the bargain? thou didst not sell thyself for nought?" said the hermit,
fixing his eye sternly on the trembling penitent; "and now, when thou
hast wasted the price of thy condemnation, thou comest for help; and
thou wouldest even play at cheatery with the devil!"
"Nay, most reverend father," said Michael, wiping his eyes; "never a
gift have I had from the foul fiend, save a bacon collop, and that was
cast out untouched." And with that he told of the manner in which he
was inveigled, and the scurvy trick which the deceiver had played him.
"Verily, there is hope," said the holy man, after musing a while; "yet
is it a perilous case, and only to be overcome by prayer and fasting.
If thou seek help sincerely, I doubt not that a way will be made for
thine escape. Listen;--it is never permitted that the enemy of our
race should reap the full benefit of the advantage which otherwise his
superior duplicity and intelligence would enable him to obtain. There
was never yet bond or bargain made by him, but, in one way or another,
it might be set aside, and the foul fiend discomfited. It may be
difficult, I own; and advice is not easily rendered in this matter:
but trust in the power of the All-powerful, and thou shalt not be
overcome. Wisdom, I doubt not, shall be vouchsafed in this extremity,
if thou apply anxiously and earnestly for it, seeking deliverance, and
repenting of thy great wickedness which thou hast committed."
With these and many other gracious words did the benevolent enthusiast
encourage this doomed mortal; and though heavy and disconsolate
enough, he returned more light-hearted than he came.
The time now drew near. The very week--the day--the hour, was come;
and when the sun should have climbed to the meridian Michael knew that
he would have to face the cunning foe who had beguiled him. His wife
would have tarried; but he peremptorily forbade. He would not be
disturbed in his intercessions. All that morning, without
intermission, he supplicated for wisdom and strength in the ensuing
conflict. He had retired to a little chamber at one end of the house,
and here he secured himself to prevent intrusion.
Noon was scarcely come when, true to the engagement, a loud
thunder-clap announced the approach and presence of this terrific
being.
"I am glad to find," said he, "that thou art ready."
"I am not ready," replied the trembling victim.
"How!" roared the sable chief, with a voice that shook the whole
house, like the passage of an earthquake; "dost thou deny the pledge?
darest thou gainsay this bond?"
"True enough," replied the debtor, "I signed that contract; but it was
won from me by fraud and dishonest pretences."
"Base, equivocating slave! how darest thou mock me thus? Thou hadst
thy wishes; the conditions have been fulfilled, ay, to the letter."
"I fear me," again said the victim, who felt his courage wonderfully
supported, "that thou knewest I should never be a pin the richer or
better for thy gifts; and thine aim was but to flatter and to cheat.
It is not in thy power, I do verily believe, to grant me riches or any
great thing that I might wish; so thou didst prompt, and, in a manner,
force me to those vain wishes, unthinkingly, by which I have been
beguiled."
"Dost thou doubt, then, my ability in this matter? Know that thy most
unbounded wishes would have been accomplished, else I release thee
from this bond."
"I say, and will vouch for 't, that all thy promises are lying cheats,
and that thou couldst not give me a beggarly bodle, if thou wert to
lay down thy two horns for it; so I demand my bond, according to thy
pledge."
"To show thee that I can keep this bond, even conformably to the terms
of my own offer just now, and thy pitiful carcase to boot, I'll e'en
grant thee another wish, that thou mayest be satisfied thou art past
all hope of redemption. Said I not, that if I could not fulfil any
wish of thine, even to the compass of all possible things, and the
riches of this great globe itself, I would release thee from this
bond?"
"Yea," said Michael, with an eager assent.
"Then wish once more; and mind that it be no beggarly desire. Wish to
the very summit of wealth, or the topmost pinnacle of thy ambition,
for it shall be given thee."
"Then," said the tailor hastily, as though fearful the word would not
come forth quick enough from his lips, "I wish thou wert riding back
again to thy quarters on yonder dun horse, and never be able to
plague me again, or any other poor wretch whom thou hast gotten into
thy clutches."
The demon gave a roar loud enough to be heard to the very antipodes,
and away went he, riveted to the back of this very dun horse, which
Michael had seen through the window grazing quietly in the lane,
little suspecting the sort of jockey that was destined to bestride
him. The tailor ran to the door to watch his departure, almost beside
himself for joy at this happy riddance. Dancing and capering into the
kitchen, where his wife was almost dying through terror, he related,
as soon as he was able, the marvellous story of his deliverance.
He relapsed not into his former courses, but lived happily to a good
old age, leaving behind him at his death good store of this world's
gear, which, as he had no children, was divided amongst his poorer
relatives. One of them having purchased the house where the tailor
dwelt, set up the trade of a tapster therein, having for his sign
"_The Dule upo' Dun_;" which to this day attests the truth of our
tradition, and the excellence of "mine host's" cheer.
WINDLESHAW ABBEY.
"Adieu, fond love; farewell, you wanton powers;
I'm free again.
Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
Bewitching pain,
Fly to fools that sigh away their time:
My nobler love to heaven doth climb;
And there behold beauty still young,
That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,
And honoured by eternity and joy:
There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire;
Fond loves decline, this heavenly love grows higher."
--BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
This ruined chapel--"abbey" it is generally styled--is about a mile
distant from St Helen's. Little remains now but the belfry, with its
luxuriant covering of dark ivy, still preserving it from destruction.
More than half a century ago, some ruffian hand nearly severed the
stem from the root, but happily without material injury, the incision
being incomplete. The burial-ground, formerly open, is now enclosed by
a stone wall; and on the south side is a stone cross with three steps.
The whole area has a reputation of great sanctity; many of those who
die in the Romish faith, even beyond the immediate neighbourhood,
being brought hither for interment.
There are no records, that we can find, of its foundation; but it may
be suspected that the place was dedicated to St Thomas; for close by
is a well of that name, unto which extraordinary virtues are ascribed.
The chapel was but small; not more than twelve yards in length, and
about three in width; the tower scarcely eight yards high. Its
insignificance probably may account for the obscurity in which its
origin is involved.
It fell into disuse after the Dissolution; and its final ruin took
place during the civil wars of Charles I.
Autumn was lingering over the yellow woods. The leaves, fluttering on
their shrivelled stems, seemed ready to fall with every breath. Dark
and heavy was the dull atmosphere--a melancholy stillness that seemed
to pervade and surround every object--a deceitful calm, forerunner of
the wild and wintry storms about to desolate and to destroy even
these flickering emblems of decay. At times a low murmur would break
forth, dying away through the deep woods, like some spirit of past
ages wakening from her slumber, or the breath of hoary Time sighing
through the ruin he had created.
[Illustration: WINDLESHAW ABBEY.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]
There is something indescribably solemn and affecting in the first
touches and emblems of the year that has "fallen into the sear and
yellow leaf." Like the eventide of life, it is a season when the gay
and glittering promises of another spring are past; when the fervour
and the maturity of summer are ended; when cold and monotonous days
creep on; and we look with another eye, and other perceptions, on all
that surrounds us. Yet there is a feeling of gladness and of hope
mingling with our regrets in the one case, which cannot exist in the
other. Autumn, though succeeded by the darkness and dreariness of
winter, is but the womb of another spring. That bright season will be
renewed; our own, never!
Perhaps it might be feelings akin to these which arrested the
footsteps of an individual, who, though little past the spring-tide
and youthful ardour of his existence, was yet not disinclined to
anticipate another period characterised by the autumnal tokens of
decay visible on every object around him.
He stood by the deserted chapel of Windleshaw. Time had then but just
begun to show the first traces of his power. The building was yet
uninjured, save the interior, which was completely despoiled, the
walls grey with lichen, and hoary with the damps of age. The ivy was
twining round the belfry, but its thin arms then embraced only a small
portion of the exterior. A single yew-tree threw its dark and gloomy
shade over the adjacent tombs; the long rank herbage bending over
them, and dripping heavily with the moist atmosphere. An ancient cross
stood in the graveyard, of a date probably anterior to that of the
main building. A relic or commemoration, it might be, of some holy man
who had there ministered to the semi-barbarous hordes, aboriginal
converts to the Catholic faith.
It was in the autumn of the year 1644. Wars and tumults were abroad,
and Lancashire drained the cup of bitterness even to the dregs. The
infatuated king was tottering on his throne; even the throne itself
was nigh overturned in the general conflict. A short time before the
date of our story, the Earl of Derby and Prince Rupert, having brought
the siege of Bolton and Liverpool to a satisfactory issue--shortly
after the gallant defence of the Countess at Lathom House--were then
reposing from their toils at that fortress. The prince, remotely
allied to the noble dame, lay there with his train; and was treated
not only with the respect and consideration due to his rank, but
likewise with a feeling of gratitude for his timely succour to the
distressed lady and her brave defenders. After a short stay, the
prince marched to York, which was closely besieged by the Earl of
Manchester and Sir Thomas Fairfax, and as vigorously and obstinately
defended by the Marquis of Newcastle. On the approach of Prince
Rupert, the Parliamentary generals raised the siege, and, drawing off
their forces to Marston Moor, offered battle to the Royalists. Here
the prince, whose martial disposition was not sufficiently tempered
with prudence, unfortunately accepted the enemy's challenge, and
obscured the lustre of his former victories by sustaining a total
overthrow, thereby putting the king's cause into great jeopardy. The
following extract from the "Perfect Diurnall" of the 9th of July 1644,
will show the estimation in which this great victory was held by the
Parliament, and the extent and importance of the results:--
"This day Captain Stewart came from the Leaguer at York with a letter
of the whole state of the late fight and routing of Prince Rupert,
sent by the three generals to the Parliament. The effect whereof was
this:--'That, understanding Prince Rupert was marching against them
with 20,000 men, horse and foot, the whole army arose from the siege,
and marched to Long Marston Moor, four or five miles from York; and
the prince, having notice of it, passed with his army the byway of
Burrow Bridge; that they could not hinder his passage to York,
whereupon our army marched to Todcaster, to prevent his going
southward; but before the van was within a mile of Todcaster, it was
advertised that the prince was in the rear in Marston Moor, with an
addition of 6000 of the Earl of Newcastle's forces, and was possessed
of the best places of advantage both for ground and wind. The right
wing of our horse was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, which consisted
of his whole cavalry and three regiments of the Scots horse; next unto
them was drawn up the right wing of the foot, consisting of the Lord
Fairfax and his foot and two brigades of the Scots foot for a reserve:
and so the whole armies put into a battalia. The battle being begun,
at the first some of our horse were put into disorder; but, rallying
again, we fell on with our whole body, killed and took their chief
officers, and took most part of their standards and colours, 25 pieces
of ordnance, near 130 barrels of powder, 10,000 arms, two waggons of
carbines and pistols, killed 3000, and 1500 prisoners taken.'"
Prince Rupert with great precipitation drew off the remains of his
army, and retired into Lancashire. In a few days York was surrendered
to the Parliamentary forces, and the garrison marched out with all the
honours of war. Fairfax, occupying the city, established his
government through the county, and sent 1000 horse into Lancashire to
join with the Parliamentary forces in that quarter, and attend the
motions of Prince Rupert. The Scottish army marched northwards after
their victory, in order to join the Earl of Calendar, who was
advancing with 10,000 additional forces; and likewise to reduce the
town of Newcastle, which they took by storm. The Earl of Manchester,
with Cromwell,--to whom the fame of this great victory was chiefly
ascribed, and who was wounded in the action,--returned to the eastern
association in order to recruit his army.[8]
Such were some of the fruits of this important victory, and such the
aspect of affairs at the time when our narrative commences;--the
fortunes and persons of the Royalists, or _malignants_ as they were
called by the opposite party, being in great jeopardy, especially in
the northern counties.
The individual before-named was loitering about in the cemetery of the
chapel, where the bodies of many of the faithful who die in the arms
of the mother church are still deposited, under the impression or
expectancy that their clay shall imbibe the odour of sanctity thereby.
The stranger, for such he appeared, was muscular and well-formed. His
height was not above, but rather below, the middle size. A bright full
eye gave an ardour to his look not at all diminished by the general
cast and expression of his features, which betokened a brave and manly
spirit, scorning subterfuge and disguise, and almost disdaining the
temporary concealment he was forced to adopt. A wide cloak was wrapped
about his person, surmounted by a slouched high-crowned hat, with a
rose in front, by way of decoration. His boots, ornamented with huge
projecting tops, were turned down just below the calf of the leg,
above which his breeches terminated in stuffed rolls, or fringes,
after the fashion of the time. A light sword hung loosely from his
belt; and a pair of pistols, beautifully inlaid, were exhibited in
front. Despite of his somewhat grotesque habiliments, there was an air
of dignity, perhaps haughtiness, in his manner, which belied the
character of his present disguise. He walked slowly on, apparently in
deep meditation, till, on turning round the angle of the tower, he was
somewhat startled from his reverie on beholding an open grave, at a
short distance, just about to be completed. Clods of heavy clay were
at short intervals thrown out by the workman, concealed from
observation by the depth to which he had laboured. After a moment's
pause, the cavalier cautiously approached the brink, and beheld a
strange-looking being, with sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, busily
engaged in this interesting and useful avocation.
"Good speed, friend!" said the stranger, addressing the emissary of
death within. The grim official raised his head for a moment, to
observe who it was that accosted him; but without vouchsafing a reply,
he again resumed his work, throwing out the clods with redoubled
energy, to the great annoyance of the inquirer.
"Whose grave is this?" he asked again, perseveringly, determined to
provoke him to an answer.
"The first fool's that asks!" shouted the man from below, without
ceasing from his repulsive toil.
"Nay, friend; ye do not dig for a man ere he be dead in this pitiful
country of thine?"
"And why not? there's many a head on a man's nape to-day that will be
on his knees to-morrow!"
"Then do ye rig folks out with graves here upon trust?"
"Nay," said the malicious-looking replicant, holding up a long lean
phalanx of bony fingers; "pay to-day, trust to-morrow, as t' old lad
at the tavern says."
"What! is thy trade so dainty of subjects? Are men become weary o'
dying of late, that ye must need make tombs for the living? I'll have
thee to the justice, sirrah, for wicked malice aforethought, and
misprision."
Here this hideous ghoul burst forth with a laugh so fearful and
portentous that even the cavalier was startled by its peculiarly
fierce and almost unearthly expression. The mouth drawn to one side,
the wide flat forehead, projecting cheek-bones, and pointed chin,
sufficiently characterised him as labouring under that sort of
imbecility not seldom unmixed with a tact and shrewdness that seem to
be characteristic of this species of disease and deformity. He set one
foot on the mattock, ceasing from his labours whilst he cried out,
winking significantly with half-shut eyes--
"When the owl hoots, and the crow cries caw,
I can tell a maiden from a jackdaw."
Here he began whistling and humming by turns, with the most consummate
and provoking indifference. The stranger was evidently disconcerted by
this unexpected mode of address, apparently meditating a retreat, from
where even victory would have been a poor triumph. He was turning
away, when a drop of blood fell on his hand! This disastrous omen,
with the grave yawning before him--the narrow dwelling, which,
according to the prediction of the artificer, was preparing for his
reception--discomposed the cavalier exceedingly, and, in all
likelihood, rendered him the more easily susceptible to subsequent
impressions.
"Art boun' for Knowsley?" inquired the hunchbacked sexton.
"Peradventure I may have an errand thither; but I am a wayfaring man,
and have business with the commissioners in these parts." There was a
tone of conscious evasion in this reply which did not pass unheeded by
the inquirer.
"If thou goest in at the door," said he, "mind thee doesn't come out
feet foremost, good master wayfarer!" He quickly changed his tone to
more of seriousness than before. "Thou art not safe. Hie thee to
Lathom."
"'Tis beleaguered again. The earl being away at his kingdom of Man,
the hornets are buzzing about his nest. There seems now no
resting-place, as aforetime, for unlucky travellers."
"For who?" shouted the sexton, climbing out of his grave with
surprising agility. He fixed his eyes on the cavalier, as though it
were the aspect of recognition. He then hummed the following distich,
a favourite troll amongst the republican party at that period:--
"The battle was foughten; the prince ran away.
Did ever ye see sic' a race, well-a-day?"
The stranger, turning from his tormentor, was about to depart; but he
was not destined to rid himself so readily from the intruder.
"And so being shut out from Lathom, thou be'st a cockhorse for
Knowsley. Tush! a blind pedlar, ambling on a nag, might know thee
while he was a-winking."
"Know me!" said the cavalier;--"why--whom thinkest thou that I be?
Truly there be more gowks in our good dukedom of Lancaster than either
goshawks or hen-sparrows. I am one of little note, and my name not
worth the spelling." He assumed an air of great carelessness and
indifference, not unmingled with a haughty glance or two, whilst he
spoke; but the persevering impertinent would not be withstood. Another
laugh escaped him, shrill and portentous as before, and he approached
nearer, inquiring in a half-whisper--
"Where's thine uncle?"
"Whom meanest thou?"
"He waits for thee at Oxford, man; but he may wait while his porridge
cools, I trow: and so good den."
The cunning knave was marching off with his mattock, when the
cavalier, recovering from his surprise, quickly seized him by the
higher shoulder.
"Stay, knave; thou shalt tarry here a while, until thou and I are
better acquainted. Another step, and this muzzle shall help thee on
thine errand."
"And who'll pay the messenger?" said the undaunted and ready-witted
rogue, not in the least intimidated by the threat, and the mouth of a
huge pistol at his breast. "Put it by--put it by, friend, and I'll
answer thee; but while that bull-dog is unmuzzled thou shalt get never
a word from Steenie Ellison."
"Thou knowest of some plot a-hatching," said the stranger, putting
aside the weapon. Another drop fell on his hand.
"I know not," said the sexton, doggedly.
"Thy meaning, then?" returned the stranger, with great vehemence;
"for, o' my life, thou stirrest not until thou hast explained the
nature of these allusions."
With a shrill cry and a fleet footstep the other bounded away from his
interrogator like some swift hound, and was out of sight instantly.
Retreating with some precipitation, the cavalier bent his steps from
the graveyard towards a little hostelrie close by, where it appears he
had taken up his abode for a few days along with a companion, whose
sole use and business on their journey seemed to be that of protecting
a huge pair of saddle-bags and other equipments for their travel,
under a mulberry-coloured cloak of more than ordinary dimensions.
They had journeyed from Preston thitherwards; their intended route
being for Knowsley, and so forward to the coast. Whether their motive
for so long a stay at this obscure and homely tavern could be traced
to the bright eyes and beautiful image of mine host's daughter--a
luminary round which they were fluttering to their own destruction--or
that they merely sought concealment, it were difficult to guess. The
ostensible object of their journey was to take shipping for Ireland,
being bound thither on some commercial enterprise, for the furtherance
of which they expected to pass unmolested, being men of peaceable
pursuits, who left the trade of fighting to those that hoped to thrive
thereby. Such was the general tenor of their converse; but there were
some who suspected that the widely-extolled beauty of Marian might
have some remote connection with the continuance of these guests; and
their long stay at the inn was regarded with a jealous eye. So well
known was the beauteous Marian, "the fair maid of Windleshaw," that
the present residence of the cavaliers, if such they were, was the
worst that could have been chosen for concealment; inasmuch as her
fame drew many customers to the tap who otherwise would have eschewed
so humble a halting-place as that of Nathan Sumner.
Thoughtful, and with a show of vexation upon his features, the
stranger entered the house, where breakfast was already prepared, and
awaiting his return. In the same chamber were the tapster and his
dame; for privacy was not compatible either with "mine host's" means
or inclination.
"We have been watching for thee, Egerton," said his companion. "Didst
thou meet with a bundle of provender in the graveyard that thy stomach
did not warn thee to breakfast?"
"Prithee heed it not," was the reply; "I care little thus early for
thy confections. Besides, I have been beset by a knave, whose vocation
verily remindeth man of his latter end. I've been bandying discourse
with the sexton yonder, as I believe."
"Heh! mercy on us! Ye have seen Steenie, belike," said the dame,
lifting up one hand from her knee, which had been reposing there as a
protection from the fervid advances of a glowing fire before which she
sat.
"Truly, I do suspect this trafficker in ready-made tombs to be none
other," said Egerton.
"An' howkin' at a grave?"
"Ay! and with right good will, too."
"Then look well to your steps, Sir Stranger, that ye fall not into't;
for Stephen never yet made grave that lacked a tenant ere long."
"'Tis strange!" said the cavalier, anxiously. "Do ye dig graves here
by anticipation? or"----