DUKE.

Seize that bold traitress!--stop her hated croak!

Lest each ensnared accomplice, if such be

Within her call, gain tidings of her seizure.

To-morrow, and in private, mark me, Hugo,

We hear her further.

ZORAYDA.

To-morrow!--nay, to-night, proud Duke.

To-morrow is not thine. Beware!

[_They lead her away._

DUKE.

Of thee!

Thou fearful wonder. 'Tis not idle terror

O'ermasters me, but yon foul-plotting witch

Quails me unwarily. Our country's welfare,

Perchance, brings o'erused caution; yet the wise

No proffer'd warning slights. Within the palace

We may defy an ambush'd foe.

HERMIONE.

To this,

Ere mischief burst abroad, I would entreat.

Yon being hath intelligence not breathed

From mortal lips!

DUKE.

I dare not say

The last farewell: the coming word, when summon'd,

So galls my tongue, it hath no utterance

When it might pass. The breath that from it issues

Parches my palate; like the hot simoom,

It scorches, though it sweep as stilly o'er

Some blasted, bladeless desert!--

I dream!--or I am fool'd!--unbind me, daemon!

Unseal mine eyeballs!--they are possess'd--again!

Glazed with thy mockeries! I see not: hark!

'Tis but the mental image to the brain

Recoiling: yet as palpable it comes!

What seest thou?--yon shadow?--where?

HERMIONE.

Yon shadow?

DUKE.

It cannot be: a brief told moment past,

I marked beyond the brink, on the dim wood,

The shadow waving. Now 'tis strange. There!--there!

How keen this air creeps curdling to my vitals!--

The shadow yet hangs dark and motionless

On shore and wave!

HERMIONE.

Whence comes this wondering terror?

The flag hath on its staff but newly dropp'd--

Look to the turret, why that spell-bound gaze

So wildly on the stream!

DUKE.

Fell hag! thy boding screech

Too surely sped. They come! Protect me, Heaven!

_Enter four Assassins, masked. Three of them attack the DUKE, ere

he can make signals for the Guard; whilst their leader seizes on

HERMIONE._

HERMIONE.

Help!--murderers! Unhand me, wretch.

[_He stops her mouth._

CARLOS.

Wretch! 'tis thy Carlos come to woo--not now

To kiss thy very footprints, and the earth

Whereon they fell! I'll bear thee hence, my mistress;

And thou shalt live my menial slave. Rage not--

I'll tame thy spirit, lady. Thou shalt crouch,

My gentle captive, as thy Carlos once,

To lick the dust, and I will spurn thee. Nay,

Content thee, dame, our friends will do thee service.

[_The DUKE defends himself against his assailants.

One of the Assassins falls._

DUKE.

There, villain! my good brand hath served thee.

[_HERMIONE, whilst struggling with CARLOS, frees

herself by a sudden effort, and seizes the sword

of the dying ruffian._

HERMIONE.

I'll bury this, deep, to thy heart, monster,

If thou approach. Help, guards!

CARLOS.

Thy tongue I fear

More than thy weapon. [_Attempts to cover her mouth._

HERMIONE.

Then to thy doom, hell-destined spirit! [_Stabs him._

CARLOS.

Oh--fly!--save ye, my friends--escape whilst yet--

The guards--this fiend hath summon'd---- [_Falls._

HERMIONE (_rushes towards the DUKE_).

Cowards! ye cannot escape. They come!

BERTRAND (_tearing off his mask_).

Then swifter come

Insatiate vengeance. To thy place, proud Mantua!

[_Makes a desperate lunge at the DUKE, who falls._

DUKE.

A mortal thrust! Hermione, now--now--

Farewell--'tis past!

BERTRAND.

Thou leavest not thy paramour.

[_Stabs HERMIONE._

Hence! to the pale ghosts howl in company.

HERMIONE.

I'd bless thee----for this---- [_Dies._

_Enter Guard, Soldiers; they seize the Conspirators._

DUKE.

Too late ye come--

Life ebbs fast from my veins--mine eyes are dim;

But there's a voice--or death unreins my fancy--

Comes o'er mine ear, I do remember, mingling

Ere now 'mid mortal strife.

BERTRAND.

'Tis I: mine hate is quench'd but with the blood

That nourish'd thee! Now to your dungeons lead me:

Your rarest tortures--haste. This blest revenge

Will slake your hottest fires, heal the hurt flesh,

Make the unpitying rack a gentle pillow.

Softer than cygnet down, or thy death-couch,

Unsceptred Duke. Guards, do your office.

DUKE.

Unhappy man! thy fierce, untamed spirit,

In its own fiery nature, hath to endure

What bodily tortures reach not. I forgive thee.

But this good city, thy most unjust hate

This night bereaves of her protector, seeks

Her just atonement! Bear me hence--Beatrice,

To thy loved arms. Would that I ne'er had left thee--

A fearful meeting now--Hermione!

What--dead! My cup is drain'd e'en to the dregs,

The vessel shiver'd, dash'd erewhile to earth!--

Just Heaven!

I bow to thee! Thou hast not sent my spirit

Unshriven to thy bar--brief space on earth

My span of time, but unto thee I turn,

Abused mercy; grant with my last last hour

Repentance, and thy promised pardon!

[_Exeunt Attendants with the DUKE._

LEGENDS.

One of the following Legends, The Crystal Goblet, was written for the

Traditions of the County of York. It appeared by permission in an Annual

entitled, "The White Rose of York;" but having only had a local

circulation at the time, and having been carefully revised by the Author

during the last winter of his life, it finds a place in the present

volume.

MOTHER RED CAP;

OR,

THE ROSICRUCIANS.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH.

PART THE FIRST.

In the wild and mountainous region of East Lancashire, at the foot of

the long line of hills called Blackstonedge, and not far from the town

of Rochdale, stood one of those old grim-looking mansions, the abode of

our Saxon ancestors; a quiet sheltered nest, where ages and generations

had alike passed by. The wave of time had produced no change; the name

and the inheritance were the same, and seemingly destined to continue

unaltered by the mutations, the common lot of all that man labours to

perpetuate. This state of things existed at the date of our story; now,

alas! the race of its former possessors is extinct, their name only

remains a relic of things that were,--their former mansion standing[L],

as if in mockery, amidst the hum of wheels, and in melancholy contrast

with the toil and animation of this manufacturing, money-getting

district.

Buckley Hall, to which we allude, is still an object of interest to the

antiquary and the lover of romance, telling of days that are for ever

departed, when the lords of these paternal acres were the occupants,

not impoverishers, of the soil from unrecorded ages,--constituting a

tribe, a race of sturdy yeomanry attached to their country and to the

lands on which they dwelt. But they are nigh extinct,--other habits and

other pursuits have prevailed. Profuse hospitality and rude benevolence

have given place to habits of business as they are called, and to a more

calculating and enterprising disposition. The most ancient families have

become absorbed or overwhelmed by the mighty progress of this new

element, this outpouring of wealth as from some unseen source; and in

many instances their names only are recognised in these old and rickety

mansions, now the habitation of the mechanic and the plebeian.

Many of these dwellings remain,--a melancholy contrast to the trim

erections, the symbols of a new race, along with new habits and forms of

existence, sufficiently testifying to the folly and the vain

expectations of those who toil and labour hard for a long lease with

posterity.

This mansion, like the rest of our ancestral dwellings of the better

sort, was built of wood, on a stone basement. The outside structure

curiously vandyked in a zig-zag fashion with wooden partitions, the

interstices were filled with wicker-work, plastered with well-tempered

clay, to which chopped straw imparted additional tenacity. When newly

embellished, looking like the pattern, black and white, of some discreet

magpie perched on the wooden pinnacles terminating each gable, or

hopping saucily about the porch,--that never-failing adjunct to these

homely dwellings. Here, on a well-scoured bench, the master of the house

would sit in converse with his family or his guests, enjoying the fresh

and cheering breeze, without being fully exposed to its effects. The

porch was universally adopted as a protection to the large flagged hall

called the "house-part," which otherwise might have been seriously

incommoded by the inclement atmosphere of these bleak districts. On one

side of the hall, containing the great fire-place, was the "guest

parlour." Here the best bed was usually fixed; and here, too, all great

"occasions" took place. Births, christenings, burials, all emanated

from, or were accomplished in, this family chamber. Every member was

there transmitted from the cradle to the grave. The low wide oaken

stairs, to the first bending of which an active individual might have

leaped without any such superfluous media. The naked gallery, with its

little quaint doors on each side, hatched in the usual fashion, this

opening into the store-room, that into the servants' lodging, another

into the closet where the choicest confections were kept. Opposite were

the bedchambers, and at the extremity of the gallery a ladder generally

pointed the way to a loft, where, amongst heaps of winter stores, dried

roots, and other vegetables, probably reposed one or two of the male

servants on a straw mattrass, well fortified from cold by an enormous

quilt.

Our description will apply with little variation to all.--We love these

deserted mansion-houses, that speak of the olden time, its good cheer

and its rude but pleasant intercourse; times and seasons that are for

ever gone,--though we crave pardon for indulging in what may perhaps

find little favour in the eyes of this generation, whose hopes and

desires are to the future, who say the past is but the childhood of our

existence,--it is gone, and shall not return. But there are yet some who

love to linger on the remnants, the ruins of a former state, who look at

these time-honoured relics but as links that bring them into closer

communion with bygone ages, and would fain live in the twilight of other

years rather than the meridian splendour of the present. But we must not

be seduced any further by these reflections; our present business

concerns the legend whose strange title stands at the head of this

article.

In one of the upper chambers at Buckley Hall before named, and not long

ago, was an iron ring fixed to a strong staple in the wall; and to this

ring a fearful story is still attached. The legend, as it is often told,

is one of those wild improbable fictions based on facts, distorted and

embellished to suit the taste of the listener or the fancy of the

narrator. It will be our task to make out from these imaginative

materials a narrative divested, as much as possible, of the marvellous,

but, at the same time, retaining so much as will interest and excite the

reader and lover of legendary lore.

It was in one of those genial, mellow, autumnal evenings,--so dear to

all who can feel their influence, and so rare a luxury to the

inhabitants of this weeping climate,--when all living things wear the

hue and warmth of the glowing atmosphere in which they are enveloped,

that two lovers were sauntering by the rivulet, a "wimpling burn" that,

rising among the bare and barren moorlands of this uncultivated region,

runs past Buckley Hall into the valley of the Roch.

It was near the close of the sixteenth century, in the days of good

Queen Bess, yet their apparel was somewhat homely even for this era of

stuffed doublets and trunk-hose. Such unseemly fashions had hardly

travelled into these secluded districts; and the plain, stout, woollen

jacket of their forefathers, and the ruffs, tippets, stays, and

stomachers of their grandmothers, formed the ordinary wear of the belles

and beaux of the province. Fardingales, or hooped petticoats, we are

happy to say, for the sake of our heroine, were unknown.

"Be of good cheer," said the lover; "there be troubles enow, believe me,

without building them up out of our own silly fears--like boys with

their snow hobgoblins, terrible enough in the twilight of fancy, but a

gleam of sunshine will melt and dissipate them. Thou art sad to-night

without reason. Imaginary fears are the worst to cope withal; having

nor shape nor substance, we cannot combat with them. 'Tis hard, indeed,

fighting with shadows."

"I cannot smile to-night, Gervase; there's a mountain here--a foreboding

of some deadly sort. I might as soon lift 'Robin Hood's Bed,' yonder, as

remove it."

"No more of this, my dearest Grace; at least, not now. Let us enjoy this

bright and sunny landscape. How sharply cut are those crags, yonder, on

the sky. Blackstonedge looks almost within a stride, or at least a good

stone's throw. Thou knowest the old legend of Robin Hood; how that he

made yonder rocks his dormitory, and by way of amusement pitched or

coited huge stones at a mark on the hill just above us, being some four

or five miles from his station. It is still visible along with several

stones lying near, and which are evidently from the same rock as that on

which it is said he slept."

"I've heard such silly tales often. Nurse had many of these old stories

wherewith to beguile us o' winter nights. She used to tell, too, about

Eleanor Byron, who loved a fay or elf, and went to meet him at the

fairies' chapel away yonder where the Spodden gushes through its rocky

cleft,--'tis a fearful story--and how she was delivered from the spell.

I sometimes think on't till my very flesh creeps, and I could almost

fancy that such an invisible thing is about me."

With such converse did they beguile their evening walk, ever and anon

making the subject bend to the burden of their own sweet ditty of mutual

_unchanging_ love!

Grace Ashton was the only daughter of a wealthy yeoman, one of the

gentry of that district, residing at Clegg Hall, a mile or two distant.

Its dark, low gables and quiet smoke might easily be distinguished from

where they stood. It was said that the Cleggs, its original owners, had

been beggared and dispossessed by vexatious and fraudulent lawsuits; and

the Ashtons had achieved their purpose by dishonesty and chicane.

However this might be, busy rumour gave currency and credit to the tale,

though, probably, it had none other foundation than the idle and

malevolent gossip of the envious and the unthinking.

They had toiled up a narrow pathway on the right of a woody ravine,

where the stream had evidently formed itself a passage through the loose

strata in its course. The brook was heard, though hidden by the tangled

underwood, and they stopped to listen. Soothing but melancholy was the

sound. Even the birds seemed to chirp there in a sad and pensive

twitter, not unnoticed by the lovers, though each kept the gloomy and

fanciful apprehensions untold.

Soon they gained the summit of a round heathery knoll, whence an

extensive prospect rewarded their ascent. The squat, square tower of

Rochdale Church might be seen above the dark trees nestling under its

grey walls. The town was almost hidden by a glowing canopy of smoke

gleaming in the bright sunset,--towards the north the bare bleak hills,

undulating in sterile loneliness, and associating only with images of

barrenness and desolation. Easterly, a long, level burst of light swept

across meadow, wood, and pasture; green slopes dotted with bright

homesteads, to the very base apparently of, though at some distance

from, Blackstonedge, now of the deepest, the most intense blue. Such a

daring contrast of colour gave a force and depth to the landscape,

which, had it been portrayed, would to critical eyes, perhaps, have

outraged the modesty of Nature.

The sky was already growing cold and grey above the ridge opposed to the

burning brightness of the western horizon, and Grace Ashton pointed out

the beautiful but fleeting hues of the landscape around them. Her

companion, however, was engrossed by another object. Before them was an

eminence marking the horizon to the north-west, though not more than a

good bow-shot from where they stood. Between this and their present

standing was a little grassy hollow, through which the brook we have

described trickled rather than ran, amidst moss and rushes, rendering

the ground swampy and unsafe. On this hill stood "Robin Hood's

coit-stones;" and on the largest, called the "marking-stone," a

wild-looking and haggard figure was couched. Her garments, worn and

tattered, were of a dingy red; and her cap, or _coiffure_ as it was then

called, was of the same colour. Her head was bent forward beyond the

knee, as though she were listening towards the ground, or was expecting

the approach of the individuals who now came suddenly, and to themselves

unexpectedly, in view. Her figure, in the glow of that rich autumnal

sky, looked of the deepest crimson, and of a bloody and portentous

aspect.

"What strange apparition is yonder," said Gervase Buckley, "on the hill

top there before us? Beshrew me, Grace, but it hath an evil and a

rancorous look."

But Grace, along with a short scream of surprise, betrayed, too, her

recognition of the object, and clung with such evident terror to her

companion that he turned from the object of his inquiries to gaze on his

mistress.

"What!" said he, "hath yonder unknown such power? Methinks it hath moved

thee strangely. Speak, Grace; can that hideous appearance in any way be

linked with our destiny?"

"I am ignorant as thou. But its coming, as I have heard, always forbodes

disaster to our house. Hast not heard of a Red Woman that sometimes

haunts this neighbourhood? I never saw her until now, but I've heard

strange and fearful stories of her appearing some years ago, and

blighting the corn, poisoning the cattle, with many other diabolical

witcheries. She is best known by the name of 'Mother Red Cap.'"

"I've heard of this same witch in my boyhood. But what should we fear?

She is flesh and blood like ourselves; and, in spite of the prevailing

belief, I could never suppose power would be granted to some, generally

the most wicked and the most worthless, which from the rest of mankind

is capriciously withholden."

"Hush, Gervase; thou knowest not how far the arch-enemy of mankind may

be permitted to afflict bodily our guilty race. I could tell thee such

tales of yonder creature as would stagger even the most stubborn of

unbelievers."

"I will speak to her, nevertheless. Tarry here, I prithee, Grace. It

were best I should go alone."

"Oh, do not--do not! None have sight of her, as I've heard, but mischief

follows. What disaster then may we not expect from her evil tongue. I

shudder at the anticipation. Stay here. I will not be left; and I cannot

cross this dangerous swamp."

Buckley was, however, bent on the adventure. His natural curiosity,

inflamed by forbidden longing after the occult and the mysterious to

which he was too prone, even though sceptical as to their existence,

rendered him proof against his mistress' entreaties.

Probably from situation, or rather, it might be, the distance was judged

greater than in reality it proved, but the form before them looked

preternaturally enlarged, and, as she raised her head, her arms were

flung out high above it like withered and wasted branches on each side.

Trembling in every limb, Grace clung to her lover, and it was after long

persuasion that she suffered him to lift her over the morass, and was

dragged unwillingly up the hill. As though she were the victim of some

terrible fascination, her eyes were constantly riveted on the object. A

raven wheeled round them, every moment narrowing the circle of its

flight, and the malicious bird looked eager for mischief.

As they approached nearer to the summit this ill-omened thing, after

having brushed so close that they felt the very breath from its wings,

alighted beside the Red Woman, who hardly seemed to notice, though well

aware of their proximity.

They paused when several paces distant, and she rose up suddenly,

extending both arms, apparently to warn them from a nearer approach. Her

skinny lips rapidly moving to and fro, and her dark, withered, bony, and

cadaverous features, gave her more the appearance of a living mummy, or

a resurrection from the charnel-house, than aught instinct with the

common attributes of humanity.

Buckley was for a moment daunted. The form was so unlike anything he had

ever seen. He was almost persuaded of the possibility that it might be

some animated corpse doomed to wander forth either for punishment or

expiation. Her lips still moved. A wild glassy eye was fixed upon them,

and as she yet stood with extended arms, Gervase, almost wrought to

desperation, cried out,

"Who art thou? Thy business here?"

A hollow sound, hardly like the tones of a human voice, answered in a

slow and solemn adjuration:

"Beware, rash fools! None approach the Red Woman but to their undoing."

"I know no hindrance to my free course in this domain. By whose

authority am I forbidden?" said he, taking courage.

"Away--mine errand is not to thee unless provoked."

"Unto whom is thy message?"

"To thy leman--thy ladye-love, whom thou wilt cherish to thine hurt.

Leave her, ay, though both hearts break in the separation."

"I will not."

"Then be partaker of the wrath that is just ready to burst upon her

doomed house."

"I told thee," said Grace, "she is the herald of misfortune! What woe

does she denounce? What cruel judgment hast thou invoked upon our

race?" cried she to this grim messenger of evil.

"Evil will--Evil must! I will cling to ye till your last sustenance be

dried up, and your inheritance be taken from ye."

"Her fate be mine," said Buckley, indignantly. "Her good or evil fortune

I will share."

"Be it so. Thou hast made thy choice, and henceforth thou canst not

complain."

She stretched out her two hands, one towards Clegg Hall, the abode of

the maiden, and the other towards Buckley, her lover's paternal roof,

from which a blue curl of smoke was just visible over the rising grounds

beneath them.

"A doom and a curse to each," she muttered. "Your names shall depart,

and your lands to the alien and the stranger. Your honours shall be

trodden in the dust, and your hearths laid waste, and your habitations

forsaken."

In this fearful strain she continued until Buckley cried out--

"Cease thy mumbling, witch. I'll have thee dealt with in such wise thy

tongue shall find another use."

Turning upon him a look of scorn, she seemed to grow fiercer in her

maledictions.

"Proud minion," she cried, "thou shalt die childless and a beggar!"

The cunning raven flapped his great heavy wings and seemed to croak an

assent. He then hopped on his mistress' shoulder, and apparently

whispered in her ear.

"Sayest thou so?" said the witch. "Then give it to me, Ralph."

The bird held out his beak, and out popped a plain gold ring.

"Give this to thy mother, Dame Buckley. Say 'tis long since they parted

company; and ask if she knows or remembers aught of the Red Woman.

Away!"

She threw the ring towards them. Both stooped to pick it up. They

examined it curiously for a short space.

"'Tis a wedding-ring," said Buckley, "but not to wed bride of mine.

Where was this----"

He stopped short in his inquiry, for lifting up his eyes he found the

donor was gone!

Neither of them saw the least trace of her departure. The stone whereon

she sat was again vacant. All was silent, undisturbed, save the night

breeze that came sighing over the hill, moaning and whistling through

the withered bent and rushes at their feet.

The shadows of evening were now creeping softly around them, and the

valley below was already wrapped in mist. The air felt very chill. They

shuddered, but it was in silence. This fearful vision, for such it now

appeared to have been, filled them with unspeakable dread.

Gervase yet held the ring in his hand. He would have thrown it from him,

but Grace Ashton forbade.

"Do her bidding in this matter," said she. "Give it thy mother, and ask

counsel of the sage and the discreet. There is some fearful

mystery,--some evil impending, or my apprehensions are strangely

misled."

They returned, but he was more disturbed than he cared to acknowledge.

He felt as though some spell had been cast upon him, and cowed his

hitherto undaunted spirit.

They again wound down beside the rivulet into the meadows below, where

the mist alone pointed out the course of the stream. The bat and the

beetle crossed their path. Evil things only were abroad. All they saw

and felt seemed to be ominous of the future. As they passed through a

little wicket to the hall-porch, Nicholas Buckley the father met them.

"Why how now, loiterers? The cushat and the curlew have left the hill,

and yet ye are abroad. 'Tis time the maiden were at home, and looking

after the household."

"We've been hindered, good Sir. We will just get speech of our dame, and

then away home with the gentle Grace. Half an hour's good speeding will

see her safe."

"Ay--belike," said the old man. "Lovers and loiterers make mickle haste

to part. Our dame is with the maids and the milk-pans i' the dairy."

The elder Buckley was a hale hearty yeoman, of a ruddy and cheerful

countenance. A few wrinkles were puckered below the eyes; the rest of

his face was sleek and comfortably disposed. A beard, once thick and

glossy, was grown grey and thin, curling up, short and stunted, round

his portly chin. Two bright twinkling eyes gave note of a stirring and

restless temper--too sanguine, may be, for success in the great and busy

world, and not fitted either by education or disposition for its

suspicions or its frauds. Yet he had the reputation of a clever

merchant. Rochdale, even at that early period, was a well-known mart for

the buyers and sellers of woollen stuffs and friezes. Many of the most

wealthy merchants, too, indulged in foreign speculations and adventures,

and amongst these the name of Nicholas Buckley was not the least

conspicuous.

They passed on to the dairy, where Dame Eleanor scolded the maids and

skimmed the cream at the same moment, by way of economy in time.

"What look ye for here?" was her first inquiry, for truly her temper was

of a hasty and searching nature; somewhat prone, as well, to cavilling

and dispute; requiring much of her husband's placidity to furnish oil

for the turbulent waters of her disposition.

"Thou wert better at thy father's desk, than idling after thine

unthrifty pleasures: to-morrow, may be, sauntering among the hills with

hound and horn, beating up with all the rabble in the parish."

"Nay, mother, chide not: I was never made for merchandize and

barter--the price of fleeces in Tod-lane, and the broad ells at

Manchester market."

"And why not?" said the dame, sharply. "Haven't I been the prop and stay

of the house? Haven't I made bargains and ventures when thou hast been

idling in hall and bower with love-ditties and ladies' purfles?"

She was now moved to sudden choler, and Gervase did not dare to thwart

her further,--letting the passion spend itself by its own efforts, as he

knew it were vain to check its torrent.

Now Dame Eleanor Buckley was of a sharp and florid

countenance,--short-necked and broad-shouldered, her nose and chin

almost hiding a pair of thin severe lips, the two prominences being

close neighbours, especially in anger. In truth she guided, or rather

managed, the whole circle of affairs; aiding and counselling the

speculations of her husband, who had happily been content with the

produce and profit of his paternal acres, had not his help-mate, who

inherited this mercantile spirit from her family, urged her partner to

such unwonted lust and craving for gain.

A huge bundle of keys hung at her girdle, which, when more than usually

excited, did make a most discordant jingle to the tune that was a-going.

Indeed, the height and violence of her passion might be pretty well

guessed at by this index to its strength.

When the storm had in some degree subsided, Gervase held up the ring.

"What's that, silly one? A wedding-ring!"

She grew almost pale with wrath. "How darest thou?--thee!--a ring!--to

wed ere thou hast a home for thy pretty one. Ye may go beg, for here ye

shall not tarry. Go to the next buckle-beggar! A pretty wedding truly!

When thou hast learned how to keep her honestly, 'twill be time enough

to wed. But thou hast not earned a doit to put beside her dower, and all

our ready monies, and more, be in trade; though, for the matter o'that,

the pulling would be no great business either. But I tell thee again,

thy father shall not portion an idler like thyself and pinch his trade.

Marry, 'tis enough to do, what with grievous sums lost in shipwrecks,

and the time we have now to wait our returns from o'er sea."

She went on at this rate for a considerable space, pausing at last, more

for lack of breath than subject-matter of discourse.

"Mother," said he, when fairly run down; "'tis not a purchase, 'tis a

gift."

"By some one sillier than thyself, I warrant."

"I know not for that--I had it from a stranger."

"Stranger still," she replied sharply, chuckling at her own conceit.

"Look at it, mother,--Know you such an one?"

The dame eyed it with no favour, but she turned it over with a curious

look, at the same time lifting her eyes now and then towards the

ceiling, as though some train of recollection was awakening in her mind.

"Where gat ye this?" said Dame Eleanor, in a subdued but still querulous

tone.

"On the hill-top yonder."

"Treasure-trove belongs to Sir John Byron.[M] The Lord of the Manor

claims all from the finders."

"It was a gift."

"Humph. Hast met gold-finders on the hills, or demons or genii, that

guard hidden treasure?"

"We've seen the Red Woman!"

Had a sudden thunder-clap burst over them, she could not have been more

startled. She stood speechless, and seemingly incapable of reply.

Holding the ring in one hand, her eyes were intently fixed upon it.

"What is it that troubles you?" said Gervase. "Yon strange woman bade me

give you the ring, and ask if so be that you remembered her."

The dame looked up, her quick and saucy petulance exchanged for a

subdued and melancholy air.

"Remember thee! thou foul witch,--ay, long, long years have passed: I

thought thy persecutions at an end; thy prediction was nigh forgotten.

It was my wedding-ring, Gervase!"

"More marvellous still."

"Peace, and I'll tell thee. Grace Ashton, come forward. I know thine

ears are itching for the news. Well, well, it was when thou wast but a

boy, Gervase, and I remember an evening just like this. I was standing

by the draw-well yonder, looking, I now bethink me, at the dove-cote

where I suspected thieves; and in a humour somewhat of the sharpest, I

trow. By-and-bye comes what I thought an impudent beggar-woman for an

alms. Her dress was red and tattered, with a high red cap to match. I

chided her, it might be somewhat harshly, and I shall not soon forget

the malicious look she put on. 'I ask not, I need not thy benison,' she

said; 'I would have befriended thee, but I now curse thee altogether:'

and stretching out her shrivelled arm, dry and bare, she shook it,

threatening me with vengeance. Suddenly, or ere I was aware, she seized

my left hand, drew off my wedding-ring; breathing upon it and mumbling a

spell, she held it as though for me to take back, but with such a

fiendish look of delight that I hesitated. All on the sudden I

remembered to have heard my grandmother say, that should a witch or

warlock get your wedding-ring, and have time to mutter over it a certain

charm, _so long as that ring is above ground_, so long misery and

misfortune do afflict the owner. Lucky it was I knew of this, for

instead of replacing it I threw it into the well, being the nearest

hiding-place. And happy for me and thee it was so near; for, would you

believe, though hardly a minute's space in my hand, the black heifer

died, the red cow cast her calf, and a large venture of merchandize was

wrecked in a fearful gale off the gulph. I had no sooner thrown it into

the well than the witch looked more diabolical than ever. 'It will come

again, dame,' said she, 'and then look to it;' and with this threat she

departed. But what am I doing? If it be the ring, which I doubt not,

I've had it o'er long in my keeping. Even now disaster may be a-brewing;

and is there not a richly freighted ship on its passage with silks and

spices? I'll put it out of her reach this time anyhow. No! I'll hide it

where never a witch in Christendom shall poke it out."

Dame Eleanor went to the little burn below. Stooping, she scooped a hole

in the gravel under water; there she laid the ring, and covered it over

with stones.

"Thou'rt always after some of thy megrims, dame," said the elder

Buckley, who had been watching her from the porch. "Some spell or

counter-charm, I'se warrant."

With a look of great contempt for the incredulity of her spouse, she

replied,

"Ay, goodman, sit there and scoff your fill. If't hadn't been for my

care and endeavours you had been penniless ere now. But so it is, I may

slave night and day, I reckon. The whole roof-tree, as a body may say,

is on my shoulders, and what thanks? More hisses than thanks, more

knocks than fair words."

Never so well pleased as when opportunity was afforded for grumbling,

the dame addressed herself again to her evening avocations.

Pondering deeply what should be the issue of these things, Gervase set

out with Grace Ashton to her house at Clegg Hall, a good mile distant.

Evening had closed in--a chill wind blew from the hills. The west had

lost its splendour, but a pure transparent brightness filled its place,

across which the dark wavy outline of the high moorlands rested in deep

unvarying shadow. In these bright depths a still brighter star hung,

pure and of a diamond-like lustre, the precursor, the herald of a

blazing host just rising into view.

As they walked on, it may well be supposed that the strange occurrences

of the last few hours were the engrossing theme of their discourse.

"My mother is a little too superstitious, I am aware," said Gervase.

"But what I have witnessed to-night has rendered me something more

credulous on this head than aforetime."

"I don't half like this neighbourhood," said his companion, looking

round. "It hath an ill name, and I could almost fancy the Red Woman

again, just yonder in our path."

She looked wistfully; it was only the mist creeping lazily on with the

stream.

They were now ascending the hill towards Beil or Belfield, where the

Knights Templars had formerly an establishment. Not a vestige now

remains, though at that period a ruinous tower covered with ivy, a

gateway, and an arch, existed as relics of their former grandeur.

"Here lived the Lady Eleanor Byron," said Grace, pointing to the old

hall close by, and as though an unpleasant recollection had crossed her.

She shuddered as they passed by the grim archway beneath the tower.

Whether it was fancy or reality, she knew not, but as she looked

curiously through its ivied tracery, she thought the Red Woman was

peering out maliciously upon them. She shrank aside, and pointed to the

spot; but there was nothing visible save the dark and crumbling ruins,

from which their steps were echoed with a dull and sullen sound.

The night wind sighed round the grey battlements, and from its hidden

recesses came moans and whispers, at least so it seemed to their heated

imaginations.

"Let us hasten hence," said Grace; "I like not this lonely spot. There

was always a fear and a mystery about it. The tale of the invisible

sylphid and Eleanor Byron's elfish lover, haunts me whenever I pass by,

and I feel as though something was near, observing and influencing every

movement and every thought."

"Come, come, adone I pray. Let not fear o'ermaster reason, else we shall

see bogles in every bush."

Above the gateway, in the little square tower now pulled down, was a

loop-hole, nearly concealed by climbing shrubs, which rendered it easy

for a person within to look out without being observed. As they passed,

a low humming din was heard. Then a rude ditty trolled from some not

unskilful performer. The lovers stayed to listen, when a dark figure

issued out of the gateway singing:--

"The bat haunts the tower,

And the red-breast the bower,

And the merry little sparrow by the chimney hops,

Good e'en, hoots master owl,

To-whoo, to-whoo, his troll,

Sing heigho, swing the can with----"

"What, thee, Tim! is that thy stupid face?" said Gervase, breaking in

upon his ditty, and right glad to be delivered from supernatural fears,

though the object of them proved only this strolling minstrel. "Thou

might as well kill us outright as frighten us to death."

He that stood before them was one of those wandering musicians that

haunt fairs and merry-makings, wakes, and such like pastimes; playing

the fiddle and jewtrump too at weddings and alehouses; in short, any

sort of idleness never came amiss to these representatives of the old

Troubadours. A tight oval cap covered his shaggy poll; he was clad in a

coarse doublet or jerkin slashed in the fashion of the time, while his

nether integuments were fastened in the primitive mode by a wooden

skewer. He could conjure too, and play antics to set the folks agape;

but as to his honesty, it was of that dubious sort that few cared to

have it in trust. He was apt at these alehouse ditties,--many of them

his own invention. He knew all the choicest ballads too, so that his

vocation was much akin to the _jogleurs_ or _jongleurs_ of more ancient

times, when Richard of the Lion's Heart and other renowned monarchs

disdained not "_the gentle craft of poesie_."

Wherever was a feast, let it be a wedding or a funeral, Tim, like the

harpies of old, scented the meat, and some of his many vocations were

generally in request.

This important functionary now stood whistling and singing by turns with

the most admired unconcern.

"What's thy business here?" cried Gervase, approaching him.

"The maid was fair and the maid was coy,

But the lover left, and the maid said 'Why?'

Sing Oh, the green willow!"

"Answerest thou me with thy trumpery ditties? I'll have thee put i' the

stocks, sirrah."

"Oh ha' mercy, master! there's naught amiss 'at I know. I'm but takin'

roost here wi' the owls an' jackdaws a bit, may be for want o' better

lyin'."

"It were hard to have a better knack at lying, than thou hast already.

Hast gotten the weather into thy lodgings? When didst flit to thy new

quarters?"

"Th' hay-mow at Clegg is ower savoured wi' the new crop, an' I want

fresh air for my studies."

"Now art thou lying----"

"Like a lover to his sweetheart," said Tim, interrupting him, and

finishing the sentence.

"Peace, knave! There's some mischief i' the wind. Thou'rt after no good,

I trow."

"What te dickons do I ail here? Is't aught 'at a man can lift off but

stone wa's an' ivy-boughs? Marry, my little poke maun ha' summut else to

thrive on nor these."

"There's been great outcry about poultry an' other farmyard appendances

amissing of late, besides eggs and such like dainties enow to furnish

pancakes and fritters for the whole parish. Hast gotten company in thy

den above there?"

"Jacks an' ouzles if ye like, Master Gervase. Clim' up, clim' up, lad,

an' there'll be a prial on us. Ha, ha! What! our little sweetheart there

would liefer t' be gangin'. Weel, weel, 'tis natural, as a body may say:

"One is good, and two is good,

But three's no company."

"Answer me quick, thou rogue. Is there any other but thyself yonder

above?"

"When I'm there I'm not here, an' when I'm here----"

"Sirrah, I'll flog the wind out o' thy worthless carcase. Hast

any pilfering companions about thee? I do smell a savoury

refection,--victuals are cooking, or my nose belies its office."

"Fair speech, friend, wins a quiet answer; a soft word and a smooth

tongue all the world over. What for mayn't I sup as well as my betters?"

"As well? better belike. There's no such savour in our hall at eventide,

nor in the best kitchen in the parish."

"It's not my fau't, is't?"

"By'r lady, there's somebody in the chamber there. I saw the leaves

fluttering from the loophole. Villain, who bears thee company?"

"Daft, daft. What fool would turn in to roost wi' me? Clean gone crazy,

sure as I'm livin'."

"Nay, nay, there's some plot here,--some mischief hatching. I'll see,

or----"

He was just going to make the attempt; but Tim withstood him, and in a

peremptory manner barred the way.

"How! am I barred by thee, and to my face?"

"It's no business o' thine, Master Gervase. What's hatching there,

concerns not thee. Keep back, I say, or----"

"Ha! Thou jingle-pated rascal, stand off, or I'll wring thy neck round

as I would a jackdaw."

"Do not, do not, Gervase!" said Grace Ashton, fearful of some unlucky

strife. "Let us begone. We are too late already, and 'tis no business of

ours."

"What! and be o'erfoughten by this scurvy lack-wit. Once more, who is

there above?"

"An' what if I shouldn't tell thee?"

"I'll baste thy carcase to a mummy; I'll make thee tender for the

hounds."

"Another word to that, master, an' it's a bargain."

"Let me pass."

"Not without my company."

"He whistled, and in a moment Gervase felt himself pinioned from behind.

Looking round, he saw two stout fellows with their faces covered; and

any other possibility of recognition was impracticable in the heavy

twilight.

"Who's i' t' stocks now?" cried the malicious rogue, laughing.

"Unhand me, or ye'll rue that ever ye wrought this outrage."

"Nay, nay, that were a pretty stave, when we've gotten the bird, to open

the trap," said Tim.

Gervase immediately saw that another party had seized Grace Ashton. He

raved and stamped until his maledictions were put an end to by an

effectual gag, and he did not doubt but she had suffered the same

treatment, for a short sharp scream only was heard. Being immediately

blindfolded, he could only surmise that her usage was of a similar

nature.

He was so stupified with surprise, that for a short period he was hardly

sensible to their further proceedings. When able to reflect, he found

himself pinioned, and in a sitting posture. A damp chill was on his

forehead. He had been dragged downwards, and, from the motion, steps

were the medium of descent. A door or two had been raised or opened, a

narrow passage previously traversed, and a short time only elapsed from

the cool freshness of the evening air to the damp and stifling

atmosphere that he now breathed. What could be cause of his seizure, he

was quite incompetent to guess. He could not recollect that he had

either pique or grudge on his hands; and what should be the result, he

only bewildered and wearied himself by striving to anticipate.

It was surely a dream. He heard a voice of ravishing sweetness; such

pure and silvery tones, that aught earthly could have produced it was

out of the question; it was like the swell of some Eolian lyre,--words

too, modifying and enhancing that liquid harmony. It was a hymn, but in

a foreign tongue. He soon recognised the evening hymn to the Virgin:

"Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora, pro nobis."

So sweetly did the music melt into his soul, that he quite forgot his

thrall, and every sense was attuned to the melody. When the sound

ceased, he made an effort to get free. He loosened his hands, and

immediately tore off the bandage from his eyes. A few seconds elapsed,

when he saw a light streaming through a crevice. Looking through, he saw

a taper burning before a little shrine, where two females in white

raiment, closely veiled, were kneeling.

The celebration of such rites, at that time strictly prohibited,

sufficiently accounted for their concealment, and plainly intimated that

the parties were not of the Reformed faith.

By the light which penetrated his cell from this source, he saw it was

furnished with a stone bench, and a narrow flight of steps in one corner

communicated with a trap-door above.

The old mansion at Belfield, contiguous to these ruins, once belonging

to the Knights of St. John, had been for some years untenanted, and, as

often happens to the lot of deserted houses, strange noises, sights, and

other manifestations of ghostly occupants were heard and seen by

passers-by, rendering it a neighbourhood not overliked by those who had

business that way after nightfall.

Gervase Buckley was pretty well assured that he had been conveyed into

some concealed subterranean chamber, but for what purpose he could not

comprehend. He was not easily intimidated; and, though in a somewhat

sorry plight, he now felt little apprehension on the score of

supernatural visitations: but his seizure did not hold out an immunity

as regards corporeal disturbers. He had not long to indulge these

premonitory reflections ere a door was opened. A figure, completely

enveloped in a black cloak, on which a red cross was conspicuously

emblazoned, stood before him. He carried a torch, and Gervase saw a

short naked sword glittering in his belt.

"Follow me," said the intruder; and, without further parley, pointed to

where another door was concealed in the pavement. This being opened,

Gervase beheld, not without serious apprehension, a flight of steps

evidently communicating with a lower dungeon. His conductor pointed to

the descent, and it would have been useless folly to disobey. A damp and

almost suffocating odour prevailed, as though from some long pent up

atmosphere, which did not give the prisoner any increasing relish or

affection for the enterprise. He looked at his conductor, whose face and

person were yet covered. Had he been a familiar of the Holy Inquisition,

he could not have been more careful of concealment. Gervase looked now

and then with a wistful glance towards his companion's weapon. Being

himself unarmed, it would have been madness to attempt escape. He merely

inquired in his descent,

"Whence this outrage? I am unarmed, defenceless." But there was no

reply. The guide, with an inclination of the head, pointed with his

torch to the gulph his victim was about to enter. There was little use

in disputation where the opposite party had so decided an advantage, and

he thought it best to abide the issue without further impediment. He

accordingly descended a few steps. His conductor fastened the door

overhead, and they soon arrived at the bottom, at a low arched passage,

where his guide dashed his flambeau against the wall, and it was

immediately extinguished.

Gervase was left once more in doubt and darkness. There was little space

for explanation. He felt himself seized by an invisible hand, hurried

unresistingly on, till, without any preparation, a blaze of light burst

upon him.

It was for a moment too overpowering to enable him to distinguish

objects with any certainty. Soon, however, he saw a tolerably spacious

vault, or crypt, supported by massy pillars. He had often heard there

existed many unexplored subterranean passages reaching to an incredible

distance, made originally by the Knights Templars for their private use.

One of these, it was said, extended even to the chantry just then

dissolved at Milnrow, more than a mile distant. Many strange stories he

had been told of these warrior monks. But centuries had elapsed since

their suppression. For a moment, he almost believed they were permitted

to re-appear, doomed at stated periods to re-enact their unhallowed

orgies, their cruelties and their crimes. The chamber was lighted by

three or four torches, their lurid unsteady light giving an ever-varying

character to the surrounding objects.

Opposite the entrance was a stone bench, occupied by several figures

attired in a similar manner to his conductor. An individual in the

centre wore in addition a belt, covered by some cabalistic devices. The

scene was sufficiently inexplicable, and not at all elucidated by the

following interrogation:

"Thou hast been cited to our tribunal," said the chief inquisitor.

"I know ye not," said Gervase with great firmness, though hardly aware

of the position he occupied.

"Why hast thou not obeyed our summons?"

"I have not heard of any such; nor in good sooth should I have been

careful to obey had your mandate been delivered."

"Croix Rouge," said the interrogator; "has this delinquent been cited?"

The person he addressed arose, bowed, and presented a written answer.

"I have here," continued the chief, "sufficient proof that our summons

hath been conveyed to thee, and that hitherto thine answer hath been

contumaciously withheld. What sayest thou?"

"I have yet to learn, firstly," said Gervase, with more indignation than

prudence, "by what authority ye would compel me to appear; and,

secondly, how and in what form such mandate hath been sent?"

"Bethink thee, is our answer to the last,--the first will be manifested

in due time. We might indeed leave thee ignorant as to what we require,

but pity for thy youth and inexperience forbids. Clegg Hall is, thou

knowest, along with the estate, now unlawfully holden by the Ashtons."

"I know that sundry Popish recusants plotting the overthrow of our most

gracious Queen, do say that other and more legitimate rights are in

abeyance only; but the present owners are too well fortified to be

dispossessed by hearsay."

"In the porch at Clegg thou wast accosted not long ago by a mendicant

who solicited an alms."

"Probably so."

"Did he not hold out to thee the sign of the Rosy Cross, the token of

our all-powerful fraternity of Rosicrucians?"

"I do remember such a signal; and furthermore, I drove him forth as an

impostor and a pretender to forbidden arts."

"He showed thee the sign, and bade thee follow."

"He did."

"And why was our summons disobeyed?"

"Because I have yet to learn what authority you possess either for my

summons or detention."

"The brotherhood of the Red Cross are not disobeyed with impunity."

"I have heard of such a fraternity,--as well too that they be idle

cheats and lying impostors."

"We challenge not belief without sufficient testimony to the truth of

our mission. In pity to man's infirmity this indulgence is permitted. We

unfold the hidden operations, the very arcana of Nature, whom we

unclothe as it were to her very nakedness. Our doctrines thereby carry

credence even to the most impious and unbelieving. Ere we command thy

submission, it is permitted to behold some manifestation of our power.

By means derived from the hidden essences of Nature, the first

principles which renovate and govern all things, the very elements of

which they consist, we arrive at the incorporeal essence called spirit,

holding converse with it undebased, uninfluenced by the intervention of

matter. Thus we converse in spirit with those that be absent, even

though they were a thousand leagues apart."

"And what has this jargon to do with my being dispatched hither?"

"Listen, and reply not; the purport will be vouchsafed to thee anon. We

can compel the spirits even of the absent to come at our bidding by

subtle spells that none have power to disobey. We too can renew and

invigorate life, and by the universal solvent bring about the renovation

of all things,--renovation and decay being the two antagonist

principles, as light and darkness. As we can make darkness light, and

light darkness at our pleasure, so can we from decay bring forth life,

and the contrary. Seest thou this dead body?"

A black curtain he had not hitherto observed, was thrown aside, and he

beheld the features of Grace Ashton, or he was strangely deceived. She

was lying on a little couch, death visibly imprinted on her collapsed

and sunken features.

"Murderers! I will have ye dealt with for this outrage." Maddened almost

to frenzy he would have rushed towards her, but he was firmly holden by

a power superior to his own.

"She is now in the first region of departed spirits," said the chief.

"We have power to compel answer to our interrogatories. Listen, perverse

mortal. We are well assured that a vast treasure is concealed

hereabouts, hidden by the Knights of St. John. 'Tis beyond our

unassisted power to discover. We have asked counsel of one whom we dare

not disobey, and she it is hath commanded that we cite thee and Grace

Ashton to the tribunal of the Rosy Cross. This corporeal substance now

before us, by reason of its intimate union with the spirit, purged from

the dross of mortality, will answer any question that may be propounded,

and will utter many strange and infallible prophecies. It will solve

doubtful questions, and discourse of things past, present, and to come,

seeing that she is now in spirit where all knowledge is perfect, and

hath her eyes and understanding cleared from the gross film of our

corruption. But as spirit only hath power over those of its own nature,

by the law of universal sympathy, so she answers but to those by whom

she is bidden, that are of the same temperament and affinity, which is

shown by your affiance and love toward each other."

The prisoner heard this mystic harangue with a vacant and fixed

expression, as though his mind were wandering, and he hardly understood

the profundity of the discourse. Every feeling was absorbed in the

conviction that some horrid incantation had for ever deprived him of his

beloved. Then he fancied some imposition had been practised upon him.

Being prevented from a closer examination, at length he felt some relief

in the idea that the form he beheld might possibly be a counterfeit. He

knew not what to say, and the speaker apparently waited his reply.

Finding he was still silent, the former continued after a brief space:

"Our questions to this purport must necessarily be propounded by thee.

Art thou prepared?"

"Say on," said Gervase, determined to try the issue, however repugnant

to his thoughts.

Two of them now arose and stood at each end of the couch. The superior

first made the sign of the Cross. He then drew a book from his girdle,

and read therein a Latin exorcism against the intrusion of evil spirits

into the body, commanding those only of a heavenly and benign influence

to attend. He lighted a taper compounded of many strange ingredients

emitting a fragrant odour, and, as the smoke curled heavily about him,

flickering and indistinct, he looked like some necromancer about to

perform his diabolical rites.

The occupant of that miserable couch lay still as death.

"The first question," cried out the chief; and he looked towards the

prisoner, who was now suffered to approach within a few paces of the

bed.

"Is there treasure in this place?"

Gervase tried to repeat the question, but his tongue clave to his mouth.

For the first time probably in his life he felt the sensation of

horrible, undefined, uncontrollable fear,--that fear of the unknown and

supernatural, that shrinking from spiritual intercourse even with those

we have loved best. It seemed as though he were in communion with the

invisible world,--that awful, incomprehensible state of existence; and

with beings whose power and essence are yet unknown, armed, in

imagination, with attributes of terror and of vengeance.

With a desperate effort, however, he repeated the question. Breathless,

and with intense agony, he awaited the response. It came! A voice, not

from the lips of the recumbent victim, but as though it were some inward

afflatus, hollow and sepulchral. The lips did not move, but the

following reply was given.

"There is!"

Even the guilty confederates started back in alarm at the success of

their own experiment. All was, however, still,--silent as before.

Taking courage, the next question was put in like manner.

"In what direction?"

"Under the main pillar at the south-eastern corner of the vault."

After another pause, the following questions were asked:

"How may we obtain the treasure sought?"

"By diligence and perseverance."

"At what time?"

"When the moon hath trine to Mercury in the house of Saturn."

"Is it guarded?"

"It is."

"By whom?"

"By a power that shall crush you unless propitiated."

"Show us in what manner."

"I may not; my lips are sealed. That power is superior to mine; the rest

is hidden from me."

The treasure-seekers were silent, as though disappointed at this

unexpected reply. Another attempt was, however, made.

"Shall we prosper in our undertaking?"

"My time is nigh spent. I beseech you that I may depart, for I am in

great torment."

"Thou shalt not, until thou answer."

"Beware!"

But this admonition was from another source, and in a different

direction. The obscurity and smoke from the torches made it impossible

to judge with any certainty whence the interruption proceeded.

Gervase started and turned round. It might be fancy, but he was

confident the features of the Red Woman were present to his

apprehension. Horrors were accumulating. Even the united brotherhood

seemed to tremble as though in the presence of some being of whom they

stood in awe. They awaited her approach in silence.

"Fool! did I not warn thee to do _my_ bidding only? And thou art

hankering again, pampering thy cruel lust for gold. How darest thou

question the maiden for this intent? Hence, and thank thy stars thou art

not even now sent howling to thy doom!"

This terrible and mysterious woman came forward in great anger, and the

Rosicrucian brotherhood were thereby in great alarm. "The maid is

mine--begone!" said she, pointing the way.

Like slaves under their master's frown, they crouched before this

fearful personification of their unhallowed and forbidden practices, and

departed.

"Gervase Buckley," she cried, "thou art betrothed to the heiress of yon

wide possessions."

"I am," said he, roused either to courage or desperation, even in the

presence of a being whose power he felt conscious was not derived from

one common source with his own.

"Dost thou confirm thy troth?"

"I do; in life and in death she is mine."

"Pledge thyself, body and soul, to her."

"I am hers whilst I live, body and soul. Nothing but death shall part

us."

"On thy soul's hope thou wilt fulfil this pledge!"

"I will." Gervase looked wistfully towards his beloved. The inanimate

form was yet pale and still; but a vague hope possessed him that the

witch would again quicken her.

"'Tis enough. But it must be sealed with blood!"

He felt her clammy hand on his arm, and a sharp pain as though from a

puncture. He quickly withdrew it, and a blood-drop fell on the floor.

"Thou art mine--for ever!"

A loud yell rang through the vaults, and Gervase felt as though the doom

of the lost spirits were his,--that a whole troop of fiery demons had

assailed him, and that he was borne away to the pit of torment. Happily

his recollection forsook him, and he became unconscious of future

suffering.

PART THE SECOND.

Morning rose bright and ruddy above the hills. The elder Buckley was up

and stirring betimes. Agreeably to his usual practice, he had retired

early to bed, leaving the household cares and duties to his helpmate. He

was sitting in the porch, when his dame, with a disturbed and portentous

aspect, accosted him:--

"I know not what hath come to the lad."

"Gervase--what of him?" said Nicholas, carelessly.

"He came home very late yesternight. But he did not speak, and he looked

so wan and woe-begone, that I verily thought he had seen a ghost or some

uncanny thing yonder on his road home. I've just now been to rouse him,

but he will not answer. Prithee go and get speech of him, good or bad. I

think i' my heart the lad's bewitched."

Nicholas Buckley was a man of few words, especially in the presence of

his helpmate, so he merely groaned out an incredulous wonder, and went

off as he was bidden. He saw Gervase evidently under the influence of

some stupifying spell. His eyes were open, but he noticed neither the

question nor the person who accosted him. There was something so

horrible and mysterious in his whole appearance, that the good man felt

alarmed, and went back to his dame with all possible expedition. What

_could_ have happened? They guessed, and made a thousand odd surmises,

improbable enough the greater part, but all merging in the prevailing

bugbear of the day--witchcraft, which was resorted to as a satisfactory

explanation under every possible difficulty. Had his malady any

connection with the unexpected appearance of the Red Woman and the ring?

It was safe buried, however, and that was a comfort. But after all, her

thoughts always involuntarily recurred to this unpleasant subject. She

could not shake off her suspicions, and there was little use in

attempting further measures unless she could fight the Evil One with his

own weapons. To this end, she began to cast about for some cunning

wizard, who might countervail the plots of this malicious witch.

Now at this period, Dr. Dee, celebrated for his extraordinary

revelations respecting the world of spirits, had been promoted by Queen

Elizabeth (a firm believer in astrology and other recondite pursuits) to

the wardenship of the Collegiate Church at Manchester. His fame had

spread far and wide. He had not long been returned from his mission to

the Emperor Rodolph at Prague, and his intercourse with invisible things

was as firmly believed as the common occurrences of the day, and as well

authenticated.

The character of Dee has both been underrated and misunderstood. By

most, if not all, he has been looked upon merely as a visionary and an

enthusiast,--credulous and ambitious, without the power, though he had

sufficient will, to compass the most mischievous designs. But under

these outward weaknesses and superstitions, tinctured and modified by

the prevailing belief in supernatural interferences, there was a bold

and vigorous mind, frustrated, it is true, by circumstances which he

could not control. Dee aimed at the entire change and subjugation of

affairs, ecclesiastical and political, to the dominion of an unseen

power,--a theocracy or millenium,--himself the sole medium of

communication, the high priest and lawgiver. To this end he sought the

alliance and support of foreign potentates; and his diary published by

Casaubon, the original of which is in the British Museum, is a

remarkable and curious detail of the intrigues resorted to for this

purpose. His mission to the Emperor Rodolph, offering him the sceptre of

universal dominion, is told with great minuteness; and there is little

doubt that Elizabeth herself did not disdain to converse and consult

with him on this extraordinary project. Her visits to his house at

Mortlake are well known. He had been consulted as to a favourable day

for her coronation, and received many splendid promises of preferment,

that were never realised. At length, disappointed and hopeless as to the

success of his once daring expectations, he settled down to the only

piece of preferment within his reach, to wit, the wardenship of the

Collegiate Church at Manchester, where he arrived with his family in the

beginning of February, 1596. His advice and assistance were much

resorted to, and particularly in cases of supposed witchcraft and

demoniacal possession,--articles of unshaken belief at that period with

all but speculatists and optimists, the Sadducees of their day and

generation. His chief colleague throughout his former revelations had

been one Edward Kelly, born at Worcester, where he practised as an

apothecary. In his diary, Dee says, they were brought together by the

ministration of the angel Uriel. He was called Kelly the Seer. This

faculty of "_seeing_" by means of a magic crystal not being possessed by

the Doctor, he was obliged to have recourse to Kelly, who had or

pretended to have this rare faculty. Afterwards, however, he found out

that Kelly had deceived him; those spirits which ministered at his

bidding not being messengers from the Deity as he once supposed, but

lying spirits sent to deceive and to betray.

Kelly was an undoubted impostor, though evidently himself a believer in

magic and the black art. Addicted to diabolical and mischievous

practices, he was a fearful ensample of those deluders given up to their

own inventions to believe the very lies wherewith they attempted to

deceive.

He was a great treasure-hunter and invoker of demons, and, it is said,

would not scruple to have recourse to the most disgusting brutalities

for the gratification of his avarice and debauchery. In Weaver's

Funereal Monuments, it is recorded that Kelly, in company with one Paul

Waring, went to the churchyard of Walton-le-Dale, near Preston, where a

person was interred at that time supposed to have hidden a large sum of

money, and who had died without disclosing the secret. They entered

precisely at midnight, the grave having been pointed out to them the

preceding day. They dug down to the coffin, opened it, and exorcised the

spirit of the deceased, until the body rose from the grave and stood

upright before them. Having satisfied their inquiries, it is said that

many strange predictions were uttered concerning divers persons in the

neighbourhood, which were literally and remarkably fulfilled.

At the date of our legend, Kelly had been parted from the Doctor for a

considerable time. The Doctor having found out his proneness to these

evil courses, Kelly bore no good will to his former patron and

associate.

We have not space, or it would be an interesting inquiry, as connected

with the superstitions of our ancestors, to trace the character and

career of these individuals--men once famous amongst their

cotemporaries, forming part of the history of those times, and exerting

a permanent influence, immediately on the national character, and

remotely on that of a future and indefinite period.

Dame Eleanor Buckley was morally certain, firstly, that her son was

witched; and, secondly, that no time should be lost in procuring relief.

Nicholas therefore took horse for Manchester that very forenoon, with

the intention of consulting the learned Doctor above named, on his son's

malady. Ere he left, however, there came tidings that Grace Ashton had

not returned home, and was supposed to have tarried at Buckley for the

night.

Trembling at this unexpected news, the dame once more applied to her

son. He was still wide awake on the couch, in the same position, and

apparently unconscious of her presence. In great anxiety she conjured

him to say if he knew what had befallen Grace Ashton.

"She is dead!" was his reply, in a voice strangely altered from his

usual careless and happy tone. Nothing further, however, could be drawn

from him, but shortly after there came one with additional tidings.

"Inquiry has been set on foot," said the messenger, "and Tim, well known

at wakes and merry-makings, doth come forward with evidence which

justifies a suspicion that is abroad, to wit, that she has met death by

some unfair dealing; and, further, he scruples not to throw out dark and

mysterious hints that implicate your son as being privy to her

disappearance."

At this unlooked for intelligence, the mother's fortitude gave way.

Tribulation and anguish had indeed set in upon them like a flood. The

ring, so unaccountably brought back by the Red Woman, was beyond doubt

the cause of all their misfortunes--its reappearance, as she

anticipated, being the harbinger of misery. What should be the next

arrow from her quiver she trembled to forebode. But, in the midst of

this fever of doubt and apprehension, one hope sustained her, and that

was, the result of her husband's mission to Doctor Dee, who would

doubtless find out the nature of the spell, and relieve them from its

curse.

Let us follow the traveller to Dee's lodgings in the deanery, where at

that time this renowned astrologer was located. Nicholas Buckley found

him sitting in a small dismal looking study, where he was introduced

with little show either of formality or hesitation. The Doctor was now

old, and his sharp, keen, grey eyes had suffered greatly by reason of

rheum and much study. Pale, but of a pleasant countenance, his manner,

if not so grave and sedate as became one of his deep and learned

research, yet displaying a vigour and vivacity, the sure intimation of

that quenchless ardour, the usual concomitant of all who are destined to

eminence, or to any conspicuous part in the age on which they are

thrown,--not idle worthless weeds on the strand of time, but landmarks

or beacons in the ocean of life, to warn or to direct.

He was short in stature, and somewhat thin. A rusty black velvet cap,

without ornament, surmounted his forehead, from which a few straggling

grey hairs crept forth, rivalling his pale, thoughtful brow in

whiteness.

He sat in a curiously embossed chair, with a brown-black leathern

cushion, beside an oaken table or tressel, groaning under the weight of

many ponderous volumes of all hues and subjects. Divers and occult were

the tractates there displayed, and unintelligible save to the initiated.

Alchemy was just then his favourite research, and he was vainly

endeavouring to master the jargon under which its worthlessness and

folly were concealed.

Nicholas Buckley related his mishap, and, as far as he was able, the

circumstances connected with it. The Doctor then erected a horoscope for

the hour. After consulting this he said:

"I will undertake for thee, if so be that my poor abilities, hitherto

sorely neglected, and I may say despised, can bring thee any succour.

Indeed the land groans by reason of the sin of witchcraft,--a noisome

plague now infesting this afflicted realm, and a grievous scandal to the

members and ministers of our Reformed Church. The ring is of a surety

bewitched, and by one more powerful and wicked than thou canst possibly

imagine. I tell thee plainly, that unless the charm be broken, the

recovery of the young man were vain,--nay, in all likelihood, thine own

ruin will be the result."

The merchant groaned audibly at this doleful news. He thought upon his

merchandise and his adventures o'er sea--his treasures and his argosies,

committed to the tender mercies of the deep; and he recounted them in

brief.

"Cannot these be rescued from such disaster?" inquired he, dolefully.

"I know not yet," was the reply. "Saturn, that hath his location here,

governing these expected treasures, now beholds the seventh house of

the figure I have just erected, with a quartile aspect. They be evil

tokens, but as regards this same Mother Red Cap or the Red Woman, who

hath doubtless brought you into grievous trouble, I know her. Nay, look

not incredulous. How, it is not needful to inquire. Suffice it that she

hath great power, though from a different source from mine. She is of

the Rosicrucian order, one of the sisters, of which there are five

throughout Europe and Asia. They have intercourse with spirits,

communicating too with each other, though at never so great a distance,

by means of this mystical agency. She hath been here, aye, even in the

very place where thou sittest."

The visitor started from his chair.

"And I am not ignorant of her devices. She is of a Papistical breed; and

the recusant priests, if I mistake not, are at the working of some

diabolical plot; it may be against the life and government of our

gracious Queen! They would employ the devil himself, if need were, to

compass their intent. She hath travelled much, and doubtless hath

learned marvellous secrets from the Moors and Arabian doctors. It is

however little to the purpose at present, that we continue this

discourse. What more properly concerns thee is how to get rid of this

grievous visitation; which, unless removed, will of a surety fall out to

thine undoing. By prayer and fasting much may be accomplished, together

with the use of all lawful means for thy release."

"Alas!" said Buckley, "I fear me there is little hope of a favourable

issue, and I may not be delivered from this wicked one!"

"Be of good heart--we will set to work presently, and, if it be

possible, counterplot this cunning witch. But to this end it is needful

that I visit the young man, peradventure we may gather tidings of her. I

know not any impediment to my journey this very day. Aye! even so," said

he, poring over some unimaginable diagrams. "Good! there is a

marvellous proper aspect for our enterprise thirty minutes after

midnight. Thou hast doubtless taken horse with thy servant hither. I

will take his place and bear thee company."

The Doctor was soon equipped for travel, much to the comfort of the

afflicted applicant, who was like to have taken his departure with a

sorry heart, and in great disquietude. On their arrival at Buckley, Dee

would needs see the patient instantly. No change had taken place since

morning, and he still refused any sustenance that might be offered. The

Doctor examined him narrowly, but refrained from pronouncing on his

case.

It was now evening. The sun shot a languid and fitful ray athwart the

vapours gathering to receive him, and its light shone full on the couch

of the invalid. The astrologer was sitting apart, in profound

meditation. Dame Eleanor suddenly roused him.

"He has just asked for the Red Woman," said she, "and I heard him

bemoaning himself, saying that he is betrothed to her, and that she will

come ere long to claim his pledge. Hark, he mutters again!"

Dee immediately went to the bedside.

"I did not kill her," said the victim, shuddering. He dashed the cold

sweat from his forehead with some violence. He then started up. "Is she

come?" said he in a low, hollow voice, and he sat up in the attitude of

intense expectation. "Not yet, not yet," he uttered with great rapidity,

and sank down again as though exhausted.

A stormy and lowering sky now gathered above the sun's track, and the

chamber suddenly grew dark. The inmates looked as though expecting some

terrific, some visible manifestation of their tormentor. Dee looked out

through the window. There was nothing worthy of remark, save an angry

heap of clouds, rolling and twisting together, the sure forerunner of a

tempest.

"The whole country is astir," said Dame Eleanor. "They are seeking for

the body of Grace Ashton in pits and secret places. Woe is me that I

should live to see the day;--the poor lad there is loaden with curses,

and fearful threatenings are uttered against us. We are verily in

jeopardy of our lives."

Hereat she fell a weeping, and truly it was piteous to behold.

"We must first get an answer from him," said the Doctor, "ere measures

can be devised for his recovery."

"'Tis said there will be a warrant for his apprehension on the morrow,"

said the elder Buckley.

"There is some terrible perplexing mystery, if not knavery in this

matter," said Dee; "and I have been thinking, nay I more than suspect,

that rascal Kelly hath a hand in it. He is ever hankering after

forbidden arts, and many have fallen the innocent victims to his

diabolical intrigues. He hath become a great adept of late, too, as I am

told, in this Rosicrucian philosophy; and, if we have here a clue to our

labyrinth, depend on it we'll get to the end speedily. To spite and

frustrate that juggling cheat, I will spare neither pains nor study;

though, of a surety, we only use lawful and appointed means. Prayers and

exorcisms must be resorted to, and help craved from a higher source than

theirs."

At length the forms and usages generally resorted to on such occasions

were entered upon. Loud and fervent were the responses, continuing even

to a late hour, but without producing any change.

The wind, hitherto rushing only in short fierce gusts through the

valley, now gathered in loud heavy lunges against the corner of the

house, almost extinguishing the solitary light on the table near to

which Dee sat; the casements rattled, and the whole fabric shook as they

passed by. At length there came a lull, fearful in its very silence, as

though the elements were gathering strength for one mighty onslaught. On

it came like an overwhelming surge, and for a moment threatened them

with immediate destruction. Dust, pebbles, and dead branches were flung

on the window as though bursting through, to the great terror of the

inmates. Again it drew back, and there was stillness so immediate, it

was even more appalling than the loudest assaults of the tempest. The

household, too, were silent. Even Dee was evidently disturbed, and as

though in expectation of some extraordinary occurrence.

A sharp quick tapping was heard at the casement.

"What is that?" was the general inquiry. Gervase evidently heard it too,

and was, apparently, listening.

Dee arose. He went slowly towards the window, as if carefully

scrutinising what might present itself. He put his face nearly close to

the glass, and manifestly beheld some object which caused him to draw

back. His forehead became puckered by intense emotion, either from

surprise or alarm. He put one finger on his brow, as though taking

counsel from his own thoughts, deliberating for a moment what course to

pursue. At length, much to the astonishment of his companions, he opened

the latch of the casement, when, with a dismal croak, a raven came

hopping in. With outstretched wings he jumped down on the floor, and

would have gone direct to the bed, but the Doctor caught him, and by

main force held him back.

Fluttering and screaming, the bird made every effort to escape, but not

before Dee was aware of a label tied round his neck. This he quickly

detached; after which the winged messenger flew back through the open

window, either having finished his errand, or not liking his

entertainment. Dee opened the billet--a bit of parchment--and out

dropped the ring! In the envelope was a mystical scroll, encompassed

with magic emblems, wherein was written the following doggrel, either

in blood or coloured so as to represent it:--

"By this ring a charm is wound,

Rolling darkly round and round,

Ne'er beginning--ending never,

Woe betide this house for ever!

Thou art mine through life--in death

I'll receive thy latest breath.

Plighted is thy vow to me,

Mine thy doom, thy destiny,

Sealed with blood; this endless token,

Like the spell, shall ne'er be broken."

Alarm was but too legible on the Doctor's brow. He was evidently taken

by surprise. He read it aloud, while fearful groans responded from the

victim.

"'Tis a case of grievous perplexity," said he, "and I am sore

distraught. If he have sworn his very soul to her, as this rhyme doth

seem to intimate, I am miserably afflicted for his case. Doubtless 'tis

some snare which hath unwillingly been thrown about him. Nevertheless, I

will diligently and warily address myself to the task, and Heaven grant

us a safe deliverance. Yet I freely own there is both danger and

extremity in the attempt. She will doubtless appear and claim the

fulfilment of his pledge. But I must cope with her alone; none else may

witness the conflict. It is not the first time that I have battled with

the powers of darkness."

"But what motive hath she for this persecution? it is not surely out of

sheer malice," said the dame, weeping.

"Belike not," replied Dee, thoughtfully. "It doth savour of those

incantations whereof I oft read in divers tractates, whereby she expects

to gain advantage or deliverance if she sacrifice another victim to the

demon whereunto she hath sold herself. Indeed, we hear of some whose

tenure of life can only be renewed by the yearly substitution of

another; and it is to this possible danger that our feeble efforts must

be directed. But I trust in aid stronger than the united hosts of the

Prince of Darkness. This very night, I doubt not, will come the final

struggle."

The wind was now still, but ever and anon bursts of hail hurtled on the

window. Thunder growled in the distance, waxing louder and louder, until

its roar might have appalled the stoutest heart.

With many anxious wishes and admonitions the distressed parents left the

Doctor to himself.

He took from his pocket an hour-glass, a bible, and a Latin translation

from the Arabic, being a treatise on witches, genii, demons, and the

like, together with their symbols, method of invocation, and many other

subjects equally useful. Intent on his studies, he hardly looked aside

save for the purpose of turning the glass, when he immediately became

absorbed as before.

Now and then he cast a glance towards the bed. His patient lay perfectly

quiet, but the Doctor fancied he was listening.

About midnight he heard a groan; he shut his book, and, looking aside,

beheld the terrible eye and aspect of the Red Woman glaring fiercely

upon him. She had, in all likelihood, been concealed somewhere within

hearing; for a closet door, on one side of the chamber, stood open as

though she had just issued from it.

With great presence of mind he adjured her that she should declare her

errand.

"I am here on my master's business; mine errand concerns not thee," was

the reply. Her terrible eyes glanced, as she spoke, towards the bed

where the unfortunate Gervase Buckley lay writhing as though in torment.

"By what compact or agreement is he thine, foul sorceress? Knowest thou

not that there are bounds beyond which ye cannot prevail?"

"He hath sworn--the compact is sealed with blood, and must be fulfilled.

I am here to claim mine own; and it is at thy peril thou prevent me."

"I fear thee not, but am prepared to withstand _thee_ and all thy

works."

"Beware! There's a black drop in thine own cup," said she. "Thou thyself

hast sought counsel by forbidden arts, and I can crush thee in a

moment."

Dee looked as though vanquished on the sudden. He was not altogether

clear from this charge, having, though at Kelly's instigation, been led

somewhat further than was advisable into practices which in his heart he

condemned. He, however, now felt convinced that Kelly had some hand in

the business, knowing too that he would associate with the most wicked

and abandoned, if so be that he might compass his greedy and unhallowed

desire.

"Depart whilst thou may," she continued. "I warn thee. Yonder

inheritance is mine, though the silly damsel they have lost be the

reputed heir. Aforetime I have told thee. Wronged of our rights, I have

sold myself, aye body and soul, for revenge! By unjust persecutions we

have been proscribed, those of the true faith have been forced to fly,

and even our lands and our patrimony given to yon graceless heretics."

"But why persecute this unoffending house?--they have not done _thee_

wrong."

"It is commanded--the doom must be fulfilled. One condition only was

appointed. A hard task, to wit--but what cannot power and ingenuity

compass?--'When one shall pledge himself thine and for ever, then the

inheritance thou seekest is thine also, which none shall take from thee.

But he too must be rendered up to me.' This was the doom! 'Tis

fulfilled. He hath pledged himself body and soul, and that ring, if need

be, is witness to his troth."

"Is Grace Ashton living or dead?" inquired Dee, with a firm and

penetrating glance.

"When he hath surrendered to his pledge it shall be told thee."

"Wicked sorceress," said the Doctor, rising in great anger, "he shall

not be thy victim; thine arts shall be countervailed. The powers of

darkness are not, in the end, permitted to prevail, though for a time

their devices seem to prosper. Listen, and answer me truly, or I will

compel thee in such wise that thou darest not disobey. Was there none

other condition to thy bond?"

The weird woman here broke forth into a laugh so wild and scornful, that

the arch-fiend himself could hardly have surpassed it in malice.

"Fret not thyself," she said, "and I will tell thee. Know then I am

scathless from all harm until that feeble ring shall be able to bind me;

none other bonds may prevail."

"This ring bind thee?"

"Even so--and as a blade of grass I could rend it! Judge then of my

safety. Fire, air, and water--all the elements--cannot have the power to

hurt me; I hold a charmed life. The price is paid!"

Dee looked curiously round the little thin ring which he held, and

indeed it were hopeless to suppose so frail a fetter could restrain her.

"Thou hast told me the truth?"

"I have--on my hope of prospering in this pursuit of our patrimony."

"And what is thy purpose with the lad?"

"I have need of him. He is my hostage to him whom I serve."

"Thou wilt not take him by force?"

"I will not. He will follow whithersoever I lead. He has neither will

nor power to disobey."

"Grant a little space I prithee. 'Tis a doleful doom for one so young."

"To-morrow my time hath expired. Either he or I must be surrendered

to----" Here she pointed downwards.

"Agreed. To-morrow, at this hour. We will be prepared."

The witch unwillingly departed as she came. The closet door was shut as

with a violent gust of wind, after which Dee sat pondering deeply on the

matter, but unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion. He never

suspected for one moment, what in this evil and matter-of-fact

generation would have occurred even to the most credulous, to wit, that

either insanity or fanaticism, aided by fortuitous events, if we may so

speak, was the cause of this delusion, at least to the unhappy woman now

the object of Dee's most abstruse speculations. His thoughts, however,

would often recur to his quondam associate Kelly, and, if in the

neighbourhood, which he suspected, an interview with him might possibly

be of use, and afford some clue to guide their proceedings.

Committing himself to a short repose, he determined to make diligent

search for this mischievous individual,--having comforted in some

measure the unhappy couple below stairs, who were in a state of great

apprehension lest their son had already fallen a victim, and were ready

to give up all for lost.

Early on the ensuing day, the Doctor bent his steps towards Clegg Hall,

whence the old family of that name had been dispossessed, and from whom

that mysterious individual, the Red Woman, claimed descent.

The air was fresh and bracing after the night's tempest. Traces of its

fury, however, were plainly visible. Huge trees had been swept down, as

though some giant hand had crushed them. Rising the hill towards

Belfield, he stayed a moment to look round him. There was something in

the loneliness and desertion of the spot that was congenial to his

thoughts. The rooks cawed round their ancient inheritance, but all was

ruin and disorder. His curiosity was excited; he had sufficient local

knowledge to remember it was once an establishment of the Knights of St.

John some centuries before, and he remembered too, that, according to

vulgar tradition, great riches were buried somewhere in the vaults. A

thought struck him that it was not an unlikely spot for the operations

of Master Kelly. Impressed with this idea, a notion was soon engendered

that his errand need not carry him further. He drew near to the ivied

archway beneath the tower. The mavis whistled for its mate, and the

sparrow chirped amongst the foliage. All else was silent and apparently

deserted. He entered the gateway. Inside, on the right hand, was a

narrow flight of steps, and, impelled by curiosity, he clambered, though

with some difficulty, into a dilapidated chamber above. Here the

loopholes were covered with ivy, but it was unroofed, and the floor was

strewn with rubbish, the accumulation of ages. Through a narrow breach

at one corner he saw what had once been a concealed passage, evidently

piercing the immense thickness of the walls, and leading probably to

some secret chambers not ordinarily in use. He now heard voices below,

and taking advantage thereby, crept into the passage, probably expecting

to gather some news by listening to the visitors if they approached. Two

of these ascended the broken steps, and every word was audible from his

place of concealment. He instantly recognised the voice of Kelly. The

other was a stranger.

"Ah, ah! old Mother Red Cap, I tell thee, says we can never get the

treasure. By this good spade, and a willing arm to wit, the gold is

mine, ere two hours older," said Kelly.

"I am terribly afeard o' these same bogarts," replied his companion.

"T'owd an--'ll come sure enough among us, sure as my name's Tim, some

time or another."

"Never fear, nunkey; thee knows what a lump I've promised thee; an' as

for the old one, trust me for that, I can lay him in the Red Sea at any

time. Haven't I and that old silly Doctor, who pretends forsooth to have

conscience qualms when there's aught to be gotten, though as fond o' the

stuff as any of us,--haven't we, I say, by conjurations and fumigations,

raised and laid a whole legion o' them? Why, man, I'm as well acquainted

with the kingdom of Beelzebub, and his ministers to boot, as I am with

my own."

"Don't make sich an ugly talk about 'em, prithee, good sir. I thought I

heard some'at there i' the passage, an' I think i' my heart I dar na

face 'em again for a' th' gowd i' th' monks' cellar."

"Tush, fool! If we get hold on't now, it shall be ours, and none o' the

rest of our brethren o' the Red Cross need share, thee knows. But thou

be'st but newly dubbed, an' hardly initiated yet in our sublime

mysteries. Nevertheless, I will be indifferent honest too, and for thy

great services to us and to our cause, I do promise thee a largess, when

it comes to our fingers,--that is to say, one-fifth to thee, and

one-fifth to me; the other three shares do go to the general

treasure-house of the community, of which I take half."

"A goodly portion, marry--but I'd liefer t' not gang ony further."

"Villain! thou art bent on treachery; if thou draw back, I'll ha' thee

hanged, or otherwise punished for what thou hast done. Remember, knave,

thou art in my power."

The guilty victim groaned piteously, but he was irretrievably entangled.

The toils had been spread by a master hand. He saw the gulf to which he

was hurried, but could not extricate himself.

"Yonder women, plague take 'em," said Tim; "what's up now? I know this

owd witch who's sold hersel' to--to--black face I'm afeard, is th' owner

o' many a good rood o' land hereabout, an' t'owd Ha' too, wi' its

'purtenances. But she's brought fro' Spain or Italy, as I be tou'd, a

main lot o' these same priest gear; an' they're lurkin' hereabout like,

loike rabbits in a warren, till she can get rid o' these Ashtons. Mony a

year long past I've seen her prowling about, but she never could get her

ends greadly till now."

"By my help, she shall," said Kelly; "it's a bargain between us. She's

brought her grandchildren too, who left England in their youth, being

educated in a convent o'er seas. They're just ready to drop into

possession."

"But poor Grace Ashton, she's gi'en me mony a dish of hot porritch an'

bannocks. She shauna be hurt, if I can help it."

"Fool!--the wench must be provided for. Look thee,--if she get away,

she'll spoil all. When dead, young Buckley must be charged with the

murder."

"Weel, weel; but I'll ha' nought more to do wi't. E'en tak' your own

fling,--I'll wash my hands on't a'together, an' so----"

"I want help, thou chicken-faced varlet,--come, budge,--to thy work; we

may have helpers to the booty, if time be lost."

"Mercy on us!" said Tim, in great dolour, "I wish I had ne'er had aught

to do wi' treasure-hunting an' sich like occupation. If ever I get rid

of this job, if I don't stick to my old trade hang me up to dry."

"Hold thy peace, carrion! and remember, should a whisper even escape

thee, I will have thee hanged in good earnest."

"Aye, aye; just like Satan 'ticing to iniquity, an' then, biggest rogue

al'ays turns retriever."

"None o' thy pretences; thou hast as liquorish a longing after the gold

as any miser in the parish, and when the broad pieces and the silver

nobles jingle in thy fob, thoul't forget thy qualms, and thank me into

the bargain. Now to work. Let me see, what did the sleeping beauty say?

Humph,--'Under the main pillar at the south-east corner.' Good. Nay,

man, don't light up yet. Let us get fairly under ground first, for fear

of accidents."

To the great alarm of Dr. Dee, who heard every word, these two worthies

came straight towards the opening. He drew on one side at a venture.

Luckily, it proved the right one; they proceeded up the passage in the

opposite direction. He heard them groping at the further end. A

trap-door was evidently raised, and he was pretty well convinced they

had found the way to the vaults; probably it had been blocked up for

ages until recently, and, in all likelihood, Tim had pointed it out, as

well as the notion that treasure was concealed somewhere in these

labyrinths.

How to make this discovery in some way subservient to his mission was

the next consideration; and with a firm conviction, generally the

forerunner of success, he determined to employ some bold stratagem for

their detection. They were now fairly in the trap, and he hoped to make

sure of the vermin. For this end he cautiously felt his way to the

opposite extremity of the passage, where he found the floor emitted a

hollow sound. This was assuredly the entrance; but he tried in vain,--it

resisted every effort. Here, however, he determined to keep watch and

seize them if possible on their egress, trusting to his good fortune or

his courage for help in any emergency that might ensue. At times he laid

his ear to the ground, but nothing was audible as to their operations

below. This convinced him they were at a considerable distance from the

entry, but he felt assured that ere long they must emerge from their

den, when, taken by surprise, he should have little difficulty in

securing the first that came forth, keeping fast the door until he had

made sure of his captive.

He watched patiently for some time, when all on a sudden he heard a

rumbling subterraneous noise, and he plainly felt the ground tremble

under his feet. A loud shriek was heard below, and presently footsteps

approaching the entrance. He had scarcely time to draw aside ere the

door was burst open, and some one rushed forth. The Doctor seized him by

the throat, and, ere he had recovered from his consternation, dragged

him out of the passage.

"Villain! what is it ye are plotting hereabout? Confess, or I'll have

thee dealt with after thy deserts."

"Oh!--I'll--tell--all--I will--" sobbed out the delinquent, gasping with

terror. Tim, for it was none other, fell on his knees, crying for mercy.

"Whoever thou art," continued he, "come and help--help for one that's

fa'n under a heavy calamity. Bad though he be, we maunna let him perish

for lack o' lookin' after."

"Has't got a light, knave?"

"I'll run an' fetch one."

"Nay, nay; we part not company until better acquainted. Is there not a

candle below?"

"Alas! 'tis put out--and--oh! I'd forgotten; here's t' match box i' my

pocket."

He drew forth the requisite materials, and they were soon equipped,

exploring the concealed chambers we have before described. With

difficulty they now found their way, by reason of the dust arising from

the recent catastrophe. Dee followed cautiously on, keeping a wary eye

on his leader lest some deceit or stratagem should be intended.

They now approached a heap of ruins almost choking the entrance to the

larger vault. He thought groans issued from beneath.

"He's not dead yet," said Tim. "Here, here, good sir; help me to shift

this stone first."

They set to work in good earnest, and, with no little difficulty and

delay, at length succeeded in releasing the unfortunate treasure-hunter.

Eager to possess the supposed riches, they had incautiously undermined

one of the main supports of the roof, and Kelly was buried under the

ruins. Fortunately he lay in the hollow he had made, otherwise nothing

but a miracle could have saved him from immediate death. He was terribly

bruised, nevertheless, and presented a pitiable spectacle. Bleeding and

sore wounded, he was hardly sensible as they bore him out into the fresh

air. Apparently unable to move, they laid him on the ground until help

could be obtained. In a while he recovered.

"Thou art verily incorrigible," said the Doctor to his former associate.

"Where is the maiden ye have so cruelly conveyed away?"

But Kelly was dogged, and would not answer.

"I have heard and know all," continued Dee; "so that, unless thou wilt

confess, assuredly I will have thee lodged in the next jail on

accusation of the murder. Thy diabolical practices will, sooner or

later, bring thee to punishment."

"Promise not to molest me," said Kelly, who feared nothing but the

strong arm of the law, so utterly was he given over to a reprobate mind,

even to commit iniquity with greediness.

"What! and let thee forth to compass other, and may be more heinous,

mischief? I promise nothing, save that thou be prevented from such

pursuits. Thou hast entered into covenant with the woman whom it is our

purpose, in due time, to deliver up to the secular arm. Ye think to

compass your mutual ends by this compact; but be assured your schemes

shall be frustrated, and that speedily."

At this Kelly again fell into a sulky mood, maimed and helpless though

he was; and revenge, dark and deadly, distorted his visage.

Tim here stepped forward.

"I do repent me of this iniquity, an' if ever I'm catched meddlin' wi'

sich tickle gear again, I'll gie ye leave to hang me up without judge or

jury."

"The best proof of repentance is restitution," said the Doctor. "Knowest

thou aught of the maiden?"

"I'll find her, if ye can keep that noisome wizard frae hurting me. He

swears that if I tell, e'en by nods, winks, or otherwise, he'll send me

to ---- in a whirlwind."

"I will give thee my pledge, not a hair of thy head shall be damaged."

"He has the key in his pocket."

"What of that?"

"It's the key to the old house door yonder, an' she's either there, or

but lately fetched away."

The Doctor proceeded, though not without opposition, to the search. The

key was soon produced, and, accompanied by the repentant ballad-monger,

he approached the mansion, which, as we have before noticed, was near at

hand, apparently untenanted.

"Yonder knave, I think, cannot escape," said Dee.

"No, no," said his conductor, "unless some'at fetches him; he's too well

hampered for that. His legs are aw smashed wi' that downfa'."

They entered a little court almost choked up with leaves and long grass.

The door was unlocked, and a desolate scene presented itself. The hall

was covered with damp and mildew, all was rotting in ruin and decay. Tim

led the way up stairs. The same appearances were still manifest. The

dark shadow of death seemed to brood there,--an interminable silence.

They entered a small closet, nearly dark; and here, on a miserable

pallet, lay the form of Grace Ashton! now, alas! pale and haggard. She

seemed altogether unconscious of their presence. The horrid events of

the preceding night had brought on mental as well as bodily disease. It

was the practice of these treasure-seekers, either to raise up a dead

body for the desired information, or to throw the living into such a

state of mental hallucination that they should answer dark and difficult

questions whilst in that condition. It not unfrequently happened,

however, that the unfortunate victims to these horrid rites either lost

their lives or their reason during the experiment.

We will not pursue the recital in the present case: suffice it to say

that Grace Ashton was immediately removed and placed under the care of

her friends; the Doctor went back to Kelly for further disclosures, but

what was his surprise to find that, by some means or another, he had

escaped. He now lost no time in returning to Buckley, communicating the

painful, though in some degree welcome, intelligence that Grace Ashton

had been rescued from her persecutors.

It was now time to adopt measures for their reception of the witch, who

would, doubtless, not fail in her appointment.

Dee was yet in doubt as to the issue, and he thought it needful to

acquaint them with the only method by which the spell could be broken.

How it were possible that the ring should ever bind her was a mystery

that at present he could not solve. Dame Eleanor listened very

attentively, then sharply replied,--

"I have heard o' this charm aforetime, or----By'r Lady, but I have it!"

She almost capered for joy.

We will not, however, anticipate the result, but intreat our readers to

suspend their guesses, and again accompany us to the chamber where lay

the heir of Buckley, still grievously tormented.

Midnight again approached. Dee was sitting at the table, apparently in

deep study. He had examined the closet, and found it communicated by

another passage to an outer door; and it was through this that the Red

Woman had contrived to enter without being observed. The learned Doctor

was evidently awaiting her approach with no little anxiety. Once or

twice he fancied some one tapped at the casement,--but it was only the

wind rushing by in stormy gusts, increasing in strength and frequency as

the time drew nigh.

Hark! was not that a distant shriek? It might be the creaking of the

boughs and the old yew-tree by the door, thought Dee; and again, in a

while, he relapsed into a profound reverie. Another! He heard the

jarring of rusty hinges; a heavy step; and--the Red Woman stood beside

him!--but with such a malevolent aspect that he was somewhat startled

and uneasy at her presence.

"I am beguiled of my prey!--mocked--thwarted. But beware, old man; thy

meddling may prove dangerous. I will possess the inheritance, though

every earthly power withstood me! That boy is mine. He hath sworn

it--sealed it with his heart's blood--and I demand the pledge." The

victim groaned. "Hearest thou that response?--'Tis an assent. He is mine

in spite of your stratagems."

This was, probably, but the raving of a disordered intellect, but Dee

was too deeply imbued with the superstitions of the age to suppose for a

moment that it was not a case of undisguised witchcraft, or that this

wicked hag was not invested with sufficient power to execute whatever

either anger or caprice might suggest.

"What is thy will with the wretched victim thou hast ensnared?" he

inquired.

"I have told thee."

"Thou wilt not convey him away bodily to his tormentors?"

"Unless they have a victim the inheritance may not be mine." She said

this with such a fiendish malice that made even the exorcist tremble.

His presence of mind, however, did not forsake him.

"The ring--I remember--there was a condition in the bond. In all such

compacts there is ever a loophole for escape."

"None that thou canst creep through," she said, with a look of scorn.

"It is not permitted that the children of men be tempted above measure."

"When that ring shall have strength to bind me, and not till then. All

other bonds I rend asunder. Even adamant were as flaming tow."

"Here is a ring of stout iron," said Dee, pointing to an iron ring fixed

by a stout staple in the wall. "I think it would try thy boasted

strength."

"I could break it as the feeble reed."

The Doctor shook his head incredulously.

"Try me. Thou shalt find it no empty boast."

She seemed proud that her words should be put to the test; and even

proposed that her arms should be pinioned, and her body fastened with

stout cords to the iron ring which had been prepared for this purpose.

"Thou shalt soon find which is the strongest," said she, exultingly. "I

have broken bonds ere now to which these are but as a thread."

She looked confident of success, and surveyed the whole proceeding with

a look of unutterable scorn.

"Now do thy worst, thou wicked one," said Dee, when he had finished.

But lo! a shriek that might have wakened the dead. She was unable to

extricate herself, being held in spite of the most desperate efforts to

escape. With a loud yell she cried out,--

"Thou hast played me false, demon!"

"'Tis not thy demon," said Dee; "it is I that have circumvented thee. In

that iron ring is concealed the charmed one, wrought out by a cunning

smith to this intent,--to wit, the deliverance of a persecuted house."

The Red Woman now appeared shorn of her strength. Her charms and her

delusions were dispelled. She sank into the condition of a hopeless,

wretched maniac, and was for some time closely confined to this chamber.

Buckley, recovering soon after, was united to Grace Ashton, who it is

confidently asserted, and perhaps believed, was restored to immediate

health when the charm was broken.

FOOTNOTES:

[L] Within the last few years, since this story was written, the old

house itself has been levelled with the ground.

[M] In the 39th of Eliz., Sir John Biron held the manor of Rochdale,

subsequently held by the Ramsays; but in the 13th of Charles I. it was

reconveyed. The Biron family is more ancient than the Conquest.

Gospatrick held lands of Ernais de Buron in the county of York, as

appears by Domesday Book. Sir Nicholas Byron distinguished himself in

the civil wars of Charles I.; and, in consequence of his zeal in the

royal cause, the manor of Rochdale was sequestered. After the

Restoration, it reverted to the Byrons. Sir John, during these troubles,

was made a peer, by the title of Baron Byron of Rochdale. In 1823, the

late Lord Byron sold the manor, after having been in possession of the

family for nearly three centuries.

THE DEATH-PAINTER;

OR,

THE SKELETON'S BRIDE.

"This will hardly keep body and soul together," said Conrad Bergmann, as

he eyed with a dissatisfied countenance some score of dingy kreutzers

thrust into his palm by a "patron of early genius,"--one of those

individuals who take great merit to themselves by just keeping their

victims in that enviable position between life and death;--between

absolute starvation and hopeless, abject poverty, which effectually

represses all efforts to excel, controls and quenches all, but longings

after immortality,--who just fan the flame, to let it smoke and quiver

in the socket, but sedulously prevent it rising to any degree of

steadiness and brilliance.

Conrad that morning had taken home a picture, his sole occupation for

two months, and this patron, a dealer in the "fine arts," dwelling in

the good, quiet city of Mannheim, had given him a sum equivalent to

thirty-six shillings sterling for his labour. Peradventure, it was not

in the highest style of art; but what Schwartzen Baeren or Weisse

Roesse--Black Bears, White Horses, Spread Eagles, and the like, the

meanest, worst painted signs in the city, would not have commanded a

higher price?

In fact, Conrad had just genius enough to make himself miserable; to

wit, by aspiring after those honours it was impossible to attain,

keeping him thereby in a constant fret and disappointment, instead of

being content with his station, or striving for objects within his

reach. Could he have drudged on as some dauber of sign-posts, or taken

to useful employment, he might, doubtless, have earned a comfortable

sustenance. He had, however, like many another child of genius, a soul

above such vulgarities; yearning after the ideal and the vain; having

too much genius for himself and too little for the world: suspended in a

sort of Mahomet's coffin, between earth and heaven, contemned, rejected,

by "gods, men, and columns."

Conrad Bergmann was about two and twenty, of good figure and

well-proportioned features. Complexion fair, bright bluish-grey eyes,

whiskers well matched with a pale, poetical, it might be sickly, hue of

countenance, and an expression more inclining to melancholy than persons

of such mean condition have a right to assume. His father had brought

him up to a trade, an honest, thriving business, to wit, that of

_Knopfmacher_ (button-maker). But Conrad, the youngest, and his mother's

favourite, happened to be indulged with more idle time than the rest,

which, for the most part, was laudably expended in scrawling sundry

hideous representations--all manner of things, on walls and wainscoats.

Persevering in this occupation, he was forthwith pronounced a genius.

About the age of fifteen, Conrad saw a huge "St. Christopher," by a

native artist, and straightway his destiny was fixed. He struggled on

for some years with little success, save being pronounced by the gossips

"marvellously clever." His performances wanted that careful and

elaborate course of study indispensable even to the most exalted genius.

They were not only glaring, tawdry, and ill-drawn, but worse conceived;

flashy, crude accumulations of colour, only rendering their defects more

apparent. He was, in a great measure, self-taught. His impetuous, ardent

imagination could not endure the labour requisite to form an artist. He

would fain have read ere he had learned to spell; and the result might

easily have been foretold.

His father died; and the family were but scantily provided for. Conrad

was now forced to make out a livelihood by what was previously an

amusement, not having "a trade in his fingers;" and he toiled on,

selling his productions for the veriest trifle. He had now no leisure

for improvement in the first elements of his art.

"Better starve or beg, better be errand-boy or lackey, than

waste my talents on such an ungrateful world. I'll turn

conjurer--fire-eater--mountebank;--set the fools agape at fairs and

pastimes. Anything rather than killing--starving by inches. Why, the

criminals at hard labour in the fortress have less work and better fare.

I wish!--I wish----"

"What dost wish, honest youth?" said a tall, heavy-eyed, beetle-browed,

swarthy personage, who poked his face round from behind, close to that

of the unfortunate artist, with great freedom and familiarity.

"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every

prying, impertinent should be," replied Conrad, being in no very

placable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at

all abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying

good-humouredly,

"Ah, ah! master canvass-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My

legs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man thrusts

his favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do thee a

service."

"'Tis the hangman's, then; for that seems the only favour that befits my

condition."

"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse

together hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy

humours. A drop of _Kirchenwasser_, too, might not be taken amiss this

chill morning."

Nothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon imbibing

some excellent _vin du pays_ in a neighbouring tavern.

"Conrad Bergmann," began the stranger. "Ay, thou art surprised; but I

know more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?"

"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach. Nothing

pay, nothing have, I reckon."

"The price? Nothing! At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art

thirsting for fame, riches, for the honours of this world, for--for--the

hand--the heart of thy beloved."

Amongst the rest of Conrad's calamities, he had the misfortune to be in

love.

"Thou art mighty fluent with thy guesses," replied he, not at all

relishing these unpleasant truths; "and what if I am doomed to pine

after the good I can never attain? I will bear my miseries, if not

without repining, at least without thy pity:" and he arose to depart.

"All that thou pinest after is thine. All!" said the stranger.

"Mine! by what process?--whose the gift?--Ha, ha!" and he drained the

brimming glass, waiting a solution of his interrogatory.

"I will be thy instructor. Behold the renowned Doctor Gabriel Ras Mousa,

who hath studied all arts and sciences in the world, who hath unveiled

Nature in her most secret operations, and can make her submissive as a

menial to his will. In a period incredibly short, I engage to make thee

the most renowned painter in Christendom."

"And the time requisite to perform this?"

"One month! Ay, by the wand of Hermes, in one month, under my teaching,

shalt thou have thy desire. I watched thy bargain with the dealer

yonder, and have had pity on thy youth and misfortunes."

"Humph--compassion! And the price?" again inquired Conrad, with an

anxious yet somewhat dubious expression of tone.

"The price? Once every month shalt thou paint me a picture."

"Is that all?"

"All."

Now Conrad began to indulge some pleasant fancies. Dreams of hope and

ambition hovered about him; but he soon grew gloomy and desponding as

heretofore. He waxed incredulous.