there came a gentle knock at the hall-door. An aged domestic answered
the summons; but with a scream, she fled as from the face of an enemy.
A footstep was heard in the hall. Slowly it ascended the stairs. They
creaked and groaned, every step seeming to strike with a cold shudder
to the heart. They verily thought that the house was beset by a whole
squadron of infernals, who had sent a messenger for the body of their
mistress. The tramp of the mysterious visitor was heard in the
death-chamber. Moans and bewailings were distinctly audible; and
Mause, who was in the room, came down with a face colourless and wan,
as though she had seen a ghost. She could not articulate, save one
harrowing word--
"William!" she cried, and pointed upwards. Seven years ago had he been
drowned, according to general belief, one fearful night, in crossing
the river by Bromiley or Brunckerley hippin-stones. Nephew and
heir-presumptive to the lady of Waddow, he had left his home that
evening writhing under her malediction; for he had in an evil hour, as
she thought, formed a base-born attachment to an orphan living with
Gaffer Wiswall, and generally looked upon as his daughter. It was this
curse which clave like a band of iron about the breast of the proud
dame of Waddow; for, in the morning light, when there came news to the
hall that he had been seen swept down by the ravening flood--perishing
without hope of succour--she sat as though stupefied, without a murmur
or a tear, and her stricken heart knew not this world's gladness
again. Solitary and friendless, this fair creation seemed blotted out,
and she became fretful and morose. All her earthly hopes were centred
in this boy, the offspring of a sister, and they were for ever gone!
Mause only had the privilege of addressing her without a special
interrogation. The appearance, or it might be, the apparition of her
beloved nephew, seemed again to open the sluices of feeling and
affection; to soften and subdue the harshness that encrusted her
disposition; but it was only the forerunner of an eternal change--the
herald of that inexorable tyrant, Death!
Darkness was fast gathering about them; but the whole household were
huddled together in the kitchen, none daring to venture forth to their
occupations. A long hour it seemed, while every moment they were
expecting some further visitation. The fire was nigh extinguished, for
who durst fetch the billet from the stack? The conversation, if such
might be called the brief and scanty form of their communications, was
kept up in a sort of tremulous whisper, every one being frightened at
the sound of his own voice. How long this state of things might have
lasted we know not, inasmuch as the terrible footsteps were again
heard upon the stairs--the same slow and solemn tread. They heard its
descent into the hall. It became louder, and the fearful vision was
evidently approaching. The sound was now in the narrow passage close
to them. The next moment a form was presented to their view, carrying
a taper, and recognised by the major part of the group; it being the
very semblance of their deceased "young master," as he was generally
called, changed, it was true, but still sufficiently like him, when
living, to be distinguished from any other. One loud cry announced
their discovery of the phantom.
"Why tarry here?" said the intruder. "Yonder corse hath need of the
death lights;" and with that he disappeared. Yet, however needful it
was that the usual offices should be rendered to the departed, there
was no one bold enough to perform the duty. Nevertheless the lights
were kindled by some invisible hand in the lady's chamber that night;
and, by whomsoever the office was fulfilled, the corpse was not
without a watcher, and a faithful one, till daylight came softly on
the couch, driving away the darkness and the apprehensions it
excited.
It was past midnight ere the domestics retired to rest, or rather to
their chambers; so fearful were they of another visit that, by a
little care and management, they contrived so that none should be left
alone till morning arose before them, bright and cheerful,
dissipating, in some measure, their former terrors.
Softly and cheerily broke that morning sun upon the frosty and
embossed panes of Gaffer Wiswall's dwelling; but the light brought no
cheer, no solace unto him. The old man was now a withered, a sapless
trunk, stripped of the green verdure which had lately bloomed on its
hoary summit. His daughter, as he loved to call her--and he had almost
cheated himself into the belief--was ravished from him, and the staff
of his declining years had perished.
He was sitting moody and disconsolate, and, like the bereaved mother
in Israel, "refusing to be comforted," when a stranger entered, and,
without speaking, seated himself by the broad ingle, opposite the
goodman, who was looking listlessly forth into the blazing faggots,
but without either aim or discernment. The intruder was wrapped in a
dark military cloak; his hat drawn warily over his forehead,
concealing his features beneath the broad and almost impervious
shadow.
Wiswall awoke from his study, and with a curious eye, seemed silently
to ask the will and business of the stranger; but he spoke not. The
old man, surveying his guest more minutely, inquired--
"Be ye far ridden this morning, Sir Cavalier?"
"Not farther than one might stride ere breakfast," was the reply, but
in a low, and, it seemed, a hasty tone, as though impatient of being
questioned, and preferring to remain unnoticed.
The tapster's instincts were still in operation. With the true spirit
of his calling, he inquired--
"From the army, sir?"
"Ay, from the Grand Turk, an' thou wilt."
"The king, they say, hath a fairer word for the dames than for those
stout hearts who won him his crown," said the victualler, seemingly
conversant in the common rumours that were abroad. "The sparks about
court," continued he, "do ruffle it bravely among the buxom dames and
their beauteous"----Here his daughter's bright image came suddenly
upon his recollection, and the old man wept.
"Why dost weep, old man?" inquired his guest.
"Alas! I had a daughter once, a match fit for the bravest galliard
that sun e'er shown upon. She was the wonder and dismay of all that
looked on her. She loved a soldier dearly, and her mouth would purse
and play, and her eye would glisten at a cap and plume; and yet the
veriest prude in all Christendom was not more discreet."
"Mayhap her sweetheart was a soldier, and abroad at the wars; so that
these were but the outgoings of hope and expectation for his return."
"Her sweetheart, marry! she had once--but--he was ta'en from us. The
young heir of Waddow, as we always called him, at the hall yonder, was
her true love; but one night, seven long bitter years back, the flood
swept him away: we never saw him again, but Isabel's hope was for ever
blighted!"
"And the body--was it not found?"
"Nay, for the current was swift, and bore him hence. The demon--she
hath ta'en mine, as the next dainty morsel for her ravening appetite."
"'Tis seven years since I first sought my fortune as a soldier. I
served my king faithfully. With him I went into exile. He hath
returned, and here I come to redeem my pledge."
The stranger threw off his cloak, and the astonished and almost
incredulous tapster beheld the nephew of the dame now heir to the
inheritance of Waddow.
"Though swept rapidly down the stream on that dreadful night when I
fled, heedlessly fled, from the denunciations of her who had supplied
a parent's place from my infancy, I escaped, almost by a miracle, at a
considerable distance below the ford, where I attempted to cross; yet,
knowing her inflexible disposition--for she had threatened to leave me
penniless--I resolved to seek my fortune as a soldier until I should
be enabled to wed with better prospects for the future. I contrived to
assure Isabel of my safety, but I strictly enjoined secrecy. I was not
without hope that one day or another, appearing as though I had risen
from the dead, I should win a reluctant consent, it might be, to our
union. A long exile was the only recompense for my loyalty. The
restoration hath rendered me back, and I have redeemed my pledge. At
my urgent entreaty the other night, the first of my return, she
accompanied me, and we have plighted our vows at the same altar. I
took her privily to my former home. Knowing a secret entrance to the
chamber where the image is deposited, I concealed her there, safe, as
I thought, from molestation, until I had won the consent of her who
was my only friend. To my horror and surprise she discovered me there,
and the screams of Isabel had nigh betrayed her presence; but it was
evident she thought the grave had given back its dead. I could not
then undeceive her, and when I returned she was a corpse! Dying
without will, I am now the lawful heir to yon good inheritance, and
Isabel is the proud mistress of Waddow!"
This unlooked-for intelligence was almost overwhelming; the old man's
frame seemed hardly able to bear the disclosure. He wept like a child;
but the overflow of his joy relieved the oppressed heart, full even to
bursting.
Yet Peggy was not without a sacrifice, according to popular belief,
which sacrifice was offered in the person of the late defunct at
Waddow. Indeed, according to some, it were an act of unbelief and
impiety to suppose any other, and only to be equalled by that of the
attack made by this resolute dame upon Peggy's representative--an
outrage she so dearly atoned for by her own death.
The headless trunk was, however, removed some years afterwards to its
present site by the brink of "the Well," where, having fallen upon
evil and unbelieving times, it is desecrated to the profane uses of a
resting-place for cans unto the merry maidens who come thither at
morning and eventide to draw water.
Many are the victims now recorded to the capricious malevolence of
Peggy; and though deprived of her domicile at Waddow, still her
visitations are not the less frequent; and whether a stray kitten or
an unfortunate chick be the sufferer, the same is deemed a victim and
a sacrifice to the wrath of Peggy's _manes_.
[Illustration: ULVERSTONE SANDS.
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._
_Drawn by G. Pickering._]
THE SANDS.
"It is the shout of the coming foe,
Ride, ride for thy life, Sir John;
But still the waters deeper grew,
The wild sea-foam rushed on."
--_Old Ballad._
The following account of an excursion over the sands, from Mr
Baines's _Companion to the Lakes_, will give a very accurate
idea of the mode in which travellers accomplish this
interesting, though sometimes perilous journey, over the bare
sands of the Bay of Morecambe. Taking a horse at Lancaster, and
setting out at the same time with the "Over-sands" coach, he
says--
"We arrived at Hest Bank, on the shores of Morecambe Bay, three
miles and a half from Lancaster, about five in the afternoon.
Here a little caravan was collected, waiting the proper time to
cross the trackless sands left bare by the receding tide. I soon
saw two persons set out in a gig, and, following them, I found
that one of them was the guide appointed to conduct travellers,
and the other a servant who was driving his master's gig to the
Cartmel shore, and was to return with the horse the same
evening. He had of course no time to lose, and had begun his
journey at the earliest possible hour. We found the sands firm
and level, except the slight wrinkles produced by the ripple of
the waves; but they were still wet, having only just been left
by the sea. The guide appeared to drive with caution, and in no
place went farther than a mile from land. We had a good deal of
conversation, and I found him intelligent and communicative. His
name is Thomas Wilkinson. He is a tall, athletic man, past the
middle age, and bears marks of the rough weather he has been
exposed to in discharging the duties of his post during the
winter months. In stormy, and more especially in foggy weather,
those duties must be arduous and anxious. It is his business to
station himself at the place where the river Keer runs over the
sands to the sea, which is about three miles from Hest Bank, and
to show travellers where they may pass with safety. The bed of
the river is liable to frequent changes, and a fresh of water
after rain may, in a very short time, convert a fordable place
into a quicksand. When we came to the river, he got out of the
gig, and waded over to ascertain the firmness of the bottom, the
water being about knee-deep. Having escorted us a little
farther, till we saw the guide for the Kent at a distance, and
having pointed out the line we should keep, he left us to
return to his proper post. We gave him, as is usual, a few
pence; for though he is appointed by government, his salary is
only L10 a-year, and he is, of course, chiefly dependent on what
he receives from travellers.
"These sands are called the Lancaster Sands, and the guide said
that they were at present eleven miles over, from Hest Bank to
Kent's Bank, but that he had known them when he could pass
directly over in not more than seven miles. The tide forms a
channel in the sand, which has been gradually coming nearer the
shore for some years past, and has obliged persons crossing to
take a longer circuit. It was now the spring-tide, and the
sands we were travelling upon would, at high-water, be
seventeen feet below the surface of the sea.
"The day was exceedingly fine, and the prospects, in crossing
over the sands, were splendid. The whole coast of the bay, from
Peel Castle round to the shore beyond Lancaster; the stern
crags of Warton and Arnside Fells, on the right; farther
eastward, the well-known form of Ingleborough, whose broad
head, not apparently of very great elevation, is still visible
from every considerable hill in Lancashire, Westmoreland, and
Cumberland, and seems to lift itself in serene and unchanging
majesty over the neighbouring hills; the broken and picturesque
shores of the Kent, beautifully wooded, and forming a vista to
the eye;--the fells of Cartmel, rising in the mid-distance,
their sides hung with forests, and several ornamental parks
lying round their base; and above, and far beyond them, the
noble chain of the Westmoreland and Cumberland mountains, whose
lofty summits, clothed with light, formed a sublime barrier
stretching along the northern horizon. Such are the principal
features of a prospect which is not the less beautiful because
it rises from the level expanse of the sands, and which was to
me the more interesting from the novelty of my own situation.
"The Ulverstone coach, several gigs, and some persons on
horseback, had followed us at a little distance, keeping the
track left by the wheels of the vehicle which conveyed the
guide. When Wilkinson left us, we rode on two or three miles
before we came to the channel of the Kent, and there we found a
guide on horseback, who had just forded the river from the
opposite side. The guide stationed here has long gone by the
name of the Carter, and it is difficult to say whether the
office has been so called from the family in which it has been
vested, or the family have assumed their official title as a
cognomen; but it is certain that for many ages the duties of
guide over the Lancaster Sands have been performed by a family
named Carter, and have descended from father to son. The
present possessor of the office is named James Carter, and has
lately succeeded his father. He told me that some persons said
the office of guide had been in his family five hundred years,
but he did not know how anybody could tell that; and all he
could say was, that they had held it 'for many grandfathers
back, longer than anyone knew.' The salary was only L10 a-year
till his father's time, when it was raised to L20; yet I should
suppose that the office is a rather productive one, as the family
have accumulated some property.
"The Carter seems a cheerful and pleasant fellow. He wore a
rough greatcoat and a pair of jack-boots, and was mounted on a
good horse, which appeared to have been up to the ribs in the
water. When we came to him, he recommended us to wait till the
arrival of the coach, which was nearly a mile distant, as the
tide would then be gone farther out. I asked if there had been
any accidents in this place lately; to which he replied, that
some boys were drowned two years ago, having attempted to pass
when the tide was up, in defiance of warnings; but that, with
that exception, there had not been any accidents for a
considerable time. When the coach came up we took the water in
procession, and crossed two channels, in one of which the water
was up to the horses' bellies. The coach passed over without
the least difficulty, being drawn by fine tall horses. Arrived
at the other side, the man of high genealogy received our
gratuities, and we rode on, keeping close to a line of rods
which have been planted in the sand to indicate the track, and
which have remained there for many months. We shortly met the
coach from Ulverstone, and several other vehicles, and as we
proceeded the views of the estuary and the distant mountains
became still more beautiful and interesting. Three or four
miles brought us to Kent's Bank, on the Cartmel shore. I infer
that the river is not fordable for any long period, as the
guide told the servant whom I have mentioned that he must
return in an hour if he wished to pass over again that evening.
"The peninsula formed by the Kent and the Leven is three miles
over; and, after passing it, I came to the latter river, the
sands of which are of the same breadth, and must be crossed to
reach Ulverstone."
These sands are reckoned more dangerous than the former, as the
channel of the river is frequently shifted.
It is safest to cross at spring-tides; the water then is more
completely drained out, and the force of the tide sweeps the
bottom clean from mud and sediment.
Here another guide on horseback escorts travellers over.
The views up the Leven are fully as picturesque, though not
quite so extensive, as those at the mouth of the Kent. A bold,
woody promontory, seen in our engraving, projects into the
river at the mouth of the ford, narrowing it to less than half
the breadth. The two ridges of the Cartmel and Ulverstone
Fells, the former clothed with wood and the latter with
verdure, run up inland, and carry the eye back to the
mountains, round the head of Coniston Water and Windermere. On
the Ulverstone shore, to the left of the town, are the grounds
of Conishead Priory, which adorn with their rich woods and
lawns the gently-waving side of the hill; and the mouth of the
Leven opens out to the Bay of Morecambe, the shores of which
are visible to a great extent.
The sands forming the Bay of Morecambe, covered by the sea at high
water, are crossed every day by travellers whose time or inclination
leads them to choose this route rather than one more circuitous, and
nearly thrice the distance, inland. Yet the sands are by no means
without danger, especially to the uncautious or unwary. Scarcely a
year passes without some loss of lives, generally owing to the
obstinacy or foolhardiness of the victims. Guides are appointed to
conduct strangers across this trackless waste, whose duty it is to
examine daily, on the receding of the tide, the several routes by
which passengers may accomplish their journey. The places where danger
is to be apprehended are the fordings of the several rivers or
watercourses, which, even when the sands are bare, still pour forth a
considerable stream to the ocean. These fords are continually changing
by reason of the shifting of the sands, so that one day's path may on
the morrow prove a dangerous and impassable quicksand.
The principal guide has a small annuity from government, and is
obliged, in all weathers, to perform this disagreeable but
highly-important duty. The priory of Conishead was charged with this
office over the Leven or Ulverstone sands, and the guide whom they
appointed, besides perquisites, had an allotment of three acres of
land, with fifteen marks per annum. Henry the Eighth, on the
dissolution of the monasteries, charged himself and his successors
with the payment of a certain sum to the person that should be guide
for the time being, by patent under the seal of the duchy of
Lancaster. Such was the importance and the idea of danger attached to
this journey, that on a little rocky island midway between the shores
of Cartmel and Furness, there stood a small chapel or oratory built by
the monks of Furness, where prayers were daily offered for the safety
of travellers then occupied in this perilous attempt. Yet these,
called the Ulverstone sands, are scarcely more than three miles
across, whilst the well-known Lancaster sands are nine miles, from the
circuitous line of the track, though it is said that the shorter
passage is the more dangerous. That the longer journey is not
unattended with risk may be inferred from the accidents which have
occurred, as well as from the fact, that carriages are sometimes left
to the mercy of the coming tide, the passengers making their escape in
the best manner they are able.
Our tale hath reference to one of these perilous adventures, long
years ago; and as neither plot nor story is evolved, the reader is
warned, if he so please, that he leave the few following pages unread,
unless he be of a temper not liable to suffer disappointment thereby.
The night was beautifully calm: the moon just sinking upon the verge
of the distant waters, where the Bay of Morecambe, the great estuary
so called, according to some authorities, by Ptolemy, opens out into
the broad channel of the Irish Sea.
The stars shone down, keen, bright, and piercing,--"fixed in their
everlasting seat,"--ever presenting the same aspect, the same order
and disposition, through all the changes of this changing and mutable
world. The scene was peculiarly inviting--so calm, so placid, the
whole wide and visible hemisphere was without a blot. Nature, like a
deceitful mistress, looked so hypocritically serene, that her face
might never have been darkened with a cloud or furrowed by a frown. So
winning was she withal, that, though the veriest shrew, and all
untamed and ungovernable in her habits and conditions, this night she
became hushed and gentle as the soothed infant in its repose.
The same night came down to the Kent side, intending to set out on
their perilous march over the sands of the bay, divers travellers,
well mounted for the occasion. Yet were their steeds much harassed,
weltering in mud and foam, by reason that their journey had been both
long and hasty, and their business urgent, nor were they yet without
apprehension of pursuit. They looked wistfully down towards the west,
where the moon hung over the ocean's brim, a red ensanguined crescent,
as if about to dip her golden bowl into the raging deep, or mayhap to
launch her glittering bark on that perilous tide. For, in good sooth,
the travellers on that same day, having forded the estuaries of the
Duddon and the Leven, were barely in time for their passage across the
sands of the Kent, their destination being the tower of Arnside,
standing on a round rocky peninsula, little more than two miles from
their present station. Yet was the way perilous, though they had time
sufficient for their purpose. The river Kent, or Ken, which, when the
tide hath receded from the bay, followeth often at a considerable
depth and speed, was at this period much swollen by reason of the late
swells and freshes from the hills. Moreover, the tide would ere long
press back the waters towards their source, and but few hours should
elapse ere the ocean itself would roll over and obliterate every trace
of their intended path. Yet though sure and undeviating was the peril
before them, another more imminent and perchance not less remote,
awaited them from behind. They were pursued. Hot and hasty was the
chase, and their blood alone would slake the vengeance of their
adversaries.
Pausing ere the first plash was heard in the heavy sands beneath the
shore, the foremost horseman of the party thus held discourse. Those
that followed were likewise armed, and to all appearance were
followers or retainers of the chief, who had been with them upon some
foray or predatory excursion.
"We are between fire and water, I trow; but what of that? We must e'en
cross."