Saint Swithin's feast was passed. It was a sultry, thundery afternoon
of mid July, when three horsemen were to be seen carefully picking
their way across the wide wet estuary of the River Leven that goes by
the name of 'the Sands.' The foremost rider was evidently the most
important person of the three. He was an oldish man with a careworn
face, and deepset eyes occasionally lighted by a smile, as he urged
his weary horse across the sand. This was no less a person than Judge
Fell himself, the master of Swarthmoor Hall, attended by his clerk and
his groom, and returning to his home after a lengthy absence on
circuit. A man of wide learning, of sound knowledge of affairs, and
gifted with an excellent judgment was Thomas Fell. He was as popular
now, in the autumn of his days among his country neighbours, as he had
been in former times in Parliament, and among the Puritan leaders.
Thrice had he represented his native county in the House of Commons,
and had been a trusted friend of Oliver Cromwell himself. It was only
latterly, men said, since Oliver showed a disposition to grasp more
and ever more power for himself that the good Judge, unable to prevent
that of which he disapproved, had retired from the intricate problems
and difficulties of the Capital. He now filled the office of Judge on
the Welsh Circuit and later on that of Vice-Chancellor of the Duchy of
Lancaster. But whether he dwelt in the country or in London town it
was all one. Wherever he came, men thought highly of him.[10] The
good thirsted for his approval. The bad trembled to meet his eye. Yet,
it was noted, that even when he was obliged to sentence some poor
wretch, he seemed to commiserate him, and he ever sought to throw the
weight of his influence on the side of mercy, although no man could be
sterner at times, especially when he dealt with a case of treachery or
cold-blooded cruelty.
The lines of his countenance were rugged, yet underneath there was
always an expression of goodwill, and a kindly light in his eyes that
seemed to come from some still quiet fount of happiness within. It was
said of the Judge, and truly, that he had the happiest home, the
fairest and wisest wife, and the goodliest young family, of any man in
the county. That had been a joyful day, indeed, for him, twenty years
before, when he brought the golden-haired Margaret Askew, the heiress
of Marsh Grange, as his bride to the old grey Hall of Swarthmoor.
Sixteen full years younger than her husband was she, yet a wondrous
wise-hearted woman, and his companion in all things.
Now that a son and six fair daughters filled the old Hall with music
and gay laughter all day long, the Judge might well be no less proud
of his 'great family' than even of having been Oliver Cromwell's
friend.
He was ever loath to leave that cherished home for his long absences
on the Chester and North Welsh Circuit, and ever joyful when the day
came that he might return thither. Even the heavy sand that clogged
his horse's feet could hardly make him check his pace. The sands of
Morecambe Bay are perilous at times, especially to strangers, for the
tide flows in with such swiftness that even a galloping horse may not
escape it. But the Judge and his companions knew the dangers well
enough to avoid them. Their trained eyes instinctively marked the
slight depressions in the sand and the line of brogs, or half-hidden
trees, that guide travellers across by what is really the safest
route, although it may seem to take unnecessary loops and curves.[11]
At a little distance lay the lonely Chapel Island, surrounded by the
sea even at low tide, where in olden days lived a community of monks,
who tolled a bell to guide pilgrims across the shifting sands, or said
masses for the souls of those who perished.
As his horse picked its way carefully, the Judge raised his eyes often
towards the high plateau on the horizon to which he was steadily
drawing nearer with every tedious step. Beloved Swarthmoor! The house
itself was hidden, but he could plainly discern the belt of trees in
which it stood. He thought of each of the inmates of that hidden home.
George, his only son, how straight and tall he was growing, how
gallant a rider, and how skilful a sportsman even now, though hasty in
temper and over apt to take offence. His gay maidens, were they at
this moment singing over some new madrigal prepared to greet him on
his return? In an hour or two he should see them all running down the
garden path to welcome him, from stately 'young Margrett' to little
toddling Susanna. His wife, his own Margaret, well he knew where she
would be! watching for him from the lattice of their chamber, where
she was ever the first to catch sight of him on his return, as she
had been the last to bid him farewell on his departure.
At this point the good Judge's meditations were suddenly interrupted
by his groom, who, spurring his horse on a level with his Master's,
pointed respectfully, with upraised whip, towards several moving
specks that were hastening across the estuary.
The softest bit of sand was over now, the travellers were reaching
firmer ground, where it was possible to go at a quicker pace. Setting
spurs to his horse the Judge hastened forward, his face flushing with
an anxiety he took no pains to conceal.
In those days, when posts were rare and letters difficult to get or to
send, an absence of many weeks always meant the possibility of finding
bad news at home on the return from a journey.
'Heaven send they bring me no ill tidings!' Judge Fell said to himself
as he cantered anxiously forward. Before long, it was possible to make
out that the moving specks were a little company of horsemen galloping
towards them over the sands. A few minutes later the Judge was
surrounded by a group of breathless riders and panting horses, with
bits and bridles flecked with foam.
The Judge's fears increased as he recognised all his most important
neighbours. Their excited faces also struck him with dread. 'You bring
me bad news?' he had called out, as soon as the cavalcade came within
earshot. At the answering shout, 'Aye, the worst,' his heart had sunk
like lead. And now here he was actually in their midst, and not one of
them could speak. 'Out with it, friends,' he commanded, 'let me know
the worst. To whom hath evil happened? To my wife? My son? My
daughters?'
But even he was hardly prepared for the answer, low-breathed and
muttering like a roll of thunder: 'To all.'
'To all!' cried the agonised father. 'Impossible! They cannot all be
dead!' Again came the ominous rejoinder, 'Worse, far worse,' and then,
in a shout from half-a-dozen throats at once, 'Far, far worse. They
are all bewitched!' Bewitched! that was indeed a word of ill-omen in
those days, a word at which no man, be his position ever so exalted,
could afford to smile. Ever since the days of the first Parliament of
the first Stuart king, the penalties for the sin of witchcraft had
been made increasingly severe. Although the country was now settling
down into an uneasy peace, after the turmoil of the Civil Wars, still
its witch hunts were even yet too recent a memory for a devoted
husband and father to hear the fatal accusation breathed against his
family without dismay. Not all a woman's youth and beauty might always
save her, if the hunt were keen. The Judge's lips were tightly pressed
together, but his unmoved countenance showed little of his inward
alarm as he gazed on the faces round him. His courteous neighbours,
who had ridden in such haste with the 'ill news' that 'travels fast,'
which of them all should enlighten him? His neighbour Captain Sands? a
jovial good-humoured man truly;--no, not he, he could not enter into a
husband and father's deep anxiety, seeing that he was ever of a
mocking disposition inwardly for all that he looked sober and scared
enough now. His brother Justice, John Sawrey? Instinctively Judge Fell
recoiled from the thought. Sawrey's countenance might be sober enough
in good sooth, seeing he was a leader among professing Puritans, but
somehow Judge Fell had always mistrusted the pompous little man. Even
bad news would be worsened if he had to hear it from those lips.
Therefore it was with considerable relief that the good Judge caught
sight of a well-known figure riding up more slowly than the others,
and now hovering on the outskirts of the group. 'The very man! My
honoured neighbour Priest Lampitt! You, the Priest of Ulverston, will
surely tell me what has befallen the members of my household, who are
likewise members of your flock?'
But the Priest's face was even gloomier than that of the other
gentlemen. In the fewest possible words, but with stinging emphasis,
he told the Judge that the news was indeed too true; his wife and
young family, yea, and even the household servants had, one and all,
been bewitched.
At this the Judge thought his wisest course was to laugh. 'Nay, nay,
good friends,' he said, 'that is too much! I know my wife. I trust her
good sense utterly. Still it is possible for even the wisest of women
to lose her judgment at times. But as for my trusty steward Thomas
Salthouse, the steadiest man I have ever had in my employ, if even old
Nick himself has managed to bewitch him, he must be a cleverer devil
than I thought.'
Then drawing himself up proudly he added, 'So now, Gentlemen, I will
thank you to submit to me your evidence for these incredible and
baseless allegations.' Priest Lampitt hastened to explain. He spoke
with due respect of Mistress Fell, his 'honoured neighbour,' as he
called her. ''Tis her well-known kindness of heart that hath led her
astray. She hath warmed a snake in her bosom, a wandering Quaker
Preacher, who hath beguiled and corrupted both herself and her
household.'
'A wandering, Ranting Quaker entertained in my house, during my
absence!' Judge Fell had an even temper, but the rising flush on his
forehead betokened the effort with which he kept his anger under
control. 'I thank ye, gentles, for your news. My wife and I have ever
right gladly given food and lodging to all true servants of the Lord,
but I will not have any Quakers or Ranters creeping into my house
during my absence and nesting there, to set abroad such tales as ye
have hastened to spread before me this day. Even the wisest woman is
but a woman still, and the sooner I reach home the better.' So saying
he raised his hat, and set spurs to his horse. But little Mr. Justice
Sawrey, edging out of the group officiously, set spurs to his own
horse and trotted after him. Laying a restraining hand on his fellow
Justice's bridle, 'One moment more!' he entreated. ''Tis best you
should know all ere you return. Not only at Swarthmoor, at Ulverston
church also, hath this pestilential fellow caused a disturbance. It
was on the Saturday that he arrived at Swarthmoor Hall, and violently
brawled with our good Friend Lampitt during Mistress Fell's absence
from home.'
A shade of relief crossed the Judge's face, 'My wife absent! I might
have sworn to it. The maidens are too young to have sober judgment.'
'Nay, but listen,' continued Sawrey, 'the day after he came to the
Hall was not only the Sabbath but also a day of public humiliation.
Our good Priest Lampitt, seeing Mistress Fell surrounded by her family
in the pew at church, trusted, as did we all, that she had sent the
fellow packing speedily about his business. Alack! no such thing, he
was but prowling outside. No sooner did the congregation sing a hymn
than in he came, and boldly standing on a form, asked leave to speak.
Our worthy Priest, the soul of courtesy, consented. Then, oh! the
tedious discourse that fell on our ears, how that the hymn we had sung
was entirely unsuited to our condition, with much talk of Moses and of
John, and I know not what besides, ending up in no less a place than
the Paradise of God! Naturally, none of us, gentles, paid much
attention. I crossed my legs and tried to sleep until the wearisome
business should be ended. When, to my dismay, I was aroused by our
honoured neighbour Mistress Fell standing upright on the seat of her
pew, shrieking with a loud voice: "We are all thieves, we are all
thieves!" This was after the Ranter had finished. While he was yet
speaking, she continued to gaze on him, so says my wife, as if she
were drinking in every word. But afterwards, having loosed this
exclamation about thieves (and she a Justice's wife, forsooth!) she
sat down in her pew once more and began to weep bitterly.'
'Yes,' interrupted Lampitt, who had also come alongside by this time,
'and he continued to pour forth foul speeches, how that God was come
to teach His people by His own spirit, and to bring them off from all
their old ways and religions and churches and worships, for that they
were all out of the life and spirit, that they was in that gave them
forth.... And so on, until our good friend here,' indicating Sawrey,
'being a Justice of the Peace, called out to the churchwardens, "Take
him away, take the fellow away." Whereat Mistress Fell must needs rise
up again and say to the officers, "Why may he not speak as well as
any other? Let him alone!" And I, willing to humour her----'
'Yes, more fool you,' interrupted Sawrey rudely, 'you must needs echo
her, and cry, "Let him alone!" else had I safely and securely clapped
him into the stocks.'
Judge Fell, who had listened with obviously growing impatience, now
broke away from his vociferous companions. Crying once more, 'I thank
you, Sirs, for your well-meant courtesy, but now I pray you to excuse
me and allow me to hasten to my home,' he broke away from the
restraining hands laid upon his bridle and galloped over the sands.
His attendants, who had been waiting at a little distance just out of
earshot, eagerly joined him, and the three figures gradually grew
smaller and then disappeared into the distance.
The other group of riders departed on their different ways homewards,
well satisfied with their day's work. Not without a parting shot from
fat Captain Sands as they separated. Raising his whip he said
mockingly as he pointed at the Judge's figure riding away in urgent
haste: 'Let us hope he may not find the Fox too Foxy when he expels
him from his earth!'