not hence until she be forthcoming, alive or dead! I verily
suspect--nay, more, I charge thee with forcibly detaining her against
her own privity or consent."
The beggar looked steadily upon him, not a whit either moved or
abashed at this bold accusation.
"Peradventure thou speakest without heed and unadvisedly. I tell thee
again, thou wouldest have been driven hence ere now had it not been
for others whom that spirit must obey."
"Who art thou?" said the perplexed inquirer; "for thou art either
worse or better than thou seemest."
"Once the rightful heir, now a beggar, in these domains, wrested from
me by rapine and the harpy fangs of injustice misnamed law. Theophilus
Ashton, from whom ye took your share of the inheritance when death
dislodged it from his gripe, won it himself most foully from my
ancestors;--and have I not a right to hate thee?"
"And so thy vengeance hath fallen upon a defenceless woman?"
"Nay, I said not so; but if I had so minded I might have been glutted
with vengeance, ay, to my heart's core. Hark thee. Secrets I have
learned that will bind the hidden things of darkness, and bow them to
my behest. The unseen powers and operations of nature have been open
to my gaze. Long ago my converse and companionship were with the
learned doctors and sages of the East. In Spain I have walked in the
palace of the Moorish kings, the Alhambra at Grenada; and in Arabia I
have learned the mystic cabala, and worshipped in the temple of the
holy prophet!"
"And yet thou comest a beggar to my door! Truly thy spells have
profited thee little."
The beggar smiled scornfully. "Riches inexhaustible, unlimited are
mine; while nature is unveiled at my command."
"Thou speakest riddles, old man; or thou dost hug the very spectres of
thy brain, which men call madness."
"I am not mad; save it be madness that I have not hurled thee from
this thy misgotten heritage. A power of mighty and all prevading
energy hath hindered me, and, it may be, rescued thee from
destruction."
"Unto what unknown intercessor do I owe this forbearance?"
"Love!" said the mendicant, with an expression of withering and
baneful scorn; "a silly hankering for a puling girl."
"Thee!--in love?"
"And is it so strange, so hard and incapable of belief, that in a
frosty but vigorous age, the sap should be fresh though the outward
trunk look withered and without verdure?"
Nicholas shuddered. A harrowing suspicion crossed him that his beloved
sister had fallen a victim to the lawless passions of this hoary
delinquent.
"Thou dost judge wrongfully," said the beggar; "she appertaineth not
to me. 'Tis long since I have drunk of that maddening cup, a woman's
love. Would that another had not taken its intoxicating draught."
"Thou but triflest with me," said Haworth; "let the maiden go, or
beware my vengeance."
"Thy vengeance! Weak, impotent man! what canst thou do? Thy threats I
hold lighter than the breath that makes them; thy cajolments I value
less than these; and thy rewards--why, the uttermost wealth that thou
couldst boast would weigh but as a feather against the riches at my
disposal."
"Then give her back at my request."
"I tell thee she is not mine, nor in my charge."
"But thou knowest of her detention, and where she is concealed."
"What if I do? will that help thee to the discovery?"
"Point out the place, or conduct me thither, and"----
The mendicant here burst forth into a laugh so tantalising and
malicious that Nicholas, though silent, grew pale with choler.
"Am I a fool?" said the exorcist; "an everyday fool? a simpleton of
such a dastardly condition that thou shouldest think to whine me from
my purpose? Never."
Scarcely was the word spoken when a loud and awful explosion shook the
building to its foundations. Horror and consternation were seen upon
the hitherto composed features of the beggar. He grasped his crutch,
and with a yell of unutterable anguish he cried, "Ruined--betrayed!
May the fiends follow ye for this mischance!"
He threw himself almost headlong down the steps, and ran with rapid
strides through the yard, followed by Nicholas, who seemed in a stupor
of astonishment at these mysterious events.
Passing round to the other side of the house, he saw a smoke rising in
a dense unbroken column from an outbuilding beyond the moat, towards
which Noman was speedily advancing. Suddenly he slackened his pace. He
paused, seemingly undecided whither to proceed. He then turned sharply
round and made his way into the kitchen, passing up a staircase into
the haunted chamber, still followed by Nicholas Haworth, and not a few
who were lookers-on, hoping to ascertain the cause of this alarm.
To their great surprise the beggar hastily displaced some lumber, and,
raising a trap-door, quickly disappeared down a flight of steps. With
little hesitation the master followed, and keeping the footsteps of
his leader within hearing, he cautiously went forward, convinced that
in some way or another this opportune but inexplicable event would
lead to the discovery of his sister.
Suddenly he heard a shriek. He felt certain it was the voice of Alice.
He rushed on; but some unseen barrier opposed his progress. He heard
noises and hasty footsteps beyond, evidently in hurry and confusion.
The door was immediately opened, and he beheld Noman bearing out the
half-lifeless form of Alice. Smoke, and even flame, followed hard upon
their flight; but she was conveyed upwards to a place of safety.
"There," said the mendicant, when he had laid down his burden, "at the
peril of all I possess, and of life too, I have rescued her. My hopes
are gone--my schemes for ever blasted--and I am a ruined, wretched old
man, without a home or a morsel of bread."
He walked out through the porch, Nicholas being too busily engaged in
attending to the restoration of Alice to heed his escape. Two other
men, strangers, had before emerged from the avenue. In the confusion
of the moment their flight was effected, and they were seen no more.
When Alice was sufficiently recovered, Nicholas, to his utter surprise
and dismay, learned that she had been doomed to be imprisoned, even in
her own house, until she consented to be the wife of one whom, however
he might have won upon her regard by fair and honest courtship, she
hated and repulsed for this traitorous and forcible detention. Yet
they had not dared to let her go, lest the secrets of her prison-house
should be told. The false beggar, whose real name was Clegg, having
become an adept in the art of coining, acquired during his residence
abroad, and likewise having arrived at the knowledge of many chemical
secrets long hidden from the vulgar and uninitiated, had leagued
himself with one of the like sort, together with his own son, a
handsome well-favoured youth (whose mother he had rescued from a
Spanish convent), for the purpose of carrying on a most extensive
manufacture and issue of counterfeit money of several descriptions.
His former knowledge, when young, of his ancestors' mansion at Clegg
Hall suggested the fitness of this spot for their establishment. Its
situation was sequestered; and the ancient vaults, though nearly
filled with rubbish, might yet be made available for their purpose.
The secret entrance, and, above all, the currently-believed story of
the ghost, might afford facilities for frightening away those who were
disposed to be curious; and any noises unavoidable in the course of
their operations might be attributed to this fruitful source of
imposture. By a little dexterity, possession of the haunted chamber
was obtained, the feigned beggar being a periodical visitant; thence a
ready entrance was contrived, and all materials were introduced that
were needful for their fraudulent proceedings. Many months their
traffic was carried on without discovery; and in the beggar's wallet
counterfeit money to a considerable amount was conveyed, and
distributed by other agents into general circulation. Well might he
say that boundless wealth was at their command; the means employed in
disposing of the proceeds of their ingenuity were well calculated for
the purpose. They had proposed, by machinations and alarms, to drive
away utterly the present inhabitants and possessors of the Hall. The
reign of terror was about to commence, plans being already matured for
this purpose, had not the younger Clegg seen Alice Haworth; and love,
that mighty controller of human affairs and devices, most
inopportunely frustrated their intentions. The elder Clegg, too, was
induced to aid the design, hoping that, should a union take place, the
inheritance might revert into the old channel. We have seen the
result: the wilfulness and obduracy of Alice, and the infatuation of
the lover, who had thought to dazzle her with the riches he purposely
spread before her, prevented the success of their schemes. She
peremptorily refused and repulsed him, accusing him of a gross and
wanton outrage. What might have been the end of this contention we
know not, seeing that an unforeseen accident caused the explosion
which led to her escape and the flight of her captors.
What remained of the old house was pulled down. The vaults and
cellars, which were found to extend for a considerable distance even
beyond the moat, were walled up, and every vestige that was left,
together with an immense hoard of counterfeit money, was completely
destroyed.
[11] Her marriage-gift was L500, nineteen cows,
and a bull,--a magnificent portion in those days.
[12] We are sorry that this remark should come
from the historian of Whalley; but our respect for the author
even will not suffer us to let it pass unnoticed. The passage,
indeed, refutes itself, and we need refer to none other than
the very terms of the accusation. The circumstance of Bath
"going out under the Bartholomew Act," that master-movement of
spiritual tyranny, issued by an ill-advised and sensual
monarch, when two thousand and upwards of conscientious
clergymen were driven from their flocks and deprived of their
benefices in one day, is a sufficient denial of what the
learned doctor has insinuated, as it respects complying "with
all changes" from mere self-interest and worldly lucre. For
what could have hindered this conscientious and self-denying
minister from conforming to the terms of the act, and securing
his goodly benefice thereby, if it were not a zealous and
honest regard to the vows he had taken, and the future welfare
of his flock; which the very fact of his subsequent preaching
to crowded auditories at his own house sufficiently
corroborates. We know the persecutions, the malice, and the
poverty, which would assail this unlicensed administration of
ordinances; and nothing but a reverential awe for the sacred
and responsible functions he had undertaken could have
stimulated him to "endure the cross and despise the shame,"
when a very different line of conduct would have left him in
the undisturbed possession of both wealth and patronage. But,
we are afraid, the unpardonable offence of preaching in the
church under the authority and protection of the Commonwealth,
and his leaving her pale and preaching to "crowded auditories,"
when the wicked decree of St Bartholomew went forth, is
ungrateful to the spirit of many, who ought not to stigmatise
as sectaries and malignants all who have dared to think for
themselves, and at anytime to oppose "spiritual wickedness" in
"high places." The very principles which made Bath an outcast
for conscience' sake are those which originated and led on the
work of our Protestant Reformation, and placed the historian of
Whalley where his sacred functions should have led him to
respect the rights and consciences even of those from whom he
might differ, and not hold them up to unmerited obloquy and
reprehension.
[13] This interesting and curious relic is now in
the possession of the Rev. J. Clowes of Broughton, whose
ancestor, Samuel Clowes, Esq., about the year 1690, married
Mary Cheetham, a descendant of Humphrey Cheetham, founder of
the Manchester Blue Coat School. In 1713, after the death of
James Holt, whose faithful rebuke from the Bishop of Chester we
have noticed in the introduction, Castleton came into
possession of the Cheethams until the death of Edward Cheetham,
in 1769.
The screen is now made into a side-board, and is most
fancifully and beautifully wrought with crests, ciphers, and
cognisances, belonging to the Holts and many of the
neighbouring families.
[14] Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, ii. 86-96.
[Illustration: THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER]
THE MERMAID OF MARTIN MEER.
"Now the dancing sunbeams play
O'er the green and glassy sea:
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow."
Little needs to be said by way of introduction or explanation
of the following tale. Martin Meer is now in process of
cultivation; the plough and the harrow leave more enduring
furrows on its bosom. It is a fact, curious enough in
connection with our story, that some years ago, in digging and
draining, a canoe was found here. How far this may confirm our
tradition, we leave the reader to determine. It is scarcely two
miles from Southport; and the botanist, as well as the
entomologist, would find themselves amply repaid by a visit.
Martin Meer, the scene of the following story, we have described in
our first series of _Traditions_, where Sir Tarquin, a carnivorous
giant, is slain by Sir Lancelot of the Lake. These circumstances, and
more of the like purport on this subject, we therefore omit, as being
too trite and familiar to bear repetition. We do not suppose the
reader to be quite so familiar with the names and fortunes of Captain
Harrington and Sir Ralph Molyneux, though they had the good fortune to
be born eleven hundred years later, and to have seen the world, in
consequence, eleven hundred years older--we wish we could say wiser
and better tempered, less selfish and less disposed to return hard
knocks, and to be corrupted with evil communications. But man is the
same in all ages. The external habits and usages of society change his
mode of action--clothe the person and passions in a different garb;
but their form and substance, like the frame they inhabit, are
unchanged, and will continue until this great mass of intelligence,
this mischievous compound of good and evil, this round rolling earth,
shall cease to swing through time and space--a mighty pendulum, whose
last stroke shall announce the end of time, the beginning of eternity!
Our story gets on indifferently the while; but a willing steed is none
the worse for halting. Harrington and his friend Sir Ralph were spruce
and well-caparisoned cavaliers, living often about court towards the
latter end of Charles the Second's reign. What should now require
their presence in these extreme regions of the earth, far from society
and civilisation, it is not our business to inquire. It sufficeth for
our story that they were here, mounted, and proceeding at a shuffling
trot along the flat, bare, sandy region we have described.
"How sweetly and silently that round sun sinks into the water!" said
Harrington.
"But doubtless," returned his companion, "if he were fire, as thou
sayest, the liquid would not bear his approach so meekly; why, it
would boil if he were but chin-deep in yon great seething-pot."
"Thou art quicker at a jest than a moral, Molyneux," said the other
and graver personage; "thou canst not even let the elements escape thy
gibes. I marvel how far we are from our cousin Ireland's at Lydiate.
My fears mislead me, or we have missed our way. This flat bosom of
desolation hath no vantage-ground whence we may discern our path; and
we have been winding about this interminable lake these two hours."
"Without so much as a blade of grass or a tree to say 'Good neighbour'
to," said Molyneux, interrupting his companion's audible reverie.
"Crows and horses must fare sumptuously in these parts."
"This lake, I verily think, follows us; or we are stuck to its side
like a lady's bauble."
"And no living thing to say 'Good-bye,' were it fish or woman."
"Or mermaid, which is both." Scarcely were the words uttered when
Harrington pointed to the water.
"Something dark comes upon that burning track left on the surface by
the sun's chariot wheels."
"A fishmonger's skiff belike," said Sir Ralph.
They plunged through the deep sandy drifts towards the brink,
hastening to greet the first appearance of life which they had found
in this region of solitude. At a distance they saw a female floating
securely, and apparently without effort, upon the rippling current.
Her form was raised half-way above the water, and her long hair hung
far below her shoulders. This she threw back at times from her
forehead, smoothing it down with great dexterity. She seemed to glide
on slowly, and without support; yet the distance prevented any very
minute observation.
"A bold swimmer, o' my troth!" said Molyneux; "her body tapers to a
fish's tail, no doubt, or my senses have lost their use."
Harrington was silent, looking thoughtful and mysterious.
"I'll speak to yon sea-wench."
"For mercy's sake, hold thy tongue. If, as I suspect--and there be
such things, 'tis said, in God's creation--thou wilt"----
But the tongue of this errant knight would not be stayed; and his loud
musical voice swept over the waters, evidently attracting her notice,
and for the first time. She drew back her dark hair, gazing on them
for a moment, when she suddenly disappeared. Harrington was sure she
had sunk; but a jutting peninsula of sand was near enough to have
deceived him, especially through the twilight, which now drew on
rapidly.
"And thou hast spoken to her!" said he gravely; "then be the answer
thine!"
"A woman's answer were easier parried than a sword-thrust, methinks;
and that I have hitherto escaped."
"Let us be gone speedily. I like not yon angry star spying out our
path through these wilds."
"Thou didst use to laugh at my superstitions; but thine own, I guess,
are too chary to be meddled with."
"Laugh at me an' thou wilt," said Harrington: "when Master Lilly cast
my horoscope he bade me ever to eschew travel when Mars comes to his
southing, conjunct with the Pleiades, at midnight--the hour of my
birth. Last night, as I looked out from where I lay at Preston,
methought the red warrior shot his spear athwart their soft
scintillating light; and as I gazed, his ray seemed to ride half-way
across the heavens. Again he is rising yonder."
"And his meridian will happen at midnight?"
"Even so," replied Harrington.
"Then gallop on. I'd rather make my supper with the fair dames at
Lydiate than in a mermaid's hall."
But their progress was a work of no slight difficulty, and even
danger. Occasionally plunging to the knees in a deep bog, then wading
to the girth in a hillock of sand and prickly bent grass (the _Arundo
arenaria_, so plentiful on these coasts), the horses were scarcely
able to keep their footing--yet were they still urged on. Every step
was expected to bring them within sight of some habitation.
"What is yonder glimmer to the left?" said Molyneux. "If it be that
hideous water again, it is verily pursuing us. I think I shall be
afraid of water as long as I live."
"As sure as Mahomet was a liar, and the Pope has excommunicated him
from Paradise, 'tis the same still, torpid, dead-like sea we ought to
have long since passed."
"Then have our demonstrations been in a circle, in place of a right
line, and we are fairly on our way back again."
Sure enough there was the same broad, still surface of the Meer,
though on the contrary side, mocking day's last glimmer in the west.
The bewildered travellers came to a full pause. They took counsel
together while they rested their beasts and their spur-rowels; but the
result was by no means satisfactory. One by one came out the glorious
throng above them, until the heavens grew light with living hosts, and
the stars seemed to pierce the sight, so vivid was their brightness.
"Yonder is a light, thank Heaven!" cried Harrington.
"And it is approaching, thank your stars!" said his companion. "I
durst not stir to meet it, through these perilous paths, if our
night's lodging depended on it."
The bearer of this welcome discovery was a kind-hearted fisherman, who
carried a blazing splinter of antediluvian firewood dug from the
neighbouring bog; a useful substitute for more expensive materials.
It appeared they were at a considerable distance from the right path,
or indeed from any path that could be travelled with safety, except by
daylight. He invited them to a lodging in a lone hut on the borders of
the lake, where he and his wife subsisted by eel-catching and other
precarious pursuits. The simplicity and openness of his manner
disarmed suspicion. The offer was accepted, and the benighted heroes
found themselves breathing fish-odours and turf-smoke for the night,
under a shed of the humblest construction. His family consisted of a
wife and one child only; but the strangers preferred a bed by the
turf-embers to the couch that was kindly offered them.
The cabin was built of the most simple and homely materials. The walls
were pebble-stones from the sea-beach, cemented with clay. The
roof-tree was the wreck of some unfortunate vessel stranded on the
coast. The whole was thatched with star-grass or sea-reed, blackened
with smoke and moisture.
"You are but scantily peopled hereabouts," said Harrington, for lack
of other converse.
"Why, ay," returned the peasant; "but it matters nought; our living is
mostly on the water."
"And it might be with more chance of company than on shore; we saw a
woman swimming or diving there not long ago."
"Have ye seen her?" inquired both man and dame with great alacrity.
"Seen whom?" returned the guest.
"The Meer-woman, as we call her."
"We saw a being, but of what nature we are ignorant, float and
disappear as suddenly as though she were an inhabitant of yon world of
waters."
"Thank mercy! Then she will be here anon."
Curiosity was roused, though it failed in procuring the desired
intelligence. She might be half-woman half-fish for aught they knew.
She always came from the water, and was very kind to them and the
babe. Such was the sum of the information; yet when they spoke of the
child there was evidently a sort of mystery and alarm, calculated to
awaken suspicion.
Harrington looked on the infant. It was on the woman's lap asleep,
smiling as it lay; and an image of more perfect loveliness and repose
he had never beheld. It might be about a twelvemonth old; but its
dress did not correspond with the squalid poverty by which it was
surrounded.
"Surely this poor innocent has not been stolen," thought he. The child
threw its little hands towards him as it awoke; and he could have
wept. Its short feeble wail had smitten him to the heart.
Suddenly they heard a low murmuring noise at the window.
"She is there," said the woman; "but she likes not the presence of
strangers. Get thee out to her, Martin, and persuade her to come in."
The man was absent for a short time. When he entered, his face
displayed as much astonishment as it was possible to cram into a
countenance so vacant.
"She says our lives were just now in danger; and that the child's
enemies are again in search; but she has put them on the wrong scent.
We must not tarry here any longer; we must remove, and that speedily.
But she would fain be told what is your business in these parts, if ye
are so disposed."
"Why truly," said Harrington, "our names and occupation need little
secrecy. We are idlers at present, and having kindred in the
neighbourhood, are on our way to the Irelands at Lydiate, as we before
told thee. Verily, there is but little of either favour or profit to
be had about court now-a-days. Nought better than to loiter in hall
and bower, and fling our swords in a lady's lap. But why does the
woman ask? Hath she some warning to us? or is there already a spy upon
our track?"
"I know not," said Martin; "but she seems mightily afeard o' the
child."
"If she will entrust the babe to our care," said Harrington, after a
long pause, "I will protect it. The shield of the Harringtons shall be
its safeguard."