Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther corner of
his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript
volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment
roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested
on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and
supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two
small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be
occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his
face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually
drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so
absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the
stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.
The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped
his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with
his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was
about to address.
“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.
Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the
little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark
cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it
is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself
had appeared to further his studies.
“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate
sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I
say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”
“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself
on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou
wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I
weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of
a friar coming to thee at midnight.”
Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore
all the externals of a mortal about him.
“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh,
discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think
differently!”
“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and
throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face;
“nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken
unawares.”
“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded
Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body at the same time,
from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.
The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth,
and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he
glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a
deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”
In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner,
with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall;
his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with
the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible,
except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his
features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign
contempt—
“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be
in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with
thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”
“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.
“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy
craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give
Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had
in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou
knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this
morning?” He waited for a reply.
“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”
“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.
“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.
“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie,
brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the
Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and
has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently
sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high
offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though
eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled
with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it,
though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie,
being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily.
He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of Durham, to
urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up
Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she
continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know,
that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name
and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse
Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have,
however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth
great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir
Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was
not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put
hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and
unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to
urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the
whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”
The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he
was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very
strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible,
the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting
and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his
prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always
go much beyond—
“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do
in it?”
“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest
thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of
mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have
done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched
through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight
lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and
incantations? Thinkest thou——”
“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting
him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body
earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties
that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”
The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his
man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also
succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art
he professed. To undertake the barren task of convincing him of his
error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that
Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic,
had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it
for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit
him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore
commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy,
answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a
manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were
solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he
could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from
which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.
But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in
acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority
of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear
towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led
the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been
wandering over.
“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at
first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study
hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of
knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious
head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I
talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them
withal?”
The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of
ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold
pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s
knees.
“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure
thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the
haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father.
’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers.
Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth
hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I
say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated
to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou
knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes
that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his
veneration for thy skill. Exert thy power over him; he is weak, and
thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to
severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou
knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the
silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw
him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I
leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must
employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as
thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou
mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the
same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of
thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in
execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell,
and may powerful spirits aid thee!”
The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face,
and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.
The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his
back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across
the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had
appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern
bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he
poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to
see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such
rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been
the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the
difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the
intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by
the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was
something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the
friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the
broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he
poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and
he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his
black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of
the seeming friar.
The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy.
His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so
unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than
once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural
course of things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled
at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of
arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met
with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to
discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His
necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the
fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew
among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his
powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the
Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and
undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself
selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he
rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so
entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had
hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld
her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are
now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident
beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the
court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the
strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood
surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him
precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little
calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of
Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that
brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more
likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his
daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some
family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power
and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had
no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward
to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from
the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of
English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his
daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these
his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr.
Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.