Читать книгу The Lancashire Witches (Historical Novel) - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 11

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For a while the abbot remained shattered and stupefied by this terrible interview. At length he arose, and made his way, he scarce knew how, to the oratory. But it was long before the tumult of his thoughts could be at all allayed, and he had only just regained something like composure when he was disturbed by hearing a slight sound in the adjoining chamber. A mortal chill came over him, for he thought it might be Demdike returned. Presently, he distinguished a footstep stealthily approaching him, and almost hoped that the wizard would consummate his vengeance by taking his life. But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears, “Cum along wi’ meh, lort abbut. Get up, quick—quick!”

Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a long bare wood-knife.

“Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut?” cried the person. “Ey’m a freent—Hal o’ Nabs, o’ Wiswall. Yo’n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna be feert, ey sey. Ey’n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an’ you con be down it i’ a trice—an’ along t’ covert way be t’ river soide to t’ mill.”

But the abbot stirred not.

“Quick! quick!” implored Hal o’ Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot’s sleeve. “Every minute’s precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t’ miller, is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha’ been here i’stead o’ meh if he couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him, an’ drove t’ poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert’s side. They clapt meh i’ a dungeon, boh Ebil monaged to get me out, an’ ey then swore to do whot poor Cuthbert would ha’ done, if he’d been livin’—so here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. An’ neaw yo knoan aw abowt it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. Cum, time presses, an ey’m feert o’ t’ guard owerhearing us.”

“I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart,” replied the abbot, rising; “but, however strong may be the temptation of life and liberty which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged my word to the Earl of Derby to make no attempt to escape. Were the doors thrown open, and the guard removed, I should remain where I am.”

“Whot!” exclaimed Hal o’ Nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; “yo winnaw go, neaw aw’s prepared. By th’ Mess, boh yo shan. Ey’st nah go back to Ebil empty-handed. If yo’n sworn to stay here, ey’n sworn to set yo free, and ey’st keep meh oath. Willy nilly, yo shan go wi’ meh, lort abbut!”

“Forbear to urge me further, my good Hal,” rejoined Paslew. “I fully appreciate your devotion; and I only regret that you and Abel Croft have exposed yourselves to so much peril on my account. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead! when I beheld his body on the bier, I had a sad feeling that he had died in my behalf.”

“Cuthbert meant to rescue yo, lort abbut,” replied Hal, “and deed resisting Nick Demdike’s attempt to arrest him. Boh, be aw t’ devils!” he added, brandishing his knife fiercely, “t’ warlock shall ha’ three inches o’ cowd steel betwixt his ribs, t’ furst time ey cum across him.”

“Peace, my son,” rejoined the abbot, “and forego your bloody design. Leave the wretched man to the chastisement of Heaven. And now, farewell! All your kindly efforts to induce me to fly are vain.”

“Yo winnaw go?” cried Hal o’Nabs, scratching his head.

“I cannot,” replied the abbot.

“Cum wi’ meh to t’ windaw, then,” pursued Hal, “and tell Ebil so. He’ll think ey’n failed else.”

“Willingly,” replied the abbot.

And with noiseless footsteps he followed the other across the chamber. The window was open, and outside it was reared a ladder.

“Yo mun go down a few steps,” said Hal o’ Nabs, “or else he’ll nah hear yo.”

The abbot complied, and partly descended the ladder.

“I see no one,” he said.

“T’ neet’s dark,” replied Hal o’ Nabs, who was close behind him. “Ebil canna be far off. Hist! ey hear him—go on.”

The abbot was now obliged to comply, though he did so with, reluctance. Presently he found himself upon the roof of a building, which he knew to be connected with the mill by a covered passage running along the south bank of the Calder. Scarcely had he set foot there, than Hal o’ Nabs jumped after him, and, seizing the ladder, cast it into the stream, thus rendering Paslew’s return impossible.

“Neaw, lort abbut,” he cried, with a low, exulting laugh, “yo hanna brok’n yor word, an ey’n kept moine. Yo’re free agen your will.”

“You have destroyed me by your mistaken zeal,” cried the abbot, reproachfully.

“Nowt o’t sort,” replied Hal; “ey’n saved yo’ fro’ destruction. This way, lort abbut—this way.”

And taking Paslew’s arm he led him to a low parapet, overlooking the covered passage before described. Half an hour before it had been bright moonlight, but, as if to favour the fugitive, the heavens had become overcast, and a thick mist had arisen from the river.

“Ebil! Ebil!” cried Hal o’ Nabs, leaning over the parapet.

“Here,” replied a voice below. “Is aw reet? Is he wi’ yo?”

“Yeigh,” replied Hal.

“Whot han yo dun wi’ t’ steigh?” cried Ebil.

“Never yo moind,” returned Hal, “boh help t’ abbut down.”

Paslew thought it vain to resist further, and with the help of Hal o’ Nabs and the miller, and further aided by some irregularities in the wall, he was soon safely landed near the entrance of the passage. Abel fell on his knees, and pressed the abbot’s hand to his lips.

“Owr Blessed Leady be praised, yo are free,” he cried.

“Dunna stond tawking here, Ebil,” interposed Hal o’ Nabs, who by this time had reached the ground, and who was fearful of some new remonstrance on the abbot’s part. “Ey’m feerd o’ pursuit.”

“Yo’ needna be afeerd o’ that, Hal,” replied the miller. “T’ guard are safe enough. One o’ owr chaps has just tuk em up a big black jack fu’ o’ stout ele; an ey warrant me they winnaw stir yet awhoile. Win it please yo to cum wi’ me, lort abbut?”

With this, he marched along the passage, followed by the others, and presently arrived at a door, against which he tapped. A bolt being withdrawn, it was instantly opened to admit the party, after which it was as quickly shut, and secured. In answer to a call from the miller, a light appeared at the top of a steep, ladder-like flight of wooden steps, and up these Paslew, at the entreaty of Abel, mounted, and found himself in a large, low chamber, the roof of which was crossed by great beams, covered thickly with cobwebs, whitened by flour, while the floor was strewn with empty sacks and sieves.

The person who held the light proved to be the miller’s daughter, Dorothy, a blooming lass of eighteen, and at the other end of the chamber, seated on a bench before a turf fire, with an infant on her knees, was the miller’s wife. The latter instantly arose on beholding the abbot, and, placing the child on a corn bin, advanced towards him, and dropped on her knees, while her daughter imitated her example. The abbot extended his hands over them, and pronounced a solemn benediction.

“Bring your child also to me, that I may bless it,” he said, when he concluded.

“It’s nah my child, lort abbut,” replied the miller’s wife, taking up the infant and bringing it to him; “it wur brought to me this varry neet by Ebil. Ey wish it wur far enough, ey’m sure, for it’s a deformed little urchon. One o’ its een is lower set than t’ other; an t’ reet looks up, while t’ laft looks down.”

And as she spoke she pointed to the infant’s face, which was disfigured as she had stated, by a strange and unnatural disposition of the eyes, one of which was set much lower in the head than the other. Awakened from sleep, the child uttered a feeble cry, and stretched out its tiny arms to Dorothy.

“You ought to pity it for its deformity, poor little creature, rather than reproach it, mother,” observed the young damsel.

“Marry kem eawt!” cried her mother, sharply, “yo’n getten fine feelings wi’ your larning fro t’ good feythers, Dolly. Os ey said efore, ey wish t’ brat wur far enough.”

“You forget it has no mother,” suggested Dorothy, kindly.

“An naw great matter, if it hasn’t,” returned the miller’s wife. “Bess Demdike’s neaw great loss.”

“Is this Bess Demdike’s child?” cried Paslew, recoiling.

“Yeigh,” exclaimed the miller’s wife. And mistaking the cause of Paslew’s emotion, she added, triumphantly, to her daughter, “Ey towd te, wench, ot t’ lort abbut would be of my way o’ thinking. T’ chilt has got the witch’s mark plain upon her. Look, lort abbut, look!”

But Paslew heeded her not, but murmured to himself:—

“Ever in my path, go where I will. It is vain to struggle with my fate. I will go back and surrender myself to the Earl of Derby.”

“Nah,—nah!—yo shanna do that,” replied Hal o’ Nabs, who, with the miller, was close beside him. “Sit down o’ that stoo’ be t’ fire, and take a cup o’ wine t’ cheer yo, and then we’n set out to Pendle Forest, where ey’st find yo a safe hiding-place. An t’ ony reward ey’n ever ask for t’ sarvice shan be, that yo’n perform a marriage sarvice fo’ me and Dolly one of these days.” And he nudged the damsel’s elbow, who turned away, covered with blushes.

The abbot moved mechanically to the fire, and sat down, while the miller’s wife, surrendering the child with a shrug of the shoulders and a grimace to her daughter, went in search of some viands and a flask of wine, which she set before Paslew. The miller then filled a drinking-horn, and presented it to his guest, who was about to raise it to his lips, when a loud knocking was heard at the door below.

The knocking continued with increased violence, and voices were heard calling upon the miller to open the door, or it would be broken down. On the first alarm Abel had flown to a small window whence he could reconnoitre those below, and he now returned with a face white with terror, to say that a party of arquebussiers, with the sheriff at their head, were without, and that some of the men were provided with torches.

“They have discovered my evasion, and are come in search of me,” observed the abbot rising, but without betraying any anxiety. “Do not concern yourselves further for me, my good friends, but open the door, and deliver me to them.”

“Nah, nah, that we winnaw,” cried Hal o’ Nabs, “yo’re neaw taen yet, feyther abbut, an’ ey knoa a way to baffle ’em. If y’on let him down into t’ river, Ebil, ey’n manage to get him off.”

“Weel thowt on, Nab,” cried the miller, “theawst nah been mey mon seven year fo nowt. Theaw knoas t’ ways o’ t’ pleck.”

“Os weel os onny rotten abowt it,” replied Hal o’ Nabs. “Go down to t’ grindin’-room, an ey’n follow i’ a troice.”

And as Abel snatched up the light, and hastily descended the steps with Paslew, Hal whispered in Dorothy’s ears—

“Tak care neaw one fonds that chilt, Dolly, if they break in. Hide it safely; an whon they’re gone, tak it to’t church, and place it near t’ altar, where no ill con cum to it or thee. Mey life may hong upon it.”

And as the poor girl, who, as well as her mother, was almost frightened out of her wits, promised compliance, he hurried down the steps after the others, muttering, as the clamour without was redoubled—

“Eigh, roar on till yo’re hoarse. Yo winnaw get in yet awhile, ey’n promise ye.”

Meantime, the abbot had been led to the chief room of the mill, where all the corn formerly consumed within the monastery had been prepared, and which the size of the chamber itself, together with the vastness of the stones used in the operation of grinding, and connected with the huge water-wheel outside, proved to be by no means inconsiderable. Strong shafts of timber supported the flooring above, and were crossed by other boards placed horizontally, from which various implements in use at the mill depended, giving the chamber, imperfectly lighted as it now was by the lamp borne by Abel, a strange and almost mysterious appearance. Three or four of the miller’s men, armed with pikes, had followed their master, and, though much alarmed, they vowed to die rather than give up the abbot.

By this time Hal o’ Nabs had joined the group, and proceeding towards a raised part of the chamber where the grinding-stones were set, he knelt down, and laying hold of a small ring, raised up a trapdoor. The fresh air which blew up through the aperture, combined with the rushing sound of water, showed that the Calder flowed immediately beneath; and, having made some slight preparation, Hal let himself down into the stream.

At this moment a loud crash was heard, and one of the miller’s men cried out that the arquebussiers had burst open the door.

“Be hondy, then, lads, and let him down!” cried Hal o’ Nabs, who had some difficulty in maintaining his footing on the rough, stony bottom of the swift stream.

Passively yielding, the abbot suffered the miller and one of the stoutest of his men to assist him through the trapdoor, while a third held down the lamp, and showed Hal o’ Nabs, up to his middle in the darkling current, and stretching out his arms to receive the burden. The light fell upon the huge black circle of the watershed now stopped, and upon the dripping arches supporting the mill. In another moment the abbot plunged into the water, the trapdoor was replaced, and bolted underneath by Hal, who, while guiding his companion along, and bidding him catch hold of the wood-work of the wheel, heard a heavy trampling of many feet on the boards above, showing that the pursuers had obtained admittance.

Encumbered by his heavy vestments, the abbot could with difficulty contend against the strong current, and he momently expected to be swept away; but he had a stout and active assistant by his side, who soon placed him under shelter of the wheel. The trampling overhead continued for a few minutes, after which all was quiet, and Hal judged that, finding their search within ineffectual, the enemy would speedily come forth. Nor was he deceived. Shouts were soon heard at the door of the mill, and the glare of torches was cast on the stream. Then it was that Hal dragged his companion into a deep hole, formed by some decay in the masonry, behind the wheel, where the water rose nearly to their chins, and where they were completely concealed. Scarcely were they thus ensconced, than two or three armed men, holding torches aloft, were seen wading under the archway; but after looking carefully around, and even approaching close to the water-wheel, these persons could detect nothing, and withdrew, muttering curses of rage and disappointment. By-and-by the lights almost wholly disappeared, and the shouts becoming fainter and more distant, it was evident that the men had gone lower down the river. Upon this, Hal thought they might venture to quit their retreat, and accordingly, grasping the abbot’s arm, he proceeded to wade up the stream.

Benumbed with cold, and half dead with terror, Paslew needed all his companion’s support, for he could do little to help himself, added to which, they occasionally encountered some large stone, or stepped into a deep hole, so that it required Hal’s utmost exertion and strength to force a way on. At last they were out of the arch, and though both banks seemed unguarded, yet, for fear of surprise, Hal deemed it prudent still to keep to the river. Their course was completely sheltered from observation by the mist that enveloped them; and after proceeding in this way for some distance, Hal stopped to listen, and while debating with himself whether he should now quit the river, he fancied he beheld a black object swimming towards him. Taking it for an otter, with which voracious animal the Calder, a stream swarming with trout, abounded, and knowing the creature would not meddle with them unless first attacked, he paid little attention to it; but he was soon made sensible of his error. His arm was suddenly seized by a large black hound, whose sharp fangs met in his flesh. Unable to repress a cry of pain, Hal strove to disengage himself from his assailant, and, finding it impossible, flung himself into the water in the hope of drowning him, but, as the hound still maintained his hold, he searched for his knife to slay him. But he could not find it, and in his distress applied to Paslew.

“Ha yo onny weepun abowt yo, lort abbut,” he cried, “wi’ which ey con free mysel fro’ this accussed hound?”

“Alas! no, my son,” replied Paslew, “and I fear no weapon will prevail against it, for I recognise in the animal the hound of the wizard, Demdike.”

“Ey thowt t’ dule wur in it,” rejoined Hal; “boh leave me to fight it owt, and do you gain t’ bonk, an mey t’ best o’ your way to t’ Wiswall. Ey’n join ye os soon os ey con scrush this varment’s heaod agen a stoan. Ha!” he added, joyfully, “Ey’n found t’ thwittle. Go—go. Ey’n soon be efter ye.”

Feeling he should sink if he remained where he was, and wholly unable to offer any effectual assistance to his companion, the abbot turned to the left, where a large oak overhung the stream, and he was climbing the bank, aided by the roots of the tree, when a man suddenly came from behind it, seized his hand, and dragged him up forcibly. At the same moment his captor placed a bugle to his lips, and winding a few notes, he was instantly answered by shouts, and soon afterwards half a dozen armed men ran up, bearing torches. Not a word passed between the fugitive and his captor; but when the men came up, and the torchlight fell upon the features of the latter, the abbot’s worst fears were realised. It was Demdike.

“False to your king!—false to your oath!—false to all men!” cried the wizard. “You seek to escape in vain!”

“I merit all your reproaches,” replied the abbot; “but it may he some satisfaction, to you to learn, that I have endured far greater suffering than if I had patiently awaited my doom.”

“I am glad of it,” rejoined Demdike, with a savage laugh; “but you have destroyed others beside yourself. Where is the fellow in the water? What, ho, Uriel!”

But as no sound reached him, he snatched a torch from one of the arquebussiers and held it to the river’s brink. But he could see neither hound nor man.

“Strange!” he cried. “He cannot have escaped. Uriel is more than a match for any man. Secure the prisoner while I examine the stream.”

With this, he ran along the bank with great quickness, holding his torch far over the water, so as to reveal any thing floating within it, but nothing met his view until he came within a short distance of the mill, when he beheld a black object struggling in the current, and soon found that it was his dog making feeble efforts to gain the bank.

“Ah recreant! thou hast let him go,” cried Demdike, furiously.

Seeing his master the animal redoubled its efforts, crept ashore, and fell at his feet, with a last effort to lick his hands.

Demdike held down the torch, and then perceived that the hound was quite dead. There was a deep gash in its side, and another in the throat, showing how it had perished.

“Poor Uriel!” he exclaimed; “the only true friend I had. And thou art gone! The villain has killed thee, but he shall pay for it with his life.”

And hurrying back he dispatched four of the men in quest of the fugitive, while accompanied by the two others he conveyed Paslew back to the abbey, where he was placed in a strong cell, from which there was no possibility of escape, and a guard set over him.

Half an hour after this, two of the arquebussiers returned with Hal o’ Nabs, whom they had succeeded in capturing after a desperate resistance, about a mile from the abbey, on the road to Wiswall. He was taken to the guard-room, which had been appointed in one of the lower chambers of the chapter-house, and Demdike was immediately apprised of his arrival. Satisfied by an inspection of the prisoner, whose demeanour was sullen and resolved, Demdike proceeded to the great hall, where the Earl of Derby, who had returned thither after the midnight mass, was still sitting with his retainers. An audience was readily obtained by the wizard, and, apparently well pleased with the result, he returned to the guard-room. The prisoner was seated by himself in one corner of the chamber, with his hands tied behind his back with a leathern thong, and Demdike approaching him, told him that, for having aided the escape of a condemned rebel and traitor, and violently assaulting the king’s lieges in the execution of their duty, he would be hanged on the morrow, the Earl of Derby, who had power of life or death in such cases, having so decreed it. And he exhibited the warrant.

“Soh, yo mean to hong me, eh, wizard?” cried Hal o’ Nabs, kicking his heels with great apparent indifference.

“I do,” replied Demdike; “if for nothing else, for slaying my hound.”

“Ey dunna think it,” replied Hal. “Yo’n alter your moind. Do, mon. Ey’m nah prepared to dee just yet.”

“Then perish in your sins,” cried Demdike, “I will not give you an hour’s respite.”

“Yo’n be sorry when it’s too late,” said Hal.

“Tush!” cried Demdike, “my only regret will be that Uriel’s slaughter is paid for by such a worthless life as thine.”

“Then whoy tak it?” demanded Hal. “‘Specially whon yo’n lose your chilt by doing so.”

“My child!” exclaimed Demdike, surprised. “How mean you, sirrah?”

“Ey mean this,” replied Hal, coolly; “that if ey dee to-morrow mornin’ your chilt dees too. Whon ey ondertook this job ey calkilated mey chances, an’ tuk precautions eforehond. Your chilt’s a hostage fo mey safety.”

“Curses on thee and thy cunning,” cried Demdike; “but I will not be outwitted by a hind like thee. I will have the child, and yet not be baulked of my revenge.”

“Yo’n never ha’ it, except os a breathless corpse, ‘bowt mey consent,” rejoined Hal.

“We shall see,” cried Demdike, rushing forth, and bidding the guards look well to the prisoner.

But ere long he returned with a gloomy and disappointed expression of countenance, and again approaching the prisoner said, “Thou hast spoken the truth. The infant is in the hands of some innocent being over whom I have no power.”

“Ey towdee so, wizard,” replied Hal, laughing. “Hoind os ey be, ey’m a match fo’ thee,—ha! ha! Neaw, mey life agen t’ chilt’s. Win yo set me free?”

Demdike deliberated.

“Harkee, wizard,” cried Hal, “if yo’re hatching treason ey’n dun. T’ sartunty o’ revenge win sweeten mey last moments.”

“Will you swear to deliver the child to me unharmed, if I set you free?” asked Demdike.

“It’s a bargain, wizard,” rejoined Hal o’ Nabs; “ey swear. Boh yo mun set me free furst, fo’ ey winnaw tak your word.”

Demdike turned away disdainfully, and addressing the arquebussiers, said, “You behold this warrant, guard. The prisoner is committed to my custody. I will produce him on the morrow, or account for his absence to the Earl of Derby.”

One of the arquebussiers examined the order, and vouching for its correctness, the others signified their assent to the arrangement, upon which Demdike motioned the prisoner to follow him, and quitted the chamber. No interruption was offered to Hal’s egress, but he stopped within the court-yard, where Demdike awaited him, and unfastened the leathern thong that bound together his hands.

“Now go and bring the child to me,” said the wizard.

“Nah, ey’st neaw bring it ye myself,” rejoined Hal. “Ey knoas better nor that. Be at t’ church porch i’ half an hour, an t’ bantlin shan be delivered to ye safe an sound.”

And without waiting for a reply, he ran off with great swiftness.

At the appointed time Demdike sought the church, and as he drew near it there issued from the porch a female, who hastily placing the child, wrapped in a mantle, in his arms, tarried for no speech from him, but instantly disappeared. Demdike, however, recognised in her the miller’s daughter, Dorothy Croft.