand and almost everything besides in his own county, and took part in almost every important action. he served at the sieges of bolton and lancaster; defeated by colonel ashton before wigan, he retreated towards liverpool, but, collecting a considerable force, he again marched northwards, with the view of recovering preston and lancaster. subsequently he distinguished himself at burton-on-trent by the desperate heroism with which he led a cavalry charge over a bridge of thirty-six arches, and for that display of valour, as well as his faithful adherence to the king, he received the honour of knighthood and was made a brigadier. at a later period in that sanguinary struggle he accompanied prince rupert into yorkshire, and was present at the disastrous fight at marston moor, july nd, , when cromwell gained his greatest victory, and drove the royalist troops in confusion from the field. tyldesley, with his shattered force, retreated in hot haste into lancashire, resolved to raise fresh troops and make a stand in the fylde country. sir john meldrum was sent after him, and the first encounter took place on freckleton marsh. a fierce attack having been made upon their lines by the parliamentarians under colonel booth, the royalists broke and fled; tyldesley rallied and reformed his men, but his efforts were unavailing. victory followed victory, one position after another was forced, and one detachment after another was broken or dispersed at that time, as rushworth writes, "there remained of unreduced garrisons belonging to the king in lancashire only lathom house and green(halgh) castle." greenhalgh surrendered in ; and the subsequent fall of lathom house and the surrender of the king to the scotch army of the puritans brought the contest, for a time, to a close in , when sir thomas tyldesley received instructions to disband the troops under his command. in the second of the stuarts was proclaimed king by the scotch under the title of charles the second. in august of that year the royal standard floated once more over the battlemented tower of old john o' gaunt--time-honoured lancaster--and charles was proclaimed king in the chief town of the palatinate. sir thomas tyldesley, who had retired with the earl of derby to the isle of man, once more appeared upon the scene, and immediately set about arming his tenantry and collecting auxiliaries. charles spent a night in his mansion at myerscough, but under very different circumstances to those which had characterised the entertainment of his father in the same house thirty-four years previously. before the month was over the force which he and lord derby had been able to raise encountered the parliamentarians, under colonel lilburne, in a lane on the north side of wigan. tyldesley took the place he ever loved to take--at the head of his friends and in front of his foes. the fight was courageously sustained on both sides, and for more than an hour victory remained undecided. at the moment that lilburne's horse seemed to be giving way before the unbroken firmness of tyldesley's foot, a body of parliamentary troops took up a position behind the hedges on both sides of the lane. a deadly discharge from their firelocks threw the royalists into confusion; after a stubborn and desperate resistance their line wavered, when lilburne's horse dashed up and drove the remnant of them in confusion from their position. the earl of derby escaped, only to be taken prisoner in cheshire, after the retreat from worcester, and suffer the fate of his former royal master, but sir thomas tyldesley was left dead upon the field. thus fell the most heroic and most daring defender of the cause of the stuarts in lancashire. a large-hearted nonconformist, dr. halley, thus sums up the character of the ill-fated cavalier:--"the most active, the bravest, and in many respects the best of the lancashire friends of royalty. never daunted, never weary in consultation, marching, or fighting, he was engaged in every intrigue, present in every conference, ready for every emergency, and unreservedly devoting all he had to the cause of royalty, and as he understood it, to the true religion. beloved and trusted by all the members of his own party, he was respected by his enemies, and treated by them more leniently than the other malignants whom the fortune of war brought under their power." memorials of him remain in the eloquent eulogy of clarendon, and in the inscription upon the column which his "grateful cornet," alexander rigby,[ ] twenty-eight years afterwards, when he was sheriff of the county, erected upon the spot where fell, as a mark of esteem for his many virtues and gallant deeds, and as a "high obligation on the whole family of the tyldesleys to follow the noble example of their loyal ancestor." when the brave and popular cavalier, sir thomas tyldesley, sank down upon the blood-sodden ground in wigan lane the power of the royalists in lancashire was broken. many a family in the palatinate had long cause to remember that day with grief, for there were few that had not some member killed or made prisoner. tyldesley's body, covered with wounds, was found lying among a heap of slain when the fight was over, and a day or two later it was borne to its last resting place in the vault by the side of his fathers, in the old chantry of st. nicholas, in the parish church of leigh. that late summer day was a sorrowful one for the supporters of the stuart cause. it requires no great stretch of the imagination to picture that procession of true mourners--a little band of buff-jerkined warriors who had boldly confronted death on many a hard-fought field--weeping aloud, and not ashamed to shed tears, as they wend their way to the ancient fane to deposit therein all that was mortal of their much-beloved leader. within a week from that day worcester had been lost, and "charles stuart, son of the late tyrant," as the cromwellians styled him, was a sorrowful fugitive, hastening for life from the fatal field in the endeavour to escape from his merciless pursuers. a tomb was afterwards erected in leigh church, over the grave which holds the ashes of the loyal soldier; but though the spot is still pointed out nearly every trace of the memorial has disappeared. it is of little consequence-- praises on tombs are idly spent, his good name is his monument! no self glory stirred the mind of the chivalrous soldier, and no thought had he of "storied urn" to record his gallant deeds. the earl of derby felt keenly the loss of his old friend and comrade, and in his last solemn moments, when passing through leigh on his way to the scaffold at bolton, his earnestly expressed wish was that he might be permitted to dismount from his horse and go into st. nicholas' chapel to cast a last long look upon the honourable grave where his faithful companion in arms lay at rest. sir thomas tyldesley had married in early life frances, only daughter of ralph standish, of standish, near wigan, and by her had a son edward, born in , who succeeded as heir; thomas, born in , and living in ; ralph, born in , and living in ; and seven daughters. edward, the eldest son, following in the steps of his father, was an ardent supporter of the stuarts, and when charles ii., after the restoration of monarchy, proposed to create a new order of knighthood to be called the order of the "royal oak," as a reward to some of his more faithful adherents, edward tyldesley was one of the lancashire men selected to receive the honour, and would have done so had not the project, from considerations of prudence, been abandoned. having some cause to believe that he would, on the restoration, receive from the crown a grant of the lands in layton hawes, near blackpool, in recognition of the services rendered by his father and himself, he began the erection of a residence near the south shore called fox hall, a portion of the walls of which may still be seen in the more modern erection known as the fox hall hotel, placing over the gateway a sculptured figure of the device that had inspired the enthusiasm of his father's soldiers in many a hard-contested fight--a pelican feeding her young, or, as the heralds have it, in piety, surrounded by the motto _tantum valet amor regis et patriæ_--and here he occasionally resided during the later years of his life. he was twice married, his first wife being anne, daughter of sir thomas fleetwood, of colwich, in staffordshire, who bore him two sons, thomas, born april rd, , and edward, and two daughters. after her decease he espoused elizabeth, daughter of adam beaumont, of whiteley, and by her he had a daughter, catherine, who died unmarried. his death occurred between the years and , when the eldest son by his first marriage, thomas tyldesley, succeeded to the estates, with the exception of the lands in tyldesley, which had been previously disposed of. in , being then twenty-two years of age, he married eleanor, daughter and co-heir of thomas holcroft, of holcroft. this lady, who was only fourteen years of age at the time of her marriage, brought holcroft hall to the tyldesleys. by her thomas tyldesley had a son, edward, his heir, and four daughters. on the death of his wife he again entered the marriage state, his second wife being mary, daughter of alexander rigby, of layton, and the co-heiress of her brother, sir alexander rigby, son and heir of the "grateful cornet" who erected the monument in wigan lane to the memory of the gallant sir thomas tyldesley, and by her was father of three sons--charles, fleetwood, and james; and two daughters--agatha and winifred. to this thomas tyldesley we are indebted for the interesting personal records contained in a "diary" written during the years - - , which has in recent years been published under the able editorship of messrs. joseph gillow and anthony hewitson. he died in , shortly before the breaking out of the rebellion, in the preparation for which there is good reason to believe he had been concerned, and was buried at churchtown, near garstang, january th,[ ] his eldest son edward succeeding. on the jacobite rising in edward tyldesley, with the representatives of many other of the old catholic families who had upheld the banners of charles i., hastened to support the cause of his grandson. for his share in the rising he was put upon his trial in london, but, although the evidence of a number of witnesses left no possible doubt that he had led a body of men against the king's forces, he was fortunate enough to obtain an acquittal, a result which so provoked the anger of baron montagu, a sort of whig jeffreys, who presided over the court, that he openly rebuked the jury for their verdict, himself failing to see that the harrowing records of the "bloody assize at lancaster" had produced a revulsion in popular feeling, and that the spirit of vindictiveness manifested by the government of the hanoverian king had caused even protestant juries to manifest a feeling of commiseration for those of their countrymen who still retained a feeling of devoted attachment for the head of the exiled house of stuart, whom they looked upon as their legitimate sovereign. at the time of his death, in , myerscough, which had been held for so many generations, had passed from the possession of the tyldesleys, having, as is supposed, been sold to satisfy the demands of thomas tyldesley the father's creditors, but holcroft hall, inherited from his mother, as well as morleys, still remained. by his wife dorothy, who survived him, edward tyldesley had, in addition to a daughter (catherine), a son (james), who succeeded as heir to both morleys and holcroft. true to the traditions of his family, he remained faithful in his adherence to the exiled dynasty, and when charles edward, the young pretender, appeared in lancashire, he took up arms and joined the rebel forces. from this time the fortunes of the family seemed gradually to decay. myerscough, as we have seen, had been already alienated, and, in , morleys, which had been acquired two centuries previously by a marriage with the heiress of thomas leyland, was sold, and gradually the remnants of the once large estates were mortgaged or sold. james tyldesley died in august, . his will bears date th of february, of that year, and was proved at chester, april , . thomas tyldesley, the eldest son, succeeded to holcroft, the only estate remaining in the family's possession, the other issue being three sons and one daughter, all of whom seem to have drifted into a state of comparative poverty, their descendants being now to be looked for in a much lower position in the social scale than that held for so many generations by the owners of the proud name of tyldesley. to return to the old ancestral home at wardley. as previously stated, thurstan tyldesley, who died in , was twice married; his inquisition post-mortem was taken in the year of his decease, when, in accordance with the provisions of his will, the family estates were divided between the children of each marriage, tyldesley and wardley falling to the lot of thomas, the son borne him by his first wife, and myerscough to edward, the issue of his second wife. in the early part of the reign of elizabeth the wardley estate, which had been held by the tyldesleys for a period of three centuries, was sold in parcels, when the old manor house became the property of gilbert sherrington of lincoln's inn, a busy lancashire lawyer, and at his death it passed to his brother francis sherrington, a successful trader and money-lender, who had been at one time located at wigan. subsequently wardley became the property of roger downes, son and heir of roger, a younger son of the ancient house of downes, of worth and shrigley, in cheshire, by a marriage with elizabeth, daughter and heiress of alexander worsley. roger downes, the younger, who was living at wardley in , twice represented wigan--one of the four lancashire boroughs entitled to send representatives to parliament before the passing of the reform act in --first in , and again in . on the th july, charles i. ( ), he was appointed by the earl of derby vice-chamberlain of chester, during pleasure (_durante bene placito_), an office he continued to hold under the earl and his son, lord strange, until his death in july, , when orlando bridgeman, son of the bishop of chester, was appointed by james lord strange his successor, much to the displeasure of john bradshaw, the future president of the high commission court, who was then attorney-general for cheshire, and, as seacombe affirms, had applied for the office.[ ] in the will of sir alexander barlow, of barlow hall, near manchester, dated th april, , roger downes, of wardley, is joined with sir george gresley, knight and baronet (of drakelowe), as overseer, and is therein described by the testator as his "loving cosen;" and a few years later, when richard halliwell, landlord of the bull's head inn, in the market place, opposite the cross, in manchester--a successful vintner, who had managed to accumulate a considerable landed estate--made his will (may th; ), he desired that his "friend, the right worshipful roger downes, esquire," should act as his overseer. roger downes was twice married, his first wife being elizabeth, daughter of myles gerard, of ince, by whom he had a son roger, who predeceased him. his second wife was ann, daughter of john calvert, of cockerham, and she bore him, in addition to a daughter, jane, who became the wife of ralph snede, of keele, in staffordshire, three sons, francis, lawrence, and john. concerning francis, a curious story is related by hollingworth in his "mancunienses." he had, it seems, "revolted from the reformed religion," when his neighbour, sir cecil trafford, of trafford, who was known as "a cruel persecutor of papists," resolved before he resorted to harsher measures to attempt the reconversion of his friend by the force of argument; but he reckoned without his host, for in reasoning the catholic proved himself too clever for the protestant, and so thoroughly argued sir cecil out of his beliefs that he abjured his own religion and became a convert to the roman faith; and from that time the traffords, who had been among the earliest adherents of the reformed faith in lancashire, have been steady and consistent catholics. francis downes, who represented wigan in the parliament of , predeceased his father, and died issueless, as did also his brother lawrence, the estates, on the death of roger downes in , devolving upon the youngest son, john downes, who had married penelope, one of the daughters of sir cecil trafford, an alliance that explains the anxious desire manifested by sir cecil to effect the conversion of his son-in-law's elder brother. john downes, who succeeded on the death of his father to the wardley estate, was an ardent adherent of king charles in the unhappy struggle between that monarch and his parliament, and in september, , when lord strange, having completed his arrangements with the commissioners of array, appointed warrington as the place of meeting, he armed and equipped his tenantry, and appeared with the host of other lancashire chieftains to support the cause of the sovereign. before the month had drawn to a close he was at manchester, having accompanied lord strange and sir thomas tyldesley in their fruitless expedition to secure the town for the king. he died in may, , leaving an only son, roger, his heir, then an infant a few months old, and a daughter penelope. roger downes, who succeeded as heir to the patrimonial estates on the death of his father, john downes, in , was the last of the family seated at wardley. his history is not a pleasant one to contemplate. living in an age when the people could take delight in the dissoluteness of the sovereign, he abandoned himself to the vicious courses of the time and became one of the most profligate of the profligate court of charles the second. the patrimony which had descended to him was wasted in riotous extravagance, and, to use the figurative language that johnson applied to rochester, "he blazed out his youth and his health in lavish voluptuousness," and brought his career to a violent and untimely end at the early age of twenty-eight. he was the roger downes of whom lucas speaks, when he says that, according to tradition, while in london, in a drunken frolic, he vowed to his companions that he would kill the first man he met; when, sallying forth, he ran his sword through a poor tailor. soon after this, being in a riot, a watchman made a stroke at him with his bill, which severed his head from his body, and the skull was enclosed in a box and sent to his sister at wardley hall. "the skull," adds the narrator, "has been kept at wardley ever since, and many superstitious notions are entertained respecting it." the late mr. roby, in his entertaining "traditions of lancashire" wrought the incidents into a pathetic story, under the title of the "skull house." tradition, which always delights in the marvellous, took up the story, and many and incredible are the legends which the ghastly relic of mortality has given rise to. certain it is that from time immemorial a human skull has had an abiding place at wardley, carefully secured in an aperture in the wall beside the great staircase. according to popular belief, the grim fixture is as strongly averse to removal as the miraculous skull of "dickey of tunstead," which caused so much trouble to the engineers when constructing the railway near chapel-en-le-frith some years ago. its rayless sockets, we are told, love to look upon the scenes of its former enjoyments, and it never fails to punish with severity those who venture to disturb or lay irreverent hands upon it. how the story originated it is impossible to say, but, though a skull, whitened by long exposure, is still exhibited, it is very certain that it never graced the shoulders of young roger downes. thomas barritt, the antiquary, in his ms. pedigrees, gives the following explanation:--"thos. stockport," he says, "told me the skull belonged to a romish priest who was executed at lancaster for seditious practices in the time of william iii. he was most likely the priest at wardley, to which place his head being sent, might be preserved as a relique of his martyrdom," and he adds, "the late rev. mr. kenyon, of peel, and librarian of the college in this town (manchester), told me about the year the family vault of downes in wigan church had about that time been opened, and a coffin discovered, on which was an inscription to the memory of the above young downes. curiosity led to the opening of it, and the skeleton, head and all, was there; but whatsoever was the cause of his death, the upper part of his skull had been sawed off, a little above the eyes, by a surgeon, perhaps by order of his friends, to be satisfied of the nature of his disease; his shroud was in tolerable preservation. mr. kenyon showed me some of the ribbon that tied the suit at the arms, wrists, and ankles; it was of a brown colour. what it was at first could not be ascertained." the name of roger downes is perpetuated on a massive marble slab affixed to the wall of wigan church, in which his remains are interred. it is surmounted by the arms of the family--_sable_, a stag lodged _argent_, and bears the following inscription:--_rogerus downes de wardley, armiger, filius johannes downes, hujus comitatus armigeri, obijt. junij. . Ætatis suæ ._ roger downes having died unmarried, the family estates, including wardley, devolved upon his only sister and sole heiress, penelope, who conveyed them in marriage ( charles ii, - ) to richard savage, of rock savage, who succeeded as fourth earl rivers of the new creation, a title that had originally been held by the father-in-law (woodville) of edward iv., the savages deriving through the marriage of an ancestor with the aunt of a former earl. lord rivers took a prominent part in public affairs during the eventful reign of queen anne. as a soldier and statesman he displayed no mean abilities, and, possessing these qualities, he was not unfrequently employed on complimentary and diplomatic missions. in - he was ordered to the command of the english forces in spain, and at the same time received the appointment of ambassador to king charles, and some few years later ( ) he was sent on a diplomatic mission to the elector of brunswick prior to the signing of the treaty of utrecht, that famous landmark of modern history which put an end to the wars of queen anne, secured the protestant succession to the english throne, and separated for ever the crowns of france and spain. he did not long survive this last mission, his death occurring august th, , the only surviving issue by his marriage with the heiress of wardley being a daughter, elizabeth, who about the year married james barry, fourth earl of barrymore, who was then a widower, and by whom she had an only child, penelope, of whom anon. the career of earl rivers was not unmarked by the libertinism which formed so prominent a characteristic of society in the age in which he lived. in addition to the daughter by his marriage with penelope downes--elizabeth savage, who became heiress of her mother's estates as well as those of her father--he had an illegitimate daughter by mrs. colydon, who married, in , frederick earl of rochford, to whom it is said she conveyed a fortune of £ , ; he was also the reputed father of the poet, richard savage, a writer better known for his misfortunes than for any peculiar novelty or merit in his poetry--the offspring of an illicit intercourse with the notorious countess of macclesfield, who acquired an unenviable notoriety as the heroine of the famous law case which followed upon the birth of her base-gotten son. some curious particulars of this extraordinary scandal are to be found in the records of the time. the countess, under the name of madame smith and wearing a mask, was delivered of a male child in fox-court, near brook-street, holborn, by mrs. wright, a midwife, on saturday, january , - . lord macclesfield denied the paternity, and established the impossibility of his being the father of the child his countess had borne. a divorce was granted in , but, as the law deemed the earl accountable through his own profligacy for the malpractices of his wife, he was required to repay the portion he had received with her on marriage, and with this she secured another husband in the person of colonel brett, by whom she had a daughter, anne brett, the impudent mistress of george i. the inhuman mother disowned her illegitimate offspring by lord rivers, richard savage, and had him placed under the charge of a poor woman who brought him up as her son, but lady mason, her mother, caused him to be removed to a school near st. alban's and educated him at her own expense. earl rivers died without making any provision for his unfortunate son, a circumstance that was due, as johnson says, to the fact that in the earl's last illness the degraded countess--then mrs. brett--had the inhumanity to state that savage was dead, and through this falsehood the boy was deprived of a provision that was intended for him. it has been said that young savage was an impostor, and the opinion was held by boswell, the biographer of dr. johnson, who says: "in order to induce a belief that the earl rivers, on account of a criminal connection with whom lady macclesfield is said to have been divorced from her husband by act of parliament, had a peculiar anxiety about the child which she bore to him, it is alleged that his lordship gave him his own name, and had it duly recorded in the register of st. andrew's, holborn; i have," he adds, "carefully inspected that register, and i cannot find it." that boswell should have failed in the discovery is explained by a reference to "the earl of macclesfield's case," presented to the house of lords in - , from which it appears that the child was registered by the name of richard, the son of john smith, and christened on monday, january th, in fox-court, and this statement is confirmed by the following entry in the register of st. andrew's, holborn:-- jany. - , richard, son of john smith, and mary, in fox court, in gray's inn lane, baptised the th. notwithstanding the discredit that has been thrown on savage's story, there can be little doubt of its truth. it was universally believed at the time, and no attempt was ever made by the countess to contradict or to invalidate any of the statements connected with it. moreover, he was openly recognised in the house of lord tyrconnell, a nephew of his reputed mother, with whom he lived on equal terms, and who allowed him a sum of £ a year until savage quarrelled with him, when the peer stopped the allowance, and the hapless poet was again sent adrift upon the world. he was also on terms of acquaintance with the countess of rochford, the illegitimate daughter of earl rivers by mrs. colydon. savage's folly and extravagance left him almost without a friend. pope, whom he had supplied with the "private intelligence and secret incidents" that add poignancy to the satire of the "dunciad," was about the last to withdraw his aid, and the poor fellow was eventually left to wander about in a state of destitution. he repaired to the west of england, and while in bristol was arrested for a small debt, and being unable to find sureties was thrown into prison. during his incarceration he was taken ill, and on the morning of the st of august, , was found dead in his bed, having been unable to procure any medical assistance. it is related that the keeper of the prison, who had treated him with kindness, buried him at his own expense. before his decease, lord rivers had executed indentures of lease and release, dated th june, , by which his large estates in lancashire, cheshire, yorkshire, and essex were vested in trustees for the use of himself for life and remainder to him in tail; remainder to the use of his cousin, john savage, a romish ecclesiastic, who inherited the earldom, but never assumed the title; remainder to his illegitimate daughter, bessy savage, afterwards countess of rochford; remainder to his own right heirs. from some irregularities in the disposal of the property, the will was disputed, and eventually an act of parliament ( th george i., ) was obtained for the disposal of the estates, which were declared to be vested in trust for the earl's son-in-law, james, fourth earl of barrymore, with remainder to lady penelope barry, the only issue of his marriage with the lady elizabeth savage, and the granddaughter of richard earl rivers and his wife penelope downes, the heiress of wardley. lady penelope barry, who was a minor, in brought the estates of her family in marriage to general james cholmondeley, second surviving son of george earl of cholmondeley. her ladyship seems to have inherited the frailties of her father, for in her husband obtained a sentence of divorce against her for adultery with one pa[ ]ck anderson, a surgeon. she died childless about the year ;[a] general cholmondeley, who survived her many years but did not remarry, died at the age of sixty-seven, and was buried in westminster abbey, october th, , when, in accordance with the provisions of a settlement made in , the estates passed to james cholmondeley's great nephew, george james, fourth earl and afterwards first marquis of cholmondeley, the father of william henry hugh, the present marquis, hereditary grand chamberlain of england. more than a century has elapsed since the historic house of wardley was occupied by any direct descendant of its earlier lords. at one time it was in the occupation of a farmer, and subsequently was divided into several tenements, when it was allowed to fall into a state of decay, the humbler dwellers caring little for its antiquity, and content if they only could protect themselves from the elements and keep a roof above their heads. from the last representative of the downes family the hall was conveyed by purchase to other owners, and for many years past it has formed part of the estates of the earls of ellesmere, to whom the grateful acknowledgments of all antiquaries are due for the thoughtful care they have taken in protecting it from further injury, as well as for the judgment they have exercised in carrying out the work of restoration. within the last half century important renovations have taken place, and some portions have been rebuilt, but whatever has been done has been in perfect keeping with the architectural peculiarities of the original structure. the old mansion is now in a good state of repair, and, notwithstanding its situation in close proximity to a mining and manufacturing district, it furnishes a picturesque and singularly interesting example of a somewhat rare class of building, the moated dwelling of a gentleman of the fifteenth century. l'envoi. to my friend james croston, esq., f.s.a., on the completion of his "historic sites of lancashire and cheshire." at length is done thy voluntary task, thy pleasant work, fruition of thy will, which in the past doth find its fondest lore. as o'er the meads, the wilds, the plains, the woods, which form the glowing landscape 'neath our eye, our vision rests in well-pleased rhapsody, how few remains are seen to tell the tale of deeds on which the memory doth dwell; how few the relics that are strewn abroad of castled valour and the church's pride: a ruined keep, with now-defenceless walls! a beauteous vision of the pomp that once in glorious fanes paid homage unto god! the ivy clustering o'er the mouldering walls doth hold together what alone remains of graceful arch, proud pinnacle, and pier that mark where once man's noblest work had stood. nor these alone time's saddest work reveal, mildewed and torn, rotting in damp recess the records of their history remain, until some reverent hand doth bring them forth, and give their wondrous tale unto the world. thine own, my friend, oft seeks their soilèd page, and from their blurred and faded writing tries to fill again the mind-restorèd walls with all the motley crowds that gave them life. long may thy pen its pleasant work pursue, resuscitate the mighty men of old, again enact the noble deeds that once made history, and living interest gave to the sad monuments of earlier time. john leigh. the manor house, hale, cheshire. footnotes: [ ] knight's "england." [ ] see pp. and . [ ] sawrey was eventually drowned, an untimely end that was by some accounted a divine judgment. [ ] "the fells, of swarthmoor hall," p. . [ ] the fanatical outbreak of the fifth monarchy men in had been made the excuse for a proclamation for closing the conventicles of quakers, anabaptists, and other sectaries; and in an act of parliament was passed by which they were to be fined for assembling for public worship, and for a third offence to be banished. [ ] _præmunire_ involved the forfeiture of all real estate during life, personal estates for ever, and imprisonment during the king's pleasure. [ ] from a rare broadsheet in the british museum, issued, as it would seem, in , for the use of the constables and officers of the peace, we find specified the nine following "unlawful meetings" of the people called quakers: bull and mouth; devonshire buildings; gracechurch street; quaker street, in spitalfields; the peel, clerkenwell; tothill street, westminster; savoy, near the church; horsleydown; and winchester park, southwark. [ ] lancashire puritanism and nonconformity, p. , ed. . [ ] a phrase that in those days signified a merchant or wholesale dealer, _i.e._, a dealer in gross. [ ] it is worthy of note that, according to earwaker, while mr. turner was resident upon his benefice at wilmslow he had under his tuition the present right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.a., the bishop of sodor and man, and sir c. a. wood. [ ] the occasion was that when charles, untaught by the signs of the times, with almost incredible infatuation, accelerated the fatal crisis by going down to the house on the th january, - , and attempting to seize the five members of the commons--pym, hollis, hampden, hazlerig, and strode, on the charge of traitorously endeavouring to deprive him of his regal power, and subvert the fundamental laws and government of the kingdom. [ ] hunter's "life of oliver heywood," p. . [ ] worthington's diary, chet. soc. [ ] william, third lord brereton, of leighlin, in ireland, and brereton, in cheshire, who married frances, daughter of lord willoughby, and died in london, march , . [ ] archæologia, v. v. [ ] the sir william stanley here named was the eldest son of sir rowland stanley, of hooton, in wirral, cheshire, and the one who afterwards covered himself with infamy by his shameless violation of trust in the betrayal and surrender of deventer to the enemies of his country while holding the commission of the queen and charged with its defence--an act of perfidy that was only equalled by cardin allen's (a lancashire man) attempted justification of it. he had accompanied the english auxiliaries under leicester, and in a few weeks after the earl's return to england he and rowland yorke entered into a treacherous correspondence with baptisti tasse, governor of zutphen, and began to propose their measures for delivering to him the important fortresses that had been entrusted to their care, and in the beginning of february both deventer and the fort opposite zutphen were given up to the spaniards. stanley is said to have been concerned in babington's conspiracy in favour of mary queen of scots, and was probably betrayed by a dread of discovery into this unworthy conduct. [ ] it is on record that, so late as the reign of elizabeth, of the "sworn men," a kind of select committee chosen by the inhabitants to take charge of the affairs of the parish of kirkham, only one could write, and consequently in his absence the business of the parish had not unfrequently to be postponed. [ ] the fire was really caused by the carelessness of the sexton, but it happening to be a tempestuous day the catastrophe was by him confidently affirmed to be caused by lightning, and was generally believed to the hour of his death; but he then confessed the truth of it, after which "the burning of st. paul's by lightning" was left out of our common almanacks. [ ] these desecrations, notwithstanding pilkington's denunciation, continued long after, for years later bishop earl in his "micosmography," says:--"paul's walk is the land's epitome, or you may call it the lesser isle of great britain. it is the great exchange of all discourse, and no business whatever but is here stirring and afoot.... it is the general mint of all famous lies, which are here, like the legends of popery, first coined and stamped in the church. all inventions are emptied here and not a few pockets. the best sign of a temple in it is that it is the thieves' sanctuary." the place was the common resort and lounge for idlers and hunters after news, wits and gallants, cheats, usurers and knights of the post; the font itself being used as a counter. it was here that sir nicholas throgmorton held a conference with the emissaries of wyat; here, too, the bravoes who murdered arden, of faversham, were hired; captain bobadil was a "paul's man," and shakespeare's falstaff bought bardolph in paul's. [ ] wordsworth, in "the white doe of rylstone." [ ] it is a singular fact that even at the present day the wife of a bishop has absolutely no rank or title whatever, and is the only wife in english society who reflects none of the lustre of her husband's dignity, nor appropriates even by courtesy the feminine of his masculine titles. the wife of every other lord is addressed as "my lady," whilst she is never anything more than plain "mrs." [ ] edited by the rev. james schofield, m.a., regius professor of greek, cambridge. [ ] brereton's travels, chet. soc. v. i, p. . [ ] ibid. p. . [ ] there is a tradition, unsupported, however, by any evidence, that so many of the burgesses of macclesfield fell at flodden that the survivors had to petition the king to grant the continuance of their charter, though they could not muster a sufficient number of aldermen to constitute a corporation. [ ] hynde swyer--a courteous esquire. [ ] robert fouleshurst of crewe. [ ] kere--return. [ ] it is an absurd mistake to suppose that richard wore the royal crown upon his helmet during the battle; he was too experienced a soldier to put on such a headgear, even supposing the crown could have been attached to the helmet. the story may have arisen from his wearing some distinguishing ornament, resembling a crown, such as was worn by henry v. upon his helmet at the battle of agincourt, and which then served to break the force of the stroke of the duke of alençon's battle axe. [ ] _i.e._, fierce men, proud, furious. [ ] the eagle's foot--"a fote of the faireste foule," was a cognizance of the stanleys, and three eagles' feet were borne upon the shield of sir john. [ ] "nooks and corners of lancashire," p. . [ ] it may be mentioned that at his death, in , jonn paget was succeeded by his brother thomas, "a man of much frowardness," and able to create "much unquietness," as henry newcome affirms, who had been minister of blackley, in manchester parish, but deprived in by dr. bridgman, bishop of chester, when, to escape the fines imposed by the ecclesiastical commissioners, he fled to holland and joined his brother, whom he eventually succeeded in the pastorate of the english church. brook, in his "lives of the puritans," says he "most probably spent the remainder of his days there," but this was not so; in he returned to england, was appointed to the rectory of st. chad's, shrewsbury, and remained there until , when he was presented by the commonwealth party to the rich rectory of stockport. thomas paget's son, nathan paget, who practised as a physician in london, was the intimate friend of john milton, and cousin to the great epic poet's fourth wife, elizabeth minshull, and also of thomas minshull, the manchester apothecary and noted nonconformist, whose name, as well as that of his residence, chorlton hall, in manchester, is still perpetuated in minshull and chorlton streets, where he at that time owned considerable property. [ ] the "mr. urione brereton," who, according to the cheadle registers, was buried there "jan. , ," must have been another member of the family. [ ] peter venables had been elected with sir wm. brereton, but, being a royalist, he withdrew, and was succeeded by george booth. [ ] an old portrait in oil of the loyal and intrepid mayor taken in , when he was years of age, was presented some years ago by mr. j. edisbury, of bersham, near wrexham, to the water tower museum, at chester, where it is now preserved. [ ] richard percival, linen webster, of kirman's hulme, is said to have been the first person whose blood was shed in the great civil war. the manchester register thus records his burial: " , julie , richard parcivall, of grindlowe." [ ] this work, which has been commonly recognised as burghall's, can be no longer attributed to him, the _bonâ-fide_ author, as mr. hall, the historian of nantwich, has recently shown, being thomas malbon, of nantwich. [ ] sergeant-major lothian. [ ] congleton has been noted for centuries for its confectionery and for the excellence of its sack. among the recent celebrations was the hospitable reception given by the corporation to the lord mayor of london, sir francis graham moon, bart., in , when the entertainment well represented the ancient festivity. on the chairman's table lay the gold and silver maces of the borough, and capacious china corporation bowls full of sack, and flanked by large old two-handled silver flagons by which the sack was gradually drawn off and circulated among the company. on every plate was placed a "count cake," and the centres of the tables were covered with delicate cakes and confectionery, among which was pre-eminent the famous congleton gingerbread and a profusion of choice fruit. the brewage of the sack was entrusted to joseph speratti, who boasts that he alone possesses the true recipe. [ ] by that fatal coincidence which arrayed friends and kinsmen under the opposite banners in the contest, sir william brereton, both at nantwich and chester, the greatest scenes of his exertions, was opposed to lord byron, whose family was nearly allied to that of the parliamentary general, his brother, and ultimate heir, sir richard byron, equally distinguished as a loyalist, having married elizabeth, daughter of sir george booth, and the sister of lady brereton,--_ormerod._ [ ] ormerod (hist. ches. v. ), says the minister who ejected seddon was "unquestionably" richard banner, but this is an error; the one whose "name and character" william seddon's son "entirely forgot" was none other than john murcot, the son of a warwickshire attorney, and well known in the literature of nonconformity. he was ordained by warden heyricke and others at manchester, february th, , and preceded henry necome as reader to the celebrated john ley at astbury. he had been there only a short time when he removed to seddon's vicarage house at eastham, and before he had been there a year he received a "call" to be minister of west kirby, but, being dissatisfied with the condition of his congregation and refusing an invitation to settle at chester, he crossed over to dublin, became pastor of an independent congregation, and died there before the close of the year . richard banner succeeded him at eastham. [ ] besides the puritan brother peter, who was an officer in the army of the parliament, there was a third, a ralph seddon, m.a., who resided some time as probationer with the rev. john angier, at denton, in manchester parish, in order that he might have "the benefit of his grave example, pious instruction, and useful converse." he succeeded adam martindale as pastor of the independent church at gorton, whence he removed to langley, in derbyshire, whence he was ejected in . [ ] it is from a portrait by vicars that our illustration is taken. [ ] the rev. edmund law, who was curate of staveley from to , and master of the school there, resided at buck crag, in lindale, about four miles distant. it has been computed that he must have walked , miles every year, and during the time he was curate and schoolmaster , miles, or a distance nearly equal to five times the circumference of the globe; and this for a pittance of £ a year. mr. stockdale relates that about the year a grandson of the humble curate visited the house at buck crag accompanied by his secretary and a posse of clergymen, examined every part of the premises, and overwhelmed the then occupant with questions; the poor man when he had recovered from his amazement exclaiming in the vernacular "t' bishop inquir't t' dog tail oot a-joint." [ ] from the cymric caer, an enclosure or camp, and _mell_ a bare hill or fell. [ ] before the dissolution of the priory the canons of cartmel maintained a guide to conduct travellers across the broad expanse of sand left by each receding tide, paid him out of "peter's pence," and, in addition, gave him the benefit of their prayers. since the suppression of their house the expenses of the "carter," as he is locally designated, have been charged upon the revenue of the duchy of lancaster, but the office is now almost a sinecure. [ ] the "sworn men," which answered in some degree to a select vestry, was an institution common in many parts of north lancashire, though rarely met with in other parts of the kingdom. [ ] in the churchwardens' accounts there is an item of s. for "painting the umbrella." in the church books of prestbury, in cheshire, there is an entry of a payment made in of £ for an umbrella, from which it would seem that the article was not uncommon in country churches. [ ] chronicles, p. . [ ] froissart's chronicles, i, p. . [ ] the particulars of this grant are given in a paper read before the historic society of lancashire and cheshire, february th, , by mr. j. paul rylands, f.s.a., of thelwalls, near warrington. [ ] piers legh was chief justice of macclesfield hundred, but the office of chief justice of chester had not then been created. [ ] archæologia, v. xx. [ ] clifton, near halton, was the property of sir peter legh's mother, and there sir peter seems to have resided in the earlier years of his married life, for, in the proof of age of his son, taken in , one of the witnesses, john de worth, testified that he "was at clifton, near halton, where the said peter (the son) was born; and when he was baptised in the church of runcorn he held a burning wax candle in his hand near the font in which he was baptised." [ ] it has been computed that the number of englishmen slain at towton exceeded the sum of those who fell at vimeria, talavera, salamanca, vittoria, and waterloo. [ ] sir peter leycester affirms that peter legh was made a banneret upon the field at wakefield, but dr. whitaker, with much show of reason, argues that from the hasty nature of the fight there the duke of york could hardly have found time to confer the honour upon the field, and the opinion of whitaker is strengthened by the fact that the annuity of xxli (£ ), granted to him for life by the duke of york out of the "issues, profitez, and revenews of the lordship of wakefield" was made in the name of "perez legh esquier." [ ] warrington in . chet. soc. v. xvii. [ ] redland heath, on which the battle was fought, is three miles from bosworth. [ ] the bells were afterwards removed to norbury and recast. [ ] lord herbert of cherbury's life of himself, p. . [ ] mr. legh's removal to chester is referred to in the following treasury order signed by william iii.:--"to robert lord lucas, governor of our tower of london, in satisfaction of so much expended and disbursed by him in sending down the gentlemen (late prisoners in the tower) into cheshire and lancashire--to wit, caryl lord visc. molyneux, sir thomas clifton, sir william gerard, sir roland stanley, _peter lea of lyme_, bartholomew walmsley, and william dicconson, esq.--and all other charges and expenses of the guards and attendants". [ ] after the defeats at preston and sheriff muir, which destroyed the hopes of the pretender, the members of this cheshire club "unanimously agreed to commemorate the fortunate decision," as they phrased it, which had been come to on peter legh's recommendation, by having their several portraits painted life-size. the pictures remained at ashley hall, near bowdon, until about twenty years ago, when they were removed by the late lord egerton, to tatton, where they now grace the upper panels of the staircase. the members of the club were thomas assheton, of ashley; sir richard grosvenor, of eaton; james (barry) earl of barrymore, of marbury; charles hurleston of newton; amos meredith, of henbury; alexander radcliffe, of foxdenton (lancashire); robert cholmondeley, of holford; john warren, of poynton; henry legh, of high legh; and peter legh, of lyme. the club was dissolved in . [ ] edward gibbon wakefield, the perpetrator of this notorious outrage, died at wellington, new zealand, may , . in after life he rendered good service to his country, and engaged in enterprises much more honourable than the one that cast such a stain upon his earlier career. he was largely instrumental in forming the important colonies of south australia and new zealand, and afterwards acted as private secretary to the earl of durham while governor-general of canada. [ ] mr. john paul rylands, f.s.a., of thelwall, has made a careful examination of these windows, and with painstaking zeal, identified almost every coat and quartering. a list of the shields, as identified by him, is given in the second volume of mr. earwaker's "east cheshire," and some interesting particulars are supplied in dr. renaud's "ancient parish of prestbury." [ ] mr. john dickenson, a wealthy merchant, who lodged and entertained the pretender on the occasion of his visit to manchester, purchased, in the birch hall estate, in rusholme. his grandson, john dickenson, had an only daughter, louisa frances mary dickenson, who married general sir william anson, bart., k.c.b., a distinguished peninsular officer, and by him was mother of sir john william hamilton anson, who was killed in the railway accident at wigan, august nd, , and of the venerable and rev. george henry greville anson, rector of birch and archdeacon of manchester. it is stated that the bed on which the pretender lay while mr. dickenson's guest, was removed to birch villa, where it remained until the death of miss dickenson, when it was sold. [ ] dr. deacon's tomb and strange epitaph, describing him as "the greatest of sinners and the most unworthy of primitive bishops," may still be seen in the north-east corner of st. ann's churchyard. [ ] it is said that on the occasion referred to a soldier approached with a drawn sword and demanded that in the prayer for the king he should substitute james for george, when the intrepid divine, whose loyalty was afterwards rewarded with the wardenship of manchester, unhesitatingly read the prayer for king george and the house of brunswick. [ ] ensign maddock, who was admitted as evidence for the crown. [ ] it was to dr. hall, whilst paying his addresses to the lady who became his wife, that byrom addressed the following epigram:-- "a lady's love is like a candle snuff, that's quite extinguished by a gentle puff but, with a hearty blast or two, the dame, just like a candle, bursts into a flame." [ ] the name is evidently a compound of the celtic _mole_, a hill, and its saxon equivalent _cop_, of which the modern designation is only a corruption. [ ] "kimber's barons," vol. i., p. , lanc. famil. ms. [ ] in pre-reformation times wax was extensively used in the churches, and it was not uncommon for offerings of it to be made at the altar. dr. rock, in his "church of our fathers," says it was not unusual for our forefathers to make a vow when sick to offer to the church, in case of recovery, a wax candle of their own height or that of the diseased limb from which they were suffering. [ ] cornet alexander rigby was of the house of layton, near wigan, but, though bearing the same name, was in no way connected with colonel sir alexander rigby, who rendered such distinguished service in lancashire to the cause of the parliament. [ ] the entry is thus recorded in the burial register--" - , january . thos. tinsley, of lodge." [ ] seacombe attributed the execution of the earl of derby to the "inveterate malice" of bradshaw, originated, he says, because of the earl's having refused him the vice-chamberlainship. [ ] some authorities give the date of her death as , but the name is not mentioned in any of the family deeds later than , and there is good reason to believe that her decease occurred in that year, or shortly after. index. abraham, daniel, , - " emma clarke, " john, - " rachel, " thomas fell, _acton_, , " _church_, , " _vicarage_, _adlington_, " _hall_, , _aggerslack_, _agincourt_, - aikin, lucy, ainsworth, harrison, " mr., albany, duke of, albemarle, earl of, alcock, alice, " john, _alderley_, , , " _cross_, " _edge_, , , , - , " _mere_, " _mill_, " _nether_, " _old_, " _over_, - " _park_, " _rectory_, , , aldithley, adam de, alençon, duke of, allen, cardinal, _allithwaite_, , _amsterdam_, ancaster, duke of, anderson, patrick, anderton, christopher, " elizabeth, andrews, john, " nicholas, angier, john, _anglezark_, anjou, margaret of, anson, george henry greville, " john william hamilton, " william, arderne, john, " margaret, argles, edward, arnefielde, ralph, - arnold, dr., _arnside_, ascue, george, asheley, george, _ashley hall_, ashton, colonel, " john, ashurst, henry, aske, general, askew, anne, - " john, - " margaret, - " william, _aslington_, asshawe, alice, , " _hall_, " james, " john, " lawrence, " ralph, " thomas, assheton, colonel, " ralph, " thomas, _astbury church_, - , , - aston, thomas, - atherton, william, audithlegh, adam, " lyulph, _audlem_, aynesworth, katharine, " j., _bache hall_, _backbarrow_, _baddeley_, baguley, clemence, " isabel, " william, bailey, j. eglington, baltinglass, viscount, bamville, joan, - " philip, - banner, richard, bantry, baron, barclay, robert, bardsley, s. a., barkyng, abbess of, barlow, alexander, barnes, william, _barr bridge_, barret, thomas, barrow, thomas, barry, james, " penelope, , barrymore, earl of, , , _barthomley_, barton, justice, " robert, - bathurst, bishop, _beam heath_, beamont, william, , , , , . _beaulieu abbey_, beaumont, adam, " elizabeth, bechton, richard de, bedford, duke of, - , beechy, william, _beeston castle_, , - , - , " hall, " william, belgrave, elizabeth, bell, edward john, " isaac, bennett, justice, " martha, " thomas, benson, gervase, - bertie, elizabeth, " james, " richard, bethom, ralph, _bewgenet_, _bewsey hall_, , - _biddulph_, - " captain, " hall, , bindloss, robert, bird, dr., biron, john, _bishop auckland_, black prince, edward the, - , , blackburne, mr., " mrs, - " vicar of, _blackley forest_, " _hall_, _blackrod_, bland, john, _blawith_, blois, earl of, _blore-heath_, blundell, william, bodura, mr., bold, richard, , boleyn, anne, - bolingbroke, henry, - _bolton-le-sands church_, booth, colonel, , " elizabeth, " george, , , , , , , " _lane_, " nathaniel, - " william, bordeaux, richard of, _borwick hall_, _bosden_, , bostock, ralph, _bosworth field_, , boteler, john, - , " thomas, , bottomley, mr., _boughton_, _bowdon_, _bowness_, _bowstones, the_, bowyer, mr., bradford, john, _bradley, green_, " john, " thurston, bradshaw, dr., " henry, " john, , , bramhall, captain, " _hall_, , _brancepeth castle_, - brandon, charles, breeres, mr., breers, thomas, breres, edward, brereton, alice, " andrew, , - " charles, " dorothy, , " eleanor, " _hall_, " jane, " john, " katharine, " lady, , " lord, , - " margaret, , " randle, , " richard, , - , , " thomas, - " urian, , , , - , " william, - , - brett, anne, " colonel, bridgeman, bishop, , , , " orlando, _bridgenorth_. bridgewater, countess of, " earl of, , , briggs, thomas, brindle, mr., _brindley_, _bristol_, , bromhall, cecilia, bromley, george, brooke, lord, " major, " peter, brooks, samuel, broome, mary, " william, broughton, captain, " thomas, brouncker, lord, brown, john, " mr., " william, brownlow, richard, bruche, hamer, " roger, brunswick, elector of, _brymbo hall_, _buck crag_, - buckingham, duke of, , " earl of, _buerton_, _bunbury_, , _burford_, burghall, edward, , - , burghley, lord, burgundy, duchess of, " duke of, bury, henry, butler, frances, " george, " john, " thomas, , byrom, beppy, " edward, , " john, , , , , - , , - " mrs., byron, " lord, , " richard, " thomas, _calais_, calveley, george, " hugh, , " lettice, calvert, ann, " john, canterbury, archbishop of, capel, lord, - carey, anne, " philip, carington, john, _carisbrooke castle_, _cark_, - , , " _hall_, _carlisle_, _carnforth_, carr, ralph, , - _cartmel_, - , , - , - , " _church_, - , , , - , " _fells_, carus, joshua, " katharine, _castle rock_, castlemaine, lady, cavendish, general, " george augustus, " william, _chalgrove field_, chambers, robert, _chartley_, _chatsworth_, _cheadle_, " _church_, - , , , , - , , chedle, roger, _chester_, , - , , , - , , , " bishop of, , - , - , , , £ _castle_, " _cathedral_, " chief justice of, " earl of, , , , , " mayor of, - " prince of, chetham, edward, " george, " humphrey, , chicheley, archbishop, " elizabeth, " thomas, , _chillingham_, _chirk_, _cholmondeley_, - " earl of, " general, " george james, " james, " lord, " marquis of, " randle, " robert, " viscount, _chorley hall_, , _chorlton hall_, clarendon, clarke, alice, " george, clayton, john, , cleveland, duke of, clifford, lord, - " thomas, clifton, catherine, " thomas, , clinton, edward, " margaret, " miss, _cloud end_, coke, justice, colydon, mrs., , commines, philip de, _congleton_, " _edge_, _coniston_, constance, ivo de, _conway_, - cooper, joseph, " william, cope, john, coppock, thomas, , , , , - _coppul_, corbet, captain, " vincent, , corona, ellen, , " thomas, , coupelond, dawe, - , coventry, ann, " lord keeper, " mr., cowdall, richard, cowper, thomas, craigie, john, cressiac, george, _crewe_, " _hall_, , croft, james, " mabel, crompton, thomas, cromwell, oliver, , - , - , , , , cromwell, richard, , crook, mr., _croydon_, , cumberland, duchess of, " duke of, - cunliffe, edward t., " james, cunningham, mr., dale, richard, - _dalton_, " dr., darby, agnes, davenport, henry, , " hester, " william d'anyers, john, " margaret, , , , , " matilda, " thomas, - , - , , " william, d'avranches, hugh, dawson, captain, , - , - " dr., , , - , " elizabeth, , , " james, , , - , , , - , , - , - " mrs., , " sarah, , , " william, - , - deacon, dr., " thomas, " thomas theodorus, _dean church_, " _river_, , , deane, thomas, _dee bridge_, " dr., " _river_, _delamere forest_, , " _house_, " lord, de-la-tour, a. j. deschamps, delves, lady, " thomas, _denbigh_, denison, william, _denton hall_, _derby_, " earl of, , , , , , , - , - , , , - , , - , _derbyshire, peak of_, dethick, gilbert, devonshire, duke of, , " earl of, dewhurst, robert, dicconson, william, dickenson, john, - " louisa frances mary, " miss, _dieulacres abbey_, , _disley_, , " _church_, , - , - , , , dixie, beaumont, " mary, dobson, george, dod, john, _doddington_, , , done, henry, " john, " margaret, " randolph, _dorfold hall_, , , dorset, earl of, downes, edmund, " francis, " jane, " john, , , " lawrence, " margery, " roger, - downham, william, drayton, michael, , , drury, captain, duckworth, mr., _dudley castle_, " lady, " lord, dugdale, william, dukinfield, captain, " colonel, , " francis, " robert, _dunbar_, _durham_, " bishop of, , , , , , , " _castle_, " _cathedral_, - , " earl of, dutton, hugh, " peter, " piers, " roger, dyott, _ea river_, - earl, bishop, _eastham_, - earwaker, j. p., , , , , , , , , _eccleshall castle_, _edgehill_, edwards, alderman, _edinburgh_, edisbury, j., egerton, captain, " dorothy, , " elizabeth charlotte, " holland, " louisa, " lord, " philip de m. grey, " richard, , " thomas, , " william, , elizabeth, queen, , ellenborough lord, _ellenbrook chapel_, ellis, colonel, ely, bishop, , , _elmer hurst_, emmerson, thomas, erpingham, thomas, , errol, earl of, eskrigg, james, essex, earl of, , ethelred, king, exeter, bishop of, - " duke of, , fairfax, general, , , " william, _farnworth grammar school_, fearnside, adam, feeilden, alexander, fell, john, " leonard, " margaret, , - , , , , - , - " mary, " thomas, , - , , - , , , - , , fenner, ann, " edward, ferrers, earl of, ffielden, mr., fielding, colonel, " henry, " joseph, " louisa willis, " randle joseph, " robert, " robert mosley, _finsthwaite_, finlow, john, fisher, mr., fitchett, john, fitton, edward, " ellen, fitz-nigel, william, , fitzroy, barbara, , "flame, lord," fleetwood, ann, " thomas, , fletcher, captain, _flixton_, _flodden field_, , - _flookersbrook hall_, _flookborough_, flower, william, , , , , _fouldrey, peel of_, fouleshurst, robert, foulkes, martin, , - fox, christopher, " george, , - " margaret, , , - _foxhall_, , frensshye, hugh, frere, sir h. bartle, _frodsham hills_, , froude, j. a., fuller, thomas, , , , _furness_, , , " _abbey_, " _fells_, fynes-clinton, elizabeth, " henry, galliard, gilbert, gargrave, thomas, gaskell, mrs., gaskell, bishop, , gaunt, john o', - , , gawsworth, parson of, gee, elizabeth, gee, ralph, gell, john, gerard, elizabeth, " gilbert, , " jane, " lord, , " margaret, , , " mary, " myles, " thomas, - " william, , - , , gibbons, grinling, , gillow, joseph, gilmore, major, _gisburne_, gladstone, w. e., _glasgow_, glendower, owen, gloucester, duke of, - , _godderside_, goffe, major-general, goldney, henry, goldsmith, oliver, goring, colonel, _gorton church_, grandison, lord, _grange_, - , _grassendale_, _gravesend_, gray, lord, " walter, green, john, _greenodd_, greenwood, joseph, " mary, " william, gresley, george, gresswell, robert, " susanna, grey, jane, _grisedale_, grosvenor, richard, " robert, _gummer how_, hacker, colonel, _hales owen abbey_, hall, edward, " elizabeth, " frances, - " _hall o' th' hill_, " mr., " richard, " richard edward, halley, dr., , , , halliwell, ann, " lawrence, " richard, hallstead, mr., halsey, john, _halton_, " baron of " _castle_, , hamilton, duke of, hampden, john, _hampsfell_, _hampton court_, " _hall_, _handbridge_, _handforth_, " _green_, , " _hall_, - , - , , , , , " margaret, " william, _hankelow_, _hanmer_, hanover, elector of, _harfleur_, harrington, henry, " james, " john, , - " lucy, " thomas, _hartford_, hartleb, samuel, haryngton, ellen, " william, _haslington_, , hastings, colonel, , _hatherton_, hatton, richard, - _haverthwaite_, _hawarden_, - hay, dulcibella jane, haydock, gilbert, , " joanna, hayes, maria, haysnap, roger, _heaton park_, _helvellyn_, hemingway, - herbert of cherbury, lord, , herford, mr., hertford, earl of, , - hewitson, anthony, hewitt, john, " thomas, heyricke, richard, , , heywood, nathaniel, " oliver, , , hibbert-ware, dr., _high bullough_, _high legh_, , _highgate_, holcroft, eleanor, " thomas, - , , , , _holker hall_, , , , , - , holland, colonel, " henry, , " john, " margaret, " richard, - " thomas, hollinshed, " richard, hollingworth, " john, holme, randle, _holmes chapel_, _holt bridge_, _holy well_, holynworth, john, honford, geoffrey, " henry, , , " john, - " katharine, " margaret, , " roger, - " sibyl, , " william, , , - , hook, theodore, hoole, joseph, _hooton_, " margery, " william, _hopton heath_, , _hornby_, _horwich chapel_, , " _church_, - , " _forest_., _hospice_, hoton, adam, - hotspur, harry, - howard, edmund, hubbersty, mr., huddleston, colonel, _humphrey head_, _hurleston_, " brook, " charles, " john, " katharine, " roger, hurst, geoffrey, - huskisson, mrs., " william, " lucy, hutton, serjeant, " captain, hyde, john, " william, ince, mr., ingham, mr., inglis, rev. dr., ipstones, alice, " william, ireland, duke of, isabella, queen, jansen, cornelius, joan of arc, john, king, - johnson, dr., " samuel, , jones, arthur, " colonel, - " john, keighley, henry, " mary, - kelsall, james, _kendal_, " earl of, kent, fair maid of, , , kenyon, mr., , kildare, earl of, _kinderton_, " baron of, - , , , kingsley, adam, " charles, kingsmill, alice, , " john, kingston, earl of, kirkby, colonel, - , , , " _hall_, " william, , _kirkhead_, _knight's low, the_, , - _knypersley hall_, _kyre_, lago, mary, _lake country_, , _lakeside_, - lampitt, _lancaster_, , , , " _castle_, , " duke of, , , " william, langdale, marmaduke, " _pikes_, _langley_, langton, jane, " philip, " ralph, - _lathom house_, , " thomas, , laud, william, , law, edmund, , lawton, john, _lee_, " peter, legh, agnes, , " ann, , , " ashburnham, - " benet, " captain, " catharine, " charles, " cicely, " colonel, " edward, " elizabeth, " ellen, " ellen jane, " frances, , , " francis, , - , " galfred, " george, " gilbert, " gowther, " henry, , " hugh, " isabel, " joanna, " john, - , , " madame, " margaret, , , , " margery, - " martha, " mrs., " perkyn, , , , " peter, , , , , , - , , , , - " peter benet, " piers, , - , - , , , , , - , , , , , , " radcliffe, " richard, , , - , " robert, - , , , " thomas, , , - , - , , , - " thomas peter, , " william, , " william john, leicester, earl of, - , , - leigh, charles, - " elizabeth, " honora, " john, , , " lettice, " lord, , " mr., " thomas, leighe, myles, - leland, leonard, stephen, leoni giacomo, , lesley, leven, earl of, " _river_, , , " _sands_, - _lever hall_, " _heath_, " john, , " robert, " thomas, - , " little hall, _levy beck_, ley, john, leyburn, leycester, catharine, , " charles, " george, " maria, - , " oswald, " peter, - " william, leyland, ann, - , " thomas, - , " william, _leyton_, _lichfield_, - " _close_, " earl of, lilburne, colonel, limme, hugh, " richard, , - _lincoln close_, " earl of, , , _lindale_, - " _close_, " _in cartmel_, lindsay, earl of, " lord, _little lever hall_, _liverpool_, " _castle_, llewellyn, prince, _london_, " john, _lostock gralam_, _loughrigg_, lovel, francis, " viscount, _low wood hotel_, lowe, alice, " thomas, lower, thomas, , - lowther, brabazon, " christopher, " george, " maud, , " william, , lowthian, adjutant general, lucas, robert, , , _lune river_, _lunedale_, lunt, john, - , lupus, hugh, , _lyme cage_, - , , , " _chapel_, , " _chase_, " _hall_, - , " _park_, _lymm church_, _macclesfield_, " _church_, , " countess of, " _forest_, , , , , , " john, " jordan, " lady of, , " lord, " margaret, " mayor of, mcdougal, james, maddock, ensign, mahon, lord, mainwaring, colonel, " henry, " mr. " randle, malbon, thomas, _malpas_, , " _church_, man, bishop of, _manchester_, - , , " earl of, manley, john, mann, colonel, manners, frances, mara, hugh, marbury, captain, " laurence, " thomas, march, earl of, mareschall, william, , , margaret, queen, marlborough, duke of, _marple_, marrow, colonel, marsh, esquire, " george, , " _grange_, , _marston moor_, , martindale, adam, mary, queen, mason, lady, massey, ann, " richard, massie, captain, maurice, prince, medd, william, melbourne, lord, meldran, william, meldrum, john, meredith, amos, middleton, geoffrey, _middlewich_, - , , _milford haven_, milner, jane, _milnthorpe sands_, milton, john, minshull, elizabeth, " thomas, mitford, mary, molineux, richard, - , " lord, , , molyneux, caryll, , monk, colonel, _monks heath_, monmouth, duke of, - montagu, baron, monteagle, lord, _montgomery castle_, montrose, , moon, francis graham, " prior, moore, mr., _morecambe bay_, , , , , moreton, bishop, " cardinal, " edward, , " elizabeth, " frances annabella, " _hall little_, " jane, " john, - , " lettice, " margaren, " mary, " william, - , , - _morleys hall_, , , - , morris, captain, morteign, earl of, mortimer, roger, mosley, ann, " edward, " john parker, " oswald, _moss house_, moston, roger, , _mostyn_, " roger, _mottram st. andrew_, _mow cop_, , mulineux, carrel, munckas, thomas, murcal, john, murray, george, , _myerscough lodge_, , - , , - , , - mytton, edward, _naseby_, _nantwich_, , , - , , , , - , nevile, jollan, neville, ralph, _newark_, , _newby bridge_, , , newburgh, lord, _newcastle_, " duke of, " marquis of, newcome, henry, , , _newton_, " robert, " samuel, " william, nicolas, n. harris, norden, bertram, norfolk, duke of, , norley, adam, , " matilda, " maud, normandy, duchess of, " duke of, norreis, john, norreys, ann, " henry, " margaret, " thomas, " william, norris, edward, " henry, " william, northampton, earl of, - northumberland, earl of, _northwich_, - , , norton, gilbert, " katharine, , , - " richard, " william, _norwich cathedral_, _nottingham_, nowell, alexander, oldfield, somerford, oldham, hugh, - orange, prince of, orell, hugh, " robert, ormerod, george, , ormond, marquis of, , osbaldeston, alexander, " chapel, " ellena, _overleigh hall_, owen, captain, " hugh, " margarget,[typo "margaret"?] oxford, earl of, pageatt, mr., paget, john, " nathan, " thomas, paley, mr., par, thomas, _park house_, parker, archbishop, - , pass, william, pegge, dr., pembroke, earl of, , - , _pendle hill_, penn, william, , , penultsbury, adam, _peover_, peploe, warden, pepys, samuel, percival, richard, petre, pidgeon, elizabeth, " william, pierrepoint, robert, pilkington, alice, , " charles " deborah, " elizabeth, " george, , " henry mulock, " isaac, " james, , , - , - , , - , - " john, , , " joshua, " katharine, " leonard, " ralph, " richard, , - , " robert, - , - , " roger, " ruth, " thomas, , pincerna, almeric, " william fitzalmeric, plantagenet, edmund, " edward, , " joan, _plashy castle_, pollard, h., pollitt, cooke, poole, dorothy, pope, alexander, porter, major, poyntz, major-general, prayers, margaret, - " william, - _prestbury_, , _preston_, , " christopher, , " elizabeth, " george, - , " katharine, " richard, - " thomas, , prestwich, parson of, proctor, mr., pulteney, ann, " william, pygott, john, pytts, james, _raby castle_, radcliffe, alexander, , " john, , _radcot bridge_, _radnor mere_, raikes, henry, _ravensmoor_, , , , rawson, mr., _redland heath_, reilly, john, remington, thomas, , renaud, dr., richmond, earl of, , - rigby, alexander, , , , " cicely, " colonel, " mary, " nicholas, riley, william, ripon, major, rivers, earl of, , - , _rivington_, " alexander, " _chapel_, , - " _church_, , , " cicely, " _grammar school_, , - " _pike_, , , " richard, " thomas, roby, mr., , rochester, bishop of, , rochford, countess of, , " earl of, " lord, rock, dr., rode, thomas, roper, thomas, roscoe, baxter, , " ebenezer, - " helena, _rostherne mere_, rothschild, nathan meyer, rothwell, eleanor, , " james, - , _rowton heath_, - rudall, mr., runchamp, hugh, rupert, prince, , , rutland, earl of, rycroft, josiah, , , rylands, john paul, , _st. alban's_, st. andrew's, archbishop of, _st. bernard's mount_, st. werburgh's, abbot of, salisbury, earl of, salmes, mary, _sandal castle_, _sandbach_, sandford, " thomas, - , _sandiway_, , sandys, edwin, sankey, captain, _salt heath_, saunders, mr., savage, bessey, " christopher, - , " elizabeth, , , " ellen, " john, , , - , - , , , , " margaret, , " richard, - " thomas, , , saville, ann, " john, " lord, sawrey, justice, , - schofield, james, scots, mary queen of, scott, walter, scrope, richard, _sedbergh_, seddon, edward, " peter, " ralph, " william, - _sefton church_, " earl of, seymour, jane, shaftesbury, earl of, shakerley, charles watkin, " geoffrey, - " parnell, shaw, elizabeth, " george, , " hannah, - " helena, " james, " john, - , " mr., " peter, " place, - , , , " thomas, shenstone, , , sherburn, mr., sherrington, francis, " gilbert, shipbrooke, baron of, shipman, abraham, _shrewsbury_, " duke of, _shrigley park_, skyring, mrs., sidney, philip, , - " william, _silverdale_, sim, richard, simnel, lambert, , skeffington, cicely, " william, _skerton_, - smeaton, mark, smith, madame, " john, " richard, smyth, william, snede, ralph, somerset, charles, " duke of, , _sound_, _southwell_, southworth, thomas, speratti, joseph, _stafford_, , , " _castle_, , " earl of, standish, francis, " ralph, , stanley, ann, " arthur penrhyn, , , , - , , - , " bishop, " catharine, , , , " catharine maria, " charles edward, , " edward, - , - , - , - , - , , " george, " james, - , " john, - , - , , - , , " john thomas, , - " lord, , , , , , - " margaret, , - " mary, , , - " miss, , " mrs., , " owen, , , - , - " rowland, , " thomas, , - , - , , , , , " william, , - , , , , , starky, captain, _staveley_, , steel, captain, , stockdale, mr., , - _stockport_, , " thomas, _stockton heath_, _stoke_, _stokefield, battle of_, stokeport, robert, _stone_, , _stormy point_, strafford, earl of, strange, lord, , , , , strongbow, stuart, bernard, " charles edward, , , - , , - , suffolk, duchess of, " duke of, surrey, earl of, - sutton, thomas, sussex, earl of, _swarthmoor_, , , - , , , - , - , , " _hall_, , , , , , , - , swartz, martin, , swetenham, william, syddall, tom, , - , , symonds, stephen, tabley, adam, " lord de, talbot, lord, _talk o' th' hill_, tancrope, john, tankerville, count, , - , _tarporley_, _tarvin_, _tatton mere_, taylor, richard, _thalck_, thompson, justice, thornburgh, ethelred, " william, throgmorton, nicholas, throstle, roger, _thurland castle_, thyer, robert, tildesley, thomas, tinsley, thomas, _tintagel castle_, _tiverton town field_, _tower green_, townley, colonel, , , , , , , " francis, , " _hall_, _towton, battle of_, - trafford, alice, " cecil, " edmund, , , , _traitors' gate_, _tunstall_, turner, ellen, " j. matthias, " william, _tutbury_, tyrconnell, lord, tyerman, john, tyldesley, adam, , " agatha, " alexander, " alice, " ann, , " catharine, , " charles, " dorothy, , " edward, - , - " elizabeth, , " fleetwood, " geoffrey, , " gilbert, " henry, , , " hugh, , " james, , - " john, " margaret, " mary, " nicholas, , " ralph, " richard, , " thomas, , - , , - , " thurston, - , " winifred, tynsley, robert, _ulverston_, , , , , - , " _church_, , , , vale royal, abbot of, vaughan, c. j., venables, alexander, " gilbert, , " john, " thomas, " william, - , vere, robert, vernon, dorothy, " richard, vicars, john, , , , wade, marshall, wakefield, edward gibbon, walker, john, " mr., , wall, john, waller, james, walmsley, bartholomew, walpole, , _walton_, " william, , _wansfell_, _wanstead_, warburton, john, " moss, " peter, " richard, " thomas, ward, baron, - " lady, " mary, " theodore, - " thomas, , _wardley hall_, - , - warren, edward, " george, " john, " laurence, , , " margery, _warrington_, , warwick, earl of, , wase, christopher, waters, lucy, watson, john, - " joseph, _weaver, river_, , webber, mr., _weever_, , , " elizabeth, , " richard, - " thomas, , wellington, duke of, , _wensleydale_, _wem_, , werden, mr., west, colonel, - " wickham, westby, thomas, _westminster_, " _abbey_, " abbot of, - westmoreland, earl of, weston, francis, whalley, abbot of, " vicar of, _whitchurch_, - , whitelocke, whitney, captain, whittal, eleanor, , - " hugh, , - " ralph, , widders, robert, _wigan church_, " _lane, battle of_, - wilbraham, george fortesque, " mr., , " randle, , " richard, , , " thomas, _wilder lads_, _wilders moor_, wilkinson, mary ann, " john willoughby, ambrose, , , " ann, " charles, , - , , , " edward, , , " eleanor, " elizabeth, , , , " fortune, - " francis, , , , " george, , " helena, - , " henry, , , " hester, " honora, , , " hugh, , , , - , " john, " katharine, " lady, , " lord, - , - , - , - , " lord of eresby, - " thomas, , - , , " william, , , wilmslow, parson of, _windermere_, windham, judge, _windleshaw_, _winster, river_, _winwick church_, _wirral forest_, _wizard, the_, wodehouse, charles nourse, " emily jane, wolsey, cardinal, wolstenholme, jane, _wolverhampton_, wood, william, _woodhay_, , - , woodnoth, marie, " mary, " jonathan, _worcester_, " earl of, , workedley, richard, " roger, workeslegh, elias, workesley, agnes, " geoffrey, - " helias, " henry, " jordan, " richard, - " robert, " roger, - _worminghurst_, worsley, alexander, " charles, " elizabeth, " general, " _hall_, " henry, " jordan, - " margaret, " nicholas, " otwell, " ralph, - " richard, , worth, john, worthington, dr., _wrenbury_, wrench, edward, " edward omaney, wright, mrs., wroe, dr., yeomans, isabel, _yewbarrow_, york, abbot of, " archbishop of, - , " _castle_, " duke of, - , , yorke, rowland, john heywood, excelsior steam printing and bookbinding works, hulme hall road, manchester. * * * * * transcriber's notes page xv "dean of chester, the very rev. the, the deanery, chester." extra the, removed. page memorial to edward stanley. the first and last lines are printed vertically on either side in the original. page duplicate "tidings" removed. index reference to jordan worsley corrected to p . variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained, but numerous minor typos and errors of punctuation have been corrected. italics are shown thus _italic_. file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) wenderholme. _a story of lancashire and yorkshire_. by philip gilbert hamerton, author of "the intellectual life," etc. "it takes a deal o' sorts to make a world." _popular proverb_. boston: roberts brothers. . _author's edition_. _cambridge: press of john wilson and son_. to an old lady in yorkshire. you remember a time when the country in which this story is placed was quite different from what it is to-day; when the old proprietors lived in their halls undisturbed by modern innovation, and neither enriched by building leases, nor humiliated by the rivalry of mighty manufacturers. you have seen wonderful changes come to pass,--the valleys filled with towns, and the towns connected by railways, and the fields covered with suburban villas. you have seen people become richer and more refined, though perhaps less merry, than they used to be; till the simple, unpretending life of the poorer gentlefolks of the past has become an almost incredible tradition, which few have preserved in their memory. when this story was first written, some passages of it were read to you, and they reminded you of those strong contrasts in the life of the north of england which are now so rapidly disappearing. wenderholme is therefore associated with you in my mind as one of its first hearers, and i dedicate it to you affectionately. preface to the american edition. it happened, some time before this story was originally composed, that the author had a conversation, about the sale of novels, with one of the most eminent publishers of fiction in london.[ ] the result of his experience was, that in the peculiar conditions of the english market short novels did not pay, whilst long ones, of the same quality, were a much safer investment. having incurred several successive losses on short novels, my friend, the publisher, had made up his mind never to have any thing more to do with them, and strongly recommended me, if i attempted a work of fiction, to go boldly into three volumes at once, and not discourage myself by making an experiment on a smaller scale, which would only make failure a certainty. the reader may easily imagine the effect of such a conversation as this upon an author who, whatever may have been his experience in other departments of literature, had none at all in the publication of novels. the practical consequence of it was, that, when the present story was written, commercial reasons prevailed, as they unhappily so often do prevail, over artistic reasons, and the book was made far longer than, as a work of art, it ought to have been. the present edition, though greatly abridged, is not by any means, from the author's point of view, a mutilated edition. on the contrary, it rather resembles a building of moderate dimensions, from which excrescences have been removed. the architect has been careful to preserve every thing essential, and equally careful to take away every thing which had been added merely for the sake of size. the work is therefore at the present time much nearer in character to the original conception of the designer than it has ever been before. notwithstanding the defect of too great length, and the difficulty which authors often experience in obtaining recognition in a new field, _wenderholme_ was very extensively reviewed in england, and, on the whole, very favorably. unfortunately, however, for the author's chances of profiting by the suggestions of his critics, it so happened that when any character or incident was selected for condemnation by one writer, that identical character or incident was sure to be praised enthusiastically by another, who spoke with equal authority and decision, in some journal of equal importance. the same contradictions occurred in criticisms by private friends, people of great experience and culture. some praised the first volume, but did not like the third; whilst others, who certainly knew quite as much about such matters, considered that the book began badly, but improved immensely as it went on, and finished in quite an admirable manner, like a horse that has warmed to his work. these differences of opinion led me to the rather discouraging conclusion that there is nothing like an accepted standard of right and wrong in the criticism of fiction; that the critic praises what interests or amuses him, and condemns what he finds tiresome, with little reference to any governing laws of art. i may observe, however, that the book had an artistic intention, which was the contrast between two classes of society in lancashire, and that the militia was used as a means of bringing these two classes together. i may here reply to one or two objections which have been made as to the manner in which this plan was carried out. most of the local newspapers in the north of england at once recognized the truth of local character in the book; but one manchester critic, with a patriotism for his native county which is a most respectable sentiment, felt hurt by my descriptions of intemperance, and treated them as a simple calumny, arguing that the best answer to them was the industry of the county, which would not have been compatible with such habits. i have never desired to imply that all lancashire people were drunkards, but there are certain nooks and corners of the county where drinking habits were prevalent, in the last generation, to a degree which is not exaggerated in this book. such places did not become prosperous until the energy of the better-conducted inhabitants produced a change in the local customs; and i need hardly say that the hard drinkers themselves were unable to follow business either steadily or long. downright drunkenness is now happily no longer customary in the middle classes, and in the present day men use stimulants rather to repair temporarily the exhaustion produced by over-work than for any bacchanalian pleasure. in this more modern form of the drinking habit i do not think that lancashire men go farther than the inhabitants of other very busy counties, or countries, where the strain on human energy is so great that there is a constant temptation to seek help from some kind of stimulating beverage. the only other objection to the local truth of _wenderholme_ which seems to require notice is that which was advanced in the _saturday review_. the critic in that periodical thought it untrue to english character to represent a man in colonel stanburne's position as good-natured enough to talk familiarly with his inferiors. well, if modern literature were a literature of types, and not of persons, such an objection would undoubtedly hold good. the typical englishman, when he has money and rank, is certainly a very distant and reserved being, except to people of his own condition; but there are exceptions to this rule,--i have known several in real life,--and i preferred to paint an exception, for the simple reason that reserve and pride are the death of human interest. it would be possible enough to introduce a cold and reserved aristocrat in a novel of english life,--such personages have often been delineated with great skill and fidelity,--but i maintain that they do not excite sympathy and interest, and that it would be a mistake in art to place one of them in a central situation, such as that of colonel stanburne in this volume. they may be useful in their place, like a lump of ice on a dinner-table. on the first publication of _wenderholme_, the author received a number of letters from people who were quite convinced that they had recognized the originals of the characters. the friends and acquaintances of novelists always amuse themselves in this way; and yet it seldom happens, i believe, that there is any thing like a real portrait in a novel. a character is suggested by some real person, but when once the fictitious character exists in the brain of the author, he forgets the source of the original suggestion, and simply reports what the imaginary personage says and does. it is narrated of an eminent painter, famous for the saintly beauty of his virgins, that his only model for them was an old man-servant, and this is a good illustration of the manner in which the imagination operates. some of my correspondents made guesses which were very wide of the mark. one lady, whom i had never thought about in connection with the novel at all, recognized herself in mrs. prigley, confessed her sins, and promised amendment; an illusion scarcely to be regretted, since it may have been productive of moral benefit. a whole township fancied that it recognized jacob ogden in a wealthy manufacturer, whose face had not been present to me when i conceived the character. a correspondent recognized dr. bardly as the portrait of a surgeon in lancashire who was never once in my mind's eye during the composition of the novel. the doctor was really suggested by a frenchman, quite ignorant of the lancashire dialect, and even of english. but, of all these guesses, one of the commonest was that philip stanburne represented the author himself, probably because he was called philip. there is no telling what may happen to us before we die; but i hope that the supposed original of jacob ogden may preserve his sanity to the end of his earthly pilgrimage, and that the author of this volume may not end his days in a monastery. p. g. h. contents. part i. chapter i. manners and customs of shayton ii. grandmother and grandson iii. at the parsonage iv. isaac ogden becomes a backslider. v. father and son vi. little jacob is lost vii. isaac ogden's punishment viii. from sootythorn to wenderholme ix. the fugitive x. christmas at milend xi. the colonel goes to shayton xii. ogden's new mill xiii. stanithburn peel xiv. at sootythorn xv. with the militia xvi. a case of assault xvii. isaac ogden again xviii. isaac's mother comes xix. the colonel at whittlecup xx. philip stanburne in love xxi. the wenderholme coach xxii. colonel stanburne apologizes xxiii. husband and wife xxiv. the colonel as a consoler xxv. wenderholme in festivity xxvi. more fireworks xxvii. the fire xxviii. father and daughter xxix. progress of the fire xxx. uncle jacob's love affair xxxi. uncle jacob is accepted xxxii. mr. stedman relents xxxiii. the saddest in the book xxxiv. jacob ogden free again xxxv. little jacob's education xxxvi. a short correspondence. xxxvii. at wenderholme cottage xxxviii. artistic intoxication xxxix. good-bye to little jacob part ii. i. after long years. ii. in the dining-room iii. in the drawing-room iv. alone. v. the two jacobs vi. the sale vii. a frugal supper viii. at chesnut hill ix. ogden of wenderholme x. young jacob and edith xi. edith's decision. xii. jacob ogden's triumph xiii. the blow-out. xiv. mrs. ogden's authority xv. lady helena returns xvi. the colonel comes xvii. a morning call. xviii. money on the brain xix. the colonel at stanithburn xx. a simple wedding xxi. the monk wenderholme. part i. chapter i. manners and customs of shayton. it was an immemorial custom in shayton for families to restrict themselves to a very few christian names, usually taken from the old testament, and these were repeated, generation after generation, from a feeling of respect to parents, very laudable in itself, but not always convenient in its consequences. thus in the family of the ogdens, the eldest son was always called isaac, and the second jacob, so that if they had had a pedigree, the heralds would almost have been driven to the expedient of putting numbers after these names--as we say henry viii, or louis xiv. the isaac ogden who appears in this history may have been, if collateral isaacs in other branches were taken into account, perhaps isaac the fortieth; indeed, the tombstones in shayton churchyard recorded a number of isaac ogdens that was perfectly bewildering. even the living isaac ogdens were numerous enough to puzzle any new-comer; and a postman who had not been accustomed to the place, but was sent there from rochdale, solemnly declared that "he wished all them hisaac hogdens was deead, every one on 'em, nobbut just about five or six, an' then there'd be less bother about t' letters." this wish may seem hard and unchristian,--it may appear, to readers who have had no experience in the delivery of letters, that to desire the death of a fellow-creature merely because he happened to be called isaac ogden implied a fearful degree of natural malevolence; but the business of a postman cultivates an eagerness to get rid of letters, whereof the lay mind has no adequate conception; and when a bachelor isaac ogden got a letter from an affectionate wife, or an isaac ogden, who never owed a penny, received a pressing dun from an impatient and exasperated creditor, these epistles were returned upon the postman's hands, and he became morbidly anxious to get rid of them, or "shut on 'em," as he himself expressed it. some annoying mistakes of this kind had occurred in reference to _our_ mr. isaac ogden at the time when he was engaged to miss alice wheatley, whose first affectionate letter from her father's house at eatherby had not only miscarried, but actually been opened and read by several isaac ogdens in shayton and its vicinity; for poor miss alice, in the flurry of directing her first epistle to her lover, had quite forgotten to put the name of the house where he then lived. this was particularly annoying to mr. ogden, who had wished to keep his engagement secret, in order to avoid as long as possible the banter of his friends; and he sware in his wrath that there were far too many isaac ogdens in the world, and that, however many sons he had, he would never add to their number. this declaration was regarded by his mother, and by the public opinion of the elder generation generally, as little better than a profession of atheism; and when our little friend jacob, about whom we shall have much to say, was christened in shayton church, it was believed that the misguided father would not have the hardihood to maintain his resolution in so sacred a place. he had, however, the courage to resist the name of isaac, though it was pressed upon him with painful earnestness; but he did not dare to offend tradition so far as to resist that of jacob also, though the objections to it were in truth equally cogent. on his retirement to twistle farm, an out-of-the-way little estate up in the hill country near shayton, mr. ogden, who was now a widower, determined, at least for the present, to educate his child himself. and so it was that, at the age of nine, little jacob was rather less advanced than some other boys of his age. he had not begun latin yet, but, on the other hand, he read english easily and with avidity, and wrote a very clear and legible hand. his friend doctor bardly, the shayton medical man, who rode up to twistle farm very often (for he liked the fresh moorland air, and enjoyed a chat with mr. ogden and the child), used to examine little jacob, and bring him amusing books, so that his young friend had already several shelves in his bedroom which were filled with instructive histories and pleasant tales. the youthful student had felt offended one day at milend, where his grandmother and his uncle jacob lived, when a matronly visitor had asked whether he could read. "he can read well enough," said his grandmother. "well, an' what can he read? can he read i' th' bible?" the restriction of jacob's reading powers to one book offended him. could he not read all english books at sight, or the newspaper, or any thing? indeed, few people in shayton, except the doctor, read as much as the little boy at twistle farm; and when his uncle at milend discovered one day what an appetite for reading the child had, he was not altogether pleased, and asked whether he could "cast accounts." finding him rather weak in the elementary practice of arithmetic, uncle jacob made him "do sums" whenever he had an opportunity. arithmetic (or "arethmitic," as uncle jacob pronounced it) was at milend considered a far higher attainment than the profoundest knowledge of literature; and, indeed, if the rank of studies is to be estimated by their influence on the purse, there can be no doubt that the milend folks were right. without intending a pun (for this would be a poor one), uncle jacob had never found any thing so interesting as interest, and the annual estimate which he made of the increase of his fortune brought home to his mind a more intense sense of the delightfulness of addition than any school-boy ever experienced. but arithmetic, like every other human pursuit, has its painful or unpleasant side, and uncle jacob regarded subtraction and division with an indescribable horror and dread. subtraction, in his vivid though far from poetical imagination, never meant any thing less serious than losses in the cotton trade; and division evoked the alarming picture of a wife and eight children dividing his profits amongst them. indeed, he never looked upon arithmetic in the abstract, but saw it in the successes of the prosperous and the failures of the unfortunate,--in the accumulations of rich and successful bachelors like himself, and the impoverishment of struggling mortals, for whom there was no increase save in the number of their children. and this concrete conception of arithmetic he endeavored to communicate to little jacob, who, in consequence of his uncle's teaching, already possessed the theory of getting rich, and was so far advanced in the practice of it that, by keeping the gifts of his kind patrons and friends, he had nearly twenty pounds in the savings bank. chapter ii. grandmother and grandson. mrs. ogden, at the time when our story commences, was not much above sixty, but had reached an appearance of old age, though a very vigorous old age, which she kept without perceptible alteration for very many years afterward. her character will develop itself sufficiently in the course of the present narrative to need no description here; but she had some outward peculiarities which it may be well to enumerate. she is in the kitchen at milend, making a potato-pie, or at least preparing the paste for one. whilst she deliberately presses the rolling-pin, and whilst the sheet of paste becomes wider and thinner under the pressure of it as it travels over the soft white surface, we perceive that mrs. ogden's arms, which are bare nearly to the elbow, are strong and muscular yet, but not rounded into any form that suggests reminiscences of beauty. there is a squareness and a rigidity in the back and chest, which are evidences rather of strength of body and a resolute character than of grace. the visage, too, can never have been pretty, though it must in earlier life have possessed the attractiveness of health; indeed, although its early bloom is of course by this time altogether lost, there remains a firmness in the fleshy parts of it enough to prove that the possessor is as yet untouched by the insidious advances of decay. the cheeks are prominent, and the jaw is powerful; but although the forehead is high, it suggests no ideas of intellectual development, and seems rather to have grown merely as a fine vegetable-marrow grows, than to have been developed by any exercise of thought. the nose is slightly aquiline in outline, but too large and thick; the lips, on the contrary, are thin and pale, and would be out of harmony with the whole face if the eyes did not so accurately and curiously correspond with them. those eyes are of an exceedingly light gray, rather inclining to blue, and the mind looks out from them in what, to a superficial observer, might seem a frank and direct way; but a closer analyst of character might not be so readily satisfied with a first impression, and might fancy he detected some shade of possible insincerity or power of dissimulation. the hair seems rather scanty, and is worn close to the face; it is gray, of that peculiar kind which results from a mixture of very fair hairs with perfectly white ones. we can only see a little of it, however, on account of the cap. although mrs. ogden is hard at work in her kitchen, making a potato-pie, and although it is not yet ten o'clock in the morning, she is dressed in what in any other person would be considered rather an extravagant manner, and in a manner certainly incongruous with her present occupation. it is a theory of hers that she is so exquisitely neat in all she does, that for her there is no danger in wearing any dress she chooses, either in her kitchen or elsewhere; and as she has naturally a love for handsome clothes, and an aversion to changing her dress in the middle of the day, she comes downstairs at five o'clock in the morning as if she had just dressed to receive a small dinner-party. the clothes that she wears just now _have_ in fact done duty at past dinner-parties, and are quite magnificent enough for a lady at the head of her table, cutting potato-pies instead of fabricating them, if only they were a little less shabby, and somewhat more in harmony with the prevailing fashion. her dress is a fine-flowered satin, which a punster would at once acknowledge in a double sense if he saw the farinaceous scatterings which just now adorn it; and her cap is so splendid in ribbons that no writer of the male sex could aspire to describe it adequately. she wears an enormous cameo brooch, and a long gold chain whose fancy links are interrupted or connected by little glittering octagonal bars, like the bright glass bugles in her head-dress. the pattern of her satin is occasionally obscured by spots of grease, notwithstanding mrs. ogden's theory that she is too neat and careful to incur any risk of such accidents. one day her son isaac had ventured to call his mother's attention to these spots, and to express an opinion that it might perhaps be as well to have two servants instead of one, and resign practical kitchen-work; or else that, if she _would_ be a servant herself, she ought to dress like one, and not expose her fine things to injury; but mr. isaac ogden received such an answer as gave him no encouragement to renew his remonstrances on a subject so delicate. "my dresses," said mrs. ogden, "are paid for out of my own money, and i shall wear them when i like and where i like. if ever my son is applied to to pay my bills for me, he may try to teach me economy, but i'm 'appy to say that i'm not dependent upon him either for what i eat or for what i drink, or for any thing that i put on." the other brother, who lived under the same roof with mrs. ogden, and saw her every day, had a closer instinctive feeling of what might and might not be said to her, and would as soon have thought of suggesting any abdication, however temporary, of her splendors, as of suggesting to queen victoria that she might manage without the luxuries of her station. when the potato-pie stood ready for the oven, with an elegant little chimney in the middle and various ornaments of paste upon the crust, mrs. ogden made another quantity of paste, and proceeded to the confection of a roly-poly pudding. she was proud of her roly-polies, and, indeed, of every thing she made or did; but her roly-polies were really good, for, as her pride was here more especially concerned, she economized nothing, and was liberal in preserves. she had friends in a warm and fertile corner of yorkshire who were rich in apricots, and sent every year to milend several large pots of the most delicious apricot preserve, and she kept this exclusively for roly-polies, and had won thereby a great fame and reputation in shayton, where apricot-puddings were by no means of everyday occurrence. the judicious reader may here criticise mrs. ogden, or find fault with the author, because she makes potato-pie and a roly-poly on the same day. was there not rather too much paste for one dinner,--baked paste that roofed over the savory contents of the pie-dish, and boiled paste that enclosed in its ample folds the golden lusciousness of those yorkshire apricots? some reflection of this kind may arise in the mind of jacob ogden when he comes back from the mill to his dinner. he may possibly think that for to-day the pie might have been advantageously replaced by a beefsteak, but he is too wise not to keep all such reflections within his own breast. no such doubts or perplexities will ever disturb his mother, simply because she is convinced that no man _can_ eat too much of _her_ pastry. other people's pastry one might easily get too much of, but that is different. and there is a special reason for the pudding to-day. little jacob is expected at dinner-time, and little jacob loves pudding, especially apricot roly-poly. his grandmother, not a very affectionate woman by nature, is, nevertheless, dotingly fond of the lad, and always makes a little feast to welcome him and celebrate his coming. on ordinary days they never have any dessert at milend, but, as soon as dinner is over, uncle jacob hastily jumps up and goes to the cupboard where the decanters are kept, pours himself two glasses of port, and swallows them one after the other, standing, after which he is off again to the mill. when little jacob comes, what a difference! there is a splendid dessert of gingerbread, nuts, apples, and _fruits glacés_; there are stately decanters of port and sherry, with a bottle of sparkling elder-flower wine in the middle, and champagne-glasses to drink it from. there is plenty of real champagne in the cellars, but this home-made vintage is considered better for little jacob, who feels no other effect from it than an almost irresistible sleepiness. he likes to see the sparkling bubbles rise; and, indeed, few beverages are prettier or pleasanter to the taste than mrs. ogden's elder-flower wine. it is as clear as crystal, and sparkles like the most brilliant wit. but we are anticipating every thing; we have jumped from the very fabrication of the roly-poly to the sparkling of the elder-flower, of that elder-flower which never sparkled at milend, and should not have done so in this narrative, until the pudding had been fully disposed of. the reader may, however, take that for granted, and feel perfectly satisfied that little jacob has done his duty to the pudding, as he is now doing it to the nuts and wine. he has a fancy for putting his kernels into the wine-glass, and fishing them out with a spoon, and is so occupied just now, whilst grandmother and uncle jacob sit patiently looking on. "jerry likes nuts," says little jacob; "i wonder if he likes wine too." "it would be a good thing," said mrs. ogden, with her slow and distinct pronunciation,--"it would be a good thing if young men would take example by their 'orses, and drink nothing but water." "nay, nay, mother," said uncle jacob, "you wouldn't wish to see our lad a teetotaller." "i see no 'arm in bein' a teetotaller, and i see a good deal of 'arm that's brought on with drinking spirits. i wish the lad's father was a teetotaller. but come" (to little jacob), "you'll 'ave another glass of elder-flower. well, willn't ye now? then 'ave a glass of port; it'll do you _no_ 'arm." mrs. ogden's admiration for teetotalism was entirely theoretical. she approved of it in the abstract and in the distance, but she could not endure to sit at table with a man who did not take his glass like the rest; the nonconformity to custom irritated her. there was a curate at shayton who thought it his duty to be a teetotaller in order to give weight to his arguments against the evil habit of the place, and the curate dined occasionally at milend without relaxing from the rigidity of his rule. mrs. ogden was always put out by his empty wine-glass and the pure water in his tumbler, and she let him have no peace; so that for some time past he had declined her invitations, and only dropped in to tea, taking care to escape before spirits and glasses were brought forth from the cupboard, where they lay in wait for him. the reader need therefore be under no apprehensions that little jacob was likely to be educated in the chilly principles of teetotalism; or at least he may rest assured that, however much its principles might be extolled in his presence, the practice of it would neither be enforced nor even tolerated. "i say, i wish my son isaac was a teetotaller. i hear tell of his coming to shayton time after time without ever so much as looking at milend. wasn't your father in the town on tuesday? i know he was, i was told so by those that saw him; and if he was in the town, what was to hinder him from coming to milend to his tea? did he come down by himself, or did you come with him, jacob?" "i came with him, grandmother." "well, and why didn't you come here, my lad? you know you're always welcome." "father had his tea at the red lion. well, it wasn't exactly tea, for he drank ale to it; but i had tea with him, and we'd a lobster." "i wish he wouldn't do so." "why, mother," said uncle jacob, "i see no great 'arm in drinking a pint of ale and eating a lobster; and if he didn't come to milend, most likely he'd somebody to see; very likely one of his tenants belonging to that row of cottages he bought. i wish he hadn't bought 'em; he'll have more bother with 'em than they're worth." "but what did he do keeping a young boy like little jacob at the red lion? why couldn't he send him here? the lad knows the way, i reckon." then to her grandson,--"what time was it when you both went home to twistle farm?" "we didn't go home together, grandmother. father was in the parlor at the red lion, and left me behind the bar, where we had had our tea, till about eight o'clock, when he sent a message that i was to go home by myself. so i went home on jerry, and father stopped all night at the red lion." "why, it was after dark, child! and there was no moon!" "i'm not afraid of being out in the dark, grandmother; i don't believe in ghosts." "what, hasn't th' child sense enough to be frightened in the dark? if he doesn't believe in ghosts at his age, it's a bad sign; but he's got a father that believes in nothing at all, for he never goes to church; and there's that horrid dr. bardly"-- "he isn't horrid, grandmother," replied little jacob, with much spirit; "he's very jolly, and gives me things, and i love him; he gave me a silver horn." now dr. bardly's reputation for orthodoxy in shayton was greatly inferior to his renown as a medical practitioner; but as the inhabitants had both mr. prigley and his curate, as well as several dissenting ministers, to watch over the interests of their souls, they had no objection to allow mr. bardly to keep their stomachs in order; at least so far as was compatible with the freest indulgence in good living. his bad name for heterodoxy had been made worse by his favorite studies. he was an anatomist, and therefore was supposed to believe in brains rather than souls; and a geologist, therefore he assigned an unscriptural antiquity to the earth. "i'm sure it's that dr. bardly," said mrs. ogden, "that's ruined our isaac." "why, mother, bardly's one o' th' soberest men in shayton; and being a doctor beside, he isn't likely to encourage isaac i' bad 'abits." "i wish isaac weren't so fond on him. he sets more store by dr. bardly, and by all that he says, than by any one else in the place. he likes him better than mr. prigley. i've heard him say so, sittin' at this very table. i wish he liked mr. prigley better, and would visit with him a little. he'd get nothing but good at the parsonage; whereas they tell me--and no doubt it's true--that there's many a bad book in dr. bardly's library. i think i shall ask mr. prigley just to set ceremony on one side, and go and call upon isaac up at twistle farm; no doubt he would be kind enough to do so." "it would be of no use, mother, except to prigley's appetite, that might be a bit sharpened with a walk up to twistle; but supposin' he got there, and found isaac at 'ome, isaac 'ud be as civil as civil, and he'd ax prigley to stop his dinner; and prigley 'ud no more dare to open his mouth about isaac's goin's on than our sarvint lass 'ud ventur to tell you as you put too mich salt i' a potato-pie. it's poor folk as parsons talks to; they willn't talk to a chap wi' ten thousand pound till he axes 'em, except in a general way in a pulpit." "well, jacob, if mr. prigley were only just to go and renew his acquaintance with our isaac, it would be so much gained, and it might lead to his amendment." "mother, i don't think he needs so much amendment. isaac's right enough. i believe he's always sober up at twistle; isn't he, little 'un?" little jacob, thus appealed to, assented, but in rather a doubtful and reserved manner, as if something remained behind which he had not courage to say. his grandmother observed this. "now, my lad, tell me the whole truth. it can do your father no 'arm--nothing but good--to let us know all about what he does. your father is my son, and i've a right to know all about him. i'm very anxious, and 'ave been, ever since i knew that he was goin' again to the red lion. i 'oped he'd given that up altogether. you must tell me--i insist upon it." little jacob said nothing, but began to cry. "nay, nay, lad," said his uncle, "a great felly like thee should never skrike. thy grandmother means nout. mother, you're a bit hard upon th' lad; it isn't fair to force a child to be witness again' its own father." with this uncle jacob rose and left the room, for it was time for him to go to the mill; and then mrs. ogden rose from her chair, and with the stiff stately walk that was habitual to her, and that she never could lay aside even under strong emotion, approached her grandson, and, bending over him, gave him one kiss on the forehead. this kiss, be it observed, was a very exceptional event. jacob always kissed his grandmother when he came to milend; but she was invariably passive, though it was plain that the ceremony was agreeable to her, from a certain softness that spread over her features, and which differed from their habitual expression. so when jacob felt the old lady's lips upon his forehead, a thrill of tenderness ran through his little heart, and he sobbed harder than ever. mrs. ogden drew a chair close to his, and, putting her hand on his brow so as to turn his face a little upwards that she might look well into it, said, "come now, little un, tell granny all about it." what the kiss had begun, the word "granny" fully accomplished. little jacob dried his eyes and resolved to tell his sorrows. "grandmother," he said, "father is so--so"-- "so _what_, my lad?" "well, he beats me, grandmother!" now mrs. ogden, though she loved jacob as strongly as her nature permitted, by no means wished to see him entirely exempt from corporal punishment. she knew, on the authority of scripture, that it was good for children to be beaten, that the rod was a salutary thing; and she at once concluded that little jacob had been punished for some fault which in her own code would have deserved such punishment, and would have drawn it down upon her own sons when they were of his age. so she was neither astonished nor indignant, and asked, merely by way of continuing the conversation,-- "and when did he beat thee, child?" if jacob had been an artful advocate of his own cause, he would have cited one of those instances unhappily too numerous during the last few months, when he had been severely punished on the slightest possible pretexts, or even without any pretext whatever; but as recent events occupy the largest space in our recollection, and as all troubles diminish by a sort of perspective according to the length of time that has happened since their occurrence, jacob, of course, instanced a beating that he had received that very morning, and of which certain portions of his bodily frame, by their uncommon stiffness and soreness, still kept up the most lively remembrance. "he beat me this morning, grandmother." "and what for?" "because i spilt some ink on my new trowsers that i'd put on to come to milend." "well, then, my lad, all i can say is that you deserved it, and should take better care. do you think that your father is to buy good trowsers for you to spill ink upon them the very first time you put them on? you'll soon come to ruin at that rate. little boys should learn to take care of their things; your uncle jacob was as kerfle[ ] as possible of his things; indeed he was the kerflest boy i ever saw in all my life, and i wish you could take after him. it's a very great thing is kerfleness. there's people as thinks that when they've worn[ ] their money upon a thing, it's no use lookin' after it, and mindin' it, because the money's all worn and gone, and so they pay no heed to their things when once they've got them. and what's the consequence? they find that they have to be renewed, that new ones must be bought when the old ones ought to have been quite good yet; and so they spend and spend, when they might spare and have every thing just as decent, if they could only learn a little kerfleness." after this lecture, mrs. ogden slowly rose from her seat and proceeded to put the decanters into a triangular cupboard that occupied a corner of the room. in due course of time the apples, the gingerbread, and the nuts alike disappeared in its capacious recesses, and were hidden from little jacob's eyes by folding-doors of dark mahogany, polished till they resembled mirrors, and reflected the window with its glimpse of dull gray sky. after this mrs. ogden went into the kitchen to look after some household affairs, and her grandson went to the stable to see jerry, and to make the acquaintance of some puppies which had recently come into the world, but were as yet too blind to have formed any opinion of its beauties. chapter iii. at the parsonage. mrs. ogden's desire to bring about a renewal of the acquaintance between her son isaac and mr. prigley was not an unwise one, even if considered independently of his religious interests. mr. prigley, though by no means a man of first-rate culture or capacity, was still the only gentleman in shayton,--the only man in the place who resolutely kept himself up to the standard of the outer world, and refused to adopt the local dialect and manners. no doubt the doctor was in a certain special sense a gentleman, and much more than a gentleman,--he was a man of high attainment, and had an excellent heart. but, so far from desiring to rise above the outward ideal of the locality, he took a perverse pleasure in remaining a little below it. his language was a shade more provincial than that of the neighboring manufacturers, and his manners somewhat more rugged and abrupt than theirs. perhaps he secretly enjoyed the contrast between the commonplace exterior which he affected, and the elaborate intellectual culture which he knew himself to possess. he resembled the house he lived in, which was, as to its exterior, so perfectly commonplace that every one would pass it without notice, yet which contained greater intellectual riches, and more abundant material for reflection, than all the other houses in shayton put together. therefore, if i say that mr. prigley was the only gentleman in the place, i mean externally,--in language and manner. the living of shayton was a very meagre one, and mr. prigley had great difficulty in keeping himself above water; but there is more satisfaction in struggling with the difficulties of open and avowed poverty than in maintaining deceitful appearances, and mr. prigley had long since ceased to think about appearances at all. it had happened some time ago that the carpets showed grievous signs of wear, and in fact were so full of holes as to be positively dangerous. they had been patched and mended over and over again, and an ingenious seamstress employed by mrs. prigley, and much valued by her, had darned them with variously colored wools in continuation of the original patterns, so that (unless on close inspection) the repairs were not very evident. now, however, both mrs. prigley and the seamstress, notwithstanding all their ingenuity and skill, had reluctantly come to the conclusion that to repair the carpets in their present advanced stage of decay it would be necessary to darn nothing less than the whole area of them, and mrs. prigley declared that she would rather manufacture new ones with her knitting-needles. but if buying carpets was out of the question, so it was not less out of the question for mrs. prigley to fabricate objects of luxury, since her whole time was taken up by matters of pressing necessity; indeed, the poor lady could only just keep up with the ceaseless accumulations of things that wanted mending; and whenever she was unwell for a day or two, and unable to work, there rose such a heap of them as made her very heart sink. in this perplexity about the carpets, nature was left to take her course, and the carpets were abandoned to their fate, but still left upon the floors; for how were they ever to be replaced? by a most unfortunate coincidence, mr. prigley discovered about the same time that his shirts, though apparently very sound and handsome shirts indeed, had become deplorably weak in the tissue; for if, in dressing himself in a hurry, his hand did not just happen to hit the orifice of the sleeve, it passed through the fabric of the shirt itself, and that with so little difficulty that he was scarcely aware of any impediment; whilst if once the hem were severed, the immediate consequence was a rent more than a foot long. poor mrs. prigley had mended these patiently for a while; but one day, after marvelling how it happened that her husband had become so violent in his treatment of his linen, she tried the strength of it herself, and, to use her own expressive phrase, "it came in two like a sheet of wet paper." it was characteristic of the prigleys that they determined to renew the linen at once, and to abandon carpets for ever. shayton is not in france, and to do without carpets in shayton amounts to a confession of what, in the middle class, is looked upon as a pitiable destitution. mr. prigley did not care much about this; but his wife was more sensitive to public opinion, and, long after that heroic resolution had been taken, hesitated to put it in execution. day after day the ragged remnants remained upon the floor; and still did mrs. prigley procrastinate. whilst things were in this condition at the parsonage, the conversation took place at milend which we have narrated in the preceding chapter; and as soon as mrs. ogden had seen things straight in the kitchen, she "bethought her," as she would have herself expressed it, that it might be a step towards intercourse between isaac ogden and the clergyman if she could make little jacob take a fancy to the parsonage. there was a little boy there nearly his own age, and as jacob was far too much isolated, the acquaintance would be equally desirable for him. the idea was by no means new to her; indeed, she had long been anxious to find suitable playmates for her grandson, a matter of which isaac did not sufficiently perceive the importance; and she had often intended to take steps in this direction, but had been constantly deterred by the feelings of dislike to mr. prigley, which both her sons did not hesitate to express. what had mr. prigley done to them that they should never be able to speak of him without a shade of very perceptible aversion or contempt? they had no definite accusation to make against him; they did not attempt to justify their antipathy, but the antipathy did not disguise itself. in an agricultural district the relations between the parson and the squire are often cordial; in a manufacturing district the relations between the parson and the mill-owners are usually less intimate, and have more the character of accidental neighborship than of natural alliance. the intercourse between milend and the parsonage had been so infrequent that mrs. prigley was quite astonished when betty, the maid-of-all-work, announced mrs. ogden as she pushed open the door of the sitting-room. but she was much more astonished when mrs. ogden, instead of quietly advancing in her somewhat stiff and formal manner, fell forward on the floor with outstretched arms and a shriek. mrs. prigley shrieked too, little jacob tried manfully to lift up his grandmother, and poor betty, not knowing what to say under circumstances so unexpected, but vaguely feeling that she was likely to incur blame, and might possibly (though in some manner not yet clear to her) deserve it, begged mrs. ogden's pardon. mr. prigley was busy writing a sermon in his study, and being suddenly interrupted in the midst of what seemed to him an uncommonly eloquent passage on the spread of infidelity, rushed to the scene of the accident in a state of great mental confusion, which for some seconds prevented him from recognizing mrs. ogden, or mrs. ogden's bonnet, for the lady's face was not visible to him as he stood amazed in the doorway. "bless me!" thought mr. prigley, "here's a woman in a fit!" and then came a dim and somewhat unchristian feeling that women liable to fits need not just come and have them in the parlor at the parsonage. "it's mrs. ogden, love," said mrs. prigley; "and, oh dear, i _am_ so sorry!" by the united efforts of the parson and his wife, joined to those of betty and little jacob, mrs. ogden was placed upon the sofa, and mr. prigley went to fetch some brandy from the dining-room. on his way to the door, the cause of the accident became apparent to him in the shape of a yawning rent in the carpet, which was dragged up in great folds and creases several inches high. he had no time to do justice to the subject now, and so refrained from making any observation; but he fully resolved that, whether mrs. prigley liked it or not, all ragged old carpets should disappear from the parsonage as soon as mrs. ogden could be got out of it. when mrs. prigley saw the hole in her turn, she was overwhelmed with a sense of culpability, and felt herself to be little better than a murderess. "betty, run and fetch dr. bardly as fast as ever you can." "please let _me_ go," said little jacob; "i can run faster than she can." the parson had a professional disapproval of dr. bardly because he would not come to church, and especially, perhaps, because on the very rare occasions when he _did_ present himself there, he always contrived to be called out in time to escape the sermon; but he enjoyed the doctor's company more than he would have been willing to confess, and had warmly seconded mrs. prigley's proposal that, since mrs. ogden, in consequence of her accident, was supposed to need the restoration of "tea and something to it," the doctor should stay tea also. the arrival of isaac and jacob gave a new turn to the matter, and promised an addition to the small tea-party already organized. it was rather stiff and awkward just at first for isaac and jacob when they found themselves actually in the parson's house, and forced to stop there to tea out of filial attention to their mother; but it is wonderful how soon mr. prigley contrived to get them over these difficulties. he resolved to take advantage of his opportunity, and warm up an acquaintance that might be of eminent service in certain secret projects of his. shayton church was a dreary old building of the latest and most debased tudor architecture; and, though it sheltered the inhabitants well enough in their comfortable old pews, it seemed to mr. prigley a base and degraded sort of edifice, unfit for the celebration of public worship. he therefore nourished schemes of reform; and when he had nothing particular to do, especially during the singing of the hymns, he could not help looking up at the flat ceiling and down along the pew-partitioned floor, and thinking what might be done with the old building,--how it would look, for instance, if those octagon pillars that supported those hateful longitudinal beams were crowned with beautiful gothic arches supporting a lofty clerestory above; and how the organ, instead of standing just over the communion-table, and preventing the possibility of a creditable east window, might be removed to the west end, to the inconvenience, it is true, of all the richest people in the township, who held pews in a gallery at that end of the church, but to the general advancement of correct and orthodox principles. once the organ removed, a magnificent east window might gleam gorgeously over the renovated altar, and shayton church might become worthy of its incumbent. and now, as he saw, by unhoped-for good-luck, these three rich ogdens in his own parlor, it became mr. prigley's earnest wish to keep them there as long as possible, and cultivate their acquaintance, and see whether there was not some vulnerable place in those hard practical minds of theirs. as for the doctor, he scarcely hoped to get any money out of _him_; he had preached at him over and over again, and, though the doctor only laughed and took care to keep out of the way of these sermons, it was scarcely to be expected that he should render good for evil,--money for hard language. nobody in shayton precisely knew what the doctor's opinions were; but when mr. prigley was writing his most energetic onslaughts on the infidel, it is certain that the type in the parson's mind had the doctor's portly body and plain socratic face. mrs. prigley had rather hesitated about asking the man to stay tea at the parsonage, for her husband freely expressed his opinion of him in privacy, and when in a theological frame of mind spoke of him with much the same aversion that mrs. prigley herself felt for rats and toads and spiders. and as she looked upon the doctor's face, it seemed to her at first the face of the typical "bad man," in whose existence she firmly believed. the human race, at the parsonage, was divided into sheep and goats, and dr. bardly was amongst the goats. was he not evidently a goat? had not nature herself stamped his badness on his visage! his very way of laughing had something suspicious about it; he seemed always to be thinking more than he chose to express. what was he thinking? there seemed to be something doubtful and wrong even about his very whiskers, but mrs. prigley could not define it, neither can we. on the contrary, they were respectable and very commonplace gray whiskers, shaped like mutton-chops, and no doubt they would have seemed only natural to mrs. prigley, if they had been more frequently seen in shayton church. it was a very pleasant-looking tea-table altogether. mrs. prigley, who was a miss stanburne of byfield, a branch of the stanburnes of wenderholme, possessed a little ancestral plate, a remnant, after much subdivision, of the magnificence of her ancestors. she had a tea-pot and a coffee-pot, and a very quaint and curious cream-jug; she also possessed a pair of silver candlesticks, of a later date, representing corinthian columns, and the candles stood in round holes in their graceful acanthus-leaved capitals. many clergymen can display articles of contemporary manufacture bearing the most flattering inscriptions, but mr. prigley had never received any testimonials, and, so long as he remained in shayton, was not in the least likely to enrich his table with silver of that kind. mrs. prigley, whilst apparently listening with respectful attention to mrs. ogden's account of a sick cow of hers (in which mrs. ogden seemed to consider that she herself, and not the suffering animal, was the proper object of sympathy), had in fact been debating in her own mind whether she ought to display her plate on a mere chance occasion like the present; but the common metal tea-pot was bulged and shabby, and the thistle in electro-plate, which had once decorated its lid, had long since been lost by one of the children, who had fancied it as a plaything. the two brass candlesticks were scarcely more presentable; indeed, one of them would no longer stand upright, and mrs. prigley had neglected to have it repaired, as one candle sufficed in ordinary times; and when her husband wrote at night, he used a tin bed-candlestick resembling a frying-pan, with a tin column, _not_ of the corinthian order, sticking up in the middle of it, and awkwardly preventing those culinary services to which the utensil seemed naturally destined. as these things were not presentable before company, mrs. prigley decided to bring forth her silver, but in justice to her it is necessary to say that she would have preferred something between the two, as more fitted to the occasion. for similar reasons was displayed a set of old china, of whose value the owner herself was ignorant; and so indeed would have been the present writer, if he had not recognized mrs. prigley's old cups and saucers in jacquemart's 'histoire de la porcelaine.' the splendor of mrs. prigley's tea-table struck mrs. ogden with a degree of surprise which she had not art enough to conceal, for the manners and customs of shayton had never inculcated any kind of reticence as essential to the ideal of good-breeding. the guests had scarcely taken their places round this brilliant and festive board when mrs. ogden said,-- "you've got some very '_andsome_ silver, mrs. prigley. i'd no idea you'd got such 'andsome silver. those candlesticks are taller than any we've got at milend." a slight shade of annoyance passed across the countenance of the hostess as she answered, "it came from wenderholme; there's not much of it except what is on the table; there were six of us to divide it amongst." "those are the stanburne arms on the tea-pot," said the doctor; "i've hoftens noticed them at wendrum 'all. they have them all up and down. young stanburne's very fond of his coat-of-arms, but he's a right to be proud of it, for it's a very old one. he's quite a near relation of yours, isn't he, mrs. prigley?" "my father and his grandfather were brothers, but there was a coolness between them on account of a small estate in yorkshire, which each thought he'd a right to, and they had a lawsuit. my father lost it, and never went to wenderholme again; and they never came from wenderholme to byfield. when my uncle reginald died, my father was not even asked to the funeral, but they sent him gloves and a hatband." "have you ever been at wenderholme, mrs. prigley?" said isaac. "never! i've often thought i should like to see it, just once; it's said to be a beautiful place, and i should like to see the house my poor father was born in." "why, it's quite close to shayton, a great deal nearer than anybody would think. it isn't much more than twelve or fourteen miles off, and my house at twistle is within nine miles of wenderholme, if you go across the moor. there is not a single building of any kind between. but it's thirty miles to wenderholme by the turnpike. you have to go through sootythorn." "it's a very nice estate," said uncle jacob; and, to do him justice, he was an excellent judge of estates, and possessed a great fund of information concerning all the desirable properties in the neighborhood, for he made it his business to acquire this sort of knowledge beforehand, in case such properties should fall into the market. so that when uncle jacob said an estate was "very nice," you may be sure it was so. "there are about two thousand acres of good land at wendrum," he continued, "all in a ring-fence, and a very large moor behind the house, with the best shooting anywhere in the whole country. our moors join up to mr. stanburne's, and, if the whole were put together, it would be a grand shooting." "that is," said mr. prigley, rather maliciously, "if mr. stanburne were to buy your moor, i suppose. perhaps he might feel inclined to do so if you wished to sell." mrs. ogden could not endure to hear of selling property, even in the most remote and hypothetical manner. her back was generally as straight as a stone wall, but it became, if possible, straighter and stiffer, as, with a slight toss of the head, she spoke as follows:-- "we don't use selling property, mr. prigley; we're not sellers, we are buyers." these words were uttered slowly, deliberately, and with the utmost distinctness, so that it was not possible for any one present to misunderstand the lady's intention. she evidently considered buying to be the nobler function of the two, as implying increase, and selling to be a comparatively degrading operation,--a confession of poverty and embarrassment. this feeling was very strong, not only in shayton, but for many miles round it, and instances frequently occurred of owners who clung to certain properties against their pecuniary interest, from a dread of it being said of them that they had sold land. there are countries where this prejudice has no existence, and where a rich man sells land without hesitation when he sees a more desirable investment for his money; but in shayton a man was married to his estate or his estates (for in this matter polygamy was allowed); and though the law, after a certain tedious and expensive process, technically called conveyancing, permitted divorce, public opinion did _not_ permit it. mr. prigley restored the harmony of the evening by admitting that the people who sold land were generally the old landowners, and those who bought it were usually in trade,--not a very novel or profound observation, but it soothed the wounded pride of mrs. ogden, and at the same time flattered a shade of jealousy of the old aristocracy which coexisted with much genuine sympathy and respect. "but we shouldn't say mister stanburne now," observed the doctor; "he's colonel stanburne." "do militia officers keep their titles when not on duty?" asked mr. isaac. "colonels always do," said the doctor, "but captains don't, in a general way, though there are some places where it is the custom to call 'em captain all the year round. i suppose mr. isaac here will be captain ogden some of these days." "i was not aware you intended to join the militia, mr. isaac," said the clergyman. "i am very glad to hear it. it will be a pleasant change for you. since you left business, you must often be at a loss for occupation." "i've had plenty to do until a year or two since in getting twistle farm into order. it's a wild place, but i've improved it a good deal, and it amused me. i sometimes wish it were all to be done over again. a man is never so happy as when he's very busy about carrying out his own plans." "you made a fine pond there, didn't you?" said mr. prigley, who always had a hankering after this pond, and was resolved to improve his opportunity. "yes, i need a small sheet of water. it is of use to me nearly the whole year round. i swim in it in summer, i skate on it in winter, and in the spring and autumn i can sail about on it in a little boat, though there is not much room for tacking, and the pond is too much in a hollow to have any regular wind." "ah! when the aquatic passion exists in any strong form," said mr. prigley, "it will have its exercise, even though on a small scale. one of the great privations to me in shayton is that i never get any swimming." "my pond is very much at your service," said mr. isaac, politely. "i am sorry that it is so far off, but one cannot send it down to shayton in a cart, as one might send a shower-bath." mrs. ogden was much pleased to see her scheme realizing itself so naturally, without any ingerence of her own, and only regretted that it was not the height of summer, in order that mr. prigley might set off for twistle farm the very next morning. however enthusiastic he might be about swimming, he could scarcely be expected to explore the too cool recesses of the twistle pond in the month of november,--at least for purposes of enjoyment; and mrs. ogden was not papist enough to encourage the good man in any thing approaching to a mortification of the flesh. little jacob had been admitted to the ceremony of tea, and had been a model of good behavior, being "seen and not heard," which in shayton comprised the whole code of etiquette for youth when in the presence of its seniors and superiors. luckily for our young friend, he sat between the doctor and the hostess, who took such good care of him that by the time the feast was over he was aware, by certain feelings of tightness and distension in a particular region, that the necessities of nature were more than satisfied, although, like vitellius, he had still quite appetite enough for another equally copious repast if only he had known where to put it. if sancho panza had had an equally indulgent physician at his side, one of the best scenes in don quixote could never have been written, for dr. bardly never hindered his little neighbor, but, on the other hand, actually encouraged him to do his utmost, and mentally amused himself by enumerating the pieces of tea-cake and buttered toast, and the helpings to crab and potted meat, and the large spoonfuls of raspberry-jam, which our hero silently absorbed. the doctor, perhaps, acted faithfully by little jacob, for if nature had not intended boys of his age to accomplish prodigies in eating, she would surely never have endowed them with such vast desires; and little jacob suffered no worse results from his present excesses than the uncomfortable tightness already alluded to, which, as his vigorous digestion operated, soon gave place to sensations of comparative elasticity and relief. the parson's children had not been admitted to witness and partake of the splendor of the festival, but had had their own tea--or rather, if the truth must be told, their meal of porridge and milk--in a nursery upstairs. they had been accustomed to tea in the evening, but of late the oatmeal-porridge which had always been their breakfast had been repeated at tea-time also, as the prigleys found themselves compelled to measures of still stricter economy. people must be fond of oatmeal-porridge to eat it with pleasure seven hundred times a-year; and whenever a change _did_ come, the children at the parsonage relished it with a keenness of gastronomic enjoyment which the most refined epicure might envy, and which he probably never experienced. there were five little prigleys, and it is a curious fact that the parson's children were the only ones in the whole parish that did not bear biblical names. all the other households in shayton sought their names in the old testament, and had a special predilection for the most ancient and patriarchal ones; but the parson's boys were called henry and william and richard, and his girls edith and constance--not one of which names are to be found anywhere in holy scripture, either in the old testament or the new. chapter iv. isaac ogden becomes a backslider. about a month later in the year, when december reigned in all its dreariness over shayton, and the wild moors were sprinkled with a thin scattering of snow, little jacob began to be very miserable. his grandmother had gone to stay a fortnight with some old friends of hers beyond manchester, and his father had declared that for the next two sundays he should remain at twistle, and not "go bothering his uncle at milend." mr. prigley had walked up to the farm, and kindly offered to receive little jacob at the parsonage during mrs. ogden's absence; but mr. isaac had declined the proposal rather curtly, and, as mr. prigley thought, in a manner that did not sufficiently acknowledge the kindness of his intention. indeed, the clergyman had not been quite satisfied with his reception; for although mr. isaac had shown him the pond, and given him something to eat, there had been, mr. prigley thought, symptoms of secret annoyance or suppressed irritation. little jacob's loneliness was rendered still more complete by the continued absence of his friend the doctor, who, in consequence of a disease then very prevalent in the neighborhood, found his whole time absorbed by pressing professional duties, so that the claims of friendship, and even the anxious interest which he took in mr. isaac's moral and physical condition, had for the time to be considered in abeyance. we have already observed that mr. jacob ogden of milend never came to twistle farm at all, so that his absence was a matter of course; and as he was not in the habit of writing any letters except about business, there was an entire cessation of intercourse with milend. it had been a part of mr. isaac's plan of reformation not to keep spirits of any kind at the farm, but he had quite enough ale and wine to get drunk upon in case his resolution gave way. he had received such a lecture from the doctor after that evening at the parsonage as had thoroughly frightened him. he had been told, with the most serious air that a doctor knows how to assume, that his nervous system was already shattered, that his stomach was fast becoming worthless, and that, if he continued his present habits, his life would terminate in eighteen months. communications of this kind are never agreeable, but they are especially difficult to bear with equanimity when the object of them has lost much of the combative and recuperative powers which belong to a mind in health; and the doctor's terrible sermon produced in mr. isaac _not_ a manly strength of purpose that subdues and surmounts evil, and passes victoriously beyond it, but an abject terror of its consequences, and especially a nervous dread of the red lion. he would enter that place no more, he was firmly resolved upon _that_. he would stay quietly at twistle farm and occupy himself,--he would try to read,--he had often regretted that business and pleasure had together prevented him from cultivating his mind by reading, and now that the opportunity was come, he would seize it and make the most of it. he would qualify himself to direct little jacob's studies, at least so far as english literature went. as for latin, the little he ever knew had been forgotten many years ago, but he might learn enough to judge of his boy's progress, and perhaps help him a little. he knew no modern language, and had not even that pretension to read french which is so common in england, and which is more injurious to the character of the nation than perfect ignorance, whilst it is equally unprofitable to its intellect. if mr. isaac were an ignorant man, he had at least the great advantage of clearly knowing that he was so, but it might not even yet be too late to improve himself. had he not perfect leisure? could he not study six hours a day, if he were so minded? this would be better than destroying himself in eighteen months in the parlor at the red lion. there were not many books at twistle, but there _were_ books. mr. isaac differed from his brother jacob, and from the other men in shayton, in having long felt a hankering after various kinds of knowledge, though he had never possessed the leisure or the resolution to acquire it. there was a bookseller's shop in st. ann's square, in manchester, which he used to pass when he was in the cotton business on his way from the exchange to a certain oyster-shop where it was his custom to refresh himself; and he had been occasionally tempted to make purchases,--amongst the rest, the works of charles dickens and sir walter scott, and the 'encyclopædia britannica.' he had also bought macaulay's 'history of england,' and subscribed to a library edition of the british poets in forty volumes, and a biographical work containing lives of eminent englishmen, scarcely less voluminous. these, with several minor purchases, constituted the whole collection,--which, though not extensive, had hitherto much more than sufficed for the moderate wants of its possessor. he had read all the works of dickens, having been enticed thereto by the pleasant merriment in 'pickwick;' but the waverley novels had proved less attractive, and the forty volumes of british poets reposed uncut upon the shelf which they adorned. even macaulay's history, though certainly not less readable than any novel, had not yet been honored with a first perusal; and, as mr. ogden kept his books in a bookcase with glass doors, the copy was still technically a new one. he resolved now that all these books should be _read_, all except perhaps the 'encyclopædia britannica;' for mr. ogden was not then aware of the fact, which a successful man has recently communicated to his species, that a steady reading of that work according to its alphabetical arrangement _may_ be a road to fortune, though it must be admitted to be an arduous one. he would begin with macaulay's history; and he _did_ begin one evening in the parlor at twistle farm after sarah had removed the tea-things. he took down the first volume, and began to cut the leaves; then he read a page or two, but, in spite of the lucid and engaging style of the historian, he felt a difficulty in fixing his attention,--the difficulty common to all who are not accustomed to reading, and which in mr. ogden's case was perhaps augmented by the peculiar condition of his nervous system. so he read the page over again, but could not compel his mind to follow the ideas of the author: it _would_ wander to matters of everyday interest and habit, and then there came an unutterable sense of blankness and dulness, and a craving--yes, an all but irresistible craving--for the stimulus of drink. there could be no harm in drinking a glass of wine,--everybody, even ladies, might do that,--and he had always allowed himself wine at twistle farm. he would see whether there was any in the decanters. what! not a drop? no port in the port decanter, and in the sherry decanter nothing but a shallow stratum of liquid which would not fill a glass, and was not worth drinking. he would go and fill both decanters himself: there ought always to be wine ready in case any one should come. mr. prigley might walk up any day, or the doctor might come, and he always liked a glass or two of port. there was a nice little cellar at twistle farm, for no inhabitant of shayton ever neglects that when he builds himself a new house; and mr. ogden had wine in it to the value of three hundred pounds. some friends of his near manchester, who came to see him in the shooting season and help him to kill his grouse, were connoisseurs in port, and he had been careful to "lay down" a quantity of the finest he could get. he was less delicate in the gratification of his own palate, and contented himself with a compound of no particular vintage, which had the advantage of being exceedingly strong, and therefore allowed a sort of disguised dram-drinking. it need therefore excite little surprise in the mind of the reader to be informed that, when mr. isaac had drunk a few glasses of this port of his, the nervous system began to feel more comfortable, and at the same time tempted him to a still warmer appreciation of the qualities of the beverage. his mind was clearer and brighter, and he read macaulay with a sort of interest, which, perhaps, is as much as most authors may hope for or expect; that is, his mind kept up a sort of double action, following the words of the historian, and even grasping the meaning of his sentences, and feeling their literary power, whilst at the same time it ran upon many subjects of personal concern which could not be altogether excluded or suppressed. mr. ogden was not very delicate in any of his tastes; but it seemed to him, nevertheless, that clay tobacco-pipes consorted better with gin-and-water than with the juice of the grape; and he took from a cupboard in the corner a large box of full-flavored havannas, which, like the expensive port in the cellar, he kept for the gratification of his friends. now, although the first five or six glasses had indeed done no more than give a beneficial stimulus to mr. ogden's brain, it is not to be inferred, as mr. ogden himself appeared to infer, that the continuation of the process would be equally salutary. he went on, however, reading and sipping, at the rate of about a glass to a page, smoking at the same time those full-flavored havannas, till after eleven at night. little jacob and the servants had long since gone to bed; both decanters had been on the table all the evening, and both had been in equal requisition, for mr. ogden had been varying his pleasures by drinking port and sherry alternately. at last the eloquence of macaulay became no longer intelligible, for though his sentences had no doubt been constructed originally in a perfectly workmanlike manner, they now seemed quite out of order, and no longer capable of holding together. mr. ogden put the book down and tried to read the manchester paper, but the makers of articles and the penny-a-liners did not seem to have succeeded better than macaulay, for their sentences were equally disjointed. the reader rose from his chair in some discouragement and looked at his watch, and put his slippers on, and began to think about going to bed, but the worst of it was he felt so thirsty that he must have something to drink. the decanters were empty, and wine would not quench thirst; a glass of beer might, perhaps--but how much better and more efficacious would be a tall glass of brandy-and-soda-water! alas! he had no brandy, neither had he any soda-water, at least he thought not, but he would go down into the cellar and see. he took a candle very deliberately, and walked down the cellar-steps with a steady tread, never staggering or swerving in the least. "am i drunk?" he thought; "no, it is impossible that i should be drunk, i walk so well and so steadily. i'm not afraid of walking down these stone steps, and yet if i were to fall i might hit my forehead against their sharp edges, sharp edges--yes, they have very sharp edges; they are very new steps, cut by masons; and so are these walls new--good ashlar stones; and that arched roof--that arch is well made: there isn't a better cellar in shayton." there was no soda-water, but there were bottles whose round, swollen knobs of corks were covered with silvery foil, that glittered as mr. ogden's candle approached them. the glitter caught his eye, and he pulled one of the bottles out. it wasn't exactly soda-water, but it would fizz; and just now mr. ogden had a morbid, passionate longing for something that would "fizz," as he expressed it in his muttered soliloquy. so he marched upstairs with his prize, in that stately and deliberate manner which marks his particular stage of intoxication. "it's good slekk!"[ ] said mr. ogden, as he swallowed a tumblerful of the sparkling wine, "and it _can_ do me no harm--it's only a lady's wine." he held it up between his eye and the candle, and thought that really it looked very nice and pretty. how the little bubbles kept rising and sparkling! how very clear and transparent it was! then he sat down in his large arm-chair, and thought he might as well have another cigar. he had smoked a good many already, perhaps it would be better not; and whilst his mind was resolving not to smoke another, his fingers were fumbling in the box, and making a sort of pretence at selection. at last, for some reason as mysterious as that which decides the famous donkey between two equidistant haystacks, the fingers came to a decision, and the cigar, after the point had been duly amputated with a penknife, was inserted between the teeth. after this the will made no further attempt at resistance, and the hand poured out champagne into the tumbler, and carried the tumbler to the lips, with unconscious and instinctive regularity. mr. isaac was now drunk, but it was not yet proved to him that he was drunk. his expedition to the cellar had been perfectly successful; he had walked in the most unexceptionable manner, and even descended those dangerous stone steps. he looked at his watch--it was half-past twelve; he read the hour upon the dial, though not just at first, and he replaced the watch in his fob. he would go to bed--it was time to go to bed; and the force of habits acquired at the red lion, where he usually went to bed drunk at midnight, aided him in this resolution. but when he stood upon his legs this project did not seem quite so easy of realization as it had done when viewed in theory from the arm-chair. "go to bed!" said mr. isaac; "but how are we to manage it?" there were two candles burning on the table. he blew one of them out, and took the other in his hand. he took up the volume of macaulay, with an idea that it ought to be put somewhere, but his mind did not successfully apply itself to the solution of this difficulty, and he laid the book down again with an air of slight disappointment, and a certain sense of failure. he staggered towards the doorway, steadied himself with an effort, and made a shot at it with triumphant success, for he found himself now in the little entrance-hall. the staircase was a narrow one, and closed by a door, and the door of the cellar was next to it. instead of taking the door that led up to his bedroom, mr. ogden took that of the cellar, descended a step or two, discovered his mistake, and, in the attempt to turn round, fell backwards heavily down the stone stair, and lay at last on the cold pavement, motionless, and in total darkness. he might have remained there all night, but there was a sharp little scotch terrier dog that belonged to little jacob, and was domiciled in a snug kennel in the kitchen. the watchful animal had been perfectly aware that mr. ogden was crossing the entrance on his way to his bedroom, but if feo made any reflections on the subject they were probably confined to wonder that the master of the house should go to bed so unusually late. when, however, the heavy _thud_ of mr. ogden's body on the staircase and the loud, sharp clatter of the falling candlestick came simultaneously to her ears, feo quitted her lair at a bound, and, guided by her sure scent, was down in the dark cellar in an instant. a less intelligent dog than feorach (for that was her gaelic name in the far highlands where she was born) would have known that something was wrong, and that the cold floor of the cellar was not a suitable bed for a gentleman; and no sooner had feorach ascertained the state of affairs than she rushed to the upper regions. feorach went to the door of little jacob's chamber, and there set up such a barking and scratching as awoke even _him_ from the sound sleep of childhood. old sarah came into the passage with a lighted candle, where jim joined her, rubbing his eyes, still heavy with interrupted sleep. "there's summat wrong," said old sarah; "i'm feared there's summat wrong." "stop you here," said jim, "i'll wake master: he's gotten loaded pistols in his room. if it's thieves, it willn't do to feight 'em wi' talk and a tallow candle." jim knocked at his master's door, and, having waited in vain a second or two for an answer, determined to open it. there was no one in the room, and the bed had not been slept upon. "hod thy din, dog," said jim to feorach; and then, with a grave, pale face, said, "it isn't thieves; it's summat 'at's happened to our master." now lancashire people of the class to which jim and sarah belonged never, or hardly ever, use the verb _to die_, but in the place of it employ the periphrase of something happening; and, as he chanced to use this expression now, the idea conveyed to sarah's mind was the idea of death, and she believed that jim had seen a corpse in the room. he perceived this, and drew her away, whispering, "he isn't there: you stop wi' little jacob." so the man took the candle, and left sarah in the dark with the child, both trembling and wondering. feorach led jim down into the cellar, and he saw the dark inert mass at the bottom of the steps. a chill shudder seized him as he recognized the white, inanimate face. one of mr. ogden's hands lay upon the floor; jim ventured to touch it, and found it deadly cold. a little blood oozed from the back of the head, and had matted the abundant brown hair. perhaps the hand may have been cold simply from contact with the stone flag, but jim did not reflect about this, and concluded that mr. ogden was dead. he went hastily back to old sarah. "master jacob," he said, "you must go to bed." "no, i won't go to bed, jim!" "my lad," said old sarah, "just come into your room, and i'll light you a candle." so she lighted a candle, and then left the child, and jim quietly locked the door upon him. the lock was well oiled, and jacob did not know that he was a prisoner. "now what is't?" said old sarah, in a whisper. "master's deead: he's fallen down th' cellar-steps and killed hisself." old sarah had been fully prepared for some terrible communication of this kind, and did not utter a syllable. she simply followed the man, and between them they lifted mr. ogden, and carried him, not without difficulty, up the cellar-steps. sarah carried the head, and jim the legs and feet, and old sarah's bed-gown was stained with a broad patch of blood. it is one of the most serious inconveniences attending a residence in the country that on occasions of emergency it is not possible to procure prompt medical help; and twistle farm was one of those places where this inconvenience is felt to the uttermost. when they had got mr. ogden on the bed, jim said, "i mun go an' fetch dr. bardly, though i reckon it's o' no use;" and he left sarah alone with the body. the poor woman anticipated nothing but a dreary watch of several hours by the side of a corpse, and went and dressed herself, and lighted a fire in mr. ogden's room. old sarah was not by any means a woman of a pusillanimous disposition; but it may be doubted whether, if she had had any choice in the matter, a solitary watch of this kind would have been exactly to her taste. however, when the fire was burning briskly, she drew a rocking-chair up to it, and, in order to keep up her courage through the remainder of the night, fetched a certain physic-bottle from the kitchen, and her heavy lead tobacco-pot, for like many old women about shayton she enjoyed the solace of a pipe. she did not attempt to lay out the body, being under the impression that the coroner might be angry with her for having done so when the inquest came to be held. the physic-bottle was full of rum, and sarah made herself a glass of grog, and lighted her pipe, and looked into the fire. she had drawn the curtains all round mr. ogden's bed; ample curtains of pale-brown damask, with an elaborate looped valance, from whose deep festoons hung multitudes of little pendants of turned wood covered with flossy silk. the movement communicated to these pendants by the act of drawing the curtains lasted a very long time, and sarah was startled more than once when on looking round from her arm-chair she saw them swinging and knocking against each other still. as soon as the first shock of alarm was past, the softer emotions claimed their turn, and the old woman began to cry, repeating to herself incessantly, "and quite yoong too, quite yoong, quite a yoong man!" suddenly she was aware of a movement in the room. was it the little dog? no; feorach had elected to stay with his young master, and both little jacob and his dog were fast asleep in another room. she ventured to look at the great awful curtained bed. the multitudinous pendants had not ceased to swing and vibrate, and yet it was now a long time since sarah had touched the curtains. she wished they would give up and be still; but whilst she was looking at them and thinking this, a little sharp shock ran round the whole valance, and the pendants rattled against each other with the low dull sound which was all that their muffling of silk permitted; a low sound, but an audible one,--audible especially to ears in high excitement; a stronger shock, a visible agitation, not only of the tremulous pendants, but even of the heavy curtain-folds themselves. then they open, and mr. ogden's pale face appears. "well, sarah, i hope you've made yourself comfortable, you damned old rum-drinking thief! d'ye think i can't smell rum? give me that bottle." sarah was much too agitated to say or do any thing whatever. she had risen from her chair, and stood looking at the bed in speechless amazement. mr. ogden got up, and walked towards the fire with an unsteady pace. then he possessed himself of the rum-bottle, and, putting it to his lips, began to swallow the contents. this brought sarah to herself. "nay, nay, master: you said as you wouldn't drink no sperrits at twistle farm upo' no 'count." but the rum had been tasted, and the resolution broken. it had been broken before as to the intention and meaning of it, and was now broken even as to the letter. isaac ogden had got drunk at twistle farm; and now he was drinking spirits there, not even diluting them with water. after emptying old sarah's bottle, which fortunately did not contain enough to endanger, for the present, his existence, mr. ogden staggered back to his bed, and fell into a drunken sleep, which lasted until dr. bardly's arrival. the doctor found the wound at the back of the head exceedingly slight; there was abrasure of the skin and a swelling, but nothing more. the blood had ceased to flow soon after the accident; and there would be no worse results from it than the temporary insensibility, from which the patient had already recovered. the most serious results of what had passed were likely, for the present, to be rather moral than physical. dr. bardly greatly dreaded the moral depression which must result from the breaking down of the only resolution which stood between his friend and an utter abandonment to his propensity. twistle farm would no longer be a refuge for him against the demon, for the demon had been admitted, had crossed the threshold, had taken possession. mr. ogden was not in a condition to be advised, for he was not yet sober, and, if he had been, the doctor felt that advice was not likely to be of any use: he had given enough of it already. the parson might try, if he liked, but it seemed to the doctor that the case had now become one of those incurable cases which yield neither to the desire of self-preservation nor to the fear of hell; and that if the warnings of science were disregarded by a man intelligent enough to appreciate the certainty of the data on which they were founded, those of religion were not likely to have better success. chapter v. father and son. mr. ogden came downstairs in the middle of the day, and ordered breakfast and dinner in one meal. he asked especially for sarah's small-beer, and drank two or three large glasses of it. he did not eat much, and used an unusual quantity of pepper. he was extremely taciturn, contrarily to his ordinary habit, for he commonly talked very freely with old sarah whilst she served him. when his repast was finished, he expressed a wish to see little jacob. "good morning, papa! i hope you are better. sarah says you were poorly last night when feorach barked so." "oh, she says i was poorly, does she? then she lies: i wasn't poorly,--i was drunk. i want you to read to me." "must i read in that book mr. prigley gave me when he came?" "read what you please." so little jacob opened for the first time a certain volume which will be recognized by every reader when he begins:-- "'the way was long, the wind was cold. the minstrel was infirm and old.'" "that would be difficult," said mr. ogden. "what, papa?" "i say, it would be difficult." little jacob felt rather frightened. he did not understand in what the supposed difficulty consisted, and yet felt that he was expected to understand it. he did not dare to ask a second time for enlightenment on the point, so he stood quite still and said nothing. his father waited a minute in perfect silence, and then burst out,-- "why, you little confounded blockhead, i mean that it would be difficult for a man to be infirm and bold at the same time! infirm people are timid, commonly." "please, papa, it doesn't say infirm and bold--it says infirm and old--see, papa;" and little jacob pointed with his finger to the place. "then you read damned badly, for you read it 'bold,' and it's 'old.' i expect you to read better than that--you read badly, damned badly." "please, papa, i read it 'old' the first time, and not 'bold.'" "then you mean to say i cannot trust my own ears, you little impertinent monkey. i say you read it 'bold,' and i heard you." an elder person would have perceived that mr. ogden was ill, and humored him; and a child of a more yielding disposition would have submitted to the injustice, and acquiesced. but little jacob had an instinctive hatred of injustice, and his whole nature rose in revolt. he had also made up his mind never to tell lies--less perhaps from principle than from a feeling that it was cowardly. the present was an occasion which roused these feelings in all their energy. he was required to utter a falsehood, and submit to an injustice. "no, papa, i said 'old.' i didn't say 'bold' at all. it was you that heard wrong." mr. ogden became white with anger. "oh, _i_ was mistaken, was i? do you mean to say that i am deaf?" "no, papa." "well, then, if i'm not deaf i have been lying. i am a liar, am i?" the state of extreme nervous depression, in combination with irritability, under which mr. ogden's system was laboring that day, made him a dangerous man to contradict, and not by any means a pleasant antagonist in argument. but he was not altogether lost; he still kept some control over himself, in proof of which may be mentioned the fact that he simply dismissed little jacob without even a box on the ear. "he deserves a good thrashing," said mr. ogden; "but if i were to begin with him i should nearly kill him, the little impudent scoundrel!" the afternoon was exceedingly dull and disagreeable to mr. ogden. he walked out into his fields and round the pond. he had made a small footpath for his walks, which, after leaving the front-door first, went all round the pond, and then up to the rocks that overlooked the little valley, and from which he enjoyed a very extensive view. there were several springs in the little hollow, but before mr. ogden's settlement they had contented themselves with creating those patches of that emerald grass, set in dark heather, which are so preciously beautiful in the scenery of the moors. at each of these springs mr. ogden had made a circular stone-basin, with a water-duct to his pond, and it was his fancy to visit these basins rather frequently to see that they were kept clean and in order. he did so this afternoon, from habit, and by the time he had finished his round it was nearly dark. he was intensely miserable. twistle farm had been sweet and dear to him because he had jealously guarded the purity of the associations that belonged to it. neither in the house nor in the little undulating fields that he had made was there a single object to remind him of his weakness and his sin, and therefore the place had been a refuge and a sanctuary. it could never again be for him what it had been; this last lamentable failure had broken down the moral defences of his home, and invaded it and contaminated it for ever. whatever the future might bring, the event of the past night was irrevocable; he had besotted himself with drink; he had brought the mire of the outer world into his pure dwelling, and defiled it. isaac ogden felt this the more painfully that he had little of the support of religion, and few of the consolations and encouragements of philosophy. a religious mind would have acknowledged its weakness and repented of its sin, yet in the depths of its humiliation hoped still for strength from above, and looked and prayed for ultimate deliverance and peace. a philosophic mind would have reflected that moral effort is not to be abandoned for a single relapse, or even for many relapses, and would have addressed itself only the more earnestly to the task of self-reformation that the need for effort had made itself so strikingly apparent. but mr. ogden had neither the faith which throws itself on the support of heaven, nor the faculty of judging of his own actions with the impartiality of the independent intellect. he was simply a man of the world, so far as such a place as shayton could develop a man of the world, and had neither religious faith nor intellectual culture. therefore his misery was the greater for the density of the darkness in which he had stumbled and fallen. what he needed was light of some sort; either the beautiful old lamp of faith, with its wealth of elaborate imagery, or the plainer but still bright and serviceable gas-light of modern thought and science. mr. prigley possessed the one, and the doctor gave his best labor to the maintenance of the other; but mr. ogden was unfortunate in not being able to profit by the help which either of these friends would have so willingly afforded. no one except dr. bardly had suspected the deplorable fact that mr. ogden was no longer in a state of mental sanity. the little incident just narrated, in which he had mistaken one word for another, and insisted, with irritation, that the error did not lie with him, had been a common one during the last few weeks, whenever little jacob read to him. if our little friend had communicated his sorrows to the doctor, this fact would have been a very valuable one as evidence of his father's condition; but he never mentioned it to any one except his grandmother and old sarah, who both inferred that the child had read inaccurately, and saw no reason to suspect the justice of mr. ogden's criticism. the truth was, that by a confusion very common in certain forms of brain-disease, a sound often suggested to mr. ogden some other sound resembling it, or of which it formed a part, and the mere suggestion became to him quite as much a fact as if he had heard it with his bodily ears. thus, as we have seen, the word "old" had suggested "bold;" and when, as in that instance, the imagined word did not fit in very naturally with the sense of the passage, mr. ogden attributed the fault to little jacob's supposed inaccuracy in reading. indeed he had now a settled conviction that his son was unpardonably careless, and no sooner did the child open his book to read, than his father became morbidly expectant of some absurd mistake, which, of course, never failed to arrive, and to give occasion for the bitterest reproaches. on his return to the house mr. ogden desired his son's attendance, and requested him to resume his reading. little jacob took up his book again, and this time, as it happened, mr. ogden heard the second line correctly, and expressed his satisfaction. but in the very next couplet-- "his withered cheek and tresses gray seemed to have known a better day"-- mr. ogden found means to imagine another error. "it seems to me curious," said he, "that scott should have described the minstrel as having a 'withered cheek and tresses gay;' there could be little gayety about him, i should imagine." "please, papa, it isn't gay, but gray." "then why the devil do you read so incorrectly? i have always to be scolding you for making these absurd mistakes!" if little jacob had had an older head on his shoulders he would have acquiesced, and tried to get done with the reading as soon as possible, so as to make his escape. but it was repugnant to him to admit that he had made a blunder of which he was innocent, and he answered,-- "but, papa, i read it right--i said _gray_; i didn't say _gay_." mr. ogden made a violent effort to control himself, and said, with the sort of calm that comes of the intensest emotion,-- "then you mean to say i am deaf." little jacob had really been thinking that his father might be deaf, and admitted as much. "fetch me my riding-whip." little jacob brought the whip, expecting an immediate application of it, but mr. ogden, still keeping a strong control over himself, merely took the whip in his hands, and began to play with it, and look at its silver top, which he rubbed a little with his pocket-handkerchief. then he took a candle in his right hand, and brought the flame quite close to the silver ornament, examining it with singular minuteness, so as apparently to have entirely ceased to pay attention to his son's reading, or even to hear the sound of his voice. "is this my whip?" "yes, papa." "well, then, i am either blind or i have lost my memory. my whip was precisely like this, except for one thing--my initials were engraved upon it, and i can see no initials here." little jacob began to feel very nervous. a month before the present crisis he had taken his father's whip to ride with, and lost it on the moor, after dark, where he and jim had sought for it long, and vainly. little jacob had since consulted a certain saddler in shayton, a friend of his, as to the possibility of procuring a whip of the same pattern as the lost one, and it had fortunately happened that this saddler had received two precisely alike, of which mr. isaac ogden had bought one, whilst the other remained unsold. there was thus no difficulty in replacing the whip so as to deceive mr. ogden into the belief that it had never been lost, or rather so as to prevent any thought or suspicion from presenting itself to his mind. when the master of a house has given proofs of a tyrannical disposition, or of an uncontrollable and unreasonable temper, a system of concealment naturally becomes habitual in his household, and the most innocent actions are hidden from him as if they were crimes. some trifling incident reveals to him how sedulously he is kept in ignorance of the little occurrences which make up the existence of his dependants, and then he is vexed to find himself isolated and cut off from their confidence and sympathy. mr. ogden continued. "this is _not_ my whip; it is a whip of the same pattern, that some people have been buying to take me in. fetch me my own whip--the one with my initials." little jacob thought the opportunity for escaping from the room too good to be thrown away, and vanished. mr. ogden waited quietly at first, but, after ten minutes had escaped, became impatient, and rang the bell violently. old sarah presented herself. "send my son here." on his reappearance, little jacob was in that miserable state of apprehension in which the most truthful child will lie if it is in the least bullied or tormented, and in which indeed it is not possible to extract pure truth from its lips without great delicacy and tenderness. "have you brought my whip?" "please, papa," said little jacob, who began to get very red in the face, as he always did when he told a downright fib--"please, papa, that's your whip." there was a mental reservation here, slightly jesuitical; for the boy had reflected, during his brief absence, that since he had given that whip to mr. ogden, it now, of course, might strictly be said to belong to him. "what has become of my whip with i. o. upon it?" "it's that whip, papa; only you--you told jim to clean the silver top, and--and perhaps he rubbed the letters off." "you damned little lying sneaking scoundrel, this whip is perfectly new; but it will not be new long, for i will lay it about you till it isn't worth twopence." the sharp switching strokes fell fast on poor little jacob. some of them caught him on the hands, and a tremendous one came with stinging effect across his lips and cheek; but it was not the first time he had endured an infliction of this sort, and he had learned the art of presenting his body so as to shield the more sensitive or least protected places. on former occasions mr. ogden's anger had always cooled after a score or two of lashes, but this time it rose and rose with an ever-increasing violence. little jacob began to find his powers of endurance exhausted, and, with the nimble ingenuity of his years, made use of different articles of furniture as temporary barriers against his enemy. for some time he managed to keep the table between mr. ogden and himself, but his father's arm was long, and reached far, and the child received some smarting cuts about the face and neck, so then he tried the chairs. mr. ogden, who was by this time a furious madman, shivered his whip to pieces against the furniture, and then, throwing it with a curse into the fire, looked about him for some other means of chastisement. now there hung a mighty old hunting-whip in a sort of trophy with other memorials of the chase, and he took this down in triumph. the long knotted lash swung heavily as he poised it, and there was a steel hammer at the end of the stick, considered as of possible utility in replacing lost nails in the shoes of hunters. a great terror seized little jacob, a terror of that utterly hopeless and boundless and unreasoning kind that will sometimes take possession of the nervous system of a child--a terror such as the mature man does not feel even before imminent and violent death, and which he can only conceive or imagine by a reference to the dim reminiscences of his infancy. the strong man standing there menacing, armed with a whip like a flail, his eyes glaring with the new and baleful light of madness, became transfigured in the child's imagination to something supernatural. how tall he seemed, how mighty, how utterly irresistible! when a persian travels alone in some wide stony desert, and sees a column of dust rise like smoke out of the plain and advance rapidly towards him, and believes that out of the column one of the malignant genii will lift his colossal height, and roll his voice of thunder, and wield his sword of flame, all that that persian dreads in the utmost wildness of his credulous oriental imagination this child felt as a present and visible fact. the power before him, in the full might and height of manhood, in the fury of madness, lashing out the great thong to right and left till it cracked like pistol-shots--with glaring eyes, and foaming lips out of which poured curses and blasphemies--was this a paternal image, was it civilized, was it human? the aspect of it paralyzed the child, till a sharp intolerable pain came with its fierce stimulus, and he leaped out from behind his barricade and rushed towards the door. the lad had thick fair hair in a thousand natural curls. he felt a merciless grip in it, and his forehead was drawn violently backwards. well for him that he struggled and writhed! for the steel hammer was aimed at him now, and the blows from it crashed on the furniture as the aim was continually missed. the man-servant was out in the farm-buildings, and old sarah had been washing in an out-house. she came in first, and heard a bitter cry. many a time her heart had bled for the child, and now she could endure it no longer. she burst into the room, she seized ogden's wrist and drove her nails into it till the pain made him let the child go. she had left both doors open. in an instant little jacob was out of the house. old sarah was a strong woman, but her strength was feebleness to ogden's. he disengaged himself quite easily, and at every place where his fingers touched her there was a mark on her body for days. the child heard curses following him as he flew over the smooth grass. the farm was bounded by a six-foot wall. the curses came nearer and nearer; the wall loomed black and high. "i have him now," cried ogden, as he saw the lad struggling to get over the wall. little jacob felt himself seized by the foot. an infinite terror stimulated him, and he wrenched it violently. a sting of anguish crossed his shoulders where the heavy whip-lash fell,--a shoe remained in ogden's hand. chapter vi. little jacob is lost. ogden flung the shoe down with an imprecation, and the whip after it. he then climbed the wall and tried to run, but the ground here was rough moorland, and he fell repeatedly. he saw no trace of little jacob. he made his way back to the house, sullen and savage, and besmeared with earth and mud. "give me a lantern, damn you," he said to old sarah, "and look sharp!" old sarah took down a common candle-lantern, and purposely selected one with a hole in it. she also chose the shortest of her candle-ends. ogden did not notice these particulars in his impatience, and went out again. just then jim came in. "well," said old sarah, "what d'ye think master's done? he's licked little jacob while[ ] he's wenly[ ] kilt him, but t' little un's reight enough now. he'll never catch him." "what! has little jacob run away?" "ay, that he has; and he _can_ run, can little jacob; and he knows all th' places about. i've no fears on him. master's gone after him wi' a lantern wi' a hoile in it, and auve a hinch o' cannle. it's like catchin' a bird wi' a pinch o' salt." "little un's safe enough, i'se warrant him." "we mun just stop quite[ ] till th' ould un's i' bedd, and then we'll go and seech[ ] little jacob." in a quarter of an hour ogden came back again. his light had gone out, and he threw the lantern down on the kitchen-floor without a word, and shut himself up in his sitting-room. the furniture was in great disorder. the chairs were all overturned, the mahogany table bore deep indentations from the blows of the hammer. some pieces of old china that had ornamented the chimney-piece lay scattered on the hearth. he lifted up a chair and sat upon it. the disorder was rather pleasing to him than otherwise; he felt a bitter satisfaction in the harmony between it and the state of his own mind. a large fragment of broken china lay close to his foot. it belonged to a basin, which, having been broken only into three or four pieces, was still repairable. ogden put it under his heel and crushed it to powder, feeling a sort of grim satisfaction in making repair out of the question. he sat in perfect inaction for about a quarter of an hour, and then rang the bell. "bring me hot water, and, stop--put these things in their places, will you?" old sarah restored some order in the room, removed the broken china, and brought the hot water. "now, bring me a bottle of rum." "please, mestur ogden, you've got no rum in the house." "no, but you have." "please, sir, i've got very little. i think it's nearly all done." "d'ye think i want to rob you? i'll pay ye for't, damn you!" "mestur ogden, you don't use drinkin' sperrits at twistle farm." ogden gave a violent blow on the table with his fist, and shouted, "bring me a bottle of rum, a bottle of rum! d'ye think you're to have all the rum in the world to yourself, you drunken old witch?" there was that in his look which cowed sarah, and she reflected that he might be less dangerous if he were drunk. so she brought the rum. ogden was pouring himself a great dose into a tumbler, when a sudden hesitation possessed him, and he flung the bottle from him into the fireplace. there was a shivering crash, and then a vast sheet of intolerable flame. the intense heat drove ogden from the hearth. he seized the candle, and went upstairs into his bedroom. sarah and jim waited to see whether he would come down again, but he remained in his room, and they heard the boards creak as he walked from wall to wall. this continued an hour. at last old sarah said,-- "i cannot bide no longer. let's go and seech th' childt;" and she lighted two lanterns, which, doubtless, were in better condition, and better provided with candles, than the one she had lent to mr. ogden. they went into the stable and cowhouse (or _mistle_ as it was called in that country), and called in the softest and most winning tones their voices knew how to assume. "little jacob, little jacob, come, my lad, come; it's nobbut old sarah an' jim. mestur's i' bedd." they went amongst the hay with their lanterns, in spite of the risk of setting it on fire, but he was not there. he was not to be found in any of the out-buildings. suddenly an idea struck jim. "if we'd nobbut his bit of a dog, who'd find him, sure enough." but feorach had disappeared. feorach was with her young master. they began to be rather alarmed, for it was very cold, and intensely dark. the lad was certainly not on the premises. they set off along the path that led to the rocks. they examined every nook and cranny of the huge masses of sandstone, and their lanterns produced the most unaccustomed effects, bringing out the rough projections of the rock against the unfathomable black sky, and casting enormous shadows from one rock to another. wherever their feet could tread they went, missing nothing; but the lad was not amongst the rocks. it began to be clear to them that he could not even be in a place of such shelter as that. he must be out on the open moor. "we mun go and tell mestur," said jim. "if he's feared about th' childt, he willn't be mad at him." so they returned straight to the house, and went to mr. ogden's room. he had gone to bed, but was not asleep. if he thought about little jacob at all, his reflections were probably not of an alarming kind. the child would come back, of course. "please, sir," said jim, "master jacob isn't come back, and we can't find him." "he'll come back," said ogden. "please, sir, i'm rather feared about him," said jim; "it's nearly two hours sin' he left the house, and it's uncommon cold. we've been seekin' him all up and down, old sarah and me, and he's nowhere about th' premises, and he isn't about th' rocks neither." mr. ogden began to feel rather alarmed. the paroxysm of his irritation was over by this time, and he had become rational again; indeed his mind was clearer, and, in a certain sense, calmer, than it had been for two or three days. for the last half-hour he had been suffering only from great prostration, and a feeling of dulness and vacancy, which this new anxiety effectually removed. notwithstanding the violence of his recent treatment of his son--a violence which had frequently broken out during several months, and which had culminated in the scene described in the last chapter, when it had reached the pitch of temporary insanity--he really had the deepest possible affection for his child, and this paternal feeling was more powerful than he himself had ever consciously known or acknowledged. when once the idea was realized that little jacob might be suffering physically from the cold, and mentally from a dread of his father, which the events of the night only too fully justified, mr. ogden began to feel the tenderest care and anxiety. "i'll be down with you in a moment," he said. "see that the lanterns are in good order. have the dogs ready to go with us--they may be of some use." he came downstairs with a serious but quite reasonable expression on his face. he spoke quite gently to old sarah, and said, with a half-smile, "you needn't give me a lantern with a hole in it this time;" and then he added, "i wasted all that rum you gave me." "it 'ud 'ave been worst wasted if you'd swallowed it, mestur." "it would--it would; but we may need a little for the lad if we find him--very cold, you know. give a little to jim, if you have any; and take a railway rug, or a blanket from my bed, to wrap him in if he should need it." the dogs were in the kitchen now--a large mastiff and a couple of pointers. mr. ogden took down a little cloak that belonged to jacob, and made the dogs smell at it. then he seemed to be looking about for something else. "are ye seekin' something, mr. ogden?" "i want something to make a noise with, sarah." she fetched the little silver horn that had been the doctor's last present to his young friend. "that's it," said mr. ogden; "he'll know the sound of that when he hears it." the little party set out towards the moor. mr. ogden led it to the place where jacob had crossed the wall; and as jim was looking about with his lantern he called out, "why, master, here's one of his shoes, and--summat else." the "summat else" was the great whip. mr. ogden took the shoe up, and the whip. they were within a few yards of the pond, and he went down to the edge of it. a slight splash was heard, and he came back without the whip. the weight of the steel hammer had sunk it, and hidden it from his eyes for ever. he carried the little shoe in his right hand. when they had crossed the wall, mr. ogden bent down and put the shoe on the ground, and called the dogs. the pointers understood him at once, and went rapidly on the scent, whilst the little party followed them as fast as they could. it led out upon the open moor. when they were nearly a mile from the house, mr. ogden told sarah to go back and make a fire in little jacob's room, and warm his bed. the two men then went forward in silence. it was bitterly cold, and the wind began to rise, whistling over the wild moor. it was now eleven o'clock; mr. ogden looked at his watch. suddenly the dogs came to a standstill; they had reached the edge of a long sinuous bog with a surface of treacherous green, and little black pools of peat-water and mud. mr. ogden knew the bog perfectly, as he knew every spot on the whole moor that he was accustomed to shoot over, and he became terribly anxious. "we must mark this spot," he said; but neither he nor jim carried a stick, and there was no wood for miles round. the only resource was to make a little cairn of stones. when this was finished, mr. ogden stood looking at the bog a few minutes, measuring its breadth with his eye. he concluded that it was impossible for a child to leap over it even at the narrowest place, and suggested that little jacob must have skirted it. but in which direction--to the right hand or the left? the dogs gave no indication; they were off the scent. mr. ogden followed the edge of the bog to the right, and after walking half a mile, turned the extremity of it, and came again on the other side till he was opposite the cairn he had made. the dogs found no fresh scent; they were perfectly useless. "make a noise," said mr. ogden to jim; "make a noise with that horn." jim blew a loud blast. there came no answering cry. the wind whistled over the heather, and a startled grouse whirred past on her rapid wings. an idea was forcing its way into mr. ogden's mind--a hateful, horrible, inadmissible idea--that the foul black pit before him might be the grave of his only son. how ascertain it? they had not the necessary implements; and what would be the use of digging in that flowing, and yielding, and unfathomable black mud? he could not endure the place, or the intolerable supposition that it suggested, and went wildly on, in perfect silence, with compressed lips and beating heart, stumbling over the rough land. old sarah warmed the little bed, and made a bright fire in jacob's room. when ogden came back, he went there at once, and found the old woman holding a small night-gown to the fire. his face told her enough. his dress was covered with snow. "th' dogs is 'appen mistaken," she said; "little jacob might be at milend by this time." mr. ogden sent jim down to shayton on horseback, and returned to the moor alone. they met again at the farm at three o'clock in the morning. neither of them had any news of the child. jim had roused the household at milend, and awakened everybody both at the parsonage and the doctor's. he had given the alarm, and he had done the same at the scattered cottages and, farm-houses between twistle farm and shayton. if jacob were seen anywhere, news would be at once sent to his father. dr. bardly was not at home; he had left about noon for sootythorn on militia business, and expected to go on to wenderholme with colonel stanburne, where he intended to pass the night. chapter vii. isaac ogden's punishment. during what remained of the night, it is unnecessary to add that nobody at twistle farm had rest. the search was continually renewed in various directions, and always with the same negative result. mr. ogden began to lose hope, and was more and more confirmed in his supposition that his son must have perished in the bog. jim returned to shayton, where he arrived about half-past four in the morning. when the hands assembled at ogden's mill, mr. jacob told them that the factory would be closed that day, but that he would pay them their full wages; and he should feel grateful to any of the men who would help him in the search for his little nephew, who had unfortunately disappeared from twistle on the preceding evening, and had not been since heard of. he added, that a reward of a hundred pounds would be given to any one who would bring him news of the child. soon after daylight, handbills were posted in every street in shayton offering the same reward. mr. jacob returned to milend from the factory, and prepared to set out for twistle. the sun rose in clear frosty air, and the moors were covered with snow. large groups began to arrive at the farm about eight o'clock, and at nine the hill was dotted with searchers in every direction. it was suggested to mr. ogden by a policeman that if he had any intention of having the pond dragged, it would be well that it should be done at once, as there was already a thin coat of ice upon it, and it would probably freeze during the whole of the day and following night, so that delay would entail great additional labor in the breaking of the ice. an apparatus was sent up from shayton for this purpose. mr. ogden did not superintend this operation, but sat alone in his parlor waiting to hear the result. there was a tap at the door, and the policeman entered. "we've found nothing in the pond, mr. isaac, except--" "except what?" "only this whip, sir, that must belong to you;" and he produced the whip with the steel hammer. "it may be an important hindication, sir, if it could be ascertained whether your little boy had been playin' with it yesterday evenin'. you don't remember seein' him with it, do you, sir?" mr. ogden groaned, and covered his face with his hands. then his whole frame shook convulsively. old sarah came in. "i was just askin' mr. ogden whether he knew if the little boy had been playin' with this 'ere whip yesterday--we've found it in the pond; and as i was just sayin', it might be a useful hindication." old sarah looked at the whip, which lay wet upon the table. "i seed that whip yistady, but i dunnot think our little lad played wi' it. he didn't use playin' wi' that whip. that there whip belongs to his father, an' it's him as makes use on it, and non little jacob." mr. ogden removed his hands from his face, and said, "the whip proves nothing. i threw it into the pond yesterday myself." the policeman looked much astonished. "it's a fine good whip, sir, to throw away." "well, take it, then, if you admire it i'll make ye a present of it." "i've no use for it, sir." "then, i reckon," said old sarah, "as you 'aven't got a little lad about nine year old; such whips as that is consithered useful for thrashin' little lads about nine year old." mr. ogden could bear this no longer, and said he would go down to the pond. when he had left the room, old sarah took up the whip and hung it in its old place, over the silver spurs. the policeman lingered. old sarah relieved her mind by recounting what had passed on the preceding evening. "i am some and glad[ ] as you brought him that there whip. th' sight of it is like pins and needles in 'is een. you've punished 'im with it far worse than if you'd laid it ovver his shoulthers." mr. ogden gave orders that every one who wanted any thing to eat should be freely supplied in the kitchen. one of old sarah's great accomplishments was the baking of oat-cake, and as the bread in the house was soon eaten up, old sarah heated her oven, and baked two or three hundred oat-cakes. when once the mixture is prepared, and the oven heated, a skilful performer bakes these cakes with surprising rapidity, and old sarah was proud of her skill. if any thing could have relieved her anxiety about little jacob, it would have been this beloved occupation--but not even the pleasure of seeing the thin fluid mixture spread over the heated sheet of iron, and of tossing the cake dexterously at the proper time, could relieve the good heart of its heavy care. even the very occupation itself had saddening associations, for when old sarah pursued it, little jacob had usually been a highly interested spectator, though often very much in the way. she had scolded him many a time for his "plaguiness;" but, alas! what would she have given to be plagued by that small tormentor now! the fall of snow had been heavy enough to fill up the smaller inequalities of the ground, and the hills had that aspect of exquisite smoothness and purity which would be degraded by any comparison. under happier circumstances, the clear atmosphere and brilliant landscape would have been in the highest degree exhilarating; but i suppose nobody at twistle felt that exhilaration now. on the contrary, there seemed to be something chilling and pitiless in that cold splendor and brightness. no one could look on the vast sweep of silent snow without feeling that _somewhere_ under its equal and unrevealing surface lay the body of a beloved child. the grave-faced seekers ranged the moors all day, after a regular system devised by mr. jacob ogden. the circle of their search became wider and wider, like the circles from a splash in water. in this way, before nightfall, above thirty square miles had been thoroughly explored. at last, after a day that seemed longer than the longest days of summer, the sun went down, and one by one the stars came out. the heavens were full of their glittering when the scattered bands of seekers met together again at the farm. the fire was still kept alive in little jacob's room. the little night-gown still hung before it. old sarah changed the hot water in the bed-warmer regularly every hour. alas! alas! was there any need of these comforts now? do corpses care to have their shrouds warmed, or to have hot-water bottles at their icy feet? mr. ogden, who had controlled himself with wonderful success so long as the sun shone, began to show unequivocal signs of agitation after nightfall. he had headed a party on the moor, and came back with a sinking heart. he had no hope left. the child must certainly have died in the cold. he went into little jacob's bedroom and walked about alone for a few minutes, pacing from the door to the window, and looking out on the cold white hills, the monotony of which was relieved only by the masses of black rock that rose out of them here and there. the fire had burnt very briskly, and it seemed to mr. ogden that the little night-gown was rather too near. as he drew back the chair he gazed a minute at the bit of linen; his chest heaved with violent emotion, and then there came a great and terrible agony. he sat down on the low iron bed, his strong frame shook and quivered, and with painful gasps flowed the bitter tears of his vain repentance. he looked at the smooth little pillow, untouched during a whole night, and thought of the dear head that had pressed it, and might never press it more. where was it resting now? was the frozen snow on the fair cheek and open brow, or--oh horror, still more horrible!--had he been buried alive in the black and treacherous pit, and were the dear locks defiled with the mud of the bog, and the bright eyes filled with its slimy darkness for ever? surely he had not descended into _that_ grave; they had done what they could to sound the place, and had found nothing but earth, soft and yielding--no fragment of dress had come up on their boat-hooks. it was more endurable to imagine the child asleep under the snow. when the thaw came they would find him, and bring him to his own chamber, and lay him again on his own bed, at least for one last night, till the coffin came up from shayton. how good the child had been! how brutally ogden felt that he had used him! little jacob had been as forgiving as a dog, and as ready to respond to the slightest mark of kindness. he had been the light of the lonely house with his innocent prattle and gayety. ogden had frightened him into silence lately, and driven him into the kitchen, where he had many a time heard him laughing with old sarah and jim, and been unreasonably angry with him for it. ogden began to see these things in a different light. "i used him so badly," he thought, "that it was only natural he should shun and avoid me." and then he felt and knew how much sweet and pure companionship he had missed. he had not half enjoyed the blessing he had possessed. he ought to have made himself young again for the child's sake. would it have done him any harm to teach little jacob cricket, and play at ball with him, or at nine-pins? the boy's life had been terribly lonely, and his father had done nothing to dissipate or mitigate its loneliness. and then there came a bitter sense that he had really loved the child with an immense affection, but that the coldness and roughness and brutality of his outward behavior had hidden this affection from his son. in this, however, mr. ogden had not been quite so much to blame as in the agony of his repentance he himself believed. his self-accusation, like all sincere and genuine self-accusation, had a touch of exaggeration in it. the wrong that he had done was attributable quite as much to the temper of the place he lived in as to any peculiar evil in himself as an individual man. he had spoiled his temper by drinking, but every male in shayton did the same; he had been externally hard and unsympathetic, but the inhabitants of shayton carried to an excess the english contempt for the betrayal of the softer emotions. in all that ogden had done, in the whole tenor of his life and conversation, he had merely obeyed the great human instinct of conformity. had he lived anywhere else--had he even lived at sootythorn--he would have been a different man. such as he was, he was the product of the soil, like the hard pears and sour apples that grew in the dismal garden at milend. he had been sitting more than an hour on the bed, when he heard a knock at the door. it was old sarah, who announced the arrival of mr. prigley and mrs. ogden. mr. prigley had been to fetch her from the place where she was visiting, and endeavored to offer such comfort to her during the journey as his heart and profession suggested. as on their arrival at milend there had been no news of a favorable or even hopeful kind, mrs. ogden was anxious to proceed to twistle immediately, and mr. prigley had kindly accompanied her. the reader may have inferred from previous pages of this history, that although mr. prigley may have been a blameless and earnest divine, he was not exactly the man best fitted to influence such a nature as that of isaac ogden. he had little understanding either of its weakness or its strength--of its weakness before certain forms of temptation, or its strength in acknowledging unwelcome and terrible facts. after mrs. ogden had simply said, "well, isaac, there's no news of him yet," the clergyman tried to put a cheerful light on the subject by expressing the hope that the boy was safe in some farm-house. mr. ogden answered that every farm-house within several miles had been called at, and that twistle farm was the last of the farms on the moor side. it was most unlikely, in his opinion, that the child could have resisted the cold so long, especially as he had no provisions of any kind, and was not even sufficiently clothed to go out; and as he had certainly not called at any house within seven or eight miles of twistle, mr. ogden could only conclude that he must have perished on the moor, and that the thick fall of snow was all that had prevented the discovery of his body. mrs. ogden sat down and began to cry very bitterly. the sorrow of a person like mrs. ogden is at the same time quite frank in its expression, and perfectly monotonous. her regrets expressed themselves adequately in three words, and the repetition of them made her litany of grief--"poor little lad!" and then a great burst of weeping, and then "poor little lad!" again, perpetually. the clergyman attempted to "improve" the occasion in the professional sense. "the lord hath given," he said, "and the lord hath taken away;" then he paused, and added, "blessed be the name of the lord." but this brought no solace to ogden's mind. "it was not the lord that took the lad away," he answered; "it was his father that drove him away." the great agony came over him again, and he flung himself on his breast upon the sofa and buried his face in the cushions. then his mother rose and came slowly to his side, and knelt down by him. precious maternal feelings, that had been, as it were, forgotten in her heart for more than twenty years, like jewels that are worn no more, shone forth once more from her swimming eyes. "isaac, lad," she said, with a voice that sounded in his ears like a far-off recollection of childhood,--"isaac, lad, it were none o' thee as did it,--it were drink. thou wouldn't have hurt a hair of his head." and she kissed him. it was a weary night at twistle. nobody had any hope left, but they felt bound to continue the search, and relays of men came up from shayton for the purpose. they were divided into little parties of six or eight, and mr. jacob directed their movements. each group returned to the house after exploring the ground allotted to it, and mr. ogden feverishly awaited its arrival. the ever-recurring answer, the sad shake of the head, the disappointed looks, sank into the heart of the bereaved father. about two in the morning he got a little sleep, and awoke in half an hour somewhat stronger and calmer. it is unnecessary to pursue the detail of these sufferings. the days passed, but brought no news. dr. bardly came back from wenderholme, and seemed less affected than would have been expected by those who knew his love and friendship for little jacob. he paid, however, especial attention to mr. isaac, whom he invited to stay with him for a few weeks, and who bore his sorrow with a manly fortitude. the doctor drank his habitual tumbler of brandy-and-water every evening before going to bed, and the first evening, by way of hospitality, had offered the same refreshment to his guest. mr. ogden declined simply, and the offer was not renewed. for the first week he smoked a great deal, and drank large quantities of soda-water, but did not touch any intoxicating liquor. he persevered in this abstinence, and declared his firm resolve to continue it as a visible sign of his repentance, and of his respect to the memory of his boy. he was very gentle and pleasant, and talked freely with the doctor about ordinary subjects; but, for a man whose vigor and energy had manifested themselves in some abruptness and rudeness in the common intercourse of life, this new gentleness was a marked sign of sadness. when the doctor's servant, martha, came in unexpectedly and found mr. ogden alone, she often observed that he had shed tears; but he seemed cheerful when spoken to, and his grief was quiet and undemonstrative. the search for the child was still actively pursued, and his mysterious disappearance became a subject of absorbing interest in the neighborhood. the local newspapers were full of it, and there appeared a very terrible article in the 'sootythorn gazette' on mr. ogden's cruelty to his child. the writer was an inhabitant of shayton, who had had the misfortune to have mr. jacob ogden for his creditor, and had been pursued with great rigor by that gentleman. he got the necessary data from the policeman who had brought the whip back from the pond, and wrote such a description of it as made the flesh of the sootythorn people creep upon their bones, and their cheeks redden with indignation. the doctor happened to be out of the house when this newspaper arrived, and mr. isaac opened it and read the article. the facts stated in it were true and undeniable, and the victim quailed under his punishment. if he had ventured into sootythorn, he would have been mobbed and pelted, or perhaps lynched. he was scarcely safe even in shayton; and when he walked from the doctor's to milend, the factory operatives asked him where his whip was, and the children pretended to be frightened, and ran out of his way. a still worse punishment was the singular gravity of the faces that he met--a gravity that did not mean sympathy but censure. the 'sootythorn gazette' demanded that he should be punished--that an example should be made of him, and so on. the writer had his wish, without the intervention of the law. after a few weeks the mystery was decided to be insoluble, and dismissed from the columns of the newspapers. even the ingenious professional detectives admitted that they were at fault, and could hold out no hopes of a discovery. mr. ogden had with difficulty been induced to remain at the doctor's during the prosecution of these inquiries; but dr. bardly had represented to him that he ought to have a fixed address in case news should arrive, and that he need not be wholly inactive, but might ride considerable distances in various directions, which indeed he did, but without result. mrs. ogden remained at milend, but whether from the strength of her nature, or some degree of insensibility, she did not appear to suffer greatly from her bereavement, and pursued her usual household avocations with her accustomed regularity. mr. jacob went to his factory, and was absorbed in the details of business. no one put on mourning, for the child was still considered as possibly alive, and perhaps his relations shrank from so decided an avowal of their abandonment of hope. the one exception to this rule was old sarah at twistle, who clad herself in a decent black dress that she had by her. "if t' little un's deead," she said, "it's nobbut reight to put mysel' i' black for him; and if he isn't i'm so sore in my heart ovver him 'at i'm fit to wear nought else." chapter viii. from sootythorn to wenderholme. the next scene of our story is in the thorn hotel at the prosperous manufacturing town of sootythorn, a place superior to shayton in size and civilization and selected by the authorities as the headquarters of colonel stanburne's regiment of militia. dr. bardly arrived at the thorn the morning after isaac ogden's relapse, having driven all the way from shayton, through scenery which would have been comparable to any thing in england, if the valleys had not been spoiled by cotton-mills, rows of ugly cottages, and dismal-looking coal-pits. "colonel stanburne's expecting you, doctor," said mr. garley, the landlord of the thorn: "he's in the front sitting-room." the colonel was sitting by himself, with the 'times' and a little black pipe. "good morning, dr. bardly! you've a nice little piece of work before you. there are a lot of fellows here to be examined as to their physical constitution--fellows, you know, who aspire to the honor of serving in the twentieth regiment of royal lancashire militia." "perhaps i'd better begin with the hofficers," said the doctor. the colonel looked alarmed, or affected to be so. "my dear doctor, there's not the least necessity for examining officers--it isn't customary, it isn't legal; officers are always perfect, both physically and morally." a theory of this kind came well enough from colonel stanburne. he was six feet high, and the picture of health. he brought forth the fruits of good living, not, as mr. garley did, in a bloated and rubicund face and protuberant corporation, but in that admirable balance of the whole human organism which proves the regular and equal performance of all its functions. dr. bardly was a good judge of a man, and he had the same pleasure in looking at the colonel that a fox-hunter feels in contemplating a fine horse. beyond this, he liked colonel stanburne's society, not precisely, perhaps, for intellectual reasons--for, intellectually, there was little or nothing in common between the two men--but because he found in it a sort of mental refreshment, very pleasant to him after the society at shayton. the colonel was a different being--he lived in a different world from the world of the ogdens and their friends; and it amused and interested the doctor to see how this strange and rather admirable creature would conduct itself under the conditions of its present existence. the doctor, as the reader must already feel perfectly assured, had not the weakness of snobbishness or parasitism in any form whatever; and if he liked to go to wenderholme with the colonel, it was not because there was an earl's daughter there, and the sacred odor of aristocracy about the place, but rather because he had a genuine pleasure in the society of his friend, whether amongst the splendors of wenderholme, or in the parlor of the inn at sootythorn. the colonel, too, on his part, liked the doctor, though he laughed at him, and mimicked him to lady helena. the mimicry was not, however, very successful, for the doctor's lancashire dialect was too perfect and too pure for any mere ultramontane (that is, creature living beyond the hills that guarded the shayton valley) to imitate with any approximation to success. if the colonel, however, notwithstanding all his study and effort, could not succeed in imitating the doctor's happy selection of expressions and purity of style, he could at any rate give him a nickname--so he called him hoftens, not to his face, but to lady helena at home, and to the adjutant, and to one or two other people who knew him, and the nickname became popular; and, after a while, the officers called dr. bardly hoftens to his face, which he took with perfect good-nature. the first time that this occurred, the doctor (such was the delicacy of his ear) believed he detected something unusual in the way an impudent ensign pronounced the word _often_, and asked what he meant, on which the adjutant interposed, and said,--"don't mind his impudence, doctor; he's mimicking you." "well," said the doctor, simply, "i wasn't aware that there was hany thing peculiar in my pronunciation of the word, but people _hoftens_ are unaware of their own defects." but we anticipate. they lunched at the thorn with the adjutant, a fair-haired and delicate-looking little gentleman of exceedingly mild and quiet manners, whose acquaintance the doctor had made very recently. captain eureton had retired a year or two before from the regular army, and was now living in the neighborhood of sootythorn with his old mother whom he loved with his whole heart. he had never married, and now there was little probability of his ever marrying. the people of sootythorn would have set him down as a milk-sop if he had not seen a good deal of active service in india and at the cape; but a soldier who has been baptized in the fire of the battle-field has always that fact in his favor, and has little need to give himself airs of boldness in order to impose upon the imagination of civilians. "i believe, dr. bardly," said eureton, "that we are going to have an officer from your neighborhood, a mr. ogden. his name has been put down for a lieutenant's commission." "yes, he's a neighbor of mine," answered the doctor, rather curtly. "you should have brought him with you, doctor," said colonel stanburne, "that we might make his acquaintance. i've never seen him, you know, and he gets his commission on your recommendation. i should like, as far as possible, to know the officers personally before we meet for our first training. what sort of a fellow is mr. ogden? tell us all about him." the doctor felt slightly embarrassed, and showed it in his manner. any true description of isaac ogden, as he was just then, must necessarily seem very unfavorable. dr. bardly had been to twistle that very morning before daylight, and had found mr. ogden suffering from the effects of that fall down the cellar-steps in a state of drunkenness. the doctor had that day abandoned all hope of reclaiming isaac ogden, and saving him from the fate that awaited him. "i've nothing good to tell of mr. ogden, colonel stanburne. i wish i hadn't recommended him to you. he's an irreclaimable drunkard!" "well, if you'd known it you wouldn't have recommended him, of course. you found it out since, i suppose. you must try and persuade him to resign. tell him there'll be some awfully hard work, especially for lieutenants." "i knew that he drank occasionally, but i believed that it was because he had nobody to talk to except a drunken set at the red lion at shayton. i thought that if he came into the regiment it would do him good, by bringing him into more society. shayton's a terrible place for drinking. there's a great difference between shayton and sootythorn." "what sort of a man is he in other respects?" asked the colonel. "he's right enough for every thing else. he's a good-looking fellow, tall, and well-built; and he used to be pleasant and good-tempered, but now his nervous system must be shattered, and i would not answer for him." "if you still think he would have sufficient control over himself to keep sober for a month we might try him, and see whether we cannot do him some good. perhaps, as you thought, it's only want of society that drives him to amuse himself by drinking. upon my word, i think i should take to drinking myself if i lived all the year round in such a place as sootythorn--and i suppose shayton's no better." captain eureton, who was simple and even abstemious in his way of living, and whose appetite had not been sharpened, like that of the doctor, by a long drive in the morning, finished his lunch in about ten minutes, and excused himself on the plea that he had an appointment with a joiner about the orderly-room, which had formerly been an infant-school of some dissenting persuasion, and therefore required remodelling as to its interior fittings. we shall see more of him in due time, but for the present must leave him to the tranquil happiness of devising desks and pigeon-holes in company with an intelligent workman, than which few occupations can be more delightful. "perhaps, unless you've something to detain you in sootythorn, doctor, we should do well to leave here as early as possible. it's a long drive to wenderholme--twenty miles, you know; and i always make a point of giving the horses a rest at rigton." as the doctor had nothing to do in sootythorn, the colonel ordered his equipage. when he drove alone, he always preferred a tandem, but when lady helena accompanied him, he took his seat in a submissive matrimonial manner in the family carriage. as wenderholme was so far from sootythorn, the colonel kept two pairs of horses; and one pair was generally at wenderholme and the other in mr. garley's stables, where the colonel had a groom of his own permanently. the only inconvenience of this arrangement was that the same horses had to do duty in the tandem and the carriage; but they did it on the whole fairly well and the colonel contented himself with the carriage-horses, so far as driving was concerned. the doctor drove his own gig with the degree of skill which results from the practice of many years; but he had never undertaken the government of a tandem, and felt, perhaps, a slight shade of anxiety when john stanburne took the reins, and they set off at full trot through the streets of sootythorn. a manufacturing town, in that particular stage of its development, is one of the most awkward of all possible places to drive in--the same street varies so much in breadth that you never can tell whether there will be room enough to pass when you get round the corner; and there are alarming noises of many kinds--the roar of a cotton mill in the street itself, or the wonderfully loud hum of a foundry, or the incessant clattering hammer-strokes of a boiler-making establishment--which excite and bewilder a nervous horse, till, if manageable at all, he is manageable only with the utmost delicacy and care. as colonel stanburne seemed to have quite enough to do to soothe and restrain his leader, the doctor said nothing till they got clear of the last street; but once out on the broad turnpike, or "yorkshire road," the colonel gave his team more freedom, and himself relaxed from the rigid accuracy of seat he had hitherto maintained. he then turned to the doctor, and began to talk. "i say, doctor, why don't you drive a tandem? you--you _ought_ to drive a tandem. 'pon my word you ought, seriously, now." the doctor laughed. he didn't see the necessity or the duty of driving a tandem, and so begged to have these points explained to him. "well, because, don't you see, when you've only got one horse in your dog-cart, or gig, or whatever two-wheeled vehicle you may possess, you've no fun, don't you see?" the doctor didn't see, or did not seem to see. "i mean," proceeded the colonel, explanatorily, "that you haven't that degree of anxiety which is necessary to give a zest to existence. now, when you've a leader who is almost perfectly free, and over whom you can only exercise a control of--the most gentle and persuasive kind, you're always slightly anxious, and sometimes you're _very_ anxious. for instance, last time we drove back from sootythorn it was pitch dark,--wasn't it, fyser?" here colonel stanburne turned to his groom, who was sitting behind; and fyser, as might be expected, muttered something confirmatory of his master's statement. "it was pitch dark; and, by george! the candles in the lamps were too short to last us; and that confounded fyser forgot to provide himself with fresh ones before he left sootythorn, and--didn't you, fyser?" fyser confessed his negligence. "and so, when the lamps were out, it was pitch dark; so dark that i couldn't tell the road from the ditch--upon my word, i couldn't; and i couldn't see the leader a bit, i could only feel him with the reins. so i said to fyser, 'get over to the front seat, and then crouch down as low as you can, so as to bring the horses' heads up against the sky, and tell me if you can see them.' so fyser crouched down as i told him; and when i asked him if he saw any thing, he said he _did_ think he saw the leader's ears. well, damn it, then, if you _do_ see 'em, i said, keep your eye on 'em." "and were you going fast?" asked the doctor. "why, of _course_ we were. we were trotting at the rate of, i should say, about nine miles an hour; but after a while, fyser, by hard looking, began to see rather more distinctly--so distinctly that he clearly made out the difference between the horses' heads and the hedges; and he kept calling out 'right, sir,' 'left, sir,' 'all right, sir,' and so he kept me straight. if he'd been a sailor he'd have said 'starboard' and 'port;' but fyser isn't a sailor." "and did you get safe to wenderholme?" "of _course_ we did. fyser and i _always_ get safe to wenderholme." "i shouldn't recommend you to try that experiment hoftens." "well, but you see the advantage of driving tandem. if you've only one horse you know where he is, however dark it is--he's in the shafts, of course, and you know where to find him: but when you've got a leader you never exactly know where he is, unless you can see him." the doctor didn't see the advantage. the reader will have gathered from this specimen of colonel stanburne's conversation that he was a pleasant and lively companion; but if he is rather hasty in forming his opinion of people on a first acquaintance, he may also infer that the colonel was a man of somewhat frivolous character and very moderate intellectual powers. he certainly was not a genius, but he conveyed the impression of being less intelligent and less capable of serious thought than nature had made him. his predominant characteristic was simple good-nature, and he possessed also, notwithstanding a sort of swagger in his manner, an unusual share of genuine intellectual humility, that made him contented to pass for a less able and less informed man than he really was. the doctor's perception of character was too acute to allow him to judge colonel stanburne on the strength of a superficial acquaintance, and he clearly perceived that his friend was in the habit of wearing, as it were, his lighter nature outside. some ponderous philistines in sootythorn, who had been brought into occasional contact with the colonel, and who confounded gravity of manner with mental capacity, had settled it amongst themselves that he had no brains; but as the most intelligent of quadrupeds is at the same time the most lively, the most playful, the most good-natured, and the most affectionate,--so amongst human beings it does not always follow that a man is empty because he is lively and amusing, and seems merry and careless, and says and does some foolish things. an hour later they reached rigton, a little dull village quite out of the manufacturing district, and where it was the colonel's custom to bait. the remainder of the drive was in summer exceedingly beautiful; but as it passed through a rich agricultural country, whose beauty depended chiefly on luxuriant vegetation, the present time of the year was not favorable to it. all this region had a great reputation for beauty amongst the inhabitants of the manufacturing towns, and no doubt fully deserved it; but it is probable that their faculties of appreciation were greatly sharpened by the stimulus of contrast. to get fairly clear of factory-smoke, to be in the peaceful quiet country, and see no buildings but picturesque farms, was a definite happiness to many an inhabitant of sootythorn. there were fine bits of scenery in the manufacturing district itself--picturesque glens and gorges, deep ravines with hidden rivulets, and stretches of purple moorland; but all this scenery lacked one quality--_amenity_. now the scenery from rigton to wenderholme had this quality in a very high degree indeed, and it was instantly felt by every one who came from the manufacturing district, though not so perceptible by travellers from the south of england. the sootythorn people felt a soothing influence on the nervous system when they drove through this beautiful land; their minds relaxed and were relieved of pressing cares, and they here fell into a state very rare indeed with them--a state of semi-poetical reverie. the reader is already aware that wenderholme is situated on the opposite side of the hills which separate shayton from this favored region, and close to the foot of them. great alterations have been made in the house since the date at which our story begins, and therefore we will not describe it as it exists at present, but as it existed when the colonel drove up the avenue with the doctor at his side, and the faithful fyser jumped up behind after opening the modest green gate. a large rambling house, begun in the reign of queen elizabeth, but grievously modernized under that of king george the third, it formed three sides of a quadrangle, and, as is usual in that arrangement of a mansion, had a great hall in the middle, and the principal reception rooms on each side on the ground floor. the house was three stories high, and there were great numbers of bedrooms. an arched porch in the centre, preceded by a flight of steps, gave entrance at once to the hall; and over the porch was a projection of the same breadth, continued up to the roof, and terminated in a narrow gable. this had been originally the centre of enrichment, and there had been some good sculpture and curious windows that went all round the projection, and carried it entirely upon their mullions; but the modernizer had been at work and inserted simple sash-windows, which produced a deplorable effect. the same owner, john stanburne's grandfather, had ruthlessly carried out that piece of vandalism over the whole front of the mansion, and, except what architects call a string-course (which was still traceable here and there), had effaced every feature that gave expression to the original design of the elizabethan builder. the entrance-hall was a fine room fifty feet long, and as high as two of the ordinary stories in the mansion. it had, no doubt, been a splendid specimen of the elizabethan hall; but the modernizer had been hard at work here also, and had put himself to heavy expense in order to give it the aspect of a thoroughly modern interior. the wainscot which had once adorned the walls, and which had been remarkable for its rich and fanciful carving, the vast and imaginative tapestries, the heraldic blazonries in the flaming oriels, the gallery for the musicians on twisted pillars of sculptured chestnut,--all these glories had been ruthlessly swept away. the tapestries had been used as carpets, and worn out; the wainscot had been made into kitchen cupboards, and painted lead-color; and the magnificent windows had been thrown down on the floor of a garret, where they had been trodden under foot and crushed into a thousand fragments: and in place of these things, which the narrow taste of the eighteenth century had condemned as barbarous, and destroyed without either hesitation or regret, it had substituted--what?--absolute emptiness and negation; for the heraldic oriels, sash-windows of the commonest glass; for the tapestry and carving, a bare wall of yellow-washed plaster; for the carved beams of the roof, a blank area of whitewash. the doctor found lady helena in the drawing-room; a little woman, who sometimes looked very pretty, and sometimes exceedingly plain, according to the condition of her health and temper, the state of the weather, and a hundred things beside. hence there were the most various and contradictory opinions about her; the only approach to unanimity being amongst certain elderly ladies who had formed the project of being mother-in-law to john stanburne, and failed in that design. the doctor was not much accustomed to ladyships--they did not come often in his way; indeed, if the truth must be told, lady helena was the only specimen of the kind he had ever enjoyed the opportunity of studying, and he had been rather surprised, on one or two preceding visits to wenderholme, to find that she behaved so nicely. but there are ladyships and ladyships, and the doctor had been fortunate in the example which chance had thrown in his way. for instance, if he had known lady eleanor griffin, who lived about ten miles from wenderholme, and came there occasionally to spend the day, the doctor would have formed quite a different opinion of ladyships in general, so much do our impressions of whole classes depend upon the individual members of them who are personally known to us. lady helena asked the doctor a good many questions about shayton, which it is quite unnecessary to report here, because the answers to them would convey no information to the reader which he does not already possess. her ladyship inquired very minutely about the clergyman there, and whether the doctor "liked" him. now the verb "to like," when applied to a clergyman, is used in a special sense. everybody knows that to like a clergyman and to like gooseberry-pie are very different things; for nobody in england eats clergyman, though the natives of new zealand are said to appreciate cold roast missionary. but there is yet another distinction--there is a distinction between liking a clergyman and liking a layman. if you say you like a clergyman, it is understood that it gives you a peculiar pleasure to hear him preach, and that you experience feelings of gratification when he reads prayers. and in this sense could dr. bardly say that he liked the reverend incumbent of his parish? certainly not; so he seemed to hesitate a little--and if he said "yes" he said it as if he meant _no_, or a sort of vague, neutral answer, neither negative nor affirmative. "i mean," said lady helena, "do you like him as a preacher?" "upon my word, it's so long since i heard him preach that i cannot give an opinion." "oh! i thought you attended his church. there are other churches in shayton, i suppose." "no, there's only one," said the imprudent and impolitic doctor. lady helena began to think he was some sort of a dissenter. she had heard of dissenters--she knew that such people existed--but she had never been brought into contact with one, and it made her feel rather queer. she felt strongly tempted to ask what place of worship this man _did_ attend, since by his own confession he never went to his parish church; but curiosity, and the natural female tendency to be an inquisitor, were kept in check by politeness, and also, perhaps, a little restrained by the perfectly fearless aspect of the doctor's face. if he had seemed in the least alarmed or apologetic, her ladyship would probably have assumed the functions of the inquisitor at once; but he looked so cool, and so very capable of a prolonged and vigorous resistance, that lady helena retired. when she began to talk about mrs. prigley, the doctor knew that she was already in full retreat. a little relieved, perhaps (for it is always disagreeable to quarrel with one's hostess, even though one has no occasion to be afraid of her), the doctor gladly told lady helena all about mrs. prigley, and even narrated the anecdote about the hole in the carpet, and its consequences to mrs. ogden, which put lady helena into good humor, for nothing is more amusing to rich people than the ludicrous consequences of a certain kind of poverty. the sense of a pleasant contrast, all in their own favor, is delightful to them and when the doctor had told this anecdote, lady helena became agreeably aware that she had carpets, and that her carpets had no holes in them--two facts of which use and custom had made her wholly unconscious. her eye wandered with pleasure over the broad soft surface of dark pomegranate color, with its large white and red flowers and its nondescript ornaments of imitated gold, and the ground seemed richer, and the flowers seemed whiter and redder, because poor mrs. prigley's carpets were in a condition so lamentably different. "mrs. prigley's a relation of yours, lady helena,--rather a near relation,--perhaps you are not aware of it?" lady helena looked, and was, very much surprised. "a relation of _mine_, dr. bardly! you must be mistaken. i believe i know the names of all my relations!" "i mean a relation of your husband--of colonel stanburne. mrs. prigley was a miss stanburne of byfield, and her father was brother to colonel stanburne's father, and was born in this house." "that's quite a near relationship indeed," said lady helena; "i wonder i never heard of it. john never spoke to me about mrs. prigley." "there was a quarrel between colonel stanburne's father and his uncle, and there has been no intercourse between their families since. i daresay the colonel does not even know how many cousins he had on that side, or what marriages they made." on this the colonel came in. "john, dear, dr. bardly has just told me that we have some cousins at shayton that i knew nothing about. it's the clergyman and his wife, and their name is prig--prig"-- "prigley," suggested the doctor. "yes, prigley; isn't it curious, john? did you know about them?" "not very accurately. i knew one of my cousins had married a clergyman somewhere in that neighborhood, but was not aware that he was the incumbent of shayton. i don't know my cousins at all. there was a lawsuit between their father and mine, and the two branches have never eaten salt together since. i haven't the least ill-will to any of them, but there's an awkwardness in making a first step--one never can tell how it may be received. what do you say, doctor? how would mrs. prig--prigley and her husband receive me if i were to go and call upon them?" "they'd give you cake and wine." "would they really, now? then i'll go and call upon them. i like cake and wine--always liked cake and wine." the conversation about the prigleys did not end here. the doctor was well aware that it would be agreeable to mrs. prigley to visit at wenderholme, and be received there as a relation; and he also knew that the good-nature of the colonel and lady helena might be relied upon to make such intercourse perfectly safe and pleasant. so he made the most of the opportunity, and that so successfully, that by the time dinner was announced both john stanburne and his wife had promised to drive over some day to shayton from sootythorn, and lunch with the doctor, and call at the parsonage before leaving. colonel stanburne's conversation was not always very profound, but his dinners were never dull, for he _would_ talk, and make other people talk too. he solemnly warned the doctor not to allow himself to be entrapped into giving gratuitous medical advice to lady helena. "she thinks she's got fifteen diseases, she does, upon my word; and she's a sort of notion that because you're the regimental doctor, she has a claim on you for gratuitous counsel and assistance. now i consider that i _have_ such a claim--if a private has it, surely a colonel has it too--and when we come up for our first training i shall expect you to look at my tongue, and feel my pulse, and physic me as a militia-man, at her majesty's expense. but it is by no means so clear to me that my wife has any right to gratuitous doctoring, and mind she doesn't extort it from you. she's a regular screw, my wife is; and she loses no opportunity of obtaining benefits for nothing." then he rattled on with a hundred anecdotes about ladies and doctors, in which there was just enough truth to give a pretext for his audacious exaggerations. when they returned to the drawing-room, the colonel made lady helena sing; and she sang well. the doctor, like many inhabitants of shayton, had a very good ear, and greatly enjoyed music. lady helena had seldom found so attentive a listener; he sought old favorites of his in her collection of songs, and begged her to sing them one after another. it seemed as if he never would be tired of listening. her ladyship felt pleased and flattered, and sang with wonderful energy and feeling. the doctor, though in his innocence he thought only of the pure pleasure her music gave him, could have chosen no better means of ingratiating himself in her favor; and if there had not, unhappily, been that dark and dubious question about church attendance, which made her ladyship look upon him as a sort of dissenter, or worse, the doctor would that night have entered into relations of quite frank and cordial friendship with lady helena. english ladies are very kind and forgiving on many points. a man may be notoriously immoral, or a gambler, or a drinker, yet if he be well off they will kindly ignore and pass over these little defects; but the unpardonable sin is failure in church attendance, and they will not pass over _that_. lady helena, in her character of inquisitor, had discovered this symptom of heresy, and would have been delighted to find a moral screw of some kind by which the culpable doctor might be driven churchwards. if the law had permitted it, i have no doubt that she would have applied material screws, and pinched the doctor's thumbs, or roasted him gently before a slow fire, or at least sent him to church between two policemen with staves; but as these means were beyond her power, she must wait until the moral screw could be found. a good practical means, which she had resorted to in several instances with poor people, had been to deprive them of their means of subsistence; and all men and women whom her ladyship's little arm could reach knew that they must go to church or leave their situations; so they attended with a regularity which, though exemplary in the eyes of men, could scarcely, one would think (considering the motive), be acceptable to heaven. but lady helena acted in this less from a desire to please god than from the instinct of domination, which, in her character of spiritual ruler, naturally exercised itself on this point. it seldom happens that the master of a house is the spiritual ruler of it; he is the temporal power, not the spiritual. colonel stanburne felt and knew that he had no spiritual power. this matter of the doctor's laxness as a church-goer had been rankling in lady helena's mind all the time she had been singing, and when she closed the piano she was ready for an attack. if the doctor had been shivering blanketless in a bivouac, and she had had the power of giving him a blanket or withholding it, she would have offered it on condition he promised to go to church, and she would have withheld it if he had refused compliance. but the doctor had blankets of his own, and so could not be touched through a deprivation of blanket. she might, however, deprive the old woman he had recommended, and at the same time give the doctor a lesson, indirectly. "i forgot to ask you, dr. bardly, whether the old woman you recommended for a blanket was a churchwoman, and regular in her attendance." "two questions very easily answered," replied that audacious and unhesitating doctor; "she is a wesleyan methodist, and irregular in her attendance." "then i'm--very sorry--dr. bardly, but i cannot give her a blanket, as i had promised. i can only give them to our--own people, you know; and i make it essential that they should be _good_ church-people--i mean, very regular church-people." "very well; i'll give her a blanket myself." the opportunity was not to be neglected, and her ladyship fired her gun. she had the less hesitation in doing so, that it seemed monstrously presumptuous in a medical man to give blankets at all! what right had he to usurp the especial prerogative of great ladies? and then to give a blanket to this very woman whom, for good reasons, her ladyship had condemned to a state of blanketlessness! "i quite understand," she said, with much severity of tone, "that dr. bardly, who never attends public worship himself, should have a fellow-feeling with those who are equally negligent." it is a hard task to fight a woman in the presence of her husband, who is at the same time one's friend. the doctor _thought_, "would the woman have me offer premiums on hypocrisy as she does?" but he did not say so, because there was poor john stanburne at the other end of the hearth-rug in a state of much uncomfortableness. so the doctor said nothing at all, and the silence became perfectly distressing. lady helena had a way of her own out of the difficulty. though it was an hour earlier than the usual time for prayers, she rang the bell and ordered all the servants in. when they were kneeling, each before his chair, her ladyship read the prayers herself, and accentuated with a certain severity a paragraph in which she thanked god that she was not as unbelievers, who were destined to perish everlastingly. it was a satisfaction to lady helena to have the doctor there down upon his knees, with no means of escape from the expression of spiritual superiority. chapter ix. the fugitive. "i say, doctor," said john stanburne, when her ladyship was fairly out of hearing, and half-way in her ascent of the great staircase--"i say, doctor, i hope you don't mind what helena says about you not being--you know some women are so--indeed i do believe all women are so. they seem laudably anxious to keep us all in the right path, but perhaps they're just a little _too_ anxious." the doctor said he believed lady helena meant to do right, but--and then he hesitated. "but you don't see the sense of bribing poor people into sham piety with blankets." "well, no, i don't." "neither do i, doctor. there's a roman catholic family about three miles off, and the lady there gives premiums on going to mass, and still higher premiums on confession. she has won a great many converts; and there's a strong antagonism between her and helena--a most expensive warfare it is too, i assure you, this warfare for souls. however, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the poor profit by it, which is a consolation, only it makes them sneaks--it makes them sneaks and hypocrites. doctor, come into my study, will you, and let's have a weed?" the "study," as john stanburne called it, was a cosey little room, with oak wainscot that his grandfather had painted white. it contained a small bookcase, and the bookcase contained a good many novels, some books of poetry, a treatise on dog-breaking, a treatise on driving, and a treatise on fishing. the novels were very well selected, and so was the poetry; and john stanburne had read all these books, many of them over and over again. such literary education as he possessed had been mainly got out of that bookcase; and though he had no claim to erudition, a man's head might be worse furnished than with such furniture as that. there was a splendid library at wenderholme--a big room lined with the backs of books as the other rooms were lined with paper or wainscot; and when stanburne wanted to know something he went there, and disturbed his ponderous histories and encyclopædias; but he _used_ the little bookcase more than the big library. he could not read either latin or greek. few men can read latin and greek, and of the few who can, still fewer do read them; but his french was very much above the usual average of english french--that is, he spoke fluently, and would no doubt have spoken correctly if only he could have mastered the conjugations and genders, and imitated the peculiar gallic sounds. the society of ladies is always charming, but it must be admitted that there is an hour especially dear to the male sex, and which does not owe its delightfulness to their presence. it is the hour of retirement into the smoking-room. when the lady of the house has a tendency to make the weight of her authority felt (and this will sometimes happen), the male members of her family and their guests feel a schoolboyish sense of relief in escaping from it; but even when she is very genial and pleasant, and when everybody enjoys the light of her countenance, it must also be confessed that the timely withdrawal of that light, like the hour of sunset, hath a certain sweetness of its own. "my wife's always very good about letting me sit here, and smoke and talk as long as i like with my friends, after she's gone to bed," said colonel stanburne. "you smile because i seem to value a sort of goodness that seems only natural, but that's on account of your old-bachelorish ignorance of womankind. there are married men who no more dare sit an hour with a cigar when their wives are gone to bed than they dare play billiards on sunday. now, for instance, i was staying this autumn with a friend of mine in another county, and about ten o'clock his wife went to bed. he and i wanted to talk over a great many things. we had been old school-fellows, and we had travelled together when we were both bachelors, and we knew lots of men that his wife knew nothing about, and each of us wanted to hear all the news that the other had to tell; so he just ventured, the first night i was there, to ask me into his private study and offer me a cigar. well, we had scarcely had time to light when his wife's maid knocks at the door and says, 'please, sir, missis wishes to see you;' so he promised to go, and began to look uncomfortable, and in five minutes the girl came again, and she came three times in a quarter of an hour. after that came the lady herself, quite angry, and ordered her husband to bed, just as if he had been a little boy; and though he seemed cool, and didn't stir from his chair, it was evident that he was afraid of her, and he solemnly promised to go in five minutes. at the expiration of the five minutes in she bursts again (she had been waiting in the passage--perhaps she may have been listening at the door), and held out her watch without one word. the husband got up like a sheep, and said 'good-night, john,' and she led him away just like that; and i sat and smoked by myself, thinking what a pitiable spectacle it was. now my wife is not like that; she will have her way about her blankets, but she's reasonable in other respects." they sat very happily for two hours, talking about the regiment that was to be. suddenly, about midnight, a large watch-dog that inhabited a kennel on that side of the house began to bark furiously, and there was a cry, as of some woman or child in distress. the colonel jumped out of his chair, and threw the window open. the two men listened attentively, but it was too dark to see any thing. at length colonel stanburne said, "let us go out and look about a little--that was a human cry, wasn't it?" so he lighted a lantern, and they went. there was a thick wood behind the house of wenderholme, and this wood filled a narrow ravine, in the bottom of which was a little stream, and by the stream a pathway that led up to the open moor. this moor continued without interruption over a range of lofty hills, or, to speak more strictly, over a sort of plateau or table-land, till it terminated at the enclosed pasture-lands near shayton. john stanburne and the doctor walked first along this pathway. the watch-dog's kennel was close to the path, at a little green wooden gate, where it entered the garden. the dog, hearing his master's step, came out of his kennel, much excited with the hope of a temporary release from the irksomeness of his captivity; but his master only caressed and spoke to him a little, and passed on. then he began to talk to the doctor. the sound of his voice reached the ears of a third person, who came out of the wood, and began to follow them on the path. the doctor became aware that they were followed, and they stopped. the colonel turned his lantern, and the light of it fell full upon the intruder. "why, it's a mere child," said the colonel. "but what on earth's the matter with the doctor?" certainly that eccentric doctor _did_ behave in a most remarkable manner. he snatched the lantern from the colonel's hand without one word of apology, and having cast its beams on the child's face, threw it down on the ground, and seized the vagrant in his arms. "the doctor's mad," thought the colonel, as he picked up the lantern. "why, _it's little jacob_!" cried dr. bardly. but this conveyed nothing to the mind of the colonel. what did he know about little jacob? meanwhile the lad was telling his tale to his friend. father had beaten him so, and he'd run away. "please, doctor, don't send me back again." the child's feet were bare, and icy cold, and covered with blood. his clothes were wet up to the waist. his little dog was with him. "it's a little boy that's a most particular friend of mine," said the doctor; "and he's been very ill-used. we must take care of him. i must beg a night's lodging for him in the house." they took him into the colonel's study, before the glowing fire. "now, what's to be done?" said the colonel. "it's lucky you're a doctor." "let us undress him and warm him first. we can do every thing ourselves. there is a most urgent reason why no domestic should be informed of his being here. his existence here must be kept secret." the colonel went to his dressing-room and brought towels. then he set some water on the fire in a kettle. the doctor took the wet things off, and examined the poor little lacerated feet. he rubbed little jacob all over with the towels most energetically. the colonel, whose activity was admirable to witness, fetched a tub from somewhere, and they made arrangements for a warm bath. "one person must be told about this," said dr. bardly, "and that's lady helena. go and tell her now. ask her to get up and come here, and warn her not to rouse any of the servants." her ladyship made her appearance in a few minutes in a dressing-gown. "lady helena," said the doctor, "you're wanted as a nurse. this child requires great care for the next twenty-four hours, and you must do every thing for him with your own hands. is there a place in the house where he can be lodged out of the way of the servants?" lady helena had no boys of her own. she had had one little girl at the beginning of her married life, who had lived, and was now at wenderholme, comfortably sleeping in the prettiest of little beds, in a large and healthy nursery in the left wing of the building. she had had two little boys since, but _they_ were both sleeping in wenderholme churchyard. when she saw little jacob in his tub, the tears came into her eyes, and she was ready to be his nurse as long as ever he might have need of her. "i'll tell you all about him, lady helena, when we've put him to bed." little jacob sat in his tub looking at the kind, strange lady, and feeling himself in a state of unrealizable bliss. "you must be very tired and very hungry, my poor child," she said. little jacob said he was very hungry, but he didn't feel tired now. he had felt tired in the wood, but he didn't feel tired now in the tub. the boy being fairly put to bed, female curiosity could not wait till the next day, and she sought out the doctor, who was still with the colonel in his study. "i beg to be excused, gentlemen," she said, "for intruding in this room in an unauthorized manner, but i want to know all about that little boy." the doctor told his history very minutely, and the history of his father. then he added, "i believe the only possible chance of saving his father from killing himself with drinking is to leave him for some time under the impression that the boy, having been driven away by his cruelty, has died from exposure on the moor. this may give him a horror of drinking, and may effect a permanent cure. there is another thing to be considered, the child's own safety. if we send him back to his father, i will not answer for his life. the father is already in a state of hirritability bordering on insanity--in fact he is partially insane; and if the child is put under his power before there has been time to work a thorough cure, it is likely that he will beat him frequently and severely--he may even kill him in some paroxysm of rage. if isaac ogden knew that the child were here, and claimed him to-morrow, i believe it would be your duty not to give him up, and i should urge his uncle to institute legal proceedings to deprive the father of the guardianship. a man in isaac ogden's state is not fit to have a child in his power. he has beaten him very terribly already,--his body is all bruises; and now if we send him back, he will beat him again for having run away." these reasons certainly had great weight, but both the colonel and lady helena foresaw much difficulty in keeping the child at wenderholme without his presence there becoming immediately known. his disappearance would make a noise, not only at shayton, but at sootythorn, and everywhere in the neighborhood. the relations of the child were in easy circumstances, and a heavy reward would probably be offered, which the servants at wenderholme hall could scarcely be expected to resist, still less the villagers in the neighboring hamlet. it would be necessary to find some very solitary person, living in great obscurity, to whose care little jacob might be safely confided--at any rate, for a few days. lady helena suggested two old women who lived together in a sort of almshouse of hers on the estate, but the colonel said they were too fond of gossip, and received too many visitors, to be trusted. at last the doctor's countenance suddenly brightened, and he said that he knew where to hide little jacob, but where that was he positively refused to tell. all he asked for was, that the child should be kept a close prisoner in the colonel's sanctum for the next twenty-four hours, and that the colonel would lend him a horse and gig--_not_ a tandem. chapter x. christmas at milend. it is quite unnecessary to inform the reader where dr. bardly had determined to hide little jacob. his resolution being decidedly taken, the colonel and he waited till the next night at half-past twelve, and then, without the help of a single servant, they harnessed a fast-trotting mare to a roomy dog-cart. little jacob and feorach were put where the dogs were kept on shooting expeditions. and both fell asleep together. it was six o'clock in the morning when the doctor arrived at his destination. mr. isaac ogden, whose wretchedness the reader pities perhaps as much as the doctor did, continued his researches for some weeks in a discouraged and desultory way, but little jacob was perfectly well hidden. mrs. ogden had been admitted into the secret by the doctor, and approved of his policy of concealment. under pretext of a journey to manchester with dr. bardly, to consult an eminent physician there, she absented herself two days from milend and went to visit her grandson. the truth was also known to jacob ogden, senior, who supported his mother's resolution, which would certainly have broken down without him. it pained her to see her son isaac in the misery of a bereavement which he supposed to be eternal. the doctor took a physiological view of the case, and argued that time was a necessary condition of success. "we aren't sure of having saved him yet," said the doctor: "we must persevere till his constitution has got past the point of craving for strong drink altogether." matters remained in this state until christmas eve. periodical festivals are highly agreeable institutions for happy people, who have the springs of merriment within them, ready to gush forth on any pretext, or on the strength of simple permission to gush forth; but it is difficult for a man oppressed by a persistent weight of sorrow to throw it off because the almanac has brought itself to a certain date, and it is precisely at the times of general festivity that such a man feels his burden heaviest. it may be observed also, that as a man, or a society of men, approaches the stage of maturity and reflection, the events of life appear more and more to acquire the power of coloring the whole of existence; so that the faculty of being merry at appointed times, and its converse, the faculty of weeping at appointed times, both give place to a continual but quiet sadness, from which we never really escape, even for an hour, though we may still be capable of a manly fortitude, and retain a certain elasticity, or the appearance of it. in a word, our happiness and misery are no longer alternative and acute, but coexist in a chronic form, so that it has ceased to be natural for men to wear sackcloth and heap ashes on their heads, and sit in the dust in their wretchedness; and it has also ceased to be natural for them to crown themselves with flowers, and anoint themselves with the oil of gladness, and clothe themselves in the radiance of purple and cloth-of-gold. no hour of life is quite miserable enough or hopeless enough for the sackcloth and the ashes--no hour of life is brilliant enough for the glorious vesture and the flowery coronal. a year before, isaac ogden would have welcomed the christmas festivities as a legitimate occasion for indulgence in his favorite vice, without much meditation (and in this perhaps he may have resembled some other very regular observers of the festival) on the history of the founder of christianity. but as it was no longer his desire to celebrate either this or any other festival of the church by exposing himself to a temptation which, for him, was the strongest and most dangerous of all temptations--and as the idea of a purely spiritual celebration was an idea so utterly foreign to the whole tenor of his thoughts and habits as never even to suggest itself to him--he had felt strongly disposed to shun christmas altogether,--that is, to escape from the outward and visible christmas to some place where the days might pass as merely natural days, undistinguished by any sign of national or ecclesiastical commemoration. he had determined, therefore, to go back to twistle farm, from which it seemed to him that he had been too long absent, and had announced this intention to the doctor. but when the doctor repeated it to mrs. ogden, she would not hear of any such violation of the customs and traditions of the family. her sons had always spent christmas eve together; and so long as she lived, she was firmly resolved that they always should. the pertinacity with which a determined woman will uphold a custom that she cherishes is simply irresistible--that is, unless the rebel makes up his mind to incur her perpetual enmity; and isaac ogden was less than ever in a condition of mind either to brave the hostility of his mother or wound her tenderer feelings. so it came to pass that on christmas eve he went to milend to tea. now on the tea-table there were some little cakes, and mrs. ogden, who had not the remotest notion of the sort of delicacy that avoids a subject because it may be painful to somebody present, and who always simply gave utterance to her thoughts as they came to her, observed that these little cakes were of her own making, and actually added, "they're such as i used makin' for little jacob--he was so fond on 'em." isaac ogden's feelings were not very sensitive, and he could bear a great deal; but he could not bear this. he set down his cup of tea untasted, gazed for a few seconds at the plateful of little cakes, and left the room. the doctor was there, but he said nothing. jacob ogden did not feel under any obligation to be so reticent. "mother," he said, "i think you needn't have mentioned little jacob--our isaac cannot bear it; he knows no other but what th' little un's dead, and he's as sore as sore." this want of delicacy in mrs. ogden arose from an all but total lack of imagination. she could sympathize with others if she suffered along with them--an expression which might be criticised as tautological, but the reader will understand what is meant by it. if mrs. ogden had had the toothache, she would have sympathized with the sufferings of another person similarly afflicted so long as her own pangs lasted; but if a drop of creosote or other powerful remedy proved efficacious in her own case, and released her from the torturing pain, she would have looked upon her fellow-sufferer as pusillanimous, if after that she continued to exhibit the outward signs of torment. therefore, as she herself knew that little jacob was safe it was now incomprehensible by her that his father should not feel equally at ease about him, though, as a matter of fact, she was perfectly well aware that he supposed the child to be irrecoverably lost. mrs. ogden, therefore, received her son jacob's rebuke with unfeigned surprise. she had said nothing to hurt isaac that she knew of--she "had only said that little jacob used being fond o' them cakes, and it was quite true." isaac did not return to the little party, and they began to wonder what had become of him. after waiting some time in silence, mrs. ogden left her place at the tea-tray, and went to a little sitting-room adjoining--a room the men were more accustomed to than any other in the house, and where indeed they did every thing but eat and sleep. mr. ogden had gone there from habit, as his mother expected, and there she found him sitting in a large rocking-chair, and gazing abstractedly into the fire. the chair rocked regularly but gently, and its occupant seemed wholly unconscious--not only of its motion, but of every other material circumstance that surrounded him. mrs. ogden laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, "isaac, willn't ye come to your tea? we 're all waiting for you." the spell was broken, and ogden suddenly started to his feet. "give me my hat," he said, "and let me go to my own house. i'm not fit to keep christmas this year. how is a man to care about tea and cakes when he's murdered his own son? i'm best by myself; let me go up to twistle farm. d 'ye expect me to sing songs at supper, and drink rum-punch?" "there'll be no songs, and you needn't drink unless you like, but just come and sit with us, my lad--you always used spendin' christmas eve at milend, and christmas day too." "it signifies nought what i used doin'. isaac ogden isn't same as he used to be. he'd have done better, i reckon, if he'd altered a month or two sooner. there'd have been a little lad here then to make christmas merry for us all." "well, isaac, i'm very sorry for little jacob; but it cannot be helped now, you know, and it's no use frettin' so much over it." "mother," said isaac ogden, sternly, "it seems to me that _you're_ not likely to spoil your health by frettin' over my little lad. you take it very easy it seems to me, and my brother takes it easy too, and so does dr. bardly--but then dr. bardly was nothing akin to him. folk says that grandmothers care more for chilther than their own parents does; but you go on more like a stepmother nor a grandmother." this was hard for mrs. ogden to bear, and she was strongly tempted to reveal the truth, but she forebore and remained silent. ogden resumed,-- "i cannot tell how you could find in your heart to bake them little cakes when th' child isn't here to eat 'em." the effort to restrain herself was now almost too much for mrs. ogden, since it was the fact that she had baked the said little cakes, or others exactly like them, and prepared various other dainties, for the especial enjoyment of master jacob, who at that very minute was regaling himself therewith in the privacy of his hiding-place. still she kept silent. after another pause, a great paroxysm of passionate regret seized ogden--one of those paroxysms to which he was subject at intervals, but which in the presence of witnesses he had hitherto been able to contend against or postpone. "oh, my little lad!" he cried aloud, "oh, my little innocent lad, that i drove away from me to perish! i'd give all i'm worth to see thee again, little 'un!" he suddenly stopped, and as the tears ran down his cheeks, he looked out of the window into the black night. "if i did but know," he said, slowly, and with inexpressible sadness--"mother, mother, if i did but know where his bits o' bones are lying!" it was not possible to witness this misery any longer. all dr. bardly's solemn injunctions, all dread of a possible relapse into the terrible habit, were forgotten. the mother had borne bitter reproaches, but she could not bear this agony of grief. "isaac," she said, "isaac, my son, listen to me: thy little lad is alive--he's alive and he's well, isaac." ogden did not seem to realize or understand this communication. at last he said, "i know what you mean, mother, and i believe it. he's alive in heaven, and he can ail nothing, and want nothing, there." "i hope he'll go there when he's an old man, but a good while after we go there ourselves, isaac." a great change spread over ogden's face, and he began to tremble from head to foot. he laid his hand on his mother's arm with a grasp of iron. his eyes dilated, the room swam round him, his heart suspended its action, and in a low hissing whisper, he said, "mother, have they found him?" "yes--and he's both safe and well." ogden rushed out of the house, and paced the garden-walk hurriedly from end to end. the intensity of his excitement produced a commotion in the brain that needed the counter-stimulus of violent physical movement. it seemed as if the roof of his skull must be lifted off, and for a few minutes there was a great crisis of the whole nervous system, to which probably his former habits may have more especially exposed him. when this was over, he came back into the house, feeling unusually weak, but incredibly calm and happy. mrs. ogden had told the doctor and mr. jacob what had passed, and the doctor without hesitation set off at once for his own house, where he ordered his gig, and drove away rapidly on the sootythorn road. "mother," said isaac, when he came in, "give me a cup of tea, will you?" "a glass of brandy would do you more good." "nay, mother, we've had enough of brandy, it will not do to begin again now." he sat down in evident exhaustion and drank the tea slowly, looking rather vacantly before him. then he laid his head back upon the chair and closed his eyes. the lips moved, and two or three tears ran slowly down the cheeks. at last he started suddenly, and, looking sharply round him, said, "where is he, where is he, mother? where is little jacob, my little lad, my lad, my lad?" "be quiet, isaac--try to compose yourself a little; dr. bardly's gone to fetch him. he'll be with us very soon." mr. ogden remained quietly seated for some minutes without speaking, and then, as his mind began to clear after the shock of the great emotion it had passed through, he asked who had found his boy, and where they had found him, and when. these questions were, of course, somewhat embarrassing to his mother, and she would probably have sheltered herself behind some clumsy invention, but her son jacob interposed. "the fact is, isaac, the loss of your little 'un seemed to be doin' you such a power o' good 'at it seemed a pity to spoil it by tellin' you. and it's my opinion as mother's let th' cat out o' th' bag three week too soon as it is." "do you mean to tell me," said isaac, "that you knew the child was found, and hid him from his own father?" "isaac, isaac, you mun forgive us," said the mother; "we did it for your good." "partly for his good, mother," interposed jacob, "but still more for th' sake o' that child. what made him run away from twistle farm, isaac ogden? answer me that." isaac remained silent. "do you fancy, brother isaac, that any consideration for your feelin's was to hinder us from doin' our duty by that little lad? what sort of a father is it as drives away a child like that with a horsewhip? thou was no more fit to be trusted with him nor a wolf wi' a little white lamb. if he'd been brought back to thee two days after, it 'ud a' been as much as his life was worth. and i'll tell thee what, isaac ogden, if ever it comes to my ears as you take to horse-whippin' him again, i'll go to law wi' you and get the guardianship of him into safer hands. there'd be little difficulty about that as it is. i've taken my measures--my witnesses are ready--i've consulted lawyers; and i tell you candidly, i mean to act at once if i see the least necessity for it. little jacob was miserable for many a week before you drove him out o' th' house, an' if we'd only known, you would never have had the chance." "nay, jacob," interposed mrs. ogden, "you're a bit too hard on isaac; he's the child's own father, and he had a right to punish him within reason." "father! father!" cried jacob, scornfully; "there isn't a man in shayton as isn't more of a father to our little un than isaac has been for many a month past. there isn't a man in shayton but what would have been kinder to a nice little lad like that than he has been. what signifies havin' begotten a child, if fatherin' it is to stop there?" at last isaac ogden lifted up his face and spoke. "brother jacob, you have said nothing but what is right and true, and you have all acted right both by me and him. but let us start fresh. i've turned over a new leaf; i'm not such as i used to be. i mean to be different, and to do different, and i will be a good father to that child. so help me god!" he held out his hand, and jacob took it and shook it heartily. the two brothers looked in each other's face, and there was more of brotherly affection in their look than there had ever been since the dissolution of their partnership in the cotton business, which had taken place some years before. mrs. ogden saw this with inexpressible pleasure. "that's right, lads--that's right, lads; god bless you! god bless both on you!" the customs of shayton were mighty, especially the custom of drinking a glass of port-wine on every imaginable occasion. if a shayton man felt sorry, he needed a glass of port-wine to enable him to support his grief; but if he felt glad, there arose at once such a feeling of true sympathy between his heart and that joyous generous fluid, that it needed some great material impediment to keep them asunder, and such an impediment was not to be found in any well-to-do shayton household, where decanters were always charged, and glasses ever accessible. so it was inevitable that on an occasion so auspicious as this mr. jacob ogden should drink a glass--or, more probably, two glasses--of port; and his mother, who did not object to the same refreshment, bore him company. "now isaac, lad, let's drink a glass to mother's good health." mr. ogden had not made any positive vow of teetotalism, and though there might be some danger in allowing himself to experience afresh, however slightly, the seductive stimulus of alcohol, whole centuries of tradition, the irresistible power of prevalent custom, and the deep pleasure he felt in the new sense of brotherly fellowship, made his soul yearn to the wine. "here's mother's good health. your good health, mother," he said, and drank. jacob repeated the words, and drank also, and thus in a common act of filial respect and affection did these brothers confirm and celebrate their perfect reconciliation. isaac now began to show symptoms of uneasiness and restlessness. he walked to the front door, and listened eagerly for wheels. "how fidgety he is, th' old lad!" said jacob; "it's no use frettin' an' fidgetin' like that; come and sit thee down a bit, an' be quiet." "how long will he be, mother?" before mrs. ogden could reply, isaac's excited ear detected the doctor's gig. he was out in the garden immediately, and passed bareheaded through the gate out upon the public road. two gig-lamps came along from the direction of sootythorn. he could not see who was in the gig, but something told him that little jacob was there, and his heart beat more quickly than usual. perhaps our little friend might have behaved himself somewhat too timidly on this occasion, but the doctor had talked to him on the road. he had explained to him, quite frankly, that mr. ogden's harshness had been wholly due to the irritable state of his nervous system, and that he would not be harsh any more, because he had given up drinking. he had especially urged upon little jacob that he must not seem afraid of his father; and as our hero was of a bold disposition, and had plenty of assurance, he was fully prepared to follow the doctor's advice. isaac ogden hails the gig; it stops, and little jacob is in his arms. "please, papa, i wish you a merry christmas and a happy new year!" little jacob's pony was sent for, and the next morning his father and he rode together up to twistle farm. until the man came for the pony, old sarah had not the faintest hope that little jacob was in existence, and the shock had nearly been too much for her. the messenger had simply said, "i'm comed for little jacob[ ] tit." "and who wants it?" sarah said; for it seemed to her a desecration for any one else to mount that almost sacred animal. "why, little jacob wants it hissel, to be sure." and this (with some subsequent explanations of the most laconic description) was his way of breaking the matter delicately to old sarah. the old woman had never spent an afternoon, even the afternoon of christmas day, so pleasantly as she spent that. how she did toil and bustle about? the one drawback to her happiness was that she did not possess a christmas cake; but she set to work and made tea-cakes, and put such a quantity of currants in them that they were almost as good as a christmas cake. she lighted a fire in the parlor, and another in little jacob's room; and she took out the little night-gown that she had cried over many a time, and, strange to say, she cried over it this time too. and she arranged the small bed so nicely, that it looked quite inviting, with its white counterpane, and clean sheets, and bright brass knobs, and pretty light iron work painted blue. when all was ready, it occurred to her that since it was christmas time she would even attempt a little decoration; and as there were some evergreens at twistle farm, and some red berries, she went and gathered thereof, and attempted the adornment of the house--somewhat clumsily and inartistically, it must be confessed, yet not without giving it an air of festivity and rejoicing. she had proceeded thus far, and could not "bethink her" of any thing else that needed to be done, when, suddenly casting her eye on her own costume, she perceived that it was of the deepest black; for, being persuaded that the dear child was dead, she had so clothed herself out of respect for his memory. she held her sombre skirt out with both her hands as if to push it away from her, and exclaimed aloud, "i'll be shut o' _thee_, onyhow, and sharply too;" and she hurried upstairs to change it for the brightest garment in her possession, which was of sky-blue, spotted all over with yellow primroses. she also put on a cap of striking and elaborate magnificence, which the present writer does not attempt to describe, only because such an attempt would incur the certainty of failure. that cap had hardly been assumed and adjusted when it was utterly crushed and destroyed in a most inconsiderate manner. a sound of hoofs had reached old sarah's ears, and in a minute afterwards the cap was ruined in master jacob's passionate embraces. you may do almost any thing you like to a good-tempered old woman, so long as you do not touch her cap; and it is an undeniable proof of the strength of old sarah's affection, and of the earnestness of her rejoicing, that she not only made no remonstrance in defence of her head-dress, but was actually unaware of the irreparable injury which had been inflicted upon it. chapter xi. the colonel goes to shayton. the next time the doctor met colonel stanburne at sootythorn, he gave such a good account of mr. isaac ogden, that the colonel, who took a strong interest in little jacob, expressed the hope that mr. ogden would still join the regiment; though in the time of his grief and tribulation he had resigned his commission, or, to speak more accurately--for the commission had not yet been formally made out and delivered to him--he had withdrawn his name as a candidate for one. the colonel, in his friendly way, declared that the doctor was not a hospitable character. "i ask you to wenderholme every time i see you, and you come and stay sometimes, though not half often enough, but you never ask me to your house; and, by jove! if i want to be invited at all, i must invite myself." the doctor, who liked john stanburne better and better the more he knew of him, still retained the very erroneous notion that a certain state and style were essential to his happiness; and, notwithstanding many broad hints that he had dropped at different times on the subject, still hung back from asking him to a house where, though comfort reigned supreme, there was not the slightest pretension to gentility. the old middle-class manner of living still lingered in many well-to-do houses in shayton, and the doctor faithfully adhered to it. every thing about him was perfectly clean and decent, but he had not marched with the times; and whilst the attorneys and cotton-spinners in sootythorn and elsewhere had the chairs of their dining-rooms covered with morocco leather, and their drawing-rooms filled with all manner of glittering fragilities, and brussels carpets with pretty little tasteful patterns, and silver forks, and napkins, and a hundred other visible proofs of the advance of refinement, the worthy doctor had not kept up with them at all, but lagged behind by the space of about thirty years. he had no drawing-room; the chairs of his parlor were of an ugly and awkward pattern, and their seats were covered with horsehair; the carpet was cheap and coarse, with a monstrous pattern that no artistic person would have tolerated for a single day; and though the doctor possessed a silver punch-ladle and tea-pot, and plenty of silver spoons of every description, all the forks in the house were of steel! indeed, the doctor's knives and forks, which had belonged to his mother, or perhaps even to his grandmother, were quite a curiosity in their way. they had horn handles, of an odd indescribable conformation, supposed to adapt itself to the hollow of the hand, but which, from some misconception of human anatomy on the part of the too ingenious artificer, seemed always intended for the hand of somebody else. these handles were stained of such a brilliant green, that, in the slang of artists, they "killed" every green herb on the plate of him who made use of them. the forks had spring guards, to prevent the practitioner from cutting his left hand with the knife that he held in his right; and the knife had a strange round projection at what should have been the point, about the size of a shilling, which (horrible to relate!) had been originally designed to convey gravy and small fragments of viands, not prehensible by means of the two-pronged fork, into the human mouth! in addition to these strange relics of a bygone civilization the doctor possessed two large rocking-chairs, of the same color as the handles of his knives. the doctor loved a rocking-chair, in which he did but share a taste universally prevalent in shayton, and defensible on the profoundest philosophical grounds. the human creature loves repose, but a thousand causes may hinder the perfect enjoyment of it, and torment him into restlessness at the very time when he most longs for rest. he may sit down after the business of the day, and some mental or bodily uneasiness may make the quiet of the massive easy-chair intolerable to him. the easy-chair does not sympathize with him, does not respond to the fidgety condition of his nervous system; and yet he tries to sit down in it and enjoy it, for, though fidgety, he is also weary, and needs the comfort of repose. now, the rocking-chair--that admirable old lancashire institution--and the rocking-chair alone, responds to both these needs. if you are fidgety, you rock; if not, you don't. if highly excited, you rock boldly back, even to the extremity of danger; if pleasantly and moderately stimulated, you lull yourself with a gentle motion, like the motion that little waves give to a pleasure boat. it is true that the bolder and more emphatic manner of rocking has become impossible in these latter days, for the few upholsterers who preserve the tradition of the rocking-chair at all make it in such a highly genteel manner, that the rockers are diminished to the smallest possible arc; but the doctor troubled himself little concerning these achievements of fashionable upholstery, and regarded his old rocking-chairs with perfect satisfaction and complacency--in which, without desiring to offend against the decisions of the fashionable world, we cannot help thinking that he was right. a large green rocking-chair, with bold high rockers and a soft cushion like a small feather-bed, a long clay pipe quite clean and new, a bright copper spittoon, and a jug of strong ale,--these things, with the necessary concomitants of a briskly burning fire and an unlimited supply of tobacco, formed the ideal of human luxury and beatitude to a generation now nearly extinct, but of which the doctor still preserved the antique traditions. in substance often identical, but in outwardly visible means and appliances differing in every detail, the pleasures of one generation seem quaint and even ridiculous in comparison with the same pleasures as pursued by its successor. colonel stanburne smoked a pipe, but it was a short meerschaum, mounted in silver; and he also used a knife and fork, and used them skilfully and energetically, but they were not like the doctor's grandmother's knives and forks. and yet, when the colonel came to shayton, he managed to eat a very hearty dinner at one p.m. with the above-named antiquated instruments. after the celery and cheese, dr. bardly took one of the rocking-chairs, and made the colonel sit down in the other; and martha brought a fresh bottle of uncommonly fine old port, which she decanted on a table in the corner that did duty as a sideboard. when they had done full justice to this, the doctor ordered hot water; and martha, accustomed to this laconic command, brought also certain other fluids which were hot in quite a different sense. she also brought a sheaf of clay tobacco-pipes, about two feet six inches long, and in a state of the whitest virginity--emblems of purity! emblems, alas! at the same time, of all that is most fragile and most ephemeral! "nay, martha," said the doctor, "we don't want them clay pipes to-day. colonel stanburne isn't used to 'em, i reckon. bring that box of cigars that i bought the other day in manchester." the colonel, however, would smoke a clay pipe, and he tried to rock as the doctor did, and soon, by the effect of that curious sympathy which exists between rocking-chairs (or their occupants), the two kept time together like musicians in a duet, and clouds of the densest smoke arose from the two long tobacco-pipes. it had been announced to the inhabitants of the parsonage that the representative of the house of stanburne intended to call there that afternoon; and though it would be an exaggeration to state that the preparations for his reception were on a scale of magnificence, it is not an exaggeration to describe them as in every respect worthy of mrs. prigley's skill as a manager, and her husband's ingenuity and taste. new carpets they could _not_ buy, so it was no use thinking about them; and though mrs. prigley had indulged the hope that mrs. ogden's attention would be drawn to the state of her carpets by that accident with which the reader is already acquainted, so as to lead, it might be, to some act of generosity on her part, this result had not followed, and indeed had never suggested itself to mrs. ogden, who had merely resolved to look well to her feet whenever she ventured into the parlor at the parsonage, as on dangerous and treacherous ground. under these circumstances mrs. prigley gradually sank into that condition of mind which accepts as inevitable even the outward and visible signs of impecuniosity; and though an english lady must indeed be brought low before she will consent to see the boards of her floors in a condition of absolute nakedness, poor mrs. prigley had come down to this at last; and she submitted without a murmur when her husband expressed his desire that "that old rag" on the floor of the drawing-room might be removed out of his sight. when the deal boards were carpetless, mrs. prigley was proceeding with a sigh to replace the furniture thereon; but her husband desired that it might be lodged elsewhere for a few days, during which space of time he kept the door of the drawing-room locked, and spent two or three hours there every day in the most mysterious seclusion, to the neglect of his parochial duties. mrs. prigley in vain endeavored to discover the nature of his occupation there. she tried to look through the key-hole, but a flap of paper had been adapted to it on the inside to defeat her feminine curiosity; she went into the garden and attempted to look in at the window, but the blind was down, and as it was somewhat too narrow, slips of paper had been pasted on the glass down each side so as to make the interstice no longer available. the reverend master of the house endeavored to appear as frank and communicative as usual, by talking volubly on all sorts of subjects except the mystery of the drawing-room; but mrs. prigley did not consider it consistent with her self-respect to appear to take any interest in his discourse, and during all these days she preserved, along with an extreme gentleness of manner, the air of a person borne down by secret grief. an invisible line of separation had grown up between the two; and though both were perfectly courteous and polite, each felt that the days of mutual confidence were over. there was a difference, however, in their respective positions; for the parson felt tranquil in the assurance that the cloud would pass away, whereas his wife had no such assurance, and the future was dark before her. it is true, that, notwithstanding the outward serenity of her demeanor, mrs. prigley was sustained by the inward fires of wrath, which enable an injured woman to endure almost any extremity of mental misery and distress. we have seen that the shayton parson had that peculiar form of eccentricity which consists in the love of the beautiful. he had great projects for shayton church, which as yet lay hidden in the privacy of his own breast; and he had also projects for the parsonage, of which the realization, to the eye of reason and common-sense, would have appeared too remote to be entertained for an instant. but the enthusiasm for the beautiful does not wait to be authorized by the philistines,--if it _did_, it would wait till the end of all things; and mr. prigley, poor as he was, determined to have such a degree of beauty in his habitation as might be consistent with his poverty. without being an artist, or any thing approaching to an artist, he had practised the drawing of the simpler decorative forms, and was really able to combine them very agreeably. he could also lay a flat tint with a brush quite neatly, though he could not manage a gradation. when it had been finally decided that carpets could no longer be afforded, mr. prigley saw that the opportunity had come for the exercise of his talents; but he was far too wise a man to confide to his wife projects so entirely outside the orbit of her ideas. he had attempted, in former days, to inoculate her mind with the tastes that belong to culture, but he had been met by a degree of impenetrability which proved to him that the renewal of such attempts, instead of adding to his domestic happiness by creating closer community of ideas, might be positively detrimental to it, by proving too plainly the impossibility of such a community. mrs. prigley, like many good women of her class, was totally and absolutely devoid of culture of any kind. she managed her house admirably, and with a wonderful thrift and wisdom; she was an excellent wife in a certain sense, though more from duty than any great strength of affection; but beyond this and the church service, and three or four french phrases which she did not know how to pronounce, her mind was in such a state of darkness and ignorance as to astonish even her husband from time to time, though he had plenty of opportunities for observing it. but what _was_ he doing in the drawing-room? he was doing things unheard of in the shayton valley. in the days of his youth and extravagance he had bought a valuable book on etruscan design; and though, as we have said elsewhere, his taste and culture, though developed up to a certain point, were yet by no means perfect or absolutely reliable, still he could not but feel the singular simplicity and grace of that ancient art, and he determined that the decoration of his drawing-room should be etruscan. on the wide area of the floor he drew a noble old design, and stained it clearly in black and red; and, when it was dry, rubbed linseed-oil all over it to fix it. the effect was magnificent! the artist was delighted with his performance! but on turning his eye from the perfect unity of the floor, with its centre and broad border, to the old paper on the walls, which was covered with a representation of a brown angler fishing in a green river, with a blue hill behind him, and an equally blue church-steeple, and a cow who had eaten so much grass that it had not only fattened her but colored her with its own greenness--and when the parson counted the number of copies of this interesting landscape that adorned his walls, and saw that they numbered sixscore and upwards--then he felt that he had too much of it, and boldly resolved to abolish it. he looked at all the wall-papers in the shop at shayton, but the endurable ones were beyond his means, and the cheap ones were not endurable--so he purchased a quantity of common brown parcel-paper, of which he took care to choose the most agreeable tint; and he furtively covered his walls with _that_, conveying the paper, a few sheets at a time, under his topcoat. when the last angler had disappeared, the parson began to feel highly excited at the idea of decorating all that fresh and inviting surface. he would have a frieze--yes, he would certainly have a frieze; and he set to work, and copied long etruscan processions. then the walls must be divided into compartments, and each compartment must have its chosen design, and the planning and the execution of this absorbed mr. prigley so much, that for three weeks he did not write a single new sermon, and, i am sorry to say, scarcely visited a single parishioner except in cases of pressing necessity. as the days were so short, he took to working by candle-light; and when once he had discovered that it was possible to get on in this way, he worked till two o'clock in the morning. he made himself a cap-candlestick, and with this crest of light on the top of his head, and the fire of enthusiasm inside it, forgot the flying hours. the work was finished at last. it was not perfect; a good critic might have detected many an inaccuracy of line, and some incongruousness in the juxtaposition of designs, which, though all antique and etruscan, were often of dissimilar epochs. but, on the whole, the result justified the proud satisfaction of the workman. the room would be henceforth marked with the sign of culture and of taste: it was a little temple of the muse in the midst of a barbarian world. but what would mrs. prigley say? the parson knew that he had done a bold deed, and he rather trembled at the consequence. "my love," he said, one morning at breakfast-time, "i've finished what i was doing in the drawing-room, and you can put the furniture back when you like; but i should not wish to have any thing hung upon the walls--they are sufficiently decorated as it is. the pictures" (by which mr. prigley meant sundry worthless little lithographs and prints)--"the pictures may be hung in one of the bedrooms wherever you like." mrs. prigley remained perfectly silent, and her husband did not venture to ask her to accompany him into the scene of his artistic exploits. he felt that in case she did not approve what he had done, the situation might become embarrassing. so, immediately after breakfast, he walked forth into the parish, and said that he should probably dine with mr. jacob ogden, who (by his mother's command) had kindly invited him to do so whenever he happened to pass milend about one o'clock in the day. and in this way the parson managed to keep out of the house till tea-time. it was not that mr. prigley dreaded any criticism, for to criticise, one must have an opinion. mrs. prigley on these matters had not an opinion. all that mr. prigley dreaded was the anger of the offended spouse--of the spouse whom he had not even gone through the formality of seeming to consult. he was punished, but not as he had expected to be punished. mrs. prigley said nothing to him on the subject; but when they went into the drawing-room together at night, she affected not to perceive that he had done any thing whatever there. not only did she not speak about these changes, but, though mr. prigley watched her eyes during the whole evening to see whether they would rest upon his handiwork, they never seemed to perceive it, even for an instant. she played the part she had resolved upon with marvellous persistence and self-control. she seemed precisely as she had always been:--sulky? not in the least; there was not the slightest trace of sulkiness, or any thing approaching to sulkiness in her manner--the etruscan designs were simply invisible for her, that was all. they were not so invisible for the colonel when he came to pay his visit at the parsonage, and, in his innocence, he complimented mrs. prigley on her truly classical taste. he had not the least notion that the floor was carpetless because the prigleys could not afford a carpet--the degree of poverty which could not afford a carpet not being conceivable by him as a possible attribute of one of his relations or friends. he believed that this beautiful etruscan design was preferred by mrs. prigley to a carpet--to the best of carpets--on high æsthetic grounds. ah! if he could have read her heart, and seen therein all the shame and vexation that glowed like hidden volcanic fires! all these classical decorations seemed to the simple lady a miserable substitute for the dear old carpet with its alternate yellow flourish and brown lozenge; and she regretted the familiar fisherman whose image used to greet her wherever her eyes might rest. but she felt a deeper shame than belongs to being visibly poor or visibly ridiculous. the room looked poor she knew, and in her opinion it looked ridiculous also; but there was something worse than that, and harder far to bear. how shall i reveal this bitter grief and shame--how find words to express the horror i feel for the man who was its unpardonable cause! carried away by his enthusiasm for a profane and heathen art, mr. prigley had actually introduced, in the frieze and elsewhere, several figures which--well, were divested of all drapery whatever! "and he a clergyman, too!" thought mrs. prigley. true, they were simply outlined; and the conception of the original designer had been marvellously elegant and pure, chastened to the last degree by long devotion to the ideal; but there they were, these shameless nymphs and muses, on the wall of a christian clergyman! john stanburne, who had travelled a good deal, and who had often stayed in houses where there were both statues and pictures, saw nothing here but the evidence of cultivated taste. "what _will_ he think of us?" said mrs. prigley to herself; and she believed that his compliments were merely a kind way of trying to make her feel less uncomfortable. she thought him very nice, and he chattered as pleasantly as he possibly could, so that the doctor, who had come with him, had no social duty to perform, and spent his time in studying the etruscan decorations. colonel stanburne apologized for lady helena, who had intended to come with him; but her little girl was suffering from an attack of fever--not a dangerous fever, he hoped, though violent. the doctor, who had not before heard of this, was surprised; but as he did not visit wenderholme professionally (for wenderholme hall was, medically speaking, under the authority of the surgeon at rigton, whose jealousy was already awakened by our doctor's intimacy with the colonel), he reflected that it was no business of his. the fact was, that little miss stanburne was in the enjoyment of the most perfect health, but her mother thought it more prudent to let the colonel go to shayton by himself in the first instance, so as to be able to regulate her future policy according to his report. mr. prigley came in before the visitor had exhausted the subject of the fever, which he described with an accuracy that took in these two very experienced people; for he described from memory--his daughter having suffered from such an attack about six months earlier than the very recent date the colonel found it convenient to assign to it. it was, of course, a great satisfaction to the prigleys that the head of the stanburnes should thus voluntarily renew a connection which, so far as personal intercourse was concerned, was believed to have been permanently severed. it was not simply because the colonel was a man of high standing in the county that they were glad to become acquainted with him--there were certain clannish and romantic sentiments which now found a satisfaction long denied to them. mrs. prigley felt, in a minor degree, what a highland gentlewoman still feels for the chief of her clan; and she was disposed to offer a sort of loyalty to the colonel as the head of her house, which was very different from the common respect for wealth and position in general. the stanburnes had never taken any conspicuous part in the great events of english history, but the successive representatives of the family had at least been present in many historical scenes, in conflicts civil and military, on the field, on the quarter-deck of the war-ship, in stormy parliamentary struggles; and the present chief of the name, for other descendants of the family, inherited in an especial sense a place in the national life of england. not that mrs. prigley had any definite notions even about the history of her own family; the sentiment of birth is quite independent of historical knowledge, and many a good gentlewoman in these realms is in a general way proud of belonging to an old family, without caring to inquire very minutely into the history of it, just as she may be proud of her coat-of-arms without knowing any thing about heraldry. the colonel, in a very kind and graceful manner, expressed his regret that such near relations should have been separated for so long by an unfortunate dispute between their fathers. "i believe," he said, "that your side has most to forgive, since my father won the lawsuit, but surely we ought not to perpetuate ill-feeling, generation after generation." mr. prigley said that no ill-feeling remained; but that though he had often wished to see wenderholme and its owner, he knew that, as a rule, poor relations were liked best at a distance, and that not having hitherto had the pleasure of knowing colonel stanburne, he must be held excusable for having supposed him to be like the rest of the world. john stanburne was not quite satisfied with this somewhat formal and dignified assurance, and was resolved to establish a more intimate footing before he left the parsonage. he exerted himself to talk about ecclesiastical matters and church architecture, and when mr. prigley offered to show him the church, accompanied him thither with great apparent interest and satisfaction. the doctor had patients to visit, and went his own way. chapter xii. ogden's new mill. our jacob, or big jacob, or jacob at milend, as he now began to be called in the ogden family, to distinguish him from his nephew and homonym, had arrived at that point in the career of every successful cotton-spinner when a feeling of great embarrassment arises as to the comparative wisdom of purchasing an estate or "laying down a new mill." when his brother isaac retired from the concern with ten thousand pounds, jacob had not precisely cheated him, perhaps, but he had made a bargain which, considered prospectively, was highly favorable to his own interest; and since he had been alone, the profits from the mill had been so considerable that his savings had rapidly accumulated, and he was now troubled with a very heavy balance at his bankers, and in various investments, which, to a man accustomed to receive the large interest of successful cotton-spinning, seemed little better than letting money lie idle. mrs. ogden had three hundred a-year from five or six very small farms of her own, which she had inherited from her mother, and this amply sufficed for the entire expenses of the little household at milend. jacob spent about a hundred and fifty pounds a-year on himself personally, of which two-thirds were absorbed in shooting,--the only amusement he cared about. his tailor's bill was incredibly small, for he had the excuse, when in shayton, of being constantly about the mill, and it was natural that he should wear old fustian and corduroy there; and as for his journeys to manchester, it was his custom on these occasions to wear the suit which had been the sunday suit of the preceding year. his mother knitted all his stockings for him, and made his shirts, these being her usual occupations in an evening. his travelling expenses were confined to the weekly journeys to manchester, and as these were always on business, they were charged to the concern. if jacob ogden had not been fond of shooting, his personal expenses, beyond food and lodging (which were provided for him by his mother), would not have exceeded fifty pounds a-year; and it is a proof of the great firmness of his character in money matters that, although by nature passionately fond of sport, he resolutely kept the cost of it within the hundred. his annual outlay upon literature was within twenty shillings; not that it is to be supposed that he spent so large a sum as one pound sterling in a regular manner upon books, but he had been tempted by a second-hand copy of baine's 'history of lancashire,' which, being much the worse for wear, had been marked by the bookseller at five pounds, and jacob ogden, by hard bargaining, had got it for four pounds nine shillings and ninepence. after this extravagance he resolved to spend no more "foolish money," as he called it, and for several years made no addition to his library, except a book on dog-breeding, and a small treatise on the preservation of game, which he rightly entered amongst his expenses as a sportsman. we are far from desiring to imply that jacob ogden is in this respect to be considered a representative example of the present generation of cotton-manufacturers, many of whom are highly educated men, but he may be fairly taken as a specimen of that generation which founded the colossal fortunes that excite the wonder, and sometimes, perhaps, awaken the envy, of the learned. when nature produces a creature for some especial purpose, she does not burden it with wants and desires that would scatter its force and impair its efficiency. the industrial epoch had to be inaugurated, the manufacturing districts had to be created--and to do this a body of men were needed who should be fresh springs of pure energy, and reservoirs of all but illimitable capital; men who should act with the certainty and steadiness of natural instincts which have never been impaired by the hesitations of culture and philosophy--men who were less nearly related to university professors than to the ant, and the beaver, and the bee. and if any cultivated and intellectual reader, in the thoughtful retirement of his library, feels himself superior to jacob ogden, the illiterate cotton-spinner, he may be reminded that he is not on all points ogden's superior. we are all but tools in the hands of god; and as in the mind of a writer great delicacy and flexibility are necessary qualities for the work he is appointed to do, so in the mind of a great captain of industry the most valuable qualities may be the very opposite of these. have we the energy, the directness, the singleness of purpose, the unflinching steadiness in the dullest possible labor, that mark the typical industrial chief? we know that we have not; we know that these qualities are not compatible with the tranquillity of the studious temperament and the meditative life. and if the ogdens cannot be men of letters, neither can the men of letters be ogdens. it is admitted, then, that jacob ogden was utterly and irreclaimably illiterate. he really never read a book in his life, except, perhaps, that book on dog-breaking. whenever he tried to read, it was a task and a labor to him; and as literature is not of the least use in the cotton trade, the energy of his indomitable will had never been brought to bear upon the mastery of a book. and yet you could not meet him without feeling that he was very intelligent--that he possessed a kind of intelligence cultivated by the closest observation of the men and things within the narrow circle of his life. has it never occurred to the reader how wonderfully the most illiterate people often impress us with a sense of their intelligence--how men and women who never learned the alphabet have its light on their countenance and in their eyes? in ogden's face there were clear signs of that, and of other qualities also. and there was a keenness in the glance quite different from the penetration of the thinker or the artist--a keenness which always comes from excessively close and minute attention to money matters, and from the passionate love of money, and which no other passion or occupation ever produces. in all that related to money jacob ogden acted with the pitiless regularity of the irresistible forces of nature. as the sea which feeds the fisherman will drown him without remorse--as the air which we all breathe will bury us under heaps of ruin--so this man, though his capital enabled a multitude to live, would take the bed from under a sick debtor, and, rather than lose an imperceptible atom of his fortune, inflict the utmost extremity of misery. even hanby, his attorney, who was by no means tender-hearted, had been staggered at times by his pitilessness, and had ventured upon a feeble remonstrance. on these occasions a shade of sternness was added to the keenness of ogden's face, and he repeated a terrible maxim, which, with one or two others, guided his life: "if a man means to be rich, he must have no fine feelings;" and then he would add, "_i_ mean to be rich." perhaps he would have had fine feelings on a sunday, for on sundays he was religious, and went to church, where he heard a good deal about being merciful and forgiving which on week-days he would have attributed to the influence of the sentiments which he despised. but ogden was far too judicious an economist of human activities to be ignorant of the great art of self-adaptation to the duties and purposes of the hour; and as a prudent lawyer who has a taste for music will take care that it shall not interfere with his professional work, so jacob ogden, who really had rather a taste for religion, and liked to sit in church with gloved hands and a clean face, had no notion of allowing the beautiful sentiments which he heard there to paralyze his action on a week-day. every sunday he prayed repeatedly that god would forgive him his debts or trespasses as he forgave his debtors or those that trespassed against him; but that was no reason why he should not, from monday morning to saturday night inclusively, compel everybody to pay what he owed, and distress him for it if necessary. after all, he acted so simply and instinctively that one can hardly blame him very severely. the truest definition of him would be, an incarnate natural force. the forces of wealth, which are as much natural forces as those of fire and frost, had incarnated themselves in him. his sympathy with money was so complete, he had so entirely subjected his mind to it, so thoroughly made himself its pupil and its mouth-piece, that it is less accurate to say that he _had_ money than that he _was_ money. jacob ogden was a certain sum of money whose unique idea was its own increase, and which acted in obedience to the laws of wealth as infallibly as a planet acts in obedience to the cosmic forces. it is only natural that a man so endowed and so situated should grow rich. in all respects circumstances were favorable to him. he had robust health and indefatigable energy. his position in a little place like shayton, where habits of spending had not yet penetrated, was also greatly in his favor, because it sheltered him in undisturbed obscurity. no man who is born to wealth, and has lived from his infancy in the upper class, will confine his expenditure during the best years of manhood to the pittance which sufficed for ogden. it was an advantage to him, also, that his mind should be empty, because he needed all the room in it for the endless details concerning his property and his trade. no fact of this nature, however minute, escaped him. his knowledge of the present state of all that belonged to him was so clear and accurate, and his foresight as to probable changes so sure, that he anticipated every thing, and neutralized every cause of loss before it had time to develop itself. that a man whose daily existence proved the fewness of his wants should have an eager desire for money, may appear one of the inconsistencies of human nature; but in the case of jacob ogden, and in thousands of cases similar to his, there is no real inconsistency. he did not desire money in order to live luxuriously; he desired it because the mere possession of it brought increased personal consideration, and gave him weight and importance in the little community he lived in. and when a man relies on wealth _alone_ for his position--when he is, obviously, not a gentleman--he needs a great quantity of it. another reason why jacob ogden never felt that he had enough was because the men with whom he habitually compared himself, and whom he wished to distance in the race, did not themselves remain stationary, but enriched themselves so fast that it needed all jacob ogden's genius for money-getting to keep up with them; for men of talent in every order compare themselves with their equals and rivals, and not with the herd of the incapable. it was his custom to go to manchester in the same railway carriage with four or five men of business, who talked of nothing but investments, and it would have made jacob ogden miserable not to be able to take a share in these conversations on terms of perfect equality. "i'm sure," thought mrs. ogden, "that our jacob's got something on his mind. he sits and thinks a deal more than he used doin'. he's 'appen[ ] fallen in love, an' doesn't like to tell me about it, because it's same as tellin' me to leave milend." mrs. ogden was confirmed in her suspicions that very evening by the fact that "our jacob" shut himself up in the little sitting-room with a builder. "if it's to build himself a new 'ouse and leave me at milend, i willn't stop; and if it's to build me a new 'ouse, i shall never live there. i shall go an' live i' th' cream-pot." the idea of mrs. ogden living in a cream-pot may appear to some readers almost as mythical as the story of that other and much more famous old lady who lived in a shoe; but although a cream-pot would not be a bad place to live in if one were a mouse, and the rich fluid not dangerously deep, it is not to be supposed that mrs. ogden entertained such a project in an obvious and literal sense. her intentions were rational, but they need a word of explanation. she possessed a small farm called the cream-pot; and of all her small farms this was her best beloved. therefore had she resolved, years and years before, that when jacob married she would go to the cream-pot, and dwell there for the days that might remain to her. she waited till the builder had gone, and then went into the little room. jacob was busy examining a plan. "i wish you wouldn't trouble yourself about that buildin', jacob," said mrs. ogden; "there needs no buildin', for as soon as ever you get wed i shall go to th' cream-pot." her son looked up from his plan with an air of the utmost astonishment. mrs. ogden continued,-- "i think you might have told me about it a little sooner. i don't even know her name, not positively, though i may guess it, perhaps. there's no doubt about one thing--you'll have time enough to repent in. as they make their bed, so they must lie." "what the devil," said jacob, thinking aloud and _very_ loudly,--"what the devil is th' ould woman drivin' at?" "nay, if i'm to be sworn at, i've been too long i' this 'ouse already." and mrs. ogden, with that stately step which distinguished her, made slowly for the door. in cases where the lady of a house acts in a manner which is altogether absurd, the male or males, whose comfort is in a great degree dependent upon her good temper, have a much better chance of restoring it than when she is but moderately unreasonable. they are put upon their guard; they are quite safe from that most fatal of errors, an attempt to bring the lady round by those too direct arguments which are suggested by masculine frankness; they are warned that judicious management is necessary. thus, although jacob ogden, in the first shock of his astonishment, had not replied to his mother in a manner precisely calculated to soothe her, he at once perceived his error, and saw that she must be brought round. in politer spheres, where people beg pardon of each other for the most trifling and even imaginary offences, the duty of begging pardon is so constantly practised that (like all well-practised duties) it is extremely easy. but it was impossible for jacob ogden, who had never begged pardon in his life. "i say, mother, stop a bit. you've gotten a bit o' brass o' your own, an' i'm layin' down a new mill, and i shall want o' th'[ ] brass i can lay my hands on. i willn't borrow none, out of this 'ouse, not even of my brother isaac; but if you could lend me about four thousand pound, i could give a better finish to th' new shed." "why, jacob, you never told me as you were layin' down a new mill." "no, but i should a' done if you'd a' waited a bit i never right made up my mind about it while last night." it was not jacob ogden's custom to be confidential with his mother about money matters, and she on her part had been too proud to seek a confidence that was never offered; but many little signs had of late led her to the conclusion that jacob was in a period of unusual prosperity. he had bought one or two small estates for three or four thousand pounds each, and then had suddenly declared that he would lay out no more money in "potterin' bits o' property like them, but keep it while he'd a good lump for summat o' some use." the decision about the new mill proved to mrs. ogden that the "lump" in question was already accumulated. "jacob," she said, "how much do you reckon to put into th' new mill?" "why, 'appen about forty thousand; an' if you'll lend me four, that'll be forty-four." this was a larger sum than mrs. ogden had hoped; but she showed no sign of rejoicing beyond a quiet smile. "and where do you think of buildin' it?" "well, mother, if you don't mind sellin' me little mouse field, it's the best mill-site in all shayton. there's that water-course so handy; and it'll increase the valley[ ] of our land round about it." mrs. ogden was perfectly soothed by this time. jacob wanted to borrow four thousand pounds of her. she had coal under her little farms, of which the accumulated produce had reached rather more than that amount; and she promised the loan with a facetious hope that the borrower would be able to give her good security. as to little mouse field, he was quite welcome to it, and she begged him to accept it as a present. "nay, mother; you shouldn't give me no presents bout[ ] givin' summat to our isaac. but i reckon it's all one; for all as i have, or shall have, 'll go to little jacob." "eh, how you talk, lad! why, you'll get wed an' have chilther of your own. you're young enough, an' well off beside." "there's no need for me to get wed, mother, so long as th' old woman lasts, an' who'll last a long while yet, i reckon. there's none o' these young ladies as is kerfle enough to do for a man like me as has been accustomed to see his house well managed. why, they cannot neither make a shirt nor a puddin'." these disparaging remarks concerning the "girl of the period" filled (as they were designed to fill) mrs. ogden's mind with tranquillity and satisfaction. to complete her good-humor, jacob unrolled the plans and elevation of his new mill. the plans were most extensive, but the elevation did not strike the spectator by its height; for as the site was not costly, jacob ogden had adopted a system then becoming prevalent in the smaller towns of the manufacturing districts, where land was comparatively cheap--the system of erecting mills rather as sheds than on the old five-storied model. his new mill was simply a field walled in and roofed over, with a tall engine house and an enormous chimney at one end. people of æsthetic tastes would see nothing lovely in the long straight lines of roofs and rows of monotonously identical windows which displayed themselves on the designs drawn by ogden's architect; but to ogden's eyes there was a beauty here greater than that of the finest cathedral he had ever beheld. he was not an imaginative person; but he had quite enough imagination to realize the vista of the vast interior, the roar of the innumerable wheels, the incessant activity of the living makers of his wealth. he saw himself standing in the noble engine-room, and watching the unhurried see-saw of the colossal beams; the rise and fall of the pistons, thicker than the spear of goliath, and brighter than columns of silver; the revolution of the enormous fly-wheel; the exquisite truth of motion; the steadiness of man's great creature, that never knows fatigue. that engine-room should be the finest in all shayton. it should have a plaster cornice round its ceiling, and a great moulded ornament in the middle of it; the gas-lights should be in handsome ground-glass globes; and about the casings of the cylinders there should be a luxury of mahogany and brass. "but, jacob," said his mother, when she had duly adjusted her spectacles, and gradually mastered the main features of the plan, "it seems to me as you've put th' mill all o' one side, and th' engine nobbut half-fills th' engine-house." ogden had never heard of taymouth castle and the old earl of breadalbane, who, when somebody asked him why he built his house at the extremity of his estate, instead of in the middle of it, answered that he intended to "brizz yint."[ ] but, like the ambitious earl, ogden was one of those who "brizz yint." "why, mother," he said, "this 'ere's nobbut half the new mill. what can you do with forty-five thousand?" chapter xiii. stanithburn peel. "helena!" said colonel stanburne one morning when he came down to breakfast, "i've determined on a bold stroke. i'm going to take the tandem this morning to stanithburn peel, to see young philip stanburne and get him to accept a captaincy in the new regiment." her ladyship did not see why this should be called a bold stroke, so she asked if the road were particularly dangerous to drive upon, and suggested that, if it were, one horse would be safer than two. "that's not it. the sort of courage wanted on the present occasion, my dear helena, is moral courage and not physical courage, don't you see? did you never hear the history of the stanburnes of stanithburn? surely female ignorance does not go so far as to leave you uninformed about such a distinguished family as ours?" "i know the history of its present representative, or at least as much of it as he chooses to tell me." "error added to ignorance! i am not the representative of the family. we of wenderholme are only a younger branch. the real representative is philip stanburne, of stanithburn peel." "i scarcely ever heard of him before. i had some vague notion that such a person existed. why does he never come here?" "it's a long story, but you will find it all in the county histories. in henry the eighth's time sir philip stanburne was a rebel and got beheaded, some people say hanged, for treason, so his estates were confiscated. wenderholme and stanithburn tower were given back to the family in the next generation, but the elder branch had only stanithburn, which is a much smaller estate than this. since then they married heiresses, but always regularly spent their fortunes, and now young philip stanburne has nothing but the tower with a small estate of bad land which brings him in four or five hundred a-year." "not much certainly; but why does he never come here?" "my father used to say that there had been no intercourse between stanithburn and wenderholme for three hundred years. most likely the separation was a religious quarrel, to begin with. the elder branch always remained strictly roman catholic; but the wenderholme branch was more prudent, and turned protestant in queen elizabeth's time." "all this is quite a romantic story, but those county histories are so full of archæology that one does not venture to look into them. would it not be better to write to mr. philip stanburne? there is no knowing how he may receive you." the colonel thought it better to go personally. "i'm not clever, helena, at persuading people with a pen; but i can generally talk them round, when i have a chance of seeing them myself." the distance from wenderholme to stanithburn peel was exactly twenty-five miles; but the colonel liked a long drive, and the tandem was soon on its way through the narrow but well-kept lanes that traversed the stretch of fertile country which separated the two houses. the colonel lunched and baited his horses at a little inn not often visited by such a stylish equipage, and it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when he began to enter the hilly country near the peel. the roads here were not so good as those in the plain, and instead of being divided from the fields by hedges they passed between gray stone walls. the scenery became more and more desolate as the horses advanced. there was little sylvan beauty left in it except that of the alders near a rapid stream in the valley, and the hills showed the bare limestone in many places through a scanty covering of grass. at length a turn of the road brought the colonel in sight of the tower or peel of stanithburn itself, an edifice which had little pretension to architectural beauty, and lacked altogether that easily achieved sublimity which in so many continental buildings of a similar character is due to the overhanging of _machicoulis_ and _tourelles_. it possessed, however, the distinguishing feature of a battlement, which, still in perfect preservation, entirely surrounded the leads of the flat roof. beyond this the old tower retained no warlike character, but resembled an ordinary modern house, with an additional story on the top of it. there were, alas! some modern sash-windows, which went far to destroy the character of the edifice; yet whatever injury the philistinism of the eighteenth century might have inflicted upon the building itself, it had not been able to destroy the romantic beauty of its site. the hill that separates shayton from wenderholme is of sandstone; and though behind twistle farm and elsewhere there are groups of rocks of more or less picturesque interest, they are not comparable to the far grander limestone region about the tower of stanithburn. the tower itself is situated on a bleak eminence, half surrounded by a curve of the stream already mentioned; but a mile below the tower the stream passes through a ravine of immense depth, and in a series of cascades reaches the level of the plain below. above stanithburn peel, on the other hand, the stream comes from a region of unimaginable desolation--where the fantastic forms of the pale stone lift themselves, rain-worn, like a council of rude colossi, and no sound is heard but the wind and the stream, and the wild cry of the plover. a very simple gateway led from the public to a private road, which climbed the hill till it ended in a sort of farm-yard between the peel and its out-buildings. when the colonel arrived here, he was received by a farm-servant, who showed the way to the stable, and said that his master was out fishing. by following the stream, the colonel would be sure to find him. john stanburne set off on foot, not without some secret apprehension. "perhaps helena was right," he thought; "perhaps i ought to have written. they say he is a strange, eccentric sort of fellow, and there is no telling how he may receive me." philip stanburne, of the peel, was in fact reputed to be morbid and misanthropic, with as much justice as there usually is in such reports. after his father's death he had been left alone with his mother, and the few years that he lived in this way with her had been the sweetest and happiest of his life. when he lost her, his existence became one of almost absolute solitude, broken only by a weekly visit to a great house ten miles from stanithburn, where a chaplain was kept, and he could hear mass--or by the occasional visits of the doctor, and one or two by no means intimate neighbors. in country places a difference of religion is a great impediment to intercourse; and though people thought it quite right that philip stanburne should be a catholic, they never could get over a feeling of what they called "queerness" in the presence of a man who believed in transubstantiation, and said prayers to the virgin mary. like many other recluses, he was credited with a dislike to society far different from his real feeling, and much less creditable to his good sense. habit had made solitude endurable to him, and there was something agreeable, no doubt, in the sense of his independence, but there was not the slightest taint of misanthropy in his whole nature. he naturally shrank from the society of sootythorn because it was so strongly protestant; and there were no families of his own creed in his immediate neighborhood. his way of living was too simple for the entertainment of guests. having no profession by which money might be earned, he was reduced to mere economy, which got him a reputation for being stingy and unsociable. the colonel walked a mile along the stream without perceiving anybody, but at length he saw philip stanburne, very much occupied with his fly-book, and accompanied only by a dog, which began to bark vigorously as soon as he perceived the presence of a stranger. a quarter of an hour afterwards the two new acquaintances were talking easily enough, and the recluse of the tower began to feel inclined to join the militia, though he had asked for time to consider. "i have heard," said the colonel, "that the name which your house still keeps, and from which our own name comes, is due to some stone in your stream--stone in the burn, or stane i' th' burn, and so to stanithburn and stanburne. is there any particular stone here likely to give a ground for the theory, or is it only a tradition?" "i have no doubt," said philip stanburne, "of the accuracy of tradition in this instance. come and look at the stone itself." he turned aside from the direct path to the tower, and they came again to the brink of the stream, which had here worn for itself two channels deep in the limestone. between these channels rose an islanded rock about thirty feet above the present level of the water. a fragment of ruined building was discernible on its narrow summit. as the two men looked together on the stone from which their race had taken its name centuries ago, both fell under the influence of that mysterious sentiment, so different from the pride of station or the vanity of precedence, which binds us to the past. neither of them spoke, but it is not an exaggeration to say that both felt their relationship then. had not the time been when stanburne of the peel and stanburne of wenderholme were brothers? a fraternal feeling began to unite these two by subtle, invisible threads. chapter xiv. at sootythorn. not many days after the little events narrated in the preceding chapter, mr. philip stanburne awoke in a small bedroom on the second floor of the thorn inn, or thorn hotel, at sootythorn. it was a disagreeable, stuffy little room; and an extensive four-poster covered fully one-half the area of the floor. there was the usual wash-hand stand, and close to the wash-hand stand a chair, and on the chair the undress uniform of a militia officer. philip stanburne lay in the extensive four-poster, and contemplated the military equipment, of which the most brilliant portions were the crimson sash, and the bright, newly gilded hilt of a handsome sword. as it was only the undress uniform, there was nothing particularly striking in the dress itself, which consisted of a plain dark-blue frock-coat, and black trowsers with narrow red seam. nevertheless, captain stanburne felt no great inclination to invest his person with what looked very like a disguise. his instincts were by no means military; and the idea of marching through the streets of sootythorn with a drawn sword in his hand had little attraction for him. when he drew up his blind, the view from the window was unpleasantly different from the view that refreshed his eye every morning at stanithburn peel. the thorn inn was higher than most of the houses in sootythorn, and philip stanburne had a view over the roofs. very smoky they all were, and still smokier were the immense chimney-stalks of the cotton-mills. "one, two, three, four," began philip, aloud, as he counted the great chimneys, and he did not stop till he had counted up to twenty-nine. the thorn inn was just in the middle of the town, and there were as many on the other side--a consideration which occurred to philip stanburne's reflective mind, as it sometimes occurs to very philosophical people to think about the stars that are under our feet, on the other side of the world. "what a dirty place it is!" thought philip stanburne. "i wish i had never come into the militia. fancy me staying a month in such a smoky hole as this! i wish i were back at the peel. and just the nicest month in the year, too!" however, there he was, and it was too late to go back. he had to present himself at the orderly-room at half-past nine, and it was already a quarter to nine. on entering the coffee-room of the hotel he found half-a-dozen gentlemen disguised like himself in military apparel, and engaged in the business of breakfast. he did not know one of them. he knew few people, especially amongst the protestant gentry; and he literally knew nobody of the middle class in sootythorn except mr. garley the innkeeper, and one or two tradesmen. philip had no sooner entered the coffee-room than mr. garley made his appearance with that air of confidence which distinguished him. mr. garley was not philip stanburne's equal in a social point of view, but he was immensely his superior in _aplomb_ and knowledge of the world. thus, whilst captain stanburne felt slightly nervous in the presence of the gentlemen in uniform, and disguised his nervousness under an appearance of lofty reserve, mr. garley, though little accustomed to the sight of military men, or of gentlemen wearing the appearance of military men, was no more embarrassed than in the presence of his old friends the commercials. "good morning, captain stanburne," said mr. garley; "good morning to _you_, sir; 'ope you slep well; 'ope you was suited with your room." philip muttered something about its being "rather small." "well, sir, it _is_ rather small, as you say, sir. i could have wished to have given you a better, but you see, sir, i kep the best room in the 'ouse for the curnle; and then there was the majors, and his lordship here, captain lord henry ughtred, had bespoke a good room more than six weeks ago; so you see, sir, i wasn't quite free to serve you quite so well as i could have wished. sorry we can't content _all_ gentlemen, sir. what will you take to breakfast, captain stanburne? would you like a boiled hegg, new-laid, or a little fried 'am, or shall i cut you some cold meat; there's four kinds of cold meat on the sideboard, besides a cold beefsteak-pie?" as he finished his sentence, mr. garley drew a chair out, the seat of which had been under the table, and, with a mixture of servility and patronage (servility because he was temporarily acting the part of a waiter, patronage because he still knew himself to be mr. garley of the thorn hotel), he invited philip stanburne to sit down. the other gentlemen at the table had not been engaged in a very animated conversation, and they suspended it by mutual consent to have a good stare at the new-comer. for it so happened that these men were the swell clique, which had for its head captain lord henry ughtred, and for its vice-captain the honorable fortunatus brabazon; and the swell clique had determined in its own corporate mind that it would have as little to do with the snobs of sootythorn as might be. it was apprehensive of a great influx of the snob element into the regiment. there was a belief or suspicion in the clique that there existed cads even amongst the captains; and as the officers had not yet met together, a feeling of great circumspection predominated amongst the members of the clique. philip stanburne ventured to observe that it was a fine morning; but although his next neighbor admitted that fact, he at once allowed the conversation to drop. mr. garley had given philip his first cup of tea; but, in his temporary absence, philip asked a distinguished member of the swell clique for a second. the liquid was not refused, yet there was something in the manner of giving it which might have turned the hottest cup of tea in lancashire to a lump of solid ice. at length lord henry ughtred, having for a length of time fixed his calm blue eyes on philip (they were pretty blue eyes, and he had nice curly hair, and a general look of an overgrown cupid), said,-- "pray excuse me; did i not hear mr. garley say that your name was stanburne?" "yes, my name is stanburne." "are you colonel stanburne's brother, may i ask?" "no; the colonel has no brothers." "ah, true, true; i had forgotten. of _course_, i knew stanburne had no brothers. indeed, he told me he'd no relations--or something of the kind. you're not a relation of his, i presume; you don't belong to his family, do you?" philip stanburne, in these matters, had very much of the feeling of a highland chief. he was the representative of the stanburnes, and the colonel was head of a younger branch only. so when he was asked in this way whether he belonged to the colonel's family, he at once answered "no," seeing that the colonel belonged to _his_ family, not he to the colonel's. he was irritated, too, by the tone of his questioner; and, besides, such a relationship as the very distant one between himself and colonel stanburne was rather a matter for poetical sentiment than for the prose of the outer world. mr. garley only made matters worse by putting his word in. "beg pardon, captn stanburne, but i've always 'eard say that your family was a younger branch of the wendrum family." "then you were misinformed, for it isn't." "perhaps it isn't just clearly traced out, sir," said mr. garley, intending to make himself agreeable; "but all the old people says so. if i was you, sir, i'd have it properly traced out. mr. higgin, the spinner here, got his pedigree traced out quite beautiful. it's really a very 'andsome pedigree, coats of arms and all. nobody would have thought mr. higgin 'ad such a pedigree; but there's nothin' like tracin' and studyin', and 'untin' it all hup." philip stanburne was well aware that his position as chief of his house was very little known, and that he was popularly supposed to descend from some poor cadet of wenderholme; but it was disagreeable to be reminded of the popular belief about him in this direct way, and in the hearing of witnesses before whom he felt little disposed to abate one jot of his legitimate pretensions. however, pride kept him silent, even after mr. garley's ill-contrived speech, and he sought a diversion in looking at his watch. this made the others look at their watches also; and as it was already twenty-five minutes after nine, they all set off for the orderly-room, the swell clique keeping together, and philip stanburne following about twenty yards in the rear. the streets of sootythorn were seldom very animated at ten o'clock in the morning, except on a market-day; and though there was a great deal of excitement amongst the population of the town on the subject of the militia, that population was safely housed in the fifty-seven factories of sootythorn, and an officer might pass through the streets in comparative comfort, free from the remarks which would be likely to assail him when the factories loosed. with the exception of two or three urchins who ran by philip's side, and stared at him till one of them fell over a wheelbarrow, nothing occurred to disturb him. as the orderly-room was very near, captain stanburne thought he had time to buy a pocket-book at the bookseller's shop, and entered it for that purpose. whilst occupied with the choice of his pocket-book he heard a soft voice close to him. "papa wishes to know if you have got mr. blunting's sermons on popery." "no, miss stedman, we haven't a copy left, but we can order one for mr. stedman if he wishes it. perhaps it would be well to order it at once, as there has been a great demand for the book, and it is likely to be out of print very soon, unless the new edition is out in time to keep up the supply. four editions are exhausted already, and the book has only been out a month or two. we are writing to london to-day; shall we order the book for you, miss stedman?" the lady hesitated a little, and then said, "papa seemed to want it very much--yes, you can order it, please." there was something very agreeable to philip stanburne's ear in what he had heard, and something that grated upon it harshly. the tone of the girl's voice was singularly sweet. it came to him as comes a pure unexpected perfume. it was amongst sounds what the perfume of violets is amongst odors, and he longed to hear it again. what had grated upon him was the word "popery;" he could not endure to hear his religion called "popery." still, it was only the title of some protestant book the girl had mentioned, and she was not responsible for it--she could not give the book any other title than its own. philip stanburne was examining a quantity of morocco contrivances (highly ingenious, most of them) in a glass case in the middle of the shop, and he turned round to look at the young lady, but she had her back to him. she was now choosing some note-paper on the counter. her dress was extremely simple--white muslin, with a little sprig; and she wore a plain straw bonnet--for in those days women _did_ wear bonnets. it was evident that she was not a fashionable young lady, for her whole dress showed a timid lagging behind the fashion. when she had completed her little purchases miss stedman left the shop, and captain stanburne was disappointed, for she had given him no opportunity of seeing her face; but just as he was leaving she came back in some haste, and they met rather suddenly in the doorway. "i beg your pardon," said the captain, making way for her--and then he got a look at her face. the look must have been agreeable to him, for when he saw a little glove lying on the mat in the doorway, he picked it up rather eagerly and presented it to the fair owner. "is this your glove, miss--miss stedman?" now miss stedman had never in her life been spoken to by a gentleman in military uniform, with a sword by his side, and the fact added to her confusion. it was odd, too, to hear him call her miss stedman, but it was not disagreeable, for he said it very nicely. there is an art of pronouncing names so as to turn the commonest of them into titles of honor; and if philip had said "your ladyship," he could not have said it more respectfully. so she thanked him for the glove with the warmth which comes of embarrassment, and she blushed, and he bowed, and they saw no more of each other--that day. it was a poor little glove--a poor little cheap thread glove; but all the finest and softest kids that lay in their perfumed boxes in the well-stocked shops of sootythorn,--all the pale gray kids and pale yellow kids which the young shopmen so strongly recommended as "suitable for the present season,"--were forgotten in a month, whereas alice stedman's glove was remembered for years and years. chapter xv. with the militia. the officers met at the orderly-room, after which they all went to the parade-ground at once; the field-officers and the adjutant on horseback, the rest on foot. philip stanburne followed the others. he knew nobody except the colonel and the adjutant, who had just said "good morning" to him in the orderly-room; but they had trotted on in advance, so he was left to his own meditations. it was natural that in passing the bookseller's shop he should think of miss stedman, and he felt an absurd desire to go into the shop again and buy another pocket-book, as if by acting the scene over again he could cause the principal personage to reappear. "i don't think she's pretty," said philip to himself--"at least, not really pretty; but she's a sweet girl. there's a simplicity about her that is very charming. who would have thought that there was any thing so nice in sootythorn?" just as he was thinking this, philip stanburne passed close to one of the blackest mills in the place--an old mill,--that is, a mill about thirty years old, for mills, like horses, age rapidly; and through the open windows there came a mixture of bad smells on the hot foul air, and a deafening roar of machinery, and above the roar of machinery a shrill clear woman's voice singing. the voice must have been one of great power, for it predominated over all the noises in the place; and it either was really a very sweet one or its harshness was lost in the noises, whilst it rose above them purified. philip stopped to listen, and as he stopped, two other officers came up behind him. the footpath was narrow, and as soon as he perceived that he impeded the circulation, philip went on. "that's one o' th' oudest mills i' sootythorn," said one of the officers behind captain stanburne; "it's thirty year oud, if it's a day." the broad lancashire accent surprised captain stanburne, and attracted his attention. could it be possible that there were officers in the regiment who spoke no better than that? evidently this way of speaking was not confined to an individual officer, for the speaker's companion answered in the same tone,-- "why, that's john stedman's mill, isn't it?" "john stedman? john stedman? it cannot be t' same as was foreman to my father toward thirty year sin'?" when philip stanburne heard the name of stedman, he listened attentively. the first speaker answered, "yes, but it is--it's t' same man." "well, an' how is he? he must be well off. has he any chilther?" "just one dorter, a nice quiet lass, 'appen eighteen year old." "so she's the daughter of a cotton-spinner," thought philip, "and a protestant cotton-spinner, most likely a bigot. indeed, who ever heard of a catholic cotton-spinner? i never did. i believe there aren't any. but what queer fellows these are to be in the militia; they talk just like factory lads." then, from a curiosity to see more of these extraordinary officers, and partly, no doubt, from a desire to cultivate the acquaintance of a man who evidently knew something about miss stedman, philip left the causeway, and allowed the officers to come up with him. "i beg your pardon," he said; "no doubt you are going to the parade-ground. will you show me the way? i was following some officers who were in sight a minute or two since, but they turned a corner whilst i was not looking at them, and i have lost my guides." to captain stanburne's surprise he was answered in very good english, with no more indication of the lancashire accent than a clearly vibrated _r_, and a certain hardness in the other consonants, which gave a masculine vigor to the language, not by any means disagreeable. the aspirate, however, was too frequently omitted or misplaced. "we are going straight to the parade-ground ourselves, so if you come with us you cannot go wrong." there was a short silence, and the same speaker continued, "the colonel said we were to consider ourselves introduced. i know who you are--you're captain stanburne of stanithburn peel; and now i'll tell you who we are, both of us: i'm the doctor--my name's bardly. i don't look like a doctor, do i? perhaps you are thinking that i don't look very like an officer either, though i'm dressed up as one. well, perhaps i don't. this man here is called isaac ogden, and he lives at twistle farm, on a hill-top near shayton, when he's at home." this queer introduction, which was accompanied by the oddest changes of expression in the doctor's face, and by a perpetual twinkle of humor in his gray eye, amused philip stanburne, and put him into a more genial frame of mind than his experience of the swell clique at breakfast-time. isaac ogden asked stanburne what company he had got, and on being told that it was number six, informed him that he himself was only a lieutenant. "he's lieutenant in the grenadier company," said the doctor, "and on sunday morning we shall see him like a butterfly with a pair of silver wings.[ ] he's only a chrysalis to-day; his wings haven't budded yet. he's very likely put 'em on in private--most of them put on their full uniform in private, as soon as ever it comes from the tailor's. it's necessary to try it on, you know--it _might_ not fit. the epaulettes would fit, though; but they generally take their epaulettes out of the tin box and put them on, to see how they look in the glass." "well, doctor," said stanburne, "i suppose you are describing from personal experience. when your own epaulettes came, you looked at yourself in the glass, i suppose." here an indescribably comic look irradiated dr. bardly's face. "you don't imagine that _i_ have laid out any money on epaulettes and such gear? the tailor tried to make me buy a full uniform, of course, but it didn't answer with me. what do i want with a red coat, and dangling silver fringes over my shoulders? i've committed one piece of tomfoolery, and that's enough--i've bought this sword; but a sword might just possibly be of use for a thief. there was a man in shayton who had an old volunteer sword always by his bedside, and one night he put six inches of it into a burglar; so you see a sword _may_ be of use, but what can you do with a bit of silver fringe?" "but i don't see how you are to do without a full uniform. how will you manage on field days, and how will you go to church on sundays?" "get leave of absence on all such occasions," said the doctor; "so long as i haven't a full uniform i have a good excuse." the fact was, that the doctor's aversion to full dress came quite as much from a dislike to public ceremonies as from an objection to scarlet and silver in themselves. he had a youthful assistant in the regiment who was perfectly willing to represent the medical profession in all imaginable splendor, and who had already passed three evenings in full uniform, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, and a group of admiring friends. the day was a tiresome idle day for everybody except the adjutant, who shouted till his throat was sore, and the sergeants, on whom fell the real work of the companies. after lunch, the important matter of billets had to be gone into, and it was discovered that it was impossible to lodge all the men in sootythorn. one company, at least, must seek accommodation elsewhere. the junior captain must therefore submit, for this training, to be banished from the mess, and sent to eat his solitary beefsteak in some outlandish village, or, still worse, in some filthy and uncouth little manufacturing town. his appetite, it is true, might so far benefit by the long marches to and from the parade-ground that the beefsteak might be eaten with the best of sauces; but the ordinary exercises of the regiment would have been sufficient to procure that, and the great efforts of mr. garley at the thorn might have been relied upon for satisfying it. so the junior captain was ordered to take his men to whittlecup, a dirty little town, of about six thousand inhabitants, four miles distant from sootythorn; and the junior captain was philip stanburne. behold him, therefore, marching at the head of his rabble, for the men as yet had neither uniforms nor military bearing, on the dusty turnpike road! the afternoon had been uncommonly hot for the season of the year; and a military uniform, closely buttoned across the breast, and padded with cotton wool, is by no means the costume most suitable for the summer heats. there were so few lieutenants in the regiment (there was not one ensign) that a junior captain could not hope for a subaltern, and all the work of the company fell upon philip stanburne and his old sergeant. it was not easy to keep any thing like order amongst the men. they quarrelled and fought during the march; and it became necessary to arrange them so as to keep enemies at a distance from each other. still, by the time they reached the precincts of whittlecup several of the men were adorned with black eyes; and as a few had been knocked down and tumbled in the dust by their comrades, the company presented rather the appearance of a rabble after a riot than of soldiers in her majesty's service. philip stanburne's uniform was white with dust; but as the dust that alighted on his face was wetted by perspiration, it did not there remain a light-colored powder, but became a thick coat of dark paste. indeed, to tell the truth, the owner of stanithburn had never been so dirty in his life. now there was a river at the entrance to whittlecup, and over the river a bridge; and on the bridge, or in advance of it (for the factories had just loosed), there stood a crowd of about three thousand operatives awaiting the arrival of the militia-men. the lancashire operative is not accustomed to restrain the expression of his opinions from motives of delicacy, and any consideration for your feelings which he may have when isolated diminishes with the number of his companions. three factory lads may content themselves with exchanging sarcastic remarks on your personal appearance when you are out of hearing, thirty will make them in your presence, three hundred will jeer you loudly; and from three thousand, if once you are unlucky enough to attract their attention, there will come such volleys of derision as nobody but a philosopher could bear with equanimity. not only was the road lined on both sides with work-people, but they blocked it up in front, and made way for the militia-men so slowly, that there was ample time for philip stanburne to hear every observation that was directed against him. amidst the roars of laughter which the appearance of the men gave rise to, a thousand special commentaries might be distinguished. "them chaps sowdiers! why, there's nobbut one sowdier i' th' lot as i can see on." "where is he? i can see noan at o'." "cannot ta see th' felly wi' th' red jacket?" "eh, what a mucky lot!" "they'll be right uns for fightin', for there's four on 'em 'as gotten black een to start wi'." "where's their guns?" "they willn't trust 'em wi' guns. they'd be shootin' one another." "there's one chap wi' a soourd." "why, that's th' officer." "eh, captain!" screamed a factory girl in philip's ear, "i could like to gi' thee a kiss, but thou's getten sich a mucky face!" "i wouldn't kiss him for foive shillin'," observed another. "eh, but i would!" said a third; "he's a nice young felly. i'll kiss him to-neet when he's washed hissel!" chapter xvi. a case of assault. the officers' mess was rather a good thing for mr. garley. he charged five shillings a-head for dinner without wine; and although both the colonel and the large majority of his officers were temperate men, a good deal of profit may be got out of the ordinary vinous and spirituous consumption of a set of english gentlemen in harder exercise than usual, and more than usually disposed to be convivial. even the cigars were no inconsiderable item of profit for mr. garley, who had laid in a stock large enough and various enough for a tobacconist. a dense cloud of smoke filled the card-room, and through it might be discerned a number of officers in red shell-jackets reposing after the labors of the day, and wisely absolving nature from other efforts, in order that she might give her exclusive care to the digestion of that substantial repast which had lately been concluded in the mess-room. there was a party of whist-players in a corner, and the rattle of billiard-balls came through an open door. captain eureton's servant came in and said that there was an innkeeper from whittlecup who desired to speak to the adjutant. the captain left the card-room, and the officers scarcely noticed his departure, but when he came back their attention was drawn to him by an exclamation of the colonel's. "why, eureton, what's the matter now? how grave you look!" the adjutant came to the hearth-rug where john stanburne was standing, and said, "is not captain stanburne a relation of yours, colonel?" "cousin about nine times removed. but what's the matter? he's not ill, i hope." "very ill, very ill indeed," said eureton, with an expression which implied that he had not yet told the whole truth. "there's no near relation or friend of captain stanburne in the regiment, is there, colonel?" "none whatever; out with it, eureton--you're making me very anxious;" and the colonel nervously pottered with the end of a new cigar. "the truth is, gentlemen," said eureton, addressing himself to the room, for every one was listening intently, "a great crime has been committed this evening. captain stanburne has been murdered--or if it's not a case of murder it's a case of manslaughter. he has been killed, it appears, whilst visiting a billet, by a man in his company." the colonel rang the bell violently. fyser appeared--he was at the door, expecting to be called for. "harness the tandem immediately." "the tandem is at the door, sir, or will be by the time you get downstairs. i knew you would be wantin' it as soon as i 'eard the bad news." the doctor was in the billiard-room, trying to make a cannon, to the infinite diversion of his more skilful brother officers. his muscular but not graceful figure was stretched over the table, and his scarlet shell-jacket, whose seams were strained nearly to bursting by his attitude, contrasted powerfully with the green cloth as the strong gas-light fell upon him. just as he was going to make the great stroke a strong hand was laid upon his arm. "now then, isaac ogden, you've spoiled a splendid stroke. i don't hoftens get such a chance." "you're wanted for summat else, doctor. come, look sharp; the colonel's waiting for you." in common with many members of his profession, dr. bardly had a dislike to be called in a hurried and peremptory manner, and a disposition, when so called, to take his time. he had so often been pressed unnecessarily that he had acquired a general conviction that cases could wait--and he made them wait, more or less. in this instance, however, isaac ogden insisted on a departure from the doctor's usual customs, and threw his gray military cloak over his shoulders, and set his cap on his head, and led him to the street-door, where he found the tandem, the colonel in his place with the adjutant, fyser already mounted behind, and the leader dancing with impatience. the bright lamps flashed swiftly through the dingy streets of sootythorn, and soon their light fell on the blossoming hedges in the country. colonel stanburne had been too much occupied with his horses whilst they were in the streets; but now on the broad open road he had more leisure to talk, and he was the first to break silence. "you don't know any further details, do you, eureton?" "nothing beyond what i told you. the innkeeper who brought the news was the one captain stanburne was billeted with, and he quitted whittlecup immediately after the event. he appears quite certain that captain stanburne is dead. the body was brought to the inn before the man left, and he was present at the examination of it by a doctor who had been hastily sent for." "beg pardon, sir," said fyser from behind, "i asked the innkeeper some questions myself. it appears that captain stanburne was wounded in the head, sir, and his skull was broken. it was done with a deal board that a hirish militia-man tore up out of a floor. there was two hirish that was quarrellin' and fightin', and the captain put 'em both into a hempty room which was totally without furnitur', and where they'd nothink but straw to lie upon; and he kep 'em there under confinement, and set a guard at the door. and then these two drunken hirish fights wi' their fists--but fists isn't bloody enough for hirish, so they starts tearin' up the boards o' the floor, and the guard at the door tried to interfere between 'em, but, not havin' no arms, could do very little; and the captain was sent for, and as soon as hever one o' these hirish sees him he says, 'here's our bloody captain,' and he aims a most tremenjious stroke at him with his deal board, and it happened most unfortunate that it hit the captain with the rusty nail in it." "i wonder it never occurred to him to separate the irishmen," observed eureton, in a lower tone, to the colonel. "he ought not to have confined them together." "strictly speaking, he ought not to have placed them in confinement at all at whittlecup, but sent them at once under escort to headquarters." "what's this that we are meeting?" said the adjutant. "i hear men marching." the colonel drew up his horses, and the regular footfall of soldiers became audible, and gradually grew louder. "they march uncommonly well, eureton, for militia-men who have had no training; i cannot understand it." "there were half-a-dozen old soldiers in captain stanburne's company, and i suppose the sergeant has selected them as a guard for the prisoners." the night was cloudy and dark, and the lamps of the colonel's vehicle were so very splendid and brilliant that they made the darkness beyond their range blacker and more impenetrable than ever. as the soldiers came nearer, the colonel stopped his horses and waited. suddenly out of the darkness came a corporal and four men with two prisoners. the colonel shouted, "halt!" "have you any news of captain stanburne?" "he's not quite dead, sir, or was not when we left." the tall wheels rolled along the road, and in a quarter of an hour the leader had to make his way through a little crowd of people in front of the blue bell. the doctor was the first in the house, and was led at once to young stanburne's room. the whittlecup surgeon was there already. no professional men are so ticklish on professional etiquette as surgeons are, but in this instance there could be little difficulty of that kind. "you are the surgeon to the regiment, i believe," said the whittlecup doctor; "you will find this a very serious case. i simply took charge of it in your absence." the patient was not dead, but he was perfectly insensible. he breathed faintly, and every few minutes there was a rattling in the throat, resembling that which precedes immediate dissolution. the two doctors examined the wound together. the skull had been fractured by the blow, and there was a gash produced by the nail in the board. the face was extremely pale, and so altered as to be scarcely recognizable. the innkeeper's wife, mrs. simpson, was moistening the pale lips with brandy. when the colonel and captain eureton had seen the patient, they had a talk with dr. bardly in another room. the doctor's opinion was that there were chances of recovery, but not very strong chances. though philip stanburne had enjoyed tolerably regular health in consequence of his temperate and simple way of living, he had by no means a robust constitution, and it was possible--it was even probable--that he would succumb; but he _might_ pull through. dr. bardly proposed to resign the case entirely to the whittlecup doctor, as it would require constant attention, and the surgeon ought to be on the spot. chapter xvii. isaac ogden again. as the lieutenant of the grenadier company, mr. isaac ogden was appointed to do captain's work at whittlecup in the place of philip stanburne. for many weeks mr. ogden had displayed a strength of resolution that astonished his most intimate friends. without meanly taking refuge in the practice of total abstinence, he had kept strictly within the bounds of what in shayton is considered moderation. the customs of the mess at sootythorn were not likely to place him in the power of his old enemy again; for although the officers were not severely abstinent, their utmost conviviality scarcely extended beyond the daily habits of the very soberest of shaytonians. viewing the matter, therefore, from the standpoint of his personal experience, dr. bardly looked upon ogden as now the most temperate of men. it is true that as a militia officer he could not follow a new rule of his about not entering inns, for the business of the regiment required him to visit a dozen inns every day, and to eat and sleep in one for a month together; and it is obvious that the other good rule about not drinking spirits at twistle farm could not be very advantageous to him just now, seeing that, although it was always in force, it was practically efficacious only during his residence under his own roof. it seems a pity that he did not legislate for himself anew, so as to meet his altered circumstances; but the labors of regimental duty appeared so onerous that extraordinary stimulation seemed necessary to meet this extraordinary fatigue, and it would have appeared imprudent to confine himself within rigidly fixed limits which necessity might compel him to transgress. so in point of fact mr. ogden was a free agent again. whilst philip stanburne had remained at the blue bell, lieutenant ogden had been in all respects a model of good behavior. he had watched by philip's bedside in the evenings, sometimes far into the night, and the utmost extent of his conviviality had been a glass of grog with the whittlecup doctor. but the day philip stanburne was removed, lieutenant ogden, after having dined and inspected his billets, began to feel the weight of his loneliness, and he felt it none the less for being accustomed to loneliness at the farm. captain stanburne's illness, and the regular evening talk with the whittlecup doctor, had hitherto given an interest to isaac ogden's life at the blue bell, and this interest had been suddenly removed. something must be found to supply its place; it became necessary to cultivate the acquaintance of somebody in the parlor. it is needless to trouble the reader with details about the men of whittlecup whom mr. ogden found there, because they have no connection with the progress of this history. but he found somebody else too, namely, jeremiah smethurst, a true shaytonian, and one of the brightest ornaments of the little society that met at the red lion. when jerry saw his old friend isaac ogden, whom he had missed for many weeks, his greeting was so very cordial, so expressive of good-fellowship, that it was not possible to negative his proposition that they should "take a glass together." now the keeper of the blue bell inn knew jerry smethurst. he knew that jerry drank more than half a bottle of brandy every night before he went to bed, and without giving mr. ogden credit for equal powers, he had heard that he came from shayton, which is a good recommendation to a vendor of spirituous liquors. he therefore, instead of bringing a glass of brandy for each of the shayton gentlemen, uncorked a fresh bottle and placed it between them, remarking that they might take what they pleased--that there was 'ot warter on the 'arth, for the kettle was just bylin, an' there was shugger in the shugger-basin. the reader foresees the consequences. after two or three glasses with his old friend, isaac ogden fell under the dominion of the old shayton associations. jerry smethurst talked the dear old shayton talk, such as isaac ogden had not heard in perfection for many a day. for men like the doctor and jacob ogden were, by reason of their extreme temperance, isolated beings--beings cut off from the heartiest and most genial society of the place--and isaac had been an isolated being also since he had kept out of the red lion and the white hart. "why should a man desire in any way to vary from the kindly race of men?" that abandonment of the red lion had been a moral gain--a moral victory--but an intellectual loss. was such a fellow as parson prigley any compensation for jerry smethurst? and there were half-a-dozen at the red lion as good as jerry. he was short of stature--so short, that when he sat in a rocking-chair he had a difficulty in giving the proper impetus with his toes; and he had a great round belly, and a face which, if not equally great and round, seemed so by reason of all the light and warmth that radiated from it. it was enough to cure anybody of hypochondria to look at jerry smethurst's face. i have seen the moon look rather like it sometimes, rising warm and mellow on a summer's night; but though anybody may see that the moon has a nose and eyes, she certainly lacks expression. it was pleasant to isaac ogden to see the friendly old visage before him once again. genial and kind thoughts rose in his mind. tennyson had not yet written "tithonus," and if he had, no shaytonian would have read it--but the thoughts in ogden's mind were these:-- "why should a man desire in any way to vary from the kindly race of men, or pass beyond the goal of ordinance, where all should pause, as is most meet for all?" the "goal of ordinance," at shayton, being death from _delirium tremens_. mr. smethurst would have been much surprised if anybody had told him that he was inducing ogden to drink more than was good for him. it seemed so natural to drink a bottle of brandy! and jerry, too, in his way, was a temperate man--a man capable of self-control--a man who had made a resolution and kept it for many years. jerry's resolution had been never to drink more than one bottle of spirits in an evening; and, as he said sometimes, it was "all howin' to that as he enjy'd sich gud 'ealth." therefore, when mr. simpson had placed the bottle between them, mr. smethurst made a little mental calculation. he was strong in mental arithmetic. "i've 'ad three glasses afore hogden coom, so when i've powered him out three glasses, the remainder 'll be my 'lowance." therefore, when isaac had mixed his third tumbler, jerry smethurst rang the bell. "another bottle o' brandy." mr. simpson stood aghast at this demand, and his eyes naturally reverted to the bottle upon the table. "you've not finished that yet, gentlemen," he ventured to observe. "what's left in it is my 'lowance," said mr. smethurst. "mr. hogden shalln't 'ave none on 't." "well, that _is_ a whimmy gent," said mr. simpson to himself--but he fetched another bottle. they made a regular red lion evening of it, those two. a little before midnight mr. smethurst rose and said good night. he had finished his bottle, and his law of temperance, always so faithfully observed, forbade him one drop more. the reader probably expects that mr. smethurst was intoxicated; but his genial nature was only yet more genial. he lighted his bed-candle with perfect steadiness, shook ogden's hand affectionately, and mounted the stair step by step. when he got into his bedroom he undressed himself in a methodical manner, laid his clothes neatly on a chair, wound his watch up, and when he had assumed his white cotton night-cap, looked at himself in the glass. he put his tongue out, and held the candle close to it. the result of the examination was satisfactory, and he proceeded to pull down the corners of his eyes. this he did every night. the bugbear of his life was dread of a coming fit, and he fancied he might thus detect the premonitory symptoms. meanwhile mr. ogden, left by himself, took up the "sootythorn gazette," and when mr. simpson entered he found him reading, apparently. "beg pardon, sir," said mr. simpson, "but it's the rule to turn the gas out at twelve, and it's a few minutes past. i'll light you your bed-candle, sir, and you can sit up a bit later if you like. you'll find your way to your room." ogden was too far gone to have any power of controlling himself now. the type danced before his eyes, the sentences ran into one another, and the sense of the phrases was a mystery to him. he kept drinking mechanically; and when at length he attempted to reach the door, the candlestick slipped from his hand, and the light was instantly extinguished. a man who is quite drunk cannot find the door of a dark room--he cannot even walk in the dark; his only chance of walking in broad daylight is to fix his eye steadily on some object, and when it loses its hold of that, to fasten it upon some other, and so on. ogden stumbled against the furniture and fell. the deep insensibility of advanced drunkenness supervened, and he lay all night upon the floor. the servant-girl found him there the next morning when she came to clean the room. he could not go to sootythorn that day, and the true reason for his absence soon became known to dr. bardly, who asked leave to drive over to shayton to see a patient of his own. he drove directly to milend. "well, mrs. ogden," said the doctor, "i've come wi' bad news for you this time. your isaac's made a beast of himself once more. he lay all night last night dead drunk upo' th' parlor-floor o' th' blue bell inn i' whittlecup." "why--you don't say so, dr. bardly! now, really, this _is_ provokin', and 'im as was quite reformed, as one may say. i could like to whip him--i could." "well, i wish you'd just go to whittlecup and take care of him while he stops there. if he'd nobbut stopped at sootythorn i could have minded him a bit mysen, but there's nout like his mother for managin' him." little jacob was staying at milend during his father's military career, and so mrs. ogden objected--"but what's to become o' th' childt?" "take him with ye--take him with ye. it'll do him a power o' good, and it'll amuse him rarely. he'll see the chaps with their red jackets, and his father with a sword, and a fine scarlet coat on sundays, and he'll be as fain as fain." so it was immediately decided that mrs. ogden and little jacob should leave for whittlecup as soon as they possibly could. a fly was sent for, and mrs. ogden hastily filled two large wooden boxes, which were her portmanteaus. little jacob was at the parsonage with the youthful prigleys, and had to be sent for. mrs. ogden took the decanters from the corner cupboard, and drank two glasses of port to sustain her in the hurry of the occasion. "well, who would have thought," she said to herself, as she ate a piece of cake--"who would have thought that i should go and stop at whittlecup? i wonder how soon mary ridge will have finished my new black satin." chapter xviii. isaac's mother comes. mrs. ogden and her grandson reached sootythorn rather late that evening--namely, about eight o'clock; and as it happened that she knew an old maid there--one miss mellor--whose feelings would have been wounded if mrs. ogden had passed through sootythorn without calling upon her, she took the opportunity of doing so whilst the horse was baited at the inn. the driver took the fly straight to the thorn; and when mr. garley saw a lady and a little boy emerge therefrom he concluded that they intended to stay at his house, and came with his apologies for want of room. "but we can let you 'ave a nice parlor, mum, to take your tea, and i can find you good bedrooms in the town." mrs. ogden declined these obliging propositions, in the hope that miss mellor would offer her a night's lodging. it was not that she loved miss mellor so much as to desire to stay longer under her roof than was necessary to keep her in a good temper, but she had made sundry reflections on the road. "if i stop at th' thorn they'll charge me 'appen 'alf-a-crown for my bedroom, and jane mellor 'ad a nice spare bedroom formerly. it really is no use throwin' money away on inn-keepers. and then there's our tea; they'll make me pay eighteenpence or two shillin' for't at garley's, and very likely charge full as much for little jacob. it's quite enough to 'ave to pay seven shillin' for th' horse and fly." and in any case there would be time to get on to whittlecup after the horse had had his feed. but miss mellor, who had not been to shayton or heard direct news of shayton for several years, was so delighted to see mrs. ogden that she would not hear of her going forward that night. "it's lucky i 'appened to be at 'ome," said miss mellor, "for i'm often out of an evening." it was lucky, certainly, for little jacob, who got a much better tea than he would have done at the thorn inn, with quantities of sweet things greatly to his taste. little jacob was convinced that there was nobody in the world so kind and generous as his grandmother, yet he conceived an affection for miss mellor also before the close of the evening. "the devil take the people," said isaac ogden, when he got back from sootythorn to the blue bell, and had gone as usual to his bedroom there--"the devil take the people, they've hidden all my things!" just then came a gentle knock at the door, and the servant-maid entered. "please, sir, your mother's come, and she says you aren't to sleep here any more, sir; and she's fetched your things to lodgings that she's took over mr. wood's, the shoemaker's." it is at all times vexatious and humiliating to the independent spirit of a man to be disposed of by female authority, but it is most especially so when the authority is one's mamma. a grown-up man will submit to his mother on most points if he is worth any thing, but the best of sons does not quite like to see his submission absolutely taken for granted. in this case there was an aggravation in the look of the servant-girl. notwithstanding the respectful modesty of her tone, there was just a twinkle of satire in her eye. it was plain that she was inwardly laughing at the lieutenant. "damn it!" he said, "this house is good enough for me; i don't want to leave it." yet he _did_ leave, nevertheless. the next day was sunday, and it was a satisfaction to mrs. ogden to think that isaac would be professionally compelled to attend public worship. little jacob was one of the crowd of spectators who gathered round the company when it was mustered for church-parade. he was proud of his resplendent papa--a papa all scarlet and silver; and it was a matter of peculiar anxiety with him that they should sit in the same pew. mr. ogden gratified him in this respect, and the child felt himself the most important young personage in whittlecup. a steady attention to the service is not commonly characteristic of little boys; and on this occasion little jacob's eye was so continually caught by the glitter of his father's gold sword-knot and the silver embroidery on his sleeve, that he followed the clergyman much less regularly than usual. the neighborhood of whittlecup was not aristocratic, but there were one or two manufacturing families of rather a superior description. one of these families, the anisons, were at church not far from the pew which the ogdens occupied. they lived at a house near whittlecup called arkwright lodge, in a comfortable manner, with most of those refinements of civilization which are to be met with in the houses of rich professional men in london. mr. anison, indeed, was a manufacturer of the new school, whilst jacob ogden belonged to the old one. men of the anison class sometimes make large fortunes, but they more frequently content themselves with a moderate independence and a sufficient provision for their families. money does not seem to them an end in itself, but they value the comforts and refinements which it procures and which cannot be had without it. jacob ogden, on the other hand, did not care a fig for comforts and refinements, and had no domestic objects: his only purpose was the inward satisfaction and the outward glory of being rich. mr. anison worked in moderation, spent a good deal, saved something, and kept a very hospitable house, where everybody who had the slightest imaginable claim upon his kindness was always heartily welcome. after philip stanburne's accident he had been immediately moved to arkwright lodge, in compliance with the surgeon's advice and mr. anison's urgent request. here he had rapidly passed into a state of agreeable convalescence, and found the house so pleasant that the prospect of a perfect recovery, and consequent departure, was not very attractive to him now. when the service in whittlecup church was over, joseph anison went straight to mr. ogden's pew and reminded him that he had promised to dine that day at arkwright lodge. when they got out of the church, isaac presented his mother to mr. anison, and to mrs. anison also, who joined them in the midst of that ceremony. this was followed by a polite little speech from mrs. anison (she was an adept in polite little speeches), to the effect that, as mr. ogden had kindly promised to eat a dinner and pay his first call at the lodge at the same time, his duties in the militia having prevented him from calling during the week, perhaps they might hope that mrs. ogden would allow them to call upon her at once at her lodgings, and then would she come with her son to the lodge to spend the afternoon? so when the militia-men were disbanded, the anisons accompanied the ogdens to the lodging over mr. wood's, the shoemaker. it was a very fine may morning, and they had all come on foot. there are families in sootythorn (perhaps also there may be families out of sootythorn) who, though living within a very short distance of their parish church, go thither always in their carriages--on the same principle which causes the prince of wales to go from marlborough house to st james's palace in a state-coach--namely, for the maintenance of their dignity. but though the anisons' carriage was an institution sufficiently recent to have still some of the charms of novelty, they dispensed with it as much as possible on sundays. the young ladies had gone slowly forwards towards the lodge with the clergyman, who had a standing invitation to dine there whenever he came to whittlecup. mrs. ogden's great regret in going to dine at the lodge was for the dinner she left behind her, and she did not hesitate to express it. "it seems quite a pity," she said, "to leave them ducks and green peas--they were such fine ducks, and we're all of us very fond o' ducks, 'specially when we've green peas to 'em." after this little speech, she paused regretfully, as if meditating on the delightfulness of the ducks, and then she added, more cheerfully, "but what--ducks are very good cold, and they'll do very well for supper to-morrow night, when our isaac comes back from sootythorn." the dinner at the lodge was good enough to compensate even for the one left untasted at the shoemaker's, and nobody did better justice to it than the rev. abel blunting. a man may well be hungry who has preached vehemently for seventy minutes, and eaten nothing since seven in the morning, which was mr. blunting's habitual breakfast-hour. he was a very agreeable guest, and worth his salt. he had a vein of rich humor approaching to joviality, yet he drank only water. on this matter of teetotalism he was by no means fanatical, but he said simply that in his office of minister it was useful to his work amongst the poor. mrs. ogden sat next to him at table, and was perfectly delighted with him. the rev. abel perceived at once what manner of woman she was, and talked to her accordingly. when he found out that she came from shayton, he said that he had a great respect for shayton, it was such a sound protestant community--there was not a single papist in the place--popery had no hold _there_. unfortunately, when mr. blunting made this observation, there happened to be a lull in the talk, and it was audible to everybody, including philip stanburne, who was well enough to sit at table. poor mrs. anison began to feel very uncomfortable, but as mr. blunting sat next to her, she whispered to him that they had a roman catholic at table. this communication not having been loud enough to be heard by mrs. ogden, who, never having sat down with a roman catholic in her life, was incapable of imagining such a contingency, that lady replied,-- "shayton folk believe i' th' bible." "and may i ask," said philip, very loudly and resolutely from the other end of the table, "what catholics believe in?" "why, they believe i' th' koran." the hearers--and everybody present had heard mrs. ogden distinctly--could not credit their ears. each thought that he must be mistaken--that by some wholly unaccountable magic he had heard the word "koran" when it had been pronounced by no mortal lips. nobody laughed--nobody even smiled. there is a degree of astonishment which stuns the sense of humor. every one held his breath when mr. blunting spoke. "no, ma'am," he said, respectfully, "you are somewhat mistaken. you appear to have confounded the papal and the mohammedan religions." what mrs. ogden's answer may have been does not matter very much, for mr. and mrs. anison both saw the necessity for an immediate diversion, and talked about something else in the most determined manner. on reflection, philip stanburne thought his church quite sufficiently avenged already. "as i believe in the koran," he said to miss anison, "i may marry four wives. what an advantage that will be!" "you horrible man!" "why am i a horrible man? why are you so ungracious to me? the sultan and the viceroy of egypt are like me--they believe in the koran--and they act upon their belief as i intend to do. yet a christian queen has been gracious to them. she did not tell them they were horrible men. why should you not be gracious to me in the same way? when i have married my four wives, you will come and visit me, won't you, in my palace on the bosphorus? black slaves shall bring you coffee in a little jewelled cup, and your lips shall touch the amber mouth-piece of a diamonded chibouque." "but then your four wives will all be orientals, and i shall not be able to talk to them." the misses anison were not the only young ladies at the table. philip stanburne had a neighbor on his left hand who interested him even more than the brilliant girl on his right. this was miss alice stedman, whom he had seen in the bookseller's shop at sootythorn. "and if you believe in the koran," said miss stedman, "you ought to show it by refusing to drink wine." "ah, then, i renounce mohammed, that i may have the pleasure of drinking wine with you, miss stedman!" this was said with perfect grace, and in the little ceremony which followed, the young gentleman contrived to express so much respect and admiration for his fair neighbor, that mrs. anison took note of it. "mr. stanburne is in love with alice," she said to herself. "would you renounce your religion for love?" asked madge anison, in a low tone. philip felt a sudden sensation, as if a doctor had just probed him. garibaldi felt the corresponding physical pain when nélaton found the bullet. he turned slowly and looked at madge. there was a strange expression about her lips, and the perennial merriment had faded from her face. "are you speaking seriously, miss anison, i wonder?" the talk was noisy enough all round the table to isolate the two completely. even miss stedman was listening to her loud-voiced neighbor, the lieutenant. madge anison looked straight at philip, and said, "yes, i _am_ speaking seriously." "i believe i should not, now. but nobody knows what he may do when he is in love." "you _are_ in love." this time the room whirled, and the voices sounded like the murmur of a distant sea. in an instant philip stanburne passed from one state of life to another state of life. a crisis, which changed the whole future of four persons there present, occurred in the world of his consciousness. his imagination rioted in wild day-dreams; but one picture rose before him with irresistible vividness--a picture of alice kneeling with him under a canopy, before the high altar at st. agatha's. a slight pressure on his left arm recalled him to the actual world. the ladies were all leaving their seats, and madge had kindly reminded him where he was. "a sad place for drinking is shayton," observed mr. blunting, as he poured himself a glass of pure water. "i wonder if one could do any good there?" "they're past curing, mostly, are shayton folk," answered john stedman. "are not they, mr. ogden?" "there's one here that is, i'm afraid," answered isaac, with much humility. mr. blunting inquired, with sympathy in his tone, whether mr. ogden had himself fallen under temptation. when isaac confessed his backslidings of the past week, the reverend gentleman requested permission to see him in private. isaac had a dislike to clergymen in general, and in matters of religion rather shared the latitudinarian views of his friend dr. bardly; but he was in a state of profound moral discouragement, and ready to be grateful to any one who held out prospects of effectual help. so it ended by his accepting an invitation to take tea at the parsonage at sootythorn. "if you take tea with mr. blunting," said joseph anison, "you must mind he doesn't inoculate you with his own sort of intemperance, if he cures you of your little excesses. he drinks tea enough in a year to float a canal-boat. it's a terribly bad habit. in my opinion it's far worse than drinking brandy. the worst of it is that it makes men like gossip just as women do. stick to your brandy-bottle, mr. ogden, like a man, and let mr. blunting empty his big tea-pot!" chapter xix. the colonel at whittlecup. whilst the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, mr. blunting saw a horse pass the window--a riderless, yet harnessed horse--followed by another horse in an unaccustomed manner; and then came a lofty vehicle, drawn by the latter animal. i have described this equipage as it appeared to mr. blunting; but the experienced reader will perceive that it was a tandem, and by the association of ideas will expect to see fyser and the colonel. colonel stanburne came into the dining-room, and soon made himself at home there. he had never happened to meet joseph anison or mr. stedman, but he knew the incumbent of sootythorn slightly, and the other two men were his own officers, though he had as yet seen very little of either of them. the stanburnes of wenderholme held a position in all that part of the country so far above that to which their mere wealth would have entitled them (for there were manufacturers far richer than the colonel), that joseph anison felt it an honor that the head of that family should have entered his gates. "he's only calling on young stanburne," thought joseph anison; "he isn't calling upon us." "i came to thank you and mrs. anison," said the colonel, "for having so kindly taken care of our young friend here. he seems to be getting on uncommonly well; and no wonder, when he's in such good quarters." "captain stanburne is gaining strength, i am glad to say," replied the master of the house. "he rather alarmed us when he came here, he seemed so weak; but he has come round wonderfully." "i am very much better, certainly," said the patient himself. the commanding officer hoped he would be fit for duty again at an early date, but captain stanburne declared that he did not feel strong enough yet to be equal to the march and the drill; that he was subject to frequent sensations of giddiness, which would make him most uncomfortable, if not useless, on the parade-ground; and that, in a word, he was best for the present where he was. this declaration was accompanied by due expressions of regret for the way in which he abused the kind hospitality of the anisons--expressions which, of course, drew forth from the good host a cordial renewal of his lease. "and what have you done with the irishman who nearly killed him?" asked mr. anison of the colonel. "i've heard nothing about him. if you'd had him shot, we should have heard of it." "it was a perplexing case. if you consider the man a soldier, the punishment is most severe--in fact it is death, even if he did not mean to kill. but we hardly could consider him a soldier--he had had no military experience--a raw irish laborer, who had never worn a uniform. i have been unwilling to bring the man before a court-martial. he is in prison still." "he has been punished enough," said philip. "pray consider him simply as having been drunk. irishmen are always combative when they are drunk. it was not a deliberate attack upon me as his officer. the man was temporarily out of his senses, and struck blindly about him." it having been settled that the irishman was to be pardoned on the intercession of captain stanburne, the colonel begged to be presented to mrs. anison. "he had not much time," he said, looking at his watch; "he had to be back in sootythorn in time for mess, and he was anxious to pay his respects to the lady of the house." so they all went into the drawing-room. after the introductory bows, the colonel perceived our friend, little jacob (who had retreated with the ladies); but as he had not quite finished his little speech to mrs. anison about her successful nursing, he did not as yet take any direct notice of him. when the duties of politeness had been fully performed, the colonel beckoned for little jacob, and when he came to him, laid both hands on his shoulders. "and so you're here, too, are you, young man? i thought you were at shayton with your grandmamma." lieutenant ogden came up at this instant to excuse himself. "my mother only came to whittlecup yesterday, colonel, and she brought my little boy with her." mrs. ogden approached the group. "i'm little jacob's grandmother," she said, "and i'm mother to this great lad here" (pointing to the lieutenant), "and it's as much as ever i can do to take care of him. what did you send him by himself to whittlecup for? you should have known better nor that; sending a drunkard like him to stop by hisself in a public-house. if he's a back-slider now, it's 'long o' them as turned him into temptation, same as a cow into a clover-field. i wish he'd never come into th' malicious (militia)--i do so." the colonel was little accustomed to be spoken to with that unrestrained frankness which characterizes the inhabitants of shayton, and felt a temporary embarrassment under mrs. ogden's onslaught. "well, mrs. ogden, let us hope that mr. isaac will be safe now under your protection." "safe? ay, he is safe now, i reckon, when he's getten his mother to take care of him; and there's more on ye as wants your mothers to take care on ye, by all accounts." "mother," said the lieutenant, "you shouldn't talk so to the colonel. you should bear in mind how he kept little jacob at wenderholme hall." mrs. ogden was pacified immediately, and held out her hand. "i thank you for that," she said, "you were very kind to th' childt; and i've been doin' a piece of needlework ever since for your wife, but it willn't be finished while christmas." "mother, you shouldn't say 'your wife'--you should say 'her ladyship,'" observed the lieutenant, in a low tone. "my wife will be greatly obliged to you, mrs. ogden. i hope you will make her acquaintance before you leave the regiment; for i may say that you belong to the regiment now, since you have come to be lieutenant ogden's commanding officer." mrs. anison had been first an astonished and then an amused auditor of this colloquy, but she ended it by offering mrs. ogden a cup of tea. then the colonel began to talk to mrs. anison. he had that hearty and frank enjoyment of the society of ladies which is not only perfectly compatible with morality, but especially belongs to it as one of its best attributes and privileges. good women liked the colonel, and the colonel liked good women; he liked them none the less when they were handsome, as mrs. anison was, and when they could talk well and easily, as she did. some women are distinguished by nature; and though mrs. anison had seen little of the great world, and the colonel had seen a good deal of it, the difference of experience did not place a perceptible barrier between them. the time seemed to have passed rapidly for both when the visitor took his leave. chapter xx. philip stanburne in love. if any rational and worldly-minded adviser had said to philip stanburne a month before, "why don't you look out for some well-to-do cotton-spinner's daughter in sootythorn? you might pick up a good fortune, that would mend the stanithburn property, and you might find a nice well-educated girl, who would do you quite as much credit as if she belonged to one of the old families"--if any counsel of this kind had been offered to philip stanburne then, before he saw alice stedman, he would have rejected it at once as being altogether inadmissible. _he_, the representative of the house of stanburne, connect himself with a family of cotton-spinners! he, the dutiful son of the church, ally himself with a member of one of those heretical sects who insult her in her affliction! our general views of things may, however, be very decided, and admit, nevertheless, of exception in favor of persons who are known to us. to hate protestants in general--to despise the commercial classes as a body--is one thing; but to hate and despise a gentle maiden, whose voice sounds sweetly in our ears, is quite another thing. "she's as perfect a lady as any i ever saw," thought philip, as she walked before him in the garden at arkwright lodge. a closer social critic might have answered, that although alice stedman was a very admirable and good young woman, absolutely free from the least taint of vulgarity, she lacked the style and "go" of a young lady of the world. her deficiency in this respect may, however, have gone far to produce the charm which attracted philip. alice had not the _aplomb_ of a fine lady, nor the brilliance of a clever woman; but nature had given her a stamp of genuineness which is sometimes effaced by the attrition of society. "it's wrong of me to have taken possession of you, captain stanburne," said margaret anison; "i see you are longing to be with alice stedman--you would be a great deal happier with her;" and, without consulting him further, she called her sister, adding, "i beg pardon, lissy, but i want to say something to sarah." of course, as miss anison had some private communication to make to her sister, philip and alice had nothing to do but _s'éloigner_. the young gentleman offered his arm, which was accepted, and they went on down a deviously winding walk. alice looked round, and seeing nobody, said, "hadn't we better wait, or go back a little? we have been walking faster than they have." philip did as he was bid, not precisely knowing or caring which way he went. but the young ladies were not there. "i think," he said at last, "we should do better to go in our first direction, as they will expect us to do. very likely miss anison may have taken her sister to the house, to show her something, and they will meet us in the garden again, if we go in the direction they calculate upon." so they turned round and walked down the winding path again. "you often come to this place, i believe," said philip. "the anisons are old friends of yours, are they not, miss stedman?" "oh yes; i come to stay here very often. the anisons are very kind to me." "they are kind to me also, miss stedman, and yet i have no claim of old acquaintance. a fortnight since i did not even know their name, and yet it seems to me now as if i had known them for years. _you_ are rather an older acquaintance, miss stedman. i had the pleasure of seeing you at sootythorn before i came to whittlecup." alice looked up at her companion rather archly, and said, "you mean in the bookseller's shop?" "yes, when you came to buy a book of sermons. shall i tell you what book you ordered? i remember the name perfectly. it was 'blunting's sermons on popery.'" "so you were listening, were you?" "i wasn't listening when i heard your voice for the first time, but i listened very attentively afterwards. my attention was attracted by the title of the book. you know that i am a catholic, miss stedman?" "yes," said alice, very briefly, and in a tone which seemed to endeavor not to imply disapprobation. "and perhaps you know that catholics don't quite like to hear their religion called 'popery.' so i was a little irritated; but then i reflected that as the title of the book was so, you could not order it by another name than the name upon its titlepage." here there was a pause, as alice did not speak. philip resumed,-- "do you live _in_ sootythorn, miss stedman?" "not far out of the town. indeed our house is surrounded by buildings now. it used to be quite in the country." "i--i should like to call upon mr. stedman very much when i am quite well again." for some seconds there was no answer. then alice said in a low tone, almost inaudible, "i should be very glad to see you again." a heavy and rapid step on the gravel behind them abruptly ended this interesting conversation. it was not madge anison's step. they stopped and looked round. the reverend abel blunting confronted them. if poor alice had not had that miserable habit of blushing, the reverend gentleman would have perceived nothing beyond the simple fact that the young lady was walking in a garden with mr. philip stanburne. but alice's face was suffused with crimson, and the knowledge that it was so made her so uncomfortable that she blushed more than ever. in spite of his manhood, there was a slightly heightened color on philip's cheek also, but a good deal of this may be attributed to vexation at what he was disposed to consider an ill-timed and unwarrantable intrusion. "good morning, miss alice! i hope you are quite well: and you, sir, i wish you good morning; i hope i see you well." philip bowed, a little stiffly, and alice proceeded to make hasty inquiries about her papa. did mr. blunting know if her papa had changed his intentions? mr. blunting was always very polite, the defect in his manners (betraying that he was not quite a gentleman) being that they were only too deferential. he had a fatherly affection for alice stedman, whose spiritual guide he had been from her infancy, and it was certainly the very first time in her life that she had seen him without feelings of unmingled satisfaction. "i have come to fetch you myself, miss alice. i met your papa in sootythorn this morning as i was leaving in my gig, and he asked if i were coming to whittlecup. so he requested me to offer you the vacant seat, miss alice, which i now do with great pleasure." here mr. blunting made a sort of a bow. there was an unctuousness in his courtesy that irritated philip, but perhaps philip envied him his place in the gig. "are we going to leave immediately, then?" inquired miss stedman, in a tone which did not imply the most perfect satisfaction with these arrangements. "mrs. anison has been so kind as to invite me to dine, and i have accepted." mr. blunting was too honest to say that miss alice ought to dine before her drive. he accepted avowedly in his own interest. he had a large body to nourish, he had to supply energies for an enormous amount of work, and the dinners at the sootythorn parsonage were not always very succulent. he therefore thought it not wrong to accept effective aid in his labors when it offered itself in the shape of hospitality. at dessert the clergyman found an opportunity of conveying, not too directly, a little hint or lesson which he felt it his duty to convey, and which had been tormenting him since the meeting in the garden. the conversation, which at whittlecup, as elsewhere, very generally ran upon people known to the speakers, had turned to a case of separation between a neighboring country gentleman and his wife, who were, or had been, of different religions. "marriages of that kind," said mr. blunting, "between people of different religions, seldom turn out happily, and it is a great imprudence to contract them." mrs. anison expressed a hearty concurrence in this view, but certain young persons present believed that, however just mr. blunting's observation might be, considered generally, there must be exceptions to a rule so discouraging. chapter xxi. the wenderholme coach. the distance from wenderholme to sootythorn was rather inconveniently great, being about twenty miles; and as there was no railway in that direction, the colonel determined to set up a four-in-hand, which he facetiously entitled "the wenderholme coach." the immediate purpose of the wenderholme coach was to enable the officers to enjoy more frequently the hospitalities of the hall; but it may be admitted that john stanburne had a natural gift for driving, and also a cultivated taste for that amusement, which may have had their influence in deciding him to add this item to his establishment. he had driven his tandem so long now, that, though it was still very agreeable to him, it no longer offered any excitement; but his experience of a four-in-hand was much more limited, and it therefore presented many of the allurements of novelty. nothing is more agreeable than a perfect harmony between our duties towards others and our private tastes and predilections. it was clearly a duty to offer hospitality to the officers; and the hospitality would be so much more graceful if wenderholme were brought nearer to sootythorn by a capacious conveyance travelling at high speed, and with the style befitting a company of officers and gentlemen. at the same time, when john stanburne imagined the charms of driving a four-in-hand, his fingers tingled with anticipations of their delight in holding "the ribbons." like all men of a perfectly healthy nature, he still retained a great deal of the boy (alas for him whose boyhood is at an end for ever!), and he was still capable of joyously anticipating a new pleasure. the _idea_ of the four-in-hand was not new to him. he had long secretly aspired to its realization, but then lady helena (who had not the sacred fire) was not likely to see the thing quite in the same light. john stanburne had never precisely consulted her upon the subject--he had never even gone so far as to say that he should like a four-in-hand if he could afford it; but he had expatiated on the delights of driving other people's teams, and his enthusiasm had met with no answering warmth in helena's unresponsive breast. she had known for years that her husband had a hankering after a four-in-hand, and had discouraged it in her own way--namely, by steadily avoiding the least expression (even of simple politeness) which might be construed into approbation. in this negative way, without once speaking openly about the matter, she had clearly conveyed to the colonel's mind her opinion thereupon. the reader, no doubt, approves her ladyship's wisdom and economy. but lady helena was not on all points wise and economical. her qualities of this order shone most conspicuously with reference to pleasures which she did not personally appreciate. it is with sins of extravagance as with most other sins--we compound for those which we're inclined to by condemning those that we've no mind to. on the other hand, it may most reasonably be argued, in favor of her ladyship and other good women who criticise their husbands' expenditure on this excellent old principle, that if they not only encouraged the outlay which procures them the things they like, but also outlay for things they are indifferent about, the general household expenditure would be ruinously augmented. the colonel's manner of proceeding about the four-in-hand was characteristic of a husband in his peculiar position. he knew by experience the strength of the _fait accompli_. he wrote privily to a knowing friend of his who was spending the pleasant month of may amidst the joys of the london season, to purchase for him at once the commodious vehicle destined to become afterwards famous as the wenderholme coach. he wrote for it on that monday evening when alice stedman returned from her interrupted visit to whittlecup; and as it was sent down on a truck attached to a passenger train, it arrived at the sootythorn station within forty-eight hours of the writing of the letter, and was brought to the thorn inn by two of mr. garley's hacks. the officers turned out to look at it after mess, and as it was known to have been selected by a man of high repute in the sporting world, its merits were unanimously allowed. there was a complete set of silver-mounted harness for four horses in the boot, carefully wrapped up in three sorts of paper; and london celerity had even found time to emblazon the stanburne arms on the panels. it is true that they were exceedingly simple, like the arms of most old families, and the painter had omitted to impale them with the bearings of her ladyship--an accident which might also be considered ominous under the circumstances, since it seemed to imply that in this extravagance of the colonel's his wife had no part nor lot. as the mess was just over when the coach entered mr. garley's yard, the colonel, with the boyish impulsiveness which he did not attempt to conceal, said, "let's have a drive in the wenderholme coach! where shall we go to? let's go and look up lieutenant ogden at whittlecup, and see what he's doing!" so the two tandem horses and two of mr. garley's hacks were clothed in the splendors of the new harness, and attached to the great vehicle, whilst a dozen officers mounted to the lofty outside places. they wore the mess costume (red shell-jacket, &c.), and looked something like a lot of scarlet geraniums on the top of a horticulturist's van. just as they were starting, and as the colonel was beginning to feel his reins properly, a youthful lieutenant who possessed a cornet-à-piston, and had privily carried it with him as he climbed to his place behind, filled the streets of sootythorn with triumphant trumpet-notes. the sound caused many of the inhabitants to come to their windows, and amongst others miss mellor and her friend, mrs. ogden, who had been drinking tea with her that evening. "why," said miss mellor, "it's a new coach!" "and it's boun' to'rd whittlecup, i declare," added mrs. ogden. she had already put her things on, intending to walk back to whittlecup with little jacob in the cool of the evening, for it was quite contrary to mrs. ogden's character (at once courageous and economical) to hire a fly for so short a distance as four miles. but when she saw the coach, it occurred to her that here was a golden mean betwixt the extravagance of fly-hiring and the fatigues of pedestrianism; so she clapped little jacob's cap on his head (in a manner unsatisfactory to that young gentleman, for nobody can put a boy's cap on to suit him except himself), and dragged him out at the front door, hardly taking time to say good night to the worthy lady by whom she had just been so hospitably entertained. when the colonel saw mrs. ogden making signs with her parasol, he recognized her at once, and good-naturedly drew up his horses that she might get inside. fyser got down to open the door, and the following conversation, which was clearly overheard by several of the officers, and partially by the colonel himself, took place between fyser and mrs. ogden. "is this whittlecup coach?" "yes, mum." "is there room inside for me and this 'ere little lad?" "plenty of room, mum. step in, please; the horses is waitin'." "stop a bit. what's the fare as far as whittlecup?" "one shilling, mum," said fyser, who ventured thus far, from his knowledge of the colonel's indulgent disposition when a joke was in the wind. "the childt'll be half-price?" said mrs. ogden, mixing the affirmative with the interrogative. "very well, mum," said fyser, and shut the door on mrs. ogden and little jacob. the colonel, since the box-seat was on the other side of the vehicle, had not heard the whole of this colloquy; and when it was reported to him amidst roars of laughter, he looked rather graver than was expected. "it's a good joke, gentlemen," he said, "but there is one little matter i must explain to you. our inside passenger is the mother of one of our brother officers, lieutenant ogden, who is commanding number six company at whittlecup, and the little boy with her is his son; so please be very careful never to allude to this little incident in his presence, you understand." meanwhile mrs. ogden found the whittlecup coach comfortable in a supreme degree. "they've rare good coaches about sootythorn," she said to little jacob; "this is as soft as soft--it's same as sittin' on a feather-bedd." a few minutes later she continued: "th' outside passengers is mostly soldiers[ ] by what i can see. they're 'appen some o' your father's men as are boun' back to whittlecup." in less than half an hour the colonel drew up in the market-place at whittlecup, at the sign of the blue bell. he handed the reins to his neighbor on the box, and descended with great alacrity. fyser had just opened the door when the colonel arrived in time to help mrs. ogden politely as she got out. "it's eighteenpence," she said, and handed him the money. the colonel had thrown his gray cloak over his shell-jacket, and, to a person with mrs. ogden's habits of observation, or non-observation, looked sufficiently like a coachman. he thought it best to take the money, to prevent an explanation in the presence of so many witnesses. so he politely touched his cap, and thanked her. it being already dusk, she did not recognize him. suddenly the love of a joke prevailed over other considerations, and the colonel, imitating the cabman's gesture, contemplated the three sixpences in his open hand by the light of the lamp, and said, "is there nothing for the coachman, mum?" the lamplight fell upon his features, and mrs. ogden recognized him at once; so did little jacob. her way of taking the discovery marked her characteristic self-possession. she blundered into no apologies; but, fixing her stony gray eyes full on the colonel's face, she said, "i think you want no sixpences; stanburnes o' wendrum hall doesn't use wantin' sixpences. give me my eighteenpence back." then, suddenly changing her resolution, she said, "nay, i willn't have them three sixpences back again; it's worth eighteenpence to be able to tell folk that colonel stanburne of wenderholme hall took money for lettin' an old lady ride in his carriage." she said this with real dignity, and taking little jacob by the hand, moved off with a steady step towards her lodging over the shoemaker's shop. chapter xxii. colonel stanburne apologizes. the next day lieutenant ogden appeared not on the parade-ground at sootythorn. captain stanburne commanded his own company for the first time since his accident (his cure having been wonderfully advanced by the departure of miss stedman from arkwright lodge); and during one of the short intervals of repose which break the tedium of drill, he went to pay his respects to the colonel, who was engaged in conversation with the adjutant on a bit of elevated ground, whilst fyser promenaded his war-horse to and fro. colonel stanburne, who was ignorant of the cause to which he owed the rapid recovery of his young friend, heartily congratulated him, and then said, "but where is ogden? what's ogden doing? why didn't he come to the parade-ground to join the grenadier company again? is he taking a day's holiday with those pretty girls at arkwright lodge?" "mr. ogden begs to be excused from attending drill to-day. i have a note from him." and captain stanburne handed the letter to the colonel. as soon as john stanburne had read the letter he looked very grave, or rather very much put out, and made an ejaculation. the ejaculation was "damn it!" then he folded the letter again, and put it in his pocket-book. "have you had any conversation with mr. ogden on the subject of this letter?" captain stanburne knew nothing about it. the colonel made a signal for fyser, and mounted his horse. fyser mounted another, and followed his master. the senior major was telling humorous anecdotes to a group of captains, and the colonel went straight to him at a canter. he told him to command the regiment in his absence, entering into some details about what was to be done--details which puzzled the major exceedingly, for he knew nothing whatever about battalion drill, or any drill, though in some former state of existence he had been an ornamental officer in the guards. this done, the colonel galloped off the field. the letter which had caused this sudden departure was as follows:-- "sir,--as you have thought fit to play a practical joke upon my mother, i send in my resignation. "your obedient servant, isaac ogden." there was no hesitation about the colonel's movements; he rode straight to whittlecup as fast as his horse could carry him. he went first to the blue bell, where he found a guide to mrs. ogden's lodging over the shoemaker's shop. in answer to his inquiries, the shoemaker's wife admitted that all her lodgers were at home, but--but--in short, they were "getting their breakfast." the colonel said his business was urgent--that he must see the lieutenant, and mrs. ogden too--so mrs. wood guided him up the narrow stairs. we may confess for john stanburne that he had not much of that courage which rejoices in verbal encounters, or if he had, it was of that kind which dares to do what the man is constitutionally most afraid to do. the reader may remember an anecdote of another english officer, who, as he went into battle, betrayed the external signs of fear, and in reply to a young subaltern, who had the impudence to taunt him, said, "yes, i _am_ afraid, and if you were as much afraid as i am, you would run away." yet, by the strength of his will, he conducted himself like a true soldier. and there is that other stirring anecdote about a french commander, who, when his body trembled at the opening of a battle, thus apostrophized it: "tu trembles, vile carcasse! tu tremblerais bien plus si tu savais où je vais te mener!" if these men were cowards, john stanburne was a coward too, for he mortally dreaded this encounter with the ogdens; but if they were not cowards (having will enough to neutralize that defect of nature), neither was john stanburne. lieutenant ogden rose from his seat, and bowed rather stiffly as the colonel entered. mrs. ogden made a just perceptible inclination of the head, and conveyed to her mouth a spoonful of boiled egg, which she had just dipped in the salt. "i beg pardon," said the colonel, "for intruding upon you during breakfast time, but--but i was anxious"--the moment of hesitation which followed was at once taken advantage of by mrs. ogden. "and is that all you've come to beg pardon for?" this thrust put the colonel more on his defence than a pleasanter reception would have done. he had intended to offer nothing but a very polite apology; but as there seemed to be a disposition on the part of the enemy to extort concessions so as to deprive them of the grace of being voluntary, he withdrew into his own retrenchments. "i came to ask mr. ogden for an explanation about his letter of this morning." "i should think you need no explanations, colonel stanburne. you know what passed yesterday evening." "he knows that well enough," said mrs. ogden. "i should be glad if lieutenant ogden would tell me in detail what he thinks that he has to complain of." "leaftenant! leaftenant! nay, there's no more leaftenantin', i reckon. this is isaac ogden--plain isaac ogden--an' nout elz. he's given up playin' at soldiers. he's a cotton-spinner, or he were one, nobbut his brother an' him quarrelled; and i wish they hadn't done, many a time i do--for our jacob's as much as ever he can manage, now as he's buildin' a new mill; an' if he gets wed--and there's hiram ratcliff's dorther"--mrs. ogden might have gone very far into family matters if her son had not perceived (or imagined that he perceived) something like a smile on colonel stanburne's face. in point of fact, the colonel did not precisely smile; but there was a general relaxation of the muscles of his physiognomy from their first expression of severity, betraying an inward tendency to humor. "well, sir," broke in ogden, "i'll tell you what you did, if you want me. it seems that you've set up a new carriage, a four-in-hand, which looks very like a mail coach, and you drove this vehicle yesterday through the streets of sootythorn, and you saw my mother on the footpath, and you made a signal to her with your whip, as coachmen do, and you allowed her to get inside under the impression that it was a public conveyance, so that you might make a laughing-stock of her with the officers. and"-- "pardon me," said the colonel, "it was not"-- "you've asked me to tell you why i sent in my resignation, and i'm telling you. if you stop me, i shalln't begin it over again. let me say my say, colonel stanburne; you may explain it away afterwards at your leisure, if you can. when you got into whittlecup, and stopped at the blue bell, you took my mother's money--and not only that, but you asked for a gratuity for yourself, as driver, to make her ridiculous in the eyes of your friends on the vehicle. i suppose, though your joke may have been a very good one, that you will be able to understand why it is not very pleasing to me, and why i don't choose to remain under you in the militia." "if the thing had occurred as you have told it"--the colonel began, but was instantly interrupted by mrs. ogden. "do you mean to say i didn't tell him right what happened? if anybody knows what happened, i do." "let the colonel say what he has to say, mother; don't you stop him. i've said my say, and it's his turn now." the colonel told the facts as the reader knows them. "he had made no sign to mrs. ogden," he said, "in the street at sootythorn, but she had made a sign with her parasol, which he had interpreted as a request for a place. he had been ignorant that fyser had kept up her illusion about the vehicle being a public one until after the fact; and so far from encouraging the merriment of the officers, had put a stop to it by telling them who mrs. ogden was, particularly requesting that the incident might not be made a subject of pleasantry, lest it should reach mr. ogden's ears. on arriving in whittlecup, he had taken her money, but with the express purpose of saving her the pain of an explanation. he had intended mrs. ogden to remain ignorant--happily ignorant--of her little mistake." "pardon me," said isaac ogden; "this might have been equally well accomplished without asking my mother for a coachman's gratuity. _that_ was done to make a fool of her, evidently; and no doubt you laughed about it with your friends as you drove back to sootythorn." "here is the only point on which i feel that i owe an apology to mrs. ogden, and i very willingly make it. in every thing else i did what lay in my power to save her from ridicule, but on this point i confess that i did wrong. i couldn't help it. i was carried away by a foolish fancy for acting the coachman out and out. the temptation was too strong for me, you know. i thought i had taken the money cleverly, in the proper professional manner, and i was tempted to ask for a gratuity. i acknowledge that i went too far. mrs. ogden, i am very sorry for this." mrs. ogden had been gradually softening during the colonel's explanation, and when it came to its close she turned to him and said, "we've been rather too hard upon you, i think." such an expression as this from mrs. ogden was equivalent to a profuse apology. the lieutenant added a conciliatory little speech of his own: "i think my mother may accept your explanation. i am willing to accept it myself." this was not very cordial, but at any rate it was an expression of satisfaction. little jacob had hitherto been a silent and unobserved auditor of this conversation, but it now occurred to the colonel that he might be of considerable use. "mrs. ogden," he said, "will you allow me to transfer your eighteenpence to this young gentleman's pocket?" mrs. ogden consented, and it will be believed that little jacob on his part had no objection. then the colonel drew little jacob towards him, and began to ask him questions--"what would he like to be?" little jacob said he would like to be a coachman, as the colonel was, and drive four horses. the colonel promised him a long drive on the coach. "and may i drive the horses?" "well, we shall see about that. yes, you shall drive them a little some day." then turning towards mrs. ogden, he continued,-- "lady helena is not at wenderholme just now, unfortunately; she is gone to town to her father's for a few days, so that i am a bachelor at present, and cannot invite ladies; but if it would please little jacob to ride on the coach with me, i should be very glad if you would let him. i am going to drive to wenderholme this evening as soon as our afternoon drill is finished, and shall return to-morrow morning. about half-a-dozen officers are going to dine with me. ogden, you'll dine with me too, won't you? do--there's a good fellow; and pray let us forget this unlucky bit of unpleasantness. don't come full fig--come in a shell-jacket." "well, but you know, colonel stanburne, i've resigned my commission, and so how can i come in a red jacket?" this was said with an agreeable expression of countenance, intended to imply that the resignation was no longer to be taken seriously. the colonel laughed. "nonsense," he said; "you don't talk about resigning? it isn't a time for resigning when there's such a capital chance of promotion. most likely you'll be a captain next training, for there's a certain old major who finds battalion drill a mystery beyond the utmost range of his intellect, and i don't think he'll stop very long with us, and when he leaves us there'll be a general rise, and the senior lieutenant, you know, will be a captain." mrs. ogden's countenance began to shine with pride at these hints of promotion. after all, he would be somebody at shayton, would captain ogden, for she was fully determined that when once he should be in possession of the title, it should not perish for want of use. when the colonel rose to take his leave, mrs. ogden said, "nay, nay, you shalln't go away without drinking a glass of wine. there's both port and sherry in the cupboard; and if you'd like something to eat--you must be quite hungry after your ride. why, you've 'appen never got your breakfast?" the colonel confessed that he had not breakfasted. he had come away from early drill just before his usual breakfast-hour. "eh, well, i wish i'd known sooner; indeed i do. the coffee's quite cold, and there's nothing worse than cold coffee; but mr. wood 'll very soon make some fresh." colonel stanburne was really hungry, and ate his breakfast in a manner which gave the greatest satisfaction to mrs. ogden. the more he ate the more he rose in her esteem, and at length she could no longer restrain her feelings of approval, and said, "you _can_ eat your breakfast; it does me good to watch ye. there's many a young man as cannot eat half as much as you do. there's our isaac here that's only a very poor breakfast-eater. i tell him so many a time." indeed she _did_ tell him so many a time--namely, about fifteen times whenever they breakfasted together. when the colonel had done eating, he looked at his watch and said it was time to go. "well, i'm very sorry you're goin' so soon--indeed i am," said mrs. ogden, who, when he ceased to eat, felt that her own pleasure was at an end. "but you _must_ drink a glass of wine. it isn't bought at the blue bell at whittlecup--it comes from shayton." she said this with a calm assurance that it settled the question of the wine's merits, just as if shayton had been the centre of a famous wine-district. returning to the subject of breakfast-eating, she repeated, "eh, i do wish our isaac could eat his breakfast same as you do, but he's spoiled his stomach wi' drinking." then addressing her son: "isaac, i put two glasses with the decanter--why don't you fill your glass?" "i've given up drinking." "do you mean to say as you're teetotal?" "yes, i do, mother; i'm teetotal now." mrs. ogden's face assumed an expression of extreme astonishment and displeasure. "well," she said, "isaac ogden, you're the first teetotal as has been in our family!" and she looked at him in scorn. then she resumed: "if i'd known what was to come of your meeting that teetotal clergyman--for it's him that's done it--i'd have prevented it if i could. turned teetotal! turned teetotal! well, isaac, i never could have believed this of any son of mine!" chapter xxiii. husband and wife. when lady helena came back from london, she found the wenderholme coach already in full activity. it ran from sootythorn to wenderholme twice a week regularly with many passengers, who, so far from contributing to its maintenance, did but yet further exhaust the pocket of its proprietor. it happened precisely that on the day of her ladyship's return the colonel had one of his frequent dinner-parties at the hall--parties composed almost exclusively of militia officers, and already known in the regiment as the "wenderholme mess." the colonel had thought it prudent to prepare lady helena for his new acquisition by mentioning it in a letter, so that she experienced no shock of surprise when the four-in-hand came swinging heavily round the drive in front of the house, announcing itself with loud blasts from ensign featherby's cornet-à-piston. they had such numbers of spare bedrooms at wenderholme that these hospitalities caused no perceptible inconvenience, except that of getting up very early the next morning, which chiefly affected the guests themselves, who had to be in time for early drill. on this point the colonel was inexorable, so that the wenderholme mess was much more popular on saturday than on thursday evening, as the officers stayed at wenderholme till after luncheon, going to the village church in the morning with the people at the hall, and returning to sootythorn in the course of the afternoon, so as to be in time for mess. it happened that the day of lady helena's return was a saturday, and the colonel thought, "she said nothing about the coach to-night, but i'm in for it to-morrow morning." however, when sunday morning came, beautiful with full spring sunshine, her ladyship's countenance appeared equally cloudless. encouraged by these favorable appearances, john stanburne observed, a little before church-time,-- "i say, helena, you haven't seen the wenderholme coach. come and look at it; _do_ come, helena--that's a good gell. it's in the coach-house." but her ladyship replied that she had seen the coach the evening before from the drawing-room window, when it arrived from sootythorn. "well, but you can't have seen it properly, you know. you can't have looked inside it. come and look inside it, and see what comfortable accommodation we've got for inside passengers. inside passengers don't often present themselves, though, and yet there's no difference in the fare. you'll be an inside passenger yourself--won't you, now, helena?" her ladyship was clearly aware that this coaxing was intended to extract from her an official recognition of the new institution, and she was resolutely determined to withhold it. so she looked at her watch, and observed that it was nearly church-time, and that she must go at once and put her things on. as they walked to church, she said to one of the officers, "we always walk to church from the hall, even in rainy weather." "helena's a capital walker," said the colonel. "it is fortunate for ladies to be good walkers," replied her ladyship, "when they have no carriage-horses." here was a stab; and the worst of it was, that it might clearly be proved to be deserved. the colonel had suggested in his letter to lady helena that she would do well to come by way of manchester to sootythorn, instead of going by bradford to a little country station ten miles on the yorkshire side of wenderholme. her ladyship had not replied to this communication, but had written the day before her return to the housekeeper at wenderholme, ordering her carriage, as usual, to the yorkshire station. the carriage had not come; the housekeeper had only been able to send the pony carriage, a tiny basket that lady helena drove herself, with seats for two persons, no place for luggage, and a black pony a little bigger than a newfoundland dog. lady helena had driven herself from the station; there had been a smart shower, and, notwithstanding a thin gray cloak, which was supposed to be waterproof, she had been wet through. the colonel had taken possession of all the carriage-horses for his four-in-hand, and they were at sootythorn. her ladyship would continue to be equally carriageless, since the colonel would take his whole team back with him, unless he sent back the horses from sootythorn on the day following. these things occupied john stanburne's mind when he should have been attending to the service. they had always kept four carriage-horses since their marriage, but never more than four; and though one of the two pairs had been often kept at sootythorn, when circumstances required them to go there frequently, still her ladyship had never been left carriageless without being previously consulted upon the subject, and then only for twenty-four hours at the longest. the idea of setting up a four-in-hand with only two pairs of horses, one of which was in almost daily requisition for a lady's carriage, would indeed have been ridiculous if john stanburne had quite seriously entertained it; but, though admitting vaguely the probable necessity of an increase, he had not yet recognized that necessity in a clear and definite way. it came to his mind, however, on that sunday morning with much distinctness. "well, hang it!" he thought, as he settled down in his corner at the beginning of the sermon, "i have as much right to spend my own money as helena has. every journey she makes to town costs more than a horse. i spend nothing on myself--really nothing whatever. look at my tailor's bill! i positively _haven't_ any tailor's bill. helena spends more on dress in a month than i do in a year. and then her jeweller's bill! she spends hundreds of pounds on jewellery, and i never spend one penny. every time she goes to a drawing-room she has all her old jewels pulled to pieces and set afresh, and it costs nobody knows what--it does. i'll have my four-in-hand properly horsed with horses of my own, by george! and none of those confounded sootythorn hacks any more; and helena shall keep her carriage-horses all to herself, and drive about all day long if she likes. of course i can't take her carriage-horses--she's right there." on her own part, her ladyship was steadily resolved not to be deprived of any of those belongings which naturally appertained to a person of her rank and consideration; and there had existed in her mind for several years a feeling of jealous watchfulness, which scrutinized at the same time john stanburne's projects of economy and his projects of expense. it had happened several times within the experience of this couple that the husband had taken little fits of parsimony, during which he attacked the expenditure he least cared for, but which, by an unfortunate fatality, always seemed to his wife to be most reasonable and necessary. it might perhaps have been more favorable to his tranquillity to ally himself with some country girl acclimatized to the dulness of a thoroughly provincial existence, and satisfied with the position of mistress of wenderholme hall, who would have let him spend his money in his own way, and would never have dragged him beyond the circle of his tastes and inclinations. he hated london, especially during the season; and though he enjoyed the society of people whom he really knew something about, he disliked being in a crowd. lady helena, on the other hand, was fond of society, and even of the spectacle of the court. john stanburne had regularly accompanied his wife on these annual visits to the metropolis until this year, when the militia afforded an excellent pretext for staying in the country; but every year he had given evidence of an increasing disposition to evade the performance of his duties; and it had come to this at last, that lady helena was obliged to go about with the adisham family, since john stanburne could not be made to go to parties any more. he grumbled, too, a good deal about the costliness of these london expeditions, and sometimes talked of suppressing them altogether. there was another annual expedition that he disliked very much, namely, a winter expedition to brighton; and it had come to pass that a coolness had sprung up between john stanburne and the adisham family (who went to brighton every year), because his indisposition to meet them there had been somewhat too openly manifested. his old mother was the confidant of these rebellious sentiments. she lived in a picturesque cottage situated in wenderholme park, which served as a residence for dowagers. she came very regularly to wenderholme church, and sat there in a small pew of her own, which bore the same relation to the big family pew that the cottage bore to the hall. john stanburne had objected very strongly to his mother's removal to the cottage, and he had also objected to the separate pew, but his mother maintained the utility of both institutions. she said it was good for an old woman, who found some difficulty in fixing her attention steadily, not to be disturbed in her devotions by the presence of too many strangers in the same pew; and as there would often be company at the hall, she would stick to her own seat. so she sat there as usual on this particular sunday, looking very nice in her light summer dress. the colonel's little daughter, edith, had slipped into her grandmamma's pew, as she often did, when they were walking up the aisle. she had been staying at the cottage during her mother's absence, as was her custom when lady helena went to london; and it had cost her, as usual, a little pang to leave the old lady by herself again. besides, she felt that it would be pleasanter to sit with her grandmother than with all those strange militia officers. she would have felt, in the family pew, as a very young sapling may be supposed to feel when it is surrounded by over-poweringly big trees--sufficiently protected, no doubt, but more than sufficiently overshadowed. amongst the officers in the wenderholme pew was lieutenant ogden, and by his side a young gentleman whose presence has not hitherto been mentioned, namely, little jacob. little jacob's curious eyes wandered over the quaint old church during the sermon, and they fixed frequently upon the strange hatchments and marble monuments in the chapel of the stanburnes. he had never seen such things before in his life (for there were no old families at shayton), and he marvelled greatly thereat. advancing, however, from the known to the unknown, he remembered the royal arms which decorated the front of the organ gallery in shayton church, and finding a similar ornament at wenderholme, proceeded to the inference that the hatchments were something of the same kind, in which he was not far wrong. gradually his eyes fell upon mrs. stanburne's pew, and rested there. a vague new feeling crept into his being; edith stanburne seemed very nice, he thought. it was pleasant to look upon her face. here the more rigid of my readers may exclaim, "surely he is not going to make little jacob fall in love at _that_ age!" well, not as you would fall in love, respected reader, if that good or evil fortune were to happen to you; but a child like little jacob is perfectly capable of falling in love in his own way. the loves of children bear about the same proportion to the great passion which rules the destiny of men, that their contests in fisticuffs do to the bloody work of the bayonet; but as we may many of us remember having given bob or tom an ugly-looking black eye, or perchance remember having received one from tom or bob, so also there may linger amongst the recollections of our infancy some vision of a sweet little child-face that seemed to us brighter than any other face in the whole world. in this way did edith stanburne take possession of master jacob's honest little heart, and become the object of his silent, and tender, and timid, and exceedingly respectful adoration. he intensely felt the distance between himself and the heiress of wenderholme hall, and so he admired her as some young officer about a court may admire some beautiful princess whom it is his dangerous privilege to see. children are affected by the externals of ancient wealth to a degree which the mature mind, dwelling amongst figures, is scarcely capable of realizing; and the difference between wenderholme and twistle farm, or wenderholme and milend, seemed to little jacob's imagination an utterly impassable abyss. but there was steam in ogden's mill, and there was a leak in john stanburne's purse, and the slow months and years were gradually bringing about great changes. little jacob's adventure on the moor, and his fortunate arrival at the hall, had given him a peculiar footing there. colonel stanburne had taken a marked fancy to the lad; and lady helena--who, as the reader may perhaps remember, had lost two little boys in their infancy--was always associating him with her tenderest regrets and recollections, so that there was a sad kindness in her ways with him that drew him very strongly towards her. isaac ogden spoke the lancashire dialect as thoroughly, when it suited him, as any cotton-spinner in the county; but he could also speak, when he chose, a sort of english which differed from aristocratic english by greater hardness and body, rather than by any want of correctness, and he had always strictly forbidden little jacob to speak the lancashire dialect in his presence. the lad spoke lancashire all the more energetically for this prohibition when his father was not within hearing; but the severity of the paternal law had at least given him an equal facility in english, and he kept the two languages safely in separate boxes in his cranium. it is unnecessary to say that at wenderholme hall the box which contained the lancashire dialect was shut up with lock and key, and nothing but the purest english was produced, so that her ladyship thought that the little boy "spoke very nicely--with a northern accent, of course, but it was not disagreeable." when they came out of church lady helena said to lieutenant ogden, "of course you will bring your little boy here on thursday for the presentation of colors;" and then, whilst mr. ogden was expressing his acknowledgments, she interrupted him: "why not let him remain with us till then? we will try to amuse him, and make him learn his lessons." mr. ogden said he would have been very glad, but--in short, his mother was staying at sootythorn, and might wish to keep her little grandson with her. colonel stanburne came up just then, and her ladyship's answer was no doubt partially intended for his ear. "let me keep little jacob till to-morrow at any rate. i have several people to see in sootythorn, and must go there to-morrow. i scarcely know how i am to get there, though, for i have no carriage-horses." chapter xxiv. the colonel as a consoler. "i say, doctor," said colonel stanburne to dr. bardly, the day before the presentation of colors, "i wish you'd look to philip stanburne a little. he doesn't seem to me to be going on satisfactorily at all. i'm afraid that accident at whittlecup has touched his brain--he's so absent. he commanded his company very fairly a short time back, and he took an interest in drill, but now, upon my word, he gets worse and worse. to-day he made the most absurd mistakes; and one time he marched his company right off, and, by george! i thought he was going to take them straight at the hedge; and i believe he would have done so if the adjutant hadn't galloped after him. eureton rowed him so, that it brought him to his senses. i never saw such a youth. he doesn't seem to be properly awake. i'm sure he's ill. he eats nothing. i noticed him at mess last night. he didn't eat enough to keep a baby alive. i don't believe he sleeps properly at nights. his face is quite haggard. one might imagine he'd got something on his conscience. if you can't do him any good, i'll see the catholic priest, and beg him to set his mind at ease. i'm quite anxious about him, really." the doctor smiled. "it's my opinion," he said, "that the young gentleman has a malady that neither you nor i can cure. some young woman may cure it, but we can't. the lad's fallen in love." "why, doctor, you don't believe that young fellows make themselves ill about such little matters as that, do you? men are ill in that way in novels, but never in real life. i was desperately spoony myself before i married helena, and it wasn't helena i was spoony about either, and the girl jilted me to marry a marquis; and i think she did quite right, for i'd rather she ran away with the marquis before she was my wife than after, you know. but it didn't spoil me a single meal--it didn't make me sleep a wink the less. in fact i felt immensely relieved after an hour or two; for there's nothing like being a bachelor, doctor--it's so jolly being a bachelor; no man in his senses can be sad and melancholy because he's got to remain a bachelor." the doctor heartily agreed with this opinion, but observed that men in love were _not_ men in their senses. "indeed they're not, doctor--indeed they're not; but, i say, have you any idea about who the girl is in this business of philip's? it isn't that pretty miss anison, is it?" now the doctor had seen captain stanburne coming out of mr. stedman's mill one day when he went there to get the manufacturer's present address, and, coupling this incident with his leave of absence, had arrived at a conclusion of his own. but he was not quite sure where young stanburne had been during his leave of absence. "why, he was down in derbyshire," said the colonel. "he told me he didn't feel quite well, and wanted a day or two for rest in the country. he said he was going to fish. i don't like giving leaves of absence--we're here only for twenty-eight days; but in his case, you know, after that accident"-- "oh, he went down to derbyshire, did he? then i know for certain who the girl is. it's alice stedman. her father is down there, fishing." "and who's she?" "why, you met her at whittlecup, at joseph anison's. she's a quiet bit of a lass, and a nice-looking lass, too. he might do worse." "i say," said the colonel, "tell me now, doctor, has she got any tin?" "she's safe to have thirty thousand if she's a penny; but it'll most likely be a good bit more." then the doctor continued, "but there's no blood in that family. her father began as a working man in shayton. it wouldn't be much of a match for a stanburne. it would not be doing like you, colonel, when you married an earl's daughter." "hang earls' daughters!" said the colonel, energetically; and then, recollecting himself, he added, "not all of 'em, you know, doctor--i don't want all of 'em to be hanged. but this young woman--i suppose she hasn't been presented at court, and doesn't want to be--and doesn't go to london every season, and has no swell relations." the doctor gave full assurances on all these points. "then i'll tell you what it is, doctor; if this young fellow's fretting about the girl, we'll do all we can to help him. he'd be more prudent still if he remained a bachelor; but it seems a rational sort of a marriage to make. she ain't got an uncle that's a baronet--eh, doctor?" "there's no danger of that." "that's right, that's right; because, look you here, doctor--it's a foolish thing to marry an earl's daughter, or a marquis's, or a duke's; but the foolishest thing of all is to marry a baronet's niece. a baronet's niece is the proudest woman in the whole world, and she's always talking about her uncle. a young friend of mine married a baronet's niece, and she gave him no rest till, by good luck, one day _his_ uncle was created a baronet, and then he met her on equal terms. it's the only way out of it: you _must_ under those circumstances get your uncle made a baronet. and if you don't happen to have such a thing as an uncle, what then? what can cheer the hopelessness of your miserable position?" after this conversation with the doctor, the colonel had another with philip stanburne himself. "captain stanburne," he said, gravely, in an interval of afternoon drill, "i consider you wanting in the duties of hospitality. i ask you to the sootythorn mess, and you never ask me to the whittlecup mess. i am reduced to ask myself. i beg to inform you that i shall dine at the whittlecup mess this evening." "i should be very happy, but--but i'm afraid you'll have a bad dinner. there's nothing but a beefsteak." "permit me to observe," continued the colonel, in the same grave tone, "that there's a most important distinction to be drawn between bad dinners and simple dinners. some of the very worst dinners i ever sat down to have been elaborate, expensive affairs, where the ambition of the cook exceeded his artistic skill; and some of the best and pleasantest have been simple and plain, and all the better because they were within the cook's capacity. that's my theory about dining, and every day's experience confirms it. for instance, between you and me, it seems to me highly probable that your whittlecup mess is better than ours at headquarters, for mr. garley _rather_ goes beyond what nature and education have qualified him for. his joints are good, but his side-dishes are detestable, and his sweets dangerous. so let us have the beefsteak to-night; there'll be enough for both of us, i suppose. and, i say," added the colonel, "don't ask anybody to meet me. i want to have a quiet hour or two with you." when drill was over, fyser appeared on the field with a led horse for the captain, and the two stanburnes rode off together in advance of the company, which for once was left to the old sergeant's care. the dinner turned out to be a beefsteak, as had been promised, and there was a pudding and some cheese. the colonel seemed to enjoy it very much, and ate very heartily, and declared that every thing was excellent, and talked at random about all sorts of subjects. they had the inn parlor all to themselves; and when dinner was over, and coffee had been served, and mr. simpson, the innkeeper (who had waited), had retired into other regions, the colonel lighted a cigar, and plunged _in medias res_. "i know what you went down into derbyshire for. you didn't go to fish; you went to ask mr. stedman to let you marry his daughter, miss alice stedman." for the first time since he had known him, philip stanburne was angry with the colonel. his face flushed at once, and he asked, in a tone which was any thing but conciliatory,-- "do you keep spies in your regiment, colonel stanburne?" "bardly saw you accidentally just as you were coming out of mr. stedman's counting-house, and between us we have made a guess at the object of your visit to derbyshire." "you are very kind to interest yourself so much in my affairs." "try not to be angry with me. what if i _do_ take an interest in your affairs? it isn't wrong, is it? i take an interest in all that concerns you, because i wish to do what i can to be of use to you." "you are very kind." "you are angry with me yet; but if i had plagued you with questions about your little excursion, would it not have been more impertinent and more irritating? i thought it best to let you see that i know all about it." "it was unnecessary to speak upon that subject until i had informed you about it." "my dear fellow, look here. it is not in the nature of things that you _would_ tell me. you have been rejected either by the father or the daughter, and you are going to make yourself ill about it; you are ill already--you are pale, and you never eat any thing, and your face is as melancholy as a face well can be. be a good fellow, and take me into your confidence, and we will see if we cannot put you out of your misery." "that is a phrase commonly used by people who kill diseased or wounded animals. you are becoming alarming. you will let me live, i hope, such as i am." the colonel perceived that philip was coming round a little. he waited a minute, and then went on. "she's a very nice girl. i met her at mr. anison's here. i would rather you married her than one of those pretty miss anisons. she seems a quiet sensible young lady, who will stay at home with her husband, and not always be wanting to go off to london, and brighton, and the lord knows where." philip had had a suspicion that the colonel was going to remonstrate with him for making a plebeian alliance, but that began to be dispelled. to induce him to express an opinion on that point, philip said,-- "her father is not a gentleman, you know." "i know who he is--a very well-to-do cotton manufacturer; and a very intelligent, well-informed man, i'm told. a gentleman! pray what _is_ a gentleman?" "a difficult question to answer in words; but we all know what we mean by the word when we use it." "well, yes; but is it quite necessary to a man to be a gentleman at all? upon my word, i very often think that in our line of life we are foolishly rigid on that point. i have met very clever and distinguished men--men of science, and artists, and even authors--who didn't seem quite to answer to our notions of what a gentleman is; and i know scores of fellows who are useless and idle, and vicious too, and given up to nothing but amusement--and not always the most innocent amusement either--and yet all who know society would recognize them as gentlemen at once. now, between ourselves, you and i answer to what is called a gentleman, and your proposed father-in-law, mr. stedman, you say doesn't; but it's highly probable that he is superior to either of us, and a deal more useful to mankind. he spins cotton, and he studies botany and geology. i wish i could spin cotton, or increase my income in any honest way, and i wish i had some pursuit. i tried once or twice: i tried botany myself, but i had no perseverance; and i tried to write a book, but i found my abilities weren't good enough for that; so i turned my talents to tandem-driving, and now i've set up a four-in-hand. by the by, my new team's coming to-morrow from london--a friend of mine there has purchased it for me." there was a shade of dissatisfaction on john stanburne's face as he concluded this little speech about himself. he did not seem to anticipate the arrival of the new team with pleasure unalloyed. the price, perhaps, may have been somewhat heavy--somewhat beyond his means. that london friend of his was a sporting character, with an ardent appreciation of horse-flesh in the abstract, and an elevated ideal. when he purchased for friends, which he was sometimes commissioned to do, he became truly a servant of the ideal, and sought out only such realities as a servant of the ideal might contemplate with feelings of satisfaction. these realities were always very costly--they always considerably exceeded the pecuniary limits which had been assigned to him. this was his only fault; he purchased well, and none of the purchase-money, either directly or indirectly, found its way into his own pocket. the colonel did not dwell, as he might have been expected to do, upon the subject of the horses--he returned almost immediately to that of matrimonial alliances. "it's not very difficult to make a guess at the cause of mr. stedman's opposition. bardly tells me he's a most tremendous protestant, earnest to a degree, and you, my dear fellow, happen to be a catholic. you'll have to let yourself be converted, i'm afraid, if you really want the girl." "a man cannot change his faith, when he has one, because it is his interest to do so. i would rather you did not talk about that subject--at least, in that strain. you know my views; you know that nothing would induce me to profess any other views." "bardly tells me he doesn't think stedman will give in, so long as you remain a catholic." "very well." "yes, it may be very well--it may be better than marrying. it's a very good thing, no doubt, to marry a good wife, but i'm not sure that the condition of a bachelor isn't really better than that of the most fortunate husband in the world. you see, philip (excuse me calling you by your christian name; i wish you'd call me john), you see a married man either cares about his wife or he doesn't. if he doesn't care about her, what's the use of being married to her? if, on the other hand, he _does_ care about her, then his happiness becomes entirely dependent upon her humors. some women--who are very good women in other respects--are liable to long fits of the sulks. you omit some little attention which they think is their due; you omit it in pure innocence, because your mind is very much occupied with other matters, and then the lady attributes it to all sorts of imaginary motives--it is a plan of yours to insult her, and so on. or, if she attributes it to carelessness, then your carelessness is itself such a tremendous crime that she isn't quite certain whether you ought ever to be forgiven for it or not; and she hesitates about forgiving you for a fortnight or three weeks, and then she decides that you shall be forgiven, and taken into her grace and favor once more. but by the time this has been repeated twenty or thirty times, a fellow gets rather weary of it, you know. it's my belief that women are divided into two classes--the sulky ones and the scolds. some of 'em do their sulking in a way that clearly shows it's done consciously, and intentionally, and artistically, as a frenchwoman arranges her ribbons. the great object is to show you that the lady holds herself in perfect command--that she is mistress of her own manner in every thing; and this makes her manner all the more aggravating; because, if she is so perfectly mistress of it, why doesn't she make it rather pleasanter?" "it's rather a gloomy picture that you have been painting, colonel, but every lover will believe that there is _one_ exception to it." "of course he will. you believe miss alice stedman is the exception; only, if you can't get her, don't fret about her. she seems a very admirable young lady, and i should be glad if you married her; because, if you don't, the chances are that you will marry somebody else not quite so suitable. but if i could be quite sure that you would remain a bachelor, and take a rational view of the immense advantages of bachelorhood, i shouldn't much regret mr. stedman's obduracy on your account." these views of the colonel's were due, no doubt, to his present position with lady helena. the causes which were gradually dividing them had been slowly operating for several years, but the effects which resulted from them were now much more visible than they had ever previously been. first they had walked together on one path, then the path had been divided into two by an all but invisible separation--still they had walked together. but now the two paths were diverging so widely that the eye began to measure the space between them, and as it measured the space widened. it is as when two trains leave some great railway station side by side. for a time they are on the same railroad, but after a while you begin to perceive that the distance from your own train to the other is gradually widening; and on looking down to the ground, which seems to flow like a swift stream, you see a streak of green between the two diverging ways, and it deepens to a chasm between two embankments; and after that they are separated by spaces ever widening--spaces of field and river and wood--till the steam of the other engine has vanished on the far horizon. john stanburne's offers of assistance were very sincere, but what, in a practical way, could he do? he could not make mr. stedman come round by asking him to wenderholme. there were plenty of people at sootythorn who would have done any thing to be asked to wenderholme, but mr. stedman was not one of them. him the blandishments of aristocracy seduced not; and there was something in his looks, even when you met him merely by accident for an hour, as the colonel had met him at arkwright lodge, which told you very plainly how obdurate he would be where his convictions were concerned, and how perfectly inaccessible to the most artful and delicate coaxing. so the colonel's good offices were for the present very likely to be confined to a general willingness to do something when the opportunity should present itself. the day fixed for the ceremony of presentation of colors was now rapidly approaching, and the invitations had all been sent out. it was the colonel's especial desire that this should take place at wenderholme, and the whole regiment was to arrive there the evening before, after a regular military march from sootythorn. the colonel had invited as many guests of his own as the house could hold; and, in addition to these, many of the sootythorn people, and one family from whittlecup, were asked to spend the day at wenderholme hall, and be witnesses of the ceremony. the whittlecup family, as the reader has guessed already, was that from arkwright lodge; and it happened that whilst the colonel was talking with philip stanburne about his matrimonial prospects, mr. joseph anison came to the blue bell to call upon his young friend. philip and the colonel were both looking out of the window when he came, and before he entered the room, the colonel found time to say, "take anison into your confidence--_he_'ll be your best man, he knows stedman so well. let me tell him all about it, will you? do, now, let me." philip consented, somewhat reluctantly, and mr. anison had not been in the room a quarter of an hour before the colonel had put him in possession of the whole matter. mr. anison's face did not convey very much encouragement. "john stedman is very inflexible," he said, "where his religious convictions are in any way concerned, and he is very strongly protestant. i will do what i can with him. i don't see why he should make such a very determined opposition to the match--it would be a very good match for his daughter--but he is a sort of man that positively enjoys sacrificing his interests and desires to his views of duty. if i've any advice to offer, it will be to leave him to himself for a while, and especially not to do any thing to conciliate him. his daughter _may_ bring him round in her own way; she's a clever girl, though she's a quiet one--and she can manage him better than anybody else." when mr. anison got back to arkwright lodge, he had a talk with mrs. anison about philip's prospects. "_i_ shouldn't have objected to him as a son-in-law," said the husband; "he'll be reasonable enough, and let his wife go to her own church." "i wish he'd taken a fancy to madge," said mrs. anison. "have you any particular reason for wishing so? do you suspect any thing in madge herself? do you think she cares for him?" mrs. anison looked grave, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "i'm afraid there _is_ something. i'm afraid she _does_ think about him more than she ought to do. she is more irritable and excitable than she used to be, and there is a look of care and anxiety on her face which is quite painful sometimes. and yet i fancy that when alice was here she rather encouraged young stanburne to propose to alice. she did it, no doubt, from anxiety to know how far he would go in that direction, and now he's gone farther than she wished." chapter xxv. wenderholme in festivity. at length the eve of the great day arrived on which the twentieth royal lancashire was to possess its colors--those colors which (according to the phrase so long established by the usage of speech-making subalterns) it was prepared to dye with all its blood--yes, to the very last drop thereof. lady helena had had a terribly busy time during the whole week. arrangements for this ceremony had been the subject of anxious planning for months before; and during her last stay in london her ladyship had been very active in seeing tradesmen accustomed to create those temporary splendors and accommodations which are necessary when great numbers of people are to be entertained. mr. benjamin edgington had sent down so many tents and marquees that the park of wenderholme presented the appearance of a rather extensive camp. the house itself contained even more than the amount of accommodation commonly found in houses of its class, but every chamber had its destined occupant. a great luncheon was to be given in the largest of the marquees, and the whole regiment was to be entertained for a night and a day. the weather, fortunately, was most propitious, the only objection to it being the heat, and the consequent dust on the roads. once fairly out of sootythorn, the colonel gave permission to march at ease, and the men opened their jackets and took their stiff collars off, and began to sing and talk very merrily. they halted, too, occasionally, by the banks of clear streams, and scattered themselves on the grass, drinking a great deal of water, there being fortunately nothing stronger within reach. at the half-way house, however, the colonel gave every man a pint of ale, and drank one himself, as he sat on horseback. it was after sunset when they reached wenderholme, and the men marched into the park--not at ease, as they had marched along the road, but in fairly good military order. lady helena and a group of visitors stood by the side of the avenue, at the point where they turned off towards the camp. a quarter of an hour afterwards the whole regiment was at supper in the tents, except the officers, who dined at the hall, with the colonel's other guests, in full uniform. the dining-room presented a more splendid and animated appearance than it had ever presented since the days of john stanburne's grandfather, who kept a pack of hounds, and received his scarlet-coated companions at his table. and even the merry fox-hunters of yore glittered not as glittered all these majors and captains and lieutenants. their full uniforms were still as fresh as when they came from the tailor's. they had not been soiled in the dust of reviews, for the regiment had never been reviewed. the silver of the epaulettes was as brilliant as the brilliant old plate that covered the colonel's hospitable board, and the scarlet was as intense as that of the freshest flower with which the table was decorated. it was more than a dinner--it was a stately and magnificent banquet. the stanburnes, like many old families in england, had for generations been buyers of silver plate, and there was enough of the solid metal in the house to set up a hundred showy houses with electro. rarely did it come forth from the strong safes where it reposed, eating up in its unprofitable idleness the interest of a fortune. but now it glittered once again under the innumerable lights, a heterogeneous, a somewhat barbarous, medley of magnificence. lady helena, without being personally self-indulgent--without caring particularly about eating delicately or being softly clad--had a natural taste for splendor, which may often be independent both of vanity and the love of ease. human pomp suited her as the pomp of nature suits the mind of the artist and the poet; instead of paralyzing or oppressing her, it only made her feel the more perfectly at home. john stanburne had known beforehand that his clever wife would order the festivities well, and he had felt no anxiety about her management in any way, but he had not quite counted upon this charming gayety and ease. there are ladies who, upon occasions of this kind, show that they feel the weight of their responsibility, and bring a trouble-clouded visage to the feast. they cannot really converse, because they cannot really listen. they hear your words, perhaps, but do not receive their meaning, being distracted by importunate cares. nothing kills conversation like an absent and preoccupied hostess; nothing animates it like her genial and intelligent participation. surely, john stanburne, you may be proud of helena to-night! what would your festival have been without her? he recognizes her superiorities, and admires them; but he would like to be delivered from the little inconveniences which attend them. that clear-headed little woman has rather too much of the habit and the faculty of criticism, and john stanburne would rather be believed in than criticised. like many other husbands, he would piously uphold that antique religion of the household which sets up the husband as the deity thereof--a king who can do no wrong. if these had been his views from the beginning--if he had wanted simple unreasoning submission to his judgment, and unquestioning acceptance of his actions--what a mistake he made in choosing a woman like lady helena! he who marries a woman of keen sight cannot himself expect to be screened from its keenness. and this woman was so fearless--shall we say so proud?--that she disdained the artifices of what might have been a pardonable hypocrisy. she made john stanburne feel that he was living in a glass case,--nay, more, that she saw through his clothes--through his skin--into his viscera--into his brain. you must love a woman very much indeed to bear this perpetual scrutiny, or she must love you very much to make it not altogether intolerable. the colonel had a reasonable grievance in this, that in the presence of his wife he found no moral rest. but her criticisms were invariably just. for example, in that last cause of irritation between them--that about the horses--lady helena had been clearly in the right. it was, to say the least, a want of good management on the colonel's part to have all the carriage-horses at sootythorn on the day of her arrival. and so it always was. she never made any observation on his conduct except when such an observation was perfectly justified--perfectly called for, if you will; but then, on the other hand, she never omitted to make an observation when it was called for. it would have been more graceful--it would certainly have been more prudent--to let things pass sometimes without taking them up in that way. she might have let john stanburne rest more quietly in his own house, i think; she might have forgiven his little faults more readily, more freely, more generously than she did. the reader perhaps wonders whether she loved him. yes, she was greatly attached to him. she loved him a great deal better than some women love their husbands who give them perfect peace, and yet she contrived to make him feel an irksomeness in the tie that bound him. perhaps, with all her perspicacity, she did not quite thoroughly comprehend--did not quite adequately appreciate--his simple, and frank, and honorable nature, his manly kindness of heart, his willingness to do all that could fairly be required of him, and the sincerity with which he would have regretted all his little failures in conjugal etiquette, if only he might have been left to find them out for himself, and repent of them alone. the digression has been long, but the banquet we were describing was long enough to permit us to absent ourselves from the spectacle for a while, and still find, on returning to it, all the guests seated in their places, and all the lights burning, though the candles may be half an inch shorter. amongst the guests are several personages to whom we have not yet had the honor of being introduced, and some good people, not personages, whom we know already, but have lost sight of for a long time. there are two belted earls--namely, the earl of adisham, lady helena's august papa; and the earl brabazon, who is papa to captain brabazon of the sootythorn mess. there are two neighboring baronets, and five or six country squires from distant manor-houses, some of which are not less considerable than wenderholme itself, whilst the rent-rolls which maintain them are longer. then there is a military commander, with gray whiskers and one eye, and an ugly old sword-cut across the cheek. he is in full uniform, with three medals and perfect ladders of clasps--the ladders by which he has climbed to his present distinguished position. he wears also the insignia of the bath, of which he is grand cross. but of all these personages, the most distinguished in point of rank must certainly be the little thin gentleman who is sitting by lady helena. it is easy to see that he is perfectly delighted with her ladyship, for he is constantly talking to her with evident interest and pleasure, or listening to her with pleasure still more evident. he has a broad ribbon across his white waistcoat, and another round his neck, and a glittering star on his black coat. it is his grace of ingleborough, lord henry ughtred's noble father. he is a simple, modest little man--both agreeable and, in his way, intelligent; an excellent man of business, as his stewards and agents know too well--and one of the best greek scholars in england. habits of real work, in any direction, have a tendency to diminish pride in those gifts of fortune with which work has nothing to do; and if the duke found a better greek scholar than himself, or a better man of business, he had that kind of hearty and intelligent respect for him which is yielded only by real workmen to their superiors. indeed he had true respect for excellence of all kinds, and was incomparably more human, more capable of taking an interest in men and of understanding them, than the supercilious young gentleman his son. amongst our acquaintances at this great and brilliant feast are the worthy incumbent of shayton and his wife, mr. and mrs. prigley. whilst we were occupied with the graver matters which affected so seriously the history of philip stanburne, lady helena had been to shayton and called upon mrs. prigley, and after that they had been invited to the great festivities at wenderholme. it was kind of lady helena, when the house was so full that she hardly knew where to lodge more distinguished guests, to give the prigleys one of her best bedrooms; but she did so, and treated them with perfect tact and delicacy, trying to make them feel like near relations with whom intercourse had never been suspended. mrs. prigley was the exact opposite of a woman of the world, having about as much experience of society as a girl of nine years old who is receiving a private education; yet her manners were very good, except so far as she was too deferential, and it was easy to see that she was a lady, though a lady who had led a very retired life. mrs. prigley had never travelled more than twenty miles from her two homes, byfield and shayton, since she was born; she had read nothing--she had no time for reading--and the wonder is how, under these circumstances, she could be so nice and lady-like as she was, so perfectly free from all taint of vulgarity. the greatest evil which attends ladies like mrs. prigley, when they _do_ go into society, is, that they sometimes feel obliged to tell white lies, and that these white lies occasionally lead them into embarrassment. mrs. prigley never frankly and simply avowed her ignorance when she thought it would not be _comme il faut_ to be ignorant. for instance, if you asked her whether she had read some book, or heard some piece of music, she _always_ answered with incredible temerity in the affirmative. if your subsequent remarks called for no further display of knowledge it was well--she felt that she had bravely acted her part, and not been behind the age; but if in your innocence or in your malice (for now and then a malicious person found her out and tormented her) you went into detail, asking what she thought, for instance, of becky sharp in "vanity fair," she might be ultimately compelled to avow that though she had read "vanity fair" she didn't remember becky. thus she placed herself in most uncomfortable situations, having the courage to run perpetual risks of detection, but not the courage to admit her ignorance of any thing which she imagined that a lady ought to know. when she had once affirmed her former knowledge of any thing, she stuck to it with astonishing hardihood, and accused the imperfection of her memory--one of her worst fibs, for her memory was excellent. the conversation at a great banquet is never so pleasant as that at a table small enough for everybody to hear everybody else, and the only approach to a general exchange of opinion on any single topic which occurred on the present occasion was about the house in which the entertainment was given. the duke had never been to wenderholme before, and during a lull in the conversation his eye wandered over the wainscot opposite to him. it had been painted white, but the carved panels still left their designs clearly visible under the paint. "what a noble room this is, lady helena!" he said; "but it is rather a pity--don't you think so?--that those beautiful panels should have been painted. it was done, no doubt, in the last century." "yes, we regret very much that the house should have been modernized. we have some intention of restoring it." "glad to hear that--very glad to hear that. i envy you the pleasure of seeing all these beautiful things come to light again. i wish i had a place to restore, lady helena; but those delights are over for me, and i can only hope to experience them afresh by taking an interest in the doings of my friends. i had a capital place for restoration formerly--an old gothic house not much spoiled by the renaissance, but overlaid by much incongruous modern work. so i determined to restore it, and for nearly four years it was the pleasantest hobby that a man could have. it turned out rather an expensive hobby, though, but i economized in some other directions, and did what seemed to be necessary." "does your grace allude to varolby priory?" asked mr. prigley, timidly. "yes, certainly; yes. do you know varolby?" "i have never been there, but i have seen the beautiful album of illustrations of the architectural details which was engraved by your directions." mrs. prigley was within hearing, and thinking that it would be well not to be behind her husband, said, "oh yes; what a beautiful book it was!" the duke turned towards mrs. prigley, and made her a slight bow; then he asked in his innocence, and merely to say something, "whether the copy which mrs. prigley had seen was a colored one or a plain one?" "oh, it was colored," she answered, without hesitation--"beautifully colored!" this was mrs. prigley's way--she waited for the suggestions of her interlocutor, and on hearing a thing which was as new to her as the kernel of a nut just cracked, assented to it with the tone of a person to whom it was already familiar. so clever had she become by practice in this artifice, that she conveyed the impression that nothing _could_ be new to her; and the people who talked with her had no idea that it was themselves who supplied, _à mesure_, all the information wherewith she met them, and kept up the conversation. she had never heard of varolby priory before--she had never heard of the album of engravings before--and therefore it is superfluous to add that, as to colored copies or plain ones, she was equally unacquainted with either. mrs. prigley had however gone a step too far in this instance, for the duke immediately replied,-- "ah, then, i know that you are a friend of my old friend, sir archibald. you wonder how i guessed it, perhaps? it's because there are only two colored copies of the album in existence--my own copy and his." mrs. prigley tried to put on an agreeable expression of assent, intended to imply that she knew sir archibald (though as yet ignorant of sir archibald's surname), when her husband interposed. she made him feel anxious and fidgety. he always knew when she was telling her little fibs--he knew it by a certain facile suavity in her tone, which would not have been detected by a stranger. "the old mural paintings must be very interesting," said the incumbent of shayton, and by this skilful diversion saved his wife from imminent exposure. "most interesting--most interesting: they were found in a wonderful state of preservation under many layers of whitewash in the chapel. and do you know, _apropos_ of your carved panels, lady helena, we found such glorious old wainscot round a room that had been lined with lath and plaster afterwards, and decorated with an abominably ugly paper. not one panel was injured--really not one panel! and the designs carved upon them are so very elegant! that was one of the best finds we made." "i should think it very probable," said mr. prigley, "that discoveries would be made at wenderholme if a thorough restoration were undertaken." "no doubt, no doubt," said the duke, "and there is nothing so interesting. even the workmen come to take an interest in all they bring to light. our workmen were quite proud when they found any thing, and so careful not to injure what they found. do induce your husband to restore wenderholme, lady helena; it would make such a magnificent place!" this talk about wenderholme and restoration had gradually reached the other end of the table, and john stanburne, feeling no doubt rather a richer and greater personage that evening than usual, being surrounded by more than common splendor, announced his positive resolution to restore the hall thoroughly. "it was lamentable," he said, "perfectly lamentable, that the building should have been so metamorphosed by his grandfather. but it was not altogether past mending; and architects, you know, understand old elizabethan buildings so much better than they used to do." it was a delicious evening, soft and calm, without either the chills of earlier spring or the sultriness of the really hot weather. when the ladies had left the room, and the gentlemen had sat long enough to drink the moderate quantity of wine which men consume in these days of sobriety, the colonel proposed that they should all go and smoke in the garden. there was a very large lawn, and there were a great many garden-chairs about, so the smokers soon formed themselves into a cluster of little groups. the whole lawn was as light as day, for the front of the hall was illuminated, and hundreds of little glow-worm lamps lay scattered amongst the flowers. the colonel had managed to organize a regimental band, which, being composed of tolerably good musicians from shayton and sootythorn (both musical places, but especially shayton), had been rapidly brought into working order by an intelligent band-master. this band had been stationed somewhere in the garden, and began to fill the woods of wenderholme with its martial strains. "upon my word, colonel," said the duke, stirring his cup of coffee, "you do things very admirably; i have seen many houses illuminated, but i think i never saw one illuminated so well as wenderholme is to-night. every feature of the building is brought into its due degree of prominence. all that rich central projection over the porch is splendid! a less intelligent illuminator would have sacrificed all those fine deep shadows in the recesses of the sculpture, which add so much to the effect." "my wife has arranged all about these matters," said john stanburne; "she has better taste than i have, and more knowledge. i always leave these things to her." "devilish clever woman that lady helena!" thought his grace; but he did not say it exactly in that way. "all these sash-windows must be very recent. last century, probably--eighteenth century; very sad that eighteenth century--wish it had never existed, only don't see how we should have got into the nineteenth!" the colonel laughed. "very difficult," he said, "to get into a nineteenth century without passing through an eighteenth century of some sort." "yes, of course, of course; but i don't mean merely in the sense of numbers, you know--in the arithmetical sense of eighteen and nineteen. i mean, that seeing how very curiously people's minds seem to be generally constituted, it does not seem probable that they could ever have reached the ideas of the nineteenth century without passing through the ideas of the eighteenth. but what a pity it is they were such destructive ideas! the people of the eighteenth century seem to have destroyed for the mere pleasure of destroying. only fancy the barbarism of my forefathers at varolby, who actually covered the most admirable old wainscot in the world, full of the most delicate, graceful, and exquisite work, with lath and plaster, and a hideous paper! they preferred the paper, you see, to the wainscot." "perhaps paper happened to be more in the fashion, and they did not care about either. my grandfather did not leave the wainscot, however, under the paper. at least, he must have removed a great deal of it. there is an immense lot of old carved work that he removed from the walls and rooms in a lumber-garret at the top of the house." "is there though, really?" said the duke, with much eagerness; "then you _must_ let me see it to-morrow--you must indeed; nothing would interest me more." just then a white stream of ladies issued from the illuminated porch, and flowed down the broad stairs. their diamonds glittered in the light, flashing visibly to a considerable distance. they came slowly forward to the lawn. "i think it is time to have the fireworks now," said lady helena to the colonel. the colonel called the officers about him, whilst the other gentlemen began to talk to the ladies. "it would prevent confusion," he said, "if we were to muster the men properly to see the fireworks. i should like them to have good places; but there is some chance, you know, that they might damage things in the garden unless they come in military order. there are already great numbers of people in the park, and i think it would be better to keep our men separate from the crowd as much as possible." horses were brought for the colonel and other field-officers, and they rode to the camp, the others following on foot. transparencies had been set up at different parts of the garden, with the numbers of the companies; and the arrangements had been so perfectly made, that in less than twenty minutes every company was at its appointed place. no private individual in john stanburne's position could afford a display of pyrotechnics sufficient to astonish such experienced people as his noble guests; but lady helena and the pyrotechnician, or "firework-man," as her ladyship more simply called him, had planned something quite sufficiently effective. he and his assistants were on the roof of the hall, where temporary platforms and railings had been set up in different places for their accommodation; and the floods of fire that soon issued therefrom astonished many of the spectators, especially mrs. prigley. and yet when a perfectly novel device was displayed, which the "firework-man" had invented for the occasion, and lady helena asked mrs. prigley what she thought of it, that lady averred that she had seen it before, in some former state of existence, and had "always thought it very beautiful." suddenly these words, "the fiery niagara," shone in great burning letters along the front of the house, and then an immense cascade of fire poured over the roof in all directions, and hid wenderholme hall as completely as the rock is hidden where the real niagara thunders into its abyss. at the same time trees of green fire burned on the sides of the flowing river, and their boughs seemed to dip in its rushing gold, as the boughs of the sycamores bend over the swift-flowing water. and behind the edge of the great cascade rose slowly a great round moon. chapter xxvi. more fireworks. after the fiery cascade came the bouquet; and the fireworks ended with a prodigious sheaf of rockets, which made the country people think that the stars were falling. though the hall was still illuminated, it looked poorer after the brilliant pyrotechnics; and as this diminution of its effect had been foreseen, arrangements had been made beforehand to cheer the minds of the guests at the critical moment by a compensation. the venetian lanterns had been reserved till now, and the band had been silent during the fireworks. a large flat space on the lawn had been surrounded by masts with banners, and from mast to mast hung large festoons of greenery, and from the festoons hung the many-colored lanterns. a platform had been erected at one end for the band; and before the last rocket-constellation had burst into momentary splendor, and been extinguished as it fell towards the earth, the lanterns were all burning, and the band playing merrily. before and during the fireworks the company had been considerably increased by arrivals from neighboring villages and the houses of the smaller gentry, so lady helena passed the word that there would be a dance in the space that was enclosed by the lanterns. it had been part of our friend philip stanburne's duty to march to wenderholme with his company, and to dine with the colonel in the hall; but in his present moody and melancholy temper he found it impossible to carry complaisance so far as to whirl about in a waltz with some young lady whom he had never before seen. there was nobody there that he knew; and when lady helena kindly offered to introduce him to a partner, his refusal was so very decided that it seemed almost wanting in politeness. the colonel had not mentioned philip's love-affair to her ladyship, for reasons which the reader will scarcely need to have explained to him. people who have lived together for some years generally know pretty well what each will think and say about a subject before it has been the subject of open conversation between them; and since philip stanburne was now treated as a near relation at wenderholme, it was clear that her ladyship would be a good deal put out if she heard of his intended misalliance. the colonel himself was by no means democratic in his aboriginal instincts; but after his experience of married life, the one quality in lady helena which he would most willingly have done without was her rank, with its concomitant inconveniences. he did not now feel merely indifferent to rank, he positively disliked it; and with his present views, alice stedman's humble origin seemed a guarantee of immunity from many of the perils which were most dangerous to his own domestic peace. but lady helena (as he felt instinctively, without needing to give to his thought the consistency of words and phrases) was still in that state of mind which is natural to every one who is born with the advantages of rank--the state of mind which values rank too highly to sacrifice it willingly, or to see any relation sacrifice it without protesting against his folly. hers would be the natural and rational view of the matter; the common-sense view; the view which in all classes who have rank of any sort to maintain (and what class has not?) has ever been recognized, has ever persisted and prevailed. the colonel did not go so far as to wish that he had married some other person of humble provincial rank; but he often wished that lady helena herself had been the daughter of some small squire, or country clergyman, or cotton-spinner, if he had brought her up as nicely as alice stedman had been brought up. it was not to be expected that she could ever share this opinion about herself, or the opinion about alice stedman, which was merely a reflection of it. owing to philip stanburne's exile at whittlecup, which had continued during the whole of the training, and to his natural shyness and timidity, which the extreme reclusion of his existence had allowed to become the permanent habit of his nature, he had made few acquaintances amongst the officers, and not one friend. there were several men in the regiment to know whom would have done philip stanburne a great deal of good, but he missed the opportunities which presented themselves. for instance, on the present occasion, though several of his brother officers, who, like himself, were not dancing, had gathered into a little group, philip stanburne avoided the group, and walked away by himself in the direction of the great dark wood. he felt the necessity for a little solitude; he had not been by himself during the whole day, and it was now nearly midnight. a man who is accustomed to be alone will steal out in that way from society to refresh himself in the loneliness which is his natural element--_pour se remettre_, as a frenchman would express it. so he followed a narrow walk that led into the wood, and soon lost sight of the illuminations, whilst the music became gradually fainter, and at last was confined to such hints of the nature of the melody as could be gathered from the occasional fortissimo of a trumpet or the irregular booming of a drum. there was, as the reader already knows, a ravine behind wenderholme hall, which was a gash in the great hill that divided wenderholme from shayton. all this ravine was filled with a thick wood, and a stream came down the middle of it from the moorland above--a little noisy stream that tumbled over a good many small rocks, and made some cascades which the inhabitants of wenderholme showed to all their visitors, and which lady visitors often more or less successfully sketched. by an outlay of about a hundred pounds, john stanburne's grandfather had dammed this stream up in one conveniently narrow place, and made a small pond there, and the walk which philip stanburne was now following skirted the stream till it came to the pond's edge. it turned round the upper end of the tiny lake, and crossed the stream where it entered by means of a picturesque wooden bridge. from this bridge the hall might be distinctly seen in the day-time; and philip, remembering this, or perhaps merely from the habit of looking down towards the hall when he crossed the bridge, stopped and looked, as if in the darkness of the night he could hope to distinguish any thing at the back of the house, which, of course, was not illuminated. not illuminated! why, the firework-men have applied a more effective device to the back of the house than the elaborate illumination of the front! they have invented a curling luminous cloud, these accomplished pyrotechnicians! philip stanburne began to wonder how it was managed, and to speculate on the probable artifice. was the smoke produced separately, and then lighted from below, or was it really luminous smoke? however produced, the effect was an admirable one, and philip admired it accordingly. "but it is odd," he thought, "that i should be left to enjoy it (probably) by myself. it's not likely that they have left their dancing--i'm sure they haven't; i can hear the drum yet, and it's marking the time of a waltz." a gentle breeze came towards him, and rippled the surface of the dark water. it brought the sound of the trumpets and he recognized the air. "they are waltzing still, no doubt." the luminous smoke still rose and curled. then a red flash glared in it for an instant "those are not fireworks," said philip stanburne, aloud; "_wenderholme hall is on fire!_" chapter xxvii. the fire. "why, philip," said the colonel, "i didn't know that you'd been dancing. you've been over-exerting yourself. you look tremendously hot, and very much out of breath." "young fellahs will dance, you know, colonel," said the general with the ladders of clasps--"young fellahs will; i envy them!" "where is edith--your daughter--little edith?" philip asked, with a scared and anxious face. "in bed, of course, at this time of night. you don't want to dance with _her_, a small child like her?" then fixing his eyes on philip stanburne's face, the colonel exclaimed, grasping his arm so strongly as to cause pain. "something is wrong, by jove! out with it, out with it!" "where's edith's room? the house is on fire!" john stanburne said nothing, but turned at once with swift steps towards the house. philip followed him closely: they entered by the great doorway under the porch, and passed rapidly across the hall. it was quiet and empty, lighted by a few lamps suspended from the ceiling by long crimson cords--the portraits of the old fox-hunting stanburnes looking down with their usual healthy self-possession. the door from the hall to the staircase was closed: when the colonel opened it, a smell of burning became for the first time perceptible. he took four steps at a time. edith's rooms were nearly at the top of the house. the nurseries had been up there traditionally, because that situation kept noisy children well out of the way of guests. wenderholme was a lofty house, with a long lateral corridor on each story. as they ascended, the smell of burning strongly increased. the lower corridors were lighted--all the guests' rooms were there. but the uppermost corridor, where the servants' rooms and the nurseries were, was not permanently lighted, as the servants took their own bed-candlesticks from below. when the colonel got there he could not see, and he could not breathe. volumes of dense smoke rolled along the dark passages. he ran blindly in the direction of edith's room. philip tried to follow, but the suffocating atmosphere affected his more delicate organization with tenfold force, and he was compelled to draw back. he stood on the top of the great staircase, agitated by mortal anxiety. but the colonel himself, strong as he was, could not breathe that atmosphere for long. he came back out of the darkness, his hands over his face. even on the staircase the air was stifling, but to him, who had breathed thick fire, it was comparative refreshment. he staggered forward to the banister, and grasped it. this for three or four seconds, then he ran down the stairs without uttering one word. the two passed swiftly through a complicated set of passages on the ground-floor and reached one of the minor staircases, of which there were five or six at wenderholme. this one led directly to the nurseries above, and was their most commonly used access. when they came to this, john stanburne turned round, paused for an instant, and said, "come with me, philip; it's our last chance. poor little edith! o god, o god!" in this narrow stair there was no light whatever. the colonel ran up it, or leaped up it, in a series of wild bounds, like a hunted animal. philip kept up with him as he could. as they rose higher and higher the temperature quickly increased: the walls were hot--it was the temperature of a heated oven. the colonel tried to open a door, but the brass handle burnt his hand. then he burst it open by pushing against it with his shoulder. a gust of air rushed up the staircase, and in an instant the room they were trying to enter was illuminated by a burst of flame. for a second the paper was visible--a pretty, gay paper, with tiny flowers, suitable for a young girl's room--and a few engravings on the walls, and the pink curtains of a little french bed. either by one of those unaccountable presentiments which sometimes hold us back at the moment of imminent danger, or else from horror at the probable fate of little edith, the colonel paused on the threshold of the burning room. then the ceiling cracked from end to end, and fiery rafters, with heaps of other burning wood, came crashing down together. the heat was now absolutely intolerable--to remain on the threshold was death, and the two went down the stairs. there was a strong draught in the staircase, which revived them physically, and notwithstanding the extremity of his mental anguish, the colonel descended with a steady step. when they came into the lighted hall he stood still, and then broke into stifled, passionate sobs. "edith! little edith!" he cried, "burnt to death! horrible! horrible!" then he turned to his companion with such an expression on his white face as the other had never before seen there. "and, philip, the people were dancing on the lawn!" then john stanburne sat down in one of the chairs against the wall, and set his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with both his hands. so he sat, immovable. the house was burning above him--it might burn. what were all the treasures of wenderholme to its master, who had lost the one treasure of his heart? what were the parchments and the seals in the charter-room--what were the records of the stanburnes--what was that waggon-load of massive silver which had shone at the festival that night? his anguish was not wild--he did not become frantic--and the shock had not produced any benumbing insensibility; for his health was absolutely sound and strong, and his nervous system perfectly whole and unimpaired. but the sound mind in the sound body is still capable of an exquisite intensity of suffering, though it will live through it without either madness or insensibility. philip stanburne felt compelled to respect this bitter agony of his friend; but he was anxious to lose no more time in trying to save the house. so at last he said, "colonel, the house is burning!" john stanburne looked up, and said, "it may burn now--it may burn now." then suddenly seeming to recollect himself, he added, "god forgive me, philip, i have not bestowed one thought on the poor girl that was burnt with edith--edith's maid! she brought my child to me to say good-night, just when the fireworks were over, and kiss me"--here his voice faltered--"and kiss me for the last time." this extension of his sympathy to another did john stanburne good. "i wonder where her parents are; they must be told--god help them!" "and the house, colonel!--the house! can you give some orders?" "no, philip; not fit for that--not fit for that yet, you know, dear philip. ask eureton, the adjutant--ask eureton." then he rose suddenly, and went towards the drawing-room. some of the older ladies had come in, and were sitting here and there about the room, which was brilliantly lighted. on one of the walls hung a portrait of edith stanburne, by millais--one of his most successful pictures of that class. the colonel went straight to this picture, but could not politely get at it without begging two old ladies, who were sitting on a _causeuse_ under it, to get out of his way. when a man who has just been brought face to face with one of the tragical realities of life comes into what is called "society" again, he is always out of tune with it, and it is difficult for him to accept the _légèreté_ of its manner without some degree of irritation. he appears brutal to the people in society, and the people in society seem exasperatingly frivolous to him. thus, when the colonel came amongst these bediamonded old ladies in the drawing-room, a conversation took place which he was not quite sufficiently master of himself to maintain in its original key. "ah, here is colonel stanburne! we were just saying how delightful your fireworks were; only they've left quite a strong smell of fire, even in the house itself. don't you perceive it, colonel stanburne?" "i want to get this picture--excuse me," and he began to put his foot on the white silk damask of the _causeuse_, between the two great ladies. they rose immediately, much astonished, even visibly offended. "colonel stanburne might have waited until we had left the room," said lady brabazon, aloud, "if he wished to change the hanging of his pictures." "the house is on fire! my daughter is burnt to death! i want to save this. you ladies are still in time to save the originals of _your_ portraits." in an instant they were out upon the lawn, running about and calling out "fire!" they had not time to take care of their dignity now. luckily philip stanburne was already with the adjutant, who was giving his orders with perfect calm, and an authority that made itself obeyed. lady helena was not to be found. fyser had been summoned into the adjutant's presence. "fyser," he said, "what are the water supplies here?" "pump-water, sir, for drinking, and the stream behind the house for washing." "no pipes of any sort in the upper rooms?" "no, sir." "sergeant maxwell, collect all the men who have served in the army. i don't want any others at present." then, turning to fyser, "harness four horses to a carriage, and drive to the nearest station. telegraph for fire-engines and a special locomotive. whilst they are coming, collect more horses near the station. when they arrive, leave your carriage there, and harness your team to a fire-engine, and come here as fast as you can. do you hear? repeat what i have said to you. very well." then he walked quickly towards the band, and made signs to the band-master to stop. the music ceased abruptly, and captain eureton ascended the platform. "i wish to be heard!" he said, in a loud voice. the dancers gave up their dancing, and came towards the orchestra, followed by the other guests. "excuse this interruption to your pleasures. you had better not go into the hall." at this instant the old ladies (as has just been narrated) came out of the hall-door shrieking, "fire!" their cry was taken up immediately, and wildly repeated amongst the crowd. "silence!" shouted eureton, with authority. "silence! i have something to say to you." the people crowded round him. "the colonel wishes me to act for him. our only chance of saving the house is to set to work systematically. i forbid any one to enter it for the present." "but my trunks," cried lady brabazon; "i will order my people to save my trunks!" this raised a laugh; but eureton's answer to it came in the shape of an order. "sergeant maxwell," he said, "if any one attempts to enter the house without leave, you will have him arrested." "yes, sir." the sergeant was there with a body of about forty old soldiers. "captains of numbers one, two, three, four, and five companies!" shouted the adjutant. they came forward. "you will form a cordon with your men round the front of the house, and prevent any unauthorized person from breaking it. all who enter the cordon will be considered as volunteers, and set to carry water. they will not be allowed to get out of it again, on any pretext." "now send me colonel stanburne's men-servants." several men presented themselves. "fetch every thing you can lay your hands on in the out-houses that will hold water." "pray accept me as a volunteer, captain eureton," said the duke. "and i'm an old soldier," said the medalled general; "you'll have me, too, i suppose." the cordon was by this time formed, and a quantity of buckets fetched from the out-houses. a chain was very soon formed from the brink of the rivulet to the inside of the house, and the adjutant went in with philip stanburne to reconnoitre. when he came out he walked to the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, and cried with a loud voice, "volunteers for saving the furniture, come forward!" such numbers of men presented themselves (including the colonel's guests), that it was necessary to close the cordon against many of them. those who were admitted were told off by the adjutant in parties of a dozen each, and each party placed under the command of a gentleman, with an old soldier for a help. it was philip stanburne's duty to guide and distribute the parties in the house--the adjutant commanding outside. the colonel, in his kind way, had shown philip stanburne over the house on his first visit to wenderholme, so that he knew and remembered the arrangement of the rooms. though the house did not front precisely to the west, it will best serve our present purposes to speak as if it had done so. supposing, then, the principal front to be the west front, the back of the edifice, where philip stanburne first discovered the fire, was to the east, whilst the south and north fronts looked to the wood on each side the ravine, at the opening of which wenderholme hall was situated. the fire had been discovered towards the south-east corner of the edifice, where little edith's apartments were. the great staircase was in the centre, immediately behind the entrance-hall; but there were five other staircases of much narrower dimensions, two of them winding stairs of stone, the other three modern stairs of deal wood, such as are commonly made for servants. acting under captain eureton's directions, philip stanburne distributed his parties according to the staircases, and other parties were stationed at the doors to receive the things they brought down, and carry them to places already decided upon by the adjutant. the business of extinguishing or circumscribing the fire was altogether distinct from that of salvage. two lines of men were stationed from the side of the rivulet to the top of the great staircase. one line passed full buckets from hand to hand, the other passed them down again as soon as they were empty. a special party, consisting of the gardeners belonging to colonel stanburne's establishment, a joiner, and one or two other men who were employed at wenderholme, had been formed by the adjutant for the purpose of collecting what might serve as buckets, the supply being limited. various substitutes were found; amongst others, a number of old oyster-barrels, which were rapidly fitted with rope-handles. notwithstanding the number of men under his command, and the excellent order which was maintained, it became evident to captain eureton that it was beyond his power to save the south wing of the building. even the northern end of the upper corridor was filled with dense smoke, and towards edith stanburne's apartments there was a perfect furnace. by frequently changing places, the men were able to dispute the ground against the fire inch by inch; and the clouds of steam which rose as they deluged the hot walls had the effect of making the atmosphere more supportable. if the fire did not gain on them too rapidly, there seemed to be a fair chance of saving some considerable proportion of the mansion by means of the fire-engines, when they arrived. meanwhile the salvage of goods went forward with perfect regularity. the influence of captain eureton's coolness and method extended itself to every one, and the things were handed down as quietly as in an ordinary removal. hardly any thing was broken or even injured; the rooms were emptied one by one, and the contents of each room placed together. every thing was saved from the charter-room--philip stanburne took care to see to that. what the duke was most anxious to save was the contents of the lumber-garrets, where lay the dishonored remnants of the old wainscot and carved furniture of elizabethan wenderholme. but when he got up there with his party he found that it was not quite possible to breathe. a more serious discovery than the inevitable loss of the old oak was that the fire was rapidly spreading northwards in the garrets. there was a little ledge round the roof outside, protected by a stone parapet, and broad enough for a man to walk along; so the chain of water-carriers was continued up to this ledge, and a hole was made in the slating through which a tolerably continuous stream was poured amongst the burning lumber inside. the uselessness of this, however, shortly became apparent; the water had little or no effect--it flowed along the floor, and the rafters had already caught fire. the slates were so hot that it was impossible to touch them. it was evident that the lead under the men's feet would soon begin to melt, and the men were withdrawn into the interior. chapter xxviii. father and daughter. when colonel stanburne had removed edith's picture, he carried it away into the darkness. he could not endure the idea of having to explain his action, and instinctively kept out of people's way. still, he could not leave it out of doors; he dreaded some injury that might happen to it. where could he put it? in one of the out-houses? a careless groom might injure it in the hurry and excitement of the night. no; it would be safe nowhere but at his mother's, and thither he would carry it. there were two communications from the hall to the cottage--a carriage-drive and a little footpath. the drive curved about a little under the old trees in the park, but the footpath was more direct, and went through a dense shrubbery. on his way to the cottage the colonel met no one, but on his arrival there he met lady helena in the entrance. his mother was there too. late as it was, she had not yet gone to bed. the sight of the colonel, bareheaded, and carrying a great oil-picture in his hands, greatly astonished both these ladies. "what _are_ you doing with that picture, john?" said lady helena. "i want it to be safe--it will be safe here;" and he reared it against the wall. then he said, "no, not here; it will be safer in the drawing-room; open the door. thank you." when they got into the drawing-room, the colonel deliberately took down a portrait of himself and hung edith's portrait in its place. his manner was very strange, both the ladies thought; his action most strange and eccentric. lady helena thought he had drunk too much wine; mrs. stanburne dreaded insanity. with that humoring tone which is often adopted towards persons not in possession of their mental faculties, mrs. stanburne said, "well, john, i shall be glad to take care of edith's picture for you, if you think that it can be safer here than at the hall." "yes, it will be safer--it will be safer." this answer, and his strange wild look, confirmed poor old mrs. stanburne's fears. she began to tremble visibly. "helena, helena," she whispered, "poor john is--has"-- "no, mother, i'm not mad, and i'm not drunk either, helena, but i've brought this picture here because it's more valuable to me now than it used to be, and--i don't want it to be burnt, you understand." "no, i don't understand you at all," said her ladyship; "you are unintelligible to-night. better come home, i think, and not drink any more wine. i never saw you like this before. it is disgraceful." "helena!" said the colonel, in a very deep, hoarse voice, "wenderholme hall is on fire, and my daughter edith is burnt to death!" just as he finished speaking, a lurid light filled the sky, and shone through the windows of the cottage. lady helena went suddenly to the window, then she left the room, left the house, and went swiftly along by the little path. john stanburne was left alone with his mother. she took him by the hand, and looked in his face anxiously. "my dear boy," she said, "it's a pity about the house, you know; but our little edith"-- "what?" "is perfectly safe here, and fast asleep upstairs in her own little bed!" john stanburne did not quite realize this at first. when it became clear to him, he walked about the room in great agitation, not uttering a word. then he stopped suddenly, and folded his mother in his arms, and kissed her. he kept her hand and knelt down before the sofa; she understood the action, and knelt with him. edith's picture was hanging just above them, and as his lips moved in inaudible thanksgiving, his eyes rose towards it and contemplated its sweet and innocent beauty. he had had the courage to save it from the burning house, but not the courage to let his eyes dwell upon it thus. fair hair that hast not been consumed in cruel flame! fair eyes that shall shine in the sunlight of to-morrow! sweet lips whose dear language shall yet be heard in your father's house!--your living beauty shall give him cheerfulness under this calamity! when they rose, his mother said, "come and see;" and she took him up to a little dainty room which edith loved, and there, in a narrow bed curtained with pale blue silk, she lay in perfect peace. the night was warm, and there was a glow on the healthy cheek, and one little hand, frilled with delicate lace, lay trying to cool itself upon the counterpane. "i'm afraid she's rather too warm," said her grandmother. but john stanburne thought of the fiery chamber at wenderholme. chapter xxix. progress of the fire. mrs. stanburne's tender sympathy for her son's grief at the supposed loss of edith, and participation in his gladness at the recovery of his treasure, had for a time restrained the expression of her anxiety about the fire at the hall; but now that her son had seen little edith, mrs. stanburne went to the window of the bedroom and looked out. the hall was not visible from the lower rooms of the cottage, being hidden by the thick shrubbery which bounded the little lawn; but it was clearly visible from the upper windows, which looked in that direction. no sooner had mrs. stanburne opened the curtains and drawn up the blind, than she uttered a cry of alarm. the fire having originated in the garret, the carpentry of the roof had been attacked early, and now a portion of it had given way. a column of sparks, loftier than the victoria tower at westminster, shot up in the dark sky. mrs. stanburne turned round in great agitation. "let us go, john--let us go to the hall; it will be burnt down. you will be wanted to give orders." this recalled the colonel to himself, and for the present he gave up thinking about his little edith. "eureton is in command, and he's a better officer than i am. he will do all that can be done. but come along, mother--come along; let us go there." as they approached the hall, it was evident to john stanburne that the fire had made terrible progress. the whole of the uppermost story was illuminated by the dread light of conflagration. at the south end, which had been burning longest, and where the roof had fallen in, sparks still rose in immense quantities, and terrible tongues of flame showed their points, darting angrily, above the lofty walls. eureton was in the centre of the open space still steadily guarded by the cordon of militia-men. he was looking at his watch, but on lifting his eyes from the dial, saw the colonel and mrs. stanburne, and went to them at once. "i have been anxious to see you for some time, colonel. do you wish to take the men under your own orders?" "my dear fellow, do oblige me by directing every thing just as you have done. you do it ten times better than i should--i know you do." "i am sorry we have been unable to save the roof. i withdrew the men from it rather early, perhaps, but wished to avoid any sacrifice of life." "better let the whole place burn down than risk any of these good fellows' lives. is there anybody in the house now?" "captain stanburne has eight parties on the first floor removing furniture. he has removed every thing from the upper floors." "but are they safe?" said mrs. stanburne. "no floors have fallen in yet except part of the garret floor, and one or two in the south wing. we have drenched every room with water, after it was emptied; we have left the carpets on the floors purposely, because being thoroughly wetted, they will help to delay the progress of the fire. we have used all the blankets from the beds in the same way. every thing else has been removed." "i hope all the visitors' things will be safe. some of those old ladies, you know, have wonderful lots of things in their portmanteaus. i believe that in point of mere money's worth, old lady brabazon's boxes are more valuable than all wenderholme and its furniture too, by jove!" "i must ask the ladies to sleep at the cottage," said mrs. stanburne. "they are at the summer-house, watching the fire," said the adjutant. "i believe it amuses them." "you are uncharitable," said mrs. stanburne; "nobody can help watching a fire, you know. a fire always fascinates people." "i wouldn't let old lady brabazon have her boxes, and she's furiously angry with me." "well, but why wouldn't you?" "if i let one, i must let another, and there would be no end to the confusion and breakage that would ensue. i have refused lady helena herself, but she took it very nicely and kindly. it's different with lady brabazon; she's in a rage." "i'll go with my mother to the summer-house, and come back to you, eureton, in ten minutes." the summer-house in question presented rather a curious picture. it was not strictly a "house" at all, but simply a picturesque shed with a long bench under it, which people could sit down upon at noon, with their backs to the south, well sheltered from the summer sun by a roof and wall of excellent thatch, whilst the stream purled pleasantly at the foot of a steep slope, and seemed to cool the air by its mere sound. the back of the seat was towards the steep wooded hill, and the front of it looked towards the south wing of the house, including a very good view of the front. it was decidedly the best view of wenderholme which could be had; and when artists drew wenderholme for those well-known works, "homes of the landed gentry," and "dwellings of the english aristocracy," and "ancient seats of yorkshire," here they always rubbed their cakes of sepia and began. the ladies were not playing the harp or the fiddle, as nero is said to have done during the burning of rome; but they were enjoying the spectacle as most people enjoy that which greatly interests and excites. lady adisham, john stanburne's august mother-in-law, was not there; she was in close conference with her daughter, in a part of the grounds yet more private and remote. but lady brabazon was there, and some other splendidly adorned dames, who were passing an opera-glass from hand to hand. as the colonel and his mother approached, they had the pleasure of overhearing the following fragment of conversation. "quite a great fire; really magnificent! don't you think so? we're safe here, i believe." "yes; captain eureton said we should be safe here." "i wonder if mr. stanburne has insured his house. they say he's not at all rich. pity his little daughter was burnt--really great pity; nice little girl!" "where are we to sleep to-night, do you think?" "really don't know. _Ã� la belle étoile_, i suppose. that horrid man that's ordering the men about won't let us have our boxes. we shall take cold. i have nothing but this shawl." just then the colonel presented himself: "i am very sorry," he said, with some bitterness, "that my house should be burnt down, if the accident has caused you any inconvenience. mrs. stanburne is come to offer you some accommodation at wenderholme cottage." lady brabazon was going to make a speech of condolence, but the colonel prevented it by adding, "pray excuse me--i ought to be amongst the men;" and bowing very deferentially, he disappeared. john stanburne left eureton in command, and worked himself as a volunteer amongst the water-carriers within the building. the reaction from his despair about edith made his other misfortunes light, and he worked with a cheerfulness and courage that did good to the men about him. "this is hot work," he said to one of the volunteers; "have none of the men had any thing to drink?" "thank you, sir, we are doing pretty well for that. we take a little water from the buckets now and then." "and the other fellows who are removing the furniture?" "it must be dry work for them, sir." on this the colonel said he could be more useful elsewhere, and went to find out his old butler. this was very easy, since the adjutant knew where every one was posted. the colonel, with a small party of trustworthy sober fellows, went down into the cellar, and returned with some dozens of bottled ale and other liquids. he made it his business to distribute refreshment amongst the men, giving the glass always with his own hand, and never without some kind expression of his personal gratitude for the exertions they had made. he took this office upon himself simply because he "thought the men must be thirsty," as he expressed it; but the deepest policy could not have suggested a better thing to do. it brought him into personal contact with every volunteer about the place, and in the most graceful way. captain eureton was beginning to be anxious about the fire-engines, and had the road cleared, and kept clear, by a patrol. fyser had been absent nearly three hours. the distance from wenderholme to the little station (the same that lady helena had arrived at on her return from london) was ten miles. supposing that fyser drove at the rate of thirteen miles an hour, or thereabouts (which he would do on such an emergency), he would be at the station in forty-five minutes. he would have to seek the telegraphist in the village, and wake him up, and get him to the station--all that would consume twenty minutes. then to get the engines from bradford, over thirty miles of rail, a special locomotive running fifty miles an hour, thirty-six minutes. time to get the engines in bradford to the station and to start the train, say thirty minutes--total, a hundred and thirty-one minutes, or two hours and eleven minutes. then the return to wenderholme, forty-five minutes--say three hours. "yes, three hours," said captain eureton to himself; "i believe i should have done better to send for the sootythorn engines. fyser would have been there in an hour and a half, and there would have been no delays about the railway." just then a sound of furious galloping was heard in the distance, and the welcome exclamation, "the engines, the engines!" passed amongst the crowd. the gates being all open, and the road clear, the engines were soon in the avenue. the drivers galloped into the middle of the space enclosed by the cordon of militia-men, then they trotted a few yards and stopped. the horses were covered with foam and perspiration; the men leaped down from their seats and at once began to arrange the hose. captain eureton went to the captain of the fire-brigade. "you have lost no time; i feared some delay on the railway." "railway, sir? there is no railway from sootythorn to this place." "but you come from bradford." "beg pardon, sir, we are the sootythorn brigade--we come from sootythorn. you telegraphed for us--anyhow, a mr. fyser did." "he did right. what do you think of the fire?" the fireman looked up. "it's a bad one. been burning three hours? we may save the first floor, and the ground-floor. not very likely, though. where's water?" "small stream here;" the adjutant led the fireman to the rivulet. "very good, very good. house burns most at this end, i see." the hose was soon laid. there were two engines, and the firemen, aided by volunteers, began to pump vigorously. two powerful jets began to play upon the south wing, and it was a satisfaction to captain eureton to see them well at work, though with little immediate effect. there being no sign of fyser, the adjutant concluded that he was waiting for the bradford engines. the whole remaining mass of roof now fell in with a tremendous crash, and the flames enveloped the gables, issuing from the windows of the uppermost story. the multitude was hushed by the grandeur of the spectacle. all the woods of wenderholme, all its deep ravine, were lighted by the glare, and even at shayton the glow of an unnatural dawn might be seen in the sky over the lofty moorland. and the real dawn was approaching also, the true aurora, ever fresh and pure, bathed in her silver dews. there are engines hurrying towards wenderholme, through the beautiful quiet lanes and between the peaceful fields; and the gray early light shows the road to the eager drivers and their galloping steeds, and the breath of the pure morning fans the brows of the men who sit in dark uniforms, helmeted, perilously on those rocking chariots. but the old house is past any help of theirs! the floors have fallen one after another. all the accumulated wood is burning together on the ground-floor now: in the hall, where reginald stanburne's portrait hung; in the dining-room, where, a few hours before, the brilliant guests had been sumptuously entertained; in the drawing-room, where the ladies sat after dinner in splendor of diamonds and fine lace. every one of these rooms is a focus of ardent heat--a red furnace, terrible, unapproachable. the red embers will blacken in the daylight, under the unceasing streams from the fire-engines, and heaps of hissing charcoal will fill the halls of wenderholme! but the walls are standing yet--the brave old walls! even the carving of the front is not injured. the house exists still, or the shell of it--the ghost of old wenderholme, its appearance, its eidolon! i know who laments this grievous misfortune most. it is not john stanburne: ever since that child of his was known to be in safety, he has been as gay as if this too costly spectacle had been merely a continuation of the fireworks. it is not lady helena: she is very busy, has been very busy all night, going this way and that, and plaguing the people with contradictory orders. she is much excited--even irritated--but she is not sad. wenderholme was not much to her; she never really loved it. if a country house had not been a necessity of station, she would have exchanged wenderholme for a small house in belgravia, or a tiny hotel in paris. but old mrs. stanburne grieved for the dear old house that had been made sacred to her by a thousand interests and associations. there was more to her in the rooms as they had been, than there was either to lady helena or to the proprietor himself. she had dreaded in silence the proposed changes and restorations, and this terrible destruction came upon her like the blow of an eternal exclusion and separation. the rooms where her husband had lived with her, the room he died in, she could enter never more! so she sat alone in her sadness, looking on the ruin as it blackened gradually in the morning, and her spirits sank low within her, and the tears ran down her cheeks. chapter xxx. uncle jacob's love affair. the fire at wenderholme was known all over the country the same morning, so the people who had been asked to the presentation of colors stayed away. the colors were given almost without ceremony, and the men came back to sootythorn. jacob ogden had got as far as sootythorn the evening before with the intention of going on to wenderholme in the morning to see the ceremony, for he had been invited thereto by his brother isaac. as matters turned out, however, he thought he would go to whittlecup to fetch his mother back to milend, for the house seemed to him very uncomfortable without her. he called at arkwright lodge, and spent the day there. the day following, mr. anison was to give a small dinner-party composed of some of the leading manufacturers in that neighborhood, so he pressed jacob ogden to stay it over. he stayed three days at arkwright lodge--three whole days away from the mill--from the mills, we may now say, for jacob ogden was already a pluralist in mills. the new one was rising rapidly out of the green earth, and a smooth, well-kept meadow was now trampled into mud and covered with heaps of stone and timber, and cast-iron columns and girders. and for three days had jacob ogden left this delightful, this enchanting scene! what a strong attraction there must have been at whittlecup, to draw him from his industrial paradise! he felt bound to the unpoetical shayton, as hafiz was to his fair persian valley when he sang-- "they will not allow me to proceed upon my travels, those gentle gales of moselláy, that limpid stream of rooknâbâd." "i've no time for goin' courtin'," thought jacob to himself as he sat drinking his port wine after dinner. "i've been here three days, and it's as much as i can afford for courtin'. but who's a rare fine lass is miss madge, an' i'll write her a bit of a letter." before leaving the lodge, he thought it as well to prepare mr. anison's mind for what was to come, so he asked to go and see the works. as they were walking together, ogden went abruptly into the subject of matrimony. "mother's been stoppin' at whittlecup a good bit, 'long of our isaac. i felt very lonesome at milend 'bout th' oud woman, and i thought i s'd be lonesomer and lonesomer if who[ ] 'ere deead." "no doubt she would be a very great loss to you," said mr. anison; "but mrs. ogden appears to enjoy excellent health." ogden scarcely heard this, and continued, "so i've been thinkin', like, as i 'appen might get wed." "it would certainly be a good security against loneliness." "i can afford to keep a wife. you may look at my banker's account whenever you like. i've a good property already in land and houses, and i'm building a new mill." "there is no necessity for going into detail," mr. anison said deprecatingly; "every one knows that you are a rich man." ogden laughed, half inwardly. it was a chuckling little laugh, full of the intensest self-satisfaction. "they think they know," he said, "but they don't know--not right. nobody knows what i'm worth, and nobody knows what i shall be worth. i'm one o' those as sovereigns sticks to, same as if they'd every one on 'em a bit o' stickin'-plaister to fasten 'em on wi'. if i live ten year, i s'll be covered over wi' gold fourteen inch thick." "is there any positive necessity for you to leave us now? why not remain a little longer?" "do you think i've any chance at your house?" mr. anison laughed at the eagerness of ogden's manner. then he said, "i see no reason for you to be discouraged. you cannot expect a young lady to accept you before you have asked her." ogden hesitated a moment, and then determined to go on to shayton and write his letter. chapter xxxi. uncle jacob is accepted. and this is the letter jacob ogden wrote:-- "miss margaret anison. "miss,--when i was at your house this afternoon, i meant to say something to you, but could not find a chance, because other people came in just at the time. i wished to ask you to be so kind as to marry me. i believe i shall be a good husband--at any rate, i promise to do all i can to be one. my wife shall have every thing that a lady wants, and i will either build a new house or purchase one, as she may like best. there's a good one on sale near shayton, but i don't mind building, if you prefer it. i am well able to keep my wife as a lady. i may say that i have always been very steady, and not in the habit of drinking. i never go into an ale-house, and i never spend any foolish money. i shall feel very anxious until i receive your answer, as you will easily understand; for my regard for you is such that i most sincerely wish your answer may be favorable. "yours truly, jacob ogden." though rather a queer letter, and singularly devoid of the graces of composition and the tenderness of love, its purport, at least, was intelligible. the reply showed that the lover had made himself clearly understood. "my dear sir,--the proposal contained in your letter has rather surprised me, as we have seen so little of each other, but after consulting my parents i may say that i do not refuse, and they desire me to add that there will be a room for you here whenever your business engagements permit you to visit us. sincerely yours, "margaret anison." it is to be supposed that mr. ogden felt sensations of profound happiness on reading this little perfumed note; but when a man is an old bachelor by nature, he does not become uxorious in a week or two; and we may confess that, after the unpleasantness of the first shock, a positive refusal would have left the lover's mind in a state of far more perfect happiness and calm. his pride was gratified, his passion was fortunate in dreaming of its now certain fruition, and he knew that such a woman as margaret anison would add greatly to his position in the world. he knew that she would improve it in one way, but then he felt anxiously apprehensive that she might deteriorate it in another. he would become more of a gentleman in society with a lady by his side, but a wife and family would be a hindrance to his pecuniary ambition. from the hour of his acceptance he saw this a good deal more clearly than he had done since this passion implanted itself in his being. he had seen it clearly enough before he knew margaret anison, but the strength of a new passion acting upon a nature by no means subtly self-conscious, had for a time obscured the normal keenness of his sight. after re-reading margaret's note for the tenth time, mr. jacob ogden said to himself: "she's a fine girl--there isn't a finer lass in all manchester; but i'm a damned fool--that's what i am. what have i to do goin' courtin'? howsomever, it's no good skrikin' over spilt milk--we mun manage as well as we can. we've plenty to live on, and she can have four or five servants, if she'll nobbut look well afther 'em." then he went into the little sitting-room, where his mother sat mending his stockings. "mother," he said, abruptly, "there's news for you. somebody's boun' to be wed." the stocking was deposited in mrs. ogden's lap, and she looked at her son with fixed eyes. "it's owther our isaac or me, and it isn't our isaac." "why, then, it's thee, jacob." "you're clever at guessin', old woman; you always was a 'cute un." "what! are you boun' to wed somebody at whittlecup?" "she doesn't live a hundred mile off whittlecup." mrs. ogden rose from her seat and laid down her stocking, and made slowly for the door. she stopped, however, midway, and with a stately gesture pointed to the mended stocking. "can she darn like that?" "she 'appen can do, mother." "han you seen her do?" "no." "nor nobody else nayther. but what i reckon you think you can do b'out havin' your stockin's mended when you get your fine wife into th' house, and you think servants 'll do every thing. but if you'd forty servants, you'd be badly off without somebody as knew how to look afther 'em all. and if they cannot do for theirselves, they cannot orther other folk--not right." "well, but, mother," said jacob, deprecatingly. he was going to suggest consolatory considerations, founded upon the apparent order and regularity of the housekeeping at arkwright lodge, in the midst of which miss anison had been educated. but mrs. ogden was not disposed to enter into a discussion which would have involved the necessity of giving her son a hearing, and she cut short his expostulation with a proverb, solemnly enunciated,-- "as they make their bed, so they must lie," and then she left the room. "th' old woman isn't suited," thought jacob, "but it makes nothing who it had been, she would have been just the same. she used always to reckon she could like me to get wed, but i knew well enough that when it came to the point i could never get wed so as to suit her. whoever i wedded, she'd always have said it should have been somebody else." the fact was, that whilst mrs. ogden warmly and sincerely approved of marriage as a sort of general proposition, and had even advised her son for many years past to take unto himself a wife, her jealousy only slumbered so long as the said wife remained a vague impersonal idea. mrs. ogden had not much imagination, and the mere notion of a possible wife for jacob was very far from arousing in her breast the lively sensations which were sure to be aroused there by a visible, criticisable young woman, of flesh and blood, with the faults that flesh is heir to. now she had seen margaret anison, and she had thought at whittlecup, "she might happen do for our jacob;" but when "our jacob" announced that he had decided to espouse margaret anison, that was quite a different thing. matters had been in this condition for a month or two, when jacob ogden, whose visits to his beloved one had been made rare by the exigencies of business, became somewhat importunate about the fixing of his wedding-day. it was not that he looked forward thereto with feelings of very eager or earnest anticipation, but he had a business-like preference for "fixtures" and dates over the vague promises of an indefinite _avenir_. miss anison, on the contrary, seemed to have a rooted objection to such rigid limitations of liberty; and, like a man in debt whose creditor proposes to draw upon him for an inexorable thirtieth of next month, felt that the vague intention of paying some time was for the present less hard and harassing to the mind. and as the debtor procrastinates, so did margaret anison procrastinate. her heart was not in this marriage, but her interest was; and, so far as she avowed to herself any purpose at all, her purpose was to gain time, and keep jacob ogden as a resource, when all chance of philip stanburne should be lost finally and for ever. miss anison, in a matter of this kind, was a great deal cleverer than jacob ogden, who, though not easily taken in by a man in men's business, had little experience of womankind, and none whatever of polite young ladies and their ways. margaret anison had found a capital excuse for delay in the necessity for building a new house, and she set jacob ogden to work thereupon with an energy at least equal to that which he lavished on the new mill. he wanted very much to have the house close to the factory, but the young lady preferred the tranquillity of the country, and went to milend expressly to select a site. she chose a little dell that opened into the shayton valley; and though of all views in the world the pleasantest for mr. ogden would have been a view of his own mills, he was denied this satisfaction, and his windows looked out upon nothing but green fields. "if they'd nobbut been my own fields," jacob thought, "i wouldn't so much have cared. not but what a good mill is a prettier sight than the greenest field in lancashire, but it's no plezur to me to look out upon other folks' property." and the worst of it was, that there was no chance of ever purchasing the said property, for it belonged to an ancient lancashire family, which had a wise hereditary objection to parting with a single acre of land. mrs. ogden, now that the engagement was a _fait accompli_, expressed the most perfect readiness to quit milend and go and live in "th' cream-pot," which, as the reader is already aware, was the expressively rich appellative of the richest of her little farms. but such was the amiable and truly filial consideration displayed by margaret anison towards her future mother-in-law, that she would on no account hear of such an arrangement. "mrs. ogden," she said, "had always been accustomed to milend, and it would be quite wrong to turn her out;" indeed she "would not hear of such a thing." so the obedient jacob hurried on the construction of a mansion worthy of the young lady who had honored him with her affections--a mansion to be replete with all modern comforts and conveniences, such as abounded at arkwright lodge. chapter xxxii. mr. stedman relents. philip stanburne's life had not been settled or happy since the date of his visit to derbyshire. the old tranquil existence at the peel had become impossible for him now. it was intolerable to him to be cut off from all direct communication with miss stedman, and one day he went boldly to chesnut hill. he went there, not under cover of the darkness, as cowardly lovers do, but in the broad openness of such daylight as is ever to be seen in sootythorn. i think, however, that it would have needed still greater courage on his part to present himself there about eight o'clock in the evening; for in the day-time mr. stedman was usually at his factory, whereas about eight in the evening a friend might count upon the pleasure of finding him at chesnut hill. the servant-maid who opened the door to philip showed him at once into the drawing-room. "what name shall i say, sir?" she asked. philip gave his name, and waited. he had not inquired whether miss stedman was at home--he felt a slight embarrassment in inquiring about miss stedman--and the servant on her part had simply asked him to walk in. he had waited about five minutes, when a heavy step became audible in the passage, and the door of the room was opened. the reverend abel blunting stood before him. "pray sit down, sir," said the reverend gentleman; "i hope you are quite well. i hope i see you well. mr. stedman is not at home--he is down at the mill--but i am expecting him every minute." mr. blunting's bland amiability ought no doubt to have awakened amiable feelings in mr. stanburne's breast, but, unfortunately, it had just the opposite effect. "i did not come here to see mr. stedman," he replied; "i came to see his daughter." now mr. blunting was a powerful man, both physically and mentally, and a man by no means disposed to yield when he considered firmness to be a duty. in the present instance he _did_ consider it necessary to prevent an interview between alice and her lover, and he quietly resolved to do so at all costs. "i am sorry," he said, "that you cannot see miss stedman." "why cannot i see her? is she not at home?" "she is under this roof, sir." "then i will see her," philip answered, and rose to his feet. "pray sit down, sir--pray sit down," said mr. blunting, without stirring from the easy-chair in which he had ensconced himself. he made a gesture with his hand at the same time, which said as plainly as it could, "calm yourself, young gentleman, and listen to me." "pray sit down. miss stedman is not very well to-day; indeed she has not been really well, i am sorry to say, for some time past. she does not rise until the afternoon, and of course you cannot go into her bedroom." "why not? come with me if you like. the doctor may go there, i suppose?" "the doctor goes there professionally, and so does miss stedman's spiritual adviser." "i could do her more good than either of you. how wretchedly lonely she is!" "my wife comes to sit with miss stedman every day." "what _is_ the matter with her? tell me the plain truth." "most willingly--most happy to reassure you, sir. there is really nothing serious in miss stedman's case; the medical men are agreed upon that. she merely suffers from debility, which has been neglected for some time because she did not complain. now that the ailment is known, it will be combated in every way. already there is a decided improvement. but in her present state of weakness, agitation of any kind might be most prejudicial--most prejudicial; and therefore i hope you will easily see that i dare not accept the responsibility of permitting an interview between you." "i shall wait here till mr. stedman comes, and ask his permission." "that is a very proper course to pursue, and i highly approve your resolution. but from what we both know of mr. stedman's sentiments, it seems scarcely probable that he will grant your request. you will do well, however, to wait and see him. it is always the best, when there are differences of opinion, that the contending parties should meet personally." here there was a pause of a minute or two, after which mr. blunting resumed, with great politeness of manner,-- "i fear you must need refreshment, sir, if you have come from a distance. your own residence, as i am informed, is at a considerable distance from this place. in mr. stedman's absence, i may take upon myself to offer you something. would you like a sandwich and a glass of wine? i cannot offer to drink wine with you, being myself a total abstainer, but as i know that you use it in great moderation, it is not against my conscience to ring for the decanters." philip stanburne had eaten nothing since six in the morning, and willingly accepted the clergyman's proposition. perhaps he accepted it the more willingly that he felt the need of all his courage for the approaching interview with mr. stedman. when the decanters and the sandwich came, the teetotal parson filled a wine-glass with formal courtesy, and young stanburne could not help feeling a certain liking, and even admiration, for the man. in truth, without being a gentleman, mr. blunting had many of the best qualities of a gentleman. he was as brave as a man well could be, more learned than most members of his own learned profession, and he had a feminine softness of manner. whilst philip was engaged with his sandwiches and sherry, he heard the hall-door open, and a manly step on the stone floor. though by no means a coward, either morally or physically, he had a sensitive constitution, and his pulse was considerably accelerated by the knowledge that mr. stedman had entered the house. the heavy steps passed the drawing-room door, and became gradually less and less audible as they ascended the stairs. "mr. stedman is gone to see his daughter," said mr. blunting. "he always goes straight to her room when he returns from the mill. he is a most affectionate father." "where his prejudices are not concerned," added philip stanburne. "where his conscience is not involved, you ought to say. his objection to your suit is strictly a conscientious objection. personally, he likes you, and your position would be an excellent one for miss alice; indeed it is beyond what she might have hoped for. but mr. stedman--ah! he is coming now." philip had somewhat hastily finished his sandwich, and resumed his first seat. mr. stedman opened the door slowly, and walked in. he gave no sign of astonishment on seeing philip (who rose as he entered), but simply bowed. then turning to mr. blunting, he said, quietly, "i think alice would be glad to see you now," on which mr. blunting left the room. there was an expression of deep sadness on john stedman's face as he sat down and looked fixedly at the table. his eyes looked in the direction of the decanters, but he evidently did not see them. suddenly recalling himself to the things about him, he saw the decanters before any thing else, and said,-- "have you had a glass of wine? take another. take one with me." astonished at this reception, philip stanburne held his glass whilst john stedman filled it. a tremulous hope rose in his breast. what if this man were relenting? what if the icy barrier were gradually thawing away? they drank the wine in silence, and mr. stedman sat down again. "sit down," he said, "sit down. you are come to talk to me about my daughter. you are under my roof, and are my guest. i will listen to you patiently, and i will answer you plainly. i can do no more than that, can i?" philip urged his suit with all the eloquence at his command. john stedman listened, as he had promised, patiently; and when his guest's eloquence had exhausted itself, he spoke in this wise:-- "i explained my views to you on a former occasion, in derbyshire. it is no use going over all that ground again. but since we met then, the position of matters has changed somewhat. my daughter is getting nearer to her majority; at the same time, you and she have made an engagement between yourselves without my sanction, and i have reason to suspect that you have corresponded. miss margaret anison has been here rather too much lately, and i have politely informed miss margaret anison that she had better remain at arkwright lodge. but another thing has altered matters still more--that is, my daughter's health. i'm very much grieved to say that i haven't a great deal of confidence in her constitution. she gets weaker every day." "mr. blunting says she is getting stronger again now." "stronger? well, momentarily she may, by the help of tonics and stimulants, but it will not last. she was never really strong, but if i'd not been so much absorbed in business, i might have taken her more out, and given her more exercise. i am ready to give up business now. i'd give up any thing for my alice. poor alice, poor alice!" philip stanburne became inoculated with mr. stedman's openly expressed alarm. "are you seriously afraid, sir?" he asked, with intense anxiety. mr. stedman looked at him fixedly and seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. "you love my girl, young man, but you don't love her as i do. ever since i have got this fear into my heart and into my brain i can neither eat nor sleep. i think sometimes i shall go out of my mind. a man loves a daughter, mr. stanburne, differently from the way he loves a son. if i'd had a son, i shouldn't have felt so anxious, for it seems that a lad should bear illnesses and run risks; but a tender little girl, philip stanburne--a tender little girl, and a great rough fellow like me to take care of her!" "is there any change in your feelings towards me, sir?" "no, none at all. i always liked you very well, and i like you very well still. there isn't a young fellow anywhere who would suit me better, if it weren't for your being such a papist. i'll tell you what i'll do with you, if you like. you give me an honest promise not to marry my daughter before twelve months are out, and you shall see her every day if you like. and if you can cheer her up and make her get her strength back again, you shall have her and welcome, papist or no papist. i'd let her marry the pope of rome before i'd see her as sad as she has been during the last two or three months. stop your dinner, will you? that sandwich is nothing; our dinner-time's one o'clock, and it's just ten minutes to. alice 'll get up when she knows you're here, i'll warrant." the reader will easily believe that philip stanburne heard this speech with a joy that made him forget his anxiety about alice. he would bring gladness to her, and with gladness, health. how bright the long future seemed for these two, true lovers always, till the end of their lives! o golden hope, fair promise of happy years! but the doctor, who had been at chesnut hill that morning, had heard a little faint sound in his polished black stethoscope, which was as terrible in its import as the noise of the loudest destroyers, as the crack of close thunder, the roar of cannon, the hiss of the hurricane, the explosion of a mine! chapter xxxiii. the saddest in the book. let this part of our story be quickly told, for it is very sad! let us not dwell upon this sorrow, and analyze it, and anatomize it, and lecture upon it, as if it were merely a study for the intellect, and caused the heart no pain! it is the middle of winter. the streets of sootythorn are sloppy with blackened snow, the sky is dreary and gray, and dirtied by the smoke from the factory-chimneys. sootythorn is dismal, and manchester is all in a fog. the cotton-spinners' train that goes from sootythorn to manchester is running into a cloud that gets ever denser and yellower, and the whistle screams incessantly. the knees of the travellers are covered with "guardians," and "couriers," and "examiners," for there is not light enough to read comfortably. one manufacturer asks his neighbor a question: "where is john stedman of sootythorn? he uses comin' by this train, and i haven't seen him as i cannot tell how long." the question interests us also. where is john stedman? not at chesnut hill, certainly. there is nobody at chesnut hill but the old gardener and his wife. he tends the plants in the hothouse, and keeps them comfortable in this dreary lancashire winter by the help of lancashire coal. but the house is all shut up, except on the rare days when a bit of sunshine comes, and the old woman opens the shutters and draws up the blinds to let the bright rays in. every thing seems ready for alice, if she would only come. there is her little pretty room upstairs, and there are twenty things of hers in the drawing-room that wait for their absent mistress. miss alice is far away in the south, and her father is with her--and there is a third, who never leaves them. they had been travelling towards italy, but when they reached avignon, alice became suddenly worse, and they stayed there to give her a long rest. the weather happened to be very pure and clear, and it suited her. the winter weather about avignon is often very exhilarating and delicious, when the keen frost keeps aloof, and the dangerous winds are at rest. as for saving alice now, not one of the three had a vestige of delusive hope. the progress of the malady had been terribly rapid; every week had been, a visible advance towards the grave. john stedman had hoped little from the very beginning, philip stanburne had hoped much longer, and alice herself longest of all. but none of the three hoped any longer now. when alice found herself settled at avignon, she felt a strong indisposition to go farther. the railway tired and agitated her, and the dust made her cough more painful. "papa," she said one day, as she sat in her easy-chair looking up the rhone, "i think we cannot do better than just remain where we are. i shall not keep you in this place very long. no climate can save me now, and this weather is as pleasant as any italian weather could be. i am cowardly about travelling, and it troubles me to think of the journey before us." mr. stedman feebly tried to encourage alice, and talked of the beautiful italian coast as if they were going to see it; but it soon became tacitly understood that alice's travels were at an end. mr. stedman, who, since he had left england with his daughter, had never considered expense in any thing in which her comfort was, or seemed to be, involved, sought out a pleasanter lodging than the hotel they had chosen as a temporary resting-place. he found a charming villa on the slopes that look towards mount ventoux. the view from its front windows included the great windings of the rhone and the beautiful mountainous distance; whilst from the back there was a very near view of avignon, strikingly picturesque in composition, crowned by the imposing mass of the papal palace. alice preferred the mountains, and chose a delightful little _salon_ upstairs as her own sitting-room, whilst her bedroom was close at hand. there was a balcony, and she liked to sit there in the mild air during the warmest and brightest hours. mr. stedman's powerful and active nature suffered from their monotonous life at the villa, and he needed exercise both for the body and the mind. alice perceived this, and, well knowing that it was impossible for her father to do any thing except in her service, plotted a little scheme by which she hoped to make him take the exercise and the interest in outward things which in these sad days were more than ever necessary to him. "papa," she said one day, "i think if i'd a little regular work to do, it would do me good. i wish you would go geologizing for me, and bring me specimens. you might botanize a little, too, notwithstanding the time of the year; it would be amusing to puzzle out some of the rarer plants. it's a very curious country, isn't it, papa? i'm sure, if i were well, we should find a great deal of work to do together here." then she began to question him about the geology and botany of the district, and made him buy some books which have been written upon these subjects by scientific inhabitants of avignon. her little trick succeeded. mr. stedman, under the illusion that he was working to please his poor alice, trudged miles and miles in the country, and extended his explorations to the very slopes of mount ventoux itself. in this way he improved the tone of his physical constitution, and alice saw with satisfaction that it would be better able to endure the impending sorrow. he had long ceased to treat philip stanburne with coldness or distrust. his manner with his young friend was now quite gentle, and even affectionate, tenderly and sadly genial. the one point on which they disagreed was no longer a sore point for either of them. one day, when they were together, they met a religious procession, with splendid sacerdotal costumes and banners, and philip kneeled as the host was carried by. their conversation, thus briefly interrupted, was resumed without embarrassment, and mr. stedman asked some questions about the especial purpose of the procession, without the slightest perceptible expression of contempt for it. he began to take an interest in the charities of the place, and having visited the hospital, said he thought he should like to give something, and actually left a bank-note for five hundred francs, though the managers of the institution, and the nurses, and the patients, were romanists without exception. meanwhile, he read his bible very diligently every day, and the prayers of the little household, in which philip willingly joined. during one of mr. stedman's frequent absences on the little scientific missions ordered by his daughter alice, she and philip had a conversation which he ever afterwards remembered. "philip," she said, "do you ever think much about what _might have been_, if just one circumstance had been otherwise? i have been thinking a great deal lately, almost constantly, about what might have been, for us two, if my health had been strong and good. people say that love such as ours is only an illusion--only a short dream--but i cannot believe that. it might have changed, as our features change, with time, but it would have remained with us all our lives. do you ever fancy us a quiet respectable old couple, living at the tower, and coming sometimes to sootythorn together? i do. i fancy that, and all sorts of things that might have been--and some of them would have been, too--if i had lived. there's one thing vexes me, and that is, that i never saw the tower. i wish i had just seen it once, so that i might fancy our life there more truly. how glad dear papa would have been to come and stay with us, and botanize and geologize amongst your rocks there! you would have let him come, wouldn't you, dear?--i am sure you would have been very kind to him. you _will_ be kind to him, won't you, my love, when he has no longer his poor little lissy to take care of him? don't leave him altogether by himself. i am afraid his old age will be very sad and lonely. it grieves me to think of that, for he will be old in a few years now, and his poor little daughter will not be near him to keep him cheerful. fancy him coming home every evening from the mill, and nobody but servants in the house! go and stay with him sometimes, dear, at chesnut hill, and get him to go to the tower, and you will sometimes talk together about alice, and it will do you both good." philip had kept up manfully as long as he was able, but the vivid picture that these words suggested of a world without alice was too much for him to bear, and he burst into passionate tears. as for alice, she remained perfectly calm, but when she spoke again it was with an ineffable tenderness. she took his hand in hers, and drew him towards her, and kissed him. again and again she kissed him, smoothing his hair caressingly with her fingers--gentle touches that thrilled through his whole being. "you don't know, my darling," she said, "how much i love you, and how miserable it made me when i thought we must be separated in this world. it isn't so hard to be separated by death; but to live both of us in the same world, seeing the same sun, and moon, and stars, even the same hills, and not to be together, but always living out of sight and hearing of each other, and yet so near--it would have been a trial beyond my strength! and isn't it something, my love, to be together as we are now for the last few weeks and days? you don't know how happy it makes me to see you and papa getting on so nicely as you do. isn't he nice, now? i don't believe he thinks a bit the worse of you for being a catholic. we shall all meet again, darling--shall we not?--in the same heaven, and then we shall have the same perfect knowledge, and our errors and differences will be at an end for ever." she was a good deal exhausted with saying this, and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a while. philip gradually recovered his usual melancholy tranquillity, and they sat thus without speaking, he holding both her hands in his, and gently chafing and caressing them. he had not courage to speak to alice--indeed, in all their saddest and most serious conversations, the courage was mainly on her side. whilst they were sitting thus, the sky became suddenly overcast, and there came a few pattering drops of rain. alice started suddenly, and seemed to be agitated by an unknown terror. she grasped philip's hand in a nervous way, and complained of a strange suffering and foreboding. "i felt so calm and peaceful all the morning," she said; "i wish i could feel so now." the agitation increased, and it was evident to philip that a great change had taken place. alice threw her arms round him, and clasped him to her. "o philip!" she cried, wildly, "don't leave me now--don't leave me even for a minute! stay, darling, stay; it is coming, coming!" the pattering of the rain had ceased. it had been nothing but a few drops--scarcely even a shower--and it had ceased. but the air was not clearer after the rain. on the contrary, it had been clearer before it than it was now. the snowy summit of mount ventoux was hidden in an opaque, thick atmosphere; mist it was not, as we northerns understand mist, but a substantial thickening of the air. soon there was the same thickening, the same opacity in the atmosphere of the remote plain that stretched to the mountain's foot. it was invisible now, the mount ventoux, the mountain of the winds. and as the plain grew dark the rhone as suddenly whitened. it whitened and whitened, nearer and nearer avignon; then a dull distant roar became audible, steadily increasing. a violent brief squall shook the villa. what! so frightened already? poor children, it is nothing yet! over the terrified plain, over the foaming river, comes the mistral, careering in his strength! well for you, walls of avignon, that you were built for the shocks of battle! well for thee, most especially, o palace of the transplanted papacy, that thy fortress-heights were erected less for pleasure than for resistance! louder and louder, nearer and nearer! how the trees bend like fishing-rods! crash, crash--they break before the tempest. what a clatter against the windows! it is a volley of pebbles that the mistral carries with it as a torrent does. bang, bang--the shutters are torn off their iron hinges and pitched nobody knows where--into the court, on the roof-top, it may be, or into the neighbor's garden! the intensity of the noise made all human voices inaudible. the mistral likes to make an uproar--it is his amusement, when he comes to avignon from his mountain. and he whistles at once in a thousand chimneys, as a boy whistles in two steel keys; and he makes such a clatter with destroying things, that the most insured house-property leaves no peace to its possessor. but straight in the midst of his path rise the towers of the fortress-palace, and peter obreri, its architect, knows in the world of spirits that they resist the mistral yet. but alas for our poor little alice! this wind does not suit her at all; this unceasing, this wearisome wind--this agitating, terrible wind! she did not fear death before, in the calm serene weather, when it seemed that her soul might rise in the blue ether, and be borne by floating angels. but to go out into the bleak, stern tempest--to leave _his_ encircling arms, and be dashed no one knows whither along the desolate, unfamiliar provence, with twigs, and dead leaves, and pebbles, and that choking cloud of sand! "forgive me these foolish fancies," she prayed, from the depths of this horror. "my soul knows her way to the haven of thy rest, o lord, my guide and my redeemer!" chapter xxxiv. jacob ogden free again. early in the month of february there came a black-edged letter to arkwright lodge, with a french stamp upon it. the letter was from philip stanburne, and it announced alice stedman's death. two days after the arrival of that letter another letter arrived at milend for jacob ogden. it bore the whittlecup post-mark, and had an exact outward resemblance to several other letters which had come from the same place, but its contents were of a new character. miss anison expressed her regret that in consequence of mr. jacob ogden's neglect, of his readiness to postpone his visits on the slightest pretexts, of the rarity and coldness of his letters, she felt compelled, from a due regard to her own happiness, to put an end to the engagement which had existed between them. the accusations in this letter were perfectly well founded, though it is quite certain that they would never have been made if philip stanburne's communication had been edged with silver instead of black. margaret anison had remarked with secret satisfaction that jacob ogden's behavior as a lover gave her good reasons for retreating from her engagement, whenever she might determine on that decisive step; but in the mean while she had never reproached him with it, had never appeared aware of it when he _did_ come, but always received him in the same uniformly gracious way, as if he had been the most assiduous of adorers. she had kept this accusation of negligence to be used against him whenever it might be convenient to throw the blame of a rupture upon _him_; but if she had finally decided to marry him, this and all other faults would have been affectionately overlooked. it had been highly convenient to let him sink deeper and deeper in that sin of negligence, till at last, from mere carelessness and an aversion to all letter-writing that was not upon business, he had actually reached that depth in crime that he no longer observed the common forms of society, and did not even write a line of apology or excuse. margaret never expected him to be attentive to her as a husband: she intended to spend his money, and, so long as that was forthcoming, cared little about jacob ogden's manners. but it was charming to be able to back out of her engagement, now that alice was dead, and do it in a dignified and honorable manner. for of all sins that a lover can commit, the chief is the sin of neglect; and in this case any competent and just jury would have pronounced the verdict "guilty." to this letter jacob ogden made no reply. his feelings on receiving it were, first, the most unfeigned astonishment (for he thought he had been very attentive, and that "courtin'" had absorbed far too much of his time); next, a paroxysm of indignation, with a sense of injury; and then, when this subsided, a sense of relief so exquisite, so delicious, and so complete, that nobody can have any idea of it unless at some period of his existence a wearing and persistent anxiety has been suddenly removed for ever. the love of margaret anison had been one of those masterful passions which sometimes force the most prudent men to folly. he had made his offer in the height of his temporary insanity, but after the engagement had been entered upon, his old self had gradually returned; and though he was fully determined to "go through with it," as a business which had to be done, he by no means looked forward to the conjugal state as an improvement upon his accustomed life. it was like embarking on an unknown and perilous sea, in utter ignorance of the art of navigation, and that sea might be a sea of troubles. the complex details of married life, its endless little duties, were perplexing to a man whose time and thoughts were already taken up by the government of a heavy business, and the care of an increasing estate. and now to escape from these new and unfamiliar troubles--to remain in the old quiet life at milend--to have full control over his own expenditure, with no female criticism or interference--to see his fortune growing and growing without sons to establish or daughters to dower, or an expensive houseful of servants to eat the bank-notes in his pocket-book like so many nattering mice,--ah! it was sweet to him to think of this in his innermost and sincerest self! he had loved his bachelor life well enough before, but he had never felt the full luxury of its independence as he did now! jacob ogden enjoyed a privilege highly favorable to happiness, but not so favorable to moral or intellectual growth. he lived at peace with himself, and looking back on his life, he approved of its whole course, with the single exception of that hour of folly at whittlecup. he felt and believed that no man could be wiser or more perfect than he was. when he humbly called his faculties "common-sense," he by no means understood the word as meaning a sense which he had in common with others, but rather a special faculty, to himself vouchsafed by the bounteous gift of nature. he lived in absolute independence of the good opinion of others, because his mind was at peace with itself--because he always manfully did to-day what he was sure to approve to-morrow, or ten years after to-morrow. am i painting the portrait of a man of pre-eminent virtues? not exactly, but of a man who would have been pre-eminently virtuous, or pre-eminently learned, if virtue or knowledge had been his ideal. for he had a manly resolution, a steady unflinching determination, to live up to the standard which he fixed for himself. and the inward peace which he enjoyed was due to his obedience to the laws of his own nature, which thus ever remained in harmony with itself in serene strength and efficiency. this peace had for a while been lost to him, and he had felt a strange change and diminution in the inward satisfactions. his communings with himself had lost their old sweetness, and he no longer masticated the cud of contentment in the fair pastures of reflection and imagination. to go back to those happy pastures once more--to chew that sweet cud again, after months of privation--what a deep, strengthening, cheering, encouraging, replenishing delight it was! yet there was one drawback to the plenitude of ogden's happiness, even though he had escaped the misery of the wedding-day. that new mansion had been begun, he had spent £ upon it already, and spoilt a pretty meadow, and he had spent some money on presents for margaret--not very much, for his ideas on the subject of gift-making were not very large ideas, yet still enough to plague and torment him, for the loss of a sovereign would do that. to be jilted did not trouble him much, but to have been cheated into wasting his money! that thought would not let him rest. it followed and harassed him wherever he went, and it was the cause of the following letter, which was received by mr. joseph anison:-- "sir,--i am instructed by my client, mr. jacob ogden, to lay before you the following statement of facts. your daughter, miss margaret anison, by a letter bearing date ----, and which is in our possession, accepted his proposal of marriage, and promised marriage; which promise she now, by a letter bearing date ----, refuses to execute. in consequence of her promise, and in conformity with her desires, our client has been led into considerable expense, especially in the erection of a mansion, of which miss anison herself selected the site. the works were immediately stopped when it became known to our client that miss anison had determined upon a breach of promise, but a heavy sum had been already expended, which, so far as our client is concerned, is money utterly thrown away. we beg to call your attention to the fact that our client and his mother offered another most commodious and suitable residence to miss anison, situated at milend, and that she declined this, and induced our client to commence the erection of a new and costly mansion on a site which he would never have selected for himself. we therefore claim for our client damages to the amount of one thousand pounds (£ , ), and beg to inform you, that unless this sum is paid before the expiration of one calendar month from this date, we shall institute a suit for breach of promise of marriage, and claim damages on that score to a far heavier amount. the present claim, we desire it to be understood, is not made on the ground of breach of promise, but is merely a claim for compensation on account of outlay which our client has been induced to incur. our client has no desire to push matters to the extremity of a public exposure, but will not shrink from doing so if his present just claim is refused. "i am, sir, your obedient servant, "jonas hanby." "you may decide for yourself, margaret," said mr. anison, "whether you prefer that i should pay this out of your fortune, or stand an action for breach of promise. it is not usual to bring actions of this sort against women, but ogden is a most determined fellow, and he doesn't care much for what people may say. he will bring his action if we don't send him a cheque, and i don't think such an action would be very pleasant to you. considering circumstances, too, especially the building of that new house, i am inclined to think that he would get rather heavy damages, certainly at least as much as he is asking for. such an action would make a tremendous noise, and we should be in all the newspapers. we must consider your sisters, too, who wouldn't be much benefited by publicity of this kind. in short, my advice is to send the cheque." the cheque was accordingly sent to mr. hanby, and duly acknowledged. the presents had been returned a few days before. these last had been purchased of a jeweller in st. ann's square, manchester, who took them back in exchange for an excellent gentleman's watch and a big cameo brooch. the watch went into jacob ogden's own fob, and the brooch adorned his already sufficiently ornamented mother. all things considered, jacob ogden now felt that he could look back upon the whole business with a mind at ease. he had done his duty by himself. after deducting the outlay on the house, and the outlay necessary for restoring the field to its pristine verdure, he found that there remained to him a clear surplus of four hundred and fifteen pounds seven shillings and twopence, which he entered in the column of profits. "it's been rather a good business for once, has this courtin'," said jacob to himself; "but it's devilish risky, and there's nobody'll catch me at it again. if she'd nobbut stuck to me, she'd 'ave wenly ruined me." so, when the walls of the mansion that was to have been were levelled with the ground, and the foundations buried under the earth that they might be no more seen, jacob ogden buried with them the thought and idea of marriage; and the grass grew on the field that had been so torn, and cut, and burdened, and disturbed by the masons and laborers who had been there. as the field grew level and green again just as it used to be, so flourished the mind of jacob ogden in serene and productive life. but as _beneath_ the field--beneath the waving of the rich grass--there still lay the plan of the house that was to have been, traced out in stony foundations, so in the mind of its owner there lay hidden a stony memory of the plans of this strange year; and though the surface was perfectly restored, there were hard places under his happiness that had not been there before. chapter xxxv. little jacob's education. the rupture between jacob ogden and miss anison had an immediate effect upon the fortunes of a young friend of ours, who has for a long time been very much in the background. little jacob began to occupy a larger and larger place in his uncle's thoughts. for, though uncle jacob had formerly always intended, in a general way, to remain a bachelor, this had been nothing more than a sort of intellectual preference for bachelorhood, deduced from his general views of life, and especially from his dominant anxiety to make a fortune. but his objections to matrimony were no longer of this mild kind. like a wild animal that has once felt the noose of the trapper round its neck, and yet succeeded in freeing itself, he had conceived a horror of the snare which was incomparably more active and intense than the vague alarms of the inexperienced. his former ideas about marriage had been purely negative. he had no intention to marry, and there was the end of his reflections on the matter. but now his preference for celibacy had taken the shape of a passionate and unalterable resolution. the increase of his fortune, which might henceforth be surely relied on, led him to think a good deal about the little boy at twistle farm, who was most probably destined to inherit it; and he determined to use a legitimate influence over his brother isaac, so that little jacob might be educated in a manner suitable to his future position. we have said that jacob ogden was perfectly satisfied with himself, and that knowledge was not his ideal. but although this is true, his views were really larger than the reader may have hitherto suspected. he considered himself perfect in his place; but as little jacob would probably have a very different place in the world, he would need different perfections. the qualities needed for making a large fortune were, in jacob ogden's view, the finest qualities that a human being can possess, and he knew that he possessed them; but then there were certain ornaments and accomplishments which were necessary to a rich gentleman, and which the manufacturer had not had time to acquire. he was not foolish enough to torment himself with regrets that he did not know latin and greek; he had none of the silly humilities of weak minds that are perpetually regretting their "deficiencies." whatever it was necessary for his main purpose that he should know, he always resolutely set himself to learn, and, by strenuous application, mastered; what was unnecessary for his purpose, he remained contentedly ignorant about. the customary pedantries of the world, its shallow pretension to scholarship, never humiliated _him_. he suspected, perhaps, that genuine classical acquirement was much rarer than the varnish of pseudo-scholarship, and he had not that deferential faith in gentlemen's latin and greek which is sometimes found in the uneducated. but, on the other hand, as he had learned every thing that was necessary to a plodding shayton cotton-spinner, so he was determined that little jacob should learn every thing necessary to a perfect english gentleman. he had not read the sentence of emerson, "we like to see every thing do its office after its kind, whether it be a milk-cow or a rattlesnake;" but the sentiment in it was his own. his strong sense perceived that so long as men hold different situations in the world, their preparatory training must be different; and that, as a young pigeon must learn to fly, and a young terrier to catch rats, so the youthful heir of a splendid fortune, and the boy who has his fortune to make, ought to receive respectively a celestial and a terrestrial training. for jacob ogden, himself a terrestrial, knew that there was a heaven above him--the heaven of aristocracy! _there_ dwelt superior beings, in golden houses, like gods together, far above the ill-used race of men that cleave the soil and store their yearly dues. there is something ludicrous, if it were not pathetic and painful, in the self-abasement of a man so strong and resolute as ogden before a heaven whose saints and angels were only titled ladies and gentlemen, mainly occupied in amusing themselves; but to him it was the world of the ideal. and this religion had one great advantage--it kept him a little humbler than he ever would have been without it. great was the successful cotton-spinner in his eyes, but there were beings cast by nature in a nobler mould. for jacob ogden actually believed, in all sincerity and simplicity, that there was the same natural difference between a lord and a plebeian that there is between a thorough-bred and a cart-horse. this superstition, though founded on a dim sense of the natural differences which do exist, erred in making them the obedient servants of the artificial differences. there are, no doubt, thorough-breds and cart-horses amongst mankind, and the popular phraseology would imply that there are also asses; but these natural differences seem to be independent of title altogether, and dependent even upon fortune only so far as it may help or hinder their development. the superstition that lords, _quâ_ lords, are wiser, and better, and braver, and more respectable than other people, was more prevalent in shayton than it is in places where lords are more frequently seen. now, with this deeply rooted anglican superstition about the heaven of aristocracy and the angels that dwell therein, uncle jacob naturally desired that his nephew should be qualified for admission there. and he had a devout belief that the states of probation for a young soul aspiring to celestial bliss were terms of residence at eton and at oxford. little jacob had continued his custom of staying at milend every sunday, that he might benefit by the services of our friend mr. prigley in the pew at shayton church. isaac ogden, though he had come to church three sundays in succession after the recovery of little jacob, and had attended divine service regularly as an officer of militia (being in that character compulsible thereunto by martial law), had, i regret to say, relapsed into his old habits of negligence at twistle farm, and spent the sunday there in following his own devices. it must be admitted, however, that he did little harm, on that day or any other, to himself or anybody else. he remained religiously faithful to his vow of total abstinence, and spent several hours every day in giving a sound elementary education to his son. "i'll tell you what it is, isaac," said uncle jacob one day when his elder brother had come on one of his rare visits to milend--"i'll tell you what it is; if you'll just let me have my own way about th' eddication o' th' young un, i'll leave him all my brass, and, what's more, i don't mind payin' for his schoolin' beside. i want nowt nobbut what's reet, but i'll make sich a gentleman on him as there isn't i' o shayton nor i' o manchester nother. and to start wi', i reckon nowt of his stoppin' up at twistle farm same as he is doin' an' idlin' away auve[ ] his time. let him live at milend regular for a twelvemonth, and go to prigley six hour every day, and then send him to eton--that's where gentlefolk sends their lads to. and afther that, we'll send him to hoxford college." chapter xxxvi. a short correspondence. no sooner had mr. prigley got into the full swing of work with his young pupil, than he received a letter from our friend colonel stanburne of wenderholme:-- "my dear mr. prigley,--it would give me great pleasure, and be of great use to me besides, if you could come over here and stay with me for a fortnight or three weeks. we got the house covered in just before the winter, and the works have been going forward since in some parts of the interior, but there are some points about internal fittings, especially in the principal rooms, that i and my architect don't agree about. now, what i most want is, the advice of a competent unprofessional friend; and as i know that you have studied architecture much more deeply than i have ever done myself, i look to you to help me. it will probably be a long time before the house is finished, but now is the time to decide about the interior arrangements. helena is at lord adisham's, and so i am left alone with the architect. i wish you would come. he seems to want me to adopt a different style for the finishing of the interior to that which was generally prevalent when wenderholme was built. now my notion is (_puisque l'occasion se présente_) to make the place as homogeneous as possible. "do come. you will stay here at the cottage. i am living with my mother. "very faithfully yours, john stanburne." to this letter, which offered to mr. prigley's mind the most tempting of all possible baits, for he dearly loved to dabble in architecture and restorations, the reverend gentleman, being bound by his engagement with the ogdens, could only regretfully answer:-- "my dear colonel stanburne,--i should have accepted your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure, and the more so that i take a deep interest in the restoration of your noble old mansion, but unfortunately i have a private pupil whom i cannot leave. it is young jacob ogden, whose father is one of your militia officers. "yours most truly, e. prigley." but by return of post mr. prigley got the following short reply:-- "my dear mr. prigley,--the best solution of the difficulty will be, to bring little jacob with you. i know little jacob very well, and he knows me. give my compliments to his father if you have to ask his permission, and tell him we will take good care of his little boy. "yours very faithfully, j. stanburne." so the end of it was, that little jacob found himself suddenly removed to wenderholme cottage, where old mrs. stanburne lived. the change was highly agreeable to him--not the less agreeable that the companion of his leisure hours was the beautiful little edith. chapter xxxvii. at wenderholme cottage. wenderholme cottage was in fact a very comfortable and commodious house. its claims to the humble title which it bore, were, first, that its front was all gables, with projecting roofs, and carved or traceried barge-boards; and, secondly, that its rooms were small. but if they were small they were numerous; and when it pleased mrs. stanburne to receive visitors--and it often pleased that hospitable lady so to do--it was astonishing how many people the cottage could be made to hold. a little kindness soon wins the affections of a child, and little jacob had not been more than three or four days at wenderholme before he began to be very fond of mrs. stanburne. hers was just the sort of influence which is necessary to a young gentleman at that age--the influence of a woman of experience, who is at the same time a high-bred gentlewoman. no doubt his old grandmother loved little jacob more than any thing else in the world; but she was narrow-minded, and despotic, and vulgar in all her ways. mrs. ogden, too, had moments of caprice and violence, in which, she was dangerous to oppose, and difficult to pacify; in short, she was one of those persons, too common in her class, of whom matthew arnold says that they are deficient in sweetness and light. the steady unfailing goodness of mrs. stanburne, her uniformly gentle manners, her open intelligent sympathy, produced on her young guest an effect made ten times more powerful by all his early associations. it was like coming out of a chamber where every thing was rough and uncouth, into a pleasant drawing-room, full of light and elegance, where there are flowers, and music, and books. such a change would not be agreeable to every one: whether it would be agreeable or not depends upon the instinctive preferences. ladies like mrs. stanburne do not put everybody at his ease, and it proves much in little jacob's favor that he felt happy in her presence. as jacob ogden, the elder, had been formed by nature for the rude contest with reluctant fortune, so his nephew had been created for the refinements of an attained civilization. therefore, henceforth, though he still loved his grandmother, both from gratitude and habit, his young mind saw clearly that neither her precepts nor her example were to be accepted as authoritative, and he looked up to mrs. stanburne as his preceptress. little jacob's healthy honest face and simple manners recommended him to the good lady from the first, and he had not been a week under her roof before she took a kind interest in every thing concerning him. the mere facts that he had no mother, no sister, no brother, and that he had lived alone with his father in such a place as twistle farm, were of themselves enough to attract attention and awaken curiosity; but the story of his arrival at wenderholme in the preceding winter was also known to her, and she knew how unendurably miserable his lonely home had been. mrs. stanburne talked a good deal with mr. prigley about the boy, and learned with pleasure his father's wonderful and (as now might be hoped) permanent reformation. "he does not seem to have neglected the little boy," she said; "he reads very well. i asked him to read aloud to me yesterday, and was surprised to hear how well he read--i mean, quite as if he understood it, and not in the sing-song way children often acquire." "he's ten years old now, and he ought to read well," replied mr. prigley; "but he knows a great deal for a boy of his age. it's high time to send him to school, though; it's too lonely for him at the farm. i am preparing him for eton." mrs. stanburne expressed some surprise at this. "boys in his rank in life don't often go to eton, do they, mr. prigley?" the clergyman smiled as he answered that little jacob's rank in life was not yet definitively settled. mrs. stanburne replied that she thought it was, since his father was a retired tradesman. "yes, but his uncle, mr. jacob ogden of milend, has not left business; indeed he is greatly extending his business just now, for he has built an immense new factory. and this little boy is to be his heir--his uncle told me so himself three weeks since. this child will be a rich man--nobody can tell how rich. his uncle wishes him to be educated as a gentleman." it is a great recommendation to a little boy to be heir to a large fortune, and mrs. stanburne's natural liking for little jacob was by no means diminished by a knowledge of that fact. as he was going to eton, too, she began to look upon him as already in her own rank of life, where boys were sent to eton, and inherited extensive estates. during mr. prigley's frequent absences with colonel stanburne at the hall, mrs. stanburne undertook to hear little jacob his lessons, and then the idea struck her that jacob and edith might both write together from her dictation. in this way the boy and the girl became class-fellows. edith had a governess usually, but the governess had gone to visit her relations, and miss edith's education was for the present under the superintendence of her grandmamma. so between these two children an intimacy rapidly established itself--an intimacy which affected the course of their whole lives. one day when they had been left alone together in the drawing-room, little jacob asked the young lady some question, and he began by calling her "miss edith." "miss edith!" said she, pouting; "why do you call me miss? the servants may call me miss, but you mayn't. we're school-fellows now, and you must call me edith. and i shall call you jacob. why haven't you got a prettier name for me to call you by? jacob isn't pretty at all. haven't you another name?" poor little jacob was obliged to confess his poverty in names. he had but one, and that one uncouth and unacceptable! "only one name. why, you funny little boy, only to have one name! i've got four. i'm called edith maud charlotte elizabeth. but i'll tell you what i'll do. as i've got four names and you've only one, i'll give you one of mine. i can't call you charlotte, you know, because you're not a girl; but i can call you charley, and i always will do. so now i begin. charley, come here!" little jacob approached obediently. "ha, ha! he answers to his new name already!" she cried in delight, clapping her hands. "what a clever little boy he is! he's a deal cleverer than the pony was when we changed _its_ name! but then, to be sure, the pony never properly knew its first name either." suddenly she became grave, and put her fingers on the young gentleman's arm. "charley," she said, "this must be a secret between us two, because if grandmamma found out, she might be angry with me, you know. but you like to be called charley, don't you? isn't it nice?" chapter xxxviii. artistic intoxication. the london architect who was charged with the restoration of wenderholme gave advice which could not be followed without a heavy outlay; but in this respect he was surpassed by colonel stanburne's amateur adviser, mr. prigley, whose imagination revelled in the splendors of an ideal elizabethan interior, full of carving and tapestry, and all manner of barbaric magnificence. where the architect would have been content with paper, mr. prigley insisted upon wainscot; and where the architect admitted plain panelling, the clergyman would have it carved in fanciful little arches, or imitations of folded napkins, or shields of arms, or large medallion portraits of the kings of england, or bas-reliefs of history or the chase. only consider what mr. prigley's tastes and circumstances had been, and what a painful contradiction had ever subsisted between them! he had an intense passion for art--not for painting or sculpture in their independent form, for of these he knew little--but mr. prigley loved architecture mainly, and then all the other arts as they could help the effect of architecture. with these tastes he lived in a degree of poverty which utterly forbade any practical realization of them, and surrounded by buildings of which it is enough to say that they represented the taste of the inhabitants of shayton. the ugliest towns in the world are english towns--the ugliest towns in england are in the manufacturing district--the ugliest town in the manufacturing district was the one consigned to mr. prigley's spiritual care. here his artistic tastes dwelt in a state of suppression, like jack-in-the-box. colonel stanburne had imprudently unfastened the lid; it flew open, and jack sprang up with a suddenness and an energy that was positively startling and alarming. the fact is, mr. prigley lived in a condition of intoxication during the whole time of his stay at wenderholme cottage--an intoxication just as real as that which he denounced in seth schofield and jerry smethurst, and the other patrons of the red lion. a man may get tipsy on other things than ale or brandy; and it may be doubted whether any tipsiness is more complete, or more enjoyable whilst it lasts, than that which attends the realization of our ideas and the gratification of our tastes. and it has been kindly ordained that when we are not rich enough to realize our ideas for ourselves, we take nearly as much interest in seeing them realized by somebody else; so that critics who could not afford to build a laborer's cottage, get impassioned about prince albert's monument or the future palace of justice. how much the more, then, should mr. prigley excite himself about wenderholme, especially seeing that colonel stanburne had done him the honor to consult his judgment, and expressed the desire to benefit by his extensive knowledge, his cultivated taste! was it not a positive duty to interest himself in the matter, and to give the best advice he could? it was a duty, and it was a pleasure. mr. prigley had already half decided the colonel, when a powerful ally came unexpectedly to his assistance. one morning at breakfast-time, when the colonel read his letters, he said to mrs. stanburne, "here's a letter from an acquaintance of ours who wants to come and stay here," and he handed her the following note:-- "my dear colonel stanburne,--since i had the pleasure of seeing you at wenderholme, i have often thought about what you are doing there. having had a good deal of experience with architects, restorations, &c., it has occurred to me that i might be of some use. would you present my compliments to mrs. stanburne, and say that if it occasioned no inconvenience to her, i should very much like to spend a few days at wenderholme cottage? i would bring nobody with me except thompson, my valet; and though our acquaintance is comparatively a recent one, i presume upon it so far as to hope that you will not allow my visit to make any difference--i mean, in asking people to meet me. i should like, on the contrary, to have you all to myself, so that we may talk about the restoration of wenderholme in detail: it interests me greatly. with kind compliments to mrs. stanburne, "yours very truly, ingleborough." "well, dear," said mrs. stanburne, when she had read the note, "the duke must come, of course. i like him very much--he is a very agreeable man. we needn't make any fuss." so the duke came; and as colonel stanburne had insisted that mr. prigley should stay to meet him, he and little jacob prolonged their visit at the cottage. "i look upon you, mr. prigley, as a necessary shield for my ignorance. whenever you see that the duke is puzzling me, you must divert the attack by drawing it on yourself. _you're_ a match for him--you know all the technical terms." his grace brought with him a heavy box of books, such as made mr. prigley's mouth water, and several portfolios of original designs for carvings, which had been executed for an old mansion of his own, contemporary with wenderholme. he warmly supported mr. prigley's views; and in the long conversations which the three held together in the evenings, whilst the colonel consumed his habitual allowance of tobacco, the books and portfolios were triumphantly appealed to, and it was proved in a conclusive manner that this thing ought to be done, and that this other thing was absolutely indispensable, till poor john stanburne hardly knew what to think. "it is an opportunity," said the duke--"an opportunity such as, we hope, may never occur again; and it rests with you, colonel stanburne, whether your noble old mansion is to be restored, in the genuine sense of the word, so that it may have once again the perfect character of an elizabethan house of the best class--or whether it is to be simply repaired so as to shelter you from the weather, like any other house in the neighborhood. you will never repent a liberal expenditure at the right moment. i say, be liberal now; it is an expense which will not occur twice, either in your lifetime or in that of your descendants for many generations. what are a few thousand pounds more or less in a matter of such importance? make wenderholme a perfect mansion of its kind. restore all the wainscot, and tapestry, and glass; replace all the carved furniture that must have been there in queen elizabeth's time"-- "thanks to eureton's good management the night of the fire, all our furniture is safe." the duke made a little gesture of impatience. "captain eureton," he said, "did his duty most creditably on the night of the fire; but as the fire originated in the garrets, where all the old remnants were accumulated, the consequence was, that the most precious things in the house were destroyed, and the less precious were preserved." "a good deal more useful, though, duke, if less precious in the eyes of an antiquary." "useful? yes, that is what makes them so dangerous. people admit incongruous things into their houses on the wretched pretext of utility. do you know, in my opinion, it is a subject of regret that the furniture was saved that night?" "you worked very hard yourself in saving it." "of course, it was my duty to take my share of the work; but circumstances will sometimes place us in such a position that duty compels us to act against what we believe to be the general interest of mankind. for instance, suppose i were out at sea in my yacht, and that i met with a boatful of republicans, such as mazzini, garibaldi, louis blanc, and ledru rollin, all so hungry that they were just going to eat each other up, and so thirsty that they were just going to drink salt water and go raving mad, it would be my duty to pick up the rascals, and give them food, and land them on some hospitable shore, and i should do so because to save men from death is an elementary duty; but i should be rendering a far better service to mankind in letting the fellows eat each other, instead of assassinating their betters, and go raving mad out at sea rather than disseminate insane doctrines on the land." the colonel could not help laughing at this sally. "do you mean to compare my furniture with a set of republicans?" "what radicals and republicans are in an ancient state, commonplace and ignoble furniture is in a fine old mansion; and your old remnants in the lumber-room were like men of refined education and ancient descent, who have been thrust out of their natural place in society to make room for vulgar _parvenus_." "well, but what on earth would you have me do with my furniture?" "there are many ways of getting it out of wenderholme. why not furnish some other house with it? why don't you have a house in london? you _ought_ to have a house in london. the furniture here is quite appropriate in a modern house, though it is incongruous in an old one. or if you had a modern house anywhere, no matter where, you might furnish it with that furniture, and then wenderholme would be free to receive things suitable for it." amongst other books that the duke had brought with him was viollet-le-duc's valuable and comprehensive "dictionnaire du mobilier;" and the three gentlemen were soon as deep in the study of chairs and _bahuts_ as they had before been in that of wainscots and stained glass. colonel stanburne was not by nature an enthusiast in matters of this kind, and would have lived calmly all his life amidst the incongruities of the wenderholme of his youth; but nobody knows, until he has been exposed to infection, whether he may not catch some enthusiasm from others which never would have originated in himself. from the very beginning of his stay, mr. prigley had begun to indoctrinate john stanburne in these matters; and after the arrival of the duke's richly illustrated volumes, the pupil's progress had been remarkable for its rapidity. he now felt thoroughly persuaded that it would be wrong to miss such a rare opportunity, and that economy at such a moment would be unworthy of the owner of wenderholme. he had a large sum of money in the funds, entirely under his own control, and he resolved to appropriate a portion of this to the restoration of the mansion, in accordance with the advice of the duke and mr. prigley. one day at lunch, his grace was lamenting the loss of the old carvings in the lumber-room, when little jacob, who dined when his elders lunched, and was usually a model of good behavior, in that he observed a trappistine silence during the repast, rather astonished the company by saying, "please, i know where there's plenty of old oak." the gentlemen took this for one of those remarks, usually so little to the point, which children are in the habit of making. mrs. stanburne kindly answered by inquiring "whether there was much old oak at twistle farm?" "oh no, i don't mean at papa's--i mean here," replied little jacob, with great vivacity. john stanburne said, "there used to be plenty, my boy, but it was all burnt in the fire." "i don't mean that; i never saw that. i mean, what i have seen since i have been here this time,--real old oak, all carved with lions and tigers--at least, i believe they are lions and tigers--and pigs and wolves, too, and all sorts of birds and things." there was not an atom of old oak in wenderholme cottage, and there was not an atom of furniture of any kind in wenderholme hall. what could the child mean? had he been dreaming? everybody's attention was drawn to little jacob, who, becoming very red and excited, reiterated his assertion with considerable boldness and emphasis. when called upon for an explanation, he said that when he had been playing in the great barn, amongst the hay, he had got into a long low garret over the pigsties and the hen-houses, and that it was full of old oak--"quite full of it," he reiterated. mrs. stanburne's face assumed an expression of thought and reflection, as if she were seeking inwardly for something imperfectly remembered. "it strikes me," she said, "that when my husband's father modernized the house, he must have put part of the old things into other lumber-rooms than those at the top of the house itself. there are places amongst the out-buildings which have not been opened for many years, and i believe we should find something there." the duke became eager with anticipation. "the merest fragments of the original furniture would be precious, mrs. stanburne. if we only had some specimens, as data, the rest might be reconstructed in the same taste. let us go and look up whatever may remain. this little boy will be our guide." little jacob, proud and excited, led the way to the great barn. it was fun to him to make the gentlemen follow him up the ladder, and over the hay, to a little narrow doorway that was about three feet above the hay-level. "that's the door," he said, and began to climb up the rough wall. he pushed it open by using all his force in frequent shoulder-thrusts, the rusty hinges gradually yielding. the adult explorers followed, and found themselves in total darkness. "the old oak isn't here," said little jacob; "it's a good bit further on." the garret they were in served as a lumber-room for disused agricultural implements, and both the duke and mr. prigley hurt their shins against those awkward obstacles. at last they came to a blank wall, and then to what seemed to be a sort of cupboard, so far as they could guess by touching. behind the cupboard was a small space, into which little jacob insinuated himself, and afterwards cheerfully sang out, "i'm all right; here's the place!" the gentlemen pushed the cupboard back a foot or two, and found the doorway behind it by which their guide had passed. they were in a long, low attic, very dimly lighted by a little hole in the wall at its remote extremity. it was full of obstacles, which the duke's touch recognized at once as carved oak. "we ought to have had lanterns," he said; "how tantalizing it is not to be able to see!" "i would rather have a few slates taken off," john stanburne answered; "that will make us a fine sky-light. i have a dread of fire." little jacob was sent to fetch two or three men, who in half an hour had removed slates enough to throw full daylight on the scene--such daylight as had not penetrated there for many a long year. the old furniture of wenderholme, gray, almost white, with age, filled the place from end to end in one continuous heap. "but this is all white," said little jacob, "and old oak ought to be brown, oughtn't it?" "a little linseed-oil will restore the color," the duke replied. then he exclaimed, "by jove! colonel, we have found a treasure--we have indeed! let us get every thing out into the yard, and then we can examine the things in detail." the whole of the afternoon was spent in getting the old oak out. the gentlemen worked with the laborers, the duke himself as energetically as any one. his great anxiety was to prevent injury to the carvings, which were very picturesque and elaborate. when the things were all out of doors, and the garret finally cleared, it was astonishing what a display they made. there were six cabinets, of which four had their entablatures supported by massive griffins or lions, and their panels inlaid with ebony and satin-wood, or carved with bas-reliefs, which, though certainly far from accurate in point of design, produced a very rich effect; whilst even the plainest of the cabinets were interesting for some curious specimen of turner's work or tracery. then there were portions of three or four state beds, with massive deeply panelled testers and huge columns, constructed with that disdain for mechanical necessity, and that emphatic preference of the picturesque, which marked the taste of the elizabethan age. thus, a single bed-post would in one place be scarcely thicker than a man's wrist, and in another thicker than his body; the weight of the whole being enormously out of proportion to its strength. there were a number of chairs of various patterns, but which agreed in uniting weight with fragility, and stateliness with discomfort. there were also innumerable fragments, difficult at first sight to classify, but amongst which might be recognized the legs of tables (constructed on the same principle as the bed-posts), and pieces that had been detached from chairs, and cabinets, and beds. in addition to all these things, there were quantities of old wainscot, some of it carved, or inlaid with various woods. the men had come to the wainscot at last, for it was reared against the walls of the garret behind the barricade of furniture. as they were removing it, there was a crashing of broken glass. a piece of this glass was brought to the light, and it was found to be stained with the arms of the stanburnes (or, a bend cottised sa.), simple old bearings like those of most ancient untitled houses. on this other fragments were carefully collected, and they all bore the arms of stanburne impaled with those of families with which the colonel's ancestors had intermarried. mr. prigley, who was rather strong in heraldry, and knew the genealogy of his wife's family and all its alliances much better than did john stanburne himself, recognized the martlets of tempest, the red lion of mallory, the green lion of sherburne, the black lion of stapleton, the chevron and cinquefoils of falkingham, the golden lozenges of plumpton, charged with red scallop-shells, in fess on a field of azure. "this has been a great heraldic window, commemorating the alliances of the family!" cried mr. prigley, in ecstasy. "it must be restored, colonel," said the duke, "and brought down to the present time--down to you and lady helena." soon afterwards another discovery was due to the restless curiosity and boyish activity of little jacob. he had found means to open one of the biggest of the cabinets, and had hauled out what seemed to him an old piece of carpet folded in many folds. he ran to inform the duke of his discovery; but his grace, eagerly unfolding the supposed piece of carpet, displayed a rich field of "arras green and blue, showing a gaudy summer morn, where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew his wreathéd bugle-horn." other pieces of tapestry followed, and the heaviest of the cabinets was found to be nearly full of them. they consisted almost exclusively of hunting scenes and pastorals, with landscapes and foliage, which, though seldom approaching correctness as a representation of nature, must have produced, nevertheless, a superbly decorative effect when hung in the halls of wenderholme. the duke had said very little for nearly an hour, except in ordering the men to arrange the furniture in groups. when this had been accomplished to his satisfaction, he turned to the colonel, and made him the following little speech:-- "colonel stanburne, i congratulate you upon a discovery which would be interesting to any intelligent person, but is so most especially to the representative of the stanburnes. here are specimens of the furniture used by your ancestors from the reign of henry vii. to that of james i. we have here ample data for the complete restoration of wenderholme, even in the details of wainscot and tapestry and glass. the minutest fragments in these heaps are valuable beyond price. it is getting late now, but to-morrow i will go through every bit of it and ticket every thing, and when i leave i will send you workmen capable of doing every thing that ought to be done." here little jacob whispered to mr. prigley, "it was i that found it out, wasn't it, mr. prigley?" to which piece of self-assertion his tutor replied by the repressive monosyllable "hush!" but his grace had overheard both of them, and said, "indeed we are very much obliged to you, my little boy--very much obliged indeed. i should like to make you a little present of some sort for the pleasure you have afforded me this afternoon. you are going to eton, i hear. have you got a watch?" little jacob pulled out a silver watch, of the old-fashioned kind popularly known as turnips, from their near approach to the spherical conformation. the duke smiled as he looked at it, and asked what time it was. little jacob's watch was two hours late. "but it ticks yet," he said. the duke said no more just then, but when little jacob was dressed to go down to dessert, his grace's valet, thompson, knocked at the door, and brought a gold watch with a short chain, wherewith the young gentleman proudly adorned himself. one of the first things he did was to go to the duke and thank him; and he did it so nicely that the nobleman was pleased to say that when little jacob went to eton he might "show his watch to the fellows, and tell 'em who gave it him." chapter xxxix. good-bye to little jacob. little jacob was in luck's way, for the day he left wenderholme cottage the colonel tipped him with a five-pound note. he had a private interview, too, with miss edith, and there was quite a little scene between the infantine lovers. "are you really going away to-day, charley?" she said, using the name she had given him. "yes; mr. prigley says he must go back on account of shayton church. it will be sunday to-morrow, you know." "and when will you come back to us again?" "i don't know. perhaps never." "perhaps never!" exclaimed miss edith; "and aren't you very sorry?" "yes, very sorry. i have been very happy here." "well, then, you must come again. i wish you would. i like you very much. you are a nice boy," and the frank young lady made him a small present--a little gold pin with a turquoise in it. "keep that; you must never lose it, you know--it is a keepsake." when little jacob left with mr. prigley, mrs. stanburne was very kind to him, and said he must come again some time. this cheered edith's heart considerably, but still there was a certain moisture in her eyes as she bade farewell to her boy-friend. and in the same way i, who write this, feel a sadness coming over me which is not to be resisted. children _never_ live long. when they are not carried away in little coffins, and laid for ever in the silent grave, they become transformed so rapidly that we lose them in another way. the athletic young soldier or oxonian, the graceful heroine of the ball-room, may make proud the parental heart, but can they quite console it for the eternal loss of the little beings who plagued and enlivened the early years of marriage? a father may sometimes feel a legitimate and reasonable melancholy as he contemplates the most promising of little daughters, full of vivacity and health. how long will the dear child remain to him? she will be altered in six months; in six years she will be succeeded by a totally different creature--a creature new in flesh and blood and bone, thinking other thoughts and speaking another language. there is a sadness even in that change which is increase and progression; for the glory of noon-day has destroyed the sweet delicacy of the dewy aurora, and the wealth of summer has obliterated the freshness of the spring. in saying good-bye to little jacob and his friend miss edith, now, i am like some father who, under the fierce sun of india, sends his children away from him, that they may live. he expects to meet them again, yet these children he will never meet. in their place he will see men and women in the vigor of ripened adolescence. and when he quits the deck before the ship sails, and the little arms cling round him for the last time, and for the last time he hears the lisping voices, the dear imperfect words, a great grief comes like ice upon his heart, and he feels a void, and a loss, and a vain longing, only less painful than what we feel at the grave's brink, when the earth clatters down on the coffin, and the clergyman reads his farewell. part ii. chapter i. after long years. if the reader has ever been absent for many years from some neighborhood where he has once lived--where many faces were familiar to him, and the histories that belonged to the faces--where he once knew the complex relations of the inhabitants towards each other, and was at least in some measure cognizant of the causes which were silently modelling their existence in the future, as masons build houses in which some of us will have to live--if, after knowing the life of a neighborhood so intimately as this, he has left that place for long years, and come back to it again to visit it, that he may renew the old sensations, and revive his half-forgotten ancient self, he has learned a lesson about human life which no other experience can teach. the inhabitants who have never gone away for long, the parson who preaches every sunday in the church, the attorney who goes to his office every day after breakfast, the shop-keepers who daily see the faces of their customers across the counter, perceive changes, but not change. to them every vicissitude has the air of a particular accident, and it always seems that it might have been avoided. but the great universal change has that in its aspect which tells you that it cannot be avoided; and he who has once seen it face to face knows that all things are moving and flowing, and that the world travels fast in a sense other than the astronomical. i have endeavored to enlist the reader's interest in a set of persons who lived at shayton and sootythorn at the time of the establishment of the militia. the first training of colonel stanburne's regiment took place in the month of may, --to be precise, it met for the first time on the d of that month; and the th of the month following will long be remembered in the neighborhood on account of the great fire at wenderholme hall, which, as the reader is already aware, took place under circumstances of the most exceptional publicity. it is probable that on no occasion, from the times of the tudors to our own, were so many people collected in the park and garden of wenderholme as on that memorable night. it is the misfortune of certain positions that the virtues which are necessary to those who occupy them have to be translated into a money outlay before they can be adequately appreciated. colonel stanburne was not an extravagant man by nature; he was simple in all his habits and tastes, liked to live quietly at his own house, hated london, and indulged himself only in an innocent taste for tandem-driving, which certainly did not cost him two hundred a-year. but this was john stanburne's character in his private capacity; as a leader of men--as the head of a regiment--his nature was very different. whether his surroundings excited him, and so caused him to lose the mental balance which is necessary to perfect prudence, or whether he acted at first in ignorance of the wonderful accumulativeness of tradesmen's bills, and afterwards went on from the force of established habit, it is certain that from the d of may, , when his regiment assembled for the first time, colonel stanburne entered upon a new phase of his existence. hitherto he had lived strictly within his income, whilst from the year he lived within it no longer. his whole style of living had been heightened and increased by his position in the militia. the way he drove out was typical of every thing else. before his colonelcy he had been contented with a tandem, and his tandem was horsed from the four ordinary carriage-horses which were regularly kept at wenderholme. but since it had seemed convenient--nay, almost indispensably necessary--to have a commodious vehicle of some kind, that he might convey his officers from sootythorn to wenderholme every time he asked them to dinner--and since he had naturally selected a drag as the proper thing to have, and the pleasantest thing for himself to drive--there had been an increase in his stable expenses, and a change in his habits, which lasted all the year round. besides, his natural kindliness and generosity of disposition, which had formerly found a sufficing expression in a general heartiness and good-nature, now began to express themselves in a much more expensive way--namely, by more frequent and more profuse hospitality. in the year colonel stanburne was still at the head of his regiment of militia, and during the annual trainings the wenderholme coach has never ceased to run. wenderholme had become quite a famous place, and tourists knowing in architecture came to see it from distant counties. it is a perfect type now of a great elizabethan mansion: the exterior, especially the central mass over the porch, is enriched with elaborate sculpture; there are great mullioned windows everywhere, and plenty of those rich mouldings and copings which diversify the fronts of great houses of that age, and crown their lofty walls. there are globes and pinnacles on the completed gables, and at the intersections of the roofing rise fantastic vanes of iron-work, gilded, and glittering in the sunshine against the blue of the summer sky. the interior has but one defect--it seems to require, in its inhabitants, the costume of sir walter raleigh and the great ladies of his time. it has become like a poem or a dream, and one would hardly be surprised to find edmund spenser there reading the "faëry queene" to the noble surrey, or imagining, in the solitude of one of its magnificent rooms, some canto still to be written. let us pause here, and look at the place simply as in a picture, or series of pictures, before the current of events hurries us on till we have no time left to enjoy beautiful things, nor mental tranquillity enough to feel in tune with this perfect peace. it is noon in summer. under every oak in the great avenues lies a dark patch of shadow, and on the rich expanse of the open park the sunshine glows and darkens as the thin white clouds sail slowly in the blue aerial ocean. how rich and stately is the rounded foliage--how perfect the fulness of the protected trees! in the midst of them stands the house of wenderholme, surrounded by soft margins of green lawn and wide borders of gleaming flowers. it is pleasant this hot day to enter the great cool hall, to walk on its pavement of marble (white marble and black, in lozenges), and rest the eye in the subdued light which reigns there, even at noon. under pretext of restoration, wenderholme had been made a great deal more splendid, and incomparably more comfortable, than it ever was in the time of its pristine magnificence. in the wainscot and the furniture the architect had lavishly used a great variety of strange and beautiful woods, quite unknown to our ancestors; and not contented with the stones and marbles of the british islands, he had brought varieties from normandy, and sicily, and spain, and the mediterranean shores of africa. as for the arrangements that regarded comfort and convenience, john stanburne's architect had learned the extent of a rich englishman's exigence when he erected the mansions of five or six great cotton-manufacturers, and, strong in this experience, had made wenderholme a model place for elaborately perfect housekeeping. what had been done with the modern furniture that had been saved on the night of the fire? we may learn this, and some other matters also, when the colonel comes in to lunch. he crosses his great hall, and goes straight to the dining-room. the twelve years that have passed by have aged him even more than so many dozens of months ought to have done. his hair is getting prematurely gray, and his step, though still firm and manly, has lost a good deal of its elasticity, and something of its grace. the expression on his countenance does not quite correspond with all the glory of the paradise that is his, with the sunshine on the broad green park and vast shade-bestowing trees, with the rich peace of these cool and silent halls. when he is with other people, his face is very much as it used to be; but when he is alone, as he is now, it looks weary and haggard, as if to live were an effort and a care--as if some hateful anxiety haunted him, and wore him hour after hour. "tell her ladyship that i have come in to lunch; and stay--you need not wait upon us to-day." lady helena comes with her scarcely audible little step, and quietly takes her place at the table. _she_ is not very much changed by the lapse of these last twelve years. she is still rather pretty, and she looks as intelligent as ever, though not perhaps quite so lively. but as for liveliness, she has nothing to encourage her vivacity just now, for the colonel eats his slice of cold beef in silence, and scarcely even looks in her direction. when he looks up at all, it is at the window,--not that there is any thing particular to be seen there--only the sunny garden with the fountain, fed from the hills behind. "my dear," said lady helena, "as the regiment is disbanded now, i suppose we have no longer any reason to remain at wenderholme? suppose we went up to town again for the end of the season? there are several people that you promised to see, and didn't call upon before you came away. there's old lady sonachan's ball on the th, and i think we ought to do something ourselves in grosvenor square--you know we meant to do, if the training of the regiment had not been a fortnight earlier than we expected." "i think it would be as well to stop quietly at wenderholme." "i'm afraid, dear," said lady helena, caressingly, "that you're losing your good habits, and going back to the ideas you had many years ago, before the militia began. you've been so very nice for a long time now that it would be a pity to go back again to what you used to be before you were properly civilized. for you know, dear, you were _not_ quite civilized then--you were _sauvage_, almost a recluse; and now you like society, and it does you good--doesn't it, dear? everybody ought to go into society--we all of us need it. _do_ come with me to town, dear, and after that i will go with you wherever you like." "helena," the colonel answered, gravely, "that's the sort of game we have been playing for many years. 'do indulge me in my fancy, and then i will indulge you in some fancy of your own.' it is time to put a stop to that sort of thing." "it would be a pity, i think. have we not been very happy, my love, all these years together?" "yes, no doubt, of course. but i'll tell you what it is, helena--we made a great mistake." lady helena's face flushed, and her eyes filled. "a mistake! i am grieved if you think your marriage was a mistake, john. i never think so of mine." "it isn't that; i don't mean the marriage. i mean something since the marriage. but it's no use talking about that just now. i say, put your shawl on and take a little walk with me, will you?" they went in silence by the path that rose towards the moors behind the house. when they came to the pond, the colonel seemed to pause and hesitate a little; then he said, "no, not here--on the open moor." they came to the region of the heather, and the park of wenderholme, with all the estate around it, lay spread like a great map beneath them. "sit down here, helena, and let us talk together quietly. it may be better for both of us." then came a long pause of silence, and when lady helena looked in the colonel's face, she perceived that his eyes were wandering over the land from one field to another, with a strange expression of lingering and longing and regret. evidently he had forgotten that she was with him. "dear," she said at last, "what was that great mistake you talked about?" he started and looked round at her suddenly. then, laying his hand very gently on her shoulder, said with strange tenderness, "you won't be hurt, will you? it was mutual, you know." "do you recollect, helena," he went on, after a little while, "the time when i first began to drive four horses? you didn't approve of it--of course i know you didn't--and there were a good many other things that you didn't approve of either, and your opinion was plain enough in your way with me. well, then, there were some things that you either did or wanted to do, you know, which didn't quite suit me, and seemed to me as unnecessary as my fancy for driving four horses seemed to you. but i found out that i could keep you in a good temper, and make you indulge me in my fancies, by indulging you in corresponding fancies of your own. so whenever i resolved upon an extravagance, i stopped your criticisms by some bribe; and the biggest bribe of all--the one that kept you indulgent to me year after year--was that house in grosvenor square." "it was your own proposing." "that's just what i am saying. i proposed the house in town to keep you quiet--to keep you from criticising me. you had got into a way of criticising me about the time of the fire, and i hated being criticised. so i thought, 'she shall have her own way if she'll only let me have mine;' and it seems you thought something of the same kind, for you became very indulgent with me. that has been our mistake, helena." "but _was_ it such a mistake after all, darling? have we not been very happy all these years? i remember we were not so happy just when the militia began. you were not so nice with me as you have been since." "perhaps not--and you weren't as nice with me either, helena; but we were nearer being right then than we ever have been during the last few years. i mean to say that, if we had said plainly to each other then--in a kind sort of way, of course--what each was thinking, we should have spared each other a great deal of suffering." "we have suffered very little, love; we have been very happy." "the punishment is yet to come. i've been punished, in my mind, for years past, and said nothing about it to you, because i wanted partly to spare you, and partly to screen myself, for i thought i could bring things round again." "do you mean about money?" "yes." "well, but, dear, you always told me that there had been no diminution in our income. did you not tell me the truth?" "all that was perfectly true. the income was not diminished, but the new investments weren't as safe as the old ones. don't you see, we had less capital to get our income from, and our expenses were even heavier than they used to be. so i invested at higher interest, to make up the difference in our income, and i've been carrying that on to an extent you know nothing about." lady helena began to be alarmed. nobody knew better than her ladyship that the _prestige_ of aristocracy rested ultimately upon wealth, and that she could no more keep up her station without a good income than her strength without food. it had been a capital error of john stanburne's from the beginning, not to consult his wife on every detail of his money transactions. she had always been perfectly prudent in not letting current expenses go beyond income, although, as they had only one child, there appeared to be no necessity for saving. she would have advised him well if he had invited her to advise him; but though he had always told her, with truth, that their income was four thousand a-year, he had not told her the history of the capital sum from which this income had, in consequence of some devices of his own, been drawn so unfailingly. the restoration of wenderholme had been a very costly undertaking indeed. the whole outlay upon it john stanburne had never dared to calculate; but we, who have no reason for that nervous abstinence from terrible totals, know that during the years immediately succeeding the great fire, he did not, in the restoration and adornment of his beautiful home, spend less than twenty-seven thousand pounds. the result, no doubt, was worth even so large an outlay as this; nor was the sum in itself very wildly extravagant, when one reflects that one of the sootythorn cotton-spinners laid out fully as much on an ugly new house about half a mile beyond chesnut hill. but it diminished john stanburne's funded property by more than one-half, and it therefore became necessary to invest the remainder more productively, to keep his income up to its old level. whilst he is telling these things to lady helena in his own way, let us narrate them somewhat more succinctly in ours. it had happened, about three years after the fire--that is, in the year --that a new bank had been established in sootythorn, called the sootythorn district bank, and some of the capitalists both in the immediate locality and in the neighboring country had invested in it rather largely. amongst these was our acquaintance, mr. joseph anison of arkwright lodge, near whittlecup, who, not having a son to succeed him in his business, did not care to extend it, and sought another investment for his savings which might as nearly as possible approach in productiveness the ample returns of commerce. mr. anison was one of the original founders of the new bank, and if the idea had not positively its first source in his own mind, it was he who brought it to a practicable shape, and finally made it a reality. colonel stanburne had taken joseph anison into his confidence about his money matters--at least so far as to show him the present reduced state of his funded capital; and he added that, with his diminished income, it had become necessary to economize by a determined reduction of expenses, the most obvious means to which would be the resignation of his commission in the militia--which, directly or indirectly, cost him a clear thousand a-year--and the abandonment of the house in town, which had then recently been established for the gratification of lady helena, and furnished with the modern furniture saved at the burning of wenderholme. mr. anison strongly dissuaded the colonel from both these steps, urging upon him the popularity which he enjoyed both in the regiment and at sootythorn, and even certain considerations of public duty to which an english gentleman is rarely altogether insensible. the colonel liked the regiment, he liked his position, and it may even be said, without any exaggeration of his merits, that, independently of the consideration which it procured him, he felt an inward satisfaction in doing something which could be considered useful. to resign his commission, then, would have been difficult for another reason, if not altogether impossible. the regiment, instead of coming to sootythorn for a month's training in the year, was on permanent garrison duty in ireland, and he could not gracefully leave it. the other project--the abandonment of his house in london--might have been agreeable enough to himself personally, but he was one of those husbands who, from weakness or some other cause, find it impossible to deprive a wife of any thing which she greatly cares for. this defect was due in his case, as it is in many others, to an inveterate habit of politeness towards all women, _even_ towards his wife; and just as no gentleman would take possession of a chair or a footstool which a lady happened to be using, so john stanburne could not turn lady helena out of that house in town which she liked so much, and which both of them looked upon as peculiarly her own. it is easy for rough and brutal men to do these things, but a gentleman will often get into money embarrassments out of mere delicacy. i don't mean to imply that the colonel's way of dealing with his wife was the best way. it would have been far better to be frank with her from the beginning; but then a simple nature like john stanburne's has such a difficulty in uniting the gentleness and the firmness which are equally necessary when one has to carry out measures which are sure to be disagreeable to a lady. the _suaviter in modo_, &c., is, after all, a species of hypocrisy--at least until it has become habitual; and when the colonel was soft in manner, which he always was with women, he was soft in the matter also. in a word, though no one was better qualified to please a lady, he was utterly incapable of governing one--an incapacity which perhaps he shared with the majority of the sons of adam. as retrenchment had appeared impossible, or, at least, too difficult to be undertaken so long as there was the alternative of a change of investments, the colonel begged mr. anison, as an experienced man of business, to look out for something good in that way; and mr. anison, who, with his brother capitalists, had just started the sootythorn district bank, honestly represented to his friend that a better and a safer investment was not likely to be found anywhere. as he preached not merely by precept but by example, and showed that he had actually staked every thing which he possessed on the soundness of the speculation--he, the father of a family--colonel stanburne was easily persuaded, and became one of the largest shareholders. the bank was soon in a very flourishing condition--in fact it was really prosperous, and exceeded the most sanguine hopes of its originators. the manager was both an honorable man and a man of real ability as a financier. the dividends were very large, and _not_ paid out of capital. after five or six years of this prosperity, during which the colonel's aggregate income had been higher than it ever was during his best days as a fund-holder, he began to conceive the idea of replacing, by economy, the sum of £ , , which had been withdrawn from his funded capital for the restoration and embellishment of wenderholme. to do this he prudently began by saving the surplus of his income; but as this did not seem to accumulate fast enough for his desires, he thought that, without permanently alienating his estate, he might mortgage some portion of it, and invest the money so procured at the higher interest received by the shareholders of the sootythorn district bank. the mere surplus of interest would of itself redeem the mortgage after a few years, leaving the money borrowed in his own hands as a clear increase of capital. in this way he mortgaged a great part of the estate of wenderholme to our friend mr. jacob ogden of milend. all these things were done _clam helenâ_--unknown to her ladyship. she was not supposed to understand business, and probably the colonel, from the first, had apprehended her womanish fears of the glorious uncertainties of speculation. his conscience, however, was perfectly at ease. at the cost of a degree of risk which he set aside as too trifling to be dwelt upon, he was gradually--nay, even rapidly--replacing the money sunk in wenderholme; and every day brought him nearer to the time when he might live in his noble mansion without the tormenting thought that it had been paid for out of his inherited capital. at the same time, so far from withdrawing from the world's eyes into the obscurity which is usually one of the most essential conditions of retrenchment, he actually filled a higher place in the county than he had ever occupied before. the taste for society grows upon us and becomes a habit, so that the man who a year or two since bore solitude with perfect ease, may to-morrow find much companionship a real want, though an acquired one. the more sociable john stanburne became, the more he felt persuaded that the house in london was a proper thing to keep up, and there came to be quite an admirable harmony between him and lady helena. she had always loved him very much, but in the days when he had a fancy for retirement, she had felt just a shade of contempt for the rusticity of his tastes. as this rusticity wore off, her ladyship respected her husband more completely; and the coolness which had existed between them in the year was succeeded by an affectionate indulgence on both sides, which was entirely satisfactory to lady helena, and was only a little less so to the colonel, because he knew it to be a sacrifice of firmness. he began to feel this very keenly at the time our story reopens, because some very heavy misfortunes had befallen the sootythorn district bank, and the colonel began to doubt whether, after all, his financial operations (successful as they had hitherto appeared) were quite so prudent as he and mr. anison had believed. mr. stedman had been against the enterprise from the very first, and had openly attempted to dissuade both mr. anison and the colonel from any participation in it; but then mr. stedman, who had neither the expenses of a family nor the drain of a high social position, could afford the utmost extremity of prudence, and could literally have lived in his accustomed manner if his money had been invested at one per cent. however, the bank had kept up the colonel's position by giving him an easy income for several years; and by enabling him to put by a surplus, had compensated, by the mental satisfaction which is the reward of those who save, any little anxiety which from time to time may have disturbed the tranquillity of his mind. but now the anxiety was no longer a light one, to be compensated by thinking about savings. a private meeting of the principal shareholders had been held the day before, and it had become clear to them that the position of the sootythorn bank (and consequently their own individual position, for their liability was unlimited) was perilous in the extreme. immense sums had been advanced to cotton firms which were believed to be sound, but which had gone down within the preceding fortnight; and many other loans were believed to be very doubtful. under these circumstances, the chief shareholders--colonel stanburne amongst the number--bound themselves by a mutual promise not to attempt to sell, as any unusual influx of shares upon the market would at once provoke their depreciation, and probably create a panic. whilst the colonel had been telling all these things to lady helena, he had not dared to look once upon her face; but when he had come to an end, a silence followed--a silence so painful that he could not bear it, and turned to her that she might speak to him. she was not looking in his direction. she was not looking at wenderholme, nor on any portion of the fair estate around it; but her eyes were fixed on the uttermost line of the far horizon. she was very pale; her lips were closely compressed, and there was a tragic sternness and severity in her brow that john stanburne had never before seen. for a whole minute--for sixty intolerable seconds--not one word escaped her. "helena, speak to me!" she turned slowly towards him, and rose to her feet. then came words--words that cut and chilled as if they were made of sharp steel that had been sheathed in a scabbard of ice. "you have been very imprudent and very weak. you are not fit to have the management of your own affairs." she said no more. she was intensely angry at her husband, but in her strongest irritation she never said any thing not justified by the circumstances--never put herself in the wrong by violence or exaggeration. she had a great contempt for female volubility and scolding; and the effect of her tongue, when she used it, was to the effect of a scold's rattle what the piercing of a rapier is to the cracking of a whip. john stanburne dreaded the severity of his wife's judgment more than he would have dreaded the fury of an unreasonable woman. he had not a word to offer in reply. he felt that it was literally and accurately true that he had been "very imprudent and very weak, and was not fit to have the management of his own affairs." he covered his face with both hands in an agony of self-accusation, and remained so for several minutes. then he cried out passionately, "helena, dear helena!" and again, "helena! helena!" there was no answer. he lifted up his eyes. the place she had occupied was vacant. she had noiselessly departed from his side. chapter ii. in the dining-room. one of the most strange and painful things about ruin is, that for days, and even weeks, after it has actually come upon a man, his outward life remains in all its details as it was before; so that in the interval between the loss of fortune and the abandonment of his habitual way of living he leads a double life, just as a ghost would do if it were condemned to simulate the earthly existence it led before death amongst the dear familiar scenes. for there are two sorts of separation. you get into a railway train, and take ship, and emigrate to some distant colony or some alien empire, and see no more the land which gave you birth, nor the house which sheltered you, nor the faces of your friends. this separation is full of sadness; but there is another separation which, in its effect upon the mind, is incomparably more to be dreaded, whose pain is incomparably more poignant. i mean, that terrible separation which divides you from the persons with whom you are still living, from the house you have never quitted, from the horses in the stable, from the dog upon the hearth, from the bed you lie in, from the chair you sit upon, from the very plate out of which you eat your daily food! the man who, still in his old house, knows that he has become insolvent, feels this in a thousand subtly various tortures, that succeed each other without intermission. a curse has fallen on every thing that he sees, on every thing that he touches--a wonderful and magical curse, devised by the ingenuity of plutus, the arch-enchanter! the wildest fairy tale narrates no deeper sorcery than this. every thing shall remain, materially, exactly as it was; but when you go into your library you shall not be able to read, in your dining-room the food shall choke you, and you shall toss all night upon your bed. and thus did it come to pass that from this hour all the beauties, and the luxuries, and all the accumulated objects and devices that made up the splendor of wenderholme, became so many several causes of torture to john stanburne. and by another effect of the same curse, he was compelled to torture himself endlessly with these things, as a man when he is galvanized finds that his fingers contract involuntarily round the brass cylinders through which flows the current that shatters all his nerves with agony. the first bell rings for dinner, and the colonel, from long habit, leaves his little den, and is half-way up the grand staircase before he knows that he is moving. that great staircase had been one of the favorite inventions in new wenderholme. it was panelled with rich old yew, and in the wainscot were inserted a complete series of magnificent italian tapestries, in which was set forth the great expedition of the argonauts. there was the sowing of the poisoned grain, the consequent pestilence of thebes, the flight of phryxus and helle on the winged ram with the golden fleece, the fall of poor helle in the dark hellespont, the sacrifice of the ram at colchis, the murder of phryxus. above all, there was the glorious embarkation in the good ship argo, when jason and the grecian princes came down to the shore, with a background of the palaces they left. and in another great tapestry the ship argo sailed in the open sea, her great white sail curving before the wind, and the blue waves dancing before her prow, whilst the warriors stood quaintly upon the deck, with all their glittering arms. then there was the storm on the coast of thrace, and the famous ploughing-scene with the golden-horned bulls, and the sowing of the dragon's teeth. dragon's teeth! john stanburne paused long before that tapestry. had he not likewise been a sower of dragon's teeth, and were not the armed men rising, terrible, around him? who will help him as medea helped jason? who will pass him through all his dangers in a day? it will not be his wife--it will not be lady helena. she is coming up the great staircase too, whilst he is vacantly staring at the tapestry. he does not know that she is there till the rustle of her draperies awakens him. she passes in perfect silence, slowly, in the middle of the broad carpeted space, between the margins of white stone. they met again that evening at dinner. so long as the men waited they talked about this thing and that. but when the dessert was on the table, and the men were gone, the colonel handed the following letter to lady helena:-- "my dear colonel stanburne,--as you have been aware for some time of the precarious position of the bank, the bad news i have to communicate will not find you altogether unprepared. we have been obliged to stop payment, and it will require such a large sum to meet the liabilities of the company that both you and i and many other shareholders must consider ourselves ruined men. god grant us fortitude to bear it! when i advised you to embark in this speculation, god knows i did so honestly, and you have the proof of it in the fact that i am ruined along with you. it will be hard for you to descend from a station you were born for and are accustomed to, and it is hard for me to see the fruits of a life of hard work swept away just as i am beginning to be an old man. pray think charitably of me, colonel stanburne. i did what i believed to be best, and though my heart is heavy, my conscience is clear still. may heaven give strength to both of us, and to all others who are involved in the same ruin! "yours truly, joseph anison." lady helena read the letter from beginning to end, and then returned it to her husband without a word. her face wore an expression of the most complete indifference. "why, helena!" said john stanburne, "you haven't a word to say to me. it's far more my misfortune than my fault, and i think you might be kinder, under the circumstances, than you are." "_que voulez-vous que je vous dise?_" chapter iii. in the drawing-room. coffee having been announced, the colonel, who had been sitting alone with his burgundy, and perhaps drinking a little more of it than usual, followed her ladyship into the drawing-room. that drawing-room was the most delicately fanciful room in the whole house. it was wainscoted with cedar to the height of eight feet, where the panels terminated in a beautiful little carved arcade running all round the noble room, and following the wall everywhere into its quaint recesses. heraldic decoration, used so profusely in the great hall and elsewhere, was here limited to john stanburne's own conjugal shield, in which the arms of stanburne were impaled with those of basenthorpe. if the colonel could only have drunk his cup of coffee in silence, or made a commonplace remark or two, and then gone straight to bed, or into his own den, it might have been better for them both; but he was stung to the quick by her ladyship's unsympathizing manner, and he had absorbed so much burgundy in the dining-room as to have lost altogether that salutary fear of his wife's keen little observations which usually kept him in restraint. it was a great pity, too, that they were alone together in the drawing-room that evening, and that miss stanburne had left wenderholme two days before on a brief visit to a country house at a distance. his heart yearned for helena's sympathy and support, and of this she was perfectly aware; but, with that rashness which is peculiarly feminine, and which makes women play their little game of withholding what men's hearts want, even in moments of the utmost urgency and peril, she determined to give him no help until he had properly and sufficiently humiliated himself and confessed his sins before her. the woman who _could_ withhold her tenderness in such an hour as this diminished, in doing so, the value of that tenderness itself; and every minute that passed whilst it was still withheld made such a large deduction from it, that if this coldness lasted for an hour longer, john stanburne felt that no subsequent kindness could atone for it. as the slow, miserable minutes went by whilst lady helena sat yards away from him at a little table in a great oriel window, saying not one word, not even looking once in his direction, john stanburne's brain, already in a state of intense excitement in consequence of the miseries of the day, began to suffer from an almost insane irritability and impatience on account of the silence and calm that surrounded him. it was a most peaceful and beautiful summer evening, and the sun, as he declined towards the west, sent rich warm rays into the noble room, glowing on the cedar panels, and on the quaintly elegant furniture, with its pervading expression of luxury and ease. this luxury maddened john stanburne, the soft carpet was hateful to his feet, the easy-chair irritating to his whole body; he hated the great clusters of flowers in the _jardinières_, and the white delicate webs that were the summer curtains. considering the present temper of his mind, and his horror of every thing that had cost him money, the drawing-room was the worst place he could have been in. if her ladyship would just have left that interesting bit of plain hemming that she was engaged upon (and whereby she was effecting an economy of about twopence a-day), and gone to her husband and said one kind word to him, merely his name even, and given him one caress, one kiss, their fate would have been incomparably easier to endure. they would have supported each other under the pressure of calamity, and the material loss might have been balanced by a moral gain. but she sat there silently, persistently, doing that farthing's worth of plain needlework. "helena!" at last the colonel broke out, "i say, helena, i wonder what the devil we are to do?" "you need not swear at me, sir." "swear at you!--who swears at you? i didn't. but if i did swear at you, it wouldn't be without provocation. you are the most provoking woman i ever knew in my life; upon my word you are--you are, by god, helena!" "you are losing your temper, colonel stanburne. pray remember whom you are speaking to. i am not to be sworn at like your grooms." "you never lose _your_ temper. now, i say that as you are such a mistress of yourself under all circumstances, it's your own fault that you don't make yourself more agreeable." "i regret that you don't think me agreeable, colonel stanburne." "well, now, _are_ you, helena? here am i under the blow of a tremendous calamity, and you haven't a word to say to me. if fyser knew what had happened, he'd be more sorry than you are." "what would you have me say to you? if i said all you deserve, would you listen to it? you appear to forget that you have as yet expressed no sympathy for me, whom you have ruined by your folly, whereas you are angry because i have said little to you." "_you_ ruined, helena!" said john stanburne, with a bitter laugh; "_you_ ruined--why, you never had any thing to lose! your father allows you six hundred a-year, and he'll continue your allowance, i suppose. you never owned a thousand pounds in your life. but it's different with me. i'm losing all i was born to." the answer to this was too obvious for lady helena to condescend to make it. she remained perfectly silent, which irritated the colonel more than any imaginable answer could have irritated him. he certainly was wrong so far as this, that any one who _asks_ for sympathy puts himself in a false position. condolence must be freely given, or it is worthless. and any disposition which her ladyship may have felt towards a more wifely frame of mind was effectually checked by his advancing these claims of his. she was not to be scolded into amiability. "hang it, helena!" he broke out, "i didn't think there was a woman in england that would behave as you are behaving under such circumstances. the thing doesn't seem to make the least impression upon you. there you sit, doing your confounded sewing, just as if nothing had happened, you do. you won't sit there doing your sewing long. the bailiffs will turn you out. they'll be here in a day or two." "you are becoming very coarse, sir; your language is not fit for a woman to hear." "it's the plain truth, it is. but women won't hear the plain truth. they don't like it--they never do. but your ladyship must be made to understand that this cannot go on. we cannot stop here, at wenderholme. the place will be sold, and every thing in it. now, i should just like to know what your ladyship proposes to do. if my way of asking your ladyship this question isn't polite enough, please do me the favor to instruct me in the necessary forms." "if you could speak without oaths, that would be something gained." "answer me my question, can't you? where do you mean to go--what do you mean to do?" "i intend to go to my father's." "well, that's plain. why couldn't you tell me that sooner? you mean to go to old adisham's. but i'll be hanged if i'll go there, to be patronized as a beggarly relation." "very well." "very well, is it? it's very well that you are to live in one place, and i in another." "a distance sufficient to protect me from your rudeness would certainly be an advantage." "would it, indeed? you really think so, do you? well, if you think so, it shall be so." "very well." she spoke with a calmness that was perfectly exasperating, and john stanburne's brain was too much overwrought by the terrible trial of that day for him to bear things with any patience. he was half insane temporarily; he could not bear to see that calm little woman sitting there, with her jarring self-control. "i say, lady helena, if you mean to go to old adisham's, the sooner you go the better. all this house is crumbling over our heads as if it were rotten." lady helena rose quietly from her seat, took up her work, and walked towards the door. just as she was opening it, she turned towards the colonel, and pronounced with the clearest possible articulation the following sentences:-- "you will please remember, colonel stanburne, that it was you who turned me out of your house, and the sort of language you used in doing so. _i_ shall always remember it." then the door closed quietly upon her--the great heavy door, slowly moving on its smooth hinges. chapter iv. alone. it happened that the hall-door was open, as it usually was in the fine weather, and john stanburne, without knowing it, went out upon the lawn. the balmy evening air, fragrant from the sweet breath of innumerable flowers, caressed his hot flushed face. he became gradually calmer as he walked in a purposeless way about the garden, and, looking at his mansion from many a different point of view, began to feel a strange, dreamy, independent enjoyment of its beauty, as if he had been some tourist or visitor for whom the name of wenderholme had no painful associations. then he passed out into the park, down the rich dark avenues whose massive foliage made a premature night, and wandered farther and farther, till, by pure accident, he came upon the carriage-drive. a man whose mind is quite absent, and who is wandering without purpose, will, when he comes upon a road, infallibly follow it in one direction or another, not merely because it is plain before the feet, but from a deep instinct in our being which impels us to prefer some human guidance to the wilderness of nature. it happened that the colonel went in the direction which led him away from the house, perhaps because the road sloped invitingly that way. suddenly he heard a noise behind him, and had barely time to get out of the way when a carriage dashed passed him at full speed, with two great glittering lamps. he caught no glimpse of its occupant, but he knew the carriage--lady helena's. for a few seconds he stood immovable. then, bounding forward, he cried aloud, "helena! helena!" and again and again, "helena!" too late! the swift high-spirited horses were already on the public road, hurrying to catch the last train at the little station ten miles off. the sudden impulse of tenderness which drew john stanburne's heart after her, as she passed, had no magnetism to arrest her fatal course. they had parted now, and for ever. he would have passed that night more easily if he could have gone at once to the cottage, and unburdened his wretchedness to his mother, and become, for his hour of weakness, a little child again in her dear presence. but he dreaded to inflict upon her the blow which in any event would only come too soon, and he resolved to leave her whatever hours might yet remain to her of peace. somehow he went back to the hall, and got to his own den. the place was more supportable to him than any other in the house, being absolutely devoid of splendor. a poor man might feel himself at home _there_. he rang the bell. "fyser, her ladyship has been obliged to go away this evening for an absence of some days, and i mean to live here. make up my camp-bed, will you, in that corner?" it was not the first time that the colonel had retreated in this manner to his den; for when there were no guests in the house, and her ladyship was away, he found himself happier there than in the great reception-rooms. i think, perhaps, in his place i should have preferred something between the two, and would have allowed myself a couple of tolerably large rooms in a pleasant part of the house; but his mind seems to have needed the reaction from the extreme splendor of new wenderholme to a simplicity equally extreme. here, in his den, it must be admitted that he had passed many of his happiest hours, either in making artificial flies, or in reading the sort of literature that suited him; and though the place was so crammed with things that the occupant could hardly stir, and in such a state of apparent disorder that no woman would have stayed in it ten minutes, he here found all he wanted, ready to his hand. this night, however, not even the little camp-bed that he loved could give him refreshing sleep; and the leathern cylindrical pillow, on which his careless head had passed so many hours of perfect oblivion, became as hard to him morally as it certainly was materially. he found it utterly impossible to get rest; and after rolling and tossing an hour or two, and vainly trying to read, finished by getting up and dressing himself. it was only one o'clock in the morning, but the colonel determined to go out. unfastening a side door, he was soon in the fresh cool air. he followed the path behind the house that led to the spot where he had made his confession to lady helena. a strange attraction drew him to it, and once there, he could not get away. there was no moon, and the details of the scene before him were not visible in the clear starlight, but dark mysterious shades indicated the situation of the hall and its shrubberies, and the long avenues that led away from it. and here, in the solitude of the hill, under the silent stars, came upon john stanburne the hour and crisis of his agony. until now he had not realized the full extent of his misery, and of the desolation that lay before him. he had _known_ it since five o'clock in the afternoon, but he felt it now for the first time. as some terrible bodily disease lays hold of us at first with gentle hands, and causes us little suffering, but afterwards rages in us, and tears us with intolerable anguish, so it had been with this man's affliction. his brain was in a state of unnatural lucidity, casting an electric light upon every idea that suggested itself. in ordinary life a man of common powers, he possessed for this hour the insight and the intensity of genius. he reviewed his life with lady helena,--the twenty years--for it was twenty years!--that they had eaten at the same table, and lived under the same roof. and in all that long space of a thousand weeks of marriage, he could not remember a single instance in which she had been clearly in the wrong. on her side, it now seemed to him, there had always been intelligence and justice; on his side, a want of capacity to understand her, and of justice to recognize her merits. having now, as i have said, for one hour of excitement, the clear perceptions of genius, it was plain to him where he had erred; and this perception so humbled him that he no longer dared to admit the faults which lady helena really had, her constant severity and her lasting _rancune_. then came the bitterest hour of all, that of remorse for his own folly, for his want of conjugal trust in lady helena, for his fatal ambition and pride. how different their life might have been if he had understood her better from the first! how different if he had lived within his means! had he lived within his means, that great foolish _fête_ would never have been given at wenderholme, the house would not have been burned down, the money lavished on its restoration would still have been in the funds, and john stanburne would have kept out of that fatal sootythorn bank. all his ruin was clearly traceable to that fatal entertainment, and to his expensive ways as a colonel of militia. he saw now quite clearly that there had never been any real necessity for the profuse manner in which he had thought it obligatory to do the honor of his rank. there were rich colonels and there were colonels not so rich--he might have done things well enough without going beyond his means. "if i alone suffered from it!" he cried aloud; "but helena, and edith, and my mother!" chapter v. the two jacobs. the twelve years that have passed since we had the pleasure of seeing mrs. ogden have not deducted from her charms. the reader has doubtless observed that, notwithstanding the law of change which governs all sublunary persons and things, there are certain persons, as there are certain things, which, relatively at least to the rest of their species, have the enviable privilege of permanence. mrs. ogden was like those precious gems that are found in the sarcophagi of ancient kings, and which astonish us by their freshness and brilliance, when all around them bears the impress of death and of decay. one would be tempted to exclaim, "may my old age be like hers!" were it not that advancing years, whilst deducting so little from her physical or mental vigor, have not enriched her mind with a single new idea, or corrected one of her ancient prejudices. however, though intellectual people may think there is little use in living unless life is an intellectual advance, such people as mrs. ogden are not at all of that way of thinking, but seem to enjoy life very well in their own stationary way. there are intellectual policemen who are always telling us to "keep moving;" but what if i find a serener satisfaction in standing still? then, if we stand still, we are to be insulted, and told that we are rusty, or that we are getting the "blue-mould." _et après?_ suppose we _are_ getting the blue-mould, what then? so far as may be ascertained by the study of such instances as mrs. ogden, the blue-mould is a great comfort and a great safeguard to the system--it is moral flannel. would she have lasted as she has done without it? i say, it is a solace, amidst the rapid changes of the body politic, and the new-fangled ideas which take possession of the heads of ministers, to feel that there is one personage in these realms who will live on in vigor undiminished, yet never advance one inch. and when the british constitution shall be finally swept away, and the throne itself no more, it will be something amidst the giddiness of universal experiment to know that in mrs. ogden this country will still possess an example that all is not given over to mutability. "now, young un," said uncle jacob, one day at dinner at milend, "i reckon you've been writing no letters to that lass at wendrum; and if you've written nout, there's no 'arm done. it isn't a match for such a young felly as you, as 'll have more brass nor stanburne iver had in his best days. we 'st 'ave no weddin' wi' bankrupts' dorthers." "bankrupts, indeed!" said mrs. ogden. "i reckon nout o' bankrupts! besides, stanburne had no need to be a bankrupt if he hadn't been such a fool. and foolishness runs i' th' blood. like father, like dorther. th' father's been a wastril with his money, and it 's easy to see 'at the dorther 'ud be none so kerfle." "who shalln't have th' chance o' spendin' none o' my brass," said uncle jacob. "do you yer that, young un? stanburne dorther shall spend none o' _my_ brass. if you wed her, yer father 'll 'ave to keep both on ye, an' all yer chilther beside. he's worth about five hundred a-year, is your father; and i'm worth--nobody knows what i 'm worth." young jacob knew both his uncle and his grandmother far too intimately to attempt discussion with either of them; but the news of colonel stanburne's bankruptcy, which in their view had put an end to the dream of a possible alliance with his daughter, wore a very different aspect to the young lover. an attachment existed between himself and edith stanburne, of which both were perfectly conscious, and yet nothing had been said about it openly on either side. young jacob ogden had felt every year more and more keenly the width of the social gulf which separated them, though his education at eton and oxford and his constantly increasing prospects of future riches had already begun to build a bridge across the gulf. even in his best days colonel stanburne had not been what in lancashire is considered a rich man; in his best days, he had been poorer than the leading manufacturers of sootythorn; and jacob ogden's mill had of itself cost more money than any squire of wenderholme had ever possessed, whilst jacob ogden had property of many kinds besides his mill, and a huge lump of money lying by ready for immediate investment. the superiority in money had therefore for some years been entirely on the side of the ogdens; but, although aristocracy in england is in reality based on wealth, it has a certain poetic sense which delights also in antiquity and honors. jacob ogden and his money might have been agreeable to the matter-of-fact side of english aristocratic feeling, but they were unsatisfying to its poetic sense. young jacob was clearly aware of this, and so indeed, in a cruder form, was his uncle. so long therefore as the colonel was prosperous, or apparently prosperous, the ogdens knew that the obstacles in the way of a marriage were all but insurmountable, and no proposal had ever been made. the colonel's ruin changed the relative situation very considerably; and, if young jacob ogden could have permitted himself to rejoice in an event so painful to one who had always been kind to him, he would have rejoiced now. he did, indeed, feel a degree of hope about edith stanburne to which he had been a stranger for some years. as young jacob had said nothing in answer to his uncle and his grandmother, they both gave him credit for a prudent abandonment of his early dream. there existed, however, between him and his father a much closer confidence and friendship; and isaac ogden (who, notwithstanding the errors of his earlier life, had the views and feelings of a gentleman, as well as an especial loyalty and attachment to his unfortunate friend, the colonel) encouraged his son in his fidelity. the materials were thus accumulating for a war in the ogden family; and whenever that war shall be declared, we may rely upon it that it will be prosecuted with great vigor on both sides, for the ogdens are wilful people, all of them. mr. isaac has been enjoying excellent health for these last twelve years, thanks to his vow of total abstinence, to which he still courageously adheres. a paternal interest in the education of his son has gradually filled many of the voids in his own education, so that, without being aware of it himself, he has become really a well-informed man. his solitary existence at twistle farm has been favorable to the habit of study, and, like all men who have acquired the love of knowledge, he sees that life may have other aims and other satisfactions than the interminable accumulation of wealth. small as may have been his apparent worldly success, isaac ogden has raised himself to a higher standpoint than his brother jacob is likely ever to attain. amongst the many expressions of sympathy which reached colonel stanburne after his disaster, few pleased him more than the following letter from twistle farm:-- "my dear colonel stanburne,--i am truly grieved to hear that the failure of the sootythorn bank has involved you in misfortune. i would have come to wenderholme to say this personally, but it seemed that, under present circumstances, you might wish to be alone with your family. i hardly know how to say what i wish to say in addition to this. for some years i have spent very little, and, although my income is small, i find there is a considerable balance in my favor with messrs. ----. if this could be of any use to you, pray do not scruple to draw upon my bankers, who will be forewarned that you may possibly do so. up to £ , you will occasion me no inconvenience, and, though this is not much, it might be of temporary service. "yours most faithfully, i. ogden." to this letter the colonel returned the following reply:-- "my dear ogden,--your kind letter gave me great pleasure. i am greatly obliged by your friendly offer of help, which i accept as one brother officer may from another. if, as is probable, i find myself in urgent need of a little ready money, i will draw upon your bankers, but, of course, not to such an extent as would go beyond a reasonable probability of repayment. "at the last meeting of creditors and shareholders, it appeared that, although we are likely to save nothing from the wreck, the bank will probably pay nineteen shillings in the pound. this is a great satisfaction. "yours most truly, j. stanburne." chapter vi. the sale. the colonel would not expose himself even to the appearance of flight, but remained in the neighborhood manfully, and went personally to manchester, before the court of bankruptcy, through which he passed very easily. his name then appeared in the manchester papers, and in the "sootythorn gazette," in the list of bankrupts. bailiffs were in possession of the house and estate of wenderholme, and mr. jacob ogden foreclosed his mortgages, by which he became owner of a fair portion of the land. finally, wenderholme hall and the remainder of the estate, including the cottage, in which mrs. stanburne still resided, were sold by auction in the large room at the thorn inn at sootythorn--the very place which the colonel's regiment of militia was accustomed to use as a mess-room. little had john stanburne or his officers foreseen, whilst there consuming mr. garley's substantial dinners, that the hammer of the auctioneer would one day there transfer wenderholme from the name of stanburne to another name--to what name? the room was crowded. the sale was known all over lancashire and yorkshire. competitors had come even from distant counties. wenderholme had been a famous place since the fire, and the magnificent restoration which had succeeded to the fire. drawings of it had appeared in the "illustrated london news," and, since the failure of the sootythorn bank, the creditors had cunningly caused a volume to be made in which the whole place was fully illustrated and described. this volume they had widely circulated. the sale had been announced for eight o'clock in the evening, and at ten minutes after eight precisely the auctioneer mounted his rostrum. he made a most elaborate speech, in which (with the help of the volume above mentioned) he went over every room in the house, describing, with vulgar magniloquence, all those glories which had cost john stanburne so dear. there was one person present to whom the description can hardly have been very agreeable. john stanburne himself, from anxiety to know the future possessor, and the amount realized, had quietly entered the room unperceived, for every one was looking at the auctioneer. he had stationed himself near the wall, and there bore the infliction of this torture, his hat over his eyes. at length all this eloquence had run dry, and the business of the evening began. the place was put up at £ , , and no bid was to be made of less than £ , over its predecessor. the first two or three bids were made by persons with whom this history has no concern, but that for £ , was made by our friend mr. john stedman. some one present called out "thirty-six," on which mr. stedman replied "thirty-seven," and there he ceased to bid. he knew that this was the value of the remaining estate;[ ] he did not want the house. philip stanburne whispered something in his ear, after which he cried "forty-two," the last bid having been forty-one. after that he made no further offer, and philip stanburne's countenance fell. the bidding hitherto had been strictly of the nature of investment, but now the seekers after an eligible investment retired from the field, except one or two dealers in estates who intended to sell the place again, at a profit, by private contract, and who looked upon its architectural and other beauties as marketable qualities. these men went on to £ , . the place had now reached what was called a "fancy price." there was a man of rather short stature, with fair hair, a closely shaven face, a greasy cap on his head, a velveteen jacket on his back, and the rest of his person clothed in old corduroy. fluffs of cotton were sticking about him, and he presented the general appearance of a rather respectable operative. he stood immediately before philip stanburne, who did not see his face, and was rather surprised to hear him call out, "forty-eight." "forty-eight, gentlemen!" cried the auctioneer; "going at forty-eight thousand--forty-nine? forty-nine--going at forty-nine! come, who says fifty?--we must round the number, you know, gentlemen--who says fifty? going, going--forty-nine--only forty-nine, going--going"-- the man in the greasy cap said, "fifty," and the auctioneer, after the usual delays, hearing no other voice amidst the breathless silence of the room, struck the decisive blow with his little hammer, and wenderholme was sold. then the auctioneer beckoned to him the man in the greasy cap, and said in broad lancashire, and in a tone of somewhat contemptuous familiarity, "you mun go and tell them as sent you here as they'll have to pay hup one-third as deposit-money. one-third o' fifty thousand pound is sixteen thousand six hundred and sixty-six pound, thirteen and four-pence, and that's what them as sent you here has got to pay hup. you can recklect that. it's all sixes, nobbut the one to start wi' and th' odd shillings." the man in the greasy cap smiled quietly, and took out an old pocket-book. "you've got a pen and ink?" "i'll write it down for ye, if ye like. and stop--tell me th' name o' them as sent ye." "there's no need; you'll know it soon enough." and the man in the greasy cap took out a cheque-book, wrote a cheque, filled it, signed it, crossed it, and handed it to the auctioneer. the name signed was "jacob ogden," now owner of wenderholme. when the auctioneer perceived his error (for the name of ogden was now mighty in the land), he was covered with confusion, and profuse in perspiration and apology. jacob affected to forgive him, but in truth he had little to forgive, for no incident could have been more exquisitely agreeable to his feelings. to stand there in public, and in the dress he usually wore at the mill, to sign a heavy cheque, to buy a fine estate, to feel himself the most important man in the room, to be, in his greasy cap and velveteen jacket, the envied man, the observed of all observers, was for him a triumph sweeter than is the triumph of some fair lady, who, in her diamonds and her lace, and her exquisite cleanliness, shines in some great assembly with the purity of a lily and the splendor of a star. chapter vii. a frugal supper. mrs. ogden was sitting up for her son jacob that night, and she had prepared him a little supper of toasted cheese. she had no positive knowledge of the object of his journey to sootythorn. she was aware that wenderholme would be sold by auction one of these days, but she did not know exactly whether her son intended to bid for it. there was not much talk generally between the two about the great financial matters--their money-talk ran chiefly upon minutiæ, such as the wages of a servant or the purchase of a cow. notwithstanding the great increase of their riches, the mother and son still lived at milend in their old simple manner. mrs. ogden still made all jacob's shirts and stockings, and still did a great deal of the cooking. the habits of her life had been formed many years before, and she could not endure to depart from them, even when the departure would have been an increase to her comfort. thus she continued to keep only one girl as a servant, and did most of the work of the house with her own hands. her happiness depended upon abundance and regularity of occupation; and she acted much more wisely in keeping up the activity of her habits, even though these habits may have been in themselves somewhat inconsistent with her pecuniary position, than she would have done if she had exposed herself to the certain _ennui_ of attempting to play the fine lady. the girl was gone to bed when jacob ogden came back from sootythorn, and his mother was seated by the kitchen-fire, darning one of his stockings and superintending the toasted cheese. the kitchen at milend was a clean and spacious room, with stone floor nicely sanded, and plenty of hams and oat-cakes hanging from the ceiling. there was a great clock too in one corner, with shining case, and a rubicund figure above the dial, by which were represented the phases of the moon. the old lady had laid out a small supper-table in the kitchen, and when jacob came back she told him he was to have his supper there, "for th' fire 'ad gone out i' th' parlor." so he sat down to eat his toasted cheese, which was a favorite supper of his, and whilst he was eating, his mother took a little oatmeal-porridge with treacle. she rather feared the effects of toasted cheese, believing porridge to be more easily digested. neither one nor the other said any thing about the object of the journey to sootythorn during supper, and there was nothing in jacob's face to indicate either extraordinary news or unusual elation. in fact, so accustomed was jacob ogden to purchasing estates, that he had little of the feeling of elation which attends the young beginner; and after that momentary triumph at garley's hotel, any excitement which he may have felt had subsided, and left in his mind no other feeling than the old spirit of calculation. it was the very first time in his life that he had gone beyond the principle of investment, and paid something over and above for the mere gratification of his fancy or his pride, and his reflections were not of unmixed self-congratulation. "anyhow," he said to himself, "it'll be ogden of wendrum, j.p." however late jacob ogden took his supper, he must necessarily smoke his pipe after it (one pipe), and drink his glass of grog. his mother usually went to bed as soon as the water boiled, but this evening she kept moving about in the kitchen, first finding one little thing to set to rights, and then another. at last she stood still in the middle of the floor, and said,-- "our jacob!" "what, mother?" "wherestabeen?"[ ] "why, you knoan that weel enough, i reckon. i'n been sootythorn road." "and what 'as ta been doin'?" "nowt nobbut what's reet."[ ] "what 'as there been at sootythorn?" "there's been a sale." "'an[ ] they been sellin' a mill?" "noah." "and what _'an_ they been sellin'?" "wendrum 'all." "and who's bout it?" "i have." "and what 'an ye gin for't?" "fifty thousand." "why, it's ta mich by th' 'auve!" "'appen." notwithstanding the laconic form of the conversation, mrs. ogden felt a strong desire to talk over the matter rather more fully, and to that end seated herself on the other side the kitchen-fire. "jacob," she said, as she looked him steadily in the face, "i never knew thee part wi' thy brass b'out five pussent. how will ta get five pussent out o' wendrum 'all for the fifty thousand?" "why, mother, there's investments for brass, and there's investments for pasition. i dunnot reckon to get so much interest out o' wendrum, but it'll be ogden o' wendrum, j.p." "well, now, jacob, that's what i call spendin' your money for pride!" mrs. ogden said this solemnly, and in as pure english as she could command. "why, and what if it is? there's plenty more where that coom from. what signifies?" "and shall you be going to live at wendrum 'all, jacob? _i_ willn't go there--indeed i willn't; i'll stop at milend. why, you'll require ever so many servants. they tell me there's twenty fires to light! and what will become o' the mill when you're over at wendrum?" mrs. ogden's face wore an expression of trouble and dissatisfaction. her eyebrows rose higher than usual, and her forehead displayed more wrinkles. but jacob knew that this was her way, and that in her inmost soul she was not a little gratified at the idea of being the lady of wenderholme. for as an ambitious ecclesiastic, promoted to the episcopal throne, rejoices not openly, but affects a decent unwillingness and an overwhelming sense of the responsibilities of his office, so mrs. ogden, at every advance in her fortunes, sang her own little _nolumus episcopari_. "why, it's thirty miles off, is wendrum," she went on, complainingly; "and there's no railway; and you'll never get there and back in a day. one thing's plain, you'll never manage the mill and the estate too." "all the land between this 'ere mill and wendrum 'all is mine," said jacob, with conscious dignity; "and i mean to make a road, mother, across the hill from the mill to wendrum 'all. it'll be nine mile exactly. and i'll have a telegraph from th' countin'-house to my sittin'-room at wendrum. and i shall take little jacob into partnership, and when one jacob's i' one spot t'other jacob 'll be i' t'other spot. recklect there's two jacobs, mother." "well, i reckon you'll do as you like, whatever _i_ say. but _i_'ll go non to wendrum. i'll stop 'ere at shayton while i live (it 'appen willn't be for long)--i'm a shayton woman bred and born." "nonsense, mother. you'll go to wendrum, and ride over to milend in your carriage!" mrs. ogden's face assumed an expression of unfeigned amazement. "a cayridge! a cayridge! why, what is th' lad thinkin' about now! i think we shall soon be ridin' into prison. did ever anybody hear the like?" there is a curious superstition about carriage-keeping which mrs. ogden fully shared. it is thought to be the most extravagant, though the most respectable, way of spending money; and an annual outlay which, if dissipated in eating and drinking, or continental tours, would excite no remark, is considered extravagance if spent on a comfortable vehicle to drive about in one's own neighborhood. thus mrs. ogden considered her son's proposition as revolutionary--as an act of secession from the simplicity of faith and practice which had been their rule of life and the tradition of their family. in short, it produced much the same effect upon her mind as if the shayton parson had proposed to buy a gilded dalmatic and chasuble. "there's folk," said mrs. ogden, with the air of an oracle--"there's folk as are foolish when they are young, and grow wiser as they advance in years. but there's other folk that is wise in their youth, to be foolish and extravagant at an age when they ought to know better." she evidently was losing her faith in the prudence of her son jacob. when they had parted for the night, and mrs. ogden got into her bed, the last thing she uttered as she stood with her night-cap on, in her long white night-gown, was the following brief ejaculation:-- "a cayridge! a cayridge! what are we comin' to now!" but the last thing uncle jacob thought, as he settled his head on his lonely pillow, was, "it'll be ogden of wendrum, j.p." chapter viii. at chesnut hill. we return to garley's hotel at the conclusion of the sale. philip stanburne had recognized the colonel, and gone up to him to shake hands. he had not seen him before since the downfall of the sootythorn bank, though he had written a very feeling letter, in which he had begged his friend to make use of stanithburn peel so long as he might care to remain in yorkshire. indeed the colonel had received many such letters. mr. stedman, on looking about for philip, saw him with the colonel, and joined them. "where are you staying, colonel stanburne?" asked mr. stedman. "i have been staying with my mother lately at wenderholme cottage. i have persuaded her to remain there. it is better, i think, that an old lady should not be obliged to change all her habits. i hope the new owner will allow her to remain. she will have very good neighbors in the prigleys. i gave the living of wenderholme to mr. prigley when the old vicar died, about three months since. he used to be the incumbent of shayton." "it will be a great advance for mr. prigley. shayton was a poor living, but i have heard that wenderholme is much better." "wenderholme is worth seven hundred a-year. the prigleys have been very poor for many years, with their numerous family and the small income they had at shayton. i am very glad," the colonel added, with rather a melancholy smile, "that i was able to do this for them before my own ill-luck overtook me. a few months later i should have missed the chance." "do you return to wenderholme to-night? it is late, is it not?" "no; i mean to sleep here in the hotel." "would you accept a bed at chesnut hill, colonel stanburne? philip is staying with me." the colonel was only too glad to spend the rest of his evening with two real friends, and they were soon in the comfortable dining-room at chesnut hill. the colonel had often met mr. stedman, who had stayed once or twice for a night or two at wenderholme; and he had dined a few times at chesnut hill, and had stayed all night, so that the house was not altogether strange to him; though, since he had repeatedly met with mr. stedman at sootythorn and at stanithburn peel (where during the last twelve years he had been a frequent visitor), he knew the owner of the mansion much more intimately than the mansion itself. ever since the death of poor alice, a warm friendship had united her father and philip stanburne--a friendship which had been beneficial to them both. each was still sincerely attached to his own convictions, but the great sorrow which they had suffered in common had drawn them together, and mr. stedman considered the younger man as nearly related to him as if the intended marriage had actually taken place. their loss had been of that kind which time may enable us to accept as an inevitable void in our existence, but which no amount of habit can ever obliterate from the memory. philip still remembered that conversation with alice in which she had begged him not to desert her father in his old age; and mr. stedman, on his part, felt that every kindness which he could show to the man whom his daughter had loved was a kindness to alice herself. so there was a paternal and filial tie between these two; and though, after alice's death, philip had resumed his solitary existence at stanithburn, and mr. stedman continued his business as a cotton manufacturer (for he felt the need of some binding occupation), they made use of each other's houses, as is done by the nearest relatives; and mr. stedman spent many a summer day in botanizing about stanithburn, whilst his friend, when on duty in the militia, always billeted himself at chesnut hill. "what is the last news about our poor friend anison?" the colonel asked, when the three were comfortably seated in mr. stedman's easy-chairs. "it cannot be very good news, but it is as good as can be expected. his works and arkwright lodge were sold by auction three days since, at whittlecup." "and who bought them?" "the same man, colonel stanburne, who purchased wenderholme this evening--jacob ogden of shayton." "they must be rich, those ogdens. i know his brother isaac very well, and his nephew is a great friend of mine, but i really know nothing of this jacob." "he is the only rich one in the family, but he _is_ a rich one. he made a great bargain at whittlecup. he gave twenty thousand for anison's works, with every thing in them in working order; and to my certain knowledge, joseph anison had a capital of thirteen thousand sunk in copper rollers alone.[ ] he paid four thousand for arkwright lodge. it's dirt cheap. the house alone cost more than that, and there's thirty acres of excellent land. i wish i'd bought it myself. i missed it by not going to that sale; but philip and i wanted to bid for wenderholme, and we stayed away from whittlecup so as to keep out of temptation." "and what do you think mr. anison will do?" "he asked jacob ogden to let him remain at whittlecup and manage the works for a very moderate salary, but jacob declined; and in doing so he did what i never heard of him doing before--he acted directly against his own interest. he'll never get such a manager as anison would have been, but he refused him out of spite. twelve years ago madge anison jilted jacob ogden, just when my daughter died. he made her pay up a thousand for breach of promise. she's an old maid now, or something very like one, for she's over thirty-three; but jacob ogden hasn't forgiven her for jiltin' him, and never will. last news i had of joseph anison, he was seeking a situation in manchester, and his three girls 'll have to seek situations too. it 's a bad job there isn't one of 'em married--they were as fine lasses as a man need set his eyes on, and in their father's good time they'd scores of offers, but either they looked too high or else they were very difficult to suit, for they never hooked on, somehow." philip stanburne knew rather more about madge anison by this time than mr. stedman did, and could have enlightened his friends concerning her had he been so minded. the young lady had thrown jacob ogden over, as the reader is already aware, for no other purpose than to leave herself free for philip stanburne on his return from the continent after the death of alice. when he visited his friends at arkwright lodge, miss anison had not had the degree of prudence necessary to conceal her designs, and philip (to his intense disgust, for all his thoughts were with the gentle creature he had so recently lost) perceived that he was the object which margaret had in view. a young lady can scarcely commit a greater mistake than to make advances to a man so saddened as philip was then; for in such a condition of mind he has not the buoyancy of spirit necessary for a flirtation, and it is only through a flirtation that he can be led to pay his addresses in earnest. poor margaret had fatally under-estimated the duration of philip stanburne's sorrow, and also the keenness of his perceptions. for instead of his being less observant and easier to manage than he had been before that episode in his life, it had so wrought upon his intellect and his feelings as to be equivalent to the experience of years. in a word, her project had ended in total failure, and the sense of this failure gave a certain petulance and irritability to her manner, and lent a sharpness of sarcasm to her tongue, which did not induce other gentlemen to aspire to that happiness which philip had refused. so she was margaret anison still, and at the present period of our story was trying, not very successfully, to obtain a situation in manchester. it was mr. stedman's custom, as in lancashire it is the custom of his class, to have a little supper about nine or ten o'clock--a pleasant and sociable meal, though not always quite suitable to persons of feeble digestion. colonel stanburne, on the other hand, according to the custom of _his_ class, dined substantially at seven, and took nothing later except tobacco-smoke. this evening, however, he was in a position to conform to the custom of chesnut hill; for though he had dined at mr. garley's an hour before the time fixed for the sale, he had felt so melancholy about it, and so anxious to know who would be the future possessor of his home, that he had eaten a very poor dinner indeed. but now that the thing was decided, and that he found himself with two such kind and faithful friends (whose manner to him was exactly the same as it had been in the days of his prosperity), john stanburne's naturally powerful appetite reasserted itself at the expense of mr. stedman's cold roast-beef, which, with plenty of pickles and mashed potatoes, formed the staple of the repast. the colonel was already beginning to learn the great art of miserable men--the art which enables them to gain in hours of comparative happiness the energy and elasticity necessary for future times of trial--the art of laying unhappiness aside like a pinching boot, and of putting their weary feet into the soft slippers of a momentary contentment. wenderholme was sold--it belonged to mr. jacob ogden; why think of wenderholme any more? the colonel actually succeeded in dismissing the matter from his thoughts for at least five minutes at a time, till a sort of pang would come upon his heart, and he rapidly asked himself what the pang meant, and then he knew that it meant wenderholme. one very curious consequence of the great event of that day was this, that whereas the last time he had been to chesnut hill (in the days of his prosperity) the place had seemed to him both vulgar and unenviable, he now appreciated certain qualities about the place which before had been by him altogether imperceptible. for example, when he was rich, mere comfort had never been one of his objects. having the power to create it wherever he might happen to be, he had often done very well without it, and his rooms in barracks, or his den in his own mansion, had been often very destitute thereof. but now that it had become highly probable that comfort would soon be beyond his reach, he began to awaken to a perception of it. the warm red flock-paper on mr. stedman's dining-room wall, the good carpet on the floor, the clean white table-cloth, the comfortable morocco-covered chairs--all these things began to attract his attention in quite a novel and remarkable manner. and yet hitherto he had continued to live like a gentleman, therefore, what will it be, i wonder, when he is reduced a good deal lower in the world? when they had done supper, and were drinking the inevitable grog, mr. stedman said to the colonel,-- "i hope you will forgive me if i am guilty of any indiscretion, colonel stanburne, but you know you are with sincere friends. may i ask what your own plans are?" mr. stedman's age, and his evident good-will, made the question less an indiscretion than an acceptable proof of kindness, and the colonel took it in that way. "my dear mr. stedman," he said in answer, "you know a position like mine is very embarrassing. i am getting on in life--i mean i am getting oldish; i never had a profession by which money could be earned, you know, though i have been in the army, but that 's not a trade to live by. as to the colonelcy of the militia, the lord-lieutenant has my resignation. no, i can't see any thing very clearly just now. the only thing i'm fit for is driving a public coach." philip stanburne said, "why did you refuse to come and live at the peel? you would have been very welcome--you would be welcome still." it was already publicly understood that the colonel and lady helena were separated, and that miss stanburne would either follow her ladyship to lord adisham's, or remain with her old grandmother. "my dear philip," the colonel said, very sadly and affectionately, laying his hand on philip's hand--"my dear philip, if i were quite old and done for, i would have no false pride. i would come to the peel and live with you, and you should buy me a suit of clothes once every two years, and give me a little tobacco, and a sovereign or two for pocket-money. i would take all this from you. but you see, philip, though i'm not a clever man, and though i really have no profession, still my bodily health and strength are left to me, thank god; and so long as i have these, i think it is my duty to try in some way to earn my living for myself. you know that helena and i are separated--everybody seems to know it now. well, i got a letter from her father this morning, in which--but stop, i'll show you the letter itself. will you read it, mr. stedman?" "dear sir,--my daughter helena desires me to say to you, that as you shared your means with her in the time of your prosperity, so it is her desire that you should share her income now in your adversity. a sum of three hundred a-year will therefore be paid to your credit at any banker's you may be pleased to name. "your obedient servant, adisham." "well," said mr. stedman, "you may still live very comfortably as a single man on such an income as three hundred a-year. it is a great deal of money." "i have accepted lady helena's offer, but not for myself. i will not touch one penny of lord adisham's allowance. i have told the banker to pay it over to my mother, whom i have ruined. she has not a penny in the world. however, you see helena is provided for, since she is living at lord adisham's (a very good house to live in), and my mother is provided for, and between them they will keep edith till i can do something for her; so my mind is easy about these three ladies, and i 've nobody to provide for but myself. any man with a sound constitution ought to be able to earn his bread. you see, philip, my mind is made up. there is still, notwithstanding my misfortune, a spirit of independence in me which will not permit me to live upon the kindness of my friends. but i am very greatly obliged both to you and others--to you more especially." "well, colonel, haven't i a right to offer you some assistance? are we not relations?" the colonel looked at philip with tender affection, and gently pressed his hand. then he said to mr. stedman: "this young friend of yours never called me a relation of his when i was prosperous, but now when i am a poor man he claims me. isn't he an eccentric fellow, to lay claim to a poor relation?" the next morning at breakfast-time the colonel did not appear. the servant said he had risen very early, and left a note. "my dear and kind friends,--i came to a decision in the middle of the night, but will not just now tell you what it is. the decision having been come to, i am determined to act upon it at once, and leave chesnut hill to catch the early train. pray excuse this, and believe me, with much gratitude for all your kindness, "yours most truly, john stanburne." chapter ix. ogden of wenderholme. the ogdens did not go to live at wenderholme for a long time, indeed mrs. ogden did not even go to see the place; but her son jacob went over one day in a gig, and, in the course of his stay of a few hours, settled more points of detail than a country gentleman would have settled in a month. he planted an agent there, and took on several of colonel stanburne's outdoor servants, including all his gamekeepers, but for the present did not seem inclined to make any use of wenderholme as a residence. he had been present at the sale of the furniture, where he had bought every thing belonging to the principal rooms, except a few old cabinets and chairs, and other odd matters, of which the reader may hear more in a future chapter. it had always been a characteristic of the ogdens not to be in a hurry to enjoy. they would wait, and wait, for any of the good things of this world--perhaps to prolong the sweet time of anticipation, perhaps simply because the habit of saving, so firmly ingrained in their natures, is itself a habit of waiting and postponing enjoyment in favor of ulterior aims. but in the case of wenderholme, the habit of postponing a pleasure was greatly helped by an especial kind of pride. both jacob ogden and his mother were proud to a degree which may sometimes have been equalled, but can never have been surpassed, by the proudest chiefs of the aristocracy. their pride, as i have said, was of a peculiar kind, and consisted far more in an intense satisfaction with themselves and their own ways, than in any ambition to be thought, or to become, different from what they were. now, it would not have been possible to imagine any thing more exquisitely agreeable to this pride of theirs than that wenderholme hall should be _treated as an appendage to milend_, that the great kitchen-gardens at wenderholme should supply vegetables, and the hothouse grapes, to the simple table in the little plain house at shayton. it was delightful to mrs. ogden to be able to say, in a tone of assumed indifference or semi-disapproval, "since our jacob bought wenderholme, he's always been wishin' me to go to see it--and they say it's a very fine place--but i don't want to go to see it; milend is good enough for me." if the hearer expressed a natural degree of astonishment, mrs. ogden was inwardly delighted, but showed no sign of it on her countenance. on the contrary, her eyebrows would go up, and the wrinkles upon her forehead would assume quite a melancholy appearance, and her stony gray eyes would look out drearily into vacancy. in short, the impression which both jacob ogden and his mother wished to produce upon all their friends and acquaintances after the purchase of wenderholme was, that the mansion and estate of the stanburnes could add nothing to the importance of the family at milend. so pleasant was it to mrs. ogden to be able to say that she had never been to wenderholme that, although she burned with curiosity to behold its magnificence, she restrained herself month after month. meanwhile her son jacob was getting forward very rapidly with a project he had entertained for twelve years--that is, ever since the idea of purchasing wenderholme had first shaped itself in his mind--the road from his mills in shayton to the house at wenderholme, direct across the moors. he set about this with the energy of a little napoleon (emerson tells us that the natural chiefs of our industrial classes are all little napoleons), and in a few weeks the road existed. posts were set up on the side of it, and a telegraphic wire connected the counting-house at ogden's mill with a certain little room in wenderholme hall, which he destined for his private use. even already, though jacob ogden is still quietly living at milend, he knows incomparably more about the wenderholme property than john stanburne ever knew, or any of john stanburne's ancestors before him. he knows the precise condition of every field, or part of a field, and what is to be done to it. even in such a matter as gardening, the gardener finds him uncheatable, though how he acquired that knowledge is a mystery, for you can hardly call that a "garden" at milend. it follows, from all these valuable qualifications of mr. jacob ogden, that he was likely to be an excellent mentor for such a youth as his nephew, destined to have to support the cares, and see his way through the perplexities, of property. and he took him seriously in hand about this time, with the consent of the lad's father, who was well aware that without experience in affairs his boy's education could not (in any but the narrow sense of the word, as it is used by pedagogues) be considered to be complete. young jacob had to get up regularly at five in the morning and accompany his uncle to the mill, where he saw the hands enter. after this, his time was divided between the counting-house and overlooking; but his duty at the mill was very frequently broken by orders from his uncle to go and inspect the improvements which were in progress on his various estates, especially, at this particular time, the road from shayton to wenderholme. the youth made these journeys on horseback, and, being uncommonly well mounted, accomplished them more rapidly than his uncle jacob, with all his shrewdness, ever calculated upon. in this way the inspection of the new road permitted very frequent visits to wenderholme cottage, where, for the present, miss edith resided with her grandmother. chapter x. young jacob and edith. the state of affairs between edith and young jacob was this. nothing had been said of marriage, but their attachment was as perfectly understood between them as if it had been openly expressed. the misfortune of their situation had been, that although many circumstances had been decidedly favorable to them, it had never been possible to unite all the favorable circumstances together at the same time, so as to get themselves formally engaged. in the days of colonel stanburne's splendor and prosperity the milend influence had been openly encouraging, but lady helena had warned edith in such a decided way against allowing herself to form a plebeian attachment, the allusion to young jacob being (as it was intended to be) as intelligible as if she had named him, that it had been considered prudent by both the lovers to refrain from compromising the future by precipitation, and they had waited in the hope that, by the pressure of constantly increasing riches, her ladyship's opposition might finally be made to give way. if colonel stanburne had continued prosperous, the milend influence was so strongly, even eagerly, in favor of the alliance, that it would have subsidized its candidate very largely; and as its power of subsidizing increased every day, it was evident that, by simply waiting, his prospects would steadily improve. but the colonel's ruin, utter and hopeless as it was, had set the milend influence on the other side; and nobody who knew the obstinacy of jacob ogden in opposition, and the relentless lengths to which he would go to get himself obeyed, or to inflict punishment on those who had opposed him, could doubt that, if his nephew refused compliance in this instance, it would be equivalent to a total renunciation of his prospects. edith stanburne had inherited much of her mother's perspicacity, with the colonel's frank and genial manner. some people, mrs. prigley amongst the number, disapproved of edith's manner, and considered her a "bold girl," because she looked people straight in the face, and had not yet learned the necessity for dissimulating her sentiments. but what experienced man of the world would not give half his subtlety for that boldness which comes from the perfect harmony of our nature with its surroundings? why, that is simply a definition of happiness itself! when we have learned to be careful, it is because we have perceived that between our real selves and the world around us there is so little harmony that they would clash continually, so we invent a false artificial self that may be in harmony with the world, and make it live our outward life for us, talk for us in drawing-rooms and at the dinner-table, and go through the weary round of public pleasures and observances. it is the worst possible sign of approaching unhappiness when courage begins to give way, and this hour had come for edith. young jacob, relying upon the speed of his horse, had, on one or two occasions, prolonged his visits to wenderholme cottage long enough to excite his uncle's suspicions. jacob ogden inquired whether miss stanburne was with her mother at lord adisham's, or with her grandmother at wenderholme. the young man said he "believed" she was with her grandmother. "oh, you 'believe,' do you, young un? cannot you tell me for certain?" young jacob was no match for his keen-eyed relations at milend, who saw through the whole matter in a minute. "that horse o' yours is a fast un, little jacob, but it isn't quite sharp enough to make up for three hours' courtin' at wendrum." the next day young jacob was sent to look over works in a totally opposite direction; and as he had a good many measurements to take, there was no chance of getting any time to himself. twenty-four hours later miss stanburne received the following letter:-- "madam,--i have discovered that my nephew has been idling his time away at wenderholme cottage. you may, perhaps, know how he was occupied. excuse me if i say that, if my nephew idles his time away at wenderholme cottage, _he will never be a rich man_. "yours truly, jacob ogden." the note was very intelligible, and the consequence of it was, that edith resolved to sacrifice herself. "i love him too much," she said, "to ruin him." the reader may remember one jerry smethurst whom isaac ogden met at whittlecup when on duty in the militia, and with whom he got drunk for the last time. it is twelve years since then, a long interval in any place, but an especially long interval in shayton, where _delirium tremens_ carries off the mature males with a rapidity elsewhere unknown. there had been hundreds of deaths from drinking in that township since ; and of all the jolly companions who used to meet at the red lion, the only one remaining was the proprietor of twistle farm. james hardcastle, the innkeeper, was dead; seth schofield was in shayton churchyard, and so was jerry smethurst. a new generation was drinking itself to death in that parlor, served by another landlord. most of these worthies had ruined themselves in fortune as in health. men cannot spend their time in public-houses without their business feeling the effects of it; and they cannot fuddle their intellects with beer and brandy and preserve their clearness for arithmetic. so, as the prosperity of a society is the prosperity of the individuals composing it, shayton was not a very prosperous locality, and, in comparison with sootythorn, lagged wofully behindhand in the race. a few men, however, managed somehow to reconcile business and the brandy-bottle, and the most successful conciliator of pleasure and affairs had been the notable jerry smethurst. he managed it by never drinking any thing before the mill was closed; drink, to him, was the reward of the labors of the day, and not their accompaniment. his constitution had been strong enough to resist this double strain of laborious days and convivial evenings for a much longer time than dr. bardly ever expected; and when the end came, which it did by a single attack of _delirium tremens_, succeeded by a fit of apoplexy (the patient had always apprehended apoplexy), mr. smethurst's affairs were found to be in admirable order, and his only daughter, then a fine girl of fourteen, became heiress to an extensive mill and a quantity of building land, as well as many shops and tenements in the interior of the town which would infallibly increase in value. in a word, sarah smethurst was worth forty thousand now, and would be worth a hundred thousand in twenty years; so that, as the charms of her youth faded, the man fortunate enough to win her might count upon a progressive compensation in the increase of her estate. jacob ogden, senior, was very accurately acquainted with miss smethurst's property, and could calculate its future value to a nicety. he had the best opportunities for knowing these matters, being one of jerry smethurst's trustees. when colonel stanburne was a rich man, jacob ogden would have preferred miss stanburne for his nephew to any girl in sally smethurst's position; for though nobody could love and appreciate money more than jacob did, he wished to see his nephew take a higher place in society than money of itself would be able to procure for him. as in mixing a glass of grog the time comes when we want no more spirit, but turn our attention to the sugar-basin, although there can be no doubt that the spirit is the main thing (since without it the glass would be nothing but _eau sucrée_), so, when we want to make that composite of perfections, a gentleman, there is a time when money is no longer needed, though that is the main element of his strength, and we turn our attention to the sugar-basin of the _comme il faut_. when jacob ogden, senior, was favorable to the wenderholme match, it was not so much on account of miss stanburne's money as on account of her decided position as a young lady of the aristocracy; and when the colonel was ruined, he did not disapprove of the match because miss stanburne would have no fortune, but because her position as member of a county family had been upset by her father's bankruptcy. well, if the lad could not marry like a gentleman, he should marry like a prince among cotton-spinners, and contract alliance with a princess of his own order. sally smethurst was such a princess. therefore it was decided that young jacob should espouse sally smethurst. and a very nice lass she was, too--a nice fat lass, with cheeks like a milkmaid, that anybody might have been glad to kiss. mrs. ogden invited her to stop at milend, and young jacob saw her every day. but the effect of this acquaintance was precisely contrary to uncle jacob's plans and intentions. sally had never been out of shayton in her life, except to a school at lytham, and she had not a word to say. neither was her deportment graceful. a good lass enough, and well to do, but not the woman with whom an intelligent man would be anxious to pass his existence. the image of miss stanburne, already somewhat idealized by absence, was elevated to the divine by this contrast. there is no surer way of making a noble youth worship some noble maiden, than by presenting to him a virgin typical of the commonplace, and ordering him to marry her. edith became henceforth the object of young jacob's ardent and chivalrous adoration. two fortunes--his uncle's and sally smethurst's--making in the aggregate a prodigious heap of money, were offered to him as the reward of infidelity, and the higher the bribe rose, the higher rose his spirit of resistance. sally had come to milend on a wednesday. she was to stay sunday over, and go to shayton church with the ogdens. on saturday night, at tea-time, young jacob declared his intention of going to twistle farm. "why, and willn't ye stop sunday with us and miss smethurst, and go to shayton church?" "i haven't seen my father for a fortnight." "then, all that i've got to say," observed mrs. ogden, "is, that it's your father's own wickedness that's the cause of it. if he came regularly to church, as he ought to do, you'd be sure to see him to-morrow, and every sunday as well, and you'd have no need to go up to twistle farm. i could like to drag him to shayton church by the hair of his head, that i could!" here mrs. ogden paused and sipped her tea--then she resumed,-- "i declare i _will not have_ you goin' up to twistle farm and missin' church in that way. it's awful to think of! you miss church many a sunday to go and stop with your father, who should know better, and set you a better example." the lad drank his scalding tea, and rose from the table. he was not a boor, however; and, offering his hand to miss smethurst, he said; very courteously, "i am sorry, miss smethurst, not to have the pleasure of going to church with you to-morrow; it looks rude of me, but many things trouble me just now, and i must talk them over, both with my father and somebody else." and with that, and a simple good-night to the elder people, he left the room. the owner of twistle farm had become a great recluse since he gave up drinking, except during his weeks of active duty in the militia, and occasional visits to his brother officers. in fact, a shayton man, not in business, must either be a drunkard or a recluse; and ogden, by his own experience, had learned to prefer the latter. young jacob, however, had a friend in shayton who did not lead quite such a retired life, and whose opinion on the present crisis it might be worth while to ask for. need i say that this friend was the worthy doctor, mr. bardly? so, when the young gentleman rode through the town on his way to twistle farm, he turned into the doctor's yard. the twelve years that have passed since we saw the doctor have rather aged him, but they have certainly deducted nothing from the vigor of his mind. he received his young friend with his old heartiness of manner, and made him promise to stop supper with him. "you'll ride up to twistle farm after supper; your father willn't be gone to bed--he sits up reading till one o'clock in the morning. i wish he wouldn't. i'm sure he's injuring his eyes." young jacob laid the perplexities of his case before his experienced friend. the doctor heard him for nearly an hour with scarcely a word of comment. then he began:-- "i'll tell you what it is, little jacob; you're not independent, because you haven't got a profession, don't you see? you've had a fine education, but it's worth nothing to live by, unless you turn schoolmaster; and in england, education is altogether in the hands o' them parsons. your father isn't rich enough to keep a fine gentleman like you, never talk o' keepin' a fine wife. that's how it is as you're dependent on them at milend, and they know it well enough. you'll always be same as a childt for your uncle and your grandmother, and you'll 'ave to do just as they bid you. as long as your uncle lives you'll be a minor. i know him well enough. he governs everybody he can lay his hands on, and your grandmother's exactly one o' th' same sort; she's a governin' woman, is your grandmother--a governin' woman. there's a certain proportion of women as is made to rule folk, and she's one on 'em." "well, but, doctor, what would you advise me to do?" "i'm comin' to that, lad. there's two courses before you, and you mun choose one on 'em, and follow it out. you mun either just make up your mind to submit to them at milend"-- "and desert edith?" "yes, to be sure, and wed sally smethurst beside, and be manager of ogden's mills, and collect his cottage-rents, and dun poor folk, and be cowed for thirty years by your uncle, and have to render 'count to him of every hour of every day--for he'll live thirty years, will your uncle; or else you mun learn a profession, and be independent on him." "independence would be a fine thing certainly, but it is not every profession that would suit the aristocratic prejudices of lady helena. i think it very likely the colonel would give his consent, for he has always treated me very kindly, and he must have seen that i was thinking of edith, but with lady helena the case is different. she was never encouraging. she might give way before a large fortune like my uncle's, and the prospect of reinstating edith at wenderholme, but if i were a poor man in a profession all her aristocratic prejudices would be active against me. besides, there are only two professions which the aristocracy really recognizes, the army and the church. the army is not a trade to live by, and the church"-- "nay, never turn parson, lad, never be a parson!" young jacob smiled at the doctor's sudden earnestness, and soon reassured him. "i have no vocation for the church," he said quietly but decidedly, "and shall certainly never take orders." then he went on, half talking to himself and half addressing the doctor. "there is no other profession by which an income may be earned that lady helena would be likely to tolerate. people like her look down upon attorneys and--and"-- "and doctors!" added bardly, laughing, "except when they think there's summat wrong i' their insides, and then they're as civil as civil." "i cannot see my way at all, for if i please my uncle i am not to think of edith, and if i displease him i am to have no money, so that it will be no use thinking about edith." "are you sure of the young woman herself? d'ye think she would have you if you had just a decent little income from a profession such as doctorin'? it strikes me 'at if th' lass herself is o' your side, who'll bring her feyther to her way o' thinkin', an' her feyther'll find ways o' makin' his wife listen to him." young jacob's eyes sparkled, and his heart beat. "i believe she would, doctor, i do really believe she would." "tell her then as you'll be shayton doctor. it's worth £ a-year to me; and you might increase it, an active young fellow like you. come and learn doctorin' wi' me. i'll allow you £ a-year to start wi', if you get wed to miss stanburne; your father will do as much,--that'll be £ ; and you may live on that, if you live quietly. and then when there's chilther, there'll be more brass." young jacob's eyes moistened. "i'd take help from you, sir, sooner than from anybody else, but i cannot accept half your income." "half my income, young man! do you know who you are speaking to? you're speaking to one of the shayton capitalists, sir. i've never been much of a spender, and have had neither wife nor child to spend for me. i can live well enough on the interest of my railway shares, young gentleman, and yet i've other investments. i can say like your uncle jacob that nobody knows what i'm worth. how can they know, if i never told 'em?" here the doctor gave a very knowing wink and a grin, and shook young jacob very heartily by the hand. chapter xi. edith's decision. such was young jacob's piety, that rather than remain all the sunday at twistle farm with that heterodox father of his, he rode over to wenderholme in order to attend divine service there. he got to church in very good time; and when he took his seat in mrs. stanburne's pew, the ladies had not yet arrived. indeed, even the prigleys had not taken their places, so that young jacob had something to interest him in watching the gradual arrival of the members of the congregation. the reader may remember that mrs. stanburne had a small pew of her own appertaining to the cottage, whereas there was a large pew appertaining to the hall. mrs. stanburne still remained faithful to her little pew, and the great comfortable enclosure (a sort of drawing-room without ceiling, and with walls only four feet high) had been empty since the departure of the colonel and lady helena. the congregation gradually constituted itself; the prigleys soon filled the pew belonging to the vicarage; the principal farmers on the wenderholme estate penned themselves like sheep (mr. prigley's sheep) in their narrow wooden partitions; and lastly came mrs. stanburne and edith. when people meet in a pew at church, their greetings are considerably abridged; and if edith's face was more than usually sad, her lover might, if he liked, attribute the expression to religious seriousness. young jacob kneeled whilst mr. prigley read the general confession, and when he got up again his eyes wandered over the pews before him, before they settled again upon his prayer-book. he gave a start of astonishment. in the great wenderholme pew, quietly in one corner of it, sat the present owner of the estate! young jacob's heart beat. he knew that the plot was thickening, and that a great struggle was at hand. but he was in a better position to meet his uncle to-day than he had been yesterday. yesterday he had been undecided, and though inwardly rebellious, had had no plans; to-day he was resolved, and _had_ plans. the conversation with the doctor had been succeeded by another conversation with his father, and the consequence was that young jacob was resolved that, rather than give up edith, he would go to the length of a rupture with the authorities at milend. mr. prigley preached one of his best sermons that day, but neither of the two jacob ogdens paid very much attention to it, i am afraid. they were polishing their weapons for the combat. each was taking the gravest resolutions, each was resolving upon the sacrifice of long-cherished hopes; for, notwithstanding the hardness of the manufacturer's nature, he had still rather tender feelings about "little jacob," as he still habitually called him, and it was painful to think that a youth in all respects so perfectly the gentleman should not succeed to a splendid position for which he had been expressly and elaborately prepared. on the other hand, the manufacturer could not endure that anybody should thwart his will and not be sufficiently punished for it; and if little jacob persisted in marrying in opposition to the authorities at milend, the only punishment adequate to an offence so heinous was the extreme one of disinheritance. both the hostile parties were made aware that the service was at an end by the general movement of the congregation. jacob ogden left his pew before anybody else, and walked straight to that of mrs. stanburne. he bowed slightly to the ladies, and beckoned to young jacob, who came to the pew-door. then he whispered in his ear,-- "come and have your dinner with me at wendrum 'all." "i cannot, uncle. i've promised to lunch at the cottage." "you'd better have your dinner with me. if you stop at the cottage, it'll be worse for you and it'll be worse for 'er." "do what you like, sir; my mind is made up." "very well; you'll rue it." and the owner of wenderholme walked alone across the park, and dined alone in the great dining-room. during dinner (an extravagance very rare at all times with him, and in solitude unprecedented), he ordered a bottle of champagne. meanwhile young jacob lunched with the two ladies at the cottage. mrs. stanburne saw that there was something wrong, some cause of trouble and anxiety, so she did her best to remove the burden which seemed to oppress the minds of the young people. old mrs. stanburne had great powers of conversation, and _made_ young jacob talk. she made him talk about oxford, and then she made him talk about his present occupations, and of the transition from one to the other. finally she asked him how he liked the life of a cotton-manufacturer. "not much, mrs. stanburne. but it signifies very little whether i liked it or not, for i have left it." "left it! well, but is not that very imprudent? when gentlemen have a great deal of property in factories, they ought to know all about it, and i have always heard that the only way to do that is to pass a year or two in the trade." "very true. but then i shall never have any property in factories, so there is no occasion for me to learn the trade." mrs. stanburne was much astonished, but her good-breeding struggled against curiosity. edith did not seem to be paying any attention to what was going forward; she looked out of the window, and it was evident that she was mentally absent. "edith," mrs. stanburne said at last, "do you hear what jacob says? he says he has left business. i think it is very imprudent; and when i say so, he tells me that he will never have any factories." edith lent the most languid attention to her grandmother's piece of information. her whole conduct was just the reverse of her usual way of behaving. formerly she had taken the liveliest interest in every thing that concerned her lover, so, to _make_ her listen, he blurted out the truth suddenly in one sentence. "my uncle has disinherited me. i am going to be a doctor. i am going to learn the profession with mr. bardly in shayton." mrs. stanburne was more surprised by this news than edith was. "but _why_?" she asked, emphatically; "_why_ has he disinherited you? i thought you were on the best possible terms. he spoke to you to-day as he was going out of church." young jacob was silent for a minute. mrs. stanburne came back to the charge. "but _why_, i say--_why_?" "my uncle wants me to marry a girl of his own choosing, called sally smethurst." here young jacob paused, then he took courage and added,--"and i, mrs. stanburne, have ventured for some years past to indulge dreams and hopes which may never be realized. you know what my dreams have been. i had hoped that perhaps my plain common name might have been forgotten, and that as you and colonel stanburne had always been very kind to me, and miss edith had never wounded me by any haughtiness or coldness, i had hoped that perhaps some day any difficulties which existed might be overcome, and that she would accept me with the consent of her parents." edith stanburne rose from her seat and quietly left the room. there was no agitation visible in her face, but it was very pale. "my dear jacob," mrs. stanburne said decidedly, "we like you very much--we have always liked you very much, and you have always behaved honorably, and as a gentleman. but i am sure that edith would not sacrifice your prospects. every thing forbids it; our esteem for yourself forbids it, and our pride forbids it. besides, i have not authority to allow you two young people to engage yourselves without the consent of the colonel and lady helena." "may i not speak to miss stanburne?" "it would be better that you should not speak to her in private, but you may speak to her if you like in my presence." "i should be glad to know what she herself really thinks." mrs. stanburne left the room, and after ten minutes had elapsed, which seemed to young jacob like a century, she returned, accompanied by her grand-daughter. edith was still pale, but she had a look of great self-possession. what was going on in her mind just then may be best expressed by the following little soliloquy:-- "poor, dear jacob, how i do love him! what a paradise it would be, that simple, quiet life with him--at shayton, anywhere in the world! but i love him too much to ruin him, so i must be hard now." and then she acted her part. looking at her lover coldly, she was the first to speak. "mr. ogden," she said, "i may sink a good deal in your esteem by what i am going to say to you, but my own future must be considered as well as yours. we should be sorry to sacrifice your prospects, but i am thinking of myself also. i do not think that i could live contentedly as a surgeon's wife at shayton." young jacob was astounded. this from edith! the very last thing he had ever anticipated was an objection of the selfish kind from her. he had counted upon all obstacles but this; and all other obstacles were surmountable, but this was insurmountable. he saw at once that it would be madness to marry a young lady who despised his life, and the labors which he went through for her sake. if he could only have known! she, poor thing, was new in this game of cruelty with a kind intention, and she played it with even more than necessary hardness. perhaps she felt that without this overstrung hardness she could not deceive him at all; that the least approach to tenderness would be fatal to her purpose. she had imagination enough to conceive and act a part utterly foreign to her character, but not imagination enough to act a part only just sufficiently foreign to herself to serve her immediate end. so there was a harsh excess in what she did. "miss stanburne," he said at last, "this gives me great pain." the poor girl writhed inwardly, but she maintained a serene countenance, and, looking young jacob full in the face, said, with a well-imitated sneer,-- "i may say with truth that it has latterly been agreeable to me to think that the daughter of colonel stanburne would one day live at wenderholme.--but i confess i have not the sort of heroism which would consent to be a surgeon's wife in such a place as shayton." "if these are your reasons, miss stanburne, i have done. a man would be a fool to sacrifice his prospects, and slave at a profession all his life, for a woman who paid him with contempt. and i think i may say that you dismiss me with uncommon coolness. i've loved you these twelve years--i've loved you ever since i was a child. i never loved any other woman; and the reward of this devotion is, that i am sent away when my prospects are clouded, without a sign of emotion or a syllable to express regret. i think you might say you are sorry, at any rate." "very well, i will say that. i am sorry." by a supreme effort of acting, edith put an expression into her face which conveyed the idea that she considered emotion ridiculous, and young jacob's own conduct as verging slightly upon the absurd. this stung him to the quick. "miss stanburne," he said, after a pause, "this conversation is leading to no good. it is useless to prolong it." "i quite agree with you." and he was gone. if he could have seen what passed after his departure, he would have gone back to shayton in a very different frame of mind. edith had acted her part and held out bravely to the last, but when jacob was once fairly out of the house, the faithful heart could endure its self-inflicted torture no longer, and she ran upstairs to her bedroom and locked the door, and burst into bitter tears. "how good and brave he is, and how he loves me! it is hard, it is _very_ hard, to have to throw away a heart like his. but i will not be his ruin--i never will be his ruin!" then a thousand tender recollections came into her memory--recollections of the long years of his faithful love and service. it had begun in their childhood, when first she called him "charley," giving him one of her own names; it had continued year after year until this very day, when he would have sacrificed all for her, and she had treated him with coldness and cruelty--_she_ who so loved him! and to think that he would _never know the truth_--that the long dreary future would wear itself gradually out until both of them were in their graves, and that he would never know how her heart yearned to him, and remained faithful to him always! that thought was the hardest and bitterest of them all, _that he would never know_; that all his life he would retain that misconception about her which she herself had so carefully created! it is easy to bear the bad opinion of people we care nothing about, but when those we most love disapprove, how eagerly we desire their absolution! edith was not quite so strong as she herself believed. the late events had tried her courage to the utmost, and outwardly she seemed to have borne them well; but they had strained her nervous system a good deal, and this last trial of her fortitude had been too much, even for her. her agony rapidly passed from mental grief into an uncontrollable crisis of the nerves. she went through this alone, lying upon her bed, sobbing and moaning, her face on the pillow, her hands convulsively agitated. then came utter vacancy, and after the vacancy a slow, painful awakening to the new sadness of her life. chapter xii. jacob ogden's triumph. at length the great day arrived, towards the end of october, when the new road from shayton to wenderholme was to be solemnly inaugurated. mr. jacob ogden had made all his arrangements with that administrative ability which distinguished him. he had gone into every detail just as closely as if the work of this great day had been the earning of money instead of its expenditure. the main features of the programme were: . a procession from shayton to wenderholme by the new route. . a grand dinner at wenderholme. . a ball. the procession was to leave shayton at noon precisely; and about half-past eleven, a magnificent new carriage, ornamented with massive silver, and drawn by two superb gray horses, whose new harness glittered in the sunshine, rolled up to mrs. ogden's door. on the box sat a fine coachman in livery, and a footman jumped down from behind to knock at the milend front door. just at the same moment mr. jacob ogden walked quietly up the drive, and when the door opened he walked in. the splendid servants respectfully saluted him. the shayton tailor had surpassed himself for this occasion, and mr. jacob looked so well dressed that anybody would have thought his clothes had been made at sootythorn. he wore kid gloves also. but however well dressed a man may be, his splendor can never be comparable to a lady's, especially such a lady as mrs. ogden, who had a fearlessness in the use of colors like that which distinguished our younger painters twenty years ago. she always managed to adorn herself so that every thing about her looked bright, except her complexion and her eyes. behold her as the door opens! the queen in all her glory is not so fine as the mistress of milend! what shining splendor! what dazzling effulgence! a blind man said that he imagined scarlet to be as the sound of a trumpet; but the vision of mrs. ogden was equal to a whole brass band. "why, and whose cayridge is this 'ere, jacob?" "cayridge, mother? it's nobbut a two-horse fly, fro' manchester, new painted." the fact was, it was mrs. ogden's own carriage, purchased by her son without her knowledge or consent; but, to avoid a scene before his new domestics, he preferred the above amiable little fiction. so mrs. ogden stepped for the first time into her carriage without being aware that she had attained that great object of the _nouveau riche_. there was no danger that she would recognize the armorial bearings which decorated the panels and the harness. jacob himself had not known them a month before, but he had sent "name and county" to a heraldic establishment in lincoln's inn fields; and, as his letter had been duly accompanied by a post-office order, three days afterwards he had received a very neat drawing of his coat of arms, emblazoned in azure and gold. it was cheaper than going to the college of arms, and did just as well. there was nobody in the new carriage except mrs. ogden and her son. miss smethurst was invited, but she had a carriage and pair of her own, which she used to do honor to the occasion. many other friends of the ogdens (friends or business acquaintances) also came in their carriages, for the tradesmen of those parts had generally adopted the custom of carriage-keeping during the last few years. even our friend the doctor now kept a comfortable brougham, in which he joined the procession. mr. isaac ogden of twistle farm, and mr. jacob ogden, jr., his son, joined the procession on horseback, riding very fine animals indeed. a pack of harriers was kept a short distance from shayton, and it had been agreed that all the gentlemen of the hunt who had invitations should be asked to come as equestrians. jacob ogden had contrived to give a public character to his triumph by his gift of the new road to the township. the magistrates for the time being were to be the trustees of it, hence the magistrates (including one or two country gentlemen of some standing) found themselves compelled to take part in the triumph. all men were that day compelled to acknowledge jacob ogden's greatness, and to do him homage. the telegraph was already established, and when the shayton procession started on its way, the fact was known instantaneously at wenderholme. at the same moment a counter-procession left wenderholme on horseback to meet the one coming from shayton. the yorkshire procession consisted chiefly of the tenants of the estate on horseback, headed by the agent. most of them were in any thing but a congratulatory frame of mind, but as they dreaded the anger of their landlord, they rode forth to meet him to a man. a holiday had been given at the mill, and all the mill hands were to accompany the shayton procession for two miles upon the road, after which they were to return to shayton, and there make merry at mr. ogden's expense. most of the hands belonged to benefit clubs such as the odd fellows, the druids, the robin hood, and so on; and they borrowed for the occasion the banners used in the solemnities of these societies, and their picturesque and fanciful costumes. these added immensely to the effect, and gave the procession a richness and a variety which it would otherwise have lacked. the departure of the _cortège_ had been timed at the dinner-hour, when all the mills were loosed, so that the whole shayton population might witness it. as it moved slowly along the streets, the crowd was as dense as if royalty itself had made a progress through the town. mrs. ogden repeatedly recognized acquaintances in the crowd, and bowed and smiled most graciously from her carriage-window--indeed a queen could hardly have looked more radiant or more gracious. seeing her good-humor, jacob ventured to inform her that she was "sitting in her own carriage." "sitting in my own cayridge! well, then, stop th' horses, for i s'll get out." "nay, nay, mother, you munnut do so--you munnut do so. you'll stop o' th' procession. there's no stoppin' now. it's too latt for stoppin'." "well, if i'd known i'd never a coom! what is th' folk sayin', thinken ye? why, they're o' sayin,' one to another, 'there's mistress ogden in her new cayridge, an' who's as fain[ ] as fain.'" "well, mother, and what if they do say so? what means it?" "draw them there blinds down." "nay, but i willn't. we aren't goin' to a funeral." after a while mrs. ogden began to look at the nice blue lining of her carriage somewhat more approvingly. at last she said, "jacob, i'n never thanked thee. thank ye, jacob--thank ye. i shalln't live to use it for long, but it'll do for little jacob wife at afther." when mrs. ogden had made this little speech, her son knew that the carriage difficulty was at an end, and indeed she never afterwards evinced any repugnance to entering that very handsome and comfortable vehicle. the procession moved at a walking pace for the first two miles, on account of the people on foot. when these, however, had returned in the direction of shayton, the speed was somewhat increased, though, as the road steadily ascended till it reached the yorkshire border, the horses could not go very fast. the road, too, being quite new, the macadam was rather rough, though jacob ogden had sent a heavy iron roller, drawn by fourteen powerful horses, from one end to the other. the weather could not possibly have been more favorable, and it would be difficult to imagine a more cheerful and exhilarating route. there had been a slight frost during the night, and the air of the high moorland was deliciously fresh and pure. the startled grouse frequently whirred over the heads of the horsemen, and made not a few of them regret the absence of their fowling-pieces, and the present necessity for marching in military order. the view became gradually more and more extensive, till at length, on approaching the border, a splendid prospect was visible on both sides, stretching in lancashire far beyond shayton to the level land near manchester--and in yorkshire, beyond wenderholme and rigton to the hills near stanithburn peel. a landmark had been erected on the border, and as the shayton procession approached it, the body of horsemen from wenderholme were seen approaching it from the other side. it had been arranged that they should meet at the stone. when both processions had stopped, the wenderholme agent came and presented an address to mrs. ogden, which he read in a loud voice, and then handed to her in the carriage. she was graciously pleased to say a few words in reply, which were not audible to the people about. this ceremony being over, the combined procession formed itself in order of march, and began to descend the long slope towards wenderholme. the road entered the village, and therefore did not go quite directly to the hall. as it had been jacob ogden's intention from the first to play the part of public benefactor in this matter, he guarded the privacy of his mansion. at the entrance of the village there was a triumphal arch made of heather and evergreens, and decorated with festoons of colored calico. here the procession paused a second time, whilst the villagers came to make their little offering to mrs. ogden. the lord of wenderholme was both surprised and offended by the absence of mr. prigley. "i'll make him pay for't," he thought, "if he wants out[ ] doin' at his church, or any subscriptions, or the like o' that" indeed, the absence of mr. prigley was the more surprising that it was contrary to the traditions of his caste, usually sufficiently ready to do honor to the powers that be. also, jacob ogden thought that the church bells might have rung for him. but they didn't ring. a hostile prigley or stanburne influence was apparent there also. it was irritating to have the great triumph marred by this pitiful ecclesiastical opposition. "he shall rue it," said jacob, inwardly--"he shall rue it!" a table had been set in the middle of wenderholme green, and on this table was a large and massive silver inkstand, and in the inkstand a gold pen with a jewelled penholder. here jacob ogden descended from his carriage, and, surrounded by all the chief personages in the procession, sat down under a spreading oak, and signed the deed of gift by which the road from shayton to wenderholme was transferred in trust to the shayton magistrates and their successors for ever and ever. the inkstand bore an inscription, and was formally presented to mr. ogden. and a great shout rose--all john stanburne's former tenants distinguishing themselves in the "hip, hip," &c. after that the procession entered wenderholme park, and mrs. ogden descended at the grand entrance, and moved across the hall, and up the tapestried staircase. chapter xiii. the "blow-out." the reader is not to suppose, from the parsimony which marked the habitual life of jacob ogden and his mother, that when they had made up their minds to what they called a "blow-out," there would be any meanness or littleness in their proceedings. under all circumstances they acted with clear minds, knowing what they were doing; and when they resolved to be extravagant, they _were_ extravagant. the fine principle of that grand and really moral motto, "_pecca fortiter_," was thoroughly understood and consistently acted upon by the man who had won wenderholme by his industry and thrift. when he sinned, there was no weak compromise with conscience--he did it manfully and boldly, and no mistake. he never "muddled away" a sovereign, but his triumph cost him many a hundred sovereigns, and he knew beforehand precisely what he was going to spend. when it was all over he would pay the piper, and lock up his cash-box again, and return to his old careful ways. the ogdens did not receive many visitors at milend, and yet they had rather an extensive acquaintance amongst people of their own class--rich people belonging to trade, and living in the great manufacturing towns. and to this festivity they had invited everybody they knew. the house of wenderholme, large as it was, was filled with jacob ogden's guests, and his mother did the honors with a homely but genuine hospitality, which made everybody feel kindly disposed to her; and though they could not help laughing a little at her now and then, they did it without malice. the reader will remember that, from a sort of pride which distinguished her, she had refrained from visiting wenderholme until the completion of the new road; and as the chariot of the olympic victor entered his city by a breach in the wall, so mrs. ogden's carriage came to wenderholme by a route which no carriage had ever before traversed. it would have been better, however, in some respects, if the good lady had familiarized herself a little with the splendors of wenderholme before she undertook to receive so many guests therein, for it was quite foreign to the frankness of her nature to act the _nil admirari_. thus, on entering the magnificent drawing-room, where many guests were already assembled, she behaved exactly as she had done when, during a visit to buxton, some friends had taken her to see chatsworth. "well!" she exclaimed, lifting up both her hands, "this _is_ a grand room!" nor was she contented with this simple exclamation, but she went on examining and exclaiming, and walked all round, and lifted up the curtains, and the heavy tassels of their cords, and touched the tapestry on the chairs, and, in a word, quite forgot her dignity of hostess in the novelty of the things about her. "those curtains must have cost thirty shillings a-yard!" she said, appealing to the judgment of the elder ladies present, "and the stuff's narrow beside." impressions of splendor depend very much upon contrast, so that wenderholme seemed very astonishing to a person coming directly from milend. but such impressions are soon obliterated by habit, and in a week mrs. ogden will have lost the "fresh eye," to which she owes her present sense of enchantment. how long would it take to get accustomed to blenheim, or castle howard, or compiègne? would it take a fortnight? however, mrs. ogden had the advantage of a far fresher eye than _nous autres_, who are so accustomed to gilding and glitter in public _cafés_ and picture-galleries, that we are all, as it were, princes, insensible to impressions of splendor. all that mrs. ogden said upon that memorable day it would be tedious to relate. she thought aloud, and the burden of her thoughts, their ever-recurring refrain, was her sense of the grandeur that surrounded her. jacob ogden had bought a good deal of colonel stanburne's fine old silver plate, and this formed the main subject of mrs. ogden's conversation during dinner. "i think our jacob's gone fair mad with pride," she said to all the company, and in the hearing of the attentive servants, "for we'd plenty of silver at milend--quite plenty for any one; we've all my uncle adam's silver spoons, and my aunt alice's, and plenty of silver candlesticks, and a tea-service--and i cannot tell what our jacob would be at." then she added, with serene complacency, "however, it's all paid for." she had not the art of avoiding a topic likely to be disagreeable either to herself or anybody else, but would make other folks uncomfortable, and torture her own mind by dwelling upon their sores and her own. i don't think that in this she was altogether wrong, or that the most delicate people are altogether right in doing exactly the contrary, for it is as well to grasp nettles with a certain hardihood; but she carried a respectable sort of courage to a very unnecessary excess. thus, when she had done about the silver and the general extravagance of "our jacob," the next topic she found to talk about was the absence of mr. and mrs. prigley. she launched forth into a catalogue of all the benefits wherewith she had overwhelmed mrs. prigley in the days of her poverty at shayton, and represented that lady as a monster of ingratitude. "why, they were so poor," mrs. ogden said, "that they couldn't even afford carpets to their floors; but now that they're better off in the world, they turn their backs on those that helped them. we were always helping them, and making them presents." every one saw that the ogdens were dreadfully sore about the absence of the vicar and his wife, and it was not very good policy on mrs. ogden's part to draw attention to it in that way; for a parson, though ornamental, is not absolutely indispensable to a good dinner, and they might have got on very well without one. the dinner was served in the great hall at five o'clock, and few of the guests, as they sat at the feast, could help lifting their eyes to the wainscot, and the frescoes, and the great armorial ceiling--few could help thinking of the colonel. no one present, however, was in such a conflicting and contradictory state of mind as young jacob, nor was any one so thoroughly miserable. the whole triumph had disgusted him from beginning to end, and he was not in a humor to be either charitable or indulgent, or to see things on their amusing side. ever since that last interview with edith, he had been moody and misanthropical, accepting the position his uncle had made for him, but accepting it without one ray of pleasure. such a condition of mind, if prolonged for several years, would end by making a man horribly cynical and sour, and probably drive him to take refuge in the lowest pleasures and the lowest aims. when the bark of love is wrecked, and the noble ambition of work and independence lies feeble and half dead, and we allow others to arrange all our life for us, what is the use of being young? what is the use of having health and riches, and all sorts of fine prospects and advantages? when the banquet was over, the company returned to the drawing-room, and young jacob began to think that sally smethurst was the nicest-looking young person there. his uncle was pleased to observe his polite attentions to the young lady, and, taking him aside, said, "that's reet, lad--that's reet; ax 'er to dance, and when you've been dancin' a good bit, ax her summat elz. you'll never have such another chance. she's quite fresh to this place, and she never saw out like wendrum 'all; she's just been tellin' my mother what a rare fine place it is." "well," thought young jacob to himself, "as i cannot have edith, why not please my uncle and my grandmother? sally smethurst is a nice honest-looking young woman, and i daresay she'd make a very good sort of wife." the male nature is so constituted that, when not firmly anchored in some strong attachment, it easily drifts away on the _fleuve du tendre_, and this poor youth had been cut away from his moorings. what wonder, then, if he drifted? sally thought him very nice, and handsome, and kind, and she promised to dance with him most willingly. the dining-room had been prepared for dancing, and it answered the purpose all the better as there was a dais at one end of the room which afforded at once a safe retreat and a convenient position for spectators, whilst at the other was a gallery for musicians, now occupied by an excellent band of stringed instruments from manchester. in short, the dining-room at wenderholme had been arranged strictly on the principle of the old baronial hall. the gallery was supported by fantastic pillars of carved oak, and decorated with gigantic antlers which had been given to colonel stanburne by a friend of his, a mighty hunter in south africa. the ball went on with great spirit till after midnight, when supper was served in the long gallery. even mrs. ogden, old as she was, had danced, and danced well too, to the astonishment of the spectators. the host himself had performed, though his proficiency might be questioned. what with the dancing, and the negus, and the champagne, and the splendors of the noble house, and the flattery of so many guests, and the obsequious service of so many attendants, and the sense of their own greatness and success, not only jacob ogden, senior, but all the ogdens, were a little elevated that night. young jacob did not escape this infection--at his age, how could he?--and having taken miss smethurst up the grand staircase to supper, rapidly approached that point which his uncle desired him to attain. amidst the noise of the talk around him, the lad went further and further. he talked about wenderholme already almost as if it were his own, and forgot, for the time, his old friend the colonel and his misfortunes in an exulting sense of his own highly promising position. "he intended to live at wenderholme a good deal," he said, and then asked miss smethurst whether _she_ would like to live at wenderholme. but he did not hear her answer. a figure like a ghost, with pale, sad, resolute face, approached silently, moving from the darker end of the long gallery into the blaze of light about the supper-table. it was mr. prigley. the master of the house saw him, too, and as he approached said aloud, and not very politely,-- "better late than never, parson; come and sit down next to my mother and get your supper." but mr. prigley still remained standing. however, he approached the table. still he would not sit down. every one looked at him, and no one who had looked once took his eyes off mr. prigley again. there was that in his face which fixed attention irresistibly. the roar of the conversation was suddenly hushed, and a silence succeeded in which you might have heard the breaking of a piece of bread. mr. prigley went straight to mrs. ogden, not noticing anybody else. he spoke to her, not loudly, but audibly enough for every one to hear him. "i have come to tell you, mrs. ogden, that mrs. stanburne, mother of colonel stanburne of wenderholme, is now lying in a dying state at the vicarage." mrs. ogden did not answer at once. when she had collected her ideas, she said, "i thought mrs. stanburne had been in her own house and well in health. if i'd known she was dyin', you may be sure, mr. prigley, as there should 'ave been no dancin' i' this house, though she's not a relation of ours. we're only plain people, but we know what's fittin' and seemly." "then you cannot be aware, mrs. ogden, of what has happened at wenderholme cottage. mrs. stanburne's illness has been brought on by the suddenness with which the present owner of wenderholme ordered her to quit her cottage on this estate. she was an old lady, in feeble health, and the trouble of a sudden eviction has proved too much for her. if there is any surgeon here, let him follow me." this said, mr. prigley quitted the table without bowing to anybody, and his gaunt figure and pale grave face passed along the gallery to the great staircase. dr. bardly left his place at the supper-table, and followed him. miss smethurst's young partner made no more soft speeches to her that night. a great pang smote him in his breast. had he forgotten those dear friends who had been so good to him in the time of their prosperity? and what was this horrible story of an eviction? mrs. stanburne turned out of wenderholme cottage! could it be possible that his uncle had gone to such a length as that? the boy was down the staircase in an instant, and overtook the doctor and mr. prigley as they were crossing the great hall. they walked swiftly and silently to the vicarage. "you'd better wait here, little jacob," said dr. bardly; "i'll go upstairs." and he put jacob into a small sitting-room, which was empty. the lad had been there five minutes when the door opened, and edith came in. she looked very ill and miserable. all the old tenderness came back into jacob's heart as he felt for her in this trial. "miss stanburne," he said, "dear miss stanburne, what does he say?" weak and shattered as she was by the trials of these last days, that word of tenderness made any farther acting impossible. she went to him, took both his hands in hers, and the tears came. "there's no hope; she's dying. come upstairs--she wants to see you." mrs. stanburne was lying in a state of extreme exhaustion, with occasional intervals of consciousness, in which the mind was clear. when jacob entered the sick-room, she was in one of her better moments. "go quite near to her," said mr. prigley; "she can only speak in a whisper." there had always existed a great friendship between the youth and the old lady now lying on the brink of the grave. he bent down over her, and tenderly kissed her forehead. "god bless you!" she whispered, "it is very kind of you to come." then she said, in answer to his enquiries,-- "i shall not live long, but i shall live rather longer than they think. i shan't die to-night. i want my son--my son!" after this supervened a syncope, which jacob and edith believed to be death. but the doctor, with his larger experience, reassured them for the present. "she will live several hours," he said. jacob told them that she had asked for colonel stanburne, and added, "i have not the slightest idea where he is." then edith made a sign to him to follow her, and led him downstairs again to the little sitting-room. "papa is a long way off; he is in france. he must be telegraphed for." and she took a writing-case and wrote an address. now, although there was a telegraph from wenderholme to ogden's mill at shayton, there was none from shayton to sootythorn, which was the nearest town of importance. so the best way appeared to be for jacob to ride off at once with the despatch to the station, which was ten miles off. "and you must telegraph for mamma at the same time." and edith wrote lady helena's address. a little delay occurred now, because jacob's horse had to be sent for to wenderholme hall. edith went upstairs, and soon came down again with rather favorable news. the syncope had not lasted long, and the patient seemed to rally from it somewhat more easily than she had done from the preceding ones. "miss stanburne!" said jacob, "will you give me a word of explanation? you were hard and unkind the last time we spoke to each other." "i did very wrong. i thought i was sacrificing myself for your good. i told you nothing but lies." half an hour since miss smethurst was within a hair's-breadth of being lady of wenderholme; but her chances are over now, and she will not bring her fortune to this place--her coals to this newcastle. as her late partner in the dance rides galloping, galloping through the wooded lanes to the telegraph station, his brain is full of other hopes, and of a far higher, though less brilliant, ambition. he will free himself from the milend slavery, and work for independence--and for edith! chapter xiv. mrs. ogden's authority. after the apparition of mr. prigley, the supper in the long gallery changed its character completely. until he came it had been one of the merriest of festivals; after he went away, it became one of the dullest. a sense of uncomfortableness and embarrassment oppressed everybody present, and though many attempts were made to give the conversation something of its old liveliness, the guests soon became aware that for that time it was frozen beyond hope of recovery. it had been intended to resume the dancing after supper, but the dancing was not resumed, and the guests who intended to return to shayton that night became suddenly impressed with so strong a sense of the distance of that place from wenderholme, that all the pressing hospitality of the ogdens availed not to retain them. notwithstanding the philistinism of mrs. ogden's character, and the external hardness which she had in common with most of her contemporaries in shayton, she was not without heart; and when she heard that her son had turned old mrs. stanburne out of the cottage, she both felt disapproval and expressed it. "jacob," she said, "you shouldn't 'ave done so." and she repeated many a time to other people in the room, "our jacob shouldn't 'ave done so." and when the carriages had departed, although there were still many people in the house, mrs. ogden put her bonnet on, and had herself conducted to the vicarage. the situation there might have been embarrassing for some people, but mrs. ogden was a woman who did not feel embarrassment under any circumstances. she did what was right, or she did what was wrong, in a simple and resolute way, and her very immunity from nervous reflectiveness often enabled her to do the right thing when a self-conscious person would hardly have ventured to do it. so she knocked at mrs. prigley's door. it happened that the person nearest the door at that moment was edith, who was crossing the passage from one room to another. so edith opened the door. mrs. ogden walked in at once, and asked very kindly after mrs. stanburne. edith was pleased with the genuine interest in her manner, and showed her into the little sitting-room. the news was rather more favorable than might have been hoped for. mrs. stanburne had had no return of unconsciousness; and though the doctor still thought she was gradually sinking, he began to be of opinion that her illness might be much longer than was at first anticipated, and thought that she would live to see the colonel. "you don't know me," said mrs. ogden; "but as you speak of mrs. stanburne as your grandmamma, i know who you are. you're miss edith. i'm little jacob's grandmamma--mrs. ogden of milend, whom no doubt you've heard speak of." edith bowed slightly, and then there was rather an awkward pause. "my son jacob did very wrong about your grandmother in turning her out of her house. i wish we could make amends." edith tried to say something polite in acknowledgment of mrs. ogden's advance, but it ended in tears. "i'm afraid it is too late," she said, finally. the young lady's evident love for her grandmother won the heart of mrs. ogden, who was herself a grandmother. "tell me what has been done, my dear. i know nothing about it; i only heard about it to-night. has mrs. stanburne removed her furniture?" "not quite all yet. most of it is here, in mr. prigley's out-houses. it was the hurry of the removal that brought on grandmamma's illness." "well, my dear," said the old lady, laying her hand upon edith's, "let us pray to god that she may live. and we'll have all the furniture put back into the cottage." "i don't think grandmamma would consent to that." "but i'll make my son come and beg her pardon. i'll make him come!" edith could not resist mrs. ogden's earnestness. "i will try to bring grandmamma round, if she lives. you are very kind, mrs. ogden." "now, if you'd like me to sit up with mrs. stanburne, if you and mrs. prigley was tired, you know? i'm an old woman, but i'm a strong one, and i can sit up well enough. i've been used to nursing. i nursed our isaac wife all through her last illness." "mrs. prigley and i can do very well for to-night; but to-morrow, in the day-time, we shall need a little rest, and if you would come we should be much obliged." "and if there was any thing i could send from the great 'ouse--any jellies or blomonge?" "thank you; if we want any thing we will send for it to the hall." mrs. ogden rose to take her leave, which she did very affectionately. "i am very sorry for you, my dear," she said, "and i am angry at our jacob. he shouldn't 'ave done so--he shouldn't 'ave done so." she had no notion of abdicating parental authority--no idea that, because a lad happened to be twenty-one, or thirty-one, or forty-one, he was to be free to do exactly as he liked. and when she got back to the hall, and the guests were in bed, she treated "our jacob" _en petit garçon_, just as if he had been fifteen. she informed him that mrs. stanburne's furniture would be reinstated in wenderholme cottage immediately, and that if she recovered he would have to go there and eat humble-pie. "an' if who doesn't get better, it'll be thee as has murdered her; and thou'll desarve to be hanged for't, same as bill o' great john's[ ] as shot old nanny suthers wi' a pistil." chapter xv. lady helena returns. mrs. ogden returned to the vicarage the next day, and found mrs. stanburne in the same condition of extreme exhaustion. the rigton doctor had arrived in the interval, and relieved dr. bardly, who returned to shayton. the two medical men had expressed the same opinion--namely, that the old lady was gradually, but quite surely, sinking. mrs. ogden took her place by the bedside, and relieved mrs. prigley and edith. the patient being perfectly conscious, and in possession of all her mental faculties, edith had told her about mrs. ogden's first visit; and when she came near the bedside, mrs. stanburne held out her hand, or rather attempted to do so--for she had not strength to lift it--and it fell upon the counterpane. then she whispered a few words of thanks and welcome. "my son jacob shouldn't have done so--he shouldn't have done so," said mrs. ogden; and in reply there came faint syllables of forgiveness. then mrs. ogden asked mrs. stanburne if she would prove her forgiveness by going back to wenderholme cottage. "if i live, i will." "live! why you're sure to live. you're quite a young woman. look at me, how strong i am, and i'm older than you are. it's nothing but the hurry and worry of leaving your 'ouse that you was accustomed to that's brought you down in this way. you'll get well again--i'm sure you will; only, we must take care of you. now we've had enough talking for the present, and i'll get my sewing; and if you want any thing, i'll fetch it for you." then the strong old woman sat down by the bedside of the weaker one, and from that time forth established herself as one of her recognized nurses, and by no means the least efficient. in one essential point she was superior both to edith and mrs. prigley--she was less melancholy and more encouraging. the others could not help crying, and the patient saw that they had been crying, which made her feel as if she were assisting at her own funeral; whereas mrs. ogden kept a cheerful countenance, and, though as gentle as a woman could be, had nevertheless a fine firmness and courage which made mrs. stanburne feel that she could rely upon her. another immense advantage was, that in the presence of this hale and active example of a vigorous old age, mrs. stanburne altogether ceased to feel the burden of her years, and began to consider herself simply as a sick person in a state of temporary exhaustion, instead of an old woman whose thread of life had come to its inevitable end. indeed, mrs. ogden had not been long with the invalid before both of them had given up the theory that she was gradually sinking, and replaced it by more hopeful views. young jacob's interest in mrs. stanburne's health proved to be so strong that he could hardly absent himself from the vicarage; yet though mrs. ogden must have been perfectly well aware that he passed a good deal of his time there with miss edith, she showed no sign of displeasure, but when she found them together, seemed to consider it perfectly natural, and spoke to edith always affectionately, calling her "my dear," and putting an unaccustomed tenderness even into the very tones of her voice. the lord of wenderholme and his remaining guests left for shayton in the course of the afternoon, but mrs. ogden declared her intention of remaining until her patient was out of danger; and though her son had suggested that young jacob was not absolutely necessary as a nurse, mrs. ogden asserted that it was "a great comfort" to her to have him near her, and that he should go back to milend with his grandmother at such times as she might see fit to return thither. jacob ogden was a wilful and a mighty man; but either from habit or some genuine filial sentiment, or perhaps because no man can be really happy unless he is governed by a woman of some sort--either a wife, or a mother, or a maiden aunt--this hard and terrible master-spirit submitted to "the old woman" without question, and whatever _she_ willed was done. in saying that all jacob ogden's guests went back with him to shayton, an exception must be made in the case of his elder brother. captain ogden, as he was now generally called (for the people had gradually got into the habit of giving militia officers their titles), remained at wenderholme, for reasons of his own. he knew that colonel stanburne had been telegraphed for, and wished to see him. perhaps, too, he thought it might be agreeable to john stanburne to find a sincere friend in his old place, and that he might be able in some degree to mitigate the painfulness of an unavoidable return to scenes which could not be revisited without awakening many regretful associations. as all the prigley children were at school except conny, now a young lady who was supposed to have "come out," though in fact no such ceremony had taken place, from the want of any society to come out in, the vicarage was able to accommodate a good many guests, and the prigleys were only too happy to place it at the disposal of the family to whom they owed their recent advancement in the world. it was a pleasant and spacious, though not a very elegant, house; and there was a large garden, and an orchard, and a glebe of two or three fields, with sufficient stabling and out-houses. they had set up a small pony-carriage, or rather continued that which belonged to the late vicar, which they had purchased at the sale, with pony and harness complete, for the moderate sum of nine guineas; and conny prigley set off in this machine to await the train by which lady helena was expected to arrive. this arrangement was made without mrs. ogden's knowledge, and when she came to be aware of it, she exclaimed, "well, now, i wish i'd known--i do indeed, i _wish_ i'd known--for there's my cayridge at the 'all, which is quite at your service. our jacob's gone back with miss smethurst, and he's left me my cayridge, which you would have been quite welcome to." but the prigleys had tact enough to know, that although her ladyship rather liked to be magnificent, she might not particularly care for it to be mrs. ogden's magnificence; and that the little green pony-carriage, driven by conny prigley, was a more suitable vehicle to bring her ladyship to the vicarage than the sumptuous chariot in which mrs. ogden had triumphed the day before. lady helena duly arrived. it did not require much explanation from edith to make the whole situation quite clear to her perspicuous mind. she went upstairs to see mrs. stanburne, who was grateful to her for coming so soon, and the first person she saw in the room was mrs. ogden. there was a little stiffness at first, but it did not last long. lady helena and mrs. ogden got into conversation about the state of the patient, and then about other matters connected with what might be called the diocese of the lady of wenderholme. had mrs. ogden been one of the examples, so numerous in these days, of amazingly refined ladyhood in the middle classes, lady helena might have been jealous of her; but how was it possible for her ladyship to feel jealous of a simple old woman like mrs. ogden, who spoke broad lancashire, and in every movement of her body, and every utterance of her lips, proclaimed the humility of her birth? lady helena, moreover, had a keen sense of humor, and it was impossible not to feel interested and amused, as soon as the first anxiety about mrs. stanburne was at least temporarily tranquillized, by mrs. ogden's quaint turns of expression, and her wonderful reliance on her own wisdom and experience. even mrs. stanburne, ill as she was, could not help smiling, as she lay in her bed of sickness, when mrs. ogden came out with some of those sayings which were peculiarly her own. the condition of the invalid had become less distressing and less alarming, though the doctor still held out no hopes of a recovery. mrs. ogden, however, had succeeded in making the patient believe that she would get better because she believed it herself, and she believed it herself because the idea of a person dying of mere weakness at the early age of seventy-two was not admissible to her patriarchal mind. it was a great thing for mrs. stanburne to have somebody near her who did not consider that she was used up, and she began to regard mrs. ogden with the partiality which human nature always feels for those who preach comfortable doctrine. as there were so many ladies to nurse mrs. stanburne, and as the invalid now gave comparatively little immediate anxiety, edith easily got lady helena to herself for half an hour. the young lady was firmly resolved upon one thing--namely, that this opportunity for a reconciliation between her father and mother should not be lost through any pusillanimity of hers. "mamma," she said boldly, "why did you leave papa when he was ruined?" "because he ordered me to leave him; because he turned me out of the house." "but why did he do so? it is quite contrary to his character to turn anybody out. when he dismissed the servants, he did it very kindly, and only because he could not afford to keep them." lady helena remained silent. "do tell me, mamma, why he behaved so. it isn't like him; you know it isn't like him." "there are people, edith," said her ladyship, "who commit great follies; and then, when the misfortunes come which they themselves have caused, they cannot endure to hear one word of blame. they must be pitied and sympathized with, and then they are very nice and amiable; but if you express the least censure, they fly into a passion and insult you." "you mean that you censured papa for his imprudence, and that he got angry." "i said very little to him. i said a few words which were strictly true. i never scold." "no, mamma, you never scold; but scolding would be easier to bear than your blame. i see how it all was; you blamed papa in two or three terribly just and severe words, and then, after that, you said nothing to console him in his misery, and he became irritable, and said something hasty." lady helena said nothing to this, but she did not look displeased; and she showed no inclination either to leave the room or to change the subject. "dear mamma, i don't think you did wrong in blaming papa's imprudence; but if you had given him one word of kindness afterwards, you would never have lost him." "is not this rather"-- "impertinent from a daughter, you mean to say. you know i don't want to be impertinent, mamma; but i'm old enough to be of some use, and i mean to be, too, whether your ladyship is quite satisfied or not. are you aware that papa will be here to-morrow?" "it is natural that he should come here, as his mother is ill." "and when he comes, we must do what we can to help him to bear his afflictions, i suppose." "certainly." "well, we won't pass any more votes of censure, mamma, will we? and we shall forgive him his trespasses, shall we not?" to this lady helena made no reply; but her face wore a new and a softer expression. this encouraged edith, who continued:-- "he has suffered enough. he has been living all by himself in a miserable little french town on the loire. i have a whole heap of his letters. he told me every thing about his situation. grandpapa has been allowing him three hundred a-year--he has never touched a penny of it; it is paid regularly to grandmamma stanburne, who does not know that she is ruined, and who fancies that papa has an allowance, and lives abroad for his pleasure. his letters to her are all about amusements, but he writes to me sincerely, and _i_ know what his life has been. he has got a post as english master in a school, and they pay him twenty-five francs a-week, but he gives lessons in the town, and gets two francs a lesson, only he has not many of these. he is _en pension_ in an inn. it is a miserably lonely life. i would have gone to him, but i could not leave grandmamma." lady helena's eyes glistened in the firelight. they were brimming with tears. "you should have told me this sooner, edith," she said, at last. "would you have gone to him? would you have gone to live with him there, in his lodgings, and cheer him after his day's work?" "i have been less happy, edith, during these last months, than i should have been with him, wherever he is, however poor he is." after this avowal of her ladyship, the chances are great, i think, that the colonel will be agreeably received at the vicarage. miss edith communicated as much to the worthy vicar himself, who, though with anglican discretion he would have avoided intruding in the character of peacemaker, thought it a duty to encourage lady helena in the path of charity and forgiveness. "forgive him heartily and entirely any thing you may have to forgive. go to him at once when he comes. all your days will be blessed for this." chapter xvi. the colonel comes. in the evening came a telegram from the colonel, dated from dover, and announcing his arrival for the following morning. "what a pity it is," said lady helena, "that he did not give us a london address! we might have spared him a whole night of anxiety." she was thinking about him just as she used to think about him in their happiest years. on reference to the time-table, it appeared that the colonel would arrive at the station at about eight o'clock in the morning. when captain ogden heard of this, he said he would go to meet him, and so did young jacob; and mrs. ogden offered her carriage, and, in short, there was a general fuss, to which lady helena suddenly put an end by declaring her intention of going to meet him herself in the little pony-carriage that belonged to the vicarage. mr. prigley smiled approbation, and assured her ladyship that he would lend her that humble equipage with great pleasure, meaning a great deal more than he said. so lady helena drove off in the little green carriage at six o'clock in the morning; for the station, as the reader may remember, was ten miles from wenderholme, and it was necessary to bait the pony before he came back. it was a rude little equipage altogether, not very well hung, and by no means elegant in its proportions. the pony, too, in anticipation of winter, was beginning to put on his rough coat, and his harness had long since lost any brilliance it might have once possessed. the morning was cold and raw, and a chilly gray dawn was in the east--an aurora of the least encouraging kind, which one always feels disposed to be angry at for coming and disturbing the more cheerful darkness. some people at the vicarage were astonished that mr. prigley should allow her ladyship to drive off alone in this dreary way at six o'clock in the morning; but then these people did not know all that mr. prigley knew. when lady helena got into the carriage, the vicar shook hands with her in an uncommonly affectionate manner, just as if she had been leaving him for a very long time, and then he said something to her in a very low tone. "dear lady helena," he said, "god bless you!" and it is my firm belief that if mrs. prigley had not been within sight, that vicar would have given lady helena a kiss. away went the pony through the darkling lanes, with the rattling machine after him. poor pony! he had often done that long journey to the station, and done it with reasonable celerity, but he had never trotted so fast as he trotted now. can it be the early morning air that so exhilarates her ladyship? her face is so bright and cheerful that it conquers the dreariness of the hour, and brings a better sunshine than the gray october dawn. how little we know under what circumstances we shall enjoy the purest and sweetest felicity! this little woman had been in lordly equipages, in all sorts of splendid pleasures and stately ceremonies; she had been drawn by magnificent horses, with a powdered coachman on the box, and a cluster of lacqueys behind; she had gone in diamonds and feathers to st. james's; better still, she had driven through the fairest scenery under cloudless skies, when all nature rejoiced around her. all the luxury that skilled craftsmen can produce in combination had been hers; carriages hung so delicately, and cushioned so softly, that they seemed to float on air; harness that seemed as if its only purpose were to enhance the beauty of the horses which it adorned; liveries, varnish, silver, and the rest of it. and yet, of all the drives that lady helena had ever taken in her whole life, _this_ was the most delightful, this drive in the dreary dawn of an october morning in a rattling little carriage with stiff springs, painted like a park paling, and drawn by a shaggy pony at the rate of six miles an hour! she reached the station half an hour before the train came, and sat a little in the waiting-room, and walked about on the platform, in a state of nervous fidgetiness and anxiety. at length the bell rang, and the engine came round a curve, and grew bigger and bigger, and her heart beat faster and faster. "there he is, poor john, getting out of a third-class carriage!" lady helena had been seeking him amongst the well-to-do first-class passengers. she ran to him, and took his hand in both hers, and said, "she's better, love--a good deal better since yesterday." and the tears ran down her cheeks. the colonel looked at her for a moment, and took both her hands, and would have said something, or perhaps gone so far as to give her just one little kiss on the forehead--which is a wonderful thing for an englishman to achieve in a railway station--but these good intentions were frustrated by the guard, who, in rather a peremptory way, demanded to know whether he had any luggage. john stanburne felt like a man in a dream. going back to wenderholme, no longer his, with helena, his own helena once more! it was not in his nature to cherish the least vindictive feeling, and that one word of his wife had wiped away every evil recollection. when they got into the little pony-carriage, and were out of hearing of the hostler, the colonel turned to her ladyship, and said,-- "i owe you a great many apologies, dear. i behaved very badly the last time we were together, but i was upset, you know. you are a good woman to come and meet me in this way, and forgive me. i have meant to write to you many a time and say how sorry i was, but i put it off because--because"-- it is well that the pony was quiet, and knew its own way to wenderholme, for when they got into an uncommonly retired lane, with very high hedges, her ladyship, who was driving, threw the reins down, and embraced the gentleman by her side in an extraordinary manner. then came passionate tears, and after that she grew calmer. "what geese we were to fancy we could live separately!" she said. and then they talked incessantly the whole way. she asked him a thousand questions about his life abroad,--how he passed his evenings, whether he had found any society, and so on. as the colonel told her about his humble, lonely life, she listened with perfect sympathy; and when he said that some people had been kind to him, and got him pupils, she wanted to know all about them. "i'm getting on famously," said the colonel. "i'm earning nearly sixty francs a-week, and i pronounce french better than i used to do." chapter xvii. a morning call. since we are obliged to leave the vicarage now, the reader must be told the exact truth about mrs. stanburne's condition. it continued to give great anxiety for several weeks, and all her friends, even including the doctors, gave her up over and over again, believing that she had not more than an hour or two to live; yet she always passed through these times of danger, and gradually, very gradually, began to feel rather stronger in the month of december. the season of the year was not favorable to her, but dr. bardly hoped that if she could be sustained till the return of spring, she would regain her strength, at least in a great measure, and probably have several years of life still before her. she bore the winter better than had been expected, though without quitting her room at the vicarage, and in the month of april entered upon a convalescence which astonished all around her. the old lady's illness led to very important consequences. since the period of her danger was protracted, her friends remained near her day after day, and week after week, always believing that they were performing the last duty by a deathbed. a great sadness reigned in the vicarage during all this season of watching, but it was sadness of the kind which is most favorable to sympathy and good feeling. the vicar and his good wife, so far from feeling the presence of the invalid and their other guests a burden, were glad that it was in their power to do any thing for her and for them; and whilst the old lady lay upon her bed of sickness she was producing happier and more important results, simply by throwing certain persons together by invisible bonds of mutual approval and a common anxiety, than she could ever have achieved by an active ingerence in their affairs. everybody who loved old mrs. stanburne was grateful to everybody who gave proof of a real interest in her condition; and the majestic approach of death, whose shadow lay on the vicarage so long, subdued all its inhabitants into a more perfect spiritual harmony than they would ever have attained to amongst the distractions of gayer, though not happier, days. lady helena was admirable. there was a tenderness and a simplicity in her manner which pleased the colonel greatly, and won the warm approval of the vicar. she devoted herself mainly to the care of mrs. stanburne, but, saying that exercise was necessary to enable her to do her duty as a nurse, made the colonel walk out with her every day. these walks were delightful to both of them--for even though the scenery about the village of wenderholme was full of painful associations, their sense of loss was more than balanced by the sense of a yet larger gain; and the future, though it could not have the external brilliance of the past, promised a deeper and more firm felicity. sadness and unhappiness are two very different conditions of the mind, and it does not follow that because we are saddened we are incapable of being very happy in a certain quiet and not unenviable way. indeed, it might even be asserted, that as "our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought"-- so it is with life itself, as well as poetry, and that our sweetest hours are far from being our gayest. it had become tacitly understood that neither lady helena nor mrs. ogden would offer any opposition to the marriage between jacob and edith. whatever mrs. ogden determined to do, she did in a thorough and effectual manner; and as she had resolved that amends ought to be made to the stanburnes for her son's conduct to the old lady, she considered that the best way to do this would be to receive edith kindly into her family. in this resolution she was greatly helped by a genuine approval of the young lady herself. "there's some girls as brings fortunes," she said to young jacob, "and there's other girls as _is_ a fortune themselves, and i think miss stanburne will be as good as a fortune to any one who may marry her." nor had this opinion been lightly arrived at, for during her frequent visits to the vicarage, mrs. ogden had studied edith, much in the same way as an entomologist studies an insect under a microscope. one day, when the weather became a little warmer, lady helena said to the colonel, "don't you think, dear, that we ought to go and call upon that old mrs. ogden at the hall? she has been exceedingly kind in coming to sit with mamma. i would have suggested it sooner, but i was afraid it might be painful for you, dear, to go to the old house again." so they set out and walked to the hall together, both of them feeling very strange feelings, indeed, as they passed up the familiar avenue. when they came at last in sight of the great house, john stanburne paused and gazed upon it for a long time without speaking. it stood just as he had left it--none of the carved stanburne shields had been removed. "i'm glad they've altered nothing, helena," he said. then they met their old gardener, who spoke to them with the tears in his eyes. "it's different for us to what it used to be, my lady," he said; "not but what mrs. ogden is a good woman, but her son is a hard master." "we were coming to see mrs. ogden," said lady helena; "do you know if she is at home?" "you won't find her in the house, my lady; but if you will come this way, i'll take you to where she is." nature always puts some element of comedy into the most touching circumstances, and saves us from morbid feelings by glimpses of the ludicrous side of life. thus, although the gardener had had tears in his eyes when he saw the colonel and lady helena, there was a smile upon his face as he led them in the direction of the stables. "your ladyship will find mrs. ogden in that carriage," he said, pointing to the magnificent ogden chariot, which stood, as if to air itself, without horses, in the middle of the yard. when he had said this, the gardener made his bow and disappeared, smiling with keen satisfaction at what he had just done. the visitors were much surprised, but, as the gardener well knew, curiosity alone was strong enough to make them go up to the carriage and see whether there was anybody inside it. the colonel peeped in at the window, and saw mrs. ogden sitting in the vehicle, apparently in quite a settled and permanent way, for she had her knitting. "eh, well, it's the colonel and her ladyship, i declare!" cried mrs. ogden, opening the carriage-door. "come and get in--do get in--it's very comfortable. i often come and sit here a bit of an afternoon with my knitting. but what perhaps you'd rather go and sit a bit i' th' 'ouse?" they got inside the carriage with the old lady, and their amusement at this circumstance quite relieved those feelings of melancholy which had naturally taken possession of them on revisiting wenderholme. the conversation was quite agreeable and animated, and half an hour passed very rapidly. after that, the callers proposed to depart. "nay," said mrs. ogden, "you willn't be going away so soon, will you? come into th' 'ouse, now--_do_ come and have a glass of wine." lady helena promised that they would come to the house another day, but said that she wished to go back to mrs. stanburne. on this mrs. ogden said, "well, then, if you _will_ go back, sit you still." and she let down the glass and called out in a loud voice for the horses. the horses were put to the carriage, and the visitors shortly found themselves in motion towards the vicarage, which proves the advantage of receiving friends in a small drawing-room on four wheels. the incident created a great deal of amusement, and even old mrs. stanburne laughed at it very heartily. very trifling and absurd things are often of great use in putting people in a good temper, and chasing melancholy ideas; and mrs. ogden's fancy for sitting in her carriage developed a wonderful amount of kindly humor at the vicarage. nothing does people more good than laughing at their neighbors, and they love their neighbors all the better for having laughed at them; so mrs. ogden's popularity at the vicarage was increased by this incident, and i dare say it accelerated mrs. stanburne's recovery in an appreciable, though not ascertainable, degree. chapter xviii. money on the brain. immediately after the colonel's return from france, captain ogden went back to his solitude at twistle farm, but his son spent a good deal of his time with old mrs. ogden at wenderholme. jacob ogden, senior, came to wenderholme frequently to look after the work-people on the estate, but did not mark his disapproval of his nephew's proceedings otherwise than by quietly excluding him from all participation in his affairs. although the young man passed a great deal more time at wenderholme than his uncle did, he was never requested, and he never offered, to do any of the duties of an overlooker, and his uncle treated him strictly upon the footing of a visitor--a visitor, not to himself, but to his mother. there is so much firmness in the character of the typical lancashire man, that he can assume, and maintain for an indefinite length of time, an attitude towards a friend or relation which would be impossible for more mobile temperaments; and young jacob knew his uncle well enough to be aware that having once decided upon his line of conduct, there was every probability that he would follow it without deviation. therefore, although young jacob could have made himself of the greatest use at wenderholme without interfering either with his amusement of shooting or his dutiful attendance upon miss edith; he paid no more attention to the work-people than if they had been employed by some proprietor entirely unknown to him. it is unnecessary to add, that when at twistle farm, where he spent about one week out of three, he never went near his uncle's factories. and yet, notwithstanding the apparent indifference with which jacob ogden dispensed with his nephew's services, they were more than ever necessary to him. the great factories at shayton were enough of themselves to absorb the whole time of a very active master; but, in addition to these, jacob ogden was now working the calico-printing establishment at whittlecup, which had formerly belonged to mr. joseph anison, and carrying out extensive improvements, not only upon the wenderholme estate, but upon many other properties of his, scattered over the neighboring parishes, and often at a considerable distance from his headquarters at milend. though his constitution was a strong one, he had always taxed its strength to the utmost; and his powers were not what they had been, nor what he still believed them to be. he might have gone on for many years in the old routine that he had been accustomed to--for a hard-worked man will endure labor that seems beyond his present strength if he merely continues the habits of his better time. but a man already in the decline of life cannot _add_ to his labor without danger, if it is already excessive, and especially if the new labors require thought and study before they can be fully mastered. the improvements at wenderholme, to an experienced land-owner like jacob ogden, required no new apprenticeship; but that was not the case with the calico-printing business at whittlecup. it was a new trade that had to be learned, and not a very easy trade--not nearly so simple as cotton-spinning. he applied himself to it with that indomitable will and resolution which had hitherto overcome every obstacle in his career, and he rapidly acquired the new knowledge that he needed. but this effort, in addition to the enormous burden of his daily work--the daily work of a rich man who could not endure to be robbed, and would trust nothing to his agents--began to tell upon his cerebral system in a peculiar manner; and these effects were the more dangerous that jacob ogden had no conception of the terrible nature of the enemy that was invading him, but believed this enemy might be conquered by his will and perseverance, as every other obstacle had been. if he had frankly consulted dr. bardly on the appearance of the first symptoms, and followed the advice which dr. bardly would have given, the evil would have been checked in time; but he felt a certain hostility to the doctor, which disinclined him to communications which he did not feel to be immediately necessary; and even if this could have been laid aside, a man so wilful as jacob ogden, and so accustomed to look after his own affairs, would scarcely have consented under present circumstances to give up the management of his business to his nephew, and retire to a premature and inglorious repose. hitherto he had gone through his work with great energy, in combination with perfect calm. the energy still remained, it even increased; but the calm did not remain--it was succeeded by a perpetual hurry and fever. in a short time after these symptoms first developed themselves, jacob ogden could not add up a column of figures without excitement; when he came to the totals his heart beat violently, and he began to make mistakes, which he perceived, and was afterwards nervously anxious to avoid. as his malady increased, he could not open a letter without emotion, or sign a cheque without a strong effort of self-control; in a word, the nervous system was rapidly giving way. and instead of taking rest, which could alone have restored him to health--rest at wenderholme amongst his own fair fields in the beautiful months of spring--he persisted and persisted, and would not allow himself to be beaten. the people about him did not know any thing of his condition. he was more irritable, he pushed everybody faster than he had formerly done, and he was constantly moving from one place to another; but his determination to control himself was so strong, and his power of _appearing_ well still so considerable, that such people as mrs. ogden and young jacob (unaccustomed as they both were to that kind of suffering, and incapable of imagining it) had not the most distant suspicion that he had become unfit for work. indeed, although an experienced london physician, who had made brain disease his particular study, would no doubt have seen at a glance that this was a case which needed the most watchful care, it may be doubted whether a country practitioner (even so clever, naturally, as dr. bardly) would have warned jacob ogden in time. the overtasked brain translated its own dangerous condition by _anxiety_, and the anxiety was not about health, but, as often happens in such instances, about that subject which had most occupied the patient's mind before the approaches of disease--namely, money. with all his riches, jacob ogden grew more nervously anxious about money matters than the poorest laborer on his estate. his mind ran incessantly upon possible causes of loss; and as in the best-regulated property such causes are always infinitely numerous, he found them only too easily. the thousands of details which, when in health, he had carried in his head as lightly as we carry the words of a thoroughly mastered language, began to torment him with the apprehension that they might escape his memory; and whereas, in his better days, no fact troubled him except just at the moment when he wanted it, they now importunately intruded upon his mind when they could only disturb and confuse it. at length, as his disease advanced towards its sure and terrible development, the anxiety, which was the form it had taken, and the mental hurry and worry which accompanied it, arrived at such a pitch that the least delicate and acute observers remarked it in jacob ogden's face. his mother earnestly entreated him not to torment himself so much about his affairs, but to take a partner, and allow himself more rest. the advice came too late. the tender cells of the cerebrum were in a state of fevered disturbance, which must now inevitably lead to one of the forms of madness. it broke out one night at wenderholme. he toiled till three o'clock in the morning, alone, at his accounts. there was nothing in them which he would not have mastered quite easily when in health, but the condition of his brain had led to many errors, and the attempt to correct these had only increased and multiplied them. he toiled and toiled till his brain could no longer stand the confusion, and he went mad. first there came a sense of strangeness to every thing about him, and then a wild alarm--a _terror_ such as he had never known! for a few minutes reason fiercely struggled to keep her seat, and would not be dispossessed. those minutes were the most fearful the man had ever passed through. he sprang from his place, and paced the room from wall to wall in violent agitation. "i'm very ill," he thought; "i cannot tell what's the matter with me. i believe i'm going to have a fit. no, it isn't that--it isn't that; i know what it is--i know now--_i'm going mad_!" no visible external foe can ever be so terrible as the mysterious internal avengers. they come upon us we know not when nor where. they come when the doors are locked, the mansion guarded, and all the household sleeps. they come in their terrible invisibility, like devils taking possession. the strokes of mortal disease are dealt mysteriously _within_; and who would not rather meet a body of armed savages than invisible apoplexy or paralysis? for five minutes ogden wrestled with his invisible enemy. "i _will_ not go mad," he cried aloud--"i _will_ not!" and a minute afterwards the struggle ceased, and he was another being, mad beyond hope of recovery. a strange smile came over his face, and he pressed his hand upon his forehead. "i'll dodge them yet," he said; "they aren't as sharp as i am. i'm sharper than the best of them!" he began to count the money in his purse. it was not much--five pounds eighteen exactly. he counted the sum quite correctly, over and over again; then he looked anxiously about for a place to hide it in. whilst he was doing this, his mother, who had felt anxious about him all night, and had been unable to sleep, came to his room-door and listened. she heard him walking about and muttering to himself. then she opened the door and went in. he concealed his purse cunningly, and placed himself between the intruder and its hiding-place. "jacob," she said, "you ought to be in bed; why are you up like that? it's three o'clock in the morning." he began to talk very rapidly. he knew his mother perfectly well. "mother," he said, "when bailiffs comes you willn't tell 'em where i have hid my brass; see, i've hidden it here, but you willn't tell 'em, mother?" and then he lifted up a corner of the carpet and showed his little purse. mrs. ogden trembled from head to foot. "our jacob's crazed," she said to herself--"our jacob's gone crazed!" she felt too weak to remain standing, and sat down, never taking her eyes off him. he put the purse back, and covered it again with great care. then he took his memorandum-book, and seemed to be making an entry. "let me look at that book," mrs. ogden said. it was as she had feared. the entry was a hopelessly illegible jumble of unmeaning lines and figures. "hadn't you better go to bed?" "go to bed, mother--not if i know it!" he said this with a smile of intense cunning, and then added, confidentially, "the bailiffs are comin' to-morrow, and baron rothschild has bought all my property, a large price, a million sterling--a million sterling; it's baron rothschild that bought it, mother, for a million sterling!" the poor old woman burst into tears. "o jacob!" she said, "i wish you wouldn't talk so!" "why, mother," he replied, with an injured air, and a look of intense penetration, "you know well enough what i failed for. i never should have failed if it hadn't been for that sootythorn bank; but they came to borrow money of me at milend, and i took up shares for a hundred thousand, and then the smash came, and i failed. but never you mind, mother. baron rothschild bought my estates for a million sterling. that shows i was a millionnaire. doesn't it, mother? for if i hadn't been worth a million, baron rothschild wouldn't have given a million for my property. he willn't give more for property than what it's worth." "o jacob! you do make me miserable with talking so." she did not know what to do with him. young jacob and her son isaac were both at twistle farm. at last she thought of colonel stanburne, who was staying at wenderholme cottage. she left her son for a few minutes, and sent a messenger for the colonel. on returning to jacob's room, she found him busy counting his money over again. he had taken the purse from its hiding-place. the strength of her own nervous system was such that she bore even this appalling event with firmness. she was grieved beyond power of expression, but she was not overcome. happily there was no violence in jacob ogden's madness; he was not in the least dangerous. he simply kept repeating that story about his supposed failure, which he always attributed to the sootythorn bank, and the purchase of his property by baron rothschild. when the colonel came, he told him the same story in the same words. "you are mistaken on one point," the colonel said. "it was i, colonel stanburne, who was ruined by the failure of the sootythorn bank, not you. you were never ruined. you purchased wenderholme." mr. ogden looked at him with the air of a professional man when a layman has advanced something which he knows to be absurd. then he shook his head, and repeated the story about baron rothschild. the colonel kindly remained with him till morning, and bravely watched him through the dreary hours. a messenger had been despatched on horseback to twistle farm and to dr. bardly. isaac ogden and his son were at wenderholme by breakfast-time, and the doctor's brougham drove up very shortly afterwards. dr. bardly tried to be encouraging. "he has been working too much," he said, "and made himself too anxious; he may get round again with rest and care. give him good roast-meat and plenty of physical work." but about ten o'clock jacob ogden became anxious to quit wenderholme, being full of apprehension about the bailiffs. "better let him have his own way," said the doctor; so he was taken to milend. at milend, however, there were other causes of anxiety. the bailiffs tormented him at wenderholme; the idea of baron rothschild haunted him at milend. the experiment was tried of showing him the factory and the counting-house, but with most discouraging results. the factory produced a degree of excitement which, if continued, would probably lead to madness of an aggravated and far more dangerous kind. specialists were telegraphed for from manchester and from london, and a consultation was held. they agreed that the patient must be kept out of the way of every thing that might remind him of his former career, recommending extreme tranquillity, good but simple diet, and as much physical exercise as the patient could be induced to take. these might be had conveniently in mrs. ogden's favorite little farm, the cream-pot. it was situated in a glen or clough, out of sight of the shayton factory-chimneys. so the old lady went there to live with her afflicted son. she could manage him better than anybody else, and he was never dangerous. after a time, a happy discovery was made. he counted the money in his purse several times a-day, and mrs. ogden told him that if he would dig their little garden, she would pay him wages. he seized upon this idea with great joy and eagerness, and she paid him a sovereign on the saturday night. the week following he worked very hard, and counted the days, and spoke of his anticipated earnings with delight. so his mother paid him another sovereign, and ever afterwards this became the rule, and she employed him at a pound a-week. he kept all the sovereigns in his purse, and they were his joy and treasure. his physical health became excellent, and though his intellect gave no hope of restoration, his days passed not unhappily. his mother tended him with the most touching devotion, and a self-sacrifice so absolute that she ceased to visit her friends, and abandoned all the little amusements and varieties of her life. chapter xix. the colonel at stanithburn. the long illness and slow convalescence of mrs. stanburne, and the deplorable mental affliction which fell upon jacob ogden, and threw a cloud of lasting sadness over the whole ogden family, produced long delays in the projects of young jacob and edith, and were the cause of much indecision on the part of the colonel and lady helena. mrs. stanburne returned to wenderholme cottage in the earliest days of spring, but the colonel and his wife had already stayed there for many weeks, being anxious not to abuse the kind hospitality of the vicarage. the vicar's sentiments when they left him were of a mixed kind. he was glad, and he was sorry. in his gladness there was no selfish calculation--the stanburnes were welcome to every thing he could offer them; but in his warm approval of lady helena's conduct towards the colonel, he had been a little too demonstrative to be quite agreeable to mrs. prigley, and therefore mrs. prigley had thought it incumbent upon her, as a british matron of unspotted virtue, to make his life as miserable as she could. mrs. ogden, too, had inflamed mrs. prigley's jealousy in another way by coming and nursing mrs. stanburne. what right had one of those "nasty ogdens" to come and nurse mrs. stanburne? mrs. prigley looked upon the invalid as exclusively her own property. edith, being young and insignificant, might sit a little with her grandmother--but mrs. ogden! if lady helena had not come just in time to take upon herself a good deal of this now inflamed and awakened jealousy, the consequence would have been that poor mr. prigley would have incurred grave suspicions of an amorous intrigue with the old lady of milend; but as lady helena was younger than mrs. prigley, and mrs. ogden a good deal her senior, the vicaress paid her husband the compliment of believing that he had placed his sinful affections on the more eligible of the two ladies. so soon, therefore, as she had ascertained to her own satisfaction the culpability of the guilty pair (and when the commonest politeness was evidence, proofs were not far to seek), the vicaress treated her ladyship with the haughty coldness which is the proper behavior of a virtuous and injured woman towards her sinful rival, and she treated her husband as his abominable wickedness deserved. in a word, she made life utterly insupportable for mr. prigley. lady helena saw the true situation of affairs before the parson did (for he in his masculine simplicity attributed his wife's behavior to any cause but the right one), and she migrated at once to the cottage with the colonel. when mrs. stanburne was well enough to bear the removal, she was brought back to her old house, and continued steadily to improve. still her health was far from being strong enough to make the idea of leaving her an admissible one, so the colonel and lady helena remained at wenderholme a long time. young jacob came frequently to see edith, but the marriage, though now agreed upon by all parties, was indefinitely postponed. whilst matters were in this state of suspension, the relation between mr. jacob ogden and his family had to be legally settled. his brother isaac received the factories and estates, in trust, conjointly with his mother, with the usufruct thereof, £ a-year being set aside for the patient's maintenance. on account of the urgency of the situation, but much against the grain of his now acquired habits, mr. isaac ogden quitted his solitude at twistle farm, and resumed, at milend, the life of a cotton-manufacturer, in partnership with his son. meanwhile colonel stanburne's position was, from the financial point of view, any thing but brilliant. he had no income, after paying the allowance to his mother, except a share in the £ a-year remaining to his wife. he was anxious to return to france and resume the humble profession which he had found for himself there. lady helena said that wherever he went she would go too, and nothing but the slowness of mrs. stanburne's recovery prevented them from leaving england. they were in this state--being, as things in life often are, in a sort of temporary but indefinite lull and calm--when an event occurred which produced the most important changes. mr. john stedman being on a visit to his friend at stanithburn peel, took one of his customary long walks amongst the wild rocky hills in that neighborhood, and was caught--not for the first time--in a sudden storm of rain. by the time the storm was over he was wet through, but being interested in the search for a plant, went on wandering till rather late in the evening. if he had kept constantly in movement it is probable that no harm would have resulted from this little imprudence, but unfortunately he found the plant he was in search of, and this led him to do a little botanical anatomy with a microscope which he carried in his pocket. absorbed in this occupation, he sat down on the bare rock, and forgot the minutes as they passed. he spent more than an hour in this way, and rose from his task with a feeling of chill, and a slight shiver, which, however, disappeared when his pedestrian exercise was resumed. on returning to the peel he thought no more of the matter, and ate a hearty dinner, sitting rather late afterwards with philip stanburne, and drinking more than his usual allowance of brandy-and-water. the next day he did not go out, and towards evening complained of a slight pain or embarrassment in the chest. the symptoms gradually became alarming, a doctor was sent for, and mr. stedman's illness was discovered to be a congestion of both lungs. of this malady he died. in his will, after various legacies, liberal but not excessive, to all the poor people who were his relations, and the relations of his deceased wife, he named "his dear friend and son, philip stanburne," residuary legatee, "both in token of his own friendship and gratitude towards the said philip stanburne, and also because in making this bequest the testator believes that he is best fulfilling the wishes of his beloved daughter, alice." but, notwithstanding john stedman's affectionate friendship for the man whom alice had loved, there still remained in him much of the resolution of a stalwart enemy of rome, and the resolution dictated a certain codicil written not long before his death. in this codicil he provided that, "in case the said philip stanburne should enter any order of the church of rome, whether secular or ecclesiastical, or endow the said church of rome with any portion of his wealth, then the foregoing will and testament should be void, and of none effect. and further, that the said philip stanburne should solemnly promise never to give or bequeath to the church of rome any portion of this bequest, and in case of his refusal to make such promise," the money should be disposed of as we will now explain. the testator proceeded to affirm that it was still his desire to leave part of his property in such a manner as to testify his gratitude to philip stanburne; and therefore, if the latter took orders in the church of rome, mr. stedman's bequest should still pass to a person of the name of stanburne, but professing the protestant religion--namely, to john stanburne, formerly of wenderholme. in this case, however, a large deduction would be made from the legacy in favor of an intimate friend of the testator, joseph anison, formerly of arkwright lodge, near whittlecup. all this was set forth with that minute and tedious detail which is necessary, or is supposed to be necessary, in every legal document. now for several years past philip stanburne had been firmly resolved, on the death of mr. stedman (which would release him from his promise to alice), to enter a monastic order remarkable for industry and simplicity of life, founded by the celebrated father muard, but since affiliated to the benedictines; and it was a suspicion of this resolve, or perhaps more than a suspicion, which had dictated mr. stedman's codicil. the will made no difference in philip stanburne's plans, and he was delighted that the colonel should inherit what would probably turn out to be a fortune. when the question was formally put to him, he affirmed his intention of being a monk of _la pierre qui vire_. in consequence of this declaration, the codicil took effect. the factory in sootythorn, the house at chesnut hill, and a capital sum of £ , , went to mr. joseph anison; but even after all the legacies to poor relations, there still remained a residue of £ , , which passed directly to the colonel. mr. stedman had been much richer than any one believed, and his fortune, already considerable in the lifetime of his daughter, had doubled since her death. philip stanburne, who had been occasionally to wenderholme since the colonel's return, to inquire after mrs. stanburne, and pass an hour or two with an old friend, now proposed to sell him stanithburn peel. "it would make me miserable," he said, "to sell it to anybody else, but to you it's different. buy it, and go to live there." but he did not really sell the peel itself. he sold the land, and gave the strong old tower. the place was valued by friends, mutually appointed, who received a hint from philip that they were not to count the peel. the colonel knew nothing about this, but gave £ , for the estate, and invested the remainder of his capital in something better than the sootythorn bank. as mrs. stanburne was now well enough to be left, the colonel and lady helena set off one fine day for stanithburn. the peel had been admirably restored, though with great moderation, in philip stanburne's quiet and persevering way, and all its incongruities and anachronisms had been removed. when they came to the front door, who should open it but--fyser! "please, sir," he said, "would you be so kind as to take me on again?" the colonel said not a word in answer, but he gave honest fyser's hand such a shake that it was perfectly natural the tears should come into his eyes. the tears would come into anybody's eyes if his hand was squeezed like that. whilst her ladyship went to take her things off, fyser said, "would you like to step this way, sir?" the colonel followed obediently. "this will be your den, i suppose, sir, unless you would like to have it in another part of the 'ouse." john stanburne felt like a man in a dream. there was every scrap of his old den-furniture in the place. philip stanburne had bought it all at the wenderholme sale--every atom of it, even to his old boot-jack. and as mr. fyser had had the arrangement of it, you may be sure that it was in the old convenient and accustomed order. but the colonel and lady helena were still more surprised to find in the principal rooms of the house various cabinets and other things of value which had formerly been at wenderholme, and especially a museum of family relics which had occupied the centre of the great hall. in these cabinets and cases little plates of silver were discovered, on examination, to be inlaid, and each of these little plates was engraved with the inscription, "presented to colonel stanburne by the officers of the twentieth royal lancashire militia." the regiment happened to be just then up for its annual training under a major-commanding, no new colonel having as yet been appointed. and one day there came rather a solemn deputation of officers to stanithburn peel, all in full uniform. the spokesman of the deputation was our old acquaintance, captain eureton. he began by informing colonel stanburne that, although the lieutenant-colonelcy had been offered to the senior major, he had begged the lord-lieutenant to permit him to remain at the head of the regiment as major-commanding; and that now he and all the officers unanimously joined in entreating colonel stanburne to withdraw his resignation, and resume his old position amongst them. there was no mistaking the earnestness and sincerity of this petition, and john stanburne consented. he was received at sootythorn at a great banquet given by the officers just before the disbanding of the regiment; and at the review which concluded the training, it was john stanburne who commanded. chapter xx. a simple wedding. "i could so like to go to little jacob weddin'," said mrs. ogden one day in her little home at the cream-pot, "but i'm like as if i were 'feard to leave our jacob for one single day. he's just same as a childt, an' to-morrow's his pay-day, an' i couldn't like anybody else to pay him his week's wage. but what i suppose they'll be just as well wed as if i'd been there, for that matter." it seems to us quite a pity that mrs. ogden could not contrive to be at wenderholme church on the wedding-day, for she would have been well received by mrs. stanburne at the breakfast given by that lady at wenderholme cottage, but ever since "our jacob misfortin'" no power on earth could get her away from the cream-pot, and all reasoning on the subject was trouble thrown away. little jacob's wedding-day passed like all other monotonous days for mrs. ogden, so far as action or variety was concerned, but she thought of him from morning till night. as for the elder jacob, he tranquilly pursued his digging in the garden, looking forward with eager anticipation to the payment of his week's wages on the same evening, for he had some consciousness of the lapse of time, especially towards the close of the week. on thursdays he began to ask if it were not saturday, on fridays the question became frequent, and on saturday itself his mother had to promise a hundred times that she would pay his wages at six o'clock. his old habits of energy and perseverance were still visible in his daily work. he labored conscientiously to make the garden produce as much as spade labor could do for it, he carefully economized every inch of ground, and did all that mere physical labor could for its advantage. on the other hand, wherever the intelligence of a gardener was necessary, his shattered intellect was constantly at fault, and he committed the wildest havoc. he rooted up the garden-flowers as weeds, and could only recognize one or two of the most familiar and most productive plants. he knew the carrot, for example, and the potato, and these he cultivated in his own strange way. his mother sacrificed the little cream-pot garden to him entirely, and got the vegetables for house use from milend, and the fruit from wenderholme, so that he could destroy or cultivate at his own absolute will and pleasure, and this he did with the cunning and self-satisfaction of the insane. the evening of that day when little jacob was married, his grandmother had a new idea about her afflicted son. "jacob," she said to him when the time for payment came, and his eyes were glistening as he clutched the golden coin, "jacob, thou shouldn't let thy money lie by same as that without gettin' interest for it. there's twenty pound in thy purse by this. lend me thy twenty pound, an' i'll give thee five per cent, that'll make a pound a-year interest for thee." when the magical word "interest" sounded in his ear for the first time since the break-down of his mental faculties, uncle jacob's face assumed a look of intelligence which startled his mother and gave her a gleam of hope. "interest, interest!" he said, and paused as if lost in thought; then he added, "compound interest! doubles up, compound interest, doubles up fast!" these words, however, must have been mere reminiscences of his former state, for he proved utterly incapable of understanding the nature of even simple interest as a weekly payment. mrs. ogden offered him sixpence as a week's interest for his money, but he asked for a sovereign being accustomed to weekly payments of one pound, and he seemed troubled and irritated when it was not given to him. he understood the pound a week for his digging, but he could not grasp any more complicated idea. his constant secret occupation, when not at work, was to handle his accumulating sovereigns. in this way, notwithstanding his insanity and his incapability of imagining the great fortune he had heaped up when in health, he enjoyed money as much as ever, for the mere quantity has really very little to do with the delight of the passion of avarice. it is the _increase_ which gives delight, not the quantity, and jacob ogden's private store was incessantly increasing, so much indeed that his mother had to give him a money-box. when the weekly sovereigns became numerous, he was incapable of counting them, but he had a certain sense of quantity and a keen satisfaction in the evident increase of his store. little jacob's marriage was strangely simple, considering the wealth of one of the two families and the station of the other; but the elder jacob's condition, and recent events in the life of colonel stanburne, had so sobered everybody that there was not the slightest desire on either side for any demonstration or display. as it concerned lady helena, this simplicity was not displeasing to her, for reasons of her own. she was glad, in her own mind, that mrs. ogden did not come, for she keenly dreaded the old lady's strange sayings on a semi-public occasion like the present, and the privacy of the marriage was a good excuse for not inviting many of her own noble friends. the bridesmaids were the prigley girls and a young sister of lady helena. mr. prigley performed the ceremony, and there was not a stranger in the little wenderholme church, except a reporter for the "sootythorn gazette," who furnished a brilliant account of this "marriage in high life," which we have no disposition to quote. if mrs. ogden had chosen to bring to bear upon poor edith all the weight of her terrible critical power as a supreme judge of housekeeping accomplishments, i am afraid that the young lady would have come out of the ordeal ignominiously for she could neither darn a stocking properly nor make a potato-pie, but criticism is often mollified by personal favor and partiality; and the old lady never goes farther in the severity of censure than to say, "little jacob wife is not much of a housekeeper, but she was never brought up to it you know; and they'll have plenty to live upon, so it willn't matter so much as it would 'ave done if they'd been poorer people." poverty is certainly not the evil which the young couple need apprehend, for the condition of jacob ogden the elder being considered permanent, a judicial decision transferred his income to his brother isaac, after deducting £ , a year for his maintenance, which was paid to his mother; an entirely superfluous formality, as she accumulated the whole of it for her grandson, and kept jacob ogden well supplied with all that he needed, or had intelligence to desire, out of her own little independent fortune. isaac ogden was now charged with the management of the business and estates. it then became apparent how splendidly successful the life of the cotton-manufacturer had been. at the time of the opening of this history, he was already earning, or rather _netting_, since the operatives earned it for him, an income larger than the salary of a prime minister, and successive years raised him to a pecuniary equality with the lord chancellor, the archbishop of canterbury, and the governor-general of india. at the time of his cerebral catastrophe, he was at the height of his success; and his numerous rills and rivers of income, flowing from properties of all kinds, from shares, from the print-works at whittlecup, and from his enormous mill at shayton, made, when added together, an aggregate far surpassing the national allowance to princes of royal blood. in a word, at the time of what mrs. ogden always called "our jacob's misfortin'," "our jacob" had just got past £ , a year, and was beginning to encourage the not improbable anticipation that his income would get up to the hundred thousand before he died. such as it was already, it exceeded by exactly one thousand times the pittance for which, as the slave of his own disordered imagination, he was now toiling from morning till night. nothing is more difficult than to get rid of a great business. such mills as jacob ogden's are very difficult to let, and to close them entirely would be to throw a whole neighborhood out of work and diminish the value of property within a considerable radius. there was nothing for it, therefore, but to keep the business going, so mr. isaac ogden threw aside his habits of leisure at twistle farm and came to live at milend. he managed the work for some time with considerable energy; but he had been so long unused to the employment, that this business life, with its incessant claims upon time and attention, required a constant effort of the will, and he felt himself incapable of continuing it indefinitely. young jacob helped him energetically; but the vast concern which his uncle had established, with the addition of the print-works at whittlecup, required more looking after than even he was equal to; so in order that isaac ogden might have some leisure at twistle farm, and be able to join the militia at the annual training, the calico business at whittlecup had to be given up. it could not be sold during old jacob ogden's life; but it was let, together with arkwright lodge, to mr. joseph anison, on terms exceedingly advantageous to the latter, who will be able, after all, to give handsome dowries to his younger daughters, and to leave miss margaret the richest old maid in whittlecup. young jacob and his wife established themselves at wenderholme, but she soon complained that he was too much away on business, and declared her intention of accompanying him on his journeys to milend, which she has ever since been in the habit of doing. when at milend (which has been much beautified and improved), they go a great deal to the cream-pot, where old mrs. ogden still devotes herself to the care of her unfortunate son. "i'm thankful to god," she says, "that our jacob is so 'appy with his misfortin'. every time i give him his sovereign of a saturday night he's as 'appy and proud as a little lad ten year old. and he's as well in 'ealth as anybody could wish for." young jacob and edith are both very attentive to him, but it is thought better not to bring him to wenderholme again, nor even to milend. this makes it a great tie for poor mrs. ogden, but she fulfils her duty with a noble self-abnegation, and tends "our jacob" with the most minute and unrelaxing care. as for her fine carriage, she made a wedding-present of it to edith, and has never been in it since, not even to do a little knitting. her life is the simple old life that she was accustomed to in her youth, and it suits her health so well, that if all old women that one hears of did not finish some day by dying, one might almost expect her to prolong her sojourn permanently upon the earth, in the green "cream-pot" fields. but the recent death of old sarah at twistle farm has been a serious warning, and the new shayton clergyman is a frequent visitor at the cream-pot. dr. bardly is not so much in request, on account of his heterodox views, and because mrs. ogden's physical condition is still excellent, whatever may be her spiritual state. chapter xxi. the monk. the colonel and lady helena made a tour on the continent in the autumn, and visited the little french city where he had earned his living as a teacher of english. young jacob and edith accompanied them as far as geneva, and on their way from paris it was decided that they should stop at auxerre, and go thence to avallon, which was not very far from the monastery of _la pierre qui vire_. the colonel desired to see philip stanburne once again. through narrow and rocky valleys, indescribably picturesque, and full of a deep melancholy poetry of their own, they journeyed a whole day, and came at last to the confines of the monastery, in a wild stony desert amongst the hills, through which flowed a rapid stream. the ladies could not enter, but young jacob and the colonel passed through the simple gateway. a monk received them in silence, and, in answer to a question of the colonel, put his finger upon his lips. he then went to ask permission to speak from his superior. the monk promised to lead the colonel to philip stanburne. they passed along wild paths cut in the rock and the forest, with rudely carved bas-reliefs of the chief scenes of the passion erected at stated distances. they saw many monks engaged in the most laborious manual occupations: some were washing linen in the clear river; others were road-making, with picks and wheel-barrows; others were hard at work as masons, building the walls of some future portion of the monastery, or the enclosures of its fields. all worked and were silent, not even looking at the strangers as they passed. at length the three came to a little wood, and, having passed through the wood, to a small field on the steep slope of a hill. in the field two monks were ploughing in their monastic dress, with a pair of white oxen. suddenly the angelus rang from the belfry of the monastery, and its clear tones filled the quiet valley where these monks had made their home. all the monks heard it, and all who heard it fell instantaneously on their knees in the midst of their labor, wherever they might happen to be. the masons dropped their stones and trowels, the washermen prayed with the wet linen still in their grasp, the ploughman knelt between the handles of his plough, and the driver with the goad in his right hand. the colonel's guide dropped upon the ploughed earth, and prayed. all in the valley prayed. when this was over, the two englishmen were led forward towards the oxen, and before the slow animals had resumed their toil, the colonel had recognized their driver. so this was the life he had chosen--a life of rudest labor, with the simplest food and the severest discipline--a life of toil and silence. he knew the colonel at once, but dared not speak to him, and placed his fingers on his lips, and goaded his oxen forward, and resumed his weary march. a special permission having been procured, the monk talked with john stanburne freely, saying that he loved his new life and the hardships of it, dwelling with quiet enthusiasm on the beautiful discipline of his order, and leading him over the rude and picturesque lands which had been reclaimed by the industry of his brethren. but when they parted, there came a great pang of regret in philip stanburne's heart for the free english life that he had lost--a pang of regret for stanithburn, and that alice should not be mistress there instead of lady helena. and after the service in the humble chapel of the monastery--a service singularly devoid of the splendors of the catholic worship--a monk lay prostrate across the threshold, doing penance. and all his brethren passed over him, one by one. cambridge: press of john wilson & son. * * * * * mr. hamerton's works. "_the style of this writer is a truly admirable one, light and picturesque, without being shallow, and dealing with all subjects in a charming way. whenever our readers see or hear of one of mr. hamerton's books, we advise them to read it._"--springfield republican. the intellectual life. square mo. price $ . . "not every day do we take hold of a book that we would fain have always near us, a book that we read only to want to read again and again, that is so vitalized with truth, so helpful in its relation to humanity, that we would almost sooner buy it for our friend than spare him our copy to read. such a book is 'the intellectual life,' by philip gilbert hamerton, itself one of the rarest and noblest fruits of that life of which it treats. (here we must beg the pardon of our younger readers, since what we have to say about this book is not for them, but for their parents, and older brothers and sisters, though we can have no better wish for them than that they may soon be wise and thoughtful enough to enjoy it too.) "just how much this book would be worth to each individual reader it would be quite impossible to say, but we can hardly conceive of any human mind, born with the irresistible instincts toward the intellectual life, that would not find in it not only ample food for deep reflection, but also living waters of the sweetest consolation and encouragement. "we wonder how many readers of this noble volume, under a sense of personal gratitude, have stopped to exclaim with its author, in a similar position, 'now the only croesus that i envy is he who is reading a better book than this.'"--_from the children's friend._ thoughts about art. new edition, revised, with notes and an introduction. "fortunate is he who at an early age knows what _art_ is."--goethe. square mo. price $ . . "the whole volume is adapted to give a wholesome stimulus to the taste for art, and to place it in an intelligent and wise direction. with a knowledge of the principles, which it sets forth in a style of peculiar fascination, the reader is prepared to enjoy the wonders of ancient and modern art, with a fresh sense of their beauty, and a critical recognition of the sources of their power."--_new york tribune._ "beginning with a recommendation to capable artists to write on art, and illustrating his arguments on this point by some forcible illustrations, mr. hamerton proceeds to discuss the different styles of painting, defines the place of landscape among the fine arts, treats of the relation between photography and painting, makes some curious comparisons between word-painting and color-painting, speaks of the painter in his relation to society, and finally offers some practical and valuable suggestions concerning picture-buying and the choice of furniture of artistic patterns for our houses. all these subdivisions of the general subject are touched airily and pleasantly, but not flippantly, and the book is delightful from beginning to end."--_new york commercial advertiser._ a painter's camp. a new edition, in vol. mo price $ . . square mo. price $ . . "we are not addicted to enthusiasm, but the little work before us is really so full of good points that we grow so admiring as to appear almost fulsome in its praise.... it has been many a day since we have been called upon to review a work which gave us such real pleasure."--_philadelphia evening telegraph._ "if any reader whose eye chances to meet this article has read 'the painter's camp,' by mr. philip gilbert hamerton, he will need but little stimulus to feel assured that the same author's work, entitled 'thoughts about art,' is worth his attention. the former, i confess, was so unique that no author should be expected to repeat the sensation produced by it. like the 'adventures of robinson crusoe,' or the 'swiss family robinson,' it brought to maturer minds, as those do to all, the flavor of breezy out-of-door experiences,--an aroma of poetry and adventure combined. it was full of art, and art-discussions too; and yet it needed no rare technical knowledge to understand and enjoy it."--_joel benton._ "they ('a painter's camp' and 'thoughts about art') are the most useful books that could be placed in the hands of the american art public. if we were asked where the most intelligent, the most trustworthy, the most practical, and the most interesting exposition of modern art and cognate subjects is to be found, we should point to hamerton's writings."--_the atlantic monthly._ the unknown river: an etcher's voyage of discovery. with an original preface for the american edition, and thirty-seven plates etched by the author. one elegant vo volume, bound in cloth, extra, gilt, and gilt edges. price $ . . (a cheaper edition now ready.) "wordsworth might like to come back to earth for a summer, and voyage with philip gilbert hamerton down some 'unknown river! if this supposition seem extravagant to any man, let him buy and read 'the unknown river, an etcher's voyage of discovery,' by p. g. hamerton. it is not easy to write soberly about this book while fresh from its presence. the subtle charm of the very title is indescribable; it lays hold in the outset on the deepest romance in every heart; it is the very voyage we are all yearning for. when, later on, we are told that this 'unknown river' is the arroux, in the eastern highlands of france, that it empties into the loire, and has on its shores ancient towns of historic interest, we do not quite believe it. mr. hamerton has flung a stronger spell by his first word than he knew. "it is not too much to say that this book is artistically perfect, perfectly artistic, and a poem from beginning to end; the phrasing of its story is as exquisite as the etching of its pictures; each heightens the other; each corroborates the other; and both together blend in harmonious and beautiful witness to what must have been one of the most delicious journeys ever made by a solitary traveller. the word solitary, however, has no meaning when applied to hamerton, poet, painter, adventurous man, all in one, and with a heart for a dog! there is no empty or barren spot on earth for such as he. the book cannot be analyzed nor described in any way which will give strangers to it any idea of its beauty."--_scribner's monthly._ chapters on animals. with twenty illustrations by j. veyrassat and karl bodmer. square mo. price $ . . "this is a choice book. no trainer of animals, no whipper-in of a kennel, no master of fox-hounds, no equine parson, could have written this book. only such a man as hamerton could have written it, who, by virtue of his great love of art, has been a quick and keen observer of nature, who has lived with and loved animal nature, and made friends and companions of the dog and horse and bird. and of such, how few there are! we like to amuse ourselves for an idle moment with any live thing that has grace and color and strength. we like to show our wealth in fine equipages; to be followed by a fond dog at our heel, to hunt foxes and bag birds, but we like all this merely in the way of ostentation or personal pleasure. but as for caring really for animals, so as to study their happiness, to make them, knowing us, love us, so as to adapt ourselves to themselves, is quite another thing. mr. hamerton has observed to much purpose, for he has a curious sympathy with the 'painful mystery of brute [transcriber's note: this is where the text ends.] footnotes: [ ] this publisher was not a member of the firm of messrs. w. blackwood & sons, who afterwards purchased the copyright of _wenderholme_, nor was the story ever offered to him; but his opinion had great influence with the author on account of his large experience. [ ] careful. [ ] spent. [ ] slake; it is good slake--it slakes thirst well. the expression was actually used by a carter, to whom a gentleman gave champagne in order to ask his opinion of the beverage. [ ] till. [ ] almost. [ ] quiet. [ ] seek. [ ] "some and glad" is a common lancashire expression, meaning "considerably glad." [ ] the possessive is omitted in the genuine lancashire dialect. [ ] perhaps. [ ] all the. in lancashire the word _all_ is abbreviated, as in scotland, to a', but pronounced _o_. [ ] value. [ ] without. [ ] push beyond. [ ] for the information of some readers, it may be well to explain that the epaulettes of flank companies, which were of a peculiar shape, used to be called wings. [ ] the reader who cares to attain the perfection of mrs. ogden's pronunciation will please to bear in mind that she pronounced the _d_ well in "soldiers" (thus, sol-di-ers), and did not replace it with a _g_, according to the barbarous usage of the polite world. [ ] the reader will please to bear in mind that _who_ means _she_ in the pure lancashire dialect. [ ] half. [ ] the reader will remember that the best part of the estate had been mortgaged to mr. jacob ogden. [ ] where hast thou been. [ ] nothing but what is right. [ ] have. [ ] the engraved copper rollers used in calico-printing. the larger printing firms sink immense sums in these rollers, far surpassing the above estimate for mr. anison, who was only in a moderate way of business. [ ] fain is a combination of happy and proud. it answers very nearly to a certain sense of the french word "content." [ ] any thing. [ ] a common form of sobriquet in lancashire. the danes in lancashire [illustration: canute.] the danes in lancashire and yorkshire by s. w. partington _illustrated_ sherratt & hughes london: soho square, w. manchester: cross street preface. the story of the 'childhood of our race' who inhabited the counties of lancashire and yorkshire before the norman conquest, is an almost blank page to the popular reader of to-day. the last invaders of our shores, whom we designate as the danes and norsemen, were not the least important of our ancestors. the history of their daring adventures, crafts and customs, beliefs and character, with the surviving traces in our language and laws, form the subject of this book. from the evidence of relics, and of existing customs and traditions, we trace their thought and actions, their first steps in speech and handicraft, and the development of their religious conceptions. our education authorities have realized the fact that "local names" contain a fund of history and meaning which appeals to the young as well as to the adults; and the county committees have been well advised to recommend the teaching of history and geography from local features and events. some articles written by the late mr. john just, m.a., of bury, on our early races, and elements of our language and dialect, formed the incentive to the writer to continue the story of our danish ancestors. to the following writers we are indebted for many facts and quotations: h. colley march, esq., m.d.; w. g. collingwood, "scandinavian britain"; w. s. calverley, "stone crosses and monuments of westmorland and cumberland"; dr. w. wagner's "tales and traditions of our northern ancestors"; mr. boyle, "danes in the east riding of yorkshire"; mr. j. w. bradley, b.a., of the salt museum, stafford, "runic calendars and clog-almanacs"; rev. j. hay colligan, liverpool; professor w. a. herdman, liverpool; mr. jas. t. marquis, of the battle of "brunanburh"; dr. worsäac, "danes in england." messrs. titus wilson & son, kendal, plates, "map of races," etc.; swan, sonnenschein & co., london; williams, norgate & co., london. to charles w. sutton, esq., free reference library, manchester, for valuable advice and assistance grateful thanks are now tendered. s. w. partington. bury, _october , _. contents. page invasion and conquest settlements place-names patronymics physical types still existing political freemen husbandry stone crosses runes memorials literature mythology superstitions agriculture list of illustrations. canute _frontispiece_ page viking settlements extwistle hall brunanburh map old dane's house ancient danish loom heysham hogback danish ornaments, claughton-on-brock halton cross ormside cup clog almanac symbols runic calendar carved wood, with runes bractaetes halton cup calderstones, no. i. calderstones, no. ii. invasion and conquest chapter i. invasion and conquest. a victorious people have always a wide-spreading influence over the people subdued by them. an inferior race never withstood a superior one. the very fact that the danes gained not only an ascendancy in many parts of england during the anglo-saxon dynasties, but even the government of them all, is a proof that they were at that period a race of individuals superior to the natives of the land. the indigenous britons felt the ameliorating influence of the roman superiority and the civilisation which formed an element of the roman sway. the danes exercised and maintained an influence equal to the extent of their amalgamation for the general good of the country. the romans were as much superior to the aboriginal britons as the english of the present day are to the africans and sikhs. the saxons were an advance on the romanised celt, while on the saxons again, the danes or northmen were an advance in superiority and a great element of improvement. leaving the danes to tell their own tale and write their own histories in favour of their own fatherland, we undertake to sketch out their connection with our own county of lancaster, with the permanent, and still existing, effects of that connection. hitherto history has unfolded nothing as to the date when the "vikings" first visited the lancashire coast, plundering the county, and slaughtering the inhabitants. the danes first visited the eastern coasts about the year a.d. , as narrated in the saxon chronicle. in the year the city of chester fell into their hands, under the redoubtable hastings. this celebrated place the danes fortified, and henceforward, along with the other cities of derby, across the island, held at intervals until their power waned by the amalgamation which eventually constituted one people. local names are the beacon lights of primeval history. the names of places, even at this remote period of time, suffice to prove that the danes left an impression of superiority by their invasion. at this time the danes invaded the coast of lancashire, and formed settlements therein. cumberland and westmorland were under the dominion of cumbrian britons. at this early period the danes have so intermingled with the anglo-saxons, as to influence the names of the hundreds into which the shire was sub-divided. no chronicle may register this fact, but the words do, and will do, so long as they constitute the signs and symbols of ideas and things. the northern hundred of the shire was named lonsdale, and extended not only over the district of lunesdale, but also included the territory north of the sands. the second hundred into which the shire was divided was amounderness. if we allow "ness" to be of strictly scandinavian origin, then this hundred has a strictly danish or norse name, "amounder" being the first viking who settled in the fylde country. blackburn, pronounced "blakeburn," is the third name of a hundred which lies more inland, but having little or no coast line within the shire. inland the scandinavian influence diminished. hence the genuine anglo-saxon name of this division; in the early times "blagburnshire." the fourth hundred is that of salford, also inland, hence under no danish influence. the name is genuine anglo-saxon and perhaps this hundred includes natives less mixed with scandinavian population than any other in the north of england. the broad anglo-saxon frame is seen to perfection in the country districts, and the light, ruddy complexion. the men were made for endurance and slow in movements. it would be a difficult task to get them to move if they felt disinclined to do so. the last hundred has much sea coast, and came therefore much under danish influence. hence the name, west derby hundred. no one who knows anything of our early history will hesitate to pronounce this name altogether danish, so that three out of the five hundreds into which the county was apportioned were under danish domination. "bi," danish, in modern english "by," was the common term given by danish settlers to their residence. derby or deorby means not the residence or home of the deer, but a locality where the animals abounded. the danes had, more than any other people, a reverence for the dead. wherever a hero fell, even if but a short time sufficed to cover his remains, this was done; and if nothing better to mark the spot, a boat which brought him hither was placed over him, keel uppermost. failing a boat, a "haugr" or mound was raised over his grave. when christianity upset these "hofs," or sacred enclosures of odin and thor, then crosses were erected over the christian graves. this accounts for the universal number of "crosbys" in the danish district of the kingdom. conquered rome converted and conquered its barbarian and heathen masters to the cross. anglo-saxon converted his danish neighbour, and subdued him to the cross. the higher the superstitions of the pagan the greater the devotee when he is converted. when the danes were converted to christianity by their intercourse with the anglo-saxons they transferred all their superstitious feeling to the emblems of christianity. churches were also built by the naturalised danes in all places where they settled; and just as easy as it is to recognise their dwellings by their "bys," so it is to know the places where they reared their churches. their name for a church was "kirkja." hence in whatever compound name this word enters as a component, there it indicates a danish origin. hence kirkby, formby, ormskirk, and kirkdale are places appertaining to the early anglo-danish history. dale is likewise a genuine appellative, as in kirkdale as already noticed. besides, in this hundred we find: skelmersdale, ainsdale, cuerdale, and birkdale. the only two places which the danes seem to have noticed in their navigation of the ribble were walton-le-dale and the more important cuerdale, now renowned in archæology for the richest find of ancient coins recorded in history. the danes brought a treasure of , pieces to cuerdale. mingled with the coins were bars of silver, amulets, broken rings, and ornaments of various kinds, such as are recorded by scandinavian sagas. many countries had been rifled for this treasure. kufic, italian, byzantine, french, and anglo-saxon coins were in the booty; besides , genuine danish pieces, minted by kings and jarls on the continent. another discovery of danish treasure was made at harkirke, near crosby. the coins here found were of a more recent deposit, and contained but one of canute the great. from the mersey to the ribble was a long, swampy, boggy plain, and was not worth the romans' while to make roads or to fix stations or tenements. from the conquest until the beginning of the th century this district was almost stagnant, and its surface undisturbed. the dane kept to the shore, the sea was his farm. he dredged the coast and the estuary, with his innate love of danger, till liverpool sprang up with the magic of eastern fable, and turned out many a rover to visit every region of the world. the race of the viking are, many of them, the richest merchants of the earth's surface.[a] about half of england--the so-called "danelag," or community of danes, was for centuries subject to danish laws. these laws existed for years after the norman conquest. the normans long retained a predilection for old danish institutions and forms of judicature, and their new laws bear the impress and colour of the older time. this is established beyond doubt, in spite of the boast of the famous sir robert peel in parliament, that he was proud "the danes tried in vain to overcome the institutions of england instead of securing them." the english word "by-law" is still used to denote municipal or corporate law, which is derived from the danish "by-lov." this shows they must have had some share in developing the system of judicature in english cities. the "hustings" were well known in the seven cities under danish rule. the earliest positive traces of a "jury" in england appear in the "danelag," among the danes established there; and that long before the time of william the conqueror. the present village of thingwall, in cheshire, was a place of meeting for the "thing" or "trithing," a court held in the open air to settle laws and disputes in the same manner as that existing at tynwald, isle of man. the division of "ridings" in yorkshire is also derived from this danish custom. the "trithing" was a danish institution, so also was the wapentake. what are called "hundreds" in some counties, are called "wapentakes" in others, thus from the norse "taka," which means a "weapon grasping." tacitus says the ancients used to "express assent by waving or brandishing their weapons." if the sentence pleased they struck their spears together, "since the most honourable kind of assent is to applaud with arms." from this practice the word came to mean the sentence or decree had been thus authenticated. "vapantak" in the grafas of icelandic parliament means the breaking up of the session, when the men resumed their weapons which had been laid aside during the assembly. (cleasby.) local names. as a maritime race the danes brought to our county not only a knowledge of the sea, how to navigate its perils, and the secret of successful trading, but also possessed the art and craft of shipbuilding to a higher degree than any then known. we still have the old danish name in liverpool of david rollo and sons, shipbuilders and engineers. the following danish maritime terms have become part of our language: vrag, a wreck; flaade, fleet; vinde, windlass; skibsborde, shipboard; mast, mast; seile, sails; styrmand, steersman. from the fact that "thingwall" in cheshire and "tynwald" in the isle of man afford the memorial of the assizes, and that "wald" or "vold" signifies a "bank" or "rampart," where these courts were held in order to be safe from surprise, may we not presume the local name "the wylde," in bury, to be derived from the same source, as the "bank" or "rampart" would be used previous to the building of the old castle? the danish "byr," or "by," means a settlement, town, or village, and as the word "berg" means a hill, and "borough," "bury," "brow," and "burgh" are similar terms for a fortified hill, we may suppose "bury" to be taken from this source, instead of from the saxon "byrig," a bridge, when no bridge existed. settlements chapter ii. settlements. from the year the danes became colonists and settlers. raid and plunder gave place to peaceful pursuits. the english chronicle says that in "this year halfdene apportioned the lands of northumbria; and they henceforth continued ploughing and tilling them." this colonisation of deira by the danes was soon followed in other districts. the greater part of central britain with the whole of the north and east came entirely under scandinavian rule. [illustration: the viking settlements] in trading is recorded by the sagas from norway, in a shipload of furs, hides, tallow and dried fish, which were exchanged for wheat, honey, wine and cloth. thus early was established the increase in comfort and wealth, as evidenced by the erection of christian monuments early in the tenth century. the origin of "long-weight" and "long-hundred" count is traceable to the danish settlements. this peculiar reckoning survives in the selling of cheese lbs. to the cwt., and in the counting of eggs, to the hundred. the timber trade counts deals to the hundred. on the east coast fish are counted to the hundred. six score to the hundred is still popular in westmorland measure of crops and timber. this danish method of count was derived from the icelandic term "hundred" which meant . professor maitland, in his "domesday book and beyond," says that the number of sokemen or free men, owing certain dues to the hundred court, or to a lord, who were masters of their own land, like the customary tenants of cumberland, was greater in norfolk and suffolk than in essex, and that in lincolnshire they formed nearly half the rural population. at the time of domesday the number of serfs was greatest in the west of england, but none are recorded in yorkshire and lincolnshire. in the manors bearing english names the sokemen numbered two-fifths of the population, while in those manors with danish names they formed three-fifths of the population. (boyle.) in the danelaw they represent the original freeholders of the settlement and owed obedience to the local "thing" or "trithing court." in those districts which were not conquered by edward the elder the freeholders settled and prospered, and with the spread of christianity they became independent proprietors and traders. the presence of danish place-names marks the district which they conquered, including the counties of lincoln, nottingham, derby, leicester, rutland, and northampton. in the rest of mercia few of these names are to be found, viz., in cheshire, shropshire, staffordshire, worcester, gloucester, hereford and oxfordshire. the eastern part of the danish district came to be known as the five burghs, namely, derby, leicester, lincoln, stamford and nottingham. from the year when halfdene divided the lands of deira among his followers the conditions of life became those of colonists, and the danes settled down to cultivate their own lands, learning the language of the earlier angles, teaching them many words, and ways of northern handicraft, and gradually intermarrying and forming the vigorous character of body and mind which denotes the modern englishman. from the middle of the tenth century men bearing anglo-danish names held high positions in the church; odo was archbishop of canterbury, his nephew oswald was bishop of worcester and afterwards archbishop of york in succession to oskytel, and many norse names appear as witnesses to royal charters. the hatred still existed against these barbarous danes, and it is recorded in the saxon chronicle that the saxons learned drunkenness from the danes, a vice from which before they were free. this character is strangely contrasted by the story of john of wallingford, that "they were wont, after the fashion of their country, to comb their hair every day, to bathe every saturday, laugardag, 'bath day,'--and to change their garments often, and to set off their persons by many such frivolous devices. and in this manner laid siege to the virtue of the women." if we are to accept the evidence of lord coke, we are indebted to the danish invasion for our propensity to make ale the national beverage. this eminent authority says that king edgar, in 'permitting' the danes to inhabit england, first brought excessive drinking among us. the word ale came into the english language through the danish öl. at any rate after the advent of the norsemen, the english left off drinking water and began to drink ale as the regular everyday beverage of the people. the term 'beer' was used by the anglo-saxons, but seems to have fallen into desuetude until the name was revived to distinguish 'ale' from hopped ale.'--_from "inns, ales, and drinking customs of old england," by frederick w. hackwood_. green the historian in his "conquest of england" says the names of the towns and villages of deira show us in how systematic a way southern northumbria was parted among its conquerors.... "the english population was not displaced, but the lordship of the soil was transferred to the conqueror. the settlers formed a new aristocracy, while the older nobles sank to a lower position, for throughout deira the life of an english thane was priced at but half the value of a 'northern hold.'" the inference to be drawn from this passage is that the english lords of the soil were replaced by danish ones, the english settlers remained in possession of their ancient holdings. in the course of time the two races amalgamated, but at the norman conquest this amalgamation had only been partially effected. in the districts where the danes settled they formed new villages, in which they lived apart from the general anglian population. had they not done so the memory of their settlement could never have been perpetuated by the danish names given to their homes. every group of isolated danish place-names teaches the same fact, and there are many such groups. this is the case in the wirral district of cheshire, the peninsula between the mersey and the dee, where we find such names as raby, greasby, frankby, irby, pansby, whitby and shotwick, and in the centre of the district the village called thingwall. while throughout the rest of the county scarcely a danish name can be found, and as these names were conferred by the danish settlers it is impossible not to believe that under analogous conditions the names in other districts were conferred in the same way. where a new village was planted midway between two older villages, its territory would be carved in varying proportions out of the lands of the earlier settlements. sometimes certain rights of the older villages were maintained in the territory of which they had been deprived. thus in a danish village of anlaby, the lands whereof were carved out of the adjoining townships of kirk ella and hessle, the respective rectors of these parishes had curiously divided rights to both the great and the small tithes; whilst in the neighbouring instance of the danish willerby, carved out of kirk ella and cottingham, the rector of kirk ella took all the great tithes, and the rector of cottingham took all the small tithes. this method of danish _village formation_ explains a curious point. the foundation of the earlier anglian settlements preceded the development of the great road system of england. leaving out of consideration the roman roads and the comparatively few british roads, the former of which have relation to nothing but the military needs of that all conquering people, our existing road system is due to the anglo-saxon. our old roads lead from one village to another and each village is a centre from which roads radiate. the danish villages were, on the contrary, usually roadside settlements. new settlements were formed on the vast fringes of wood and waste which surrounded the cultivated lands of the older english villages. the road existed and the one village street was formed along the line. such wayside settlements are carnaby and bessingby, on the road from bridlington to driffield. when, as was sometimes the case, the new settlement was planted at a little distance from the existing road a new road running at right angles from the old one and leading directly to the settlement was formed. skidby, towthorp, kirby, grindalbythe and many others are cases in point. one consequence of such conditions of formation would be that where the english settlements were most numerous the danish settlements would be few and small, because there was less land available in such districts for their formation. while, on the other hand, where english settlements were more sparsely scattered the danish settlements would be more numerous, and comparatively large. taking a large district like the east riding, the average area of the danish townships may be expected to fall below that of the anglo-saxon. the facts comply with all these tests. thus to take the townships with danish names, and compare with similar districts of anglo-saxon names, we arrive at the conclusion as to whether the district was thickly populated before the coming of the danes. many anglo-saxon villages are to be found along the course of the roman road, which coincides with the modern one of to-day. the two classes of population found only in danish districts, the sochmanni and the "liber tenentes," are wholly absent in purely english districts. both held land exempt from villain services, which was a condition of tenure introduced by the danes. this fact shatters the theory of green that english settlers were communities of freemen. they were in fact communities of bondmen, villains, bordars, cottars, and serfs, the last holding no lands, but being bound to the soil as chattels, and the rest holding their lands, "at the will of the lord," and in return for actual services. what then was the sochman? the lawyer of to-day will answer, "he is one who held land by 'socage,' tenure." although in domesday this "sochman" is confined to danish districts, a fact which is recognised in the laws of edward the confessor. after the conquest a type of tenure more or less closely corresponding to that by which the earlier sochman held his land, was gradually established over the whole kingdom. tenants who owned such tenures were called "sochmen," and the tenure itself was called "socage." a distinction was drawn between "free socage" and "villain socage." the fuller development of the feudal system which followed the conquest greatly complicated all questions of land tenure. new conditions of holding superior to that of "socage" were introduced. thus in the pages of britton, who always speaks in the person of the king, we read: "sochmanries are lands and tenements which are not held by knights' fee, nor by grand serjeantries, but by simple services, as lands enfranchised by us, or our predecessors, out of ancient demesnes." bracton is more explicit. he defines free socage as the tenure of a tenement, whereof the service is rendered in money to the chief lords, and nothing whatever is paid, "ad scutum et servitium regis." "socage," he proceeds, "is named from soke, and hence the tenants who held in socage are called sochmanni, since they are entirely occupied in agriculture, and of whom wardship and marriage pertain to the nearest parents in the right of blood. and if in any manner homage is taken thereof, as many times is the case, yet the chief lord has not on this account, wardship and marriage, which do not always follow homage." he then goes on to define "villain socage." the essential principle of socage tenure is rent in lieu of services. it is to this fact no doubt that the vast impetus which was given to the coinage of england soon after the coming of the danes is largely due. as mr. worsaäe says, the danish coiners increased to fifty in number from the reign of aethelred to edward the confessor, and the greater number exercised this vocation at york and lincoln. thus the sochmanni were found only in the settlements of the people who had created in england a tenure of land free from servile obligations. the manner of fixing these early settlements of land was the same in ireland, in the east riding of yorkshire, and in lincolnshire. the same custom is still observed by our modern colonists who launch out into the australian bush. the land was staked out by the settler from the highest ridge downwards to the creek of the river or shore. by this means the settler obtained on outlet to the open sea. the homestead was built by the bondr or husbandman, on the sheltered ground between the marsh and hill. these settlements became byes, and were encircled by a garth, or farmyard. the names of some norse farms and settlements became composed of a norse prefix and saxon ending. thus we find oxton "the farm of the yoke," in the hollow of a long ridge. storeton, from stortun or "big field." many of these names are repetitions of places which exist in cumberland, denmark, and the isle of man. raby and irby were smaller farms on the boundary of large byes, and were derived from the danish chief ivar. each homestead had its pastures and woods, which are denoted by the terminals "well," "wall," and "birket," found in such names as crabwall, thelwall, thingwall. "thwaites" or "hlither" were sloping pastures, cleared of wood, between the hill and marsh, used for grazing cattle and sheep. this system of agriculture is of norse origin, and many such "thwaites" are to be found in wallasey, lancashire, and the lake district. calday and calder, recorded in domesday, "calders," derived from kalf-gard, are names existing in calderstones, at wavertree, and calday near windermere, as well as at eastham and in scotland. each large settler had summer pastures for cattle on the highland or moor, called "soeters" or "saetter," a shelter seat for the dairymaids. from this custom we derive the names seacombe, satterthwaite, seathwaite, seascale, and sellafield. as the population increased the large estates were divided among the families of the early settlers, and these upland pastures became separate farms. evidence that these early norsemen were christians is found in the name preston, in domesday. prestune, the farm of the priest: who in these early days farmed his own land. from its position this farm became known as west kirby. the stone crosses of nelson and bromborough prove that these churches were founded early in the eleventh century. the danish character of chester at this date is shown by the fact that it was ruled by "lawmen," in the same manner as the five boroughs (vide round's "feudal england," p. ), and its growing wealth and importance was due to the trading intercourse through the danish ships with dublin. coming from the north-east another norse and danish settlement sprang up round liverpool. though we have no distinct historical record, the place names indicate the centre was at thelwall (tingwall). such names are roby, west derby, kirkby, crosby, formby, kirkdale, toxteth, found in domesday as "stockestede," croxteth, childwall, harbreck, ravensmeols, ormskirk, altcar, burscough, skelmersdale. out of forty-five names of places recorded in domesday in west derby hundred, ten are scandinavian, the rest might be interpreted in either dialect. all other names in domesday in south lancashire are anglo-saxon, which only amount to twelve: the reason for the small number of names being that the land was for the most part lying waste, and was thus free from assessment. thus we find on the present map that norse names form a large number which are not recorded in domesday. many of these would be later settlements. in west derby the names of three landowners appear in this survey with norse names, while three others are probably norse, and seven saxon. following the fall of the danish dynasty the districts of south lancashire formed part of cheshire and we find the names of six "drengs" around warrington, possessing norman names, while only one bears a norse name. the word "dreng" being norse, would infer that the tenure was of "danelaw" origin and not of anglo-saxon. the founder of the abbey of burton-on-trent, wulfric spot, held great tracts of land in wirral and west lancashire, which are named in his will dated . thus the "bondr" here held his land under mercian rules, from which the hides and hundreds were similar to those of the previous "danelaw." lancashire was the southern portion of deira, which was one of the two kingdoms, bernicia being the other, into which the conquests of ida, king of northumbria, were on his death divided. in a.d. ida died, and aella became king of deira, and afterwards sole king of northumbria, until or . in , edwin son of ella was king of northumbria, the greatest prince, says hume the historian, of the heptarchy in that age. he was slain in battle with penda of mercia. in the kingdom was again divided, eanfrid reigning in bernicia, and osric in deira. then oswald, saint as well as king, appears to have reunited the two provinces again under his kingship of northumberland. authorities, in more than one instance, vary as to the exact dates, within a year or two. the saxon kingdom of northumbria reached from the humber to the forth, and from the north sea to the irish sea. for two centuries after the death of ecgfrith the saxon king and the battle of nectansmere, history only records a succession of plunder and pestilence. green the historian says "king after king was swept away by treason and revolt, the country fell into the hands of its turbulent nobles, its very fields lay waste, and the land was scourged by famine and plague." the pirate northmen or vikings as they were called first, began to raid the coast of england with their fleets with the object of plunder. the english chronicle records their first attacks in the year . "three of their ships landed on the western shores, these were the first ships of danish men that sought the land of engle-folk." the monastery of lindisfarne was plundered six years later by their pirate ships, and the coast of northumbria was ravaged, jan., . the following year they returned and destroyed the monasteries of wearmouth and jarrow. this was the beginning of the norse raids on our eastern shores. in halfdan returned from his campaign against alfred and the year after he divided the lands of northumbria amongst his followers. in many parts we find groups of scandinavian place-names so close and thick, says mr. w. g. collingwood in his "scandinavian britain," that we must assume either depopulation by war, or the nearly complete absence of previous population. there is no reason to suppose that the earlier vikings depopulated the country they ravaged. spoil was their object and slaughter an incident. as canon atkinson has shown in his "analysis of the area of cleveland under cultivation at domesday period," very little of the country in that district was other than moor or forest at the end of the eleventh century, and that most of the villages then existing had scandinavian names. his conclusion is that these districts were a wilderness since roman and prehistoric days, and first penetrated by the danes and norse: except for some clearings such as crathorne, stokesley, stainton, and easington, and the old monastery at whitby. this conclusion receives support, says mr. collingwood, from an analysis of the sculptured stones now to be seen in the old churches and sites of cleveland. it is only at yarm, crathorne, stainton, easington, and whitby, that we find monuments of the pre-viking age, and these are the products of the latest anglian period. at osmotherley, ingleby, arncliffe, welbury, kirklevington, thornaby, ormesby, skelton, great ayton, kirkdale, and kirkby-in-cleveland are tombstones of the tenth and eleventh centuries. it is thus evident that the angles were only beginning to penetrate these northern parts of yorkshire when the vikings invaded and carried on the work of land settlement much further. further extension was made by the norse from the west coast, as the place-names show. monuments of pre-viking art work exist at places with scandinavian names, such as kirkby-moorside, kirkby-misperton, and kirkdale; while in other cases only viking age crosses are found at places with names of anglian origin, such as ellerburn, levisham, sinnington, nunnington. this would indicate that some anglian sites were depopulated and refounded with danish names, while others had no importance in anglian times but soon became flourishing sites under the danes. in the west of yorkshire the great dales were already tenanted by the angles, but the moors between them, and the sites higher up the valleys, were not the sites of churches until the danish period. (see "anglian and anglo-danish sculpture in the north riding," by w. g. collingwood. _yorks. arch. journal_, .) yorkshire at the time of the domesday survey was carucated and divided into ridings and wapentakes. thingwall, near whitby. (canon atkinson, site lost.) thinghow, near ginsborough (now lost), and thinghow, now finney hill, near northallerton. (mr. william brown, f.s.a.) tingley, near wakefield; thingwall, near liverpool; thingwall in wirral, may have been thingsteads. (w. g. collingwood.) names of places ending in -ergh, and -ark are dairy-farms from setr and saetr. names with ulls- as prefix, such as ulpha, ullscarth, ullswater, record the fact that wolves inhabited the hills. beacons were kept up in olden days on hills which bear the names of warton, warcop, warwick and warthole. tanshelf, near pontefract, is derived from taddenesscylfe, blawith and blowick from blakogr--blackwood. axle, acle, arcle from öxl, the shoulder. the battle of brunanburh. was it fought in lancashire? "there is one entry in the anglo-saxon chronicle which must be mentioned here as it throws light upon an archæological discovery of considerable importance. in the chronicle records that the danish army among the northumbrians broke the peace and overran the land of mercia. when the king learned that they were gone out to plunder, he sent his forces after them, both of the west saxons and the mercians; and they fought against them and put them to flight, and slew many thousands of them...." "there is good reason to believe," as mr. andrew shows (brit. numis. jour. i, ), "that the famous cuerdale hoard of silver coins, which was found in in a leaden chest buried near a difficult ford of the ribble on the river bank about two miles above preston, represents the treasure chest of this danish army, overtaken in its retreat to northumbria at this ford and destroyed." * * * * * then follows a process of reasoning in support of the above conclusion, based upon the place of minting and the dating of the coins. "the bulk of the coins, however, were danish, issued by danish kings of northumbria, many of them from york." besides the cuerdale find of , silver coins and , ounces of silver there are records given of other danish finds.--from the victoria county history of lancashire, vol. i., see coins. each historian of this important event has claimed a different site, in as many parts of england. in grose's "antiquities" we find the allied scotch, welsh, irish, and danes, the northumbrian army, under anlaf were totally defeated, in at brunanburgh (bromridge, brinkburn), in northumberland, when constantine, king of the scots, and six petty princes of ireland and wales, with twelve earls were slain. this description is given in the anglo-saxon chronicle. the honour of claiming the lancashire site on the river brun near burnley, belongs to the late mr. thomas turner wilkinson, a master of burnley grammar school, who claimed it for saxifield in . we are indebted to mr. jas. t. marquis, a member of the lancashire and cheshire antiquarian society, for the following summary of evidence which he placed before the above society during the winter session of - , and which will be found recorded in the transactions of the society. he says, "there is overwhelming testimony in favour of the site on the lancashire brun." the reasons for claiming this site are simply two. an old writer spells brinkburn--brincaburh, and there is an artificial mound proving a fight. camden gives brunford, near brumbridge in northumberland, as the place where "king athelstane fought a pitched battle against the danes." this might easily be, but not the battle we refer to. there is no reason given except the word "ford." gibson suggests that it must have been "somewhere near the humber," although he finds a difficulty in carrying constantine and the little king of cumberland so high into yorkshire. the other places suggested are brumborough in cheshire, banbury in oxfordshire, burnham and bourne in lincolnshire, brunton in northumberland, but no good reason beyond a name, and an embankment in some cases, but not all. brownedge in lancashire has been suggested, with excellent reasons. dr. giles and others suggest that the name should be brumby instead of brunanburh. ingram in his map of saxon england places the site in lincolnshire, near the trent, but without assigning good reasons. turner observes that the "villare" mentions a brunton in northumberland, and gibson states what may still be seen in maps of a century old, "that in cheshire there is a place called brunburh near the shores of the mersey." this last would be a serious competitor if there was a river brun, or tumuli, or ford, or battlefield: but nothing is claimed, only the name suggested. brunsford or brunford. let us first establish the site of the "burh," which is a hill that shields or protects a camp, town, or hamlet. the question is, where was the "tun" or village on the brun? it was in saxon times usual for the folk to settle near a "burh" for the protection afforded by an overlord who occupied it. it was also the custom of the early missionaries to establish a feldekirk by setting up a cross near to the hamlet, where they used to preach christianity and bury their dead. tradition says it was intended to build the church on the site of the cross, but that god willed it otherwise. god-ley lane would be the lane which led from the village in saxon times to god's lea or god-ley, on which was the new church and burial ground. thus the new town would take its modern name from the ground on which the church stood, namely brun-ley, bron-ley, and burn-ley. the cross, built in saxon times to mark the spot where christianity was first preached, stood at the foot of the "burh" near the brun, and thus the early name would be brunford. the records of domesday book contain no mention of burnley. to the east and west would be the vast forest of boulsworth and pendle, while the valleys would be marshes and swamps. the ancient roads went along the hill sides, and there is an ancient road from clitheroe by pendle passing along the east side of the hill, now almost obliterated, leading to barrowford. the ancient road on this east side of the valley, was on the boulsworth slope from brunford, via haggate and shelfield, to castercliffe, colne, and trawden which gave its name to the forest, and emmott. dr. whitaker tells us that in his day, "in the fields about red lees are many strange inequalities in the ground, something like obscure appearances of foundations, or perhaps entrenchments, which the levelling operations of agriculture have not been able to efface. below walshaw is a dyke stretching across from 'scrogg wood' to 'dark wood.'" the ninth century annalist says, "the northmen protected themselves according to custom, 'with wood and a heap of earth,'" a walshaw would therefore be a wall of wood. nothing was safer, when attacked by bowmen, than a wood. such was the brun-burh. this burh at red lees with mounds and ditches, in a half circle on each side of the causeway, would have the same appearance on being approached from the east and south-east as the eleventh century "burh" at laughton-en-le-morthen in yorkshire. the ancient way referred to in dr. whitaker, from burnley to townley, would be from the market cross, along godley lane to the brunford cross, up over the ridge to the top of brunshaw, along the causeway to lodge farm, through the deer park, through the watch gate at the foot of the hill, and up to castle hill at tunlay. although egbert was called the first king of england, his son alfred the great at the height of his power only signed himself "alfred of the west saxons, king." england was still governed under the three provinces at the time of henry i., namely wessex, mercia, and danelagh. the latter province comprised the whole tract of country north and east of watling street. mercia included the lands north of the mersey. danish northumbria or deira comprised the lands to the west of the pennines. amongst the hills north of the ribble the hostile nations could meet in security. saxon-mercia north of the mersey, surrounded by alien nations, and having been itself conquered from that claimed as the danelaw, would be the most likely where those nations could meet in time of peace, and was the debatable land in time of war. after the death of alfred, when edward the elder claimed overlordship, the danes rose in revolt in the north. it is recorded that he and his warrior sister "the lady of the mercians" abandoned the older strategy of rapine and raid, for that of siege and fortress building, or the making and strengthening of burhs. edward seems to have recovered the land between the mersey and the ribble, for soon after leaving manchester, the britons of strathclyde, the king of scots, regnold of bamborough who had taken york at this period, and the danish northumbrians take him to be father and lord. the place is not mentioned, but must be somewhere between boulsworth and pendle. [illustration: extwistle hall, near eamott, marks an ancient boundary.] the same thing happened when athelstan claimed his overlordship. profiting by following his father's example, he would travel from burh to burh, and his route would not be difficult to trace, namely, thelwall, manchester, bacup, broad dyke, long dyke, easden fort, copy nook, castle hill, watch gate, brunburh, broadbank, castercliffe, shelfield, winewall, eamot. the anglo-saxon chronicle says that "a.d. , sihtric perished, and king athelstan ruled all the kings in the island, the northumbrians, constantine king of scots, ealdred of bamborough, and others, which they confirmed by pledges and oaths at a place eamot on the th of the ides of july and they renounced idolatry." everything points to the fact that brunanburgh gave its name to this battle. this part of the saxon king's dominions being the one place where all the hostile nations could meet before the attack. there is no other river brun in northern mercia, and the saxon chronicle says the battle was fought near brunanburh. ethelward says brunandune (river and dale). simeon gives wendune (swindon). malmesbury and tugulf names brunanburh or bruford. florence of worcester "near brunanburh." henry of huntingdon gives brunesburh, and gaimar has brunswerc, which we have in worsthorne, which is known to be derived from wrthston, the town of wrth. in the _annales cambriae_ it is styled the "bellum brun" (the battles of the brun). this would explain the many names. william of malmesbury says that the field was "far into england." we have brownedge and brownside. in addition to all this we have "bishops leap," s'winless lane, saxifield, saxifield dyke. we have also a ruh-ley, a red lees, directly opposite to which we have a traditional battlefield and battlestone, also a high law hill, and horelaw pastures, a number of cairns of stones, a small tumuli; all of which may be said to be near the hillfort brunburh. descriptions of battles from the map. from the two ordnance maps, "six inch to the mile," one of briercliffe, and the other of worsthorne, it may be seen that the roads from slack, near huddersfield, pass through the pennine range, one by the long causeway, on the south of the position and on the southern side, near stipernden, is "warcock hill. from here running north, are a series of ridges, shedden edge, hazel edge, hamilton hill, to the other road from slack, passing through the hills at widdop, and immediately on the north side at thursden is another warcock hill. from warcock hill to warcock hill would stretch the army of anlaf in their first position. from the north end of the position a road north to shelfield and castercliffe, by means of which he would be joined by his welsh allies, from the ribble, via portfield, and his strathclyde and cumbrian allies from the north. from this end of the position there is a road due west to the broadbank, where there is the site of a small camp at haggate. [illustration] from here anlaf would send his welsh allies under adalis, and his shipmen under hryngri, for the night attack on the advancing saxons as they crossed the brunford. they fell on them somewhere on the site of bishop's house estate, but were afterwards beaten back across the estates known as saxifield. two days afterwards both sides prepared for the great struggle near the burh, and anlaf, taking his cue from his opponent, advanced his left and took possession of the hill near mereclough, afterwards called high law (round hill), and the pastures behind still known as battlefield, with a stone called battlestone in the centre of it. constantine and the scots were in charge of the hill, and the pict, and orkney men behind. his centre he pushed forward at brown edge, to the "tun of wrst." while his right touched s'winden water under adalis with the welsh and shipmen. two days before the great battle athelstan marched out of brunburh at the north end, and encamped somewhere on the plain called bishop's house estate, his route by the brunford, and probably s'winless lane. we are told that anlaf entered the camp as a spy, and ascertaining the position of athelstan's tent, formed the night attack for the purpose of destroying him. athelstan, however, leaving for another part of his position on the brun, gave wersthan, bishop of sherborne, the command. the bishop met his death somewhere on the estate, the pasture being known as bishop's leap, which undoubtedly gave its name to the estate. adalis, the welsh prince, had done this in the night attack, probably coming by way of walshaw, and darkwood. alfgier took up the command, with thorolf on his right and eglis in support in front of the wood. alfgier was first assaulted by adalis with the welsh and driven off the field, afterwards fleeing the country. thorolf was assaulted by hryngr the dane, and soon afterwards by adalis also, flushed with victory. thorolf directed his colleague eglis to assist him, exhorted by his troops to stand close, and if overpowered to retreat to the wood. thorolf or thorold the viking was the hero of this day, near the netherwood on thursden water. he fought his way to hryngr's standard and slew him. his success animated his followers, and adalis, mourning the death of hryngr, gave way and retreated, with his followers back over saxifield to the causeway camp at broadbank. whatever took place at saxifield the enemy left it entirely, and the decisive battle took place at the other end of brunburh. in walking up s'windene, by s'winden water, the district on the right between that river and the brun is called in old maps roo-ley and in older manuscripts ruhlie, marked in thomas turner wilkinson's time, with a cairn and tumulus. some distance further on we find heckenhurst. the roads down from the burh are at rooley and at brownside and at red lees by the long causeway leading to mereclough. athelstan placed thorolf on the left of his army, at roo-ley, to oppose the welsh and irregular irish under adalis. in front of brownside (burnside) was eglis with the picked troops, and on eglis' right opposite worsthorne, athelstane and his anglo-saxons. across the original long causeway on the red lees, with the burh entrenchments immediately at his back, was the valiant turketul, the chancellor, with the warriors of mercia and london opposite round hill and mereclough. thorolf began by trying to turn the enemy's right flank, but adalis darted out from behind the wood, now hackenhurst, and destroyed thorolf, and his foremost friends on roo-ley or ruhlie. eglis came up to assist his brother viking, and encouraging the retreating troops by an effort destroyed the welsh prince adalis, and drove his troops out of the wood. the memorial of this flight was a cairn and tumulus on roo-ley. athelstan and anlaf were fighting in the centre for the possession of (bruns) weston, neither making much progress, when the chancellor turketul, with picked men, including the worcester men under the magnanimous sinfin, made a flank attack at mereclough, and breaking through the defence of the pict and orkney men, got to the "back o' th' hill." he penetrated to the cumbrians and scots, under constantine, king of the grampians. the fight was all round constantine's son, who was unhorsed. the chancellor was nearly lost, and the prince released, when sinfin, with a mighty effort, terminated the fight by slaying the prince. on round hill, down to one hundred years ago, stood a cairn called high law. when the stones were made use of to mend the roads, a skeleton was found underneath. that would, i believe, be a memorial of the fight. at "back o' th' hill," a blind road leads through what in an old map, and in tradition is called "battlefield," and the first memorial stone is called "battlestone." another similar stone is further on. following the blind road through hurstwood, the chancellor would find himself at brown end, near brown edge. at the other end of the position, eglis having won the wood, would be in the neighbourhood of hell clough, ready to charge at the same time as turketul, on the rear of anlaf's army. [illustration: old daneshouse] at this point of the battle, athelstan, seeing this, made a successful effort and pushed back the centre. then began the carnage, the memorials of which are still to be seen on brown edge, hamilton pasture, swindene, twist hill, bonfire hill, and even beyond. those who could get through the hills at widdop would do so: others however would take their "hoards" from the camps at warcock hill and other places, and burying their "treasures" as they went along, pass in front of boulsworth, and over the moor through trawden forest, between emmott and wycollar. if the saxon description of the battle, in turner's "history of the anglo-saxons" be read and compared with the ordnance maps before named, the reader will see that there is no other place in england which can show the same circumstantial evidence nor any place, having that evidence, be other than the place sought for. danes house, burnley, is thus referred to by the late mr. t. t. wilkinson, f.r.a.s.:--"danes house is now a deserted mansion situated about half-a-mile to the north of burnley, on the colne road. it has been conjectured there was a residence on the same site a.d. , when athelstan, king of the south saxons, overthrew with great slaughter, at the famous battle of brunanburgh, anlaf, the dane, and constantine, king of the scots. tradition states that it was here that anlaf rested on his way to the battlefield from dublin and the isles, hence the name danes house. the present deserted mansion has undergone little change since it was re-erected about the year ." this house has now been pulled down. the dyke or dykes, broadclough, bacup. this mighty entrenchment is over yards in length and for over yards of the line is yards broad at the bottom. no satisfactory solution has yet been offered of the cause of this gigantic work or of the use to which it was put originally. speaking of it newbigging ("history of rossendale") says:-- "the careful investigations of mr. wilkinson have invested this singular work with more of interest than had before been associated with it, by his having with marked ability and perseverance, collected together a mass of exhaustive evidence, enforced by a chain of argument the most conclusive, with regard to the much debated locality of the great struggle between the saxons and the danes, which he endeavours, and most successfully, to show is to be found in the immediate neighbourhood of burnley, and in connection with which the earthwork in question constituted, probably, a not unimportant adjunct." again, he says:-- "if saxonfield (saxifield) near burnley, was the scene of the engagement between the troops of athelstan and anlaf, then it is in the highest degree probable that one or other of the rival armies, most likely that of the saxon king, forced, or attempted to force a passage through the valley of the irwell and that there they were encountered by the confederated hosts intrenched behind the vast earthwork at broadclough that commanded the line of their march. whether this was taken in flank or rear by the saxon warriors, or whether it was successful in arresting their progress, or delaying a portion of their army, it is impossible to determine; but that it was constructed for weighty strategical purposes, under the belief that its position was of the last importance, so much of the remains of the extraordinary which still exists affords sufficient evidence." place-names chapter iii. place-names. an eloquent modern writer has declared, with a good reason, that even if all other records had perished, "anyone with skill to analyse the language, might re-create for himself the history of the people speaking that language, and might come to appreciate the divers elements out of which that people was composed, in what proportion they were mingled, and in what succession they followed one upon the other." from a careful analysis of the names of the more prominent features of the land; of its divisions, its towns and villages, and even its streets, as well as the nomenclature of its legal, civil, and political institutions, its implements of agriculture, its weapons of war, and its articles of food and clothing,--all these will yield a vast fund of history. the place-name liverpool has been the greatest puzzle to local etymologists. from the earliest known spelling--recorded in a deed of the time of richard i. - , where the form is leverpool--to the present, it has gone through more changes than any other local name. as the norse element in the vicinity of liverpool has been very great, we may assume the original derivation to come from "hlith," the old norse for a "slope." the north dialect also contains the word "lither" meaning sluggish. it is an adjective bearing the same meaning as the modern english "lithe," pliant, or gentle. the names lithgoe, lethbridge, clitheroe, and litherland may be derived from it. from the peaceful reign of canute, or knut, we derive the nautical term, some place-names--knuts-ford, knott end, knot mill, knottingley. knot, from old norse "knutr," and "knotta," a ball, was the name given to the measurement of speed of a ship. fifty feet was the distance allowed between the knots on the cord, and as many as ran out in half a minute by the sand-glass indicated the speed of the ship. and thus we speak of a knot breeze blowing.[b] hope, as a place-name, is common from the orkneys to the midlands, and is derived from an old norse word "hoop," for a small land-locked bay, inlet or a small enclosed valley, or branch from the main dale. hope is a common place-name, as well as a surname. in compounds we find it in hopekirk, hopeton, hapton, hopehead, dryhope. from "trow," a trough, we derive trowbridge, troughton, trawden, and probably rawtenstall. the battle of brunanburg, which took place in the year , is supposed to have been fought on the site of the modern burnley, on the river brun. king olaf brought his men over in ships, many containing over men each. he was defeated by athelstane and his brother edmund. there was until recently pulled down in burnley a house called danes-house. though the danes lost this battle, the northern bards recorded its bravery in their war songs, of which their sagas or legends still preserve some remains. among the chief followers of king athelstane in , who subdued the danish kingdom in england, we find the names of the following jarls: urm, gudrum, ingrard, hadder, haward, healden, rengwald, scule, and gunner. it is not difficult to recognise modern surnames from this list, such as urmston, guthrie, hodder, howard, holden, heald, reynolds, scholes, and gunning. "northumbria was the literary centre of the christian world in western europe," says john richard green; and the learning of the age was directed by the northumbrian scholar baeda, the venerable bede. yorkshire. the population of yorkshire, after the retreat of the romans, was composed of angles. when the vikings invaded the county, the wide dales only had been occupied by these early settlers. the higher valleys were densely wooded, the broad moors and mosslands had not been penetrated until the coming of the norse in a.d. some anglian districts were refounded under danish names, and became flourishing settlements. canon atkinson has shown by his analysis of cleveland, that at domesday, very little of that district was under cultivation. to the end of the eleventh century it consisted of moor and forest, and that many of the villages had then danish names. the name ingleby shows the passing of the angles, by the addition of the danish 'by.' at domesday yorkshire was divided into ridings (thrithings), and wapentakes. such names as thingwall near whitby, thinghow near gainsborough, thinghow near northallerton, and tingley near wakefield, though some of the sites have disappeared, remain to show the centres of danish government. the presence of many scandinavian places and names suggests that the country before then was a wilderness. the condition of the country may be gathered from the records and traditions of reginald and symeon of durham. in halfdan the dane began his raid into bernicia, and the abbot of lindisfarne, eardwulf fled before him, taking the relics of st. cuthbert. these wanderings, says symeon, covered a period of nine years. the leader of this band was eadred, the abbot of carlisle (caer-luel), whose monastery had been destroyed, and with the city, lay in ruins for two hundred years. at the places where these relics rested during their wanderings, churches were afterwards erected, and dedicated to this saint. the direction taken by the fugitives has been traced by monsignor eyre and the late rev. t. lees, first inland to elsdon, then by the reed and tyne to haydon bridge, and up the tyne valley; south by the maiden way, and then through the fells by lorton and embleton to the cumberland coast. at derwentmouth, workington, they determined to embark for ireland, but were driven back by a storm and thrown ashore on the coast of galloway, where they found a refuge at whithorn. mr. w. g. collingwood says in his "scandinavian britain," that in this storm the ms. gospels of bishop eadfirth (now in the british museum) were washed overboard, but recovered. at whithorn the bishop heard of halfdan's death, and turned homewards by way of kirkcudbright. the fact that the relics of st. cuthbert found refuge in cumberland and galloway shows that the danish invasion, from which they were saved, took very little hold of these parts. the vikings of the irish sea were already under the influence of christians, if not christianised, and were not hostile to the fugitive monks, while the natives welcomed them. the early historians relate the curious story of the election of guthred, halfdan's successor. eadred, abbot of carlisle, who was with st. cuthbert's relics at craik, in central yorkshire, on the way home, dreamt that st. cuthbert told him to go to the danish army on the tyne, and to ransom from slavery, a boy named guthred, son of hardecnut (john of wallingford says, "the sons of hardecnut had sold him into slavery"), and to present him to the army as their king. he was also to ask the army to give him the land between the tyne and the wear, as a gift to st. cuthbert and a sanctuary for criminals. confident in his mission, he carried out its directions; found the boy, ransomed him, gained the army's consent, and the gift of the land, and proclaimed guthred king at "oswigedune." eardwulf then brought to the same place the relics of st. cuthbert, on which every one swore good faith. the relics remained until at chester-le-street, and there eardwulf re-established the bishopric. in these records of the saxon historian symeon, we have the curious illustration of the viking raiders becoming rapidly transformed from enemies into allies and rulers chosen from among them. the history of guthred's reign was peaceful, and he became a christian king. his election took place about the year . during the reign of guthred, his kingdom became christianised, the sees of lindisfarne and york survived the changes. guthred died in and was buried in the high church at york. in ragnvald, called by symeon "inguald," became king of york. he was one of the most romantic figures of the whole viking history. his name bore many forms of spelling: ragnvald, reignold, ronald, ranald, and reginald. coming from the family of ivar in ireland, ragnvald mac bicloch ravaged scotland in , fought and killed bard ottarsson in off the isle of man. joined his brother at waterford in and set out for his adventure in north britain. landing in cumberland, he passed along the roman wall, and becoming king of york, was the first of the irish vikings who ruled until . the attacks of vikings who were still pagans continued, and many curious lights are shed by the chronicles of pictish writers. the power of st. cuthbert over the lands given for a sanctuary to eadred the abbot, is recorded in the legend of olaf ball (from 'ballr,' the stubborn), a pagan who refused rent and service to st. cuthbert, for lands granted to him by ragnvald, between castle eden and the wear. this pagan came one day to the church of st. cuthbert at chester-le-street. he shouted to bishop cutheard and his congregation, "what can your dead man, cuthbert, do to me? what is the use of threatening me with his anger? i swear by my strong gods, thor and uthan, that i will be the enemy of you all from this time forth." then, when he tried to leave the church, he could not lift his foot over the threshold, but fell down dead. "and st. cuthbert, as was just, thus got his lands." the succession of races which gave many of our place-names, and the order in which they came, has been pointed out in the following names by the late canon hume, of liverpool: maeshir, now called mackerfield, was called maeshir by the britons, meaning longfield; to which the saxons added field, which now becomes longfield-field, wansbeckwater is danish, saxon, and english, three words meaning water. then we have torpenhowhill, a hill in cumberland, composed of four words, each meaning hill. in addition to maritime terms, and terms of government, we derive from danish sources titles of honour and dignity, such as king, queen, earl, knight, and sheriff. the danes have left us traces of their occupation in the word gate, which is of frequent occurrence, and used instead of street in many of our older towns. the saxons, who were less civilised, left many terms, such as ton, ham, stead, and stock. but they had no word to denote a line of houses. "gata" was therefore not the english word used for gate, but a street of houses. from the norman we have row, from rue, a street. the names of many of our streets and buildings are full of historical associations and information. in bolton, wigan, and preston we find some streets bearing the name of gate, such as bradshawgate, wallgate, standishgate, and fishergate. in the towns of york, ripon, newcastle, and carlisle many more of these gates are to be found. york has no less than twenty gates. to the roads of the romans, the danes gave the name of "a braut," _i.e._, the broken course, or cleared way. (from this "a braut" comes the modern english word abroad, and the adjective broad.) the anglo-saxon took the name of street from the roman strata. thus we get the name of broad street, being two words of similar meaning. lone, lonely, and alone come from "i laun," which means banishment, and those thus outlawed formed the brigands of the hill districts. we thus get lunesdale, lune, and lancaster, from which john of gaunt took his english title. skipper was the danish term for the master of a small vessel. in the game of bowls and curling the skipper is the leader or director. "hay," the norse for headland, pronounced hoy, furnishes us with several local place-names, such as huyton, hoylake, howick. a norse festival. trafalgar day is celebrated by the usual custom on october st--by the hoisting of the british flag on the public buildings and by the decoration of the nelson monuments in liverpool and london. this battle was fought in , and decided the supremacy of britain as a sea power. long may the deathless signal of our greatest hero continue to be the lode star of the man and the nation: "england expects that every man will do his duty." let us trace the connection between lord nelson and the danes in our own county. admiral nelson bore a genuine scandinavian name, from "nielsen," and was a native of one of the districts which were early colonised by the danes, namely, burnhamthorpe, in norfolk. his family were connected with the village of mawdesley, near rufford, which still has for its chief industry basket-making. fairhurst hall, at parbold, in the same district of lancashire, was the home of a nelson family for many centuries. this recalls the fact that we have still in existence a curious survival. "a strange festival" is celebrated each year on january st at lerwick, or kirkwall, the capital of the orkney isles. the festival called "up-helly-a" seems to be growing in favour. lerwick becomes the mecca of the north for many days, and young people travel long distances to witness the revels that go to make up the celebration of the ancient festival. all former occasions were eclipsed by the last display. at half-past eight o'clock a crowd of about , people assembled in the square at the market cross. in the centre stood a norse war galley or viking ship, with its huge dragon head towering upwards with graceful bend. along the bulwarks were hung the warriors' shields in glowing colours, the norse flag, with the raven, floating overhead. on board the galley fiddlers were seated. then a light flared below fort charlotte, which announced that the good ship victory would soon be on the scene. and a stately ship she was, as she came majestically along, hauled by a squad in sailor costume, while a troop of instructors from the fort walked alongside as a guard of honour to the good vessel. the victory immediately took up her position, and the guizers began to gather. torches were served out, the bugle sounded the call to light up, and then the procession started on its way round the town. the guizers who took part numbered over three hundred, and seen under the glare of the torches the procession was one of the prettiest. the norse galley led the way, and the victory occupied a place near the centre of the procession. the dresses were very tasteful and represented every age and clime. there were gay cavaliers, red indians, knight templars, and squires of the georgian period. the procession being over, the victory and the norse galley were drawn up alongside each other, near the market cross, while the guizers formed a circle round them. toasts were proposed, songs were sung, and thereafter the proceedings were brought to a close by the guizers throwing their flaming torches on board the ships. as soon as the bonfire was thoroughly ablaze, the guizers formed themselves in their various squads, each headed by a fiddler, and began their house to house visitation. the guizer was costumed as an old norse jarl, with a sparkling coat of mail, and carried a prettily emblazoned shield and sword. the squad of which he was chief were got up as vikings. curiously enough, these were followed by dutch vrows. the orkneys and shetland isles were ceded to james iii. of scotland, as the dowry of his wife, margaret, in , and became part of great britain on the union of scotland with england. james i. married ann of denmark, and passed through lancashire in august, , when he visited hoghton tower. the effusiveness of the prestonians was outdone at hoghton tower, where his majesty received a private address in which he was apostrophised as "dread lord." he is reported to have exclaimed "cot's splutters! what a set of liegemen jamie has!" patronymics chapter iv. patronymics. we are sprung from the sea; a county of seaports is our dwelling-place, and the sea itself our ample dominion, covered throughout its vast extent with our fellow subjects in their "floating cities." these are filled with our wealth, which we commit to the winds and waves to distribute to the extremities of the four quarters of the world. we are therefore no common people, nor are they common events which form eras in our history; nor common revolutions which have combined and modified the elements of our speech. though we have kept no genealogies to record to us from what particular horde of settlers we are sprung--no family chronicles to tell us whether saxon, dane, norse, or norman owns us as progeny--still our names serve partly to distinguish us, and "words" themselves thus still remind us of what otherwise would be totally forgotten. it has been claimed that two-thirds of us are sprung from the anglo-saxons and danes, and had our language kept pace with our blood we should have had about two-thirds of our modern english of the same origin. but we have more. our tongue is, hence, less mixed than our blood. it is therefore easier to trace out the histories of words than of families. it is difficult at first sight to determine whether family names have been derived from family residences or the residences have obtained their names from their first proprietors. the romans imposed their military names upon the towns of the early britons. the danes added their own descrip-names, and previous to becoming converted to christianity gave the names of their heathen deities to the mountains and landmarks. to these were added the names of norse and danish kings and jarls. after the norman conquest, when the land had been divided by william the conqueror among his followers, comes the period when surnames were taken from the chief lands and residences. pagan deities supply us with many surnames. from "balder" comes balderstone, osbaldistone. "thor" gives us tursdale, turton, thursby, thorley, thurston, and thurstaston, in the wirral, near west kirby. "frëyer" supplies frisby, frankby, fry, fryer, fraisthorpe, and fraser. "uller" or "oller" gives elswick, ullersthorpe, elston, ulverston. from "vé," a sacred place, like "viborg," the old jutland assize town, we derive wydale, wigthorpe, wythorpe, willoughby, wilbeforce, wigton, and wyre. some of our earliest lancashire names are derived from "gorm," "billingr," "rollo," who were norse and danish kings. their names and their compounds show us that the danes were christianised, as "ormskirk," which provides very many surnames, such as orme, oram, ormsby, ormerod, ormeshaw; and another form of gorm, "grim" as grimshaw and grimsargh. formby and hornby may also be traced to this origin. from "billingr" we get billinge, the village near wigan, standing on a high hill and having a beacon, billington and other names of this construction. from "rollo" we derive roby, raby, rollo, rollinson, ribby. from "arving," an heir, we get irving, irvin, and irton. from "oter" we have otter, ottley, uttley. the danes sailed up the river douglas, and gave the name tarleton, from "jarlstown." many christian names come from the danish--eric, elsie, karl, harold, hugo, magnus, olave, ralph, ronald, reginald. surnames formed by the addition of "son" or "sen" are common to both danes and english, but never appear in saxon names. thus we have anderson, adamson, howson, haldan, matheson, nelson, jackson, johnson, thomson, and stevenson. the different names we find given to the same trees arise from different settlers giving and using their own form of name: "birch," "bracken," "crabtree," and "cawthorn." "wil-ding" is also known in westmorland and yorkshire. "whasset," which gives its name to a small hamlet near beetham, in westmorland, is danish; "wil-ding" is probably flemish, and also wild, wilde, as this name dates from about the year a.d. , when edward iii. encouraged numbers of flemings to come over from the netherlands to introduce and improve the manufacture of woollens. he located them in different parts of the country, and we find them settled in kendal and in the vicinity of bury and rochdale. this will account for this surname being so frequently found in lancashire. from copenhagen "the harbour of merchants," we derive many important place-names and surnames. a copeman was a chapman, a merchant or dealer; and thus we derive cheap, cheapside, chepstow, and chipping. in surnames we get copeland, copley, copethorne, and capenhurst. the common expression "to chop or change," comes from this source. in the london lyckpeny of we find: "flemings began on me for to cry 'master, what will you copen or buy.'" in , calvin in a sermon said: "they play the copemaisters, and make merchandise of the doctrine of this gospel." these early copmen remind us of the lancashire merchant who had visited the states after the american civil war. he said to the late john bright: "how i should like to return here, fifty years after my death, to see what wonderful progress these people have made." john bright replied: "i have no doubt, sir, you will be glad of any excuse to come back." to the abundance of surnames derived from danish origin the following are important:--lund, lindsey, lyster, galt or geld, and kell. lund was a grove where pagan rites were conducted. lindsey is a grove by the sea. lyster is danish for a fishing fork composed of barbed iron spikes on a pole for spearing fish. galt or geld, an offering of the expiatory barrow pig to the god "frëyer." from kell, in danish a "spring," we get kellet and okell. surnames of a distinct danish character, and customs derived from viking days are to be met with in our local fairs and wakes. writing on this subject, the rev. w. t. bulpit of southport says that, "robert de cowdray, who died in , was an enterprising lord of manor of meols, and obtained a charter from the king, with whom he was a _persona-grata_, for a weekly wednesday market, and a yearly fair, to be held on the eve and day of st cuthbert, to whom the church is dedicated. the charter probably did but legalise what already existed; cowdray was a man of the world, and knew that it would be an advantage to his estate to have a fair. soon after his death the charter lapsed. enemies said it interfered with pre-existing fairs. though legally it had no existence the fair continued for centuries in connection with st. cuthbert's wake in march. it was also the end of the civil year, when payments had to be made, and thus farm stock was sold. this caused the market and wake to be useful adjuncts, and a preparation for welcoming the new year on march th, st. cuthbert's day, the anniversary of his death was held on march rd, and a viking custom demanded a feast. the old name of the death feast was called darval, and the name was transferred to the cakes eaten at the wake, and they were called darvel cakes.[c] long after the event commemorated was forgotten darvel cakes were supplied in lent to guests at churchtown wakes. connected with these fairs there was a ceremony of electing officials, and at these social gatherings of all the local celebrities a mayor was elected who generally distinguished himself by being hospitable. similar ceremonies still exist, where charters no longer survive, at such places as poulton near blackpool, and norden near rochdale. traces of the norman are found in dunham massey and darcy lever and a few others, but along the whole of the east and north of the county the saxon and danish landholder seems to have held in peace the ancestral manor house in which he had dwelt before the conquest, and the haughty insolence of the norman was comparatively unknown. speke, the oldest manor house in south lancashire, near liverpool, is derived from "spika," norse for mast, which was used for fattening swine. "parr" is a wooded hill, and this word enters into many compound names. "bold," near st. helens, signifies a stone house, and is the surname of one of the oldest lancashire families. the norse "brecka," a gentle declivity, is much in evidence in west lancashire, as in norbreck, warbrick, swarbrick, torbrick, killbrick in the fylde district, and also scarisbrick, in the vicinity of ormskirk. this name used to be spelt scaursbreck, and is a compound of "scaur," a bird of the seagull type, and "breck" from the natural formation of the land. birkdale, ainsdale, skelmersdale, kirkdale, ansdell, kirby, kirkby, crosby, are all place-names of danish origin which provide many surnames in the county. where danish names abound the dialect still partakes of a danish character. english surnames. a great majority are derived from trades and callings. some may be traced from ancient words which have dropped out. "chaucer"[d] and "sutor" are now meaningless, but long ago both signified a shoemaker. a "pilcher" formerly made greatcoats; a "reader," thatched buildings with reeds or straw; a "latimer" was a writer in latin for legal and such like purposes. an "arkwright" was the maker of the great meal chests or "arks," which were formerly essential pieces of household furniture; "tucker" was a fuller; "lorimer" was a sadler; "launder" or "lavender," a washerman; "tupper" made tubs; "jenner" was a joiner; "barker" a tanner; "dexter," a charwoman; "bannister" kept a bath; "sanger" is a corruption of singer or minstrel; "bowcher," a butcher; "milner" a miller; "forster," a forester; a "chapman" was a merchant. the ancestors of the colemans and woodyers sold those commodities in former generations; "wagners" were waggoners; and "naylors" made nails. a "kemp" was once a term for a soldier; a "vavasour" held rank between a knight and a baron. certain old-fashioned christian names or quaint corruptions of them have given rise to patronymics which at first sight appear hard to interpret. everyone is not aware that austin is identical with augustin; and the name anstice is but the shortening of anastasius. ellis was originally derived from elias. hood in like manner is but a modern corruption of the ancient odo, or odin. everett is not far removed from the once not uncommon christian name everard, while even stiggins can be safely referred to the northern hero "stigand." the termination "ing," signified son or "offspring." thus browning and whiting in this way would mean the dark or fair children. a number of ancient words for rural objects have long ago become obsolete. "cowdray" in olden days signified a grove of hazel; "garnett," a granary. the suffix "bec" in ashbec and holmbec is a survival of the danish "by," a habitation. "dean" signifies a hollow or dell, and the word "bottom" meant the same thing. thus higginbottom meant a dell where the "hicken" or mountain ash flourished. "beckett" is a little brook, from the norse "beck." "boys" is a corruption of "bois," the french for wood. "donne" means a down; "holt," a grove, and "hurst," a copse. "brock" was the old term for a badger, hence broxbourne; while "gos" in gosford signified a goose. on dialect in lancashire and yorkshire. the district of england which during the heptarchy was, and since has been known by the name of northumbria, which consists of the territory lying to the north of the rivers humber (whence the name north-humbria) and mersey, which form the southern boundaries, and extending north as far as the rivers tweed and forth, is generally known to vary considerably in the speech of its inhabitants from the rest of england. considering the great extent and importance of this district, comprising as it does more than one-fourth of the area and population of england, it seems surprising that the attention of philologists should not have been more drawn to the fact of this difference and its causes. from an essay on some of the leading characteristics of the dialects spoken in the six northern counties of england (ancient northumbria) by the late robert backhouse peacock, edited by the rev. t. c. atkinson, , we learn that, when addressing themselves to the subject of dialect, investigators have essayed to examine it through the medium of its written rather than its spoken language. the characteristics to be found in the language now spoken have been preserved in a degree of purity which does not appertain to the english of the present day. it is therefore from the dialect rather than from any literary monuments that we must obtain the evidence necessary for ascertaining the extent to which this northumbrian differs from english in its grammatical forms,--not to speak of its general vocabulary. the most remarkable characteristic is the definite article, or the demonstrative pronoun--"t," which is an abbreviation of the old norse neuter demonstrative pronoun "hit"--swedish and danish "et." that this abbreviation is not simply an elision of the letters "he" from the english article "_the_," which is of old frisian origin, is apparent from the fact that all the versions of the second chapter, verse , for instance, of solomon's song, "i am the rose of sharon, and the lily of the valleys," the uniform abbreviation for all parts of england is the elision of the final letter "e," making _the_ into "th"; on the other hand, out of fourteen specimens of the same verse in northumbria, eight give the "t" occurring three times in the verse, thus, "i's t' rooaz o' sharon, an' t' lily o' t' valleys." the districts where the scandinavian article so abbreviated prevails are found in the versions to be the county of durham, central and south cumberland, westmorland; all lancashire, except the south-eastern district, and all yorkshire; an area which comprehends on the map about three-fourths of all northumbria. the next leading feature is the proposition--i, which is used for in. this is also a pure scandinavianism, being not only old norse, but used in icelandic, swedish and danish of the present day. two instances occur in the th verse of the same chapter, where for "o my dove, thou art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, etc.," we have idiomatic version: "o my cushat, 'at 's i' t' grikes o' t' crags, i' t' darkin' whols o' t' stairs." another word which occurs in six of the northumbrian versions is also scandinavian, viz., the relative pronoun _at_ for _that_. from this illustration of a short verse and a half of scripture, we have established the norse character of the dialect as distinguished from common english, of five of the most ordinary words in the english language, namely, the representatives of the words _the_, _in_, _that_, _art_ and _am_. these instances from the etymology of the dialects help to establish the following canon: that when a provincial word is common to more than one dialect district (that is, districts where in other respects the dialects differ from each other), it may, as a rule, be relied upon, that the word is not a corruption but a legitimate inheritance. those referred to, we have seen, are the inheritance of a whole province, that province being formerly an entire kingdom. proceeding in the usual order of grammars, having disposed of the article, we come next to the _substantives_. these differ from the ordinary english in that they recognise only one "case" where english has two. the northumbrian dialect dispenses with the possessive or genitive case almost entirely, and for "my father's hat," or "my uncle's wife's mother's house," say, "my faddher hat," and "my uncle wife muddher house." upon which, all that need be remarked is that they have gone further in simplifying this part of speech than the rest of their countrymen, who have only abolished the dative and accusative cases from the parent languages of their speech. extreme brevity and simplicity are eminently norse and northumbrian characteristics. we have already seen some remarkable instances in the versions of solomon's song, where we saw that the first three words, "i am the," are expressed in as many letters, namely, "i's t'"; and again in verse , "thou art in the," by "at 's i t'." we have here another instance in the abolition of the genitive case-ending, out of many more that might be added. in pronouncing the days of the week we find: sunnda for sunday, thorsda for thursday, and setterda for saturday, always with the short da. the remaining days as in ordinary english. in pronouns we find "wer" for "our," in the possessive case, from old norse vârr. relative--_at_ for who, which, that. demonstrative--t' the. that theyar--that one. thoer--these or those. indefinites--summat=something, somewhat. from old norse sum-hvat, somewhat. the two following are common at preston and adjacent districts: sooawhaasse=whosoever. sooawheddersa=whethersoever. correlative adjectival pronoun: sa mich=so much. swedish, sâ mycket. adverbs from scandinavian: backerds--backwards. connily--prettily, nicely. eigh--yes; forrùt, forrud--forwards; helder--preferably; i mornin--to-morrow; i now--presently; lang sen--long since; lowsley--loosely; neddher--lower nether; neya--no; noo--now; reetly--rightly; sa--so; sen--since; shamfully--shamefully. shaply--shapely; sooa--so. tull--to; weel--well; whaar--where. _interjections._ ech!--exclamation of delight. hoity-toity!--what's the matter: from old norse "hutututu." woe-werth!--woe betide. an illustration. a good illustration of danish terms may be gathered from the following conversation heard by a minister in this county between a poor man on his death-bed and a farmer's wife, who had come to visit him: "well, john," she said, "when yo' getten theer yo'll may happen see eaur tummus; and yo'll tell 'im we'n had th' shandry mended, un a new pig-stoye built, un 'at we dun pretty well beawt him." "beli' me, meary!" he answered, "dost think at aw's nowt for t' do bo go clumpin' up un deawn t' skoies a seechin' yo're tummus!" the word "mun" also is in frequent use, and comes from the danish verb "monne;" the danish "swiga," to drink in, as "to tak a good swig," and "heaw he swigged at it!" many danish words become purely english, as foul, fowl; kow, cow; fued, food; stued, stood; drown, drown; "forenoun" and "atternoun" became "forenoon" and "afternoon;" stalker, stalker; kok, cock; want, to want. in popular superstition the races had much in common. the danish river sprite "nok," imagined by some to be "nick," or "owd nick," the devil; but properly "nix," a "brownie." he wore a red cap and teased the peasants who tried to "flit" (danish "flytter") in order to escape him. though we have "gretan," to weep, it also means to salute or bid farewell, from the danish "grata." "give o'er greeting," we hear it said to a crying child. while "greeting" is a popular word of danish origin, so is "yuletide" for christmas, and "yule candles," "yule cakes," "yule log." the word "tandle" means fire or light, and is given to a hill near oldham. from this we derive our "candle." "lake," to play, is still used in our district, but never heard where danish words are not prevalent. in the danish, "slat" means to slop, and it is said, "he slat the water up and down." a very common participle in lancashire is "beawn." the danish "buinn" is "prepared," or "addressed to," or "bound for," as "weere ar't beawn furt' goo?" in danish and lancashire "ling" means heath; but it does not occur in anglo-saxon. from the danish "snig," to creep, we get "snig," eels. locally we also have the name "rossendale," which covers a large extent of our county. may we not suppose this to be from "rost," a torrent or whirlpool, and "dale," the danish for valley? the names of places beginning or ending with "garth," or "gaard," shows that the people were settling in "gaarde" or farms belonging to the chief, earl, or udaller. with the danish "steen," for stone, we have garston, garstang, garton, as well as garswood and garden. the danish having no such sound or dipthong as our "th," must account for the relic of the pronunciation "at" for "that," which is much used in our local dialect, as "it's toime at he were here,"--"at" being the danish conjunction for "that." the word we use for sprinkling water, to "deg," does not come from the anglo-saxon "deagan," which means to dye or tinge with colour, but from "deog" or "deigr." shakespeare uses the word in the "tempest," where prospero says: "when i have deck'd the sea with drops full salt." from "klumbr," a mass or clod, we get "clump," as clump of wood, and "clumpin' clogs." stowe says, "he brought his wooden shoes or clumpers with him." physical types still existing chapter v. physical types still existing. as early as the eleventh century the names of english towns and villages are written in the domesday book with the danish ending "by" or "bi," and not with the norwegian form of "böer" or "bö." this preponderance of danish endings proves the widely extended influence of the danes in the north. that they should have been preserved in such numbers for more than eight centuries after the fall of the danish dominion in england, disproves the opinion that the old danish inhabitants of the country were supplanted or expelled after the cessation of the danish rule ( ), first by the anglo-saxons, and afterwards by the normans. mr. wörsæ says: "the danes must have continued to reside in great numbers in these districts, previously conquered by them, and consequently it follows that a considerable part of the present population may with certainty trace their origin to the northmen, and especially to the danes. the general appearance of the inhabitants is a weighty corroboration of the assertions of history. the black hair, dark eye, the prominent nose, and the long oval face to be found in the southerners remind us of the relationship with the romans, or a strong mixture of the british anglo-saxon and norman races. the difference in physiognomy and stature of the northern races are also easily be recognised. the form of face is broader, the cheekbones stand out prominently, the nose is flatter, and at times turned somewhat upwards. the eyes and hair are of a lighter colour, and even deep red hair is far from uncommon. the people are not very tall in stature, but usually more compact and strongly built than those of the south." [illustration: example of ancient danish loom; from the färoes, now in bergen museum.] the still existing popular dialect is an excellent proof that the resemblance of the inhabitants is not confined to an accidental or personal likeness. many words and phrases are preserved in the local dialect which are neither found nor understood in other parts of the country. these terms are not only given to waterfalls, mountains, rivulets, fords, and islands, but are also in common use in daily life. the housewife has her spool and spinning wheel from "spole"; her reel and yarn-winder from "rock" and "granwindle"; her baking-board from "bagebord." she is about to knead dough, from "deig"; and in order to make oaten bread, or thin cakes beaten out by the hand, we have clap-bread or clap-cake, form "klapperbröd" and "klapper-kake." she spreads the tablecloth, "bordclaith," for dinner, "onden"; while the fire smokes, "reeks," as it makes its way through the thatch, "thack," where in olden times the loft, "loft," was the upper room or bower, "buir." out in the yard or "gaard," is the barn, "lade," where is stored the corn in "threaves." in the river are troughs, "trows," used to cross over. these were two small boats, cut out of the trunks of trees, and held together by a crosspole. by placing a foot in each trough the shepherd rowed himself across with the help of an oar. he goes up the valley, "updaal," to clip, "klippe," the sheep. it is said that canute the great crossed over the river severn in this manner, when he concluded an agreement with edmund ironsides to divide england between them. blether, from "bladdra," is also a common expression, meaning to "blubber or cry," to gabble or talk without purpose. another form of the word is "bleat," as applied to sheep. other words now in use from the norse are "twinter," a two-year-old sheep, and "trinter," a three-year-old. a "gimmer lamb" is a female lamb. the lug-mark, _i.e._, a bit cut out of a sheep's ear that it may be recognised by the owner, is from lögg mark." lög is law, and thus it is the legal mark. the "smit" or smear of colour, generally red, by which the sheep are marked occurs in the bible of ulphilas in the same sense as smear. another proof may be found on the carving in the knitting sticks made and used by the northern peasantry of the present day. the patterns are decidedly scandinavian. of the people of this district, it may be said that in their physical attributes they are the finest race in the british dominions. their scandinavian descent, their constant exposure to a highly oxygenised atmosphere, their hereditary passion for athletic sports and exercises, their happy temperament, their exemption from privation, and many other causes, have contributed to develop and maintain their physical pre-eminence, and to enable them to enjoy as pastime an amount of exposure and fatigue that few but they would willingly encounter. thomas de quincey, who lived thirty years among them, observed them very closely, and knew them, well, after remarking that "it is the lower classes that in every nation form the 'fundus' in which lies the national face, as well as the national character," says: "each exists here in racy purity and integrity, not disturbed by alien inter-marriages, nor in the other by novelties of opinion, or other casual effects derived from education and reading." the same author says: "there you saw old men whose heads would have been studies for guido; there you saw the most colossal and stately figures among the young men that england has to show; there the most beautiful young women. there it was that sometimes i saw a lovelier face than ever i shall see again." the eloquent opium-eater gave the strongest possible proof that his admiration was real by taking one of these "beautiful young women" to wife. the men of our northern dales do not pay much respect to anyone who addresses them in language they are not accustomed to, nor do they make much allowance for ignorance of their own dialect. in a northern village we once stopped to speak to an old lady at her door, and began by remarking that the river was much swollen. "we call it a beck," said the old lady, turning her back upon us, and telling her granddaughter to bring out the scrapple. "whatever may a scrapple be?" we asked, deferentially. "why, that's what a scrapple may be," she said, indicating a coal-rake in the girl's hand. as we moved away, we overheard her say to a neighbour, "i don't know where he has been brought up. he calls th' beck a river, and doesn't know what a scrapple is!" they have a very quick sense of humour, and often practice a little mystification on inquisitive strangers. to a tourist who made the somewhat stupid inquiry, "does it ever rain here?" the countrymen replied: "why it donks, and it dozzles, and sometimes gives a bit of a snifter, but it ne'er comes in any girt pell," leaving the querist's stock of information very much as he found it. the first invasion of the danes took place in the year , and to scotland they gave the name of "sutherland," and the hebrides were the southern islands, or "sudreygar," a name which survives in the title of the bishop of sodor and man. the forest of rossendale contains eleven "vaccaries," or cow-pastures (we are told by mr. h. c. march, m.d.), which were called "booths," from the huts of the shepherds and cowherds. from this we trace cowpebooth, bacopbooth, and crawshawbooth. booth is derived from the old norse "bûd," a dwelling, while from "byr" and "boer" we get the surnames byrom, burton, buerton, bamber, thornber. "forseti" was the judge of one of the norse deities, and the word supplies us with fawcett, facit, or facid as it was spelt in , and foster. unal was a danish chief, whose name survives as a surname neal, niel, and o'neil. from the old norse "yarborg," an earthwork, we get yarborough, yerburgh, sedburg, and sedberg. boundaries have always been matters of great importance, and "twistle" is a boundary betwixt farms. endrod was king of norway in , and his name furnishes endr, whose boundary becomes entwistle, and also enderby. rochdale is derived from "rockr," old norse for rock, and dale from the norse "daal," a wide valley; thus the norsename rochdale supplanted celtic-saxon name of "rachdam." "gamul," meaning old, was a common personal name among norsemen. in a grant of land dated , fifteen years before the conquest, appears the name of gouse gamelson, which is a distinct norse patronymic. gambleside was one of the vaccaries or cow-pastures of rossendale forest, and was spelt gambulside. in anglo-saxon and teutonic dialects "ing" is a patronymic, as in bruning, son of brun, says mr. robert ferguson, m.p., in his "surnames as a science." but it has also a wider sense. thus, in leamington it signifies the people of the leam, on which river the place is situated. from a like origin comes the name of the scandinavian vikings, vik-ing; the people from vik, a bay. sir j. picton, in his "ethnology of wiltshire," says: "when the saxons first invaded england they came in tribes, and families headed by their patriarchal leaders. each tribe was called by its leader's name, with the termination 'ing,' signifying family. where they settled they gave their patriarchal name to the mark, or central point round which they clustered." considering the great number of these names, amounting to over a thousand in england, and the manner in which they are dispersed, it is impossible to consider them as anything else than the everyday names of men. this large number will serve to give an idea of the very great extent to which place-names are formed from the names of men who founded the settlements. it must be remembered that the earlier date now generally assigned for the teutonic settlements tends to give greater latitude to the inquiry as to the races by whom the settlements were made, as well as the fact that all our settlements were made in heathen times. from the neighbouring tribe of picts we retain one form "pecthun," from which we derive the surnames of picton, peyton, and paton. this may suggest that we owe the name peat to the same origin. we have also the word pictures, probably formed from "pict," and "heri," a warrior. political freemen chapter vi. political freemen under the reign of ethelred ii. the supremacy of the anglo-saxons had already passed away. as a people they sank, and left only a part of their civilisation and institutions to their successors, the danes and normans. the development of a maritime skill unknown before, of a bold manly spirit of enterprise, and of a political liberty which, by preserving a balance between the freedom of the nobles and of the rest of the people, ensured to england a powerful and peaceful existence. danish settlers in england conferred a great benefit on the country, from a political point of view, by the introduction of a numerous class of independent peasantry. these people formed a striking contrast to the oppressed race of anglo-saxons. turner says: "the danes seem to have planted in the colonies they occupied a numerous race of freemen, and their counties seem to have been well peopled." the number of these independent landowners was consequently greatest in the districts which were earliest occupied by the danes, where they naturally sprung up from the danish chiefs parcelling out the soil to their victorious warriors. twenty years after the norman conquest there was a greater number of independent landed proprietors, if not, in the strictest sense of the word, freeholders, in the districts occupied by the danes, and under "danelag," than in any other of the anglo-saxon parts of england. the smaller anglo-saxon agriculturists were frequently serfs, while the danish settlers, being conquerors, were mostly freemen, and in general proprietors of the soil. domesday book mentions, under the name of "sochmanni," a numerous class of landowners or peasants in the danish districts of the north, while in the south they are rarely to be found. they were not freeholders in the present sense of the term. they stood in a feudal relation to a superior lord, but in such a manner that the "sochmanni" may best be compared with our present "hereditary lessees." their farm passed by inheritance to their sons, they paying certain rents and performing certain feudal duties; but the feudal lord had no power to dispose of the property as he pleased. the following is an abstract of a paper on tithe and tenure in the north, by the rev. j. h. colligan:-- danish influence on land tenure was originally a military one. in westmorland the manors were granted round several great baronies or fees. the barons held their estates "in capite" from the king, upon conditions that were mainly military, while the lords of the manors held of the barons, their chief duty being, to keep a muster-roll of their tenants for the discharge of the military claims of the barons. the tenants held of the lord by fines and services, the latter being, until the close of the xvith century, of a military character. this baronial system, perfected by william the conqueror, gave enormous power into the hands of the barons. the hudlestons, of millum castle, lancashire, exercised the prerogative of "jura regalia" for twenty-two generations. they also had the privileges of "wreck of the sea." some of the barons had the power of capital punishment, others, again, had the right to nominate sheriffs. they held their own courts and could be either friends or rivals of the king, to whom alone they owed homage, with service at home or abroad. the authority thus obtained by the barons was distributed to the knights and lords of the manors, who, in their turn, levied conditions upon their dependants. this system of devolution of power received from the king was enjoyed also by the church, and kept the counties always ready for war. when the martial spirit began to forsake the land, and peaceful and sporting pleasures arose, we find a new form of tenure. lands and tenements are given for the apparently trifling conditions of keeping up eyries of hawks for the baron, or of providing a gilt spur, or of producing a rose, sometimes out of season but generally in the time of roses, or of making presents of pepper, ginger, cloves, or some other tasty trifle. a number of these rents require no explanation, as they are only the reflex of the passion of the age. horses, dogs and hawks for the knight, pepper, ginger and cloves for the monks, are easily understood. the reasons for the rose and stirrup, the spur and the glove are not so apparent. it is possible that originally they were symbolical of real rent or service. the transition from the actual to the symbolical must have taken place in the xivth and xvth centuries. we have hitherto been speaking of the relationship between the barons and the monks, the knights and the lords of the manor. there is no reference to tenants, because there was no such thing as a free individual tenure before the middle of the xvith century. the soldier-tenants clung round the barony of the manor, and their position was defined as "tenantes ad voluntatem." it was only in elizabeth's reign that the demands of the tenants began to be formulated, and the unique form of tenure called "tenant right" appeared on the border. it is difficult to discover when and how the movement for freedom on the part of the tenants began, but it certainly is associated with the reformation, and is seen plainly in those places where protestantism was vigorous. we shall examine the growth of this form of tenure as it appeared in a cumberland manor. in the neighbourhood under consideration we find three kinds of tenants. at the one extreme were the drenges, who were probably saxon slaves; at the other were tenants by right, who were probably equal in dignity and privilege in the early days to the lord of the manor himself. in cumberland and westmoreland traces of the drengage tenements may be found, and the bondgate, appleby, is an illustration of drengage dwellings. the tenants by right are found in cumberland, where they are now called yeomen, and in westmorland, where they are known as statesmen (steadsmen), and in north lancashire, where, to the regret of the writer in the victoria county history, the yeomen are gradually disappearing. mr. j. brownbill says that tenant right was frequently urged all over furness and cartmel and in warton and the northern border of lancashire. he refers to the particulars in west's "antiquities of furness." we have not been able to ascertain the origin of the tenure as it applies to north lancashire, but on the borders it is the outcome of an interesting and unique form of service called cornage. it is still a disputed point as to the origin of the word. some holding it to from the fact that the lord gave notice of the enemies' approach by winding a horn; others that it was much earlier in its origin, and arises from the horn or cattle tax, still known in westmorland as neat- or nowt-geld. whichever origin be taken, it is clear that, from the time of queen elizabeth, the keeping of the borders was an important service, and is seen from the fact that the tenant could not hire another to take his place. in regard to this border service, known as cornage, the lord had several privileges which included wardship or control over the heir, until he was years of age; marriage, which gave him the right of arranging a marriage if the inheritance had devolved upon a female; and relief, which was the payment of a certain sum by the heir upon taking possession of the inheritance. the chief privilege which the "tenant-by-right" possessed for his border service was that of devising his tenement by _will_, a privilege which is much prized until this day. at the restoration the "drengage tenure" was raised into a socage tenure, and it was under this tenure, with that of cornage, and sometimes with a combination of these forms, that most of the tenements of the manors of cumberland and westmorland were held. these holders came to be described as customary tenants. the customary tenant is distinguished from the freeholder, and the copyholder, in that he is not seised of his land in fee simple, as is the freeholder, and is not subject to the disabilities of the copyholder, nor are his customary dues considered derogatory to the nobility of his tenure. the customary tenant is therefore between the freeholder and the copyholder, with a number of well defined privileges. the two most important duties of the average tenant in cumberland and westmorland were those of warfare and the watching of the forests. the former depended entirely upon the attitude of the other kingdoms, especially scotland; the latter was a long and laborious service laid upon the tenant until the middle of the xvith century. the counties of cumberland and westmorland were dense forests until long after the norman conquest, and the timber for the royal shipyards was grown in these highlands of england. the forests were full of game, and the regulations in connection with the preservation of game and the upkeep of the forests were most exacting upon the people. from the middle of the xvith century, however, these ancient laws and services began to lose their force, and a new set of regulations arose to meet the new environment. slowly but surely the feudal system had passed away. here and there a relic remained, but it was impossible to ignore the rights of men who could no longer be bought and sold with a tenement. from the first year of the reign of elizabeth the border service is well defined and the claims of the tenants became fixed. several years before, lord wharton, as deputy-general of the west marches, drew up a series of regulations for the protection of that part of the border. in an interesting article by mr. graham, we find how the men of hayton, near carlisle, turned out every night with their spears, and remained crouched on the river bank in the black darkness or the pouring rain. it is a typical example of borderers engaged upon their regular service. this system had superseded the feudal system. the feudal tenure survived in many instances where a power. like one of their own tumultuous forces, when once directed into the right stream, they went to form that new product which we call an englishman. the documents, which were discovered at penruddock in the township of hutton soil--the "kist" is in the possession of mr. wm. kitchen, town head, penruddock--relate to a struggle between the lord and the tenants of hutton john, cumberland, on the subject of tenant right. so far as we are aware these documents are unique. the various authorities on cumberland history give reference to a number of these disputes but no mention is made of the hutton john case, so that we have here for the first time a full knowledge of what was probably the most important of all these trials. in addition, while there are no documents relating to the other cases, we have here every paper of the hutton john case preserved. the story of the discovery is that the writer (the rev. j. hay colligan) was searching for material for a history of the penruddock presbyterian meeting house when he came across a kist, or chest, containing these documents. (a calendar of these documents may be found in the cumberland and westmorland transactions for .) the manor of hutton john had long been in the possession of the hutton family when it passed in to a son of sir john hudleston of millum castle by his marriage with mary hutton. her brother thomas had burdened the estate on account of his imprisonment lasting about fifty years. it was the son of this marriage, joseph by name, who became the first lord of the manor, and most of the manorial rights still remain with the hudleston family. after joseph hudleston came three andrews--first, - ; second, - ; third, - --and it was with these four lords that the tenants carried on their historical dispute. the death of thomas hutton took place some time after and was the occasion for raising a number of questions that agitated the manor for almost a century afterwards. it flung the combustible topic of tenure into an atmosphere that was already charged with religious animosity, and the fire in the manor soon was as fierce as the beacon-flare on their own skiddaw. the position of the parties in the manor may be summed up by saying that joseph hudleston insisted that the tenants were tenants-at-will, and the tenants on the other hand claimed tenant right. whatever may have been the origin of cornage, it is clear that by the xviith century it was synonymous with tenant right. the details in the dispute cannot here be treated, but the central point was the subject of a general fine. this fine, frequently called gressome, was the entrance fine which the tenant paid to the lord upon admittance. in some manors it was a two years' rent, in others three. an unusual form in the manor of hutton john was a seven years' gressome, called also a running fine or a town-term. this was the amount of two years' rent at the end of every seven years. the contention of the tenants was, that as this was a running fine, no general fine was due to the lord of the manor on the death of the previous lord. from this position the tenants never wavered, and for over seventy years they fought the claim of the lord. upon the death of thomas hutton the tenants claiming tenant right refused to pay the general fine to joseph hudleston. after wrangling with the tenants for a few years, joseph brought a bill against them in . he succeeded in obtaining a report from the law lord, baron trevor, which plays an important part in the case unto the end. he apparently disregarded the portion which applied to himself, and pressed the remainder upon the tenants. the tenants thereupon decided to send three of their number with a petition to charles i. and it was delivered to the king at newmarket. he ordered his judges to look into the matter. the civil war, however, had begun, and the whole country was about to be filled with smoke and flame. needless to say the tenants took the side of parliament, while the lord of the manor, the first andrew, was described in the records as a papist in arms. during the civil war the whole county of cumberland was in action. the manor of hutton john was mainly for the parliament. greystoke castle, only two miles from the manor, surrendered to the parliamentary troops. the termination of the civil war in was the date for the beginning of litigation between the hudleston family and the parliament on the subject of the manor. after this was over the struggle between the lord and the tenants began again. in their distress the tenants sent a letter to lord howard of naworth castle, whose puritan sympathies were well known. this is a feature of the case that need not be dwelt upon, but without which there can be no complete explanation of the story. the struggle was in fact a religious one. the occasion of it was the entrance into a cumberland manor of a lancashire family, and the consequent resentment on the part of the adherents of the manor, who boasted that they had been there "afore the hudlestons." the motives which prompted each party were those expressed in the words puritan _v._ papist. the year was a memorable one in the history of the dispute. in that year the tenants brought a bill of complaint against the lord at carlisle assizes. the judge, at the opening of the court, declared that the differences could be compounded by some gentlemen of the county. all the parties agreed, and the court made an order whereby sir philip musgrave, kt. and bart., and sir john lowther, bart., were to settle the case before september st. if they could not determine within that time they were to select an umpire within one week, who must make his award before lady-day. sir philip musgrave and sir john lowther accepted the responsibility placed upon them by the court and took great pains to accommodate the differences, but finding themselves unable to furnish the award within the time specified they elected sir george fletcher, bart., to be umpire. sir george fletcher made his award on march rd, . the original document, written, signed and sealed with his own hand, is here before us. its tattered edges prove that it has been frequently referred to. sir george fletcher's award was on the whole in favour of the tenants, and especially on the subject of the general fine, which he declared was not payable on the death of the lord. other important matters were dealt with, including heriots, widows' estates, the use of quarries on the tenements, the use of timber, the mill rent, together with the subject of boons and services. all the tenants acquiesced in the award, and the lord paid the damages for false imprisonment to several of the tenants. in the year andrew hudleston the first died, and andrew the second, - , succeeded to the lordship. he immediately began to encroach. he demanded the general fine in addition to rents and services, contrary to the award. the struggle therefore broke out afresh as fiercely as ever, and both parties returned to the old subject of tenure. the matter became a religious one owing to the restoration and the rigid acts which followed between - . an extraordinary incident occurred at this time in the conversion of the lord to the protestant cause, but this did not affect the dispute between him and the tenants. in the tenants moved again. they requested the court to put into operation the award of sir george fletcher. from that year until the strife was bitterer than ever, and the kist contains more documents relating to this period than to any other. in the year , after several judgments had previously been made against the third andrew hudleston and his late father, the former appealed to the house of lords, and the case was dismissed in favour of the tenants. although the struggle lasted until the year , the climax was reached in . the historical value of the case is the way in which it illustrates the conditions of tenure in the north-west of england, and at the same time pourtrays the pertinacity in spite of serious obstacles of the yeoman class in asserting its rights. _tithe._ the subject of tithe is one that can only be dealt with in a restricted way and from one point of view. it is well known that, through the influence of george fox in north lancashire, quakerism spread with frenzied force through westmorland and cumberland. many of those who had been previously content with puritan doctrines seceded to the quakers. the practice of declining to pay the tithe, in the case which the documents before us illustrate, was of a different character. it occurs in the parish of greystoke, in which the manor of hutton john was situated. five years after the award of sir george fletcher on the tenure case, the nonconforming section of the tenants of hutton john raised another question of a tithe called "bushel corn." this had been regularly paid to the rector of greystoke from time immemorial. even the puritan rectors had received this tithe down to that great puritan, richard gilpin, who was ejected from the rectory of greystoke in . the point in dispute was not a deliberate refusal of the tithe, it was a declaration of the parishioners that the _measure_ was an unjust one. the contest was carried on by john noble, of penruddock, and thos. parsons, the steward of the countess of arundel and surrey, lady of the barony of greystoke. associated with parsons was john robson, a servant and proctor of the rector. parsons and robson were farmers of the tithe, but the case had the full consent of the rector, the rev. allan smallwood, d.d. the immediate cause of the dispute was the question of the customary measure. it resulted in the settlement of a vexatious subject which was as to the size of a _bushel_. the matter was one of contention throughout the country until standard weights and measures were recognised and adopted. in cumberland the most acute form was upon the subject of the corn bushel. the deviations in quantity were difficult to suppress, and several law cases upon this matter are on record. in the parish of greystoke the case was first begun in . the bushel measure had been gradually increased from sixteen gallons, which amount the parishioners acknowledged and were prepared to pay, until it reached twenty-two gallons. the case passed through the assizes of three counties, being held at carlisle, lancaster and appleby, and a verdict for the parishioners was eventually given. the documents, apart from their intrinsic worth, have thus an inestimable value, in that they shed light upon and give information in regard to the doings in a cumberland manor where hitherto there has been but darkness and silence, as far as the records of the people were concerned. we are able now to follow with interest and satisfaction a story that is equal in courage and persistence with the best traditions of english love of justice and fair play. the documents in this case were numerous but small, and were in many cases letters and scraps of paper. as a piece of local history it is not to be compared with the tenure case, but it contains valuable items of parish life in the xviith century. perhaps the best of the letters are those from sir john otway, the well-known lawyer. john noble the yeoman has several letters full of fine touches. the depositions of the witnesses at cockermouth in are picturesque. the lawyers' bills, of which there are many, are not so illuminating. there are several letters of henry johnes of lancaster, who was mayor of that town on two occasions. public men regard it as a great honour to represent the northern districts of england in parliament, merely from the intelligent political character of the voters; and it was certainly through the adherence of the love of freedom in the north that cobden and bright were able to struggle so successfully for the promotion of free trade and for financial reform. sir e. bulwer lytton, the great english writer, says: "those portions of the kingdom originally peopled by the danes are noted for their intolerance of all oppression, and their resolute independence of character, to wit, yorkshire, lancashire, norfolk, and cumberland, and large districts in the scottish lowlands." memorials of the danes are mixed up with england's freest and most liberal institutions; and to the present day the place where the candidate for a seat in parliament addressed the electors bears throughout england the pure danish name of the "husting." when william i. began to conquer england, and to parcel it out among his warriors, it was the old danish inhabitants who opposed him; who would have joined him, their kinsman the norman, especially as he gave it out that one of their objects in coming to england was to avenge the danes and norwegians who were massacred by ethelred, but the normans aimed at nothing less than the abolition of the free tenure of estates and the complete establishment of a feudal constitution. this mode of proceeding was resented, which would rob the previously independent man of his right to house and land, and by transferring it to the powerful nobles shook the foundation of freedom. the danes turned from them in disgust, and no longer hesitated to join the equally oppressed anglo-saxons. the normans were obliged to build strong fortifications, for fear of the people of scandinavian descent, who abounded both in the towns and rural districts. what the normans chiefly apprehended was attacks from the danes who, there was good reason to suppose, might come over with their fleets, to the assistance of their countrymen in the north of england. the norman kings who succeeded william the conqueror dwelt in perfect safety in the southern districts, but did not venture north without some fear, and a chronicler who lived at the close of the twelfth century assures us that they never visited this part of the kingdom without being accompanied by a strong army. abolition of slavery. in those districts where the danes exercised complete dominion the custom of slavery was abolished. this fact is established by a comparison of the population of those districts colonised by the danes with that of the older english districts. the population returns given in domesday book prove that no "servi" existed in the counties where danish influence was greatest. both in yorkshire and lincolnshire at this time there is no record of slavery. in the counties where this influence was less, such as nottingham, the returns show that one serf existed to every of the population. in derbyshire per cent., in norfolk and suffolk per cent., in leicestershire per cent., in northamptonshire per cent., in cambridge, hertford and essex per cent. outside the influence of the danelagh the proportion is much greater. in oxfordshire per cent. were slaves, in worcester, bucks, somerset and wiltshire per cent., in dorset and hampshire per cent., in shropshire per cent., in devonshire per cent., in cornwall per cent., and in gloucestershire per cent., or almost one-fourth of the whole population. these records were not made by danish surveyors, but norman officials, and explode the theory of historians like green who assert that the english settlers were communities of free men. these conditions of tenure were introduced by the danes, and became so firmly established that the names given to such freeholders as "statesmen" in cumberland, "freemen" and "yeomen" in yorkshire, westmorland and north lancashire still exist at the present day. as we have seen, records of struggles for tenant rights have come to light in recent years which prove that feudal conditions were imposed by successive landlords, and were resisted both before and after the commonwealth. invasion and settlement. the norse settlement at the mouth of the dee dated from the year when ingimund, who had been expelled from dublin, was given certain waste lands near chester, by aethelflaed, lady of the mercians. this colony extended from the shore of flint, over the wirral peninsula to the mersey, and it is recorded in domesday by the name of their thingwall or tingvella. along with the group of norse names in the wirral is thurstaston, or thors-stone, or thorstun-tun. this natural formation of red sandstone has been sometimes mistaken for a tingmount or norse monument. several monuments of the tenth century norse colony are to be found in the district, such as the hogback stone in west kirby museum, and the gravestone bearing the wheel-shaped head. a similar monument was found on hilbre island, and other remains of cross slabs occur at neston and bromborough. the norse place-names of wirral prove that these lands were waste and unoccupied, when names of danish origin were given, such as helsby, frankby, whitby, raby, irby, greasby and pensby. some wirral names are composed of celtic and norse, as the settlers brought both gælic and norse names from ireland. these are found in the norse runes in the isle of man and north of lancaster. socmen were manorial tenants who were free in status, though their land was not held by charter, like that of a freeholder, but was secured to them by custom. they paid a fixed rent for the virgate, or part of a virgate, which they generally held; and, taking the peterborough socmen as examples, they were bound to render farm produce, such as fowls and eggs, at stated seasons; to lend their plough teams thrice in winter and spring; to mow and carry hay; to thresh and harrow, and do other farm work for one day ... and to help at the harvest for one or two days. their services contrasted with the _week-work_ of a villein, were little more than nominal and are comparable to those of the radmanni. the peterborough socmen reappear under the "descriptio militum" of the abbey, where it is said they were served "cum militibus," but this appears to be exceptional. socmen were like "liber tenentes" frequently liable to "merchet, heriot and tallage." their tenure was the origin of free socage, common in the thirteenth century, and now the prevailing tenure of land in england. socmen held land by a fixed money payment, and by a fixed though trivial amount of base service which would seem to ultimately disappear by commutation." all socmen as customary tenants required the intervention of the steward of the manor in the transfer or sale of their rights. ("palgrave's dictionary of political economy," p. .) _merchet._ of all the manorial exactions the most odious was the "merchetum," a fine paid by the villain on giving his daughter in marriage. it was considered as a mark of servile descent, and the man free by blood was supposed to be always exempted from it, however debased his position was in every other respect. in the status of socmen, developed from the law of saxon freemen there was usually nothing of the kind. "heriot" was the fine or tax payable to the lord or abbot on the death of the socman. the true heriot is akin in name and in character to the saxon "here-great"--to the surrender of the military outfit supplied by the chief to his follower. in feudal time and among peasants it is not the war-horse and armour that is meant, but the ox and harness take their place. (vinogradoff, "mediæval manors": political exactions, chap. v., .) _mol-men._ etymologically, there is reason to believe that this term is of danish origin, and the meaning has been kept in practice by the scotch dialect (_vide_ "ashley, economic history," i, pp. - .) _tallage._ the payment of arbitrary tallage is held during the thirteenth century to imply a servile status. such tallage at will is not very often found in documents, although the lord sometimes retained his prerogative in this respect even when sanctioning the customary form of renders and services. now and then it is mentioned that tallage is to be levied once a year although the amount remains uncertain. ("villianage in england," chap. v, , vinogradoff.) husbandry chapter vii. husbandry. the influence of the norse has been felt in terms connected with land. "god speed the plough" has been the toast of many a cup at many a merry meeting for many a century past in this realm. yet we seem not generally to know by whom the name of the plough was introduced amongst us. the anglo-saxon knew nothing of such an implement and its uses ere they settled in the land. this is apparent from their not having a term for it in their own tongue. even when they were accustomed to the use of the so-called plough of the romans, which they found in the hands of the british at their settlement in the country, they so confounded the terms of husbandry that they gave the name of "syl" or "suhl" to the roman-british implement, from the furrow "sulcus," which it drew, without attending in the least to the roman-british name. the work of one such plough during a season they have called a "sulling" or furrowing. this so-called plough, from the figures left of it in the anglo-saxon mss., seems to have been but a sorry kind of an article, not fit to be brought into comparison with the worst form of our plough in the neglected districts of england. we owe both the framework and the origin of the modern plough to the northerners. we meet with the word in the old norse "plogr." in swedish it is "plog"; while in danish it occurs both as "plov" and "ploug," as in english, and it was in all probability introduced by that people during the eleventh century, at the latter part of their dynasty within the island. there is no root either in the teutonic or scandinavian tongues from which it is deducible. the british name for their plough was "aradr," their mode of pronouncing the latin "aratum," the word for the roman plough. the sort of agriculture which was known in the very early times must have been extremely simple, if we are to judge it by the terms which have reached our times. ulphilas, in his translation of the greek testament construes the word for plough with the gothic word "hôha," the origin of our modern term "hoe." we may therefore surmise that in these primitive times natives hoed the ground for their crops for want of better implements to turn up the soil. while we owe to the norse the name for plough, we are also indebted to them for the term "husbandry." among the scandinavians, the common name for the peasantry was "bondi," the abstract form of "buondi," dwelling in, or inhabiting a country. as intercourse with more civilised nations began to civilise the inhabitants of these northern climes, certain favoured "bondi" had houses assigned to them, with plots of ground adjoining for the use of their families. as the culture of such private plots was distinct from the common culture of other land, the person so favoured, separated from the general herd, obtained the name of "husbondi," and the culture of their grounds "husbondri." when such families obtained settlements in england, they brought over with them the habits and names of the north; and from mingling with the anglo-saxon natives, with whom adjuncts to introduced terms and titles were common, the suffix of "man" was applied to the name of "husbondi," who thus became "husbandmen," a term still kept up in the northern counties for labourers on farms, who are styled husbandmen to this day. names from trades and handicrafts were given to persons employed therein both by danes and anglo-saxons. such names keep up their distinction to the present day. the general name of artizans of every kind was smith. simple "smiths" are anglo-saxon, "smithies" are norse. "millars," from the trade of millers, are anglo-saxon. "milners" for the same reason are norse. "ulls," "woolley" is anglo-saxon, "woolner" is norse; "fullers" and "towers" are anglo-saxon; "kilners" and "gardners," norse. some names derived from offices as "gotts" from "gopr," a priest, or one who had charge of a "hof," or heathen temple in the north. "goods" comes from "gopa," and "barge" from "bargr." as further instances we may notice the names of buildings. "bigging," applied to a building, shows it to be norse, as in "newbiggin" and "dearsbiggin." such buildings were built of timber, and had an opening for the door and an eyelet for a window. in the norse this opening was called "vindanga," or windeye, which term we have adopted, and modernised it into our word "window." we have also chosen several norse names for our domesticated animals. "bull" we have formed from the norse "bole." "gommer," or "gimmer" we retain in the northern dialect for ewe lamb, from the norse "gimber." "stegg," the name for a gander, is in norse "stegger." in the north nicknames were general, and every man had his nickname, particularly if there was aught remarkable in his appearance or character. some obtained such names from their complexions, as the "greys," "whites," "blacks," "browns," "blakes." short and dwarfish persons took the nicknames of "stutts," nowadays called "stotts." before christianity found its way among the natives, some bore fanciful names, as may be instanced in "bjorn," a bear, now "burns." prefixes to such fanciful names were also common, as in "ashbjorn," the bear of the osir or gods, in modern times spelt "ashburns"; and "thorbjorn," the bear of thor, whence came "thornber" and "thorburn." the name of "mather" is norse for man, and as norse names are general, we may produce the following: "agur" from "ager"; "rigg" from "rig"; "grime" from "grimr"; "foster" from "fostr"; "harland" from "arlant"; "grundy" from "grunrd"; "hawkes" from "hawkr"; and "frost" from "frosti," which are of frequent occurrence in the old norse sagas. in the vale of the lune the danes have left numerous traces. north of lancaster is halton, properly "haughton," named from the tumulus or danish "haugh," within the village. these are the names of the "bojais" or farms belonging to "byes," or residences of their greatmen. near hornby we find such places at "whaitber," "stainderber," "threaber," "scalaber." within the manor of hornby are "santerfell," "romsfell," "litherell," or fell of the hillside. the name of fell for mountain bespeaks norse or danish influence. the raven was the national symbol of the danes. we have ravenstonedale and ravenshore, and we also find the name in rivington pike, from raven-dun-pike. pike is a common name for a hill or spur standing away from the mountain range, and is derived from the picts. the derivation of our common pronoun "same" is to be traced through the old norse "samt," "sama," and "som," and has been selected into our tongue from the definite form "sama," the same. while we might expect to meet with this word, in the lowland scotch, where the norse influence was greater, the people use the anglo-saxon "ilia" or "ylea," while in the general english, where the influence of the northmen was less, we have adopted the norse word "same," to the exclusion of the word we might expect to consider as our own. many a good word do we owe to the norsmen, whatever we may think about their deeds. stone crosses chapter ix. stone crosses. the parish church of st. peter, bolton, was rebuilt entirely by mr. peter ormrod, whose surname is danish, and was consecrated on st. peter's day, . among the pre-norman stones discovered during the re-building were the broken head of a supposed irish cross, of circular type, probably of the tenth century; part of the shaft of a cross bearing a representation of adam and eve, with the apple between their lips, and an upturned hand; and a stone with carving of a nondescript monster. at this period the danes were the rulers of ireland and the isle of man, whose bishops were men bearing danish names, and therefore we may assume that this memorial was erected under their influence and direction. some crosses, says fosbrooke, in his dictionary of antiquities, owe their origin to the early christians marking the druid stones with crosses, in order to change the worship without breaking the prejudice. some of the crosses presumed to be runic rather belong to the civilised britons, were erected by many of the christian kings before a battle or a great enterprise, with prayers and supplication for the assistance of almighty god. at a later period, not probably earlier than the tenth century, a scandinavian influence shows itself, and to a very appreciable extent modifies the ornamentation of these monuments. it went even further, and produced a representation of subjects, which, however strange it may appear, are only explained by a reference to the mythology of that part of europe. the grave covers, to which, on account of their shape, the name of hog-backed stones has been applied, appear to have occurred very rarely beyond the counties of cumberland, durham, york, and lancaster, though some not quite of the ordinary type have been found in scotland, as, for instance, at govan, on the clyde, near glasgow. they developed ultimately, through a transitional form, into the coped stone with a representation of a covering of tiles, the roof of man's last home, and were a common grave cover of the twelfth century. stone crosses. in pre-reformation times there was scarcely a village or hamlet in england which had not its cross; many parishes, indeed, had more than one. we know that at liverpool there were the high cross, the white cross, and st. patrick's cross. while many of these crosses are of undoubted saxon origin, others bear distinct traces of scandinavian mythology. [illustration: heysham hogback.] [illustration] north lancashire relics. in the churchyard of halton, near lancaster, is the shaft of an ancient cross. in the upper part was removed by the rector, in order that the portion remaining might be converted into a sundial. on the east side are two panels, one showing two human figures, in a sitting posture, engaged in washing the feet of a seated figure; the other showing two figures on either side of a tall cross. this is the christian side of a cross erected at a time of transition. on the west side is a smith at work with a pair of bellows. he is forging a large pair of pincers, as he sits on a chair. below the chair is the bust of a man, or a coat of mail. above him is a sword of heavy type, also a second hammer, a second pair of pincers, and a human body, with a "figure of eight" knot, intertwined in a circle, in place of a head, and an object at his feet representing the head. the half-panel above has reference to some event in the sagas. at heysham, near lancaster, also in the churchyard, is an example of a hog-backed stone, a solid mass six feet long and two feet thick, laid over some ancient grave. on the stone is a stag, with broad horns, and as it is not a reindeer it is said to be a rude representation of an elk. the scene on this side of the stone depicts an animal hunt. the termination at each end is a rude quadruped on its hind quarters. a fragment of a beautifully-sculptured cross is still remaining, evidently part of a cross which fitted into the socket of the stone. in the churchyard of st. mary's, lancaster, was a fine cross with a runic inscription, meaning "pray for cynebald, son of cuthbert." this cross has been removed to the british museum. other ancient remains. at whalley are three fine specimens of reputed saxon crosses. tradition says they commemorate the preaching of paulinus in . although they have no remaining inscriptions, their obelisk form and ornaments of fretwork were used in common by the norwegians, saxons, and danes. in winwick churchyard is a great fragment of a crosshead, consisting of the boss and two arms. on the arms are a man with two buckets and a man being held head downwards by two ferocious-looking men, who have a saw beneath them, and are either sawing him asunder or are preparing to saw off his arms. this evidently relates to oswald, for he was dismembered by order of pemba, and the buckets might refer to the miracle-working well which sprang up where his body fell. at upton, birkenhead, is a sculptured stone bearing a runic inscription. dr. browne takes the inscription to mean: "the people raised a memorial: pray for aethelmund." at west kirby is a nearly complete example of a hog-backed stone. the lower part is covered on both sides by rough interlacing bands, and the middle and upper part with scales, the top being ornamented with a row of oblong rings on each side, with a band running through each row of rings. the work at the top, which looks like a row of buckles, is very unusual. the stone, which is of harder material than any stone in the neighbourhood, must have been brought from a distance, and in the memorial of some important person, probably thurstan, as we find the name thurstaston in the locality. there is also at west kirby a flat slab on the face of which a cross is sculptured. this is very unusual in england, though not rare in scotland and ireland. at hilbree, the island off west kirby, there is a cross of like character. principal rhys says that in the eleventh and twelfth centuries the norsemen were in the habit of largely recruiting their fleet in shetland and the orkneys, not merely with thrales, but with men of a higher position. they infused thus a certain amount of pictish blood into the island. the "shetland bind"--oghams distributed over the island, in such places as braddan, turby, michael, onchan, and bride. the norwegian language, says mr. c. roeder, was spoken practically from - ; it was introduced by the shetland and orkney men, and from norway, with which connection was kept, as shown by the grammatical structure of the runic stones in the island, which falls between and . it was the only language of the rulers, and used at "thing" and hall, resembling in this old norman barons and their counts in king william the conqueror's time. the spirit of the norsemen lives in the legal constitution of the government, an inheritance that produced a free parliament, and particularly in its place-names. the sea fringe, with its hundreds of norse rocks, creeks, and forelands, and caves, have left imperishable evidence of the mighty old seafarers, the track they took, and the commingling and fusion they underwent in blood and speech, and their voyages from the shetlands and western isles. [illustration: hammer.] [illustration: brooch.] [illustration: fibula of white metal from claughton.] some human remains. claughton-on-brock, near preston, is named clactune in domesday book. the danes have also left relics of their presence and influence as they have done all over the fylde district. the late monsignor gradwell, a great student of local nomenclature and a lancashire historian of considerable repute, wrote: "in claughton the roman road crosses the fleet, a small brook in the sixacre. about seventy years ago a barrow was found on the west of the new lane, about half a mile south of the street. in it were found an earthenware urn containing the burnt remains of a human body, with some delicately wrought silver brooches, some beads and arms, a dagger and a sword. the brooch of fretwork was precisely similar to many ancient danish brooches still preserved in the copenhagen museum, and this proves that the claughton deposit was also danish. that the danes were strong in claughton and in the neighbourhood is proved by the many danish names. thus, we have dandy birk, or danes hill; stirzacre, and barnacre, respectively stirs land and biorn's land. the danish relics were carefully deposited at claughton hall by the finder, mr. thomas fitzherbert brockholes." the halton cross. now what is to be said about the subjects carved on these crosses and about the date of the work? one of the subjects is most remarkable, and gives a special interest to this cross; for here on the west face and north we have the story of sigurd fafnir's bane; here is his sword and the forging of it, his horse grani, which bore away the treasure; the roasting of the dragon's heart; the listening to the voice of the birds, and the killing of regin the smith. [illustration: halton cross.] the story so far as it relates to our subject is this: we all know that the love of money is the root of all evil. now there were two brothers, fafnir and regin. fafnir held all the wealth, and became a huge monster dragon, keeping watch over his underground treasure-house. regin, his brother, had all skill in smith's work, but no courage. he it was who forged the sword wherewith the hero sigurd went forth to kill the dragon and take the treasure. this he did with the help of his wonderful horse grani, who, when the heavy boxes of treasure were placed on his back, would not move until his master had mounted, but then went off merrily enough. this story, anglicised and christianised, is the story of our english patron saint st. george, the horse rider and the dragon slayer. here is the story written in stone. we know the ancient belief that the strength of every enemy slain passes into the body of the conqueror. illustration of hog-back stone. the stone is perhaps more than a thousand years old, and has been a good deal knocked about. it was once the tomb of a great christian briton or englishman, before the norman conquest; and you may still see four other "hog-backed saxon" uncarved tombstones in lowther churchyard, marking the graves of the noble of that day. when a stone church was built, our sculptured shrine was built into the walls of the church, and some of the mortar still sticks to the red sandstone. when this old church was pulled down to give place to a new one this same stone, covered with lime and unsightly, was left lying about. you will see something twisted and coiled along the bottom of each drawing beneath the figures, and you will see some strange designs (they are sacred symbols used long ago) on either side of one of the heads in the lower picture; but what will strike you most will be the long curls of hair, and the hands pressed to the breast or folded and pressed together as if in prayer; and, above all, you will notice that all these people seem to be asleep; their eyes are closed and their hands folded or pressed to their breast, and they all look as if they were either asleep or praying, or very peaceful and at perfect rest. these people are not dead; look at their faces and mark generally the attitudes of repose. now let us find something worth remembering about all this. the tombstone is made like a little house to represent the home of the dead. but at the time i am speaking of the people believed that only those who died bravely fighting would have a life of happiness afterwards; other people who were not wicked people at all--but all who died of sickness or old age--went to the cold, dark world ruled over by a goddess called "hel," who was the daughter of the evil one. "such is the origin of our word hell, the name of a goddess applied to a locality. her domains were very great and her yard walls very high. hunger is her dish, starvation her knife, care is her bed, a beetling cliff is the threshold of her hall, which is hung with grief." all, except the warriors who died fighting, however good, went to her domain. it might be thought that to be with such a goddess after death was bad enough, but there was a worse place. for the wicked another place was prepared, a great hall and a bad one; its doors looked northward. it was altogether wrought of adders' backs wattled together, and the heads of the adder all turned inwards, and spit venom, so that rivers of venom ran along the hall, and in those rivers the wicked people must wade for ever. the christian wished to show that this terrible idea of man's future state was to fire away to something better through the lord of life, our lord jesus christ, and so they set up crosses and carried triquetra, the sign of the ever blessed trinity, on their sculptured tombs to teach the people to believe no longer in gods and goddesses of darkness, but to look to one god, the father, son and holy spirit, to drive away all evil spirits from their hearts, and to give them a quiet time and a perfect end. was there any wonder that years afterwards, when the bright light shone forth from the cross to disperse the dark clouds of paganism, that men said that holy men, such as patrick, kentigern and cuthbert had driven all poisonous snakes out of the land? the twisted and coiling thing beneath the figures is no doubt the old serpent. the cross of christ and the ash tree yggdrasil of the northern tribes bore a like meaning at a certain time to the mixed peoples on this coast. (w. s. collingwood.) anglo-danish monuments. the great variety of ornament found in the north riding monuments shows that in four centuries many influences were brought to bear upon the sculptors' art, and much curious development went on, of which we may in the future understand the cause. our early sculptors, like the early painters, were men trying hard to express their ideals, which we have to understand before we can appreciate their work. the anglian people included writers and thinkers like bede and alcuin, and that their two centuries of independence in the country of which the north riding was the centre and heart, were two centuries of a civilization which ranked high in the world of that age. the danish invasion, so lamentable in its earlier years, brought fresh blood and new energies in its train, and up to the norman conquest this part of england was rich and flourishing. in writing the history of its art, part of the material will be found in these monuments. the material of which these sculptures are made is usually of local stone. they were carved on the spot and not imported ready made. in the progress of anglian art we have the development which began with an impulse coming from the north, and ending with influence coming from the south. the monuments were possibly executed by anglian sculptors under the control of danish conquerors. even under the early heathen rule of the danes, christians worked and lived, and as each succeeding colony of danes became christianised, they required gravestones, and churches to be carved for them. following a generation of transition, at the end of the ninth century, monuments are found displaying danish taste. the close connection of the york kingdom with dublin, provides a reason for the irish influence. abundant evidence is found in the chain pattern, and ring patterns, the dragons, and wheelheads, which are hacked and not finished into a rounded surface by chiselling. the brompton hogbacks are among the finest works of this period. the stainton bear, and the wycliffe bear, are also of this period. the pickhill hogback has an irish-scandavian dragon, and other dragons are to be seen at gilling, crathorne, easington, levisham, sinnington, and pickering. new influences came from the midlands into yorkshire, after the fall of the dublin-york kingdom, about the year . one instance of this advance in the sculptor's art is to be seen in the round shaft, trimmed square above, at gilling, stanwick, and middleton, which came from mercia, and passed on into cumberland, where it is to be found at penrith and gosforth. these latter have edda subjects and appear to be late tenth century. gilling has a curious device, which may possibly be the völund wing wheel, and völund appears on the leeds cross, and also at neston in cheshire. the scandinavian chain pattern, frequent on the _stones_ of the north riding, and in cumberland, is entirely absent in manuscripts. there must have been books at lastingham, hackness, gilling, and other great monasteries, but the stone-carvers did not copy them. [illustration] [illustration: base and side of the ormside cup.] the ormside cup, on the other hand, has close analogies with the two important monuments at croft and northallerton, which seem to be the leading examples of the finest style, from which all the rest evolve, not without influence from abroad at successive periods. it is to relief work rather than to manuscripts that we must look for the inspiration of the sculptors. in these monuments linked together we can trace the continuation of the viking age style during the later half of the tenth century and the early part of the eleventh centuries. the stone carver's art was reviving, stones were becoming more massive, which means that they were more skilfully quarried, the cutting is more close and varied, and on its terms the design is more decorative and artistic, though still preserving its northern character among impulses and influences from the south. but there is no room here for the bewcastle cross or the hovingham stone. we have an example of this period's attempt to imitate. it is probable that the stone carving was a traditional business, began by st. wilfrid's, and benedict bishop's imported masons, and carried on in a more or less independent development as it is to-day. with the danish invasion began a period of new influences which were not shaken off until after the norman conquest. the interlaced work was abandoned in the tenth century by southern sculptors, remained the national art of the north. the manx, irish, and scotch kept it long after the eleventh century, and so did the scandinavians. the bewcastle cross in the gigurd shaft of the cross at halton in lancashire, and if this development has been rightly described the halton shaft is easily understood. in the period covered by the eleventh century dials inscribed with anglo-danish names date themselves. interlacing undergoes new development, becoming more open and angular, until we get right lined plaits like wensley, it is better cut, as the later part of the century introduces the masons who rebuilt the churches and began the abbeys. no longer was the work hacked but clean chiselled, and intermingled with new grotesques; we find it at hackness, in the impost, and in the fonts at alne and bowes, where we are already past the era of the norman conquest. anglian work of the simpler forms and earlier types date a.d. full development of anglian art, middle of eighth century to its close. anglian work in decline, or in ruder hands, but not yet showing danish influence, early ninth century. transitional, such as anglian carvers might have made for danish conquerors, late ninth century. anglo-danish work showing irish influence, early half of the tenth century. anglo-danish work with midland influence, later part of tenth and beginning of eleventh century. eleventh century, pre-norman. post-conquest, developed out of pre norman art. recumbent monuments were grave-slabs, which may have been coffin lids, such as must have fitted the saxon rock graves at heysham, lancashire, while other forms may have simply marked the place under which a burial was made. they are found with anglian lettering at wensley, another has been removed from yarm, and those of the durham district are well known. the two stones at wensley may have been recumbent, like the melsonby stones. the spennithorne slab bears crosses of the earlier northumbrian type, seen again in the west wilton slab. at crathorne are two slabs, with "maltese" crosses apparently late, all the preceding being of the fine style. levisham slab has an irish scandinavian dragon. grave slabs are found of all periods and styles. shrine-shaped tombs are known in various parts of england, with pre-viking ornament. (w. s. collingwood). runes chapter x. runes. before dealing with the norse and danish antiquities of lancashire, of which we have some remains in the form of sculptured stones, and ancient crosses, it would be profitable to inquire into the origin and development of that mysterious form of letters known as runes or runic. how many of the thousands who annually visit the isle of man are aware that the island contains a veritable museum of runic historical remains? a brief survey of these inscriptions, which have yielded definite results, having been deciphered for us by eminent scholars, will help us to understand the nature of those to be found in our own county. we are told by dr. wägner that runes were mysterious signs. the word rune is derived from rûna, a secret. the form of the writing would appear to be copied from the alphabet of the phoenicians. the runes were looked upon, for many reasons, as full of mystery and supernatural power. in the fourth century ulphilas made a new alphabet for the goths by uniting the form of the greek letters to the runic alphabet, consisting of twenty-five letters, which was nearly related to that of the anglo-saxons. the runes gradually died out as christianity spread, and the roman alphabet was introduced in the place of the old germanic letters. the runes appear to have served less as a mode of writing than as a help to memory, and were principally used to note down a train of thought, to preserve wise sayings and prophecies, and the remembrance of particular deeds and memorable occurrences. tacitus informs us that it was the custom to cut beech twigs into small pieces, and then throw them on a cloth, which had been previously spread out for the purpose, and afterwards to read future events by means of the signs accidentally formed by the bits of wood as they lay in the cloth. in his catalogue of runic inscriptions found on manx crosses, kermode says that "of the sculptors' names which appear all are norse. out of a total of forty-four names, to whom these crosses were erected, thirty-two are those of men, eight of women, and four are nicknames. of men, nineteen names are norse, nine celtic, three doubtful, and one pictish." this proves the predominance of norse and danish chiefs to whom these monuments were erected. runes are simply the characters in which these inscriptions are carved, and have nothing to do with the language, which in the manx inscriptions is scandinavian of the th century. to speak of a stone which bears an inscription in runes as a runic stone is as though we should call a modern tombstone a roman stone because the inscription is carved in roman capitals. canon taylor traces the origin of runes to a greek source, namely, the thracian or second ionian alphabet, which, through the intercourse of the greek colonists at the mouth of the danube with the goths south of the baltic, was introduced in a modified form into northern europe, and had become established as a runic "futhork" as early as the christian era. the main stages of development are classified by canon taylor as the gothic, the anglican, and the scandinavian. the rune consists of a stem with the twigs or letters falling from left or right. this is the most common form to be found, allowing for difference of workmanship, of material, and space. the progress in the development of the rune may be observed from the most simple plait or twist, to the most complex and beautiful geometric, and to the zoomorphic. the latter has the striking features of birds and beasts of the chase, and also of men, many being realistic; and except the latter are well drawn. the forms of the men are sometimes found with heads of birds or wings. in addition to decorative work we find on three of the cross slabs illustrations from the old norse sagas. on a large cross at braddan is a representation of daniel in the lion's den; and at bride, on a slab, is a mediæval carving of the fall of adam, in which the serpent is absent. both pagan and christian emblems derive their ornamentation from the same source, "basket work." long after the introduction of christianity we find the pagan symbols mixed up in strange devices on the same stones, which were erected as christian monuments. in the "lady of the lake," sir walter scott gives an account of the famous fiery cross formed of twigs. "the grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, a slender crosslet framed with care, a cubit's length in measure due; the shaft and limbs were rods of yew." "the cross, thus formed, he held on high, with wasted hand and haggard eye." basketmaking is the parent of all modern textile art, and no other industry is so independent of tools. it is the humble parent of the modern production of the loom, and the most elaborate cloth is but the development of the simple wattle work of rude savages. plaiting rushes is still the earliest amusement of children, the patterns of which are sometimes identical with the designs engraved by our earliest ancestors on their sculptured stones. interlaced ornament is to be met with on ancient stones and crosses all over our islands. ancient pottery also shows that the earliest form of ornament was taken from basket designs. the lough derg pilgrim sought a cross made of interwoven twigs, standing upon a heap of stones, at the east end of an old church. this was known as st. patrick's altar. this is recorded by a certain lord dillon in , who visited the island known as st. patrick's purgatory on the lough derg, in ireland. the wicker cross retained its grasp upon the superstitious feelings of the people after the suppression at the reformation. he says of this miserable little islet that the tenant paid a yearly rent of £ , derived from a small toll of sixpence charged at the ferry. this was probably the last of the innumerable crosses of the same wicker and twigs. (lieut.-col. french, bolton.) runic almanacs. when the northern nations were converted to christianity the old pagan festivals were changed to christian holidays, and the old pagan divinities were replaced by christian saints. the faith placed in the early deities was transferred to the latter. as certain deities had formerly been supposed to exercise influence over the weather and the crops; so the days dedicated to them, were now dedicated to certain saints. the days thus dedicated were called mark-days, and as it may be supposed it became the office of the clergy to keep account of the time and to calculate when the various holidays would occur. owing to the fact that many christian feasts are what are called movable, that is, are not fixed to a certain date but depend on easter, the reckoning was more difficult for the laity than it had been in pagan times. in those days the fixed holidays could be easily remembered. an ordinary man without knowing how to read or write could keep a list of them by cutting marks or notches on strips of wood. the successors of these are called messe, and prim staves. the messe staves are the more simple--_messe-daeg_ means mass day, and the stave only denoted such days. the prim stave contained besides the marks for sundays and the moon's changes. hence their name from prima-luna, or first full moon after the equinox. the messe-daeg staves are frequently met with. they consist generally of flat pieces of wood about a yard or an ell long, two inches wide, and half an inch thick, and have frequently a handle, giving them the appearance of a wooden sword. the flat side is divided into two unequal portions by a line running lengthways. in the narrow part, the days are notched at equal distances, half the year on each side, or marks on one side and on the other. in the wider space and connected with the days are the signs for those which are to be particularly observed: on the edges the weeks are indicated. the marks for the days do not run from january to july and from july to december, but on the winter side (vetr-leid) from october to april , and in the summer side (somar-leid) from april to october . the signs partly refer to the weather, partly to husbandry, and partly the legends of the saints. seldom are two staves formed exactly alike. not only do the signs vary but the days themselves. nor are they always flat, but sometimes square, _i.e._, with four equal sides: when of the latter shape they are called clogs, or clog almanacs. they are called cloggs, _i.e._, logg, almanacks = al-mon-aght, viz., the regard or observation of all the moons, because by means of these squared sticks, says verstegan, they could certainly tell when the new moons, full moons, or other changes should happen, and consequently easter and the other movable feasts. they are called by the danes rim-stocks, not only because the dominical letters were anciently expressed on them in runic characters, but also because the word rimur anciently signified a calendar. by the norwegians with whom they are still in use, they are called prim-staves, and for this reason, the principal and most useful thing inscribed on them being the prime or golden number, whence the changes of the moon are understood, and also as they were used as walking sticks, they were most properly called prim-staves. the origin of these runic or clog-calendars was danish (vide mr. j. w. bradley, m.a., salt library, stafford). they were unknown in the south, and only known by certain gentry in the north. they are quite unknown in ireland and scotland, and are only known from the few examples preserved in the museums. owing to the changes of custom in modern times these wooden perpetual almanacs have become quite superseded by the printed annuals. the inscriptions read proceeding from the right hand side of the notches, are marks or symbols of the festivals expressed in a kind of hieroglyphic manner, pointing out the characteristics of the saints, against whose festivals they are placed, others the manner of their martyrdom; others some remarkable fact in their lives; or to the work or sport of the time when the feasts were kept. thus on january the feast of st. hiliary is denoted by a cross or crozier, the badge of a bishop. explanation of the clog almanac. the edges of the staff are notched chiefly with simple angular indentations but occasionally with other marks to denote the date of certain special festivals. [illustration] jan. .--the feast of the circumcision. sometimes a circle. jan. , , , .--ordinary days. jan. .--the feast of the epiphany. twelfth day. in some examples the symbol is a star. jan. .--ordinary day. jan. - .--the first day of the second week is shown by a larger notch. jan. .--feast of st. hilary. bishop of poictiers, with double cross. jan. .--ordinary day. jan. , .--first day of third week. jan. .--feast of st. anthony. patron saint of feeders of swine. this is the rune for m. jan. .--f. of st. prisca, a.d. . not noticed. jan. .--f. of s. fabian. not noticed. f. of s. sebastian. not noticed. jan. .--f. of s. agnes. jan. .--f. of s. vincent. not noticed. jan. .--conversion of st. paul. symbol of decapitation. no other saints days are noticed in jan. feb. .--candlemas. purification of virgin mary. feb. .--st. blaise, bishop and martyr. the patron saint of woolcombers. bp. sebasti. armenia. a.d. . feb. .--st. gilbert. not noticed. feb. .--st. agatha. palermo. patroness of chaste virgins. feb. .--st. dorothea. not noticed. feb. .--st. apolmia. a.d. . alexandria. feb. .--st. valentine (historian). m. a.d. . plot gives feb. .--st. gregory. pope x. a.d. . feb. , , .--st. mildred, st. millburgh, sisters. feb. .--st. matthias, apostle. mar. .--st. david, bishop. symbol a harp. patron saint of wales, a.d. . mar. .--st. chad. a.d. . mar. .--st. gregory the great, a.d. . mar. .--s. patrick, patron of ireland. mar. .--s. cuthbert. not noticed. mar. .--s. benedict. not noticed, a.d. . mar. .--feast of annunciation. blessed virgin mary. usual symbol heart. these complete one edge of the staff. thus each edge contains three months or one quarter of the year. turning the staff over towards the reader who holds the loop or ring in the right hand. april .--all fools day. custom. not noticed. s. hugh. a.d. . april , .--s. francis of paula, a.d. . s. richard, bishop of chichester, a.d. . april .--st. isidore, bishop of seville. april .--st. vincent. terrer valentia. . april .--s. mary of egypt. not noticed. april .--st. gultitae, abbot of croyland. april .--st. Ælphege, archbishop of canterbury. . april .--st. george, patron saint of england. of garter legend. april .--st. mark. alexandria. apostle and evangelist. april .--st. catherine of siena. may .--may day. st. philip and st. james the less. may .--invention or discovery of the holy cross. may .--st. hilary of arles. a.d. . may .--st. john beverlev. a.d. . may .--st. michael archangel. may .--st. dunstan, archbishop of canterbury. a.d. . june .--st. william, archbishop of york. . note the w. on the line. june .--st. barnabas, apostle. commencement of the hay harvest, hence the rake. june .--nativity of john baptist. turnover staff for rest of june. june .--st. peter, symbol of key. july .--visitation of s. elizabeth. july .--s. ethelburgh. july .--s. swithin, symbol as a.d. . bishop of winchester. shower of rain. july .--st. margaret. july .--st. mary magdalene. july .--st. james, apostle the great. july .--st. anne. august .--lammas day. august .--st. oswald. august .--st. lawrence. august .--assumption of the blessed virgin mary. august .--st. bartholomew. august .--st. john baptist. sept. .--st. giles. patron of hospitals. sept. .-- sept. .--nativity of the blessed virgin mary. sept. .--exaltation of the cross. sept. .--st. matthew, apostle. sept. .--feast of s. michael the archangel. oct. .--st. denis. oct. .--st. edward the confessor. oct. .--st. luke the evangelist. oct. .--st. crispin, patron of shoemakers. oct. .--st. simon and st. jude. nov. .--all saints. nov. .--all souls. nov. .--st. leonard. nov. .--st. martin. bishop of tours, a.d. . nov. .--s. hugh. bishop of lincoln, a.d. . nov. .--st. edmund, king of east anglia. nov. .--st. clement. nov. .--st. catherine of alexandria. nov. .--st. andrew, apostle. dec. .--st. nicholas. dec. .--conception of the blessed virgin mary. dec. .--st. lucia. patroness saint of diseases of the eye. dec. .--st. thomas, apostle. shortest day. plot .--christmas day. plot .--st. stephen, first martyr. plot .--st. john the evangelist. plot .--innocents. plot .--st. thomas of canterbury, . plot .--st. sylvester, pope . made a general festival . the more ancient almanac called runic primitare, so named from the prima-luna or new moon which gave the appellation of prime to the lunar or golden number, so called because the number was marked in gold on the stave. the rim stocks of denmark so called from rim, a calendar and stock a staff. the marks called runic characters were supposed to have magical powers and so were regarded with dread by the christians and were often destroyed by the priests and converts to christianity. they were derived from rude imitations of the greek letters. two of these staves now in the museum at copenhagen are feet - / inches and feet inches long respectively. they are hand carved and not in any sense made by machinery. this accounts from them being rarely alike, and often very different from one another. the sun in his annual career returns to the same point in the zodiac in days, hours, nearly. the moon who is really the month maker, as the sun is the year maker, does of her monthly revolutions in days. so that a lunar year is days shorter than the solar, supposing both to start from the same date. the actual lunar month contains about - / days. therefore in order to balance the two reckonings, it was agreed at a convention of scientist christians of alexandria in the year a.d. , two years previous to the council of nice, to make the distances between the new moon alternately and days, and to place the golden number accordingly. now these egyptian scholars observed that the new moon nearest the vernal equinox in was on the th day of the egyptian month phauranoth, corresponding with our rd of march, so the cycle was commenced on this day. this is the reason why the golden number is placed against it, days from this brought them to the st april, and days from this to the st may, and so on through the year. runic calendar. the explanatory engraving of the calendar shows the year begins on the rd december. that this date is correctly given for the first day of the year is proved by the agreement between the saints days and the days of the month on which they fall and the christian sunday letters. in thus beginning the year this calendar exhibits a rare peculiarity. no other runic calendar begins the year in the same manner, while numbers could be shown which begin the year at yuletide, commencing on the th december. of the two modes of beginning it there is no question that the one here exhibited is the genuine heathen while the other is genuine christian. it is worth noticing that as winter takes precedence of summer in the sense of a year: so night takes precedence of day generally in the sense of a civil day of hours in old icelandic writers, a manner of speech which to this day is far from having gone out of use. considering the heathen tradition preserved in this calendar in the number of days given to the year and in the date given to the commencement of the year, in which it stands unique, in the fact that the interval between and , _i.e._, out of years rich in famous local and famous general saints, not one should be recorded here: that saints of universal adoration in the catholic church, such as st. thomas of canterbury, st. benedict, and others, should not have a place here: we cannot escape referring it to an age when it may be fairly supposed that these heathen traditions were still believed in by at least a considerable number of the community. anterior to it cannot be, long posterior to that date it can scarcely be. that it must be a layman's calendar, is shown because it exhibits no golden numbers, and gives consequently no clue to the paschal cycle or movable feasts. it is a very valuable piece of antiquity and ought to be well taken care of. on nd february were anciently observed all over the pagan north certain rites connected with the worship of fire. in some places the toast or bumper of the fire was drunk by the whole family kneeling round the fire, who at the same time offered grain or beer to the flames on the hearth. this was the so-called eldborgs-skäl, the toast of fire salvage, a toast which was meant to avert disaster by fire for the coming year. fire and sun worship mingled together, no doubt in observance of this feast: for where it was most religiously observed amongst the swedes it was called freysblôt and was a great event. in early christian times only wax candles which had received the blessing of the priest, were burnt in the houses of the people, in the evening. hence candlemas,--see illustration in stephens' scandinavian monuments. from a remarkable treatise by eirikr magnusson, m.a., on a runic calendar found in lapland in , bearing english runes. (cambridge antiq. soc. communications, vol. x., no. , .) [illustration] this english (?) or norwegian runic calendar is dated about a.d. - . what distinguishes this piece is that seemingly from its great age and its having been _made in england_, it has preserved in the outer or lower lines several of _the olden runes_. these are the "notae distortae" spoken of by worm. some of these as we can plainly see are provincial _english_ varieties of the old northern runes. the calendar before us is of bone, made from the jaw-bone of the porpoise. we know nothing of its history. worm says, "probably to this class must be assigned the peculiar calendar carved on a concave bone, part of the jaw-bone of some large fish." although it shows three rows of marks the signs of festivals, the solar cycle and the lunar cycle, this last is here very imperfect and has even some distorted marks as we see in the engraving. each side, the concave as well as the convex, bears near the edge its girdling three rows of marks, so that every series comprehends a quarter of a year, beginning with the day of saint calixtus. as worm has only given one side of this curious rune-blade, we cannot know the peculiarities of the other half, which contained the solar cycle, and the three sign lines for two quarters. on the side given, the runes on the right hand are reversed and read from top to bottom; those on the left hand are not retrograde. it may often have been carried on the person, being only inches long. the clog calendars range in length from to feet, to as many inches. whenever we light upon any kind of _runic_ pieces, we are at once confined _to the north_, scandinavia and england. though so numerous in the northern lands, no runic calendar has ever yet been found in any saxon or german province, except a couple bought or brought by modern travellers, as curiosities from scandinavia. stephens says this whole class of antiquities has never yet been properly treated. it offers work for one man's labours during a long time and many journeys. it would produce a rich harvest as to the signs and symbols, and runes as modified by local use and clannish custom. all the symbol marks should be treated in parallel groups. the various and often peculiar runes should be carefully collected and elucidated. all this is well worthy of a competent rune-smith, computist, and ecclesiologist. on many of the _old_ runic calendars, especially in sweden, we find a "_lake_" or game long famous all over europe, but now mostly known to children, called "the lake" or game of saint peter. this is an ingenious way of so placing persons, that we may save one half from death or imprisonment, by taking out each ninth man as a victim, till only one half the original number is left. these are thus all rescued. of course the man thus taken must not be counted a second time. formerly the favoured were called christians and the other jews. carving this in one line, we get the marks so often found on rune-clogs: xxxx|||||xx|xxx|x||xx|||x||xx| the story about it is this: saint peter is said to have been at sea in a ship in which were persons, the one half christians and the other half jews. but a storm arose so furious that the vessel had to be lightened, and it was resolved to throw overboard half the crew. saint peter then ranged them in the order we see, every ninth man was taken out. the crosses betoken the christians and the strokes the jews. in this way all the jews were cast into the deep while all the christians remained. herewith the old were wont to amuse themselves. _folk-lore of children in rhyme and ritual._ the child is surrounded by an ancient circle of ritualism and custom. visitors to see the infant must take it a threefold gift. in some districts in yorkshire the conditions are a little tea, sugar, and oven-cake. another yorkshire practice is to take an egg, some salt, and a piece of silver. the child must not be brought downstairs to see the visitor, for to bring it downstairs would be to give it a start in life in the wrong direction. the form of this idea is to be found in certain (japanese) customs. the child's finger-nails must not be cut with scissors, for iron had such close association with witchcraft. the nails must be bitten off with the teeth. this practice survives in some adults, much to the disgust of their friends. of children's games, that known as "hopscotch" was originally a religious rite practised at funerals. it was symbolical of the passage of the soul from the body to heaven or the other place to which the ancients gave various names. the pattern which is drawn for the purpose of this game has been found on the floor of the roman forum. another game called "cat's cradle" was played by the north american indians, and has recently found on an island north of australia. when children could not play on account of the rain they recited a little rhyme which is still known to-day by the people of austria and in the wilds of asia. the game of "ring o' roses" is the survival of an old incantation addressed to the corn spirit. when the wind rippled across the cornfield the ancient harvesters thought the corn god was passing by, and would recite the old rhyme, closing with the words, "hark the cry! hark the cry! all fall down!" sometimes the corn spirit was supposed to become incarnated in the form of a cow, hence the line in the nursery jingle, "boy blue! the cow's in the corn." when the boy donned his first pair of breeches he must pass through a ritual. he must be nipped. the significance of the nip was a test to see whether the boy in the new breeches was the same boy, or whether he had been changed by the fairies or evil spirits. this idea of a change by evil spirits might seem far-fetched, but so recently as , in the records of the irish courts there was a case in which an irishman was tried for accusing his wife of not being the same person as when he married her, and of the woman being branded in consequence. superstitions as to the cure of certain childish complaints survive in the cure for whooping cough, to take the sufferer "over t' watter." that is the only medicinal use of the river aire, near leeds. memorials chapter xi. memorials. at the time of the conquest the population in some of the largest and most important cities is said to have been almost exclusively of scandinavian extraction. in the north the norwegian saint, "st. olave," has been zealously commemorated in both towns and country. this proves that churches were built and christian worship performed during the danish dominion, and that these northmen continued to reside here in great numbers after the danish ascendancy ended. in the city of chester there is a church and parish which still bears the name of st. olave, and by the church runs a street called st. olave's lane. this is opposite the old castle and close to the river dee. in the north-west part of york there is a st. olave's church, said to be the remains of a monastery founded by the powerful danish earl sieward, who was himself buried there in the year . long before the norman conquest, the danes and northmen preponderated in many of the towns of the north of england, which they fortified, and there erected churches dedicated to their own sainted kings and warriors. olave is derived from "olaf the white," who was a famous norse viking. he subdued dublin about the middle of the ninth century, and made himself king of the city and district. from this time ireland and the isle of man were ruled by norwegian kings for over three centuries. it may therefore be inferred, by a natural process of deductive reasoning, that during this period the danes were founding their settlements in lancashire. although we have no distinct traces of buildings erected by them, the names given by them to many places still survive. in these compound names the word "kirk" is often met with. this must establish the fact that the danes erected many other churches besides st. olave's at chester and york. from chester and west kirby, in the wirral district, to furness, in the north, we have abundant evidence in the name of kirk, and its compound forms, that many christian churches were erected. at kirkdale, ormskirk, kirkham, kirkby lonsdale, kirby moorside, and kirkby stephen norman churches have superseded danish buildings. kendal was known formerly as kirkby-in-kendal, or the "church-town in the valley of kent." and further memorials here survive in the names of streets, such as stramongate, gillingate, highgate, and strickland-gate. the name furness is distinctly scandinavian, from "fur" and "ness," or far promontory. the abbot of furness was intimate with the danish rulers of manxland, for he got a portion of land there in to build himself a palace. he was followed by the prior of whithorn and st. bede. in the monks of furness obtained all kinds of mines in man, and some land near st. trinian's. by the industry and ability of these monks furness became one of the wealthiest abbeys in england, and thus were laid the foundations of one of the greatest industries in lancashire, viz., the smelting of iron ore. literature chapter xii. literature. during that period when the danes were making their conquests and settlements in the north of england, art and literature did not hold any high position in europe. the fall of the roman empire gave a shock to the pursuits of learning which had not recovered when christian art was in its infancy. the northmen early distinguished themselves in the art of shipbuilding, and also in the manufacture of ornaments, domestic utensils, and weapons. this taste had arisen from the imitation of the roman and arabesque articles of commerce which they brought up into the north. some scandinavian antiquities have been discovered belonging to the period called "the age of bronze," and also the later heathen times, known as "the iron age." the sagas record that the carving of images was skilfully practised in the north, and the english chronicles provide records of richly carved figures on the bows of danish and norse vessels. the normans from denmark who settled in normandy were first converted to christianity, and early displayed the desire to erect splendid buildings, especially churches and monasteries. long before the norman conquest, the danes devoted themselves to peaceful occupations. several of the many churches and convents were erected by danish princes and chiefs, in the northern parts of england, which have now been re-built, or disappeared; but their names survive to distinguish their origin. it has been said that these early buildings were composed of wood. this is proved from the work recently issued by mr. j. francis bumpus, in his "cathedrals of norway, sweden, and denmark." the touching life story of the martyred saint olaf is there told. a wooden chapel was built over his grave about the year . this became the centre of the national religion, and the sanctuary of the national freedom and independence. trondhjem, says mr. bumpus, is the eloquent expression in stone of norway's devotion to the beloved st. olaf. despoiled of much of its ornamentation by protestant zeal, it retains in the octagon of its noble choir a true architectural gem, equal in delicate beauty to the angel choir of lincoln. [illustration: example of danish carved wood-work, with runes, from thorpe church, hallingdal, denmark.] the phrase "skryke of day" is common to south lancashire, and is the same as the old english "at day pype," or "peep of day." "there is a great intimacy," says dr. grimm, "between our ideas of light and sound, of colour and music, and hence we are able to comprehend that rustling, and that noise, which is ascribed to the rising and setting sun." thomas kingo, a danish poet of the seventeenth century, and probably others of his countrymen, make the rising of the sun to pipe (pfeifen), that is to utter a piercing sound. tacitus had long before recorded the swedish superstition, that the rising sun made a noise. the form in which our skryke of day has come down to us is scandinavian. grimm says, "still more express are the passages which connect the break of day, and blush of the morning, with ideas of commotion and rustling." goethe has in "faust" borrowed from the pythagorean and platonic doctrine of the harmony of the spheres, and illustrated grimm's proposition of the union of our ideas of light and sound by describing the course of the sun in its effulgence as a march of thunder. jonson regarded noise as an essential quality of the heavenly bodies-- "come, with our voices let us war, and challenge all the spheres, till each of us be made a star, and all the world turned ears." the noise of daybreak may be gathered from the fracture of metal, and applied to the severance of darkness and light, may well have sound attributed to it. the old meaning of "peep (or pype) of day" was the joyful cry which accompanied the birth of light. "peep," as sound is most ancient, and a "nest of peepers," that is, of young birds, is now almost obsolete english. milton, in "paradise lost," shows the setting sun to make a noise from its heated chariot axles being quenched in the atlantic. once, at creation, the morning stars sang for joy; but afterwards moved in expressive silence. ballads and war songs. as a consequence of the danish and norman conquests, a peculiar composition arose called anglo-danish and anglo-norman. these legends and war songs were produced by the danish wars, and were the expressions of an adventurous and knightly spirit, which became prevalent in england. the most celebrated of them were the romances of "beowulf," "havelock, the dane," and "guy, earl of warwick." in the older romances of scandinavian songs and sages, combats against dragons, serpents, and plagues are celebrated; in later romances of the age of chivalry, warriors are sung who had fallen in love with beautiful damsels far above them in birth or rank, and whose hand they could only acquire by some brilliant adventure or exploit. the heathen poems of the scandinavian north are all conceived in the same spirit, and it is not unreasonable to recognise traces of scandinavian influence in english compositions. in later times, even to the middle ages, this influence is still more apparent in the ballads and popular songs, which are only to be found in the northern or old danish parts of england. many parts of the edda or sagas have been founded on songs in honour of the gods and heroes worshipped in scandinavia. in shakespeare's "hamlet" the young prince is sent to britain with a letter carried by his two comrades. but he re-writes the letter and saves his life. in the original amleth legend of saxo grammaticus the two companions of amleth, carry a wooden rune-carvel. but he cuts away some of the staves and adds others, so that the letter now tells the british king to slay the messengers, and to give his daughter in marriage to amleth. in the "historie of hamlet," london, , we read, "now to bear him company were assigned two of fengons' ministers, bearing letters engraved on wood, that contained hamlet's death, in such sort as he had advertised to the king of england. but the subtle danish prince, being at sea, whilst his companions slept, raced out the letters that concerned his death, and instead thereof graved others." lay of the norse gods and heroes. step out of the misty veil which darkly winds round thee; step out of the olden days, thou great divinity! across thy mental vision passes the godly host, that brugi's melodies made asgard's proudest boast. there rise the sounds of music from harp strings sweet and clear, wonderfully enchanting to the receiving ear. thou wast it, thou hast carried sagas of northern fame, didst boldly strike the harp strings of old skalds; just the same thou span'st the bridge of birfrost, the pathway of the gods: o name the mighty heroes, draw pictures of the gods! these fairy tales of the giants, dwarfs, and heroes, are not senseless stories written for the amusement of the idle; but they contain the deep faith or religion of our forefathers, which roused them to brave actions, and inspired them with strength and courage. these sagas existed for over four hundred years, until they exchanged their hero-god for st. martin, and their thumar, for st. peter or st. oswald, when their glory in scandinavia fell before the preaching of the cross. art. [illustration: bractaetes.] previous to their conquest of england, the danes are said to have been unacquainted with the art of coining money. they are said to have imitated the byzantine coins, by making the so-called "bractaetes," which were stamped only on the one side, and were mostly used as ornaments. the art of coinage was very ancient in england. it was the custom of the anglo-saxon coiners to put their names on the coins which they struck. in the eighth and ninth centuries the names of the coiners are purely anglo-saxon. but in the tenth century, and especially after the year , pure danish or scandinavian names begin to appear; for instance, thurmo, grim, under king edgar ( - ), and rafn, thurstan, under king edward ( - ); also ingolf, hargrim, and others. these scandinavian names are mostly found in the coins minted in the north of england, or in districts which were early occupied by the danes. under king ethelred ii., who contended so long with canute the great before the danish conquest of england was completed, the number of scandinavian coiners arose rapidly, with the danish power, and the names of forty or fifty may be found on the coins of ethelred alone. even after the fall of the danish power, they are to be met with in almost the same number as before on the coins of the anglo-saxon king, edward the confessor. these coins prove much and justify us in inferring a long continued coinage. * * * * * the great hoard of silver coins found at cuerdale in , some two miles above preston, were buried in a leaden chest, near an ancient ford of the river ribble. this treasure composed the war chest of the danish army, which was defeated at this ford early in the tenth century, on its retreat into northumbria. it contained nearly one thousand english coins of alfred the great, and some forty-five of edward the elder. the latest date of any of these coins being of the latter reign, the date of the hoard being buried may be fixed between the years and . many of the coins were continental, belonging to the coast of western france, and from the district round the mouth of the river seine. the appearance of this money agrees with the early records of the saxon chronicle, that of the year , which tells us that "the danish army divided, one part went into the eastern counties, and the other into northumbria, and those who were without money, procured ships and went southwards over the sea to the seine." the other chronicle of states that, "a great fleet came hither from the south, from brittany, and greatly ravaged the severn, but there they afterwards nearly all perished." it may be supposed that the remnant of this band became united with the main danish army, and would account for the large proportion of foreign money. the bulk of the coins were danish, minted by danish kings of northumbria. [illustration: halton cup.] [illustration] from these circumstances, we may believe, this hoard to have been the treasure or war chest of this retreating army. this cuerdale hoard is by far the largest found in lancashire; it contained , silver coins, and nearly , ounces of silver ingots. a smaller find, made at an early date, was the hoard of silver pennies, discovered in at harkirke, which lies on the sea coast between crosby and formby. of this collection, some coins were engraved at the latter part of the tenth century. this engraving shows that these coins were minted by alfred, edward the elder, and the danish king canute, and the ecclesiastical coinages of york and east anglia. these coins were buried within a few years of the deposit at cuerdale. we have numerous records of other danish finds. at halton moor, five miles above lancaster, the discovery was made in of a silver cup of graceful design, containing silver coins of canute, with ornaments, which included a torque of silver wire. mr. j. coombe, of the british museum, describes the coins as danish, and of canute. the latter being nearly all of one type, having on the obverse side the head of the king with helmet and sceptre, and on the reverse a cross, within the inner circle, with amulets in the four angles. the silver cup found on halton moor contained, in addition to the coins of canute, a silver torque, which had been squeezed into the vessel. both these silver articles are highly decorated and of great interest. the cup weighed over ten ounces, and was composed of metal containing three parts silver with one part copper. it appeared to have been gilt originally, some of the gold still remaining, which was of very pale colour. the ornamentation consisted of four circular compartments, divided by branches which terminated in the heads of animals, in arabesque style. in these compartments are a panther and a butting bull alternately. this ornament is included inside two beautiful borders, which encircle the cup in parallel lines. the torque is of equal interest, and is a peculiar example of danish wire-work metal rings, twisted and plated, with the ends beaten together for a double fastening. the face of this portion of the necklace, which is flattened, was decorated with small triangular pieces fixed by curious rivets. it was of pure silver and weighed six ounces six penny-weights. along with these deposits were some gold pieces, struck on one side only, with a rough outline of a human head. similar pieces have been found in denmark, and the danish element is predominant in the whole decoration. the viking age. before the normans came our district was scandinavian. from the year they began to settle and behaved not as raiders but as colonists. they wanted homes and settled quietly down. in the course of years their descendants became leading landowners, as we see from the norse names of the th century records. naturally the art of the district must have been influenced by such people: especially by the scandinavians who had lived in ireland, till then a very artistic country. whether irish taught norse or _vice versa_, we see that there was a quantity of artistic work produced especially along the seaboard, and we are lucky in having analogies not far to seek. in the isle of man the earliest series of crosses have th century runes and figure subjects from the edda and the sigurd story which were late th century. mr. kermode, f.s.a., scot., dates them - (saga book of viking club, vol. i., p. ). we have them in the remains in man a kindred race to ours in the age before the normans came: and we find resemblances between these manx crosses and some of ours both in subject and in style. in subjects the th century crosses of kirk andreas, jurby, and malew find a parallel at halton, which mr. calverley places late in th century and attributes to people under strong scandinavian influence: but danish as it happens rather than norse. the halton crosses are not norse in style. they are like the late pre-norman work in yorkshire where the danes lived. then the hogback stones have to be placed. we have fixed the gosforth and plumland examples by their dragonesque work as of the viking settlement. all these have the chain pattern, which mr. calverley called the tree yggdrasil or tree of existence, which shows that these monuments are of viking origin. from what models or pattern did these early sculptors copy their designs? it is sometimes said that they imitated mss.: assuming that mss. were fairly common and placed in the stone carver's hands. this is far less likely than that sculptors, at a distance from good models in stone, copied patterns from metal work which were the most portable, and most accessible of all forms of art, in the days before printing was invented. suppose, to make it plainer, the sorrowing survivor bids the british workman carve a cross for the dead. "what like shall i work it?" says the mason. "like the fair crosses of england or ireland, a knot above, and a knot below, and so forth." "but," says the mason, and he might say it in the th century, "i have never been in england or ireland or seen your crosses." then answers the patron, "make it like this swordhilt." (calverley.) the earlier irish christians were highly intellectual and literary, but not at first artistic. literature in all races precedes art; it would be contrary to all historical analogy if patrick and columba had lived in the artistic atmosphere of the eighth and ninth century in ireland. patrick's bell is no great credit to assicus his coppersmith: his crosier was a plain stick. there is no indication in our remains that irish missionaries of the seventh century brought a single art idea into the country. it was the irish viking christians of the twelfth century who did. mr. george stephens, in his "old northern runic monuments of scandinavia and england," vol. iii., under the heading "runic remains and runic writings," says:-- "i believe these stones, however altered and conventionalised, were all originally made for worship as gods or fetishes, elfstones, or what not, but in fact, at first as phallic symbols, the zinga and the zoni, creation and preservation, placed on the tumulus as triumphant emblems of light out of darkness, life after death. and the _priapus_ and _cups_ sometimes seen on burial-urns, must have the same meaning. several of the grave minnes bearing old norse runes were worship stones, carved with regular cups, etc., _ages before_ they were used a second time for funereal purposes." prof. j. f. simpson, m.d., edinburgh, has a paper "on the cup cuttings and ring cuttings on the calder stones near liverpool," in the transactions of the historic society of lancashire and cheshire, vol. xvii., , in which he states that-- "the calder stones near liverpool afford an interesting and remarkable example of these cup and ring carvings upon this variety of stones--or, in words, upon the stones of a small megalithic circle. some of the calder stones afford ample evidence of modern chiselling as marked by the sharpness and outray figurings. but in addition to these there are cut upon them, though in some parts greatly faded away, sculpturings of cups and concentric rings similar to those found in various parts of england and scotland, remarkable for not only their archaic carvings, perfect and entire similarity to those found elsewhere, but still more from the fact that we have here presented upon a single circle almost every known and recognised type of these cuttings. the calder circle is about six yards in diameter, consists of five stones which are still upright and one that is fallen. the stones consists of slabs and blocks of red sandstone, all different in size and shape. the fallen stone is small, and shows nothing on its exposed side, but possibly if turned over some markings might be discovered on its other surface. of the five standing stones the largest of the set, no. , is a sandstone slab between feet in height and in breadth. on its outer surface, or the surface turned to the exterior of the circle, there is a flaw above from disintegration and splintering of the stone: but the remaining portion of the surface presents between and cup depressions varying from to and a half inches in diameter, and at its lowest and left-hand corner is a concentric circle about a foot in diameter, consisting of four enlarging rings, but apparently without any central depression. the opposite surface of this stone (no. ) is that directed to the interior of the circle, has near its centre a cup cut upon it, with the remains of one surrounding ring. on the right side of this single-ringed cup are the faded remains of a concentric circle of three rings. to the left of it there is another three-ringed circle with a central depression, but the upper portions of the ring are broken off. above it is a double-ringed cup, with this peculiarity, that the external ring is a volute leading from the central cup, and between the outer and inner ring is a fragmentary line of apparently another volute making a double-ringed spiral which is common on some irish stones, as on those of the great archaic mausoleum at new grange, but extremely rare in great britain. at the very base of this stone towards the left are two small volutes, one with a central depression or cup, and the other seemingly without it. one of these small volutes consists of three turns, the other of two. the cup and ring cuttings have been discovered in a variety of relations and positions. some are sculptured on the surface of rocks _in situ_--on large stones placed inside and outside the walls of old british cities and camps, on blocks used in the construction of the olden dwellings and strongholds of archaic living man, in the interior of the chambered sepulchres and kistvaens of the archaic dead, on monoliths and on cromlechs, and repeatedly in scotland on megalithic or so-called "druidical" circles. the name calder stones is derived from norse calder or caldag, the calf-garth or yard enclosed to protect young cattle from straying. norse and danish grave mounds. amongst the ancient monuments of britain the well-known remains called druidical circles hold a foremost place, though their use, and the people by whom they were erected, are questions which still remain matters of dispute. the stone enclosures of denmark, which resemble the circles of cumbria in many respects, mainly differ from them, in that they are found in connection with burial chambers, whilst the latter are generally situated on the flat surface of moors, with nothing to indicate that they have ever been used for sepulchural purposes. therefore wherever no urns or other remains have been found, we have negative evidence that the place was not intended for a place of sepulture. [illustration: calder stone no outer surface.] [illustration: inner surface.] cairns which are the most undisputed form of a celtic burial place were once very numerous in the northern districts: but a great many have long since been removed. the graves of norway bear an outward resemblance to the celtic cairn, but the main cause appears to be that in mountainous countries stones are more easily procurable than earth. where a doubt exists as to the proprietorship of these mounds, the only means of deciding is by an examination of the interior. the norse cairn should enclose a stone chest or wooden chamber and iron weapons. the norwegians burned the body until about their conversion to christianity. [illustration: calder stone no . outer aspect, two sides.] [illustration: inner side.] [illustration: calder stone no . outer aspect two sides.] [illustration: inner side] tumuli or barrows still remain in great numbers. as far as records have been kept of those removed, nearly all must be claimed for the bronze age, and the main part of those yet standing are essentially of a danish character. in the description of this class of graves, we have no actual mention of iron antiquities. the cairn called mill hill, westmoreland, appears to have been a celtic burial place, whilst loden how was more probably danish than norse. four different names are found in connection with sepulchres of this kind, viz., "how, raise, barrow, and hill," but the distinction is principally that of age, and the order of the words as here placed indicates the period to which each belongs. few traces of the iron age can be regarded as exclusively norwegian wherever the body has been burned. ormstead, near penrith, was possibly a norse burial place; while thulbarrow, in the same neighbourhood, was in all probability danish. memorial stones still remain in considerable numbers, the most remarkable of which is the nine standards in westmoreland. several villages called unthank take their names from monuments no longer in existence, the word being in english "onthink," and the phrase "to think on" is still current in the dialect. mythology chapter xiii. mythology. the religious conceptions of the most famous nations of antiquity are connected with the beginnings of civilisation. we are told by dr. wägner, in his work "asgard and the gods," of the traditions of our northern ancestors, the story of the myths and legends of norse antiquity. the first of their heroes was odin, the god of battles, armed with his war spear, followed by the walkyries, who consecrate the fallen heroes with a kiss, and bear them away to the halls of the gods, where they enjoy the feasts of the blessed. later, odin invents the runes, through which he gains the power of understanding and ruling all things. he thus becomes the spirit of nature, the all-father. then the ash tree, "yggdrasil," grew up; the tree of the universe, of time, and life. the boughs stretched out to heaven, and over-shadowed walhalla, the hall of the heroes. this world-tree was evergreen, watered daily by the fateful norns, and could not wither until the last battle should be fought, where life, time, and the world were all to pass away. this was related by a skald, the northern bard, to the warriors while resting from the fatigue of fighting, by tables of mead. the myths were founded on the belief of the norse people, regarding the creation of the world, gods, and men, and thus we find them preserved in the songs of the "edda. the vague notion of a deity who created and ruled over all things had its rise in the impression made upon the human mind by the unity of nature. the sun, moon, and stars, clouds and mists, storms and tempests, appeared to be higher powers, and took distinct forms in the mind of man. the sun was first regarded as a fiery bird which flew across the sky, then as a horse, and afterwards as a chariot and horses; the clouds were cows, from whose udders the fruitful rain poured down. the storm-wind appeared as a great eagle that stirred the air by the flapping of his enormous wings. these signs of nature seemed to resemble animals. on further consideration it was found that man was gifted with the higher mental powers. it was then acknowledged that the figure of an animal was an improper representation of a divine being. they thus inverted the words of holy writ, that "god created man in his own image," and men now made the gods in their own likeness, but still regarded them as greater, more beautiful, and more ideal than themselves. from the titles of these pagan gods we derive the names of our days of the week, and thus we continue to perpetuate in our daily life the story of norse mythology. the first day of the week was dedicated to the worship of the sun. the second day to that of the moon. the third day was sacred to tyr, the god of war. the fourth day was sacred to wodin, or odin, the chief deity. the fifth day was sacred to thor, the god of thunder. the sixth day of the week, friday, was sacred to frigga, the wife of the great odin. the seventh or last day of the week was dedicated by the romans to saturn, one of the planets, their god of agriculture, whose annual festival was a time of unrestrained enjoyment. the "eddas" were two scandinavian books, the earlier a collection of mythological and heroic songs, and the other a prose composition of old and venerable traditions. these books were meant for the instruction of the norse skalds and bards. it is believed that the learned icelander, saemund, the wise, compiled the older edda in from oral traditions, and partly from runic writings. the younger edda is supposed to have been compiled by bishop snorri sturlason in , and this collection goes by the name of snorra-edda. the language was developed by means of the sagas and songs which had been handed down among the people from generation to generation. the norns were the three fatal sisters, who used to watch over the springs of water, and appeared by the cradle of many a royal infant to give it presents. on such occasions two of them were generally friendly to the child, while the third prophesied evil concerning it. in the pretty story of the "sleeping beauty" these norns appear as the fairies. mythical gods. bragi was the son of the wave maidens and the god of poetry. he was married to the blooming induna, who accompanied him to asgard, where she gave the gods every morning the apples of eternal youth. tyr, the god of war, was tall, slender as a pine, and bravely defended the gods from the terrible fenris-wolf. in doing so he lost his hand, and was held in high honour by the people. baldur, the holy one, and the giver of all good, was the son of odin. his mother frigga entreated all creatures to spare the well-beloved, but she overlooked the weak mistletoe bough. the gods in boisterous play threw their weapons at baldur, and the dart made of the fatal bough was thrown by the blind hödur with deadly effect. forseti, the son of baldur, resembled his father in holiness and righteousness, was the upholder of eternal law. the myth shows him seated on a throne teaching the norsemen the benefits of the law, surrounded by his twelve judges. loki, the crafty god, was the father of the fenris-wolf, and the snake. he was the god of warmth and household fire, and was held to be the corrupter of gods, and the spirit of evil. it was loki who formed the fatal dart, which he placed in the hands of the blind hödur, which caused the death of baldur. after the murder of baldur, loki conceals himself on a distant mountain, and hides himself under a waterfall. here the avengers catch him in a peculiar net which he had invented for the destruction of others. they bind him to a rock, where a snake drops poison upon his face, which makes him yell with pain. his faithful wife, sigyn, catches the poison in a cup; but still it drops upon him whenever the vessel is full. from this myth it is supposed that shakspere derived the story of his greatest drama and tragedy, "hamlet," of the prince of denmark. our forefathers notion of the last battle, the single combats of the strong, the burning of the world, are all to be read in ancient traditions, and we find them described in the poems of the skalds. the norse mythology makes amends for the tragic end of the divine drama by concluding with a description of the renewal of the world. the earth rises fresh and green out of its ruin, as soon as it has been cleansed from sin, refined and restored by fire. the gods assemble on the plains of ida, and the sons of thor bring with them their father's storm-hammer, a weapon no longer used for fighting, but only for consecrating what is right and holy. they are joined by baldur and hödur, reconciled and united in brotherly love. uller is recorded in the edda as the cheery and sturdy god of winter, who cared nothing for wind and snowstorm, who used to go about on long journeys on his skates or snow-shoes. these shoes were compared to a shield, and thus the shield is called uller's ship in many places. when the god uller skated over the ice he carried with him his shield, and deadly arrows and bow made from the yew-tree. he lived in the palace ydalir, the yew vale. as he protected plants and seeds from the severe frosts of the north, by covering the ground with a coating of snow, he was regarded as the benefactor of mortal men, and was called the friend of baldur, the giver of every blessing and joy. uller meant divine glory, as vulder, the anglo-saxon god, was also characterised. this was probably because the glory of the northern winter night, which is often brilliantly lighted by the snow, the dazzling ice, and the aurora-borealis, the great northern light. the myths exist in the present like the stately ruins of a past time, which are no longer suitable for the use of man. generations come and go, their views, actions, and modes of thought change: "all things change; they come and go; the pure unsullied soul alone remains in peace." thousands of years ago our ancestors prayed to waruna, the father in heaven; thousands of years later the romans entered their temple and worshipped jupiter, the father in heaven, while the teutonic races worshipped the all-father. after the lapse of centuries now we turn in all our sorrow and adversities to our father which is in heaven. in the thousands of years which may pass we shall not have grown beyond this central point of religion. "our little systems have their day; they have their day and cease to be; they are but broken lights of thee, and thou, o lord, art more than they. we have but faith; we cannot know; for knowledge is of things we see; and yet we trust it comes from thee, a beam in darkness, let it grow!" in his masterly work on "hero-worship," carlyle traces the growth of the "hero as divinity" from the norse mythology in the following words: "how the man odin came to be considered a god, the chief god? his people knew no limits to their admiration of him; they had as yet no scale to measure admiration by. fancy your own generous heart's love of some greatest man expanding till it transcended all bounds, till it filled and overflowed the whole field of your thought. then consider what mere time will do in such cases; how if a man was great while living, he becomes tenfold greater when dead. what an enormous 'camera-obscura' magnifier is tradition! how a thing grows in the human memory, in the human imagination, when love, worship, and all that lies in the human heart, is there to encourage it. and in the darkness, in the entire ignorance; without date or document, no book, no arundel marble: only here and there some dumb monumental cairn. why! in thirty or forty years, were there no books, any great man would grow 'mythic,' the contemporaries who had seen him, being once all dead: enough for us to discern far in the uttermost distance some gleam as of a small real light shining in the centre of that enormous camera-obscura image: to discern that the centre of it all was not a madness and nothing, but a sanity and something. this light kindled in the great dark vortex of the norse mind, dark but living, waiting only for the light, this is to me the centre of the whole. how such light will then shine out, and with wondrous thousand-fold expansion spread itself in forms and colours, depends not on _it_, so much as in the national mind recipient of it. who knows to what unnameable subtleties of spiritual law all these pagan fables owe their shape! the number twelve, divisiblest of all, which could be halved, quartered, parted into three, into six, the most remarkable number, this was enough to determine the signs of the zodiac, the number of odin's sons, and innumerable other twelves. odin's runes are a significant feature of him. runes, and the miracles of "magic" he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition. runes are the scandinavian alphabet; suppose odin to have been the inventor of letters as well as "magic" among that people. it is the greatest invention man has ever made, this of marking down the unseen thought that is in him by written characters. it is a kind of second speech, almost as miraculous as the first. you remember the astonishment and incredulity of atahaulpa the peruvian king; how he made the spanish soldier, who was guarding him, scratch dios on his thumb nail, that he might try the next soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible. if odin brought letters among his people, he might work magic enough! writing by runes has some air of being original among the norsemen; not a phoenician alphabet, but a scandinavian one. snorro tells us farther that odin invented poetry; the music of human speech, as well as that miraculous runic marking of it. transport yourself into the early childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning light of our europe, when all yet lay in fresh young radiance, as of a great sunrise, and our europe was first beginning to think,--to be! this odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to speak. a great heart laid open to take in this great universe, and man's life here, and utter a great word about it. and now, if we still admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild norse souls, first awakened with thinking, have made of him! the rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots of those english words we still use? he worked so, in that obscure element. but he was as a light kindled in it, a light of intellect, rude nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet: he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little lighter, as is still the task of us all. we will fancy him to be the type norseman; the finest teuton whom that race had yet produced. he is as a root of many great things; the fruit of him is found growing, from deep thousands of years, over the whole field of teutonic life. our own wednesday, is it not still odin's day? wednesbury, wansborough, wanstead, wandsworth: odin grew into england too, these are still the leaves from that root. he was the chief god to all the teutonic peoples; their pattern norsemen. the essence of the scandinavian, as indeed of all pagan mythologies, we found to be recognition of the divineness of nature; sincere communion of man with the mysterious invisible powers, visibly seen at work in the world around him. sincerity is the great characteristic of it. amid all that fantastic congeries of associations and traditions in their musical mythologies, the main practical belief a man could have was of an inflexible destiny, of the valkyrs and the hall of odin, and that the one thing needful for a man was to be brave. the valkyrs are choosers of the slain, who lead the brave to a heavenly hall of odin: only the base and slavish being thrust elsewhere, into the realms of hela, the death goddess. this was the soul of the whole norse belief. valour is still valour. the first duty of a man is still that of subduing fear. snorro tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if a natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh that odin might receive them as warriors slain. old kings about to die had their body laid into a ship, the ship sent forth with sail set and slow fire burning in it; that once out at sea, it might blaze up into flame, and in such a manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean." the descent of odin. (from the norse tongue.) by thomas gray. up rose the king of men with speed, and saddled straight his coal black steed. down the yawning steep he rode that leads to hela's drear abode. him the dog of darkness spied; his shaggy throat he opened wide, while from his jaws with carnage fill'd, foam and human gore distill'd; hoarse he bays with hideous din, eyes that glow and fangs that grin, and long pursues with fruitless yell the father of the powerful spell. onward still his way he takes, (the groaning earth beneath him shakes) till full before his fearless eyes the portals nine of hell arise. right against the eastern gate by the moss grown pile he sate, where long of yore to sleep was laid the dust of the prophetic maid, facing to the northern clime, thrice he traced the runic rhyme, thrice pronounced in accents dread, the thrilling verse that wakes the dead. till from out the hollow ground slowly breathed a sullen sound. what call unknown, what charms presume to break the quiet of the tomb? who thus afflicts my troubled sprite and drags me from the realms of night? long on these mouldering bones have beat the winter's snow, the summer's heat. the drenching dews, and driving rain, let me, let me sleep again. who is he with voice unbless'd that calls me from the bed of rest? odin: a traveller to the unknown is he that calls; a warrior's son, thou the deeds of light shall know; tell me what is done below. for whom yon glittering board is spread, dress'd for whom yon golden bed? proph: mantling in the goblet see the pure beverage of the bee, o'er it hangs the shield of gold: 'tis the drink of balder bold: balder's head to death is given: pain can reach the sons of heaven! unwilling i my lips unclose: leave me, leave me to repose. odin: once again my call obey; prophetess! arise and say what dangers odin's child await, who the author of his fate? proph: in hoder's hand the hero's doom; his brother sends him to the tomb, now my weary lips i close, leave me, leave me to repose. odin: prophetess! my spell obey; once again arise and say who th' avenger of his guilt, by whom shall hoder's blood be spilt? proph: in the caverns of the west, by odin's fierce embrace compress'd, a wondrous boy shall rind a bear, who ne'er shall comb his raven hair, nor wash his visage in the stream, nor see the sun's departing beam, till he on hoder's corpse shall smile, flaming on the funeral pile. now my weary lips i close, leave me, leave me to repose. odin: yet awhile my call obey; prophetess awake and say what virgins these in speechless wo, that bent to earth their solemn brow, that their flaxen tresses tear, and snowy veils that float in air? tell me whence their sorrows rose, then i leave thee to repose. proph: ha! no traveller art thou: king of men i know thee now: mightiest of a mighty line. odin: no boding maid of skill divine, art thou, no prophetess of good, but mother of a giant brood! proph: hie thee hence, and boast at home, that never shall enquirer come to break my iron sleep again, till lok his horse his tenfold chain, never till substantial night, has re-assumed her ancient right, till wrapped in fumes, in ruin hurl'd, sinks the fabric of the world. superstitions chapter xiv. superstitions. the most remarkable instance of the tenacity of superstitions is the survival of the practice of "bringing in the new year." not only does it exist among the poor and uneducated, but even amongst educated people at this festive season. it is considered an omen of misfortune if the first person who enters your house on new year's morning has a fair complexion or light hair. this popular prejudice has never been satisfactorily accounted for, says the late mr. charles hardwick, in his "traditions and superstitions." he says: "i can only suggest that it most probably arose from the fact that amongst the keltic tribes, who were the earliest immigrants, dark hair prevailed. this dark characteristic still prevails amongst the welsh, cornish, and irish of the present day. when these earlier races came in contact with the danes and norse as enemies, they found their mortal foes to possess fair skins and light hair. they consequently regarded the intrusion into their houses, at the commencement of the year, of one of the hated race, as a sinister omen. the true kelt does not only resent, on new year's day, the red hair of the dane, but the brown and flaxen locks of the german as well." an old writer, oliver matthew, of shrewsbury, writing in the year , at the age of years, says it was the custom of the danes to place one of their men to live in each homestead of the conquered race, and this was more resented than the tribute they had to pay. this affords another proof that these fair-haired men were the cause of this present superstition. it is also considered unlucky to allow anything to be taken out of the house on new year's day, before something had been brought in. the importation of the most insignificant article, even a piece of coal, or something in the nature of food, is sufficient to prevent this misfortune, which the contrary action would render inevitable. this sentiment is well expressed in the following rhyme:-- take out, and then take in, bad luck will begin. take in, then take out, good luck comes about. it would be rash to speculate how long superstitions of this kind will continue to walk hand in hand with religion; how long traditions from far-off heathen times will exercise this spell not only in our remote country places but in enlightened towns. in the realms of folk-lore, many were firm believers in witchcraft, in signs and omens, which things were dreaded with ignorant awe, while the romantic race of gipsies look upon occult influences from the inside, as a means of personal gain. the prophetic character of the weather during this period is a superstition common to all the aryan tribes. so strongly is this characteristic of the season felt in lancashire at the present day, that many country people may be met with who habitually found their "forecast" on the appearances of the heavens on old christmas day. the late mr. t. t. wilkinson relates a singular instance of this superstition, which shows the stubbornness of traditional lore, even when subjected to the power and influence of legislative enactments. he says: "the use of the old style in effect is not yet extinct in lancashire. the writer knows an old man of habergham, near burnley, about years of age, who always reckons the changes of the seasons in this manner. he alleges the practice of his father and grandfather in support of his method, and states with much confidence that 'perliment didn't change t' seasons wen they chang'd day o't' month.'" a work named "the shepherd's kalender," published in , soberly informs us that "if new year's day in the morning opens with dusky red clouds, it denotes strife and debates among great ones, and many robberies to happen that year." the helm wind. in the neighbourhood of kirkoswald, on the eden in cumberland, a district prolific in arthurian legends, it is said that a "peculiar wind called the 'helm wind,' sometimes blows with great fury in that part of the country. it is believed by some persons to be an electrical phenomenon." this fact may have some remote connection with the superstition under consideration. sir walter scott's version of the legend is as follows: "a daring horse jockey sold a black horse to a man of venerable and antique appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon the eildon hills, called the lucken hare, as the place where at twelve o'clock at night he should receive the price. he came and his money was paid in ancient coin, and he was invited by his customer to view his residence. the trader in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment through several long ranges of stalls, in each of which a horse stood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally still at the charger's feet. 'all these men,' said the wizard in a whisper, 'will awaken at the battle of sheriffmoor.' at the extremity of this extraordinary depôt hung a sword and a horn, which the prophet pointed out to the horse dealer, as containing the means of dissolving the spell. the man in confusion, took the horn and attempted to wind it. the horses instantly started in their stalls, stamped and shook their bridles; the men arose, and clashed their armour; and the mortal terrified at the tumult he had excited, dropped the horn from his hand. a voice like that of a giant, louder even than the tumult around, pronounced these words: "woe to the coward that ever he was born that did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!" the mistletoe was supposed to protect the homestead from fire and other disaster, and, like other mysterious things, was believed to be potent in matters relating to courtship and matrimony. it is to this sentiment we owe the practice of kissing under the bush formed of holly and mistletoe during christmas festivities. this matrimonial element in the mistletoe is artistically presented in the scandinavian mythology. freigga, the mother of baldr, had rendered him invulnerable against all things formed out of the then presumed four elements, fire, air, earth, and water. the mistletoe was believed to grow from none of these elements. but she overlooked the one insignificant branch of the mistletoe, and it was by an arrow fashioned from it that the bright day-god baldr, the scandinavian counterpart of apollo and bel, was killed by the blind hodr or heldr. the gods, however, restored him to life, and dedicated the mistletoe to his mother, who is regarded as the counterpart of the classical venus. hence its importance in affairs of love and courtship. it is not improbable that the far-famed dart of cupid may have some relation to the mistletoe arrow, to which the beautiful baldr succumbed. the medicinal qualities of the mistletoe tree were also in high repute. its healing power was shared by the ash tree, which was the "cloud tree" of the norsemen. the ash (norse "askr,") was the tree out of which the gods formed the first man, who was thence called askr. the ash was among the greeks, an image of the clouds, and the mother of men. other christmas customs and superstitions are peculiar to lancashire. the white thorn is supposed to possess supernatural power, and certain trees of this class, in lancashire called christmas thorns, are believed to blossom only on old christmas day. mr. wilkinson says that in the neighbourhood of burnley many people will yet travel a considerable distance "at midnight, in order to witness the blossoming." the boar's head yet forms a chief object amongst the dishes of christmas festivities. among the impersonations of natural phenomena, the wild boar represented the "ravages of the whirlwind that tore up the earth." in all mythologies the boar is the animal connected with storm and lightning. there yet exists a superstition prevalent in lancashire to the effect that pigs can "see the wind." dr. kuhm says that in westphalia this superstition is a prevalent one. the tradition is at least three or four thousand years old. lancashire has many stories of the pranks played by the wild boar or demon pig, removing the stones in the night on the occasion of the building of churches. stories of this nature are to be found respecting winwick, where a rude carving resembling a hog fastened to a block of stone, by a collar, is to be seen built into the tower of the present church. burnley and rochdale churches, and samlesbury church, near preston, possess similar traditions. all celtic nations have been accustomed to the worship of the sun. it was a custom that everywhere prevailed in ancient times to celebrate a feast at the winter solstice, by which men testified their joy at seeing this great luminary return again to this part of the heavens. this was the greatest solemnity of the year. they called it in many places "yole," or "yuul," from the word "hiaul" and "houl," which even at this day signifies sun in the language of cornwall. "heulo" in modern welsh means to "shine as the sun." and thus we may derive our word halo. some writers, including the venerable bede, derive yule from "hvoel," a wheel, meaning the return of the sun's annual course after the winter solstice. agriculture a comparison of progress between danish and british chapter xv. agriculture. while the scandinavian element is regarded by modern writers as the predominating feature in the composition of englishmen, the danish has been the pre-eminent force in forming the character of the race which dominates the lancashire people of to-day. in our survey of the progress of the race, from the earliest settlement of the danes, we find the impression of their footprints in the place-names of the county, which are our oldest and most enduring monuments. following their character of daring and venture, we have established a maritime power which is the envy of the world. the same spirit which formed our early settlements in lancashire has founded colonies in every quarter of the globe. the enterprise of the early "copemen" has developed into our mercantile fleet, which controls the carrying trade of the seas. the voice of their language still resounds in the names of our laws, the "hundreds" of the county, and in our system of administration, and also in the political freedom which has established the saying that "what lancashire says to-day, england will say to-morrow." in the earliest record of agricultural progress we find the danes have given us the name of "husbandry," and the modern implement called the "plough." therefore, in forming an estimate of the benefits which have resulted from our intercourse with the danes, the primary industry of agriculture and dairy produce must not be omitted. in all other branches of commercial activity, by the application of scientific methods, unbounded progress has been achieved. has the oldest industry of the county had a share in this attainment of wealth, or its rural population derived advancement? for a period of half-a-century our agricultural leaders have held competitions known as agricultural shows, where valuable prizes have been given for live stock of all descriptions, and rewards for every design of mechanical appliance for agriculture. to a stranger visiting these shows, it would appear that we brooked no rival in the production of dairy produce. what are the facts disclosed by the figures for the past or years? in the "year book of the lancashire past agricultural students' association" we are told that parliament handed over, in the year , to local authorities, large sums of money for purposes of technical instruction, and that "this marks the really substantial beginning of agricultural education in lancashire." with this statement, made at the opening of the twentieth century, it may be interesting to notice the increase of our imports of danish dairy produce for a period of eleven years:-- year. imports. exports. £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , £ , , danish agriculture. during the past ten years, says mr. consul l. c. liddell in his report for , denmark has witnessed a considerable increase. the exports of agricultural produce, which in were worth £ , , , reached £ , , in . the amount of butter exported to the united kingdom reaches . per cent. of the total; of bacon, . per cent.; and of eggs, . per cent. the remainder of the butter and bacon goes principally to germany. nearly the entire export of horses and cattle is absorbed by the german market, whilst three-fifths of the beef also finds its way thither, the remainder going to norway. the labour question has, as in other years, attracted much attention. the number of swedish and finnish labourers is decreasing, and it is from galicia that denmark would now appear to recruit her farm hands. the number of galician "season" labourers in reached , , or about , more than in . the co-operative organisations approached the prime minister with the proposal that free passes should be granted on the state railway system to any unemployed at copenhagen having a knowledge of field work to help in farming. this attempt to organise a "back to the land" movement is not expected to be attended with success. these figures show an increase of nearly double in eleven years, or an increase of eight millions, and an increase of two millions from to . it must be remembered that the bulk of danish produce comes to the manchester market, and is distributed from that centre. an analysis of the imports from denmark gives the following details:--butter £ , , , eggs £ , , , fish £ , , lard £ , , bacon £ , , , pork £ , . the item of bacon for shows an increase of one million pounds over the year . the import of danish produce began in the early sixties of last century, and the quality was so indifferent that we are told it was fortunate if two casks of butter were good out of every five. even then the quality was superior to irish butter in its taste and appearance. the population of denmark is two and a half millions, and the cultivated area of land is seven million acres. the yield of crops to the acre is bushels of wheat, while in england it is bushels. in barley the yield is bushels to our bushels, and in oats it is bushels to our . these figures show the comparative fruitfulness of the land to be in favour of england. the live stock per , population in denmark is cattle to our , and pigs to our . the total imports for twenty years show that our dairy produce from abroad has doubled, and is increasing at a rapid rate. comparisons of danish methods of farming to-day cannot be made with the present conditions existing in lancashire or yorkshire, but can only be made by the modern conditions now obtaining in essex under lord rayleigh. crops diminishing. what has been the course of our agriculture for the past sixty years? mr. cobden maintained that free trade would do no injury to agriculture. the following is a comparison of prices in the years and :-- . . [e] lbs. loaf of bread d. - / d. [f] lb. butter d. / . [f] lb. cheese d. d. [f] lb. bacon d. d. [f] lb. beef d. d. sixty years ago home-grown wheat produced flour for twenty-four millions of our population.[g] to-day it produces flour for four and a half millions. the acreage under wheat has been reduced in the last thirty years to one-half in england, to one-third in scotland, and to one-fifth in ireland. the same is true of green crops. nine hundred thousand acres less are under crops than were thirty years ago. the same may be said of the area under hop cultivation, which has been reduced every year. the only bright spot in the review of our agricultural position, extending over many years, is to be found in the growth of fruit, although this has not increased as rapidly as foreign importations. the result of these changes during the last thirty years has been an increase of imports of agricultural produce of eighty millions. our imports of wheat have increased by thirty-two millions, our imports of dairy produce have increased by twenty-one millions, and eggs alone have increased by four millions sterling a year; while fruit and vegetables have increased by ten and a half millions. the effect of this must be the increased dependence of our population on foreign supplies. agriculture finds employment for a million less than it did sixty years ago. these are facts and not opinions, and we are compelled to use the figures of the general national imports, as the details of the counties are not available. national savings. statesmen tell us that the post office savings bank deposits are a fair indication of the industrial prosperity. in the report of these post office savings banks we find that denmark heads the list with £ s. per head of the population, while the united kingdom comes ninth in the list with a sum of £ s. per head of the population. the economy of waste has been the keynote of wealth to many industries, and the adaptability of labour to changed conditions has marked the survival of more than one centre of commercial activity. individual cases are not wanting to prove that men who have been found unfit to follow their work in mills and town employments through weak health or the effect of accidents, have succeeded, by the aid of a small capital, in becoming model farmers, and have demonstrated the variety of crops and stock which can be raised on a single farm. the bye-products of the manufacturers are often the source of success, and these are the most neglected in the itinerary of the farmer. the greatest problem which confronts our municipal authorities is the profitable disposal of sewage. where sewage farms are maintained they are invariably conducted at a heavy loss to the ratepayers, while the adjoining farm tenants often succeed in making profits. to reclaim the land which has gone out of cultivation, by the application of unemployed labour and the disposal of waste and sewage, provides the solution of a difficulty which may become a source of wealth, and restore the prosperity of a lost industry. cost of agricultural education. a white paper just issued by the board of education gives particulars as to the amount spent by county councils in england and wales on agricultural education. the amounts vary considerably in the different counties for the year ending march, . in england, lancashire takes the lead with £ , , and in wales the county of carmarthen is prominent with £ . the gross total amounted to £ , , of which £ , was in grants to schools and colleges, £ , for scholarships, and £ , for dairy instruction. the figures are approximate owing to the difficulty of analysing education accounts. there are not wanting those who say that farming cannot be made to pay in england. essex has quite a different experience. for here farms, varying in size from acres to , and over, have been made to return very good profits. the whole secret lies in the work being conducted on scientific principles, and the careful watching of every penny expended, as well as giving the labourers a direct interest in getting good results. on lord rayleigh's estate, terling, which comprises about , acres, striking results have been obtained during the past twenty years, his successes being attributed to the use of business and scientific methods. for many years past his lordship's brother, the hon. e. g. strutt--probably one of the most experienced practical farmers in england--has had the management of the property, and has shown that farming can be carried on with a profit in this country. essex is described as flat, but in the neighbourhood of terling, which abuts on the great eastern railway line at witham, there are numerous gently undulating plains, and even at this time of the year a stroll along the lanes in the neighbourhood reveals many pleasant surprises. here and there the hedgerows are already bursting into delicate green buds, and in some places the crops sown during the early winter for spring are showing above the rich dark brow soil. and many are the birds which are already, as it were, getting into voice for the spring. the county hereabouts is heavily wooded, the chief trees being oak, ash, and elm. many of these are veritable giants and monarchs of the forest, now standing out alone on the sky-line in all their nakedness of winter outline, then in small groups, again in such numbers as to become forests. on every hand are signs of activity. ploughing for the moment is all over, though there are still fields of stubble which have to be turned over and prepared for crops in the near future. fields which have already been ploughed are being heavily manured in readiness for sowing. and herein lies one of the secrets of the successful farming prevailing in this favoured neighbourhood. everyone knows, but not everyone acts upon the knowledge, that as the fertility of the soil is exhausted fresh nutriment must be given. the observance of this rule brings its own reward, as many have learned to their advantage. hedging and ditching are in progress, and by the time that all hands will be required on the land for ploughing, scarifying, harrowing, and sowing, hedges will have been trimmed and ditches cleaned. some eighteen or twenty years ago lord rayleigh decided to offer all his farm labourers, who number about , bonuses on the profits of their industry. this scheme proved eminently successful; so much so, indeed, that lord rayleigh has now gone a step further and offered to give every man who cares to invest his savings in his farms per cent. interest on such money, and a share in any profits which may accrue after that dividend has been paid. a very large proportion of the men employed have taken advantage of this offer, which gives them close upon per cent. more than they were getting from the post office savings bank, where they had been in the habit of putting their money, for they are a thoroughly respectable, self-respecting, and frugal community. it is now just a year since this offer was first made, and the employees put up over £ , , in sums ranging from £ to £ , the latter sum coming from a man who had banked all the bonuses he earned, along with savings from twenty-five years' earnings. lord rayleigh's idea was to get the men not only to study thrift, but to take a keener interest in their daily work. it has been said that that man is a public benefactor who gets two blades of grass to flourish where but one grew before. his lordship has a far higher satisfaction in advancing the position of the men in his employment. in effect this is what he said to them: "my farms represent so much money to me; now for every £ which you put in i will guarantee you per cent. after we have all had our per cent., such surplus profit as may be left, if any, will be divided between us _pro rata_." the result of the first year's farming under this form of co-partnership has been very satisfactory. everyone has not only been paid the guaranteed per cent., which was distributed recently, but each labourer has also received a share in the sum which was over after paying out that amount. while mr. strutt declined to disclose the exact amount of the remaining profit, he hinted that the extra interest might quite possibly be as much as a further per cent. whatever it is, every labourer who put his savings into lord rayleigh's hands is congratulating himself upon his good fortune, and, as saving begets saving, there is a prospect that none of these beneficiaries will ever need the old age pension. lord rayleigh has made only two stipulations with his men, both aimed at unity of administration. one is that they cannot have any voice in the management of the estate, which mr. strutt naturally works to the best advantage, and the other is that only the savings of the labourer himself and his wife may be offered for investment in the farms. probably there is no farm where such intricate or such useful books are kept as on the terling estates. practically every field is treated as a separate farm in itself. say, for instance, a field is to be sown with wheat. it has to be ploughed, the cost of which is charged in the book against that field, as also the value of the manure used, the price of the seeds sown, and all the time occupied in preparing the land, and, later on, in cutting the wheat, threshing, and sending it to market. on the opposite page of the ledger is put the amount obtained for the grain, and the value of the straw, whether sold or used on the farms. a balance can then be struck, and the profit or loss shown at a glance. on the profit shown, those who did the various necessary labours receive their bonus. so with every field. but the system does not end here. a most careful record is kept, for example, of every cow--the original cost, if bought, the amount of milk she yields per year, of her calves, and what they fetch when sold, or their value if retained on the estate. every friday, the morning and evening milkings are accurately measured, and at the end of the year these figures are added up and multiplied by seven for the seven days of the week. in this way it is known exactly how much milk each cow gives. the annual average should be about gallons, which is regarded as a very fair amount. there is, however, one cow, lilac by name, which seems to despise that average. last year her yield of milk was no less than , gallons, which is a big record, even on the terling estates. mr. strutt reckons that a cow should give on an average gallons of milk per year, and the cowmen get a bonus when the yield of the cows in their charge average that amount. the advantage of such records are enormous. if a cow does not give gallons of milk per annum, she is at once sold, as she does not pay for her keep. as there are no less than cows on the estate, the keeping of such records involves an enormous amount of work, but it is work which has a profitable result, facilitating, as it does, the weeding out of poor dairy stock. the same attention is paid to other departments. records are kept of the sheep, of which there are considerable flocks scattered over the fifteen farms comprised in the estate. it is the same with poultry, of which there are thousands roaming about the farms, grubbing much of their food, but, of course, some is thrown down for them in the various poultry yards. no hens are penned up on the estate. while that course is necessary where prize-show birds are reared, in the case of table poultry and poultry kept for eggs pens are neither essential nor profitable. with freedom the birds lay more regularly, and are generally in better condition for the table. asked as to whether eggs were not lost owing to the hens laying in the hedges, mr. isted, who is in charge of the office where all the various books of record are kept, said that few, indeed, if any, are overlooked by those responsible, because of the system of bonuses given by lord rayleigh, to which reference has already been made. those in charge of the hens receive a reward on every score of eggs brought in. every head of poultry reared also means a monetary benefit to the workers. daily between and -gallon churns of milk are despatched to london. it is said that from no station along the great eastern railway line is more milk sent to the metropolis than from witham. at present about of these churns leave the station every day, all the milk coming from the immediate neighbourhood. eggs are also sent to the rayleigh dairies in vast quantities. every egg is carefully tested before it leaves the estate. the poultry is disposed of through middlemen. other produce is sold in the essex markets--at chelmsford, colchester, witham, and braintree. this would include all the cereals not used on the farm, and such hay as was not required for the stock during winter. down in essex wages are regarded as generally good by the farm labourers. at least there is a distinct tendency on the part of the men to remain on the soil. horsemen receive s. a week, cowmen s. and s., the head cowmen getting generally s. and s., while other farm hands earn from s. to s. living is very cheap, and rents are low. a good, comfortable cottage, with a decent bit of garden, where vegetables can be grown, can be had for £ or £ a year. should a man require more ground he can get it at a nominal annual rent of d. per rod--that is, a piece of ground measuring - / yards each way. quite a number of men avail themselves of this offer, and as they knock off work at five p.m., they put in their evenings on their own "estate." it is true that lord rayleigh has only tried his new system of investment, as well as interest in the farms, for a year, but the results amply justify the experiment. so satisfied are the men themselves that many have asked to be allowed to invest their share of the interest earned and their new bonuses in the estate. it would seem that here, at least, is a possible project for checking the ever-increasing rush of young men to the towns, where, while wages may be higher, the conditions are not conducive to either personal or patriotic well-being. the great feature of lord rayleigh's plan is that it is a distinctly profit-sharing one, for no reform, however attractive, can be economically good unless it is financially sound. with wheat in a rising market at s. a quarter, the granaries of the world holding back supplies a considerable proportion of which are already cornered in america--and bread dearer than it has been for many years, the question of the moment is, can england become her own wheat grower? fourteen weeks after harvest the home supplies are exhausted. britain needs altogether, both home and foreign, , , quarters of wheat per annum to provide her people with bread. out of the total area of , , acres under crops of all sorts in the country only , , acres are devoted to the growth of wheat. english climatic conditions can be relied upon to allow an average production of three and a half quarters per acre. the solution of the problem, therefore, is simplicity itself. a matter of , , acres taken from those devoted meantime to other crops, to pasturage (to say nothing of deer forests, grouse moors, golf links), or even lying waste, and developed for wheat growing would produce, roughly speaking, the extra , , necessary to our annual national food supply. millions of acres of the land at present in other crops has grown wheat at a profit in the past. in the sixties and seventies the staple commodity was at its most remunerative price. in it touched the enormous average of s. d. per quarter, while later, in and , it stood at s. d. and s. d. per quarter. with the countries of the east--india, china, japan--awakening to the potentialities of wheat as a food in place of rice, with america's prairies becoming used up and her teeming millions multiplying, and with canada, australia, and argentina remaining at a standstill as regards wheat production, it is clear that england ought to become self-sufficing. to attain the desired end the vast possibilities of the agricultural science of to-day must be appreciated and developed by every possible means. what can be done within england's own borders is the chief point to be considered, and some experiments and experiences may point the way. the first question is, would home produced wheat pay? farmers tell us that at s. a quarter wheat is just worth growing, but that each shilling over s. means about s. clear profit. would not wheat at s. an acre be worth cultivating? as to the practical ways and means of obtaining this sum out of the soil, i must detail some of the more modern scientific methods in agriculture. i have said that , , acres of the present area under crops could make us independent of foreign supplies. by applying certain simple rules of selection regarding seeds, a much smaller area of land would give the same result. instead of - / quarters per acre--the present average--the yield could be doubled, or even trebled. thirty years ago, in france, three quarters an acre was considered a good crop, but the same soil with improved methods of cultivation nowadays yields at least four quarters per acre; while in the best soils the crop is only considered good when it yields five quarters to six quarters an acre. the work of the garton brothers and of professor biffen, of cambridge university, has clearly shown that by careful selection and crossing of the best breeds of wheat the yield can be actually quadrupled. hallet's famous experiments in selection demonstrate that the length of the wheat ear can be doubled, and the number of ears per stalk nearly trebled. the finest ear he developed produced grains, as against in the original ear, and ears to one plant, as against ten in the original. in agriculture, as in other matters in which england claims to take a leading part, we have something to learn from the continent. france, belgium, and germany have adopted a system of co-operation which has reduced the cost of farming to the smallest possible limit. from a fund supplied partly by the governments of these countries and partly by the farmers themselves, small farms, manures, seeds, machinery, etc., are provided on a co-operative basis. would not a system on similar lines have far-reaching results in this country? perhaps the most interesting suggestion, the newest in the fields of scientific agriculture research, is the inoculation of the soil with bacteria. through these wonder-working germs which live in the nodules of plant roots multiplication of the free nitrogen in the air goes on with great rapidity, and this, united with other elements, forms valuable plant food. recent experiments, the results of which have not yet been made public, show that good crops of wheat may be grown in the poorest soil; indeed, the scriptural injunction about sowing seeds in waste places no longer bears scientific examination. on an area which was little more than common sand crops inoculated with bacteria gave an increased yield of per cent. wheat grown on the lines i have touched upon within the united kingdom, and paying the grower s. per quarter, would go far to solve every social and economic problem known. there would be work for all in the country districts, and consequently less poverty in the towns, and to the nation's resources would be conserved the enormous annual expenditure on foreign wheat of £ , , . occupying ownership. "a time there was, ere england's griefs began, when every rood of ground maintained its man," behold a change; where'er her flag unfurled, it presaged forth--goods-maker to the world. then wealth from trade, pure farming handicapped while glittering towns the youthful swain entrapped. in trade, no longer, england stands alone, indeed, too oft, john bull gets "beaten on his own." dependent on the world for nearly every crumb, is this a time when patriots should be dumb? for england needs to guard 'gainst future strife that backing up which comes from rural life. though all indeed may use both book and pen, the nation's weal depends on robust men inured to toil--a hardy, virile band. and these are bred where owners till the land. supply of wheat. strides in the scale of living. earl carrington, president of the board of agriculture, presided at a meeting of the society of arts, when a paper upon the production of wheat was read by mr. a. e. humphries. his lordship gave some very interesting jottings from family history, showing the great advance that had taken place in the scale of living. the subject of the lecture, he said, reminded him that over years ago his grandfather, who was president of the board of agriculture, made a speech in which he said that one of the most important subjects with which the board had to deal was the scarcity of wheat. it was curious that they were discussing the same subject to-day. his father, who was born years ago, had often told him that in the early part of last century they did not have white bread at every meal, as it was so scarce. if that happened at the table of old robert smith, the banker, at whitehall, what must the bread of the working classes have been like! in the five years from to , said mr. humphries in his lecture, we produced lb. of wheat per head per annum, and imported lb., while in the years from to we produced only lb. per head, and imported lb. for many years british wheat had been sold at substantially lower prices than the best foreign, and in the capacity of making large, shapely, well-aerated and digestible loaves the home-grown grain was notably deficient. it was commonly attributed to our climate, and people said that great britain was not a wheat producing country. the real reason was that farmer did not grow the right kind of wheat. it was not a matter of climate or of soil, but of catering for the particular kind of soil in which the grain was to be grown. the crux of the whole question was to obtain a variety of seed that would suit the environment. farmers, instead of aiming at quality, had striven to get as large a yield per acre as possible. the hon. j. w. taverner, agent-general for victoria, said that he had heard a lot of talk about the efficiency of the territorial army and the safety of the country. if only the men were fed on bread baked from australian wheat england had nothing to fear, for the men would be equal to anything. footnotes [a] from an article by the late john just, m.a., of bury. [b] knott is also used for the name of a mountain or hill, as in arnside knott, in westmoreland, but near the lancashire border. [c] from darvel--death and öl--feast. [d] the ancestors of the poet were, however, more likely "chaussiers," makers of long hose. [e] from "free trader," issued by the liberal free traders, dec., . [f] from "the hungry forties," written by mr. cobden's daughter. [g] from report of agricultural committee of the tariff commission. index acle, . adamson, . adalis, , , . aella, king, . agriculture, . ainsdale, . aire, . ale, . alexandria, . alfgier, - . alfred the great (illust.), , . altcar, . amleth, . amounderness, . anastasius, . anderson, . angel choir of lincoln, . anglian population, . anlaby, . anlaf, , , , , , . anstice, . aradr, . aratum, . arcle, . arnside knott, . arncliffe, . art, . athelfloed, lady of the mercians, . athelstan, , , , , , , . asia, . augustin, . austin, . australia, . austria, . axle, . ayton (great), . back o'th' hill, . bacup, . balder, . ball (olaf), . ballads and war songs, . ballr, . balderstone, . bamber, . banbury, . bannister, . barker, . barrowford, . basket making, . bath-day, . battlefield, . battlestone, . beck, . beckett, . bede, . beer, . bellum brun, . bernicia, , , . bessingby, . billingr, . birkdale, . birket, . bishop's house estate, . bishop's leap, , . blagburnshire hundred, . 'blakogr,' . blawith, . blowick, . 'boer,' . 'bois,' . 'bondr,' . bonfire hill, . booth, . boulsworth, . boys, . bractaetes, . 'breck,' . bridlington, . britons, . ---- of strathclyde, . broadclough dykes, . broad dyke, . broadbank, . brock, . brincaburh, . brinkburn, . bromborough, . brownedge, , . brownend, . brownside, . brun, , . brunanburh, , . brunford, . brunton, . brumbridge, . brumby, . 'bud,' . buerton, . 'burh,' . burnley, , . burscough, . burton, . burton-on-trent, . bushel-corn, . 'by-law,' . 'byr,' . byrom, . byzantine coins, . cairns, . calday, . calders, . calderstones, , . canute, , . candlemas, . capenhurst, . castle hill--tunlay, - . cat's cradle, . causeway, . carnaby, . castercliffe, , . celtic burial, . chapman, . cheap, . cheapside, . chepstow, . chester, , , - . chester-le-street, . children's games, . childwall, . christian 'sunday letters,' . churches, - . churchtown, . claughton-on-brock, . clitheroe, , . clog almanacs, . ---- ---- symbols, . coinage, . colne, . constantine, king of scots, . copeland, . copeman, . copenhagen, . copethorn, . copley, . copynook, . corn spirit, . cottingham, . craik, yorkshire, . crathorne, . crosby, , . crosses, . croxteth, . cuerdale, , , . cumberland, . cuthbert, saint, , . cutherd, bishop, . cup-cuttings, . 'dale,' . danelag, . danes house, . darvel cakes, . darvel deathfeast, . dean, . deira, , , , . dell, . derby, . dialect, . drengs, . eadred, abbot of carlisle, . eanfrid, . easden fort, . easington, . ecclesiologist, . ecfrith, . edward the elder, . edwin, king, . egbert (illust.), . eglis, . egyptian scholars, . ellerburn, . elston, . elswick, . emmott, . enderby, . 'endr,' . endrod, . entwistle, . equinox, vernal, . ernot, . everett, . everard, . extwistle hall, . facid, . facit, . fairs and wakes, . fawcett, . 'feldkirk,' . fire and sun worship, . folklore for children, . formby, , . forseti, . foster, . fraisthorpe, . frankby, . fraser, . freyer, . frisby, . fry, . fryer, . furness, . fylde, . 'gaard,' . galt, . gamelson, . gambleside, . gamul, . 'gata,' . garnett, . garstang, . garswood, . garth, . garton, . geld, . godley, , . golden numbers, . 'gos,' . gosford, . grave mounds, . grindalbythe, . guthred, king, , . hackenhurst, . haggate, . halfdan's death, . halfdene, , , . halton, , , - . ---- crosses, . ---- torque, . hamilton hill, , . hamlet, . hapton, . harbreck, . harkirke, , . 'haugr,' . hay, . haydon bridge, . hazel edge, . hell clough, . helm wind, . heptarchy, . heriot, . hessle, . heysham, . highlawhill, . 'hofs,' . horelaw pastures, . 'hlith,' . hoe, . hogback stone, , , . hoop, . hope, . hopehead, . hopekirk, . hopeton, . howick, . hoylake, . hudleston, . hundred court, . hutton john, . hurstwood, . husbandry, , . hustings, . huyton, . hyngr, the dane, , . ida, king, . ingleby, . invasion and conquest, , , . irby, . ireland, . irish christians, . ivar, . jarls, . jarrow, . kell, . kellet, . kendal, . kingo, poet, . kirk ella, , . kirk levington, . kirkby, , . kirkby in cleveland, . kirkby lonsdale, . kirkby misperton, . kirkby moorside, , . kirkby stephen, . kirkdale, , , , . 'kirkja' church, . knott end mill, . 'knotta,' . knottingley, . knut, . 'knutr,' . knutsford, . 'lake,' game, . land tenure, . laugardag, bath day, . lawmen, . lay of norse gods, . leamington, . lethbridge, . levishan, . lindsey, . lindisfarne, . litherland, . literature, . ---- 'skryke of day,' . ---- sunrise, . lithe, . lithgoe, . liverpool, , . log-law, . long hundred, . long weight, . lonsdale, . loom, danish, . lorton, . lorton-en-le-morthen, yorks., . 'lug-mark,' . lunar cycle, . lund, . lyster, . mackerfield, . maeshir, . maiden way, . manchester, . manorial exaction, . manx inscriptions, . memorials, . 'merchet,' . mercia, . mercians, lady of, . ---- rule, . mereclough, . mersey, . 'messe staves,' . moons, changes, . mythology, . names, norse and anglo-saxon, . neilson, . nelson, admiral, . norns, . norse festival, . northumberland, --. northumbria, , , . nunnington, , . 'occupying ownership,' . odin, , . ---- 'the descent of,' . 'ol,' . 'oller,' . olave, saint, . oram, . 'orm,' . orme, . ormerod, . ormesby, . ormeshaw, . ormside cup, . ormskirk, , . ormstead, . osmotherley, . 'osric,' . 'oswald,' . 'oter,' . otter, . ottley, . 'oxl,' . oxton, . paton, . patronymics, . 'pecthun,' . penda, . peyton, . phauranoth, . physical types, . picton, . picts, , . picture, . piko, . place names, - . 'plogr. plov.,' . plough, . political freemen, . preston, . prestune, . prim-staves, . prima-luna, . quakers, . raby, . rachdam, . ragnvald, . raven, . ravenshore, . ravensmeols, . rawtenstall, . red-lees, - . regnold of bamborough, . ribble, - . 'ridings,' yorkshire, . rimstock, - . 'rimur,' . rivington pike, . roby, . rochdale, . roman days, . rooley, . rossendale, . round hill, . royal charters, norse witnesses, . rûnâ, . runes, . runic almanacs, . ---- calender, . ---- characters, , . ---- 'futhork,' . ---- inscriptions, . ---- monuments, . 'ruthlie,' . 'saetter,' . sagas, , . salford hundred, . satterthwaite, . saxifield, , , . scarisbrick, . seacombe, . seascale, . seathwaithe, . sellafield, . 'servi,' . settlements, . shakespere, . sherborne, . sheffield, . shotwick, . sieward, earl, . sigurd-story, . sinnington, . 'sinfin,' , . 'sithric,' king, . skelmersdale, . skelton, . skidby, . skipper, . slavery abolition, . 'socage,' , , . sochman, , . sochmanni, , . sochmanries, . socmen of peterboro', . sodor and man, . solar cycle, . speke, . 'spika,' . statesmen, . stainton, - . steadsmen, . stigand, . stiggins, . 'stockstede,' croxteth, . stokesley, . stone crosses, . storeton, . sudreyjar, . sun, . superstitions, , . sutherland, . swarbrick, . sweden 'lake' game, . swindene, . s'winden water, . s'winless lane, , . tacitus, historian, . 'tallage,' . tanshelf, taddnesscylfe, . thane, . thelwall, , . 'thing,' trithing, . thinghow, , . thingstead, . thingwall, , , , . 'thor,' . thorley, . thornaby, . thorold, . thorolf, . thursby, . thurstaston, . thurston water, . tingley, , . torque, . towneley, . towthorp, . toxteth, . trawden, . tree-yggdrasil, . 'trithing,' , . trithing court, . troughton, . trowbridge, . 'trow'-trough, . turketul, chancellor, . turton, . tursdale, . twist hill, . tynwald, . ullersthorpe, . ullscarth, . ullswater, . ulpha, . ulverston, . unthank, . valkyrs, . valour, . 'vë,' . verstigan, . 'viborg,' . viking age, . wallhalla, . walkyries, . wallasey, . walshaw, . walton le dale, . wandsworth, . wansborough, . wanstead, . wapentake, - . warcock, . warcock-hill, . warthole, . warton, . warwick, . warrington, . watling street, . wavertree, . wearmouth, . wednesbury, . wednesday, . wellborough, . west derby, . ---- ---- hundred, . west kirby, . whasset, . whitby, , , . whithorn, . ---- prior of, . wigton, . wigthorpe, . wilbeforce, . wild, . wilde, . wilding, . willerby, . willoughby, . windermere, . winewall, . winter solstice, . widdop, . wirral, , . woollen manufacture, . worsthorne, . worsthorne, . wulfric spot, . wycollar, . wydale, . wylde, . wyre, . yarborg, . yarborough, . yarm, . yerburgh, . yggdrasil, . yorkshire children's folklore, . yule, origin, . zinga, . zodiac, . zoni, . transcriber's notes punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical errors were corrected; frequent unbalanced quotation marks not remedied except as noted below. page : "hopped ale.'" either is missing an opening quotation mark or has a superfluous ending one. page : 'is "warcock hill.' either is missing a closing quotation mark or has a superfluous opening one. page : "descrip-names" was printed that way; may be misprint for "descriptive names". page : text beginning with '"robert de cowdray, who died in ' has no closing quotation mark. page : "proposition" probably should be "preposition". page : ending quotation mark added to "i's t'". page : "helder--preferably;" the semi-colon was printed as a colon, but changed here for consistency with the rest of the list. page : "are also easily be recognised" was printed that way. page : "or clap-cake, form" probably should be "from". page : 'lögg mark."' either is missing an opening quotation mark or has a superfluous closing one. page : likely superfluous quotation mark after 'by commutation."' page : missing quotation mark added after 'is in norse "stegger."' page : there is no "chapter viii" in this book, but the chapter names match the table of contents. page : paragraph beginning "the bewcastle cross in the gigurd shaft" was printed as shown here. pages - : runic symbols appeared to the left of each entry in the clog almanac on these pages, and between some of them. to avoid clutter, this ebook does not indicate where those symbols appeared. page : "st. john beverlev" may be alternate spelling for "beverley". page : no entry for sept. . page : "and has recently found" was printed that way. page : "songs and sages" may be misprint for "sagas". page : '"the calder stones near liverpool' has no closing quotation mark. page : "between feet" is a misprint, possibly for " & ". page : 'songs of the "edda.' either is missing a closing quotation mark or has a superfluous opening one. page : '"how the man odin' is missing a closing quotation mark, or its mate is on page . page : 'the sky and in the ocean."' is missing an opening quotation mark, or its mate is on page . page : "last thirty years" was misprinted as "vast"; changed here. page : "rich dark brow soil" probably should be "brown". page : unclear whether "occupying ownership" is a section heading or just the title of the poem. page : "but of catering" contained a duplicate "of"; changed here. some alphabetizing errors in the index corrected here. index references were not checked for accuracy. page : no page reference given in the index for "northumberland, --". generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/haworths burn haworth's. * * * * * * mrs. burnett's books. _just published._ his grace of osmonde. mo, $ a lady of quality. mo, $ that lass o' lowrie's. mo, new edition, that lass o' lowrie's. mo, $ haworth's. illustrated. mo, through one administration. mo, louisiana. illustrated. mo, a fair barbarian. mo, surly tim, and other stories. mo, vagabondia. mo, paper, cloth earlier stories. first series. paper, cloth, earlier stories. second series. paper, cloth, _new and uniform edition of the above vols., cloth, in a box, $ . ._ the pretty sister of josÉ. cloth. illustrated, $ little lord fauntleroy. illustrated by r. b. birch. mo, $ sarah crewe, little saint elizabeth, and other stories. illustrated. mo, giovanni and the other. illustrated. mo, piccino, and other child stories. illustrated. mo, two little pilgrims' progress. a story of the city beautiful. illustrated by r. b. birch. mo, the one i knew the best of all. illustrated. mo, $ * * * * * * [illustration: he was so near that her dress almost touched him. (_page ._)] haworth's by frances hodgson burnett author of "that lass o' lowrie's" new york: charles scribner's sons copyright by frances hodgson burnett, , . (all rights reserved.) contents. page chapter i. twenty years chapter ii. thirty years chapter iii. "not finished" chapter iv. janey briarley chapter v. the beginning of a friendship chapter vi. miss ffrench chapter vii. the "who'd ha' thowt it?" chapter viii. mr. ffrench chapter ix. "not for one hour" chapter x. christian murdoch chapter xi. miss ffrench returns chapter xii. granny dixon chapter xiii. mr. ffrench visits the works chapter xiv. nearly an accident chapter xv. "it would be a good thing" chapter xvi. "a poor chap as is allus i' trouble" chapter xvii. a flower chapter xviii. "haworth & co." chapter xix. an unexpected guest chapter xx. miss ffrench makes a call chapter xxi. in which mrs. briarley's position is delicate chapter xxii. again chapter xxiii. "ten shillings' worth" chapter xxiv. at an end chapter xxv. "i shall not turn back" chapter xxvi. a revolution chapter xxvii. the beginning chapter xxviii. a speech chapter xxix. "sararann" chapter xxx. mrs. haworth and granny dixon chapter xxxi. haworth's defender chapter xxxii. christian murdoch chapter xxxiii. a seed sown chapter xxxiv. a climax chapter xxxv. "i am not ready for it yet" chapter xxxvi. settling an account chapter xxxvii. a summer afternoon chapter xxxviii. "god bless you!" chapter xxxix. "it is done with" chapter xl. "look out!" chapter xli. "it has all been a lie" chapter xlii. "another man!" chapter xliii. "even" chapter xliv. "why do you cry for me?" chapter xlv. "it is worse than i thought" chapter xlvi. once again chapter xlvii. a footstep chapter xlviii. finished chapter xlix. "if aught's for me, remember it" chapter l. an after-dinner speech chapter li. "th' on'y one as is na a foo'!" chapter lii. "haworth's is done with" chapter liii. "a bit o' good black" chapter liv. "it will be to you" list of illustrations. he was so near that her dress almost touched him. _frontispiece._ haworth's first appearance "yo're th' very moral on him" "sit down," she said, "and talk to me" "i stand here, my lad," he answered she turned her face toward him. "good-night," she answered "you've been here all night" it was reddy who aimed the blow [illustration: haworth's first appearance.] "haworth's." chapter i. twenty years. twenty years ago! yes, twenty years ago this very day, and there were men among them who remembered it. only two, however, and these were old men whose day was passed and who would soon be compelled to give up work. naturally upon this occasion these two were the center figures in the group of talkers who were discussing the topic of the hour. "aye," said old tipton, "i 'member it as well as if it wur yesterday, fur aw it's twenty year' sin'. eh! but it wur cowd! th' cowdest neet i' th' winter, an' th' winter wur a bad un. th' snow wur two foot deep. theer wur a big rush o' work, an' we'd had to keep th' foires goin' arter midneet. theer wur a chap workin' then by th' name o' bob latham,--he's dead long sin',--an' he went to th' foundry-door to look out. yo' know how some chaps is about seein' how cowd it is, or how hot, or how heavy th' rain's comin' down. well, he wur one o' them soart, an' he mun go an' tak' a look out at th' snow. "'coom in, tha foo',' sez i to him. 'whatten tha stickin' tha thick yed out theer fur, as if it wur midsummer, i'stead o' being cowd enow to freeze th' tail off a brass jackass. coom in wi' tha.' "'aye,' he sez, a-chatterin' his teeth, 'it is cowd sure-ly. it's enow to stiffen a mon.' "'i wish it ud stiffen thee,' i sez, 'so as we mought set thee up as a monyment at th' front o' th' 'sylum.' "an' then aw at onct i heard him gie a jump an' a bit o' a yell, like, under his breath. 'god-a-moighty!' he sez. "summat i' th' way he said it soart o' wakkened me. "'what's up?' i sez. "'coom here,' sez he. 'theer's a dead lad here.' "an' when i getten to him, sure enow i thowt he wur reet. drawed up i' a heap nigh th' door theer _wur_ a lad lyin' on th' snow, an' th' stiff look on him mowt ha' gi'en ony mon a turn. "latham wur bendin' ower him, wi' his teeth chatterin'. "'blast thee!' i sez, 'why dost na tha lift him?' "betwixt us we did lift him, an' carry him into th' works an' laid him down nigh one o' the furnaces, an' th' fellys coom crowdin' round to look at him. he wur a lad about nine year' owd, an' strong built; but he looked more than half clemmed, an' arter we'st rubbed him a good bit an' getten him warmed enow to coom round 'i a manner, th' way he set up an' stared round were summat queer. "'mesters,' he sez, hoarse an' shaky, 'ha' ony on yo' getten a bit o' bread?' "bob latham's missus had put him up summat to eat, an' he browt it an' gie it to him. well, th' little chap a'most snatched it, an' crammed it into his mouth i' great mouthfuls. his honds trembled so he could scarce howd th' meat an' bread, an' in a bit us as wur standin' lookin' on seed him soart o' choke, as if he wur goin' to cry; but he swallyed it down, and did na. "'i havn't had nowt to eat i' a long time,' sez he. "'how long?' sez i. "seemt like he thowt it ower a bit afore he answered, and then he sez: "'i think it mun ha' been four days.' "'wheer are yo' fro'?' one chap axed. "'i coom a long way,' he sez. 'i've bin on th' road three week'.' an' then he looks up sharp. 'i run away fro' th' union,' he sez. "that wur th' long an' short on it--he had th' pluck to run away fro' th' union, an' he'd had th' pluck to stond out agen clemmin' an' freezin' until flesh an' blood ud howd out no longer, an' he'd fell down at the foundry-door. "'i seed th' loight o' th' furnaces,' he sez, 'an' i tried to run; but i went blind an' fell down. i thowt,' he sez, as cool as a cucumber, 'as i wur deein'.' "well, we kep' him aw neet an' took him to th' mester i' th' mornin', an' th' mester gie him a place, an' he stayed. an' he's bin i' th' foundry fro' that day to this, an' how he's worked an' getten on yo' see for yoresens--fro' beein' at ivvery one's beck an' call to buyin' out flixton an' settin' up for hissen. it's the 'haworth iron works' fro' to-day on, an' he will na mak' a bad mester, eyther." "nay, he will na," commented another of the old ones. "he's a pretty rough chap, but he'll do--will jem haworth." there was a slight confused movement in the group. "here he cooms," exclaimed an outsider. the man who entered the door-way--a strongly built fellow, whose handsome clothes sat rather ill on his somewhat uncouth body--made his way through the crowd with small ceremony. he met the glances of the workmen with a rough nod, and went straight to the managerial desk. but he did not sit down; he stood up, facing those who waited as if he meant to dispose of the business in hand as directly as possible. "well, chaps," he said, "here we are." a slight murmur, as of assent, ran through the room. "aye, mester," they said; "here we are." "well," said he, "you know why, i suppose. we're taking a fresh start, and i've something to say to you. i've had my say here for some time; but i've not had my way, and now the time's come when i _can_ have it. hang me, but i'm going to have the biggest place in england, and the best place, too. 'haworth's' sha'n't be second to none. i've set my mind on that. i said i'd stand here some day,"--with a blow on the desk,--"and here i am. i said i'd make my way, and i've done it. from to-day on, this here's 'haworth's,' and to show you i mean to start fair and square, if there's a chap here that's got a grievance, let that chap step out and speak his mind to jem haworth himself. now's his time." and he sat down. there was another stir and murmur, this time rather of consultation; then one of them stepped forward. "mester," he said, "i'm to speak fur 'em." haworth nodded. "what i've getten to say," said the man, "is said easy. them as thowt they'd getten grievances is willin' to leave the settlin' on 'em to jem haworth." "that's straight enough," said haworth. "let 'em stick to it and there's not a chap among 'em sha'n't have his chance. go into greyson's room, lads, and drink luck to 'haworth's.' tipton and harrison, you wait a bit." tipton and harrison lingered with some degree of timidity. by the time the room had emptied itself, haworth seemed to have fallen into a reverie. he leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, and stared gloomily before him. the room had been silent five minutes before he aroused himself with a start. then he leaned forward and beckoned to the two, who came and stood before him. "you two were in the place when i came," he said. "you"--to tipton--"were the fellow as lifted me from the snow." "aye, mester," was the answer, "twenty year' ago, to-neet." "the other fellow----" "dead! eh! long sin'. ivvery chap as wur theer, dead an' gone, but me an' him," with a jerk toward his comrade. haworth put his hand in his vest-pocket and drew forth a crisp piece of paper, evidently placed there for a purpose. "here," he said with some awkwardness, "divide that between you." "betwixt us two!" stammered the old man. "it's a ten-pun-note, mester!" "yes," with something like shamefacedness. "i used to say to myself when i was a youngster that every chap who was in the works that night should have a five-pound note to-day. get out, old lads, and get as drunk as you please. i've kept my word. but--" his laugh breaking off in the middle--"i wish there'd been more of you to keep it up together." then they were gone, chuckling in senile delight over their good luck, and he was left alone. he glanced round the room--a big, handsome one, well filled with massive office furniture, and yet wearing the usual empty, barren look. "it's taken twenty years," he said, "but i've done it. it's _done_--and yet there isn't as much of it as i used to think there would be." he rose from his chair and went to the window to look out, rather impelled by restlessness than any motive. the prospect, at least, could not have attracted him. the place was closed in by tall and dingy houses, whose slate roofs shone with the rain which drizzled down through the smoky air. the ugly yard was wet and had a deserted look; the only living object which caught his eye was the solitary figure of a man who stood waiting at the iron gates. at the sight of this man, he started backward with an exclamation. "the devil take the chap!" he said. "there he is again!" he took a turn across the room, but he came back again and looked out once more, as if he found some irresistible fascination in the sight of the frail, shabbily clad figure. "yes," he said, "it's him, sure enough. i never saw another fellow with the same, done-for look. i wonder what he wants." he went to the door and opening it spoke to a man who chanced to be passing. "floxham, come in here," he said. floxham was a well-oiled and burly fellow, plainly fresh from the engine-room. he entered without ceremony, and followed his master to the window. haworth pointed to the man at the gate. "there's a chap," he said, "that i've been running up against, here and there, for the last two months. the fellow seems to spend his time wandering up and down the streets. i'm hanged if he don't make me think of a ghost. he goes against the grain with me, somehow. do you know who he is, and what's up with him?" floxham glanced toward the gate-way, and then nodded his head dryly. "aye," he answered. "he's th' inventin' chap as has bin thirty year' at work at some contrapshun, an' hasn't browt it to a yed yet. he lives i' our street, an' me an' my missis hes been noticin' him fur a good bit. he'll noan finish th' thing he's at. he's on his last legs now. he took th' contrapshun to 'merica thirty year' ago, when he first getten th' idea into his yed, an' he browt it back a bit sin' a'most i' the same fix he took it. me an' my missis think he's a bit soft i' the yed." haworth pushed by him to get nearer the window. a slight moisture started out upon his forehead. "thirty year'!" he exclaimed. "by the lord harry!" there might have been something in his excitement which had its effect upon the man who stood outside. he seemed, as it were, to awaken slowly from a fit of lethargy. he glanced up at the window, and moved slowly forward. "he's made up his mind to come in," said floxham. "what does he want?" said haworth, with a sense of physical uneasiness. "confound the fellow!" trying to shake off the feeling with a laugh. "what does he want with me--to-day?" "i can go out an' turn him back," said floxham. "no," answered haworth. "you can go back to your work. i'll hear what he has to say. i've naught else to do just now." floxham left him, and he went back to the big armchair behind the table. he sat down, and turned over some papers, not rid of his uneasiness even when the door opened, and his visitor came in. he was a tall, slender man who stooped and was narrow-chested. he was gray, hollow-eyed and haggard. he removed his shabby hat and stood before the table a second, in silence. "mr. haworth?" he said, in a gentle, absent-minded voice. "they told me this was mr. haworth's room." "yes," he answered, "i'm haworth." "i want--" a little hoarsely, and faltering--"to get some work to do. my name is murdoch. i've spent the last thirty years in america, but i'm a lancashire man. i went to america on business--which has not been successful--yet. i--i have worked here before,"--with a glance around him,--"and i should like to work here again. i did not think it would be necessary, but--that doesn't matter. perhaps it will only be temporary. i must get work." in the last sentence his voice faltered more than ever. he seemed suddenly to awaken and bring himself back to his first idea, as if he had not intended to wander from it. "i--i must get work," he repeated. the effect he produced upon the man he appealed to was peculiar. jem haworth almost resented his frail appearance. he felt it an uncomfortable thing to confront just at this hour of his triumph. he had experienced the same sensation, in a less degree, when he rose in the morning and looked out of his window upon murky sky and falling rain. he would almost have given a thousand pounds for clear, triumphant sunshine. and yet, in spite of this, he was not quite as brusque as usual when he made his answer. "i've heard of you," he said. "you've had ill luck." stephen murdoch shifted his hat from hand to hand. "i don't know," he replied, slowly. "i've not called it that yet. the end has been slow, but i think it's sure. it will come some----" haworth made a rough gesture. "by george!" he exclaimed. "haven't you given the thing up yet?" murdoch fell back a pace, and stared at him in a stunned way. "given it up!" he repeated. "yet?" "look here!" said haworth. "you'd better do it, if you haven't. take my advice, and have done with it. you're not a young chap, and if a thing's a failure after thirty years' work----" he stopped, because he saw the man trembling nervously. "oh, i didn't mean to take the pluck out of you," he said bluntly, a moment later. "you must have had plenty of it to begin with, egad, or you'd never have stood it this long." "i don't know that it was pluck,"--still quivering. "i've lived on it so long that it would not give _me_ up. i think that's it." haworth dashed off a couple of lines on a slip of paper, and tossed it to him. "take that to greyson," he said, "and you'll get your work, and if you have anything to complain of, come to me." murdoch took the paper, and held it hesitatingly. "i--perhaps i ought not to have asked for it to-day," he said, nervously. "i'm not a business man, and i didn't think of it. i came in because i saw you. i'm going to london to-morrow, and shall not be back for a week." "that's all right," said haworth. "come then." he was not sorry to see his visitor turn away, after uttering a few simple words of thanks. it would be a relief to see the door close after him. but when it had closed, to his discomfiture it opened again. the thin, poorly clad figure reappeared. "i heard in the town," said the man, his cheek flushing faintly, "of what has happened here to-day. twenty years have brought you better luck than thirty have brought me." "yes," answered haworth, "my luck's been good enough, as luck goes." "it seems almost a folly"--falling into the meditative tone--"for _me_ to wish you good luck in the future." and then, pulling himself together again as before: "it is a folly; but i wish it, nevertheless. good luck to you!" the door closed, and he was gone. chapter ii. thirty years. a little later there stood at a window, in one of the cheapest of the respectable streets, a woman whom the neighbors had become used to seeing there. she was a small person, with a repressed and watchful look in her eyes, and she was noticeable, also, to the lancashire mind, for a certain slightly foreign air, not easily described. it was in consequence of inquiries made concerning this foreign air, that the rumor had arisen that she was a "'merican," and it was possibly a result of this rumor that she was regarded by the inhabitants of the street with a curiosity not unmingled with awe. "aye," said one honest matron. "hoo's a 'merican, fur my mester heerd it fro' th' landlord. eh! i would like to ax her summat about th' blacks an' th' indians." but it was not easy to attain the degree of familiarity warranting the broaching of subjects so delicate and truly "'merican." the stranger and her husband lived a simple and secluded life. it was said the woman had never been known to go out; it seemed her place to stand or sit at the window and watch for the man when he left the house on one of his mysterious errands in company with the wooden case he carried by its iron handle. this morning she waited as usual, though the case had not gone out,--rather to the disappointment of those interested, whose conjectures concerning its contents were varied and ingenious. when, at last, the tall, stooping figure turned the corner, she went to the door and stood in readiness to greet its crossing the threshold. stephen murdoch looked down at her with a kindly, absent smile. "thank you, kitty," he said. "you are always here, my dear." there was a narrow, hard, horse-hair sofa in the small room into which they passed, and he went to it and lay down upon it, panting a little in an exhausted way, a hectic red showing itself on his hollow cheeks. "everything is ready, kitty?" he said at last. "yes, all ready." he lay and looked at the fire, still breathing shortly. "i never was as certain of it before," he said. "i have thought i was certain, but--i never felt as i do now. and yet--i don't know what made me do it--i went into haworth's this morning and asked for--for work." his wife dropped the needle she was holding. "for work!" she said. "yes--yes," a little hastily. "i was there and saw haworth at a window, and there have been delays so often that it struck me i might as well--not exactly depend on it----" he broke off and buried his face in his hands. "what am i saying?" he cried. "it sounds as if i did not believe in it." his wife drew her chair nearer to him. she was used to the task of consoling him; it had become a habit. she spoke in an even, unemotional voice. "when hilary comes----" she began. "it will be all over then," he said, "one way or the other. he will be here when i come back." "yes." "i may have good news for him," he said. "i don't see"--faltering afresh--"how it can be otherwise. only i am so used to discouragement that--that i can't see the thing fairly. it has been--a long time, kitty." "this man in london," she said, "can tell you the actual truth about it?" "he is the first mechanic and inventor in england," he answered, his eye sparkling feverishly. "he is a genius. if he says it is a success, it is one." the woman rose, and going to the fire bent down to stir it. she lingered over it for a moment or so before she came back. "when the lad comes," he was saying, as if to himself, "we shall have news for him." thirty years before, he had reached america, a gentle, unpractical lancashire man, with a frail physique and empty pockets. he had belonged in his own land to the better class of mechanics; he had a knack of invention which somehow had never as yet brought forth any decided results. he had done one or two things which had gained him the reputation among his employers of being "a clever fellow," but they had always been things which had finally slipped into stronger or shrewder hands, and left his own empty. but at last there had come to him what seemed a new and wonderful thought. he had labored with it in secret, he had lain awake through long nights brooding over it in the darkness. and then some one had said to him: "why don't you try america? america's the place for a thinking, inventing chap like you. it's fellows like you who are appreciated in a new country. capitalists are not so slow in america. why don't you carry your traps out there?" it was more a suggestion of boisterous good-fellowship than anything else, but it awakened new fancies in stephen murdoch's mind. he had always cherished vaguely grand visions of the new world, and they were easily excited. "i only wonder i never thought of it," he said to himself. he landed on the strange shore with high hopes in his breast, and a little unperfected model in his shabby trunk. this was thirty years ago, and to-day he was in lancashire again, in his native town, with the same little model among his belongings. during the thirty years' interval he had lived an unsettled, unsuccessful life. he had labored faithfully at his task, but he had not reached the end which had been his aim. sometimes he had seemed very near it, but it had always evaded him. he had drifted here and there bearing his work with him, earning a scant livelihood by doing anything chance threw in his way. it had always been a scant livelihood,--though after the lapse of eight years, in one of his intervals of hopefulness, he had married. on the first night they spent in their new home he had taken his wife into a little bare room, set apart from the rest, and had shown her his model. "i think a few weeks will finish it," he said. the earliest recollections of their one child centered themselves round the small room and its contents. it was the one touch of romance and mystery in their narrow, simple life. the few spare hours the struggle for daily bread left the man were spent there; sometimes he even stole hours from the night, and yet the end was always one step further. his frail body grew frailer, his gentle temperament more excitable, he was feverishly confident and utterly despairing by turns. it was in one of his hours of elation that his mind turned again to his old home. he was sure at last that a few days' work would complete all, and then only friends were needed. "england is the place, after all," he said. "they are more steady there, even if they are not so sanguine,--and there are men in lancashire i can rely upon. we'll try old england once again." the little money hard labor and scant living had laid away for an hour of need, they brought with them. their son had remained to dispose of their few possessions. between this son and the father there existed a strong affection, and stephen murdoch had done his best by him. "i should like the lad," he used to say, "to have a fairer chance than i had. i want him to have what i have lacked." as he lay upon the horse-hair sofa he spoke of him to his wife. "there are not many like him," he said. "he'll make his way. i've sometimes thought that may-be----" but he did not finish the sentence; the words died away on his lips, and he lay--perhaps thinking over them as he looked at the fire. chapter iii. "not finished." the next morning he went upon his journey, and a few days later the son came. he was a tall young fellow, with a dark, strongly cut face, deep-set black eyes and an unconventional air. those who had been wont to watch his father, watched him in his turn with quite as much interest. he seemed to apply himself to the task of exploring the place at once. he went out a great deal and in all sorts of weather. he even presented himself at "haworth's," and making friends with floxham got permission to go through the place and look at the machinery. his simple directness of speech at once baffled and softened floxham. "my name's murdoch," he said. "i'm an american and i'm interested in mechanics. if it isn't against your rules i should like to see your machinery." floxham pushed his cap off his forehead and looked him over. "well, i'm dom'd," he remarked. it had struck him at first that this might be "cheek." and then he recognized that it was not. murdoch looked slightly bewildered. "if there is any objection----" he began. "well, there is na," said floxham. "coom on in." and he cut the matter short by turning into the door. "did any 'o yo' chaps see that felly as coom to look at th' machinery?" he said afterward to his comrades. "he's fro' 'merica, an' danged if he has na more head-fillin' than yo'd think fur. he goes round wi' his hands i' his pockits lookin' loike a foo', an' axin' questions as ud stump an owd un. he's th' inventin' chap's lad. i dunnot go much wi' inventions mysen, but th' young chap's noan sich a foo' as he looks." between mother and son but little had been said on the subject which reigned supreme in the mind of each. it had never been their habit to speak freely on the matter. on the night of hilary's arrival, as they sat together, the woman said: "he went away three days ago. he will be back at the end of the week. he hoped to have good news for you." they said little beyond this, but both sat silent for some time afterward, and the conversation became desultory and lagged somewhat until they separated for the night. the week ended with fresh gusts of wind and heavy rains. stephen murdoch came home in a storm. on the day fixed for his return, his wife scarcely left her seat at the window for an hour. she sat looking out at the driving rain with a pale and rigid face; when the night fell and she rose to close the shutters, hilary saw that her hands shook. she made the small room as bright as possible, and set the evening meal upon the table, and then sat down and waited again by the fire, cowering a little over it, but not speaking. "his being detained is not a bad sign," said hilary. half an hour later they both started from their seats at once. there was a loud summons at the door. it was hilary who opened it, his mother following closely. a great gust of wind blew the rain in upon them, and stephen murdoch, wet and storm-beaten, stepped in from the outer darkness, carrying the wooden case in his hands. he seemed scarcely to see them. he made his way past them and into the lighted room with an uncertain step. the light appeared to dazzle him. he went to the sofa weakly and threw himself upon it; he was trembling like a leaf; he had aged ten years. "i--i----" and then he looked up at them as they stood before him waiting. "there is naught to say," he cried out, and burst into wild, hysterical weeping, like that of a woman. in obedience to a sign from his mother, hilary left the room. when, after the lapse of half an hour, he returned, all was quiet. his father lay upon the sofa with closed eyes, his mother sat near him. he did not rise nor touch food, and only spoke once during the evening. then he opened his eyes and turned them upon the case which still stood where he had placed it. "take it away," he said in a whisper. "take it away." the next morning hilary went to floxham. "i want work," he said. "do you think i can get it here?" "what soart does tha want?" asked the engineer, not too encouragingly. "th' gentlemanly soart as tha con do wi' kid-gloves an' a eye-glass on?" "no," answered murdoch, "not that sort." floxham eyed him keenly. "would tha tak' owt as was offert thee?" he demanded. "i think i would." "aw reet, then! i'll gie thee a chance. coom tha wi' me to th' engine-room, an' see how long tha'lt stick to it." it was very ordinary work he was given to do, but he seemed to take quite kindly to it; in fact, the manner in which he applied himself to the rough tasks which fell to his lot gave rise to no slight dissatisfaction among his fellow-workmen, and caused him to be regarded with small respect. he was usually a little ahead of the stipulated time, he had an equable temper, and yet despite this and his civility, he seemed often more than half oblivious of the existence of those around him. a highly flavored joke did not awaken him to enthusiasm, and perhaps chiefest among his failings was noted the fact that he had no predilection for "sixpenny," and at his midday meal, which he frequently brought with him and ate in any convenient corner, he sat drinking cold water and eating his simple fare over a book. "th' chap is na more than haaf theer," was the opinion generally expressed. since the night of his return from his journey, stephen murdoch had been out no more. the neighbors watched for him in vain. the wooden case stood unopened in his room,--he had never spoken of it. through the long hours of the day he lay upon the sofa, either dozing or in silent wakefulness, and at length instead of upon the sofa he lay upon the bed, not having strength to rise. about three months after he had taken his place at haworth's, hilary came home one evening to find his mother waiting for him at the door. she shed no tears, there was in her face only a hopeless terror. "he has sent me out of the room," she said. "he has been restless all day. he said he must be alone." hilary went upstairs. opening the door he fell back a step. the model was in its old place on the work-table and near it stood a tall, gaunt, white figure. his father turned toward him. he touched himself upon the breast. "i always told myself," he said, incoherently and hoarsely, "that there was a flaw in it--that something was lacking. i have said that for thirty years, and believed the day would come when i should remedy the wrong. to-night i _know_. the truth has come to me at last. there was no remedy. the flaw was in me," touching his hollow chest,--"in _me_. as i lay there i thought once that perhaps it was not real--that i had dreamed it all and might awake. i got up to see--to touch it. it is there! good god!" as if a sudden terror grasped him. "not finished!--and i----" he fell into a chair and sank forward, his hand falling upon the model helplessly and unmeaningly. hilary raised him and laid his head upon his shoulder. he heard his mother at the door and cried out loudly to her. "go back!" he said. "go back! you must not come in." chapter iv. janey briarley. a week later hilary murdoch returned from the broxton grave-yard in a drizzling rain, and made his way to the bare, cleanly swept chamber upstairs. since the night on which he had cried out to his mother that she must not enter, the table at which the dead man had been wont to sit at work had been pushed aside. some one had thrown a white cloth over it. murdoch went to it and drew this cloth away. he stood and looked down at the little skeleton of wood and steel. it had been nothing but a curse from first to last, and yet it fascinated him. he found it hard to do the thing he had come to do. "it is not finished," he said to the echoes of the empty room. "it--never will be." he slowly replaced it in its case, and buried it out of sight at the bottom of the trunk which, from that day forward, would stand unused and locked. when he arose, after doing this, he unconsciously struck his hands together as he had seen grave-diggers do when they brushed the damp soil away. the first time haworth saw his new hand he regarded him with small favor. in crossing the yard one day at noon, he came upon him disposing of his midday meal and reading at the same time. he stopped to look at him. "who's that?" he asked one of the men. the fellow grinned in amiable appreciation of the rough tone of the query. "that's th' 'merican," he answered. "an' a soft un he is." "what's that he's reading?" "summat about engineerin', loike as not. that's his crank." in the rush of his new plans and the hurry of the last few months, haworth had had time to forget the man who had wished him "good luck," and whose pathetic figure had been a shadow upon the first glow of his triumph. he did not connect him at all with the young fellow before him. he turned away with a shrug of his burly shoulders. "he doesn't look like an englishman," he said. "he hasn't got backbone enough." afterward when the two accidentally came in contact, haworth wasted few civil words. at times his domineering brusqueness excited murdoch to wonder. "he's a queer fellow, that haworth," he said reflectingly to floxham. "sometimes i think he's out of humor with me." with the twelve-year-old daughter of one of the workmen, who used to bring her father's dinner, the young fellow had struck up something of a friendship. she was the eldest of twelve, a mature young person, whose business-like air had attracted him. she had assisted her mother in the rearing of her family from her third year, and had apparently done with the follies of youth. she was stunted with much nursing and her small face had a shrewd and careworn look. murdoch's first advances she received with some distrust, but after a lapse of time they progressed fairly and, without any weak sentiment, were upon excellent terms. one rainy day she came into the yard enveloped in a large shawl, evidently her mother's, and also evidently very much in her way. her dinner-can, her beer-jug, and her shawl were more than she could manage. "eh! i _am_ in a mess," she said to hilary, stopping at the door-way with a long-drawn breath. "i dunnot know which way to turn--what wi' th' beer and what wi' th' dinner. i've getten on mother's sunday shawl as she had afore she wur wed, an' th' eends keep a-draggin' an' a-draggin', an' th' mud'll be th' ruin on em. th' pin mother put in is na big enow, an' it's getten loose." there was perhaps not much sense of humor in the young man. he did not seem to see the grotesqueness of the little figure with its mud-bedraggled maternal wrappings. he turned up the lapel of his coat and examined it quite seriously. "i've got a pin here that will hold it," he said. "i picked it up because it was such a large one." janey briarley's eyes brightened. "eh!" she ejaculated, "that theer's a graidely big un. some woman mun ha' dropped it out o' her shawl. wheer did tha foind it?" "in the street." "i thowt so. some woman's lost it. dost tha think tha con pin it reet, or mun i put th' beer down an' do it mysen?" he thought he could do it and bent down to reach her level. it was at this moment that haworth approached the door with the intention of passing out. things had gone wrong with him, and he was in one of his worst moods. he strode down the passage in a savage hurry, and, finding his way barred, made no effort to keep his temper. "get out of the road," he said, and pushed murdoch aside slightly with his foot. it was as if he had dropped a spark of fire into gunpowder. murdoch sprang to his feet, white with wrath and quivering. "d----n you!" he shrieked. "d----n you! i'll kill you!" and he rushed upon him. as he sprang upon him, haworth staggered between the shock and his amazement. a sense of the true nature of the thing he had done broke in upon him. when it was all over he fell back a pace, and a grim surprise, not without its hint of satisfaction, was in his face. "the devil take you," he said. "you _have_ got some blood in you, after all." chapter v. the beginning of a friendship. the next morning, when he appeared at the works, murdoch found he had to make his way through a group of the "hands" which some sufficiently powerful motive had gathered together,--which group greeted his appearance with signs of interest. "theer he is," he heard them say. and then a gentleman of leisure, who was an outsider leaning against the wall, enjoying the solace of a short pipe, exerted himself to look round and add his comment. "well," he remarked, "he may ha' done it, an' i wunnot stick out as he did na; but if it wur na fur the circumstantshal evidence i would na ha' believed it." floxham met him at the entrance with a message. "haworth's sent fur thee," he said. "where is he?"--coolly enough under the circumstances. the engineer chuckled in sly exultation. "he's in the office. he didna say nowt about givin' thee th' bag; but tha may as well mak' up thy moind to it. tha wert pretty cheeky, tha knows, considerin' he wur th' mester." "look here," with some heat; "do you mean to say you think i was in the wrong? am i to let the fellow insult me and not resent it--touch me with his foot, as if i were a dog?" "tha'rt particular, my lad," dryly. "an' tha does na know as much o' th' mester koind as most folk." but the next instant he flung down the tool he held in his hand. "dom thee!" he cried. "i loike thy pluck. stick to it, lad,--mesters or no mesters." as murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, jem haworth turned in his seat and greeted him with a short nod not altogether combative. then he leaned forward, with his arms upon the table before him. "sit down," he said. "i'd like to take a look at the chap who thought he could thrash jem haworth." but murdoch did not obey him. "i suppose you have something to say to me," he said, "as you sent for me." he did not receive the answer he was prepared for. jem haworth burst into a loud laugh. "by george! you're a plucky chap," he said, "if you are an american." murdoch's blood rose again. "say what you have to say," he demanded. "i can guess what it is; but, let me tell you, i should do the same thing again. it was no fault of mine that i was in your path----" "if i'd been such a fool as not to see that," put in haworth, with a smile grimmer than before, "do you think i couldn't have smashed every bone in your body?" then murdoch comprehended how matters were to stand between them. "getten th' bag?" asked floxham when he went back to his work. "no." "tha hannot?" with animation. "well, dang _me_!" at the close of the day, as they were preparing to leave their work, haworth presented himself in the engine-room, looking perhaps a trifle awkward. "see here," he said to murdoch, "i've heard something to-day as i've missed hearing before, somehow. the inventing chap was your father?" "yes." he stood in an uneasy attitude, looking out of the window as if he half expected to see the frail, tall figure again. "i saw him once, poor chap," he said, "and he stuck to me, somehow. i'd meant to stand by him if he'd come here. i'd have liked to do him a good turn." he turned to murdoch suddenly and with a hint of embarrassment in his off-hand air. "come up and have dinner with me," he said. "it's devilish dull spending a chap's nights in a big place like mine. come up with me now." the visit was scarcely to murdoch's taste, but it was easier to accept than to refuse. he had seen the house often, and had felt some slight curiosity as to its inside appearance. there was only one other house in broxton which approached it in size and splendor, and this stood empty at present, its owner being abroad. broxton itself was a sharp and dingy little town, whose inhabitants were mostly foundry hands. it had grown up around the works and increased with them. it had a small railway station, two or three public houses much patronized, and wore, somehow, an air of being utterly unconnected with the outside world which much belied it. motives of utility, a desire to be on the spot, and a general disregard for un-business-like attractions had led haworth to build his house on the outskirts of the town. "when i want a spree," he had said, "i can go to manchester or london, and i'm not particular about the rest on it. i want to be nigh the place." it was a big house and a handsome one. it was one of the expressions of the man's success, and his pride was involved in it. he spent money on it lavishly, and, having completed it, went to live a desolate life among its grandeurs. the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, which were simple and agricultural, regarded broxton with frank distaste, and "haworth's" with horror. haworth's smoke polluted their atmosphere. haworth's hands made weekly raids upon their towns and rendered themselves obnoxious in their streets. the owner of the works, his mode of life, his defiance of opinion, and his coarse sins, were supposed to be tabooed subjects. the man was ignored, and left to his visitors from the larger towns,--visitors who occasionally presented themselves to be entertained at his house in a fashion of his own, and who were a greater scandal than all the rest. "they hate me," said haworth to his visitor, as they sat down to dinner; "they hate me, the devil take 'em. i'm not moral enough for 'em--not moral enough!" with a shout of laughter. there was something unreal to his companion in the splendor with which the great fellow was surrounded. the table was covered with a kind of banquet; servants moved about noiselessly as he talked and laughed; the appointments of the room were rich and in good taste. "oh! it's none of my work," he said, seeing murdoch glance about him. "i wasn't fool enough to try to do it myself. i gave it into the hands of them as knew how." he was loud-tongued and boastful; but he showed good-nature enough and a rough wit, and it was also plain that he knew his own strength and weaknesses. "thirty year' your father was at work on that notion of his?" he said once during the evening. murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent. "and it never came to aught?" "no." "he died." "yes." he thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the young fellow a keen look. "why don't you take the thing up yourself?" he said. "there may be something in it, after all, and you're a long-headed chap." murdoch started from his chair. he took an excited turn across the room before he knew what he was doing. "i never will," he said, "so help me god! the thing's done with and shut out of the world." when he went away, haworth accompanied him to the door. at the threshold he turned about. "how do you like the look of things?" he demanded. "i should be hard to please if i did not like the look of them," was the answer. "well, then, come again. you're welcome. i have it all to myself. i'm not favorite enow with the gentry to bring any on 'em here. you're free to come when th' fit takes you." chapter vi. miss ffrench. it was considered, after this, a circumstance illustrative of haworth's peculiarities that he had taken to himself a _protégé_ from among the "hands;" that said _protégé_ was an eccentric young fellow who was sometimes spoken of as being scarcely as bright as he should be; that he occasionally dined or supped with haworth; that he spent numberless evenings with him, and that he read his books, which would not have been much used otherwise. murdoch lived his regular, unemotional life, in happy ignorance of these rumors. it was true that he gradually fell into the habit of going to haworth's house, and also of reading his books. indeed, if the truth were told, these had been his attraction. "i've no use for 'em," said haworth, candidly, on showing him his library. "get into 'em, if you've a fancy for 'em." his fancy for them was strong enough to bring him to the place again and again. he found books he had wanted, but never hoped to possess. the library, it may be admitted, was not of jem haworth's selection, and, indeed, this gentleman's fancy for his new acquaintance was not a little increased by a shrewd admiration for an intellectual aptness which might be turned to practical account. "you tackle 'em as if you were used to 'em," he used to say. "i'd give something solid myself if i could do the same. there's what's against me many a time--knowing naught of books, and having to fight my way rough and ready." from the outset of this acquaintance, murdoch's position at the works had been an easier one. it became understood that haworth would stand by him, and that he must be treated with a certain degree of respect. greater latitude was given him, and better pay, and though he remained in the engine-room, other and more responsible work frequently fell into his hands. he went on in the even tenor of his way, uncommunicative and odd as ever. he still presented himself ahead of time, and labored with the unnecessary, absorbed ardor of an enthusiast, greatly to the distaste of those less zealous. "tha gets into it as if tha wur doin' fur thysen," said one of these. "happen"--feeling the sarcasm a strong one--"happen tha'rt fond on it?" "oh yes,"--unconsciously--"that's it, i suppose. i'm fond of it." the scoffer bestowed upon him one thunderstruck glance, opened his mouth, shut it, and retired in disgust. "theer's a chap," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, on returning to his companions, "theer's a chap as says he's fond o' work--fond on it!" with dramatic scorn. "blast his eyes! fond on it!" with floxham he had always stood well, though even floxham's regard was tempered with a slight private contempt for peculiarities not easily tolerated by the practical mind. "th' chap's getten gumption enow, i' his way," he said to haworth. "if owt breaks down or gets out o' gear, he's aw theer; but theer is na a lad on th' place as could na cheat him out o' his eye-teeth." his reputation for being a "queer chap" was greatly increased by the simplicity and seclusion of his life. the house in which he lived with his mother had the atmosphere of a monastic cell. as she had devoted herself to her husband, the woman devoted herself to her son, watching him with a hungry eye. he was given to taking long stretches of walks, and appearing in distant villages, book in hand, and with apparently no ulterior object in view. his holidays were nearly all spent out-of-doors in such rambles as these. the country people began to know his tall figure and long stride, and to regard him with the friendly toleration of strength for weakness. "they say i' broxton," it was said among them, "as his feyther deed daft, and it's no wonder th' young chap's getten queer ways. he's good-natured enow, though i' a simple road." his good-nature manifested itself in more than one way which called forth comment. to his early friendship for janey he remained faithful. the child interested him, and the sentiment developed as it grew older. it was quite natural that, after a few months' acquaintance, he should drop in at the household of her parents on saturday afternoon, as he was passing. it was the week's half-holiday and a fine day, and he had nothing else to do. these facts, in connection with that of the briarley's cottage presenting itself, were reasons enough for going in. it occurred to him, as he entered the narrow strip of garden before the door, that the children of the neighborhood must have congregated to hold high carnival. groups made dirt-pies; clusters played "bobber and kibbs;" select parties settled differences of opinions with warmth of feeling and elevation of voice; a youth of tender years, in corduroys which shone with friction, stood upon his head in one corner, calmly but not haughtily presenting to the blue vault of heaven a pair of ponderous, brass-finished clogs. "what dost want?" he demanded, without altering his position. "th' missus isn't in." "i'm going in to see janey," explained murdoch. he found the little kitchen shining with the saturday "cleaning up." the flagged floor as glaringly spotless as pipe-clay and sandstone could make it, the brass oven-handles and tin pans in a condition to put an intruder out of countenance, the fire replenished, and janey sitting on a stool on the hearth enveloped in an apron of her mother's, and reading laboriously aloud. "eh! dear me!" she exclaimed. "it's yo'--an' i am na fit to be seen. i wur settin' down to rest a bit. i've been doin' th' cleanin' aw day, an' i wur real done fur." "never mind that," said murdoch. "that's all right enough." he cast about him for a safe position to take--one in which he could stretch his legs and avoid damaging the embarrassing purity of the floor. finally he settled upon a small print-covered sofa and balanced himself carefully upon its extreme edge and the backs of his heels, notwithstanding janey's civil protestations. "dunnot yo' moind th' floor," she said. "yo' needn't. set yo' down comfortable." "oh, i'm all right," answered murdoch, with calm good cheer. "this is comfortable enough. what's that you were reading?" janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly confidence. "it's a book i getten fro' th' broxton chapel sunday skoo'. its th' mem--m-e-m-o-i-r-s----" "memoirs," responded murdoch. "memoyers of mary ann gibbs." unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on the subject of the broxton chapel literature. he cast about him mentally, but with small success. "i don't seem to have heard of it before," was the conclusion he arrived at. "hannot yo'? well, it's a noice book, an' theer's lots more like it in th' skoo' libery--aw about sunday skoo' scholars as has consumption an' th' loike an' reads th' boible to foalk an' dees. they aw on 'em dee." "oh," doubtfully, but still with respect. "it's not very cheerful, is it?" janey shook her head with an expression of mature resignation. "eh no! they're none on 'em cheerful--but they're noice to read. this here un now--she had th' asthma an' summat wrong wi' her legs, an' she knowed aw' th' boible through aside o' th' hymn-book, an' she'd sing aw th' toime when she could breathe fur th' asthma, an' tell foak as if they did na go an' do likewise they'd go to burnin' hell wheer th' fire is na quenched an' th' worms dyeth not." "it can't have been very pleasant for the friends," was her companion's comment. but there was nothing jocose about his manner. he was balancing himself seriously on the edge of the hard little sofa and regarding her with speculative interest. "where's your mother?" he asked next. "hoo's gone to th' chapel," was the answer. "theer's a mothers' meetin' in th' vestry, an' hoo's gone theer an' takken th' babby wi' her. th' rest o' th' childer is playin' out at th' front." he glanced out of the door. "those--those are not all yours?" he said, thunderstruck. "aye, they are--that. eh!" drawing a long breath, "but is na there a lot on 'em? theer's eleven an' i've nussed 'em nigh ivvery one." he turned toward the door again. "there seems to be a great many of them," he remarked. "you must have had a great deal to do." "that i ha'. i've wished mony a time i'd been a rich lady. theer's that daughter o' ffrench's now. eh! i'd like to ha' bin her." "i never heard of her before," he answered. "who is she, and why do you choose her?" "cos she's so hansum. she's that theer grand she looks loike she thowt ivvery body else wur dirt. i've seen women as wur bigger, an' wore more cloas at onct, but i nivver seed none as grand as she is. i nivver seed her but onct. she coom here wi' her feyther fer two or three week' afore he went to furrin parts, an' she wur caught i' th' rain one day an' stopped in here a bit. she dropped her hankcher an' mother's getten it yet. it's nigh aw lace. would yo' loike to see it?" hospitably. "yes," feeling his lack of enthusiasm something of a fault. "i--dare say i should." from the depths of a drawer which she opened with a vigorous effort and some skill in retaining her balance, she produced something pinned up in a fragment of old linen. this she bore to her guest and unpinning it, displayed the handkerchief. "tha can tak' it in thy hond an' smell it," she said graciously. "it's getten scent on it." murdoch took it in his hand, scarcely knowing what else to do. he knew nothing of women and their finery. he regarded the fragrant bit of lace and cambric seriously, and read in one corner the name "rachel ffrench," written in delicate letters. then he returned it to janey. "thank you," he said, "it is very nice." janey bore it back perhaps with some slight inward misgivings as to the warmth of its reception, but also with a tempering recollection of the ways of "men-foak." when she came back to her stool, she changed the subject. "we've bin havin' trouble lately," she said. "eh! but i've seed a lot o' trouble i' my day." "what is the trouble now?" murdoch asked. "feyther. it's allus him. he's getten in wi' a bad lot an' he's drinkin' agen. seems loike neyther mother nor me con keep him straight fur aw we told him haworth'll turn him off. haworth's not goin' to stand his drink an' th' lot he goes wi'. i would na stand it mysen." "what lot does he go with?" "eh!" impatiently, "a lot o' foo's as stands round th' publics an' grumbles at th' mesters an' th' wages they get. an' feyther's one o' these soft uns as believes aw they hears an' has na' getten gumption to think fur his sen. i've looked after him ivver sin' i wur three." she became even garrulous in her lack of patience, and was in full flow when her mother entered returning from the chapel, with a fagged face, and a large baby on her hip. "here, tak' him, jane ann," she said; "but tak' off thy apron furst, or tha'lt tumble ower it an' dirty his clean bishop wi' th' muck tha's getten on it. eh! i _am_ tired. who's this here?" signifying murdoch. "it's mester murdoch," said janey, dropping the apron and taking the child, who made her look top-heavy. "sit thee down, mother. yo' needn't moind him. he's a workin' mon hissen." when murdoch took his departure, both accompanied him to the door. "coom in sometime when th' mester's here," said mrs. briarley. "happen yo' could keep him in a neet an' that ud be summat." half way up the lane he met haworth in his gig, which he stopped. "wheer hast tha been?" he asked, dropping into dialect, as he was prone to do. "to briarley's cottage, talking to the little girl." haworth stared at him a moment, and then burst into a laugh. "tha'rt a queer chap," he said. "i can no more than half make thee out. if thy head was not so level, i should think tha wert a bit soft." "i don't see why," answered murdoch, undisturbed. "the child interests me. i am not a lancashire man, remember, and she is a new species." "get in," said haworth, making room for him on the seat. murdoch got in, and as they drove on it occurred to him to ask a question. "who's ffrench?" "ffrench?" said haworth. "oh, ffrench is one o' th' nobs here. he's a chap with a fancy for being a gentleman-manufacturer. he's spent his brass on his notions, until he has been obliged to draw in his horns a bit. he's never lived much in broxton, though he's got a pretty big place here. the continent's the style for him, but he'll turn up here again some day when he's hard up enow. there's his place now." and as he spoke they drove sharply by a house standing closed among the trees and having an air of desolateness, in spite of the sun-light. chapter vii. the "who'd ha' thowt it?" "it's th' queerest thing i' th' world," said mrs. briarley to her neighbors, in speaking of her visitor,--"it's th' queerest thing i' th' world as he should be a workin' mon. i should ha' thowt he'd ha' wanted to get behind th' counter i' a draper's shop or summat genteel. he'd be a well-lookin' young chap i' a shiny cloth coat an' wi' a blue neck-tie on. seems loike he does na think enow o' hissen. he'll coom to our house an' set down an' listen to our janey talkin', an' tell her things out o' books, as simple as if he thowt it wur nowt but what ony chap could do. theer's wheer he's a bit soft. he knows nowt o' settin' hissen up." from mrs. briarley murdoch heard numberless stories of haworth, presenting him in a somewhat startling light. "eh! but he's a rare un, is haworth," said the good woman. "he does na care fur mon nor devil. the carryin's on as he has up at th' big house ud mak' a decent body's hair stond o' eend. afore he built th' house, he used to go to lunnon an' manchester fur his sprees, but he has 'em here now, an' theer's drink an' riotin' an' finery and foak as owt to be shamt o' theirsens. i wonder he is na feart to stay on th' place alone after they're gone." but for one reason or another the house was quiet enough for the first six months of murdoch's acquaintance with its master. haworth gave himself up to the management of the works. he perfected plans he had laid at a time when the power had not been in his own hands. he kept his eye on his own interests sharply. the most confirmed shirkers on the place found themselves obliged to fall to work, however reluctantly. his bold strokes of business enterprise began to give him wide reputation. in the lapse of its first half year, "haworth's" gained for itself a name. at the end of this time, murdoch arrived at the works one morning to find a general tone of conviviality reigning. a devil-may-care air showed itself among all the graceless. there was a hint of demoralization in the very atmosphere. "where's haworth?" he asked floxham, who did not seem to share the general hilarity. "i've not seen him." "no," was the engineer's answer, "nor tha will na see him yet a bit. a lot o' foo's coom fro' lunnon last neet. he's on one o' his sprees, an' a nice doment they'll ha' on it afore they're done." the next morning haworth dashed down to the works early in his gig, and spent a short time in his room. before he left he went to the engine-room, and spoke to murdoch. "is there aught you want from the house--aught in the way o' books, i mean?" he said, with a touch of rough bravado in his manner. "no," murdoch answered. "all right," he returned. "then keep away, lad, for a day or two." during the "day or two," broxton existed in a state of ferment. gradually an air of disreputable festivity began to manifest itself among all those whose virtue was assailable. there were open "sprees" among these, and their wives, with the inevitable baby in their arms, stood upon their door-steps bewailing their fate, and retailing gossip with no slight zest. "silks an' satins, bless yo'," they said. "an' paint an' feathers; th' brazent things, i wonder they are na shamt to show their faces! a noice mester haworth is to ha' men under him!" having occasion to go out late one evening, murdoch encountered janey, clad in the big bonnet and shawl, and hurrying along the street. "wheer am i goin'?" she echoed sharply in reply to his query. "why, i'm goin' round to th' publics to look fur feyther--_theer's_ wheer i'm goin'. i hannot seed him sin' dayleet this mornin', an' he's getten th' rent an' th' buryin'-club money wi' him." "i'll go with you," said murdoch. he went with her, making the round of half the public-houses in the village, finally ending at a jovial establishment bearing upon its whitened window the ambiguous title "who'd ha' thowt it?" there was a sound of argument accompanied by a fiddle, and an odor of beer supplemented by tobacco. janey pushed open the door and made her way in, followed by her companion. an uncleanly, and loud-voiced fellow stood unsteadily at a table, flourishing a clay pipe and making a speech. "th' workin' mon," he said. "theer's too much talk o' th' workin' mon. is na it bad enow to _be_ a workin' mon, wi'out havin' th' gentry remindin' yo' on it fro' year eend to year eend? le's ha' less jaw-work an' more paw-work fro' th' gentry. le's ha' fewer liberys an' athyne-ums, an' more wage--an' holidays--an'--an' beer. le's _pro_-gress--tha's wha' i say--an' i'm a workin' mon." "ee-er! ee-er!" cried the chorus. "ee-er!" in the midst of the pause following these acclamations, a voice broke in suddenly with startling loudness. "ee-er! ee-er!" it said. it was mr. briarley, who had unexpectedly awakened from a beery nap, and, though much surprised to find out where he was, felt called upon to express his approbation. janey hitched her shawl into a manageable length and approached him. "tha'rt here?" she said. "i knowed tha would be. tha'lt worrit th' loife out on us afore tha'rt done. coom on home wi' me afore tha'st spent ivvery ha'penny we've getten." mr. briarley roused himself so far as to smile at her blandly. "it's zhaney," he said, "it's zhaney. don' intrup th' meetin', zhaney. i'll be home dreckly. mus' na intrup th' workin' mon. he's th' backbone 'n' sinoo o' th' country. le's ha' a sup more beer." murdoch bent over and touched his shoulder. "you had better come home," he said. the man looked round at him blankly, but the next moment an exaggerated expression of enlightenment showed itself on his face. "iss th' 'merican," he said. "iss murdoch." and then, with sudden bibulous delight: "gi' us a speech 'bout 'merica." in a moment there was a clamor all over the room. the last words had been spoken loudly enough to be heard, and the idea presented itself to the members of the assembly as a happy one. "aye," they cried. "le's ha' a speech fro' th' 'merican. le's hear summat fro' 'merica. theer's wheer th's laborin' mon has his dues." murdoch turned about and faced the company. "you all know enough of me to know whether i am a speech-making man or not," he said. "i have nothing to say about america, and if i had i should not say it here. you are not doing yourselves any good. the least fellow among you has brains enough to tell him that." there was at once a new clamor, this time one of dissatisfaction. the speech-maker with the long clay, who was plainly the leader, expressed himself with heat and scorn. "he's a noice chap--he is," he cried. "he'll ha' nowt to do wi' us. he's th' soart o' workin' mon to ha' abowt, to play th' pianny an' do paintin' i' velvet. 'merica be danged! he's more o' th' gentry koind to-day than haworth. haworth _does_ tak' a decent spree now an' then; but this heer un---- ax him to tak' a glass o' beer an' see what he'll say." disgust was written upon every countenance, but no one proffered the hospitality mentioned. mr. briarley had fallen asleep again, murmuring suggestively, "aye, le's hear summat fro' 'merica. le's _go_ to 'merica. pu-r on thy bonnet, lass, pur--it on." with her companion's assistance, janey got him out of the place and led him home. "haaf th' rent's gone," she said, when she turned out his pockets, as he sat by the fire. "an' wheer's th' buryin' money to coom fro'?" mr. briarley shook his head mournfully. "th' buryin' money," he said. "aye, i'deed. a noice thing it is fur a poor chap to ha' to cut off his beer to pay fur his coffin by th' week,--wastin' good brass on summat he may nivver need as long as he lives. i dunnot loike th' thowt on it, eyther. it's bad enow to ha' to get into th' thing at th' eend, wi'out ha'in' it lugged up to th' door ivvery saturday, an' payin' fur th' ornymentin' on it by inches." chapter viii. mr. ffrench. it was a week before affairs assumed their accustomed aspect. not that the works had been neglected, however. each morning haworth had driven down early and spent an hour in his office and about the place, reading letters, issuing orders and keeping a keen look-out generally. "i'll have no spreeing here among _you_ chaps," he announced. "spree as much as you like when th' work's done, but you don't spree in _my_ time. look sharp after 'em, kendal." the day after his guests left him he appeared at his usual time, and sent at once for murdoch. on his arriving he greeted him, leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his pockets. "well, lad," he said, "it's over." almost unconsciously, murdoch thrust his hands into _his_ pockets also, but the action had rather a reflective than a defiant expression. "it's lasted a pretty long time, hasn't it?" he remarked. haworth answered him with a laugh. "egad! you take it cool enough," he said. suddenly he got up and began to walk about, his air a mixture of excitement and braggadocio. after a turn or two he wheeled about. "why don't you say summat?" he demanded, sardonically. "summat moral. you don't mean to tell me you've not got pluck enow?" "i don't see," said murdoch, deliberately,--"i don't see that there's anything to say. do you?" the man stared at him, reddening. then he turned about and flung himself into his chair again. "no," he answered. "by george! i don't." they discussed the matter no further. it seemed to dispose of itself. their acquaintance went on in the old way, but there were moments afterward when murdoch felt that the man regarded him with something that might have been restrained or secret fear--a something which held him back and made him silent and unready of speech. once, in the midst of a conversation taking a more confidential tone than usual, to his companion's astonishment he stopped and spoke bluntly: "if i say aught as goes against the grain with you," he said, "speak up, lad. blast it!" striking his fist hard against his palm, "i'd like to show my clean side to you." it was at this time that he spoke first of his mother. "when i run away from the poor-house," he said, "i left her there. she's a soft-hearted body--a good one too. as soon as i earned my first fifteen shillin' a week, i gave her a house of her own--and i lived hard to do it. she lives like a lady now, though she's as simple as ever. she knows naught of the world, and she knows naught of me beyond what she sees of me when i go down to the little country-place in kent with a new silk gown and a lace cap for her. she scarce ever wears 'em, but she's as fond on 'em as if she got 'em from buckingham palace. she thinks i'm a lad yet, and say my prayers every night and the catechism on sundays. she'll never know aught else, if i can help it. that's why i keep her where she is." when he said that he intended to make "haworth's" second to no place in england, he had not spoken idly. his pride in the place was a passion. he spent money lavishly but shrewdly; he paid his men well, but ruled them with an iron hand. those of his fellow-manufacturers who were less bold and also less keen-sighted, regarded him with no small disfavor. "he'll have trouble yet, that haworth fellow," they said. but "haworth's" flourished and grew. the original works were added to, and new hands, being called for, flocked into broxton with their families. it was jem haworth who built the rows of cottages to hold them, and he built them well and substantially, but as a sharp business investment and a matter of pride rather than from any weakness of regarding them from a moral stand-point. "i'll have no poor jobs done on my place," he announced. "i'll leave that to the gentlemen manufacturers." it was while in the midst of this work that he received a letter from gerard ffrench, who was still abroad. going into his room one day murdoch found him reading it and looking excited. "here's a chap as would be the chap for me," he said, "if brass were iron--that chap ffrench." "what does he want?" murdoch asked. "naught much," grimly. "he's got a notion of coming back here, and he'd like to go into partnership with me. that's what he's drivin' at. he'd like to be a partner with jem haworth." "what has he to offer?" "cheek, and plenty on it. he says his name's well known, and he's got influence as well as practical knowledge. i'd like to have a bit of a talk with him." suddenly he struck his fist on the table before him. "i've got a name that's enow for me," he said. "the day's to come yet when i ask any chap for name or money or aught else. partner be damned! this here's 'haworth's!'" chapter ix. "not for one hour." the meetings of the malcontents continued to be held at the "who'd ha' thowt it," and were loud voiced and frequent, but notwithstanding their frequency and noisiness resulted principally in a disproportionate consumption of beer and tobacco and in some differences of opinion, decided in a gentlemanly manner with the assistance of "backers" and a ring. having been rescued from these surroundings by murdoch on several convivial occasions, briarley began to anticipate his appearance with resignation if not cheerfulness, and to make preparations accordingly. "i mun lay a sup in reet at th' start," he would say. "theer's no knowin' how soon he'll turn up if he drops in to see th' women. gi' me a glass afore these chaps, mary. they con wait a bit." "why does tha stand it, tha foo'?" some independent spirit would comment. "con th' chap _carry_ thee whoam if tha does na want to go?" but briarley never rebelled. resistance was not his forte. if it were possible to become comfortably drunk before he was sought out and led away he felt it a matter for mild self-gratulation, but he bore defeat amiably. "th' missis wants me," he would say unsteadily but with beaming countenance, on catching sight of murdoch or janey. "th' missis has sent to ax me to go an'--an' set wi' her a bit. i mun go, chaps. a man munna negleck his fam'ly." in response to mrs. briarley's ratings and janey's querulous appeals, it was his habit to shed tears copiously and with a touch of ostentation. "i'm a poor chap, missus," he would say. "i'm a poor chap. yo' munnot be hard on me. i nivver wur good enow fur a woman loike yoursen. i should na wonder if i had to join th' teetotals after aw. tha knows it allus rains o' whit-saturday, when they ha' their walk, an' that theer looks as if th' almoighty wur on th' teetotal soide. it's noan loike he'd go to so mich trouble if he were na." at such crises as these "th' women foak," as he called his wife and janey, derived their greatest consolation from much going to chapel. "if it wur na fur th' bit o' comfort i get theer," said the poor woman, "i should na know whether i wur standin' on my head or my heels--betwixt him, an' th' work, an' th' childer." "happen ye'd loike to go wi' us," said janey to murdoch, one day. "yo'll be sure to hear a good sermont." murdoch went with them, and sat in a corner of their free seat--a hard one, with a straight and unrelenting back. but he was not prevented by the seat from being interested and even absorbed by the doctrine. he had an absent-minded way of absorbing impressions, and the unemotional tenor of his life had left him singularly impartial. he did not finally decide that the sermon was good, bad, or indifferent, but he pondered on it and its probable effects deeply, and with no little curiosity. it was a long sermon, and one which "hit straight from the shoulder." it displayed a florid heaven and a burning hell. it was literal, and well garnished with telling and scriptural quotations. once or twice during its delivery murdoch glanced at janey and mrs. briarley. the woman, during intervals of eager pacifying of the big baby, lifted her pale face and listened devoutly. janey sat respectable and rigorous, her eyes fixed upon the pulpit, her huge shawl folded about her, her bonnet slipping backward at intervals, and requiring to be repeatedly rearranged by a smart hustling somewhere in the region of the crown. the night was very quiet when they came out into the open air. the smoke-clouds of the day had been driven away by a light breeze, and the sky was bright with stars. mrs. briarley and the ubiquitous baby joined a neighbor and hastened home, but murdoch and janey lingered a little. "my father is buried here," murdoch had said, and janey had answered with sharp curiousness,-- "wheer's th' place? i'd loike to see it. has tha getten a big head-stone up?" she was somewhat disappointed to find there was none, and that nothing but the sod covered the long mound, but she appeared to comprehend the state of affairs at once. "i s'pose tha'lt ha' one after a bit," she said, "when tha'rt not so short as tha art now. ivverybody's short i' these toimes." she seated herself upon the stone coping of the next grave, her elbow on her knee, a small, weird figure in the uncertain light. "i allus did loike a big head-stone," she remarked, reflectively. "theer's summat noice about a big white un wi' black letters on it. i loike a white un th' best, an' ha' th' letters cut deep, an' th' name big, an' a bit o' poitry at th' eend: 'stranger, a moment linger near, an' hark to th' one as moulders here; thy bones, loike mine, shall rot i' th' ground, until th' last awful trumpet's sound; thy flesh, loike mine, fa' to decay, for mon is made to pass away.' summat loike that. but yo' see it ud be loike to cost so much. what wi' th' stone an' paint an' cuttin', i should na wonder if it would na coom to th' matter o' two pound--an' then theer's th' funeral." she ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she roused herself again. "tell me summat about thy feyther," she demanded. murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with a rather uncertain grasp. "there isn't much to tell," he answered. "he was unfortunate, and had a hard life--and died." janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchildish twinkle in her eye. "would tha moind me axin thee summat?" she said. "no." but she hesitated a little before she put the question. "is it--wur it true--as he wur na aw theer--as he wur a bit--a bit soft i' th' yed?" "no, that is not true." "i'm glad it is na," she responded. "art tha loike him?" "i don't know." "i hope tha art na, if he did na ha' luck. theer's a great deal i' luck." then, with a quick change of subject,--"how did tha loike th' sermont?" "i am not sure," he answered, "that i know that either. how did you like it yourself?" "ay," with an air of elderly approval, "it wur a good un. mester hixon allus gi'es us a good un. he owts wi' what he's getten to say. i loike a preacher as owts wi' it." a few moments later, when they rose to go home, her mind seemed suddenly to revert to a former train of thought. "wur theer money i' that thing thy feyther wur tryin' at?" she asked. "not for him, it seemed." "ay; but theer mought be fur thee. tha mayst ha' more in thee than he had, an' mought mak' summat on it. i'd nivver let owt go as had money i' it. tha'dst mak' a better rich mon than haworth." after leaving her murdoch did not go home. he turned his back upon the village again, and walked rapidly away from it, out on the country road and across field paths, and did not turn until he was miles from broxton. of late he had been more than usually abstracted. he had been restless, and at times nervously unstrung. he had slept ill, and spent his days in a half-conscious mood. more than once, as they walked together, floxham had spoken to him amazed. "what's up wi' thee, lad?" he had said. "art dazed, or hast tha takken a turn an' been on a spree?" one night, when they were together, haworth had picked up from the floor a rough but intricate-looking drawing, and, on handing it to him, had been bewildered by his sudden change of expression. "is it aught of yours?" he had asked. "yes," the young fellow had answered; "it's mine." but, instead of replacing it in his pocket, he had torn it slowly into strips, and thrown it, piece by piece, into the fire, watching it as it burned. it was not janey's eminently practical observations which had stirred him to-night. he had been drifting toward this feverish crisis of feeling for months, and had contested its approach inch by inch. there were hours when he was overpowered by the force of what he battled against, and this was one of them. it was nearly midnight when he returned, and his mother met him at the door with an anxious look. it was a look he had seen upon her face all his life; but its effect upon himself had never lessened from the day he had first recognized it, as a child. "i did not think you would wait for me," he said. "it is later than i thought." "i am not tired," she answered. she had aged a little since her husband's death, but otherwise she had not changed. she looked up at her son just as she had looked at his father,--watchfully, but saying little. "are you going to bed?" "i am going upstairs," he replied. but he did not say that he was going to bed. he bade her good-night shortly afterward, and went to his room. it was the one his father had used before his death, and the trunk containing his belongings stood in one corner of it. for a short time after entering the room he paced the floor restlessly and irregularly. sometimes he walked quickly, sometimes slowly; once or twice he stopped short, checking himself as he veered toward the corner in which stood the unused trunk. "i'm in a queer humor," he said aloud. "i'm thinking of it as if--as if it were a temptation to sin. why should i?" he made a sudden resolute movement forward. he knelt down, and, turning the key in the lock, flung the trunk-lid backward. there was only one thing he wanted, and he knew where to find it. it lay buried at the bottom, under the unused garments, which gave forth a faint, damp odor as he moved them. when he rose from his knees he held the wooden case in his hand. after he had carried it to the table and opened it, and the model stood again before him he sat down and stared at it with a numb sense of fascination. "i thought i had seen the last of it," he said; "and here it is." even as he spoke he felt his blood warm within him, and flush his cheek. his hand trembled as he put it forth to touch and move the frame-work before him. he felt as if it were a living creature. his eye kindled, and he bent forward. "there's something to be done with it yet," he said. "it's _not_ a blunder, i'll swear!" he was hot with eagerness and excitement. the thing had haunted him day and night for weeks. he had struggled to shake off its influence, but in vain. he had told himself that the temptation to go back to it and ponder over it was the working of a morbid taint in his blood. he had remembered the curse it had been, and had tried to think of that only; but it had come back to him again and again, and--here it was. he spent an hour over it, and in the end his passionate eagerness had grown rather than diminished. he put his hand up to his forehead and brushed away drops of moisture, his throat was dry, and his eyes strained. "there's something to be brought out of it yet," he said, as he had said before. "it _can_ be done, i swear!" the words had scarcely left his lips before he heard behind him a low, but sharp cry--a miserable ejaculation, half uttered. he had not heard the door open, nor the entering footsteps; but he knew what the cry meant the moment he heard it. he turned about and saw his mother standing on the threshold. if he had been detected in the commission of a crime, he could not have felt a sharper pang than he did. he almost staggered against the wall and did not utter a word. for a moment they looked at each other in a dead silence. each wore in the eyes of the other a new aspect. she pointed to the model. "it has come back," she said. "i knew it would." the young fellow turned and looked at it a little stupidly. "i--didn't mean to hurt you with the sight of it," he said. "i took it out because--because----" she stopped him with a movement of her head. "yes, i know," she said. "you took it out because it has haunted you and tempted you. you could not withstand it. it is in your blood." he had known her through all his life as a patient creature, whose very pains had bent themselves and held themselves in check, lest they should seem for an hour to stand in the way of the end to be accomplished. that she had, even in the deepest secrecy, rebelled against fate, he had never dreamed. she came to the table and struck the model aside with one angry blow. "shall i tell you the truth?" she cried, panting. "_i have never believed in it for an hour--not for one hour!_" he could only stammer out a few halting words. "this is all new to me," he said. "i did not know----" "no, you did not know," she answered. "how should you, when i lived my whole life to hide it? i have been stronger than you thought. i bore with him, as i should have borne with him if he had been maimed or blind--or worse than that. _i_ did not hurt him--he had hurt enough. i knew what the end would be. he would have been a happy man and i a happy woman, if it had not been for _that_, and there it is again. i tell you," passionately, "there is a curse on it!" "and you think," he said, "that it has fallen upon me?" she burst into wild tears. "i have told myself it would," she said. "i have tried to prepare myself for its coming some day; but i did not think it would show itself so soon as this." "i don't know why," he said slowly. "i don't know--what there is in _me_ that i should think i might do what he left undone. there seems a kind of vanity in it." "it is not vanity," she said; "it is worse. it is what has grown out of my misery and his. i tell you it is in your blood." a flush rose to his face, and a stubborn look settled upon him. "perhaps it is," he answered. "i have told myself that, too." she held her closed hand upon her heart, as if to crush down its passionate heavings. "begin as he began," she cried, "and the end will come to you as it came to him. give it up now--now!" "give it up!" he repeated after her. "give it up," she answered, "or give up your whole life, your youth, your hope,--all that belongs to it." she held out her hands to him in a wild, unconsciously theatrical gesture. the whole scene had been theatrical through its very incongruousness, and murdoch had seen this vaguely, and been more shaken by it than anything else. before she knew what he meant to do, he approached the table, and replaced the model in its box, the touch of stubborn desperateness on him yet. he carried the case back to the trunk, and shut it in once more. "i'll let it rest a while," he said; "i'll promise you that. if it is ever to be finished by me, the time will come when it will see the light again, in spite of us both." chapter x. christian murdoch. as he was turning into the gate of the works the next morning, a little lad touched him upon the elbow. "mester," he said, "sithee, mester,--stop a bit." he was out of breath, as if he had been running, and he held in his hand a slip of paper. "i thowt i should na ketch thee," he said, "tha'rt so long-legged. a woman sent thee that," and he gave him the slip of paper. murdoch opened and read the words written upon it. "if you are stephen murdoch's son, i must see you. come with the child." there was no signature--only these words, written irregularly and weakly. he had never met with an adventure in his life, and this was like an episode in a romance. "if you are stephen murdoch's son, i must see you." he could scarcely realize that he was standing in the narrow, up-hill street, jostled by the hands shouting and laughing as they streamed past him through the gates to their work. and yet, somehow he found himself taking it more coolly than seemed exactly natural. this morning, emotion and event appeared less startling than they would have done even the day before. the strange scene of the past night had, in a manner, prepared him for anything which might happen. "who sent it?" he asked of the boy. "th' woman as lodges i' our house. she's been theer three days, an' she's getten to th' last, mother says. con tha coom? she's promist me a shillin' if i browt thee." "wait here a minute," said murdoch. he passed into the works and went to floxham. "i've had a message that calls me away," he said. "if you can spare me for an hour----" "i'll mak' out," said the engineer. the lad at the gate looked up with an encouraging grin when he saw his charge returning. "i'd loike to mak' th' shillin'," he said. murdoch followed him in silence. he was thinking of what was going to happen to himself scarcely as much as of the dead man in whose name he was called upon. he was brought near to him again as if it were by a fate. "if you are stephen murdoch's son," had moved him strongly. their destination was soon reached. it was a house in a narrow but respectable street occupied chiefly by a decent class of workmen and their families. a week before he had seen in the window of this same house a card bearing the legend "lodgings to let," and now it was gone. a clean, motherly woman opened the door for them. "tha'st earnt thy shillin', has tha, tha young nowt?" she said to the lad, with friendly severity. "coom in, mester. i wur feart he'd get off on some of his marocks an' forget aw about th' paper. she's i' a bad way, poor lady, an' th' lass is na o' mich use. coom up-stairs." she led the way to the second floor, and her knock being answered by a voice inside, she opened the door. the room was comfortable and of good size, a fire burned on the grate, and before it sat a girl with her hands clasped upon her knee. she was a girl of nineteen, dark of face and slight of figure to thinness. when she turned her head slowly to look at him, murdoch was struck at once with the peculiar steadiness of her large black eyes. "she is asleep," she said in a low, cold voice. there was a sound as of movement in the bed. "i am awake," some one said. "if it is stephen murdoch's son, let him come here." murdoch went to the bedside and stood looking down at the woman who returned his gaze. she was a woman whose last hours upon earth were passing rapidly. her beauty was now only something terrible to see; her breath came fast and short; her eyes met his with a look of anguish. "send the girl away," she said to him. low as her voice was, the girl heard it. she rose without turning to right or left and went out of the room. until the door closed the woman still lay looking up into her visitor's face, but as soon as it was shut she spoke laboriously. "what is your name?" she asked. he told her. "you are like your father," she said, and then closed her eyes and lay so for a moment. "it is a mad thing i am doing," she said, knitting her brows with weak fretfulness, and still lying with closed eyes. "i--i do not know--why i should have done it--only that it is the last thing. it is not that i am fond of the girl--or that she is fond of me," she opened her eyes with a start. "is the door shut?" she said. "keep her out of the room." "she is not here," he answered, "and the door is closed." the sight of his face seemed to help her to recover herself. "what am i saying?" she said. "i have not told you who i am." "no," he replied, "not yet." "my name was janet murdoch," she said. "i was your father's cousin. once he was very fond of me." she drew from under her pillow a few old letters. "look at them," she said; "he wrote them." but he only glanced at the superscription and laid them down again. "i did not know," she panted, "that he was dead. i hoped he would be here. i knew that he must have lived a quiet life. i always thought of him as living here in the old way." "he was away from here for thirty years," said murdoch. "he only came back to die." "he!" she said, "i never thought of that. it--seems very strange. i could not imagine his going from place to place--or living a busy life--or suffering much. he was so simple and so quiet." "i thought of him," she went on, "because he was a good man--a good man--and there was no one else in the world. as the end came i grew restless--i wanted to--to try----" but there her eyes closed and she forgot herself again. "what was it you wanted to try to do?" he asked gently. she roused herself, as before, with a start. "to try," she said,--"to try to do something for the girl." he did not understand what she meant until she had dragged herself up upon the pillow and leaned forward touching him with her hand; she had gathered all her strength for the effort. "i am an outcast," she said,--"an outcast!" the simple and bare words were so terrible that he could scarcely bear them, but he controlled himself by a strong effort. a faint color crept up on her cheek. "you don't understand," she said. "yes," he answered slowly, "i think i do." she fell back upon her pillows. "i wont tell you the whole story," she said. "it is an ugly one, and she will be ready enough with it when her turn comes. she has understood all her life. she has never been a child. she seemed to fasten her eyes upon me from the hour of her birth, and i have felt them ever since. keep her away," with a shudder. "don't let her come in." a sudden passion of excitement seized upon her. "i don't know why i should care," she cried. "there is no reason why she should not live as i have lived--but she will not--she will not. i have reached the end and she knows it. she sits and looks on and says nothing, but her eyes force me to speak. they forced me to come here--to try--to make a last effort. if stephen murdoch had lived----" she stopped a moment. "you are a poor man," she said. "yes," he answered. "i am a mechanic." "then--you cannot--do it." she spoke helplessly, wildly. "there is nothing to be done. there is no one else. she will be all alone." then he comprehended her meaning fully. "no," he said, "i am not so poor as that. i am not a poorer man than my father was, and i can do what he would have done had he lived. my mother will care for the girl, if that is what you wish." "what i wish!" she echoed. "i wish for nothing--but i must do something for her--before--before--before----" she broke off, but began again. "you are like your father. you make things seem simple. you speak as if you were undertaking nothing." "it is not much to do," he answered, "and we could not do less. i will go to my mother and tell her that she is needed here. she will come to you." she turned her eyes on him in terror. "you think," she whispered, "that i shall die soon--_soon_!" he did not answer her. he could not. she wrung her hands and dashed them open upon the bed, panting. "oh," she cried, "my god! it is over! i have come to the end of it--the end! to have only one life--and to have done with it--and lie here! to have lived--and loved--and triumphed, and to know it is over! one may defy all the rest, the whole world, but not this. it is _done_!" then she turned to him again, desperately. "go to your mother," she said. "tell her to come. i want some one in the room with me. i wont be left alone with _her_. i cannot bear it." on going out he found the girl sitting at the head of the stairs. she rose and stood aside to let him pass, looking at him unflinchingly. "are you coming back?" she demanded. "yes," he answered, "i am coming back." in half an hour he re-ascended the staircase, bringing his mother with him. when they entered the room in which the dying woman lay, mrs. murdoch went to the bed and bent over her. "my son has brought me to do what i can for you," she said, "and to tell you that he will keep his promise." the woman looked up. for a moment it seemed that she had forgotten. a change had come upon her even in the intervening half-hour. "his promise," she said. "yes, he will keep it." at midnight she died. mother and son were in the room, the girl sat in a chair at the bedside. her hands were clasped upon her knee; she sat without motion. at a few minutes before the stroke of twelve, the woman awoke from the heavy sleep in which she had lain. she awoke with a start and a cry, and lay staring at the girl, whose steady eyes were fixed upon her. her lips moved, and at last she spoke. "forgive me!" she cried. "forgive me!" murdoch and his mother rose, but the girl did not stir. "for what?" she asked. "for--" panted the woman, "for----" but the sentence remained unfinished. the girl did not utter a word. she sat looking at the dying woman in silence--only looking at her, not once moving her eyes from the face which, a moment later, was merely a mask of stone which lay upon the pillow, gazing back at her with a fixed stare. chapter xi. miss ffrench returns. they took the girl home with them, and three days later the ffrenchs returned. they came entirely unheralded, and it was janey who brought the news of their arrival to the works. "they've coom," she said, in passing murdoch on her way to her father. "mester ffrench an' _her_. they rode through th' town this mornin' i' a kerridge. nobody knowed about it till they seed 'em." the news was the principal topic of conversation through the day, and the comments made were numerous and varied. the most general opinions were that ffrench was in a "tight place," or had "getten some crank i' hond." "he's noan fond enow o' th' place to ha' coom back fur nowt," said floxham. "he's a bit harder up than common, that's it." in the course of the morning haworth came in. murdoch was struck with his unsettled and restless air; he came in awkwardly, and looking as if he had something to say, but though he loitered about some time, he did not say it. "come up to the house to-night," he broke out at last. "i want company." it occurred to murdoch that he wished to say more, but, after lingering for a few minutes, he went away. as he crossed the threshold, however, he paused uneasily. "i say," he said, "ffrench has come back." "so i heard," murdoch answered. when he presented himself at the house in the evening, haworth was alone as usual. wines were on the table, and he seemed to have drunk deeply. he was flushed, and showed still the touch of uneasiness and excitement he had betrayed in the morning. "i'm glad you've come," he said. "i'm out of sorts--or something." he ended with a short laugh, and turned about to pour out a glass of wine. in doing so his hand trembled so that a few drops fell upon it. he shook them off angrily. "what's up with me?" he said. he drained the glass at a draught, and filled it again. "i saw ffrench to-day," he said. "i saw them both." "both!" repeated murdoch, wondering at him. "yes. she is with him." "she!" and then remembering the episode of the handkerchief, he added, rather slowly, "you mean miss ffrench?" haworth nodded. he was pushing his glass to and fro with shaking hands, his voice was hoarse and uncertain. "i passed the carriage on the road," he said, "and ffrench stopped it to speak to me. he's not much altered. i never saw her before. she's a woman now--and a handsome woman, by george!" the last words broke from him as if he could not control them. he looked up at murdoch, and as their eyes met he seemed to let himself loose. "i may as well make a clean breast of it," he said. "i'm--i'm hard hit. i'm hard hit." murdoch flinched. he would rather not have heard the rest. he had had emotion enough during the last few days, and this was of a kind so novel that he was overwhelmed by it. but haworth went on. "it's a queer thing," he said. "i can't quite make it out. i--i feel as if i must talk--about it--and yet there's naught to say. i've seen a woman that's--that's taken hold on me." he passed his hands across his lips, which were parched and stiff. "you know the kind of a fellow i've been," he said. "i've known women enough, and too many; but there's never been one like this. there's always been plenty like the rest. i sat and stared at this one like a blockhead. she set me trembling. it came over me all at once. i don't know what ffrench thought. i said to myself, 'here's the first woman that ever held me back.' she's one of your high kind, that's hard to get nigh. she's got a way to set a man mad. she'll be hard to get at, by george!" murdoch felt his pulse start. the man's emotion had communicated itself to him, so far at least. "i don't know much of women," he said. "i've not been thrown among them; i----" "no," said haworth roughly, "they're not in your line, lad. if they were, happen i shouldn't be so ready to speak out." then he began and told his story more minutely, relating how, as he drove to the works, he had met the carriage, and ffrench had caught sight of him and ordered the servant to stop; how he had presented his daughter, and spoken as if she had heard of him often before; how she had smiled a little, but had said nothing. "she's got a way which makes a man feel as if she was keeping something back, and sets him to wondering what it is. she's not likely to be forgot soon; she gives a chap something to think over." he talked fast and heatedly, and sometimes seemed to lose himself. now and then he stopped, and sat brooding a moment in silence, and then roused himself with a start, and drank more wine and grew more flushed and excited. after one of these fitful reveries, he broke out afresh. "i--wonder what folk'll say to her of me. they wont give me an over good name, i'll warrant. what a fool i've been! what a d---- fool i've been all my life! let them say what they like. they'll make me black enough; but there is plenty would like to stand in jem haworth's shoes. i've never been beat yet. i've stood up and held my own,--and women _like_ that. and as to th' name," with rough banter, "it's not chaps like you they fancy, after all." "as to that," said murdoch coldly, "i've told you i know nothing of women." he felt restive without knowing why. he was glad when he could free himself and get out into the fresh night air; it seemed all the fresher after the atmosphere he had breathed in-doors. the night was bright and mild. after cold, un-springlike weather had come an ephemeral balminess. the moon was at full, and he stepped across the threshold into a light as clear as day. he walked rapidly, scarcely noting the road he passed over until he had reached the house which stood alone among its trees,--the house haworth had pointed out a few months before. it was lighted now, and its lights attracted his attention. "it's a brighter-looking place than it was then," he said. he never afterward could exactly recall how it was that at this moment he started, turned, and for a breath's space came to a full stop. he had passed out of the shadow of the high boundary wall into the broad moonlight which flooded the gate-way. the iron gates were open, and a white figure stood in the light--the figure of a tall young woman who did not move. he was so near that her dress almost touched him. in another moment he was hurrying along the road again, not having spoken, and scarcely understanding the momentary shock he had received. "that," he said to himself,--"that was she!" when he reached home and opened the door of the little parlor, christian murdoch was sitting alone by the dying fire in the grate. she turned and looked at him. "something," she said, "has happened to you. what is it?" "i don't know," he answered, "that anything has happened to me--anything of importance." she turned to the fire again and sat gazing at it, rubbing the back of one hand slowly with the palm of the other, as it lay on her knee. "something has happened to _me_," she said. "to-day i have seen some one i know." "some one you know?" he echoed. "here?" she nodded her head. "some one i know," she repeated, "though i do not know her name. i should like to know it." "_her_ name," he said. "then it is a woman?" "yes, a woman--a young woman. i saw her abroad--four--five times." she began to check off the number of times on her fingers. "in florence once," she said. "in munich twice; in paris--yes, in paris twice again." "when and how?" he asked. as he spoke, he thought of the unruffled serenity of the face he had just seen. "years ago, the first time," she answered, without the least change of tone, "in a church in florence. i went in because i was wet and cold and hungry, and it was light and warm there. i was a little thing, and left to ramble in the streets. i liked the streets better than my mother's room. i was standing in the church, looking at the people and trying to feel warm, when a girl came in with a servant. she was handsome and well dressed, and looked almost like a woman. when she saw me, she laughed. i was such a little thing, and so draggled and forlorn. that was why she laughed. the next year i saw her again, at munich. her room was across the street and opposite mine, and she sat at the window, amusing herself by playing with her dog and staring at me. she had forgotten me, but i had not forgotten her; and she laughed at me again. in paris it was the same thing. our windows were opposite each other again. it was five years after, but that time she knew me, though she pretended she did not. she drove past the house to-day, and i saw her. i should like to know her name." "i think i can tell you what it is," he said. "she is a miss ffrench. her father is a broxton man. they have a place here." "have they?" she asked. "will they live here?" "i believe so," he answered. she sat for a moment, rubbing her hand slowly as before, and then she spoke. "so much the worse," she said,--"so much the worse for me." she went up to her room when she left him. it was a little room in the second story, and she had become fond of it. she often sat alone there. she had been sitting at its window when rachel ffrench had driven by in the afternoon. the window was still open she saw as she entered, and a gust of wind passing through it had scattered several light articles about the floor. she went to pick them up. they were principally loose papers, and as she bent to raise the first one she discovered that it was yellow with age and covered with a rough drawing of some mechanical appliance. another and another presented the same plan--drawn again and again, elaborately and with great pains at times, and then hastily as if some new thought had suggested itself. on several were written dates, and on others a few words. she was endeavoring to decipher some of these faintly written words when a fresh gust of rising wind rushed past her as she stood, and immediately there fell upon her ear a slight ghostly rustle. near her was a small unused closet whose door had been thrown open, and as she turned toward it there fluttered from one of the shelves a sheet of paper yellower than the rest. she picked it up and read the words written upon the back of the drawing. they had been written twenty-six years before. "to-day the child was born. it is a boy. by the time he is a year old my work will be done." the girl's heart began to beat quickly. the papers rustled again, and a kind of fear took possession of her. "_he_ wrote it," she said aloud. "the man who is dead--who is _dead_; and it was not finished at all." she closed the window, eager to shut out the wind; then she closed the door and went back to the papers. her fancies concerning stephen murdoch had taken very definite shape from the first. she knew two things of him; that he had been gentle and unworldly, and that he had cherished throughout his life a hope which had eluded him until death had come between him and his patient and unflagging labor. the sight of the yellow faded papers moved her to powerful feeling. she had never had a friend; she had stood alone from her earliest childhood, and here was a creature who had been desolate too--who must have been desolate, since he had been impelled to write the simple outcome of his thoughts again and again upon the paper he wrought on, as if no human being had been near to hear. it was this which touched her most of all. there was scarcely a sheet upon which some few words were not written. each new plan bore its date, and some hopeful or weary thought. he had been tired often, but never faithless to his belief. the end was never very far off. a few days, one more touch, would bring it,--and then he had forgotten all the past. "i can afford to forget it," he said once. "it only seems strange now that it should have lasted so long when so few steps remain to be taken." these words had been written on his leaving america. he was ready for his departure. they were the last record. when she had read them, christian pushed the papers away and sat gazing into space with dilated eyes. "he died," she said. "he is _dead_. nothing can bring him back; and it is forgotten." chapter xii. granny dixon. the next time janey brought her father's dinner to the yard she sought out murdoch in a dejected mood. she found him reading over his lunch in the sunshine, and she sat down opposite to him, folding her arms on her lap. "we're i' trouble again at our house," she said. "we're allus i' trouble. if it is na one thing, it's another." murdoch shut his book and leaned back upon his pile of lumber to listen. he always listened. "what is it this time?" "this toime?" querulously. "this is th' worst o' th' lot. granny dixon's come back." "granny dixon?" janey shook her head. "tha knows nowt about her," she said. "i nivver towd thee nowt. she's my feyther's grandmother an' she's ower ninety years owd, an' she's getten money. if it wur na fur that no one ud stond her, but"--with a sigh--"foak conna turn away brass." having relieved herself of this sentiment she plunged into the subject with fresh asperity. "theer's no knowin' how to tak' her," she said. "yo' mun shout at th' top o' yore voice to mak' her hear. an' she wunnot let nowt go by. she mun hear aw as is goin'. she's out wi' mester hixon at th' chapel because she says she conna hear him an' he does it a-purpose. when she wur out wi' ivverybody else she used to say she wur goin' to leave her brass to him, an' she invited him to tea ivvery neet fur a week, an' had him set by her chair an' talk. it wur summer toime an' i've seed him set an' shout wi' th' sweat a-pourin' down his face an' his neck-tie aw o' one soide, an' at th' eend o' a week he had a quinsy, as wur nigh bein' th' eend o' him. an' she nivver forgive him. she said as he wur an impident chap as thowt hissen too good fur his betters." murdoch expressed his sympathy promptly. "i wish tha'd coom up an' talk to her some day thysen," said janey. "it ud rest us a bit," candidly. "yo'n getten th' kind o' voice to mak' folk hear, though yo' dunnot speak so loud, an' if yo' get close up to her ear an' say things slow, yo'd get used to it i' toime." "i'll come some day," answered murdoch, speculating with some doubt as to the possible result of the visit. her mind relieved, janey rose to take her departure. suddenly, however, a new idea presented itself to her active mind. "has tha seen miss ffrench yet?" she asked. "yes," he answered. "what does tha think on her?" he picked up his book and re-opened it. "i only saw her for an instant," he said. "i hadn't time to think anything." on his way from his work a few days later, he stopped at the briarley cottage. it was swept and garnished; there were no traces of the children about. before he reached the house, there had been borne to him the sound of a voice reading at its highest and shrillest pitch, and he had recognized it as janey's. as he entered, that young person rose panting from her seat, in her eagerness almost dropping the graphically illustrated paper she held in her hand. "eh!" she exclaimed. "i _am_ glad to see thee! i could na ha' stood it mich longer. she would ha' me read the 'to-be-continyerd' one, an' i've bin at it nigh an hour." granny dixon turned on her sharply. "what art tha stoppin' fur?" she demanded. "what's th' matter wi' thee?" murdoch gave a slight start. the sound was so tremendous that it seemed almost impossible that it should proceed from the small and shriveled figure in the armchair. "what art tha stoppin' fur?" she repeated. "get on wi' thee." janey drew near and spoke in her ear. "it's mester murdoch," she proclaimed; "him as i towd yo' on." the little bent figure turned slowly and murdoch felt himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen eyes. they had been handsome eyes half a century before, and the wrinkled and seamed face had had its comeliness too. "tha said he wur a workin' mon," she cried, after a pause. "what did tha tell me that theer fur?" "he _is_ a workin' mon," said janey. "he's getten his work-cloas on now. does na tha see 'em?" "cloas!" announced the voice again. "cloas i'deed! a mon is na made out o' cloas. i've seed workin' men afore i' my day, an' i know 'em." then she extended her hand, crooking the forefinger like a claw, in a beckoning gesture. "coom tha here," she commanded, "an set thysen down to talk to me." she gave the order in the manner of a female potentate, and murdoch obeyed her with a sense of overpowering fascination. "wheer art tha fro'?" she demanded. he made his reply, "from america," as distinct as possible, and was relieved to find that it reached her at once. "'merica?" she repeated. "i've heerd o' 'merica often enow. that's wheer th' blacks live, an' th' indians. i knowed a young chap as went theer, an' th' indians scalped him. he went theer because i would na ha' him. it wur when i wur a lass." she paused a moment and then said the last words over again, nodding her head with a touch of grim satisfaction. "he went theer because i would na ha' him. it wur when i wur a lass." he was watching her so intently that he was quite startled a second time when she turned her eyes upon him and spoke again, still nodding. "i wur a han'some lass," she said. "i wur a han'some lass--seventy year' ago." it was quite plain that she had been. the thing which was least pleasant about her now was a certain dead and withered suggestion of a beauty of a not altogether sinless order. the recollection of the fact seemed to enliven her so far that she was inspired to conducting the greater part of the conversation herself. her voice grew louder and louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. she had been "a han'some lass, seventy year' ago, an' had had her day--as theer wur dead folk could tell." "she'll go on i' that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot tak' her off it," said janey. "she loikes to talk about that theer better than owt else." but something did happen "to tak' her off it." "tha'st getten some reason i' thee," she announced. "tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally folk when tha says what tha'st getten to say. theer's no workin' men's ways about thee--cloas or no cloas." "that's th' way she goes on," said janey. "she canna bide folk to look soft when they're shoutin' to her. that was one o' th' things she had agen mester hixon. she said he getten so red i' th' face it put her out o' patience." "i loike a mon as is na a foo'," proclaimed granny dixon. but there her voice changed and grew sharp and tremulous. "wheer's that flower?" she cried. "who's getten it?" janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little cry of excitement. "it's miss ffrench," she said. "she's--she's stondin' at th' door." it would have been impossible to judge from her expression how long she had been there. she stood upon the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to janey. "i want to see your mother," she said. "i'll--i'll go and tell her," the child faltered. "will yo' coom in?" she hesitated a second and then came in. murdoch had arisen. she did not seem to see him as she passed before him to reach the chair in which she sat down. in fact she expressed scarcely a shadow of recognition of her surroundings. but upon granny dixon had fallen a sudden feverish tremor. "who did she say yo' wur?" she cried. "i did na hear her." the visitor turned and confronted her. "i am rachel ffrench," she answered in a clear, high voice. the dull red deepened upon the old woman's cheeks, and her eyes gained new fire. "yo're a good un to mak' a body hear," she said. "an' i know yo'." miss ffrench made no reply. she smiled incredulously at the fire. the old woman moved restlessly. "ay, but i do," she cried. "i know yo'. yo're ffrench fro' head to foot. wheer did yo' get that?" she was pointing to a flower at miss ffrench's throat--a white, strongly fragrant, hot-house flower. miss ffrench cast a downward glance at it. "there are plenty to be had," she said. "i got it from home." "i've seen 'em before," said granny dixon. "_he_ used to wear 'em i' his button-hole." miss ffrench made no reply and she went on, her tones increasing in volume with her excitement. "i'm talkin' o' will ffrench," she said. "he wur thy gran'feyther. he wur dead afore yo' wur born." miss ffrench seemed scarcely interested, but granny dixon had not finished. "he wur a bad un!" she cried. "he wur a devil! he wur a devil out an' out. i knowed him an' he knowed me." then she bent forward and touched miss ffrench's arm. "theer wur na a worse un nor a bigger devil nowheer," she said. "an' yo're th' very moral on him." [illustration: "yo're th' very moral on him."] miss ffrench got up and turned toward the door to speak to mrs. briarley, who that moment arrived in great haste carrying the baby, out of breath, and stumbling in her tremor at receiving gentle folk company. "your visitor has been talking to me," she remarked, her little smile showing itself again. "she says my grandfather was a devil." she answered all mrs. briarley's terrified apologies with the same little smile. she had been passing by and had remembered that the housekeeper needed assistance in some matter and it had occurred to her to come in. that was all, and having explained herself, she went away as she had come. "eh!" fretted mrs. briarley, "to think o' that theer owd besom talkin' i' that rood to a lady. that's allus th' way wi' her. she'd mak' trouble anywheer. she made trouble enow when she wur young. she wur na no better than she should be then, an' she's nowt so mich better now." "what's that tha'rt saying?" demanded the voice. "a noice way that wur fur a lady to go out wi'out so mich as sayin' good-day to a body. she's as loike him as two peas--an' he _wur_ a devil. here," to murdoch, "pick up that theer flower she's dropped." murdoch turned to the place she pointed out. the white flower lay upon the flagged floor. he picked it up and handed it to her with a vague recognition of the powerfulness of its fragrance. she took it and sat mumbling over it. "it's th' very same," she muttered. "he used to wear 'em i' his button-hole when he coom. an' she's th' very moral on him." chapter xiii. mr. ffrench visits the works. there were few men in broxton or the country surrounding it who were better known than gerard ffrench. in the first place, he belonged, as it were, to broxton, and his family for several generations back had belonged to it. his great-grandfather had come to the place a rich man and had built a huge house outside the village, and as the village had become a town the ffrenchs had held their heads high. they had confined themselves to broxton until gerard ffrench took his place. they had spent their lives there and their money. those who lived to remember the youth and manhood of the present ffrench's father had, like granny dixon, their stories to tell. his son, however, was a man of a different mold. there were no evil stories of him. he was a well-bred and agreeable person and lived a refined life. but he was a man with tastes which scarcely belonged to his degree. "i ought to have been born in the lower classes and have had my way to make," he had been heard to say. unfortunately, however, he had been born a gentleman of leisure and educated as one. but this did not prevent him from indulging in his proclivities. he had made more than one wild business venture which had electrified his neighbors. once he had been on the verge of a great success and again he had overstepped the verge of a great loss. he had lost money, but he had never lost confidence in his business ability. "i have gained experience," he said. "i shall know better next time." his wife had died early and his daughter had spent her girlhood with a relative abroad. she had developed into beauty so faultless that it had been said that its order belonged rather to the world of pedestals and catalogues than to ordinary young womanhood. but the truth was that she was not an ordinary young woman at all. "i suppose," she said at dinner on the evening of her visit to the briarley cottage,--"i suppose these work-people are very radical in their views." "why?" asked her father. "i went into a cottage this afternoon and found a young workman there in his working clothes, and instead of leaving the room he remained in it as if that was the most natural thing to do. it struck me that he must belong to the class of people we read of." "i don't know much of the political state of affairs now," said mr. ffrench. "some of these fellows are always bad enough, and this haworth rose from the ranks. he was a foundry lad himself." "i met mr. haworth, too," said miss ffrench. "he stopped in the street to stand looking after the carriage. he is a very big person." "he is a very successful fellow," with something like a sigh. "a man who has made of himself what he has through sheer power of will and business capacity is a genius." "what has he made of himself?" inquired miss ffrench. "well," replied her father, "the man is actually a millionaire. he is at the head of his branch of the trade; he leads the other manufacturers; he is a kind of king in the place. people may ignore him if they choose. he does not care, and there is no reason why he should." mr. ffrench became rather excited. he flushed and spoke uneasily. "there are plenty of gentlemen," he said. "we have gentlemen enough and to spare, but we have few men who can make a path through the world for themselves as he has done. for my part, i admire the man. he has the kind of force which moves me to admiration." "i dare say," said miss ffrench, slowly, "that you would have admired the young workman i saw. it struck me at the time that you would." "by the bye," her father asked with a new interest, "what kind of a young fellow was he? perhaps it was the young fellow who is half american and----" "he did not look like an englishman," she interrupted. "he was too dark and tall and unconscious of himself, in spite of his awkwardness. he did not know that he was out of place." "i have no doubt it was this murdoch. he is a peculiar fellow, and i am as much interested in him as in haworth. his father was a lancashire man,--a half-crazy inventor who died leaving an unfinished model which was to have made his fortune. i have heard a great deal of the son. i wish i had seen him." rachel ffrench made no reply. she had heard this kind of thing before. there had been a young man from cumberland who had been on the point of inventing a new propelling power, but had, somehow or other, not done it; there had been a machinist from manchester who had created an entirely new order of loom--which had not worked; and there had been half a dozen smaller lights whose inventions, though less involved, would still have made fortunes--if they had been quite practical. but mr. ffrench had mounted his hobby, which always stood saddled and bridled. he talked of haworth and haworth's success, the works and their machinery. he calculated the expenses and the returns of the business. he even took out his tablets to get at the profits more accurately, and got down the possible cost of various improvements which had suggested themselves. "he has done so much," he said, "that it would be easy for him to do more. he could accomplish anything if he were a better educated man--or had an educated man as partner. they say," he remarked afterward, "that this murdoch is not an ignoramus by any means. i hear that he has a positive passion for books and that he has made several quite remarkable improvements and additions to the machinery at the works. it would be an odd thing," biting the end of his pencil with a thoughtful air, "it would be a _dramatic_ sort of thing if he should make a success of the idea the poor fellow, his father, left incomplete." indeed miss ffrench was quite prepared for his after-statement that he intended to pay a visit to the works and their owner the next morning, though she could not altogether account for the slight hint of secret embarrassment which she fancied displayed itself when he made the announcement. "it's true the man is rough and high-handed enough," he said. "he has not been too civil in his behavior to me in times gone by, but i should like to know more of him in spite of it. he is worth cultivating." he appeared at the works the following morning, awakening thereby some interest among the shrewder spirits who knew him of old. "what's he up to now?" they said to each other. "he's getten some crank i' his yed or he would na be here." not being at any time specially shrewd in the study of human nature, it must be confessed that mr. ffrench was not prepared for the reception he met with in the owner's room. in his previous rare interviews with jem haworth he had been accorded but slight respect. his advances had been met in a manner savoring of rough contempt, his ephemeral hobbies disposed of with the amiable candor of the practical and not too polished mind; he knew he had been jeered at openly at times, and now the man who had regarded him lightly and as if he felt that he held the upper hand, received him almost with a confused, self-conscious air. he even flushed when he got up and awkwardly shook hands. "perhaps," said his visitor to himself, "events have taught him to feel the lack in himself after all." "i looked forward, before my return, to calling upon you," he said aloud. "and i am glad to have the opportunity at last." haworth reseated himself after giving him a chair, and answered with a nod and a somewhat incoherent welcome. ffrench settled himself with an agreeable consciousness of being less at a loss before the man than he had ever been in his life. "what i have seen abroad," he said, "has added to the interest i have always felt in our own manufactures. you know that is a thing i have always cared for most. people have called it my hobby, though i don't think that is quite the right name for it. you have done a great deal since i went away." "i shall do more yet," said haworth with effort, "before i've done with the thing." "you've done a good deal for broxton. the place has grown wonderfully. those cottages of yours are good work." haworth warmed up. his hand fell upon the table before him heavily. "it's not broxton i'm aimin' at," he said. "broxton's naught to me. i'll have good work or none. it's this place here i'm at work on. i've said i'd set 'haworth's' above 'em all, and i'll do it." "you've done it already," answered ffrench. "ay, but i tell you i'll set it higher yet. i've got the money and i've got the will. there's none on 'em can back down jem haworth." "no," said ffrench, suddenly and unaccountably conscious of a weakness in himself and his position. he did not quite understand the man. his heat was a little confusing. "this," he decided mentally, "is _his_ hobby." he sat and listened with real excitement as haworth launched out more freely and with a stronger touch of braggadocio. he had set out in his own line and he meant to follow it in spite of all the gentlemen manufacturers in england. he had asked help from none of them, and they had given him none. he'd brought up the trade and he'd made money. there wasn't a bigger place in the country than "haworth's," nor a place that did the work it did. he'd have naught cheap and he'd have no fancy prices. the chaps that worked for him knew their business and knew they'd lose naught by sticking to it. they knew, too, they'd got a master who looked sharp after 'em and stood no cheek nor no slack dodges. "i've got the best lot in the trade under me," he said. "i've got a young chap in the engine-room as knows more about machinery than half the top-sawyers in england. by george! i wish i knew as much. he's a quiet chap and he's young; but if he knew how to look a bit sharper after himself, he'd make his fortune. the trouble is he's too quiet and a bit too much of a gentleman without knowing it. by george! he _is_ a gentleman, if he is naught but jem haworth's engineer." "he is proud of the fellow," thought ffrench. "_proud_ of him, because he _is_ a gentleman." "he knows what's worth knowing," haworth went on. "and he keeps it to himself till the time comes to use it. he's a chap that keeps his mouth shut. he comes up to my house and reads my books. i've not been brought up to books myself, but there's none of 'em _he_ can't tackle. he's welcome to use aught i've got. i'm not such a fool as to grudge him what all my brass won't buy me." "i think i've heard of him," said ffrench. "you mean murdoch." "ay," haworth answered, "i mean murdoch; and there's not many chaps like him. he's the only one of the sort i ever run up against." "i should like to see him," said ffrench. "my daughter saw him yesterday in one of the workmen's cottages and," with a faint smile, "he struck her as having rather the air of a radical. it was one of her feminine fancies." there was a moment's halt and then haworth made his reply as forcibly as ever. "radical be hanged," he said. "he's got work o' his own to attend to. he's one of the kind as leaves th' radicals alone. he's a straightforward chap that cares more for his books than aught else. i won't say," a trifle grudgingly, "that he's not a bit too straight in some things." there was a halt again here which ffrench rather wondered at; then haworth spoke again, bluntly and yet lagging a little. "i--i saw her, miss ffrench, myself yesterday. i was walking down the street when her carriage passed." ffrench looked at him with an inward start. it was his turn to flush now. "i think," he said, "that she mentioned it to me." he appeared a trifle pre-occupied for some minutes afterward, and when he roused himself laughed and spoke nervously. the color did not die out of his face during the remainder of his visit; even after he had made the tour of the works and looked at the machinery and given a good deal of information concerning the manner in which things were done on the continent, it was still there and perhaps it deepened slightly as he spoke his parting words. "then," he said, "i--we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner to-morrow evening?" "yes," haworth answered, "i'll be there." chapter xiv. nearly an accident. it was rachel ffrench who received her father's guest the following evening. mr. ffrench had been delayed in his return from town and was still in his dressing-room. accordingly when haworth was announced, the doors of the drawing-room being flung open revealed to him the figure of his host's daughter alone. the room was long and stately, and after she had risen from her seat it took miss ffrench some little time to make her way from one end to the other. haworth had unconsciously halted after crossing the threshold, and it was not until she was half-way down the room that he bestirred himself to advance to meet her. he did not know why he had paused at first, and his sudden knowledge that he had done so roused him to a momentary savage anger. "dang it!" he said to himself. "why did i stand there like a fool?" the reason could not be explained briefly. his own house was a far more splendid affair than ffrench's, and among his visitors from london and manchester there were costumes far more gorgeous than that of miss ffrench. he was used to the flash of jewels and the gloss of brilliant colors. miss ffrench wore no ornaments at all, and her dark purple dress was simple and close-clinging. a couple of paces from him she stopped and held out her hand. "my father will be glad to see you," she said. "he was, unfortunately, detained this evening by business. he will be down stairs in a few moments." his sense of being at a disadvantage when, after she had led him back to the fire, they were seated, was overwhelming. a great heat rushed over him; the hush of the room, broken only by the light ticking of the clock, was misery. his eye traveled stealthily from the hem of her dark purple gown to the crowning waves of her fair hair, but he had not a word to utter. it made him feel almost brutal. "but the day'll come _yet_," he protested inwardly, feeling his weakness as he thought it, "when i'll hold my own. i've done it before, and i'll do it again." miss ffrench regarded him with a clear and direct gaze. she did not look away from him at all; she was not in the least embarrassed, and though she did not smile, the calmness of her face was quite as perfect in expression. "my father told me of his visit to your place," she said. "he interested me very much. i should like to see the works, if you admit visitors. i know nothing of such things." "any time you choose to come," he answered, "i'll show you round--and be glad to do it. it's a pretty big place of the kind." he was glad she had chosen this subject. if she would only go on, it would not be so bad. he would be in his own groove. and she did go on. "i've seen very little of broxton," she proceeded. "i spent a few weeks here before going abroad again with my father, and i cannot say i have been very fond of it. i do not like england, and on the continent one hears unpleasant things of english manufacturing towns. i think," smiling a little for the first time, "that one always associates them with 'strikes' and squalid people." "there is not much danger of strikes here," he replied. "i give my chaps fair play and let 'em know who's master." "but they have radical clubs," she said, "and talk politics and get angry when they are not sober. i've heard that much already." "they don't talk 'em in _my_ place," he answered, dogmatically. he was not quite sure whether it relieved him or not when ffrench entered at this moment and interrupted them. he was more at his ease with ffrench, and yet he felt himself at a disadvantage still. he scarcely knew how the night passed. a feverish unrest was upon him. sometimes he hardly heard what his entertainer said, and mr. ffrench was in one of his most voluble and diffuse moods. he displayed his knowledge of trade and mechanics with gentlemanly ostentation; he talked of "trades' unions" and the master's difficulties; he introduced manufacturer's politics and expatiated on continental weaknesses. he weighed the question of demand and supply and touched on "protective tariff." "blast him," said haworth, growing bitter mentally, "he thinks i'm up to naught else, and he's right." as her father talked miss ffrench joined in but seldom. she listened and looked on in a manner of which haworth was conscious from first to last. the thought made its way into his mind, finally, that she looked on as if these matters did not touch her at all and she was only faintly curious about them. her eyes rested on him with a secret air of watchful interest; he met them more than once as he looked up and she did not turn them away. he sat through it all, full of vengeful resentment, and was at once wretched and happy, in spite of it and himself. when, at her father's request, she played and sang, he sat apart moody and yet full of clumsy rapture. he knew nothing of the music, but his passion found a tongue in it, nevertheless. if she had played badly he would have taken the lack of harmony for granted, but as she played well he experienced a pleasure, while he did not comprehend. when it was all over and he found himself out alone in the road in the dark, he was feverish still. "i don't seem to have made naught at th' first sight," he said. then he added with dogged exultation, "but i don't look for smooth sailing. i know enough for that. i've seen her and been nigh her, and that's worth setting down--with a chap like me." at the end of the week a carriage drove up to the gate-way of the works, and mr. ffrench and his daughter descended from it. mr. ffrench was in the best of humors; he was in his element as he expatiated upon the size and appointments of the place. he had been expatiating upon them during the whole of the drive. on their being joined by haworth himself, miss ffrench decided inwardly that here upon his own domain he was not so wholly objectionable as she had fancied at first--even that he was deserving of a certain degree of approval. despite the signs of elated excitement, her quick eye detected at once that he was more at his ease. his big frame did not look out of place; he moved as if he was at home, and upon the whole his rough air of authority and the promptness with which his commands were obeyed did not displease her. "he is master," she said to herself. she was fond of power and liked the evidence of it in others. she did not object to the looks the men, who were at work, cast upon her as she went from one department to another. her beauty had never yet failed to command masculine homage from all ranks. the great black fellows at the furnaces exchanged comments as she passed. they would have paused in their work to look at her if they had dared. the object of their admiration bore it calmly; it neither confounded nor touched her; it did not move her at all. mr. ffrench commented, examined and explained with delightful eloquence. "we are fortunate in timing our visit so well," he said to his daughter. "they are filling an immense order for the most important railroad in the country. on my honor, i would rather be at the head of such a gigantic establishment than sit on the throne of england! but where is this _protégé_ of yours?" he said to haworth at last. "i should like above all things to see him." "murdoch?" answered haworth. "oh, we're coming to _him_ after a bit. he's in among the engines." when they reached the engine-rooms haworth presented him with little ceremony, and explained the purpose of their visit. they wanted to see the engines and he was the man to make the most of them. mr. ffrench's interest was awakened readily. the mechanic from cumberland had been a pretentious ignoramus; the young man from manchester had dropped his aspirates and worn loud plaids and flaming neck-ties, but this was a less objectionable form of genius. mr. ffrench began to ask questions and make himself agreeable, and in a short time was very well entertained indeed. miss ffrench listened with but slight demonstrations of interest. she did not understand the conversation which was being carried on between her father and murdoch, and she made no pretense of doing so. "it is all very clear to _them_" she said to haworth as they stood near each other. "it's all clear enough to him," said haworth, signifying murdoch with a gesture. upon which miss ffrench smiled a little. she was not sensitive upon the subject of her father's hobbies, and the coarse frankness of the remark amused her. but notwithstanding her lack of interest she drew nearer to the engine finally and stood looking at it, feeling at once fascinated and unpleasantly overpowered by its heavy, invariable motion. it was as she stood in this way a little later that murdoch's glance fell upon her. the next instant, with the simultaneous cry of terror which broke from the others, he had thrown himself forward and dragged her back by main force, and among the thunderous wheels and rods and shafts there was slowly twisted and torn and ground into shreds a fragment of the delicate fabric of her dress. it was scarcely the work of a second. her father staggered toward them white and trembling. "good god!" he cried. "good god! what----" the words died upon his bloodless lips. she freed herself from murdoch's grasp and stood upright. she did not look at him at all, she looked at her father and lightly brushed with her hand her sleeve at the wrist. despite her pallor it was difficult to realize that she only held herself erect by a terrible effort of self-control. "why"--she said--"why did he touch me--in that manner?" haworth uttered a smothered oath; murdoch turned about and strode out of the room. he did not care to remain to hear the explanation. as he went out into the open air a fellow-workman, passing by, stopped to stare at him. "what's up wi' thee?" he asked. "has tha been punsin haworth o'er again?" the incident referred to being always remembered as a savory and delectable piece of humor. murdoch turned to him with a dazed look. "i--" he stammered. "we--have very nearly had an accident." and went on his way without further explanation. chapter xv. "it would be a good thing." exciting events were not so common in broxton and its vicinity that this one could remain in the background. it furnished a topic of conversation for the dinner and tea-tables of every family within ten miles of the place. on murdoch's next visit to the briarleys', granny dixon insisted on having the matter explained for the fortieth time and was manifestly disgusted by the lack of dramatic incident connected with it. "tha seed her dress catch i' th' wheel an' dragged her back," she shouted. "was na theer nowt else? did na she swound away, nor nothin'?" "no," he answered. "she did not know what had happened at first." granny dixon gave him a shrewd glance of examination, and then favored him with a confidential remark, presented at the top of her voice. "i conna bide her," she said. "what did mr. ffrench say to thee?" asked janey. "does tha think he'll gie thee owt fur it?" "no," answered murdoch. "he won't do that." "he owt to," said janey fretfully. "an' tha owt to tak' it, if he does. tha does na think enow o' money an' th' loike. yo'll nivver get on i' th' world if yo' mak' light o' money an' let it slip by yo'." floxham had told the story somewhat surlily to his friends, and his friends had retailed it over their beer, and the particulars had thus become common property. "what did she say?" floxham had remarked at the first relation. "she said nowt, that's what she said. she did na quoite mak' th' thing out at first, an' she stood theer brushin' th' black off her sleeve. happen," sardonically, "she did na loike th' notion o' a working chap catchin' howd on her wi'out apologizin'." haworth asked murdoch to spend an evening with him, and sat moody and silent through the greater part of it. at last he said: "you think you've been devilish badly treated," he said. "but, by the lord! i wish i was in your place." "you wish," repeated murdoch, "that you were in my place? i don't know that it's a particularly pleasant place to be in." haworth leaned forward upon the table and stared across at him gloomily. "look here," he said. "you know naught about her. she's hard to get at; but she'll remember what's happened; cool as she took it, she'll remember it." "i don't want her to remember it," returned murdoch. "why should it matter? it's a thing of yesterday. it was nothing but chance. let it go." "confound it!" said haworth, with a restive moroseness. "i tell you i wish i'd been in your place--at twice the risk." the same day mr. ffrench had made a visit to the works for the purpose of setting his mind at rest and expressing his gratitude in a graceful manner. in fact he was rather glad of the opportunity to present himself upon the ground so soon again. but on confronting the hero of the hour, he found that somehow the affair dwindled and assumed an altogether incidental and unheroic aspect. his rather high-flown phrases modified themselves and took a different tone. "he is either very reserved or very shy," he said afterward to his daughter. "it is not easy to reach him at the outset. there seems a lack of enthusiasm about him, so to speak." "will he come to the house?" asked miss ffrench. "oh yes. i suppose he will come, but it was very plain that he would rather have stayed away. he had too much good taste to refuse point-blank to let you speak to him." "good taste!" repeated miss ffrench. her father turned upon her with manifest irritation. "good taste!" he repeated petulantly. "cannot you see that the poor fellow is a gentleman? i wish you would show less of this nonsensical caste prejudice, rachel." "i suppose one necessarily dispenses with a good deal of it in a place like this," she answered. "in making friends with mr. haworth, for instance----" mr. ffrench drew nearer to her and rested his elbow upon the mantel with rather an embarrassed expression. "i wish you to--to behave well to haworth," he said faltering. "i--a great deal may--may depend upon it." she looked up at him at once, lifting her eyes in a serene glance. "do you want to go into the iron trade?" she asked relentlessly. he blushed scarlet, but she did not move her eyes from his face on that account. "what--what haworth needs," he stammered, "is a--a man of education to--to assist him. a man who had studied the scientific features of--of things, might suggest valuable ideas to him. there is an--an immense field open to a rich, enterprising fellow such as he is--a man who is fearless and--and who has the means to carry out his ventures." "you mean a man who will try to do new things," she remarked. "do you think he would?" "the trouble has been," floundering more hopelessly than ever, "that his lack of cultivation has--well, has forced him to act in a single groove. if--if he had a--a partner who--knew the ropes, so to speak--his business would be doubled--trebled." she repeated aloud one of his words. "a partner," she said. he ran his hand through his hair and stared at her, wishing that he could think of something decided to say. "does he know you would like to be his partner?" she asked next. "n--no," he faltered, "not exactly." she sat a moment looking at the fire. "i do not believe he would do it," she said at last. "he is too proud of having done everything single-handed." then she looked at her father again. "if he would," she said, "and there were no rash ventures made, it would be a good thing." chapter xvi. "a poor chap as is allus i' trouble." "it was nothing but a chance, after all," murdoch said to miss ffrench, just as he had said to haworth. "it happened that i was the first to see the danger." she stood opposite to him upon the hearth in her father's house. neither of them had sat down. she rested her arm upon the low mantel and played with a flower she held in her hand. she looked at the flower as she made the reply. "you think of it very lightly," she said with rather cold deliberateness. he did not regard her furtively as haworth had done. raising her eyes suddenly, after she had said this, she met his, which were fixed upon her. "no," he answered. "not lightly at all. it was a horrible thing. i shall never forget it." she shuddered. "nor i," she said. then she added, rather in the tone of one reluctantly making a confession: "i have not slept easily through one night since." "that is very natural," he returned; "but the feeling will wear away." he would have left her then, but she stopped him with a gesture. "wait a moment," she said. "there is something else." he paused as she bade him. a slight color rose to her cheek. "when i spoke," she said, "i did not understand at all what had happened--not at all. i was stunned and angry. i thought that if i was too near you, you might have spoken instead of doing as you did." then with studied coldness and meeting his gaze fully, "it would have been a vile thing to have said--if i had understood." "yes," he answered. "it would have been a vile thing, if you had understood; but you did not, and i realized that when i had time to think over it coolly." "then at first," she put it to him, "it made you angry?" "yes. i had run some risk, you know, and had had the luck to save your life." the interview ended here, and it was some time before they met again. but murdoch heard of her often; so often indeed that she was kept pretty constantly before him. he heard of her from haworth, from the briarleys, from numberless sources indeed. it became her caprice to make a kind of study of the people around her and to find entertainment in it. when she drove through the streets of the little town, past the workmen's cottages, and the works themselves, she was stared at and commented upon. her beauty, her dress, her manners roused the beholders either to lavish or grudging acknowledgment. dirty children sometimes followed her carriage, and on its stopping at any point a small crowd gathered about it. "she's been here again," shouted granny dixon one evening as murdoch took a seat near her chair. "who?" he asked. "her. that lass o' ffrench's--th' one i conna bide. she mak's out she's ta'en a fancy to our janey. i dunnot believe her," at a louder pitch and with vigorous nods. "tha nasty tempert owd body!" cried mrs. briarley _sotto voce_. "get out wi' thee!" "what art tha sayin'?" demanded her guest. "dunnot tell me tha wur sayin' nowt. i saw thee." "i--i wur sayin' it wur a bad day fur th' wash," faltered the criminal, "an' fur them as had rheumatiz. how's--how's thine, misses?" "tha'rt tellin' a lee," was the rejoinder. "tha wert sayin' summat ill o' me. i caught thee at it." then going back to the subject and turning to murdoch: "i dunnot believe her! she cares nowt fur nowt at th' top o' th' earth but hersen. she set here to-day gettin' em to mak' foo's o' theersens because it happen't to suit her. she's getten nowt better to do an' she wants to pass th' toime--if theer's nowt else at th' back on it. she's will ffrench ower again. she conna mak' a foo' o' me." "he made foo' enow o' thee i' his day," commented mrs. briarley, cautiously. granny dixon favored her with a sharper glance than before. "tha'rt sayin' summat ill again," she cried. "howd thy tongue!" "eh!" whimpered the poor woman. "a body dare na say theer soul's theer own when hoo's about--hoo's that sharp an' ill-farrant." a few minutes after, briarley came in. janey piloted him and he entered with a smile at once apologetic and encouraging. "he wur theer," said janey. "but he had na had nowt." briarley sidled forward and seated himself upon the edge of a chair; his smile broadened steadily, but he was in a tremendous minority. granny dixon transfixed him with her baleful eye, and under its influence the smile was graduated from exhilarated friendliness to gravity, from gravity to gentle melancholy, from melancholy to deepest gloom. but at this stage a happy thought struck him and he beamed again. "how--how art tha doin', misses?" he quavered. "i hope tha'rt makin' thysen comfortable." the reception this polite anxiety met with was not encouraging. granny dixon's eye assumed an expression still more baleful. "tha'st been at it again," she shouted. "tha'st been at it again. tha'll neer git none o' my brass to spend at th' ale-house. mak' sure o' that." mr. briarley turned his attention to the fire again. melancholy was upon the point of marking him for her own, when the most delicate of tact came to his rescue. "it is na thy brass we want, misses," he proclaimed. "it's--it's thy comp'ny." and then clenched the matter by adding still more feebly, "ay, to be sure it's thy comp'ny, is na it, sararann?" "ay," faltered mrs. briarley, "_to_ be sure." "it's nowt o' th' soart," answered granny dixon, in the tone of the last trump. "an' dunnot yo' threep me down as it is." mr. briarley's countenance fell. mrs. briarley shed a few natural tears under cover of the baby; discretion and delicacy forbade either to retort. their venerable guest having badgered them into submission glared at the fire with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and defied it. it was mr. briarley who first attempted to recover cheerfulness. "tha'st had quality to see thee, sararann," he ventured. "our jane towd me." "ay," answered mrs. briarley, tearfully. mr. briarley fell into indiscreet reverie. "the chap as gets her," he said, "'ll get a han'some lass. i would na moind," modestly, "i would na moind bein' i' his shoes mysen." mrs. briarley's smothered wrongs broke forth. "thee!" she cried out. "tha brazant nowt! i wonder tha'rt na sham't o' thy face--talkin' i' that rood about a lady, an' afore thy own wife! i wonder tha art na sham't." mr. briarley's courage forsook him. he sought refuge in submissive penitence almost lachrymose. "i did na mean nowt, sararann," he protested meekly. "it wur a slip o' th' tongue, lass. i'm--i'm not th' build as a young woman o' that soart ud be loike to tak' up wi'." "yo' wur good enow fur me onct," replied mrs. briarley, sharply. "a noice un yo' are settin' yore wedded wife below other people--as if she wur dirt." "ay, sararann," the criminal faltered, "i wur good enow fur yo' but--but--yo----" but at this point he dropped his head upon his hand, shaking it in mournful contrition. "i'm a poor chap," he said. "i'm nowt but a poor chap as is allus i' trouble. i'm not th' man yo' ought to ha' had, sararann." "nay," retorted mrs. briarley. "that tha'rt not, an' it's a pity tha did na foind that theer out thirteen year ago." mr. briarley shook his head with a still deeper depression. "ay, sararann," he answered, "seems loike it is." he did not recover himself until murdoch took his departure, and then he followed him deprecatingly to the door. "does tha think," he asked, "as that theer's true?" "that what is true?" "that theer th' chaps has been talkin' ower." "i don't know," answered murdoch, "what they have been talking over." "they're gettin' it goin' among 'em as haworth's goin' to tak' ffrench in partner." murdoch looked up the road for a few seconds before he replied. he was thinking over the events of the past week. "i do not think it is true," he said, after this pause. "i don't think it can be. haworth is not the man to do it." but the idea was such a startling one, presented in this form, that it gave him a kind of shock; and as he went on his way naturally thinking over the matter, he derived some consolation from repeating aloud his last words: "no, it is not likely. haworth is not the man to do it." chapter xvii. a flower. but at last it was evident that the acquaintance between haworth and ffrench had advanced with great rapidity. ffrench appeared at the works, on an average, three or four times a week, and it had become a common affair for haworth to spend an evening with him and his daughter. he was more comfortable in his position of guest in these days. custom had given him greater ease and self-possession. after two visits he had begun to give himself up to the feverish enjoyment of the hour. his glances were no longer furtive and embarrassed. at times he reached a desperate boldness. "there's something about her," he said to murdoch, "that draws a fellow on and holds him off both at the same time. sometimes i nigh lose my head when i'm with her." he was moody and resentful at times, but he went again and again, and held his own after a manner. on the occasion of the first dinner mr. ffrench gave to his old friends, no small excitement was created by haworth's presence among the guests. the first man who, entering the room with his wife and daughters, caught sight of his brawny frame and rather dogged face, faltered and grew nervous, and would have turned back if he had possessed the courage to be the first to protest. everybody else lacked the same courage, it appeared, for nobody did protest openly, though there were comments enough made in private, and as much coldness of manner as good breeding would allow. miss ffrench herself was neither depressed nor ill at ease. it was reluctantly admitted that she had never appeared to a greater advantage nor in better spirits. before the evening was half over it was evident to all that she was not resenting the presence of her father's new found friend. she listened to his attempts at conversation with an attentive and suave little smile. if she was amusing herself at his expense, she was at the same time amusing herself at the expense of those who looked on, and was delicately defying their opinion. jem haworth went home that night excited and exultant. he lay awake through the night, and went down to the works early. "i didn't get the worst of it, after all," he said to murdoch. "let 'em grin and sert if they will--'them laughs that wins.' she--she never was as handsome in her life as she was last night, and she never treated me as well. she never says much. she only _lets_ a fellow come nigh and talk; but she treated me well--in her way." "i'm going to send for my mother," he said afterward, somewhat shamefacedly. "i'm goin' to begin a straight life; i want naught to stand agin me. and if she's here they'll come to see her. i want all the chances i can get." he wrote the letter to his mother the same day. "the old lady will be glad enough to come," he said, when he had finished it. "the finery about her will trouble her a bit at first, but she'll get over it." his day's work over, murdoch did not return home at once. his restless habit of taking long rambles across the country had asserted itself with unusual strength, of late. he spent little time in the house. to-night he was later than usual. he came in fagged and mud-splashed. christian was leaving the room as he entered it, but she stopped with her hand upon the door. "we have had visitors," she said. "who?" he asked. "mr. ffrench and his daughter. mr. ffrench wanted to see you. _she_ did not come in, but sat in the carriage outside." she shut the door and came back to the hearth. "she despises us all!" she said. "she despises us all!" he had flung himself into a chair and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head and looking gloomily before him. "sometimes i think she does," he said. "but what of that?" she answered without looking at him. "to be sure," she said. "what of that?" after a little she spoke again. "there is something i have thought of saying to you," she said. "it is this. i am happier here than i ever was before." "i am very glad," he answered. "i never thought of being happy," she went on, "or like other women in anything. i--i was different." she said the words with perfect coldness. "i was different." "different!" he echoed absently, and then checked himself. "don't say that," he said. "don't think it. it won't do. why shouldn't you be as good and happy as any woman who ever lived?" she remained silent. but her silence only stirred him afresh. "it is a bad beginning," he said. "i know it is because i have tried it. i have said to myself that i was different from other men, too." he ended with an impatient movement and a sound half like a groan. "here i am," he cried, "telling myself it is better to battle against the strongest feeling of my life because i am 'different'--because there is a kind of taint in my blood. i don't begin as other men do by hoping. i begin by despairing, and yet i can't give up. how it will end, god knows!" "i understand you better than you think," she said. something in her voice startled him. "what!" he exclaimed. "has my mother----" he stopped and gazed at her, wondering. some powerful emotion he could not comprehend expressed itself in her face. "she does not speak of it often," she said. "she thinks of it always." "yes," he answered. "i know that. she is afraid. she is haunted by her dread of it--and," his voice dropping, "so am i." he felt it almost unnatural that he should speak so freely. he had found it rather difficult to accustom himself to her presence in the house, sometimes he had even been repelled by it, and yet, just at this moment, he felt somehow as if they stood upon the same platform and were near each other. "it will break loose some day," he cried. "and the day is not far off. i shall run the risk and either win or lose. i fight hard for every day of dull quiet i gain. when i look back over the past i feel that perhaps i am holding a chained devil; but when i look forward i forget, and doubt seems folly." "in your place," she said, "i would risk my _life_ upon it!" the passion in her voice amazed him. he comprehended even less clearly than before. "_i_ know what it has cost," she said. "no one better. i am afraid to pass the door of the room where it lies, in the dark. it is like a dead thing, always there. sometimes i fancy it is not alone and that the door might open and show me some one with it." "what do you mean?" he said. "you speak as if----" "you would not understand if i should tell you," she answered a little bitterly. "we are not very good friends--perhaps we never shall be--but i will tell you this again, that in your place i would never give it up--never! i would be true to _him_, if all the world were against me!" she went away and shortly afterward he left the room himself, intending to go upstairs. as he reached the bottom of the staircase, a light from above fell upon his face and caused him to raise it. the narrow passage itself was dark, but on the topmost stair his mother stood holding a lamp whose light struck upon him. she did not advance, but waited as he came upward, looking down at him, not speaking. then they passed each other, going their separate ways. the next day ffrench appeared in the engine-room itself. he had come to see murdoch, and having seen him went away in most excellent humor. "what's he after?" inquired floxham, when he was gone. "he wants me at his house," said murdoch. "he says he needs my opinion in some matter." he went to the house the same evening, and gave his opinion upon the matter in question, and upon several others also. in fact, mr. ffrench took possession of him as he had taken possession of the young man from manchester, and the cumberland mechanic, though in this case he had different metal to work upon. he was amiable, generous and talkative. he exhibited his minerals, his plans for improved factories and workmen's dwelling-houses, his little collection of models which had proved impracticable, and his books on mechanics and manufactures. he was as generous as haworth himself in the matter of his library; it was at his visitor's service whenever he chose. as they talked rachel ffrench remained in the room. during the evening she went to the piano and sitting down played and sung softly as if for no other ears than her own. once, on her father's leaving the room, she turned and spoke to murdoch. "you were right in saying i should outlive my terror of what happened to me," she said. "it has almost entirely worn away." "i am glad," he answered. she held in her belt a flower like the one which had attracted granny dixon's attention. as she crossed the room shortly afterward it fell upon the floor. she picked it up but, instead of replacing it, laid it carelessly upon the table at murdoch's side. after he had risen from his chair, when on the point of leaving, he stood near this table and almost unconsciously took the flower up, and when he went out of the house he held it in his fingers. the night was dark and his mood was preoccupied. he scarcely thought of the path before him at all, and on passing through the gate he came, without any warning, upon a figure standing before it. he drew back and would have spoken had he been given the time. "hush," said haworth's voice. "it's me, lad." "what are you doing here?" asked murdoch. "are you going in?" "no," surlily, "i'm not." murdoch said no more. haworth turned with him and strode along by his side. but he got over his ill-temper sufficiently to speak after a few minutes. "it's the old tale," he said. "i'm making a fool of myself. i can't keep away. i was there last night, and to-night the fit came upon me so strong that i was bound to go. but when i got there i'd had time to think it over and i couldn't make up my mind to go in. i knew i'd better give her a rest. what did ffrench want of you?" murdoch explained. "did you see--her?" "yes." "well," restlessly, "have you naught to say about her?" "no," coldly. "what should i have to say of her? it's no business of mine to talk her over." "you'd talk her over if you were in my place," said haworth. "you'd be glad enow to do it. you'd think of her night and day, and grow hot and cold at the thought of her. you--you don't know her as i do--if you did----" they had reached the turn of the lane, and the light of the lamp which stood there fell upon them. haworth broke off his words and stopped under the blaze. murdoch saw his face darken with bitter passion. "curse you!" he said. "where did you get it?" without comprehending him murdoch looked down at his own hand at which the man was pointing, and saw in it the flower he had forgotten he held. "this?" he said, and though he did not know why, the blood leaped to his face. "ay," said haworth. "you know well enow what i mean. where did you get it? do you think i don't know the look on it?" "you may, or you may not," answered murdoch. "that is nothing to me. i took it up without thinking of it. if i had thought of it i should have left it where it was. i have no right to it--nor you either." haworth drew near to him. "give it here!" he demanded, hoarsely. they stood and looked each other in the eye. externally murdoch was the calmer of the two, but he held in check a fiercer heat than he had felt for many a day. "no," he answered. "not i. think over what you are doing. you will not like to remember it to-morrow. it is not mine to give nor yours to take. i have done with my share of it--there it is." and he crushed it in his hand, and flung it, exhaling its fragrance, upon the ground; then turned and went his way. he had not intended to glance backward, but he was not as strong as he thought. he did look backward before he had gone ten yards, and doing so saw haworth bending down and gathering the bruised petals from the earth. chapter xviii. "haworth & co." the next day, when he descended from his gig at the gates, instead of going to his office, haworth went to the engine-room. "leave your work a bit and come into my place," he said to murdoch. "i want you." his tone was off-hand but not ill-humored. there was a hint of embarrassment in it. murdoch followed him without any words. having led the way into his office, haworth shut the door and faced him. "can tha guess what i want?" he demanded. "no," murdoch answered. "well, it's easy told. you said i'd be cooler to-day, and i am. a night gives a man time to face a thing straight. i'd been making a fool of myself before you came up, but i made a bigger fool of myself afterward. there's the end on it." "i suppose," said murdoch, "that it was natural enough you should look at the thing differently just then. perhaps i made a fool of myself too." "you!" said haworth, roughly. "you were cool enow." later ffrench came in, and spent an hour with him, and after his departure haworth made the rounds of the place in one of the worst of his moods. "aye," said floxham to his companion, "that's allus th' road when he shows hissen." the same day janey briarley presented herself to mr. ffrench's housekeeper, with a message from her mother. having delivered the message, she was on her way from the housekeeper's room, when miss ffrench, who sat in the drawing-room, spoke through the open door to the servant. "if that is the child," she said, "bring her here to me." janey entered the great room, awe-stricken and overpowered by its grandeur. miss ffrench, who sat near the fire, addressed her, turning her head over her shoulder. "come here," she commanded. janey advanced with something approaching tremor. miss ffrench was awe-inspiring anywhere, but miss ffrench amid the marvels of her own drawing-room, leaning back in her chair and regarding her confusion with a suggestion of friendly notice, was terrible. "sit down," she said, "and talk to me." [illustration: "sit down," she said, "and talk to me."] but here the practical mind rebelled and asserted itself, in spite of abasement of spirit. "i haven't getten nowt to talk about," said janey, stoutly. "what mun i say?" "anything you like," responded miss ffrench. "i am not particular. there's a chair." janey seated herself in it. it was a large one, in which her small form was lost. her parcel was a big one, but miss ffrench did not tell her to put it down, so she held it on her knee and was almost hidden behind it, presenting somewhat the appearance of a huge newspaper package, clasped by arms and surmounted by a small, sharp face and an immense bonnet, with a curious appendage of short legs and big shoes. "i dunnot see," the girl was saying mentally, and with some distaste for her position, "what she wants wi' me." but as she stared over the top of her parcel, she gradually softened. the child found miss ffrench well worth looking at. "eh!" she announced, with admiring candor. "eh! but tha art han'some!" "am i?" said rachel ffrench. "thank you." "aye," answered janey, "tha art. i nivver seed no lady loike thee afore, let alone a young woman. i've said so mony a toime to mester murdoch." "have you?" "aye, i'm allus talkin' to him about thee." "that's kind," said rachel ffrench. "i dare say he enjoys it. who is he?" "him!" exclaimed janey. "dost na tha know him? him as was at our house th' day yo' coom th' first toime. him as dragged thee out o' th' engine." "oh!" said miss ffrench, "the engineer." "aye," in a tone of some discomfiture. "he's a engineer, but he is na th' common workin' soart. granny dixon says he's getten gentlefolks' ways." "i should think," remarked miss ffrench, "that mrs. dixon knew." "aye, she's used to gentlefolk. they've takken notice on her i' her young days. she knowed thy grandfeyther." "she gave me to understand as much," responded miss ffrench, smiling at the recollection this brought to her mind. "yo' see mother an' me thinks a deal o' mester murdoch, because he is na one o' th' drinkin' soart," proceeded janey. "he's th' steady koind as is fond o' books an' th' loike. he does na mak' much at his trade, but he knows more than yo'd think for, to look at him." "that is good news," said miss ffrench, cheerfully. janey rested her chin upon her parcel, warming to the subject. "i should na wonder if he getten to be a rich mon some o' these days," she went on. "he's getten th' makin's on it in him, if he has th' luck an' looks sharp about him. i often tell him he mun look sharp." she became so communicative indeed, that miss ffrench found herself well entertained. she heard the details of haworth's history, the reports of his prosperity and growing wealth, the comments his hands had made upon herself, and much interesting news concerning the religious condition of broxton and "th' chapel." it was growing dusk when the interview ended, and when she went away janey carried an additional bundle. "does tha allus dress i' this road?" she had asked her hostess, and the question suggested to miss ffrench a whimsical idea. she took the child upstairs and gave her maid orders to produce all the cast-off finery she could find, and then stood by and looked on as janey made her choice. "she stood theer laughin' while i picked th' things out," said janey afterward. "i dunnot know what she wur laughin' at. yo' nivver know whether she's makin' game on you or not." "i dunnot see as theer wur owt to laugh at," said mrs. briarley, indignantly. "nay," said janey, "nor me neyther, but she does na laugh when theer's owt to laugh at--that's th' queer part o' it. she said as i could ha' more things when i coom again, i would na go if it wur na fur that." even his hands found out at this time that haworth was ill at ease. his worst side showed itself in his intercourse with them. he was overbearing and difficult to please. he found fault and lost his temper over trifles, and showed a restless, angry desire to assert himself. "i'll show you who's master here, my lads," he would say. "i'll ha' no dodges. it's haworth that's th' head o' this concern. whoever comes in or out, this here's 'haworth's.' clap that i' your pipes and smoke it." "summat's up," said floxham. "summat's up. mark yo' that." murdoch looked on with no inconsiderable anxiety. the intercourse between himself and haworth had been broken in upon. it had received its first check months before, and in these days neither was in the exact mood for a renewal of it. haworth wore a forbidding air. his rough good-fellowship was a thing of the past. he made no more boisterous jokes, no more loud boasts. at times his silence was almost morose. he was not over civil even to ffrench, who came oftener than ever, and whose manner was cheerful to buoyancy. matters had remained in this condition for a couple of months, when, on his way home late one night, murdoch's attention was arrested by a light burning in the room used by the master of the works as his office. he stopped in the road to look up at it. he could scarcely, at first, believe the evidence of his senses. the place had been closed and locked hours before, when haworth had left it with ffrench, with whom he was to dine. it was nearly midnight, and certainly an unlawful hour for such a light to show itself, but there it burned steadily amid the darkness of the night. "it doesn't seem likely that those who had reason to conceal themselves would set a light _blazing_," murdoch thought. "but if there's mischief at work there's no time to waste." there was only one thing to do, and he did it, making the best of his way to the spot. the gate was thrown open, and the door of entrance yielded to his hand. inside, the darkness was profound, but when he found the passage leading to haworth's room he saw that the door was ajar and that the light still burned. on reaching this door he stopped short. there was no need to go in. it was haworth himself who was in the room--haworth, who lay with arms folded on the table, and his head resting upon them. murdoch turned away, and as he did so the man heard him for the first time. he lifted his head and looked round. "who's there?" he demanded. there was no help for it. murdoch pushed the door open and stood before him. "murdoch," he said. "i saw the light, and it brought me up." haworth gave him a grudging look. "come in," he said. "do you want me?" murdoch asked. "aye," he answered, dully, "i think i do." murdoch stood and looked at him. he did not sit down. a mysterious sense of embarrassment held him in check. "what is wrong?" he asked, in a lowered voice. he hardly knew it for his own. "wrong?" echoed haworth. "naught. i've--been taking leave of the place. that's all." "you have been doing _what_?" said murdoch. "taking leave of the place. i've given it up." his visitor uttered a passionate ejaculation. "you are mad!" he said. "aye," bitterly. "mad enow." the next instant a strange sound burst from him,--a terrible sound, forced back at its birth. his struggle to suppress it shook him from head to foot; his hands clinched themselves as if each were a vise. murdoch turned aside. when it was over, and the man raised his face, he was trembling still, and white with a kind of raging shame. "blast you!" he cried, "if there's ever aught in your face that minds me o' this, i'll--i'll kill you!" this murdoch did not answer at all. there was enough to say. "you are going to share it with ffrench?" he said. "aye, with that fool. he's been at me from the start. naught would do him but he must have his try at it. let him. he shall play second fiddle, by the lord harry!" he began plucking at some torn scraps of paper, and did not let them rest while he spoke. "i've been over th' place from top to bottom," he said. "i held out until to-night. to-night i give in, and as soon as i left 'em i came here. ten minutes after it was done i'd have undone it if i could--i'd have undone it. but it's done, and there's an end on it." he threw the scraps of paper aside and clenched his hand, speaking through his teeth. "she's never given me a word to hang on," he said, "and i've done it for her. i've give up what i worked for and boasted on, just to be brought nigher to her. she knows i've done it,--she _knows_ it, though she's never owned it by a look,--and i'll make that enough." "if you make your way with her," said murdoch, "you have earned all you won." "aye," was the grim answer. "i've earned it." and soon after the light in the window went out, and they parted outside and went their separate ways in the dark. chapter xix. an unexpected guest. before the week's end, all broxton had heard the news. in the works, before and after working hours, groups gathered together to talk it over. haworth was going to 'tak' ffrench in partner.' it was hard to believe it, and the general opinion expressed was neither favorable nor complimentary. "haworth and ffrench!" said floxham, in sarcastic mood. "haworth and co.,--an' a noice chap co. is to ha' i' a place. we'n ha' patent silver-mounted back-action puddlin'-rakes afore long, lads, if co. gets his way." upon the occasion of the installation of the new partner, however, there was a natural tendency to conviviality. not that the ceremony in question was attended with any special manifestation on the part of the individuals most concerned. ffrench's appearance at the works was its chief feature, but, the day's labor being at an end, several gentlemen engaged in the various departments scorning to neglect an opportunity, retired to the "who'd 'a' thowt it," and promptly rendered themselves insensible through the medium of beer, assisted by patriotic and somewhat involved speeches. mr. briarley, returning to the bosom of his family at a late hour, sat down by his fireside and wept copiously. "i'm a poor chap, sararann," he remarked. "i shall ne'er get took in partner by nobody. i'm not i' luck loike some--an' i nivver wur, 'ceptin' when i getten thee." "if tha'd keep thy nose out o' th' beer-mug tha'd do well enow," said mrs. briarley. but this did not dispel mr. briarley's despondency. he only wept afresh. "nay, sararann," he said, "it is na beer, it's misforchin. i allus wur misforchnit--'ceptin' when i getten thee." "things is i' a bad way," he proceeded, afterward. "things is i' a bad way. i nivver seed 'em i' th' reet leet till i heerd foxy gibbs mak' his speech to-neet. th' more beer he getten th' eleyquenter he wur. theer'll be trouble wi' th' backbone an' sinoo, if theer is na summat done." "what art tha drivin' at?" fretted his wife. "i canna mak' no sense out o' thee." "canna tha?" he responded. "canna thee, sararann? well, i dunnot wonder. it wur a good bit afore i straightened it out mysen. happen i hannot getten things as they mout be yet. theer wur a good deal o' talk an' a good deal o' beer, an' a man as has been misforchnit is loike to be slow." after which he fell into a deep and untroubled slumber, and it being found impossible to rouse him, he spent the remainder of the night in granny dixon's chair by the fire, occasionally startling the echoes of the silent room by a loud and encouraging "eer-eer!" during the following two weeks, haworth did not go to the ffrench's. he spent his nights at his own house in dull and sullen mood. at the works, he kept his word as regarded ffrench. that gentleman's lines had scarcely fallen in pleasant places. his partner was gruff and authoritative, and not given to enthusiasm. there were times when only his good-breeding preserved the outward smoothness of affairs. "but," he said to his daughter, "one does not expect good manners of a man like that. they are not his _forte_." at the end of the two weeks there came one afternoon a message to haworth in his room. murdoch was with him when it arrived. he read it, and, crushing it in his hand, threw it into the fire. "they're a nice lot," he said with a short laugh, "coming down on a fellow like that." and then an oath broke from him. "i've give up two or three things," he said, "and they're among 'em. it's th' last time, and----" he took down his overcoat and began to put it on. "tell 'em," he said to murdoch as he went out,--"tell 'em i'm gone home, and sha'n't be back till morning. keep the rest to yourself." he went out, shutting the door with a bang. murdoch stood at the window and watched him drive away in his gig. he was scarcely out of sight before a carriage appeared, moving at a very moderate pace. it was a bright though cold day, and the top of the carriage was thrown back, giving the occupant the benefit of the sunshine. the occupant in question was rachel ffrench, who looked up and bestowed upon the figure at the window a slight gesture of recognition. murdoch turned away with an impatient movement after she had passed. "pooh!" he said, angrily. "he's a fool." by midnight of the same day haworth had had time to half forget his scruples. he had said to his visitors what he had said to murdoch, with his usual frankness. "it's the last time. we've done with each other after this, you know. it's the last time. make the most on it." there was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. if he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying the world; but fear held him in check, as nothing else would have done,--an abject fear of consequences. by midnight the festivities were at their height. he himself was boisterous with wine and excitement. he had stood up at the head of his table and made a blatant speech and roared a loud song, and had been laughed at and applauded. "make the most on it," he kept saying. "it'll be over by cock-crow. it's a bit like a chap's funeral." he had just seated himself after this, and was pouring out a great glass of wine, when a servant entered the room and spoke to him in a low tone. "a lady, sir, as come in a cab, and----" and then the door opened again, and every one turned to look at the woman who stood upon the threshold. she was a small woman, dressed in plain country fashion; she had white hair, and a fresh bloom on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with timorous excitement and joy. "jem," she faltered, "it's me, my dear." haworth stared at her as if stunned. at first his brain was not clear enough to take in the meaning of her presence, but as she approached him and laid her basket down and took his hand, the truth revealed itself to him. "it's me, my dear," she repeated, "accordin' to promise i didn't know you had comp'ny." she turned to those who sat about the table and made a little rustic courtesy. a dead calm seemed to take possession of one and all. they did not glance at each other, but looked at her as she stood by haworth, holding his hand, waiting for him to kiss her. "he's so took by surprise," she said, "he doesn't know what to say. he wasn't expecting me so soon," laughing proudly. "that's it. i'm his mother, ladies and gentlemen." haworth made a sign to the servant who waited. "bring a plate here," he said. "she'll sit down with us." the order was obeyed, and she sat down at his right hand, fluttered and beaming. "you're very good not to mind me," she said. "i didn't think of there bein' comp'ny--and gentry, too." she turned to a brightly dressed girl at her side and spoke to her. "he's my only son, miss, and me a widder, an' he's allers been just what you see him now. he was good from the time he was a infant. he's been a pride an' a comfort to me since the day he were born." the girl stared at her with a look which was almost a look of fear. she answered her in a hushed voice. "yes, ma'am," she said. "yes, miss," happily. "there's not many mothers as can say what i can. he's never been ashamed of me, hasn't jem. if i'd been a lady born, he couldn't have showed me more respect than he has, nor been more kinder." the girl did not answer this time. she looked down at her plate, and her hand trembled as she pretended to occupy herself with the fruit upon it. then she stole a glance at the rest,--a glance at once guilty, and defiant of the smile she expected to see. but the smile was not there. the only smile to be seen was upon the face of the little country woman who regarded them all with innocent reverence, and was in such bright good spirits that she did not even notice their silence. "i've had a long journey," she said, "an' i've been pretty flustered, through not bein' used to travel. i don't know how i'd have bore up at first--bein' flustered so--if it hadn't have been for everybody bein' so good to me. i'd mention my son when i had to ask anything, an' they'd smile as good-natured as could be, an' tell me in a minute." the multiplicity of new dishes and rare wine bewildered her, but she sat through the repast simple and unabashed. "there's some as wouldn't like me bein' so ignorant," she said, "but jem doesn't mind." the subject of her son's virtues was an inexhaustible one. the silence about her only gave her courage and eloquence. his childish strength and precocity, his bravery, his good temper, his generous ways, were her themes. "he come to me in time of trouble," she said, "an' he made it lighter--an' he's been makin' it lighter ever since. who'd have thought that a simple body like me would ever have a grand home like this--and it earned and bought by my own son? i beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen," looking round with happy tears. "i didn't go to do it, an' there's no reason for it, except me bein' took a little by surprise through not bein' exactly prepared for such a grand place an' gentlefolk's comp'ny, as is so good an' understands a mother's feelin's." when the repast was at an end, she got up and made her little courtesy to them all again. if the gentlefolk would excuse her, she would bid them good-night. she was tired and not used to late hours. to the girl who had sat at her side she gave an admiring smile of farewell. "you're very pretty, my dear," she said, "if i may take the liberty, bein' a old woman. good-night! god bless you!" when she was gone, the girl lay forward, her face hidden upon her arms on the table. for a few seconds no one spoke; then haworth looked up from his plate, on which he had kept his eyes fixed, and broke the stillness. "if there'd been a fellow among you that had dared to show his teeth," he said, "i'd have wrung his cursed neck!" chapter xx. miss ffrench makes a call. the following sunday morning, the congregation of broxton chapel was thrown into a state of repressed excitement. haworth's carriage, with a couple of servants, brought his mother to enjoy brother hixon's eloquence. to the presence of the carriage and servants haworth had held firm. upon the whole, he would have preferred that she should have presented herself at the door of broxton old church, which was under the patronage of the county families and honored by their presence; but the little woman had exhibited such uneasiness at the unfolding of his plan of securing the largest and handsomest pew for her that he had yielded the point. "i've always been a chapel-goin' woman, jem," she had said, "an' i wouldn't like to change. an' i should feel freer where there's not so many gentlefolk." the carriage and the attending servants she had submitted to with simple obedience. there were no rented pews in broxton chapel, and she took her seat among the rest, innocently unconscious of the sensation her appearance created. every matron of the place had had time to learn who she was, and to be filled with curiosity concerning her. janey briarley, by whose side she chanced to sit, knew more than all the rest, and took her under her protection at once. "tha'st getten th' wrong hymn-book," she whispered audibly, having glanced at the volume the servant handed to her. "we dunnot use wesley aw th' toime. we use mester hixon's 'songs o' grace.' tha can look on wi' me." her delicate attentions and experience quite won dame haworth's motherly heart. "i never see a sharper little thing," she said, admiringly, afterward, "nor a old-fashioneder. there wasn't a tex' as she didn't find immediate, nor yet a hymn." "bless us!" said mrs. briarley, laboriously lugging the baby homeward. "an' to think o' her bein' th' mistress o' that big house, wi' aw them chaps i' livery at her beck an' call. why, she's nowt but a common body, jane ann. she thanked thee as simple as ony other woman mought ha' done! she's noan quality. she'd getten a silk gown on, but it wur a black un, an' not so mich as a feather i' her bonnet. i'd ha' had a feather, if i'd ha' been her--a feather sets a body off. but that's allus th' road wi' folk as has brass--they nivver know how to spend it." "nay," said janey, "she is na quality; but she's getten a noice way wi' her. haworth is na quality hissen." "she wur a noice-spoken owd body," commented mrs. briarley. "seemt loike she took a fancy to thee." janey turned the matter over mentally, with serious thrift. "i should na moind it if she did," she replied. "she'll ha' plenty to gi' away." it was not long before they knew her well. she was a cheerful and neighborly little soul, and through the years of her prosperity had been given to busy and kindly charities. in her steadfast and loving determination to please her son, she gave up her rustic habit of waiting upon herself, and wore her best gown every day, in spite of pangs of conscience. she rode instead of walked, and made courageous efforts to become accustomed to the size and magnificence of the big rooms, but, notwithstanding her faithfulness, she was a little restless. "not bein' used to it," she said, "i get a little lonesome or so--sometimes, though not often, my dear." she had plenty of time to feel at a loss. her leisure was not occupied by visitors. broxton discussed her and smiled at her, rather good-naturedly than otherwise. it was not possible to suspect her of any ill, but it was scarcely to be anticipated that people would go to see her. one person came, however, facing public opinion with her usual calmness,--rachel ffrench, who presented herself one day and made her a rather long call. on hearing the name announced, the little woman rose tremulously. she was tremulous because she was afraid that she could not play her part as mistress of her son's household to his honor. when miss ffrench advanced, holding out her gloved hand, she gave her a startled upward glance and dropped a little courtesy. for a moment, she forgot to ask her to be seated. when she recollected herself, and they sat down opposite to each other, she could at first only look at her visitor in silence. but miss ffrench was wholly at ease. she enjoyed the rapturous wonder she had excited with all her heart. she was very glad she had come. "it must be very pleasant for mr. haworth to have you here," she said. the woman started. a flush of joy rose upon her withered face. her comprehension of her son's prosperity had been a limited one. somehow she had never thought of this. here was a beautiful, high-bred woman to whom he must be in a manner near, since she spoke of him in this way--as if he had been a gentleman born. "jem?" she faltered, innocently. "yes, ma'am. i hope so. he's--he's told me so." then she added, in some hurry: "not that i can be much comp'ny to him--it isn't that; if he hadn't been what he is, and had the friends he has, i couldn't be much comp'ny for him. an' as it is, it's not likely he can need a old woman as much as his goodness makes him say he does." rachel ffrench regarded her with interest. "he is very good," she remarked, "and has a great many friends, i dare say. my father admires him greatly." "thank you, ma'am," brightly, "though there's no one could help it. his goodness to me is more than i can tell, an' it's no wonder that others sees it in him an' is fond of him accordin'." "no, it's no wonder," in a tone of gentle encouragement. the flush upon the withered cheek deepened, and the old eyes lit up. "he's thirty-two year old, miss," said the loving creature, "an' the time's to come yet when he's done a wrong or said a harsh word. he was honest an' good as a child, an' he's honest an' good as a man. his old mother can say it from the bottom of her full heart." "it's a very pleasant thing to be able to say," remarked her visitor. "it's the grateful pride of my life that i can say it," with fresh tenderness. "an' to think that prosperity goes with it too. i've said to myself that i wasn't worthy of it, because i couldn't never be grateful enough. he might have been prosperous, and not what he is. many a better woman than me has had that grief to bear, an' i've been spared it." when miss ffrench returned to her carriage she wore a reflective look. when she had seated herself comfortably, she spoke aloud: "no, there are ten chances to one that she will never see the other side at all. there is not a man or woman in broxton who would dare to tell her. i would not do it myself." when haworth returned at night he heard the particulars of the visit, as he had known he should when ffrench told him that it was his daughter's intention to call that day. "the beautifulest young lady my old eyes ever saw, my dear," his mother said again and again. "an' to think of her comin' to see me, as if i'd been a lady like herself." haworth spoke but little. he seldom said much in these days. he sat at the table drinking his after-dinner wine, and putting a question now and then. "what did she say?" he asked. she stopped to think. "p'raps it was me that said most," she answered, "though i didn't think so then. she asked a question or so an' seemed to like to listen. i was tellin' her what a son you'd been to me, an' how happy i was an' how thankful i was." "she's not one that says much," he said, without looking up from the glass on which his eyes had been fixed. "that's her way." she replied with a question, put timidly. "you've knowed her a good bit, i dare say, my dear?" "no," uneasily. "a six-month or so, that's all." "but it's been long enough for her to find out that what i said to her was true. i didn't tell her what was new to her, my dear. i see that by her smile, an' the kind way she listened. she's got a beautiful smile, jem, an' a beautiful sweet face." when they parted for the night, he drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to her. "i've been thinking," he said, awkwardly, "that it would be in your line to give summat now and then to some o' the poor lot that's so thick here. there's plenty on 'em, an' p'r'aps it wouldn't be a bad thing. there's not many that's fond of givin'. let's set the gentry a fashion." "jem!" she said. "my dear! there isn't nothin' that would make me no happier--nothin' in the world." "it won't do overmuch good, may be," he returned. "more than half on 'em don't deserve it, but give it to 'em if you've a fancy for it. i don't grudge it." there were tears of joy in her eyes. she took his hand and held it, fondling it. "i might have knowed it," she said, "an' i don't deserve it for holdin' back an' feelin' a bit timid, as i have done. i've thought of it again and again, when i've been a trifle lonesome with you away. there's many a poor woman as is hard-worked that i might help, and children too, may be, me bein' so fond of 'em." she drew nearer still and laid her hand on his arm. "i always was fond of 'em," she said, "always--an' i've thought that, sometimes, my dear, there might be little things here as i might help to care for, an' as would be fond of me. "if there was children," she went on, "i should get used to it quick. they'd take away the--the bigness, an' make me forget it." but he did not answer nor look at her, though she felt his arm tremble. "i think they'd be fond of me," she said, "them an'--an' her too, whomsoever she might be. she'd be a lady, jem, but she wouldn't mind my ways, i dare say, an' i'd do my best with all my heart. i'd welcome her, an' give up my place here to her, joyful. it's a place fitter for a lady such as she would be--god bless her!--than for me." and she patted his sleeve and bent her face that she might kiss his hand. chapter xxi. in which mrs. briarley's position is delicate. so the poor and hard-worked of the town came to know her well, and it must also be confessed that others less deserving learned to know her also, and proceeded, with much thrift and dexterity, to make hay while the sun shone. haworth held to his bargain, even going to the length of lavishness. "haworth gives it to her?" was said with marked incredulity at the outset. "nay, lad, tha canna mak' me believe that." mrs. haworth's earliest visit was made to the briarley cottage. she came attired in her simplest gown, the week after her appearance at the chapel, and her entrance into the household created such an excitement as somewhat disturbed her. the children were scattered with wild hustling and scurry, while janey dragged off her apron in the temporary seclusion offered by the door. mrs. briarley, wiping the soap-suds from her arms, hurried forward with apologetic nervousness. she dropped a courtesy, scarcely knowing what words of welcome would be appropriate for the occasion, and secretly speculating on possible results. but her visitor's demeanor was not overpowering. she dropped a courtesy herself,--a kindly and rustic obeisance. she even looked somewhat timid. "i'm mr. haworth's mother, ma'am," she faltered, "an'--an' thank you kindly," taking the seat offered. "don't put yourself out, ma'am, for me. there wasn't no need to send the children away,--not at all, me bein' partial to 'em, an' also used." the next instant she gave a timid start. "gi' me my best cap!" cried a stentorian voice. "gi' me my best cap! wheer is it? gi' me my best cap!" granny dixon's high basket-backed chair had been placed in the shadow of the chimney-corner for the better enjoyment of her midday nap, and, suddenly aroused by some unknown cause, she had promptly become conscious of the presence of a visitor and the dire need of some addition to her toilet. she sat up, her small-boned figure trembling with wrath, her large eyes shining. "gi' me my best cap!" she demanded. "gi' it me!" mrs. briarley disappeared into the adjacent room, and came out with the article required in her hand. it was a smart cap, with a lace border and blue bows on it. "put it on!" shouted mrs. dixon. "an' put it on straight!" mrs. briarley obeyed nervously. "she's my mester's grandmother," she exclaimed, plaintively. "yo' munnot moind her, missus." granny dixon fixed her eyes upon the stranger. "she getten it," she proclaimed. "i did na. i'd nivver ha' bowt th' thing i' th' world. blue nivver wur becomin' to me. she getten it. she nivver had no taste." "aye," said mrs. briarley, "i did get it fur thee, tha nasty owd piece, but tha'lt nivver catch me at th' loike again,--givin' thee presents, when i hannot a bit o' finery to my name." "it allus set me off--red did," cried mrs. dixon. "it wur my fav'rite color when i wur a lass,--an' i wur a good-lookin' lass, too, seventy year ago." "i'm sure you was, ma'am," responded mrs. haworth. "i've no doubt on it." "she canna hear thee," said mrs. briarley. "she's as deaf as a post--th' ill-tempert owd besom," and proceeded to give a free translation at the top of her lungs. "she says tha mun ha' been han'some. she says ony-body could see that to look at thee." "aye," sharply. "she's reet, too. i wur, seventy year ago. who is she?" "she's mester haworth's mother." "mester haworth's mother?" promptly. "did na tha tell me he wur a rich mon?" "aye, i did." "well, then, what does she dress i' that road fur? she's noan quality. she does na look much better nor thee." "eh! bless us!" protested mrs. briarley. "what's a body to do wi' her?" "don't mind her, ma'am," said mrs. haworth. "it don't do no harm. a old person's often sing'lar. it don't trouble me." then janey, issuing from her retirement in comparatively full dress, was presented with due ceremony. "it wur her as fun thy place i' th' hymn-book," said mrs. briarley. "she's a good bit o' help to me, is jane ann." it seemed an easy thing afterward to pour forth her troubles, and she found herself so far encouraged by her visitor's naïve friendliness that she was even more eloquent than usual. "theer's trouble ivvery wheer," she said, "an' i dare say tha has thy share, missus, fur aw thy brass." politeness forbade a more definite reference to the "goin's-on" which had called forth so much virtuous indignation on the part of the broxton matrons. she felt it but hospitable to wait until her guest told her own story of tribulation. but mrs. haworth sat smiling placidly. "i've seen it in my day," she said; "an' it were heavy enough too, my dear, an' seemed heavier than it were, p'r'aps, through me bein' a young thing an' helpless, but i should be a ungrateful woman if i didn't try to forget now as it had ever been. a woman as has such a son as i have--one that's prospered an' lived a pure, good life an' never done a willful wrong, an' has won friends an' respect everywhere--has enough happiness to help her forget troubles that's past an' gone." mrs. briarley stopped half-way to the ground in the act of picking up granny dixon's discarded head-gear. her eyes were wide open, her jaw fell a little. but her visitor went on without noticing her. "though, for the matter of that," she said, "i dare say there's not one on you as doesn't know his ways, an' couldn't tell me of some of his goodness as i should never find out from him." "wheer art tha puttin' my cap?" shouted granny dixon. "what art tha doin' wi' my cap? does tha think because i've got a bit o' brass, i can hot th' bake-oven wi' head-dresses?" mrs. briarley had picked up the cap, and was only rescued by this timely warning from the fatal imprudence of putting it in the fire and stirring it violently with the poker. "art tha dazeder than common?" shrieked the old woman. "has tha gone daft? what art tha starin' at?" "i am na starin' at nowt," said mrs. briarley, with a start. "i--i wur hearkenin' to the lady here, an' i did na think o' what i wur doin'." she did not fully recover herself during the whole of her visitor's stay, and, in fact, several times lapsed into the same meditative condition. when haworth's charitable intentions were made known to her, she stopped jolting the baby and sat in wild confusion. "did tha say as he wur goin' to gi' thee money?" she exclaimed,--"money to gi' away?" "he said he'd give it without a grudge," said his mother, proudly. "without a grudge, if it pleased me. that's his way, my dear. it were his way from the time he were a boy, an' worked so hard to give me a comfortable home. he give it, he said, without a grudge." "jane ann," said mrs. briarley, standing at the door to watch her out of sight,--"jane ann, what dost tha think o' that theer?" she said it helplessly, clutching at the child on her hip with a despairing grasp. "did tha hear her?" she demanded. "she wur talkin' o' haworth, an' she wur pridin' hersen on th' son he'd been to her, an'--an' th' way he'd lived. th' cold sweat broke out aw over me. no wonder i wur for puttin' th' cap i' th' fire. lord ha' mercy on us!" but janey regarded the matter from a more practical stand-point. "he has na treated _her_ ill," she said. "happen he is na so bad after aw. did tha hear what she said about th' money?" chapter xxii. again. "theer's a chap," it was said of murdoch with some disdain among the malcontents,--"theer's a chap as coom here to work for his fifteen bob a week, an' now he's hand i' glove wi' th' mesters an's getten a shop o' his own." the "shop" in question had, however, been only a very simple result of circumstances. in times of emergency it had been discovered that "th' 'merican chap" was an individual of resources. floxham had discovered this early, and, afterward, the heads of other departments. if a machine or tool was out of order, "tak' it to th' 'merican chap an' he'll fettle it," said one or another. and the time had never been when the necessary "fettling" had not been accomplished. in his few leisure moments, murdoch would go from room to room, asking questions or looking on in silence at the work being carried on. often his apparently hap-hazard and desultory examinations finally resulted in some suggestion which simplified things astonishingly. he had a fancy for simplifying and improving the appliances he saw in use, and this, too, without any waste of words. but gradually rough models of these trifles and hastily made drawings collected in the corner of the common work-room which had fallen to murdoch, and haworth's attention was drawn toward them. "what wi' moddles o' this an' moddles o' that," floxham remarked, "we'll ha' to mak' a flittin' afore long. theer'll be no room fur us, nor th' engines neyther." haworth turned to the things and looked them over one by one, touching some of them dubiously, some carelessly, some without much comprehension. "look here," he said to murdoch, "there's a room nigh mine that's not in use. i don't like to be at close quarters with every chap, but you can bring your traps up there. it'll be a place to stow 'em an' do your bits o' jobs when you're in the humor." the same day the change was made, and before leaving the works, haworth came in to look around. throwing himself into a chair, he glanced about him with a touch of curiosity. "they're all your own notions, these?" he said. murdoch assented. "they are of not much consequence," he answered. "they are only odds and ends that fell into my hands somehow when they needed attention. i like that kind of work, you know." "aye," responded haworth, "i dare say. but most chaps would have had more to say about doin' 'em than you have." not long after ffrench's advent a change was made. "if you'll give up your old job, and take to looking sharp after the machinery and keeping the chaps that run it up to their work," said haworth, "you can do it. it'll be a better shop than the other and give you more time. and it'll be a saving to the place in the end." so the small room containing his nondescript collection became his headquarters, and murdoch's position was a more responsible one. he found plenty of work, but he had more time, as haworth had prophesied, and he had also more liberty. "yo're getten on," said janey briarley. "yo're getten more wage an' less work, an' yo're one o' th' mesters, i' a way. yo' go wi' th' gentlefolk a good bit, too. feyther says ffrench mak's hissen as thick wi' yo' as if yo' wur a gentleman yorsen. yo' had yore supper up theer last neet. did she set i' th' room an' talk wi' yo'?" "yes," he answered. it was not necessary to explain who "she" was. "well," said janey, "she would na do that if she did na think more o' yo' nor if yo' were a common chap. she's pretty grand i' her ways. what did yo' talk about?" "it would be hard to tell now," he replied. "we talked of several things." "aye, but what i wanted to know wur whether she talked to thee loike she'd talk to a gentlemon,--whether she made free wi' thee or not." "i have never seen her talk to a gentleman," he said. "how does she talk to haworth?" "i have never seen her talk to him either. we have never been there at the same time." this was true. it had somehow chanced that they had never met at the house. perhaps rachel ffrench knew why. she had found broxton dull enough to give her an interest in any novelty of emotion or experience. she disliked the ugly town, with its population of hard-worked and unpicturesque people. she hated the quiet, well regulated, well-bred county families with candor and vivacity. she had no hesitation in announcing her distaste and weariness. "i detest them all," she once said calmly to murdoch. "i detest them." she made the best of the opportunities for enlivenment which lay within her grasp. she was not averse to haworth's presenting himself again and again, sitting in restless misery in the room with her, watching her every movement, drinking in her voice, struggling to hold himself in check, and failing and growing sullen and silent, and going away, carrying his wretchedness with him. she never encouraged him to advance by any word or look, but he always returned again, to go through the same self-torture and humiliation, and she always knew he would. she even derived some unexciting entertainment from her father's plans for the future. he had already new methods and processes to discuss. he had a fancy for establishing a bank in the town, and argued the advisability of the scheme with much fervor and brilliancy. without a bank in which the "hands" could deposit their earnings, and which should make the town a sort of center, and add importance to its business ventures, broxton was nothing. the place was growing, and the people of the surrounding villages were drawn toward it when they had business to transact. they were beginning to buy and sell in its market, and to look to its increasing population for support. the farmers would deposit their funds, the shop-keepers theirs, the "hands" would follow their example, and in all likelihood it would prove, in the end, a gigantic success. haworth met his enthusiasms with stolid indifference. sometimes he did not listen at all, sometimes he laughed a short, heavy laugh, sometimes he flung him off with a rough speech. but in spite of this, there were changes gradually made in the works,--trifling changes, of which haworth was either not conscious, or which he disdained to notice. he lost something of his old masterful thoroughness; he was less regular in his business habits; he was prone to be tyrannical by fits and starts. "go to ffrench," he said, roughly, to one of the "hands," on one occasion: and though before he had reached the door he was called back, the man did not forget the incident. miss ffrench looked on at all of this with a great deal of interest. "he does not care for the place as he did," she said to murdoch. "he does not like to share his power with another man. it is a nightmare to him." by this time, she had seen murdoch the oftener of the two. mr. ffrench's fancy for him was more enthusiastic than his fancy for the young man from manchester or the cumberland mechanic. he also found him useful, and was not chary of utilizing him. in time, the servants of the house ceased to regard him as an outsider, and were surprised when he was absent for a few days. "we have a fellow at our place whom you will hear of some of these days," ffrench said to his friends. "he spends his evenings with me often." "ffrench has taken a great fancy to thee, lad," haworth said, drily. "he says you're goin' to astonish us some o' these days." "does he?" murdoch answered. "aye. he's got a notion that you're holding on to summat on the quiet, and that it'll come out when we're not expecting it." they were in the little work-room together, and murdoch, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, looked before him without replying, except by a slight knitting of his brows. haworth laughed harshly. "confound him for a fool!" he said. "i'm sick of the chap, with his talk. he'll stir me up some o' these days." then he looked up at his companion. "he has you up there every night or so," he said. "what does he want of you?" "never the same thing twice," said murdoch. "do you--always see her?" "yes." the man moved in his seat, a sullen red rising to his forehead. "what--has she to say?" he asked. murdoch turned about to confront him. he spoke in a low voice, and slowly. "do you want to know," he said, "whether she treats me as she would treat another man? is that it?" "aye," was the grim answer, "summat o' that sort, lad." murdoch left his chair. he uttered half a dozen words hoarsely. "come up to the house some night and judge for yourself," he said. he went out of the room without looking back. it was saturday noon, and he had the half-day of leisure before him, but he did not turn homeward. he made his way to the high road and struck out upon it. he had no definite end in view, at first, except the working off of his passionate excitement, but when, after twenty minutes' walk he came within sight of broxton chapel and its grave-yard his steps slackened, and when he reached the gate, he stopped a moment and pushed it open and turned in. it was a quiet little place, with an almost rustic air, of which even the small, ugly chapel could not rob it. the grass grew long upon the mounds of earth and swayed softly in the warm wind. only common folk lay there, and there were no monuments and even few slabs. murdoch glanced across the sun-lit space to the grass-covered mound of which he had thought when he stopped at the gateway. he had not thought of meeting any one, and at the first moment the sight of a figure standing at the grave-side in the sunshine was something of a shock to him. he went forward more slowly, even with some reluctance, though he had recognized at once that the figure was that of christian murdoch. she stood quite still, looking down, not hearing him until he was close upon her. she seemed startled when she saw him. "why did you come here?" she asked. "i don't know," he answered. "i needed quiet, i suppose, and the place has a quiet look. why did you come?" "it is not the first time i have been," she said. "i come here often." "you!" he said. "why?" she pointed to the mound at her feet. "because _he_ is here," she said, "and i have learned to care for him." she knelt down and laid her hand upon the grass, and he remembered her emotion in the strange scene which had occurred before. "i know him very well," she said. "i _know_ him." "you told me that i would not understand," he said. "it is true that i don't yet----" suddenly there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. "he does not seem a dead man to me," she said. "he never will." "i do not think," he answered, heavily, "that his life seems at an end to any of us." "not to me," she repeated. "i have thought of him until i have seemed to grow near to him, and to know what his burden was, and how patiently he bore it. i have never been patient. i have rebelled always, and so it has gone to my heart all the more." murdoch looked down upon the covering sod with a pang. "he did bear it patiently," he said, "at the bitterest and worst." "i know that," she replied. "i have been sure of it." "i found some papers in my room when i first came," she went on. "some of them were plans he had drawn thirty years ago. he had been very patient and constant with them. he had drawn the same thing again and again. often he had written a few words upon them, and they helped me to understand. after i had looked them over i could not forget. they haunted me and came back to me. i began to care for him, and put things together until all was real." then she added, slowly and in a lowered voice: "i have even thought that if he had lived he would have been fond of me. i don't know why, but i have thought that perhaps he would." for the first time in his knowledge of her, murdoch saw in her the youth he had always missed. her dark and bitter young face was softened; for the moment she seemed almost a child,--even though a child whose life had been clouded by the shadow of sin and wrong. "i think--he would," he said, slowly. "and i have got into the habit of coming here when i was lonely or--at my worst." "you are lonely often, i dare say," he returned, wearily. "i wish it could be helped." "it is nothing new," she replied, with something of her old manner, "and there is no help for it." but her touch upon the grass was a caress. she smoothed it softly, and moved with singular gentleness a few dead leaves which had dropped upon it. "when i come here i am--better," she said, "and--less hard. things do not seem to matter so much--or to look so shameful." a pause followed, which she herself broke in upon. "i have thought a great deal of--what he left unfinished," she said. "i have wished that i might see it. it would be almost as if i had seen him." "i can show it to you," murdoch answered. "it is a little thing to have caused so great pain." they said but little else until they rose to go. as he sat watching the long grass wave under the warm wind, murdoch felt that his excitement had calmed down. he was in a cooler mood when they got up at last. but before they turned away the girl lingered for a moment, as if she wished to speak. "sometimes," she faltered,--"sometimes i have thought you had half forgotten." "nay," he answered, "never that, god knows!" "i could not bear to believe it," she said, passionately. "it would make me hate you!" when they reached home he took her upstairs to his room. he had locked the door when he left it in the morning. he unlocked it, and they went in. a cloth covered something standing upon the table. he drew it aside with an unsteady hand. "look at it," he said. "it has been there since last night. you see it haunts me too." "what!" she said, "you brought it out yourself--again!" "yes," he answered, "again." she drew nearer, and sat down in the chair before the table. "he used to sit here?" she said. "yes." "if it had been finished," she said, as if speaking to herself, "death would have seemed a little thing to him. even if it should be finished now, i think he would forget the rest." chapter xxiii. "ten shillings' worth." the same evening mr. briarley, having partaken of an early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollection of a previous engagement. mrs. briarley had gone out to do her "sunday shoppin'," the younger children had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting themselves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently janey was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of granny dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap unbecomingly disarranged. janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance from the hearth. she had taken down from its place her last book of "memoirs,"--a volume of a more than usually orthodox and peppery flavor. she held it within range of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued tone with much unction. but she had only mastered the interesting circumstance that "james joseph william was born november th," when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had stopped before the gate and she paused to listen. "bless us!" she said. "some un's comin' in." the person in question was haworth, who so far dispensed with ceremony as to walk up to the firelight without even knocking at the door, which stood open. "where's your father?" he demanded. "he's takken hissen off to th' beer-house," said janey, "as he allus does o' saturday neet,--an' ivvery other neet too, as he gets th' chance." a chair stood near and haworth took it. "i'll sit down and wait for him," he replied. "tha'lt ha' to wait a good bit then," said miss briarley. "he'll noan be whoam till midneet." she stood in no awe of her visitor. she had heard him discussed too freely and too often. of late years she had not unfrequently assisted in the discussions herself. she was familiar with his sins and short-comings and regarded him with due severity. "he'll noan be whoam till midneet," she repeated as she seated herself on her stool. but haworth did not move. he was in a mysterious humor, it was plain. in a minute more his young companion began to stare at him with open eyes. she saw something in his face which bewildered her. "he's getten more than's good fur him," she was about to decide shrewdly, when he leaned forward and touched her with the handle of the whip he held. "you're a sharp little lass, i warrant," he said. janey regarded him with some impatience. he was flushed and somewhat disheveled and spoke awkwardly. "you're a sharp little lass, i'll warrant," he said again. "i ha' to be," she responded, tartly. "tha'd be sharp thysen if tha had as mich to look after as i ha'." "i dare say," he answered. "i dare say." then added even more awkwardly still, "i've heard murdoch say you were--murdoch." the disfavor with which she had examined him began to be mingled with distrust. she hitched her stool a few inches backward. "mester murdoch!" she echoed. "aye, i know him well enow." "he comes here every day or so?" "aye, him an' me's good friends." "he's got a good many friends," he said. "aye," she answered. "he's a noice chap. most o' folk tak' to him. theer's mr. ffrench now and _her_." "he goes there pretty often?" "aye, oftener than he goes any wheer else. they mak' as mich o' him as if he wur a gentleman." "did _he_ tell you that?" "nay," she answered. "he does na talk mich about it. i've fun it out fro' them as knows." then a new idea presented itself to her. "what does tha want to know fur?" she demanded with unceremonious candor. he did not tell her why. he gave no notice to her question save by turning away from the fire suddenly and asking her another. "what does he say about _her_?" he spoke in such a manner that she pushed her stool still farther back, and sat staring at him blankly and with some indignation. "he does na say _nowt_ about her," she exclaimed "what's up wi' thee?" the next moment she uttered an ejaculation and the book of memoirs fell upon the floor. a flame shot up from the fire and showed her his face. he drew forth his purse and, opening it, took out a coin. the light fell upon that too and showed her what it was. "do you see that?" he asked. "aye," she answered, "it's a half-sov'rin." "i'll give it to you," he said, "if you'll tell me what he says and what he does. you're sharp enow to have seen summat, and i'll give it you if you'll tell me." he did not care what impression he made on her or how he entangled himself. he only thought of one thing. "tell me what he says and what he does," he repeated, "and i'll give it to you." janey rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its balance and fell over. "i--i dunnot want it!" she cried. "i dunnot want it. i can na mak' thee out!" "you're not as sharp as i took you for, if you don't want it," he answered. "you'll not earn another as easy, my lass." only stern common sense rescued her from the weakness of backing out of the room into the next apartment. "i dunnot know what tha'rt drivin' at," she said. "i tell thee--i dunnot know nowt." "does he never say," he put it to her, "that he's been there--and that he's seen her--and that she's sat and talked--and that he's looked at her--and listened--and thought over it afterward?" this was the last straw. bewilderment turned to contempt. "_that_ would na be worth ten shillin'," she said. "tha knows he's been theer, an' tha knows he's seen her, an' tha knows he could na see her wi'out lookin' at her. i dunnot see as theer's owt i' lookin' at her, or i' listenin' neyther. wheer's th' use o' givin ten shillin' to hear summat yo' know yo'rsen? there's nowt i' that!" "has he ever said it?" he persisted. "no," she answered, "he has na. he nivver wur much give ter talk, an' he says less than ivver i' these days." "has he never said that she treated him well, and--was easier to please than he'd thought; has he never said nowt like that?" "nay, that he has na!" with vigor. "nowt o' th' soart." he got up as unceremoniously and abruptly as he had sat down. "i was an accursed fool for coming," she heard him mutter. he threw the half-sovereign toward her, and it fell on the floor. "art tha goin' to gi' it me?" she asked. "yes," he answered, and he strode through the door-way into the darkness, leaving her staring at it. she went to the fire and, bending down, examined it closely and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. then she tried its ring upon the flagged floor. "aye," she said, "it's a good un, sure enow! it's a good un!" she had quite lost her breath. she sat down upon her stool again, forgetting the memoirs altogether. "i nivver heard so mich doment made over nowt i' aw my days," she said. "i conna see now what he wur up to, axin' questions as if he wur i' drink. he mun ha' been i' drink or he'd nivver ha' gi'en it to me." and on the mother's return she explained the affair to her upon this sound and common-sense basis. "mester haworth's been here," she said, "an' he wur i' drink an' give me ten shillin'. i could na mak' out what he wur drivin' at. he wur askin' questions as put me out o' patience. eh! what foo's men is when they've getten too much." when he left the house, haworth sprang into his gig with an oath. since the morning he had had time to think over things slowly. he had worked himself up into a desperate, headlong mood. his blood burned in his veins, his pulses throbbed. he went home to his dinner, but ate nothing. he drank heavily, and sat at the table wearing such a look that his mother was stricken with wonder. "i'm out o' humor, old lady," he said to her. "stick to your dinner, and don't mind me. a chap with a place like mine on his mind can't always be up to the mark." "if you ain't ill, jem," she said, "it don't matter your not talkin'. you mustn't think o' me, my dear! i'm used to havin' lived alone so long." after dinner he went out again, but before he left the room he went to her and kissed her. "there's nowt wrong wi' me," he said. "you've no need to trouble yourself about that. i'm right enow, never fear." "there's nothin' else could trouble me," she said, "nothin', so long as you're well an' happy." "there's nowt to go agen me bein' happy," he said, a little grimly. "not yet, as i know on. i don't let things go agen me easy." about half an hour later, he stood in the road before his partner's house. the night was warm, and the windows of the drawing-room were thrown open. he stood and looked up at them for a minute and then spoke aloud. "aye," he said, "he's there, by george!" he could see inside plainly, and the things he saw best were rachel ffrench and murdoch. ffrench himself sat in a large chair, reading. miss ffrench stood upon the hearth. she rested an arm upon the low mantel, and talked to murdoch, who stood opposite to her. the man who watched uttered an oath at the sight of her. "him!" he said. "him--damn him!" and grew hot and cold by turns. he kept his stand for full ten minutes, and then crossed the road. the servant who answered his summons at the door regarded him with amazement. "i know they're in," he said, making his way past him. "i saw 'em through the window." those in the drawing-room heard his heavy feet as he mounted the staircase. it is possible that each recognized the sound. ffrench rose hurriedly, and, it must be owned, with some slight trepidation. rachel merely turned her face toward the door. she did not change her position otherwise at all. murdoch did not move. "my dear fellow," said ffrench, with misplaced enthusiasm. "i am glad to see you." but haworth passed him over with a nod. his eyes were fixed on murdoch. he gave him a nod also and spoke to him. "what, you're here, are you?" he said. "that's a good thing." "we think so," said mr. ffrench, with fresh fervor. "my dear fellow, sit down." he took the chair offered him, but still looked at murdoch and spoke to him. "i've been to briarley's," he said. "i've had a talk with that little lass of his. she gave me the notion you'd be here. she's a sharp little un, by george!" "they're all sharp," said mr. ffrench. "the precocity one finds in these manufacturing towns is something astonishing--astonishing." he launched at once into a dissertation upon the causes of precocity in a manufacturing town, and became so absorbed in his theme that it mattered very little that haworth paid no attention to him. he was leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, not moving his eyes from murdoch. mr. ffrench was in the middle of his dissertation when, half an hour afterward, haworth got up without ceremony. murdoch was going. "i'll go with you," he said to him. they went out of the room and down the staircase together without speaking. they did not even look at each other. when they were fairly out of the room mr. ffrench glanced somewhat uneasily at his daughter. "really," he said, "he is not always a pleasant fellow to deal with. one is never sure of reaching him." and then, as he received no answer, he returned in some embarrassment to his book. chapter xxiv. at an end. when they stood in the road, haworth laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder heavily. "come up to the works, lad," he said, "and let's have a bit of a talk." his voice and his touch had something in common. murdoch understood them both. there was no need for clearer speech. "why there?" he asked. "it's quiet there. i've a fancy for it." "i have no fancy against it. as well there as anywhere else." "aye," said haworth. "not only as well, but better." he led the way into his own room and struck a light. he flung his keys upon the table; they struck it with a heavy clang. then he spoke his first words since they had turned from the gate-way. "aye," he said, "not only as well, but better. i'm at home here, if i'm out everywhere else. the place knows me and i know it. i'm best man here, by----! if i'm out everywhere else." he sat down at the table and rested his chin upon his hand. his hand shook, and his forehead was clammy. murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him. "go on," he said. "say what you have to say." haworth bent forward a little. "you've got on better than i'd have thought, lad," he said,--"better than i'd have thought." "what!" hoarsely. "does she treat me as she treats other men?" "nay," said haworth, "not as she treats me--by the lord harry!" the deadly bitterness which possessed him was terrible; he was livid with it. "i've thought of a good many," he said. "i've looked on at 'em as they stood round her--chaps of her own sort, with money and the rest of it; but i never thought of you--not once." "no," said murdoch, "i dare say not." "no--not once," the man repeated. "get up, and let's take a look at you," he said. "happen i've not had the right notion on you." "don't say anything you'll repent," said murdoch. "it's bad enough as it is." but his words were like chaff before the wind. "you!" cried the man. "you were the chap that knew naught of women's ways. you'd scarce look one on 'em in the face. _you're_ not the build i thought they took to." "you told me that once before," said murdoch, with a bitter laugh. "i've not forgotten it." haworth's clenched fist fell upon the table with a force which made the keys ring. "blast you!" he said. "you're nigher to her now than me--_now_!" "then," murdoch answered, "you may give up." "give up!" was the reply. "nay, not that, my lad. i've not come to that yet." then his rage broke forth again. "_you_ to be going there on the quiet!" he cried. "_you_ to be making way with her, and finding her easy to please, and priding yourself on it!" "_i_ please her!" said murdoch. "_i_ pride myself!" he got up and began to pace the floor. "you're mad!" he said. "mad!" haworth checked himself to stare at him. "what did you go for," he asked, "if it wasn't for that?" murdoch stopped in his walk. he turned himself about. "i don't know," he said, "i don't know." "do you think," he said, in a hushed voice, after the pause which followed,--"do you think i expect anything? do you think i look forward or backward? can you understand that it is enough as it stands--enough?" haworth still stared at him dully. "nay," he returned, "that i cannot." "_i_ to stand before her as a man with a best side which might win her favor! what is there in _me_, that she should give me a thought when i am not near her? what have i done? what has my life been worth? it may be nothing in the end! good god! nothing!" he said it almost as if stunned. for the moment he was overwhelmed, and had forgotten. "you're nigher to her than i am," said haworth. "you think because you're one o' the gentleman sort----" "gentleman!" said murdoch, speculatively. "i a gentleman?" "aye, damn you," said haworth, bitterly, "and you know it." the very words seemed to rouse him. he shook his clenched hand. "that's it!" he cried. "there's where it is. you've got it in you, and you know it--and she knows it too!" "i have never asked myself whether i was or not," said murdoch. "i have not cared. what did it matter? what you said just now was true, after all. i know nothing of women. i know little enough of men. i have been a dull fellow, i think, and slow to learn. i can only take what comes." he came back to the table, and threw himself into his chair. "does either of us know what we came here for?" he asked. "we came to talk it over," was haworth's answer, "and we've done it." "then, if we have done it, let us go our ways." "nay, not yet. i've summat more to say." "say it," murdoch replied, "and let us have it over." "it's this," he returned. "you're a different chap from what i took you for--a different chap. i never thought of you--not once." "you've said that before." "aye," grimly, "i've said it before. like enough i shall say it again. it sticks to me. we've been good friends, after a manner, and that makes it stick to me. i don't say you're to blame. i haven't quite made the thing out yet. we're of a different build, and--there's been times before when i haven't quite been up to you. but we've been friends, after a manner, and now th' time's come when we're done with that." "done with it!" repeated murdoch, mechanically. "aye," meeting his glance fully, "done with it! we'll begin fair and square, lad. it's done with. do you think," with deadly coolness, "i'd stop at aught if th' time come?" he rose a little from his seat, bending forward. "naught's never come in my way, yet, that's stopped me," he said. "things has gone agen me and i've got th' best on 'em in one way or another. i've not minded how. i've gone on till i've reached this. naught's stopped me--naught never shall!" he fell back in his chair and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. "i wish," he said, "it had been another chap. i never thought of you--not once." chapter xxv. "i shall not turn back." murdoch went out into the night alone. when he found himself outside the iron gate he stood still for a moment. "i will not go home yet," he said; "not yet." he knew this time where he was going when he turned his steps upon the road again. he had only left the place a few hours before. the moonlight gave it almost a desolate look, he thought, as he passed through the entrance. the wind still swayed the grass upon the mounds fitfully, and the headstones cast darker shadows upon them. there was no shadow upon the one under which stephen murdoch rested. it lay in the broad moonlight. murdoch noticed this as he stopped beside it. he sat down upon the grass, just as he had done in the afternoon. "better not go home, just yet," he said again. "there is time enough." suddenly an almost unnatural calmness had fallen upon him. his passions and uncertainties of the past few months seemed small things. he had reached a climax and for a moment there seemed time enough. he thought of the past almost coldly--going over the ground mentally, step by step. it was as if he thought of the doings of another man--one who was younger and simpler and whose life was now over. "there are a good many things that are done with," he said mechanically, recalling haworth's words. he thought of the model standing in its old place in the empty room. it was a living thing awaiting his coming. the end might be anything--calamity, failure, death!--but to-night he had taken his first step toward that end. "to-night i shall begin as he began," he thought; "to-night." he threw himself full length upon the grass, clasping his hands beneath his head, his face turned upward to the vast clearness and depth above him. he had known it would come some day, but he never thought of its coming in this way. the man who slept under the earth at his side had begun with hope; he began as one who neither hoped nor feared, yielding only to a force stronger than himself. he lay in this manner looking up for nearly an hour. then he arose and stood with bared head in the white light and stillness. "i shall not turn back," he said aloud at last, as if to some presence near him. "i shall not turn back, at least. do not fear it." and he turned away. it was his mother who opened the door for him when he reached home. "come in," he said to her, with a gesture toward the inner room. "i have something to say to you." she followed him in silence. her expression was cold and fixed. it struck him that she, too, had lived past hope and dread. she did not sit down when she had closed the door, but stood upright, facing him. he spoke hoarsely. "i am going upstairs," he said. "i told you once that some day it would see the light again in spite of us both. you can guess what work i shall do to-night." "yes," she answered, "i can guess. i gave up long ago." she looked at him steadily; her eyes dilated a little as if with slow-growing fear of him. "i knew it would end so," she went on. "i fought against my belief that it would, but it grew stronger every day--every hour. there was no other way." "no," he replied, "there was no other way." "i have seen it in your face," she said. "i have heard it in your voice. it has never been absent from your thoughts a moment--nor mine." he did not speak. "at first, when he died----" her voice faltered and broke, and then rose in a cry almost shrill. "he did not die!" she cried. "he is not dead. he lives now--_here_! there is no death for him--not even death until it is done." she panted for breath; her thin chest rose and fell--and yet suddenly she checked herself and stood before him with her first strained calm. "go," she said. "i cannot hold you. if there is an end to be reached, reach it for god's sake and let him rest." "wish me god-speed," he said. "i--have more to bear than you think of." for answer she repeated steadily words which she had uttered before. "i do not believe in it; i have never believed for one hour." chapter xxvi. a revolution. in a month's time the broxton bank was an established fact. it had sprung into existence in a manner which astonished even its originator. haworth had come to him in cold blood and talked the matter over. he had listened to the expounding of his views, and without being apparently much moved by his eloquence, had still shown a disposition to weigh the plan, and having given a few days to deliberation, he had returned a favorable decision. "the thing sounds well," he said, "and it may be a sharp stroke that way. when the rest on 'em hear on it, it'll set 'em thinkin'. blast 'em! i like to astonish 'em, an' give 'em summat to chew." mr. ffrench could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. he had been secretly conscious of playing a minor part in all business transactions. his pet theories had been thrust aside as worthy of small notice. his continental experience had been openly set at naught. when he had gone to the trouble of explaining his ideas to the heads of the various departments, he had been conscious of illuminating smiles on the grimy countenances around him. his rather frail physique, his good breeding, his well-modulated voice, had each been the subject of derisive comment. "gi' him a puddlin' rake an' let him puddle a bit," he had heard a brawny fellow say, after one of his most practical dissertations. after his final interview with haworth, he went home jubilant. at dinner he could speak of nothing else. miss ffrench heard the details from beginning to end, and enjoyed them in a manner peculiarly her own. at the "who'd ha thowt it" no little excitement prevailed when the movement was discussed. "a bank!" said foxy gibbs. "an' wheer did he get th' money to set up a bank wi'? why, he getten it out o' th' workin' mon, an' th' sweat o' th' workin' mon's brow. if theer wur na no banks, theer'd be more money to put in 'em. i dunnot believe i' banks mysen. let the brass cerkylate--let it cerkylate." "aye," said mr. briarley, who had reached his second quart, "let it cerkylate, an' he'll ha' more comfort, will th' workin' mon. theer's too many on 'em," with natural emotion. "they're th' ruin o' th' country. theer's summat wrong wi' 'em. if they'd gi' a chap summat to put i' 'em theer'd be some chance for him; but that's allus th' way. he has na no chance, hasn't th' workin' mon--he has na no----" "shut up!" said foxy gibbs. "eh?" inquired the orator, weakly and uncertainly. "shut up, till tha's getten less beer i' thee!" "shut--" repeated mr. briarley, winking his eyes slowly,--"up?" he seized his beer mug and gazed into its depths in some confusion. a deep sigh escaped him. "that's allus th' road," he faltered. "it's th' road wi' sararann, an' it's th' road wi' aw on 'em. he has no chance, has na a mon as is misforchnit." and he happily disposed of the beer before janey opened the door and appeared to marshal him homeward. but the broxton bank was an established fact, and created no small sensation. "he is a bold fellow, this haworth," it was said among his rivals, "but he will overstep himself one of these days." "he's set up a bank, has he?" shouted granny dixon, on murdoch's first visit after she had heard the story. "yes," murdoch answered. she sat glowering at the fire a few moments almost bent double, and then, having deluded her audience into believing she had subsided, suddenly started and came to life again with increased vigor. "i've getten my brass i' th' manchester savin's," she cried, "an' i'll keep it theer." it seemed unnecessary to reply, and nobody made any remark upon this statement of facts. but the venerable matron had not concluded. "i'll keep it theer!" she repeated--"keep it theer! i conna bide him, no more than i can bide her." and then she returned to her fire, fixing her great eyes upon it and mumbling with no small elation. "th' thing'll break now, for sure," commented her much-tried hostess, sardonically. "it conna stand up agen that, i' reason. haworth ud better sell th' works at th' start afore it's too late." there had been some vague wonder in murdoch's mind as to what the result of haworth's outburst against himself would be. the first time he found himself confronting him as he went to his work-room he spoke to him: "you said once," he remarked, "that you had kept this room empty because you did not care to be at close quarters with every man. now----" "get thee in, my lad," he interrupted, dryly. "it suits me well enow to ha' you nigh me. never fear that." the only outward change made was in his manner. he went about his labor with a deadly persistence. he came early and went home late. the simplest "hand" saw that some powerful force was at work. he was silent and harder in his rule of those under him. he made closer bargains and more daring plans. men who had been his rivals began to have a kind of fear of him. all he took in hand throve. "he is a wonderful fellow," said ffrench to his friends. "wonderful--wonderful!" even the friends in question who were, some of them, county magnates of great dignity, began to find their opinion of the man shaken. in these days there was actually nothing to complain of. the simple little country woman reigned in his household. she attended the broxton chapel and dispensed her innocent charities on all sides. finally a dowager of high degree (the patroness of a charitable society), made the bold move of calling upon her for a subscription. "it weren't as hard to talk to her, jem, as i'd have thought," said mrs. haworth afterward. "she began to tell me about the poor women as suffers so, an' somehow i forgot about her bein' so grand. i couldn't think of nothin' but the poor creturs an' their pain, an' when i come to sign my name my 'and trembled so an' my eyes was that full i couldn't hardly tell what i'd put down. to think of them poor things----" "how much did you give her?" asked haworth. "i give her ten pound, my dear, an'----" he pulled out a bank-note and handed it to her. "go to her to-morrow and give her that," he said. "happen it'll be summat new fur her to get fifty at a stroke." so it began to be understood that the master of "haworth's" was a bugbear with redeeming points after all. the broxton bank had its weight too, and the new cottages which it was necessary to build. "it is to haworth after all that you owe the fact that the place is growing," said ffrench. there came an evening, when on entering the drawing-room of a county potentate with whom she and her father were to dine, rachel ffrench found herself looking directly at haworth, who stood in the center of a group of guests. they were talking to him with an air of great interest and listening to his off-hand replies with actual respect. suddenly the tide had turned. before the evening had passed the man was a lion, and all the more a lion because he had been so long tabooed. he went in to dinner with the lady patroness, and she afterward announced her intention of calling upon his mother in state. "there is a rough candor about the man, my dear," she said, "which one must respect, and it appears that he has really reformed." there was no difficulty after this. mrs. haworth had visitors every day, who came and examined her and wondered, and, somehow, were never displeased by her tender credulity. she admired them all and believed in them, and was always ready with tears and relief for their pensioners and charities. "don't thank me, ma'am," she would say. "don't never thank me, for it's not me that deserves it, but him that's so ready and generous to every one that suffers. there never was such a kind heart before, it seems to me, ma'am, nor such a lovin' one." haworth's wealth, his success, his open-handedness, his past sins, were the chief topics of conversation. to speak of broxton was to speak of the man who had made it what it was by his daring and his power, and who was an absolute ruler over it and its inhabitants. ffrench was a triumphant man. he was a potentate also; he could ride his hobby to the sound of applause. when he expatiated upon "processes," he could gain an audience which was attentive and appreciative. he had not failed this time, at least, and was put down as a shrewd fellow after all. in the festivities which seemed, somehow, the result of this sudden revulsion of feeling, rachel ffrench was naturally a marked figure. among the women, with whom she was not exactly a favorite, it was still conceded that she was not a young woman whom it was easy to ignore. her beauty--of which it was impossible to say that she was conscious--was of a type not to be rivaled. when she entered a room, glancing neither to right nor left, those who had seen her before unavoidably looked again, and those who had not were silent as she passed. there was a delicate suggestion of indifference in her manner, which might be real or might not. her demeanor toward haworth never altered, even to the extent of the finest shadow of change. when they were in a room together his eye followed her with stealthy vigilance, and her knowledge of the fact was not a disturbing one. the intensity of her consciousness was her great strength. she was never unprepared. when he approached her she met him with her little untranslatable smile. he might be bold, or awkward, or desperate, but he never found her outwardly conscious or disturbed, or a shade colder or warmer. it was only natural that it should not be long before others saw what she, seeing, showed no knowledge of. it was easily seen that he made no effort at concealment. his passion revealed itself in every look and gesture. he could not have controlled it if he would, and would not if he could. "let 'em see," he said to himself. "it's naught to them. it's betwixt her and me." he even bore himself with a sullen air of defiance at times, knowing that he had gained one thing at least. he was nearer to her in one way than any other man; he might come and go as he chose, he saw her day after day, he knew her in-goings and out-comings. the success which had restored her father's fortunes was his success. "i can make her like a queen among 'em," he said,--"like a queen, by george,--and i'll do it." every triumph which fell to him he regarded only as it would have weight in her eyes. when society opened its doors to him, he said to himself, "now she'll see that i can stand up with the best of 'em, gentlemen or no gentlemen!" when he suddenly found himself a prominent figure--a man deferred to and talked of, he waited with secret feverishness to see what the effect upon her would be. "it's what women like," he said. "it's what _she_ likes more than most on 'em. it'll be bound to tell in the end." he labored as he had never labored before; his ambitions were boundless; he strove and planned and ventured, lying awake through long hours of the night, pondering and building, his daring growing with his success. there occurred one thing, however, which he had not bargained for. in his laudable enthusiasm mr. ffrench could not resist the temptation to sound the praises of his _protégé_. his belief in him had increased instead of diminished with time, as he had been forced regretfully to acknowledge had been the case during the eras of the young man from manchester and his fellows. he had reason to suspect that a climax had been reached and that his hopes might be realized. it is not every man who keeps on hand a genius. naturally his friends heard of murdoch often. those who came to the works were taken to his work-room as to a point of interest. he became in time a feature, and was spoken of with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. to each visitor ffrench told, in strict confidence, the story of his father with due effect. "and it's my impression," he always added, "that we shall hear more of this invention one of these days. he is a singular fellow--reserved and not easy to read--just the man to carry a purpose in his mind and say nothing of it, and in the end startle the world by accomplishing what he has held in view." finally, upon one occasion, when his daughter was making her list of invitations for a dinner party they were to give, he turned to her suddenly, with some hesitation in his manner. "oh--by the way," he said, "there's murdoch, we've never had murdoch." she wrote the name without comment. "who next?" she asked after having done it. "you see," he went on, waveringly, "there is really nothing which could be an obstacle in the way of our inviting him--really nothing. he is--he is all that we could wish." the reply he received staggered him. "it is nonsense," she said, looking up calmly, "to talk of obstacles. i should have invited him long ago." "you!" he exclaimed. "would you--really?" "yes," she answered. "why not?" "why--not?" he repeated, feebly. "i don't know why not. i thought that perhaps----" and then he broke off. "i wish i had known as much before," he added. when he received the invitation, murdoch declined it. "i should only be out of place," he said, candidly to miss ffrench. "i should know nobody and nobody would know me. why should i come?" "there is a very good reason why you should come," answered the young woman with perfect composure. "_i_ am the reason." there was no further discussion of the point. he was present and haworth sat opposite to him at the table. "it's the first time for _him_?" said haworth to miss ffrench afterward. "it is the first time he has dined here with other people," she answered. "have you a reason for asking?" he held his coffee-cup in his hand and glanced over it across the room. "he is not like the rest on 'em," he said, "but he stands it pretty well, by george!" chapter xxvii. the beginning. for some time there had hung over the conduct of mr. briarley an air of deep mystery. the boon of his society had been granted to his family even less frequently than ever. his habit of sudden and apparently unaccountable disappearance from the home circle after or even in the midst of an argument had become more than usually pronounced. he went out every night and invariably returned under the influence of malt liquor. "wheer he gets th' brass bangs me," said mrs. briarley. "he does na tak' it out o' his wage, that's certain, fur he has na been a ha'penny short fur three week, an' he does na get it o' tick, _that_ i know. bannett at th' 'public' is na a foo'. wheer does he get th' brass fro'?" but this was not easily explained. on being catechised mr. briarley either shed tears of penitence or shook his head with deep solemnity of meaning. at times when he began to shake it--if the hour was late and his condition specially foggy--he was with difficulty induced to stop shaking it, but frequently continued to do so with protracted fervor and significance gradually decreasing until he fell asleep. when he was sober he was timorous and abstracted. he started at the sound of the opening door, and apparently existed in a state of secret expectation and alarm. "i conna tell thee, sararann," he would say. "at least," with some tremor, "i wunnot tell thee just yet. thou'lt know i' toime." he did not patronize the "who'd ha' thowt it" as much as formerly, in these days, janey discovered. he evidently got the beer elsewhere, and at somebody's expense. his explanation of this was a brilliant and happy one, but it was only offered once, in consequence of the mode of its reception by his hearers. he presented it suddenly one night after some moments of silence and mental research. "theer's a gentlemon as is a friend o' moine," he said, "as has had uncommon luck. his heirs has deed an' left him a forchin, an' he's come into it, an' he's very mich tuk wi' me. i dunnot know as i ivver seed ony one as mich tuk wi' me, sararann--an' his heirs deein' an' leavin' him a forchin--that theer's how it is, sararann,--that theer's how it is." "tha brazant leer!" cried mrs. briarley, aghast. "tha brazant leer! get out wi' thee!" in an outburst of indignation. "thee an' thy forchins an' heirs deein'--as if it wur na bad enow at th' start. a noice chap tha art to set thysen up to know gentlefolks wi' heirs to dee an' leave 'em brass. eh! bless us! what art tha comin' to?" the result was not satisfactory, as mr. briarley felt keenly. "tha hast getten no confydence i' me, sararann," he said in weak protest. "tha has na no faith--nor yet," following the train of thought with manifest uncertainty,--"nor yet no works." the situation was so painful, however, that he made no further effort of the imagination to elucidate the matter, and it remained temporarily obscured in mystery. only temporarily, however. a few weeks afterward ffrench came down to the works in great excitement. he went to haworth's room, and finding him there, shut the door and almost dropped into a chair. "what's up?" demanded haworth, with some impatience. "what's up, man?" "you haven't heard the report?" ffrench answered, tremulously. "it hasn't reached you yet?" "i've heard nowt to upset me. out with it! what's up?" he was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but he held himself boldly. ffrench explained himself with trepidation. "the hands in marfort and molton and howton are on the strike, and those in dillup and burton are plainly about to follow suit. i've just got a manchester paper, which says the lookout is bad all over the country. meetings have been going on in secret for some time." he stopped and sat staring at his partner. haworth was deathly pale. he seemed, for a moment, to lack breath, and then suddenly the dark color rushed to his face again. "by----" he began, and stopped with the oath upon his lips. "don't swear, for pity's sake," broke forth ffrench, finding courage for protest in his very desperation. "it's not the time for it. let's look the thing in the face." "look it in the face," haworth repeated. "aye, let's." he said the words with a fierce sneer. "aye, look it in the face, man," he said again. "that's th' thing to do." he bent forward, extending his hand across the table. "let's see th' paper," he demanded. ffrench gave it to him, and he read the paragraphs referred to in silence. when he had finished them, he folded the paper again mechanically. "they might have done it last year and welcome, blast 'em!" he said. ffrench began to tremble. "you've ventured a good deal of late, haworth," he said, weakly. "you've done some pretty daring things, you know--and----" haworth turned on him. "if i lose all i've made," he said, hoarsely, "shall i lose aught of yours, lad?" ffrench did not reply. he sat playing with his watch-chain nervously. he had cause for anxiousness on his own score, and his soul quaked within him. "what is to be done?" he ventured at last. "there's only one thing to be done," haworth answered, pushing his chair back. "stop it here--at th' start." "stop it?" ffrench echoed, in amazement. "aye, stop it." he got up and took his hat down and put it on. "i'm going round th' place and about th' yards and into th' town," he said. "there's naught for you to do but keep quiet. th' quieter you keep th' better for us. go on as if you'd heard naught. stay here a bit, and then walk over to th' bank. look alive, man!" he went out and left ffrench alone. in the passage he came upon a couple of men who were talking together in low voices. they started at sight of him and walked away slowly. he went first to the engine-room. there he found floxham and murdoch talking also. the old engineer wore an irritable air, and was plainly in a testy mood. murdoch looked fagged and pale. of late he was often so. as haworth entered he turned toward him, uttering an exclamation. "he is here now," he said. "that is well enough." floxham gave him a glance from under his bent, bushy brows. "aye," he answered. "we may as well out wi' it." he touched his cap clumsily. "tell him," he said to murdoch, "an' ha' it over." murdoch spoke in a cool, low voice. "i have found out," he said, "that there is trouble on foot. i began to suspect it a week ago. some rough fellows from manchester and molton have been holding secret meetings at a low place here. some of the hands have been attending them. last night a worse and larger gang came and remained in the town. they are here now. they mean mischief at least, and there are reports afloat that strikes are breaking out on all sides." haworth turned abruptly to floxham. "where do you stand?" he asked roughly. the old fellow laid his grimy hand upon his engine. "i stand here, my lad," he answered. "that's wheer-an' i'll stick to it, unions or no unions." [illustration: "i stand here, my lad," he answered.] "that's the worst side of the trouble," said murdoch. "those who would hold themselves aloof from the rest will be afraid of the trades unions. if worst comes to worst, their very lives will be in danger. they know that, and so do we." "aye, lad," said floxham, "an' tha'rt reet theer." haworth ground his teeth and swore under his breath. then he spoke to murdoch. "how is it going on here?" he asked. "badly enough, in a quiet way. you had better go and see for yourself." he went out, walking from room to room, through the yards and wherever men were at work. here and there a place was vacant. where the work went on, it went on dully; he saw dogged faces and subdued ones; those who looked up as he passed wore an almost deprecatory air; those who did not look up at all, bent over their tasks with an expression which was at least negatively defiant. his keen eye discovered favorable symptoms, however; those who were in evil mood were his worst workmen--men who had their off days of drunken stupor and idleness, and the heads of departments were plainly making an effort to stir briskly and ignore the presence of any cloud upon their labor. by the time he had made the rounds he had grasped the situation fully. the strait was desperate, but not as bad as it might have been. "i _may_ hold 'em," he said to himself, between his teeth. "and by the lord harry i'll try hard for it." he went over to the bank and found ffrench in his private room, pale and out of all courage. "there will be a run on us by this time to-morrow," he said. "i see signs of it already." "will there?" said haworth. "we'll see about that. wait a bit, my lad!" he went into the town and spent an hour or so taking a sharp lookout. nothing escaped him. there were more idlers than usual about the ale houses, and more than once he passed two or three women talking together with anxious faces and in undertones. as he was passing one such group one of the women saw him and started. "theer he is!" she said, and her companion turned with her and they both stopped talking to look after him. before returning he went up to his partner's house. he asked for miss ffrench and was shown into the room where she sat writing letters. she neither looked pleased nor displeased when she saw him, but rose to greet him at once. she gave him a rather long look. "what is the matter?" she asked. suddenly he felt less bold. the heat of his excitement failed to sustain him. he was all unstrung. "i've come to tell you not to go out," he said. "there's trouble afoot--in the trade. there's no knowing how it'll turn out. there's a lot of chaps in th' town who are not in th' mood to see aught that'll fret 'em. they're ready for mischief, and have got drink in 'em. stay you here until we see which way th' thing's going." "do you mean," she demanded, "that there are signs of a strike?" "there's more than signs of it," he answered, sullenly. "before night the whole place will be astir." she moved across the room and pulled the bell. a servant answered the summons instantly. "i want the carriage," she said. then she turned to haworth with a smile of actual triumph. "_nothing_ would keep me at home," she said. "i shall drive through the town and back again. do you think i will let them fancy that _i_ am afraid of them?" "you're not afraid?" he said, almost in a whisper. "i afraid?" she answered, "_i_?" "wait here," she added. she left the room, and in less than ten minutes returned. he had never before seen in her the fire he saw then. there was a spark of light in her eyes, a color on her cheek. she had chosen her dress with distinct care for its luxurious richness. his exclamation, as she entered buttoning her long, delicate glove, was a repressed oath. he exulted in her. his fear for her was gone, and only this exultation remained. "you've made up your mind to that?" he said. he wanted to make her say more. "i am going to see your mother," she answered. "that will take me outside of the town, then i shall drive back again--slowly. they shall understand me at least." she let him lead her out to the carriage, which by this time was waiting. after she was seated in it, she bent forward and spoke to him. "tell my father where i am going and why," she said. chapter xxviii. a speech. "when he returned to the works the noon-bell was ringing, and the hands were crowding through the gates on their way to their midday meal. among those going out he met floxham, who spoke to him as he passed. "theer's some o' them chaps," he said, "as wunnot show their faces again." "aye," said haworth, "i see that." ffrench had left the bank and was pacing up and down his room panic-stricken. "what have you heard?" he exclaimed, turning as haworth entered. "is it--is it as bad as you expected?" "aye," said haworth, "worse and better too." "better?" he faltered. haworth flung himself into a chair. he wore a look of dogged triumph. "leave 'em to me," he answered. "i'm in th' mood fur 'em _now_." but it was not until some time afterward that he delivered the message rachel ffrench had intrusted to him. on hearing it her father appeared to rally a little. "it seems a rather dangerous thing to do," he said, "but--it is like her. and perhaps, after all, there is something in--in showing no fear." and for a few moments after having thought the incident over he became comparatively sanguine and cheerful. as floxham had predicted, when the work-bell called the hands together again there were still other places vacant. mr. briarley, it may be observed, had been absent all day, and by this time was listening with affectionate interest and spasmodic attacks of inopportune enthusiasm to various inflammatory speeches which were being made at a beer house. toward evening the work lagged so that the over-lookers could no longer keep up the semblance of ignorance. a kind of gloom settled upon them also, and they went about with depressed faces. "it'll be all up to-morrow," said one, "if there's nothing done." but something was done. suddenly--just before time for the last bell to ring--haworth appeared at the door of the principal room. "lads!" he shouted, "them on you as wants a speech from jem haworth gather in th' yard in five minutes from now." there was no more work done. the bell began to ring; implements were thrown down and a shout went up from the crowd. then there was a rush into the yard, and in less than the five minutes the out-pouring of the place thronged about its chief doorway where jem haworth stood on the topmost step, looking down, facing them all, boldly--with the air of a man who felt his victory more than half won. "let's hear what tha'st getten to say," cried some one well hidden by the crowd. "out wi' it." "it's not much," haworth shouted back. "it's this to start with. i'm here to find out where you chaps stand." but there was no answer to this. he knew there would be none and went on. "i've been through th' place this morning," he said, "and through th' town, and i know how th' wind blows as well as any on you. th' lads at marfort and molton and dillup are on th' strike. there's a bad lookout in many a place besides them. there's a lot of fools laying in beer and making speeches down in broxton; there were some here this morning as didn't show this afternoon. how many on you's going to follow them?" then there was a murmur which was not easy to understand. it was a mixture of sounds defiant and conciliatory. haworth moved forward. he knew them better than they knew him. "_i'm_ not one o' the model soart," he called out. "i've not set up soup kitchens nor given you flannel petticoats. i've looked sharp after you, and i should have been a fool if i hadn't. i've let you alone out of work hours, and i've not grudged you your sprees, when they didn't stand in my way. i've done the square thing by you, and i've done it by myself. th' places i've built let no water in, and i let 'em to you as easy as i could and make no loss. i didn't build 'em for benevolent purposes, but i've not heard one of you chaps complain of 'em yet. i've given you your dues and stood by you--and i'll do it again, by----" there was a silence--a significant breathless one. "have i done it," he said, "or haven't i?" suddenly the silence was broken. "aye," there was a shout, "aye, lad, yo' ha'." "then," he shouted, "them as jem haworth has stood by, let 'em stand by jem haworth!" and he struck his big fist upon his open palm with a fierce blow, and stood before them breathing hard. he had the best metal on his side somehow, and the best metal carried the day. the boldness of his move, the fact that he had not waited, but had taken the lead, were things all for him. even those who wavered toward the enemy were stirred to something like admiration. "but what about th' union?" said a timorous voice in the rear. "theer'll be trouble with th' unions as sure as we stand out, mester." haworth made a movement none of them understood. he put his hand behind him and drew from his hip-pocket an object which caused every man of them to give a little start and gasp. they were used to simple and always convenient modes of defense. the little object he produced would not have startled an american, but it startled a lancashire, audience. it was of shining steel and rose-wood, and its bright barrels glittered significantly. he held it out and patted it lightly. "that's for the union, lads," he said. "and more like it." a few of the black sheep moved restlessly and with manifest tremor. this was a new aspect of affairs. one of them suddenly cried out with much feebleness: "th--three cheers for haworth." "let the chaps as are on the other side go to their lot now," said haworth. but no one moved. "there's some here that'll go when th' time comes," he announced. "let 'em tell what they've heard. now lads, the rest on you up with your hands." the whole place was in a tumult. they held up their hands and clenched and shook them and shouted, and here and there swore with fluency and enthusiasm. there were not six among them who were not fired with the general friendly excitement. "to-morrow morning there'll be papers posted up, writ in jem haworth's hand and signed with his name," cried haworth. "read 'em as you come along, lads, and when you reach here i'll be ready for you." "is it about th' pistols?" faltered the timorous voice. "aye," haworth answered, "about th' pistols. now go home." he turned to mount the step, flushed and breathing fast and with high-beating pulses, when suddenly he stopped. before the iron gate a carriage had stopped. a servant in livery got down and opened the door, and rachel ffrench stepped out. the hands checked their shouting to look at her. she came up the yard slowly and with the setting sun shining upon her. it was natural that they should gaze at her as she approached, though she did not look at any of them--only at haworth, who waited. they made a pathway for her and she passed through it and went up the step. her rich dress touched more than one man as she swept by. "i thought," they heard her say, "that i would call for my father." then for the first time she looked at the men. she turned at the top of the step and looked down--the sun on her dress and face. there was not a man among them who did not feel the look. at first a murmur arose and then an incoherent cry and then a shout, and they threw up their caps and shouted until they were hoarse. in the midst of it she turned aside and went in with a smile on her lips. in haworth's room they found her father standing behind the door with a startled air. "what are they shouting for?" he asked. "what is the matter now?" "i think _i_ am the matter," miss ffrench answered, "though i scarcely know why. ah," giving him a quiet glance, "you are afraid!" chapter xxix. "sararann." the next morning there was an uproar in the town. the strikers from molton and marfort no longer remained in the shade. they presented themselves openly to the community in their true characters. at first they lounged about in groups at the corners and before the ale-houses, smoking, talking, gesticulating, or wearing sullen faces. but this negative state of affairs did not last long. by eight o'clock the discovery was made that something had happened in the night. in a score of prominent places,--on walls and posts,--there appeared papers upon which was written, in a large, bold hand, the following announcement: "haworth's lads will stand by him. the chaps that have aught to say against this, let them remember that to every man there's six barrels well loaded, and to jem haworth twelve. those that want their brass out of broxton bank, let them come and get it. "writ and signed by "jem haworth." the first man who saw it swore aloud and ran to call others. soon a select party stood before the place on which the card was posted, confronting it in different moods. some were scientifically profane, some raged loudly, some were silent, one or two grinned. "he staid up aw neet to do that theer," remarked one of these. "he's getten a gizzard o' his own, has haworth. he's done it wi' his own hands." one gentleman neither grinned nor swore. his countenance fell with singular rapidity. this was mr. briarley, who had come up in the rear. he held in one hand a pewter pot which was half empty. he had caught it up in the heat of the moment, from the table at which he had been sitting when the news came. "what's in th' barrils?" he inquired. the man he spoke to turned to him roughly. "powder," he answered, "an' lead, tha domned foo'!" mr. briarley looked at his mug regretfully. "i thowt," he said, "as happen it mought ha' bin beer." having reflected a moment, he was on the point of raising the mug to his lips when a thought struck him. he stopped short. "what's he goin' to do wi' em?" he quavered. "ax him," was the grim answer. "ax him, lad. he dunnot say." "he is na--" in manifest trepidation, "he is na--goin' to--to fire 'em off!" "he'll fire 'em off, if he comes across thee," was the reply. "mak' sure o' that. an' i should na blame him, neyther." mr. briarley reflected again for a few seconds--reflected deeply. then he moved aside a little. "i hannot seen sararann sin' yesterday," he said, softly, "nor yet janey, nor yet--th' owd missus. i--i mun go and see 'em." haworth kept his word. the next day there was not a man who went to and from the works who could not have defended himself if he had been attacked. but no one was attacked. his course was one so unheard of, so unexpected, that it produced a shock. there was a lull in the movement, at least. the number of his enemies increased and were more violent, but they were forced to content themselves with violence of speech. somehow, it scarcely seemed safe to use ordinary measures against jem haworth. he slept in his room at the works, and shared watches with the force he had on guard. he drove through the town boldly, and carried a grim, alert face. he was here, and there, and everywhere; in the works, going from room to room; at the bank, ready for emergencies. "when this here's over," he said, "i'll give you chaps a spree you won't get over in a bit, by george!" those who presented themselves at the bank the morning the placards were to be seen got their money. by noon the number arriving diminished perceptibly. in a day or two a few came back, and would have handed over their savings again willingly, but the bank refused to take them. "carry it to manchester," were haworth's words. "they'll take it there--i won't." those of his hands who had deserted him came out of their respective "sprees" in a week's time, with chop-fallen countenances. they had not gained anything, and were somehow not in great favor among the outside strikers. in their most pronounced moods, they had been neither useful nor ornamental to their party. they were not eloquent, nor even violent; they were simply idle vagabonds, who were no great loss to haworth and no great gain to his enemies. in their own families they were in deep and dire disgrace, and loud were the ratings they received from their feminine relatives. the lot of mr. briarley was melancholy indeed. among the malcontents his portion was derision and contumely; at home he was received with bewailings and scathing severity. "an' that theer was what tha wur up to, was it?" cried mrs. briarley, the day he found himself compelled by circumstances to reveal the true state of affairs. "tha'st j'ined th' strikers, has tha?" "aye, sararann, i've j'ined 'em--an'--an' we're go'n' to set things straight, bless yo'--that's what we're goin' to do. we--we're goin' to bring the mesters down a bit, an'--an' get our dues. that's what we're goin' to do, sararann." it was dinner-time, and in the yard and about the street at the front the young members of the family disported themselves with vigor. without janey and the baby, who were in the house, there were ten of them. mrs. briarley went to the door and called them. housed to frantic demonstrations of joy by the immediate prospect of dinner, they appeared in a body, tumbling over one another, shrieking, filling the room to overflowing. generally they were disposed of in relays, for convenience' sake. it was some time since mr. briarley had beheld the whole array. he sat upright and stared at them. mrs. briarley sat down confronting him. "what art tha goin' to do wi' _them_ while tha bring th' mesters down?" she inquired. mr. briarley regarded the assembly with _naïve_ bewilderment. a natural depression of spirit set in. "theer--theer seems a good many on 'em, sararann," he said, with an air of meek protestation. "they seem to ha'--to ha' cumylated!" "theer's twelve on 'em," answered mrs. briarley, dryly, "an' they've aw getten mouths, as tha sees. an' their feyther's goin' to bring th' mesters down a bit!" twelve pairs of eyes stolidly regarded their immediate progenitor, as if desirous of discovering his intentions. mr. briarley was embarrassed. "sararann," he faltered, "send 'em out to play 'em. send 'em out into th' open air. it's good fur 'em, th' open air is, an' they set a mon back." mrs. briarley burst into lamentations, covering her face with her apron and rocking to and fro. "aye," cried she, "send 'em out in th' air--happen they'll fatten on it. it's aw they'll get, poor childer. let 'em mak' th' most on it." in these days haworth was more of a lion than ever. he might have dined in state with a social potentate each day if he had been so minded. the bolder spirits visited him at the works, and would have had him talk the matter over. but he was in the humor for neither festivities nor talk. he knew what foundation his safety rested upon, and spent many a sleepless and feverish night. he was bitter enough at heart against those he had temporarily baffled. "wait till tha'rt out o' th' woods," he said to ffrench, when he was betrayed into expressing his sense of relief. oddly enough, the feeling against ffrench was disproportionately violent. he was regarded as an alien and a usurper of the rights of others. there existed a large disgust for his gentle birth and breeding, and a sardonic contempt for his incapacity and lack of experience. he had no prestige of success and daring, he had not shown himself in the hour of danger, he took all and gave nothing. "i should not be surprised," said miss ffrench to murdoch, "if we have trouble yet." chapter xxx. mrs. haworth and granny dixon. about this time a change appeared in little mrs. haworth. sometimes when they sat together, haworth found himself looking up suddenly and feeling that her eyes were fixed upon him, and at such times she invariably met his glance with a timid, startled expression, and released herself from it as soon as she had the power. she had never been so tender and lavish with her innocent caresses, but there was continuously a tremulous watchfulness in her manner, which was almost suggestive of fear. it was not fear of him, however. she clung to him with all the strength of her love. at night when he returned home, however late, he was sure of finding her waiting patiently for him, and in the morning when he left the house he was never so early that she was not at his service. the man began to quail before her, and grow restless in secret, and be haunted, when he awakened in the night, by his remembrance of her. "she is on the lookout for something," he said to himself, fearfully. "what have they been saying to her?" on her part, when she sat alone, she used to try and think the matter out, and set it straight and account for it. "it's the strikes," she said, "as has set them agen him and made 'em hard an' forgetful of all he's done. they'd never have spoke so if they'd been theirselves." she could scarcely have told what she had heard, or how the first blow had struck home. she only knew that here and there she had heard at first a rough jeer and then a terrible outspoken story, which, in spite of her disbelief, filled her with dread. the man who first flung the ill-favored story at her stopped half-way through it, the words dying on his lips at the sight of her face. it happened in one of her pensioners' cottages, and she rose from her chair trembling. "i didn't think," she said, with unconscious pathos, "as the world could be so ignorant and wicked." but as the ill-feeling became more violent, she met with the same story again and again, and often with new and worse versions in forms she could not combat. she began to be haunted by vague memories of things she had not comprehended. a sense of pain followed her. she was afraid, at times, to go to the cottages, lest she should be confronted with something which would overwhelm her. then she began to search her son's face with a sense of finding some strangeness in it. she watched him wistfully when he had so far forgotten her presence as to be almost unaware of it. one night, having thrown himself upon a sofa and fallen into a weary sleep, he suddenly started up from it to find her standing close by him, looking down, her face pale, her locked fingers moving nervously. "what is it?" he exclaimed. "what ails you?" he was startled by her falling upon her knees at his side, crying, and laying her shaking hand upon his shoulder. "you was having a bad dream, my dear," she said,--"a bad dream. i--i scarcely knowed your face, jem--it was so altered." he sank back upon his cushions and stared at her. he knew he had been having no bad dream. his dreams were not half so evil and bitter when he slept as they were in these days when he wakened. "you always had such a good face, jem," she said, "and such a kind one. when you was a boy----" he stopped her almost sullenly. "i'm not a boy now," he said. "that's put away and done with." "no," she answered, "that's true, my dear; but you've lived an innocent life, an'--an' never done no wrong--no more than you did when you was one. and your face was so altered." her voice died away into a silence which, somehow, neither of them could break. it was granny dixon who revealed the truth in its barest form. perhaps no man nor woman in broxton knew more of it than this respectable ancient matron. haworth and his iniquities had been the spice of her later life. the fact that his name was being mentioned in a conversation never escaped her; she discovered it as if by magic and invariably commanded that the incident under discussion be repeated at the top of the reciter's voice for her benefit, occasionally somewhat to the confusion of the honest matron in question. how it had happened that she had not betrayed all to mrs. haworth at once was a mystery to remain unsolved. during the little woman's visits to the cottage, mrs. briarley existed in a chronic condition of fear and trembling. "she'll be out wi' it some o' these days, mark me," she would quaver to janey. "an' th' lord knows, i would na' be theer fur nowt when she does." but she did not do it at first. mrs. briarley had a secret conviction that the fact that she did not do so was due entirely to iniquity. she had seen her sit peering from under her brows at their guest as the simple creature poured forth her loving praise of her son, and at such times it was always mrs. briarley's province to repeat the conversation for her benefit. "aye," mrs. dixon would comment with an evil smile, "that's him! that's haworth! he's a noice chap--is haworth. _i_ know him." mrs. haworth learned in time to fear her and to speak timidly in her presence, rarely referring to the subject of her boy's benefactions. "only as it wouldn't be nat'ral," she said once to mrs. briarley, "i should think she was set agen him." "eh! bless us," was mrs. briarley's answer. "yo' need na moind _her_. she's set agen ivverybody. she's th' nowtest owd piece i' christendom." a few days after haworth had awakened to find his mother standing near him, mrs. haworth paid a visit to the briarleys. she took with her a basket, which the poor of broxton had long since learned to know. in this case it contained stockings for the little briarleys and a dress or so for the baby. when she had bestowed her gifts and seated herself, she turned to granny dixon with some tremor of manner. "i hope you're well, ma'am," she said. granny dixon made no reply. she sat bent over in her chair, regarding her for a few seconds with unblinking gaze. then she slowly pointed with her thin, crooked finger to the little presents. "he sent 'em, did he?" she trumpeted forth. "haworth?" mrs. haworth quailed before her. "yes, ma'am," she answered, "leastways----" granny dixon stopped her. "he did nowt o' th' soart," she cried. "tha'rt leein'!" the little woman made an effort to rise, turned pale, and sat down again. "ma'am----" she began. granny dixon's eyes sparkled. "tha'rt leein'," she repeated. "he's th' worst chap i' england, and aw broxton knows it." her victim uttered a low cry of pain. mrs. briarley had left the room, and there was no one to help her. all the hints and jeers she had heard rushed back to her, but she struggled to stand up against them. "it ain't true," she said. "it ain't--true." granny dixon was just beginning to enjoy herself. a difference of opinion with mrs. briarley, which had occurred a short time before, had prepared her for the occasion. she knew that nothing would so much demoralize her relative and hostess as this iniquitous outbreak. "they've been warnin' me to keep quiet an' not tell thee," she answered, "but i towd 'em i'd tell thee when i wur i' th' humor, an' i'm i' th' humor now. will ffrench wur a devil, but _he's_ a bigger one yet. he kep' thee away because he did na want thee to know. he set aw th' place by th' ears. a decent woman would na cross his door-step, nor a decent mon, fur aw his brass--afore tha coom. th' lot as he used to ha' down fro' lunnon an' manchester wur a shame to th' town. _i've_ seed 'em--women in paint an' feathers, an' men as decent lasses hide fro'. a good un, wur he? aye, he wur a good un, for sure." she sat and chuckled a moment, thinking of sararann's coming terror and confusion. she had no objection to haworth's moral lapses, herself, but she meant to make the most of them while she was at it. she saw nothing of the anguish in the face from which all the fresh, almost girlish color had faded. "an' yo' did na know as they wur na gentlefolk," she proclaimed again. "tha thowt they wur ladies an' gentlemen when tha coom in on 'em th' fust night tha set foot i' th' house. a noice batch o' ladies they wur! an he passed 'em off on thee! he wur sharp enow fur that, trust him. ladies, bless us! _i_ heard tell on it--an' so did aw broxton!" the wounded creature gathered all her strength to rise from her chair. she stood pressing her hands against her heart, swaying and deadly pale. "he has been a good son to me," she said. "a good son--an' i can't believe it. you wouldn't yourself if--you was his mother, an' knew him as--as i do." she made her way to the door just as mrs. briarley came in. one glance told that excellent matron that the long-dreaded calamity had arrived. "what's she been up to?" she demanded. "lord ha' mercy! what's she been up to now?" "she's been tellin' me," faltered the departing guest, "that my son's a bad man an' a shame to me. let me go, ma'am--for i've never heard talk like this before--an' it's made me a bit weak an'--queer." and she slipped past and was gone. mrs. briarley's patience deserted her. a full sense of what granny dixon's worst might be burst in upon her; a remembrance of her own manifold wrongs and humiliations added itself to this sense; for the moment, discretion ceased to appear the better part of valor. "what has tha been sayin'?" she cried. "what has tha been sayin'? out wi' it." "i've been telling her what tha wur afeared to tell her," chuckled mrs. dixon with exultation. "i towd thee i would an' i've done it." mrs. briarley made no more ado. she set the baby down upon an adjacent chair with a resonant sound, and then fell upon the miserable old woman and seizing her by the shoulders shook her until her cap flew off and danced upon her back and her mouth opened and shut as if worked by a spring. "tha brazent, hard-hearted besom, tha!" she cried as she shook. "tha ill-farrant nowt, tha! as nivver did no good i' thy days an canna bear as no one else should. i dunnot care if i nivver see thy brass as long as i live. if tha wur noine i'stead o' ninety-five i'd give thee a hidin', tha brazent, hard-hearted owd piece!" her strength failed her and she loosened her hold and sat down and wept aloud behind the baby, and mrs. dixon fell back in her chair, an unpleasant heap, without breath to speak a word or strength to do anything but clutch wildly at her cap, and so remained shrunken and staring. chapter xxxi. haworth's defender. mrs. haworth made her way along the streets with weak and lagging steps. she had been a brisk walker in the days of her country life, and even now was fonder of going here and there on foot than of riding in state, as her son would have preferred. but now the way before her seemed long. she knew where she was going. "there's one of 'em as knows an' will tell me," she said to herself. "she can't have no cruel feeling against him, bein' a lady, an' knowin' him so well. an' if it's true--not as i believe it, jem, my dear, for i don't--she'll break it to me gentle." "not as i believe, jem, my dear, for i don't," she said to herself again and again. her mind went back to the first hour of his life, when he lay, a strong-limbed child, on her weak arm, the one comfort given to her out of her wretched marriage. she thought of him again as a lad, growing and thriving in spite of hunger and cold, growing and thriving in spite of cruelty and wrong which broke her health and threw her helpless upon charity. he had been sharper and bolder than other boys, and always steadfast to his determination. "he was always good to me," she said. "child an' man he's never forgot me, or been unmindful. if there'd have been wrong in his life, who'd have been liker to see it than me?" it was to rachel ffrench she was going, and when at last she reached the end of her journey, and was walking up the pathway to the house, rachel ffrench, who stood at the window, saw her, and was moved to wonder by her pallor and feebleness. the spring sunshine was so bright outside that the room seemed quite dark when she came into it, and even after she had seated herself the only light in it seemed to emanate from the figure of miss ffrench herself, who stood opposite her in a dress of some thin white stuff and with strongly fragrant yellow hyacinths at her neck and in her hand. "you are tired," she said. "you should not have walked." the woman looked up at her timidly. "it isn't that," she answered. "it's somethin' else." she suddenly stretched forth her hands into the light. "i've come here to hear about my boy," she said. "i want to hear from one as knows the truth, an'--will tell me." miss ffrench was not of a sympathetic nature. few young women possessed more nerve and self-poise at trying times, and she had not at any previous period been specially touched by mrs. haworth; but just now she was singularly distressed. "what do you want to know," she asked, "that i can tell you?" she was not prepared for what happened next, and lost a little placidity through it. the simple, loving creature fell at her feet and caught hold of her dress, sobbing. "he's thirty-three years old," she cried, "an' i've never seen the day when he's give me a hurt. he's been the pride of my life an' the hope of it. i've looked up to him and prayed for him an' believed in him--an' they say he's black with shameful sin--an' i don't know him, nor never did, for he's deceived me from first to last." the yellow hyacinths fell from miss ffrench's hand on the carpet, and she looked down at them instead of at the upturned face. "who said it?" she asked. but she was not answered. "if it's true--not that i believe it, for i don't--if it's true, what is there left for me, as loved and honored him--where's my son as paid me for all i bore? he's never been--he's never been at all. i've never been his mother nor he's never been my son. if it's true--not as i believe it, for i don't--where is he?" miss ffrench bent down and picked up her hyacinths. she wondered, as she bent down, what her reply would be. "will you believe _me_?" she asked, as she rose up again. "yes, ma'am," she was answered, "i know i may do it--thank god!" "yes, you may," said miss ffrench, without flinching in the least. "i can have no feeling for or against him. i can have no end to serve, one way or the other. it is not true. it is a lie. he is all you have believed." she helped her to rise, and made her sit down again in an easy-chair, and then herself withdrew a little, and stood leaning against the window looking at her. "he has done more good in broxton than any other man who lives," she said. "he has made it what it is. the people who hate him and speak ill of him are those he has benefited most. it is the way of their class, i have heard before, and now i believe it to be true. they have said worse things of men who deserve them as little as he does. he has enemies whom he has conquered, and they will never forgive him." she discovered a good many things to say, having once begun, and she actually found a kind of epicurean enjoyment in saying them in a manner the most telling. she always liked to do a thing very well. but, notwithstanding this, the time seemed rather long before she was left alone to think the matter over. before she had said many words her visitor was another woman. life's color came back to her, and she sat crying softly, tears of sheer joy and relief. "i knowed it couldn't be true," she said. "i knowed it, an' oh! thank you, ma'am, with all a mother's heart! "to think," she said, smiling and sobbing, "as i should have been so wicked as to let it weigh on me, when i knowed so well as it couldn't never be. i should be almost 'shamed to look him in the face if i didn't know how good he was, an' how ready he'd be to forgive me." when at last she was gone, miss ffrench threw herself into the chair she had left, rather languidly. she was positively tired. as she did so she heard a sound. she rose hastily and turned toward the folding-doors leading into the adjoining room. they had been partially closed, and as she turned they were pushed aside and some one came through them. it was jem haworth. he was haggard and disheveled, and as he approached her he walked unsteadily. "i was in there through it all," he said, "and i heard every word." she was herself again, at once. she knew she had not been herself ten minutes before. "well," she said. he came up and stood near her--and almost abject tremor upon him. "will you listen to what i have got to say?" he said. she made a cold gesture of assent. "if she'd gone to some and heard what they had to tell," he said, "it would have killed her. it's well she came here." she saw the dark color rush to his face and knew what was coming. "it's all true, by----" he burst out, "every word of it!" "when i was in there," he went on, with a gesture toward the other room, "i swore i'd tell you. make the best and the worst of it. it's all true--that and more." he sat down in a chair and rested his forehead on his hands. "things has begun to go agen me," he said. "they never did before. i've been used to tell myself there was a kind of luck in keeping it hid from her. th' day it comes on her, full force, i'm done for. i said in there you should know, at least. it's all true." "i knew it was true," remarked miss ffrench, "all the time." "_you_ knew!" he cried out. "_you!_" "i have known it from the first," she answered. "did you think it was a secret?" he turned hot and cold as he looked at her. "then, by george, you'd a reason for saying what you did. what was it?" she remained silent, looking out of the open window across the flower-bright garden. she watched a couple of yellow butterflies eddying above a purple hyacinth for several seconds before she spoke, and then did so slowly and absently. "i don't know the reason," she said. "it was a strange thing for _me_ to do." "it wasn't to save _me_ aught," he returned. "that's plain enough." "no," she answered, "it was not to save you. i am not given to pitying people, but i think that for the time i wanted to save _her_. it was a strange thing," she said, softly, "for _me_ to do." chapter xxxii. christian murdoch. christian had never spoken to murdoch openly of his secret labor. he was always aware that she knew and understood; he had seen her knowledge in her face almost from the first, but they had exchanged no words on the subject. he had never wavered from his resolve since he had made it. whatever his tasks had been in the day, or however late his return was at night, he did not rest until he had given a certain number of hours to this work. often christian and his mother, wakening long after midnight, heard him moving about in his closed room. he grew gaunt and hollow-eyed, but he did not speak of what he was doing, and they never knew whether he was hopeful or despairing. without seeing very much of the two women, he still found himself led to think of them constantly. he was vaguely conscious that since their interview in the grave-yard, he had never felt free from christian murdoch. more than once her mother's words came back to him with startling force. "she sits and looks on and says nothing. she asks nothing, but her eyes force me to speak." he knew that she was constantly watching him. often he looked up and met her glance, and somehow it was always a kind of shock to him. he knew that she was wondering and asking herself questions she could not ask him. "if i gave it up or flagged," he told himself, "she would know without my saying a word." there had grown in her a beauty of a dark, foreign type. the delicate olive of her skin and the dense blackness of her eyes and hair caused her to be considered a novelty worth commenting upon by the men of broxton society, which was of a highly critical nature. she went out a great deal as the spring advanced and began to know the place and people better. she developed a pathetic eagerness to make friends and understand those around her. one day, she went alone to broxton chapel and after sitting through one of mr. hixon's most sulphurous sermons, came home in a brooding mood. "why did you go?" murdoch was roused to ask. "i thought," she answered, "it might make me better. i thought i would try." not long afterward, when he had gone out of the house and she was left sitting with mrs. murdoch, she suddenly looked up from the carpet on which her eyes had been fixed and asked her a question. "is it true that i am beginning to be very handsome?" she demanded. "yes," mrs. murdoch answered, "it is true." a dark cloud settled upon her face and her eyes fell again. "i heard some men in the street speak aloud to each other about it," she said. "do they speak so of _all_ women who are handsome?" "i don't know," her companion replied, surveying her critically and with some anxiety. "they used to speak so of--_her_," she said, slowly. "_she_ was a beautiful woman. they were always telling her of it again and again, and i used to go and look at myself in the glass and be glad that i was thin and dark and ugly and that they laughed at me. i wanted to be hideous. once, when i was a child, a man said: 'never mind, she will be a beauty some day--like her mother!' and i flew at him and struck him, and then i ran away to my room and fell down upon my knees and said the first prayer i ever said in my life. i said, 'o god!--if there is a god--strike me dead! o god!--if there is a god--strike me dead!'" the woman who listened shuddered. "_am_ i like--anybody?" she said next. "i do not know," was the answer. "i could not tell myself, if i were," she said. "i have watched for it for so long that i should not see it if it had come. i look every day. perhaps i am and do not know. perhaps that is why they look at me in the street, and speak of me loud as i go by." her voice fell into a whisper. she threw herself upon her knees and laid her head upon the woman's lap. "cover me with your arms," she said. "cover me so that you may not see my face." she was constantly moved to these strange outbursts of feeling in these days. a few nights later, as he sat at work after midnight, murdoch fancied that he heard a sound outside his door. he went to it and opened it and found himself confronting the girl as she sat crouched upon the lowest step of the stairway. "what are you doing here?" he asked. "i could not go to sleep," she answered. "i could not stop thinking of what you were doing. it seemed as if i should have a little share in it if i were here. are you,"--almost timidly,--"are you tired?" "yes," he answered, "i am tired." "are you--any nearer?" "sometimes i think so,--but so did he." she rose slowly. "i will go away," she said. "it would only disturb you to know i was here." she moved a step upward and then paused uncertainly. "you told me once," she said, "that there was no reason why i should not be as good and happy as any other woman. are you sure of what you said?" "for god's sake, do not doubt in that way," he said. she stood looking down at him, one hand resting upon the balustrade, her dark eyes wild with some strange emotion. "i lie awake at night a great deal," she said, "and i am always thinking of what has gone by. sometimes--lately--i have wished that--i had forgiven her." "i have wished so too," he answered. "i know that," she returned. "but i did not and it is too late. everything is over for her and it is too late. for a long time i was glad, but now--i suppose i am repenting. she did not repent. she suffered, but she did not repent. i think i am repenting." when he returned to his room he found he could not settle down to work again. he walked up and down restlessly for some time, and at last threw himself upon the bed and lay wide awake thinking in the darkness. it always cost him a struggle to shut out the world and life and concentrate himself upon his labor in those days. a year before it would have been different, now there was always a battle to be fought. there were dreams to be held at bay and memories which his youth and passion made overwhelming forces. but to-night, somehow, it was christian murdoch who disturbed him. there had been a terrible wistfulness in her voice--a wistfulness mingled with long-repressed fear, which had touched him more than all. and so, when sleep came to him, it happened that her figure stood out alone from all others before him, and was his last thought. among those whom christian murdoch learned to know was janey briarley. she saw her first in the streets, and again in mrs. murdoch's kitchen, where she occasionally presented herself, attired in the huge apron, to assist in a professional capacity upon "cleanin' days." the baby having learned to walk, and mr. briarley being still an inactive member of the household, it fell upon janey and her mother to endeavor to add, by such efforts as lay in their power, to their means for providing for the eleven. with the assistance of the apron, janey was enabled to make herself generally useful upon all active occasions. "hoo's a little thing, but hoo's a sharp un," mrs. briarley was wont to say. "hoo can work like a woman. i dunnot know what i'd ha' done wi'out her. yo' try her, missus, an' see." she spent each saturday afternoon in mrs. murdoch's kitchen, and it was not long before christian drifted into an acquaintance with her. the first time she saw her on her knees before the fire-place, surrounded by black-lead brushes, bath-brick, and "pipe-clay" and vigorously polishing the fender, she stopped short to look at her. "how old are you?" she asked, after a little while. "i'm twelve, goin' on thirteen," was the reply, without any cessation of the rubbing. the girl leaned against the side of the mantel and surveyed her critically. "you don't look that old," she said. "aye, but i do," returned the child, "i' tha looks at my face. i'm stunted wi' nussin', that's what mak's me so little." she gave her face a sharp turn upward, that it might be seen. "i've had enow to mak' me look owd, i con tell thee," she remarked. the interest she saw in her countenance inspired her. she became comparatively garrulous upon the subject of the family anxieties. "feyther" figured in his usual unenviable rôle, and granny dixon was presented in strong colors, but finally she pulled herself up and changed the subject with startling suddenness. "i've seed thee mony a toime afore," she said, "an' i've heerd folk talk about thee. i nivver heerd _him_ say owt about thee, though." "whom do you mean?" asked christian, with a little frown. "mester murdoch. we used to see a good deal on him at th' start, but we dunnot see him so often i' these days. he's getten other places to go to. th' quality mak' a good deal on him." she paused and sat up, polishing brush in hand. "i dunnot wonder as they say yo're han'some," she volunteered. "who says so?" coldly. "th' men in th' works an' th' foak as sees yo' i' th' street. some on 'em says you're han'somer than her--an' that's sayin' a good bit, yo' know." "'her' is miss ffrench?" "aye. yo' dunnot dress as foine, an' yo're dark-skinned, but theer's summat noice about yo'. i dunnot wonder as they say yo're han'some." "never mind talking about that. tell me about something else." the termination of the interview left them on sufficiently good terms. janey went home with a story to tell. "she's crossed th' seas," she said, "an' lived i' furrin parts. she's getten queer ways an' she stares at a body--but i loike her fur aw that." "been i' furrin parts!" exclaimed mrs. briarley. "bless us! no wonder th' poor thing's a bit heathenish. hast tha ivver seed her at chapel, jane ann?" the fact that she had not been seen at chapel awakened grave misgivings as to the possible presence of popery and the "scarlet woman," which objectionable female figured largely and in most unpleasant guise in the discourses of brother hixon. "theer's no knowin' what th' poor lass has been browt up to," said the good matron, "livin' reet under th' pope's nose an' nivver darin' to say her soul's her own. i nivver had no notion o' them furrin parts mysen. gie me lancashire." but the next week the girl made her visit to the chapel and sat throughout the sermon with her steadfast black eyes fixed upon the reverend mr. hixon. once, during a moment of inflammatory eloquence, that gentleman, suddenly becoming conscious of her gaze, stopped with a start and with difficulty regained his equilibrium, though christian did not flinch at all, or seem to observe his alarm and confusion. she cultivated janey with an odd persistence after this. she asked her questions concerning her life and experiences, and always seemed to find her interesting. often janey was conscious of the fact that she stood and looked at her for some time with an air of curiosity. "do you," she asked her suddenly one day, "do you believe all that man says to you?" janey started into a sitting posture, as was her custom when roused in the midst of her labors. "eh! bless us! yes," she exclaimed. "dunnot yo'?" "no.". recollections of the "scarlet woman" flashed across her young hearer's mind. "art tha a papist?" she gasped. "no--not yet." "art tha," janey asked, breathlessly,--"art tha goin' to be?" "i don't know." "an' tha--tha does na believe what mester hixon says?" "no--not yet." "what does tha believe?" she stared up at the dark young face aghast. it was quite unmoved. the girl's eyes were fixed on space. "nothing." "wheer--wheer does tha expect to go when tha dees?" "i don't know," she said, coldly; "very often i don't care." janey dropped her brush and forgot to pick it up. "why, bless thee!" she exclaimed with some sharpness, and also with the manner of one presenting the only practical solution of a difficulty, "tha'lt go to hell, i' tha does na repent!" the girl turned her eyes upon her. "does it all depend on that?" she demanded. "aye, to be sure," she replied, testily. "does na tha know that?" "then," said christian, slowly, "i shall not go to hell for i am repenting." and she turned about and walked away. chapter xxxiii. a seed sown. there had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. the idlers did not come over from molton and dillup as often as at first. the strikes had extended until they were in full blast throughout the country, but "haworth's," so far, had held its own. haworth himself was regarded as a kind of demi-god. he might have done almost anything he pleased. it was a source of some surprise to his admirers that he chose to do so little and showed no elation. one or two observing outsiders saw that his struggle had left its mark upon him. there were deep lines in his face; he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado; at times he was almost haggard. as things became quieter he began to take sudden mysterious journeys to london and manchester and various other towns. ffrench did not know why he went; in fact ffrench knew very little of him but that his humors were frequently trying and always more morose after such absences. he himself had alternately blown hot and cold. of late the fruit of his efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. he was of even less importance than before in the works, and he continually heard unpleasant comments and reports outside. as surely as his spirits rose to a jubilant height some untoward circumstance occurred to dash them. "i should have thought," he said fretfully to his daughter, "that as a broxton man and--and a gentleman, the people would have been with me, but they are not." "no," said miss ffrench, "they are not." she knew far more than he did himself. she was in the habit of not allowing any sign to escape her. when she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all that happened. "if they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to me." "why should they not dare?" asked her father with increased irritation. "because they know i am not afraid of them--because i set them at defiance; and for another reason." the other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their daring. it was the strong one that in the splendor of her beauty she had her greatest power. ordinary womanhood would scarcely in itself have appealed to the chivalric sentiment of broxton, molton and dillup, but rachel ffrench driving slowly through the streets and past the "beer-house" doors, and turning her perfect, unmoved face for criticism to the crowd collected thereat, created a natural diversion. those who had previously been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most inveterate 'bacco consumers took their pipes out of their mouths, feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they might look after her with a clearer appreciation. they were neither touched nor softened, but they were certainly roused to an active admiration which, after a manner, held them in check. "theer is na another loike her i' england," was once remarked rather sullenly by one. "not i' england, let aloan lancashire--an' be dom'd to her,"--this last added with a shade of delicate significance. but there was one man who saw her with eyes different from the rest. if he had not so seen her, existence would have been another matter. he seemed to live a simple, monotonous life. he held his place in the works, and did well what he had to do. he was not very thoroughly understood by his fellows, but there existed a vague feeling of respect for him among them. they had become used to his silence and absent-mindedness and the tasks which seemed to them eccentricities. his responsibilities had increased, but he shouldered them without making any fuss and worked among the rest just as he had been wont to do when he had been floxham's right hand in the engine-room. in more select circles he was regarded, somewhat to his distaste, with no inconsiderable interest. he was talked of privately as a young man with a future before him, though the idea of what that future was to be, being gathered from ffrench, was somewhat indefinite. his own reserve upon the subject was rather resented, but still was forgiven on the score of eccentricity. for the rest, he lived, as it were, in a dream. the days came and went, but at the close of each there were at least a few hours of happiness. and yet it was not happiness of a very tangible form. sometimes, when he left the house and stepped into the cool darkness of the night outside, he found himself stopped for a moment with a sense of bewilderment. haworth, who sat talking to his partner and following rachel ffrench's figure with devouring eyes, had gained as much as he himself. she had not spoken often, perhaps, and had turned from one to the other with the same glance and tone, but one man left her with anger and misery in his breast, and the other wondered at his own rapture. "i have done nothing and gained nothing," he would often say to himself as he sat at the work-table afterward, "but--i am madly happy." and then he would lie forward with his head upon his folded arms, going over the incidents of the night again and again--living the seconds over, one by one. haworth watched him closely in these days. as he passed him on his way to his work-room, he would look up and follow him with a glance until he turned in at its door. he found ways of hearing of his life outside and of his doings in the works. one morning, as he was driving down the road toward the town, he saw in the distance the graceful figure of mr. briarley, who was slouching along in the somewhat muddled condition consequent upon the excitement of an agreeably convivial evening at the "who'd ha' thowt it." he gave him a critical glance and the next moment whipped up his horse, uttering an exclamation. "there's th' chap," he said, "by th' lord harry!" in a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him. "stop a bit, lad," he said. mr. briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. a delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do so. he ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. he had not been brought into immediate contact with haworth since the strikes began. "th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,--"th' same to yo' an'--an' mony on 'em." then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression. haworth leaned forward in his gig. "you're a nice chap," he said. "you're a nice chap." a general vague condition of mind betrayed mr. briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. he brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush of manly modesty. "my best days is ower," he replied. "i've been misforchnit, mester--but theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same--though that theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as i nivver remoind sararann on." the next moment he fell back in some trepidation. haworth looked down at him coolly. "you're a pretty chap," he said, "goin' on th' strike an' leaving your wife and children to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself." "eh!" exclaimed mr. briarley. "and make an ass of yourself," repeated haworth, unmovedly. "you'd better be drawin' your wages, my lad." mr. briarley's expression changed. from bewilderment he passed into comparative gloom. "it is na drawin' 'em i've getten owt agen," he remarked. "it is na drawin' 'em. it's earnin' 'em,--an' ha'in' 'em took away an'--an' spent i' luxuries--berryin'-clubs an' th' loike. brass as ud buy th' nessycerries." "if we'd left you alone," said haworth, "where would your wife and children be now, you scoundrel? who's fed 'em and clothed 'em while you've been on th' spree? jem haworth, blast you!--jem haworth." he put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him. "take these," he said, "an' go an' spend 'em on th' 'nessycerries,' as you call 'em. you'll do it, i know well enow. you'll be in a worse box than you are now, before long. we'll have done with you chaps when murdoch's finished the job he's got on hand." "what's that?" faltered briarley. "i ha' na heerd on it." haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins. "ask him," he answered. "he can tell you better than i can. he's at work on a thing that'll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now. that's all i know. there won't be any need o' so many o' you lads. you'll have to make your brass out of a new trade." he bent a little to settle a strap. "go and tell the rest on 'em," he said. "you'll do it when you're drunk enow, i dare say." briarley fumbled with his coins. his air became speculative. "what are you thinkin' on?" demanded haworth. "it's a bad lookout, isn't it?" mr. briarley drew a step nearer the gig's side. he appeared somewhat pale, and spoke in a whisper. muddled as he was, he had an idea or so left. "it'll be a bad lookout for him," he said. "bless yo'! they'd tear him to pieces. they're in th' humor for it. they've been carryin' a grudge so long they're ready fur owt. they've nivver thowt mich o' him, though, but start 'em on that an' they wouldn't leave a shred o' it together--nor a shred o' him, eyther, if they got the chance." haworth laughed again. "wouldn't they?" he said. "let 'em try. he'd have plenty to stand by him. th' masters are on his side, my lad." he touched his horse, and it began to move. suddenly he checked it and looked back, speaking again. "keep it to yourself, then," he said, "if there's danger, and keep my name out of it, by george, if you want to be safe!" just as he drove up to the gates of the yard murdoch passed him and entered them. until then--since he had left briarley--he had not spoken. he had driven rapidly on his way with a grim, steady face. as murdoch went by he got down from his gig, and went to the horse's head. he stood close to it, knotting the reins. "nor of him either," he said. "nor of him either, by----" chapter xxxiv. a climax. the same night mr. briarley came home in a condition more muddled and disheveled than usual. he looked as if he had been hustled about and somewhat unceremoniously treated. he had lost his hat, and was tremulous and excited. he came in without the trifling ceremony of opening the door. in fact, he fell up against it and ran in, and making an erratic dive at a chair, sat down. granny dixon, who had been dozing in her usual seat, was roused by the concussion and wakened and sat up, glaring excitedly. "he's been at it again!" she shouted. "at it again! he'll nivver ha' none o' my brass to mak' way wi'. he's been at----" mrs. briarley turned upon her. "keep thy mouth shut" she said. the command was effective in one sense, though not in another. mrs. dixon stopped in the midst of the word "at" with her mouth wide open, and so sat for some seconds, with the aspect of an ancient beldam ordinarily going by machinery and suddenly having had her works stopped. she would probably have presented this appearance for the remainder of the evening if mrs. briarley had not addressed her again. "shut thy mouth!" she said. the works were set temporarily in motion, and her countenance slowly resumed its natural lines. she appeared to settle down all over and sink and become smaller, though, as she crouched nearer the fire, she had rather an evil look, which seemed to take its red glow into her confidence and secretly rage at it. "what's tha been doin'?" mrs. briarley demanded of her better half. "out wi' it!" mr. briarley had already fallen into his favorite position. he had placed an elbow upon each knee and carefully supported his disheveled head upon his hands. he had also already begun to shed tears, which dropped and made disproportionately large circles upon the pipe-clayed floor. "i'm a misforchnit chap," he said. "i'm a misforchnit chap, sararann, as nivver had no luck." "what's tha been doin'?" repeated mrs. briarley, with even greater sharpness than before; "out wi' it!" "nay," said mr. briarley, "that theer's what i've getten mysen i' trouble wi'. i wunnot do it again." "theer's summat i' beer," he proceeded, mournfully, "as goes agen a man. he towd me not to say nowt an' i did na mean to, but," with fresh pathos, "theer's summat i' beer as winds--as winds a chap up. i'm not mich o' th' speakin' loine, sararann, but afore i knowed it, i wur a-makin' a speech--an' when i bethowt me an' wanted to set down--they wur bound to mak' me--go on to th' eend--an' when i would na--theer wur a good bit--o' public opinion igspressed--an' i did na stop--to bid 'em good-neet. theer wur too much agoin' on." "what wur it aw about?" asked mrs. briarley. but mr. briarley's voice had been gradually becoming lower and lower, and his words more incoherent. he was sinking into slumber. when she repeated her question, he awakened with a violent start. "i'm a misforchnit chap," he murmured, "an' i dunnot know. 'scaped me, sararann--owin' to misforchins." "eh!" remarked mrs. briarley, regarding him with connubial irony, "but tha art a graidely foo'! i'd gie summat to see a graidelier un!" but he was so far gone by this time that there was no prospect of a clear solution of the cause of his excitement. and so she turned to granny dixon. "it's toime fur thee to be i' bed," she shouted. granny dixon gave a sharp, stealthy move round, and a sharp, stealthy glance up at her. "i--dunnot want to go," she quavered shrilly. "aye, but tha does," was the answer. "an' tha'rt goin' too. get up, missus." and singularly enough, mrs. dixon fumbled until she found her stick, and gathering herself up and leaning upon it, made her rambling way out of the room carrying her evil look with her. "bless us!" mrs. briarley had said in confidence to a neighbor a few days before. "i wur nivver more feart i' my life than when i'd done it, an' th' owd besom set theer wi' her cap o' one side an' her breath gone. i did na know but i'd put an eend to her. i nivver should ha' touched her i' th' world if i had na been that theer upset as i did na know what i wur doin'. i thowt she'd be up an' out i' th' street as soon as she'd getten her breath an', happen, ca' on th' porlice. an' to think it's been th' settlin' on her! it feart me to see it at th' first, but i wur na goin' to lose th' chance an' th' next day i give it to her up an' down--tremblin' i' my shoes aw th' toime. i says, 'tha may leave thy brass to who tha loikes, but tha'lt behave thysen while tha stays here or sararann briarley'll see about it. so mak' up thy moind.' an' i've nivver had a bit o' trouble wi' her fro' then till now. she conna bide th' soight o' me, but she dare na go agen me fur her life." the next day haworth went away upon one of his mysterious journeys. "to leeds or manchester, or perhaps london," said ffrench. "i don't know where." the day after was saturday, and in the afternoon janey briarley presented herself to mrs. murdoch at an early hour, and evidently with something on her mind. "i mun get through wi' th' cleanin' an' go whoam soon," she said. "th' stroikers is over fro' molton an' dillup again. theer's summat up among 'em." "we dunnot know nowt about it," she answered, when further questioned. "we on'y know they're here an' i' a ill way about summat they've fun out. feyther, he's aw upset, but he dare na say nowt fur fear o' th' union. mother thinks they've getten summat agen ffrench." "does mr. ffrench know that?" mrs. murdoch asked. "he'll know it soon enow, if he does na," dryly. "they'll noan stand back at tellin' him if they're i' th' humor--but he's loiker to know than not. he's too feart on 'em not to be on th' watch." it was plain enough before many hours had passed that some disturbance was on foot. the strikers gathered about the streets in groups, or lounged here and there sullenly. they were a worse-looking lot than they had been at the outset. idleness and ill-feeling and dissipation had left their marks. clothes were shabbier, faces more brutal and habits plainly more vicious. at one o'clock mr. ffrench disappeared from his room at the bank, no one knew exactly how or when. all the morning he had spent in vacillating between his desk and a window looking into the street. there was a rumor among the clerks that he had been seen vanishing through a side door leading into a deserted little back street. an hour later he appeared in the parlor in which his daughter sat. he was hot and flurried and out of breath. "those scoundrels are in the town again," he said. "and there is no knowing what they are up to. it was an insane thing for haworth to go away at such a time. by night there will be an uproar." "if there is an uproar," said miss ffrench, "they will come here. they know they can do nothing at the works. he is always ready for them there--and they are angrier with you than they are with him." "there is no reason why they should be," ffrench protested. "_i_ took no measures against them, heaven knows." "i think," returned rachel, "that is the reason. you have been afraid of them." he colored to the roots of his hair. "you are saying a deuced unpleasant thing, my dear," he broke forth. "it is true," she answered. "what would be the use in _not_ saying it?" he had no reply to make. the trouble was that he never had a reply to make to these deadly simple statements of hers. he began to walk up and down the room. "the people we invited to dine with us," she said, "will not come. they will hear what is going on and will be afraid. it is very stupid." "i wonder," he faltered, "if murdoch will fail us. he never did before." "no," she answered. "_he_ will not stay away." the afternoon dragged its unpleasant length along. as it passed ffrench found in every hour fresh cause for nervousness and excitement. the servant who had been out brought disagreeable enough tidings. the small police force of the town had its hands full in attending to its business of keeping order. "if we had had time to send to manchester for some assistance," said mr. ffrench. "that would have been reason enough for being attacked," said rachel. "it would have shown them that we felt we needed protection." "we _may_ need it, before all is quiet again," retorted her father. "we may," she answered, "or we may not." by night several arrests had been made, and there was a good deal of disorder in the town. a goodly quantity of beer had been drunk and there had been a friendly fight or so among the strikers themselves. rachel left her father in the drawing-room and went upstairs to prepare for dinner. when she returned an hour afterward he turned to her with an impatient start. "why did you dress yourself in that manner?" he exclaimed. "you said yourself our guests would not come." "it occurred to me," she answered, "that we might have visitors after all." but it was as she had prophesied,--the guests they had expected did not come. they were discreet and well-regulated elderly people who had lived long in the manufacturing districts, and had passed through little unpleasantnesses before. they knew that under existing circumstances it would be wiser to remain at home than to run the risk of exposing themselves to spasmodic criticism and its results. but they had visitors. the dinner hour passed and they were still alone. even murdoch had not come. a dead silence reigned in the room. ffrench was trying to read and not succeeding very well. miss ffrench stood by the window looking out. it was a clear night and the moon was at full; it was easy to see far up the road upon whose whiteness the trees cast black shadows. she was looking up this road toward the town. she had been watching it steadily for some time. once her father had turned to her restlessly, saying: "why do you stand there? you--you might be expecting something to happen." she did not make any reply and still retained her position. but about half an hour afterward, she turned suddenly and spoke in a low, clear tone. "if you are afraid, you had better go away," she said. "they are coming." it was evident that she at least felt no alarm, though there was a thrill of excitement in her voice. mr. ffrench sprang up from his seat. "they are coming!" he echoed. "good god! what do you mean?" it was not necessary that she should enter into an explanation. a clamor of voices in the road told its own story. there were shouts and riotous cries which, in a moment more, were no longer outside the gates but within them. an uproarious crowd of men and boys poured into the garden, trampling the lawn and flower-beds beneath their feet as they rushed and stumbled over them. "wheer is he?" they shouted. "bring the chap out, an' let's tak' a look at him. bring him out!" ffrench moved toward the door of the room, and then, checked by some recollection, turned back again. "good heaven!" he said, "they are at their worst, and here we are utterly alone. why did haworth go away? why----" his daughter interrupted him. "there is no use in your staying," she said. "it will do no good. you may go if you like. there is the back way. none of them are near it." "i--i can't leave you here," he stammered. "haworth was mad! why, in heaven's name----" "there is no use asking why again," she replied. "i cannot tell you. i think you had better go." her icy coldness would have been a pretty hard thing to bear if he had been less terror-stricken; but he saw that the hand with which she held the window-curtain was shaking. he did not know, however, that it was not shaking with fear, but with the power of the excitement which stirred her. it is scarcely possible that he would have left her, notwithstanding his panic, though, for a second, it nearly seemed that he had so far lost self-control as to be wavering; but as he stood, pale and breathless, there arose a fresh yell. "wheer is he? bring him out! murdoch, th' 'merican chap! we're coom to see him!" "what's that?" he asked. "who is it they want?" "murdoch! murdoch!" was shouted again. "let's ha' a word wi' murdoch! we lads ha' summat to say to him!" "it is not i they want," he said. "it is murdoch. it is not i at all!" she dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. he was stunned by the mere sight of her face. every drop of blood seemed driven from it. "you are a coward!" she cried, panting. "a coward! it is a relief to you!" he stood staring at her. "a--a relief!" he stammered. "i--don't understand you. what is the matter?" she had recovered herself almost before he had begun to speak. it was over in a second. he had not had time to realize the situation before she was moving toward the window. "they shall see _me_," she said. "let us see what they will have to say to _me_." he would have stopped her, but she did not pay the slightest attention to his exclamation. the window was a french one, opening upon a terrace. she flung it backward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters. for a second there was not a sound. they had been expecting to see a man,--perhaps ffrench, perhaps murdoch, perhaps even a representative of the small police force, looking as if he felt himself one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough,--and here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress of some rich white stuff, and with something sparkling upon her hands and arms and in her high-dressed blonde hair. the moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it serene and bore unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. it was she who spoke first, and then they knew her, and the spell which held them dumb was broken. "what do you want?" she demanded. "i should like to hear." then they began to shout again. "we want murdoch!" they said. "we ha' summat to say to him." "he is not here," she said. "he has not been here." "that's a lee," remarked a gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd. "a dom'd un." she made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody laughed. "why do you want him?" she said next. "we want to hear about that contrapshun o' his as is goin' to mak' th' mesters indypendent. he knows what we want him fur. we've just been to his house and brokken th' winders. he's getten wind on us comin', an' he made off wi' th' machine. he'll be here afore long if he is na here now, an' we're bound to see him." "he'll be up to see thee," put in the gentleman on the outskirts, "an' i dunnot blame him. i'm glad i coom mysen. tha's worth th' trip--an' i'm a dillup chap, moind yo'." she stood quite still as before and let them look at her, to see what effect the words had produced. it seemed as if they had produced none. "if you have come to see him," she said, after a few seconds, "you may go away again. he is not here. i know where he is, and you cannot reach him. if there has not been some blunder, he is far enough away." she told the lie without flinching in the least, and with a clever coolness which led her to think in a flash beforehand even of the clause which would save her dignity if he should chance to come in the midst of her words. "if you want to break windows," she went on, "break them here. they can be replaced afterward, and there is no one here to interfere with you. if you would like to vent your anger upon a woman, vent it upon _me_. _i_ am not afraid of you. look at me!" she took half a step forward and presented herself to them--motionless. not a fellow among them but felt that she would not have stirred if they had rushed upon her bodily. the effect of her supreme beauty and the cold defiance which had in it a touch of delicate insolence, was indescribable. this was not in accordance with their ideas of women of her class; they were used to seeing them discreetly keeping themselves in the shade in time of disorder. here was one--"one of the nobs," as they said--who flung their threats to the wind and scorned them. what they would have done when they recovered themselves is uncertain. the scale might have turned either way; but, just in the intervening moment which would have decided it, there arose a tumult in their midst. a man pushed his way with mad haste through the crowd and sprang upon the terrace at her side, amid yells and hoots from those who had guessed who he was. an instant later they all knew him, though his dress was disordered, his head was bare, and his whole face and figure seemed altered by his excitement. "dom him!" they yelled. "theer he is, by----!" "i towd thee he'd coom," shouted the cynic. "he did na get th' tellygraph, tha sees." he turned on them, panting and white with rage. "you devils!" he cried. "you are here too! haven't you done enough? isn't bullying and frightening two women enough for you, that you must come here?" "that's reet," commented the cynic. "stond up fur th' young woman, murdoch. i'd do it mysen i' i wur o' that soide. allus stond up fur th' sect!" murdoch spoke to rachel ffrench. "you must go in," he said. "there is no knowing what they will do." "i shall stay here," she answered. she made an impatient gesture. she was shuddering from head to foot. "don't look at or speak to me," she said. "you--you make me a coward." "they will stand at nothing," he protested. "i will not turn my back upon them," she said. "let them do their worst." he turned to the crowd again. her life itself was in danger, and he knew he could not move her. he was shuddering himself. "who is your leader?" he said to the men. "i suppose you have one." the man known as foxy gibbs responded to their cries of his name by pushing his way to the front. he was a big, resolute, hulking scamp who had never been known to do an honest day's work, and was yet always in funds and at liberty to make incendiary speeches where beer and tobacco were plentiful. "what do you want of me?" demanded murdoch. "speak out." the fellow was ready enough with his words, and forcible too. "we've heard tell o' summat goin' on we're not goin' to stond," he said. "we've heerd tell o' a chap 'at's contrivin' summat to do away wi' them as does th' work now an' mak's theer bread by it. we've heerd as th' mesters is proidin' theersens on it an' laughin' in their sleeves. we've heerd tell as theer's a chap makkin' what'll eend i' mischief--an' yo're th' chap." "who told you?" "nivver moind who. a foo' let it out, an' we wur na in th' humor to let it pass. we're goin' to sift th' thing to th' bottom. yo're th' chap as was nam't. what ha' yo' getten to say?" "just one thing," he answered. "it's a lie from first to last--an accursed lie!" "lee or not, we're goin' to smash th' thing, whatever it is. we're noan particular about th' lee. we'll mak' th' thing safe first, an' then settle about th' lee." murdoch thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them with his first approach to his usual _sang-froid_. "it's where you won't find it," he said. "i've made sure of that." it was a mad speech to have made, but he had lost self-control and balance. he was too terribly conscious of rachel ffrench's perilous nearness to be in the mood to weigh his words. he saw his mistake in a second. there was a shout and a surging movement of the mob toward him, and rachel ffrench, with an indescribable swiftness, had thrown herself before him and was struck by a stone which came whizzing through the air. she staggered under the stroke but stood upright in a breadth's time. "my god!" murdoch cried out. "they have struck you. they have struck you!" he was half mad with his anguish and horror. the sight of the little stream of blood which trickled from her temple turned him sick with rage. "you devils!" he raved, "do you see what you have done?" but the play was over. before he had finished his outcry there was a shout of "th' coppers! th' coppers!" and a rush and skurry and tumble of undignified retreat. the police force with a band of anti-strikers behind them had appeared upon the scene in the full glory of the uniform of the corporation, and such was the result of habit and the majesty of the law that those who were not taken into custody incontinently took to their heels and scattered in every direction, uttering curses loud and deep, since they were not yet prepared to resist an attack more formally. in half an hour the trampled grass and flower-beds and broken shrubs were the only signs of the tumult. mr. ffrench was walking up and down the dreary room in as nervous a condition as ever. "good heavens, rachel!" he said. "you must have been mad--mad." she had persistently refused to lie down and sat in an easy-chair, looking rather colorless and languid. when they were left alone, murdoch came and stood near her. he was paler than she, and haggard and worn. before she knew what he was about to do he fell upon his knees, and covered her hands with kisses. "if any harm had come to you," he cried--"if any harm had come to you----" she tried to drag her hands away with an angry face, but he clung to them. and then quite suddenly all her resistance ceased and her eyes fixed themselves upon him as if with a kind of dread. chapter xxxv. "i am not ready for it yet." in expectation of something very serious happening, the constabulary re-enforced itself the day following and assumed a more imposing aspect, and was prepared to be very severe indeed upon all short-comings or symptoms of approaching disorder. but somewhat to its private disappointment, an unlooked-for quiet prevailed--an almost suspicious quiet, indeed. there were rumors that a secret meeting had been held by the strikers the night before, and the result of it was that in the morning there appeared to have been a sudden dispersing, and only those remained behind who were unavoidably detained by the rather unfortunate circumstance of having before them the prospect of spending a few weeks in the comparative retirement of the county jail. these gentlemen peremptorily refused to give any definite explanation of their eccentricities of conduct of the night before and were altogether very unsatisfactory indeed, one of them even going so far, under the influence of temporary excitement, as to be guilty of the indiscretion of announcing his intention of "doin' fur" one or two enemies of his cause when his term expired, on account of which amiable statement three months were added to said term upon the spot. it was janey briarley who gave murdoch his warning upon the night of the riot. just before he left the works she had come into the yard, saying she had a message for haworth, and on being told that he was away, had asked for murdoch. "he'll do if i canna see th' mester," she remarked. but when she reached murdoch's room she stepped across the threshold and shut the door cautiously. "con anybody hear?" she demanded, with an uneasy glance round. "no," he answered. "then cut thy stick as fast as tha con an' get thee whoam an' hoid away that thing tha'rt makkin. th' stroikers is after it. nivver moind how i fun' out. cut an' run. i axt fur haworth to throw 'em off th' scent. i knowed he wurna here. haste thee!" her manifest alarm convinced him that there was foundation enough for her errand, and that she had run some risk in venturing it. "thank you," he said. "you may have saved me a great deal. let us go out quietly as if nothing was in hand. come along." and so they went, he talking aloud as they passed through the gates, and as it was already dusk he was out on the broxton road in less than half an hour, and when he returned the mob had been to his mother's house and broken a few windows in their rage at his having escaped them, and had gone off shouting that they would go to ffrench's. "he'll be fun theer," some one said--possibly the cynic. "th' young woman is a sweetheart o' his an' yo'll be loike to hear o' th' cat wheer th' cream stonds." his mother met him on the threshold with the news of the outbreak and the direction it had taken. a few brief sentences told him all, and at the end of them he left the house at once. "i am going there to show myself to them," he said. "they will not return here. you are safe enough now. the worst is over here, but there is no knowing what they may do there when they find themselves baffled." it was after midnight when he came back, and then it was christian who opened the door for him. he came into the little dark passage with a slow, unsteady step. for a second he did not seem to see her at all. his face was white, his eyes were shining and his brow was slightly knit in lines which might have meant intense pain. "are you hurt?" she asked. it was as if her voice wakened him from a trance. he looked at her for the first time. "hurt!" he echoed. "no--not hurt." he went into the sitting-room and she followed him. the narrow horse-hair sofa upon which his father had lain so often stood in its old place. he threw himself full length upon it and lay looking straight before him. "are you--are you sure you are not hurt?" she faltered. he echoed her words again. "am i sure i am not hurt?" he repeated dreamily. "yes, i am sure of it." and then he turned slightly toward her and she saw that the look his face wore was not one of pain, but of strange rapture. "i am not hurt," he said quite slowly. "i am madly happy." then she understood. she was as ignorant of many things as she was bitterly wise in others, but she had not been blind and she understood quite clearly. she sat down upon a low seat, from which she could see him, her hands clasped on her knee. "i knew," she said at last, "that it would come some day--i _knew_ that it would." "did you?" he answered in the same dreamy way. "i did not. i did not even hope for it. i do not comprehend it even now." "i do," she returned, "quite well." he scarcely seemed to hear her. "i hoped for nothing," he said. "and now--i am madly happy." there was nothing more for her to say. she had a fancy that perhaps in the morning he would have forgotten that he had spoken. it seemed as if even yet he was hardly conscious of her presence. but before she went away she asked him a question. "where did you put the model?" he gave a feverish start. "where?" and falling back into his previous manner--"i took it to the chapel yard. i knew they would not go there. there was space enough behind the--the head-stone and the old wall for it to stand, and the grass grew long and thick. i left it there." "it was a safe place," she answered. "when shall you bring it back?" he sighed impatiently. "not yet," he said. "not just yet. let it stay there a while. i am not--ready for it. let it stay." chapter xxxvi. settling an account. it was not until the week following that haworth returned, and then he came without having given any previous warning of his intention. ffrench, sitting in his office in a rather dejected mood one morning, was startled by his entering with even less than his usual small ceremony. "my dear haworth," he exclaimed. "is it possible!" his first intention had been to hold out his hand, but he did not do so. in fact he sat down again a little suddenly and uneasily. haworth sat down too, confronting him squarely. "what have you been up to?" he demanded. "what is this row about?" "about!" echoed ffrench. "it's the most extraordinary combination of nonsense and misunderstanding i ever heard of in my life. how it arose there is no knowing. the fellows are mad!" "aye," angrily, "mad enow, but you can't stop 'em now they've got agate. it's a devilish lookout for us. i've heard it all over the country, and the more you say agen it the worse it is. they're set on it all through lancashire that there's a plot agen 'em, and they're fur fettlin' it their own fashion." "you--you don't think it will be worse for us?" his partner suggested weakly. "it's struck me that--in the end--it mightn't be a bad thing--that it would change the direction of their mood." "wait until the end comes. it's not here yet. tell me how it happened." upon the whole, mr. ffrench made a good story of it. he depicted the anxieties and dangers of the occasion very graphically. he had lost a good deal of his enthusiasm on the subject of the uncultivated virtues and sturdy determination of the manufacturing laboring classes, and he was always fluent, as has been before mentioned. he was very fluent now, and especially so in describing the incident of his daughter's presenting herself to the mob and the result of her daring. "she might have lost her life," he said at one point. "it was an insane thing to have done--an insane thing. she surprised them at first, but she could not hold them in check after murdoch came. she will bear the mark of the stone for many a day." "they threw a stone, blast 'em, did they?" said haworth, setting his teeth. "yes--but not at her. perhaps they would hardly have dared that after all. it was thrown at murdoch." "and he stepped out of the way?" "oh no. he did not see the man raise his arm, but she did, and was too much alarmed to reflect, i suppose--and--in fact threw herself before him." he moved back disturbedly the next instant. haworth burst forth with a string of oaths. the veins stood out like cords on his forehead; he ground his teeth. when the outbreak was over he asked an embarrassing question. "where were you?" "i?"--with some uncertainty of tone. "i--had not gone out. i--i did not wish to infuriate them. it seemed to me that--that--that a great deal depended upon their not being infuriated." "aye," said haworth, "a good deal." he asked a good many questions ffrench did not quite understand. he seemed in a questioning humor and went over the ground step by step. he asked what the mob had said and done and even how they had looked. "it's a bad lookout for murdoch," he said. "they'll have a spite again' him. they're lyin' quiet a bit now, because it's safest, but they'll carry their spite." at ffrench's invitation he went up to the house with him to dinner. as they passed into the grounds, murdoch passed out. he was walking quickly and scarcely seemed to see them until ffrench spoke. "it's a queer time of day for him to be here," said haworth, when he was gone. ffrench's reply held a touch of embarrassment. "he is not usually here so early," he said. "he has probably been doing some little errand for rachel." the truth was that he had been with her for an hour, and that, on seeing haworth coming down the road with her father, she had sent him away. "i want to be alone when he comes," she had said. and when murdoch said "why?" she had answered, "because it will be easier." when they came in, she was sitting with the right side of her face toward them. they could see nothing of the mark upon her left temple. it was not a large mark nor a disfiguring one, but there were traces of its presence in her pallor. she did not rise, and would have kept this side of her face out of view, but haworth came and took his seat before her. it would not have been easy for her to move or change her position--and he looked directly at the significant little bruise. his glance turned upon it again and again as he talked to her or her father; if it wandered off it came back and rested there. during dinner she felt that, place herself as she would, in a few seconds she would be conscious again that he had baffled her. for the first time in his experience, it was he who had the advantage. but when they returned to the parlor she held herself in check. she placed herself opposite to him and turned her face toward him, and let him look without flinching. it was as if suddenly she wished that he should see, and had a secret defiant reason for the wish. it seemed a long evening, but she did not lose an inch of ground after this. when he was going away she rose and stood before him. her father had gone to the other end of the room, and was fussing unnecessarily over some memoranda. as they waited together, haworth took his last look at the mark upon her temple. "if it had been _me_ you wore it for," he said, "i'd have had my hands on the throat of the chap that did it before now. it _wasn't_ me, but i'll find him and pay him for it yet, by george!" she had no time to answer him. her father came toward them with the papers in his hands. haworth listened to his wordy explanation without moving a line of his face. he did not hear it, and ffrench was dimly aware of the fact. about half an hour after, the door of the bar-parlor of the "who'd ha' thowt it" was flung open. "where's briarley?" a voice demanded. "send him out here. i want him--haworth." mr. briarley arose in even more than his usual trepidation. he looked from side to side, quaking. "wheer is he?" he asked. haworth stood on the threshold. "here," he answered. "come out!" mr. briarley obeyed. at the door haworth collared him and led him down the sanded passage and into the road outside. a few yards from the house there was a pump. he piloted him to it and set him against it, and began to swear at him fluently. "you blasted scoundrel!" he said. "you let it out, did you?" mr. briarley was covered with confusion as with a garment. "i'm a misforchnit chap as is allus i' trouble," he said. "theer's summat i' ivverythin' i lay hond on as seems to go agen me. i dunnot see how it is. happen theer's summat i' me a-bein' a dom'd foo', or happen it's nowt but misforchin. sararann----" haworth stopped him by swearing again, something more sulphurously than before--so sulphurously, indeed, that mr. briarley listened with eyes distended and mouth agape. "let's hear what you know about th' thing," haworth ended. mr. briarley shut his mouth. he would have kept it shut if he had dared. "i dunnot know nowt," he answered, with patient mendacity. "i wur na wi' em." "you know plenty," said haworth. "out with it, if you don't want to get yourself into trouble. who was the chap that threw the stone?" "i--i dunnot know." "if you don't tell me," said haworth, through his clenched teeth, "it'll be worse for you. it was you i let the truth slip to; you were the first chap that heard it, and you were the first chap that started the row and egged it on." "i did na egg it on," protested mr. briarley. "it did na need no eggin' on. they pounced on it like cats on a bird. i did na mean to tell 'em owt about it. i'm a dom'd foo'. i'm th' dom'dest foo' fro here to dillup." "aye," said haworth, sardonically, "that's like enow. who was the chap that threw the stone?" he returned to the charge so swiftly and with such fell determination that mr. briarley began fairly to whimper. "i dare na tell," he said. "they'd mak' quick work o' me if they fun me out." "who was it?" persisted haworth. "they'll make quicker work of you at the 'old bailey,' if you don't." mr. briarley turned his disreputable, battered cap round and round in his nervous hands. he was mortally afraid of haworth. "a man's getten to think o' his family," he argued. "if he dunnot think o' hissen, he mun think o' his family. i've getten a mortal big un--twelve on 'em an' sararann, as ud be left on th' world if owt wur to happen--twelve on 'em as ud be left wi'out no one to stand by 'em an' pervide fur 'em. theer's nowt a fam'ly misses so mich as th' head. the head should na run no risks. it's th' head's duty to tak' care o' hissen an' keep o' th' safe soide." "who threw the stone?" said haworth. mr. briarley gave him one cowed glance and broke down. "it wur tummas reddy," he burst forth helplessly. "lord ha' mercy on me!" "where is he?" "he's i' theer," jerking his cap toward the bar-room, "an' i'm i' th' worst mess i ivver wur i' i' my loife. i'm fettlit now, by th' lord harry!" "which way does he go home?" "straight along the road here, if i _mun_ get up to my neck--an'--an' be dom'd to him!--if i may tak' th' liberty." "settle yourself to stand here till he comes out, and then tell me which is him." "eh!" "when he comes out say the word, and stay here till he does. i've got a bit o' summat to settle with him." "will ta--will ta promise tha will na let out who did it? if tha does, th' bury in' club'll ha' brass to pay out afore a week's over." "you're safe enow," haworth answered, "if you'll keep your mouth shut. they'll hear nowt from me." a gleam of hope--a faint one--illumined mr. briarley's countenance. "i would na ha' no objections to tha settlin' wi' him," he said. "i ha' not nowt agen that. he's a chap as i am na fond on, an' he's getten more cheek than belongs to him. i'd ha' settled wi' him mysen if i had na been a fam'ly man. ha'in' a fam'ly to think on howds a man back. theer--i hear 'em comin' now. would yo,'" in some hurry, "ha' owt agen me gettin' behind th' pump?" "get behind it," answered haworth, "and be damned to you!" he got behind it with alacrity, and, as it was not a large pump, was driven by necessity to narrowing himself to its compass, as it were, and taking up very little room. haworth himself drew back somewhat, and yet kept within hearing. four or five men came out and went their different ways, and mr. briarley made no sign; but as the sixth, a powerful, clumsy fellow, passed, he uttered a cautious "theer he is!" haworth did not stir. it was a dark, cloudy night, and he was far enough from the road to be safe from discovery. the man went on at a leisurely pace. mr. briarley re-appeared, breathing shortly. "i mun go whoam," he said. "sararann----" and scarcely waiting for haworth's signal of dismissal, he departed as if he had been shot from a string-bow, and fled forth into the shadows. mr. reddy went at a leisurely pace, as has been before observed. he usually went at a leisurely pace when he was on his way home. he was a "bad lot" altogether, and his home was a squalid place, and his wife more frequently than not had a black eye or a bruised face, and was haggard with hunger and full of miserable plaints and reproaches. consequently he did not approach the scenes of his domestic joys with any haste. he was in a worse humor than usual to-night from various causes, the chief one, perhaps, being that he had only had enough spirituous liquor to make him savage and to cause him to enliven his way with blasphemy. suddenly, however, at the corner of a lane which crossed the road he paused. he heard behind him the sound of heavy feet nearing him with a quick tramp which somehow presented to his mind the idea of a purpose, and for some reason, not exactly clear to himself, he turned about and waited. "who's that theer?" he asked. "it's me," he was answered. "stand up and take thy thrashin', my lad." the next instant he was struggling in the darkness with an assailant, and the air was hot with oaths, and they were writhing together and panting, and striking blinding blows. sometimes it was one man and then the other who was uppermost, but at last it was haworth, and he had his man in his grasp. "this is because you hit the wrong mark, my lad," he said. "because luck went agen you, and because it's gone agen me." when he had done mr. reddy lay beaten into seeming insensibility. he had sworn and gnashed his teeth and beaten back in vain. "who is it, by----?" he panted. "who is it?" "it's haworth," he was answered. "jem haworth, my lad." and he was left there lying in the dark while haworth walked away, his heavy breathing a living presence in the air until he was gone. chapter xxxvii. a summer afternoon. "let it stay there a while," murdoch had said. "i am not ready for it yet." and it staid there between the head-stone and the old stone wall covered with the long grass and closed in by it. he was not ready for it--yet. the days were not long enough for him as it was. his mother and christian rarely saw him, but at such times as they did each recognized in him a new look and understood it. he began to live a strange, excited life. rachel ffrench did nothing by halves. he was seen with her constantly. it continually happened that where she was invited he was invited also. he forgot that he dreaded to meet strangers and had always held aloof from crowds. there were no strangers now and no crowds; in any gathering there was only one presence and this was enough for him. when people would have cultivated him and drawn him out, he did not see their efforts; when men and women spoke to him they found that he scarcely heard them and that even as they talked he had unconsciously veered toward another point. he did things sometimes which made them stare at him. "the fellow is like a ghost," a man said of him once. the simile was not a bad one. he did not think of what he might be winning or losing--for the time being mere existence was all-sufficient. at night he scarcely slept at all. often he got up and rambled over the country in the darkness, not knowing where he was going or why he walked. he went through the routine of the day in haste and impatience, doing more work than was necessary and frequently amazing those around him by losing his temper and missing his mark. ffrench began to regard him with wonder. divers things were a source of wonder to ffrench, in these days. he understood rachel less than ever and found her less satisfactory. he could not comprehend her motives. he had become accustomed to feeling that she always had a motive in the background, and he made the natural mistake of supposing that she had one now. but she had none. she had suddenly given way to a mysterious impulse which overmastered her and she let herself go, as it were. it did not matter to her that the time came when her course was discussed and marveled at; upon the whole, she felt a secret pleasure in defying public comment as usual, and going steadily in her own path. she did strange things too. she began to go among the people who knew murdoch best,--visiting the families of the men who worked under him, and leading them on to speak of him and his way of life. it cannot be said that the honest matrons she honored by her visits were very fond of her or exactly rejoiced when she appeared. they felt terribly out of place and awe-stricken when she sat down on their wooden chairs with her rich dress lying upon the pipe-clayed floors. her beauty and her grandeur stunned them, however much they admired both. "i tell yo' she's a lady," they said. "she knows nowt about poor folk, bless yo', but she's getten brass to gie away--an' she gies it wi'out makin' a doment. i mun say it puts me out a bit to see her coom in, but she does na go out wi'out leavin' summat." she made no pretense of bringing sympathy and consolation; she merely gave money, and money was an equivalent, and after all it was something of an event to have her carriage stop before the gate and to see her descend and enter in all her splendor. the general vague idea which prevailed was that she meant to be charitable after the manner of her order,--but that was a mistake too. it happened at last that one day her carriage drew up before the house at whose window murdoch's mother and christian sat at work. it was saturday, and janey briarley, in her "cleanin' up" apparel opened the door for her. "they're in th' parlor," she answered in reply to her question. "art tha coom to see 'em?" when she was ushered into the parlor in question, mrs. murdoch rose with her work in her hand; christian rose also and stood in the shadow. they had never had a visitor before, and had not expected such a one as this. they thought at first that she had come upon some errand, but she had not. she gave no reason for her presence other than she would have given in making any call of ceremony. as she sat on the narrow sofa, she saw all the room and its meagerness,--its smallness, its scant, plain furnishing; its ugly carpet and walls; the straight, black dress of the older woman, the dark beauty of the girl who did not sit down but stood behind her chair, watching. this beauty was the only thing which relieved the monotony of the place, but it was the most grating thing she saw, to rachel ffrench. it roused within her a slow anger. she resented it and felt that she would like to revenge herself upon it quietly. she had merely meant to try the effect of these people and their surroundings upon herself as a fine experiment, but the effect was stronger than she had anticipated. when she went away christian accompanied her to the door. in the narrow passage rachel ffrench turned and looked at her--giving her a glance from head to foot. "i think i have seen you before," she said. "you _know_ you have seen me," the girl answered. "i have seen you on the continent. your apartment was opposite to ours in paris--when you were with your mother. i used to watch the people go in and out. you are very like your mother." and she left her, not looking back once,--as if there was no living creature behind, or as if she had forgotten that there was one. christian went back to the room within. she sat down but did not take up her work again. "do you know why she came?" she asked. "yes." "why?" "she came to look at us--to see what manner of people we were--to see how we lived--to measure the distance between our life and hers. as she went away," she went on, "she remembered that she had seen me before. she told me that i was very like my mother." she leaned forward, her hands clasped palm to palm between her knees. "there was a man who did my mother a great wrong once," she said. "they had loved each other in a mad sort of way for a long time, but in the end, i suppose, he got tired, for suddenly he went away. when he was gone, my mother did not speak of him and it was as if he had never lived, but she grew haggard and dreadful and lost her beauty. i was a little child and she took me with her and began to travel from one place to another. i did not know why at first, but i found out afterward. she was following him. she found him in paris, at last, after two years. one foggy night she took me to a narrow street near one of the theaters, and after we got there i knew she was waiting for some one, because she walked to and fro between two of the street lamps dragging me by the hand. she walked so for half an hour, and then the man came, not knowing we were there. she went to him, dragging me with her, and when she stood in front of him, threw back her veil and let the light shine upon her. she lifted her hand and struck him--struck him full upon the face, panting for breath. 'i am a woman,' she said. 'i am a woman and i have _struck_ you! remember it to your last hour as i shall!' i thought that he would strike her back, but he did not. his hands fell at his sides, and he stood before her pale and helpless. i think it was even more terrible than she had meant it to be----" mrs. murdoch stopped her, almost angrily. "why do you go back to it?" she demanded. "why should you think of such a story now?" "it came to me," she answered. "i was thinking that it is true that i am like her,--i bear a grudge such a long time, and it will not die out. it is her blood which is strong in me. she spoke the truth." early in the afternoon rachel ffrench, sauntering about the garden in the sun, saw murdoch coming down the road toward the house,--not until he had first seen her, however. his eyes were fixed upon her when she turned, and it seemed as if he found it impossible to remove them, even for a breath's time. since his glance had first caught the pale blue of her dress he had not once looked away from it. all the morning, in the midst of the smoke and din of the workrooms, he had been thinking of the hours to come. the rest of the day lay before him. the weather was dazzling; the heat of summer was in the air; the garden was ablaze with flowers whose brightness seemed never to have been there before; there was here and there the drone of a bee, and now and again a stir of leaves. the day before had been of another color and so might the morrow be, but to-day left nothing to be believed in except its own sun and beauty. when at last he was quite near her, he seemed for a little while to see nothing but the faint pale blue of her dress. he never forgot it afterward, and never remembered it without a sense of summer heat and languor. he could not have told what he said to her, or if he at first spoke at all. soon she began to move down the path and he followed her,--simply followed her,--stopping when she stopped to break a flower from its stem. it was as she bent forward once that she told him of what she had done. "this morning," she said, "i went to see your mother." "she told me so," he answered. she broke the stem of the flower and stood upright, holding it in her hand. "you do not ask me why i went." "why?" he asked. their eyes met, and she was silent for a moment. then she said, with perfect deliberateness: "i have known nothing of the life you live. i wanted to see it for myself. i wanted--to bring it near." he drew quite close to her, his face pale, his eyes burning. "near!" he repeated. "to bring it near. do you--do you know what you have said?" "to bring it near," she said again, with no less deliberateness than before, but with a strange softness. just for to-day, she had told herself, she would try the sensation of being swept onward by the stream. but she weighed herself as she spoke, and weighed him and his passion, and her power against its force. but he came no closer to her. he did not attempt to touch even her hand or her dress. his own hands fell helplessly at his sides, and he stood still before her. "oh, god!" he said in a hushed voice, "how happy i am!" chapter xxxviii. "god bless you!" late the same night, mrs. haworth, who had been watching for her son alone in the grand, desolate room in which it was her lot to sit, rose to her feet on hearing him enter the house. the first object which met his eye when he came in was her little figure and her patient face turned toward the door. as he crossed the threshold, she took a few steps as if to meet him, and then stopped. "jem!" she exclaimed. "jem!" her voice was tremulous and her eyes bright with the indefinable feeling which seized upon her the moment she saw his face. her utterance of his name was a cry of anxiousness and fear. "what!" he said. "are you here yet?" he came to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder in a rough caress. "you'd better go to bed," he said to her. "it's late, and i've got work to do." "i felt," she answered, "as if i'd like to wait an' see you. i knowed i should sleep better for it--i always do." there was a moment's pause in which she stroked his sleeve with her withered hand. then he spoke. "sleep better!" he said. "that's a queer notion. you've got queer fancies, you women--some on you." then he stooped and kissed her awkwardly. he always did it with more or less awkwardness and lack of ease, but it never failed to make her happy. "now you've done it," he said. "you'd better go, old lady, and leave me to finish what i've got to do." "it's late for work, jem," she answered. "you oughtn't to try yourself so much." "it ain't work so much," he said, "as thinking. there's summat i've got to think out." for the moment he seemed quite to forget her. he stood with his hands thrust into his pockets and his feet apart, staring at the carpet. he did not stir when she moved away, and was still standing so when she turned at the door to look at him. what she saw brought her back, hurried and tearful. "let me stay!" she cried. "let me stay. there's trouble in your face, jem, for i see it. don't keep it from me--for the sake of what we've been through together in times that's past." he bestirred himself and looked up at her. "trouble!" he repeated. "that's not the word. it's not trouble, old lady, and it's naught that can be helped. there's me and it to fight it out. go and get your sleep and leave us to it." she went slowly and sadly. she always obeyed him, whatever his wish might be. when the last sound of her faltering feet had died away upon the stairs, he went to the side-board and poured out a glass of raw brandy and drank it. "i want summat to steady me," he said,--"and to warm me." but it did not steady him, at least. when he sat down at the table, the hand he laid upon it shook. he looked at it curiously, clinching and unclinching it. "i'm pretty well done for when it goes like that," he said. "i'm farther gone than i thought. it's all over me--over and through me. i'm shaking like a fool." he broke out with a torrent of curses. "is it me that's sitting here," he cried, "or some other chap? is it me that luck's gone agen on every side or a chap that's useder to it?" among all his pangs of humiliation and baffled passion there was not one so subtle and terrible in its influence upon him as his momentary sense of physical weakness. he understood it less than all the rest, and raged against it more. his body had never failed him once, and now for the first time he felt that its power faltered. he was faint and cold, and trembled not merely from excitement but from loss of strength. opposite to him, at the other side of the room, was a full-length mirror. accidentally raising his eyes toward it he caught sight of his own face. he started back and unconsciously glanced behind him. "who----!" he began. and then he stopped, knowing the face for his own--white-lipped, damp with cold sweat, lined with harsh furrows--evil to see. he got up, shaking his fist at it, crying out through his shut teeth. "blast her!" he said. "who's to blame but her?" he had given up all for her, his ambition, which had swept all before it, his greatest strength, his very sins and coarseness, and half an hour ago he had passed the open door of a room and had seen murdoch standing motionless, not uttering a word, but with his face fairly transfigured by his ecstasy, and with her hand crushed against his breast. he had gone in to see ffrench, and had remained with him for an hour in one of the parlors, knowing that the two were alone in the other. he had heard their voices now and then, and had known that once they went upon the terrace and talked there. he had grown burning hot and deadly cold, and strained his ears for every sound, but never caught more than a word or low laugh coming from rachel ffrench. at last he had left his partner, and on his way out passed the open door. they had come back to the room, and murdoch was saying his good-night. he held rachel ffrench's hand, and she made no effort to withdraw it, but gave it to his caress. she did not move nor speak, but her eyes rested upon his rapt face with an expression not easy to understand. haworth did not understand it, but the rage which seized and shook him was the most brutal emotion he had ever felt in his life. it was a madness which left him weak. he staggered down the stairs and out into the night blindly, blaspheming as he went. he did not know how he reached home. the sight his mother had seen, and which had drawn a cry from her and checked her midway in the room had been cause enough for tremor in her. nothing but the most violent effort had saved him from an outbreak in her presence. he was weaker for the struggle when she was gone. he could think of nothing but of rachel ffrench's untranslatable face and of murdoch's close clasp of her surrendered hand. "what has she ever give me?" he cried. "_me_, that's played the fool for her! what's he done that he should stand there and fondle her as if he'd bought and paid for her? i'm the chap that paid for her! she's mine, body and soul, by george, if every man had his rights!" and then, remembering all that had gone by, he turned from hot to cold again. "i've stood up agen her a long time," he said, "and what have i got? i swore i'd make my way with her, and how far have i gone? she's never give me a word, by george, or a look that'd be what another woman would have give. she's not even played with me--most on 'em would have done that--but she's not. she's gone on her way and let me go on mine. she's turned neither right nor left for me--i wasn't man enough." he wore himself out in the end and went to the brandy again, and drank of it deeply. it sent him upstairs with heated blood and feverish brain. it was after midnight when he went to his room, but not to sleep. he lay upon his pillow in the darkness thinking of the things he had done in the past few months, and of the fruit the first seed he had sown might bring forth. "there's things that may happen to any on us, my lad," he said, "and some on 'em might happen to you. if it's jem haworth that's to lose, the other sha'n't gain, by george!" he had put the light out and lay in the darkness, and was so lying with this mood at work upon him when there came a timid summons on the door, and it opened and some one came in softly. he knew who it was, even before she spoke. "jem," she said, "jem, you're not asleep, my dear." "no," he answered. she came to the bed-side and stood there. "i--i couldn't sleep," she said. "something's a little wrong with me. i'm gettin' foolish, an'--an' fearful. i felt as if you wasn't quite safe. i thought i'd come and speak to you." "you're out o' sorts," he answered. "you'll have to be looked after." "it's nothing but my foolish way," she replied. "you're very good to me--an' me so full of fancies. would you--would you mind me a-kneelin' down an' sayin' a prayer here to myself as i used to when you was a boy, jem? i think it'd do me good. would you mind it?" "no," he answered hoarsely. "kneel down." and she knelt and grasped for his hand and held it, and he heard her whispering in the dark as he had been wont to hear her nearly thirty years before. and when it was over, she got up and kissed him on the forehead. "god bless you, my dear!" she said. "god bless you!" and went away. chapter xxxix. "it is done with." after the departure of haworth and murdoch, mr. ffrench waited for some time for his daughter's appearance. he picked up a pamphlet and turned over its leaves uneasily, trying to read here and there, and making no great success of the effort. he was in a disturbed and nervous mood, the evening had been a trial to him, more especially the latter part of it during which haworth sat on the other side of the table in his usual awkwardly free and easy posture, his hands in his pockets, his feet thrust out before him. his silence and the expression he wore had not been of a kind to relieve his companion of any tithe of the burden which had gradually accumulated upon his not too muscular shoulders. at the outset ffrench had been simply bewildered, then somewhat anxious and annoyed, but to-day he had been stunned. haworth's departure was an immense relief to him. it was often a relief to him in these days. then he heard murdoch descend the stairs and leave the house, and he waited with mingled dread and anxiousness for rachel's coming. but she did not make her appearance. he heard her walk across the room after murdoch left her, and then she did not seem to move again. after the lapse of half an hour he laid his pamphlet aside and rose himself. he coughed two or three times and paced the floor a little--gradually he edged toward the folding doors leading into the front room and passed through them. rachel stood at one of the windows, which was thrown open. she was leaning against its side and looking out into the night. when she turned toward him something in her manner caused in ffrench an increase of nervousness amounting to irritation. "you wish to say something to me," she remarked. "what is it?" "yes," he answered. "i wish to say something to you." he could not make up his mind to say it for a moment or so. he found himself returning her undisturbed glance with an excited and bewildered one. "i--the fact is"--he broke forth, desperately, "i--i do not understand you." "that is not at all singular," she replied. "you have often said so before." he began to lose his temper and to walk about the room. "you have often chosen to seem incomprehensible," he said, "but _this_ is the most extraordinary thing you have done yet. you--you must know that it looks very bad--that people are discussing you openly--_you_ of all women!" suddenly he wheeled about and stopped, staring at her with more uncertainty and bewilderment than ever. "i ought to know you better," he said, "i do know you better than to think you capable of any weakness of--of that kind. you are _not_ capable of it. you are too proud and too fond of yourself, and yet"---- "and yet what?" she demanded, in a peculiar, low voice. he faltered visibly. "and yet you are permitting yourself to--to be talked over and--misunderstood." "do you think," she asked, in the same voice, "that i care for being 'talked over?'" "you would care if you knew what is said," he responded. "you do not know." "i can guess," she replied, "easily." but she was deadly pale and he saw it, and her humiliation was that she _knew_ he saw it. "what you do," he continued, "is of more consequence than what most women do. you are not popular. you have held yourself very high and have set people at defiance. if you should be guilty of a romantic folly, it would go harder with you than with others." "i know that," she answered him, "far better than you do." she held herself quite erect and kept her eyes steadily upon him. "what is the romantic folly?" she put it to him. he could not have put it into words just then if his life had depended upon his power to do it. "you will not commit it," he said. "it is not in you to do it, but you have put yourself in a false position, and it is very unpleasant for both of us." she stopped him. "you are very much afraid of speaking plainly," she said. "be more definite." he flushed to the roots of his hair in his confusion and uneasiness. there was no way out of the difficulty. "you have adopted such a manner with the world generally," he floundered, "that a concession from you means a great deal. you--you have been making extraordinary concessions. it is easy to see that this young fellow is madly enamored of you. he does not know how to conceal it, and he does not try. you have not seemed to demand that he should. you have let him follow you, and come and go as his passion and simplicity prompted him. one might say you had encouraged him--though encouraged seems hardly the word to use." "no," she interrupted, "it is not the word to use." "he has made himself conspicuous and you too, and you have never protested by word or deed. when he was in danger you actually risked your life for him." "great heaven!" she ejaculated. the truth of what he said came upon her like a flash. until this moment she had only seen the night from one stand-point, and to see it from this one was a deadly blow to her. she lost her balance. "how dare you?" she cried breathlessly. "i was mad with excitement. if i had stopped to think----" "you usually do stop to think," he put in. "that was why i was amazed. you did a thing without calculating its significance. you never did so before in your life. you know that it is true. you pride yourself upon it." he could have said nothing so bitter and terrible. for the moment they had changed places. it was he who had presented a weakness to her. she did pride herself upon her cool power of calculation. "go on!" she exclaimed. "he has been here half the day," he proceeded, growing bolder. "you were out in the garden together all the afternoon--he has only just left you. when you contrast his position with yours is not _that_ an extraordinary thing? what should you say if another woman had gone so far? two years ago, he was haworth's engineer. he is a wonderful fellow and a genius, and the world will hear of him yet. _i_ should never think of anything but that if i were the only individual concerned, but you--you treated him badly enough at first." she turned paler and paler. "you think that i--that i----" she had meant to daunt him with the most daring speech she could make, but it would not complete itself. she faltered and broke down. "i don't know what to think," he answered desperately. "it seems impossible. good heavens! it is impossible!--you--it is not in your nature." "no," she said, "it is not." even in that brief space she had recovered herself wholly. she met his glance just as she had met it before, even with more perfect _sang froid_. "i will tell you what to think," she went on. "i have been very dull here. i wished from the first that i had never come. i hate the people, and i despise them more than i hate them. i must be amused and interested, and they are less than nothing. the person you speak of was different. i suppose what you say of him is true and he is a genius. i care nothing for that in itself, but he has managed to interest me. at first i thought him only absurd; he was of a low class and a common workman, and he was so simple and ignorant of the world that he did not feel his position or did not care. that amused me and i led him on to revealing himself. then i found out that there was a difference between him and the rest of his class, and i began to study him. i have no sentimental notions about his honor and good qualities. those things do not affect me, but i have been interested and the time has passed more easily. now the matter will end just as it began,--not because i am tired of him or because i care for what people say, but because i think it is time,--and i choose that it should. it is done with from to-night." "good heaven!" he cried. "you are not going to drop the poor fellow like that?" "you may call it what you please," she returned. "i have gone as far as i choose to go, and it is done with from to-night." mr. ffrench's excitement became something painful to see. between his embarrassment as a weak nature before a strong one,--an embarrassment which was founded upon secret fear of unpleasant results,--between this and the natural compunctions arising from tendencies toward a certain refined and amiable sense of fairness, he well-nigh lost all control over himself and became courageous. he grew heated and flushed and burst forth into protest. "my dear," he said, "i must say it's a--a deuced ungentlemanly business!" her lack of response absolutely inspired him. "it's a deuced ill-bred business," he added, "from first to last." she did not reply even to that, so he went on, growing warmer and warmer. "you have taunted me with being afraid of you," he said, "though you have never put it into so many words. perhaps i have been afraid of you. you can make yourself confoundedly unpleasant at times,--and i may have shrunk from saying what would rouse you,--but i must speak my mind about this, and say it is a deucedly cruel and unfair thing, and is unworthy of you. a less well-bred woman might have done it." a little color rose to her cheek and remained there, but she did not answer still. "he is an innocent fellow," he proceeded, "an unworldly fellow; he has lived in his books and his work, and he knows nothing of women. his passion for you is a pure, romantic one; he would lay his world at your feet. call it folly, if you will,--it _is_ folly,--but allow me to tell you it is worthy of a better object." he was so astonished at his own daring that he stopped to see what effect it had produced. she replied by asking a simple but utterly confounding question. "what," she said, "would you wish me to do?" "what would i wish you to do?" he stammered. "what? i--i hardly know." and after regarding her helplessly a little longer, he turned about and left the room. chapter xl. "look out!" the next morning ffrench rather surprised murdoch by walking into his cell with the evident intention of paying him a somewhat prolonged visit. it was not, however, the fact of his appearing there which was unusual enough to excite wonder, but a certain degree of mingled constraint and effusiveness in his manner. it was as if he was troubled with some mental compunctions which he was desirous of setting at rest. at times he talked very fast and in a comparatively light and jocular vein, and again he was silent for some minutes, invariably rousing himself from his abstraction with a sudden effort. several times murdoch found that he was regarding him with a disturbed air of anxiety. before going away he made an erratic and indecisive tour of the little room, glancing at drawings and picking up first one thing and then another. "you have a good many things here," he said, "of one kind and another." "yes," murdoch answered, absently. ffrench glanced around at the jumble of mechanical odds and ends, the plans and models in various stages of neglect or completion. "it's a queer place," he commented, "and it has an air of significance. it's crammed with ideas--of one kind and another." "yes," murdoch answered, as before. ffrench approached him and laid his hand weakly on his shoulder. "you are a fellow of ideas," he said, "and you have a good deal before you. whatever disappointments you might meet with, you would always have a great deal before you. you have ideas. i," with apparent inconsequence, "i haven't, you know." murdoch looked somewhat puzzled, but he did not contradict him, so he repeated his statement. "i haven't, you know. i wish i had." then he dropped his hand and looked indefinite again. "i should like you to always remember that i am your friend," he said. "i wish i could have been of more service to you. you are a fine fellow, murdoch. i have admired you--i have liked you. don't forget it." and he went away carrying the burden of his indecision and embarrassment and good intention with much amiable awkwardness. that day murdoch did not see rachel ffrench. circumstances occurred which kept him at work until a late hour. the next day it was the same story, and the next also. a series of incidents seemed to combine against him, and the end of each day found him worn out and fretted. but on the fourth he was free again, and early in the evening found himself within sight of the iron gates. every pulse in his body throbbed as he passed through them. he was full of intense expectation. he could scarcely bear to think of what was before him. his desperate happiness was a kind of pain. one of his chief longings was that he might find her wearing the pale blue dress again and that when he entered she might be standing in the centre of the room as he had left her. then it would seem as if there had been no nights and days between the last terribly happy moment and this. the thought which flashed across his mind that there might possibly be some one else in the room was a shock to him. "if she is not alone," he said to himself, "it will be unbearable." as he passed up the walk, he came upon a tall white lily blooming on one of the border beds. he was in a sufficiently mystical and emotional mood to be stopped by it. "it is like her," he said. and he gathered it and took it with him to the house. the first thing upon which his eye rested when he stood upon the threshold of the room was the pale blue color, and she was standing just as he had left her, it seemed to him upon the very same spot upon which they had parted. his wish had been realized so far at least. he was obliged to pause a moment to regain his self-control. it was an actual truth that he could not have trusted himself so far as to go in at once. it was best that he did not. the next instant she turned and spoke to a third person at the other side of the room, and even as she did so caught sight of him and stopped. "here is mr. murdoch," she said, and paused, waiting for him to come forward. she did not advance to meet him, did not stir until he was scarcely more than a pace from her. she simply waited, watching him as he moved toward her, as if she were a little curious to see what he would do. then she gave him her hand, and he took it with a feeling that something unnatural had happened, or that he was suddenly awakening from a delusion. he did not even speak. it was she who spoke, turning toward the person whom she had addressed before he entered. "you have heard us speak of mr. murdoch," she said; and then to himself, "this is m. saint méran." m. saint méran rose and bowed profoundly. he presented, as his best points, long, graceful limbs and a pair of clear gray eyes, which seemed to hold their opinions in check. he regarded murdoch with an expression of suave interest and made a well-bred speech of greeting. murdoch said nothing. he could think of nothing to say. he was never very ready of speech. he bowed with an uncertain air, and almost immediately wandered off to the other end of the room, holding his lily in his hand. he began to turn over the pages of a book of engravings, seeing none of them. after a little while a peculiar perfume close to him attracted his attention, and he looked downward vacantly and saw the lily. then he laid it down and moved farther away. afterward--he did not know how long afterward--ffrench came in. he seemed in a very feverish state of mind, talking a great deal and rather inanely, and forcing murdoch to reply and join in the conversation. m. saint méran held himself with a graceful air of security and self-poise, and made gentle efforts at scientific remark which should also have an interest for genius of a mechanical and inventive turn. but murdoch's replies were vague. his glance followed rachel ffrench. he devoured her with his eyes--a violence which she bore very well. at last--he had not been in the house an hour--he left his chair and went to her. "i am going away," he said in an undertone. "good-night!" she did not seem to hear him. she was speaking to saint méran. "good night!" he repeated, in the same tone, not raising it at all, only giving it an intense, concentrated sound. she turned her face toward him. "good-night!" she answered. [illustration: she turned her face toward him. "good-night," she answered.] and he went away, ffrench following him to the door with erratic and profuse regrets, which he did not hear at all. when he got outside, he struck out across the country. the strength with which he held himself in check was a wonder to him. it seemed as if he was not thinking at all--that he did not allow himself to think. he walked fast, it might even be said, violently; the exertion made his head throb and his blood rush through his veins. he walked until at last his heart beat so suffocatingly that he was forced to stop. he threw himself down--almost fell down upon the grass at the wayside and lay with shut eyes. he was giddy and exhausted, and panted for breath. he could not have thought then, if he would; he had gained so much at least. he did not leave the place for an hour. when he did so, it was to walk home by another route, slowly, almost weakly. this route led him by the briarley cottage, and, as he neared it, he was seized with a fancy for going in. the door was ajar and a light burned in the living-room, and this drew him toward it. upon the table stood a basket filled with purchases, and near the basket lay a shawl which janey wore upon all occasions requiring a toilet. she had just come in from her shopping, and sat on a stool in her usual posture, not having yet removed the large bonnet which spread its brim around her small face, a respectable and steady-going aureole enlivened with bunches of flowers which in their better days had rejoiced mrs. briarley's heart with exceeding great joy. she looked up as he came in, but she did not rise. "eh! it's thee, is it?" she remarked. "i thowt it wur toime tha wur comin'. tha'st not been here fur nigh a month." "i have been--doing a great deal." "aye," she answered. "i suppose so." she jerked her thumb toward granny dixon's basket chair, which stood empty. "she's takken down," she said. "she wur takken down a week sin', an' a noice toime we're ha'in' nursin' her. none on us can do anything wi' her but mother--_she_ can settle her, thank th' amoighty." she rested her sharp little elbows upon her knees and her chin upon both palms and surveyed him with interest. "has tha seed him?" she demanded suddenly. "who?" he asked. "him," with a nod of her head. "th' furriner as is stayin' at mester ffrench's. yo' mun ha' seen him. he's been theer three days." "i saw him this evening." "i thowt tha mun ha' seed him. he coom o' monday. he coom fro' france. i should na," with a tone of serious speculation,--"i should na ha' thowt she'd ha' had a frenchman." she moved her feet and settled herself more conveniently without moving her eyes from his face. "i dunnot think much o' frenchmen mysen," she proceeded. "an' neyther does mother, but they say as this is a rich un an' a grand un. she's lived i' france a good bit, an' happen she does na' moind their ways. she's knowed him afore." "when?" he asked. "when she wur theer. she lived theer, yo' know." yes, he remembered, she had lived there. he said nothing more, only sat watching the little stunted figure and sharp small face with a sense of mild fascination, wondering dully how much she knew and where she had learned it all, and what she would say next. but she gave him no further information--chiefly because she had no more on hand, there being a limit even to her sagacity. she became suddenly interested in himself. "yo're as pale as if yo'd had th' whoopin'-cough," she remarked. "what's wrong wi' yo'?" "i am tired," he answered. "worn out." that was true enough, but it did not satisfy her. her matter of fact and matronly mind arrived at a direct solution of the question. "did yo' ivver think," she put it to him, "as she'd ha' yo'?" he had no answer to give her. he began to turn deathly white about the lips. she surveyed him with increased interest and proceeded: "mother an' me's talked it over," she said. "we tak? th' 'ha'penny reader,' an' theer wur a tale in it as towd o' one o' th' nobility as wed a workin' chap--an' mother she said as happen she wur loike her an' ud do it, but i said she would na. th' chap i' th' tale turnt out to be a earl, as ud been kidnapped by th' gypsies, but yo' nivver wur kidnapt, an' she's noan o' th' soft koind. th' lady geral_dine_ wur a difrient mak'. theer wur na mich i' her to my moind. she wur allus makkin' out as brass wur nowt, an' talkin' about 'humble virchew' as if theer wur nowt loike it. yo' would na ketch _her_ talkin' i' that road. mother she'd sit an' cry until th' babby's bishop wur wet through, but i nivver seed nowt to cry about mysen. she getten th' chap i' th' eend, an' he turnt out to be a earl after aw. but i towd mother as marryin' a workin' man wur na i' _her_ loine." murdoch burst into a harsh laugh and got up. "i've been pretty well talked over, it seems," he said. "i didn't know that before." "aye," replied janey, coolly. "we've talked yo' ower a good bit. are yo' goin'?" "yes," he answered, "i am going." he went out with an uncertain movement, leaving the door open behind him. as he descended the steps, the light from the room, slanting out into the darkness, struck athwart a face, the body pertaining to which seemed to be leaning against the palings, grasping them with both hands. it was the face of mr. briarley, who regarded him with a mingled expression of anxiety and desire to propitiate. "is it yo'?" he whispered, as murdoch neared him. "yes," he was answered, somewhat shortly. mr. briarley put out a hand and plucked him by the sleeve. "i've been waitin' fur yo'," he said in a sonorous whisper which only failed to penetrate the innermost recesses of the dwelling through some miracle. murdoch turned out of the gate. "why?" he asked. mr. briarley glanced toward the house uneasily, and also up and down the road. "le's get out o' th' way a bit," he remarked. murdoch walked on, and he shuffled a few paces behind him. when they got well into the shadow of the hedge, he stopped. suddenly he dropped upon his knees and crawling through a very small gap into the field behind, remained there for a few seconds; then he re-appeared panting. "theer's no one theer," he said. "i would na ha' risked theer bein' one on 'em lyin' under th' hedge." "one of whom?" murdoch inquired. "i did na say who," he answered. when he stood on his feet again, he took his companion by the button. "theer's a friend o' moine," he said, "as ha' sent a messidge to yo'. this here's it--'_look out!_'" "what does it mean?" murdoch asked. "speak more plainly." mr. briarley became evidently disturbed. "nay," he said, "that theer's plain enow fur me. it ud do _my_ business i' quick toime if i----" he stopped and glanced about him again, and then, without warning, threw himself, so to speak, on murdoch's shoulder and began to pour a flood of whispers into his ear. "theer wur a chap as were a foo'," he said, "an' he was drawed into bein' a bigger foo' than common. it wur him as getten yo' i' trouble wi' th' stroikers. he did na mean no ill, an'--an' he ses, 'i'll tell him to look out. i'll run th' risk.' he knowed what wur goin' on, an' he ses, 'i'll tell him to look out.'" "who was he?" murdoch interposed. mr. briarley fell back a pace, perspiring profusely, and dabbing at his forehead with his cap. "he--he wur a friend o' moine," he stammered,--"a friend o' moine as has getten a way o' gettin' hissen i' trouble, an' he ses, 'i'll tell him to look out.'" "tell him from me," said murdoch, "that i am not afraid of anything that may happen." it was a rash speech, but was not so defiant as it sounded. his only feeling was one of cold carelessness. he wanted to get free and go away and end his night in his silent room at home. but mr. briarley kept up with him, edging toward him apologetically as he walked. "yo're set agen th' chap fur bein' a foo'," he persisted, breathlessly, "an' i dunnot blame yo'. he's set agen hissen. he's a misforchnit chap as is allus i' trouble. it's set heavy on him, an' ses he, 'i'll tell him to look out'." at a turn into a by-lane he stopped. "i'll go this road," he said, "an' i'll tell him as i've done it." chapter xli. "it has all been a lie." in a week's time saint méran had become a distinct element in the social atmosphere of broxton and vicinity. he fell into his place at rachel ffrench's side with the naturalness of a man who felt he had some claim upon his position. he was her father's guest; they had seen a great deal of each other abroad. any woman might have felt his well-bred homage a delicate compliment. he was received as an agreeable addition to society; he attended her upon all occasions. from the window of his work-room murdoch saw him drive by with her in her carriage, saw him drop into the bank for a friendly chat with ffrench, who regarded him with a mixture of nervousness and admiration. haworth, having gone away again, had not heard of him. of late the works had seen little of its master. he made journeys hither and hither, and on his return from such journeys invariably kept the place in hot water. he drove the work on and tyrannized over the hands from foremen to puddlers. at such times there was mysterious and covert rebellion and some sharp guessing as to what was going on, but it generally ended in this. upon the whole the men were used to being bullied, and some of them worked the better for it. murdoch went about his work as usual, though there was not a decent man on the place who did not gradually awaken to the fact that some singular change was at work upon him. he concentrated all his mental powers upon what he had to do during work hours, and so held himself in check, but he spent all his leisure in a kind of apathy, sitting in his cell at his work-table in his old posture, his forehead supported by his hands, his fingers locked in his tumbled hair. sometimes he was seized with fits of nervous trembling which left him weak. when he left home in the morning he did not return until night and he ate no midday meal. as yet he was only drifting here and there; he had arrived at no conclusions; he did not believe in his own reasoning; the first blow had simply stunned him. a man who had been less reserved and who had begun upon a fair foundation of common knowledge would have understood; he understood nothing but his passion, his past rapture, and that a mysterious shock had fallen upon him. he lived in this way for more than a week, and then he roused himself to make a struggle. one bright, sunny day, after sitting dumbly for half an hour or so, he staggered to his feet and took up his hat. "i'll--try--again," he said, mechanically. "i'll try again. i don't know what it means. it may have been my fault. i don't think it was--but it may have been. perhaps i expected too much." and he went out. after he had been absent some minutes, ffrench came in from the bank. he had been having a hard morning of it. the few apparently unimportant indiscretions in the way of private speculation of which he had been guilty were beginning to present themselves in divers unpleasant forms, and to assume an air of importance he had not believed possible. his best ventures had failed him, and things which he was extremely anxious to keep from haworth's ears were assuming a shape which would render it difficult to manage them privately. he was badgered and baited on all sides, and naturally began to see his own folly. his greatest fear was not so much that he should lose the money he had risked as that haworth should discover his luckless weakness and confront and crush him with it. as he stood in fear of his daughter, so he stood in fear of haworth; but his dread of haworth was, perhaps, the stronger feeling of the two. his very refinement added to it. having gained the object of his ambition, he had found it not exactly what he had pictured it. haworth had not spared him; the very hands had derided his enthusiastic and strenuous efforts; he had secretly felt that his position was ridiculous, and provocative of satire among the unscientific herd. when he had done anything which should have brought him success and helped him to assert himself, it had somehow always failed, and now----. he sat down in the managerial chair before haworth's great table, strewn with papers and bills. he had shut the door behind him and was glad to be alone. "i am extremely unfortunate," he faltered aloud. "i don't know how to account for it." and he glanced about him helplessly. before the words had fairly left his lips his privacy was broken in upon. the door was flung open and murdoch came in. he had evidently walked fast, for he was breathing heavily, and he had plainly expected to find the room empty. he looked at ffrench, sat down and wiped his lips. "i want you," he began, with labored articulation, "i want you--to tell me--what--i have done." ffrench could only stare at him. "i went to the house," he said, "and asked for her." (he did not say for whom, nor was it necessary that he should. ffrench understood him perfectly.) "i swear i saw her standing at the window as i went up the path. she had a purple dress on--and a white flower in her hair--and saint méran was at her side. before, the man at the door never waited for me to speak; this time he stood and looked at me. i said, 'i want to see miss ffrench;' he answered, 'she is not at home.' 'not at home,'"--breaking into a rough laugh,--"'not at home' to _me_!" he clinched his fist and dashed it against the chair. "what does it mean?" he cried out. "what does it _mean_?" ffrench quaked. "i--i don't know," he answered, and his own face gave him the lie. murdoch caught his words up and flung them back at him. "you don't know!" he cried. "then i will tell you. it means that she has been playing me false from first to last." ffrench felt his position becoming weaker and weaker. here was a state of affairs he had never seen before; here was a madness which concealed nothing, which defied all, which flung all social presuppositions to the winds. he ought to have been able to palter and equivocate, to profess a well-bred surprise and some delicate indignation, to be dignified and subtle; but he was not. he could only sit and wonder what would come next, and feel uncomfortable and alarmed. the thing which came next he had not expected any more than he had expected the rest of the outbreak. suddenly a sullen calmness settled upon the young fellow--a calm which spoke of some fierce determination. "i don't know why i should have broken out like this before you," he said. "seeing you here when i expected to fight it out alone, surprised me into it. but there is one thing i am going to do. i'll hear the truth from her own lips. when you go home i will go with you. they wont turn me back then, and i'll see her face to face." "i----" began ffrench, and then added, completely overwhelmed, "very--perhaps it would be--be best." "best!" echoed murdoch, with another laugh. "no, it won't be best; it will be worst; but i'll do it for all that." and he dropped his head upon the arms he had folded on the chair's back, and so sat in a forlorn, comfortless posture, not speaking, not stirring, as if he did not know that there was any presence in the room but his own. and he kept his word. as ffrench was going out into the street at dusk he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning, found murdoch close behind him. "i'm ready," he said, "if you are." when they reached the house, the man who opened the door stared at them blankly, which so irritated ffrench that he found an excuse for administering a sharp rebuke to him about some trifle. "they are always making some stupid blunder," he said to murdoch as they passed upstairs to the drawing-room. but murdoch did not hear. it was one of the occasions on which rachel ffrench reached her highest point of beauty. her black velvet dress was almost severe in its simplicity, and her one ornament was the jewelled star in her high _coiffure_. m. st. méran held his place at her side. he received murdoch with _empressement_ and exhibited much tact and good feeling. but murdoch would have none of him. he had neither tact nor experience. his time did not come until the evening was nearly over, and it would never have come if he had not at last forced her to confront him by making his way to her side with a daring which was so novel in him that it would have mastered another woman. near her he trembled a little, but he said what he had come to say. "to-day," he said, "when i called--your servant told me you were not at home." she paused a moment before answering, but when she did answer he trembled no more. "that was unfortunate," she said. "it was not true--i saw you at the window." she looked him quietly in the face, answering him in two words. "did you?" he turned on his heel and walked away. his brain whirled; he did not know how he got out of the room. he was scarcely conscious of existence until he found himself out-of-doors. he got beyond the gate and into the road, and to the end of the road, but there he stopped and turned back. he went back until he found he was opposite the house again, looking up at the lighted window, he did not know why. a sharp rain was falling, but he did not feel it. he stood staring at the window, mechanically plucking at the leaves on the hedge near him. he scarcely knew whether it was a curse or a sob which fell from his lips and awakened him at last. "am i going mad?" he said. "do men go mad through such things? god forbid! it has all been a lie--a lie--a lie!!" chapter xlii. "another man!" in two days haworth returned. he came from the station one morning, not having been home. he did not go to the works, but to the bank and straight into ffrench's private room. the look this unhappy gentleman gave him when he saw him was a queer mixture of anxiety, furtive query, and amiably frank welcome,--the frank welcome a very faint element indeed, though it was brought to light by a violent effort. haworth shut the door and locked it, and then turned upon him, his face black with rage. "say summat!" he ground out through his teeth. "say summat as'll keep me from smashing every bone in your body!" ffrench gave him one hopeless glance and wilted into a drooping, weakly protesting, humiliated figure. "don't--don't be so severe, haworth," he said. "i--i----" "blast you!" burst in haworth, pitilessly. "you've ruined me!" he spoke under his breath. no one in the room beyond could hear a word, but it was a thousand times more terrible than if he had roared at the top of his voice, as was his custom when things went amiss. "you've ruined me!" he repeated. "_you!_ a chap that's played gentleman manufacturer; a chap i've laughed at; a chap i took in to serve my own ends--ruined me, by----" "oh, no, no!" the culprit cried out. "my dear fellow, no! no, no!" haworth strode up to him and struck his fist against the table. "have i ever told you a word of what was going on?" he demanded. "no! no!" "have i ever let you be aught but what i swore you should be at th' first--a fellow to play second fiddle and do what he was told?" ffrench turned pale. a less hard nature would have felt more sympathy for him. "no," he answered, "you have not," and his chin dropped on his breast. haworth shook his fist in his face. he was in a frenzy of rage and despair. "it's been going from bad to worse for six months," he said; "but you were not up to seeing it stare you in the face. strikes are the things for trade to thrive on! one place after another gone down and jem haworth's stood up. jem haworth's outdone 'em all. i've not slept for three month, my lad. i've fought it like a tiger! i've not left a stone unturned. i've held my mouth shut and my eyes open,--aye, and held my breath, too. i've swore every time i saw daylight that i'd hold it out to the end and show 'em all what haworth was made of, and how he stood when th' nobs went down at the first drive. i'd sooner have hell than what's bound to come now! and it's you that's done it. you've lost me twenty thousand pound--twenty thousand, when ten's worth more to me than a hundred was a twelvemonth since!" ffrench quailed like a woman. "are--are you going to murder me?" he said. "you look as if you were." haworth turned on his heel. "you're not worth it," he answered, "or i'd do it, by the lord harry." then he came back to him. "i've paid enow for what i've never had, by george," he said, with bitter grimness. "for what you have----" ffrench began. haworth stopped him by flinging himself down in a chair near him--so near that their faces were brought within uncomfortably close range of each other. there was no avoiding his eye. "you know what," he sneered. "none better." "i----" ffrench faltered. "blast you!" said haworth. "you played her like bait to a fish--in your gentleman's fashion." ffrench felt a little sick. it was not unnatural that he should. a man of refined instincts likes less than any other man to be confronted brutally with the fact that he has, however delicately, tampered with a coarseness. haworth went on. "you knew how to do it, and you did it--gentleman way. you knew me and you knew i was hard hit and you knew i'd make a big throw. that was between us two, though we never said a word. i'd never give up a thing in my life before and i was mad for her. she knew how to hold me off and gave me plenty to think of. what else had you, my lad? 'haworth's' didn't want a gentleman; 'haworth's' didn't want brass, and you'd none to give if it did. it wasn't _you_ who was took in partner; it was what jem haworth was aiming at--and has missed, by----" he got up, and, pushing his chair back, made a stride toward the door. ffrench was sure he was going away without another word, but he suddenly stopped and turned back. "i'd sooner take hell than what's comin'," he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "and it's you that's brought it on me; but if i'd got what i aimed at, it might have come and welcome." then he went out. he went across to the works, and, going into his room, he found murdoch standing at one of the windows gazing out at something in the street. he was haggard and gaunt and had a vacant look. it occurred to haworth that some sudden physical ailment had attacked him. he went up to his side. "what have you found, lad?" he demanded. the next instant his own eyes discovered what it was. an open carriage was just drawing up before the bank. rachel ffrench sat in it, and saint méran was with her. he looked at them a second or so and then looked at murdoch--at his wretched face and his hollow eyes. an unsavory exclamation burst from him. "what!" he cried out after it. "there's another man, is there? is it _that_?" "yes," was murdoch's monotonous reply. "there's another man." chapter xliii. "even." the same evening m. saint méran had the pleasure of meeting a person of whom he had heard much, and in whom he was greatly interested. this person was the master of "haworth's," who came in after dinner. if he had found murdoch a little trying and wearisome, m. saint méran found haworth astounding. he was not at all prepared for him. when he walked into the room as if it were his own, gave a bare half-nod to ffrench, and carried himself aggressively to miss ffrench's side, saint méran was transfixed with astonishment. he had heard faint rumors of something like this before, but he never dreamed of seeing it. he retreated within himself and proceeded to study minutely the manners and characteristics of the successful manufacturers of great britain. "he is very large," he said, with soft sarcasm, to miss ffrench. "very large indeed." "that," replied miss ffrench, "is probably the result of the iron trade." the truth was that he seemed to fill the room. the time had passed when he was ill at ease in the house. now he was cool to defiance. ffrench had never found him so embarrassing as he was upon this particular evening. he spoke very little, sitting in his chair silent, with a gloomy and brooding look. when he directed his attention upon any one, it was upon rachel. the prolonged gaze which he occasionally fixed upon her was one of evil scrutiny, which stirred her usually cool blood not a little. she never failed, however, to meet it with composure. at last she did a daring thing. under cover of a conversation between her father and saint méran, she went to the table at his side and began to turn over the books upon it. "i think," she said, in an undertone, "that you have something to say to me." "aye," he answered, "i have that, and the time'll come when i shall say it, too." "you think i'm afraid to hear it," she continued. "follow me into the next room and see." then she addressed her father, speaking aloud. "your plans for the new bank are in the next room, i believe," she said. "i wish to show them to mr. haworth." "y--yes," he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. "they are on my table." she passed through the folding doors and haworth followed her. she stopped at one of the windows and waited for him to speak, and it was during this moment in which she waited that he saw in her face what he had not seen before--a faint pallor and a change which was not so much a real change as the foreshadowing of one to come. he saw it now because it chanced that the light struck full upon her. "now," she said, "say your say. but let me tell you that i shall listen not because i feel a shadow of interest in it, but because i _know_ you thought i shrank from hearing it." he pushed open the french window and strode on to the terrace. "step out here," he said. she went out. "this," he said, glancing about him, "this is th' place you stood on th' night you showed yourself to the strikers." she made no answer. "it's as good a place as any," he went on. "i'm going to have it out with you," he said, with bitter significance. then, for the first time, it struck her that she had overstepped the mark and done a dangerous thing, but she would have borne a great deal sooner than turn back, and so she remained. "i've stood it a long time," he said, "and now i'm going to reckon up. there's a good bit of reckoning up to be done betwixt you and me, for all you've held me at arm's length." "i am glad," she put in, "that you acknowledge that i did hold you at arm's length, and that you were not blind to it." "oh," he answered, "i wasn't blind to it, no more than you were blind to the other; and from first to last it's been my comfort to remember that you weren't blind to the other--that you knew it as well as i did. i've held to that." he came close to her. "when i give up what i'd worked twenty year to get, what did i give it up for? for _you_. when i took ffrench in partner, what did i run the risk for? for _you_. what was to pay me? _you._" his close presence in the shadow was so intolerable to her that she could have cried out, but she did not. "you made a poor bargain," she remarked. "aye, a poor bargain; but you were one in it. you bore it in your mind, and you've bore it there from then till now, and i've got a hold on you through it that's worth summat to me, if i never came nigh nor touched you. you knew it, and you let it be. no other chap can pay more for you than jem haworth's paid. i've got that to think of." she made a gesture with her hand. "i--i--hush!" she cried. "i will not hear it!" "stop it, if you can. call 'em if you want, and let 'em hear--th' new chap and all. you shall hear, if all broxton comes. i've paid twenty-five year of work and sweat and grime; i've paid 'haworth's'--for i'm a ruined chap as i stand here; and but for _you_ i'd have got through." there was a shock in these last words; if they were true the blow would fall on her too. "what," she faltered,--"what do you mean?" "th' strikes begun it," he answered, laconically, "and," with a jerk of his thumb toward the room in which her father sat, "he finished it. he tried some of his gentleman pranks in a quiet way, and he lost money on 'em. he's lost it again and again, and tried to cover it with fresh shifts, and it's 'haworth's' that must pay for 'em. it'll come sooner or later, and you may make up your mind to it." "what were you doing?" she demanded, sharply. "you might have known----" "aye," he returned, "what was i doing? i used to be a sharp chap enow. i've not been as sharp i' th' last twelvemonth, and he was up to it. he thought it was his own brass, likely--he'd give summat for it as belonged to him." he came nearer to the light and eyed her over. "you've had your day," he said. "you've made a worse chap of me than i need have been. you--you lost me a friend; i hadn't counted that in. you've done worse by him than you've done by me. he was th' finer mak' of th' two, and it'll go harder with him. when i came in, he was hanging about the road-side, looking up at the house. he didn't see me, but i saw him. he'll be there many a night, i dare say. i'd be ready to swear he's there now." "whom do you mean?" "i mean--murdoch!" the very sound of his own voice seemed to fire him with rage. she saw a look in his eye which caused her to shrink back. but she was too late. he caught her by the arm and dragged her toward him. a second later when he released her, she staggered to one of the rustic seats and sank crouching into it, hiding her face in the folds of her dress. she had not cried out, however, nor uttered a sound, and he had known she would not. he stood looking down at her. "a gentleman wouldn't have done it," he said, hoarsely. "i'm not a gentleman. you've held me off and trampled me under foot. that'll leave us a bit even." and he turned on his heel and walked away into the darkness. chapter xliv. "why do you cry for me?" when he said that he had seen murdoch standing in the road before the house, he had spoken the truth. it was also true that even as they stood upon the terrace he was there still. he was there every night. where he slept or when, or if at all, his mother and christian did not know; they only knew that he never spent a night at home. they barely saw him from day to day. when he came home in the morning and evening, it was to sit at the table, rarely speaking, scarcely tasting food, only drinking greedily the cup of strong coffee christian always had in readiness for him. the girl was very good to him in these days. she watched him in terror of his unnatural mood. he hardly seemed to see them when they were in the room with him; his eyes were hollow and burning bright; he grew thin and narrow-chested and stooped; his hands were unsteady when he lifted anything. when she was alone, christian said to herself again and again: "he will die. there is no help for it. he will die--or worse." one morning she came down to find him lying on the sofa with closed eyes and such a deathly face that she almost cried out aloud. but she restrained herself and went into the kitchen as if to perform her usual tasks. not long afterward she returned carrying a little tray with a cup of hot coffee upon it. "will you drink this for me?" she said to him. he opened his eyes a little impatiently, but he sat up and drank it. "it's very good," he said, as he fell back again into his old position, "but you mustn't put yourself to trouble for me." afterward the coffee was always ready for him when he came in, and he got into the habit of drinking it mechanically. the books he had been accustomed to pore over at every leisure moment lay unopened. he neither touched nor looked at them. the two women tried to live their lives as if nothing were happening. they studiously avoided questioning or appearing to observe him. "we must not let him think that we talk of him," christian said. she showed a wonderful gentleness and tact. until long afterward, mrs. murdoch scarcely knew what support and comfort she had in her. her past life had planted in her a readiness to despair. "he is like his father," she said once. "he was like him as a child. he is very trusting and faithful, but when his belief is gone it is all over. he has given up as his father did before he died. he will not try to live." he did not try to live, but he did not think of death. he was too full of other morbid thoughts. he could not follow any idea far. a thousand of them came and went, and in the end were as nothing. "why," he kept saying to himself weakly and wearily,--"_why_ was it? what had i done? it was a strange thing to choose me out of so many. i was hardly worth it. to have chosen another man would have served her better." he did not know how the days passed at the works. the men began to gaze at him askance and mutter when he went by. "th' feyther went daft," they said. "is this chap goin' th' same way?" it was only the look of his face which made them say so. he got through his work one way or another. but the days were his dread. the nights, strange and dreadful enough, were better than the broad daylight, with the scores of hands about him and the clangor of hammers and whir of machinery. he fell into the habit of going to the engine-room and standing staring at the engine, fascinated by it. once he drew nearer and nearer with such a look in his eye that floxham began to regard him stealthily. he went closer, pace by pace, and at last made a step which brought a shout from floxham, who sprang upon him and tore him away. "what art at, tha foo'?" he yelled. "does tha want to go whoam on a shutter?" wakening, with a long breath, he said: "i forgot, that was it. i was thinking of another thing." the time came at length when he had altered so that when he went out his mother and christian often sat up together half the night trembling with a fear neither of them would have put into words. as they sat trying to talk, each would glance at the other stealthily, and when their eyes met, each would start as if with some guilty thought. on one of the worst and most dreadful of nights, christian suddenly rose from her seat, crossed the hearth and threw herself upon her knees before her companion. "i am going out," she said. "don't--don't try to keep me." "it is midnight," said mrs. murdoch, "and--you don't know where to go." "yes," the girl returned, "i do. for god's sake, let me go! i cannot bear it." the woman gave her a long look, and then said a strange and cruel thing. "you had better stay where you are. it is not _you_ he wants." "no," she said bitterly, "it is not i he wants; but i can find him and make sure--that--he will come back. and then you will go to sleep." she left her in spite of her efforts to detain her. she was utterly fearless, and went into the night as if there was no such thing as peril on earth. she did know where to go and went there. murdoch was standing opposite the house in which rachel ffrench slept. she went to him and put her hand on his arm. "what are you doing here?" she said, in a low voice. he turned and gave her a cold, vacant look. he did not seem at all surprised at finding her dark, beautiful young face at his very shoulder. "i don't know. can you tell me?" "we have been waiting for you," she said. "we cannot rest when you are away." "do you want me to go home and go to bed decently and sleep?" he said. "do you suppose i would not, if i could? i always start from here and come back here. i say to myself, 'it will take me an hour to reach the place where i can see her window.' it is something to hold one's mind in check with. this rambling--and--and forgetting what one has meant to think about is a terrible thing." "come home with me," she said. "we will not talk. you can lie on the sofa and we will go away. i want your mother to sleep." something in her presence began to influence him to a saner mood. "what are you doing here?" he asked. "it is midnight." "i am not afraid. i could not bear to stay in the house. we sit there----" an idea seemed to strike him suddenly. he stopped her and asked deliberately: "did you come because you thought i might do myself harm?" she would not answer, and after waiting a second or so he went on slowly: "i have thought i might myself--sometimes, but never for long. you have no need to fear. i am always stopped by the thought that--perhaps--it is not worth it after all. when things look clearer, i shall get over it. yes--i think i shall get over it--though now there seems to be no end. but--some day--it will come--and i shall get over it. don't be afraid that i shall do myself harm. if i am not killed--before the end comes--i shall not kill myself. i shall know it was not worth it after all." the tears had been running down her cheeks as she stood, but she bit her lip and forced herself to breathe evenly, so that he might not find her out. but just then, as he moved, a great drop fell upon the back of his hand. he stopped and began to tremble. "good heavens!" he cried. "you are crying. why do you cry for me?" "because i cannot help it," she said in a half-whisper. "i do not cry often. i never cried for any one before." "i'll take you home," he said, moving slowly along at her side. "don't cry." chapter xlv. "it is worse than i thought." a week or so later saint méran went away. ffrench informed his partner of this fact with a secret hope of its producing upon him a somewhat softening effect. but haworth received the statement with coolness. "he'll come back again," he said. "let him alone for that." the general impression was that he would return. the opinion most popular in the more humble walks of broxton society was that he had gone "to get hissen ready an' ha' th' papers drawed up," and that he would appear some fine day with an imposing retinue, settle an enormous fortune upon miss ffrench, and, having been united to her with due grandeur and solemnity, would disappear with her to indefinitely "furrin" parts. there seemed to be little change in rachel ffrench's life and manner, however. she began to pay rather more strict attention to her social duties, and consequently went out oftener. this might possibly be attributed to the fact that remaining in-doors was somewhat dull. haworth and murdoch came no more, and after saint méran's departure a sort of silence seemed to fall upon the house. ffrench himself felt it when he came in at night, and was naturally restless under it. perhaps miss ffrench felt it, too, though she did not say so. one morning, janey briarley, sitting nursing the baby in the door-way of the cottage, glanced upward from her somewhat arduous task to find a tall and graceful figure standing before her in the sun. she had been too busily engaged to hear footsteps, and there had been no sound of carriage-wheels, so the visitor had come upon her entirely unawares. it cannot be said she received her graciously. her whilom admiration had been much tempered by sharp distrust very early in her acquaintance with its object. "art tha coomin' in?" she asked unceremoniously. "yes," said miss ffrench, "i am coming in." janey got up and made room for her to pass, and when she had passed, gave her a chair, very much overweighted by the baby as she did so. "does tha want to see mother?" "if your mother is busy, you will serve every purpose. the housekeeper told me that mrs. dixon was ill, and as i was passing i thought i would come in." janey's utter disbelief in this explanation was a sentiment not easily concealed, even by an adept in controlling facial expression, and she was not an adept. but miss ffrench was not at all embarrassed by any demonstration of a lack of faith which she might have perceived. when janey resumed her seat, she broke the silence by an entirely unexpected observation. she touched the baby delicately with the point of her parasol--very delicately indeed. "i suppose," she remarked, "that this is an extremely handsome child." this with the air of one inquiring for information. "nay, he is na," retorted janey unrelentingly. "he's good enow, but he nivver wur hurt wi' good looks. none on 'em wur, an' he's fou'est o' th' lot. i should think tha could see that fur thysen." "oh," replied miss ffrench, "then i suppose i am wrong. my idea was that at that age children all looked alike." "loike him?" said janey dryly. "did tha think as tha did?" as the young briarley in question was of a stolid and unornamental type, uncertain of feature and noticeable chiefly for a large and unusually bald head of extraordinary phrenological development, this gave the matter an entirely novel aspect. "perhaps," said miss ffrench, "i scarcely regarded it from that point of view." then she changed the subject. "how is mrs. dixon?" she inquired. "she's neyther better nor worse," was the answer, "an' a mort o' trouble." "that is unfortunate. who cares for her?" "mother. she's th' on'y one as can do owt wi' her." "is there no one else she has a fancy for--your father, for instance?" inquired miss ffrench. "she conna bide th' soight o' him, an' he's feart to go nigh her. th' ony man as she ivver looked at wur murdoch," answered janey. "i think i remember his saying she had made friends with him. is she as fond of him now?" "i dunnot know as i could ca' it bein' fond on him. she is na fond o' nobody. but she says he's getten a bit more sense than th' common run." "it is rather good-natured on his part to come to see her----" "he does na coom to see her. he has na been nigh th' house fur a month. he's been ill hissen or summat. he's up an' about, but he'd getten a face loike death th' last toime i seed him. happen he's goin' off loike his feyther." "how is that?" "did na tha know," with some impatience, "as he went crazy over summat he wur makkin', an' deed 'cause he could na mak' out to finish it? it's th' very thing murdoch took up hissen an' th' stroikers wur so set ag'in." "i think i remember. there was a story about the father. do you--think he is really ill?" "murdoch? aye, i do.--mak'less noise, tummos henry!" (this to the child.) "that is a great pity. ah, there is the carriage." one of her gloves had been lying upon her lap. when she stood up, it dropped. she bent to pick it up, and as she did so something fell tinkling upon the flag floor and rolled under a table. it was one of her rings. janey brought it back to her. "it mun ha' been too large fur thee," she said, "or tha'rt gettin' thin. seems loike tha'rt a bit different to what tha wur," with a glance at her. "never mind that," she answered sharply, as she handed her some money. "give this to your mother." and she dropped the ring into her purse instead of putting it on again, and went out to her carriage. janey stood and watched her. "she is a bit thinner, or summat," she remarked, "but she need na moind that. it's genteel enow to be thin, an' i dunnot know as it ud hurt her." rachel ffrench went home, and the same afternoon murdoch came to her for the last time. he had not intended to come. in his wildest moments he had never thought of going to her again, but as he passed along the road, intending to spend the afternoon in wandering across the country, he looked up at the windows of the house, and a strange fancy seized upon him. he would go in and ask her the question he had asked himself again and again. it did not seem to him at the time a strange thing to do. it looked wonderfully simple and natural in his strained and unnatural mood. he turned in at the gate with only one feeling--that perhaps she would tell him, and then it would be over. she saw him come up the path, and wondered if the man at the door would remember the charge she had given him. it chanced that he did not remember, or that he was thrown off his guard. she heard feet on the stairs in a few seconds, and almost immediately murdoch was in the room. what she thought when, being brought thus near to him, she saw and recognized the dreadful change in him, god knows. she supported herself with her hand upon the back of her chair as she rose. there was a look in his face almost wolfish. he would not sit down, and in three minutes broke through the barrier of her effort at controlling him. it was impossible for her to control him as she might have controlled another man. "i have only a few words to say," he said. "i have come to ask you a question. i think that is all--only to ask you a question." "will you tell me," he said, "what wrong i have done you?" she put her other hand on the chair and held it firmly. "will you tell me," she said, almost in a whisper, "what wrong i have done _you_?" she remained so, looking at him and he at her, with a terrible helplessness, through a moment of dead silence. she dropped her face upon her hands as she held the chair, and so stood. he fell back a pace, gazing at her still. "i have heard of women who fancied themselves injured," he said, "planning to revenge themselves upon the men who had intentionally or unintentionally wounded their pride. i remember such things in books i have read, not in real life, and once or twice the thought has crossed my mind that at some time in the past i might, in my poor ignorance, have presumed--or--blundered in some way to--anger you--and that this has been my punishment. it is only a wild thought, but it was a straw to cling to, and i would rather believe it, wild as it is, than believe that what you have done has been done wantonly. can it be--is it true?" "no." but she did not lift her face. "it is not?" "no." "then it is worse than i thought." he said the words slowly and clearly, and they were his last. having said them, he went away without a backward glance. chapter xlvi. once again. in half an hour's time murdoch had left broxton far behind him. he left the open road and rambled across fields and through lanes. the people in the farm-houses, who knew him, saw him pass looking straight before him and walking steadily like a man with an end in view. his mind was full of one purpose--the determination to control himself and keep his brain clear. "_now_," he said, "let me think it over--now let me look at it in cold blood." the effort he made was something gigantic; it was a matter of physical as well as mental force. he had wavered and been vague long enough. now the time had come to rouse himself through sheer power of will, or give up the reins and drift with the current, a lost man. at dusk he reached dillup, and roamed about the streets, half conscious of his surroundings. the saturday-night shopping was going on, and squalid women hurrying past him with their baskets on their arms glanced up, wondering at his dark face and preoccupied air. "he's noan dillup," they said; one good woman going so far as to add that "she did na loike th' looks on him neyther," with various observations upon the moral character of foreigners in general. he saw nothing of the sensation he created, however. he rambled about erratically until he felt the need of rest, and then went into a clean little shop and bought some simple food and ate it sitting upon the tall stool before the counter, watched by the stout, white-aproned matron in charge. "tha looks poorly, mester," she said, as she handed him his change. he started a little on hearing her voice, but recovered himself readily. "oh no," he said. "i'm right enough, i think. i'm an american, and i suppose we are rather a gaunt-looking lot as a rule." "'merikin, art tha?" she replied. "well to be sure! happen that's it" (good naturedly). "i've allus heerd they wur a poor color. 'merikin! well--sure-_ly_!" the fact of his being an american seemed to impress her deeply. she received his thanks (she was not often thanked by her customers) as a mysterious though not disagreeable result of his nationality, and as he closed the door after him he heard, as an accompaniment to the tinkling of the shop-bell, her amiably surprised ejaculation, "a 'merikin! well--sure-_ly_!" a few miles from broxton there was a substantial little stone bridge upon which he had often sat. in passing it again and again it had gradually become a sort of resting place for him. it was at a quiet point of the road, and sitting upon it he had thought out many a problem. when he reached it on his way back he stopped and took his usual seat, looking down into the slow little stream beneath, and resting against the low buttress. he had not come to work out a problem now; he felt that he had worked his problem out in the past six hours. "it was not worth it," he said. "no--it was not worth it after all." when he went on his way again he was very tired, and he wondered drearily whether, when he came near the old miserable stopping place, he should not falter and feel the fascination strong upon him again. he had an annoying fear of the mere possibility of such a thing. when he saw the light striking slantwise upon the trees it might draw him toward it as it had done so often before--even in spite of his determination and struggles. half a mile above the house a great heat ran over him, and then a deadly chill, but he went on steadily. there was this for him, that for the first time he could think clearly and not lose himself. he came nearer to it and nearer, and it grew in brightness. he fancied he had never seen it so bright before. he looked up at it and then away. he was glad that having once looked he could turn away; there had been many a night when he could not. then he was under the shadow of the trees and knew that his dread had been only a fancy, and that he was a saner man than he had thought. and the light was left behind him and he did not look back, but went on. when he reached home the house was utterly silent. he entered with his latch-key and finding all dark went upstairs noiselessly. the door of his own room was closed, and when he opened it he found darkness there also. he struck a match and turned on the light. for a moment its sudden glare blinded him, and then he turned involuntarily toward the farther corner of the room. why he did so, he did not know at the time,--the movement was the result of an uncontrollable impulse,--but after he had looked he knew. the light shone upon the empty chair in its old place--and upon the table and upon the model standing on it! he did not utter any exclamation; strangely enough, he did not at first feel any shock or surprise. he advanced toward it slowly. but when at last he stood near it, the shock came. his heart beat as if it would burst. "what falseness is there in me," he cried, "that i should have _forgotten_ it?" he was stricken with burning shame. he did not ask himself how it was that it stood there in its place. he thought of nothing but the lack in himself which was so deep a humiliation. everything else was swept away. he sank into the chair and sat staring at it. "i had forgotten it," he said,--"_forgotten_ it." and then he put out his hand and touched and moved it--and drew it toward him. about an hour afterward he was obliged to go downstairs for something he needed. it was to the sitting-room he went, and when he pushed the door open he found a dim light burning and saw that some one was lying upon the sofa. his first thought was that it was his mother who had waited for him, but it was not she--it was christian murdoch, fast asleep with her face upon her arm. her hat and gloves were thrown upon the table and she still wore a long gray cloak which was stained and damp about the hem. he saw this as soon as he saw her face, and no sooner saw than he understood. he went to the sofa and stood a moment looking down at her, and, though he did not speak or stir, she awakened. she sat up and pushed her cloak aside, and he spoke to her. "it was you who brought it back," he said. "yes," she answered quietly. "i thought that if you saw it in the old place again, you would remember." "_you_ did not forget it." "i had nothing else to think of," was her simple reply. "i must seem a poor sort of fellow to you," he said wearily. "i _am_ a poor sort of fellow." "no," she said "or i should not have thought it worth while to bring it back." he glanced down at her dress and then up at her face. "you had better go upstairs to bed," he said. "the dew has made your dress and cloak damp. thank you for what you have done." she got up and turned away. "good-night," she said. "good-night," he answered, and watched her out of the room. then he found what he required and went back to his work; only, more than once as he bent over it, he thought again of the innocent look of her face as it had rested upon her arm while she slept. chapter xlvii. a footstep. he went out no more at night. from the moment he laid his hand upon the model again he was safer than he knew. gradually the old fascination re-asserted itself. there were hours of lassitude and weariness to be borne, and moments of unutterable bitterness and disgust for life, in which he had to fight sharp battles against the poorer side of his nature; but always at the worst there was something which made itself a point to fix thought upon. he could force himself to think of this when, if he had had no purpose in view, he would have been a lost man. the keen sense of treachery to his own resolve stung him, but it was a spur after all. the strength of the reaction had its physical effect upon him, and sometimes he suddenly found himself weak to exhaustion,--so weak that any exertion was impossible, and he was obliged to leave his post at the works and return home for rest. at such times he lay for hours upon the narrow sofa in the dull little room, as his father had done long before, and wore a look so like him that, one day, his mother coming into the room not knowing he was there, cried out aloud and staggered backward, clutching at her breast. her manner toward him softened greatly in these days. it was more what it had been in his boyhood, when she had watched over him with patient and unfailing fondness. once he awakened to see her standing a few paces from his side, seeming to have been there some moments. "if--i have seemed hard to you in your trouble," she said, "forgive me." she spoke without any prelude, and did not seem to expect any answer, turning away and going about her work at once, but he felt that he need feel restless and chilled in her presence no longer. he did not pursue his task at home, but took the model down to the works and found a place for it in his little work-cell. the day he did so he was favored by a visit from haworth. it was the first since the rupture between them. since then they had worked day after day with only the door between them, they had known each other's incomings and outgoings, but had been as far apart as if a world separated them. haworth had known more of murdoch than murdoch had known of him. no change in him had escaped his eye. he had seen him struggle and reach his climax at last. he had jeered at him as a poor enough fellow with fine, white-livered fancies, and a woman's way of bearing himself. he had raged at and cursed him, and now and then had been lost in wonder at him, but he had never fathomed him from first to last. but within the last few weeks his mood had changed,--slowly, it is true, but it had changed. his bearing had changed, too. murdoch himself gradually awakened to a recognition of this fact, in no small wonder. he was less dogged and aggressive, and showed less ill-will. that he should appear suddenly, almost in his old way, was a somewhat startling state of affairs, but he crossed the threshold coolly. he sat down and folded his arms on the table. "you brought summat down with you this morning," he said. "what was it?" murdoch pointed to the wooden case, which stood on a shelf a few feet from him. "it was that," he answered. "that!" he repeated. "what! you're at work at it again, are you?" "yes." "well, look sharp after it, that's all. there's a grudge bore again it." "i know that," murdoch answered, "to my cost. i brought it here because i thought it would be safer." "aye, it'll be safer. take my advice and keep it close, and work at it at nights, when th' place is quiet. there's a key as'll let you in." and he flung a key down upon the table. murdoch picked it up mechanically. he felt as if he could scarcely be awake. it seemed as if the man must have brought his purpose into the room with him, having thought it over beforehand. his manner by no means disarmed the suspicion. "it is the favor i should have asked, if i had thought----" haworth left his chair. "there's th' key," he said, abruptly. "use it. no other chap would get it." he went back to his own room, and murdoch was left to his surprise. he finished his work for the day, and went home, remaining there until night came on. then he went back to the works, having first told christian of his purpose. "i am going to the works," he said. "i may be there all night. don't wait for me, or feel anxious." when the great building loomed up before him in the dark, his mind recalled instantly the night he had entered it before, attracted by the light in the window. there was no light about it now but that shut in the lantern he carried. the immensity and dead stillness would have been a trying thing for many a man to encounter, but as he relocked the door and made his way to his den, he thought of them only from one point of view. "it is the silence of the grave," he said. "a man can concentrate himself upon his work as if there was not a human breath stirring within a mile of him." somehow, even his room wore a look which seemed to belong to the silence of night--a look he felt he had not seen before. he marked it with a vague sense of mystery when he set his lantern down upon the table, turning the light upon the spot on which his work would stand. then he took down the case and opened it and removed the model. "it will not be forgotten again," he thought aloud. "if it is to be finished, it will be finished here." half the night passed before he returned home. when he did so he went to his room and slept heavily until daylight. he had never slept as he slept in these nights,--heavy dreamless sleep, from which, at first, he used to awaken with a start and a perfectly blank sense of loss and dread, but which became, at last, unbroken. night after night found him at his labor. it grew upon him; he longed for it through the day; he could not have broken from it if he would. once, as he sat at his table, he fancied that he heard a lock click and afterward a stealthy footstep. it was a sound so faint and indistinct that his disbelief in its reality was immediate; but he got up, taking his lantern with him, and went out to look at the entrance passage. it was empty and dark, and the door was shut and locked as he had left it. he went back to his work little disturbed. he had not really expected to find the traces of any presence in the place, but he had felt it best to make the matter safe. perhaps the fact that once or twice on other nights the same light, indefinite sound fell upon his ear again, made him feel rather more secure than otherwise. having examined the place again and with the same result, it troubled him no more. he set it down to some ordinary material cause. after his first visit haworth came into his room often. why he came murdoch did not understand very clearly. he did not come to talk; sometimes he scarcely spoke at all. he was moody and abstracted. he went about the place wearing a hard and reckless look, utterly unlike any roughness and hardness he had shown before. the hands who had cared the least for his not altogether ill-natured tempests in days gone by shrank or were restive before him now. he drove all before him or passed through the rooms sullenly. it was plain to see that he was not the man he had been--that he had even lost strength, and was suddenly worn and broken, though neither flesh nor color had failed him. among those who had made a lion of him he was more popular than ever. the fact that he had held out against ill luck when so many had gone down, was constantly quoted. the strikes which had kept up an uneven but prolonged struggle had been the ruin of many a manufacturer who had thought he could battle any storm. "haworth's" had held its own and weathered the worst. this was what the county potentates were fond of saying upon all occasions,--particularly when they wanted haworth to dine with them at their houses. he used to accept their invitations and then go and sit at their dinner-tables with a sardonic face. his humor, it was remarked with some regret, was often of a sardonic kind. occasionally he laughed at the wrong time, and his jokes were not always easy to smile under. it was also remarked that mr. ffrench scarcely seemed comfortable upon these festive occasions. of late he had not been in the enjoyment of good health. he explained that he suffered from nervous headaches and depression. his refined, well-molded face had become rather thin and fatigued-looking. he had lost his effusive eloquence. he often sat silent and started nervously when spoken to, but he did not eschew society at all, always going out upon any state occasion when his partner was to be a feature of the feast. once upon such an occasion he had said privately and with some plaintiveness to haworth: "i don't think i can go to-night, my dear fellow. i really don't feel quite equal to it." "blast you!" said haworth, dispensing with social codes. "you'll go whether you're up to it or not. we'll keep it up to the end. it'll be over soon enough." he evinced interest in the model, in his visits to the work-room, which seemed a little singular to murdoch. he asked questions about it, and more than once repeated his caution concerning its being "kept close." "i've got it into my head that you'll finish it some of these days," he said once, "if naught happens to it or you." chapter xlviii. finished. one night, murdoch, on leaving the house, said to christian: "don't expect me until morning. i may not be back until then. i think i shall work all night." she did not ask him why. for several days she had seen that a singular mood was upon him, that he was restless. sometimes, when he met her eye unexpectedly, he started and colored and turned away, as if he was a little afraid. she stood upon the step and watched him until he disappeared in the darkness, and then shut the door and went in to his mother. a quarter of an hour afterward he entered his work-room, and shut himself in and brought out the model. he sat looking at it a moment, and then stretched forth his hand to touch it. suddenly he drew it back and let it fall heavily upon the table. "good heavens!" he cried. "did _he_ ever feel so near as _this_, and then fail?" the shock was almost unbearable. "are there to be two of us?" he said. "was not one enough?" but he put forth his hand again a minute later, though his heart beat like a trip-hammer. "it rests with me to prove it," he said--"with _me_!" as he worked, the dead silence about him seemed to become more intense. his own breathing was a distinct sound, light as it was; the accidental dropping of a tool upon the table was a jar upon him; the tolling of the church bell at midnight was unbearable. he even took out his watch and stopped it. but at length he knew neither sound nor stillness; he forgot both. it had been a dark night, but the morning rose bright and clear. the sun, streaming in at the one window, fell upon the model, pushed far back upon the table, and on murdoch himself, sitting with his forehead resting upon his hands. he had been sitting thus some time--he did not know how long. he had laid his last tool down before the first streak of pink had struck across the gray sky. he was tired and chill with the morning air, but he had not thought of going home yet, or even quite recognized that the night was past. his lantern still burned beside him. he was roused at last by a sound in the outer room. the gates had not been unlocked nor the bell rung, but some one had come in. the next moment haworth opened the door and stood in the threshold, looking in on him. "you've been here all night," he said. [illustration: "you've been here all night."] "yes," answered murdoch. he turned a little and pointed to the model, speaking slowly, as if he were but half awake. "i think," he said, "that it is complete." he said it with so little appearance of emotion or exultation that haworth was dumbfounded. he laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him a little. "wake up, man!" he said. "you're dazed." "no," he answered, "not dazed. i've had time to think it over. it has been finished two or three hours." all at once he burst into a laugh. "i did not think," he said, "that it would be you i should tell the news to first." haworth sat down near him with a dogged face. "nay," he replied, "nor me either." they sat and stared at each other for a moment in silence. then murdoch drew a long, wearied breath. "but it is done," he said, "nevertheless." after that he got up and began to make his preparations to go home while haworth sat and watched him. "i shall want to go away," he said. "when i come back i shall know what the result is to be." "start to-morrow morning," said haworth. "and keep close. by the time you come back----" he stopped and left his chair, and the bell which called the hands to work began its hurried clanging. at the door he paused. "when shall you take it away?" he asked. "to-night," murdoch answered. "after dark." at home he only told them one thing--that in the morning he was going to london and did not know when he should return. he did not go to the works during the day, but remained at home trying to rest. but he could not sleep and the day seemed to lag heavily. in the afternoon he left the sofa on which he had lain through the morning and went out. he walked slowly through the town and at last turned down the lane which led to the briarley's cottage. he felt as if there would be a sort of relief to the tenseness of his mood in a brief interview with janey. when he went into the house, mr. briarley was seated in mrs. dixon's chair unscientifically balancing his latest-born upon his knee. his aspect was grave and absorbed; he was heated and disheveled with violent exertion; the knot of his blue cotton neckerchief had twisted itself under his right ear in a painfully suggestive manner. under some stress of circumstances he had been suddenly pressed into service, and his mode of placating his offspring was at once unprofessional and productive of frantic excitement. but the moment he caught sight of murdoch an alarming change came upon him. his eyes opened to their fullest extent, his jaw fell and the color died out of his face. he rose hurriedly, dropped the youngest briarley into his chair and darted out of the house, in such trepidation that his feet slipped under him when he reached the lower step, where he fell with a loud clatter of wooden clogs, scrambling up again with haste and difficulty and disappearing at once. attracted by the disturbance, janey darted in from the inner room barely in time to rescue the deserted young briarley. "wheer's he gone?" she demanded, signifying her father. "i towd her he wur na fit to be trusted! wheer's he gone?" "i don't know," murdoch answered. "i think he ran away because he saw me. what is the trouble?" "nay, dunnot ax me! we canna mak' him out, neyther mother nor me. he's been settin' i' th' house fur three days, as if he wur feart to stir out--settin' by th' fire an' shakin' his yed, an' cryin' ivvery now and then. an' here's her i' th' back room to wait on. a noice toime this is fur him to pick to go off in. he mowt ha' waited till she wur done wi'." as conversation naturally could not flourish under these circumstances, after a few minutes murdoch took his leave. it seemed that he had not yet done with mr. briarley. passing through the gate, he caught sight of a forlorn figure seated upon the road-side about twenty yards before him, wearing a fustian jacket and a blue neck-cloth knotted under the ear. as he approached, mr. briarley looked up, keeping his eyes fixed upon him in a despairing gaze. he did not remove his glance at all, in fact, until murdoch was within ten feet of him, when, for some entirely inexplicable reason, he rose hurriedly and passed to the other side of the road, and at a distance of some yards ahead sat down, and stared wildly at him again. this singular course he pursued until they had reached the end of the lane, where he sat and watched murdoch out of sight. "i thowt," he said, breathing with extreme shortness, "as he ha' done fur me. it wur a wonder as he did na. if i'd coom nigh him or he'd coom nigh me, they'd ha' swore it wur me as did it an's gone accordin', if luck went ag'in 'em." then a sudden panic seemed to seize him. he pulled off his cap, and, holding it in both hands, stared into it as if in desperate protest against fate. a large tear fell into the crown, and then another and another. "i canna help it," he said, in a loud and sepulchral whisper. "look out! look out!" and then, probably feeling that even in this he might be committing himself fatally, he got up, glanced fearfully about him, and scuttled away. chapter xlix. "if aught's for me, remember it." before he left the house at night, murdoch had a brief interview with his mother. "i am going to london as _he_ went," he said,--"on the same errand. the end may be what it was before. i have felt very sure--but he was sure too." "yes," the woman answered, "he was very sure." "i don't ask you to trust it--or me," he said. "he gave a life to it. i have not given a year, and he was the better man, a thousand-fold. i," he said, with a shadow falling on his face, "have not proved myself as he did. he never faltered from the first." "no," she said. "would to god he had!" but when he went, she followed him to the door and said the words she had refused him when he had first told her he had taken the burden upon his shoulders. "god speed you!" she said. "i will try to believe." his plan was to go to his room, pack his case securely, and then carry it with him to the station in time to meet the late train he had decided on taking. he let himself into the works as usual, and found his way along the passage in the darkness, though he carried his lantern. he knew his way so well that he did not need it there. but when he reached haworth's room and put out his hand to open the door, he stopped. his touch met no resistance, for the door was wide open. the discovery was so sharp a shock to him that for a few seconds he remained motionless. but he recovered himself in a second or so more. it might have been the result of carelessness, after all; so he turned on his light and went into his cell and began his task. it did not take him long. when he had finished, the wooden case was simply a solid square brown parcel which might have contained anything. he glanced at his watch and sat down a minute or so. "there is no use in going too early," he said. and so he waited a little, thinking mechanically of the silence inside and the darkness out, and of the journey which lay before him. but at last he got up again and took his burden by the cord he had fastened about it. "now," he said, "it is time." at the very moment the words left his lips there was a sound outside the door, and a rush upon him; he was seized by the throat, flung backward into the chair he had left, and held there. he made no outcry. his first thought when he found himself clutched and overpowered was an incongruous one of briarley sitting on the road-side and looking up at him in panic-stricken appeal. he understood in a flash what his terror had meant. the fellow who held him by the collar--there were three of them, and one was reddy--shook him roughly. "wheer is it?" he said. "you know whatten we've coom for, my lad." murdoch was conscious of a little chill which passed over him, but otherwise he could only wonder at his own lack of excitement. no better place to finish a man than such a one as this at dead of night, and there was not one of the three who had not evil in his eye; but he spoke without a tremor in his voice,--with the calmness of being utterly without stay or help. "yes, i suppose i know," he said. "you came to me for it before. what are you going to do with it?" "smash it to h----," said one, concisely, "an' thee too." it was not a pleasant thing to hear by the half light of a lantern in a place so deadly still. murdoch felt the little chill again, but he remembered that after all he had one slender chance if he could make them listen. "you are making a blunder," he began. reddy stopped him by addressing his comrades. "what art tha stondin' hearkenin' to him fur?" he demanded. "smack him i' th' mouth an' stop him." murdoch gave a lurch forward which it gave his captor some trouble to restrain. he turned dangerously white and his eye blazed. "if you do, you devil," he panted, "i'll murder you." "wheer is th' thing we coom fur?" said the first man. and then he caught sight of the package, which had fallen upon the floor. "happen it's i' theer," he suggested. "oppen it, chaps." then all at once murdoch's calmness was gone. he shook in their grasp. "for god's sake!" he cried, "don't touch it! don't do it a harm! it's a mistake. it has nothing to do with your trade. it would be no hurt to you if it were known to the whole world. for god's sake, believe me!" "we've heerd a different mak' o' tale fro' that," said reddy, laughing. "it's a lie--a lie! who told it?" "jem haworth," he was answered. "jem haworth, as it wur made fur." he began to struggle with all his strength. he cried out aloud and sprang up and broke loose and fought with the force of madness. "you shall pay for it," he shrieked, and three to one as they were, he held them for a moment at bay. "gi' him th' knob-stick!" cried one. "at him wi' it!" it was reddy who aimed the blow at him,--a blow that would have laid him a dead man among them,--but it never fell, for he sprang forward with a mighty effort and struck the bludgeon upward, and as it fell with a crash at the opposite side of the room, they heard, even above the tumult of their struggle, a rush of heavy feet, a voice every man among them knew, and the sound they most dreaded--the sharp report of a pistol. [illustration: it was reddy who aimed the blow.] "it's haworth!" they shouted. "haworth!" and they made a dash at the door in a body, stumbling over one another, striking and cursing, and the scoundrel who first got through and away was counted a lucky man. murdoch took a step forward and fell--so close to the model that his helpless hand touched it as it lay. it was not long before he returned to consciousness. his sudden loss of strength had only been a sort of climax body and mind had reached together. when he opened his eyes again, his first thought was a wonder at himself and a vague effort to comprehend his weakness. he looked up at haworth, who bent over him. "lie still a bit, lad," he heard him say. "lie and rest thee." he no sooner heard his voice than he forgot his weak wonder at himself in a stronger wonder at him. he was ashen pale and a tremor shook him as he spoke. "lie still and rest thee," he repeated, and he touched his head with an approach to gentleness. "they thought there was more than me," he said. "and they're not fond of powder and lead. they're better used to knobsticks and vitriol in the dark." "they meant to murder me," said murdoch. "aye, make sure o' that. they weren't for play. they've had their minds on this for a month or two. if i'd been a minute later----" he did not finish. a queer spasm of the throat stopped him. he rose the next instant and struck a match and turned the gas on to full blaze. "let's have light," he said. "theer's a look about th' place i can't stand." his eyes were blood-shot, his face looked gray and deeply lined and his lips were parched. there was a new haggardness upon him and he was conscious of it and tried to bear it down with his old bravado. "they'll not come back," he said. "they've had enough for to-night. if they'd known i was alone they'd have made a stand for it. they think they were in luck to get off." he came back and sat down. "they laid their plans better than i thought," he added. "they got over me for once, devil take 'em. how art tha now, lad?" murdoch made the effort to rise and succeeded, though he was not very strong upon his feet, and sank into a chair feeling a little irritated at his own weakness. "giddy," he answered, "and a trifle faint. it's a queer business. i went down as if i'd been shot. i have an hour and a half to steady myself before the next train comes in. let me make the best of it." "you'll go to-night?" said haworth. "there's a stronger reason than ever that i should go," he answered. "let me get it out of the way and safe, for heaven's sake!" haworth squared his arms upon the table and leaned on them. "then," he said, "i've got an hour and a half to make a clean breast of it." he said it almost with a swagger, and yet his voice was hoarse, and his coolness a miserable pretense. "ask me," he said, "how i came here!" and not waiting for a reply even while murdoch gazed at him bewildered, he answered the question himself. "i come," he said, "for a good reason,--for the same reason that's brought me here every night you've been at work." murdoch repeated his last words mechanically. he was not quite sure the man was himself. "every night i've been at work?" "aye, every one on 'em! there's not been a night i've not been nigh you and ready." a memory flashed across murdoch's mind with startling force. "it was you i heard come in?" he cried. "it was not fancy." "aye, it was me." there was a moment's silence between them in which murdoch thought with feverish rapidity. "it was you," he said with some bitterness at last,--"_you_ who set the plot on foot?" "aye, it was me." "i could have done the job i wanted to do in a quicker way," he went on, after a second's pause, "but that wasn't my humor. i'd a mind to keep out of it myself, and i knew how to set the chaps on as would do it in their own way." "what do you mean by 'it'?" cried murdoch. "were you devil enough to mean to have my blood?" "aye,--while i was in the humor,--that and worse." murdoch sprang up and began to pace the room. his strength had come back to him with the fierce sense of repulsion which seized him. "it's a blacker world than i thought," he said. "we were friends once--friends!" "so we were," he said, hoarsely. "you were the first chap i ever made friends with, and you'll be the last. it's brought no good to either of us." "it might," returned murdoch, "if----" "let me finish my tale," he said, even doggedly. "i said to myself before i came you should hear it. i swore i'd stop at naught, and i kept my word. i sowed a seed here and there, and th' soil was just right for it. they were in the mood to hearken to aught, and they hearkened. but there came a time when i found out that things were worse with you than with me, and had gone harder with you. if you'd won where i lost it would have been different, but you lost most of the two--you'd the most to lose--and i changed my mind." he stopped a second and looked at murdoch, who had come back and thrown himself into his chair again. "i've said many a time that you were a queer chap," he went on, as if half dubious of himself. "you _are_ a queer chap. at th' start you got a hold on me, and when i changed my mind you got a hold on me again. i swore i'd undo what i'd done, if i could. i knew if the thing was finished and you got away with it they'd soon find out it was naught they need fret about, so i swore to see you safe through. i gave you the keys to come here to work, and every night i came and waited until you'd done and gone away. i brought my pistols with me and kept a sharp lookout. to-night i was late and they'd laid their plans and got here before me. there's th' beginning and there's th' end." "you saved my life," said murdoch. "let me remember that." "i changed my mind and swore to undo what i'd done. there's naught for me in that, my lad, and plenty to go agen me." after a little he pushed his chair back. "the time's not up," he said. "i've made short work of it. pick up thy traps and we'll go over th' place together and see that it's safe." he led the way, carrying the lantern, and murdoch followed him. they went from one end of the place to the other and found all quiet; the bars of a small lower window had been filed and wrenched out of place, mr. reddy and his friends having made their entrance through it. "they've been on the lookout many a night before they made up their minds," said haworth. "and they chose the right place to try." afterward they went out together, locking the door and the iron gates behind them, and went down in company to the dark little station with its dim, twinkling lights. naturally they did not talk very freely. now and then there was a blank silence of many minutes between them. but at last the train thundered its way in and stopped, and there was a feeble bustle to and fro among the sleepy officials and an opening and shutting and locking of doors. when murdoch got into his empty compartment, haworth stood at its step. at the very last he spoke in a strange hurry: "when you come back," he said, "when you come back--perhaps----" there was a porter passing with a lantern, which struck upon his face and showed it plainly. he shrank back a moment as if he feared the light; but when it was gone he drew near again and spoke through the window. "if there's aught in what's gone by that's for me," he said, "remember it." and with a gesture of farewell, he turned away and was gone. chapter l. an after-dinner speech. at dinner the next evening mr. ffrench had a story to tell. it was the rather exciting story of the completion of murdoch's labor, the night attack and his sudden departure. exciting as it was, however, mr. ffrench did not relate it in his most vivid manner. his nervous ailments had increased of late, and he was not in a condition to be vivacious and dramatic. the incident came from him rather tamely, upon the whole. "if it is the success he thinks it is," he terminated, "he is a made man--and he is not the fellow to deceive himself. well," he said, rather drearily, "i have said it would be so." as haworth had foreseen, saint méran appeared upon the scene again. he was present when the story was told, and was much interested in it as a dramatic incident bringing the peculiarities of the manufacturing class of broxton into strong play. "if they had murdered him," he remarked with critical niceness, "it would have been the most tragic of tragedies. on the very eve of his life's success. a tragedy indeed! and it is not bad either that it should have been his master who saved him." "why do you say master?" said miss ffrench, coldly. "pardon me. i thought----" mr. ffrench interposed in some hurry. "oh, he has always been such an uncommon young fellow that we have scarcely thought of him as a servant. he has not been exactly a servant in fact." "ah!" replied saint méran. "i ask pardon again." he had been not a little bewildered at the change he found in the household. mr. ffrench no longer expounded his views at length with refined vigor. he frequently excused himself from the family circle on plea of severe indisposition, and at other times he sat in singular and depressing silence. he was evidently ill; there were lines upon his forehead and circles about his eyes; he had a perturbed air and started without any apparent cause. a change showed itself in miss ffrench also,--so subtle as not to be easily described. it was a change which was not pallor nor fragility. it was an alteration which baffled him and yet forced him to recognize its presence constantly, and to endeavor to comprehend it. ffrench himself had seen it and pondered over it in secret. when he sat in his private room at the bank, bewildered and terrified even by the mere effort to think and face the future, his burden was not a little increased by his remembrance of his hours at home. more than all the rest he shrank from the day of reckoning with his daughter. he had confronted haworth and borne the worst of his wrath. the account of himself which he must render to her would be the most scathing ordeal of his life. "some women would pity me," he said to himself, "but she will not." truth to tell, he looked forward pathetically to the possibility that hereafter their paths might lie apart. fate had saved him one fearful responsibility, at least. her private fortune had been beyond his reach and she would still be a rich woman even when the worst came. he could live on very little, he told himself, and there was always some hope for a man of resources. he still believed somewhat, though rather vaguely, in his resources. a few days after murdoch's departure there came to broxton, on a visit of inspection, a dignitary of great magnitude--a political economist, a member of parliament. above all other things he was absorbed in the fortunes of the manufacturing districts. he had done the trades-unions the honor of weighing their cause and reasoning with them; he had parleyed with the strikers and held meetings with the masters. he had heard of haworth and his extraordinary stand against the outbreak, and was curious to see him. he came as the guest of one of the county families, who regarded haworth and his success a subject worth enlarging upon. he was taken to the works and presented to their master. haworth met him with little enthusiasm. he showed him over the place, but maintained his taciturnity. he was not even moved to any exhibition of gratitude on being told that he had done wonders. the _finale_ of the visit was a stately dinner given by the county family. haworth and the member were the features of the festivity, and speeches were made which took a congratulatory and even a laudatory turn. "i can't go," ffrench cried, piteously, when haworth came to his room at the bank with the news. he turned quite white and sank back into his chair. "it is too much to ask. i--no. i am not strong enough." he felt himself as good as a dead man when haworth turned about and strode up to him, livid, and opening and shutting his hands. "blast you?" he hissed through his teeth. "you did it! _you!_ and you shall pay for it as long as i'm nigh to make you!" saint méran was among the guests, and miss ffrench, whose wonderful beauty attracted the dignitary's eye at once. years after he remembered and spoke of her. he glanced toward her when he rose to make his after-dinner speech, and caught her eye, and was somewhat confused by it. but he was very eloquent. the master of "haworth's" was his inspiration and text. his resources, his strength of will, his giant enterprises, his readiness and daring at the moment when all was at hazard--these were matters, indeed, for eloquence. haworth sat leaning forward upon the table. he played with his wine-glass, turning it round and round and not spilling a drop of the ruby liquid. sometimes he glanced at the orator with a smile which no one exactly understood, oftener he kept his eyes fixed upon the full wine-glass. when at length the speaker sat down with a swift final glance at rachel ffrench, there was a silence of several seconds. everybody felt that a reply was needed. haworth turned his wine-glass two or three times without raising his eyes, but at last, just as the pause was becoming embarrassing, he looked across the table at ffrench, who sat opposite. "i'm not a speech-making chap myself," he said. "my partner is. he'll say my say for me." he gave ffrench a nod. that gentleman had been pale and distracted through all the courses; now he became paler than ever. he hesitated, glanced around him, at the waiting guest and at haworth (who nodded again), and then rose. it was something unusual that mr. ffrench should hang back and show himself unready. he began his speech of thanks in his partner's name falteringly and as if at a loss for the commonest forms of expression; he replied to the member's compliments with hesitation; he spoke of the difficulties they had encountered with a visibly strong effort, he touched upon their success and triumph with such singular lack of exultation that those who listened began to exchange looks of questioning; and suddenly, in the midst of his wanderings and struggles at recovering himself, he broke off and begged leave to sit down. "i am ill," he said. "i have--been--indisposed for some time. i must crave your pardon, and--and my partner's for my inability to say what--what i would wish." he sat down amid many expressions of sympathy. the plea accounted for his unusual demeanor, it was thought. the member himself sought an interview with him, in which he expressed his regret and his sense of the fact that nothing was more natural than that the result of so long bearing a weight of responsibility should be a strain upon the nervous system and a consequent loss of physical strength. "you must care for yourself, my dear sir," he added. "your firm--nay, the country--cannot afford to lose an element like yourself at such a crisis." on the morning following, the member left broxton. on his way to the station he was moved to pay a final visit to haworth at the works. "i congratulate you," he said, with much warmth on shaking hands with him. "i congratulate england upon your determination and indomitable courage, and upon your wonderful success." there was a good deal of talk about murdoch during his absence. the story of the attack and of haworth's repulse of the attacking party became a popular incident. mr. reddy and his companions disappeared from the scene with promptness. much interest was manifested in the ultimate success of the model, which had previously been regarded with a mingling of indifference and disfavor as not "loike to coom to owt." the results of its agreeably disappointing people by "coming to owt" were estimated at nothing short of a million per annum. "th' chap'll roll i' brass," it was said. "haworth'll be nowheer. happen th' lad'll coom back an' set up a works agen him. an' he coom here nowt but a workin' chap a few year sin'!" the two women in the little house in the narrow street heard the story of the attack only through report. they had no letters. "i won't write," murdoch had said. "you shall not be troubled by prospects that might end in nothing. you will hear nothing from me till i come and tell you with my own lips that i have won or failed." in the days of waiting christian proved her strength. she would not let her belief be beaten or weighed down. she clung to it in spite of what she saw hour by hour in the face of the woman who was her companion. "i have lived through it before." it was not put into words, but she read it in her eyes and believed in spite of it. he had been away two weeks, and he returned as his father had done, at night. the women were sitting together in the little inner room. they were not talking or working, though each had work in her hands. it was christian who heard him first. she threw down her work and stood up. "he is here," she cried. "he is coming up the step." she was out in the narrow entry and had thrown the door open before he had time to open it with his key. the light fell upon his dark pale face and showed a strange excitement in it. he was disheveled and travel-worn, but his eyes were bright. his first words were enough. "it is all right," he said, in an exultant voice. "it is a success. where is my mother?" he had taken her hand as if without knowing what he did and fairly dragged her into the room. his mother had risen and stood waiting. "it is a success," he cried out to her. "it is what he meant it to be--i have finished his work!" she turned from him to the girl, uttering a low cry of appeal. "christian!" she said. "christian!" the girl went to her and made her sit down, and knelt before her, clasping her arms about her waist, and uplifting her glowing young face. at the moment her beauty became such a splendor that murdoch himself saw it with wonder. "it is finished," she said. "and it is he who has finished it! is not that enough?" "yes," she answered, "but--but----" and the words died upon her lips, and she sat looking before her into vacancy, and trembling. murdoch threw himself on the sofa and lay there, his hands clasped above his head. "i shall be a rich man," he said, as if to himself, "a rich man--and it is nothing--but it is done." chapter li. "th' on'y one as is na a foo'!" the next day all broxton knew the story. "well, he wur na so soft after aw," more than one excellent matron remarked. mr. ffrench heard the news from his valet in the morning. he had been very unwell for several days. he had eaten nothing and slept very little and had been obliged to call in his physician, who pronounced his case the result of too great mental strain, and prescribed rest. he came down to breakfast with an unwholesome face and trifled with his food without eating it. he glanced furtively at rachel again and again. "i shall not go to the bank to-day," he said timorously at last. "i am worse than ever. i shall remain at home and try to write letters and rest. are--are you going out?" "yes," she answered. "oh." then, after a pause, he said, "i saw briarley yesterday, and he said mrs. dixon was very ill. you sometimes go there, i believe?" "yes." "suppose--suppose you call this morning to inquire. it looks well to show a--a sort of interest in them. you might take something nourishing with you." he flinched when she raised her eyes and let them rest a moment upon him. her look was strongly suggestive of the fact that she could better rely upon the result of her own calculations concerning him than upon the truth of his replies, if she deigned to ask him questions. "i thought," he faltered, "that it would look well to evince some interest, as the man has been in our employ, and you have had the woman about the house." "certainly," she replied, "it would be well enough. i will go." after breakfast she ordered the carriage and went to her room and made her toilette with some care. why she did so was best known to herself. nothing is more certain than that she scarcely expected to produce a great effect upon granny dixon. the truth was, she would have made her visit to the briarley's in any case, and was not in the least moved thereto by her father's unexpected anxiety. but when she reached the cottage and entered it, she began immediately to repent having come. a neighbor woman sat nursing the youngest briarley; there was a peculiar hush upon the house and the windows were darkened. she drew back with a feeling of alarm and annoyance. "what is the matter?" she demanded impatiently of the woman. "why have you darkened the room?" "th' owd lass is deein," was the business-like answer, "an' they're ha'in' some trouble wi' her. she conna even dee loike other foak." she drew back, her annoyance becoming violent repulsion. she turned pale, and her heart began to beat violently. she knew nothing of death, and was not fearless of it. her inveterate calm failed her in thus being brought near it. "i will go away," she said. and she would have gone, but at that moment there arose a sound of voices in the inner room--mrs. briarley's and janey's, and above theirs granny dixon's, brokenly, and yet with what seemed terrible loudness in the hush of the house. "bring her i' here!" she was saying. "bring her i' here an' mak' her--do it!" and then out came mrs. briarley, looking fagged and harassed. "i ax thy pardon, miss," she said, "but she says she wants thee. she says she wants thee to be a witness to summat." "i will not go," she replied. "i--i am going away. i--never saw any one before--in that condition." but the terrible voice raised itself again, and, despite her terror and anger, held and controlled her. "i see her!" it cried. "mak' her coom in. i knowed her gran'feyther--when i wur a lass--seventy year ago!" "she will na harm thee," said mrs. briarley. and partly because of a dread fascination, and partly because the two women regarded her with such amazement, she found herself forced to give way and enter. it was a small room, and dark and low. the bed was a huge four-poster which had belonged to granny dixon herself in her young days. the large-flowered patterns of its chintz hangings were faded with many washings. of the woman lying upon it there was little left but skin and bone. she seemed all eyes and voice--eyes which stared and shone in the gloom, and voice which broke upon the silence with an awesome power. "she's been speaking awmost i' a whisper till to-day," explained mrs. briarley, under her breath, "an' aw at onct th' change set in, an' it coom back as loud as ivver." she lifted her hands, beckoning with crooked fingers. "coom tha here," she commanded. rachel ffrench went to her slowly. she had no color left, and all her _hauteur_ could not steady her voice. "what do you want?" she asked, standing close beside the bed. for a few seconds there was silence, in which the large eyes wandered from the border of her rich dress to the crown of her hair. then granny dixon spoke out: "wheer'st flower?" she cried. "tha'st getten it on thee again. i con smell it." it was true that she wore it at her throat as she had done before. a panic of disgust took possession of her as she recollected it. it was as if they two were somehow bound together by it. she caught at it with tremulous fingers, and would have flung it away, but it fell from her uncertain clasp upon the bed, and she would not have touched it for worlds. "gi' it to me!" commanded granny dixon. "pick it up for her," she said, turning to mrs. briarley, and it was done, and the shrivelled fingers held it and the old eye devoured it. "he used to wear 'em i' his button-hole," proclaimed the voice, "an' he wur a han'some chap--seventy year ago." "did you send for me to tell me that?" demanded rachel ffrench. granny dixon turned on her pile of pillows. "nay," she said, "an' i'm--forgettin'." there was a gasp between the two last words, as if suddenly her strength was failing her. "get thee a pen--an'--an' write summat," she ordered. "get it quickly," said rachel ffrench, "and let me humor her and go." she noticed the little gap between the words herself, and the next instant saw a faint gray pallor spread itself over the old woman's face. "get the pen and paper," she repeated, "and call in the woman." they brought her the pen and paper and called the woman, who came in stolidly, ready for any emergency. then they waited for commands, but for several seconds there was a dead pause, and granny dixon lay back, staring straight before her. "quick!" said rachel ffrench. "what do you want?" granny dixon rose by a great effort upright from her pillows. she pointed to mrs. briarley with the sharp, bony fore-finger. "i--leave it--aw--to _her_," she proclaimed, "--ivvery penny! she's th' ony one among 'em as is na a foo'!" and then she fell back, and panted and stared again. mrs. briarley lifted her apron and burst into tears. "she means th' brass," she wailed. "eh! poor owd lass, who'd ha' thowt it!" "do you mean," asked rachel ffrench, "that you wish her to have your money?" a nod was the answer, and mrs. briarley shed sympathetic tears again. here was a reward for her labors indeed. what she wrote miss ffrench scarcely knew. in the end there was her own name signed below, and a black, scrawling mark from granny dixon's hand. the woman who had come in made her mark also. "mak' a black un," said the testatrix. "let's ha' it plain." then, turning to rachel: "does ta want to know wheer th' money come fro'? fro' will ffrench--fro' _him_. he wur one o' th' gentry when aw wur said an' done--an' i wur a han'some lass." when it was done they all stood and looked at each other. granny dixon lay back upon her pillows, drawing sharp breaths. she was looking only at rachel ffrench. she seemed to have forgotten all the rest of them, and what she had been doing. all that was left of the voice was a loud, halting whisper. "wheer's th' flower?" she said. "i conna smell it." it was in her hand. rachel ffrench drew back. "let me go," she said to mrs. briarley. "i cannot stay here." "he used to wear 'em i' his button-hole," she heard, "--seventy year ago--an' she's th' very moral on him." and scarcely knowing how, she made her way past the women, and out of the house and into the fresh air and sunshine. "drive home," she said to the coachman, "as quickly as possible." she leaned back in a corner of the carriage shuddering. suddenly she burst into wild tears. but there were no traces of her excitement when she reached home. she descended from the carriage looking quite herself, and after dismissing it went up to her own room. about half an hour later she came down and went into the library. her father was not there, and on inquiring as to his whereabouts from a servant passing the open door, she was told that he had gone out. he had been writing letters, it was evident. his chair stood before his desk, and there was an addressed envelope lying upon it. she went to the desk and glanced at it without any special motive for doing so. it was addressed to herself. she opened and read it. "my dear rachel," it ran. "in all probability we shall not meet again for some time. i find myself utterly unable to remain to meet the blow which must inevitably fall before many days are over. the anxiety of the past year has made me a coward. i ask your forgiveness for what you may call my desertion of you. we have never relied upon each other much, and you at least are not included in my ruin. you will not be called upon to share my poverty. you had better return to paris at once. with a faint hope that you will at least pity me, i remain, your affectionate father, gerard ffrench." chapter lii. "haworth's is done with." almost at the same moment, haworth was reading, in his room at the works, the letter which had been left for himself. "i have borne as much as i can bear," it ended. "my punishment for my folly is that i am a ruined man and a fugitive. my presence upon the scene, when the climax comes, would be of no benefit to either of us. pardon me, if you can, for the wrong i have unintentionally done you. my ill-luck was sheerly the result of circumstances. even yet, i cannot help thinking that there were great possibilities in my plans. but you will not believe this and i will say no more. in haste, ffrench." when rachel ffrench finished reading her note she lighted a taper and held the paper to it until it was reduced to ashes, and afterward turned away merely a shade paler and colder than before. haworth having finished the reading of ffrench's letter, sat for a few seconds staring down at it as it lay before him on the table. then he burst into a brutal laugh. after that, he sat stupefied--his elbows on the table, his head on his hands. he did not move for half an hour. the works saw very little of him during the day. he remained alone in his room, not showing himself, and one of the head clerks, coming in from the bank on business, went back mystified, and remarked in confidence to a companion that "things had a queer look." he did not leave the works until late, and then went home. all through the evening his mother watched him in her old tender way. she tried to interest him with her history of the briarley's bereavement and unexpected good fortune. she shed tears over her recital. "so old, my dear," she said. "old enough to have outlived her own,--an' her ways a little hard," wiping her eyes. "i'd like to be grieved for more, jem--though perhaps it's only nat'ral as it should be so. she hadn't no son to miss her as you'll miss me. _i_ shouldn't like to be the last, jem." he had been listening mechanically and he started and turned to her. "the last?" he said. "aye, it's a bit hard." it was as if she had suggested a new thought to him of which he could not rid himself at once. he kept looking at her, his eyes wandering over her frail little figure and innocent old face, restlessly. "but i haven't no fear," she went on, "though we never know what's to come. but you're a strong man, and there's not like to be many more years for me--though i'm so well an' happy." "you might live a score," he answered in an abstracted way, his eyes still fixed on her. "not without you," she returned. "it's you that's life to me--an' strength--an' peace." the innocent tears were in her voice again, and her eyes were bright with them. he lay down awhile but could not lie still. he got up and came and stood near her and talked and then moved here and there, picking up one thing and another, holding them idly for a few seconds and then setting them aside. at last she was going to bed and came to bid him good-night. he laid his hand on her shoulder caressingly. "there's never been aught like trouble between us two," he said. "i've been a quiet enough chap, and different somehow--when i've been nigh you. what i've done, i've done for your sake and for the best." in the morning the works were closed, the doors of the bank remained unopened, and the news spread like wildfire from house to house and from street to street and beyond the limits of the town--until before noon it was known through the whole country side that ffrench had fled and jem haworth was a ruined man. it reached the public ear in the first instance in the ordinary commonplace manner through the individuals who had suddenly descended upon the place to take possession. a great crowd gathered about the closed gates and murmured and stared and anathematized. "theer's been summat up for mony a month," said one sage. "i've seed it. he wur na hissen, wur na haworth." "nay," said another, "that he wur na. th' chap has na been o' a decent spree sin' ffrench coom." "happen," added a third, "_that_ wur what started him on th' road downhill. a chap is na good fur much as has na reg'lar habits." "aye, an' haworth wur reg'lar enow when he set up. good lord! who'd ha' thowt o' that chap i' bankrup'cy!" at the outset the feeling manifested was not unamiable to haworth, but it was not very long before the closing of the bank dawned upon the public in a new light. it meant loss and ruin. the first man who roused the tumult was a burly farmer who dashed into the town on a sweating horse, spurring it as he rode and wearing a red and furious face. he left his horse at an inn and came down to the bank, booted and spurred and whip in hand. "wheer's ffrench?" he shouted to the smaller crowd attracted there, and whose views as to the ultimate settlement of things were extremely vague. "wheer's ffrench an' wheer's haworth?" half a dozen voices volunteered information regarding ffrench, but no one knew anything of haworth. he might be in a dozen places, but no one had yet seen him or heard of his whereabouts. the man began to push his way toward the building, swearing hotly. he mounted the steps and struck violently on the door with his whip. "i'll mak' him hear if he's shut hissen i' here," he cried. "th' shifty villain's got ivvery shillin' o' brass i've been savin' for my little wench for th' last ten year. i'll ha' it back, if it's to be gotten." "tha'lt ne'er see it again," shouted a voice in the crowd. "tha'dst better ha' stuck to th' owd stockin', lad." then the uproar began. one luckless depositor after another was added to the crowd. they might easily be known among the rest by their pale faces. some of them were stunned into silence, but the greater portion of them were loud and passionate in their outcry. a few women hung on the outskirts, wiping their eyes every now and then with their aprons, and sometimes bursting into audible fits of weeping. "i've been goin' out charrin' for four year," said one, "to buy silks an' satins fur th' gentry. yo' nivver seed _her_ i' owt else." and all knew whom she meant, and joined in shouts of rage. sometimes it was ffrench against whom their anger was most violent--ffrench, who had been born among them a gentleman, and who should have been gentleman enough not to plunder and deceive them. and again it was haworth--haworth, who had lived as hard as any of them and knew what their poverty was, and should have done fairly by them, if ever man should. in the course of the afternoon murdoch, gathering no news of haworth elsewhere, went to his house. a panic-stricken servant let him in and led him into the great room where he had spent his first evening, long ago. despite its splendor, it looked empty and lifeless, but when he entered, there rose from a carved and satin upholstered chair in one corner a little old figure in a black dress--jem haworth's mother, who came to him with a white but calm face. "sir," were her greeting words, "where is he?" "i came to see him," he answered, "i thought----" "no," she interrupted, "he is not here. he has not been here since morning." she began to tremble, but she shed no tears. "there's been a good many to ask for him," she went on. "gentlemen, an' them as was rough, an' didn't mind me bein' a woman an' old. they were harder than you'd think, an'--troubled as i've been, i was glad he was not here to see 'em. but i'd be more comfortable if i could rightly understand." "i can only tell you what i know," he said. "it isn't much. i have only gathered it from people on the streets." he led her back to her chair, and did not loosen his light grasp on her hand while he told her the story as he had heard it. his own mood was so subdued that it was easier than he had thought to use words which would lighten the first weight of the blow. she asked no questions after his explanation was over. "he's a poor man," she said at last,--"a poor man, but--we was poor before." suddenly her tears burst forth. "they've said hard things to me to-day," she cried. "i don't believe 'em, jem, my dear--now less than ever." he comforted her as best he could. he could easily understand what they had told her, how much of the truth and how much of angry falsehood. "when he comes back," she said, "i shall be here to meet him. wherever he is, an' however much he's broke down with trouble, he knows that. he'll come here to-night, an' i shall be here." before he went away he asked if he might send christian or his mother to her. but though she thanked him, she refused. "i know how good they'd be," she said, "an' what a comfort in the lonesomeness, but when he comes he'll want to be alone, an' a unfamiliar face might trouble him." but he did not come back. the day went on, and the excitement increased and waned by turns. the crowd grew and surged about the bank and shouted itself hoarse, and would have broken a few windows if it had not been restrained by the police force, who appeared upon the field; and there were yells for haworth and for ffrench, but by this time mr. ffrench had reached rotterdam and haworth was--no one knew where, since he had not been seen at all. and when at length dusk fell upon the town, the crowd had dwindled away and gone home by ones and twos, and in jem haworth's house sat his mother, watching and waiting, and straining her ears to catch every passing sound. she had kept up her courage bravely through the first part of the day, but the strangers who came one after the other, and sometimes even two or three together, to demand her son with loud words and denunciations and even threats, were a sore trial to her. some of them flung their evil stories at her without remorse, taking it for granted that they were nothing new to her ears, and even those who had some compunction muttered among themselves and hinted angrily at what the others spoke outright. her strength began to give way, and she quailed and trembled before them, but she never let their words pass without a desperate effort to defend her boy. then they stared or laughed at her, or went away in sullen silence, and she was left to struggle with her grief and terror alone until some new call was made upon her, and she must bear all again. when the twilight came she was still alone, and sat in the darkened room battling against a dread which had crept slowly upon her. of all those who had come none had known where he was. they did not know in the town, and he had not come back. "he might go," she whispered, "but he'd not go without me. he's been true and fond of his mother, let them say what they will. he'd never leave me here alone." her thoughts went back over the long years from his birth to the day of his highest success. she remembered how he had fought with fate, and made his way and refused to be conquered. she thought of the wealth he had won, the power, the popularity, and of his boast that he had never been beaten, and she began to sob in the shadow of her corner. "he's lost it all," she cried. "an' he won it with his own hands an' worked for it an' bore up agen a world! an' it's gone!" it was when she came to this point that her terror seized on her as it had never done before. she got up, shaking in every limb. "i'll go to him myself," she said. "who should go to him but his mother? who should find him an' be a help to him if i can't? jem--jem, my dear, it's me that's comin' to you--_me_!" he had been sitting in a small back office in the bank all through the day when they had been calling and searching for him. he had got in early and locked the door and waited, knowing well enough all that was to come. it was no feeling of fear that made him keep hidden; he had done with fear--if, indeed, he had ever felt it in his life. he knew what he was going to do and he laid his plans coolly. he was to stay here and do the work that lay before him and leave things as straight as he could, and then at night when all was quiet he would make his way out in the dark and go to the works. it was only a fancy, this, of going to the works, but he clung to it persistently. he had never been clearer-headed in his life--only, sometimes as he was making a calculation or writing a letter he would dash down his work and fall to cursing. "there's not another chap in england that had done it," he would say. "and it's gone!--it's gone!--it's gone!" then again he would break into a short laugh, remembering the m. p. and his speech and poor ffrench's stumbling, overwhelmed reply to it. when he heard the crowd shouting and hooting at the front, he went into a room facing the street and watched them through a chink in the shutter. he heard the red-faced farmer's anathemas, and swore a little himself, knowing his story was true. "tha shalt have all haworth can give, chaps," he muttered, "an' welcome. he'll tak' nowt with him." he laughed again but suddenly stopped, and walked back into the little office silently, and waited there. at nightfall he went out of a back door and slipped through unfrequented by-ways, feeling his heart beat with heavy thuds as he went. nothing stood in his way and he got in, as he believed he should. the instant his foot crossed the threshold a change came upon him. he forgot all else but what lay before him. he was less calm, and in some little hurry. he reached his room and lighted the gas dimly--only so that he could see to move about. then he went to his desk and opened it and took out one of a pair of pistols, speaking aloud as he did so. "here," he said, "is the end of jem haworth." he knew where to aim, the heavy thuds marked the spot for him. "i'll count three," he said, "and then----" he began slowly, steadily, but in a voice that fell with a hollow sound upon the dead stillness. "one," he said. "two!" and his hand dropped at his side with his weapon in it, for at the door stood his mother. in an instant she had fallen upon her knees and dragged herself toward him and was clinging to his hand. "no--jem!" she panted. "no, not that, my dear--god forbid!" he staggered back though she still clung to him. "how," he faltered,--"how did you come here?" "the lord led me," she sobbed. "he put it into my heart and showed me the way, an' you had forgot the door, jem--thank god!" "you--saw--what i was going to do?" "what you _was_ goin' to do, but what you'll never do, jem, an' me to live an' suffer when it's done--me as you've been so good an' such a comfort to." in the dim light she knelt sobbing at his feet. "let me sit down," he said. "and sit down nigh me. i've summat to tell you." but though he sank into the chair she would not get up, but kept her place in spite of him and went on. "to-day there have been black tales told you?" he said. "yes," she cried, "but----" "they're true," he said, "th' worst on 'em." "no--no!" he stopped her by going on monotonously as if she had not spoken. "think of the worst you've ever known--you've not known much--and then say to yourself, 'he's worse a hundred times'; think of the blackest you have ever known to be done, and then say to yourself, 'what he's done's blacker yet.' if any chap has told you i've stood at naught until there was next to naught i'd left undone, he spoke true. if there was any one told you i set th' decent ones by the ears and laughed 'em in the face, he spoke true. if any o' 'em said i was a dread and a byword, they spoke true, too. the night you came there were men and women in th' house that couldn't look you in th' face, and that felt shame for th' first time in their lives--mayhap--because you didn't know what they were, an' took 'em to be as innocent as yourself. there's not a sin i haven't tasted, nor a wrong i've not done. i've had murder in my mind, an' planned it. i've been mad for a woman not worth even what jem haworth had to give her--and i've won all i'd swore i'd win--an' lost it! now tell me if there's aught else to do but what i've set my mind on?" she clung to his heavy hand as she had not clung to it before, and laid her withered cheek upon it and kissed it. bruised and crushed as she was with the blows he had dealt, she would not let it go free yet. her words came from her lips a broken cry, with piteous sobs between them. but she had her answer ready. "that as i've thanked god for all my life," she said, "he'll surely give me in the end. he couldn't hold it back--i've so believed an' been grateful to him. if there hadn't been in you what would make a good man, my dear, i couldn't have been so deceived an' so happy. no--not deceived--that aint the word, jem--the good was there. you've lived two lives, may be,--but one was good, thank god! you've been a good son to me. you've never hurt me, an' it was your love as hid from me the wrong you did. you did love me, jem--i won't give that up--never. there's nothing you've done as can stand agen that, with her as is your mother. you loved me an' was my own son--my boy as was a comfort an' a pride to me from the first." he watched her with a stunned look. "you didn't believe _them_," he said hoarsely, "and you don't believe _me_?" she put her hand to her heart and almost smiled. "it hasn't come home to me yet," she said. "i don't think it ever will." he looked helplessly toward the pistol on the table. he knew it was all over and he should not use it. "what must i do?" he said, in the same hoarse voice. "get up," she said, "an' come with me. i'm a old woman but my heart's strong, an' we've been poor before. we'll go away together an' leave it all behind--all the sorrow of it an' the sin an' the shame. the life i _thought_ you lived, my dear, is to be lived yet. theer's places where they wont know us an' where we can begin again. get up and come with me." he scarcely grasped what she meant. "with you!" he repeated. "you want me to go now?" "yes," she answered, "for christ's sake, my dear, now." he began to see the meaning and possibility of her simple, woman's plan, and got up, ready to follow her. and then he found that the want of food and the long day had worn upon him so that he was weak. she put her arm beneath his and tried to support him. "lean on me, my dear," she said. "i'm stronger than you think." they went out, leaving the empty room and the pistol on the table and the dim light burning. and then they had locked the gate and were outside with the few stars shining above and the great black works looming up before them. he stopped a moment to look back and up and remembered the key. suddenly he raised it in his hand and flung it across the top of the locked gate; they heard it fall inside upon the pavement with a clang. "they'll wonder how it came there," he said. "they'll take down the name to-morrow. 'haworth's' is done with!" he turned to her and said, "come." his voice was a little stronger. they went down the lane together, and were lost in the darkness. chapter liii. "a bit o' good black." granny dixon was interred with pomp and ceremony, or, at least, with what appeared pomp and ceremony in the eyes of the lower social stratum of broxton. mrs. briarley's idea concerning the legacy left her had been of the vaguest. her revered relative had shrewdly kept the amount of her possessions strictly to herself, if indeed, she knew definitely what they were. she had spent but little, discreetly living upon the expectations of her kindred. she had never been known to give anybody anything, and had dealt out the money to be expended upon her own wants with a close hand. consequently, the principal, which had been a mystery from the first, had accumulated in an agreeably steady manner. between her periodic fits of weeping in her character of sole legatee, mrs. briarley speculated with matronly prudence upon the possibility of the interest even amounting to "a matter o' ten or fifteen shillin' a week," and found the pangs of bereavement materially softened thereby. there was a great deal of consolation to be derived from "ten or fifteen shillin' a week." "i'll ha' a bit o' good black," she said, "an' we'll gi' her a noice buryin'." only a severe sense of duty to the deceased rescued her from tempering her mournfulness with an air of modest cheer. the "bit o' good black" was the first investment. there was a gown remarkable for such stiffness of lining and a tendency to crackle upon every movement of the wearer, and there was a shawl of great weight and size, and a bonnet which was a marvel of unmitigated affliction as expressed by floral decorations of black crape and beads. "have thee beads i' thy bonnet an' a pair o' black gloves, mother," said janey, "an' tha'lt be dressed up for onct i' thy loife. eh! but i'd loike to go i' mournin' mysen." "aye, and so tha should, jane ann, if i could afford it," replied mrs. briarley. "theer's nowt loike a bit o' black fur makkin foak look dressed. theer's summat cheerful about it, i' a quoiet way. but nivver thee moind, tha'lt get these here things o' moine when i'm done wi' 'em, an' happen tha'lt ha' growed up to fit th' bonnet by then." the occasion of the putting on of the festive garb was mrs. briarley's visit to manchester to examine into the state of her relative's affairs, and such was the effect produced upon the mind of mr. briarley by the air of high life surrounding him that he retired into the late mrs. dixon's chair and wept copiously. "i nivver thowt to see thee dressed up i' so much luxshury, sararann," he said, "an' it sets me back. tha does na look loike thysen. tha looks as though tha moight be one o' th' nobility, goin' to th' duke o' wellington's funeral to ride behoind th' hearse. i'm not worthy o' thee. i've nivver browt thee luck. i'm a misforchnit cha----" "if tha'd shut thy mouth an' keep it shut till some one axes thee to oppen it, tha'd do well enow," interposed mrs. briarley, with a manifest weakening toward the culprit even in the midst of her sternness. "he is na so bad," she used to say, leniently, "if he hadna been born a foo'." but this recalled to mr. briarley such memories as only plunged him into deeper depression. "theer is na many as axes me to oppen it i' these days, sararann," he said, with mournfulness. "it has na oppen't to mich purpose for mony a day. even th' hospittyblest on 'em gets toired o' a chap as sees nowt but misforchin. i mowt as well turn teetotal an' git th' credit on it. happen theer's a bit o' pleasure to be getten out o' staggerin' through th' streets wi' a banner i' th' whit week possession. i dunnot know. i've thowt mysen as happen th' tea a chap has to drink when th' excitement's ower, an' th' speeches ud a'most be a drorback even to that. but i mun say i've thowt o' tryin'." it may be here remarked that since mrs. briarley's sudden accession to fortune, mr. briarley's manner had been that of an humble and sincere penitent whose sympathies were slowly but surely verging toward the noble cause of temperance. he had repeatedly deplored his wanderings from the path of sobriety and rectitude with tearful though subdued eloquence, and frequently intimated a mournful inclination to "jine th' teetotals." though, strange to say, the effect of these sincere manifestations had not been such as to restore in the partner of his joys and sorrows that unlimited confidence which would allow of her confiding to his care the small amount he had once or twice feebly suggested her favoring him with, "to settle wi'" a violent and not-to-be-pacified creditor of whom he stated he stood in bodily fear. "i dunnot know as i ivver seed a chap as were as desp'rit ower a little," he remarked. "it is na but eighteen pence, an' he ses he'll ha' it, or--or see about it. he stands at th' street corner--near th' 'who'd ha' thowt it,'--an' he will na listen to owt. he says a chap as has coom i' to property can pay eighteen pence. he wunnot believe me," he added weakly, "when i say as it is na me as has getten th' brass, but yo'. it mak's him worse to try to mak' him understand. he will na believe me, an' he's a chap as would na stand back at owt. theer wur a man i' marfort as owed him thrippence as he--he mashed i'to a jelly, sararann--an' it wur fur thrippence." "aye," said mrs. briarley, dryly, "an' theer's no knowin' what he'd do fur eighteen pence. theer's a bad lookout fur _thee_, sure enow!" mr. briarley paused and surveyed her for a few seconds in painful silence. then he looked at the floor, as if appealing to it for assistance, but even here he met with indifference, and his wounded spirit sought relief in meek protestations. "tha has na no confydence in me, sararann," he said. "happen th' teetotals would na ha' neyther, happen they wouldn't, an' wheer's th' use o' a chap thinkin' o' jinin' 'em when they mowt ha' no confydence i' him. when a mon's fam'ly mistrusts him, an' has na no belief in what he says, he canna help feelin' as he is na incouraged. tha is na incouragin', sararann--theer's wheer it is." but when, after her visit to manchester, mrs. briarley returned, even mr. briarley's spirits rose, though under stress of circumstances and in private. on entering the house mrs. briarley sank into a chair, breathless and overawed. "it's two pound ten a week, janey!" she announced in a hysterical voice. "an' tha can ha' thy black as soon as tha wants it." and mrs. briarley burst at once into luxurious weeping. janey dropped on to a stool, rolled her arms under her apron and sat gasping. "two pound ten a week!" she exclaimed. "i dunnot believe it!" but she was persuaded to believe by means of sound proof and solid argument, and even the proprieties were scarcely sufficient to tone down the prevailing emotion. "theer's a good deal to be getten wi' two pound ten a week," soliloquized mr. briarley in his corner. "i've heerd o' heads o' fam'lies as wur 'lowanced. summat could be done wi' three shillin' a week. wi' four shillin' a chap could be i' parydise." but this, be it observed, was merely soliloquy, timorously ventured upon in the temporary security afforded by the prevailing excitement. at the funeral the whole family appeared clothed in new garments of the most somber description. there were three black coaches and mrs. briarley was supported by numerous friends who alternately cheered and condoled with her. "tha mun remember," they said, "as she's better off, poor thing." mr. briarley, who had been adorned with a hat-band of appalling width and length, and had been furthermore inserted into a pair of gloves some inches too long in the fingers, overcame his emotion at this juncture sufficiently to make an endeavor to ingratiate himself. he withdrew his handkerchief from his face and addressed mrs. briarley. "aye," he said, "tha mun bear up, sararann. she _is_ better off--happen--an' so are we." and he glanced round with a faint smile which, however, faded out with singular rapidity, and left him looking somewhat aghast. chapter liv. "it will be to you." they found the key lying within the locked gate, and the dim light burning and the pistol loaded upon the table. the great house stood empty with all its grandeur intact. the servants had been paid their wages a few days before the crash and had gone away. nothing had been moved, nothing taken. the creditors, who found to their amazement that all was left in their hands to dispose of as they chose, agreed that this was not an orthodox case of absconding. haworth was a more eccentric fellow than they had thought. one man alone understood. this was murdoch, who, amid all the buzz of excited amazement, said nothing even to those in his own house. when he heard the story of the pistol and the key, his first thought was of the silence of the great place at night--the deadness of it and the sense of desolation it brought. it was a terrible thing to remember this and then picture a ruined man standing alone in the midst of it, a pistol in his hand and only the low light burning. "we did not understand each other very well," he said, drearily, "but we were friends in our way." and the man's farewell as he stood at the carriage door in the shadow, came back to him again and again like an echo repeating itself: "if there's aught in what's gone by that's for me--remember it!" even before his return home, murdoch had made up his mind as to what his course for the next few years was to be. his future was assured and he might follow his idlest fancy. but his fancies were not idle. they reached forward to freedom and new labors when the time came. he wanted to be alone for a while, at least, and he was to return to america. his plan was to travel with a purpose in view, and to fill his life with work which would leave him little leisure. rachel ffrench had not yet left her father's house. saint méran had gone away with some suddenness immediately after the dinner party at which the political economist had reigned. various comments had been made on his departure, but it was not easy to arrive at anything like a definite conclusion. miss ffrench was seen no more in the town. only a few servants remained with her in the house, and these maintained that she was going to paris to her father's sister, with whom she had lived before her return from abroad. they added that there was no change in her demeanor, that she had dismissed their companions without any explanation. one, it is true, thought she was rather thin--and had "gone off her looks," but this version was not popular and was considered out of accordance with the ideal of her character held in the public mind. "she does na care," it was said. "_she_ is na hurt. _her_ brass is safe enow, an' that's aw as ud be loike to trouble her. pale i'deed! she's too high an' moighty." murdoch made his preparations for departure as rapidly as possible. they were rather for his mother and christian than for himself. they were to leave broxton also and he had found a home for them elsewhere. one day, as they sat in the little parlor, he rose hurriedly and went to christian and took both her hands. "try to be happy," he said. "try to be happy." he spared no effort to make the future bright for them. he gave no thought to himself, his every hour was spent in thinking for and devising new comfort for them. but at last all was ready, and there was but one day left to them. the works were still closed, and would not be re-opened for some weeks, but he had obtained permission to go down to his room, and remove his possessions if he chose. so on the morning of this last day he let himself into his "den," and shut himself up in it. once behind the closed doors, he began a strange labor. he emptied drawers and desk, and burnt every scrap of paper to ashes--drawings, letters, all! then he destroyed the delicate models and every other remnant of his past labors. there was not so much as an envelope or blotting-pad remaining. when he had done he had made a clean sweep. the room was empty, cold, and bare. he sat down, at last, in the midst of its desolate orderliness. at that moment a hand was laid upon the door-handle and the door opened; there was a rustle of a woman's dress--and rachel ffrench stood before him. "what are you doing here, in heaven's name?" he said, rising slowly to meet her. she cast one glance around the bare room. "it is true! you are going away!" "yes," he answered, "i am going. i have done my last work here to-day." she made a step forward and stood looking at him. she spoke under her breath. "every one is going. my father has left me--i----" a scarlet spot came out on her cheek, but she did not withdraw her eyes. "saint méran has gone also." gradually, as she looked at him, the blood receded from her face and left it like a mask of stone. "i"--she began, in a sharp whisper, "do you not see? do you not understand! ah--my god!" there was a chair near her and she fell into it, burying her face in the crushed velvet of her mantle as she bowed herself upon the table near. "hush!" she cried, "do not speak to me! that it should be i who stooped, and for this--for this! that having battled against my folly so long, i should have let it drag me to the dust at last!" her passionate sobs suffocated her. she could not check or control them. her slender fingers writhed in their clasp upon each other. "i never thought of _this_, god knows!" he said, hoarsely, "though there have been hours when i could have sworn that you had loved me once. i have thought of all things, but never of this--never that you could repent." she lifted her head. "that _i_ should repent!" she cried. "repent! like this!" "no," he returned, "i never thought of that, i swear!" "and it is you," she cried, with scorn,--"_you_ who stand there and look at me and tell me that it is all over!" "is it _my_ fault that it is all over?" he demanded. "is it?" "no," she answered, "that is my consolation." he drew nearer to her. "you left me nothing," he said,--"nothing. god knows what saved me--i do not. _you_ loved me? _you_ battled against your love?" he laughed aloud. "i was a madman under your window night after night. forget it, if you can. i cannot. 'oh! that i should have stooped for this,' you say. no, it is that i who have loved you should stand here with empty hands!" she had bowed her face and was sobbing again. but suddenly she rose. "if i did not know you better," she said, "i should say this was revenge." "it would be but a poor one," he answered her coldly. she supported herself with one hand on the chair. "i have fallen very low," she said, "so low that i was weaker than i thought. and now, as you say, 'it is over.' your hands are empty! oh! it was a poor passion, and this is the fitting end for it!" she moved a little toward the door and stopped. "good-bye," she said. in a moment more all that was left was a subtle breath of flower-like fragrance in the atmosphere of the bare room. it was an hour before he passed through the iron gates, though there had been nothing left to be done inside. he came out slowly, and having locked the gate, turned toward the broxton road. he was going to the little graveyard. it had been a dull gray day, but by the time he reached the place, the sun had crept through the clouds and brightened them, and noting it he felt some vague comfort. it was a desolate place when there was no sun. when he reached the mound he stood looking down. since the night he had lain by it looking up at the sky and had made his resolve, the grass had grown longer and thicker and turned from green to brown. he spoke aloud, just as he had done before. "it is done," he said. "your thought was what you dreamed it would be. i have kept my word." he stopped as if for an answer. but it was very still--so still that the silence was like a presence. and the mound at his feet lay golden brown in the sunlight, even its long grass unstirred. they left broxton the next day and in a week he set sail. as the ship moved away he stood leaning upon the taffrail watching a figure on the shore. it was a girl in a long cloak of gray almost the color of the mist in which she stood--a slender motionless figure--the dark young face turned seaward. he watched her until he could see her face no longer, but still she had not stirred. "when i return," he said, scarcely conscious that he spoke, "when i return--it will be to you." then the grayness closed about her and she faded slowly from his sight. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/lancashiresketch waugiala transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). lancashire sketches. by edwin waugh. third edition london: simpkin, marshall, & co. manchester: alexander ireland & co. . preface to the first edition. _in this volume, relating to a district with which the writer is intimately acquainted, he has gathered up a few points of local interest, and, in connection with these, he has endeavoured to embody something of the traits of present life in south lancashire with descriptions of its scenery, and with such gleanings from its local history as bore upon the subject, and, under the circumstances, were available to him. how far he has succeeded in writing a book which may be instructive or interesting, he is willing to leave to the judgment of those who know the country and the people it deals with. he is conscious that, in comparison with the fertile peculiarities which lancashire presents to writers who are able to gather them up, and to use them well, this volume is fragmentary and discursive; yet he believes that, so far as it goes, it will not be wholly unacceptable to native readers._ _the historical information, interspersed throughout the volume, has been gleaned from so many sources that it would be a matter of considerable difficulty to give a complete and detailed acknowledgment of it. in every important case, however, this acknowledgment has been given, with some degree of care, as fully and clearly as possible, in the course of the work. some of this historical matter may prove to be ill-chosen, if not ill-used--perhaps in some cases it might have been obtained in a better form, and even more correctly given--but the writer has, at least, the satisfaction of knowing that, with such light as he had, and with such elements as were convenient to him, he has been guided, in his selection of that kind of information, by a desire to obtain the most correct and the most applicable matter which was available to him._ _a book which is purely local in its character and bearing, as this is, cannot be expected to have much interest for persons unconnected with the district which it relates to. if there is any hope of its being read at all, that hope is centred there. the subjects it treats upon being local, and the language used in it being often the vernacular of a particular part of the county, these circumstances combine to narrow its circle of acquaintance. but, in order to make that part of it which is given in the dialect as intelligible as possible to all readers not intimate with that form of native language, some care has been taken to explain such words as are unusually ambiguous in form, or in meaning. and here it may be noticed, that persons who know little or nothing of the dialect of lancashire, are apt to think of it as one in form and sound throughout the county, and expect it to assume one unvaried feature whenever it is represented in writing. this is a mistake, for there often exist considerable shades of difference--even in places not more than eight or ten miles apart--in the expression, and in the form of words which mean the same thing; and, sometimes, the language of a very limited locality, though bearing the same general characteristics as the dialect of the county in general, is rendered still more perceptibly distinctive in features, by idioms and proverbs peculiar to that particular spot. in this volume, however, the writer has taken care to give the dialect, as well as he could, in such a form as would convey to the mind of the general reader a correct idea of the mode of pronunciation, and the signification of the idioms, used in the immediate locality which he happens to be writing about._ _lancashire has had some learned writers who have written upon themes generally and locally interesting. but the successful delineation of the quaint and racy features of its humble life has fallen to the lot of very few. john collier, our sound-hearted and clear-headed native humourist of the last century, left behind him some exquisite glimpses of the manner of life in his own nook of lancashire, at that time. the little which he wrote, although so eccentric and peculiar in character as to be almost unintelligible to the general reader, contains such evidence of genius, and so many rare touches of nature, that to those who can discern the riches hidden under its quaint vernacular garb, it wears a perennial charm, in some degree akin to that which characterises the writings of such men as cervantes and de foe. and, in our own day, samuel bamford--emphatically a native man--has, with felicitous truth, transferred to his pages some living pictures of lancashire life, which will probably be read with more interest even than now, long after the writer has been gathered to his fathers. there are others who have illustrated some of the conditions of social existence in lancashire, in a graphic manner, with more polish and more learning; but, for native force and truth, john collier and samuel bamford are, probably, the foremost of all genuine expositors of the characteristics of the lancashire people._ _in conclusion, all that has hitherto been done in this way is small in amount, compared with that which is left undone. the past, and still more the disappearing present, of this important district teem with significant features, which, if caught up and truthfully represented, might, perhaps, be useful to the next generation._ _e. w._ _manchester._ preface to the third edition. _since the second issue of this volume, the matter it contained has been revised and corrected; and considerable additions have been made thereto. but, even yet, the writer is sensible of many crudities remaining in this, his first venture upon the world of letters. and amongst the new matter which has been added to the present edition, the reader will find, at least, one article--"saint catherine's chapel"--which has no direct connection with a volume of "lancashire sketches." he must now, however, leave the book to such fate as awaits it; hoping that, if time and health be granted to him, he may yet do something worthier of the recognition which his efforts have already met with from the people of his native county._ _e. w._ _manchester._ contents. page. chapel island; or, an adventure on the ulverstone sands ramble from bury to rochdale the cottage of tim bobbin, and the village of milnrow the birthplace of tim bobbin ramble from rochdale to the top of blackstone edge the town of heywood and its neighbourhood the grave of grislehurst boggart boggart ho' clough rostherne mere oliver fernleaf's watch norbreck: a sketch on the lancashire coast wandering minstrels; or, wails of the workless poor a wayside incident, during the cotton famine saint catherine's chapel; or, the pretty island bay the knocker-up the complaint of a sad complaint lancashire sketches. chapel island; or, an adventure on ulverstone sands. the wills above be done! but i would fain die a dry death. the tempest. i have spent many a pleasant day at the village of bardsea, three miles south of ulverstone. it stands close to conishead park, high upon a fertile elbow of land, the base of which is washed on two sides by the waters of morecambe bay. it is an old hamlet, of about fifty houses, nearly all in one wandering street, which begins at the bottom of a knoll, on the ulverstone side, and then climbs to a point near the summit, where three roads meet, and where the houses on one side stand back a few yards, leaving an open ground like a little market-place. upon the top of the knoll, a few yards east of this open space, the church stands, overlooking sea and land all round. from the centre of the village the street winds on towards the beach. at this end a row of neat houses stands at a right angle, upon an eastward incline, facing the sea. the tide washes up within fifty yards of these houses at high water. at the centre of the village, too, half a dozen pleasant cottages leave the street, and stand out, like the fin of a fish, in a quiet lane, which leads down into a little shady glen at the foot of birkrigg. the same lane leads, by another route, over the top of that wild hill, into the beautiful vale of urswick. bardsea is a pretty, out of the way place, and the country about it is very picturesque and varied. it is close to the sea, and commands a fine view of the bay, and of its opposite shores, for nearly forty miles. about a mile west of the village, birkrigg rises high above green pastures and leafy dells that lap his feet in beauty. northward, the road to ulverstone leads through the finest part of conishead park, which begins near the end of the village. this park is one of the most charming pieces of undulant woodland scenery i ever beheld. an old writer calls it "the paradise of furness." on the way to ulverstone, from bardsea, the leven estuary shows itself in many a beautiful gleam through the trees of the park; and the fells of cartmel are in full view beyond. it is one of the pleasantest, one of the quietest walks in the kingdom. the last time i saw bardsea it was about the middle of july. i had gone there to spend a day or two with a friend. there had not been a cloud on the heavens for a week; and the smell of new hay came on every sigh that stirred the leaves. the village looked like an island of sleepy life, with a sea of greenery around it, surging up to the very doors of its white houses, and flinging the spray of nature's summer harmonies all over the place. the songs of birds, the rustle of trees, the ripple of the brook at the foot of the meadows, and the murmur of the sea, all seem to float together through the nest of man, making it drowsy with pleasure. it was fairly lapped in soothing melody. every breath of air brought music on its wings; and every song was laden with sweet smells. nature loved the little spot, for she caressed it and croodled about it, like a mother singing lullabies to a tired child. and bardsea was pleased and still, as if it knew it all. it seemed the enchanted ear of the landscape; for everywhere else the world was alive with the jocund restlessness of the season. my friend and i wandered about from morning to night. in the heat of the day the white roads glared in the sun; and, in some places, the air seemed to tremble at about a man's height from the ground, as i have seen it tremble above a burning kiln sometimes. but for broad day we had the velvet glades and shady woods of conishead to ramble in; and many a rich old lane, and some green dells, where little brooks ran whimpling their tiny undersongs, in liquid trebles, between banks of nodding wild flowers. our evening walks were more delightful still; for when soft twilight came, melting the distinctions of the landscape in her dreamy loveliness, she had hardly time to draw "a thin veil o'er the day" before sea and land began to shine again under the radiance of the moon. wandering among such scenes, at such a time, was enough to touch any man's heart with gratitude for the privilege of existence in this world of ours. my friend's house stands upon a buttressed shelf of land, half-way up the slope which leads from the shore into bardsea. it is the most seaward dwelling of the place; and it is bowered about on three sides with little plots of garden, one of them kept as a playground for the children. it commands a glorious view of the bay, from hampsfell, all round by arnside and lancaster, down to fleetwood. sometimes, at night, i have watched the revolutions of the fleetwood light, from the front of the house, whilst listening to the surge of the tide along the shore, at the foot of the hill. one day, when dinner was over, we sat down to smoke at an open window, which looked out upon the bay. it was about the turning of the tide, for a fisherman's cart was coming slowly over the sands, from the nets at low water. the day was unusually hot; but, before we had smoked long, i felt as if i couldn't rest any longer indoors. "where shall we go this afternoon?" said i, knocking the ashes out of my pipe upon the outside sill. "well," replied my friend, "i have been thinking that we couldn't do better than stroll into the park a while. what do you say?" "agreed," said i. "it's a bonny piece of woodland. i dare say many a roman soldier has been pleased with the place, as he marched through it, sixteen centuries ago." "perhaps so," said he, smiling, and taking his stick from the corner; "but the scene must have been very different then. come along." at the garden gate we found three of his flaxen-headed children romping with a short-legged scotch terrier, called "trusty." the dog's wild eyes shone in little slits of dusky fire through the rusty thicket of gray hair which overhung them. "trusty" was beside himself with joy when we came into the road; and he worried our shoes, and shook our trousers' slops in a sham fury, as if they were imaginary rats; and he bounced about and barked, till the quiet scene, from bardsea to birkrigg, rang with his noisy glee. some of the birds about us seemed to stop singing for a few seconds, and, after they had taken an admiring look sideway at the little fellow, they burst out again louder than ever, and in more rollicking strains, heartily infected with the frisky riot of that little four-legged marlocker. both the dog and the children clamoured to go with us. my friend hesitated as first one, then another, tugged at him, and said: "pa, let me go." turning to me, he scratched his head, and said: "i've a good mind to take willie." the lad instantly gave a twirl round on one heel, and clapped his hands, and then laid hold of his father's coat-lap, by way of clenching the bargain at once. but, just then, his mother appeared at the gate, and said: "eh, no, willie, you'd better not go. you'll be so tired. come, stay with me. that's a good boy." willie let go his hold slowly, and fell back with a disappointed look. "trusty" seemed to know that there was a hitch in the matter, for he suddenly became quieter; and, going up to willie, he licked his hands consolingly, and then, sitting down beside him, he looked round from one to another, to see how the thing was to end. "don't keep tea waiting for us," said my friend, "we'll be back in time for an early supper." "very well," replied his good wife; "we'll have something nice. don't be late." the dog was now whining and wrestling in the arms of willie, who was holding him back. we made our bows, and bade "good-bye" to the children and to their mother, and then turned up the road. before we had got many yards, she called out:-- "i say, chris, if you go as far as ulverstone, call at mrs. seatle's, and at town and fell's, for some things which i ordered. bella rigg can bring them down in her cart. these children want a new skipping rope, too: and you might bring something for willie." the little girls begun to dance about, shaking their sunny locks, and singing, "eh, a new skipping rope! a new skipping rope!" then the youngest seized her father's hand, and cocking up her rosy button-hole of a mouth, she said, "pa! pa! lift me up! i want to tell you somefin." "well; what is it, pet?" said he, taking her in his arms. clipping his neck as far as she could, she said, "div me a tis, first." and then she whispered in his ear, "if--you'll--buy--me--a _big_ doll, i'll sing, 'down in a low and drassy bed,' four times, when you tum home,--_now_ then. 'trusty' eated my odder doll, when we was playin' shop in de dardin." and then he had to kiss them again, and promise--i know not what. once more we said "good bye," and walked up towards the white village; the chime of sweet voices sinking into a silvery hum as we got farther off. everything in bardsea was unusually still. most of the doors and windows were open; and, now and then, somebody peeped out as we passed by, and said it was "a fine day." turning round to look at the sands, we saw the dumpy figure of "owd manuel," the fisherman, limping up from the foot of the slope, with his coat slung upon his arm. the old man stopped, and wiped his forehead, and gave his crutch a flourish, by way of salutation. we waved our hats in reply, and went on. at the centre of the village stands the comfortable inn, kept by "old gilly," the quaint veteran who, after spending the prime of manhood in hard service among the border smugglers, has settled down to close the evening of his life in this retired nest. here, too, all was still, except the measured sound of a shoemaker's hammer, ringing out from the open door of a cottage, where "cappel" sat at his bench, beating time upon a leather sole to the tune of a country song. and, on the shady side, next door to the yard wall, which partly encloses the front of the old inn, the ruddy, snow-capped face and burly figure of "old tweedler" was visible, as still as a statue. he was in his shirt sleeves, leaning against the door-cheek of his little grocery shop, smoking a long pipe, and looking dreamily at the sunny road. "tweedler" needs a good deal of wakening at any time; but when he is once fairly wakened, he is a tolerable player on the clarionet, and not a very bad fiddler; and he likes to talk about his curious wanderings up and down the kingdom with show-folk. when the old man had found us out, and had partly succeeded in getting his heavy limbs into a mild disposition to move, he sidled forth from his little threshold, and came towards us, gurgling something from his throat that was not unlike the low growl of an old hoarse dog. his gruff, slow-motioned voice sounded clear all around, waking the echoes of the sleepy houses, as he said, "well,--gen-tle-men. what? wheer are you for,--to-day?" we told him that we were going down to the priory, for a stroll; but we should like to call at "gilly's" first, for a few minutes, if he would go in with us. "well," said he; "it's a very het day an' i don't mind hevin' an odd gill. in wi' ye,--an' i'll follow--in a minute," and then he sidled back to his nest. there was not a sound of life in "old gilly's" house; but the trim cap of his kind dame was visible inside, bobbing to and fro by the window of the little bar. "gilly," in his kind-hearted way, always calls her "mammy." we looked in at the bar, and the old lady gave us a cordial welcome. "my good-man has just gone to lie down," said she; "but i'll go and tell him." we begged that she would let him rest, and bring us three glasses of her best ale. the sun shone in strongly at the open back door. at the rear of the house, there is a shady verandah, and a garden in front of it. there we sat down, looking at the bright bay. the city of lancaster was very distinct, on the opposite side of the water, more than twenty miles off. in a few minutes we heard tweedler's cart-horse tread, as he came through the lobby, with two books in his hand. "there," said he, handing one of them to me; "i've turned that up amang a lot o' lumber i't house. i warnd it's just the thing for ye. what the devil is't, think ye? for it's past my skill." it was an old, well-thumbed latin delectus, with one back off, and several leaves gone. it was not of much use to me; but when the old man said, "now, that's a fine book, i'll awarnd, an' i'll mak' ye a present on't," i felt bound to receive it thankfully; and i did so. "an' this," said he, holding up the other; "is a book o' sangs. cummerlan' sangs." it was a thin volume, in papered boards--a cheap edition of anderson's ballads--printed in double column, royal octavo. "ay." replied my friend; "i should like to look at that." "varra well," said tweedler; "put it i' your pocket. i'll land it ye." and then, as if half-repenting, he continued, "but i set a deal o' store o' that book. i don't think as i could get another for ony money." "you shall have it back in a day or two," said my friend. "oh," replied tweedler, "it's all reight wi' ye. but i wouldn't ha' lant it onybody, mind ye." my friend put the book in his pocket, promising to take especial care of it; and then we drank up, and came away; and tweedler sauntered back to lean against the door-cheek, and smoke. it was about half-past one when we walked out at the landward end of the village. the only person we met was a horseman, riding hastily up from the skirt of the park. as he sped by i recognised the tall figure and benevolent face of dr. anderson, of ulverstone. near bardsea hall an old lane leads off at the right-hand of the road, down to the sea-beach, from whence there is a pleasant walk along the shore of the leven estuary, to a little fishing village, called sandside, and thence a good road, between meadow lands, up into ulverstone. after a minute's conversation, at the end of this lane, we agreed to go that way. when we came out upon the shore, my friend stopped, and looked across the sands. "was you ever on chapel island?" said he, pointing towards it. "no," replied i; "but i should like to see that spot. are there any remains of the old chantry left?" "a few," said he; "mostly incorporated with the house of a fisherman who lives on the island. but we'll go over to it. there's nice time to get across before the tide comes in. it's not much more than a mile." i was pleased with the idea of seeing this little historic island, of which i had read and heard so much; so we strode out towards it at once. the sands between looked as level as a bowling-green, and perfectly dry; and it did not seem to me more than half the distance my friend had said. before we had gone many yards he began a story:-- "the last time i was on the island there were several friends--but hold! we had better take something to eat and drink. they'll have next to nothing there; and we shall have to stop till the next ebb. wait here. i'll run back. i shan't be many minutes." and away he went to the green lane. there was an old black boat on the sands, close to where he had left me. i got into it, and, pulling my hat over my eyes to shade the sun away, i lay down on my back and listened to the birds in conishead park. it was something more than a quarter of an hour before he appeared at the end of the lane again, with a brown bottle in one hand and with pockets well stored. without stopping an instant, he walked right out upon the sands, wiping the perspiration from his brow as he went. staring straight at the island, he said, "come on. we've no time to lose, now. but we can manage it." i remember fancying that there was an unusual earnestness in the tone of his voice; but i did not think much more about it at the time, for the sands still seemed quite dry between us and the island; so i followed him in silence, looking round at the beautiful scene, with my mind at ease. my friend was a tall, lithe man, in the prime of life, and a very good walker. i had not been well for some days previous, and i began to feel that the rate he was going at was rather too much for me. besides, i had a pair of heavy, double-soled boots on, and my thick coat was loaded with books and papers. but i laboured on, perspiring freely. i thought that i could manage well enough to keep up with him for the distance we had to go. in a few minutes we began to come to patches of wet sand, where the feet sank at every step, and our progress was slower, though a good deal more difficult. we did not seem to get much nearer the island, though we were walking so hard. this tried me still more; and, not seeing any need for such a desperate hurry, i said, "don't go so fast!" but he kept up the pace, and, pointing to where a white sail was gliding up the other side of the island, towards ulverstone, he said, "come along! the main channel's filling! we've a channel to cross on this side, yet. d'ye see yon white line? it's the tide rushing in! come on! we can't turn back now!" it was only then that i began to see how we were situated; and i tramped on at his heels, through the soft wet sand, perspiring and panting, and still without seeming to get over much ground. in a few minutes we came to a shallow channel, about eight or ten yards across. we splashed through, without speaking. it only took us a little above the knee; but, i perceived that the water was rising rapidly. thinking that the danger was over, i stammered out, "stop! slacken a bit! we're all right now!" but the tone, as well as the words of his reply, startled me, as he shot ahead, crying, "this is not it! this is nothing! come on!" i was getting exhausted; and, when he cried out, "double!" and broke into a run, i had not breath to spare for an answer; but i struggled on desperately. the least false step would have brought me down; and, if i had fallen, i think that even that delay would have been more than we had to spare. three or four minutes brought us up to the channel he had spoken of. it was an old bed of the river leven. it must have been from fifteen to twenty yards wide at that moment, and the tide was increasing it at a terrible rate. when we got to the edge of the water, i was so done up that i panted out: "stop! i can't go so fast!" but my friend turned half round, with a wild look, and almost screamed: "but you must! it's death!" then we went into the water, without any more words. i was a little on one side of him, and about two yards in the rear. it is a wonder to me now how i got through that deep, strong, tidal current. the water must have revived me a little, unconsciously to myself, at the time. before we had got to the middle, i saw the book of ballads in the side pocket of my friend's shooting coat disappearing in the water as he went deeper into the channel. my clothes began to grow heavy, and the powerful action of the tide swayed me about so much that i could hardly keep my feet, and i expected every moment being whelmed over. but somehow i strove on, the water deepening at every step. a thousand thoughts crowded into my mind whilst wading that channel. i remember distinctly the terrible stillness of the scene; the frightful calm of the blue sky; the rocky island, with its little grove of trees, waving gracefully in the sunshine--all so beautiful, yet all looking down with such a majestic indifference upon us, as we wrestled for life with the rising tide. about mid-channel, when the water was high up my breast, my friend gave a wild shout for help, and i instantly did the same. the island was not much more than forty yards off. as my friend turned his head, i caught a glimpse of his haggard look, and i thought all was over. the rocks re-echoed our cries; but everything was still as death, except the little grove of trees waving in the sunshine. there was not a living soul in sight. my heart sank, and i remember feeling, for an instant, as if it was hardly worth while struggling any longer. and here let me bear testimony to a brave act on the part of my friend. in the deepest part of the channel, when the water was near the top of my shoulders, he put out his stick sideway, and said, "get hold!" i laid only a feeble grasp upon it, for i had enough to do to keep my feet. when we had waded about three yards in this way, we began to see that we were ascending the opposite bank rapidly, for it was steeper than the other one. in two minutes more we were out upon the dry sands, with our clothes clinging heavily about us, and our hearts beating wild with mingled emotions. "now," said i, panting for breath, "let's sit down a minute." "no, no!" replied he in a resolute tone, pushing on; "come farther off." a walk of about thirty yards brought us to the foot of the rocks. we clambered painfully up from stone to stone, till we came upon a little footpath which led through the grove and along the garden to the old fisherman's cottage, on the north side of the island. as we entered the grove i found that my friend had kept hold of the brown bottle all the way. i did not notice this till we came to the first patch of grassy ground, where he flung the bottle down and walked on. he told me afterwards that he believed it had helped to steady him whilst coming through the channel. the fisherman's cottage is the only dwelling on the little island. we found the door open, and the birds were singing merrily among the green bushes about the entrance. there was nobody in but the old fisherman's wife, and she was deaf. we might have shouted long enough before she could have heard us; and if she had heard, the poor old body could hardly have helped us. when we got to the door, she was busy with something at the fire, and she did not hear our approach. but, turning round, and seeing us standing there, she gazed a few seconds with a frightened look, and then, lifting up both hands, she cried out, "eh, dear o' me; good folk! whativver's to do? whereivver han yo cum fra? eh; heawivver han yo getten ower?" we told our tale in a few words; and then she began again:-- "good lorjus days, childer! what browt yo through t' channel at sich an ill time as this? it's a marcy 'at yo weren't draan'd mony a time ower! it mud ha' bin my awn lads! eh, what trouble there'd ha' bin for someb'dy. what, ye'll ha' mothers livin', likely; happen wives and childer?... eh, dear o' me! bud cum in wi' ye! whativver are ye stonnin' theer for? cum in, an' get your claes off--do! an' get into bed this minute," said she, pointing to a little, low-roofed room in the oldest part of the house. the water from our clothes was running over the floor; but when we spoke about it in the way of apology, the old woman said, "nivver ye mind't watter. ye've had watter enough for yance, i should think. get in theer, i tell ye; an' tak' your weet claes off. now, don't stan' gabblin', but creep into bed, like good lads; an' i'll bring ye some het tea to drink.... eh, but ye owt to be thankful 'at ye are wheer ye are!... ye'd better go into that inside room; it'll be quieter. leave your claes i' this nar room, an' i'll hing 'em up to dry. an' put some o' thoose aad shirts on. they're poor, but they're comfortable. now, in wi' ye! ye can talk at efter." the old woman had four grown-up sons, labourers and fishermen; and there was plenty of working clothes belonging to them, lying about the bedroom. after we had stript our wet things, and flung them down, one after another, with a splash, we put on a rough shirt a-piece, and crept into bed. in a few minutes she came in with a quart pitcher full of hot tea, and a cup to drink it from; and, setting it down upon a chair at the bedside, she said, "now, get that into ye, and hev a bit of a sleep. eh, dear o' me! it's a marcy ye warn't draan'd!" we lay still, talking and looking about us; but we could not sleep. the excitement we had gone through had left a band of intense pain across the lower part of my forehead, as if a hot wire was burning into it. the walls of the room we lay in were partly those of the ancient chapel which gives name to the island. in fact, the little ragged, weed-grown belfrey still stood above our heads, almost the only relic of the ruined chantry, except the foundations, and some pieces of the old walls built up into the cottage. this chapel was founded above five centuries ago, by the monks of furness. here they prayed daily "for the safety of the souls of such as crossed the sands with the morning tide." the priory of conishead was charged with the maintenance of guides across this estuary, which is perhaps the most dangerous part of the morecambe sands. baines says of the route across these sands: "the tract is from holker hall to plumpton hall, keeping chapel island a little to the left; and the mind of a visitor is filled with a mixture of awe and gratitude when, in a short time after he has traversed this estuary, almost dry shod, he beholds the waters advancing into the bay, and bearing stately vessels towards the harbour of ulverstone, over the very path which he has so recently trodden." i can imagine how solemn the pealing of that little island chapel's bell must have sounded upon the shores of the estuary, floating over those dangerous waters its daily warning of the uncertainty of human life. perhaps the bodies of drowned men might have lain where we were lying; or travellers rescued from the tide by those ancient ministers of religion might have listened with grateful hearts to the prayers and thanksgivings offered up in that venerable chantry. the chastening interest of old pious usage clings to the little island still; and it stands in the midst of the waters, preaching in mute eloquence to every thoughtful mind. there was something in the sacred associations of the place; there was something in the mouldering remnant of the little chapel, which helped to deepen the interest of our eventful visit that day. we could not sleep. the sun shone in aslant at the one tiny window of our bedroom, and the birds were singing merrily outside. as we lay there, thinking and talking about these things, my friend said, "i feel thankful now that i did not bring willie with me. if i had done so, nothing could have saved us. the tide had come in behind, and a minute more at the channel would have been too much." after resting about three hours, we got up, and put on some of the cast-off clothes which had been worn by the old woman's sons whilst working in the land. my trousers were a good deal too long, and they were so stiff with dried slutch that they almost stood up of themselves. when they were on, i felt as if i was dressed in sheet-iron. i never saw two stranger figures than we cut that day, as we entered the kitchen again, each amusing himself with the other's comical appearance. "never ye mind," said the old woman; "there's naabody to see ye bud mysel; ye may think varra weel 'at ye're alive to wear owt at all. but sart'ny ye looken two bonny baygles! i daat varra mich whether your awn folk would knaw ye. it quite alters your fayturs. i should't tak ye to be aboon ninepence to t' shillin' at the varra most. as for ye," said she, addressing myself, "ye'n na 'casion to talk, for ye're as complete a flay-crow as ivver i set e'en on," the kitchen was cleaned up, and the things emptied from our pockets lay about. here books and papers were opened out to dry. there stockings hung upon a line, and our boots were reared against the fender, with their soles turned to the fire. on the dresser two little piles of money stood, and on a round table were the sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs which my friend had brought in his pockets. "what are ye for wi' this?" said the old woman, pointing to the eatables. "one or two o't eggs are crushed a bit, but t' ham's naa warse, 'at i can see." "let us taste what it is like," said my friend. "that's reight," replied she; "an' yell hev a cup o' het tea to it. i have it ready here." the tea was very refreshing; but we couldn't eat much, for we had not quite recovered from the late excitement. after a little meal, we went out to walk upon the island. our damp clothes were fluttering upon the green bushes about the cottage. they were drying fast; for, though the sun was hot, a cool breeze swept over the bay from the south-west. we wandered through the grove, and about the garden, or rather the "kailyard," for the chief things grown in it were potatoes, cabbages, brocoli, pot-herbs, and such like things, useful at dinner time. there were very few flowers in it, and they were chiefly such as had to take care of themselves. in the grove there were little bowery nooks, and meandering footpaths, mostly worn by visitors from the neighbouring shores. the island has been much larger than it is now. great quantities of limestone rock have been sold, and carried away to the mainland; and it seems as if this little interesting leaf of local history was fated to ultimate destruction in that way. we walked all round it, and then we settled down upon a grassy spot, at the south-western edge, overlooking the channel we had waded through. there was something solemn in the thought that, instead of gazing upon the beautiful bay, we might have been lying at that moment in the bed of the channel there, with the sunny waters rippling above us, or drifting out with the retiring tide to an uncrowded grave in the western sea. the thick woods of conishead looked beautiful on the opposite shore, with the white turrets of the priory rising out of their embowering shades. a little south of that the spire of bardsea church pointed heavenward from the summit of a green hill, marking the spot where the village stood hidden from our view. white sails were gliding to and fro upon the broad bay, like great swans with sunlit wings. it was a beautiful scene. we sat looking at it till we began to feel chill, and then we went back to the cottage. about six o'clock the old fisherman returned home from ulverstone; and, soon after, two of his sons arrived from conishead park, where they had been working at a deep drain. they were tall, hardy-looking men, about middle-age. the old fisherman, who knows the soundings of the sands all round, seemed to think we had picked our way to the island as foolishly as it was possible to do. he talked about the matter as if we had as good a knowledge of the sands as himself, and had set out with the express intention of doing a dangerous exploit. "now," said he, pointing a good way north of the way we had crossed, "if ye'd ha' come o'er by theer, ye mud ha' done it easy. bud, what the devil, ye took the varra warst nook o't channel. _i_ wonder as ye weren't _draan'd_. i've helped to get mony a ane aat o' that hole--baith deead an' alive. i yence pulled a captain aat by th' yure o't' yed, as had sailed all ower t' warld, nearly. an' we'd summat to do to bring him raand, an' all. he was that far geean.... now, if ye'd ha' getten upo' yon bank," continued he, "ye mud ha' managed to ha' studden till help had come to ye. what, ye wadn't ha' bin varra mich aboon t' middle.... but it's getten near law watter. i mun be off to t' nets. will ye go daan wi' me?" there were two sets of "stake nets" belonging to the island; one on the north end, and the other on the western side, in our own memorable channel. the sons went to those on the north; and the old man took a stick in his hand, and a large basket on his arm, and we followed him down the rocks to the other nets. they are great cages of strong network, supported by lofty poles, or stakes, from which they take their name. they are so contrived that the fish can get into them at high water, but cannot escape with the retiring tide. there was rather more than a foot of water at the bottom of the nets; but there was not a fish visible, till the old man stepped in; and then i saw that flukes lay thick about the bottom, half-hidden in the sand. we waded in, and helped to pick them up, till the great basket was about half full. he then closed the net, and came away, complaining that it was "nobbut a poor catch." when we got to the cottage we put on our own clothes, which were quite dry. and, after we had picked out two dozen of the finest flukes, which the old man strung upon a stout cord for ease of carriage, we bade adieu to the fisherman and his family, and we walked away over the sands, nearly by the way we had come to the island. the sun had gone down behind old birkrigg; but his westering splendour still empurpled the rugged tops of the cartmel hills. the woods of conishead were darkening into shade; and the low of cattle came, mellowed by distance, from the rich pastures of furness. it was a lovely evening. instead of going up the green lane which leads to the landward end of bardsea, we turned southward, along the shore, and took a grass-grown shady path, which winds round the sea-washed base of the hill upon which the church stands and so up into the village by a good road from the beach. the midges were dancing their airy rounds; the throstle's song began to ring clearer in the stilling woods; and the lone ouzel, in her leafy covert, chanted little fits of complaining melody, as if she had lost something. there were other feathered lingerers here and there in those twilight woods, not willing yet to go to rest, through unwearied joyfulness of heart, and still singing on, like children late at play, who have to be called in by their mothers as night comes on. when we drew near my friend's house, he said, "now, we had better not mention this little affair to our people." but, as we sat at supper that night, i could not help feeling thankful that we wer e eating fish instead of being eaten by them. ramble from bury to rochdale. "its hardly in a body's pow'r to keep, at times' fra being sour." burns. one fine afternoon, at the end of february, i had some business to do in bury, which kept me there till evening. as twilight came on, the skies settled slowly into a gorgeous combination of the grandest shapes and hues, which appeared to canopy the country for miles around. the air was clear, and it was nipping cold; and every object within sight stood out in beautiful relief in that fine transparence, softened by the deepening shades of evening. the world seemed to stand still and meditate, and inhale silently the air of peace which pervaded that tranquil hour of closing day, as if all things on earth had caught the spirit of "meek nature's evening comments on the fuming shows and vanities of man." the glare of daylight is naturally fitted for bustle and business, but such an eventide as this looked the very native hour of devout thought, and recovery from the details of worldly occupation. it is said that the town of bury takes its name from the saxon word _byri_, a burgh, or castle. one of the twelve ancient saxon fortresses of lancashire stood in the place now called "castle croft," close to the town, and upon the banks of the old course of the river irwell. immediately below the eminence, upon which the castle once stood, a low tract of ground, of considerable extent, stretches away from below the semicircular ridge upon which the northern extremity of the town is situated, up the valley of the irwell. less than fifty years ago this tract was a great stagnant swamp, where, in certain states of the weather the people of the neighbourhood could see the weird antics of the "wild fire," or "jack o' lantern," that fiend of morass and fen. an old medical gentleman, of high repute, who has lived his whole life in the town, lately assured me that he remembers well that, during the existence of that poisonous swamp, there was a remarkable prevalence of fever and ague amongst the people living in its neighbourhood; which diseases have since then comparatively disappeared from the locality. there is something rich in excellent suggestions in the change which has been wrought in that spot. the valley, so long fruitful of pestilences, is now drained and cleared, and blooms with little garden allotments, belonging to the working people thereabouts. oft as i chance to pass that way, on saturday afternoons, or holidays, there they are, working in their little plots, sometimes assisted by their children, or their wives; a very pleasant scene. i lingered in the market-place a little while, looking at the parish church, with its new tower and spire, and at the fine pile of new stone buildings, consisting of the derby hotel, the town hall, and the athenæum. south lancashire has, for a very long time past, been chiefly careful about its hard productive work, and practicable places to do it in; and has taken little thought about artistic ornament of any sort; but the strong old county palatine begins to flower out a little here and there, and this will increase as the wealth of the county becomes influenced by elevated taste. in this new range of buildings, there was a stateliness and beauty, which made the rest of the town of bury look smaller and balder than ever it seemed to me before. it looked like a piece of the west end of london, dropped among a cluster of weavers' cottages. but my reflections took another direction. at "the derby," there, thought i, will be supplied--to anybody who can command "the one thing needful"--sumptuous eating and drinking, fine linen, and downy beds, hung with damask curtaining; together with grand upholstery, glittering chandelier and looking-glass, and more than enough of other ornamental garniture of all sorts; a fine cook's shop and dormitory, where a man might make shift to tickle a few of his five senses very prettily, if he was so disposed. a beggar is not likely to put up there; but a lord might chance to go to bed there, and dream that he was a beggar. at the other end of these fine buildings, the new athenæum was quietly rising into the air. the wants to be provided for in that edifice were quite of another kind. there is in the town of bury, as, more or less, everywhere, a sprinkling of naturally active and noble minds, struggling through the hard crust of ignorance and difficulty, towards mental light and freedom. such salt as this poor world of ours has in it, is not unfrequently found among these humble strugglers. i felt sure that such as these, at least, would watch the laying of the stones of this new athenæum with a little interest. that is their grand citadel, thought i; and from thence, the artillery of a few old books shall help to batter tyranny and nonsense about the ears;--for there is a reasonable prospect that there, the ample page of knowledge, "rich with the spoils of time," will be unfolded to all who desire to consult it; and that from thence the seeds of thought may yet be sown over a little space of the neighbouring mental soil. this fine old england of ours will some day find, like the rest of the world, that it is not mere wealth and luxury, and dexterous juggling among the legerdemain of trade, that make and maintain its greatness, but intelligent and noble-hearted men, in whatever station of life they grow; and they are, at least, sometimes found among the obscure, unostentatious, and very poor. it will learn to prize these, as the "pulse of the machine," and to cultivate them as the chief hope of its future existence and glory; and will carefully remove, as much as possible, all unnecessary difficulties from the path of those who, from a wise instinct of nature, are impelled in the pursuit of knowledge by pure love of it, for its own sake, and not by sordid aims. the new town hall is the central building of this fine pile. the fresh nap was not yet worn off it; and, of course, its authorities were anxious to preserve its pristine corinthian beauty from the contaminations of "the unwashed." they had made it nice, and they wanted none but nice people in it. at the "free exhibition" of models for the peel monument, a notice was posted at the entrance, warning visitors, that "persons in clogs" would not be admitted. there are some town halls which are public property, in the management of which a kindred solicitude prevails about mere ornaments of wood and stone, or painting, gilding, and plaster work; leading to such restrictions as tend to lessen the service which they might afford to the whole public. they are kept rather too exclusively for grandee-festivals; and gatherings of those classes which are too much sundered from the poor by a chinese wall of exclusive feeling. i have known the authorities of such places make "serious objections to evening meetings;" and yet, i have often seen the farce of "public meetings" got up ostensibly for the discussion of some important question then agitating the population of the neighbourhood, inviting _public_ discussion, at _eleven_ o'clock in the _forenoon_, an hour when the heterodox multitude would be secure enough at their labour; and, in this way, many a pack of fanatic hounds--and there are some such in all parties--have howled out their hour with a clear stage and no foe; and then walked off glorying in a sham triumph, leaving nothing beaten behind them but the air they have tainted with _ex parte_ denunciation. and, in my erroneous belief that this town hall, into which "persons in clogs" were not to be admitted, was public property, the qualification test seemed to be of a queer kind, and altogether at the wrong end of the man. alas, for these poor lads who wear clogs and work-soiled fustian garments; it takes a moral columbus, every now and then, to keep the world awake to a belief that there is something fine in them, which has been running to waste for want of recognition and culture. blessed and beautiful are the feet, which fortune has encased in the neat "clarence," of the softest calf or cordovan, or the glossy "wellington," of fine french leather. even so; the woodenest human head has a better chance in this world if it come before us covered with a good-looking hat. but woe unto your impertinent curiosity, ye unfortunate clog-wearing lovers of the fine arts!--(i was strongly assured that there were several curious specimens of this strange animal extant among the working people of bury.) it was pleasant to hear, however, that several of these ardent persons, of questionable understanding, meeting with this warning as they attempted to enter the hall, after duly contemplating it with humourous awe, doffed their condemned clogs at once, and, tucking the odious timber under their arms, ran up the steps in their stocking-feet. it is a consolation to believe that these clogs of theirs are not the only clogs yet to be taken off in this world of ours. but, as this "town hall" is private property, and, as it has been settled by somebody in the north that "a man can do what he likes with his own," these reflections are, perhaps, more pertinent to other public halls that i know of than to this one. in one of the windows of "the derby" was exhibited a representation of "the eagle and child," or, as the country-folk in lancashire sometimes call it, "th' brid and bantlin'," the ancient recognizance of the stanleys, earls of derby, and formerly kings of the isle of man, with their motto, "sans changer," in a scroll beneath. this family still owns the manor of bury, and has considerable possessions there. they have also large estates and great influence in the north and west of lancashire. in former times they have been accounted the most powerful family of the county; and in some of the old wars, they led to the field all the martial chivalry of lancashire and cheshire under their banner. as i looked on the stanley's crest, i thought of the fortunes of that noble house, and of the strange events which it had shared with the rest of the kingdom. of james, earl of derby, who was beheaded at bolton-le-moors, in front of the man and scythe inn, in deansgate, two centuries since; and of his countess, charlotte de tremouille, who so bravely defended lathom house against the parliamentary forces during the last civil wars. she was daughter to claude, duke of tremouille, and charlotte brabantin de nassau, daughter of william, prince of orange, and charlotte de bourbon, of the royal house of france. apart from the pride of famous descent, both the earl and his lady were remarkable for certain noble qualities of mind, which commanded the respect of all parties in those troubled times. i sometimes think that if it had pleased heaven for me to have lived in those days, i should have been compelled by nature to fall into some roundhead rank, and do the best i could, for that cause. when a lad at school i had this feeling: and, as i poured over the history of that period, i well remember how, in my own mind, i shouted the solemn battle-cry with great cromwell and his captains, and charged with the earnest puritans, in their bloody struggles against the rampant tyrannies of the time. yet, even then, i never read of this james, earl of derby--the faithful soldier of an infatuated king--without a feeling of admiration for the chivalry of his character. i lately saw, in bolton, an antique cup of "stone china," quaintly painted and gilt, out of which it is said that he drank the communion immediately before his execution. greenhalgh, of brandlesome, who was a notable and worthy man, and who governed the isle of man for the earls of derby, lived at brandlesome hall, near bury. respecting edward, the third earl, camden says: "with edward, earl of derby's death, the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep." of his munificent housekeeping, too, he tells us: how he fed sixty old people twice a day, every day, and all comers twice a week; and every christmas-day, for thirty-two years, supplied two thousand seven hundred with meat, drink, money, and money's worth; and how he offered to raise ten thousand soldiers for the king. also, that he had great reputation as a bone-setter, and was a learned man, a poet, and a man of considerable talent in many directions. the present lord stanley[ ] is accounted a man of great ability as a politician and orator, and of high and impetuous spirit; and is the leader of the conservative party in parliament. a century ago, the influence of great feudal families, like the stanleys, was all but supreme in lancashire; but, since that time, the old landlord domination has declined in the manufacturing districts; and the people have begun to set more value upon their independent rights as men, than upon the painful patronage of feudal landlords. [ ] succeeded his father, the thirteenth earl of derby, in . has been chief secretary for ireland, and secret the colonies. accepted office as premier, in . i had no time to devote to any other of the notabilities of bury town; and i thought that "chamber hall," the birthplace of the great departed statesman, peel, would be worth a special pilgrimage some saturday afternoon.[ ] i had finished my business about seven o'clock, and, as the nightfall was fine and clear, i resolved to walk over to rochdale, about six miles off, to see an old friend of mine there. few people like a country walk better than i do; and being in fair health and spirits, i took the road at once, with my stick in hand, as brisk as a shetland pony, in good fettle. striking out at the town-end, i bethought me of an old herbalist, or "yarb doctor," who lived somewhere thereabouts--a genuine dealer in simples, bred up in the hills, on ashworth moor, about three miles from the town, and who had made the botany of his native neighbourhood a life-long study. culpepper's "herbal" was a favourite book with him, as it is among a great number of the country people of lancashire, where there are, perhaps, more clever botanists in humble life to be found than in any other part of the kingdom. nature and he were familiar friends, for he was a lonely rambler by hill, and clough, and field, at all seasons of the year, and could talk by the hour about the beauties and medicinal virtues of gentian, dandelion, and camomile, or tansy, mountain flax, sanctuary, hyssop, buckbean, wood-betony, and "robin-run-i'-th'-hedge," and an endless catalogue of other herbs and plants, a plentiful assortment of which he kept by him, either green or in dried bundles, ready for his customers. the country people in lancashire have great faith in simples, and in simple treatment for their diseases. i well remember that one of their recipes for a common cold is "a wot churn-milk posset, weel sweet'nt, an' a traycle cake to't, at bed-time." they are profound believers in the kindly doctrine expressed in that verse of george herbert's:-- "more servants wait on man than he'll take notice of; in ev'ry path he treads down what befriends him when sickness makes him pale and wan. oh, mighty love! man is one world, and hath another to attend him." [ ] since that time the people of bury have erected a monument in their market-place to the memory of this brave-hearted benefactor to his country. the statue itself has a noble and simple appearance, but the pedestal on which it stands looks an insignificant footing for a figure of such proportions, and is a little open to the criticism of "owd collop," who said it looked "like a giant trying to balance hissel a four-peawnd loaf." therefore, our primitive old herb-doctor had in his time driven what he doubtless considered, in his humble way, a pretty gainful trade. and he was not exactly "a doctor-by-guess," as the scotch say, but a man of good natural parts, and of some insight into human physiology, of great experience and observation in his little sphere, and remarkable for strong common sense and integrity. he was also well acquainted with the habits and the peculiar tone of physical constitution among the people of his neighbourhood. like his pharmacopæia, his life and manners were simple, and his rude patients had great confidence in him. it was getting dark, and i did not know exactly where to find him, or i should have liked very well to see the old botanist, of whom i had heard a very interesting account in my native town. when one gets fairly into the country it is fine walking by a clear starlight, when the air is touched with frost, and the ground hard under the foot. i enjoyed all this still more on that old road, which is always rising some knoll, or descending into some quiet clough, where all is so still that one can hear the waters sing among the fields and stunted woods off the wayside. the wind was blowing fresh and keen across knowl hill and the heathery wastes of ashworth and rooley, those wild heights which divide the vale of the roach from the forest of rossendale. i stood and looked upon the blue heavens, "fretted with golden fire," and around me upon this impressive night-scene, so finely still and solemn, the effect deepened by the moanings of the wind among the trees. my mind reverted to the crowded city, and i thought to myself--this is rather different to market-street, in manchester, on a tuesday forenoon, about the time of "high change," as i listened to the clear "wo-up!" of a solitary carter to his horse on the top of the opposite knoll, and heard the latch of a cottage-door lifted, and saw the light from the inside glint forth into the trees below for an instant. it was a homely glimpse, which contrasted beautifully with the sombre grandeur of the night. the cottage-door closed again, the fireside picture was gone; and i was alone on the silent road, with the clear stars looking down. i generally put off my meals till i get a hint from the inside; and, by the time that i reached the bottom of a lonely dell, about three miles on the road, i began to feel hungry, and i stepped into the only house thereabouts, a little roadside inn, to get a bite of something. the house stands near to a narrow woody ravine which runs under the highway at that place. it is said to have been entirely built by one man, who got the stone, hewed it, cut the timber, and shaped it, and altogether built the house, such as it is; and it has an air of primitive rudeness about it, which partly corroborates the story. the very hearth-flag is an old gravestone, brought from the yard of some ancient moorland chapel; and part of the worn lettering is visible upon it still. it is known to the scattered inhabitants of that district by the name of "the house that jack built." on entering the place, i found the front room dark and quiet, and nothing stirring but in the kitchen, where i saw the light of a candle, and heard a little music among the pots, which somebody was washing. the place did not seem promising, so far as i could see at all, but i felt curious, and, walking forward, i found a very homely-looking old woman bustling about there, with a clean cap on, not crimped nor frilled any way, but just plainly adorned with a broad border of those large, stiff, old-fashioned puffs, which i used to watch my mother make on the end of the "italian iron," when i was a lad at home. old sam, the landlord, had just come home from his work, and sat quietly smoking on the long settle, in a nook by the fireside, while his wife, mary, got some tea ready for her tired old man. the entrance of a customer seemed to be an important affair to them, and partly so, i believe, because they were glad to have a little company in their quiet corner, and liked to hear, now and then, how the world was wagging a few miles off. i called for a glass of ale, and something like the following conversation ensued:-- _mary._ aw'll bring it, measter. see yo, tay this cheer. it's as chep sittin' as stonnin'. an' poo up to th' fire, for it's noan so warm to-neet. _sam._ naw, it's nobbut cowdish, for sure; draw up to th' hob, an' warm yo, for yo look'n parish't.[ ] "if you can bring me a crust of bread and cheese, or a bit of cold meat, or anything, i shall be obliged to you," said i. _mary._ ah, sure aw will. we'n a bit o' nice cowd beef; an' i'll bring it eawt. but it's bhoylt (boiled), mind yo! dun yo like it bhoylt? yo'n find it middlin' toothsome. i told her that it would do very well; and then the landlord struck in:-- _sam._ doesto yer, lass. there's a bit o' pickle theer, i'th cubbort; aw dar say he'd like some. fot it eawt, an' let him _feel_ at it. __mary.__ oh, ay, sure there is; an' aw'll bring it, too. aw declare aw'd forgetten it! dun yo like pickle, measther? "i do," said i, "just for a taste." _mary._ well, well; aw meeon for a taste. but aw'll bring it an' yo can help yorsel to't. let's see, wi'n yo have hard brade? which side dun yo come fro? "i come from manchester," said i. _mary._ fro manchester, eh! whau, then, yo'd'n rather ha' loaf-brade, aw'll uphowd yo. "nay, nay," said i, "i'm country-bred; and i would rather have a bit of oat-cake. i very seldom get any in manchester; and, when i do, it tastes as if it was mismanaged, somehow; so a bit of good country bread will be a treat to me." _mary._ that's reet; aw'll find yo some gradely good stuff! an' it's a deeol howsomer nor loaf, too, mind yo.... neaw, wi'n nought uncuth to set afore yo; but yo'n find that beef's noan sich bad takkin', if yor ony ways sharp set.... theer, see yo! nea, may yoursel' awhom, an' spare nought, for wi'n plenty moor. but houd! yo hannot o' vor tools yet. aw'll get vo a fork in a crack. [ ] _parish't_--perished. i fell to with a hearty good-will, for the viands before me were not scanty, and they were both wholesome, and particularly welcome, after my sharp walk in the keen wind, which came whistling over the moors that night. the first heat of the attack was beginning to slacken a bit, and old sam, who had been sitting in the corner, patient and pleased, all the while, with an observant look, began to think that now there might be room for him to put in a word or two. i, also, began to feel as if i had no objection to taper off my meal with a little country talk; and the old man was just asking me what the town's folk said about the parliamentary crisis, and the rumour which had reached him, that there was an intention of restoring the corn-laws again, when mary interrupted him by saying, "husht, sam; doesta yer nought?" he took the pipe out of his mouth, and, quietly blowing the smoke from the corner of his lips, held his head on one side in a listening attitude. old sam smiled, and lighting his pipe again, he said, "ah, yon's jone o' jeffry's." "it's nought else, aw believe," said mary; "does ta think he'll co'?" "co', ah," replied sam; "does he eves miss, thinks ta? tay thy cheer to th' tone side a bit, an' may reawm for him, for he'll be i'th heawse in a minute." and then, turning to me, he said, "nea, then, measter, yo'n yer some gam, if yor spare't." he had scarcely done speaking, when a loud "woigh!" was heard outside, as a cart stopped at the door, and a heavy footstep came stamping up the lobby. the kitchen door opened, and a full-blown lancashire cossack stood before us. large-limbed and broad-shouldered, with a great, frank, good-tempered face, full of rude health and glee. he looked a fine sample of simple manhood, with a disposition that seemed to me, from the expression of his countenance, to be something between that of an angel and a bull-dog. giving his hands a hearty smack, he rubbed them together, and smiled at the fire; and then, doffing his rough hat, and flinging it with his whip upon the table, he shouted out, "hello! heaw are yo--o' on yo! yo'r meeterly quiet again to-neet, mary! an' some ov a cowd neet it is. my nose sweats." the landlord whispered to me, "aw towd yo, didn't aw. sit yo still; he's rare company, is jone." _mary._ ah, we're quiet enough; but we shannut be so long, neaw at thir't come'd, jone. _jone._ well, well. yor noan beawn to flyte mo, owd crayter, are yo? _sam._ tay no notiz on hur, wilto, foo; hoo meeons nought wrang. _mary._ nut aw! sit to deawn, jone. we'er olez fain to sitho; for thir't noan one o'th warst mak o' folk, as roof as to art. _jone._ aw'st sit mo deawn, as what aw am; an' aw'st warm me too, beside; an' aw'll ha' summat to sup too, afore aw darken yon dur-hole again.... owd woman, fill mo one o'th big'st pots yo han, an' let's be havin' houd, aw pray yo; for my throttle's as dry as a kex. an' be as slippy as ever yo con, or aw'st be helpin' mysel, for it's ill bidein' for dry folk amung good drink! _mary._ nay, nay; aw'll sarve tho, jone, i' tho'll be patient hauve a minute; an' theaw'st ha' plenty to start wi', as heaw't be. _jone._ "that's just reet," said pinder, when his wife bote hur tung i' two! owd woman, yo desarv'n a comfortable sattlement i'th top shop when yo dee'n; an' yo'st ha' one, too, iv aw've ony say i'th matter.... eh, heaw quiet yo are, sam! by th' mass, iv aw're here a bit moor, aw'd may some rickin' i' this cauve-cote, too. whau, mon, yo'dd'n sink into a deeod sleep, an' fair dee i'th shell, iv one didn't wakken yo up a bit, neaw and then. _mary._ eh, mon! thea sees, our sam an' me's gettin owd, an' wi'dd'n raythur be quiet, for th' bit o' time at wi' ha'n to do on. beside, aw could never do wi' roof wark. raylee o' me! it'd weary a grooin' tree to ha' th' din, an' th' lumber, an' th' muck at te han i' some ale heawses. to my thinkin', aw'd go as fur as othur grace[ ] grew or wayter ran, afore aw'd live amoon sich doin's. one could elthur manage we't at th' for-end o' their days. but what, we hannot so lung to do on neaw; an' aw would e'en like to finish as quietly as aw can. we hannot had a battle i' this heawse as--let's see--as three year an' moor; ha'n wi, sam? _sam._ naw, aw dunnot think we han. but we soud'n a deeol moor ale, just afore that time, too. _jone._ three year, sen yo! eh, the dule, mary; heaw ha'n yo shap'd that! whau owd neddy at th' hoo'senam--yo known owd neddy, aw reckon, dunnot yo, sam? _sam._ do i know rachda' church steps, thinksto? _jone._ aw dar say yo known th' steps a deeol better nor yo known th' church, owd brid! [ ] grass. _sam._ whau, aw have been bin up thoose steps a time or two i' my life; an thea knows, ony body at's bin up 'em a twothore[ ] times, 'll nut forget 'em so soon; for if thi'n tay 'em sharpish fro' th' botham to th' top, it'll try their wynt up rarely afore they getten to tim bobbin gravestone i'th owd church-yort. but, aw've bin to sarvice theer as oft as theaw has, aw think. _jone._ ah!--an' yo'n getten abeawt as mich good wi't, as aw have, aw dar say; an' that's nought to crack on;--but wi'n say no moor upo' that footin'. iv yo known ony body at o', yo known owd neddy at th' hoo'senam; and aw'll be bund for't, 'at i' three years time he's brunt mony a peawnd o' candles wi' watchin' folk feight i' their heawse. eh, aw've si'n him ston o'er 'em, wi' a candle i' eyther hont, co'in eawt, "nea lads. turn him o'er tum! let 'em ha' reawm, chaps; let 'em ha' reawm! nea lads! keep a lose leg, jam! nea lads!" and then, when one on 'em wur done to th' lung-length, he'd sheawt eawt, "houd! he's put his hont up! come, give o'er, and ger up." and, afore they'd'n getten gradely wynded, and put their clooas on, he'd offer "another quart for the next battle." eh, he's one o'th quarest chaps i' this nation, is owd ned, to my thinkin'; an' he's some gradely good points in him, too. _sam._ there isn't a quarer o' this countryside, as hea't be; an' there's some crumpers amoon th' lot. _jone._ aw guess yo known bodle, too, dunnot yo, owd sam? _sam._ yigh, aw do. he wortches up at th' col-pit yon, doesn't he? _jone._ he does, owd craytur. _mary._ let's see, isn't that him 'at skens a bit? _sam._ a bit, saysto, lass? it's aboon a bit, by guy. he skens ill enough to crack a looking-glass, welly (well-nigh). _mary._ eh, do let th' lad alone, folk, win yo. aw marvel at yo'n no moor wit nor mayin foos o' folk at's wrang wheer they connut help it. yo met happen be strucken yorsels! beside, he's somebory's chylt, an' somebory likes him too, aw'll uphowd him; for there never wur a feaw face i' this world, but there wur a feaw fancy to match it, somewheer. _jone._ they may fancy him 'at likes, for me; but there's noan so mony folk at'll fancy bodle, at after they'n smelled at him once't. an', by guy, he's hardly wit enough to keep fro' runnin' again woles i'th dayleet. but, aw see yo known him weel enough; an' so aw'll tell yo a bit of a crack abeawt him an' owd neddy. [ ] _a twothore_--a few. _mary._ well let's ha't; an' mind to tells no lies abeawt th' lad i' thy talk. _jone._ bith mon, mary, aw connut do, beawt aw say at he's other a pratty un or a good un. _sam._ get forrud wi' thy tale, jone, wilto: an' bother no moor abeawt it. _jone_ (whispers to owd sam): aw say. who's that chap at sits hutchin i' the nook theer, wi' his meawth oppen? _sam._ aw know not. but he's a nice quiet lad o' somebory's, so tay no notice. thae'll just meet plez him i' tho'll get forrud; thae may see that, i' tho'll look at him; for he stares like a ferret at's sin a ratton. _jone._ well, yo see'n, sam, one mornin', after owd neddy an' bodle had been fuddlin' o' th' o'erneet, thi'dd'n just getten a yure o' th' owd dog into 'em, an' they sit afore th' fire i' owd neddy's kitchen, as quiet, to look at, as two pot dolls; but they didn't feel so, nother; for thi'dd'n some of a yed-waache apiece, i' th' treawth wur known. when thi'dd'n turn't things o'er a bit, bodle begun o' lookin' very yearn'stfully at th' fire-hole o' at once't, and he said, "by th' mass, ned, aw've a good mind to go reet up th' chimbley." well, yo known, neddy likes a spree as well as ony mon livin', an' he doesn't care so mich what mak' o' one it is, nother; so as soon as he yerd that he jumped up, an' said, "damn it, bodle, go up--up wi' tho!" bodle stood still a minute, looking at th' chimbley, an' as he double't his laps up, he said, "well, neaw; should aw rayley goo up, thinksta, owd crayter?" "go?--ah; what elze?" said owd ned--"up wi' tho; soot's good for th' bally-waach, mon; an' aw'll gi' tho a quart ov ale when tho comes deawn again!" "will ta, for sure?" said bodle, prickin' his ears. "am aw lyin' thinks ta?" onswer'd owd neddy. "whau, then, aw'm off, by th' mon, iv it's as lung as a steeple;" an' he made no moor bawks at th' job, but set th' tone foot onto th' top-bar, an' up he went into th' smudge-hole. just as he wur crommin' hissel' in at th' botham o'th chimbley, th' owd woman coom in to see what they hadd'n agate; an' as soon as bodle yerd hur, he code eawt, "howd her back a bit, whol aw get eawt o'th seet, or else hoo'll poo me deawn again." hoo stare't a bit afore hoo could may it eawt what it wur at're creepin up th' chimney-hole, an' hoo said, "what mak o' lumber ha'n yo afoot neaw? for yo're a rook o'th big'st nowmuns at ever trode ov a floor! yo'n some make o' divulment agate i'th chimbley, aw declare." as soon as hoo fund what it wur, hoo sheawted, "eh, thea greight gawmless foo! wheer arto for up theer! thea'll be smoor't, mon!" an, hoo would ha' darted forrud, an' getten howd on him; but owd ned kept stonnin afore hur, an' sayin, "let him alone, mon; it's nobbut a bit of a spree." then he looked o'er his shoulder at bodle, an' said, "get tee forrud, wilto, nowmun; thae met a bin deawn again by neaw;" an, as soon as he see'd at bodle wur gettin meeterly weel up th' hole, he leet her go; but hoo wur to lat to get howd. an' o' at hoo could do, wur to fot him a seawse or two o' th' legs wi' th' poker. but he wur for up, an' nought else. he did just stop abeawt hauve a minute--when he feld hur hit his legs--to co' eawt, "hoo's that at's hittin' mo?" "whau," said hoo, "it's me, thae greight leather-yed;--an' come deawn wi' tho! whatever arto' doin' i'th chimbley?" "aw'm goin' up for ale." "ale! there's no ale up theer, thae greight brawsen foo! eh, aw wish yor mally wur here!" "aw wish hoo wur here, istid o' me," said bodle. "come deawn witho this minute, thae greight drunken hal!" "not yet," said bodle--"but aw'll not be lung, nothur, yo may depend;--for it's noan a nice place--this isn't. eh! there is some ov a smudge! an' it gwos wur as aw go fur;--a--tscho--o! by guy, aw con see noan--nor talk, nothur;--so ger off, an' let mo get it o'er afore aw'm chauk't;" and then th' owd lad crope forrud, as hard as he could, for he're thinkin' abeawt th' quart ov ale. well, owd neddy nearly skrike't wi' laughin', as he watched bodle draw his legs up eawt o' th' seet; an' he set agate o' hommerin' th' chimbley whole wi' his hont, an sheawtin' up, "go on, bodle, owd lad! go on, owd mon! thir't a reet un! thea'st have a quart o' th' best ale i' this hole, i' tho lives till tho comes deawn again, as hea 'tis, owd brid! an i' tho dees through it, aw'll be fourpence or fi'pence toawrd thi berrin." and then he went sheawting up an' deawn, "hey! dun yo yer, lads; come here! owd bodle's gone up th' chimbley! aw never sprad my e'en upo th' marrow trick to this i' my life." well, yo may think, sam, th' whole heawse wur up i' no time; an' some rare spwort they ha'dd'n; an' owd neddy kept goin' to th' eawtside, to see if bodle had getten his yed eawt at th' top; an' then runnin' in again, an' bawlin' up th' flue, "bodle, owd lad, heaw arto gettin' on? go throo wi't, owd cock!" but, whol he're starin' and sheawtin' up th' chimbley, bodle lost his houd, somewheer toawrd th' top, an' he coom shutterin' deawn again, an' o' th' soot i' th' chimbley wi' him; an' he let wi' his hinder-end thump o'th top-bar, an' then roll't deawn upo th' har'stone. an' a greadly blash-boggart he looked; yo may think. th' owd lad seem't as if he hardly knowed wheer he wur; so he lee theer a bit, amoon a cloud o' soot, an' owd neddy stoode o'er him, laughin', an' wipein' his e'en, an' co'in eawt, "tay thy wynt a bit, bodle; thir't safe londed, iv it be hard leetin'! thir't a reet un; bi' th' mon arto, too. tay thy wynt, owd bird! thea'st have a quart, as hea 'tis, owd mon; as soon as ever aw con see my gate to th' bar eawt o' this smudge at thea's brought wi' tho! aw never had my chimbley swept as chep i' my life!" _mary_. well, if ever! whau, it're enough to may th' fellow's throttle up! a greight, drunken leather-yed! but, he'd be some dry, mind yo! _jone._ yo'r reet, mary! aw think mysel' at a quart ov ale 'ud come noan amiss after a do o' that mak. an' bodle wouldn't wynd aboon once wi' it, afore he see'd th' bottom o' th' pot, noather. well, i had a good laugh at jone's tale, and i enjoyed his manner of telling it, quite as much as anything there was in the story itself; for, he seemed to talk with every limb of his body, and every feature of his face; and told it, altogether, in such a living way, with so much humour and earnestness, that it was irresistible; and as i was "giving mouth" a little, with my face turned up toward the ceiling, he turned to me, and said quickly, "come, aw say; are yo noan fleyed o' throwing yo'r choles off th' hinges?". we soon settled down into a quieter mood, and drew round the fire, for the night was cold; when jone suddenly pointed out to the landlord, one of those little deposits of smoke which sometimes wave about on the bars of the fire-grate, and, after whispering to him, "see yo, sam; a stranger upo th' bar, theer;" he turned to me, and said, "that's yo, measther!" this is a little superstition, which is common to the fire-sides of the poor in all england, i believe. soon after this, mary said to jone, "hasto gan thy horse aught, jone?" "sure, aw have," replied he, "aw laft it heytin', an plenty to go on wi', so then. mon, aw reckon to look after deawn-crayters a bit, iv there be aught stirrin'." "well," said she, "aw dar say thea does, jone; an' mind yo, thoose at winnut do some bit like to things at connut talk for theirsels, they'n never ha' no luck, as hoo they are." "well," said jone, "my horse wortches weel, an' he sleeps weel, an' he heyts weel, an' he drinks weel, an' he parts wi't fearful weel; so he doesn't ail mich yet." "well," replied mary, "there isn't a wick thing i' this world can wortch as it should do, if it doesn't heyt as it should do." here i happened to take a note-book out of my pocket, and write in it with my pencil, when the conversation opened again. _sam._ (whispering.) sitho, jone, he's bookin' tho! _jone._ houd, measther, houd! what mak' o' marlocks are yo after, neaw! what're yo for wi' us, theer! but aw caren't a flirt abeawt it; for thi' connot hang folk for talkin' neaw, as thi' could'n once on a day; so get forrud wi't, as what it is. he then, also, began to inquire about the subject which was the prevailing topic of conversation at that time, namely, the parliamentary crisis, in which lord john russell had resigned his office at the head of the government; and the great likelihood there seemed to be of a protectionist party obtaining power. _jone._ han yo yerd aught abeawt lord stanley puttin' th' corn laws on again? there wur some rickin' abeawt it i' bury teawn, when aw coom off wi' th' cart to-neet. _sam._ they'n never do't, mon! they connot do! an' it's very weel, for aw dunnut know what mut become o' poor folk iv they did'n do. what think'n yo, measther? i explained to them the unsettled state of parliamentary affairs, as it had reached us through the paper; and gave them my firm belief that the corn laws had been abolished once for all in this country; and that there was no political party in england who wished to restore them, who would ever have the power to do so. _jone._ dun yo think so? aw'm proud to yer it! _sam._ an' so am aw too, jone. but what, aw know'd it weel enough. eh, mon; there's a deal moor crusts o' brade lyin' abeawt i' odd nooks an' corners, nor there wur once't ov a day. aw've sin th' time when thi'd'n ha' bin cleeked up like lumps o' gowd. _jone._ aw think they'n ha' to fot lord john back, to wheyve (weave) his cut deawn yet. to my thinkin' he'd no business to lev his looms. but aw dar say he knows his own job betther nor me. he'll be as fause as a boggart, or elze he'd never ha' bin i' that shop as lung as he has bin; not he. there's moor in his yed nor a smo'-tooth comb con fot eawt. what thinken yo, owd brid? _sam._ it's so like; it's so like! but aw dunnot care who's in, jone, i' thi'n nobbut do some good for poor folk; an' that's one o' th' main jobs for thoose at's power to do't. but, iv they wur'n to put th' corn bill on again, there's mony a theawsan' would be clemmed to deeoth, o' ov a rook. _jone._ ah, there would so, sam, 'at i know on. but see yo; there's a deal on 'em 'ud go deawn afore me. aw'd may somebody houd back whol their cale coom! iv they winnot gi' me my share for wortchin' for, aw'll have it eawt o' some nook, ov aw dunnot, damn jone! (striking the table heavily with his fist.) they's never be clemmed at ir heawse, as aw ha' si'n folk clemmed i' my time--never, whol aw've a fist a th' end o' my arm! neaw, what have aw towd yo! _sam._ thea'rt reet lad! aw houd te wit good, by th' mass! whol they gi'n us some bit like ov a choance, we can elther do. at th' most o' times, we'n to kill 'ursels (ourselves) to keep 'ursels, welly; but, when it comes to scarce wark an' dear mheyt, th' upstroke's noan so fur off. _mary._ ay, ay. if it're nobbut a body's sel', we met manage to pinch a bit, neaw an' then; becose one could reayson abeawt it some bit like. but it's th' childer, mon, it's th' childer! th' little things at look'n for it reggelar; an' wonder'n heaw it is when it doesn't come. eh, dear o' me! to see poor folk's little bits o' childher yammerin' for a bite o' mheyt--when there's noan for 'em; an' lookin' up i' folk's faces, as mich as to say, "connut yo help mo?" it's enough to may (make) onybody cry their shoon full! here i took out my book to make another note. _jone._ hello! yo'r agate again! what, are yo takkin th' pickter on mo, or summat?... eh, sam; what a thing this larnin' is. aw should ha' bin worth mony a theawsan peawnd if aw could ha' done o' that shap, see yo! _sam._ aw guess thea con write noan, nor read noather, con ta, jone? _jone._ not aw! aw've no moor use for a book nor a duck has for a umbrell. aw've had to wortch hard sin aw're five year owd, mon. iv aw've aught o' that mak to do, aw go to owd silver-yed at th' lone-side wi't. it may's mo mad, mony a time, mon; one looks sich a foo! _sam._ an' he con write noan mich, aw think, con he? _jone._ naw. he went no fur nor pot-hook an' ladles i' writin', aw believe. but he can read a bit, an' that's moor nor a deeol o' folk abeawt here can do. aw know nobory upo this side at's greadly larnt up, nobbut ash'oth parson. but there's plenty o' chaps i' rachdaw teawn at's so brawsen wi' wit, whol noather me, nor thee, nor no mon elze, con may ony sense on 'em. yo reckelect'n a 'torney co'in' here once't. what dun yo think o' him? _sam._ he favvurs a foo, jone; or aw'm a foo mysel'. _jone._ he's far larnt i' aught but honesty, mon, that's heaw it is. he'll do no reet, nor tay no wrang. so wi'n lap it up just wheer it is; for little pigs ha'n lung ears. _sam._ aw'll tell tho what, jone; he's a bad trade by th' hond, for one thing; an' a bad trade'll mar a good mon sometimes. _jone._ it brings moor in nor mine does. but wi'n let it drop. iv aw'd his larnin, aw'd may summat on't. _sam._ ah, well; it's a fine thing is larnin', jone! it's a very fine thing! it tay's no reawm up, mon. an' then, th' ballies connut fot it, thea sees. but what, poor folk are so taen up wi' gettin' what they need'n for th' bally an' th' back, whol thi'n noathur time nor inclination for nought but a bit ov a crack for a leetenin'. _jone._ to mich so, owd sam! to mich so!... _mary._ thae never tells one heaw th' wife is, jone. _jone._ whau, th' owd lass is yon; an' hoo's noather sickly, nor soory, nor sore, 'at aw know on.... yigh, hoo's trouble't wi' a bit ov a breykin'-eawt abeawt th' meawth, sometimes. _mary._ does hoo get nought for it? _jone._ nawe, nought 'at'll mend it. but, aw'm mad enough, sometimes, to plaister it wi' my hond,--iv aw could find i' my heart. _mary._ oh, aw see what to meeons, neaw.... an' aw dar say thea gi's her 'casion for't, neaw an' then. _jone._ well, aw happen do; for th' best o' folk need'n bidin' wi' a bit sometimes; an' aw'm noan one o' th' best, yo known. _mary._ nawe; nor th' warst noathur, jone. _jone._ yo dunnut know o', mon. _mary._ happen not, but, thi'rt to good to brun, as hea't be. _jone._ well, onybody's so, mary. but, we're o' god almighty's childer, mon; an' aw feel fain on't, sometimes; for he's th' best feyther at a chylt con have. _mary._ ah, but thea'rt nobbut like other childer, jone; thea doesn't tak as mich notice o' thy feyther, as thea should do. _sam._ well, well; let's o' on us be as good as we con be, iv we aren't as good as we should be; an' then wi's be better nor we are. _jone._ hello! that clock begins 'o givin' short 'lowance, as soon as ever aw get agate o' talkin'; aw'm mun be off again! _sam._ well; thae'll co' a lookin' at us, when tho comes this gate on, winnut to, jone? iv tho doesn't, aw'st be a bit mad, thae knows. _jone._ as lung as aw'm wick and weel, owd crayter, aw'st keep comin' again, yo may depend,--like clegg ho' boggart. _sam._ well neaw, mind tho does do; for aw'd sooner see thee nor two fiddlers, ony time; so good neet to tho, an' good luck to tho, too, jone; wi' o' my heart! the night was wearing late, and, as i had yet nearly three miles to go, i rose, and went my way. this road was never so much travelled as some of the highways of the neighbourhood, but, since railways were made, it has been quieter than before, and the grass has begun to creep over it a little in some places. it leads through a district which has always been a kind of weird region to me. and i have wandered among those lonely moorland hills above birtle, and ashworth, and bagslate; up to the crest of old knowl, and over the wild top of rooley, from whence the greatest part of south lancashire--that wonderful region of wealth and energy--lies under the eye, from blackstone edge to the irish sea; and i have wandered through the green valleys and silent glens, among those hills, communing with the "shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements" of nature, in many a quiet trance of meditative joy; when the serenity of the scene was unmixed with any ruder sounds than the murmurs and gurglings of the mountain stream, careering over its rocky bed through the hollow of the vale; and the music of small birds among the woods which lined the banks; or the gambols of the summer wind among the rustling green, which canopied the lonely stream, so thickly that the flood of sunshine which washed the tree-tops in gold, only stole into the deeps in fitful threads; hardly giving a warmer tinge to the softened light in cool grots down by the water side. romantic spoddenlond! country of wild beauty; of hardy, simple life; of old-world manners, and of ancient tales and legends dim! there was a time when the very air of the district seemed, to my young mind, impregnated with boggart-lore, and all the wild "gramerie" of old saxon superstition,--when i looked upon it as the last stronghold of the fairies; where they would remain impregnable, haunting wild "thrutches" and sylvan "chapels," in lonely deeps of its cloughs and woods; still holding their mystic festivals there on moonlight nights, and tripping to the music of its waters, till the crack of doom. and, for all the boasted march of intellect, it is, even to this day, a district where the existence of witches, and the power of witch-doctors, wisemen, seers, planet-rulers, and prognosticators, find great credence in the imaginations of a rude and unlettered people. there is a little fold, called "prickshaw," in this township of spotland, which fold was the home of a notable country astrologer, in tim bobbin's time, called "prickshaw witch." tim tells a humourous story about an adventure he had with this prickshaw planet-ruler, at the angel inn, in rochdale. prickshaw keeps up its old oracular fame in that moorland quarter to this day, for it has its planet-ruler still; and, it is not alone in such wild, outlying nooks of the hills that these professors of the art of divination may yet be found; almost every populous town in lancashire has, in some corner of it, one or more of these gifted star-readers, searching out the hidden things of life, to all inquirers, at about a shilling a-head. these country soothsayers mostly drive a sort of contraband trade in their line, in as noiseless and secret a way as possible, among the most ignorant and credulous part of the population. and it is natural that they should flourish wherever there are minds combining abundance of ignorant faith and imagination with a plentiful lack of knowledge. but they are not all skulkers these diviners of the skies, for now and then a bold prophet stands forth, in distinct proportions, before the public gaze, who has more lofty and learned pretentions; witness the advertisement of dr. alphonso gazelle, of no. , sparth bottoms, rochdale, which appears in the _rochdale sentinel_, of the rd of december, .[ ] oh, departed lilly and agrippa; your shadows are upon us still! but i must continue my story of the lone old road, and its associations; and as i wandered on that cold and silent night, under the blue sky, where night's candles were burning, so clear and calm, i remembered that this was the country of old adam de spotland, who, many centuries since, piously bequeathed certain broad acres of land, "for the cure of souls," in the parish of rochdale. he has, now, many centuries slept with his fathers. and as i walked down the road, in this sombre twilight, with a hushed wind, and under the shade of the woody height on which the homestead of the brave old saxon stood, my footsteps sounding clear in the quiet air, and the very trees seeming to bend over to one another, and commune in awful murmurs on the approach of an intruder, how could i tell what the tramp of my unceremonious feet might waken there? the road crosses a deep and craggy glen, called "simpson clough," which is one of the finest pieces of ravine scenery in the county, little as it is known. the entire length of this wild gorge is nearly three miles, and it is watered by a stream from the hills, called "nadin water," which, in seasons of heavy rain, rages and roars with great violence, through its rocky channels. there is many a strange old tale connected with this clough. half way up a shaley bank, which overhangs the river on the western side of the clough, the mouth of an ancient lead mine may still be seen, partly shrouded by brushwood. upon the summit of a precipitous steep of wildwood and rock, which bounds the eastern side of the clough, stands bamford hall, a handsome, modern building of stone, a few yards from the site of the old hall of the bamfords of bamford. the new building is a residence of one branch of the fenton family, wealthy bankers and cotton spinners, and owners of large tracts of land, here and elsewhere. on an elevated table-land, at the western side of the clough, and nearly opposite to bamford hall, stood the ancient mansion of grizlehurst, the seat of the notable family of holt, in the reign of queen elizabeth. the holt family were once the most powerful and wealthy landowners in the parish of rochdale. the principal seats of the family in this parish were stubley hall, in the township of wardleworth, and castleton hall, in the township of castleton. the manor of spotland was granted by henry viii., to thomas holt, who was knighted in scotland, by edward, earl of hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of that monarch. part of a neighbouring clough still bears the name of "tyrone's bed," from the tradition that hugh o'neal, earl of tyrone and king of ulster, took shelter in these woody solitudes, after his defeat in the great irish rebellion, in the reign of queen elizabeth. mr. john roby, of rochdale, has woven this legend into an elegant romance, in his "traditions of lancashire." [ ] "beneficial practical philosophy, no. , sparth bottoms, near rochdale.--prognostic astro-phrenology, or nature considered as a whole--its matter, its properties, its laws, physical, moral, and intellectual; and the effect of their influence on individual life, character, and ability. from these premises, and nearly twenty years' experience, any lady or gentleman may have the most valuable advice on matters of health, sickness, profession, trade, emigration, and speculation; also marriage--its prospects to the inquirer, whether it will be attended with happiness, the time of its occurrence, a full description and character of the present or future partner, with copious instruction to the unmarried--which offer or party to take, and thus secure the fullest amount of happiness, shown to any individual by this combination of science. the principal requisite points of information for applying the science to the benefit of an inquirer are--the precise date, place of birth, and the station in life. attendance every day except mondays, at no. , sparth bottoms, rochdale. dr. alphonso gazelle." i reached home about ten o'clock, and, thinking over the incidents of my walk, i was a little impressed by one fact, suggested by the conversation at the roadside public-house, with "jone o'jeffrey's," and the old couple; namely, that there is a great outlying mass of dumb folk in this country, who--by low social condition, but more by lack of common education among them--are shut out from the chance of hearing much, and still more from the chance of understanding what little they do hear, respecting the political questions of the time; and, also, with respect to many other matters which are of essential importance to their welfare. whether this ignorance which yet pervades a great proportion of the poor of england, is chargeable upon that multitude itself, or upon that part of the people whom more favourable circumstances have endowed with light and power, and who yet withhold these elements from their less fortunate fellows, or, whether it is chargeable upon neither, let casuists decide. the fact that this ignorance does exist among the poor of england, lies so plainly upon the surface of society, that it can only be denied by those who are incurious as to the condition of the humbler classes of this kingdom; or, by those who move in such exclusive circles of life, that they habitually ignore the conditions of human existence which lie outside of their own limits of society and sympathy; or, by such as wink their eyes to the truth of this matter, in order to work out some small purpose of their own. wherever there is ignorance at all there is too much of it; and it cannot be too soon removed, especially by those who are wise enough to see the crippling malignities of its nature. that portion of our population which hears next to nothing, and understands less, of politics and the laws--any laws whatever--is nevertheless compelled to obey the laws, right or wrong, and whatever strange mutations they may be subject to; and is thus continually drifted to and fro by conflicting currents of legislation which it cannot see; currents of legislation which sometimes rise from sources where there exists, unfortunately, more love for ruling than for enlightening. many changes come over the social condition of this blind multitude, they know not whence, nor how, nor why. the old song says-- remember, when the judgment's weak, the prejudice is strong. and, certainly, that part of the popular voice which is raised upon questions respecting which it has little or no sound information, must be considerably swayed by prejudice, and by that erratic play of unenlightened feeling, which has no safer government than the ephemeral circumstances which chase each other off the field of time. shrewd demagogues know well how prostrate is the position of this uneducated "mass," as it is called; and they have a stock of old-fashioned tricks, by which they can move it to their own ends "as easy as lying." he who knows the touches of this passive instrument, can make it discourse the music he desires; and, unhappily, that is not always airs from heaven. 'tis the time's plague, when madmen lead the blind. now, the educated classes have all the wide field of ancient learning open to them--they can pasture where they will; and, the stream of present knowledge rushing by, they can drink as they list. whatever is doing in politics, too, they hear of, whilst these things are yet matters of public dispute; and, in some degree, they understand and see the drift of them, and, therefore, can throw such influence as in them lies into one or the other scale of the matter. this boasted out-door parliament--this free expression of public opinion in england, however, as i have said before, goes no farther down among the people than education goes. below that point lies a land of fretful slaves, dungeoned off by ignorance from the avenues which lead to freedom; and they drag out their lives in unwilling subservience to a legislation which is beyond their influence. their ignorance keeps them dumb; and, therefore, their condition and wants are neither so well known, nor so often nor so well expressed as those of the educated classes. they seldom complain, however, until the state of affairs drives them to great extremity, and then their principal exponents are mobs, and uproars of desperation. it is plain that where there is society there must be law, and obedience to that law must be enforced, even among those who know nothing of the law, as well as those who defy it; but my principal quarrel is with that ignorant condition of theirs which shuts them out from any reasonable hope of exercising their rights as men and citizens. and so long as that ignorance is _unnecessarily_ continued, the very enforcement of laws among them, the nature of which they have no chance of knowing, looks, to me, like injustice. i see a remarkable difference, however, between the majority of popular movements which have agitated the people for some time past, and that successful one--the repeal of the corn-laws. the agitation of that question, i believe, awakened and enlisted a greater breadth of the _understanding sympathy_ of the nation, among all classes, than was ever brought together upon any one popular question which has been agitated within the memory of man. but it did more than this--and herein lies one of the foundationstones which shall hold it firm awhile, i think; since it has passed into law, its effects have most efficiently convinced that uneducated multitude of the labouring poor, who could not very well understand, and did not care much for the mere disputation of the question. everybody has a stomach of some sort--and it frequently happens that when the brain is not very active the stomach is particularly so--so that, where it could not penetrate the understanding, it has by this time triumphantly reached the stomach, and now sits there, smiling defiance to any kind of sophistry that would coax it thenceforth again. the loaves of free trade followed the tracts of the league, and the hopes of protectionist philosophers are likely to be "adjourned _sine die_," for this generation at least--perhaps for ever; for the fog is clearing up a little, and i think i see, in the distance, a better education getting ready for the next generation. o for the coming of that glorious time when, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth and best protection, this imperial realm, while she exacts allegiance, shall admit an obligation on her part, to _teach_ them who are born to serve her and obey binding herself by statute to secure for all her children whom her soil maintains, the rudiments of letters. the cottage of tim bobbin, and the village of milnrow. if thou on men, their works and ways, canst throw uncommon light, man; here lies wha weel had won thy praise, for matthew was a bright man. if thou art staunch without a stain, like the unchanging blue, man; this was a kinsman o' thy ain, for matthew was a true man. if thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, and ne'er good wine did fear, man; this was thy billie, dam, and sire, for matthew was a queer man. burns. it is not in its large towns that the true type of the natives of lancashire can be seen. the character of its town population is greatly modified by mixture with settlers from distant quarters. not so in the country parts, because the tenancy of land, and employment upon it, are sufficiently competed by the natives; and while temptations to change of settlement are fewer, the difficulties in the way of changing settlement are greater there than in towns. country people, too, stick to their old sod, with hereditary love, as long as they can keep soul and body together upon it, in any honest way. as numbers begin to press upon the means of living, the surplus fights its way in cities, or in foreign lands; or lingers out a miserable life in neglected corners, for want of work, and want of means to fly, in time, to a market where it might, at least, exchange its labour for its living. the growth of manufacture and railways, and the inroads of hordes of destitute, down-trodden irish, are stirring up lancashire, and changing its features, in a surprising way; and this change is rapidly augmenting by a varied infusion of new human elements, attracted from all quarters of the kingdom by the immense increase of capital, boldly and promptly embarked in new inventions, and ever-developing appliances of science, by a people remarkable for enterprise and industry. still, he who wishes to see the genuine descendants of those old saxons who came over here some fourteen hundred years ago, to help the britons of that day to fight for their land, and remained to farm it, and govern in it, let them ramble through the villages on the western side of blackstone edge. he will there find the open manners, the independent bearing, the steady perseverance, and that manly sense of right and wrong, which characterised their teutonic forefathers. there, too, he will find the fair comeliness, and massive physical constitution of those broad-shouldered farmer-warriors, who made a smiling england out of an island of forests and bogs--who felled the woods, and drained the marshes, and pastured their quiet kine in the ancient lair of the wild bull, the boar, and the wolf. milnrow is an old village, a mile and a half eastward from the rochdale station. the external marks of its antiquity are now few, and much obscured by the increase of manufacture there; but it is, for many reasons, well worth a visit. it is part of the fine township of butterworth, enriched with many a scene of mountain beauty. a hardy moor-end race, half farmers, half woollen-weavers, inhabit the district; and their rude, but substantial cottages and farmsteads, often perch picturesquely about the summits and sides of the hills, or nestle pleasantly in green holms and dells, which are mostly watered by rivulets, from the moorland heights which bound the township on the east. there is also a beautiful lake, three miles in circumference, filling a green valley, up in the hills, about a mile and a half from the village. flocks of sea-fowl often rest on this water, in their flight from the eastern to the western seas. from its margin the view of the wild ridges of the "back-bone of england" is fine to the north, while that part of it called "blackstone edge" slopes up majestically from the cart-road that winds along the eastern bank. a massive cathedral-looking crag frowns on the forehead of the mountain. this rock is a great point of attraction to ramblers from the vales below, and is called by them "robin hood bed." a square cavity in the lower part is called "th' cellar." hundreds of names are sculptured on the surface of the rock, some in most extraordinary situations; and often have the keepers of the moor been startled at peep of summer dawn by the strokes of an adventurous chiseller, hammering his initials into its hard face as stealthily as possible. but the sounds float, clear as a bell, miles over the moor, in the quiet of the morning, and disturb the game. one of the favourite rambles of my youth was from rochdale town, through that part of butterworth which leads by "clegg hall," commemorated in roby's tradition of "clegg ho' boggart," and thence across the green hills, by the old farmhouse, called "peanock," and, skirting along the edge of this quiet lake--upon whose waters i have spent many a happy summer day, alone--up the lofty moorside beyond, to this rock, called "robin hood bed," upon the bleak summit of blackstone edge. it is so large that it can be seen at a distance of four miles by the naked eye, on a clear day. the name of robin hood, that brave outlaw of the olden time--"the english ballad-singer's joy"--is not only wedded to this wild crag, but to at least one other congenial spot in this parish; where the rude traditions of the people point out another rock, of several tons weight, as having been thrown thither, by this king of the green-woods, from an opposite hill, nearly seven miles off. the romantic track where the lake lies, is above the level of milnrow, and quite out of the ordinary way of the traveller; who is too apt to form his opinion of the features of the whole district, from the sterile sample he sees on the sides of the rail, between manchester and rochdale. but if he wishes to know the country and its inhabitants, he must get off that, "an' tak th' crow-gate," and he will find vast moors, wild ravines, green cloughs, and dells, and shallow rivers, to whose falls, melodious birds sing madrigals, which will repay him for his pains. and then, if he be a lancashire man, and a lover of genius, let him go to milnrow--it was the dwelling-place of tim bobbin, with whose works i hope he is not unacquainted. his written works are not much in extent. he was a painter, and his rough brush was replete with hogarthian sketches, full of nature, and radiant with his own broad, humourous originality. he also left a richly-humourous dialectic tale, a few hudibrastic poems and letters, characteristic of the sterling quality of his heart and head, and just serving to show us how much greater the man was than his book. i was always proud of tim, and in my early days have made many a pilgrimage to the village where he used to live, wandering home again through the green hills of butterworth. bent on seeing the place once more, i went up to hunt's bank, one fine day at the end of last hay-time, to catch the train to rochdale. i paid my shilling, and took my seat among a lot of hearty workmen and country-folk coming back from wales and the bathing places on the lancashire coast. the season had been uncommonly fine, and the trippers looked brighter for their out, and, to use their own phrase, felt "fain at they'rn wick," and ready to buckle to work again, with fresh vigour. the smile of summer had got into the saddest of us a little; and we were communicative and comfortable. a long-limbed collier lad, after settling his body in a corner, began to hum, in a jolting metre, with as much freedom of mind as if he was at the mouth of a lonely "breast-hee" on his native moorside, a long country ditty about the courtship of phoebe and colin:-- well met, dearest phoebe, oh, why in such haste? the fields and the meadows all day i have chased, in search of the fair one who does me disdain, you ought to reward me for all my past pain. the late-comers, having rushed through the ticket-office into the carriages, were wiping their foreheads, and wedging themselves into their seats, in spite of many protestations about being "to full o'ready." the doors were slammed, the bell rung, the tickets were shown, the whistle screamed its shrill signal, and off we went, like a street on wheels, over the little irk, that makes such a slushy riot under the wood bridge by the college wall. within the memory of living men, the angler used to come down the bank, and settle himself among the grass, to fish in its clear waters. but since arkwright set this part of the world so wonderfully astir with his practicable combination of other men's inventions, the irk, like the rest of south lancashire streams, has been put to work, and its complexion is now so "subdued to what it works in," that the angler comes no more to the banks of the irk to beguile the delicate loach, and the lordly trout in his glittering suit of silver mail. the train is now nearly a mile past miles platting, and about a mile over the fields, on the north side, lies the romantic dell called "boggart hole clough," hard by the village of blackley--a pleasant spot for an afternoon walk from manchester. an old lancashire poet lives near it, too, in his country cottage. it is a thousand to one that, like me, the traveller will see neither the one nor the other from the train; but, like me, let him be thankful for both, and ride on. very soon, now, appears, on the south side of the line, the skirts of oldham town, scattered about the side and summit of a barren slope, with the tower of the parish church, peeping up between the chimneys of the cotton factories behind oldham edge. if the traveller can see no fine prospective meaning in the manufacturing system, he will not be delighted with the scene; for the country has a monotonous look, and is bleak and sterile, with hardly anything worthy of the name of a tree to be seen upon it. but now, about a hundred yards past the oldham station, there is a little of the picturesque for him to feast on. we are crossing a green valley, running north and south. following the rivulet through the hollow, a thick wood waves on a rising ground to the south. in that wood stands chadderton hall, anciently the seat of the chaddertons, some of whom were famous men; and since then, the seat of the horton family. the situation is very pleasant, and the land about it looks richer than the rest of the neighbourhood. there was a deer-park here in the time of the hortons. chadderton is a place of some note in the history of the county; and it is said to have formerly belonged to one of the old orders of knighthood. on the other side of the line, about a mile and a half off, the south-east end of middleton is in sight; with its old church on the top of a green hill. the greater part of the parish of middleton, with other possessions in south lancashire, belonging to the ashetons from before richard iii., when extraordinary powers were granted to randulph asheton. the famous sir ralph asheton, called "the black lad," from his wearing black armour, is traditionally said to have ruled in his territories in south lancashire with great severity. in the town of ashton, one of the lordships of this family, his name is still remembered with a kind of hereditary dislike; and till within the last five or six years he has been shot and torn to pieces, in effigy, by the inhabitants, at the annual custom of "the riding of the black lad." the hero of the fine ballad called "the wild rider," written by bamford, the lancashire poet, was one of this family. the middleton estates, in , failing male issue, passed by marriage into the noble families of de wilton and suffield. now, many a rich cotton spinner, perhaps lineally descended from some of the villain-serfs of the "black lad," has an eye to buying the broad lands of the proud old ashetons. the train is now hard by blue pits station, where it is not impossible for the traveller to have to wait awhile. but he may comfort himself with the assurance that it is not often much more than half an hour or so. let him amuse himself, meanwhile, with the wild dins that fill his ears;--the shouting and running of porters, the screams of engine-whistles, the jolts and collisions on a small scale, and the perpetual fuff-fuff of trains, of one kind or other, that shoot to and fro by his window, then stop suddenly, look thoughtful, as if they had dropt something, and run back again. if he looks out, ten to one he will see a red-hot monster making towards him from the distance at a great speed, belching steam, and scattering sparks and red-hot cinders; and, in the timidity of the moment, he may chance to hope it is on the right pair of rails. but time and a brave patience delivers him from these terrors, unshattered in everything--if his temper holds good--and he shoots ahead again. the moorland hills now sail upon the sight, stretching from the round peak of knowl, on the north-west, to the romantic heights of saddleworth on the south-east. the train is three minutes from rochdale, but, before it reaches there, let the traveller note that picturesque old mansion, on the green, above castleton clough, at the left-hand side of the rail. his eye must be active, for, at the rate he is going, the various objects about him literally "come like shadows, so depart." this is castleton hall, formerly a seat of the holts, of stubley, an ancient and powerful family in this parish, in the reign of henry viii. castleton hall came afterwards into the possession of humphrey chetham, the founder of chetham college, in manchester. since then it has passed into other hands; but the proverb, "as rich as a chetham o' castleton," is often used by the people of this district, at this day; and many interesting anecdotes, characteristic of the noble qualities of this old lancashire worthy, are treasured up by the people of those parts of the country where he lived; especially in the neighbourhoods of clayton hall, near manchester, and turton tower, near bolton, his favourite residences. castleton hall was an interesting place to me when i was a lad. as i pass by it now i sometimes think of the day when i first sauntered down the shady avenue, which leads to it from the highroad behind; and climbed up a mossy wall by the wayside, to look into the green gloom of a mysterious wood, which shades the rear of the building. even now, i remember the flush of imaginations which came over me then. i had picked up some scraps of historic lore about the hall, which deepened the interest i felt in it. the solemn old rustling wood; the quaint appearance, and serene dignity of the hall; and the spell of interest which lingers around every decaying relic of the works and haunts of men of bygone times, made the place eloquent to me. it seemed to me, then, like a monumental history of its old inhabitants, and their times. i remember, too, that i once got a peep into a part of the hall, where in those days, some old armour hung against the wall, silent and rusty enough, but, to me, teeming with tales of chivalry and knightly emprise. but, here is rochdale station, where he, who wishes to visit the village of milnrow, had better alight. if the traveller had time and inclination to go down into rochdale town, he might see some interesting things, old and new, there. the town is more picturesquely situated than most of the towns of south lancashire. it lines the sides of a deep valley on the banks of the roch, overlooked by moorland hills. in saxon times it was an insignificant village, called "rocheddam," consisting of a few rural dwellings in church lane, a steep and narrow old street, which was, down to the middle of last century, the principal street in the town, though now the meanest and obscurest. the famous john bright, the cromwell of modern politicians--a man of whom future generations of englishmen will be prouder even than his countrymen are now--was born in this town, and lives at "one ash," on the north side of it. john roby, author of the "traditions of lancashire," was a banker, in rochdale, of the firm of fenton and roby. the bank was next door to the shop of thomas holden, the principal bookseller of the town, to whom i was apprentice. for the clergy of the district, and for a certain class of politicians, this shop was the chief rendezvous of the place. roby used to slip in at evening, to have a chat with my employer, and a knot of congenial spirits who met him there. in the days when my head was yet but a little way higher than the counter, i remember how i used to listen to his versatile conversations. rochdale was one of the few places where the woollen manufacture was first practised in england. it is still famous for its flannel. the history of rochdale is in one respect but the counterpart of that of almost every other south lancashire town. with the birth of cotton manufacture, it shot up suddenly into one of the most populous and wealthy country towns in england. after the traveller has contemplated the manufacturing might of the place, he may walk up the quaint street from which the woollen merchants of old used to dispatch their goods, on pack horses, to all parts of the kingdom; and from which it takes the name of "packer street." at the top, a flight of one hundred and twenty-two steps leads into the churchyard; which commands an excellent view of the town below. there, too, lies "tim bobbin." few lancashire strangers visit the town without looking at the old rhymer's resting-place. bamford, author of "passages in the life of a radical," thus chronicles an imaginary visit to tim's grave, in happy imitation of the dialect of the neighbourhood:-- aw stood beside tim bobbin grave, at looks o'er rachda teawn, an th'owd lad woke within his yearth. an sed, "wheer arto beawn?" awm gooin into th' packer-street, as far as th' gowden bell, to taste o' daniel kesmus ale. tim: "aw could like a saup mysel" an by this hont o' my reet arm, if fro that hole theawl reawk, theawst have a saup oth' best breawn ale at ever lips did seawk. the greawnd it sturrd beneath meh feet, an then aw yerd a groan. he shook the dust fro off his skull, an rowlt away the stone. aw brought him op a deep breawn jug, at a gallon did contain: he took it at one blessed droight, and laid him deawn again. some of the epitaphs on the grave-stones were written by tim. the following one, on joe green, the sexton, is published with tim's works:-- here lies joe green, who arch has been, and drove a gainful trade, with powerful death, till out of breath, he threw away his spade. when death beheld his comrade yield, he like a cunning knave, came, soft as wind, poor joe behind, and pushed him into his grave near to this grave is the grave of samuel kershaw, blacksmith, bearing an epitaph which is generally attributed to the pen of tim, though it does not appear among his writings:-- my anvil and my hammer lie declined, my bellows, too, have lost their wind, my fire's extinct, my forge decayed, and in the dust my vice is laid. my coal is spent, my iron is gone, my last nail driven, and my work is done. "blind abraham," who rang the curfew, and who used to imitate the chimes of rochdale old church, in a wonderful way, for the lads at the grammar school, could lead a stranger from any point of the churchyard, straight as an arrow's flight, to tim's gravestone. the grammar school was founded in the reign of queen elizabeth, by archbishop parker. the parish church is an interesting old edifice, standing on the edge of an eminence, which overlooks the town. tradition says its foundations were laid by "goblin builders." the living was anciently dependent on the abbey of whalley. it is now the richest vicarage in the kingdom. a short walk through the glebe lands, and past "th' cant-hill well",[ ] west of the vicarage, will bring the traveller to the hill on which, in , stood the castle of gamel, the saxon thane, above the valley called "kill-danes," where the northern pirates once lost a great fight with the saxon. after spending a few days in the town, i set out for milnrow, one fine afternoon. the road leads by the "railway inn," near the station. the hay was mostly gathered in, but the smell of it still lingered on the meadows, and perfumed the wind, which sung a low melody among the leaves of the hedges. along the vale of the roch, to the left, lay a succession of manufacturing villages, with innumerable mills, collieries, farmsteads, mansions, and cottages, clustering in the valley, and running up into the hills in all directions, from rochdale to littleborough, a distance of three miles. as i went on i was reminded of "wimberry-time," by meeting knots of flaxen-headed lads and lasses from the moors, with their baskets filled, and mouths all stained with the juice of that delicious moorland fruit. there are many pleasant customs in vogue here at this season. the country-folk generally know something of local botany; and gather in a stock of medicinal herbs to dry, for use throughout the year. there is still some "spo'in'" at the mineral springs in the hills. whether these springs are really remarkable for peculiar mineral virtues, or what these peculiar virtues are, i am not prepared to say; but it is certain that many of the inhabitants of this district firmly believe in their medicinal qualities, and, at set seasons of the year, go forth to visit these springs, in jovial companies, to drink "spo wayter." some go with great faith in the virtues of the water, and, having drunk well of it, they will sometimes fill a bottle with it, and ramble back to their houses, gathering on their way edible herbs, such as "payshun docks," and "green-sauce," or "a burn o' nettles," to put in their broth, and, of which, they also make a wholesome "yarb-puddin'," mixed with meal; or they scour the hill-sides in search of "mountain flax," a "capital yarb for a cowd;" and for the herb called "tormental," which, i have heard them say, grows oftenest "abeawt th' edge o' th' singing layrock neest;" or they will call upon some country botanist to beg a handful of "solomon's seal," to "cure black e'en wi'." but some go to these springs mainly for the sake of a pleasant stroll and a quiet feast. one of the most noted of these "spo'in'" haunts is "blue pots spring," situated upon a lofty moorland, at the head of a green glen, called "long clough," about three miles from the village of littleborough. the ancient lancashire festival of "rushbearing," and the hay-harvest, fall together, in the month of august; and make it a pleasant time of the year to the folk of the neighbourhood. at about a mile on the road to milnrow, the highway passes close by a green dingle, called "th' gentlewoman's nook," which is someway connected with the unfortunate fate of a lady, once belonging to an influential family, near milnrow. some of the country people yet believe that the place is haunted; and, when forced to pass it after dark has come on, they steal fearfully and hastily by. [ ] properly, "th' camp-hill well," a well in what is called "th' broad feelt," where the danes encamped, previously to their attack on the saxon castle, and their slaughter at kill-danes, in the vale below. about a mile on the road stands belfield hall, on the site of an ancient house, formerly belonging to the knights of st. john of jerusalem. it is a large old building, belonging to the townley family. the estate has been much improved by its present occupant, and makes a pleasant picture in the eye from the top of a dinge in the road, at the foot of which a by-path leads up to the old village of newbold, on the brow of a green bank, at the right-hand side of the highway. i stood there a minute, and tried to plant again the old woods, that must have been thick there, when the squirrel leaped from tree to tree, from castletor hall to buckley wood. i was trying to shape in imagination what the place looked like in the old time, when the first rude hall was built upon the spot, and the country around was a lonesome tract, shrouded by primeval trees, when a special train went snorting by the back of the hall, and shivered my delicate endeavour to atoms. i sighed involuntarily; but bethinking me how imagination clothes all we are leaving behind in a drapery that veils many of its rough realities, i went my way, thankful for things as they are. a little further on, fir grove bridge crosses the rochdale canal, and commands a better view of the surrounding country. i rested here a little while, and looked back upon the spot which is for ever dear to my remembrance. the vale of the roch lay smiling before me, and the wide-stretching circle of dark hills closed in the landscape, on all sides, except the south-west. two weavers were lounging on the bridge, bareheaded, and in their working gear, with stocking-legs drawn on their arms. they had come out of the looms to spend their "baggin-time" in the open air, and were humming one of their favourite songs:-- hey hal o' nabs, an sam, an sue, hey jonathan, art thea theer too, we're o' alike, there's nought to do, so bring a quart afore us. aw're at tinker's gardens yester noon, an' what aw see'd aw'll tell yo soon, in a bran new sung; it's to th' owd tune yo'st ha't iv yo'n join chorus. fal, lal, de ral. at the door of the fir grove ale-house, a lot of raw-boned young fellows were talking with rude emphasis about the exploits of a fighting-cock of great local renown, known by the bland sobriquet of "crash-bwons." the theme was exciting, and in the course of it they gesticulated with great vehemence, and, in their own phrase, "swore like horse-swappers." some were colliers, and sat on the ground, in that peculiar squat, with the knees up to a level with the chin, which is a favourite resting-attitude with them. at slack times they like to sit thus by the road side, and exchange cracks over their ale, amusing themselves meanwhile by trying the wit and temper of every passer by. these humourous road-side commentators are, generally, the roughest country lads of the neighbourhood, who have no dislike to anybody willing to accommodate them with a tough battle; for they, like the better regulated portion of the inhabitants of the district, are hardy, bold, and independent; and, while their manners are open and blunt, their training and amusements are very rough. i was now approaching milnrow; and, here and there, a tenter-field ribbed the landscape with lines of woollen webs, hung upon the hooks to dry. severe laws were anciently enacted for the protection of goods thus necessarily exposed. depredations on such property were punished after the manner of that savage old "maiden" with the thin lip, who stood so long on the "gibbet hill," at halifax, kissing evil-doers out of the world. much of the famous rochdale flannel is still woven by the country people here, in the old-fashioned, independent way, at their own homes, as the traveller will see by "stretchers," which are used for drying their warps upon, so frequently standing at the doors of the roomy dwelling-houses near the road. from the head of the brow which leads down into the village, milnrow chapel is full in view on a green hill-side to the left, overlooking the centre of the busy little hamlet. it is a bald-looking building from the distance, having more the appearance of a little square factory than a church. lower down the same green eminence, which slopes to the edge of the little river beal, stands the pleasant and tasteful, but modest residence of the incumbent of milnrow, the rev. francis robert raines, honorary canon of manchester, a notable archæologist and historian; much beloved by the people of the locality. there are old people still living in milnrow, who were taught to read and write, and "do sums" in tim bobbin's school; yet, the majority of the inhabitants seem unacquainted with his residence. i had myself been misled respecting it; but having obtained correct information, and a reference from a friend in rochdale to an old relative of his who lived in the veritable cottage of renowned tim, i set about inquiring for him. as i entered the village, i met a sturdy, good-looking woman, with a chocolate-coloured silk kerchief tied over her snowy cap, in that graceful way which is known all over the country-side as a "mildro bonnet." she stopt me and said, "meastur, hea fur han yo com'd?" "from rochdale." "han yo sin aught ov a felley wi breeches on, an' rayther forrud, upo' th' gate, between an' th' fir grove?" i told her i had not; and i then inquired for scholefield that lived in tim bobbin's cottage. she reckoned up all the people she knew of that name, but none of them answering the description, i went on my way. i next asked a tall woollen-weaver, who was striding up the street with his shuttle to the mending. scratching his head, and looking thoughtfully round among the houses, he said, "scwofil? aw know no scwofils, but thoose at th' tim bobbin aleheawse; yodd'n better ash (ask) theer." stepping over to the tim bobbin inn, mrs. schofield described to me the situation of tim's cottage, near the bridge. retracing my steps towards the place, i went into the house of an old acquaintance of my childhood. on the strength of a dim remembrance of my features, he invited me to sit down, and share the meal just made ready for the family. "come, poo a cheer up," said he, "an' need no moo lathein'."[ ] after we had finished, he said, "neaw, win yd have a reech o' bacco? mally, reytch us some pipes, an th' pot out o'th nook. let's see, who's lad are yo, sen yo? for aw welly forgetten, bith mass." after a fruitless attempt at enlightening him thereon in ordinary english, i took to the dialect, and in the country fashion described my genealogy, on the mother's side. i was instantly comprehended; for he stopt me short with--"whau then, aw'll be sunken iv yo are not gron'son to 'billy, wi' th' pipes, at th' biggins.'" "yo han it neaw," said i. "eh," replied he, "aw knowed him as weel as aw knew my own feythur! he're a terrible chap for music, an' sich like; an' he used to letter grave-stones, an' do mason-wark. eh, aw've bin to mony a orrytory wi' owd billy. why,--let's see--owd wesley preytched at his heawse, i' wardle fowd once't.[ ] an' han yo some relations i' th' mildro, then?" i told him my errand, and inquired for scholefield, who lived in tim bobbin's cottage. as he pondered, and turned the name over in his mind, one of his lads shouted out, "by th' mon, feyther, it's 'owd mahogany,' aw think he's code (called) scwofil, an' he lives i'th garden at th' botham o'th bonk, by th' waytur side." it was generally agreed that this was the place, so i parted with my friends and went towards it. the old man came out without his hat, a short distance, to set me right. after bidding me a hearty "good neet," he turned round as he walked away, and shouted out, "neaw tay care yo coan, th' next time yo com'n thiz gate, an' wi'n have a gradely do." [ ] _lathein'_--inviting. [ ] john leach, of wardle, was a notable man among the early methodists, and was one of wesley's first preachers. he was my grandmother's uncle. in southey's life of wesley, i find the following note respecting him, under the head, "outcry against methodism. violence of mobs, and misconduct of magistrates:" when john leach was pelted, near rochdale, in those riotous days, and saw his brother wounded in the forehead by a stone, he was mad enough to tell the rabble that not one of them could hit him, if he were to stand preaching there till midnight. just then the mob began to quarrel among themselves, and, therefore, left off pelting. but the anecdote has been related by his brethren for his praise. about twenty yards from the west end of the little stone bridge that spans the river, a lane leads, between the ends of the dwelling houses, down to the water side. there, still sweetly secluded, stands the quaint, substantial cottage of john collier, in its old garden by the edge of the beal, which, flowing through the fields in front, towards the cottage, is there dammed up into a reservoir for the use of the mill close by, and then tumbling over in a noisy little fall under the garden edge, goes shouting and frolicking along the north-east side of it, over water-worn rocks, and under the bridge, till the cadence dies away in a low murmur, beyond, where the bed of the stream gets smoother. lifting the latch, i walked through the garden, to the cottage, where i found "owd mahogany" and his maiden sister, two plain, clean, substantial working-people, who were sitting in the low-roofed, but otherwise roomy apartment in front, used as a kitchen. they entered heartily into the purpose of my visit, and showed me everything about the house with a genial pride. what made the matter more interesting was the fact, that "owd mahogany" had been, when a lad, a pupil of collier's. the house was built expressly for tim, by his father-in-law; and the uncommon thickness of the walls, the number and arrangement of the rooms, and the remains of a fine old oak staircase, showed that more than usual care and expense had been bestowed upon it. as we went through the rooms on the ground-floor, my ancient guide gave me a good deal of anecdote connected with each. pointing to a clean, cold, whitewashed cell, with a great flag table in it, and a grid-window at one end, he said, "this wur his buttery, wheer he kept pullen,[ ] an gam, an sich like; for thir no mon i' rachdaw parish liv't betther nor owd tim, nor moor like a gentleman; nor one at had moor friends, gentle an simple. th' teawnlo's took'n to him fearfully, an thir'n olez comin' to see him; or sendin' him presents o' some mak'." he next showed me the parlour where he used to write and receive company. a little oblong room, low in the roof, and dimly lighted by a small window from the garden. tim used to keep this retiring sanctum tastefully adorned with the flowers of each season, and one might have eaten his dinner off the floor in his time. in the garden he pointed out the corner where tim had a roomy green arbor, with a smooth stone table in the middle, on which lay his books, his flute, or his meals, as he was in the mood. he would stretch himself out here, and muse for hours together. the lads used to bring their tasks from the school behind the house, to this arbor, for tim to examine. he had a green shaded walk from the school into his garden. when in the school, or about the house, he wore a silk velvet skull-cap. the famous radical, william cobbett, used to wear a similar one, occasionally; and i have heard those who have seen both in this trim, say that the likeness of the two men was then singularly striking. "owd mahogany" having now shown and told me many interesting things respecting tim's house and habits, entered into a hearty eulogy upon his character as a man and a schoolmaster. "he're a fine, straight-forrud mon, wi' no maffle abeawt him; for o' his quare, cranky ways." as an author, he thought him "th' fine'st writer at englan' bred, at that time o' th' day." of his caligraphy, too, he seemed particularly proud, for he declared that "tim could write a clear print hond, as smo' as smithy smudge," he finished by saying, that he saw him carried out of the door-way we were standing in, to his grave. [ ] _pullen_--poultry. at the edge of dark, i bade adieu to tim's cottage, and the comfortable old couple that live in it. as i looked back from the garden-gate, the house wore a plaintive aspect, in my imagination; as if it was thinking of its fine old tenant. having heard that there was something uncommon to be learnt of him at the tim bobbin inn, i went there again. it is the largest and most respectable public-house in the village, kept in a fine state of homely comfort by a motherly old widow. i found that she could tell me something of the quaint schoolmaster and his wife "mary," who, as she said, "helped to bring her into th' world." she brought out a folio volume of engravings from designs by tim, with many pieces of prose and verse of his, in engraved fac-simile of his hand-writing. the book was bound in dark morocco, with the author's name on the side, in gold. i turned it over with pleasure, for there were things in it not found in any edition of his works. the landlady shows this book with some pride to tim's admirers; by some she had been offered large sums of money for it; and once a party of curious visitors had well-nigh carried it off by stealth in their carriage, after making fruitless offers of purchase; but the plan was detected in time, and the treasure restored to its proper custody. i read in it one of his addresses to his subscribers, in which he says of himself: "he's lancashire born; and, by the by, all his acquaintance agree, his wife not excepted, that he's an odd-fellow.... in the reign of queen anne he was a boy, and one of the nine children of a poor curate in lancashire, whose stipend never amounted to thirty pounds a-year, and consequently the family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. these indeed were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposition of the good rector (the rev. mr. h.----, of w----n): so this t. b. lived as some other boys did, content with water-pottage, buttermilk, and jannock, till he was between thirteen and fourteen years of age, when providence began to smile on him in his advancement to a pair of dutch looms, when he met with treacle to his pottage, and sometimes a little in his buttermilk, or spread on his jannock. however, the reflections of his father's circumstances (which now and then start up and still edge his teeth) make him believe that pluralists are no good christians; that he who will accept of two or more places of one hundred a-year, would not say _i have enough_, though he was pope clement, urban, or boniface,--could affirm himself infallible, and offer his toe to kings: that the unequal distribution of church emoluments is as great a grievance in the ecclesiastic, as undeserved pensions and places are in the state; both of which, he presumes to prophesy, will prove canker-worms at the roots of those succulent plants, and in a few years cause leaf and branch to shrivel up, and dry them to tinder." the spirit of this passage seems the natural growth, in such a mind as his, of the curriculum of study in the hard college of tim's early days. in the thrifty home of the poor lancashire curate, though harrowed by "the iron teeth of penury," tim inherited riches that wealth cannot buy. under the tuition of a good father, who could study his reflective and susceptible mind, and teach him many excellent things; together with that hard struggle to keep the wolf from the door of his childhood, which pressed upon his thoughts, he grew up contemplative, self-reliant, and manly, on oatmeal porridge, and jannock, with a little treacle for a god-send. his feelings were deepened, and his natural love of independence strengthened there, with that hatred of all kinds of injustice, which flashes through the rich humour and genial kindness of his nature,--for nature was strong in him, and he relished her realities. poverty is not pleasant, yet the world has more to thank poverty for than it dreams of. with honourable pride he fought his way to a pair of dutch looms, where he learned to win his jannock and treacle by honest weaving. subsequently he endeavoured to support himself honourably, by pursuits no less useful, but more congenial to the bias of his faculties; but, to the last, his heart's desire was less to live in external plenty and precedence among men, than to live conscientiously, in the sweet relations of honourable independence in the world. this feeling was strong in him, and gives dignity to his character. as a politician, john collier was considerably ahead of the time he lived in, and especially of the simple, slow-minded race of people dwelling, then, in that remote nook of lancashire, at the foot of blackstone edge. among such people, and in such a time, he spoke and wrote things, which few men dared to write and speak. he spoke, too, in a way which was as independent and pithy as it was quaintly-expressive. his words, like his actions, stood upon their own feet, and looked up. perhaps, if he had been a man of a drier nature,--of less genial and attractive genius than he was,--he might have had to suffer more for the enunciation of truths, and the recognition of principles which were unfashionable in those days. but collier was not only a man of considerable valour and insight, with a manly mind and temper, but he was also genial and humourous, as he was earnest and honest. he was an eminently human-hearted man, who abhorred all kinds of cant and seeming. his life was a greater honour to him even than his quaint pencil, or his pen; and the memory of his sayings and doings will be long and affectionately cherished, at least, by lancashire men. eh: whoo-who-whoo! what wofo wark! he's laft um aw, to lie i' th' dark. the following brief memoir, written by his friend and patron, richard townley, esq., of belfield hall, near milnrow, for insertion in dr. aiken's "history of the environs of manchester," contains the best and completest account of his life and character, which has yet appeared:-- mr. john collier, _alias_ tim bobbin, was born near warrington, in lancashire; his father, a clergyman of the established church, had a small curacy, and for several years taught a school. with the joint income of those, he managed so as to maintain a wife and several children decently, and also to give them a tolerable share of useful learning, until a dreadful calamity befel him, about his fortieth year--the total loss of sight. his former intentions of bringing up his son, john--of whose abilities he had conceived a favourable opinion--to the church, were then over, and he placed him out an apprentice to a dutch loom-weaver, at which business he worked more than a year; but such a sedentary employment not at all according with his volatile spirits and eccentric genius, he prevailed upon his master to release him from the remainder of his servitude. though then very young, he soon commenced itinerant schoolmaster, going about the country from one small town to another, to teach reading, writing, and accounts; and generally having a night-school (as well as a day one), for the sake of those whose necessary employments would not allow their attendance at the usual school hours. in one of his adjournments to the small but populous town of oldham, he had an intimation that the rev. mr. pearson, curate and schoolmaster, of milnrow, near rochdale, wanted an assistant in the school. to that gentleman he applied, and after a short examination, was taken in by him to the school, and he divided his salary, twenty pounds a year, with him. this tim considered as a material advance in the world, as he still could have a night-school, which answered very well in that populous neighbourhood, and was considered by tim, too, as a state of independency; a favourite idea, ever afterwards, with his high spirits. mr. pearson, not very long afterwards, falling a martyr to the gout, my honoured father gave mr. collier the school, which not only made him happy in the thought of being more independent, but made him consider himself as a rich man. having now more leisure hours by dropping his night-school there, though he continued to teach at oldham, and some other places, during the vacations of whitsuntide and christmas, he began to instruct himself in music and drawing, and soon was such a proficient in both as to be able to instruct others very well in those amusing arts. the hautboy and common flute were his chief instruments, and upon the former he very much excelled; the fine modulations that have since been acquired, or introduced upon that noble instrument, being then unknown in england. he drew landscapes in good taste, understanding the rules of perspective, and attempted some heads in profile, with very decent success: but it did not hit his humour, for i have heard him say, when urged to go on in that line, that "drawing heads and faces was as dry and insipid as leading a life without frolic and fun, unless he was allowed to steal in some leers of comic humour, or to give them a good dash of the caricature." very early in life he discovered some poetic talents, or rather an easy habit for humourous rhyme, by several anonymous squibs he sent about in ridicule of some notoriously absurd, or eccentric characters; these were fathered upon him very justly, which created him some enemies, but more friends. i had once in my possession some humourous relations in tolerable rhyme, of his own frolic and fun with persons he met with, of the like description, in his hours of festive humour, which was sure to take place when released for any time from school duty, and not too much engaged in his lucrative employment of painting. the first regular poetic composition which he published, was "the blackbird," containing some spirited ridicule upon a lancashire justice, more renowned for political zeal and ill-timed loyalty than good sense and discretion. in point of easy, regular versification, perhaps this was his best specimen, and it also exhibited some strokes of humour. about this period of life he fell seriously in love with a handsome young woman, a daughter of mr. clay, of flockton, near huddersfield, and soon after took her unto him for a wife, or, as he used to style her, his crooked rib, who, in proper time, increased his family, and proved to be a virtuous, discreet, sensible, and prudent woman, a good wife, and an excellent mother. his family continuing to increase nearly every year, the hautboy, flute, and amusing pencil were pretty much discarded, and the brush and pallet taken up seriously. he was chiefly engaged for some time in painting altar-pieces for chapels and signs for publicans, which pretty well rewarded the labours of his vacant hours from school attendance; but after some time, family expenses increasing more with his family, he devised, or luckily hit upon, a more lucrative employment for his leisure hours:--this was copying dame nature in some of her humourous performances, and grotesque sportings with the human face (especially where the visage had the greatest share in those sportings), into which his pencil contrived to throw some pointed features of grotesque humour, such as were best adapted to excite risibility, as long as such strange objects had the advantage of novelty to recommend them. these pieces he worked off with uncommon celerity: a single portrait in the leisure hours of two days, at least, and a group of three or four in a week. as soon as finished, he was wont to carry them to the first-rate inns at rochdale and littleborough, in the great road to yorkshire, with the lowest prices fixed upon them, the innkeepers willingly becoming tim's agents. the droll humour, as well as singularity of style of those pieces, procured him a most ready sale, from riders out, and travellers of other descriptions, who had heard of tim's character. these whimsical productions soon began to be in such general repute, that he had large orders for them, especially from merchants in liverpool, who sent them, upon speculation, into the west indies and america. he used, at that time, to say, that "if providence had ever meant him to be a rich man, that would have been the proper time, especially if she had kindly bestowed upon him two pair of hands instead of one;" but when cash came in readily, it was sure to go merrily: a cheerful glass with a joyous companion was so much in unison with his own disposition, that a temptation of that kind could never be resisted by poor tim; so the season to grow rich never arrived, but tim remained poor tim to the end of the chapter. collier had been for many years collecting, not only from the rustics in his own neighbourhood, but also wherever he made excursions, all the awkward, vulgar, obsolete words, and local expressions, which ever occurred to him in conversation amongst the lower classes. a very retentive memory brought them safe back for insertion in his vocabulary, or glossary, and from thence he formed and executed the plan of his "lancashire dialect," which he exhibited to public cognizance in the "adventures of a lancashire clown," formed from some rustic sports and gambols, and also some whimsical modes of circulating fun at the expense of silly, credulous boobies amongst the then cheery gentlemen of that peculiar neighbourhood. this publication, from its novelty, together with some real strokes of comic humour interlarded into it, took very much with the middle and lower class of people in the northern counties (and i believe everywhere in the south, too, where it had the chance of being noticed), so that a new edition was soon necessary. this was a matter of exultation to tim, but not of very long duration, for the rapid sale of the second edition soon brought forth two or three pirated editions, which made the honest, unsuspecting owner to exclaim with great vehemence, "that he did not believe there was one honest printer in lancashire;" and afterwards to lash some of the most culpable of those insidious offenders with his keen, sarcastic pen, when engaged in drawing up a preface to a future publication. the above-named performances, with his pencil, his brush, and his pen, made tim's name and repute for whimsical archness pretty generally known, not only within his native county, but also through the adjoining counties of yorkshire and cheshire: and his repute for a peculiar species of pleasantry in his hours of frolic, often induced persons of much higher rank to send for him to an inn (when in the neighbourhood of his residence), to have a personal specimen of his uncommon drollery. tim was seldom backward in obeying a summons to good cheer, and seldom, i believe, disappointed the expectations of his generous host, for he had a wonderful flow of spirits, with an inexhaustible fund of humour, and that, too, of a very peculiar character. blest with a clear and masculine understanding, and a keen discernment into the humours and foibles of others, he knew how to take the best advantage of those occasional interviews in order to promote trade, as he was wont to call it, though his natural temper was very far from being of a mercenary cast; it was often rather too free and generous; more so than prudence, with respect to his family, would advise, for he would sooner have had a lenten day or two at home, than done a shabby and mean thing abroad. amongst other persons of good fortune, who often called upon him at milnrow, or sent for him to spend a few hours with him at rochdale, was a mr. richard hill, of kibroid and halifax, in yorkshire, then one of the greatest cloth merchants, and also one of the most considerable manufacturers of baizes and shalloons in the north of england. this gentleman was not only fond of his humourous conversation, but also had taken up an opinion that he would be highly useful to him as his head clerk, in business, from his being very ready at accounts, and writing a most beautiful small hand, in any kind of type, but especially in imitation of printed characters after several fruitless attempts, he at last, by offers of an extravagant salary, prevailed upon mr. collier to enter into articles of service for three years, certain, and to take his family to kibroid. after signing and sealing, he called upon me to give notice that he must resign the school, and to thank me for my long-continued friendship to him. at taking leave, he, like the honest moor-- albeit, unused to the melting mood, dropped tears as fast as the arabian tree, their medicinal gum. and, in faltering accents, entreated me not to be too hasty in filling up the vacancy in that school, where he had lived so many years contented and happy: for he had already some forebodings that he should never relish his new situation and new occupation. i granted his request, but hoped he would soon reconcile himself to his new situation, as it promised to be so advantageous both to himself and family. he replied, that "it was for the sake of his wife and children, that he was at last induced to accept mr. hill's very tempting offers, no other consideration whatever could have made him give up milnrow school, and independency." about two months afterwards, some business of his master's bringing him to rochdale market, he took that opportunity of returning by belfield. i instantly perceived a wonderful change in his looks: that countenance which used ever to be gay, serene, or smiling, was then covered, or disguised with a pensive, settled gloom. on asking him how he liked his new situation at kibroid, he replied, "not at all;" then, enumerating several causes for discontent, concluded with an observation, that "he never could abide the ways of that country, for they neither kept red-letter days themselves nor allowed their servants to keep any." before he left me, he passionately entreated that i would not give away the school, for he should never be happy again until he was seated in the crazy old elbow chair within his school. i granted his request, being less anxious to fill up the vacancy, as there were two other free schools for the same uses within the same townships, which have decent salaries annexed to them. some weeks afterwards i received a letter from tim, that he had some hopes of getting released from his vassalage; for, that the father having found out what very high wages his son had agreed to give him, was exceedingly angry with him for being so extravagant in his allowance to a clerk; that a violent quarrel betwixt them had been the consequence; and from that circumstance he meant--at least hoped--to derive some advantage in the way of regaining his liberty, which he lingered after, and panted for, as much as any galley-slave upon earth. another letter announced that his master perceived that he was dejected, and had lost his wonted spirits and cheerfulness; had hinted to him, that if he disliked his present situation, he should be released at the end of the year; concluding his letter with a most earnest imploring that i would not dispose of the school before that time. by the interposition of the old gentleman, and some others, he got the agreement cancelled a considerable time before the year expired; and the evening of the day when the liberation took place, he hired a large yorkshire cart to bring away bag and baggage by six o'clock next morning, to his own house, at milnrow. when he arrived upon the west side of blackstone edge, he thought himself once more a free man; and his heart was as light as a feather. the next morning he came up to belfield, to know if he might take possession of his school again; which being readily consented to, tears of gratitude instantly streamed down his cheeks, and such a suffusion of joy illumined his countenance, as plainly bespoke the heart being in unison with his looks. he then declared his unalterable resolution never more to quit the humble village of milnrow; that it was not in the power of kings, nor their prime ministers, to make him any offers, if so disposed, that would allure him from his tottering elbow chair, from humble fare, with liberty and contentment. a hint was thrown out that he must work hard with his pencil, his brush, and his pen, to make up the deficiency in income to his family; that he promised to do, and was as good as his promise, for he used double diligence, so that the inns at rochdale and littleborough were soon ornamented, more than ever, with ugly grinning old fellows, and mambling old women on broomsticks, &c., &c. tim's last literary productions, as i recollect, were "remarks upon the rev. mr. whittaker's history of manchester, in two parts:" the "remarks" will speak for themselves. there appears rather too much seasoning and salt in some of them, mixed with a degree of acerbity for which he was rather blamed. mr. collier died in possession of his faculties, with his mental powers but little impaired, at nearly eighty years of age, and his eyesight was not so much injured as might have been expected from such a severe use of it, during so long a space of time. his wife died a few years before him, but he left three sons and two daughters behind him. in a sketch like this, it is not easy to select such examples from collier's writings as will give an adequate idea of their manner and significance. his inimitable story, called "tummus and meary," will bear no mutilation. of his rhymes, perhaps the best is the one called "the blackbird." the following extract from tim's preface to the third edition of his works, in the form of a dialogue between the author and his book, though far from the best thing he has written, contains some very characteristic touches:-- _tim._ well, boh we'n had enough o' this foisty matter; let's talk o' summat elze; an furst tell me heaw thea went on eh thi last jaunt. _book._ gu on! beladay, aw could ha' gwon on wheantly, an' bin awhoam again wi' th' crap eh meh slop in a snift, iv id na met, at oytch nook, thoose basthartly whelps sent eawt be _stuart_, _finch_, an _schofield_. _tim._ pooh! i dunnot meeon heaw folk harbort'nt an cutternt o'er tho; boh what thoose fause lunnoners said'n abeawt te jump, at's new o'er-bodyt. _book._ oh, oh! neaw aw ha't! yo meeon'n thoose lung-seeted folk at glooar'n a second time at books; an whooa awr fyert would rent meh jump to chatters. _tim._ reet mon, reet; that's it,-- _book._ whau then, to tello true, awr breeod wi' a gorse waggin'; for they took'n mo i'th reet leet to a yure. _tim._ heaw's tat, eh gods'num! _book._ whau, at yoad'n donned mo o' thiss'n, like a meawntebank's foo, for th' wonst, to mey th' rabblement fun. _tim._ eh, law! an did'n th' awvish shap, an th' peckl't jump pan, said'n they? _book._ aye, aye: primely i'faith!--for they glooarn't sooar at mo; turn't mo reawnd like a tayliur, when he mezzurs folk; chuckt mo under th' chin; ga' mo a honey butter-cake, an said oppenly, they ne'er saigh an awkert look, a quare shap, an a peckl't jump gee better eh their live. _tim._ neaw, e'en fair fa' um, say aw! these wur'n th' boggarts at flayd'n tho! but aw'd olez a notion at tear'n no gonnor-yeds. _book._ gonner-yeds! naw, naw, not te marry! boh, aw carry 't mysel' meety meeverly too-to, an did as o bidd'n mo. _tim._ then theaw towd um th' tale, an said th' rimes an aw, did to? _book._ th' tale an th' rimes! 'sflesh, aw believe eh did; boh aw know no moor on um neaw than a seawkin' pig. _tim._ 'od rottle the; what says to? has to foryeat'n th' tayliur findin' th' urchon; an th' rimes? _book._ quite, quite; as eh hope to chieve! _tim._ neaw e'en the dule steawnd to, say aw! what a fuss mun aw have to teytch um tho again! _book._ come, come; dunna fly up in a frap; a body conno carry oytch mander o' think eh their nob. _tim._ whau boh, mind neaw, theaw gawmblin' tyke, at to can tell th' tale an say th' rimes be rot tightly. _book._ "fear me na," said doton; begin. _tim._ a tayliur, eh crummil's time, wur thrunk pooin' turmits in his pingot, an fund an urchon i'th hadloont reean.[ ] he glendurt at't lung, boh could may nowt on't. he whoav't hi whisket o'ert, runs whoam, an tells his neighbours he thowt in his guts at he'd fund a think at god ne'er made eawt, for it'd nother yed nor tale, nor hont nor hough, nor midst nor eend! loath t' believe this, hauve a dozen on um would gu t' see iv they could'n may shift t' gawm it; boh it capt um aw; for they newer a one on um e'er saigh th' like afore. then theyd'n a keawncil, an th' eend on't wur at teyd'n fotch a lawm, fause owd felly, het[ ] an elder, at could tell oytch think,--for they look'nt on him as th' hamil-scoance, an thowt him fuller o' leet than a glow-worm's a--se. when they'n towd him th' case, he stroke't his beeart; sowght; an order't th' wheelbarrow wi' spon-new trindle t' be fotcht. 'twur dun; an they beawln't him away to th' urchon in a crack. he glooart at't a good while; dried his beeart deawn, an wawtud it o'er with his crutch. "wheel me abeawt again, o'th tother side," said he, "for it sturs, an by that, it should be wick." then he dons his spectacles, stare't at't again, an sowghin', said, "breether, its summat: boh feyther adam nother did, nor could kersun it. wheel mo whoam again!" [ ] _hadloont reean_--headland gutter. [ ] _het_--hight, called _book._ aw remember it neaw, weel enough: boh iv these viewers could gawm it oytch body couldna; for aw find neaw at yo compare'n me to a urchon, ut has nother yed nor tale; 'sflesh, is not it like running mo deawn, an a bit to bobbersome. _tim._ naw, naw, not it; for meeny o' folk would gawm th' rimes, boh very lite would underston th' tayliur an his urchon. _book._ th' rimes;--hum,--lemme see. 'sblid, aw foryeat'n thoose, too, aw deawt! _tim._ whoo-who whoo! what a dozening jobberknow art teaw! _book._ good lorjus o' me; a body conna do moor thin they con, con they? boh iv in teytch mo again, an aw foryeat um again, e'en raddle meh hoyd tightly, say aw. _tim._ mind te hits, then! some write to show their wit and parts, some show you whig, some tory hearts, some flatter _knaves_, some _fops_, some _fools_, and some are ministerial tools. _book._ eigh, marry; oytch body says so; an gonnor-yeds they are for their labbor. _tim._ some few in virtue's cause do write, but these, alas! get little by't. _book._ indeed, aw can believe o! weel rime't, heawe'er: gu on. _tim._ some turn out maggots from their head, which die before their author's dead. _book._ zuns! aw englanshire 'll think at yo'r glentin' at toose fratchin', byzen, craddlinly tykes as write'n sich papers as th' _test_, an sich cawve-tales as _cornish peter_, at fund a new ward, snyin' wi glums an gawries. _tim._ some write such sense in prose and rhyme, their works will wrestle hard with time. _book._ that'll be prime wrostlin', i'faith; for aw've yerd um say, time conquers aw things. _tim._ some few print _truth_, but many _lies_ on _spirits_, down to _butterflies_. _book._ reet abeawt boggarts; an th' tother ward; and th' mon i'th moon, an sich like gear: get eendway; it's prime, i'faith. _tim._ some write to _please_, some do't for _spite_, but want of money makes me write. _book._ by th' mass, th' owd story again! boh aw think eh me guts at it's true. it'll do; yo need'n rime no moor, for it's better t'in lickly. whewt[ ] on tummus an mary. [ ] _whewt_--whistle. to a liberal and observant stranger, one of the richest results of a visit to this quarter will arise from contemplation of the well-defined character of the people that live in it. the whole population is distinguished by a fine, strong, natural character, which would do honour to the refinements of education. a genteel stranger, who cannot read the heart of this people through their blunt manners, will, perhaps, think them a little boorish. but though they have not much bend in the neck, and their rough dialect is little blest with the set phrases of courtesy, there are no braver men in the world, and under their uncouth demeanour lives the spirit of true chivalry. they have a favourite proverb, that "fair play's a jewel," and are generally careful, in all their dealings, to act upon it. they feel a generous pride in the man who can prove himself their master in anything. unfortunately, little has yet been done for them in the way of book-education, except what has been diffused by the sunday-schools, since the times of their great apostle, john wesley, who, in person, as well as by his enthusiastic early preachers, laboured much and earnestly among them, in many parts of south lancashire. yet nature has blest them with a fine vein of mother-wit, and has drilled some useful pages of her horn-book into them in the loom, the mine, and the farm, for they are naturally hard workers, and proud of honest labour. they are keen critics of character, too, and have a sharp eye to the nooks and corners of a stranger's attire, to see that, at least, whether rich or poor, it be sound, and, as they say, "bothomly cleeon," for they are jealous of dirty folk. they are accustomed to a frank expression of what is in them, and like the open countenance, where the time of day may be read in the dial, naturally abhorring "hudd'n wark, an' meawse-neeses." among the many anecdotes illustrative of the character of this people, there is one which, though simple, bears a strong stamp of native truth upon it. a stalwart young fellow, who had long been employed as carter for a firm in this neighbourhood, had an irresistible propensity to fighting, which was constantly leading him into scrapes. he was an excellent servant in every other respect, but no admonition could cure him of this; and at length he was discharged, in hope to work the desired change. dressing himself in his best, he applied to an eminent native merchant for a similar situation. after other necessary questions, the merchant asked whether he had brought his character with him. "my character!" replied our hero, "naw, aw'm a damned deeol better beawt it!" this anecdote conveys a very true idea of the rough vigour and candour of the lancashire country population. they dislike dandyism and the shabby-genteel, and the mere bandbox exquisite would think them a hopeless generation. yet, little as they are tinctured with literature, a few remarkable books are very common among them. i could almost venture to prophesy before going into any substantial farmhouse, or any humble cottage in this quarter, that some of the following books might be found there: the bible, bunyan's pilgrim's progress, the book of common prayer, and often wesley's hymn-book, barclay's dictionary, culpepper's herbal; and, sometimes, thomas à kempis, or a few old puritan sermons. one of their chief delights is the practice of sacred music; and i have heard the works of haydn, handel, mozart, and beethoven executed with remarkable correctness and taste, in the lonely farmhouses and cottages of south lancashire. in no other part of england does such an intense love of sacred music pervade the poorer classes. it is not uncommon for them to come from the farthest extremity of south lancashire, and even over the "edge" from huddersfield, and other towns of the west riding of yorkshire, to hear an oratorio at the free trade hall, returning home again, sometimes a distance of thirty miles, in the morning. i will now suppose that the traveller has seen tim bobbin's grave, and has strolled up by silver hills, through the scenery of butterworth, and, having partly contemplated the character of this genuine specimen of a south lancashire village, is again standing on the little stone bridge which spans the pretty river beal. let him turn his back to the rochdale road a little while; we have not done with him yet. across the space there, used as a fair ground at "rushbearing time," stands an old-fashioned stone ale-house, called "th' stump and pie lad," commemorating, by its scabbed and weather-beaten sign, one of the triumphs of a noted milnrow foot-racer, on doncaster race-course. milnrow is still famous for its foot-racers, as lancashire, generally, is more particularly famous for foot-racers than any other county in the kingdom. in that building the ancient lords of rochdale manor used to hold their court-leets. now, the dry-throated "lads o' th' fowd" meet there nightly, to grumble at bad warps and low wages; and to "fettle th' nation," over pitchers of cold ale. and now, if the traveller loves to climb "the slopes of old renown," and worships old heraldries and rusty suits of mail, let him go to the other end of the village. i will go with him, if, like me, while he venerates old chronicles, whether of stone, metal, or parchment, because the spirit of the bygone sometimes streams upon us through them, he still believes in the proverb, that "every man is the son of his own works;" i will play the finger-post to him with right good will. there is something at the other end of milnrow worth his notice. milnrow lies on the ground not unlike a tall tree laid lengthwise, in a valley, by a river side. at the bridge, its roots spread themselves in clots and fibrous shoots, in all directions; while the almost branchless trunk runs up, with a little bend, above half a mile, towards oldham, where it again spreads itself out in an umbrageous way, at the little fold called "butterworth hall." in walking through the village, he who has seen a tolerably-built wooden mill will find no wonders of the architectural art at all. the houses are almost entirely inhabited by working people, and marked by a certain rough, comfortable solidity--not a bad reflex of the character of the inhabitants. at the eastern extremity, a road leads on the left hand to the cluster of houses called "butterworth hall." this old fold is worth notice, both for what it is, and what it has been. it is a suggestive spot. it is near the site once occupied by one of the homesteads of the byrons, barons of rochdale, the last baron of which family was lord byron, the poet. a gentleman in this township, who is well acquainted with the history and archæology of the whole county, lately met with a licence from the bishop of lichfield and coventry, dated a.d. , granting to sir john byron and his wife leave to have divine service performed within their oratories at clayton and butterworth, in the county of lancashire. (lane. mss., vol. xxxii., p. .) this was doubtless the old _wooden chapel_ which traditionally is said to have existed at butterworth hall, and which is still pointed out by the names of two small fields, called "chapel yard" and "chapel meadow." these names occur in deeds at pike house (the residence of the halliwell family, about two miles off), in the time of queen elizabeth, and are known to this day. it is probable that the byrons never lived at butterworth hall after the wars of the roses. they quitted clayton, as a permanent residence, on acquiring newstead, in the reign of henry the eighth, although "young sir john," as he was called, lived at royton hall, near oldham, another seat of the family, between and . at butterworth hall, the little river beal, flowing down fresh from the heathery mountains, which throw their shadows upon the valley where it runs, divides the fold; and upon a green plot, close to the northern margin of its water, stands an old-fashioned stone hall, hard by the site of the ancient residence of the byrons. after spending an hour at the other end of the village, with the rugged and comfortable generation dwelling there, among the memorials of "tim bobbin"--that quaint old schoolmaster, of the last century--who was "the observed of all observers," there, in his day, and who will be remembered long after some of the monumental brasses and sculptured effigies of his contemporaries are passed by with, incurious eyes--one thinks it will not be uninteresting, nor profitless, to come and muse a little upon the spot where the byrons once lived in feudal state. but let not any contemplative visitor here lose his thoughts too far among antiquarian dreams, and shadows of the past, for there are factory-bells close by. however large the discourse of his mind may be, let him never forget that there is a strong and important present in the social life around him. and wherever he sets his foot, in south lancashire, he will now find that there are shuttles flying where once was the council chamber of a baron; and that the people of these days are drying warps in the "shooting-butts" and tilt-yards of the olden time! the following information respecting the byron family, barons of rochdale, copied from an article in the _manchester guardian_, by the eminent antiquarian contributor to that journal, will not be uninteresting to some people:-- the byrons, of clayton and rochdale, lancashire, and newstead abbey, notts, are descended from ralph de buron, who, at the time of the conquest, and of the doomsday survey, held divers manors in notts and derbyshire. hugo de buron, grandson of ralph, and feudal baron of horsetan, retiring _temp._ henry iii. from secular affairs, professed himself a monk, and held the hermitage of kirsale or kersal, under the priory of lenton. his son was sir roger de buron. robert de byron, son of sir roger de buron, in the john st [ - ], married cecilia, daughter and heiress of richard clayton, of clayton, and thus obtained the manor and estates of clayton. failsworth and the township of droylsden were soon after added to their lancashire estates. their son, robert de byron, lord of clayton, was witness to a grant of plying hay in this country, to the monks of cockersand, for the souls of henry ii. and richard i. and his son, john de byron, who was seated at clayton, th edward i. [ - ], was governor of york, and had all his lands in rochdale, with his wife joan, by gift of her father, sir baldwin teutonicus, or thies, or de tyas, who was conservator of the peace in lancashire, th edward [ - ]. her first husband was sir robert holland, secretary of thomas, earl of lancaster. their son was sir john de byron, knight, lord of clayton, who was one of the witnesses to the charter granted to the burgesses of manchester, by thomas grelle, lord of that manor, in . the two first witnesses to that document were "sirs john byron, richard byron, knights." these were father and son. sir john married alice, cousin and heir of robert bonastre, of hindley, in this county. their son, sir richard, lord of cadenay and clifton, had grant of free warren in his demesne lands in clayton, butterworth, and royton, on the th june, ; he served in parliament for lincolnshire, and died before st edward iii. [ - ]. his son was sir james de byron, who died before th edward iii. [ - ]. his son and heir was sir john de byron, who was knighted by edward iii. at the siege of calais [ - ], and dying without issue, was succeeded by his brother, sir richard, before th richard ii. [ - ]. sir richard died in , and was succeeded by his son, sir john _le_ byron, who received knighthood before rd henry v. [ - ], and as one of the knights of the shire, th henry vi. [ - ]. he married margery, daughter of john booth, of barton. his eldest son, richard le byron, dying in his father's lifetime, and richard's son, james, dying without issue, the estate passed to richard's brother, sir nicholas, of clayton, who married alice, daughter of sir john boteler, of beausey or bewsey, near warrington. their son and heir was sir john, who was constable of nottingham castle, and sheriff of lancaster, in and . sir john fought in the battle of bosworth field, on the side of henry vii., and was knighted on the field. dying without issue in , he was succeeded by his brother (then ), sir nicholas, sheriff of lancaster, in , who was made knight of the bath in , and died in january, - . this son and heir, sir john byron (the one named in the above document), was steward of the manors of manchester and rochdale, and, on the dissolution of the monasteries, he had a grant of the priory of newstead, th may, . from that time the family made newstead their principal seat, instead of clayton. this will explain, to some extent, the transfer of clayton, in , from this same sir john byron to john arderon or arderne. either this sir john or his son, of the same name, in the year , inclosed acres of land on beurdsell moor, near rochdale. his three eldest sons dying without issue (and we may just note that kuerden preserves a copy of claim, without date, of nicholas, the eldest, to the serjeanty of the king's free court of rochdale, and to have the execution of all attachments and distresses, and all other things which belong to the king's bailiff there), sir john was succeeded by his youngest son, sir john, whom baines states to have been knighted in --probably a transposition of the figures . this sir john, in the th elizabeth [ - ], styles himself "farmer of the manor of rochdale," and makes an annual payment to the crown, being a fee farm rent to the honour of rochdale. in the st charles i. [ - ], the manor of rochdale passed from the byrons; but in it was reconveyed to them; and, though confiscated during the commonwealth, richard, lord byron, held the manor in . sir john's eldest son, sir nicholas, distinguished himself in the wars in the low countries, and at the battle of edgehill ( rd october, ). he was general of cheshire and shropshire. his younger brother, sir john, was made k.b. at the coronation of james i. and a baronet in . owing to the failure of the elder line, this sir john became ancestor of the lords byron. sir nicholas was succeeded by his son, sir john, who was made k.b. at the coronation of charles i.; was appointed by that king lieutenant of the tower, in , contrary to the wish of parliament; commanded the body of reserve at edgehill; and was created lord byron of rochdale, th october, . in consequence of his devotion to the royal cause (for he fought against oliver cromwell at the battle of preston, in august, ), his manor of rochdale was sequestered, and held for several years by sir thomas alcock, who held courts there in , two years after lord byron's death. so great was his lordship's royalist zeal, that he was one of the seven specially exempted from the clemency of the government in the "act of oblivion," passed by parliament on the execution of charles i. dying at paris, in , without issue, he was succeeded by his cousin, richard (son of sir john, the baronet just mentioned), who became second lord byron, and died th october, , aged . he was succeeded by his eldest son, william, who died th november, , and was succeeded by his fourth son, william, who died august th, , and was succeeded by a younger son, william, fifth lord byron, born in november, , killed william chaworth, esq., in a duel, in january, , and died th may, . he was succeeded by his great nephew, george gordon, the poet, sixth lord byron, who was born nd january, , and died at missolonghi, in april, . in , he sold newstead abbey to james dearden, esq., of rochdale; and in the same year, he sold the manor and estate of rochdale to the same gentleman, by whose son and heir they are now possessed. the manorial rights of rochdale are reputed (says baines) to extend over , statute acres of land, with the privileges of court baron and court leet in all the townships of the parish, including that portion of saddleworth which lies within the parish of rochdale; but excepting such districts as robert de lacy gave to the abbots of whalley, with right to inclose the same. the article goes on to say that the manor of rochdale was anciently held by the ellands of elland, and the savilles, and that on the death of sir henry saville, it appears to have merged in the possession of the duchy of lancaster; and queen elizabeth, in right of her duchy possessions, demised that manor to sir john byron, by letters patent, dated may th, th year of her reign ( ), from lady-day, , to the end of thirty-one years. the eye having now satisfied itself with what was notable in and about milnrow, i took my way home, with a mind more at liberty to reflect on what i had seen. the history of lancashire passed in review before me; especially its latest history. i saw the country that was once thick with trees that canopied herds of wild animals, and thinnest of people, now bare of trees, and thickest of population; the land which was of least account of any in the kingdom in the last century, now most sought after; and those rude elements which were looked upon as "the riddlings of creation," more productive of riches than all the sacramento's gold, and ministers to a spirit which is destined to change the social aspect of britain. i saw the spade sinking in old hunting grounds, and old parks now trampled by the fast-increasing press of new feet. the hard cold soil is now made to grow food for man and beast. masses of stone and flag are shaken from their sleep in the beds of the hills, and dragged forth to build mills and houses with. streams which have frolicked and sung in undisturbed limpidity thousands of years, are dammed up, and made to wash and scour, and generate steam. fathoms below the feet of the traveller, the miner is painfully worming his way in labyrinthine tunnels; and the earth is belching coals at a thousand mouths. the region teems with coal, stone, and water, and a people able to subdue them all to their purposes. these elements quietly bide their time, century after century, till the grand plot is ripe, and the mysterious signal given. anon, when a thoughtful barber sets certain wheels spinning, and a contemplative lad takes a fine hint from his mother's tea-kettle, these slumbering powers start into astonishing activity, like an army of warriors roused to battle by the trumpet. cloth is woven for the world, and the world buys it, and wears it. commerce shoots up from a poor pedlar with his pack on a mule, to a giant merchant, stepping from continent to continent, over the ocean, to make his bargains. railways are invented, and the land is ribbed with iron, for iron messengers to run upon, through mountains and over valleys, on business commissions; the very lightning turns errand-boy. a great fusion of thought and sentiment springs up, and old england is in hysterics about its ancient opinions. a new aristocracy rises from the prudent, persevering working-people of the district, and threatens to push the old one from its stool. what is to be the upshot of it all? the senses are stunned by the din of toil, and the view obscured by the dust of bargain-making. but, through an opening in the clouds, hope's stars are shining still in the blue heaven that over-spans us. take heart, ye toiling millions! the spirits of your heroic forefathers are watching to see what sort of england you leave to your sons! the birthplace of tim bobbin. chapter i. a merrier man, within the limits of becoming mirth, i never spent an hour's talk withal: his eye begets occasion for his wit: for every object that the one doth catch, the other turns to a mirth-moving jest: which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor) delivers in such apt and gracious words, that aged ears play truant to his tales. --love's labour lost. there is a quiet tract of country on the eastern border of lancashire, lying in a corner, formed by the junction of the rivers mersey and irwell, and having but little intercourse with those great towns of the county which boil with the industry of these days, a few miles off, to the north and eastward. it is the green selvedge of our toilful district, in that direction; and the winding waters of the mersey lace its meadows, lengthwise, until that river joins the more soiled and sullen irwell, on the northern boundary of the parish. in all the landscape there are no hills to break the view; and, considering the extent of land, trees are but sparsely scattered over it. it is singular, also, that the oak will not flourish in this particular spot; although there are some fine specimens of the other trees common to the english soil. but the country is generally fertile, and prettily undulated in some places; and it is a pleasant scene in hay-time, "when leaves are large and long," and the birds are singing with full-throated gladness in the green shade, while the dewy swathe is falling to the mower's stroke, in the sunlight of a june morning. looking eastward, across the mersey, the park-like plains and rustling woods of cheshire stretch away, in unbroken beauty, as far as the eye can see. indeed, the whole of this secluded tract, upon the lancashire side of the river, may be naturally reckoned part of that fruitful cheshire district which has, not inappropriately, been called "the market-garden of manchester." the parish of flixton occupies nearly the whole of this border nook of lancashire; and the scattered hamlet of urmston, in this parish, lays claim to the honour of being the birthplace of our earliest and most popular native humourist, the celebrated john collier, better known by his self-chosen name of "tim bobbin,"-- a lad whose fame did resound through every village and town around; for fun, for frolic, and for whim. and, certainly, the hamlet of urmston is a spot quite in keeping with all we know of the general character, and all we can imagine of the earliest training of a man who owed so much to nature, and who described the manners of the country folk of his day with such living truth, enriched with the quaint tinge of a humorous genius, which was his, and his only. fortune, and his own liking, seem to have made him a constant dweller in the country. he was, by fits, fond of social company, and business led him into towns, occasionally; but whenever he visited towns, he seems to have always turned again towards the chimney-corner of his country home with an undying love, which fairly glows in every allusion he makes to his dwelling-place at the village of milnrow, and even to the honest, uncouth hinds, who were his neighbours there; and whose portraits he has drawn for us, so inimitably, in his celebrated story of "tummus and mary." he was "a fellow of infinite jest; of most excellent fancy." may his soul rest "in the bosom of good old abraham!" here, then, in green urmston, john collier is said to have been born; and the almost unrecorded days of his childhood were passed here. even now, the scattered dwellers of the place are mostly employed in agriculture, and their language and customs savour more of three centuries ago than those which we are used to in manufacturing towns. from the cottage homes, and old-fashioned farmhouses, which are dropped over the landscape, like birds' nests, "each in its nook of leaves," generation after generation has come forth to wander through the same grass-grown byeways, and brambly old lanes; to weave the same chequered web of simple joys and sorrows, and cares and toils; and to lie down at last in the same old churchyard, where the "rude forefathers of the hamlet" are sleeping together so quietly. it is a country well worth visiting by any lover of nature, for its own sake. its natural features, however, are those common to english rural scenery in districts where there are no great elevations, nor anything like thick woodlands; and though such scenery is always pleasing to my mind, it was not on account of its natural charms, nor to see its ancient halls, with the interesting associations of past generations playing about them; nor the ivied porches of its picturesque farmhouses; nor to peep through the flower-shaded lattices of its cottage nests; nor even to scrape acquaintance with the old-fashioned people who live in them, that i first wandered out to flixton; though there is more than one quaint soul down there that i would rather spend an hour with than with any two fiddlers in the county. particularly "owd rondle," the market-gardener, who used to tell me the richest country tales imaginable. he had a dog, which "wur never quiet, but when it wur feightin." he was a man of cheerful temper, and clear judgment, mingled with a warm undercurrent of chuckling humour, which thawed away stiff manners in an instant. the last time i saw him, a friend of his was complaining of the gloom of the times, and saying that he thought england's sun had set. "set;" said rondle, "not it! but iv it wur set, we'd get a devilish good moon up! dunnut be so ready to mout yor fithers afore th' time comes. noather me nor england mun last for ever. but owd englan's yung yet, for oather peace or war, though quietness is th' best, an' th' chepest; if they'n let us be quiet, on a daycent fuuting. so, keep yor heart up; for th' shell shall be brokken; an' th' chicken shall come forth; an' it shall be a cock-chicken; an' a feighter, with a single kom!" but "rondle" was not always in this humour. he could doff his cap and bells at will; and liked, what he called, "sarviceable talk," when any really serious matter was afoot. yet, it was not to see curious "old rondle" that i first went down to flixton. the district is so far out of the common "trod," as lancashire people say, that i doubt whether i should ever have rambled far in that direction if it had not been for the oft-repeated assertion that urmston, in flixton, was the birthplace of john collier. and it was a desire to see the reputed place of his nativity, and to verify the fact, as far as i could, on the spot--since the honour has been claimed by more than one other place in lancashire--that first led me out there. in my next chapter, gentle reader, if thou art minded so far to do me pleasure, we will ramble down that way together: and, i doubt not, that in the course of our journey thou wilt hear or see something or other which may haply repay thee for the trouble of going so far out of thy way with me. chapter ii. by the crackling fire, we'll hold our little snug, domestic court, plying the work with song and tale between. it was on a cold forenoon, early in the month of april, that i set off to see urmston, in flixton. the sky was gloomy, and the air chill; but the cold was bracing, and the time convenient, so i went towards oxford road station in a cheerful temper. stretford is the nearest point on the line, and i took my ticket to that village. we left the huge manufactories, and the miserable chimney tops of "little ireland," down by the dirty medlock; we ran over a web of dingy streets, swarming with dingy people; we flitted by the end of deansgate (the ratcliffe highway of manchester), and over the top of knott mill, the site of the roman station,--now covered with warehouses and other buildings connected with the bridgewater trust; we left the black, stagnant canal, coiled in the hollow, and stretching its dark length into the distance, like a slimy snake. we cleared the cotton mills, and dyeworks, and chemical manufactories of cornbrook. pomona gardens, too, we left behind, with the irregular carpentry of its great picture sticking up raggedly in the dun air, like the charred relics of a burnt woodyard. these all passed in swift panorama, and the train stopped at old trafford, the site of the "art exhibition," just closed. three years ago the inhabitants did not dream that this was to be the gathering-place of the grandest collection of works of art the world ever saw, and the scene of more bustle and pomp than was ever known on any spot in the north of england, before. the building was up, but not opened, and as we went by we had a good view of the shapeless mass, and of many curious people tooting about the enclosure to see what was going on. old trafford takes its name from the trafford family, or rather, i believe, gives its name to that family, whose ancient dwelling, old trafford hall, stands in part of its once extensive gardens, near the railway. baines says of this family, "the traffords were settled here (at trafford) at a period anterior to the norman conquest, and ancient documents in possession of the family show that their property has descended to the present representative, not only by an uninterrupted line of male heirs, but without alienation, during the mutations in national faith, and the violence in civil commotions. henry, the great-grandson of ranulphus de trafford, who resided at trafford in the reign of canute and edward the confessor, received lands from helias de pendlebury; in chorlton, from gospatrick de chorlton; and in stretford, from hamo, the third baron of that name, of dunham massie; and from pain of ecborn (ashburn) he had the whole of the lordship of stretford." the whole of stretford belongs to the traffords still. "in the reign of henry vi. sir edmund trafford, of trafford, assisted at the coronation of the king, and received the honour of knight of the bath on that occasion." a certain poet says truly-- though much the centuries take, and much bestow, most through them all immutable remains; but the mind sets out upon a curious journey when it starts from modern manchester, with its industrialism and its political unions, its hearty workers and its wealthy traders, its charities and its poverties, its mechanics' institutions and its ignorance, its religions and its sins, and travels through the successive growths of change which have come over the life of man since the days of canute (when manchester must have been a rude little woodland town), speculating as it goes as to what is virtually changed, and what remains the same through the long lapse of time, linking the "then" and "there," with "now" and "here." but we are now fairly in the country, and the early grass is peeping out of the ground, making all the landscape look sweetly green. in a few minutes the whole distance had been run, and i heard the cry, "out here for stretford!" leaving the station, i went to the top of the railway bridge, which carries the high road over the line. from that elevation i looked about me. it commands a good view of the village hard by, and of the country for miles around. this great tract of meadows, gardens, and pasture land, was once a thick woodland, famous, in the withington district, for its fine oak trees. in flixton the oak was never found, except of stunted growth. a few miles to westward, the parks of dunham and tatton show how grand the old growth of native trees must have been on the cheshire border; and in the north-east, the woods of trafford make a dark shadow on the scene. and here at hand is the old village of stretford, the property of the traffords of trafford; whose arms give name to the principal inn of the village, as well as to one or two others on the road from manchester. the man in motley, with a flail in his hand, and the mottos, "now, thus;" "gripe griffin; hold fast!" greet the traveller with a kind of grim historic salutation as he goes by. these are household phrases with the inhabitants, many of whom are descendants of the ancient tenantry of the family. quiet stretford! close to the cheshire border; the first rural village after leaving that great machine-shop called manchester. depart from that city in almost any other direction, and you come upon a quick succession of the same manufacturing features you have left behind, divided, of course, by many a beautiful nook of country green. but somehow, though a man may feel proud of these industrial triumphs, yet, if he has a natural love of the country, he breathes all the more freely when he comes out in this direction, from the knowledge that he is entering upon a country of unmixed rural quietness and beauty, and that the tremendous bustle of manufacture is entirely behind him for the time. stretford is an agricultural village, but there is a kind of manufacture which it excels in. ormskirk is famous for its gingerbread; bury for its "simblins," or "simnels;" eccles for those spicy cakes, which "owd chum"--the delight of every country fair in these parts--used to sell at the "rushbearings" of lancashire; but the mission of stretford is black puddings. and, certainly, a stretford black pudding would not be despised even by a famishing israelite, if he happened to value a dinner more than the ancient faith of his fathers. fruit, flowers, green market-stuff, black puddings, and swine's flesh in general--these are the pride of the village. roast pork, stuffed in a certain savoury way, is a favourite dish here. the village folks call it the "stretford goose;" and it is not a bad substitute for that pleasant bird, as i found. stretford is nearly all in one street, by the side of the highway going into cheshire. it has grown very much in late years, but enow of its old features remain to give the place a quaint tone, and to show what it was fifty years ago, before manchester merchants began to build mansions in the neighbourhood, and manchester tradesmen began to go out there to lodge. there was once an old church in stretford, of very simple architecture, built and endowed by the trafford family. nothing of it now remains but the graveyard, which is carefully enclosed. i looked through the rails into this weedy sanctuary of human decay. it had a still, neglected look. "the poor inhabitants below" had been gathering together there a long while, and their memories now floating down the stream of time, far away from the sympathies of the living, except in that honourable reverence for the dead, which had here enclosed their dust from unfeeling intrusion. it was useless for me to wonder who they were that lay there; how long they had been mouldering in company, or what manner of life they had led. their simple annals had faded, or were fading away. the wind was playing with the grave-grass; the village life of stretford was going on as blithe as ever round this quiet enclosure, and i walked forward. even such is time-- who in the dark and silent grave, when we have wandered all our ways, shuts up the story of our days. the "curfew" has "tolled the knell of parting day" over the woods and fields around this village ever since the time of william the conqueror. i had agreed to call upon a friend of mine here before going down to flixton, so i walked a little way farther down the village, and then turning through a certain orchard, as directed, i came into a green lane beyond. there stood the house, on the opposite side of the lane, at the top of a gentle slope of garden, shaded with evergreens, among which rose up one remarkably fine variegated holly. the hedgerows were trim, and the cottage on the knoll, with its bright windows "winking through their screen of leaves," looked very sweet, still, and nest-like. and then the little garden-- a garden faire, and in the corner set ane harbour grene, with wandis long and small railit about, and so with treis set was all the place, and hawthorn hegeis knet, that lyf was non walking there forbye, that might within scarce ony wight aspye. i stood still a minute, for the place was pleasant to look upon, and then opening the gate, and starting the birds from every bush, went up through the little garden. i met with a hearty welcome, and mine host and myself soon had the snug tree-shaded parlour to ourselves. i was at home in a minute; but, as we chatted about the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls, there came from somewhere in the house an aroma that "made my teeth shoot water." i was talking of books, but in my mind i was wondering what it was that sent forth such a goodly smell; for i was hungry. my friend either divined my thoughts, or else he was secretly affected in the same way, for he said, "we are going to have a 'stretford goose' to-day." now, i was curious, and the smell was fine, and my appetite keen, and i was fain when the goose and its trimmings came in. when we fell to, i certainly was the hero of the attack, and the goose came down before our combined forces like a waste-warehouse in flames. it was a wholesome, bountiful english meal, "wi' no fancy wark abeawt it;" and since that april noontide i have always felt an inward respect for a "stretford goose." when dinner was fairly over, i lost no time in starting for flixton, which was only three miles off; with what some people call "a good road" to it. and it certainly is better than those terrible old roads of north lancashire, of which arthur young writes with such graphic ferocity. "reader," says he, "did'st thou ever go from wigan to preston? if not; don't. go to the devil rather; for nothing can be so infernal as that road is." the hedges by the wayside were covered with little buds. the murky clouds had left the sky, and the day was fine. there was a wintry nip in the air, which was pleasant enough to me; but it gave the young grass and the thorn-buds a shrinking look, as if they had come out too soon to be comfortable. the ground was soft under foot, and i had to pick my way through the "slutch" now and then. there had been long and heavy rains, and i could see gleaming sheets of water left on the low-lying meadow lands on the cheshire side of the river. but i was in no humour for grumbling, for the country was new to me, and i looked around with pleasure, though the land was rather bare and shrivelled,--like a fowl in the moult,--for it had hardly got rid of winter's bleakness, and had not fairly donned the new suit of spring green. but the birds seemed satisfied, for they chirruped blythely among the wind-beaten thorns, and hopped and played from bough to bough in the scant-leaved trees. if these feathered tremblers had weathered the hard winter, by the kindness of providence, and amidst this lingering chill, could hail the drawing near of spring with such glad content, why should i repine? by the way, that phrase, "the drawing near of spring," reminds me of the burden of an ancient may song, peculiar to the people of this district. in the villages hereabouts, they have an old custom of singing in the month of may; and companies of musicians and "may-singers" go from house to house among their neighbours, on april nights, to sing under their chamber windows this old song about "the drawing near unto the merry month of may." an old man, known in stretford as a "may-singer," an "herb-gatherer," and a "yule-singer," who gets a scanty living out of the customs of each season of the year as it comes, furnished me with a rough copy of the words and music of this old "may song." in one verse of the song, each member of the sleeping family is addressed by name in succession,-- then rise up, sarah brundrit, all in your gown of green; and as each appears at the window, they are saluted with a "merry may." since the time of my visit i have been enabled, through the kindness of john harland, esq., f.s.a., to give this old may song, in complete shape, as it appears in his first volume of "lancashire ballads," recently published by mr. edwin slater, of manchester:-- all in this pleasant evening together come are we, for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; we'll tell you of a blossom that buds on every tree, drawing near unto the merry month of may. rise up the master of this house, put on your chain of gold, for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; we hope you're not offended, (with) your house we make so bold, drawing near unto the merry month of may. rise up the mistress of this house, with gold along (upon) your breast, for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; and if your body be asleep, i hope your soul's at rest, drawing near unto the merry month of may. rise up the children of this house, all in your rich attire for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; for every hair upon your head shines like the silver wire, drawing near unto the merry month of may. god bless this house and harbour, your riches and your store, for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; we hope the lord will prosper you, both now and evermore, drawing near unto the merry month of may. so now we're going to leave you in peace and plenty here, for the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay; we shall not sing you may again until another year,-- for to draw you the cold winter away. about a mile on the road, i came to a green dingle, called "gamershaw." a large brick dwelling-house now occupies the spot; which was formerly shaded by spreading trees,--a flaysome nook, of which the country folk were afraid at night-time, as the haunt of a goblin, called "gamershaw boggart." every rustle of the trees at gamershaw was big with terror to them half a century ago. even now, when "gamershaw boggart" has hardly a leaf to shelter its old haunt, the place is fearful after dark, to the superstitious people of flixton parish. and yet there seems to be some change working in this respect, for when i asked a villager whether "gamershaw boggart" was ever seen now, he said, "naw; we never see'n no boggarts neaw; nobbut when th' brade-fleigh's (bread-rack) empty!" chapter iii. i there wi' something did forgather, that put me in an eerie swither. --burns. leaving "gamershaw," i "sceawrt eendway," as collier says. here i had the advantage of an intelligent companion, with a rich store of local anecdote in him. he was not a man inclined to superstition: but he said he once had an adventure at this spot, which startled him. walking by "gamershaw," on a pitch-dark night, and thinking of anything but boggarts, he heard something in the black gloom behind, following his footsteps with a soft, unearthly trot, accompanied by an unmistakable rattle of chains. he stopt. it stopt. he went on; and the fearful sounds dogged him again, with malignant regularity. "gamershaw boggart, after all, and no mistake," thought he: and in spite of all reason, a cold sweat began to come over him. just then the goblin made a fiendish dash by, and went helter-skelter down the middle of the road, trailing the horrible clang of chains behind it, with infernal glee; and then dived into the midnight beyond. to his relief, however, he bethought him that it was a large dog belonging to a farmer in the neighbourhood. the dog had got loose, and was thus making night hideous by unconsciously personifying "gamershaw boggart." and now my companion and i whiled away the time from gamershaw with a pleasant interchange of country anecdote. i have just room for one, which i remember hearing in some of my rambles among the moorland folk of my native district. it is a story of a poor hand-loom weaver, called "thrum," trying to sell his dog "snap" to a moorland farmer. i have put it in the form of a dialogue, that it may be the more understandable to the general reader. it runs thus:-- _thrum._ maister, dun yo want a nice bull-an-tarrier? _farmer._ a what? _thrum._ a bull-an-tarrier dog, wi' feet as white as snow! brass wouldn't ha' parted me an' that dog, iv there hadn't bin sich ill deed for weyvers just neaw,--it wouldn't, for sure. for aw'd taen to th' dog, an' the dog had taen to me, very mich, for o' at it had nobbut thin pikein' sometimes. but poverty parts good friends neaw and then, maister. _farmer._ a bull-an-tarrier, saysto? _thrum._ ay; an' th' smartest o'th breed at ever ran at a mon's heels! it's brother to that dog o' lolloper's, at stoole a shoolder o' mutton, an' ran up a soof with it. _farmer._ ay; is it one o' that family? _thrum._ it is for sure. they're prime steylers, o' on em. _farmer._ has it a nick under its nose? _thrum._ a nick,--naw it hasn't.... houd; what mak ov a nick dun yo meeon? _farmer._ has it a meawth? _thrum._ ay; it's a grand meawth; an' a rook o'th prattiest teeth at ever wur pegged into a pair o' choles! a sharper, seawnder set o' dog-teeth never snapt at a ratton! then, look at it e'en; they're as breet as th' north star, ov a frosty neet! an' feel at it nose; it's as cowd as iccles! that dog's some sarviceable yelth (health) abeawt it, maister. _farmer._ aw'll tell tho what,--it looks hungry. _thrum._ hungry! it's olez hungry! an' it'll heyt aught i'th world, fro a collop to a dur latch.... oh, ay; it's reet enough for that. _farmer._ well, owd mon; aw've nought again thi dog, but that nick under it nose. to tell tho th' treawth, we may'n meawths here faster nor we may'n mheyt. look at yon woman! aw would e'en ha' tho to tay thi dog wheer they're noan as thick upo th' clod as here. _thrum._ oh, aw see.... well, eawr matty's just the very same; nobbut her nose has rayther a sharper poynt to't nor yor wife's.... yo see'n aw thought it wur time to sell th' dog, when aw had to ax owd thunge to lend mo a bite ov his moufin whol aw'd deawn't my piece. but aw'll go fur on. so good day to yo.... come, snap, owd lad; aw'll find thee a good shop, or else aw'll sweat. chatting about such things as these, we came up to a plain whitewashed hall-house, standing a little off the road, called "newcroft." this was pointed out to me as the residence of a gentleman related to the famous "whitworth doctors." the place looked neat and homely, and had orderly grounds and gardens about, but there was nothing remarkable in its general appearance which would have stopt me, but for the interesting fact just mentioned. it brought to my mind many a racy story connected with that worthy old family of country doctors, and their quaint independent way of life in the little moorland village of whitworth, near "fairies chapel," the scene of one of those "lancashire traditions" which mr. john roby wrote about. i found afterwards that this "newcroft" was, in old time, the homestead of the great cheshire family of warburton, of which family r. e. e. warburton, esq., of arley hall, is the present representative. i understand that the foundations of the old hall are incorporated with the present building. there are very few trees about the place now; and these afford neither shade to the house nor much ornament to the scene. the name of warburton is still common about here, both among the living, and on the gravestones of flixton churchyard. the saying, "aw'll tear tho limb fro warbu'ton," is common all over lancashire as well as cheshire. one side of its meaning is evident enough, but its allusions used to puzzle me. i find that it has its origin in the curiously-involved relations of the two cheshire rectories of lymm and warburton, and in some futile effort which was once made to separate them. written this way, "i'll tear tho limb (lymm) fro warbu'ton (warburton)," the saying explains itself better. there is a ballad in dr. latham's work on "the english language," in which the present "squire ov arley ha'" is mentioned in a characteristic way. it is given in that work as a specimen of the cheshire dialect. it certainly is the raciest modern ballad of its kind that i know of. the breeze of nature has played in the heart of the writer, whoever he be. its allusions and language have so much affinity with the lancashire side of the water, that i think the reader will forgive me for introducing it, that he may judge of it for himself. the title is "farmer dobbin; or, a day wi' the cheshire fox dogs." here it is; and i fancy that a man with any blood in his body will hunt as he reads it:-- theer's slutch upo thi coat, mon, theer's blood upo thi chin, it's welly toim for milkin, now where ever 'ast ee bin; oiv bin to see the gentlefolks o' cheshire roid a run, owd wench! oiv bin a hunting, an oiv seen some rattling fun. th' owd mare was in the smithy when the huntsman he trots through, black bill agate o' 'ammerin the last nail in her shoe: the cuvver laid so wheam like, and so jovial fine the day, says i, "owd mare, we'll tak a fling, an' see 'em go away." when up, and oi'd got shut ov aw the hackney pads an' traps, orse dealers and orse jockey lads, and such loike swaggering chaps, then what a power o' gentlefolk did oi set eyes upon! a-reining in their hunters, aw blood orses every one! they'd aw got bookskin leathers on, a fitten 'em so toight, as roind an plump as turmits be, an just about as whoite: their spurs were made o' silver, and their buttons made o' brass, their coats wur red as carrots, an their collars green as grass. a varment looking gemman on a woiry tit i seed, an' another close beside him sittin noble on his steed; they ca' them both owd codgers, but as fresh as paint they look, john glegg, esquoir, o' withington, an bowd sir richard brooke. i seed squoir geffrey shakerly, the best un o' that breed, his smoiling face tould plainly how the sport wi' him agreed; i seed the arl o' grosvenor, a loikely lad to roid, aw seed a soight worth aw the rest, his farrently young broid. sir umferry de trafford, an the squoir ov arley haw his pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw; two members for the cointy, both aloike ca'd egerton, squoir henry brooks and tummus brooks, they'd aw green collars on. eh! what a mon be dixon john, ov astle haw, esquoir, you wudna foind, an mezzur him, his marrow in the shoir! squoir wilbraham o' the forest, death and danger he defois when his coat he toightly buttened up, an shut up both his oies. the honerable lazzles, who from forrin parts be cum, an a chip of owd lord delamere, the honerable tum; squoir fox an booth and worthington, squoir massey an squoir harne, and many more big sportsmen, but their names i didna larn. i seed that greet commander in the saddle, captain whoite, an the pack as thrung'd about him was indeed a gradely soight; the dogs look'd foine as satin, an himsel look'd hard as nails, an' he giv the swells a caution not to roid upo their tails. says he, "yung men o' manchester an liverpoo cum near, oiv just a word, a warning word, to whisper in your ear; when, starting from the cuvver soide, ye see bowd reynard burst, we canna 'ave no 'untin, if the gemmen go it first." tom rance has got a single oie worth many another's two, he held his cap abuv his yed to show he'd had a view; tom's voice was loik th' owd raven's when he shriek'd out "tallyho!" for when the fox had seen tom's feace he thought it time to go. eh moy! a pratty jingle then went ringing through the skoy, first victory, then villager began the merry croy; then every maith was open, from the owd 'un to the pup, an' aw the pack together took the swelling chorus up. eh moy! a pratty scouver then was kick'd up in the vale, they skimm'd across the running brook, they topp'd the post an' rail, they didna stop for razzur cop, but play'd at touch and go, an' them as miss'd a footin there, lay doubled up below. i seed the 'ounds a crossing farmer flareup's boundary loin, whose daughter plays the peany and drinks whoit sherry woin: gowd rings upon her fingers, and silk stockings on her feet; says i, "it won't do him no harm to roid across his wheat." so, toightly houdin on by th' yed, i hits th' owd mare a whop, hoo plumps into the middle o' the wheatfield neck and crop; an when hoo floinder'd out on it i catch'd another spin, an, missis, that's the cagion o' the blood upo my chin. i never oss'd another lep, but kept the lane, and then in twenty minutes' toime about they turn'd toart me again; the fox was foinly daggled, and the tits aw out o' breath, when they kilt him in the open, an owd dobbin seed the death. loik dangling of a babby, then the huntsman hove him up, the dugs a-baying round him, whoil the gemman croid, "whoo-up:" then clane and quick, as doosome cauves lick fleetings from the pail, they worried every inch on 'im except his yed and tail. what's up wi' them rich gentlefolk an lords as wasna there? there was noither marquis chumley, nor the viscount combermere; noither legh, nor france o' bostock, nor the squoir o' peckforton, how cums it they can stop awhoam, such sport a goin on? now, missus, sin the markets be a doin moderate well, oiv welly made my mind up just to buy a nag mysel; for to keep a farmer's spirits up gen things be gettin low, theer's nothin loik fox-hunting and a rattling "tallyho!" i think the reader will agree with me in saying that this characteristic song has much of the old expressive ballad simplicity and vigour about it. the county of cheshire is rich in local song; and r. e. e. warburton, esq., mentioned in these verses as "the squoir of arley haw"-- his pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw-- is the author of several fine hunting songs, in the dialect of that county; he is also the editor of a valuable and interesting volume of "cheshire songs." chapter iv. in sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall: my best companions now the driving winds, and now the "trotting brooks" and whispering trees, and now the music of my own sad steps, with many a short-lived thought that passed between, and disappeared. --wordsworth. a short walk from "newcroft" brought me to a dip in the highway, at a spot where four roads meet in the hollow, a "four-lone-eends," as country folk call it. such places had an awful interest for the simple hinds of lancashire in old times; and, in remote parts of the county, the same feeling is strong yet with regard to them. in ancient days, robbers, and other malefactors, were sometimes buried at the ends of four cross roads, unhallowed by "bell, book, or candle." the old superstitions of the people, cherished by their manner of life, dwelling, as they did, in little seclusions, scattered over the country around, made these the meeting-places of witches, and all sorts of unholy things, of a weird nature. it is a common belief now, among the natives of the hills and solitary cloughs of lancashire, that the best way of laying a ghost, or quieting any unearthly spirit whose restlessness troubles their lonely lives, is to sacrifice a cock to the goblin, and, with certain curious ceremonies, to bury the same deep in the earth at a "four-lone-eends," firmly pinned to the ground by a hedge-stake, driven through its body. the coldly-learned, "lost in a gloom of uninspired research," may sneer at these rustic superstitions; yet, surely, he was wiser who said that he would rather decline to the "traditionary sympathies of unlettered ignorance," than constantly see and hear the repetitions wearisome of sense, where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place; where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark on outward things, in formal inference ends near this place stands the handsome mansion of j. t. hibbert, esq., the president of the mutual improvement society at stretford, and a general benefactor to the neighbourhood in which he resides. he seems to have awakened that locality to the spirit of modern improvement, and is making what was, comparatively, a desert nook before, now gradually smile around him. the people thereabouts say that "it wur quite a lost place afore he coom." we are now in the township of urmston, though not in the exact spot where "tim bobbin" was born. as i stood in the hollow, looking round at the little cluster of dwellings, my friend pointed to a large, sleepy-looking old brick house, with a slip of greensward peeping through the paling in front, as the dwelling of william shore, esq., an eminent local musician, the author of that beautiful glee-arrangement of the music to burns's matchless carousal song, "willie brewed a peck o' maut," so much admired by all lovers of the concord of sweet sounds. and, certainly, if the musician had never done anything more than that exquisite gem of harmony, it would have added an interest to his dwelling-place. who, that loved music, could go by such a spot without noticing it? not i; for, as wordsworth says of the pedlar who sometimes accompanied him in his mountain rambles, so, partly, may i say-- not a hamlet could we pass, rarely a house, that did not yield to him remembrances. and yet i have a misgiving that the reader thinks i am lingering too tediously on the way; but, really, wherever one goes in england, apart from the natural beauty of the country, he finds the ground rich as "three-pile velvet" in all sorts of interesting things. it is a curiously-illuminated miscellany of the finest kind; and, in spite of all it has gone through, thank heaven, it is neither moth-eaten nor mildewed, nor in any way weakened by age. its history is written all over the land in rich memorials, with a picturesque freshness which he that runs may read, if he only have feeling and thought to accompany him about the island, as he wades through the harvest of its historic annals, strewn with flowers of old romance, and tale, and hoary legend, and dewy with gems of native song. quitting the hamlet, we passed a mansion, half hidden by a brick wall, and thinly shaded by trees; a few straggling cottages; a neat little village school came next; one or two substantial english granges, surrounded by large outhouses, and clean, spacious yards, with glittering windows adorned with flowers, and a general air of comfort and repose about them; and then the hamlet dribbled away with a few more cottages, and we were in the open country, upon the high level land; from whence we could look westward over the fields, below which "the cheshire waters," to their resting-place serene, came fresh'ning and refreshing all the scene. in the recently published "history of preston and its environs," by mr. charles hardwick, the author of that admirable volume enters into an ingenious dissertation upon the derivation of the name of this river, and after suggesting that its name may be derived from "mere" and "sea," or sea-lake, says, "south of manchester, at this day, the river is not known by many of the peasantry as the mersey. it is called by them the 'cheshire waters.' the modern name appears to have been derived from the estuary, and not from the fresh-water stream." mr. hardwick's remark is equally true of the people dwelling here by that river, on the eastern side of manchester. a few fields divide the high road from the water, and then slope down to its margin. from the road we could see the low, fertile expanse of cheshire meadows and woods spread away to the edge of the horizon in one beautiful green level. when the river was swollen by long rains, the nearer part of the cheshire side used to present the appearance of a great lake, before the embankment was thrown up to protect the fields from inundation. in past times, that rich tract must have been a vast marsh. but yonder stands urmston hall, upon a green bank, overlooking the river. as i drew nearer the building, i was more and more struck with its picturesque appearance, as seen from the high road, which goes by it, at about a hundred yards' distance. it is a fine specimen of the wood-and-plaster hall, once common in lancashire, of which hulme hall was an older, and perhaps the richest example, so near manchester. urmston hall is "of the age of elizabeth, adorned by a gable, painted in lozenges and trefoils." baines says, "according to seacombe, sir thomas lathom possessed the manor of urmston, in this parish (flixton), and at his death, i edward iii., he settled upon his natural son, sir oscatel, and his heirs, the manors of irlam and urmston, about the time when the stanleys, whose heir had married lady elizabeth lathom, assumed the crest of the eagle and child." he says further, "that according to other and higher authorities, the lands and lordship of urmston have been the property of the urmstons and hydes in succession, from the time of king john to the seventeenth century; and that the urmstons resided at urmston hall until they removed to westleigh, and were succeeded by the hydes." the spacious carriage road still preserves its old proportion, though now rutted by the farmers' carts belonging to the present occupants of the place. a few tall relics of the fine trees which once surrounded the hall are still standing about, like faithful domestics clinging to the fallen fortunes of an ancient master. and now, i begin to think of the special errand which has brought me to the place. there stands the old hall; and yonder is a row of four or five raw-looking, new brick cottages, such as one sees spring up at the edges of great factory towns, by whole streets at once, almost in a night--like jonah's gourd. they hold nothing--they cost nothing--they are made out of nothing--they look nothing--and they come to nothing--as a satirical friend of mine says, who is satisfied with nothing. if it were not that one knows how very indifferently the common people were housed in those old days when the hall was in its glory, it really is enough to make one dissatisfied with the whole thing. with the exception of the hall and these cottages, the green country spreads out all around for some distance. when we came up to the row, my friend said that the endmost house stood on the spot, three years ago occupied by the old wood-and-plaster building in which "tim bobbin" was born, and in which his father, john collier the elder, taught the children of flixton parish, gathered from the rural folds in the distance. the house was gone, but, nevertheless, i must make what research i could, and to that end i referred to my note-book, and found that baines says: "in a small house, opposite (urmston hall), bearing the name of 'richard o' jone's, was born john collier, the renowned 'tim bobbin,' the provincial satirist of lancashire, as appears from the following document:--'baptisms in the parish church of flixton in the year --john, son of mr. john collier, of urmston, baptised january the th.[ ]--i hereby certify this to be a true extract of the parish register book at flixton, as witness my hand, this th november, .--(signed) thomas harper, parish clerk.'" this was all clear and straightforward so far as it went, but i wanted to prove the thing for myself, as far as possible, on the spot. i thought it best to begin by inquiring at the nearest of these cottages, opposite urmston hall. inside i heard the dismal rattle of hand-looms at work, and through the window i could see the web and the wooden beams of the machine, and a pale gingham weaver, swaying back and forward as he threw his shuttle to and fro. the door, which led into the other part of the cottage, was open, and a middle-aged woman, with a thin, patient face, was spinning there, on the wooden wheel still used in country places. this was the first indication i had noticed of any part of the population being employed in manufacture. i went to the open door, and asked the woman if this was not the spot where "tim bobbin" was born, expecting a ready and enthusiastic affirmative. she gazed at me for an instant, with a kind of vague curiosity; and, to my astonishment, said she really couldn't tell. she hardly seemed to know who "tim bobbin" was. poor as the inmates were, everything inside spoke of industry and cleanliness, and simple, honest living. she called her husband from his looms, in the other part of the cottage; but his answer was nearly the same, except that he referred me to a person in the neighbourhood, who was formerly master of the school kept in this old house, called "richard o' jone's." i turned and left the spot with a feeling of disappointment, but with a stronger desire to know whether anything was known about the matter among the inhabitants of the locality. to this end, i and my friend rambled on towards flixton, inquiring of high and low, and still nobody knew anything definite about it, though there was a general impression among them that he was born at the old cottage formerly standing opposite urmston hall; but they perpetually finished by referring to "jockey johnson," "owd cottrill, th' pavor," "owd white-yed, th' saxton," and the parish schoolmaster before-mentioned. the parish clerk, too, might know something, they said. and here, as we wandered about in this way, a tall gentleman, a little past the middle age, dressed in black, came quietly up the road. my friend, to whom he was known, at once introduced me to the rev. mr. gregory, the incumbent of flixton, and told him my errand. the incumbent kindly invited me to look through the parish register, at his house, the first convenient afternoon i had to spare; which i did very soon after. setting aside "jockey johnson," and "owd cottrill, th' pavor," and the other authorities of the hamlet so oft referred to, till a better opportunity, i thought that the schoolmaster, being a native man, and having lived long in the very house where "tim" is said to have been born, would probably feel some pride in his celebrated predecessor, and, perhaps, be a willing conservator of any tradition existing in the hamlet respecting him. his house was a little more than a mile off; and i started along the high road back to a point from whence an old lane leads out, eastward, to the schoolmaster's solitary cottage in the distant fields. [ ] this date is according to the 'old style,' which was then in use. chapter v. in that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind. --wordsworth. leaving the high-road at the place i had been told of, i went up an old lane, which soon led between a little fold of cottages. the first of these were old rude buildings of stone, with the roofs fallen in, and seemingly abandoned to decay. the others were of more modern appearance, and partly tenanted by hand-loom weavers. through the open doors of one or two i saw that cheerful twinkle of humble comfort, which is, perhaps, more delightful to meet with in such lowly nooks than in prouder quarters; because it shows how much happiness may be drawn out of little means, by wholesome minds. if the doors had been closed, i could have guessed at the condition of the interior by the clean door-step and windows, and by the healthy pot-flowers peeping prettily through the panes. folk who can make such places beautiful by simple cleanliness and native taste, are the unlettered gentry of nature, more blest in their low estate than they can understand, when they compare it with the glitter of the fuming world in the distance. like the lark's nest, though near the ground, their homes are neat and sweet, out of humble materials, and blithe with the neighbourhood of nature. some of these cottages were of duller aspect, though there was nothing of that dirty sickliness about them which is so common in the back quarters of city life. but i have noticed that, even in the lowest parts of great towns, now and then there comes a cottage all cleanliness and order, a sweet little household oasis amidst the wilderness of filth around; shining in the gloom, "like a good deed in a naughty world." when i came to the end of the fold, i found that the lane went forward in two directions; one right into the open green country, where i could see no dwellings at hand, the other winding back towards the village which i had left behind me, at the high-road side. an old woman was looking from the cottage door at the corner, and i asked her the way to the schoolmaster's house. country folk are not always known in lancashire by their real name, even on their own ground, and she had to consult somebody inside about the matter. in a minute or so, a voice from the cottage called out, "does he belung to th' owd body, thinken yo?"--meaning the old body of wesleyan methodists. i said that i thought he did. "oh, ay," replied the voice, "it'll be william, sure enough.... yo mun go reet forrud up th' lone afore yo, till yo come'n to a heawse i'th fields,--an' that'll be it. it stons a bit off th' lone-side.... yo'n ha' to pike yor gate, mind yo; for its nobbut a mak o' durty under-fuut." on i went, between the hedge-rows, slipping and stepping from pool to pool, down the miry cow-lane, for nearly half a mile, slutching myself up to the collar as i went; and there, about a stone's throw from the way-side, i saw the schoolmaster's low-built cottage standing in a bit of sweet garden in the middle of the wide green fields. entering by a tiny wooden gate at the back, i went along a narrow garden walk, between little piles of rockery, and rows of shells, which ornamented the beds, till i came winding up to the door in front; which was shaded, if i remember right, by some kind of simple trellis-work. the wind was now still--everything was still, but the cheerful birds fluttering about, and filling the evening silence with their little melodies. the garden and the cottage looked sweet, and sleepily-beautiful. the windows blazed in the sunset, which was flooding all the level landscape with its departing splendour. i heard no stir inside, but knocking at the door, it was opened by a quiet middle-aged man, who asked me in. this was the schoolmaster himself; and, by the fireside sat a taller, older man; who was his brother. the only other inmate was a staid, elderly woman; whose dress, and mild countenance, was in perfect keeping with the order and peace of everything around. it was quite a sample of a quaint, comfortable english cottage interior. as i glanced about, i could fancy that many of the clean, little nick-nacks which i saw so carefully arranged, were the treasured heirlooms of old country housekeepers. everything was in its right place, and cleaned up to its height. the house was as serene, and the demeanour of the people as seemly and subdued as if it had been a little chapel; and the setting sun streaming through the front window, filled the cottage with a melting glory, which no magnificence of wealth could imitate. catching, unconsciously, the spirit of the hour, my voice crept down nearer to the delicate stillness of the scene; and i whispered my questions to the two brothers, as if to speak at all was a desecration of that contemplative silence which seemed to steep everything around, like a delicious slumber, filled with holy dreams. we gradually got into conversation, and in the course of our talk i gathered from the two brothers that they had lived and kept school in the house where baines says that tim bobbin was born. they said that, though there was a general belief that he was born in that house, yet they did not themselves possess anything which clearly proved the fact. and yet it might be quite true, they said; for they had often known artists come out there to sketch the building as his birthplace. there were other people in the parish who, they thought, might perhaps know more about the matter. they said that there were many curious latin mottoes and armorial bearings painted on the walls and other parts of the school-house, which many people attributed to tim bobbin--but they were not quite sure that people were right in doing so. i agreed with the two brothers in this. there is little doubt that tim was a fair latin scholar in after life; i myself once possessed a pocket copy of terence's "comedies," which had undoubtedly belonged to him; and in the margin of which he had corrected the latinity. but according to what is known of tim's life elsewhere, he must have left the place of his birth very early in youth, probably with some migration of his father's family long before he could be able to deal with such matters. the brothers did not know whether these relics had been preserved or not when the house was taken down--they thought not. the house had been occupied by them and their fathers, as schoolmasters, for more than a hundred years gone by; but they really could not tell much more about the matter. they thought, however, that owd tummus so and so would be likely to know something about it--or owd hannah wood. they were "two o'th owd'st folk i' urmston; and that wur sayin' summat." was i in the reporting line they wondered.... well, it was no matter--but owd tummus lived about half a mile off; "o'er anent cis lone;" and i should be sure to find him in. thanking them for the information they had given me, i left the quiet trio in their quiet cottage, and came away. the evening was cold and clear, and the scattered birds were twittering out the last notes of their vespers in secluded solos, about the hedges. in the far east, the glimmering landscape was melting away; but the glory which hovered on the skirts of the sunken sun dazzled my eyes as i came down the old lane in the gloaming; and i was happy in my lonely walk, come of it whatever might. i came up to the old man's house, just as the evening candles were beginning to twinkle through cottage windows by the way. he sat by the fire; a little man, thin and bent, but with a face that spoke an old age that was "frosty, but kindly." there were young people in the house; seemingly belonging to the farm. after some preliminary chat about weather and the like, i drew him in the direction of the subject i had come about; asking whether he had ever heard that tim bobbin was born in urmston. he replied, "well; aw have yerd it said so, aw think--but my memory houds nought neaw.... tim bobbin, say'n yo? aw like as aw could mind summat abeawt that,--aw _do_.... owd back'll know; if onybody does, he _will_.... he's a goodish age, is th' owd lad,--he _is_; an' fause with it,--_very_.... tim bobbin! tim bobbin!... aw'st be eighty-three come th' time o'th year. owd back's a quarter younger.... aw've a pain taks me across here, neaw and then. we're made o' stuff at winnut last for ever.... ay, ay; we'n sin summat i' eawr time, has owd back an me,--we _ban_.... dun yo know kit o' ottiwell's? hoo lives at davyhulme; ax hur; ax hur. ho'll be likker to leeten yo abeawt this job nor me. yo see'n aw connut piece things together neaw. if yo'd'n come'd fifty year sin, aw could ha' towd yo a tale, an' bowdly too,--aw could. but th' gam's up. the dule's getten th' porritch, an th' lord's getten th' pon to scrape,--as usal." i was inquiring further about his friend "owd back," when he stopped me by saying, "oh, there's owd hannah wood; aw'd like to forgetten hur. eh, that aw should forget owd hannah! hoo lives by the hee-gate, as yo gwon to stretford,--hoo _does_. what, are yo after property, or summat?" "no." "whau then.... yo mun see owd hannah soon, yung mon; or yo'n ha' to look for her i' flixton graveyort; an' aw deawt that would sarve yo'r turn but little.... folk donnut like so mich talk when they're getten theer.... my feyther an' mother's theer, an' o' th' owd set;--aw'st be amoon 'em in a bit. well, well; neighbour fare's no ill fare, as th' sayin' is." in this way the old man wandered on till i rose to go; when, turning to the old woman sitting near, he said, "aw've just unbethought mo. william---- will be the very mon to ax abeawt this tim bobbin; an' so will their sam. they liv't i'th heawse 'at he's speykin' on; an' so did their on-setters (ancestors) afore 'em. beside they're a mak o' larnt folk. they're schoo maisters; an' so then." the old man did not know that these were the men i had just left. after resting a few minutes, he raised his head again, just before i came away, to tell me, as others had done, that "jockey johnson," an' "cottril, th' pavor," were likely folk to sper on." in this way i wandered to and fro; meeting, in most cases, with little more than a glimmering remembrance of the thing, the dimness of which, seeing that few seemed to take any strong interest in the matter, i found afterwards was not difficult to account for. one old man said, as soon as the name was mentioned to him, "let's see. aw'm just thinkin'.... ay, ay; it's yon heawse opposite th' owd ho'. they'n bin built up again, lately. an' there wur writin' an' stuff upo' th' woles; but it took somebory with a deeal o' larnin' to understond it" when i called upon the parish-clerk, he told me that a few years ago a gentleman had called to make inquiry upon the same subject, and left instructions for everything in the register relating to tim to be extracted for him, which was done; but he never called to get the manuscript, which was now lost or mislaid. chapter vi. to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. --shakspere. i was a little disappointed at first to find that, wherever i went in the parish of flixton, the inhabitants showed no strong interest in the quaint man of genius, whose early records i was in search of. but this is no wonder, when one considers what a thinly-inhabited place this must have been at the beginning of queen anne's reign; and remembering, also, that nearly the whole of tim's long life was spent elsewhere; first, as an apprentice to dutch-loom weaving, which was looked upon as a rather genteel occupation in those days. but, as his friend and biographer, richard townley, esq., of bellfield hall, says, "such a sedentary employment not at all agreeing with his volatile spirits and eccentric genius, he prevailed upon his master to release him from the remainder of his servitude. though then very young, he soon commenced itinerant schoolmaster; going about the country from one small town to another, to teach reading, writing, and accounts; and generally having a night-school as well as a day one." now, seeing that the theatre of these obscure and honourable struggles of tim's youth was the town of oldham, and the villages thereabouts, it is not surprising that the scattered inhabitants of the lonely nook where he was born should have few traditional remembrances of him, who left them when he was yet but a child. tim's father was only forty years old, when he was overtaken by total blindness; and, this, necessarily, changed the plan he had formed of bringing up his son, our hero, to the church, for "he had conceived a favourable opinion of his abilities." now, this calamity did not befall the elder mr. collier during the time that he was schoolmaster at urmston in flixton: and everything shows that he was not a native of that place, but came from some other part to teach there; remaining only for a short time--during which tim and his brother nathan were born--and then moving away again, with his young family of nine children, to another quarter. what baines says, on the authority of the inhabitants of flixton, of the elder collier never being a clergyman, may be true, so far as it relates to urmston, of which place there never was a curate; nor was he in holy orders during his residence there; and yet he may have been so elsewhere. this supposition is strengthened by tim's own words: "in the reign of queen anne i was a boy, and one of the nine children of a poor lancashire curate, whose stipend never amounted to thirty pounds a year; and consequently the family must feel the iron teeth of penury with a witness. these, indeed, were sometimes blunted by the charitable disposition of the good rector (the rev. mr. h----, of w----n)." what an interesting glimpse this gives us of the home of tim bobbin's childhood! now, it is just possible that the "good rector" may have been the rector of warrington of that time; whose name begins with the same initial letter. all things considered, i did not wonder that the family had left but little mark among the people of flixton. seeing that so little was known by the inhabitants, i turned my thoughts towards the parish register, setting an afternoon apart for visiting the incumbent; who had invited me to look through it at his house. at the appointed time, i walked through the village of flixton, a little way into the country beyond the village; and there, by the wayside, at the top of a little sloping lawn, partially screened by stunted trees and bushes, the "village preacher's modest mansion rose." the incumbent received me courteously, and entered kindly into my purpose. ushering me into a little parlour at the front, he brought forth the two oldest register volumes of the parish from their hiding-place. the first thing which struck me was the difference in their condition. the oldest was perfectly sound, inside and outside. its leaves were of vellum; and, with the exception of a slight discolouration in some places, they were as clear and perfect as ever they had been; and the entries in it were beautifully distinct, written in the old english character, and mostly in the latin language. the change in the latter volume was very remarkable. its binding was poor and shaky; and its leaves of the softest and most perishable writing paper, many of them quite loose in the book, and so worn, tattered, and crumbly, as to be scarcely touchable without damage. i could not help thinking that if any important question should arise a hundred years hence, the settling of which depended on such a mouldering record as this, is was just possible that decay might have forestalled the inquiry. after a careful examination of the register, i found the following entries relating to tim's family, and, besides these, there is no mention of any other person of the name of collier, for the space of half a century before, and a century after that date. first, under the head of "births and baptismes, in the year, ," appears "nathan, ye son of john collier, schoolmaster, borne may , baptised may ."[ ] singularly, i found the same baptism entered a second time, three pages forward in the same year, with a slight variation, in the following manner:--"baptised nathan, the son of _master_ john collier, schoolmaster, born may ye th." and then the last and only other mention of the colliers, is the register of the baptism of john, the renowned "tim bobbin," which is entered thus, among the baptisms of the year : "john, son of mr. john collier, of urmstone, baptised january the th." in baines's "lancashire," the baptism is given as occurring in , which is a slight mistake. the origin of that mistake was evident to me, with the register before my eyes. the book seems to have been very irregularly kept in those days; and the baptisms in the year are entered under a headline, "baptisms in the year :" but at the end of the baptisms of that year, the list runs on into those of the following year, , without any such headline to divide them; and this entry of tim's baptism being one of the first, might easily be transcribed by a hasty observer, as belonging to the previous year. i thought there was something significant about the curious manner in which these three entries, relating to the colliers, are made in the register. in the first entry of the baptism of nathan, tim's eldest brother, the father is called "john collier, schoolmaster;" in the second entry of the same baptism, he is called "master john collier, schoolmaster;" and in the entry of tim's baptism, three years later, the clerk, having written down the father's name as "john collier of urmstone," has, upon after-thought, made a caret between "the son of" and "john collier of urmstone," and carefully written "mr." above it, making it read "mr. john collier, of urmstone." this addition to the names of schoolmasters, or even of the wealthy inhabitants of the parish, occurs so very rarely in the register, that i could not help thinking this singular exception indicative of an honourable estimate of the character of tim's father among his neighbours. such was the result of my search; and it strengthens my conviction that old mr. john collier's family were not natives of flixton, nor dwelt there long, but departed after a short residence to some other quarter, where the family were born, married, died, and buried; except the two before mentioned. [ ] old style. whilst i was sitting in the incumbent's parlour, looking over these old books on that day, a little thing befell which pleased me, though the reader may think it trifling. the weather was very cold, and i happened to have on one of those red-and-black tartan wool shirts, which are comfortable wear enough in cold weather, though they look rather gaudy; and don't satisfy one's mind so well as a clean white shirt does. as i sat turning over the leaves of these ancient records, in came the incumbent's son, a little, slim, intelligent boy, with large, thoughtful eyes. he watched me attentively for two or three minutes, and then, coming a little nearer, so as to get a good look at the wrists and front of my extraordinary under-gear, he called out, with unreserved astonishment, "papa! he has got no shirt on!" the clergyman checked the lad instantly; though he could not help smiling at this little burst of frank, childish simplicity. the lad was evidently surprised to see me enjoy the thing so much. i cannot dismiss this old parish register without noticing some other things in it which were interesting to me. and i can tell thee, reader, by the by, that there are worse ways of spending a few hours than in poring over such a record. how significantly the births, marriages, and deaths, tread upon one another's heels; as they do in the columns of newspapers! how solemnly the decaying pages represent the chequered pattern of our mortal estate! the exits and entrances of these ephemeral players in the drama of life continually interweave in the musty chronicle, as they do in the current of human action. there was a quaint tone running through the whole, which i could not well pass by. in the year , the phrase, "buried in woollen only," first appears, and marks the date of an act for the encouragement of the woollen trade. this phrase is carefully added to every registration of burial, thenceforth for a considerable time; except in a few cases, where the phrase changes to "buried in sweet flowers only." what a world of mingled pathos and prettiness that phrase awakes in the mind! to a loving student of shakspere, it might, not inaptly, call up that beautiful passage in ophelia's burial scene:-- _laertes._ lay her i' the earth;-- and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!... _queen._ sweets to the sweet: farewell! (_scattering flowers._) sometimes an instance occurs where a burial takes place "in linen only." in this year of , it is singular that there are only two marriages entered in the flixton parish register. there was, perhaps, some particular reason for this at the time; but the fact will give the reader some idea of the smallness of the population in those days. from this time the phrase, "sworn by so-and-so, before justice so-and-so," is attached to some entries of burial, as thus:--"thomas, ye son of john owen, of carrington, buried in sweet floweres, attested by ye wife of george twickins. ye same day of burial, viz., th oct. ( ), john, ye son of john millatt, jun., of carrington, an infant, buried in sweet floweres only." then follows, "james parren was not buried in any materiall contrary to a late act for buryinge in woollen.--sworne by mary parren, before justice peter egerton, jan. th, ." the burials in the year are almost all in "sweet floweres only." this is the year when nathan collier was born, being the first mention of that family in the register. three years after, his brother john (tim bobbin) was born; after which the colliers disappear from the register altogether. some of the burials occurring between and , are remarkable for the manner of their entry, as, "sarah, daughter of schoolmaster pony;" "james, thomas jaddock's father;" "john swindell, taken out of ye river;" "widow peer's child, aug. th;" and this is followed three days after by "richd., son of widow peer's, aug. th;" "old ralph haslam, from carrington;" "old henery roile, from stretford;" "old mrs. starkey;" "old john groons;" "moss's wife of urmeston;" "horox's child of urmstone;" and "hannah, daughter of one dean, of stretford." then come these, in their proper order, entered in a clerkly hand:--"thomas willis, of bleckly, in the county of buckingham, esq., and mrs. ann hulme, heiress of davy hulme, and of the lordship and manor of urmston, were marry'd. sept. rd, ;" and then "anna willis, the first daughter of thomas willis, esq., born august the th, , and baptised ye th aug.--john willis, clerk of bleckley, in bucks." i found the christian name of randal very common in this register. the names of starkey, holt, rogers, and egerton, ever accompanied by the title of gentleman; and for the rest, the names of warburton, taylor, royle, coupe, darbishire, shawcross, gilbody, and knight, form the staple of the list, with the addition of the owens of carrington moss; who seem to have been a very prolific generation. chapter vii. the evening comes, and brings the dew along, the rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne, around the alestake minstrels sing the song, young ivy round the door-post doth entwine; i lay me down upon the grass, yet to my will, albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still. --chatterton. the people of southern england are apt to sneer at the enthusiasm with which lancashire men speak of tim bobbin; and, if this imperfect sketch should fall into the hands of any such readers, it is not improbable that they may look upon the whole thing as a great fuss about next to nothing. one reason for this is, that, for the most part, they know next to nothing of the man--which is not much to be wondered at. but the greatest difficulty in their case is the remote character of the words and idioms used by tim. to the majority of such readers, the dialogue of "tummus and mary" is little more than an unintelligible curiosity; and i believe, speaking generally, that it would be better understood by the natives of the metropolis if it had been written in french. the language in which the commanding genius of chaucer wrought, five hundred years ago, and which was the common language of the london of those days, is, even in its most idiomatic part, very much the same as that used in all the country parts of lancashire at this hour. but great changes have come round since the time of chaucer; and though an englishman is an englishman in general characteristics, all the world over, there is as much difference now in the tone of manners and language in the north and south as there is between the tones of an organ and those of a piano. i have hardly ever met with a southern man able to comprehend the quaint, graphic wealth which hutches and chuckles with living fun and country humour, under the equally quaint garb of old language in which tim clothes his story of "tummus and mary." but, on its first appearance, the people of his own district at once recognised an exquisite picture of themselves; and they hailed it with delight. he superintended several editions of his works during his lifetime--a time when the population of lancashire was very scanty, and scattered over large, bleak spaces; and when publishing was a very different thing to what it is now. since then, his principal story has continually grown in the estimation of scholars and students, as a valuable addition to the rich treasures of english philology, even apart from the genius which combined its humorous details with such masterly art, and finished and rounded it into the completeness of a literary dewdrop. that tale was calculated to command attention and awaken delight at once--and it will long be cherished with pride, by lancashire men at least, as an exceedingly natural "glimpse of auld lang syne." but those who wish to understand the force of tim's character, must look to his letters, and other prose fragments, such as "truth in a mask." these chiefly reveal the sterling excellence of the man. he was a clear-sighted, daring, independent politician--one of the strong old pioneers of human freedom in these parts. he had a curious audience in that secluded corner of lancashire where he lived--in those days--a people who had worn their political shackles so long that they almost looked upon them as ornaments. but _tim_ kent what was fu brawly; and he was continually blurting out some startling truth or another, in vigorous, unmistakable english; and he gloried in the then disreputable and dangerous epithet of "reforming john." this, too, in the teeth of patrons and friends whose political tendencies were in an entirely opposite direction. let any man turn to the letter he writes to his friend, the rev. mr. heap, of dorking, who had desired him to "spare the levitical order," and then say whether there was any shadow of sycophancy in the soul of john collier. under the correction of magnifying the matter through the medium of one's native likings then, i will venture to declare a feeling akin to veneration for the spot where he was born; and i know that it is shared by the men of his native county, generally, even by those who find themselves at a difficult distance from his quaint tone of thought and language--for it takes a man thoroughly soaked with the lancashire soil to appreciate him thoroughly. but, apart from all local inclinings, men of thought and feeling will ever welcome any spark of genuine creative fire, which glows with such genial human sympathies, and such an honourable sense of justice as john collier evinces, however humble it may be in comparison with the achievements of those mighty spirits who have made the literature of our sea-girt island glorious in the earth. the waters of the little mountain stream, singing its lone, low song, as it struggles through its rocky channel, are dear and beautiful, and useful to that rugged solitude, as is the great ocean to the shores on which its surges play. nay, what is that ocean, but the gathered chorus of these lonely waters, in which the individual voice is lost in one grand combination of varied tones. with this imperfect notice, i will, at present, leave our old local favourite; and just take another glance at flixton, before i bid adieu to his birthplace. the reader may remember that, on the day of my first visit to john collier's birthplace, i lounged some time about the hamlet of urmston, conversing with the inhabitants. leaving that spot, i rambled leisurely along the high road to flixton, hob-nobbing, and inquiring among different sorts of people, about him, whenever opportunity offered. when i drew near to shaw hall, i had traversed a considerable part of the length of the parish, which is only four miles, at most, by about two in breadth. there is nothing like a hill to be seen; but as one wanders on, the country rises and falls, in gentle undulations. now and then, a pool of water gleamed afar off in the green fields, or, close by the road, rippled into wavelets by the keen wind, which came down steadily from the north that day, whistling shrill cadences among the starved thorns. i cannot give a better idea of the character of the soil than by borrowing the words of baines, who says: "much of the land in the parish of flixton is arable, probably to the amount of nine-tenths of the whole. the farms are comparatively large, and the soil is in general a rich black, sandy, vegetable loam, producing corn, fruit, and potatoes in abundance." i believe the land is now in better cultivation than when these words were written. shaw hall is an important place in the history of flixton. the lords of the land dwelt there in old times. at the time of my visit it was occupied, as a boarding-school, by mr. james m'dougall, who was kind enough to show me through the interior when i called there in my ramble. baines says of shaw hall: "it is a venerable mansion, of the age of james i., with gables and wooden parapets on the s. w. and n. sides. the roof has a profusion of chimneys, and a cupola in the centre. in one of the apartments is a painting covering the principal part of the ceiling, which represents the family of darius kneeling in supplication before alexander the great. this picture, though two hundred years old, is in fine preservation, and the faces and figures indicate the hand of a master. there are some smaller paintings and tapestry in the rooms, on one of which is represented a persian chief at parley with alexander, and, afterwards, submitting to the conqueror. stained glass in the windows exhibit the arms of asshawe and egerton, successive lords of flixton.... adjoining the ample gardens and filbert grove was once a moat, which has partly disappeared. shaw hall is now used as a boarding-school, a purpose to which, by its situation, it seems well adapted." i cannot leave this place without mentioning, that the, then, tenant of the hall was a poet of no mean promise, who has contributed an interesting volume of poems and songs to the literature of this district. from the high road, a little beyond the hall, the most prominent and pleasing object in the landscape is the old parish church of flixton, standing in its still more ancient graveyard, upon the brow of a green knoll, about an arrow's flight off; with the village of flixton clustered behind it. at the foot of that green knoll, to the westward, where all the country beyond is one unbroken green, the river glideth by the hamlet old. the ground occupied by the church seemed to me the highest in the landscape; and the venerable fane stands there, looking round upon the quiet parish like a mother watching her children at play, and waiting till they come home, tired, to lie down and sleep with the rest. it was getting late in the evening when i sauntered about the churchyard, looking over the gravestones of warburtons, taylors, cowpes, gilbodys, egertons, and owens of carrington. among the rest, i found the following well-known epitaph, upon william oldfield of stretford, smith:-- my anvil and my hammer lie declined, my bellows have quite lost their wind; my coals are done, my debt is paid, my vices in the dust are laid. this epitaph, which appears here in such an imperfect shape, is commonly attributed to tim. in rochdale parish churchyard, it appears in a much completer form on the gravestone of a blacksmith, who lived in tim's time. i rambled about the old village a while in the dusk. now and then a villager lounged along in the direction of the inn, near the church; where i could hear several boisterous country fellows talking together in high glee, while one of them sang snatches of an old ballad, called the "golden glove:"-- coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, and a-hunting she went with her dog and gun; she hunted all around where the farmer did dwell, because in her heart she did love him full well. at length the horses were put to, and we got fairly upon the road, which took us back in another direction, round by davy hulme, the seat of the norreys family. immediately after clearing the village, flixton house was pointed out to me; "a plain family mansion, with extensive grounds and gardens." the wind was cold, and the shades of night gathered fast around; and before we quitted flixton parish, the birthplace of tim bobbin had faded from my view. i felt disappointed in finding that the place of his nativity yielded so little reminiscence of our worthy old local humorist; the simple reason for which is, that very little is known of him there. but there was compensating pleasure to me in meeting with so many interesting things there which i did not go in search of. ramble from rochdale to the top of blackstone edge. and so by many winding nooks he strays, with willing sport. --shakspere. well may englishmen cherish the memory of their forefathers, and love their native land. it has risen to its present power among the nations of the world through the efforts of many generations of heroic people; and the firmament of its biography is illumined by stars of the first magnitude. what we know of its history previous to the conquest by the romans, is clouded by conjecture and romance; but we have sufficient evidence to show that, even then, this gem, "set in the silver sea," was known in distant regions of the earth, for its natural riches; and was inhabited by a brave and ingenious race of people. during the last two thousand years, the masters of the world have been fighting to win it, or to keep it. the woad-stained british savage, ardent, imaginative, and brave, roved through its woods and marshes, hunting the wild beasts of the island. he sometimes herded cattle, but was little given to tillage. he sold tin to the phoenicians, and knew something about smelting iron ore, and working it into such shapes as were useful in a life of wild insecurity and warfare, such as his. in the slim coracle, he roamed the island's waters; and scoured its plains in battle, in his scythed car, a terror to the boldest foe. he worshipped, too, in an awful way, in sombre old woods, and colossal stonehenges, under the blue, o'er-arching sky. on lone wastes, and moorland hills, we still have the relics of these ancient temples, frowning at time, and seeming to say, as they look on nature's ever-returning green,--in the words of their old druids-- everything comes out of the ground but the dead. but destiny had other things in store for these islands. the legions of imperial rome came down upon the wild celt, who retired, fiercely contending, to the mountain fastnesses of the north and west. four hundred years the roman wrought and ruled in britain; and he left the broad red mark of his way of living stamped upon the face of the country, and upon its institutions, when his empire declined. the steadfast saxon followed,--"stubborn, taciturn, sulky, indomitable, rock-made,"--a farmer and a fighter; a man of sense, and spirit, and integrity; an industrious man, and a home-bird. the saxon never loosed his hold; even though his wild scandinavian kinsmen, the sea-kings, and jarls of the north, came rushing to battle, with their piratical multitudes, tossing their swords into the air, and singing heroic ballads, as they slew their foemen, under the banner of the black raven. then came the military norman,--a northern pirate, trained in france to the art of war,--led on by the bold duke william, who landed his warriors at pevensey, and burnt the fleet that brought them to the shore, in order to bind his soldiers to the necessity of victory or death. duke william conquered, and harold, the saxon, fell at hastings, with an arrow in his brain. each of these races has left its peculiarities stamped upon the institutions of the country; but most enduring of all,--the saxon. and now, the labours of twenty centuries of valiant men, in peace and war, have achieved a matchless power, and freedom for us, and have bestrewn the face of the land with "the charms which follow long history." the country of caractacus and boadicea, where alfred ruled, and shakspere and milton sang, will henceforth always be interesting to men of intelligent minds, wherever they were born. it is pleasant, also, to the eye, as it is instructive to the mind. its history is written all over the soil, not only in strong evidences of its present genius and power, but in thousands of relics of its ancient fame and characteristics. in a letter, written by lord jeffrey, to his sister-in-law, an american lady, respecting what old england is like, and in what it differs most from america, he says: "it differs mostly, i think, in the visible memorials of antiquity with which it is overspread; the superior beauty of its verdure, and the more tasteful and happy state and distribution of its woods. everything around you here is historical, and leads to romantic or interesting recollections. gray-grown church towers, cathedrals, ruined abbeys, castles of all sizes and descriptions, in all stages of decay, from those that are inhabited, to those in whose moats ancient trees are growing, and ivy mantling over their mouldering fragments; ... and massive stone bridges over lazy waters; and churches that look as old as christianity; and beautiful groups of branchy trees; and a verdure like nothing else in the universe; and all the cottages and lawns fragrant with sweet briar and violets, and glowing with purple lilacs and white elders; and antique villages scattering round wide bright greens; with old trees and ponds, and a massive pair of oaken stocks preserved from the days of alfred. with you everything is new, and glaring, and angular, and withal rather frail, slight, and perishable; nothing soft, and mellow, and venerable, or that looks as if it would ever become so." this charming picture is almost entirely compounded from the most interesting features of the rural and antique: and is, therefore, more applicable to those agricultural parts of england which have been little changed by the events of its modern history, than to those districts which have been so changed by the peaceful revolutions of manufacture in these days. but, even in the manufacturing districts, where forests of chimneys rear their tall shafts, upon ground once covered with the woodland shade, or sparsely dotted with quaint hamlets,--the venerable monuments of old english life peep out in a beautiful way, among crowding evidences of modern power and population. and the influences which have so greatly changed the appearance of the country there, have not passed over the people without effect. wherever the genius of commerce may be leading us to, there is no doubt that the old controls of feudalism are breaking up; and in the new state of things the people of south lancashire have found greater liberty to improve their individual qualities and conditions; fairer chances of increasing their might and asserting their rights; greater power to examine and understand all questions which come before them, and to estimate and influence their rulers, than they had under the unreasoning domination which is passing away. they are not a people inclined to anarchy. they love order as well as freedom, and they love freedom for the sake of having order established upon just principles. the course of events during the last fifty years has been steadily upheaving the people of south lancashire out of the thraldom of those orders which have long striven to conserve such things as tended to their own aggrandisement, at the expense of the rights of others. but even that part of the aristocracy of england which has not yet so far cast the slough of its hereditary prejudices as to see that the days are gone which nurtured such ascendancies, at least perceives that, in the manufacturing districts, it now walks in a world where few are disposed to accept its assumption of superiority, without inquiring into the nature of it. when a people who aspire to independence, begin to know how to get it, and how to use it wisely, the methods of rule that were made for slaves, will no longer answer their purpose; the pride of little minds in great places, begins to canker them, and they must give them the wall now and then, and look somewhere else for foot-lickers. the aristocracy of england are not all of them overwhelmed by the dignity of their "ancient descent." there are naturally-noble men among them, who can discern between living truth and dead tradition; men who do not think that the possession of a landed estate entitles its owner to extraordinary rights of domination over his acreless neighbours; or that, on that account alone, the rest of the world should fall down and worship at the feet of an ordinary person, more remarkable for an incomprehensible way of deporting himself, than for being a better man than his neighbours. through the streets of south lancashire towns still, occasionally, roll the escutcheoned equipages of those exclusive families, who turn up the nose at the "lower orders;" and cherish a dim remembrance of the "good old times" when these lurdanes wore the collars of their ancestors upon the neck. to my thinking, the very carriage has a sort of lonely, unowned and unowning look, and never seems at home till it gets back to the coach-house; for the troops of factory lads, and other hard-working rabble, clatter merrily about the streets, looking villainously unconscious of anything particularly august in the nature of the show which is going by. on the driving-box sits a man with a beefy face, and a comically-subdued way of holding his countenance, grand over all with "horse-gowd," and gilt buttons, elaborate with heraldic device. another such person, with silky calves, and a "smoke-jack" upon his hat, and breeches of plush, stands on the platform behind. it is all no use. there are corners of england where such a sight is still enough to throw a whole village into fits; but, in the manufacturing towns, a travelling instalment of wombwell's menagerie, with the portrait of a cub rhinoceros in front, would create more stir. inside the carriage there reclines,--chewing the cud of unacknowledged pride,--one of that rare brood of dignitaries, a man with "ancestors," who plumes himself upon the distinguished privilege of being the son of somebody or another, who was the son of somebody else, and so on;--till it gets to some burglarious person, who, in company with several others of the same kidney, once pillaged an old estate, robbed a church, and did many other such deeds, in places where the law was too weak to protect the weak; and there is an eternal blazon of armorial fuss kept up in celebration of it, on the family shield. but, admitting that these things were in keeping with the spirit and necessities of the time, and with "the right of conquest," and such like, why should their descendants take to themselves airs on that account, and consider themselves the supreme "somebodies" of the land, for such worn-out reasons? let any landlord who still tunes his pride according to the feudal gamut of his forefathers, acquaint himself with the tone of popular feeling in the manufacturing districts. let "john" lower the steps, and with earth-directed eyes hold the carriage door, whilst our son of a hundred fathers walks forth into the streets of a manufacturing town, to try the magic of his ancient name among the workmen as they hurry to dinner. where are the hat-touchers gone? if he be a landlord, with nothing better than tracts of earth to recommend him, the mechanical rabble jostle him as if he was "only a pauper whom nobody owns," or some wandering cow-jobber. he goes worshipless on his way, unless he happens to meet with one of the servants from the hall, or his butcher, or the parish clerk, or the man who rings the eight o'clock bell, and they treat him to a bend sinister. as to the pride of "ancient descent," what does it mean, apart from the renown of noble deeds? the poor folk in lancashire cherish an old superstition that "we're o' somebory's childer,"--which would be found very near the truth, if fairly looked into. and if collop the cotton weaver's genealogy was correctly traced, it would probably run back to the year "one;" or, as he expresses it himself, to the time "when adam wur a lad." everything has its day. in some parts of lancashire, the rattle of the railway train, and the bustle of traffic and labour, have drowned the tones of the hunting horn, and the chiming cry of the harriers. but whatever succeeds the decay of feudalism, the architectural relics of old english life in lancashire will always be interesting, and venerable as the head of a fine old man, on whose brow "the snow-fall of time" has long been stealing. may no ruder hand than the hand of time destroy these eloquent footprints of old thought which remain among us! some men are like burns's mouse,--the present only touches them; but any man who has the slightest title to the name of a creature of "large discourse," will be willing, now and then, to look contemplatively over his shoulder, into the grass-grown aisles of the past. it was in that pleasant season of the year when fresh buds begin to shoot from the thorn: when the daisy and the little celandine, and the early primrose, peep from the ground, that i began to plot for another stroll through my native vale of the roch, up to the top of "blackstone edge." those mountain wastes are familiar to me. when i was a child, they rose up constantly in sight, with a silent, majestic look. the sun came from behind them in a morning, pouring its flood of splendour upon the busy valley, the winding river, and its little tributaries. i imbibed a strong attachment to those hills; and oft as opportunity would allow, i rushed towards them; for they were kindly and congenial to my mind. and now, in the crowded city, when i think of them and of the country they look down upon, it stirs within me a wide sea that one continuous murmur breaks along the pebbled shore of memory. but at this particular time, an additional motive enticed me to my old wandering ground. the whole of the road leading to it was lined with interesting places, and associations. but, among the railways, and manifold other ways and means of travel, which now cover the country with an irregular net-work, i found, on looking over a recent map, a solitary line running in short, broken distances; and, on the approach of towns and habited spots, diving under, like a mole or an otter. it looked like a broken thread, here and there, in the mazy web of the map, and it was accompanied by the words "roman road," which had a little interest for me. i know there are people who would sneer at the idea of any importance being attached to an impracticable, out-of-the-way road, nearly two thousand years old, and leading to nowhere in particular, except, like the ways of the wicked, into all sorts of sloughs and difficulties. with them, one passable macadamised way, on which a cart could go to market, is worth all the ruined watling-streets in britain. and they are right, so far as their wisdom goes. the present generation must be served with market stuff, come what may of our museums. but still, everything in the world is full of manifold services to man, who is himself full of manifold needs. and thought can leave the telegraphic message behind, panting for breath upon the railway wires. the whole is either "cupboard for food," or "cabinet of pleasure;" therefore, let the hungry soul look round upon its estate and turn the universe to nutriment, if it can; for there's not a breath will mingle kindly with the meadow air, till it has panted round, and stolen a share of passion from the heart. and though the moorland pack-horse and the rambling besom-maker stumble and get entangled in grass, and sloughs, and matted brushwood, upon deserted roads, still that nimble mercury, thought, can flit over the silent waste, side by side with the shades of those formidable soldiers who have now slept nearly two thousand years in the cold ground. it has not been my lot to see many of the vestiges of roman life in britain; yet, whatever the historians say about them has had interest for me; especially when it related to the connection of the romans with my native district; for, in addition to its growing modern interest, i eagerly seized every fact of historical association calculated to enrich the vesture in which my mind had long been enrobing the place. i had read of the roman station at littleborough; of the roman road in the neighbourhood; of interesting ancient relics, roman and other, discovered thereabouts; and other matter of the like nature. my walks had been wide and frequent in the country about rochdale; and many a time have i lingered and wondered at littleborough, near the spot where history says that the romans encamped themselves, at the foot of blackstone edge, at the entrance of what would, then, be the impassable hills, and woody glens, and swampy bottoms of the todmorden district. yet i have never met with any visible remnants of such historical antiquities of the locality; and though, when wandering about the high moors in that quarter, i have more than once crossed the track of the roman road up there, and noticed a general peculiarity of feature about the place, i little thought that i was floundering, through moss and heather, upon one of these famous old highways. i endeavoured to hold the bit upon my own eagerness; and read of these things with a reservation of credence, lest i should delude myself into receiving the invention of a brain mad with ancientry for a genuine relic of the eld. but one day, early in the year, happening to call upon a young friend of mine, in rochdale, whose tastes are a little congenial to my own, we talked of a stroll towards the hills; and he again showed me the line of the roman road, on blackstone edge, marked in the recent ordnance map. we then went forth, bare-headed, into the yard of his father's house, at wardleworth brow, from whence the view of the hills, on the east, is fine. the air was clear, and the sunshine so favourably subdued, that the objects and tints of the landscape were uncommonly distinct. he pointed to a regular stripe of land, of greener hue than the rest of the moorland, rising up the dark side of blackstone edge. the green stripe was the line of the roman road. he had lately visited it, and traced its uniform width for miles, and the peculiarities of its pavement of native sandstone, overgrown with a thick tanglement of moss, and heather, and moorland lichens. he was an old acquaintance, of known integrity, and sound judgment, and, withal, more addicted to figures of arithmetic than figures of speech; so, upon his testimony, i resolved that i would bring my unstable faith to the ordeal of ocular proof, that i might, at once, draft it out of the region of doubt, or sweep it from the chambers of my brain, like a festoonery of cobwebs from a neglected corner, the prospect of another visit to the scenery of the "edge," another snuff of the mountain air, and a little more talk with the old-world folk in the villages upon the road thither, rose up pleasantly in my mind, and the purpose took the shape of action about st. valentine's tide. having arranged to be called up at five on the morning of my intended trip, i jumped out of bed when the knock came to my chamber-door, dressed, and started forth to catch the first train from manchester. the streets were silent and still, except where one or two "early birds" of the city had gathered round a "saloop" stall; or a solitary policeman kept the lounging tenor of his way along the pavement; and here and there a brisk straggler, with a pipe in his mouth, his echoing steps contrasting strangely with the sleeping city's morning stillness. the day was ushered in with gusts of wind and rain, and, when i got to the station, both my coat and my expectations were a little damped by the weather. but, by the time the train reached rochdale, the sky had cleared up, and the breeze had sunk down to a whisper, just cool enough to make the sunshine pleasant. the birds were twittering about, and drops of rain twinkled on the hedges and tufts of grass in the fields; where spring was quietly spreading out her green mantle again. i wished to have as wide a ramble at the farther end as time would allow; and, as moor-tramping is about the most laborious foot exercise that mortal man can bend his instep to, except running through a ploughed field, in iron-plated clogs,--an ordeal which lancashire trainers sometimes put their foot-racers through,--it was considered advisable to hire a conveyance. we could go further, stop longer, and return at ease, when we liked, after we had tired ourselves to our heart's content upon the moors. i went down to the reed inn, for a vehicle. mine host came out to the top of the steps which lead down into the stable-yard, and, leaning over the railings, called his principal ostler from the room below. that functionary was a broad-set, short-necked man, with a comely face, and a staid, laconic look. he told us, with spartan brevity, that there had been a run upon gigs, but he could find us a "whitechapel," and "grey bobby." "grey bobby" and the "whitechapel" were agreed to at once, and in ten minutes i was driving up yorkshire-street, to pick up my friends at wardleworth brow, on the eastern edge of the town. giving the reins to a lad in the street, i went into the house, and took some refreshment with the rest of them, before starting; and, in a few minutes more, we were all seated, and away down the slope of heybrook, on the littleborough road. our tit had a mercurial trick of romping on his hind legs, at the start; but apart from this, he went a steady, telling pace, and we looked about us quite at ease as we sped along. heybrook, at the foot of wardleworth brow, is one of the pleasantest entrances to rochdale town. there is a touch of suburban peace and prettiness about it; and the prospect, on all sides, is agreeable to the eye. the park-like lands of foxholes and hamer lie close by the north side of the road. the lower part of these grounds consists of rich, flat meadows, divided by a merry little brook, which flows from the hills on the north, above "th' syke." in its course from the moors, to the river roch, it takes the name of each locality it passes through, and is called "syke brook," "buckley brook," and "hey brook;" and, on its way, it gathers tributary rindles of water from clough house, knowl, and knowl syke. as the foxholes grounds recede from the high road, they undulate, until they rise into an expansive, lawny slope, clothed with a verdure which looks--when wet with summer rain or dew--"like nothing else in the universe," out of england. this slope is tastefully crowned with trees. foxholes hall is situated among its old woods and lawns, retiringly, upon the summit of this swelling upland, which rises from the level of heybrook. it is a choice corner of the earth, and the view thence, between the woods, across the lawn and meadows, and over a picturesquely-varied country, to the blue hills in the south-east, is perhaps not equalled in the neighbourhood. pleasant and green as much of the land in this district looks now, still the general character of the soil, and the whole of its features, shows that when nature had it to herself very much of it must have been sterile or swampy. looking towards foxholes, from the road-side at heybrook, over the tall ancestral trees, we can see the still taller chimney of john bright and brothers' mill, peering up significantly behind; and the sound of their factory bell now mingles with the cawing of an ancient colony of rooks in the foxholes woods. foxholes is the seat of the entwisles, a distinguished old lancashire family. in the time of camden, the historian, this family was seated at entwisle hall, near bolton-le-moors. george entwisle de entwisle left as heir his brother william, who married alice, daughter of bradshaw, of bradshaw. his son edmund, the first entwisle of foxholes, near rochdale, built the old hall, which stood on the site of the present one. he married a daughter of arthur ashton, of clegg; and his son richard married grace, the daughter of robert chadwick, of healey hall. in the parish church there is a tablet to the memory of sir bertin entwisle, who fought at agincourt, on st. crispin's day, in henry the fifth's time. when a lad, i used to con over this tablet, and i wove a world of romance around this mysterious "sir bertin," and connected him with all that i had heard of the prowess of old english chivalry. the tablet runs thus:-- to perpetuate a memorial erected in the church of st peter's, st. albans (perished by time), this marble is here placed to the memory of a gallant and loyal man--sir bertin entwisle, knt., viscount and baron of brybeke, in normandy, and some time bailiff of constantine, in which office he succeeded his brother-in-law, sir john ashton, whose daughter first married sir richard le byron, an ancestor of the lords byron, of rochdale, and, secondly, sir bertin entwisle, who, after repeated acts of honour in the service of his sovereigns, henrys the fifth and sixth, more particularly at agincourt, was killed in the first battle of st albans, and on his tombstone was recorded in brass the follow inscription:--"here lyeth sir bertin entwisle, knight, who was born in lancastershyre, and was viscount and baron of brybeke, in normandy, and bailiff of constantine, who died, fighting on king henry the sixth's party, the th may , on whose soul jesus have mercy." close by the stone-bridge at heybrook, two large old trees stand in the entwisle grounds, one on each bank of the stream, and partly overhanging the road; they stand there alone, as if to mark where a forest has been. the tired country weaver, carrying his piece to the town, lays down his burden on the parapet, wipes his brow, and rests under their shade. i have gone sometimes, on bright nights, to lean upon the bridge and look around there, and i have heard many a plaintive trio sung by these old trees and the brook below, while the moonlight danced among the leaves. the whole valley of the roch is a succession of green knolls, and dingles, and little receding vales, with now and then a barren stripe, like "cronkeyshaw," or a patch of the once large mosses, like "turf moss;" and little holts and holms, no two alike in feature or extent, dotted, now and then, with tufts of stunted wood, with many a clear brook and silvery rill between. on the south side of the bridge at heybrook, the streamlet from the north runs through the meadows a short distance, and empties itself into the roch. the confluence of the waters there is known to the neighbour lads by the name of the "greyt meetin's," where, in past years, i have paidle't through the burn when simmer days were fine, in a certain young companionship--now more scattered than last autumn's leaves; some in other towns, one or two only still here, and the rest in australia, or in the grave. we now no longer strip in the field there, and leaving our clothes and books upon the hedge side, go frolicking down to the river, to have a water battle and a bathe--finishing by drying ourselves with our shirts, or by running in the wind on the green bank. i remember that sometimes, whilst we were in the height of our sport, the sentinel left upon the brink of the river would catch a glimpse of the owner of the fields, coming hastily towards the spot, in wrathful mood; whereupon every naked imp rushed from the water, seized his clothes, and fled from field to field, till he reached some nook where he could put them on. from the southern margin of the roch, the land rises in a green elevation, on which the hamlet of belfield is seen peeping up. the tree-tops of belfield wood are in sight, but the ancient hall is hidden. a little vale on the west, watered by the biel, divides belfield hall from the hamlet of newbold, on the summit of the opposite bank. so early as the commencement of the twelfth century, a family had adopted the local name, and resided in the mansion till about the year , when the estate was transferred to the family of butterworth, of butterworth hall, near milnrow. i find the belfield family mentioned in gastrel's "notitia cestriensis," p. , under the head "leases granted by the bishop," where the following lease appears:--"an. . let by h. ar. belfield and robt. tatton, for years, exceptis omus vicariis advocationibus ecclesiariu quarumcunque, (ing) to find great timber, tiles, and slate, and tenants to repair and find all other materials." the following note is attached to this lease:--"arthur belfield, of clegg hall, in the parish of rochdale, gent., son and heir of adam belfield, was born in , and succeeded his father in . he is described in the lease as 'off our sayde sovaraigne lord's houshold, gentylman;' but what office he held is, at present, unknown. he was a near relative of the hopwoods, of hopwood, and chethams, of nuthurst." in the year , geoffry de butterworth, a descendent of reginald de boterworth, first lord of the township of butterworth, in the reign of stephen, , sold or exchanged the family mansion of butterworth hall, with john byron, ancestor of lord byron, the poet, and took possession (by purchase or otherwise) of belfield, which was part of the original possession of the knights of st. john of jerusalem. when the monks of stanlaw, in cheshire--disliking their low, swampy situation there, which was subject to inundation at spring tide--removed to the old deanery of whalley, before entering the abbey there, in the roll of the fraternity four seem to have been natives of rochdale, among whom was john de belfield, afterwards abbot of whalley, of the ancient stock of belfield hall, in butterworth. robert de butterworth was killed at the battle of towton, in . the last of the name, at belfield, was alexander butterworth, born in , in the reign of charles the first. the present occupants of the estate have tastefully preserved the old interesting features of the hall, whilst they have greatly improved its condition and environments. the stone gateway, leading to the inner court-yard of belfield hall, is still standing, as well as a considerable portion of the old hall which surrounded this inner court. the antique character of the building is best seen from the quadrangular court-yard in the centre. the door of the great kitchen formerly opened into this court-yard, and the victuals used to be brought out thence, and handed by the cooks through a square opening in the wall of the great dining-room, on the north side of the yard, to the waiters inside. the interior of the building still retains many quaint features of its olden time--heavy oak-beams, low ceilings, and tortuous corners. every effort has been made to line the house with an air of modern comfort; still the house is said to be a cold one, partly from its situation, and partly from the porous nature of the old walls; producing an effect something like that of a wine-cooler. that part of the building which now forms the rear, used, in old times, to be the main front. in one of the rooms, there are still some relics of the ancient oak-carving which lined the walls of the hall. among them there are three figures in carved oak, which formed part of the wainscot of a cornice, above one of the fire-places. these were the figures of a king and two queens, quaintly cut; and the remnants of old painting upon the figures, and the rich gilding upon the crowns, still show traces of their highly-ornamented, ancient appearance. the roads in the neighbourhood of the hall are now good. the hamlets of newbold and belfield are thriving, with substantial, healthy dwellings. shady walks are laid among the plantations; and the springs of excellent water are now gathered into clear terraced pools and a serpentine lake, glittering among gardens and cultivated grounds. leaving heybrook, we passed by hamer hall, which was the seat of a family of the same name, before henry the fourth's time. a large cotton-mill now stands close behind the hall. a few yards through the toll-bar, we passed the "entwisle arms," bearing the motto, "par se signe à azincourt." a traveller seldom needs to ask the names of the old lords of the land in england. let him keep an eye to the sign-boards, and he is sure to find that part of the history of the locality swinging in the wind, or stapled up over the entrance of some neighbouring alehouse. and, in the same barmy atmosphere, he may learn, at least, as much heraldry as he will be able to find a market for on the manchester exchange. the public-house signs in our old towns are generally very loyal and heraldic, and sometimes touched with a little jovial devotion. the arms of kings, queens, and bishops; and mitres, chapel-houses, angels, and "amen corners," mingling with "many a crest that is famous in story;" the arms of the stanleys, byrons, asshetons, traffords, lacys, wiltons, de-la-warres, houghtons, molyneuxs, pilkingtons, radcliffes, and a long roll of old lancashire gentry, whose fame is faintly commemorated in these alehouse signs; and, among the mottoes of these emblazonments, we now and then meet with an ancient war-cry, which makes one's blood start into tumult, when we think how it may have sounded on the fields of cressy, agincourt, towton, or flodden. among these are sprinkled spread eagles, dragons, griffins, unicorns, and horses, black, white, bay, and grey, with corresponding mares, and shoes enow for them all. boars, in every position and state of temper; bulls, some crowned, some with rings in the nose, like our friend "john" of that name. foxes, too, and dogs, presenting their noses with admirable directness of purpose at something in the next street; and innocent-looking partridges, who appear reckless of the intentions of the sanguinary wretch in green, who is erroneously supposed to be _lurking_ behind the bush, with a gun in his hand. talbots, falcons, hawks, hounds and huntsmen, the latter sometimes in "full cry," but almost always considerably "at fault," so far as perspective goes. swans, black and white, with any number of necks that can be reasonably expected; stags, saints, saracens, jolly millers, boars' heads, blue bells, pack-horses, lambs, rams, and trees of oak and yew. the seven stars, and, now and then, a great bear. lions, of all colours, conditions, and positions--resting, romping, and running; with a number of apocryphal animals, not explainable by any natural history extant, nor to be found anywhere, i believe, except in the swamps and jungles of some drunken dauber's brain. also a few "jolly waggoners," grinning extensively at foaming flagons of ale, garnished with piles of bread and cheese, and onions as big as cannon-balls, as if to outface the proportions of the colossus of rhodes, who sits there in a state of stiff, everlasting, clumsy, good-tempered readiness, in front of his never-dwindling feed, marlboroughs, abercrombies, and wellingtons; duncans, rodneys, and nelsons, by dozens. i have seen an admiral painted on horseback, somewhere; but i never saw cromwell on an alehouse sign yet. in addition to these, there are a few dukes, mostly of york and clarence. such signs as these show the old way of living and thinking. but, in our manufacturing towns, the tone of these old devices is considerably modified by an infusion of railway hotels, commercials, cotton-trees, shuttles, spindles, woolpacks, bishop blaizes, and "old looms;" and the arms of the ancient feudal gentry are outnumbered by the arms of shepherds, foresters, moulders, joiners, printers, bricklayers, painters, and several kinds of odd-fellows. the old "legs of man," too, are relieved by a comfortable sprinkling of legs and shoulders of mutton--considerably overdone by the weather, in some cases. even alehouse signs are "signs of the times," if properly interpreted. but both men and alehouse signs may make up their minds to be misinterpreted a little in this world. two country lasses, at rochdale, one fair-day, walking by the roebuck inn, one of them, pointing to the gilded figure of the animal, with its head uplifted to an overhanging bunch of gilded grapes, said, "sitho, sitho, mary, at yon brass dog, heytin' brass marrables!" about half-a-mile up the high road from heybrook, and opposite to shaw house, the view opens, and we can look across the fields on either side, into a country of green pastures and meadows, varied with fantastic hillocks and dells, though bare of trees. a short distance to the north-west, buckley hall lately stood, on a green eminence in sight from the road. but the old house of the buckleys, of buckley, recently disappeared from the knoll where it stood for centuries. its thick, bemossed walls are gone, and all its quaint, abundant outhousing that stood about the spacious, balder-paved yard behind. this old hall gave name and residence to one of the most ancient families in rochdale parish. the building was low, but very strongly built of stone of the district, and heavily timbered. it was not so large as clegg hall, nor stubley hall, nor as some other old halls in the parish; but, for its size, it proved a considerable quarry of stone and flag when taken down. the first occupier was geoffry de buckley, nephew to geoffry, dean of whalley, who lived in the time of henry the second. a descendant of this geoffry de buckley was slain in the battle of evesham ("history of whalley"). the name of john de buckley appears among the monks of stanlaw, in the year . the arms of the buckleys, of buckley, are gules, a chevron sable; between three bulls' heads, armed proper; crest, on a wreath, a bull's head armed proper. motto, "nec temere nec timede." there is a chantry chapel at the south-east corner of rochdale parish church, "founded in , by dr. adam marland, of marland; sir randal butterworth, of belfield; and sir james middleton, 'a brotherhood maide and ordayned in the worship of the glorious trinity, in the church of rochdale;' sir james being appointed trinity priest during his lyfe; and, among other things, he was requested, when he went to the lavoratory, standing at the altar, and, twice a week, to pray for the co-founders, with 'de profundis.'" in this little chantry, there is a recumbent stone effigy of a mailed warrior, of the buckley family, placed there by the present lord of the manor, whose property the chapel is now. i know that some of the country people who had been reared in the neighbourhood of buckley hall, watched its demolition with grieved hearts. and when the fine old hall at radcliffe was taken down, not long since, an aged man stood by, vigorously denouncing the destroyers as the work went on, and glorying in every difficulty they met with; and they were not few, for it was a tough old place. "poo," said he, "yo wastril devils, poo! yo connut rive th' owd hole deawn for th' heart on yo! yo'n ha' to blow it up wi' gunpeawdhur, bi'th mass. it wur noan bigged eawt o' club brass, that wur not, yo shabby thieves! tay th' pattern on't, an' yo'n larn summat! what mak' o' trash wi'n yo stick up i'th place on't, when it's gwon? those wholes u'll bide leynin again, better nor yors! yo'n never big another heawse like that while yo'n teeth an' e'en in yor yeds! eh, never, never! yo hannut stuff to do it wi'!" but down came the old hall at radcliffe; and so did buckley hall, lately; and the materials were dressed up to build the substantial row of modern cottages which now stand upon the same site, with pleasant gardens in front, sloping down the knoll, and over the spot where the old fish-pond was, at the bottom. some of the workpeople at the neighbouring woollen mill find comfortable housing there now. there is an old tradition, respecting the buckley family, connected with a massive iron ring which was found fastened in the flooring of a deserted chamber of the hall. a greyhound, belonging to this family, whilst in london with its master, took off homeward on being startled by the fall of a heavy package, in cheapside, and was found dead on the door-step of buckley hall at five next morning, after having run one hundred and ninety-six miles in sixteen hours. when visiting relatives of mine near buckley, i met with a story relating to one of the buckleys of old, who was a dread to the country side; how he pursued a rossendale rider, who had crossed the moors from the forest, to recover a stolen horse from the stables of buckley hall by night; and how this buckley, of buckley, overtook and shot him, at a lonely place called "th' hillock," between buckley and rooley moor. there are other floating oral traditions connected with buckley hall, especially the tale of "the gentle shepherdess," embodying the romantic adventures, and unfortunate fate of a lady belonging to the family of buckley, of buckley. and in this wide parish of rochdale, in the eastern nook of lancashire,--once a country fertile in spots of lone and rural prettiness, and thinly inhabited by as quaint, hearty, and primitive a people as any in england,--there is many a picturesque and storied dell; some tales of historic interest; and many an interesting legend connected with the country, or with the old families of the parish;--the byrons, of butterworth hall, barons of rochdale; the entwisles, of foxholes; the crossleys, of scaitcliffe; the holts, of stubley, grislehurst, and castleton; the cleggs, of clegg hall, the scene of the tradition of "clegg ho' boggart;" the buckleys, of buckley; the marlands, of marland; the howards, of great howard; the chadwicks, of chadwick hall, and healey hall; the bamfords, of bamford; the schofields, of schofield; the butterworths; the belfields; and many other families of ancient note, often bearing the names of their own estates, in the old way. in this part of south lancashire, the traveller never meets any considerable extent of level land; and, though the county contains great moors, and some mosses, yet there is not such another expansive tract of level country to be found in it as "chat moss," that lonely grave of old forests. south-east lancashire is all picturesque ups and downs, retired nooks, and "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," and little winding vales, with endless freaks of hill and hillock, knoll and dell, dingle and shady cleft, laced with numerous small streamlets, and clear rindles of babbling water, up to the foot of that wilderness of moorland hills, the "back-bone of england," which runs across the island, from derbyshire into scotland, and forms a considerable part of lancashire upon its way. the parish of rochdale partly consists of, and is bounded by, this tract of hills on the east and north; and what may be called the lowland part of the parish looks, when seen from some of the hills in the immediate neighbourhood, something like a sea of tempest-tossed meadows and pasture lands, upon which fleets of cotton mills ride at anchor, their brick masts rising high into the air, and their streamers of smoke waving in the wind. leaving the open part of the high road, opposite shaw house, and losing sight of buckley, we began to rise as we passed through brickfield up to smallbridge. this village is seated on an elevation, sloping gently from the northern bank of the river roch, which rise continues slightly through the village, and up northward, with many a dip and frolic by the way, till it reaches the hills above wardle fold, where nature leaps up in a wild and desolate mood. some of the lonely heights thereabouts have been beacon stations, in old times, and their names indicate their ancient uses, as "ward hill," above the village of wardle. "jack th' huntsman" used to declare, vehemently, that brown wardle hill was "th' finest hunting-greawnd i' lancashire." and then there is "tooter's hill," "hornblower's hill," and "hade's hill." from the summit of the last, the waters descend on one side to the irish sea, on the west, on the other to the german ocean, on the east. the remains of a large beacon are still visible on the top of it. looking southward, from the edge of smallbridge, the dale lies green and fair in the hollow below, and the silent roch winds through it towards rochdale town. the view stretches out several miles beyond the opposite bank of the river, over the romantic township of butterworth, up to the saddleworth hills. green and picturesque, a country of dairy farms, producing matchless milk and butter; yet the soil is evidently too cold and poor for the successful production of any kind of grain, except the hardy oat--and that crop mostly thin and light as an old man's hair. but even this extensive view over a beautiful scene, in other respects, lacks the charm which green woods lend to a landscape; for, except a few diminutive tufts and scattered patches, where young plantations struggle up, there are scarcely any trees. from smallbridge, taking a south-east direction, up by "tunshill," "dolderum," "longden end," and "booth dean," and over the stanedge road, into the ravines of saddleworth, would be a long flight for the crow; but to anybody who had to foot the road thither, it would prove a rougher piece of work than it looks. the village of smallbridge itself consists principally of one street, about half a mile long, lining the high road from rochdale to littleborough. it will have a dull, uninteresting look to a person who knows nothing, previously, of the place, nor of the curious generation dwelling thereabouts. smallbridge has a plain, hard-working, unpolished, every-day look. no wandering artist, in search of romantic bits of village scenery, would halt enchanted with smallbridge. it has no architectural relic of the olden time in it, nor any remarkable modern building--nothing which would tell a careless eye that it had been the homestead of many generations of lancashire men. it consists, chiefly, of the brick-built cottages, inhabited by weavers, colliers, and factory operatives, relieved by the new episcopalian church, at the eastern end, the little pepper-box bell-turret of which peeps up over the houses, as if to remind the rude inhabitants of something higher than bacon-collops and ale. about half a mile up the road which leads out of the centre of the village, northward, stands a plain-looking stone mansion, apparently about one hundred and fifty years old, called "great howarth." it stands upon a shapely knoll, the site of an older hall of the same name, and has pleasant slopes of green land about it, and a wide prospect over hill and dale. extensive alterations, in the course of the last hundred years, have destroyed most of the evidences of this place's age and importance; but its situation, and the ancient outbuildings behind, and the fold of cottages nestling near to the western side of the hall, with peeping bits of stone foundation, of much older date than the building standing upon them; the old wells, and the hue of the lands round about; all show that it has been a place of greater note than it is at present. this great howarth, or howard, is said to be the original settlement of the howard family, the present dukes of norfolk. some people in the neighbourhood also seem to believe this, for, as we entered smallbridge, we passed "the norfolk arms," a little public-house. one osbert howard was rewarded by henry i. ("beauclerk") for his faithful services, with lands situate in the township of honorsfield, or hundersfield, in the parish of rochdale, also with what is called "the dignified title of master of the buck hounds." robertus howard, abbot of stanlaw, was one of the four monks from this parish, whose names appear among the list of the fraternity, at the time of their translation to whalley. he died on the th of may, . dugdale, in his "baronage of england," says, respecting the howards, dukes of norfolk:--"i do not make any mention thereof above the time of king edward the first, some supposing that their common ancestor, in the saxon's time, took his original appellation from an eminent office or command; others, afterwards, from the name of a place." ... "i shall, therefore (after much fruitless search to satisfy myself, as well as others, on this point) begin with william howard, a learned and reverend judge of the court of common pleas, for a great part of king edward the first's and beginning of edward the second's time." so that there seems to be a possibility of truth in the assertion that great howard, or howarth, near smallbridge, was the original settlement of the howards, ancestors of the dukes of norfolk. but i must leave the matter to those who have better and completer evidence than this. aiken, in his "history of manchester," mentions a direful pestilence, which severely afflicted that town about the year . a pestilence called the "black plague" raged in the parish of rochdale about the same time. "the whole district being filled with dismay, none dared, from the country, to approach the town, for fear of catching the contagion; therefore, to remedy, as much as possible, the inconvenience of non-intercourse between the country and town's people, the proprietor of great howarth directed a cross to be raised on a certain part of his estate, near to black lane end, at smallbridge, for the purpose of holding a temporary market there, during the continuance of the plague." thence originated "howarth cross," so named to this day; also, the old "milk stones," or "plague stones," lately standing at about a mile's distance from the town of rochdale, upon the old roads. i well remember two of these, which were large, heavy flag-stones, with one end imbedded in the edge side, and the other end supported upon rude stone pillars. one of these two was in "milk stone lane," leading towards oldham, and the other at "sparth," about a mile on the manchester road. this last of these old "milk stones," or "plague stones," was recently taken down. i find that similar stones were erected in the outlets of manchester, for the same purpose, during the pestilence, about . the village of smallbridge itself, as i have said before, has not much either of modern grace or antique interest about its outward appearance. but, in the secluded folds and corners of the country around, there is many a quaint farmstead of the seventeenth century, or earlier, such as waterhouse, ashbrook hey, howarth knowl, little howarth, dearnley, mabroyd, wuerdle, little clegg, clegg hall (the haunt of the famous "clegg ho' boggart"). wardle fold, near wardle hall, was fifty years since only a small sequestered cluster of rough stone houses, at the foot of the moorland heights, on the north, and about a mile from smallbridge. it has thriven considerably by manufacture since then. in some of these old settlements there are houses where the door is still opened from without by a "sneck-bant," or "finger-hole." some of these old houses have been little changed for two or three centuries; around others a little modern addition has gathered in the course of time; but the old way of living and thinking lingers in these remote corners still, like little standing pools, left by the tide of ancient manners, which has gone down, and is becoming matter of history or of remembrance. there, and in the still more lonely detached dwellings and folds, which are scattered among the hills and cloughs of the "edge," they cling to the speech, and ways, and superstitions of their rude forefathers. a tribe of hardy, industrious, old-fashioned, simple-hearted folk, whose principal fear is poverty and "boggarts." they still gather round the fire, in corners where factories have not yet reached them, in the gray gloaming, and on dark nights in winter, to feed their imaginations with scraps of old legend, and tales of boggarts, fairies, and "feeorin," that haunt their native hills, and dells, and streams; and they look forward with joy to the ancient festivals of the year, as reliefs to their lonely round of toil. but smallbridge had other interests for us besides those arising out of its remote surrounding nooks and population. we had known the village ever since the time when a ramble so far out from rochdale seemed a great feat for tiny legs; and, as we passed each well-remembered spot, the flood-gates of memory were thrown open, and a whole tide of early reminiscences came flowing over the mind:-- floating by me seems my childhood, in this childishness of mine: i care not--'tis a glimpse of "auld lang syne." the inhabitants of different lancashire towns and villages have often some generic epithet attached to them, supposed to be expressive of their character; as, for the inhabitants of oldham and bolton, "owdham rough yeds," and "bowton trotters;" and the people of smallbridge are known throughout the vale by the name of "smo'bridge cossacks." within the last twenty years, the inhabitants of the village have increased in number, and improved in education and manners. before that time the place was notable for its rugged people; even in a district generally remarkable for an old-world breed of men and manners. their misdemeanours arose more from exuberant vigour of heart and body, than from natural moral debasement. twenty years since there was no church in smallbridge, no police to keep its rude people in order--no effective school of any sort. the weavers and colliers had the place almost to themselves in those days. they worked hard, and ate and drank as much as their earnings would afford, especially on holidays, or "red-letter days;" and, at by-times, they clustered together in their cottages, but oftener at the road-side, or in some favourite alehouse, and solaced their fatigue with such scraps of news and politics as reached them; or by pithy, idiomatic bursts of country humour, and old songs. sometimes these were choice snatches of the ballads of britain, really beautiful "minstrel memories of times gone by;" such as we seldom hear now, and still seldomer hear sung with the feeling and natural taste which the country lasses of lancashire put into them, while chanting at their work. some of burns's songs, and many songs commemorating the wars of england, were great favourites with them. passing by a country alehouse, one would often hear a rude ditty, like the following, sounding loud and clear from the inside:-- you generals all, and champions bold, who take delight i'th field; who knock down palaces and castle walls, and never like to yield; i am an englishman by birth, and marlbro' is my name; in devonshire i first drew breath, that place of noble fame. or this finishing couplet of another old ballad:-- to hear the drums and the trumpets sound, in the wars of high garmanie! i well remember that the following were among their favourites:--"o, nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me?" "jockey to the fair," "owd towler," "the banks of the dee," "black eyed susan," "highland mary," "the dawning of the day," "the garden gate," and "the woodpecker." there are, also, a few rough, humorous songs in the lancashire dialect, which are very common among them. the best of these is the rudely-characteristic ballad called "jone o' greenfelt," and "the songs of the wilsons," of which the following, known by the name of "johnny green's wedding," and "description of manchester college," by alexander wilson, is sufficient to show the manner and characteristics of the remainder of these popular local songs:-- neaw lads, wheer are yo beawn so fast? yo happun ha no yerd what's past: aw gettun wed sin aw'r here th' last, just three week sin come sunday. aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet, so nan an me agreed tat neet, at iv we could mak both eends meet, we'd be wed o' ayster monday. that morn', as prim as pewter quarts, aw th' wenches coom, a browt t' sweethearts; aw fund we're loike to ha' three carts,-- 'twur thrunk as eccles wakes, mon; we donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins to,-- one red, one green, an tone wur blue; so hey! lads, hey! away we flew, loike a race for th' leger stakes, mon. right merrily we drove, full bat; an eh! heaw duke an dobbin swat; owd grizzle wur so lawn an fat, fro' soide to soide hoo jow'd um: deawn withy grove at last we coom, an stopt at th' seven stars by gum, an drunk as mich warm ale an rum, as 'nd dreawn o' th' folk i' owdham. when th' shot wur paid, an th' drink wur done, up fennel-street, to th' church for fun, we doanced loike morris-doancers dun, to th' best o' aw my knowledge: so th' job wur done, i' hauve a crack; boh eh! what fun to get th' first smack; so neaw, my lads, 'fore we gwon back, says aw, "we'n look at th' college." we see'd a clock-case first, good laws! where deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws; his legs, an wings, an lantern jaws, they really look't quite feorink. there's snakes an watchbills, just like pikes, at hunt an aw th' reforming tikes, an thee, an me, an sam o' mikes, once took a blanketeerink. eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide, theer's yards o' books at every stroide, fro' top to bothum, eend, an soide, sich plecks there's very few so: aw axt him iv they wur'n to sell, for nan, loikes readink vastly well; boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell, or aw'd a bowt her robinson crusoe. theer's a trumpet speyks and maks a din, an a shute o' clooas made o' tin, for folk to go a feightink in, just like thoose chaps o' boney's; an theer's a table carved so queer, wi' as mony planks as days i'th year, an crinkum-crankums here an theer, like th' clooas-press at my gronny's. theer's oliver crumill's bombs and balls, an frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls, an swords, as lunk as me, o' th' walls, an bows an arrows too, mon: aw didno moind his fearfo words, nor skeletons o' men an burds; boh aw fair hate th' seet o' greyt lung swords, sin th' feight at peterloo, mon. we see'd a wooden cock likewise; boh dang it, mon, these college boys, they tell'n a pack o' starin' loies, as sure as teaw'rt a sinner: "that cock, when it smells roast beef, 'll crow," says he; "boh," aw said, "teaw lies, aw know, an aw con prove it plainly so, aw've a peawnd i' my hat for th' dinner." boh th' hairy mon had miss'd my thowt, an th' clog fair crackt by th' thunner-bowt, an th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt, theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon. theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed, aw colours, mak, shap, size, an breed; an if aw moot tell toan hauve aw see'd, we moot sit an smook till morn, mon. then deawn lung millgate we did steer, to owd mike wilson's goods-shop theer, to bey eawr nan a rockink cheer, an pots, an spoons, an ladles: nan bowt a glass for lookink in a tin dutch o'on for cookink in; aw bowt a cheer for smookink in, and nan axed th' price o' th' cradles. then th' fiddler struck up "th' honey moon," an off we set for owdam soon: we made owd grizzle trot to th' tune, every yard o' th' way, mon. at neet, oytch lad an bonny lass, laws! heaw they doanc'd an drunk their glass; so toyst wur nan an me, by th' mass, at we lee till twelve th' next day, mon. when the horn sounded to gather the harriers, or the "foomart dogs," the weaver lads used to let go their "pickin'-pegs," roll up their aprons, and follow the chase afoot, with all the keen relish of their forefathers, returning hungry, tired, and pleased at night, to relate the adventures of the day. sometimes they sallied from the village, in jovial companies, attended by one or more of their companions, to have a drinking-bout, and challenge "th' cocks o' th' clod" in some neighbouring hamlet. such expeditions often led to a series of single combats, in which rude bodily strength and pluck were the principal elements of success; sometimes a general _melée_, or "welsh main," took place; often ending in painful journeys, with broken bones, over the moors, to the "whitworth doctors." as far as rough sports and rough manners went, "the dule" seemed to have "thrut his club" over smallbridge in those days. that man was lucky who could walk through the village without being assailed by something more inconvenient than mere looks of ignorant wonder, and a pelting of coarse jokes; especially if he happened to wear the appearance of a "teawn's buck." they had a kind of contempt for "teawn's folk," as an inferior race, especially in body. if town's people had more intelligence than was common in the country, these villagers often affected to consider it a knavish cleverness; and if they seemed externally clean, they looked upon it as an hypocritical concealment of the filth beneath. if they were well dressed, the old doubt arose, as to its being "o' paid for;" and if one appeared among them who had no settled home or connections, and whose demeanour they did not like, he had "done summat wrang somewheer, or elze he'd ne'er ha' bin o' that shap." in fact, it was hardly possible for people bred in a town to be as clean, strong, or honest, as those bred in the country. town's folk had nothing wholesome about them; they were "o' offal an' boylin-pieces." when they visited manchester, or any of the great towns about, they generally took a supply of eatables with them for the journey; "coud frog-i'-th'-hole puddin," or "fayberry cake," or "sodden moufin an' cheese," or such like homely buttery-stuff; for if they had occasion to enter any strange house in such places, to satisfy their hunger, every mouthful went down among painful speculations as to what the quadruped was when alive, and what particular reason it had for departing this life. burns alludes affectionately to "the halesome parritch, chief o' scotia's food;" and oatmeal porridge, and oat-cake, enter largely into the diet of the country people in this part of lancashire. they used to pride themselves in the name of "the havercake lads." a regiment raised in lancashire during the last war bore this name. this oat-cake is baked upon a peculiar kind of stone slab, called a "back-stone;" and the cry of "havercake back-stones" is a familiar sound in rochdale, and the villages around it, at this day. oatmeal porridge forms an important element of a genuine lancashire breakfast in the country. i have often noticed the air of satisfaction with which a lancashire housewife has filled up the great breakfast bowl with hot oatmeal porridge, and, clapping the pan on the floor, said, "theer, lads, pultiz yo'r stomachs wi' thoose!" and the hungry, hearty youngsters have gathered hastily round their old dish, welcoming it with the joyous ejaculation of "that's th' mak'!" the thick unleavened oat-cake, called "jannock," is scarcely ever seen in south-east lancashire now; but it used to be highly esteemed. the common expression, "that's noan jannock," applied to anything which is not what it ought to be, commemorates the fame of this wholesome old cake of theirs. but they have no inclination to an exclusively vegetarian diet; in fact, they generally express a decided relish for "summat at's deed ov a knife;" and, like their ancient progenitors, the saxons, they prefer heavy meals, and long draughts, to any kind of light epicurean nicety. there are many old prejudices still cherished by the country people of south-east lancashire,--as is their old belief in witches, witch-doctors, and "planet-rulers;"--but they are declining, through increasing communion with the rest of the world. and then these things show only the unfavourable side of their character; for they are hospitable, open-handed, frank, and benevolent by nature. how oft have i seen them defend the downcast and the stranger; or shut up ungenerous suspicions, and open all the sluices of their native kindness by the simple expression, "he's somebody's chylt!" "owd roddle" is a broken-down village fuddler in smallbridge; perpetually racking his brains about "another gill." his appearance is more that of an indian fakeer than an english country gentleman. he is as "concayted as a whisket" in some things, but not in eating or drinking; for he will "seawk lamp-hoyle through a bacco-pipe if onybody'll give him a droight o' ale to wesh it deawn wi'; an' as for heytin', he'll heyt mortal thing--deeod or alive--if he con get his teeth into't." a native of smallbridge was asked, lately, what "roddle" did for his living, and he replied, "whaw, he wheels coals, and trails abeawt wi' his clogs loce, an' may's a foo' of his-sel' for ale." yet, utterly lost as roddle is himself in person and habits, he is strongly imbued with the old prejudices against town's folk. to him, the whitest linen worn by a townsman, is only what the country folk call a "french white." a well-dressed person from rochdale chanced one day to awaken "roddle's" ire, who, eyeing him from head to foot, with a critical sneer, said, "shap off whoam, as fast as tho con, an' get tat buff shurt sceawr't a bit, wilto; an' thy skin an' o; for theawr't wick wi' varmin; an' keep o' thy own clod, whol tho con turn eawt some bit like." "but," continued my informant, "aw'm a bit partial to th' offal crayter, for o' that; he's so mich gam in him, and aw like a foo i' my heart! eh! he used to be as limber as a treawt when he're young; but neaw he's as wambly an' slamp as a barrow full o' warp-sizin'. th' tother mornin' aw walked up to him for a bit ov a crack, as uzal, but th' owd lad had getten his toppin cut off close to his yed; an' he wacker't an' stare't like a twichelt dog; an' he gran at mo like mad. aw're forc't dray back a bit, at th' first, he glooart so flaysome. it're very frosty, an' his een looked white and wild; an' as geawl't as a whelp. if the dule had met roddle at th' turn of a lone that mornin' he'd a skriked hissel' eawt ov his wits, an' gwon deawn again. eawr measther sauces me sometimes for talkin' to roddle; but aw olez tell him at aw'st have a wort wi' th' poor owd twod when aw meet him, as what onybody says." there is a race of hereditary sand-sellers, or "sond-knockers," in smallbridge; a rough, mountaineer breed, who live by crushing sandstone rock, for sale in the town of rochdale, and the villages about it. this sand is used for strewing upon the flagged house floors, when the floor is clean washed; and while it is yet damp, the sand is ground over it by the motion of a heavy "scouring-stone," to which a long, strong, wooden handle is firmly fixed, by being fastened to an iron claw, which grasps the stone, and is embedded into it by molten lead. the motion of the "scouring-stone" works the flags into smoothness, and leaves an ornamental whiteness on the floor when it gets dry; it breeds dust, however, and much needless labour. the people who knock this sand and sell it, have been known over the country side for many years by the name of "th' kitters;" and the common local proverb, "we're o' of a litter, like kitter pigs," is used in smallbridge, as an expression of friendship or of kinship. as regular as saturday morning came, the sand-carts used to come into rochdale, heavily laden; and i remember that they were often drawn by horses which, like the steed of the crazy gentleman of spain, were "many-cornered;" and, often, afflicted by some of the more serious ills which horse-flesh is heir to. they have better horses now, i believe, and they are better used. the train of attendants which usually accompanied these sand-carts into the town was of a curious description. hardy, bull-necked, brown-faced drivers, generally dressed in strong fustian, which, if heavily plated with patches in particular quarters, was still mostly whole, but almost always well mauled, and soiled with the blended stains of sand, and spilt ale, and bacon fat, with clumsily-stiched rips visible here and there: the whole being a kind of tapestried chronicle of the wearer's way of living, his work, his fights, fuddles, and feasts. then they were often bare-headed, with their breeches ties flowing loose at the knees, and the shirt neck wide open, displaying a broad, hairy, weather-beaten chest; and the jovial-faced, dutch-built women, too, in blue lin aprons, blue woollen bedgowns, and clinkered shoon; and with round, wooden, peck and half-peck measures tucked under their arms, ready for "hawpoths" and "pennoths." as the cart went slowly along, the women went from house to house, on each side of the road, and, laying one hand upon the door cheek, looked in with the old familiar question, "dun yo want ony sond this mornin'?" "ay; yo may lev a hawputh. put it i' this can." when they came to an old customer and acquaintance, sometimes a short conversation would follow, in a strain such as this: "well, an heaw are yo, owd craythur?" "whaw, aw'm noan as aw should be by a deeol. aw can heyt nought, mon, an' aw connut tay my wynt." "aw dunnot wonder at tat; yo'n so mich reech abeawt here. if yo'rn up at th' smo'bridge, yo'dd'n be fit to heyt yirth-bobs an' scaplins, welly. mon, th' wynt's clen up theer, an' there's plenty on't, an' wi can help irsels to't when we like'n. wi'n yo come up o' seein' us?" "eh, never name it! aw's ne'er get eawt o' this hole till aw'm carried eawt th' feet formost!" "come, wi'n ha' noan o' that mak o' talk! aw'd as lief as a keaw-price at yo'dd'n come. yo'n be welcome to th' best wi han, an wi'n may yo comfortable beside; an' bring yo deawn again i'th cart. but ir jem's gwon forrud wi' th' sond. let's see; did'n yo gi' mo th' hawp'ny?... oh, ay! it'll be reet! neaw tay care o' yorsel', and keep yo'r heart eawt o' yo'r clogs!" when the cart came to a rut or a rise in the road, all hands were summoned to the push, except one who tugged and thumped at the horse, and another who seized the spokes of the wheel, and, with set teeth and strained limbs, lent his aid to the "party of progress" in that way. sometimes a sturdy skulker would follow the cart, to help to push, and to serve out sand; but more for a share of the fun, and the pile of boiled brisket and cheese an' moufin, stowed away in the cart-box at starting, to be washed down with "bally-droights" of cold fourpenny at some favourite "co'in-shop" on the road. the old custom of distinguishing persons by christian names alone, prevails generally in smallbridge, as in all country parts of lancashire, more or less. it sometimes happens, in small country villages like this, that there are people almost unknown, even among their own neighbours, by their surnames. roby gives an instance of this kind in his "traditions of lancashire," where he mentions a woman, then living in the village of whitworth, for whom it would be useless to inquire there by her proper name; but anybody in the village could have instantly directed you to "susy o' yem's o' fairoff's, at th' top o' th' rake," by which name she was intimately known. individuals are often met whose surnames have almost dropt into oblivion by disuse, and who have been principally distinguished through life by the name of their residence, or some epithet descriptive of a remarkable personal peculiarity, or some notable incident in their lives. such names as the following, which will be recognised in their locality, are constantly met, and the list of them might be extended to any desirable degree:--"tum o' charles o' billy's," or "red tum," "bridfuut," "corker," "owd fourpenny," "tum o' meawlo's," "rantipow," and "ab o' pinder's," who fought a battle in the middle of the river roch, at a great bull-bait in rochdale, more than thirty years ago; "bull robin," "jone o' muzden's," "owd moreover," and "bonny meawth." this last reminds me of the report of a young villager, near smallbridge, respecting the size of the people's mouths in a neighbouring district. "thi'n th' bigg'st meawths i' yon country," said he, "at ever i seed clapt under a lip! aw hove one on 'em his yure up, to see if his meawth went o' reawnd; but he knockt mo into th' slutch." many of these quaint names rise in my memory as i write: "owd dragon," "paul o' bill's," "plunge," "ben o' robin's o' bob's o' th' bird-stuffers, o' buersil yed," "collop," "tolloll," "pratty strider," "lither dick," and "reawnt legs,"-- reawnt legs he wur a cunnin' owd twod, he made a mule draw a four-horse lwod. and then there was "johnny baa lamb," a noted character in rochdale twelve years ago. he was low in stature, rather stout, and very knock-knee'd; and his face was one paradise of never-fading ale-blossoms. johnny's life was spent in helping about the slaughter-houses, and roaming from alehouse to alehouse, where, between his comical appearance, his drunken humour, his imitations of the tones of sheep, lambs, and other animals, and his old song,-- the mon and the mare, flew up in the air, an' i think i see 'em yet, yet, yet;-- the chorus of which he assisted by clattering a poker on the hearth, he was a general favourite, and kept himself afloat in ale--the staple of his ambition--by being the butt of every tap-room, where his memory remains embarmed. there was "barfuut sam," a carter, who never would wear any foot-gear; "ab o' slender's," "broth," "steeom," "scutcher," "peawch," and "dick-in-a-minnit." most of these were as well known as the church clock. and then there was "daunt o' peggy's," "brunner," "shin 'em," "ayli o' joe's o' bet's o' owd bullfuut's," and "fidler bill," who is mentioned in the lancashire song, "hopper hop't eawt, an' limper limp't in,"-- then aw went to th' peel's arms to taste of their ale; they sup'n it so fast it never gwos stale! an' when aw'd set deawn, an' getten a gill, who should come in boh fidler bill. he rambles abeawt through boroughs an' teawns, a' sellin' folk up as boh ow'n a few peawnds; and then there was "jone o' isaac's," the mower; "peyswad," and "bedflock," who sowed blend-spice in his garden for parsley seed; and "owd tet, i' crook," an amiable and aged country woman, who lived in a remote corner of the moors, above smallbridge, and whose intended husband dying when she was very young, she took it deeply to heart. on being pressed to accept the hand of a neighbour, who knew her excellent qualities, she at last consented, assuring him, however, that her heart was gone, and all that she could promise him was that she could "spin an' be gradely;" which saying has become a local proverb. in the forest of rosendale, i have met with a few names of more curious structure than even any of the previous ones, such as "eb o' peg's o' puddin' jane's," "bet o' owd harry's o' nathan's at th' change," "enoch o' jem's o' rutchot's up at th' nook," "harry o' mon john's," "ormerod o' jem's o' bob's," and "henry o' ann's o' harry's o' milley's o' ruchots o' john's o' dick's, through th' ginnel, an' up th' steps, an' o'er joseph's o' john's o' steen's," which rather extraordinary cognomen was given to me by a gentleman, living near newchurch, as authentic, and well known in a neighbouring dale. in a village near bolton, there was, a few years since, a letter-carrier who had so long been known by a nickname, that he had almost forgotten his proper name. by an uncommon chance, however, he once received a letter directed to himself, but not remembering the owner, or anybody of that name, he carried the letter in his pocket for several days, till he happened to meet with a shrewd old villager, whom his neighbours looked upon as "larn't up," and able to explain everything--from ale, bull-dogs, and politics, to the geography of the moon and the mysteries of theology. the postman showed his letter to this delphic villager, inquiring whether he knew anybody of that name. the old man looked an instant, then, giving the other a thump, he said, "thea foo', it's thisel'!" i have heard of many an instance, in different parts of lancashire, where some generic "john smith," after being sought for in vain for a while, has been at last discovered concealed under some such guise as "iron jack," "plunge," "nukkin," or "bumper." i remember an old religious student, in rochdale, who used to take considerable pains in drilling poor lads into a knowledge of the holy scriptures. the early part of the bible was his favourite theme; and he interlarded his conversation with it to such a degree, that he won for himself the distinguished title of "th' five books o' moses." in collier's tale of "tummus and meary," he illustrates the personal nomenclature of these parts, in his own time, by the following passage, which, though it may appear strange in the eyes of people dwelling in the great cities of the south of england, yet does not exaggerate the custom at present prevailing in the remoter parts of the county of lancaster:-- _meary._ true, tummus; no marvel at o' wur so flayed; it wur so fearfo dark. _tummus._ heawe'er, aw resolv't mayth best on't, an up speek aw.--"woooas tat?" a lad's voyce answer't in a cryin' din, "eh, law; dunnah tay meh." "naw," said aw, "aw'll na tay tho, belady! whooaslad art to?" "whau," said he, "aw'm jone o' lall's o' simmy's, o'mariom's o' dick's o' nathan's, o' lall's, o' simmy's i'th hooms: an' aw'm gooin' whoam." "odd," thinks aw t' mysel', "theaw's a dree-er name ti'n me." an' here, meary, aw couldn't boh think what lung names some on us han; for thine and mine are meeterly; boh this lad's wur so mich dree-er, 'at aw thowt it dockt mine tone hawve. _meary._ preo, na; tell meh ha these lung names leet'n. _tummus._ um--m; lemme see. aw conno tell tho greadly; boh aw think it's to tell folk by. _meary._ well, an' hea did'n he go on with him? _tummus._ then (as aw thowt he talkt so awkertly) aw'd ash him, for th' wonst, what uncuths he yerd sturrin'. "aw yer noan," said he, "but 'at jack o' ned's towd mo, 'at sam o' jack's o' yed's marler has wed mall o' nan's o' sal's o' peg's, 'at gos abeawt o' beggin' churn milk, with a pitcher, with a lid on." then aw asht him wheer jack o' ned's wooant. says he, "he's 'prentice weh isaac o' tim's o' nick's o'th hough-lone, an' he'd bin at jammy's o' george's o' peter's i'th dingles, for hawve a peawnd o' traycle, to seaws'n a beest-puddin' weh; an' his feyther an' moother wooan at rossenda; boh his gronny's alive, an' wooans weh his noant margery, eh grinfilt, at pleck wheer his noan moother coom fro'." "good lad," says aw, "boh heaw far's tis _littlebrough_ off, for aw aim't see it to-neet iv he con hit." says t' lad, "it's abeawt a mile; an' yo mun keep straight forrud o' yor lift hont, an yoan happen do." so a-this'n we parted; boh aw mawkint, an' lost my gate again, snap. a curious instance of the prevalence of nicknames in this district occurred, a few years since, about a mile from smallbridge. a country lass had got married out of a certain fold in that part, and going down to rochdale soon after, a female acquaintance said to her, "whau, sally, thea's getten wed, hasn't to?" "yigh," said sally, "aw have." "well, an' what's te felly code?" replied the other. "whau," said sally, "some folk co's him 'jone o' nancy's lad, at th' pleawm heawse;' but his gradely name's 'clog bant.'" we sometimes hear of a son who bears the same christian name as his father, as "jamie o' james's," and "sol ov owd sol's o' th' hout broo;" and i have often heard a witless nursery rhyme, which runs,-- owd tum an' yung tum, an' owd tum's son; yung tum'll be a tum when owd tum's done; but the poor people of lancashire sometimes have a superstitious fear of giving the son the same christian name as the father. the ancient rural festival of "rushbearing," in the month of august, used to make a great stir in smallbridge; but the observance of it seems to decline, or, at least, assumes a soberer form. a great number of local proverbs, and quaint sayings, are continually being thrown up by the population there, which, in spite of their rude garb, show, like nuggets of mental gold, what undeveloped riches lie hidden in the human mind, even in smallbridge. the people are wonderfully apt at the discernment and at the delineation of character. it is very common for them to utter graphic sentences like the following:--"he's one o' thoose at'll lend onybody a shillin', iv they'n give him fourteen-pence to stick to." one of them said, on receiving a present of game from his son in yorkshire, "it isn't oft at th' kittlin' brings th' owd cat a meawse, but it has done this time." there are two or three out of a whole troop of anecdotes, told of the natives of this quarter, which have the air of nature about them sufficiently to indicate what some of the characteristics of these villagers were in past years. two young men were slowly taking their road, late one night, out at the town end, after the fair, when one of them lingering behind the other, his comrade shouted to him to "come on!" "stop an' rosin," said the loiterer, "aw hannut foughten yet!" "well," replied the other, with cool indifference, "get foughten, an' let's go whoam?" in the rev. w. gaskell's lectures on the lancashire dialect, he says, "the following dialogue is reported to have taken place between two individuals on meeting:--'han yo bin to bowton?' 'yigh.' 'han yo foughten?' 'yigh.' 'han yo lickt'n?' 'yigh; an' aw browten a bit'n him whoam i' my pocket!'" "owd bun" was a collier, and a comical country blade, dwelling near smallbridge. he was illiterate, and rough as a hedgehog. bun had often heard of cucumbers, but had never tasted one. out of curiosity he bought a large one, curved like a scimitar; and, reckless of all culinary guidance, he cut it into slices lengthwise, and then fried the cold green slabs, all together, in bacon fat. he ate his fill of them, too; for nothing which mortal stomach would hold came amiss to bun. when he had finished, and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, "by th' mon, fine folk'll heyt aught! aw'd sanur ha' had a potito!" they tell a tale, too, of the difficulties of a poor factory lass who had been newly married; which is not without its hints. her husband told her to boil him some eggs, and to "boyle 'em soft." he went out awhile, and on his return, they were boiling, but not ready. he waited long, and then shouted, "are thoose eggs noan ready yet?" "naw," said she, "they are nut; for, sitho, aw've boyled 'em aboon an heawur, an' they're no softer yet." now he did not care much for this; but when he saw her take the child's nightcap off its head to boil his dumpling in, he declared that "he couldn't ston it." leaving smallbridge, we rattled out at the end of the village, past the red lion, and up to the top of the slope, where, after a run of about two hundred yards, we descended into the hollow where the sign of the old "green gate" stands. in the season of the year, people passing that way in a morning will often see the door-way crowded with hunting dogs, and a rout of sturdy rabble, waiting to follow the chase, afoot, through the neighbouring hills. rising again immediately, we crossed another knoll, and down again we came to the foot of the brow, where four roads meet, close by the "green mon inn," opposite to the deserted hamlet of wuerdale, which perches, with distressed look, upon a little ridge near the roadside, like an old beggar craving charity. on we went, enjoying the romantic variety of the scene, as the green ups and downs of the valley opened out to view, with its scattered farms and mills, all clipt in by the hills, which began to cluster near. about half a mile further on, where the road begins to slant suddenly towards featherstall, stubley hall stands, not more than twenty yards from the roadside. a much older hall than the present one must have stood here prior to the th century, for in , and , mention is made of nicholas and john de stubley (his. whalley). it subsequently came into the possession of the holt family, of grislehurst and castleton; a branch of the holts, of sale, ashton, cheshire. some of this family fought in the scottish wars, and also, in favour of the royal cause, at edgehill, newbury, marston moor, &c., and were named in charles's projected order of the royal oak. there was a judge holt, of the holts of sale; and a james holt, whose mother was co-heiress to sir james de sutton; he was killed on flodden field. mary, the daughter of james holt, the last of the family who resided at castleton, in this parish, married samuel, brother of the famous humphrey cheetham. the castleton estate came into humphrey's hands in . the manor of spotland was granted by henry viii. to thomas holt, who was knighted in scotland by edward, earl of hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of that king. the holts were the principal landowners in the parish of rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. john holt held the manor of spotland, with its appurtenances; also fourscore messuages, three mills, one thousand acres of inclosed land, three hundred acres of meadow, one thousand acres of pasture, and forty acres of woods, in hundersfield, spotland, and butterworth; besides a claim to hold of his majesty, as of his duchy of lancaster, one third of the manor of rochdale. the arms of the holts are described as "argent on a band engrailed sable, three fleur-de-lys of the first. crest, a spear head proper. motto, 'ut sanem vulnera.'" the present hall at stubley was built by robert holt, about the year . dr. whittaker notices this house, which is of considerable size, forming three sides of a square. it is now inhabited by several families; and much of the rich old carved oak, and other relics of its former importance, have been removed from the interior. from the top of the slope near stubley, we now saw the spire of litteborough church, and the village itself, prettily situated at the head of the vale, and close to the foot of the hills which divide lancashire and yorkshire. on the top of blackstone, and about half a mile to the south of "joe faulkner's,"--the well-known old sheltering spot for travellers over that bleak region,--we could now more distinctly see the streak of green which marks the line of the roman road till it disappears from the summit of the edge. featherstall is a little hamlet of comfortable cottages at the bottom of the brow in the high road near stubley hall, warmed by the "rising sun," and another, an old-fashioned public-house, apparently as old as the present stubley hall. the inhabitants are principally employed at the mills and collieries in the neighbourhood. the open space in the centre of the village is generally strewn with scattered hay, and the lights from the public-houses gleam forth into the watering troughs in front, as the traveller goes through at night. a rough old road leads out of the centre of the place, northward, over calder moor and the hills, towards todmorden. from featherstall, the approach to litteborough is lined with mills, meadows, and tenter-fields, on the north side; and on the south, two or three green fields divide the highway from the railway, and a few yards on the other side of the railway the line of the rochdale canal runs parallel with both. and thus these three roads run nearly close together past litteborough, and all through the vale of todmorden, up to sowerby bridge, a distance of twelve miles; and, for a considerable part of the way, the river forms a fourth companion to the three roads, the four together filling the entire bottom of the valley in some places; and, in addition to that, may be seen, in other parts, the old pack-horse roads leading down from the moorland steeps into the hollow. carts, boats, railway trains, and sometimes pack-horses, seem to comment upon one another as they pass and re-pass, and form a continual and palpable lecture on modes of transit, such as is not often met with in such distinct shape. littleborough consists, principally, of one irregular street, winding over a slight elevation, and down to its centre near the railway station, at the water-side, and thence across the bridge, up towards blackstone edge. it is a substantial, healthy-looking village, prettily situated in a romantic spot. there are many poor working people in the village, but there is hardly anything like dirt or squalor to be seen there, except, perhaps, a little of that migratory kind which is unavoidable in all great thoroughfares, and which remains here for a night, on its way, at a roadside receptacle which i noticed at the western end of the village, where i saw on a little board certain ominous hieroglyphics about "loggins for travlurs." the lands in the valley round littleborough have the appearance of fine meadow and pasture; and, taken with the still better cultivated grounds, and woods and gardens, about the mansions of the opulent people of the neighbourhood, the whole looks beautifully verdant, compared with the bleak hills which overlook the vale. the old royal oak inn, in the middle of the village, is pointed out as a house which john collier used to frequent, when he visited the neighbourhood, and where he fixed the scene of tummus's misadventure in the inn, where he so unadvisedly "eet like a yorsharmon, and clear't th' stoo," after he had been to the justice with his dog, "nip," and where the encounter took place between "mezzilt face" and "wythen kibbo:"-- aw went in, an fund at two fat throddy folk wooant theer; an theyd'n some o'th warst fratchingst company at e'er eh saigh; for they'rn warrying, banning, and co'in one another "leawsy eawls," as thick as leet, heawe'er, aw poo'd a cricket, an keawr't meh deawn i'th nook, o' side o'th hob. aw'd no soyner done so, boh a feaw, seawer-lookt felley, with a wythen kibbo he had in his hont, slapt a sort ov a wither, mezzilt-face't mon, sich a thwang o'th skawp, at he varry reecht again with it, an deawn he coom o'th harstone, an his heeod i'th esshole. his scrunt wig feel off, an ahontle o' whot corks feel into't, an brunt an frizzlt it so, at when he awst don it, an unlucky carron gen it a poo, an it slipt o'er his sow, an it lee like a howmbark on his shilders. aw glendurt like a stickt tup, for fear ov a dust mysel', an crope fur into th' chimbley. oytch body thowt at mezzil-face would mey a flittin on't, an dee in a crack; so some on um cried eawt, "a doctor, a doctor," whol others made'n th' londlort go saddle th' tit to fotch one. while this wur eh doin', some on um had leet ov a kin ov a doctor at wooant a bit off, an shew'd him th' mon o'th harstone. he laid howd on his arm--to feel his pulse, a geawse--an poo'd as if he'd sin deeoth poo'in' at th' tother arm, an wur resolv't o'er-poo him. after lookin' dawkinly-wise a bit, he geet fro his whirly booans, an said to um aw, "whol his heart bhyet and his blood sarkilates there's hopes, boh whon that stops, it's whoo-up with him i'faith." mezzil-face hearin summot o' "whoo-up," started to his feet, flote noan, boh gran like a foomart-dog, an seet at t' black, swarffy tyke weh bwoth neaves, an wawtud him o'er into th' galker, full o' new drink, wortchin'. he begun o' pawsin' an peylin him into't so, at aw wur blendud together, snap. 'sflesh, meary; theaw'd ha' weet teh, to sin heaw th' gobbin wur awtert, when at tey pood'n him eawt; an what a hobthurst he look't weh aw that berm abeawt him. he kept dryin' his een, boh he moot as weel ha' sowt um in his hinder-end, till th' londlady had made an heawer's labber on um at th' pump. when he coom in again, he glooart awvishly at mezzil-face, an mezzil-face glendurt as wrythenly at him again; boh noather warrit, nor thrap. so they seet um deawn, an then th' londlady coom in, an would mey um't pay for th' lumber at tey'd done hur. "mey drink's war be a creawn," said hoo, "beside, there's two tumblers, three quiftin pots, an four pipes masht, an a whol papper o' bacco shed." this made um t' glendur at tone tother again; boh black tyke's passion wur coolt at th' pump, an th' wythen kibbo had quite'nt tother, so at teh camm'd little or noan--boh agreed t' pay, aw meeon; then seet'n um deawn, an wur friends again in a snift. this house used to be a great resort on saturday nights, and fair days, and holidays, and it was often crammed with the villagers and their neighbours from the surrounding hill-sides; and no small addition from rochdale and todmorden. the windows were generally thrown open at such times; and, standing at some distance from the place, one might perhaps be able, in some degree, to sort the roar of wassailry going on inside. but if he wished to know what were the component parts of the wild medley of melodies, all gushing out from the house in one tremendous discord, he would have to draw under the windows, where he might hear:-- our hounds they were staunch, and our horses were good as ever broke cover, or dashed in a wood; tally-ho! hark forward, huzza; tally-ho! whilst, in another corner of the same room, a knot of strong-lunged roysterers joined, at the top of their voices, in the following chorus, beating time to it with fists and feet, and anything else which was heavy and handy:-- "then heigho, heigho! sing heigho," cried he; "does my wife's first husband remember me?" fal de ral, de ral, de ral, de rido! in another room he would probably hear "boyne water" trolled out in a loud voice:-- the horse were the first that ventured o'er; the foot soon followed after: but brave duke schomberg was no more, at the crossing o' boyne water. whilst another musical tippler, in an opposite corner, sang, for his own special amusement, the following quaint fragment:-- owd shoon an' stockin's! an' slippers at's made o' red leather! in another quarter you might hear the fiddle playing the animated strains of the "liverpool hornpipe," or "the devil rove his shurt," while a lot of hearty youngsters, in wooden clogs, battered the hearthstone to the tune. in a large room above, the lights flared in the wind, as the lads and lasses flitted to and fro in the "haymaker," "sir roger de coverley," or "the triumph;" or threaded through a reel, and set till the whole house shook; whilst from other parts of the place you would be sure to hear, louder than all else, the clatter of pots, and hunting-cries; the thundering hurly-burly of drunken anger, or the crash of furniture, mingling with the boisterous tones of drunken fun. whoever entered this house at such a time, in the hope of finding a quiet corner, where he could be still, and look round upon the curious mixture of quaint, rough character, would very likely find that he had planted himself in the retreat chosen by a drunken, maudlin fellow, who, with one eye closed, sat uttering, by fits, noisy salutations of affection to the pitcher of ale before him; or, with one leg over the other, his arms folded, and his head veering lazily with drunken langour, first to one side, and then to the other, poured forth a stream of unconnected jargon, in this style:--"nea then; yollo chops! what's to do wi' thee? arto findin' things eawt? whether wilto have a pipe o' bacco or a bat o' th' ribs? aw've summat i'th inside o' my box; but it looks like a brunt ratton, bi guy! help thysel', an' poo up, whol aw hearken tho thi catechism.... con te tell me what natur belungs to?--that's the poynt! come, oppen eawt! aw'm ready for tho.... an' if thea's nought to say, turn thi yed; aw dunnut like to be stare't at wi' a bigger foo nor mysel'.... sup; an' gi' me houd!... there's a lot o' nice, level lads i' this cote, isn't there?... aw'll tell tho what, owd dog; th' world swarms wi' foos, donn'd i' o' maks o' clooas; an' aw deawt it olez will do; for, as fast as th' owd uns dee'n off, there's fresh uns comes. an, by th' mass, th' latter lot dunnut mend thoose at's gwon; for o' at te're brawsen wi' wit. it'd mend it a bit iv oytch body'd wortch for their livin', an' do as they should'n do. ay; thea may look as fause as to likes; but thae'rt one o'th rook; an' thae'll dee in a bit, as sure as thae'rt livin', owd craytur. thae'rt to white abeawt th' ear-roots to carry a gray toppin whoam, aw deawt. gray yure's heavy, mon; it brings 'em o' to th' floor. but thir't to leet for heavy wark, my lad.... behave thysel'; an' fill thi bally when tho's a choance, for thea looks clemmed. arto leet gi'n? 'cose, i' tho art, thae'd betthur awter, or elze thea'll be lyin' o' thi back between two bworts, wi' thi meawth full o' sond; afore th' hawve o' thi time's up.... sitho at yon bletherin', keaw-lipped slotch, wi' th' quart in his hond! he's a breet-lookin' brid, isn't he? aw dar say thae thinks thysel' bwoth hon'somer an' fauser nor him. thae may think so, but--aw know. thae'rt no betthur nor porritch--i'tho're look't up; for o' at to's sich a pratty waiscut on. what breed arto? there's summat i' that. but, it meeons nought; yo're o' alike at th' bothom! there's ir jammy; he's as big a wastril as ever stare't up a lone. he ax't me to lend him ov er lads, yesterday. 'lend te a lad o' mine,' aw said, 'naw, bi' th' heart! aw wouldn't lend te a dog to catch a ratton wi'!... hello! my ale's done! 'then he doffed his shoon, an he look't i'th o'n.' aw'll go toaurd ir mally, aw think. hey, blossom! beauty! beawncer! bluebell! for shame o' thysel', bluebell! by, dogs; by! yo-ho! come back, yo thieves! come back; aw tell yo!" and so on, for hours together. littleborough is the last village the traveller leaves on the lancashire side of the "edge;" and the old high road from manchester to leeds passes over the top of these moorland hills, gently ascending all the way from littleborough, by a circuitous route, to the summit--nearly three miles. a substantial hostelrie stands upon the brow of the hill, called "the white house," and sometimes "joe faulkner's," from the name of an eccentric landlord who kept the house in the old coaching time. this house can be seen from the valleys on the lancashire side for many miles. it was a celebrated baiting-place for the great stream of travellers which went over these hills, before the railway drew it through the vale of todmorden. the division stone of the counties of york and lancaster stands about half a mile beyond this old inn. littleborough itself is prettily situated in the hollow of the valley, at the foot of this wild range of mountains, and at the entrance of the todmorden valley. it is surrounded by scenery which is often highly picturesque. dark moorlands, lofty and lonesome; woody cloughs; and green valleys, full of busy life; with picturesque lakes, and little streams which tumble from the hills. the village has many advantages of situation, both for pleasure and manufacture. stone and coal, and good water, are abundant all around it; and it is fast thriving by the increase of woollen and cotton manufacture. it is still a great thoroughfare for lancashire and yorkshire; and a favourite resort for botanists, geologists, sportsmen, and, not unfrequently, invalids. northward from the village, there are many romantic cloughs, but, perhaps, the finest of these is the one called "long clough," at the head of which is a remarkably fine spring, called "blue pots spring." the artificial lake of "hollingworth" is about half a mile from the village, on the south side; and there is a beautiful walk leading up to its bank, through the shady clough called "cleggswood." this lake, when full, is three miles round. it supplies the rochdale canal, and is well stocked with fish. its elevation places it far above the bustle of the valley below, where the highways and byeways, the iron-ways and water-ways, interweaving thickly about the scene, are alive with the traffic of the district. the valley is throng with the river, the railway, the canal, and excellent high roads; and a hardy and industrious population, which finds abundant employment at the woollen and cotton mills, in the coal mines and stone delphs, or on the dairy and sheep farms of this border region of south lancashire. the shelvy banks of "hollingworth" consist of irregular tiers and slopes of pasture, meadow, and moor lands. the latter are, in some directions, abrupt, lofty, and vast, especially on the eastern side, where the sterile mass of blackstone edge shuts out the view; whilst a wild brotherhood of heathery hills, belonging to the same range, wind about the scene in a semicircle, which stretches far away, out of sight, in the north-west. but the landscape upon the immediate borders of the lake is of a rural and serene character, though touched here and there with moorland sterility; and there is hardly a thing in sight to remind a spectator that he is surrounded by the most populous manufacturing district in the world. but the distant rumble of train after train, thundering through the neighbouring valley, and the railway whistle, rising up clear over the green hill north of the water, are sufficient to dispel any reverie which the sight of the lake and its surrounding scenery may lead to. on holidays, in summer time, the green country around the margin of this water is animated by companies of visitors from the hill sides, and the villages and towns of the neighbouring valleys. a little steamer plies upon it; and boats may be hired at the fisherman's inn, and other places around the banks. the scattered farm-houses of the vicinity, and the two or three country inns on the borders of the lake, are merry with pleasure parties. in winter, the landscape about "hollingworth" is wild and lonesome; and the water is sometimes so completely frozen over that a horse and light vehicle may be driven across it, from bank to bank, a mile's distance. it is a favourite resort of skaters, from the surrounding districts; though the ice is often dangerously uneven in some places, by reason of strong springs, and other causes. many accidents have happened through skating upon insecure parts in the ice of this water. going home late one night in the depth of winter, to my residence by the side of this lake, i found the midnight scene dimly illumined in the distance by a gleam of lights upon the lake; and the sound of pick-axes breaking up the ice, fell with a startling significance upon the ear. our dog, "captain," did not come out to meet me, when i whistled, as usual; and i hurried, by a short cut over the fields and through the wood, towards the spot where the lights were visible. there i found a company of farmers and weavers, standing upon the bank, with one or two of the wealthy employers from the village of littleborough, who had drags in their hands, and were giving directions to a number of workmen who were breaking a channel for the passage of a boat to a spot where the ice had broken in with the weight of three young men belonging to the neighbourhood. this melancholy midnight gathering were working by lantern-light, to recover the bodies from the water. i remained upon the spot until two of the corpses were brought to the bank, and removed in a cart to the farm-house where i resided, previous to being conveyed to their homes in the distant town, later on in the morning, and while it was yet dark. i shall never forget the appearance of those fresh-looking youths, as they lay stretched side by side, in their skating gear, upon a table, in the long passage which led up to my bed-chamber. the margin of the lake is adorned with patches of wood in some places; and the hills stand around the scene in picturesque disorder. at certain seasons of the year, flocks of wild fowl may be seen resting upon its waters. there are other lakes farther up in the hills; but the position and beauty of hollingworth make it a favourite with visitors to the district. when westling winds and slaughtering guns bring autumn's pleasant weather, the littleborough inns are throng with sportsmen, equipped for the grouse shooting; for which sport the moors of the neighbourhood are famous. littleborough has a modern look from the railway station, near to which the new church stands, on a slight elevation, about the centre of the place, and upon the site of the old one. yet, though the village has a modern appearance, everything known of its history shows that it is a settlement of considerable antiquity; perhaps, as early as the time of agricola, the roman. the old chapel at littleborough, which was a primitive building in appearance, was licensed for mass, by the abbot of whalley, a.d. . it remained in its original architectural state until it became dangerously ruinous in some parts, and was taken down about thirty years ago, to make way for the present church. the _gentleman's magazine_, for , p. , contains an interesting description of the new church. in the immediate vicinity of littleborough, there are several interesting old houses, now standing upon sites where families of importance in past times settled very early. some of these families have become extinct in the male line; the property of others has changed hands, like scholefield hall, stubley hall, lightowlers, and windy bank. few of these old families have held together and flourished, through the mutations of time, like the family of newall, of town house, near littleborough, respecting which i find the following passage in the _gentleman's magazine_, june, , p. , which serves to elucidate the character and position of a large portion of the ancient landlords of the parish of rochdale:-- the family of newall is one of those ancient families who have for centuries resided on their parental estate, but in the retirement of respectable life holding the rank of yeomanry, which, in former times, and particularly in the age when the newalls first settled in lancashire, formed no unimportant portion of society--sufficiently elevated beyond the humbler classes to preserve a tolerable degree of influence and authority amongst them; while they were sheltered in their retirement from those political storms which distracted the higher circles of the community, and which led to the ruin of many of the best families of the kingdom, and to the confiscation of their estates. burke's _visitation of seats and arms_ contains a long account of the newalls, of town house, hare hill, and wellington lodge, littleborough, an influential family in this neighbourhood during several centuries past; and still owners and occupiers of their old estates, as well as extensive woollen manufacturers. the following arms, illustrative of the connections of the newall family, are placed, with others, in the window of littleborough chapel:-- kyrkeshagh, of town house: or, on a chief per pale gules and sable three bezants. litholres, of litholres: vert, a lion rampant, or semé of calthraps sable. newall, of town house: quarterly, first and fourth, per pale gules and azure, three covered cups within an orle or: second, kyrshagh: third, healey, gules, four lozenges engrailed in bend ermine: fourth, butterworth, argent, a lion couchant azure, between four ducal coronets gules. buckley, of howarth parva: a chevron between three bulls' heads caboshed argent; quartering butterworth. (the chadwicks of healey quarter buckley of buckley. goll. arm.) holt, of stubley: argent on a bend engrailed sable three fleurs-de-lis of the field. (also quartered by the chadwicks. coll. arm.) belfield, of cleggswood: ermine, on a chief qu. a label of five points ar. ten other shields contain the arms of the ancient families of the district, as bamford of shore, ingham of cleggswood, halliwell of pike house, &c., and those used by the bishop of the diocese, the clergy connected with the parish, and some of the gentry of the neighbourhood. as we left littleborough, i began, once more, to speculate upon the claims set up for it as having been a roman station; but my thoughts had no firmer footing than the probabilities put forth by dr. whittaker, and some other writers, who have, perhaps, followed him. yet, the fact that the silver arm of a small roman statue of victory, with an inscription thereon, was dug up in the neighbourhood some time ago, together with the direction of the roman road as marked in the late ordnance map, and the visible remains of a small, triangular-shaped entrenchment, on each side of the road, on the summit of blackstone edge, seem to support the probabilities which gave rise to the opinion, and may yet enable the antiquarians of lancashire to give us something more certain about the matter than i can pretend to. passing under the railway arch near the church, and leaving the woody glen of cleggswood on the right hand, we began to ascend the hills by the winding road which crosses the canal, and leads through a little hamlet called "th' durn," consisting of an old substantial house or two by the roadside, and a compact body of plain cottages, with a foundry in the middle. "th' durn" is situated on one of the shelves of land which the high road crosses in the ascent of blackstone edge; and overlooks the vale in the direction of todmorden. it is shaded on the south by a steep hill, clothed with fir, and stunted oaks. over that hill-top, on the summit of a wild eminence, above the din and travel of mankind, stand three remarkable old folds, called "th' whittaker," "th' turner," and "th' sheep bonk," like eagles' nests, overlooking, on the east, the heathery solitudes lying between there and blackstone edge, the silent domain of moor fowl and black-faced sheep; seldom trodden by human feet, except those of a wandering gamekeeper, or a few sportsmen, in august. looking forth from this natural observatory, about where "th' whittaker" stands, the view to westward takes in an extensive landscape. the vale of the roch is under the eye in that direction, with its pretty sinuosities, its receding dells, and indescribable varieties of undulation; nearly surrounded by hills, of different height and aspect. distance lends some "enchantment to the view," as the eye wanders over the array of nature spread out below--green dells, waving patches of wood, broad, pleasant pastures; the clear lake of "hollingworth" rippling below; old farm-houses, scattered about the knolls and cloughs, by the side of brooklets that shine silverly in the distance; the blue smoke curling up distinctly from each little hamlet and village; mills, collieries, tenter-fields, and manifold evidences of the native industry and manufacturing vigour of the district. in these valleys, all nature seems to yield tribute to the energy of the inhabitants, and rural life and manufacture work into each other's hands with advantage. standing on this spot, with these things spread out before me, i have been struck with the belief, that this unfavourable region for agriculture would not have been so well cultivated even as it is now, but for the manufacturing system. far west, the eye rests upon the town of rochdale, with its clusters of chimneys, and hovering canopy of smoke; the small square tower of its old church, and the steeples of st. stephen's and st. james's, with the town-clad ridges of wardleworth and castleton, clearly seen, if the day be fine. on a still sunday afternoon, in summer time, i have sat upon the hill-top at "whittaker," listening to the distant sound of rochdale bells, that notable peal of eight, the music of which i shall never forget; and which i would back for a trifle against any bells in england for sweetness. and, at such a time, as evening came on, when "lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea," i have almost fancied that i could hear the sunday chime of rochdale old church, "my soul, praise the lord," come floating up the vale, in the twilight, with a wonderful charm of peace and solemnity in the sound. immediately above "th' durn," the high road leading up to blackstone edge rises again as we pass by the old public-house called "th' wet rake," or "weet rake." this house stands at the foot of a steep path leading to "windy bank," an old stone hall, once inhabited by an ancient family of the neighbourhood. windy bank stands upon the edge of a rocky eminence, rising almost perpendicularly from the road-side by which we had to go. there used to be a carter in rochdale, known by the name of "old woggy," who upset his cart in the craggy road called "windy bonk steele." he returned to his master in the town with the tidings. "woggy" always stammered in his speech, but in this case he was worse than usual; and his looks told more than his tongue. his master watched in vain for "woggy's" painful delivery, in the usual way; but tired at last, he said, "sing it, mon!" when "wog" immediately sang out, with a fluent voice,-- aw've wauted wi' th' cart at th' wyndy bonk steele, an' aw've broken th' tone wheel. as we wound round the foot of the rock on the top of which "windy bank" stands, we found the road rutty and uneven, being covered with the perishable sandstone from the hill, broken up and ploughed into slushy gutters, by stone-waggons from the quarries, thereabouts. pike house, the seat of the old local family of halliwell--one of whom endowed the free school at littleborough--stands near the north side of the road here; and, at a short distance behind, there is an interesting house, formerly of some importance, with a quaint fold attached, called "lightowlers." driving on close by the edge of the deep clough called "sladen hollow," a hundred yards more brought us to the "moor cock inn," formerly a much more lively place than now, when this mountain road was the great thoroughfare between lancashire and yorkshire. the "moor cock" was the last house but one on the lancashire side of blackstone edge. the house has a rude, wholesome look still, but is little frequented. few folk go up that road now, except stone-getters, sand-knockers, shepherds, sportsmen, and a few curious wanderers. we agreed to leave the drag at the "moor cock," and walk up blackstone edge on foot. "gray bobby" was pleased with the prospect of a feed and a rest; for it is tough work upon these hill-sides. he seemed to look round with a thoughtful eye, and pricked his ears to the tread of the brisk young mountaineer--albeit he had a lame leg and a crutch--who came forth to lose his traces and lead him to the stable. as "bobby" looked at the stable, i could almost imagine him saying to himself, "there's no place like home;" it looked so rough. in the house we found a few hardy-looking men; brown-faced, broad-shouldered moor farmers or shepherds, apparently, who did a little weaving. their sagacious dogs lounged about the floor. such men, in such places, generally receive strangers as if they were "fain to see aught at's wick." they happened to have a liberal newspaper among them, and free trade was the topic of their talk; as it was almost everywhere at that time. their conversation showed, by its sensible earnestness, that there were men, even up there, who knew who paid for the great protection delusion. i have often been amused by the blunt, shrewd discourse of country people in the manufacturing districts, respecting the difference in the condition and feelings of the people in the reigns of "george o' owd george's," and his brother, "bill o' george's," and the condition of the people now, in the reign of the "little woman at coom a-seein' us latly." in previous reigns, the tone of their loyalty might have been summed up in what "jone o' greenfelt" says of his wife, "margit:"-- hoo's naut ogen th' king, but hoo likes a fair thing, an' hoo says hoo con tell when hoo's hurt. i have heard them talk of kings, and statesmen, "wi' kindling fury i' their breasts;" and, in their "brews" and clubs, which meet for the spread of information, they discuss the merits of political men and measures, and "ferlie at the folk in lunnon," in a shrewd, trenchant style, which would astonish some members of the collective wisdom of the nation, could they but conveniently overhear it. the people of lancashire, generally, are industrious collectors of political information, from such sources as they can command. they possess great integrity of judgment, and independence of character, and cannot be long blinded to the difference between wise statesmen and political knaves. they are an honest and a decent people, and would be governed by such. they evince some sparks of perception of what is naturally due to themselves, as well as to their masters; and they only know how to be loyal to others who are loyal to themselves. when the lame ostler had attended to his charge, he came into the house and sat down with the rest. somehow, the conversation glided in the direction of robert burns, and we were exchanging quotations from his poems and songs, when one of us came to a halt in reciting a passage. to our surprise, the young limper who had rubbed down "grey bobby," took up the broken thread, and finished the lines correctly, with good discretion, and evident relish. i fancied that we were having it all to ourselves; but the kind-hearted poet who "mourned the daisy's fate," had been at the "moor cock" before us, and touched a respondent chord in the heart of our ostler. i forget who it is that says, "it is the heart which makes the life;" but it is true, and it is the heart which sings in robert burns, and the heart will stir to the sound all the world over. how many political essays, and lectures, and election struggles, would it take to produce the humanising effect which the song, "a man's a man for a' that," has awakened? it would sound well in the british houses of parliament, sung in chorus, occasionally, between the speeches. after resting ourselves about three-quarters of an hour in the moor cock, we started up the hill-side, to a point of the road a little past the toll-bar and the old oil-mill in the hollow, at the right hand. here we struck across the moor, now wading through the heather, now leaping over ruts and holes, where blocks of stone had been got out; then squashing through a patch of mossy swamp, and sinking into the wet turf at every step, till we reached the moss-covered pavement, which the ordnance surveyors have called a "roman road." it is entirely out of any way of travel. a clearly-defined and regular line of road of about forty feet wide, and which we traced and walked upon up to the summit of the edge, and down the yorkshire side, a distance of nearly two miles from our starting place upon the track. we could distinguish it clearly more than a mile beyond the place we stopped at, to a point where it crossed the road at ripponden, and over the moor beyond, in a north-westerly direction, preserving the same general features as it exhibited in those parts where it was naked to the eye. here and there, we met with a hole in the road, where the stones of the pavement had been taken out and carried away. while we were resting on a bank at this old road-side, one of the keepers of the moor came up with his dogs, and begged that we would be careful not to use any lights whilst upon the moor, for fear of setting fire to the heath, which was inflammably-dry. i took occasion to ask him what was the name of the path we were upon. he said he did not know, but he had always heard it called "th' roman road." at a commanding point, where this old pavement reaches the edge of "blackstone," from the lancashire side, the rocky borders of the road rise equally and abruptly, in two slight elevations, opposite each other, upon which we found certain weather-worn blocks of stone, half buried in the growth of the moor. there was a similarity in the general appearance, and a certain kind of order visible, in the arrangement of these remains, which looked not unlikely to be the relics of some heavy ancient masonry, once standing upon these elevations; and at the spot which is marked, is the line of the "roman road," in the ordnance maps, as an "entrenchment." the view along the summits of the vast moors, from any of the higher parts of this mountain barrier between the two counties of lancaster and york, looks primevally-wild and grand, towards the north and south; where dark masses of solitude stretch away as far as the eye can see. in every other direction, the landscape takes in some cultivated land upon the hill-sides, and the bustle and beauty of many a green vale, lying low down among these sombre mountains; with many a picturesque and cultivated dingle, and green ravine, higher up in the hills, in spots where farm-houses have stood for centuries; sometimes with quaint groups of cottages gathered round them, and clumps of trees spreading about, shading the currents of moorland rivulets, as they leap down from the hills. in the valleys, the river winding through green meadows; mansions and mills, villages and churches, and scattered cottages, whose little windows wink cheerfully through their screen of leaves-- old farms remote, and far apart, with intervening space of black'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's pleasant face: the white and winding road, that crept through village, glade, and glen, and o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men. standing upon these proud and rugged desolations, which look down upon the changeful life of man in the valleys at their feet, with such an air of strength and serenity, whilst the toiling swarms of lancashire and yorkshire are scattered over the landscape beyond, in populous hives--the contrast is peculiarly strong; and i have wondered whether these old hills, which have seen the painted celt tracking his prey through the woods and marshes below, and worshipping "in the eye of light," among wild fanes of rock, upon these mountain wildernesses--which have heard the tread of the legions of old rome; and have watched the brave saxon, swinging his axe among the forest trees, and, with patient labour, slowly making these valleys into green and homely pasturages; and which still behold the iron horses of modern days, rushing along the valley every hour, snorting fire and steam: i have wondered whether the hills, at whose feet so many generations of brave men have come and gone, like swathes of grass, might not yet again see these native valleys of mine as desolate and stirless as themselves. these moorland hills, the bleak companions of mist, and cloud, and tempest, rise up one after another upon the scene, till they grow dim on the distant edge of the sky. lying upon my back, among the heather, i looked along the surface of the moors; and i shall long remember the peculiar loneliness of the landscape seen in that way. nothing was in sight but a wild infinity of moors and mountain tops, succeeding each other, like heaving waves, of varied form. not a sign of life was visible over all the scene, except immediately around us, where, now and then, a black-faced sheep lifted its head above the heather, and stared, with a mingled expression of wonder and fear, at the new intruders upon its solitary pasturage. occasionally, a predatory bird might be seen upon these hills, flitting across the lone expanse--an highwayman of the skies; and, here and there, the moorfowl sprang up from the cover, in whirring flight, and with that wild clucking cry, which, in the stillness of the scene, came upon the ears with a clearness that made the solitude more evident to the senses. a rude shepherd's hut, too, could be seen sheltering near a cluster of crags upon the hill-side, and hardly distinguishable from the heathery mounds, which lay scattered over the surface of the moor. but, in the distance, all seemed one wilderness of untrodden sterility--as silent as death. the sky was cloudless whilst we wandered upon those barren heights: and the blue dome looked down, grandly-calm, upon the landscape, which was covered with a glorious sunshine. no stir of air was there; not so much life as on a summer day robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, but where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest heaven and earth were two magnificent stillnesses, which appeared to gaze serenely and steadily at each other, with the calm dignity and perfect understanding of ancient friends, whose affinities can never be unsettled, except by the fiat of him who first established them. looking horizontally along the moors, in this manner, nothing was visible of those picturesque creases, which lie deep between these mountain ridges, and teem with the industrious multitudes of lancashire and yorkshire. these hills form part of a continuous range, running across the island, in different elevations, and familiarly known as the "backbone of england." looking southward and south-east, in the direction of the rocky waste called "stanedge,"--which is crossed by the high road from manchester to huddersfield--and "buckstones," which, according to local tradition, was formerly an highwayman's haunt,--the whole country is one moorland wild; and the romantic hills of saddleworth, with the dim summits of the derbyshire mountains, bound the view. northward, the landscape has the same general appearance. in this direction, studley pike lately occupied the summit of a lofty moorland, overlooking the valley between hebden bridge and the town of todmorden; which is part of a district famous for its comely breed of people, and for the charms of its scenery. studley pike was a tall stone tower, erected to commemorate the restoration of peace, at the end of our wars with napoleon. singularly, it came thundering to the ground on the day of the declaration of war against russia. on the west, the valley of the roch, with its towns and villages, stretches away out from this group of hills. littleborough nestles immediately at the foot of the mountain; and the eye wanders along the vale, from hamlet to hamlet, till it reaches the towns of rochdale, bury, heywood, middleton, and the smoky canopy of manchester in the distance. on a favourable day, many other large and more distant lancashire towns may be seen. on the east, or yorkshire side, looking towards halifax, the hills appear to be endless. the valleys are smaller and more numerous, often lying in narrow gorges and woody ravines between the hills, hardly discernable from the distance. the mountain sides have a more cultivated look, and hovering halos of smoke, rising up from the mountain hollows, with, sometimes, the tops of factory chimneys peering out from the vales, show where villages like ripponden and sowerby are situated. on the distant edge of the horizon, a grey cloud hanging steadily beyond the green hill, called "king cross" marks the locality of the town of halifax. green plots of cultivated land are creeping up the steep moors; and comfortable farm-houses, with folds of cottages, built of the stone of the district, are strewn about the lesser hills, giving life and beauty to the scene. for native men, the moors of this neighbourhood, as well as the country seen from them, contain many objects of interest. the hills standing irregularly around; the rivers and streams; the lakes and pools below, and in the fissures of the mountains--we knew their names. the lakes, or reservoirs, about blackstone edge, form remarkable features in its scenery. one of these, "blackstone edge reservoir," takes its name from the mountain upon whose summit it fills an extensive hollow. this lake is upwards of two miles, close by the water's edge. the scenery around it is a table-land, covered with heather, and rocks, and turfy swamps. the other two, "white lees" and "hollingworth," lie lower, about half way down the moors: "white lees" in a retired little glen, about a mile north-west of the "white house," on the top of blackstone edge; and "hollingworth," the largest and most picturesque of the three, is situated about two miles south-west of the same spot. close by the side of the high road from lancashire, over these hills into yorkshire, this old hostelry, known as "th' white house," is situated near the top of blackstone edge, looking towards lancashire. the division-stone of the two counties stands by the road-side, and about half a mile eastward of this public-house. the northern bank of the road, upon which the division-stone stands, shuts out from view the lake called "blackstone edge reservoir"--a scene which "skylark never warbles o'er." a solitary cart-road leads off the road, at the corner of the reservoir, and, crossing the moor in a north-easterly direction, goes down into a picturesque spot, called "crag valley," or "the vale of turvin," for it is known by both names. this valley winds through the heart of the moors, nearly four miles, emptying itself at mytholmroyd, in the vale of todmorden. fifty years ago, "crag valley" was an unfrequented region, little known, and much feared. now there are thriving clusters of population in it; and pretty homesteads, in isolated situations, about the sides of the clough. manufacture has crept up the stream. "turvin" is becoming a resort of ramblers from the border towns and villages of the two counties, on account of the picturesque wildness of its scenery. in some places the stream dashes through deep gorges of rock, overhung with wood; peeping through which, one might be startled by sight of a precipitous steep, shrouded with trees, and the foaming water rushing wildly below over its fantastic channel. there are several mills in the length of the valley now; and, in level holms, down in the hollow, the land is beautifully green. the vale is prettily wooded in many parts; but the barren hills overlook the whole length of turvin. in former times, the clough was notable among the people of the surrounding districts, as a rendezvous of coiners and robbers; and the phrase "a turvin shilling," grew out of the dexterity of these outlaws, who are said to have lurked a long time in the seclusion of this moorland glen. approaching turvin by the rough road across the moor, from the top of blackstone edge, it leads into a deep corner of the valley, in which stands the church of "st. john's in the wilderness," built a few years ago, for the behoof of the inhabitants of the neighbouring moors, and for a little community of factory people in this remote nook of the earth. upon the summit of one of the neighbouring mountains, there is a great platform of desolation, distinguished, even among this stony waste, as "the wilderness;" and i think that whoever has visited the spot will be inclined to say that the roughest prophet that ever brooded over his visions in solitary places of the earth, could not well wish for a wilder patmos than this moor-top. on the right hand of the public-house, near st. john's church, several rough roads lead in different directions. the centre one goes up through a thick wood which clothes the mountain side, and on by winding routes to this "cloud-capped" wilderness. on a distant part of this bleak tract stand two remarkable druidical remains, called "th' alder stones," or the "altar stones,"--sombre masses of rock, upon which the druid priests of our island performed their sacrificial rites, before the wild celts of the district. the position and formation of these stones, which have each a sloping top, with a hollow in the middle, and a channel thence downward, seem to confirm the character attributed to them. returning from "st. john's in the wilderness," towards blackstone edge, a quaint stone building, called "crag hall," occupies a shady situation upon the hill-side, at the right hand of the vale, and at the edge of the wild tract called "erringdale moor." this ancient hall contains many specimens of carved oak furniture, which have been preserved with the building, from the time of its old owners. a few years ago, the keeper of erringdale moor dwelt in it, and kept the place in trim as a lodge, for the entertainment of the owners of the moor, and their sporting friends, in the grouse season. between the moor-side on which "crag hall" is situated, and the road up to the top of blackstone edge, a moorland stream runs along its rocky channel, in the deep gut of the hills. i remember that many years ago i wandered for hours, one summer day, up this lonely water, in company with a young friend of mine. in the course of our ramble upon the banks of the stream, little dreaming of any vestiges of human creation in that region, we came almost upon the roof of a cottage, rudely, but firmly built of stone. we descended the bank by a sloping path, leading to the door. there was no smoke, no stir nor sound, either inside or out; but, through the clean windows, we saw a pair of hand-looms, with an unfinished piece upon them. we knocked repeatedly, hoping to obtain some refreshment after our stroll; but there was no answer; and just as we were about to leave the lonely tenement, and take our way homewards--for the twilight was coming on, and we had nearly ten miles to go--we heard the sound of a pair of clogs in the inside of the cottage; and the door was opened by a tall, strong man, apparently about thirty-five years of age. his clear-complexioned face was full of frankness and simplicity. his head was large and well-formed, and covered with bristling brown hair, cut short. yawning, and stretching his arms out, he accosted us at once--as if we were old friends, for whom he had been looking some time--with, "well, heaw are yo, to-day?" we asked him for a drink of water. he invited us in, and set two chairs for us in a little kitchen, where the furniture was rudely-simple and sound, and everything in good order, and cleaned to its height. he brought forth pitchers full of buttermilk, plenty of thick oat-cakes, and the sweet butter for which these hills are famous; and we feasted. the cool of the evening was coming on, and there was no fire in his grate; so he fetched a great armful of dry heather from an inner room, and, cramming it into the fire-place, put a light to it. up blazed the inflammable eilding, with a crackling sound, making the room look cheerful as himself. a few books lay upon the window-sill, which we asked leave to look at. he handed them to us, commenting on them, in a shrewd and simple way, as he did so. they were chiefly books on mathematics, a science which he began to discourse upon with considerable enthusiasm. now, my young companion happened to have a passion for that science; and he no sooner discovered this affinity between himself and our host, than to it they went pell-mell, with books and chalk, upon the clean flags; and i was bowled out of the conversation at once. leaving them to their problems, and circles, and triangles, i walked out upon the moor; and sitting upon a knoll above the house, wrote a little rhyme in my note-book, which some years after appeared in the corner of a manchester newspaper. when i returned they were still at it, ding-dong, about something or another in differential calculus; and i had great difficulty in impressing upon the mind of my companion the important area lying between us and our homes. this lonely mathematician, it seemed, was a bachelor, and he got his living partly by weaving, and partly by watching the moor, for the owners; and as i looked upon him i almost envied the man his strong frame, his sound judgment, his happy unsophisticated mind, and his serene and simple way of life. he walked over the moor with us nearly two miles, without hat, conversing about his books, and the lonely manner of his life, with which he appeared to be perfectly contented. at our parting, he pressed us to come over the moors again the first opportunity, and spend a day with him at his cottage. i have hardly ever met with another man who seemed so strong and sound in body; and so frank, and sensible, and simple-hearted, as this mathematical eremite of the mountains. that enthusiastic attachment to science, which so strongly distinguishes him in my remembrance, is a common characteristic of the native working-people of lancashire, among whom, in proportion to the population, there is an extraordinary number of well-read and practised mechanics, botanists, musicians, and mathematicians; and the booksellers in the towns of the county, know that any standard works upon these subjects, and some upon divinity, are sure to find a large and ready sale among the operative classes. we wore the afternoon far away in rambling about the high and open part of blackstone edge, between the group of rocks called "robin hood's bed," and the solitary inn called the "white house," upon the yorkshire road. wading through fern and heather, and turfy swamps; climbing rocks, and jumping over deep gutters and lodgments of peaty water, had made us so hungry and weary, that we made the best of our way to this inn, while the sun was yet up above the hills. here, the appetite we had awakened was amply satisfied; and we refreshed, and rested ourselves a while, conversing about the country around us, and exchanging anecdotes of its remarkable local characters, and reminiscences of our past adventures in the neighbourhood. many of these related to "old joe," the quaint gamekeeper, at hollingworth, a kind of local "leather stocking," who has many a time rowed us about the lake in his fishing-boat. when we came out of the inn, the sun had gone down upon the opposite side of the scene. night's shadows were climbing the broad steeps; but the summit-lines of the hills still showed in clear relief, against the western sky, where the sunset's glory lingered. in every other direction, the skirts of the landscape were fading from view. rochdale town, with its church tower and stacks of tall chimneys, had disappeared in the distance. the mountainous wastes stretching away on the north, south, and east, were melting into indistinct masses; and, below the hills, quiet evening's dreamy shades were falling softly down, and folding away for the night the hamleted valleys between blackstone edge and the boundary of the scene. day's curtains were closing to; the watchers of night were beginning their golden vigil; and all the air seemed thick with dreams. we descended from the moor-top by a steep path, which diverges, on the right-hand side of the highway, a little below the "white house," and cuts off a mile of the distance between that point and the "moor cock," where we had left "grey bobby" and the "whitechapel." far down, from scattered cots and folds, little lights were beginning to glimmer. that frontlet jewel of mild evening's forehead--"the star that bids the shepherd fold"--was glowing above us, and, here and there, twinklings of golden fire were stealing out from the blue expanse. as we picked our way down the moor, the stillness of the tract around us seemed to deepen as the light declined; and there was no distinguishable sound in the neighbourhood of our path, except the silvery tricklings of indiscernable rills. from the farms below, the far-off bark of dogs and lowing of cattle came floating up, mingled with the subdued rush and rattle of railway trains, rushing along the valley. half an hour's walk down the hill brought us back to the "moor cock." limper, the ostler, got "grey bobby" from the stable, and put him into the harness. out came the folk of the house, to see us off. our frisky tit treated us to another romp; after which we drove down the road, in the gloaming, and on through littleborough and smallbridge, to rochdale, by the light of the stars. the town of heywood and its neighbourhood. nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy. --wordsworth one saturday afternoon, about midsummer, i was invited by a friend to spend a day at his house, in the green outskirts of heywood. the town has a monotonous, cotton-spinning look; yet, it is surrounded by a pleasant country, and has some scenery of a picturesque description in its immediate neighbourhood. several weeks previous to this invitation had been spent by me wholly amongst the bustle of our "cotton metropolis," and, during that time, i had often thought how sweetly summer was murmuring with its "leafy lips" beyond the town, almost unseen by me except when i took a ride to a certain suburb, and wandered an hour or two in a scene upon which the season seemed to smile almost in vain, and where the unsatisfactory verdure was broken up by daub-holes and rows of half-built cottages, and the air mixed with the aroma of brick-kilns and melting lime. sometimes, too, i stole down into the market-place, on a saturday morning, to smell at the flowers and buy a "posy" for my button-hole. it reminded me of the time when i used to forage about my native hedges, for bunches of the wild rose and branches of white-blossomed thorn. but now, as the rosy time of the year grew towards its height, i began to hanker after those moors and noiseless glens of lancashire, where, even yet, nature seems to have it all her own way. i longed for the quiet valleys and their murmuring waters; the rustling trees; and the cloudless summer sky seen through fringed openings in the wildwood's leafy screen. somebody says, that "we always find better men in action than in repose;" and though there are contemplative spirits who instinctively shun the din of towns, and, turning to the tranquil seclusions of nature, read a lofty significance in its infinite forms and moods of beauty, yet, the grand battle of life lies where men are clustered. great men can live greatly anywhere; but ordinary people must be content to snatch at any means likely to improve or relieve their lot; and it will do any care-worn citizen good to "consider the lilies of the field" a little, now and then. country folk come to town to relieve the monotony of their lives; and town's folk go to the country for refreshment and repose. to each the change may be beneficial--at least i thought so; and, as light as leaf upon tree, i hailed my journey; for none of robin hood's men ever went to the greenwood with more pleasure than i. it was nearly three when we passed the old church, on our way to the station. the college lads, in their quaint blue suits, and flat woollen caps, were frolicking about the quadrangle of that ancient edifice which helps to keep alive the name of humphrey chetham. the omnibuses were rushing by, with full loads. i said "full loads;" but there are omnibuses running out of manchester, which i never knew to be so full that they would not "just hold another." but on we went, talking about anything which was uppermost; and in a few minutes we were seated in the train, and darting over the tops of that miserable jungle known by the name of "angel meadow." the railway runs close by a little hopeful oasis in this moral desert--the "ragged school," at the end of ashley lane; and, from the carriage window, we could see "charter-street"--that notable den of manchester outcasts. these two significant neighbours--"charter-street" and the "ragged school"--comment eloquently upon one another. here, all is mental and moral malaria, and the revelry of the place sounds like a forlorn cry for help. there the same human elements are trained, by a little timely culture, towards honour and usefulness. any man, with an unsophisticated mind, looking upon the two, might be allowed to say, "why not do enough of _this_ to cure _that_?" on the brow of red bank, the tower and gables of st. chad's church overlook the swarming hive which fills the valley of the irk; and which presents a fine field for those who desire to spread the gospel among the heathen, and enfranchise the slave. and if it be true that the poor are "the riches of the church of christ," there is an inheritance there worth looking after by any church which claims the title. up rose a grove of tall chimneys from the streets lining the banks of the little slutchy stream, that creeps through the hollow, slow and slab, towards its confluence with the irwell; where it washes the base of the rocks upon which, five hundred years ago, stood the "baron's hall," or manor house of the old lords of manchester. on the same spot, soon after the erection of the collegiate church, that quaint quadrangular edifice was built as a residence for the warden and fellows, which afterwards became, in the turns of fortune, a mansion of the earls of derby, a garrison, a prison, an hospital, and a college. by the time we had taken a few reluctant sniffs of the curiously-compounded air of that melancholy waste, we began to ascend the incline, and lost sight of the irk, with its factories, dyehouses, brick-fields, tan-pits, and gas-works; and the unhappy mixture of stench, squalor, smoke, hard work, ignorance, and sin, on its borders; and, after a short stoppage at miles platting, our eyes were wandering over the summer fields. nature was drest in her richest robes; and every green thing looked lush with beauty. as we looked abroad on this wide array, it was delightful to see the sprouting honeysuckle, and the peace-breathing palm; and there, too, creeping about the hedges, was that old acquaintance of life's morning, the bramble, which will be putting forth "its small white rose" about the time that country folk begin to house their hay; and when village lads in lancashire are gathering gear to decorate their rush-hearts with. clustering primroses were there; and the celandine, with burnished leaves of gold; and wild violets, prancked with gay colours; with troops of other wild flowers, some full in view, others dimly seen as we swept on;--a world of floral beauty thickly embroidering the green mantle of the landscape, though beyond the range of discriminating vision; but clear to the eye of imagination, which assured us that these stars of the earth were making their old haunts beautiful again. the buttercup was in the fields, holding its pale gold chalice up to catch the evening dews. here and there grew a tuft of slender-stemmed lilies, graceful and chaste; and then a sweep of blue-bells, tinging the hedge-sides and the moist slopes under the trees with their azure hue--as blue as a patch of sky--and swinging the incense from their pendent petals into the sauntering summer wind. then came the tall foxglove, and bushes of the golden-blossomed furze, covered with gleaming spears, upon the banks of the line. oh, refulgent summer! time of blossoms and honeydews; and flowers of every colour! thy lush fields are rich with clover and herb-grass! thy daylights glow with glory; thy twilights are full of dreamy sights and sounds; and the sweetest odours of the year perfume the air, when the butterfly flits from the flowering tree; and the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee! the throstle sang loud and clear in the trees and dells near the line, as we rolled along; and the blithe "layrock" made the air tremble, between heaven and the green meadows, with his thrilling lyric. that tall, white flower, which country folk call "posset," spread out its curdy top among the elegant summer grasses, quietly swaying to and fro with the wind. and then the daisy was there! there is no flower so well becomes the hand of a child as the daisy does! that little "crimson-tippet" companion of the lark, immortalised in the poet's loving wail! tiny jewel of the fields of england; favourite of the child and of the bard! daisies lay like snow upon the green landscape; and the hedges were white with the scented blossom of the thorn. to eyes a little tired of the city's hives of brick-- where stoop the sons of care, o'er plains of mischief, till their souls turn grey-- it was refreshing to peer about over the beautiful summer expanse, towards the blue hills rising on the edge of the horizon, solemn and serene. my own impression of the natural charms of this part of lancashire is, perhaps, a little warmer and more accepting than that of an unbiassed stranger would be; for the wheels are beautiful which roll me towards the country where i first pulled the wild flowers and listened to the lark. in this district, there are none of those rich depths of soil which, with little labour and tilth, burst forth in full crops of grain. but the land is mostly clothed with pastoral verdure; and the farming is almost entirely of the dairy kind. it is a country of green hills and vales, and clusters of dusky mills, surrounded by industrial life; and, except on the high moorlands, there is very little land now, even of the old mosses and morasses, which is not inclosed, and in progress of cultivation. the scenery has features of beauty peculiar to itself. it consists of a succession of ever-varying undulations, full of sequestered cloughs, and dingles, and shady corners; threaded by many a little meandering stream, which looks up at the skies from its green hollow; and which changes oft its varied lapse, and ever as it winds, enchantment follows, and new beauties rise. travellers from the midland and southern counties of england often notice the scarcity of trees in this quarter. the native woods were chiefly oak, ash, birch, beech, and yew--very useful timbers. but when the time came that lancashire had to strip some of its old customs and ornaments, for the fulfilment of its manufacturing destiny, every useful thing upon the soil was seized, and applied to the purposes of the new time. the land itself began to be wanted for other ends than to grow trees upon. and then, when old landlords happened to be pressed for money, the timber of their estates--daily becoming more valuable for manufacturing necessities--sometimes presented the readiest way of raising it. their lands often followed in the same track. and now, the landscape looks bald. trees are scanty and small, except at a few such places as hopwood hall, and chadderton hall; and a few isolated clumps, like that which crests the top of "tandle hills." in that part of this district which lies between "boggart ho' clough," near the village of blackley, on the west, the town of middleton, on the east, and the manchester and leeds railway line, on the south, there is a wide platform of level land, called "th' white moss." it stands above the surrounding country; and is quite removed from any of the great highways of the neighbourhood, which, nevertheless, wind near to the borders of this secluded moss, with their restless streams of business. in former days, this tract has been a densely-wooded wild; and, even within these twenty years last past, it was one great marsh, in whose peaty swamps the relics of ancient woods lay buried. since that time, nearly two hundred acres of the moss have been brought into cultivation; and it is said that this part of it now produces as fine crops as any land in the neighbourhood. in turning up the bog, enormous roots and branches of trees, principally oaks, are often met with. very fine oaks, beeches, firs, and sometimes yew trees, of a size very seldom met with in this part of lancashire in these days, have frequently been found embedded in this morass, at a depth of five or six feet. samuel bamford, in his description of the "white moss," says: "the stems and huge branches of trees were often laid bare by the diggers, in cultivating it. nearly all the trees have been found lying from west to east, or from west to south. they consist of oaks, beeches, alders, and one or two fine yews. the roots of many of them are matted and gnarled, presenting interesting subjects for reflection on the state of this region in unrecorded ages. some of these trees are in part charred when found. one large oak, lying on the north-west side of the moss, has been traced to fifteen yards in length, and is twelve feet round." this moss was one of those lonely places to which the people of these districts found it necessary to retreat, in order to hold their political meetings in safety, during that eventful period of lancashire history which fell between the years and . it was a time of great suffering and danger in these parts. the working people were often driven into riot and disorder by the desperation of extreme distress; which disorder was often increased by the discreditable espionage and ruthless severities employed to crush political discussion among the populace. of the gallant band of reformers which led the van of the popular struggle, many a humble and previously-unnoted pioneer of liberty has left an heroic mark upon the history of that time. some of these are still living; others have been many a year laid in their graves; but their memories will long be cherished among a people who know how to esteem men who sincerely love freedom, and are able to do and to suffer for it, in a brave spirit. in this active arena of industrialism, there are many places of interest: old halls and churches; quaint relics of ancient hamlets, hidden by the overgrowth of modern factory villages; immense mills, and costly mansions, often belonging to men who were poor lads a few years ago, wearing wooden clogs, and carrying woollen pieces home from the loom, upon their shoulders. as we cross the valley beyond the station, the little old parish church of middleton stands in sight, on the top of a green eminence, about a mile north from the line. in the interior of this old fane still hang, against the southern wall, the standard and armour of sir richard assheton, which he dedicated to st. leonard of middleton, on returning from flodden field, where he greatly distinguished himself; taking prisoner sir john foreman, serjeant-porter to james the sixth of scotland, and alexander barrett, high sheriff of aberdeen; and capturing the sword of the standard-bearer of the scottish king. he led to the battle a brave array of lancashire archers, the flower of his tenantry. at the western base of the hill upon which the church of st. leonard is situated, two large cotton factories now stand, close to the spot which, even so late as the year , was occupied by the picturesque old hall of the asshetons, lords of middleton. the new gas-works of the town fills part of the space once covered with its gardens. middleton lies principally in the heart of a pleasant vale, with some relics of its ancient quaintness remaining, such as the antique wood-and-plaster inn, called the "boar's head," in the hollow, in front of the parish church. the manor of middleton anciently belonged to the honour of clithero, and was held by the lacies, earls of lincoln. in the reign of henry iii., the heir of robert de middleton held a knight's fee in middleton, of the fee of edmund or edward, earl of lincoln, who held it of the earls of ferrars, the king's tenant in capite. and baines, in his history of lancashire, further says:-- in edward ii., the manor of middleton is found in the inquisition post-mortem of henry de lacy, amongst the fees belonging to the manor of tottington, held by service of thomas, earl of lancaster. with henry, earl of lincoln, this branch of the lacys passed away; and their possessions in this country, with his daughter and heiress, devolved upon thomas plantagenet, earl of lancaster. the heirs of robti (robert) de middleton possessed lands in _midelton_, by military service, in the reign of henry the third, - . at a later period, the manor was possessed by richard barton, esq.; the first of this family who is recorded in connection with middleton was living in the reign of henry the fourth, . he died without surviving issue, and the manor passed to the heirs of his brother, john barton, esq., whose daughter margaret having married ralph assheton, esq., a son of sir john assheton, knt., of ashton-under-lyne, he became lord of middleton in her right, in the seventeenth of henry the sixth, , and was the same year appointed a page of honour to that king. he was knight-marshal of england, lieutenant of the tower of london, and sheriff of yorkshire, - . he attended the duke of gloucester at the battle of haldon, or hutton field, scotland, in order to recover berwick, and was created a knight _banneret_ on the field for his gallant services, . on the succession of richard the third to the crown, he created sir ralph vice-constable of england, by letters patent, . thus began the first connection of the town of middleton with that powerful lancashire family, the asshetons, of ashton-under-lyne, in the person of the famous "black lad," respecting whom dr. hibbert says, in his historical work upon ashton-under-lyne, as follows:-- it appears that ralph assheton became, by his alliance with a rich heiress, the lord of a neighbouring manor, named middleton, and soon afterwards received the honour of knighthood, being at the same time entrusted with the office of vice-chancellor, and, it is added, of lieutenant of the tower. invested with such authority, he committed violent excesses in this part of the kingdom. in retaining also for life the privilege of _guld riding_, he, on a certain day in the spring, made his appearance in this manner, clad in black armour (whence his name of the _black lad_), mounted on a charger, and attended by a numerous train of his followers, in order to levy the penalty arising from neglect of clearing the land from _carr gulds_. the interference of so powerful a knight, belonging to another lordship, could not but be regarded by the tenants of assheton as a tyrannical intrusion of a stranger, and the name of the _black lad_ is at present regarded with no other sentiment than that of horror. tradition has, indeed, still perpetuated the prayer that was fervently ejaculated for a deliverance from his tyranny:-- sweet jesu, for thy mercy's sake, and for thy bitter passion, save us from the axe of the tower, and from sir ralph of assheton. happily, with the death of this terrible guld-rider of assheton, the custom was abolished, but the sum of five shillings is still reserved from the estate, for the purpose of commemorating it by an annual ceremony. ralph assheton, of middleton, was an energetic adherent to the parliamentary cause during the civil wars. on the th september, , about one hundred and fifty of his tenants, in complete arms, joined the forces of manchester, in opposition to the royalists. he commanded the parliamentary troops at the siege of warrington. he was engaged at the siege of lathom house, and led the middleton clubmen at the siege of bolton-le-moors. in he was a major-general, and commanded the lancashire soldiery of the commonwealth, on the marshalling of the parliamentary forces to oppose the duke of hamilton. in the same year, he took appleby from the royalists. his eldest son, richard, who died an infant, march th, , was supposed to have been bewitched to death by one utley, "who, for the crime, was tried at the assizes at lancaster, and executed there." his son ralph espoused the cause of charles the second, and was created a baronet in . as we glide out of sight of middleton, a prominent feature of the landscape, on the opposite side of the railway, is the wood-crowned summit of "tandle hills." these hills overlook the sequestered dairy farms, and shady dingles of an extensive district called "thornham;" which, though surrounded at short distances by busy manufacturing villages and towns, is a tract full of quaint farm-folds, grassy uplands and dells, interlaced with green old english lanes and hedge-rows. before the train reaches "blue pits," it passes through the estates of the hopwoods, of hopwood; and, at some points, the chimneys and gables of hopwood hall peep through surrounding woods, in a retired valley, north of the line. as the train begins to slacken on its approach to the station, the old road-side village of trub smithy, the scene of many a humorous story, lies nestling beyond two or three fields to the south, at the foot of a slope, on the high road from manchester to rochdale. at "blue pits" station, we obeyed the noisy summons to "change for heywood," and were put upon the branch line which leads thitherward. the railway hence to heywood winds through green fields all the way, and is divided from the woods of hopwood by a long stripe of canal. as we rolled on, the moorland heights of ashworth, knowl, rooley, and lobden, rose in the back ground before us, seemingly at a short distance, and before any glimpse was seen of the town of heywood, lying low between us and the hills. but, as we drew near, a canopy of smoky cloud hung over the valley in front; and "we knew by the smoke"--as the song says--that heywood was near; even if we had never known it before. heywood is one of the last places in the world where a man who judges of the surrounding country by the town itself, would think of going to ruralize. but, even in this smoky manufacturing town, which is so meagre in historic interest, there are some peculiarities connected with its rise and progress, and the aspects of its present life; and some interesting traits in the characteristics of its inhabitants. and, in its surrounding landscape, there are many picturesque scenes; especially towards the hills, where the rising grounds are cleft, here and there, by romantic glens, long, lonesome, and woody, and wandering far up into the moors, like "simpson clough;" and sometimes vales, green and pleasant, by the quiet water-side, like "tyrone's bed," and "hooley clough." as the train drew up to that little station, which always looks busy when there are a dozen people in the office, the straggling ends of heywood streets began to dawn upon us, with the peeking chimney tops of the cotton mills, which lay yet too low down to be wholly seen. some costly mansions were visible also, belonging to wealthy men of the neighbourhood--mostly rich cotton-spinners--perched on "coignes of vantage," about the green uplands and hollows in the valley, and generally at a respectful distance from the town. many of the cotton mills began to show themselves entirely--here and there in clusters--the older ones looking dreary, and uninviting to the eye; the new ones as smart as new bricks and long lines of glittering windows could make their dull, square forms appear. a number of brick-built cottages bristled about the summit of a slope which rose in front of us from the station, and closed from view the bulk of the town, in the valley beyond. we went up the slope, and took a quiet bye-path which leads through the fields, along the southern edge of heywood, entering the town near the market-place. and now, let us take a glance at the history, and some of the present features of this place. so far as the history of heywood is known, it has not been the arena of any of those great historical transactions of england's past, which have so shaken and changed the less remote parts of the country. the present appearance of heywood would not, perhaps, be any way delightful to the eye of anybody who had no local interest in it. yet, a brief review of the history, and the quick growth of the place, may not be uninteresting. heywood is the capital of the township of heap, and stands principally upon a gentle elevation, in a wide valley, about three miles from each of the towns of rochdale, bury, and middleton. the township of heap is in the parish and manor of bury, of which manor the earl of derby is lord. this manor has been the property of the derby family ever since the accession of henry vii., after the battle of bosworth field, when it was granted by the king to his father-in-law, thomas stanley, first earl of derby, who figures in shakspere's tragedy of "richard the third." the previous possessors were the pilkingtons, of pilkington. sir thomas pilkington was an active adherent of the york faction, in the wars of the roses; and, in a manuscript of stowe's, his name appears, with a large number of other friends of richard, who "sware kynge richard shuld were ye crowne." there is a secluded hamlet of old-fashioned houses in this township, called "heap fold," situated on a hill about half a mile west of heywood. this hamlet is generally admitted to be the oldest, and, probably, the only settlement in the township of heap in the time of the saxons, who first cleared and cultivated the land of the district. previous to that time, it may be naturally supposed that, like many other parts of south lancashire, this district was overrun with woods, and swamps, and thickets. edwin butterworth published a little pamphlet history of heywood, from which i quote the following notes:--"the origin of the designation heap is not at all obvious; in the earliest known mention of the place, it is termed _hep_, which may imply a tract overgrown with hawthorn berries. the name might arise from the unevenness of the surface--_heep_ (saxon), indicating a mass of irregularities. the denomination 'heywood' manifestly denotes the site of a wood in a field, or a wood surrounded by fields." farther on, in the same pamphlet, he says:--"the local family of hep, or heap, has been extinct a considerable time. the deed of the gift of the whole forest of holecombe, to the monks of st. mary magdalen, of bretton, in yorkshire, by roger de montbegon, is witnessed, amongst others, by robert de hep; but without date, being of an age prior to the use of dates. roger de montbegon, however, died th henry iii., so that this transaction occurred before ." it may be true that what is here alluded to as the local family of hep, or heap, is extinct; but the name of heap is now more prevalent among the inhabitants of heywood and the immediately surrounding towns than anywhere else in england. with respect to the two suppositions as to the origin of the name; almost every lancashire lad will remember that he has, at one time or another, pricked his fingers with getting "heps," the common bright red berry, which, in other parts, goes by the name of the "hip." and then there is some show of likelihood in the supposition that the name has come from the saxon word "heep," meaning "a mass of irregularities," as butterworth says; for the whole district is a succession of hills, and holes, and undulations, of ever-varying size and shape. again, he says, "heap was doubtless inhabited by at least one saxon family, whose descendants, it is probable, quietly conformed to norman rule. in that era, or perhaps earlier, the place was annexed to the lordship and church of bury, of which adam de bury, and edward de buri, were possessors shortly after the conquest.[ ] a family of the name of hep, or heap, held the hamlet from the paramount lords. in , third of edward ii., henery de bury held one half of the manor of bury."[ ] previous to the fifteenth century, this township must have been part of a very wild and untempting region, having, for the most part, little or no settled population, or communion with the living world beyond; and the progress of population, and cultivation of the land, up to that time, appear to have been very slow, and only in a few isolated spots; since, although there were several heys of land at that time, near to a wood, thence called "heywood," upon the spot now occupied by a busy community of people, numbering twenty thousand at least, yet, there is no record of any dwelling upon that spot until shortly after the fifteenth century, when a few rural habitations were erected thereon. from this comparatively recent period may be reckoned the dawn of the rural village which has since expanded into the present manufacturing town of heywood, now thriving at a greater rate than ever, under the impulse of modern industrialism. about this time, too, began the residence there of a family bearing the local name. "in occurs robert de heywood. in the brilliant reign of elizabeth, edmund heywood, esq., was required, by an order dated , to furnish a coat of plate, a long bowe, shéffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military musters."[ ] james heywood, gentleman, was living before . peter heywood, esq., a zealous magistrate, the representative of this family in the reigns of james the i. and charles the i., was a native and resident of the present heywood hall, which was erected during the sixteenth century. it is said that he apprehended guido faux, coming forth from the vault of the house of parliament, on the eve of the gunpowder treason, november th, ; he probably accompanied sir thomas knevett, in his search of the cellars under the parliament house. the principal interest connected with the earliest history of the town of heywood seems to be bound up in the history of heywood hall and its inhabitants, which will be noticed farther on. [ ] testa de neville. [ ] harl. mss. codex , , fo. . [ ] hard. mss., . there is a pedigree of this family in dodsworth's mss bodleian lib. vol. lxxix. the old episcopal chapel, near the market-place, dedicated to st. luke, is a plain little building, with nothing remarkable in its appearance or its situation. it seems to have been founded at the beginning of the seventeenth century. it contains inscriptions commemorative of the holts, of grizlehurst, and the starkies, of heywood hall. a dial-plate on the eastern exterior bears the date of , with the initials of robert heywood, esq., of heywood hall, who was governor of the isle of man in . besides the heywoods, of heywood hall, there were several powerful local families in the olden time seated at short distances round the spot where heywood now stands: the heaps, of heap; the bamfords, of bamford; the marlands, of marland; the holts, of grizlehurst; and the hopwoods, of hopwood--which last still reside upon their ancient estate. heywood, or "monkey town," as sarcastic people in other parts of lancashire sometimes call it, is now a manufacturing place of at least twenty thousand inhabitants. it owes its rise almost entirely to the cotton manufacture; and the history of the latter incorporates the history of the former in a much greater degree than that of any other considerable town in the district. this gives it a kind of interest which certainly does not belong to any beauty the appearance of the town at present possesses. a few years before those mechanical inventions became known which ultimately made lancashire what it is now, heywood was a little peaceful country fold; but a few years after these inventions came into action, it began to grow into what the people of those days thought "something rich and strange," with a celerity akin to the growth of great towns in the united states of america. about two hundred years ago, a few rural cottages first arose upon this almost unpeopled spot; and at the time when the manufacture of cotton began in south lancashire, it was still a small agricultural village, prettily situated in a picturesque scene, about the centre of the ridge of land which is now nearly covered by the present smoky town. this little nucleus clustered near the old chapel which stands in the market-place. previous to the invention of the fly shuttle, by kay, in the neighbouring town of bury; and the ingenious combinations of the inventions of his contemporaries by arkwright, the preston barber, almost every farm-house and cottage in this part had the old-fashioned spinning-wheel and the hand-loom in them, wherewith to employ any time the inhabitants could spare from their rural occupations. at the time of arkwright's first patent, the people of these parts little knew what a change the time's inventions were bringing upon their quiet haunts--still less of the vast influences which were to arise therefrom, combining to the accomplishment of incalculable ends; and they were, at first, slow to wean from their old, independent way of living, partly by farming and partly by manufacturing labour, which they could do in their own houses, and at their own leisure. "manchester manufacturers are glad," says arthur young, in (the year of arkwright's first patent), "when bread is dear, for then the people are forced to work." but though the supply of yarn in those days was less than the demand, and the people were not yet draughted away from their old manner of life, they were caught in the web of that inevitable destiny which will have its way, in spite of the will of man. the world's master had new commissioners abroad for the achievement of new purposes. these wonder-working seeds of providence, patiently developing themselves in secret, were soon to burst forth in a wide harvest of change upon the field of human life. certain men of mechanical genius arose, and their creative dreams wrought together in a mysterious way to the production of extraordinary results. john kay, of bury, invented the "picking-peg," or "fly-shuttle," in ; and his son, robert kay, invented the "drop-box," used in the manufacture of fabrics of various colours; and that wonderful cotton and woollen carding machine, which stretches the wire out of the ring, cuts it into lengths, staples and crooks it into teeth, pricks holes in the leather, and puts in the teeth, row after row, with extraordinary speed and precision, till the cards are finished. thomas highs, the humble and ingenious reed-maker, at leigh, in , originated that first remarkable improvement in spinning machinery which he called after his favourite daughter, "jenny;" and he also introduced the "throstle," or water-frame, in . this man lingered out his old age in affliction and dependence. james hargreaves, the carpenter, of blackburn, improved upon the original idea of the spinning jenny, and invented the crank and comb, "an engine of singular merit for facilitating the progress of carding cotton." the ignorant jealousy of the lancashire operatives in those days drove this ingenious man to seek shelter in nottinghamshire, where he was but ill-received, and where he ended his days in poverty. he died in a workhouse. arkwright, the preston barber, was more endowed by nature with the qualities requisite for worldly success than these ingenious, abstracted, and simple-minded mechanical dreamers. he was a man of great perseverance and worldly sagacity. with characteristic cunning, he appears to have wormed their secrets out of some of these humble inventors; and then, with no less industry and enterprise than ingenuity, he combined these with other kindred inventions, and wrought them into a practical operation, which, by its results, quickly awakened the world to a knowledge of their power. he became a rich man, and "sir richard." in , the "spinning mule" was first introduced by its inventor, samuel crompton, a dreamy weaver, then dwelling in a dilapidated corner of an old lancashire hall, called "th' hall i'th wood," in turton, near bolton. this machine united the powers of the spinning jenny and the water frame. the spinning mule is now in general use in the cotton manufacture. this poor weaver gave his valuable invention to the public, without securing a patent. his remuneration, in the shape of money, was therefore left to the cold chances of charity. he was, however, at first, rewarded by a subscription of one hundred guineas; and, _twenty years afterwards_, by an additional subscription of four hundred guineas; and in , parliament awarded the sum of five thousand pounds to the dreamy old weaver, in his latter days. in , the first patent for the power-loom was obtained by the rev. edmund cartwright, of kent, who invented it; and, after considerable improvements, it has at last contributed another great impulse to the manufacturing power of these districts. whilst these mechanical agencies were developing themselves, james watt was busy with his steam power; and brindley, in conjunction with the duke of bridgewater, was constructing his water-ways. they were all necessary parts of one great scheme of social alteration, the end of which is not yet. these men were the immediate sources of the manufacturing power and wealth of lancashire. up rose arkwright's model mill at cromford; and the people of south lancashire, who were spinning and weaving in the old way, in their scattered cottages and folds, began to find themselves drawn by irresistible spells into new combinations, and new modes of living and working. their remote haunts began to resound with the tones of clustering labour; their quiet rivers, late murmuring clear through silent vales and cloughs, began to be dotted with mills; and their little villages shot up into large manufacturing towns. from to , the use of wool and linen in the spinning of yarns had almost disappeared, and cotton had become the almost universal material for employment. hand wheels were superseded by common jennies, hand carding by carding engines, and hand picking[ ] by the fly shuttle. from to was the golden age of this great trade; the introduction of mule yarns, assimilated with other yarns producing every description of goods, gave a preponderating wealth through the loom. the mule twist being rapidly produced, and the demand for goods very large, put all hands in request; and weaver's shops became yearly more numerous. the remuneration for labour was high, and the population was in a comfortable condition. the dissolution of arkwright's patent in , and the general adoption of mule spinning in , concurred to give the most extraordinary impetus to the cotton manufacture. numerous mills were erected, and filled with water frames; and jennies and mules were made and set to work with incredible rapidity.[ ] heywood had already risen up, by the previous methods of manufacture, to a place of about two thousand inhabitants, in the year --that changeful crisis of its history when the manufacture of cotton by steam power first began in the township of heap, with the erection of makin mill, hard by the north side of heywood. this mill was built by the firm of peel, yates, and co., of bury--the principal of which firm was robert peel, esq. (afterwards sir robert), and father of the memorable sir robert peel, late prime minister of england, whose name is honourably connected with the abolition of the corn laws; a man who won the gratitude of a nation by daring to turn "traitor" to a great wrong, that he might help a great right. this mill is now the property of edmund peel, esq., brother of the late sir robert. it stands about half a mile from heywood, in a shady clough, and upon the banks of the river roch, which rises in the hills on the north-east extremity of the county, and flows down through the town of rochdale, passing through the glen called "tyrone's bed;" and through "hooley clough." the river then winds on westward, by the town of bury, three miles off. the course of this water is now well lined with manufacturing power, nearly from its rise to its embouchure. a stranger may always find the mills of lancashire by following the courses of its waters. [ ] the "picking rod" is a straight wooden handle, by which the hand-loom weaver used to impel his shuttle. "as straight as a pickin' rod," is a common phrase among country people in south lancashire. [ ] "radcliffe's origin of power-loom weaving," pp. -- . before the factory system arose, when the people of this quarter did their manufacturing work at their homes--when they were not yet brought completely to depend upon manufacture for livelihood, and when their manner of life was, at least, more natural and hardy than it became afterwards--their condition was, morally and physically, very good, compared with the condition which the unrestricted factory system led to, in the first rush after wealth which it awoke; especially in the employment of young children in mills. the amount of demoralisation and physical deterioration then entailed upon the population, particularly in isolated nooks of the country, where public opinion had little controlling influence upon such mill-owners as happened to possess more avarice than humane care for their operative dependents, must have been great. it was a wild steeple-chase for wealthy stakes, in which whip and spur were used with little mercy, and few were willing to peril their chances of the plate by any considerations for the sufferings of the animal that carried them. but the condition of the factory operatives, since the introduction of the ten hours' bill--and, perhaps, partly through the earnest public discussions which led to that enactment--has visibly begun to improve. benevolent and just men, who own mills, have, of their own accord, in many honourable instances, paid a more liberal attention to the welfare of their workpeople even than the provisions of the law demanded: and those mill-owners whose only care for their operatives was bounded by a desire to wring as much work as possible out of them for as little pay as possible, were compelled to fulfil certain humane regulations, which their own sympathies would have been slow to concede. the hours of factory labour are now systematically shortened; and the operatives are not even so drunken, riotous, and ignorant, as when they were wrought from bed-time to bed-time. books and schools, and salutary recreation, and social comfort, are more fashionable among them than they used to be--partly because they are more practicable things to them than before. the mills themselves are now healthier than formerly; factory labour is restricted to children of a reasonable age; and elementary education is now, by a wisdom worthy of extension, administered through the impulse of the law, to all children of a certain age in factories. heywood is altogether of too modern an origin to contain any buildings interesting to the admirer of ancient architecture. the only places in heywood around which an antiquarian would be likely to linger, with anything like satisfaction, would be the little episcopal chapel in the market-place, founded in the seventeenth century; and heywood hall, which stands about half a mile from the town, and of which more anon. with these exceptions, there is probably not one building in the place two hundred years old. the appearance of heywood, whether seen in detail or as a whole, presents as complete, unrelieved, and condensed an epitome of the still-absorbing spirit of manufacture in the region where it originated, as can be found anywhere in lancashire. and, in all its irregular main street consisting of more than a mile of brick-built shops and cottages--together with the little streets and alleys diverging therefrom--there does not appear even one modern building remarkable for taste, or for any other distinguishing excellence, sufficient to induce an ordinary man to halt and admire it for a minute. there is not even an edifice characterised by any singularity whatever, calculated to awaken wonder or curiosity in an ordinary beholder, except its great square, brick cotton mills, machine shops, and the like; and when the outside of one of these has been seen, the outside of the remainder is no novelty. the heights and depths principally cultivated in heywood appear to be those of factory chimneys and coal-pits. of course, the interiors of the mills teem with mechanical wonders and ingenuities; and the social life and characteristics of the population are full of indigenous interest. but the general exterior of the town exhibits a dull and dusky succession of manufacturing sameness. its inns, with one or two exceptions, look like jerry-shops; and its places of worship like warehouses. a living writer has said of the place, that it looks like a great funeral on its way from bury to rochdale--between which towns it is situated midway. when seen from any neighbouring elevation, on a dull day, this strong figure hardly exaggerates the truth. the whole life of heywood seems to be governed by the ring of factory bells--at least, much more than by any other bells. the very dwelling-houses look as if they, too, worked in the factories. to persons accustomed to the quaint prettiness of well-regulated english rural villages, and the more natural hue and general appearance of the people in such places, the inhabitants of heywood would, at first sight, have somewhat of a sallow appearance, and their houses would appear to be slightly smeared with a mixture of soot, sperm oil, and cotton fluz. and, if such observers knew nothing of the real character and habits of the population, they would be slow to believe them a people remarkably fond of cleanliness and of homely comfort, as far as compatible with the nature of their employment. a close examination of these heywood cottages would show, however, that their insides are more clean and comfortable than the first glance at their outsides might suggest; and would also reveal many other things not discreditable to the native disposition of the people who dwell in them. but the architecture and general characteristics of heywood, as a town, evince no taste, no refinement, nor even public spirit of liberality, commensurate with its wealth and energy. the whole population seems yet too wrapt in its manufacturing dream, to care much about the general adornment of the place, or even about any very effective diffusion of those influences which tend to the improvement of the health and the culture of the nobler faculties of the people. but heywood may yet emerge from its apprenticeship to blind toil; and, wiping the dust from its eyes, look forth towards things quite as essential as this unremitting fight for bread for the day. at present, wherever one wanders among the streets on week-days, the same manufacturing indications present themselves. it is plain that its people are nearly all employed in one way, directly or indirectly. this is suggested, not only by the number and magnitude of the mills, and the habitations of the people, but by every movement on the streets. every vehicle that passes; every woman and child about the cottages; every lounger in the market-place tells the same story. one striking feature of week-day life in heywood, more completely even than in many other kindred towns, is the clock-work punctuality with which the operative crowds rush from the mills, and hurry along the streets, at noon, to their dinners; sauntering back again in twos and threes, or speeding along in solitary haste, to get within the mill-doors in time for that re-awakening boom of the machinery which is seldom on the laggard side of its appointment. and it is not only in the dress and manners of this body of factory operatives--in their language and deportment, and the prevailing hue of their countenances--that the character and influence of their employment is indicated; but also in a modified variety of the same features in the remainder of the population, who are either immediately connected with these operatives, or indirectly affected by the same manufacturing influences. i have noticed, however, that factory operatives in country manufacturing towns like heywood have a more wholesome appearance, both in dress and person, than the same class in manchester. whether this arises from any difference in the atmosphere, or from more healthy habits of factory operatives in the country than those induced among the same class by the temptations of a town like manchester, i cannot say. in the course of the year, there are two very ancient festivals kept up, each with its own quaint peculiarities, by the heywood people; and commemorated by them with general rejoicing and cessation from labour. one of these is the "rush-bearing," held in the month of august--an old feast which seems to have died out almost everywhere else in england, except in lancashire. here, in heywood, however, as in many other towns of the county, this ancient festival is still observed, with two or three days' holiday and hilarity. the original signification of this annual "rush-bearing," and some of the old features connected with the ceremony, such as the bearing of the rushes, with great rejoicing, to the church, and the strewing of them upon the earthen floor of the sacred fane, have long since died out. the following passage is taken from a poem called "the village festival," written by elijah ridings, a living author, of local celebrity, and is descriptive of the present characteristics of a lancashire "rush-bearing," as he had seen it celebrated in his native village of newton, between manchester and oldham:-- when wood and barn-owls loudly shout, as if were near some rabble rout; when beech-trees drop the yellow leaf, a type of human hope and grief; when little wild flowers leave the sun, their pretty love-tasks being done; and nature, with exhaustless charms, lets summer die in autumn's arms: there is a merry, happy time, with which i'll grace my simple rhyme:-- the wakes--the wakes--the jocund wakes! my wand'ring memory forsakes the present busy scene of things, and soars away on fancy's wings, for olden times, with garlands crown'd, and rush-carts green on many a mound, in hamlet bearing a great name,[ ] the first in astronomic fame; with buoyant youth and modest maid, skipping along the green-sward glade, with laughing eyes and ravished sight, to share once more the old delight! oh! now there comes--and let's partake-- brown nuts, spice bread, and eccles cake;[ ] there's flying-boxes, whirligigs, and sundry rustic pranks and rigs; with old "chum"[ ] cracking nuts and jokes, to entertain the country folks; but more, to earn a honest penny, and get a decent living, any-- aye, any an humble, striving way, than do what shuns the light of day. behold the rush-cart, and the throng of lads and lasses pass along! now watch the nimble morris-dancers, those blithe, fantastic antic-prancers, bedeck'd with gaudiest profusion of ribbons, in a gay confusion of brilliant colours, richest dyes, like wings of moths and butterflies; waving white kerchiefs here and there, and up and down, and everywhere; springing, bounding, gaily skipping, deftly, briskly, no one tripping; all young fellows, blithe and hearty, thirty couples in the party; and on the footpaths may be seen their sweethearts from each lane, and green and cottage home; all fain to see this festival of rural glee; the love-betrothed, the fond heart-plighted, and with the witching scene delighted in modest guise, and simple graces, with roses blushing on their faces; ah! what denotes, or what bespeaks love more than such sweet apple-cheeks? behold the strong-limbed horses stand, the pride and boast of english land, fitted to move in shafts or chains, with plaited, glossy tails and manes: their proud heads each a garland wears of quaint devices--suns and stars; and roses, ribbon-wrought, abound; _the silver plate_,[ ] one hundred pound, with green oak boughs the cart is crowned, the strong, gaunt horses shake the ground. now, see, the welcome host appears, and thirsty mouths the ale-draught cheers; draught after draught is quickly gone-- "come; here's a health to everyone!" away with care and doleful thinking, the cup goes round; what hearty drinking! while many a youth the lips is smacking, and the two drivers' whips are cracking; now, strike up music, the old tune; and louder, quicker, old bassoon; come, bustle, lads, for one dance more, and then _cross-morris_ three times o'er. another jug--see how it foams-- and next the brown october comes; full five years old, the host declares, and if you doubt it, loudly swears that it's the best in any town-- tenpenny ale, the real nut-brown. and who was he, that jovial fellow, with his strong ale so old and mellow? a huge, unwieldy man was he, like falstaff, fat and full of glee; with belly like a thirty-six[ ] (now, reader, your attention fix), in loose habiliments he stands, broad-shouldered, and with brawny hands; good humour beaming in his eye, and the old, rude simplicity; ever alive for rough or smooth, that rare old fellow, bill o' booth![ ] [ ] the village of _newton_, on newton heath, near manchester. [ ] a kind of spiced cake, for which the village of eccles, near manchester, is famous. [ ] a quaint old vendor of nuts and eccles cakes, who used to be well known at lancashire wakes and fairs. [ ] much valuable silver plate is sometimes lent by the inhabitants of lancashire villages, to adorn the front of their native rush-cart during its annual peregrinations. [ ] a thirty-six gallon barrel. [ ] he was the landlord of an old road-side inn, on newton heath, with a pleasant bowling-green behind it. the house is still known as "bill o' booth's." the other is a famous old festival here, as well as in the neighbouring town of bury. it is a peculiarly local one, also; for, i believe, it is not celebrated anywhere else in england except in these two towns. it begins on mid-lent sunday, or "simblin-sunday," as the people of the district call it, from the name of a spiced cake which is prepared for this feast in great profusion, and in the making of which there is considerable expense and rivalry shown. on "simblin-sunday," the two towns of bury and heywood swarm with visitors from the surrounding country, and "simblins" of extraordinary size and value are exhibited in the shop windows. the festival is kept up during two or three days of the ensuing week. in the rev. w. gaskell's interesting lectures on the "lancashire dialect," the following passage occurs relative to this "simblin-cake:"--"as you are aware there is a kind of cake for which the town of bury is famous, and which gives its name in these parts to mid-lent sunday--i mean 'symnel.' many curious and fanciful derivations have been found for this; but i feel no doubt that we must look for its true origin to the anglo-saxon 'simble' or 'simle,' which means a feast, or 'symblian,' to banquet. 'simnel' was evidently some kind of the finest bread. from the chronicle of battle abbey, we learn that, in proof of his regard for the monks, the conqueror granted for their daily uses thirty-six ounces of 'bread fit for the table of a king,' which is called _simenel_; and roger de hoveden mentions, among the provisions allowed to the scotch king, at the court of england, 'twelve _simenels_.' 'banquet bread,' therefore, would seem to come very near the meaning of this word. i may just observe in passing, that the baker's boy who, in the reign of henry vii., personated the earl of warwick was most likely called 'lambert simnel,' as a sort of nickname derived from his trade."[ ] the amusements, or what may be called the leisure-habits, of the factory population in lancashire manufacturing towns are much alike. some are sufficiently jaded when their day's work is done, or are too apathetic by nature to engage heartily in anything requiring further exertion of body or mind. there are many, however, who, when they leave the factory in the evening, go with a kind of renovating glee to the reading of such books as opportunity brings within their reach, or to the systematic prosecution of some chosen study, such as music, botany, mechanics, or mathematics, which are favourite sciences among the working people of lancashire. and even among the humblest there are often shrewd and well-read, if not extensively-read, politicians, chiefly of the cobbett school. but the greatest number occupy their leisure with rude physical sports, or those coarser indulgences which, in a place like heywood, are more easily got at than books and schools, especially by that part of the people who have been brought up in toilful ignorance of these elements. the tap-room is the most convenient school and meeting-place for these; and the tap-rooms are numerous, and well attended. there, factory lads congregate nightly, clubbing their pence for cheap ale, and whiling the night hours away in coarse ribaldry and dominoes, or in vigorous contention in the art of single step-dancing, upon the ale-house hearth-stone. this single step-dancing is a favourite exercise with them; and their wooden clogs are often very neatly made for the purpose, lacing closely up to above the ankle, and ornamented with a multitude of bright brass lace holes. the quick, well-timed clatter upon the tap-room flags generally tells the whereabouts of such dancing haunts to a stranger as he goes along the streets; and, if he peeps into one of them, he may sometimes see a knot of factory lads clustered about the tap-room door inside, encouraging some favourite caperer with such exclamations as, "deawn wi' thi fuut, robin! crack thi rags, owd dog!" the chief out-door sports of the working class are foot-racing, and jumping matches; and sometimes foot-ball and cricket. wrestling, dog-fighting, and cock-fighting are not uncommon; but they are more peculiar to the hardier population outside the towns. now and then, a rough "up-and-down" fight takes place, at an ale-house door, or brought off, more systematically, in a nook of the fields. this rude and ancient manner of personal combat is graphically described by samuel bamford, in his well-known "passages in the life of a radical." the moors north of heywood afford great sport in the grouse season. some of the local gentry keep harriers; and now and then, a "foomart-hunt" takes place, with the long-eared dogs, whose mingled music, when heard from the hill-sides, sounds like a chime of bells in the distant valley. the entire population, though engaged in manufacture, evinces a hearty love of the fields and field sports, and a strong tincture of the rough simplicity, and idiomatic quaintness of their forefathers, or "fore-elders," as they often call them. in an old fold near heywood, there lived a man a few years since, who was well known thereabouts as a fighter. the lads of the hamlet were proud of him as a local champion. sometimes he used to call at a neighbouring ale-house, to get a gill, and have a "bout" with anybody worth the trouble, for our hero had a sort of chivalric dislike to spending his time on "wastrils" unworthy of his prowess. when he chanced to be seen advancing from the distance, the folk in the house used to say, "hellho! so-and-so's coming; teen th' dur!" whereupon the landlord would reply, "nawe, nawe! lev it oppen, or else he'll punce it in! but yo'n no casion to be fleyed, for he's as harmless as a chylt to aught at's wayker nor his-sel!" he is said to have been a man of few words, except when roused to anger; when he uttered terrible oaths, with great vehemence. the people of his neighbourhood say that he once swore so heavily when in a passion, that a plane-tree, growing at the front of his cottage, withered away from that hour. most lancashire villages contain men of this stamp--men of rude, strong frame and temper, whose habits, manners, and even language, smack a little of the days of robin hood. yet, it is not uncommon to find them students of botany and music, and fond of little children. jane clough, a curious local character, died at a great age, near heywood, about a year and a half ago. jane was a notable country botanist, and she had many other characteristics which made her remarkable. she was born upon bagslate heath, a moorland tract, up in the hills, to the north-east of heywood. i well remember that primitive country amazon, who, when i was a lad, was such an old-world figure upon the streets of rochdale and heywood. everybody knew jane clough. she was very tall, and of most masculine face and build of body; with a clear, healthy complexion. she was generally drest in a strong, old-fashioned blue woollen bedgown, and thick petticoats of the same stuff. she wore a plain but very clean linen cap upon her head, loosely covered with a silk kerchief; and her foot-gear was heavy clouted shoon, or wooden clogs, suitable to her rough country walks, her great strength, and masculine habits. botany was always a ruling passion with old moorland jane. she was the queen of all flower-growers in humble life upon her native ground; especially in the cultivation of the polyanthus, auricula, tulip, and "ley," or carnation. jane was well known at all the flower shows of the neighbourhood, where she was often a successful exhibitor; and though she was known as a woman of somewhat scrupulous moral character--and there are many anecdotes illustrative of this--yet she was almost equally well known at foot-races and dog-battles, or any other kind of battles; for which she not unfrequently held the stakes. [ ] the following note is attached to this passage, in mr. gaskell's lectures:--"that noble master of language, walter savage landor, who has done me the honour to refer to my lecture in the _examiner_, says of this word 'symble,' a feast, it is very likely 'symbslum,' which means the same, in form of pic-nic; and adds, 'in tuscany a fine cake is called _semolino_. when i was a boy at rugby, i remember a man from banbury who sold _simnels_, very eatable. the interior was not unlike _mince-pie_ without fat, but flavoured with saffron; the exterior was hard, smooth, and yellow.'" there used to be many a "hush-shop," or house for the sale of unlicensed drink, about heywood; and if the district was thrown into a riddle, they would turn up, now and then, yet; especially in the outskirts of the town, and up towards the hills. these are generally sly spots, where fuddlers, who like ale for its own sake, can steal in when things are quiet, and get their fill at something less than the licensed price; or carry off a bottle-full into the fields, after the gloaming has come on. of course hush-shop tipplers could not often indulge in that noisy freedom of speech, nor in those wild bursts of bacchanalian activity vulgarly known by the name of "hell's delight," of which licensed ale-houses are sometimes the scenes; and where the dangerous lancashire ale-house game, called "th' bull upo' th' bauk," has sometimes finished a night of drunken comedy with a touch of real tragedy. the most suitable customers for the "hush-shop" were quiet, steady soakers, who cared for no other company than a full pitcher; and whose psalm of life consisted of scraps of drinking-songs like the following, trolled out in a low chuckling tone:-- o good ale, thou art my darling, i love thee night, i love thee morning, i love thee new, i love thee old; i love thee warm, i love thee cold! oh! good ale! there is an old drinking-song just re-published in "the songs of the dramatists," which was printed in , in bishop still's comedy of "gammer gurton's needle," though probably known earlier. fragments of this song are still known and sung in the north of england. the burden runs thus in a lancashire version:-- back and side, go bare, go bare, fuut and hond, go coud; but bally, god send thee good ale enough, whether it's yung or owd! having glanced in this brief way at the progress of heywood, from the time when it first began to give a human interest to the locality, as a tiny hamlet, about the end of the fifteenth century, up to its present condition, as a cotton-spinning town of twenty thousand inhabitants, surrounded by a district alive with manufacturing activities, i will return to the narrative of my visit to the place, as it fell on one fine afternoon about the end of june. we had come round from the railway station, along the southern edge of the town, and through the fields, by a footpath which led us into heywood about one hundred yards from the old chapel in the middle of the place. the mills were stopped. country people were coming into town to do their errands, and a great part of the working population appeared to be sauntering along the main street, stopping at the shops, to make their markets as they went along; or casting about for their saturday night's diversion, and gazing from side to side, to see what could be seen. clusters of factory girls were gathered about the drapers' windows. these girls were generally clean and tidy; and, not unfrequently, there were very intelligent and pretty countenances amongst them. the older part of the factory operatives, both men and women, had often a staid and jaded look. the shops were busy with customers buying clothing, or food, or cheap publications; and the ale-houses were getting lively. a little company of young "factory chaps" were collected about a bookseller's shop, near the old "queen anne," looking out for news, or pictures; or reading the periodicals exposed in the windows. now and then, a select straggler wended his way across the road to change his "library-book" at the mechanics' institution. there was considerable stir lower down the street, where a noisy band of music was marching along, followed by an admiring multitude. and, amongst the whole, a number of those active, mischief-loving lads, so well known in every manufacturing town by the name of "doffers," were clattering about, and darting after one another among the crowd, as blithe as if they had never known what work was. we crossed through the middle of the town, and went down the north road into an open tract of meadow land, towards the residence of mine host. the house was pleasantly situated in a garden, about two stones' throw from the edge of heywood, in the wide level of grass land called "yewood ho' greyt meadow." the road goes close by the end of the garden. we entered this garden by a little side gate, and on we went, under richly-blossomed apple trees, and across the grass-plat, into the house. the old housekeeper began to prepare tea for us; and, in the meantime, we made ourselves at home in the parlour, which looked out upon the garden and meadows at the front. mine host sat down to the piano, and played some of that fine old psalmody which the country people of lancashire take such delight in. his family consisted of himself, a staid-looking old housekeeper, and his two motherless children. one of these was a timid, bright-eyed little girl, with long flaxen hair, who, as we came through the garden, was playing with her hoop upon the grass-plat, under the blooming apple trees; but who, on seeing a stranger, immediately sank into a shy stillness. the other was a contemplative lad, about thirteen, with a melancthon style of countenance. i found him sitting in the parlour, absorbed in "roderick random." as soon as tea was over, we went out in the cool of the evening, to see the daylight die upon the meadows around. we could hear the stir of saturday night life in the town. through the parlour window we had caught glimpses of the weird flittings of a large bat; and, as we stood bare-headed in the garden, it still darted to and fro about the eaves, in dusky, vivid motions. as the cool night stole on, we went in, and the shutters closed us from the scene. we lingered over supper, talking of what newspaper writers call "the topics of the day," and of books, and local characters and customs; and about half an hour before midnight we crept off to bed. when i rose from bed, and looked through the window of my chamber, the rich haze of a cloudless midsummer morning suffused the air. the sunshine lay glittering all over the dewy fields; for the fiery steeds of phoebus had not yet drunk up those springs "on chaliced flowers that lie." the birds had been up many an hour, and were carolling and chirping gleefully about the eaves of the house, and in the gardens. the splendour of the day had touched even the dull town on the opposite ridge with its beautifying magic; and heywood seemed to rest from its labours, and rejoice in the gladness which clothed the heavens and the earth. the long factory chimneys, which had been bathing their smokeless tops all night in the cool air, now looked up serenely through the sunshine at the blue sky, as if they, too, were glad to get rid of the week-day fume, and gaze quietly again upon the loveliness of nature; and all the whirling spinning machinery of the town was lying still and silent as the over-arching heavens. another sabbath had dawned upon the world; and that day of god, and god of days, was breathing its balm among the sons of toil once more. man has another day to swell the past, and lead him near to little, but his last; but mighty nature bounds as from her birth; the sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. immortal man! behold her glories shine, and cry, exulting inly, "they are mine!" gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see; a morrow comes when they are not for thee. it was a feast to the senses and to the soul to look round upon such a scene at such a time, with the faculties fresh from repose, and conscious of reprieve from that relentless round of necessities that follow them, hot-foot, through the rest of the week. as i dressed myself, i heard mine host's little daughter begin to play "rosseau's dream," in the parlour below, and i went down stairs humming a sort of accompaniment to the tune; for it is a sweet and simple melody, which chimed well with the tone of the hour. the shy musician stayed her fingers, and rose timidly from her seat, as i entered the room; but a little coaxing induced her to return to it, and she played the tune over and over again for us, whilst the morning meal was preparing. breakfast was soon over, and the youngsters dressed themselves for chapel, and left us to ourselves; for the one small bell of heywood chapel was going "toll--toll--toll;" and straggling companies of children were wending up the slope from the fields towards their sunday schools. through the parlour window, i watched these little companies of country children--so fresh, so glad, and sweet-looking--and as they went their way, i thought of the time when i, too, used to start from home on a sunday morning, dressed in my holiday suit, clean as a new pin from top to toe; and followed to the door with a world of gentle admonitions. i thought of some things i learned "while standing at my mother's knee;" of the little prayer and the blessing at bed time; of the old solemn tunes which she used to sing when all the house was still, whilst i sat and listened, drinking in those plaintive strains of devotional melody, never to forget them more. we were now alone in the silent house, and there was a sabbatical stillness all around. the sunshine gleamed in at the windows and open doors; and, where we sat, we could smell the odours of the garden, and hear the birds outside. we walked forth into the garden, among beds of flowers, and blooming apple trees. we could hear the chirrup of children's voices, still, going up the road, towards the town. from the woods round heywood hall, there came over the meadows a thrilling flood of music from feathered singers, sporting in those leafy shades. all nature was at morning service: and it was good to listen to this general canticle of praise to him "whose service is perfect freedom." a kind of hushed joy seemed to pervade the landscape, which did not belong to any other day, however fine--as if the hills and vales knew it was sunday. to the wisest men, the whole universe is one place of worship, and the whole course of human life a divine service. the man who has a susceptible heart, and loves nature, will find renovation in communion with her, no matter what troubles may disturb him in the world of man's life:-- for she can so inform the mind that is within us, so impress with quietness and beauty, and so feed with lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life shall e'er prevail against us or disturb our cheerful faith, that all which we behold is full of blessings. therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; and let the misty-mountain winds be free to blow against thee. the back yard of the house, in which we were sauntering, was divided from the woods of heywood hall by a wide level of rich meadows; and the thick foliage which lapped the mansion from view, looked an inviting shelter from the heat of a cloudless midsummer forenoon--a place where we could wander about swardy plots and lawns, among embowered nooks and mossy paths--bathing in the coolness of green shades, in which a multitude of birds were waking the echoes with a sweet tumult of blending melodies. being disposed for a walk, we instinctively took the way thitherward. the high road from the town goes close by the front gates of the hall. this road was formerly lined by a thick grove of trees, called "th' lung nursery," reaching nearly from the edge of the village to the gates. the grove so shut out the view, and overhung each side of the way, that the walk between looked lonely after dark; and country folk, who had been loitering late over their ale, in heywood, began to toot from side to side, with timid glances, and stare with fear at every rustle of the trees, when they came to "th' lung nursery." even if two were in company, they hutched closer together as they approached this spot, and began to be troubled with vivid remembrances of manifold past transgressions, and to make internal resolutions to "fear god, an' keep th' co'sey," thenceforth, if they could only manage to "hit th' gate" this once, and get safely through the nursery, and by the water-stead in hooley clough, where "yewood ho' boggart comes a-suppin' i'th deeod time o'th neet." this road was then, also, flanked on each side by a sprawling thorn-edge, overgrown with wild mint, thyme, and nettles; and with thistles, brambles, stunted hazles, and wild rose bushes; with wandering honeysuckles weaving about through the whole. it was full of irregular dinges, and "hare-gates," and holes, from which clods had been riven; and perforated by winding tunnels and runs, where the mole, the weasel, the field-mouse, and the hedgehog wandered at will. among the thorns at the top, there was many an erratic, scratchy breach, the result of the incursions of country herbalists, hunters, bird-nesters, and other roamers of the woods and fields. it was one of those old-fashioned hedges which country lads delight in; where they could creep to and fro, in a perfect revel of freedom and fun, among brushwood and prickles, with no other impediment than a wholesome scratching; and where they could fight and tumble about gloriously, among nettles, mint, mugwort, docks, thistles, sorrel, "robin-run-i'th-hedge," and a multitude of other wild herbs and flowers, whose names and virtues it would puzzle even a culpepper to tell; rough and free as so many snod-backed modiwarps--ripping and tearing, and soiling their "good clooas," as country mothers used to call them, by tumbling among the dry soil of the hedge-side, and then rolling slap into the wet ditch at the bottom, among "cuckoo-spit," and "frog-rud," and all sorts of green pool-slush; to the dismay of sundry limber-tailed "bull-jones," and other necromantic fry that inhabit such stagnant moistures. some looked for nests, and some for nuts, while others went rustling up the trees, trying the strength of many a bough; and all were blithe and free as the birds among the leaves, until the twilight shades began to fall. whilst the sun was still in the sky, they thought little about those boggarts, and "fairees," and "feeorin'," which, according to local tradition, roam the woods, and waters, and lonely places; sometimes with the malevolent intent of luring into their toil any careless intruder upon their secluded domain. some lurking in the streams and pools, like "green teeth," and "jenny long arms," waiting, with skinny claws, for an opportunity to clutch the wanderer upon the bank into the water. others, like "th' white lady," "th' skrikin' woman," "baum rappit," "grizlehurst boggart," and "clegg ho' boggart," haunting lonely nooks of the green country, and old houses, where they have made many a generation of simple folk pay a toll of superstitious fear for some deed of darkness done in the dim past. others, like "nut nan," prowling about shady recesses of the woods, "wi' a poke-full o' red-whot yetters, to brun nut-steylers their e'en eawt." but, when dusky evening began to steal over the fading scene, and the songs of birds, and all the sounds of day began to die upon the ear--when the droning beetle, and the bat began to flit about; and busy midges danced above the road, in mazy eddies, and spiral columns, between the eye and the sky; then the superstitious teachings of their infancy began to play about the mind; and, mustering their traps, the lads turned their feet homeward, tired, hungry, scratched, dirty, and pleased; bearing away with them--in addition to sundry griping feeds of unripe dogberry, which they had eaten from the hedge-sides--great store of hazlenuts, and earth-nuts; hips and haws; little whistles, made of the bark of the wicken tree; slips of the wild rose, stuck in their caps and button-holes; yellow "skedlocks," and whiplashes made of plaited rushes; and sometimes, also, stung-up eyes and swollen cheeks, the painful trophies of encounters with the warlike inhabitants of "wasp-nests," unexpectedly dropped on, in the course of their frolic. oh! sweet youth; how soon it fades; sweet joys of youth, how fleeting! the road home was beguiled with clod-battles, "frog-leap," and "bob stone," finishing with "trinel," and "high cockolorum," as they drew near their quarters. the old hedge and the nursery have been cleared away, and now the fertile meadows lie open to the view, upon each side of the way. on arriving at the entrance which leads to heywood hall, we turned in between the grey gate-pillars. they had a lone and disconsolate appearance. the crest of the starkies is gone from the top; and the dismantled shafts look conscious of their shattered fortunes. the wooden gate--now ricketty and rotten--swung to and fro with a grating sound upon its rusty hinges, as we walked up the avenue of tall trees, towards the hall. the old wood was a glorious sight, with the flood of sunshine stealing through its fretted roof of many-patterned foliage, in freakish threads and bars, which played beautifully among the leaves, weaving a constant interchange of green and gold within that pleasant shade, as the plumage of the wood moved with the wind. the scene reminded me of a passage in spencer's "faëry queene:"-- and all within were paths and alleies wide, with footing worne and leading inward farre: faire harbour that them seems: so in they entred ar. we went on under the trees, along the carriage road, now tinged with a creeping hue of green; and past the old garden, with its low, bemossed brick wall; and, after sauntering to and fro among a labyrinth of footpaths, which wind about the cloisters of this leafy cathedral, we came to the front of the hall. it stands tenantless and silent in the midst of its ancestral woods, upon the brow of a green eminence, overlooking a little valley, watered by the roch. the landscape was shut out from us by the surrounding trees; and the place was as still as a lonely hermitage in the heart of an old forest. the tread of our feet upon the flagged terrace in front of the mansion resounded upon the ear. we peeped through the windows, where the rooms were all empty; but the state of the walls and floors, and the remaining mirrors, showed that some care was still bestowed upon this deserted hall. ivy hung thickly upon some parts of the straggling edifice, which has evidently been built at different periods; though, so far as i could judge, the principal part of it appears to be about two hundred years old. when manufacture began greatly to change the appearance of the neighbouring village and its surrounding scenery, the starkies left the place; and a wooded mound, in front of the hall, was thrown up and planted, by order of the widow of the last starkie who resided here, in order to shut from sight the tall chimneys which were rising up in the distance. a large household must have been kept here in the palmy days of the starkies. the following passage, relative to the ancient inhabitants of heywood hall, is quoted from edwin butterworth's "history of the town of heywood and its vicinity:"-- a family bearing this name flourished here for many generations; but they were never of much note in county genealogy, though more than one were active in public affairs. in occurs robert de heywode. in the brilliant reign of elizabeth, edmund heywood, esq., was required, by an order dated , to furnish "a coate of plate, a long bowe, sheffe of arrows, steel cap, and bill, for the military musters."[ ] james heywood, gent., was living before . peter heywood, esq., a zealous magistrate, the representative of this family in the reigns of james the first and charles the first, was a native and resident of heywood hall, which was erected during the sixteenth century. it is said that he apprehended guido faux coming forth from the vault of the house of parliament on the eve of the gunpowder treason, nov. , . he probably accompanied sir thomas kneuett, in his search of the cellars under the parliament house. in , "an order was issued that the justices of the peace of westminster should carefully examine what strangers were lodged within their jurisdiction; and that they should administer the oaths of allegiance and supremacy to all suspected of recusancy, and proceed according to those statutes. an afternoon being appointed for that service in westminster hall, and many persons warned to appear there, amongst the rest one ---- james, a papist, appeared, and being pressed by mr. hayward (heywood), a justice of the peace, to take the oaths, suddenly drew out his knife and stabbed him; with some reproachful words, 'for persecuting poor catholics.' this strange, unheard-of outrage upon the person of a minister of justice, executing his office by an order of parliament, startled all men; the old man sinking with the hurt, though he died not of it. and though, for aught i could ever hear, it proceeded only from the rage of a sullen varlet (formerly suspected to be crazed in his understanding), without the least confederacy or combination with any other, yet it was a great countenance to those who were before thought over apprehensive and inquisitive into dangers; and made many believe it rather a design of all the papists of england, than a desperate act of one man, who could never have been induced to it, if he had not been promised assistance by the rest,"[ ] such is lord clarendon's account of an event that has rendered peter heywood a person of historical note; how long he survived the attempt to assassinate him is not stated. it is highly probable that mr. heywood had imbibed an undue portion of that anti-catholic zeal which characterised the times in which he lived, and that he was the victim of those rancorous animosities which persecution never fails to engender. peter heywood, of heywood, esq., was one of the gentlemen of the county who compounded for the recovery of their estates, which had been sequestrated - , for supporting the royal cause. he seems to have been a son of the mr. heywood that was stabbed; he re-obtained his property for the sum of £ .[ ] the next of this family on record is peter _heiwood_, esq., who was one of the "counsellors of jamaica" during the commonwealth. one of his sons, peter _heiwood_, esq., was commemorated by an inscription on a flat stone in the chancel of the church of st. anne's-in-the-willows, aldersgate-ward, london, as follows:-- "peter heiwood, that deceased nov. , , younger son of peter heiwood, one of the counsellours of jamaica, by grace, daughter of sir john muddeford, knight and baronet, great grandson to peter heywood, in the county palatine of lancaster; who apprehended guy faux with his dark lanthorn; and for his zealous prosecution of papists, as justice of peace, was stabbed in westminster hall, by john james, dominican friar, anno. domini. . "reader, if not a papist bred, upon such ashes gently tread."[ ] [ ] harl. mss. , . there is a pedigree of this family in dodsworth's mss. bodleian lib. vol. lxxix. [ ] clarendon's "history of the rebellion," edit. , v. , p. . [ ] baines's to. "hist. lancashire," v. , p. : v. , p. . mo: v. , p. . adams's cat. of lords, &c., who compounded for their estates, p. . [ ] survey of london, by stowe, strype's edition, , vol , fol. . robert heywood, of heywood, esq., married mary haslam, of rochdale, dec. , ; and was probably elder brother of peter _heiwood_, of london. in the visitation of , are traced two lines of the heywoods, those of heywood and walton; from the latter was descended samuel heywood, esq., a welch judge,[ ] uncle of sir benjamin heywood, baronet, of claremont, near manchester. the armorial bearing of the heywoods, of heywood, was argent, three torteauxes, between two bendlets gules. the property of this ancient family, principally consisting of heywood hall and adjoining lands, is said to have been purchased by mr. john starkey, of the orchard, in rochdale, in the latter part of the seventeenth or the beginning of the eighteenth century. mr. starkey was living in ; his descendant, john starkey, esq., married mary, daughter of joseph gregge, esq., of chamber hall, oldham. john starkey, esq., who died march , , was father of james starkey, esq., of fell foot, near cartmel, lancashire, the present possessor of heywood hall, born september , , married, september , , elizabeth, second daughter of edward gregg hopwood, esq. in , mr. starkey served the office of high sheriff of the county. from this family branched the starkeys of redivals, near bury. heywood looks anything but picturesque, at present; but, judging from the features of the country about the hall, especially on the north side of it, this house must have been a very pleasant and retired country seat about a century and a half ago. descending from the eminence, upon the northern edge of which heywood hall is situated,--and which was probably the first inhabited settlement hereabouts, at a time when the ground now covered by the manufacturing town, was a tract of woods and thickets, wild swards, turf moss, and swamps--we walked westward, along the edge of the roch, towards the manufacturing hamlet of hooley bridge. this valley, by the water-side, has a sylvan and cultivated appearance. the quiet river winds round the pastures of the hall, which slope down to the water, from the shady brow upon which it stands. the opposite heights are clad with woods and plantations; and crimble hall looks forth from the lawns and gardens upon the summit. about a mile up this valley, towards rochdale town, in a quiet glen, lies the spot pointed out in roby's "tradition" of "tyrone's bed," as the place where the famous irish rebel, hugh o'niel, earl of tyrone, lived in concealment some time, during the reign of elizabeth. even at this day, country folks, who know little or nothing of the tradition, know the place by the name of "yel's o' thorone"--an evident corruption of the "earl of tyrone." this was the irish chieftain who burnt the poet spenser out of his residence, rathcormac castle. it was dinner time when we reached the stone bridge at hooley clough; so we turned up the road towards home. [ ] corry's lancashire, v. , p. . in dodsworth's mss. bodleian lib. v. cxvii. p. , is a record of robert heywood, esq. the youngsters and the dinner were waiting for us, when we got back to the house. the little girl was rather more communicative than before; and, after the meal was over, we had more music. but, while this was going on, the lad stole away to some nook, with a book in his hand. and, soon after, the master of the house and i found ourselves again alone, smoking and talking together. i had enjoyed this summer day so far, and was inclined to make the most of it; so, when dinner was over, i went out at the back, and down by a thorn-edge, which divides the meadows. i was soon followed by mine host, and we sauntered on together till we came to a shelving hollow, in which a still pool lay gleaming like a sun among the meadows. it looked cool, and brought the skies to our feet. sitting down upon its bank, we watched the reflection of many a straggling cloud of gauzy white, sailing over its surface, eastward. little fishes, leaping up now and then, were the only things which stirred the burnished mirror, for a second or two, into tiny tremulations of liquid gold; and water-flies darted to and fro upon the pool, like nimble fancies in a fertile mind. and thus we lazily enjoyed the glory of a summer day in the fields; while the lark was singing in the blinding sky, and hedges were white with may. after awhile, we drifted dreamily asunder, and i crept under the shade of a fence hard by, to avoid the heat; and there lay on my back, looking towards the sky, through my fingers, to keep sight of a fluttering spot from which a skylark poured down its rain of melody upon the fields around. my face was half buried in grass and meadow herbs; and i fell asleep with them peeping about my eye-lids. after half an hour's dreamy doze in the sun--during which my mind seemed to have acted over a whole lifetime in masquerade--i woke up, and, shaking the buzz of field-flies out of my ears, we gathered up our books, and went into the house. when it drew towards evening, we left the house again--for it was so fine outside, that it seemed a pity to remain under cover longer than necessary--and we walked through the village in hooley clough, and on, northward, up hill, and down dell, until we came to a wild upland, called "birtle," which stretches away along the base of ashworth moor. the sun was touching the top of the hills when we reached that elevated tract; and the western heavens were glowing with the grandeur of his decline as we walked across the fields towards an old hamlet called "grislehurst." here we stayed a while, conversing with an ancient cottager and his dame, about the history of their native corner, its legendary associations, and other matters interesting to them and to us. we left grislehurst in the twilight, by a route which led through the deeps of simpson clough, and on, homewards, just as the first lamps of evening were lighting up; rejoicing in the approach of a cloudless summer night, as we had rejoiced in the glorious day which had gone down. the next morning, i returned to manchester; and, since that time, it has often been a pleasure to me in the crowded city to recollect that summer day, spent in the country north of the town of heywood. its images never return to my memory but i wish to hold them there awhile. emerson says:--"give me health and a day, and i will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. the dawn is my assyria; the sunset and moonrise my paphos, and unimaginable realms of faërie; broad noon shall be my england of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my germany of mystic philosophy and dreams." if men had their eyes open to the beauties and uses of those elements which are open to all alike, and felt the grandeur of this earth, which is the common home of the living, how much would it reconcile them to their differences of position, and moderate their repinings at the superiority of this man's housing, and that man's dress and diet. looking back at the present character and previous history of this town of heywood, there is some suggestive interest in both the one and the other. the period of its existence--from the time when it first arose, in an almost uncultivated spot, as an habitation of man, till now--is contained in such a brief space, that to any man who cares to consider the nature of its origin, and the character of the influences which have combined to make it such as it now is, the materials for guiding him to a comprehension of these things, lie almost as much within his reach as if the place were a plant which he had put into the soil for himself, and the growth of which he had occasionally watched with interest. in this respect, although heywood wears much the same general appearance as other cotton-spinning towns, it has something of a character of its own, different from most of those towns of lancashire, whose histories go back many centuries, often through eventful changes, till they grow dim among the early records of the kingdom in general. unlike those, however, heywood is almost entirely the creation of the cotton trade, which itself arose out of the combination of a few ingenious thoughts put into practice by a people who seem to have been eminently fitted by nature to perceive their value, and to act enterprisingly upon what they perceived. if it had been possible for an intelligent man to have lifted himself into mid air above heywood, about two hundred years ago, when its first cottages began to cluster into a little village, and to settle himself comfortably upon a cloud, so as to be able to watch the growth of the place below, with all the changing phases of its life from then till now, it might present to him a different aspect, and lead him to different conclusions to those engendered by people living and moving among the swarms of human action. in the mind of such a serene overlooker--distinctly observing the detail and the whole of the manner of life beneath him, and fully comprehending the nature of the rise and progress of this lancashire town--many thoughts might arise, which would not occur to those who creep about the crowded earth, full of little perturbations. but, to almost any thoughtful man, the history of this manufacturing town would illustrate the power which a little practical knowledge gives to a practical people over the physical elements of creation, as well as over that portion of the people who have little or no education, and are, therefore, drifted hither and thither by every wind of circumstance which wafts across the surface of society. it might suggest, too, how much society is indebted, for whatever force or excellence there is in it, to the scattered seeds of silent thought which have quietly done their work among the noise of action--for ever leading it on to still better action; and it might suggest how much the character of the next generation depends upon the education of the present one. looking at this question of education merely in that point of view in which it affects production, the following passage, by an eminent advocate of education, shall speak for itself:--"prior to education, the productive power of the six millions of workers in the united kingdom would be the physical force which they were capable of exerting. in the present day, the power really exerted is equal to the force of a hundred millions of men at least. but the power of the uneducated unit is still the physical force of one man, the balance being exerted by men who understand the principles of mechanics and of chemistry, and who superintend the machine power evolved thereby. thus the power originated by the few, and superintended by a fraction of society, is seventeen times greater than the strength of all our workers, and is hourly increasing." if a man was a pair of steam looms, how carefully would he be oiled, and tended, and mended, and made to do all that a pair of looms could do. what a loom, full of miraculous faculties is he, compared to these--the master-piece of nature for creative power, and for wonderful variety of capabilities! yet, with what a profuse neglect he is cast away, like the cheapest rubbish on earth! the grave of grislehurst boggart. thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods, in which the summer, like a hermit, dwelt: he laid him down by the old haunted springs up-bubbling, 'mid a world of greenery, shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes that roam the woods. --alexander smith. whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, lest bogles catch him unawares. --burns. when one gets a few miles off any of the populous towns in lancashire, many an old wood, many a lonesome clough, many a quiet stream and ancient building, is the reputed haunt of some local sprite, or "boggart," or is enveloped in an atmosphere of dread by the superstitions of the neighbourhood, as being the resort of fairies, or "feeorin."[ ] this is frequently the case in retired vales and nooks lying between the towns. but it is particularly so in the hilly parts, where the old manners of the people are little changed, and where many homelets of past ages still stand in their old solitudes, and--like their sparse population--retain many of their ancient characteristics. in such places, the legends and superstitions of the forefathers of lancashire are cherished with a tenacity which would hardly be credible to the inhabitants of great cities in these days. there, still lingers the belief in witchcraft, and in the power of certain persons to do ill, through peculiar connection with the evil one; and the belief, also, that others--known as "witch-doctors"--are able to "rule the spells," or counteract the malign intents of necromancy; and possess secret charms which afford protection against the foul fiend and all his brood of infernal agencies. [ ] _feeorin_--fearful things. a few years ago, i lived at an old farm, called "peanock," up in the hills, towards blackstone edge. at that time, a strong little fellow about twenty-three years of age, called "robin," was employed as "keaw-lad" at the farm. robin used to tell me tales of the witches and boggarts of the neighbourhood. the most notable one of them all was "clegg ho' boggart," which is commemorated by the late mr. john roby, in his "traditions of lancashire." this local sprite is still the theme of many a winter's tale, among the people of the hills about clegg hall. the proverb "aw'm here again--like clegg ho' boggart," is common there, and in the surrounding towns and villages. i remember robin saying that when he had to go into the "shippon" early on a winter's morning, with a light, he used to advance his lantern and let it shine a minute or two into the "shippon" before he durst enter himself, on account of the "feeorin" which "swarmed up and deawn th' inside i'th neet time." but he said that "things o' that mak couldn't bide leet," for, as soon as his lantern glinted into the place, he could see "witches scuttering through th' slifters o'th wole, by theawsans, like bits o' leet'nin." he used to tell me, too, that a dairy-lass at a neighbouring farm had to let go her "churn-pow," because "a rook o' little green divuls begun a-swarmin up th' hondle, as hoo wur churnin'." and then he would glance, with a kind of unconscious timidity, towards a nook of the yard, where stood three old cottages connected with the farm; and in one of which there dwelt an aged man, of singular habits and appearance, of whose supposed supernatural powers most of the people of that neighbourhood harboured a considerable degree of fear; and, as he glanced towards the corner of the building, he would tell me in an under tone that the irish cow, "red jenny," which used to be "as good a keaw as ever whiskt a tail, had never lookt up sin' owd bill glented at hur through a hole i'th shippon wole, one mornin, as betty wur milkin hur." prejudices of this kind are still common in thinly-peopled nooks of the lancashire hills. "boggarts" appear, however, to have been more numerous than they are now, when working people wove what was called "one lamb's wool" in a day; but when it came to pass that they had to weave "three lambs' wools" in a day, and the cotton trade arose, boggarts, and fairies, and "feeorin" of all kinds, began to flee away from the clatter of shuttles, and the tired weaver was fain to creep from his looms to bed, where he could rest his body, and weave his fearful fancies into the freakish pattern of a dream. and then, railway trains began to rumble hourly through solitudes where "the little folk" of past days had held undisturbed sway; and perhaps these helped to dispel some of those dreams of glamour which had been fostered by the ignorance of the past. far on in the afternoon of a summer day, i sat at tea with an acquaintance who dwells in the fields outside the town of heywood. we had spent the forenoon in visiting heywood hall, and rambling among its woods, and through a pleasant clough, which winds along the northern base of the eminence on which that old mansion stands. we lingered over the afternoon meal, talking of the past and present of the district around us. we speculated upon the ancient aspect of the country, and the condition and characteristics of its early inhabitants; we talked of the old local gentry, their influence, their residences, and their fortunes; of remarkable local scenes, and men; and of the present features of life in these districts. part of our conversation related to the scenery of that tract of hills and cloughs which comprises the country, rising, northward, from heywood up to the lofty range of moorlands which divides that part of lancashire from rossendale forest. up in this remote tract, there is a solitary hamlet, called grislehurst. to a stranger's eye, the two quaint farmsteads, which are now the sole relics of the hamlet, would be interesting, if only on account of the retired beauty of their situation, and the romantic character of the scenery around. grislehurst stands on an elevated platform of land, called "birtle," or "birkle," the place of birches. it is bounded on the north by the ridge of ashworth moor, and the lofty mass of knowl hill; and on the east by simpson clough, a deep ravine, about two miles long, running up into the hills. this glen of precipitous crags, and wood-shrouded waters, is chiefly known to those who like rough and lonesome country walks; and to anybody who loves to ramble among such legend-haunted solitudes, a moonlight walk through "simpson clough" would be a pleasure not easily forgotten. grislehurst stands about a stone's throw from the western brink of the clough, and out of the way of common observation. but it is not only the lone charm of its situation which makes this hamlet interesting. grislehurst is a settlement of the early inhabitants of the district; and was for some centuries one of the seats of the holt family, of grislehurst, stubley, and castleton, in this parish; a branch of the holts of sale, ashton, cheshire. some of this family fought in the scottish wars, and also in favour of the royal cause, at edgehill, newberry, marston moor, &c., and were named in king charles's projected order of the royal oak.[ ] there was a judge holt, of the holts of sale; and a james holt, whose mother was co-heiress to sir james de sutton; he was killed at flodden field. mary, the daughter of james holt, the last of the family who resided at castleton hall, in this parish, married samuel, brother of humphrey cheetham. the manor of spotland was granted by henry viii. to thomas holt, of grislehurst, who was knighted in scotland, by edward, earl of hertford, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of that monarch. the holts were the principal landowners in the parish of rochdale at the close of the sixteenth century. what remains of grislehurst is still associated in the mind with the historic interest which attaches to this once powerful local family. the place is also closely interwoven with some other ancient traditions of the locality, oral and written.[ ] in earlier years, i have often wandered about the woods, and waters, and rocky recesses of this glen, thinking of the tale of the rebel earl,[ ] who is said to have concealed himself, two centuries ago, in a neighbouring clough which bears his name; and, wrapt in a dreamland of my own, sometimes a little tinctured with the wizard lore which lingers among the primitive folk of that quarter. but, in all my walks thereabouts, i had never visited grislehurst, till this summer afternoon, when, as we sat talking of the place, my curiosity impelled me to propose an evening ramble to the spot; from which we could return, by another route, through simpson clough. [ ] thomas posthumus holt, esq., was one of the intended knights of the order of the royal oak. according to ms. memorandum, he died th march, , "after sown-sett a hower, as they report it."--_burke's commoners._ [ ] see "tyrone's bed," in roby's "traditions of lancashire." [ ] the turbulent earl of tyrone, who headed the irish rebellion in the reign of elizabeth. we were not quite half an hour's walk from grislehurst when we started on the north road from heywood; and the sun was still up in the heavens. half a mile brought us into hooley clough, where the road leads through the village of hooley bridge. this village lines the opposite banks of the roch at that place. its situation is retired and picturesque. the vale in which it lies is agreeably adorned with plantations, and the remains of old woods; and the whole scenery is green and pleasant. the village itself has a more orderly and wholesome appearance than any other manufacturing hamlet which i remember. the houses were clean and comfortable-looking, and the roads in fair condition. i noticed that nearly every cottage had its stock of coals piled up under the front window, and open to the street; the "cobs" nearly built up into a square wall, and the centre filled up with the "sleck an' naplins." it struck me that if the people of manchester were to leave their coals thus free to the world, the course of a single night would "leave not a wreck behind." the whole population of the place is employed by the fenton family, whose mills stand close to the margin of the river, in the hollow of the clough. we went up the steep cart road leading out of hooley clough towards the north, emerging into the highway from bury to rochdale, about a quarter of a mile from the lower end of simpson clough, and nearly opposite the lodge of bamford hall. the country thereabouts is broken into green hills and glens, with patches of old woods, shading the sides of the cloughs. it is bleak and sterile in some parts, and thinly populated, over the whole tract, up to the mountainous moors. as we descended the highway into simpson clough, through an opening in the trees, we caught a glimpse of "makin mill," low down in a green valley to the west. this old mill was the first cotton factory erected in the township of heap. it was built about , by the firm of peel, yates, and co., and now belongs to edmund peel, esq., brother to the late prime minister. looking over the northern parapet of the bridge, in the hollow of the road, the deep gully of the clough is filled with a cluster of mills, and the cottages attached to them. woody heights rise abruptly around, and craggy rocks over-frown this little nest of manufacture, in the bottom of the ravine. we climbed up the steep road, in the direction of bury, and on reaching the summit, at a place called "th' top o'th wood," we turned off at the end of a row of stone cottages, and went to the right, on a field-path which leads to grislehurst. half a mile's walk brought us to two old farm-houses, standing a little apart. we were at a loss to know which of the two, or whether either of them belonged to grislehurst hall. the largest took our attention most, on account of some quaint, ornamental masonry built up in its walls; though evidently not originally belonging to the building. we went round to look at the other side, where similar pieces of ancient masonry were incorporated. the building, though old, was too modern, and had too much barn-like plainness about it to be the hall of the holts. and then, the country around was all green meadow and pasture; and if this building was not grislehurst hall, there was none. i began to think that the land was the most remarkable piece of antiquity about the place. but one part of the west side of this building formed a comfortable cottage residence, the window of which was full of plants, in pots. an hale old man, bareheaded, and in his shirt-sleeves, leaned against the door-cheek, with his arms folded. he was short and broad-set, with fresh complexion and bright eyes; and his firm full features, and stalwart figure, bespoke a life of healthy habits. he wore new fustian breeches, tied with black silk ribbon at the knees. leaning there, and looking calmly over the fields in the twilight, he eyed us earnestly, as country folk do when strangers wander into their lonely corners. the soft summer evening was sinking beautifully on the quiet landscape, which stretches along the base of ashworth moor. the old man's countenance had more of country simplicity than force of character in it; yet he was very comely to look upon, and seemed a natural part of the landscape around him; and the hour and the man together, somehow, brought to my mind a graphic line in the book of genesis, about isaac going out "to meditate in the field at eventide." after we had sauntered about the place a few minutes--during which the old cottager watched us with a calm but curious eye--we went toward him with the usual salutation about it being a "fine neet," and such like. he melted at once from his statuesque curiosity, and, stepping slowly from the threshold, with his arms folded, replied, "ay, it is, for sure.... wi'n had grand groo-weather[ ] as week or two. but a sawp o' deawnfo' 'ud do a seet o' good just neaw; an' we'st ha' some afore lung; or aw'm chetted. owd knowe[ ] has bin awsin to put hur durty cap on a time or two to-day; an' as soon as hoo can shap to tee it, there'll be wayter amoon us, yo'n see." his dame, hearing the conversation, came forth to see what was going on, and wandered slowly after us down the lane. she was a strong-built and portly old woman, taller than her husband; and her light-complexioned face beamed with health and simplicity. the evening was mild and still, and the old woman wore no bonnet; nor even the usual kerchief on her head. her cap and apron were white as new snow, and all her attire looked sound and sweet, though of homely cut and quality. i knew, somehow, that the clothes she wore were scented with lavender or such like herbs, which country folk lay at the bottom of the "kist," for the sake of the aroma which they impart to their clothing. and no king's linen could be more wholesomely perfumed. give me a well-washed shirt, bleached on a country hedge, and scented with country herbs! the hues of sunset glowed above the lofty moors in front of us, and the stir of day was declining into the rich hum of summer evening. the atmosphere immediately around seemed clearer than when the sun was up; but a shade of hazy gray was creeping over the far east. we lounged along the lane, with the comely dame following us silently, at a distance of three or four yards, wondering what we could be, and why we had wandered into that nook at such a time. after a little talk with the old man, about the hay-crop, the news of the town, and such like, we asked him whether the spot we were upon was grislehurst; and he replied, "yo're upo' the very clod." [ ] _groo-weather_--growing-weather. [ ] knowl hill, between rochdale and rossendale. we then inquired where grislehurst hall stood; and whether the building of which his cottage was a part, had been any way connected with it. he brightened up at the mention of grislehurst hall; and, turning sharply round, he said with an air of surprise, "what! dun yo pretend to know aught abeawt gerzlehus' ho'?... not mich, aw think; bi'th look on yo." i told him that all we knew of it was from reading, and from what we had heard about it; and that, happening to be in the neighbourhood, we had wandered up to see if there were any remains of it in existence. "ay, well," said he--and as he said it, his tone and manner assumed a touch of greater importance than before--"if that's o' th' arran' yo han, aw deawt yo'n made a lost gate. noather yo, nor nobory elze needs to look for gerzlehus' ho' no more. it's gwon, lung sin!... but yo'n let reet for yerrin a bit o' summat abeawt it, if that'll do." he then turned slowly round, and, pointing to a plot of meadow land which abutted upon a dingle, to the south, he said, "yo see'n that piece o' meadow lond, at th' edge o'th green hollow theer?" "yes." "well; that's the spot wheer gerzlehus' ho' stoode, when aw're a lad. to look at't neaw, yo wouldn't think at oathur heawse or hut had studd'n upo' that clod; for it's as good a bit o' meadow lond as ever scythe swept.... but that's the very spot wheer gerzlehus' ho' stoode. an' it're a fine place too, mind yo; once't of a day. there's nought like it upo' this country-side neaw; as heaw 'tis: noather baemforth ho', nor noan on 'em. but what, things are very mich awturt sin then.... new-fangle't folk, new-fangle't ways, new-fangle't everything. th' owd ho's gwon neaw, yo see'n; an' th' trees are gwon, 'at stoode abeawt it. the dule steawnd theem at cut 'em deawn, say i![ ] an' then th' orchart's gwon; an' th' gardens an' o' are gwon; nobbut a twothre at's laft o'er-anent this biggin--aw dar say yo see'd 'em as yo coom up--they're morels.... an' then, they'n bigged yon new barn upo' th' knowe; an' they'n cut, an' they'n carve't, an' they'n potter't abeawt th' owd place, whol it doesn't look like th' same; it doesn't for sure--not like th' same." [ ] _the dule steawnd theem 'at cut em deawn_--the devil astonish those who cut them down. we now asked him again whether the large stone building, in part of which he lived, had belonged to the old hall. "ay, well," said he, looking towards it, "that's noan sich a feaw buildin', that isn't. that're part o'th eawt-heawsin to gerzlehus' ho'; yo may see. there's a window theer, an' a dur-hole, an' some moor odd bits abeawt it, of an owdish mak. yo con happen tay summat fro thoose. but it's divided into different livin's neaw, yo see'n. there's a new farmer lives i'th top end theer. he's made greyt awterations. it's a greadly good heawse i'th inside; if yo see'd through." "well," said i, "and what sort of a place was grislehurst hall itself?" "what, gerzlehus' ho'?" replied he; "well, aw should know, as hea 'tis; if onybody does. aw've been a good while upo' th' clod for nought if i dunnut.... ay, thae may laugh; but aw're weel acquainted with this greawn afore thir born, my lad--yers to mo, neaw?"[ ] [ ] _yers to mo, neaw?_--hearest thou me, now? i made some excuse for having smiled, and he went on. "gerzlehus' ho' wur a very greyt place, yo may depend. it're mostly built o' heavy oak bauks.... there wur ir jammy lad,[ ] an' me, an' some moor on us--eh, we han carted some of a lot o' loads o' fine timber an' stuff off that spot, at time an' time! an' there's bin a deeol o' good flags, an' sich like, ta'en eawt o'th lond wheer th' heawse stoode; an' eawt o'th hollow below theer--there has so." [ ] _ir jammy lad_--our james's son. "how long is that since?" said i. the old woman, who had been listening behind us, with her hands clasped under her apron, now stepped up, and said, "heaw lung sin? why, it's aboon fifty year sin. he should know moor nor yo abeawt it, aw guess." "ay," said the old man, "aw've known this clod aboon fifty year, for sure. an' see yo," continued he, "there wur a shootin'-butts i' that hollow; sin aw can tell on. and upo' yon green," said he, turning round towards the north, and pointing off at the end of the building, "upo' yon green there stoode an owd sun-dial, i'th middle of a piece o' lond at's bin a chapel-yort, aforetime. they say'n there's graves theer yet. an' upo' that knowe, wheer th' new barn stons, there wur a place o' worship--so th' tale gwos." it was clear that we had set him going on a favourite theme, and we must, therefore, bide the issue. turning his face to the west, he pointed towards a green eminence at a short distance, and said, "to this day they co'n yon hillock 'th' castle,' upo' keawnt on there once being a place theer where prisoners were confin't. an' that hee greawnd gwos bi'th name o'th 'gallows hill;' what for, i know not." he then paused, and, pointing to a little hollow near the place where we stood, he slightly lowered his voice as he continued--"an' then, aw reckon yo see'n yon bend i'th lone, wheer th' ash tree stons?" "ay." "well," said he, "that's the very spot wheer gerzlehus' boggart's buried." my thoughts had so drifted away in another direction, that i was not prepared for such an announcement as this. i was aware that the inhabitants of that district clung to many of the superstitions of their forefathers; but the thing came upon me so unexpectedly, and when my mind was so quietly absorbed in dreams of another sort, that, if the old man had fired off a pistol close to my ear, i should not have been much more astonished; though i might have been more startled. all that i had been thinking of vanished at once; and my curiosity was centred in this new phase of the old man's story. i looked into his face to see whether he really meant what he had said; but there it was, sure enough. in every outward feature he endorsed the sincerity of his inward feeling. his countenance was as solemn as an unlettered gravestone. "grislehurst boggart;" said i, looking towards the place once more. "ay;" replied he. "that's wheer it wur laid low; an' some of a job it wur. yo happen never yerd on't afore." the old woman now took up the story, with more earnestness even than her husband. "it's a good while sin it wur laid; an' there wur a cock buried wi' it, with a stoop[ ] driven through it. it're noan sattle't with a little; aw'll uphowd yo." "and dun you really think, then," said i, "that this place has been haunted by a boggart?" "has bin--be far!" replied she. "it is neaw! yodd'n soon find it eawt, too, iv yo live't upo' th' spot. it's very mich if it wouldn't may yor yure ston of an end; oathur wi' one marlock or another.[ ] there's noan so mony folk at likes to go deawn yon lone, at after delit,[ ] aw con tell yo." "but, if it's laid and buried," replied i, "it surely doesn't trouble you now." "oh, well," said the old woman, "iv it doesn't, it doesn't; so there needs no moor. aw know some folk winnot believe sich things; there is at'll believe nought at o', iv it isn't fair druvven into 'em, wilto, shalto;[ ] but this is a different case, mind yo. eh, never name it; thoose at has it to deeol wi' knows what it is; but thoose at knows nought abeawt sich like--whau, it's like summat an' nought talkin' to 'em abeawt it: so we'n e'en lap it up where it is." [ ] _stoop_--a stake; a long piece of pointed wood. [ ] _marlock_--a freak; a prank. [ ] _delit_--daylight. [ ] _wilto, shalto_--by force; against the will. "well, well, but stop," said the old man. "yo say'n 'at it doesn't trouble us neaw. why, it isn't aboon a fortnit sin th' farmer's wife at the end theer yerd summat i'th deeod time o'th neet; an' hoo wur welly thrut eawt o' bed, too, beside--so then." "ah," said the old woman, "sich wark as that's scarrin',[ ] i'th neet time.... an' they never could'n find it eawt. but aw know'd what it wur in a minute. th' farmer's wife an me wur talking it o'er again, yesterday; an' hoo says 'at ever sin it happen't hoo gets quite timmersome as soon as it drays toawrd th' edge o' dark; iv there's nobory i'th heawse but hersel'.... well, an' one wyndy neet--as aw're sittin' bi'th fire--aw yerd summat like a--" here the old man interrupted her:-- "it's no use folk tellin' me at they dunnut believe sich like things," said he, seeming not to notice his wife's story; "it's no use tellin' me they dunnut believe it! th' pranks at it's played abeawt this plaze, at time an' time, would flay ony wick soul to yer tell on." "never name it!" said she; "aw know whether they would'n or not.... one neet, as aw're sittin by mysel'--" her husband interposed again, with an abstracted air:-- "un-yaukin' th' horses; an' turnin' carts an' things o'er i'th deep neet time; an' shiftin' stuff up and deawn, when folk are i' bed; it's rather flaysome, yo may depend. but then, aw know, there isn't a smite o' sense i' flingin' one's wynt away wi' telling o' sich things, to some folk.... it's war nor muckin' wi' sond, an' drainin' wi' cinders." "and it's buried yonder," said i. "ay," replied he, "just i'th hollow; where th' ash tree is. that used to be th' owd road to rachda', when aw're a lad." "do you never think of delving the ground up," said i. "delve! nawe," answered he; "aw'st delve noan theer." the old woman broke in again:-- "nawe; he'll delve noan theer; nut iv aw know it! nor no mon else dar lay a finger upo' that clod. joseph fenton's[ ] a meeterly bowd chap; an' he's ruvven everything up abeawt this country-side, welly; but he dar not touch gerzlehus' boggart, for his skin! an' aw houd his wit good, too, mind yo!" [ ] _scarrin_--scaring; terrifying. [ ] one of the fenton family who own the land there. it was useless attempting to unsettle the superstitions of this primitive pair. they were too far gone. and it was, perhaps, best to let the old couple glide on through the evening of their life, untroubled by any ill-timed wrangling. but the old dame suspected, by our looks, that we were on easy terms with our opinion of the tale; and she said, "aw dunnot think yo believ'n a wort abeawt it!" this made us laugh in a way that left little doubt upon the question; and she turned away from us, saying, "well, yo're weel off iv yo'n nought o' that mak o' yo'r country-side." we had now got into the fields, in the direction by which we intended to make our way home; and the old people seemed inclined to return to their cottage. we halted, and looked round a few minutes, before parting. "you've lived here a good while," said i to the old man, "and know all the country round." "aw know every fuut o'th greawnd about this part--hill an' hollow, wood and wayter-stid." "you are getting to a good age, too," continued i. "well," said he, "aw'm gettin' boudly on into th' fourth score. ir breed are a lungish-wynded lot, yo see'n; tak 'em one wi' another." "you appear to have good health, for your age," said i. "well," replied he, "aw ail mich o' nought yet--why, aw'm meyt-whol,[ ] an' sich like; an' aw can do a day-wark wi' some o'th young uns yet--thank god for't.... but then aw'st come to't in a bit, yo known--aw'st come too't in a bit. aw'm so like.[ ] folk connut expect to ha' youth at both ends o' life, aw guess; an' wi mun o' on us oather owd be, or yung dee, as th' sayin' is." [ ] _meyt-whol_--meat-whole; able to eat his meals. [ ] _aw'm so like_--it may naturally be expected that i shall. "it's gettin' time to rest at your age, too." "whau; wark's no trouble to me, as lung as aw con do't. beside, yo see'n, folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th wynt."[ ] [ ] _folk at's a dur to keep oppen, connut do't wi'th wynt_--folk that have a house to maintain, cannot do it with the wind. "isn't grislehurst cold and lonely in winter time?" "well; it is--rayther," said he. "but we dunnot think as mich at it as teawn's-folk would do.... it'll be a greyt deeol warse at th' top o' know hill yon, see yo. it's cowd enough theer to starve an otter to deeoth, i' winter time. but, here, we're reet enough, for th' matter o' that. an' as for company, we gwon a-neighbourin' a bit, neaw an' then, yo see'n. beside, we getten to bed sooner ov a neet nor they dun in a teawn." "to my thinkin'," said the old woman, "aw wouldn't live in a teawn iv eh mut wear red shoon." "but you hav'n't many neighbours about here." "oh, yigh," said he. "there's th' farmer's theer; and one or two moor. an' then, there's th' 'top o'th wood' folk. then there's 'hooley clough,' and th' 'war office,'[ ]--we can soon get to oathur o' thoose, when we want'n a bit ov an extra do.... oh! ah; we'n plenty o' neighbours! but th' birtle folk are a deeol on um sib an' sib, rib an' rib--o' ov a litter--fittons an' diggles, an' fittons an' diggles o'er again. an' wheer dun yo come fro, sen yo?" [ ] _th' war office_--a name applied to the village of bamford. we told him. "well," said he; "an' are yo i'th buildin' line--at aw mun be so bowd?" we again explained the motive of our visit. "well," said he; "it's nought to me, at aw know on--nobbut aw're thinkin' like.... did'n yo ever see baemforth ho', afore it're poo'd deawn?" "never." "eh, that're a nice owd buildin'! th' new un hardly comes up to't, i' my e'en--as fine as it is.... an' are yo beawn back this gate, then?" "ay; we want to go through th' clough." "well; yo mun mind heaw yo gwon deawn th' wood-side; for it's a rough gate. so, good neet to yo!" we bade them both "good night!" and were walking away, when he shouted back, "hey! aw say! dun yo know ned o' andrew's?" "no." "he's the very mon for yo! aw've just unbethought mo! he knows moor cracks nor onybody o' this side--an' he'll sit a fire eawt ony time, tellin' his bits o' tales. sper ov anybody at hooley bridge, an' they'n tell yo wheer he lives. so, good neet to yo!" leaving the two old cottagers, and their boggart-haunted hamlet, we went over the fields towards simpson clough. the steep sides of this romantic spot are mostly clothed with woods of oak and birch. for nearly a mile's length, the clough is divided into two ravines, deep, narrow, and often craggy--and shady with trees. two streams flow down from the moors above, each through one of these gloomy defiles, till they unite at a place from whence the clough continues its way southward, in one wider and less shrouded expanse, but still between steep and rocky banks, partly wooded. when the rains are heavy upon the moors, these streams rush furiously through their rock-bound courses in the narrow ravines, incapable of mischief, till they meet at the point where the clough becomes one, when they thence form a strong and impetuous torrent, which has, sometimes, proved destructive to property lower down the valley. coming to the western brink of this clough, we skirted along in search of an opening by which we could go down into it with the least difficulty. a little removed from the eastern edge, and nearly opposite to us, stood bamford new hall, the residence of james fenton, esq., one of the wealthy cotton-spinners in this locality. a few yards from that mansion, and nearer to the edge of the clough, stood, a few years ago, the venerable hall of the bamfords of bamford, one of the oldest families belonging to the old local gentry; and, probably, among the first saxon settlers there. thomas de bamford occurs about . adam de bamford granted land in villa de bury, to william de chadwick, in ; and sir john bamford was a fellow of the collegiate church of manchester, in .[ ] a william bamford, esq., of bamford, served the office of high sheriff of the county, in . he married ann, daughter of thomas blackburne, esq., of orford and hale, and was father of ann, lady of john ireland blackburne, esq., m.p. he was succeeded by robert bamford, esq., who, from his connection with the heskeths of cheshire, took the name of robert bamford hesketh, esq., and married miss frances lloyd, of gwrych castle. lloyd hesketh bamford hesketh, esq., of gwrych castle, denbighshire, married emily esther ann, youngest daughter of earl beauchamp.[ ] the old hall of the bamfords was taken down a few years ago. i do not remember ever seeing it myself, but the following particulars respecting it have been kindly furnished to me by a native gentleman, who knew it well:--"it was a fine old building of the tudor style, with three gables in front, which looked towards the high road; it was of light-coloured ashler stone, such as is found in the neighbourhood; with mullions, and quaint windows and doors to match; and was, i think, dated about . such another building you will certainly not find on this side of the county. castleton hall comes, in my opinion, nearest to it in venerable appearance; but bamford hall had a lighter and more cheerful aspect; its situation, also, almost on the edge of the rocky chasm of simpson clough, or, as it is often called, guestless, _i.e._ grislehurst clough, gave an air of romance to the place, which i do not remember to have noticed about any ancient residence with which i am acquainted." [ ] _hollingworth's mancuniensis_, willis's edition, p. . [ ] court magazine, vol. , no. . stillness was falling upon the scene; but the evening wind sung lulling vespers in grislehurst wood; and, now and then, there rose from the rustling green, the silvery solo of some lingering singer in those leafy choirs, as we worked our way through the shade of the wood, until we came to the bed of "nadin water," in the shrouded hollow of the clough. the season had been dry, and the water lay in quiet pools of the channel,--gleaming in the gloom, where the light fell through the trees. we made our way onward, sometimes leaping from stone to stone in the bed of the stream, sometimes tearing over the lower part of the bank, which was broken and irregular, and scattered with moss-greened fragments of fallen rock, or slippery and swampy with lodgments of damp, fed by rindles and driblets of water, running more or less, in all seasons, from springs in the wood-shaded steep. in some parts, the bank was overgrown with scratchy thickets, composed of dogberry-stalks, wild rose-bushes, prickly hollins and thorns, young hazles and ash trees; broad-leaved docks, and tall, drooping ferns; and, over all, hung the thick green of the spreading wood. pushing aside the branches, we laboured on till we came into the opening where the streams combine. a stone bridge crosses the water at this spot, leading up to the woody ridge which separates the two ravines, in the upper part of the clough. here we climbed from the bed of the stream, and got upon a cart-road which led out of the clough, and up to the rochdale road, which crosses the lower end of it, at a considerable elevation. the thin crescent of a new moon's rim hung like a silver sickle in the sky; and the stars were beginning to glow, in "jove's eternal house!" whilst the fading world below seemed hushed with awe, to see that sprinkling of golden lights coming out in silence once more from the over-spanning blue. we walked up the slope, from the silent hollow, between the woods, and over the knoll, and down into hooley clough again, by the way we came at first. country people were sauntering about, upon the main road, and in the bye-lanes, thereabouts, in twos and threes. in the village of hooley bridge, the inhabitants were lounging at their cottage doors, in neighbourly talk, enjoying the close of a summer day; and, probably, "ned o' andrew's" was sitting in some quiet corner of the village, amusing a circle of eager listeners with his quaint country tales. a short walk brought us to the end of our ramble, and we sat down to talk over what we had seen and heard. my visit to grislehurst had been all the more interesting that i had no thought of meeting with such a living evidence of the lingering superstitions of lancashire there. i used to like to sit with country folk, hearkening to their old-world tales of boggarts, and goblins, and fairies, that plat the manes of horses in the night, and cake the elf lock in foul, sluttish airs; and i had thought myself well acquainted with the boggart-lore of my native district; but the goblin of grislehurst was new to me. by this time i knew that in remote country houses the song of the cricket and the ticking of the clock were beginning to be distinctly heard; and that in many a solitary cottage these were, now, almost the only sounds astir, except the cadences of the night wind, sighing around, and making every crevice into a voice of mystic import to superstitious listeners; while, perhaps, the rustle of the trees blended with the dreamy ripple of some neighbouring brooklet. the shades of night would, by this time, have fallen upon the haunted homesteads of grislehurst, and, in the folds of that dusky robe, would have brought to the old cottagers their usual fears, filled with shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends; and i could imagine the good old pair creeping off to repose, and covering up their eyes more carefully than usual from the goblin-peopled gloom, after the talk we had with them about grislehurst boggart. boggart ho' clough. under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat, come hither, come hither, come hither; here we shall see no enemy, but winter and rough weather. --shakspere. there is a quiet little clough about three miles from manchester, near the old village of blackley. the best entrance to it is by a gateway leading from the southern edge of a shady steep called "entwisle broo," on the highway from manchester to middleton. approaching the spot in this direction, a winding road leads down between a low bemossed wall on the right, and a thorn hedge, which screens the green depth on the left. the trees which line the path overlap the way with shade in summer time, till it reaches the open hollow, where stands a brick-built farm-house, with its outbuildings, and gardens,--sheltered in the rear by the wooded bank of the clough. thence, this pretty lancashire dell wanders on southward for a considerable distance, in picturesque quietude. the township of blackley, in which it is situated, retains many traces of its former rural beauty, and some remnants of the woods which once covered the district. as a whole, blackley is, even yet, so pleasantly varied in natural feature as to rank among the prettiest scenery around manchester, although its valleys are now, almost all of them, more or less, surrendered to the conquering march of manufacture--all, except this secluded glen, known by the name of "boggart ho' clough." here, still, in this sylvan "deer-leap" of the saxon hunter, the lover of nature, and the jaded townsman, have a tranquil sanctuary, where they can wander, cloistered from the tumults of life; and there is many a contemplative rambler who seeks the retirement of this leafy dell, the whole aspect of which seems to invite the mind to a "sessions of sweet, silent thought." one can imagine it such a place as a man of poetic temperament would delight in; and the interest which has gathered around it is not lessened by the fact, that before samuel bamford, the poet, left this district to take up his abode in the metropolis, he dwelt at a pleasant cottage, on the summit of the upland, near the eastern edge of the clough. and here, in his native sequestration, he may have sometimes felt the significance of burns's words,-- the muse, nae poet ever fand her, till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, down by some streamlet's sweet meander, and no think lang. the rural charms and retired peacefulness of "boggart ho' clough" might well, in the vicinity of a place like manchester, account for part of its local celebrity; but not for the whole of it. the superstitions of the locality and the shaping power of imagination have clothed the place with an interest which does not solely belong to the embowered gloom of its green recesses; nor to its picturesque steeps, overgrown with fern and underwood; nor to the beauty of its swardy holm, spreading out a pleasant space in the vale; nor to the wimpling rill which wanders through it from end to end, amongst the pumy stones, which seem to plaine, with gentle murmure, that his course they do restraine. man has clothed the scene in a drapery of wonder and fear, woven in the creative loom of his own imagination. any superstitious stranger, wandering there, alone, under the influence of a midnight moon, would probably think this a likely place for the resort of those spiritual beings who "fly by night." he might truly say, at such an hour, that if ever "mab" held court on the green earth, "boggart ho' clough" is just such a nook, as one can imagine, that her mystic choir would delight to dance in, and sing,-- come, follow, follow me, ye fairy elves that be, light tripping o'er the green, come follow mab, your queen; hand in hand we'll dance around, for this place is fairy ground. the place is now associated with the superstitions of the district; and on that account, as well as on account of its natural attractions, it has been the theme of more than one notable pen. in roby's "traditions of lancashire," there is a story called "the bar-gaist, or boggart," which is connected with "boggart ho' clough." from this story, which was contributed to that work by mr. crofton croker, author of "the fairy legends," i quote the following:-- "not far from the little snug, smoky village of blakeley, or blackley, there lies one of the most romantic of dells, rejoicing in a state of singular seclusion, and in the oddest of lancashire names, to wit, 'boggart-hole.' rich in every requisite for picturesque beauty and poetical association, it is impossible for me (who am neither a painter nor a poet) to describe this dell as it should be described; and i will, therefore, only beg of thee, gentle reader, who, peradventure, mayst not have lingered in this classical neighbourhood, to fancy a deep, deep dell, its steep sides fringed down with hazel and beech, and fern and thick undergrowth, and clothed at the bottom with the richest and greenest sward in the world. you descend, clinging to the trees, and scrambling as best you may,--and now you stand on haunted ground! tread softly, for this is the boggart's clough. and see in yonder dark corner, and beneath the projecting mossy stone, where that dusky, sullen cave yawns before us, like a bit of salvator's best: there lurks that strange elf, the sly and mischievous boggart. bounce! i see him coming;--oh no, it was only a hare bounding from her form; there it goes--there! "i will tell you of some of the pranks of this very boggart, and how he teased and tormented a good farmer's family in a house hard by; and i assure you it was a very worthy old lady who told me the story. but, first, suppose we leave the boggart's demesne, and pay a visit to the theatre of his strange doings. "you see that old farm-house about two fields distant, shaded by the sycamore tree: that was the spot which the boggart or bar-gaist selected for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest george cheetham--for that was the farmer's name--scaring his maids, worrying his men, and frightening the poor children out of their seven senses; so that, at last, not even a mouse durst show himself indoors at the farm, as he valued his whiskers, five minutes after the clock had struck twelve." the story goes on describing the startling pranks of this invisible torment of honest george cheetham's old haunted dwelling. it tells how that the boggart, which was a long time a terror to the farmer's family, "scaring the maids, worrying the men, and frightening the poor children," became at last a familiar, mysterious presence--in a certain sense, a recognised member of the household troop--often heard, but never seen; and sometimes a sharer in the household conversation. when merry tales were being told around the fire, on winter nights, the boggart's "small, shrill voice, heard above the rest, like a baby's penny trumpet," joined the general laughter, in a tone of supernatural congeniality; and the hearers learned, at last, to hear without dismay, if not to love the sounds which they had feared before. but boggarts, like men, are moody creatures; and this unembodied troubler of the farmer's lonely house seems to have been sometimes so forgetful of everything like spiritual dignity, or even of the claims of old acquaintance, as to reply to the familiar banter of his mortal co-tenants, in a tone of petty malignity. he even went so far, at last, as to revenge himself for some fancied insult, by industriously pulling the children up and down by the head and legs in the night time, and by screeching and laughing plaguily in the dark, to the unspeakable annoyance of the inmates. in order to get rid of this nocturnal torment, it appears that the farmer removed his children into other sleeping apartments, leaving the boggart sole tenant of their old bedroom, which seems to have been his favourite stage of action. the story concludes as follows:-- "but his boggartship, having now fairly become the possessor of a room at the farm, it would appear, considered himself in the light of a privileged inmate, and not, as hitherto, an occasional visitor, who merely joined in the general expression of merriment. familiarity, they say, breeds contempt; and now the children's bread and butter would be snatched away, or their porringers of bread and milk would be dashed to the ground by an unseen hand; or, if the younger ones were left alone but for a few minutes, they were sure to be found screaming with terror on the return of their nurse. sometimes, however, he would behave himself kindly. the cream was then churned, and the pans and kettles scoured without hands. there was one circumstance which was remarkable:--the stairs ascended from the kitchen; a partition of boards covered the ends of the steps, and formed a closet beneath the staircase. from one of the boards of this partition a large round knot was accidentally displaced; and one day the youngest of the children, while playing with the shoehorn, stuck it into this knot-hole. whether or not the aperture had been formed by the boggart as a peep-hole to watch the motions of the family, i cannot pretend to say. some thought it was, for it was called the boggart's peep-hole; but others said that they had remembered it long before the shrill laugh of the boggart was heard in the house. however this may have been, it is certain that the horn was ejected with surprising precision at the head of whoever put it there; and either in mirth or in anger the horn was darted forth with great velocity, and struck the poor child over the ear. "there are few matters upon which parents feel more acutely than that of the maltreatment of their offspring; but time, that great soother of all things, at length familiarised this dangerous occurrence to every one at the farm, and that which at the first was regarded with the utmost terror, became a kind of amusement with the more thoughtless and daring of the family. often was the horn slipped slyly into the hole, and in return it never failed to be flung at the head of some one, but most commonly at the person who placed it there. they were used to call this pastime, in the provincial dialect, 'laking wi't' boggart;' that is playing with the boggart. an old tailor, whom i but faintly remember, used to say that the horn was often 'pitched' at his head, and at the head of his apprentice, whilst seated here on the kitchen table, when they went their rounds to work, as is customary with country tailors. at length the goblin, not contented with flinging the horn, returned to his night persecutions. heavy steps, as of a person in wooden clogs, were at first heard clattering down stairs in the dead hour of darkness; then the pewter and earthen dishes appeared to be dashed on the kitchen floor; though in the morning all remained uninjured on their respective shelves. the children generally were marked out as objects of dislike by their unearthly tormentor. the curtains of their beds would be violently pulled to and fro; then a heavy weight, as of a human being, would press them nigh to suffocation, from which it was impossible to escape. the night, instead of being the time for repose, was disturbed with screams and dreadful noises, and thus was the whole house alarmed night after night. things could not long continue in this fashion; the farmer and his good dame resolved to leave a place where they could no longer expect rest or comfort; and george cheetham was actually following, with his wife and family, the last load of furniture, when they were met by a neighbouring farmer, named john marshall. "'well, georgy, and so yo're leaving th' owd house at last?' said marshall. "'heigh, johnny, my lad, i'm in a manner forced to't, thou sees,' replied the other; 'for that weary boggart torments us so, we can neither rest neet nor day for't. it seems like to have a malice again't young uns, an' ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and so thou sees we're forc'd to flit like.' "he had got thus far in his complaint, when, behold, a shrill voice, from a deep upright churn, the topmost utensil on the cart, called out, 'ay, ay, neighbour, we're flitting, yo see.' "'od rot thee,' exclaimed george: 'if i'd known thou'd been flitting too, i wadn't ha' stirred a peg. nay, nay, it's to no use, mally,' he continued, turning to his wife, 'we may as weel turn back again to th' owd house, as be tormented in another not so convenient.'" thus endeth crofton croker's tradition of the "boggart," or "bar-gaist," which, according to the story, was long time a well-known supernatural pest of old cheetham's farm-house, but whose principal lurking place was supposed to be in a gloomy nook of "boggart ho' clough," or "boggart hole clough," for the name adopted by the writer of the tradition appears to be derived from that superstitious belief. with respect to the exact origin of the name, however, i must entirely defer to those who know more about the matter than myself. the features of the story are, generically, the same as those of a thousand such like superstitious stories still told and believed in all the country parts of england--though perhaps more in the northern part of it than elsewhere. almost every lad in lancashire has, in his childhood, heard, either from his "reverend grannie," or from some less kin and less kind director of his young imagination, similar tales connected with old houses, and other haunts, in the neighbourhood of his own birthplace. among those who have noticed "boggart ho' clough," is mr. samuel bamford, well known as a poet, and a graphic prose writer upon the stormy political events of his earlier life, and upon whatever relates to the manners and customs of lancashire. in describing matters of the latter kind, he has the advantage of being "native and to the manner born;" and still more specially so in everything connected with the social peculiarities of the locality of his birth. he was born at middleton, about two miles from "boggart ho' clough," and, as i said before, he resided for some years close to the clough itself. in his "passages in the life of a radical," vol. . p. , there begins one of the raciest descriptions of lancashire characteristics with which i am acquainted. the first part of this passage contains a descriptive account of "plant," a country botanist; "chirrup," a bird-catcher; and "bangle," a youth "of an ardent temperament, but bashful," who was deeply in love with "a young beauty residing in the house of her father, who held a small milk-farm on the hill-side, not far from old birkle." it describes the meeting of the three in the lone cottage of bangle's mother, near grislehurst wood; the conversation that took place there; and the superstitious adventure they agreed upon, in order to deliver young bangle from the hopelessness of his irresistible and unrequited love-thrall. "his modest approaches had not been noticed by the adored one; and, as she had danced with another youth at bury fair, he imagined she was irrecoverably lost to him, and the persuasion had almost driven him melancholy. doctors had been applied to, but he was no better; philters and charms had been tried to bring down the cold-hearted maid--but all in vain:-- "he sought her at the dawn of day; he sought her at the noonin'; he sought her when the evening gray had brought the hollow moon in. "he call'd her on the darkest night, with wizard spells to bind her: and when the stars arose in light, he wandered forth to find her. "at length sorcerers and fortune-tellers were thought of, and 'limping billy,' a noted seer, residing at radcliffe bridge, having been consulted, said the lad had no chance of gaining power over the damsel, unless he could take saint john's fern seed; and if he could but secure three grains of that, he might bring to him whatever he wished, that walked, flew, or swam." such being the conditions laid down, and believed in by the three, they resolved to venture, together, on the taking of saint john's fern seed, with strict observance of the time and the cabalistic ceremonials enjoined by "limping billy," the seer, of radcliffe bridge. "plant," the botanist, "knew where the finest clump of fern in the country grew;" and he undertook to accompany "chirrup" and "bangle" to the spot, at the time appointed, the eve of st. john the baptist. the remainder of the passage describes "boggart ho' clough," the spot in which st. john's fern then grew in great abundance, and where the botanists of the district still find the plant; it describes, also, the fearful enterprise of the three at the witching hour of midnight, in search of the enchanted seed:-- "on the left hand, reader, as thou goest towards manchester, ascending from blackley, is a rather deep valley, green swarded, and embowered in plantations and older woods. a driving path, which thou enterest by a white gate hung on whale-jaw posts,[ ] leads down to a grove of young trees, by a modern and substantial farm-house, with green shutters, sashed windows, and flowers peeping from the sills. a mantle of ivy climbs the wall, a garden is in front, and an orchard, redolent of bloom, and fruit in season, nods on the hill-top above. here, at the time plant was speaking of, stood a very ancient house, built partly of old-fashioned bricks, and partly of a timber frame, filled with raddlings and daub (wicker-work plastered with clay). it was a lone and desolate-looking house indeed; misty and fearful, even at noonday. it was known as 'boggart-ho',' or 'fyrin'-ho';' and the gorge in which it is situated, was, and is still, known as 'boggart' or 'fyrin-ho' kloof,' 'the glen of the hall of spirits.' such a place, might we suppose, had milton in contemplation, when he wrote the passage of his inimitable poem:-- "tells how the drudging goblin sweat, to earn his cream-bowl, duly set, when, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, his shadowy flail had thrash'd the corn which ten day-labourers could not end; then lies him down, the lubber fiend: and, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, basks at the fire, his hairy strength; and cropful, out of door he flings, ere the first cock his matin sings. [ ] those somewhat remarkable posts have been removed of late years, and stout pillars of stone occupy their places. "by the side of the house, and through the whole length of the valley, wends a sickly, tan-coloured rindle, which, issuing from the great white moss, comes down, tinged with the colour of its parent swamp. opposite the modern house, a forbidden road cuts through the plantation on the right towards moston lane. another path leads behind the house, up precipitous banks, and through close bowers, to booth hall; and a third, the main one, proceeds along the kloof, by the side of the stream, and under sun-screening woods, until it forks into two roads: one a cattle-track, to 'the bell,' in moston; and the other a winding and precipitous footpath, to a farm-house at 'wood-end,' where it gains the broad upland, and emerges into unshaded day. "about half way up this kloof, is an open, cleared space of green and short sward: it is probably two hundred yards in length, by sixty in width; and passing along it from blackley, a group of fine oaks appear, on a slight eminence, a little to the left. this part of the grove was, at the time we are concerned with, much more crowded with underwood than at present.[ ] the bushes were then close and strong; fine sprouts of 'yerth-groon' hazel and ash were common as nuts; whilst a thick bush of bramble, wild rose, and holly, gave the spot the appearance of a place inclosed and set apart for mysterious concealment. intermingled with these almost impervious barriers, where tufts of tall green fern, curling and bending gracefully; and a little separate from them and near the old oaks, might be observed a few fern clumps of a singular appearance; of a paler green than the others--with a flatter and a broader leaf--sticking up, rigid and expanded, like something stark with mute terror. these were 'saint john's fern;' and the finest of them was the one selected by plant for the experiment now to be described. [ ] those oaks have been felled, and the kloof is now comparatively denuded of timber; the underwood on the left side is nearly swept away. sad inroads on the ominous gloom of the place. "a little before midnight, on the eve of st. john, plant, chirrup, and bangle, where at the whale-jaw gate before-mentioned; and, having slightly scanned each other, they proceeded, without speaking, until they had crossed the brook at a stepping-place, opposite the old fyrin-ho'. the first word spoken was--'what hast thou?' "'mine is breawn an' roof,' said plant, exhibiting a brown earthern dish. 'what hast thou?' he then asked. "'mine is breet enough,' said chirrup, showing a pewter platter, and continued, 'what hast thou?' "'teed wi' web an' woof, mine is deep enough,' said bangle, displaying a musty, dun skull, with the cap sawn off above the eyes, and left flapping like a lid by a piece of tanned scalp, which still adhered. the interior cavities had also been stuffed with moss and lined with clay, kneaded with blood from human veins, and the youth had secured the skull to his shoulders by a twine of three strands of unbleached flax, of undyed wool, and of woman's hair, from which also depended a raven black tress, which a wily crone had procured from the maid he sought to obtain. "'that will do,' said a voice, in a half whisper, from one of the low bushes they were passing. plant and chirrup paused; but bangle, who had evidently his heart on the accomplishment of the undertaking, said, 'forward!--if we turn, now a spirit has spoken, we are lost. come on!' and they went forward. "a silence, like that of death, was around them as they entered on the opening platting. nothing moved either in tree or brake. through a space in the foliage, the stars were seen pale in heaven, and a crooked moon hung in a bit of blue amid motionless clouds. all was still and breathless, as if earth, heaven, and the elements, were aghast. anything would have been preferable to that unnatural stillness and silence--the hoot of the night owl, the larum of the pit sparrow, the moan of the wind, the toll of a death-bell, or the howl of a ban-dog, would, inasmuch as they are things of this world, have been welcome sounds amid that horrid pause. but no sound came and no object moved. "gasping, and with cold sweat oozing on his brow, plant recollected that they were to shake the fern with a forked rod of witch hazel, and by no means must touch it with their hands, and he asked, in a whisper, if the others had brought one. both said they had forgotten, and chirrup said they had better never have come; but plant drew his knife, and stepping into a moonlighted bush, soon returned with what was wanted, and they went forward. "the green knowe, the old oaks, the encircled space, and the fern, were now approached; the latter stiff and erect in a gleamy light. "'is it deep neet?' said bangle. "'it is,' said plant. the star that bids the shepherd fold, now the top of heaven doth hold. "and they drew near. all was still and motionless. "plant knelt on one knee, and held his dish under the fern. "chirrup held his broad plate next below, and "bangle knelt, and rested the skull directly under both on the green sod; the lid being up. "plant said,-- 'good st john, this seed we crave, we have dared; shall we have?' "a voice responded:-- 'now the moon is downward starting, moon and stars are all departing; quick, quick; shake, shake; he whose heart shall soonest break, let him take.' "they looked, and perceived by a glance that a venerable form, in a loose robe, was near them. "darkness came down like a swoop. the fern was shaken, the upper dish flew into pieces--the pewter one melted; the skull emitted a cry, and eyes glared in its sockets; lights broke--beautiful children were seen walking in their holiday clothes, and graceful female forms sung mournful and enchanting airs. "the men stood terrified, and fascinated; and bangle, gazing, bade, 'god bless 'em.' a crash followed as if the whole of the timber in the kloof was being splintered and torn up; strange and horrid forms appeared from the thickets; the men ran as if sped on the wind--they separated, and lost each other. plant ran towards the old house, and there, leaping the brook, he cast a glance behind him, and saw terrific shapes--some beastly, some part human, and some hellish, gnashing their teeth, and howling, and uttering the most fearful and mournful tones, as if wishful to follow him but unable to do so. "in an agony of terror he arrived at home, not knowing how he got there. he was, during several days, in a state bordering on unconsciousness; and, when he recovered, he learned that chirrup was found on the white moss, raving mad, and chasing the wild birds. as for poor bangle, he found his way home over hedge and ditch, running with supernatural and fearful speed--the skull's eyes glaring at his back, and the nether jaw grinning and jabbering frightful and unintelligible sounds. he had preserved the seed, however, and, having taken it from the skull, he buried the latter at the cross road from whence he had taken it. he then carried the spell out, and his proud love stood one night by his bed-side in tears. but he had done too much for human nature--in three months after she followed his corpse, a real mourner, to the grave! "such was the description my fellow-prisoner gave of what occurred in the only trial he ever made with st john's fern seed. he was full of old and quaint narratives, and of superstitious lore, and often would beguile time by recounting them. poor fellow! a mysterious fate hung over him also." this description of "boggart ho' clough," with its dramatic embodiment of one of our strong local superstitions, is all the more interesting from the pen of one who knew the place and the people so well. i know no other writer who is so able to portray the distinctive characteristics of the people of south lancashire as samuel bamford. it is now some years since i visited the scene of the foregoing traditions. at that time i was wholly unacquainted with the last of these legends, and i knew little more about "boggart ho' clough," in any way, than its name indicates. i sought the place, then, solely on account of its natural attractions. feeling curious, however, respecting the import of its name, and dimly remembering roby's tradition, i made some inquiry in the neighbourhood, and found that, although some attributed the name to the superstitious credulity of the native people, there was one gentleman who nearly destroyed that theory in my mind at the time, by saying that, a short time previous, he had dined with a lawyer who informed him, in the course of a conversation upon the same subject, that he had recently been at a loss how to describe the place in question, having to prepare some notices to be served on trespassers; and, on referring to the title-deeds of the property, he found that a family of the name of "bowker" had formerly occupied a residence situated in the clough, and that their dwelling was designated "bowker's hall." this he adopted as the origin of the name, and described it accordingly. but the testimony of every writer who notices the spot, especially those best acquainted with it, inclines to the other derivation. but the locality has other points of interest, besides this romantic nook, and the tales of glamour connected with it. in it there is many a boggart story, brought down from the past, many a spot of fearful repute among native people. apart from all these things, the chapelry of blackley is enriched with historic associations well worth remembering, and it contains some interesting relics of the ancient manner of life there. in former times the chapelry had in it several fine old halls: booth hall, nuthurst hall, lightbowne hall, hough hall, crumpsall hall, and blackley hall. some of these still remain. some of them have been the homes or the birthplaces of men of eminence in their day--eminent for worth as well as station--among whom there is more than one who has left a long trail of honourable recollections behind him. such men were humphrey chetham, bishop oldham, and others. bradford the martyr, also, is said to have resided in this township. william chadderton, d.d., bishop of chester, and afterwards bishop of lincoln, was born at nuthurst hall, about the year . george clarke, the founder of the charity which bears his name, and one of fuller's worthies, resided in crumpsall. the following particulars respecting the district and its notabilities i glean from the recently-published "history of the ancient chapel of blackley," by the rev. john booker, b.a., of magdalene college, cambridge, curate of prestwich. first, with respect to the ancient state of blackley, in the survey of manchester, as taken in the th edward ii. ( ), and preserved by kuerden,[ ] the following official notice of the township occurs:--"the park of blakeley is worth, in pannage, aëry of eagles, herons and hawks, honey-bees, mineral earths, ashes, and other issues, fifty-three shillings and fourpence. the vesture of oaks, with the whole coverture, is worth two hundred marks [£ . s. d.] in the gross. it contains seven miles in circumference, together with two deer-leaps, of the king's grant." this short but significant passage is sufficient to give, the reader a glimpse of the appearance of blackley township five hundred years ago. from the same authority, we learn that blackley park (seven miles in circumference) was, at that time, surrounded and fenced in by a wooden paling. "the two 'deer-leaps' were probably cloughs or ravines, of which the most remarkable is the 'boggart hole clough,' a long cleft or dell between two rocks, the sides of which rise abruptly and leave a narrow pass, widening a little here and there, through which flows a small brook. this is the last stronghold of blackley's ancient characteristic features, where rural tranquility still reigns, free from the bustle and turmoil of mercantile industry around it." [ ] kuerden's ms., fol. , chetham library. the following particulars respecting the etymology of the name "blackley," will not be unacceptable to students of language:--"its etymology is yet a disputed point, owing to the various significations of the anglo-saxon word, _blac_, _blæc_, _bleac_, which means not only _black_, _dark_, _opaque_, and even _gloomy_, but also _pale_, _faded_, _pallid_, from 'blæcan,' to bleach or make white. and, as if these opposite meanings were not sufficiently perplexing, two other forms present themselves, one of which means _bleak_, _cold_, _bare_, and the other _yellow_; the latter syllable in the name, _ley_, _legh_, _leag_, or _leah_, signifying a _field_ or place of _pasture_." on this point, whittaker says, in his "history of manchester," "the saxon _blac_, _black_, or _blake_, frequently imports the deep gloom of trees; hence we have so many places distinguished by the epithet in england, where no circumstances of soil and no peculiarities of water give occasion to it, as the villages of blackburn and blackrode in lancashire, blakeley-hurst, near wigan, and our own blackley, near manchester; and the woods of the last were even seven miles in circuit as late as the fourteenth century. "leland, who wrote about the year , bears testimony to the unaltered aspect of blackley, under the influence of cultivation, and to the changes incident to the disafforesting of its ancient woodlands. he says:--'wild bores, bulles, and falcons, bredde in times past at blakele, now for lack of woode the blow-shoppes decay there.'[ ] "blackley had its resident minister as early as the reign of edward vi., in the person of father travis, a name handed down to us in the pages of fox and strype. travis was the friend and correspondent of bradford the martyr. in the succeeding reign he suffered banishment for his protestant principles, and his place was probably supplied by a papist." [ ] leland's "itinerary" (hearne's edit.), vol. vii. p. . the site upon which, in , stood the old hall of blackley, is now occupied by a print-shop. blackley hall "was a spacious black-and-white half-timbered mansion, in the post and petrel style, and was situated near to the junction of the lane leading to the chapel and the manchester and rochdale turnpike road. it was a structure of considerable antiquity, and consisted of a centre and two projecting wings--an arrangement frequently met with in the ancient manor-houses of this county--and bore evidence of having been erected at two periods. "like most other houses of similar pretensions and antiquity, it was not without its traditionary legends, and the _boggart_ of blackley hall was as well known as blackley hall itself. in the stillness of the night it would steal from room to room, and carry off the bedclothes from the couches of the sleeping, but now thoroughly aroused and discomfited inmates."[ ] [ ] the following note is attached to this passage in mr. booker's volume:--"the annals of blackley bear ample testimony to the superstition of its inhabitants. it has had its nine days' wonder at every period of its history. hollingworth, writing of that age of portents and prodigies which succeeded the reformation, says:--'in blackley, neere manchester, in one john pendleton's ground, as one was reaping, the corne being cut seemed to bleede; drops fell out of it like to bloud; multitudes of people went to see it: and the straws thereof, though of a kindly colour without, were within reddish, and as it were bloudy!' boggart-hole clough, too, was another favourite haunt of ghostly visitants, the legend of which has been perpetuated by mr. roby in his "traditions of lancashire," vol. , pp. , . nor has it ceased in our day: in one of its inhabitants imperilled the safety of his family and neighbours, by undermining the walls of his cottage, in his efforts to discover the hidden cause of some mysterious noise that had disturbed him." the township of crumpsall bounds blackley on the north side, and is divided from it by the lively but now turbid little river irk, or iwrke, or irke, which means "roebuck." "from time immemorial, for ecclesiastical purposes, crumpsall has been associated with blackley." the present crumpsall hall stands on the north side of the irk, about a mile and a half from "boggart ho' clough." the earlier orthography of the name was "crumeshall, or curmeshall. for its derivation we are referred to the anglo-saxon, the final syllable 'sal' signifying in that language a hall or place of entertainment, of which hospitable abode the saxon chief, whose name the first syllable indicates, was the early proprietor. thus, too, ordsall in the same parish." here, in later days, humphrey chetham was born, at crumpsall old hall. the author of the "history of the ancient chapel of blackley," from whose book i gather all this information, also describes an old farm-house, situated in a picturesque spot, in the higher part of crumpsall, and pointed out as the dwelling in which hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, who founded the manchester grammar school, was born. about four years ago, when rambling about the green uplands of crumpsall, i called at this farm to see a friend of mine, who lived in a cottage at the back of the house. while there i was shown through this curious old dwelling; and i remember that the tenants took especial pains to acquaint me with its local importance, as the place of bishop oldham's nativity. it is still known as "oldham's tenement," and also as "th' bongs (banks) farm." the following is a more detailed account of the place, and the man:-- "it is celebrated as the reputed birthplace of hugh oldham, bishop of exeter, who, according to tradition current in the neighbourhood, was born there about the middle of the fifteenth century, and it is stated to have been the residence of the oldhams for the last four hundred years. the house itself--a long narrow thatched building--bears evidence of considerable antiquity; the walls appear to have been originally of lath and plaster, which material has gradually, in many places, given place to brick-work; and the whole exterior is now covered with whitewash. a room on the ground-floor is still pointed out as the domestic chapel; but there are no traces of it ever having been devoted to such use. "hugh oldham, ll.b., bishop of exeter, was descended from an ancient family of that name. according to dodsworth (mss. folio ), he was born at oldham, in a house in goulbourne-street; but this assertion is contradicted by the testimony of his other biographers: wood and godwin state that he was born in manchester, by which they mean not so much manchester town as manchester parish; and dugdale, in his lancashire visitation, states more definitely in what part of the parish, correcting at the same time the misstatement of the others, 'not at oldham, but at crumpsall, near manchester.' in he was created archdeacon of exeter, and in the following year was raised, through the influence of the countess of richmond, to the see of exeter. in , having founded the grammar school of manchester, he endowed it with the corn-mills situate on the river irk, which he purchased from lord de la warre, as well as with other messuages and lands in manchester." in relation to bishop oldham, it may be worth notice that in the _manchester guardian_ of wednesday, january th, , i found the following letter respecting a descendant of this prelate. this brief notice of an aged and poverty-stricken descendant of the bishop--a soldier's wife, who has followed the fortunes of her husband, as a prisoner of war, and through the disasters of battle, shipwreck, and imprisonment in a foreign land--is not uninteresting:--"there is now living in this city a poor, aged woman, who, it appears, is a descendant of the founder of the manchester grammar school, and who was also (in ) the first scholar in the first sunday school opened in manchester. in subsequent years, as a soldier's wife, she followed the fortunes of her husband in the tented field, as a prisoner of war, and also in shipwreck. she is in full possession of her mental powers; and though, in a certain sense, provided for, i am persuaded that many of those whose _alma mater_ was the grammar school, and the sunday school teachers and scholars, would be delighted to honour her." crumpsall, in the chapelry of blackley, was also the birthplace of humphrey chetham, one of fuller's worthies, and a man whom manchester has good reason to hold in remembrance. the following matter relative to the man, and the place of his birth, is from the same volume:-- "he was born at his father's residence, crumpsall hall, and was baptised at the collegiate church, manchester, july th, . he probably received his education at the grammar school of his native town. associated with his brothers, george and ralph, he embarked in trade as a dealer in fustians, and so prospered in his business that in he purchased clayton hall, near manchester, which he made his residence, and subsequently, in , turton tower. 'he signally improved himself,' writes fuller, 'in piety and outward prosperity, and was a diligent reader of the scriptures, and of the works of sound divines, and a respecter of such ministers as he accounted truly godly, upright, sober, discreet, and sincere. he was high-sheriff of the county in , and again in , discharging the place with great honour, insomuch that very good gentlemen of birth and estate did wear his cloth at the assize, to testify their unfeigned affection to him; and two of them (john hartley and henry wrigley, esquires), of the same profession with himself, have since been sheriffs of the county.' "by his will, dated december th, , he bequeathed £ , to buy a fee-simple estate of £ per annum, wherewith to provide for the maintenance, education, and apprenticing of forty poor boys of manchester, between the ages of six and fourteen years--children of poor but honest parents--no bastards, nor diseased at the time they are chosen, nor lame, nor blind, 'in regard the town of manchester hath ample means already (if so employed) for the maintenance of such impotents.' the hospital thus founded was incorporated by charles ii. in the number of boys was increased to sixty, and from to eighty boys were annually maintained, clothed, and educated. in the year the income of the hospital amounted to £ . s. d., and in it had reached to £ , . s. d. "he bequeathed, moreover, the sum of £ , to be expended in books, and £ towards erecting a building for their safe deposit, intending thus to lay the foundation of a public library; and the residue of his estate (amounting to near £ , ) to be devoted to the increase of the said library and the support of a librarian. in this fund was returned at £ per annum. the number of volumes is now about , . mr. chetham died, unmarried, september th, , and was buried at the collegiate church, where a monument has recently been erected to his memory, at the cost of a former participator in his bounty." the following description of the house, at crumpsall, in which humphrey chetham was born, is also given in booker's "history of blackley chapel:"-- "crumpsall hall, the residence of this branch of the chethams, was another specimen of the half-timbered mansions already described. in design, the same arrangement seems to have been followed that is met with in many of the halls erected during the fourteenth and two succeeding centuries--an oblong pile forming the centre, with cross gables at each end, projecting some distance outwards. the framework consisted of a series of vertical timbers, crossed by others placed transversely, with the exception of the gables, in the upper part of which the braces sprang diagonally from the centre or king-post. the roofs were of high pitch, and extended considerably beyond the outer surface of the walls, thus not only allowing of a more rapid drain of water, but also affording a greater protection from the weather. the hall was of two stories, and lighted chiefly by bay-windows, an occasional dormer-window in the upper story rising above the roof, and adding to the effect of the building by destroying that lineal appearance which it would otherwise have assumed. this mansion, though never possessing any great pretensions to architectural excellence, was, nevertheless, interesting from the picturesque arrangement of its details, and may be considered a very creditable example of the middle-class houses of the period to which it is referred. it occupied a site distant nearly a quarter of a mile from that of the present hall, and was taken down about the year ." well may fuller, writing of humphrey chetham, say, "god send us more such men!" the "poor boys" of manchester may well repeat the prayer, and pray also that heaven may send after them men who will look to the righteous administration of the bequests which such men leave behind them. for the purpose of this sketch, i went down to the chetham library, to copy, from booker's "history of blackley," the foregoing particulars. the day was gloomy, and the great quadrangle of the college was as still as a churchyard. going up the old staircase, and treading as lightly as i could with a heavy foot, as i went by the principal librarian's room door, i entered the cloistral gloom of the old library. all was silent, as i went through the dark array of book-laden shelves. the sub-librarian was writing in some official volume, upon the sill of a latticed window, in one of the recesses. hearing an approaching foot, he came out, and looked the usual quiet inquiry. "'booker's blackley,'" said i. he went to one of the recesses, unlocked the door, and brought out the book. "will you enter it, sir?" said he, pointing to the volume kept for that purpose. i did so, and walked on into the reading room of the library; glancing, as i went in, at oliver cromwell's sword, which hangs above the doorway. there was a good fire, and i had that antique apartment all to myself. the old room looked very clean and comfortable, and the hard oaken floor resounded to the footstep. the whole furniture was of the most quaint and substantial character. it was panelled all round with bright old black oak. the windows were latticed, and the window-sills broad. the heavy tables were of solid oak, and the chairs of the same, with leather-covered and padded seats and backs, studded with brass nails. a curiously-carved black oak bookstand stood near the door, and several antique mirrors, and dusky portraits, hung around upon the dark panelling. among these is the portrait of bradford the martyr, a native of manchester. in the library there is a small black-letter volume, entitled, "letters of maister john bradford, a faythful minister and a syngular pyllar of christe's church: by whose great trauiles and diligence in preaching and planting the syncerity of the gospel, by whose most goodly and innocent lyfe, and by whose long and payneful imprisonments for the maintenance of the truth, the kingdom of god was not a little aduanced: who also at last most valiantly and cheerfully gaue his blood for the same. the th day of july. in the year of our lord ." the portrait of humphrey chetham, the founder, hangs immediately above the old-fashioned fireplace, under the emblazoned arms of his family. sitting by the fire, at a little oak table covered with green baize, i copied the particulars here given, relative to chetham's bequest to the people of his native locality. i could not but lift my eyes now and then towards that solemn face, inwardly moved by a feeling which reverently said, "will it do?" the countenance of the fine old merchant seemed to wear an expression of sorrow, not unmingled with quiet anger, at the spectacle of twenty thousand books--intended as a "free library," though now, in comparison with its possibilities, free chiefly in name--twenty thousand books, packed together in gloomy seclusion, yet surrounded by a weltering crowd of five hundred thousand people, a great number of whom really hunger for the knowledge here, in a great measure, consigned--with excellent registrative care and bibliopolic skill--to dusty oblivion and the worm. it is true that this cunningly-secreted "free library" is open six hours out of the twenty-four, but these hours fall precisely within that part of the day in which people who have to work for their bread are cooped up at their occupations. at night, when the casino, the singing-room, and the ale-house, and all the low temptations of a great city are open, and actively competing for their prey, the chetham library has been locked up for hours. i am not sure that the noble-hearted founder would be satisfied with it all, if he saw the relations of these things now. it seems all the more likely that he would not be so, when one observes the tone in which, in his will, he alludes to the administration of certain other local charities existing in his own time. after specially naming the class of "poor boys" for whose benefit his hospital was intended, he specially excludes certain others, "_in regard the town of manchester hath ample means already_, (if so employed) _for the maintenance of such impotents_." judging, from the glimpse we have in this passage, of his way of thinking upon matters of this kind, it seems likely that, if it were possible to consult him upon the subject, he would consider it a pity that the twenty thousand books in the library, and the five hundred thousand people outside the walls, are not brought into better acquaintance with each other. so, also, murmurs many a thoughtful man, as he walks by the college gates, in his hours of leisure, when the library is closed. rostherne mere. (a cheshire sketch.) though much the centuries take, and much bestow, most through them all immutable remains-- beauty, whose world-wide empire never wanes, sole permanence 'mid being's ceaseless flow. these leafy heights their tiny temple owe to some rude hero of the saxon thanes, whom, slowly pricking from the neighbouring plains, rapt into votive mood the scene below. much, haply, he discerned, unseen by me-- angels and demons hovering ever near; but most he saw and felt, i feel and see-- linking the "then" and "there" with "now" and "here," the grace serene that dwells on grove and lea, the tranquil charm of little rostherne mere. --f. espinasse. rostherne mere was a pet theme with a young friend of mine, and we started together towards that place, at noon, one sunday in june. walking up to the oxford road station, we paid our sixpences, and got our tickets to bowdon, which is the nearest point to rostherne mere, by rail; being four miles from the latter place. the day was fine, and the sky clear, except where gauzy clouds floated across it with dreamy grace; as if they had come out for a holiday. everything seemed to feel that it was sunday. the fields and groves were drest in their best. it was the sabbath of the year with them. in a few minutes our fiery steed had whirled us to bowdon; and we walked up the wooden steps that lead from the station. turning to the left at the top, we struck into a quiet road that leads in the direction of rostherne. bowdon bells were ringing to church as we walked along, surrounded by singing birds, and sunshine, and sweet odours from cottage-gardens by the wayside. now and then a young sylph, of graceful face and timid mien, tripped past us, in the garb of a lady,--on her way to church, with her books before her; then a knot of pretty, brown-faced village girls, with wild flowers in their hands, going the same way, with all the innocent vivacity of childhood in their look and gait; anon came slowly wending up the path an old couple, bending with age,--the history of a simple life of honourable toil written in their faces, and their attire wearing that touching air which always marks the struggle which decent poverty makes to put its best appearance on. the road, which seemed to be little frequented, shortly brought us to ashley hall, a picturesque woodland mansion. a fine avenue of ancestral trees shade the walk to the porch of the old hall, which nestles behind the present modern building. the outbuildings are antiquated and extensive. the house still wears the appearance of an abode of comfort and elegance, bent with that quaint charm which hangs about all fine, old-fashioned rural dwellings. nothing seemed to be stirring in or about the hall, but the wind, the birds, and the trees; and the two large stone sphinxes in front of the porch looked like petrified genii, so profound was the repose of this green nook. outside the house the grass was growing over everything, even over the road we walked on, it was creeping. for some distance the road-side was pleasantly soft to the foot with springy verdure, and thick-leaved trees overhung the highway, that faire did spred their armes abroad, with gray mosse overcaste; and their green leaves, trembling with every blast, made a calm shadow far in compasse round, until we began to descend into the green pastures of a little vale, through which a clear river winds its murmuring way. a widow lady stood in the middle of the path, waiting till her little orphan lad and his sister drove a herd of cows from the field by the water-side. there was the shade of grief on her pale face, and she returned our salutation with pensive courtesy. we loitered a few minutes by the gate, and helped the lad and his sister to gather the cattle, and then went on, thinking of the affecting group we had left behind us. the wild flowers were plentiful and fine by the way, especially that little blue-eyed beauty, the "forget-me-not," which grew in great profusion about the hedges. a drove of hungry-looking irish cattle came wearily up the road, driven by a frieze-coated farmer, who rode upon a rough pony, that never knew a groom; and behind him limped a bare-footed drover, eagerly munching a lump of dry loaf, as he urged forward a two-days-old calf by a twist in the tail,--an old application of the screw-propelling principle, which is very effectual with all kinds of dilatory animals, with tails on. he was the very picture of poverty, and yet there was a gay-hearted archness on his brown face; and he gave us the "good day" merrily. the very flutter of his rags seemed to have imbibed the care-defying gaiety of the curious biped they hung upon,--with such tender attachment. the whole country was one tranquil scene of fertile verdure, frequently flat for the length of a mile or two; but gently-undulated in some places; and picturesquely wooded. in a vista of nearly two miles, not a human foot was on the road, but ours; and every sight and sound that greeted the senses as we sauntered along the blossomy hedge-side, in the hot sunshine, was serenely-sweet and rural. skirting the wall of tatton park, we came to a substantial farmhouse, near the highway, and opening the gate, we walked up to it, to get a few minutes rest, and a drink. at our request, a girl at the door of the house brought us a large jug-full of churn-milk, which, when she had reached us a seat in the garden, we drank as we sat in the sun. in the yard, a little fat-legged urchin had crept, with his "porritch-pot," under the nose of a large chained dog, about twice the size of himself, and sat there, holding his spoon to the dog's mouth, childishly beseeching him to "sup it." the good-natured brute kept a steady eye on us while we were in sight, postponing any notice of his little playmate. by direction of the goodwife, we took a by-path which led towards the village. the country folk were returning from church, and among them a number of little girls, wearing a head-dress of pure white, but of a very awkward shape. what was the meaning, or what the use, of the badge they wore, i could not exactly tell. we found that, though the village had many pretty cottage homes, dropped down irregularly among the surrounding green, it consisted chiefly of one little street of rural houses, of very pleasant appearance. here and there, a latticed window was open to the front, showing a small parlour, scrupulously clean and orderly; the furniture old-fashioned, substantial, and carefully polished; and the bible "gleaming through the lowmost window-pane," under the shade of myrtle-pots, and fuchsias in full flower. as we looked about us for the church, a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman stepped out of one of the houses, which, though a whitewashed dwelling, of simple construction, and of no great size any way, still had something peculiarly attractive in its retired position, and an air of superiority about the taste and trimness of all its appurtenances. he had a book in one hand, and leaned forward in his walk,--not from infirmity, for he was hale and active,--but as if to give impetus to his progress, which seemed to have an earnest purpose somewhere. this gentleman was the vicar of rostherne. we inquired of him the way to the church. "come up this way," said he, in an agreeable tone, but without stopping in his walk. "have you never seen it before?" "never." "here it is, then," he replied, as we entered the church-field at the top of the knoll. the sudden appearance of the venerable fane, and its picturesque situation, called forth an involuntary expression of admiration from us. we walked on slowly, scanning the features of the solemnly-beautiful scene. the vicar then inquired where we came from, and when we answered "manchester," he went on, "well, now, i don't at all wonder, nor much object to you manchester gentlemen, pent up as you are the whole week, coming out on a sunday to breathe a little country air, and to look on the woods and fields, but i should be better pleased to see you come in time to attend divine worship, which would be a double benefit to you. you might easily do it, and it would enhance the pleasure of your ramble, for you would go home again doubly satisfied with all that you had seen. don't you think you would, now?" it needed no socratic effort on his part to obtain our assent to such a sentiment, so kindly expressed. as we walked on, he brought us dexterously to the north-west corner of the church, the best point of view, looking down through the trees, from the summit of the hill on which the church stands, upon rostherne mere in all its beauty. there it lay, in the bosom of the valley below, as smooth and bright as a plate of burnished silver, except towards the middle, where the wind embossed it with fantastic ripples, which shimmered in the sunlight; and it was all fringed round with the rich meadows, and plumy woods,--sloping down to the edge of the water. from the farther side, a finely-wooded country stretched away as far as we could see, till the scene ended in a dim amphitheatre of moorland hills, rising up, from east to west, on the horizon. in front of us, and about four miles beyond the lake, the pretty village of bowdon and its ancient church were clearly in sight above the woods. it was, altogether, a very beautiful english scene. and it is a pity that this lovely little oasis is not better known to the jaded hearts that fret themselves to death in manchester, and rush here and there, in crowds, to fill all the world's telescopes; the majority of them, perhaps, like me, little dreaming of the existence of so sweet a spot so near them. by the side of the mere, where the water was as placid as glass, being sheltered from the wind by the woods on its shelvy banks, we were delighted with a second edition of the scenery on the margin, and of the skies above, clearly reflected in the seemingly unfathomable deeps of the water. the vicar had left us, and gone into the church, requesting us, when we had feasted our fill on the outside, to follow him, and look through the inside of the church. we lifted the latch, but seeing him addressing a number of young people, who sat round him in attentive attitude, we shut the door quietly, and walking round to the porch on the opposite side, went in, on tiptoe. standing silent under the organ-loft, we listened, while he impressed upon his young flock the nature and intent of confirmation, and the necessity for their understanding the solemn obligation implied thereby, and devoutly wishing to undertake it, before they could be admitted to partake of it. "and now," said he, "if any of you don't quite understand anything i am saying to you, don't be afraid to say so. i shall be glad to know it, that i may make it clear to you. for you must remember, that it is not what i say to you that will be of use to you, but what you understand of it." he then consulted them about the best times in the following week for them to meet him, that he might assist such as were wishful to prepare for the ceremony. he asked "thomas," and "mary," and "martha," how four o'clock would suit them on certain days, and when they whispered that "half-past seven would suit them better," he replied, "i dare say it will; and let it be so, then." he then repeated the pleasure it would give him to meet them at that or any other hour on certain days next week, to help, and examine them. it was only changing his dinner hour a little. we walked quietly out as he began to catechise them, postponing our examination of the interior till a fitter opportunity. rostherne churchyard is a singularly retired spot. a solemn repose mingles with the natural charms of everything about it, increased by the antiquity of its relics. though near the village, it is approached from it by a gentle ascent, from the head of which it slopes away, clean out of sight of the village, and is bounded on the west side by a row of sombre old trees, through which rostherne hall is seen, in the midst of woods and gardens. no other building except the church is in sight; and a sweeter spot for the life-wearied body to take its last rest in, could hardly be imagined. as i walked about this quiet grave-yard, which is environed by scenery of such a serene kind, that nature itself seems afraid to disturb the repose of the sleepers, upon whose bed the leaves tremble silently down; and where i could hear no sounds but a drowsy rustle of the neighbouring trees,--i thought of gray's inimitable "elegy written in a country churchyard:"-- beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. the breezy call of incense-breathing morn, the swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, no more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. for then no more the blazing heart shall burn, or busy housewife ply her evening care; no children run to lisp their sire's return, or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. oft did the harvest to the sickle yield; their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; how jocund did they drive their team a-field! how bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! let not ambition mock their useful toil, their homely joys and destiny obscure; nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, the short and simple annals of the poor. the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, await alike the inevitable hour; the paths of glory lead--but to the grave. * * * * * yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, some frail memorial still erected nigh, with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, implores the passing tribute of a sigh. their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, the place of fame and elegy supply; and many a holy text around she strews, that teach the rustic moralist to die. this poem--the finest of the kind in the english language--might, with equal fitness, have been written of this peaceful churchyard of rostherne village. man, whom quarles calls a "worm of five feet long," is so liable to have his thoughts absorbed by the art of keeping himself bodily alive, that he is none the worse for a hint from the literature of the churchyard:-- art is long, and life is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave. we walked over the gravestones, reading the inscriptions, some of which had a strain of simple pathos in them, such as the following:-- ye that are young, prepare to die, for i was young, and here i lie. others there were in this, as in many other burial-places, which were either unmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to the situation they were in. there were several half-sunken headstones in different parts of the yard, mostly bemossed and dim with age. one or two were still upright; the rest leaned one way or other. these very mementoes, which pious care had set up, to keep alive the memories of those who lay mouldering in the earth below, were sinking into the graves of those they commemorated. at the outside of the north-east entrance of the church, lies an ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the graveyard. upon the lid of the coffin was sculptured the full-length figure of a knight, in a complete suit of mail, with sword and shield. no further clue has been obtained to the history of this antique coffin and its effigy, than that it belonged to one of the cheshire family of venables, whose crest and motto ("sic donec") it bears. the church contains many interesting monuments, belonging to this and other families of the old gentry of cheshire. several of these are of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. but the finest and most interesting monuments in the church, as works of art, are those belonging to the egerton family, of tatton park. at a suitable time, the sexton occasionally takes a visitor up to the gate which separates the egerton seat and monuments from the rest of the church, and, carefully unlocking it, ascends two steps with a softened footfall, and leads him into the storied sanctum of the lords of tatton; where, among other costly monuments, he will be struck by the chaste and expressive beauty of a fine modern one, in memory of a young lady belonging to this family. on a beautiful tomb, of the whitest marble, the figure of a young lady reclines upon a mattress and pillow of the same, in the serenest grace of feature and attitude: and "the rapture of repose" which marks the expression of the countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary, of those beautiful lines in which byron describes the first hours of death:-- before decay's effacing fingers have swept the lines where beauty lingers. at the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an angel kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching over the reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one hand slightly extended over the dead. the effect of the whole is exceedingly beautiful, chaste, and saddening. the monument is kept carefully covered with clean white handkerchiefs, except when the family is present, when it is uncovered, until their departure. before i was admitted to view this beautiful memorial, i had heard something of the story which it illustrates, and i inquired further of the sexton respecting it. the old man said that the young lady had been unwell only a few days previous to the evening of her death, and on that evening the family physician thought her so much better, and felt so certainly-expectant of a further improvement in her health, that he directed her attendants to get her to repose, and then they might themselves safely retire to rest for a little while. they did so; and returning soon, found her still lying precisely as they had laid her, and looking so placid in feature, that they did not know she was dead, until they came to find her quite cold. the monument represents her as she was thus found. as i stood looking upon this group of statuary, the evening sun shone through the southern windows of the old church, and the sexton--who evidently knew what the effect would be--lowered the crimson blind of the window nearest to the monument. this threw a soft rich crimson hue over the white marble tomb, the figures, and the sculptured drapery, which gave it an inexpressibly-rich appearance. so white and clean was the whole, that the white handkerchiefs which the sexton had taken off the figures, and laid upon the white basement of the tomb, looked like part of the sculpture. the church is dedicated to st. mary. it is proved to have existed long prior to . the present steeple was erected in . there is something venerable about the appearance of an old ecclesiastical building, which continually and eloquently preaches, without offending. apart from all questions of doctrines, formulas, and governments, i often feel a veneration for an old church, akin to that expressed by him who said that he never passed one without feeling disposed to take off his hat to it. the sun was setting westward over the woods, and we began to think of getting a quiet meal somewhere before we went back. there is generally an old inn not far from an old church. "how it comes, let doctors tell;" but it is so; and we begun to speculate upon the chance of finding one in this case. going out of the churchyard at the lowest corner, through a quaint wicket gate, with a shed over it, a flight of steps led us down into a green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and there, in front of us, stood a promising country "hostelrie," under the screen of the woods. we looked an instant at its bright window, and its homely and pleasant appurtenances, and then, with assured minds, darted in, to make a lunge at the larder. "a well-conducted inn is a thing not to be recklessly sneered at in this world of ours, after all," thought i. we sat down in a shady little room in front, and desired the landlord to get us some tea, with any substantial stomach-gear that was handy and plentiful. in a few minutes a snowy cloth was on the table, followed by "neat-handed phillis," with the tea things. a profusion of strong tea, and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful china and glass ware; the whole crowned with a huge dish of ham and poached eggs, of such amplitude, that i began to wonder who was to join us. without waste of speech, we fell to, with all the appetite and enjoyment of sancho at camacho's wedding. the landlord kept popping in, to see that we wanted nothing, and to urge us to the attack; which was really a most needless though a generous office. after tea, we strolled another hour by the edge of the water, then took the road home, just as the sun was setting. the country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed, that we resolved to walk to manchester, and watch the sinking of the summer twilight among the woods and fields by the way. our route led by the edge of dunham park, and through bowdon, where we took a peep at the church, and the expansive view from the churchyard. there is a fine old yew tree in bowdon churchyard, seated around. the road from bowdon to manchester passes through a country which may be truly characterised as the market-garden of manchester. we went on, through the villages of altrincham, sale moor, and stretford, thinking of his words who said,-- one impulse from a vernal wood will teach thee more of man, of moral evil, and of good, than all the sages can. it was midnight when i got to bed, and sank into a sound sleep, to wake in the morning among quite other scenes. but while i live, i shall not easily forget "the tranquil charm of little rostherne mere." oliver fernleaf's watch. oh thou who dost these pointers see, that show the passing hour; say,--do i tell the time to thee, and tell thee nothing more? i bid thee mark life's little day with strokes of duty done; a clock may stop at any time-- but time will travel on. --the church clock. when i was first bound apprentice, i was so thick-set, and of such short stature for my age, that i began to be afraid that i was doomed to be a pigmy in size; and it grieved my heart to think of it, i remember how anxiously i used to compare my own stunted figure with the height of other lads younger than me; and seeing myself left so much below them, i remember how much i longed for a rise in the world. this feeling troubled me sorely for two or three years. it troubled me so much, indeed, that, even at church, when i heard the words, "which of you, by taking thought, can add one cubit unto his stature?" the question touched me with the pain of a personal allusion to my own defect; and, in those days, i have many a time walked away from service on a sunday, sighing within myself, and wondering how much a cubit was. but i had a great deal of strong life in my little body; and, as i grew older, i took very heartily to out-door exercises, and i carefully notched the progress of my growth, with a pocket-knife, against a wooden partition, in the office where i was an apprentice. as time went on, my heart became gradually relieved and gay as i saw these notches rise steadily, one over the other, out of the low estate which had given me so much pain. but, as this childish trouble died away from my mind, other ambitions awoke within me, and i began to fret at the tether of my apprenticeship, and wish for the time when i should be five feet eight, and free. burns's songs were always a delight to me; but there was one of them which i thought more of then than i do now. it was,-- oh for ane-an'-twenty, tam! an', hey for ane-an'-twenty, tam! i'd learn my kin a rattlin' sang, an' i saw ane-an'-twenty, tam! about two years before the wished-for day of my release came, i mounted a long-tailed coat, and a chimney-pot hat, and began to reckon myself among the sons of men. my whiskers, too--they never came to anything grand--never will--but my whiskers began to show a light-coloured down, that pleased the young manikin very much. i was anxious to coax that silken fluz lower down upon my smooth cheeks; but it was no use. they never grew strong; and they would not come low down; so i gave them up at last, with many a sigh. the dainty ariels were timid, and did their sprouting gently. this was one of my first lessons in resignation. i remember, too, it was about the same time that i bought my first watch. it was a second-hand silver verge watch, with large old-fashioned numerals upon the face; and it cost twenty-one shillings. i had a good deal ado to raise the price of it by small savings, by working over-hours, and by the sale of an old accordian, and a sword-stick. long before i could purchase it, i had looked at it from time to time as i passed by the watchmaker's window; which was on the way between my home and the shop where i was an apprentice. at last i bore the prize away. a few pence bought a steel chain; and my eldest sister gave me an old seal, and a lucky sixpence, to wear upon the chain,--and i felt for the time as if it was getting twelve o'clock with my fortunes. a long-tailed coat; a chimney-pot hat; a watch; a mild promise of whiskers; a good constitution; and a fair chance of being five feet eight, or so. no wonder that i began to push out my shins as i went about the streets. for some weeks after i became possessed of my watch, i took great pleasure in polishing the case, looking into the works, winding it up, and setting it right by public clocks, and by other people's watches. i had a trick, too, of pulling it out in public places, which commanded the range of some desired observation. but after a year or so the novelty wore off, and i began to take less interest in the thing. besides, through carelessness and inexperienced handling, i found that my watch began to swallow up a great deal of pocket-money, in new glasses, and other repairs. i was fond of jumping, too, and other rough exercises; and through this my watch got sadly knocked about, and was a continual source of anxiety to me. at last i got rid of it altogether. it had never gone well with me; but it went from me--for good; and i was cured of the watch mania for a long while. in fact, nearly twenty years passed away, during which i never owned a watch; never, indeed, very much felt the want of one. when i look back at those years, and remember how i managed to mark the time without watch of my own, i find something instructive in the retrospect. in a large town there are so many public clocks, and bells, and so many varied movements of public life which are governed by the progress of the hours, that there is little difficulty in the matter. but in the country--in my lonely rambles--i learned, then, to read the march of time, "indifferently well," in the indications of nature, as ploughmen and shepherds do. the sights, and "shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements," became my time-markers; and the whole world was my clock. i can see many compensations arising from the lack of a watch with me during that time. and now, after so many years of sweet independence in this respect, i find myself, unexpectedly, the owner of a watch once more. i became possessed of it rather curiously, too. the way of it was this. i was on a visit to a neighbouring town; and, in the afternoon, i called to pass an hour with an old friend, before returning home. after the usual hearty salutes, we sat down in a snug back parlour, lighted our pipes, and settled into a dreamy state of repose, which was more delightful than any strained effort at entertainment. we puffed away silently for a while; and then we asked one another questions, in a drowsy way, like men talking in their sleep; then we smoked on again, and looked vacantly round about the room, and into the fire. at last, i noticed that my friend began to gaze earnestly at my clothing; and, knowing him to be a close observer, and a man of penetrative spirit, i felt it; though i knew very well that it was all right, for he takes a kindly interest in all i wear, or do, or say. well; he began to look hard at my clothing, beginning with my boots. i didn't care much about him examining my boots; for, as it happened, they had just been soled, and heeled, and welted afresh; with a bran new patch upon one side. if he had seen them a week before, i should have been pained, for they were in a ruinous state then; and, being rather a dandified pair originally, they looked abominable. i think there is nothing in the world so intensely wretched in outward appearance as shabby dandyism. well; he began with my boots; and, after he had scrutinised them thoroughly for a minute or two, i felt, instinctively, that he was going to peruse the whole of my garments from head to foot, like a tapestried story. and so it was. when he had finished my boots, his eyes began to travel slowly up my leg; and, as they did so, my mind ran anxiously ahead, to see what the state of things was upon the road that his glance was coming. "how are my trousers?" thought i. there was no time to lose; for i felt his eye coming up my leg, like a dissecting knife. at last, i bethought me that i had split my trousers across one knee, about a fortnight before; and the split had only been indifferently stitched up. "now for it," thought i, giving myself a sudden twitch, with the intention of throwing my other leg over that knee to hide the split. but i was too late. his eye had already fastened upon the place like a leech. i saw his keen glance playing slyly about the split, and my nerves quivered in throes of silent pain all the while. at last, he lifted up his eyes, and sighed, and then, looking up at the ceiling, he sighed out the word, "aye," very slowly; and then he turned aside to light his pipe at the fire again; and, whilst he was lighting his pipe, i very quietly laid the sound leg of my trousers over the split knee. pushing the tobacco into his pipe with the haft of an old penknife, he now asked me how things were going on in town. i pretended to be quite at ease; and i tried to answer him with the air of one who was above the necessity of such considerations. but i knew that he had only asked the question for the purpose of throwing me off my guard; and i felt sure that his eyes would return to the spot where they had left off at. and they did so. but he saw at once that the knee was gone; so he travelled slowly upwards, with persistent gaze. in two or three minutes he stopped again; it was somewhere about the third button of my waistcoat--or rather the third button-hole, for the button was off. he halted there; and his glance seemed to snuff round about the place, like a dog that thinks it has caught the scent; and i began to feel uncomfortable again; for, independent of the button being off, i had only twopence-halfpenny, and a bit of blacklead pencil, and an unpaid bill in my pocket; and somehow i thought he was finding it all out. so i shifted a little round, and began to hum within myself,-- take, oh take those eyes away! but it was no use. he would do it. and i couldn't stand it any longer; so i determined to bolt before he got up to my shirt front, or "dickey,"--for i had a "dickey" on, and one side of it was bulging out in a disorderly way, and i durst not try to put it right for fear of drawing his attention to it. i determined to be rid of the infliction at once, so i pretended to be in a hurry. knocking the ashes out of my pipe, i rose up and said, "have you got a time-table?" "yes." "there's a train about now, i think." "yes; but stop till the next. what's your hurry? you're not here every day. sit down and get another pipe." "how's your clock?" said i, turning round and looking through the window, so as to get a sly chance of pushing my "dickey" into its place. "how's your clock?" "well, it's about ten minutes fast. isn't it, sarah?" said he to the servant, who was coming in with some coals. "no," replied she. "i put it right by th' blacksmith, this mornin'." by "the blacksmith," she meant the figure of an old man with a hammer, which struck the hours upon the bell of a public clock, a little higher up the street. "well," said my friend, looking at the time-table, "in any case, you're too late for this train now. sit down a bit. i left my watch this morning, to have a new spring put in it; but i'll keep my eye on the clock, so that you shall be in time for the next. sit you down, an' let's have a chat about old times." i gave a furtive glance at my "dickey," and seeing it was all right, i sat down again with a sigh, laying the sound leg of my trousers carefully over my split knee. i had no sooner sat down, than he looked at my waistcoat pocket again, and said, "i say, old boy, why don't you carry a watch? it would be a great convenience." i explained to him that i had been so many years used to notice public clocks, and to marking the time by the action of nature and by those movements of human life that are regulated by clock-work, that i felt very little need for a watch. besides, it was as easy to ask the time of day of people who had watches, as it would be to look at one's own; and then, if i had a watch, i did not know whether the convenience of the thing would compensate for the anxiety and expense of it. he listened attentively, and then, after looking into the fire musingly for a minute or two, as if he was interpreting my excuse in some way of his own, he suddenly knocked his pipe upon the top bar of the fire-grate, and said, "by jupiter ammon, i'll give you one!" my friend never swears, except by that dissolute old greek; or by a still more mysterious deity, whom he calls "the living jingo!" whenever he mentions either of these, i know that he means something strong; so i sat still and "watched the case," as lawyers say. "mary," said he, rising, and calling to his wife, who was in another room; "mary, wheer's that old watch?" "i have it upstairs, in an old rosewood writing-desk," replied she. "just fetch it down; i want to look at it." he listened at the door, until he heard her footsteps going upstairs; and then he turned to me, chuckling and rubbing his hands; and, slapping me on the shoulder, he said, "now then, old fellow, fill your pipe again! by the living jingo, you shall have the time o' day in your pocket before you leave this house." she was a good while in returning; so he shouted up the stairs, "haven't you found it yet, mary?" "yes," replied she, "it's here. i'll be down in a minute." i began to puff very hard at my pipe; for i was getting excited. she came at last, and said, as she laid the watch in his hand, "i have thought of selling it many a time, for it is of no use lying yonder." "aye," replied my friend, pretending to look very hard at the works. as long as she remained in the room, he still kept quietly saying, "aye, aye," at short intervals. but when she left the room, he earnestly watched the closing door, and then, shutting the watch, he came across to me, and, laying it in my hand, he said, "there, old boy, that's yours. keep it out of sight till you get out of the house." and i did keep it out of sight. but i was more than ever anxious to get away by the next train, so that i could fondle it freely. it was an old silver lever watch, without fingers. it was silent, with a silence that had continued long; its face was dusty; and the case wore the cloudy hue of neglect. however, i bore my prize away at last; and, before the day was over, i had spent eighteenpence upon new fingers, and sixpence upon a yard-and-a-half of broad black watered silk ribbon for a guard. next day, after i had polished the case thoroughly with whitening, i put on a clean shepherd's plaid waistcoat, in order to show the broad black ribbon which led to my watch. since then, i know not how oft i have stopped to put it right by the cathedral clock; and i have found sometimes, as the irishman did, that "the little divul had bate that big fellow by two hours in twelve." it is a curious thing, this old watch of mine; and i like it: there is something so human about it. it is full of quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. sometimes the fingers stand still, even when the works are going on. even when wound up, it has a strange trick of stopping altogether for an hour or two now and then, as if smitten with a fit of idleness; and then it will set off again of its own accord, like a living thing wakening up from sleep. it stops oftener than it goes. it is not so much a time-keeper as a standing joke; and looking at it from this point of view, i am very fond of this watch of mine. before i had it, whenever i chanced to waken in the night time, i used to strike a light, and read myself to sleep again. but now, when i waken in the night, i suddenly remember, "oh, my watch!" then i listen, and say to myself, "i believe it has stopped again!" and then, listening more attentively, and hearing its little pulse beating, i say, "no: there it goes. bravo!" and i strike a light, and caress the little thing; and wind it up. i have great fun with it, in a quiet way. i believe, somehow, that it is getting used to me; and i shouldn't like to part with it any more. there is a kind of friendship growing between us that will last until my own pulse is stopped by the finger of death. and what is death, after all; but the stopping of life's watch; to be wound up again by the maker? i should not like to lose this old watch of mine now. it is company when i am lonely; it is diversion when i am tired; and, though it is erratic, it is amiable and undemonstrative. i will make it famous yet, in sermon or in song. i have begun once or twice, "oh thou!----" and then stopped, and tried, "when i behold----" and then i have stopped again. but i will do it yet. if the little thing had a soul, now, i fear that it would never be saved; for, "faith without works is vain." but i have faith in it, though it has deceived me oft. my quaint old monitor! how often has it warned me, that when man goes "on tick," it always ends in a kind of "tic douloureux." but the hour approaches, when its tiny pulse and mine must both stand still; for-- owd time,--he's a troublesome codger,-- keeps nudgin' us on to decay; an' whispers, you're nobbut a lodger; get ready for goin' away. and when "life's fitful fever" is past, i hope they will not sell my body to the doctors; nor my watch to anybody; but bury us together; and let us rest when they have done so. norbreck: _a sketch on the lancashire coast_. chapter i. come unto these yellow sands, then take hands: court'sied when you have, and kissed, the wild waves whist. --the tempest. at the western edge of that quiet tract of lancashire, called "the fylde," lying between wyre, ribble, and the irish channel, the little wind-swept hamlet of norbreck stands, half asleep, on the brow of a green ridge overlooking the sea. the windows of a whitewashed cottage wink over their garden wall, as the traveller comes up the slope, between tall hedgerows; and very likely he will find all so still, that, but for wild birds that crowd the air with music, he could hear his footsteps ring on the road as clearly as if he were walking on the flags of a gentleman's greenhouse. in summer, when its buildings are glittering in their annual suit of new whitewash, and when all the country round looks green and glad, it is a pleasant spot to set eyes upon--this quiet hamlet overlooking the sea. at that time of year it smells of roses, and of "cribs where oxen lie;" and the little place is so steeped in murmurs of the ocean, that its natural dreaminess seems deepened thereby. i cannot find that any great barons of the old time, or that any world-shaking people have lived there; or that any events which startle a nation have ever happened on that ground; but the tranquil charm that fills the air repays for the absence of historic fame. there is seldom much stir in norbreck, except such as the elements make. the inhabitants would think the place busy with a dozen people upon its grass-grown road at once, whatever the season might be. it is true that on a fine day in summer i have now and then seen a little life just at the entrance of the hamlet. there, stands a pretty cottage, of one story, consisting of six cosy rooms, that run lengthwise; its white walls adorned with rose trees and fruit trees, and its windows bordered with green trellis work. two trim grass-plots, with narrow beds of flowers, and neat walks, mosaically-paved with blue and white pebbles from the sea, fill up the front garden, which a low white wall and a little green gate enclose from the road. in front of this cottage, i have sometimes seen a troop of rosy children playing round a pale girl, who was hopelessly infirm, and, perhaps on that account, the darling of the whole household. i have seen her rocking in the sun, and, with patient melancholy, watching their gambols, whilst they strove to please her with all kinds of little artless attentions. poor lucy! sometimes, after swaying to and fro thoughtfully in her chair, she would stop and ask questions that sent her father out of the room to wipe his eyes. "papa, are people lame in heaven?" "papa, are angels poorly sometimes, like we are here?"...it is one of those beautiful compensations that mingle with the mishaps of life, that such a calamity has often the sweet effect of keeping kind hearts continually kind. the poor lancashire widow, when asked why she seemed to fret more for the loss of her helpless lad than for any of her other children, said she couldn't tell, except "it were becose hoo'd had to nurse him moor nor o' tother put together." surely, "there is a soul of good in all things evil." about this pretty cottage, where little lucy lived, is the busiest part of the hamlet in summer time. there may chance to be two or three visitors sauntering in the sunshine; or, perhaps, old thomas smith, better known as "owd england," the sea-beaten patriarch of norbreck, may paddle across the road to look after his cattle, or, staff in hand, may be going down to "low water" a-shrimping, with his thin hair playing in the breeze. perhaps lizzy, the milkmaid, may run from the house to the shippon, with her skirt tucked up, and the neb of an old bonnet pulled down to shade her eyes; or tom, the cow lad, may be leaning against a sunny wall, whistling, and mending his whip, and wondering how long it wants to dinner-time. there may be a fine cat dozing on the garden wall, or gliding stealthily towards the outhouses. these are the common features of life there. for the rest, the sounds heard are mostly the cackle of poultry, the clatter of milk cans, the occasional bark of a dog, the distant lowing of kine, a snatch of country song floating from the fields, the wild birds' "tipsy routs of lyric joy," and that all-embracing murmur of the surge which fills one's ears wherever we go. in norbreck everything smacks of the sea. on the grassy border of the road, about the middle of the hamlet, there is generally a pile of wreck waiting the periodical sale which takes place all along the coast. i have sometimes looked at this pile, and thought that perhaps to this or that spar some seaman might have clung with desperate energy among the hungry waters, until he sank, overpowered, into his uncrowded grave. the walls of gardens and farmyards are mostly built of cobles from the beach, sometimes fantastically laid in patterns of different hues. the garden beds are edged with shells, and the walks laid with blue and white pebbles. here and there are rockeries of curiously-shaped stones from the shore. every house has its little store of marine rarities, which meet the eye on cornices and shelves wherever we turn. now and then we meet with a dead sea-mew on the road, and noisy flocks of gulls make fitful excursions landward; particularly in ploughing time, when they crowd after the plough to pick slugs and worms out of the new furrows. with a single exception, all the half-dozen dwellings in norbreck are on one side of the road, with their backs to the north. on the other side there are gardens, and a few whitewashed outhouses, with weatherbeaten walls. the main body of the hamlet consists of a great irregular range of buildings, formerly the residence of a wealthy family. this pile is now divided into several dwellings, in some of which are snug retreats for such as prefer the seclusion of this sea-nest to the bustle of a crowded watering place. a little enclosed lawn, belonging to the endmost of the group, and then a broad field, divides this main cluster from the only other habitation. the latter seems to stand off a little, as if it had more pretensions to gentility than the rest. it is a picturesque house, of different heights, built at different times. at the landward end, a spacious yard, with great wooden doors close to the road, contains the outbuildings, with an old-fashioned weather-vane on the top of them. the lowmost part of the dwelling is a combination of neat cottages of one story; the highest part is a substantial brick edifice of two stories, with attics. this portion has great bow windows, which sweep the sea view, from the coast of wales, round by the isle of man, to the mountains of cumberland. in summer, the white walls of the cottage part are covered with roses and creeping plants, and there is an air of order and tasteful rusticity about the whole; even to the neat coble pavement which borders the wayside. on the top of the porch a stately peacock sometimes struts, like a feathered showman, whilst his mate paces to and fro, cackling on the field wall immediately opposite. there are probably a few poultry pecking about the front; and, if it happens to be a sunny day, a fine old english bear-hound, of the lyme breed, called "lion," and not much unlike his namesake in the main, may be seen stretched in a sphinx-like posture on the middle of the road, as if the whole fylde belonged to him, by right of entail; and slowly moving his head with majestic gaze, as if turning over in his mind whether or not it would be polite to take a piece out of the passing traveller for presuming to walk that way. perhaps in the southward fields a few kine are grazing and whisking their tails in the sunshine, or galloping from gap to gap under the influence of the gad-fly's spur; and it may happen that some wanderer from blackpool can be seen on the cliffs, with his garments flapping in the breeze. except these, and the rolling surge below, all is still at this end of the hamlet, unless the jovial face of the owner appear above the wall that encloses his outbuildings, wishing the passer-by "the fortune of the day." norbreck, as a whole, is no way painfully genteel in appearances, but it is sweet and serene, and its cluster of houses seems to know how to be comfortable, without caring much for display. dirt and destitution are unknown there; in fact, i was told that this applies generally to all the scattered population of that quiet fylde country. though there are many people there whose means of existence are almost as simple as those of the wild bird and the field mouse, yet squalor and starvation are strangers amongst them. if any mischance happen to any of these fylde folk, everybody knows everybody else, and, somehow, they stick to one another, like paddy's shrimps,--if you take up one you take up twenty. the road, which comes up thither from many a mile of playful meanderings through the green country, as soon as it quits the last house, immediately dives through the cliffs, with a sudden impulse, as if it had been reading "robinson crusoe," and had been drawn all that long way solely by its love for the ocean. the sea beach at this spot is a fine sight at any time; but in a clear sunset the scene is too grand to be touched by any imperfect words. somebody has very well called this part of the coast "the region of glorious sunsets." when the waters retire, they leave a noble solitude, where a man may wander a mile or two north or south upon a floor of sand finer than any marble, "and yet no footing seen," except his own; and hear no sounds that mingle with the mysterious murmurs of the sea but the cry of the sailing gull, the piping of a flock of silver-winged tern, or the scream of the wild sea-mew. even in summer there are but few stragglers to disturb those endless forms of beauty which the moody waves, at every ebb, leave printed all over that grand expanse, in patterns ever new. such is little norbreck, as i have seen it in the glory of the year. in winter, when the year's whitewash upon its houses is getting a little weather-worn, it looks rather moulty and ragged to the eye; and it is more lonely and wild, simply because nature itself is so then; and norbreck and nature are not very distant relations. chapter ii. the wave shall flow o'er this lilye lea, and penny stone fearfu' flee: the red bank scar scud away dismay'd, when englond's in jeopardie. --penny stone: a tradition of the fylde. it was a bonny day on the th of march, , when i visited norbreck, just before those tides came on which had been announced as higher than any for a century previous. this announcement brought thousands of people from the interior into blackpool and other places on that coast. many came expecting the streets to be invaded by the tide, and a great part of the level fylde laid under water; with boats plying above the deluged fields, to rescue its inhabitants from the towers of churches and the tops of farmhouses. knowing as little of these things as inland people generally do, i had something of the same expectation; but when i came to the coast, and found the people going quietly about their usual business, i thought that, somehow, i must be wrong. it is true that one or two farmers had raised their stacks several feet, and another had sent his "deeds" to preston, that they might be high and dry till the waters left his land again; and certain old ladies, who had been reading the newspapers, were a little troubled thereby; but, in the main, these seaside folk didn't seem afraid of the tide. during the two days when the sea was to reach its height, blackpool was as gay, and the weather almost as fine, as if it had been the month of june, instead of "march--mony weathers," as fylde folk call it. the promenade was lively with curious inlanders, who had left their "looms" at this unusual season, to see the wonders of the great deep. but when it came to pass that, because there was no wind to help in the water, the tide rose but little higher than common, many people murmured thereat, and the town emptied as quickly as it had filled. not finding a deluge, they hastened landward again, with a painful impression that the whole thing was a hoax. the sky was blue, the wind was still, and the sun was shining clearly; but this was not what they had come forth to see. though some were glad of any excuse for wandering again by the shores of the many-sounding ocean, and bathing soul and body in its renovating charms, the majority were sorely disappointed. among these, i met one old gentleman, close on seventy, who declared, in a burst of impassioned vernacular, that he wouldn't come to blackpool again "for th' next fifty year, sink or swim." he said, "their great tide were nowt i'th world but an arran' sell, getten up by lodgin'-heawse keepers, an' railway chaps, an' newspapper folk, an sich like wastril devils, a-purpose to bring country folk to th' wayter-side, an' hook brass eawt o' their pockets. it were a lond tide at blackpool folk were after;--an they wanted to get it up i' winter as weel as summer. he could see through it weel enough. but they'd done their do wi' him. he'd too mich white in his e'en to be humbugged twice o'er i'th' same gate, or else he'd worn his yed a greyt while to vast little end. but he'd come no moor a seein' their tides, nor nowt else,--nawe, not if the whole hole were borne't away,--folk an' o,' bigod! he did not blame th' say so mich,--not he. th' say would behave itsel' reet enough, iv a rook o' thievin' devils would nobbut let it alone, an' not go an' belie it shamefully, just for th' sheer lucre o' ill-getten gain, an' nowt else.... he coom fro' bowton, an' he're beawn back to bowton by th' next train; an' iv onybody ever see'd him i' blackpool again, they met tell him on't at th' time, an' he'd ston a bottle o' wine for 'em, as who they were. they had a little saup o' wayter aside o' whoam that onsert their bits o' jobs i' bowton reet enough. it're nobbut a mak ov a bruck; but he'd be content wi' it for th' futur--tide or no tide. they met tak their say, an' sup it, for him,--trashy devils!" of course, this was an extreme case, but there were many grumblers on the same ground; and some amusement arising out of their unreasoning disappointment. down at norbreck, about four miles north of blackpool, though there was a little talk, here and there, about the curious throng at the neighbouring watering-place, all else was still as usual. "owd england," the quaint farmer and fisherman of the hamlet, knew these things well. he had lived nearly seventy-four years on that part of the coast, and he still loved the great waters with the fervour of a sea-smitten lad. from childhood he had been acquainted with the moods and tenses of the ocean; and it was a rare day that didn't see him hobble to "low water" for some purpose or other. he explained to me that a tide of much lower register in the tables, if brought in by a strong wind, would be higher in fact than this one with an opposite wind; and he laughed at the fears of such as didn't know much about the matter. "thoose that are fleyed," said he, "had better go to bed i' boats, an' then they'll ston a chance o' wakenin' aboon watter i'th' mornin'.... th' idea of a whol teawn o' folk comin' to't seea for this. pshaw! i've no patience wi' 'em!... tide! there'll be no tide worth speykin' on,--silly divuls,--what i knaw. i've sin a fifteen-fuut tide come far higher nor this twenty-one foot eleven can come wi' th' wind again it,--sewer aw hev. so fittin it should, too.... but some folk knawn nowt o'th' natur o' things." lame old billy singleton, a weather-worn fisherman, better known by the name of "peg leg," sat knitting under the window, with his dim eyes bent over a broken net. "owd england" turned to him and said, "it wur a fifteen-fuut tide, billy, at did o' that damage at cleveless, where th' bevel-men are at wark." old "peg leg" lifted his head, and replied, "sewer it wor, thomas; an', by the hectum, that wor a tide! if we'd hed a strang sou'-west wind, this wad ha' played rickin' too. i've heeard as there wor once a village, ca'd singleton thorpe, between cleveless and rossall, weshed away by a heigh tide, abaat three hundred year sin'. by the hectum, if that had happen't i' these days, thomas, here wod ha' bin some cheeop trips an' things stirrin' ower it." he then went on mending his net. old bed-ridden alice, who had spent most of the daylight of seven years stretched upon a couch under the window, said, "but it never could touch us at norbreck,--nowt o't sooart. it's nearly th' heighest point i't country; isn't it, uncle?" "sartiny," said "owd england;" "but," continued he, "iv ye want to see summat worth rememberin', ye mun go to low watter. it'll be a rare seet. th' seea 'll ebb far nor ever wor knawn i'th' memory o' mon; an' here'll be skeers an' rocks eawt at hesn't bin sin of a hundred year. iv ye'd like to set fuut o' greawnd at nobody livin' mun walk on again, go daan with us at five o'clock o' friday afternoon." i felt that this would indeed be an interesting sight, and i agreed to accompany the old fisherman to low water. it was a cloudless, summer-like evening, when our little company of four set out from norbreck, as we descended the cliffs, the track of the declining sun's beams upon the sea was too glorious for eyes to endure; and every little pool and rill upon the sands gleamed like liquid gold. a general hush pervaded the scene, and we could hear nothing but our own voices, and a subdued murmur of the distant waves, which made the prevailing silence more evident to the senses. "owd england" led the way, with his favourite stick in hand, and a basket on his arm for the collection of a kind of salt water snail, called "whilks," which, he said, were "the finest heytin' of ony sort o' fish i'th world for folk i' consumptions." "ye happen wouldn't think it," said he, "bod i wor i' danger o' consumption when i were a young mon." as we went on, now over a firm swelling sand-bank, now stepping from stone to stone through a ragged "skeer," and slipping into pools and channels left by the tide; or wading the water in reckless glee,--the fine old man kept steadily ahead, muttering his wayward fancies as he made towards the silver fringe that played upon the skirts of the sea. now and then he stopped to point out the rocks, and tell their names. "that's th' carlin' an' cowt,--a common seet enough. ye see, it's not far eawt.... yon's 'th' mussel rock,' deawn to so'thard. ther's folk musselin' on it neaw, i believe. but we'll go that way on.... tak raand bith sond-bank theer. yaar noan shod for wadin'; an' this skeer's a varra rough un.... that's 'penny stone,' reight afore you, toward th' seea. ye'll hev heeard o' 'th' penny stone rock,' mony a time, aw warnd. there wor once a public-heawse where it stons, i'th owd time; an' they sowd ale there at a penny a pot. bod then one connot tell whether it wor dear or cheeop till they knaw what size th' pot wor--an' that i dunnot knaw. mr. thornber, o' blackpool, hes written a book abaat this 'penny stone;' an' i believe at mr. wood, o' bispham schoo', hes one. he'll land it yo in a minute, aw warnd. ye mun send little tom wi' a bit ov a note. i never see 'penny stone' eawt so as to get raand it afore.... neaw, yon far'ast, near low watter, is 'th' owd woman's heyd.' i've oft heeard on it, an' sometimes sin a bit o't tip aboon watter, bod i never see it dry i' my life afore,--an' i never mun again,--never." he then paddled on, filling his basket, and muttering to himself about this extraordinary ebb, and about the shortness of human life. the sun began to "steep his glowing axle in the western wave," and the scene was melting every moment into a new tone of grandeur. as we neared the water, the skeers were more rugged and wet, and, in a few minutes, we picked up a basketful of "whilks," and a beautiful variety of the sea anemone. after the sun had dipped, his lingering glory still crowded the western heavens, and seemed to deepen in splendour as it died upon the scene; while the golden ripples of the sea sang daylight down to rest. i never saw mild evening close over the world with such dreamy magnificence. we wandered by the water, till golden hesperus was mounted high in top of heaven sheen. and warned his other brethren joyeous to light their blessed lamps in jove's eternall house. the tide was returning, and the air getting cold; so we went homewards, with wandering steps, in the wake of our old fisherman, by way of "penny stone rock." there is a tradition all over the fyltle that this rock, now only visible "on the utmost verge of the retired wave," marks the locality of a once famous-hostelry. doubtless the tradition has some foundation in fact, as the encroachments of the sea upon this coast have been great, and sometimes disastrous, as in the destruction of the village of singleton thorpe, about a mile and a half to northward, in . in the rev. w. thornber's interesting little volume, called "penny stone; or a tradition of the spanish armada," he says of the old hostelry associated with this now submerged rock, "it was situated in a vale, protected from the sea by a barrier of sand-hills, at a short distance from a village called singleton thorpe, in the foreland of the fylde, lancashire. the site of the homestead was romantic, for it was in the very centre of a druidical circle, described in a former tradition of the country, one of the huge stones of which reared its misshapen block near the porch. into this stone a ring had been inserted by the thrifty jock, its host, to which he was wont to attach the horses of his customers whilst they regaled themselves with a penny pot of his far-famed ale. hither the whole country resorted on holidays, to spend them in athletic games, and to quaff the beloved beverage; nay, so renowned was the hostel, that 'merrie days of hie away to penny stone' was common even to a proverb. here lay the secret enchantment of its popularity. the old distich tell us that hops, reformation, bays, and beer, came into england all in a year. ale was a beverage which had been well known in england, but in the reign of henry viii, it assumed a new name from the infusion of hops. now, jock's father, a cunning lout, was the first to commence in the fylde this new, and at that time mysterious system of brewing, which so pleased the palate of his customers, that, while others sold their insipid malt liquor at twopence per gallon, he vended his ale at a penny per pot. hence his hostel became known by the name of penny stone." such is the embodiment mr. thornber has given to the common tradition of "penny stone," which we were now approaching on our homeward way. as we drew near it, we saw five persons come over the shining sands towards the same spot; and we heard merry voices ringing in the air. i first made out my friend hallstone, in his strong shooting-dress of light-coloured tweed, and attended by two favourite terriers, "wasp" and "snap." we met at the rock, and i found my friend accompanied by three "brethren of the mystic tie," one of whom was mr. thornber, the veritable chronicler of "penny stone." the latter had wandered thus far, with his companions, mainly to avail himself of this rare chance of climbing his pet legendary crag. his hands were full of botanical specimens from the sea, and, in his fervid way, he descanted upon them, and upon the geology of the coast, in a manner which, i am sorry to say, was almost lost to my uninitiated mind. i took the opportunity of inquiring where he found the materials for his tradition. he answered, that there was no doubt of its fundamental truth; "but, as to the details wrought into the story," said he, pointing to his forehead, with a laugh, "i found them in a cellar, deep down in the rock there." the gloomy mass was surrounded by a little moat of salt water, nearly knee-deep, through which we passed; and then, clinging to its triton locks of sea-weeds, we climbed to the slippery peaks of "penny stone." the stout lad in attendance drew a bottle from his basket; and then each in his way celebrated this unexpected meeting in that singular spot, where we should never meet together again. i shall never forget the sombre splendour of the scene, nor the striking appearance of the group upon that lonely rock, when the rearward hues of day were yielding their room to "sad succeeding night." we lingered there awhile; but the air was cold, and the sea began to claim its own again. four then returned by the cliffs to blackpool, and the rest crossed the sands hastily to norbreck, where, after an hour's chat by the old fisherman's great kitchen fire, i crept to bed, with the sound of the sea in my ears. chapter iii. a very good piece of work, i assure you, and a merry. now, good peter quince, call forth your actors by the scroll: masters, spread yourselves. --midsummer night's dream. the "million-fingered" rain was tapping at the kitchen window as i sat by "owd england's" bright hearthstone one forenoon, hearkening to the wind that moaned outside like a thing in pain. i could hear by a subdued thump that "lizzy" was churning in the dairy; and i knew, by the smell of fresh bread which came from a spacious out-kitchen, that "granny" was baking. "little tom," the cow lad, had started early with the cart to poulton for coals, making knots on his whiplash as he went along, to help his memory, which was crowded with orders to call at one place for meal, at another for mutton, and at others for physic, and snuff, and such like oddments, wanted by the neighbours. "owd england" had gone to the seaside, with his staff, and his leather strap, to fetch the daily "burn" of firewood; and--to see what he could see;--for every tide brought something. one day he hauled a barrel of stockholm tar from the water; on another, part of the cabin furniture of an unfortunate steamer; and then a beam of pine was thrown ashore; in all of which the old man had a certain interest as "wreck-master." "peg-leg," the fisherman, was mending a net; and lame alice lay, as usual, wrapped up, and in shadow, on the couch under the window; with her pale face, and a nose "as sharp as a pen," turned to the ceiling; while tib, with her soft legs folded under, lay basking luxuriously in the fire-shine, dreaming of milk and of mice. the old clock ticked audibly in the corner, and a pin-drop silence prevailed in the room. "that's a fine cat," said i. "aye," replied old alice, "isn't it a varra fine cat? it's mother to that as missis alston hes. it cam fra lunnon, an' it's worth a deeal o' money, is that cat. the varra day as you cam, it weshed it face an' sneez't twice,--it dud, for sewer. missis eastwood wor gettin' dinner ready at th' time, an' hoo said, 'we'st hev a stranger fra some quarter this day, mind i' we hevn't;' an' directly after, yo cam walkin' into th' heawse, i tell yo, just as nowt were. i offens think it's queer; bod i've sin cats as good as ony almanac for tellin' th' weather, an sich like." "will it scrat," said i, stroking "tib" as she stretched and yawned in my face. "well," replied alice, "it's like everything else for that; it just depends what you do at it. bod i can onser for one thing--it'll not scrat as ill as 'th' red cat' at bispham does. i hev sin folk a bit mauled after playin' wi' that." "aye, an' so hev i, too," said old "peg-leg." "i ca'd theer tother neet, an', by the hectum, heaw they wor gooin' on, to be sewer. i crope into a corner wi' my gill, there wor sich liltin' agate; an', ye knaw, a mon wi' one leg made o' wood and tother full o' rheumatic pains is nowt mich at it. beside, i've ten a likin' to quietness,--one does, ye knaw, alice, as they getten owd. i geet aside ov a mon as wor tellin' abeawt jem duck'orth, o' preston, sellin' his midden. ye'll hev heeard o' that, alice?" "nay, i don't know as i hev, billy; what is it? i dud hear at once th' baillies were in his heawse, an' they agreed to go away if he'd find 'em a good bondsman. so jem towd 'em that he had a varra respectable old friend i'th next room that he thowt would be bund wi him to ony amount; if they'd let him fotch him. so they advised him to bring his bond in at once, ah' hev it sattle't baat ony bother--for th' baillies wor owd friends o' jem's, ye knaw; an' they didn't want to be hard with him. well, what does jem do, bod go an' fotch a great brown bear as he'd hed mony a year, an' turns it into th' place where th' baillies were, baat muzzle; and says, 'gentlemen, that's my bondsman.' bod, never ye mind if th' baillies didn't go through that window, moor sharper.... i've heard mony a queer tale o' jem. what's this abaat th' midden, billy?" "well, ye knaw, jem wor a good-tempered mon, but full o' quare tricks. he wor varra strong, an' a noted feighter--th' cock o'th clod in his day, for that. an' he kept a deeal o' horses that he leet aat for hire. well, he'd once gether't a good midden together fra th' stables, an' farmers began o' comin' abaat th' yard to look at it; so one on 'em says, 'jem, what'll to tak for th' midden?' 'five paand,' says jem. 'well, i'll gi' tho five paand,' says the farmer. so he ped him, an' said he'd send th' carts in a day or two. in a bit, another comes an' axes th' price o'th' midden. jem stack to owd tale, an' said 'five paand, an' cheeop too;' an' th' farmer gev him th' brass at once. 'sowd again,' says jem, 'an' th' money drawn.' well, at th' end of o', it happen't at both sets o' carts cam for th' midden o'th same day, an' there were the devil's delight agate i'th yard between 'em. at last, they agreed to send for jem; so he cam wi' a face as innocent as a flea, an' wanted to know whatever were to do. 'didn't i buy this midden, jem?' said one. 'yigh, sure, thae did,' says jem. 'well, an' didn't i pay tho for't at th' same time?' 'sure, thae did, owd lad--reet enough,' says jem. 'well, but,' says tother, 'didn't i buy it on tho?' 'yigh, thae did,' says jem, 'an' thae ped me for't, too, honourably, like a mon,--an' i'll tak very good care that nob'dy but yo two hes it.' that wor rayther awkert, ye knaw, an' i know not heaw they'd end it,--for jem wor bad to manage. they wor tellin' it at th' 'red cat' tother neet, bod i could hardly hear for th' gam at wor afoot. lor bless you! there wor a gentleman fra fleetwood tryin' to donce i'th middle o'th floor; an' owd jack backh'us stood i' one corner, wi' his yure ower his face, starin' like wild, an' recitin' abaat th' battle o' waterloo. three chaps sit upo' th' sofa as hed been ower wyre, o' day, an' they'd etten so mich snig-pie at th' 'shard,' that it hed made 'em say-sick, so tom poole were mixin' 'em stuff to cure it. another were seawnd asleep on a cheer, an' little 'twinkle,' fra poulton, doncin' abeawt, challengin' him to feight. an' it wor welly as bad eawtside, for there wor a trap coom up wi' a lot o' trippers as hed bin to cleveless, an' 'bugle bob' upo' th' box, playin' 'rule britannia.' bod i left when th' bevel-men fra rossall began o' comin' in, singin' 'said dick unto tom,' for i felt my yed givin' way under it." the song, "said dick unto tom," alluded to by the old man, is a rude fishing ditty, never printed before, and hardly known out of the fylde, to which it relates. i wrote it down from the recitation of a friend near norbreck. there is not much in the words except a quiet, natural tone, with one or two graphic strokes, which breathe the spirit of the country it originated from. the tune is a quaint air, which i never heard before. the song was written some time ago, by william garlick, a poor man, and a weaver of "pow-davy," a kind of sail-cloth. these are the words:-- said dick unto tom, one friday at noon, loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido; said dick unto tom, one friday at noon, aw could like to go a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon. to my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o'; loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido. then up i'th mornin dick dud rise, loddle iddle, &c.; then up i'th mornin' dick dud rise, an' to tom's door like leetnin' flies. to my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. so, up tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart, loddle iddle, &c.; so, up tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart, to go a-gettin' dew-worms afore they start. wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat, loddle iddle, &c.; then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat, egad, says little tom, there's noan so many aat. to my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. so, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond, loddle iddle, &c.; so, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond, like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond. to my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. an' when they gat to kellamoor, that little country place, loddle iddle, &c.; an' when they gat to kellamoor, that little country place, th' childer were so freeten't 'at they dorsn't show their face. to my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. an' when they gat to brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob, loddle iddle, &c.; an' when they gat to brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob, til little tommy towd 'em they were bod baan to bob. to my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o': loddle iddle, &c. an' when they gat to warton, they wor afore the tide, loddle iddle, &c.; an' when they got to warton, they wor afore the tide, they jumped into a boat, an' away they both did ride. to my heigho, wi' their bob-rods an' o'; loddle iddle, &c. soon after dinner the clouds broke, and it was fine again. i went to the sea-side; and, after pacing to and fro by the waves a while, i struck out towards rossall, through the by-paths of a wilderness of sand and tall grass, called "starrins," that run along the edge of the cliffs. i had scarcely gone a mile before "the rattlin' showers drave on the blast" again, and the sky was all thick gloom. dripping wet, i hurried towards the hotel at cleveless, and, darting in, got planted in a snug armchair by the parlour fire, watching the storm that swept furiously aslant the window, and splashed upon the road in front. three other persons were in the room, one a workman from rossall college, hard by, and the other commercial men on their route to fleetwood. it is wonderful how much rough weather enhances the beauty of the inside of a house. "better a wee bush than nae bield." well, we were just getting into talk, when the door opened, and a humorous face looked in. it was a bright-eyed middle-aged man, shining all over with wet; a blue woollen apron was twisted round his waist, and he had a basket on his arm. leaning against one door-cheek, and sticking a knife into the other, he said, "by gobs, didn't i get a fine peltin' out o' that!... do yees want any oysters, gentlemen? the shells is small," said he, stepping forward, "but they're chock full o' the finest fish in the world. divul a aiqual thim oysters has in the wide ocean; mind, i'm tellin' ye.... taste that!"--"hollo, dennis!" said one of the company, "how is it you aren't in fleetwood?"--"well, because i'm here, i suppose," said dennis. "bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two places at once--barrin' he was a burd. maybe it's good fortune sent me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. sorra a one i met on the way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters in my basket began to think they were in the say again."--"well, dennis," said the traveller, "i'll have a score if you'll tell us about the irishman in the cook's shop.--ye will? then divul recave the toe i'll stir till ye get both.... will you take another score, sir,--till i tell the tale? it's little chance ye'll have o' meetin' thim oysters agin--for they're gettin' scarce.... an' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and his tongue going together. "it was a man from nenagh, in tipperary--he was a kind o' ganger on the railway; an' he wint to a cook-shop in a teawn not far from this, an' says he to the missis o' the heawse, 'a basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' says he,--for, mind ye, an irishman's natterally polite till he's vext, an' thin he's as fiery as julius sayzur. well, whin she brought the soup, paddy tuk a taste mighty sly; an', turnin' reawnd, says he--just for spooart, mind--says he, 'bedad, ma'am, your soup tastes mighty strong o' the water.' well, av coorse, the woman was vext all out, an' she up an' tould him he didn't understand good aitin', an' he might lave the soup for thim that had bin better eddicated. but bowld paddy went on witheawt losin' a stroke o' the spoon; an'--purtindin' not to hear her--says he, 'i'll go bail i'll make as good broth as thim wud a penny candle an' a trifle o' pepper.' well, by gobs, this riz the poor woman's dander to the full hoight, an' she made right at him wid her fist, an' swore by this an' by that, if he didn't lave the heawse she'd knock him into the boiler. but paddy was nigh finishin' his soup, an' he made up his mind to take the last word; an' says he, 'bi the powers! that'll be the best bit o' mate ever went into your pan, ma'am;' an' wi' that, he burst into a laugh, an' the philanderin' rogue up an' towld her how he said it all for divarshun; an' divul a better soup he tasted in his life. well, she changed her tune, like a child. bedad, it was like playin' a flute, or somethin'. an', mind ye, there's nothin' like an irishman for gettin' the right music out of a woman--all the world over. so my tale's inded, an' i'd like to see the bottom o' my basket. ye may as well brake me, gintlemen. there's not more nor five score. take the lot; an' let me go home; for i've a long step to the fore, an' i'm wet to the bone; an' the roads is bad after dark." chapter iv. still lingering in the quiet paths. --all the year round. after a good deal of pleasantry, dennis got rid of his oysters; and, as the storm was still raging without, he called for a glass, just, as he said, "to keep the damp away from the spark in his heart, more by token that he had no other fire to dry his clothes at. but, begorra, for the matter o' that," said he, "they're not worth a grate-full o' coals. look at my trousers. they're on the varge o' superannuation; an' they'll require a substitute before long, or else, i'm thinking, they'll not combine daycently. how an' ever, gintlemen," continued he, "here's hopin' the fruition of your purses may never fail ye, nor health to consign their contents to utility. an' neaw," said he, lighting his pipe, and putting the empty basket on his head like a cowl, "i must go, if the rain comes in pailfuls, for i'm not over well; an' if i could get home wud wishin', i'd be in bed by the time ye'd say 'trap-sticks!' but dramin' an' schamin's neither ridin' nor flyin', so i'll be trampin', for there's no more use in wishin' than there would be in a doctor feelin' a man's pulse through a hole in a wall wid the end of a kitchen poker. an' neaw, i'll be proud if any gintleman will oblige me by coming a couple o' mile an the road, to see the way i'll spin over the greawnd.... ye'd rather not? well; fun an' fine weather's not always together, so good bye, an' long life to yees!" and away went dennis through the rain towards fleetwood. waiting for the shower to abate, i sat a while; and, as one of the company had been to a funeral, it led to a conversation about benefit societies; in relation to which, one person said he decidedly objected to funeral benefits being allowed to people who had died by their own hands, because it would encourage others to commit suicide. from this we glided to the subject of consecrated ground; and a question arose respecting a man who had been accidentally buried partly in consecrated and partly in unconsecrated ground,--as to what result would ensue from that mistake to the poor corpse in the end of all. the doubt was as to whose influence the unconsecrated half came under. the dispute ran high, without anybody making the subject clearer, so i came away before the shower was over. next day i went to blackpool; and, while awaiting at the station the arrival of a friend of mine, i recognised the familiar face of an old woman whom i had known in better days. tall and thin, with a head as white as a moss-crop, she was still active, and remarkably clean and neat in appearance. her countenance, though naturally melancholy, had still a spice of the shrew in it. "eh," said she, "i'm glad to see you. it's seldom i have a chance of meeting an old face now, for i'm seldom out." she then told me she had been two years and a half housekeeper to a decrepid old gentleman and his two maiden sisters, in a neighbouring town. "but," said she, "i'm going to leave. you see i've got into years; and, though i'm active--thank god--yet, i'm often ill; and people don't like to be troubled with servants that are ill, you know. so i'm forced to work on, ill or well; for i'm but a lone woman, with no friends to help me, but my son, and he's been a long time in canada, and i haven't heard from him this three years. i look out for th' postman day by day,--but nothing comes. sometimes i think he's dead. but the lord knows. it's like to trouble one, you're sure. it's hard work, with one thing and another, very; for i 'have to scratch before i can peck,' as th' saying is, and shall to th' end o' my day, now. but if you can hear of anything likely, i wish you would let me know,--for leave yonder i will. i wouldn't stop if they'd hang my hair wi' diamonds,--i wouldn't indeed. i've said it, an' signed it,--so there's an end. but what, they'll never ask me to stop, i doubt. it's very hard. you see i have to keep my son's little boy in a neighbour's house,--this is him,--and that eats up nearly all my bit o' wage; and where's my clothing to come from? but, don't you see, yon people are greedy to a degree. lord bless you! they'd skin three devils for one hide,--they would for sure. see yo; one day--(here she whispered something which i didn't exactly catch)--they did indeed! as missis dixon said, when i met her in friargate, on monday forenoon, 'it was a nasty, dirty trick!' but i've had my fill, an' i shall sing 'oh, be joyful' when my time's up. i shall be glad to get to my own country again,--yes, if i have to beg my bread. see; they're actually afraid of me going out o'th house for fear i should talk about them to th' neighbours. bless you, they judge everybody by theirselves. but i'd scorn the action! it is just as missis smith said, 'they're frightened o'th world being done before they've done wi' th' world,'--they are for sure. such gripin', grindin' ways! they'll never prosper,--never." "and is this your grandson?" said i. "yes; an' he's a wonderful child for his age. he's such a memory. his father was just same. i often think he'd make a rare 'torney, he remembers things so, and he has such queer sayings. i've taught him many a piece off by heart. come, george, say that little piece for this gentleman. take your fingers out of your mouth. come now." the lad looked a minute, and then rattled out,-- said aaron to moses, aw'll swap tho noses:-- "oh, for shame," said she; "not that." but he went on,-- said moses to aaron, thine's sich a quare un. "for shame," said she. "you see they teach him all sorts o' nonsense; and he remembers everything. come, be quick; 'twinkle, twinkle,'" but here the train was ready; and in five minutes more she was on her way to preston; and, not finding my friend, i walked home along the cliffs. in my rambles about norbreck, i met with many racy characters standing in relief among their neighbours, and marked with local peculiarities, as distinctly as anything that grows from the soil. in a crowded city they might be unnoticed; but, amid "the hamlet's hawthorn wild," where existence seems to glide as noiselessly as a cloud upon a summer sky--save where friendly gossips meet, like a choir of crickets, by some country fire--they are threads of vivid interest woven into the sober web of life; and, among their own folk, they are prized something like those old books which people hand from generation to generation,--because they bear the quaint inscriptions of their forefathers. in my wanderings i had also the benefit of a genial and intelligent companion; and, whether we were under his own roof, among books, and flowers, and fireside talk about the world in the distance, or roving the green lanes and coppice-trods, chatting with stray villagers by the way, or airing ourselves in the wind, "on the beached margent of the sea," i found pleasure and assistance in his company, in spite of all our political differences. my friend, alston, lives about a mile down the winding road from norbreck, in a substantial hall, built about a hundred years ago, and pleasantly dropt at the foot of a great natural embankment, which divides the low-lying plain from the sea. the house stands among slips of orderly garden and plantation, with poultry yards and outhouses at the north-east end. the green country, sparely sprinkled with white farmhouses and cottages, spreads out in front, far and wide, to where the heathery fells of lancashire bound the eastward view. the scene is as quiet as a country church just before service begins, except where the sails of a windmill are whirling in the wind, or the fleecy steam-cloud of a distant train gushes across the landscape, like a flying fountain of snow. on a knoll behind the house there is a little rich orchard, trimly hemmed in by thick thorn hedges. in march i found its shadeless walks open to the cold sky, and all its holiday glory still brooding patiently down in the soil; but i remember how oft, in summer, when the boughs were bending to the ground with fruit, and the leaves were so thick overhead, that the sunshine could only find its way through chinks of the green ceiling, we have pushed the branches aside, and walked and talked among its bowery shades; or, sitting on benches at the edge of the fish-pond, have read and watched our floats, and hearkened the birds, until we have risen, as if drawn by some fascination in the air, and gone unconciously towards the sea again. there we have spent many a glorious hour; and there, at certain times of the day, we should meet with "quick," or "mitch," or some other coast-guardsmen belonging to the gunboat's crew at fleetwood, pacing to and fro, on the look-out for frenchmen, smugglers, and wreck. as we returned from the shore one afternoon last march, an old man was walking on the road before us, carrying what looked in the distance like two milk pails. these he set down now and then, and looked all round. my friend told me that this part of the fylde was famous for singing-birds, especially larks. he said that bird-catchers came from all parts of lancashire, particularly manchester, to ply their craft there; and he would venture a guess that the quaint figure before us was a manchester bird-catcher, though it was rather early in the season. when we overtook the old man, who had set down his covered cages in a by-lane, we found that he was a bird-catcher, and from manchester, too. i learnt, also, that it was not uncommon for a clever catcher to make a pound a day by his "calling." the primitive little whitewashed parish church of bispham was always an interesting object to me. it stands on a knoll, about a quarter of a mile over the fields from norbreck; and its foundation is of great antiquity. its graveyard contains many interesting memorials, but none more solemnly eloquent than a certain row of green mounds covering the remains of the unknown drowned washed upon that coast from time to time. several of these, which drifted ashore after the burning of the _ocean monarch_ off the coast of wales, in , now lie mouldering together in this quiet country graveyard, all unknown, save a lady from bury, in lancashire, to whose memory a tombstone is erected here. as the great tides declined, the weather began to be troubled with wintry fits; but when the day of my return came, it brought summer again. after dinner, at bispham house, i went up with my friend to bid farewell to "owd england" at norbreck; and it was like parting with some quaint volume of forgotten lore. nursed here in the lap of nature, the people and customs of the country were part of himself; and his native landscape, with all the shifting elements in the scene, was a kind of barometer, the slightest changes of which were intelligible to him. at the eastern edge of norbreck, a low wall of coble stones encloses his garden. here, where i have sometimes made a little havoc among his "bergamots," "old keswicks," and "scotch bridgets," we walked about, whilst i took a parting look at the landscape. immediately behind us the sea was singing its old song; and below lay the little rural parish, "where," as i heard the rector say in one of his sermons, "a man cannot walk into the open air but all his neighbours can see him." beyond, the tranquil fylde stretches out its drowsy green, now oblivious of all remembrance of piratical ravage, which so often swept over it in ancient times. yonder, the shipping of fleetwood is clearly in sight to the north. and there, a sunbeam, stealing between the fleecy clouds, glides across the land from field to field, with a kind of plaintive grace, as if looking for a lost garden. over meadow, over wood, and little town it goes, dying away upon yon rolling hills in the east. the first of these hills is longridge, and behind it, weird old pendle, standing in a world of its own, is dimly visible. northward, the hills roll on in bold relief, parlick, and bleasdale, and the fells between morecambe and "time-honoured lancaster." still northward, to where yon proud brotherhood of snow-crowned giants--the mountains of cumberland and westmorland--look so glorious in the sunlight; awaking enchanting dreams of that land of romance, the "lake district," hallowed by so many rich associations of genius. they toss their mighty heads on westward, till solemn old "black coombe" dips into the irish sea. altogether a fine setting for the peaceful scene below. the afternoon was waning, so, taking leave of the old fisherman and his household, i turned from norbreck like a man who rises from his dinner before he is half satisfied. accompanied by my friend, i walked four miles, on highways and by-ways, to meet the train at poulton. the road was pleasant, and the day was fine; and i reached manchester before midnight, feeling better in soul and body for my sojourn by the sea. wandering minstrels; or, wails of the workless poor. for whom the heart of man shuts out, straightway the heart of god takes in, and fences them all round about with silence, 'mid the world's loud din. and one of his great charities is music; and it doth not scorn to close the lids upon the eyes of the weary and forlorn. --james russel lowell. there is one feature of the distress in lancashire which was very remarkable upon the streets of our large towns during the year . i allude to the wandering minstrelsy of the unemployed. swarms of strange, shy, sad-looking singers and instrumental performers, in the work-worn clothing of factory operatives, went about the city, pleading for help, in touching wails of simple song,--like so many wild birds driven by hard weather to the haunts of man. there is something instructive, as well as affecting, in this feature of the troubled time. these wanderers are only a kind of representative overflow of a vast number whom our streets will never see. any one well acquainted with lancashire will know how wide-spread the study of music is among its working population. even the inhabitants of our large towns know something more about this now than they knew a few months ago. i believe there is no part of england in which the practice of sacred music is so widely and lovingly pursued amongst the working people as in the counties of lancashire and yorkshire. there is no part of england where, until lately, there have been so many poor men's pianos, which have been purchased by a long course of careful savings from the workman's wages. these, of course, have mostly been sold during the hard times, to keep life in the owner and his family. the great works of handel, haydn, beethoven, and mozart, have solaced the toil of thousands of the poorest working people of lancashire. anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands of the country will remember how common it is to hear the people practising sacred music in their lonely cottages. it is not uncommon to meet working men wandering over the wild hills, "where whin and heather grow," with their musical instruments, to take part in some village oratorio many miles away. "that reminds me," as tale-tellers say, of an incident among the hills, which was interesting, though far from singular in my experience. up in the forest of rosendale, between derply moor and the wild hill called swinshaw, there is a lone valley,--a green cup in the mountains,--called "dean." the inhabitants of this valley are so notable for their love of music, that they are known all through the vales of rossendale as "th' deighn layrocks," or "the larks of dean." in the twilight of a glorious sunday evening, in the height of summer, i was roaming over the heathery waste of swinshaw, towards dean, in company with a musical friend of mine, who lived in the neighbouring clough, when we saw a little crowd of people coming down a moorland slope, far away in front of us. as they drew nearer, we found that many of them had musical instruments; and when we met, my friend recognised them as working people living in the district, and mostly well known to him. he inquired where they had been; and when they told him that they had "bin to a bit of a sing deawn i'th deighn," "well," said he, "can't we have a tune here?" "sure, yo con, wi' o' th' pleasur' i'th world," replied he who acted as spokesman; and a low buzz of delighted consent ran through the rest of the company. they then ranged themselves in a circle around their conductor, and they played and sang several fine pieces of psalmody, upon the heather-scented mountain top. as those solemn strains floated over the wild landscape, startling the moorfowl untimely in his nest, i could not help thinking of the hunted covenanters of scotland. the all-together of that scene upon the mountains, "between the gloaming and the mirk," made an impression upon me which i shall not easily forget. long after we parted from them we could hear their voices, softening in sound as the distance grew, chanting on their way down the echoing glen; and the effect was wonderfully fine. this little incident upon the top of swinshaw is representative of things which often occur in the country parts of lancashire, showing how wide-spread the love of music is among the working classes there. even in great manufacturing towns, it is very common, when passing cotton mills at work, to hear some fine psalm tune streaming in chorus from female voices, and mingling with the spoom of thousands of spindles. the "larks of dean," like the rest of lancashire operatives, must have suffered in this melancholy time; but i hope that the humble musicians of our county will never have occasion to hang their harps upon the willows. now, when fortune has laid such a load of sorrow upon the working people of lancashire, it is a sad thing to see so many workless minstrels of humble life "chanting their artless notes in simple guise" upon the streets of great towns, amongst a kind of life they are little used to. there is something very touching, too, in their manner and appearance. they may be ill-shod and footsore; they may be hungry, and sick at heart, and forlorn in countenance; but they are almost always clean and wholesome-looking in person. they come singing in twos and threes, and sometimes in more numerous bands, as if to keep one another in countenance. sometimes they come in a large family all together, the females with their hymn-books, and the men with their different musical instruments,--bits of pet salvage from the wrecks of cottage homes. the women have sometimes children in their arms, or led by the hand; and they sometimes carry music-books for the men. i have seen them, too, with little handkerchiefs of rude provender for the day. as i said before, they are almost invariably clean in person, and their clothing is almost always sound and seemly in appearance, however poor and scanty. amongst these poor wanderers there is none of the reckless personal negligence and filth of hopeless reprobacy; neither is there a shadow of the professional ostentation of poverty amongst them. their faces are sad, and their manners very often singularly shame-faced and awkward; and any careful observer would see at a glance that these people were altogether unused to the craft of the trained minstrel of the streets. their clear, healthy complexion, though often touched with pallor,--their simple, unimportunate demeanour, and the general rusticity of their appearance, shows them to be suppliants who would blush to wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse; whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; who ask with painful shyness, and refused, because deserving, silently retire. the females, especially the younger ones, generally walk behind, blushing, and hiding themselves as much as possible. i have seen the men sometimes walk backwards, with their faces towards those who were advancing, as if ashamed of what they were doing. and thus they went wailing through the busy streets, whilst the listening crowd looks on them pityingly and wonderingly, as if they were so many hungry shepherds from the mountains of calabria. this flood of strange minstrels partly drowned the slang melodies and the monotonous strains of ordinary street musicians for a while. the professional gleeman "paled his ineffectual fire" before these mournful songsters. i think there never was so much sacred music heard upon the streets of manchester before. with the exception of a favourite glee now and then, their music consisted chiefly of fine psalm tunes,--often plaintive old strains, known and welcome to all, because they awaken tender and elevating remembrances of life. "burton," "french," "kilmarnock," "luther's hymn," the grand "old hundred," and many other fine tunes of similar character, have floated daily in the air of our city for months together. i am sure that this choice does not arise from the minstrels themselves having craft enough to select "a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse." it is the kind of music which has been the practice and pleasure of their lives; and it is a fortuitous thing that now, in addition to its natural plaintiveness, the sad necessity of the times lends a tender accompaniment to their simplest melody. i doubt very much whether leech's minor tunes were ever heard upon our streets till lately. leech was a working man, born near the hills, in lancashire; and his anthems and psalm tunes are great favourites among the musical population, especially in the country districts. leech's harp was tuned by the genius of sorrow. several times, lately, i have heard the tender complaining notes of his psalmody upon the streets of the city. about three months ago i heard one of his most pathetic tunes sung in the market-place, by an old man and two young women. the old man's dress had the peculiar hue and fray of factory work upon it, and he had a pair of clogs upon his stockingless feet. they were singing one of leech's finest minor tunes, to wesley's hymn:-- and am i born to die, to lay this body down? and must my trembling spirit fly into a world unknown? a land of deepest shade, unpierced by human thought; the dreary country of the dead, where all things are forgot. it is a tune often sung by country people in lancashire at funerals; and, if i remember right, the same melody is cut upon leech's gravestone, in the old wesleyan chapelyard at rochdale. i saw a company of minstrels of the same class going through brown-street the other day, playing and singing,-- in darkest shades, if thou appear, my dawning is begun. the company consisted of an old man, two young men, and three young women. two of the women had children in their arms. after i had listened to them a little while, thinking the time and the words a little appropriate to their condition, i beckoned to one of the young men, who came "sidling" slowly up to me. i asked him where they came from, and he said, "ash'n." in answer to another question, he said, "we're o' one family. me an' yon tother's wed. that's his wife wi' th' chylt in her arms; an' hur wi' th' plod shawl on's mine" i asked if the old man was his father. "ay," replied he; "we're o' here, nobbut two. my mother's ill i' bed, an' one o' my sisters is lookin' after her." "well, an' heaw han yo getten on?" said i. "oh, we'n done weel; but we's come no moor," replied he. another day, there was an instrumental band of these operatives playing sacred music close to the exchange lamp. amongst the crowd around, i met with a friend of mine. he told me that the players were from stalybridge. they played some fine old tunes, by desire, and, among the rest, they played one called "warrington." when they had played it several times over, my friend turned to me and said, "that tune was composed by a rev. mr. harrison, who was once minister of cross-street unitarian chapel, in manchester; and one day an old weaver, who had come down from the hills, many miles, staff in hand, knocked at the minister's door, and asked if there was 'a gentleman co'de harrison lived theer?' 'yes.' 'could aw see him?' 'yes." when the minister came to the door, the old weaver looked hard at him for a minute, and said, 'are yo th' mon 'at composed that tune co'de warrington?' 'yes,' replied the minister, 'i believe i am.' 'well,' said the old weaver, 'gi' me your hond! it's a good un!' he then shook hands with him heartily again; and, saying 'well, good day to yo,' he went his way home again, before the old minister could fairly collect his scattered thoughts. i do not know how it is that these workless minstrels are gradually becoming rarer upon the streets than they were a few months ago. perhaps it is because the unemployed are more liberally relieved now than they were at first. i know that, now, many who have concealed their starving condition are ferreted out, and relieved as far as possible. many of these street wanderers have gone home again, disgusted, to pinch out the hard time in proud obscurity; and there are some, no doubt, who have wandered away to other parts of england. of these last, we may naturally expect that a few may become so reconciled to a life of wandering minstrelsy, that they may probably never return to settled labour again. but "there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." let us trust that the great creator may comfort and relieve them, "according to their several necessities, giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflictions." a wayside incident during the cotton famine. take physic, pomp! expose thyself to feel what wretches feel; that thou may'st shake the superflux to them, and show the heavens more just. --king lear. one saturday a little incident fell in my way, which i thought worth taking note of at the time. on that day i went up to levenshulme, to spend the afternoon with an old friend of mine, a man of studious habits, living in a retired part of that green suburb. the time went pleasantly by whilst i was with the calm old student, conversing upon the state of lancashire, and the strange events which were upheaving the world in great billows of change,--and drinking in the peaceful charm which pervaded everything about the man, and his house, and the scene which it stood in. after tea, he came with me across the fields to the midway inn, on stockport road, where the omnibuses call on their way to manchester. it was a lovely evening, very clear and cool, and twilight was sinking upon the scene. waiting for the next omnibus, we leaned against the long wooden watering-trough, in front of the inn. the irregular old building looked picturesque in the soft light of declining day; and all around was so still that we could hear the voices of bowlers who were lingering upon the green, off at the north side of the house, and retired from the highway by an intervening garden. the varied tones of animation, and the phrases uttered by the players on different parts of the green, came through the quiet air with a cheery ring. the language of the bowling-green sounds very quaint to people unused to the game. "too much land, james!" cries one. "bravo, bully-bowl! that's th' first wood! come again for more!" cries another. "th' wrong bias, john!" "how's that?" "a good road, but it wants legs!" "narrow; narrow, o' to pieces!" these, and such like phrases of the game, came distinctly from the green into the highway in that quiet evening. and here i am reminded, as i write, that the philosophic dr. dalton was a regular bowler upon tattersall's green, at old trafford. these things, however, are all aside from the little story which i wish to tell. as we stood by the watering-trough, listening to the voices of the bowlers, and to the occasional ringing of bells, mingled with a low buzz of merriment inside the house, there were many travellers walked by. they came, nearly all of them, from the manchester side; sometimes three or four in company, and sometimes a lonely straggler. some of them had poor-looking little bundles in their hands; and, with a few exceptions, their dress, their weary gait, and dispirited looks, led me to think that many of them were unemployed factory operatives, who had been wandering away to beg where they would not be known. i have met so many shame-faced, melancholy people in that condition during the last few months, that, perhaps, i may have somewhat overjudged the number of those who belong to that class. but, in two or three cases, little snatches of conversation, uttered by them as they went by, plainly told that, so far as the speakers went, it was so; and at last a little thing befel which, i am sure, represented the condition of many a thousand more in lancashire just now. three young women stopped on the footpath in front of the inn, close to the place where we stood, and began to talk together in a very free, open way; quite careless of being overheard. one of them was a stout, handsome young woman, about twenty-three. her dress was of light printed stuff, clean and good. her round, ruddy arms, her clear, blonde complexion, and the bright expression of her full, open countenance, all indicated health and good nature. i guessed from her conversation, as well as from her general appearance, that she was a factory operative, in full employ--though that is such a rare thing in these parts now. the other two looked very poor and downhearted. one was a short, thick-set girl, seemingly not twenty years of age; her face was sad, and she had very little to say. the other was a thin, dark-haired, cadaverous woman, about thirty years of age, as i supposed; her shrunk visage was the picture of want; and her frank, childlike talk showed great simplicity of character. the weather had been wet for some days previous; and the clothing of the two looked thin and shower-stained. it had evidently been worn a good while, and the colours were faded. each of them wore a poor, shivery bit of shawl, in which their hands were folded, as if to keep them warm. the handsome lass, who seemed to be in good employ, knew them both; but she showed an especial kindness towards the eldest of them. as these two stood talking to their friend, we did not take much notice of what they were saying, until two other young women came slowly from townwards, looking poor, and tired, and ill, like the first. these last comers instantly recognised two of those who stood talking together in front of the inn, and one of them said to the other,-- "eh, sitho; there's sarah an' martha here! eh, lasses; han _yo_ bin a-beggin', too?" "aye, lass; we han," replied the thin, dark-complexioned woman. "aye, lass; we han. aw've just bin tellin' ann, here. aw never did sich a thing i' my life afore,--never! but it's th' first time and th' last, for me,--it is that! aw'll go whoam; an' aw'll dee theer, afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor,--aw will for sure! mon, it's sich a nasty, dirty job; aw'd as soon clem!... see yo, lasses; we set off this mornin'--martha an' me--we set eawt this mornin' to go to gorton tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place. but one doesn't know wheer to go to these times; an' one doesn't like to go a-beggin' among folk at they known. well, when we coom to gorton we geet two-pence-hawpenny theer,--an' that wur o'. there's plenty moor beggin' beside us! well, at after that twopence-hawpenny, we geet twopence moor; an' that's o' at we'n getten. but, eh, lasses, when aw coom to do it, aw hadn't th' heart to ax for nought,--aw hadn't for sure.... martha an' me's walked aboon ten mile, if we'n walked a yard; an' we geet weet through th' first thing; an' aw wur ill when we set off, an' so wur martha, too; aw know hoo wur; though hoo says nought mich abeawt it. well; we coom back through t' teawn; an' we wur both on us fair stagged up. aw never wur so done o'er i' my life, wi' one thing an' another. so we co'de a-seem' ann here; an' hoo made us a good baggin'--th' lass did. see yo; aw wur fit to drop o'th flags afore aw geet that saup o' warm tay into mo,--aw wur for sure! an' neaw hoo's come'd a gate wi' us hitherto, an' hoo would make us have a glass o' warm ale a-piece at yon heawse, lower deawn a bit; an' aw dar' say it'll do mo good, aw getten sich a cowd; but, eh dear, it's made mo as mazy as a tup; an' neaw hoo wants us to have another, afore we starten off whoam. but it's no use; we mun be gooin'. aw'm noan used to it, an' aw connot ston' it. aw'm as wake as a kittlin' this minute." ann, who had befriended them in this manner, was the handsome young woman, who seemed to be in work; and now the poor woman who had been telling the story laid her hand upon her friend's shoulder and said,-- "ann, thae's behaved very weel to us, o' roads; an' neaw, lass, go thi ways whoam, an' dunnot fret abeawt us, mon. aw feel better neaw. we's be reet enough to-morn, lass. mon, there's awlus some way shap't that tay's done me a deeol o' good.... go thi ways whoam, ann! neaw do; or else aw shan't be yezzy abeawt tho!" but ann, who was wiping her eyes with her apron, replied, "nawe, nawe; aw connot goo yet, sarah!" ... and then she began to cry, "eh, lasses, aw dunnot like to see yo o' this shap,--aw dunnot for sure! besides, yo'n bin far enough to-day. come back wi' me! aw connot find reawm for both on yo; but thee come back wi' me, sarah! aw'll find thee a good bed; an' thae'rt welcome to a share o' what there is--as welcome as th' flowers i' may--thae knows that.... thae'rt th' owdest o'th two; an' thae'rt noan fit to trawnce up an' deawn o' this shap. come back to eawr heawse; an' martha'll go forrud to stopput (stockport)--winnot tho, martha?... thae knows, martha," continued she, "thae knows, thae munnot think nought at me axin' sarah, an' noan o' thee. yo should both on yo go back if aw'd reawm,--but aw haven't. beside, thae'rt younger an' strunger than hoo is." "eh, god bless tho, lass," replied martha, "aw know o' abeawt it. aw'd rayther sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. aw can go forrud by mysel', weel enough. it's noan so fur, neaw." but here sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once more upon the shoulder of her friend, and said, in an earnest tone,-- "ann! it will not do, my lass! goo, aw mun! aw never wur away fro whoam o' neet i' my life--never! aw connot do it, mon! beside, thae knows, aw've laft yon lad; an' never a wick soul wi' him! he'd fret hissel' to deeoth this neet, mon, if aw didn't go whoam! aw couldn't sleep a wink for thinkin' abeawt him! th' child would be fit to start eawt o'th heawse i'th deeod time o'th neet, a-seechin' mo--aw know he would!... aw mun goo, mon! god bless tho, ann; aw'm obleeged to thee o'th same! but thae knows heaw it is." here the omnibus came up, and i rode back to manchester. the whole conversation took up very little more time than it will take to read it; but i thought it well worth recording, as characteristic of the people now suffering in lancashire from no fault of theirs. i know the people well. the greatest number of them would starve themselves to that degree that they would not be of much more physical use in this world, before they would condescend to beg. but starving to death is hard work. what will winter bring them when severe weather begins to tell upon constitutions lowered in tone by a starvation diet--a diet so different to what they have been used to when in work? what will their eighteen-pence a-head weekly do for them in that hard time? if something more than this is not done for them, when more food, clothing, and fire are necessary to everybody, calamities may arise which will cost england a hundred times more than a sufficient relief--a relief worthy of those who are suffering, and of the nation they belong to--would have cost. in the meantime, the cold wings of winter already begin to overshadow the land; and every day lost involves the lives, or the future usefulness, of thousands of our best population. saint catherine's chapel; or, the pretty island bay. o blest retreat, and sacred, too! sacred as when the bell of prayer tolled duly on the desert air. and crosses decked thy summits blue. --rogers. the shores of the isle of man are remarkable for their variety of indentation, especially at the southern end of the island. there its most interesting scenery may be found; bold, rugged headlands, beautiful bays, and savage ravines, where the wild ocean churns and thunders in majestic fury. but from the ruin-crested rock of peel--so rich in venerable memorials of the past--all round the shores of "the fairy isle," there is not a more charming spot than port erin, a little crag-defended bay at the southern end of the island, about five miles west of castletown. the outer shores of this part of the island are wildly fantastic; the mountains cluster grandest there, and the inland scenery is fertile and picturesque. bold and rugged as the entrance to port erin is from the sea, all is quiet, and sweet, and sheltered at the head of the bay. the contrast is striking, and pleasing to the mind. the little fishing hamlet looks out contemplatively between those wild, flanking rocks at the entrance, across the blue waters, to where the mountains of morne and wicklow, in ireland, show their faint outlines in the west. the bay, from the point where the headlands--brada on the north side, and the cassels on the south side of the entrance--front each other, like sentinels placed to guard the little nest beyond from all ravage of the sea, is about half a mile across, and about a mile inland. from that point up to the hamlet at the head of the water, port erin is a pleasant seclusion, sweetly retired, even on the landward side, from bustle of any kind, except such as the sea makes when a strong west wind brings neptune's white-maned horses into the little bay in full career. then, indeed, port erin wears an aspect of a nobler and more spirit-stirring kind. but, even then, when the spray is flying over the thatched roofs of the fishermen's cottages, low down, near to the beach, the briny tumult is mere child's play in a nursery nook, compared to the roaring majesty with which the billows of the atlantic wilderness rage among the creeks, and chasms, and craggy headlands outside. at such a time, the thunders of the sea in the sound, which divides the calf island from the main land, and amongst the storm-worn headlands that overfrown the ocean immediately beyond the entrance to port erin, come upon the ear of the listener, in his pleasant shelter at the head of the bay, like the boom of distant war. but when the wind is still, the clear tide fondles up the beach at the foot of the village, as if it was glad to see that quiet nook of mona's isle once more. lipping the delicately-mottled strand with liquid grace, it creeps lovingly up towards port erin's green shore. full of beautiful sounds, and hues, and motions, it comes, with tender caresses, croodling its dreamy sea-song; and, as it rises in gentle sweeps nearer and nearer to the cottages where fishermen dwell, at the foot of the villaged slope, it flings fresh shells upon the sand with every surge,--like a fond traveller returning home laden with memorials of his journey, which show that he has been thinking of those he loved, when far away. but let us sit down upon some pleasant "coigne of vantage" at the head of the bay, and look at the quaint little village there. the hotel, called the "falcon's nest," looks right out to sea from the head of the bay. it crowns a green slope of grass-bound sand, which rises from behind an irregular line of old thatched cottages upon the beach, not far from the head of the tide. there is a green terrace in front of the hotel at the head of the slope, where i have many a time sat and looked about me with delight upon a summer's day. at one end of the terrace there is a sun-dial; at the other a rusty old cannon,--a relic of the spanish armada. it was found in the water below spanish head, hard by port erin, where part of that famous armament "came to grief." great piles of fantastic sea-worn rock, partly overgrown with greenery, stand, here and there, upon the terrace; and ornamental seats are placed there, for the use of visitors, when the weather is fine. the chimney tops, and thatched roofs of fishermen's cottages, greened over with wind-sown verdure, peep up from the foot of the slope, which is crowned by the terrace. it is very pleasant to saunter about, there, on a fine summer's day--or on any other day,--to one who loves nature in all her moods. it is, perhaps, better still to sit down, and look lovingly upon the scene. the witchery of peace is on all around, when the wind is still; the smoke from cottage chimneys rises idly into the pure air--idle as ludlam's dog, that leaned against a wall to bark. it rises, here and there, in lazy blue rings--lounging curls of fat blue smoke, that seem over-fed, and "done up" with pleasant lassitude, as if they had just finished a good dinner; and would rather have a nap before going out. the cottages of the village are picturesquely strewn about, as if they had been dropped through holes in a sack, by somebody who happened to be flying over the place. but they chiefly cluster on the south side at the head of the bay, about the bottom of the hill; not far from high water. they, then, straggle up the southern hill-side--like school children out for a holiday--one on this shelf of green land; another in a nook of the hill; another on the nose of a breezy bit of crag; others, in and out, dotting the sides of the mountain road, which leads through the hamlet of creag-y-n'eash, in the direction of spanish head, and the chasms,--the most remarkable bit of coast scenery in all the island. about the middle of the scattered village, a whitewashed chapel stands, in a little patch of ground, enclosed by low walls. it stands there, sweet and simple, by the side of the mountain road; about one hundred feet above the head of the tide; and it is a pleasing feature in the scene. the village is all under the eye from the place where i am sitting, and the quiet play of out-door life going on there is novel, and dreamy-looking. the whole scene is picturesquely-varied. the wild mountain tops, clustered in the direction of fleshwick, as if in solemn council; the dark, craggy headlands at the mouth of the bay, with the blue sea heaving between; the smooth beach, where the clear tide is singing and surging up; the quiet, wandering village; and the green plain, rolling away between the hills, in picturesque undulations, landward. port erin is enchanted ground! there are secluded nooks about it, that seem as if some congregation of the elves. to sport by summer moons, had shaped them for themselves. the village is all under the eye. down in the lowmost part, where the cottages are nearest to the water, a blue-clad fisherman leans against his door cheek, smoking, and gazing dreamily out to sea. i wonder what the old man is thinking of. in front of another cottage, a stout matron, with browned face and brawny arms, is hanging up strips of conger eel, to dry in the sun; whilst a little barefooted lass, about five years old, staggers about the doorway, under the weight of a fat baby. a little below the sun-dial, which stands at the end of the green terrace, upon which i am sitting, a knot of manx fishermen are lounging upon the grass, around a pitcher of the thin manx ale, called "jough." now they are very merry, and they laugh and chatter in full chorus, with great glee. now their mirth subsides; and they draw around an ancient mariner, who is telling a tale of an adventure he had with the fairies, as he came over the mountain from fleshwick bay, one night. it is wonderful how firmly these islanders believe in fairies. scratch deep enough into any manxman, and you will find fairies, dancing by moonlight, amongst a world of other weird imaginations. but we will let the old seaman go on with his story. the village is all under the eye; and it is such a homely spot, that if one stays a few days there, and is at all disposed to be communicative, one begins to know everybody "by headmark," as the saying is--"billy this," and "johnny that," and "neddy omragh;" and the old wanderer from the neighbourhood of pool vash, who invariably recites a little epitaph he wrote upon some notable person in that quarter a few years ago; and who invariably expects something for reciting it. one begins to know the village folk "by headmark," as i have said before, and they stop and salute you kindly, and chat about the weather, the fishing, the crops, and such like; and there is something very homely and pleasant in feeling one's self thus linked in a kindly way to the rest of the human race wherever they go.... the village is all under the eye; and port erin is enchanted ground. the voices of nature are not drowned there in a roar of human tumult. it is true that the unceasing murmur of the tide fills all the air with its wild under-song; but its influence is so fine and unobtrusive, that every sound of life in the little village comes upon the untroubled sense distinctly framed in the quietude which pervades that dreamy nook of mona's isle, when the wind is low.... let us look around, and be silent; that one may hear what is going on. behind me is the cheerful hotel, the falcon's nest. the landlord stands upon the door-step, giving directions about the stabling of certain horses which have come up from castletown. the horses are taken round to the stables; and the landlord goes back into his nest. snatches of the old man's fairy tales come upon the wind, when it blows, towards me. i hear broken bits of his story, while his mates stand listening around him, in silent wonder:-- "i wass not thinking about nawthin', when i think i hear somethin',--an' i look,--an' there was a little fellow close to my leg. he was dressed in green an' red, with silver buckles on his shooce. he wass about the sice of eight yearce. i make a grab to get howlt of him,--so,--an' then,--i get a hand-full of wind. i cannot see nawthin'. he is gone.... i wass wan day makin' a hedge. it was up in brada. there wass nobody but myself. it was wonderful! up in the air, i hear them, shouting an' laughing. i know in a minute it is the fairies. i hear them before, in the same place. they wass hunting. i hear the cap'en o' the fairies. he give a shout,--an' all was silence. then the noice begin a-gain,--like people in a fair. i hear them so well as i do see my hant. they wass hunting. they have horses, an' dawgs. i hear them very well. the whips wass cracking, an' horns wass blowing,--an' i hear the little dawgs going wif! wif! wif! it wass wonderful! then the cap'en give a shout a-gain,--an' all wass silence. then there wass music. it wass so fine that i cannot hear it. but, i feel there wass music playing up in the air.... i know it is the fairies; and i say, 'i think it is time to be going home.' so, i come a-way.... another time, when i wass coming down from craig-y-n'eash, it come on dark, all at once,--so dark as pitch. i look at my side. there wass a little fellow. he wass just here (laying his hand upon his hip). he wass about so big as my leg. i know it was a fairy. it was not a body at all. he come to stale my boots." and so on. but we let the old man finish his tale.... i can now hear the footfall of a lonely traveller, as he stumps along the road behind me, stick in hand. he is a stout, old, weather-beaten manxman, with gray hair; and he is dressed in coarse blue woollen cloth. i can hear every footfall as he works his way along the silent road towards the mountain side, in the direction of fleshwick bay; and, now that i turn round to look at him again, i see that the old man is wiping his forehead, as he stumps along, stick in hand. i can hear women talking at their doors below the slope, and upon the cottage-sprinkled hill-side, in the direction of creag-y-n'eash, i can hear the prattle of little bare-legged lads, who are sailing their tiny, chip-built ships, and clamorously discussing their relative qualities, as they watch how they fare among the eddies and rapids of the stream which runs down the green crease about the middle of the village. i can hear the cackle of a large family of very clean and very fat ducks, as they waddle and paddle, and splash the water about, and open their wings, and wag their dumpy tails with delight, upon the slushy margin of a pool, where the same streamlet has been dammed up, for their especial pleasure. i can hear the opening and shutting, of cottage doors, in different parts of the village; and i can hear something of the wild fringe of an old manx song, which a fisherman is crooning, as he saunters along the strand towards his boat; which lies, high and dry, in a sheltered nook, under the craggy cliff, at the south side of the bay. i can hear the call of the manx shepherd to his dog, upon the dark mountain side, towards brada head. each sound is distinctly-framed in the pervading quietness of the scene. at an open bow-window of the hotel behind me, two elderly gentlemen sit talking together, and evidently enjoying what little breeze there is from the sea. i have got it into my head, somehow, that they are men of learning. one of them is a stout, hearty-looking gentleman, who wears a black velvet skullcap; and likes to dine in his own room,--"because he has a good deal of writing to do." i wonder what he is writing about. he is talking in a sonorous tone of voice, to a dignified old friend of his, whose manners at table, i have noticed, always evince the self-possession, the graceful, quiet action, and kindliness which mark a cultivated gentleman. he is tall and thin; and his noble aquiline nose sustains a pair of gold spectacles. perhaps the black velvet skullcap and the gold spectacles have something to do with my notion that they are learned men; but i believe i am right, nevertheless. they are talking about the history of the island, and about the geology of this part of it; especially about the mines at brada head. i begin to think they have some interest in those brada mines; for they are talking of the projected breakwater, and the possible future of port erin. i can hear them plain enough. not that i like "eaves-dropping;" but there they sit, at the open window, and they see me; and they evidently don't care a rap who hears them.... at another window, a little farther off, two sunny-haired young ladies come and go, like wandering posies, "freshening and refreshing all the scene" with their sweet presence. they belong to some well-to-do family of cultivated people, who have come to port erin to bathe themselves in quietness, and in the fresh sea-breeze. i am sure it is so, for a noble-looking man, considerably past the noon of life, shows himself at the window, now and then, with two more of these pretty trailers clinging to him. he is dressed in black, and he wears a gold-framed double eye-glass; and his fine countenance is lighted up with a quiet smile, as he paces to and fro, listening to the prattle of the two lovely young women who have hold of him--body and soul. it is very evident that their prattle is music in his ears.... now the mother comes! i am quite sure that placid, handsome, matronly woman, in the black silk dress, is the mother. she is a well-grown, sweet-looking, sound-constitutioned dame; round as an apple, and clear-skinned, and quietly-rosy; and kind-hearted, as anybody may see, at the first glance, with half an eye. i durst bet a thousand pounds she is a lady, in heart and thought. she has seen enough of the world to enrich her experience; and without hardening her heart. she is a good, womanly soul; the kindliness of her nature breathes through every pore; and speaks with angelic eloquence in every line and dimple of her face. a few silver threads may be shining in her yet abundant auburn hair, but they only serve to give a new tinge of dignity to her appearance. she knows something of sorrow, too, no doubt; for who can have lived so long in this world of ours as she has lived, without being touched by the divine wand of that noble refiner of the noble heart? but the clouds have long since gone; and her smiles, now, are not smiles that might as well be tears. she is, indeed, "one vast substantial smile," from head to foot,--a sunbeam of feminine goodness, raising the atmosphere of happiness around her, wherever she goes. upon the whole, her lines have evidently "fallen in pleasant places," and,--"so mote it be," say i, "to the end of a long life yet to come." now she sits down by the open window; and a handsome, light-complexioned lad, about twelve years old, is teasing her in an affectionate way about something or another; whilst a beautiful, sunny-haired girl, of sixteen or so, leans over the other shoulder, and whispers, as she smooths the old lady's hair with tender touches, "mamma, dear, this!" and "mamma, dear, that!" and, oh, if there be an elysium on earth, that good old soul is in it now! it is a beautiful glimpse of the smooth current of human life. now i hear the clatter of horses' feet upon the road behind me, and a car comes up to the door of the hotel, laden with a company of young men, who are evidently "in great spirits." they have, very likely, come across the island from douglas, making a call or two on the way. if one may measure their enjoyment by the noise they make, they certainly ought to be very happy. they alight and enter the hotel, whilst the car is taken round to the stable yard; and, in a few minutes, i hear a good deal more bell-ringing in the falcon's nest. but who is this strange, gaunt fellow, that comes paddling barefoot up the slope, from the low part of the village, muttering to himself as he gazes vaguely around. it is poor johnny daly, the affectionate, lunatic youth, who wanders over hill and dale, in all weathers, harmless and happy in his unconscious helplessness. he is a tall, strong, young man; but quite a child in affectionate simplicity. poor johnny! he is only "mad nor-nor-west," after all. if he knows you, he either likes you well, or he doesn't like you at all. if he takes to you, he comes quietly up, and flutters about you like a pet dove with a broken wing; croodling all sorts of inarticulate kindnesses in a touching and not very demonstrative way; except that, now and then, as he listens to your talk--no matter what you are talking of, nor how badly--he suddenly clasps his hands and laughs boisterously; as if he had just discovered a great joke in the matter. if he likes you, he will sit down upon the grass beside you, quietly crooning some wild fragment of old manx song, and looking slyly up into your face from time to time; unless he chances to spy the landlord of the hotel, or the owner of the one mansion at port erin. if he sees either of these anywhere about, it is a thousand to one that he will immediately leave you to your own devices and desires, for the poor fellow knows who is kind to him a great deal better than some of us do who think that we have all our wits about us. poor johnny! he is fond of a penny, like most of the world; and he needs it more than some people do; although he "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" has scattered a few kind hearts about the wanderer's way that will not see him want for any needful thing. but i have seen people that johnny would not accept a penny from; and i have many a time wondered at the curious principle of selection which seemed to lurk in some corner of his disordered mind. i remember a little excursion we made, one fine summer's day, over the mountain on the south side of port erin, and among the wild cliffs, near the sound, which divides the isle of man from the calf. it was a company of six; and amongst them was the landlord of the hotel--a kind-hearted and intelligent englishman. johnny followed him, barefoot, all the rugged way, with the affectionate instinct of a faithful dog. as we returned homeward, by wandering, and sometimes dangerous tracks, along the edge of the precipices, on the south side of the bay--where the sea roared and dashed majestically among lonely creeks two or three hundred feet below, and the cormorant and seagull wheeled about the dark crags, and screamed with delight in the breeze, half-way down between us and the water--our host disappeared from the company for a little while, in search of something among the rocks, whilst johnny was picking his way carefully up the prickly path ahead. turning round, johnny missed his friend; and after he had looked for him again and again through the company, and all over the scene, he sat himself down amongst the heather, and gazing quietly at the blue sea, he murmured, in a plaintive tone, "now, he is gone! he is gone!" ... in a minute or two, he kneeled down among the heather, and, clasping his hands, like a child at its mother's knee, he muttered a few broken sentences of the lord's prayer, and then he sat down and gazed silently at the sea again. and we could not get him to rise, until his friend reappeared from behind a rock; when he instantly rose and clapped his great brown hands, and trotted after us, with painful steps, through the prickly bush, stopping, now and then, to laugh aloud.... poor johnny! as he comes paddling up the road from the village, he hears the voice of the landlord, who is talking to the ostler at the house end; and away he goes, in full trot, towards his friend, with whom he is a great favourite. and now, mild evening begins to draw her delicate curtains over the drowsy world. all things below the sky are softening into shade; and the pensive spell deepens the charm that pervades this sleepy seaside nook of "mona the lone, where the silver mist gathers." the quiet life of the village is sinking to repose. barefooted lasses are fetching water from the ancient well of saint catherine,--a beautiful spring, at the foot of the sandy slope at the head of the bay; and an object of great veneration to the inhabitants of the island. lovers are stealing off to quiet nooks outside the village; where they can whisper unseen. boats are coming in from the sound, and from the blue sea beyond. the fishermen haul them ashore in a sheltered shingly nook, under the craggy southern cliffs; and then they saunter homeward along the smooth beach, laden with fish and fishing tackle; some of them singing drowsily, as they saunter along. the murmurs of the sea become more distinct, filling all the air with a slumbrous influence.... now the fisher's wife beets up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts the kettle on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from the wild waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising again from cottage chimneys; bluer and more briskly than in the glowing afternoon.... the old fisherman and his village companions are mustering upon the grass at the end of the terrace again. he has long since finished the story about his adventure with the fairies among the mountains; and he has been carousing with his comrades in the taproom of the falcon's nest. they have brought another pitcher of "jough" out with them. and, listen! they are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old manx song, called "molly charrane!" the strange melody floats up, weird and sweet, blending beautifully with the murmurs of the rising tide, and waking up remembrances of the wild history and wilder legends of "mona's fairy isle." the broad glare of day is gone. the air is clearer; the green fields look greener; and the hues of the landscape are richer and more distinct than before. the sun has "steeped his glowing axle" in the sea. the gorgeous hues which linger over his track still glow upon the wide waters; but "the line of light that plays along the smooth wave toward the burning west," is slowly retiring in the wake of the sunken sun. let me look out, while there is yet light, for the eye has glorious scope to roam in, from the place where i am sitting.... at the head of the bay--the scattered village; and the green land--green all along the slopes of the hills, and all over the fertile undulant plain between, stretching away inland, towards castletown. it is a pleasant nook of seaside life, at the head of the bay. but, as i look seaward, the flanking headlands grow wilder as they recede, ending in scenes of savage grandeur among the storm-worn crags which front the open sea. the cliffs and promontories there, front to front, and broad and bare, each beyond each, with giant feet advancing, as in haste to meet. the shattered fortress, whence the dane blew his loud blast, and rushed in vain, tyrant of the drear domain. those grim sentinels have seen strange scenes of storm, and battle, and shipwreck, during their long watch over the entrance to port erin. oft has the ancient dane steered his "nailed bark," laden with sea-robbers, into that little bay; and he has oft been wrecked upon that craggy coast. spanish head overfrowned the destruction of part of the great armada. one of the guns of that armament now lies upon the terrace in front of the hotel at port erin; thickly encrusted with rust. many a noble ship has gone down in the sound between the island and the calf of man.... as twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, and the blue waves begin to heave with life. great white-winged ships glide majestically by--some near, some far off; and some almost lost to sight in the distance. far away, in the west, the outlines of the mountains of morne and wicklow are fading away from view. it is a bewitching hour! it is a bewitching scene! but now the irish mountains have disappeared in the shade; and the distant sea grows dim to the eye. the village about me is sinking to rest; and candle-lights begin to glimmer through cottage windows. the old fisherman and his companions have gone back into the taproom of the falcon's nest. the wind is rising still; and the air grows cold. i, too, will retire until the world has donned its night-dress; and so good-by to this fairy scene for a while! the moon rises at ten! perhaps i may come forth to look around me once more, when the world lies sleeping beneath her quiet smile. if not, then farewell to thee, port erin! when scenes less beautiful attract my gaze, i shall recall thy quiet loveliness; when harsher tones are round me, i shall dream of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds peopled the solitude the knocker-up. past four o'clock; and a moonlight morning! --old watchman. life in manchester may seem monotonous to a parisian or to a londoner, but it has strong peculiarities; and among its varied phases there are some employments little known to the rest of the world. many a stranger, whilst wandering through the back streets of the city, has been puzzled at sight of little signboards, here and there, over the doors of dingy cottages, or at the head of a flight of steps, leading to some dark cellar-dwelling, containing the words, "knocking-up done here." to the uninitiated this seems a startling, and unnecessary announcement, in such a world as ours; and all the more so, perhaps, on account of the gloom and squalid obscurity of the quarters where such announcements are generally found. horrible speculations have haunted many an alien mind whilst contemplating these rude signboards, until they have discovered that the business of the knocker-up is simply that of awakening people who have to go to work early in a morning; and the number of these is very great in a city like ours, where manufacturing employments mingle so largely with commercial life. another reason why this curious employment is so common in manchester may be that there are so many things there to lure a working man into late hours of enjoyment,--so many wild excitements that help to "knock him up," after his ordinary work is over, and when his time is his own, so many temptations to "lengthen his days by stealing a few hours from the night," that the services of the morning "knocker-up" are essential. for the factory-bell, like death, is inexorable in its call; and when, in the stillness of the morning, the long wand of the awakener comes tapping at the workman's window, he knows that he must rise and go; no matter how ill-prepared,--no matter how mis-spent his night may have been. he must go; or he knows full well the unpleasant consequence. if he likes he may try to ease his mind by crooning the words of that quaint lyric, "up in a morning, na for me;" but, in the meantime, he must get up and go. he may sing it as he goes, if he likes; but whether he does so or not, he must walk his chalks, or else it will be worse for him. apart from factory-workers, there are other kinds of workmen who need awakening in a morning; especially those connected with the building trades, whose hours of rising are sometimes uncertain, because they may be employed upon a job here to-day, and then upon one two or three miles off, to-morrow. factory workers, too, are compelled, in many cases, to reside at considerable distances from the mills at which they are employed. these two classes of working people, however, are the principal customers of the "knocker-up." whoever has seen manchester in the solitary loveliness of a summer morning's dawn, when the outlines of the buildings stand clear against the cloudless sky, has seen the place in an aspect of great beauty. in that hour of mystic calm, when the houses are all bathing in the smokeless air,--when the very pavement seems steeped in forgetfulness, and an unearthly spell of peaceful rapture lies upon the late disturbed streets,--that last hour of nature's nightly reign, when the sleeping city wears the beauty of a new morning, and "all that mighty heart is lying still;"--that stillest, loveliest hour of all the round of night and day,--just before the tide of active life begins to turn back from its lowmost ebb, or, like the herald drops of a coming shower, begins to patter, here and there, upon the sleepy streets once more; whoever has seen manchester at such a time, has seen it clothed in a beauty such as noontide never knew. it is, indeed, a sight to make the heart "run o'er with silent worship." it is pleasant, even at such a time, to open the window to the morning breeze, and to lie awake, listening to the first driblets of sound that stir the heavenly stillness of the infant day:--the responsive crowing of far-distant cocks; the chirp of sparrows about the eaves and neighbouring house-tops; the barking of dogs; the stroke of some far-off church clock, booming with strange distinctness through the listening air; a solitary cart, jolting slowly along, astonished at the noise it is making. the drowsy street--aroused from its slumbers by those rumbling wheels--yawns and scratches its head, and asks the next street what o'clock it is.... then come the measured footsteps of the slow-pacing policeman, longing for six o'clock; solitary voices conversing in the wide world of morning stillness; the distant tingle of a factory bell; the dull boom of escaping steam, let off to awake neighbouring workpeople; the whistle of the early train; and then,--the hurried foot, and "tap, tap, tap!" of the knocker-up. soon after this, shutters begin to rattle, here and there; and the streets gradually become alive again. he who has wandered about the city, with observant eye, at dawn of morning, may have seen men--and sometimes a woman--hurrying along the street, hot-foot, and with "eyes right," holding aloft long taper wands, like fishing-rods. these are knockers-up, going their hasty rounds, from house to house, to rouse the workman to his labour. they are generally old men, who are still active on foot; or poor widows, who retain sufficient vigour to enable them to stand the work; for it is an employment that demands not only severe punctuality, but great activity: there is so much ground to cover in so little time. it is like a "sprint-race"--severe whilst it lasts, but soon over. and the aim of the knocker-up is to get as many customers as possible within as small a circle as possible,--which greatly lessens the labour. a man who has to waken a hundred people, at different houses, between five and six o'clock, needs to have them "well under hand," as coachmen say. with this view, knockers-up sometimes exchange customers with one another, so as to bring their individual work as close together as possible. the rate of pay is from twopence to threepence per week for each person awakened; and the employment is sometimes combined with the keeping of a coffee-stall at some street end, where night stragglers, and early workmen, can get their breakfast of coffee and bread-and-butter, at the rate of a halfpenny per cup, and a halfpenny per slice for bread-and-butter. sometimes, also, the knocker-up keeps a little shop in some back street, where herbs, and nettle beer, and green grocery, or fish, or children's spices are sold; and, after this fashion, many poor, faded folk,--too proud for pauperism,--eke out a thin, unostentatious living, out of the world's eye. so much for the occupation of the knocker-up. and now for a little incident which led to all this preamble. the other day, as i sat poring over my papers, a startling knock came to the street door. it was one, solid, vigorous bang,--with no nonsense about it. it was heavy, sharp, straightforward, and clean-cut at the edges,--like a new flat-iron. there was no lady-like delicacy about it,--there was no tremulous timidity, no flabbiness, nor shakiness, nor billiousness, nor any kind of indication of ill-condition about that rap. it was sound--wind, limb, and all over. it was short and decisive,--in the imperative mood, present tense, and first person,--very singular; and there was no mistake about its gender--it was, indeed, massively masculine--and it came with a tone of swift authority--like a military command. it reminded me of "scarborough warning,"--a word and a blow--and the blow first. that rap could stand on its own feet in the world,--and it knew it. it came boldly, alone, "withouten any companie,"--not fluttering, lame and feeble, with feeble supporters about it,--like a man on ricketty stilts, that can only keep his feet by touching carefully all round. it shot into the house like a cannon-ball, cutting a loud tunnel of strange din through the all-pervading silence within. the sleepy air leaped, at once, into wakefulness,--and it smote its forehead with sudden amazement, and gazed around to see what was the matter. i couldn't tell whatever to make of the thing. my first thought was that it must be the man who examines the gas meters, and that he was behind with his work, and in a bad temper about something. and then i began to think of my debts: it might be an indignant creditor, or some ruthless bully of a dun--which is a good deal worse--and i began to be unhappy. i sighed, from the bottom of my heart, and looked round the room in search of comfort. alas! there was nothing there to cheer my sinking spirits. the drowsy furniture had started from its long-continued trance; and the four somnolent walls were staring at one another with wild eyes, and whispering, "what's that?" the clock was muttering in fearful undertones to the frightened drawers; and the astonished ceiling, as it gazed down at the trembling carpet, whispered to its lowly friend, "look out!" as if it thought the whole house was coming down. i looked at my watch--for, indeed, i hardly knew where to look--and i began to apprehend that the fatal hour had come, at last, when we should have to part,--perhaps for ever. i looked at my poor old watch.... it had stopped.... the fact is, the little thing was stunned. the numerals had tears of terror in their eyes; and it held out its tiny hands for protection,--like a frightened child, flying to its mother from a strange tumult. i felt sorry for the little thing; and i rubbed the case with my coat sleeve, and then wound it gently up, by way of encouragement; and--the grateful, willing creature--it only missed about half a dozen beats or so, and then began ticking again, in a subdued way, as if it was afraid of being overheard by the tremendous visitor who had so furiously disturbed "the even tenor of its way." the whole house was fairly aroused; tables, chairs, pictures,--all were in a state of extraordinary wonderment. the cat was the only thing that kept its senses. it rose from the hearth, and yawned, and stretched itself; and then it came and rubbed its glossy fur soothingly against my leg, and whispered, "all serene! don't faint!" in the meantime, i could imagine that rap,--as soon as it had delivered the summons,--listening joyfully outside, and saying to itself; with a chuckle, "i've wakened that lot up, for once!" ... at last i mustered courage, and, shaking myself together, i went to the door. a little, wiry old man stood at the door. his clothing was whole, but rough, and rather dirty. an old cloth cap was on his grey head; and he was in a state of curious disorder from head to toe. he had no braces on; and he was holding his trousers up with one hand. i couldn't tell what to make of him. he was a queer-looking mortal; and he had evidently "been dining," as the upper ten thousand say when any of their own set get drunk. at the first glance, i thought he was begging; but i soon changed my mind about that, for the hardy little fellow stood bolt upright, and there was not the shadow of anything like cringing or whining about him. the little fellow puzzled me. he looked foggy and dirty; but he had an unmistakable air of work and rugged independence. steadying himself with one hand against the door-cheek, he muttered something that i couldn't make out. "well; what is it?" said i. again he muttered something that sounded like "knocked up;" to which i mildly replied that he certainly looked as if he was so; and then i inquired what i could do for him; but, to my astonishment, this seemed to vex him. at last i found that he was a knocker-up, and that he had called for his week's "brass." i saw at once that the old man was astray; and the moment i told him where he was, his eyes seemed to fill with a new light, and he exclaimed, "by th' mon, aw'm i'th wrang street!" and then, holding his trousers up, still, with one hand, away he ran, and was no more seen by me. the complaint of a sad complaint. to the editor of the weekly growl. sir,--i am a nuisance, and therefore i suppose it is right, in the abstract, that i should be put down. unfortunately, however, many of the persons and things by which i am surrounded are the same to me, and i feel, by fits, vastly inclined to extinguish them, although i know full well, in my sane moments, that they are generally useful. and so it is, right to the end of the piece; everything and everybody is, by turns, a nuisance to everybody and everything else; and if there were no restraint upon the public vanity, and private pique, and officious frivolities which affect these conflicting elements, the whole body politic, being composed of nuisances, would be destroyed, like the irish cats in the story. in fact, sir, there is nobody in the world that is not a nuisance to somebody; though that is hardly a sufficient reason why they should be allowed to worry one another. but in these days, the art and mystery of grumbling--that native prerogative which has grown up so luxuriantly in the soil of our english freedom, that the grumblers now constitute an eminently valuable power in the state--the art and mystery of grumbling (it really is artful and mysterious sometimes) is now growing into a kind of social scurvy, more annoying than serviceable, and sometimes exceeding in offensiveness the nuisances which it scratches into notice. the contagion is getting to such a pitch just now, that it is time for the nuisances to speak for themselves--for even a nuisance has a right side--and although i myself am one, i shall be grateful if you will allow me--just this once--to say a few words respecting the treatment to which many of my humbler brethren are subjected by the magnates of the tribe. i feel the more hopeful that you will grant this, since i know that i am not the only nuisance to which you have, with admirable forbearance, opened the columns of your excellent journal. happily, the expression of opinion is so free in this country, that--although some offensive persons deny that a nuisance has the slightest right to appeal to _any_ of the senses--i will venture to assert, backed by all known law and custom, that even a nuisance has a right to be _heard_--at least, _in its own defence_; thanks to that instinctive leaning to fair play which, while it deprecates anything that is foul, yet acknowledges that even foulness itself may, sometimes, have a fair side. my dear sir, we nuisances have endured so much, as we may say, from those of our own household, that the patience of the most christian nuisance in the world must give way under such an incessant fire of impertinent insult. ah me! there seems to be so little fellow-feeling amongst nuisances now-a-days, that it may be worth while to remind them all of the poet's little sermon beginning,-- o wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursels as ithers see us. nuisance-hunters are always, of course, a nuisance to the nuisances; but the hunters are so often worse, upon the whole, than the hunted, that it would be a general benefit to hold up the mirror to these inconsiderate grumblers a little now and then. to whom, then, in this difficulty, can we appeal, but to you, oh mr. editor? who are yourself a very rock of offence to some misguided persons; who are, doubtless, a stumbling-block to you. how the theme widens as one pursues it there is something comical about the pathology of public grumbling. is it not a fact well known to you, my dear sir, that there exists an inexhaustible class of persons who, having little or no capacity for distinguishing themselves publicly in any nobler fashion, and fearing, above all things, that obscurity which is their natural destiny, are constantly racking their wits for something to write to the papers about. how many such have you, yourself, sir, out of the sheer kindliness of your nature--not unmixed with a certain sense of the humour of the thing--lent a little fame to, by deigning, occasionally, to embalm their crude frivolities in your own clear "nonpareil". to such persons, anything will serve for a subject, if they can only twist it into the shape of a complaint: strong smells, and strange smells, which are not strong; suspicious loiterers in lonely places; gaslight when the moon shines, and want of gas when a cloud happens to be passing over the moon; flying chips from masons' chisels, which have been stopt in their flight by the rubicund tip of some respectable gentleman's nose; bits of orange peel on the flags; public clocks that are too fast, or too slow, or are stopt altogether, or have their fingers bent, or the faces of which are partly hidden by the encroaching insignia of ambitious pawnbrokers, or are in places where they are not needed, or _are not_ in places where they _are_ needed; pavements which are too slippery for horses, and too rough for ladies; music to people who have no ear for it, and noises to people who have a delicate ear for music, and either to people who like neither; mutually-discordant neighbours; church bells that are not rung, and church bells that are rung too much, and church bells that are not melodious when they are rung; holes in the street, and places where holes are likely to be, sometime; too much water, and too little water; cockle shells; broken pots; the smell of dinners floating up from hotel kitchens; and the inarticulate wails of chip-sellers and fish women; want of loyalty to the crown; want of loyalty to the people; the insolence of cabmen, and railway buffers; sneezing during service-time; fast-days, proposed by people who are ill with feasting, and feast-days, proposed by people who are ill with fasting; general holidays, proposed by those who are paid for their holidays, and objected to by those who are not paid for them; and a thousand other things, more insignificant even than these; sometimes ferreted out by ingenious old fogies, of an irritable disposition, who go tooting about the streets, "finding things out;" or by young "green" persons, driven to their wits' end by a kind of literary measles. heaven knows, i do not wish to "freeze the genial current" of such poor souls as these latter, but then, mr. editor, we must draw the line somewhere. with respect to the former, have i not seen such a self-elected old nuisance inspector, going slowly along the street, groping with his sharp proboscis for something in the morning air to grumble about in graceful prose, and meeting with a smell which he did not quite understand--a smell which perhaps had travelled "ever so far" before it met him, and was on its way into the country, there to die peaceably upon the general air, if he had only allowed it to go--he straightway halts, he sniffs at it carefully--he affiliates it upon something convenient--he looks grave--he whips out a pocket-book, and makes a note, to be wrought into an epistolary complaint at leisure, in the fervent hope of its appearing among saturday's correspondence. have i not known persons, whose jangled senses, refusing the lethæn balm of sleep, have lain awake o' nights, listening indignantly to the weird howls of libidinous cats, prowling about the back yards, and the rigging of the house, and making the sleepless midnight doubly hideous with their "shrill ill will,"--who have started up irritably from their pillow at last, and, striking a match, have exclaimed, "drat that cat! why don't the police look after these things? i will write to the papers." in fact, sir, the extravaganzas of public complaint are endless in variety, and, not unfrequently, very unreasonable. i know a manufactory of a certain kind, which was established many years ago, in a spot as remote as was convenient, and wholly uninhabited for some distance around, in the hope of being free from the charge of anything in the shape of nuisance; but, as years rolled on, population gathered about it, and grumbling began, which, by irregular fits, has been carried on ever since; and whenever the complaint could manage to get a "respectable start," it was sure to be well followed up; without thought, as such cries often are. even in the papers of the last few days, letter after letter has appeared, complaining of the effluvia arising from certain alum works in salford. some of these letters are written by gentlemen whose delicate nasal discrimination amounts to a marvel, if not to a miracle, when we remember the distance they live from the spot complained of. how on earth any smell, such as the one alluded to by these gentlemen, can manage to travel two mortal miles, in a high wind, working its passage through a hundred other smokes and smells as it goes, and still preserve its own individuality, surpasses me to know. but so it is. up to kersall moor, and other green nooks of nestling, miles off, where the human nose is critical, this compact nuisance cleaves its way through the murky air, keeping wonderfully free from communion with the elements it passes through, and strikes the senses at that distance as distinctly as if it were a flat-iron. it seems to hold itself in till it has found out noses which can appreciate it, and then it "comes out strong," evidently making an effort to reveal all the pent-up pungency of its nature, in the hope of gaining a little respectable distinction. it is an aristocratic smell, too. it likes good society, and will associate with none but gentlemanly noses. it has to travel for it, though; for, like the prophets, it is not honoured with any remarkable notice in its own neighbourhood. now, noses such as these are "something like," as the saying is; and, but for such noses, how on earth should we, who live amongst it, be able to discriminate one smell from another in the complication of odours which crowd the air of this busy district,--except in such cases as the town's manure yard, which overpowers everything else for a mile around with its intolerable native strength,--is strong enough, indeed, in the height of summer, "for a man to hang his hat upon," as the irish say. that, now, is a smell really worth notice, if it were only possible to get an alderman or two to speak about it. when it happens to be fashionable to raise an outcry against any particular manufacturer, as in the case of these unfortunate alum works, what is that manufacturer to do? is he to take up his works and walk, from one locality to another, every time an inconsiderate complaint happens to be made against him? is he to become a kind of nomadic outcast? is he to betake himself to utter solitude, and go from one "desert where no men abide" to another "desert where no men abide"--a manufacturing voice, crying for orders in the wilderness, and finding none--until his occupation becomes unprofitable to himself or anybody else? and then, the tone in which complaint after complaint has been uttered, in the case of these works in salford, is rather curious. "_the_ nuisance in pendleton!" that is the title of more than one letter on the subject. "_the_ nuisance in pendleton!" good heavens! who art thou, o man, that writeth thus? oh, happy pendleton, with _one_ nuisance! go thy ways, and break forth into singing, thou pleasant, and, in some places, rather green suburb,--break forth into singing, even from windsor bridge right away up eccles old road, and in every other direction, to the utmost extent of thy remarkable borders,--break forth into singing! thou with the long pole standing near the church, and the cock upon the top of it,--rejoice, and give thanks, for thy extraordinary exemption from the common troubles of this manufacturing locality! and well might pendleton sing, if this were true; but who does not know how many things which are really useful and necessary, are not always pleasant to those who have no immediate interest in them? who does not know that if everything which is a nuisance to somebody or another, at one time or another, were removed from society, there would be hardly anything useful left in society at all,--and if all the nuisances in society were to cry out in this way, at once, against each other, who knows where it would end? they would cleave the general ear with horrid grumbling. really, gentlemen who get their living by the necessary infliction of unpleasant noises, and smokes, and steams, and smells, upon people who are forced to live among them because they live, in a certain sense, by them, should be a little more considerate. they should, at least, remember that, although they can leave the town, and live in palatial houses, situated in pleasant spots, "far removed from noise and smoke," where the air is so beautifully different that it makes them a little particular, they leave their own share of the nuisances of the town behind them, to be patiently endured by an immense multitude of people who cannot escape from them,--if they wish to live,--and who, although they are just the people who suffer most from them, are, also, just the people who would be the least heeded if they were to cry out against them. i am, sir, yours truly, a sad complaint. a. ireland & co., printers, pall mall, manchester. * * * * * transcriber's note: variations in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accents have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error. the light of scarthey a romance by egerton castle author of "the pride of jennico," "young april," etc. "take whichsoever way thou wilt--the ways are all alike; but do thou only come--i bade my threshold wait thy coming. from out my window one can see the graves, and on my life the graves keep watch." _luteplayer's song._ new york frederick a. stokes company mcm copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company. all rights reserved. fourth edition. i dedicate this book to the memory of frederick andrews larking of the rocks, east malling, kent that, so long as anything of mine shall endure, there may endure also a record of our friendship and of my sorrow preface to the american edition. _among the works of every writer of fiction there are generally one or two that owe their being to some_ haunting _thought, long communed with--a thought which has at last found a living shape in some story of deed and passion._ _i say one or two advisedly: for the span of man's active life is short and such haunting fancies are, of their essence, solitary. as a matter of fact, indeed, the majority of a novelist's creations belong to another class, must of necessity (if he be a prolific creator) find their conception in more sudden impulses. the great family of the "children of his brain" must be born of inspirations ever new, and in alluring freshness go forth into the world surrounded by the atmosphere of their author's present mood, decked in the colours of his latest imaginings, strengthened by his latest passional impressions and philosophical conclusions._ _in the latter category the lack of long intimate acquaintance between the author and the friends or foes he depicts, is amply compensated for by the enthusiasm appertaining to new discoveries, as each character reveals itself, often in quite unforeseen manner, and the consequences of each event shape themselves inevitably and sometimes indeed almost against his will._ _although dissimilar in their genesis, both kinds of stories can, in the telling, be equally life-like and equally alluring to the reader. but what of the writer? among his literary family is there not one nearer his heart than all the rest--his_ dream-child? _it may be the stoutest of the breed or it may be the weakling; it may be the first-born, it often is the benjamin. fathers in the flesh know this secret tenderness. many a child and many a book is brooded over with a special love even before its birth.--loved thus, for no grace or merit of its own, this book is my dream-child._ * * * * * _here, by the way, i should like to say my word in honour of _fiction_--"fiction" contradistinguished from what is popularly termed "serious" writing._ _if, in a story, the characters and the events are truly convincing; if the former are appealingly human and the latter are so carefully devised and described as never to evoke the idea of improbability, then it can make no difference in the_ intellectual pleasure _of the reader whether what he is made to realise so vividly is a record of fact or of mere fancy. facts we read of are of necessity past: what is past, what is beyond the immediate ken of our senses, can only be realised in imagination; and the picture we are able to make of it for ourselves depends altogether on the sympathetic skill of the recorder. is not diana vernon, born and bred in scott's imagination, to the full as living now before us as rob roy macgregor whose existence was so undeniably tangible to the men of his days? do we not see, in our mind's eye, and know as clearly the lovable "girt john ridd" of_ lorna doone _the romance as his contemporaries, mr. samuel pepys of the hard and uncompromising_ diary _or king james of_ english annals? _pictures, alike of the plainest facts or of the veriest imaginings, are but pictures: it matters very little therefore whether the man or the woman we read of but never can see in the flesh has really lived or not, if what we do read raises an emotion in our hearts. to the novelist, every character, each in his own degree, is almost as living as a personal acquaintance; every event is as clear as a personal experience. and if this be true of the story written_ à la grâce de la plume, _where both events and characters unfold themselves like the buds of some unknown plant, how much more strongly is it the case of the story that has so long been mused over that one day it had to be told! then the marking events of the actors' lives, their adventures, whether of sorrow or of joy, their sayings and doings, noble or bright or mistaken, recorded in the book, are but a tithe of the adventures, sayings and doings with which the writer seems to be familiar. he might write or talk about them, in praise or vindictiveness as he loves or dreads them, for many a longer day--but he has one main theme to make clear to his hearers and must respect the modern canons of the story-telling art. among the many things therefore he could tell, an he would, he selects that only which will unravel a particular thread of fate in the tangle of endless consequences; which will render plausible the growth of passions on which, in a continuous life-drama, is based one particular episode._ _of such a kind is the story of adrian landale._ _the haunting thought round which the tale of the sorely tempest-tossed dreamer is gathered is one which, i think, must at one time or other have occurred to many a man as he neared the maturity of middle-life:--what form of turmoil would come into his heart if, when still in the strength of his age but after long years of hopeless separation, he were again brought face to face with the woman who had been the one passion of his life, the first and only love of his youth? and what if she were still then exactly as he had last seen her--she, untouched by years even as she had so long lived in his thoughts: he, with his soul scarred and seamed by many encounters bravely sustained in the battle of life?_ _the problem thus propounded is not solvable, even in fiction, unless it be by "fantastic" treatment. but perhaps the more so on this account did it haunt me. and out of the travail of my mind around it, out of the changing shadows of restless speculation, gradually emerged, clear and alive, the being of adrian landale and his two loves._ _here then was a man, whose mind, moulded by nature for grace and contemplation, was cast by fate amid all the turmoils of_ romance _and action. here was one of those whose warm heart and idealising enthusiasm must wreathe the beauty of love into all the beauties of the world; whose ideals are spent on one adored object; who, having lost it, seems to have lost the very sense of love; to whom love never could return, save by some miracle. but fortune, that had been so cruelly hard on him, one day in her blind way brings back to his door the miraculous restitution--and there leaves him to struggle along the new path of his fate! it is there also that i take up the thread of the speculation, and watch through its vicissitudes the working of the problem raised by such a strange circumstance._ _the surroundings in a story of this kind are, of the nature of things, all those of_ romance. _and by_ romance, _i would point out, is not necessarily meant in tale-telling, a chain of events fraught with greater improbability than those of so-called real life. (indeed where is now the writer who will for a moment admit, even tacitly, that his records are not of reality?) it simply betokens, a specialisation of the wider genus_ novel; _a narrative of strong action and moving incident, in addition to the necessary analysis of character; a story in which the uncertain violence of the outside world turns the course of the actors' lives from the more obvious channels. it connotes also, as a rule, more poignant emotions--emotions born of strife or peril, even of horror; it tells of the shock of arms in life, rather than of the mere diplomacy of life._ _above all_ romance _depends upon picturesque and varied setting; upon the scenery of the drama, so to speak. on the other hand it is not essentially (though this has sometimes been advanced) a narrative of mere adventures as contrasted to the observation and dissection of character and manners we find in the true "novel." rather be it said that it is one in which the hidden soul is made patent under the touchstone of blood-stirring incidents, of hairbreadth risks, of recklessness or fierceness. there are soaring passions, secrets of the innermost heart, that can only be set free in desperate situations--and those situations are not found in the tenor in every-day, well-ordered life: they belong to romance._ _spirit-fathers have this advantage that they can bring forth their dream-children in what age and place they list: it is no times of now-a-days, no ordinary scenery, that would have suited such adventures as befell adrian landale, or captain jack, or "murthering moll the second."_ _romantic enough is the scene, which, in a manner, framed the display of a most human drama; and fraught it is, even to this day, in the eyes of any but the least imaginative, with potentialities for strange happenings.[a] it is that great bight of morecambe; that vast of brown and white shallows, deserted, silent, mysterious, and treacherous with its dreaded shifting sands; fringed in the inland distance by the cumbrian hills, blue and misty; bordered outwards by the irish sea, cold and grey. and in a corner of that waste, the islet, small and green and secure, with its ancient peel, ruinous even as the noble abbey of which it was once the dependant stronghold; with its still sturdy keep, and the beacon, whose light-keeper was once a dreamer of beautiful things._ [footnote a: _those who like to associate fiction with definite places may be interested to know that the prototype of scarthey is the_ piel of foudrey, _on the north lancashire coast, near the edge of morecambe bay, and that pulwick was suggested by furness abbey. barrow-in-furness was then but a straggling village. a floating light, facing the mouth of the wyre, now fulfils the duties devolving on the beacon of scarthey at the time of this story._] _and romantic the times, if by that word is implied a freer scope than can be found in modern years for elemental passions, for fighting and loving in despite of every-day conventions; for enterprise, risks, temptations unknown in the atmosphere of humdrum peace and order. they are the early days of the century, days when easy and rapid means of communication had not yet destroyed all the glamour of distance, when a county like lancashire was as a far-off country, with a spirit, a language, customs and ideas unknown to the metropolis; days when, if there were no lifeboat crews, there could still be found rather experienced "wreckers," and when the keeping of a beacon, to light a dangerous piece of sea, was still within the province of a public-spirited landlord. they are the days when the spread of education had not even yet begun (for weal or for woe) its levelling work; days of cruel monopolies and inane prohibitions, and ferocious penal laws, inept in the working, baleful in the result; days of keel-hauling and flogging; when the "free-trader" still swung, tarred and in chains, on conspicuous points of the coast--even as the highwayman rattled at the cross-road--for the encouragement of the brotherhood; when it was naturally considered more logical (since hang you must for almost any misdeed) to hang for a sheep than a lamb, and human life on the whole was held rather cheap in consequence. they are the days when in liverpool the privateers were daily fitting out or bringing in the "prizes," and when, in lord street offices, distant cargoes of "living ebony" were put to auction by steady, intensely respectable, church-going merchants. but especially they are the days of war and the fortunes of war; days of pressgangs, to kidnap unwilling rulers of the waves; of hulks and prisons filled to overflowing, even in a mere commercial port like liverpool, with french prisoners of war._ _a long course of relentless hostilities, lasting the span of a full-grown generation, had cultivated the predatory instinct of all men with the temperament of action, and seemed to justify it. venturesome, hot-spirited youths, with their way to make in the world (who in a former age might have been reduced to "the road") took up privateering on a systematic scale. in such an atmosphere there could not fail to return a belief in the good old_ border rule, _"the simple plan: that they should take who have the power, and they should keep who can." and it must be remembered that an island country's border is the enemy's coast! on that ethical understanding many privateer owners built up large fortunes, still enjoyed by descendants who in these days would look upon high-sea looting of non-combatants with definite horror._ _the years of the great french war, however, fostered a species of nautical enterprise more venturesome even than privateering, raiding, blockade-running and all the ordinary forms of smuggling that are usual when two coast lines are at enmity. i mean that smuggling of gold specie and bullion which incidentally was destined to affect the course of sir adrian's life so powerfully._ * * * * * _as captain jack's last venture may, at this distance of time, appear a little improbable, it is well to state here some little-known facts concerning the now rather incomprehensible pursuit of gold smuggling--a romantic subject if ever there was one._ _the existence at one time of this form of "free-trade" is all but forgotten. indeed very little was ever heard of it in the world, except among parties directly interested, even at the time when it played an important part in the machinery of governments. its rise during the years of napoleonic tyranny on the continent of europe, and its continuance during the factitious calm of the first restoration in france, were due to circumstances that never existed before and are little likely to occur again._ _the accumulation of a fund of_ gold _coin, reserved against sudden contingency, was one of bonaparte's imperial ideas. in a modified and more modern form, this notion of a "war-chest," untouched and unproductive in peace-time, is still adhered to by the germans: they have kept to heart many of their former conqueror's lessons, lessons forgotten by the french themselves--and the enormous treasure of gold bags guarded at spandau is a matter of common knowledge. napoleon, however, in his triumphant days never, and for obvious reasons, lacked money. it was less an actual treasure that he required and valued so highly for political and military purposes, than an ever ready reserve of wealth easily portable, of paramount value at all times; "concentrated," so to speak. and nothing could come nearer to that description than rolls of english guineas. indeed the vast numbers of these coins which fitfully appeared in circulation throughout europe justified the many weird legends concerning the power of "british gold"_--l'or anglais! _there is every reason to believe that, in days when the national currency consisted chiefly of lumbering silver_ écus, _the bourbon government also appreciated to the full the value of a_ private _gold reserve. at any rate it was at the time of the first restoration that the golden guinea of england found in france its highest premium._ _without going into the vexed and dreary question of single or double standard, it will suffice to say that during the early years of the century now about to close, gold coin was leaving england at a rate which not only appeared phenomenal but was held to be injurious to the community._ _as a matter of fact most of it was finding its way to france, whilst great britain was flooded with silver. it was then made illegal to export gold coin or bullion. the prohibition was stringently, indeed at one time, ruthlessly, enforced. in this manner the new and highly profitable traffic in english guineas entered the province of the "free-trader"; the difference introduced in his practice being merely one of degree. whereas, in the case of prohibited imports, the chief task lay in running the illicit goods and distributing them, in the case of guinea-smuggling its arduousness was further increased by the danger of collecting the gold inland and clearing from home harbours._ _very little, as i said, has ever been heard of this singular trade, and for obvious reasons. in the first place it obtained only for a comparatively small number of years, the latter part of the great war: the last of it belonging to the period of the_ hundred days. _and in the second it was, at all times, of necessity confined to a very small number of free-trading skippers. of adventurous men, in stirring days, there were of course a multitude. but few, naturally, were the men to whose honour the custody of so much ready wealth could safely be intrusted. "that is where," as captain jack says sometimes in this book, "the 'likes of me' come in."_ _the exchange was enormously profitable. as much as thirty-two shillings in silver value could, at one time, be obtained on the other side of the water for an english guinea. but the shipper and broker, in an illegal venture where contract could not be enforced, had to be a man whose simple word was warranty--and indeed, in the case of large consignments, this blind trust had to be extended to almost every man of his crew. what a romance could be written upon this theme alone!_ _in the story of adrian landale, however, it plays but a subsidiary part. brave, joyous-hearted captain jack and his bold venture for a fortune appear only in the drama to turn its previous course to unforeseen channels; just as in most of our lives, the sudden intrusion of a new strong personality--transient though it may be, a tempest or a meteor--changes their seemingly inevitable trend to altogether new issues._ * * * * * _it was urged by my english publishers that, in_ "the light of scarthey," _i relate two distinct love-stories and two distinct phases of one man's life; and that it were wiser (by which word i presume was meant more profitable) to distribute the tale between two books, one to be a sequel to the other. happily i would not be persuaded to cut a fully composed canvas in two for the sake of the frames. "it is the fate of sequels," as stevenson said in his dedication of _catriona_, "to disappoint those who have waited for them." besides, life is essentially continuous.--it may not be inept to state a truism of this kind in a world of novels where the climax of life, if not indeed its very conclusion, is held to be reached on the day of marriage! there is often, of course, more than one true passion of love in a man's life; and even if the second does not really kill the memory of the first, their course (should they be worth the telling) may well be told separately. but if, in the story of a man's love for two women, the past and the present are so closely interwoven as were the reality and the "might-have-been" in the mind of adrian landale, any separation of the two phases, youth and maturity, would surely have stultified the whole scheme of the story._ _i have also been taken to task by some critics for having, the tale once opened at a given time and place, harked back to other days and other scenes: an inartistic and confusing method, i was told. i am still of contrary opinion. there are certain stories which_ belong, _by their very essence, to certain places. all ancient buildings have, if we only knew them, their human dramas: this is the very soul of the hidden but irresistible attraction they retain for us even when deserted and dismantled as now the peel of scarthey. for the sake of harmonious proportions, and in order to give it its proper atmosphere, it was imperative that in this drama--wherever the intermediate scenes might be placed, whether on the banks of the vilaine, on the open sea, or in lancaster castle--the prologue should be witnessed on the green islet in the wilderness of sands, even as the crisis and the closing scene of rest and tenderness._ _e. c., , sloane gardens, london, s. w. october ._ table of contents part i sir adrian landale, light-keeper of scarthey chap. page i. the peel of scarthey ii. the light-keeper iii. day dreams: a philosopher's fate iv. day dreams: a fair emissary v. the awakening vi. the wheel of time vii. forebodings of gladness viii. the path of wasted years ix. a genealogical epistle part ii "murthering moll the second" x. the threshold of womanhood xi. a masterful old maid xii. a record and a presentment xiii. the distant light xiv. the tower of liverpool: master and man xv. under the light xvi. the recluse and the squire part iii "captain jack," the gold smuggler xvii. gold smuggler and the philosopher xviii. "love gilds the scene and woman guides the plot" xix. a junior's opinion xx. the quick and the dead xxi. the dawn of an eventful day xxii. the day: morning xxiii. the day: noon xxiv. the night xxv. the fight for the open xxvi. the three colours xxvii. under the light again: the lady and the cargo xxviii. the end of the thread xxix. the light goes out xxx. husband and wife xxxi. in lancaster castle xxxii. the one he loved and the one who loved him xxxiii. launched on the great wave xxxiv. the gibbet on the sands xxxv. the light rekindled part i sir adrian landale, light-keeper of scarthey _we all were sea-swallowed, though some cast again; and by that destiny to perform an act, whereof what's past is prologue._ the tempest the light of scarthey chapter i the peel of scarthey he makes a solitude and calls it peace. byron. alone in the south and seaward corner of the great bight on the lancastrian coast--mournfully alone some say, gloriously alone to my thinking--rises in singular unexpected fashion the islet of scarthey; a green oasis secure on its white rocky seat amidst the breezy wilderness of sands and waters. there is, in truth, more sand than water at most times round scarthey. for miles northward the wet strand stretches its silent expanse, tawny at first, then merging into silver grey as in the dim distance it meets the shallow advance of briny ripple. wet sand, brown and dull, with here and there a brighter trail as of some undecided river seeking an aimless way, spreads westward, deep inland, until stopped in a jagged line by bluffs that spring up abruptly in successions of white rocky steps and green terraces. turn you seaward, at low tide there lies sand again and shingle (albeit but a narrow beach, for here a depth of water sinks rapidly) laved with relentless obstinacy by long, furling, growling rollers that are grey at their sluggish base and emerald-lighted at their curvetting crest. sand yet again to the south, towards the nearer coast line, for a mile or perhaps less, dotted, along an irregular path, with grey rocks that look as though the advance guard of a giant army had attempted to ford its insecure footing, had sunk into its treacherous shifting pits, and left their blanching skull-tops half emerging to record the disaster. on the land side of the bight, far away beyond the grandly desolate, silent, yellow tract, a misty blue fringe on the horizon heralds the presence of the north country; whilst beyond the nearer beach a sprinkling of greenly ensconced homesteads cluster round some peaceful and paternal looking church tower. near the salty shore a fishing village scatters its greystone cabins along the first terrace of the bluffs. outwards, ever changing in colour and temper roll and fret the grey waters of the irish sea, turbulent at times, but generally lenient enough to the brown-sailed ketches that break the regular sweep of the western horizon as they toil at the perpetual harvest of the deep. thus stands scarthey. although appearing as an island on the charts, at low tides it becomes accessible dry-foot from the land by a narrow causeway along the line of the white shallow reefs, which connect the main pile to the rocky steps and terraces of the coast. but woe betide man or beast that diverges many feet from the one secure path! the sands of the great bay have already but too well earned their sinister reputation. during the greater part of the day, however, scarthey justifies its name--skard- or scarth-ey, the knoll island in the language of the old scandinavian masters of the land. in fair weather, or in foul, whether rising out of sunny sands when the ebbing waters have retired, or assailed on all sides by ramping breakers, scarthey in its isolation, with its well-preserved ruins and its turret, from which for the last hundred years a light has been burning to warn the seafarer, has a comfortable look of security and privacy. the low thick wall which in warlike times encompassed the bailey (now surrounding and sheltering a wide paddock and neat kitchen gardens) almost disappears under a growth of stunted, but sturdy trees; dwarf alders and squat firs that shake their white-backed leaves, and swing their needle clusters, merrily if the breeze is mild, obstinately if the gale is rousing and seem to proclaim: "here are we, well and secure. ruffle and toss, and lash, o winds, the faithless waters, _we_ shall ever cling to this hospitable footing, the only kindly soil amid this dreariness; here you once wafted our seed; here shall we live and perpetuate our life." on the sea front of the bailey walls rise, sheer from the steep rock, the main body and the keep of the peel. they are ruinous and shorn of their whilom great height, humbled more by the wilful destruction of man than by the decay of time. but although from a distance the castle on the green island seems utterly dismantled, it is not, even now, all ruin. and, at the time when sir adrian landale, of pulwick, eighth baronet, adopted it as his residence, it was far from being such. true, the greater portion of that mediæval building, half monastic, half military, exposed even then to the searching winds many bare and roofless chambers; broken vaults filled with driven sands; more than one spiral stair with hanging steps leading into space. but the massive square keep had been substantially restored. although roofless its upper platform was as firm as when it was first built; and in a corner, solidly ensconced, rose the more modern turret that sheltered the honest warning light. the wide chambers of the two remaining floors, which in old warlike days were maintained bare and free, and lighted only by narrow watching loopholes on all sides, had been, for purposes of peaceful tenanncy, divided into sundry small apartments. new windows had been pierced into the enormous thickness of stone and cement; the bare coldness of walls was also hidden under more home-like panellings. close-fitting casements and solid doors insured peace within; the wind in stormy hours might moan or rage outside this rocky pile, might hiss and shriek and tear its wings among the jagged ruins, bellow and thunder in and out of opened vaults, but it might not rattle a window of the modern castellan's quarters or shake a latch of his chamber door. there, for reasons understood then only by himself, had sir adrian elected, about the "year seven" of this century and in the prime of his age, to transplant his lares and penates. the while, this adrian landale's ancestral home stood, in its placid and double pride of ancient and settled wealth, only some few miles away as the bee flies, in the midst of its noble park, slightly retired from the coast-line; and from its upper casements could be descried by day the little green patch of scarthey and the jagged outline of its ruins on the yellow or glimmering face of the great bay, and by night the light of its turret. and there he was still living, in some kind of happiness, in the "year fourteen," when, out of the eternal store of events, began to shape themselves the latter episodes of a life in which storm and peace followed each other as abruptly as in the very atmosphere that he then breathed. for some eight years he had nested on that rock with no other companions but a dog, a very ancient housekeeper who cooked and washed for "t' young mester" as she obstinately persisted in calling the man whom she had once nursed upon her knee, and a singular sturdy foreign man (rené l'apôtre in the language of his own land, but known as renny potter to the land of his adoption); which latter was more than suspected of having escaped from the liverpool tower, at that time the lawful place of custody of french war prisoners. his own voluntary captivity, however, had nothing really dismal for adrian landale. and the inhabited portions of scarthey ruins had certainly nothing prison-like about them, nothing even that recalled the wilful contrition of a hermitage. on the second floor of the tower (the first being allotted to the use, official and private, of the small household), clear of the surrounding walls and dismantled battlements, the rooms were laid out much as they might have been up at pulwick priory itself, yonder within the verdant grounds on the distant rise. his sleeping quarters plainly, though by no means ascetically furnished, opened into a large chamber, where the philosophic light-keeper spent the best part of his days. here were broad and deep windows, one to the south with a wide view of the bay and the nearer coast, the other to the west where the open sea displayed her changeable moods. on three sides of this room, the high walls, from the white stone floor to the time-blackened beams that bore the ceiling, almost disappeared under the irregular rows of many thousand of volumes. two wooden arm-chairs, bespeaking little aversion to an occasional guest, flanked the hearth. the hearth is the chief refuge of the lone thinker; this was a cosy recess, deep cut in the mediæval stone and mortar; within which, on chilly days, a generous heap of sea-cast timber and dried turf shot forth dancing blue flames over a mound of white ash and glowing cinders; but which, in warmer times, when the casements were unlatched to let in with spring or summer breeze the cries of circling sea-fowls and the distant plash of billows, offered shelter to such green plants as the briny air would favour. at the far end of the room rose in systematical clusters the pipes of a small organ, built against the walls where it bevelled off a corner. and in the middle of the otherwise bare apartment stood a broad and heavy table, giving support to a miscellaneous array of books, open or closed, sundry philosophical instruments, and papers in orderly disorder; some still in their virginal freshness, most, however, bearing marks of notemaking in various stages. here, in short, was the study and general keeping-room of the master of scarthey, and here, for the greater part, daily sat sir adrian landale, placidly reading, writing, or thinking at his table; or at his organ, lost in soaring melody; or yet, by the fireside, in his wooden arm-chair musing over the events of that strange world of thought he had made his own; whilst the aging black retriever with muzzle stretched between his paws slept his light, lazy sleep, ever and anon opening an eye of inquiry upon his master when the latter spoke aloud his thoughts (as solitary men are wont to do), and then with a deep, comfortable sigh, resuming dog-life dreams. chapter ii the light-keeper he who sits by the fire doth dream, doth dream that his heart is warm. but when he awakes his heart is afraid for the bitter cold. _luteplayer's song._ the year was eventful in the annals of the political world. little, however, of the world's din reached the little northern island; and what there came of it was not willingly hearkened to. there was too much of wars past and present, too many rumours of wars future about it, for the ear of the recluse. late in the autumn of that red-letter year which brought a short respite of peace to war-ridden europe--a fine, but rather tumultuous day round scarthey--the light-keeper, having completed the morning's menial task in the light-turret (during a temporary absence of his factotum) sat, according to custom, at his long table, reading. with head resting on his right hand whilst the left held a page ready to turn, he solaced himself, pending the appearance of the mid-day meal, with a few hundred lines of a favourite work--the didactic poems, i believe, of a certain doctor erasmus darwin, on the analogies of the outer world. there was quite as little of the ascetic in adrian landale's physical man as of the hermitage in his chosen abode. with the exception of the hair, which he wore long and free, and of which the fair brown had begun to fade to silver-grey, the master of scarthey was still the living presentment of the portrait which, even at that moment, presided among the assembly of canvas landales in the gallery of pulwick priory. eight years had passed over the model since the likeness had been fixed. but in their present repose, the features clear cut and pronounced, the kindly thoughtful eyes looked, if anything, younger than their counterfeit; indeed, almost incongruously young under the flow of fading hair. clean shaven, with hands of refinement, still fastidious, his long years of solitude notwithstanding, as to general neatness of attire, he might at any moment of the day have walked up the great stair of honour at pulwick without by his appearance eliciting other remarks than that his clothes, in cut and colour, belonged to fashions now some years lapsed. the high clock on the mantelshelf hummed and gurgled, and with much deliberation struck one. only an instant later, lagging footsteps ascended the wooden, echoing stairs without, and the door was pushed open by the attendant, an old dame. she was very dingy as to garb, very wrinkled and feeble as to face, yet with a conscious achievement of respectability, both in appearance and manner, befitting her post as housekeeper to the "young master." the young master, be it stated at once, was at that time fast approaching the end of his second score years. "margery," said adrian, rising to take the heavy tray from the knotted, trembling hands; "you know that i will not allow you to carry those heavy things upstairs yourself." he raised his voice to sing-song pitch near the withered old ear. "i have already told you that when renny is not at home, i can take my food in your kitchen." margery paused, after her wont, to wait till the sounds had filtered as far as her intellect, then proceeded to give a few angry headshakes. "eh! eh! it would become sir adrian landale o' pulwick--barrownite--to have 's meat i' the kitchen--it would that. nay, nay, mester adrian, i'm none so old but i can do my day's work yet. ah! an' it 'ud be well if that gomerl, renny potter, 'ud do his'n. see here, now, mester adrian, nowt but a pint of wine left; and it the last," pointing her withered finger, erratically as the palsy shook it, at a cut-glass decanter where a modicum of port wine sparkled richly under the facets. "and he not back yet, whatever mischief's agate wi' him, though he kens yo like your meat at one." and then circumstances obliged her to add: "he is landing now, but it's ower late i' the day." "so--there, margery," sang the "squire," giving his old nurse affectionate little taps on the back. "never fash yourself; tides cannot always fit in with dinner-hours, you know. and as for poor renny, i believe after all you are as fond of him, at the bottom of your heart, as i am. now what good fare have you got for me to-day?" bending from his great height to inspect the refection, "ah--hum, excellent." the old woman, after another pause for comprehension, retired battling with dignity against the obvious pleasure caused by her master's affectionate familiarity, and the latter sat down at a small table in front of the south window. through this deep, port-hole-like aperture he could, whilst disposing of his simple meal, watch the arrival of the yawl which did ferrying duty between scarthey and the mainland. the sturdy little craft, heavily laden with packages, was being hauled up to its usual place of safety high on the shingle bank, under cover of a remnant of walling which in the days of the castle's strength had been a secure landing-place for the garrison's boats, but which now was almost filled by the cast-up sands and stone of the beach. this was done under the superintendence of rené, man of all work, and with the mechanical intermediary of rollers and capstan, by a small white horse shackled to a lever, and patiently grinding his steady rounds on the sand. his preliminary task achieved, the man, after a few friendly smacks, set the beast free to trot back to his loose pasture: proceeding himself to unship his cargo. through the narrow frame of his window, the master, with eyes of approval, could see the servant dexterously load himself with a well-balanced pile of parcels, disappearing to return after intervals empty-handed, within the field of view, and select another burden, now heavier now more bulky. in due course rené came up and reported himself in person, and as he stopped on the threshold the dark doorway framed a not unstriking presentment; a young-looking man for his years (he was a trifle junior to his master), short and sturdy in build, on whose very broad shoulders sat a phenomenally fair head--the hair short, crisp, and curly, in colour like faded tow--and who, in smilingly respectful silence, gazed into the room out of small, light-blue eyes, brimful of alertness and intelligence, waiting to be addressed. "renny," said adrian landale, returning the glance with one of comfortable friendliness, "you will have to make your peace with margery; she considers that you neglect me shamefully. why, you are actually twenty minutes late after three days' journeying, and perils by land and sea!" the frenchman answered the pleasantry by a broader smile and a scrape. "and, your honour," he said, "if what is now arriving on us had come half an hour sooner, i should have rested planted there" (with a jerk of the flaxen head towards the mainland), "turning my thumbs, till to-morrow, at the least. we shall have a grain, number one, soon." he spoke english fluently, though with the guttural accent of brittany, and an unconquerable tendency to translate his own jargon almost word for word. in their daily intercourse master and man had come for many years past to eschew french almost entirely; rené had let it be understood that he considered his proficiency in the vernacular quite undeniable, and with characteristic readiness sir adrian had fallen in with the little vanity. in former days the dependant's form of address had been _monseigneur_ (considering, and shrewdly so, an english landowner to stand in that relation to a simple individual like himself); in later days "monseigneur" having demurred at the appellation, "my lord," in his own tongue, the devoted servant had discovered "your honour" as a happy substitute, and adhered to this discovery with satisfaction. "oh, we are going to have a squall, say you," interpreted the master, rising to inspect the weather-glass, which in truth had fallen deep with much suddenness. "more than a squall, i think; this looks like a hurricane coming. but since you are safe home, all's well; we are secure and sound here, and the fishing fleet are drawing in, i see," peering through the seaward window. "and now," continued adrian, laying down his napkin, and brushing away a few crumbs from the folds of a faultless silk stock, "what have you for me there--and what news?" "news, your honour! oh, for that i have news this time," said mr. renny potter, with an emphatic nod, "but if your honour will permit, i shall say them last. i have brought the clothes and the linen, the wine, the brandy, and the books. brandy and wine, your honour, i heard, out of the last prize brought into liverpool, and a nantes ship it was, too"--this in a pathetically philosophical tone. then after a pause: "also provisions and bulbs for the devil's pot, as margery will call it. but there is no saying, your honour eats more when i have brought him back onions, eschalot, and _ail_; now do i lie, your honour? may i?" added the speaker, and forthwith took his answer from his master's smile; "may i respectfully see what the old one has kitchened for you when i was not there?" and adrian landale with some amusement watched the frenchman rise from the package he was then uncording to examine the platters on the table and loudly sniff his disdain. "ah, ah, boiled escallops again. perfectly--boiled cabbage seasoned with salt. not a taste in the whole affair. prison food--oh, yes, old woman! why, we nourished ourselves better in the tower, when we could have meat at all. ah, your honour," sighed the man returning to his talk; "you others, english, are big and strong, but you waste great things in small enjoyment!" "oho, renny," said the light-keeper squire, as he leant against the fireplace leisurely filling a long clay pipe, "this is one of your epigrams; i must make a note of it anon; but let me see now what you really have in those parcels of books--for books they are, are they not? so carefully and neatly packed." "books," assented the man, undoing the final fold of paper. "mr. young in the high street of liverpool had the packets ready. he says you must have them all; and all printed this year. what so many people can want to say, i for my count cannot comprehend. three more parcels on the stairs, your honour. mr. young says you must have them. but it took two porters to carry them to the preston diligence." not without eagerness did the recluse of scarthey bend over and finger the unequal rows of volumes arrayed on the table, and with a smile of expectation examine the labels. "the corsair" and "lara" he read aloud, lifting a small tome more daintily printed than the rest. "lord byron. what's this? jane austen, a novel. 'roderick, last of the goths.' dear, dear," his smile fading into blankness; "tiresome man, i never gave him orders for any such things." rené, battling with his second parcel, shrugged his shoulders. "the librarian," he explained, "said that all the world read these books, and your honour must have them." "well, well," continued the hermit, "what else? 'jeremy bentham,' a new work; ricardo, another book on economy; southey the laureate, 'life of nelson.' really, mr. young might have known that naval deeds have no joy for me, hardly more than for you, renny," smiling grimly on his servant. "'edinburgh review,' a london magazine for the last six months; 'rees's cyclopædia,' vols. - ; wordsworth, 'the recluse.' ah, old willie wordsworth! now i am anxious to see what he has to say on such a topic." "dear willie wordsworth," mused sir adrian, sitting down to turn over the pages of the 'excursion,' "how widely have our lives drifted apart since those college days of ours, when we both believed in the coming millennium and the noble future of mankind--noble mankind!" he read a few lines and became absorbed, whilst rené noiselessly busied himself in and out of the chamber. presently he got up, book in hand, slowly walked to the north window, and passively gazed at the misty distance where rose the blue outline of the lake hills. "so my old friend, almost forgotten," he murmured, "that is where you indite such worthy lines. it were enough to tempt me out into men's world again to think that there would be many readers and lovers abroad of these words of yours. so, that is what five and twenty years have done for you--what would you say to what they have done for me...?" it was a long retrospect. sir adrian was deeply immersed in thought when he became aware that his servant had come to a standstill, as if waiting for a return of attention. and in answer to the mute appeal he turned his head once more in rené's direction. "your honour, everything is in its place," began the latter, with a fitting sense of his own method. "i have now to report that i saw your man of business in lancaster, and he has attended to the matter of the brothers shearman's boat that was lost. i saw the young men themselves this morning. they are as grateful to sir adrian as people in this country can express." this last with a certain superiority. sir adrian received the announcement of the working of one of his usual bounties with a quiet smile of gratification. "they also told me to say that they would bring the firewood and the turf to-morrow. but they won't be able to do that because we shall have dirty weather. then they told me that when your honour wants fish they begged your honour to run up a white flag over the lantern--they thought that a beautiful idea--and they would bring some as soon as possible. i took on myself to assure them that i could catch what fish your honour requires; and the prawns, too ... but that is what they asked me to say." "well, well, and so you can," said the master, amused by the show of sub-acute jealousy. "what else?" "the books of the man of business and the banker are on the table. i have also brought gazettes from liverpool." here the fellow's countenance brimmed with the sense of his news' importance. "i know your honour cares little for them. but this time i think you will read them. peace, your honour, it is the peace! it is all explained in these journals--the 'liverpool mercury.'" renny lifted the folded sheets from the table and handed them with contained glee. "there has been peace these six months, and we never knew it. i read about it the whole way back from the town. the emperor is shut up on an island--but not so willingly as your honour, ah, no!--and there is an end of citizen bonaparte. peace, france and england no longer fighting, it is hard to believe--and our old kings are coming back, and everything to be again as in the old days." sir adrian took the papers, not without eagerness, and glanced over the narrative of events, already months old, with all the surprise of one who, having wilfully shut himself out from the affairs of the world, ignored the series of disasters that had brought about the tyrant's downfall. "as you say, my friend, it is almost incredible," he said, at length. then thoughtfully: "and now you will be wanting to return home?" said he. rené, who had been scanning his master's face with high expectation, felt his heart leap as he thought he perceived a hidden tone of regret in the question. he drew himself up to his short height, and with a very decided voice made answer straightway: "i shall go away from your honour the day when your honour dismisses me. if your honour decides to live on this rock till my hour, or his, strikes--on this rock with him i remain. i am not conceited, i hope, but what, pray, will become of your honour here without me?" there was force in this last remark, simply as it was pronounced. through the mist of interlacing thoughts suggested by the word peace! (the end of the revolution, that distant event which, nevertheless, had had such sweeping influence over the course of his whole life), it brought a faint smile to sir adrian's lips. he took two steps forward and laid his hand familiarly on the man's broad shoulder, and, in a musing way, he said at intervals: "yes, yes, indeed, good renny, what would become of me?--what would have become of me?--how long ago it seems!--without you? and yet it might have been as well if two skeletons, closely locked in embrace, blanched by the grinding of the waters and the greed of the crabs, now reposed somewhere deep in the sands of that vilaine estuary.... this score of years, she has had rest from the nightmare that men have made of life on god's beautiful earth. i have been through more of it, my good renny." rené's brain was never equal to coping with his master's periodic fits of pessimism, though he well knew their first and ever-present cause. in a troubled way he looked about the room, so peaceful, so retired and studious; and sir adrian understood. "yes, yes, you are right; i have cut off the old life," he made answer to the unspoken expostulation, "and that i can live in my own small world without foregoing all my duties, i owe to you, my good friend; but startling news like this brings back the past very livingly, dead though it be--dead." rené hesitated; he was pondering over the advisability of disburdening himself of yet another strange item of information he had in reserve; but, as his master, rousing himself with an effort as if to dismiss some haunting thought, turned round again to the table, he decided that the moment was not propitious. "so you have seen to all these things," said sir adrian wearily. "good; i will look over them." he touched the neat pile of books and papers, listlessly, as he spoke, yet, instead of sitting down, remained as he was, with eyes that had grown wondering, staring out across the sea. "look," he said presently, in a low voice, and rené noticed a rare flush of colour rise to the thin cheeks. "look--is not this day just like--one we both remember well...? listen, the wind is coming up as it did then. and look at yonder sky!" and taking the man by the arm, he advanced slowly with him towards the window. in the west the heavens on the horizon had grown threateningly dark; but under the awe-inspiring slate-coloured canopy of clouds there opened a broad archway filled with primrose light--the luminous arch, well known to seafarers, through which charge the furious southwestern squalls. the rushing of the storm was already visible in the distance over the grey waters, which having been swayed for days by a steady aquilon were now lashed in flank by the sudden change of wind. the two men looked out for a while in silence at the spectacle of the coming storm. in the servant's mind ran various trivial thoughts bearing on the present--what a lucky matter it was that he should have returned in time; only just in time it was; from the angry look of the outer world the island would now, for many a day be besieged by seas impassable to such small craft as alone could reach the reef. had he tarried but to the next tide (and how sorely he had been tempted to remain an hour more in the gatekeeper's lodge within sight and hearing of buxom moggie, margery's grand-daughter), had he missed the tide, for days, maybe for weeks, would the master have had to watch and tend, alone, the beacon fire. but here he was, and all was well; and he had still the marvellous news to tell. should he tell them now? no, the master was in one of his trances--lost far away in the past no doubt, that past that terminated on such a day as this. and sir adrian, with eyes fixed on the widening arch of yellow light, was looking inwards on the far-away distance of time. men, who have been snatched back to life from death in the deep, recall how, before seeming to yield the ghost, the picture of their whole existence passed in vivid light before the eye of their mind. swift beyond the power of understanding are such revelations; in one flash the events of a good or an evil life leap before the seeing soul--moment of anguish intolerable or of sublime peace! on such a boisterous day as this, some nineteen years before, by the sandy mouth of the river vilaine, on the confines of brittany and vendée had adrian landale been drowned; under such a sky, and under the buffets of such an angry wind had he been recalled to life, and in the interval, he had seen the same pictures which now, coursing back many years in a few seconds, passed before his inward vision. chapter iii day dreams: a philosopher's fate le beau temps de ma jeunesse ... quand j'étais si malheureux. the borderland between adolescence and manhood, in the life of men of refined aspirations and enthusiastic mettle, is oftener than not an unconsciously miserable period--one which more mature years recall as hollow, deceiving, bitterly unprofitable. yet there is always that about the memories of those far-off young days, their lofty dreams long since scattered, their virgin delights long since lost in the drudgery of earthly experience, which ever and anon seizes the heart unawares and fills it with that infinite weakness: that mourning for the dead and gone past, which yet is not regret. in the high days of the revolutionary movement across the water, adrian landale was a dreamy student living in one of those venerable colleges on the cam, the very atmosphere of which would seem sufficient to glorify the merits of past ages and past institutions. amidst such peaceful surroundings this eldest scion of an ancient, north-country race--which had produced many a hardy fighter, though never yet a thinker nor even a scholar--amid a society as prejudiced and narrow-minded as all privileged communities are bound to become, had nevertheless drifted resistlessly towards that unfathomable sea whither a love for the abstract beautiful, a yearning for super-earthly harmony and justice, must inevitably waft a young intelligence. as the academical years glided over him, he accumulated much classical lore, withal read much latter-day philosophy and developed a fine youthful, theoretical love for the new humanitarianism. he dipped æsthetically into science, wherein he found a dim kind of help towards a more recondite appreciation of the beauties of nature. his was not a mind to delight in profound knowledge, but rather in "intellectual cream." he solaced himself with essays that would have been voted brilliant had they dealt with things less extravagant than universal harmony and fraternal happiness; with verses that all admitted to be highly polished and melodious, but something too mystical in meaning for the understanding of an every-day world; with music, whereof he was conceded an interpreter of no mean order. in fact the worship of his soul might have been said to be the beautiful in the abstract--the beautiful in all its manifestations which include justice, harmony, truth, and kindliness--the one indispensable element of his physical happiness, the beautiful in the concrete. this is saying that adrian landale, for all his array of definite accomplishments, which might have been a never-failing source of interest in an easy existence, was fitted in a singularly unfortunate manner for the life into which one sudden turn of fortune's wheel unexpectedly launched him. during the short halcyon days of his opening independence, however, he was able to make himself the centre of such a world as he would have loved to live in. he was not, of course, generally popular, either at college or at home; nor yet in town, except among that small set in whose midst he inevitably found his way wherever he went; his inferiors in social status perhaps, these chosen friends of his; but their lofty enthusiasms were both appreciative of and congenial to his own. most of them, indeed, came in after-life to add their names to england's roll of intellectual fame, partly because they had that in them which adrian loathed as unlovely--the instinct and will of strife, partly; it must be added, because they remained free in their circumstances to follow the lead of their nature. which freedom was not allotted to him. * * * * * on one magnificent frosty afternoon, early in the year , the london coach deposited adrian landale in front of the best hostelry in lancaster, after more than a year's separation from his family. this separation was not due to estrangement, but rather to the instigation of his own sire, sir thomas--a gentleman of the "fine old school"--who, exasperated by the, to him, incomprehensible and insupportable turn of mind developed by his heir (whom he loved well enough, notwithstanding, in his own way), had hoped, in good utilitarian fashion, that a prolonged period of contact with the world, lubricated by a plentiful supply of money, might shake his "big sawney of a son" out of his sickly-sentimental views; that it would show him that _gentlemen's_ society--and, "by gad, ladies' too"--was not a thing to be shunned for the sake of "wild-haired poets, dirty firebrands, and such cattle." the downright old baronet was even prepared, in an unformed sort of way, to see his successor that was to be return to the paternal hearth the richer for a few gentlemanly vices, provided he left his nonsense behind him. as the great lumbering vehicle, upon the box seat of which sat the young traveller, lost in dreamy speculation according to his wont, drew clattering to a halt, he failed at first to notice the central figure in the midst of the usual expectant crowd of inn guests and inn retainers, called forward by the triumphant trumpeting which heralds the approach of the mail. there, however, stood the squire of pulwick, "sir tummus" himself, in portly and jovial importance. the father's eyes, bright and piercing under his bushy white brows, had already detected his boy from a distance; and they twinkled as he took note, with all the pride of an author in his work, of the symmetry of limb and shoulders set forth by the youth's faultless attire--and the dress of men in the old years of the century was indeed calculated to display a figure to advantage--of the lightness and grace of his frame as he dismounted from his perch; in short of the increased manliness of his looks and bearing. but a transient frown soon came to overshade sir thomas's ruddy content as he descried the deep flush (an old weakness) which mantled the young cheeks under the spur of unexpected recognition. and when, later, the pair emerged from the inn after an hour's conversation over a bottle of burnt sherry--conversation which, upon the father's side, had borne, in truth, much the character of cross-examination--to mount the phaeton with which a pair of high-mettled bays were impatiently waiting the return homewards, there was a very definite look of mutual dissatisfaction to be read upon their countenances. whiling away the time in fitful constrained talk, parcelled out by long silences, they drove again through the gorgeous, frost-speckled scenery of rocky lands until the sheen of the great bay suddenly peered between two distant scars, proclaiming the approach to the pulwick estate. the father then broke a long spell of muteness, and thus to his son, in his ringing country tones, as if pursuing aloud the tenor of his thoughts: "hark'ee, master adrian," said he, "that you are now a man of parts, as they say, i can quite see. you seem to have read a powerful lot of things that do not come our way up here. but let us understand each other. i cannot make head or tail of these far-fetched new-fangle notions you, somehow or other, have fallen in love with--your james fox, your wilberforce, your adam smith, they may be very fine fellows, but to my humble thinking they're but a pack of traitors to king and country, when all is said and done. all this does not suit an english gentleman. you think differently; or perhaps you do not care whether it does or not. i admit i can't hold forth as you do; nor string a lot of fine words together. i am only an old nincompoop compared to a clever young spark like you. but i request you to keep off these topics in the company i like to see round my table. they don't like jacobins, you know, no more do i!" "nor do i," said adrian fervently. "nor do you? don't you, sir, don't you? why, then what the devil have you been driving at?" "i am afraid, sir, you do not understand my views." "well, never mind; i don't like 'em, that's short, and if you bring them out before your cousin, little madame savenaye, you will come off second best, my lad, great man as you are, and so i warn you!" in tones as unconcerned as he could render them the young man sought to turn the intercourse to less personal topics, by inquiring further anent this unknown cousin whose very name was strange to him. sir thomas, easily placable if easily roused, started willingly enough on a congenial topic. and thus adrian conceived his first impression of that romantic being whose deeds have remained legendary in the french west country, and who was destined to exercise so strong an influence upon his own life. "who is she?" quoth the old gentleman, with evident zest. "ay. all this is news to you, of course. well: she _was_ cécile de kermelégan. you know your mother's sister mary donoghue (murthering moll, they called her on account of her killing eyes) married a m. de kermelégan, a gentleman of brittany. madame de savenaye is her daughter (first cousin of yours), that means that she has good old english blood in her veins and irish to boot. she speaks english as well as you or i, her mother's teaching of course, but she is french all the same; and, by gad, of the sort which would reconcile even an englishman with the breed!" sir thomas's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm; his son examined him with grave wonder. "the very sight of her, my boy, is enough to make a man's heart warm. wait till you see her and she begins to talk of what the red-caps are doing over there--those friends of yours, who are putting in practice all your fine theories! and, bookworm as you are, i'll warrant she'll warm your sluggish blood for you. ha! she's a rare little lady. she married last year the count of savenaye." adrian assumed a look of polite interest. "emigré, i presume?" he said, quietly. "emigré? no, sir. he is even now fighting the republican rapscallions, d--n them, and thrashing them, too, yonder in his country. she stuck by his side; ay, like a good plucked one she did, until it became palpable that, if there was to be a son and heir to the name, she had better go and attend to its coming somewhere else, in peace. ho, ho, ho! well, england was the safest place, of course, and, for her, the natural one. she came and offered herself to us on the plea of relationship. i was rather taken aback at first, i own; but, gad, boy, when i saw the woman, after hearing what she had had to go through to reach us at all, i sang another song. well, she is a fine creature--finer than ever now that the progeny has been satisfactorily hatched; a brace of girls instead of the son and heir, after all! two of them; no less. ho, ho, ho! and she was furious, the pretty dear! however, you'll soon see for yourself. you will see a woman, sir, who has loaded and fired cannon with her own hands, when the last man to serve it had been shot. ay, and more than that, my lad--she's brained a hulking sans-culotte that was about to pin her servant to the floor. the lad has told me so himself, and i daresay he can tell you more if you care to practise your french with master rené l'apôtre, that's the fellow! a woman who sticks to her lord and master in mud and powder-smoke until there is precious little time to spare, when she makes straight for a strange land, in a fishing-smack, with no other protector than a peasant; and now, with an imp of a black-eyed infant to her breast (sally mearson's got the other; you remember sally, your own nurse's daughter?), looks like a chit of seventeen. that's what you'll see, sir. and when she sails downstairs for dinner, dressed up, powdered and high-heeled, she might be a princess, a queen who has never felt a crumpled roseleaf in her life. gad! i'm getting poetical, i declare." in this strain did the squire, guiding his horses with strong, dexterous hand, expatiate to his son; the crisp air rushing past them, making their faces glow with the tingling blood until, burning the ground, they dashed up the avenue that leads to the white mansion of pulwick, and halted amidst a cloud of steam before its palladian portico. what happened to adrian the moment after happens, as a rule, only once in a man's lifetime. through the opening portals the guest, whose condensed biography the squire had been imparting to his son (all unconsciously eliciting thereby more repulsion than admiration in the breast of that fastidious young misogynist), appeared herself to welcome the return of her host. adrian, as he retired a pace to let his father ascend the steps, first caught a glimpse of a miraculously small and arched foot, clad in pink silk, and, looking suddenly up, met fully the flash of great dark eyes, set in a small white face, more brilliant in their immense blackness than even the glinting icicles pendant over the lintel that now shot back the sun's sinking glory. the spell was of the kind that the reason of man can never sanction, and yet that have been ever and will be while man is. this youth, virgin of heart, dreamy of head who had drifted to his twentieth year, all unscathed by passion or desire, because he had never met aught in flesh and blood answering to his unconscious ideal, was struck to the depth of his soul by the presence of one, as unlike this same ideal as any living creature could be; struck with fantastic suddenness, and in that all-encompassing manner which seizes the innermost fibres of the being. it was a pang of pain, but a revelation of glory. he stood for some moments, with paling cheeks and hotly-beating heart, gazing back into the wondrous eyes. she, yielding her cheek carelessly to the squire's hearty kiss, examined the new-comer curiously the while: "why--how now, tut, tut, what's this?" thundered the father, who, following the direction of her eyes, wheeled round suddenly to discover his son's strange bearing, "have you lost all the manners as well as the notions of a gentleman, these last two years? speak to madame de savenaye, sir!--cécile, this is my son; pray forgive him, my dear; the fellow's shyness before ladies is inconceivable. it makes a perfect fool of him, as you see." but madame de savenaye's finer wits had already perceived something different from the ordinary display of english shyness in the young man, whose eyes remained fixed on her face with an intentness that savoured in no way, of awkwardness. she now broke the spell with a broader smile and a word of greeting. "you are surprised," said she in tripping words, tinged with a distinct foreign intonation, "to see a strange face here, mr. adrian--or, shall i say cousin? for that is the style i should adopt in my brittany. yes, you see in me a poor foreign cousin, fleeing for protection to your noble country. how do you do, my cousin?" she extended a slender, white hand, one rosy nail of which, bending low, adrian gravely kissed. "_mais, comment donc!_" exclaimed the lady, "my dear uncle did you chide your son just now? why, but these are versailles manners--so gallant, so courtly!" and she gave the boy's fingers, as they lingered under hers, first a discreet little pressure, and then a swift flip aside. "ah! how cold you are!" she exclaimed; and then, laughing, added sweetly: "cold hands, warm heart, of course." and with rapping heels she turned into the great hall and into the drawing-room whither the two men--the father all chuckles, and the son still struck with wonder--followed her. she was standing by the hearth holding each foot alternately to the great logs flaming on the tiles, ever and anon looking over her shoulder at adrian, who had advanced closer, without self-consciousness, but still in silence. "now, cousin," she remarked gaily, "there is room for you here, big as you are, to warm yourself. you must be cold. i know already all about your family, and i must know all about you, too! i am very curious, i find them all such good, kind, handsome people here, and i am told to expect in you something quite different from any of them. now, where does the difference come in? you are as tall as your father, but in face--no, i believe it is your pretty sisters you are like in face." here the squire interrupted with his loud laugh, and, clapping his hand on his stalwart son's head: "you have just hit it, cécile, it's here the difference lies. adrian, i really believe, is a little mistake of dame nature; his brain was meant for a girl and was tacked on to that big body by accident, ho, ho, ho! he is quite lady-like in his accomplishments--loves music, and plays, by gad, better than our organist. writes poetry, too. i found some devilish queer things on his writing-table once, which were not _all_ latin verses, though he would fain i thought so. and as for deportment, madame cécile, why there is more propriety, in that hobbedehoy, at least, more blushing in him, than in all the bread-and-butter misses in the county!" adrian said nothing; but, when not turned towards the ground, his gaze still sought the countess, who now returned the look with a ripening smile open to any interpretation. "surely," she remarked, glancing then at the elder for an instant with some archness, "surely you english gentlemen, who have so much propriety, would not rather ... there was young mr. bradbury, we heard talked of yesterday, whom every farmer with a red-cheeked lass of his own--" "no, no!" hastily interrupted the baronet, with a blush himself, while adrian's cheek in spite of the recent indictment preserved its smooth pallor--in truth, the boy, lost in his first love-dream, had not understood the allusion. "no, i don't want a landale to be a blackguard, you know, but--" and the father, unable to split this ethical hair, to logical satisfaction, stopped and entered another channel of grumbling vituperation, whilst the countess, very much amused by her private thoughts, gave a little rippling laugh, and resumed her indulgent contemplation of the accused. "what a pity, now, school-boy rupert is not the eldest; there would be a country gentleman for you! whereas, this successor that is to be of mine is a man of books and a philosopher. forsooth, a first-class bookworm; by gad, i believe the first of our race! and he might make a name for himself, i've been told, among that lot, though the pack o' nonsense he treats us to at times cannot, i'm thinking, really go down even among those college fuzzle-heads. but i am confounded if that chap will ever be of any use as a landlord whenever he steps into my shoes. he hates a gun, and takes more pleasure--what was it he said last time he was here?--oh, yes, more pleasure in watching a bird dart in the blue than bringing it down, be it never so neat a shot. ho, ho! did ye ever hear such a thing? and though he can sit a horse--i will say that for him (i should like to see a landale that could not!)--i have seen this big boy of mine positively sicken, ay! and scandalise the hunt by riding away from the death. moreover, i believe that, when i am gone, he will always let off any poaching scoundrel on the plea that the vermin only take for their necessity what we preserve for sport." the little foreign lady, smiling no longer, eyed her big cousin with wondering looks. "strange, indeed," she remarked, "that a man should fail to appreciate the boon of man's existence, the strength and freedom to dominate, to be up and doing, to _live_ in fact. how i should long to be a man myself, if i ever allowed myself to long for anything; but i am a woman, as you see," she added, rising to the full height of her exquisite figure, "and must submit to woman's lot--and that is just now to the point, for i must leave you to go and see to the wants of that _mioche_ of mine which i hear whining upstairs. but i do not believe my uncle's account of you is a complete picture after all, cousin adrian. i shall get it out of you anon, catechise you in my own way, and, if needs be, convert you to a proper sense of the glorious privileges of your sex." and she ran out of the room. "well, my lad," said sir thomas, that evening, when the ladies had left the two men to their decanter, "i thought my frenchwoman would wake you up, but, by george, i hardly expected she would knock you all of a heap so quick. hey! you're winged, adrian, winged, or this is not port." "i cannot say, sir," answered adrian, musing. the old man caught up the unsatisfactory reply in an exasperated burlesque of mimicry: "i cannot say, sir--you cannot say? pooh, pooh, there is no shame in being in love with her. we all are more or less; pass the bottle. as for you, since you clapped eyes on her you have been like a man in the moon, not a word to throw to a dog, no eyes, no ears but for your own thoughts, so long as madam is not there. enter madam, you're alive again, by george, and pretty lively, too! gad, i never thought i'd ever see _you_ do the lady's man, all in your own queer way, of course; but, hang it all, she seems to like it, the little minx! ay, and if she has plenty of smiles for the old man she's ready to give her earnest to you--i saw her, i saw her. but don't you forget she's married, sir, very much married, too. she don't forget it either, i can tell you, though you may think she does. now, what sort of game is she making of you? what were you talking about in the picture gallery for an hour before dinner, eh?" "to say the truth," answered the son, simply, "it was about myself almost the whole time." "and she flattered you finely, i'll be bound, of course," said his elder, with a knowing look. "oh, these women, these women!" "on the contrary, sir, she thinks even less of me than you do. that woman has the soul of a savage; we have not one thought in common." the father burst into a loud laugh. "a pretty savage to look at, anyhow; a well-polished one in the bargain, ho, ho, ho! well, well, i must make up my mind, i suppose, that my eldest son is a lunatic in love with a savage." adrian remained silent for a while, toying with his glass, his young brow contracted under a painful frown. at length, checking a sigh, he answered with deliberation: "since it is so palpable to others, i suppose it must be love, as you say. i had thought hitherto that love of which people talk so much was a feeling of sweetness. what i feel in this lady's presence is much more kin to anguish; for all that, as you have noticed, i appear to live only when she is nigh." the father looked at his son and gaped. the latter went on, after another pause: "i suppose it is so, and may as well own it to myself and to you, though nothing can come of it, good or bad. she is married, and she is your guest; and even if any thought concerning me could enter her heart, the merest show of love on my part would be an insult to her and treason to you. but trust me, i shall now be on my guard, since my behaviour has already appeared strange." "tut, tut," said the baronet, turning to his wine in some dudgeon, his rubicund face clouding as he looked with disfavour at this strange heir of his, who could not even fall in love like the rest of his race. "what are you talking about? come, get out of that and see what the little lady's about, and let me hear no more of this. she'll not compromise herself with a zany like you, anyhow, that i'll warrant." but adrian with all the earnestness of his nature and his very young fears was strenuously resolved to watch himself narrowly in his intercourse with his too fascinating relative; little recking how infinitesimal is the power of a man's free-will upon the conduct of his life. the next morning found the little countess in the highest spirits. particularly good news had arrived from her land with the early courier. true, the news were more than ten days old, but she had that insuperable buoyancy of hopefulness which attends active and healthy natures. the breton peasants (she explained to the company round the breakfast table), headed by their lords (among whom was her own _seigneur et maître_) had again crushed the swarms of ragged brigands that called themselves soldiers. from all accounts there was no hope for the latter, their atrocities had been such that the whole land, from normandy to guyenne, was now in arms against them. and in paris, the hot pit whence had issued the storm of foulness that blasted the fair kingdom of france after laying low the hallowed heads of a good king and a beautiful queen, in paris, leaders and led were now chopping each other's heads off, _à qui mieux mieux_. "those thinkers, those lofty patriots, _hein, beau cousin_, for whom, it seems, you have an admiration," commented the lady, interrupting her account to sip her cup of cream and chocolate, with a little finger daintily cocked, and shoot a mocking shaft at the young philosopher from the depth of her black eyes. "like demented wolves they are destroying each other--pray the god of justice," quoted she from her husband's letter, "that it may only last; in a few months, then, there will be none of them left, and the people, relieved from this rule of blood, will all clamour for the true order of things, and the poor country may again know peace and happiness. meanwhile, all has yet to be won, by much devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of god and king; and afterwards will come the reward!... "and the revenge," added madame de savenaye, with a little, fierce laugh, folding the sanguine budget of news. "oh! they must leave us a few for revenge! how we shall make the hounds smart when the king returns to his own! and then for pleasures and for life again. and we may yet meet at the mansion of savenaye, in paris," she went on gaily, "my good uncle and fair cousins, for the king cannot fail to recall his faithful supporter. and there will be feasts and balls. and there, maybe, we shall be able to repay in part some of your kindness and hospitality. and you, cousin adrian, you will have to take me through pavanne and gavotte and minuet; and i shall be proud of my northern cavalier. what! not know how one dances the gavotte? _fi donc!_ what ignorance! i shall have to teach you. your hand, monsieur," slipping the missive from the seat of war into her fair bosom. "la! not that way; with a _grace_, if you please," making a profound curtsey. "ah, still that cold hand; your great english heart must be a very furnace. come, point your right foot--so. and look round at your partner with--what shall i say--_admiration sérieuse_!" that she saw admiration, serious enough in all conscience in adrian's eyes, there was little doubt. with sombre heart he failed not to mark every point of this all-human grace, but to him goddess-like beauty, the triumph and glory of youth. the coy, dainty poise of the adorable foot--pointed _so_--and treading the ground with the softness of a kitten at play; the maddening curve of her waist, which a sacque, depending from an exquisite nape, partly concealed, only to enhance its lithe suppleness; the divinely young throat and bust; and above all the dazzling black rays from eyes alternately mocking, fierce or caressing. well might his hand be cold with all his young untried blood, biting at his heart, singing in his head. why did god place such creatures on his earth to take all savour from aught else under the sun? "fair cousin, fair cousin, though i said serious admiration, i did not mean you to look as if you were taking me to a funeral. you are supposed to be enjoying yourself, you know!" the youth struggled with a ghastly smile; and the father laughed outright. but madame de savenaye checked herself into gravity once more. "alas! _nous n'en sommes pas encore là_," she said, and relinquished her adorer's hand. "we have still to fight for it.... oh! that i were free to be up and doing!" the impatient exclamation was wrung out of her, apparently, by the appearance of two nurses, each bearing an infant in long, white robes for the mother's inspection; a preliminary to the daily outing. the elder of these matrons was adrian's own old nurse who, much occupied with her new duties of attendant to madame de savenaye and one of her babies, now beheld her foster-son again for the first time since his return. "eh--but you've grown a gradely mon, mester adrian!" she cried, in her long-drawn lancastrian, dandling her bundle energetically from side to side in the excess of her admiration, and added with a laugh of tender delight: "eh, but you're my own lad still, as how 'tis!" when, blushing, the young man crossed the room and stooped to kiss her, glancing shyly the while at the white bundle in her arms. "well, and how are the little ones?" quoth madame de savenaye, swinging her dainty person up to the group and halting by beaming sally--the second nurse, who proudly held forth her charge--merely to lay a finger lightly on the infant's little cheek. "ah, my good sally, your child does you credit!--now margery, when you have done embracing that fine young man, perhaps you will give me my child, _hein_?" both the nurses blushed; margery at the soft impeachment as she delivered over the minute burden; her daughter in honest indignation at the insulting want of interest shown for her foster-babe. "no, i was not made to play with puppets like you, mademoiselle," said the comtesse, addressing herself to the unconscious little being as she took it in her arms, but belying her words by the grace and instinctive maternal expertness with which she handled and soothed the infant. "yes, you can go, sarah--_au revoir_, mademoiselle madeleine. fie the little wretch, what faces she pulls! and you, margery, you need not wait either; i shall keep this creature for a while. poor little one!" sang the mother, walking up and down, and patting the small back with her jewelled hand as she held the wee thing against her shoulder, "indeed i shall have soon to leave you----" "what's this--what's this?" exclaimed the master of the house with sudden sharpness. he had been surveying the scene from the hearthrug, chuckling in benevolent amusement at little madam's ways. yes, it was her intention to return to her place by the side of her lord, she explained, halting in her walk to face him gravely; she had come to that resolution. no doubt her uncle would take the children under his care until better times--those good times that were so fast approaching. buxom sally could manage them both--and to spare, too! adrian felt his heart contract at the unexpected announcement; a look of dismay overspread sir thomas's face. "why--what? what nonsense, child!" cried he again in rueful tones. "_you_, return to that place now ... what good do you think you could do--eh?" but here recollecting himself, he hesitated and started upon a more plausible line of expostulation. "pooh, pooh! you can't leave the little ones, your husband does not ask you to come back and leave them, does he? in any case," with assumed authority, "i shall not let you go." she looked up with a smile. "would _you_ allow your friends to continue fighting alone for all you love, because you happened to be in safe and pleasant circumstances yourself?" she asked. then she added ingenuously: "i have heard you say of one that was strong of will and staunch to his purpose, that he was a regular briton. i thought that flattering: i am a briton, of brittany, you know, myself, uncle: would you have _me_ be a worthless briton? as to what a woman can do there--ah, you have no idea what it means for all these poor peasants of ours to see their lords remain among them, sharing their hardship in defence of their cause. concerning the children," kissing the one she held and gazing into its face with wistful look, "they can better afford to do without me than my husband and our men. a strong woman to tend them till we come back, is all that is wanted, since a good relative is willing to give them shelter. rené cannot be long in returning now, with the last news. indeed, m. de savenaye says that he will only keep him a few days longer, and, according to the tidings he brings must i fix the date for my departure." sir thomas, with an inarticulate growl, relapsed into silence; and she resumed her walk with bent head, lost in thought, up and down the great room, out of the pale winter sunshine into the shadow, and back again, to the tune of "malbrook s'en va t'en guerre," which she hummed beneath her breath, while the baby's foolish little head, in its white cap from which protruded one tiny straight wisp of brown hair, with its beady, unseeing black eyes and its round mouth dribbling peacefully, bobbed over her shoulder as she went. adrian stood in silence too, following her with his eyes, while the picture, so sweet to see, so strange to one who knew all that was brewing in the young mother's head and heart, stamped itself upon his brain. at the door, at length, she halted a moment, and looked at them both. "yes, my friends," she said, and her eyes shot flame; "i must go soon." the baby bobbed its head against her cheek as if in affirmative; then the great door closed upon the pair. chapter iv day dreams: a fair emissary many guests had been convened to the hospitable board of pulwick upon the evening which followed adrian's return home; and as, besides the fact that the fame of the french lady had spread enthusiasm in most of the male breasts of the district and anxious curiosity in gentler bosoms, there was a natural neighbourly desire to criticise the young heir of the house after his year's absence, the county had responded in a body to the invitation. it was a goodly company therefore that was assembled in the great withdrawing rooms, when the countess herself came tripping down the shallow oaken stairs, and found adrian waiting for her in the hall. he glanced up as she descended towards him to cover her with an ardent look and feast his eyes despairingly on her beauty; and she halted a moment to return his gaze with a light but meaning air of chiding. "cousin!" she said, "you have very singular manners for one supposed to be so shy with ladies. do you know that if my husband were here to notice them you might be taken to task?" adrian ran up the steps to meet her. the man in him was growing apace with the growth of a man's passion, and by the boldness of his answer belying all his recent wise resolutions, he now astonished himself even more than her. "you are going back to him," he said, with halting voice. "all is well--for him; perhaps for you. for us, who remain behind there is nothing left but the bitterness of regret--and envy." then in silence they descended together. as they were crossing the hall there entered suddenly to them, stumbling as he went, rené, the young breton retainer, whom the lord of savenaye had appointed as squire to his lady upon her travels, and who, since her establishment at pulwick, had been sent to carry news and money back to brittany. no sooner had the boy--for such he was, though in intelligence and blind devotion beyond his years--passed into the light, than on his haggard countenance was read news of disastrous import. recent tears had blurred his sunburnt cheek, and the hand that tore the hat from his head at the unexpected sight of his mistress, partly in instinctive humility, partly, it seemed, to conceal some papers he held against his breast, twitched with nervous anguish. "rené!" cried the countess, eagerly, in french. "what hast thou brought? sweet jesu! bad news--bad news? give!" for an instant the courier looked around like a hunted animal seeking a retreat, and then up at her in dumb pleading; but she stamped her foot and held him to the spot by the imperiousness of her eye. "give, i tell thee," she repeated; and, striking the hat away, snatched the papers from his hand. "dost thou think i cannot bear ill news--my husband?" she drew nearer to a candelabra, and the little white hands impatiently broke the seals and shook the sheets asunder. sir thomas, attracted by his favourite's raised tones and uneasy at her non-appearance, opened the drawing-room door and came forward anxiously, whilst his assembled guests, among whom a sense that something of importance was passing had rapidly spread, now gathered curiously about the open doorway. the countess read on, unnoticing, with compressed lips and knitted brows--those brows that looked so black on the fair skin, under the powdered hair. "my husband! ah, i knew it, my andré ... the common fate of the loyal!" a sigh lifted the fair young bosom, but she showed no other sign of weakness. indeed those who watched this unexpected scene were struck by the contrast between the bearing of this young, almost girlish creature, who, holding the written sheets with firm hands to the light, read their terrible contents with dry eyes, and that of the man who had sunk, kneeling, at her feet, all undone, to have had the bringing of the news. the silence was profound, save for the crackling of the pages as she turned them over, and an occasional long-drawn sob from the messenger. when she came to the end the young widow--for such she was now--remained some moments absorbed in thought, absently refolding the letter into its original neatness. then her eyes fell on rené's prostrate figure and she stooped to lay a kind hand for an instant on his shoulder. "bear up, my good rené," she said. at her voice and touch he dragged his limbs together and stood humbly before her. "we must be brave," she went on; "your master's task is done--ours, yours and mine, is not." he lifted his bloodshot eyes to her with the gaze of a faithful dog in distress, scraped an uncouth bow and abruptly turned away, brushing the tears from his cheek with his sleeve, and hurrying, to relieve his choking grief in solitude. she stood a while, again absorbed in her own reflection, and of those who would have rushed to speak gentle words to her, and uphold her with tender hands, had she wept or swooned, there was none who dared approach this grief that gave no sign. in a short time, however, she seemed to recollect herself and awaken to the consciousness of the many watching eyes. "good uncle," she said, going up to the old man and kissing his cheek, after sweeping the assembled company with dark, thoughtful gaze. "here are news that i should have expected sooner--but that i would not entertain the thought. it has come upon us at last, the fate of the others ... andré has paid his debt to the king, like many hundreds of true people before--though none better. he has now his reward. i glory in his noble death," she said with a gleam of exaltation in her eyes, then added after a pause, between clenched teeth, almost in a whisper: "and my sister too--she too is with him--but i will tell you of it later; they are at rest now." jovial sir thomas, greatly discomposed and fairly at a loss how to deal with the stricken woman, who was so unlike any womankind he had ever yet come across, patted her hand in silence, placed it within his arm and quietly led her into the drawing-room, rolling, as he did so, uneasy eyes upon his guests. but she followed the current of her thoughts as her little feet kept pace beside him. "that is bad--but worse--the worst of all, the cause of god and king is again crushed; everything to begin afresh. but, for the present, we"--here she looked round the room, and her eyes rested an instant upon a group of young men, who were surveying her from a corner with mingled admiration and awe--"we, that is rené and i, have work to do in this country before we return. for you will keep us a little longer?" she added with an attempt at a smile. "will i keep you a little longer?" exclaimed the squire hotly, "will i ever let you go, now!" she shook her head at him, with something of her natural archness. then, turning to make a grave curtsey to the circle of ladies around her: "i and my misfortune," she said, "have kept your company and your dinner waiting, i hardly know how long. no doubt, in their kindness they will forgive me." and accepting again her uncle's arm which, delighted at the solution of the present difficulty, and nodding to adrian to start the other guests, he hastened to offer her, she preceded the rest into the dining-hall with her usual alert bearing. the behaviour of the countess of savenaye, had affected the various spectators in various ways. the male sex, to a man, extolled her fortitude; the ladies, however, condemned such unfeminine strength of mind, while the more charitable prophesied that she would pay dearly for this unnatural repression. and the whispered remark of one of the prettier and younger damsels, that the loss of a husband did not seem to crush her, at any rate, met, on the whole, with covert approval. as for adrian, who shall describe the tumult of his soul--the regret, the hungering over her in her sorrow, the wild unbidden hopes and his shame of them? careful of what his burning eyes might reveal, he hardly dared raise them from the ground; and yet to keep them long from her face was an utter impossibility. the whispered comments of the young men behind him, their admiration, and astonishment drove him to desperation. and the high-nosed dowager, whom it was his privilege to escort to his father's table, arose from it convinced that sir thomas's heir had lost in his travels the few poor wits he ever possessed. the dinner that evening was without doubt the most dismal meal the neighbourhood had ever sat down to at the hospitable board of pulwick, past funeral refections not excepted. the host, quite taken up with his little foreign relative, had words only for her; and these, indeed, consisted merely in fruitless attempts to induce her to partake largely of every course--removes, relieves, side-dishes, joints, as their separate turn came round. long spells of silence fell upon him meantime, which he emphasised by lugubriously clearing his throat. except for the pretty courtesy with which she would answer him, she remained lost in her own thoughts--ever and anon consulting the letter which lay beside her to fall again, it seemed, into a deeper muse; but never a tear glinted between her black lashes. more than once adrian from his distant end of the table, met her eyes, fixed on him for a moment, and the look, so full of mysterious meanings made his heart beat in anguish, expecting he knew not what. among the rest of the assembly, part deference to a calamity so stoutly borne, part amazement at such strange ways, part discomfort at their positions as feasters in the midst of mourning, had reduced conversation to the merest pretence. the ladies were glad enough when the time came for them to withdraw; nor did most of the men view with reluctance a moment which would send the decanters gliding freely over the mahogany, and relieve them from this unwonted restraint. madame de savenaye had, however, other interests in store for these latter. she rose with the rest of the ladies, but halted at the door, and laying her hand upon her uncle's arm, said an earnest word in his ear, in obedience to which he bundled out his daughters, as they hung back politely, closed the door upon the last skirt, and reconducted the countess to the head of the table, scratching his chin in some perplexity, but ready to humour her slightest whim. she stood at her former place and looked for a moment in silence from one to another of the faces turned with different expressions of astonishment and anticipation towards her--ruddy faces most of them, young, or old, handsome or homely, the honest english stamp upon each; and distinct from them all, adrian's pallid, thoughtful features and his ardent eyes. upon him her gaze rested the longest. then with a little wave of her hand she prayed them to be seated, and waited to begin her say until the wine had passed round. "gentlemen," then quoth she, "with my good uncle's permission i shall read you the letter which i have this night received, so that english gentlemen may learn how those who are faithful to their god and their king are being dealt with in my country. this letter is from monsieur de puisaye, one of the most active partisans of the royal cause, a connection of the ancient house of savenaye. and he begins by telling me of the unexpected reverses sustained by our men so close upon their successes at chateau-gonthier, successes that had raised our loyal hopes so high. 'the most crushing defeat,' he writes, 'has taken place near the town of savenaye itself, on your own estate, and your historic house is now, alas! in ruins.... during the last obstinate fight your husband had been wounded, but after performing prodigies of valour--such as, it was hoped or trusted, the king should in time hear of--he escaped from the hands of his enemies. for many weeks with a few hundred followers he held the fields in the marais, but he was at last hemmed in and captured by one of the monster thureau's _colonnes infernales_, those hellish legions with an account of whose deeds,' so says this gallant gentleman our friend, 'i will not defile my pen, but whose boasts are like those of attila the hun, and who in their malice have invented obscene tortures worthy of iroquois savages for all who fall into their clutches, be they men, women, or children.... but, by heaven's mercy, dear madame,' says m. de puisaye to me, 'your noble husband was too weak to afford sport to those demons, and so he has escaped torment. he was hanged with all speed indeed, for fear he might die first of his toils and his wounds, and so defeat them at the last.'" a rustling murmur of horror and indignation went round the table; but the little woman faced the audience proudly. "he died," she said, "as beseems a brave man. but this is not all. i had a sister, she was very fair--like me some people said, in looks--she used to be the merry one at home in the days of peace," she gave a little smile, far more piteous than tears would be--"she chose to remain among her people when they were fighting, to help the wounded, the sick." here madame de savenaye paused a moment and put down the letter from which she had been reading; for the first time since she had begun to speak she grew pale; knitting her black brows and with downcast eyes she went on: "monsieur de puisaye says he asks my pardon humbly on his knees for writing such tidings to me, bereaved as i am of all i hold dear, but 'it is meet,' he says, 'that the civilised world should know the deeds these followers of _liberty_ and _enlightenment_ have wrought upon gallant men and highborn ladies,' and i hold that he says well." she flashed once more her black gaze round upon the men, who with heads all turned towards her and forgetting their wine, hung upon her words. "it is right that i should know, and you too! it is meet that such deeds should be made known to the world: my sister was taken by these men, but less fortunate than my husband she had life enough left for torture--she too is dead now; m. de puisaye adds: thank god! and that is all that i can say too--thank god!" there was a dead silence in the room as she ceased speaking, broken at last, here and there, along the table by exclamations and groans and a deep execration from sir thomas, which was echoed deep-mouthed by his guests. adrian himself, the pacific, the philosopher, with both arms, stretched out on the table, clenched his hands, and set his teeth and gazed into space with murderous looks. then the clear young voice went on again: "you, who have honoured mothers and wives of your own, and have young sweethearts, or sisters or daughters--you english gentlemen who love to see justice, how long will you allow such things to be done while you have arms to strike? we are not beaten yet; there are french hearts still left that will be up and doing so long as they have a drop of blood to shed. our gallant bretons and vendéens are uniting once more, our émigrés are collecting, but we want aid, brave english friends, we want arms, money, soldiers. my task lies to my hand; the sacred legacy of my dead i have accepted; is there any of you here who will help the widow to maintain the fight?" she had risen to her feet; the blood glowed on her cheek as she concluded her appeal; a thousand stars danced in her eyes. old men and young they leapt up, with a roar; pressing round her, pouring forth acclamations, asseverations and oaths--would they help her? by god--they would die for her--never had the old rafters of pulwick rung to such enthusiasm. and when with proud smiles and crimsoned face she withdraws at last from so much ardour, the door has scarcely fallen behind her before sir thomas proposes her health in a bellow, that trembles upon tears: "gentlemen, this lady's courage is such as might put most men's strength to shame. here is, gentlemen, to madame de savenaye!" and she, halting on the stairs for a moment, to still her high-beating heart, before she lay her babe against it, hears the toast honoured with three times three. * * * * * when the lancastrian ladies had succeeded at length in collecting and carrying off such among the hiccupping husbands, and maudlin sons, who were able to move, sir thomas re-entering the hall, after speeding the last departing chariot, and prudently leaning upon his tall son--for though he had a seasoned head the night's potations had been deep and fiery--was startled well-nigh into soberness, at the sight of his niece waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. "why, cis, my love, we thought you had been in bed this long while! why--where have you been then since you ran away from the dining-room? by george!" chuckling, "the fellows were mad to get another glimpse of you!" his bloodshot eye hung over her fondly. there was not a trace of fatigue upon that delicate, pretty face. "i wanted to think--i have much to think on now. i have had to read and ponder upon my instructions here,"--tapping her teeth with the letter, she still carried, "good uncle, i would speak with you--yes, even now," quick to notice adrian's slight frown of disapproval (poor fellow, he was sober enough at any rate!), "there is no time like the present. i have my work to do, and i shall not rest to-night, till i have planned it in my head." surely the brilliancy of those eyes was feverish; the little hands she laid upon them to draw them into the dim-lit library were hot as fire. "why, yes, my pretty," quoth the good uncle, stifling a portentous yawn, and striving to look wondrous wise, "adrian, she wants to consult me, sir, hic!" he fell into an arm-chair as he spoke, and she sank on her knees beside him, the firelight playing upon her eager face, while adrian, in the shadow, watched. "do you think," she asked of the old man, eagerly, "that these gentlemen, who spoke so kindly to me a few hours ago, will be as much in earnest in the morning?" "why d--n them! if they go back on their word, i'll call them out!" thundered sir thomas, in a great rage all of a sudden. she surveyed him inquiringly, and shot a swift keen glance from the placid, bulky figure in the chair, to adrian pale and erect, behind it, then rose to her feet and stood a few paces off, as it were pondering. "what is now required of me--i have been thinking it well over," she said at last, "can hardly be achieved by a woman alone. and yet, with proper help and support, i think i could do more than any man by himself. there is that in a woman's entreaties which will win, when a man may fail. but i must have a knight at my side; a protector, at the same time as a faithful servant. these are not the times to stand on conventional scruples. do you think, among these gentlemen, any could be found with sufficient enthusiasm, for the royal cause, here represented by me, to attend, and support me through all the fatigues, the endless errands, the interviews--ay, also the rebuffs, the ridicule at times, perhaps the danger of the conjuration, which must be set on foot in this country--to do all that, without hope of other reward than the consciousness of helping a good cause, and--and the gratitude of one, who may have nothing else to give?" she stopped with a little nervous laugh: "no, it is absurd! no man, on reflection would enter into such a service unless it were for his own country." as the last words fell from her lips, she suddenly turned to adrian and met his earnest gaze. "or for his kindred," said the young man, coming up to her with grave simplicity, "if his kindred required it." a gleam of satisfaction passed across her face. the father, who had caught her meaning--sharp enough, as some men can be in their cups--nodded his head with great vigour. "yes, why should you think first of strangers," he grumbled, "when you have your own blood, to stand by you--blood is thicker than water, ain't it? am i too old, or is he too young, to wait on you--hey, madam?" she extended her hand, allowing it to linger in adrian's grasp, whilst she laid the other tenderly on the old man's shoulder. "my good uncle! my kind cousin! have i the choice already between two such cavaliers? i am fortunate indeed in my misfortune. in other circumstances to decide would be difficult between two men, each so good; but," she added, after a moment's hesitation, and looking at adrian in a manner that made the young man's heart beat thickly, "in this case it is obvious i must have some one whom i need not fear to direct." "ay, ay," muttered the baronet, "i'd go with you, my darling, to the world's end; but there's that young philosopher of mine breaking his heart for you. and when all's said and done, it's the young fellow that'll be the most use to you, i reckon. ay, you've chosen already, i'll be bound. the gouty old man had best stop at home. ho, ho, ho! you've the luck, adrian; more luck than you deserve." "it is i who have more luck than i deserve," answered madame de savenaye, smiling upon her young knight as, taking heart of grace, he stooped to seal the treaty upon her hand. "to say the truth, i had hoped for this, yet hardly dared to allow myself to count upon it. and really, uncle, you give your own son to my cause?--and you, cousin, you are willing to work for me? i am indeed strengthened at the outset of my undertaking. i shall pray that you may never have cause to regret your chivalrous goodness." she dropped adrian's hand with a faint pressure, and moved sighing towards the door. "do you wonder that i have no tears, cousin?" she said, a little wistfully; "they must gather in my heart till i have time to sit down and shed them." thus it was that a letter penned by this unknown m. de puisaye from some hidden fastness in the bocage of brittany came to divert the course of adrian landale's existence into a channel where neither he, nor any of those who knew him, would ever have dreamed to see it drift. chapter v the awakening oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel death, who wast so full of life, or death with thee? longfellow. sir adrian landale, in his sea-girt fastness, still absorbed in dreams of bygone days, loosed his grasp of faithful rené's shoulder and fell to pacing the chamber with sombre mien; while rené, to whom these fits of abstraction in his master were not unfamiliar, but yet to his superstitious peasant soul, eerie and awe-inspiring visitations, slipped unnoticed from his presence. the light-keeper sate down by his lonely hearth and buried his gaze in the glowing wood-embers, over which, with each fitful thundering rush of wind round the chimney, fluttered little eddies of silvery ash. so, that long strife was over, which had wrought such havoc to the world, had shaped so dismally the course of his own life! the monster of selfish ambition, the tyrannic, insatiable conqueror whose very existence had so long made peaceable pursuits unprofitable to mankind, the final outcome of that revolution that, at the starting point, had boded so nobly for human welfare--he was at last laid low, and all the misery of the protracted struggle now belonged to the annals of the past. it was all over--but the waste! the waste of life and happiness, far and wide away among innocent and uninterested beings, the waste remained. and, looking back on it, the most bitter portion of his own wrecked life was the short time he had yet thought happy; three months, spent as knight-errant. how far they seemed, far as irrevocable youth, those days when, in the wake of that love-compelling emissary, he moved from intrigue to intrigue among the émigrés in london, and their english sympathisers, to bustling yet secret activity in seafaring parts! the mechanical instrument directed by the ingenious mind of cécile de savenaye; the discreet minister who, for all his young years, secured the help of some important political sympathiser one day, scoured the country for arms and clothing, powder and _assignats_ another; who treated with smuggling captains and chartered vessels that were to run the gauntlet on the norman and breton coast, and supply the means of war to struggling and undaunted loyalists. all this relentless work, little suited, on the whole, to an englishman, and in a cause the rights of which he himself had, up to then, refused to admit, was then repaid a hundredfold by a look of gratitude, of pleasure even, a few sweet moments of his lady's company, before being sent hence again upon some fresh enterprise. ah, how he loved her! he, the youth on the threshold of manhood, who had never known passion before, how he loved this young widowed mother who used him as a man to deal for her with men, yet so loftily treated him as a boy when she dealt with him herself. and if he loved her in the earlier period of his thraldom, when scarce would he see her one hour in the twenty-four, to what all-encompassing fervour did the bootless passion rise when, the day of departure having dawned and sunk, he found himself on board the privateer, sailing away with her towards unknown warlike ventures, her knight to protect her, her servant to obey! on all these things mused the recluse of scarthey, sinking deeper and deeper into the past: the spell of haunting recollection closing on him as he sat by his hearthside, whilst the increasing fury of the gale toiled and troubled outside fighting the impassable walls of his tower. could it have been possible that she--the only woman that had ever existed for him, the love for whom had so distorted his mind from its natural sympathies, had killed in him the spring of youth and the savour of life--never really learnt to love him in return till the last? and yet there was a woman's soul in that delicious woman's body--it showed itself at least once, though until that supreme moment of union and parting, it seemed as if a man's mind alone governed it, becoming sterner, more unbendable, as hardships and difficulties multiplied. in the melancholy phantasm passing before his mind's eye, of a period of unprecedented bloodshed and savagery, when on the one side chouans, vendéens, and such guerillas of which madame de savenaye was the moving spirit, and on the other the _colonnes infernales_ of the revolutionary leaders, vied with each other in ferocity and cunning, she stood ever foremost, ever the central point of thought, with a vividness that almost a score of years had failed to dim. when the mood was upon him, he could unfold the roll of that story buried now in the lonely graves of the many, or in the fickle memories of the few, but upon his soul printed in letters of fire and blood--to endure for ever. round this goddess of his young and only love clustered the sole impressions of the outer world that had ever stirred his heart: the grandeur of the ocean, of the storm, the glory of sunrise over a dishevelled sea, the ineffable melancholy of twilight rising from an unknown strand; then the solemn coldness of moonlight watches, the scent of the burnt land under the fierce sun, when all nature was hushed save the dreamy buzz of insect-life: the green coolness of underwood or forest, the unutterable harmony of the sighing breeze, and the song of wild birds during the long patient ambushes of partisan war; the taste of bread in hunger, of the stream in the fever of thirst, of approaching sleep in exhaustion--and, mixed with these, the acrid emotions of fight and carnage, anguish of suspense, savage exultation of victory--all the doings of a life which he, bred to intellectual pleasures and high moral ideas, would have deemed a nightmare, but which, lived as it was in the atmosphere of his longing and devotion, yet held for him a strange and pungent joy: a cup of cruel memories, yet one to be lingered over luxuriously till the savour of each cherished drop of bitterness be gathered to the uttermost. now, in the brightness of the embers, between the fitful flames of crumbling wood, spreads before his eyes the dreary strand near quiberon, immense in the gathering darkness of a boisterous evening. well hidden under the stone table of a druidical men-hir glows a small camp-fire sedulously kept alive by rené for the service of the lady. she, wrapped up in a coarse peasant-cloak, pensively gazes into the cheerless smoke and holds her worn and muddy boots to the smouldering wood in the vain hope of warmth. and adrian stands silently behind her, brooding on many things--on the vicissitudes of that desultory war which has left them not a roof whereunder they can lay their heads, during which the little english contingent has melted from them one by one; on the critical action of the morrow when the republican columns, now hastening to oppose the landing of the great royalist expedition to quiberon (that supreme effort upon which all their hopes centre) must be surprised and cut off at whatever cost; on the mighty doings to follow, which are to complete the result of the recent sea fight off ushant and crown their devoted toil with victory at last.... and through his thoughts he watches the pretty foot, in its hideous disguise of patched, worn, ill-fitting leather, and he sees it as on the first day of their meeting, in its gleaming slipper and dainty silken stocking. now and then an owl-cry, repeated from point to point, tells of unremitting guard, but for which, in the vast silence, none could suspect that a thousand men and more are lying stretched upon the plain all around them, fireless, well-nigh without food, yet patiently waiting for the morrow when their chiefs shall lead them to death; nor that, in a closer circle, within call, are some fifty _gars_, remnant of the indomitable "savenaye band," and tacitly sworn bodyguard to the lady who came back from ease and safety over seas to share their peril. no sound besides, but the wind as it whistles and moans over the heath--and the two are together in the mist which comes closing in upon them as if to shroud them from all the rest, for even rené has crept away, to sleep perhaps. she turns at last towards him, her small face in the dying light of this sullen evening, how wan and weather-beaten! "pensive, as usual, cousin?" she says in english, and extends her hand, browned and scratched, that was once so exquisite, and she smiles, the smile of a dauntless soul from a weary body. poor little hands, poor little feet, so cold, so battered, so ill-used! he, who would have warmed them in his bosom, given his heart for them to tread upon, breaks down now, for the first time; and falling on his knees covers the cold fingers with kisses, and then lays his lips against those pitiful torn boots. but she spurns him from her--even from her feet: "shame on you!" she says angrily; and adds, more gently, yet with some contempt: "_enfant, va!_--is this the time for such follies?" and, suddenly recalled to honour and grim actuality, he realises with dismay his breach of trust--he, who in their earlier days in london had called out that sprightly little émigré merely for the vulgar flippancy (aimed in compliment, too, at the grave aide-de-camp), "that the fate of the late count weighed somewhat lightly upon madame de savenaye;" he, who had struck that too literary countryman of his own across the face--ay, and shot him in the shoulder, all in the secret early dawn of the day they left england--for daring to remark within his hearing: "by george, the handsome frenchwoman and her cousin may be a little less than kin, but they are a little more than kind." but yet, as the rage of love contending in his heart with self-reproach, he rises to his feet in shame, she gives him her hand once more, and in a different voice: "courage, cousin," says she, "perhaps some day we may both have our reward. but will not my knight continue to fight for my bidding, even without hope of such?" pondering on this enigmatic sentence he leaves her to her rest. * * * * * when next he finds himself by her side the anticipated action has begun; and it is to be the last day that those beautiful burning eyes shall see the glory of the rising sun. the chouans are fighting like demons, extended in long skirmishing lines, picking out the cluster of gunners, making right deadly use of their english powder; imperceptibly but unflinchingly closing their scattered groups until the signal comes and with ringing cries: "_notre dame d'auray!_" and "_vive le roi!_" they charge, undismayed by odds, the serried ranks of the republicans. she, from the top of the druidical stone, watches the progress of the day. her red, parted mouth twitches as she follows the efforts of the men. behind her, the _gars_ of savenaye, grasping with angry clutch, some a new musket, others an ancient straightened scythe, gaze fiercely on the scene from under their broad felts. now and then a flight of republican bullets hum about their ears, and they look anxiously to their lady, but that fearless head never bends. then the moment arrives, and with a fervent, "god be with you, brave people," she hurls, by a stirring gesture, the last reserve on to the fight. and now he finds himself in the midst of the furious medley, striking mechanically, his soul away behind on that stone, with her. presently, as the frenzy waxes wilder, he is conscious that victory is not with them, but that they are pressed back and encompassed, and that for each blue coat cast down amidst the yells and oaths, two more seem to come out of the rain and smoke; whilst the bare feet and wooden shoes and the long hair of his peasants are seen in ever-lessening ranks. and, in time, they find themselves thrown back to the men-hir; she is there, still calm but ghastly white, a pistol in each hand. around her, through the wet smoke, rise and fall with sickening thuds the clubbed muskets of three or four men, and then one by one these sink to the ground too. with a wailing groan like a man in a nightmare, he sees the inevitable end and rushes to place his body before hers. a bullet shatters his sword-blade; now none are left around them but the begrimed and sinister faces of their enemies. as they stand prisoners, and unheeding the hideous clamour, he, with despair thinking of her inevitable fate at the hands of such victors, and scarcely daring to look at her, suddenly sees _that_ in her eyes which fills his soul to overflowing. "all is lost," she whispers, "and i shall never repay you for all you have done, cousin!" the words are uttered falteringly, almost plaintively. "we are not long now for this world, friend," she adds more firmly. "give me your forgiveness." how often has adrian heard this dead voice during the strange vicissitudes of these long, long years! and, hearing it whisper in the vivid world of his brain, how often has he not passionately longed that he also had been able to yield his poor spark of life on the last day of her existence. for the usual fate of chouan prisoners swiftly overtakes the surviving leaders of the savenaye "band of brigands," as that doughty knot of loyalists was termed by their arch-enemy, thureau. a long journey towards the nearest town, in an open cart, under the pitiless rain, amidst a crowd of evil-smelling, blaspheming, wounded republicans, who, when a more cruel jolt than usual awakens their wounds, curse the woman in words that should have drawn avenging bolts from heaven. she sits silent, lofty, tearless; but her eyes, when they are not lost in the grey distance, ever wistfully seek his face. the day is drawing to a close; they reach their goal, a miserable, grey, draggled town at the mouth of the vilaine, and are roughly brought before the arbiter of their lives--thureau himself, the monstrous excrescence of the times, who, like marat and carrier, sees nothing in the new freedom but a free opening for the lowest instincts of ferocity. and before this monstrous beast, bedizened in his general's frippery, in a reeking tavern-room, stand the noble lady of savenaye and the young heir of pulwick. the ruffian's voice rings with laughter as he gazes on the silent youthful pair. "aha, what have we here; a couple of drowned rats? or have we trapped you at last, the ci-devant savenaye and her _godam_ from england? i ought really to send you as a present to the convention, but i am too soft-hearted, you see, my pigeons; and so, to save time and make sure, we will marry you to-day." one of the officers whispers some words in his ear, which thureau, suddenly growing purple with rage, denies with a foul oath and an emphatic thump of his huge fist on the table. "hoche has forbidden it, has he? hoche does not command here. hoche has not had to hunt down the brigands these last two years. dead the beast, dead the venom, i say. and here is the order," scribbling hurriedly on a page torn from a pocket-book. "it shall not be said that i have had the bitch of savenaye in my hands and trusted her on the road again. hoche has forbidden it! call the cantineer and hop: the marriage and quick--the soup waits." unable to understand the hidden meaning of the order, adrian looks at his lady askance, to find that, with eyes closed upon the sight of the grinning faces, she is whispering prayers and fervently crossing herself. when she turns to him again her face is almost serene. "they are going to drown us together; that is their republican marriage of aristocrats," she says in soft english. "i had feared worse. thank heaven there is no time now for worse. we shall be firm to the last, shall we not, cousin?" there is a pathetic smile on her worn weather-stained face, as the cantineer and a corporal enter with ropes and proceed to pinion the prisoners. but, as they are marched away once more under the slanting rain, are forced into a worn-out boat and lashed face to face, her fortitude melts apace. "there, my turtle-doves," sneers the truculent corporal, "another kindness of the general. the nantes way is back to back, but he thought it would amuse you to see each other's grimaces." on the strand resounds the muffled roll of wet drums, announcing the execution of national justice; with one blow of an axe the craft is scuttled; a push from a gaff sends it spinning on the swift swollen waters into the estuary. adrian's lips are on her forehead, but she lifts her face; her eyes now are haggard. "adrian," she sobs, "you have forgiven me? i have your death on my soul! oh, adrian, ... i could have loved you!" helpless and palsied by the merciless ropes, she tries passionately to reach her little mouth to his. a stream of fire rushes through his brain--maddening frenzy of regret, furious clinging to escaping life!--their lips have met, but the sinking craft is full, and, with a sudden lurch, falls beneath the eddies.... a last roll of the drums, and the pinioned bodies of these lovers of a few seconds are silently swirling under the waters of the vilaine. and now the end of this poor life has come--with heart-breaking sorrow of mind and struggle of body, overpowering horror at the writhings of torture in the limbs lashed against his--and vainly he strives to force his last breath into her hard-clenched mouth. such was the end of adrian landale, aged twenty--the end that should have been--the pity that it was not permitted! after the pangs of unwelcome death, the misery of unwelcome return to life. oh, rené, rené, too faithful follower; thou and the other true men who, heedless of danger, hanging on the flanks of the victorious enemy, never ceased to watch your lady from afar. you would have saved her, could courage and faithfulness and cunning have availed! but, since she was dead, rené, would thou hadst left us to drift on to the endless sea! how often have i cursed thee, good friend, who staked thy life in the angry bore to snatch two spent bodies from its merciless tossing. it was not to be endured, said you, that the remains of the lady of savenaye should drift away unheeded, to be devoured by the beasts of the sea! they now repose in sacred ground, and i live on! oh, hadst thou but reached us a minute later!--ah, god, or a minute earlier! rarely had sir adrian's haunting visions of the past assumed such lurid reality. rising in torment from the hearth to pace unceasingly the length and breadth of the restful, studious room, so closely secure from the outer turmoil of heaven and earth, he is once more back in the unknown sea-cave, in front of the angry breakers. slowly, agonisingly, he is recalled to life through wheeling spaces of pain and confusion, only that his bruised and smarting eyes may see the actual proof of his own desolateness--a small, stark figure wrapped in coarse sailcloth, which now two or three ragged, long-haired men are silently lifting between them. he wonders, at first, vaguely, why the tears course down those wild, dark faces; and then, as vainly he struggles to speak, and is gently held down by some unknown hand, the little white bundle is gone, and he knows that _there_ was the pitiful relict of his love--that he will never see her again! * * * * * sir adrian halted in front of his seaward window, staring at the driven rain, which bounded and plashed and spread in minute torrents down the glass, obscuring the already darkening vision of furious sea and sky. the dog, that for some moments had shown an anxious restlessness in singular concert with his master's, now rose at last to sniff beneath the door. no sound penetrated the roar of the blast; but the old retriever's uneasiness, his sharp, warning bark at length recalled sir adrian's wandering thoughts to the present. and, walking up to the door, he opened it. oh, god! had the sea given up its dead? sir adrian staggered back, fell on his knees and clapped his hands together with an agonised cry: "cécile...!" chapter vi the wheel of time and to his eye there was but one beloved face on earth, and that was shining on him. byron. upon the threshold she stood, looking in upon him with dark, luminous eyes; round the small wet face tangles of raven hair fell limp and streaming; dark raiments clung to her form, diapered with sand and sea-foam, sodden with the moisture that dripped from them to the floor; under the hem of her skirt one foot peered forth, shoeless in its mud-stained stocking. sir adrian stared up at her, his brain whirling with a frenzy of joy, gripped in its soaring ecstasy by terror of the incomprehensible. on the wings of the storm and the wind had she come to him, his love--across the awful barriers that divide life and death? had his longings and the clamour of his desolate soul reached her, after all these years, in the far-beyond, and was her sweet ghost here to bid him cease from them and let her lie at rest? or, yet, had she come to call him from the weary world that their souls might meet and be one at last?... then let her but lay her lips against his, as once in the bitterness of death, that his sorely-tried heart may break with the exquisite pang and he, too, may die upon their kiss. swift such thoughts were tossing in the turmoil of his mind when the vision smiled ... a young, rosy, living smile; and then reason, memory, the wonder of her coming, the haunting of her grave went from him; possessed by one single rapturous certainty he started up and gathered the wet form into his strong arms--yet gently as if he feared to crush the vision into void--and showered kisses on the wet face. not death--but life! a beating heart beneath his; a lithe young form under his hand, warm lips to his kisses, ... merciful heaven! were, then, these twenty years all an evil, fevered dream, and was he awake at length? she turned her face from him after a moment and put her hand against his breast to push him from her; and as she did so the wonder in the lovely, familiar eyes turned to merriment, and the lips parted into laughter. the sound of the girlish laughter broke the spell. sir adrian stepped back, and passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed look. and still she laughed on. "why, cousin landale," she said, at length between the peals; "i came to throw myself upon your kindness for shelter from the storm, but--i had not anticipated such a reception." the voice, clear and sweet, with just a tinge of outlandish intonation, struck adrian to the heart. "i have not heard," he faltered, "that voice for twenty years...!" then, coming up to her, he took her hands; and, drawing her towards the firelight, scanned her features with eager, hungering eyes. "do not think me mad, child," he said at last; "tell me who you are--what has brought you here? ah, god, at such a moment! who is it," he pursued, as if to himself, whilst still she smiled mockingly and answered not; "who is it, then, since cécile de savenaye is dead--and i am not dreaming--nor in fever? no vision either--this is flesh and blood." "yes, indeed," mocked the girl with another burst of merriment; "flesh and blood, please, and very living! why, cousin landale, you that knew cécile de savenaye so well have you forgotten two babes that were born at your own house of pulwick? i believe, 'tis true, i have somewhat altered since you saw me last." and again the old room echoed to the unwonted sound of a girl's laughter. now was the hallucination clearing; but the reality evoked a new and almost as poignant tenderness. cécile--phantom of a life-time's love, reborn in the flesh, young as on the last day of her earthly existence, coming back into his life again, even the same as she had left it! a second wonder, almost as sweet as the first! he clung to it as one clings to the presence of a dream, and, joy unspeakable, the dream did not melt away, but remained, smiling, beautiful, unchanged. "cécile's daughter ..." he murmured: "cécile's self again; but she was not so tall, i think," and drew trembling, reverent hands from her head to her straight young shoulders. and then he started, crying in a changed voice: "how wet and cold you are! come closer to the fire--sit you into this chair, here, in the warmth." he piled up the hearth with faggots till the flames roared again. she dropped into the proffered chair with a little shiver; now that he recalled her to it, she was wet and cold too. he surveyed her with gathering concern. "my child," he began, and hesitated, continuing, after a short pause of musing--for the thought struck him as strange--"i may call you so, i suppose; i that am nearly old enough to be your father; my mind was so unhinged by your sudden appearance, by the wonderful resemblance, that i have neglected all my duties as host. you will suffer from this--what shall we do to comfort you? here, jem, good dog! call rené!" the old retriever who, concluding that the visitor was welcome, had returned to his doze, here gathered his stiff limbs together, hobbled out through the doorway to give two or three yelping barks at some point on the stairs, and then crawl back to his cosy corner by the hearth. the girl laughed again. it was all odd, new, exciting. adrian looked down at her. cécile, too, had had a merry heart, even through peril and misfortune. and now there were hasty steps upon the stairs, creaking above the outer tumult of sea and wind; and, in accordance with the long-established custom of summoning him, rené appeared upon the threshold, holding a pair of candles. at the sight of the figure sitting by the fire he halted, as if rooted to the ground, and threw up his hands, each still clutching its candle. "mademoiselle...!" he ejaculated. "mademoiselle here!" then, rapidly recovering his quick wits, he deposited his burden of light upon the table, advanced towards the lady, made an uncouth but profound bow, and turned to his master. "and this, your honour," he remarked, oracularly, and in his usual manner of literal adaptation, "was also part of the news i had for your honour from my last journey; but, my faith, i did not know how to take myself to it, as your honour was so much occupied with old times this evening. but i had seen mademoiselle at the castle, as mademoiselle can tell you herself. and if your honour," he added, with a look of astonishment, "will have the goodness to say how it is possible that mademoiselle managed to arrive here on our isle, in this weather of all the devils--reverence speaking, and i humbly beg the pardon of mademoiselle for using such words--when it was with pain i could land myself, and that before the storm--i should be grateful to your honour. for i avow i cannot comprehend it at all. ah, your honour!" continued rené, with an altered tone, "'tis a strange thing, this!" the looks of master and man crossed suddenly, and in the frank blue eyes of the breton peasant, sir adrian read a reflex of his own thoughts. "yes," he said, more in answer to the look than to the exclamation, "yes, it is a strange thing, friend." "and his honour cannot read the riddle any more than you yourself, rené," quoth mademoiselle de savenaye, composedly from her corner; "and, as for me, i can give no explanations until i am a little warmer." "why, truly," exclaimed sir adrian, striking his forehead, "we are a very pair of dolts! hurry, renny, hurry, call up margery, and bid her bring some hot drink--tea, broth, or what she has--and blankets. stay! first fetch my furred cloak; quick, rené, every moment is precious!" with all the agitation of a rarely excited man sir adrian threw more wood on the fire, hunted for a cushion to place beneath her feet, and then, seizing the cloak from rené's hands, he helped her to rise, and wrapped its ample folds round her as carefully as if she were too precious almost to be touched. thus enveloped she sank back in the great arm-chair with a cosy, deliberate, kitten-like movement, and stretched out her feet to the blaze, laying the little shoeless one upon jem's grey muzzle. adrian knelt beside her, and began gently to chafe it with both hands. and, as he knelt, silence fell between them, and the storm howled out yonder; he heard her give a little sigh--that sigh which would escape from cécile's weariness in moments of rest, which had once been so familiar and so pathetic a sound in his ear. and once more the power of the past came over him; again he was upon the heath near quiberon, and cécile was sitting by him and seeking warmth by the secret fire. "oh, my darling," he murmured, "your poor little feet were so cold; and yet you would not let me gather them to my breast." and, stooping slowly, he kissed the pretty foot in its torn, stained stocking with a passion he had not yet shown. the girl looked on with an odd little smile. it was a novel experience, to inspire--even vicariously--such feelings as these; and there was something not unpleasant in the sense of the power which had brought this strange handsome man prostrate before her--a maidenly tremor, too, in the sensation of those burning lips upon her feet. he raised his eyes suddenly, with the old expectation of a rebuff; and then, at the sight of the youthful, curious face above him, betook himself to sighing too; and, laying the little foot back tenderly upon the cushion, he rose. from between the huge fur collar which all but covered her head, the black eyes followed him as alertly as a bird's; intercepting the soft melancholy of his gaze, she smiled at him, mischievous, confident, and uncommunicative, and snuggled deeper into the fur. leaning against the high mantel-board, he remained silent, brooding over her; the clock ticked off solemnly the fleeting moments of the wonderful hour; and ever and anon the dog drew a long breath of comfort and stretched out his gaunt limbs more luxuriously to the heat. after a while sir adrian spoke. "he who has hospitality to dispense," said he, smiling down at her mutinous grace, "should never ask whence or how the guest came to his hearth ... and yet--" she made a slight movement of laziness, but volunteered nothing; and he continued, his look becoming more wistful as he spoke: "your having reached this rock, during such weather, is startling enough; it is god's providence that there should live those in these ruins who are able to give you succour. but that you should come in to me at the moment you did--" he halted before the bold inquisitive brightness of her eyes. "some day perhaps you will let me explain," he went on, embarrassed. "indeed i must have seemed the most absolute madman, to you. but he who thinks he sees one returned from death in angry waters, may be pardoned some display of emotion." the girl sat up briskly and shook herself as if in protest against the sadness of his smile and look. "i rise indeed from a watery grave," she said lightly, "or at least from what should have been my grave, had i had my deserts for my foolishness; as it has turned out i do not regret it now; though i did, about midway." the red lips parted and the little teeth gleamed. "i have found such kindness and welcome." she caressed the dog who, lazily, tried to lick her hand. "it is all such an adventure; so much more amusing than pulwick; so much more interesting than ever i fancied it might be!" "pulwick; you come from pulwick?" said sir adrian musing; "true, rené has said it but just now. yet, it is of a piece with the strangeness of it all." "yes," said mademoiselle de savenaye, once more collecting her cloak, which her hurried movement had thrown off her shoulder. "madelon and i are now at pulwick--i am molly, cousin, please to remember--or rather i am here, very warm now, and comfortable, and she is somewhere along the shore--perhaps--she and john, as wet as drowned rats. well, well, i had best tell you the tale from the beginning, or else we never shall be out of the labyrinth.--we started from pulwick, for a ride by the shore, madelon and i. when we were on the strand it came on to rain. there was smoke out of your chimney. i proposed a canter as far as the ruins, for shelter. i knew very well madelon would not follow; but i threw poor lucifer--you know lucifer, mr. landale has reserved him for me; of course you know lucifer, i believe he belongs to you! well, i threw him along the causeway. john, he's the groom you know, and madelon, shrieked after me. but it was beautiful--this magnificent tearing gallop in the rain--i was not going to stop.--but when we were half way, lucifer and i, i saw suddenly that the foam seemed to cover the sand in front of me. then i pulled up quick and turned round to look behind me. there was already a frightful wind, and the sand and the rain blinded me almost, but there was no mistake--the sea was running between the shore and me. oh! my god! but i was frightened then; i beat poor lucifer until my whip broke, and he started away with a will. but when his feet began to splash the water he too became frightened and stopped. i did not know what to do; i pulled out my broach to spur him with the pin, but, at the first prick i gave him, he reared, and swerved and i fell right on my face in the froth. i got up and began to run through the water; then i came to some stones and i knew i was saved, though the water was up to my knees and rushing by like a torrent. when i had clambered up the beach i thought again of poor lucifer. i looked about and saw him a little way off. he was shaking and tossing his dear black head, and neighing, though i really did not hear him, for the wind was in my ears; his body was stock still, i could not see his legs.... and gradually he sank lower, and lower, and lower, and at last the water passed over his head. oh! it was horrible, horrible!" the girl shuddered and her bright face clouded. after a moment she resumed: "it was only then i thought of the moving sands they spoke of the other day at pulwick--and that was why madelon and that poltroon groom would not follow me! yet perhaps they were wise, after all, for the thought of being buried alive made me turn weak all of a sudden. my knees shook and i had to sit down, although i knew i had passed through the danger. but i was so sorry for poor lucifer! i thought if i had come down and led him, poor fellow, he might have come with me. death is so awful, so hideous; he was so full of life and carried me so bravely, only a few minutes before! is it not a shame that there should be such a thing as death?" she cried, rebelliously, and looked up at the man above her, whose face had grown white at the thought of the danger she had barely escaped. "i waited," she resumed at length, "till i thought he must be quite dead, there below, and came up to the ruins, and looked for an entrance. i knocked at some doors and called, but the wind was so loud, no one heard. and then, at last, there was one door i could open, so i entered and came up the stairs and startled you, as you know. and that is how i came here and how lucifer is drowned." as she finished her tale at last, she looked up at her companion. but sir adrian, who had followed her with ever-deepening earnestness of mien, remained silent; noticing which she added quickly and with a certain tinge of defiance: "and now, no doubt, you are not quite so pleased as you seemed at first with the apparition which has caused you the loss of one of your best horses!" "why child," cried sir adrian, "so that you be safe you might have left all pulwick at the bottom of the sands for me!" and rené who entered the room at that moment, heading the advance of dame margery with the posset, here caught the extraordinary sound of a laugh on his master's lips, and stepped back to chuckle to himself and rub his hands. "who would have believed that!" he muttered, "and i who was afraid to tell his honour! oh, yes, there are better times coming. now in with you, mother margery, see for yourself who is there." holding in both hands a fragrant, steaming bowl, the old crone made her slow entrance upon the scene, peering with dim eyes, and dropping tremulous curtseys every two or three steps. "renny towd me as you wanted summat hot for a lady," she began cautiously; and then having approached near for recognition at last, burst forth into a long-drawn cry! "eh, you never says! eh, dear o' me," and was fain to relinquish the bowl to her fellow-servant who narrowly watching, dived forward just in time to catch it from her, that she might clasp her aged hands together once and again with ever-renewed gestures of astonishment. "an' it were truth then, an' i that towd renny to give over his nonsense--i didn't believe it, i welly couldn't. eh, mester adrian, but she's like the poor lady that's dead and gone, the spit an' image she is--e-eh, she is!" molly de savenaye laughed aloud, stretched out her hand for the bowl, and began with dainty caution to sip its scalding contents. "ah, my dear margery," said the master, "we little thought what a guest the sea would cast up at our doors to-night! and now we must do our best for her; when she's finished your comforting mixture i shall give her into your charge. you ought to put her to bed--it will not be the first time." "ah! it will not, and a troublesome child she was," replied margery, after the usual pause for the assimilation of his remark, turning to the speaker from her palsied yet critical survey of her whilom nursling. "and i'll see to her, never fear, i'll fettle up a room for her at once--blankets is airing already, an' sheets, an' renny he's seen to the fire, so that as soon as miss, here, is ready, i am." upon which, dropping a last curtsey with an assumed dignity which would have befitted a mistress of the robes, she took her departure, leaving adrian smiling with amusement at her specious manner of announcing that his own bedroom--the only one available for the purpose in the ruins--was being duly converted into a lady's bower. "it grieves me to think," mused he after a pause, while rené still bursting with ungratified curiosity, hung about the further end of the room, "of the terrible anxiety they must be in about you at pulwick, and of our absolute inability to convey to them the good news of your safety." the girl gave a little laugh, with her lips over the cup, and shrugged her shoulders but said nothing. "my god, yes," quoth rené cheerfully from his corner. "notre dame d'auray has watched over mademoiselle to-day. she would not permit the daughter to die like the mother. and now we have got her ladyship we shall keep her too. this, if your honour remembers his sailor's knowledge, looks like a three-days' gale." "you are right, i fancy," said sir adrian, going over to him and looking out of the window. "mademoiselle de savenaye will have to take up her abode in our lighthouse for a longer time than she bargained. i do not remember hearing the breakers thunder in our cave so loud for many years. i trust," continued the light-keeper, coming down to his fair guest again, "that you may be able to endure such rough hospitality as ours must needs be!" "it has been much more pleasant and i feel far more welcome already than at pulwick," remarked mademoiselle, between two deliberate sips, and in no way discomposed, it seemed, at the prospect held out to her. "how?" cried sir adrian with a start, while the unwonted flush mounted to his forehead, "you, not welcome at pulwick! have they not welcomed a child of cécile de savenaye at pulwick?... thank god, then, for the accident that has sent you to me!" the girl looked at him with an inquisitive smile in her eyes; there was something on her lips which she restrained. surrendering her cup, she remarked demurely: "yes, it was a lucky accident, was it not, that there was some one to offer shelter to the outcast from the sea? it is like a tale of old. it is delightful. delightful, too, not to be drowned, safe and sound ... and welcome in this curious old place." she had risen and, as the cloak fell from her steaming garments, again she shivered. "but you are right," she said, "i must go to bed, and get these damp garments off. and so, my lord of scarthey, i will retire to my apartments; my lady in waiting i see yonder is ready for me." with a quaint mixture of playfulness and gravity, she extended her hand, and adrian stooped and kissed it--as he had kissed fair cécile de savenaye's rosy finger-tip upon the porch of pulwick, twenty years before. chapter vii forebodings of gladness molly de savenaye in her improvised bedroom, wet as she was, could hardly betake herself to disrobing, so amused was she in surveying the fresh and romantic oddity of her surroundings, with their mixture of barbarous rudeness and almost womanish refinement. old margery's fumbling hands were not nimble either, and it was long since she had acted as attendant upon one of her own sex. and so the matter progressed but slowly; but the speed of margery's tongue was apparently not affected by its length of service. it wagged ceaselessly; the girl between her own moods of curious speculation vouchsafing an amused, half-contemptuous ear. presently, however, as the nurse's reminiscences wandered from the less interesting topic of her own vicissitudes, the children she had reared or buried, and the marvellous ailments she had endured, to an account of those days when she had served the french madam and her babes, molly, slowly peeling a clinging sleeve from her arm, turned a more eager and attentive face to her. "ah," quoth margery, appraising her with blear eyes, "it's a queer thing how ye favour your mother, miss. she had just they beautiful shoulders and arms, as firm an' as white; but you're taller, i think, and may be so, to speak, a stouter make altogether. eh, dear, you were always a fine child and the poor lady set a deal of store on you, she did. she took you with her and left your sister with my sally, when she was trapesing up to london and back with mester adrian, ay, and me with ye. and many the day that i wished myself safe at pulwick! and i mind the day she took leave of you, i do that, well." here dame margery paused and shook her head solemnly, then pursued in another key: "see now, miss, dear, just step out of they wet things, will ye now, and let me put this hot sheet round ye?" "but i want to hear about myself," said molly, gratefully wrapping the hot linen round her young beauty, and beginning to rub her black locks energetically. "where was it my mother parted from me?" "why, i'll tell you, miss. when madam--we allus used to call her madam, ye know--was goin' her ways to the ship as was to take her to france, i took you after her mysel' down to the shore that she might have the very last of ye. eh, i mind it as if it were yesterday. mester adrian was to go with her--sir adrian, i should say, but he was but mester adrian then--an' a two three more o' th' gentry as was all fur havin' a share o' th' fightin'. sir thomas himsel' was theer--i like as if i could see him now, poor owd gentleman, talkin' an' laughin' very hard an' jov'al, an' wipin' 's e'en when he thought nobody noticed. eh, dear, yes! i could ha' cried mysel' to see th' bonny young lady goin' off fro' her bairns. an' to think she niver came back to them no more. well, well! an' mester adrian too--such a fine well-set-up young gentleman as he were--and _he_ niver comed back for ten year an' when he did, he was that warsened--" she stopped, shook her head and groaned. "well, but how about me, nurse," observed molly, "what about _me_?" "miss, please it was this way. madam was wantin' a last look at her bairn--eh, she did, poor thing! you was allus her favoryite, ye know, miss--our sally was wet-nurse to miss maddyline, but madam had you hersel'. well, miss, i'd brought you well lapped up i' my shawl an' william shearman--that was thomas shearman's son, feyther to william an' tom as lives over yonder at pulwick village--well, william was standin' in 's great sea-boots ready to carry her through th' surf into the boat; an' mester adrian--sir adrian, i mean--stood it might be here, miss, an' there was renny, an' yon were th' t'other gentry. well, madam stopped an' took you out o' my arms, an' hugged you to her breast--an' then she geet agate o' kissin' you--your head an' your little 'ands. an' you was jumpin' an' crowin' in her arms--the wind had blown your cap off, an' your little downy black hair was standing back. (just let me get at your hair now, miss, please--eh! it's cruel full of sand, my word, it is.)" "it's 'ard, when all's said an' done, to part wi' th' babe ye've suckled, an' madam, though there was niver nought nesh about 'er same as there is about most women, an' specially ladies--she 'ad th' mother's 'eart, she 'ad, miss, an when th' time coom for her to leave th' little un, i could see, as it were, welly burstin'. there we stood wi' th' wind blowin' our clothes an' our 'air, an' the waves roarin', an' one bigger nor th' t'others ran up till th' foam reached madam's little feet, but she niver took no notice. then all of a sudden she gets th' notion that she'd like to take you with 'er, an' she turns an' tells mester adrian so. 'she shall come with me,' she says, quite sharp an' determined, an' makes a sign to william shearman to carry 'em both over. 'no, no,' says mester adrian, 'quite impossible,' says he, as wise as if he'd been an owd man i' stead o' nobbut a lad, ye might say. 'it would be madness both for you an' th' child. now,' he says, very quiet an' gentle, 'if i might advise, i should say stay here with the child.' eh, i couldn't tell ye all he said, an' then sir tummas coom bustlin' up, 'do, now, my dear; think of it,' he says, pattin' her o' th' hand. 'stay with us,' he says, 'ye'll be welcome as th' flowers in may!' an' there was renny wi' 's 'at off, an' th' tears pourin' down his face, beggin' an' prayin' madam to stop--at least, i reckoned that was what he were sayin' for it was all in 's own outlandish gibberish. the poor lady! she'd look from one to th' t'other an' a body a' must think she'd give in--an' then she'd unbethink hersel' again. an' sir thomas, he'd say, 'do now, my dear,' an' then when she'd look at him that pitiful, he'd out wi' 's red 'andkercher an' frown over at mester adrian, an', says he, 'i wonder ye can ax her!' well, all of a sudden off went th' big gun in th' ship--that was to let 'em know, miss, do ye see--an' up went madam's head, an' then th' wind fetched th' salt spray to her face, an' a kind o' change came over her. she looked at the child, then across at the ship--an' then she fair tossed ye back to me. big william catched her up in his arms just same as another bairn, an' carried her to the boat." "yes," said molly, gazing into the burning logs with brilliant eyes, but speaking low, as if to herself, so that her attendant's deaf ears failed to catch the meaning of the words. "ah, that was life indeed! happy mother to have seen such life--though she did die young." "as ye say, miss," answered margery, making a guess at the most likely comment from a daughter's lips, "it was cruel hard--it was that. 'come, make haste!' cries the other young gentlemen: my word, they were in a hurry lest madam happen to change her mind. i could welly have laughed to see their faces when mester adrian were trying to persuade her to stop at pulwick, and let the men go alone. 't wern't for that they reckoned to go all that road to france, ye may think, miss. well, miss, in a few minutes they was all out i' the boat wi' th' waves tossin' 'em--an' i stood watchin' with you i' my arms, cryin' and kickin' out wi' your little legs, an' hittin' of me wi' your little 'ands, same as if ye knowed summat o' what was agate, poor lamb, an' was angry wi' me for keepin' ye. then in a little while the big, white sails o' th' ship went swellin' out an' soon it was gone. an' that was th' last we saw o' madam. a two-three year arter you an' miss maddyline was fetched away, to france, as i've been towd. i doubt you didn't so much as think there was such a place as pulwick, though many a one there minds how they dandled and played wi' you when you was a wee bairn, miss." "well, i am very glad to be back in england, anyhow," said molly, nimbly slipping into bed. "oh, margery, what delicious warm sheets, and how good it is to be in bed alive, dry, and warm, after all!" a new atmosphere pervaded scarthey that night. the peaceful monotony of years, since the master of pulwick had migrated to his "ruins," was broken at last, and happily. a warm colour seemed to have crept upon the hitherto dun and dull surroundings and brightened all the prospects. at any rate rené, over his busy work in the lantern, whistled and hummed snatches of song with unwonted blithesomeness, and, after lighting the steady watch-light and securing all his paraphernalia with extra care, dallied some time longer than usual on the outer platform, striving to snatch through the driven wraith a glance of the distant lights of pulwick. for there, in the long distance, ensconced among the woods, stood a certain gate-lodge of greystone, much covered with ivy, which sheltered, among other inmates, the gatekeeper's blue-eyed, ripe and ruddy daughter--dame margery's pet grandchild. the idea of ever leaving the master--even for the sake of the happiness to be found over yonder--was not one to be entertained by rené. but what if dreams of a return to the life of the world should arise after to-day in the recluse's mind? ah, the master's eyes had been filled with light!... and had he not actually laughed? rené peered again through the wind, but nothing could be seen of the world abroad, save grey, tumbling waters foaming at the foot of the islet; fretful waters coalescing all around with the driven, misty air. a desolate view enough, had there been room for melancholy thoughts in his heart. blithely did he descend the steep wooden stairs from the roaring, weather-beaten platform, to the more secure inhabited keep; and, humming a satisfied tune, he entered upon margery in her flaming kitchen, to find the old lady intent on sorting out a heap of feminine garments and spreading them before the fire. rené took up a little shoe, sand-soiled and limp, and reverentially rubbed it on his sleeve. "well, mother," he said, cheerfully, "it is a long while since you had to do with such pretty things. my faith, these are droll doings, ah--and good, too! you will see, mother margery, there will be good out of all this." but margery invariably saw fit, on principle, to doubt all the opinions of her rival. eh, she didn't hold so much wi' wenches hersel', an' mester adrian, she reckoned, hadn't come to live here all by himsel' to have visitors breaking in on him that gate! "there be visitors _and_ visitors, mother--i tell you, i who speak to you, that his honour is happy." margery, with a mysterious air, smoothed out a long silk stocking and gave an additional impetus to the tremor nature had already bestowed upon her aged head. well, it wasn't for her to say. she hoped and prayed there was nowt bad a coomin' on the family again; but sich likenesses as that of miss to her mother was not lucky, to her minding; it was not. nowt good had come to mester adrian from the french madam. ah, mester adrian had been happy like with her too, and she had taken him away from his home, an' his people, an' sent him back wi'out 's soul in the end. "and now her daughter has come to give it him back," retorted rené, as he fell to, with a zest, on the savoury mess he had concocted for his own supper. "eh, well, i hope nowt bad's i' the road," said margery with senile iteration. "they do say no good ever comes o' saving bodies from drowning; not that one 'ud wish the poor miss to have gone into the sands--an' she the babby i weaned too!" rené interrupted her with a hearty laugh. "yes, every one knows it carries misfortune to save people from the drowning, but there, you see, her ladyship, she saved herself--so that ought to bring good fortune. good-night, mother margery, take good care of the lady.... ah, how i wish i had the care of her!" he added simply, and, seizing his lantern, proceeded to ascend once more to his post aloft. he paused once on his way, in the loud sighing stairs, struck with a fresh aspect of the day's singular events--a quaint thought, born of his native religious faith: the lady, the dear mistress had just reached heaven, no doubt, and had straightway sent them the young one to console and comfort them. eh bien! they had had their time of purgatory too, and now they might be happy. pleasant therefore were rené's musings, up in the light watcher's bunk, underneath the lantern, as, smoking a pipe of rest, he listened complacently to the hissing storm around him. and in the master's sleeping chamber beneath him, now so curiously turned into a feminine sanctum, pleasant thoughts too, if less formed, and less concerned with the future, lulled its dainty occupant to rest. luxuriously stretched between the warm lavender-scented sheets, watching from her pillow the leaping fire on the hearth, miss molly wondered lazily at her own luck; at the many possible results of the day's escapade; wondered amusedly whether any poignant sorrow--except, indeed poor madeleine's tears--for her supposed demise, really darkened the supper party at pulwick this evening; wondered agreeably how the lord of the ruined castle would meet her on the morrow, after his singular reception of her this day; how long she would remain in these romantic surroundings and whether she would like them as well at the end of the visitation. and as the blast howled with increasing rage, and the cold night drew closer on, and the great guns in the sea-cave boomed more angrily with the risen tide, she dimly began to dwell upon the thought of poor lucifer being sucked deeper into his cold rapacious grave, whilst she was held in the warm embrace of a man whose eyes were masterful and yet gentle, whose arm was strong, whose kisses were tender. and in the delight of the contrast, mademoiselle de savenaye fell into the profound slumber of the young and vigorous. chapter viii the path of wasted years and i only think of the woman that weeps; but i forget, always forget, the smiling child. _luteplayer's song._ that night, even when sheer fatigue had subdued the currents of blood and thought that surged in his head, sir adrian was too restless to avail himself of the emergency couch providently prepared by rené in a corner. but, ceasing his fretful pacing to and fro, he sat down in the arm-chair by the hearth where she had sat--the waif of the sea--wrapped round him the cloak that had enfolded the young body, hugging himself in the salt moisture the fur still retained, to spend the long hours in half-waking, firelight dreams. and every burst of tempest rage, every lash of rain at the window, every thud of hurricane breaking itself on impassable ramparts, and shriek of baffled winds searching the roofless halls around, found a strangely glad echo in his brain--made a sort of burden to his thoughts: heap up the waters round this happy island, most welcome winds--heap them up high and boiling, and retain her long captive in these lonely ruins! and ever the image in his mind's eye was, as before, cécile--cécile who had come back to him, for all sober reason knew it was but the child. the child----! why had he never thought of the children these weary years? they, all that remained of cécile, were living and might have been sought. strange that he had not remembered him of the children! twenty years since he had last set eyes upon the little living creature in her mother's arms. and the picture that the memory evoked was, after all, cécile again, only cécile--not the queer little black-eyed puppet, even then associated with sea-foam and salty breeze. twenty years during which she was growing and waxing in beauty, and unawares, maturing towards this wonderful meeting--and he had never given a thought to her existence. in what sheltered ways had this fair duplicate of his love been growing from a child to womanhood during that space of life, so long to look back upon--or so short and transient, according to the mood of the thinker? and, lazily, in his happier and tender present mood he tried to measure once again the cycles of past discontent, this time in terms of the girl's own lifetime. it is bitter in misery to recall past misery--almost as bitter, for all dante's cry, as to dwell on past happiness. but, be the past really dead, and a new and better life begun, the scanning back of a sombre existence done with for ever, may bring with it a kind of secret complacency. truly, mused sir adrian, for one who ever cherished ideal aspirations, for the student, the "man of books" (as his father had been banteringly wont to term him), worshipper of the muses, intellectual epicurean, and would-be optimist philosopher, it must be admitted he had strangely dealt, and been dealt with, since he first beheld that face, now returned to light his solitude! ah, god bless the child! pulwick at least nursed it warmly, whilst unhappy adrian, ragged and degraded into a mere fighting beast, roamed through the marais with chouan bands, hunted down by the merciless revolutionists, like vermin; falling, as months of that existence passed over him, from his high estate to the level of vermin indeed; outlawed, predatory, cunning, slinking, filthy--trapped at last, the fit end of vermin! scarcely better the long months of confinement in the hulks of rochelle. how often he had regretted it, then, not to have been one of the chosen few who, the day after capture, stood in front of six levelled muskets, and were sped to rest in some unknown charnel! then!--not now. no, it was worth having lived to this hour, to know of that fair face, in living sleep upon his pillow, under the safeguard of his roof. good it was, that he had escaped at last, though with the blood of one of his jailors red upon his hands; the blood of a perhaps innocent man, upon his soul. it was the only time he had taken a life other than in fair fight, and the thought of it had been wont to fill him with a sort of nausea; but to-night, he found he could face it, not only without remorse, but without regret. he was glad he had listened to rené's insidious whispers--rené, who could not endure the captivity to which his master might, in time, have fallen a passive, hopeless slave, and yet who would have faced a thousand years of it rather than escape alone--the faithful heart! yes, it was good, and he was glad of it, or time would not have come when she (stay, how old was the child then?--almost three years, and still sheltered and cherished by the house of landale)--when she would return, and gladden his eyes with a living sight of cécile, while rené watched in his tower above; ay, and old margery herself lay once more near the child she had nursed. marvellous turn of the wheel of fate! but, who had come for the children, and where had they been taken? to their motherland, perhaps; even it might have been before he himself had left it; or yet to ireland, where still dwelt kinsfolk of their blood? probably it was at the breaking up of the family, caused by the death of sir thomas, that these poor little birds had been removed from the nest, that had held them so safe and close. that was in ' , in the yellow autumn of which year adrian landale, then french fisherman, parted from his brother rené l'apôtre upon the sea off belle isle; parted one grizzly dawn after embracing, as brothers should. oh, the stealthy cold of that blank, cheerless daybreak, how it crept into the marrow of his bones, and chilled the little energy and spirits he had left! for a whole year they had fruitlessly sought some english vessel, to convey this english gentleman back to his native land. he could remember how, at the moment of separation, from the one friend who had loved both him and her, his heart sank within him--remember how he clambered from aboard the poor little smack, up the forbidding sides of the english brig; how rené's broken words had bidden god bless him, and restore him safely home (home!); remember how swiftly the crafts had moved apart, the mist, the greyness and desolateness; the lapping of the waters, the hoarse cries of the seamen, all so full of heart-piercing associations to him, and the last vision of rené's simple face, with tears pouring down it, and his open mouth spasmodically trying to give out a hearty cheer, despite the sobs that came heaving up to it. how little the simple fellow dreamed of what bitterness the future was yet holding for his brother and master, to end in these reunions at last! the vessel which had taken adrian landale on board, in answer to the frantic signals of the fishing-smack, that had sailed from belle isle obviously to meet her, proved to be a privateer, bound for the west indies, but cruising somewhat out of her way, in the hope of outgoing prizes from nantes. the captain, who had been led to expect something of importance from the smack's behaviour, in high dudgeon at finding that so much bustle and waste of time was only to burden him with a mere castaway seeking a passage home--one who, albeit a countryman, was too ragged and disreputable in looks to be trusted in his assurances of reward--granted him indeed the hospitality of his ship, but on the condition of his becoming a hand in the company during the forthcoming expedition. there was a rough measure of equity in the arrangement, and adrian accepted it. the only alternative, moreover, would have been a jump overboard. and so began a hard spell of life, but a few shades removed from his existence among the chouan guerillas; a predatory cruise lasting over a year, during which the only changes rung in the gamut of its purpose were the swooping down, as a vulture might, upon unprotected ships; flying with superior speed from obviously stronger crafts; engaging, with hawk-like bravery, everything afloat that displayed inimical colours, if it offered an equal chance of fight. and this for more than a year, until the privateer, much battered, but safe, despite her vicissitudes made halifax for refitting. here, at the first suitable port she had touched, adrian claimed and obtained his release from obligations which made his life almost unendurable. then ensued a period of the most absolute penury; unpopular with most of his messmates for his melancholy taciturnity, despised by the more brutal as one who had as little stomach for a carouse as for a bloody fight, he left the ship without receiving, or even thinking of his share of prize-money. and he had to support existence with such mean mechanical employment as came in his way, till an opportunity was offered of engaging himself as seaman, again from sheer necessity, on a homeward-bound merchantman--an opportunity which he seized, if not eagerly, for there was no eagerness left in him, yet under the pressure of purpose. next the long, slowly plodding, toilsome, seemingly eternal course across the ocean. but even a convoy, restricted to the speed of its slowest member, if it escape capture or natural destruction, must meet the opposite shore at length, and the last year of the century had lapsed in the even race of time when, after many dreary weeks, on the first of january , the long low lines of sandhills on the lancastrian coast loomed in sight. the escort drew away, swiftly southwards, as if in joyful relief from the tedious task, leaving the convoy to enter the mersey, safe and sound. that evening adrian, the rough-looking and taciturn sailor, set foot, for a short while, on his native land, after six years of an exile which had made of him at five and twenty a prematurely aged and hopelessly disillusioned man. and sir adrian, as he mused, wrapped in the honoured fur cloak, with eyes half closed, by his sympathetic fire, recalled how little of joy this return had had for him. it was the goal he had striven to reach, and he had reached it, that was all; nay, he recalled how, when at hand, he had almost dreaded the actual arrival home, dreaded, with the infinite heart-sickness of sorrow, the emotions of the family welcome to one restored from such perils by flood and field--if not indeed already mourned for and forgotten--little wotting how far that return to pulwick, that seemed near and certain, was still away in the dim future of life. yet, but for the fit of hypochondriacal humour which had fallen black upon him that day of deliverance and made him yearn, with an intensity increasing every moment, to separate himself from his repugnant associates and haste the moment of solitude and silence, he might have been rescued, then and for ever, from the quagmire in which perverse circumstances had enslaved him. "look'ee here, matey," said one of his fellow-workers to him, in a transient fit of good-fellowship which the prospect of approaching sprees had engendered in him even towards one whom all on board had felt vaguely to be of a different order, and disliked accordingly, "you don't seem to like a jolly merchantman--but, maybe, you wouldn't take more kindly to a man-o'-war. do you see that there ship?--a frigate she is; and, whenever there's a king's ship in the mersey that means that it's more wholesome for the likes of us to lie low. you take a hint, matey, and don't be about liverpool to-night, or until she's gone. now, i know a crib that's pretty safe, birkenhead way; mother redcap's, we call it--no one's ever been nabbed at mother redcap's, and if you'll come along o' me--why then if you won't, go your way and be damned to you for a----" this was the parting of adrian landale from his fellow-workers. the idea of spending even one night more in that atmosphere of rum and filth, in the intimate hearing of blasphemous and obscene language, was too repulsive to be entertained, and he had turned away from the offer with a gesture of horror. with half a dozen others, in whose souls the attractions of the town at night proved stronger than the fear of the press party, he disembarked on the lancashire side, and separating from his companions, for ever, as he thought, ascended the miserable lanes leading from the river to the upper town. his purpose was to sleep in one of the more decent hotels, to call the next day for help at the banking-house with which the landales had dealt for ages past, and thence to take coach for pulwick. but he had planned without taking reck of his circumstances. no hotel of repute would entertain this weather-beaten common sailor in the meanest of work-stained clothes. after failing at various places even to obtain a hearing, being threatened with forcible ejectment, derisively referred to suitable cribs in love lane or tower street, he gave up the attempt; and, in his usual dejection of spirit, intensified by unavowed and unreasonable anger, wandered through the dark streets, brooding. thus aimlessly wandering, the remembrance of his young utopian imaginings came back to him to mock him. dreams of universal brotherhood, of equality, of harmony. he had already seen the apostles of equality and brotherhood at work--on the banks of the vilaine. and realising how he himself, now reduced to the lowest level in the social scale, hunted with insult from every haunt above that level, yet loathed and abhorred the very thought of associating again with his recent brothers in degradation, he laughed a laugh of bitter self-contempt. but the night was piercing cold; and, in time, the question arose whether the stench and closeness of a riverside eating-house would not be more endurable than the cutting wind, the sleet, and the sharper pangs of hunger. his roaming had brought him once more to that quarter of the town "best suited to the likes of him," according to the innkeeper's opinion, and he found himself actually seeking a house of entertainment in the slimy, ill-lighted narrow street, when, from out the dimness, running towards him, with bare feet paddling in the sludge, came a slatternly girl, with unkempt wisps of red hair hanging over her face under the tartan shawl. "run, run, jack," she cried, hoarsely, as she passed by breathless, "t' gang's comin' up...." a sudden loathly fear seized adrian by the heart. he too, took to his heels by the side of the slut with all the swiftness his tired frame could muster. "i'm going to warn my jo," she gasped, as, jostling each other, they darted through a maze of nameless alleys. and then as, spent with running, they emerged at last into a broader street, it was to find themselves in the very midst of another party of man-of-war's men, whose brass belt-buckles glinted under the flickering light of the oil-lamp swinging across the way. adrian stopped dead short and looked at the girl in mute reproach. "may god strike me dead," she screamed, clapping her hands together, "if i knew the bloody thieves were there! oh, my bonny lad, i meant to save ye!" and as her words rang in the air two sailors had adrian by the collar and a facetious bluejacket seized her round the waist with hideous bantering. a very young officer, wrapped up in a cloak, stood a few paces apart calmly looking on. to him adrian called out in fierce, yet anguished, expostulation: "i am a free and independent subject, sir, an english gentleman. i demand that you order your men to release me. for heaven's sake," he added, pleadingly, "give me but a moment's private hearing!" a loud guffaw rang through the group. in truth, if appearances make the gentleman, adrian was then but a sorry specimen. the officer smiled--the insufferable smile of a conceited boy raised to authority. "i can have no possible doubt of your gentility, sir," he said, with mocking politeness, and measuring, under the glimmering light, first the prisoner, from head to foot, and then the girl who, scratching and blaspheming, vainly tried to make her escape; "but, sir, as a free-born english gentleman, it will be your duty to help his majesty to fight his french enemies. take the english gentleman along, my lads!" a roar of approbation at the officer's facetiousness ran through the party. "an' his mother's milk not dry upon his lips," cried the girl, with a crow of derisive fury, planting as she spoke a sounding smack on a broad tanned face bent towards her. the little officer grew pink. "come, my men, do your duty," he thundered, in his deepest bass. a rage such as he never had felt in his life suddenly filled adrian's whole being. he was a bigger man than any of the party, and the rough life that fate had imposed on him, had fostered a strength of limb beyond the common. a thrust of his knee prostrated one of his captors, a blow in the eye from his elbow staggered the other; the next instant he had snatched away the cutlass which a third was drawing, and with it he cleared, for a moment, a space around him. but as he would have bounded into freedom, a felling blow descended on his head from behind, a sheet of flame spread before his eyes, and behind this blaze disappeared the last that adrian landale was to see of england for another spell of years. when he came back to his senses he was once more on board ship--a slave, legally kidnapped; degraded by full and proper warrant from his legitimate status for no crime that could even be invented against him; a slave to be retained for work or war at his master's pleasure, liable like a slave to be flogged to death for daring to assert his light of independence. * * * * * the memory of that night's doing and of the odious bondage to which it was a prelude, rarely failed to stir the gall of resentment in sir adrian; men of peaceable instincts are perhaps the most prone to the feeling of indignation. but, to-night, a change had come over the spirit of his dreams; he could think of that past simply as the past--the period of time which would have had to be spent until the advent of the wonder-working present: these decrees of fate had had a purpose. had the past, by one jot, been different, the events of this admirable day might never have been. the glowing edifice on the hearth collapsed with a darting of sudden flame and a rolling of red cinders. sir adrian rose to rebuild his fire for the night; and, being once roused, was tempted by the ruddiness of the wine, glinting under the quiet rays of the lamp, to advance to the table and partake of his forgotten supper. the calm atmosphere, the warmth and quiet of the room, in which he broke his bread and sipped his wine, whilst old jem stretched by the hearth gazed at him with yellow up-turned eyes full of lazy inquiry concerning this departure from the usual nightly regularity; the serene placidity of the scene indoors as contrasting with the angry voices of elements without, answered to the peace--the strange peace--that filled the man's soul, even in the midst of such uncongenial memories as now rose up before him in vivid concatenation. she was then five years old. where was she, when he began that seemingly endless cruise with the frigate _porcupine_? he tried to fancy a cécile five years old--a chubby, curly-headed mite, nursing dolls and teasing kittens, whilst he was bullied and browbeaten by coarse petty officers, shunned and hated by his messmates, and flogged at length by a tyrannizing captain for obduracy--but he could only see a cécile in the spring of womanhood, nestling in the arm-chair yonder by the fire and looking up at him from the folds of a fur cloak. she was seven years old when he was flogged. ah, god! those had been days! and yet, in the lofty soul of him he had counted it no disgrace; and he had been flogged again, ay, and a third time for that obstinate head that would not bend, that obstinate tongue that would persist in demanding restitution of liberty. the life on board the privateer had been a matter of bargain; he had bartered also labour and obedience with the merchantman for the passage home, but the king had no right to compel the service of a free man! she was but twelve years old when he was finally released from thraldom--it had only lasted four years after all; yet what a cycle for one of his temper! four years with scarce a moment of solitude--for no shore-leave was ever allowed to one who openly repudiated any service contract: four years of a life, where the sole prospect of change was in these engagements, orgies of carnage, so eagerly anticipated by officers and men alike, including himself, though for a reason little suspected by his companions. but even the historic sea-fights of the _porcupine_, so far as they affected adrian landale, formed in themselves a chain of monotony. it was ever the same hurling of shot from ship to ship, the same fierce exchange of cutlass-throws and pike-pushes between men who had never seen each other before; the same yelling and execrations, sights, sounds, and smells ever the same in horror; the same cheers when the enemy's colours were lowered, followed by the same transient depression; the cleansing of decks from stains of powder and mire of human blood, the casting overboard of human bodies that had done their life's work, broken waste and other rubbish. for weeks adrian after would taste blood, smell blood, dream blood, till it seemed in his nausea that all the waters of the wide clean seas could never wash the taint from him again. and before the first horrid impressions had time to fade, the next occasion would have come round again: it was not the fate of adrian landale that either steel or shot, or splintered timber or falling tackles should put an end to his dreary life, welcome as such an end would have been to him then. then ... but not now. remembering now his unaccountable escape from the destruction which had swept from his side many another whose eagerness for the fray had certes not sprung, like his own, from a desire to court destruction, he shuddered. and there arose in his mind the trite old adage: "man proposeth..." god had disposed otherwise. it was not destined that adrian landale should be shot on the high seas any more than he should be drowned in the rolling mud of the vilaine--he was reserved for this day as a set-off to all the bitterness that had been meted out to him; he was to see the image of his dead love rise from the sea once more. and, meanwhile, his very despair and sullenness had been turned to his good. it would not be said, if history should take count of the fact, that while the lord of pulwick had served four years before the mast, he had ever disgraced his name by cowardice.... whether such reasonings were in accordance even with the most optimistic philosophy, sir adrian himself at other times might have doubted. but he was tender in thought this stormy night, with the grateful relaxation that a happy break brings in the midst of long-drawn melancholy. everything had been working towards this end--that he should be the light-keeper of scarthey on the day when out of the raging waters cécile would rise and knock and ask for succour at his chamber. cécile! pshaw!--raving again. well, the child! where was she on the day of the last engagement of that pugnacious _porcupine_, in the year , when england was freed from her long incubus of invasion? she was then twelve. it had seemed if nothing short of a wholesale disaster could terminate that incongruous existence of his. the last action of the frigate was a fruitless struggle against fearful odds. after a prolonged fight with an enemy as dauntless as herself, with two-thirds of her ship's company laid low, and commanded at length by the youngest lieutenant, she was tackled as the sun went low over the scene of a drawn battle, by a fresh sail errant; and, had it not been for a timely dismasting on board the new-comer, would have been captured or finally sunk then and there. but that fate was only held in reserve for her. bleeding and disabled, she had drawn away under cover of night from her two hard-hit adversaries, to encounter a squall that further dismantled her, and, in such forlorn conditions, was met and finally conquered by the french privateer _espoir de brest_, that pounced upon her in her agony as the vulture upon his prey. among the remainder of the once formidable crew, now seized and battened down under french hatches, was of course adrian landale--he bore a charmed life. and for a short while the only change probable in his prospects was a return to french prisons, until such time as it pleased heaven to restore peace between the two nations. but the fortune of war, especially at sea, is fickle and fitful. the daring brig, lettre de marque, _l'espoir de brest_, soon after her unwonted haul of english prisoners, was overtaken herself by one of her own species, the _st. nicholas_ of liverpool, from whose swiftness nothing over the sea, that had not wings, could hope to escape if she chose to give the chase. again did adrian, from the darkness among his fellow-captives, hear the familiar roar and crash of cannon fight, the hustling and the thud of leaping feet, the screams and oaths of battle, and, finally, the triumphant shouts of english throats, and he knew that the frenchman was boarded. a last ringing british cheer told of the frenchman's surrender, and when he and his comrades were once more free to breathe a draught of living air, after the deathly atmosphere under hatches, adrian learned that the victor was not a man-of-war, but a free-lance, and conceived again a faint hope that deliverance might be at hand. it was soon after this action, last of the fights that adrian the peace-lover had to pass through, and as the two swift vessels, now sailing in consort, and under the same colours cleaved the waters, bound for the mersey, that a singular little drama took place on board the _espoir de brest_. among the younger officers of the english privateer, who were left in charge of the prize, was a lad upon whom adrian's jaded eyes rested with a feeling of mournful sympathy, so handsome was he, and so young; so full of hope and spirits and joy of life, of all, in fact, of which he himself had been left coldly bare. moreover, the ring of the merry voice, the glint of the clear eye awakened in his memory some fitful chord, the key of which he vainly sought to trace. one day, as the trim young lieutenant stood looking across the waters, with his brave eager gaze that seemed to have absorbed some of the blue-green shimmer of the element he loved, all unnoting the haggard sailor at his elbow, a sudden flourish of the spy-glass which he, with an eager movement, swung up to bear on some distant speck, sent his watch and seals flying out of his fob upon the deck at adrian's feet. adrian picked them up, and as he waited to restore them to their owner, who tarried some time intent on his distant peering, he had time to notice the coat and crest engraved upon one of the massive trinkets hanging from their black ribbons. when at last the officer lowered his telescope, adrian came forward and saluted him with a slight bow, all unconsciously as unlike the average jack tar's scrape to his superior as can be well imagined: "am i not," he asked, "addressing in you, sir, one of the cochranes of the shaws?" the question and the tone from a common sailor were, of course, enough to astonish the young man. but there must be more than this, as adrian surmised, to cause him to blush, wax angry, and stammer like a very school-boy found at fault. speaking with much sharpness: "my name is smith, my man," cried he, seizing his belongings, "and you--just carry on with that coiling!" "and my name, sir, is adrian landale, of pulwick priory. i would like a moment's talk with you, if you will spare me the time. the cochranes of the shaws have been friends of our family for generations." a guffaw burst from a group of adrian's mates working hard by, at this recurrence of what had become with them a standing joke; but the officer, who had turned on his heels, veered round immediately, and stood eyeing the speaker in profound astonishment. "great god, is it possible! did you say you were a landale of pulwick? how the devil came you here then, and thus?" "press-gang," was adrian's laconic answer. the lad gave a prolonged whistle, and was lost for a moment in cogitation. "if you are really mr. landale," he began, adding hastily, as if to cover an implied admission--"of course i have heard the name: it is well known in lancashire--you had better see the skipper. it must have been some damnable mistake that has caused a man of your standing to be pressed." the speaker ended with almost a deferential air and the smile that had already warmed adrian's heart. at the door of the captain's quarters he said, with the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye: "a curious error it was you made, i assure you my name is smith--jack smith, of liverpool." "an excusable error," quoth adrian, smiling back, "for one of your seals bear unmistakably the arms of cochrane of the shaws, doubtless some heirloom, some inter-marriage." "no, sir, hang it!" retorted mr. jack smith of liverpool, his boyish face flushing again, and as he spoke he disengaged the trinket from its neighbours, and jerked it pettishly overboard, "i know nothing of your shaws or your cochranes." and then he rapped loudly at the cabin-door, as if anxious to avoid further discussion or comment on the subject. the result of the interview which followed--interview during which adrian in a few words overcame the skipper's scepticism, and was bidden with all the curiosity men feel at sea for any novelty, to relate, over a bottle of wine, the chain of his adventures--was his passing from the forecastle to the officers' quarters, as an honoured guest on board the _st. nicholas_, during the rest of her cruise. thinking back now upon the last few weeks of his sea-going life, sir adrian realised with something of wonder that he had always dwelt on them without dislike. they were gilded in his memory by the rays of his new friendship. and yet that this young jack smith (to keep for him the nondescript name he had for unknown reasons chosen to assume) should be the first man to awaken in the misanthropic adrian the charm of human intercourse, was singular indeed; one who followed from choice the odious trade of legally chartered corsair, who was ever ready to barter the chance of life and limb against what fortune might bring in his path, to sacrifice human life to secure his own end of enrichment. well, the springs of friendship are to be no more discerned than those of love; there was none of high or low degree, with the exception of rené, whose appearance at any time was so welcome to the recluse upon his rock, as that of the privateersman. and so, turning to his friend in to-night's softened mood, sir adrian thought gratefully that to him it was that he owed deliverance from the slavery of the king's service, that it was jack smith who had made it possible for adrian landale to live to this great day and await its coming in peace. the old clock struck two; and jem shivered on the rug as the light-keeper rose at length from the table and sank in his arm-chair once more. visions of the past had been ever his companions; now for the first time came visions of the future to commingle with them. as if caught up in the tide of his visitor's bright young life, it seemed as though he were passing at length out of the valley of the shadow of death. * * * * * rené, coming with noiseless bare feet, in the angry yellow dawn of the second day of the storm, to keep an eye on his master's comfort, found him sleeping in his chair with a new look of rest upon his face and a smile upon his lips. chapter ix a genealogical epistle ... and braided thereupon all the devices blazoned on the shield, in their own tinct, and added, of her wit, a border fantasy of branch and flower. _idylls of the king._ pulwick priory, the ancestral home of the cumbrian landales, a dignified if not overpoweringly lordly mansion, rises almost on the ridge of the green slope which connects the high land with the sandy strand of morecambe; overlooking to the west the great brown breezy bight, whilst on all other sides it is sheltered by its wooded park. when the air is clear, from the east window of scarthey keep, the tall garden front of greystone is visible, in the extreme distance, against the darker screen of foliage; whitely glinting if the sun is high; golden or rosy at the end of day. as its name implies, pulwick priory stands on the site of an extinct religious house; its oldest walls, in fact, were built from the spoils of once sacred masonry. it is a house of solid if not regular proportions, full of unexpected quaintness; showing a medley of distinct styles, in and out; it has a wide portico in the best approved neo-classic taste, leading to romantic oaken stairs; here wide cheerful rooms and airy corridors, there sombre vaulted basements and mysterious unforeseen nooks. on the whole, however, it is a harmonious pile of buildings, though gathering its character from many different centuries, for it has been mellowed by time, under a hard climate. and it was, in the days of the pride of the landales, a most meet dwelling-place for that ancient race, insomuch as the history of so many of their ancestors was written successively upon stone and mortar, brick and tile, as well as upon carved oak, canvas-decked walls, and emblazoned windows. * * * * * exactly one week before the disaster, which was supposed to have befallen mademoiselle molly de savenaye on scarthey sands, the acting lord of pulwick, if one may so term mr. rupert landale, had received a letter, the first reading of which caused him a vivid annoyance, followed by profound reflection. a slightly-built, dark-visaged man, this younger brother of sir adrian, and vicarious master of his house and lands; like to the recluse in his exquisite neatness of attire, somewhat like also in the mould of his features, which were, however, more notably handsome than sir adrian's; but most unlike him, in an emphasised artificiality of manner, in a restless and wary eye, and in the curious twist of a thin lip which seemed to give hidden sarcastic meaning even to the most ordinary remark. as now he sat by his desk, his straight brows drawn over his amber-coloured eyes, perusing the closely written sheets of this troublesome missive, there entered to him the long plaintive figure of his maiden sister, who had held house for him, under his own minute directions, ever since the death in premature child-birth of his young year-wed wife. miss landale, the eldest of the family, had had a disappointment in her youth, as a result of which she now played the ungrateful _rôle_ of old maid of the family. she suffered from chronic toothache, as well as from repressed romantic aspirations, and was the _âme damnée_ of rupert. one of the most melancholy of human beings, she was tersely characterised by the village folk as a "_wummicky_ poor thing." at the sight of mr. landale's weighted brow she propped up her own long sallow face, upon its aching side, with a trembling hand, and, full of agonised prescience, ventured to ask if anything had happened. "sit down," said her brother, with a sort of snarl--he possessed an extremely irritable temper under his cool sarcastic exterior, a temper which his peculiar anomalous circumstances, whilst they combined to excite it, forced him to conceal rigidly from most, and it was a relief to him to let it out occasionally upon sophia's meek, ringleted head. sophia collapsed with hasty obedience into a chair, and then mr. landale handed to her the thin fluttering sheets, voluminously crossed and re-crossed with fine italian handwriting: "from tanty," ejaculated miss sophia, "oh my dear rupert!" "read it," said rupert peremptorily. "read it aloud." and throwing himself back upon his chair, he shaded his mouth with one flexible thin hand, and prepared himself to listen. "camden place, bath, october th," read the maiden lady in those plaintive tones, which seemed to send out all speech upon the breath of a sigh. "my dear rupert,--you will doubtless be astonished, but your invariably affectionate behaviour towards myself inclines me to believe that you will also be _pleased_ to hear, from these few lines, that very shortly after their receipt--if indeed not before--you may expect to see me arrive at pulwick priory." miss landale put down the letter, and gazed at her brother through vacant mists of astonishment. "why, i thought tanty said she would not put foot in pulwick again till adrian returned home." rupert measured the innocent elderly countenance with a dark look. he had sundry excellent reasons, other than mere family affection, for remaining on good terms with his rich irish aunt, but he had likewise reasons, these less obvious, for wishing to pay his devoirs to her anywhere but under the roof of which he was nominal master. "she has found it convenient to change her mind," he said, with his twisting lip. "constancy in your sex, my dear, is merely a matter of convenience--or opportunity." "oh rupert!" moaned sophia, clasping the locket which contained her dead lover's hair with a gesture with which all who knew her were very familiar. mr. landale never could resist a thrust at the faithful foolish bosom always ready to bleed under his stabs, yet never resenting them. inexplicable vagary of the feminine heart! miss sophia worshipped before the shrine of her younger brother, to the absolute exclusion of any sentiment for the elder, whose generosity and kindness to her were yet as great as was rupert's tyranny. "go on," said the latter, alternately smiling at his nails and biting them, "tanty o'donoghue observes that i shall be surprised to hear that she will arrive very shortly after this letter, if not before it. poor old tanty, there can be no mistake about her nationality. have the kindness to read straight on, sophia. i don't want to hear any more of your interesting comments. and don't stop till you have finished, no matter how amazed you are." again he composed himself to listen, while his sister plunged at the letter, and, after several false starts, found her place and proceeded: "since, owing to his most _unfortunate_ peculiarity of temperament and consequent strange choice of abode, i cannot apply to my nephew adrian, _à qui de droit_ (as head of the house) i must needs address myself to you, my dear rupert, to request hospitality for myself and the two young ladies now under my charge." the letter wavered in miss sophia's hand and an exclamation hung upon her lip, but a sudden movement of rupert's exquisite crossed legs recalled her to her task. "these young ladies are _mesdemoiselles de savenaye_, and the daughters of madame la comtesse de savenaye, who was my sister mary's child. she and i, and alice your mother, were sister co-heiresses as you know, and therefore these young ladies are _my_ grand-nieces and your _own_ cousins once removed. of cécile de savenaye, her _strange_ adventures and ultimate _sad_ fate in which your own brother was implicated, you cannot but have heard, but you may probably have forgotten even to the _very existence_ of these charming young women, who were nevertheless born at pulwick, and whom you must at some time or other have beheld as infants during your _excellent_ and _lamented_ father's lifetime. they are, as you are doubtless also unaware--for i have remarked a _growing_ tendency in the younger generations to neglect the study of genealogy, even as it affects their own families--as well born on the father's side as upon the maternal. m. de savenaye bore _argent à la fasce-canton d'hermine_, with an _augmentation of the fleurs de lis d'or_, _cleft in twain_ for his ancestor's _memorable_ deed at the siege of dinan." "there is tante o'donoghue fully displayed, _haut volante_ as she might say herself," here interrupted mr. landale with a laugh. "always the same, evidently. the first thing i remember about her is her lecturing me on genealogy and heraldry, when i wanted to go fishing, till, school-boy rampant as i was, i heartily wished her impaled and debruised on her own donoghue herse proper. for god's sake, sophia, do not expect me to explain! go on." "he was entitled to eighteen quarters, and related to such as coucy and armagnac and tavannes," proceeded miss sophia, controlling her bewilderment as best she might, "also to gwynne of llanadoc in this kingdom--honours to which mesdemoiselles de savenaye, being sole heiresses both of kermelégan and savenaye, not to speak of their own mother's share of o'donoghue, which now-a-days is of greater substance--are personally entitled. "if i am the _sole_ relative they have left in these realms, adrian and you are the next. i have had the charge of my two young kinswomen during the last six months, that is since they left the couvent des dames anglaises in jersey. "now, i think it is time that your branch of the family should incur the share of the _responsibility_ your relationship to them entails. "if adrian were _as_ and _where_ he should be, i feel sure he would embrace this opportunity of doing his duty as the head of the house without the smallest hesitation, and i have no doubt that he would offer the _hospitality_ of pulwick priory and his _protection_ to these amiable young persons for as long as they _remain unmarried_. "from you, my dear nephew, who have undertaken under these melancholy family circumstances to fill your brother's place, i do not, however, _expect_ so much; all i ask is that you and my niece sophia be kind enough to _shelter_ and _entertain_ your cousins for the space of two months, while i remain at bath for the benefit of my health. "at my age (for it is of no use, nephew, for us to deny our years when any peerage guide must reveal them pretty closely to the curious), and i am this month passing sixty-nine, at my _age_ the charge of two high-spirited young females, in whom conventional education has failed to subdue aspirations for worldly happiness whilst it has left them somewhat inexperienced in the conventions of society, i find a _little trying_. it does not harmonise with the retired, peaceful existence to which i am accustomed (and at my time of life, i think, entitled), in which it is my humble endeavour to wean myself from this earth which is so full of emptiness and to prepare myself for that other and _better_ home into which we must all resign ourselves to enter. and happy, indeed, my dear rupert, such of us as will be found worthy; for come to it we all must, and the longer we live, the sooner we may expect to do so. "the necessity of producing them in society, is, however, rendered a matter of greater responsibility by the fact of the _handsome_ fortunes which these young creatures possess already, not to speak of their expectations." rupert, who had been listening to his aunt's letter, through the intermediary of miss sophia's depressing sing-song, with an abstracted air, here lifted up his head, and commanded the reader to repeat this last passage. she did so, and paused, awaiting his further pleasure, while he threw his handsome head back upon his chair, and closed his eyes as if lost in calculations. at length he waved his hand, and miss sophia proceeded after the usual floundering: "a neighbour of mine at bunratty, mrs. hambledon of brianstown, a _lively_ widow (herself one of the macnamaras of the reeks, and thus a distant connection of the ballinasloe branch of o'donoghues), and whom i had reason to believe i could trust--but i will not anticipate--took a prodigious fancy to miss molly and proposed, towards the beginning of the autumn, carrying her away to dublin. at the same time the wet summer, producing in me an acute recurrence of that affection from which, as you know, i suffer, and about which you _never fail_ to make such kind enquiries at christmas and easter, compelled me to call in mr. o'mally, the apothecary, who has been my very _obliging_ medical adviser for so many years, and who strenuously advocated an immediate course of waters at bath. in short, my dear nephew, thus the matter was settled, your cousin molly departed _radiant_ with _good_ spirits, and _good_ looks for a spell of gayety in dublin, while your cousin madeleine, prepared (with _equal_ content) to accompany her old aunt to bath. it being arranged with mrs. hambledon that she should herself conduct molly to us later on. "we have been here about three weeks. though persuaded by good mr. o'mally that the waters would benefit my old bones, i was actuated, i must confess, by another motive in seeking this fashionable resort. in such a place as this, thronged as it is by all the rank and family of england, one can at least know _who is who_, and i was not without hopes that my nieces, with their faces, their name, and their fortunes, would have the opportunity of contracting suitable alliances, and thus relieve me of a charge for which i am, i fear, little fitted. "but, alas! my dear rupert, i was most woefully mistaken. bath is _distinctly not_ the place for two beautiful and unsophisticated heiresses, and i am certainly neither possessed of the spirits, nor of the health to guard them from fortune-hunters and _needy nameless_ adventurers. while it is my desire to impress upon you, and my niece sophia, that the conduct of these young ladies has been _quite_ beyond reproach, i will not conceal from you that the attentions of a certain person, of the name of _smith_, known here, and a favorite in the circles of frivolity and fashion as _captain jack_, have already made madeleine _conspicuous_, and although the dear girl conducts herself with the utmost propriety, there is an air of _romance_ and _mystery_ about the young man, not to speak of his unmistakable good looks, which have determined me to remove her from his vicinity before her affections be _irreparably_ engaged. as for molly, who is a thorough o'donoghue and the image of her grandmother, that celebrated murthering moll (herself the toast of bath in our young days), whose elopement with the marquis de kermelégan, after he had killed an english rival in a duel, was once a nine-days' wonder in this very town, and of whom you must have heard, mrs. hambledon restored her to my care only three days ago, and she has already twenty beaux to her string, though favouring _nobody_, i am bound to say, but her own amusement. yesterday she departed under mrs. hambledon's chaperonage, in the company of a dozen of the highest in rank here, on an expedition to clifton; the while my demure madeleine spends the day at the house of her dear friend lady maria harewood, whither, i only learnt upon her return at ten o'clock under his escort, _captain jack_--in my days that sort of _captain_ would have been strongly suspected, of having a shade too much of the _heath_ or the _london road_ about him--had likewise been convened. it was long after midnight when, with a great _tow-row_, a coach full of very merry company (amongst whom the widow hambledon struck me as over-merry, perhaps) landed my other miss _sur le perron_. "this has decided me. we shall decamp _sans tambou ni trompette_. to-morrow, without allowing discussion from the girls (in which i should probably be worsted), we pack ourselves into my travelling coach, and find our way to you. but, until we are fairly on the road, i shall not even let these ladies know _whither_ we are bound. "with your kind permission, then, i shall remain a few days at pulwick, to recruit from the _fatigues_ of such a long journey, before leaving your fair cousins in your charge, and in that of the gentle sophia (whom i trust to entertain them with something besides her usual melancholy), till the time comes for me to bring them back with me to bunratty. "unless, therefore, you should hear to the contrary, you will know that on tuesday your three _unprotected_ female relatives will be hoping to see your travelling carriage arrive to fetch them at the crown in lancaster. "your affectionate aunt, "rose o'donoghue." as miss landale sighed forth the concluding words, she dropped the little folio on her lap, and looked at her brother with a world of apprehension in her faded eyes. "oh, rupert, what shall we do?" "do," said mr. landale, quickly turning on her, out of his absorption, "you will kindly see that suitable rooms are prepared for your aunt and cousins, and you will endeavour, if you please, to show these ladies a cheerful countenance, as your aunt requests." "the oak and the chintz rooms, i suppose," sophia timidly suggested. "tanty used to say she liked the aspect, and i daresay the young ladies will find it pleasant to look out on the garden." "ay," returned rupert, absently. he had risen from his seat, and fallen to pacing the room. presently a short laugh broke from him. "tolerably cool, i must say," he remarked, "tolerably cool. it seems to be a tradition with that savenaye family, when in difficulties, to go to pulwick." miss landale looked up with relief. perhaps rupert would think better of it, and make up his mind to elude receiving the unwelcome visitors after all. but his next speech dashed her budding hopes. "ay, as in the days of their mother before them, when she came here to lay her eggs, like a cuckoo in another bird's nest--i wish they had been addled, i do indeed--we may expect to have the whole place turned topsy-turvy, i suppose. it is a pretty assortment, _faith_ (as tanty says herself); an old papist, and two young ones, fresh from a convent school--and of these, one a hoyden, and the other lovesick! faugh! sophia you will have to keep your eyes open when the old lady is gone. i'll have no unseemly pranks in this house." "oh, rupert," with a moan of maidenly horror, and conscious incompetence. "stop that," cried the brother, with a contained intensity of exasperation, at which the poor lady jumped and trembled as if she had been struck. "all your whining won't improve matters. now listen to me," sitting down beside her, and speaking slowly and impressively, "you are to make our relatives feel welcome, do you understand? everything is to be of the best. get out the embroidered sheets, and see that there are flowers in the rooms. tell the cook to keep back that haunch of venison, the girls won't like it, but the old lady knows a good thing when she gets it--let there be lots of sweet things for the young ones too. i shall be giving some silver out this afternoon. i leave it to you to see that it is properly cleaned. what are you mumbling about to yourself? write it down if you can't remember, and now go, go--i am busy." part ii "murthering moll the second" _then did the blood awaken in the veins of the young maiden wandering in the fields._ luteplayer's song. chapter x the threshold of womanhood onward floweth the water, onward through meadows broad, "how happy," the meadows say, "art thou to be rippling onward." "and my heart is beating, beating beneath my girdle here;" "o heart," the girdle saith, "how happy art thou that thou beatest." _luteplayer's song._ dublin, _october th, _.--this day do i, molly de savenaye, begin my diary. madeleine writes to me from bath that she has purchased a very fine book, in which she intends to set forth each evening all that has happened her since the morning; she advises me to do so too. she says that since _real life_ has begun for us; life, of which every succeeding day is not, as in the convent, the repetition of the previous day, but brings some new discovery, pleasure, or pain, we ought to write down and preserve their remembrance. it will be so interesting for us to read when a new life once more begins for us, and we are _married_. besides it is the _fashion_, and all the young ladies she knows do it. and she has, she says, already plenty to write down. now i _should_ like to know what about. when ought one to start such a record? surely not on a day like this. "why _demme_" (as mrs. hambledon's nephew says), "_what the deyvil_ have i got to say?" _item:_ i went out shopping this morning with mrs. hambledon, and, bearing madeleine's advice in mind, purchased at kelly's, in sackville street, an album book, bound in green morocco, with clasp and lock, which mr. kelly protests is quite secure. _item:_ we met captain segrave of the royal dragoons (who was so attentive to me at lady rigtoun's rout, two days ago). he looked very well on his charger, but how conceited! when he saw me, he rolled his eyes and grew quite red; and then he stuck his spurs into his horse, that we might admire how he could sit it; which he did, indeed, to perfection. mrs. hambledon looked vastly knowing, and i laughed. if ever i try to fancy myself married to such a man i cannot help laughing. this, however, is not diary.--_item:_ we returned home because it began to rain, and to pass the time, here am i at my book. but is _this_ the sort of thing that will be of interest to read hereafter? i have begun too late; i should have written in those days when i saw the dull walls of our convent prison for the last time. it seems so far back now (though, by the calendar it is hardly six months), that i cannot quite recall how it felt to live in prison. and yet it was not unhappy, and there was no horror in the thought we both had sometimes then, that we should pass and end our lives in the cage. it did not strike us as hard. it seemed, indeed, in the nature of things. but the bare thought of returning to that existence now, to resume the placid daily task, to fold up again like a plant that has once expanded to sun and breeze, to have never a change of scene, of impression, to look forward to nothing but _submission_, sleep, and _death_; oh, it makes me turn cold all over! and yet there are women who, of their own will, give up the _freedom of the world_ to enter a convent _after_ they have tasted life! oh, i would rather be the poorest, the ugliest peasant hag, toiling for daily bread, than one of these cold cloistered souls, so that the free air of heaven, be it with the winds or the rain, might beat upon me, so that i might live and love _as i like_, do right _as i like_; ay, and do wrong _if_ i liked, with the free will which is my _own_. we were told that the outer world, with all its sorrows and trials, and dangers--how i remember the reverend mother's words and face, and how they impressed me then, and how i should laugh at them, _now!_--that the world was but a valley of tears. we were warned that all that awaited us, if we left the fold, was _misery_; that the joys of this world were _bitter_ to the taste, its pleasures _hollow_, and its griefs _lasting_. we believed it. and yet, when the choice was actually ours to make, we chose all we had been taught to dread and despise. why? i wonder. for the same reason as eve ate the apple, i suppose. i would, if i had been eve. i almost wish i could go back now, for a day, to the cool white rooms, to see the nuns flitting about like black and white ghosts, with only a jingle of beads to warn one of their coming, see the blue sky through the great bare windows, and the shadows of the trees lengthening on the cold flagged floors, hear the bells going ding-dong, ding-dong, and the murmur of the sea in the distance, and the drone of the school, and the drone of the chapel, to go back, and feel once more the dull sort of content, the calmness, the rest! but no, no! i should be trembling all the while lest the blessed doors leading back to that _horrible_ world should never open to me again. the sorrows and trials of the world! i suppose the reverend mother really meant it; and if i had gone on living there till my face was wrinkled like hers, poor woman, i might have thought so too, in the end, and talked the same nonsense. was it really i that endured such a life for seventeen years? o god! i wonder that the sight of the swallows coming and going, the sound of the free waves, did not drive me mad. twist as i will my memory, i cannot recall _that_ molly of six months ago, whose hours and days passed and dropped all alike, all lifeless, just like the slow tac, tac, tac of our great horloge in the refectory, and were to go on as slow and as alike, for ever and ever, till she was old, dried, wrinkled, and then died. the real molly de savenaye's life began on the april morning when that dear old turbaned fairy godmother of ours carried us, poor little cinderellas, away in her coach. well do i remember my birthday. i have read since in one of those musty books of bunratty, that _moths_ and _butterflies_ come to life by shaking themselves out, one fine day, from a dull-looking, shapeless, ugly thing they call a _grub_, in which they have been buried for a long time. they unfold their wings and fly out in the sunshine, and flit from flower to flower, and they look beautiful and happy--the world, the wicked world, is open to them. there were pictures in the book; the ugly grub below, dreary and brown, and the lovely _butterfly_ in all its colours above. i showed them to madeleine, and said: "look, madeleine, as we were, and as we are." and she said: "yes, those brown gowns they made us wear were ugly; but i should not like to put on anything so bright as red and yellow. would you?" that is the worst of madeleine; she never realises in the least what i mean. and she _does_ love her clothes; that is the difference between her and me, she loves fine things because they are fine and dainty and all that--i like them because they make _me_ fine. and yet, how she did weep when she left the convent. madeleine would have made a good nun after all; she does so hate anything ugly or coarse. she grows quite white if she hears people fighting; if there is a "row" or a "shindy," as they say here. whereas tanty and i think it all the fun in the world, and would enjoy joining in the fray ourselves, i believe, if we dared. i know _i_ should; it sets my blood tingling. but madeleine is a real princess, a sort of ermine; and yet she enjoys her new life, too, the beauty of it, the refinement, being waited upon and delicately fed and clothed. but although she has ceased to weep for the convent, if it had not been for me she would be there still. the only thing, i believe, that could make me weep now would be to find one fine morning that this had only been a dream, and that i was once more _the grub_! to find that i could not open my window and look into the wide, wide world over to the long, green hills in the distance, and know that i could wander or gallop up to them, as i did at bunratty, and see for myself _what lies beyond_--surely that was a taste of heaven that day when tanty rose first allowed me to mount her old pony, and i flew over the turf with the wind whistling in my ears--to find that i could not go out when i pleased and hear new voices and see new faces, and men and women who _live each their own life_, and not the _same_ life as mine. when i think of what i am now, and what i might have remained, i breathe deep and feel like singing; i stretch my arms out and feel like flying. our aunt told us she thought bunratty would be dull for us, and so it was in comparison with this place. perhaps _this_ is dull in comparison with what _may_ come. for good tanty, as she likes us to call her, is intent on doing great things for us. "je vous marierai," she tells us in her funny old french, "je vous marierai bien, mes filles, si vous êtes sages," and she winks both eyes. _marriage!_ _that_, it is quite evident, is the goal of every properly constituted young female; and every respectable person who has the care of said young female is consequently bent upon her reaching that goal. so marriage is _another_ good thing to look forward to. and _love_, that love all the verses, all the books one reads are so full of; _that_ will come to us. they say that _love is life_. well, all i want is to live. but with a grey past such as we have had, the present is good enough to ponder upon. we now can lie abed if we have sweet dreams and pursue them waking, and be lazy, yet not be troubled with the self-indulgence as with an enormity; or we can rise and breathe the sunshine at our own time. we can be frivolous, and yet meet with smiles in response, dress our hair and persons, and be pleased with ourselves, and with being admired or envied, yet not be told horrid things about death and corruption and skeletons. and, above all--oh, above _all_, we can think of the future as different from the past, as _changing_, be it even for the worse; as unknown and fascinating, not as a repetition, until death, of the same dreary round. in mrs. hambledon's parlour here are huge glasses at either end; whenever you look into them you see a never-ending chain of rooms with yourself standing in the middle, vanishing in the distance, every one the same, with the same person in the middle, only a little smaller, a little more insignificant, a little darker, till it all becomes _nothing_. it always reminds me of life's prospects in the convent. i dislike that room. when i told mrs. hambledon the reason why, she laughed, and promised me that, with my looks and disposition, my life would be eventful enough. i have every mind that it shall. * * * * * _october th._--yesterday, i woke up in an amazing state of happiness, though for no particular reason that i can think of. it could not be simply because we were to go out for a visit to the country and see new people and places, for i have already learned to find that most new people are cut out on the same pattern as those one already knows. it must have been rather because i awoke under the impression of one of my lovely dreams--such dreams as i have only had since i left my _grub_ state; dreams of space, air, long, long views of beautiful scenery, always changing, always wider, such as swallows flying between sky and earth might see, under an exquisite and brilliant light, till for very joy i wake up, my cheeks covered with tears. this time, i was sitting on the prow of some vessel with lofty white sails, and it was cutting through the water, blue as the sky, with wreaths of snow-like foam, towards some unknown shores, ever faster and faster, and i was singing to some one next to me on the prow--some one i did not know, but who felt with me--singing a song so perfect, so sweet (though it had no human words) that i thought _it explained all_: the blue of the heaven, the freshness of the breeze, the fragrance of the earth, and why we were so eagerly pressing onwards. i thought the melody was such that when once heard it could never be forgotten. when i woke it still rang in my ears, but now i can no more recall it. how is it we never know such delight in waking hours? is that some of the joy we are to feel in heaven, the music we are to hear? and yet it can be heard in this life if one only knew where to go and listen. and this life is beautiful which lies in front of us, though they would speak of it as a sorrowful span not to be reckoned. it is good to be young and think of the life still to come. every moment is precious for its enjoyment, and yet sometimes i find that one only knows of a pleasure when it is just gone. one ought to try and be more awake at each hour to the happiness it may bring. i shall try, and you, my diary, shall help me. this is really _no_ diary-keeping. it is not a bit like those one reads in books. it ought to tell of other people and the events of each day. but other people are really very uninteresting; as for events, well, so far, they are uninteresting too; it is only what they cause to spring up in our hearts that is worth thinking upon; and that is so difficult to put in words that mostly i spend my time merely pondering and not writing. last night mrs. hambledon took me to the _play_. it was for the first time in my life, and i was full of curiosity. it was a long drama, pretty enough and sometimes very exciting. but i could see that though the actress was very handsome and mostly so unhappy as to draw tears from the spectators, there were people, especially some gentlemen, who were more interested in looking at the box where i sat with mrs. hambledon. indeed, i could not pretend, when i found myself before my glass that night, that i was not amazingly prettier than that mrs. colebrook, about whose beauty the whole town goes mad. when i recalled the hero's ravings about his matilda's eyes and cheeks, and her foot and her sylph-like waist, and her raven hair, i wondered what _that_ young man would say of me if he were my lover and i his persecuted mistress. the matilda was a pleasing person enough; but if i take her point by point, it would be absurd to speak of her charms in the same breath with mine. oh, my dear molly, how beautiful i thought you last night! how happy i should be, were i a dashing young lover and eyes like _yours_ smiled on me. i never before thought myself prettier than madeleine, but now i do. lovers, love, mistress, bride; they talked of nothing else in the play. and it was all ecstasy in their words, and nothing but _misery_ in fact (just as the reverend mother would have had it). the young man who played the hero was a very fine fellow; and yet when i conceive _him_ making love to me as he did last night to mrs. colebrook, the notion seems really _too_ ludicrous! what sort of man then is it i would allow to love me? i do not mind the thought of lovers sighing and burning for me (as some do now indeed, or pretend to) i like to feel that i can crush them with a frown and revive them with a smile; i like to see them fighting for my favour. but to give a man the right to love me, the right to my smiles, the _right to me_! indeed, i have yet seen _none_ who could make me bear the thought. and yet i think that i could love, and i know that the man that i am to love must be living somewhere till fate brings him to me. he does not think of me. he does not know of me. and neither of us, i suppose, will taste life as life is till the day when we meet. camden place, bath, _november st_.--bath at last, which, must please poor mrs. hambledon exceedingly, for she certainly did _not_ enjoy the transit. i cannot conceive how people can allow themselves to be so utterly distraught by illness. i feel i can never have any respect for her again; she moaned and lamented in such cowardly fashion, was so peevish all the time on board the vessel, and looked so very begrimed and untidy and _plain_ when she was carried out on bristol quay. the captain called it _dirty_ weather, but i thought it _lovely_, and i don't think i ever enjoyed myself more--except when captain segrave's black douglas ran away with me in phoenix park. it was beautiful to see our brave boat plough the sea and quiver with anger, as if it were a living thing, when it was checked by some great green wave, then gather itself again under the wind and dash on to the fight, until it conquered. and when we came into the river and the sun shone once more it glided on swiftly, though looking just a little tired for a while until its decks and sails were dry and clean again, and i thought it was just like a bird that has shaken and plumed itself. i was sorry to leave it. the captain and the mate and the sailors, who had wrapped me up in their great, stiff tarpaulin coats and placed me in a safe corner where i could sit out and look, were also sorry that i should go. but it was good to be with madeleine again and tanty donoghue, who always has such a kind smile on her old wrinkled face when she looks at me. madeleine was astonished when i told her i had loved the storm at sea and when i mimicked poor mrs. hambledon. she says she also thought she was dying, so ill was she on her crossing, and that she was quite a week before she got over the impression. it seems odd to think that we are sisters, and twin sisters too; in so many things she is different from me. she has changed in manner since i left her. she seems so absorbed in some great thought that all her words and smiles have little meaning in them. i told her i had tried to keep my diary, but had not done much work, and when i asked to see hers (for a model) madeleine blushed, and said i should see it this day year. _madeleine is in love_; that is the only way i can account for that blush. i fear she is a sly puss, but there is such a bustle around us, and so much to do and see, i have no time to make her confess. so i said i would keep mine from her for that period also. it seems a long span to look ahead. what a number of things will happen before this day year! bath, _november rd_.--bath is delightful! i have only been here two days, and already i am what tanty, in her old-fashioned way, calls _the belle_. already there are a dozen sparks who declare that my eyes have _shot death_ to them. this afternoon comes my lord of manningham, nicknamed _king of bath_, to "drink a dish of tea," as he has it, with his "dear old friend miss o'donoghue." tanty has been here three weeks, and he has only just discovered her existence, and remembered their tender friendship. of course, i know very well what has really brought him. he is lord dereham's grandfather on the mother's side, and lord dereham, who is the son of the duke of wells, is "the catch," as mrs. hambledon vows, of the fashionable world this year. and lord dereham has seen me twice, and _is in love with me_. but as lord dereham is more like a little white rat than a man, and swears more than he converses--which would be very shocking if it were not for his lisp, which makes it very funny--needless to say, my diary dear, your molly is not in love with him--he has no chance. and so lord manningham comes to tea, and tanty orders me to remain and see her "old friend" instead of going to ride with the widow hambledon. the widow hambledon and i are everywhere together, and she knows all the most entertaining people in bath, whereas madeleine, whom i have hardly seen at all except at night, when i am so dead tired that i go to sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow (i vow tanty's manner of speech is catching), miss madeleine keeps to her own select circle, and turns up her haughty little nose at _my_ friends. so now madeleine is punished, for tanty and i have had the honour of receiving the _king of bath_, and i have been vouchsafed the stamp of his august approval. "my dear miss o'donoghue," he cried, as i curtsied, "do my senses deceive me, or do i not once more behold _murthering moll_?" "i thought you could not fail to notice the likeness; my niece is, indeed, a complete o'donoghue," says tanty, amazingly pleased. "likeness, ma'am," cried the old wretch, bowing again, and scattering his snuff all over the place, while i sweep him another splendid curtsey, "likeness, ma'am, why this is no feeble copy, no humble imitation, 'tis _murdering moll herself_, and glad i am to see her again." and then he catches me under the chin, and peers into my face with his dim, wicked old eyes. "and so you are murdering moll's daughter," says he, chuckling to himself. "ay, she and i were very good friends, my pretty child, very good friends, and that not so long ago, either. ay, _mater pulchra, filia pulchrior_." "but i happen to be her grand-daughter, please my lord," said i, and then i ran to fetch him a chair (for i was dreadfully afraid he was going to kiss me). but though no one has ever accused me of speaking too modestly to be heard, my lord had a sudden fit of deafness, and i saw tanty give me a little frown, while the old thing--he must be much older than tanty even--tottered into a chair, and went on mumbling. "i was only a boy in those days, my dear, only a boy, as your good aunt will tell you. i can remember how the bells rang the three beautiful irish sisters into bath, and i and the other dandies stood to watch them drive by. the bells rang in the _belles_ in those days, my dear, he, he, he! only we used to call them 'toasts' then, and your mother was the most beautiful of 'the three graces'--we christened them 'the three graces'--and by gad she led us all a pretty dance!" "ah, my lord," says tanty, and i could see her old eyes gleam though her tone was so pious, "i fear we were three wild irish girls indeed!" lord manningham was too busy ogling me to attend to her. "your mother was just such another as you, and she had just such a pair of dimples," said he. "you mean my grandmother," shouted i in his ear, just for fun, though tanty looked as if she were on pins and needles. but he only pinched my cheek again and went on: "before she had been here a fortnight all the bucks in the town were at her feet. and so was i, so was i. only, by gad, i was too young, you know, as miss o'donoghue here will tell you. but she liked me; she used to call me her 'little manny.' i declare i might have married her, only there were family reasons, and i was such a lad, you know. and then jack waterpark, some of us thought she would have had _him_ in the end--being an irishman, and a rich man, and a marquis to boot--he gave her the name of _murthering moll_, because of her killing eyes, young lady--he! he! he!--and there was ned cuffe ready to hang himself for her, and jim denham, and old beau vernon, ay, and a score of others. and then one night at the assembly rooms, after the dancing was over and we gay fellows were all together, up gets waterpark, he was a little tipsy, my dear, and by gad i can hear him speak now, with that brogue of his. 'boys,' he says, 'it's no use your trying for her any more, for by god _i've won her_.' and out of his breast-pocket he pulls a little knot of blue ribbon. your mother, my dear, had worn a very fine gown that evening, with little knots of blue ribbon all over the bodice of it. the words were not out of his mouth when ned cuffe starts to his feet as white as a sheet: 'it's a damned lie,' he cries, and out of his pocket _he_ pulls another little knot. 'she gave it to me with her own hands,' he cried and glares round at us all. and then vernon bursts out laughing and flourishes a third little bow in our eyes, and i had one too, i need not tell you, and so had all the rest, all save a french fellow--i forget his name--and it was he she had danced with the most of all. ah, miss o'donoghue, how the little jade's eyes sparkle! i warrant you have never told her the story for fear she would want to copy her mother in other ways besides looks--hey? well, my pretty, give me your little hand, and then i shall go on--pretty little hand, um--um--um!" and then he kissed my hand, the horrid, snuffy thing! but i allowed it, for i did so want to hear how it all ended. "and then, and then," i said. "and then, my dear, this french fellow, your papa he must have been--so i suppose i must not abuse him, and he was a very fine young man after all, and a man of honour as well--he stood and cursed us all." "'you english fools,' he said, 'you braggards--cowards.' and he seized a glass of wine from the table and with a sweep he dashed it at us and ended by flinging the empty glass in lord waterpark's face. it was the neatest thing you ever saw, for we all got a drop except waterpark, and he got the glass. 'i challenge you all,' said the frenchman, 'i'll fight you one by one, and i shall have her into the bargain.' and so he did, my dear, he fought us all, one after the other; there were five of us; he was a devil with the sword, but ned cuffe ran him through for all that--and he was a month getting over it, but as soon as he could crawl again he vowed himself ready for waterpark, and weak as he was he ran poor waterpark through the lungs. some said jack spitted himself on his sword--but dead he was anyhow, and monsieur your father--what was his name? kerme-something--was off with your mother before the rest of us were well out of bed." "fie, fie, my lord," said tanty, "you should not recall old stories in this manner!" "gad, ma'am, i warrant this young lady is quite ready to provide you with a few new ones," chuckled my lord; and as there was no more to be extracted from him but foolish old jokes and dreadful smiles, i contrived to free my "pretty little hand," and sit down demurely by tanty's side like the modest retiring young female i should be. but my blood was dancing in my veins--the blood of murthering moll--doddering old idiot as he is, lord manningham is right for once, i mean to take quite as much out of life as she did. that indeed is worth being young and beautiful for! we know nothing of our family, save that both father and mother were killed in vendée. tanty never will tell us anything about them (except their coats of arms), and i am afraid even to start the subject, for she always branches off upon heraldry and then we are in for hours of it. but after lord manningham was gone i asked her when and how my grandmother died. "she died when your mother was born, my dear," said tanty, "she was not as old as you are now, and your grandfather never smiled again, or so they said." that sobered me a little. yet she lived her life so well, while she did live, that i who have wasted twenty precious years can find in my heart rather to envy than to pity my beautiful grandmother. * * * * * _november th._--it is _three o'clock in the morning_, but i do not feel at all inclined to go to bed. madeleine is sleeping, poor pretty pale madeleine! with the tears hardly dry upon her cheeks and i can hear her sighing in her sleep. i was right, she is in love, and the gentleman she loves is not approved of by tanty and the upshot of it all is we are to leave dear bath, delightful bath, to-morrow--to-day rather--for some unknown penitential region which our stern relative as yet declines to name. i am longing to hear more about it; but tanty, who, though she talks so much, can keep her own counsel better than any woman i know, will not give me any further information beyond the facts that the delinquent who has dared to aspire to my sister is a person of _the name of smith_, and that it would not do at all. i have not the heart to wake madeleine to make her tell me more, though i really ought to pinch her well for being so secretive--besides, my head is so full of my own day that i want to get it all written down, and i shall never have done so unless i begin at the beginning. yesterday, then, at o'clock in the afternoon lord dereham's coach and four came clattering up to our door to call for me. mrs. hambledon was already installed and lady soames and a dozen other of the _fashionables_ of bath. my little lord marquis had kept the box seat for me, at which the other ladies, even my dear friend and chaperon, looked rather green. the weather was glorious, and off we went with a flourish of trumpets and whips, and i knew i should enjoy myself monstrously. and so i did. but it was the drive back that was the _best_ of all. we never started till near nine o'clock, and lord dereham insisted on my sitting beside him again--at which all the ladies looked daggers _at me_ and all the gentlemen daggers _at him_. and then we sang songs and tore along uphill and down dale, under the beautiful moonlight, through the still air, till all at once we found we had lost our way. we had to drive on till we came to an inn and we could make inquiries. there the gentlemen opened another hamper of wine, and when we set off again i promise you they were all pretty _lively_ (and most of the ladies too, for the matter of that). as for me, who never drank anything but milk or water till six months ago, i have not learnt to like wine yet, so, though i sipped out of the glass to keep the fun going, i contrived to dispose of the contents, quietly over the side of the coach, when no one was looking. it was a drive to remember. we came to a big hill, and as we were going down it at a smart pace the coach began to sway, then the ladies began to screech, and even the men looked so scared that i laughed outright. lord dereham was perfectly tipsy and he did not know the road a bit, but he drove in beautiful style and was extraordinarily amusing; as soon as the coach took to swaying, instead of slackening speed as they all begged him, he _lashed_ the horses into a tearing gallop, looking over his shoulder at the rest and cursing them with the greatest energy, grinning with rage, and looking more like a little white rat than _ever_. "give me the whip," said i, "and i shall whip the team while you drive." "_cuth me_," cried he, "if you are not worth the whole coach-load a dozen times over." on we went; the coach rocked, the horses galloped, and i knew at any moment the whole thing might upset, and i flourished my whip and lashed at the steaming flanks and i never felt what it was to really enjoy myself before. presently, although we were tearing along so fast, the coach steadied itself and went as straight as an arrow; and this, it seems, it would never have done had not lord dereham kept up the pace. and all the rest of the drive his lordship wanted to kiss me. i was not a bit frightened, though he was drunk, but every time he grew too forward i just flicked at the horses with the whip, and i think he saw that i would have cracked him across the face quite as readily if he dared to presume. no doubt a dozen times during the day i could have secured a coronet for myself, not to speak of future 'strawberry leaves,' as my aunt says, if i had cared to; but who could think of loving a man like _that_? he can manage four horses, and he has shot two men in a duel, and he can drink three bottles of wine at a sitting, and when one tries to find something more to say for him, lo! that is all! when we at length arrived at camden place, for i vowed they must leave me home the first, there was the rarest sport. my lord's grooms must set to blow the horns, for they were as drunk as their master, while one of the gentlemen played upon the knocker till the whole crescent was aroused. then the doors opened suddenly, _and tanty appears_ on the threshold, holding a candle. her turban was quite crooked, with the birds of paradise over one eye, and i never saw her old nose look so hooked. all the gentlemen set up a shout, and sir thomas wrexham began to crow like a cock for no reason on earth that i can think of. the servants were holding up lanterns, but the moon was nigh as bright as day. tanty just looked round upon them one after another, and in spite of her crooked turban i think they all grew frightened. then she caught hold of me, and just whisked me behind her. next she spied out mrs. hambledon, who had been asleep inside the coach, and now tumbled forth, yawning and gaping. "and so, madam," cries tanty to her, not very loud, but in a voice that made even me tremble; "so, madam, this is how you fulfil the confidence i placed in you. a pretty chaperon you are to have the charge of a young lady; though, indeed, considering your years, madam, i might have been justified in trusting you." mrs. hambledon, cut short in the middle of a loud yawn by this attack, was a sight to see. "hoighty-toighty, ma'am!" she cried, indignantly, as soon as she could get her voice; "here's a fine to-do. it is my fault, of course, that lord dereham should mistake the road. and my fault too, no doubt, that your miss should make an exhibition of herself riding on the box with the gentlemen at this hour of night, when i implored her to come inside with me, were it only for the sake of common female propriety." "common female indeed!" echoed tanty, with a snort; "the poor child knew better." "cuth the old cats! they'll have each other'th eyeth out," here cried my lord marquis, interposing his little tipsy person between them. he had scrambled down the box after me, and was listening with an air of profound wisdom that made me feel fit to die laughing. "don't you mind her, old lady," he went on, addressing tanty; "mith molly ith quite able to take care of herself--damme if she'th not." aunt donoghue turned upon him majestically. "and then that is more than can be said for you, my poor young man," she exclaimed; and i vow he looked as sobered as if she had flung a bucket of cold water over him. upon this she retired and shut the door, and marched me upstairs before her without a word. before my room door she stopped. "mrs. dempsey has already packed your sister's trunks," she said, in a very dry way; "and she will begin to pack yours early--i was going to say to-morrow--but you keep such hours, my dear--it will be _to-day_." i stared at her as if she had gone mad. "you and your sister," she went on, "have got beyond me. i have taken my resolution and given my orders, and there is not the least use making a scene." and then it came out about madeleine. at first i thought i would go into a great passion and refuse to obey, but after a minute or two i saw it was, as she said, no use. tanty was as cool as a cucumber. then i thought perhaps i might mollify her if i could cry, but i couldn't pump up a tear; i never can; and at last when i went into my room and saw poor madeleine, who has cried herself to sleep, evidently, i understood that there was nothing for us but to do as we were told. and now i can hear tanty fussing about her room still--she has been writing, too--cra, cra, cra--this last hour. i wonder who to? after all there is some fun in being taken off mysteriously we don't know where. i should like to go and kiss her, but she thinks i am abed. chapter xi a masterful old maid no contrary advice having reached pulwick since miss o'donoghue's _letter of invoice_, as mr. landale facetiously described it, he drove over to lancaster on the day appointed to meet the party. and thus it came to pass that through the irresistible management of miss o'donoghue, who put into the promotion of her scheme all the energy belonging to her branch of the family, together with the long habit of authority of the _tante à héritage_, the daughters of cécile de savenaye returned to that first home of theirs, of which they had forgotten even the name. mr. landale had not set eyes on his valuable relative for many years, but her greeting, at the first renewal of intercourse which took place in the principal parlour of the lancaster inn, was as easily detached in manner as though they had just met again after a trifling absence and she was bringing her charges to his house in accordance with a mutual agreement. "my dear rupert," cried she, "i am glad to see you again. i need not ask you how you are, you look so extremely sleek and prosperous. adrian's wide acres are succulent, hey? i should have known you anywhere; though to be sure, you are hardly large enough for the breed, you have the true landale stamp on you, the unmistakable landale style of feature. _semper eadem._ in that sense, at least, one can apply your ancient and once worthy motto to you; and you know, nephew, since you have conveniently changed your faith, both to god and king, this sentiment strikes one as a sarcasm amidst the achievements of landale, you backsliders! ah, we o'donoghues have better maintained our device, _sans changier_." rupert, to whom the well-known volubility of his aunt was most particularly disagreeable, but who had nevertheless saluted the stalwart old lady's cheek with much affection, here bent his supple back with a sort of mocking gallantry. "you maintain your _device_, permit me to say, my dear aunt, as ostentatiously in your person as we renegade landales ourselves." "pooh, pooh! i am too old a bird to be caught by such chaff, nephew; it is pearls before.... i mean it is too late in the day, my dear. keep it for the young things. and indeed i see the sheep's eyes you have been casting in their direction. come nearer, young ladies, and make your cousin's acquaintance," beckoning to her nieces, who, arrayed in warm travelling pelisses and beaver bonnets of fashionable appearance, stood in the background near the fireplace. "they are very like, are they not?" she continued. "twins always are; as like as two peas. and yet these are as different as day and night when you come to know them. madeleine is the eldest; that is she in the beaver fur; molly prefers bear. without their bonnets you will distinguish them by their complexion. molly has raven hair (she is the truest o'donoghue), whilst madeleine is fair, _blonde_, like her breton father." the sisters greeted their new-found guardian, each in her own way. and, in spite of the disguising bonnets and their surprising similarity of voice, height, and build, the difference was more marked than that of beaver and bear. madeleine acknowledged her kinsman's greeting with a dainty curtsey and little half-shy smile, marked by that air of distinction and breeding which was her peculiar characteristic. molly, however, who thought she had reasonable cause for feeling generally exasperated, and who did not see in mr. rupert landale, despite his good looks and his good manner, a very promising substitute for her bath admirers (nor in the prospect of pulwick a profitable exchange for bath), came forward with her bolder grace to flounce him a saucy "reverence," measuring him the while with a certain air of mockery which his thin-skinned susceptibility was quick to seize. he looked back at her down the long tunnel of her bonnet, appraising the bloom and beauty within with cold and curious gaze, and then he turned to madeleine and made to her his courteous speech of welcome. this was sufficient for miss molly, who, for six months already accustomed to compel admiration at first sight from all specimens of the male sex that came across her path, instantly vowed a deadly hatred to her cousin, and followed the party into the landale family coach--rupert preceding, with a lady on each arm--in a temper as black as her own locks. it fell to her lot to sit beside the objectionable relative on the back seat, while, by the right of her minute's seniority, madeleine sat beside tanty in the front. the projecting wings of her headgear effectively prevented her from watching his demeanour, unless, indeed, she had turned to him, which was, of course, out of the question; but certain fugitive conscious blushes upon the young face in front of her, certain castings down of long lashes and timid upward glances, made molly shrewdly conjecture that mr. landale, through all the apparent devotion with which he listened to tanty's continuous flow of observations, was able to bestow a certain amount of attention upon her pretty neighbour. tanty herself conducted the conversation with her usual high hand, feigning utter oblivion of the thundercloud on molly's countenance; and, if somewhat rambling in her discourse, nevertheless contriving to plant her points where she chose. thus the long drive wore to its end. the sun was golden upon pulwick when the carriage at length drew up before the portico. miss sophia received them in the hall, in a state of painful flutter and timidity. she had a constitutional terror of her aunt's sharp eyes, and, though she examined her young cousins wistfully, madeleine's unconscious air of dignity repelled her as much as molly's deliberate pertness. rupert conducted his aunt upstairs, and down the long echoing corridor towards her apartment. "ha, my old quarters," quoth tanty, disengaging herself briskly from her escort to enter the room and look round approvingly, "and very comfortable they are. and my two nieces are next door, i see, as gay as chintz can make them. thank you, nephew, i shall keep you no longer. we shall dine shortly, i feel sure. well, well, i do not pretend i am not quite ready to do justice to your excellent fare--beyond doubt, it will be excellent! go to your room, girls, your baggage is coming up, you see; i shall send dempsey to assist you presently. no, not you, sophia, i was speaking to the young ones. i should like to have a little chat with you, my dear, if you have no objection." one door closed upon rupert as he smiled and bowed himself out, the other upon molly hustling her sister before her. tanty in the highest good humour, having accomplished her desire, and successfully "established a lodgment" (to use a military term not inappropriate to such a martial spirit) for her troublesome nieces in the stronghold of pulwick, once more surveyed her surroundings: the dim old walls, the great four-post bed, consecrated, of course, by tradition to the memory of some royal slumberer, the damask hangings, and the uncomfortable chairs, with the utmost favour, ending up with a humorous examination of the elongated figure hesitating on the hearthrug. "be seated, sophia. i am glad to stretch my old limbs after that terrible drive. so here we are together again. what are you sighing for? upon my soul, you are the same as ever, i see, the same tombstone on your chest, and blowing yourself out with sighs, just as you used. that will never give you a figure, my poor girl; it is no wonder you are but skin and bones. ah, can't you let the poor fellow rest in his grave sophia? it is flying in the face of providence, i call it, to go on perpetually stirring up his ashes like that. i hope you mean to try and be a little more cheerful with those poor girls. but, there, i believe you are never so happy as when you are miserable. and it's a poor creature you would be at any time," added the old lady to herself, after a second thoughtful investigation of miss landale's countenance, which had assumed an expression of mulishness in addition to an increase of dolefulness during this homily. here, to miss landale's great relief, the dying sunset, wavering into crimson and purple, from its first glory of liquid gold, attracted her aunt's attention, and miss o'donoghue went over to the window. beneath her spread the quaint garden, with its clipped box edges, and beyond the now leafless belt of trees, upon the glimmer of the bay, the outline of scarthey, a dark silhouette rose fantastically against the vivid sky. even as she gazed, there leapt upon its fairy turret a minute point of white. the jovial old countenance changed and darkened. "and adrian is still at his fool's game over there, i suppose," she said irately turning upon sophia. "when have you seen him last? how often does he come here? i gather master rupert is nothing if not the master. why don't you answer me, sophia?" * * * * * the dinner was as well cooked and served a meal as any under rupert's rule, which is saying a good deal, and if the young ladies failed to appreciate the "floating island," the "golden nests," and "silver web," so thoughtfully provided for them, tanty did ample justice to the venison. indeed the cloud which had been visible upon her countenance at the beginning of dinner, and which according to that downright habit of mind, which rendered her so terrible or so delightful a companion, she made no attempt to conceal, began to lift towards the first remove, and altogether vanished over her final glass of port. after dinner she peremptorily ordered her grand-nieces into the retirement of their bedchambers, unblushingly alleging their exhausted condition in front of the perfect bloom of their beautiful young vigour. she then, over a cup of tea, luxuriously stretching her thin frame in the best arm-chair the drawing-room could afford, gave rupert a brief code of directions as to the special attentions and care she desired to be bestowed upon her wards, during their residence at pulwick, descanting generously upon their various perfections, gliding dexterously over her reasons for wishing to be rid of them herself, and concluding with the hint--either pregnant or barren of meaning as he chose to take it--that if he made their stay pleasant to them, she would not forget the service. then, as mr. landale began, with apparent guilelessness, to put a few little telling questions to her anent the episodes which had made bath undesirable as a residence for these young paragons, the old lady suddenly became overwhelmed with fatigue and sleepiness, and professed herself ready to be conducted to her bower immediately. * * * * * meanwhile, despite the _moue de circonstance_ which molly thought it incumbent on her to assume, neither she nor madeleine regretted their compulsory withdrawal from the social circle downstairs. madeleine had her own thoughts to follow up, and that these were both engrossing and pleasant was easily evident; and molly, bursting with a sense of injury arising from many causes, desired a special explanation with her sister, which the presence in and out upon them of tanty's woman had prevented her from indulging in before dinner. "so here we are at last," cried she, indignantly, after she had walked round and severely inspected her quarters, pausing to "pull a lip" of extreme disfavour at the handsome portrait of mr. landale that hung between the windows, "we are, madeleine, at last, kidnapped, imprisoned, successfully disposed of, in fact." "yes, here we are at last," echoed madeleine, abstractedly, warming her slender ankles by the fire. "have you made out yet what particular kind of new frenzy it was that seized chère tante?" asked miss molly, with great emphasis, as she sat down at her toilet-table. "you are the cause of it all, my dear, and so you ought to know. it is all very well for tanty to pretend that i have brought it on myself by not coming home till three o'clock (as if that was _my_ fault). she cannot blink the fact that her dempsey creature had orders to pack my boxes before bedtime. your smith must be a desperately dangerous individual. well," she continued, looking round over her shoulder, "why don't you say something, you lackadaisical thing?" but madeleine answered nought and continued gazing, while only the little smile, tilting the corners of her lips, betrayed that she had heard the petulant speech. the smile put the finishing touch to molly's righteous anger. brandishing a hairbrush threateningly, she marched over to her sister and looked down upon the slender figure, in its clinging white dress, with blazing eyes. "look here," she cried, "there must be an end of this. i can put up with your slyness no longer. how _dare_ you have secrets from me, miss?--your own twin sister! you and i, who used never to have a thought we did not share. how dare you have a lover, and not tell me all about him? what was the meaning of your weeping like a fountain all the way from bath to shrewsbury, and then, without rhyme or reason apparently, smiling to yourself all the way from there to lancaster. you have had a letter, don't attempt to deny it, it is of no use.... oh, it is base of you, it is indeed! and to think that it is all through you that i am forced into this exile, through your _airs penchés_, and your sighing and dreaming, and your mysterous _smith_.... to think that to-night, this very night, is the ball of the season, and we are going to bed! oh, and to-morrow and to-morrow, and to-morrow, with nothing but a knave and a fool to keep us company--for i don't think much of your female cousin, madeleine, and, as for your male cousin, i perfectly detest him--and all the tabbies of the country-side for diversion, with perhaps a country buck on high days and holidays for a relish! pah!" molly had almost talked her ill-humour away. her energetic nature could throw off most unpleasant emotions easily enough so long as it might have an outlet for them; she now laid down the threatening brush, and, kneeling beside her, flung both her arms round madeleine's shoulders. "ma petite madeleine," she coaxed, in the mother tongue, "tell thy little sister thy secrets." a faint flush crept to madeleine's usually creamy cheeks, a light into her eyes. she turned impulsively to the face near hers, then, as if bethinking herself, pursed her lips together and shook her head slightly. "do you remember, ma chèrie," she said, at last, "that french tale mrs. hambledon lent us in which it is said _'qui fuit l'amour, l'amour suit.'_" "well?" asked molly, eagerly, her lips parted as if to drink in the expected confidence. "well," replied the other, "well, perhaps things may not be so bad after all. perhaps," rising from her seat, and looking at her sister with a little gentle malice, while she, too, began to disrobe her fairer beauty for the night, "some of your many lovers may come after you from bath! oh, molly!" with a little scream, for molly, with eyes flashing once more, had sprung up from her knees to inflict a vicious pinch upon the equivocator's arm. "yes, miss, you shall be pinched till you confess." then flouting her with a sudden change of mood, "i am sure i don't want to know your wonderful secret,"--seizing her comb and passing it crackling through her hair with quite unnecessary energy--"mademoiselle la cachotière. anyhow, it cannot be very interesting.... _mrs. smith!_ fancy caring for a man called smith! if you smile again like that, madeleine, i shall beat you." the two sisters looked at each other for a second as if hesitating on the brink of anger, and then both laughed. "never mind, i shall pay you out yet," quoth molly, tugging at her black mane. "so our lovers are to come after us, is _that_ it? do you know, madeleine," she went on, calming down, "i almost regret now that i would not listen to young lord dereham, simpleton though he be. he looked such a dreadful little fright that i only laughed at him.... i should have laughed at him all my life. but it would perhaps have been better than this dependence on tanty, with her sudden whims and scampers and whisking of us away into the wilderness. then i should have had my own way always. now it's too late. tanty told me yesterday that she sees he is a dissolute young man, and that his dukedom is only a charles ii. creation, and 'we know what that means,' she added, and shook her head. i am sure i had not a notion, but i shook my head too, and said, 'of course, that made it impossible.' i was really afraid she would want me to marry him. she was dreadfully pleased and said i was a true o'donoghue. oh, dear! i don't know _anything_ about love. i can't imagine being in love; but one thing is certain, i could never, never, never allow a horrid little rat like lord dereham to make love to me, to kiss me, nor, indeed, any man--oh, horror! how you are blushing, my dear! come here into the light. it would be good for your soul, indeed it would, to confess!" but madeleine, burying her hot cheeks in her sister's neck and clasping her with gentle caresses, was not to be drawn from her reticence. molly pushed her off at last, and gave a hard little good-night kiss like a bird-peck. "very well; but you might as well have confessed, for i shall find out in the long run. and who knows, perhaps you may be sorry one day that you did not tell me of your own accord." chapter xii a record and a presentment. the gallery of family portraits at pulwick is one of the most remarkable features of that ancient house. it was a custom firmly established at the priory--ever since the first heralds' visitation in lancashire, when some mooted point of claims to certain quarterings had been cleared in an unexpected way by the testimony of a well-authenticated ancestral portrait--for each successive representative to add to the collection. one of the first cares of every landale, therefore, on succeeding to the title was to be painted, with his proper armorial and otherwise distinguishing honours jealously delineated, and thus hung in the place of honour over the high mantelshelf of the gallery--displacing on the occasion his own immediate and revered predecessor. the chain was consequently unbroken from the elizabethan descendants of the first acquirers of ecclesiastical property at pulwick, down to the present light-keeper of scarthey. but whilst the late sir thomas appeared in all the majesty of deputy-lieutenant, colonel of militia, magistrate, and sundry other honourable offices, in his due place on the right of the present baronet, the latter figured in a character so strange and so incongruous that it seemed as if one day the dignified array of landales--old, young, middle-aged, but fine gentlemen, all of them--must turn their backs upon their degenerate kinsman. over the chimney-piece, in the huge carved-oak frame (now already two centuries old), a common sailor, in the striped loose trousers, the blue jacket with red piping of a man-of-war's man, with pigtail and coarse open shirt--stood boldly forth as the representative of the present owner of pulwick. proud of their long line of progenitors, it was a not unusual thing for the landales to entertain their guests at breakfast in a certain sunny bow-window in the portrait gallery rather than in the breakfast parlour proper, which in winter, unmistakably harboured more damp than was pleasant. it was, therefore, with no surprise that miss landale received an early order from her brother to have a fire lighted in the apartment sacred to the family honours, and the matutinal repast served there in due course. whether mr. landale was actuated by a regard for the rheumatism of his worthy relative, or merely a natural family pride, or by some other and less simple motive, he saw no necessity for informing his docile housewife on the matter. as sophia was accustomed to no such condescension on his part even in circumstances more extraordinary, she merely bundled out of bed unquestioningly in the darkness and cold of the morning to see his orders executed in the proper manner; which, indeed, to her credit was so successfully accomplished that tanty and her charges, when they made their entry upon the scene, could not fail to be impressed with the comfortable aspect of the majestic old room. mr. landale examined his two young uninvited guests with new keenness in the morning light. molly was demure enough, though there was a lurking gleam in her dark eye which suggested rather armed truce than accepted peace. as for madeleine, though to be serene was an actual necessity of her delicate nature, there was more than resignation in the blushing radiance of her look and smile. "portraits of their mother," said rupert, bringing his critical survey to a close, and stepping forward with a nice action of the legs to present his arm to his aunt. "portraits of their mother both of them--i trust to that miniature which used to grace our collection in the drawing-room rather than to the treacherous memory of a school-boy for the impression--but portraits by different masters and in different moods." there was something patronising in the tone from so young a man, which molly resented on the spot. "oh, we should be as like as two peas, only that we are as different as day and night, as tanty says," she retorted, tossing her white chin at her host, while miss o'donoghue laughed aloud at her favourite's sauciness. "and after all," said rupert, as he bestowed his venerable relative on her chair, with an ineffable air of politeness, contradicted, though only for an instant, by the look which he shot at molly from the light hazel eyes, "tanty is not so far wrong--the only difference between night and day is the difference between the _brunette_ and the _blonde_," with a little bow to each of the sisters, "an irish bull, if one comes to analyse it, is but the expression of the too rapid working of quick wits." "faith, nephew," said tanty, sitting down in high good humour to the innumerable good things in which her epicurean old soul delighted, "that is about as true a thing as ever you said. our irish tongues are apt to get behind a thing before it is there, and they call that making a bull." rupert's sense of humour was as keen as most of his other faculties, and at the unconscious humour of this sally his laugh rang out frankly, while molly and madeleine giggled in their plates, and miss o'donoghue chuckled quietly to herself in the intervals of eating and drinking, content to have been witty, without troubling to discover how. sophia alone remained unmoved by mirth; indeed, as she raised her drooping head, amazed at the clamour, an unwary tear trickled down her long nose into her tea. she was given to revelling in anniversaries of dead and gone joys or sorrows; the one as melancholy to her to look back upon as the other; and upon this november day, now very many years ago, had the ardent, consumptive rector first hinted at his love. "and now," said miss o'donoghue, who, having disposed of the most serious part of the breakfast, pushed away her plate with one hand while she stirred her second cup of well-creamed tea lazily with the other, "now, rupert, will you tell me the arrangements you propose to make to enable me to see your good brother?" rupert had anticipated being attacked upon this subject, and had fully prepared himself to defend the peculiar position it was his interest to maintain. to encourage a meeting between his brother and the old lady (to whom the present position of affairs was a grievous offence) did not, certainly, enter into his plan of action; but tanty had put the question in an unexpected and slightly awkward shape, and for a second or two he hesitated before replying. "i fear," said he then, gliding into the subject with his usual easy fluency, "that you will be disappointed if you have been reckoning upon an interview with adrian, my dear aunt. the hermit will not be drawn from his shell on any pretext." "what," cried tanty, while her withered cheek flushed, "do you mean to tell me that my nephew, sir adrian landale, will decline to come a few hundred yards to see his old aunt--his mother's own sister--who has come three hundred miles, at seventy years of age, to see him in his own house--_in his own house_?" repeated the irate old lady, rattling the spoon with much emphasis against her cup. "if you _mean_ this, rupert, it is an insult to me which i shall never forget--_never_." she rose from her seat as she concluded, shaking with the tremulous anger of age. "for god's sake, tanty," cried rupert, throwing into his voice all the generous warmth he was capable of simulating, "do not hold me responsible for adrian in this matter. his strange vagaries are not of my suggesting, heaven knows." "well, nephew," said miss o'donoghue, loftily, "if you will kindly send the letter i am about to write to your brother, by a safe messenger, immediately, i shall believe that it is _your_ wish to treat me with proper respect, whatever may be adrian's subsequent behaviour." mr. landale's countenance assumed an expression of very genuine distress; this was just the one proof of dutiful attachment that he was loth to bestow upon his cherished aunt. "i see how it is," he exclaimed earnestly, coming up to the old lady, and laying his hand gently upon her arm, "you entirely misunderstand the situation. i am not a free agent in this matter. i cannot do what you ask; i am bound by pledge. adrian is, undoubtedly, more than--peculiar on certain points, and, really, i dare not, if i would, thwart him." "oh!" cried tanty, shooting off the ejaculation as from a pop-gun. then, shaking herself free of rupert's touch, she sat down abruptly in her chair again, and began fanning herself with her handkerchief. not even in her interchange of amenities with mrs. hambledon, had molly seen her display so much indignation. "you want me to believe he is mad, i suppose?" she snapped, at last. "dear me! no, no, no!" responded the other, in his airy way. "i did not mean to go so far as that; but--well, there are very painful matters, and hitherto i have avoided all discussion upon them, even with sophia. my affection for adrian----" "fiddlesticks!" interrupted tanty. "you meant something, i suppose; either the man's mad, or he is not. and i, for one, don't believe a word of it. the worst sign about him, that i can see, is the blind confidence the poor fellow seems to put in you." here molly, who had been listening to the discussion "with all her ears"--anything connected with the mysterious personality of the absent head of the house was beginning to have a special fascination for her--gave an irrepressible little note of laughter. rupert looked up at her quickly, and their eyes met. "hold your tongue, miss," cried miss o'donoghue, sharply; aware that she had gone too far in her last remark, and glad to relieve her oppression in another direction, "how dare you laugh? sophia, this is a terrible thing your brother wants me to believe--may i ask what _your_ opinion is? though i'll not deny i don't think that will be worth much." sophia glanced helplessly at rupert, but he was far too carefully possessed of himself to affect to perceive her embarrassment. "come, come," cried miss o'donoghue, whose eyes nothing escaped, "you need not look at rupert, you can answer for yourself, i suppose--you are not absolutely a drivelling idiot--_all_ the landales are not ripening for lunatic asylums--collect your wits, sophia, i know you have not got any, but you have _enough_ to be able to give a plain answer to a plain question, i suppose. do you think your brother mad, child?" "god forbid," murmured sophia, at the very extremity of those wits of which miss o'donoghue had so poor an opinion. "oh, no, dear aunt, not _mad_, of course, not in the least _mad_." then, gathering from a restless movement of rupert's that she was not upon the right tack she faltered, floundered wildly, and finally drew forth the inevitable pocket-handkerchief, to add feelingly if irrelevantly from its folds, "and indeed if i thought such a calamity had really fallen upon us--and of course there _are_ symptoms, no doubt there are symptoms...." "what are his symptoms--has he tried to murder any of you, hey?" "oh, my dear aunt! no, indeed, dear adrian is gentleness itself." "does he bite? does he gibber? oh, away with you, sophia! i am sure i cannot wonder at the poor fellow wanting to live on a rock, between you and rupert. i am sure the periwinkles and the gulls must be pleasant company compared to you. that alone would show, i should think, that he knows right well what he is about. mad indeed! there never was any madness among the o'donoghues except your poor uncle michael, who got a box on the ear from a windmill--and _he_ wasn't an o'donoghue at all! you will be kind enough, nephew, to have delivered to sir adrian, no later than to-day, the letter which i shall this moment indite to him." "perhaps," said rupert, "if you will only favour me with your attention for a few minutes first, aunt, and allow me to narrate to you the circumstances of my brother's return here, and of his subsequent self-exile, you will see fit to change your opinion, both as regards him and myself." a self-controlled nature will in the long run, rightly or wrongly, always assume the ascendency over an excitable one. the moderateness of rupert's words, the coolness of his manner, here brought tanty rapidly down from her pinnacle of passion. certainly, she said, she was not only ready, but anxious to hear all that rupert could have to say for himself; and, smoothing down her black satin apron with a shaking hand, the old lady prepared to listen with as much judicial dignity as her flustered state allowed her to assume. rupert drew his chair opposite to hers and leant his elbow on the table, and fixed his bright, hard eyes upon her. "you remember, of course," he began after a moment's pause, "how at the time of my poor father's death, adrian was reported to have lost his life in the vendée war--though without authoritative confirmation--at the same time as the fair and unhappy countesse de savenaye, to whose fortune he had so chivalrously devoted himself." tanty bowed her head in solemn assent; but molly, watching with the most acute attention, felt her face blaze at the indefinable shade of mockery she thought to catch upon the speaker's curling lip. "it was," continued he, "the constant strain, the long months of watching in vain for tidings, that told upon my father, rather than the actual grief of loss. when he died, the responsibilities of the headship of the house devolved naturally upon me, the only male representative left, seemingly, to undertake them. the months went by; to the most sanguine the belief in adrian's death became inevitable. our hopes died slowly, but they died at last; we mourned for him," here rupert cast down his eyes till the thick black lashes which were one of his beauties swept his cheek; his tone was perfect in its simple gravity. "at length, urged thereto by all the family, if i remember rightly by yourself as well, dear aunt, i assumed the title as well as the position which seemed mine by right. i was very young at the time, but i do not think that either then, or during the ten years that followed, i unworthily filled my brother's place." there was a proud ring of sincerity in the last words, and the old lady knew that they were true; that during the years of his absolute power as well as of his present more restricted mastership, rupert's management of the estate was unimpeachable. "certainly not, my dear rupert," she said in softer tones than she had hitherto used to him, "no one would dream of suggesting such a thing--pray go on." "and so," pursued the nephew, with a short laugh, relapsing into that light tone of banter which was his most natural mode of expression; "when, one fine day, a hired coach clattered up sir rupert landale's avenue and deposited upon his porch a tattered mariner who announced himself, in melancholy tones that would have befitted the ghost no doubt many took him for, as the rightful sir adrian, erroneously supposed defunct, i confess that it required a little persuasion to make me recognise my long-lost brother--and yet there could be no doubt of it. the missing heir had come to his own again; the dead had come back to life. well, we killed the fatted calf, and all the rest of it--but i need not inflict upon you the narrative of our rejoicing." "faith, no," said tanty, drily, "i can see it with half an eye." "you know, too, i believe, the series of extraordinary adventures, or misadventures, which had kept him roaming on the high seas while we at home set up tablets to his memory and 'wore our blacks' as people here call it, and cultivated a chastened resignation. there was a good deal of correspondence going on at the time between pulwick and bunratty, if i remember aright, and you heard all about adrian's divers attempts to land in england, about his fight with the king's men, his crack on the head and final impressment. at least you heard as much as we could gather ourselves. adrian is not what one would call a garrulous person at the best of times. it was really with the greatest difficulty that we managed to extract enough out of him to piece together a coherent tale." "well, well," quoth tanty, with impatience, "you are glib enough for two anyhow, my dear! all this does not tell me how adrian came to live on a lighthouse, and why you put him down as a lunatic." "not as a lunatic," corrected rupert, gently, "merely as slightly eccentric on certain points. though, indeed, if you had seen him during those first months after his return, i think even you with your optimistic spirit would have feared, as we did, that he was falling into melancholia. thank heaven he is better now. but, dear me, what we went through! i declare i expected every morning to be informed that sir adrian's corpse had been found hanging from his bedpost or discovered in a jelly at the bottom of the bluffs. and, indeed, when at length he disappeared for three days, after he had been last observed mooning along the coast, there was a terrible panic lest he should have sought a congenial and soothing end in the embraces of the quicksands.... it turned out, however, that he had merely strolled over to scarthey--where, as you know, my father established a beacon and installed a keeper to warn boats off our shoals--and, finding the place to his liking, had remained there, regardless of our feelings." "tut, tut!" said tanty; but whether in reproof of rupert's flippant language or of her elder nephew's erratic behaviour, it would have been difficult to determine. "of course," went on rupert, smoothly, "i had resolved, after a decent period, to remove my lares and penates from a house where i was no longer master and to establish myself, with my small patrimony (i believe i ought to call it _matrimony_, as we younger children benefit by our o'donoghue mother) in an independent establishment. but when i first broached the subject, adrian was so vastly distressed, expressed himself so well satisfied with my management of the estate and begged me so earnestly to consider pulwick as my home, vowing that he himself would never marry, and that all he looked forward to in life was to see me wedded and with future heirs to the name springing around me, that it would have been actual unkindness to resist. moreover, as you can imagine, adrian is not exactly a man of business, and his spasmodic interferences in the control of the property being already then of a very injudicious nature, i confess that, having nursed it myself for eleven years with some success, i dreaded to think what it would become under his auspices. and so i agreed to remain. but the position increased in difficulty. adrian's moroseness seemed to grow upon him; he showed an exaggerated horror of company; either flying from visitors as from the pest, and shutting himself up in his own apartments, or (on the few disastrous occasions when my persuasions induced him to show himself to some old family friends) entertaining them with such unusual sentiments concerning social laws, the magistracy, the government, his majesty the king himself, that the most extraordinary reports about him soon spread over the whole county. this was about the time--as you may remember--of my own marriage." here an alteration crept into mr. landale's voice, and molly looked at him curiously, while miss sophia gave vent to an audible sniff. "to be sure," said tanty, hastily. comfortably egotistic old ladies have an instinctive dislike to painful topics. and that rupert's sorrow for his young wife had been, if self-centred and reserved, of an intense and prolonged nature was known to all the family. the widower himself had no intention of dilating upon it. his wife's name he never mentioned, and no one could guess, heavily as the blow was known to have fallen upon him, the seething bitterness that her loss had left in his soul, nor imagine how different a man he might have been if that one strong affection of his life had been spared to soften it. "adrian fled from the wedding festivities, as you may remember, for you were our honoured guest at the time, and greatly displeased at his absence," he resumed, after a few seconds of darkling reflection. "none of us knew where he had flown to, for he did not evidently consider his owl's nest sufficiently remote; but we had his fraternal blessing to sustain us. and after that he continued to make periodical disappearances to his retreat, stopping away each time longer and longer. one fine day he sent workmen to the island with directions to repair certain rooms in the keep, and he began to transfer thereto furniture, his books and his organ. a dilapidated little french prisoner next appeared on the scene (whom my brother had extracted from the tower of liverpool, which was then crammed with such gentry), and finally we were informed that, with this worthy companion, sir adrian landale was determined to take up his abode altogether at scarthey, undertaking the duties of the recently defunct light-keeper. so off he went, and there he is still. he has extracted from us a solemn promise that his privacy is to be absolutely respected, and that no communications, or, above all, visits are to be made to him. occasionally, when we least expect it, he descends upon us from his tower, upsets all my accounts, makes the most absurd concessions to the tenants, rides round the estate with his eyes on the ground and disappears again. _et voilà_, my dear aunt, how we stand." "well, nephew," said miss o'donoghue, "i am much obliged to you, i am sure, for putting me _au courant_ of the family affairs. it is all very sad--very sad and very deplorable; but----" but mr. landale was quite aware that tanty was not yet convinced to the desired extent. he therefore here interrupted her to play his last card--that ace he had up his sleeve, in careful preparation for this trial of skill with his keen-witted relative, and to the suitable production of which he had been all along leading. rising from his chair with slow, deliberate movement, he proceeded, as if following his own train of thought, without noticing that miss o'donoghue was intent on speech herself: "you have not seen him, i believe, since he was quite a lad. you would have some difficulty in recognising him, though he bears, like the rest of us, what you call the unmistakable landale stamp. his portrait is here, by the way--duly installed in its correct position. that," with a laugh, "was one of his freaks. it was his duty to keep up the family traditions, he said--and there you will approve of him, no doubt; but hardly, perhaps, of the manner in which he has had that laudable intention carried out. my own portrait was, of course, deposed (like the original)," added mr. landale, with something of a sneer; "and now hangs meekly in some bedroom or other--in that, if i mistake not, at present hallowed by my fair cousins' presence. well, it is good for the soul of man to be humbled, as we are taught to believe from our earliest years!" tanty was fumbling for her eye-glasses. she was glad to hear that adrian had remembered some of his obligations (she observed, sententiously, as she hauled herself stiffly out of her chair to approach the chimney-piece); it was certainly a sign that he was more mindful of his duties as head of the house than one would expect from a person hardly responsible, such as rupert had represented him to be, and ... here, the glasses being adjusted and focussed upon the portrait, miss o'donoghue halted abruptly with a dropping jaw. "there is a curious inscription underneath the escutcheon," said mr. landale composedly, "which latter, by the way, you may notice is the only one in the line which has no room for an impaled coat (adrian's way of indicating not only that he is single, but means to remain such); adrian composed it himself and indeed attached a marked importance to it. let me read it for you, dear tanty, the picture hangs a little high and those curveting letters are hard to decipher. it runs thus: _sir adrian william hugh landale, lord of pulwick and scarthey in the county palatine of lancaster, eighth baronet, born march th, . succeeded to the title and estate on the th february , whilst abroad. iniquitously pressed into the king's service on the day of his return home, january nd, . twice flogged for alleged insubordination, and only released at last by the help of a friend after five years of slavery. died_ [here a space for the date.] it is a record with a vengeance, is it not? notice my brother's determination to die unmarried and to retire, once for all, from all or any of the possible honours connected with his position!" they had all clustered in front of the picture; even madeleine roused from her sweet day-dreams to some show of curiosity; miss landale's bosom, heaving with such sighs as to make the tombstone rise and fall like a ship upon a stormy sea; molly with an eagerness she did not attempt to hide; and miss o'donoghue still speechless with horror and indignation. mr. landale had gauged his aunt's temperament correctly enough. to one whose ruling passion was pride of family, this mockery of a consecrated family custom, this heirloom destined to carry down a record of degradation into future generations, was an insult to the name only to be explained to her first indignation by deliberate malice--or insanity. and from the breezy background of blue sky and sea, contrasting as strangely with the dark solemnity of the other portraits as did the figure itself in its incongruous sailor dress, the face of the eighth baronet looked down in melancholy gravity upon the group gathered in judgment upon him. "disgraceful! positively disgraceful!" at length cried the last representative of the o'donoghues of bunratty, in scandalised tones. "my dear rupert, you should have a curtain put up, that this exhibition of folly--of madness, i hardly know what to call it--be not exposed to every casual visitor. dear me, dear me, that i should live to see any of my kin deliberately throw discredit on his family, if indeed the poor fellow is responsible! rupert, my good soul, can you ascribe any reason for this terrible state of affairs ... that blow on the head?" "in part perhaps," said mr. landale. "and yet there have been other causes at work. if i could have a private word in your ear," glancing meaningly over his shoulder at the two young girls who were both listening, though with very different expressions of interest and favour, "i could give you my opinion more fully." "go away now, my dear creatures," hereupon said miss o'donoghue, promptly addressing her nieces. "it is a fine morning, and you will lose your roses if you don't get the air. i don't care if it has begun to rain, miss! go and have a game of battledore and shuttlecock then. young people _must_ have exercise. well, my dear rupert, well!"--when molly, with a pettish "battledore and shuttlecock indeed!" had taken her sister by the arm and left the room. "well, my dear aunt, the fact is, i believe my unhappy brother has never recovered from--from his passion for cécile de savenaye, that early love affair, so suddenly and tragically terminated--well, it seems to have turned his brain!" "pooh, pooh! why that was twenty years ago. don't tell me it is in a man to be so constant." "in no _sane_ man perhaps; but then, you know, tanty, that is just the point.... remember the circumstances. he loved her madly; he followed her, lived near her for months and she was drowned before his eyes, i believe. i never heard, of course, any details of that strange period of his life, but we can imagine." this was a difficult, vague, subject to deal with, and mr. landale wisely passed on. "moreover, his behaviour when in this house on his return at first has left me no doubt. i watched him closely. he was for ever haunting those rooms which she had inhabited. when he found her miniature in the drawing-room he went first as white as death, then he took it in his hand and stood gazing at it (i am not exaggerating) for a whole hour without moving; and, finally, he carried it off, and i know he used to talk to it in his room. and now, even if i had not given my poor brother my word of honour never to disturb his chosen solitude, i should have felt it a heavy responsibility to promote a meeting which would inevitably bring back past memories in a troublous manner upon him. in fact, were he to come across the children of his dead love--above all molly, who must be startlingly like her mother--what might the result be? i hardly like to contemplate it. the human brain is a very delicately balanced organ, my dear aunt, and once it gets ever so slightly out of order one cannot be too careful to avoid risk." he finished his say with an expressive gesture of the hand. miss o'donoghue remained for a moment plunged in reflection, during which the cloud upon her countenance gradually lifted. "it is a strange thing," she said at last, "but constancy seems to run in the family. there is no denying that. here is sophia, a ridiculous spectacle--and you yourself, my dear rupert.... and now poor adrian, too, and his case of mere calf-love, as one would have thought." "a calf may grow into a fine bull, you know," returned mr. landale, who had winced at his aunt's allusion to himself and now spoke in the most unemotional tone he could assume, "especially if it is well fostered in its youth." "and i suppose," said miss o'donoghue, with a faint smile, "you think i ought to know all about bulls." she again put up her glasses to survey the portrait with critical deliberation; after which, recommending him once more strenuously to have a curtain erected, she observed, that it would break her heart to look at it one moment longer and requested to be conducted from the room. mr. landale could not draw any positive conclusion from his aunt's manner of receiving his confidence, nor determine whether she had altogether grasped the whole meaning of what he had intended delicately to convey to her concerning his brother's past as well as present position; but he had said as much as prudence counselled. chapter xiii the distant light in spite of their first petulant or dolorous anticipation, and of the contrast between the even tenor of country life and the constant stream of amusement which young people of fashion can find in a place like bath, the two girls discovered that time glided pleasantly enough over them at pulwick. instead of the gloomy northern stronghold their novel-fed imagination had pictured (the more dismally as their sudden removal from town gaieties savoured distantly of punishment at the hand of their irate aunt), they found themselves delivered over into a bright, admirably-ordered house, replete with things of beauty, comfortable to the extremity of luxury; and allowed in this place of safety to enjoy almost unrestricted liberty. the latter privilege was especially precious, as the sisters at that time had engrossing thoughts of their own they wished to pursue, and found more interest in solitary roamings through the wide estate than in the company of the hosts. on the fifth day miss o'donoghue took her departure. her own travelling coach had rumbled down the avenue, bearing her and her woman away, in its polished yellow embrace, her flat trunk strapped behind, and the good-natured old face nodding out of the window, till molly and madeleine, standing (a little disconsolate) upon the porch to watch her departure, could distinguish even the hooked nose no longer. mr. landale, upon his mettled grey, a gallant figure, as molly herself was forced to admit, in his boots and buckskins, had cantered in the dust alongside, intent upon escorting his aged relative to the second stage of her journey. that night, almost for the first time since their arrival, there was no company at dinner, and the young guests understood that the household would now fall back into its ordinary routine. but without the small flutter of seeing strangers, or tanty's lively conversation, the social intercourse soon waned into exceeding dulness, and at an early hour miss molly rose and withdrew to her room, pretexting a headache, for which mr. landale, with his usual high courtesy, affected deep concern. as she was slowly ascending the great oaken staircase, she crossed moggie, the gatekeeper's daughter, who in her character of foster-sister to one of the guests had been specially allotted to them as attendant, during the remainder of their visit to pulwick. molly thought that the girl eyed her hesitatingly, as if she wished to speak: "well, moggie?" she asked, stopping on her way. "oh, please, miss," said the buxom lass, blushing and dropping a curtsey, "renny potter, please, miss, is up at our lodge to-night, he don't care to come to the 'ouse so much, miss. but when he heard about you, miss, you could have knocked him down with a feather he was so surprised and that excited, miss, we have never seen him so. and he's so set on being allowed to see ye both!" molly as yet failed to connect any memories of interest with the possessor of the patronymic mentioned, but the next phrase mentioned aroused her attention. "he is sir adrian's servant, now, miss, and goes back yonder to the island, that is where the master lives, to-morrow morning. but he would be so happy to see the young ladies before he goes, if the liberty were forgiven, he says. he was servant to the madam your mother, miss. "well, moggie," answered miss molly, smiling, "if that is all that is required to make renny potter happy, it is very easily done. tell renny potter: to-morrow morning." and she proceeded on her way pondering, while the successful emissary pattered down to the lodge in high glee to gather her reward in her sweetheart's company. * * * * * when later on madeleine joined her sister, she found her standing by the deep recessed window, the curtains of which were drawn back, resting her head on her hand against the wainscot, and gazing abroad into the night. she approached, and passing her hand round molly's waist looked out also. "again at your window?" "it is a beautiful night, and the view very lovely," said molly. and indeed the moon was riding high in a deep blue starry heaven, and shimmered on the strip of distant sea visible from the windows. "yes, but yesterday the night was not fine, and nothing was to be seen but blackness; and it was the same the day before, and yet you stared out of this window, as you have every night since our coming. it is strange to see _you_ so. what is it, why don't you tell me?" "madeleine," said molly, suddenly, after a lengthy pause, "i am simply _haunted_ by that light over yonder, the light of scarthey. there is a mystery about those ruins, on which i keep meditating all day long. i want to know more. it draws me. i would give anything to be able, now, to set sail and land there all unknown to any one, and see what manner of life is led where that light is burning." but madeleine merely gave a pout of little interest. "what do you think you would find? a half-witted middle-aged man, mooning among a litter of books, with an old woman, and a little frenchman to look after him. why, mr. landale himself takes no trouble to conceal that his poor brother is an almost hopeless lunatic." "mr. landale--" molly began, with much contempt; but she interrupted herself, and went on simply, "mr. landale is a very fine gentleman, with very superior manners. he speaks like a printed book--but for all that i _would_ like to know." madeleine laughed. "the demon of curiosity has a hold of you, molly; remember the fable they made us repeat: _de loin c'est quelque chose, et de près ce n'est rien._ now you shall go straight into your bed, and not take cold." and miss madeleine, after authoritatively closing the curtains, kissed her sister, and was about to commence immediate disrobing, when she caught sight of the shagreen-covered book, lying open on the table. "so your headache was your diary--how i should like to have a peep." "i daresay!" said molly, sarcastically, and then sat down and, pen in hand, began to re-read her night's entry, now and then casting a tantalising glance over her shoulder at her sister. the lines, in the flowing convent hand, ran thus: "aunt o'donoghue left us this morning, and so here we are, planted in pulwick; and she has achieved her plan, fully. but what is odd is that neither madeleine nor i seem to mind it, now. what has come over madeleine is her secret, and she keeps it close; but that _i_ should like being here is strange indeed. "and yet, every day something happens to make me feel connected with pulwick--something more, i mean, than the mere fact that we were born here. so many of the older people greet me, at first, as if they knew me--they all say i am so like 'the madam;' they don't see the same likeness in madeleine for all her _grand air_. there was mrs. mearson, the gatekeeper, was struck in amazement. and the old housekeeper, whenever she has an opportunity tries to entertain me about the beautiful foreign lady and the grand times they had at pulwick when she was here, and 'sir tummas' was still alive. "but, though we are made to feel that we are more than ordinary guests, it is not on account of mr. landale, but _on account of sir adrian_--the master, as they call him, whom we never see, and whom his brother would make out to be mad. why is he so anxious that sir adrian should not know that aunt rose has brought us here? he seemed willing enough to please her, and yet nothing that she could say of her wish could induce him even to send a messenger over to the rock. and now we may be here all these two months and never even have caught a sight of the _master_. i wonder if he is still like that portrait--whether he bears that face still as he now sits, all alone, brooding as his brother says, up in those ruined chambers, while the light burns calm and bright in the tower! what can this man of his have to say to me?" molly dotted her last forgotten "i," blotted it, closed and carefully locked the book. then, rising, she danced over to her sister, and forced her into a pirouette. "and now," she cried gaily, "our dear old tanty is pulling on her nightcap and weeping over her posset in the stuffy room at lancaster regretting _me_; and i should be detesting her with all my energies for leaving me behind her, were it not that, just at present, i actually find pulwick more interesting than bath." madeleine lifted her heavy-lidded eyes a little wonderingly to her sister's face, as she paused in her gyration. "what fly stings thee now?" she inquired in french. "you do not tell me about _your_ wounds, my dear, those wounds which little dan cupid has made upon your tender heart, with his naughty little arrow, and which give you such sweet pain, apparently, that you revel in the throes all day long. and yet, i am a good child; you shall guess. if you guess aright, i shall tell you. so now begin." they stood before the fire, and the leaping tongues of light played upon their white garments, madeleine's nightgear scarcely more treacherously tell-tale of her slender woman's loveliness than the evening robe that clung so closely to the vigorous grace of molly's lithe young figure. the elder, whose face bore a blush distinct from the reflected glow of the embers, fell to guessing, as commanded, a little wildly: "you begin to find the _beau cousin_ rupert a little more interesting than you anticipated." "bah," cried molly, with a stamp of her sandalled foot, "it is not possible to guess worse! he is more insufferable to me, hour by hour." "i think him kind and pleasant," returned madeleine simply. "ah, because he makes sweet eyes at you, i suppose--yet no--i express myself badly--he could not make anything sweet out of those hard, hard eyes of his, but he is very--what they call here in england--attentive to you. and he looks at you and ponders you over when you little think it--you poor innocent--lost in your dream of ... _smith_! there, i will not tease you. guess again." "you are pleased to remain here because you are a true weather-cock--because you like one thing one day another the next--because the country peace and quiet is soothing to you after the folly and noise of the great world of bath and dublin, and reminds you refreshingly, as it does me, of our happy convent days." the glimmer of a dainty malice lurked in the apparent candour of madeleine's grave blue eyes, and from thence spread into her pretty smile at the sight of molly's disdainful lip, "well then, i give it up. you have some mischief on foot, of that at least i am sure." "no mischief--a work of righteousness rather. sister madeleine, you heard all that that gallant gentleman you think so highly of--your cousin rupert, my dear" (it was a little way of molly's to throw the responsibility of anything she did not like, even to an obnoxious relationship, upon another person's shoulders), "narrated of his brother sir adrian, and how he persuaded tanty that he was, as you said just now, a hopeless madman--" "but yes--he does mad things," said the elder twin, a little wonderingly. "well, madeleine, it is a vile lie. i am convinced of it." "but, my darling----" "look here, madeleine, there is something behind it all. i attacked that creature, that rag, you cannot call her a woman, that female cousin of yours, sophia, and i pressed her hard too, but she could not give me a single instance about sir adrian that is really the least like insanity; and last night, when the young fool who escorted me to dinner, coventry his name was, told me that every one says sir adrian is shut up on the island and that his french servant is really his keeper, and that it was a shame rupert was not the eldest brother, i quite saw the sort of story master rupert likes to spread--don't interrupt, please! when you were wool-gathering over the fire last night (in the lively and companionable way, permit me to remark in parenthesis, that you have adopted of late), and you thought i was with tanty, i had marched off with my flat candlestick to the picture gallery to have a good look at the so-called lunatic. i dragged over a chair and lit the candles in the candelabra each side of the chimney-piece, and then standing on my perch still, i held up my own torch and i saw the sailor really well. i think he has a beautiful face and that he is no more mad than i am. but he looks so sad, so sad! i longed to make those closed lips part and tell me their secret. and, as i was looking and dreaming, my dear, just as you might, i heard a little noise, and there was rupert, only a few yards off, surveying me with such an angry gaze--ugh!" (with a shiver) "i hate such ways. he came in upon me with soft steps like some animal. look at his portrait there, madeleine!--stay! i shall hold up the light as i did last night to sir adrian--see, it flickers and glimmers and makes him seem as if he were alive--oh, i wish he were not hanging in front of our beds, staring out at us with those eyes! you think them very fine, i daresay, that is because his lashes are as thick and dark as a woman's--but the look in them, my dear--do you know what it reminds me of? of the beautiful, cruel greyhound we saw at the coursing at that place near bunratty (you remember, just before they started the hare), when he stood for a moment motionless, looking out across the plain. i can never forget the expression of those yellow-circled eyes. and, when i see rupert look at you as if he were fixing something in the far distance, it gives me just the feeling of horror and sickness i had then. (you remember how dreadful it was?) rupert makes me think of a greyhound, altogether he is so lithe and so clean-cut, and so full of eagerness, a sort of trembling eagerness underneath his seeming quiet, and i think he could be cruel." molly paused with an unusually grave and reflective look; madeleine yawned a little, not at all impressed. "how you exaggerate!" she said. "well what happened when he came in and caught you? the poor man! i suppose, he thought you were setting the house on fire." "my dear, i turned as red as a poppy and began blowing out all my illumination, feeling dreadfully guilty, and then he helped me off my chair with such an air of politeness that i could have struck him with pleasure, but i soon gathered my wits again. and, vexed with myself for being a ninny, i just dropped him a little curtsey and said, 'i've been examining my mad cousin.' 'well, and what do you think of him?' he asked me, smiling (his abominable smile!). but i can keep my thoughts to myself as well as other people. 'i think he is very handsome,' i answered, and then i wagged my head and added, 'poor fellow,' just as if i thought he was really mad. 'poor fellow!' said cousin rupert, still with his smile. whereupon we interchanged good-nights, and he ceremoniously reconducted me to my door. what was he spying after me for, like that? my dear, your cousin has a bad conscience.--but i can spy too--i have been questioning the servants to-day, and some of the people on the estate." "oh, molly!" "come, don't be so shocked. it was diplomatically, of course, but i am determined to find out the truth. well, so far from looking upon sir adrian as a lunatic, they all adore him, it seems to me. he comes here periodically--once every three months or so--and it is like the king's justices, you know--st. louis of france--he redresses all wrongs, and listens to grievances and gives alms and counsel, and every one can come with his story, down to the poorest wretch on the estate, and they certainly gave me to understand that they would fare pretty hardly under mr. landale if it were not for that mild beneficent restraining influence in his tower yonder. it is very romantic, do you know (you like romance, madeleine). i wonder if sir adrian will come over while we are here. oh, i hope, i hope he will. i shall never rest till i have seen him." "silly child," said madeleine, "and so that is the reason you are glad to remain here?" "even so, my dear," answered the other, skipped into the big four-post bed, carefully ascertained and selected the softest pillow, and then, smiling sweetly at her sister from under a frame of dark curls, let her white lids drop over the lustre of her eyes and so intimated she desired to sleep. chapter xiv the tower of liverpool: master and man a prison is a house of care, a place where none can thrive, a touchstone true to try a friend, a grave for man alive. sometimes a place of right, sometimes a place of wrong, sometimes a place of rogues and thieves, and honest men among. _old inscription._ it was soon after sunrise--at that time of year an hour not exorbitantly early--when molly awoke from a tangle of fantastic dreams in which the haunting figure of her waking thoughts, the hermit of scarthey, appeared to her in varied shapes; as an awe-inspiring, saintly ascetic with long, white hair; as a young, beautiful, imprisoned prince; even as a ragged imbecile staring vacantly at a lantern, somewhere in a dismal sea-cave. the last vision was uppermost in her mind when she opened her eyes; and the girl, under the impression of so disgusting a disillusion, remained for a while pondering and yawning, before making up her mind to exchange warmth and featherbed for her appointment without. but the shafts of light growing through the chinks in the shutters ever brighter and more full of dancing motes, decided her. "a beautiful morning, madeleine," she said, leaning over and pulling one of the long fair strands upon her neighbour's pillow with sisterly authority. "get up, lazy-bones, and come and have a walk with me before breakfast." the sleeping sister awoke, smiled with her usual exquisite serenity of temper, and politely refused. molly insisted, threatened, coaxed, but to no avail. madeleine was luxuriously comfortable, and was not to be disturbed either mentally or bodily; and molly, aware of the resisting power of will hidden under that soft exterior, at length petulantly desisted; and wrapped up in furs, with hands plunged deep into the recesses of a gigantic muff, soon sallied forth herself alone into the park. half-way down the avenue she met blue-eyed moggie with round face shining out of the sharp, exhilarating atmosphere like a small sun. the damsel was overcome with blushes and rapture at her young mistress's unexpected promptitude in carrying out her promise, and ran back to warn her sweetheart of that lady's approach. * * * * * as molly drew near the keeper's lodge--a sort of doric temple, quaintly standing in the middle of a hedge-enclosed garden, and half-buried under thickly-clustering, interlacing creepers--from the side of the enormous nest of evergreen foliage there emerged, in a state of high excitement strenuously subdued, a short, square-built man (none other than rené l'apôtre), whilst between the boughs of the garden-hedge peeped forth the bashful, ruddy face of the lady of his fancy, eager to watch the interview. rené ran forward, then stopped a few paces away, hat in hand, scraping and bowing in the throes of an overwhelming emotion that strove hard with humility. "ah, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" he ejaculated between spells of amazed staring, and seemed unable to bring forth another word. "and so you have known my mother, rené," said miss molly (in her native tongue) with a smile. at the sound of the voice and of the french words, rené's face grew pale under its bronze, and the tears he had so strongly combated, glistened in his eyes. "if i had not heard last night," he said at length, "that these ladies had come back--it was moggie mearson who told me, who was foster sister to you, or was it mademoiselle your sister? and proud she is of it--if i had not known that the young ladies were here again, when i saw mademoiselle i would have thought that my lady herself had returned to us (may the good god have her soul!). ah, to think that i should ever see her again in the light of the sun!" he stopped, suffocated with the sob that his respect would not allow him to utter. but molly, who had had other objects in view when she rose from her couch this cold, windy morning, than to present an objective to a serving-man's emotion, now thought the situation had lasted long enough for her enjoyment and determined to put an end to it. "eh bien, rené," she said gaily, "or should i call you monsieur potter? which, by the way, is a droll name for a frenchman, i am very glad to see that you are pleased to see me. if you would care to have some talk with me you may attend me if you like. but i freeze standing here," stamping her feet one after the other on the hard ground. "i must absolutely walk; and you may put on your hat again, please; for it is very cold for you too," she added, snuggling into her muff and under her fur tippet. the man obeyed after another of his quaint salutes, and as molly started forward, followed her respectfully, a pace in rear. "i daresay you will not be sorry to have a little talk with a compatriot in your own tongue, all english as you may have grown," said the young lady presently; "and as moggie has told me that you were in my mother's service, there is a whole volume of things which, i believe, you alone can relate to me. you shall tell me all that, one day. but what seems to me the most curious, first of all, is your presence here. we ourselves are only at pulwick by chance." "mademoiselle," said rené in an earnest voice, "if you knew the whole story, you would soon understand that, since it was not to be, that i should remain the humble servitor of monseigneur le comte de savenaye, mademoiselle's father, or of madame, who followed him to heaven, notwithstanding all our efforts to preserve her, it is but natural that i should attach myself (since he would allow it) to my present master." "mr. landale?" asked molly, affecting ignorance. "no, mademoiselle," cried the frenchman, hotly. "my master is sir adrian. had mr. landale remained the lord of this place, i should have been left to die in my prison--or at least have remained there until this spring, for it seems there is peace again, and the tower of liverpool is empty now." "_voyons, voyons, conte moi cela_, rené," said molly, turning her face, beautifully glowing from the caress of the keen air, eagerly to her companion. and he, nothing loth to let loose a naturally garrulous tongue in such company, and on such a theme, started off upon a long story illustrated by rapid gesticulation. "i will tell you," cried he, and plunged into explanation with more energy than coherence, "it was like this: "i had been already two years in that prison; we were some hundreds of prisoners, and it was a cruel place. a cruel place, mademoiselle, almost as bad as that where we were shut up, my master and i together, years before, at la rochelle--and that i will tell you, if you wish, afterwards. "i had been taken by the marine conscription, when their republic became the french empire. and a sailor i was then (just, as i heard later, as sir adrian also was at the time; but that i did not know, you understand), for they took all those that lived on the coast. now i had only served with the ship six months, when she was taken by the english, and, as i say, we were sent to the prison in liverpool, where we found so many others, who had been already there for years. when i heard it was liverpool, i knew it was a place near pulwick, and i at once thought of mr. landale, not him, of course, they _now_ call mr. landale, but him who had followed my mistress, madame your mother, to help to fight the republicans in the old time. and i thought i was saved: i knew he would get me out if it was possible to get any one out. for, you see, i thought his honour was home again, after we had been beaten, and there was no more to be done for my lady. we had contrived to find an english ship to take him home, and he had gone back, as i thought, mademoiselle. well, a prisoner becomes cunning, and besides, i had been in prison before; i managed to make up a letter, and as i knew already some english, i ended by persuading a man to carry it to pulwick for me. it was a long way, and i had no money, but i made bold to assure him that mr. landale--oh, no! not _this_ one," rené interrupted himself again with a gesture eloquent of resentful scorn, "but my master; i assured the man that he would receive recompence from him. you see, mademoiselle, i knew his heart was so good, that he would not allow your mother's servant to rot in the tower.... but days afterwards the man came back. oh, he was angry! terribly angry with me, and said he should pay me out--and so he did, but it is useless to tell you how. he had been to pulwick, he said, and had seen mr. landale. mr. landale never knew anything of any french prisoner, and refused to give any money to the messenger. ah, mademoiselle, it was very sad! i had not signed my letter for fear of its getting into wrong hands, but i spoke of many things which i knew he could not have forgotten, and now i thought that he would not trouble his mind about such a wretch as rené--triple brute that i was to conceive such thoughts, i should have deserved to remain there for ever!... i did remain, mademoiselle, more than three years; many and many died. as for me, i am hard, but i thought i should never never walk free again; nor would i, mademoiselle, these seven years, but for him." "he came, then?" said the girl with sympathetic enthusiasm. she was listening with attention, carried away by the speaker's earnestness, and knew instinctively to whom the "him," and the "he" referred. "he came," said rené with much emphasis. "of course he came--the moment he knew." and after a moment of half-smiling meditation he pursued: "it was one may-day, and there was some sun; and there was a smell of spring in the air which we felt even in that dirty place. ah, how i remember me of it all! i was sitting against the wall in the courtyard with two others who were bretons, like you and me, mademoiselle, shifting with the sun now and then, for you must know a prisoner loves the sun above all; and there, we only had it a few hours in the day, even when it did shine. i was carving some stick-heads, and bread-plates in wood--the only thing i could do to put a little more than bread, into our own platters," with a grin, "and whistling, whistling, for if you can't be gay, it is best to play at it.... well, that day into our courtyard there was shown a tall man--and i knew him at once, though he was different enough in his fine coat, and hat and boots, from the time when i had last seen him, when he was like me, in rags and with a woollen cap on his head, and no stockings under his shoes--i knew him at once! and when i saw him i stood still, with my mouth round, but not whistling more. my blood went phizz, phizz, all over my body, and suddenly something said in my head: 'rené, he has come to look for you.' he was searching for some one, for he went round with the guardian looking into each man's face, and giving money to all who begged--and seeing that, they all got up, and surrounded him, and he gave them each a piece. but i could not get up; it was as if some one had cut out my knees and my elbows. and that was how he saw me the sooner. he noticed i remained there, looking at him like a dog, saying nothing. when he saw me, he stood a moment quite quiet; and without pretending anything he came to me and looked down smiling.--'but if i am not mistaken i know this man,' he said to the guardian, pretending to be astonished. 'why, this is rené l'apôtre? who would have thought of seeing you here, rené l'apôtre?' says he. and then he smiled again, as much as to say, 'you see i have come at last, rené.' and once more, as if to explain: 'i have only lately come back to england,' in a gentle way, all full of meaning.... i don't know what took me, but i cried like an infant, in my cap. and the guardian and some of the others laughed, but when i looked up again, his eyes shone also. he looked so good, so kind, mademoiselle, that it was as if i understood in words all he meant, but thought better not to say at the time. then he spoke to the guardian, who shook his head doubtfully. and after saying, 'have good courage, rené l'apôtre,' and giving me the rest of his money, he went away--but i knew i was not forgotten, and i was so happy that the black, black walls were no more black. and i sang, not for pretence this time, ah no! and i spent all my money in buying a dinner for those at our end of the prison, and we even had wine! you may be sure we drank to his happiness." here the man, carried away by his feelings, seized his hat and waved it in the air. then, ashamed of his ebullition, halted and glanced diffidently at the young lady. but molly only smiled in encouragement. "well, and then?" she asked. "well, mademoiselle," he resumed, "it was long before i saw him again; but i kept good courage, as i was told. one day, at last, the guardian came to fetch me and took me to the governor's cabinet; and my master was there--i was told that my release had been obtained, though not without trouble, and that sir adrian landale, of pulwick priory, had gone warranty for me that i should not use my liberty to the prejudice of his majesty, the king of england, and that i was to be grateful to sir adrian. i almost laughed at him, mademoiselle. oh! he took care to advise me to be grateful!" and here rené paused ironically, but there was a quiver on his lips. "ah, he little knew, monsieur the governor, that when my master had taken me to an inn, and the door was closed over the private room, he who had looked so grand and careless before the governor, took me by both hands and then, in his fine clothes, embraced me--me the dirty prisoner--just as he did when he left me in the old days, and was as poor and ragged as i was! and let me weep there on his breast, for i had to weep or my heart would have broken. but i wander, mademoiselle, you only wanted to know how i came to be in his service still. that is how it was; as i tell you." molly was moved by this artless account of fidelity and gratitude, and as she walked on in attentive silence, rené went on: "it was then his honour made me know how, only by accident, and months after his own return, he chanced to hear of the letter that some one had sent to mr. landale from the tower of liverpool, and that mr. landale had said he knew nothing of any french prisoner and had thought it great impudence indeed. and how he--my master--had suddenly thought (though my letter had been destroyed) that it might be from me, the servant of my lady your mother, and his old companion in arms (for his honour will always call me so). he could not sleep, he told me, till he had found out. he started for liverpool that very night. and, having discovered that it was me, mademoiselle, he never rested till he had obtained my liberty." * * * * * walking slowly in the winter sunshine, the one talking volubly, the other intently listening, the odd pair had reached a rising knoll in the park where, under the shelter of a cluster of firs, stood a row of carved stone seats that had once been sedillas in the dismantled priory church. from this secluded spot could be obtained the most superb view of the whole country-side. at the end of the green, gently-sloping stretch of pasture-land, which extended, broken only by irregular clusters of trees, down to the low cliffs forming the boundary of the strand, lay the wide expanse of brown sand, with its streamlets and salt pools scintillating under the morning sun. further in the western horizon, a crescent of deep blue sea, sharply defined under a lighter blue sky and fringed landwards with a straggling border of foam, advanced slowly to the daily conquest of the golden bay. in the midst of that frame the eye was irresistibly drawn, as to the chief object in the picture, to the distant rock of scarthey--a green patch, with the jagged red outline of the ruins clear cut against the sky. since this point of view in the park had been made known to her, on the first day when she was piloted through the grounds, molly had more than once found her way to the sedillas, yielding to the fascination of the mysterious island, and in order to indulge in the fancies suggested by its ever-changing aspect. at the fall of day the red glow of the sinking sun would glint through the dismantled windows; and against the flaming sky the ruins would stand out black and grim, suggesting nought but abandonment and desolation until suddenly, as the gloom gathered upon the bay, the light of the lamp springing to the beacon tower, would reverse the impression and bring to mind a picture of faithful and patient watching. when the sun was still in the ascendant, the island would be green and fresh to the gaze, evoking no dismal impression; and as the rays glanced back from the two or three glazed windows, and from the roofed beacon-tower, the little estate wore a look of solid security and privacy in spite of its crumbling walls, which was almost as tantalising to her romantic curiosity. it was with ulterior motives, therefore, that she had again wended her way to the knoll this sunny, breezy morning. she now sat down and let her eyes wander over the wide panorama, whilst rené stood at a humble distance, looking with eyes of delight from her to the distant abode of his master. "and now you live with sir adrian, in that little isle yonder," said she, at length. "how came it that you never sought to go back to your country?" "there was the war then, mademoiselle, and it was difficult to return." "but there has been peace these six months," insisted molly. "yes, mademoiselle, though i only learned it yesterday. but then, bah! what is that? his honour needs me. i have stopped with him seven years, and my faith, i shall stop with him for ever." there was a long silence. "does any one know," asked molly, at length, with a vague air of addressing the trees, mindful, as she spoke, of the manner in which mr. landale had practically dismissed her and her sister at a certain point of his version of his brother's history, "_why_ sir adrian has shut himself up in that place instead of living at the hall all this time?" a certain dignity seemed to come over the servant's squat figure. he hesitated for a moment, and then said very simply, his honest eyes fixed upon the girl's face: "i am only his humble servant, mademoiselle, and it is enough for me that it is his pleasure to live alone." "you are indeed faithful," said molly, with a little generous flush of shame at this peasant's delicacy compared to her own curiosity. and, after another pause, she added, pensively: "but tell me, does sir adrian never leave his solitude? i confess i should like to meet one who had known my mother, who could talk of her to me." rené looked at the young girl with a wistful countenance, as though the question had embarked him on a new train of thought. but he answered evasively: "his honour comes rarely to pulwick--rarely." molly, with a little movement of pique, rose abruptly from her seat. but quickly changing her mood again she turned round as she was about to depart, and smiling: "thank you, rené," she said, and held out her dainty hand, which he, blushing, engulfed in his great paw, "i am going in, i am dreadfully hungry. we shall be here two months or more, and i shall want to see you again ... if you come back to pulwick." she walked quickly away towards the house. rené followed the retreating figure with a meditative look, so long as he could keep her in sight, then turned his gaze to the island and there stood lost in a deep muse, regardless of the fact that his sweetheart, moggie, was awaiting a parting interview at the lodge, and that the tide that would wait for no man was swelling under his boat upon the beach. * * * * * a sudden resolution was formed in molly's mind as the immediate result of this conversation, and she framed her behaviour that morning solely with a view to its furtherance. breakfast was over when, glowing from her morning walk, she entered the dining-room; but, regardless of mr. landale's pointedly elaborate courtesy in insisting upon a fresh repast being brought to her, his sarcastically overacted solicitude, intended to point out what a deal of avoidable trouble she gave to the household, molly remained perfectly gracious, and ate the good things, plaintively set before her by miss landale, with the most perfect appetite and good humour. she expatiated in terms of enthusiasm on the beauty of the estate and the delight of her morning exploration, and concluded this condescending account of her doings (in which the meeting with rené did not figure) with a request that mr. landale should put horses at the disposal of herself and her sister for a riding excursion that very afternoon. and with determined energy she carried the point, declaring, despite his prognostications of coming bad weather, that the sunshine would last the day. in this wise was brought about the eventful ride which cost the life of lucifer, and introduced such heart-stirring phantasmagories into the even tenor of sir adrian landale's seclusion. * * * * * that evening the news rapidly spread throughout pulwick that the cruel sands of the bay had secured yet another victim. in an almost fainting condition, speechless with horror, and hardly able yet to realise to the full her own anguish, madeleine was conducted by the terrified groom, through the howling wind and drenching rain, back to the priory. and there, between the fearful outcries of miss landale, and the deep frowning gravity of her brother, the man stammered out his tale.--how the young lady when the rain first began, had insisted, notwithstanding his remonstrances, upon taking the causeway to the island, and how it was actually by force that he prevented the other lady from following so soon as she understood the danger into which her sister was running. there was no use, he had thought (explained the man, half apologetically), for two more to throw away their lives, just for no good, that way. and so they had sat on their horses and watched in terror, as well as they could through the torrents of rain. they had seen in the distance lucifer break from the young lady's control, and swerve from the advancing sea. and then had come the great gust that blew the rain and the sand in their faces and set their horses dancing; and, when they could see again, all traces of horse and rider had disappeared, and there lay nothing before them but the advancing tide, though the island and its tower were still just visible through the storm. no amount of cross-examination could elicit any further information. the girl's impulse seemed to have been quite sudden, and she had only laughed back at the groom over her shoulder upon his earnest shout of warning, though she had probably expected them to follow her. and as there could be no doubt about the calamity which had ensued, and no possible rescue even of the body, he had returned home at once to bring the disastrous news. madeleine had been carried completely unconscious to her bed, but presently miss sophia was summoned to her side as the girl showed signs of returning animation, and rupert was left alone. he fell to pacing the room, lost in a labyrinth of complicated and far-reaching reflections. beyond doubt he was shocked and distressed by the sudden and horrible disaster; and yet as an undercurrent to these first natural thoughts, there ran presently a distinct notion that he would have felt the grievousness of it more keenly had madeleine perished in that cruel manner and her sister survived to bring the tale home. the antagonism which his cousin, in all the insolence of her young beauty and vigorous self-esteem, had shown for him had been mutual. he had instinctively felt that she was an enemy, and more than that--a danger to him. this danger was now removed from his path, and by no intervention or even desire of his own. the calamity which had struck the remaining sister into such prostration would make her rich indeed; by anticipation one of the great heiresses in england. "sorrow," thought mr. landale, and his lip curled disdainfully, "a girl's sorrow, at least, is a passing thing. wealth is an everlasting benefit." madeleine was a desirable woman upon all counts, even pecuniary considerations apart, or would be to one who had a heart to give--and even if the heart was dead...? altogether the sum of his meditations was assuming a not unpleasing aspect; and the undercurrent in time assumed almost the nature of self-congratulation. even the ordeal which was yet to come when he would have to face miss o'donoghue and render an account of his short trust, could not weigh the balance down on the wrong side. and yet a terrible ordeal it would be; women are so unreasonable, and aunt rose so much more so even than the average woman. still it had to be done; the sooner the better; if possible while the storm lasted and while roaring waters kept all ill news upon land and the interloping heir on his island. and thus that very evening, whilst madeleine sobbed on her pillow and molly was snugly enjoying the warm hospitality of scarthey, a mounted messenger departed from the priory to overtake miss o'donoghue on the road to bath and acquaint her with the terrible fatality that had befallen her darling and favourite. chapter xv under the light december th.--again i separate your green boards, my diary. no one has opened you; for your key, now a little rusty, still hangs upon my watch--my poor watch whose heart has ceased to beat, who, unlike its mistress, has _not_ survived the ordeal by sand and water! what is better, no one has attempted to force your secrets from you; which, since it appears that it had been agreed that molly de savenaye was dead and buried in scarthey sands, speaks well for all concerned. but she is not dead. she is very much alive; and very happy to be so. this will indeed be an adventure worth reading, in the days to come; and it must be recounted--though were i to live to a hundred years i do not think i could ever forget it. tanty rose (she has not yet stopped scolding everybody for the fright she has had) is in the next room with madeleine, who, poor dear, has been made quite ill by this prank of mine; but since after the distress caused by her molly's death she has had the joy of finding her molly alive again, things are balanced, i take it; and all being well that ends well, the whole affair is pleasant to remember. it has been actually as interesting as i expected--now that i think it over--even more. of all the many pictures that i fancied, not one was at all like the reality--and this reality i could not have rested till i had found. it was rené's account decided me. i laid my plans very neatly to pay the recluse a little visit, and plead necessity for the intrusion. my machinations would have been perfect if they had not caused madeleine and poor old tanty unnecessary grief. but now that i know the truth, i cannot distinctly remember what it was that i _did_ expect to find on that island. if it had not been that i had already gone through more excitement than i bargained for to reach that mysterious rock, how exciting i should have found it to wander up to unknown ruins, to knock at the closed doors of an enchanted castle, ascend unknown stairs and engage in devious unknown passages--all the while on the tiptoe of expectation! but when i dragged myself giddy and faint from the boiling breakers and scrambled upon the desolate island under the rain that beat me like the lashes of a whip, pushing against a wind that bellowed and rushed as though determined to thrust me back to the waters i had cheated of their prey, my only thoughts were for succour and shelter. such warm shelter, such loving welcome, it was of course impossible that i could for a moment have anticipated! conceive, my dear diary, the feelings of a poor, semi-drowned wanderer, shivering with cold, with feet torn by cruel stones, who suddenly emerges from howl and turmoil into a warm, quiet room to be received as a long and eagerly expected guest, whose advent brings happiness, whose presence is a highly prized favour; in fact not as one who has to explain her intrusion, but as one who in the situation holds the upper hand herself. and _this_ was my welcome from him whose absence from pulwick was more haunting than any presence i can think of! of course i knew him at once. even had i not expected to see him--had i not come to seek him in fact--i should have known him at once from the portrait whose melancholy, wide-open eyes had followed me about the gallery. but i had not dreamed to see him so little altered. now, apart from the dress, if he is in any way changed from the picture, it is in a look of greater youth and less sombreness. the portrait is handsome, but the original is better. had it not been so, i imagine i might have felt vastly different when i was seized and enfolded and--kissed! as it was i cannot remember that, even at the moment of this extraordinary proceeding, i was otherwise than pleased, nor that the dark hints of mr. landale concerning sir adrian's madness returned to disturb my mind in the least. and yet i found myself enveloped in great strong arms out of which i could not have extricated myself by the most frantic efforts--although the folding was soft and tender--and i loved that impression. why? i cannot say. his words of love were not addressed to me; from his exclamation i knew that the real and present molly was not the true object of his sudden ecstasy. and yet i am glad that this is the first man who has been able to kiss molly de savenaye. it is quite incomprehensible; i ought to be indignant. now the whole secret of my reception is plain to see, and it is pathetic; sir adrian landale was in love with my mother; when she was an unprotected widow he followed her to our own country; if she had not died soon after, he would have married her. what a true knight must this sir adrian be, to keep so fresh for twenty years the remembrance of his boyish love that when i came in upon him to look at him with _her_ eyes, it was to find him pondering upon her, and to fill his soul with the rapturous thought that his love had come back to him. though i was aware that all this fervour was not addressed to me, there was something very gratifying in being so like one who could inspire such long-lived passion.--yes, it was unexpectedly pleasant and comforting to be so received. and the tender care, the thoughtful solicitude next bestowed on the limp and dishevelled waif of the sea by my _beau ténébreux_ were unmistakably meant for molly and no one else, whatever his first imaginings may have been, and they were quite as interesting to receive. the half-hour i spent, cosily ensconced by his hands, and waited upon by his queer household, was perhaps the best i have ever known. he stood by the fireplace, looking down from his great height, with a wondering smile upon me. i declare that the loving kindness of his eyes, which he has wide, grey, and beautiful, warmed me as much as the pyramid of logs he had set burning on the hearth! i took a good reckoning of the man, from under the gigantic collar, in which, i felt, my head rested like a little egg at the bottom of a warm nest. "and so," i thought, "here is the light-keeper of scarthey island!" and i was obliged to confess that he was a more romantic-looking person than even in my wildest dreams i had pictured to myself--that in fact i had found out for the first time _the man_ really approved of. and i congratulated myself on my own cleverness--for it was evident that, just as i had suspected from rené's reticent manner, even by him our existence at pulwick had not been mentioned to "the master." and as mr. landale was quite determined to avail himself of his brother's _sauvagerie_ not to let him know anything about us, on his side, but for me we might have remained at and departed from pulwick unknown to the head of the house! and what a pity that would have been! now, _why_ did not mr. landale wish his brother to know? did he think (as indeed has happened) that the light-keeper would take too kindly to the savenaye children? or to one of them? if so, he will be _bien attrappé_, for there is no doubt that my sudden and dramatic arrival upon his especial domain has made an impression on him that no meeting prepared and discussed beforehand could have produced. adrian landale may have been in love with our beautiful mamma in his boyish days, but now, sir adrian, the _man_ is in love with the beautiful molly! that is positive. i was a long time before i could go to sleep in the tower; it was too perfect to be in bed in such a place, safe and happy in the midst of the rage i could hear outside; to have seen the unknown, to have found him such as he is--to be under _the light_! what would have happened if my cousin had really been mad (and rené his keeper, as that stupid country-side wit suggested in my ear the other night at dinner)? it would have been still more of an adventure of course, but not one which even "murthering moll the second" can regret. or if he had been a dirty, untidy hermit, as madeleine thought? that would have spoilt all. thus in the owl's nest, as mr. landale (spiteful creature!) called it to tanty, there lives not owl any more than lunatic. a polished gentleman, with white, exquisite hands, who, when he is discovered by the most unexpected of visitors, is shaven as smooth as rupert himself; has the most unexceptionable of snowy linen and old-fashioned, it is true, but most well-fitting clothes. as for the entertainment for the said casual visitor, not even pulwick with all its resources (where housekeeping, between the fussy brother and the docile sister is a complicated science) could have produced more real comfort. in the morning, when i woke late (it was broad daylight), feeling as if i had been beaten and passed through a mangle, for there was not an inch of my poor body that was not sore, i had not turned round and so given sign of life, before i heard a whisper outside my door; then comes a sturdy knock and in walks old margery, still dignified as a queen's housekeeper, bearing a bowl of warm frothy milk. and this being gratefully drunk by me, she gravely inquires, in her queer provincial accent, how i am this morn; and then goes to report to some anxious inquirer (whom?--i can easily guess) that with the exception of my cut foot i am very well. presently she returns and lights a blazing fire. then in come my dress and linen and my one shoe, all cleaned, dried and mended, only my poor habit is so torn and so stiff that i have to put up with margery's best striped skirt in lieu of it, till she has time to mend and wash it. as it is she must have been at work all night upon these repairs for me. again she goes out--for another consultation, i suppose--and comes back to find me half clad, hopping about the room; this time she has got nice white linen bandages and with them ties up my little foot, partly for the cuts, partly for want of a sandal, till it is twice the size of its companion. but i can walk on it. then my strange handmaid--who by the way is a droll, grumbling old soul, and orders me about as if she were still my nurse--dresses me and combs my hair, which will not yet awhile be rid of all its sand. and so, in due course, molly emerges from her bower, as well tended almost as she might have been at bath, except that margery's striped skirt is a deal too short for her and she displays a little more of one very nice ankle and one gouty foot than fashion warrants. and in this manner the guest goes to meet her host in the great room. he was walking up and down as if impatiently expecting me, and when i hobbled in, he came forward with a smile on his face which, once more, i thought beautiful. "god be praised!" he said, taking both my hands and kissing one of them, with his fine air of gallantry which was all the more delightful on account of his evident earnestness, "you seem none the worse for this terrible adventure. i dreaded this morning to hear that you were in a fever. you know," he added so seriously that i had to smile, "you might easily have had a fever from this yesterday's work; and what should we have done without doctor and medicines!" "you have a good surgeon, at least," said i laughing and pointing at my swaddled extremity. he laughed too at the _enmitouflage_. "i tried to explain how it was to be done," he said, "but i think i could have managed it more neatly myself." then he helped me to the arm-chair, and rené came in, and, after a profound bow (which did not preclude much staring and smiling at me afterwards), laid, on a dazzling tablecloth, a most tempting breakfast, explaining the while, in his odd english, "the bread is stale, for we bake only twice a month. but there are some cakes hot from the fire, some eggs, new laid last evening, some fresh milk, some tea. it was a happy thing i arrived yesterday for there was no more tea. the butter wants, but mistress margery will have some made to-morrow, so that the demoiselle will not leave without having tasted our scarthey butter." all the while sir adrian looked on with a sort of dreamy smile--a happy smile! "poor rené!" he said, when the man had left the room, "one would think that you have brought to him almost as much joy as to me." i wondered what mr. landale would have said had he through some magic glass been able to see this little feast. i never enjoyed a meal more. as for my host, he hardly touched anything, but, i could see, was all absorbed in the delight of looking at me; and this he showed quite openly in the most child-like manner. not one of the many fine gentlemen it has been my fate to meet in my six months' apprenticeship to the "great world," not cousin rupert himself with all his elaborate politeness (and rupert has de _grandes manières_, as tanty says), could have played the host with a more exquisite courtesy, and more true hospitality. so i thought, at least. now and again, it is true, while his eyes were fixed on me, i would see how the soul behind them was away, far in the past, and then at a word, even at a movement, back it would come to me, with the tenderest softening i have ever seen upon a human face. * * * * * it was only at the end of breakfast that he suddenly adverted to the previous day. "of course," he said, hesitatingly, but keeping a frank gaze on mine, "you must have thought me demented when--when you first entered, yesterday." now, i had anticipated this apology as inevitable, and i was prepared to put him at his ease. "i----? not at all," i said quite gravely; and, seeing the puzzled expression that came upon his face, i hastened to add in lower tones: "i know i am very like my mother, and it was her name you called out upon seeing me." and then i stopped, as if that had explained everything. he looked at me with a wondering air, and fell again into a muse. after a while he said, with his great simplicity which seems somehow in him the last touch of the most perfect breeding: "yes, such an apparition was enough to unhinge any one's mind for the moment. you never knew her, child, and therefore never mourned her death. but we--that is, rené and i, who tried so hard to save her--though it is so long ago, we have not forgotten." it was then i asked him to tell me about the mother i had never known. at first it was as if he could not; he fell into a great silence, through which i could feel the working of his old sorrow. so then i said to him quickly, for i feared he thought me an indiscreet trespasser upon sacred ground, that he must remember my right to know more than the vague accounts i had been given of my mother's history. "no one will tell me of her," i said. "it is hard, for i am her own daughter." "it is wrong," he said very gently; "you ought to know, for you are indeed, most verily, her own daughter." and then by fragments he tried to tell me a little of her beauty, her loving heart, her faithfulness and bravery. at first it was with great tripping sighs as if the words hurt him, but by and by it came easier, and with his eyes fixed wistfully on me he took me, as it were, by his side through all their marvellous adventures. and thus i heard the stirring story of the "savenaye band," and i felt prouder of my race than i had ever been before. hitherto, being a savenaye only meant the pride our aunt tried to instil into us of being undeniably _biennées_ and connected with numbers of great families. but the tale of the deeds mine had done for the king's cause, and especially the achievements of my own mother in starting such an expedition after my father's death, and following its fortunes to the bitter end, made my blood tingle with a new emotion. little wonder that sir adrian should have devoted his life to her service. how madly enthralled i should have been, being a man, and free and strong, by the presence of a woman such as my mother. i, too, would have prostrated myself to worship her image returning to life--and i am that living, living portrait! when he came to the story of her death, he hesitated and finally stopped. it must have been horrible. i could see it in his eyes, and i dared not press him. now, i suppose i am the only one in the world, besides rené, who knows this man as he is. and i am proud of it. and it is for this constancy, which no vulgar soul of them can understand, that rupert and his class have dubbed the gallant gentleman a madman. it fills me with scorn of them. i do not yet know what love is, therefore of course i cannot fathom its grief; but this much i know--that if i loved and yet could not reach as high as ever love may reach both in joy and sorrow, i should despise myself. i, too, would draw the utmost from life that life can give. he never even hinted at his love for my mother; speaking of himself throughout as rené might, as of her humble devoted servant merely. and then the question began to gnaw at me. "did she love him?" and somehow, i felt as if i could not rest till i knew; and i had it on my lips twenty times to cry out to him: "i know you loved her: oh! tell me, did she love you?" and yet i dared no more have done so, and overstepped the barrier of his gentle, reticent dignity, than i could have thrust the lighthouse tower down; and i could not think, either, whether i should be glad to hear that she had loved him, or that she had not. not even here, alone with myself, can i answer that question. but though i respect him because he is as i have found him, and understand how rare a personality it takes to achieve such refinement of faithfulness, it seems to me, that to teach this constant lover to forget the past in the present, would be something worth living for--something worthy of _me_! molly!--what is the meaning of this? you have never before put that thought in words, even to yourself! but let me be frank, or else what is the use of this diary? looking back to those delightful three days, did not the _thought_ come to me, if not the words? well, well, it is better, sometimes, i believe, to let oneself drift, than to try and guide the boat; and i must hurry back to scarthey or i shall never have told my story.... how swiftly time had flown by us! i sitting in the arm-chair, with the old dog's muzzle on my lap, and sir adrian standing by his great chimney; the clock struck twelve, in the midst of the long silence, and i had thought that barely an hour had passed. i got up, and, seeing me limp in my attempt to walk, sir adrian gave me his arm; and so we went round the great room _bras dessus_, _bras dessous_, and it already seemed quite natural to feel like an intimate friend in that queer dwelling. we paused a long time in silence by the window, the tempest wind was still raging, but the sky was clear, and all round us was a wonderful sight; the sea, as far as eyes could reach, white with foam, lashed and tossing in frenzy round the rock on which we stood so safely, and rising in long jets of spray, which now and then dashed as far as our window; and when i looked down nearer, i could see the little stunted trees, bending backwards and forwards under the blast, and an odd idea came to my mind:--they looked to me when they caught my sight, as though they were bowing deep, hurriedly and frantically greeting me among them. i glanced up at my silent companion, the true knight, and found his wide grey eyes fixed upon me with the same expression that was already familiar to me, which i had especially noted as he told me his long tale of olden times. this time i felt the look go to my heart. _and then the thought first came to my mind, all unformed, but still sweet._ i don't know exactly why, but in answer to his sad look, i smiled at him, without a word, upon which he suddenly grew pale. after a while he gave a sigh, and, as he drew my arm again through his, i fancy his hand trembled a little. when he had taken me back to my chair, he walked to and fro in silence, looking at me ever and anon. a long time we passed thus, without speaking; but it seemed as if our thoughts were intermixing in harmony in the midst of our silence. and then the spell was broken by rené, who never came in without making me his great scrape, trying hard not to beam too obtrusively in the delight that evidently overtakes him whenever he sets eyes on me. it was after a prolonged talk between him and the master, i fancy, concerning the means of attending fitly upon my noble and delicate person, that sir adrian, brought back, evidently, to the consideration of present affairs, began to be exercised about the best means of whiling away my time. when he hinted at the difficulty, i very soon disposed of it. i told him i had never been so happy in my life before--that the hours went all too quickly--i told him there was so much he and rené had yet to tell me of their wonderful adventures, that i thought i should have to carry them back to pulwick with me. at the mention of pulwick his brow darkened, and rené turned away to cough into his hand, and i saw that i had gone too fast. (n.b.--pulwick is evidently a sore subject; i am sure i am not surprised. i can conceive how rupert and sophia would drive a man of sir adrian's sensitiveness nearly to desperation. yet i _have_ brought sir adrian back to pulwick, in spite of all. is not that a feather in my cap?) but to return; i next made rené laugh aloud and sir adrian give his indulgent smile--such as a father might give to his child--by adding that when i was bored i would soon let them know. "i always do," i said, "for i consider that a duty to myself." "god knows," said this strange man then, half smiling, "i would we could keep you here for ever." it was almost a declaration, but his eyes were far off--it was not addressed to me. i soon found that the recollection of all the extraordinary incidents sir adrian had lived through, is one neither of pride nor pleasure to him, but, all the same, never has anything in books seemed to me so stirring, as the tale of relentless fate, of ever-recurring battles and struggles and misfortunes told by the man who, still in the strength of life, has now chosen to forego everything that might for the remainder of his days have compensated him. willing as he was to humour me, however, and disproportionately anxious to amuse me, it was little more than the dry bones of his history, i was able to obtain from him. with rené's help, however, and my own lively imagination i have been able to piece together a very wonderful skeleton, from these same dry bones, and, moreover, endow it with flesh and blood and life. rené was very willing to descant upon his master's exploits, as far as he knew them: "whew, mademoiselle should have seen him fight!" he would say, "a lion, mademoiselle, a real lion!" and then i would contrast the reposeful, somewhat immobile countenance, the dreaming eye, the almost womanly softness of his smile, with the picture, and find the contrast piquant in the extreme. concerning his present home sir adrian was more willing to speak--i had told him how the light on the little island had fascinated me from the distance, and all the surmises i had made about it. "and so, it was in order to see what sort of dungeon they kept the madman in," he said, laughing quietly, "that you pushed the reconnaissance, which nearly sent you into the jaws of death!" i was so struck, at first, by his speaking of himself as the reputed "madman" that i could not answer. to think of him as serenely contemptuous of the world's imputation--and an imputation so galling as this one of being irresponsible for his actions--and deliberately continuing his even way without taking the trouble to refute it, has given me an insight into his nature, that fills me with admiration, and yet, at the same time, with a sort of longing to see him reinstated in his proper place, and casting out those slandering interlopers. but, as he was waiting to be answered, i had to collect my thoughts and admit, not without a little bashfulness, that my first account of my exploit had contained a slight prevarication. in all he has to say about his little scarthey domain, about the existence he has made for himself there, i cannot help noticing with what affection he speaks of rené. rené, according to sir adrian, is everything and everywhere; a perfect familiar genius; he is counsellor as well as valet, plays his master's game of chess as well as shaves him, can tune his organ, and manage his boat, and cast his nets, for he is fisherman as well as gardener; he is the steward of this wonderful little estate, and its stock of one pony, one cow, and twelve hens; he tends the light, and can cook a dinner a great deal better than his great rival, old margery. of this last accomplishment we had good proof in the shape of various dainties that appeared at our dinner. for when i exclaimed in astonishment, the master said, well pleased, and pointing to the attentive major-domo: "this is rené's way of spoiling me. but now he has surpassed himself to celebrate so unique an occasion." and rené's face was all one grin of rapture. i observe that on occasions his eyes wander quite tenderly from me to his master. shall i ever enjoy dinners again like those in that old ruined tower! or hours like those during which i listened to tales of peril and adventure, or to the music that pealed forth from the distant corner, when sir adrian sat down to his organ and made it speak the wordless language of the soul: that language that made me at times shiver with a mad yearning for life, more life; at times soothed my heart with a caress of infinite softness. how is it that our organ-songs at the convent _never_ moved me in this fashion? ah! those will be days to remember; all the more for being certain that they will not be forgotten by him. yes, those days have brought some light into his melancholy life. even rené knows that. "oh, my lady," said he to me as he was leaving the island yesterday. "you have come like the good fairy, you have brought back the joy of life to his honour: i have not heard him really laugh--before this year passed i did not believe he knew any more how to laugh--what you can call laugh!" it is quite true. i had made some droll remark about tanty and cousin sophia, and when he laughed he looked like a young man. he was quick enough in grasping at a pretext for keeping me yet another day. yesterday the wind having suddenly abated in the night, there was quite a bevy of little fishing-boats sailing merrily away. and the causeway at low water was quite visible. as we looked out i know the same idea came to both our minds, though there was no word between us. at last it was i who spoke. "the crossing is quite safe," said i. and i added, as he answered nothing, "i almost wish now it was not. how quick the time has gone by, here!" his countenance when i looked up was darker. he kept his eyes fixed in the distance. at last he said in a low voice: "yes, i suppose it is high time you should go back." "i am sure i don't wish it," i said quite frankly--he is not the sort of man with whom one would ever think of _minauderie_, "but madeleine will be miserable about me." "and so you would really care to stop here," said he, with a smile of wonder on his face, "if it were not for that reason?" "naturally i would," said i. "i feel already as cosy as a tame cat here. and if it were not for madeleine, poor little madeleine, who must be breaking her heart!--but then how can i go back?--i have no wraps and only one shoe?" his face had cleared again. he was walking up and down in his usual way, whilst i hopped back, with more limping than was at all necessary, to my favourite arm-chair. "true, true," he said, as if speaking to himself, "you cannot walk, with one shoe and a bandaged foot. and your clothes are too thin for the roundabout sea journey in this cold wind. this is what we shall do, child," he went on, coming up to me with a sage expression that struggled with his evident eager desire. "rené shall go off, as soon as the tide permits, carrying the good news of your safety to your sister, and bring back some warm things for you to wear to-morrow morning, and i shall write to rupert to send a carriage, to wait for you on the strand." and so, pleased like two children who have found a means of securing a further holiday, we wrote both our letters. i wonder whether it occurred to sir adrian, as it did to me, that, if we had been so very anxious that i should be restored to the care of pulwick with the briefest delay, i might have gone with rené that same day, wrapped up in a certain cloak which had done good warming service already; and that, as rené had constructed with his cunning hands a sufficient if not very pretty sandal for my damaged foot out of some old piece of felt, i might have walked from the beach to the fishing village; and that there, no doubt, a cart or a donkey might have conveyed me home in triumph. perhaps it did _not_ occur to him; and certainly i had no desire to suggest it on my side. thus, soon after mid-day, master rené departed alone. and sir adrian and i, both very glad of our reprieve, watched, leaning side by side upon the window-sill, the brave little craft glide away on the still ruffled waters, until, when it had grown very small in the distance, we saw the sail lowered and knew rené had reached mainland. and that was perhaps the best day of the three. rené having been unexpectedly despatched, we had to help to do everything ourselves with old margery, who is rather feeble. the sky was clear and beautiful; and, followed gravely by jem the dog, we went round the little outer domain. i fed the hens, and sir adrian carried the pail when margery had milked the cow; we paid a visit in his wide paddock to the pony, who trotted up to his master whinnying with pleasure. we looked at the waters rushing past like a mill race on the further side of the island, as the tide was rising, and he explained to me that it was this rush which makes the neighbourhood of scarthey so dangerous to unwary crafts; we went down into the sea-caves which penetrate deep under the ruins.--they say that in olden days there was a passage under the rocky causeway that led as far as the old priory, but all traces of it have been effaced. then, later on, sir adrian showed me in detail his library. "i was made to be a man of books," he said, when i wondered at the number he had accumulated around him--there must be thousands, "a man of study, not of action. and you know how fate has treated me. these have been my one consolation of late years." and it marvelled me to think that one who had achieved so many manly deeds, should love musty old tiresome things so much. he really turned them over quite reverentially. i myself do not think much of books as companions. when i made that little confession he smiled rather sadly, and said that one like me never would lack the suitable companions of youth and happiness; but that a creature of his unfortunate disposition could find, in these long rows of folded leaves, the society of the best and the loftiest minds, not of our age, but of all ages, and, what was more, could find them ready for intercourse and at their best humour, just in those hours when he himself was fit and disposed for such intercourse--and this without dread of inflicting his own misery and dulness upon them. but i could not agree with his appreciation. i felt my nose curl with disdain at the breath of dust and must and age these old tomes gave forth, and i said again it was, to my mind, but a poor and tame sort of fellowship. he was perched on his ladder and had some odd volume in his hand, from which he was about to give an example in point; on hearing, however, this uncongenial sentiment he pushed back the book and came down quickly enough to talk to me. and this was the last of our excursions among the bookshelves. of this i was glad, for i confess it was there i liked sir adrian the least. when the end of the short day drew near it was time to go and attend to the beacon. we ascended the ladder-like wooden stairs leading to the platform. then i had the _reverse_ of that view that for so many days had engrossed my interest. _pulwick from scarthey!..._ what a long time it seemed then since i had left those rooms the windows of which now sent us back the rays of the setting sun! and i had no desire to return, though return i must on the morrow. rené, of course, had left everything in his usual trim order, so all we had to do was to see to the lamp. it pleased my fantasy to light the beacon of scarthey myself, and i struck the steel and kindled the brimstone and set fire to the huge, ill-smelling wicks until they gave a flame as big as my hand; and "there is the light of scarthey at close quarters," i thought. and the light-keeper was bending over me with his kindly look, humouring me like a child. as we sat there silently for a while in the twilight, there came from the little room adjoining the turret an odd sound of flapping and uncanny, melancholy cries. sir adrian rose, and we remembered the seagull by which he had played the part of good samaritan. it had happened on the second day, as the storm was at its height. there had come a great crash at the window, and we saw something white that struggled on the sill outside; sir adrian opened the casement (when we had a little tornado of our own inside, and all his papers began dancing a sarabande in the room), and we gathered in the poor creature that was hurt and battered and more than half stunned, opening alternately its yellow bill and its red eyes in the most absurd manner. with a solicitude that it amused me to watch, sir adrian had tended the helpless, goose-like thing and then handed it to rené's further care. rené, it seemed, had thought of trying to tame the wild bird, and had constructed a huge sort of cage with laths and barrel-hoops, and installed it there with various nasty, sea-fishy, weedy things, such as seagulls consider dainty. but the prisoner, now its vigour had returned, yearned for nothing but the free air, and ever and anon almost broke its wings in sudden frenzy to escape. "i wonder at rené," said sir adrian, contemplating the animal with his grave look of commiseration; "rené, who, like myself, has been a prisoner! he will be disappointed, but we shall make one of god's creatures happy this day. there is not overmuch happiness in this world." and, regardless of the vicious pecks aimed at his hands, he with firmness folded the great strong wings and legs and carried the gull outside on the parapet. there the bird sat a moment, astonished, turning its head round at its benefactor before taking wing; and then it rose flying away in great swoops--flap, flap--across the waves till we could see it no longer. ugly and awkward as the creature looked in its cage, it was beautiful in its joyful, steady flight, and i was glad to see it go. i must have been a bird myself in another existence, for i have often that longing to fly upon me, and it makes my heart swell with a great impatience that i cannot. but i could not help remarking to sir adrian that the bird's last look round had been full of anger rather than gratitude, and his answer, as he watched it sweep heavily away, was too gloomy to please me: "gratitude," said he, "is as rare as unselfishness. if it were not so this world would be different indeed. as it is, we have no more right to expect the one than the other. and, when all is said and done, if doing a so-called kind action gives us pleasure, it is only a special form of self-indulgence." there is something wrong about a reasoning of this kind, but i could not exactly point out where. we both stood gazing out from our platform upon the darkening waters. then across our vision there crept, round the promontory, a beautiful ship with all sails set, looking like some gigantic white bird; sailing, sailing, so swiftly yet so surely by, through the dim light; and i cried out in admiration: for there is something in the sight of a ship silently gliding that always sets my heart beating. but sir adrian's face grew stern, and he said: "a ship is a whitened sepulchre." but for all that he looked at it long and pensively. now it had struck me before this that sir adrian, with all his kindness of heart, takes but a dismal view of human nature and human destiny; that to him what spoils the face of this world is that strife of life--which to me is as the breath of my nostrils, the absence of which made my convent days so grey and hateful to look back upon. i did not like to feel out of harmony with him, and so almost angrily i reproached him. "would you have every one live like a limpet on a rock?" cried i. "great heavens! i would rather be dead than not be up and doing." he looked at me gravely, pityingly. "may _you_ never see what i have seen," said he. "may you never learn what men have made of the world. god keep your fair life from such ways as mine has been made to follow." the words filled me, i don't know why, with sudden misgiving. is this life, i am so eager for, but horror and misery after all? would it be better to leave the book unopened? they said so at the convent. but what can they know of life at a convent? he bent his kind face towards mine in the thickening gloom, as though to read my thoughts, and his lips moved, but he did not speak aloud. then, above the song of the waves as they gathered, rolled in, and fell upon the shingle all around, there came the beat of oars. "hark," said sir adrian, "our good rené!" his tone was cheerful again, and, as he hurried me away down the stairs, i knew he was glad to divert me from the melancholy into which he had allowed himself to drift. and then "good rené" came, bringing breezy life and cheerfulness with him, and a bundle and a letter for me. poor madeleine! it seems she has been quite ill with weeping for molly; and, indeed, her dear scrawl was so illegible that i could hardly read it. rené says she was nearly as much upset by the joy as by the grief. mr. landale was not at home; he had ridden to meet tanty at liverpool, for the dear old lady has been summoned back in hot haste with the news of my decease! he for one, i thought to myself, will survive the shock of relief at learning that molly has risen from the dead! * * * * * ting, ting, ting.... there goes my little clock, fussily counting the hour to tell me that i have written so long a time that i ought to be tired. and so i am, though i have not told you half of all i meant to tell! chapter xvi the recluse and the squire i thought i should never get away from supper and be alone! rupert's air of cool triumph--it was triumph, however he may have wished to hide it--and tanty's flow of indignation, recrimination, speculation, and amazement were enough to drive me mad. but i held out. i pretended i did not mind. my cheeks were blazing, and i talked _à tort et à travers_. i should have _died_ rather than that rupert should have guessed at the tempest in my heart. now i am alone at last, thank god! and it will be a relief to confide to my faithful diary the feelings that have been choking me these last two hours. "pride must have a fall." thus rupert at supper, with reference, it is true, to some trivial incident, but looking at me hard and full, and pointing the words with his meaning smile. the fairies who attended at my birth endowed me with one power, which, however doubtful a blessing it may prove in the long run, has nevertheless been an unspeakable comfort to me hitherto. this is the reverse of what i heard a french gentleman term _l'esprit de l'escalier_. thanks to this fairy godmother of mine, the instant some one annoys or angers me there rises on the tip of my tongue the most galling rejoinder that can possibly be made in the circumstances. and i need not add: _i make it_. to-night, when rupert flung his scoff at me, i was ready for him. "i trust the old adage has not been brought home to you, _sir_ rupert," said i, and then pretending confusion. "i beg your pardon," i added, "i have been so accustomed to address the head of the house these last days that the word escaped me unawares." the shot told _well_, and i was glad--glad of the murderous rage in rupert's eyes, for i knew i had hit him on the raw. even tanty looked perturbed, but rupert let me alone for the rest of supper. he is right nevertheless, that is what stung me. i am humbled, _and i cannot bear it_! sir adrian has left. i was so triumphant to bring him back to pulwick this morning, to have circumvented rupert's plans, and (let me speak the truth,) so happy to have him with me that i did not attempt to conceal my exultation. and now he has gone, gone without a word to me; only this miserable letter of determined farewell. i will copy it--for in my first anger i have so crumpled the paper that it is scarcely readable. "my child, i must go back to my island. the world is not for me, nor am i for the world, nor would i cast the shadow of my gloomy life further upon your bright one. let me tell you, however, that you have left me the better for your coming; that it will be a good thought to me in my loneliness to know of your mother's daughters so close to me. when you look across at the beacon of scarthey, child, through the darkness, think that though i may not see you again i shall ever follow and keep guard upon your life and upon your sister's, and that, even when you are far from pulwick, the light will burn and the heart of adrian landale watch so long as it may beat." i have shed more tears--hot tears of anger--since i received this than i have wept in all my life before. madeleine came in to me just now, too full of the happiness of having me back, poor darling, to be able to bear me out of sight again; but i have driven her from me with such cross words that she too is in tears. i must be alone and i must collect myself and my thoughts, for i want to state exactly all that has happened and then perhaps i shall be able to see my way more clearly. * * * * * this morning then, early after breakfast, i started across the waters between rené and sir adrian, regretting to leave the dear hospitable island, yet with my heart dancing within me, as gaily as did our little boat upon the chopping waves, to be carrying the hermit back with me. i had been deadly afraid lest he should at the last moment have sent me alone with the servant; but when he put on his big cloak, when i saw rené place a bag at the bottom of the boat, i knew he meant to come--perhaps remain some days at pulwick, and my spirits went up, up! it was a lovely day, too; the air had a crisp, cold sparkle, and the waters looked so blue under the clear, frosty sky. i could have sung as we rowed along, and every time i met sir adrian's eye i smiled at him out of the happiness of my heart. his look hung on me--we french have a word for that which is not translatable, _il me couvait des yeux_--and, as every day of the three we had spent together i had thought him younger and handsomer, so this morning out in the bright sunlight i said to myself, i could never wish to see a more noble man. when we landed--and it was but a little way, for the tide was low--there was the carriage waiting, and rené, all grins, handed over our parcels to the footman. then we got in, the wheels began slowly dragging across the sand to the road, the poor horses pulling and straining, for it was heavy work. and rené stood watching us by his boat, his hand over his eyes, a black figure against the dazzling sunshine on the bay; but i could see his white teeth gleam in that broad smile of his from out of his shadowy face. as, at length, we reached the high road and bowled swiftly along, i would not let sir adrian have peace to think, for something at my heart told me he hated the going back to pulwick, and i so chattered and fixed his attention that as the carriage drew up he was actually laughing. when we stopped another carriage in front moved off, and there on the porch stood--rupert and tanty! poor tanty, her old face all disfigured with tears and a great black bonnet and veil towering on her head. i popped _my_ head out of the window and called to them. when they caught sight of me, both seemed to grow rigid with amazement. and then across rupert's face came such a look of fury, and such a deathly pallor! i had thought, certainly, he would not weep the eyes out of his head for me; but that he should be stricken with _anger_ to see me alive i had hardly expected, and for the instant it frightened me. but then i had no time to observe anything else, for tanty collapsed upon the steps and went off into as fine a fit of hysterics as i have ever seen. but fortunately it did not last long. suddenly in the middle of her screams and rockings to and fro she perceived sir adrian as he leant anxiously over her. with the utmost energy she clutched his arm and scrambled to her feet. "is it you, me poor child?" she cried, "is it you?" and then she turned from him, as he stood with his gentle, earnest face looking down upon her, and gave rupert a glare that might have slain him. i knew at once what she was thinking: i had experienced myself that it was impossible to see sir adrian and connect his dignified presence for one second with the scandalous impression rupert would have conveyed. as for rupert, he looked for the first time since i knew him thoroughly unnerved. then tanty caught me by the arm and shook me: "how _dare_ you, miss, how dare you?" she cried, her face was flaming. "how dare i what?" asked i, as i hugged her. "how dare you be walking about when it is dead you are, and give us all such a fright--there--there, you know what i mean.--adrian," she whimpered, "give me your arm, my nephew, and conduct me into your house. all this has upset me very much. but, oh, am i not glad to see you both, my children!" in they went together. and my courage having risen again to its usual height, i waited purposely on the porch to tease rupert a little. i had a real pleasure in noticing how he trembled with agitation beneath his mask. "well, are you glad to see me, cousin rupert?" said i. he took my hand; his fingers were damp and cold. "can you ask, my fair cousin?" he sneered. "do you not see me overcome with joy? am i not indeed especially favoured by providence, for is not this the second time that a beloved being has been restored into my arms like lazarus from the grave?" i was indignant at the heartlessness of his cynicism, and so the answer that leaped to my lips was out before i had time to reflect upon its unladylikeness. "ay," said i, "and each time you have cried in your soul, like martha, 'behold, he stinketh.'" my cousin laughed aloud. "you have a sharp tongue," he said, "take care you are not cut with it yourself some day." just then the footmen who had been unpacking tanty's trunks from the first carriage laid a great wooden box upon the porch, and one of them asked rupert which room they should bring it to. rupert looked at it strangely, and then at me. "take it where you will," he exclaimed at last. "there lies good money-value wasted--though, after all, one never knows." "what is it?" said i, struck by a sinister meaning in his accents. "mourning, beautiful molly--mourning for you--crape--gowns--weepers--wherewith to have dried your sister's tears--but not needed yet, you see." he bared his teeth at me over his shoulder--i could not call it a smile--and then paused, as he was about to brush past into the hall, to give me the _pas_, with a mocking bow. he does not even attempt now to hide his dislike of me, nor to draw for me that cloak of suave composure over the fierce temper that is always gnawing at his vitals as surely as fox ever gnawed little spartan. he sees that it is useless, i suppose. as i went upstairs to greet madeleine, i laughed to myself to think how fate had circumvented the plotter. alas, how foolish i was to laugh! rupert is a dangerous enemy, and i have made him mine; and in a few hours he has shuffled the cards, and now he holds the trumps again. for that there is _du rupert_ in this sudden departure of my knight, i am convinced. of course, _his_ reasons are plain to see. it is the vulgarest ambition that prompts him to oust his brother for as long as possible--for ever, if he can. and now, _i_ am outwitted. _je rage._ i have never been so unhappy. my heart feels all crushed. i see no help anywhere. i cannot in common decency go and seek sir adrian upon his island again, and so i sit and cry. * * * * * immediately upon his arrival tanty was closeted with sir adrian in the chamber allotted to her for so long a space of time that rupert, watching below in an inward fever, now flung back in his chair biting his nails, now restlessly pacing the room from end to end, his mind working on the new problem, his ears strained to catch the least sound the while, was fain at last to ring and give orders for the immediate sounding of the dinner bell (a good hour before that meal might be expected) as the only chance of interrupting a conference which boded so ill to his plans. meanwhile madeleine sobbed out the story of her grief and joy on molly's heart; and miss sophia, who thus inconsiderately arrested in the full congenial flow of a new grief, was thrown back upon her old sorrows for consolation, had felt impelled to pay a visit to the rector's grave with the watering-can, and an extra pocket-handkerchief. never perhaps since that worthy clergyman had gasped out his last struggling breath upon her bosom had she known more unmixed satisfaction than during those days when she hovered round poor prostrate madeleine's bed and poured into her deaf ear the tale of her own woes and the assurances of her thoroughly understanding sympathy. she had been looking forward, with a chastened eagerness, to the arrival of the mourning, and had already derived a good deal of pleasure from the donning of certain aged weeds treasured in her wardrobe; it was therefore a distinct though quite unconscious disappointment when the news came which put an untimely end to all these funereal revels. at the shrill clamour of the bell, as rupert anticipated, adrian emerged instantly from his aunt's room, and a simultaneous jingle of minor bells announced that the ladies' attention was in all haste being turned to toilet matters. whatever had passed between his good old relative and his sensitive brother, rupert's quick appraising glance at the latter's face, as he went slowly down the corridor to his own specially reserved apartment, was sufficient to confirm the watcher in his misgiving that matters were not progressing as he might wish. sir adrian seemed absorbed, it is true, in grave thought, but his countenance was neither distressed nor gloomy. with a spasm of fierce annoyance, and a bitter curse on the meddling of old females and young, rupert had to admit that never had he seen his brother look more handsome, more master of the house and of himself, more _sane_. a few minutes later the guests of pulwick assembled in the library one by one, with the exception of sophia, still watering the last resting-place of the rev. herbert lee. adrian came first, closely followed by tanty, who turned a marked shoulder upon her younger nephew and devoted all her attention to the elder--in which strained condition of affairs the conversation between the three was not likely to be lively. next the sisters, attired alike in white, entered together, bringing a bright vision of youth and loveliness into the old room. at sight of them adrian sprang to his feet with a sudden sharp ejaculation, upon which the two girls halted on the threshold, half shy, half smiling. for the moment, in the shadow of the doorway, they were surprisingly like each other, the difference of colouring being lost in their curious similarity of contour. my god, were there then two céciles? beautiful, miraculous, consoling had been to the mourner in his loneliness the apparition of his dead love restored to life, every time his eyes had fallen upon molly during these last few blessed days; but this new development was only like a troublous mocking dream. tanty turned in startled amazement. she could feel the shudder that shook his frame, through the hand with which he still unconsciously grasped at the back of her chair. an irrepressible smile crept to rupert's lips. the little interlude could not have lasted more than a few seconds when molly, recovering her usual self-possession, came boldly forward, leading her sister by the tips of her fingers. "cousin adrian," she said, "my sister madeleine has many things to say to you in thanks for your care of my valuable person, but just now she is too bashful to be able to utter one quarter of them." as the girls emerged into the room, and the light from the great windows struck upon madeleine's fair curls and the delicate pallor of her cheek; as she extended her hand, and raised to adrian's face, while she dropped her pretty curtsey, the gaze of two unconsciously plaintive blue eyes, the man dashed the sweat from his brow with a gesture of relief. nothing could be more unlike the dark beauty of the ghost of his dreams or its dashing presentment now smiling confidently upon him from tanty's side. he took the little hand with tender pressure: cécile's daughter must be precious to him in any case. madeleine, moreover, had a certain appealing grace that was apt to steal the favour that molly won by storm. "but, indeed, i could never tell sir adrian how grateful i am," said she, with a timidity that became her as thoroughly as molly's fearlessness suited her own stronger personality. at the sound of her voice, again the distressful nightmare-like feeling seized sir adrian's soul. of all characteristics that, as the phrase is, "go in families," voices are generally the most peculiarly generic. when molly first addressed sir adrian, it had been to him as a voice from the grave; now madeleine's gentle speech tripped forth upon that self-same note--cécile's own voice! and next molly caught up the sound, and then madeleine answered again. what they said, he could not tell; these ghosts--these speaking ghosts--brought back the old memories too painfully. it was thus cécile had spoken in the first arrogance of her dainty youth and loveliness; and in those softer tones when sorrow and work and failure had subdued her proud spirit. and now she laughs; and hark, the laugh is echoed! sir adrian turns as if to seek some escape from this strange form of torture, meets rupert's eye and instinctively braces himself into self-control. "come, come," cried miss o'donoghue, in her comfortable, commonplace, cheerful tone: "this dinner bell of yours, adrian, has raised false hopes, which seem to tarry in their fulfilment. what are we waiting for, may i ask?" adrian looked at his brother. "rupert, you know, my dear aunt," he said, "has the ordering of these matters." "sophia is yet absent," quoth rupert drily, "but we can proceed without her, if my aunt wishes." "pooh, yes. sophia!" snorted miss o'donoghue, grasping sir adrian's arm to show herself quite ready for the march, "sophia! we all know what she is. why, my dear adrian, she'll never hear the bell till it has stopped this half hour." "dinner," cried rupert sharply to the butler, whom his pull of the bell-rope had summoned. and dinner being served, the guests trooped into that dining-room which was full of such associations to sir adrian. it was a little thing, but, nevertheless, intensely galling to rupert to have to play second gentleman, and give up his privileges as host to his brother. usually indeed adrian cared too little to stand upon his rights, and insisted upon rupert's continuing to act in his presence as he did in his absence; but this afternoon tanty had left him no choice. nevertheless, as mr. landale sat down between the sisters, and turned smiling to address first one and then the other, it would have taken a very practised eye to discern under the extra urbanity of his demeanour the intensity of his inward mortification. he talked a great deal and exerted himself to make the sisters talk likewise, bantering molly into scornful and eager retorts, and preventing madeleine from relapsing into that state of dreaminess out of which the rapid succession of her recent sorrow and joy had somewhat shaken her. the girls were both excited, both ready to laugh and jest. tanty, satisfied to see adrian preside at the head of the table with a grave, courteous, and self-contained manner that completely fulfilled her notions of what family dignity required of him, cracked her jokes, ate her dinner, and quaffed her cup with full enjoyment, laughing indulgently at her grand-nieces' sallies, and showing as marked a disfavour to rupert as she deemed consistent with good manners. the poor old lady little guessed how the workings in each brother's mind were all the while, silently but inevitably, tending towards the destruction of her newly awakened hopes. * * * * * there was silence between sir adrian and rupert when at last they were left alone together. the elder's gaze wandering in space, his absent hand softly beating the table, his relaxed frame--all showed that his mind was far away from thought of the younger's presence. the relief to be delivered from the twin echoes of a haunting voice--once the dearest on earth to him--was immense. but his whole being was still quivering under the first acuteness of so disturbing an impression. his years of solitude, moreover, had ill prepared him for social intercourse; the laughter, the clash of conversation, the noise on every side, the length of the meal, the strain to maintain a fit and proper attitude as host, had tried to the utmost nerves by nature hypersensitive. rupert, who had leisure to study the suddenly lined and tired lineaments of the abstracted countenance before him, noted with self-congratulation the change that a few hours seemed to have wrought upon it, and decided that the moment had come to strike. "so, adrian," he said, looking down demurely as he spoke into the glass of wine he had been toying with--rupert was an abstemious man. "so, adrian, you have been playing the chivalrous rôle of rescuer of distressed damsels--squire of dames and what not. the last one would have ascribed to you at least at this end of your life. ha," throwing up his head with a mirthless laugh; "how little any of us would have thought what a blessing in disguise your freak of self-exile was destined to become to us!" at the sound of the incisive voice adrian had returned with a slight shiver from distant musing to the consciousness of the other's presence. "and did you not always look upon my exile as a blessing undisguised, rupert?" answered he, fixing his brother with his large grave gaze. rupert's eyelids wavered a little beneath it, but his tone was coolly insolent as he made reply: "if it pleases you to make no count of our fraternal affection for you, my dear fellow; if by insisting upon _our_ unnatural depravity you contrive a more decent excuse for your own vagaries, you have my full permission to dub me cain at once and have done with it." a light sigh escaped the elder man, and then he resolutely closed his lips. it was by behaviour such as this, by his almost diabolical ingenuity in the art of being uncongenial, that rupert had so largely contributed to make his own house impossible to him. but where was the use of either argument or expostulation with one so incapable of even understanding the mainsprings of his actions? moreover (_he_, above all, must not forget it) rupert had suffered through him in pride and self-esteem. and yet, despite sir adrian's philosophic mind, despite his vast, pessimistic though benevolent tolerance for erring human nature, his was a very human heart; and it added not a little to the sadness of his lot at every return to pulwick (dating from that first most bitter home-coming) to feel in every fibre of his being how little welcome he was where the ties of flesh and blood alone, not to speak of his most ceaseless yet delicate generosity, should have ensured him a very different reception. again he sighed, this time more deeply, and the corners of rupert's lips, the arch of his eyebrows, moved upwards in smiling interrogation. "it must have given you a shock," said mr. landale, carelessly, "to see the resemblance between molly and poor cécile; not, of course, that _i_ can remember her; but tanty says it is something startling." adrian assented briefly. "i daresay it seems quite painful to you at first," proceeded rupert, much in the same deliberate manner as a surgeon may lay bare a wound, despite the knowledge of the suffering he is inflicting, "i noticed that you seemed upset during dinner. but probably the feeling will wear off." "probably." "madeleine resembles her father, i am told; but then you never saw the _feu comte_, did you? well, they are both fine handsome girls, full of life and spirits. it is our revered relative's intention to leave them here--as perhaps she has told you--for two months or so." "i have begged her," said sir adrian gravely, "to make them understand that i wish them to look upon pulwick as their home." "very right, very proper," cried the other; "in fact i knew that was what you would wish--and your wishes, of course, are my law in the matter. by the way, i hope you quite understand, adrian, how it happened that i did _not_ notify to you the arrival of these guests extraordinary--knowing that you have never got over their mother's death, and all that--it was entirely from a wish to spare you. besides, there was your general prohibition about my visitors; i did not dare to take the responsibility in fact. and so i told tanty." "i do not wish to doubt the purity of your motives, though it would have grieved me had _these_ visitors (no ordinary ones as you yourself admit) come and gone without my knowledge. as it fell out, however, even without that child's dangerous expedition, i should have been informed in any case--rené knew." "rené knew?" cried rupert, surprised; and "damn rené" to himself with heart-felt energy. that the infernal little spy, as he deemed his brother's servant, should have made a visit to pulwick without his knowledge was unpleasant news, and it touched him on his tenderest point. but now, replenishing his half-emptied glass to give adrian no excuse for putting an end to the conference before he himself desired it, he plunged into the heart of the task he had set himself without further delay: "and what would you wish me to do, adrian," he asked, with a pretty air of deference, "in the matter of entertaining these ladies? i have thought of several things likely to afford them amusement, but, since you are here, you will readily understand that i should like your authorisation first. i am anxious to consult you when i can," he added, apologetically. "so forgive my attacking you upon business to-night when you seem really so little fitted for it--but you know one cannot count upon you from one minute to another! what would you say if i were to issue invitations for a ball? pulwick was noted for its hospitality in the days of our fathers, and the gloom that has hung over the old home these last eight years has been (i suppose) unavoidable in the circumstances--but none the less a pity. no fear but that our fair cousins would enjoy such a festivity, and i think i can promise you that the sound of our revels should not reach as far as your hermitage." a slow colour had mounted to adrian's cheeks; he drew his brows together with an air of displeasure; rupert, quick to read these symptoms, hastened to pursue the attack before response should be made: "the idea does not seem to please you," he cried, as if in hurt surprise. "'tis true i have now no legal right to think of reviving the old hospitable traditions of the family; but you must remember, adrian, you yourself have insisted on giving me a moral right to act host here in your absence--you have over and over again laid stress upon the freedom you wished me to feel in the matter. hitherto i have not made use of these privileges; have not cared to do so, beyond an occasional duty dinner to our nearest neighbours. a lonely widower like myself, why should i? but now, with these gay young things in the house--so near to us in blood--i had thought it so much our duty to provide fitting entertainment for them that your attitude is incomprehensible to me. come! does it not strike you as savouring a little of the unamiable dog in the fable? i know you hate company yourself, and all the rest of it; but how can these things here affect you upon your island? as for the budget, it will stand it, i assure you. i speak hotly; pray excuse me. i own i have looked forward to the thought of seeing once more young and happy faces around me." "you mistake me," said sir adrian with an effort; "while you are acting as my representative you have, as you know, all liberty to entertain what guests you choose, and as you see fit. it is natural, perhaps, that you should now believe me anxious to hurry back to the lighthouse, and i should have told you before that it is my intention this time to remain longer than my wont, in which circumstance the arrangements for the entertaining of our relatives will devolve upon myself." rupert broke into a loud laugh. "forgive me, but the idea is too ludicrous! what sort of funeral festivities do you propose to provide to the neighbourhood, with you and sophia presiding, the living images of mourning and desolation? there, my dear fellow, i _must_ laugh. it will be the skeleton at the feast with a vengeance. why, even to-night, in the bosom of your family, as it were, your presence lay so like a wet blanket upon us all that, 'pon my soul, i nearly cracked my voice trying to keep those girls from noticing it! seriously, i am delighted, of course, that you should feel so sportive, and it is high time indeed that the neighbourhood should see something of you, but i fear you are reckoning beyond your strength. anyhow, command me. i shall be anxious to help you all i can in this novel departure. what are your plans?" "i have laid no plans," answered sir adrian coldly, after a slight pause, "but you do not need me to tell you, rupert, that to surround myself with such gaiety as you suggest is impossible." "you mean to make our poor little cousins lead as melancholy an existence as you do yourself then," cried rupert with an angry laugh. matters were not progressing as he could have wished. "i fear this will cause a good deal of disappointment, not only to them but to our revered aunt--for she is very naturally anxious to see her charges married and settled, and she told me that she more or less counted upon my aid in the matter. now as you are here of course i have, thank heaven, nothing more to say one way or another. but you will surely think of asking a few likely young fellows over to the house, occasionally? we are not badly off for eldest sons in the neighbourhood; molly, who is as arrant a little flirt, they tell me, as she is pretty, will be grateful to you for the attention, on the score of amusement at least." mr. landale, speaking somewhat at random out of his annoyance to have failed in immediately disgusting the hermit of the responsibilities his return home might entail, here succeeded by chance in producing the desired impression. the idea of molly--cécile's double--marrying--worse still, making love, coquetting before his eyes, was intolerable to adrian. to have to look on, and see _cécile's_ eyes lavish glances of love; _her_ lips, soft words and lingering smiles, upon some country fool; to have himself to give this duplicate of his love's sweet body to one unworthy perhaps--it stung him with a pain as keen as it was unreasonable. it was terrible to be so made, that the past was ever as living as the present! but he must face the situation, he must grapple with his own weakness. tender memories had lured him from his retreat and made him for a short time almost believe that he could live with them, happy a little while, in his own home again; but now it was these very memories that were rising like avengers to drive him hence. of course the child must marry if there her happiness lay. ay, and both cécile's children must be amused, made joyful, while they still could enjoy life--rupert was right--right in all he said--but he, adrian, could not be there to see. that was beyond his endurance. it was impossible of course, for one so single-minded himself, to follow altogether the doublings of such a mind as rupert's; but through the melancholy relief of this sudden resolution, adrian was distinctly conscious of the underlying duplicity, the unworthy motives which had prompted his brother's arguments. he rose from the table, and looked down with sad gaze at the younger's beautiful mask of a face. "god knows," he said, "god knows, rupert, i do not so often inflict my presence upon you that you should be so anxious to show me how much better i should do to keep away. i admit nevertheless the justice of all you say. it is but right that mesdemoiselles de savenaye should be surrounded with young and cheerful society; and even were i in a state to act as master of the revels (here he smiled a little dreamily), my very presence, as you say, would cast a gloom upon their merrymaking--i will go. i will go back to the island to-night--i can rely upon you to assist me to do so quietly without unnecessary scenes or explanations--yes--yes--i know you will be ready to facilitate matters! strange! it is only a few hours ago since tanty almost persuaded me that it was my duty to remain here; now you have made me see that i have no choice but to leave. have no fear, rupert--i go. i shall write to tanty. but remember only, that as you treat cécile's children, so shall i shape my actions towards you in future." slowly he moved away, leaving rupert motionless in his seat; and long did the younger brother remain moodily fixing the purple bloom of the grapes with unseeing eyes. part iii "captain jack," the gold smuggler chapter xvii the gold smuggler and the philosopher on the evening of the day which had seen miss molly's departure for the main land, rené, after the usual brisk post-prandial altercation with old margery by her kitchen fire, was cheerfully finding his way, lantern in hand, to his turret, when in the silence of the night he heard the door of the keep open and close, and presently recognised sir adrian's tread echoing on the flagged steps beneath him. astonished at this premature return and full of vague dismay, he hurried down to receive his master. there was a cloud on sir adrian's face, plainly discernible in spite of the unaltered composure of his manner. "i did not expect your honour back so soon," said rené, tentatively. "i myself did not anticipate to return. i had thought i might perhaps stay some days at pulwick. but i find there is no home like this one for me, rené." there was a long silence. but when rené had rekindled a blaze upon the hearth and set the lamp upon the table, he stood a moment before withdrawing, almost begging by his look some further crumb of information. "my room is ready, i suppose?" inquired sir adrian. "yes, your honour," quoth the man ruefully, "margery and i put it back exactly as--as before." "good-night then, good-night!" said the master after a pause, warming his hands as the flames began to leap through the network of twigs. "i shall go to bed, i am tired; i had to row myself across. you will take the boat back to-morrow morning." rené opened his mouth to speak; caught the sound of a sigh coming from the hearthside, and, shaking his head, in silence obeyed the implied dismissal. and bitterly did he meditate in his bunk, that night, upon the swift crumbling of those air-castles he had built himself so gaily erstwhile, in the rose and blue atmosphere that _la demoiselle_ had seemed to bring with her to scarthey. * * * * * from the morrow the old regular mode of life began again in the keep. sir adrian read a good deal, or at least appeared so to do; but rené, who kept him more than ever under his glances of wistful sympathy, noted that far from being absorbed, as of old, in the pages of his book, the recluse's eyes wandered much off its edges into space; that when writing, or at least intent on writing, his pen would linger long in the bottle and hover listlessly over the paper; that he was more abstracted, even than his wont, when looking out of the eastern window; and that on the platform of the beacon it was the landward view which most drew his gaze. there was also more music in the keep than was the custom in evener days. seated at his organ the light-keeper seemed to find a voice for such thoughts as were not to be spoken or written, and relief for the nameless pity of them. but never a word passed between the two men on the subject that filled both their hearts. it was sir adrian's pleasure that things at scarthey should seem to be exactly the same as before, and that was enough for rené. "and yet," mused the faithful fellow, within his disturbed mind, "the ruins now look like a house the day after an interment. if we were lonely before, my faith, now we are desolate?" and, trying to find something or somebody to charge with the curse of it, he invariably fell to upon mr. landale's sleek head, why, he could hardly have explained. three new days had thus passed in the regularity, if not the serenity of the old--they seemed old already, buried far back in the past, those days that had lapsed so evenly before the brightness of youthful and beautiful life had entered the keep for one brief moment, and departing, again left it a ruin indeed--when the retirement of scarthey was once more invaded by an unexpected visitor. it was about sundown of the shortest day. sir adrian was at his organ, almost unconsciously interpreting his own sadness into music. in time the yearning of his soul had had expression, the echo of the last sighing chord died away in the tranquil air, yet the musician, with head bent upon his breast, remained lost in far-away thoughts. a slight shuffling noise disturbed him; turning round to greet rené as he supposed, he was astonished to see a man's figure lolling in his own arm-chair. as he peered inquiringly into the twilight, the intruder rose to his feet, and cried with a voice loud and clear, pleasant withal to the ear: "sir adrian, i am sorry you have stopped so soon; i never heard anything more beautiful! the door was ajar, and i crept in like a cat, not to disturb you." still in doubt, but with his fine air of courtesy, the light-keeper advanced towards the uninvited guest. "am i mistaken," he said, with some hesitation, "surely this is hubert cochrane's voice?" "jack smith's voice, my dear fellow; jack smith, at your service, please to remember," answered the visitor, with a genial ring of laughter in his words. "not that it matters much here, i suppose! had i not heard the peal of your organ i should have thought scarthey deserted indeed. i could find no groom of the chambers to announce me in due form." as he spoke, the two had drawn near each other and clasped hands heartily. "now, to think of your knowing my voice in this manner! you have a devilish knack of spotting your man, sir adrian. it is almost four years since i was here last, is it not?" "four years?--so it is; and four years that have done well by you, it would appear. what a picture of strength and lustiness! it really seems to regenerate one, and put heart of grace in one, only to take you by the hand.--welcome, captain smith!" nothing could have more succinctly described the outer man of him who chose to be known by that most nondescript of patronymics. sir adrian stood for a moment, contemplating, with glances of approval such as he seldom bestowed on his fellow-man, the symmetrical, slender, yet vigorous figure of his friend, and responding with an unwonted cheerfulness to the smile that lit up the steel-blue eyes, and parted the shapely, strong, and good-humoured mouth of the privateersman. "dear me, and what a buck we have become!" continued the baronet, "what splendid plumage! it is good to see you so prosperous. and so this is the latest fashion? no doubt it sets forth the frame of a goodly man, though no one could guess at the 'sea dog' beneath such a set of garments. i used to consider my brother rupert the most especial dandy i had ever seen; but that, evidently, was my limited experience: even rupert cannot display so perfect a fit in bottle-green coats, so faultless a silken stock, buckskins of such matchless drab!" captain jack laughed, blushed slightly under the friendly banter, and allowed himself to be thrust back into the seat he had just vacated. "welcome again, on my lonely estate. i hope this is not to be a mere flying visit? you know my misanthropy vanishes when i have your company. how did you come? not by the causeway, i should say," smiling again, and glancing at the unblemished top-boots. "i have two men waiting for me in the gig below; my schooner, the _peregrine_, lies in the offing." the elder man turned to the window, and through the grey curtain of crepuscule recognised the rakish topsail schooner that had excited molly's admiration some days before. he gazed forth upon it a few meditative moments. "not knowing whether i would find you ready to receive me," pursued the captain, "i arranged that the _peregrine_ was to wait for me if i had to return to-night." "which, of course, is not to be heard of," said sir adrian. "here is renny; he will carry word that with me you remain to-night.... come, renny, do you recognise an old acquaintance?" already well disposed towards any one who could call this note of pleasure into the loved voice, the breton, who had just entered, turned to give a broad stare at the handsome stranger, then burst into a guffaw of pure delight. "by my faith, it is mr. the lieutenant!" he ejaculated; adding, as ingeniously as tanty herself might have done, that he would never have known him again. "it is mr. the captain now, renny," said that person, and held out a strong hand to grip that of the little frenchman, which the latter, after the preliminary rubbing upon his trousers that his code of manners enjoined, readily extended. "ah, it is a good wind that sent you here this day," said he, with a sigh of satisfaction when this ceremony had been duly gone through. "you say well," acquiesced his master, "it has ever been a good wind that has brought captain jack across my path." and then receiving directions to refresh the gig's crew and dismiss them back to their ship with instructions to return for orders on the morrow, the servant hurried forth, leaving the two friends once more alone. "thanks," said captain jack, when the door had closed upon the messenger. "that will exactly suit my purpose. i have a good many things to talk over with you, since you so kindly give me the opportunity. in the first place, let me unburden myself of a debt which is now of old standing--and let me say at the same time," added the young man, rising to deposit upon the table a letter-case which he had taken from his breast-pocket, "that though my actual debt is now met, my obligation to you remains the same and will always be so. you said just now that i looked prosperous, and so i am--owing somewhat to good luck, it is true, but owing above all to you. no luck would have availed me much without _that_ to start upon." and he pointed to the contents of the case, a thick bundle of notes which his host was now smilingly turning over with the tip of his fingers. "i might have sent you a draft, but there is no letter-post that i know of to scarthey, and, besides, it struck me that just as these four thousand pounds had privately passed between you and me, you might prefer them to be returned in the same manner." "i prefer it, since it has brought you in person," said sir adrian, thrusting the parcel into a drawer and pulling his chair closer towards his guest. "dealings with a man like you give one a taste of an ideal world. would that more human transactions could be carried out in so simple and frank a manner as this little business of ours!" captain jack laughed outright. "upon my word, you are a greater marvel to me every time i see you--which is not by any means often enough!" the other raised his eyebrows in interrogation, and the sailor went on: "is it really possible that it is to _my_ mode of dealing that you attribute the delightful simplicity of a transaction involving a little fortune from hand to hand? and where pray, in this terraqueous sublunary sphere--i heard that good phrase from a literary exquisite at bath, and it seems to me comprehensive--where, then, on this terraqueous sublunary globe of ours, sir adrian landale, could one expect to find another person ready to lend a privateersman, trading under an irresponsible name, the sum of four thousand pounds, without any other security than his volunteered promise to return it--if possible?" sir adrian, ignoring the tribute to his own merits, arose and placed his friendly hand on the speaker's shoulder: "and now, my dear jack," he said gravely, "that the war is over, you will have to turn your energies in another direction. i am glad you are out of that unworthy trade." captain jack bounded up: "no, no, sir adrian, i value your opinion too much to allow such a statement to pass unchallenged. unworthy trade! we have not given back those french devils one half of the harm they have done to our own merchant service; it was war, you know, and you know also, or perhaps you don't--in which case let me tell you--that my _cormorant_ has made her goodly name, ay, and brought her commander a fair share of his credit, by her energy in bringing to an incredible number of those d----d french sharks--beg pardon, but you know the pestilent breed. well, we shall never agree upon the subject i fear. as for me, the smart of the salt air, the sting of the salt breeze, the fighting, the danger, they have got into my blood; and even now it sometimes comes over me that life will not be perfect life to me without the dancing boards under my feet and the free waves around me, and my jolly boys to lead to death or glory. yet, could you but know it, this is the veriest treason, and i revoke the words a thousand times. you look amazed, and well you may: ah, i have much to tell you! but i take it you will not care to hear all i have been able to achieve on the basis of your munificent help at my--ahem, unworthy trade." "well, no," said sir adrian smiling, "i can quite imagine it, and imagine it without enthusiasm, though, perhaps, as you say, such things have to be. but i should like to know of these present circumstances, these prospects which make you look so happy. no doubt the fruits of peace?" "yes, i suppose in one way they may be called so. yet without the war and your helping hand they would even now hang as far from me as the grapes from the fox.--when i arrived in england three months after the peace had been signed, i had accumulated in the books of certain banks a tolerably respectable account, to the credit of a certain person, whose name, oddly enough, you on one or two occasions have applied, absently, to captain jack smith. i was, i will own, already feeling inclined to discuss with myself the propriety of assuming the name in question, when, there came something in my way of which i shall tell you presently; which something has made me resolve to remain captain smith for some time longer. the old _cormorant_ lay at bristol, and being too big for this new purpose, i sold her. it was like cutting off a limb. i loved every plank of her; knew every frisk of her! she served me well to the end, for she fetched her value--almost. next, having time on my hands, i bethought myself of seeing again a little of the world; and when i tell you that i drove over to bath, you may perhaps begin to see what i am coming to." sir adrian suddenly turned in his chair to face his friend again, with a look of singular attention. "well, no, not exactly, and yet--unless--? pshaw! impossible----!" upon which lucid commentary he stopped, gazing with anxious inquiry into captain jack's smiling eyes. "ah, i believe you have just a glimmer of the truth with that confounded perspicacity of yours," saying which the sailor laughed and blushed not unbecomingly. "this is how it came about: i had transactions with old john harewood, the banker, in bristol, transactions advantageous to both sides, but perhaps most to him--sly old dog. at any rate, the old fellow took a monstrous fancy to me, over his claret, and when i mentioned bath, recommended me to call upon his wife (a very fine dame, who prefers the fashion of the spa to the business of bristol, and consequently lives as much in the former place as good john harewood will allow). well, you wonder at my looking prosperous and happy. listen, for here is the _hic_: at lady maria harewood's i met one who, if i mistake not, is of your kin. already, then, somewhere at the back of my memory dwelt the name of savenaye----halloa, bless me! i have surely said nothing to----!" the young man broke off, disconcerted. sir adrian's face had become unwontedly clouded, but he waved the speaker on impatiently: "no, no, i am surprised, of course, only surprised; never mind me, my thoughts wandered--please go on. so you have met her?" "ay, that i have! now it is no use beating about the bush. you who know her--you do know her of course--will jump at once to the only possible conclusion. ah, adrian!" captain jack pursued, pacing enthusiastically about, "i have been no saint, and no doubt i have fancied myself as a lover once or twice ere this; but to see that girl, sir, means a change in a man's life: to have met the light of those sweet eyes is to love, to love in reality. it is to feel ashamed of the idiotic make-believes of former loves. to love her, even in vague hope, is to be glorious already; and, by george, to have her troth, is to be--i cannot say what ... to be what i am now!" the lover's face was illumined; he walked the room like one treading on air as the joy within him found its voice in words. sir adrian listened with an extraordinary tightness at his heart. he had loved one woman even so; that love was still with him, as the scent clings to the phial; but the sight of this young, joyful love made him feel old in that hour--old as he had never realised before. there was no room in his being for such love again. and yet...? there was a tremulous anxiety in the question he put, after a short pause. "there are _two_ demoiselles de savenaye, jack; which is it?" captain jack halted, turned on his heels, and exclaimed enthusiastically: "to me there is but one--one woman in the world--madeleine!" his look met that of sir adrian in full, and even in the midst of his own self-centred mood he could not fail to notice the transient gleam that shot in the elder's eyes, and the sudden relaxation of his features. he pondered for a moment or two, scanning the while the countenance of the recluse; then a smile lighted up his own bronzed face in a very sweet and winning way. "as her kinsman, have i your approval?" he asked and proceeded earnestly: "to tell the truth at once, i was looking to even more than your approval--to your support." sir adrian's mood had undergone a change: as a breeze sweeping from a new quarter clears in a moment a darkening mist from the face of the earth, captain jack's answer had blown away for the nonce the atmosphere of misgiving that enveloped him. he answered promptly, and with warmth: "being your friend, i am glad to know of this; being her kinsman, i may add, my dear _hubert_"--there was just a tinge of hesitation, followed by a certain emphasis, on the change of name--"i promise to support you in your hopes, in so far as i have any influence; for power or right over my cousin i have none." the sailor threw himself down once more in his arm-chair; and, tapping his shining hessians with the stem of his long clay in smiling abstraction, began, with all a lover's egotism, to expatiate on the theme that filled his heart. "it is a singular, an admirable, a never sufficiently-to-be-praised conjunction of affairs which has ultimately brought me near you when i was pursuing the light o' my heart, ruthlessly snatched away by a cunning and implacable dragon, known to you as miss o'donoghue. i say _dragon_ in courtesy; i called her by better names before i realised what a service she was unconsciously rendering us by this sudden removal." "known to me!" laughed sir adrian. "my own mother's sister!" "then i still further retract. moreover, seeing how things have turned out, i must now regard her as an angel in disguise. don't look so surprised! has she not brought my love under your protection? i thought i was tolerably proof against the little god, but then he had never shot his arrows at me from between the long lashes of madeleine de savenaye. oh, those eyes, adrian! so unlike those southern eyes i have known so well, too well in other days, brilliant, hard, challenging battle from the first glance, and yet from the first promising that surrender which is ever so speedy. pah! no more of such memories. before _her_ blue eyes, on my first introduction, i felt--well, i felt as the novice does under the first broadside." the speaker looked dreamily into space, as if the delicious moment rose again panoramically before him. "well," he pursued, "that did me no harm, after all. lady maria harewood, who, i have learned since, deals strongly in sentiment, and, being unfortunately debarred by circumstances from indulgence in the soothing luxury on her own behalf, loves to promote matches more poetical--she calls it more 'harmonious'--than her own very prosaic one, she, dear lady, was delighted with such a rarity as a bashful privateersman--her 'tame corsair,' as i heard her call your humble servant.--i was a hero, sir, a perfect hero of romance in the course of a few days! on the strength of this renown thrust upon me i found grace before the most adorable blue eyes; had words of sympathy from the sweetest lips, and smiles from the most bewitching little mouth in all the world. so you see i owe poor lady maria a good thought.... you laugh?" sir adrian was smiling, but all in benevolence, at the artlessness of this eager youth, who in all the unconscious glory of his looks and strength, ascribed the credit of his entrance into a maiden's heart to the virtue of a few irresponsible words of recommendation. "ah! those were days! everything went on smoothly, and i was debating with myself whether i would not, at once, boldly ask her to be the wife of hubert cochrane; though the casting of jack smith's skin would have necessitated the giving up of several of his free-trading engagements." "free trading! you do not mean to say, man alive, that you have turned smuggler now!" interrupted sir adrian aghast. "smuggler," cried jack with his frank laugh, "peace, i beg, friend! miscall not a gentleman thus. smuggler--pirate? i cut a pretty figure evidently in your worship's eyes. lucky for me you never would be sworn as a magistrate, or where should i be ... and you too, between duty and friendship?--but to proceed: i was about, as i have said, to give that up for the reasons i mentioned, when, upon a certain fine evening, i crossed the path of one of the most masterful old maids i have ever seen, or even heard of; and, would you believe it?"--this with a quizzical look at his host's grave face--"this misguided old lady took such a violent dislike to me at first sight, and expressed it so thoroughly well, that, hang me if i was not completely brought to. and all for escorting my dear one from lady maria's house to her own! well, the walk was worth it--though the old crocodile was on the watch for us, ready to snap; had got wind of the secret, somehow, a secret unspoken even between us two. this first and last interview took place on the flags, in front of no. camden place, bath. oh! it was a very one-sided affair from the beginning, and ended abruptly in a door being banged in my face. then i heard about miss o'donoghue's peculiarities in the direction of exclusiveness. and then, also, oddly enough, for the first time, of the great fortune going with my madeleine's hand. of course i saw it all, and, i may say, forgave the old lady. in short, i realised that, in miss o'donoghue's mind, i am nothing but an unprincipled fortune-seeker and adventurer. now you, adrian, can vouch that, whatever my faults, i am none such." sir adrian threw a quiet glance at his friend, whose eyes sparkled as they met it. "god knows," continued the latter, "that all i care for, concerning the money, is that _she_ may have it. this last venture, the biggest and most difficult of all, i then decided to undertake, that i might be the fitter mate for the heiress--bless her! oh, adrian, man, could you have seen her sweet tearful face that night, you would understand that i could not rest upon such a parting. in the dawn of the next morning i was in the street--not so much upon the chance of meeting, though i knew that such sweetness would have now to be all stolen--but to watch her door, her window; a lover's trick, rewarded by lover's luck! leaning on the railings, through the cold mist (cold it was, though i never felt it, but i mind me now how the icicles broke under my hand), what should i see, before even the church-bells had set to chiming, or the yawning sluts to pull the kitchen curtains, but a bloated monster of a coach, dragging and sliding up the street to halt at her very door. then out came the beldam herself, and two muffled-up slender things--my madeleine one of course; but i had a regular turn at sight of them, for i swear i could not tell which was which! off rattled the chariot at a smart pace; and there i stood, friend, feeling as if my heart was tied behind with the trunks." the sailor laughed, ran his fingers through his curls and stamped in lively recollection. "nothing to be drawn from their landlady. but i am not the man to allow a prize to be snatched from under my very nose. so, anathematising miss o'donoghue's family-tree, root, stem, and branch--except that most lovely off-shoot i mean to transplant (you will forgive this heat of blood; it was clearing for action so to speak)--i ran out and overtook the ostler whom i had seen putting the finishing touch to the lashing of boxes behind! _'gloucester!'_ says he. the word was worth the guinea it cost me, a hundred times over.--in less than an hour i was in the saddle, ready for pursuit, cantering boot to boot with my man--a trusty fellow who knows how to hold his tongue, and can sit a horse in the bargain. neither at gloucester, nor the next day, up to worcester, could we succeed in doing more than keep our fugitives in view. when they had alighted at one inn, as ascertained by my squire, we patronised the opposition hostelry, and the ensuing morning cantered steadily in pursuit, on _our_ new post-horses half an hour after they had rumbled away with _their_ relays. but the evening of our arrival at worcester, my fellow found out, at last, what the next stage was to be, and--clever chap, he lost nothing for his sharpness--that the three kings' heads had been recommended to the old lady as the best house in shrewsbury. this time we took the lead, and on to shrewsbury, and were at the glorious old kings' heads (i in a private room, tight as wax) a good couple of hours before the chariot made its appearance. and there, man, there! my pretty one and i met again!" "that was, no doubt," put in sir adrian, in his gentle, indulgent way, "what made the kings' heads so glorious?" "ay. right! and yet it was but a few seconds, on the stair, under a smoky lamp, but her beauty filled the landing with radiance as her kindness did my soul.--it was but for a moment, all blessed moment, too brief, alas! ah, adrian, friend--old hermit in your cell--_you_ have never known life, you who have never tasted a moment such as that! then we started apart: there was a noise below, and she had only time to whisper that she was on her way to pulwick to some relatives--had only heard it that very day--when steps came up the stairs, creaking. with a last promise, a last word of love, i leaped back into my own chamber, there to see (through the chink between door and post) the untimely old mischief-maker herself pass slowly, sour and solemn, towards her apartments, leaning upon her other niece's arm. how could i have thought _that_ baggage like my princess? handsome, if you will; but, with her saucy eye, her raven head, her brown cheek, no more to be compared to my stately lily than brass to gold!" the host listening wonderingly, his eyes fixed with kindly gravity upon the speaker as he rattled on, here gave a slight start, all unnoticed of his friend. "the next morning, when i had seen the coach and its precious freight move on once more northward, i began the retreat south, hugging myself upon luck and success. i had business in salcombe--perhaps you may have heard of the salcombe schooners--in connection with the fitting out of that sailing wonder, the _peregrine_. and so," concluded captain jack, laughing again in exuberance of joy, "you may possibly guess one of the reasons that has brought her and me round by your island." there ensued a long silence, filled with thoughts, equally pressing though of widely different complexion, on either side of the hearth. * * * * * during the meal, which was presently set forth and proclaimed ready by rené, the talk, as was natural in that watchful attendant's presence, ran only on general topics, and was in consequence fitful and unspontaneous. but when the two men, for all their difference of age, temper, and pursuits so strongly, yet so oddly united in sympathy, were once more alone, they naturally fell back under the influence of the more engrossing strain of reflection. again there was silence, while each mused, gazing into space and vaguely listening to the plash of high water under the window. "it must have been a strong motive," said sir adrian, after his dreamy fashion, like one thinking aloud, "to induce a man like you to abandon his honourable name." captain jack flushed at these words, drew his elbows from the table, and shot a keen, inquiring glance at his friend, which, however, fell promptly before the latter's unconscious gaze and was succeeded by one of reflective melancholy. then, with a slight sigh, he raised his glass to the lamp, and while peering abstractedly through the ruby, "the story of turning my back upon my house," he said musingly, "shaking its very dust off my feet, so to speak, and starting life afresh unbeholden to my father (even for what he could not take away from me--my own name),--is a simple affair, although pitiful enough perhaps. but memories of family wrongs and family quarrels are of their nature painful; and, as i am a mirth-loving fellow, i hate to bring them upon me. but perhaps it has occurred to you that i may have brought some disgrace upon the name i have forsaken." "i never allowed myself to think so," said sir adrian, surprised. "your very presence by my fireside is proof of it." again the captain scrutinised his host; then with a little laugh: "pardon me," he cried, "with another man one might accept that likely proof and be flattered. but with you? why, i believe i know you too well not to feel sure that you would have received me as kindly and unreservedly, no matter what my past if only you thought that i had repented; that you would forgive even a _crime_ regretted; and having forgiven, forget.... but, to resume, you will believe me when i say that there was nothing of the sort. no," he went on, with a musing air, "but i could tell you of a boy, disliked at home for his stubborn spirit, and one day thrashed, thrashed mercilessly--at a time when he had thought he had reached to the pride of man's estate, thrashed by his own father, and for no just cause.... oh, adrian, it is a terrible thing to have put such resentment into a lad's heart." he rose as he spoke, and placed himself before the hearth. "if ever i have sons," he added after a pause, and at the words his whole handsome face relaxed, and became suffused with a tender glow, "i would rather cut my right hand off than raise such a spirit in them. well, i daresay you can guess the rest; i will even tell you in a few words, and then dismiss the subject.--i have always had a certain shrewdness at the bottom of my recklessness. now there was a cousin of the family, who had taken to commerce in liverpool, and who was therefore despised, ignored and insulted by us gentry of the shaws. so when i packed my bundle, and walked out of the park gate, i thought of him; and two days later i presented myself at his mansion in rodney street, liverpool. i told him my name, whereat he scowled; but he was promptly brought round upon hearing of my firm determination to renounce it and all relations with my father's house for ever, and of my reasons for this resolve, which he found excellent. i could not have lighted upon a better man. he hated my family as heartily as even i could wish, and readily, out of spite to them, undertook to aid me. he was a most enterprising scoundrel, had a share in half a dozen floating ventures. i expressed a desire for life on the ocean wave, and he started me merrily as his nephew, jack smith, to learn the business on a slaver of his. the 'ebony trade,' you know, was all the go then, adrian. many great gentlemen in lancashire had shares in it. now it is considered low. to say true, a year of it was more than enough for me--too much! it sickened me. my uncle laughed when i demurred at a second journey, but to humour me, as i had learned something of the sailing trade, he found me another berth, on board a privateer, the _st. nicholas_. my fortune was made from the moment i set foot on that lucky ship, as you know." "and you have never seen your father since?" "neither father, nor brothers, nor any of my kin, save the cousin in question. all i know is that my father is dead--that he disinherited me expressly in the event of my being still in the flesh; my eldest brother reigns; many of us are scattered, god knows where. and my mother"--the sailor's voice changed slightly--"my mother lives in her own house, with some of the younger ones. so much i have ascertained quite recently. she believes me dead, of course. oh, it will be a good day, adrian, when i can come back to her, independent, prosperous, bringing my beautiful bride with me!... but until i can resume my name in all freedom, this cannot be." "but why, my dear fellow, these further risks and adventures? surely, even at your showing you have enough of this world's goods; why not come forward, now, at once, openly? i will introduce you, as soon as may be, in your real character, for the sake of your mother--of madeleine herself." the sailor shook his head, tempted yet determined. "i am not free to do so. i have given my word; my honour is engaged," he said. then abruptly asked: "have you ever heard of guinea smuggling?" "guinea smuggling! no," said sir adrian, his amazement giving way to anxiety. "no? you surprise me. you who are, or were, i understand, a student of philosophical matters, freedom of exchange, and international intercourse and the rest of it--things we never shall have so long as governments want money, i am thinking.--however, this guinea smuggling is a comparatively new business. now, _i_ don't know anything about the theory; but i know this much of the practice that, while our preventive service won't let guineas pass the channel (as goods) this year, somebody on the other side is devilish anxious to have them at almost any cost. and the cost, you know, is heavy, for the risk of confiscation is great. well, your banker or your rich man will not trust his bullion to your common free trader--he is not quite such a fool." "no," put in sir adrian, as the other paused on this mocking proposition. "in the old days, when i was busy in promoting the savenaye expedition, i came across many of that gentry, and i cannot mind a case where they could have been trusted with such a freight. but perhaps," he added with a small smile, "the standard may be higher now." captain jack grinned appreciatively. "that is where the 'likes of me' comes in. i will confess this not to be my first attempt. it is known that i am one of the few whose word is warranty. what is more, as i have said, it is known that i have the luck. thus, even if i could bring my own name into such a trade, i would not; it would be the height of folly to change now." for all his disapproval sir adrian could not repress a look of amusement. "i verily believe, jack," he said, shaking his head, "that you are as superstitious yourself as the best of them!" "i ought to make a good thing out of it," said jack, evasively. "and even with all that is lovely to keep me on shore, i would hardly give it up, if i could. as things stand i could not if i would. do not condemn me, adrian,--that would be fatal to my hopes--nay, i actually want your help." "i would you were out of it," reiterated sir adrian; "it takes so little to turn the current of a man's life when he seems to be making straight for happiness. as to the morals of it, i fail, i must admit, to perceive any wrong in smuggling, at least in the abstract, except that a certain kind of moral teaches that all is wrong that is against the law. and yet so many of our laws are so ferocious and inept, and as such the very cause of so much going wrong that might otherwise go well; so many of those who administer them are themselves so ferocious and inept, that the mere fact of a pursuit being unlawful is no real condemnation in my eyes. but, as you know, jack, those who place themselves above some laws almost invariably renounce all. if you are hanged for stealing a horse, or breaking some fiscal law and hanged for killing a man, the tendency, under stress of circumstances is obvious. aye, have we not a proverb about it: as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb?... there are gruesome stories about your free traders--and gruesome endings to them. i well remember, in my young days, the clanking gibbet on the sands near preston and the three tarred and iron-riveted carcases hanging, each in its chains, with the perpetual guard of carrion crows.... hanging in chains is still on the statute book, i believe. but i'll stop my croaking now. you are not one to be drawn into brutal ways; nor one, i fear, to be frightened into prudence. nevertheless," laughing quietly, "i am curious to know in what way you expect help from me, in practice. do you, seriously, want me to embark actually on a smuggling expedition?--i demur, my dear fellow." obviously relieved of some anxiety, the other burst out laughing. "never fear! i know your dislike to bilge water too well. i appreciate too well also your comfortable surroundings," he returned, seating himself once more complacently in his arm-chair, "much as i should love your company on board my pleasure ship--for, if you please, the _peregrine_ is no smuggling lugger, but professes to be a yacht. still, you can be of help for all that, and without lifting even a finger to promote this illicit trade. you may ignore it completely, and yet you will render me incalculable service, provided you do not debar me from paying you a few more visits in your solitude, and give me the range of your caves and cellars." "you are welcome enough," said the recluse. "i trust it may end as well as it promises." and, after a pause, "madeleine does not know the nature of your present pursuit?" "oddly enough, and happily (for our moments of interview are short, as you may imagine) she is not curious on the subject. i don't know what notions the old lady maria may have put into her head about me. i think she believes that i am engaged on some secret political intrigue and approves of such. at least i gathered as much from her sympathetic reticence; and, between ourselves, i am beginning to believe it myself." "how is that?" asked the listener, moved to fresh astonishment by this new departure. "well, i may tell you, who not only can be as silent as the tomb, but really have a right to know, since you are tacitly of the conspiracy. this time the transaction is to be with some official of the french court. they want the metal, and yet wish to have it secretly. what their motive may be is food for reflection if you like, but it is no business of mine. and, besides the fact that one journey will suffice for a sum which at the previous rate would have required half a score, all the trouble and uncertainty of landing are disposed of; at any rate, i am, when all is ready, to be met by a government vessel, get my _quid pro quo_ as will be settled, and there the matter is to end." "a curious expedition," mused sir adrian. "yes," said the sailor, "my last will be the best. by the way, will you embark a few bags with me? i will take no commission." sir adrian could not help laughing. "no, thank you; i have no wish to launch any more of my patrimony on ventures--since it would be of no service to you. i had almost as lief you had made use of my old crow's nest without letting me into the ins and outs of your projects. but, be it as it may, it is yours, night and day. your visits i shall take as being for me." "what a man you are, upon my soul, sir adrian!" cried captain jack, enthusiastically. * * * * * later on, when the "shaking down" hour, in captain jack's phraseology, had sounded, and the two friends separated to rest, the young man refused the offer, dictated by hospitality, of his host's own bedroom. sir adrian did not press the point, and, leaving his guest at liberty to enjoy the couch arranged by rené in a corner under the bookshelves, even as when mademoiselle de savenaye had been the guest of the peel, himself retired to that now hallowed apartment. "odd fellow, that," soliloquised captain jack, as, slowly divesting himself, he paced about the long room and, in the midst of roseate reflections, examined his curious abode. "withal, as good as ever stepped. it was a fine day's work our old _st. nicholas_ did, about this time eight years ago. rather unlike a crowded battery deck, this," looking from the solemn books to the glinting organ pipes, and conscious of the great silence. "as for me, i should go crazy by myself here. but it suits him. queer fish!" again ruminated the young sailor. "he hates no one and yet dislikes almost everybody, except that funny little frenchy and me. whereas _i_ like every man i meet--unless i detest him!... my beautiful plumage!" this whilst carefully folding the superfine coat and thereon the endless silken stock. "now there's a fellow who does not care a hang for any woman under the sun, and yet enters into another chap's love affairs as if he understood it all. i believe it will make him happy to win my cause with madeleine. i wish one could do something for _his_ happiness. it is absurd, you know," as though apostrophising an objector, "a man can't be happy without a woman. and yet again, my good jack, you never thought that before you met madeleine. he has not met his madeleine, that's what it means. where ignorance is bliss.... friend adrian! let us console ourselves and call you ignorantly happy, in your old crow's nest. you have not stocked it so badly either.--for all your ignorance in love, you have a pretty taste in liquor." so thinking, he poured himself a last glass of his host's wine, which he held for a moment in smiling cogitation, looking, with the mind's eye, through the thick walls of the keep, across the cold mist-covered sands of scarthey and again through the warm and scented air of a certain room (imagination pictured) where madeleine must at that hour lie in her slumber. after a moment of silent adoration he sent a rapturous kiss landwards and tossed his glass with a last toast: "madeleine, my sweet! to your softly closed lids." and again captain jack fell to telling over the precious tale of that morning's interview, furtively secured, by that lover's luck he so dutifully blessed, under the cluster of scotch firs near the grey and crumbling boundary walls of pulwick park. chapter xviii "love gilds the scene and woman guides the plot" tanty's wrath upon discovering sir adrian's departure was all the greater because she could extort no real explanation from rupert, and because her attacks rebounded, as it were, from the polished surface he exposed to them on every side. madeleine's indifference, and molly's apparently reckless spirits, further discomposed her during supper; and upon the latter young lady's disappearance after the meal, it was as much as she could do to finish her nightly game of patience before mounting to seek her with the purpose of relieving her overcharged feelings, and procuring what enlightenment she might. the unwonted spectacle of the saucy damsel in tears made miss o'donoghue halt upon the threshold, the hot wind of anger upon which she seemed to be propelled into the room falling into sudden nothingness. there could be no mistake about it. molly was weeping; so energetically indeed, with such a passion of tears and sobs, that the noise of tanty's tumultuous entrance fell unheeded upon her ears. all her sympathies stirred within her, the old lady advanced to the girl with the intention of gathering her to her bosom. but as she drew near, the black and white of the open diary attracted her eye under the circle of lamplight, and being possessed of excellent long sight, she thought it no shame to utilise the same across her grand-niece's prostrate, heaving form, before making known her presence. _"and so i sit and cry."_ miss molly was carrying out her programme with much precision, if indeed her attitude, prone along the table, could be described as sitting. miss o'donoghue's eyes and mouth grew round, as with the expression of an outraged cockatoo she read and re-read the tell-tale phrases. here was a complication she had not calculated upon. "dear, dear," she cried, clacking her tongue in disconsolate fashion, so soon as she could get her breath. "what is the meaning of this, my poor girl?" molly leaped to her feet, and turning a blazing, disfigured countenance upon her relative, exclaimed with more energy than politeness: "good gracious, aunt, what _do_ you want?" then catching sight of the open diary, she looked suspiciously from it to her visitor, and closed it with a hasty hand. but miss o'donoghue's next words settled the doubt. "well, to be sure, what a state you have put yourself into," she pursued in genuine distress. "what has happened then between you and that fellow, whom i declare i begin to believe as crazy as rupert says, that you should be crying your eyes out over his going back to his island?--you that i thought could not shed a tear if you tried. nothing left but to sit and cry, indeed." "so you have been reading my diary, you mean thing," cried miss molly, stamping her foot. "how dare you come creeping in here, spying at my private concerns! oh! oh! oh!" with unpremeditated artfulness, relapsing into a paroxysm of sobs just in time to avert the volley of rebuke with which the hot-tempered old lady was about to greet this disrespectful outburst. "i am the most miserable girl in all the world. i wish i were dead, i do." again tanty opened her arms, and this time she did draw the stormy creature to a bosom, as warm and motherly as if all the joys of womanhood had not been withheld from it. "tell me all about it, my poor child." there was a distinct feeling of comfort in the grasp of the old arms, comfort in the very ring of the deep voice. molly was not a secretive person by nature, and moreover she retained quite enough shrewdness, even in her unwonted break-down, to conjecture that with tanty lay her sole hope of help. so rolling her dark head distractedly on the old maid's shoulder, the young maid narrated her tale of woe. pressed by a pointed question here and there, tanty soon collected a series of impressions of molly's visit to scarthey, that set her busy mind working upon a startlingly new line. it was her nature to jump at conclusions, and it was not strange that the girl's passionate display of grief should seem to be the unmistakable outcome of tenderer feelings than the wounded pride and disappointment which were in reality its sole motors. "i am convinced it is rupert that is at the bottom of it," cried molly at last, springing into uprightness again, and clenching her hands. "his one idea is to drive his brother permanently from his own home--and he _hates me_." tanty sat rigid with thought. so molly was in love with sir adrian landale, and he--who knows--was in love with her too; or if not with her, with her likeness to her mother, and that was much the same thing when all was said and done. could anything be more suitable, more fortunate? could ever two birds be killed with one stone with more complete felicity than in this settling of the two people she most loved upon earth? poor pretty molly! the old lady's heart grew very tender over the girl who now stood half sullenly, half bashfully averting her swollen face; five days ago she had not known her handsome cousin, and now she was breaking her heart for him. it might be, indeed, as she said, that they had to thank rupert for this--and off flew tanty's mind upon another tangent. rupert was very deep, there could be no doubt of that; he was anxious enough to keep adrian away from them all; what would it be then when it came to a question of his marriage? tanty, with the delightful optimism that seventy years' experience had failed to damp, here became confident of the approach of her younger nephew's complete discomfiture, and in the cheering contemplation of that event chuckled so unctuously that molly looked at her amazed. "it is well for you, my dear," said the old lady, rising and wagging her head with an air of enigmatic resolution, "that you have got an aunt." * * * * * some two days later, rené, sitting upon a ledge of the old scarthey wall, in the spare sunshine which this still, winter's noon shone pearl-like through a universal mist, busy mending a net, to the tune of a melancholy, inward whistle, heard up above the licking of the waves all around him and the whimper of the seagulls overhead, the beat of steady oars approaching from land side. starting to his feet, the little man, in vague expectation, ran to a point of vantage from which to scan the tideway; after a few seconds' investigation he turned tail, dashed into the ruins, up the steps, and burst open the door of the sitting-room, calling upon his master with a scared expression of astonishment. captain jack, poring over a map, his pipe sticking rakishly out of one side of his mouth, looked up amused at the frenchman's evident excitement, while adrian, who had been busy with the uppermost row of books upon his west wall, looked down from his ladder perch, with the pessimist's constitutional expectation of evil growing upon his face. "one comes in a boat," ejaculated rené, "and i thought i ought to warn his honour, if his honour will give himself the trouble to look out." "it must be the devil to frighten renny in this fashion," muttered captain jack as distinctly as the clench of his teeth upon the pipe would allow him. sir adrian paled a little, he began to descend his ladder, mechanically flicking the dust from his cuffs. "your honour," said rené, drawing to the window and looking out cautiously, "i have not yet seen her, but i believe it is old miss--the aunt of your honour and these ladies." captain jack's pipe fell from his dropping jaw and was broken into many fragments as he leaped to his feet with an elasticity of limb and a richness of expletive which of themselves would have betrayed his calling. flinging his arm across one of adrian's shoulders he peeped across the other out of the window, with an alarm half mocking, half genuine. "the devil it is, friend renny," he cried, drawing back and running his hands with an exaggerated gesture of despair through his brown curls; "adrian, all is lost unless you hide me." "my aunt here, and alone," exclaimed adrian, retreating from the window perturbed enough himself, "i must go down to meet her. pray god it is no ill news! hurry, renny, clear these glasses away." "in the name of all that's sacred, clear me away first!" interposed captain jack, this time with a real urgency; through the open lattice came the sound of the grating of the boat's keel upon the sand and a vigorous hail from a masculine throat--"ahoy, renny potter, ahoy!" "adrian, this is a matter of life and death to my hopes, hide me in your lowest dungeon for goodness' sake; i do not know my way about your ruins, and i am convinced the old lady will nose me out like a badger." there was no time for explanation; sir adrian made a sign to rené, who highly enjoying the situation and grinning from ear to ear, was already volunteering to "well hide mr. the captain," and the pair disappeared with much celerity into the inner room, while adrian, unable to afford himself further preparation, hurried down the great stairs to meet this unexpected guest. he emerged bareheaded into the curious mist which hung pall-like upon the outer world, and seemed to combine the opposite elements of glare and dulness, just as tanty, aided by the stalwart arm of the boatman, who had rowed her across, succeeded in dragging her rheumatic limbs up the last bit of ascent to the door of the keep. she halted, disengaged herself, and puffing and blowing surveyed her nephew with a stony gaze. "my dear aunt," cried adrian, "nothing has happened, i trust?" "sufficient has already happened, nephew, i should _hope_," retorted the old lady with extreme dignity, "sufficient to make me desire to confer with you most seriously. i thank you, young man," turning to william shearman who stood on one side, his eager gaze upon "the master," ready to pull his forelock so soon as he could catch his eye, "be here again in an hour, if you please." "but you will allow me to escort you myself," exclaimed adrian, rising to the situation, "and i hope there need be no hurry so long as daylight lasts--good-morning, will, i am glad the new craft is a success--you need not wait. tanty, take my arm, i beg, the steps are steep and rough." gripping her nephew's arm with her bony old woman's hand, miss o'donoghue began a laborious ascent, pausing every five steps to breathe stertorously and reproachfully, and look round upon the sandstone walls with supreme disdain; but this was nothing to the air with which, when at last installed upon a high hard chair, in the sitting-room (having sternly refused the easy one sir adrian humbly proffered), she deliberately proceeded to survey the scene. in truth, the neatness that usually characterised adrian's surroundings was conspicuously absent from them, just then. two or three maps lay overlapping each other upon the table beside the tray with its flagon of amber ale, which had formed the captain's morning draught; and the soiled glass, the fragments of his pipe, and its half-burnt contents lay strewn about the prostrate chair which that lively individual had upset in his agitation. adrian's ladder, the books he had been handling and had not replaced, the white ash of the dying fire, all contributed to the unwonted aspect of somewhat melancholy disorder; worse than all, the fumes of the strong tobacco which the sailor liked to smoke in his secluded moments hung rank, despite the open window, upon the absolute motionlessness of the atmosphere. tanty snorted and sniffed, while adrian, after picking up the chair, began to almost unconsciously refold the maps, his eyes fixed wonderingly upon his visitor's face. this latter delivered herself at length of some of the indignation that was choking her, in abrupt disjointed sentences, as if she were uncorking so many bottles. "well i'm sure, nephew, i am not surprised at your _extraordinary_ behaviour, and if this is the style you prefer to live in--style, did i say?--sty would be more appropriate. of course it is only what i have been led to expect, but i must say i was ill prepared to be treated by you with actual disrespect. my sister's child and i your guest, not to speak of your aunt, and you your mother's son, and her host besides! it is a slap in the face, adrian, a slap in the face which has been a very bitter pill to have to swallow, i assure you--i may say without exaggeration, in fact, that it has cut me to the quick." "but surely," cried the nephew, laughing with gentle indulgence at this complicated indictment, "surely you cannot suppose i would have been willingly guilty of the smallest disrespect to you. i am a most unfortunate man, most unfortunately situated, and if i have offended, it is, you must believe, unwittingly and unavoidably. but you got my letter--i made my motives clear to you." "oh yes, i got your letter yesterday," responded tanty, not at all softened, "and a more idiotic production from a man of your attainments, allow me to remark, i never read. adrian, you are making a perfect fool of yourself, and _you cannot afford it_!" "i fear you will never really understand my position," murmured adrian hopelessly. tanty rattled her large green umbrella upon the floor with a violence that made her nephew start, then turned upon him a countenance inflamed with righteous anger. "it is only three days ago since i gave you fully my view of the situation," she remarked, "you were good enough at the time to admit that it was a remarkably well-balanced one. i should be glad if you will explain in what manner your position could have changed in the space of just three hours after, to lead you to rush back to your island, really as if you were a mole or a wild indian, or some other strange animal that could not bear civilised society, without even so much as a good-bye to me, or to your cousins either? what is that?--you say you wrote--oh, ay--you wrote--to molly as well as to me; rigmaroles, my dear nephew, mere absurd statements that have not a grain of truth in them, that do not hold water for an instant. you are not made for the world forsooth, nor the world for you! and if that is not flying in the face of your creator, and wanting to know better than providence!--and then you say, 'you cast a gloom by your mere presence.' fiddle-de-dee! it was not much in the way of gloom that molly brought back with her from her three days' visit to you--or if that is gloom--well, the more your presence casts of it the better--that is all i can say. ah, but you should have seen her, poor child, after you went away in that heartless manner and you had removed yourself and your shadow, and your precious gloom--if you could have seen how unhappy she has been!" "good god!" exclaimed the man with a paling face, "what are you saying?" "only the truth, sir--molly is breaking her heart because of your base desertion of her." "good god," muttered adrian again, rose up stiffly in a sort of horrified astonishment and then sat down again and passed his hand over his forehead like a man striving to awaken from a painful dream. "oh, adrian, don't be more of a fool than you can possibly help!" cried his relative, exasperated beyond all expression by his inarticulate distress. "you are so busy contemplating all sorts of absurdities miles away that i verily believe you cannot see an inch beyond your nose. my gracious! what is there to be so astonished at? how did you behave to the poor innocent from the very instant she crossed your threshold? fact is, you have been a regular gay lothario. did you not"--cried tanty, starting again upon her fine vein of metaphor--"did you not deliberately hold the cup of love to those young lips only to nip it in the bud? the girl is not a stock or a stone. you are a handsome man, adrian, and the long and the short of it is, those who play with fire must reap as they have sown." tanty, who had been holding forth with the rapidity of a loose windmill in a hurricane, here found herself forced to pause and take breath; which she did, fanning herself with much energy, a triumphant consciousness of the unimpeachability of her logic written upon her heated countenance. but adrian still stared at her with the same incredulous dismay; looking indeed as little like a gay lothario as it was possible, even for him. "do you mean," he said at last, in slow broken sentences, as his mind wrestled with the strange tidings; "am i to understand that molly, that bright beautiful creature, has been made unhappy through me? oh, my dear tanty," striving with a laugh, "the idea is too absurd, i am old enough to be her father, you know--what evidence can you have for a statement so distressing, so extraordinary." "i am not quite in my dotage yet," quoth tanty, drily; "neither am i in the habit of making unfounded assertions, nephew. i have heard what the girl has said with her own lips, i have read what she has written in her diary; she has sobbed and cried over your cruelty in these very arms--i don't know what further evidence----" but sir adrian had started up again--"molly crying, molly crying for me--god help us all--cécile's child, whom i would give my life to keep from trouble! tanty, if this is true--it must be true since you say so, i hardly know myself what i am saying--then i am to blame, deeply to blame--and yet--i have not said one word to the child--did nothing...." here he paused and a deep flush overspread his face to the roots of his hair; "except indeed in the first moment of her arrival--when she came in upon me as i was lost in memories of the past--like the spirit of cécile." "humph," said tanty, pointedly, "but then you see what you took for cécile's spirit happened to be molly in the flesh." she fixed her sharp eyes upon her nephew, who, struck into confusion by her words, seemed for the moment unable to answer. then, as if satisfied with the impression produced, she folded her hands over the umbrella handle and observed in more placid tones than she had yet used: "and now we must see what is to be done." adrian began to pace the room in greater perturbation. "what is to be done?" he repeated, "alas! what can be done? tanty, you will believe me when i tell you that i should have cut off my right hand rather than brought this thing upon the child--but she is very young--the impression, thank heaven, cannot in the nature of things endure. she will meet some one worthy of her--with you, tanty, kindest of hearts, i can safely trust her future. but that she should suffer now, and through me, that bright creature who flitted in upon my dark life, like some heaven-sent messenger--these are evil tidings. tanty, you must take her away, you must distract her mind, you must tell her what a poor broken-down being i am, how little worthy of her sweet thoughts, and she will learn, soon learn, to forget me, to laugh at herself." although addressing the old lady, he spoke like a man reasoning with himself, and the words dropped from his lips as if drawn from a very well of bitterness. tanty listened to him in silence, but the tension of her whole frame betrayed that she was only gathering her forces for another explosion. when adrian's voice ceased there was a moment's silence and then the storm burst; whisking herself out of her chair, the umbrella came into play once more. but though it was only to thump the table, it was evident miss o'donoghue would more willingly have laid it about the delinquent's shoulders. "adrian, are you a man at all?" she ejaculated fiercely. then with sudden deadly composure: "so _this_ is the reparation you propose to make for the mischief you have wrought?" "in god's name!" cried he, goaded at length into some sort of despairing anger himself, "what would you have me do?" the answer came with the promptitude of a return shot: "do? why marry her, of course!" "_marry her!_" there was a breathless pause. tanty, leaning forward across the table, crimson, agitated, yet triumphant; adrian's white face blasted with astonishment. "marry her," he echoed at length once more, in a whisper this time. then with a groan: "this is madness!" miss o'donoghue caught him up briskly. "madness? my good fellow, not a bit of it; on the contrary, sanity, happiness, prosperity.--adrian, don't stand staring at me like a stuck pig! why, in the name of conscience, should not you marry? you are a young man still--pooh, pooh, what is forty!--you are a very fine-looking man, clever, romantic--hear me out, sir, please--_and you have made the child love you_. there you are again, as if you had a pain in your stomach; you would try the patience of job! why, i don't believe there is another man on earth that would not be wild with joy at the mere thought of having gained such a prize. a beautiful creature, with a heart of gold and a purse of gold to boot." "oh, heavens, aunt!" interrupted the man, passionately, "leave that question out of the reckoning. the one thing, the only thing, to consider is _her_ happiness. you cannot make me believe it can be for her happiness that she should marry such as me." "and why shouldn't it be for her happiness?" answered the dauntless old lady. "was not she happy enough with you here in this god-forsaken hole, with nothing but the tempest besides for company? why should not she be happy, then, when you come back to your own good place? would not you be _kind_ to her?--would not you cherish her if she were your wife?" "would i not be kind to her?--would i not cherish her?--would i not----? my god!" "why, adrian," cried tanty, charmed at this unexpected disclosure of feeling and the accent with which it was delivered, "i declare you are as much in love with the girl as she is with you. why, now you shall just come back with me to pulwick this moment, and she shall tell you herself if she can find happiness with you or not. oh--i will hear no more--your own heart, your feelings as a gentleman, as a man of honour, all point, my dear nephew, in the same direction. and if you neglect this warning voice you will be blind indeed to the call of duty. come now, come back to your home, where the sweetest wife ever a man had awaits you. and when i shall see the children spring up around you, adrian, then god will have granted my last wish, and i shall die in peace.... there, there, i am an old fool, but when the heart is over full, then the tears fall. come, adrian, come, i'll say no more; but the sight of the poor child who loves you shall plead for her happiness and yours. and hark, a word in your ear: let rupert bark and snarl as he will! and what sort of a devil is it your generosity has made of _him_? you have done a bad day's work there all these years, but, please god, there are better times dawning for us all.--what are you doing, adrian? oh! writing a few orders to your servant to explain your departure with me--quite right, quite right, i won't speak a word then to interrupt you. dear me! i really feel quite in spirits. once dear molly and you settled, there will be a happy home for madeleine: with you, we can look out a suitable husband for her. well, well, i must not go too fast yet, i suppose: but i have not told you in what deep anxiety i have been on _her_ account by reason of a most deplorable affair--a foolish girl's fancy only, of course, with a most undesirable and objectionable creature called _smith_.... oh! you are ready, are you?--my dear adrian, give me your arm then, and let us proceed." * * * * * silence had reigned for but a few seconds in the great room of the keep when captain jack re-entered, bearing on his face an expression at once boyishly jubilant and mockingly astonished. he planted himself in front of the landward window, and gazed forth a while. "there goes my old adrian, as dutifully escorting that walking sack of bones, that tar-barrel ornament--never mind, old lady, from this moment i shall love you for your brave deeds of this morning--escorting his worthy aunt as dutifully as though he were a penniless nephew.... gently over the gunnel, madam! that's done! so you are going to take my gig? right, adrian. dear me, how she holds forth! i fancy i hear her from here.--give way, my lads! that's all right. gad! old adrian's carried off on a regular journey to cythera, under a proper escort!" with this odd reminiscence of early mythological reading, the sailor burst into a loud laugh and walked about slapping his leg. "would ever any one have guessed anything approaching this? star-gazing, book-grubbing sir adrian ... in love! adrian the solitary, the pessimist, the i-don't-know-what superior man, in love! neither more nor less! in love, like an every-day inhabitant of these realms, and with that black-eyed sister of mine that is to be! my word, it's too perfect! adrian my brother-in-law--for if i gauge that fine creature properly--splendid old lady--she won't let him slide back this time. no, my dear adrian, you are hooked for matrimony and a return to the living world. that black-eyed jade too, that molly sister of my madeleine, will wake up and lead you a life, by george!... row on, my lads," once more looking at the diminishing black spot upon the grey waters. "row on--you have never done a better day's work!" rené, entering a few moments later, with an open note in his hand, found his master's friend still chuckling, and looked at him inquisitively. "his honour has returned to pulwick," said he, in puzzled tones, handing the missive. "ay, lad," answered the sailor, cheerily. "the fact is, my good renny, that in that room of sir adrian's where you ensconced me for safety from that most wonderful specimen of her sex (i refer to your master's worthy aunt), it was impossible to avoid overhearing many of her remarks--magnificent voice for a storm at sea, eh? never mind what it was all about, my good man; what i heard was good news. ah!" directing his attention to the note; "his honour does not say when he will return, but will send back the gig immediately; and you, m. potter, are to look after me for as long as i choose to stop here." rené required no reflection to realise that anything in the shape of good news which took his master back to his estate must be good news indeed; and his broad face promptly mirrored, in the broadest of grins, the captain's own satisfaction. "for sure, we will try to take care of m. the captain, as well as if his honour himself was present. he told me you were to be master here." "make it so. i should like some dinner as soon as possible, and one of my bro----of sir adrian's best bottles. it's a poor heart that never rejoices. meanwhile, i want to inspect your ruins and your caves in detail, if you will pilot me, renny. this is a handy sort of an old robinson crusoe place for hiding and storing, is it not?" chapter xix a junior's opinion a rarely failing characteristic of very warm-hearted and strongly impulsive people is their inability of graduating their likes and dislikes; a state of mind which cannot fail to lead to frequent alterations of temper. on more than one occasion, since the domineering old lady had started upon her peregrinations, had her favour for the two brothers undergone reversal; but the ground rupert gained by adrian's offences was never of safe tenure. at the present hour, under the elation of her victorious sally upon the hermit's pessimistic entrenchments--the only thing in him of which she disapproved--he at once resumed the warm place she liked to keep for him in her heart. and as a consequence "master rupert," as she contemptuously called the "locum tenens squire," who, in the genealogical order of things, should have been a person of small importance, fell promptly into his original state of disgrace. during the drive from the village (where she had ordered the carriage to await her return) to the gates of pulwick, miss o'donoghue entertained her companion with an indignant account of his brother's ingratitude, of his hypocritical insinuating method of disparagement of sir adrian himself, winding up each indictment with a shrewd, "but he could not impose upon _me_," which, indeed, she firmly believed. her object was, of course, to strengthen the baronet in his resolve to return to the headship of his family--little guessing what a strong incentive to seclusion these very tales of a state of things he suspected but too well would have proved, had it not been for the new unforeseen motive that the morning's revelation had brought. "does molly know of your visit to me?" he asked, as the carriage halted before the gate, and the enormous, red-headed cumbrian gatekeeper with his rosy moggie, proudly swung it open to stand on either side, the one bowing with jubilant greeting and the other curtseying with bashful smiles at the real master. "does she expect my visit?" relapsing into gravity after returning the salutation in kindliness. "i have told no one of my purpose this day. rupert walked off to the stables immediately after breakfast--going a-hunting he said he was, and offered to bear the girls to the meet. and then, feeling lonely without his company," added tanty, with a wink, "i ordered the carriage and thought i would go and have a peep at the place where poor molly was drowned, just for a little diversion. whether the little rogue expects you or not, after your note of the other day, i am sure i could not take upon myself to say. she sits watching that crazy old tower of yours by day and your light by night. well, well, i must not tell tales out of school, you may find out for yourself. but mind you, adrian," she impressed on him, sagely, "it is not i who bring you back: you return of your own accord. the child would murder me, if she knew--with that proud heart of hers." "my dear tanty, trust me. this incomprehensible discovery of yours, which i cannot yet believe in, really is, so far as my discretion is concerned, as if i had never heard of it. heavens! i have been a blundering fool, but i could not insult her with a hint of it for the world. i have come to see rupert to-day, as usual, of course--and, as you say ... i shall see for myself. you have opened my eyes." miss o'donoghue looked at her nephew with admiration. "_voyez un peu_," she said, "_comme l'amour vous dégourdit_ even a doleful sir adrian! faith, here we are. this has been a pleasant ride, but my old bones are so tired, and you and yours have set them jogging so much of late, that i think i'll never want to stir a foot again once i get back to bunratty ... except indeed to come and be godmother to the heir." having lent a dutiful arm up the stairs to his now beaming relative, sir adrian came down pensively and entered the library. there, booted and spurred, but quietly installed at a writing table, sat mr. landale, who rose in his nonchalant manner and with cold looks met his brother. there was no greeting between them, but simply thus: "i understood from aunt rose you were out hunting." "such was my intention, but when i found out that she had gone to see you--don't look so astonished, adrian--a man must know what is going on in his household--i suspected you would escort her back; so i desisted and waited for you. it is an unexpected pleasure to see you, for i thought we had sufficiently discussed all business, recently. but doubtless you will profit of the opportunity to go into a few matters which want your attention. do you mean to remain?" speaking these words in a detached manner, mr. landale kept a keenly observant look upon his brother's countenance. in a most unwonted way the tone and the look irritated sir adrian. "i came back, rupert, because there were some things i wished to see for myself here," he answered frigidly. and going to the bell, rang it vigorously. on the servant's appearance, without reference to his brother, he himself, and very shortly, gave orders: "i shall dine here to-day. have the tapestry-room made ready for me." then turning to rupert, whose face betrayed some of the astonishment aroused by this most unusual assumption of authority, and resuming as it were the thread of his speech, he went on: "no, rupert, i have no desire to talk business with you. it is a pity you should have given up your day. is it yet too late?" "upon my word, adrian," said mr. landale, clenching his hand nervously round his fine cambric handkerchief, "there must be something of importance in the wind to have altered your bearing towards me to this extent. i have no wish to interfere. i came back and gave up good company for the reason i have stated. i will now only point out that, with your sudden whims, you render my position excessively false in a house where, at your own wish, i am ostensibly established as master." and without waiting for another word, the younger brother, having shot the arrow which hitherto never failed to reach the bull's-eye of the situation, left the room with much dignity. once more alone, sir adrian, standing motionless in the great room, darkened yet more in the winter light by the heavy festoons of curtains that hung over the numerous empty bookshelves, the souls of which had migrated to the peel to keep the master company, cogitated upon this first unpleasant step in his new departure, and wondered within himself why he had felt so extraordinarily moved by anger to-day at the cold inquisitiveness of his brother. no doubt the sense of being watched thus, held away at arm's-length as it were, was cause sufficient. and yet that was not it; ingratitude alone, even to enmity, in return for benefits forgot could not rouse this bitterness. but had it not been for tanty's interference he would be now exiled from his home until the departure of cécile's child, just as, but for chance, he would have been kept in actual ignorance of her arrival. it was his brother's doing that he had blindly withdrawn himself when his presence would have caused happiness to her. yes, that was it. rupert had a scheme. that was what dwelt in his eyes,--a scheme which would bring, indeed did bring, unhappiness to that dear guest.... no wonder, now, that the unconscious realisation of it awoke all the man's blood in him. "no, rupert," sir adrian found himself saying aloud, "i let you reign at pulwick so long as you crossed not one jot of such pleasure and happiness that might belong to cécile's child. but here our wills clash; and now, since there cannot be two masters in a house as you say, _i_ am the master here." * * * * * as sir adrian's mind was seething in this unusual mood, miss o'donoghue, entering her nieces' room, found molly perched, in riding dress, on the window-sill, looking forth upon the outer world with dissatisfied countenance. mr. landale had sent word at the last moment that, to his intense regret, he could not escort the ladies to the meet, some important business having retained him at pulwick. so much did miss molly pettishly explain in answer to the affectionate inquiry concerning the cloud on her brow, slashing her whip the while and pouting, and generally out of harmony with the special radiance of the old lady's eye and the more than usual expansiveness of the embrace which was bestowed upon her. "tut, tut, tut, now," observed the artful person in tones of deep commiseration. "ah well, rupert's a poor creature which ever side he turns up. will you go now, my child, and fetch me the letters i left on the drawing-room table? isn't it like me to spend half the morning writing them and leave them down there after all!" molly rose unwillingly, threw her whip on the bed, her hat on the floor; and mistily concerned over tanty's air of irrepressible and pleasurable excitement, walked out of the room, bestowing as she passed her long pier glass a moody glance at her own glowering beauty. "what's the use of _you_?" she muttered to herself, "anybody can fetch and carry for old aunts and look out of windows on leafless trees!" the way to the drawing-room was through the library. as molly, immersed in her reflections, passed along this room, she stopped with a violent start on perceiving the figure of sir adrian, a tall silhouette against the cold light of the window. as she came upon him, her face was fully illumined, and there was a glorious tale-telling in the widening of her eyes and the warm flush that mounted to her cheek that on the instant scattered in the man's mind all wondering doubts. a rush of tenderness filled him at one sweep, head and heart, to the core. "molly!" he cried, panting; and then with halting voice as she advanced a pace and stood with mouth parted and brilliant expectant eyes: "you took away all light and warmth with you when you left my lonely dwelling. i tried to take up my life there, but----" "but you have come back--for me?" and drawn by his extended hands she advanced, her burning gaze fixed upon his. "i dared not think of seeing you again," he murmured, clasping her hands; "yet my return ... pleases you?" "yes." thus was crowned this strange wooing, was clenched a life's union, based upon either side on fascinating unrealities. she was drawn into his arms; and against his heart she lay, shaking with little shivers of delight, looking into the noble face bent so lovingly over hers, her mind floating between unconscious exultation and languorous joy. for a long while without a word he held her thus on his strong arm, gazing with a rending conflict of rapture and anguish on the beautiful image of his life's love, until his eyes were dimmed with rising tears. then he slowly stooped over the up-turned face, and as she dropped her lids with a faint smile, kissed her lips. there came a warning rattle at the door handle, and molly, disengaging herself softly from her betrothed's embrace, but still retaining his arm, turned to witness the entrance of miss o'donoghue and mr. landale. on the former's face, under a feigned expression of surprise, now expanded itself in effulgence the plenitude of that satisfaction which had been dawning there ever since her return from the island. rupert held himself well in hand. he halted, it is true, for an instant at the first sight of sir adrian and molly, and put his handkerchief furtively to his forehead to wipe the sudden cold sweat which broke out upon it. but the hesitation was so momentary as to pass unperceived; and if his countenance, as he advanced again, bore an expression of disapproval, it was at once dignified and restrained. "so you are there, molly," exclaimed the old lady with inimitable airiness. "just imagine, my dear, i had those letters in my pocket all the while, after all. you did not find them, did you?" but adrian, still retaining the little hand on his arm, came forward slowly and broke through the incipient flow. "aunt rose," said he in a voice still veiled by emotion, "i know your kind heart will rejoice with me, although you may not be so surprised, as no doubt rupert will be, at the news we have for you, molly and i." "you are right, adrian," interrupted rupert gravely, "to any who know your life and _your past_ as i do, the news you seem to have for us must seem strange indeed. so strange that you will excuse me if i withhold congratulations. for, if i mistake not," he added, with a delicately shaded change of tone to sympathetic courtesy, and slightly turning his handsome face towards molly, "i assume that my fair cousin de savenaye has even but now promised to be my sister, lady landale." sir adrian who, softened by the emotion of this wonderful hour, had made a movement to grasp his brother's hand, but had checked himself with a passionate movement of anger, instantly restrained, as the overt impertinence of the first words fell on his ears, here looked with a shadowing anxiety at the girl's face. but molly, who could never withhold the lash of her tongue when rupert gave the slightest opening, immediately acknowledged her enemy's courtly bow with sauciness. "what! no congratulations from the model brother? not even a word of thanks to molly de savenaye for bringing the truant to his home at last? but you malign yourself, my dear rupert. i believe 'tis but excess of joy that ties your tongue." with gleaming smile mr. landale would have opposed this direct thrust by some parry of polished insult; but he met his elder's commanding glance, remembered his parting words on two previous occasions, and wisely abstained, contenting himself with another slight bow and a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. at the same time miss o'donoghue, with an odd mixture of farcically pretended astonishment and genuine triumph, fell on the girl's neck. "it is possible, soul of my heart, my sweet child--i can't believe it--though i vow i knew it all along! so i am to see my two favourites made one by holy matrimony!" punctuating her exclamation with kisses on the fair young face, and wildly seeking in space with her dried-up old fingers to meet adrian's hand. "i, the one barren stock of the o'donoghues, shall see my sister's children re-united. ah, adrian, what a beautiful coat this will make for you to hand to your children! o'donoghue, landale, kermelégan, savenaye--eighteen quarters with this heiress alone, adrian child, for the descendants of landale of pulwick!" and miss o'donoghue, overcome by this culminating vision of happiness and perfection, fairly burst into tears. in the midst of this scene, mr. landale, after listening mockingly for a few instants, retired with ostentatious discretion. later in the day, as madeleine bent her pretty ears, dutifully yet with wandering attention, to molly's gay prognostications concerning pulwick under her sway; whilst the servants in the hall, pantry and kitchen discussed the great news which, by some incomprehensible agency, spread with torrent-like swiftness through the whole estate; while miss o'donoghue was feverishly busy with the correspondence which was to disseminate far and wide the world's knowledge of the happy betrothal, sir adrian met his brother walking meditatively along the winding path of the garden, flicking with the loop of his crop the border of evergreens as he went. from their room, molly and madeleine, ensconced in the deep window-seat, could see the meeting. "how i should like to hear," said molly. "i know this supple wretch will be full of adrian's folly in marrying me--first, because, from the rupertian point of view, it is a disastrous thing that his elder should marry at all; and secondly, because molly, mistress at pulwick priory, means a very queer position indeed for mr. rupert landale. how i wish my spirit could fly into adrian's head just for a moment! adrian is too indulgent. it requires a molly to deal with such impertinence." "indeed you are unjust with our cousin," said madeleine, gently. "why this hatred? i cannot understand." "no, of course not, madeleine. rupert is charming--with you. i am not blind. but take care he does not find out _your_ secret, miss. oh, i don't ask you any more about it. but if he ever does--_gare, ma chère_." but at the present juncture, molly's estimate of sir adrian's mood was mistaken. his love of peace, which amounted to a well-known weakness where he alone was concerned, weighed not a feather in the balance when such an interest as that now engaged was at stake. as a matter of fact, rupert landale was to be taken by surprise again, that day, and again not pleasantly. on noticing his brother's approach, he stopped his angry flickings, and slowly moved to meet him. at first they walked side by side in silence. presently sir adrian began: "rupert," he said gravely, "after our first interview to-day, it was my intention to have begged your pardon for a certain roughness in my manner which i should have controlled and which you resented. i would have done so, had you allowed me, at that moment when i announced my forthcoming marriage and my heart was full of good-will to all, especially to you. now, on the contrary, to re-establish at least that outward harmony without which life in common would be impossible, i expect from you some expression of regret for your behaviour." the first part of his brother's say was so well in accordance with his more habitual mood, that mr. landale had already sketched his equally habitual deprecating smile; but the conclusion changed the entire standpoint of their relations. "an expression of regret--from _me_?" cried he, exaggerating his astonishment almost to mockery. "from any one but my brother," said adrian, with a slight but perceptible hardening in his tone, "i should say an apology for an impertinence." mr. landale, now genuinely taken aback, turned a little pale and halted abruptly. "adrian, adrian!" he retorted, quickly. "this is one of your mad moments. i do not understand." "no, brother, i am not mad, and never have been, dearly as you would wish me to be so in reality--since death would have none of me. but though you know this yourself but too well, you have never understood me really. now listen--once for all. try and see our positions as they are: perhaps then matters will go more pleasantly in the future for you as well as for me." mr. landale looked keenly at the speaker's face for a second, and then without a word resumed his walk, while sir adrian by his side pursued with quiet emphasis: "when i returned, from the other world so to speak, at least from your point of view (one which i fully understood), i found that this very return was nothing short of a calamity for all that remained of my kin. i had it in my power to reduce that misfortune to a great extent. you loved the position--that worldly estimation, that fortune, all those circumstances which, with perfect moral right, you had hitherto enjoyed. they presented little attraction to me. moreover, there were many reasons, which i am quite aware you know, that made this very house of mine a dismal dwelling for me. you see i have no wish to give too generous a colour to my motives, too self-denying a character to the benefits i conferred upon you. but, as far as you are concerned, they were benefits. for them i received no gratitude; but as i did not expect gratitude it matters little. i might, however, have expected at least that you should be neutral, not directly hostile to me----pray let me finish" (in anticipation of a rising interruption from his companion), "i shall soon have done, and you will see that i am not merely recriminating. hostile you have been, and are now. so long as the position you assumed towards me only bore on our own relations, i acquiesced: you had so much more to lose than i could gain by resenting your hidden antagonism. i held you, so to speak, in the hollow of my hand; i could afford to pass over it all. moreover, i had chosen my own path, which was nothing if not peaceful. i say, you always were hostile to me; you have been so, more than ever since the arrival of cécile de savenaye's children. you were, however, grievously mistaken if you thought--i verily believe you did--that i did not realise the true motives that prompted you to keep me away from them.--i loved them as their mother's children; i love molly with a sort of love i myself do not understand, but deep enough for all its strangeness. yet i submitted to your reasoning, to your plausible representations of the disastrous effects of my presence. i went back to my solitude because it never entered my mind that it could be in my power to help their happiness; you indeed had actually persuaded me of the contrary, as you know, and i myself thought it better to break the unfortunate spell that was cast on me. unfortunate i thought it, but it has proved far otherwise." they had reached the end of the alley, and as they turned back, facing each other for a moment, sir adrian noticed the evil smile playing upon his brothers lips. "it has proved otherwise," he repeated. "how i came to change my views, i daresay you have guessed, for you have, of late, kept a good watch on your mad brother, rupert. at any rate you know what has come to pass. now i desire you to understand this clearly--interference with me as matters stand means interference with molly: and as such i must, and shall, resent it." "well, adrian, and what have i done _now_?" was mr. landale's quiet reply. he turned a gravely attentive, innocently injured countenance to the paling light. "when i said you did not understand me," returned sir adrian with undiminished firmness; "when i said you owed me some expression of regret, it was to warn you never again to assume the tone of insinuation and sarcasm to me, which you permitted yourself to-day in the presence of molly. you could not restrain this long habit of censuring, of unwarrantable and impertinent criticism, of your elder, and when you referred to my past, molly could not but be offended by the mockery of your tones. moreover, you took upon yourself, if i have heard aright, to disapprove openly of our marriage. upon what ground that would bear announcing i know not, but let this be enough: try and realise that our respective positions are totally changed by this unforeseen event, and that, as molly is now to be mistress at pulwick, i must of course revoke my tacit abdication. nevertheless, if you think you can put up with the new state of things, there need be little alteration in your present mode of life, my dear rupert; if you will only make a generous effort to alter your line of conduct." and here, sir adrian, succumbing for a moment to the fault, so common to kindly minds, of discounting the virtue of occasional firmness by a sudden return to geniality, offered his hand in token of peace. mr. landale took it; his grasp, however, was limp and cold. "i am quite ready to express regret," he said in a toneless voice, "since that would seem to be gratification to you, and moreover seems to be the tacit condition on which you will refrain from turning me out. i ought indeed to have abstained from referring, however vaguely, to past events, for the plain reason that anything i could say would already have come too late to prevent the grievous deed you have now pledged yourself to commit." "rupert--!" exclaimed sir adrian stepping back a pace, too amazed, at the instant, for indignation. "now, in your turn, hear me, adrian," continued mr. landale with his blackest look. "i have listened to your summing up of our respective cases with perfect patience, notwithstanding a certain assumption of superiority which--allow me to insist on this--is somewhat ridiculous from you to me. you complain of my misunderstanding you. briefly, this is absurd. as a matter of fact i understand you better than you do yourself. on the other hand it is you that do not understand me. i have no wish to paraphrase your little homily of two minutes ago, but the heads of my refutation are inevitably suggested by the points of your indictment. to use your own manner of speech, my dear adrian, i have no wish to assume injured disinterestedness, when speaking of my doings with regard to you and your belongings and especially to this old place of yours, of our family. you have only to look and see for yourself...." mr. landale made a wide comprehensive gesture which seemed to embrace the whole of the noble estate, the admirably kept mansion with walls now flushed in the light of the sinking sun, the orderly maintenance of the vast grounds, the prosperousness of its dependencies--all in fact that the brothers could see with the eyes of the body from where they stood, and all that they could see with the eyes of the mind alone: "go and verify whether i fulfilled my duty with respect to the trust which was yours, but which you have allowed to devolve upon my shoulders, and ask yourself whether you would have fulfilled it better--if as well. i claim no more than this recognition; for, as you pointed out, the position carried its advantages, if it entailed arduous responsibility too. it was my hope that heirs of my body would live to perpetuate this pride--this work of mine. it was not to be. now that you step in again and that possibly your flesh will reap the benefits i have laboured to produce, ask yourself, adrian, whether you, who shirked your own natural duties, would have buckled to the task, under _my_ circumstances--distrusted by your brother, disliked and secretly despised by all your dependants, who reserved all their love and admiration for the 'real master' (oh, i know the cant phrase), although he chose to abandon his position and yield himself to the stream of his own inertness, the real master who in the end can find no better description for these years of faithful service than 'hostility' and 'ingratitude.'" sir adrian halted a pace, a little moved by the speciousness of the pleading. the incidental reference to that one grief of his brother's life was of a kind which could never fail to arouse generous sympathy in his heart. but mr. landale had not come to the critical point of his say, and he did not choose to allow the chapter of emotion to begin just yet. "but," he continued, pursuing his restless walk, "again to use your own phraseology, i am not merely recriminating. i, too, wish you to understand me. it would be useless to discuss now, what you elect to call my hostility in past days. i had to keep up the position demanded by our ancient name; to keep it up amid a society, against whose every tenet almost--every prejudice, you may call them--you chose to run counter. my antagonism to your mode of acting and thinking was precisely measured by your own against the world in which the landales, as a family, hold a stake. let that, therefore, be dismissed; and let us come at once to the special hostility you complain of in me, since the troublesome arrival of aunt rose and her wards. as the very thing which i was most anxious to prevent, if possible, has, after all, come to pass, the present argument may seem useless; but you have courted it yourself." "most anxious to prevent--if possible...!" repeated sir adrian, slowly. "this, from a younger brother, is almost cynical, rupert!" "cynical!" retorted mr. landale, with a furious laugh. "why, you have given sound to the very word i would, in anybody else's case, have applied to a behaviour such as yours. is it possible, adrian," said rupert, turning to look his brother in the eyes with a look of profound malice, "that it has not occurred to you yet, that _cynical_ will be the verdict the world will pass on the question of your marriage with that young girl?" sir adrian flushed darkly, and remained silent for a pace or two; then, with a puzzled look: "i fail to understand you," he said simply. "i am no longer young, of course; yet, in years, i am not preposterously old. as for the other points--name and fortune----" but rupert interrupted him with a sharp exclamation, which betrayed the utmost nervous exasperation. "pshaw! if i did not know you so well, i would say you were playing at candour. this--this unconventionality of yours would have led you into curious pitfalls, adrian, had you been obliged to live in the world. my 'hostility' has saved you from some already, i know--more is the pity it could not save you from this--for it passes all bounds that you should meditate such an unnatural act, upon my soul, in the most natural manner in the world. one must be an adrian landale, and live on a tower for the best part of one's life, to reach such a pitch of--unconventionality, let us call it." "for god's sake," exclaimed sir adrian, suddenly losing patience, "what are you driving at, man? in what way can my marriage with a young lady, who, inconceivable as it may be, has found something to love in me; in what way, i say, can it be accounted cynical? i am not subtle enough to perceive it." "to any one but you," sneered the other, coming to his climax with a sort of cruel deliberation, "it would hardly require special subtleness to perceive that for the man of mature age to marry the _daughter_, after having, in the days of his youth, been the lover of the _mother_, is a proceeding, the very idea of which is somewhat revolting in the average individual.... there are many roués in st. james' who would shrink before it; yet you, the enlightened philosopher, the moralist----" but sir adrian, breathing quickly, laid his hand heavily on his brother's shoulder. "when you say the mother's lover, rupert," he said, in a contained voice, which was as ominous of storm as the first mutters of thunder, "you mean that i loved her--you do not mean to insinuate that that noble woman, widowed but a few weeks, whose whole soul was filled with but one lofty idea, that of duty, was the mistress--the mistress of a boy, barely out of his teens?" rupert shrugged his shoulders. "i insinuate nothing, my dear adrian; i think nothing. all this is ancient history which after all has long concerned only you. you know best what occurred in the old days, and of course a man of honour is bound to deny all tales affecting a lady's virtue! even you, i fancy, would condescend so far. but nevertheless, reflect how this marriage will rake up the old story. it will be remembered how you, for the sake of remaining by cécile de savenaye's side, abandoned your home to fight in a cause that did not concern you; nay, more, turned your back for the time upon those advanced social theories which even at your present season of life you have not all shaken off. you travelled with her from one end of england to the other, in the closest intimacy, and finally departed over seas, her acknowledged escort. she on her side, under pretext of securing the best help on her political mission that england can afford her, selected a young man notoriously in love with her, at the very age when the passions are hottest, and wisdom the least consideration--as her influential agent, of course. men are men, adrian--especially young men--small blame to you, young that you were, if then ... but you cannot expect, in sober earnest, the world to believe that you went on such a wild pilgrimage for nothing! women are women--especially young women, of the french court--who have never had the reputation of admiring bashfulness in stalwart young lovers...." sir adrian's hand, pressing upon his brother's shoulder, as if weighted by all his anger, here forced the speaker into silence. "shame! shame, rupert!" he cried first, his eyes aflame with a generous passion; then fiercely: "silence, fellow, or i will take you by that brazen throat of yours and strangle the venomous lie once for all." and then, with keen reproach, "that you, of my blood, of hers too, should be the one to cast such a stigma on her memory--that you should be unable even to understand the nature of our intercourse.... oh, shame, on you for your baseness, for your vulgar, low suspiciousness!... but, no, i waste my breath upon you, you do not believe this thing. you have outwitted yourself this time. hear me now: if anything could have suggested to me this alliance with the child of one i loved so madly and so hopelessly, the thought that such dastardly slander could ever have been current would have done so. the world, having nothing to gain by the belief, will never credit that sir adrian landale would marry the daughter of his paramour--however his own brother may deem to his advantage to seem to think so! the fact of molly de savenaye becoming lady landale would alone, had such ill rumours indeed been current in the past, dispel the ungenerous legend for ever." there were a few moments of silence while sir adrian battled, in the tumult of his indignation, for self-control again; while rupert, realising that he had outwitted himself indeed, bestowed inward curses upon most of his relations and his own fate. the elder brother resumed at length, with a faint smile: "and so, you see, even if you had spoken out in time, it would have been of little avail." then he added, bitterly. "i have received a wound from an unforeseen quarter. you have dealt it, to no purpose, rupert, as you see ... though it may be some compensation to such a nature as yours to know that you have left in it a subtle venom." the sun had already sunk away, and its glow behind the waters had faded to the merest tinge. in the cold shadow of rising night the two men advanced silently homewards. sir adrian's soul, guided by the invidious words, had flown back to that dead year, the central point of his existence--it was true: men will be men--in that very house, yonder, he had betrayed his love to her; on board the ship that took them away and by the camp fire on the eve of fight, he had pleaded the cause of his passion, not ignobly indeed, with no thought of the baseness which rupert assigned to him, yet with a selfish disregard of her position, of his own grave trust. and it was with a glow of pride, in the ever living object of his life's devotion--of gratitude almost--that he recalled the noble simplicity with which the woman, whom he had just heard classed among the every-day sinners of society, had, without one grandiloquent word, without even losing her womanly softness, kept her lover as well as herself in the path of her lofty ideal--till the end. and yet she did love him: at the last awful moment, sinking into the very jaws of death, the secret of her heart had escaped her. and now--now her beauty, and something of her own life and soul was left to him in her child, as the one fit object on which to devote that tenderness which time could not change. * * * * * after a while, from the darkness by his side came the voice of his brother again, in altered, hardly recognisable accents. "adrian, those last words of yours were severe--unjust. i do not deserve such interpretation of my motives. is it my fault that you are not as other men? am i to be blamed for judging you by the ordinary standard? but you have convinced me: you were as chivalrous as cécile was pure, and if needs be, believe me, adrian, i will maintain it so in the face of the world. yes, i misunderstood you--and wounded you, as you say, but such was not my intention. forgive me." they had come to the door. sir adrian paused. there was a rapid revulsion in his kindly mind at the extraordinary sound of humble words from his brother; and with a new emotion, he replied, taking the hand that with well-acted diffidence seemed to seek his grasp: "perhaps we have both something to forgive each other. i fear you did not misjudge me so much as you misjudged her who left me that precious legacy. but believe that, believe it as you have just now said, rupert, the mother of those children never stooped to human frailty--her course in her short and noble life was as bright and pure as the light of day." without another word the two brothers shook hands and re-entered their home. sir adrian sought miss o'donoghue whom he now found in converse with molly, and with a grave eagerness, that put the culminating touch to the old lady's triumph, urged the early celebration of his nuptials. mr. landale repaired to his own study where in solitude he could give loose rein to his fury of disappointment, and consider as carefully as he might in the circumstances how best to work the new situation to his own advantage. * * * * * even on that day that had been filled with so many varied and poignant emotions for him; through the dream in which his whole being seemed to float, sir adrian found a moment to think of the humble followers whom he had left so abruptly on the island, and of the pleasure the auspicious news would bring to them. it was late at night, and just before parting with the guest who was so soon to be mistress under his roof, he paused on the stairs before a window that commanded a view of the bay. molly drew closer and leant against his shoulder; and thus both gazed forth silently for some time at the clear distant light, the luminous eye calmly watching over the treacherous sands. that light of scarthey--it was the image of the solitary placid life to which he had bidden adieu for ever; which even now, at this brief interval of half a day, seemed as far distant as the years of despair and vicissitude and disgust to which it had succeeded. a man can feel the suddenly revealed charm of things that have ceased to be, without regretting them. with the dear young head that he loved, with a love already as old as her very years, pressing his cheek; with that slender hand in his grasp, the same, for his love was all miracle, that he had held in the hot-pulsed days of old--he yet felt his mind wander back to his nest of dreams. he thought with gratitude of rené, the single-minded, faithful familiar; of old margery, the nurse who had tended cécile's children, as well as her young master; thought of their joy when they should hear of the marvellous knitting together into the web of his fate, of all those far-off ties. in full harmony with such fleeting thoughts, came molly's words at length breaking the silence. "will you take me back to that strange old place of yours, adrian, when we are married?" sir adrian kissed her forehead. "and would you not fear the rough wild place, child," he murmured. "not for ever, i mean," laughed the girl, "for then my mission would not be fulfilled--which was to make of adrian, sir adrian, indeed. but now and again, to recall those lovely days, when--when you were so distracted for the love of murthering moll and the fear lest she should see it. you will not dismantle those queer rooms that received so hospitably the limping, draggled-tailed guest--they must again shelter her when she comes as proud lady landale! how delicious it would be if the tempest would only rage again, and the sea-mew shriek, and the caverns roar and thunder, and i knew you were as happy as i am sure to be!" "all shall be kept up even as you left it," answered sir adrian moved by tender emotion; "to be made glorious again by the light of your youth and fairness. and renny shall be cook again, and maid of all work. my poor renny, what joy when he hears of his master's happiness, and all through the child of his beloved mistress! but he will have to spend a sobering time of solitude out there, till i can find a substitute for his duties." "you are very much attached to that funny little retainer, adrian!" said molly after a pause. "to no man alive do i owe so much. with no one have i had, through life, so much in common," came the grave reply. "then," returned the girl, "you would thank me for telling you of the means of making the good man's exile less heavy, until you take him back with you." "no doubt." there was a tone of surprise and inquiry in his voice. "why, it is simple enough. have you never heard of his admiration for moggie mearson, our maid? let them marry. they will make a good pair, though funny. what, you never knew it? of course not, or you would not have had the heart to keep the patient lovers apart so long. let them marry, my lord of pulwick: it will complete the romance of the persecuted savenayes of brittany and their helpful friends of the distant north." musing, sir adrian fell into silence. the faithful, foolish heart that never even told its secret desire, for very fear of being helped to win it; by whom happiness and love were held to be too dearly bought at the price of separation from the lonely exile! "_eh bien_, dreamer?" cried the girl gaily. "thank you, molly," said sir adrian, turning to her with shining eyes. "this is a pretty thought, a good thought. renny will indeed doubly bless the day when providence sent you to pulwick." and so, the following morn, mr. renny potter was summoned to hear the tidings, and informed of the benevolent prospects more privately concerning his own life; was bidden to thank the future lady landale for her service; was gently rebuked for his long reticence, and finally dismissed in company of the glowing moggie with a promise that his nuptials should be celebrated at the same time as those of the lord of the land. the good fellow, however, required first of all an assurance that these very fine plans would not entail any interference with his duties to his master before he would allow himself to be pleased at his fortunes. great and complex, then, was his joy; but it would have been hard to say, as moggie confessed to her inquiring mistress that night, when he had returned to his post, whether the pride and delight in his master's own betrothal was not uppermost in his bubbling spirits. chapter xx two months later: the quick and the dead neighbour, what doth thy husband when he cometh home from work? he thinks of her he loved before he knew me _luteplayer's song._ _february th._ upon the th of january, , did i commit that most irreparable of all follies; then by my own hand i killed fair molly de savenaye, who was so happy, so free, so much in love with life, and whom i loved so dearly, and in her stead called into existence molly landale, a poor-spirited miserable creature who has not given me one moment's amusement. how could i have been so stupid? let me examine. it is only a month ago, only a month, weeks, days, millions of horrible dreary minutes, oh, molly, molly, molly! since you stood, that snowy day, in the great drawing-room (_my_ drawing-room now, i hate it), and vowed twice over, once before the jesuit father from stonyhurst, once before jolly, hunting heretical parson cochrane to cleave to adrian landale till death bid you part! brr--what ghastly words and with what a light heart i said them, tripped them out, _ma foi_, as gaily as "good-morning" or "good-night!" they were to be the _open sesame_ to joys untold, to lands flowing with milk and honey, to romance, adventure, splendour--and what have they brought me? it is a cold day, sleeting, snowing, blowing, all that is abominable. my lord and master has ridden off, despite it, to some distant farm where there has been a fire. the "good sir adrian," as they call him now--he is _that_; but, oh dear me--there! i must yawn, and i'll say no more on this head, at present, for i want to think and work my wretched problem out in earnest, and not go to sleep. it is the first time i have taken heart to write since yonder day of doom, and god knows when i shall have heart again! upon such an afternoon there is nothing better to do, since sir adrian would have none of my company--he is so precious of me that he fears i should melt like sugar in the wet--he never guessed that it was just because of the storm i wished the ride! were we to live a hundred years together--which, god forfend--he would never understand me. ah, lack-a-day, oh, misery me! (my lady, you are wandering; come back to business.) what, then, has marriage brought me? first of all a husband. that is to say, another person, a man who has the right to me--to whom i myself have given that right--to have me, to hold me, as it runs in the terrible service, the thunders of which were twice rolled out upon my head, and which have been ringing there ever since. and i, molly, gave of my own free will, that best and most blessed of all gifts, my own free will, away. i am surrounded, as it were, by barriers; hemmed in, bound up, kept in leading strings. i mind me of the seagull on the island. 'tis all in the most loving care in the world, of course, but oh! the oppression of it! i must hide my feelings as well as i can, for in my heart i would not grieve that good man, that _excellent_ man, that pattern of kind gentleman--oh, oh, oh--it will out--that _dreary_ man, that dull man, that most melancholy of all men! who sighs more than he smiles, and, i warrant, of the two, his sighs are the more cheerful; who looks at his beautiful wife as if he saw a ghost, and kisses her as if he kissed a corpse! there is a mate for molly! the mate she chose for herself! so much for the husband. what else has marriage brought her? briefly i will capitulate. a title--i am _my lady_. for three days it sounded prettily in my ears. but to the girl who refused a duchess' coronet, who was born comtesse--to be the baronet's lady--tanty may say what she likes of the age of creation, and all the rest of it--that advantage cannot weigh heavy in the balance. again then, i have a splendid house--which is my prison, and in which, like all prisoners, i have not the right to choose my company--else would sophia and rupert still be here? they are going, i am told occasionally; but my intimate conviction is, however often they may be going, _they will never go_. _item four:_ i have money, and nothing to spend it on--but the poor. what next? what next?--alas, i look and i find nothing! this is all that marriage has brought me; and what has it not taken from me? my delight in existence, my independence, my hopes, my belief in the future, my belief in _love_. faith, hope, and charity, in fact, destroyed at one fell sweep. and all, to gratify my curiosity as to a romantic mystery, my vanity as to my own powers of fascination! well, i have solved the mystery, and behold it was nothing. i have eaten of the fruit of knowledge, and it is tasteless in my mouth. i have made my capture with my little bow and spear, and i am as embarrassed of my captive as he of me. we pull at the chain that binds us together; nay, such being the law of this world between men and women, the positions are reversed, my captive is now my master, and molly is the slave. tanty, i could curse thee for thy officiousness, from the tip of thy coal black wig to the sole of thy platter shoe--but that i am too good to curse thee at all! poor book of my life that i was so eager to fill in, that was to have held a narrative all thrilling, and all varied, now will i set forth in thee, my failure, my hopelessness, and after that close thee for ever. of what use indeed to chronicle, when there is nought to tell but flatness, chill monotony, on every side; when even the workings of my soul cannot interest me to follow, since they can now foreshadow nothing, lead to nothing but fruitless struggle or tame resignation! i discovered my mistake--not the whole of it, but enough to give me a dreadful foreboding of its hideousness, not two hours after the nuptial ceremony. adrian had borne himself up to that with the romantic, mysterious dignity of presence that first caught my silly fancy; behind which i had pictured such fascinating depths of passion--of fire--alas! when he looked at me it was with that air of wondering, almost timid, affection battling with i know not what flame of rapture, with which look i have become so fatally familiar since--without the flame of rapture, be it understood, which seems to have rapidly burnt away to a very ash of grey despondency and self-reproach. i could have sworn even as he gave me his arm to meet and receive the congratulations of our guests, that the glow upon his cheek, the poise of his head denoted the pride any man, were he not an idiot nor a brute, must feel in presenting his bride--such a bride!--to the world. then we went in to the great dining hall where the wedding feast, a very splendid one, was spread. all the gentlemen looked with admiration at me; many with envy at adrian. i knew that i was beautiful in my fine white satin with my veil thrown back, without the flattering whispers that reached me now and again; but these were sweet to hear nevertheless. i knew myself the centre of all eyes, and it elated me. so too did the tingling flavour of the one glass of sparkling wine i drank to my fortunes. immediately upon this silent toast of lady landale to herself, rupert rose and in choice words and silver-ringing voice proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom. there was a merry bustling pause while the glasses were filled; then rising to their feet as with one man, all the gentlemen stood with brimming goblets one instant extended, the next emptied to the last drop; and then the cheers rang out, swelling up the rafters, three times three, seeming to carry my soul along with them. i felt my heart expand and throb with an emotion i never knew in it before, which seemed to promise vast future capacities of pain and delight. i turned to my husband instinctively; looking for, expecting, i could not explain why, an answering fire in his eyes. this was the last moment of my illusions. from thence they began to shrivel away with a terrifying rapidity. adrian sat with a face that looked old and lined and grey; with haggard unseeing eyes gazing forth into space as though fixing some invisible and spectre show. he seemed as if wrapt in a world of his own, to which none of us had entrance; least of all, i, his wife. the shouts around us died away, there were cries upon him for "speech--speech," then playful queries--"how is this, sir adrian? so bashful, egad!" next nudges were exchanged, looks of wonder, and an old voice speaking broadly: _"yes, by george,"_ it was saying, _"i remember it well, by george, in this very room, now twenty years ago, 'here, gentlemen,' says old sir tummas, 'here's to madam de savenaye,' and gad, ma'am, we all yelled,--she was a lovely creature--eh--eh?"_ "hush," said some one, and there was a running circle of frowns and the old voice ceased as abruptly as if its owner had been seized by the weasand. in the heavy embarrassed silence, i caught tanty's red perturbed look and rupert's smile. but adrian sat on--like a ghost among the living, or a live man among the dead. and this was my gallant bridegroom! i seized him by the hand--"are you ill, adrian?" he started and looked round at me--oh that look! it seemed to burn into my soul, i shall never forget the hopelessness, the dull sadness of it, and then--i don't know what he read in my answering glance--the mute agonised question, followed by a terror. "they want you to speak," i whispered, and shook the cold hand i held in a fury of impatience. his lips trembled: he stared at me blankly. "my god, my god, what have i done?" he muttered to himself, "cécile's child--cécile's child!" i could have burst out sobbing. but seeing rupert's face bent down towards his plate, demure and solemn, yet stamped, for all his cleverness, with an almost devilish triumph, my pride rose and my courage. every one else seemed to be looking towards us: i stood up. "good friends," i said, "i see that my husband is so much touched by the welcome that you are giving his bride, the welcome that you are giving him after his long exile from his house, that he is quite unable to answer you as he would wish. but lest you should misunderstand this silence of his, i am bold enough to answer you in his name, and--since it is but a few moments ago that you have seen us made one, i think i have the right to do so.... we thank you." my heart was beating to suffocation--but i carried bravely on till i was drowned in a storm of acclamations to which the first cheers were as nothing. they drank my health again, and again i heard the old gentleman of the indiscreet voice--i have learned since he is stone deaf, and i daresay he flattered himself he spoke in a whisper--proclaim that i was _my mother all over again: begad--so had she spoken to them twenty years ago in this very room!_ here tanty came to the rescue and carried me off. i dared not trust myself to look at adrian as i left, but i knew that he followed me to the door, from which i presumed that he had recovered his presence of mind in some degree. since that day we have been like two who walk along on opposite banks of a widening stream--ever more and more divided. i have told no one of my despair. it is curious, but, little wifely as i feel towards him, there is something in me that keeps me back from the disloyalty of discussing my husband with other people. and it is not even as it might have been--this is what maddens me. _we are always at cross purposes._ some wilful spirit wakes in me, at the very sound of his voice (always gentle and restrained, and echoing of past sadness); under his mild, tender look; at the every fresh sign of his perpetual watchful anxiety--i give him wayward answers, frowning greetings, sighs, pouts; i feel at times a savage desire to wound, to anger him, and as far as i dare venture i have ventured, yet could not rouse in him one spark, even of proper indignation. the word of the riddle lay in that broken exclamation of his at our wedding feast. "cécile's child!" his wife, then, is only cécile's child to him. i have failed when i thought to have conquered--and with the consciousness of failure have lost my power, even to the desire of regaining it. my dead mother is my rival; her shade rises between me and my husband's love. could he have loved me, i might perhaps have loved him--and now--now i, _molly_, i, shall perhaps go down to my grave without having known _love_. i thought i had found it on that day when he took me in his arms in that odious library--my heart melted when he so tenderly kissed my lips. and now the very remembrance of that moment angers me. tenderness! am i only a weak, helpless child that i can arouse no more from the man to whom i have given myself! i thought the gates of life had been opened to me--behold, they led me to a warm comfortable prison! and this is molly's end! there is a light in madeleine's eyes, a ring in her voice, a smile upon her lip. she has bloomed into a beauty that i could hardly have imagined, and this is because of this unknown whom she _loves_. she breathes the fulness of the flower; and by-and-by, no doubt, she will taste the fulness of the fruit; she will be complete; she will be fed and i am to starve. what is coming to me? i do not know myself. i feel that i could grudge her these favours, that i _do_ grudge them to her. i am sick at heart. and she--even she has proved false to me. i know that she meets this man. adrian too knows it, and more of him than he will tell me; and he approves. i am treated like a child. the situation is strange upon every side; madeleine loving a plebeian--a sailor, not a king's officer--stooping to stolen interviews! adrian the punctilious, in whose charge tanty solemnly left her, pretending ignorance, virtually condoning my sister's behaviour! for though he has distinctly refused to enlighten me or help me to enlighten myself, he could not, upon my taxing him with it, deny that he was in possession of facts ignored by me. then there is rupert paying now open court to this sly damsel--for the sake of her beautiful eyes, or for the beautiful eyes of her casket? and last and strangest, the incongruous friendship struck up this week between her and that most irritating of melancholy fools, sophia. the latter bursts with suppressed importance, she launches glances of understanding at my sister; sighs, smiles (when rupert's eye is not on her), starts mysteriously. one would say that madeleine had made a confidant of her--only that it would be too silly. what? make a confidant of that funereal mute and deny _me_ the truth! if i had the spirit for it i would set myself to discovering this grand mystery; and then let them beware! they would have none of molly as a friend: perhaps she will yet prove one too many upon the other side. if i have grown bitter to madeleine, it is her own fault; i would have been as true as steel to her if she had but trusted me. now and again, when a hard word and look escape me, she gives me a great surprised, reproachful glance, as of a petted child that has been hurt; but mostly she scarcely seems to notice the change in me--moonlike in dreamy serenity she sails along, wrapt in her own thoughts, and troubles no more over molly's breaking her heart than over rupert's determined suit. to me when she remembers me, she gives the old caresses, the old loving words; to him smiles and pretty courtesy. oh, she keeps her secret well! but i came upon her in the woods alone, last friday, fresh, no doubt, from her lover's arms; tremulous, smiling, yet tearful, with face dyed rose. and when to my last effort to attain the right of sisterhood she would only stammer the tell-tale words: _she had promised!_ and press her hot cheeks against mine, i thrust her from me, indignant, and from my affections for ever. yet i hold her in my power, i could write to tanty, put rupert on the track.... nay, i have not fallen so low as to become rupert's accomplice yet! and so the days go on. between my husband's increasing melancholy, my own mad regrets, rupert's watchfulness, madeleine's absorption and sophia's twaddle, my brain reels. i feel sometimes as if i could scream aloud, as we all sit round the table, and i know that _this_ is the life that i am doomed to, and that the days may go on, go on thus, till i am old. poor murthering moll the second! why even the convent, where at least i knew nothing, would have been better! no, it is not possible! something is still to come to me. like a bird, my heart rises within me. i have the right to my life, the right to my happiness, say what they may. chapter xxi the dawn of an eventful day rupert's behaviour at home, since his brother's wedding, had been, as even molly was bound to admit to herself, beyond reproach in tactfulness, quiet dignity, and seeming cheerfulness. he abdicated from his position of trust at once and without the smallest reservation; wooed madeleine with so great a discretion that her dreamy eyes saw in him only a kind relative; and he treated his sister-in-law, for all her freaks of bearing to him, with a perfect gentleness and gentility. at times sir adrian would watch him with great eyes. what meant this change? the guileless philosopher would ask himself, and wonder if he had judged his brother too harshly all through life; or if it was his plain speaking in their last quarrel which had put things in their true light to him, and awakened some innate generosity of feeling; or yet if--this with misgiving--it was love for pretty madeleine that was working the marvel. if so, how would this proud rebellious nature bear another failure? rupert spoke with unaffected regret about leaving pulwick, at the same time, in spite of molly's curling lip, giving it to be understood that his removal was only a matter of time. for the ostensible purpose, indeed, of finding himself another home he made, in the beginning of march, the second month after his brother's marriage, several absences which lasted a couple of days or more, and from which he would return with an eager sparkle in his eye, almost a brightness on his olive cheek, to sit beside madeleine's embroidery frame, pulling her silks and snipping with her scissors, and talking gaily, persistently, with such humour and colour as at last to draw that young lady's attention from far off musings to his words with smiles and laughter. meanwhile, molly would sit unoccupied, brooding, watching them, now fiercely, from under her black brows, now scornfully, now abstractedly; the while she nibbled at her delicate finger-nails, or ruthlessly dragged them along the velvet arms of her chair with the gesture of a charming, yet distracted, cat. sir adrian would first tramp the rooms with unwitting restlessness, halting, it might be, beside his wife to strive to engage her into speech with him; and, failing, would betake himself at length with a heavy sigh to solitude; or, yet, he would sit down to his organ--the new one in the great hall which had been put up since his marriage, at molly's own gay suggestion, during their brief betrothal--and music would peal out upon them till lady landale's stormy heart could bear it no longer, and she would rise in her turn, fly to the shelter of her room and roll her head in the pillows to stifle the sound of sobs, crying from the depths of her soul against heaven's injustice; anon railing in a frenzy of impotent anger against the musician, who had such passion in him and gave it to his music alone. during rupert's absences that curious intimacy which molly had contemptuously noted between her sister and sister-in-law displayed itself in more conspicuous manner. miss landale's long sallow visage sported its airs of mystery and importance, its languishing leers undisguisedly, so long as her brother rupert's place was empty; and though her visits to the rector's grave were now almost quotidian, she departed upon them with looks of wrapt importance, and, returning, sought madeleine's chamber (when that maiden did not herself stroll out to meet her in the woods), her countenance invariably wreathed with suppressed, yet triumphant smiles, instead of the old self-assertive dejection. * * * * * the th of march of that year was to be a memorable day in the lives of so many of those who then either dwelt in pulwick, or had dealings on that wide estate. miss landale, who had passed the midnight hour in poring over the delightful wickedness of lara, and, upon at length retiring to her pillow, had had a sentimental objection to shutting out the romantic light of the moon by curtain or shutter, was roused into wakefulness soon after dawn by a glorious white burst of early sunshine. as a rule, the excellent soul liked to lie abed till the last available moment; but that morning she was up with the sun. when dressed she drew a letter from a secret casket with manifold precautions as though she were surrounded with prying eyes, and, placing it in her reticule, hastened forth to seek the little lonely disused churchyard by the shore. she afterwards remarked that she could never forget in what agitation of spirits and with what strange presentiment of evil she was led to this activity at so unwonted an hour. the truth was, however, that miss landale tripped along through the damp wooded path as gaily as if she were going to visit her living lover instead of his granite tomb; and that in lieu of evil omens a hundred fantastically sentimental thoughts floated through her brain, as merrily and irresponsibly as the motes in the long shafts of brilliancy that cleaved, sword-like through the mists, upon her from out the east. visions of madeleine's face when she would learn before breakfast that sophia had actually been to the churchyard already; visions of whom she might meet there; rehearsals of a romantic scene upon that hallowed spot, of her own blushes, her knowing looks, her playful remonstrances, with touching allusions to one who had loved and lost, herself, and who thus, &c. &c. miss landale tossed her long faded ringlets quite coquettishly, turned one slim bony hand with coy gesture before her approving eyes. then she patted her reticule and hurried on with fresh zest, enjoying the tart whisper of the wind against her well bonneted face, the exquisite virginal beauty of the earth in the early spring of the day and of the year. as she stepped out of the shadow of the trees, her heart leaped and then almost stood still as she perceived in the churchyard lying below her, beside the great slab of granite which lay over the remains of her long-departed beloved one, the figure of a man, whose back was turned towards her, and whose erect outline was darkly silhouetted against the low, dazzling light. then a simper of exceeding archness crept upon miss landale's lips; and with as genteel an amble as the somewhat precipitate nature of the small piece of ground that yet divided her from the graveyard would allow, she proceeded on her way. at the click of the lych-gate under her hand the man turned sharply round and looked at her without moving further. an open letter fluttered in his hand. his face was still against the light, and miss landale's eyes had wept so many tears by day and night that her sight was none of the best. she dropped a very elegant curtsey, simpered, drew nearer, and threw a fetching glance upwards. then her shrill scream rang through the still morning air and frightened the birds in the ruined church. "you are early this morning, sophia," said mr. landale. sophia sank upon the tombstone. to say that she was green or yellow would ill describe the ghastliness of the tint that suffused her naturally bilious countenance; still speechless, she made a frantic plunge towards the great urn that adorned the head of the grave. mr. landale looked up from his reading again with a quiet smile. "i shall have done in one minute," he remarked, "it is a fine production, egad! full of noble protestations and really high-sounding words. and then, my dear sophia, you can take charge of it, and i shall be quite ready for the other, which i presume you have as usual with you--ah, in your bag! thanks." "rupert?" ejaculated the unfortunate lady, first in agonised query, and next in agonised reproach, clasping her hands over the precious reticule--"rupert!" mr. landale neatly folded the sheet he had been reading, moistened with his tongue a fresh wafer which he drew from his waistcoat pocket, and, deftly placing it upon the exact spot from which the original one had been removed, handed the letter to his sister with a little bow. but, as with a gesture of horror the latter refused to take it, he shrugged his shoulders and tossed it carelessly into the urn. "now give me madeleine's," he said, peremptorily. rolling upwards eyes of appeal the unhappy iris called upon heaven to witness that she would die a thousand deaths rather than betray her solemn trust. but even as she spoke the fictitious flame of courage withered away in her shrinking frame; and at the mere touch of her brother's finger and thumb upon her wrist, the mere sight of his face bending masterfully over her with white teeth just gleaming between his twisting smile and half-veiled eyes of insolent determination, she allowed him, unresisting, to take the bag from her side; protesting against the breach of faith only by her moans and the inept wringing of her hands. mr. landale opened the bag, tossed with cynical contempt upon the flat tombstone, sundry precious relics of the mouldering bones within, and discovered at length in an inner pocket a dainty flower-scented note. then he flung down the bag and proceeded with the same deliberation to open the letter and peruse its delicate flowing handwriting. "upon my word," he vowed, "i think this is the prettiest she has written yet! what a sweet soul it is! listen, sophia: 'you praise me for my trust in you--but, jack, dear love, my trust is so much a part of my love that the one would not exist without the other. therefore, do not give me any credit, for you know i could not help loving you.' poor heart! poor confiding child! oh!" ejaculated mr. landale as if to himself, carefully proceeding the while with his former manoeuvres to end by placing the violated missive, to all appearance intact, beside its fellow, "we have here a rank fellow, a foul traitor to deal with!" then, wheeling round to his sister, and fixing her with piercing eyes: "sophia," he exclaimed, in tones of sternest rebuke, "i am surprised at you. i am, indeed!" miss landale raised mesmerised, horror-stricken eyes upon him; his dark utterances had already filled her foolish soul with blind dread. he sat down beside her, and once more enclosed the thin arm in his light but warning grasp. "sophia," he said solemnly, "you little guess the magnitude of the harm you have been doing; the frightful fate you have been preparing for an innocent and trusting girl; the depth of the villainy you are aiding and abetting. you have been acting, as i say, in ignorance, without realising the awful consequences of your folly and duplicity. but that you should have chosen _this_ sacred place for such illicit and reprehensible behaviour; that by the grave of this worthy man who loved you, by the stones chosen and paid for by my fraternal affection, you should plot and scheme to deceive your family, and help to lead a confiding and beautiful creature to ruin, i should never have expected from _you_, sophia--sophia!" miss landale collapsed into copious weeping. "i am sure, brother," she sobbed, "i never meant any harm. i am sure nobody loves the dear girl better than i do. i am sure i never wished to hide anything from you!--only--they told me--they trusted me--they made me promise--oh brother, what terrible things you have been saying! i cannot believe that so handsome a young gentleman can mean anything wrong--i only wish you could have seen him with her, he is so devoted--it is quite beautiful." "alas--the tempter always makes himself beautiful in the eyes of the tempted! sophia, we can yet save this unhappy child, but who knows how soon it may be too late!--you can still repair some of the wrong you have done, but you can only do so by the most absolute obedience to me.... believe me, i know the truth about this vile adventurer, this captain jack smith." "good heavens!" cried sophia, "rupert, do not tell me, lest i swoon away, that he is married already?" "the man, my dear, whose plots to compromise and entangle a lovely girl you have favoured, is a villain of the deepest dye--a pirate." "oh!" shivered sophia with fascinated misery--thrilling recollections of last night's reading shooting through her frame. "a smuggler, a criminal, an outlaw in point of fact," pursued mr. landale. "he merely seeks madeleine for her money--has a wife in every port, no doubt--" miss landale did not swoon; but her brother's watchful eye was satisfied with the effect produced, and he went on in a well modulated tone of suppressed emotion: "and after breaking her heart, ruining her body and soul, dragging her to the foulest depths he would have cast her away like a dead weed--perhaps murdered her! sophia, what would your feelings be then?" a hard red spot had risen to each of miss landale's cheek bones; her tears had dried up under the fevered glow. "we believed," she said trembling in every limb, "that he was working on a mission to the french court--" "faugh--" cried mr. landale, contemptuously, "smuggling french brandy for our english drunkards and traitorous intelligence for our french enemies!" "such a handsome young man, so gentlemanly, such an air!" maundered the miserable woman between her chattering teeth. "it was quite accidental that we met, rupert, quite accidental, i assure you. madeleine--poor dear girl--came down with me here, i wanted to show her the g-grave----" here sophia gurgled convulsively, remembering her brother's cruel reproaches. "well?" "she came here with me, and as i was kneeling down, planting crocuses just here, rupert, and she was standing _there_, a young man suddenly leaped over the wall, and fell at her feet. he had not seen _me_--alas, it reminded me of my own happiness! and he was so well-dressed, so courteous--and seemed such a perfect gentleman--and he took off his hat so gracefully i am sure i never could have believed it of him. and they confided in me and i promised by--by--those sacred ashes to keep their secret. i remembered of course what tanty had said in her letter, and quite understood he was the young gentleman in question--but they explained to me how she was under a wrong impression altogether. he said that the instant he laid eyes upon me, he saw i had a feeling heart, and he knew they could trust me. he spoke so nobly, rupert, and said: what better place could they have for their meetings than one consecrated to such faithful love as this? it was so beautiful--and oh dear! i can't but think there is some mistake." and miss landale again wrung her hands. "but i have proof!" thundered her brother, "convincing proof, of what i have told you. at this very moment the man who would marry madeleine, forsooth, runs the risk of imprisonment--nay, of the gallows! you may have thought it strange that i should have opened and read letters not addressed to me, but with misfortune hanging over a beloved object i did not pause to consider myself. my only thought was to save her." here mr. landale looked very magnanimous, and thrust his fingers as he spoke through the upper buttons of his waistcoat with the gesture which traditionally accompanies such sentiments: these cheap effects proved generally irresistible with sophia. but his personality had paled before the tremendous drama into which the poor romance-loving soul was so suddenly plunged, and in which in spite of all her woe she found an awful kind of fascination. failing to read any depth of admiration in her roving eye, rupert promptly abandoned grandiloquence, and resuming his usual voice and manner, he dropped his orders upon her heat of agitation like a cool relentless stream under which her last protest fizzed, sputtered, and went out. "i mean to unmask the gay lover at my own time and in my own way; never fear, i shall deal gently with _her_. you will now take this letter of his and put it in your bag, leaving hers in that curious post-office of yours." "yes, rupert." "and you will give his letter to her at once when you go in without one word of having met me." "y ... yes, rupert." "as you are too great a fool to be trusted if you once begin to talk, you will have a headache for the rest of the day and go to bed in a dark room." "y ... yes, rupert." "you will moreover swear to me, now, that you will not speak of our interview here till i give you leave; say i swear i will not." "i swear i will not." "so help me god!" "oh, rupert." "_so help me god_, you fool!" sophia's lips murmured an inaudible something; but there was such complete submission in every line and curve of her figure, in the very droop of her ringlets and the helpless appeal of her gaze that rupert was satisfied. he assisted her to arise from her tombstone, bundled the clerical love-tokens back into the bag, duly placed captain jack's letter in the inner pocket, and was about to present her with his arm to conduct her homewards, when he caught sight of a little ragged urchin peeping through the bars of the gate, and seemingly in the very act of making a mysterious signal in the direction of miss landale's unconscious figure. rupert stared hard at the ruddy, impudent face, which instantly assumed an appearance of the most defiant unconcern, while its owner began to devote his energies to shying stones at an invisible rook upon the old church tower with great nicety of aim. "sophia," said her brother in a low tone, "go to the gate: that boy wants to speak to you. go and see what he wants and return to me." miss landale gasped, gazed at her brother as if she thought him mad, looked round at the little boy, coloured violently, then meeting rupert's eye again staggered off without a word of protest. rupert, shaken with silent laughter, humming a little song to himself, stooped to pick a couple of tender spring flowers from the border beside the grave, and after slipping them into a button-hole of his many caped overcoat, stood looking out over the stretch of land and sea, where scarthey rose like a dream against the sparkle of the water and the exquisite blue of the sky. presently rapid panting breaths and a shuffling rustle of petticoats behind him informed him of his sister's return. "so you are there, my dear," he said loudly. "one of your little fishing friends from the village, i suppose--a shearman, unless i am mistaken. yes, a shearman; i thought so. well, shall we return home now? they will be wondering what has become of us. pray take my arm." then beneath his breath, seeing that words were struggling to sophia's lips, "hold your tongue." the small ragged boy watched their departure with a derisive grin, and set off at a brisk canter down to the shore, jingling some silver coin in his pocket with relish as he went. when rupert and sophia had reached the wood the former paused. "letter or message?" "oh, rupert, it was a letter; had i not better destroy it?" "give it to me." * * * * * a hasty scrawl, it seemed, folded anyhow. only two or three lines, yet rupert conned them for a curiously long time. "my darling," it ran, "meet me to-day in the ruins at noon. a misfortune has happened to me, but if you trust me, all will still be well.--your jack." mr. landale at length handed it back to sophia. "you will give it to madeleine with the other," he said briefly. "mention the fact of the messenger having brought it." and then in a terrible bass he added, "and remember your oath!" she trembled; but as he walked onwards through the wood, his lips were smiling, and his eyes were alight with triumph. chapter xxii the day: morning the appointment of a regular light-keeper at scarthey, intended to release rené and old margery from their exile, had been delayed so as to suit the arrangement which was to leave for a time the island domain of sir adrian at the disposal of captain jack. meanwhile moggie's presence greatly mitigated the severity of her husband's separation from his master. on his side the sailor was in radiant spirits. all worked as he could wish, and sir adrian's marriage, besides being a source of unselfish satisfaction, was, with regard to his own prospects, an unexpected help; for, his expedition concluded, he would now be able in the most natural manner to make his appearance at pulwick, an honoured guest of the master, under the pride of his own name. and for the rest, hope unfolded warm-coloured visions indeed. during the weeks which had elapsed since sir adrian's departure, captain jack's visits to the island had been fitful and more or less secret--he always came and left at night. but as it was understood that the place was his to be used and enjoyed as he thought best, neither his sudden appearances with the usual heavy travelling-bag, nor his long absences excited any disturbance in the arcadian life led by rené between his buxom young wife and the old mother--as the good-humoured husband now termed the scolding dame. a little sleeping closet had been prepared and allotted to the use of the peripatetic guest in one of the disused rooms when rené's own accommodation under the light tower had been enlarged for the new requirements of his matrimonial status. and so monsieur the captain (in rené's inveterate outlandish phraseology) found his liberty of action complete. both the women's curiosity was allayed, and all tendency to prying into the young stranger's mysterious purposes amid their seclusion condemned beforehand, by rené's statement: that monsieur the captain was a trusted friend of the master--one indeed (and here the informant thought fit to stretch a point, if but slightly) to whom the lord of pulwick was indebted, in bygone days, for life and freedom. except when weather-bound, a state of things which at that time of year occurred not unfrequently, rené journeyed daily as far as the hall, ostensibly to report progress and take possible orders, but really to gratify himself with the knowledge that all was well with the master. about the breakfast hour, upon this th of march, as sir adrian was discussing with the bailiff sundry matters of importance to the estate, a tap came to the door, which he recognised at once as the frenchman's own long accustomed mode of self-announcement. since he had assumed the reins of government, the whilom recluse had discovered that the management of such a wide property was indeed no sinecure; and moreover--as his brother, who certainly understood such matters in a thoroughly practical manner, had warned him--that a person of his own philosophical, over-benevolent and abstracted turn of mind, was singularly ill-fitted for the task. but a strong sense of duty and a determination to act by it will carry a man a long way. he had little time for dreaming and this was perhaps a providential dispensation, for sir adrian's musings had now lost much of the grave placidity born of his long, peaceful residence in his thelema of scarthey. the task was long and arduous; on sundry occasions he was forced to consult his predecessor on the arcana of landed estate government, which he did with much simplicity, thereby giving mr. landale, not only inwardly mocking satisfaction, but several opportunities for the display of his self-effacing loyalty and superior capacities. the business of this day was of sufficiently grave moment to make interruption unwelcome--being nothing less than requests from a number of tenants to the "good sir adrian," "the real master come to his own again"--for a substantial reduction of rent; a step towards which the master's heart inclined, but which his sober reason condemned as preposterous. but rené's countenance, as he entered, betrayed news of such import that sir adrian instantly adjourned the matter on hand, and, when the bailiff had retired, anxiously turned to the new-comer, who stood in the doorway mopping his steaming brow. "well, renny," said he, "what is wrong? nothing about your wife--?" "no, your honour," answered the man, "your honour is very good. nothing wrong with our moggie. but the captain.... i ran all the way from the shearmans." "no accident there, i hope." "i fear there is, your honour. the captain--he has been attacked this morning." "not wounded--!" exclaimed sir adrian. "not dead, renny?" "oh no, your honour, well. but he has, i fear, killed one of the men ... the revenue men--" then, seeing his master start aghast, he went on rapidly; "at least he is very bad--but what for did he come to make the spy upon our island? we have left him at the shearmans--the mother shearman will nurse him. but the captain, your honour"--the speaker lowered his voice to a whisper and advanced a step, looking round--"that is the worst of all, the captain has turned mad, i believe--instead of going off with his ship and his crew, (they are safe out to sea, as they should be) he remains at scarthey. yes--in your honour's rooms. he is walking up and down and clutching his hair and talking to himself, like a possessed. and when i respectfully begged him to consider that it was of the last folly his having rested instead of saving himself, i might as well have tried to reason a mule. and so, knowing that your honour would never forgive me if misfortune arrived, i never drew breath till i reached here to tell you. if his honour would come himself he might be able to make mr. his friend hear reason--your honour will run no risk, for it is only natural that you should go to the peel after what has occurred--but if you cannot get mr. the captain to depart this night, there will arrive to us misfortune--it is i who tell you so." "i will go back with you, at once," said sir adrian, rising much perturbed. "wait here while i speak to lady landale." molly was standing by the great log fire in the hall, yawning fit to dislocate her pretty jaws, and teasing the inert form of old jim, as he basked before the flame, with the tip of her pretty foot. she allowed her eyes to rest vaguely upon her husband as he approached, but neither interrupted her idle occupation nor endeavoured to suppress the yawn that again distended her rosy lips. he looked at her for a moment in silence; then laying a hand upon her shoulder, said gently: "my child, i am called back to scarthey and must leave instantly. you--you will be careful of yourself--amuse yourself during my absence--it may be for two or three days." lady landale raised her black brows with a fine air of interrogation, and then gazed down at the old dog till the lashes swept her cheek, while a mocking dimple just peeped from the corner of her mouth and was gone again. "oh yes," she answered drily, "i shall take endless care of myself and amuse myself wildly. you need have no fear of that." sir adrian sighed, and his hand fell listless from her shoulder. "good-bye, then," he said, and stooped it seemed hesitatingly to lay his lips between the little dark tendrils of hair that danced upon her forehead. but with a sudden movement she twitched her face away. "despite all the varied delights which bind me to pulwick," she remarked carelessly, "the charms of sophia and rupert's company, and all the other _amusements_--i have a fancy to visit your old owl's nest again--so we need not waste sentiment upon a tender parting, need we?" sir adrian's cheek flushed, and with a sudden light in his eyes he glanced at her quickly; but his countenance faded into instant melancholy again, at sight of her curling lip and cold amused gaze. "will you not have me?" she asked. "if you will come--you will be welcome--as welcome," his voice shook a little, "as my wife must always be wherever i am." "ah--oh," yawned lady landale, "(excuse me pray--it's becoming quite an infirmity) so that is settled. i hope it will storm to-night, that the wind will blow and howl--and then i snuggle in the feather bed in that queer old room and try and fancy i am happy molly de savenaye again." adrian's lip quivered; yet in a second or two he spoke lightly. "i do not want to hurry you, but i have to leave at once." then struck by a sudden thought, by that longing to bring pleasure to others which was always working in him, "why not let madeleine come with you too?" he asked, "she could share your room, and--it would be a pleasure to her i think." he sighed as he thought of the trouble in store for the lovers. lady landale grew red to the roots of her hair and shot a look of withering scorn at her husband's unconscious face. "it would be charming," she said, sarcastically, "but after all i don't know that i care to go so much--oh, don't stare at me like that, for goodness' sake! a woman may change her mind, i suppose--at least, in a trifle here and there if she can't as regards the whole comfort of her life.--well, well, perhaps i shall go--this afternoon--later--you can start now. i shall follow--i can always get a boat at the shearmans. and i shall bring madeleine, of course--it is most kind and thoughtful of you to suggest it. _mon dieu_, i have a husband in a thousand!" she swept him a splendid curtsey, kissed her hand at him, and then burst out laughing at the pale bewilderment of his face. * * * * * when sir adrian returned to the morning-room, he found rené, half hidden behind the curtain folds, peering curiously out of the window which overlooked the avenue. on his master's entrance, the man turned his head, placed his finger on his lip, and beckoned him to approach. "if i may take the liberty," said he with subdued voice, "will his honour come and look out, without showing himself?" and he pointed to a group, consisting of mr. landale and two men in blue jackets and cockaded hats of semi-naval appearance, now slowly approaching the house. mr. landale was listening with bent head, slightly averted, to the smaller of his two companions--a stout square-looking fellow, who spoke with evident volubility, whilst the other followed defferentially one pace in rear. presently the trio halted, a few yards from the entrance, and mr. landale, cutting designs upon the sand with the end of his stick in a meditative way, appeared to be giving directions at some length, on the conclusion of which the two men, touching their hats with much respect, departed together, while the magistrate pensively proceeded on his way to the house. "those, your honour," said rené, "were with him that was struck in the fight this morning. it was i rowed them over, together with the wounded. i left them at the shearmans, and slipped away myself to carry the news. if i might take upon myself to advise, it would be better if your honour would come with me now, at once, for fear mr. landale should delay us by questioning me--mr. landale being a magistrate, as i heard these men say; and moggie has assured me that he always arranges himself for knowing when i arrive from the island--ever since the day when the demoiselles had just come, and i found it out. ever since then he has not liked me, mr. landale. come away, your honour, before he finds out i have been here to-day." following upon this advice, which he found to the point, sir adrian left his house by a back passage; and, through a side garden, found his way to the coast and to the fishing village. the wounded man who had not recovered consciousness, lay in the brother shearman's hut, as rené had said, surrounded by such uncouth attendance as the rude fisherfolk could dispense. after giving directions for the summoning of medical aid and the removal, if it should prove advisable, of the patient to the hall, but without a single comment upon the unfortunate occurrence, sir adrian then took the road of the peel. during the transit, walking rapidly by his master's side, across the now bare causeway, rené gave his account of events. the captain (he related) after three days' absence had re-appeared the night before the last, and requested him to warn the womankind not to be alarmed if they heard, as no doubt they would, strange noises on the beach at night. he was, said he, storing provisions and water for the forthcoming journey, and the water in the well was so excellent that he had determined to take in his store. of course his honour understood well that rené did not concern himself in these matters; but that was the explanation he conveyed to his wife, lest she should be alarmed and wonder. as for the old mother, she was too deaf to be awakened out of sleep by anything short of the trumpet of the last judgment. as announced, there had been during the night the noise of a party of men landing, of the hoisting and rolling of barrels--a great _remue-ménage_ altogether--and the next morning, that was yesterday, the captain had slept sound in his bunk till late. during several hours of the following day, he had some secret work to do in the caves of which rené had shown the ins and outs, and whilst so engaged had requested that watch should be kept from the light-tower, and message sent by some arranged signal should any one approach the island. but no one had come near. whilst at his post, the watcher had heard at different times the sound of hammering; and when the captain had come to relieve him, the good gentleman was much begrimed with dust and hot with work, but appeared in excellent humour. in the castle, he sang and whistled for joyfulness, and made jokes with moggie, all in his kind way, saying that if he were not to be married himself soon, he would feel quite indignant and jealous at the happiness of such a rascal as her husband. oh! he was happy--monsieur the captain--he had brought moggie a beautiful shawl; and to rené, he had given a splendid watch, telling him to keep count of the hours of his unmerited bliss. alas, this morning all had been different indeed! the captain looked another man; his face was as white as linen. the very look of him would have told any one that a misfortune had occurred. rené did not quite understand it himself, but this is what had taken place: the captain had left scarthey on foot late in the evening, and when he returned (he was not long away) he bade rené again not to mind what he heard during the night; and, in faith, once more there had been a real noise of the devil; men coming to and fro, a deal of rowing on the water, away and back again, in the early night and then once more before dawn. "but i was not unquiet," said rené, "i knew they had come for the remainder of what mr. smith was pleased to call his provisions. from our room i could see by the light on the stairs that the lamp was burning well, and moggie slept like a child, so sound, she never moved. just before the rising sun, i had got up and put out the lamp, and was going to bed again, when there came thumps of the devil at the lower door. well knowing that the captain had his own way of entering--for he had spent many days in finding out all sorts of droll passages in the ruins--i was quite seized; and as i hurried down, the thumps came again and great cries for the lighthouse-keeper. and, your honour, when i unbarred the door, there was a man in uniform whom i did not know, and he asked me, grumbling, if i knew of the pretty doings on the beach, whilst i slept like pig, he said--of course i made the astonished as his honour may imagine: i knew nothing, had heard nothing, though my heart was beating like to burst not knowing what was coming. then he ordered me to lend a hand and bring a ladder to carry away one of his men who had been murdered by the smugglers, he said. and there, on the sands, in front of the small cave was another man, in a blue coat too, watching over the body of one who was stretched out, quite tranquil, his face covered with blood and his eyes closed. they are gone, says the gross man. and i was glad, as your honour may well think, to see the chaloupe full of the captain's men rowing hard towards the vessel. she had just come out of the river mouth and was doubling round the banks. we carried the man on his ladder to the kitchen and we and the women did all we could, but he remained like a log. so after a time the two men (who said they had come along the dyke soon after midnight, on foot, as they thought it would be more secret, and had watched all night in the bent) wanted to eat and drink and rest. they had missed their game, the big man said; they had been sent to find out what sort of devil's tricks were being played on in the island unbeknown to sir adrian;--but it was the devil's luck altogether, for the smugglers had slipped away and would not be seen in this part of the world again. that is the way the fat man spoke. the other had nothing to say, but swallowed our bacon and our beer as if he did not care. and then, your honour, they told me i should have to lend them the yawl to go on land, and go myself to help, and take the body with us. and as he was speaking, i saw moggie the wife, who had been backwards and forwards serving them, looking at me very straight but without blowing a word, as if she had fear. and all at once i felt there was something on foot. so i drew the men more beer and said i would see after the yawl. outside the door the wife whispered: 'upstairs, quick! renny,' and she herself whisked back into the kitchen so that she should not cause suspicion to those others--ah, your honour, that is a woman!" "well, well," interrupted his master, anxiously. "well, i went upstairs, four by four; and there, in your honour's room, without an attempt to conceal himself (when any moment it might have entered into those brigands' heads downstairs to search the place), there was monsieur the captain, raging up and down, like a wolf in cage, as i had the honour to describe before. no wonder moggie was afraid for him. a woman is quick to feel danger ahead. he looked at me as if he did not know me, his face all unmade. 'you know what has happened;' he says. 'am i not the most unfortunate...? all is lost.' 'with respect,' says i; 'nothing is lost so long as life is safe, but it is not a good thing monsieur the captain that you are here, like this, when you should be on your good ship as many miles away as she can make. are you mad?' to him i say, and he to me, 'i think i am.' 'at least let me hide you,' i beg of him, 'i know of many beautiful places,' and so for the matter of that does he. but it was all lost trouble. at length he sits down at the table and begins to write, and his look brightens: 'you _can_ help me, my good friend,' he says; 'i have a hope left--who knows--who knows,'--and he writes a few lines like an enraged and folds them and kisses the billet. 'find means,' says he, 'rené, to get johnny, the shearman boy, to take this to the old churchyard and place it in the place he knows of; or, better still, should he chance upon miss landale to give it to her. he is a sharp rogue,' says he, 'and i can trust his wits; but should you not find him, dear rené, you must do the commission for me yourself. now go--go,' he cries, and pushes me to the stairs. and, as i dared remain no more, i had to leave him. of course monsieur the captain has not been here all this time without telling me of his hopes, and it is clear that it is to bid farewell to mademoiselle madeleine that he is playing with his life. it is as ill reasoning with a lover as a lunatic: they are the same thing, _ma foi_, but i trust to your honour to bring him to his senses if any one can. and so, to continue, i went down and i told the men in blue the boat was ready, we carried the body; i left them at the shearmans, as your honour knows. i found johnny and gave him the letter; he knew all about what to do, it seemed. and then i came straight to the hall." "it is indeed a miserable business!" said sir adrian. rené heaved a great sigh of sympathy, as he noticed the increasing concern on his master's face. "you heard them mention my brother's name?" inquired the latter, after following the train of his misgivings for a few moments. "you have reason to think that mr. landale knew of these men's errand; other reason, i mean, than having seen them with him just now?" rené's quick mind leaped at the meaning of the question: "yes, your honour. 'mr. landale will want to know of this,' says the fat one; 'though it is too late,' he says." and rené added ruefully: "i have great fear. the captain is not at the end of his pains, if mr. landale is ranged against him!" such was also sir adrian's thought. but he walked on for a time in silence; and, having reached scarthey, rapidly made his way into the peel. captain jack was still pacing the room much as rené had described when sir adrian entered upon him. the young man turned with a transient look of surprise to the new-comer, then waved away the proffered hand with a bitter smile. "you do not know," he said, "who it is you would shake hands with--an outlaw--a criminal. ah, you have heard? then renny, i suppose, has told you." "yes," groaned the other, holding his friend by both shoulders and gazing sorrowfully into the haggard face, "the man may die--oh, jack, jack, how could you be so rash?" "i can't say how it all happened," answered captain jack, falling to his walk to and fro again in the extremity of his distress, and ever and anon mopping his brow. "i felt such security in this place. all was loaded but the last barrel, when, all of a sudden, from god knows where, the man sprang on me and thrust his dark lantern in my face. 'it is smith,' i heard him say. i do believe now that he only wanted to identify me. no man in his senses could have dared to try and arrest me surrounded by my six men. but i had no time to think then, adrian. i imagined the fellow was leading a general attack.... if that last barrel was seized the whole secret was out; and that meant ruin. wholesale failure seemed to menace me suddenly in the midst of my success. i had a handspike in my hand with which i had been helping to roll the kegs. i struck with it, on the spur of the moment; the man went down on the spot, with a groan. as he fell i leaped back, ready for the next. i called out, 'stretchers, lads; they want to take your captain?' my lads gathered round me at once. but there was silence; not another creature to be seen or heard. they set to work to get that last blessed bit of cargo, the cause of all the misery, on board with the rest; while i stood in the growing dawn, looking down at the motionless figure and at the blood trickling into the sand, trying to think, to settle what to do, and only conscious of one thing: the intense wish that i could change places with my victim. can you wonder, adrian, that my brain was reeling? you who know all, all this means to me, can you wonder that i could not leave this shore--even though my life depended on it--without seeing her again! curwen, my mate, came up to me at last, and i woke up to some sort of reason at the idea that they, the crew and the ship, must be removed from the immediate danger. but the orders i gave must have seemed those of a madman: i told him to sail right away but to double back in time to have the schooner round again at twelve noon to-day, and then to send the gig's crew to pick me up on pulwick sand. 'life and death,' said i to him, and he, brave fellow, 'ay, ay, sir,' as if it was the most simple thing in the world, and off with him without another word." "what imprudence, what imprudence!" murmured sir adrian. "who knows? none will believe that i have not seized the opportunity of making my escape with the others. the height of imprudence may become the height of security. i have as yet no plan--but it will come. my luck shall not fail me now! who knows: nothing perhaps is damaged but an excise man's crown. thank heaven, the wind cannot fail us to-day." "but, meanwhile," urged sir adrian, quite unconvinced, highly disturbed, "that treasure on board.... i know what has been your motive, jack, but indeed it is all nothing short of insanity, positive insanity. can you trust your men?" "i would trust them with my own secrets, willingly enough; but not with those of other people. so they do not know what i have in those barrels. four thousand golden guineas in each...! no, the temptation would be too terrible for the poor lads. not a soul knows that, beyond you and me. curwen has charge of the cargo, such as it is. but i can answer for it none of them will dream of tampering with the casks. they are picked men, sober, trusty; who have fought side by side with me. i am their best friend. they are mine, body and soul, i believe. they do know there is some risk in the business, but they trust me. they are sure of treble pay, and besides, are not troubled with squeamishness. as for curwen, he would go to hell for me, and never ask a question. no, adrian, the scheme was perfect, but for this cursed blow of mine this morning. and now it is a terrible responsibility," continued the young man, again wiping his forehead; "every ounce of it weighs on my shoulders. but it is not that that distracts me. oh, adrian ... madeleine!" the elder man felt his heart contract at the utter despairing of that cry. "when my handspike crashed on that damned interferer's skull," the sailor went on, "i felt as if the blow had opened an unfathomable chasm between her and me. now i am felon--yes, in law, a felon! and yet i am the same man as yesterday. i shall have to fly to-night, and may never be able to return openly to england again. all my golden dreams of happiness, of honour, vanished at the sound of that cursed blow. but i must see her, adrian, i _must_ see her before i go. i am going to meet her at noon, in the ruins of pulwick." "impossible!" ejaculated the other aghast. "listen, jack, unfortunate man! when i heard of the--the misfortune, and of your folly in remaining, i instantly planned a last meeting for you. as it fell out, my wife has a fancy to spend the night here: i have asked her to bring her sister with her. but this inconceivably desperate plan of leaving in your ship, in broad light of day, frustrates all i would have done for you. for god's sake let us contrive some way of warning the _peregrine_ off till midnight; keep hidden, yourself; do not wilfully run your head into the noose!" but the young man had stopped short in his tramping, and stood looking at his friend, with a light of hope flaming in his eye. "you have done that, adrian! you have thought of that!" he repeated, as if mechanically. a new whirlwind of schemes rushed through his mind. for a while he remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on sir adrian, putting order in his own thoughts with that genius of precision and swiftness which, in strong natures, rises to meet a crisis. then advancing, and seizing him by both hands: "adrian," he cried, in something more like his own voice, again, "i shall yet owe my happiness to you, to this thought, this sublime thought of your heart!" and, as sir adrian, astounded, unable to understand this extremity of hopefulness, following upon the previous depth of misery, stared back at him, speechless, the latter proceeded in still more surprising fashion. "now, you listen to me, this time. i have been selfish in running the risk of having you mixed up in my dangerous affairs. but, god is my witness, i acted under the belief that all was absolutely secure. now, however, you must do nothing more that might implicate you. remember, do nothing to let people suspect that you have seen me to-day. renny, too, must keep close counsel. you know nothing of my future movements. remain here for a while, do not even look out of the window.... i fear we shall not meet for a long time. meanwhile, god bless you--god bless you!" after another wrench of the hands he held in his, the sailor released them and fairly ran out of the room, without heeding his friend's bewildered expostulations. at the door of the keep he met rené again. and after a brief but earnest colloquy, the man whose life was now forfeit to the community and upon whose head there would soon be a price, was quietly walking along the causeway, making for the shore, with the greatest apparent unconcern and deliberation. and whilst sir adrian, alone in his chamber, with his head resting upon his hand, anxiously pondered upon the possible issues of this nefarious day's doings, the sailor advanced, in broad daylight towards the land to keep his appointment. * * * * * a solitary speck of life upon the great waste, with the consciousness of the precarious thread of chance upon which it hung! what wonder that, for all his daring, the traveller felt, as he deliberately regulated his pace to the most nonchalant gait, a frantic desire to run forward, or to lie down! how many approach glasses might now be laid, like so many guns, upon him from secret points of the coast until he came within range of recognition; what ambushes those clumps of gorse and juniper, those plantations of alders and young firs on the bluffs yonder, might conceal? the eye could reach far and wide upon the immense stretch of sand, along the desert coast; and his solitary figure, moving upon the yellow strand was a mark for miles around. steadily, nevertheless did he advance; the very daring, the unpardonable foolhardiness of the deed his safety. and yet the strain was high. were they watching the island? among the eager crew, to each of whom the capture might mean a splendid prize and chance of promotion, was there one would have the genius of suddenly suspecting that this foolhardy wayfarer might be the man they wanted and not merely sir adrian returning on foot towards his home?... and then came the answer of hopeful youth and hardy courage----. no. the preventive are a lubberly lot--it will require something better than a water-guard to track and take lucky jack smith! * * * * * but for all his assurance lucky jack smith drew a long breath of relief when he felt the shadow of pulwick woods closing around him at last. chapter xxiii the day: noon there stood two men and they did point their fingers at that house. and on his finger one had blood; the other's finger shook. _luteplayer's song._ broken lengths of wall, a crumbling indication of the spring of once exquisite arches, windows gaping darkly like the eye sockets of a skull--this was all that was left of the old priory of pulwick, whilom proud seat of clerical power and learning. but the image of decay was robbed of all melancholy by the luxuriance of climbing vegetation, by the living screen of noble firs and larches arranged in serried ranks upon the slopes immediately behind it, with here and there a rugged sentinel within the ruinous yards and rooms themselves; by wild bushes of juniper and gorse and brambles. and, with the bright noon sun pouring down upon the worn red sandstone, and gilding the delicate tassels of the larches' green needles; with the light of young love, spreading glamour upon every leaf and stone, in the eyes of the lovers, the scene, witness of so many sweet meetings, bore that day a beautiful and home-like aspect. captain jack was standing upon the grass-grown floor of what had been the departed monks' refectory, with ears eagerly bent to listen. three ragged walls, a clump of fir trees, and a bank of brambles screened him from any chance passer-by, and he now and again peered through a crevice on to a path through the woods, cautiously, as if fearful to venture forth. his face was pale beneath its tan, and had none of its usual brightness; his attire for him was disordered; his whole appearance that of a man under the pressure of doubt and anxiety. yet, when the sound of a light footfall struck among the thousand whispering noises of wind and leaf that went to make up the silence of the ruins, the glory of joy that lit up eye and lip left no room for any other impression. madeleine stood in the old doorway: a vision of beautiful life amid emblems of decay and death. "i come alone to-day," she said, with her half-shy smile. and then, before she could utter a further word of explanation, she was gathered into her lover's strong arms with a passion he had never as yet shown in his chivalrous relations with her. but it was not because they met without the sympathetic rapture of miss landale's eye upon them; not because there was no other witnesses but the dangling ivy wreath, the stern old walls, the fine dome of spring sky faintly blue; not because of lover's audacious joy. this madeleine, feeling the stormy throbbing of his heart against hers, knew with sure instinct. she pushed him gently from her as soon as she could, the blushes chased from her cheeks by pale misgivings, and looked at him with eyes full of troubled questioning. then he spoke, from his full heart: "madeleine, something has happened--a misfortune, as i wrote to you. i must now start upon my venture sooner than i thought--at once. i shall have to _fly_ in fact, to-day. there have been spies upon me, and my secret trust is in danger. how they have tracked me, how suspicion has been aroused, i cannot guess. but i have been tracked. a fellow came at dawn. i had to defend my secret--the secret not my own, the charge entrusted to me. the man was hurt. i cannot explain, dear love, there is no time; even now i run the risk of my life by being here, and life is so dear to me now, my madeleine! hush! no, do not be afraid! i am afraid of nothing, so long as you trust me. will you trust me? i cannot leave you here behind; and now, with this cursed stroke of ill-luck, this suspicion upon me, it may be long before i can return to england. i cannot leave you behind, i cannot! will you trust me, madeleine, will you come with me? we shall be married in france, my darling. you should be as a queen in the guard of her most humble slave. i am half mad to think i must go. ah, kiss me, love, and say yes! listen! i must sail away and make believe that i have gone. my _peregrine_ is a bird that none can overtake, but i shall come back to-night. listen: if you will be on the island to-night--sir adrian is there already, and i hear your sister is coming--a freak of fancy--and he, god bless him, has told her to bring you too (it shows my luck has not deserted me yet). i shall be there, unknown to all except renny. i cannot meet you nearer home, but you will be my own brave bride and keep your own counsel. you will not be frightened, will you, my beautiful love? all you have to do is to follow renny's instructions. my ship will be back, waiting, an hour after dark, ready, when you set foot on it, to spread its wings with its treasures--treasures, indeed! and then we shall have the world before us--riches, love, such love! and once safe, i shall be free to prove to you that it is no common blood i would mate with that dear and pure stream that courses in your veins. you shall soon know all; will you trust me?" she hung upon his hot words, looking at him with loving, frightened eyes. now he gathered her to his arms again, again his bursting heart throbbed its stormy passion to her ear. she was as one carried away by a torrent against which resistance is useless. he bent his head over her face; the scent of the bunch of violets in her breast rose deliciously to his nostrils. alas! hubert cochrane was not to reach that kiss of acquiescence, that kiss from which it seemed that but so small a fraction of space and time divided him! some one, who had stepped along in the shadow as silently as a cat coming upon a bird, clapped here a hand upon his shoulder. "who are you, sir, and what do you want?" exclaimed captain jack, wrenching himself free, falling back a pace and measuring the new-comer from head to foot with furious glances, while, with burning blushes madeleine faltered: "rupert!" nothing awakens anger in hot blood sooner than an unsanctioned touch. in certain moods the merest contact is as infuriating as a blow. such an insult, added to the irreparable injury of interrupting their meeting at the most exquisite and crucial moment, drove captain jack beside himself with rage. but madeleine's hand was still on his arm. she felt it suddenly harden and twitch with murderous anger. but, by an effort that made the veins of his temple swell like whipcord, he refrained from striking the double offender. mr. landale surveyed the pair for a moment in silence with his grave look; then coldly he answered the sailor's irate speech. "my name, fellow, is rupert landale. i am here to protect my cousin from an unprincipled and criminal adventurer." "you take a sharp tone sir," cried captain jack, the flush on his face deepening yet a shade, his nostrils ominously dilated, yet speaking without further loss of self-control. "you probably count upon the presence of this lady to prevent my resenting it; but as my time with her is short and i have still much to say, i shall be forced promptly to eject you from the ruins here, unless you will be good enough to immediately remove yourself. i shall hope for another meeting with you to discuss the question as to your right of interference; but to-day--i cannot spare the time." rupert smiled without moving; then the sailor gently disengaging himself from madeleine would have put her behind him but that she pressed forward and laid a hand upon an arm of each of the men. "stay, jack," she pleaded, "let me speak. there is some mistake here. cousin rupert, you cannot know that i am engaged to this gentleman and that he is a friend of your brother's as well as of other good friends of mine." "my poor child," answered rupert, closing a cold hand gently over hers and speaking with a most delicate tenderness of accent, "you have been grossly imposed upon, and so have others. as for my poor brother adrian, he is, if anything, easier to deceive than you, innocent convent-bred girl! i would have you to go home, my dear, and leave me to deal with this--gentleman. you have bitter truths to learn; would it not be better to wait and learn them quietly without further scandal?" this was too much for captain jack, who fairly ground his teeth. rupert's honeyed tones, his grasp of madeleine's hand were more unbearable even than the words. he advanced upon the elder man and seizing him by the collar whirled him away from the girl as easily as a straw puppet. the fine gentleman of sensitive nerves and unworked sinews had no chance against the iron strength of the man who had passed all the years of virility fighting against sea and storm. the two faced each other; jack smith, red and panting with honest rage, only the sense of his lady's proximity keeping him from carrying his high-handed measures a little further. mr. landale, livid, with eyes suddenly black in their orbits, moistening his white lips while he quivered from head to foot with a passion so tense that not even his worst enemy could have attributed it to fear. an unequal match it would seem, yet unequal in a way that the young man, in the conscious glory of his strength could not have conceived. madeleine neither screamed nor fainted; she had grown white, in natural apprehension, but her eyes fixed upon her lover's face shone with admiration. mr. landale turned slowly towards her. "madeleine," he said, readjusting his stock and smoothing the folds of his collar with a steadfast striving after coolness, "you have been grossly deceived. the man you would trust with your life and honour is a mere smuggler. he has no doubt told you fine stories, but if he has given himself out for aught else he lied, take my word for it--he lied. he is a common smuggler, and the vessel he would carry you away in is packed with smuggled goods. to-day he has attacked and wounded an officer, who, in the discharge of his duty, endeavoured to find out the nature of his suspicious purpose. your would-be lover's neck is in danger. a felon, he runs the risk of his life every moment he remains on land--but he would make a last effort to secure the heiress! look at him," his voice raising in spite of himself to a shriller pitch--"he cannot deny it!" madeleine gazed from one to the other. her mind, never a very quick one at decision, was too bewildered to act with clearness; moreover with her education and ignorance of the world the indictment conveyed no special meaning to her. but there was an agony of suspense and beseeching in the glance that her lover cast upon her; and to that appeal she smiled proudly. hers were no true love, she felt, were its confidence shaken by the slandering of anger. then the thought of his danger, danger admitted by his own lips, flashed upon her with terror. she rushed to him, "oh go, jack, go!--as you love me, go!" mr. landale, who had already once or twice cast impatient looks of expectation through a window of the east wall, taken by surprise at this unforeseen result of his speech, suddenly climbed up upon a broken piece of stone-work, from which there was an abrupt descent towards the shore, and began to signal in eager gesticulation. there was a sound of heavy running footfalls without. captain jack raised his head, every nerve on the alert. "go, go," again cried madeleine, dreading she knew not what.--a fat panting red face looked over the wall; mr. landale turned for a second to throw at the lovers a glance of elation. but it seemed as if the sailor's spirits rose at the breath of danger. he rapidly looked round upon the ruins from which there were no other outlets than the window guarded by mr. landale, and the doorway in which the red-faced new-comer now stood, framed in red stone; then, like a cat he darted on to the ledge of the wall at the opposite end, where some invading boughs of larch dropped over the jagged crest, before the burly figure in the blue coat of the preventive service had recovered from the surprise of finding a lady in his way, or gathered his wits and his breath sufficiently to interfere. there the nimble climber stood a moment balancing himself lightly, though the ivied stones rocked beneath him. "i go, love," he cried in ringing voice, "but one word from you and i go----" "oh, i trust you! i will trust you!" screamed the girl in despair, while her fascinated gaze clung to the erect figure silhouetted against the sky and the stout man looked up, open-mouthed. mr. landale snarled at him: "shoot, fool--shoot!" and straining forward, himself drew a pistol from the man's belt, cocked it and thrust it into his grasp. captain jack kissed his hand to madeleine with a joyful gesture, then waved his hat defiantly in rupert's direction, and with a spring disappeared, just as the pistol cracked, drawing a shriek of terror from the girl, and its bullet flattened itself against the upper stone of the wall--considerably wide of the mark. "come, this way----!" screamed mr. landale from his window sill, "you have another!" but the preventive shook his head, and thrust his smoking barrel back through his belt, with an air of philosophical resignation; and slowly approaching the window, through which the fugitive could now be seen steadily bowling down the seaward slope, observed in slow, fat tones: "give you a hand, sir?" rupert, thrusting his extended arm aside jumped down beside him as if he would have sprung at his throat. "why are you so late?--why have you brought no one with you? i gave you notice enough. you fool! you have let him slip through your fingers, now, after all! couldn't you even shoot straight? such a mark as he made against the sky--pah! well may the sailors say, lubberly as a land preventive----!" "why, there you are, mr. landale!" answered the man with imperturbable, greasy good-humour. "the way you shoved that there pistol into my hand was enough to put off anybody. but you country magistrate gentlemen, as i have always said, you are the real sort to make one do illegal actions with your flurry and your hurry over everything. 'shoot!' says you, and damme, sir, if i didn't shoot straight off before i knew if i were on my head or on my heels. it's a mercy i didn't hit the sweet young lady--it is indeed. and as for the young gentleman, though to be sure he did show a clean pair of heels at the sight of me, i had no proper time for i-dentification--no time for i-den-ti-fi-cation, mr. landale, sir. so i say, sir, it's a mercy i did not hit him either, now i can think of it. ah, slow and sure, that's my motter! i takes my man on his boat, in the very middle of his laces and his brandy and his silk--i takes him, sir, in the very act of illegality, red-handed, so to speak, and then, if he shows fight, or if he runs away, then i shoots, sir, and then if i hits, why it's a good job too--but none of this promiscuous work for augustus hobson. slow and sure, that's my motter." the speaker who had been rolling a quid of tobacco in his mouth during this exposition of policy, here spat emphatically upon the grass, and catching madeleine's abstracted eye, begged pardon for the liberty with a gallant air. "aye, so slow, man, that you are pretty sure to fail," muttered mr. landale. "i knows my business, sir, meaning no offence," retorted mr. hobson serenely. "when i has no orders i acts on regulation. i brought no one with me because i had no one to bring, having sent, as per regulation, my one remaining man to give notice to the water service, seeing that that there schooner has had the impudence to come back, and is at this very moment cruising quite happy-like just the other side of the bank; though if ever their cutter overhauls her--well, i'm a dutchman! you might have done wiser, perhaps (if i may make so bold as to remark), to leave the management of this business to them as understands such things. as to being late, sir, you told me to be in the ruins at twelve noon, and i beg to insinuate that it's only just past the hour now." at this point the preventive man drew from his capacious breeches a brass time-piece, of congenial stoutness, the face of which he turned towards the magistrate. the latter, however, waved the proffered witness impatiently aside. furtively watching his cousin, who, leaning against the door-post, her pale head thrown out in strong relief by the dark stones, stood as if absolutely detached from her surroundings, communing over troubled thoughts with her own soul, he said with deliberate distinctness: "but have i been misled, then, in understanding that you were with the unfortunate officer who was so ferociously assaulted this morning? that you and he did come upon this captain smith, red-handed as you call it, loading or unloading his vessel on scarthey island?" "aye, sir," rolled out the other, unctuously, "there you are again, you see. poor nat beavor, he was one of your hot-headed ones, and see what it has brought _him_ to--a crack in his skull, sir, so that it will be days before he'll know himself again, the doctor says, if ever he does in this world, which i don't think. ah, i says to him, when we started in the dawn this morning agreeable to our arrangement with you: 'for peeping and prying on the quiet without any running risks and provoking others to break the law more than they're doing, i'm your man,' says i; 'but as for attacking desperate individles without proper warrant and authority, not to speak of being one to ten, i tell you fair, nat beavor, i'll have nothing to do with it.' but nat, he went off his head, clean, at the sight of captain jack and his men a trundling the little kegs down the sands, as neat and tidy as could be; and so he cut out from behind the rocks, and i knew there was mischief ahead! ah, poor fellow, if he would only have listened to me! i did my best for him, sir; started off to call up the other man, who was on the other side of the ruins, as soon as i saw his danger, but when i came back----" "the birds were flown, of course," interrupted rupert with a sneer, "and you found the body of your comrade who had been dastardly wounded, and who, i hear, is dead now. so the villain has twice escaped you. cousin madeleine," hastily breaking off to advance to the girl, who now awakening from her reflective mood seemed about to leave the ruins, "cousin madeleine, are you going? let me escort you back." she slowly turned her blue eyes, burning upon him from her white face. "cousin rupert, i do not want your company." then she added in a whisper, yet with a passion for which rupert would never have given her credit and which took him vastly by surprise, "i shall never forgive you." "my god, madeleine," cried he, with genuine emotion, "have i deserved this? i have had no thought but to befriend you, i have opened your eyes to your own danger----" "hold your tongue, sir," she broke in, with the same repressed anger. "cease vilifying the man i love. all your aspersions, your wordy accusations will not shake my faith in him. _mon dieu_," she cried, with an unsteady attempt at laughter, looking under her lashes and tilting her little white round chin at mr. hobson, who, now seated upon a large stone, and with an obtrusive quid of tobacco bulging in an imperfectly shorn cheek, was mopping his forehead with a doubtful handkerchief. "_that_ is the person, i suppose, whose testimony i am to believe against my jack!" "your jack was prompt enough in running away from him, such as he is," retorted her cousin bitterly. he could not have struck, for his purpose, upon a weaker joint in her poor woman's armour of pride and trust. she caught her breath sharply, as if indeed she had received a blow. "well, say your say," she exclaimed, coming to a standstill and facing him; "i will hear all that you and your--your friend have to say, lest," with a magnificent toss of her head, "you fancy i am afraid, or that i believe one word of it all. i know that jack--that captain smith, as he is called--is engaged upon a secret and important mission; but it is one, rupert, which all english gentlemen should wish to help, not impede." "do you know what the mission is--do you know to whom? and if, my fair cousin, it is such that all english gentlemen would help, why then this secrecy?" she bit her lip; but it trembled. "what is it you accuse him of?" she asked, with a stamp of her foot. "listen to me," said rupert gently, "it is the kinder thing that you should know the truth, and believe me, every word i say i can substantiate. this captain jack smith, whatever his real name may be, was picked up when a mere boy by an old liverpool merchant, starving in the streets of that town. this merchant, by name cochrane, an absurd person who gave himself out to be a relative of cochrane of shaws, adopted the boy and started him upon a slaver, that is a ship which does trade in negro slaves, my dear--a pretty trade. he next entered a privateer's ship as lieutenant. you know what these are--ocean freebooters, tolerated by government for the sake of the harm they wreck upon the ships of whatever nation we may happen to be at war with--a sort of pirate ship--hardly a much more reputable business than the slaver's; but captain smith made himself a name in it. now that the war is over, he has taken to a lower traffic still--that of smuggling." "but _what_ is smuggling?" cried the girl, tears brimming up at last into her pretty eyes, and all her heat of valiance suddenly gone. "what does it mean?" "what is smuggling? bless your innocence! i beg your pardon, my dear--miss i should say--but if you'll allow _me_ i think i'm the man to explain that 'ere to you." the husky mellifluous tones of the preventive-service man, who had crept up unnoticed to listen to the conversation, here murmured insinuatingly in her ear. rupert hesitated; then reading shrinking aversion upon madeleine's face, shrewdly conjectured that the exposition of her lover's doings might come with more force from mr. hobson's lips than from his own, and allowed the latter to proceed unmolested. "smuggling, my pretty," wheezed the genial representative of the custom laws, "again asking pardon, but it slipped out, smuggling is, so to say, a kind of stealing, a kind of cheating and that of a most rank and heinous kind. for, mind you, it ain't stealing from a common man, nor from the likes of you and me, nor from a nobleman either: it's cheating and stealing from his most gracious majesty himself. for see you, how 'tis, his majesty he says, 'every keg of brandy,' says he, 'and every yard of lace and every pipe o' tobacco as is brought into this here country shall be paid for, so much on, to me, and that's called a tax, miss, and for that there are the custom houses and custom officers--which is me--to see his majesty paid right and proper his lawful dues. but what does your smuggler do, miss--your rollicking, dare-devil chap of a smuggler? why he lands his lace and his brandy and his 'baccy unbeknownst and sells 'em on the sly--and pockets the profit! d'ye see?--and so he cheats his majesty, which is a very grievous breaking of the law; so much so that he might as well murder at once--kind o' treason, you may say--and that's what makes 'em such desperate chaps. they knows if they're caught at it, with arms about them, and two or three together--it's--clank." mr. hobson grasped his own bull neck with an unpleasantly significant gesture and winked knowingly at the girl, who turned white as death and remained gazing at him with a sort of horrified fascination which he presently noted with an indulgent smile. "don't take on now, my lass--no offence, miss--but i can't bear to see a fine young 'oman like you upset-like--i'm a damned, hem, hem, a real soft hearted fellow. your sweetheart's heels have saved his gullet this time--and though he did crack poor nat upon the skull (as i can testify for i as good as saw him do it--which makes it a hanging matter twice over i won't deny), yet there's a good few such as him escapes the law and settles down arter, quite respectable-like. a bit o' smuggling now is a thing many a pretty fellow has taken to in his day, and has made a pretty penny out of too, and is none the worse looked to arter, as i said. aye, and there's many a gentleman and a magistrate to boot as drinks his glass of smuggled brandy and smokes his smuggled baccy and finds them none the worse, oh dear no! human nature it is and human nature is a queer thing. even the ladies, miss, are well-known to be soft upon the smuggled lace: it's twice as cheap you see as t'other, and they can get double as handsome for the money. begging your pardon--if i may make so bold--" stretching out a great, coarse, tobacco-stained finger and thumb to close them appreciatively upon the hanging lace of madeleine's neck handkerchief, "may be your spark brought you that there, miss, now? he, he, he--as pretty a bit of french point it is as has ever been my fate to lay hands on--never fear," as the girl drew back with a gesture of loathing from the contact. "i ain't agoing to seize it off you or take you up, he--he--he--eh, mr. landale? i'm a man o' my duty, i hope, but our orders don't run as far as that." "rupert!" cried madeleine, piteously turning a dark gaze of anguish at him--it seemed as if she were going to faint. he hastened up to her, shouldering the clumsy form of mr. augustus hobson unceremoniously out of the way: the fellow had done his work for the time being, and this last piece of it so efficaciously indeed that his present employer felt, if not remorse, at least a certain pity stir within him at the stricken hopelessness of the girl's aspect. he passed his arm round her waist as she shivered and swayed. "lean on me," he said, his fine eyes troubled with an unwonted softness and anxiety. "rupert," she whispered, clutching at his sleeve, eagerly fixing him with a look eloquent of unconscious pleading, "all these things this--this man talks of are things which are brought into england--are they not? i know that--_he_ was bringing nothing into the country, but he was going to another country upon some important trust, the nature of which he had promised not to reveal. therefore he cannot be cheating the king, if that is smuggling--oh rupert, is there not some grievous mistake?" "my poor child," said rupert, holding her close and tenderly, and speaking with a gentle gravity in which there was this time less hypocrisy, "there is one thing which is smuggled out of england, and it is as dishonest and illegal work as the other, the most daring and dangerous smuggling of all in fact; one in which none but a desperate man would engage--that of gold." "yes, gold," exclaimed the girl sharply, withdrawing herself from her cousin's arms, while a ray of intelligence and hope lit up her face. "gold for the french king's service." rupert betrayed no emotion; he drew from the inner pocket of his coat a crushed news-sheet. "deceived there, as well as everywhere else, poor little cousin," he said. "and did the scoundrel say so? nay, he is a damnable scoundrel who could betray your trustfulness to your own sweet face. gold indeed--but not for the king--gold for the usurper, for the tyrant who was supplied already, no doubt, by the same or similar traitor hands with enough to enable him to escape from the island where he was so justly imprisoned. see here, madeleine, bonaparte is actually landed in france: it has all been managed with the most devilish ingenuity and takes the whole world by surprise. and your lover, doubtless, is engaged upon bringing him fresh supplies to enable him to begin again and rack humanity with hideous wars. oh, he never told you of the corsican's escape, yet this news is three days old. see you, my dear, this explains the whole mystery, the necessity for absolute secrecy; all england is friendly to the french monarch; no need to smuggle gold for his aid--but the other...! it is treason, the blackest treason on every side of it, treason to his king, to his country, to _your_ king, to you. and he would have cozened you with tales of his loyalty to the rightful cause!" "give me the paper," said madeleine. a tide of blood had swept into her face; she was no longer white and shaken, but erect and beautiful in strong indignation. rupert examined her, as if a little doubtful how to take the sudden change; but he handed her the printed sheet in silence. she read with lips and nostrils expanded by her quick breathing; then crumpled up the sheet and cast it at his feet. and after a pause, with her princess air of dignity, "i thank you, cousin rupert," she said; then, passing him with stately steps, moved towards the house. he pressed forward to keep up with her; and upon the other side, smiling, irrepressible, jocose, mr. hobson did the same. "you are not fit to go alone," urged the former, while the latter engagingly protruding an elbow, announced that he'd be proud to give her an arm as far as the hall. she drew away from this well-meaning squire of dames with such shuddering distaste, and looked once more so white and worn and sickened after her sudden blaze of passion, that mr. landale, seeing that the only kindness was to let her have her will, arrested his companion roughly enough, and allowed her to proceed as she wished. * * * * * and so, with bent head, madeleine hurried forth. and the same glorious sun smiled down upon her in her anguish that had greeted her when she hastened an hour before glowing and light-hearted--if, indeed, a heart so full of love could be termed light--to meet her lover; the same brambles caught her dress, the same bird trilled his song. but madeleine thought neither of ray nor leaf, nor yet of mating songsters: all the spring world, as she went, was to her strewn with the wreck of her broken hopes, and encompassed by the darkness of her lonely future. * * * * * mr. landale and the preventive service man stood some time watching her retreating figure through the wood, and then walked slowly on for a while, in silent company. presently the latter, who during the last part of the interview, had begun to feel a little ruffled by the magistrate's persistently overbearing manner, inquired with something of dudgeon in his voice: "begging your pardon, sir, what was that i heard the young lady call out just now? 'gold!' she cries. is it guineas that nipping young man is a taking over seas, if i may make so bold? now you see, sir, we haven't had no orders about no gold on this station--that sort of thing is mostly done down south. but what i wants to know is: why, if you knew all about the fellow's little games, you sent us to spy on him? ah, poor nat would want a word or two with you on that score, i fancy! now it's as plain as salisbury...." "but i know nothing certain," impatiently interrupted mr. landale. "i know no more than you do yourself. only not being a perfect idiot, i can put two and two together. what in the name of goodness can a man smuggle _out_ of england but gold? but i wanted the proofs. and your business, it was agreed with the chief officer, was to follow my instructions." "and so we did," grumbled mr. hobson; "and a pretty business it's turned out! nat's to pocket his bludgeoning, i suppose, and i am to bear the blame and lose my share. a cargo of guineas, by god! i might have nosed it, down south, but here.... blast it! but since you was so clever over it, sir, why in blazes--if i may speak so to a gentleman and a magistrate," pursued the man with a rueful explosion of disgust, "didn't you give _me_ the hint? why, guineas is contraband of war--it's treason, sir--and guineas is a cargo that's _fought_ for, sir! i shouldn't have moved with two men in a boat patrol, d'ye think? i should have had the riding officers, and the water-guard, and a revenue cruiser in the offing, and all tight and regular. but you _would_ have all the credit, and where are you? and _where's_ my share? and where is nat?--bah!" "you are forgetting yourself, officer," said mr. landale, looking severely into the eyes of the disappointed preventive man, whose rising ebullition became on the instant reduced. "so i am, sir, so i am--and beg your pardon. but you must admit, it's almost enough to make ... but never mind, sir, the trick is done. whatever it may be that that there schooner carries in her bottom, she is free now to take it, barring accident, wherever she pleases. i'll trouble you to look this way, sir." they had emerged from the wooded part of the park, and the rising ground on which they stood commanded a wide sea-view, west of the great bay. "there she is again, sir," said mr. hobson, waving his broad paw, like a showman displaying his goods, with a sort of enraged self-satisfaction. "there is the schooner, ready to hoist sail as soon as he comes alongside. and that there black point which you may see, if your eyes are good enough, is a six-oared galley with as ship-shaped a crew--if it's the same as i saw making off this morning--as ever pulled. your captain smith, you may take your oath, is at the tiller, and making fun of us two to the lads. in five minutes he will be on board, and then the revenue cutter from the station may give chase if she likes!... and there she is, due to the time--about a mile astern. but bless you, that's all my eye, you may take your oath! they know well enough that in an open sea they can't run down a salcombe schooner. but to earn their pay they will hang on till they lose her, and then sail home, all cosy.--i'm thinking," he added slily, with a side glance at the magistrate: "we won't hang him _this_ time." mr. landale made no answer; during the last few minutes his reflections had enabled him to take a new view of the situation. after all the future fate of captain jack was of little moment. he had been successfully exposed before madeleine, whose love for the young man was, as had just been sufficiently proved, chiefly composed of those youthful illusions which dispelled once, never can return. rupert fell gradually into a reverie in which he found curious satisfaction. his work had not been unsuccessful, whatever mr. hobson's opinion might be. but, as matters stood between madeleine and her lover, the girl's eyes had been opened in time, and that without scandal.... and even the escape of captain jack was, upon reflection, the best thing that could have happened. and so it was with a return to his usual polite bearing, that he listened to the officer's relapse into expostulation. "now if you had only given me the hint first of all," the man was grumblingly saying, "and then let me act--for who would have suspected a boat, yacht-rigged like that?--a friend of sir adrian's, too! if you'd only left it to me! why that six-oared galley alone is agin the law unless you can prove good reason for it ... as for the vessel herself...." "yes, my dear mr. hobson," interrupted mr. landale, smiling propitiously. "i have no doubt you would have secured him. i have made a mess of it. but now you understand, least said, soonest mended, both for me and (between ourselves, mr. hobson) for the young lady." the man, in surprise at this sudden alteration of manner, stopped short and gaped; and presently a broad smile, combined with a knowing wink, appeared on his face. he received the guineas that mr. landale dropped in his palm with an air of great candour, and, without further parley, acted on the kind advice to repair to the priory and talk with one mrs. puckett the housekeeper, on the subject of corporeal refreshment. * * * * * "well," said molly, bursting in upon her sister, who sat by her writing-table, pen in hand, and did not even raise her head at the unceremonious entrance. "this is evidently the day for mysterious disappearances. first rupert and sophia; then my lord and master who is fetched hurriedly to his island (that isle of misfortune!) god knows for what--though _i_ mean to know presently; then you, mademoiselle, and rupert again. it is, faith, quite a comedy. but the result has been that i have had my meals alone, which is not so gay. sophia is in bed, it turns out; rupert out a-riding, on important business, of course! all he does is desperately important. and there you are--alone in your room, moping. god, child, how pale you are! what ails you then?" "molly," cried madeleine, ignoring lady landale's question and feverishly folding the written sheet which lay under her hand, "if you love me, if ever you loved me, will you have this letter conveyed by a safe messenger to scarthey, and given to rené--to none but rené, at once? oh, molly, it will be a service to me, you little guess of what moment!" "_voyez un peu!_" said lady landale coolly. "what trust in molly, all at once! aha, i thought it would come. if i love you? hum, i'm not so sure about that. if ever i loved you?--a droll sort of plea, in truth, considering how you have requited my love!" madeleine turned a dazed look upon her sister, who stood surveying her, glowing like a jewel of dazzling radiance, from her setting of black mantle and black plumed hat. "so you will not!" she answered hopelessly, and let her forehead fall upon her hand without further protest. "but i did not say i would not--as it happens i am going to the island myself. how you stare--oh you remember now do you? who told you i wonder?--of course, such a couple as we are, adrian and i, could not be divided from each other for over half a day, could we? by the way, i was to convey a gracious invitation to you too. will you come with me?--no?--strange girl. so even give me the letter, i will take it to--no, not to rené, 'tis addressed to captain smith, i see. dear me--you don't mean to say, madeleine, that you are corresponding with that person; that he is near us? what would tanty say?" "oh, molly, cease your scoffs," implored poor madeleine, wearily. "you are angry with me, well, now rejoice, for i am punished--well punished. oh, i would tell you all but i cannot! my heart is too sick. see, you may read the letter, and then you will understand--but for pity's sake go--do not fail to go; he will be there on the island at dark--he expects _me_--oh, molly! i cannot explain--indeed i cannot, and there is no time, it will soon be dusk; but there is terrible danger in his being there at all." molly took the letter, turned it over with scornful fingers and then popped it in her pocket. "if he expects you," she asked, fixing cold, curious eyes on her sister's distress, "and he is in danger, why _don't_ you go?" a flush rose painfully to madeleine's face, a sob to her throat. "don't ask me," she murmured, turning away to hide her humiliation. "i have been deceived, he is not what i thought." lady landale gazed at the shrinking figure for a little while in silence. then remarking contemptuously: "well you are a poor creature," turned upon her heel to leave her. as she passed the little altar, she paused to whisk a bunch of violets out of a vase and dry the stems upon her sister's quilt. "molly," cried madeleine, in a frenzy, "give me back my letter, or go." "i go, i go," said lady landale with a mocking laugh. "how sweet your violets smell!--there, do not agitate yourself: i'm going to meet your lover, my dear. i vow i am curious to see the famous man, at last." chapter xxiv the night so the blood burned within her, and thus it cried to her: and there, beside the maize field the other one was waiting-- he, the mysterious one. _luteplayer's song._ the mantle of night had already fallen upon the land when lady landale, closely wrapped in her warmest furs, with face well ensconced under her close bonnet, and arms buried to the elbow in her muff, sallied from her room on the announcement that the carriage was waiting. as, with her leisurely daintiness, she tripped it down the stairs, she crossed mr. landale, and paused a moment, ready for the skirmish, as she noticed the cynical curiosity with which he examined her. "whither, my fair sister," said he, ranging himself with his best courtesy against the bannisters, "so late in the day?" "to my lord and master's side, of course," said molly. "why--is not adrian coming back to-night?" "apparently not, since he has graciously permitted me to join him upon his rock. i trust you will not find it too unhappy in our absence: that would be the crowning misfortune of a day when everything seems to have gone wrong. sophia invisible with her vapours; madeleine with the megrim; and you in and out of the house as excited and secret as the cat when she has licked all the cream. i suppose i shall end by knowing what it is all about. meanwhile i think i shall enjoy the tranquillity of the island--although i have actually to tear myself away from the prospect of a tête-à-tête evening with you." but as rupert's serenity was not to be moved, her ladyship hereupon allowed herself to be escorted to the carriage without further parley. as she drove away through the dark night, first down the level, well-metalled avenue, then along the uneven country road, and finally through the sand of the beach in which hoofs and tyres sank noiselessly, inches deep, molly gave herself up, with almost childish zest to the leaven of imagination.... here, in this dark carriage, was reclining, not lady landale (whose fate deed had already been signed, sealed and delivered to bring her nothing but disappointment), but her happier sister, still confronted with the fascinating unknown, hurrying under cover of night, within sound of the sea, to that enthralling lure, a lover--a real lover, ardent, daring, _young_, ready to risk all, waiting to spread the wings of his boat, and carry her to the undiscovered country. glowing were these fleeting images of the "might have been," angry the sudden relapses into the prose of reality. no, madeleine, the coward, who thought she had loved her lover, was now in her room, weak and weeping, whilst he, no doubt, paced the deck in mad impatience (as a lover should), now tortured by the throes of anxiety, now hugging himself with the thought of his coming bliss ... that bliss that never was to be his. and in the carriage there was only molly, the strong-hearted but the fettered by tie and vow, the slave for ever of a first girlish fancy but too successfully compassed; only lady landale rejoining her husband in his melancholy solitude; lady landale who never--never! awful word! would know the joys which yonder poor fool had had within her grasp and yet had not clutched at. molly had read, as permitted, her sister's letter, and to some purpose; and scorn of the girl who from some paltry quibble could abandon in danger the man she professed to love, filled her soul to the exclusion of any sisterly or ever womanly pity. at the end of half an hour the carriage was stopped by the black shadow of a man, who seemed to spring up from the earth, and who, after a few rapid words interchanged with the coachman, extinguished both the lights, and then opened the door. leaning on the offered elbow molly jumped down upon the yielding sand. "rené?" she asked; for the darkness even on the open beach was too thick to allow of recognition. "rené, your ladyship--or mademoiselle is it?" answered the man in his unmistakable accent. "i must ask; for, by the voice no one can tell, as your ladyship, or mademoiselle knows--and the sky is black like a chimney." "lady landale, rené," and as he paused, she added, "my sister would not come." "ah, _mon dieu_! she would not come," repeated the man in tones of dismay; and the black shadow was struck into a moment of stillness. then with an audible sigh mr. potter roused himself, and saying with melancholy resignation, "the boat is there, i shall be of return in a minute, my lady," took the traveller's bag on his shoulder and disappeared. the carriage began to crunch its way back in the darkness and molly was left alone. * * * * * in front of her was a faint white line, where the rollers spread their foam with mournful restless fugue of long drawn roar and hissing sigh. in the distance, now and then glancing on the crest of the dancing billows, shone the steady light of scarthey. the rising wind whistled in the prickly star-grass and sea-holly. beyond these, not a sight, not a sound--the earth was all mystery. molly looked at the light--marking the calm spot where her husband waited for her; its very calm, its familiar placidity, monotony, enraged her; she hearkened to the splashing, living waves, to the swift flying gusts of the storm wind, and her soul yearned to their life, and their mysteriousness. what she longed for, she herself could not tell. no words can encompass the desire of pent-up young vitality for the unknown, for the ideal, for the impossible. but one thing was overpoweringly real: that was the dread of leaving just then the wide, the open world whose darkness was filled to her with living scenes of freedom and space, and blood-stirring emotions; of re-entering the silent room under the light; of consorting with the shadowy personality, her husband; of feeling the web of his melancholy, his dreaminess, imprison as it were the wings of her imagination and the thoughtful kindness of his gaze, paralyse the course of her hot blood through her veins. and yet, thither she was going, must be going! ah madeleine, fool--you may well weep, yonder on your pillow, for the happiness that was yours and that you have dropped from your feeble hands! * * * * * in a few minutes the black shadow re-appeared close to her. "if my lady will lean on my shoulder, i shall lead her to the boat." and after a few steps, the voice out of the darkness proceeded in explanation: "i have not taken a lantern, i have put out those of the carriage, for i must tell my lady, that since what arrived this morning, there may be _gabelous_--they call them the preventive here--in every corner, and the light might bring them, as it does the night papilions, and ... as i thought mademoiselle was to accompany you--they might have frightened her. these people want to know so much!" "i know nothing of what has happened this morning, that you speak of as if the whole world must know," retorted lady landale coolly. "you are all hatching plots and sitting on secrets, but nobody confides in me. it seems then, that you expected mademoiselle, my sister, here for some purpose and that you regret she did not come; may i ask for an explanation?" a few moments elapsed before the man replied, and then it was with embarrassment and diffidence: "for sure, i am sorry, my lady ... there have been misfortunes on the island this morning--nothing though to concern her ladyship--and, as for mademoiselle, mother margery would have liked to see her, no doubt ... and maggie the wife also--and--and no doubt also mademoiselle would have liked to come.... what do i know?" "oh, of course!" said molly with her little note of mocking laughter. then again they walked a while in silence. as rené lifted his mistress in his arms to carry her over the licking hissing foam, she resumed: "it is well, rené, you are discreet, but i am not such a fool as people seem to think. as for her, you were right in thinking that she might easily be frightened. she was afraid even to come out!" rené shoved his boat off, and falling to his sculls, suddenly relapsed into the old vernacular: "_ah madame_," he sighed, "_c'est bien triste--un gentilhomme si beau--si brave!_" during the crossing no further words passed between them. "so brave--so handsome?" the echo of the words came back to the woman in every lap of the water on the sides of the boat, in every strain of the oars. the keel ground against the beach, and rené leaped out to drag the boat free of the surf. as he did so, two blacker outlines segregated themselves from the darkness and a rough voice called out, subdued but distinct: "savenaye, st. malo!" "savenaye, st. malo!" repeated rené, and helped lady landale to alight. then one of the figures darted forward and whispered a rapid sentence in the frenchman's ear. rené uttered an exclamation, but his mistress intervened with scant patience: "my good rené," said she, "take the bag into the peel, and come back for me. i have a message for these gentlemen." rené hesitated. as he did so a rustle of anger shook the lady in her silks and furs. "do you hear me?" she repeated, and he could guess how her little foot stamped the yielding sand. "_oui, madame_," said he, hesitating no longer. immediately the other two drew near. molly could just see that they stood in all deference, cap in hand. "madam," began one of these in hurried words, "there is not a moment to be lost: the captain had to remain on board." "what!" interrupted lady landale with much asperity, "not come in person!" she had been straining her eyes to make out something of her interlocutor's form, unable to reconcile her mind's picture with the coarse voice that addressed her--and now all her high expectations fell from her in an angry rush. "have i come all this way to be met by a messenger! who are you?" "madam," entreated the husky voice, "i am the mate of the _peregrine_. the captain has directed me to beg and pray you not to be afraid, but to have good courage and confidence in us--the schooner is there; in five minutes you can be safe on board. you see, madam," continued the man with an earnestness that spoke well of his devotion, "the captain found he couldn't, he dared not leave the ship--he is the only one who knows the bearings of these waters here--any one of us might run her on the bank, and where would we be then, madam, and you, if we were found in daylight still in these parts?--'for god's sake, curwen,' says he, 'implore the lady not to be afraid and tell her to trust, as she has promised,' so he says. and for god's sake, say i, madam, trust us. in five minutes you will be with him? say the word, madam, am i to make the signal? there he is, eating his heart out. there are all the lads ready waiting for your foot on the ladder, to hoist sail. no time to lose, we are already behind. shall i signal?" molly's heart beat violently; under the sudden impulse, the fascination of the black chasm, of the peril, the adventure, the unfathomed, took possession of her, and whirled her on. "yes," she said. on the very utterance of the word the man, who had not yet spoken, uncovered a lantern, held it aloft, as rapidly replaced it under his coat, and moved away. almost immediately, against the black pall, behind the dim line of grey that marked the shore, suddenly sprang up three bright points in the form of a triangle. it was as if all the darkness around had been filled with life; as if the first fulfilment of those promises with which it had been drawing this woman's soul was now held out to her to lure her further still. "see, madam, how they watch!--by your leave." and with no further warning, molly felt herself seized with uncompromising, but deferential, energy, by a pair of powerful arms; lifted like a child, and carried away at a bear-like trot. by the splashing she judged it was through the first line of breakers. then she was handed into another irresistible grasp. the boat lurched as the mate jumped in. then: "now give way, lads," he said, "and let her have it. those lights must not be burning longer than we can help. tain't wholesome for any of us." and under the pulse of four willing pairs of arms the skiff, like a thing of life, clove the black waters and rose to the billows. "you see, madam," explained the mate, "we could not do without the lights, to show us where she lay, and give us a straight course. we are all right so long as we keep that top 'un in the middle--but he won't be sorry, i reckon, when he can drop them overboard. they can't be seen from the offing yet, but it's astounding how far a light will reach on a night like this. cheerily, lads, let her have it!" but molly heeded him not. she had abandoned herself to the thrilling delight of the excitement. the die was cast--not by her own hand, no one should be able to hold her responsible--she had been kidnapped. come what might she must now see the adventure out. the lights grew larger; presently a black mass, surmounted by a kind of greyish cloud, loomed through the pitch of the night; and next it was evident that the beacon was hanging over the side of a ship, illuminating its jagged leaping water line. a voice, not too loud, yet, even through the distance, ringing clear in its earnestness sounded from above. "boat ahoy! what boat is that?" and promptly the helmsman by molly's side returned: "savenaye, st. malo." on the instant the lights went out. there was a creaking of block and cordage, and new ghostly clouds rose over the ship--sails loosened to the wind. as the skiff rowers came alongside, boat-hooks leaped into action and gripped the vessel; an arm, strong as steel, was held out for the passenger as she fearlessly put her foot on the ladder; another, a moment later, with masterful tenderness bent round her waist, and she was fairly lifted on board the _peregrine_. but before her foot touched the deck, she felt upon her lips, laid like a burning seal, a passionate kiss; and her soul leaped up to it, as if called into sudden life from slumber, like the princess of fairy lore. she heard madeleine's mysterious lover whisper in her ear: "at last! oh, what i have suffered, thinking you would not come!" from the warm shelter of her loosened cloak the violets in her bosom sent forth a wave of sweetness. for a moment these two were in all creation alone to each other, while in a circle the _peregrine's_ crew stood apart in respectful silence: a broad grin of sympathy upon the mouth of every mother's son. released at last, lady landale took a trembling step on the deck. into what strange world had she come this night? the schooner, like a mettled steed whose head is suddenly set free, was already in motion, and with gentle forward swaying leaps rising to the wave and gathering speed under her swelling sails. captain jack had seized molly's hand, and the strong clasp trembled round the little fingers; he said no more to her; but, in tones vibrating with emotion which all the men, now silently seeking their posts in the darkness, could hear: "my lads," he cried, "the lady is safe with us after all. who shall say that your skipper is not still lucky smith? thank you, my good fellows! now we have yet to bring her safe the other side. meanwhile--no cheering, lads, you know why--there is a hundred guineas more among you the hour we make st. malo. stand to, every man. up with those topsails!" scarcely had the last words been spoken when, from the offing, on the wings of the wind, came a long-drawn hail, faint through the distance, but yet fatally distinct: "ahoy, what schooner is that?" molly, who had not withdrawn her hand, felt a shock pass over captain jack's frame. he turned abruptly, and she could see him lean and strain in the direction of the voice. the call, after an interval, was repeated. but the outlook was impenetrable, and it was weird indeed to feel that they were seen yet could not see. molly, standing close by his side, knew in every fibre of her own body that this man, to whom she seemed in some inexplicable fashion already linked, was strongly moved. nevertheless she could hardly guess the extremity of the passion that shook him. it was the frenzy of the rider who feels his horse about to fail him within a span of the winning post; of the leader whose men waver at the actual point of victory. but the weakness of dismay was only momentary. calm and clearness of mind returned with the sense of emergency. he raised his night-glass, with a steady hand this time, and scanned the depth of blackness in front of him: out of it after a moment, there seemed to shape itself the dim outline of a sail, and he knew that he had waited too long and had fallen in again with the preventive cutter. then glancing aloft, he understood how it was that the _peregrine_ had been recognised. the overcast sky had partly cleared to windward during the last minutes; a few stars glinted where hitherto nothing but the most impenetrable pall had hung. in the east, the rays of a yet invisible moon, edging with faint silver the banks of clouds just above the horizon, had made for the schooner a tell-tale background indeed. on board no sound was heard now save the struggle of rope and canvas, the creaking of timber and the swift plashing rush of water against her rounded sides as she sped her course. "madeleine," he said, forcibly controlling his voice, and bringing, as he spoke, his face close to molly's to peer anxiously at its indistinct white oval, "we are not free yet; but in a short time, with god's help, we shall have left those intermeddling fools yonder who would bar our way, miles out of the running. but i cannot remain with you a moment longer; i must take the helm myself. oh, forgive me for having brought you to this! and, should you hear firing, for heaven's sake do not lose courage. see now, i will bring you to your cabin; there you will find warmth and shelter. and in a little while, a very little while, i will return to you to tell you all is well. come, my dearest love." gently he would have drawn her towards the little deck-cabin, guiding her steps, as yet untutored to the motion of the ship, when out of the black chasm, upon the weather bow of the _peregrine_, leaped forth a yellow tongue of light fringed with red and encircled by a ruddy cloud; and three seconds later the boom of a gun broke with a dull, ominous clangour above the wrangling of sea and wind. molly straightened herself. "what is that?" she asked. "the warning gun," he answered, hurriedly, "to say that they mean to see who we are and that if we do not stop the next will be shotted. time presses, madeleine, go in--fear nothing! we shall soon be on their other side, out of sight in darkness again." "i shall stop with you. let no thought of me hinder you. i am not afraid. i want to see." at these words the lover was struck with a surprise that melted into a proud and new joy. he had loved madeleine for her woman's grace and her woman's heart; now, he told himself, he must worship her also for her brave soul. but this was no time for useless words. it was not more unsafe for her on deck than in the cabin, and at the thought of her beside him during the coming struggle the strength of a god rose within him. "come," he answered, briefly, and moved with her to the helm which a sailor silently surrendered to him whilst she steadied herself by holding to the binnacle--the only place on board at that time where (from sheer necessity) any light had been allowed to remain. it was faint enough, but the reflection from the compass-board, as he bent to examine it, was sufficient to make just visible, with a dim fantastic glow, the strong beauty of his face, and put a flash into each wide dilated eye. and thus did molly, for the first time, see captain jack. she sank down at the foot of the binnacle, her hands clasped round her knees, as if hugging the new rapture as closely to her as she could. and looking up at the alert figure before her which she now began to discern more clearly under the lightening sky; at the face which she divined, although she could only see the watchful gleam of the eyes as now and again they sought her down in the shadow at his feet, she felt herself kindle in answer to the glow of his glorious life-energy. they were going, side by side, this young hero of romance and she, to fight their way through some unknown peril! "madeleine, my sweet bride, my brave love, they are about to fire again, and this time you will hear the shot burring; but be not afraid, it will strike ahead of us." another flash sprang out of the night, much nearer this time, and louder, for it belched forth a shot which ploughed its way in the water across the schooner's bow. "i am not afraid," said molly again; and she laughed a little fierce, nervous laugh. "they are between us and the open sea. thus far the luck is on their side. had you come but half an hour sooner, madeleine, we should be running as free as any king's ship. now they think, no doubt, they will drive me on to the sand; but," he tossed back his head with a superb gesture; "there is no power from heaven or hell that can keep me out of my course to-night." by this time the preventive cutter was faintly discernible two cables length on the larboard bow. there came another hail--a loud, husky bellow from over the water, "schooner ahoy! heave to, or we'll sink you!" "madeleine," said captain jack; "come closer to me, lie down, behind me, quick--the next shot will be in my rigging. heave to?--with my treasures, my bride on board and a ten knot breeze...!" and he looked down at molly, laughing in his contempt. then he shouted some order which brought the _peregrine_ some points more off the wind, and she bounded forward with renewed zest. "sink us! why don't you fire now, you lubbers?" he glanced back over his shoulder to see the beacon of scarthey straight over the stern. "you have got us in line with the light, and that's your last chance. in another minute i shall be past you. ah, i can see you now, my fine fellows!--courage, madeleine." to molly, of course, his words conveyed no meaning, except that the critical moment had come, that the ship which carried her flying upon the water like a living thing, eager, yet obedient in all its motions to the guiding will of the man beside her, was rushing to the fray. the thought fired her soul, and she sprang up to look over the side. "what," she exclaimed, for the little cutter on close quarters looked insignificant indeed by the side of the noble vessel that so scornfully bore down on her. "is that all!" "they have a gun, and we have none," answered captain jack. "down, madeleine! down behind, in the name of god!" "why should i crouch if you stand up?" the man's heart swelled within him; but as he looked with proud admiration at the cloaked and hooded figure by his side, the cutter's gun fired for the third time. with roar and hiss the shot came over the bow of the schooner, as she dipped into the trough, and raking the deck, crashed through her side on the quarter. molly gave a shriek and staggered. a fearful malediction burst from captain jack's lips: he left the tiller and sprang to her. one of the hands, believing his skipper to have been struck, ran to the helm, and again put the vessel on her proper course which a few moments later was to make her shoot past the revenue cutter. "wounded, madeleine! wounded through my fault! by the living god, they shall pay for this!" "oh," groaned molly, "something has cut me in the arm and shoulder." then rapidly gathering composure, "but it's not much, i can move it." at one glance the sailor saw from the position of the shot hole in the vessel's side that the wound could only have been made by a splinter. but the possibility of exposing his beloved to such another risk was not to be borne--a murderous rush of blood flew to his brain. the cutter, perceiving the tactics of the swifter schooner, was now tacking about with the intention of bringing the gun to bear upon her once more as she attempted to slip by. but captain jack in his new-fanned fury had made up his mind to a desperate cast of the die. "starboard, hard a starboard," he called out in a voice that his men had known well in old fighting days and which was heard as far as the cutter itself. "they shall not fire that gun again!" with a brief, "starboard it is, sir," the man who had taken the helm brought the ship round, and the silent, active crew in a trice were ready to go about. majestically the schooner changed her course, and as the meaning of the manoeuvre became fearfully apparent, shouts and oaths arose in confusion from the cutter. "what are you going to do?" eagerly asked molly, enthralled by the superb motion of the vessel under her foot as it swept round and increased speed upon the new tack. he held her in his arms. his hand had sought her wounded shoulder and pressed the lacerated spot in his effort to staunch the precious blood that rose warm through the cloth, torturing his cold fingers. "i am going to clear those men from our way to freedom and to love! i am going to sink that boat: they shall pay with their lives for this! come to the other side, madeleine, and watch how my stout _peregrine_ sweeps our course--and then i may see how these scoundrels have mangled you, my love. but, nay, this is no sight for you. hold on close to me, sweet, and hide your eyes while they go." he steadied himself firmly with one hand on the rigging. now musket shots flashed on board the cutter in quick succession, and sundry balls whizzed over the poop, intended for the helmsman by their side. captain jack gnashed his teeth, as the menacing drone of one of them came perilously close to the beloved head by his cheek. "look out, every man. we'll run her down!" he called. his voice was like the blast of bugles. cheers broke out from every part of the ship, drowning the yells of execration and the shouts of fear from below. and now, with irresistible sway, the rushing _peregrine_ heavy and powerful was closing and bearing down upon her frailer enemy. there was a spell of suspense when all was silence, save the rush and turmoil of the waters, and the flapping of the cutter's sails, helpless for the moment in the teeth of the breeze. like a charging steed the schooner seemed to leap at her foe. then came the shock. there was a brief check in her career, she rose by the head; the rigging strained and sighed, the masts swayed groaning, but stood. over the bows, in the darkness was heard a long-drawn crash, was seen a white wall of foaming water rising silently to break the next moment with a great roar. the cutter, struck obliquely amidships, was thrown straightway on her beam ends: the _peregrine_, with every sail spread and swollen, held her as the preying bird with outstretched wings holds its quarry, and pressed her down until she began to fill and settle. it was with wide-open eyes, with eager, throbbing heart that molly watched it all. "lights, my lads," cried captain jack, with a shout of exultation, when the anxious instant had passed. "take in every man you can save but handspike is the word for the first who shows fight! curwen, do you get her clear again." all around upon the deck, sprang rumour and turmoil, came shouts and sounds of scuffling and the rushing of feet; from the blank waters came piteous calls for help. but paying little heed to aught but molly, captain jack seized a lighted lantern from the hands of a passing sailor and drew her aside. fevered with pain and fascinated by the horror of fight and death's doings, yet instinctively remembering to pull her hood over her face, she allowed herself to be taken into the little deck cabin. he placed the lantern upon the table: "rest here," he said quickly, once more striving to see her beneath the jealous shade. "i must find out if anything is amiss on board the ship and attend to these drowning men--even before you, my darling! but i shall be back instantly. you are not faint?" the light shone full on his features which molly eagerly scanned from her safe recess. when she met his eyes, full of the triumph of love and hope, her soul broke into fierce revolt--again she felt upon her lips that kiss of young passionate love that had been the first her life had ever known ... and might be the last, for the disclosure was approaching apace. she was glad of the respite. "go," she said with as much firmness as she could muster. "let me not stand between you and your duty. i am strong." strong indeed--captain jack might have wondered whence had come to this gentle madeleine this lioness-strength of soul and body, had he had time to wonder, time for aught but his love thoughts and his fury, as he dashed back again panting for the moment when he could have her to himself. "any damage, curwen?" "bowsprit broken, and larboard bulwark stove in, otherwise everything has stood." "casualties?" "no, sir. we have three of the cutter's men on board already. they swarmed over the bows. one had his cutlass out and had the devil's impudence to claim the schooner, but a boat-hook soon brought him to reason. there they be, sir," pointing to a darker group huddled round the mast. "i have lowered the gig to see if we can pick up the others, damn them!" "as soon as they are all on board bring them aft, i will speak to them." when, with a master's eye, he had rapidly inspected his vessel from the hold to the rigging, without finding aught to cause anxiety for its safety, captain jack returned to the poop, and there found the party of prisoners arranged under the strong guard of his own crew. molly stood, wrapped up in her cloak, at the door of the cabin, watching. one of the revenue men came forward and attempted to speak--but the captain impatiently cut him short. "i have no time to waste in talk, my man," he said commandingly. "how many were you on board the cutter?" "nine," answered the man sullenly. "how many have we got here?" "six, sir," interposed curwen. "those three," pointing to three disconsolate and dripping figures, "were all we could pick up." "hark ye, fellows," said the captain. "you barred my road, i had to clear you away. you tried to sink me, i had to sink you. you have lost three of your ship-mates, you have yourselves to blame for it; your shot has drawn blood from one for whom i would have cut down forty times your number. i will send you back to shore. away with you! no, i will hear nothing. let them have the gig, curwen, and four oars." "and now god speed the _peregrine_," cried jack smith, as the revenue men pushed off in the direction of the light and the wind was again swelling every sail of his gallant ship. "we are well out of our scrape. shape her course for st. malo, curwen. if this wind holds we should be there by the nineteenth in the morning, at latest." chapter xxv the fight for the open as o'er the grass, beneath the larches there we gaily stepped, the high noon overhead, then love was born--was born so strong and fair. knowest thou! love is dead. _gipsy song._ at last he was free. he had wrested his bride and the treasure trusted to his honour from the snares so unexpectedly laid on his path; whatever troubles might remain stored against him in the dim distance of time, he would not reck them now. the present and the immediate future were full of splendour and triumph. all those golden schemes worked out under yonder light of scarthey--god bless it--now receding in the gloom behind his swift running ship, whether in the long watches of the night, or in the recent fevered resolves of imminent danger, they had come to pass after all! and she, the light of his life, was with him. she had trusted her happiness, her honour, herself, to his love. the thought illumined his brain with glory as he rushed back to the silent muffled figure that still stood awaiting his coming. "at last!" he said, panting in the excess of his joy; "at last, madeleine ... i can hardly believe it! but selfish brute that i am, you must be crushed with fatigue. my brave darling, you would make me forget your tender woman's frame, and you are wounded!" supporting her--for the ship, reaching the open sea, had begun to roll more wildly--he led her back into the little room now lighted by the fitful rays of a swinging lamp. with head averted, she suffered herself to be seated on a kind of sofa couch. when he had closed the door, he seized her hand, on which ran streaks of half-dried blood, and covered it with kisses. "ah, madeleine! here in the sanctuary i had prepared for you, where i thought you would be so safe, so guarded, tell me that you forgive me for having brought this injury to you. wounded, torn, bleeding.... i who would give all my blood, my life, if life were not so precious to me now that you have come into it, to save you from the slightest pain! at least here you are secure, here you can rest, but--but there is no one to wait on you, madeleine." he fell on his knees beside her. "madeleine, my wife, you must let me tend you." then, as she shivered slightly, but did not turn to him, he went on in tones of the most restrained tenderness mingled with humblest pleading: "had it not been for your accident, i had not ventured even to cross the threshold of this room. but your wound must be dressed; darling, darling, allow me, forgive me; the risk is too great." rising to his feet again he gently pulled at her cloak. molly spoke not a word, but untied it at the neck and let it fall away from her fair young body; and keeping her hooded face still rigidly averted, she surrendered her wounded arm. he muttered words of distress at the sight of the broad blood stains; stepped hurriedly to a little cupboard where such surgical stores as might be required on board were hoarded, and having selected scissors, lint, and bandages, came back and again knelt down by her side to cut off, with eager, compassionate hands, the torn and maculated sleeve. the wound was but a surface laceration, and a man would not have given a thought to it in the circumstances. but to see this soft, white woman's skin, bruised black in parts, torn with a horrid red gap in others; to see the beauty of this round arm thus brutally marred, thus twitching with pain--it was monstrous, hideously unnatural in the lover's eyes! with tenderness, but unflinchingly, he laved the mangled skin with cool, fresh water; pulled out, with far greater torture to himself than to her, some remaining splinters embedded in the flesh; covered the wound with lint, and finished the operation by a bandage as neat as his neat sailor's touch, coupled with some knowledge of surgery, gained in the experiences of his privateering days, could accomplish it. he spoke little: only a word of encouragement, of admiration for her fortitude now and then; and she spoke not at all during the ministration. she had raised her other hand to her eyes, with a gesture natural to one bracing herself to endurance, and had kept it there until, his task completed, her silence, the manner in which she hid her face from him awoke in him all that was best and loftiest in his generous heart. as he rose to his feet and stood before her, he too dared not speak for fear of bruising what he deemed an exquisite maidenliness, before which his manhood was abashed at itself. for some moments there was no sound in the cabin save that of the swift rushing waters behind the wooden walls and of the labour and life of the ship under full sail; then he saw the tumultuous rising of her bosom, and thought she was weeping. "madeleine," he cried with passionate anxiety, "speak! let me see your face--are you faint? lie upon this couch. let me get you wine--oh that these days were passed and i could call you wife and never leave you! madeleine, my love, speak!" molly rose to her feet, and with a gesture of anger threw off her hood and turned round upon him. and there in the light of the lamp, he glared like one distraught at the raven locks, the burning eyes of a strange woman. she was very pale. "no," said molly, defiantly, when twice or thrice his laboured breath had marked the passing of the horrible moment, "i am not madeleine." then she tried to smile; but unconsciously she was frightened, and the smile died unformed as she pursued at random: "you know me--perhaps by hearsay--as i know you, captain smith." but he, shivering under the coldness of his disappointment, answered in a kind of weary whisper: "who are you--you who speak with her voice, who stand at her height and move and walk as she does? i have seen you surely--ah, i know.... madam, what a cruel mockery! and she, where is she?" still staring at her with widely dilated eyes, he seized his forehead between his hands. the gesture was one of utter despair. before this weakness molly promptly resumed the superiority of self-possession. "yes," she said, and this time the smile came back to her face, "i am lady landale, and my sister madeleine--i grieve to have to say so--has not had that courage for which you gave her credit to-night." little was required at a moment like this to transmute such thoughts as seethed in the man's head to a burst of fury. fury is action, and action a relief to the strained heart. there was a half-concealed, unintended mockery in her tones which brought a sudden fire of anger to his eyes. he raised both hands and shook them fiercely above his head: "but why--why in the name of heaven--has such a trick been played on me ... at such a time?" he paused, and trembling with the effort, restrained himself to a more decent bearing before the woman, the lady, the friend's wife. his arms fell by his side, and he repeated in lower tones, though the flame of his gaze could not be subdued: "why this deception, this playing with the blindness of my love? why this comedy, which has already had one act so tragic?--yes, think of it, madam, think of the tragedy this is now in my life, since she is left behind and i never now, with these men's lives to account for, may go back and claim her who has given me her troth! already i staked the fortune of my trust, on the bare chance that she would come. what though her heart failed her at the eleventh hour?--god forgive her for it!--surely she never sanctioned this masquerade?... oh no! she would not stoop to such an act, and human life is not a thing to jest upon. she never played this trick, the thought is too odious. what have you done! had i known, had i had word sooner--but half an hour sooner--those corpses now rolling under the wave with their sunken ship would still be live men and warm.... and i--i should not be the hopeless outlaw, the actual murderer that this night's work has made of me!" his voice by degrees rose once more to the utmost ring of bitterness and anger. molly, who had restored her cloak to her shoulders and sat down, ensconced in it as closely as her swaddled arm would allow her, contemplated him with a curious mixture of delight and terror; delight in his vigour, his beauty, above everything in his mastery and strength; and delight again at the new thrill of the fear it imposed upon her daring soul. then she flared into rage at the thought of the coward of her blood who had broken faith with such a man as this, and she melted all into sympathy with his anger--a right proper man most cruelly used and most justifiably wrathful! and she, being a woman whose face was at most times as a book on which to read the working of her soul, there was something in her look, as in silence she listened and gazed upon him, which struck him suddenly dumb. such a look on a face so like, yet so unlike, that of his love was startling in the extreme--horrible. he stepped back, and made as if he would have rushed from the room. then bethinking himself that he was a madman, he drew a chair near her in a contrary mood, sat down, and fixed his eyes upon her very steadily. she dropped her long lids, and demurely composed her features by some instinct that women have, rather than from any sense of the impression she had produced. a little while they sat thus again in silence. in the silence, the rolling of the ship and the manner in which, as she raced on her way, she seemed to breathe and strain, worked in with the mood of each; in his, with the storm and stress of his soul; in hers, as the very expression of her new freedom and reckless pleasure. then he spoke; the strong emotion that had warmed her had now left his voice. it was cold and scornful. "madam, i await your explanation. so far, i find myself only the victim of a trick as unworthy and cruel as it is purposeless." she had delayed carrying out her mission with the most definite perverseness. she could not but acknowledge the justice of his reproof, realise the sorry part she must play in his eyes, the inexcusable folly of the whole proceeding, and yet she was strung to a very lively indignation by the tone he had assumed, and suddenly saw herself in the light of a most disinterested and injured virtue. "captain smith," she exclaimed, flashing a hot glance at him, "you assume strangely the right to be angry with me! be angry if you will with things as they are; rail against fate if you will, but be grateful to me.--i have risked much to serve you." the whole expression of his face changed abruptly to one of eager, almost entreating, inquiry. "do me the favour," she continued, "to look into the pocket of my cloak--my arm hurts me if i move--you will find there a letter addressed to you. i was adjured to see that it should reach you in safety. i promised to place it in your own hands. this could hardly have been done sooner, as you know." the words all at once seemed to alter the whole situation. he sprang up and came to her quickly. "oh, forgive me, make allowances for me, lady landale, i am quite distracted!" there had returned a tinge of hope into his voice. "where is it?" he eagerly asked, seeking, as directed, for the pocket. "ah!" and mechanically repeating, "forgive me!" he drew out the letter at last and retreated, feverishly opening it under the light of the lamp. molly had turned round to watch. up to this she had felt no regret for his disillusion, only an irritable heat of temper that he should waste so much love upon so poor an object. but now all her heart went to him as she saw the sudden greyness that fell on his face from the reading of the very first line; there was no indignation, no blood-stirring emotion; it was as if a cold pall had fallen upon his generous spirit. the very room looked darker when the fire within the brave soul was thus all of a sudden extinguished. he read on slowly, with a kind of dull obstinacy, and when he came to the miserable end continued looking at the paper for the moment. then his hand fell; slowly the letter fluttered to the floor, and he let his eyes rest unseeingly, wonderingly upon the messenger. after a little while words broke from him, toneless, the mere echo of dazed thoughts: "it is over, all over. she has lost her trust. she does not love me any more." he picked up the letter again, and sitting down placed it in front of him on the table. "'tis a cruel letter, madam, that you have brought me," he said then, looking up at molly with the most extraordinary pain in his eyes. "a cruel letter! yet i am the same man now that i was this morning when she swore she would trust me to the end--and she could not trust me a few hours longer! why did you not speak? one word from you as you stepped upon the ship would have saved my soul from the guilt of these men's death!" then with a sharper uplifting of his voice, as a new aspect of his misfortune struck him: "and you--you, too! what have i to do with you, adrian's wife? he does not know?" she did not reply, and he cried out, clapping his hands together: "it only wanted this. my god, it is i--i, his friend, who owes him so much, who am to cause him such fear, such misery! do you know, madam, that it is impossible that i should restore you to him for days yet. and then when, and where, and how? god knows! nothing must now come between me and my trust. i have already dishonourably endangered it. to attempt to return with you to-night, as perhaps you fancy i will--as, of course, i would instantly do had i alone myself and you to consider, would be little short of madness. it would mean utter ruin to many whom i have pledged myself to serve. and yet adrian--my honour pulls me two ways--poor adrian! what dumb devil possessed you that you did not speak before. had you no thought for your woman's good name? ill-fated venture, ill-fated venture, indeed! would god that shot had met me in its way--had only my task been accomplished!" he buried his head in his hands. lady landale flushed and paled alternately, parted her lips to speak, and closed them once more. what could she say, and how excuse herself? she did not repent what she had done, though it had been sin all round; she had little reck of her woman's good name, as he called it; the death of the excise men weighed but lightly, if at all, upon her conscience; the thought of adrian was only then a distasteful memory to be thrust away; nay--even this man's grief could not temper the wild joy that was in her soul to-night. fevered with fatigue, with excitement, by her wound, her blood ran burning in her veins, and beat faster in every pulse. and as she felt the ship rise and fall, and knew that each motion was an onward leap that separated her further and ever further from dull home and dull husband, and isolated her ever more completely with her sister's lover, she exulted in her heart. presently he lifted his head. "forgive me," he said, "i believe that you meant most kindly, and as you say, i should be grateful. your service is ill-requited by my reproaches, and you have run risk indeed--merciful heaven, had my old friend's wife been killed upon my ship through my doings! but you see i cannot command myself; you see how i am situated. you must forgive me. all that can be done to restore you to your home as soon as possible shall be done, and all, meanwhile, to mitigate the discomfort you must suffer here--and for your good intention to her and me, i thank you." he had risen, and now bowed with a dignity that sat on his sailor freedom in no wise awkwardly. she, too, with an effort, stood up as if to arrest his imminent departure. a tall woman, and he but of average height, their eyes were nearly on a level. for a second or two her dark gaze sought his with a strange hesitation, and then, as if the truth in him awoke all the truth in her, the natural daring of her spirit rose proudly to meet this kindred soul. she would let no falsehood, no craven feminine subterfuge intervene between them. "do not thank me," she exclaimed, glowing with a brilliant scorn in which the greatness of her beauty, all worn as she was, struck him into surprise, yet evoked no spark of admiration. "what i did i did, to gratify myself. oh, aye, if i were as other women i should smile and take your compliments, and pose as the martyr and as the self-sacrificing devoted sister. but i will not. it was nothing to me how madeleine got in or out of her love scrapes. i would not have gone one step to help her break her promise to you, or even to save your life, but that it pleased me so to do. madeleine has never chosen to make me her confidant. i would have let her manage her own affairs gaily, had i had better things to occupy my mind--but i had not, captain smith. life at pulwick is monotonous. i have roaming blood in my veins: the adventure tempted, amused me, fascinated me--and there you have the truth! of course i could have given the letter to the men and sent them back to you with it--it was not because of my promise that i did not do it. of course i could have spoken the instant i got on board, perhaps----" here a flood of colour dyed her face with a gorgeous conscious crimson, and a dimple faintly came and went at the corner of her mouth, "perhaps i would have spoken. but then, you must remember, you closed my lips!" "my god!" said captain jack, and looked at her with a sort of horror. but this she could not see for her eyes were downcast. "and now that i have come," she went on, and would have added, "i am glad i did," but that all of a sudden a new bashfulness came upon her, and she stammered instead, incoherently: "as for adrian--rené knew i had a message for you, and rené will tell him--he is not stupid--you know--rené, i mean." "i am glad," answered the man gravely, after a pause, "if you have reasonable grounds for believing that your husband knows you to be on my ship. he will then be the less anxious at your disappearance: for he knows too, madam, that his wife will be as honoured and as guarded in my charge as she would be in her mother's house." he bowed again in a stately way and then immediately left her. molly sank back upon her couch, and she could not have said why, burst into tears. she felt cold now, and broken, and her stiffening wound pained her. but nevertheless, as she lay upon the little velvet pillow, and wept her rare tears were strangling sobs, the very ache of her wound had a strange savour that she would not have exchanged for any past content. * * * * * rené, having obeyed his mistress's orders, and left her alone with the sailors on the beach, withdrew within the shelter of the door, but remained waiting, near enough to be at hand in case he should be called. it was still pitch dark and the rollers growled under a rough wind; he could catch the sound of a man's voice, now and again, between the clamour of the sea and the wuthering of the air, but could not distinguish a word. presently, however, this ceased, and there came to him the unmistakable regular beat of oars retreating. the interview was over, and breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that, at last, his master's friend would soon be setting on his way to safety, the servant emerged to seek her ladyship. a few minutes later he dashed into sir adrian's room with a livid face, and poured forth a confused tale: milady had landed without mademoiselle; had stopped to speak to two of the _peregrine_, whilst he waited apart. the men had departed in their boat. "the _peregrine_ men! but the ship has been out of sight these eight hours!" ejaculated sir adrian, bewildered. then, catching fear from his servant's distraught countenance: "my wife," he exclaimed, bounding up; and added, "you left her, renny?" the man struck his breast: he had searched and called.... my lady was nowhere to be found. "as god is my witness," he repeated, "i was within call. my lady ordered me to leave her. your honour knows my lady has to be obeyed." "get lanterns!" said sir adrian, the anguish of a greater dread driving the blood to his heart. even to one who knew the ground well, the isle of scarthey, on a black, stormy night, with the tide high, was no safe wandering ground. for a moment, the two--comrades of so many miserable hours--faced each other with white and haggard faces. then with the same deadly fear in their hearts, they hurried out into the soughing wind, down to the beach, baited on all sides by the swift-darting hissing surf. running their lanterns close to the ground, they soon found, by the trampled marks upon the sand, where the conclave had been held. from thence a double row of heavy footprints led to the shelving bit of beach where it was the custom for boats to land from seawards. "see, your honour, see," cried rené, in deepest agitation, "the print of this little shoe, here--and there, and here again, right down to the water's edge. thank god--thank god! my lady has had no accident. she has gone with the sailors to the boat. ah! here the tide has come--we can see no farther." "but why should she have gone with them?" came, after a moment, sir adrian's voice out of the darkness. "surely that is strange--and yet ... yes, that is indeed her foot-print in the sand." "and if your honour will look to sea, he will perceive the ship's lights yonder, upon the water. that is the captain's ship.... your honour, i must avow to you that i have concealed something from you--it was wrong, indeed, and now i am punished--but that poor monsieur the captain, i was so sorry for him, and he so enamoured. he had made a plan to lift off mademoiselle madeleine with him to-night, marry her in france; and that was why he came back again, at the risk of his life. he supplicated me not to tell you, for fear you would wish to prevent it, or think it your duty to. mademoiselle had promised, it seemed, and he was mad with her joy, the poor gentleman! and as sure of her faith as if she had been a saint in heaven. but my lady came alone, your honour, as i said. the courage had failed to mademoiselle, i suppose, at the last moment, and madame bore a message to the captain. but the captain was not able to leave his ship, it seems; and, my faith," cried mr. potter; his spirits rising, as the first ghastly dread left him, "the mystery explains itself! it is quite simple, your honour will see. as the captain did not come to the island, according to his promise to mademoiselle--he had good reasons, no doubt--madame went herself to his ship with her message. she had the spirit for it--ah! if mademoiselle had had but a little of it to-night, we should not be where we are!" sir adrian caught at the suggestion out of the depths of his despair. "you are right, renny, you must be right. yet, on this rough sea, in this black night--what madness! the boat, instantly; and let us row for those lights as we never rowed before!" even as the words were uttered the treble glimmer vanished. in vain they strained their eyes: save for the luminous streak cast by their own beacon lamp, the gloom was unbroken. "his honour will see, a boat will be landing instantly with my lady safe and sound," said rené at last. but his voice lacked confidence, and sir adrian groaned aloud. and so they stood alone in silence, forced into inaction, that most cruel addition to suspense, by the darkness and the waters which hemmed them in upon every side. the vision of twenty dangerous places where one impetuous footfall might have hurled his darling into the cruel beating waves painted themselves--a hideous phantasmagory--upon sir adrian's brain. had the merciless waters of the earth that had murdered the mother, grasped at the child's life also? he raised his voice in a wild cry, it seemed as if the wind caught it from him and tore it into shreds. "hark!" whispered rené, and clasped his master's icy hand. like an echo of sir adrian's cry, the far-off ring of a human voice had risen from the sea. again it came. "_c'est de la mer, monseigneur!_" panted the man; even as he spoke the darkness began to lift. above their heads, unnoticed, the clouds had been rifted apart beneath the breath of the north wind; the horizon widened, a misty wing-like shape was suddenly visible against the receding gloom. the captain's ship! the _peregrine_! as master and man peered outward as if awaiting unconsciously some imminent solution from the gliding spectre, it seemed as if the night suddenly opened on the left to shoot forth a burst of red fire. a few seconds later, the hollow boom of cannon shook the air around them. sir adrian's nails were driven into rené's hands. the flaming messenger had carried to both minds an instant knowledge of the new danger. "great heavens!" muttered adrian. "he will surrender; he must surrender! he could not be so base, so wicked, as to fight and endanger _her_!" but the servant's keener sight, trained by long stormy nights of watching, was following in its dwindling, mysterious course that misty vision in which he thought to recognize the _peregrine_. "_elle file, elle file joliment la goëlette!_ mother of heaven, there goes the gun again! i never thought my blood would turn to water only to hear the sound of one like this. but your honour must not be discouraged; he can surely trust the captain. ah, the clouds--i can see no more." the wild blast gathering fresh droves of vapour from the huddled masses on the horizon was now, in truth, herding them fiercely across the spaces it had cleared a few moments before. confused shouts, strange clamour seemed to ring out across the waves to the listeners: or it might have been only the triumphant howlings of the rising storm. "will not your honour come in? the rain is falling." "no, renny, no, give me my lantern again, friend, and let us examine anew." both knew it to be of no avail, but physically and mentally to move about was, at least, better than to stand still. step by step they scanned afresh the sand, the shingle, the rocks, the walls, to return once more to the trace of the slender feet, leading beside the great double track of heavy sea boots to the water's edge. sir adrian knelt down and gazed at the last little imprint that seemed to mock him with the same elusive daintiness as molly herself, as if he could draw from it the answer to the riddle. rené endeavouring to stand between his master and the driving blast laid down his lantern too, and strove by thumping his breast vigorously to infuse a little warmth into his numbed limbs and at the same time to relieve his overcharged feelings. as he paused at length, out of breath, the noise of a methodical thud and splash of oars arose, above the tumult of the elements, very near to them, upon their left. sir adrian sprang to his feet. "she returns, she returns," shouted rené, capering, in the excess of the sudden joy, and waving his lantern; then he sent forth a vigorous hail which was instantly answered close by the shore. "hold up your light, your honour--ah, your honour, did i not say it?--while i go to help madame. now then, you others down there," running to the landing spot, "make for the light!" the keel ground upon the shingle. "my lady first," shouted rené. some one leaped up in the boat and flung him a rope with a curse. "the lady, ay, ay, my lad, you'd better go and catch her yourself. there she goes," pointing enigmatically behind him with his thumb. sir adrian, unable to restrain his impatience, ran forward too, and threw the light of his lantern upon the dark figures now rising one by one and pressing forward. five or six men, drenched from head to foot, swearing and grumbling; with faces pinched with cold, all lowering with the same expression of anger and resentment and shining whitely at him out of the confusion. he saw the emptying seats, the shipped oars, the name _peregrine_ in black letters upon the white paint of the dingey; and she?... she was not there! the revulsion of feeling was so cruel that for a while he seemed turned to stone, even his mind becoming blank. the waves lashed in up to his knees; he never felt them. rené's strong hands came at last to drag him away, and then rené's voice, in a hot whisper close to his ear, aroused him: "it is good news, your honour, after all, good news. my lady is on board the _peregrine_. i made these men speak. they are the revenue men--that god may damn them! and they were after the captain; but he ran down their cutter, that brave captain. and these are all that were saved from her, for she sank like a stone. the _peregrine_ is as sound as a bell, they say--ah, she is a good ship! and the captain, out of his kind heart, sent these villains ashore in his own boat, instead of braining them or throwing them overboard. but they saw a lady beside him the whole time, tall, in a great black cloak. my lady in her black cloak, just as she landed here. of course monsieur the captain could not have sent her back home with these brigands then--not even a message--that would have compromised his honour. but his honour can see now how it is. and though my lady has been carried out to sea, he knows now that she is safe." chapter xxvi the three colours the sun was high above the welsh hills; the _peregrine_ had sheered her way through a hundred miles or more of fretted waters before her captain, in his hammock slung for the nonce near the men's quarters, stirred from his profound sleep--nature's kind restorer to healthy brain and limbs--after the ceaseless fatigue and emotions of the last thirty-six hours. as he leaped to his feet out of the swinging canvas, the usual vigour of life coursing through every fibre of him, he fell to wondering, in half-awake fashion, at the meaning of the unwonted weight lurking in some back recess of consciousness. then memory, the ruthless, arose and buffeted his soul. the one thing had failed him without which all else was as nothing; fate, and his own hot blood, had conspired to place his heart's desire beyond all reasonable hope. certain phrases in madeleine's letter crossed and re-crossed his mind, bringing now an unwonted sting of anger, now the old cruel pain of last night. the thought of the hateful complication introduced into his already sufficiently involved affairs by the involuntary kidnapping of his friend's wife filled him with a sense of impotent irritation, very foreign to his temper; and as certain looks and words of the unwished-for prisoner flashed back upon him, a hot colour rose, even in his solitude, to his wholesome brown cheek. but in spite of all, in spite of reason and feeling alike his essential buoyancy asserted itself. he could not despair. he had not been given this vigour of soul and body to sit down under misfortune. resignation was for the poor of heart; only cravens gave up while it was yet possible to act. his fair ship was speeding with him as he loved to feel her speed; around him spread the vast spaces in which his spirit rejoiced--salt sea and vaulted heavens; the full air of the open, the brisk dash of the wind filled him with physical exhilaration at every breath, and tingled in his veins; the sporting blood, which had come to him from generations of hunting squires, found all its craving satisfied in this coursing across the green ocean fields, and the added element of danger was as the sting of the brine to his palate. what--despair now? with his perilous enterprise all but accomplished, the whole world, save one country, before him, and madeleine unwed! another might, but not jack smith; not hubert cochrane! he was actually trolling out the stave of a song as he sprang up the companion ladder after his rough breakfast in the galley, but the sound expired at the sight of the distant flutter of a woman's scarf in the stern of the ship. he halted and ran his fingers through his crisp hair with an expressive gesture of almost comical perplexity; all would be plain sailing enough, with hope at the prow again, but for this--he stamped his foot to choke down the oath of qualification--this encumbrance. adrian's wife and madeleine's sister, as such entitled to all honour, all care, and devotion; and yet, as such again, hideously, doubly unwelcome to him! as he stood, biting his lips, while the gorgeous sunshine of the young spring morning beat down upon his bare head, the brawny figure of the mate, his mahogany-tinted face wrinkled into as stiff a grin as if it had been indeed carved out of the wood in question, intervened between his abstracted gaze and the restless amber beyond. "it's a fine day, sir," by way of opening conversation. the irrepressible satisfaction conveyed by the wide display of tobacco-stained teeth, by the twinkle in the hard, honest eyes called up a queer, rueful grimace to the other man's face. "do you know, curwen," he said, "that you brought me the wrong young lady last night?" the sailor jumped back in amazement. "the wrong young lady, sir," staring with starting, incredulous eyeballs, "the wrong, young lady!" here he clapped his thigh, "well of all--the wrong young lady! are you quite sure, sir?" captain jack laughed aloud. but it was with a bitter twist at the corners of his lips. "well i'm----," said poor curwen. all his importance and self-satisfaction had left him as suddenly as the starch a soused collar. he scanned his master's face with almost pathetic anxiety. "oh, i don't blame you--you did your part all right. why, i myself fell into the same mistake, and we had not much time for finding it out, had we? the lady you see--the lady--she is the other lady's sister and she came with a message. and so we carried her off before we knew where we were--or she either," added captain jack as a mendacious after thought. "well i'm----," reiterated curwen who then rubbed his scrubby, bristling chin, scratched his poll and finally broke into another grin--this time of the kind classified as sheepish. "and what'll be to do now?" "by the god that made me, i haven't a notion! we must take all the care of her we can, of course. serve her her meals in her cabin, as was arranged, and see that she is attended to, just as the other young lady would have been you know, only that i think she had better be served alone, and i shall mess downstairs as usual. and then if we can leave her at st. malo, we shall. but it must be in all safety, curwen, for it's a terrible responsibility. happily we have now the time to think. meanwhile i have slept like a log and she--i see is astir before me." "lord bless you, sir, she has been up these two hours! walking the deck like a sailor, and asking about things and enjoying them like. ah, she is a rare lady, that she is! and it is the wrong one--well this is a go! and i was remarking to bill baxter, just now, that it was just our captain's luck to have found such a regular sailor's young woman, so i said--begging pardon for the word. and not more than he is worth, says he, and so said i also. and she the wrong lady after all! well, it's a curious thing, sir, nobody could be like to guess it from her. she's a well-plucked one, with her wound and all. she made me look at it this morning, when i brought her a cup of coffee and a bite: 'you're old enough to be my father,' says she, as pretty as can be, 'so you shall be doctor as well as lady's maid; and, if you've got a girl of your own, it'll be a story to tell her by the fire at night, when you're home again,' so she said; and never winced when i put my great fingers on her arm. i was all of a tremble, i declare, with her a smiling up at me, but the wound--it's doing finely; healing as nice as ever i see, and not a sign of sickness on her. the very lady as i was saying, for our captain--but here she comes." this was an unwontedly long speech for curwen; and, silent again, he effaced himself discreetly, just in time to avoid the angry ejaculation that had sprung to his captain's lips, but not without a backward glance of admiration at the tall, alert figure now bearing down in their direction with steps already firmly balanced to the movement of the ship. at a little distance from captain jack, molly paused as if to scrutinise the horizon, and enjoy the invigorating atmosphere. in reality her heart was beating fast, her breath came short; and the gaze she flung from the faint outline of coast upon one side to the vast monotony of sparkling sea upon the other conveyed no impression to her troubled mind. the next instant he was by her side. as she smiled at him, he noticed that her face was pale, and her eyes darkly encircled. "ah, madam," said he, as he drew close and lifted his hand to his head, with a gesture of formal courtesy that no doubt somewhat astonished a couple of his men who were watching the group with covert smiles and nudges, being as yet unaware of the misadventure, "you relieve my mind of anxiety. how is the arm? does it make you suffer much? no! you must be strong indeed." "yes, i am strong," answered she, and flushed, and looked out across the sea, inhaling the air with dilated nostrils. within her, her soul was crying out to him. it was as if there was a tide there, as fierce and passionate as the waves around her, all bearing, straining to him, and this with a struggle and flow so resistless, that she could neither remember the past, nor measure the future, but only feel herself carried on, beaten and tossed upon these great waters, like a helpless wreck. "i trust you are well attended to," began the man constrainedly again. "i fear you will have to endure much discomfort. i had reckoned----." here he halted galled by the thought of what it was he had reckoned upon, the thought of the watchful love that was to have made of the little ship a very nest for his bride, of the exquisite joy it was to have harboured! and he set his teeth at fate. she played for a while with her little finger tips upon the rail, then turned her gaze, full and bold, upon him. "i do not complain," she said. he bowed gravely. "we will do our best for you, and if you will take patience, the time will pass at last, as all time passes. i have a few books, they shall be brought into your cabin. in three days we shall be in st. malo--there, if you like----" he hesitated, embarrassed. "there!" echoed lady landale with her eyes still fixed upon his downcast face--"if i like--what?" "we could leave you----" her bosom rose and fell quickly with stormy breaths. "alone, moneyless, in a strange town--that is well and kindly thought!" she said. whence had come to her this strange power of feeling pain? she had not known that one could suffer in one's heart like this; she, whose quarrel with life hitherto had been for its too great comfort, security and peace. she felt a lump rise to her throat, and tears well into her eyes, blurring all the sunlit vision and she turned her head away and beat her sound left hand clenched upon the ledge. "before heaven," cried jack, distressed out of his unnatural stiffness, "you mistake me, lady landale! i am only anxious to do what is best for you, what adrian would wish. to leave you alone, deserted, helpless at st. malo, you could not have thought i should mean that? no, indeed, i would have seen you into safe hands, in some comfortable hotel, with a maid to wait upon you--i know of such a place--adrian could not have been long in coming to fetch you. i should have had a letter ready to post to him the instant we landed. as to money," flushing boyishly, "that is the least consideration--there is no dearth of that to fear. if you prefer it i can, however, convey you somewhere upon the english coast after we quit st. malo; but that will entail a longer residence for you here on board ship; and it is no fit place for you." still looking out across the sea, molly replied, in a deep shaken voice, unlike her own, "you did not think it unfit for my sister." "your sister? but your sister was to have been my wife!" burning through the mists of her unshed tears once more her glance returned to his: "and i--" she cried and here was suddenly silent again, gazing at the thin circlet of gold upon her left hand, beneath the flashing diamonds. after a moment then, she broke out fiercely--"oh do with me what you will, but for god's sake leave me in peace!" and stamping, turned her shoulder on him to stare straight outwards as before. captain jack drew back, paused an instant, clutched his hair with a desperate gesture and slowly walked away. * * * * * the voyage of the _peregrine_ was as rapid as her captain had hoped, and the dawn of the fourth day broke upon them from behind the french coast, where normandy joins old armorica. for a little while, lady landale, awakened from her uneasy sleep by the unusual stir on deck, lay languidly watching the light as it filtered through the port-hole of her little cabin, the colours growing out of greyness on the walls; listening to the tramp of feet and the mate's husky voice without. then her heart tightened with a premonition of the coming separation. she sat up and looked out of her window: as the horizon rose and fell giddily to her eye there lay the fatal line of land. the land of her blood but to her now, the land of exile! she had seen but little of captain jack these last two days; interchanged but few and formal words with him, now and then, as they met morning and evening or came across each other during the day. she felt that he avoided her. but she had seen him, she had heard his voice, they had been close to each other upon the great seas, however divided, and this had been something to feed upon. now what prospect before her hungry heart but--starvation? at least the last precious moments should not be lost to her. she rose and dressed in haste; a difficult operation in her maimed state. before leaving her narrow quarters, she peered into the looking-glass with an eagerness she had never displayed in the days of her vain girlhood. "what a fright!" she said to the anxious face that looked back at her with yearning eyes and dark burning lips. and she thought of madeleine's placid fairness as cain might of abel's modest altar. when she emerged upon deck, a strange and beautiful scene was spread to her gaze. a golden haze enveloped the water and the coast, but out of it, in brown jagged outline, against the blazing background of glowing sunlight rose the towers, the pointed roofs and spires of that old corsair's hive, st. malo. the waters were bright green, frothed with oily foam around the ship. the masts cast strange long black shadows, and molly saw one spring from her own feet as she moved into the morning glow. the _peregrine_, she noticed, was cruising parallel with the coast, instead of making for the harbour, and just now all was very still on board. two men, conspicuous against the yellow sky, stood apart, a little forward, with their backs turned to her. one of these was captain jack, gazing steadily at the town through a telescope; the other the mate. both were silent. silently herself and unnoticed molly went up and stood beside them; observing her sister's lover as intently as he that unknown distant point, she presently saw the lean hand nearest her tremble ever so slightly as it held the glass; then he turned and handed it to his companion, saying briefly, "see what you make of it." the man lifted the glass, set it, looked, dropped his hand and faced his captain. their eyes met, but neither spoke for a second or two. "it is so, then?" said the captain at last. "aye, sir, no mistake about that. there's the tricolour up again--and be damned to it--as large as life, to be sure!" the healthy tan of the captain's face had not altered by one shade; his mouth was set in its usual firm line, but, by the intuition of her fiery soul, the woman beside him knew that he had received a blow. "a strange thing," went on curwen in a grumbling guttural bass, "and it's only a year ago since they set up the old white napkin again. you did not look for this, sir?" he too had his intuitions. "no, curwen, it is the last thing i looked for. and it spells failure to me--failure once more!" as he spoke he turned his head slightly and perceiving molly standing close behind him glanced up sharply and frowned, then strove to smooth his brow into conventional serenity and greeted her civilly. curwen, clenching his hard hands together round the telescope, retired a step and stood apart, still hanging on his captain's every gesture like a faithful dog. "what does it mean?" asked molly, disregarding the morning salutation. "it means strange things to france," responded captain jack slowly, with a bitter smile; "and to me, madam, it means that i have come on a wild goose chase----" he stretched out his hand for the glass once more as he spoke--although even by the naked eye the flag, minute as it was, could be seen to flash red in the breeze--and sought the far-off flutter again; and then closing the instrument with an angry snap, tossed it back. "but what does it mean?" reiterated molly, a wild impatience, a wild hope trembling in her breast. "it means, madam, that i have brought my pigs to the wrong market," cried captain jack, still with the smile that sat so strangely upon his frank lips; "that the goods i have to deliver, i cannot deliver. for if there is any meaning in symbols, by the wave of that tricolour yonder the country has changed rulers again. my dealings were to be with the king's men, and as they are not here, at least, no longer in power--how could they be under that rag?--i must even trot the cargo home again. not a word to the men, curwen, but give the order to sheer off! we have lowered the blue, white and red too often, have not we? to risk a good english ship, unarmed, under the nozzles of those republican or imperial guns." the man grinned. the two could trust each other. molly turned away and moved seawards, for she knew that the joy upon her face was not to be hidden. captain jack fell to pacing the deck with bent head, and long, slow steps. absorbed in dovetailing the last secret arrangements of his venture, and more intent still, during his very few hours of idleness, on the engrossing thought of love, he had had no knowledge of the extraordinary challenge to fate cast by bonaparte, of that challenge which was to end in the last and decisive clash of french and english hosts. he had not even heard of the corsican's return to france with his handful of grenadiers, for newspapers were scarce at scarthey. but even had he heard, like the rest of the world, he would no doubt have thought no more of it than as a mad freak born of the vanquished usurper's foolhardy restlessness. but the conclave of plenipotentiaries assembled at vienna were not more thunderstruck when, on that very th of march, the semaphore brought them news of the legitimate king of france once more fled, and of his country once more abandoned to the hated usurper, than was captain jack as he watched the distant flagstaff in the sunrise, and saw, when the morning port gun had vomited forth its white cloud on the ramparts of st. malo, the fatal stripes run up the slender line in lieu of the white standard. but jack smith's mind, like his body, was quick in action. the sun had travelled but a degree or two over the wide undulating land, the mists were yet rising, when suddenly he halted, and called the mate in those commanding tones that had, from the first time she had heard them, echoed in molly's heart: "bring her alongside one of those smacks yonder, the furthest out to sea." thereupon followed curwen's hoarse bellow, an ordered stampede upon the deck, and gracefully, with no more seeming effort than a swan upon a garden pond, the _peregrine_ veered and glided towards the rough skiff with its single ochre sail and its couple of brown-faced fishermen, who had left their nets to watch her advance. captain jack leant over the side, his hands over his mouth, and hailed them in his british-french--correct enough, but stiff to his tongue, as molly heard and smiled at, and loved him for, in woman's way, when she loves at all. "ahoy, the friend! a golden piece for him who will come on board and tell the news of the town." a brief consultation between the fisher pair. "_un écu d'or_," repeated captain jack. then there was a flash of white teeth on the two weather-beaten faces. "_on y va, patron_," cried one of the fellows, cheerfully, and jumped into his dinghey, while his comrade still stared and grinned, and the stalwart lads of the _peregrine_ grinned back at the queer foreign figure with the brown cap and the big gold earrings. soon the fisherman's bare feet were thudding on the deck, and he stood before the english captain, cap in hand, his little, quick black eyes roaming in all directions, over the wonders of the beautiful white ship, with innocent curiosity. but before captain jack could get his tongue round another french phrase, molly, detaching herself from her post of observation, came forward, smiling. "let me speak to him," she said, "he will understand me better, and it will go quicker. what is it you want to know?" captain jack hesitated a moment, saw the advantage of the suggestion, and then accepted the offer with the queer embarrassment that always came over him in his relations with her. "you are very good," he said. "oh, i like to talk the father and mother tongue," she said, gaily and sweetly. her eyes danced; he had never seen her in this mood, and, as before, grudgingly had to admit her beauty. "and if you will allow it," she went on, "i am glad to be of use too." the fisherman, twirling his cap in his knotted fingers, stared at her open mouthed. _une si belle dame!_ like a queen and speaking his tongue that it was a music to listen to. this was in truth a ship of marvels. _ah, bon dieu, oui, madame_, there were news at st. malo, but it depended upon one's feelings whether they were to be regarded as good or bad--_dame_, every one has one's opinions--but for him--_pourvu qu'on lui fiche la paix_--what did it matter who sat on the throne--his majesty the king--his majesty the emperor, or citizen bonaparte. oh, a poor fisherman, what was it to him? he occupied himself with his little fishes, not with great folk. (another white-teethed grin.) what had happened? _parbleu_, it began by the military, those accursed military (this with a cautious look around, and gathering courage by seeing no signs of disapproval, proceeding with greater volubility). the poor town was full of them, infantry and artillery; regiments of young devils--and a band of old ones too. the veterans of _celui là_ (spitting on the deck contemptuously) they were the worst; that went without saying. a week ago there came a rumour that he had escaped--was in france--and then the ferment began--duels every day--rows in the cafés, fights in the ports. at night one would hear shouts in the streets--_vive l'empereur!_ and it spread, it spread. _ma foi_--one regiment mutinied, then another--and then it was known that the emperor had reached paris. oh, then it was warm! all those gentlemen, the officers who were for the king, were arrested. then there was a grand parade on the _place d'armes_--yes, he went there too, though he did not care much about soldiers. all the garrison was there. the colonel of the veterans came out with a flag in its case. _portez armes!_ good. they pull out the flag from the case: it's the old tricolour with the eagle on the top! _presentez armes!_ and this time it was all over. ah, one should have seen that, heard the houras, seen the bonfires! _monsieur le maire_ and the rest, appointed by the king, they were in a great fright, they had to give way--what does madame say? traitors? oh, _bédame_ (scratching his head), it was no joke with the military just now--the whole place was under military law and, _saperlotte_, when the strong commands it is best for the weak to obey. as for him, he was only a poor fisherman. what did he know? he was not a politician: every one to his trade. so long as they let one have the peace--he thanked the gentleman, thanked him much; thanked the lady, desired to wish her the good-morning and _monsieur_ too. did they like no little fresh soles this morning? he had some leaping then below in his boat. no? well the good-morning then. they had heard enough. the fisherman paddled back to his skiff, and molly stood watching from a little distance the motionless figure of the captain of the _peregrine_ as with one hand clenching the hand-rail he gazed towards st. malo with troubled eyes. after a few minutes curwen advanced and touched him lightly on the arm. captain jack turned slowly to look at him: his face was a little pale and his jaw set. but the mate, who had served under him since the day he first stepped upon the old _st. nicholas_, a gallant, fair-faced lad (and who knew "every turn of him," as he would have expressed it himself), saw that he had taken his decision; and he stepped back satisfied, ready to shape his course for the near harbour, or for the pacific ocean, or back to scarthey itself at his master's bidding. "call the men up," said the captain, "they have earned their bounty and they shall have it. though their skipper is a poorer man than he thought to be, by this fool's work yonder, his good lads shall not suffer. tush, man, that's the order--not a word. and after that, curwen, let her make for the sea again, northwards." chapter xxvii the light again--the lady and the cargo does not all the blood within me leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, as the spring to meet the sunshine! _hiawatha._ "curwen," said captain jack, suddenly--the two stood together at the helm on the afternoon of the same day, and the _peregrine_ was once more alone, a speck upon the waste of waters, "i have made up my mind to return to scarthey." the mate wagged his bushy eyebrows and shifted his hand on the helm. "ay, ay, sir," he said, after just an instant's pause. "i would not run you and the men into unnecessary danger, that you may be sure of; but the fact is, curwen, i'm in a devil of a fix all round. there's no use hiding it from you. and, all things considered, to land the lady and the cargo at the lighthouse itself, gives me as fair a chance of getting out of it as any plan i can think of. the cargo's not all my own and it's a valuable one, i daresay you have guessed as much; and it's not the kind we want revenue men to pry into. i could not unload elsewhere that i know of, without creating suspicion. as to storing it elsewhere, it's out of the question. scarthey's the place, though it's a damned risky one just now! but we've run many a risk together in our day, have we not?" "ay, sir; who's afraid?" "then there's the lady," lowering his voice; "she's lady landale, my friend's wife, the wife of the best friend ever man had. ay, you remember him, i doubt not--the gentleman seaman of the _porcupine_--i owe him more than i can ever repay, and he owes me something too. that sort of thing binds men together; and see what i have done to him--carried off his wife!" curwen grunted, enigmatically, and disengaged a hand to scratch his chin. "i must have speech with him. i must, it is enough to drive me mad to think what he may be thinking of me. what i purpose is this: we'll disguise the ship as far as we can (we have the time), paint her a new streak and alter those topsails, change the set of the bowsprit and strike out her name." "that's unlucky," said the mate. "unlucky, is it? well, she's not been so lucky this run that we need fear to change the luck. then, curwen, we'll slip in at night at a high tide, watching for our opportunity and a dark sky; we'll unship the cargo, and then you shall take command of her and carry her off to the east coast and wait there, till i am able to send you word or join you. it will only be a few hours danger for the men, after all." still keeping his seaman eye upon the compass, curwen cleared his throat with a gruesome noise. then in tones which seemed to issue with difficulty from some immense depth: "beg pardon, sir," he said, "that ain't a bargain." "how now?" cried his captain, sharply. "no, sir," rolling his head portentously; "that don't run to a bargain, that don't. the lads of the _peregrine_ 'll stick to their skipper through thick and thin. i'll warrant them, every man jack of them; and if there was one who grumbled, i'd have my knife in him before another caught the temper from him--i would, or my name's not curwen. if ye bid us steer to hell we'll do it for you, sir, and welcome. but for to go and leave you there--no, sir, it can't be done." captain jack gave a little laugh that was as tender as a woman's tear. curwen rolled his head again and mumbled to himself: "it can't be done." then jack smith clapped his hand on the sailor's shoulder. "but it's got to be done!" he cried. "it is the only thing you can do to help me, curwen. to have our _peregrine_ out in the daylight on that coast would be stark madness--no disguise could avail her, and you can't change your ugly old phiz, can you? as for me, i must have a few days on shore, danger or no danger. ah, curwen," with a sudden, passionate outbreak, "there are times when a man's life is the least of his thoughts!" "couldn't i stop with you, sir?" "i would not trust the ship to another, and you would double the risk for me." "i could double a blow for you too," cried the fellow, hoarsely. "but if it's got to be--it must be. i'll do it, sir." "i count on it," said the captain, briefly. as the ring of his retreating steps died away upon his ear the mate shook his head in melancholy fashion: "women," he said, "is very well, i've nought to say against them in their way. and the sea's very well--as i ought to know. but women and the sea, it don't agree. they's jealous one of the other and a man gets torn between." as molly sat in her cabin, watching the darkening sky outside with dreaming eyes, she started on seeing captain jack approach, and instead of passing her with cold salute, halt and look in. "i would speak a word with you," he said. "on deck, then," said molly. she felt somehow as if under the broad heaven they were nearer each other than in that narrow room. the sea was rough, the wind had risen and still blew from the north, it was cold; but her blood ran too fast these days to heed it. she drew one of the capes of her cloak over her head and staggering a little, for the schooner, sailing close to the wind, pitched and rolled to some purpose, she made for her usual station at the bulwarks. "well?" she asked. he briefly told her his purpose of returning to scarthey direct. her eye dilated; she grew pale. "is that not dangerous?" he made a contemptuous gesture. "but they must be watching for you on that coast. you have sunk the boat--killed those men. to return there--my god, what folly!" "i must land my goods, madam. you forget that i have more contraband on board than, smuggler as i am, even i bargained for." "if it is for me?--i would rather fling myself into the waves this instant than that you should expose yourself to danger." "then i should fling myself after you, and that would be more dangerous still." he smiled a little mockingly upon her as he spoke; but the words called a transient fire into her face. "you would risk your life to save me?" she cried. "to save adrian's wife, madam." "_bah!_" he would have gone then, but she held him with her free hand. she was again white to the lips. but her eyes--how they burned! he would have given all his worth to avoid what he felt was coming. a woman, at such a juncture may forbid speech, or deny her ear: a man, unless he would seem the first of josephs or the last of coxcombs, dare not even hint at his unwelcome suspicions. "i will not have you go into this danger, i will not!" stammered molly incoherently. the dusk was spreading, and her eyes seemed to grow larger and larger in the uncertain light. "lady landale, you misunderstand. it is true that to see you safely restored to your husband's roof is an added reason for my return to scarthey--but were you not on board, i should go all the same. i will tell you why, it is a secret, but you shall know it. i have treasures on board, vast treasures confided to me, and i must store them in safety till i can give them back to their rightful owners. this i can only do at scarthey--for to cruise about with such a cargo indefinitely is as impossible as to land it elsewhere. and more than this, had i not that second reason, i have yet a third that urges me to scarthey still." "for madeleine?" she whispered, and her teeth gleamed between her lips. he remained silent and tried gently to disengage himself from her slender fingers, but the feeling of their frailness, the knowledge of her wound, made her feeble grasp as an iron vice to his manliness. she came closer to him. "do you not remember then--what she has said to you? what she wrote to you in cold blood--the coward--in the very moment when you were staking your life for love of her? i remember, if you do not--'you have deceived me,' she wrote, and her hand never trembled, for the words ran as neatly and primly as ever they did in her convent copy books. 'you are not what you represented yourself to be--you have taken advantage of the inexperience of an ignorant girl, i have been deluded and deceived. i never wish to see you, to hear of you again.'" "for heaven's sake, lady landale----" cried the man fiercely. molly laughed--one of those laughs that have the ring of madness in them. "do i not remember? ah, that is not all! she knows you now for what you are, knows what your 'mission' is--but you must not believe she writes in anger. no, she----" captain jack's patience could bear no further strain. "be silent," he commanded fiercely, and wrenched his arm away to face her with menacing eyes. "ah, does it rouse so much anger in you even to hear repeated what she did not hesitate to write, did not hesitate to allow me to read? and yet you love her? if you had seen her, if you knew her as i do! i tell you she means it; when she wrote that she was not angry; it was the truth--she did it in cold blood. she loved you, you think, and yet she believed you a liar; she loved you, and she thinks you a traitor to all she holds dear. she believes that of _you_, and you ... you love her still!" "lady landale!" "listen--she could never love you, as you should be loved. she was not born your kin. between you and her there is nothing--nothing but your own fancy. do not risk your life again for her--your life!" she stopped, drew her breath with a long gasp, the spray from a turbulent wave came dashing across the bows into her face, and as once the blood of cécile de savenaye had been roused by the call of the wild waters to leave safety and children and seek her doom, so now the blood she had transmitted to her child, leaped to the same impulse and bore her onwards with irresistible force. "when," she pursued, "in the darkness you took me in your arms and kissed me; what did the touch of my lips bring to you? my lips, not madeleine's.... were you not happy then? oh, you were, do not deny it, i felt, i knew our souls met! my soul and yours, not yours and madeleine's. and i knew then that we were made for each other. the sea and the wide free life upon it: it draws me as it draws you; it was that drew me to you before i had ever seen you. listen, listen. do not go to scarthey--you have your beautiful ship, your faithful crew--there are rich and wonderful worlds, warm seas that beckon. you can have life, money, adventure--and love, love if you will. take it, take me with you! what should i care if you were an adventurer, a smuggler, a traitor? what does anything matter if we are only together? let us go, we have but one life, let us go!" bereft of the power of movement he stood before her, and the sweat that had gathered upon his brow ran down his face. but, as the meaning of her proposition was borne in upon him, a shudder of fury shook him from head to foot. no man should have offered dishonour to jack smith and not have been struck the next instant at his feet. but a woman--a woman, and adrian's wife! "lady landale," he said, after a silence during which the beating of her heart turned her sick and cold, and all her fever heat fell from her, leaving nothing but the knowledge of her shame, her misery, her hopeless love. "lady landale, let me bring you back to your cabin--it is late." she went with him as one half-conscious. at the door she paused. the light from within fell upon his face, deeply troubled and white, but upon the lips and brows, what scorn! he was a god among men.... how she loved him, and he scorned her! poor murthering moll! she looked up. "have you no word for me?" she cried passionately. "only this, lady landale: i will forget." * * * * * back towards the distant northern light the schooner clove her valiant way in spite of adverse winds and high seas. the return journey was slower than the outward, and since the second day of it the lady kept much to her cabin, while the captain would pace the deck till far into the night, with unwonted uneasiness. to him the white wings of his _peregrine_ were bearing him all too slowly for endurance, while to the stormy woman's heart that beat through the night watches in passionate echo to his restless tread, every instant that passed but brought nearer the prospect of a future so intolerable that she could not bring herself to face it. a gloom seemed to have come over the tight little craft, and to have spread even to the crew, who missed the ring of their captain's jolly laugh and the sound of his song. when, within a day's sail of the goal, the planned disguise was finally carried out upon the schooner's fair sides and rigging, her beautiful stretch of sail curtailed, and her name (final disgrace), superseded by the unmeaning title of _the pretty jane_, open murmurs broke out which it required all curwen's severity--and if the old martinet did not execute the summary justice he had threatened he was quite equal to the occasion nevertheless--and all jack's personal influence to quell. the dawn of the next day crept gloomily upon a world of rain; with long faces the men paddled about the deck, doing their duty in silence; curwen's old countenance, set into grimmer lines than ever, looked as if it had just been detached from the prow of some vessel after hard experience of stress and storm. the spirits of the captain alone seemed to rise in proportion as they drew nearer land. "the moon sets at half-past eleven," he said to curwen, "but we need not fear her to-night. by half-past twelve i reckon on your having those twenty-five damned casks safe in the cave you took them from; it is a matter of three journeys. and then the nose of the _pretty jane_ must be pointed for the orkneys. all's going well." * * * * * night had fallen. "the gaudy bubbling and remorseful day" had "crept into the bosom of the sea." from the cross-trees the look-out man had already been able to distinguish through the glass the faint distant glimmer of scarthey beacon, when captain jack knocked for admittance at lady landale's cabin for the last time, as he thought, with a sigh of relief. "in the course of an hour, madam," he said in a grave tone, "i hope to restore you to land. as for me, i shall have again to hide in the peel, though i hope it will not be for long. my fate--and by my fate i mean not only my safety, but my honour, which, as you know, is now bound up in the safety of the treasures--will be in your hands. for i must wait at scarthey till i can see adrian again, and upon your return to pulwick i must beg you to be the bearer of a message to ask him to come and see me." she replied in a voice that trembled a little: "i will not fail you." but her great eyes, dark circled, fixed upon him with a meek, sorrowful look, spoke dumbly the troublous tale of her mind. in her subdued mood the likeness to madeleine was more obtrusive than it had ever yet been. he contemplated her with melancholy, and drew a heavy sigh. molly groaned in the depths of her soul, though her lips tight set betrayed no sound. oh, miserable chaos of the human world, that such pent up love should be wasted--wasted; that they, too, young and strong and beautiful, alone together, so near, with such glorious happiness within their reach, should yet be so perversely far asunder! there was a long silence. they looked into each other's eyes; but he was unseeing; his mind was far away, dwelling upon the memory of that last meeting with his love under the fir trees of pulwick only ten days ago, but now as irrevocably far as things seem that may never again be. at length, she made a movement which brought him back to present reality--a movement of her wounded arm as if of pain. and he came back to lady landale, worn with the fatigue of these long days in the cramped discomfort of a schooner cabin, thinned by pain and fevered thinkings, shorn of all that daintiness of appearance which can only be maintained in the midst of luxury, and yet, by the light of the flickering lamp, more triumphantly beautiful than ever. his thoughts leaped to his friend with a pang of remorse. "you are suffering--you are ill," he said. "thus do i bring you back to him who last saw you so full of strength.... but you will recover at pulwick." "suffering, ill! ah, my god!" as if suffocating, she pressed her hand upon her heart, and bowed her head till it rested on the table. and then he heard her murmur in a weary voice: "recover at pulwick! my god, my god! the air at pulwick will stifle me, i think." he waited a moment in silence and saw that she was weeping. then he went out and closed the door behind him with gentle hand. nearly all the lights of the ship were now extinguished, and in a gloom as great as that in which they had started upon their unsuccessful venture, the _peregrine_ and her crew returned to the little island which had already been so fateful to them. captain jack had taken the helm himself, and curwen stood upon his right hand waiting patiently for his commands. for an hour or so they hung off the shore. the rain fell close and fine around them; it was as if sea and sky were merging by slow imperceptible degrees into one. the beacon light looming, halo encircled, through the mist, seemed, like a monster eye, to watch with unmoved contempt the restlessness of these pigmies in the grand solitude of the night. who shall say with what conflict of soul molly, in her narrow seclusion, saw the light of scarthey grow out of the dimness till its rays fell across the darkened cabin and glimmered on her wedding ring? at last the captain drew his watch, and by the faint rays upon the binnacle saw the hour had come. "boat loaded, curwen?" he asked in a low voice. "this hour, sir." "ready to cast?" "right, sir." "now, curwen." low, from man to man, the order ran through the ship, and the anchor was dropped, almost within a musket shot of the peel. it was high tide, but no hand but captain jack's would have dared risk the vessel so close. she swung round, ready to slip at a moment's notice. he left the helm; and in the wet darkness cannoned against the burly figure of his mate. "you, curwen? remember we have not a moment to lose. remain here--as soon as the men are back from the last run, sheer off." he grasped the horny hand. curwen made an inarticulate noise in his big throat, but the grip of his fingers upon his master's was of eloquence sufficient. "let some one call the lady." a couple of men ran forward with dark lanterns. the rest gathered round. "now, my lads, brisk and silent is the word." the cabin door opened, and molly came forth, the darkness hid the pallor of her face, but it could not hide the faltering of her steps. captain jack sprang forward and gave her his arm, and she leant upon it without speaking, heavily. for one moment she stopped as if she could not tear her feet from the beloved planks, but curwen caught her by the other arm; and then she was on the swinging ladder. and so she left the _peregrine_. * * * * * the gig was almost filled with barrels; there was only room for the four oarsmen selected, besides the captain and herself. the boat shoved off. she looked back and saw, as once before, the great wall of the ship's side rise sheer above the sea, saw the triangle of light again slide down to lie a span above the water-line. with what a leaping heart she had set forth, that black night, away from the hateful lighthouse beam to that glimmer of promise and mystery! and now! she felt herself grow sick at the thought of that home-coming; at the vision of the close warm rooms, of her husband's melancholy eyes. yet, as she sat, the sleeve of the captain's rough sailor coat touched her shoulder, and she remembered she was still with him. it was not all death yet. in less than three minutes they touched ground. he jumped into the water, and stretched out his arms for molly. she rose giddily, and his embrace folded her round. the waves rolled in with surge and thud and dashed their spray upon them; and still the rain fell and beat upon her head, from which she had impatiently pushed her hood. but her spirit had no heed for things of the body this night. oh, if the sea would open sudden deeps before them! if even the quicksand would seize them in its murderous jaws, what ecstasy the hideous lingering death might hold for her, so that only she lay, thus, in his arms to the end! it was over now; his arms had clasped her for the last time. she stood alone upon the dry sand, and her heart was in hell. he was speaking; asking her pardon for not going at once with her to see her into the keep, but he dared not leave the beach till his cargo was landed, and he must show the men the way to the caves. would she forgive him, would she go with him? forgive him! go with him! she almost laughed aloud. a few poor moments more beside him; they would be as the drops of water to the burning tongue of dives. yes, she would go with him. one by one the precious caskets were carried between a couple of men, who stumbled in the darkness, close on their captain's heels. and the lady walked beside him and stood beside him without a word, in the falling rain. the boat went backwards and forwards twice; before the hour had run out, the luckless cargo was all once more landed, and the captain heard with infinite relief the last oar-strokes dwindling away in the distance, and saw the lights suddenly disappear. "you have been very patient," he said to molly then, with a gentle note in his voice. but she did not answer. are the souls of the damned patient? * * * * * "my lady and mr. the captain! my god--my god! so wet--so tired! enter--enter in the name of heaven. it is good, in verity, to have my lady back, but, mr. the captain, is it well for _him_ to be here? and madam is ill? she goes pale and red by turns. madam has the fever for sure! and her arm is hurt, and she is as wet as the first time she came here. ah, lord god, what are we coming to? fire we must have. i shall send the wife." "ay, do so, man," cried captain jack, looking with concern at lady landale, who in truth seemed scarcely able to stand, and whose fluctuating colour and cracked fevered lips gave painful corroboration to rené's surmise, "your mistress must be instantly attended to." but molly arrested the servant as he would have hurried past upon his errand. "your master?" she said in a dry whisper, "is he at pulwick?" "his honour! my faith, i must be but half-awake yet. imbecile that i am, his honour--where is he? is he not with you? no, indeed, he is not at pulwick, my lady; he has gone to st. malo to seek you. nothing would serve him but that he must go. and so he did not reach in time to meet you? ah, the poor master--what anxiety for him!" captain jack glanced in dismay at his friend's wife, met her suddenly illumined gaze and turned abruptly on his heel, with a grinding noise. "see to your mistress," he said harshly, "i hear your women folk are roused overhead; hurry them, and when lady landale no longer requires you, i must speak with you on an urgent business of my own. you will find me in my old room." "go with the captain at once, rené, since he wants you," interposed molly quickly, "here comes moggie. she will take care of me. leave me, leave me. i feel strong again. good-night, captain smith, i shall see you to-morrow?" there was a wistful query in her voice and look. captain smith bowed distantly and coldly, and hastened from the room, accompanied by rené, while open-mouthed and blinking, rosy, blowsy, and amazed, mrs. potter made her entry on the scene and stared at her mistress with the roundest of blue eyes. * * * * * "my good renny," said the captain, "i have no time to lose. i have a hard hour's work to do, before i can even think of talking. i want your help. your light will burn all safe for the time, will it not? hark ye, man, you have been so faithful a fellow to my one friend that i am going to trust to you matters which concern my own honour and my own life. ask no question, but do what i tell you, if you would help one who has helped your master long ago; one whom your master would wish you to help." thus adjured, rené repressed his growing astonishment at the incomprehensible development of events. and having, under direction, provided the sailor with a lantern, and himself with a wide tarpaulin and sundry carpenter's tools, he followed his leader readily enough through the ruinous passages, half choked up with sand, which led from the interior of the ruins to one of the sea caves. before reaching the open-mouthed rocky chamber, the captain obscured the light, and rené promptly barked his shins against a barrel. "_sacrebleu_," he cried, feeling with quick hands the nature of the obstruction, "more kegs?" "the same, my friend! now hang that tarpaulin against the mouth of the cave and be sure it is close; then we may again have some light upon the matter. what we must do will not bear interference, and moving glimmers on a dark night have told tales before this." as soon as the beach entrance was made secure, the captain uncovered his lantern; and as the double row of kegs stood revealed, his eyes rapidly scanned their number. yes, they were all there: five and twenty. "now, to work, man! we have to crack every one of these nuts, and take the kernels out." even as he spoke, he turned the nearest cask on end, with a blow of chisel and mallet stove in the head and began dragging out quantities of loose tow. in the centre of the barrel, secured in position on to a stout middle batten, was a bag of sailcloth closely bound with cord. this he lifted with an effort, for it was over a hundred-weight, and flung upon the sand in a corner. "that's the kernel you see," he said to rené, who had watched the operation with keen interest. "and when we have shelled them all i will show you where to put them in safety. now carry on--the quicker the better. the sooner we have it all upstairs, the freer i shall breathe." without another word, entering into the spirit of haste which seemed to fill his companion, and nobly controlling his seething curiosity, rené set to work on his side, with his usual dexterousness. half an hour of speechless destructive labour completed the first part of the task. then the two men carried the weighty bags into the room which had been captain jack's in the keep. and when they had travelled to and fro a dozen times with each heavy load, and the whole treasure was at length accumulated upstairs, rené, with fresh surprise and admiration, saw the captain lift the hearthstone and disclose a recess in the heavy masonry--presumably a flue, in the living days of scarthey peel--which, although much blocked with stony rubbish, had been evidently improved by the last lodger during his period of solitary residence into a convenient and very secure hiding-place. here was the precious pyramid now heaped up; the stone was returned to its place, and the two stood in front of each other mopping their faces. "thank goodness, it is done," said jack smith. "and thank you too, renny. to-morrow, break up these casks and add the staves to your firewood stack; then nobody but you, in this part of the world, need be any the wiser about our night's work.--a smart piece of running, eh?--phew, i am tired! bring me some food, and some brandy, like a good fellow. then you can back to your pillow and flatter yourself that you have helped jack smith out of a famous quandary." rené grinned and rushed to execute the order. he had less desire for his pillow than for the gratification of his hyper-excited curiosity. but although pressed to quaff one cup of good fellowship and yet another, he was not destined to get his information, that night, from the captain, who had much ado to strangle his yawns sufficiently to swallow a mouthful or two of food. "no one must know, renny," was all he said, at last, between two gapes, kicking the hearthstone significantly, and stretching his arms, "not even the wife." then he flung himself all dressed upon his bed. "and my faith," said rené, when he sought his wife a moment later, "he was fast asleep before i had closed the door." chapter xxviii the end of the thread madeleine had appeared greatly distressed at the thought that, through her, her sister was now in so doubtful and precarious a situation. it was part of her punishment, she told herself for her sins of deceit and unmaidenliness in encouraging and meeting a clandestine lover. she had gone through some very bitter hours since her tryst at the ruins. the process of cutting off a malignant growth that has become part of oneself is none the less painful because the conviction is clear that it is for one's health to do so, and the will is firm not to falter. not the less is the flesh mangled, do nerves throb, and veins bleed. but madeleine was determined that nobody should even guess her sufferings. rupert had counted upon sophia's old habit of obedience to him, and upon her superstitious terrors not to betray to the young girl the part he had played in the unmasking of her lover; but he had an unexpected, and even more powerful ally in madeleine's own pride. when miss sophia had tremblingly endeavoured to falter out a few words of sympathy and sorrow, upon the distressing subject, madeleine quickly interrupted her. "never speak even his name again, sophia; all that is finished for me." there was such a cold finality in her voice, that the poor confidant's expansiveness withered up within her beyond even the hope of blossoming again. when rupert heard of captain jack's latest doings, and especially of his sister-in-law's disappearance, he thought that the fates were propitious indeed. in his wildest schemes he could not have planned anything that would have suited his game more perfectly. though he thought it incumbent upon him to pull a face of desperate length whenever the subject was touched, in his innermost soul he had hardly ever enjoyed so delightful a joke as this dénouement to his brother's marriage and to his cousin's engagement. and, strange to say, though he would most gravely protest against any interpretation of his kinswoman's disappearance save the one which must most redound to her credit, the story, started by the gossips in the village upon the return of the revenue men, that lady landale had bolted with the handsome smuggler, grew and spread apace all over the county, more especially from such houses as rupert was wont to visit. that all his hints and innuendoes should fail, apparently, to make madeleine put upon the case the interpretation he would have liked, was at once a matter of secret sneering and of admiration to his curiously complicated mind. the days went by, to all appearance placidly enough, for the trio at pulwick. madeleine shunned none of the usages of life in common, worked and talked with sophia of a morning, rode or walked out with rupert of an afternoon; and passed the evening at her embroidery frame meeting his efforts to entertain her as amiably as before. rupert thought he knew enough of the human heart, and more especially the feminine, to draw satisfactory conclusions from this behaviour. for a girl to bear no malice to the man who had taken it upon himself to demonstrate to her the unworthiness of her lover, argued, to his mind, that her affections could not have been very deeply engaged in that quarter. it was clear that she felt gratitude for a timely rescue. nay, might he not go further, and lay the flattering unction to his soul that she would not be unwilling to transfer these same blighted feelings to a more suitable recipient? a slight incident which took place a few nights later, tended still more to increase the kindness of madeleine's manner to him upon the next day; but this was for a reason that he little suspected. it had been an anniversary with sophia--none less indeed than that of the lamented rector's demise. when her young cousin had retired to her room, the desire to pursue her thither with a packet of old letters, and other treasures exhumed from the depths of her cupboards, had proved too strong for a soul burning for congenial sympathy; and sophia had spent a couple of very delightful hours pouring forth reminiscences and lamentations into the bosom of one who, as she said, she knew could understand her. madeleine a little wearied, stifling a sigh or a yawn as the minutes ticked by, was too gentle, too kind-hearted to repel the faithful, if loquacious mourner; so she had sat and listened, which was all that sophia required. upon the stroke of twelve, miss landale rose at length, collected her relics, and mopping her swollen eyes, embraced her cousin, and bade her good-night with much effusion, while with cordial alacrity the latter conducted her to the door. but here sophia paused. holding the flat silver candlestick with one hand, with the other clasping to her bosom her bundle of superannuated love letters, she glanced out into the long black chasm of corridor with a shudder, and vowed she had not the courage to traverse it alone at such an hour. she cast as she spoke such a meaning glance at madeleine's great bed, that, trembling lest her next words should be a proposal to share it for the night, the young girl hurriedly volunteered to re-conduct her to her own apartment. half way down the passage they had to pass the door of the picture gallery, which was ajar, disclosing light within. at the sight of rupert standing with his back to them, looking fixedly at the picture upon the opposite wall, sophia promptly thought better of the scream she was preparing, and seized her cousin by the arm. "come away, come away," she whispered, "he will be much displeased if he sees us." madeleine allowed herself to be pulled onward, but remembering molly's previous encounter upon the same spot, was curious enough to demand an explanation of rupert's nocturnal rambles when they had reached the haven of sophia's bedroom. it was very simple, but it struck her as exceedingly pathetic and confirmed her in her opinion of the unreasonableness of her sister's dislike to rupert. he was gazing at his dead wife's picture. he could not bear, sophia said, for any one to find him there; could not bear the smallest allusion to his grief, but at night, as she had herself discovered quite by accident, he would often spend long spells as they had just seen him. there was something in madeleine's own nature, a susceptible proud reserve which made this trait in her cousin's character thoroughly congenial; moreover, what woman is not drawn with pity towards the man who can so mourn a woman. she met him therefore, the next day, with a softness, almost a tenderness, of look and smile which roused his highest hopes. and when he proposed, after breakfast, that they should profit by the mild weather to stroll in the garden while sophia was busy in the house, she willingly consented. up the gravel paths, between the gooseberry bushes, to the violet beds they went. it was one of those balmy days that come sometimes in early spring and encourage all sorts of false hopes in the hearts of men and vegetables. "a growing day," the farmers call them; indeed, at such times you may almost hear the swelling and the bursting of the buds, the rising of the sap, the throbbing and pushing of the young green life all around. madeleine grew hot with the weight of her fur tippet, the pale face under the plumy hat took an unusual pink bloom; her eyes shone with a moist radiance. rupert, glancing up at her, as, bent upon one knee, he sought for stray violets amid the thick green leaves, thought it was thus a maiden looked who waited to be won; and though all of true love that he could ever give to woman lay buried with his little bride, he felt his pulses quicken with a certain æsthetic pleasure in the situation. presently he rose, and, after arranging his bunch of purple sweetness into dainty form, offered it silently to his companion. she took it, smiling, and carried it mechanically to her face. oh, the scent of the violets! upon the most delicate yet mighty pinions she was carried back, despite all her proud resolves to that golden hour, only five days ago, when she lay upon her lover's broad breast, and heard the beating of his heart beneath her ear. again she felt his arm around her, so strong, yet so gentle; saw his handsome face bent towards her, closer--ever closer--felt again the tide of joy that coursed through her veins in the expectation of his kiss. no, no, she must not--she would not yield to this degrading folly. if it were not yet dead, then she must kill it. she had first grown pale, but the next moment a deep crimson flooded her face. she turned her head away, and rupert saw her tremble as she dropped the hand that held the flowers close clenched by her side. he formed his own opinion of what was passing within her, and it made even his cold blood course hotly in his veins. "madeleine," he said, with low rapid utterance; "i am not mistaken, i trust, in thinking you look on me as a good friend?" "indeed, yes;" answered the girl, with an effort, turning her tremulous face towards him; "a good friend indeed." had he not been so five days ago? aye, most truly, and she would have it so, in spite of the hungry voice within her which had awaked and cried out against the knowledge that had brought such misery. he saw her set her little teeth and toss her head, and knew she was thinking of the adventurer who had dared aspire to her. and he gained warmer courage still. "nothing more than a friend, sweet?" "a kind cousin; almost a brother." "no, no; not a brother, madeleine. nay, hear me," taking her hands and looking into her uncomprehending eyes, "i would not be a brother, but something closer, dearer. we are both alone in the world, more or less. whom have you but a mad-cap sister, a poor dreamer of a brother-in-law, an octogenarian aunt, to look to? i have no one, no one to whom my coming or my going, my living or my dying makes one pulse beat of difference--except poor sophia. let us join our loneliness and make of it a beautiful and happy home. madeleine, i have learned to love you deeply!" his eyes glowed between their narrowing eyelids, his voice rang changes upon chords of most exquisite tenderness; his whole manner was charged with a courtly reverence mingled with the subtlest hint of passion. rupert as a lover had not a flaw in him. yet fear, suspicion, disgust chased each other in madeleine's mind in quick succession. what did he mean? how could it be that he loved her? oh! if _this_ had been his purpose, what motive was prompting him when he divided her from her deceiving lover? was no one true then? was this the inconsolable widower whose grief she had been so sympathetically considering all the morning; for whose disinterested anxiety and solicitude on her behalf her sore heart had forced itself to render gratitude? oh! how terrible it all was ... what a hateful world! "well, madeleine?" he pressed forward and slid his arm around her. all her powers of thought and action restored by the deed, she disengaged herself with a movement of unconscious repulsion. "cousin rupert, i am sure you mean kindly by me, but it is quite impossible--i shall never marry." he drew back, as nonplussed as if she had struck him in the face. "pshaw, my dear madeleine." "please, cousin rupert, no more." "my dear girl, i have been precipitate." "nothing can make any difference. that i could never marry you, so much you must believe; that i shall never marry at all you are free to believe or not, as you please. i am sorry you should have spoken." "still hankering after that beggarly scoundrel?" muttered rupert, a sneer uncovering his teeth betrayed hideously the ungenerous soul within. he was too deeply mortified, too shaken by this utter shattering of his last ambitions to be able to grasp his usual self-control. madeleine gave him one proud glance, turned abruptly away, and walked into the house. she went steadily up to her room, and, once there, without hesitation proceeded to unlock a drawer in her writing-table and draw from it a little ribbon-tied parcel of letters--jack's letters. her heart had failed her, womanlike, before the little sacrifice when she had unshrinkingly accomplished the larger one. now, however, with determined hand, she threw the letters into the reddest cavern of her wood-fire and with hard dry eyes watched them burn. when the last scrap had writhed and fluttered and flamed into grey ash, she turned to her altar, and, extending her arm, called out aloud: "i have done with it all for ever----" and the next instant flinging herself upon her bed, she drew her brown ringlets before her face, and under this veil wept for her broken youth and her broken heart, and the hard cold life before her. * * * * * there is a kind of love a man can give to woman but once in his lifetime: the love of the man in the first flush of manhood for the woman he has chosen to be his mate, untransferable and never to be forgotten: love of passion so exquisite, of devotion so pure, born of the youth of the heart and belonging to an existence and personality lost for ever. a man may wed again, and (some say) love again, but between the boards of the coffin of his first wife--if he has loved her--lie secrets of tenderness, and sweetness, and delight, which, like the spring flowers, may not visit the later year. but, notwithstanding this, a second wooing may have a charm and an interest of its own, even the wooing which is to precede a marriage of convenience. so rupert found. the thought of an alliance with madeleine de savenaye was not only engrossing from the sense of its own intrinsic advantages, but had become the actual foundation-stone of all his new schemes of ambition. nay, more: such admiration and desire as he could still feel for woman, he had gradually come to centre upon his fair and graceful cousin, who added to her personal attractions the other indispensable attributes, blood, breeding and fortune. mr. landale was as essentially refined and fastidious in his judgment as he was unmeasured in his ambition. his error of precipitancy had been pardonable enough; and mere self-reproach for an ill-considered manoeuvre would not have sufficed to plunge him into such a depth of bitter and angry despondency as that in which he now found himself. but the rebuff had been too uncompromising to leave him a single hope. he was too shrewd not to see that here was no pretty feminine nay, precursor of the yielding yea, not to realise that madeleine had meant what she said and would abide by it. and, under the sting of the moment betrayed into a degradingly ill-mannered outburst, he had shown that he measured the full bearings of the position. so, the wind still sat in that quarter! failing the mysterious smuggler, it was to be nobody with the savenaye heiress--and least of all rupert landale. and this, though the scoundrel had been thoroughly shown up; though he had started upon his illegal venture and was gone, never to return if he valued his neck, after murdering four officers of the crown and sinking a king's vessel; though he had carried away with him (ah! there was consolation in that excellent jest which had so far developed into sir adrian's wild goose chase to france and might still hold some delicate dénouement), had carried with him no less a person than lady landale herself (the fellow had good taste, and either of the sisters was a dainty morsel), he still left the baneful trail of his influence behind him upon the girl he had deluded and beguiled! rupert landale, who, for motives of his own had pleased himself by hunting down madeleine's lover, had felt, in the keenness of his blood-hound work, something of the blood-hound instinct of destruction and ferocity spring up within him before he had even set eyes on his quarry. and the day they had stood face to face this instinctive hatred had been intensified by some singular natural antagonism. added to this there was now personal injury and the prey was out of reach. impotence for revenge burned into the soul of him like a corrosive poison. oh, let him but come within his grip again and he should not escape so easily. sits the wind still in that quarter? the burthen droned in his head, angry conclusion to each long spell of inconclusive thought, as he still paced the garden, till the noon hour began to wane. and it was in this mood, that, at length, returning to his study, he crossed in one of the back passages a young woman enveloped in a brilliant scarlet and black shawl, who started in evident dismay on being confronted with him. rupert knew by sight and name every wench of kitchen and laundry, as well as every one of the buxom lasses or dames whom business brought periodically to the great hall. that this person was neither of the household nor one of the usual back-door visitors, he would have seen at a glance, even had not her own embarrassment drawn his closer attention. he looked keenly and recognised the gatekeeper's daughter moggie. having married sir adrian's servant and withdrawn to take up her abode in the camp of the enemy, so to speak, she was not one whom mr. landale would have regarded with favour in any case; but now, concentrating his thoughts from their aimless whirl of dissatisfaction upon the present encounter, he was struck by the woman's manner. yes, she was most undoubtedly frightened. he examined her with a malevolent eye which still discountenanced her. and, though he made no inquiry, she forthwith stammered out: "i--i came, sir, to see if there be news of her ladyship ... or of sir adrian, sir--renny can't leave the island, you know, and he be downright anxious." "well, my good woman, calm yourself. nothing wrong; nothing to hide in this very laudable anxiety of you and your good man! no, we have no news yet--that is quickly told, mrs. potter." he kept her for a moment quailing and scared under his cruel gaze, then went on his way, working upon the new problems she had brought him to solve. no matter was too small for rupert's mind, he knew how inextricably the most minute and apparently insignificant may be connected with the most important events of life. the woman was singularly anxious to explain, reflected he, pausing at his chamber door, singularly ready with her explanation--too ready. she must have lied. no doubt she lied. liar was written upon every line of the terrified face of her. what was that infernal little french husband of hers hatching now? he had been in the smith plot, of course. ah, curse that smuggling fellow: he cropped up still on every side! pray the fates he would crop up once too often for his own safety yet; who knew! meanwhile mrs. potter, the innocent news-gatherer, must not be allowed to roam unwatched at her own sweet will about the place. hark! what clumping, creaking, steps! these could only be produced by rené's fairy-footed spouse: the house servants had been too well drilled by his irritable ear to venture in such shoe leather within its range. he closed his door, and gently walked back along the corridor. as he passed molly's apartment, he could hear the creaking of a wardrobe door; and, a startling surmise springing into his brain, he quietly slipped into an opposite room and waited, leaving the door slightly ajar. as he expected, a few minutes later, moggie re-appeared loaded with a bulky parcel, glancing anxiously right and left. she tiptoed by him; but, after a few steps, suddenly turning her head once more, met his eyes grimly fixed upon her through the narrow aperture. with a faint squeal she paddled off as though a fiend were at her heels. "something more than anxiety for news there, mrs. potter," said mr. landale, apostrophising the retreating figure with a malignant, inward laugh! then, when the last echo of her stout boots had faded away, he entered his sister-in-law's room, looked around and meditatively began to open various presses and drawers. "you visited this one at any rate, my girl," thought he, as he recognised the special sound of the hinges. "and, for a lady's maid, you have left it in singular disorder. as for this," pulling open a linen drawer half-emptied, and showing dainty feminine apparel, beribboned and belaced, in the most utter disorder--"why, fie on you, mrs. potter! is this the way to treat these pretty things?" he had seen enough. he paused a moment in the middle of the room with his nails to his lips, smiling to himself. "ah, mrs. potter, i fancy you might have given us a little news, yourself! most unkind of my lady landale to prefer to keep us in this unnatural anxiety--most unkind indeed! she must have singularly good reasons for so doing.... captain smith, my friend, mr. cochrane, or whatever may be your name, we have an account to settle. and there is that fool of an adrian scurrying over the seas in search of his runaway wife! by george! my hand is not played out yet!" slowly he repaired to his study. there he sat down and wrote, without any further reflection, an urgent letter to the chief officer of the newly established preventive service station. then he rang the bell. "one of the grooms will ride at once to lancaster with this," he said to the servant, looking at the missive in his hand. but instead of delivering it he paused: a new idea had occurred. how many of these servants might not be leagued in favour of that interloper, bribed, or knowing him, perhaps, to have been a friend of sir adrian, or yet again out of sheer spite to himself? no; he would leave no loop-hole for treachery now. "send the groom to me as soon as he is ready," he continued, and when the footman had withdrawn, enclosed the letter, with its tale-telling superscription, in another directed to a local firm of attorneys, with a covering note instructing them to see that the communication, on his majesty's service, should reach the proper hands without delay. when the messenger had set forth, mr. landale, on his side, had his horse saddled and sallied out in the direction of scarthey sands. as from the top of the bluff he took a survey of the great bay, a couple of figures crossing the strand in the distance arrested his attention; he reined in his horse behind a clump of bushes and watched. "so ho! mrs. potter, your careful husband could not leave the island?" muttered he, as he marked the unmistakable squat figure of the one, a man carrying a burden upon his shoulder, whilst, enveloping the woman who walked briskly by his side, flared the brilliant-hued shawl of moggie. "that lie alone would have been sufficient to arouse suspicion. hallo, what is the damned _crapaud_ up to?" the question was suggested by the man's movements, as, after returning the parcel to his consort at the beginning of the now bare causeway, he turned tail, while she trudged forward alone. "the shearman's house! i thought as much. out he comes again, and not by himself. i have made acquaintance with those small bare legs before. i should have been astonished indeed if none of the shearman fellows had been mixed up with the affair. i shall be even yet with those creditable friends of yours, brother adrian. so, it's you again, johnny, my lad; the pretty mercury.... can it be possible that captain smith is at his old games once more?" mr. landale's eyes shone with a curious eager light; he laughed a little mirthless laugh, which was neither pleasant to hear nor to give. "dear me," he said aloud, as he watched the pair tramp together towards scarthey, "for plotters in the dark, you are particularly easy to detect, my good friends!" then he checked himself, realising what a mere chance it had been, after all--a fortuitous meeting in the passage--that had first aroused his suspicions, and placed between his fingers the end of the thread he now thought it so simple to follow up. but he did hold the thread, and depended no longer upon chance or guess-work, but on his own relentless purpose to lay the plotters by the heels, whatever their plot might be. in the course of an hour and a half, johnny shearman, whistling, light-hearted, and alone, was nearing his native house once more, when the sight of a horseman, rapidly advancing across the sands, brought him to a standstill, to stare with a boy's curiosity. presently, however, recognising mr. landale--a person for whom he had more dread than admiration--he was starting off homeward again at a brisk canter, when a stern hail from the rider arrested him. "johnny!" the boy debated a moment, measured the distance between the cottage and himself, and shrewdly recognised the advisability of obeying. "johnny, my boy, i want you at the hall; take hold of my stirrup, and come along with me." the boy, with every symptom of reluctance, demurred, pleading a promise to return to his mother. then he suddenly perceived a look in the gentleman's eye, which gave him a frantic, unreasoned desire to bolt at once, and at any cost. but the horseman anticipated the thought; bending in the saddle, he reached out his arm and seized the urchin by the collar. "why, you little devil, what is the matter with you?" he asked, grinning ominously into the chubby, terrified face. "it strikes me it is time you and i should come to a little understanding. any more letters from the smuggler to-day, eh? ah, would you, you young idiot!" and mr. landale's fingers gave a sudden twist to the collar, which strangled the rising yell. "listen, johnny," tightening his grasp gradually until the brown face grew scarlet, then purple, and the goggling eyes seemed to start out of their sockets; "that is what it feels like to be hanged. they squeeze your neck so; and they leave you dangling at the end of a rope till you are dead, dead, dead, and the crows come and eat you. do you want to be hanged?" for some moments more he kept the writhing lad under the torture; then loosening his grip, without however relinquishing his hold, allowed him to taste once more the living air. "do you want to be hanged, johnny shearman?" he asked again gravely. the lad burst into gasping sobs, and looked up at his captor with an agony of fear in his bloodshot eyes. "no," continued mr. landale, "i am sure you don't, eh?" with a renewed ominous contraction of the hand. "it's a fearful thing, is hanging. and yet many a lad, hardly older than you, has been hanged for less than you are doing. magistrates can get people hanged, and i am a magistrate, you know. _stop that noise!_" "now," continued the gentleman, "there are one or two little things i want to know myself, johnny, and it's just possible i might let you off for this time if by chance you were able to tell them to me. so, for your sake, i hope you may be." he could see that the boy's mind was now completely turned with fright. "if you were to try to run away again i should know you had secrets to keep from me, and then, johnny shearman, it would go hard with you indeed! now come along beside me, up to the hall." quite certain of his prey, he released him, and, setting his horse to a trot, smiled to note the desperate clutch of the lad upon his stirrup leather, as, with the perspiration dripping from his face, and panting breath, he struggled to keep up the pace alongside. marched with tremendous ceremony into the magistrate's study and directed to stand right opposite the light, while mr. landale installed himself in an arm-chair with a blood-curdling air of judicial sternness, johnny shearman, at most times as dare-devil a pickle of a boy as ever ran, but now reduced to a state of mental and physical jelly, underwent a terrible cross-examination. it was comparatively little that he had to say, and no doubt he wished most fervently he had greater revelations to make, and could thus propitiate the arbiter of the appalling fate he firmly believed might lie in store for him. meagre as his narrative was, however, it quite sufficed for mr. landale. "i think, johnny," he said more pleasantly, well knowing the inducement that a sudden relaxation from fear offers to a witness's garrulity, "i think i may say you will not hang this time--that is," with a sudden hardening of his voice, and making a great show of checking the answers with pen and ink in his most magisterial manner, "that is if you have really told me _all_ you know and it be all _true_. now let us see, and take care. you saw no one at the peel to-day but renny potter, mrs. potter and mrs. crackenshaw?" "no, sir." "but you heard other voices in the next room--a man's voice--whilst you were waiting?" "yes, sir." "then renny potter came back and gave you a message for your brothers. this message they made you repeat, over and over again. how did it go?" and as mr. landale frowningly looked at his paper, the boy tremblingly repeated: "i mun tell brothers will an' rob, that one or t'other mun watchen the light o' nights, to-night, to-morrow night, an' ontil woord coom again. if light go out they mun setten forth in they ketch thot moment, fettled op for a two-three days' sailing. if wind is contrairy like, they mun take sweeps. this for the master's service--for sir adrian's service!"--amending the phrase with a sharp reading of the blackness of mr. landale's swift upward look. "yes," murmured the latter after a pause. "and you were to tell no one else. you were to keep it above all from getting to my ears. very good, johnny. if you have spoken the truth, you are safe." there was a special cell, off the official study, with high windows, bolts and bars, and a wooden bench, for the temporary housing of such desperate criminals as might be brought to the judgment of rupert landale, esquire, j.p. there he now disposed of the young offender who snivelled piteously once more; and having locked the door and pocketed the key, returned to his capacious arm-chair, where, as the twilight waned over the land, he fell to co-ordinating his scheme and gloating upon this unexpected turn of fortune's wheel. * * * * * at that hour madeleine, alone in her chamber, knelt before her little altar, wrestling with the rebellion of her soul and besieging the heavens with a cry for peace. * * * * * sir adrian having failed to hear aught of the _peregrine_ at st. malo, filled with harassing doubt about its fate but clutching still at hope--as men will, even such pessimists as he--stood on the deck of his homeward bound ship, straining his eyes in the dusk for the coast line. * * * * * in the peel, the beacon had just been lighted by rené, in whose company, up in his secluded turret, sat captain jack, smoking a pipe, but so unusually silent as to have reduced even the loquacious frenchman to silence too. below them lady landale, torn between the dread of a final separation from the loadstar of her existence and the gnawing anxiety roused in her bosom by moggie's account of mr. landale's watchfulness, was pacing the long book-lined room with the restlessness of a caged panther. * * * * * on the road from lancaster to pulwick a posse of riding officers and a carriage full of hastily gathered preventive men were trotting on their way to the priory. chapter xxix the light goes out the light of scarthey had not been shining for quite an hour over the wilderness, when lady landale, suddenly breaking the chain of her restless tramp, ran to the door and called for moggie. there was so shrill a tone of anguish in the summons that the young woman rushed into the room in trembling expectancy: yet it was to find her mistress alone and the place undisturbed. "moggie," said lady landale, panting and pressing her hands upon her side as if in the endeavour to control the beating of her heart, "something is going to happen; i know it, i feel it! tell captain smith that i must speak to him, here, at once." infected by the terror upon her mistress's face, madame lapôtre flew upon her errand; a moment later, captain jack entered the room and stood before lady landale with a look of impatient inquiry. "oh, it is wicked, it is mad!" cried she passionately; "it is tempting god to remain here!" "of whom are you speaking?" he asked, with an involuntary glance of contempt at the distracted figure. "if it is of yourself, i entirely concur. how often these last days, and how earnestly have i not begged of you to return to pulwick? was not the situation you placed me in with regard to adrian already odious enough that it needed this added folly? oh, i know--i know what you would say: spare it me. my safety? you fear for me? ah, lady landale, that you could have but left me in peace!" he had waxed hot with anger from his first would-be calmness, as he spoke. this dismal life of close but inharmonious proximity, started upon the seas and continued under his absent friend's own roof had tried his impetuous temper to the utmost. upon the morrow of their return he had, indeed, exercised all his powers of persuasion to induce lady landale to proceed to the priory; but, impelled by her frantic dread of the separation, and entrenching herself behind the argument that her mysterious re-appearance would awaken suspicion where people would otherwise believe the _peregrine_ still in foreign parts, she had declared her irrevocable determination not to quit the island until she knew him to be safe. and he had remained, actuated by the dual desire, first to exonerate himself personally in her husband's eyes from any possible suspicion of complicity in molly's flight--the bare thought of which had become a horrible torment to him--then to encompass through that good friend's means an interview and full explanation with madeleine, which not only the most ordinary precaution for his life, but likewise every instinct of pride forbade him now to seek himself. thus began a state of affairs which, as the days succeeded each other without news of sir adrian, became every moment more intolerable to his loyalty. the inaction, the solitary hours of reflection; the maddening feeling of unavailing proximity to his heart's dearest, of impotency against the involving meshes of the present false and hateful position; all this had brought into the young man's soul a fever of anger, which, as fevers will, consumed him the more fiercely because of his vigour and strength. it was with undisguised hatred and with scorn immeasurable that he now surveyed the woman who had degraded him in his own eyes. at another time molly might have yielded before his resentment, but at this hour her whole being was encompassed by a single thought. "it is for you--for you!" she repeated with ashen lips; "you must go before it is too late." "and is it not too late?" stormed he. "too late, indeed, do i see my treachery to adrian, my more than brother! upon my ship i could not avoid your company, but here--oh, i should have thought of him and not of myself, and done as my honour bade me! you are right; since you would not go, i should have done so. it was weak; it was mad; worse, worse--dishonourable!" but she had no ears for his reproaches, no power to feel the wounds he dealt her woman's heart with such relentless hand. "then you will go," she cried. "tell rené, the signal." he started and looked at her with a different expression. "have you heard anything; has anything happened?" he asked, recovering self-restraint at the thought of danger. "not yet," she replied, "not yet, but it is coming." her look and voice were so charged with tragic force that for the moment he was impressed, and, brave man though he was, felt a little cold thrill run down his spine. she continued, in accents of the most piercing misery: "and it will have been through me--it will have been through me! oh, in mercy let me make the signal! say you will go to-night." "i will go." there followed a little pause of breathless silence between them. then as, without speaking, he would have turned away, a loud, peremptory knock resounded upon the door of the keep and echoed and re-echoed with lugubrious reverberation through the old stone passages around them. at first, terror-stricken, her tongue clave to her palate, her feet were rooted to the ground; then with a scream she flung herself upon him and would have dragged him towards the door. "they have come--hide--hide!" he threw up his head to listen, while he strove to disengage himself. the blood had leaped to his cheek, and fire to his eye. "and if it be adrian?" he cried. another knock thundered through the still air. "it is but one man," cried rené from his tower down the stairs. "you may open, moggie." "no--no," screamed molly beside herself, and tighter clasped her arms round captain jack's neck. "adrian, it is adrian!" said he. "hush, madam, let me go! would you make the breach between me and my friend irreparable?" both his hands were on her wrists in the vain endeavour to disengage himself from her frenzied grip; the door was flung open and rupert landale stood in the opening, and looked in upon them. "damnation!" muttered jack between his teeth and flung her from him, stamping his foot. rupert gazed from one to the other; from the woman, who, haggard and dishevelled, now turned like a fury upon him, to the sailor's fierce erect figure. then he closed the door with an air of grave deliberation. "what do you want?" demanded molly--"you have come here for no good purpose. what do you want?" as she spoke she strove to place herself between the two men. "i came, my dear sister-in-law," said rupert in his coldest, most incisive voice, "to learn why, since you have come back from your little trip, you choose to remain in the ruins rather than return to your own house and family. the reason is clear to see now. my poor brother!" the revulsion of disappointment had added to the wrath which the very sight of rupert landale aroused in jack smith's blood; this insinuation was the culminating injury. he took a step forward. "have a care, sir," he exclaimed, "how you outrage in my presence the wife of my best friend! have a care--i am not in such a hurry to leave you as when last we met!" mr. landale raised his eyebrows, and again sent a look from molly back to the sailor, the insolence of which lashed beyond all control the devils in the sailor's soul. "we have an account to settle, it seems to me, mr. landale," said he, taking another step forward and slightly stooping his head to look the other in the eye. crimson fury was in his own. "i doubt much whether it was quite wise of you, assuming that you expected to find me here, to have come without that pistolling retinue with which you provided yourself last time." rupert smiled and crossed his arms. cowardice was no part of his character. he had come in advance of his blood-hounds, in part to assure himself of the correctness of his surmises, but also to feast upon the discomfiture of this man and this woman whom he hated. to have found them together, and thus, had been an unforeseen and delicious addition to his dish of vengeance, and he would linger over it while he could. "well, captain smith, and about this account? lady landale, i beg of you, be silent. you have brought sufficient disgrace upon our name as it is. nay, sir," raising his voice, "it is useless to shake your head at me in this furious style; nothing can alter facts. _i saw._ who has an account to demand then--you, whose life is already forfeit for an accumulation of crimes; you, screened by a conspiracy of bribed servants and ... your best friend's wife, as you dare call your paramour; or i, in my brother's absence the natural guardian of his family, of his honour? but i am too late. one sister i saved from the ignominy you would have brought upon her. the other i could not save." with a roar jack smith would have sprung at the speaker; but, once more, his friend's wife rushed between. "let him speak," she cried, "what matter what he says? but you--remember your promise. i will make the signal." the signal! the mask of rupert's face, sternly and sadly rebuking, was not proof against the exquisite aptness of this proposal. his men outside were waiting for the signal, surrounding the island from land and seaward, (for the prey was not to be allowed to escape them again); but how to make it without creating suspicion had not yet suggested itself to his fertile brain. now, while he held her lover in play, molly would herself deliver him to justice. excellent, excellent! truly life held some delightful jokes for the man of humour! the light of triumph came and went upon his countenance like a flash, but when the life hangs upon the decision of a moment the wits become abnormally sharp. jack smith saw it, halted upon his second headlong onslaught, and turned round.--too late: molly was gone. he brought his gaze back upon his enemy and saw he had been trapped. their gleams met like duelling blades, divining each other's purpose with the rapidity of thrust answering thrust. both made a leap for the door. but rupert was nearest; he first had his hand on the key and turned it, and, with newly-born genius of fight, suddenly begotten of his hatred, quickly stooped, eluded the advancing grasp, was free for one second, and sent the key crashing through the window into the darkness of the night. baffled by the astounding swiftness of the act, the sailor, wheeling round, had already raised his fist to crush his feebler foe, when, in the midst of his fury, a glimmer of the all-importance of every second of time stayed his hand. he threw himself upon the heavy ladder that rested against sir adrian's rows of books, and, clasping it by the middle, swung it above his head. the battering blow would, no doubt, have burst panel, lock, and hinges the next instant, but again rupert forestalled him, and charged him before the door could be reached. overbalanced by the weight he held aloft, captain jack was hurled down headlong beneath the ladder, and lay for a moment stunned by the violence of the fall. when the clouds cleared away it was to let him see rupert's face bending over him, his pale lips wreathed into a smile of malignant exultation. "caught!" said mr. landale, slowly, pausing over each word as though to prolong the savour of it in his mouth, "caught this time! and it is your mistress's hand that puts the noose round your neck. that is what i call poetical justice." the prostrate man, collecting his scattered wits and his vast strength, made a violent effort to spring to his feet. but rupert's whole weight was upon him, his long thin fingers were gripping him by each shoulder, his face grinned at him, close, detested, infuriating. the grasp that held him seemed to belong to no flesh and blood, it was as the grasp of skeleton hands, the grinning face became like a death's head. "i shall come to your hanging, captain jack smith, or rather, mr. hubert cochrane of the shaws." these were the last words of rupert landale. a red whirl passed through the sailor's brain, his hands fell like lashes round the other's neck and drew it down. _if hubert cochrane dies so does rupert landale: that throat shall never give sound to that name again._ over and over they roll like savage beasts, but yet in deathly silence. for the pressure of the fingers on his gullet, fingers that seem to gain fresh strength every moment and pierce into his very flesh, will not allow even a sigh to pass rupert's lips, and jack can spare no atom of his energy from the fury of fight: not one to spare even for the hearing of the frantic knocks at the door, the calls, the hammering at the lock, the desperate efforts without to prise it open. _but if rupert landale must die so shall hubert cochrane, and by the hangman's hand, treble doomed by this._ the same thought fills both these men's heads; the devil of murder has possession of both their souls. but, true to himself to the last, it is with rupert a calculating devil. the officers must soon be here: he will hold the scoundrel yet with the grasp of death, and his enemy shall be found red-handed--red-handed! his hatred, his determination of vengeance, the very agony of the unequal struggle for life gave him a power that is almost a match for the young athlete in his frenzy. the dying efforts of his victim tax jack's strength more than the living fight; but his hands are still locked in their fatal clutch when at last, with one fearful and spasmodic jerk, rupert landale falls motionless. then exhaustion enwraps the conqueror also, like a mantle. he, too, lies motionless with his cheek on the floor, face to face with the corpse, dimly conscious of the voluptuousness of victory. but the dead grasp still holds him by the wrists, and it grows cold now, and rigid upon them. it is as if they were fettered with iron. * * * * * lady landale's dread of her once despised kinsman, now that she knew what a powerful weapon he held in his hands, this night, was almost fantastic. as she darted from the room, she fell against rené, who, with a white face and bent ear, stood at the door, eavesdropping, ready to rush to the help of sir adrian's friend upon the first hint of necessity. but he had heard more than he bargained for. the scared, well-nigh agonised look of inquiry with which he turned to his mistress was lost upon her. in her whirlwind exit, she seized upon him and dragged him with her to the ladder that led to the tower. "quick, rené, the signal!" and with the birdlike swiftness of a dream flight she was up the steps before him. panting in her wake, ran the sturdy fellow, his brain seething in a chaos of conflicting thought. mr. the captain must be helped, must be saved: this one thing was clear at any rate. his honour would wish it so--no matter what had happened. yes, he would obey my lady and make the signal. but, what if mr. landale were right? not indeed in his accusation of mr. the captain, rené knew, rené had seen enough to trust him: he was no false friend; but as regarded my lady? alas! my lady had indeed been strange in her manner these days; and even moggie, as he minded him now, even moggie had noticed, had hinted, and he had not understood. the man's fingers fumbled over the catch of the great lantern, he shook as if he had the palsy. goodness divine, if his master were to come home to this! impatiently lady landale pushed him upon one side. what ailed the fellow, when every second was crucial, life or death bringing? medusa-like for one second her face hung, white-illumined, set into terrible fixity, above the great flame, the next instant all was blackness to their dazzled eyes. the light of scarthey was out! she groped for rené; her hot fingers burnt upon his cold rough hand for a second. "i will go down to the sands," she said, whispering as if she feared, even here, the keenness of rupert's ear, "and you--hurry to him, stop with him, defend him, your master's friend!" she flitted from him like a shadow, the ladder creaked faintly beneath her light footfall, and then louder beneath his weighty tread. his master's friend! ay, he would stand by him, for his master's sake and for his own sake too--the good gentleman!--and they would get him safe out of the way before his honour's return. * * * * * out upon the beach ran molly. it was a mild still night; through veils of light mist the moon shone with a tranquil bride-like grace upon the heaving palpitating waters and the mystery of the silent land. a very night for lovers, it seemed; for sweet meetings and sweeter partings; a night that mocked with its great passionless calm at the wild anguish of this woman's impatience. yet a night upon which sound travelled far. she bent her ear--was there nothing to hear yet, nothing but the lap of the restless waters? were those men false? she rushed to and fro, from one point to another along the sands in a delirium of impotent desire. oh, hurry, hurry, hurry! and as she turned again, there, upon the waters out in the offing, glimmered a light, curtseying with the swell of the waves; the sails of a ship caught the moonbeams. she could see the vessel plainly and that it was bearing full for the island. alas! this might scarcely be the little shearman boat manned by two fishermen only; even she, unversed in sea knowledge could tell that. it was as large as the _peregrine_ itself--certainly as large as the cutter. the _cutter_! she caught her breath, and clapped her hands to her lips to choke down the wild scream of fear that rose to them. at the same instant, a dull thud of oars, a subdued murmur of a deep voice rose from the other side of the island. they were coming, coming from the landward, these rescuers of her beloved. and yonder, with swelling canvas, came the hell ship from out the open sea, sent by rupert's infernal malice and cleverness, to make their help of no avail; to seize him, in the very act of flight. she ran in the direction of the sound, and with all her strength called upon the new-comers to speed. "here--here, for god's sake! hasten or it will be too late!" her voice seemed to her, in the midst of the endless space, weak as a child's; but it was heard. "coming!" answered a gruff shout from afar. and the oar beat came closer, and fell with swifter rhythm. stumbling, catching in her skirts, careless of pool or stone beneath her little slippered feet, lady landale came flying round the ruins: a couple of boats crashed in upon the shingle, and the whole night seemed suddenly to become alive with dark figures--men in uniform, with gleams upon them of brass badges and shining belts, and in their hands the gleam of arms. for the moment she could not move. it was as if her knees were giving way, and she must fall. none of them saw her in the shadow; but as they passed, she heard them talking to each other about the signal, the signal which they had been told to look for, which had been brought to them ... the signal _she_ had made. then with a wave of rage, the power of life returned to her. this was rupert's work! but all was not lost yet. the other boat was coming, the other boat must be the rescue after all; the shearman's boat, or--who knows?--if there was mercy in heaven, the _peregrine_, whose crew might have heard of their captain's risk. back she raced to the seaward beach, hurling--unknowing that she spoke at all--invectives upon her husband's brother. "serpent, blood-hound, devil, devil, you shall not have him!" as she reached the landing-place, breathless, a boat was landing in very truth. even as she came up a tall figure jumped out upon the sand, and crunched towards her with great strides. she made a leap forward, halted, and cried out shrilly: "adrian!" "molly--wife! thank god!" his arms were stretched out to her, but he saw her waver and shudder from him, and wring her hands. "my god, what has happened? the light out, too! what is it?" she fastened on him with a sudden fierceness, the spring of a wild cat. "come," she said, drawing him towards the peel, "if you would save him, lose not a second." he hesitated a moment, still; she tugged at him like one demented, panting her abjurations at him, though her voice was failing her. then, without a word, he fell to running with her towards the keep, supporting her as they went. the great door had swung back on its hinges, and the men were pressing, in a dark body, into the dim-lit recesses, when sir adrian and his wife reached the entrance. the sight of the uniforms only confirmed the homecomer in his own forebodings anent the first act of the drama that was being enacted upon his peaceful island. he needed no further pushing from the frantic woman at his side. lost in bringing her back, perhaps, his only friend! lost by his loyalty and his true friendship! they dashed up the stone stairs just as the locked door of the living-room burst with a crash, under the efforts of many stalwart shoulders; they saw the men crush forwards, and fall back, and herd on again, with a hoarse murmur that leaped from mouth to mouth. and rené came running out from the throng with the face of one that has seen death. and he caught his mistress by the arm, and held her by main force against the wall. he showed no surprise at the sight of his master--there are moments in life that are beyond surprise--but cried wildly: "she must not see!" she fought like a tigress against the faithful arms, but still they held her, and sir adrian went in alone. a couple of men were dragging captain jack to his feet, forcing his hands from the dead man's throat; it seemed as if they had grown as rigid and paralysed in their clasp like the corpse hands that had now, likewise, to be wrenched from their clutch of him. he glanced around, as though dazed, then down at the disfigured purple face of his dead enemy, smiled and held out his hands stiffly for the gyves that were snapped upon them. and then one of the fellows, with some instinctive feeling of decency, flung a coat over the slain man, and captain jack threw up his head and met adrian's horror-stricken, sorrowful eyes. at the unexpected sight he grew scarlet; he waved his fettered hands at him as they hustled him forth. "i have killed your brother, adrian," he called out in a loud voice, "but i brought back your wife!" some of the men were speaking to sir adrian, but drew back respectfully before the spectacle of his wordless agony. but, as molly, with a shriek, would have flung herself after the prisoner, her husband awoke to action, and, pushing rené aside, caught her round the waist with an unyielding grip: his eyes sought her face. and, as the light fell on it, he understood. aye, she had been brought back to him. but how? and rené, watching his master's countenance, suddenly burst out blubbering, like a child. chapter xxx husband and wife tout comprendre-- c'est tout pardonner. staring straight before her with haggard, unseeing eyes, her hands clasped till the delicate bones protruded, her young face lined into sudden agedness, grey with unnatural pallor, framed by the black masses of her dishevelled hair, it was thus sir adrian found his wife, when at length he was free to seek her. he and rené had laid the dead man upon the bed that had been occupied by his murderer, and composed as decently as might be the hideous corpse of him who had been the handsomest of his race. rené had given his master the tale of all he knew himself, and sir adrian had ordered the boat to be prepared, determined to convey lady landale at once from the scene of so much horror. his own return to pulwick, moreover, to break the news to sophia, to attend to the removal of the body and the preparation for the funeral was of immediate necessity. as he approached his wife she raised her eyes. "what do you want with me?" she asked, with a stony look that arrested him, as he would gently have taken her hand. "i would bring you home." "home!" the pale lips writhed in withering derision. "yes, home, molly," he spoke as one might to a much-loved and unreasonable sick child--with infinite tenderness and compassion--"your own warm home, with your sister. you would like to go to madeleine, would not you?" she unclasped her hands and threw them out before her with a savage gesture of repulsion. "to madeleine?" she echoed, with an angry cry; and then wheeling round upon him fiercely: "do you want to kill me?" she said, between her set teeth. sir adrian's weary brow contracted. he paused and looked at her with profoundest sorrow. then she asked, hoarsely: "where have they taken him to?" "to lancaster, i believe." "will they hang him?" "i pray god not." "there is no use of praying to god, god is merciless. what will they do to him?" "he will be tried, molly, in due course, and then, according to the sentence of the judges.... my poor child, control yourself, he shall be defended by the best lawyers that money can get. all a man can do for another i shall do for him." she shot the sombre fire of her glance at him. "you know that i love him," she said, with a terrible composure. a sudden whiteness spread round sir adrian's lips. "poor child!" he said again beneath his breath. "yes, i love him. i always wanted to see him. i was sick and tired of life at pulwick, and that was why i went on board his ship. i went deliberately because i could not bear the dulness of it all. he mistook me for madeleine in the dark--he kissed me. afterwards i told him that i loved him. i begged him to take me away with him, for ever. i love him still, i would go with him still--it is as well that you should know. nothing can alter it now. but he did not want me. he loves madeleine." the words fell from her lips with a steady, cruel, deliberateness. she kept her eyes upon him as she spoke, unpityingly, uncaring what anguish she inflicted; nay, it seemed from some strange perversity, glad to make him suffer. but hard upon a man as it must be to hear such a confession from his wife's lips, doubly hard to such a one as adrian, whose heart bled for her pain as well as for his own, he held himself without departing for a second from his wonted quiet dignity. only in his earnest gaze upon her there was perhaps, if possible, an added tenderness. but she, to see him so unmoved, was moved herself to a sudden scorn. what manner of man was this, that not love, nor jealousy, nor anger had power to stir? "and now what will you do with me?" she asked him again, with superb contempt on eye and lip. "for a guilty wife i am to you, as far as the will could make me, and i have no claim upon you any more." "no claim upon me!" he repeated, with a wonder of grief in his voice. "ah, molly, hush child! you are my wife. the child of the woman i loved--the woman i love for her own sake. you can no more put yourself out of my life now than you can out of my heart; had you been as guilty in deed as you may have been in purpose my words would be the same. your husband's home is your home, my only wish to cherish and shelter you. you cannot escape my care, poor child, and some day you may be glad of it. my protection, my countenance you will always have. god! who am i that i should judge you? is there any sin of human frailty that a human being dare condemn? guilty? what is your guilt compared to mine for bringing you to this, allying my melancholy age with your bright youth?" he fell into the chair opposite to her and covered his face with his hands. as, for a minute's space, his self-control wavered, she watched him, wearily. her heat of temper had fallen from her very quickly; she broke into a moan. "oh, what does it matter? what does anything matter now? i love him and i have ruined him--had it not been for me he would be safe!" after a little silence sir adrian rose. "i must leave you now, i must go to pulwick," he said. his heart was yearning to her, he would have gathered her to his arms as a father his erring child, but he refrained from even touching her. "and you--what would you do? it shall be as you like." "i would go to lancaster," she said. "the carriage shall be sent for you in the morning and renny and his wife shall go with you. i will see to it. after rupert's funeral--my god, what a night this has been!--i will join you, and together we shall work to save his life." he paused, hesitated, and was about to turn away when suddenly she caught his hand and kissed it. he knew she would as readily have kissed rené's hand for a like promise; that her gratitude was a pitiable thing for him, her husband, to bear; and yet, all the way, on his sad and solitary journey to pulwick, the touch of her lips went with him, bringing a strange sweetness to his heart. * * * * * there was a vast deal of wonder in the county generally, and among the old friends of his father's house in particular, when it became known that sir adrian landale had engaged a noted counsel to defend his brother's murderer and was doing all he could to avert his probable doom. in lowered tones were whispered strange tales of lady landale's escapade. people wagged wise and virtuous heads and breathed scandalous hints of her power upon her infatuated husband; and then they would tap their foreheads significantly. indeed it needed all the master of pulwick's wide-spread reputation for mental unsoundness to enable him to carry through such proceedings without rousing more violent feelings. as it was, it is to be doubted whether his interference had any other effect than that of helping to inflame the public mind against the prisoner. the jury's verdict was a foregone conclusion; and though the learned lawyer duly prepared a very fine speech and pocketed some monstrous fees with a great deal of complaisance, he was honest enough not to hold out the smallest hope of being able to save his client. the conviction was too clear, the "crimes" the prisoner had committed were of "too horrible and bloody a character, threatening the very foundations of society," to admit of a merciful view of the case. as the trial drew near, sir adrian's despondency increased; each day seemed to bring a heavier furrow to his brow, an added weight to his lagging steps. he avoided as much as possible all meetings with his wife, who, on the contrary, recovered stronger courage with the flight of time, but whose feverish interest in his exertions was now transferred to some secret plans that she was for ever discussing with rené. the prisoner himself showed great calmness. "they will sentence me of course," he said quietly to adrian, "but whether they will hang me is another question. i don't think that my hour has come yet or that the cord is twisted which will hang jack smith." in other moods, he would ridicule sir adrian's labours in his cause with the most gentle note of affectionate mockery. but, from the desire doubtless to save one so disinterested and unworldly from any accusation of complicity, he was silent upon the schemes on which he pinned his hopes of escape. the first meeting of the friends after the scene at scarthey had been, of course, painful to both. when he entered the cell, adrian had stretched out his hand in silence, but captain jack held his own pressed to his side. "it is like you to come," he said gloomily, "but you cannot shake the hand that stifled your brother's life out of him. and i should do it again, adrian! mark you, i am not repentant!" "give me your hand, jack," said adrian steadfastly. "i am not of those who shift responsibility from the dead to the living. you were grievously treated. oh, give me your hand, friend, can i think of anything now but your peril and your truth to me?" for an instant still the younger man hesitated and inquiringly raised his eyes laden with anxious trouble, to the elder man's face. "my wife has told me all," said sir adrian, turning his head to hide his twitching lip. and then jack smith's hand leaped out to meet his friend's upon an impulse of warm sympathy, and the two faced each other, looking the words they could not utter. * * * * * the year eighteen hundred and fifteen which delivered england at last from the strain of outlandish conflict saw a revival of official activity concerning matters of more homely interest. the powers that were awoke to the necessity, among other things, of putting a stop by the most stringent means to the constant and extensive leakage in the national revenue proceeding from the organisation of free traders or smugglers. after twenty years of almost complete supineness on the part of the authorities, the first efforts made towards a systematic "preventive" coast service, composed of customs, excise and naval officials in proportion varied according to the localities, remained singularly futile. and to the notorious inability of these latter to cope with the experience and the devilish daring of the old established free traders, was due no doubt to the ferocity of the inquisitional laws presently levelled against smuggling and smugglers--laws which ruthlessly trenched upon almost every element of the british subjects' vaunted personal freedom, and which added, for the time, several new "hanging cases" to the sixty odd already in existence. that part of the indictment against captain jack smith and the other criminals still at large, which dealt with their offences against the smuggling act, would in later times have broken down infallibly from want of proper evidence: not a tittle of information was forthcoming which could support examination. but a judge of assizes and a jury in , were not to be baulked of the necessary victim by mere circumstantiality when certain offences against society and against his majesty had to be avenged; and the dispensers of justice were less concerned with strict evidence than with the desirability of making examples. strong presumption was all that was required to them to hang their man; and indeed the hanging of captain jack upon the other and more serious counts than that of unlawful occupation, was, as has been said, a foregone conclusion. the triple charge of murder being but too fully corroborated. every specious argument that could be mooted was of course put forward by counsel for the defence, to show that the death of the preventive men and of mr. landale on scarthey island and the sinking of the revenue cutter must be looked upon, on the one hand, as simple manslaughter in self-defence, and as the result of accidental collision, on the other. but, as every one anticipated, the charge of the judge and the finding of the jury demanded strenuously the extreme penalty of the law. besides this the judge deemed it advisable to introduce into the sentence one of those already obsolete penalties of posthumous degradation, devised in coarser ages for the purpose of making an awful impression upon the living. "prisoner at the bar," said his lordship at the conclusion of the last day's proceedings, "the sentence of the law which i am about to pass upon you and which the court awards is that you now be taken to the place whence you came, and from thence, on the day appointed, to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you be dead, dead, dead. and may god have mercy on your soul!" captain jack, standing bolt upright, with his eyes fixed upon the speaker, calm as he ever had been when awaiting the enemy's broadside, hearkened without stirring a muscle. but when the judge, after pronouncing the last words with a lingering fulness and impressiveness, continued through the heavy silence: "and that, at a subsequent time, your body, bound in irons, shall be suspended upon a gibbet erected as near as possible to the scenes of your successive crimes, and shall there remain as a lasting warning to wrong-doers of the inevitable ultimate end of such an evil life as yours," a wave of crimson flew to the prisoner's forehead, upon which every vein swelled ominously. he shot a glance of fury at the large flabby countenance of the righteous arbiter of his doom, whilst his hands closed themselves with an involuntary gesture of menace. then the tide of anger ebbed; a contemptuous smile parted his lips. and, bowing with an air of light mockery to the court, he turned, erect and easy, to follow his turnkey out of the hall. chapter xxxi in lancaster castle all that his friendship for the condemned man, all that his love and pity for his almost distracted wife, could suggest, sir adrian landale had done in london to try and avert captain jack's doom. but it was in vain. there also old stories of his peculiar tenets and of his well-known disaffection to the established order of things, had been raked up against him. unfavourable comparisons had been drawn between him and rupert; surprise and disapproval had been expressed at the unnatural brother, who was displaying such energy to obtain mercy for his brother's murderer. finally an influential personage, whom sir adrian had contrived to interest in the case, in memory of an old friendship with his father, informed the baronet that his persistence was viewed with extreme disfavour in the most exalted quarter, and that his royal highness himself had pronounced that captain jack was a damned rascal and richly deserved his fate. from the beginning, indeed, the suppliant had been without hope. though he was resolved to leave no stone unturned, no possibility untried in the effort to save his friend, well-nigh the saddest part of the whole business to him was the realisation that the prisoner had not only broken those custom laws (of which sir adrian himself disapproved as arbitrary) but also, as he had been warned, those other laws upon which depend all social order and security; broken them so grievously that, whatever excuses the philosopher might find in heat of blood and stress of circumstances, given laws at all, the sentence could not be pronounced otherwise than just. and so, with an aching heart and a wider horror than ever of the cruel world of men, and of the injustices to which legal justice leads, sir adrian left london to hurry back to lancaster with all the speed that post-horses could muster. the time was now drawing short. as the traveller rattled along the stony streets of the old palatine town, and saw the dawn breaking, exquisite, primrose tinted, faintly beautiful as some dream vision over the distant hills, his soul was gripped with an iron clutch. in three more days the gallant heart, breaking in the confinement of the prison yonder, would have throbbed its last! and he longed, with a desire futile but none the less intense, that, according to that doctrine of vicarious atonement preached to humanity by the greatest of all examples, he could lay down his own weary and disappointed life for his friend. having breakfasted at the hotel, less for the necessity of food than for the sake of passing the time till the morning should have worn to sufficient maturity, he sought on foot the quiet lodgings where he had installed his wife under rené's guard before starting on his futile quest. early as the hour still was--seven had but just rung merrily from some chiming church clock--the faithful fellow was already astir and prompt to answer his master's summons. one look at the latter's countenance was sufficient to confirm the servant's own worst forebodings. "ah, your honour, and is it indeed so. _ces gredins!_ and will they hang so good a gentleman?" "hush, renny, not so loud," cried the other with an anxious look at the folding-doors, that divided the little sitting-room from the inner apartment. "oh, his honour need have no fear. my lady is gone, gone to pulwick. his honour need not disquiet himself; he can well imagine that i would not allow her to go alone--when i had been given a trust so precious. no, no, the old lady, miss o'donoghue, your honour's aunt and her ladyship's, she has heard of all these terrible doings, and came to lancaster to be with my lady. _ma foi_, i know not if she be just the person one would have chosen, for she has scolded a great deal, and is as agitated--as agitated as a young rabbit. but, after all, she loves the poor young lady with all her heart, and i think she has roused her a little. his honour knows," said the man, flushing to the roots of his hair, whilst he shifted nervously from one foot to another, "that my lady has been much upset about the poor captain. after his honour went, she would sit, staring out of the window there, just where the street turns up to the castle, and neither ate nor slept, nor talked to speak of. of course, as i told the old demoiselle, i knew it was because my lady had taken it to heart about the signal that she made--thinking to save him--and which only brought the gabelous on him, that his honour's infernal brother (god forgive me, and have mercy on his soul) had set to watch. and my lady liked to see me coming and going, for she sent me every day to the prison; she did not once go herself." sir adrian drew a long breath. with the most delicate intuition of his master's thoughts, rené avoided even a glance at him while he continued in as natural a tone as he could assume: "but the day after the old miss came, she, my lady, told me to find out if he would see her. he said no; but that the only kindness any one could do him now would be to bring him mademoiselle madeleine, and let him speak to her once more. and my lady, when she heard this, she started off that day with the old one to fetch mademoiselle herself at pulwick. and she left me behind, your honour, for i had a little plan there." rené faltered and a crestfallen look crept upon his face. sir adrian remembered how before his departure for london his servant had cheerily assured him that mr. the captain would be safe out of the country long before he returned, "faith of him, rené, who had already been in two prisons, and knew their ways, and how to contrive an escape, as his honour well knew." a sad smile parted his lips. "and so you failed, renny," he said. "ah, your honour, those satanic english turnkeys! with a frenchman, the job had been done; but it is a bad thing to be in prison in england. his honour can vouch i have some brains. i had made plans--a hundred plans, but there was ever something that did not work. the captain, he too, was eager, as your honour can imagine. my faith, we thought and we thought, and we schemed and contrived, and in the end, there was only one thing to complete our plot--to bribe the jailer. would your honour believe--it was only that one little difficulty. my lady had given me a hundred guineas, i had enough money, your honour sees. but the man--i had smoked with him, drunk with him, ay, and made him drunk too, and i thought all was going well, but when i hinted to him what we wanted--ah! he was a brute--i tell you i had hard work to escape the prison myself, and only for my leaving him with some of the money, i should now be pinched there too. i hardly dare show my face in the place any more. and my poor lady builds on the hope, and mr. the captain--i had to tell him, he took it like an angel. ah, the poor gentleman! he looked at me so brave and kind! 'i am as grateful, my poor friend, as if you had done it,' said he, 'and perhaps it is all for the best.' all for the best--ah, your honour!" rené fairly broke down here, and wept on his sleeve. but sir adrian's eyes, circled and worn with watching and thought, shone dry with a far deeper grief, as, a few moments later, he passed along the street towards the walls of the castle. * * * * * there was in those days little difficulty in obtaining admission to a condemned prisoner; and, in the rear of the red-headed, good-tempered looking jailer--the same, he surmised, whose sternness in duty had baffled the breton's simple wiles--he stepped out of the sweet morning sunshine into the long stone passages. the first tainted breath of the prison brought a chill to his blood and oppression to his lungs, and the gloom of the place enveloped him like a pall. with a rattle of keys a door dismally creaking on its hinges was swung back at last, and the visitor was ushered into the narrow cell, dark for all its whitewashed walls, where captain jack was spending his last hours upon earth. the hinges groaned again, the door slammed, and the key once more grated in the lock. sir adrian was alone with his friend. for a moment there was silence; the contraction of the elder man's heart had brought a giddiness to his brain, a dimness of his eyes, through which he was ill able to distinguish anything. but then there was a clank of fetters--ah, what a sound to connect with lucky jack smith, the gayest, freest, and most buoyant of men! and a voice cried: "adrian!" it had a joyful ring, well-nigh the old hearty tones. it struck adrian to the soul. he could have borne, he thought, to find his friend a broken man, changed out of all recognition, crushed by his misfortunes; but to find him the same, a little pale, indeed, and thinner, with a steady earnestness in the sea-blue eyes instead of the old dancing-light, but still gallant and undaunted, still radiating vigorous life and breezy energy by his very presence, this was a cruelty of fate which seemed unendurable. "i declare," the prisoner had continued, "i declare i thought you were only the incorruptible jailer taking his morning survey. they are desperately careful of me, adrian, and watch me with maternal solicitude lest i should strangle myself with my chains, these pretty bracelets which i have had to wear ever since poor renny was found out, or swallow my pillow--dash me! it's small enough--and spoil the pretty show for saturday! why, why, adrian, old friend?" there was a sudden change of tone to the warmest concern, for sir adrian had staggered and would have fallen had not jack, as nimbly as his fetters would allow him, sprung to support him and conduct him to the bed. a shaft of light struck through the tiny barred window on to the elder man's face, and showed it against the surrounding darkness deathly white and wet with anguish. "i have done all i could, hubert," he murmured, in an extinguished voice, "but to no avail." "ay, man, i guessed as much. but never fret for me, adrian: i have looked death too often in the face to play the poltroon, now. i don't say it's the end i should have chosen for myself; but it is inevitable, and there is nothing, as you know, my friend, that a man cannot face if he knows it must be faced." the grasp of his strong warm hands, all manacled as they were, upon the other's nerveless clammy fingers, sent, more than the words, something of the speaker's own courage to his friend's wrung heart. and yet that very courage was an added torment. that from a community, so full of evil, feeble, harmful wretches, this noble soul, no matter how it had sinned, should be banished at the bidding of justice--what mockery of right was this? the world was out of joint indeed. he groaned aloud. "nay, i'll have none of it," cried jack. "our last talk, adrian, must not be spoiled by futile regrets. yes, our last talk it is to be, for"--the prisoner's face became transfigured with a tenderness so exquisite that adrian stared at its beauty, amazed--"i have begged her, madeleine, to come and see me once more. i think she can be here to-day, at latest to-morrow. and after that i would not see any of those i love again, that i may fit myself to meet my god." he spoke with the utmost simplicity. adrian bowed his head silently. then averting his eyes, he said: "my wife has gone to pulwick to fetch her." captain jack crimsoned. "that is kind," he answered, in a low voice; and, after a pause, pursued: "i hope you do not think it wrong of me to wish to see her. but you may trust me. i shall distress her as little as is possible in the circumstances. it is not, as you can fancy"--his face flushed again as he spoke--"to indulge in a pathetic parting scene, or beg from her sweet lips one last kiss--that would be too grossly selfish, and however this poor body of mine, so soon to be carrion, may yearn to hold her once more closely, these lips, so soon to touch death, shall touch hers no more. i have risen so far above this earthliness, that in so many hours i am to shake off for ever, that i can trust myself to meet her soul to soul. she must believe me now, and i would tell her, adrian, that my deceit was not premeditated, and that the man she once honoured with her love is not the base wretch she deems. i think it may comfort her. if she does mourn for me at all--she has so proud a spirit, my princess, as i used to call her--it may comfort her to know that i was not all unworthy of the love she once gave me, of the tears she may yet give to its memory and mine." sir adrian pressed his hand, but again could not speak, and captain jack went on: "you will give her a happy home, will you not, till she has one of her own? you and your old dragon of an aunt, whose bark is so much worse than her bite, will watch and guard her. ah, poor old lady! she is one of those that will not weep for jack smith, eh, adrian? well, well, i have had a happy life, barring one or two hard raps of fate, and when only i have seen madeleine once more, i'll feel all taut for the port, though the passage there be a rough one." sir adrian turned his gaze with astonishment upon him. the sailor read his thoughts: "don't think," he said, while a sudden shadow crossed his face, "don't think that i don't realise my position, that i have not had to fight my battle. in the beginning i had hopes; never in the success of your mission, but, absurd as it was, in renny's scheme. the good fellow's own hopefulness was infectious, i believe. and when that fell through--well then, man, i just had to make up my mind to what was to be. it was a battle, as i told you. i have been in danger of death many a time upon the brave old _st. nicholas_, and my _cormorant_--death from the salt sea, from musket ball and cannon shot, fearful deaths of mangling and hacking. but death on the gallows, the shameful death of the criminal; to be hung; to be executed--pah! ay! it was a battle--two nights and one day i fought it. and i tell you, 'tis a hard thing to bring the living flesh and the leaping blood to submit to such as that. at first i thought indeed, it could not be borne, and i must reckon upon your or renny's friendship for a secret speed. i should have had the pluck to starve myself if need be, only i am so damned strong and healthy, i feared it could not have been managed in the time. at any rate, i could have dashed my brains out against the wall--but i see it otherwise now. the prison chaplain, a good man, adrian, has made me realise that it would be cowardly, that i should accept my sentence as atonement, as deserved--i _have_ deserved to die." it had been sir adrian's own thought; but he broke out now in inarticulate protest. it seemed too gross, too monstrous. "yes, adrian, i have. you warned me, good friend, in your peaceful room--ah, how long ago it seems now! that night, when all that could make life beautiful lay to my hand for the taking. oh, man, why did i not heed you! you warned me: he who breaks one law will end by breaking many. you were right. see the harm i wreaked--those poor fellows, who were but doing their duty bravely, whose lives i sacrificed without remorse! your brother, too, whose soul, with the most deliberate vindictiveness, i sent before its maker, without an instant's preparation! a guilty soul it was; for he hounded me down, one would almost think for the sport of it.... god! when i think that, but for him, for his wanton interference--but there, the devils are loose again! i must not think on him. do i not deserve my fate, if the bible law be right? 'he who sheds blood, his blood shall be shed.' never was sentence more just. i have sinned, i have repented; i am now ready to atone. i believe the sacrifice will be accepted." he laid his hand, for a minute, upon the bible on the table, with a significant gesture. but sir adrian, the philosopher, though he could find no words to impeach the logic of his friend's reasoning, and was all astir with admiration for a resignation as perfect as either christian or stoic could desire, found his soul rising in tumultuous rebellion against the hideous decree. the longing that had beset him in the dawn, now seized upon him with a new passion, and the cry escaped his lips almost unwittingly: "oh, if i could die for you!" "no, no," said jack, with his sweet smile, "your life is too valuable, too precious to the world. adrian, believe me, you can still do much good with it. and i know you will be happy yet." it was the only allusion he had made to his friend's more personal sorrows. before the latter had time to reply, he hastened to proceed: "and now to business. all the gold entrusted to me lies at scarthey and, faith, i believe it lies as weightily on my mind as if it was all stored there instead! renny knows the secret hiding-place. will you engage to restore it to its owners, in all privacy? this is a terribly arduous undertaking, adrian, and it is asking much of your friendship; but if i know you, not too much. and it will enable my poor bones to lie at rest, or rather," with a rueful laugh, "hang at rest on their gibbet; for you know i am to be set up as a warning to other fools, like a rat on a barn door. i have, by the kindness of the chaplain, been able to write out a full schedule of the different sums, and to whom they are due. he has taken charge of the closed packet directed to you, and will give it to you intact, i feel sure. he is a man of honour, and i trust him to respect the confidence i have placed in him.... egad! the poor old boys will be right glad to get their coin back in safety. a couple of them have been up here already, to interview me, in fear and trembling. they were hard set to credit me when i assured them that they would be no losers in the end, after all--barring the waiting. you see, i counted upon you." "i shall never rest until it is done," said sir adrian, simply. and captain jack as simply answered: "thank you. among the treasure there is also £ , of my own; the rest of my laboriously acquired fortune is forfeit to the crown, as you know--much good may it do it! but this little hoard i give to you. you do not want it, of course, and therefore it is only to be yours that you may administrate it in accordance to my wishes. another charge--but i make no apology. i wish you to divide it in three equal shares: two to be employed as you see best, for the widows and families of those poor fellows of the preventive service, victims of my venture; the third, as well as my beautiful _peregrine_, i leave to the mate and men who served me so faithfully. they have fled with her, and must avoid england for some time. but renny will contrive to hear of them; they are bound to return in secret for tidings, and i should like to feel that the misery i have left behind me may be mitigated.... and now, dear adrian, that is all. the man outside grows impatient. i hear him shuffling his keys. hark! there he knocks; the fellow has a certain rude feeling for me. an honest fellow. dear adrian, good-bye." "my god! this is hard--is there nothing else--nothing--can indeed all my friendship be of no further help?--hubert!" "hush, hush," cried jack smith hastily, "adrian, you alone of all living beings now know me by that name. never let it cross your lips again. i could not die in peace were it not for the thought that i bring no discredit upon it. my mother believes me dead--god in his mercy has spared me the crowning misery of bringing shame to her white hairs--shame to the old race. hubert cochrane died ten years ago. jack smith alone it is that dies by the hangman's hand. one other," his voice softened and the hard look of pain left his face, "one other shall hear the secret besides you--but i know she will never speak of it, even to you--and such is my wish." it was the pride of race at its last and highest expression. there was the sound, without, of the key in the lock. "one last word--if you love me, nay, as you love me--do not be there on saturday! this parting with you--the good-bye to her--that is my death. afterwards what happens to this flesh," he struck at himself with his chained hands, "matters no more than what will happen to the soulless corpse. i know you would come to help me with the feeling of your love, your presence--but do not--do not--and now good-bye!" adrian seized his friend by the hands with a despairing grip, the door rolled back with its dismal screech. the prisoner smiled at him with tender eyes. this man whom, all unwillingly he had robbed of his wife's heart, was broken with grief that he could not save the life that had brought him misery. here was a friend to be proud of, even at the gate of death! "god be with you, dear adrian! god bless you and your household, and your children, and your children's children! hear my last words: _from my death will be born your happiness, and if its growth be slow, yet it will wax strong and sure as the years go by_." the words broke from him with prophetic solemnity; their hands fell apart, and adrian, led by the jailer, stumbled forth blindly. jack smith stood erect, still smiling, watching them: were adrian to turn he should find no weakness, no faltering for the final remembrance. but adrian did not turn. and the door closed, closed upon hope and happiness and life, shut in shame and death. out yonder, with adrian, was the fresh bright world, the sea, the sunshine, the dear ones; here the prison smells, the gloom, the constraint, the inflicted dreadful death. all his hard-won calm fled from him; all his youth, his immense vitality woke up and cried out in him again. he raised his hands and pulled fiercely at his collar as if already the rope were round his neck strangling him. his blood hammered in his brain. god--god--it was impossible--it could not be--it was a dream! beyond, from far distant in the street came the cry of a little child: "da-da--daddy." the prisoner threw up his arms and then fell upon his face upon the bed, torn by sobs. yes, adrian would have children; but hubert cochrane, who, from the beautiful young brood that was to have sprung from his loins would have grafted on the old stock a fresh and noble tree, he was to pass barren out of life and leave no trace behind him. chapter xxxii the one he loved and the one who loved him on the evening of the previous day lady landale and her aunt had arrived at pulwick. the drive had been a dismal one to poor miss o'donoghue. neither her angry expostulations, nor her tender remonstrances, nor her attempts at consolation could succeed in drawing a connected sentence from molly, who, with a fever spot of red upon each cheek only roused herself from the depth of thought in which she seemed plunged to urge the coachman to greater speed. miss o'donoghue tried the whole gamut of her art in vain, and was obliged at last to desist from sheer weariness and in much anxiety. madeleine and sophia were seated by the fireside in the library when the unexpected travellers came in upon them. sophia, in the blackest of black weeds, started guiltily up from the volume of "the corsair," in which she had been plunged, while madeleine, without manifesting any surprise, rose placidly, laid aside her needlework--a coarse flannel frock, evidently destined for charity--and bestowed upon her sister and aunt an affectionate though unexpansive embrace. she had grown somewhat thinner and more thoughtful-looking since molly and she had last met, on that fatal th of march, but otherwise was unchanged in her serene beauty. molly clutched her wrist with a burning hand, and, paying not the slightest attention to the other two, nor condescending to any preamble, began at once, in hurried words to explain her mission. "he has asked for you, madeleine," she cried, her eyes flaming with unnatural brilliance as they sought her sister's mild gaze. "he has asked for you, i will take you back with me, to-morrow, not later than to-morrow. don't you understand?" shaking her impatiently as she held her, "he is in prison, condemned to death, he has asked for you, he wants to see you. on saturday--on saturday----" something clicked in her throat, and she raised her hand to it with an uneasy gesture, one that those who surrounded her had grown curiously familiar with of late. madeleine drew away from her at this address, the whole fair calm of her countenance troubled like a placid pool by the casting of a stone. clasping her hands and looking down: "i saw that the unfortunate man was condemned," she said. "i have prayed for him daily, i trust he repents. i am truly sorry for him. from my heart i forgive him the deception he practised upon me. but----" a slight shudder shook her, "i could not see him again--surely you could not wish it of me." she spoke with such extreme gentleness that for a minute the woman before her, in the seething turmoil of her soul, failed to grasp the meaning of her words. "you could not go!" she repeated in a bewildered way, "i could not wish it of you--!" then with a sort of shriek which drew tanty and miss sophia hurriedly towards her, "don't you understand--on saturday--if it all fails, they will hang him?" "a-ah!" exclaimed madeleine with a movement as if to ward off the sound--the cry, the gesture expressive, not of grief, but of shrinking repugnance. but after a second, controlling herself: "and what should that be now, sister, to you or to me?" she said haughtily. lady landale clapped her hands together. "and this is the woman he loves!" she cried with a shrill laugh. and she staggered, and sank back upon a chair in an attitude of utter prostration. "molly, molly," exclaimed her sister reprovingly, while she glanced in much distress at miss o'donoghue, "you are not yourself; you do not know what you are saying." "remember," interposed sophia in tragic tones, "that you are speaking of the murderer of my beloved brother." then she dissolved in tears, and was obliged to hide her countenance in the folds of a vast pocket-handkerchief. "killing vermin is not murder!" cried molly fiercely, awakening from her torpor. miss o'donoghue, who in the most unwonted silence had been watching the scene with her shrewd eyes, here seized the horrified sophia by the elbow and trundled her, with a great deal of energy and determination, to the door. "get out of this, you foolish creature," she said in a stern whisper, "and don't attempt to show your nose here again till i give it leave to walk in!" then returning to the sisters, and looking from molly's haggard, distracted face to madeleine's pale one: "if you take my advice, my dear," she said, a little drily, to the latter, "you will not make so many bones about going to see that poor lad in the prison, and you'll stop wrangling with your sister, for she is just not able to bear it. we shall start to-morrow, molly," turning to lady landale, and speaking in the tone of one addressing a sick child, "and madeleine will be quite ready as early as you wish." "my dear aunt," said madeleine, growing white to the lips, "i am very sorry if molly is ill, but you are quite mistaken if you think i can yield to her wishes in this matter. i could not go; i could not; it is impossible!" "hear her," cried the other, starting from her seat. "oh, what are you made of? is it water that runs in your veins? you that he loves"--her voice broke into a wail--"you who ought to be so proud to know he loves you even though your heart be broken! you refuse to go to him, refuse his last request!... come to the light," she went on, seizing the girl's wrists again; "let me look at you. bah! you never loved him. you don't even understand what it is to love.... but what could one expect from you, who abandoned him in the moment of danger. you are afraid; afraid of the painful scene, the discomfort, the sight of the prison, of his beautiful face worn and changed--afraid of the discredit. oh! i know you, i know you. but mind you, madeleine de savenaye, he wishes to see you, and i swore you would go to him, and you shall go, if i have to drag you with these hands of mine." her grip was so fierce, her eyes so savage, the words so strange, that madeleine screamed faintly, "she is mad!" and was amazed that miss o'donoghue did not rush to the rescue! but miss o'donoghue, peering at her from the depths of her arm-chair, merely said snappishly: "ah, child, can't you say you will go, and have done! oughtn't you to be ashamed to be so hard-hearted?" and mopped her perspiring and agitated countenance with her kerchief. then upon the girl's bewildered mind dawned a glimmer of the truth; and, blushing to the roots of her hair, she looked at her sister with a growing horror. "oh, molly, molly!" she said again, with a sort of groan. "will you go?" cried molly from between her set teeth. again the girl shuddered. "less than ever--now," she murmured. and as molly threw her from her, almost with violence, she covered her face with her hands and fell, weeping bitter tears, upon the couch behind her. lady landale, with great steps, stormed up and down the room, her eyes fixed on space, her lips moving; now and again a word escaped her then, sometimes hurled at her sister, sometimes only in desperate communing with herself. "base, cowardly, mean! oh, my god, cruel--cruel! to go back without her." after a little, with a sudden change of mood, she halted and stood a while, as if in deep reflection, holding her hand to her head, then crossing the room hurriedly, she knelt down, and flung her arms round the weeping figure. "_ma petite madeleine_," she said in a voice of the most piteous pleading, "thou and i, we were always good friends; thou canst not have the heart to be so cruel to me now. see, my darling, he must die, they say--oh, madeleine, madeleine! and he asked for you. the one thing, he told rené, the only thing we could do for him on earth was to let him see you once more. my little sister, you cannot refuse: he loves you. what has he done to offend you? your pride cannot forgive him for being what he is, i suppose; yet such as he is you should be proud of him. he is too noble, too straightforward to have intentionally deceived you. if he did wrong, it was for love of you. madeleine, madeleine!" her tones trailed away into a moan. miss o'donoghue sobbed loudly from her corner. madeleine, who had looked at her sister at first with repulsion, seemed moved; she placed her hands upon her shoulders, and gazed sadly into the flushed face. "my poor molly," she said hesitatingly, "this is dreadful! but i too--i too was led into deceit, into folly." she blushed painfully. "i would not blame you; it was not your fault that you were carried away in his ship. you went only for my sake: i cannot forget that. yet that he should have this unhappy power over you too, you with your good husband, you a married woman, oh, my poor sister, it is terrible! he is a wicked man; i pray that he may yet repent." "heavens," interrupted molly, her passion up in arms again, loosening as she spoke her clasp upon her sister, and rising to her feet to look down on her with withering scorn, "have i not made myself clear? are you deaf, stupid, as well as heartless? it is you--you--_you_ he loves, _you_ he wants. what am i to him?" with a curious sob, half of laughter, half of anguish. "your pious fears are quite unfounded as far as he is concerned--the wicked man, as you call him! oh, he spurns my love with as much horror as even you could wish!" "molly!" "ay--molly, and molly--how shocked you are! yes, i love him, i don't care who hears it. i love him--adrian knows--he is not as virtuous as you, evidently, for adrian pities me. he is doing all he can, though they say it is in vain, to get a reprieve for him--though i _do_ love him! while you--you are too good, too immaculate even to soil your dainty foot upon the floor of his prison, that floor that i could kiss because his shoe has trod it. but it is impossible! no human being could be so hard, least of all you, whom i have seen turn sick at the sight of a dead worm--madeleine----!" crouching down in the former imploring manner, while her breast heaved with dry tearless sobs: "it cannot hurt you, you who loved him." and then with the old pitiful cry, "it is the only thing he wants, and he loves you." madeleine disengaged herself from the clinging hands with a gesture almost of disgust. "listen to me," she said, after a pause, "try and compose yourself and understand. all this month i have had time to think, to realise, to pray. i have seen what the world is worth, that it is full of horror, of sin, of trouble, of dreadful dissensions--that its sorrow far outweighs its happiness. i _have_ suffered," her pretty lips quivered an instant, but she hardened herself and went on, "but it is better so--it was god's will, it was to show me where to find real comfort, the true peace. i have quite made up my mind. i was only waiting to see you again and tell you--next week i am going back to the convent for ever. oh, why did we leave it, molly, why did we leave it!" she broke down, and the tears gushed from her eyes. lady landale had listened in silence. "well--is that all?" she said impatiently, when her sister ceased speaking, while in the background tanty groaned out a protest, and bewailed that she was alive to see the day. "what does it matter what you do afterwards--you can go to the convent--go where you will then; but what has that to say to your visit to _him_ now?" "i have done with all human love," said madeleine solemnly, crossing her hands on her breast, and looking upward with inspired eyes. "i did love this man once," she answered, hardening herself to speak firmly, though again her lips quivered--"he himself killed that love by his own doing. i trusted him; he betrayed that trust; he would have betrayed me, but that i have forgiven, it is past and done with. but to go and see him now, to stir up in my heart, not the old love, it could not be, but agitation, sorrow--to disturb this quietness of soul, this calm which god has given me at last after so much prayer and struggle--no, no--it would not be right, it cannot be! moreover, if i would, i could not, indeed i could not. the very thought of it all, the disgrace, that place of sin and shame, of him in chains, condemned--a criminal--a murderer!..." a nervous shudder shook her from head to foot, she seemed in truth to sicken and grow faint, like one forced to face some hideous nauseating spectacle. "as for him," she went on in low, feeble tones, "it will be the best too. god knows i forgive him, that i am sorry for him, that i regret his terrible fate. but i feel it would be worse for him to see me--if he must die, it would be wrong to distract him from his last preparations. and it would only be a useless pain to him, for i could not pretend--he would see that i despise him. i thought i loved a noble gentleman, not one who was even then playing with crime and cheating." the faint passionless voice had hardly ceased before, with a loud cry, molly sprang at her sister as if she would have strangled her. "oh, unnatural wretch," she exclaimed, "you are not fit to live!" tanty rushed forward and dragged the infuriated woman away. madeleine rose up stiffly--swayed a moment as she stood--and then fell unconscious to the ground. * * * * * next day in the dawn lady landale came into her sister's bedroom. her circled eyes, her drawn face bespeaking a sleepless night. madeleine was lying, beautiful and white, like a broken lily, in the dim light of the lamp; sophia, an unlovely spectacle in curl papers, wizened and red-eyed from her night's watch, looked up warningly from the arm-chair beside her. but molly went unhesitatingly to the window, pulled the curtains, unbarred the shutters, and then walked over to the bed. as she approached, madeleine opened her blue eyes and gazed at her beseechingly. "there is yet time," said molly in a hollow voice. "get up and come with me." the wan face upon the pillow grew whiter still, the old horror grew in the uplifted eyes, the wan lips murmured, "i cannot." there was an immense strength of resistance in the girl's very feebleness. molly turned away abruptly, then back again once more. "at least you will send him a message?" madeleine drew a deep breath, closed her eyes a moment and seemed to whisper a prayer; then aloud she said, while, like a shadow so faint was it, a flush rose to her cheeks: "tell him that i forgive him, that i forgive him freely--that i shall always pray for him." the flush grew deeper. "tell him too that i shall never be any man's bride, now." she closed her eyes again and the colour slowly ebbed away. molly stood, her black brows drawn, gazing down upon her in silence.--did she love him after all? who can fathom the mystery of another's heart? "i will tell him," she answered at last. "good-bye, madeleine--i shall never see you or speak to you again as long as i live." she left the room with a slow, heavy step. madeleine shivered, and with both hands clasped the silver crucifix that hung around her neck; two great tears escaped from her black lashes and rolled down her cheeks. miss sophia moaned. she, poor soul, had had tragedy enough, at last. * * * * * when the jailer brought in the mid-day meal after adrian's departure, he found the prisoner seated very quietly at his table, his open bible before him, but his eyes fixed dreamily upon the space of dim whitewashed wall, and his mind evidently far away. upon his guardian's entrance he roused himself, however, and begged him, when he should return for the dish, to restore neatness to the bed and to assist him in the ordering of his toilet which he wished to be spick and span. "for i expect a visitor," said captain jack gravely. when in due course the fellow had carried out these wishes with the surly good-nature characteristic of him, jack set himself to wait. the square of sky through his window grew from dazzling white to deepest blue, the shadows travelled along the blank walls, the street noises rose and fell in capricious gusts, the church bells jangled, all the myriad sounds which had come to measure his solitary day struck their familiar course upon his ear; yet the expected visitor delayed. but the captain, among other things, had learnt to possess his soul in patience of late; and so, as he slowly paced his cell after his wont, he betrayed neither irritation nor melancholy. if she did not come to-day, then it would be to-morrow. he had no doubt of this. the afternoon had waned--golden without, full of grey shadows in the prison room--when light footfalls mingled with the well-known heavy tread and jangle of keys, along the echoing passage. there was the murmur of a woman's voice, a word of gruff reply, and the next moment a tall form wrapped in a many-folded black cloak and closely veiled, advanced a few steps into the room, while, as before, the turnkey retired and locked the door behind him. his heart beating so thickly that for the moment utterance was impossible, captain jack made one hurried pace forward with outstretched hands, only to check himself, however, and let them fall by his side. he would meet her calmly, humbly, as he had resolved. the woman threw back her veil, and it was molly's dark gaze, molly's brown face, flushed and haggard, yet always beautiful, that looked out of the black frame. an ashen pallor spread over the prisoner's countenance. "madeleine?" he asked in a whisper; then, with a loud ring of stern demand, "_madeleine!_" "i went for her, i went for her myself--i did all i could--she would not come." _she would not come!_ it is a sort of unwritten law that the supremely afflicted have the right, where possible, to the gratification of the least of their wishes. that madeleine could refuse to come to him in his last extremity, had never once crossed her lover's brain. he stood bewildered. "she is not ill?" "ill!" lady landale's red lips curved in scorn, "no--not ill--but a coward!" she spat the word fiercely as if at the offender's face. there fell a minute's silence, broken only by a few labouring deep-drawn breaths from the prisoner's oppressed lungs. then he stood as if turned to stone, not a muscle moving, his eyes fixed, his jaw set. molly trembled before this composure, beneath which she divined a suffering so intense that her own frail barriers of self-restraint were well-nigh broken down by a torrent of passionate pity. but she braced herself with the feeling of the moment's urgency. she had no time to lose. "hear me," she cried in low hurried tones, laying a hand upon his folded arm and then drawing it away again as if frightened by the rigid tension she felt there. "waste no more thought on one so unworthy--all is not lost--i bring you hope, life. oh, for god's sake, wake up and listen to me--i can save you still. captain smith, jack--_jack!_" her voice rose as high as she dare lift it, but no statue could be more unhearing. the woman cast a desperate look around her; hearkened fearfully, all was silent within the prison; then with tremulous haste she cast off her immense cloak, pulled her bonnet from her head, divested herself of her long full skirt and stood, a strange vision, lithe, unconscious, unashamed, her slender woman's figure clad in complete man's raiment, with the exception of the coat. her dark head cropped and curly, her face, with its fever-bloom, rising flower-like above the folds of her white shirt. with anxious haste she compared herself with the prisoner. "rené told me well," she said; "with your coat upon me none would tell the difference in this dark room. i am nearly as tall as you too. thanks be to god that he made me so. _jack_," calling in his ear, "don't you see? don't you understand? it is all quite easy. you have only to put on these clothes of mine, this cloak, the bonnet comes quite over the face; stoop a little as you go out and hold this handkerchief to your face as if in tears. the carriage waits outside and rené. the rest is planned. i shall sit on the bed with your coat on. it is a chance--a certainty. when i found rené had failed, i swore that i would save you yet. ever since i came from pulwick this morning he and i have worked together upon this last plan. there is not a flaw; it must succeed. oh, god, he does not hear me! jack--jack!" she shook him with a sort of fury, then, falling at his feet, clasped his knees. "for god's sake--for god's sake!" he sighed, and again came the murmur: "she would not come----" he lifted his hand to his forehead and looked round, then down at her, as if from a great height. she saw that he was aroused at last, sprang to her feet, and poured out the details of the scheme again. "i run no risk, you see. they would not dare to punish me, a woman--lady landale--even if they could. be quick, the precious moments are going by. i gave the man some gold to leave us as long as he could, but any moment he may be upon us." "poor woman," said jack, and his voice seemed as far off as his gaze; "see these chains." she staggered back an instant, but the next, crying: "the file--the file--that was why rené gave it to me." she seized the skirt as it lay at her feet, and, striving with agonised endeavours to control the trembling of her hands, drew forth from its pocket a file and would have taken his wrist. but he held his hands above his head, out of her reach, while a strange smile, almost of triumph, parted his lips. "the bitterness of death is past," he said. she tore at him in a frenzy, but, repulsed by his immobility, fell again broken at his feet. in a torrent of words she besought him, for adrian's sake, for the sake of the beautiful world, of his youth, of the sweetness of life--in her madness, at last, for her own sake! she had ruined him, but she would atone, she would make him happy yet. if he died it was death to her.... when at length her voice sank away from sheer exhaustion, he helped her to rise, and seated her on the chair; then told her quietly that he was quite determined. "go home," said he, "and leave me in peace. i thank you for what you would have done, thank you for trying to bring madeleine," he paused a moment. how purely he had loved her--and twice, twice she had failed him. "yet, i do not blame her," he went on as if to himself; "i did not deserve to see her, and it has made all the rest easy. remember," again addressing the woman whom hopelessness seemed for a moment to have benumbed, "that if you would yet do me a kindness, be kind to her. if you would atone--atone to adrian." "to adrian?" echoed molly, stung to the quick, with a pale smile of exceeding bitterness. and with a rush of pride, strength returned to her. "i leave you resolved to die then?" she asked him, fiercely. "you leave me glad to die," he replied, unhesitatingly. she spoke no more, but got up to replace her garments. he assisted her in silence, but as his awkward bound hands touched her she shuddered away from him. as she gathered the cloak round her shoulders again, there was a noise of heavy feet at the door. the jailer thrust in his rusty head and looked furtively from the prisoner to his visitor as they stood silently apart from each other; then, making a sign to some one whose dark figure was shadowed behind him without, entered with a hesitating sidelong step, and, drawing captain jack on one side, whispered in his ear. "the blacksmith's yonder. he's come to measure you, captain, for them there irons you know of--best get the lady quietly away, for he wunnut wait no longer." the prisoner smiled sternly. "i am ready," he said, aloud. "i'll keep him outside a minute or two," added the man, wiping his brow, evidently much relieved by his charge's calmness. "i kep' him back as long as i could--but happen it's allus best to hurry the parting after all." he moved away upon tiptoe, in instinctive tribute to the lady's sorrow, and drew the door to. molly threw back her veil which she had lowered upon his entrance, her face was livid. "what is it?" she asked, articulating with difficulty. "nothing--a fellow to see to my irons." he moved his hands as he spoke, and she understood him, as he had hoped, to refer only to his manacles. she drew a gasping breath. how they watched him! yet all was not lost after all. "i will leave the file," she said, in a quick whisper; "you will reflect; there is yet to-morrow," and rushed to hide it in his bed. but he caught her by the arm, his patience worn out at length. "useless," he answered, harshly. "i shall not use it. moreover, it would be found, and i am sure it is not your wish to bring unnecessary hardship upon my last moments. i should lose the only thing that is left to me, the comfort of being alone. and to-morrow i shall see no one." the door groaned apart: "very sorry, mum," came the husky voice in the opening, "time's up." she turned a look of agony upon captain jack's determined figure. was this to be the end? was she to leave him so, without even one kind word? alas, poor soul! all her hopes had fallen to this--a parting word. he was unpitying; his arms were folded; he made no sign. she took a step away and swayed; the turnkey came forward compassionately to lead her out. but the next instant she wheeled round and stood alone and erect, braced up by the extremity of her anguish. "i _have_ a message," she cried, as if the words were forced from her. "i could not make her come, but i made her send you a message. she told me to say that she forgave you, freely; that she would always pray for you. she bade me tell you too that she would never be any man's bride now." it had been like the rending of body and soul to tell him this. as she saw the condemned man's face quiver and flush at last out of its impassiveness, she thought hell itself could hold no more hideous torment. he extended his arms: "now welcome death!" he exclaimed. and she turned and fled down the passage as though driven upon this last cry. * * * * * "e-h, he be a strange one!" said the jailer afterwards to his mate. "if ye'd heard that poor lady sob as she went by! i've seen many a one in the same case, but i was sore for her, i was that. and he--as cool--joking with robert over the hanging irons the next minute. 'new sort of tailor i've got,' says he. 'make them smart,' he says, 'since i'm to wear them in so exalted a position.' so exalted a position, that's what he says. 'and they've got to last me some long time, you know,' says he." "he'll be something worth looking at on saturday. i could almost wish he could ha' got off, only that it's a fine sight to see a real gentleman go through it. ah, it's they desperate villains has the proper pluck!" chapter xxxiii launched on the great wave sir adrian made, at first personally, then through miss o'donoghue, two attempts to induce his wife to return to pulwick, or at any rate to leave lancaster on the next day. but the contempt, then the fury, which she opposed to their reasoning rendered it worse than useless. the very sight of her husband, indeed, seemed to exasperate the unfortunate woman to such a degree that, in spite of his anxiety concerning her, he resolved to spare her even to the consciousness of his presence, and absented himself altogether from the house. miss o'donoghue, unable to cope with a state of affairs at once so distressing and so unbecoming, finally retired to her own apartment with a book of piety and some gruel, and abandoned all further endeavour to guide her unruly relations. so that molly found herself left to her own resources, in the guardianship of rené, the only company her misery could tolerate. three times she went to the castle, to be met each time with the announcement that, by the express wish of the prisoner, no visitors were to be admitted to him again. then in restless wandering about the streets--once entering the little chapel where the silent tabernacle seemed, with its closed door, to offer no relenting to the stormy cry of her soul, and sent her forth uncomforted in the very midst of rené's humble bead-telling, to pace the flags anew--so the terrible day wore to a close for her; and so that night came, precursor of the most terrible day of all. the exhaustion of lady landale's body produced at last a fortunate torpor of mind. flung upon her bed she fell into a heavy sleep, and tanty who announced her intention of watching her, when rené's guardianship had of necessity to cease, had the satisfaction of informing adrian, as he crept into the house, like one who had no business there, of this consoling fact before retiring herself to the capacious arm-chair in which she heroically purposed to spend the night. the sun was bright in the heavens, there was a clatter and bustle in the street, when molly woke with a great start out of this sleep of exhaustion. her heart beating with heavy strokes, she sat up in bed and gazed upon her surroundings with startled eyes. what was this strange feeling of oppression, of terror? why was she in this sordid little room? why was her hair cut short? ah, my god! memory returned upon her all too swiftly. it was for to-day--_to-day_; and she was perhaps too late. she might never see him again! the throbbing of her heart was suffocating, sickening, as she slipped out of bed. for a moment she hardly dared consult the little watch that lay ticking upon her dressing table. it was only a few minutes past seven; there was yet time. the energy of her desire conquered the weakness of her overwrought nerves. noiselessly, so as to avoid awakening the slumbering watcher in the arm-chair, but steadily, she clothed herself, wrapt the dark mantle round her; and then, pausing for a moment to gaze with a fierce disdain at the unconscious face of miss o'donoghue, which, with snores emerging energetically and regularly from the great hooked nose, presented a weird and witchlike vision in the frame of a nightcap, fearfully and wonderfully befrilled, crept from the room and down the stairs. at rené's door she paused and knocked. he opened on the instant. from his worn face she guessed that he had been up all night. he put his finger to his lips as he saw her, and glanced meaningly towards the bed. the words she would have spoken expired in a quick-drawn breath. her husband, with face of deathlike pallor and silvered hair abroad upon the pillow, lay upon the poor couch, still in his yesterday attire, but covered carefully with a cloak. his breast rose and fell peacefully with his regular breath. the scorn with which she had looked at miss o'donoghue now shot forth a thousand times intensified from molly's circled eyes upon the prostrate figure. "asleep!" she cried. and then with that incongruity with which things trivial and irrelevant come upon us, even in the supremest moments of life, the thought struck her sharply how old a man he was. her lip curved. "yes, my lady--asleep," answered rené steadily--it seemed as if the faithful peasant had read her to her soul. "thank god, asleep. it is enough to have to lose one good gentleman from the world this day. if his honour were not sleeping at last, i should not answer for him--i who speak to you. i took upon myself to put some of the medicine, that he has had to take now and again, when his sorrows come upon him and he cannot rest, into his soup last night. it has had a good effect. his honour will sleep three or four hours still, and that, my lady, must be. his honour has suffered enough these last days, god knows!" the wife turned away with an impatient gesture. "look, madame, at his white hairs. all white now--they that were of a brown so beautiful, all but a few locks, only a few months past! well may he look old. when was ever any one made to suffer as he has been, in only forty years of life? ah, my lady, we were at least tranquil upon our island!" there was a volume of reproach in the quiet simplicity of the words, though lady landale was too bent on her own purpose to heed them. but she felt that they lodged in her mind, that she would find them there later; but not now--not now. "it is to be for nine o'clock, you know," she said, with desperate calmness. "i must see him again. i must see him well. alone i shall not be able to get a good place in the crowd. oh, i would see all!" she added, with a terrible laugh. rené cast a glance at his master's placid face. "i am ready to come with my lady," he said then, and took his hat. a turbulent, tender april day it was. gusts of west wind, balmy and sweet with all the sweet budding life of the fields beyond, came eddying up the dusty streets and blowing merrily into the faces of the holiday crowd that already pressed in a steady stream towards the castle courtyard to see the hanging. in those days there were hangings so many after assizes that an execution could hardly be said to possess the interest of novelty. but there were circumstances enough attending the forthcoming show to give it quite a piquancy of its own in the eyes of the worthy lancastrian burghers, who hurried with wives and children to the place of doom, anxious to secure sitting or standing room with a good view of the gallows-tree. it was not every day, indeed, that a _gentleman_ was hanged. so handsome a man, too, as the rumours went, and so dare-devil a fellow; friend of the noble family of landale, and a murderer of its most respected member. could justice ever have served up a spicier dish whereon to regale the multitude? first the courtyard, then, the walls, the roofs of the adjoining houses, swarmed with an eager crowd. every space of ground and slate and tile, every ledge and window, was occupied. as thick as bees they hung--men, women, and children; a sea of white faces pressed together, each still, yet all as instinct with tremulous movement as a field of corn in the wind; while the hoarse, indescribable murmur that seizes one with so strange and fearsome an impression, the voice of the multitude, rose and fell with a mighty pulsation, broken here and there by the shriller cry of a child. overhead the sky, a delicious spring blue sky, flecked with tiny white clouds, looked down like a great smile upon the crowd that laughed and joked beneath. no pity in heaven or on earth. but as the felon came out into the air, which, warm and fickle, puffed against his cheek, he cast one steady glance around upon the black human hive and then looked up into the white flecked ether, without the quiver of a nerve. he drew the spring breath into his lungs with a grateful expansion of his deep chest. how fresh it was! and the sky, how fair and blue! as the eagerly expected group emerged from the prison door and was greeted by a roar that curdled the blood in at least one woman's heart there, an old irish hag, who sat in a coign of vantage, hugging her knees and crooning, a little black pipe held in her toothless jaws, ceased her dismal hum to concentrate all her attention upon the condemned man. the creature was well known for miles around as a constant attendant at such spectacles, and had become in the course of time a privileged spectator. no one would have dreamt of disputing the first place to old judy. since the day when, still a young woman, she had seen her two sons, mere lads, hanged, the one for sheep-stealing, the other for harbouring the booty, she had, by a strange freak of nature, taken a taste for the spectacle of justice at work, and what had been the cause of her greatest sorrow became the only solace of her life. judy and her pipe had become as familiar a figure at the periodical entertainment as the executioner himself--more so, indeed, for she had seen many generations of these latter, and could compare their styles with the judgment of a connoisseur. but as captain jack advanced, the pallor of his clean shorn, handsome face illumined not so much by the morning sun without it seemed as by the shining of the bright spirit within; as gallantly clad as he had ever been, even in the old bath days when he had been courting fair madeleine de savenaye; his head proudly uplifted, his tread firm, strong of soul, strong of body--some chord was struck in the perverted old heart that had so long revelled in unholy and gruesome pleasure. she drew the pipe from her lips, and broke out into screeching lamentations. "oh, me boy, me boy, me beautiful boy! is it hang him they will, and he so beautiful and brave? the murthering villains, my curse on them--a mother's curse--god's curse on them--the black murtherers!" she scrambled to her feet, and shook her fist wildly in the face of one of the sheriff's men. a woman in the crowd, standing rigid and motionless, enveloped in mourning robes, here suddenly caught up the words with a muttering lip. "murderers, who said murderers? don't they know who murdered him? murdering moll, murdering moll!" "for heaven's love, madam," cried a man beside her, who seemed in such anxiety concerning her as to pay little heed to the solemn procession which was now attracting universal attention, "let me take you away!" but she looked at him with a distraught, unseeing eye, and pulled at the collar of her dress as if she were choking. old judy's sudden expression of opinion created a small disturbance. the procession had to halt; a couple of officials good-naturedly elbowed her on one side. but she thrust a withered hand expanded in protest over their shoulders, as the prisoner came forward again. "god bless ye, honey, god bless ye: it's a wicked world." he turned towards her; for the last time the old sweet smile sprang to lip and eye. "thank you, mother," he said, and raised his hand to his bare head with courteous gesture. the crowd howled and swayed. he passed on. and now the end! there is the cart; the officers draw back to make way for the man who is to help him with his final toilet. the chaplain, too, falls away after wringing his hand again and again. good man, he weeps and cannot speak the sacred words he would. why weep? we must all die! how blue the sky is: he will look once more before drawing down the cap upon his eyes. his hands are free, for he is to die as like a gentleman as may be. just the old blue that used to smile down at him upon his merry _peregrine_, and up at him from the dancing waves. he had always thought he would have liked to die upon the sea, in the cool fresh water ... a clean, brave death. it is hard to die in a crowd. even the very beasts would creep into cave or bush to die decently--unwatched. a last puff of sweeping wind in his face; then darkness, blind, suffocating.... ah, god is good! here is the old ship giving and rising under his feet like the living creature he always thought her, and here is dazzling brilliant sunshine all around, so bright he scarce can see the free white-crested waves that are dashing down upon him; but he is upon the sea indeed, upon the sea alone, and the waves are coming. hark how they roar, see how they gather! the brave _peregrine_ she dips and springs, she will weather the breakers with him at the helm no matter how they rear. on, on they come, mountain high, overwhelming, bitter drenching. a great wave in very truth, it gathers and breaks and onward rolls, and carries the soul of hubert cochrane with it. the woman in the black cloak falls as if she had been struck, and as those around her draw apart to let her companion and another man lift her and carry her away, they note with horror that her face is dark and swollen, as if the cord that had just done its evil work yonder had been tightened also round her slender throat. chapter xxxiv the gibbet on the sands woman! take up thy life once more where thou hast left it; nothing is changed for thee, thou art the same, thou who didst think that all things would be wholly changed for thee. _luteplayer's song._ pulwick again. the whirlwind of disaster that upon that fatal fifteenth of march had burst upon the house of landale has passed and swept away. but it has left deep trace of its passage. the restless head, the busy hand, the scheming brain of rupert landale lie now mouldering under the sod of the little churchyard where first they started the mischief that was to have such far reaching effects. low, too, lies the proud head of the mistress of pulwick, so stricken, indeed, so fever-tortured, that those who love her best scarce dare hope more for her than rest at last under the same earth that presses thus lightly above her enemy's eternal sleep. there is a great stillness in the house. people go to and fro with muffled steps, the master with bent white head; miss o'donoghue, indefatigable sick nurse; madeleine, who may not venture as far as the threshold of her sister's room, and awaits in prayer and tears the hour of that final bereavement which will free her to take wing towards the cloister for which her soul longs; sophia, crushed finally by the sorrows she has played at all her days. seemingly there is peace once more upon them all, but it is the peace of exhaustion rather than that of repose. and yet--could they but know it, as the sands run down in the hour-glass of time there are golden grains gathering still to drop into the lives of each. but meanwhile none may read the future, and molly fights for her life in the darkened room, the gloom of which, to the souls of the dwellers at pulwick, seems to spread even to the sunny skies without. * * * * * when lady landale was brought back to her home from lancaster, it was held by every one who saw her that death had laid his cold finger on her forehead, and that her surrender to his call could only be a matter of hours. the physician in attendance could point out no reasonable ground for hope. such a case had never come within his experience or knowledge, and he was with difficulty induced to believe that it was not the result of actual violence. "in every particular," said he, "the patient's symptoms are those of coma resulting from prolonged strangulation or asphyxia. these spectacles are very dangerous to highly sensitive organisations. lady landale no doubt felt for the miserable wretch in the benevolence of her heart. imagination aiding her, she realised suddenly the horror of his death throes, and this vivid realisation was followed by the actual simulacrum of the torture. we have seen hysterical subjects simulate in the same manner diverse diseases of which they themselves are organically free, such as epilepsy, or the like. but lady landale's condition is otherwise serious. she is alive; more i cannot say." according to his lights, he had bled the patient, as he would have bled, by rote, to recall to life one actually cut down from the beam. but, although the young blood did flow, bearing testimony to the fact that the heart still beat in that deathlike frame, the vitality left seemed so faint as to defy the power of human ministration. the flame of life barely flickered; but the powers of youth were of greater strength in the unconscious body than could have been suspected, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, they asserted themselves. with the return of animation, however, came a new danger: fever, burning, devastating, more terrible even than the almost mortal syncope; that fever of the brain which wastes like the rack, before which science stands helpless, and the watcher sinks into despair at his impotence to screen a beloved sufferer from the horrible, ever-recurring phantoms of delirium. had not sir adrian intuitively known well-nigh every act of the drama which had already been so fatal to his house, molly's frenzied utterances would have told him all. every secret incident of that storm of passion which had desolated her life was laid bare to his sorrowing heart:--her aspirations for an ideal, centred suddenly upon one man; her love rapture cruelly baulked at every step; the consuming of that love fire, resisting all frustration of hope, all efforts of conscience, of honour; how her whole being became merged into that of the man she loved and whom she had ruined, her life in his life, her very breath in his breath. and then the lamentable, inevitable end: the fearful confrontation with his death. again and again, in never ceasing repetition, was that fair, most dear body, that harrowed soul, dragged step by step through every iota of the past torture, always to fall at last into the same stillness of exhaustion--appalling image of final death that wrung adrian with untold agonies of despair. for many days this condition of things lasted unaltered. in the physician's own words it was impossible that life could much longer resist such fierce onslaughts. but one evening a change came over the spirit of the sufferer's vision. there had been a somewhat longer interval between the paroxysms; sir adrian seated as usual by the bed, waiting now with a sinking heart for the wonted return of the frenzy, clamouring in his soul to heaven for pity on one whom seemingly no human aid could succour, dared yet draw no shadow of hope from the more prolonged stillness of the patient. presently indeed, she grew restless, tossed her arms, muttered with parched lips. then she suddenly sat up and listened as if to some deeply annoying and disquieting sound, fell back again under his gentle hands, rolling her little black head wearily from side to side, only however to start again, and again listen. thus it went on for a while until the haunted, weary eyes grew suddenly distraught with terror and loathing. straining them into space as if seeking something she ought to see but could not, she began to speak in a quick yet distinct whisper: "how it creaks, creaks--creaks! will no one stop that creaking! what is it that creaks so? will no one stop that creaking!" and again she placed her cheek on the pillow, covering her ear with her little, wasted hand, and for a while remained motionless, moaning like a child. but it was only to spring up again, this time with a cry which brought the physician from the adjacent sleeping room in alarm to her bedside. "ah, god," she shrieked, her eyes distended and staring as if into the far distance through walls and outlying darkness. "i see it! they have done it, they have done it! it is hanging on the sands--how it creaks and sways in the wind! it will creak for ever, for ever.... now it spins round, it looks this way--the black face! it looks at _me_!" she gave another piercing cry, then her frame grew rigid. with mouth open and fixed eyeballs she seemed lost in the frightful fascination of the image before her brain. as, distracted by the sight of her torments, adrian hung over her, racking his mind in the endeavour to soothe her, her words struck a chill into his very soul. he cast a terrified glance at the doctor who was ominously feeling her pulse. "there is a change," he faltered. the doctor shrugged his shoulders. "i have told you before," he retorted irritably, "that you should attach no more importance to the substance of these delirious wanderings than you would to the ravings of madness. it is the fact of the delirium itself which must alarm us. she is less and less able to bear it." the patient moaned and shuddered, resisting the gentle force that would have pressed her down on her pillow. "oh the creaking, the creaking! will no one stop that creaking! must i hear it go on creak, creak, creak for ever, and see it sway and sway.... will no one ever stop it!" sir adrian took a sudden resolution. "i will," he said, low and clear into her ear. she sank down on the instant and looked at him, back from her far distance, almost as if she understood him and the pitiful cry for the help he would have given his heart's blood to procure for her, was silent for the moment upon her lips. "i will prepare an opiate," said the physician in a whisper. "and i," said sir adrian to him, with a strange expression upon his pale face, "am going to stop that creaking." the man of medicine gazed after him with a look of intense astonishment which rapidly changed to one of professional interest. "it is evident that i shall soon have another mentally deranged patient to see to," he remarked to himself as he rose to seek the drugs he meant to administer. downstairs, sir adrian immediately called for rené, and being informed that he had left for the island early in the afternoon and had announced his return before night, cast a cloak over his shoulders and hurried forth in the hope of meeting him upon his homeward way. his pulses were beating well-nigh as wildly as those of the fever stricken woman upstairs in the house. he dared not pause to reflect on his purpose, or seek to disentangle the confusion of his thoughts, for fear of being confronted with the hopelessness of their folly. but the exquisite serenity of the night sky, where swam the moon, "a silver splendour;" the freshness of the sweeping breeze that dashed, keen from the east, over the sea against his face; all the glorious distance, the unconsciousness and detachment of nature from the fume and misery of life, brought him unwittingly to a calmer mood. he had reached the extreme confine of the pine wood, when, across the sands that stretched unbroken to the lips of the sea, a figure advanced towards him. "renny!" called sir adrian. "your honour!" cried the man, breaking into a run to meet him. o god! how ghostly white looked the master's face in the moon-flood! "my lady----?" "not worse; yet not better--and that means worse now. but there is a change. renny," sinking his voice and clasping the man's sturdy arm with clammy hand, "is it true they have placed him on the sands to-day?" the man stared. "how did your honour know? yes--they have done so. it is true: the swine! not more than an hour, in verity. how could it have come so soon to your honour's ears? this morning, indeed, they came from the town in a cart, and planted the great gibbet on scarthey point, at low water. and to-night they brought the body, all bound in irons, and from a boat, for it was high tide, they riveted it on the chain. and it is to remain for ever, your honour--so they say." "strange," murmured sir adrian to himself, gazing seaward with awestruck eyes. "and did you," he asked, "hear its creaking, renny, as it swayed in the wind?" again rené cast a quick glance of alarm at his master. the master had a singular manner with him to-night! then edging closer to him he whispered in his ear: "they say it is to hang for ever. there is a warning to those who would interfere with this justice of theirs. but, your honour, there came one to the island to-day, i do not know if your honour knows him, the captain's second on that vessel of misfortune. and i believe, your honour, the dawn will never see that poor, black body hanging over yonder like a scarecrow, to spoil our view. this man, this brave mariner, curwen is his name, he is mad furious with us all! he has just but come from hearing of his captain's fate, and he is ready to kill us, that we let him be murdered without breaking some heads for him. faith, if it could have done any good, it is not i that would have balanced about it! but, as i told him, there was no use running one's own head into a loop of rope when that would please nobody but mr. the judge. but he is not to be reasoned with. he is like a wild animal. when i left him," said rené, dropping his voice still lower, "he was knocking a coffin together out of the old sea wood on scarthey. he said his captain would rest better in those boards that were seasoned with salt water. and when i went away, your honour, and left him hammering there--faith, i thought that the coffin was like to be seasoned by another kind of salt water too." his face twitched and the ready tears sprang to his own eyes which, unashamed, he now wiped with his sleeve after his custom. but sir adrian's mind was still drifting in distant ghastly companionship. "how the wind blows!" he said, and shuddered a little. "how the poor body must sway in the wind, and the chains creak." "if it can make any difference to the poor captain he will lie in peace to-night, please god," said rené. "ay," said sir adrian, "and you and i, friend, will go too, and help this good fellow in his task. i hope, i believe, that i should have done this thing of my own thought, had i had time to think at all. but now, more hangs upon those creaking chains than you can dream of. this is a strange world--and it is full of ghosts to-night. but we must hurry, renny." * * * * * bound even to the tips of her burning little fingers by the spell of the opiate, lady landale lay in the shadowed room as one dead, yet in her sick brain fearfully awake, keenly alive. at first it was as if she too was manacled in chains till she could not move a muscle, could not breathe or cry because of the ring round her breast; and she was hanging with the black figure, swaying, while the rusty iron links went creak, creak, creak, with every swing to and fro. then suddenly she seemed to stand, as it were, out of herself and to be seeing with the naked soul alone. and what she saw was the great stretch of beach and sea, white, white, white, in the moonlight and spreading, it seemed, for leagues and leagues, spreading till all the world was only beach and sea. but close to her in the whitest moonlight rose the great gibbet, gaunt and black, cutting the pale sky in two and athwart; and hanging from it was the black figure that swayed and swung. and though the winds muttered and the waves growled, she could not hear them with the ears of the soul, for that the whole of this great world of sea and sand was filled with the creaking of the chains. but now, across the bleak and pallid spaces came three black figures. and, as she looked and watched and they drew nearer, the dreadful burthen of the gibbet swung round as if to greet them, and she too, felt in her soul that she knew them all three, though not by names, as creatures of earth know each other, but by the kinship of the soul. this man with hair as white as the white beach, hair that seemed to shine silver as he came; and him yonder who followed him as a dog his master; and yonder again the third, in the seaman's dress, with hard face hewn into such rugged lines of grief and fury--she knew them all. and next they reached the gibbet: and one swarmed up the black post, and hammered and filed and prised, and then, oh merciful god! the creaking stopped at last! now she could hear the wash of the waves, the rush of the wholesome wind! a mist came across her vision; faintly she saw the stiffened disfigured corpse which yet she felt had once been something she had loved with passion, laid reverently upon a stretcher, its irons loosened and cast away, and then covered with a great cloak. then the sea, the beach, the white moon faded and waved and receded. molly's soul went back to her body again, while blessed tears fell one by one from her hot eyes. she breathed; her limbs relaxed; round the tired brain came, with a soft hush like that of gentle wings, dark oblivion. bending over her, for he was aware that for good or evil the crisis was at hand, the physician saw moisture bead upon the suddenly smoothed brow, heard a deep sigh escape the parted lips. and then with a movement like a weary child's she drew her arms close and fell asleep. * * * * * having laid his friend to his secret rest, deep in the rock of scarthey, where the free waves that his soul had revelled in would beat till the world's end, sir adrian returned to pulwick in the early morning, spent with the long and heavy night's toil--for it had taxed the strength of even three men to hollow out a grave in such a soil. on the threshold he was greeted by the physician. "how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messengers of glad tidings!" from afar, by the man's demeanour, he knew that the tidings were glad. and most blessed they were indeed to his ears, but to them alone not strange. throughout every detail of his errand his mind had dwelt rather with the living than the dead. what he had done, he had done for her; and now, the task achieved, it seemed but natural that the object for which it had been undertaken should have been achieved likewise. but, left once more with her, seeing her once more wrapt in placid sleep, whom he had thought he would never behold at rest again save in the last sleep of all, the revulsion was overpowering. he sat down by her side, and through his tears gazed long at the lovely head, now in its pallor and emaciation so sadly like that of his dead love in the sorrowful days of youth; and he thanked heaven that he was still of the earth to shield her with his devotion, to cherish her who was now so helpless and bereft. and with such tears and such thoughts came a forgetfulness of that anguish which in him, as well as in her, had for so long been part of actual existence. when tanty entered on tiptoe some hours later, she saw her niece motionless upon her pillow, sleeping as easily and reposefully as a child. and close to her head, sir adrian, reclining in the arm-chair, asleep likewise. his arm was stretched limply over the bed and, on its sleeve still stained with the red mud of the grave in scarthey, rested lady landale's little, thin, ivory-white fingers. * * * * * thus ended molly's brief but terrible madness. "then you have hope, real hope?" asked sir adrian, of the physician as they met again that day in the gallery. "every hope," replied the man of science with the proud consciousness of having, by his wisdom, pulled his patient out of the very jaws of death. "recovery is now but a question of a time; of a long time, of course, for this crisis has left her weaker than the new-born babe. repose, complete repose, sleep: that is almost everything. and she will sleep. happily, as usual in such cases, lady landale seems to have lost all memory. but i must impress upon you, sir adrian, that the longer we can keep her in this state, the better. if you have reason to believe that even the sight of _you_ might recall distressing impressions, you must let me request of you to keep away from the sick room till your wife's strength be sufficiently restored to be able to face emotions." this was said with a certain significance which called the colour to sir adrian's cheek. he acquiesced, however, without hesitation; and, banished from the place where his treasure lay, fell to haunting the passages for the rest of the day and to waylaying the privileged attendants with a humble resignation which would have been sorrowful but for the savour of his recent relief from anguish. but the next morning, lady landale, though too weak of body to lift a finger, too weak of mind to connect a single coherent phrase, nevertheless took the matter into her own hands, and proved that it is as easy to err upon the side of prudence as upon its reverse. miss o'donoghue, emerging silently from the room after her night's vigil, came upon her nephew at his post, and, struck to her kind heart by his wistful countenance, bade him with many winks and nods enter and have a look at his wife. "don't make a sound," she whispered to him, "and then she won't hear you. but, faith she's sleeping so well, it's my belief if you danced a jig she would not stir a limb. go in, child, go in. it's beautiful to see her!" and adrian, pressed by his own longing, was unable to resist the offer. noiselessly he stepped across the forbidden threshold and stood for a long time contemplating the sleeper in the dim light. as he was about to creep out at length, she suddenly opened her eyes and fixed them wonderingly upon him. fearful of having done the cruel deed against which he had been warned, he felt his heart contract and would have rushed away, in an agony of self-accusation, when there occurred what seemed to him a miracle. a faint smile came upon the pale lips, and narrowed ever so little the large sunken eyes. yes; by all that was beautiful, it was a smile--transient and piteous, but a smile. and for him! as he bent forward, almost incapable of believing, the lips relaxed again and the lids drooped, but she shifted her hands upon the bed, uneasily, as if seeking something. he knelt, trembling, by her side, and as with diffident fingers he clasped the wandering hands he felt them faintly cling to his. and his heart melted all in joy. the man of science had reasoned astray; there need be no separation between the husband who would so dearly console, and the wife who needed help so sorely. for a long while he remained thus kneeling and holding her hands. it seemed as though some of the life strength he longed to be able to pour from himself to her, actually passed into her frame: as though there were indeed a healing virtue in his all encompassing tenderness; for, after a while, a faint colour came to the sunken cheeks. and presently, still holding his hand, she fell once more into that slumber which was now her healing. after this it was found that the patient actually became fretful and fevered again when her husband was too long absent from her side; and thus it came to pass that he began to supersede all other watchers in her room. tanty in highest good humour, declared that her services were no longer necessary, and volunteered to conduct madeleine to the jersey convent, whither (her decision being irrevocable) it was generally felt that it would be well for the latter to proceed before her sister's memory with returning strength should have returned likewise. this memory, without which the being he loved would remain afflicted and incomplete, yet upon the working of which so much that was still uncertain must hinge--sir adrian at once yearned for, and dreaded it. many a time as he met the sweet and joyful greeting in those eyes where he had grown accustomed to find nought but either mockery or disdain, did he recall his friend's prophetic words: "out of my death will grow your happiness." was there happiness indeed yet in store in the future? alas, happiness for them dwelt in oblivion; and, some day, "remembrance would wake with all her busy train, and swell at _her_ breast," and then---- meanwhile, however, the present had a sweetness of its own. there was now free scope for the passion of devotedness which almost made up the sum of this man's character--a character which, to the molly of wayward days, to the hot-pulsed, eager, impatient "murthering moll," had been utterly incomprehensible and uncongenial. and to the molly crushed in the direst battle of life, whom one more harshness of fate, even the slightest, would have straightaway hurled back into the grave that had barely been baulked of its prey, it gave the very food and breath of her new existence. week after week passed in this guise, during which her natural healthiness slowly but surely re-established itself; weeks that were happy to him, in later life, to look back upon, though now full of an anxiousness which waxed stronger as recovery drew nearer. there was little talking between them, and that kept by him studiously on subjects of purely ephemeral, childish interest. her mind, by the happy dispensation of nature which facilitates healing by all means when once healing has begun, was blank to any impressions save the luxury of rest, of passive enjoyment, indifferent to ought but the passing present. she took pleasure in flowers, in the gambols of pet animals, in long listless spells of cloud-gazing when the heavens were bright, in the presence of her husband in whom she only saw a being whose eyes were always beautiful with the light of kindness, whose touch invariably soothed her when fatigue or irritation marred the even course of her feelings. she had ever a smile for him, which entered his soul like the radiance of sunshine through a stormy sky. thus the days went by. like a child she ate and slept and chattered--irresponsible chatter that was music to his ear. she laughed and teased him too, as a child would; till sad, as it was, he hugged the incomplete happiness to his heart with a dire foreboding that it might be all he was to know in life. but one evening, in sudden freak, she bade him open the shutters, pull the curtains, and raise the window that she might, from her pillow, look forth upon the night, and smell the sweet night air. she had been unusually well that day, and on her face now filling out once more into its old soft oval, bloomed again a look of warm life and youth. unsuspecting, unthinking sir adrian obeyed. it was a dim, close night, and the blush-roses nodded palely into the room from the outer darkness as he raised the sash. there was no moon, no stars shone in the mist hung sky; there was no light to be seen anywhere except one faint glimmer in the distance--the light upon scarthey island. "is that a star?" said molly, after a moment's dreamy silence. sir adrian started. a vision of all that might hang upon his answer flashed through his brain. with a trembling hand he pulled the curtain. it was too late. molly sat up in bed, with a contracted brow and hands outstretched as one who would seize a tantalising escaping memory. "i used to watch it then, at night, from this window," she whispered. "what was it? the light of scarthey?" then suddenly, with a scream; "the light of scarthey!" adrian sprang to her side but she turned from him, shrank from him, with a look of dread which seared him to the soul. "do not come near me, do not touch me," she cried. and then he left her. * * * * * miss o'donoghue was gone upon her journey with madeleine. there was none in whom he might confide, with whom seek counsel. but presently, listening outside the door in an agony of suspense, he heard a storm of sobs. in time these gradually subsided; and later he learnt from moggie, whom he had hurriedly ordered to her mistress's side, that his wife was quiet and seemed inclined to rest. on the next day, she expressed no desire to see him and he dared not go to her unsought. he gathered a great dewy bunch of roses and had them brought to her upon her breakfast tray instead of bringing them himself as had been his wont. she had taken the roses, moggie told him, and laid them to her cheek. "the master sent them, said i," continued the sturdy little matron, who was far from possessing the instinctive tact of her spouse; "an' she get agate o'crying quiet like and let the flowers fall out of her hands on the bed--eh, what ever's coom to her, sin yesterday? wannut you go in, sir?" "not unless she sends for me," said sir adrian hastily. "and remember, moggie, do not speak my name to her. she must not be worried or distressed. but if she sends for me, come at once. you will find me in the library." and in the library he sat the long, long day, waiting for the summons that did not come. she never sent for him. she had wept a good deal during the day, the faithful reporter told him in the evening, but always "quiet like;" had spoken little, and though of unwonted gentleness of manner had persistently declined to be carried to the garden as usual, or even to leave her room. now she had gone back to bed, and was sleeping peacefully. an hour later sir adrian left his home for scarthey once again. it is to be doubted whether, through all the vicissitudes of his existence he ever carried into the sheltering ruins a heart more full of cruel pain. when tanty returned to pulwick from her travels again, it was to find in miss landale the only member of the family waiting to greet her. the old lady's displeasure on learning the reason of this defection, was at first too intense to find relief in words. but presently the strings of her tongue were loosened under the influence of the usual feminine restorative; and, failing a better listener, she began to dilate upon the situation with her wonted garrulity. "yes, my good sophia, i will thank you for another cup of tea. what should we do without tea in this weary world? i declare it's the only pleasure left to me now--for, of all the ungrateful things in life, working for your posterity is the most ungrateful. posterity is born to trample on one.... and now, sit down and tell me exactly how matters stand. my niece is greatly better, i hear. the doctor considers her quite convalescent? at least this is very satisfactory. very satisfactory indeed! just now she is resting. quite so. i should not dream of disturbing her; more especially as the sight of me would probably revive painful memories, and we must not risk her having a bad night--of course not. ah, my dear, memory, like one's teeth, is a very doubtful blessing. far more trouble than pleasure when you have it, and yet a dreadful nuisance when you have not--but what's this i hear about adrian? gone back to that detestable island of his again! i left him and molly smiling into each other's eyes, clasping each other's hands like two turtle-doves. why, she could not as much as swallow a mouthful of soup, unless he was beside her to feed her--and now i am told he has not been near her for four days. what is the meaning of this? oh, don't talk to me, sophia! it's more than flesh and blood can bear. here am i, having been backward and forward over nine hundred miles, looking after you all, at my age, till i don't know which it is, lancashire or somerset i'm in, or whether i'm on my head or my heels, though i'm sure i can count every bone of my body by the aching of them;--and i did think i was coming back to a little peace and comfort at length. that island of his, sophia, will be the death of me! i wish it was at the bottom of the sea: that is the only thing that will bring your brother to his senses, i believe. now he might as well be in his grave at once, like rupert, for all the good he is; though, for that matter it's more harm than good poor rupert ever did while he was alive----" "excuse me, aunt rose," here exclaimed sophia, heroically, her corkscrew ringlets trembling with agitation, "but i must beg you to refrain from such remarks--i cannot hear my dear brother...." but miss o'donoghue waved the interruption peremptorily away. "now it's no use your going on, sophia. _we_ don't think a man flies straight to heaven just because he's dead. and nothing will ever make me approve of rupert's conduct in all this dreadful business. of course one must not speak evil of those who can't defend themselves, but for all that he is dead and buried, rupert might argue with me from now till doomsday, and he never would convince me that it is the part of a gentleman to act like a bow street runner. i _hope_, my dear, he has found more mercy than he gave. i _hope_ so. but only for him my poor dear grand-niece molly would never have gone off on that mad journey, and my poor grand-niece madeleine would not be buried alive on that other island at the back of god's speed. ah, yes, my dear, it has been a very sad time! i declare i felt all the while as if i were conducting a corpse to be buried; and now i feel as if i had come back from the dear girl's funeral. we had a dreadful passage, and she was _so_ sick that i'm afraid even if she wanted to come out of that place again she'd never have the courage to face the crossing. she was a wreck--a perfect wreck, when she reached the convent. many a time i thought she would only land to find herself dead. _i_ wanted her to come to the hotel with me, where i should have popped her into bed with a hot bottle; but nothing would serve her but that she must go to the convent at once. 'i shall not be able to rest till i am there,' she said. 'and it's precious little rest you will get there,' said i, 'if it's rest you want?--what with the hard beds, and all the prayers you have to say, and the popping out of bed, as soon as you are asleep, to sing in the middle of the night, and those blessed little bells going every three minutes and a half. there is no rest in a convent, my dear.' but i might as well have talked to the wall. "when i went to see her the next day, true enough, she declared that she was more content already, and that her soul had found what it yearned for--peace. she was quite calm, and sent you all messages to say how she would pray for you and for the repose of the souls of those you loved--rupert, your rector and all--that they may reach eternal bliss." "god forbid!" exclaimed the pious protestant, in horrified tones. "god forbid?--you're a regular heathen, sophia. oh, i know what you mean quite well. but would it not have been better for you to have been praying for that poor fellow who never lived to marry you, all these years, than to have been wasting your time weeping over spilt milk? tell me _that_, miss. please to remember, too, that you could not have come to be the heretic you are, if your great grandfather had not been the time-server he was. any how, you need not distress yourself. i don't think madeleine's prayers will do any one any harm, even rupert; though, honestly, i don't think they are likely to be of much good in _that_ quarter. however, there, there, we won't discuss the subject any more. poor darling; so i left her. i declare i never liked her so much as when i said good-bye, for i felt i'd never see her again. and the reverend mother--oh! she is a very good, holy woman--a jerningham, and thus, you know, a connection of mine. she was an heiress but chose the cloister. and i saw the buckles sable on a memorial window in the chapel erected to another sister--also a nun--they are a terribly pious family. i knew them at once, for they are charges i also am entitled to bear, as you know, or, rather, don't know, i presume; for you have all the haziest notion of what sort of blood it is that runs in your veins. well, as i said, she is a holy woman! she tried to console me in her pious way. oh, it was very beautiful, of course:--bride of heaven and the rest of it. but i had rather seen her the bride of a nice young man. many is the time i have wished i had not been so hasty about that poor young smith. i don't believe he _was_ purely smith after all. he must have had some good blood in his veins! oh, of course, of course, he was dreadfully wicked, i know; but he was a fine fellow, and all these complications would have been avoided. but, after all, it was rupert's fault if everything ended in tragedy ... there, there, we won't speak another word about your brother; we must leave him to the lord--and," added miss o'donoghue, piously under her breath, "if it's not the devil, he is playing with him, it's a poor kind of justice up there!--alas, my poor sophia, such is life. one only sees things in their true light when they're gone into the darkness of the past. and now we must make the best of the present, which, i regret to find, seems disposed to be peculiarly uncomfortable. but i have done what i could, and now i owe it myself to wash my hands of you and look after my own soul.--i'll take no more journeys, at any rate, except to lay my bones at bunratty; if i live to reach it alive." chapter xxxv the light rekindled look not upon the sky at eventide, for that makes sorrowful the heart of man; look rather here into my heart, and joyful shalt thou always be. _luteplayer's song._ it was on the fifth day after sir adrian's return to his island home. outwardly the place was the same. a man had been engaged to attend to the lighthouse duties, but he and his wife lived apart in their own corner of the building and never intruded into the master's apartments or into the turret-room which had been captain jack's. from the moment that sir adrian, attended by rené, had re-entered the old rooms, the peel had resumed its wonted aspect. but the peace, the serenity which belonged to it for so many years, had fled--fled, it seemed to sir adrian, for ever. still there was solitude and, in so far, repose. it was something to have such a haven of refuge for his bruised spirit. the whole morning of this day had been spent in counting out and securing, in separate lots, duly docketted and distinguished, a portion of that unwieldy accumulation of wealth, the charge of which he had accepted, against the time when it should be called for and claimed by its depositors. the task was by no means simple, and required all his attention; but there is a blessing even in mere mechanical labour, that soothes the torment of the mind. in the particular occupation upon which he had been engaged there was, moreover, a hidden touching element. it was work for the helpless dead, work for that erring man but noble soul who had been his loyal friend. as sir adrian tied up each bag of gold and labelled it with the name of some unknown creditor who had trusted jack, dimly the thought occurred that it would stand material proof, call for recognition that this captain smith, who had died the death of a felon, had been a true man even in his own chosen lawless path. on the table, amid the papers and books, a heap of gold pieces yet untold, remainder of his allotted day's task, awaited still his ministering hand. but he was tired. it was the dreamy hour of the day when the shadows grow long, the shafts of light level; and sir adrian sat at his open window, gazing at the distant view of pulwick, while his thoughts wandered into the future, immediate and distant. with the self-detachment of his nature these thoughts all bore upon the future of the woman whom he pictured to himself lying behind those sunlit windows yonder, framed by the verdure of leafy june, gathering slowly back her broken strength for the long life stretching before her. unlike the musings which in the lonely days of old had ever drifted irresistibly towards the past and gathered round the image of the dead, all the power of his mind was now fixed upon what was to come, upon the child, still dearer than the mother, who had all her life to live. what would she do? what could _he_ do for her, now that she required his helping hand no more? life was full of sorrow past and present; and in the future there lurked no promise of better things. the mind of man is always fain, even in its darkest hour, to take flight into some distant realm of hope. to those whom life has utterly betrayed there is always the hope of approaching death--but this, even, reason denied to him. he was so strong; illness had never taken hold of him; he came from such long-lived stock! he might almost outlive her, might for ever stand as the one ineluctable check upon her peace of mind. and his melancholy reflections came circling back to their first starting-point--that barren rock of misery in a vast sea of despondency--there was nothing to be done. the barriers raised between them, on his side partly by the poisonous words of his brother, partly by the phantom of that old love of which the new had at first been but an eluding reflex, and on hers, by the chilly disillusion which had fallen so soon upon her ardent nature; these sank into insignificance, contrasted to the whirl of baulked passion which had passed over her life, to leave it utterly blasted, to turn her indifference to hate. yes, that was the burden of his thoughts: she hated and dreaded him. his love, his forbearance, his chivalrousness had been in vain. all he had now to live upon was the memory of those few days when, under the spell of oblivion the beloved child had smiled on him in the unconscious love born of her helplessness and his care. but even this most precious remembrance of the present was now, like that of the past, to be obscured by its abrupt and terrible end. death had given birth to the first and last avowal of love in her who had perished between his arms under the swirling waters of the vilaine--but it was life itself, returning life and health of mind, which had changed looks of trust and affection into the chilly stare of dread in the eyes of her whom with all the strength of his hoarded manhood he now loved alone. the past for all its sorrows had held sweetness: the present, the future, nothing but torment. and now, even the past, with its love and its sorrow was gone from him, merged in the greater love and sorrow of the present. how long could he bear it?--useless clamour of the soul! he must bear it. life must be accepted. sir adrian rose and, standing, paused a moment to let his sight, wandering beyond the immense sands, seek repose for a moment in the blue haze marking the horizon of the hills. the day was pure, exquisite in its waning beauty; the breeze as light and soft as a caress. in the great stillness of the bay the sisters sea and land talked in gentle intermittent murmurs. now and then the cries of circling sea-fowl brought a note of uncanny joy into the harmony that seemed like silence in its unity. a beautiful harmonious world! but to him the very sense of the outer peace gave a fresh emphasis to the discordance of his own life. he brought his gaze from afar and slowly turned to resume his work. but even as he turned a black speck upon the nearer arm of sea challenged his fleeting attention. he stood and watched--and, as he watched, a sensation, the most poignant and yet eerie he had ever known clutched him by the heart. a boat was approaching: a small row-boat in which the oars were plyed by a woman. by the multi-coloured, glaring shawl (poor jack's appreciated gift) he knew her, but without attaching name or personality to his recognition; for all his being was drawn to the something that lay huddled, black and motionless, in the stern. he felt to the innermost fibre of him that this something was a woman too--this woman molly. but the conviction seized him with a force that was beyond surprise. and all the vital heat in him fled to his heart, leaving him deadly cold. as her face grew out of the distance towards him, a minute white patch amid the dark cloud of silk and lace that enwrapt it, it seemed as though he had known for centuries that she was thus to come to him. and the glow of his heart spread to his brain. when the boat was about to land, he began, like one walking in his sleep, to move away; and, slowly descending the stairs of the keep, he advanced towards the margin of the sea. he walked slowly, for the body was heavy whilst the soul trembled within its earthly bounds. molly had alighted and was toiling, with her new born and yet but feeble strength upon the yielding sand, supported between rené and moggie. she halted as she saw him approach, and, when he came close, looked up into his face. her frail figure wavered and bent, and she would have fallen on her knees before him, but that he opened his arms wide and caught her to him. an exclamation rose to moggie's lips, to die unformed under an imperious glance from rené who, with shining eyes and set mouth, had stood apart to watch the momentous issue. adrian felt his wife nestle to him as he held her. and then the tide of his long-bound love overflowed. and gathering her up in his arms as if she were a child, he turned to carry the broken woman with him into the shelter, the silence of the ruins. at the foot of the outer wall, just out of reach of high water, yet within reach of its salt spray, a little mound of red stony soil rose very slightly above the green turf; at its head, a small stone cross, roughly hewn, was let into the masonry itself. the grave of hubert cochrane was not obtrusive: in a few months it would have merged again into the greensward, and its humble memorial symbol would be covered with moss and lichen like the matrix of stone which encompassed it. involuntarily as he passed it, the man, with his all too light burden, halted. a flame shot through him as molly turned her head to gaze too: he shook with a brief agony of jealousy--jealousy of the dead! the next instant he felt her recoil, look up pleadingly and cling to him again, and he knew into the soul of his soul that the words spoken by those loyal lips--now clay beneath that clay--were coming true, that, out of his house laid desolate to him was to rise a new and stately mansion. grasping her closer he hurried into the sanctuary of the old room, where he had first seen her bright young beauty. at the door he gently suffered her to stand, still supporting her with one arm about her waist. as they entered, she cast a rapid glance around: her eyes, bedewed with rising tears, fell upon the heap of gold glinting under the rays of the sinking sun, and she understood the nature of the task her coming had interrupted. her tears gushed forth; catching his hand between hers, and looking up at him with a strange, wonderful humility, she pressed it to her lips. what need for words between them, then? he stood a little while motionless in front of her, entranced yet still almost incredulous, as one suddenly freed from long intolerable pain, when there rose once more, for the last time, before his mind's eye the ideal image that had been the companion of twenty years of his existence. it was vivid almost as life. he saw cécile de savenaye bend over her child with grave and tender look, then turn and smile upon him with the old exquisite sweetness that he had adored so madly in that far off past. and then, it was as if she had merged into molly. behold, she was gone! there was no cécile, only molly the woman he loved. molly, whom now he seized to his heart, who smiled at him through her tears as he bent to kiss her lips. twilight was waning and the light of scarthey beamed peacefully over the yellow sands; and the waves receded dragging away sand and shingle from the foot of the hidden grave. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including non-standard spelling and punctuation. some changes have been made. they are listed at the end of the text. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. oe ligatures have been expanded. [illustration] the victoria university of manchester. library exchange. with the compliments of the university council. acknowledgments and publications sent in exchange should be addressed to the librarian, the university, manchester. publications of the university of manchester historical series, no. x _the great civil war in lancashire_ sherratt & hughes publishers to the victoria university of manchester manchester: cross street london: soho square w. [illustration] the great civil war in lancashire ( - ) by ernest broxap, m.a. manchester at the university press university of manchester publications no. li. to asphodel contents page preface ix authorities xi introduction chapter i. preliminaries " ii. the leaders on both sides " iii. the siege of manchester " iv. first operations of the manchester garrison " v. the crisis. january-june, " vi. remaining events of : and the first siege of lathom house " vii. prince rupert in lancashire " viii. end of the first civil war " ix. the second civil war: battle of preston " x. the last stand: battle of wigan lane: trial and death of the earl of derby index maps and plans map. lancashire, to illustrate the civil war. _frontispiece_ plans in text. i. manchester and salford in see page (_reproduced from owens college historical essays, p. _). ii. the spanish ship in the fylde, march, - see page iii. the battle of whalley, april, see page iv. liverpool in see page (_reproduced from transactions of the historic society of lancashire and cheshire, session , - , vol. , p. _). v. the campaign of preston, see page vi. the campaign of wigan lane, see page preface there has not hitherto been a separate history of the civil war in lancashire, and i venture to think that the present study, by a native of the county, may suitably find a place in the publications of the university of manchester. it is merely intended to be an account of the civil war within the borders of the county, religious and social questions and the general course of the war being touched on only so much as is necessary to make the narrative intelligible. the principal sources of information are detailed below, and need not be further referred to here. it only remains to be said that some care has been taken with topography, and above all i have tried to give an impartial narrative of the events. contemporary writers on both sides naturally display much prejudice, and it is often difficult to arrive at an exact knowledge of the facts. the plan of manchester is taken from the owens college historical essays ( ) and my acknowledgments are due to messrs. longman & co. for permission to reproduce it here. the plan of liverpool is reprinted from transactions of the historic society of lancashire and cheshire, session , - , vol. , p. . the map of lancashire, and the other plans, have been specially prepared for the present volume, but the plan of the preston campaign in is based on that given in gardiner's "great civil war," vol. , p. . i take this opportunity of thanking the authorities at lathom house, hornby castle, thurland castle, and elsewhere, for their courtesy in allowing a personal inspection of those places to be made. my sincere thanks are due to professor t. f. tout and professor james tait of manchester, for constant assistance. i share the gratitude felt by so many of their old pupils for their keen and practical interest in the work to which their teaching was the first incentive. professor tout's advice has been of great service in preparing this book for the press. but especially i am indebted to professor c. h. firth of oxford. it was really at his suggestion that the present work was begun nearly four years ago, and he has at all times since been ready to give invaluable help with the utmost kindness. without his suggestion and help the task would probably not have been accomplished. ernest broxap. westcliff, hr. broughton, manchester, _march th, _. authorities there has hitherto been no separate account of the civil war in lancashire. the two best accounts in more general works are in edward baines' "history of lancashire" and in halley's "lancashire puritanism and nonconformity." baines is a capable historian of sound judgment, but there are now available sources of information which he could not use, and which subsequent editors could not very well include; and the latter book is written from a particular standpoint. the last edition of baines' work was edited by j. croston in vols. - . the civil war is dealt with in vol. i, chap. , pp. - . the other histories of lancashire by butterworth, corry, britton and others are of no value for the present subject. the few pages devoted to the civil war in the "victoria county history of lancashire" (vol. ii, pp. - ) are hurried and inaccurate. the first main source upon which this work is based is the publications of the local antiquarian societies, the chetham society, the lancashire and cheshire record society, and the historic society of lancashire and cheshire. the first of the three is the most important; and two books in this series, the "civil war tracts" (no. ), edited by mr. ormerod, and the "discourse of the warr in lancashire" (no. ), edited by mr. beamont are invaluable. the editing of the chetham society books varies considerably, and it is a great advantage that these two are very ably done. mr. ormerod's "civil war tracts," published more than years ago, is a most exhaustive collection from contemporary pamphlets and newspapers. in the "discourse" we have a singularly impartial account of the local war, written by one who himself fought in it; and mr. beamont's notes to the narrative add greatly to its value. other volumes of the chetham society which contain material for the civil war are the "autobiography of adam martindale" (no. ), the "moore rental" (no. ), the "farington papers" (no. ), the "shuttleworth accounts" (nos. , , and ), the "lancashire lieutenancy," part (no. ), and the "stanley papers," part (nos. , and ); and some others in a less degree. all the above numbers refer to the old series of the society's publications. where the new series is mentioned in the following pages the fact is indicated; the later books of the chetham society, however, do not contain much material for the purpose. in the record society's publications (nos. , , and ) are four volumes of extracts from the composition papers of the local royalists. these books contain some valuable details of general information. the historic society transactions for give an account of the siege of warrington in by dr. kenrick, and the new series, volume , an article on the earl of derby by mr. f. j. leslie. next come the public records, the "journals of the house of lords" and the "journals of the house of commons," and the "calendars of domestic state papers," which connect the local history with the general course of events. the "reports of the historical mss. commission" also contain a great deal of very important though scattered information, chiefly in the form of letters. most valuable are the denbigh mss. (report ), sutherland mss. (report ), the "moore papers" in capt. stewart's mss. (report , app. ) and the portland mss., vols. , and . the contemporary diary of the siege of manchester in the sutherland mss. (p. ) is perhaps the best existing account of the siege. the kenyon mss. give much information as to the condition of lancashire in the th century, though not bearing directly on the civil war. clarendon's "history of the great rebellion" presents the royalist standpoint, and amongst other contemporary or nearly contemporary authorities may be mentioned rushworth's "historical collections" ( edition in volumes), whitelock's "memorials" ( edit.), "autobiography of captain john hodgson" (brighouse, ), seacome's "house of stanley" ( nd ed. manchester, ), and hughes' "boscobel tracts" (ed. ). more modern biographical works are: e. g. b. warburton's "prince rupert" ( vols. ), léon marlet's "charlotte de la tremoille comtesse de derby" (paris, ), and the "life of the earl of derby" prefixed by canon raines to his edition of the stanley papers (chetham society, nos. , and ). seacome had the use of the papers of bishop rutter, the chaplain of the stanley family, and gives valuable information not elsewhere obtainable, but he is very inaccurate and biassed. canon raines is a violent partisan and quite uncritical. there are notices in the "dictionary of national biography" of the earl of derby and of the countess of derby by professor a. f. pollard, and also of a few other local leaders: and of some of the more prominent lancashire roman catholics in mr. joseph gillow's "dictionary of catholic biography." in the british museum are some tracts and newspapers which escaped mr. ormerod's notice. the tracts are nearly all in the thomason collection, which have recently been made much more accessible by the catalogue in two volumes, issued in . references in the following pages has always been made to the civil war tracts where possible, and to the british museum catalogue only when the tract or newspaper has not been reprinted anywhere. the principal newspapers are the royalist "mercurius aulicus": and "perfect diurnall" (which has several issues), "certaine informations, continuation of certaine speciall and remarkable passages," and "letters from scotland," &c. on the other side. the last mentioned, which belongs to and gives a great deal of local information, is not quoted at all by mr. ormerod. none of the newspapers are very reliable but the "mercurius aulicus" is hopelessly inaccurate. of mss. in the british museum, the rupert mss. contain letters referring to the invasion from ireland, and prince rupert's march north in ; the brereton mss. deal with the relations between lancashire and cheshire. they concern us mainly in the spring and summer of , when the two counties co-operated against the projected royalist march northwards; and afterwards later in the same year, when lancashire help was needed to complete the reduction of chester. the rupert mss. are additional mss. , : the brereton mss. additional mss. , , . other mss. collections are the tanner mss. and the carte mss. in the bodleian library. the former contain some letters of the local parliamentarian committee to the speaker, and some royalist ones dealing with the campaign of . with these must be mentioned the reprints from the tanner mss. in cary's "memorials of the great civil war" ( ). the carte mss. being mostly ormonde papers, relate to the landing of troops from ireland in december, , and the events of the following spring and summer; and many letters of the earl of derby to ormonde of later date, throwing light on the royalist leader's retirement in the isle of man. gardiner's history is always valuable to the student of the period, even in so local a subject as the present. naturally the references to lancashire are, however, few, and errors of detail sometimes occur. the following abbreviations have been used:-- c.j.--commons' journals. l.j.--lords' journals. c.s.p.--calendar of state papers (domestic). c.w.t.--civil war tracts of lancashire. discourse.--the discourse of the warr in lancashire. c.s.--chetham society. r.s.--record society. introduction the civil war in lancashire is an exceedingly interesting and perhaps the most stirring chapter in the history of the county. it was a real struggle; it is sufficiently complete in itself to be studied as a separate subject; while at the same time it illustrates the leading ideas of the civil war as a whole, and it had a not unimportant bearing upon the course of the war in the north of england. in some counties either king or parliament had a sufficient majority of supporters either to prevent fighting, or where there was fighting to make the result certain; but in lancashire there was a keen struggle for supremacy between the two parties. lancashire was one of the first counties to take up arms, as it was one of the last to lay them down; and it was for some time doubtful which side would win. geographical conditions were most important and must be described at some length. lancashire was in the th century an isolated, remote, and backward part of england. the eastern counties were then the richest and most populous, and the political centre of england was for long after this in the south. lancashire lay aside from the main lines of communication. it had no great river and no considerable port, liverpool being still a very small town. the soil is not fertile, and before the opening up of the coalfields and the development of the cotton trade made lancashire one of the richest parts of england, it was a poor and thinly populated county. much of it was and still is barren moorland; much of it was then marsh land which has since been drained. a glance at the map will show that the words 'moor' and 'moss' in place names occur dozens of times. moreover the natural boundaries are very sharply defined. lancashire consists roughly of a coast plain divided into two by the estuary of the ribble, and a higher eastern portion rising toward the border of the county. its shape can be roughly contained in an acute-angled triangle, the two longer sides being the west and east. the west is coast line, the east is an almost continuous range of hills, forming part of the pennine chain. from the lune valley in the north to the extreme south-east of the county there is only one good natural entrance into lancashire. this is by the ribble valley, a smaller break in the hills to the south of the forest of pendle joining the ribble valley lower down. between the lune and the ribble are burn moor and bowland forest; and south of the ribble trawden forest, the forest of rossendale, and blackstone edge stretch almost to the south of the county. it was by the ribble valley that prince rupert marched out of lancashire on his way to york in ; and it was by this road that cromwell entered the county in pursuit of the scots in . all the moors are fairly high; the eastern border of lancashire is seldom lower than feet above sea level, and rising in places to and feet. along the southern and most accessible side of lancashire the boundary is formed by the river mersey, which is a considerable stream for much of the border; and the low-lying land to the north of the river was in the th century mostly undrained marsh, forming a strong barrier. thus lancashire was effectually isolated by its natural boundaries from the neighbouring counties. these geographical conditions had two great effects on the war in lancashire. in the first place they enabled the issue to be decided within the county without help or hindrance from outside. there was of course some connection with yorkshire and cheshire, but mostly in the later years of the war; at first the war was fought out by local troops within the county itself. this is no drawback to the study of our subject, for the civil war was very largely a local war and can best be studied locally. it was not, like the wars of the roses, a dynastic struggle, in which the nation generally had no direct interest; but its causes, political, religious and social, went down to the primary divisions of opinion among englishmen which have existed ever since, and to some extent do so to-day. the course of the civil war in lancashire shows the working out on a smaller stage of the main principles of the period. the religious question was of course very prominent. the local royalists were either in sympathy with the king's ecclesiastical policy, or they were roman catholics. lancashire had been conservative in religion, and there was a very large roman catholic population; particularly the west coast and the fylde adhered, as to some extent they still do, to the ancient faith. and though at first catholics were not openly included in the royalist armies, and indeed lord strange's first warrants definitely excluded them,[ ] the exclusion was only temporary. a petition of the lancashire recusants to the king to bear arms 'for their own defence' was granted, and paved the way for their admission to the royalist ranks. some of the most prominent of the lancashire royalist leaders were roman catholics. the puritan element was strongest in the east and south-east of the county, especially in manchester and in bolton, 'the geneva of the north'; and it was these places which formed the stronghold of the parliament's cause in lancashire. the hundreds of salford and blackburn were the only two out of the six hundreds of the county which were on the popular side in . but a distinctive development took place in the later years of our period. the lancashire parliament men were presbyterians; indeed so strong was presbyterianism as to produce in this county the most completely organized system in england of presbyterian church government. this development occurred after the end of the first civil war. the parliament therefore had the steady support of the lancashire leaders in the early part of the struggle; but with the growth of independency, they became more and more out of sympathy with the ruling powers. by the relations between the two had become so strained that there was some doubt about the support of lancashire being forthcoming against the scotch invasion. eventually the differences were overcome because the invaders were scots, and the lancashire troops rendered valuable service at the battle of preston. but there was no common ground for the presbyterians and cromwell; and in , when charles ii. marched through lancashire, the county was really in his favour. the earl of derby, charles' general in lancashire, had an interview with the leading presbyterians, and it was only the impossibility of reconciling their opinions, and the exhaustion of the county after nine years of war which prevented lancashire from being completely raised in charles' favour. the side of the war from which it appears as a class struggle is also illustrated in lancashire. the head of the local royalists was james stanley, seventh earl of derby, representing the great house of stanley which had been for generations all-powerful in the north-west of england; the leaders on the other side were the lesser gentry who stood to gain by the weakening of his power, and behind them was the awakening spirit of the towns. the first event of the war in september, , was derby's unsuccessful siege of manchester; the hardest fought engagement was the royalist capture of bolton in ; the last scene, seven years later, was derby's own execution in bolton market place. these things are significant of the place which the towns were beginning to take. and with the earl of derby in died the last of feudalism in lancashire. the geographical conditions had another effect in that as the two parties were divided the parliament held in this respect the advantage. their territory was the south and south-east of the county which was the most accessible part of it. thus the royalists were cut off from the neighbouring counties, and once at least, in august, , when newcastle had overrun all yorkshire and sent from halifax a summons to manchester, the moorland barrier saved the lancashire parliamentarians from having an invasion to face. blackstone edge was fortified and the difficulty of the ground was enough to secure the safety of the county. yet although the war in lancashire was mostly fought out locally, the result had a considerable effect on the war in the north of england generally. this has been too much neglected in the general text books. the north-west of england was in mainly royalist; so was the neighbouring district of north wales; and in lancashire was mainly royalist too. the king's party thought themselves and their opponents thought them the stronger side. yet in less than twelve months after edgehill the royalist party in lancashire was completely defeated; and though prince rupert's hurricane descent on the county on his way to york in changed things for a little while, it was only a temporary change, and had no permanent result on the war in lancashire. this meant much, for it was in the summer of , when the lancashire parliamentarians were carrying all before them in their county, that the king's cause generally was at its height; and not only in the south of england but even in yorkshire and cheshire. in the spring of sir wm. brereton was holding his own in cheshire with difficulty; after newcastle's victory over the fairfaxes at adwalton moor in july all yorkshire except hull was royalist territory. if the royalists had kept lancashire in as they expected, or had regained it afterwards as they were always hoping to do, the king would have been supreme in the north of england, and the war might have been considerably prolonged. in mere numbers the royalists in lancashire were probably at all times equal to their opponents; it may be doubted whether the supporters of the parliament ever counted a numerical majority in the county. their success was due partly to the fact that their attention was concentrated on lancashire, while the royalist leaders were concerned also with other parts of the country. the soldiers first raised by the earl of derby were withdrawn to swell the regiments of the royalist army at edgehill; and several royalist gentlemen raised troops of horse for the king from among their tenants in lancashire. no parliamentarian troops were ever marched out of the county until the issue at home was decided. but when this allowance has been made it must be acknowledged that the parliament's success was due to the greater ability of its supporters. derby was no leader though personally brave; no one could supersede him on account of his rank, and the conduct of the war in lancashire for the king demanded far more ability than he possessed. on the other hand it happened that the parliamentarian leaders, assheton, shuttleworth, moore, rigby and others were if not brilliant generals at least capable men. and not only had the parliament the advantage in leaders but in the rank and file. its soldiers were better led but they were better soldiers also. clarendon's words on this subject may be quoted:-- "the difference in the temper of the common people of both sides was so great that they who inclined to the parliament left nothing unperformed that they might advance the cause, and were incredibly vigorous and industrious to cross and hinder whatsoever might provoke the king's; whereas they who wished well to him thought they had performed their duty in doing so, and that they had done enough for him that they had done nothing against him."[ ] this judgment of the relative zeal of the two parties is true at any rate of lancashire. small as lancashire is it is not very easy to connect in one plan the necessarily somewhat scattered incidents of the war. on the whole, however, its course at first shows a gradual advance by the parliamentarian party northwards and westwards from their base at manchester. they first met successfully an attack in their own quarters; the remainder of saw them fighting mostly on the defensive in salford and blackburn hundreds; but early in they began to extend their lines until all the county was gradually conquered. the next two years were occupied in reducing the last royalist strongholds, in meeting rupert's invasion, and after he had gone in doing over again the work which his coming had undone. during the remainder of the period the outstanding military events are the coming of the scots in and the rising when charles ii. invaded england in . with the defeat and death of the last royalists at wigan lane, and the execution of the earl of derby the civil war in lancashire may be said to end. footnotes: [ ] "a copy of lord strange's warrant," , f. ( ). [ ] clarendon (macray), vol. , p. (bk. , par. ). chapter i. preliminaries.--petitions.--seizure of magazines.--the array and the militia.--first skirmish at manchester. the actual fighting of the civil war was preceded by some months during which both parties attempted to seize stores of arms and to win over the local troops; this again followed a long series of proclamations by the king and by parliament. many petitions and memorials were presented to both from different parts of the country. a number of these petitions came from lancashire. the first was presented to the houses of parliament in february - , and represents the wishes of their supporters in the county. it praises the work already done in the reform of civil government and the church, the disposal of the militia, and in other ways. as far as lancashire is concerned it is asked that recusants be disarmed and the number of 'preaching ministers' increased, also that provision should be made for the crowds of destitute refugees from ireland who were daily arriving in the county; and that a fleet of small ships be sent for the defence of the coast. as evidence of the natural but exaggerated fear produced by the irish rebellion the petitioners described themselves as "seated in the mouth of danger," and evidently expected an invasion from the other side of the channel. this petition was presented to the house of commons on february th, , and the house promised to take it into consideration.[ ] two petitions were also sent to the king at york in april and may respectively. the first merely urged his return to parliament, but the other which is much longer and more elaborate, was drawn up by richard heyrick, warden of the collegiate church at manchester, and contained nearly , names. it professes great loyalty to the king's person, and gives him credit for the reforms which had already been carried through; but asks him to find out some way for an accommodation with the parliament. the signatories of this petition afterwards became the presbyterian party in the county and five years later they presented the petition to the parliament for the establishment of presbyterianism in lancashire. a few months after this the recusants in lancashire petitioned charles for permission to take up arms for their own safety, which was very readily given. recusants were, however, as yet forbidden to serve in the royal armies.[ ] the next step was the raising of the local trained bands, the winning over of men of influence, and seizing magazines of arms which had been collected in various places in view of the rebellion in ireland. the famous militia ordinance, which was the first exercise of parliament's claim to legislate without the king's consent, was made on march , - ; the king's proclamation forbidding any of the trained bands of the kingdom to obey the ordinance was dated at york, may th, . parliament replied on the following day with their order beginning "whereas it appears that the king seduced by wicked councell intends to make war against the parliament." the king's commissions of array were sent out early in june, and afterwards the raising of troops was pushed forward by either side.[ ] parliament had early in the year appointed its own list of lords lieutenant of all the counties in england, the king also naming his own representatives. in the list presented to the house of commons on february , - lord wharton is put in for lancashire in place of lord strange who had previously been lord lieutenant; but curiously enough lord strange was nominated by the houses for cheshire. on march , however, sir william brereton informed the commons that his lordship desired to be excused, and the desire being repeated a week later his name was removed and that of lord say substituted. lord strange was made lord lieutenant of both lancashire and cheshire by the king.[ ] parliament also appointed a long list of deputy-lieutenants for lancashire which was afterwards added to during the ensuing month.[ ] during the summer commissions of array were voted to be illegal, and the house of lords appointed a committee to devise means to prevent their going out; copies of a declaration to this effect were printed and circulated, and the judges on circuit were each given a copy and ordered to publish it.[ ] (july.) in the preceding month the lancashire members of parliament had been sent down to form with the deputy lieutenants a county committee for putting the militia ordinance into operation. their instructions were to put the ordinance in force, to collect trained bands, to publish the declarations of both houses, to disarm recusants and see that they confined themselves to their own houses. it was expressly stated that no evil was intended to the king, whose greatest danger lay in separating himself from his parliament.[ ] active preparations now began on both sides in lancashire as in other parts of the country. it is rather surprising and testifies to the extreme reluctance to begin a war of which no man could see the end, that the militia and the array did not come to blows before they did. the royalists were the first to move. lord strange returning from a visit to the court at york called a meeting of his supporters on fulwood moor near preston in accordance with a letter from the king to sir john girlington, high sheriff; the ostensible purpose being to hear read charles' two declarations and his answer to the lancashire petition. this gathering though by no means so large as the corresponding royalist demonstration on heworth moor, near york, nevertheless numbered about people; but if the parliamentarians are to be believed it was not at all unanimous in favour of the king. rigby and the elder shuttleworth hearing of the summons on their way to lancashire hastened on towards preston, hindering as many people as possible from obeying it as they went. at standish they deprived the constable of his warrant, which had that day been published by the vicar in church. (sunday, june .) reaching preston the same night they attempted though without success to prevent the meeting being held; and the following day they attended the meeting themselves. lord strange was accompanied by his eldest son charles, a boy of , lord molyneux, sir george middleton, sir alexander radcliffe, mr. tyldesley of myerscough, mr. farington of worden, and other prominent lancashire royalists. the king's declarations were read by the sheriff, the under sheriff and others in different parts of the crowd, and most of the people dispersed. rigby, however, attempted to read the votes of parliament in answer to the king and demanded girlington to deliver up his commission of array; whereupon of the more ardent royalists rode up and down the moor shouting, 'for the king, for the king.' the remainder stayed and shouted 'for king and parliament,' and rigby declared that the royalists could only count on the support of a small minority of those present and that they had in reality lost more than they had gained by the demonstration. on hearing of the occurrence parliament summoned sir john girlington, sir george middleton, and sir edward fitton to attend as delinquents.[ ] meanwhile under cover of the excitement on the moor a servant of mr. farington's, william sumpner, seized part of the magazine in the town of preston, conveying it away secretly on packhorses as ordinary merchandise. the magazine, which consisted of barrels of powder and some match, had been mostly collected by farington and stored in a private house. early next morning the remainder was removed by order of the sheriff. rigby hearing of what had taken place again protested, but to no purpose; and he was not in a position to use force.[ ] this was part of a royalist plan for securing all the ammunition in the county. considerable stores had been established by lord strange when lord lieutenant, the principal centres being preston, warrington, liverpool and manchester. warrington was royalist in sympathy and that also was seized by the king. strange in person secured most if not all of the powder at liverpool. rigby, however, warned mr. assheton of middleton in time to save the magazine at manchester.[ ] when the royalist design became known in manchester a petition was addressed to the committee asking them if necessary to remove the magazine to a more secure place. the answer refers to great levies of money made by lord strange, much of which had been spent in providing ammunition in various places. but there were in manchester only barrels of powder and a few bundles of match; they were kept in the then disused college of the church which had been granted to the earl of derby by the crown. this building was afterwards purchased by the executors of humphrey chetham from charles, eighth earl of derby, and is still the chetham college. the royalist commissioners of array, sir alexander radcliffe and mr. prestwich, with mr. nicholas mosley and thomas danson, the under sheriff, endeavoured to seize these stores as they had seized the others; but assheton and sir thomas stanley, another deputy lieutenant, prevented them. judging, however, that the powder was not safe on lord strange's property, it was removed to other parts of the town.[ ] lord strange was very angry at the rebuff and threatened to attack the town. he collected troops at bury and more than armed volunteers came in for the defence of manchester. these outnumbered the royalists, and negotiations were thereupon entered into for the disposal of the magazine. two or three deputy lieutenants visited lord strange at bury; but his offer to replace the magazine in the college in the joint keeping of the parliament men and of robert holt, one of his own deputy lieutenants, was refused. (june .) next day the forces were dismissed; but lord strange, having received fresh instructions from york, called a second muster at bury and caused an order to be published at manchester cross for the removal of the magazine, part to rochdale and part to bury, only a small part to be left in manchester. it was now evident that actual hostilities could not be long delayed. the parliamentarians sent to london for help from lord wharton. lord strange was required to redeliver that part of the county magazine which he had seized.[ ] on saturday, june , sir william brereton was in manchester, and reported to the speaker that he found the townsmen "up in arms in defence of their magazine," and most of the shops shut. a journal, of the first week in july, by a preston man who accompanied rigby to manchester, relates that or militia armed with muskets and pikes were being daily trained there. on the other hand reports were brought of royalist musters numbering at preston, and on knutsford heath in cheshire.[ ] a letter about royalist movements from sir edward fitton to sir thomas aston at york was intercepted and sent to london. news came of the king's siege of hull. but no one was anxious to strike the first blow in lancashire, and relations were not yet so strained between the leaders but that rigby, going to see sir gilbert hoghton about a letter of his which had been seized, could not be asked to stay to dinner. while he was there a mr. dawton who was a recusant came in, and rigby with characteristic rudeness told his host that "he should like him better if he were not so familiar with papists." in royalist preston, however, it needed a report that lord wharton was on his march with , men to make it possible for "honest men to go through the streets without scoffing at them and calling them roundheads." (friday, july .) and a man who directed the sergeant coming to deliver a message from parliament to lord strange's house had his head broken by the royalists.[ ] a week later the first actual bloodshed of the war in lancashire took place at manchester (friday, july ), the occasion being a visit of lord strange and some of his supporters to the town. there is an account of a previous skirmish on july , when it is stated that lord strange attempted to force his way into the town and was repulsed with loss; but this is usually thought to be false.[ ] lord strange's visit on july was in response to an invitation. apparently negotiations were still in progress about the manchester magazine, and some of his lordship's supporters, of whom there were a good many in the town, wished to entertain him at a banquet in the house of mr. alexander green, in order that the negotiations might be completed. green was a vintner and lived on the conduit, now the bottom of market street.[ ] the condition was made that strange should come peaceably with his own attendance; but in the excited state of affairs it was almost impossible that the occasion should end peaceably, especially as lord strange had earlier on the same day called a muster of troops at bury which was attended by about men from the immediate neighbourhood of manchester. there are several accounts of what happened, and as may be expected the two sides give very different views. the royalists describe the expression of joy by the inhabitants, "continued acclamations, bonfires, the streets strewed with flowers, &c.," as lord strange entered manchester in his coach with his ordinary attendants only; the other side represent him as coming in a warlike manner attended by many horsemen, "with cocked pistols and shouts that the town was their own." the local militia under captain birch and captain holcroft was, however, in manchester, and the surprising thing is not that an affray occurred, but that it was not a great deal more serious than it turned out to be. hardly had the royalists sat down to dinner when word was brought that birch and holcroft accompanied by sir thomas stanley of bickerstaffe[ ] were marching their men about the streets. the sheriff immediately ran downstairs, mounted lord strange's horse, and near the cross met holcroft, whose men he endeavoured unsuccessfully to disperse. alarmed at girlington's non-return strange himself followed him, and missing his horse pushed his way on foot through the crowd to the end of the street. the attitude of the townspeople was very threatening and lord strange was several times fired at from houses. as he and the sheriff were returning they met birch who ordered his men to fire, but the rain put out their matches. to avoid a general skirmish the royalists decided to leave the town. in the melée, however, a royalist gentleman was knocked off his horse and the assailant was shot; this was richard perceval, a linen weaver of kirkmanshulme; he was buried at the parish church on july . lord strange proceeded for the night to sir alexander radcliffe's house at ordsall hall;[ ] and he never entered manchester again. next morning, twenty-five gentlemen of the town, including green and nicholas mosley, the boroughreeve, waited on him at ordsall to apologize for what had taken place, and declared stanley, holcroft and birch to be disturbers of the peace; but that they did not speak for a majority of the townsmen subsequent events were to show.[ ] it has been very commonly stated that this july th skirmish was the first bloodshed of the whole civil war; the statement is made by mr. gardiner and is repeated in so recent a work as the "cambridge modern history," but is almost certainly incorrect. it is not of course the fact that lancashire was before any other county in hostile preparations. in the months of june and july , the two factions in arms were facing each other all over england and it was really an accident rather than otherwise in which county the first blow was struck. on june , the king wrote to lord willoughby of parham forbidding him to raise the trained bands of lincolnshire, and in the same week the earl of warwick put the militia ordinance into force in essex. in leicestershire a fortnight later bloodshed was narrowly averted. on june , mr. hastings, son of the earl of huntingdon, who was a royalist, arrived at loughborough and marched on leicester; but finding a superior force under the earl of stamford in possession, he retreated and most of his men were disarmed. there was an affray in dorsetshire in august at which some lives were lost. it would seem, however, that actually the first blood of the war was shed at hull. the king in person was present at the siege of that town which began on july . his troops were not close to the walls but in the following week there had been three or four skirmishes, one of which lasted for several hours and some lives must have been lost.[ ] it is fitting that the war should begin at hull, for that was the city which was first seized for the parliament and which first offered defiance to charles. it might have been expected that the affray in manchester would be followed by further hostilities; but this was not the case, and two months elapsed before fighting really began in lancashire. the intervening time was spent in active preparations by both sides; of the two the royalists at first appeared to have the advantage. manchester had declared for the parliament, but there was not much of the county which that party could rely upon, and even manchester was not unanimous. perhaps the majority of the crowd in the streets on july were not anti-royalists.[ ] the immediate outcome of the affray was that proceedings were begun against mr. tyldesley, who was reported to have killed perceval, and by the other side against stanley, birch and holcroft. parliament stopped both actions. it was birch who reported the affair to the house of commons, and the committee named to deal with commissions of array was asked to consider it.[ ] in the following month there was a prospect of lancashire being made the centre of the royalist operations. several places were considered for the raising of the royal standard, and the earl of derby suggested warrington as suitable. he promised to raise at once foot and horse, and within three days to make up their number to , men. after a few days' consideration strange was sent back to lancashire to make preparations, but in his absence the place was altered to nottingham. it is suggested that court jealousy of strange was responsible for the alteration.[ ] whatever the reason, however, strange's loyalty was unwavering. he returned to lancashire, and on august dated from lathom a warrant to all knights, freeholders and others able to bear arms (popish recusants excepted) to assemble at preston on august . a week later lady strange wrote to her cousin, prince rupert, on his arrival in england, asking him to send a few troops of horse into lancashire for a few weeks to assist in raising foot. clarendon says that strange was looked upon 'as of absolute power over that people,' and as yet there seems to have been no doubt at lathom that this was the case.[ ] strange joined the king at shrewsbury with three troops of horse and three regiments of foot. lord molyneux raised two regiments, one of horse and one of foot, and other lancashire royalists contributed to the main royal army in a lesser degree. this draining of lancashire of royalist troops, a process which was continued later, was to have a disastrous effect on their cause within the county. a week after the raising of the royal standard at nottingham (august , ), the commons set about the impeachment of lord strange. the energetic rigby was one of the five members appointed to prepare the accusation, but it was nevertheless a fortnight before it was sent up to the lords, who agreed next day (september ). the articles of indictment are the raising of forces at manchester on july and in other places, the death of perceval, and the being in actual rebellion against the king, parliament and kingdom. it was, however, evident that it would be much easier to publish such an impeachment than to have it carried into effect "considering that if messengers be sent they will be imprisoned, and if proclamation writs be sent down they will not be sealed." several conferences were held between the two houses as to the best means of executing the impeachment. on september , publication of the charge was ordered to be made in all churches and chapels and in all markets and towns; and all sheriffs and other officers were urged to do their best to secure lord strange's arrest and to send him up to parliament.[ ] the impeachment no doubt had some effect on public opinion in lancashire, but it made no difference to the royalist preparations which continued to be actively pushed forward. footnotes: [ ] this petition is given in "c.w.t.," pp. - . cf. "c.j.," vol. , . lancashire being a catholic county the puritans were exceedingly afraid of their probable action. cf. "c.s.p.," - , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. - . the petition and answer are also given in the "discourse," pp. - . while taking stronger measures against the recusants, parliament ordered the documents to be printed in order to arouse public opinion against the king. on aug. the king issued instructions to the commissioners of array to disarm all "popish recusants, all brownists, anabapists and other sectaries." "rushworth," vol. , p. . [ ] the militia ordinance and the king's proclamation are printed in gardiner's "constitutional documents," pp. and . for the parliament's order of may , _v._ "c.w.t.," p. . [ ] "c.j." , pp. , , . lord strange was the royalist of greatest influence in lancashire and cheshire and so could not be passed over. but he was so unpopular at court that the appointment was an unexpected one. cf. "hist. mss. com.," rep. , app. , p. . [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. ; vol. , p. . "c.j.," vol. , pp. , , , . [ ] "c.j.," vol. , pp. , , . [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . it was on june that the lancashire members were directed by the commons to go down ("c.j.," vol. , p. ), and they must have started almost immediately. several letters were received before the end of the month both from them and from sir w. brereton. on saturday, july , a report from the committee and deputy lieutenants was received by the house of commons, and referred by them to the committee for the defence of the kingdom. ("c.j.," vol. , p. .) [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. . rigby wrote a long letter giving an account of the meeting to the speaker from manchester on june . he calls the majority of the adherents of lord strange "popish recusants." the "discourse" implies that a majority of the meeting were in favour of the king. cf. "l.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] for rigby's letter to the speaker, _v._ "c.w.t.," p. . he suggests that for so small an amount of powder it was not worth while to use force; but it was a sufficient reason that he did not know where the powder had been taken. on july th it was ordered by both houses that the removal of magazines might be resisted by force. ("l.j.," vol. , p. . "c.j.," vol. , pp. , .) [ ] the committee's letter to lenthall on june ("c.w.t.," p. ) states that lord strange took barrels of powder and some match from liverpool. the "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ) implies that this was all the magazine in liverpool. the report that strange was intercepted at liverpool by mr. moore ("c.w.t.," p. ) is probably false. the manchester petition and answer are given at length in the "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ). no other places are mentioned except manchester, warrington, preston and liverpool, and apparently the royalists secured all these except the first-named. cf. a copy of a letter from chester, etc., , f. ( ), where it is stated that strange armed his troops at chester with arms sent by the parliament for service in ireland. [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. and . cf. "hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. ; and also a letter from richard radcliffe to sir john gell, july . : "lord strange threatens to procure aid from the king; but we think his majesty has not much to spare." ("hist. mss. com.," vol. , app. , p. .) [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . sir william brereton ( - ) was the son of william brereton of handforth, cheshire, and of margaret, daughter and co-heiress of richard holland of denton. he was the parliamentarian commander-in-chief in cheshire, and was concerned in all the military operations in that county. but he was also a deputy lieutenant for lancashire, having close relations with the leaders there. there is a notice of brereton, by mr. t. f. henderson, in the "dictionary of national biography." [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . cf. a further letter to the speaker in "h. l. cal." ("hist. mss. com.," rep. , p. ), written on june , in which brereton states that lord strange is prepared to enforce his commission of array when parliament does the militia ordinance. he desires further instructions, for the commission cannot be stopped without violence, which "once begun may not be so easily composed." [ ] this "journal" is given in "c.w.t.," p. . the writer seems well informed and fairly impartial. [ ] the chief authority for this skirmish is a tract called "the beginning of civil warres in england, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). it is a circumstantial account giving the times at which the battle began and ended and the number killed on both sides. but nevertheless it is almost certainly an entire fabrication. none of the main authorities mention it; and if any skirmish occurred at all on july it would certainly have been mentioned in lord strange's impeachment. cf. also "c.w.t.," pp. and . the "victoria county history of lancashire," referring to this date, says: "doubt has been cast on the truth of this report," but this statement is not strong enough (vol. , p. ). [ ] green had given £ . s. to the building of salford chapel in . judging from the amounts at which he was assessed in the levies made upon the town during the war, he was a well-to-do man; the conduit was then one of the streets inhabited by the richer citizens ("manchester municipal records"). green does not seem to have been an ardent royalist, for he was not sequestered, but he afforded shelter to one george leigh of barton-upon-irwell, who at first supported the royalist cause, but on prince rupert's invasion fled to manchester ("royalist composition papers," vol. , p. ). [ ] sir thomas stanley was the son of edward stanley of bickerstaffe, who was made a baronet in - . he was a consistent, if rather lukewarm, supporter of the parliamentary cause. he was the direct ancestor of the present earl of derby. ("lancashire lieutenancy," pt. , p. .) [ ] "c.w.t.," p. , note. sir alexander radcliffe was committed to the tower for his part in this disturbance, and remained a prisoner until the following year. ordsall hall, then about - / miles from the town, stands now in the midst of cottages and workshops. it is the property of lord egerton, and was until recently used as an anglican training college. [ ] there are a parliamentarian paper describing the affray, two royalist tracts and an account in the "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," pp. , , and ). the reference in the "discourse," p. , may be dismissed as worthless; that writer is not often well informed on matters relating to manchester. it is evident that the banquet was a pre-arranged affair in spite of statements to the contrary ("c.w.t.," p. ), and also that the rising of the townsmen was not wholly the result of the parliamentarian leaders' agitation. probably each party in the town made its own arrangements entirely neglecting their effect on the other; and probably each side gave afterwards what it honestly thought to be the statement of the facts. there is an account of this affray in burghall's "providence improved" (r.s., no. , p. ); but it adds no new details. [ ] "rushworth," vol. , p. , , . cf. an article by the present writer on the "sieges of hull during the great civil war," in the "english historical review" ( ), vol. , p. . [ ] the account given in the "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ) suggests this. the statement that the other side were in a vast majority is, however, made by both parties. [ ] the judges in lancashire were ordered to stay proceedings against tyldesley, "who, as this house is informed, slew the man at manchester," and other proceedings begun for the same reason. there is a similar order concerning proceedings against stanley, birch and holcroft ("c.j.," vol. , p. ). assheton, rigby and moore were members of this committee ("c.j.," vol. , pp. , ). it seems probable that the man actually responsible for the death of perceval was richard fleetwood of rossall ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] the authority for this statement is seacome's "house of stanley," p. - . though seacome is very inaccurate, there seems to be no reason for doubting his statement here. [ ] "a copy of lord strange's warrant," , f. ( ); marlet's "charlotte de la tremoille," pp. - ; "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. (bk. , par. ). marlet is of the opinion that prince rupert would have acceded to the request, but was prevented by the king. [ ] the impeachment was moved in the house of commons on august , and sir robert harley took it to the lords on sept. ("c.j.," vol. , p. ; "l.j.," vol. , pp. , , , ). the order for publishing the impeachment and carrying it out was dated friday, sept. ("l.j.," vol. , p. ). the impeachment and order are printed in "c.w.t.," pp. - . chapter ii. the leaders on both sides. in september, , when the two parties in lancashire faced each other before coming to blows, the royalist prospects appeared considerably the better. their leaders were the men of chief rank in the county; they had the undivided support of the numerous catholic families; they held nearly all the defensible positions and fortified houses, and they had secured nearly all the stores of arms and ammunition which the county contained. in four out of the six hundreds of lancashire their influence was entirely predominant. with the possession of the greater part of the county, and the support of two out of the three religious parties it appeared that the king had a far better prospect of success than the parliament. in the light of the events of the next two years this expectation is seen to have been unjustified, but in september, , the result could not be foreseen. there was reason for expressions such as that of the author of the "discourse:" "that part of the civill broyles that fell within this county shewes a divine hand to have overruled them, considering that a handfull in respect of the multitude always caried it."[ ] for even the east and south-east parts of the county where puritanism had its stronghold were not all of one mind, and the strength of their resistance had not yet appeared. sir edward fitton could write in june, , "i may assure you that the major part of this hundred of manchester where i live will stand right," meaning of course it would support the king. and that there were many royalists even in manchester itself the events of july and had plainly shown. moreover even the possibility of raising the royal standard within the borders of lancashire would seem to show that it was a county whose loyalty could be relied upon. it is not possible in the present work to give a detailed account of all the families in lancashire during the civil war; all that can be done is to indicate the main lines of division between the various parties and to give brief descriptions of the more prominent leaders on both sides. the unquestioned leader of the royalists was the head of the great house of stanley, james stanley, lord strange, afterwards th earl of derby. though not actually succeeding to the title until september, , his father william the th earl had resigned all his estates in his son's favour five years before, and strange had been since then the leader of the county. born on january , - , he was educated in bolton and at oxford, and entered public life very early, becoming member of parliament for liverpool in . two years later he was summoned to the house of lords as baron strange under the impression that this title was held by his father; that however not being the case the summons amounted to the creation of a new peerage. in june, , strange married, and lived for a time at court; but he soon retired to his estates in the north of england, living chiefly at lathom house, and finding ample scope for his activities in local affairs in lancashire, cheshire and the isle of man. strange was not a man fitted by temperament or inclination to shine at a court like that of charles i., and though his loyalty was conspicuous and undoubted, he had evidently made himself very unpopular with the royal advisers who hindered rather than helped him during the civil war. "court friendship," he writes, "is a cable that in storms is ever cut," and probably the words had a personal significance. but however objectionable he may have been to the court, strange was marked by his position for leadership when the king needed help from lancashire. in february, - , he was summoned by charles at the outbreak of the first scotch war, and in he joined the king at york. when the civil war began he was lord lieutenant of lancashire and cheshire, and was continued in those positions by the king, though of course removed by parliament. in strange was years of age. he was in many ways not unworthy of the great traditions of the famous house which he represented. there is no need to subscribe to all the panegyrics which royalist writers have showered upon the 'martyr earl'; and no doubt his personal worth, unhappy history, and tragic death are some excuse for them. personally he was honourable, high minded and brave; even his enemies speak of him as a "worthy gentleman, courteous and friendly" and suggest that his actions were rather due to evil counsels than to his own disposition. indeed it is remarkable that of contemporary judgments, clarendon's is the most unfavourable. he was personally religious, as his book of private devotions shows, and he was a patron of literature and art. but there seems to have been in his character some underlying flaw of weakness and irresolution which paralysed all his actions. he broke with the court, yet he made himself no party in lancashire; and finding himself in in command of great resources, he had not the strength to concentrate his efforts, and lost control in the county while sending to the main royalist armies troops over which he had no command. his leadership was marked by no foresight or capacity; he left lancashire just at a time when his presence was most needed there; and on his return obeyed, though with reluctance, the queen's orders to go to the isle of man, when it was far more necessary that he should remain in england. during his absence the famous first siege of lathom house was sustained by the countess of derby. refusing all overtures after the end of the first war, he retired to the isle of man, which became a refuge for the more irreconcilable royalists. pursued to the last by ill-fortune and bad judgment derby emerged from his retirement to join charles ii.'s expedition in ; he escaped wounded from his own defeat at wigan to join in the general rout at worcester; and finally, having surrendered on promise of quarter to a captain who could not keep the promise, he was the only lancashire royalist to suffer death on the scaffold. but if unswerving loyalty and sincerity in a lost cause constitute a claim to martyrdom, the leader of the lancashire royalists is abundantly entitled to the honour.[ ] lord derby was ably seconded if not directed by his wife; indeed she was the stronger character of the two. she was the daughter of claude de la tremoille, duc de thouars, and grand-daughter of william the silent, prince of orange. on coming to england her mother had endeavoured, though without success, to have her attached to the household of the queen. after the outbreak of the war it would seem as if lady derby had endeavoured to secure herself against possible reverses of the royalist cause; but she showed no wavering afterwards, and her defence of lathom house in was the one conspicuous success of the royalist cause in lancashire. after her husband's death she was with difficulty persuaded to surrender the isle of man when all other resistance had come to an end.[ ] next in rank was richard, second viscount molyneux, the son of sir richard molyneux of sefton, who had been created in viscount molyneux of maryborough in the irish peerage. he was only at the outbreak of the civil war, and though he took some part in the fighting he was not personally of much advantage to his party in lancashire. there are several references to him by contemporaries as lord derby's son-in-law, the fact being that a 'child marriage' was contracted in between molyneux and henrietta maria, eldest daughter of lord derby, who was then only years old. there was some legal doubt as to whether the marriage was not actually valid; but it was never consummated, though apparently the matter was still in abeyance in when molyneux received permission to send messengers to the isle of man to receive the lady's answer. he died in july, , and was succeeded in the title by his brother caryll, who also had taken some little part in the war in lancashire. molyneux surrendered after the capture of ludlow and took the covenant and the negative oath in august . his fine at a sixth was £ , .[ ] by far the ablest of the lancashire royalists, and next to derby the most prominent, was thomas tyldesley. he was a roman catholic, of a younger branch of the tyldesleys of tyldesley, and resided at myerscough hall near garstang. he married bridget standish, whose mother was sister of richard, first viscount molyneux, and was therefore a cousin by marriage of the second viscount. he is better known as sir thomas tyldesley, being knighted for his services when with the queen at burton bridge in july, . tyldesley was concerned in all the early royalist movements in lancashire. he was in command at liverpool when it was first surrendered to the parliament in ; and attended rupert in the following year at the sack of bolton, the recapture of liverpool, and the relief of lathom house. when the royalist cause in lancashire was finally lost, tyldesley was active in other parts of the country, and was three times taken prisoner. he was governor of lichfield when that town was captured in ; he then served in ireland, and took part in hamilton's invasion in . afterwards tyldesley found refuge in the isle of man, joined derby's invasion in , and was killed at the battle of wigan lane. he was a good specimen of the best type of chivalrous cavalier. he never compounded for his estates, and considering the very prominent part which he took in the war, the ruling powers treated him very lightly, for no forfeiture is known to have followed his death.[ ] after tyldesley the three most prominent lancashire royalists were sir gilbert hoghton of hoghton, sir john girlington of thurland, and mr. william farington of worden hall, near chorley. hoghton was the son of the sir richard hoghton who, when sheriff in , had entertained king james the first at hoghton tower. he was an elderly man at the outbreak of the war, and took a more prominent part in the earlier operations. in blackburn hundred, however, hoghton was the first royalist to take action, and he was present at the loss of preston in february, - . later he served at chester, but became involved in a dispute with colonel byron the royalist governor. he died in .[ ] sir john girlington of thurland was sheriff of lancashire in . he was one of the first to be sent for by the house of commons as a delinquent, on account of his energy in plundering his opponents. he was twice besieged in his strong castle at thurland, and after surrendering it for the second time in october, , girlington took refuge in yorkshire, where he was killed in action in the following year.[ ] william farington of worden had been sheriff of lancashire in . he was a member of the commission of array and one of the royalist collectors for leyland hundred. his principal military service was at the first siege of lathom house, where he was lady derby's most trusted adviser. he suffered imprisonment and sequestration and did not compound until . his fine was £ .[ ] farington acted in the attempted pacification in the autumn of . it is significant of the strength of the popular movement against the king that even in lancashire a majority of the members of the long parliament were opposed to him. there were at this time two members for the county and two each for lancaster, preston, clitheroe, wigan, newton and liverpool, fourteen in all; and the popular party had eight to the king's six, while in weight and ability their advantage was far greater. the full list of the lancashire members is as follows:-- lancashire. ralph assheton, esq. roger kirkby, esq. lancaster. john harrison, knight. thomas fanshaw, esq. preston. richard shuttleworth, esq. thomas standish, esq. clitheroe. ralph assheton, esq. richard shuttleworth, gent. wigan. orlando bridgeman, esq. alexander rigby, esq. newton. william ashhurst, esq. roger palmer, knight. liverpool. john moore, esq. richard wyn, knight and baronet. of the above, kirkby, fanshaw, harrison, bridgeman, palmer and wyn were nominally royalists, but three of them took no part in the war at all, and only kirkby had anything to do with it in lancashire. roger kirkby of kirkby lonsdale was a member of the royalist county committee, and one of their collectors for lonsdale hundred; he was concerned in the capture of lancaster in , and in the attempt to raise the siege of thurland castle later on the same year, but his name does not afterwards appear.[ ] sir john harrison was a native of beaumont, near lancaster, but he lived in london, where he had acquired considerable wealth as an official in the customs. at the outbreak of the war he was arrested, but he escaped and joined the king at oxford. harrison outlived the restoration by ten years, and died at the age of eighty. his daughter was anne lady fanshawe, the wife of sir richard fanshawe.[ ] bridgeman was the son of the bishop of chester of that name, and a lawyer. on the day on which lord strange's impeachment was moved bridgeman was disabled from sitting any longer, it having been reported to the house that he had raised fourteen men to assist lord strange and had been active in persuading others to do so. bridgeman came into some prominence after the restoration, being created a baronet in , and in lord keeper. he was the ancestor of the earls of bradford.[ ] ralph assheton of middleton, one of the members for the county, was head of that branch of the ancient family. in the seventeenth century the three principal branches were that at middleton, whalley, and downham near clitheroe, the last being now the only one which remains. he was the son of richard assheton, and his wife mary, daughter of thomas venables, baron of kinderton in cheshire, and he married elizabeth, only daughter of john kay of woodsome in yorkshire. born on march , , assheton was quite a young man at the beginning of the civil war, but he at once came to the front, and was first colonel and afterwards major-general in command of all the forces in lancashire. he was a man of great energy and ability and of moderate views. he fought in nearly every engagement of the first war, and on january , - , was specially thanked by the house of commons for his services to the public. this vote was repeated after the battle of preston in . but no one was safe in such troublous times. in assheton was committed to the tower for a fortnight on refusing to obey an order of parliament about the payment of some money; and in may, , a warrant was issued by the council of state for him to be brought before the council on a charge of high treason. whether the warrant was executed or not does not appear. assheton died early in , and was buried in middleton parish church on february , - .[ ] he must be distinguished from two other ralph asshetons, both of them on the parliamentary side. these were ralph assheton, eldest son of sir ralph assheton of whalley, who was m.p. for clitheroe in the long parliament, and ralph assheton of downham who was a deputy-lieutenant and a sequestrator of delinquents' estates. the latter of these, however, died in . richard shuttleworth of gawthorpe near padiham, ancestor of the present lord shuttleworth, was born in , and had been sheriff of lancashire in . his experience and standing in the county, as well as his ability made him of great value to his party. he was a moderate man of presbyterian views, and became a lay elder of the third lancashire classis. he was the only one, however, of the original lancashire leaders who had an interview with lilburne in the campaign of . four of his sons took part in the war, three of them becoming colonels, while one of them was killed at lancaster in while still a captain.[ ] alexander rigby of middleton near preston, was certainly the most active of the lancashire parliamentarians. he seems to have attempted to control local affairs and to attend parliament at the same time, and was constantly travelling about between london and lancashire. he was one of the first to take action on the parliament's side in lancashire; his chief military commands were at thurland castle in and at the first siege of lathom in the following year. he commanded a cavalry regiment against hamilton in . in the following year cromwell appointed him a baron of the exchequer, and he died in from fever caught whilst trying a case. rigby was named as one of the king's judges but he refused to sit. in spite of his ability he was never popular with his own party, and lady derby's description of him as "that insolent rebel" fairly represents the royalist opinion of him. he was nevertheless closely connected with the opposite party by relationship. a curious illustration of rigby's activity was his 'governship' of lygonia, a district in the province of maine in north america. he bought the charter and described himself as governor until his death, though he never visited america and discharged his duties by deputy.[ ] john moore was head of the family of moore of bank hall, near liverpool. he was the leader of the puritans in that district and was returned for liverpool in the short parliament. he took little part in the early military operations in lancashire but commanded at the first siege of lathom; and he was governor of liverpool when that place was stormed by prince rupert in august, . moore was blamed for his surrender, but apparently without due reason. he was a deputy-lieutenant, sequestrator, and one of the judges at the king's trial, his name appearing in the death warrant. he afterwards served in ireland and died in . his son edward, was created a baronet by charles ii. moore was a restless, bitter, and unscrupulous man, and his household was described as a 'hell upon earth' by adam martindale, who for a time acted as his clerk.[ ] william ashhurst took no part in the operations in lancashire but looked after the interests of the county at westminster. he attained some prominence in the house of commons, and was one of the commissioners sent to scotland in - . his brother major ashhurst who had at first fought on the parliament's side joined charles the second in the expedition of , and william ashhurst was for a time imprisoned as a suspected person.[ ] it has already been indicated that the division of lancashire between the two factions followed the same lines as the division of the country generally, that is, the parliament had the south-east and the king the north-west. the divisions of the families also on the whole followed this arrangement. but no hard and fast lines can be drawn. the parliament for instance had one firm supporter, colonel moore, in the extreme west, and one, colonel dodding, in lancaster; rigby himself lived near preston: while on the other hand the nowells of read lived in what was chiefly a parliamentarian district, and we find the traffords, mosleys, and the radcliffes who were royalists in or near manchester itself. moreover hardly a single family of note was to be found entirely united. even the stanleys had their representative in the parliament's ranks, sir thomas stanley. sir gilbert hoghton's eldest son was a parliamentarian, whilst capt. standish, son of the m.p. for preston, was killed in the royalist ranks at manchester. the two bitterest opponents of the king in lancashire were rigby and moore; and rigby's wife was the sister of an active royalist, while moore's son was created a baronet after the restoration. footnotes: [ ] "discourse," p. . cf., however, "mss. of lord montague of beaulieu," p. . j. dillingham to lord montague, may, : "i am assured from a good hand that in lancashire and cheshire the puritans are able to encounter the papists, and the protestants are rather for the puritan party than the popish. this you may build upon for my authority is very good." [ ] the chief authorities for lord derby's career are the article in the "dict. nat. biog."; the life by canon raines in the "stanley papers," c.s., no. , and seacome's "house of stanley." seacome had access to the papers of bishop rutter, the supposed author of the journal of the first siege of lathom house, and his work contains valuable information about the stanley family not otherwise obtainable; but he is a bitter partisan and very inaccurate. the first edition of his work was published at liverpool in ; the references in the following pages are to the second edition, printed by joseph harrop in manchester in . [ ] _vide_ "dict. nat. biog." "hist. mss. com.," rep. , pts. - , p. . despatch of the tuscan resident at whitehall: "the duchess is very desirous of attaching her (lady strange) to the household of the queen; but with little prospect of success, either because no more french are desired, or because she has no influence with those who dispose of these offices." cf. also "moore rental," pp. , . "hist. mss. com.," rep. , "bouverie mss.," p. , november - , . w. strickland to john pym from the hague: the states general have received a letter from lady derby which has been communicated to strickland by lord vosbergen. lady derby desires the states general to mediate with parliament that her person, children and house may be secured from dangers to which she may be exposed by lord derby following the king's party. "i told lord vosbergen that some of her letters were said to show but little good affection to parliament, and i knew not how far parliament had power to exempt any from these common dangers." _same day and place_: "do what you please about lady derby's business; a civil answer will serve, though it be not to expectation. i desire to speak for malignants, but i could do no less" (_ibid_, p. ). [ ] for a sound account of molyneux _vide_ "hist. soc.," vol. and , pp. - . this contains an account of the "child marriage." particulars of his sequestration are given in "royalist composition papers," r.s., no. , p. . [ ] "dict. nat. biog." "c.w.t.," pp. , . "discourse," p. . myerscough lodge lies just aside from the main road from preston to garstang, and about half-way between the two. until comparatively recently some parts of the old house remained, but in the lodge was entirely re-built. clarendon's estimate of tyldesley is a very high one ("hist. rebell.," ed. macray, vol. , p. ; bk. , par. ). [ ] "discourse," p. . "rupert mss." ("add. mss.," ), fol. . [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. . [ ] "farington papers" (c.s., no. ). "discourse," p. . worden hall, some three miles from chorley, is still standing, though it was largely dismantled when the new hall was built. the old stables remain. about half a mile away across the fields is buckshawe hall, the residence of major robinson, the supposed author of the "discourse." both are now used as farmhouses. several stone gate-posts bearing robinson's initials are now built into the walls at buckshawe. [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. , , , . [ ] "memoirs of anne lady fanshawe" (ed. h. c. fanshawe, ), pp. - . [ ] "c.w.t.," . "c.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," . "discourse," p. . both these notices, however, give the date of assheton's death incorrectly. the entries in the parish registers of middleton put the question beyond doubt ("lanc. parish register soc.," vol. , pp. , ). for the votes of the house of commons _v._ "c.j.," vol. , p. ; vol. , p. . the former referred to assheton's "great, constant and very faithful service." he was committed to the tower on feb. , - , for not paying £ , of the king's revenue in his hands, as one of the receivers of the king's revenue. the order for his arrest in was issued by the council of state on may , "to deliver lieut.-col. ralph assheton, prisoner in the compter for debt, into the custody of the serjeant-at-arms, to be brought before council on a charge of high treason, he having been informed against as a very dangerous person" ("c.s.p.," , p. ). it is difficult to see how this warrant can refer to anyone else. in "iter lancastrense" (c.s., ), p. , a description of assheton's tomb in middleton church is given, and the situation of it is exactly indicated. this book was published in ; but on the restoration of middleton church by bishop durnford in , the stone was removed with others bearing brasses into the sacrarium. the floor of the assheton chapel is now occupied by pews. the albany mill stands on the site of old middleton hall. there is a pedigree of the middleton asshetons in baines' "lancashire" (ed. croston), vol. , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. , note. pedigree in whitaker's "whalley," p. . robert shuttleworth ( - ) had an only daughter janet, who married, in , sir james kay-shuttleworth; the present lord shuttleworth is their son (burke's "peerage"). colonel ughtred shuttleworth was committed to the tower in march, ("c.s.p.," , p. ). [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. . "palatine note book," vol. , pp. - . rigby's elder brother, george rigby of peel, was the ancestor of the present lord kenyon. [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," pp. - . "martindale's life," pp. - . "there was such a pack of arrant thieves and they so artificial at their trade, that it was scarce possible to save anything out of their hands except what i could carry about with me or lodge in some other house. those that were not thieves (if there are any such) were generally, if not universally, profaned bitter scoffers at piety." for the surrender of liverpool _vide_ "hist. mss. com.," rep. , app. , pp. - (depositions of capt. andrew ashton concerning the loss of liverpool). it is here stated that when moore heard of the royalists' entry into the town he drew his sword and asked for volunteers, but his men refused to follow him, and he then reluctantly proceeded to the waterside, many shots being fired at him as he embarked. the fullest account of moore is in the "moore rental," pp. v-xxxix. [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "tanner mss.," vol. , fol. . another brother, henry, became a prominent london merchant and philanthropist. chapter iii. the siege of manchester. from the days when it was a roman fortress manchester had probably been the most considerable place in lancashire. leland had referred to it in the previous century as the "fairest best builded quickest and most populous town of all lancashire": and as in those days the ring of towns now surrounding it, the creation of the cotton trade, were non-existent, manchester was in proportion larger than now. it was the principal market for the fustians which were manufactured at bolton, leigh and the places adjacent. the following quotation is from lewis robert's "merchant's map of commerce" written in . "the town of manchester buys the linen yarn of the irish in great quantity and weaving it returns the same again to ireland to sell; neither doth their industry rest here for they buy cotton wool in london that comes first from cyprus and smyrna and work the same into fustians vermilions dimities etc., which they return to london where they are sold, and from thence not seldom sent into such foreign parts where the first materials may be more easily had for their manufacture." though manchester was in the th century no more than a small unwalled town its position at the junction of the irk and irwell gave it some natural strength on the north and west sides; but there were no walls or defences of any kind. the town consisted of a half circle of houses round the collegiate church, with deansgate and market stead lane branching off to the south-west and south-east respectively. the population was probably from to , and of salford about one-fourth of that.[ ] the bridges over the irwell and irk described by leland were still all that existed during the civil war; but the chapel on salford bridge which he mentions had fallen into ruin, and was during the war often used as a prison. all that now remains above ground of the manchester of that day besides a few old public houses and one street corner is the collegiate church, now the cathedral, and the old college, which is now chetham hospital. if the civil war had not broken out when it did manchester might have attained a distinction for which it had to wait for another years. in march, - , a proposal was made to establish a university in the town. a petition was presented to parliament urging the great distance of oxford and cambridge and the great expense which was incurred at those places, "so that divers gentlemen are induced to send their sons to foreign universities or to allow them only country breeding." it was pointed out that the north of england generally would benefit "which by reason of the distance from court and university suffers a double eclipse of honour and learning," and manchester was stated to be the fittest place, being central in position and an old town "formerly both a city and a sanctuary." lord strange was much interested in the scheme and had promised to contribute liberally towards it; and the old college, at that time disused and much neglected, was indicated as a very suitable place for the university to be established. unfortunately the success of this very interesting scheme was made impossible by the agitated condition of public affairs. an attempt was made to secure lord fairfax's support, but he pointed out that even if the opposition of oxford and cambridge and other difficulties did not prove insuperable, parliament had no leisure to discuss matters of such local interest. in view of the trials of stafford and of laud and the state of church affairs, a manchester university bill had no chance of a hearing.[ ] it was fortunate for the parliamentarian cause in lancashire that the largest town in the county was on its side. the 'very london of those parts' had as much weight then as now in local affairs, though not its present importance in the national life. the civil war gave manchester a national position such as it had never had before. there was no doubt that the majority of the townsmen were against the king; the town was not unanimous as the affray on july had shown, but the fact that the manchester magazine alone was not secured by the royalists is significant enough; we cannot credit the statements made to the contrary. curiously enough, however, salford was royalist in sympathy.[ ] during september, , it was definitely known in manchester that lord strange was collecting troops for an attack upon the town. towards the end of the month the parliamentarian newspapers contained disquieting rumours about the royalist plans. lord strange was said to have foot, and it was thought possible that rupert, and even the king might join him.[ ] the situation was critical; for the majority of the county was on his lordship's side, and there was no garrison in manchester, and no fortifications of any kind. the townsmen were able, however, to secure the services of a capable engineer to direct the defence. this was john rosworm, a german by birth, who had seen service in the low countries, and had been in ireland until the insurrection there broke out. he had come to manchester early in the summer of ; and when the war began entered into an agreement signed by of the principal citizens of manchester to defend the town for months for the sum of £ .[ ] this engagement was renewed months later, and eventually rosworm remained in the service of the town for more than six years at a salary of £ a year. also in january, - , he became lieutenant-colonel in assheton's regiment of foot. rosworm was a capable officer and served the town well; but his own estimate of his services is much higher than anybody else's, and his statements about the arrears owing to him from the town must have been greatly exaggerated. his service during the siege, however, was most valuable. it was only in september that he was engaged by the town, and he at once began to make such defences as were possible, by building mud walls at the street ends, and fixing posts and chains to keep out the enemy's horse. these preparations were only just completed in time; and even so it was accident rather than otherwise which gave the town another reinforcement. sir edward fitton and mr. leigh of adlington beginning to disarm their tenants, the supporters of the parliament from all the neighbourhood round manchester flocked into the town and completely silenced any objections which the royalists there were making to the works. all the present suburbs of manchester were not, however, favourable to the parliament. on september one john scholes being sent to ring the bells at prestwich church 'backwards,' was prevented by the rector, isaac allen. allen was afterwards deprived of his living, but it was urged in his favour that he was a man of blameless life, and he had not directed his parishioners to take either side in the war. in he was allowed £ per annum for maintenance. lord strange mustered his troops at warrington, and it was o'clock at night on saturday, sept. , when news reached the town that he was on his march. the distance is only miles, but delayed by the breaking of a wheel of one of the gun carriages and probably also by bad roads, his troops did not arrive before the town until the following day. their numbers are variously stated from to men, and they were probably about half way between these estimates. with lord strange were lord molyneux, sir gilbert hoghton, sir alexander radcliffe, sir john girlington, sir gilbert gerard, mr. tyldesley, mr. farington and many others of the royalist gentry of the south and west of lancashire. the force included four troops of horse and one of dragoons; the foot were trained bands and some welshmen. they were divided into two somewhere on the march, one division keeping north of the irwell and occupying salford, the other crossing the river and approaching manchester by way of alport lane. lord strange was with the latter party and took up his quarters at alport lodge belonging to sir edward mosley.[ ] when the royalists approached the alarm was given by ringing the bells 'backwards'; it was o'clock on sunday morning, and the townsmen were called out of church. two envoys were sent out to lord strange, who kept one of them with him for some hours, sending the other back with captain windebank to demand an entrance into the town; he promised to respect life and property if this were conceded. this demand was of course refused, and next day hostilities began.[ ] [illustration: a plan of manchester and salford about .] the parliamentary troops in the town, which numbered about , consisted partly of the militia under the command of captain radcliffe and partly of those who had come in from the surrounding country to its assistance. the best of the latter were tenants of mr. assheton of middleton under captain bradshaw. the various positions had already been assigned. bradshaw was posted at the end of deansgate; salford bridge, which he rather unreasonably calls "the only place of manifest danger, greatest action and least defence," rosworm took for himself; captain radcliffe held market stead lane and captain booth millgate. lieutenant barwick was posted in hunt's bank; and on shudehill 'a company of resolute soldiers without any commander.' the guns or gun, for perhaps there was only one, defended bradshaw's position, which was really the most difficult.[ ] on monday morning lord strange sent another message formally demanding all the arms in the town to be delivered up, and quarter for a troop of his horse; but the townsmen replied that this was forbidden by the protestation, and by ordinance of parliament. about mid-day the royalist batteries opened fire, shooting bullets of lbs., lbs., and lbs. weight; but little damage was done except to the houses. they then attacked deansgate at close quarters and setting fire to some buildings at the end of the town, almost effected an entrance. rosworm was obliged to send of his musketeers as reinforcement, and the royalists were at length driven back with some loss. later in the afternoon an assault was also made on salford bridge, but this was more easily repulsed as the royalists had there to charge uphill, and their position was commanded by the higher ground of the churchyard. there is also said to have been a royalist attack of horse against the east of the town, but this also was beaten off. firing continued until dark, and at midnight a party of royalists went down to the water's edge in salford, and attempted to set fire to the town by means of lighted faggots. the royalists are said to have lost men against of the defenders.[ ] next day no direct attacks were delivered at deansgate or the bridge. the former seems to have been left quite free, but a cannonade was begun by the royalists in salford which so terrified rosworm's raw soldiers that of them took to their heels; and he says that some of those who stayed did so from fear of his drawn sword.[ ] as he had sent away of his men on the previous day only now remained at this important position; but volunteers brought up his men to their original number again. on this day the other street ends were attacked by the royalists, especially market stead lane; but they were beaten back at all points. gaining confidence, the townsmen began to sally out on their own account and cut off several small parties which were straggling in the fields. seven troopers with their horses were taken and one quarter-master shot with the loss of two of the garrison. at o'clock in the afternoon lord strange called a parley and again proposed surrender; after some negotiation a truce was agreed upon until o'clock on the following morning, but it seems to have been observed by neither side.[ ] lord strange's proposals were considered, but it was not likely that after having repelled his attacks for two days the townsmen would be more ready to treat than before; and all the royalist terms were refused.[ ] strange made many proposals, less and less being asked for on each refusal. first he demanded to march through the town, then £ in money, then muskets; finally he offered to depart if muskets were surrendered. "the town said they would not give him so much as a rusty dagger"[ ]; and next day hostilities were resumed. the defenders were, however, not quite so unanimous as the defiant replies would suggest. there was a party in the town led by colonel holland the governor, which desired to come to terms with the royalists. they pointed out that the stock of ammunition was running very low, and that the country people who had come in as volunteers were becoming restive owing to the plundering by the royalists in the neighbourhood.[ ] rosworm describes a scene when holland on wednesday afternoon came down to him at the bridge urging these considerations; rosworm referred the matter to his soldiers, who declared they would stand firm, and holland went away in anger. shortly after this mr. bourne, the aged fellow of the collegiate church coming by, rosworm urged him to go along deansgate to bradshaw's men and persuade them if necessary to resist. they, however, needed no persuasion but declared "by a general shout that they would part with their arms and their lives together."[ ] it was perhaps a concession to the faint-hearted that on the following day mr. alexander butterworth of belfield was sent towards london for aid.[ ] there was, however, no need to bring help from london or anywhere else, for the royalist attack was nearly spent. when hostilities were resumed the parliamentarians were the assailants. at o'clock on thursday, september , men sallied out from deansgate to relieve a house which had been occupied by the royalists; they were attacked by musketeers and a troop of horse, but after an hour's fighting the royalists were defeated, most of the horse being driven into the river and an officer[ ] and two men drowned. the losses are given as on each side and the town made two prisoners. in salford some guns previously placed in a position which was commanded by the churchyard were removed. on this day also the royalists lost one of their leaders in salford, captain standish, who was shot by a marksman posted at the top of the church tower.[ ] there was no further fighting after this. the following day desultory firing continued from deansgate and salford, and at the former position the royalists began to dig a trench as if they intended to establish a blockade; but it was only a pretence for they dared no longer to come to close quarters.[ ] on saturday the earl of derby, as he now was from his father's death on the previous day, sent for an exchange of prisoners, of which the town is said to have taken . the royalists made up their number by seizing non-combatants from the surrounding district. when the exchange had been effected the royalists decamped in such haste that rosworm was able to send out a party openly to capture their arms. it is not very easy to estimate satisfactorily the losses on both sides during the six days of the siege. we have very full details, but unfortunately all the accounts are written by parliamentarians, and no one-sided descriptions of civil war battles can be relied upon. heyrick for instance roundly says of the monday operations when fighting was the most severe of all, "in this day's fight blessed be god we lost not one man." one writer states that the townsmen lost no one at all except one boy who was looking on from a stile; and they all estimate the royalist casualties at some hundreds. it is of course to be expected that few of the defenders were killed but surprising that many lives were lost at all. seventeenth century musketry was very erratic, and the besieger's cannon was probably wholly useless; and the combatants came to close quarters very little except on the first day of the siege. the "sutherland diary," which seems altogether the most accurate and moderate account estimates the royalist losses at killed and prisoners; detailed losses of the defenders amount only to . but on the first day the losses are said to be and respectively, which sounds very unlikely. it is, however, not possible to arrive at any greater accurateness for all the accounts agree in the main that about prisoners were taken by the town, and that the royalists lost from to men. nineteen is the largest total given for the defenders' losses.[ ] a very glowing picture of the state of the town during the siege is given by heyrick and other writers. heyrick says "our souldiers from first to last had prayers and singing of psalmes daily at the street ends, most of our souldiers being religious honest men of a civill and inoffensive conversation, which came out of conscience of their oath and protestation. the townsmen were kind and respective to the souldiers; all things were common: the gentlemen made bullets night and day; the souldiers were resolute and coragious and feared nothing so much as a parley; the deputy lieutenants, captaine chantwell and other gentlemen took paines night and day to see that the souldiers did their duty."[ ] if this description is not somewhat overdrawn, it is because the town did not stand by itself in the matter of defence. the neighbouring deputy-lieutenants and bradshaw's men probably did much not only in numbers but in moral effect to strengthen the resistance. for there was certainly a party in the town less inclined to stand out. manchester contained many royalists; and as we have seen, they were at least the majority in salford. probably lord strange counted on a far less stubborn resistance than he encountered; and judging by the support given him in july he was justified in doing so. this may have had something to do with the badly organised state of his force, though there is no need to credit all the stories which the other side told about its composition. it was evidently without discipline or efficiency;[ ] and the attack was ill-planned and conducted with no vigour. the royalists attacked manchester which was not a strong position on the whole, at two of its strongest points. at deansgate they had no advantage of ground, and in salford they were at a disadvantage, having to advance across a narrow sloping bridge which was commanded by the higher opposite bank of the river; whereas at shude hill or at market stead lane the royalists would have had the advantage of ground, and their guns would have proved much more effective at these positions than pointing up salford bridge. the principal attacks should have been delivered at these two points. the weather was no doubt an item in favour of the town. it was a very wet week, and not only did the rain make communication impossible between the two divisions of the royalists, for the irwell rises rapidly in flood; but as the besiegers were mostly out in the open the discomfort of their position served to demoralise them still further. "by reason of cold and wet hunger and thirst and labour want of sleep and a bitter welcome that we gave them, their hearts were discouraged mightily."[ ] moreover no attempt was made by the royalists to blockade the town, which kept open communications during all the week of the siege. it was, however, a mistake to divide the royalist forces at all. nevertheless manchester might congratulate itself on a very considerable and well deserved success. the thanksgivings of october nd, and of october th, when there was a special service in the church for the soldiers, were amply justified; for it was the first trial of strength, and the royalists were thought to be the stronger. the effect of their failure was therefore very great. and it is surely not only local pride which sees in the siege of manchester an event which had an importance quite out of proportion to that which is at first apparent. as a parliamentarian writer says, "had not that town stood very firmly for the king and parliament in all probability the whole county had been brought into subjection to the oppression and violence of the cavaliers."[ ] this is quite true. manchester became the parliamentarian headquarters, though even after their first success that party was for three months very largely on the defensive. manchester was the key of the position, and had it fallen in october, , and remained in royalist hands the king would have been supreme in the whole county. and to have been supreme in lancashire would have enormously strengthened charles' cause in all the north of england. footnotes: [ ] the population is probably estimated from the list of manchester signatures to the protestation of - , which are given at length in the "palatine note book," vol. . this is supposed to be a complete list of the householders in manchester at the time. the whole total, however, is , , and as or more are names of officers mostly outside the town, and there are many reduplications besides, the estimate of , seems nearer the mark. [ ] "fairfax correspondence" ( vols., ), vol. , pp. - . "hist. mss. com.," rep. , app. , pp. - . fairfax writes to his brother, henry fairfax, at ashton-under-lyne: a bill in parliament would cost marks, and would have very small chance of success. [ ] the reeve of salford at this time was henry wrigley, a successful cloth merchant and banker. he gave £ towards the £ which was subscribed for the building of salford chapel, the remainder being paid by humphrey booth. wrigley was constable for salford hundred, and in that capacity issued the summons under the commission of array for the muster at bury on july , . he was a lukewarm royalist, however, and prevented two of his servants from joining the royalist army. afterwards he closed his house and fled to london, where he appeared definitely on the parliament's side. attempts were afterwards made to convict him as a malignant, but without success. wrigley, who was a very prosperous merchant, afterwards lived at chamber hall, near oldham. he was one of humphrey chetham's executors and high sheriff of lancashire in . ("palatine note book," vol. . pp. , .) [ ] "perfect diurnall" (cooke), sept., - . "perfect diurnall" (cooke and wood), sept., - . "the cavaliers have disarmed most of lancashire; lord wharton has been ordered north." [ ] rosworm's connection with manchester is given in greatest detail in his "good service hitherto ill-rewarded ("c.w.t.," pp. - ), which was an appeal to parliament against the arrears of his salary from the town; and it cannot therefore be called an impartial account of his services. his estimate of himself is always a great deal higher than that given by other writers. moreover his complaints of arrears would seem to have been considerably exaggerated. from the "good service" one would gather that the town never paid rosworm anything at all; there are, however, given in "c.w.t.," pp. , , particulars showing that rosworm was paid £ between dec., , and july, , which is not very far short of his amount due for the period. he also received £ in ("chetham miscellanies," vol. , new series, no. ; "manchester civic records). it must be remembered that our information of payments made is necessarily very fragmentary. the details in "c.w.t." are said to be "from an old book of accounts of the town of manchester in the custody of the boroughreeve," but it is an example of the way in which the manchester municipal records have been neglected that this book does not now exist, and no information as to its contents can be obtained. in rosworm was recommended by the council of state to be employed as engineer at yarmouth, where some works were to be erected in prospect of an attempted landing by the enemy ("c.s.p.," - , pp. - ). [ ] alport lodge stood half a mile from the town, on the site of the present great northern goods station. it seems to have been burnt down by accident during the siege. sir edward mosley contributed £ , to the royal cause. he afterwards joined sir thomas aston in cheshire, and was taken prisoner near middlewich. one-tenth levied on his estate amounted to £ , . his pardon was passed by parliament in october, . (axon, "lancashire gleanings," p. . "h. l. calendar, hist. mss. com.," vol. .) [ ] the principal authorities for the siege of manchester are a number of tracts in the thomason collection:--"newes from manchester"; "a true and faithfull relation of the besieging of the town of manchester, etc."; "a true and exact relation of the several passages at the siege of manchester, etc."; "a true and perfect relation of the proceedings at manchester, etc.," e. ( ). the first two of these are given in "c.w.t.," pp. and ; the third is summarised in the appendix to that volume, p. . the fourth tract differs greatly from the other accounts. there are also several other tracts of little value. to these must be added rosworm's narrative ("c.w.t.," pp. - ) and that in lancashire's "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," pp. - ). and perhaps the most interesting account of all is the diary contained in the sutherland mss., "hist. mss. comm.," report , p. . the present writer contributed an essay on the siege of manchester to the "owens college historical essays" ( ), p. . [ ] the captain bradshaw here mentioned was probably robert bradshaw, younger brother of john bradshaw, of bradshaw hall, near bolton, sheriff of lancashire in (often wrongly confused with president bradshaw). he did good service in command of the assheton tenantry at manchester: "captain bradshaw hath quit himself most valiantly to his everlasting renown; he prays with his soldiers every day himself," e. ( ). his name does not, however, appear much afterwards, but if he was the captain bradshaw who was taken prisoner later in the year, and carried to lathom house, he died soon after his release from there. the "discourse" calls him "a very moderate man and of good parts" (p. ). richard radcliffe lived at radcliffe hall, a moated house then standing south of market stead lane. it was afterwards called pool fold, and the name is still preserved. the hall was pulled down in . this is usually supposed to have been the richard radcliffe who was elected member of parliament for manchester in cromwell's parliament of ; but as he is called 'old mr. radcliffe' in the following year, this may be doubted. the return of the burgess to parliament in simply calls the member "richard radcliffe, esquire, of manchester." radcliffe served at the second defence of bolton against the royalists in . ("c.w.t.," p. . "manchester municipal records." "palatine note book," vol. , pp. - .) captain, afterwards colonel, john booth, was the fifth son of sir george booth, lord of the manor of warrington; for a full account of his career _vide_ a note in the "discourse," p. - . he must be distinguished from colonel (afterwards sir george) booth, grandson of the sir george booth referred to, who at first fought on the parliament's side, but headed a rising for charles the second in , and became first lord delamere after the restoration. [ ] these numbers sound very disproportionate, but the statement is made in the "sutherland mss.," which seems much the most reliable in the matter of numbers. "these were estimated," the account continues, "from the graves found in the fields about the town, and five more were found in the sands of the river; and it is supposed that more were cast into the river, among whom was mr. mountain, a colonel of horse, and captain skirton and a lieutenant, with others of note" ("hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. ). the tract called "a true and faithful relation, etc.," which is supposed to have been written by heyrick, says roundly: "in this day's fight, blessed be to god, we lost not one man." richard heyrick, the warden of the collegiate church, was son of sir william heyrick, alderman of london, who afterwards lived at beaumanor, in leicestershire. he was born in london in , became rector of north repps, in norfolk, and warden of manchester in , his father obtaining the wardenship for him in satisfaction of some monetary transactions with the crown. heyrick was a man of great energy, and was the leader of the presbyterian party in manchester. he was a cousin of herrick the poet. (art. by c. w. sutton, "dictionary of national biography.") [ ] no other account mentions this incident. [ ] the royalists continued plundering, if they suspended their actual attacks upon the town; and evidently the garrison took opportunity to bring in reinforcements. they came from bolton, and two of them were killed by the royalists during a skirmish outside the town; "coming peaceably with more to assist the town," heyrick says quaintly ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] the terms offered are variously stated, the fullest account being given in a tract entitled, "the lord strange, his demands, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). rosworm mentions only a demand for muskets. heyrick says that the question was finally referred to the soldiers, "who all resolutely answered they would not give him a yard of match, but would maintain their cause and arms to the last drop of blood." [ ] "sutherland mss." [ ] "as also their foot plundered, which gave the occasion and example for all the plundering that after happened in the county" ("discourse," p. ). richard holland (afterwards colonel in the service of the parliament) lived at heaton, in prestwich. he was a magistrate and sequestrator, and served at preston, wigan and the first siege of lathom house. rosworm was his bitter enemy, and accused him of great cowardice. [ ] the shortage of ammunition was evidently a very grave danger, for all the accounts mention it. rosworm confesses that he had only lbs. of powder and fathom of match left, but he had told no one. cf. a letter from sir john hotham to the speaker on nov. , , in which he refers to his having sent from hull five barrels of powder to manchester "when they were in that extremity with lord strange" ("portland mss.," vol. , p. ). this powder arrived on oct. ("c.w.t.," p. ). the "valley of achor" refers to the fact that the very wet weather made the country people more willing to stay in manchester, it being harvest time ("c.w.t.," p. ). rev. william bourne was senior fellow of the collegiate church. he died in the following year. he "had long been a blessing to the town, and had seen a resurrection of it from the plague, nigh forty years before" (evidently the visitation of ), and "was lifted up from the gates of death and raised in spirit to promote this work." [ ] cf. also a letter dated sept. , signed by holland, booth, egerton and hide, to colonels shuttleworth and starkie "at haslingden or elsewhere," asking them to send powder and match for the relief of manchester ("lancs. lieutenancy," pt. , p. ). [ ] this was captain snell, who "had two rings on his hands worth £ " ("sutherland mss."). [ ] captain thomas standish was not of the royalist family of that name at standish; that branch was represented at the siege of manchester by its head, ralph standish, the uncle of lord molyneux and father-in-law of colonel tyldesley; but was the eldest son of thomas standish of duxbury, near chorley, shuttleworth's colleague as m.p. for preston. heyrick says he was killed whilst "reproaching his soldiers because they would not fall on," but the "discourse" less picturesquely, but probably with more accuracy, that "quartered in a house upon the north side of salford, well up towards the chapel, was, by a bullet shot from the top of manchester steeple, slain" (p. ). the "sutherland diary" gives a touch of human interest in the statement, "he was to have married mr. archbould's kinswoman, who married sir john harper of cork." there is no doubt that the loss of standish was a serious blow to the attack. [ ] "on friday lord strange's forces were so scattered that they durst not come within pistol shot of the town" ("sutherland diary"). when derby requested an exchange of prisoners and a cessation of plundering, the town retorted that they had not plundered at all, but his lordship had done so much damage "that £ , would not make a recompense" ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] these figures are from the authorities cited above. the only independent estimate is in a letter from stephen charlton to sir r. leveson: "news confirmed by several letters from manchester that they of the town have slain about of lord strange's forces" ("hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. ). [ ] the "valley of achor" goes further than this: "a spirit of piety and devotion in prayers and singing of psalms rested generally upon persons and families, yea taverns and innes where it might not put in the head formerly" ("c.w.t.," p. ). cf. however "salford portmote records," c.s. (new series), , vol. , p. ; on oct. , , edward rosterne was presented "for making an affray on the bridge with the soldiers that kept the bridge there." [ ] it was stated that the royalist forces had been summoned to warrington to meet the king, and the direction of their march was at first concealed from them. "the lord strange's souldiers some of them wept, others protested great unwillingness to fight against manchester, affirming they were deceived and deluded else they had not come hither" ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] "a true and exact relation of the several passages at the siege of manchester," etc., e. ( ). [ ] "exceeding joyful news out of lancashire, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). cf. "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. : "for manchester the lord strange, who had by his majesty's favour and encouragement recovered his spirits (after the impeachment), undertook, without troubling his majesty further northward in a very short time to reduce that place (which was not so fortunately performed because not so resolutely pursued) and to send a good body of foot to the king to shrewsbury." chapter iv. first operations of the manchester garrison. capture of preston. when the house of commons met on monday, oct. , letters were read giving information of lord strange's retreat. it was, however, feared that he would very soon return to make another attempt. there was a false alarm in manchester on the same day that the royalists were coming back, and the rumours were repeated on october and october ; and at intervals all through the rest of the month the town lived in fear of a second royalist attack. it was again reported in the newspapers that the king was to join the earl of derby against manchester and then to march into yorkshire against the hothams.[ ] fortunately all these rumours were false. manchester was never to see any more fighting and only once again the march of a hostile army. and there was never any real prospect at this time of charles invading lancashire. the earl of derby sent some of his troops to join the royal army, but he does not seem to have himself joined the king. parliament had realised the importance of retaining manchester, and already during the siege a commission had been issued for raising dragoons under sir john seaton for service in lancashire. unfortunately it was easier to issue commissions than to carry them out; in spite of newspaper reports to the contrary the dragoons had not reached manchester by the end of november. indeed it is doubtful whether they were ever sent at all, though seaton was in command in lancashire early in the new year.[ ] supplies of powder were, however, sent to manchester; a large amount reached the town on october , besides that which had been sent from hull; though several convoys were intercepted by the royalists, one on its way from worcester, one by sir edward mosley at stafford, and one later on october . mr. assheton had also a warrant from the speaker for conveying four small brass pieces to manchester and one for the defence of his own house at middleton.[ ] the whole county was organised for military purposes by the parliament, companies being raised and colonels appointed for each hundred; assheton and holland in salford hundred, shuttleworth and nicholas starkie in blackburn, rigby for amounderness and leyland, moore and peter egerton in west derby, and mr. dodding for lonsdale hundred. the local captains were those who had already served at the siege of manchester, birch, bradshaw, radcliffe and venables. salford hundred was the most active for the parliament, and manchester led the way. the troops there were steadily drilled, the magazine replenished, and fortifications considerably strengthened. not content with this the garrison began to make small expeditions on its own account to plunder the houses of royalists in the neighbourhood.[ ] alport lodge where lord strange and tyldesley had stayed during the siege was destroyed;[ ] a party was sent to disarm the town of bury, where the first royalist musters had been made; and captain birch led a force into blackburn hundred to capture townley hall. as soon, however, as the war had actually broken out men began to realise what consequences its long continuance may have. it was, writes clarendon, "the opinion of most that a battle would determine all"; and when edgehill had been fought and small skirmishes occurring in all parts of the country had left matters much as they were, local attempts at pacification began to be made in many places. these merely attempted to make a temporary arrangement for cessation, and were quite distinct from the negotiations between king and parliament which continued all through the autumn of . questions of principle were not raised, and as the local opponents had usually been on good terms before the war began, it was not difficult for them to come to some agreement. in devon and cornwall a treaty was entered into by the two parties; in yorkshire and in cheshire, and no doubt in other counties also, pacifications were arranged. parliament, however, steadily refused to countenance them, and the position was no doubt a sound one. in lancashire negotiations were opened through the medium of roger nowell of read, a royalist captain, but a relative of colonel shuttleworth, and it was decided to attempt a meeting of a certain number from each party at blackburn on thursday, october . shuttleworth wrote to holland and egerton in manchester asking for their co-operation, and they replied on october agreeing to the meeting, but suggesting bolton as a better place since they were not willing to leave their own hundred. shuttleworth replied next day to nowell naming bolton as the place, and offering either the following monday or tuesday, october or for the date. nowell fixed october with william farington, and it was arranged that six leaders from each side should meet. the parliamentarians were shuttleworth, starkie, egerton, holland, john bradshaw and john braddyl; the royalists farington, alexander rigby of burgh, john fleetwood, savile radcliffe, and it was hoped sir thomas barton and robert holt of castleton. but the intended meeting never took place. parliament somehow had news of the arrangement, and promptly put their veto upon it. on october holland wrote from manchester that parliament had forbidden any local attempts at pacification; shuttleworth forwarded the letter to the royalists, and the incident closed.[ ] there seems to have been one further attempt to bring about a pacification in lancashire, or perhaps it would be more correct to say that manchester was included in negotiations which were proceeding in cheshire at the initiative of lord kilmorey and lord brereton. it was proposed that the troops in and near manchester should be disbanded and the town 'secured' by the earl of derby. but the parliamentarians had nothing to gain by the terms suggested, and the former failure had made them more cautious. they replied that they had done nothing consciously to provoke lord derby's hostility; but that if satisfactory proposals for pacification were submitted they would send them up to parliament immediately by a special messenger.[ ] meanwhile the royalists in the county were also arming, and in spite of peace proposals all preparations were being made for a protracted struggle. after retreating a little way from manchester lord derby seems to have sent some regiments to the king and made his own headquarters at warrington. but he was reported to be in a very despondent frame of mind, "for the last thursday (november ) at warrington at dinner he said he was born under an unfortunate planet and that he thought some evil constellation reigned at the time of his birth, with many such other words of passion and discontent." there was even a report about this time that his life was in danger, which is the more credible as it comes from a royalist source. he summoned a meeting of his supporters on october at warrington,[ ] and it was resolved to call out the trained bands and freehold bands of lancashire and to raise horse, and also to bring about an association with the counties of shropshire, flint, denbigh, cumberland and westmorland. the resolutions were signed by derby and others; it is rather surprising to find that the parliamentarian leaders were also summoned to this meeting.[ ] shuttleworth and starkie certainly had invitations, and probably some others also. the chief royalist garrisons were established at warrington, wigan and preston. wigan was the nearest town to lathom house, and was described by its opponents as the "most malignant town in all the county"; warrington, however, on account of its geographical importance as commanding the only bridge into cheshire, was the most strongly fortified, and contained the most numerous garrison. at the end of october the parliamentarian leaders had information that there were royalist troops to the number of in six garrisons, of which were at warrington, at preston and at wigan.[ ] in december another royalist meeting was held at preston and the organisation was further completed. collectors were appointed for every hundred to raise the sum of £ , to be employed for the payment of foot and horse and for the provision of a magazine. the collectors were girlington and roger kirkby for lonsdale hundred; adam mort, mayor of preston, and alexander rigby of burgh for amounderness; farington and john fleetwood for leyland; henry ogle, john bretherton and robert mercer for west derby; robert holt and francis sherington for salford; and sir john talbot and radcliffe assheton for blackburn. the rates of pay were fixed; and girlington, mort, kirkby and james anderton or any three of them were to form a standing council at preston to give reports periodically to lord derby, and having power to summon other advisers as they pleased.[ ] actual hostilities began again about the end of november, and for two months in spite of the winter, there was constant fighting in various parts of the county. the climax of the campaign, which on the whole went greatly in favour of the parliamentarians, was their capture of preston in february, - . a number of skirmishes occurred almost simultaneously at the end of november, the first being in blackburn hundred.[ ] there had been a general meeting of royalists at preston on november , and a week or two later sir gilbert hoghton fired his beacon as a signal to the fylde. hoghton tower occupies a conspicuous position, and the light of the beacon would be seen all over the low lying country nearer the sea. with the troops thus raised he disarmed whalley and occupied blackburn. colonels shuttleworth and starkie, hearing of this, hastily raised men and attacked the royalists by night. moonlight prevented a complete surprise, but the victory was complete. after two hours fighting they gained an entrance into blackburn, and the royalists fled in such haste that they left their own arms and all that they had seized in whalley. hoghton himself escaped with difficulty. a few days after this engagement, on sunday, november , a skirmish occurred in which lord derby's troops were concerned, though it does not appear that he himself was present. the countryside was going to church when a post rode in with the news that the earl's troops were marching towards chowbent; about men were hastily collected against him and a running fight ensued all the way to leigh, some two miles distant. the royalists were gradually driven back, some being killed and many wounded. on lowton common, two miles beyond leigh, they turned and faced the parliamentarian horse which had left the foot far behind; but after a short stand they again broke and fled, many prisoners being taken in the pursuit.[ ] it is worthy of remark that most of the actual fighting during the civil war in lancashire was running fighting. this first instance is only one of many more in the next few years. the decisive battle in the county covered many miles of ground, and even the battle of preston itself was, after langdale's first stand, a long and straggling engagement half way across the county. attacks on houses or towns excepted, there were few if any pitched battles until that at wigan lane in , which was the last battle of the war. the next encounter went in favour of the royalists, and, as all the parliamentarians admit, it was a great disaster. during the next few weeks both parties sent out from their garrisons plundering expeditions against houses in the neighbourhood which belonged to the other side. in retaliation for some plunder by the wigan garrison, a local company of parliamentarians together with two from manchester, attacked the house of a roman catholic gentleman near wigan. they were surprised by a superior force of royalists, but abandoning their booty they managed to escape. a day or two afterwards, however, they were again surprised near westhoughton by a force of men, and being surrounded they were all compelled to surrender at discretion. this was on december , ; men together with captains bradshaw and venables were captured. venables was probably some months in captivity at lathom house; bradshaw was released earlier, but soon afterwards died.[ ] this was, however, the only royalist success for some time to come. the two remaining engagements of the year went in favour of the parliamentarians. both took place on christmas eve. on that day the manchester garrison accompanied by rosworm marched out by way of chowbent, which they cleared of the enemy, to leigh. this was a measure of retaliation for plundering by the wigan garrison in the neighbourhood. the royalists made some resistance, but being largely outnumbered by the attacking force they were surrounded and overpowered. the parliamentarians marched on the market place from different sides, and they recovered many of the arms which had been captured a fortnight before. the victory was regarded with great satisfaction as a revenge for venables' surrender. within three days the parliamentarian troops were back in manchester. the other engagement was also fought on previously contested ground at blackburn, in this case the assailants being the royalists. sir gilbert hoghton had a special case against this garrison as it was only three miles from his own house. accordingly on christmas eve he marched out of blackburn, it was said with men, to attack the town. the garrison numbered only . but there was no fighting at close quarters; the royalists had with them one small piece of cannon which they discharged repeatedly without effect, but they hardly approached within musket shot at all, and under cover of night they retreated. no lives were lost and the only result was the plundering of the countryside.[ ] in january, - , there was very little done by either side. some manchester troops set out to capture the house of mr. leigh at adlington in cheshire, but they returned without doing anything. the only other incident was an unsuccessful plot by sir john talbot, which is reported incorrectly in details though there seems to be no doubt of the main facts. talbot was one of the royalist collectors for blackburn hundred and lived at salesbury hall near ribchester. early in january he invited some of the parliamentarian leaders to pay a visit to his house; but suspecting some treachery they sent a troop of horse instead, and found that it was a plot to capture the supposed guests. returning with reinforcements they attacked the ambush with superior numbers and sacked the house. the next trial of strength, the capture of preston by the parliamentarians, was an important event. confident in its strength and thinking no doubt that an attack was improbable, the royalists had relaxed their vigilance, and preston was only weakly garrisoned. news of this being brought to colonel shuttleworth, he planned a joint attack with the manchester garrison, which was now under the command of sir john seaton. seaton left manchester on monday evening, february , accompanied by colonel holland, serg.-major birch, serg.-major sparrow, captain booth and other officers, with three foot companies from manchester and three from bolton. they came to blackburn on tuesday night, and were joined there by four or five companies more. these altogether numbering about men together with about 'club-men' set out from blackburn late on wednesday evening, february , for preston, which is ten miles away. it was a clear night and the whole force having crossed ribble bridge, which was almost if not entirely undefended, drew up in the fields a little distance from the town walls. the attack was made at about half past seven o'clock, a little while before sunrise, at two places. a few men attacked from the south and the main body from the east of the town; the former being guided by somebody familiar to the ground soon gained an entrance, but elsewhere the royalists offered a most determined resistance. for two hours the garrison fought stoutly. there were outer and inner walls, and the garrison kept both with pikes and swords. captain john booth showed conspicuous bravery, and was the first to scale the outer defences, bidding his soldiers either follow him or give him up; in another place a small body of the parliamentarians driven back from the outer walls gained entrance by means of a house. the manchester troops under holland showed great bravery. after other resistance had been overcome the royalists occupied the church tower, and were dislodged with difficulty. then the defence collapsed, and the besiegers became masters of the town. the losses do not seem to have been very great on either side; but the royalists' killed included adam mort, the mayor, and his son, both energetic supporters of the cause, radcliffe hoghton, brother of sir gilbert hoghton, and others of note. very few of the parliamentarian officers were killed. there were many prisoners taken, including lady hoghton, lady girlington, mr. towneley, mr. anderton of clayton, a son of sir john talbot, and a nephew of sir gilbert hoghton. sir gilbert only saved himself by a hasty flight to wigan.[ ] the capture of preston was an enormous blow to the king's party in lancashire. an account, written by john tilsley, vicar of dean, describes the engagement as "much to the advancement of the public work in this county and not so altogether impertinent to the kingdom"; and there is justification for his statement. in attacking preston the manchester garrison were venturing for the first time right into the enemy's country. no longer on the defensive as at the end of , they were now reversing the original position of the two parties in the county. and if the royalist standard had fallen at preston it could hardly be raised with safety anywhere in lancashire. preston was also important geographically, as being on the main road through lancashire. "it blocks up the way to all the north-east part of lancashire, where were the chief malignants and the cream of the earl's forces."[ ] moreover preston symbolised the royalist cause, and since it was (as it still is) a stronghold of roman catholicism, it was specially obnoxious to the puritan party. the lancashire parliamentarians, therefore, had captured their enemy's stronghold and broken the lines of communication between newcastle, chester and shrewsbury. footnotes: [ ] on monday, october , the state of lancashire was referred to the committee of safety. thanks were voted on the th. the "valley of achor" gives details of the false alarms ("c.j.," vol. , p. . "c.w.t.," p. . "perfect diurnall," oct. ). [ ] some troops of horse are mentioned at first, but not afterwards. it was intended to borrow £ , in london for this purpose at the usual rate of per cent. "all persons who are willing to go soldiers in the service under col. sir john seaton as dragoniers, are to resort to capt. henry legh at the sign of the sun near cripplegate, and capt. william stackhouse at his house in st. thomas apostles, and there are to be listed for that service" ("l.j.," vol. , p. ). in "england's memorable accidents," oct. - , mention is made of the , dragoons being on their march. some of these dragoons are part of those men that came out of holland in the ship that was forced by a leak to put into yarmouth ("c.w.t.," p. ). a letter written on dec. , however, makes it clear that the men had not arrived then, and it is doubtful if they ever did so. cf. "tanner mss." , fol. , where rigby speaks of the "remains of the money raised for the lancashire dragoniers taken into the lord general essex's army." [ ] "c.j.," vol. , p. . "c.w.t.," p. . cf. also "portland mss.," vol. , p. . a. stavely, leicester, to the speaker. the parliamentarian garrison there is between ashby and belvoir, two royalist strongholds, and on the road from nottingham and derby to manchester; so that their small strength of horse is constantly employed in convoy of ammunition and other commodities (nov. , ). [ ] the parliamentarian soldiers were guilty of much vandalism in these operations, "taking out of churches the books of common praier, surplisses, fonts, and breaking down of organs where they found any." at bury they seized the surplice "and put it on the back of a souldier, and caused him to ride in the cart the armes were carried in, to be matter of sport and laughter to the behoulders" ("discourse," p. ). [ ] some of the timber from alport lodge was used to strengthen the defences of manchester. [ ] seven of the letters referred to above are printed in the "farington papers" (c.s., ), pp. - , and three of these also in the "lancashire lieutenancy," pt. (c.s., ), pp. - . nowell himself was unable to take any part in the negotiation after october , as he started on the following friday to join the king. richard nowell, the younger brother of roger nowell of read, was killed at the capture of bristol by prince rupert, being then captain in lord molyneux's regiment. dugdale's "visitation of lancs.," (c.s., ), p. . the bradshaw here referred to was probably of bradshaw hall, near bolton, elder brother of capt. bradshaw. braddyl lived at portfield, near whalley. fleetwood and farington were the royalist collectors for leyland hundred, and holt one of those for salford hundred. [ ] these proposals are printed in "c.w.t.," ; also in "lancs. lieutenancy," pt. , , together with a letter from the committee at manchester to col. shuttleworth. the proposals were evidently made about the middle of october, as the letter above referred to is dated oct. , and states that an answer was to be returned to the earl of derby on the following monday morning, _i.e._, oct. . [ ] cf. "ashmolean mss." , fol. , for an 'oath imposed by the earl of derby upon lancashire.' no date is given. he who takes it promises "to the uttermost of my power and with hasard of my life maintain and defend the true protestant religion established in the church of england, his majesty's sacred person, his heirs and lawful successors, his majesty's just powers and prerogatives and the just powers and priveleges of parliament against the forces now under the command of the earl of essex and against all other forces whatsoever," etc. [ ] "sutherland mss." "hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. . "lancs. lieut.," pt. , pp. - . shuttleworth's letter of refusal is given. assheton and rigby were at this time in london, and shuttleworth sent them weekly reports of affairs in lancashire. [ ] the other three places were ormskirk, eccleston and prescot. through the medium of george rigby of peel the parliament appointed informants in wigan and warrington ("lancs. lieut.," pt. , pp. - ). [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. . the rigbys of burgh were royalists. this is alexander rigby the elder, who died in ; it was his son who was sir thomas tyldesley's cornet at the battle of wigan, and erected the monument to his colonel ("c.w.t.," . "discourse," pp. , ). radcliffe assheton lived at chadderton; this was the only branch of the assheton family which took the king's side in the civil war. [ ] this seems to have been the first in point of time, though the dates are somewhat confused. shuttleworth is said to have halted his men on hinfield moor (according to one account it was the scene of the battle, but that is evidently an error), but this name does not now appear on the map of lancashire. the nearest approach to it is inchfield moor, which is on the extreme eastern border of the county, and cannot be the place intended here. [ ] the name chowbent has recently disappeared from the map, being represented by atherton, the two railway stations which used to bear the name being now called respectively atherton (central) and howe bridge. the ground descends gradually towards leigh. lowton common is still partly an open space. the language of this description, "a true and full relation of the troubles in lancashire, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ), is very picturesque, "for now the men of blackburn, paduam, burnely, clitheroe and colne, with those sturdy churles in the two forests of pendle and rossendale have raised their spirits, and have resolved to fight it out rather than their beefe and fatt bacon shall be taken from them." [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. and . "discourse," p. . the details of this engagement are very confused, but the above seems the most probable course of events. there is no doubt about the large number of prisoners. there is a story told by one parliamentarian writer of the conduct of the royalist troop which may be set against that of the manchester soldiers at bury. "the carriage of the cavaliers about wigan was most insolent, yea blasphemous, for after they had pulled down the pulpit in hendon chapel, and played at cards in the pews and upon the desk, they surprised the holy bible, took it away, and afterwards tore it in pieces, and then stucke up the leaves of it upon the posts in severall places in wigan, saying, 'this is the roundheads' bible.'" venables was of the ancient cheshire family of that name at antrobus. he was afterward commander-in-chief of the parliamentarian troops in ulster, and later, with the rank of general, led the expedition to the west indies which took possession of jamaica. he acquiesced in the restoration, and died in , aged ("discourse" note, p. ). [ ] "discourse," pp. - . the humour of this narrative can hardly be unconscious: "the greatest execution that it did, as was heard of, a bullet enterd into a house upon the south syde of the church yard and burst the bottom out of a fryen pan. there was no nearer assault to the towne than a quarter of a mile. they wear afraid of comming near one another. the soldiers within the towne went out of it and discharged there muskets towards them at randome for anything was knowne there was not a man sleyne or hurt. upon christmas day at night sir gilbert withdrew his forces being weary of the siege, and his souldiers and clubmen were glad of it, that they might eate their christmas pyes at home." [ ] "the true relation of the taking of the town of preston by colonell seaton's forces from manchester, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). "a perfect relation of the taking of the towne of preston in lancashire, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). also shorter accounts in "c.w.t.," pp. , ; and "discourse," p. . the first of these tracts was written by john tilsley, vicar of dean, near bolton. "so soon as matters were settled we sung the praises to god in the streets (sir, it was wonderfull to see it), the sun brake forth and shined brightly and hot in the time of the exercise, as if it had been midsummer." [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . chapter v. the crisis. january to june, . the next six months was the really critical time in the lancashire civil war. in it the issue was finally decided, and by the end of the summer the royalist resistance was practically overcome. in this period it was for a time quite possible that the royalists would gain the upper hand; their best planned operations were in these months, and they showed more enterprise and energy than either before or afterwards. for a time at least they more than stemmed the tide of defeat which was rising against them. the fighting was now chiefly in royalist territory, mostly in amounderness and leyland hundred; but the engagements in the fylde in march were rather due to accident than otherwise, and the real struggle resolved itself into mutual attacks on preston, lancaster and wigan on the one hand and on blackburn and bolton on the other. the earl of derby was said to have intended a second assault on manchester, but there was never any probability of his being able to carry it out. the isolation of lancashire is illustrated in the early part of , as it is seen how events were developing here without regard to the course of the general war or even of that in the neighbouring counties of yorkshire and cheshire. the spring and summer of saw the highest point of success which the king's cause attained during the war. in the beginning of the year the royalists advanced in the west with the victory of bradock; and in the north by the beginning of the invasion of yorkshire by the earl of newcastle. in may, hopton's victory over the earl of stamford at stratton secured cornwall for the royalists; and they won further victories over sir william waller at lansdown and at roundway down in july. rupert took bristol by storm. and in yorkshire by the end of the summer newcastle was nearly supreme. after his defeat of the fairfaxes at adwalton moor in july, all the county except hull was in his hands. it was, on the other hand, just in these two months that the royalist cause was being overthrown in lancashire. in february they had lost preston, and though they made a short revival in the following month, by the end of april their complete reduction was only a question of time, and by the end of the summer only a few places remained in their power. the parliamentarian leaders spent some days in preston in disposing of the numerous prisoners which they had taken, and in erecting new fortifications. this was done under the direction of rosworm. colonel shuttleworth also sent out summonses for surrender to all the neighbourhood, and many came in and made their subjection. it was, however, only a matter of necessity, for the district remained royalist in sympathy. an expedition was then sent out to take possession of hoghton tower.[ ] it consisted of three foot companies mostly blackburn men, one of them being commanded by captain starkie, son of colonel starkie of huntroyd. they found hoghton tower garrisoned by no more than or musketeers, far too few to hold so large a place. the house was summoned and the garrison asked for a quarter of an hour delay. when that time expired they asked for another quarter of an hour in which to decide, and finally surrendered the tower upon promise of quarter. this was a victory, however, which was more costly to the parliamentarian party than many defeats; for after captain starkie and his company had entered the tower an accidental explosion of gunpowder wrecked part of the building, and killed the captain and of his men. an accusation of treachery was of course made against the garrison, and six of the royalist soldiers who had not been able to escape were detained; but there seems no reasonable doubt that the explosion was due to accident only.[ ] two days after this occurrence (thursday, feb. ) a determined attack was made on bolton by the royalist garrison from wigan. though the actual assault was a surprise some danger must have been expected, for bolton was garrisoned by men under the command of colonel assheton, drawn from various places. it included the companies of captain buckley of oldham, captain schofield of rochdale, captain holt of bury, and captain ashhurst from radcliffe bridge. the royalists, consisting of companies of foot and two of dragoons, together with two troops of horse, left wigan, which is nine miles by road, early in the morning, surprised the enemy's scouts, and were within sight of bolton before their movements were suspected. if they had attacked the town immediately the surprise would have been complete; but they made a detour instead, and approached from the south. as it was, however, they had a great initial advantage, for they surrounded bolton on all sides before help could be summoned. they then advanced towards bradshawgate, and overpowered the soldiers in the three outworks which were at a little distance from the walls. captain ashhurst with men was intercepted by royalists as he retreated towards the town; but with some loss he cut his way through, and gained the shelter of the chain and mud walls at the end of the street. the royalists followed and set fire to a house outside the chain, while they occupied some others and from them fired on the parliamentarian troops, who were forced to fall back along the street. then, having secured an entrance into a royalist house, they took the defenders in the rear. one parliamentarian officer, serg.-major leigh, had his horse shot under him, and was himself wounded in the arm while mounting another. finally, however, two of the garrison forced an entrance into the royalists' houses, and captain ashhurst with men breaking in from the other side, the town was gradually cleared of the royalist troops. while the fight lasted their horse without the town had prevented reinforcements from coming in, but now hearing the shouts of approaching troops they hastily retreated towards wigan. captain radcliffe arrived with fresh soldiers from manchester, but too late to take any part in the battle.[ ] this first royalist attack on bolton was one of the hardest fought encounters of the whole war. colonel assheton himself is said to have showed much bravery, and the hand-to-hand fighting was severe. the losses on either side are difficult to estimate; they seem as usual to have been understated by the parliamentarian writers. the day after the unsuccessful royalist attack on bolton, serg.-major birch was sent from preston with a company of foot to occupy lancaster. the royalists had never had a garrison in that town, probably thinking it quite secure from attack; there were only a few soldiers in the castle. birch entered the town without opposition, and summoned sir john girlington and mr. kirkby, who were in the castle, to surrender; being quite unable to defend the place they did so, and were allowed to march away; birch thereupon took possession of the town for the parliament. a garrison was left in the castle under the command of captain william shuttleworth. the parliamentarians did not long retain possession of lancaster at this time, but their expedition represents a great advance on former operations. lancaster is miles north of preston, which had hitherto been the limit of their territory. after this there was some weeks quiet in lancashire, and the actual recommencement of hostilities was due to a rather curious accident. a large vessel appeared off rossall point at the north-west corner of the fylde, and lay off shore at anchor discharging her guns, for three or four days. she was at first thought to be a royalist vessel; but as no attempt was made to land, a pilot was at length sent out and the ship found to be the saint anne of dunkirk, a spanish frigate, belonging to the dunkirk squadron, which had been driven out of her course by contrary winds. she carried recruits on their way to be trained in the low countries. finding that her presence in those waters was quite accidental, the ship was beached in the mouth of the wyre on the rossall side (that is in the present fleetwood harbour), and she was taken possession of in the name of the parliament. the earl of derby, however, who was at lathom, heard of the occurrence, and setting off hastily with one troop of horse, he crossed the ribble and stayed that night (saturday, march ) with mr. clifton at lytham hall. the same day four foot companies of the parliament's troops arrived in the fylde from preston under the command of major sparrow, and quartered round poulton and singleton. but the conduct of the parliamentarians was incomprehensible. next morning (sunday, march ) sparrow drew out his men at a place called the hoes (now layton common), but hearing that the earl was on his march northwards from lytham, he retreated, ferried his men over the wyre, and marched them along the eastern bank of the estuary to a point opposite to the present town of fleetwood.[ ] meanwhile derby rode straight to the ship without resistance; he took prisoners colonel dodding and mr. townson of lancaster who were on guard, set the ship on fire, and taking with him the spanish officers and their ladies rode hurriedly back to lathom the same night, stopping only to search rossall hall for arms on the way.[ ] as the saint anne burned the guns discharged, and fell either into the bottom of the ship or into the water. but the parliamentarians recovered most of them and sent them by sea to lancaster to strengthen the fortifications there. [illustration: the spanish ship in the fylde, march ] major sparrow explained that he had crossed the river in order to guard the ship more effectually, but it is impossible to see how this could have been so. he was apparently guilty of carelessness if not of cowardice; as the "discourse" put it "being as feared of the earl as the earl was of him." if he had only done as he was advised and retreated towards rossall, he would have saved the ship and checked the royalist advance, for derby could not have attacked in face of such superior numbers. the spanish ambassador disclaimed all intention of interfering in the english civil war, and requested that the crew might be sent safely to london and so to flanders. the house of lords passed two resolutions to this effect, and as far as the officers were concerned they were probably carried out; but the unfortunate sailors were thrown on the hostile countryside. some of them died of hunger, and some of them more fortunate who obtained shelter were unable to recover from the privations which they had endured while at sea.[ ] this incident is a somewhat unpleasant illustration of the customs of war in the seventeenth century. no one seemed to consider that the foreign ship cast ashore by accident had any claim to fair treatment. each side took possession of it in turn; and after the royalists had burnt the vessel the parliamentarians returned and seized as many of the guns as they could. both parties were quite indifferent to the fate of the unhappy crew. during the months of march and april there was almost incessant fighting in lancashire with varying fortune. at the end of february the parliament held both preston and lancaster, and blackburn and bolton besides, the royalists still keeping possession of wigan, warrington and liverpool; and repeated attempts were now made by each party on the positions of the other side. the royalists showed in these two months better generalship and greater energy than at any other time during the war; it almost seemed at one period as if they might gain the upper hand; but they were gradually overcome and the early summer found the fate of the county practically decided. the royalists were the first to take action. about the middle of march a plan was formed to recover the spanish guns from lancaster.[ ] the earl of derby marched out of wigan on monday, march , with foot and horse, and on the tuesday night stayed again with mr. clifton at lytham hall, his men being quartered round kirkham. he stayed a day or two in order to summon the fylde, which was entirely royalist in sympathy, and so added to his numbers clubmen over whom officers were appointed. he was then joined by sir john girlington and mr. tyldesley with more soldiers from york, of whom half were musketeers, and the whole force set forward to lancaster. early in the morning of march the town was summoned, but they returned answer that all their arms were in the disposal of the parliamentarian troops in the castle; and the royalists prepared for an attack. the parliamentarians were disorganised and showed much irresolution. there had been trouble among their troops at preston, in which for a time sir john seaton's life was in danger, and he had had to escape for a while to lancaster. when it was known that the royalists were on their way to lancaster colonel assheton marched in pursuit, but probably because he was outnumbered refused to go any further than garstang, in spite of seaton's remonstrances. in lancaster there were some parliamentarian troops under holcroft and sparrow, but they were not able to hold an open town against such superior numbers as the royalists possessed and retreated into the castle. captain william shuttleworth was killed before they were able to gain the shelter of the walls. the castle was not provisioned for a siege, and had no adequate water supply, but the royalists made no attempt to take it, and dispersed their troops through the streets, plundering and setting fire to the houses. the town was thoroughly sacked.[ ] the following day, hearing that assheton and seaton were on their march from preston they retreated. in the meantime the garrison had broken out of the castle while the royalists were plundering and had secured provisions for some days. the earl of derby seems to have been a great deal better informed about the enemy's movements than were the parliamentarians; for he was able to outwit them again and escape their advance.[ ] both seaton and assheton were now on their march from preston with eleven companies of foot and "some few ill-mounted horse that durst not look the enemy in the face"; assheton having collected what men he could from salford hundred, and reached preston on the th. on monday, march th, derby removed his troops to ellel about five miles south of lancaster on the main road; and hearing that assheton was at cockerham waited just long enough to escape being caught, and marched with all speed to preston, which he expected would be left but poorly defended. he was right in his conjecture, and the action of the parliamentarian commanders showed great carelessness or undue haste. it is only three miles from ellel to cockerham, and the latter place is hardly on the direct route between preston and lancaster. the parliamentarians therefore reached lancaster only to find the enemy gone, and they had to content themselves with reinforcing the garrison and replenishing the stores in the castle. meanwhile derby had marched straight on preston, using great care to prevent his approach being known; and he had almost reached the town before news of his advance was brought. in preston there had only been left four companies of foot and five hundred clubmen under colonel holland, and colonel duckenfield's troop of horse; but late at night as it was the friars gate was strongly guarded, and all preparations made for resistance. the townsmen, however, were strongly royalist in sympathy, and as the earl approached the garrison gradually melted away, and led by colonel shuttleworth most of them made their escape as best they could. the royalist ostlers had locked the stable doors and secured the keys; so that many of the parliamentarians being unable to get at their horses were taken prisoners. the royalists again garrisoned preston, and plundered unmercifully any in the town who had been suspected of disaffection to their cause (march ). assheton hearing that the royalists had regained preston, found his own position at lancaster untenable, and leaving a garrison in the castle marched into blackburn hundred, and by way of chipping and whalley into east lancashire. a week later seaton writes from manchester in great despondency. he was without troops and his personal unpopularity was still so great that he hardly dared to show himself in the streets. the "mercurius aulicus" reported with rather less than its usual inaccuracy that "all lancashire except manchester is in royalist hands."[ ] this was indeed the most spirited and successful operation conducted by the royalists. they derived no doubt some advantage from the disorganisation of the enemy's troops and their demoralisation owing to insufficient pay and clothing, as also from the carelessness which success had produced in the parliamentarian officers; for their tactics show to much greater advantage than those of assheton and seaton, and for a time at least they regained much of the ground which they had lost. it is possible that there were other successes besides those which have just been described; one parliamentarian writer even mentions a capture of blackburn; and in any case a bold following up of the victories might possibly have led to a royalist reconquest of the county.[ ] the royalist star was now in the ascendant in the north of england. queen henrietta maria who had landed at bridlington in february, had overrun the greater part of yorkshire; some of her troops had advanced as far as skipton, and were thus an additional menace on the north-east of blackburn hundred. as might be expected, the earl of derby now began to plan an advance into the enemy's country. it is stated, probably with truth, that he intended to form a second siege of manchester; and he certainly did make a second attack on bolton on march , . bolton was, however, prepared, and was well garrisoned, while the parliamentarians had also established a garrison for its additional protection, in the town of bury. the royalists came in sight of bolton about o'clock in the afternoon, but after their summons for surrender had been refused, they made no attack until dark. they then delivered a sharp assault on the outworks and there was fighting at close quarters for some time. the assailants were at length beaten off with the loss of ten men. after some reinforcements to the town had come in from bury the royalists delivered another attack upon the south side of the town, and owing to the darkness were able to get quite close to the mud walls before they were observed; but this attempt met with no better success and they finally retired with the loss of men.[ ] this was, however, almost the end of aggressive tactics on the part of the royalists. by this time the parliamentarian leaders seem to have restored the morale of their troops, and they soon regained the upper hand in the county. the recovery was shown when four days after lord derby's unsuccessful attack on bolton, they besieged wigan itself. this was on easter eve, . their force consisted of foot, mostly musketeers, and or horse, with guns, under the command of colonel holland; as assheton's regiment was included rosworm also accompanied the expedition, and as usual he represents his own share in the operations as very great. wigan was commanded by major-general blaire, a scotchman who had been recommended to the earl of derby by the king. attacking fiercely at the south-east end of the town assheton's musketeers forced an entrance after an hour's fighting, and the wigan garrison which numbered , men broke and fled in disorder; many prisoners were taken. some of the garrison, however, retreated to the church tower, and shooting from there did considerable execution on the attacking force; and a threat to blow up the church with gunpowder was necessary before they were reduced to surrender.[ ] the town was then thoroughly plundered by the parliamentary soldiery. they did not, however, occupy wigan, but marched away the same night, their departure being probably hastened by a report that the earl of derby was on his way to its assistance. the earl came as far as standish moor; but hearing there that wigan had been taken, plundered and abandoned by the enemy he returned to lathom. one parliamentarian writer estimates the amount of plunder taken in wigan at £ , .[ ] its loss naturally caused some consternation at lathom house which is only six miles distant. lady derby wrote to prince rupert, "in the name of god, sire, take pity on us, and if you will come you may reconquer wigan easily and with much glory to your highness. i know not what to say; but have pity on my husband, my children, and myself who are altogether lost if god and your highness have not pity on us."[ ] there was some reason for her agitation. as preston and lancaster had been lost in the north, so now wigan had been lost in the west; and a great effort would be necessary if the royalist cause in lancashire were not to suffer defeat. the next encounter, however, went in their favour. elated at their success at wigan, "that impregnable piece the enemy's pride and presumption our fear and despair," the parliamentarian troops assaulted warrington on april th. in this they joined sir william brereton, the commander-in-chief in cheshire, who towards the end of march was quartered with his horse at nantwich; and he had sent for foot to join him in the attempt. warrington was strongly held, the earl of derby being there in person. on monday, april , captain ardern and some other captains approached the town from the cheshire side, but the royalist garrison seeing the smallness of the force, sallied out and routed them on stockton heath, having by a ruse given ardern to understand that they were of his own party. brereton's main forces shortly afterwards coming up were at a second attack also defeated by the royalists. brereton, however, remained on the ground, and having been joined by holland's troops from manchester the two together made an attack on warrington on april th. the advance was from two sides, from the east near the parish church, a battery being placed on moot hill, and from the west where brereton's men occupied the house of one edward bridgman at sankey, about a mile from the town. the royalists, however, fought with great determination, and in spite of their numbers the parliamentarians were unable to effect an entrance on any point. "wigan (thought impregnable) proved easy; warrington (thought easy) proved now impregnable."[ ] it has been stated that the operations round warrington at the beginning of april, , were the critical events of this spring; but really the decisive contest occurred at the end of the month and was fought in north-east lancashire between padiham and whalley. the parliamentarian forces in blackburn hundred were still very disorganised and evidently discouraged by their reverse at warrington on april th. after that action the earl of derby removed to preston, where he made preparations for following up his success, calling a general muster there about the middle of april. accompanied by lord molyneux, sir gilbert hoghton, colonel tyldesley, and other well known royalists he marched out of preston at the head of eleven troops of horse, foot, and many clubmen mostly from the fylde, numbering in all about men. keeping on the north bank of the ribble they reached ribchester at noon on wednesday, april , crossed the river by ferry at salesbury, and marched on whalley. the parliamentarians were completely taken by surprise. two troops of horse at dukenhalgh hall near clayton-le-moors were their only forces in the neighbourhood, and these retreated to padiham, after sending to warn colonel shuttleworth, who was at his house at gawthorpe. shuttleworth received the message during the night, but he at once sent out summonses to the countryside, and next morning one additional troop of horse and about foot had collected (ap. ). the earl of derby instead of continuing his march had occupied whalley, and early on the same morning he drew up his troops on the east side of the river calder, apparently waiting to be attacked. derby himself had quarters in whalley abbey, sir ralph assheton's house. the royalists made a great mistake in not at once advancing in force. after some delay, however, they advanced and the scouts of both sides approached each other near read hall, half way between padiham and whalley. the royalists were so overwhelmingly superior in numbers that shuttleworth and his captains refused to engage with them, and ordered a general retreat towards padiham.[ ] but the soldiers took matters into their own hands and "being resolute men replied to the captains boldly bidding them take what course they pleased for their safety, yet they would adventure themselves, see the enemy and have one bout with them, if god will." shuttleworth, therefore, drew out his men to await the royalists' advance. [illustration: battle of whalley, april, .] about a mile from whalley on the high road to padiham a bye-road turns up the hill to the left; after passing a further turn to sabden it leaves on the right hand a farm house called easterley, crosses sabden brook, skirts the grounds of read hall, and descends again to join the main road. there seems no doubt that in this now secluded and very beautiful lane, the decisive encounter of the civil war in lancashire began.[ ] the parliamentarian troops awaited the royalist advance just above read hall, hiding their musketeers behind the stone walls on either side of the lane. presently they saw the advance guards descending the hill by easterley to the brook. as the royalists mounted again out of the hollow they were surprised by a well-directed volley which threw them into disorder; and the parliamentarians followed up their advantage so well that the royalists broke and fled back towards whalley pursued by the parliamentarian foot. tyldesley himself was with the advance guard and joined in the flight. gaining confidence as they proceeded, shuttleworth's men pressed the royalists hard, and by the time they had reached whalley the retreat had become a rout. the royalists remaining in whalley, being taken by surprise, were not able to make any stand, but joined the flying troops, who were now pursued along the way they had come through langho towards the river ribble. the chase extended over about five miles; and the parliamentarian troops as they followed found the country strewn with arms which the royalists had cast away in their flight. the earl of derby himself with difficulty maintained some sort of order in the rearguard. arrived at salesbury, horse and foot plunged into the water without waiting for the boats, and waded the river up to their necks. once across they were safe from attack, but the flight continued to preston, and derby did not draw rein until he reached penwortham hall near preston, where he stayed the night.[ ] this was the most remarkable victory of the war in lancashire, and it was decisive. the royalists had been successful at warrington; and on this occasion their army must have outnumbered their opponents by at least four to one. the parliamentarians were quite unprepared, and in all probability if derby had advanced directly on padiham the result would have been very different. as it was the defeat showed the real weakness of the royalist cause in lancashire. the earl of derby left the county a few weeks later to join the queen in yorkshire; and he never led an army in lancashire again until the ill-fated expedition of . after this the supremacy of the parliamentary cause was never in real doubt. assheton was not slow to follow up the victory at whalley. two days later he marched on wigan (april ), which was occupied by colonel tyldesley with troops of horse and foot; assheton had , horse and foot mostly belonging to the manchester garrison, and the royalists were in no condition to resist superior numbers. they fell back on lathom without fighting, and assheton demolished all the out-works and fortifications at wigan, burnt the new gates and posts, and made the townsmen swear not in future to bear arms against "king and parliament."[ ] derby himself seems to have been at prescot, but on assheton advancing against him he retreated to lathom, and then the parliamentarians gradually moved northwards and westwards, driving the enemy before them. on hearing of the loss of wigan, the queen sent a message to lord derby not to engage the enemy again until she sent him reinforcement; but having waited for a fortnight in vain he was persuaded by molyneux and tyldesley to endeavour to hasten it in person. there is no doubt that the queen at this time intended to invade lancashire. she writes from york to the king on april "my proposition is this--to detach from the body of the army footmen and horsemen, dragoons and some cannon and to send them at once into lancashire to join with earl derby and to clear out that county, which i hope can be done in ten or twelve days, and then come to join me at newark"; and three weeks after this she writes again that the army was to march directly on leeds, bradford and halifax. derby was to return, to collect what troops he could, and remain on the defensive until "the army can march to manchester which i hope will be soon; for i believe that leeds being taken, the other two places will be inconsiderable, and so manchester will come into play; which if we take it all lancashire is yours."[ ] these plans were, however, frustrated by the royalist defeat by sir thomas fairfax at wakefield in may; and there was no longer any hope of reinforcements to the lancashire royalists from the queen's army. derby returned to lancashire; and a rumour having come of a scotch invasion by means of the isle of man, he was persuaded to sail thither to prevent it. returning to lancashire about the end of may, he hastily crossed the county with a very small following, and rode to whitehaven, whence he took ship to the isle of man, landing there on june . the countess of derby and her children remained at lathom house.[ ] it is difficult to understand why derby should have left lancashire just at a time when it appeared that the presence of a leader was most necessary there; unless indeed he had already given up the cause as hopeless. this explanation of his joining the queen and of his departure for the isle of man is his own, and is probably the true one though the parliamentarians put a much less favourable construction on his movements. they hinted that his leaving lancashire was due to cowardice. and even his enemies at the court made it an occasion of maligning him by suggesting that he had more care for his own property in the isle of man than for the royal cause in england. but at best he was sacrificing the royalist interests in lancashire. three days after landing in the isle of man derby summoned a meeting of his tenants at peel; but no great eagerness was shown in response to his request for aid. meanwhile things had gone from bad to worse for the royalist cause in lancashire. after the capture of wigan, assheton had chased molyneux and tyldesley from ormskirk to preston, and thence across the ribble into the fylde. the royalists quartered at kirkham for two days, but on assheton's approach made practically no resistance; they marched northwards across the wyre and through cockerham to hornby. assheton followed as far as lancaster; he took from there of the spanish guns and leaving the remainder to fortify the castle, returned back through preston to manchester. on the return march his men took advantage of his temporary absence to make a detour through the fylde, where they plundered royalists and parliamentarians alike. after assheton's return tyldesley crossed into yorkshire to join the queen; molyneux proceeded southwards again, and taking on his way a few prisoners whom he left at lathom went over hale ford into cheshire.[ ] warrington was the victors' next objective. on may , the manchester garrison marched out against it, and three days later met at warrington sir william brereton with a considerable force of cheshire men, who had left nantwich on may . next morning the besiegers' cannon were placed in position and opened fire on the town. there was, however, no close fighting, as the royalists had very little provision for a siege; and on the following saturday, may , a parley was called by col. norris, the royalist governor. during the week a garrison had been dislodged from winwick church, three miles away, and the position of warrington had been rendered hopeless by the certainty that no help could be looked for from the queen. accordingly norris surrendered, his officers being allowed their horses and pistols, while the men were suffered to depart without their arms. next day (trinity sunday, may ) sir george booth, lord of the manor, entered the town again. only six men were reported to have been killed in the last siege, four of the besiegers and two royalists.[ ] sometime before this liverpool had been occupied for the parliament, apparently without opposition.[ ] the work of reducing the county was not yet, however, quite complete. the royalists in north lancashire, taking advantage of assheton's preoccupation in the south-west, laid siege to lancaster. the castle, however, held out for three weeks, and the other places being reduced, assheton marched to its assistance. the royalists did not wait for his approach, but retreated and disposed some of their forces for the defence of hornby and thurland castles, the remainder marching to join the queen. assheton immediately set out to effect the capture of these places. hornby castle is about nine miles north-east of lancaster, thurland four miles further away. approaching hornby first, three companies of foot were sent on before to reconnoitre; they fell into an ambush but suffered little loss, though the royalist reports magnified it into a great reverse. the castle was found to be very difficult of access, being on a steep hill, and the building itself rising gradually from its lowest point at the gatehouse. the besiegers, however, captured a soldier escaping from the castle, and from him learnt that it was possible to enter by some windows high up on the east side of the building at the end of the hall. this adventurous effort succeeded. under cover of a frontal attack on the gatehouse, a party armed with ladders, ropes, and combustible materials, effected an ascent of the windows, and set the castle on fire; attacked thus in two places the garrison surrendered at discretion.[ ] next day the parliamentarian troops marched on to thurland, which was given up at their summons with little or no fighting. sir john girlington himself was taken prisoner, and also many royalist ladies who had found a refuge in this last stronghold. much spoil of money and plate was also made. thus by june, , practically all lancashire was for the first time in the hands of the parliament; lathom house and greenhalgh castle being now the only places where the royalist flag was still flying. many of the parliamentarian soldiers returned to their homes. "now the whole county being cleared of all the king's forces way was made that all such as had fled out of any part thereof might return to their wives, children and friends and have what their enemies had left them." footnotes: [ ] hoghton tower was practically a ruin half a century ago, but has since then been very carefully restored, and is now to outward appearance much as in the old days. it occupies a commanding position on a hill six miles from preston and four miles from blackburn, standing about feet above sea level. [ ] "a punctuall relation of the passages in lancashire this weeke, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). lancashire's "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ). "discourse," p. . "certaine informations," no. , feb. - . the first and last of these accounts make allegations of treachery but not the other two; and the "valley of achor" would not have omitted the charge if it had not been quite baseless. the "discourse" ascribes the disaster to "want of heedfulnesse," and the "valley of achor" is still more definite: "it dispossessed them by the help of powder to which their disorders laid a train fired by their neglected matches, or by that great souldiers' idoll, tobacco." "o that this thundering alarm might ever sound in the eares of our swearing, cursing, drunken, tobacco-abusing commanders and souldiers unto unfaigned repentance. for do they think that those upon whom the tower fell and slew them, were sinners above the rest of the army?" in his "pilgrimages to old homes" ( ), p. , mr. fletcher moss says that it was the gate house into the second court which was blown up; but it would rather seem to have been the tower itself, which then crowned the building on its eastern side. [ ] "speciall passages and certain informations from severall places" ("c.w.t.," p. ). "a punctuall relation, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). the latter of these accounts is an extremely vivid narrative, and must have been communicated, if not written, by an eye-witness. the former tract gives the defenders' losses as five, the latter as eight or ten; and it is stated that of the royalists were either killed or mortally wounded. these numbers must be received with considerable reservation. the "discourse" states incorrectly that alexander rigby of burgh was killed in this engagement. the "valley of achor" mentions a "new invented mischievous instrument which received this description at bolton: an head about a quarter of a yard long, a staffe of two yards long or more, put into that head, twelve iron pikes round about, and one in the end to stab with. this fierce weapon (to double their scorn) they called a roundhead." the editor of "c.w.t." (p. ) states that the "mercurius civicus," june - , , gives a picture of one of these "roundheads." [ ] apparently sparrow crossed somewhere about the present shard bridge. unless it happened to be high tide, however, there would be no need for a ferry. the river wyre at this point is a broad expanse of water when the tide is full, but at low water it shrinks to a width of eight or ten yards, and can easily be forded for a long stretch. [ ] rossall hall is now the headmaster's house at rossall school. the fleetwoods of rossall were royalists, and the statement that derby plundered the house for arms can only be correct on the assumption that the parliamentarian party had previously taken possession of it. [ ] the "discourse" (pp. - ) gives much the fullest account of these operations; this writer is usually especially well informed with regard to the fylde. his estimate of the ability of serj.-major sparrow is very different from that given by tilsley in his narrative of the capture of preston, but is probably more reliable. it is only fair to state, however, in sparrow's defence that seaton says that the earl also had foot with him and horse, and that there were spaniards; and that sparrow crossed the river in order to guard the ammunition which had been taken from the ship. from lytham to rossall point is about miles, layton common lying half-way between the two places; poulton is a little nearer rossall, and closer to the river. for the fate of the spaniards, cf. "l.j.," vol. , p. ; "hist. mss. com." report , p. . five names of officers are given, the chief being don francisco de aco and don alonzo navarro. the date of the burning of the ship by the royalists is given by the earl of derby in his diary ("stanley papers," pt. , vol. , c.s. , p. , ed. raines). [ ] seaton says that the guns were in number, including brass pieces, demi-cannon, one minion, and sacres. at first there was some competition between manchester, bolton, preston and lancaster as to which town should receive the guns, but the matter was decided in favour of lancaster, which was in more royalist territory, and perhaps also because of rumours of the projected attack. [ ] on july , , parliament ordered that "when this unnatural war shall be ended" lancaster should receive the sum of £ , out of the estates of delinquents who were actually present at the siege ("c.j.," vol. , p. ). payment of this relief was long delayed; and on december , , the house ordered that the inhabitants of lancaster should farm papists' and delinquents' estates to the value of £ , for one year, in part of their former vote. the castle was later to cause considerable trouble to the authorities. in march, - parliament ordered that it be dismantled, but for some reason the order was not put into effect until years afterwards, in spite of its having been repeated several times ("c.j.," vol. , ; "c.s.p.," - , pp. , , etc., etc.). [ ] the royalist opinion of their prospects in lancashire at this time was very favourable. cf. "mercurius aulicus," march , : "by letters of march , it is certified that affairs in lancashire are not so bad as reported. wigan and warrington still hold good for the king, and in liverpool, the principal town toward ireland, there are some foot companies of sir t. salisbury's regiment and a troop of flintshire horse. lancaster is recovered by col. tyldesley." and again on march : "last monday mr. kirkby came to the queen asking for arms and reporting that lord molyneux had taken bolton." [ ] there are two accounts of the capture of preston in the "mercurius aulicus," , pp. and respectively. the former is given in "c.w.t.," p. . the fullest parliamentarian account is in the "discourse," p. . cf. also "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ) and seaton's letter "chetham miscellanies," vol. (no. ). seaton says that though he was suffering from a fall from his horse he would have at once pursued the royalists at preston, but his men refused to follow him. on the next morning, when news came of derby's occupation of preston, none of them would remain in lancaster; and colonel stanley's three companies flatly disobeyed his orders. evidently the men had got quite out of hand, and seaton was very unpopular. he gives as the reason that he had restrained the soldiers from plundering at preston. the dates of the capture of lancaster are given by the earl of derby in his diary "stanley papers," c.s. , ed. raines, pt. , vol. , p. ). [ ] "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ). probably one reason for the unmanageableness of the troops was want of supplies and of pay. cf. a letter from col. holland to john booth, manchester, march , , concerning the condition of the regiments with which they have been ordered to join lord denbigh for the relief of wem. what with "sicknesse, diseases, and other disasters of warre" the two regiments together do not exceed men, and these are so discouraged and mutinous through want of pay and clothing that it is feared that they will refuse to march ("denbigh mss.," vol. , p. ). [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . the "mercurius aulicus" contains a description of a defeat of two parliamentarian troops of horse by lord derby's regiment; but this seems to have been invented. [ ] "discourse," p. . "c.w.t.," pp. , . the last of these is from rosworm's "good service," and is the fullest. it has sometimes been treated as if referring to the first attack on warrington ("discourse" note, p. ), but though the language is rather ambiguous, rosworm is evidently describing the taking of wigan, where he himself was present. he makes a strong charge of cowardice against holland, whom, he states, refused to leave any garrison in wigan, though rosworm himself offered to remain there; and finally holland marched away in such haste as to endanger the safety of the forces. but the parliamentarians cannot as yet have hoped to garrison wigan. [ ] vicars' "parliamentary chronicle," pt. , p. ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. , . "discourse," p. . there is a long note in the "discourse," pp. - , giving an account of these operations. cf. also a paper by dr. kenrick in the "transactions of the lancashire and cheshire historic society," vol. ( ), p. . the attack is said to have begun at four o'clock in the afternoon and lasted till dark. one account states that the earl of derby declared that he would set fire to warrington rather than surrender it, and that sir william brereton thereupon ordered a retreat in order to save the town. this was the parliamentarian way of explaining away their defeat. there is no moot hill now, though dr. kenrick states that military relics have been found on the site by excavation. [ ] mr. ormerod appears to assume that colonel assheton was in command, and it is true that one of the accounts ("c.w.t.," p. ) does mention a captain ashton; but as he is not mentioned anywhere else he was probably not present. [ ] the narrative in the "discourse," p. , is very minute, being evidently that of an eye-witness. he says that the first sight of the royalists which their opponents had was "mounting out of a hollow dingle between ashterley and reed-head." this hollow dingle must certainly be the depression through which sabden brook flows; the roadway now crosses it by a bridge. the farmhouse on the right descending to the brook is still called easterley. [ ] "discourse," pp. - . "a true relation of a great and wonderfull victory, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). the latter is largely reprinted in "continuation of certain speciall and remarkable passages," may - . the ribble at salesbury takes a wide curve, and is therefore somewhat shallower. there is no 'boat' there now, but a bridge at ribchester. [ ] "speciall passages," may ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," pp. , . "letters of queen henrietta maria," edited by mrs. everett green ( ), pp. , . [ ] seacome, p. . the earl reached the isle of man on june ; he evidently found the island in a very turbulent state. the queen wrote to newcastle: "lord derby is here. he is no longer capable of defending himself or of raising troops." [ ] "discourse," p. . [ ] newspapers in "c.w.t.," pp. - ; _vide_ also "perfect diurnall" (cook), may - . there is a tract in "c.w.t.," p. , which professes to give an account of the surrender of warrington, but it is exceedingly unreliable. [ ] "valley of achor" ("c.w.t.," p. ). contradictory statements are, however, made about a ship from the earl of warwick's fleet which appeared in the mersey at this time. [ ] "discourse," p. . hornby castle has been largely re-built, the lower portion of the lofty central tower being the oldest remaining part. the castle stands on an isolated hill, occupying a very strong natural position. the hill on all sides is steep, and especially so on the north-east side where its base is encircled by the river wenning. it was evidently on this quarter that the surprise attack was delivered; but it is hardly possible now to judge of the danger of the enterprise. the descent down to the wenning, partially levelled at the top to make a garden, is not an arduous climb; and the present buildings on that side do not approach very near to the edge of the descent. on july the house of commons ordered that hornby castle should be demolished in order to avoid the expense of keeping a garrison there; and two days later assheton was directed to send the order down to lancashire, although no answer had been returned by the house of lords ("c.j.," vol. ), pp. - . chapter vi. remaining events of ; and the first siege of lathom house. it was a sign of the complete victory of the parliamentarian party in lancashire that now for the first time troops from this county began to be sent into yorkshire and cheshire. in the middle of june, , before the surrender of hornby and thurland castles, men from manchester were reported to have joined lord fairfax in yorkshire, and a month or two after this we find lancashire troops taking part in the war in cheshire.[ ] fairfax at this time had need of all the help that he could get, for newcastle was pressing him hard. the royalists took leeds, halifax and wakefield in succession. in the last few days of june the fairfaxes marched from bradford against newcastle, who left his quarters at howley and drew up his army on adwalton moor, some three miles from bradford, to await their attack. the parliamentarian force consisted of , men from leeds, from halifax, pontefract and other places, companies from bradford, together with companies from lancashire under the command of colonel assheton and colonel holland. all these were foot; and there were also troops of horse of which had come from lancashire. the royalists on the other hand had , foot of their former army, and , recently raised by commission of array, with perhaps horse. newcastle drew up his men on adwalton moor, also occupying some houses in the enclosed ground in front of his position. the parliamentarian 'forlorn' was under captain milday; the van under major-general gifford consisted of the , leeds foot, and the main battle was formed by the lancashire foot and the from halifax under lord fairfax himself; in the rear were the bradford soldiers under lieutenant-colonel forbes. sir thomas fairfax commanded all the cavalry. at first the battle went in favour of the parliamentarians; they attacked vigorously, their 'forlorn' driving back the enemy, and their van then faced the royalists' right wing, while their rear attacked in the centre. all newcastle's line began to give ground, but the parliamentarians incautiously advanced too far into the open moor; and newcastle, who greatly outnumbered them, sent forward a detachment along a lane to the left of his position which took the enemy in the rear. most of the yorkshire troops had been used only to garrison duty, and caught thus between two fires, they were unable to execute an orderly retreat, but began to run. the loss in killed was not very great, but a large number were taken prisoner, and two of the four guns were lost. the parliamentarian centre being strengthened by the lancashire troops, was brought off safely by sir thomas fairfax. lord fairfax could only be persuaded to leave the field when the royalists had intercepted his retreat to bradford, and he reached the town with difficulty. sir thomas was forced to seek refuge in halifax for that night, and joined his father in bradford the following day.[ ] the defeat was a serious blow to the parliament's cause in yorkshire, and its moral effect was greater still. moreover the lancashire troops at once returned home, with the exception of foot and horse, who were persuaded to remain on promise of prompt pay. the fairfaxes were unable to retain bradford, and were forced to retreat to hull, which was soon practically the only place in yorkshire in the hands of the parliament. it was indeed only by good fortune that they kept hull, for sir john hotham had declared that he would shut the gates against them; but the discovery of the hothams' plot and their arrest gave fairfax a place of retreat when he most needed it. on july th, newcastle dated from bradford a summons to the town of manchester. he offered the townsmen protection and pardon if they would lay down their arms. but it was not likely that having already driven the royalists out of their own borders the manchester garrison would listen to a summons sent from miles distant; and a defiant answer was returned two days later. "sir we are nothing dismayed at your force, but hope that god who hath been our protector hitherto, will so direct our just army that we shall be able to return the violence intended into their bosoms that shall essay the prosecution of it." this is, however, very different language from the urgent letter to lenthall written the day before,[ ] in which they refer to their loss of men and arms at the battle of adwalton moor, the encouragement which that defeat had given to the royalists at home, and the great danger in which they were placed by the retreat of fairfax to the extreme east of yorkshire. newcastle, however, soon had too much on his hands in yorkshire to do more than send a summons into a neighbouring county. but the lancashire leaders took the precaution of guarding the frontier against him. they sent men to rochdale, and more to blackstone edge, four miles further on, over which passes the main road into yorkshire. the garrison was attacked once at least; and it was kept there most of the winter, being maintained out of the several hundreds of the county from sequestered roman catholic estates. colonel tyldesley's estate at myerscough was one of the first to be sequestered (oct.). the defences at blackstone edge were constructed under the direction of rosworm, who was sent from manchester for that purpose. the newspapers report that in the middle of july newcastle sent horse to break through, but without success. a few were killed and many taken prisoners, and the rest retreated; "because it is naturally so strong that men can keep neither is that way fit either for carriages or ordnance." indeed the nature of the ground, which is very rough and covered with heather, is such as to make it exceedingly difficult for the movements of cavalry.[ ] the newspapers also mention royalist defeats in july at colne, where prisoners were taken, and also at clitheroe, and at thornton. it would appear from this that newcastle continued his attempts to break through the lancashire defences. evidently it was necessary to keep a watch upon the eastern border of the county during this winter, and it was fortunate for the parliamentarian party that the moors formed such a strong natural defence. some troops for a time were kept at colne and even at emmott lane head, which is three miles further on just on the border of the county.[ ] lancashire forces were also sent to fight under the command of sir william brereton and sir thomas fairfax in cheshire. they do not seem to have taken part in any very important engagements in that county; but they assisted at the siege of halton castle which fell on july , and they also fought at chester. some time in june, , alexander rigby arrived in lancashire with a colonel's commission to raise forces in leyland and amounderness hundreds. rigby was not the man to remain idle, even though the fighting seemed over. he appointed or captains in amounderness to raise foot companies and one troop of horse; and a few also in leyland. the order of parliament for impressing troops was not passed until the end of october, , but it was easier to raise men now that they could be provided for out of sequestered estates.[ ] with the troops which he had raised rigby at once set himself to reduce thurland castle, which had been re-occupied by sir john girlington, and well stored with ammunition and provisions; and early in august he marched against it. this second siege proved much harder than the first, and lasted seven weeks. the position of thurland castle is a strong one, and it was surrounded, as it still is, by a moat which made a close approach to the walls impossible.[ ] the parliamentarian main guard was at cantsfield, which is only half a mile from the castle, but is hidden from it by a small hill; on the east side of the building in the field between thurland and cantsfield the ordnance was placed in position. some of the besiegers lay at tunstall on the north-west side; and rigby himself stayed at hornby castle, which is four miles away, and rode over daily to the siege. the parliamentarian horse were quartered up and down the country. during most of the time in which the siege was in progress the westmoreland royalists harassed the besiegers. they were under the command of colonel huddleston of millom, and of two lancashire refugees, roger kirkby and alexander rigby of burgh. after several false alarms rigby heard that colonel huddleston had collected a force of , men in furness and was about to march to the relief of thurland. without waiting to be attacked rigby left only as many men before the castle as were quite necessary to maintain the blockade, and himself started with foot, troops of horse and guns to meet them. marching miles in one day "over mountains and through sea sands and waters," he found the royalists on sunday, october , at lindale, three miles from cartmel. the parliamentarian word was "god with us," and they charged with such vigour that the enemy began to retreat almost before the battle was joined, and in a quarter of an hour the royalists fled in confusion. few were killed, but the cavalry in pursuit captured colonel huddleston, two of his captains and an ensign, men and the magazine, which was large enough to take eight oxen to draw it. hardly stopping to take food rigby returned to thurland as hurriedly as he had come to find the small force there menaced by the westmoreland royalists; but on hearing of his victory at lindale sir philip musgrave, who was in command, made negotiations for the surrender of thurland castle. the defenders were to have free passage, but the building was ordered to be demolished. rigby says that he endeavoured to save the combustible materials from fire but without success. in the middle of october he returned to preston. notwithstanding the disorganisation of the royalists the battle of lindale was admirably planned and carried out, and proved that rigby was a man of considerable military skill.[ ] shortly after this colonel moore came down to lancashire, and considerably strengthened the defences of liverpool by erecting fortifications and gates, and planting guns in position. he also raised a few troops of foot in west derby hundred. these preparations turned out to be very necessary, for shortly before christmas, , seven or eight royalist warships sailed up the mersey and lay in the river for many days; they did not, however, offer to put into the harbour. cheshire was at that time mostly royalist, and sir thomas tyldesley kept some troops at birkenhead which it was thought were intended for an attack on liverpool. rigby, hearing of this, summoned captain pateson from the fylde, and called for volunteers to accompany him. there was no lack of response, and leaving preston on christmas eve they joined some other troops at wigan and marched as far as prescot. the danger was, however, over; all the ships had gone save one, which put into liverpool harbour and surrendered to the parliament. after remaining five or six days in liverpool the parliamentarian troops returned to preston.[ ] the lancashire troops also took part in the critical events in cheshire in december, , and january, . the general royalist position was at this time far other than it was in lancashire. the king was master of about two-thirds of the country; and so evenly balanced was the issue in the summer of , that both sides had summoned outside help, parliament the scots, and charles the troops from ireland, which had been set free by the cessation. the king's negotiations with the irish had been marked by his usual duplicity, for he could have no hope of keeping the promises he made. in march, , the irish had demanded a free parliament, on promise of which they would send over , men. charles authorised ormonde to treat for months cessation of arms, and at length conceded the demand for a parliament. in spite of divisions among the irish leaders, the cessation was concluded on september . news of the coming irish landing brought back the lancashire forces from north wales where they had marched as far as wrexham, and the hope of the lancashire royalists revived. they secured the king's warrant for the march of the new army into lancashire. "i am desired by the lancashire gentlemen," writes abraham shipman to ormonde on october , "to acquaint your lordship that those forces that are to come from dublin are assigned by his majesty for their county, which they are preparing to receive. my lord, the extreme necessity of that county craves speedy succours and therefore humbly desire your furtherance"; and sir gilbert hoghton was ordered to chester to await the arrival of the troops. the lancashire plan was that the irish regiments should march at once to attack liverpool, which was not strongly defended, and was situated in the royalist part of the county and near lathom house. it was thought that some troops could be raised in lancashire; there were said to be men ready to invade the county from the north, and help was expected from newcastle in yorkshire. thus it was expected that the advance of the scots would be checked.[ ] these hopes were, however, destined not to be fulfilled. the irish troops, to the number of about , landed in north wales in the middle of november, and for a time they carried all before them. first they took hawarden castle and then marched on chester; leaving there on december they proceeded to northwich in order to cut off communications between manchester and nantwich, and afterwards summoned beeston castle, which was speedily surrendered. the parliamentarian governor was executed for cowardice. the cheshire committee summoned help from lancashire, and colonel assheton marched to their assistance with foot. he had reached sandbach, when byron being warned of his approach detached men to intercept him. the parliamentarians began to retreat towards middlewich, but the royalists came up with them at booth lane, north of sandbach, and a retreat against such superior numbers soon became a rout. the lancashire men were chased along the road to middlewich three miles away, with heavy loss and many prisoners. at middlewich of them took refuge in the church and were given quarter; the rest of them fled through the town and were scattered.[ ] but the tide now turned against the royalists. byron laid siege to nantwich which under the circumstances was a place of very great importance. clarendon says "it cannot be denied the reducing of that place at that time would have been of unspeakable importance to the king's affairs, there being between that and carlisle no one town of moment (manchester only excepted) against the king; and those two populous counties of cheshire and lancashire (if they had been united against the parliament) would have been a strong bulwark against the scots."[ ] realising its importance the garrison held out resolutely, and sir thomas fairfax was sent in haste from yorkshire to raise the siege. while he was on his way a royalist force under sir richard willis, coming from shrewsbury with ammunition, were defeated by a much smaller number of parliamentarians; and several attacks on nantwich were beaten off. sir thomas fairfax left manchester on january with , foot and troops of horse. his first encounter with the royalists was near delamere where he took prisoners; and about six miles further on another force appeared which was, however, dispersed after half an hour's fighting. having reached acton church, a mile from nantwich, fairfax found a large detachment of the royalists drawn up; and he at once attacked these before they could be reinforced. the royalist troops had besieged nantwich on both sides of the river, and a flood had separated their forces. byron, however, came up before the issue was decided, and colonel holland's and colonel booth's regiments were faced about to meet the attack. the fight lasted for two hours, and assheton was particularly praised for his part in it. the parliamentarian cavalry were once hard pressed, but being nearest to the town they were assisted by a sortie of the garrison, and at length both divisions of the royalists were driven into acton church and obliged to surrender. a large number were taken prisoners, including their major-general, four colonels, many other officers and , common soldiers. colonel monck was one of those captured. more than half of the prisoners took service in the parliamentary army. (january , .) the battle of nantwich had a decisive effect not only on the war in cheshire but to some extent on lancashire also. if the town had been taken all cheshire would have been over-run by the irish troops, and there is no reason why they should not have carried out their plan for an invasion of lancashire. but the victory won by fairfax and the lancashire troops restored at one blow the parliamentarian cause in cheshire.[ ] in lancashire the way was now open for the siege of the last royalist strongholds. only two places still held out to the king, lathom house and greenhalgh castle, and of these the former was much the more important. the earl of derby was still in the isle of man, but lathom under the able direction of the countess of derby, assisted by such lancashire royalists as still remained in the county, had been gradually prepared for resistance. it being almost the only place of refuge left, many of the militant royalists had gathered there. the house had been summoned as far back as may, , after the capture of warrington; but nothing had been done towards reducing it. the royalists had been, however, practically confined to the park at lathom, and rigby sent what troops he could spare to harass them at intervals. the garrison on their part plundered all they could. early in february, , the royalists had the better of a skirmish with some parliamentarian horse under captain hindley; and when the danger in cheshire was over the troops from cheshire were at liberty to begin the reduction of lathom. the first siege of lathom house is quite the most picturesque incident of the lancashire war. more has been written about it, and it is probably better known than any other event. this has rather served to disguise the fact that the siege was not very important from a military point of view. there was no great issue depending upon its capture as in the case of that of manchester in october, , or of warrington in april, ; its resistance for a few months more or less did not affect the general position. it was a centre of hostile influence, but its garrison was bound to be only on the defensive and could never hope to be strong enough to make lathom the starting point for a re-conquest of lancashire for the king. thus the defence was in the nature of a forlorn hope, and derived from this greater interest; when it is added that the defence was directed by a woman after the earl of derby and lesser royalist leaders had been driven out of the county, it easily became 'ever memorable' to the royalists. the attempt to save a splendid and historic mansion from the destruction which afterwards unhappily overtook it makes a further appeal to the imagination; and that the attempt was successful owing to the appearance on the scene of the chivalrous figure of prince rupert, supplies the last touch of sentimental interest. nothing now remains of old lathom house and no picture of it is known to exist. its situation and appearance was accurately described by seacome, but it is impossible now even to identify the site.[ ] lathom house in those days was strong not only from its situation but from its structure. it stood upon marshy ground in a hollow surrounded by small hills which made it very difficult to effect an approach to the walls. the wall itself was six feet thick, and the whole was surrounded by a moat twenty-four feet across and six feet deep; a palisade between the walls and the water provided a further defence. on the wall were nine towers upon each of which were planted six guns, three turned one way and three the other, and in the centre of the building was a higher tower called the eagle tower. the gate house, which was a strong and lofty building, stood at the entrance to the first court. on saturday, february , , it was decided at a meeting of the committee at manchester that colonels assheton, rigby and moore should undertake the siege of lathom house.[ ] news of this came to lathom on sunday, and the countess of derby at once sent out to obtain information from a friend which she had in the enemy's camp, while hastening on the reinforcement and provisioning of the garrison. the messenger returned on the following day with the news that the parliamentarian troops had already marched as far as bolton, wigan and standish. on tuesday, february , they had taken up their quarters round the house at a distance of from one to three miles from it. the rest of the week was spent in negotiations. a formal summons of surrender was first brought on wednesday by captain markland from sir thomas fairfax, who further promised that he would use his influence with parliament if the earl of derby would submit himself to their mercy. lady derby asked for a week's delay in which she might send a message to the earl to know his opinion. this was refused, and fairfax then requested her to come in her coach to new park, a house about a quarter of a mile from lathom, in order to have a personal interview with himself and his colonels. but the countess remembering her birth, returned a haughty refusal, "conceiving it more knightly that sir thomas fairfax should wait upon her than she upon him." after two more days of messages assheton and rigby entered lathom with propositions, which as might have been expected were severe. the house and all arms and ammunition were to be delivered up, the garrison having leave to depart to chester or elsewhere; lady derby was to reside at knowsley, being allowed musketeers for her protection, or she was to join the earl in the isle of man. these conditions were refused "as in part dishonourable in part uncertain." on monday, march , assheton came again alone in order to receive the royalist proposals. these required a month's delay for the removal of lady derby and her family to the isle of man, during which time the royalist garrison was to be kept at lathom; but afterwards none of the arms were to be employed against the parliament. after her departure none of the tenants of the earl were to be molested. it was evident, however, that all negotiations were useless. on their own confession the royalists did not believe that fairfax's promises were genuine, nor did they intend to keep their own. the parliament referred to in their proposals was understood by them to mean the king's parliament at oxford. the only object of allowing negotiations at all was in order to gain time to put the house into a better state for defence. the besiegers, however, made one final offer which was brought by colonel morgan, the assistant engineer, "a little man short and peremptory";[ ] they allowed the time which had been asked for to evacuate lathom, but the cannon were to be left for its defence and not removed with the rest of the arms and goods. by o'clock the following day all the royalist garrison was to be disbanded and parliament soldiers to be received as a guard. the royalists, however, seeing that there was now no more time to be gained, formally broke off all negotiations. the defiant answer was at length given which had been kept in the background for a week. the countess of derby refused all their articles, and declared "that though a woman and a stranger, divorced from her friends, and robbed of her estate, she was ready to receive their utmost violence trusting in god both for protection and deliverance." seacome states that at some point in the negotiations sir thomas fairfax himself visited the house, and that lady derby drew up all her garrison in an imposing array, from the main guard in the first court to the great hall where she herself received him. this ruse had its desired effect; so impressed was fairfax with the strength of the garrison that he dissuaded the other leaders from making an immediate attack, which was just what the garrison most feared.[ ] the besiegers now moved their lines nearer to the walls. but even now all treaty was not at an end. nothing much was done during the rest of the week; but on sunday, march , a deputation of tenants was persuaded to enter lathom to plead with lady derby to surrender; but once inside the gates their royalism was apparent and the pleading was not very powerful. yet once more, however, on the day following (monday, march ) captain john ashhurst, whom the royalists praise for his courtesy, came in with a last proposal from fairfax. all former conditions were to be waived; the countess, all the garrison and all the household were to have liberty to depart wherever they pleased with all their arms, ordnance and goods, yielding up the house to sir thomas fairfax. the arms, however, were never to be employed against the parliament; and everyone must leave the house at once excepting a hundred people who might remain ten days. this was of course refused, and all negotiations were now at an end. the siege now began to be pressed with more vigour. the royalist garrison consisted of men. lady derby was called commander-in-chief, with mr. farington as her chief adviser; and the captains were farmer, ogle, molyneux, radcliffe, chisenhale, rawsthorne, charnock, and fox. farmer, who was made major of the house, was a scotchman who had seen service in the low countries. he was afterwards killed at marston moor. rawsthorne, then colonel, was in chief command during the second siege. the garrison was divided equally among all the captains, who had therefore not quite half a company each. half the garrison was on duty every night, and marksmen from the whole number kept watch all day on the towers. the parliamentarian soldiers before lathom were drawn out of each hundred by turns, their whole number being between , and , . at first the troops seemed to have come from south lancashire, those from the fylde being called up at the end of a fortnight. the soldiers were on duty every third day and night, their provision and pay being levied on the towns in which the companies were raised.[ ] sir thomas fairfax, who conducted the negotiations, left the siege early in march, and after his departure the chief command seems to have devolved upon colonel rigby, who stayed at ormskirk, three miles away, and came over daily to the siege. the first advance of the parliamentarians drove out the royalists from the stand in the park which they had occupied; but the besiegers seem at first to have greatly underrated the difficulty of their task, not because they expected to take the house by storm, but thinking it was so poorly provisioned that it might be easily starved into surrender. as a matter of fact, however, lathom was well stocked with food, and for a time at least the blockade was so incomplete that supplies could easily be brought in. moreover the difficulty of the ground for siege operations soon became apparent, and the nearer the lines were drawn to the walls the more danger was incurred from the marksmen on the towers. the garrison was not content merely to look on at the attack but soon began to make sorties which greatly harassed the besieging force. on tuesday, march , captain farmer led out foot and the horse which was all the garrison possessed, attacked the besiegers' works, and slew several of them, taking six prisoners. the following sunday night, captain chisenhale sallied out from the rear gate with men, and put the parliamentarians to ignominious flight. the accounts of these sorties are probably exaggerated, and the number of the besiegers who were killed is certainly placed much too high; but the attack was not pressed with very much resolution. much of the firing against the house was wild, and large amounts of ammunition were wasted;[ ] though it is evident that a good deal of damage was done to the buildings by cannon shots. the besiegers' most successful weapon was a large mortar which was loaded with grenades or with eight pound stone bullets and did considerable execution. one shot falling into an old court destroyed most of the buildings which surrounded it; and another struck one of the towers and broke down a large clock. towards the end of march a message came from the earl of derby to sir thomas fairfax, desiring free passage for his lady and children from the house; but the garrison realising that lord derby knew nothing of the provision which had been made for a siege, or of the successful defence which was being carried on, resolved to take no notice of it. a formal acknowledgment was sent to sir thomas fairfax, and a messenger was sent to lord derby who was then at chester, to acquaint him more exactly with the state of things in lancashire. the besiegers still continued their bombardment of the house but without much effect; and the garrison continued to have much the best of the sorties. on the morning of wednesday, april , captain farmer and captain radcliffe led out about half the garrison from a postern gate and drove the parliamentarians from most of their works, which had now been formed all round the walls, radcliffe showing especial bravery. the retreat was secured by captain ogle and captain chisenhale. the royalists declared that they had spiked all the besiegers' guns, but as the bombardment continued after this without any intermission the statement must be false. they were evidently obliged to take great precautions against the cannon shot, and men were constantly on the watch with damp cloths to prevent the buildings from catching fire. towards the middle of april a chance shot entered the window of lady derby's room "but was too weak to fright her from the lodging"; ten days afterwards, however, two larger cannon bullets broke into the room, and she was obliged to remove to another part of the building. the royalists were most in fear of the large mortar piece; and their next expedition was made with the object of effecting its capture. about a.m. on april th,[ ] a sortie in force was made. the walls and gates were well guarded, and a reserve told off to assist a retreat if necessary; captain chisenhale then issued from the eastern gate, surprised the besiegers and after severe fighting drove them from their trenches. the great cannon was placed upon a sledge which had been kept in readiness and drawn within the walls. the parliamentarians must have suffered considerably in this skirmish, and they lost still more in prestige. inside lathom there were extravagant expressions of joy at the capture of the dreaded mortar; and the royalists boasted that the very day of its capture rigby had invited a number of his friends to witness the surrender of the house. the besiegers were proportionately discouraged by its loss; and many of their other guns were now removed in order to prevent their capture. the parliamentarians now endeavoured to cut off the water supply from lathom and to drain the moat. the first was impossible, as the springs that supplied the well inside lathom were drawn from higher ground east of the house. a trench was begun in order to empty the moat, but it does not seem to have been proceeded with. the country people of the neighbourhood were pressed into service, and many weeks' work was spent in vain. the fidelity of the chief engineer, whose name was brown, was by no means above suspicion, and he was at any rate incompetent if not treacherous. in one of the sorties by the garrison an assistant engineer was taken prisoner, and he explained the design of the trench. colonel assheton had been called away from the siege early in april. after the sortie of april , the discouragement of the parliamentarian troops was great, and rigby wrote in much depression to the committee at manchester. "we are obliged to repel them five or six times in a night. these constant alarms, the numbers of the garrison, and our great losses, compel our men to mount guard every other night and even two nights in succession. for my part i am spent with anxiety and fatigue."[ ] it is therefore surprising to find that summonses for surrender were still being sent into lathom. the very day before the capture of the mortar a demand was sent to the countess "to yield up lathom house, all the persons, goods and arms within it to receive the mercy of the parliament, and to return her final answer the next day before o'clock." it was to this summons which lady derby returned her famous answer-- "tell that insolent rebel, he shall neither have persons, goods nor house; when our strength and provision is spent, we shall find a fire more merciful than rigby, and then if the providence of god prevent it not my goods and house shall burn in his sight; myself, children and soldiers rather than fall into his hands, will seal our religion and loyalty in the same flame." this heroic declaration roused the garrison to wild enthusiasm, and they broke out into loud exclamations "we will die for his majesty and your honour. god save the king."[ ] after this very little was done before lathom for some weeks, though skirmishing continued at intervals with varying success. the parliamentarians now confined themselves to a blockade of the house, and even this was not very effective. for five or six weeks before the end of the siege there seems to have been practically no fighting. the besiegers continued at work in their trenches, but a heavy fall of rain which caused some of the earth to fall in and killed three men, interfered with this undertaking. the royalists stated, and probably with some truth, that the besiegers were so disheartened that they could not prevent their men from deserting in large numbers. at a meeting of the committee in manchester on april rd, it was resolved to raise additional troops for the siege at lathom, and to assess a weekly amount of £ , / / on the whole county, except lonsdale hundred and garstang parish, which were already being taxed to maintain the siege of greenhalgh castle.[ ] it is improbable, however, that these resolutions were carried into effect, for the attack showed no more vigour than before; and it had little prospect of success long before the approach of prince rupert effected a complete change in the position of affairs. it was not till towards the end of may that news came of rupert's march, and colonel rigby again sent a summons to lathom to surrender. this was of course refused; and the same day a messenger arrived from the earl of derby with news of the prince's approach. this was, as a matter of fact, only two days before rupert crossed the mersey, and as soon as this was ascertained, the parliamentarian troops marched away from lathom with all haste. (may .) the royalists claimed that the besiegers had lost men during the siege.[ ] note on the site of lathom house. almost incredible as it seems, not only has old lathom house completely disappeared but it is impossible to decide with any certainty where it stood. the present house is not large and was evidently all planned at the time it was built, which was early in the eighteenth century. it is said that it stands on a part of the former site, and certain parts of it, of darker stone than the rest, are supposed to have come from the former building; moreover a hundred yards or so before the house (which faces south) and drawn round it for about three hundred yards is a shallow depression which is said to be the old moat. this has been filled in at the back of the present house to make a garden. excavations near the present site are said to have discovered human remains. all this may sound conclusive, but it is impossible to reconcile the surroundings of the present house with the exact description given by seacome. in spite of his usual inaccuracy in recording events it seems impossible that such a description as he gives, evidently that of an eye witness, can be incorrect except perhaps in one or two details. his exact words may be quoted:-- "as to the situation of lathom house it stands upon a flat, upon a moorish springy and spumous ground, and was encompassed with a strong wall of two yards thick; upon the walls were nine towers flanking each other and in every tower were six pieces of ordnance that played three one way and three the other; without the wall was a moat eight yards wide and two yards deep; upon the back of the moat between the wall and the graff was a strong row of palisades around. besides all these, there was a high strong tower, called the eagle tower, in the midst of the house surmounting all the rest; and the gate house had also two high and strong buildings with a strong tower on each side of it.... besides all that has hitherto been said of the walls, towers, moat, etc., there is something so particular and romantic in the general situation of this house as if nature herself had formed it for a stronghold or place of security; for before the house to the south and south-west is a rising ground so near it as to overlook the top of it, from which it falls so quick that nothing planted against it on those sides can touch it further than the front wall; and on the north and east sides there is another rising ground, even to the edge of the moat, and then falls away so quick, that you can scarce, at the distance of a carbine shot, see the house over that height; so that all the batteries placed there are so far below it as to be of little service against it: and let us observe by the way that the uncommon situation of it may be compared to the palm of a man's hand, flat in the middle, and covered with a rising round about it, and so near to it that the enemy, during the siege, were never able to raise a battery against it, so as to make a breach in the wall practicable to enter the house by way of storm." ("house of stanley," p. .) either seacome invented all the above, or the present lathom house is not only not on the old site, but it is not anywhere near to it. for it is impossible to suppose that the nature of the ground can have changed so entirely. the soil round the present lathom house is not marshy but sandy, and it is not hilly but flat. there is a very slight slope away from the front of the house to the south, and also to the north, but on no side is there any place which can possibly be supposed to answer to seacome's description. moreover the so-called moat is by no means convincing. it is conceivable that a moat may have been considerably filled in since the seventeenth century, but the wall which now supports the bank is not high and the stone looks new; seacome's eight yards wide and two yards deep could hardly have so shrunk. in the woods recently planted, which began about half a mile south of the present house, is an evidently artificial ditch, some yards in length, bending slightly in the middle and running roughly e. and w. and n.e. and s.w. this is known as cromwell's trench, and the tradition is said to be an ancient one; there is also at some distance a large block of stone containing on its upper surface two hollows which are said to have been used for casting bullets; this is locally known as cromwell's stone. it may be noted that roby's reference to the site, though he evidently visited it, is not quite accurate. he says "it is said that the camp of the besiegers was in a woody dell near what is now called the 'round o quarry' about half a mile from lathom. this dell is still called 'cromwell's trench'; and a large and remarkable stone, having two circular hollows or holes on its upper surface, evidently once containing nodules of iron, is called 'cromwell's stone,' the country people supposing these holes were used as moulds for casting bullets during the siege." ("traditions of lancashire," th ed., , vol. i, p. .) actually the trench is rather more than half a mile from lathom but the stone is a quarter of a mile from the trench, and the quarry is at least a mile further off again. but roby evidently thought that the old house was at a considerable distance from the present one, for his imaginary view[ ] is taken "from a hill above the valley or trench where it is said the main army of the besiegers was encamped." the present house cannot be seen from the edge of the woods. roby's view seems to the present writer to give approximately the site of the old house. accepting the trench tradition as correct, it fixes the position of the house somewhere in the immediate vicinity, for th century siege guns were so poor that the besiegers' camp must have been quite close to the walls. it is of course possible that the trench is that made during the second siege which the "discourse" says was a good distance from the walls, but even so there would be no point at all in having it more than half a mile away. moreover the character of the ground at this point is both hilly and marshy just as in seacome's description. it seems, therefore, most reasonable to suppose that the site of old lathom house was somewhere in the woods, but on account of the undergrowth it is not possible to determine its exact position.[ ] in the gardens at lathom are many pieces of cut stone which have come from the old building, and in one place has been pieced together the upper tracery of a large window, perhaps from the chapel. footnotes: [ ] newspapers in "c.w.t.," pp. , . [ ] "portland mss.," vol. , p. . t. stockdale to wm. lenthall. this is a very minute description of the battle. [ ] "a declaration and summons sent by the earl of newcastle, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ): "i cannot but wonder while you fight against the king and his authority, you should so boldly offer to professe yourselves for king and parliament, and most ignominously scandalize this army with the title of papists, when we ventured our lives and fortunes for the true protestant religion, established in this kingdom." the lancashire letter to lenthall is in the "tanner mss.," vol. . fol. . [ ] newspapers: rosworm's "good service" ("c.w.t.," pp. , , ). the border of lancashire and yorkshire about blackstone edge is formed by high moors. the main road over the edge is , feet above sea level; and the summit of the moor , feet. the next summit to the south, bleakedgate moor, is , feet; rosworm says that this too was fortified. the descent on the lancashire side is rather steeper than that into yorkshire, but the latter is steep enough to make attack very difficult. blackstone edge is miles from manchester, from rochdale, and from halifax; rosworm calls halifax "distant about mile from us"; but actually it is miles by the nearest way, and over blackstone edge . in spite of the fortification of the border, it was thought advisable to send away the royalist prisoners at manchester to some more distant place ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] during these operations the parliamentarian troops were supported out of sequestered estates, the order for sequestrations being now for the first time put into force. tyldesley's estate at myerscough was sequestered in october, the first in amounderness hundred ("discourse," p. ). [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . order for pressing , soldiers in lancashire, with so many gunners, trumpeters, and surgeons, as the committee may think fit. [ ] thurland castle is still of much the same extent as formerly, but the old building only remains in the lower part of the walls. two pictures in philips' "lancashire halls," - , show a very dilapidated building. the moat is three or four yards wide and seven feet deep, and is still only crossed by a single bridge. [ ] "discourse," p. . "a true relation of the great victory, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). "the british mercury," no. , november . "the weekly account," no. , october . rigby's letter to the speaker was read in the house of commons, and on november he was formally thanked, and the destruction of thurland castle approved ("c.j.," vol. , p. ). it is evident that in spite of statements to the contrary, the common soldiers on both sides were alike in the matter of plundering. there are two places in furness named lindale, one near cartmel, and one near dalton. as rigby says that the royalists were driven into the sea, it must have been the former of these places where the battle was fought. in some resolutions agreed upon at a meeting of the deputy-lieutenants of lancashire at preston on october , , it was decided that hornby castle should be destroyed according to the order of parliament; so that the order had evidently not yet been carried into effect. it was also decided to maintain the garrisons of warrington and liverpool ("hist. mss. com.," vol. , app. , pp. , ). [ ] "discourse," p. . cf. also "hist. mss. comm.," vol. , app. , p. , where is given a petition from the town of liverpool that colonel moore might be governor in place of venables, who had been ordered to ireland (march, - ). moore was governor later in the same year when the town was taken by prince rupert. [ ] "carte mss.," vol. , fol. . bridgeman to ormonde, _ibid_, vol. , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. - . colonel robert byron to ormonde, january , - . "carte mss.," vol. , fol. , . byron says that of the parliamentarians were killed, and taken prisoners. his own regiment bore the brunt of the fighting, and he himself was wounded. [ ] "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. (bk. , par. ). [ ] magnalia dei ("cheshire civil war tracts," c.s. new series , p. ). great care must be taken in using this volume, as it is exceedingly badly arranged. no notice is taken of the fact that in the seventeenth century march was reckoned as the first day of the year, the tracts for january, february and march of each year being placed at the beginning of the year, instead of at the end as they ought to be. cf. also "c.w.t.," pp. - ; "discourse," pp. , , and notes. [ ] _vide_ note at the end of the chapter. [ ] the main authority for the first siege of lathom is a "journal" by someone in the house (usually supposed to have been archdeacon rutter, lady derby's chaplain), of which two mss. copies exist, one being "harleian mss.," no. , the other preserved in the ashmolean museum at oxford. they differ only slightly. the former is printed in "c.w.t.," pp. - . _vide_ also "discourse," pp. - ; "seacome," pp. - . cf. also "victoria county history of lancs.," vol. , p. . there is an account of both sieges of lathom by mrs. colin campbell in "memorials of old lancashire" ( ), vol. , pp. - : it is not of much historical value, being apparently based chiefly on seacome. [ ] seacome calls this officer major morgan. it is somewhat remarkable that the writer of the "discourse" does not mention him at all, but states that the chief engineer was named brown (_vide_ p. ). morgan was afterwards one of the foremost engineers of his time. he was the second son of robert morgan of llanrhymny; had served in the low countries before the civil war broke out, and became governor of gloucester for the parliament. he was with brereton when the last royalist force was defeated at stow-in-the-wold in . later he was closely associated with monck; was knighted by richard cromwell in , and continued in the army after the restoration ("discourse" note, p. ). "dictionary of national biography," art. by prof. c. h. firth. [ ] cf. however, "martindale's life," p. : "had lathom beene only blocked up at a distance by small garrisons and forts at considerable passes (for which there was spare forces enough) and not closely besieged, perhaps that great storme had not fallen upon lancashire (especially bolton and liverpool) by prince rupert's forces in their march to york." [ ] "discourse," p. . [ ] "there was needlessly spent against it in shot and powder an infinite quantity. some was alwaies shooting at nothing they could see but the walls" ("discourse," p. ). [ ] this is the date given in the earl of derby's diary, "stanley papers," part , vol. , p. (c.s. ), ed. raines. [ ] quoted in marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," p. . the "mercurius aulicus" tells a story about one sortie, that "the rebels held up a shoulder of mutton on a pike, and called to the defenders to come and dine." the garrison therefore sallied out on them as they were at dinner and scattered them. [ ] "a briefe journall of the siege against lathom" ("c.w.t.," pp. , ). [ ] "stanley papers," part , vol. (chet. soc. ), p. ci note. [ ] this is the estimate of the "journall" ("c.w.t.," p. . the numbers in the "mercurius aulicus" seem to be considerably more exaggerated even than are parliamentarian figures of royalist losses. the only reference to numbers on the part of the besiegers is in a letter written by colonel moore to the lords commissioners for england and scotland, on april : "they sallied forth of the house upon wednesday last, and we lost five and they fower. they likewise sallied forth last evening, but we beat them in without losse, and they lost two." (stewart mss., "hist. mss. com.," report , app. , p. .) [ ] this view is given in "traditions of lancashire," rd ed., , vol. , p. . [ ] cf. "victoria county history of lancs.," vol. , p. , note . chapter vii. prince rupert in lancashire. in the months of may and june, , lancashire for the first time became involved in the general course of the war, and for some weeks it was the centre of most important events. so much of other than merely local interest had the first siege of lathom house, that it influenced the course of rupert's march north, which was made in order to effect a junction with the earl of newcastle to check the scotch army which was now on its way to the assistance of the parliament. the scots, , strong, under alexander leslie, earl of leven, had crossed the tweed on january , - . newcastle at once summoned rupert to come to his aid, and marching northwards occupied the town of newcastle; but he was soon obliged to fall back on durham. meanwhile sir thomas fairfax, after the battle of nantwich on january th, had rejoined his father in yorkshire, and the two soon began to recover the county for the parliament. on april th they stormed selby, taking among other prisoners lord bellasis, whom newcastle had left in command during his absence. this defeat obliged newcastle to retreat still further southwards, and he shut himself up in york which was blockaded by fairfax and the scots on april nd.[ ] in january of this year rupert had captured aylesbury, and early in march he set out to relieve newark which had been invested by the parliament. the siege was raised, and the besiegers, who were commanded by sir john meldrum, were forced to capitulate; but rupert had to return his troops to the garrisons from which he had borrowed them, and almost without an army he marched back to the welsh border, where he occupied himself with raising fresh troops to go to the assistance of the earl of newcastle. as soon as his intentions for the north were known, the earl of derby endeavoured to persuade him to march by way of lancashire in order to relieve lathom house. the besieged countess must have written to her husband in a very different tone from that of her defiant answers to rigby; indeed if the earl of derby did not unduly exaggerate the position of the garrison, they must have been in imminent fear of being compelled to surrender. the petition was, however, seconded by the lancashire royalists, and the earl of derby promised that if lathom were relieved he would aid rupert's further march with , men and a considerable sum of money. it was pointed out that the towns of liverpool and warrington were but weakly garrisoned, and that the reconquest of lancashire would be a great gain for the king's cause in the north of england, "the rebellion in those parts being wholly supported from there." liverpool would be of immense use as the port towards ireland, and derby and prince rupert had already discussed over the map the possibility of reducing it.[ ] sir john byron, the royalist governor of chester, was persuaded to support the scheme; and the earl of derby having personally written to the king urging its desirability, charles' approval was given. the prospect of invasion had caused great consternation among the lancashire parliamentarians as early as the middle of march;[ ] but it was two months after that before rupert was able to move. drawing his forces together he began his advance towards yorkshire about the middle of may. on the th the royalists moved from holt, malpas, and whitchurch, to a more easterly position at market drayton; and next day they crossed the river weaver, and advanced to audlem and bruerton which are just over the cheshire border. a thousand parliamentarian troops marched out of nantwich as far as hatherton, but rupert was not anxious to fight and fell back to audlem. (monday, may th.) it was feared that he would lay siege to nantwich, but he passed to the east of that place, and on tuesday, may , his troops were quartered about haslington and sandbach, while rupert himself stayed at betley. on may th the march to lancashire began, and the royalists lodged at knutsford, which is only ten miles from the lancashire border; the following day they advanced to stockport, only seven miles distant from manchester. prince rupert's forces were estimated at , or , men, mostly cavalry, and they were said to have guns. at stockport colonels mainwaring and duckenfield were posted with about , men to oppose his advance, but they seem to have made very little resistance, and after a short skirmish they broke and fled towards manchester, leaving prisoners. the royalists occupied stockport, and were joined there by some of newcastle's cavalry from derbyshire. rupert left some of these to garrison stockport, and moved on into lancashire with the main body of his army.[ ] the parliamentarian leaders before york thought that rupert ought to have been stopped at stockport.[ ] there were two ways by which the royalists might have entered lancashire, either at stockport or at warrington; probably the passage of the river mersey at warrington was too strongly guarded for rupert to attempt it, for he must have preferred that way if he could have chosen. not only was it the most direct way to lathom but it passed through country which was much better affected to the king's cause than east lancashire. but no doubt the resistance offered at stockport was very feeble. rupert had certainly not more than , men, and there should have been almost an equal number available to oppose him. for the lancashire leaders had refused in april to send , men out of the county for the relief of the earl of denbigh on account of the necessities of their own county.[ ] lathom house, they said, was still unsubdued; the earl of derby threatened invasion from wirrall, and the westmoreland royalists from the north. it is true that some troops which had marched into yorkshire had been kept there to assist in the siege of york; but the two committees of lancashire and cheshire ought to have had far more than , men at stockport to oppose the royalist advance. perhaps one reason for their failure was the acute differences which had broken out among the lancashire leaders. complaints were made against colonel dodding, colonel holland and others, and there was even insubordination shown to sir thomas fairfax. there seems to have been no ground for the suspicions of dodding. he had suffered considerably for the parliamentarian cause, and he continued to serve it faithfully. as regards holland the complaints were probably justified; he had always been a rather lukewarm supporter of his party.[ ] as soon as rupert had entered lancashire his forces were considerably increased, the local royalists flocking to him in large numbers. the earl of derby joined him with all the forces he could raise. the royalists had now to decide whether they would attack manchester or march straight for lathom. on the day after rupert's victory at stockport, manchester was secured by sir john meldrum with one scotch regiment and one of fairfax's consisting of lancashire men.[ ] apparently meldrum had intended to arrive in time to prevent the royalists' advance from cheshire, but he was too late. rupert, however, had not much time to waste in sieges, and it was evident that manchester could not be taken except after a long investment. rosworm describes an attempt which was made by the royalists to induce him to betray the town by promise of a large sum of money and advancement under prince rupert. the intermediary was peter heywood. there may be some truth in the account, but heywood's plot to betray manchester seems to have been made about a month before this time, and rosworm's narrative is here very inaccurate. for instance he places rupert's advance after the siege of liverpool in august, in which he himself was engaged.[ ] whether or not the royalists attempted to gain manchester by treachery, they certainly made no approach on the town but keeping to the west they moved by way of barlow moor and trafford park about three miles distant from manchester. rupert's objective was now bolton, the second puritan stronghold of the county. when the news of rupert's coming reached the camp of the besiegers before lathom house the only doubt was where they might escape. the terror of rupert's name was worth a great deal to the royalists. colonel rigby showed great indecision; he could not make up his mind whether to stay in lancashire, or to cross into yorkshire. his troops were first removed to eccleston green, and they would then probably have been marched to manchester but for the fear of meeting rupert on the way. rigby's own family were in preston, and they at once escaped into yorkshire. in preston also there were about royalist prisoners guarded by captain pateson and captain swarbreck; and they twice received orders which were afterwards contradicted to join rigby at eccleston. finally they were directed to convey their prisoners to lancaster castle. leaving preston on the same day that prince rupert took bolton they quartered one night at myerscough lodge; next day they were attacked by a troop of royalist horse, and but for the timely assistance of colonel dodding, who was quartered at garstang on his way towards manchester, the prisoners would probably have been released.[ ] rigby finally made up his mind to go to bolton, thinking that rupert would march either to blackburn, or to preston and lancaster; but as it turned out the parliamentarians only reached bolton on the day before the royalists. rigby occupied the town on may th, and next morning rupert appeared before the town; and finding rigby and his men in possession they determined on an assault. the chances were obviously in favour of the royalists. they were quite three to one in numbers, and were commanded by the dreaded prince rupert and by the earl of derby. their opponents were disheartened by an unsuccessful three months' siege; moreover they were mostly newly raised troops, and as there had been no garrison kept in bolton for almost twelve months the defences were considered out of repair. nevertheless the fight was very fierce and for a time undecided. the royalists approached the town about o'clock in the afternoon from the south-west, and at once delivered an attack at several quarters; but after about half an hour's hard fighting at close quarters the first assault was beaten off. the royalists state that they lost men in this repulse. colonel rigby sent out of the town a troop of horse to stave off the second attack, but these were defeated. the earl of derby in person led the second attack, having requested prince rupert to allow him for this purpose two companies of his own soldiers then under the command of colonel tyldesley. after a quarter of an hour's desperate fighting the royalists effected an entrance, the earl being the first man to enter. some cavalry were admitted to another part of the town through the treachery of one of the townsmen, and caught between the two forces the parliamentarian troops were routed. each man saved himself as he might, but against the overwhelming superiority of the royalist horse in an unwalled town the defenders were helpless and the slaughter was great.[ ] little mercy was shown by the infuriated royalists, prince rupert having, on their own confession, at first forbidden quarter to be given to any in arms. seacome states that , parliamentarian soldiers out of a total of , were killed, and another royalist account puts the slain at , with prisoners. both these estimates are probably too high. it does not seem probable that rigby had more than , men, and large numbers of these certainly escaped, while more than were taken prisoners. a more reasonable estimate by a parliamentarian writer places the total loss on both sides at , to , , which is more likely to be correct. the parliamentarians would not be likely to over-estimate their own losses. of this , or , no doubt the larger number would belong to the town. supposing the royalists to have lost men in the first attack and more during all the rest of the engagement, it would still make the losses of the town three or four times as numerous, which is credible enough; for the parliamentarian troops would have lost very heavily in their flight, rupert having a large number of cavalry who could be of service in the pursuit. colonel rigby's cleverness alone secured his own escape. being on horseback he mingled with the royalists as they entered the town, learned their password, and posed for a time as one of their officers; then taking advantage of the general confusion he rode away with one attendant into yorkshire. the capture of bolton, or "bolton massacre" as the parliamentarian writers called it, was the saddest incident of the whole war in lancashire. nowhere else was the naturally bitter character of an intestine struggle so unhappily illustrated; nowhere else were such furious passions aroused; nowhere else was the slaughter so terrible. the account by a townsman, "an exact relation of the bloody and barbarous massacre at bolton in the moors in lancashire," etc., is without parallel in all the contemporary authorities for the vivid horror of its descriptions. against the otherwise moderate conduct of the lancashire war this terrible incident stood out in sharp contrast. it is of course easy enough for the historian, surveying it impartially at a long distance of time, to explain why this was so. no one could call prince rupert's methods of war merciful at any time; and in the present instance he was in haste to relieve york, and would be sure to make short work of any obstacles in his way. for the local royalist troops engaged, it was the first experience of victory after many months of defeat, and the garrison opposed to them was the same force which had besieged lathom house, against whom naturally the earl of derby and his followers had a particular grudge. they were commanded by the hated rigby, and bolton, 'the geneva of the north,' was especially detested by the opponents of puritanism. all these considerations served to make the capture of bolton more than usually terrible. it is probable, however, that the stories related by both sides of the outrages committed by their opponents, are exaggerated if not invented. the royalists assert that after their first attack had been beaten off, some prisoners taken were put to death in their sight upon the walls of the town; and they attribute their unrestrained slaughter on gaining the victory to this act of cruelty. the statement is, however, made by seacome, who is notoriously inaccurate; and as it is quite unsupported by any other testimony, it is impossible to believe it. on the other hand, horrible stories of barbarity are related by the parliamentarian writers as having been committed by the victors, in some cases on defenceless townsmen, and even on women and children. these are much more likely to be true than the other, but they are probably exaggerated. the gravest charge is that made against the earl of derby himself, that one captain bootle, formerly in his service, was taken prisoner and brought before the earl at his own request to ask for mercy; and that derby thereupon drew his sword and ran him through the body in cold blood. this story may be equally discredited.[ ] bootle was certainly killed during the siege; and the royalists state that he was killed by the earl of derby during the fighting, which is most probably true. before his execution derby denied the charge; and it seems quite incredible that a man so highminded and chivalrous, should have committed such an act even in the excitement of victory. there was perhaps great cruelty shown by the royalists, but not by derby personally; and we must attribute the story of the manner of bootle's death to party malice. prince rupert sent all the twenty-two colours taken at bolton to lady derby at lathom house, by the hand of sir richard crane, but he did not immediately march there himself. the earl of derby presented to rupert a ring worth £ as a token of his gratitude; and at lathom there were great rejoicings. no garrison was left in bolton, and the prisoners were taken away bound two and two together, and sent over hale ford into cheshire where they were distributed between chester, shrewsbury, and other places.[ ] after this success the county came in very fast to the royalists, and derby soon had , men under his command. the parliamentarians never forgave the massacre at bolton. wrongly accused as he was, derby's share in the engagement was in part at least responsible for the implacability with which his enemies pursued him to the scaffold. from this time onwards the parliament placed his name among the list of those who were to be excepted from pardon in case peace was made with the king. bolton market place was chosen as the place of his death in remembrance of the royalist victory there. as regards the prince, they delighted to ascribe his subsequent disaster to the vengeance of heaven for his cruelty in lancashire. "the blood of bolton would not let him rest till all the glory he had got was lost in one hour"[ ] writes baillie on july . at marston moor, though the royalists were nearly successful, it was the ever victorious rupert who was driven off the field at the first encounter. a collection for the relief of bolton was made in manchester church and salford chapel in june, and reached the total of £ , a large sum considering the general distress which prevailed.[ ] when the committee of both kingdoms heard of rupert's advance, they wrote to the earl of manchester before york urging him to send a considerable force to resist the prince in lancashire. (june st.) it was urged that rupert might secure lancashire, capture the passes so that he could send out troops into the neighbouring counties as he liked, and by means of liverpool take in supplies from the sea; by which the war would be indefinitely prolonged. similar letters were sent to fairfax and to leven. but the parliamentarian generals in yorkshire, rightly objected to dividing their forces; deciding that it was impossible for them to deal with an enemy who was yet so far away, and that for the present the west must look after itself. the committee in london were urgent, and letters passed daily during the month of june; but their ignorance of the situation sufficiently illustrates the absurdity of endeavouring to direct a campaign by votes of a committee distant miles from the seat of war. the earl of denbigh, the parliamentarian general in the midlands, defended himself at length and with some heat from the charge that he was to blame in not being able to check prince rupert's march by falling upon his rear.[ ] at length sir harry vane was sent down to york to consult with the generals there; but on arriving early in june he was speedily convinced that it was impossible to divide the army as the committee suggested. assheton and rigby, who were in yorkshire, naturally seconded the committee's opinion; but until the earl of manchester's foot had been brought to the siege, progress had been very slow, and it would have been very unwise to weaken the besieging force; as it was, york was closely beset on all sides and might soon be expected to capitulate. the committee were evidently wrong. to divide the parliamentarian army would have been dangerous, to raise the siege of york would have played into the enemy's hands. rupert was in fact wasting time in lancashire. his best chance would have been to gather all the troops he could after his capture of bolton and to march straight on york; but he spent four precious weeks before he left lancashire. "i hope you will not have cause to apprehend prince rupert's strength," wrote manchester, "for excepting plundering, at which his army is expert, no considerable places have been taken possession of by his army."[ ] the committee of both kingdoms indeed over-rated prince rupert's ability. he was no great general though a splendid cavalry officer. the plan which they sketched for him of securing lancashire and using it as a base was beyond his powers, even if it had been possible under the circumstances. and the lancashire royalists had been so scattered before rupert came, that they were not able to give him any very substantial help. as long as it continued to be impossible for the king to march north, rupert might be left to himself. after a few days rest at bolton, the royalists marched at once to liverpool. they stated that newcastle had sent word that he could still hold out for a few weeks. the liverpool of that day was a small town situated on a ridge of land east of the mersey, and sloping on the west towards the river and on the east towards the country. it was strongly fortified and held by colonel moore, who was the parliamentarian governor. at the north end of the town was a high mud wall, and a ditch yards wide and yards deep was drawn round most of the landward side. at the south end was a castle also protected by a ditch which could be filled with water from the river; all the streets facing the river were blocked up, while those on the other side of the town were palisaded and defended with cannon. when rupert first looked down on the town from the higher ridge which overlooked it on the east he likened it to a crow's nest which might easily be robbed; but before he had taken it he said it might better be called an eagle's nest or a den of lions. flushed with their victory at bolton, the royalists delivered a furious attack expecting to overcome as they had done the other town; but at liverpool the fortifications were much stronger, and they were beaten off with the loss of many men. they then established a blockade, rupert's main camp being placed at the beacon, a full mile from the town, from which he relieved his trenches and batteries twice daily. day after day a furious bombardment was directed against the defences, rupert's natural impatience being increased by urgent appeals which now began to come from york. but for a fortnight the town continued to hold out, and at least two attempts to storm were beaten off with loss. the failure of the bombardment was partly due to an unusual defence which was resorted to. the refugees from ireland, of whom there were a great many in the town, had brought over among other effects many bags of wool, and the tops of the walls were lined with these bags, which proved of great service in deadening the force of the enemy's shot. the parliamentarians also had command of the river, and a reinforcement of english and scotch troops from manchester were marched to warrington and from thence sent to liverpool by water. at length the royalists gained an entrance at the north end of the town by a night attack during whit-week (june or ), and carried the town by storm. there was some slaughter and much plundering; but there were still some ships in the river, and when the royalists entered the town moore embarked as many of his soldiers as he could and himself escaped. he was afterwards much blamed for deserting the town, and it was suggested that he had yielded the northern works by treachery in order to ingratiate himself with rupert and save his own house, bank hall, which was on that side of the town. but this suggestion seems to have been without foundation; and it was afterwards stated in moore's defence that when the royalists entered liverpool his soldiers refused to follow him, and that he himself only retreated when resistance was hopeless, and embarked under fire.[ ] [illustration: a plan of liverpool, _and the pool_; as they appeared about the year .] prince rupert left sir john byron as governor of liverpool, and himself marched to lathom house whose fortifications were considerably strengthened under his direction. he promoted captain rawsthorne to the rank of colonel, and appointed him governor of the fortress; captain chisenhale was also made colonel and accompanied rupert into yorkshire. the countess of derby and her children had removed after the raising of the siege to the isle of man.[ ] liverpool was garrisoned by colonel cuthbert clifton's regiment, newly raised in the fylde.[ ] the committee of both kingdoms still persisted in its design of having rupert opposed on his march into yorkshire; which might have been sound policy provided no troops were withdrawn from the siege of york for that purpose. on june , they directed the earl of denbigh to march into cheshire with all his forces and to keep in touch with the garrison at manchester which now numbered , men; and colonel hutchinson at nottingham was also told to be ready to march with horse and foot.[ ] later a general rendezvous was appointed, at which these forces were to be joined by lord grey with horse and foot, and by sir john gell from derby with horse and foot. apparently the generals before york were at last prevailed upon to promise some troops for lancashire. by the end of june, denbigh was said to be on the march; but before the preparations were completed they were no longer needed. early in june rupert was joined by lord goring with reinforcements of cavalry, which brought his army up to nearly , men; but even still there were delays. disquieting rumours reached the prince of the opportunity which his enemies at court were making in his absence to accuse him to the king. it was "the common discourse of the lord digby, lord percy, sir john culpeller, and wilmot, that it is indifferent whether the parliament or prince rupert doth prevail." naturally rupert was so enraged "that he was once resolved to send the king his commission and get to france. this fury interrupted his march ten days." at last, however, the prince set out on his way to york. he stopped at preston, where a banquet was prepared for him, but he refused it saying "banquets were not fit for soldiers," and instead carried the mayor and bailiffs prisoners as far as skipton castle where he left them.[ ] he probably used both the roads out of lancashire by clitheroe and colne; and his march was harassed by colonel shuttleworth. several skirmishes took place, which were not to the royalists' advantage. garrisons were left in clitheroe and skipton castle. on june th rupert was said to be still in lancashire, and the cheshire royalists were still hoping to catch him on his march; two days later his advance guard was at skipton; but after this he marched more swiftly. on monday, july st, the parliamentarian armies raised the siege of york on hearing that rupert had passed knaresborough; and the battle of marston moor was fought on the following day. marston moor was the most important battle of the whole civil war, and the importance of the coming engagement was fully realised before it took place. both sides as usual invoked the divine aid. "if god help us to take york and defeat him (rupert) the business is ended in england," wrote baillie on june th, and in the same strain colonel robert byron wrote to ormond after the battle but before its result was known: "and doubtless it is the greatest business that hath been since the war began. god almighty give the prince good success."[ ] perhaps nowhere was the event of the battle awaited with greater anxiety than in lancashire. rupert's coming had changed again the whole state of affairs in that county. "half of the county at this time was under their power, viz., derby, leyland, and amounderness hundreds from the taking of bolton, may th, till the th august." while the prince was in lancashire the royalists showed great activity so that they might hold out after he had gone. on the result of marston moor depended whether or not this state of things should remain; but with the defeat of the royalists the tables were turned again. instead of having to fight on the defensive against the victorious enemy the lancashire parliamentarians had now only fugitives to deal with. after the battle rupert stayed one night in york, then made his way back by the yorkshire dales into lancashire; but while his first appearance in the county had been a progress of victory, at his second coming he headed only fragments of a defeated army, which were anxious to escape without further fighting. indeed what fighting there was took place with his lieutenants. the prince himself was at hornby castle on july th; from there he marched hastily through the fylde to preston and then down the western coast and so over hale ford into cheshire. his forces, however, remained in lancashire for a month afterwards. the committee of both kingdoms were still in great fear of what rupert might do, and urged fairfax to send forces after him; but rupert was anxious to get out of lancashire as fast as he could, and the forces which he left were in a scattered condition and without ammunition. they were under the command of goring, molyneux and tyldesley, and they remained in amounderness hundred, until at length sir john meldrum was despatched from york with , horse to clear the county. reinforced with lancashire foot, he set out in search of the enemy about august th, and the royalists on hearing of his approach retreated again over the ribble into the fylde. some of them, however, under lord ogleby and colonel huddleston of millom attempted to reach lathom house and were encountered near walton by colonel dodding. the royalists, consisting of horse, outnumbered dodding, but word being sent to colonel nicholas shuttleworth who was near blackburn, he hastened up and thus reinforced, dodding routed the royalists and captured or prisoners, including huddleston and ogleby (aug. ). the remainder escaped to lathom, but few of them could get through the lines there, the siege having been renewed. there seems to have been a further skirmish at ribble bridge a few days later. colonel dodding then joined sir john meldrum, who reached preston late on friday, august th, and quartered there on the following saturday and sunday. on august th goring joined the other royalists who were encamped about lytham and kirkham, plundering greatly; they now numbered about , , nearly all cavalry. a rendezvous was appointed on freckleton marsh on monday, august th; and on the same day meldrum drew up his forces on penwortham moor, south of preston, intending to attack them. but he seems to have been ignorant of the country. intending to cross the ribble below preston, he found the passage impracticable on account of the tide; and having wasted much time he was forced to return to preston and to march along the north bank of the ribble by way of greaves town and lea hall. from the latter place the royalists were discovered across freckleton marsh crossing the river some three miles away. meldrum at once gave chase as fast as possible, the horsemen each taking up a musketeer behind him for greater speed; but when they reached the water the tide had again risen too high for them to cross, and they were only in time to send a parting shot or two after the royalists. meldrum waited for the rest of his foot, and the same night returned to preston. next day (aug. th) he again set out in pursuit, marching south-westward; and in the evening he encountered the royalists near ormskirk. they had been forced to make a detour on reaching the southern bank of the ribble in order to avoid colonel assheton who lay with some troops near hesketh bank, and so had been unable to escape further. though it was o'clock in the evening when meldrum came up with the royalists, he at once ordered an attack. colonel booth's foot regiment opened fire and the royalists made very little resistance; their defeat was completed by a charge of cavalry who pursued as long as the light would allow. the royalists were quite scattered. their chief men managed to escape, but most of the officers and men were taken prisoners. the few who escaped fled southwards and over hale ford into cheshire. prince rupert was said to be on the southern bank of the mersey waiting for a chance to invade lancashire again; but this defeat made it impossible for him to do so.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "cambridge modern history," vol. , pp. , ; "c.s.p.," pp. , . [ ] derby to rupert, chester, march , - : "i have received many advertisements from my wife of her great distress and imminent danger, unless she be relieved by your highness, on whom she doth more rely than any other whatever, and all of us consider well she hath chief reason so to do" ("rupert mss.," add. mss. , fol. ). derby's information was that there were only men each in the towns of liverpool and warrington, the garrisons having been withdrawn to the siege of lathom. sir john byron to rupert, apr. , describes lathom as in danger of being lost: "the constant intelligence from that county every day is that if your highness only appear there, the greatest part of the rebels' forces will desert them and join you, and that county being once reduced, all this part of england will presently be clear." "rupert mss.," fol. ; "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. (book , par. ). [ ] assheton to moore, march (stewart mss., "hist. mss. com.," rep. , app. , p. ). he has heard that the princes are joined, and fears that their objective may be lancashire by way of hale ford or liverpool. in the meantime derby continued to address urgent appeals to rupert. he has not been able to raise the regiments which the prince had required in order to raise the siege, "and the time is now past, for the enemy is so close to the house that it is impossible for that design to take effect which might have been some relieving of a distressed woman whose only hope, next to almighty god, is in your highness's help." ("hist mss. com.," report , app. , p. .) [ ] newspapers in "c.w.t.," ; "c.s.p.," , . [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , . they urged that there were only two ways for rupert to go, either through warrington or stockport; and that both should be well guarded. [ ] lancashire committee to the earl of denbigh, may : "they profess willingness to send some troops, but that if the older soldiers are withdrawn the new recruits are not to be trusted" ("c.s.p.," , p. ). the regiments intended for denbigh were holland's and booth's (_ibid._, pp. , ). cf. also h. l. calendar, "hist. mss. com.," report , p. . [ ] "c.s.p.," pp. , . cf. rosworm's "good service," "c.w.t.," pp. - . some action of fairfax's, it does not appear what, had evidently provoked resentment. dodding afterwards marched with his regiment into yorkshire, and fought at the battle of marston moor, where he lost many of his men ("discourse," p. ). [ ] "perfect diurnall," june ("c.w.t.," p. ). [ ] rosworm's "good service," "c.w.t.," p. . but cf. "c.s.p.," , p. , where a reference is made to a letter from col. moore before lathom on may , stating that heywood's plot had then been discovered and that he had fled. rosworm says that heywood was captured, but released through holland's influence. [ ] "discourse," p. . the details are probably correct, though all the dates in this narrative during may, , are a fortnight too early. [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. , ; "seacome," p. ; "discourse," pp. , . [ ] for a full and thoroughly sound discussion of this incident, _vide_ "discourse" note, pp. - . the only possible doubt of derby's innocence of the crime is that the charge is made with great detail by the author of the "discourse," who is an unusually impartial writer, and had, moreover, a high opinion of derby. [ ] arthur trevor to ormonde, june : "my lord of derby is now sending over to your excellency to barter for or buy arms and ammunition. i shall, on his lordship's behalf, desire he may pay well. i promise he is well able to do it, for upon the relief of lathom he presented the prince with a ring worth twenty pounds sterling at most; sir richard crane, who carried the colours to be left as trophy in his house, a ring price shillings, and w. legge with four candlesticks worth £ in all." ("carte mss.," vol. ii, fol. .) the rather cynical tone of this letter may be taken as an example of the earl of derby's unpopularity with the royalist leaders. the ford at hale was for a long time the principal pass over the mersey between liverpool and warrington. it ceased to be generally used about years ago; but almost within living memory horses were taken over by this way for hunting in cheshire. it is now impossible to get across. [ ] "baillie's letters" (ed. laing, vols., - ), vol. , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , , , - . [ ] "c.s.p.," , p. . [ ] _vide_ p. . "discourse," p. ; "c.w.t.," p. ; "seacome," p. . ramsay muir, "history of liverpool" ( ), chap. , p. . legge to trevor, june : "and now liverpool is in our hands, i hope we shall have a freer intelligence from ireland than before we had. i assure you that was the end we stopped ther for." in spite of this advantage, the siege of liverpool was not worth while, and the royalists admit that the barrels of powder which it cost, left rupert but ill provided. ("carte mss.," vol. ii, fol. , .) "seacome," p. , says that the siege lasted nearly a month, but this is evidently an error, for it cannot have begun before may . [ ] "seacome," p. . "july , : my wife landed in the isle of man." derby's diary, "stanley papers" (c.s. ), ed. raines, pt. , vol. , p. . [ ] "discourse," p. . [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , , , . [ ] trevor to ormonde, chester, june , ("carte mss.," vol. , fol. , ; "discourse," p. . [ ] baillie to spong, june ("letters," vol. , p. ). col. r. byron to ormonde, july ("carte mss.," vol. , fol. ). [ ] "discourse," pp. , ; "c.w.t.," p. ; "denbigh mss.," vol. , p. . it seems evident that if meldrum had been better informed of the fords across the ribble below preston, he might have caught the royalists a day before he did. in the parliamentarian newspapers the number of prisoners taken was placed as high as , men. on july , sir george booth at dunham was informed that prince rupert was still at preston with , horse and some foot. chapter viii. the end of the first civil war. there was now no longer a royalist army in lancashire; the only places which still held out were liverpool, lathom house and greenhalgh castle. clitheroe castle had been deserted by its garrison a few weeks after the battle of marston moor; but skipton, over the yorkshire border, was for some time longer a source of apprehension to the parliamentarians in blackburn hundred. after the defeat of the royalists at ormskirk, meldrum at once laid siege to liverpool; but the fortifications were strong, and the town resisted for ten weeks, being at last surrendered on friday, november st. colonel rosworm directed the ordnance at the siege, and colonel moore commanded some ships from the river. but meldrum was called away for service in north wales, and during his absence the siege was not conducted with any vigour. "i have had much ado," he wrote to the committee of both kingdoms from liverpool on october nd, "to bring back the lancashire foot to their quarters before liverpool, in regard to their want of obedience even to their own officers, the unseasonableness of the weather, and the time of harvest. they have had no pay for weeks, and have been much pinched for want of victuals ever since they have been under my charge, the country being so wasted and spoiled by prince rupert's two journeys through lancashire.... during my being abroad the enemy has taken divers of our men while sleeping upon their guard, and by what is intercepted i find them reduced to great extremities by inviting the garrison of lathom house, consisting of horse and foot under colonel vere, who since the rout at ormskirk hath been there, to fall upon some of our quarters upon thursday next and in the meantime those within the town resolved to fall desperately upon some of our quarters and to make their retreat to lathom house."[ ] the earl of derby was also reported to be gathering troops in cheshire for the relief of the town; but he was defeated by sir william brereton, and the intended attack from lathom house never took place. but no breach could be made in the walls of liverpool, and in the end it was starved into surrender. the circumstances were peculiar. in the last days of october english soldiers of the garrison escaped, driving away with them some of the cattle, and surrendered to the besiegers, many of them taking service under the parliament. the officers in the town realising that resistance was useless after this occurrence, attempted to make their escape by sea as colonel moore had done when liverpool was captured by prince rupert. but the remainder of the garrison, who were irish troops, feared that they would be excepted from quarter; they therefore secured their officers, and opened the gates to the parliamentarians on promise that their own lives should be spared. colonel clifton and other officers with many arms were captured; clifton was taken to manchester and afterwards died. the capture of liverpool was important enough to be made the occasion of a public thanksgiving on november th.[ ] differences, however, again broke out among the lancashire leaders, and it was difficult to find a governor for liverpool who would be generally acceptable. meldrum himself was in favour of leaving the town in the hands of colonel moore, of whose ability he had evidently formed a high opinion. moore seems to have acted as governor for a time, but in may, , john ashhurst, now major, was appointed. there was at first some doubt about the continuance of the garrison. the committee of both kingdoms were of opinion that the works had better be demolished on the ground of expense, though it would be necessary to keep a small vessel to guard the harbour. but the position of liverpool as a port forbade its being left without a garrison, and a force of foot and troop of horse was ordered to remain there. in march, , the house of commons ordered that the liverpool garrison should consist of foot.[ ] the siege of greenhalgh castle was entrusted to col. dodding and major joseph rigby, younger brother of the better known colonel rigby. it was garrisoned by a number of royalist refugees, the governor being mr. anderton, probably christopher anderton of lostock. the castle stood on a little hill about half a mile south-east of garstang; it was very strongly built, and having only one entrance was difficult of approach. probably only a few troops were told off for the siege, for the garrison could sally out to plunder the countryside, and for a time at least had the better of the parliamentarians. the sandy nature of the soil made mining operations difficult, and on one occasion the garrison countermined and captured five barrels of powder. at length anderton died, and the garrison surrendered on promise of their liberty. the castle was demolished and all the timber sold; only a part of one tower now remains.[ ] (june th, ). during the autumn of negotiations were opened with the earl to induce him to surrender. these were conducted by sir john meldrum, who employed as his agent major ashhurst, the only parliamentarian officer at the first siege of lathom house for whom the royalists had a good word to say. in october meldrum wrote twice to derby, and early in the following month william farington and john greenhalgh came into lancashire under safe conduct to discuss terms. what exactly the propositions were is not stated, but meldrum told the committee of both kingdoms that he would only begin to treat on condition that lathom and greenhalgh were surrendered. in spite of this, however, he was of opinion from notes of a private interview which ashhurst had with the earl, that derby would be "found inclinable to any course which may give the parliament contentment." a fortnight later he writes more decidedly: "i find the earl inclinable to give all satisfaction to both houses of parliament, if he may have the least testimony under the hands of the earls of pembroke and salisbury that upon demolishing the fortifications and removal of the garrisons of lathom house and greenhalgh castle, he may expect to have fair and noble dealings." (nov. st, .) later still it seemed as if an agreement had nearly been reached. meldrum writes:-- "i desire to know your pleasure whether the earl after the full accomplishment of the treaty may not begin his journey to london, and stay at st. alban's till he shall receive an order from both houses or from your lordships to come to london." (dec. th, .) it is not quite clear what led to the breaking off the negotiations; but the parliament would be almost sure to ask more than derby was willing to yield, and the longer the strongholds in lancashire held out the more severe might the parliament terms be expected to become. twelve months later they made a proposal which could only have been intended as an insult. he was required as the price of his reconciliation to give up lord digby, the earls of nithsdale and carnwath, sir marmaduke langdale, sir william huddleston, and other royalists who had found refuge in the isle of man when the king's cause in england was entirely lost, "otherwise your lordship is not to expect from us any further invitation." as might have been supposed, derby returned an indignant refusal.[ ] the defeat of rupert at marston moor completely destroyed the king's chances of victory in the civil war, but less than two months later his triumph over essex at lostwithiel, where all the parliamentarian foot were obliged to surrender, gave his cause a new lease of life in the south of england. the winter was passed in fruitless negotiations; when they had broken down the new model ordinance was passed through parliament, and in the spring of the toils began to close round the king who left oxford and marched northwards with rupert. thus once more lancashire was brought into the general course of events. it was feared that charles would try to break through to join the earl of montrose in scotland; instead of advancing leven retreated, notwithstanding remonstrances from sir thomas fairfax. the fairfaxes themselves were at york, and thus lancashire was left completely undefended. the leaders were in great consternation. already in the middle of march, , it was feared that the king would march on shropshire and cheshire, and the committee of both kingdoms wrote to sir george booth to be careful to guard warrington.[ ] two months later the danger was acute; if the king could enter lancashire he might indefinitely increase his forces. charles penetrated into cheshire in may, and obliged sir william brereton to raise the siege of chester and draw his men into garrisons. fairfax promised to send , men in order to hinder the king's advance, and the lancashire leaders were urged to keep careful watch over all the passes into that county, and to have horse and , foot ready to send to any rendezvous which fairfax and leven might appoint. colonel assheton's regiment was recalled in haste from cheshire. the ford at hale was guarded by , foot and troops of horse, and the general rendezvous was appointed at barlow moor, near manchester, on thursday, may th. the lancashire troops, however, attended in small numbers. they were greatly disorganised and the county much wasted by three years of war; and they complained of the place chosen for the rendezvous as being too near to plague-stricken manchester. lathom was still a thorn in the side of the parliamentarians of the county, and they were obliged to leave some troops at ormskirk to continue the siege; there remained only one company of foot to defend both liverpool and warrington, and one of egerton's regiments flatly refused his order to march. on may nd the lancashire committee wrote to london that they had obeyed the orders regarding the disposition of troops, "but it is more difficult to defend the country near manchester, the river being shallow, and the scots and cromwell both marching further off than was expected." next day sir william brereton wrote from manchester, giving a very gloomy picture of affairs. "the forces assigned for the passes are inconsiderable, the passes many and indefensible." all the men he could spare were on the borders of cheshire but they were quite inadequate to oppose the king if he should try to enter lancashire. a few days before the earl of callander had sent a letter to the scotch commissioners in london to the same effect. "if we should abandon yorkshire to go into lancashire, this county would lie open to the king, and york will probably be lost; if we stay here the king is at liberty to enter lancashire and increase his army, because of the many disaffected persons in that county. it is impossible to defend both places which is a line of miles, at once, the ways and passages also between those counties being such as the forces in one county cannot without very great difficulty and marching a long way give assistance to the other."[ ] all this may have been exaggerated, but there is no doubt that lancashire was in a state of great distress. fortunately for the parliamentarian party, however, the king's position was even worse than their own. weak as they were, he was in no condition to force an entrance into hostile territory. the resistance offered may have been inadequate, but the appearance of force was enough to turn him in another direction. on may st he was at whitchurch, 'not miles from hale ford'; but he came no nearer to lancashire than market drayton, but turned eastwards into the midlands, and on may st took leicester by storm.[ ] there were further fears of charles in september when he was in cheshire; but his defeat at rowton heath disposed of that danger. even in october when he was at welbeck, it was feared that his plan was to march northwards to relieve skipton and lathom, and to recruit his foot in lancashire, "where manchester will be as easily entered as attempted"; but the defeat of langdale, near pontefract, removed this danger too.[ ] meanwhile the siege at lathom house dragged on. during the winter of the garrison was practically unmolested, so that they were able to make little plundering expeditions, riding out after nightfall and returning to the house before daylight. sometimes they even ventured further afield into the fylde country. so great was the nuisance occasioned by their plundering and that of the royalists at greenhalgh, that in december a local "cessation" was effected; but the parliament promptly annulled it. at length the committee at manchester decided to re-form the siege, and colonel egerton was chosen for command. (january, - .) troops were provided out of all the county, but no serious attempt was made to storm, the object being rather to starve out the garrison. in the house were a numerous garrison under colonel rawsthorne and colonel vere, who had with them charnock, key, molyneux radcliffe, farington and other captains who had taken part in the first siege. there seem to have been three divisions of the royalists, the main guard being in lathom itself, and others at new park; while the third division consisting of the irish troops who had been at liverpool during the previous summer occupied the lodge. the parliamentarian engineer was colonel morgan, who had also taken part in the first siege. no trenches were made close to the house, but under his direction a deep ditch was drawn round the wall at some distance, and the attacking force lay on the outer side of that. there would only be fighting when the garrison sallied out for stores. the siege made very slow progress. on march , , egerton writes very despondently to the speaker concerning the state of the siege and the discipline of his troops. it was now nearly three months since he had first advanced, and in spite of promises his force was so small that he dared not approach nearer than four or five miles from the house. most of the troops had been got together by his own efforts. he had at first advanced to within two miles, but finding that he could not stop the garrison plundering, he had retired again and spread out his men, who only numbered foot and horse. even these were constantly deserting, and trying to take their colours with them.[ ] some months before this meldrum had written that the colonels of three regiments "told me plainly that if i should press the soldiers to an approach which would require them to lie in the trenches without shelter, where there was neither money nor victuals, they would all be gone do what we could to prevent it."[ ] by the middle of july, however, the parliamentarian troops had made a considerable advance, for they carried the lodge by storm, forty of the defenders being killed and sixty taken prisoners; and soon afterwards the garrison at new park also surrendered, after which the royalists were confined to lathom itself. in august, two of the earl of derby's servants named sharples and moreau, came over from the isle of man, and were captured in trying to get through the besiegers' lines. sharples was sent into the house that he might explain the hopelessness of resistance, but in vain. the garrison refused to be convinced, and sharples was allowed to return to the earl of derby. for three months more the royalists held out. but it was an unnecessary display of courage, and was bound to have disastrous results for lathom house. this second siege was very different from the first. the glamour of lady derby's presence was gone. instead of a numerous garrison well armed and provisioned, making successful sorties at intervals, and hopeful of release from without, there were only a few irreconcilables being gradually starved into submission. and they had nothing to gain by prolonging the war, for after the battle of naseby the royalist cause was dead. after the defeat of charles at rowton heath in september, , he sent word to lathom that there was no longer any prospect of relief from him, and the garrison had better therefore surrender. it would appear, however, that negotiations had already been entered into. very favourable terms were at first offered. the house with all its contents were of course to be surrendered; but the garrison might freely depart, and lady derby and her children were to be allowed to live at knowsley house with one-third of the earl's estate for their support. seacome states that these terms were freely offered by egerton, and were only broken off by the obstinacy of one of the royalist commissioners, who absolutely refused to agree unless the cannon were allowed to remain at lathom for its defence. actually, however, it would seem that the committee of both kingdoms interfered, and forbade the conclusion of the negotiations. if suitable terms should be proposed, they professed to be willing to consider them.[ ] by the middle of november the shortage of provisions of the garrison had become so great that another parley was requested. a place was appointed, and the two sides again met; but even now they could not agree, the royalists refusing to accept any terms except those which they themselves proposed. the conference was broken off and they returned outwardly confident to lathom; but their action was really just as much a piece of bluff as rigby's last demand for surrender during the first siege in may, . the tables were now turned, and it was rigby's shrewdness which perceived how desperate the condition of the garrison was. when they were gone, colonel alexander rigby said to the rest of the colonels and commanders then present that "he was persuaded that notwithstanding their seeming stoutness and highness of stomacke they could not hold out long, the smell and taste of their garments bewraied it."[ ] nevertheless the garrison did hold out for three weeks longer, and it was the beginning of december before the great house was at last starved into surrender. the final agreement was made between colonel booth on one side, and colonel nowell, colonel vere, and two others on behalf of the royalists. the terms were as follows:--the house with all its plate and furniture, and all the horses and arms of the garrison were to be delivered up to the parliament; only the governor might take his horse and pistols and £ in money. officers above the rank of lieutenant were allowed their swords, but all below that rank and all the common soldiers were to depart unarmed. convoy was to be provided for them to aberconway, which was the nearest royalist garrison not besieged.[ ] there were said to be about common soldiers still remaining in lathom, but few of them took advantage of the opportunity to lay down their arms 'being old blades and mercenaries.' some guns and smaller arms were captured, with some ammunition and stores of provision of several kinds. it was chiefly the deficiency of bread which had compelled the garrison to surrender. lathom was finally given up to the parliament at p.m. on december rd, , and the king had now no garrison left in lancashire. "this evening," says the "perfect diurnall" of december th, "after the house was up, they came letters to the speaker of the commons house of the surrender of lathom house in lancashire belonging to the earl of derby." all the newspapers for that week are full of references to the event.[ ] at castle rushen, when at length the news reached the isle of man, there was great distress. lord derby's "book of private devotions" contains _a meditation which i made when the tidings were brought to me of the delivering up lathom house to the enemy_, which consist of a long series of texts chiefly from the book of job and from jeremiah. "oh that i were as in months past, as in the days when god preserved me." (job , v. .) "but now they that are younger than i have me in derision, whose fathers i would have disdained to set with the dogs of my flock." (job , v. .) "oh how sits the city solitary which was full of people? how is she become a widow? she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary."[ ] (lam. , v. .) it is impossible not to fully share his grief for the destruction of this magnificent fortress, "a little town in itself." "it was the glory of the county," wrote one who fought against the earl in the civil war. this great house, whose lords had enjoyed almost royal power for centuries was now a ruin. splendid in loyalty, supreme among the nobility of the north of england, generous to their tenantry, the lords of lathom had a great record of honour and service. this was now at an end. the demolition of their house was complete. everything moveable and saleable was stripped off and sold, the walls were cast down into the ditch; and it was never rebuilt.[ ] and with old lathom house departed much of the glory of the house of stanley. before the end of the civil war the earl of derby was beheaded at bolton, and his descendants never recovered the state which had been his. in the following century the direct male line of his house died out, and the title passed to another branch. this ended the fighting in lancashire for the present; but the king's standard still floated over a few isolated towns and fortresses, and one of these was chester, which had long been invested by sir william brereton, but still held out. the cheshire committee appealed to the neighbouring county for assistance in the autumn of , but there was little help to spare from lancashire then. in october, however, when there was a prospect of a royalist attempt to raise the siege of chester, horse and all the forces of lonsdale hundred were sent to brereton's help. but he still appealed for more men (oct. ), and on november th more troops of horse were despatched under major clarkson and major robinson. five hundred men had recently gone out of lancashire to assist in the blockade of skipton castle, and the siege of lathom house was still a heavy drain on the resources of the county. when lathom fell, the troops there were set free for other service, but so wearied and insubordinate were they that they would not move without a fortnight's pay, and pay brereton had none to give. protests were of no use. at length colonel george booth was sent to bolton to negotiate with the lancashire committee and succeeded in persuading their troops to march by promising them 'the same pay as other auxiliaries.' on december th the lancashire committee issued an order for all the available men to march, the horse under colonel nicholas shuttleworth, colonel john booth and colonel assheton to command their own regiments of foot; and companies of foot not in either of these regiments might choose in which they would serve. the commanders at chester, however, had still to endure some delay. colonel assheton had only just returned from london, and his regiment was very late in starting. shuttleworth, with nine troops of horse, reached tarporley about december st, and the others followed soon after.[ ] the lancashire horse were kept before chester to strengthen the siege, and the foot, together with the cheshire foot, were sent out to whitchurch to intercept a possible royalist advance. when the royalists retreated all were brought back to the siege. loud complaints were made by the cheshire committee of the insubordination of the lancashire troops, but as they were paid more than any of the other auxiliaries they were probably more valuable. brereton, however, continued to send appeals for help into lancashire until nearly the middle of january, but on february rd, - , chester was finally surrendered. the lancashire troops returned home and were mostly disbanded; there were now no soldiers in arms in the county excepting the garrison at liverpool.[ ] there was now some years' quiet in lancashire, and the stricken county was able to recover slowly from its devastation and misery. the general course of affairs was briefly as follows. after sir thomas fairfax had beaten goring at langport in july and rupert had surrendered bristol in september, the royalist resistance was practically at an end though raglan castle held out until august, . the king surrendered to the scots at southwell in may, , and was sent to newcastle; and there then began the long series of negotiations in which charles showed all the duplicity and untrustworthiness and lack of judgment which was the worst side of his nature. first the joint offer of the scots and parliament was refused because the king would not abandon episcopacy; when the scots went home in january, - , he continued to play off the independents against the presbyterians. circumstances favoured him to an extraordinary degree, but it was only a waste of time because he never really desired to come to any agreement, but continued to believe that he could regain his position by refusing all the terms which were offered. then followed the open breach between parliament and the army, the carrying off of the king from holmby house, and the extremely moderate demands made by the army in the heads of the proposals. these provided by far the best solution of the difficulty if only both sides could have accepted and kept them. in all this lancashire had no part. the leaders were interested, particularly in ecclesiastical affairs, but the people in general cared less about the negotiations than about the recovery of their own position. there can never be war, and especially civil war, without much misery; and though the civil war in england was on the whole conducted with moderation, it inevitably brought in its train, want, loss of trade, and the dislocation of ordinary modes of life. the proportion of the population who actually fought in the war was very small, but in counties where fighting was carried on there can have been few if any of the inhabitants who were not indirectly affected by it. the graphic account of adam martindale of the disaster which it brought upon his family may be quoted. "things were now woefully altered from the worst from what i had formerly known them. my sister was married to a noted royalist, and going to live about two miles from lathom which the parliament forces accounted their enemy's headquarters, they were sadly plundered by those forces passing along the road wherein they dwelt. the great trade that my father and two of my brothers had long driven was quite dead; for who would either build or repair a house when he could not sleep a night in it with quiet and safety? my brother henry, who was then about years of age, knew not where to hide his head; for my lord of derby's officers had taken up a custom of summoning such as he and many older persons upon pain of death to appear at general musters, and thence to force them away with such weapons as they had if they were but pitchforks to bolton, the rear being brought up with troopers that had commission to shoot such as lagged behind; so as the poor countrymen seemed to be in a dilemma of death either by the troopers if they went not on, or by the great and small shot out of the town if they did."[ ] this is probably not an isolated but a typical case. if the families of the gentry were divided among themselves, so also would be those of the yeomen and the villagers. royalists in parliamentarian country, and parliamentarians in the royalist districts, would have an unhappy time. the royalists in manchester would no doubt be liable to plunder. the estates of parliamentarian partisans which lay in the west of the county, as that of the ashhursts' near lathom, and of rigby near preston, were fair game for the royalists, and became quite worthless to their owners. in addition to local burdens there came, as the war proceeded, pressure from headquarters. the royalists' estates were sequestered, and for the parliamentarians the assessments became a growing burden. as a local means of raising resources the most obvious was the levying of contributions on estates, and this was the means first resorted to. the order authorising it in lancashire was made by the house of lords on january th, - . twelve of the leaders were named assessors, any three of whom had power to assess the inhabitants of the county at a sum not greater than that of one-twentieth of their estate; resistance might be met by the sale of the objector's goods, and if necessary by the use of force.[ ] in the following august an order was for the first time passed for raising money for the payment of the army by a weekly assessment on the whole country. the list is composed of counties and towns in england and in wales, lancashire being assessed at £ weekly, yorkshire at £ , / /- (york £ / /- in addition), and cheshire at £ (chester £ in addition). the weekly sums were to be paid for two months "unless the king's army shall be disbanded in the meantime."[ ] in february, - , an ordinance was passed for the maintenance of the scotch army at £ , per month for four months, to begin on march st. this time lancashire was assessed at £ and cheshire at £ ; on august th the ordinance was continued for four months dating from the st july. the reason for this assessment of the money was that the sequestrations, on which it had originally been charged, were quite unable to bear their share.[ ] by the time that the fighting in lancashire was over the financial exhaustion of the county was extreme. "that country (england) is in a most pitiful condition, no corner of it free from the evils of a cruel war. the case is like the old miseries of the guelphs and ghibellines. every shire, every city, many families divided in this quarrel, much blood and universal spoil made by both armies where they prevail," wrote baillie.[ ] and in the same strain a letter of egerton's to the speaker may be quoted:-- "sequestrations which are looked upon to bring great things are well known to us to be of no considerable respect, for the sequestered estate which was heretofore worth £ per annum is now scarce sufficient to discharge those lays and taxations which are imposed upon it according as those estates are managed. so that from them we expect very little. the whole country is extremely exhausted, and they have been plundered of horse and cattle by both sides; and land is so cheap by the great quantity of sequestered land untilled and unstocked that the well affected from whom we receive our greatest relief can make very little of their estates."[ ] the lancashire committee protested bitterly against the new assessments in . they declared that they could not possibly bear any more levies, and complained that after their stand for the parliament's cause and all the help which they had sent into other counties, it was unreasonable to impose a fresh tax upon them. if they even attempted to raise it all the troops would disband; and instead of paying, they urgently demanded a large contribution from parliament which they hope would not be long delayed. "this (however strange reports have been or may be made of our condition by such as know little of it) is nothing but real truth."[ ] parliament did have some consideration for lancashire, for on september th, , the house of commons ordered that on the following day which was a fast, half the collections in the churches of london and westminster should be devoted to the relief of that county.[ ] as the commercial centre of the county, and the base of the parliamentarian operations, manchester naturally suffered severely. after the siege in , parliament ordered a fund to be opened for its benefit, any one who would make subscriptions to have public faith for repayment at the then usual rate of interest of per cent. (october th). in addition to its other miseries, the town was in the summer of visited by plague, which was very severe, and reached its height in august and september of that year. in july persons were buried at the parish church, in august , and in september ; the numbers in ordinary months ranging from to . moreover in august and september there were no christenings, and in september no marriages "by reason of the sickness being so great." all those who could left manchester, and the committee of both kingdoms became concerned for the safety of their headquarters in lancashire. the outworks had been defended chiefly by volunteer soldiers from the country adjacent, and now no one would go near the town for fear of infection. the country people declared that "they would rather be hanged at their own doors than enter such an infected town." as manchester had been the place of meeting of the lancashire committee there had never been any governor there, and as the committee had now removed elsewhere there was no one left to direct affairs. the committee of both kingdoms wrote to the deputy-lieutenants to ask their opinion about appointing a governor, and also whether they thought it desirable to keep a garrison in manchester any longer, and if so "by what means a constant maintenance may be had for them in regard of the decay of trade, and the impoverished condition of the town and parts adjacent." it was suggested that the works might be reduced and so kept with fewer men. under the circumstances it was feared that the store of arms and ammunition in manchester might be in considerable danger. the town was once more indebted to the engineer colonel rosworm, who had refused to leave his post when so many of the richer people had departed, even though warden heyrick had tried to persuade him to withdraw with the others. though only in command of musketeers, the other soldiers having removed some distance from the town, he was able to frustrate a plot made to seize all the valuables in manchester.[ ] with the approach of winter, however, the plague slackened, and the inhabitants began to return to their homes. on december th parliament directed that a collection should be made on the following sunday, december th, in all the churches and chapels in london and westminster for the relief of manchester, "one of the first towns in england that in this great cause stood for their just defence against the opposition and attempts of a very powerful army, and hath for a long time been so sore visited with the pestilence that for many months none were permitted either to go in or to come out of the said town, whereby most of the inhabitants (living upon trade) are not only ruined in their estates, but many families like to perish for want, who cannot be sufficiently relieved by that miserably wasted country." in the following may, heyrick, preaching before the house of commons on a fast day, referred to manchester as "the only town untouched by the enemy, the only town stricken by god."[ ] in presbyterianism was set up by the parliament. a petition had been presented to parliament on august st of that year by more than , "of the well affected gentlemen, ministers, freeholders, and others of the county palatine of lancaster," in favour of presbyterianism, "against sectaries, heretics and schismatics." the petition was urged for the reason that the petitioners, who numbered , in all, were those who had won the county of lancaster for the parliament; more than , of the signatures came from salford and blackburn hundreds, which out of the six hundreds of the county had been mainly active in the parliament's cause. many of them were among those who had also signed the petition to the king at york in to return to parliament, "which evidenceth that the petitioners attend a golden mediocrity." no malignants had been allowed to sign, and the names of some who were in favour of the covenant were removed because they rested under a suspicion of royalism.[ ] parliament promised to take the petition into consideration, and the ordinance for division of lancashire into nine classical presbyteries was brought before the house of commons on september th, , though it was not finally sanctioned until december. as is well known, lancashire furnished the most completely organised system of presbyterian government in the whole country; and the system continued in force until the restoration. a year or two after the surrender of lathom house, however, things had returned to a more normal condition in lancashire. "some malignant enough were fled where they could get to be safe. others that had been abroad were come home again and glad to live quietly though in a meaner condition. so that the county was in a reasonable quiet posture for a long space corn and all things plenty and cheap."[ ] but a new storm now appeared on the horizon. footnotes: [ ] "c.s.p.," - , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," p. ; "discourse," pp. , ; "c.s.p.," , p. . at oswestry, where meldrum was also engaged, there were taken prisoners tyldesley and other lancashire royalists, who had taken refuge there after being driven out of their own county. for the royalist defeat in cheshire, _vide_ verney mss., "hist. mss. com.," report , p. . "c.j.," vol. , pp. , . parliament had intended to give no quarter to the irish, but as it had been granted before their instructions had been received, the quarter was allowed. [ ] meldrum to the committee of both kingdoms, nov. , : "the partialities and divisions among the gentlemen here are so great that i cannot but leave liverpool in the hands of colonel moore." ("c.s.p.," - . cf. also pp. , . "c.j.," vol. , p. . "carte mss.," vol. , fol. .) meldrum afterwards served in yorkshire, where he lost scarborough castle in feb., . he died later in the year.--d.n.b. [ ] derby to ormonde, april , ("carte mss.," vol. , fol. ; "discourse," p. ). the date of surrender is given only in a tract entitled "memorable dayes and works of god, etc., etc.," containing a list of the places given up during ; but in this tract the date of the surrender of lathom house is stated to be dec. , which is incorrect, e. ( ). greenhalgh castle is often incorrectly identified with the village of that name, miles north-west of kirkham. [ ] for meldrum's negotiations with derby, _vide_ his letters to the committee of both kingdoms in "c.s.p.," - , pp. , , . on march , , the house of lords sent a message to the commons suggesting that the earl of derby should be admitted to compound. ("c.j.," vol. , p. .) the suggestion to derby that he should give up the royalists with him was made on nov. , . ("c.s.p.," - , pp. , .) but it is evident that this did not entirely close the negotiations, for the earl petitioned to be allowed to compound on january , - , and drew up particulars of his estate, showing a yearly income of £ , . s. d. ("royalist composition papers," vol. , pp. - .) the lists and petitions occupy pages of this volume; among them are several from merchants whose ships had been seized at sea by vessels from the isle of man. derby claimed deductions amounting to £ a year, and for a debt of £ , , and his fine was eventually calculated as £ , . s. d. how far the negotiations went, and exactly the reason for breaking them off, does not appear. whitelock ("memorials," edition, p. ) says that parliament ordered the proceedings with regard to the composition to be stopped because derby continued to hold the isle of man; but this is not a very satisfactory explanation. [ ] committee of both kingdoms to sir george booth, march . they refer to warrington 'as being the principal pass into lancashire.' ("c.s.p.," - , p. .) [ ] there are a large number of letters dealing with these movements in "brereton mss." (additional mss. ), ff. - ; and also in "c.s.p.," - , p. - . the lancashire committee wrote to brereton on may for the return of col. assheton's regiment, and brereton made the required order on the same day. the committee complained about the place chosen for the rendezvous on the following day, but apparently their complaint was neglected; or perhaps it was too late, for the order of fairfax, leven and brereton for the muster was issued on may . the lancashire foot ordered to be present were col. assheton's and col. holland's regiments except major radcliffe's company; and of horse the troops of col. nicholas shuttleworth, capt. butterworth, col. dodding, major robinson, and capt. hindley. callander's letter is given in "portland mss.," vol. , pp. , . [ ] on may brereton wrote to fairfax from stockport that the king's army was at uttoxeter, and was making for newark. he had sent a troop of horse to follow. ("brereton mss.," fol. .) [ ] brereton to william ashhurst. oct. , , "brereton mss." (add. mss., ), ff. , . the committee of both kingdoms directed col. vermuyden to march towards nottingham and leicester in order to guard the country of the eastern association. ("c.s.p.," - , p. .) [ ] egerton to lenthall ("tanner mss.," vol. , fol. ). he says that he cannot punish the offenders without the assistance of some of the m.p.'s of the county, most of whom had been called away. for the second siege of lathom _vide_ "seacome," pp. - ; and "discourse," pp. - ; "c.w.t.," pp. , . the information concerning this siege is much less detailed than in the case of the first. [ ] meldrum to the committee of both kingdoms, nov. , . ("c.s.p.," - , p. .) [ ] "seacome," p. . cf. however, a letter from the committee of both kingdoms to the lancashire committee, sept. , . they consider the terms for surrendering lathom very unreasonable, lady derby's coming to knowsley and enjoying her lands, paying the ordinary assessments, and the earl's not being required to come to london and submit to parliament; and that lathom should remain in possession of the earl's servants. they will, however, consider any reasonable terms. ("c.s.p.," - , p. .) it seems that the local men were ready to make easier terms than parliament would agree to. [ ] "discourse," p. . [ ] bradshaw, hoghton and booth to sir william brereton, ormskirk, december , , the house having been surrendered on the previous day. "brereton mss." (add. mss. ), f. . the actual date of the surrender and the terms agreed upon are variously stated, but this letter appears to put the particulars beyond question. [ ] the above quotation is given in "c.w.t.," p. ; but other papers contain more particulars. _vide_ "kingdom's weekly intelligencer," dec. - ; "scottish dove," dec. - ; and "moderate intelligencer," dec. - . the first of these contains the statement of the deficiency of bread being the final cause of surrender, adding also, "those in the house had for about six weeks past drunk nothing but water." the details of capture of arms and ammunition are variously given. [ ] "stanley papers" (ed. raines, c.s. ), pt. , vol. , pp. - . [ ] apparently there was some delay about the destruction of the house. on december , , the committee of both kingdoms passed a resolution to write to the lancashire committee asking for their opinion as to what was to be done with lathom house, "whether to be kept or dismantled." on january , - , the request was repeated; but what answer was returned is not recorded. ("c.s.p.," - , p. .) [ ] "brereton mss." (add. mss. ), ff. , , , (add. mss. ), ff. , , , , , ). much was made by the cheshire committee of the prospects of royalist relief for chester. booth (who was a nephew of sir william brereton) was afraid lest he had promised too much; but it took great persuasion to accomplish even so much, and he expressed the hope that the agreement was 'restrained and loose enough.' assheton was in london on december . [ ] "brereton mss." (add. mss. ), ff. , , , , . brereton urged that the lancashire troops should not be deprived of their share of the plunder from lathom, because they had left the county. "it should not be expected that they should remain upon duty here, if those that remain at home and disobey orders should be better paid and rewarded than those that obey orders and perform their duty cheerfully." on january he wrote that chester was still confident of immediate relief from the royalists. [ ] "life of adam martindale" (c.s., no. ), p. . [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] "l.j.," vol. , p. . on sept. the lancashire committee were ordered to appoint a treasurer, and elected humphrey chetham. [ ] this order was passed by the house of lords on february , - . ("l.j.," vol. , pp. , .) [ ] "baillie's letters," vol. , p. . [ ] "tanner mss.," vol. , fol. . [ ] letters from the lancashire committee to lenthall ("tanner mss.," vol. , fol. ; vol. , fol. .) [ ] "c.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] the figures of mortality are given by rev. richard parkinson, editor of the "life of adam martindale" (note, pp. , ), from extracts from the church registers. the statement of the attitude of the country people is brereton's. "brer. mss." ( ), f. . the committee of both kingdoms wrote to the deputy-lieutenants, committee and commanders in lancashire on july , . ("c.s.p.," - , pp. , .) for rosworm's account, _vide_ "good service" "c.w.t.," p. ). as usual, he rates his own services very high. [ ] both the above are quoted in "c.w.t.," p. . [ ] "a true copie of the petition of , gentlemen, ministers, etc. ... of lancashire," e. ( ). [ ] "discourse," p. . chapter ix. the second civil war. the scots in lancashire; battle of preston. the second civil war was fought under a strange re-arrangement of the old parties in the struggle, the all-supreme army having aroused against it a variety of otherwise conflicting interests. presbyterians and anglicans, royalists and the scots, all had their share, and there were outbreaks of one kind or another in half a dozen counties. that part of the war which concerns us here is the scotch invasion which passed through lancashire, and was defeated within the borders of this county. "though this was not any of the lancashire wars yet was it acted in this county and god's goodness therein is to be kept in remembrance." the campaign of preston was not a part of the lancashire civil war in that the causes which led up to it concerned the general history of the country; but local troops were engaged both on the side of the parliament, and among the english royalists who joined the duke of hamilton. and the royalists were probably disappointed that lancashire did not rise much more decidedly in their favour. when charles i. had refused all the propositions of the army he turned once more to the scots, and accepted from them the terms which he had previously refused, making with them the engagement by which he bound himself to establish presbyterianism for three years. when the duke of hamilton, the leader of the party of the nobility, secured a majority in the scotch parliament he procured a vote to the effect that the agreement between the two kingdoms had been broken, and urged an invasion of england to assist the king to carry out the engagement by force of arms. though his army was very much less numerous than he expected, he made preparations to cross the border, hoping to be joined in england by large numbers of the old royalist party, and by a detachment of scots from ulster under sir george munro.[ ] in preparation for his coming, langdale surprised berwick, and sir philip musgrave occupied carlisle. when the news of this reached lancashire the leaders there were in considerable difficulty. they were presbyterians of the scotch type, and were therefore averse to fighting against hamilton; they were by no means in accord with the direction of affairs in london and feared the consequences of openly joining either party. yet they could not remain neutral. their dilemma is illustrated in a declaration made by the officers and soldiers in the county on the th may, , which was directed to the ministers of the county. they expressed their adherence to the solemn league and covenant, and declared that they stood "for the fundamental government of the kingdom by king lords and commons, according to the laws of the land, and the declarations of this present parliament before our first engagement; that we love desire and should much rejoice in the regal and regular government of his majesty that now is." it is evident that the revolution had already gone too far for the presbyterians in lancashire. a private letter written at the same time as this declaration, and printed with it, further expresses the same difficulty, "our soldiery apprehend themselves in great straits; for if the army come down, and they join with them to suppress the cavaliers, they fear and are very jealous that the army will afterwards fall upon them and suppress them." it was evidently thought that unless parliament got the better of the army, there was little prospect of a peaceful settlement. "for should the presbyterian party and the sectaries joyn to suppresse the common enemy, it is very much to be feared that they would afterwards clash one with another; for when those that adhere to the covenant are put into a posture of defence, they will never lay down arms to become tame slaves to the sectaries, who for all their specious pretences and flattering proposals, have not hitherto really acted one thing whereby our distractions may be removed, and truth and peace, which is the desire of all good men, may be perfectly accomplished." it is sufficiently apparent that though they were unwilling to join a foreign invader, and especially one who was assisted by the old royalist party which they themselves had helped to overthrow, the lancashire presbyterians were very apprehensive of what would happen if the army should gain still more power than it already possessed. this declaration was not signed by any of the lancashire members of parliament, but among the names attached to it were those of nicholas and ughtred shuttleworth, richard radcliffe and john ashhurst.[ ] the inhabitants of lancashire were dismayed by the prospect of another war, and many persons fled from their homes; though some returned again when it became apparent that the invasion was not so imminent as at first appeared. eventually the leaders made up their minds to assist the parliament. colonel rigby, who was not a very fervent presbyterian, but who was decidedly a man of action, was the first to move. on may th he had called a meeting of the deputy-lieutenants, but only holland, bradshaw, birch and himself and his son attended. however, they decided to call a general meeting of the committee and deputy-lieutenants for the following monday at bolton, and sent out warnings of musters throughout all the county. five hundred of rigby's old soldiers, both horse and foot, assembled without orders, and he encouraged them to remain in arms. owing to the orders of parliament for disbanding, and against the free quarter of troops, the officers were uncertain as to how far their action was permissible, and rigby wrote to the speaker for further instructions.[ ] by the end of the month, however, both rigby and dodding had their men still in the field, and the newspapers reported that "the common soldiers of lancashire are exceeding forward to fight the enemy." on may th the house of commons desired colonel assheton to go down to lancashire and take control of the recruiting, and when once the raising of troops was begun it was pushed on without delay.[ ] by the middle of june the lancashire troops consisted of four regiments of foot and two of horse. colonel assheton was appointed commander-in-chief, with rigby, who commanded one regiment of horse, as his lieutenant-colonel; the other regiment of horse was under colonel nicholas shuttleworth. the colonel of the foot regiments were dodding, standish (who commanded his own and rigby's foot), assheton and ughtred shuttleworth. the total number seems to have been , foot and troops of horse, so that the regiments of horse were not quite full, and the foot regiments only at half strength. on july th the committee of both houses wrote to assheton praising his forwardness in raising men, and ordering him into westmoreland to join with colonel lambert, who had been sent forward to intercept hamilton's advance.[ ] delayed by a difficulty of transport, and by bad weather, the scotch army had moved very slowly. although they had occupied carlisle in april it was nearly three months afterwards before their general advance really began. the lancashire troops who had been raised in may and june encamped about lancaster on june th, and the following day crossed the border of the county and advanced to kirkby lonsdale. a few days later they reached kendal, having heard that a party of royalists were in that neighbourhood. colonel rigby advanced with three troops of horse, and the royalists retreating before him he occupied kendal. on the same day colonel assheton sent out a party of foot to occupy bentham house in westmoreland. the first summons was refused, but afterwards the garrison, which only consisted of or men, surrendered and were allowed to march away to join langdale; two barrels of powder and muskets were, however, taken by assheton; the house itself was made untenable. in the first few days of july, the lancashire troops having joined colonel lambert near carlisle, had a skirmish with the enemy at stanwix bank, and encamped at brunstock; but they were largely outnumbered by the invaders, and lambert was forced to fall back in order to wait for the army with which cromwell was marching with all speed to his assistance. on july th they were at penrith again, and on the th at appleby.[ ] it was uncertain whether hamilton would march straight forward to lancashire or would turn south-eastwards through wensleydale in order to relieve pontefract castle. lambert thought the latter course was more probable and retreated that way; but hamilton, who had on july st seized appleby castle and on august nd kendal, decided to push on through lancashire. by august th he was at hornby, where he remained for some days. on august th he directed a letter to the ministers of lancashire who, on his approach, had withdrawn from the northern parts of the county and assembled at lancaster. he declared that the object of his coming was "for settling presbyterian government according to the covenant, liberating and re-establishing his majesty, and for other ends conducing to the good and peace of the kingdom," and he denied that any harm was intended to the ministers or their families. but they refused to be conciliated, or to believe his promises of safety and freedom, "knowing our old enemies of religion and the kingdom's peace are with your excellency."[ ] they preferred to believe that the english parliament were more to be trusted for the establishment of presbyterian government. hamilton's assurances of protection were the less to be depended upon because his army plundered most unmercifully while on the march. the scots had no regard for either party in the north of england, and provided themselves from the goods of both roundheads and cavaliers alike. they are said to have cleared the whole district of sheep and cattle, and even sir thomas tyldesley was unable to protect the royalists from his oppression.[ ] [illustration: the campaign of preston] about the middle of august hamilton marched slowly southward, his army covering many miles of country. the earl of callander, his lieutenant-general in command of the cavalry, was far in advance of the main body of the scottish infantry under hamilton himself, while monro with the ulster scots was far in the rear. langdale with the english royalists marched on the west of the main body. by this time cromwell was hotly in pursuit, and as usual his rate of march was very different from the leisurely progress of the scots. he had reached leicester when hamilton was at kendal, and nottingham on august th. advancing northwards he waited for three days at doncaster for his ammunition to come from hull; and on august th he was joined near wetherby by lambert, who had quartered there with , men to cover the siege of pontefract. next day the combined armies marched to otley, sending on their guns to knaresborough in order to march more swiftly. advancing along the ribble valley, cromwell reached skipton on august th, and on the th quartered his men round gisburn; next day they advanced to the bridge over the ribble, at clitheroe.[ ] here a council of war was held to decide whether to cross the bridge, there being no other between that place and preston, and so march along the north bank of the ribble, or to turn south-westwards through whalley in order to intercept hamilton's march further on. cromwell, however, was determined to fight as soon as possible, though he had less than , men to , of the scots; and believing that hamilton would make a stand at preston his army crossed the ribble and marched swiftly along the northern bank. the , men with whom hamilton had entered england had been increased by reinforcement; langdale's detachment numbered about , and munro's not quite , men. but their superiority in numbers was entirely discounted by the disordered condition of their line of march, which stretched from wigan to kirkby lonsdale, a distance of nearly miles. moreover they were evidently quite ignorant of cromwell's approach until the very day before he burst upon them.[ ] on the night of august th cromwell had quartered his army in stonyhurst park, nine miles from preston, the general staying at the hall. next day he sent forward an advance party of horse and foot under major smithson and major pownall, who encountered langdale's royalists who were some miles to the north-east of preston about ribbleton and fulwood. the main body of the scotch foot were then marching through preston, and the undecided hamilton was persuaded to countermand his order for them to return; they therefore hurried on their retreat, leaving langdale to his fate. "it was reported that when word came to the duke that general cromwell was in the rear of sir marmaduke langdale's army fighting and killing them, his answer was--'let them alone--the english dogs are but killing one another.' so little care had he of them."[ ] langdale was thus left with his , men to resist the whole attack of cromwell's army; and his men fought with the utmost bravery for four hours against overwhelming numbers. the royalist position was very well chosen at the end of a deep lane leading towards the town, his men being sheltered behind hedges. two regiments of cavalry, cromwell's and harrison's, were set to charge along the lane supported on either flank by infantry, by the regiments of colonel read, colonel dean and colonel pride on the right, and colonel bright's and fairfax's regiments on the left. assheton and the lancashire foot were in reserve, and there was a reserve of horse at each point. the royalists fought desperately and the ground was very heavy owing to the recent rains. "such a wet time this time of the year hath not been seen in the memory of man," wrote one of the lancashire captains who took part in this campaign. the parliamentarian foot on the right wing outflanked the enemy, but there was a very severe struggle in the lane and on cromwell's left wing. the lancashire men came into action here. at length, after four hours fighting, the royalists broke and fled towards preston, pursued by cromwell's horse. four troops of his own regiment entered the town first, and being seconded by colonel harrison, they charged along the streets and cleared the town of the royalists. colonel assheton's regiment was specially praised by cromwell for its bravery in the action, and the committee of both houses directed a special letter of thanks to him.[ ] most of hamilton's foot were by this time marched across ribble bridge, three-quarters of a mile south of preston; this they barricaded, and another fierce engagement took place between them and fairfax's and assheton's foot regiments, whom cromwell sent forward in pursuit. after severe hand-to-hand fighting the scots were dislodged from ribble bridge and chased across the bridge over the river darwen, and up the hill to walton, when night put an end to the engagement. the parliamentarians guarded both the bridges, and cromwell himself returned to preston for the night. he places hamilton's losses at , killed and , prisoners; and , or , arms had been captured. there is no reason to suppose that cromwell had any decided plan of campaign, but he had been very fortunate in taking the scotch army on the flank, and his bold attack had been completely successful. the invaders' forces was now completely cut in two; moreover the english royalists who had been defeated and almost annihilated were probably hamilton's best troops, and monro's men, who were also veterans, were now too far north to be engaged. the cavalry which should have returned to his assistance had also taken no part in the action; and hamilton's foot were largely newly raised men, the old soldiers of the covenanting army having refused to follow him. thus though he still largely outnumbered the parliamentarian army his forces were more disorganised than ever, and his men were dispirited. cromwell lost no time in following up his victory. the same night (aug. th) he sent off a letter to the committee at manchester describing his victory and directing them to oppose hamilton's further advance; while next morning he himself hastened after the scots, leaving the lancashire troops in preston to guard the prisoners. during the night hamilton had marched three miles on the road to wigan. colonel thornhaugh was sent in advance with three regiments of horse in order to bring them to bay, while his foot followed as fast as possible. thornhaugh came up with the scots at chorley, and he himself was killed in the engagement. hamilton had still , or , foot and , horse to the , foot and , horse with which cromwell was pursuing him; but the scots attempted to make no stand, except so much as was necessary to protect their retreat. on standish moor, near wigan, they drew up as if for resistance, but on the advance of the parliamentarians, they retreated into the town. the pursuers were too weary to go further after their forced marches and two days' hard fighting. the weather was still against them, "having marched miles of ground as i never rode in all my life, the day being very wet," writes cromwell of this day's pursuit. that night the parliamentarians encamped in the open country close to the scots; but during the night there was skirmishing at intervals, and about of hamilton's men were taken prisoners, including some officers of note. after the capture of preston some of the royalist horse who had escaped rode northwards toward lancaster. cromwell sent a regiment of horse in pursuit, which followed the flight for some miles, killing some and taking prisoners. there was therefore no longer any danger to be feared from this part of the army. the remaining fugitives scattered into the fylde district and dispersed. on saturday, august th, the scots continued their retreat southwards toward warrington, still hotly pursued by cromwell. the most determined stand they made was at winwick, three miles from warrington, in a narrow lane on the road from newton. here for some hours they beat off all the attacks of the pursuers, until some country people showed the parliamentarians a way round through the fields, and the scots then retreated towards warrington. they stood at bay for some little time on the green on the south side of winwick church; but at length their resistance was broken, , being killed and the remainder driven into the church and made prisoners.[ ] the remnant of the army reached warrington, and marching through the town attempted to hold the bridge over the mersey. but the scots were now thoroughly beaten. they were almost without ammunition, and many of them had thrown away their muskets in the pursuit; baillie, who was in command, sent to cromwell for terms of surrender. considering the difficulty of crossing the mersey elsewhere, and the strength of the bridge, cromwell agreed to give quarter if they would surrender as prisoners of war. about , of the scots capitulated at warrington, their whole losses during the three days fighting being , killed and between , and , being taken prisoners. after the first engagement at preston sir thomas tyldesley, who was still in command of some horse, laid siege to lancaster, and was on the point of taking it when news of further defeats arrived. thereupon he joined monro, and attempted to persuade him to advance and attack cromwell's rear, as they had still an equal number of troops. the proposal was an illustration of tyldesley's bravery, but it was too rash for monro to accept, and if carried out would probably have effected little. weariness alone prevented the victors from completing the ruin of the scots in lancashire. cromwell's men were too exhausted to follow up the main body of the cavalry under hamilton himself, which had crossed the mersey into cheshire. "if i had , horse that could trot miles," cromwell wrote on august th, "i should not doubt but to give a very good account of them; but truly we are so harassed and hagled out in this business, that we are not able to do more than walk an easy pace after them." as it was cromwell himself did not follow the scots into cheshire, but left colonel lambert to continue the pursuit, and wrote to lord grey, sir henry cholmondeley, and sir edward rhodes to intercept hamilton. indeed the scotch army might now almost be left to melt away of itself. they marched to malpas and from there to drayton, and then to stone and uttoxeter, where the parliamentarian forces fell upon their rear and captured many prisoners, including lieutenant-general middleton. but hamilton himself was too ill to continue his flight any further and surrendered with most of his men. a remnant of the force under the earl of callander and sir marmaduke langdale endeavoured to escape northwards to return to scotland, and reached ashbourne in derbyshire; but here callander's men mutinied, and langdale, escaping with three other officers was discovered, though they had tried to pass themselves off as parliamentarians. they were all seized and lodged in nottingham castle. the duke of hamilton was executed in march, . on august rd, , letters were read in the house of commons from cromwell, giving an account of the fighting in lancashire. the total number of prisoners was stated to be , , including many of the scottish nobility; , of the invading army had been killed, and much ammunition, together with colours, had been taken.[ ] september th was appointed as a public thanksgiving day, and warden heyrick was named as one of the preachers before the house of commons. cromwell returned at once to lancashire, where he stayed one night at stonyhurst; and then summoning all his troops which had been left in lancashire to follow him, he marched after monro into scotland, where he remained for some months, returning to london in december. there was, however, still a little to be done in the way of reducing the royalists still in arms in the north of england, and this was entrusted to assheton. but they were so disorganised that little or no fighting was necessary. assheton and his lancashire troops dislodged them from cockermouth, whence they marched to carlisle, but they were refused admittance to the town, and scattered in various directions; the main body of cavalry, about , in number, retreated to appleby. here assheton followed them, and as the royalists had no spirit for further fighting terms were soon agreed upon. the inferior officers and common soldiers were to lay down their arms and have liberty on promising to observe all the ordinances of parliament; the colonels were given six months in which to leave the country. appleby castle was surrendered on oct. th together with , arms and pieces of ordnance. most of the , horses of the royalists were bought at low rates by the parliamentarians before the actual surrender. the chief officers were sir philip musgrave, sir thomas tyldesley, sir robert strickland, sir william huddleston; the whole list included colonels, lieutenant-colonels, and inferior officers.[ ] so once more the fighting in lancashire was over, and the stricken country had again a few years more in which to recover from its distress. its condition was now even more pitiable than before. trade was destroyed, life disorganised, and everyone suffered indirectly if not directly from the scotch invasion. the care of the wounded soldiers scattered up and down the county was an added burden. parliament had ordered that voluntary offerings made in all the churches and chapels of england and wales on the thanksgiving day, september th, should be devoted to the relief of lancashire, one half to the care of the wounded soldiers, and one half for the relief of the general distress. the london treasurer of this fund was henry ashhurst, brother of william ashhurst, m.p. for newton, and of major john ashhurst. but the sum subscribed was not very large. probably people's intentions were generous enough, but they had little to give. in the following may a pitiful appeal was issued by the major and bailiffs of wigan, and four well known lancashire ministers, describing "the lamentable condition of the county of lancashire and particularly of the towns of wigan, ashton and the parts adjacent." these two towns were perhaps worse off than the average, having been visited by pestilence; but the description given would apply in a less degree to the whole county. "in this county," the appeal runs, "hath the plague of pestilence been ranging these three years and upwards occasioned chiefly by the wars. there is a very great scarcity and dearth of all provisions, especially of all sorts of grain, particularly that kind by which that country is sustained, which is full six-fold the price that of late it hath been. all trade, by which they have been much supported, is utterly decayed; it would melt any good heart to see the numerous swarms of begging poore and the many families that pine away at home, not having faces to beg. very many now craving almes at other men's dores, who were used to give others almes at their dores--to see paleness, nay death appear in the cheeks of the poor, and often to hear of some found dead in their houses, or highways, for want of bread."[ ] during the next few years, great events were being enacted in london, but in these lancashire had no part. the county was full of unrest, which found its outlet in disturbances and riots. two years later the council of state was much concerned with disturbances which broke out at preston, ormskirk, manchester, and rochdale, in resistance to the imposition of the excise. large numbers of people were put in prison; and three troops of horse under major mayer were commissioned to remain in lancashire until further orders to assist colonel birch and the sheriffs to preserve the peace of the county. the act for bidding the proclamation of a king was duly published in lancashire from feb. - , , but it evidently provoked no enthusiasm in the county, for the remnants of the royalist party began to carry themselves with much more boldness than formerly. in july, a party of them well armed and mounted, even dared to proclaim charles ii. as king at manchester cross. they then rode to wigan and to kendal with the same object; and it was only after some days that meeting with a troop of parliamentarian soldiers they were dispersed.[ ] the same spirit of unrest was shown in the difficulties encountered in enforcing the ordinance for disbanding the militia. four thousand of colonel assheton's troops, being zealous for the covenant, at first refused to disband. on february th the house of commons ordered that assheton's and shuttleworth's troops were to be disbanded by major-general lambert, who was authorised to use force if necessary; but some months at least elapsed before the order could be carried into effect. it was not altogether zeal for the covenant but also the fact that their pay was largely in arrear, that caused the opposition among the lancashire soldiers. the matter was considered important enough to receive the attention of cromwell himself, and on february , - , the council of state requested him to urge on the house of commons the necessity of providing a further sum of money for disbanding the lancashire forces. on march th, accordingly, the committee at goldsmith's hall were ordered to pay the sum of £ , / / which had been voted for this purpose. a month later practically all the soldiers were dispersed except one or two free companies, who gathered all the disorderly spirits in the county and lived by plunder. one of these under captain bamber was ordered to be disbanded by force by major general assheton, their horses and arms being restored to those from whom they had been stolen. they gave out that they were appointed for service in ireland, but they had no commission. bamber seems to have preyed upon the county for two months longer before he was actually subdued by colonel duckenfield.[ ] this was probably the last service which the parliament ever asked assheton to undertake. he and the other leaders who had subdued the county seven years before were now entirely out of sympathy with the existing government of the country. when the militia was further re-organised in , the matter was taken out of their hands altogether. assheton, shuttleworth, rigby, colonel richard standish, and sir richard hoghton, were formally dismissed from employment in connection with the militia; and the commissions which were granted in the following summer to lancashire officers, were nearly all given to new men. joseph rigby became lieutenant-colonel, and there were one or two names which had previously appeared in the records of the war; but for the most part those previously best known are absent. colonel thomas birch seems to have been the only one of the former leaders who still enjoyed the confidence of the parliament, and he was for the next few years largely entrusted with the direction of affairs in lancashire.[ ] footnotes: [ ] "political history of england," vol. , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. - . [ ] rigby to the speaker, may , ("tanner mss.," cary, vol. , pp. - ). may was a friday, and the following monday was therefore may . rigby says that may had been appointed for a general royalist rising in lancashire. [ ] "letters from scotland, etc.," no. . "c.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] "letters from scotland, etc.," no. . "c.s.p.," - , p. . at the same time the deputy-lieutenants were directed to carefully guard the passes out of lancashire into that county. [ ] "letters from scotland, etc.," no. . diary of captain samuel birch, from may , , to march , in "portland mss.," vol. , p. . birch raised his troop at manchester on may , and gives a detailed itinerary of his march through wigan, lancaster and kirkby lonsdale, to the general rendezvous at halton. he afterwards accompanied lambert into yorkshire, reaching ripon on august , and knaresborough on the th. his dates agree with those given by cromwell for the subsequent movements; he was quartered on august at carleton, near skipton, and on the following night at downham. at the battle of preston "i had charge of our lancashire brigade's folorn; my lieutenant had charge of my division of musquettiers; my ensign by command of general assheton lead the pykes and collours up against the defenders on ribble bridge and beat them off. allmost all my officers markt, none killed, divers souldiers shott and hurt, some very dangerously, most performed very well. blessed be god for his great deliverance." birch then remained in preston in charge of the prisoners and magazine. [ ] "c.w.t.," pp. , . probably all the lancashire ministers were by no means of the same mind. in feb., - , one thomas smith preached two sermons in lancaster church and was imprisoned for the views he expressed. smith thought "we should have no peace till the scotts came to suppresse that army of sectaries, and being asked what he intended to do if they came he replyed that he would joyne with them." "clarke papers," ed. prof. c. h. firth, camden soc. (n.s., , ), vol. , p. . [ ] "the last newes from the prince of wales, etc." "c.w.t.," pp. , . [ ] "lieutenant-general cromwell's letter, &c." "c.w.t.," p. . cromwell's narrative is here not quite correct. he states that the council of war was held at "hodder bridge over ribble." but hodder bridge is not over the ribble, but over the hodder, near mitton. the old bridge which cromwell used still stands. obviously, however, the council of war was held before crossing the ribble. the army must first have crossed the bridge at clitheroe, and afterwards hodder bridge over the hodder in order to reach stonyhurst. it would appear that cromwell when writing his narrative, forgot that there were two bridges, and wrote hodder bridge instead of clitheroe bridge. [ ] the authorities for the campaign of preston are: "lieutenant-general cromwell's letter concerning the total routing of the scots army, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ); "lt.-general cromwell's letter to the honourable william lenthall, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ); "an impartiall relation of the late fight at preston" ... by sir marmaduke langdale ("c.w.t.," p. ); "discourse," pp. - ; and "autobiography of captain john hodgson" ( edition), pp. - . the first of cromwell's letters was written to the committee at manchester. the second was largely reprinted in the "perfect diurnall," no. , august , ; _vide_ also whitelock's "memorials" ( ed.), pp. , . there is a map of the campaign in gardiner's "great civil war," vol. , p. . [ ] "discourse," p. . [ ] "c.s.p.," - , p. . cromwell wrote to the manchester committee: "in this service your countrymen have not the least share." he also especially mentioned assheton's regiment in the letter to lenthall ("c.w.t.," pp. , ). cf. "hodgson," p. : "the lancashire foot were as stout men as were in the world, and as brave firemen. i have often told them they were as good fighters and as great plunderers as ever went to a field." [ ] "discourse," p. , and note, p. . mr. beamont is especially an authority on the neighbourhood of warrington. the site of this skirmish at winwick may still be seen. [ ] "c.j.," vol. , pp. , . on september the committee at derby house was asked to grant a commission to assheton as major-general in lancashire, and for him to have shillings per diem as pay in addition to his pay as colonel of horse and colonel of foot. the lancashire committee were also to be asked to recommend to the house of commons some way of paying the arrears due to the soldiers. "c.j.," vol. , p. . [ ] "a great victory at appleby, by col.-general ashton, etc." "c.w.t.," pp. - . whitelock's "memorials" ( edition), p. . [ ] "c.j.," vol. , p. . "c.w.t.," p. . [ ] sir gilbert ireland, sheriff of lancashire in , wrote to the speaker giving a full list of the times and places at which the act forbidding the proclamation of a king was published in the county ("tanner mss.," vol. , fol. ). "c.s.p.," , pp. , , , , . complaint is made of 'pulpit incendaries' who "have endeavoured for the setting up of an interest of their own, destructive of that of the people, to stir up the people to disobedience, and again to embroil us in new troubles, and enflame the nation into another war." [ ] whitelock's "memorials" ( edition), p. ; also quoted in "c.w.t.," p. . "c.s.p.," - , pp. , , , . [ ] "c.s.p.," , p. . for the reorganisation of the militia, _ibid._, pp. , , a list of the commissions being given. chapter x. the last stand. battle of wigan lane. trial and death of the earl of derby. during the last five years the earl of derby had been in the isle of man. since the failure of the former overtures made to him by the parliament through the agency of sir john meldrum, he had been living in retirement at castle rushen. it was the life which he liked best, and had it not been for the recollections of the events of the preceding years, he might have been happy in the leisure afforded for the exercise of the literary tastes in which he delighted. he composed, during this period, his commonplace books and several books of devotions which manifest his deeply religious nature. but confinement and reflection only deepened the natural melancholy of his nature, and increased his hatred for the enemies who had deprived him of his position and his estates. in meldrum had found him willing to listen to reason; proposals made a few years later were rejected with contempt. in derby was summoned to surrender the isle of man, being offered the enjoyment of half his estate if he would do so. he had apparently petitioned to compound in the ordinary way and particulars of his estate were furnished by himself, upon which his fine was estimated at £ , ; but when matters had gone so far the earl changed his mind, and he refused to "forfeit his allegiance and sell his loyalty for £ , ."[ ] apparently there would have been opposition on the other side. representations were made to the council of state about the resentment with which the prospect of admitting the earl of derby to his composition had been received in some parts of lancashire and cheshire. it was urged that if he should complete his surrender and be free to enter lancashire again the peace of the county would be in danger; and the council of state ordered that the matter should not be proceeded with until the pleasure of parliament was known.[ ] evidently therefore there were insuperable obstacles on both sides. the last proposals had apparently been made through general ireton, and in reply to these the earl of derby wrote his famous letter of defiance. "i scorn your proffers, disdain your favour, and abhor your treason; and am so far from delivering up this island to your advantage, that i will keep it to the utmost of my power to your destruction. take this for your final answer, and forbear any further solicitations; for if you trouble me with any more messages on this occasion, i will burn the paper, and hang the bearer; this is the immutable resolution, and shall be the undoubted practice of him who accounts it his chiefest glory to be his majesty's most loyal and obedient servant derby." it has been suggested with some force that the display of anger in this letter is so unusual in the earl of derby, that probably the countess was chiefly responsible for it;[ ] but in any case after this all possible chance of reconciliation between him and the parliament was at an end. and it must be admitted that the earl himself from his uncompromising attitude, was largely responsible for the merciless hostility with which he was pursued to the scaffold. in a further list of those to be exempted from parliament, containing about names, the name of the earl of derby comes third, following those of prince rupert and prince maurice. the isle of man had been put into a position of defence, and plundering expeditions were organised by the few ships which the earl had under his command. since the royalist defeat he had been cut off from all communication with england, but maintained intercourse with the earl of ormonde in ireland. derby addressed many letters to ormonde urging him to send some guns and ammunition to his help, but without success; eventually ormonde did despatch some powder, but it was lost at sea.[ ] there is no doubt, however, that the piracy of the royalists' vessels was a great nuisance to the shipping in the irish sea. in november, , the admiralty committee were urged to send a frigate for service upon the coast of lancashire and north wales in order to protect the shipping in those parts; but it does not seem to have had very much effect, for the trouble continued during the following year.[ ] at length the parliament adopted a more effective but very dishonourable means of retaliation. in may, , colonel birch was ordered to seize the daughters of the earl of derby, who were at knowsley, and any other of the earl's relatives whom they could secure; and then to send over to derby to release by a certain date all the parliamentarian prisoners whom he had, otherwise he must expect retaliation.[ ] lady katherine and lady amelia stanley were kept in prison for some months; on october th, , they were ordered to be set free on bail, but the order was afterwards deferred pending the development of events in the isle of man. there was perhaps some fear in the court of charles ii. now at the hague, that the earl of derby might yield to the proposals made to him by parliament for surrender. at any rate in january, , he was made a knight of the garter, an honour which he had expected in the previous reign. of the four knights elected at this time the duke of hamilton, marquis of newcastle, the marquis of montrose, and the earl of derby, only newcastle lived to be installed. the letter of appointment to the earl of derby makes special reference to his defence of the isle of man; and in the following june sir marmaduke langdale and sir lewis dives were despatched to the island to urge the importance of preserving it. there had been plans made in the spring of for a royalist rising in england, and the earl of derby had been named as general in lancashire; and when charles ii. had a prospect of regaining power, his advisers realised that the earl of derby could give substantial assistance in any attempt on the north of england.[ ] it was in june, , that charles landed at speymouth in scotland, took the covenant, and six months later was crowned king. to anticipate the inevitable invasion of england cromwell crossed the border and signally defeated leslie at dunbar (sept. rd, ). after his victory all the south of scotland submitted to the english. the following summer cromwell again took the field; lambert turned the scots' position by a flank march through fife, and leslie, realising that scotland was lost, staked all on the desperate venture of an invasion of england. perhaps it did not seem so desperate as it was. they were convinced, as the jacobites were convinced half a century later, that the country would rise in force out of affection for the house of stewart; and there was certainly more reason for the expectation in than in . for the majority of englishmen after all favoured monarchy, and the prospect of a military despotism alarmed most people. the tyranny of charles i. was being forgotten, and his tragic death had to a large extent effaced the memory of his incompetence and duplicity. but still more powerful than this feeling was the desire for peace and quietness. the country would probably have accepted charles ii. in as in , if it could have done so peaceably. perhaps a majority of the nation, certainly a majority of the inhabitants of lancashire would have already preferred the restoration of the king to the rule of cromwell but they were not so anxious for his restoration that they would support it by force of arms. and the old parliamentarian leaders in lancashire, estranged as they were from cromwell, had no more sympathy with their old royalist enemies who now emerged from their retirement in the isle of man to welcome charles' march.[ ] early in the year the king had opened a correspondence with the earl of derby through the medium of sir john birkenhead, and had received loyal letters from the earl in return. it was not to be expected that charles' submission to the scots and his taking of the covenant would be in accord with derby's views, but it made no difference to the latter's loyalty. when the danger from scotland seemed imminent the parliament had made fresh efforts to secure the isle of man by force. derby defeated an attempt of five parliamentarian ships on the calf of man on march th, , and shortly afterwards repulsed a second invasion of the island. there was some other design of the royalists in england during the spring of this year for which several people were imprisoned; and by cromwell's order there were seized at greenock a party of royalists who were on their way to the isle of man to concert measures with the earl of derby.[ ] the scots began their march into england in june, , and entered lancashire early in august. they had about , men, "i daresay near double the number of those that the king of sweden entered germany with if not more," wrote one of the officers. charles was proclaimed king at penrith on august th, and afterwards at all the market towns through which he passed. on saturday, august th, the army was at kendal; two days later they entered lancaster, and on the following day charles was proclaimed at the cross, and all the prisoners in the castle were released.[ ] that night the king slept at ashton hall, near lancaster, and on the th at myerscough lodge, sir thomas tyldesley's house. next day they passed through preston, and leaving there the same day, charles stayed on august at sir william gerrard's house at bryn hall, six miles from warrington. the conduct of the royal army was very different from that of the scotch invasion of . no plundering was allowed, and violence was strictly forbidden. no one was forced to join the army, and charles marched swiftly, staying only a night or two at each place so as not to be too great a burden on the country. yet in spite of this no great enthusiasm was allowed. few recruits joined the royal standard, and there were a number of desertions. at preston charles rode on horseback through all the streets of the town; but even here he was disappointed by the coolness of his reception. there were already misgivings among his followers. "we have quit scotland," wrote hamilton on august th, "being scarce able to maintain it; and yet we grasp all; nothing but all will satisfy us or to lose all. i confess i cannot tell you whether our hopes or fears are greatest; but we have one stout argument, despair; for we must now either stoutly fight it or die. all the rogues have left us; i shall not say whether for fear or disloyalty; but all now with his majesty are such as will not dispute his commands."[ ] the council of state had not been idle in view of the projected scotch invasion. on april th they had issued instructions to major-general harrison to go down to lancashire with three troops of horse, of his own regiment, and on his arrival to replace colonel rich, who was to return to headquarters with the three troops under his command. harrison remained in lancashire to keep order. when the scots approached nearer, colonels duckenfield, birch, and mackworth were commissioned to raise ten new companies of foot of men each out of the late militia forces in the counties of lancashire, cheshire and salop. liverpool was to be especially guarded, and duckenfield, who was governor of chester, addressed an appeal to the council of state for the replacement of forty barrels of powder and a quantity of arms which he had previously furnished out of the magazine under his charge for use of the troops in ireland.[ ] the council of state were evidently quite satisfied with the preparations which were being made in these three counties for resistance. meanwhile cromwell had sent major-general lambert with a detachment of cavalry to follow the scots, and he hung on their rear all along the line of march without being strong enough to engage them. on their way through lancashire, however, lambert slipped round them and effected a junction with harrison somewhere south of the ribble (wed., aug. th). their combined forces, together with the newly raised local troops, amounted in all to , horse, foot and dragoons; but they were still unwilling to engage the scots before they had been joined by cromwell. when lambert and harrison met charles was still north of preston, and still retreating before him they passed through bolton on thursday, august th.[ ] on reaching warrington, however, lambert decided to oppose the scots' advance. sending out a few troops to skirmish with their advance guard, he occupied warrington bridge by a detachment of foot, whose retreat was secured by cavalry. the skirmishing party encountered the royalists two miles north of warrington, and were soon dispersed; the royalist scouts entered the town about noon, and being followed by the rest of the army, at once attacked the bridge. the cheshire foot who were posted there, held their ground for an hour and a half; as , of the scots pressed upon them their position was for a time somewhat perilous; but at length, breaking down as much of the bridge as they could, they regained the main body of the army in safety. the scots following, engaged the parliamentarian rearguard, consisting of major-general lambert's, general whalley's and colonel twistleton's regiments, but they were beaten off; and lambert withdrew in safety to knutsford, a more favourable place for cavalry operations, expecting charles to follow him; but the king continued his march through cheshire in a more direct line.[ ] the parliamentarians had really the better of the skirmish, but it was magnified by the royalists into a great victory for themselves. charles issued from higher whitley on the same evening, a statement of his affairs in which he declared that he might have crossed the mersey by several fords, but attacked the bridge directly in order to give his troops confidence.[ ] the fact that it was thought necessary to magnify so greatly this small success, showed how much the royalists lacked confidence. even clarendon admits that the extent of the achievement was to force lambert to retire somewhat faster than he had intended; and it was thought that the disorder of his retreat was partly feigned in order to draw the royalists on. and even in the army there was misgiving in spite of the apparent success. the king perceiving david leslie's gloomy expression, rallied him upon it, and asked him what he thought of the troops now. leslie replied that however well the army looked it would not fight.[ ] this was on august th. it seems to have been the day before this that the earl of derby landed his men from seven ships on preesall sands, on the eastern side of the estuary of the river wyre. he had been delayed by contrary winds from sailing out of douglas harbour for some days. after all the announcements of his coming, which had been talked about in lancashire for months beforehand, the country was surprised to find that he had with him only some foot and horse, not very well armed. on account of the delay derby had arrived too late to meet charles in lancashire, but at once hastening after the main army he had an interview with his royal master between northwich and nantwich on august th. on the previous day a warrant had been made out to derby as captain-general of all the royal forces in lancashire, authorising him to raise troops by summoning all men "of what quality and condition soever from sixteen to sixty years of age." he was instructed not to make "any distinction of persons with reference to former differences." on derby's arrival at the royal camp he was directed to return to lancashire in order to put the warrant into force.[ ] according to clarendon this was a mistake, for derby's following consisted for the most part of officers and gentlemen, whose presence in the main army would have given it a strength which it very much needed. the earl thereupon returned to lancashire, and on august th met at warrington a deputation of the presbyterian ministers of the county, major-general massey also being present. massey was regarded as a martyr for the presbyterian cause, and had been especially commissioned by the king to remain behind; he was also personally known to many of the lancashire presbyterians. it would almost appear that it had been originally intended to hold this meeting in manchester, and that the place was afterwards altered on account of the approach of some hostile troops. massey wrote from cadishead on august th that his journey to manchester had been interrupted, and he had therefore been unable to meet the gentlemen as expected, but he had sent for them to have an interview with ashhurst and himself the same evening; and he urged derby to send a detachment of horse to manchester. a large number of the local presbyterians, however, met derby and massey at warrington the following day (aug. ); but the conference was of no service to the royalist party. the estrangement between the local leaders and the ruling powers was complete; "they are the men who are grown here more bitter and envious against you than others of the old cavaliers stamp," wrote robert lilburne to the speaker: and manchester itself was "very malignant." but the presbyterians would not go so far as to make an alliance with their old enemies. the earl of derby before his coming over had been promised substantial help by them; but when it came to the point, the presbyterian ministers, who really ruled the councils of their party, would give no help except on their own terms. there was indeed no bond between these two ill-assorted allies but hatred of the sects, and that was not sufficient to bridge over the gulf which otherwise divided them. the ministers began with a demand that derby should put away all the papists whom he had brought with him from the isle of man, and himself take the covenant. the earl replied that on those terms he might long ago have been restored to all his estates, and the late king to his throne; and urged that this was not a time to argue but that everyone who was desirous for the restoration of charles ii. should fight for him. he added that he would refuse none who came to him with that purpose. the presbyterians, however, refused to make the slightest concession, and after derby and massey had both argued in vain for some time, the meeting broke up without having arrived at any decision. the earl made one last appeal for support; if this was refused "i cannot hope to effect much, i may perhaps have men enough at my command, but all the arms are in your possession without which i shall only lead naked men to slaughter; however i am determined to do what i can with the handful of gentlemen now with me for his majesty's service, and if i perish i perish; but if my master suffer, the blood of another prince and all the ensuing miseries of this nation will lie at your doors." this appeal, however, was equally unavailing; and derby had to abandon all prospect of aid from the presbyterians, and depend on the royalists. massey thereupon hastened after the king.[ ] on landing from the isle of man on august th, the royalists had marched that night to weeton, near kirkham, and next day over the ribble to lathom, proceeding the same evening to upholland. it would have been a sad sight for the earl to have visited the ruins of his formerly splendid home, but he was probably not with the march that day, having hurried on after the king. the main body had, however, reached warrington before he returned there, and on his arrival a council of war was held on the day before the abortive meeting with the presbyterians. there were present the earl of derby, lord widdrington, sir thomas tyldesley, sir william throgmorton, sir francis gamul, sir theophilus gilbey, sir edward savage, and colonels vere, standish, james anderton, hugh anderton, robinson and legge. it was resolved to raise out of lancashire altogether , horse and , foot. the hundreds of leyland and west derby were to provide horse and , foot, amounderness and lonsdale hundred the same number, and the proportion of the others was to be assessed on derby's further advance. rates of pay were fixed. the earl had previously issued commissions to officers to serve under him; they were particularly directed that there was to be no plunder. derby issued an appeal to the gentlemen of lancashire, urging his royal warrant, and for a few days the prospect seemed bright.[ ] "he thought himself master of lancashire (as indeed he was)" wrote lilburne. there were at present no troops near to the county, and no one dared rise against the royalists in lancashire. but derby might well be disappointed at the response with which his appeals were met; for not one-fifth of the numbers estimated were raised, and probably never would have been raised even if there had been more time. it might reasonably have been expected that in this county where royalism was so strong, many more troops could have been raised. it was not derby's fault; no one could have done so much as he, but partly the difficulty already referred to of presbyterians and royalists acting together was responsible, and above all the general wearisomeness of the war. and even in the royalist fylde the earl's enemies were already active. some of the commissioners of the militia collected a few soldiers, and surprised the crews of derby's ships at preesall, took them prisoners and seized the ships. the prisoners were taken first to preston, and then on an alarm of the royalists' march thither, to york, narrowly escaping a rescue party under tyldesley. the chief of them, captain cotterell, who had done much service for the royalists at sea, was tried and executed.[ ] moreover, colonel robert lilburne had been ordered to lancashire with his regiment, and was now marching in hot haste. from warrington the earl of derby moved northwards to preston, and remained there for some days. he issued warrants for raising troops in the fylde, and arranged for musters at singleton and at kirkham on august th; but these musters were never held. lilburne, having made a forced march from cheshire, reached wigan on august st, thinking to have surprised the royalists; but they had retreated to chorley. next day (friday, august nd) he advanced to preston, and in the night sent horse to make a surprise attack. colonel vere was wounded in the skirmish and apparently took no part in the further fighting. the royalists had now increased their numbers to about horse and foot, and held a rendezvous at preston on saturday, august rd. lilburne was not anxious to force on an engagement, as he had no infantry with him, and his men were tired with their long marches from cheshire. cromwell's own regiment of foot under major-general worsley were following him as fast as possible, and he resolved to wait for this reinforcement. on the same day the royalists delivered a surprise attack on their own account. lilburne had now encamped at brindle, four miles from preston, and the royalists were informed by a secret enemy "they being all enemies hereabouts" that the horses were turned loose and the men off their guard. a party of about horse, mostly gentlemen's sons from the fylde and their servants, rode out of preston for the adventure, and guided by byways reached the parliamentarian camp unperceived. lilburne's troopers were lying on the grass by their saddles, half asleep in the summer afternoon, with their horses grazing near by in the fields between brindle and preston. suddenly the royalists, who had evaded the guard in the lane below burst out upon them. for a few moments all was confusion; but "the finest soldiers in europe" were more than a match for a few hot-headed youths, even caught thus at a disadvantage. recovering their horses they fell upon the assailants and pursued them as far as ribble bridge; and all the royalists were either taken or slain, excepting one who escaped like charles ii. after worcester, by climbing into a tree and hiding there until the following day. among those killed were the sons of mr. butler of rawcliffe and mr. hesketh of maines hall, near poulton-le-fylde. john clifton, the second son of mr. clifton of lytham, was badly wounded and taken prisoner. [illustration: the campaign of wigan lane] not knowing what other surprises might be delivered in such a hostile country lilburne moved his camp next morning (sunday, august th) two miles further east to hoghton, and that day colonel richard shuttleworth and a number of others from the neighbourhood came to him at hoghton tower and remained till evening; showing that the county was not entirely hostile to the cromwellians. on the previous evening lilburne had received two companies of foot from chester, and there also arrived another company of newly raised foot from liverpool; but he was still waiting for cromwell's regiment which was now reported to be at manchester. the royalists, however, had also heard of their advance, and thinking to surprise worsley before he could join the cavalry, and having also the promise of reinforcements in manchester themselves, they marched out of preston towards midnight on sunday and proceeded south. the movement was not one of flight as has been suggested, and as lilburne at first thought. he did not hear of their march until or o'clock next morning when intelligence was brought by an old woman. at once he started off in hot pursuit, and came up with the royalists about mid-day near wigan. but lilburne, when he found that the royalists were not flying, still held off, hoping to be able to march on their flank to manchester. the royalists, however, had now resolved to give him battle, and about o'clock in the afternoon they were seen advancing along the lane which led out of the town towards standish. it was a gallant company of royalists who rode out of wigan that august afternoon to make their last stand for the king in lancashire. in command was the earl of derby, the uncompromising enemy of the parliament; and with him were sir thomas tyldesley, the hero of many fights, the perfect exponent of all the cavalier virtues; lord widdrington, "one of the most goodly persons of that age, being near the head higher than most tall men, and a gentleman of the best and most ancient extraction";[ ] sir william throgmorton, who had been major-general in newcastle's yorkshire army; colonel boynton, some time governor of scarborough for the parliament, and their chief instrument in the discovery of the hothams' plot to betray hull; with many others of equal bravery but of less note. opposed to them were the stern, well disciplined cavalry of the cromwellian army. the two forces were absolutely typical of the opposing armies of the civil war. it is said that when lilburne's men saw that they must fight they turned on the country people who had come out to see their march and dispersed them with harsh words. the two forces were nearly equal in cavalry,[ ] for the earl of derby had by now , and lilburne his own regiment, which would be if the ranks were full; and lilburne also had about horse and dragoons which birch had mounted for him from the liverpool garrison. the royalists were superior in foot, having to the cromwellians ; but the advantage was not so great as it appeared, for the manxmen whom derby had brought over with him were poor fighters; and moreover the battle was essentially a cavalry engagement, in which infantry played only a subordinate part. wigan lane was then a broad sandy lane bordered by hedges, and was thus as unsuitable a position for manoeuvring cavalry as could be imagined; but the time was too short for lilburne to choose any other ground. placing his musketeers behind the hedges, he awaited the royalist onset. the place had other memories for him, and perhaps for some of his men; for it was here that he had driven in hamilton's rearguard in the campaign of . difficult as the ground was, the combat which ensued was the fiercest of all the years fighting in lancashire. so furious was the royalist charge that they drove back the cromwellians far along the lane. in the confined space no manoeuvring was possible, and for nearly an hour the cavalry fought at close quarters. at length at the third charge lilburne brought up a small reserve, and the superior steadiness of the veterans of the new model prevailed over the impetuous bravery of the cavaliers. the royalists wavered and began to give ground; widdrington fell dead, tyldesley was unhorsed and shot down as he attempted to extricate himself from the press;[ ] derby himself was wounded, and lilburne's men chased the now broken royalist squadrons down the hill into wigan. the pursuit and slaughter continued through the streets and town. the rout was complete; throgmorton and boynton were also among the slain which numbered ; prisoners were taken, and the rest of the force melted away. in an hour the hopes of the royalists in lancashire had been destroyed. the earl of derby, who had fought with his accustomed bravery, was surrounded by six of his men and succeeded in reaching the town, where he slipped in through an open door of a house in the market place and lay concealed until nightfall. he had a number of slight wounds about the arms and shoulders, and his beaver which he wore over a steel cap was picked up afterwards in the lane with thirteen sword cuts upon it. in the middle of the night he left his place of refuge disguised in a trooper's old coat, and accompanied only by colonel roscarrock and two servants, made his way out of the town and rode away to join the king. events had moved with too tragic suddenness for news to come to those waiting in the isle of man. there is in the tanner mss. a short letter written by henrietta stanley on august th from castle rushen to tyldesley who was superintending the embarkation of the troops at douglas. the girl writes light-heartedly, in high hopes of the success of the expedition which fair winds were just about to set free to sail, and closes with a playful message to colonel roscarrock about a book. now, just fourteen days later, the royalist army had been scattered, tyldesley was slain, and roscarrock one of the three who rode away under cover of darkness with the wounded earl of derby. but no tidings of the disaster came to castle rushen for many weeks. after long waiting, the countess sent out a pinnace but it was driven by contrary winds upon the coast of cheshire, and fell into the enemy's hands.[ ] journeying as quickly as his wounds and weariness would permit, derby reached the house of a mr. watson at newport in shropshire, where he met a friend, who conducted him to boscobel house, which was then only occupied by two servants, william penderel and his wife (friday, august th). this was just a fortnight after he had landed at preesall. resting there until sunday, the earl was then guided by penderel to gatacre, and so reached worcester. pursued by ill-fortune to the last, he arrived there bringing the news of his own disaster, only two days before the battle of worcester; where cromwell, with an army more than twice as numerous as the scots, had no difficulty in gaining a complete victory. derby fought in the battle, and after the defeat his chief care was for charles' safety. he was one of the few noblemen who attended the king to kinver heath near kidderminster; and it was by derby's advice that charles was conducted to white ladies, and from there, under the care of the penderels richard and william, to boscobel. "this is the king," said derby to william penderel, "thou must have a care of him and preserve him as thou didst me." thus saved from the first pursuit, charles after many narrow escapes reached brighton and crossed to france.[ ] derby then joined the retreat northwards with leslie, the earl of lauderdale, lord talbot and others. they were attacked by colonel blundell, but managed to make their escape. soon afterwards, however, they fell in with another skirmish and were captured. a lancashire captain named oliver edge was riding by himself to see what had become of the 'forlorn,' when he noticed a party of horse in the field behind him. fearing they were enemies he hastened back towards his regiment; when to his surprise all the horsemen dismounted and surrendered themselves prisoners. the earls of derby and lauderdale were the most important of those captured. edge gave the prisoners quarter but his action was over-ruled by the parliament through no fault of his own. derby afterwards wrote of edge as "one that was so civil to me, that i and all that love me are beholden to him." the earl with some other prisoners was carried to chester castle.[ ] after the battle of wigan lane, lilburne sent up lieutenant turner to london with letters to the house of parliament which were read on august th. after hearing the letters turner was called in to give an account of the battle; and the house made him a present of £ , at the same time voting to lilburne the sum of £ and lands to the yearly value of £ . this was to be raised out of some delinquent's lands, and was in satisfaction of two former votes of £ , each which remained undischarged. the sunday after the battle (august st) was named as a public thanksgiving.[ ] the earl of derby's papers were referred to the council of state to see whether they contained anything of importance (august th); for so hasty had been his flight from wigan that all his baggage, including his cloaks with his orders, fell into lilburne's hands. on the following monday sir harry vane, the younger, reported to the house that papers of great importance had been found in the earl's hampers, and as a result of their examination the council of state decided on september to represent to parliament that derby was a fit person to be brought to trial and made an example of justice; and that he should be tried by court-martial at chester.[ ] parliament made the required vote on the following day, september th. the irreconcilable hostility of the earl to the parliament, his high rank, and especially his prominent part in the last campaign, rather than his personal character, probably decided the council of state to deal hardly with him. he was not a dangerous man. but it was thought necessary that an example should be made. much has been written by royalists of the perfidy of putting him on trial for his life after quarter had been given; but derby must have known that edge's promise was liable to be over-ruled by a higher authority; and in any case it could have made little difference, for if derby and his companions had not surrendered at newport, they must have been captured during the next few days. the trial began at chester on september th. the earl of lauderdale had been sent to the tower, and giffard, another of those who had surrendered, escaped from bunbury in cheshire. two other prisoners, sir timothy featherstonhaugh and captain benbow were tried at chester with derby. after the resolution of parliament on september th, a commission was directed to major-general mitton, colonel duckenfield, colonel mackworth, colonel birch, colonel henry brooke, colonel henry bradshaw, colonel thomas croxton, colonel gilbert ireland, colonel john carter, colonel twistleton, colonel mason or any three of them. most of the names were those of officers of the cheshire militia regiments enrolled in hamilton's invasion of . birch and ireland were the only two lancashire names, and neither of them attended any of the sittings of the court martial. mackworth was chosen president. he was governor of shrewsbury, and on charles' march it was thought that he might be prevailed upon to surrender the town, but he returned a rude denial. most of the other members of the commission were comparatively unknown; indeed it was not a dignified court by which to try a great nobleman.[ ] the articles against derby were that he had in defiance of the act of parliament of august th, , making it treason to hold correspondence with charles stewart, received a commission from him, proclaimed him king at several places in lancashire, had raised forces to assist him, and on their defeat had himself fought in the battle of worcester. the earl did not attempt to deny his acts, but he asked for more time to consider his answer, and the court was adjourned until the following day, derby being furnished with a copy of the articles. next morning (september th) at o'clock in the morning the other two prisoners were tried. derby was then brought to the bar, and pleaded that he was in the isle of man on august th and had never heard of the act under which he was being convicted. his request for counsel was considered and allowed, and at the earl's own suggestion mr. zancthy, a chester lawyer, was named. the court then adjourned, and it was decided that the earl should have liberty at o'clock next morning to plead his own case. later in the day a request was made on his behalf that he might have sir maurice enslow or sir robert brerewood as counsel instead of zancthy, but this was refused. next day the earl again pleaded that he was ignorant of the act of parliament of august th, and further that captain edge had given him quarter, and therefore that a court-martial had no authority over him; and he appealed to cromwell to support his claim. the court, however, over-ruled the plea, and decided with two dissentients that there was cause to proceed to a conviction according to the articles proved. it was objected that quarter could not be allowed to traitors, and it cannot be supposed that derby would have acted otherwise had he known of the act of august th. the two voting in the negative were twistleton and delves, and the former desired his vote to be recorded. when the court met in the afternoon, however, and decided that the earl was worthy of death and should be executed at bolton on october th, twistleton was one of those who voted. delves was apparently not present, but of the nineteen members, none voted in the negative. regarding the place of execution ten voted for bolton, and eight for manchester; against the name of lieutenant-colonel finch no place is given. so that it was only by a bare majority that bolton was fixed upon. the trial of the earl of derby was really only a pretence of justice. as in the case of charles i., two years before, the verdict had been decided upon before the court met. the result was a foregone conclusion, for parliament had resolved to put derby out of the way. as a matter of law his excuses were good enough; but no one could suppose that the trial would be decided by technical points. of course the earl had not heard of the act of august th, but it would have made no difference if he had; and he knew quite well that he had been exempted from pardon by the parliament years before, and must have been fully conscious of the risk he ran in taking part in the invasion of the scots. the council of state had evidently decided also that the sentence of the court-martial should be carried into effect. they had written to colonel duckenfield on september th "as to what you mention of the earl of derby, order has been given by parliament concerning him, which is to be effectually pursued, without expecting any interposition from council."[ ] nevertheless great efforts were naturally made to secure a reprieve. on september th, after the first day's sitting of the court, derby himself directed two petitions, one to the council, and the other to parliament, promising to surrender the isle of man if his life should be spared. he also wrote to lady derby to surrender the island, but no hope was given that his petition would be granted even on these terms. as a matter of fact the isle of man was not surrendered until november. after the earl's death duckenfield and birch led an expedition against it, and landed troops; but the countess asked for terms, and before any fighting took place capitulated. castle rushen was given up on november st, and peel castle on november rd. duckenfield thought that the terms were satisfactory, because "these castles might have cost a great expense of blood, time and charge, besides several other difficulties which in this island are to be undergone in a siege, which are only obvious to such as be upon the place."[ ] to return, however, to the trial of the earl of derby, charles, lord strange, now appeared upon the scene. he was a worthless person of whom his father had written "i have no good opinion of him; he is not ashamed of his faults."[ ] strange was only on the breaking out of the war, and had therefore been too young to have any considerable part in affairs. but a few years later the exile of the isle of man became irksome to him and he left his parents and went to france, where he spent most of the next few years. now, however, he returned, and a reconciliation was made; and to do him justice strange seems to have used great efforts on his father's behalf. he journeyed to london, but no one in london would intercede for the earl, the intention of parliament being evidently too well known. derby then applied personally to cromwell, emphasising the illegality of his condemnation by a court-martial after having received quarter. there seems to have been no doubt that cromwell was anxious to secure the earl's reprieve;[ ] but parliament would not listen to him. other means were then used. president bradshaw was tried through his brother, colonel henry bradshaw, one of the earl's judges, and brideoak, one of derby's chaplains, applied to speaker lenthall. brideoak pleaded so well for himself that he was made lenthall's own chaplain and preacher at the rolls, but he failed to secure his patron's pardon. finding there was no hope of reprieve the earl made an attempt to escape which was very nearly successful. one night he found some pretext for being on the lead roof above his chamber, and procuring a rope slid down and escaped from the city. the alarm, however, was raised, and he was recaptured on the roodee, having unawares discovered himself to his pursuers. before attempting to escape, he left on his table a letter to the countess advising her to make the best terms she could with colonel duckenfield "who being so much a gentleman born will doubtless for his own honour's sake deal fairly with you."[ ] after this derby was of course more carefully watched. he made one final attempt in a petition to lenthall on october th. in this he offered no vindication, but cast himself entirely on the parliament's mercy, stating that he had been persuaded by colonel duckenfield that parliament would spare his life. he again offered to surrender the isle of man, to take no further action against the government, and to be imprisoned or banished as the house might direct. if this was refused he particularly asked that the place of his execution might be altered from bolton, because "the nation will look upon me as a sacrifice for that blood which some have unjustly cast upon me"; and he claimed that the charge of cruelty at the capture of bolton was never once mentioned during his trial, which indeed was quite true. this petition was not brought forward in the house till tuesday, october, th, the day before that which had been fixed for the execution. the house voted by votes to that the petition should be read, sir william brereton being one of the tellers for the ayes; but no action could be taken, for if a reprieve had been intended it would have been decided upon long before.[ ] the earl's last hours were moving and dignified enough; and told chiefly by rev. humphrey bagguley, who was in attendance upon him during the few days before his death, they lose nothing in effect. bagguley, with the rev. henry bridgeman, vicar of wigan and brother of orlando bridgeman, together with lord strange, were the three who remained to the last. the authorities at chester showed unnecessary cruelty in forbidding the earl's children intercourse with him; but his second and third daughters, lady katherine and lady amelia were allowed to spend most of monday, october th, with their father. next day derby was informed that he must start for bolton on the following morning, and that evening he wrote his two last affectionate letters to his wife and children in the isle of man. next morning he duly set out for bolton, after his fellow-prisoners had been permitted to say farewell to him at the castle gate. there was one sadder farewell still to be gone through. the earl rode on horseback and about half a mile out of the town was met by his two daughters in a coach. alighting from his horse he kneeled down and prayed for them before taking a final farewell. "this was the deepest scene of sorrow my eyes ever beheld," says the narrator, "so much grief, and so much tender concern and tender affection on both sides, i never was witness of before." that night the cavalcade rested at leigh, and next day with a guard of foot and horse the earl reached bolton about noon. his request to be allowed to visit sir thomas tyldesley's grave had been refused. after resting two hours at an inn the earl was conducted to the scaffold, which had been built near the cross partly of timber brought from the ruins of lathom house. not very many people were present besides the soldiers on guard; but a tumult arising from some unexplained cause interrupted derby in his last speech. he seems to have been afraid of the hostility of the crowd, but the soldiers with more reason feared a demonstration in his favour, for most of the onlookers evidently pitied him.[ ] the earl's last words were heard by few of those present, but they were taken down in shorthand and afterwards printed. in them he again repudiated the charges of cruelty made against him. after having spent some time in private prayer, the earl gave the signal to the executioner by lifting his hands, and his head was severed at one blow. the body was taken by lord strange to haigh hall, near wigan, and the next day to ormskirk, to be buried with the former earls of derby. so died, if not the wonderful possessor of all the virtues which partisan biographers afterwards pretended, a brave, upright and christian gentleman, weak rather than offending, who deserved a better fate.[ ] and with his death the civil war in lancashire really ends. footnotes: [ ] _vide_ note on p. . "a declaration of the earl of derby, etc." e. ( ). "a message sent from the earl of derby, governor of the isle of man, to his dread sovereign charles ii., ." e. ( ). [ ] "c.s.p.," - , p. . it would seem that this was the real reason for the final breaking off of the negotiations. [ ] "a declaration of the earl of derby, etc." e. ( ). the letter has been frequently reprinted. cf. marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," p. : "signé derby; mais faut-il dire: écrit par lord derby? on est en droit de croire que sa femme eut une parte prépondérante à la redaction de ses phrases hachées, vibrantes, pareilles aux coups de canon, qui, sur les vaisseaux, saluent au lever du jour, le pavillon national, montant fièrement dans les airs: car elles sont en parfaite conformité avec ses mâles repliques aux assiegeants de lathom-house: elles n'ont, au contraire, aucun trait de resemblance avec le style flasque et ampoulé des lettres ou des discours du comte." [ ] "carte mss.," vol. , fol. , ; vol. , pp. , ; vol. , fol. ; vol. , fol. , , ; vol. , fol. . there is also a letter referring to this matter in the "ormonde mss.," hist. mss. com., new series, vol. , p. . [ ] "c.s.p.," - , p. ; , p. , etc. [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , , . [ ] "ashmolean mss.," , ff. , ; , ff. , . the particulars are from the garter records of sir edward walker; but, curiously enough, the date in one of the volumes is given incorrectly as january, . the fact that the patent was directed from castle elizabeth in jersey, however, is proof of the correctness of the earlier date. [ ] it must, however, be remembered that few of the original parliamentarian leaders in lancashire were now left. assheton had died in february of this year, and moore and rigby in . [ ] gardiner, "commonwealth and protectorate," vol. , p. . [ ] cary's "memorials," vol. , pp. , . [ ] cary's "memorials," vol. , p. . "discourse," p. . the latter has high praise for the moderate conduct of the royal troops. [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , , . "rawlinson mss.," a. , ff. , . [ ] "c.s.p.," , p. . [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . "discourse," p. . [ ] "a brief statement of his majesty's affairs, etc." ("tanner mss.," vol. , fol. , .) [ ] "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. (book , par. ). [ ] "c.w.t.," p. . the "discourse," p. , says: "besides men of quality, some manck soldiers." in the previous month derby had declared himself ready to join the king with men well armed. cary's "memorials," vol. , p. . "seacome," p. , says that the earl of derby landed with " gallant gentlemen." for the warrant to derby _vide_ "tanner mss.," vol. , fol. . it was directed "to our right trusty and right well-beloved cosen the earl of derby, our captain generall in our county palatine of lancaster," and states that owing to his rapid march the king had been unable to send particular summonses to lancashire; he was now pursuing the enemy, who had been dislodged from warrington bridge. gardiner, "commonwealth and protectorate," vol. , p. , gives the date of derby's meeting with charles as august . [ ] "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. , (book , par. ). massey's letter of august is printed in "cary," vol. , p. . he says that his advance has been checked by a regiment of lilburne's horse quartered near middleton; but this cannot have been lilburne's own regiment, which only left stockport on the nd. some prisoners were made by massey. "seacome," pp. , , is the authority for the meeting at warrington, but his statements are accepted by mr. gardiner. seacome's account that massey strongly seconded derby's appeals is, however, not compatible with a sentence of mr. gardiner's: "too late charles discovered that a letter carried by massey from the scotch ministers attending the army contained a warning against a too close conjunction with malignants." "commonwealth," vol. , p. . it must be supposed that seacome overrated massey's part in the meeting. [ ] "portland mss.," vol. , p. . several warrants issued by derby are given, and orders against plundering; companies on the march, however, were to have free quarter. the earl's appeal to the gentlemen of lancashire is printed in "cary," vol. , p. . [ ] "discourse," pp. , . [ ] "clarendon" (macray), vol. , p. (book , par. ). [ ] the fullest accounts of the battle of wigan are: "a great victory, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ); "two letters from col. robert lilburne, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ); "seacome," pp. , ; whitelock's "memorials," p. ; and "discourse," pp. - . the last gives most details, probably from personal knowledge; major robinson was one of the lancashire officers to whom a commission was given in the reorganisation of the militia in . his narrative and that of lilburne, as those written by eye-witnesses, may be taken as the most reliable. with regard to the numbers of the respective forces, there can be little doubt that they were very nearly equal. seacome's wild estimates, which are, as usual, unhesitatingly followed by canon raines, may be dismissed as impossible; he gives lilburne , horse and foot. it has already been mentioned that derby landed with less than horse, and either or foot (p. ). all the accounts substantially agree in respect to these figures. in the few days after landing these numbers were considerably increased; seacome acknowledges that derby had horse at the battle, while lilburne says that the royalists had increased to , or , men, and the "discourse" gives them , foot and horse. lilburne's estimate of his own army, as stated in the letter to cromwell, may be accepted as correct. he writes: "i had only my own regiment, and those three companies of foot, and the horse and dragoons." his own regiment of horse he had brought with him; two of the foot companies had been sent from chester, and one, together with the dragoons, from the garrison at liverpool. "discourse," p. ; "c.w.t.," p. . the latter of these references is to a letter from birch, the governor of liverpool, who writes: "all that could be afforded in assistance were two foot companies from chester, one of my regiment, left about manchester, not being so ready as the rest to march out, and what musketeers i horsed from hence with some few countrymen." a regiment of cavalry in the new model army numbered men. firth, "cromwell's army," p. . dragoons in the seventeenth century were not cavalry, but mounted infantry. mr. gardiner's account of the battle is not quite correct ("commonwealth," vol. , p. ). he says: "lilburne fell back through wigan.... entangled in the lanes south of the town he was compelled to fight, etc." wigan lane is the road out of wigan to the north. [ ] a monument to tyldesley was erected on the spot where he fell by his cornet, alexander rigby, of layton, when the latter was sheriff of lancashire in . the monument still stands: it was restored by the corporation of wigan in . the long inscription is printed by canon raines. "stanley papers," pt. , vol. (c.s. ), p. cccxxxiii. [ ] this letter is printed in "cary," vol. , p. ; marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," p. . [ ] hughes' "boscobel tracts," pp. , . [ ] for the narrative of derby's capture we are indebted to capt. hodgson ("autobiography," p. ). little seems to be known about edge; but the name of oliver edge occurs in a statement about the seating of manchester church in , which was largely signed by the inhabitants of the town, and this signature is very probably his. ("manchester municipal records.") he belonged to the family of edge of birch-hall houses near manchester. halley's "lancashire puritanism and nonconformity" ( nd ed. in vol., ), p. . [ ] "c.j.," vol. , pp. , . [ ] "c.s.p.," , pp. , . "c.j.," vol. , pp. , . [ ] the official record of the trial of the earl of derby, from the original in the library of the house of lords, is printed by canon raines in the appendix to his "stanley papers," pt. , vol. (c.s. ), pp. cccxxxiv-ccclvii, as well as other valuable documents relating to the earl's trial and death. _vide_ also "discourse," pp. - ; "c.w.t.," pp. - . [ ] "c.s.p.," , p. . [ ] duckenfield and birch to lenthall. ramsey, nov. . ("tanner mss.," vol. , fol. .) [ ] marlet, "charlotte de la tremoille," p. . [ ] gardiner ("commonwealth," vol. , p. , note) quotes a newsletter of salvetti, which seems decisive on this point. as the earl's death has been attributed to cromwell's own influence the quotation may be repeated here: "il general cromwell fa buonissimi uffizii per salvarlo la vita, con conditione che consegni nelle mane del parlamento la sua isoletta di man, della quale se ne intitole re." [ ] "seacome," p. . [ ] "raines," _op. cit._, p. ccxvii, ccvxiii. canon raines here repeats a wild story from seacome, to the effect that this petition would have been allowed by the house, had not cromwell and bradshaw contrived to reduce the number of members present to less than , so that no question could be put. there is no foundation for this statement. as a matter of fact, the house voted that derby's petition should be read, but it could not possibly be dealt further with owing to the impossibility of sending a messenger into lancashire in time to stop the execution, had that been intended. ("c.j.," vol. , p. .) for cromwell's real attitude towards the reprieve, _vide_ note on p. . [ ] "the earl of derby's speech on the scaffold, etc." ("c.w.t.," p. ). the best account of the earl's last hours is naturally given by seacome, who quotes bagguley's "narrative" (pp. - ), "discourse," pp. - : "the earl was no good orator, and the tumult put him out of speaking what he intended; he was much afraid of being reviled by the people of the town, but they rather pitied his condition." [ ] "the earl of darby was a man of unquestionable loyalty to the king, and gave clear testimony of it before he received any obligations from the court, and when he thought himself disobliged by it.... he was a man of great honour and clear courage; and all his defects and misfortunes proceeded from his having lived so little time among his equals, that he knew not how to treat his inferiors: which was the source of all the ill that befell him, having thereby drawn such a prejudice from the persons of inferior quality, who yet thought themselves too good to be contemned, against him, that they pursued him to death." ("clarendon," macray, vol. , p. , bk. , par. ). index. aberconway, . acton church, royalist defeat at, . adwalton moor, battle of, , , - . allen, rev. isaac, rector of prestwich, . albany mill, middleton, _n_. alport lodge, . ---- burnt down, _n_. ---- demolished, . amounderness hundred, , , , , . ---- royalist collectors for, . ---- parliamentarian captains in, . anderton, christopher, of lostock, . ---- hugh, . ---- james, , . appleby, . ---- castle, , . ardern, captain, . array, commissions of, , , . ---- voted illegal by parliament, . ashhurst, henry, _n_, . ---- captain john (afterwards major), , , . ---- ---- at bolton, - . ---- ---- at lathom, . ---- ---- appointed governor of liverpool, . ---- ---- his negotiations with lord derby, . ---- william, m.p. for newton, . ---- ---- notice of, - . ashton hall, lancaster, charles ii. at, . ashton, distress in, . assessments, on lancashire, . assheton, radcliffe, royalist collector in blackburn hundred, , _n_. ---- ralph, of downham, . ---- ---- of whalley, m.p. for clitheroe, , . ---- ---- of middleton, m.p. for lancashire, colonel and major-general, _n_, , , _n_. ---- ---- secures the magazine at manchester, . ---- ---- notice of, - , _n_. ---- ---- his tenants at the siege of manchester, , . ---- ---- commands at first defence of bolton, . ---- ---- relieves lancaster, . ---- ---- retreats to whalley, . ---- ---- sacks wigan, . ---- ---- victory in the fylde, . ---- ---- takes hornby and thurland castle, . ---- ---- at adwalton moor, . ---- ---- defeated at booth lane, near sandbach, . ---- ---- at the siege of lathom house, - . ---- ---- at york, . ---- ---- serves at siege of chester, . ---- ---- commander-in-chief in lancashire in , . ---- ---- takes bentham house, westmoreland, . ---- ---- at battle of preston, . ---- ---- takes appleby castle, . ---- ---- ordered to disperse lancashire militia, . ---- ---- dismissed from his command, . aston, sir thomas, letter of, intercepted, . atherton, _n_. audlem, . aylesbury, taken by prince rupert, . bagguley, rev. humphrey, attends lord derby, . baillie, lieut.-gen., surrenders at warrington, . ---- robert, letters of, , , . bamber, captain, . banquet to lord strange at manchester, . barlow moor, near manchester, . ---- rendezvous on, . barton, sir t., . barwick, lieutenant, . beaumont, . beeston castle, . bellasis, lord, taken prisoner at selby, . benbow, captain, . berwick-on-tweed, . betley, prince rupert at, . birch, thomas, of birch, successively captain, sergeant-major and colonel, , , , , . ---- ---- at the affray in manchester ( ), - . ---- ---- at capture of preston, . ---- ---- occupies lancaster, . ---- ---- seizes earl of derby's daughters, . ---- ---- chosen one of earl of derby's judges, but does not act, . ---- ---- isle of man surrendered to him, . blackburn, , , , , . ---- occupied by royalists, . ---- royalist attack on, . ---- hundred, , , , , , , . blackstone edge, . ---- fortified, , _n_. blaire, major-gen., royalist commander at wigan, . bolton-le-moors, , , , . ---- first attack on, , . ---- second attack on, . ---- stormed by prince rupert, - . ---- collection for, in manchester, . ---- meeting of deputy-lieutenants at, . ---- execution of earl of derby at, . booth, col. sir george, . ---- john, captain and colonel, . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- ---- his bravery at preston, . ---- ---- at nantwich, . ---- ---- at ormskirk, . ---- lane, parliamentarian defeat at, . bootle, capt., - . boscobel, . bourne, rev. wm., , _n_. boynton, col. matthew, . ---- ---- slain at wigan, . braddyl, john, . bradford, , . bradshaw, col. henry, one of lord derby's judges, . ---- john, of bradshaw, , _n_, . ---- president, . ---- capt. robert, . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- ---- taken prisoner at westhoughton, . bradshawgate, bolton, . brereton, lord, . ---- sir william, of handforth, , , _n_, , . ---- ---- in manchester, , _n_. ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- ---- besieges warrington, . ---- ---- takes warrington, - . ---- ---- at siege of chester, , . ---- ---- letter of, . ---- ---- lancashire troops with, . bretherton, john, . bridgeman, edward, . ---- rev. henry, . ---- orlando, m.p. for wigan, . bright, col., at preston, . brindle, skirmish at, . bristol, , . brook, col. h., one of lord derby's judges, . bruerton, . brunstock, . bryn hall, charles ii. at, . buckley, capt., . buckshawe hall, chorley, _n_. bury, , , . butler, mr., of rawcliffe, . butterworth, alexander, . byron, sir john, royalist governor of chester and of liverpool, , . ---- col. robert, letter to ormonde, . cadishead, . callander, earl of, , . ---- letter of, . cantsfield, . carlisle, , , . carter, col. john, one of lord derby's judges, . castle rushen, , , . charles i., petition to, from lancashire, . ---- raises his standard at nottingham, . ---- makes the cessation in ireland, . ---- expected to march into lancashire, . ---- storms leicester, . ---- defeated at rowton heath, . ---- surrenders to the scots, . ---- negotiations with parliament, . charles ii. proclaimed at manchester cross, . ---- appoints earl of derby k.g., . ---- lands at speymouth, . ---- invades england, . ---- passes through lancashire, . ---- defeated at worcester, . ---- his escape, . charnock, capt., , . chester, , , . chetham, humphrey, . ---- college, . chipping, . chisenhale, capt., , . ---- sortie by, , . ---- made colonel, . cholmondeley, sir h., . chowbent, skirmish at, , _n_, . clifton, mr., of lytham, , . ---- col. cuthbert, , . ---- john, . clitheroe, , . cockerham, . committee of both houses, . committee of both kingdoms, letters to, , . conduit, manchester, . cotterell, capt., . crane, sir richard, . cromwell, oliver, , . ---- ---- victory at preston, - . ---- ---- ---- dunbar, . croxton, col. thomas, . danson, thomas, under sheriff, . darwen, river, . dean, col., . deansgate, manchester, , , , , . derby, charlotte de la tremoille, countess of, - . ---- ---- letters of, to prince rupert, , . ---- ---- defends lathom house, - . ---- ---- removes to isle of man, , _n_. ---- ---- surrenders isle of man, . delamere, royalist defeat at, . denbigh, earl of, , . derby, earl of. _see_ stanley, james. dives, sir lewis, . dodding, col. george, , . ---- ---- appointed colonel, . ---- ---- taken prisoner, . ---- ---- suspicions of, , _n_. ---- ---- defeats royalists at walton, . ---- ---- besieges greenhalgh castle, . ---- ---- in second civil war, . doncaster, . dorsetshire, affray in, . duckenfield, col. robert, , . ---- ---- surrenders stockport to rupert, . ---- ---- suppresses free companies, . ---- ---- subdues isle of man, . ---- ---- lord derby's opinion of, . dukenhalgh hall, . dunbar, battle of, . eccleston, _n_. ---- green, . edge, capt. oliver, _n_, . ---- ---- earl of derby surrenders to, . egerton, peter, of shaw in flixton, colonel and major-general, , . ---- ---- in command at second siege of lathom, - . ---- ---- his letter to the speaker, . ellel, . emmott lane head, . fairfax, ferdinando, first baron, , , . ---- sir thomas, , . ---- ---- victory at wakefield, . ---- ---- at adwalton moor, . ---- ---- lancashire troops with, in cheshire, . ---- ---- relieves nantwich, . ---- ---- at lathom, - . ---- ---- insubordination to, . ---- ---- defeats goring at langport, . ---- ---- at preston, . fanshawe, anne, lady, . ---- sir richard, . farington, william, of worden, , , . ---- ---- notice of, . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- ---- at lathom, , . farmer, capt., at lathom house, . ---- sortie led by, . featherstonhaugh, sir t., . fitton, sir edward, summoned as delinquent, . ---- ---- letters of, , . ---- ---- disarms his tenants, . fleetwood, john, , . ---- richard, of rossall, _n_. fox, capt., . friars gate, preston, . freckleton marsh, . fulwood moor, royalist gathering on, . gamul, sir francis, . gell, sir john, _n_, . gerard, sir gilbert, . gilbey, sir theophilus, . girlington, sir john, sheriff of lancashire, , , , . ---- ---- notice of, . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- ---- surrenders at lancaster, . ---- ---- taken prisoner at thurland, . ---- ---- reoccupies thurland, . gisburn, . goring, lord, , . ---- joins rupert, . ---- defeated at langport, . greaves town, . green, alexander, , _n_, . greenhalgh castle, , , , . ---- ---- siege of, . grey, lord, . haigh hall, wigan, . haleford, , , _n_, . ---- prince rupert at, . ---- guarded, . halifax, , . hamilton, first duke of, invades lancashire, , , . ---- ---- his letter to lancashire ministers, . ---- ---- at hornby, . ---- ---- defeated at preston, - . ---- ---- executed, . ---- second duke of, . harrison, col., at preston, , . ---- sent to lancashire ( ), . ---- joins lambert, . ---- sir john, notice of, . haslington, cheshire, . hastings, mr., . hatherton, . hawarden castle, . hesketh, mr., . heyrick, richard, warden of manchester, , . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- ---- special preacher before parliament, , . heywood, peter, plot to betray manchester, . hindley, capt., . hinfield moor, _n_. hodder bridge, . hoghton, sir gilbert, , . ---- ---- notice of, . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- ---- defeated by col. shuttleworth, . ---- ---- attacks blackburn, . ---- ---- at preston, . ---- ---- ordered to chester, . ---- lady, . ---- richard, killed at preston, . ---- tower, , _n_. ---- ---- beacon at, fired, . ---- ---- surrendered and blown up, - . ---- ---- lilburne's camp at, . holcroft, col. thos., in affray at manchester, , , . ---- ---- at lancaster, . holland, richard, of heaton, governor of manchester, , , , . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- ---- at preston, - . ---- ---- in command at wigan, . ---- ---- accused of cowardice, _n_. ---- ---- at warrington, . ---- ---- at york, . ---- ---- with fairfax in cheshire, . ---- ---- suspicions of, . holt, . ---- capt., . ---- robert, of castleton, , , . hornby castle, , _n_, . ---- ---- captured, - . ---- ---- prince rupert at, . ---- ---- hamilton at, . hotham, sir john, . howe bridge, _n_. huddleston, col., defeated at lindale, , . ---- sir william, . hull, . ---- first blood of the civil war shed at, - . ---- first siege of, . ---- powder sent from, to lancashire, . ---- retreat of the fairfaxes to, . hunt's bank, manchester, . hutchinson, colonel, . ireland, sir gilbert, _n_. ---- ---- chosen one of lord derby's judges, . ireton, general, . irish troops for lancashire, . ---- ---- land in wales, . ---- ---- defeated at nantwich, . kendal, , . ---- charles ii. proclaimed at, . key, capt., . kilmorey, lord, . king, act forbidding proclamation of, . kinver heath, . kirkby, roger, m.p. for lancashire, , . ---- ---- notice of, . ---- ---- surrenders at lancaster, . kirkby lonsdale, , . kirkham, , , , . knutsford, royalist muster at, . ---- lambert retreats to, . lambert, general, , , , . ---- ---- joins cromwell, . ---- ---- disbands lancashire forces, . ---- ---- follows scots march, . ---- ---- skirmishes at warrington, . lancashire, geographical features of, , . ---- ---- effect on civil war, - . ---- religious parties in, . ---- course of civil war in, . ---- petitions from, , . ---- members of long parliament, . ---- attempted pacification in, . ---- troops from, in yorkshire, . ---- ---- in cheshire, , _n_. ---- ---- at siege of chester, - . ---- state of, after first civil war, , , . ---- ---- after second civil war, . ---- presbyterianism established in, . ---- ministers, hamilton's letter to, . ---- troops refuse to disband, . lancaster, , , , , _n_. ---- m.p.'s for, . ---- occupied for parliament, . ---- retaken by royalists, . ---- besieged, . ---- castle, _n_. langdale, sir marmaduke, , . ---- ---- at preston, . ---- ---- taken prisoner, . ---- ---- visits isle of man, . langho, . landown, . lathom house, , , , , , , , , , . ---- ---- description of, . ---- ---- first siege of, - . ---- ---- site of, - . ---- ---- siege of, raised, . ---- ---- garrison of, . ---- ---- second siege of, - . ---- ---- surrender of, . lauderdale, earl of, , . layton common, . lea hall, . leeds, . legge, col., . leicester, , . ---- charles i. at, . leigh, skirmish at, . ---- taken by manchester troops, . ---- mr., of adlington, . ---- ---- his house attacked, . leslie, alex., first earl of leven, . leyland hundred, , , , , , , . lilburne, col. robert, . ---- ---- letter of, to speaker lenthall, . ---- ---- ordered to lancashire, . ---- ---- at preston, . ---- ---- defeats derby at wigan, - . ---- ---- lands voted to, by parliament, . lindale, . liverpool, , , . ---- m.p.'s for, . ---- occupied for parliament, . ---- fortified by col. moore, . ---- captured by prince rupert, . ---- retaken by parliament, , . long parliament, lancashire members of, . lonsdale, hundred, , , . loughborough, . lowton common, . lygonia, . lytham hall, , , . mackworth, col., , . magazines seized by royalists, , . mains hall, . mainwaring, col., . malpas, , . man, isle of, . ---- ---- surrendered to parliament, . manchester magazine secured for parliament, . ---- first affray at, . ---- in , . ---- proposed university for, . ---- siege of, - . ---- state of, during siege, - . ---- importance of siege of, . ---- powder sent to, . ---- distress in, - , . ---- plague in, . ---- collection for, . market drayton, , , . market stead lane, manchester, , . markland, capt., . marston moor, battle of, , , . ---- ---- result of, in lancashire, , . martindale, adam, opinion of col. moore, _n_. ---- ---- description of lancashire distress, . mason, col., . massey, major-general, , . maurice, prince, . meldrum, sir john, surrenders newark, . ---- ---- in manchester, . ---- ---- victory at ormskirk, - . ---- ---- negotiations with derby, - . ---- ---- death of, _n_. mercer, robert, . middleton, sir george, summoned as delinquent, . ---- lieut-gen., . ---- church, _n_. middlewich, . militia, . ---- ordinance, , . ---- ---- in essex, . ---- ---- in lincolnshire, . ---- lancashire, disbanded, . ---- ---- reconstituted, . millgate, manchester, . ministers, lancashire, hamilton's letter to, . mitton, major-general, one of lord derby's judges, . molyneux, caryll, afterwards rd viscount, . ---- richard, nd viscount, , , . ---- ---- raises troops for the king, . ---- ---- notice of, , . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- ---- at battle of whalley, . ---- ---- leaves lancashire, . monck, col., . moore, edward, , . ---- col. john, of bank hall, . ---- ---- notice of, , _n_. ---- ---- appointed colonel, . ---- ---- fortifies liverpool, . ---- ---- at siege of liverpool, - . moot hill, . morgan, col., , _n_, . mort, adam, mayor of preston, . ---- ---- death of, . mosley, sir edward, intercepts powder for manchester, . ---- nicolas, boroughreeve of manchester, , . munro, sir george, , , , . musgrave, sir philip, . ---- ---- occupies carlisle, . ---- ---- surrenders at appleby, . myerscough lodge, , _n_, . ---- ---- charles ii. at, . nantwich, , , , . ---- besieged, . ---- relieved by sir t. fairfax, . newcastle, . ---- wm. cavendish, earl of, , . ---- ---- victory at adwalton, - . ---- ---- summons manchester, . ---- ---- retreats to york, . newton, lancashire, m.p.'s for, . norris, col., . northwich, . nottingham, , . ---- royal standard raised at, . nowell, col. roger, of read, , . ---- ---- surrenders lathom house, . oath imposed by lord derby on lancashire, _n_. ogle, capt. henry, royalist collector, . ---- at first siege of lathom, , . ogleby, lord, . ordinance. _see_ militia. ---- for disbanding the militia, . ordsall hall, , _n_. ormonde, marquis of, , _n_, . ormskirk, _n_, , . ---- royalist defeat at, . ---- riot at, . ---- lord derby buried at, . otley, . pacifications, local, . ---- in lancashire ( ), - . padiham, , . palmer, roger, m.p. for newton, . pateson, capt. wm., , . penderel, wm., . penrith, . penwortham hall, . ---- moor, . perceval, richard, killed at manchester, . petitions from lancashire to parliament, . ---- to king, . ---- from lancashire recusants to king, , . pontefract, , , . poulton-le-fylde, . pownall, major, . preesall sands, royalists land at, , . presbyterianism established in lancashire, . presbyterians, lancashire, difficulty of, in , . ---- ---- manifesto by, . ---- ---- meeting with lord derby, . prescot, _n_, . preston, , , , , , , . ---- magazine seized by royalists, . ---- m.p.'s for, . ---- captured by parliamentarians, - . ---- importance of, . ---- retaken by lord derby, . ---- battle of, - . ---- riots at, . ---- charles ii. at, . ---- skirmish at, . prestwich church, . ---- mr., . pride, col., . queen henrietta maria lands at bridlington, . ---- ---- prepares to invade lancashire, . radcliffe, sir alexander, , , , _n_. ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- molyneux, , . ---- capt. richard, . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- savile, . raglan castle, . rawcliffe hall, . rawsthorne, capt., at first siege of lathom, . ---- made colonel, . ---- at second siege of lathom, . read, col., . ---- hall, , . recusants, lancashire, petition of, , . rhodes, sir e., . ribble bridge, , , . ---- ---- scots defeated at, . ribchester, . rich, col., . rigby, alexander, of burgh, , , _n_, . ---- of layton, _n_. ---- of middleton in goosnargh, , . ---- ---- at the meeting on fulwood moor, , . ---- ---- prepares lord strange's impeachment, . ---- ---- m.p. for preston, . ---- ---- notice of, - . ---- ---- appointed colonel, . ---- ---- arrives in lancashire, . ---- ---- takes thurland castle, - . ---- ---- at first siege of lathom, , , - . ---- ---- at sack of bolton, , . ---- ---- at second siege of lathom, . ---- ---- summons deputy lieutenants, ( ), , . ---- ---- occupies kendal, . ---- ---- dismissed from his command, . ---- george, of peel, . ---- major joseph, , . robinson, col., . ---- major, _n_, . rochdale occupied by parliament, . ---- riots at, . roscarrock, col., . rossall hall, , _n_. ---- point, . rosworm, col. john, engaged to fortify manchester, , _n_, . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, - , . ---- ---- at leigh, . ---- ---- at preston, . ---- ---- at wigan, . ---- ---- fortifies blackstone edge, . ---- ---- urged to betray manchester, . ---- ---- at siege of liverpool, . roundway down, . rowton heath, , . rupert, prince, , , . ---- ---- letters of lady derby to, , . ---- ---- advances towards lancashire, - . ---- ---- occupies stockport, . ---- ---- takes bolton, - . ---- ---- takes liverpool, . ---- ---- at lathom, . ---- ---- court jealousy of, . ---- ---- surrenders bristol, . st. anne of dunkirk, - . sabden brook, . salesbury hall, . ---- ferry, , . salford bridge, , , , . ---- ---- affray on, _n_. ---- hundred, , , , . sandbach, . say, lord, parliamentarian lord-lieutenant of cheshire, . schofield, cap., . scots invasion in , . ---- ---- , . ---- defeated at preston, - . ---- ---- winwick, . ---- surrender at warrington, - . ---- invasion in , - . seaton, sir john, ordered to lancashire, . ---- ---- at preston, . ---- ---- at lancaster, . ---- ---- unpopularity of, , _n_. selby, royalist defeat at, . sequestrations, . sherington, francis, . shrewsbury, . shudehill, manchester, . shuttleworth, col. nicholas, , , . ---- ---- at siege of chester, . ---- richard, m.p. for clitheroe, . ---- col., m.p. for preston, , , . ---- ---- notice of, - . ---- ---- appointed colonel, . ---- ---- engaged in lancashire pacifications, . ---- ---- defeats sir richard hoghton, . ---- ---- at capture of preston, . ---- ---- at battle of whalley, - . ---- ---- skirmishes with prince rupert, . ---- ---- dismissed from his command, . ---- ---- visits lilburne at hoghton, . ---- col. ughtred, , . ---- capt. william, . ---- ---- death of, . singleton, , . skipton, , , . ---- cromwell at, . smithson, major, . sparrow, sergeant-major, at preston, . ---- ---- in the fylde, - . ---- ---- at lancaster, . stafford, . standish, , . ---- moor, , . ---- col., . ---- thomas, killed at manchester, . ---- ---- notice of, _n_. ---- thomas, m.p. for preston, , _n_. stanley, lady amelia, , . ---- charles, lord strange, afterwards th earl of derby, , , . ---- lady henrietta maria, . ---- ---- letter of, . ---- james, lord strange, afterwards th earl of derby, , . ---- ---- character of, . ---- ---- made a lord-lieutenant of lancashire and cheshire by the king, . ---- ---- calls a meeting on fulwood moor, . ---- ---- suggests raising royal standard at warrington, . ---- ---- joins charles i. at shrewsbury, . ---- ---- impeached by parliament, . ---- ---- career and character of, - . ---- ---- besieges manchester, - . ---- ---- burns spanish ship, . ---- ---- occupies lancaster, . ---- ---- takes preston, . ---- ---- his attacks on bolton, , . ---- ---- defeated at whalley, - . ---- ---- joins the queen, . ---- ---- retires to isle of man, . ---- ---- urges rupert to relieve lathom, . ---- ---- joins rupert's march, . ---- ---- at bolton, - . ---- ---- defeated by meldrum in cheshire, . ---- ---- negotiations with meldrum, , , _n_. ---- ---- in isle of man, . ---- ---- made k.g., . ---- ---- lands in lancashire , . ---- ---- his interview with charles ii., . ---- ---- meeting with presbyterians, . ---- ---- defeated at wigan, . ---- ---- his capture, . ---- ---- trial and death of, - . ---- lady katherine, , . ---- sir thomas, of bickerstaffe, , _n_, , . stanwix, . stonyhurst, , . starkie, capt., - . ---- col., , , . strickland, sir r., . ---- w., _n_. swarbreck, . talbot, sir j., , . ---- lord, . tarporley, . thornhaugh, col., death of, . throgmorton, sir w., . ---- ---- death of, . thurland castle, first capture of, . ---- ---- second capture of, , . tilsley, john, vicar of dean, . towneley hall, . ---- mr., . townson, mr., . tunstall, . turner, capt., . twistleton, col., at warrington, . ---- ---- one of lord derby's judges, , . tyldesley, sir thomas, royalist col. and maj.-gen., , , , , , , . ---- ---- notice of, . ---- ---- at siege of manchester, . ---- ---- at whalley, - . ---- ---- retreats before assheton, , . ---- ---- joins the queen, . ---- ---- at bolton, . ---- ---- besieges lancaster, . ---- ---- surrenders at appleby, . ---- ---- at campaign of wigan, . ---- ---- his death, . upholland, . uttoxeter, defeat of scots at, . vane, sir harry, at york, . ---- ---- appointed to examine earl of derby's papers, . venables, capt., afterwards general, _n_. ---- ---- taken prisoner, . vere, col., at second siege of lathom, , . ---- ---- wounded at preston, . wakefield, . walton, , . warrington, , , , . ---- proposal to raise royal standard at, . ---- lord strange's muster at, . ---- made royalist headquarters, . ---- unsuccessful siege of, . ---- captured by sir w. brereton, - . ---- scots surrender at, . ---- meeting at, - . ---- royalist council of war at, . wensleydale, . wetherby, . west derby hundred, , , , . westhoughton, royalist victory at, . whalley, battle of, - . wharton, lord, lord-lieutenant of lancashire, , , . whitchurch, , , . whitley, higher, . widdrington, lord, , . ---- ---- death of, . wigan, , , , , , . ---- m.p.'s for, . ---- first capture of, by parliament, . ---- second capture of, by parliament, . ---- distress in, . ---- charles ii. proclaimed at, . ---- battle of, . willoughby, lord, of parham, . windebank, capt., . winwick, . ---- scots defeated at, . worcester, powder sent from, to manchester, . ---- charles ii. defeated at, . worden hall, _n_. wrigley, henry, reeve of salford, _n_. wyn, sir richard, m.p. for liverpool, . wyre river, , _n_, . york, . ---- siege of, . zancthy, mr., lord derby's counsel, . manchester university publications. anatomical series. no. i. studies in anatomy from the anatomical department of the university of manchester. vol. iii. edited by alfred h. young, m.b. (edin.), f.r.c.s., professor of anatomy. demy vo, pp. ix, , plates. s. net. (publication no. , .) "all the papers contained in the volume are real additions to the knowledge of the subject with which they deal. for three of the studies prof. young is either in part or wholly responsible, and he is to be congratulated on the vigour shown by the manchester school of anatomists."--_nature_. "this work affords admirable evidence of the virility of our younger british universities. it is a notable addition to an already notable series."--_medical review_. "this forms the third volume of the studies in anatomy issued by the council, and contains contributions of considerable interest. the volume is well printed and bound. it speaks well for the activity of investigation at manchester."--_lancet_. "the volume is well got up and is evidence of the continuation of the excellent work which has been carried on for so long a period, under professor a. h. young's supervision, and has been encouraged and stimulated by his own work."--_british medical journal_. "throughout the papers, careful research and accurate observation are manifested, and they will repay careful perusal. to the anatomist, as well as the practical physician or surgeon, they will prove valuable."--_edinburgh medical journal_. celtic series. no. i. an introduction to early welsh. by the late prof. j. strachan, ll.d. demy vo, pp. xvi, . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "the grammar as a whole is of course a very great advance on the pioneer work of zeuss; dr. strachan had fuller and more accurate texts to work with, and possessed a knowledge probably unsurpassed of the results of recent progress in celtic philology, which he himself did so much to promote."--professor morris jones in the _manchester guardian_. "to welshmen anxious to study their native tongue in a thorough and scientific manner dr. strachan has here furnished an invaluable manual."--_aberdeen free press_. "an irishman cannot but envy the university of manchester; long since there should have been a university for celtic ireland, rearing scholars to work at these things that largely belong to ireland--to her interest and to her honour--and to produce works as solid in scholarship and as nobly turned out in material form."--_the freeman's journal_. "the work is an excellent introduction to the study of early welsh. we can strongly recommend it to welsh students; it is undoubtedly a work which no student of celtic literature can afford to be without."--_north wales guardian_. "the work is destined, of course, to become the text-book in early welsh wherever taught."--_western mail_. classical series. no. i. a study of the bacchae of euripides. by g. norwood, m.a., assistant lecturer in classics. demy vo, pp. xx, . s. net. (publication no. , .) "the interest of mr. norwood's book, which ... is a very welcome addition to the bibliography of euripides, and a scholarly and interesting piece of work, displaying erudition and insight beyond the ordinary, lies in the way in which, by applying dr. verrall's methods ... he first shows up difficulties and inconsistencies, some of which have hardly been noticed before ... and then produces his own startling theory, which he claims is the great solvent of all the perplexities."--_saturday review_. "unless very strong evidence can be produced against mr. norwood's view, it must be accepted as the true solution of the problem.... mr. norwood is generally clear, and abounds in illuminating thoughts. he has added a full bibliography (running to twenty-three pages) of writings on euripides, and for this every scholar will offer his sincere thanks.... he has done a very good piece of work."--_athenæum_. "this volume forms the first of a classical series projected by the manchester university, who are to be congratulated on having begun with a book so original and full of interest.... it is admirably argued, and is instinct with a sympathetic imagination. it is, at the very least, an extremely able attempt to solve a very complex problem."--_manchester guardian_. "mr. norwood demonstrates on every page his scholarship and knowledge, and gives proof of much painstaking research. the treatise is as valuable as it is interesting."--_manchester city news_. "it is a most ingenious theory, and a reviewer whom it has left unconvinced is all the more bound to give his testimony to the consistent skill, learning, and independence of judgment with which it is presented. the book ... strikes us as the product of vigorous and independent thought."--_times_. "mr. norwood's learned and ingenious argument."--_westminster gazette_. "mr. norwood's proposed solution, though novel, is extremely plausible."--_sheffield daily telegraph_. "lovers of euripides may not be convinced by his subtle argument, but they will certainly find his book suggestive and stimulating."--_daily news_. "mr. norwood's book has even in the eyes of a sceptic the considerable merit of stating the hypothesis in a very thoroughgoing and able manner, and at least giving it its full chance of being believed."--professor gilbert murray in the _nation_. "l'interprétation de m. norwood est certainement très ingénieuse; elle est même très séduisante."--_revue critique_. economic series. no. i. the lancashire cotton industry. by s. j. chapman, m.a., m. com., stanley jevons professor of political economy and dean of the faculty of commerce. demy vo, pp. vii, . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "such a book as this ought to be, and will be, read far beyond the bounds of the trade."--_manchester guardian_. "there have been books dealing with various phases of the subject, but no other has so ably treated it from the economic as well as from the historical point of view."--_manchester courier_. "the story of the evolution of the industry from small and insignificant beginnings up to its present imposing proportions and highly developed and specialised forms, is told in a way to rivet the attention of the reader ... the book is a valuable and instructive treatise on a fascinating yet important subject."--_cotton factory times_. "highly valuable to all close students."--_scotsman_. (gartside report, no. .) no. ii. cotton spinning and manufacturing in the united states of america. by t. w. uttley, b.a., gartside scholar. demy vo, pp. xii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "mr. uttley is to be congratulated on the performance of a not altogether easy task, and his book, in conception and execution, appears to fulfil admirably the intentions of the trust."--_manchester courier_. "the writer gives ample details concerning wages and other features connected with typical mills ... and the information thus gathered is of interest and value to the factory operative as well as the student and economist."--_cotton factory times_. "mr. uttley describes how he visited the mills in various states in a very systematic and detailed manner. altogether the report makes an admirable and welcome collection of information, and will be found on many occasions worthy of reference."--_textile mercury_. (gartside report, no. .) no. iii. some modern conditions and recent developments in iron and steel production in america, being a report to the gartside electors, on the results of a tour in the u.s.a. by frank popplewell, b.sc., gartside scholar. demy vo, pp. vi. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "the american methods of iron and steel production are described, from the practical as well as the statistical side."--_manchester courier_. "mr. popplewell writes clearly and well, and he is to be congratulated upon having carried his task through in so entirely a satisfactory manner."--_manchester city news_. "america's progress in iron and steel is more wonderful than any bald statistics of production with which we are so familiar can indicate. how that progress has been effected--effected under labour, transport and other difficulties--mr. popplewell tells us in an interesting and keenly intelligent review."--_manchester guardian_. "a minute observation of detail ... characterises the whole work."--_iron and coal trades review_. "mr. popplewell gives a clear exposition of the results of specialisation in production, of the development of ore-handling machinery, and of the general use of the charging machine, features that characterise american practice. he shows, too, that the colossal blast-furnace with huge yield due to high-blast pressure, regardless of consumption of steam and boiler coal, is giving place to a blast furnace of more modest dimensions.... "the impression derived from reading mr. popplewell's report is that many of the most striking developments, admirable as they are, were designed to meet special wants, and are not necessarily applicable in great britain."--_nature_. "the book has its interest for the educationist as well as for the manufacturer."--_scotsman_. "a chapter of special interest to british consumers is one devoted to the consideration of raw materials."--_glasgow herald_. (gartside report, no. .) no. iv. engineering and industrial conditions in the united states. by frank foster, m.sc., gartside scholar. demy vo, pp. ix. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "the report under review is of very great interest to those connected with the manufacturing branch of engineering in this country, many of whom will have to relinquish their preconceived notions regarding american methods, if mr. foster's conclusions are to be accepted."--_electrical review_. "the book altogether is very readable, and one we can heartily recommend to all interested in the economics of engineering."--_the practical engineer_. "mr. foster's observation of facts is fresh and interesting ... the technical side of his report exhibits much care."--_manchester guardian_. "the book is well worth reading."--_iron and coal trades review_. "there is much in the book which will be new to english readers, even to those who have studied the reports of the moseley and other recent 'commissions.'"--_belfast news letter_. no. v. the rating of land values. by j. d. chorlton, m.sc. demy vo, pp. viii. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "a timely and temperate treatise on a subject of growing interest."--_pall mall gazette_. "the writer is learned, intelligent, progressive, fair and lucid."--_progress_. "the facts and deductions are well put."--_western mail_. "chapters upon the scheme of the royal commission (minority report)--'building land,' 'the future increase of land values,' 'the municipal bill,' and others ... set forth with clearness and detail some of the many interesting and difficult subjects in connection with valuation, rates and rating."--_estates gazette_. "mr. chorlton has made a contribution to this interesting controversy which is worthy of the serious attention of all persons interested in the subject."--_local government chronicle_. "the arguments for and against this proposed reform in the taxation of land have never been more fairly and freely stated."--_liverpool daily post and mercury_. "mr. chorlton deals clearly and concisely with the whole subject of rating and land values."--_the standard_. "the impartiality and candour of mr. chorlton's method are beyond dispute, and his book will repay careful study by all who are interested in the question, from whatever motive."--_westminster gazette_. "the first half of this book deserves to become a classic ... is one of the best books on a practical economic question that has appeared for many years. it is not only scientifically valuable, but so well written as to be interesting to a novice on the subject."--_the nation_. "this thoughtful and judicially expressed treatise."--_manchester city news_. "a very businesslike and serviceable collection of essays and notes on this intricate question."--_manchester guardian_. (gartside report, no. .) no. vi. dyeing in germany and america. by sydney h. higgins, m.sc., gartside scholar. demy vo, pp. xiii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "the book will ... make a valuable addition to the technical literature of this country."--_tribune_. "the work is one which ... should receive the attention of those who desire a general view of the german and american dyeing industries."--_textile manufacturer_. "a perusal of the work leads us to the conclusion that much useful work is being done by the gartside scholars, which will give these young men an excellent insight into the working conditions of various industries."--_textile recorder_. no. vii. the housing problem in england. by ernest ritson dewsnup, m.a., professor of railway economics in the university of chicago. demy vo, pp. vii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "mr. dewsnup's book is most valuable as it provides all essential information on the subject."--_standard_. "all those who are interested in this question, no matter what their economic predilections, may ponder with advantage professor dewsnup's pages."--_newcastle daily chronicle_. "the study brings together so weighty an array of facts and arguments that it cannot but prove instructive and suggestive to all classes of economists interested in its subject."--_scotsman_. "professor dewsnup's view of the whole problem was stated in , in a form which won the warburton essay prize at the manchester university. now revised and brought up to date, his valuable work has taken permanent form."--_westminster gazette_. "professor dewsnup's book on the housing problem consists of three distinct parts, each of which is a valuable contribution to economic science. in part i, professor dewsnup tries to give a clear and definite account of the evil with which authorities in england are called upon to cope. avoiding all special pleading and all evidence of the sensational kind which is apt to give a false idea of the extent and intensity of the evil of overcrowding, he does not on the other hand fall into the error of minimizing the evil. "in part ii, professor dewsnup gives a most excellent and well-digested summary of the legislation which has been passed by parliament since to cope with the evils of overcrowded houses, and of overcrowded areas. "in part iii, the strictly informational and statistical work of the previous parts is utilized by the author to support his own conclusions as to the best methods of dealing with the problem of overcrowding. "whether or not the reader agrees with professor dewsnup in the conclusions he draws from his data, every student of economics must be grateful to him for the accuracy and care which have gone into the collection and arrangement of his material."--_the american political science review_, vol. iii, no. , february, . (gartside report, no. .) no. viii. american business enterprise. by douglas knoop, m.a., gartside scholar. price s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "the book is calculated to give a clear and accurate description, essentially intended for the general reader," and the author has quite rightly eliminated everything of a technical character, giving his theme both the simplicity and the interest that are required.... the work might well have been doubled in length without any loss of interest.... invaluable as a text-book."--_the economic journal_. "should on no account be missed, for it is a very good attempt at a survey of the enormous field of american business in the true and judicial spirit."--_pall mall gazette_. "readable, informing, suggestive--full of interest for men engaged in almost every department of commercial life."--_manchester city news_. "a report of the general conditions of industrial work in the united states, together with a most instructive review of the education of the business man in their commercial universities."--_manchester daily dispatch_. "the report is full of information, and is suggestive throughout."--_liverpool post_. "concise, business-like and informative, it emphasises the difference between the economic positions of england and of america, and cannot but prove instructive to anyone interested in its subject."--_scotsman_. "from the point of view of an intelligent observer and collator, trained, alert, well-informed, bringing his mind to bear on the fundamental elements of commercial progress and success, it would be impossible to estimate it too highly."--_belfast northern whig_. (gartside report, no. .) no. ix. the argentine as a market. by n. l. watson, m.a., gartside scholar. demy vo. s. net. (publication no. , .) "a treatise informed with knowledge and marked by foresight."--_yorkshire post_. "full of first-hand information of recent date."--_liverpool daily post and mercury_. "a valuable and thorough examination of the conditions and future of argentine commerce."--_morning leader_. (gartside report, no. .) no. x. some electro-chemical centres. by j. n. pring, m.sc., gartside scholar. pp. xiv. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "concise, business-like, and furnished with some valuable papers of statistics, the report will prove well worthy of the study of anyone specially interested in this subject."--_scotsman_. "in this short book a considerable amount of useful information has been condensed, and one feels that the research has been fully justified."--_birmingham post_. "we congratulate the author upon a very readable and painstaking production."--_nature_. "... the reviewer says unhesitatingly that this gartside report ... is the best all-round book on industrial electro-chemistry that has so far come to his notice."--_electro-chemical and metallurgical industry, may, _. (gartside report, no. .) no. xi. chemical industry on the continent. by harold baron, b.sc., gartside scholar. demy vo, pp. xi, . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "an instructive and suggestive volume, containing much that is likely to be helpful to those engaged in the textile, dyeing and chemical industries of britain."--_manchester city news_. "well informed, well systematised, and written with businesslike precision, it deserves the attention of everyone interested in its subject."--_scotsman_. "for a good general account of the chemical industry on the continent we think this report, so far as it goes, to be an excellent one and is, moreover, unlike many works on the subject, interesting to read."--_chemical trades journal_. "clearly and intelligently handled."--_the times_. no. xii. unemployment. by prof. s. j. chapman, m.a., m.com., and h. m. hallsworth, m.a., b.sc. demy vo, pp. xvi. . s. net paper, s. d. net cloth. (publication no. , .) "on the whole, the authors offer a solid contribution, both as regards facts and reasoning, to the solution of a peculiarly difficult and pressing social problem."--_cotton factory times_. "... deserves the attention of sociologists."--_yorkshire post_. "... reproduces in amplified form a valuable set of articles, giving the results of an investigation made in lancashire, which lately appeared in the _manchester guardian_. by way of introduction we have an examination, not previously published, of the report of the poor-law commission on unemployment. there is a large accompaniment of charts and tables, and indeed the whole work bears the mark of thoroughness."--_guardian_. educational series. no. i. continuation schools in england & elsewhere. their place in the educational system of an industrial and commercial state. by michael e. sadler, m.a., ll.d., professor of the history and administration of education. demy vo, pp. xxvi. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) this work is largely based on an enquiry made by past and present students of the educational department of the university of manchester. chapters on continuation schools in the german empire, switzerland, denmark, and france, have been contributed by other writers. "... gives a record of what the principal nations are doing in the prolongation of school work. it is invaluable as a _corpus_ of material from which to estimate the present position of the world--so far as its analogies touch britain--in 'further education,' as the phrase is."--_the outlook_. "the most comprehensive book on continuation schools that has yet been issued in this country."--_scottish review_. "professor sadler has produced an admirable survey of the past history and present condition of the problem of further education of the people ... but apart from his own contributions, the bulk of the work, and its most valuable portion, consists of material furnished by teachers and by organisers of schools in various parts of england and scotland, by officials of the board of education and the board of trade, and by local education authorities."--_manchester guardian_. "this is a book which counts. it is a worthy treatment of an all-important subject, and he who wishes his country well must pray that it may be read widely.... i should be glad to think that i have said enough to send many readers post-haste to buy this invaluable treatise."--l. j. chiozza money, m.p., in the _daily news_. "this book will for many years remain the standard authority upon its subject."--_the guardian_. "it is indeed a remarkable compilation, and we hope that its circulation and its usefulness may be commensurable with its conspicuous merits."--_the schoolmaster_. "the whole question is discussed with an elaboration, an insistence on detail, and a wisdom that mark this volume as the most important contribution to educational effort that has yet been made."--_contemporary review_. "the subject of the work is one that goes to the very heart of national education, and the treatise itself lays bare with a scientific but humane hand the evils that beset our educational system, the waste of life and national energy which that system has been unable in any sufficient degree to check."--_the spectator_. "it is a treasure of facts and judicious opinions in the domain of the history and administration of education."--_the athenæum_. "the volume represents an immense service to english education, and to the future welfare and efficiency of the nation."--_educational times_. no. ii. the demonstration schools record. no. i. being contributions to the study of education from the department of education in the university of manchester. by professor j. j. findlay. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "this volume marks a new departure in english educational literature.... some very interesting work is being done and the most valuable part of the book is the account of the detailed methods which have been employed both in the regular teaching in the schools and in the efforts to foster the corporate interests of the children and their parents. these methods are often exceedingly suggestive, and may be studied with advantage by these who do not accept all the theories upon which they are based."--_school_. "professor findlay and his skilled and experienced collaborators give an interesting account of the uses of the demonstration classes, the nature and scope of the work done in them, and the methods adopted (as well as the underlying principles) in some of the courses of instruction."--_the athenæum_. "the book gives an instructive account of the attempts made to correlate the subjects of school instruction, not only with each other, but also with the children's pursuits out of school hours.... the problem professor findlay has set himself to work out in the demonstration school is, how far is it possible by working with the children through successive culture epochs of the human race to form within their minds not only a truer conception of human history, but also eventually a deeper comprehension of the underlying purpose and oneness of all human activities?"--_morning post_. no. iii. the teaching of history in girls' schools in north and central germany. a report by eva dodge, m.a. gilchrist student. pp. x. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "we cordially recommend this most workmanlike, and extremely valuable addition to pedagogic literature."--_education_. "miss dodge has much of interest to say on the limitations and defects of history-teaching in girls' schools, but the real contribution of this book is its revelation of how the history lesson can be made a living thing."--_glasgow herald_. "gives a clear and detailed account of two well-organised schemes of historical teaching in germany."--_school world_. english series no. i. the literary profession in the elizabethan age. by ph. sheavyn, m.a., d.lit., special lecturer in english literature and tutor for women students; warden of the hall of residence for women students. a series of brief studies dealing with the conditions amidst which the profession of literature was pursued under elizabeth and james i. it treats of their relations with patrons, publishers, and reading public, and with various authorities exercising legal control over the press; and discusses the possibility of earning a sufficient livelihood, in this period, by the proceeds of literary work. pp. xii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "... scholarly and illuminating book. it opens a new series in the manchester university publications, and opens it with distinction. a more elaborately documented or more carefully indexed work need not be desired. the subject is an engrossing one; and, although the author has aimed rather at accuracy and completeness than at the arts of entertainment, the result remains eminently readable."--_manchester guardian_. "a really valuable addition to the literature dealing with the period."--_daily telegraph_. "quite interesting to the general literary reader as well as to the special student for whom, perhaps, it is directly meant. we are always ready to read of the elizabethan age in authorship, and it loses none of its attractions in miss sheavyn's hands."--_daily chronicle_. "a series of studies that will be valuable to everyone interested in the history of literature."--_daily mail_. "she has done her work with remarkable thoroughness, and cast a strong and searching light into many dark corners of the elizabethan literary world."--_birmingham post_. "a close and scholarly study of an aspect of literature in a period which amply repays investigation.... dr. sheavyn is a faithful historian, with a keen sense of the human side of things, and her book is entertaining as well as informative."--_newcastle daily chronicle_. "is interesting and valuable."--_daily news_. "a notable and interesting volume.... the material has been carefully gathered from a close scrutiny of contemporary literature and literary gossip, and has been admirably handled throughout. there is not a dull chapter in the book."--_the scotsman_. historical series. no. i. mediÆval manchester and the beginnings of lancashire. by james tait, m.a., professor of ancient and mediæval history. demy vo, pp. x. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "patient and enlightened scholarship and a sense of style and proportion have enabled the writer to produce a work at once solid and readable."--_english historical review_. "a welcome addition to the literature of english local history, not merely because it adds much to our knowledge of manchester and lancashire, but also because it displays a scientific method of treatment which is rare in this field of study in england."--dr. gross in _american historical review_. "la collection ne pouvait débuter plus significativement et plus heureusement que par un ouvrage d'histoire du moyen age dû à m. tait, car l'enseignement mediéviste est un de ceux qui font le plus d'honneur à la jeune université de manchester, et c'est à m. le professeur tait qu'il faut attribuer une bonne part de ce succès."--_revue de synthèse historique_. no. ii. initia operum latinorum quae saeculis xiii., xiv., xv. attribuuntur. by a. g. little, m.a., lecturer in palæography. demy vo, pp. xiii. (interleaved). s. net. (publication no. , .) "whoever has attempted to ascertain the contents of a mediæval miscellany in manuscript must often have been annoyed by the occurrence of a blank space where the title of the treatise ought to be. mr. little has therefore earned the gratitude of all such persons by making public a collection of some , incipits, which he arranged in the first instance for his private use, in compiling a catalogue of franciscan mss."--_english historical review_. no. iii. the old colonial system. by gerald berkeley hertz, m.a., b.c.l., lecturer in constitutional law. demy vo, pp. xi. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "mr. hertz gives us an elaborate historical study of the old colonial system, which disappeared with the american revolution.... he shows a remarkable knowledge of contemporary literature, and his book may claim to be a true history of popular opinion."--_spectator_. "mr. hertz's book is one which no student of imperial developments can neglect. it is lucid, fair, thorough, and convincing."--_glasgow herald_. "mr. hertz's 'old colonial system' is based on a careful study of contemporary documents, with the result that several points of no small importance are put in a new light ... it is careful, honest work.... the story which he tells has its lesson for us."--_the times_. "both the ordinary reader and the academic mind will get benefit from this well-informed and well-written book."--_scotsman_. "mr. hertz has made excellent use of contemporary literature, and has given us a very valuable and thorough critique. the book is interesting and very well written."--american political science review. "an interesting, valuable, and very necessary exposition of the principles underlying the colonial policy of the eighteenth century."--_yorkshire post_. "a work embodying much work and research.... three most impressive chapters should be read by everyone."--_birmingham post_. "very enlightening."--_american historical review_. "timely and useful."--_athenæum_. no. iv. studies of roman imperialism. by w. t. arnold, m.a. edited by edward fiddes, m.a., lecturer in ancient history, with memoir of the author by mrs. humphry ward and c. e. montague. with a photogravure of w. t. arnold. demy vo, pp. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "mrs. humphry ward has used all her delicate and subtle art to draw a picture of her beloved brother; and his friend mr. montague's account of his middle life is also remarkable for its literary excellence."--_athenæum_. "the memoir ... tenderly and skilfully written by the 'sister and friend,' tells a story, which well deserved to be told, of a life rich in aspirations, interests, and friendships, and not without its measure of actual achievement."--_tribune_. "this geographical sense and his feeling for politics give colour to all he wrote."--_times_. "anyone who desires a general account of the empire under augustus which is freshly and clearly written and based on wide reading will find it here."--_manchester guardian_. "nothing could be better than the sympathetic tribute which mrs. humphry ward pays to her brother, or the analysis of his work and method by his colleague mr. montague. the two together have more stuff in them than many big books of recent biography."--_westminster gazette_. the memoir may be had separately, price s. d. net. no. v. canon pietro casola's pilgrimage to jerusalem in the year . by m. m. newett, b.a., formerly jones fellow. demy vo, pp. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "tra mezzo ai tanti libri esteri di semplici divulgazione su fatti e figure della storia italiana, questo emerge piacevalmente e si legge volontieri. e diverso di carattere e di trattazione. esume ... dalla polvere degli archivi e delle biblioteche qualche cosa che ha un valore fresco ed interessante, un valore storico e un valore umano."--a.a.b. in the _archivio storico italiano_. "l'introduction se termine par toute une dissertation du plus grand intérêt, documentée à l'aide des archives vénitiennes, sur le caractère commercial des pèlerinages, dont les armateurs de venise assumèrent, jusqu'au xviie siècle l'entreprise."--j.b. in the _revue de synthèse historique_. "casola's narrative richly deserved the honours of print and translation. the book is a credit to its editor and to the historical school of manchester university."--_morning leader_. "his narrative is at once simple and dignified in style, convincing and interesting in its pictures of the conditions governing travel by sea and land four centuries ago."--_daily telegraph_. "the book is like a gallery of mediæval paintings, full of movement and colouring, instinct with the vitality of the time."--_birmingham post_. "miss newett's introduction is a contribution of considerable value to the history of european commerce."--_spectator_. "one of the most comprehensive of the itineraries is that now translated, an important feature of it being its full description of the city of venice."--_the times_. "one of the most delightful narratives that record the impressions of a pious pilgrim."--_westminster gazette_. "the work which miss margaret newett has probably saved from oblivion is as intrinsically interesting as it should prove instructive to the student of history."--_daily news_. "miss newett's introduction is an admirable bit of work. she has studied carefully what the archives of venice have to say about pilgrim ships and shipping laws, and her pages are a mine of information on such subjects."--dr. thomas lindsay in the _scottish historical review_. "this is altogether an exceedingly well-edited book and a distinct credit to the history school of manchester university."--_glasgow herald_. "this is a deeply interesting record, not merely of a syrian pilgrimage, but of mediterranean life and of the experiences of an intelligent italian gentleman at the close of the middle ages--two years after the discovery of america. it would not be easy to find a more graphic picture, in old days, of a voyage from venice to the levant."--_american historical review_. "this book breaks new ground and does so in a scholarly and attractive fashion."--_the standard_. "with its careful and convincing descriptions of persons and places, of costume and manners, with its ingenuous narrative and its simple reflections, this is a document of great interest."--_the bookman_. no. vi. historical essays. edited by t. f. tout, m.a., professor of mediæval and modern history, and james tait, m.a., professor of ancient and mediæval history. demy vo, pp. xv. . s. net. reissue of the edition of with index and new preface. (publication no. , .) "diese zwanzig chronologisch geordneten aufsätze heissen in der vorrede der herausgeber _festchrift_, behandeln zur hälfte ausser-englische themata, benutzen reichlich festländische literatur und verraten überall neben weiten ausblicken eine methodische schulung die der dortigen facultät hohe ehre macht."--professor liebermann in _deutsche literaturzeitung_. "imperial history, local history, ecclesiastical history, economic history and the methods of historical teaching--all these are in one way or another touched upon by scholars who have collaborated in this volume. men and women alike have devoted their time and pains to working out problems of importance and often of no slight difficulty. the result is one of which the university and city may be justly proud."--the late professor york powell in the _manchester guardian_. "esso contiene venti lavori storici dettati, quattro da professori e sedici da licenziati del collegio, e sono tutto scritti appositamente e condotti secondo le più rigorose norme della critica e su documenti."--r. predelli in _nuovo archivio veneto_. "la variété des sujets et l'érudition avec laquelle ils sont traités font grand honneur à la manière dont l'histoire est enseigné à owens college."--_revue historique_. "no one who reads these essays will do so without acknowledging their ability, both in originality and research. they deal with historic subjects from the beginnings of cæsar-worship to the detention of napoleon at st. helena, and they deal with them in a thoroughgoing fashion."--_guardian_. "par nature, c'est un recueil savant, qui témoigne du respect et de l'émulation que sait exercer pour les études historiques la jeune et déjà célèbre université."--_revue d'histoire ecclésiastique_ (louvain). "all these essays reach a high level; they avoid the besetting sin of most of our present historical writing, which consists of serving up a hash of what other historians have written flavoured with an original spice of error.... they are all based on original research and written by specialists."--professor a. f. pollard in the _english historical review_. "sie bilden einen schönen beweis fur die rationelle art, mit der dort dieses studium betrieben wird."--professor o. weber in _historische zeitschrift_. the index can be purchased separately, price d. no. vii. studies supplementary to stubbs' constitutional history. vol. i. by ch. petit-dutaillis, litt. d., rector of the university of grenoble. translated from the french by w. e. rhodes, m.a., and edited by prof. james tait, m.a. pp. xiv. . s. net. (publication no. .) this work consists of the translation of the studies and notes appended by prof. petit-dutaillis to his translation into french of the first volume of stubbs' _constitutional history of england_. it is believed that they will present to english students and teachers a summary of the results of recent historical research so far as they throw light upon or modify the conclusions expressed thirty years ago by the late bishop stubbs. "nowhere else can the student find brought together the modern criticisms of stubbs, and it is a great convenience to possess them in this slight volume."--_morning post_. "in its french dress professor petit-dutaillis' book has already received a warm welcome, and this excellent translation will furnish english teachers and students with just the kind of guidance they require in making use of a standard text-book which is still absolutely indispensable, and yet needs to be corrected at some important points."--_glasgow herald_. "the volume will be virtually indispensable to teachers and students of history."--_athenæum_. "this task has been carefully and well performed, under the supervision of professor tait, who has written a short but adequate introduction. this little book, ought, without delay, to be added to every public or private library that contains a copy of the classic work to which it forms an indispensable supplement."--dr. w. s. mckechnie in the _scottish historical review_. "these supplementary studies impress one as a discreet and learned attempt to safeguard a public, which is likely to learn all that it will know of a great subject from a single book, against the shortcomings of that book."--professor a. b. white in the _american historical review_. "c'est un complément indispensable de l'ouvrage de stubbs, et l'on saura gré à l'université de manchester d'avoir pris l'initiative de cette publication."--m. charles bémont in _revue historique_. "ce sont des modèles de critique ingénieuse et sobre, une mise au point remarquable des questions les plus importantes traitées jadis par stubbs."--m. louis halphen in _revue de synthèse historique_. "zu der englischen Übersetzung dieser excurse, durch einen verdienten jüngeren historiker, die durchaus leicht wie originalstil fliesst, hat tait die vorrede geliefert und manche note, die noch die literatur von berücksichtigt. die historische schule der universität manchester, an rührigkeit und strenger methode von keiner in england übertroffen, bietet mit der veröffentlichung der werthvollen arbeit des franzosen ein treffliches lehrmittel.--professor f. liebermann, in _deutsche literatur zeitung_. no. viii. malaria and greek history. by w. h. s. jones, m.a. to which is added the history of greek therapeutics and the malaria theory by e. t. withington, m.a., m.b. s. net. (publication no. , .) "a valuable instance of the profit that the present age may reap from the careful study of the past."--_the scotsman_. "mr. w. h. s. jones is to be congratulated on the success with which he has conducted what may be described as a pioneering expedition into a practically unexplored field of history ... the publishers are to be congratulated on the admirable way in which the book has been turned out--a joy to handle and to read."--_manchester guardian_. "this interesting volume is an endeavour to show that the decline of the greeks as a people for several centuries before and after the christian era was largely due to the prevalence of malaria in its various forms."--_glasgow herald_. "[the author] ... has amassed a considerable store of valuable information from the greek classics and other sources which will prove extremely useful to all who are interested in his theory."--_birmingham daily post_. no. ix. hanes gruffydd ap cynan. the welsh text with translation, introduction, and notes by arthur jones, m.a., jones fellow in history. demy vo. pp. viii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) medical series. no. i. sketches of the lives and work of the honorary medical staff of the royal infirmary. from its foundation in to , when it became the royal infirmary. by edward mansfield brockbank, m.d., m.r.c.p. crown to. (illustrated). pp. vii. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "dr. brockbank's is a book of varied interest. it also deserves a welcome as one of the earliest of the 'publications of the university of manchester.'"--_manchester guardian_. "we have a valuable contribution to local medical literature."--_daily dispatch_. no. ii. practical prescribing and dispensing. for medical students. by william kirkby, sometime lecturer in pharmacognosy in the owens college, manchester. crown vo, pp. s. net. (publication no. , , second edition, .) "the whole of the matter bears the impress of that technical skill and thoroughness with which mr. kirkby's name must invariably be associated, and the book must be welcomed as one of the most useful recent additions to the working library of prescribers and dispensers."--_pharmaceutical journal_. "thoroughly practical text-books on the subject are so rare, that we welcome with pleasure mr. william kirkby's 'practical prescribing and dispensing.' the book is written by a pharmacist expressly for medical students, and the author has been most happy in conceiving its scope and arrangement."--_british medical journal_. "the work appears to be peculiarly free from blemishes and particularly full in practical detail. it is manifestly the work of one who is a skilled chemist, and an expert pharmacist, and who knows not only the requirements of the modern student but the best way in which his needs may be met."--_medical press_. "this is a very sensible and useful manual."--_the hospital_. "the book will be found very useful to any students during a course of practical dispensing."--_st bartholomew's hospital journal_. "the book is a model, being tutorial from beginning to end."--_the chemist and druggist_. no. iii. handbook of surgical anatomy. by g. a. wright, b.a., m.b. (oxon.) f.r.c.s., professor of systematic surgery, and c. h. preston, m.d., f.r.c.s., l.d.s., lecturer on dental anatomy; assistant dental surgeon to the victoria dental hospital of manchester. crown vo, pp. ix. . second edition. s. net. (publication no. , .) "we can heartily recommend the volume to students, and especially to those preparing for a final examination in surgery."--_hospital_. "dr. wright and dr. preston have produced a concise and very readable little handbook of surgical applied anatomy.... the subject matter of the book is well arranged and the marginal notes in bold type facilitate reference to any desired point."--_lancet_. no. iv. a course of instruction in operative surgery in the university of manchester. by william thorburn, m.d., b.s. (lond.), f.r.c.s., lecturer in operative surgery. crown vo, pp. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "this little book gives the junior student all that he wants, and nothing that he does not want. its size is handy, and altogether for its purpose it is excellent."--_university review_. "as a working guide it is excellent."--_edinburgh medical journal_. no. v. a handbook of legal medicine. by w. sellers, m.d. (london), of the middle temple, and northern circuit, barrister-at-law. with illustrations. crown vo, pp. vii. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "this is quite one of the best books of the kind we have come across."--_law times_. no. vi. a catalogue of the pathological museum of the university of manchester. edited by j. lorrain smith, m.a., m.d. (edin.), professor of pathology. crown to, pp. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "the catalogue compares very favourably with others of a similar character, and, apart from its value for teaching purposes in an important medical school such as that of the university of manchester, it is capable of being of great assistance to others as a work of reference."--_edinburgh medical journal_. "in conclusion we need only say that professor lorrain smith has performed the most essential part of his task--the description of the specimens--excellently and an honourable mention must be made of the book as a publication."--_british medical journal_. no. vii. handbook of diseases of the heart. by graham steell, m.d., f.r.c.p., professor of medicine, and physician to the manchester royal infirmary. crown vo, pp. xii. , plates ( in colours), and illustrations in the text. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "it more truly reflects modern ideas of heart disease than any book we are acquainted with, and therefore may be heartily recommended to our readers."--_treatment_. "we regard this volume as an extremely useful guide to the study of diseases of the heart, and consider that no better introduction to the subject could possibly have been written."--_medical times and hospital gazette_. "we can cordially recommend dr. steell's book as giving an excellent and thoroughly practical account of the subject of which it treats."--_edinburgh medical review_. no. viii. julius dreschfeld. in memoriam. medical studies by his colleagues and pupils at the manchester university and the royal infirmary. imperial vo. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "a worthy memorial of one who left no small mark upon the study of clinical pathology in this country."--_british medical journal_. "the papers which compose the bulk of the volume have been reprinted from the manchester chronicle, vol. xiv, and they are of both interest and permanent value."--_scottish medical journal_. "the editor, dr. brockbank, can be congratulated upon editing a volume that will fitly perpetuate the memory of his eminent colleague."--_medical review_. no. ix. handbook of infectious diseases. by r. w. marsden, m.d. pp. vi. . s. net. (publication no. , .) "this book aims at giving a practical account of the various infectious diseases, suitable for ready reference in everyday work, and the author has, on the whole, succeeded admirably in his attempt."--_the lancet_. "throughout the book the information given seems thoroughly adequate, and especial attention is paid to diagnosis."--_scottish medical journal_. "the subject matter is well arranged and easy of reference."--_the medical officer_. no. x. lectures on the pathology of cancer. by charles powell white, m.a., m.d., f.r.c.s. imperial vo pp. , plates. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) "the volume is a model of scientific self-restraint. in four chapters the author covers in simple language much that is of main interest in the present phase of investigation of cancer.... "the volume ... is well illustrated with statistical charts and photomicrographs, and its perusal must prove profitable to all who wish to be brought up-to-date in the biology of cancer."--_nature_. "full of scholarly information and illustrated with a number of excellent black-and-white plates."--_medical press_. "these lectures give a short résumé of recent work on the subject in an easily assimilable form."--_st. bartholomew's hospital journal_. no. xi. semmelweis: his life and his doctrine. a chapter in the history of medicine. by sir william j. sinclair, m.a., m.d., professor of obstetrics and gynæcology in the university of manchester. imperial vo, pp. x. , plates. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) no. xii. modern problems in psychiatry. by e. lucaro, professor of nervous and mental diseases in the university of modena. translated from the italian by david orr, m.d., assistant medical officer and pathologist to the county asylum, prestwich; and r. g. rows, m.d., assistant medical officer and pathologist to the county asylum, lancaster. with an introduction by t. s. clouston, m.d., physician superintendent, royal asylum, morningside, and lecturer on mental diseases in edinburgh university. imperial vo, pp. viii, , plates. s. d. net. (publication no. , .) deals with the problems met with in studying the causation of insanity. these problems are discussed under the headings of psychological, anatomical, pathogenetic, etiological, nosological, social and practical. there are illustrations in the anatomical section. physical series. no. i. the physical laboratories of the university of manchester. a record of years' work. demy vo, pp. , plates, plans. s. net. (publication no. , .) this volume contains an illustrated description of the physical, electrical engineering, and electro-chemistry laboratories of the manchester university, also a complete biographical and bibliographical record of those who have worked in the physics department of the university during the past years. "the book is excellently got up, and contains a description of the department of physics and its equipment, a short biographical sketch of the professor with a list of his scientific writings and a well-executed portrait and a record of the career of students and others who have passed through dr. schuster's hands. alumni of owens will welcome the volume as an interesting link with their alma mater."--_glasgow herald_. "this interesting and valuable contribution to the history of the manchester university also contains several illustrations, and forms the first of the 'physical series' of the publications of the university of manchester."--_the times_. "a record of achievement of which no man need be ashamed."--_westminster gazette_. "it is a memorial of which any man would be justly proud, and the university of which he is both an alumnus and a professor may well share that pride."--_manchester guardian_. public health series. no. i. archives of the public health laboratory of the university of manchester. edited by a. sheridan delÉpine, m.sc., m.b., ch. m., director of the laboratory and proctor professor of comparative pathology and bacteriology. crown to. pp. iv. . £ . s. net. (publication no. , .) "the university of manchester has taken the important and highly commendable step of commencing the publication of the archives of its public health laboratory, and has issued, under the able and judicious editorship of professor sheridan delépine, the first volume of a series that promises to be of no small interest and value alike to members of the medical profession and to those of the laity.... original communications bearing upon diseases which are prevalent in the districts surrounding manchester, or dealing with food- and water-supplies, air, disposal of refuse, sterilisation and disinfection and kindred subjects, will be published in future volumes; and it is manifest that these, as they successively appear, will form a constantly increasing body of trustworthy information upon subjects which are not only of the highest interest to the profession but of supreme importance to the public."--_the lancet_. "it is safe to say that as these volumes accumulate they will form one of the most important works of reference on questions of public health, and ought, at all events, to be in the library of every public authority."--_manchester guardian_. theological series. no. i. inaugural lectures delivered during the session - , by the professors and lecturers of the faculty of theology, viz.:-- prof. t. f. tout, m.a.; prof. a. s. peake, b.d.; prof. h. w. hogg, m.a.; prof. t. w. rhys davids, ll.d.; rev. w. f. adeney, d.d.; rev. a. gordon, m.a.; rev. l. hassé, b.d.; rev. canon e. l. hicks, m.a.; rev. h. d. lockett, m.a.; rev. r. mackintosh, d.d.; rev. j. t. marshall, d.d.; rev. j. h. moulton, d.litt. edited by a. s. peake, b.d., dean of the faculty. demy vo, pp. xi. . s. d. net. (publication no. , .) 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"this is a most interesting and valuable book, the appearance of which at the present moment is singularly significant.... but it is impossible in a brief review to indicate all the treasures of this rich volume, to read which carefully is to be introduced to the varied wealth of modern biblical scholarship."--_baptist_. "the writers of these lectures do not attempt to offer more than samples of their wares: but what is given is good, and it may be seen that theology without tests is destitute neither of scientific value nor of human interests."--_athenæum_. lectures. no. i. garden cities (warburton lecture). by ralph neville, k.c. d. net. (lecture no. i, .) no. ii. the bank of england and the state (a lecture). by sir felix schuster. d. net. (lecture no. , .) no. iii. bearing and importance of commercial treaties in the twentieth century. by sir thomas barclay. d. net. 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(publication no. .) * * * * * the following are in preparation and will be issued shortly:-- celtic series. a glossary to the black book of chirk manuscript of the welsh laws. by timothy lewis, b.a. demy vo. this will include a complete glossary to the oldest copy of the "laws of howel dda," contained in the "black book of chirk," and will be based on the photographic facsimile of that manuscript which is about to be published by dr. j. gwenogvryn evans in his collection of welsh texts. [_in preparation_. the language of the annals of ulster. by tomÁs o'mÁille, m.a. demy vo. the objects of this dissertation are firstly to investigate the date at which certain old-irish phonological developments took place, and secondly to give an account of old-irish declension as evidenced by the language of the annals of ulster. an appendix on the analysis of irish personal names is appended. 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[_in preparation_. biological series. the house fly. _musca domestica_ (linnæus). a study of its structure, development, bionomics and economy. by c. gordon hewitt, d.sc., dominion entomologist, ottawa, canada, and late lecturer in economic zoology in the university of manchester. [_in the press_. publications of the john rylands library issued at the university press. catalogue of the printed books in the john rylands library ( ). vols., to. / _net_. catalogue of books printed in england, scotland and ireland, and of books printed abroad, to the end of ( ). to, pp. iii, . / _net_. the english bible in the john rylands library, to [by richard lovett], with facsimiles and engravings ( ). folio, pp. xvi, . guineas, _net_. bulletin of the john rylands library. vol. i (nos. - ) ( - ). to, - . /- _net_. a brief historical description of the library and its contents, with catalogue of selection of early printed greek and latin classics exhibited on the occasion of the visit of the classical association, october, . vo, pp. , illus. /- _net_. full bibliographical descriptions are given of the _editiones principes_ of the fifty principal greek and latin writers. of the first printed greek classic the only known copy is described. a brief description of the library and its contents ( ). vo, pp. , illustrations. d. _net_. catalogue of an exhibition of bibles illustrating the history of the english versions from wiclif to the present time ( ). vo, pp. . d. _net_. catalogue of a selection of books and broadsides illustrating the early history of printing, june, . vo, pp. v, . d. _net_. catalogue of an exhibition of illuminated manuscripts, principally biblical and liturgical, on the occasion of the church congress ( ). vo, pp. vi, . d. _net_. catalogue of an exhibition of original editions of the principal works of john milton (dec. th, ). vo, pp. . d. _net_. catalogue of an exhibition of the works of dante alighieri, with list of a selection of works on the study of dante. vo, pp. xii, . d. _net_. a classified catalogue of the works on architecture and the allied arts in the principal libraries of manchester and salford. edited for the architectural committee of manchester by h. guppy and g. vine ( ). vo, pp. xxv, . / _net_, interleaved / _net_. the first catalogue of its kind to be issued either in this country or abroad. catalogue of the coptic manuscripts in the john rylands library. by w. e. crum ( ). to, pp. xii, . plates of facsimiles. guinea _net_. many of the texts are reproduced _in extenso_. the collection includes a series of private letters considerably older than any in coptic hitherto known, in addition to many mss. of great theological and historical interest. catalogue of the demotic papyri in the john rylands library. with facsimiles and complete translations. by f. li. griffith ( ). vols. to. . atlas of facsimiles. . hand copies of the earlier documents. . key-list, translations, commentaries and indexes. guineas _net_. this is something more than a catalogue. it includes collotype facsimiles of the whole of the documents, with transliterations, translations, besides introductions, very full notes, and a glossary of demotic, representing the most important contribution to the study of demotic hitherto published. the documents dealt with in these volumes cover a period from psammetichus, one of the latest native kings, about b.c., down to the roman emperor claudius, a.d. the mostellaria of plautus. acting edition with a translation into english verse. edited by g. norwood, m.a. s. net. the victoria university of manchester medical school. d. net. the teaching of history and other papers. by h. l. withers. edited by j. h. fowler. crown vo, pp. s. d. net. "an interesting memorial of a teacher who was a real enthusiast for education."--_the times_. "we can cordially commend this little book to the somewhat limited but slowly widening circle who are likely to be interested in educational principles and organization."--_the guardian_. a tardiness in nature and other papers. by mary christie. edited, with introductory note and memoir, by maud withers. crown vo, pp. s. net. "the essays upon thackeray, george eliot, and r. l. stevenson in this volume could scarcely be bettered."--_the guardian_. "the life-story of a quite remarkable woman--of a woman who used her gifts always to the furthering of all that is sweetest and noblest in life."--_tribune_. musical criticisms. by arthur johnstone. with a memoir of the author by henry reece and oliver elton. crown vo, pp. s. net. "without the smallest affectation or laboured attempts at smartness, mr. johnstone contrived always to throw fresh light on the matter in hand, and at the same time to present his opinions in a form which could be understood and enjoyed by the non-musical reader."--_westminster gazette_. "everyone who welcomes guidance as to what is best in music, everyone who watches with some degree of fascination the power of analysis, everyone who reads with a sense of satisfaction english, as it may be written by a master of the craft, should read this book."--_the musical world_. manchester boys. by c. e. b. russell. with an introduction by e. t. campagnac. crown vo. s. d. net. "mr. charles e. b. russell has written a most interesting and thought-compelling book on a subject of almost vital importance."--_yorkshire post_. "altogether it is an inspiring book."--_liverpool daily post and mercury_. excavation of the roman forts at castleshaw (near delph, west riding), by samuel andrew, esq., and major william lees, j.p. first interim report, prepared by f. a. bruton, m.a. price s. net. manchester banks: analysis of the published balance sheets for . by d. drummond fraser, m.com. price s. net. transcriber's notes: the following is a list of changes made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. been seized, could be asked to stay to dinner. while been seized, could not be asked to stay to dinner. while see that the souldiers did their duty.[ ] see that the souldiers did their duty."[ ] [ ] "sutherland mss." hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. . "lancs. [ ] "sutherland mss." "hist. mss. com.," vol. , p. . "lancs. main guard was at canstfield, which is only half a mile main guard was at cantsfield, which is only half a mile [ ] "discourse, p. . "a true relation of the great victory, etc." [ ] "discourse," p. . "a true relation of the great victory, etc." underrated the difficulty of their task, not decause they underrated the difficulty of their task, not because they chisendale. the royalists declared that they had spiked chisenhale. the royalists declared that they had spiked p. . ramsay muir, "history of liverpool ( ), chap. , p. . p. . ramsay muir, "history of liverpool" ( ), chap. , p. . callender's letter is given in "portland mss.," vol. , pp. , . callander's letter is given in "portland mss.," vol. , pp. , . [ ] the above quetation is given in "c.w.t.," p. ; but other [ ] the above quotation is given in "c.w.t.," p. ; but other not be long delayed. "'this (however strange reports not be long delayed. "this (however strange reports rigby became lieutenant-colonel, and there one or two rigby became lieutenant-colonel, and there were one or two about , men, 'i daresay near double the number of about , men, "i daresay near double the number of through the streets and town. the route was complete; through the streets and town. the rout was complete; which are only obvious to such as be upon the place.[ ] which are only obvious to such as be upon the place."[ ] cast himself himself entirely on the parliament's mercy, cast himself entirely on the parliament's mercy, both sides, i never was witness of before. that night both sides, i never was witness of before." that night to death." ("clarendon," macray, vol. , p. (bk. , par. ). to death." ("clarendon," macray, vol. , p. , bk. , par. ).