The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange Proposal—A
Dreadful Alternative.
It was past the hour of midnight, when all in the Castle had been for
some time still, save when the sentinels on the ramparts repeated their
prolonged call, that a footstep was again heard upon the stair leading
to the top of the keep. It was the heavy, slow step of Sir Walter de
Selby. He carried a lamp in his hand, and often stopped to breathe; but
at last he made his way to the roof, and sought the aerial den of the
monstrous Ancient. He went thither, deluded man, imagining that he went
of his own free will; but the crafty Ancient had taken secret measures
to insure his coming.
When the good old knight had sought the little private oratory within
his chamber, immediately after his attendants had retired, he was
fearfully dismayed by observing a blue lambent light flitting over the
surface of an ancient shield that hung above a small altar within a
dark Gothic recess. In that age of ignorance, a circumstance so
unaccountable might have shaken the firmest nerves; but it had been the
shield of his father, a bold moss-trooper, and from him he had learned
that this was the ill-omened warning sign that was always said to
appear to foretell some dire calamity affecting him or his issue. With
extreme agitation of mind he at once recurred to recent events for an
explanation of it. During his ride with the Bishop of Durham, that
prelate had repeated the arguments he had employed the day before,
particularly in the long conference they had held after the banquet, to
fortify him in the resolution of pressing the Lady Eleanore into a
marriage with Sir Rafe Piersie; and, indeed, Sir Walter’s heart was so
eagerly set on the accomplishment of a union in every respect equal to
his most sanguine wishes, that little eloquence was necessary to
convince him of the propriety of urging his daughter to it by every
means in his power. Nay, although she was his only child, and that he
so doted on her as to have got into a habit of yielding to every wish
she expressed, yet this was a point on which he was very easily brought
to adopt a determined line of conduct with her. She had somewhat
provoked him, too, by the license she had given her tongue in presence
of the Bishop, when she indulged herself in ridiculing the very august
person he was proposing to her as a husband; and the knight’s passion
at the moment had so far got the better of his affection, that he spoke
to her with a degree of harshness he had never used before. His after
conversations with the Bishop had now brought him to the determination
of compelling the Lady Eleanore to a marriage so much to her advantage,
and so flattering to his own hopes of high alliance. So firmly was he
fixed in this resolution, that, in a meeting he had with his daughter
after his return from accompanying the Bishop, he withstood all her
entreaties, and steeled himself against all her grief, and all her
spirited remonstrances. After such an interview, it is not surprising
that Sir Walter should have immediately supposed that the menacing
prodigy, which now appeared before his eyes, had some reference to the
purposed marriage of the Lady Eleanore. On all similar occasions of
threatened misfortune, he had been for some years accustomed to apply
for counsel to the cunning Ancient Fenwick, whom he believed to possess
supernatural powers of foretelling and averting the greatest
calamities; nay, he had more than once been convinced of the happy
effects of his interference in his behalf. His impatience to seek him
at present, therefore, was such that he could hardly restrain himself
until he had reason to think that all eyes in the Castle were closed
but his own. He paced his chamber in a state bordering on distraction,
stopping from time to time at the door of the oratory to regard the
terrific warning, and wringing his hands as he beheld it still flitting
and playing over the surface of the shield.
He was no sooner certain, however, that he might move from his
apartment without risk of observation, than he seized his lamp, and, as
we have seen, sought the lonely cap-house of the Ancient. The small
door of the place was closed. So strongly were men’s minds bound by the
thraldom of superstition in those days, that the gallant Sir Walter de
Selby, who had so often faced the foe like a lion in the field, and who
would even now have defended the Castle of Norham to the uttermost
extremity, yea, so long as one stone of its walls remained upon
another—this brave old warrior, I say, absolutely trembled as he tapped
at the door of the wretched Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, who once
formed his most common subject of jest. He tapped, but no answer was
returned; he listened, but not a sound was heard. He tapped again—and
again he tapped louder. He called the Ancient by his name; but still
all was profound silence. He hesitated for some moments, in doubt what
to do. At last he brought himself to the determination of pushing the
door up. He bent down on his knees to force it, and it yielded before
his exertions; but the sight which met his eyes so appalled him, that
he was unable at first to advance.
The Ancient Fenwick, to all appearance dead, lay stretched, with his
arms and legs extended on the floor. His face had the leaden hue of
death on it; and a small orb, composed of a number of points of bluish
lambent flame, like that so ominously illuminating the shield, flitted
on his forehead—a book of necromancy lay open on the floor—his lamp
burned on the usual pile of volumes—and, on a temporary altar, composed
of several folios, raised one above the other against the wall, were
placed a human skull, and thigh bones, and an hour-glass. Immediately
over these a number of cabalistical figures were described with
charcoal on the plaster; and a white rod seemed, from the position it
lay in, to have been pointed towards them, and to have fallen from his
hand, as if he had been suddenly struck down in the very act of
conjuration.
Sir Walter was so overpowered with horror and superstitious fear, that
some moments elapsed ere he could summon up resolution to creep into
the place and examine the body more narrowly. He looked down on the
hidous ghastly face, over which the magical flame still flitted. The
small fiery eye-balls glared—but they were still; not a feature moved,
nor was there the slightest sound or appearance of respiration.
Scarcely bearing to behold such a spectacle, the old knight looked
timorously around him, afraid that the demon, who had done this fearful
work upon his disciple, might appear to annihilate him also. In truth
his terrors so far overcame him, that he was just about to retreat
hastily, when he observed a certain spasmodic twitch about the mouth,
which soon afterwards became powerfully convulsed, writhing from side
to side, and throwing the whole features of the countenance into the
most fearful contortions. By degrees, the convulsion seemed to extend
itself along the muscles of the body, arms, and limbs, until the whole
frame was thrown into violent agitation; unintelligible sputtering
sounds came from the alternate corners of the mouth; and Sir Walter
quaked to hear the name of “Sathanas” often repeated energetically. At
last, by a convulsion stronger than the rest, the head and body were
erected, and, after a little time, the Ancient seemed to recover the
use of his senses, and the command over his muscles, as well as of his
powers of utterance.
“What, Master Ancient Fenwick, hath befallen thee?” exclaimed Sir
Walter, in a voice almost indistinct from trepidation; “tell me, I
beseech thee, what hath happened.”
“My brain burneth,” cried the Ancient, with a hideous yell, and
striking his forehead with the palms of both hands, after which the
flame no longer appeared. Then, after a pause, “Where am I?” said he,
staring wildly around, “Where am I? Ha! I see I am again in the world
of men. What?” exclaimed he, with surprise, on beholding Sir Walter,
“art thou here? How camest thou to this place?”
“My friend,” replied the old knight, “my excellent friend, I came to
consult thee; I came to take counsel from thy superhuman knowledge—thy
knowledge gathered from converse with the spirits of another world.”
“Another world!” exclaimed the Ancient, in a sepulchral voice—“in
another world, didst thou say? Ay, I have indeed long had converse
here, face to face, with some of its blackest inmates: but never till
this night,” added he, shuddering, “did I visit its fiery realms.”
“Where hast thou been, then?” asked the knight, in a tone of alarm.
“In hell!” cried the Ancient, with a horrible voice that chilled the
very blood in Sir Walter’s brains. “Yes,” continued he, “I have visited
those dreadful abodes; but I may not tell their awful secrets. Some, it
is true, I am permitted to disclose, if I can bring myself to speak of
them—of things on which depend the fate of thyself and thy daughter,
and deeply affecting thy country’s weal.”
“What, good Ancient, hast thou learned, that may affect me or my
daughter? I do beseech thee, let me straightway be informed. The blue
fire burns on my father’s shield to-night; some dreadful calamity
impends.”
“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue
fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm
thee.”
“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with
alarm.
“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.
“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously
inquired Sir Walter.
“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art
bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art
about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”
“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.
“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after
what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below?
Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath
sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by
her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed
by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his
counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand?
Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the conversation held
between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this
knowledge?”
Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.
“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered
in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this
marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from
it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman,
that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the
monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child
shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall
overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not
ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves;
and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall
gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste
the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent
people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown
by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and
enslave our nation.”
The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he
listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country
was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.
“Tell me, oh tell me, most excellent Ancient,” said he, in the agony of
despair, “tell me, I entreat thee, how this awful mass of approaching
misery may be averted.”
“There is only one way to shield yourself and mankind from the
threatened curse,” replied the Ancient tardily, and rather as if he
felt difficulty in bringing it out; “there is only one course to
pursue, but it is such that, slave as thou art to the prejudices of the
world, it is vain to hope that even the dread of these impending
calamities will induce thee to adopt it.”
“Talk not so, good Ancient, talk not so,” cried the old knight
impatiently, “There is nothing I would not do—Holy Virgin, forgive
me!—there is nothing I would not do honestly to prevent this threatened
curse from arising, to the destruction of my family and my country.”
“Sayest thou so?” said the Ancient, calmly shaking his head, as if in
doubt; “I will put thee to the proof then. It is written, as I have
already declared, in the Book of the Fates of men, that this marriage
shall take place, and that from it shall proceed this two-edged sword,
to smite both thee and England, unless thou shalt bestow thy daughter
on one whom—but thou wilt never condescend——”
“Nay,” impatiently interrupted the knight, “better she should marry any
honest man of good family than that she should be suffered to match so
proudly only to be the mother of destruction to herself, to me, and to
her country.”
“Thou sayest well,” calmly replied the Ancient; “but the Fates have not
left the choice of her mate to thee or to her. Yet hear me patiently,
and thou shalt know all. Thou art not ignorant that I have long abjured
the pitiful affairs of men. ’Tis now more than fifteen years since,
quitting their society, I have devoted myself to those studies by which
thou hast more than once benefited. I have sacrificed all earthly
prospects and enjoyments for the sake of that sublime knowledge which
doth enable me to foresee and control coming events; and it is to me a
reward in itself so great, as to make every other appear despicable in
comparison with it. But though I have forsworn the world, yet cannot I
rid myself of attachment to thee; my early feelings must tie me to thee
and thine for ever. Thou hast had proofs of this devotion too often, to
require me to repeat that it doth exist; but I am now prepared to give
thee a demonstration of it yet stronger than any thou hast hitherto
received from me.”
“Kind, excellent Ancient,” exclaimed the grateful Sir Walter, “I well
know the care with which thou hast watched over the welfare of my
house; I feel the magnitude of the debt I owe thee, and ’tis with
gratitude I acknowledge it. What is it, I beseech thee, thou canst do?”
“Yes,” exclaimed the Ancient, with a show of much feeling, “yes; I will
sacrifice myself. I will come forth again into the haunts of deceitful
and cold-blooded men. I will give up all I prize—my quiet, my
solitude—to save thee and thine from the destruction that impendeth. On
my part there shall be no failure, however at war with my habits and
inclinations the sacrifice may be. ’Tis upon thyself, therefore—upon
thine own decision—that thine own fate, and the fate of thy daughter,
and of thy country, must depend.”
“Name, name, I entreat thee, the terms!” cried the anxious old knight;
“name the conditions that I must fulfil; tell me what I must do, and no
time shall be lost in carrying it into effect.”
The Ancient paused for some moments, during which he looked into the
face of the knight with his fiery inexpressive eyes, and then, with
slow and solemn, though harsh utterance—“I must espouse thy daughter,
the Lady Eleanore!” said he. “The Fates have willed it so; no other
remedy doth now remain against the overwhelming destruction thou art
doomed to behold.”
This fatal declaration—this dreadful contrast to all those hopes of
splendid alliance which had filled Sir Walter’s thoughts, came upon him
like a thunderbolt, and was perfectly annihilating. He could not stand
the bitter alternative that was thus presented to him. Overcome by his
feelings, he threw himself back among the straw composing the lair of
the monster he had been listening to, and, covering his eyes with the
palms of his hands, he, hardy soldier as he was, burst into a flood of
tears.
A grim meteor smile of inward satisfaction shot over the pallid face of
the impostor.
“Ay,” said he, “no one can expect thee to match thy daughter with such
as me. Better that she should give birth to ten thousand such demons as
her fated marriage with the brother of the Piersie is infallibly
destined to produce—better that she should die, and thou be cruelly
murdered by the parricidal hand of thine inhuman grandchild, than that
thou shouldst call such a wretch as me son. Thy determination hath been
well taken; ’tis like a good soldier, as thou art, to brave the Fates.
I thank thee, too, for mine emancipation from the vow I had resolved to
subject myself to for thy sake. My time, and my quiet, and my solitude,
shall be again mine own, and my darling studies shall receive no
interruption.”
“Is there no other alternative?” cried the distracted father, rising
with energy from the position he had thrown himself into.
“None!” replied the Ancient. “But that thou mayest be ignorant of no
tittle of what it so deeply concerns thee to know,” continued he after
a pause, “it is destined that if ever I do so espouse me, my son shall
be the most perfect model of bravery and of virtue that ever England
saw; and that, taking the proud name of de Selby, he shall wax
exceeding mighty, and, leading a small band of gallant youths, march
into Scotland as a conqueror, until at last, dethroning the monarch of
the North, he shall himself be proclaimed king of that country, and,
uniting himself by marriage with the King of England, he and his
posterity shall reign for twelve centuries. To look farther into
futurity is denied; but enow hath been told thee to point out the way
that doth lie before thee. The space of three days and three hours is
given thee to choose thy daughter’s destiny. And now,” continued the
Ancient, putting out his hand to the hour-glass, and solemnly inverting
it; “and now the stream of thy time beginneth to run; see how the sand
floweth down—a portion of it hath already glided away; so will the
rest, till the period assigned thee be irrecoverably gone. ’Twere
better that thou shouldst retire to thy chamber, to weigh well the
fates of thy daughter, for the balance of her destinies is in thine
hand.”
The impostor paused. The agitated mind of Sir Walter de Selby had
eagerly grasped at the flattering picture which the Ancient had so
cunningly reserved to the last, and which was so perfectly in harmony
with every wish of the old man’s heart. In his contemplation of it, he
had almost forgotten the uncouth son-in-law destined to make him the
grandfather of a hero, who was to raise the glory of his country’s arms
so high, and who was at last to become a King of Scotland. His pride
was peculiarly flattered by the notion of the name of de Selby being
retained to become eventually royal; and he began to reason with
himself as he sat, that it was but stooping to present humiliation in
order to rise to the summit of human ambition. The crafty Ancient saw
the working of his mind, from its operation on his honest countenance,
as well as if he had been thinking audibly.
“Such proud prospects of an issue so glorious tempt not me,” said he.
“These dark volumes, and the retirement of this unseemly chamber,
whence the stars can be most easily conversed with, are to me worth a
world of such. But for thee, if thou demandest it of me, the sacrifice
shall be made; and shouldst thou make me the humble instrument of the
salvation and exaltation of thyself and issue, it would,” said he, with
an affectation of extreme humility, “be no more, after all, than
burying good seed in the soil of a dunghill, to see it buxion with the
more vigour, shoot the more aloft, and rear its proud head far above
the meagre plants on higher but more sterile spots. But it is matter
worthy of grave thought. Yet judge me not as I seem—the poor, the
wretched inmate of this owlet’s nest. Why am I so? Even because I
despise all those gewgaws men esteem most valuable, and covet only that
most precious of all jewels—the perfection of knowledge. Thinkest thou
that it would not help me to all the rest, were it my pleasure to
command them? Thinkest thou that I could not command worldly wealth and
honours, were I to fancy such baubles? Wouldst thou have me conjure up
gold? Lo!—there!” said he, plucking the leathern bag from his jerkin,
and emptying the shining contents of it on the ground, to the
astonishment of Sir Walter; “a little midnight labour would raise me up
a hoard that might purchase the earth itself. But what is the vile
dross to me? Nay, I would not inundate the wretched world with that
which hath already caused sufficient human misery. To pour out more
would be to breed a more accursed scourge than e’en thy grandson
Piersie will prove.”
“Talk not of him,” exclaimed the knight in terror; “the very thought of
his existence is racking to me. I want not time for consideration on a
point so plain. I do now resolve me on the alliance with thee. Sir Rafe
Piersie comes to-morrow morning; I shall break with him abruptly—and
then, my resolution being taken, my daughter must yield to the
irresistible decrees of Fate.”
With these words Sir Walter rose to his knees, and snatching up his
lamp, scrambled hastily to the door, and stole softly down to his
apartment. He looked with fear and trembling into the oratory, when, to
his extreme relief, he saw that the ominous flame had left the fatal
shield, and he retired to his couch in a state of comparative
composure.
“So,” said the Ancient, in grim soliloquy, after Sir Walter’s footsteps
had died away on the stairs—“so the hook is in thy nose, and thou shalt
feel the power, as well as the vengeance, of him thou didst despise and
make thy mock of. Thou didst thwart mine ambition; but my helm ere long
shall tower amid the proudest crests of chivalry, and wealth and
honours, yea, and the haughty smile of beauty too, shall be at my will.
This is indeed to rise by mine abasement, even beyond the highest
soaring of those early hopes which this man did so cruelly level with
the earth. The thought is ecstasy.”