tempting devices. He strode rapidly up the path, and paused not until
he approached the cliff where the agony of one short hour had left its
deep furrows for ever on his memory.
The incidents of that memorable day were then renewed with such
vividness that, on a sudden, writhing and dismayed, he hurried forward
in the vain hope, it might seem, of flying from the anguish he could
not control.
A dark plain stone house stood at no great distance, and hither his
footsteps were now directed. A little gate opened into a gravel walk
sweeping round an oval grass plat before the door. He leaned upon the
wicket, as though hesitating to enter. By this time the moon rode high
and clear above the mist which was yet slumbering on the ocean. She
came forth gloriously, without a shadow or a cloud. The wide
hemisphere was unveiled, but its bright orbs were softened by her
gaze. The shadows, broad and distinct, lay projected on a slight
hoar-frost, where a thousand splendours and a thousand crystals hung
in the cold and dewy beam. Bright, tranquil, and unruffled was the
world around him--but the world within was dark and turbulent--tossed,
agitated, and overwhelmed by the deep untold anguish of the spirit.
The tyrant sway of the passions, like some desolating invader, can
make a paradise into a desert, and the fruitful places into a
wilderness. How different to Mortimer would have been the scene viewed
through another medium! His soul was ardent, devoted, full of high and
glorious imaginings; but a blight was on them all, and they became
chill and decayed--an uninformed mass, without aim or vitality.
He was afraid to proceed, lest his worst suspicions might be
confirmed. He had heard----But we will not anticipate the sequel.
A loud barking announced the presence of an intruder, but the
sagacious animal, when he had carefully snuffed out a recognition,
fawned and whined upon him, running round and round towards the house,
with gambols frolicsome and extravagant enough to have excited the
smiles of any human being but Mortimer.
As he approached he heard a soft, faint melody from within. It was her
voice;--he could not be mistaken, though years had passed by;--though
the dull tide of oblivion had effaced many an intervening record from
the tablet of his memory, those tones yet vibrated to his soul. His
heart thrilled to their impression like two finely-modulated strings,
which produce a corresponding sympathy upon each other. He listened,
almost breathless. The recollection came like a track of fire across
his brain. Memory! how glorious, how terrible art thou! With the wand
of the enchanter thou canst change every current of feeling into joy
or woe. The same agency--nay, the same object--shall awaken the most
opposite emotions. The simplest forms and the subtlest agents are
alike to thee. Nature seems fashioned at thy will, and her attributes
are but the instruments of thy power.
The melody that he heard was a wild and mournful ballad which he had
once given to Adeline, when the hours flew on, sparkling with delight,
and--she had not forgotten him!
The thought was too thrilling to endure. His brain throbbed with
ecstacy. Unable to restrain his impatience, he applied hastily to the
door. Such was the excitement under which he laboured that the very
sound made him start back: it struck so chilly on his heart. Then came
an interval of harrowing suspense. He shuddered when he heard the
approaching footsteps, and could with difficulty address the servant
who stood inquiring his errand.
"Is--is Adeline within?"
The menial silently surveyed the inquirer, as though doubtful in what
manner to reply, ere he answered--
"My mistress is at home, sir."
Mortimer stepped into the hall. The servant threw open the door
announcing his name, and Mortimer was in the presence of Adeline.
The meeting was too sudden for preliminary forms and courtesies. There
was no time for preparation. The blow was struck, and a thousand idle
inquiries were perhaps saved; but Adeline, after one short gaze of
astonishment and dismay, covered her face; a low groan escaped her,
and she threw herself convulsively on the chair.
Mortimer hastened to her relief, but she shrank from his touch. She
spoke not; her anguish was beyond utterance.
"Adeline!"
She shuddered as though the sound once more awakened the slumbering
echoes of memory.
"Leave me, Mortimer," she cried. "I must not"----
"Leave thee!" it was repeated in a tone that no words can describe.
Inquiry, apprehension, were depicted in his look as if existence hung
on a word; while a pause followed, compared with which the rack were a
bed of roses. The silence was too harrowing to sustain.
"And why? I know it all now," cried the unhappy Mortimer; and the
broad impress of despair was upon his brow, legibly, indelibly
written.
"I am here to redeem my pledge; and thou! O Adeline! Why--why? Say how
is my trust requited? Were long years too, too long, to await my
return? I have not had a thought thou hast not shared. And yet thou
dost withhold thy troth!"
"It is plighted!"
"To whom?"
"To my husband?"
Though anticipating the reply, the words went like an arrow to his
heart. We will not describe the separation. With unusual speed he
descended the path towards the village. He rushed past the cleft with
averted looks, fearful that he might be tempted to leap the gulf. He
entered the tavern; but so changed in manner and appearance that his
companions, fearful that his senses were disordered, earnestly
besought him to take some rest and refreshment.
In the end he was persuaded to retire to bed. But ere long fever and
delirium had seized him; and in the morning he was pronounced by a
medical attendant to be in extreme danger, requiring the interposition
of rest and skill to effect his cure.
* * * * *
It was in the cold and heavy mist of a December evening that a female
was seated upon the tall cliff above the chasm we have described. As
the solitary gull came wheeling around her, she spoke to it with great
eagerness and gesticulation.
"Leave me--leave me!" she cried. "I must not now. Poor wanderer! art
thou gone?" With an expression of the deepest bitterness and
disappointment, she continued, "Why, oh, why didst thou take back thy
pledge? Nay, it is here still; but--alas! 'tis broken. Broken!" and a
scream so wild and pitiful escaped her, it was like the last agony of
the spirit when riven from its shrine. Her hair wet with the drizzly
atmosphere hung about her face. She suddenly threw it aside, as if
listening.
"'Tis he! Again he comes. My--no, no; he _was_ my lover! I have none
now. I have a husband; but--he is unkind. Alas! why am I thus? I feel
it! O merciful Heaven! my brain leaps; but I am not--indeed I am not
mad!"
Saying this, she bounded down the cliff into the path she had left,
with surprising swiftness. Returning, she was met by her husband, with
two servants, who were in search. He chid her harshly--brutally. He
threatened--ay, he threatened restraint. She heard this; but he saw
not the deep and inflexible purpose she had formed. Horror at the
apprehension of confinement, which, in calmer intervals, she dreaded
worse than death, prompted her to use every artifice to aid her
escape. She was now calm and obedient, murmuring not at the temporary
attendance to which she was subjected. She sought not the cliff and
the deep chasm; but would sit for hours upon the shore, looking over
the calm sea, with a look as calm and as deceitful.
Vigilance became relaxed; apprehension was lulled; she was again left
to herself, and again she stole towards the cliff. Like to some guilty
thing, she crept onward, often looking back lest she should be
observed. Having attired herself with more than ordinary care, before
leaving her chamber she unlocked an ivory casket with great caution,
taking thence a ring, which she carefully disposed on her forefinger.
She looked with so intense a gaze upon this pledge--for it was the
pledge of Mortimer--that she seemed to be watching its capricious
glance, like the eye of destiny, as if her fate were revealed in its
beautiful and mystic light.
Sunset was near as she approached the cliff. She paused where the
chasm opened out its deep vista upon the waters. They were now
sparkling in the crimson flush from a sky more than usually brilliant.
Both sky and ocean were blent in one; the purple beam ran out so pure
along the waves, that every billow might now be seen, every path and
furrow of the deep.
Adeline climbed over the rail. She stood on that extreme verge, so
fearful and abrupt that it might have rendered dizzy a stouter head
than her own.
"This night are we married, Mortimer. The _ring_ and the _cliff_!"
The ring at this moment shot forth a tremulous brightness; probably
from participation with the glowing hues by which it was surrounded.
"The genii of that ring--said he not so?--they will bear me to him.
Our couch is decked, and the bridal hymn----Hark!"
It was only the sound from some passing skiff that crept along the
waters, but Adeline thought she heard the voice of her lover.
"He calls me; when will he return?"
She looked anxiously on the ring, as though expecting a reply; but she
saw its bright hues diminish, and gradually grow dim in the dull grey
light which displaced the gaudy sunset.
"Oh, why art thou gone so soon?" Her heart seemed full, as though in
the very agony of separation.
"I must away. His bark is on the deep; and he will not return."
She buried her head in her lap, and wept. But suddenly she started up;
she looked on the distant wave as though she beheld some object
approaching. She again climbed upon the rail, and gazed eagerly
through the twilight on the billows, now foaming back in triumph with
the returning tide. Her features were yet beautiful, though wasted by
disease; and as she gazed, a smile, rapturous and bright, passed over,
like a sunbeam on the dark billows. She waved her hand.
"I have waited for thee. Bear me hence. Haste! Oh, haste! They are
here."
She listened. Her countenance grew more pale and agitated. Voices were
heard, and footsteps evidently approaching. She recognised the hated
sound of her pursuers. Agony and despair were thy last ministers,
unhappy victim! She wrapped her cloak closer to her form, and, with
one wild and appalling shriek, leaped that dizzy height, by the foot
of which her mangled remains were shortly discovered.
* * * * *
In the family of ---- is a ring, taken from the finger of a female
ancestor of the house who leaped from "_The Lady's Cliff_,"--for such
it continues to be called; and it is still said to be haunted by her
spirit. The ring was found uninjured, save by a crack through the rim,
where it seems bent by a sudden stroke. Superstition attaches strange
stories to this relic. True enough, at times it appears almost gifted
with intelligence; though perhaps the answer, intimated by the
brilliancy or dimness of the stone, may often be construed according
to the thoughts or wishes of the inquirer. It is kept in a little
ivory box, and preserved with great care. It is said there never was a
question propounded to this oracle--if done with a proper spirit, with
a due and devout reverence, and a reliance on its wondrous
efficacy--but the ring, by its brightness or its gloom, shadowed forth
the good or evil destiny of the querent.
Mortimer recovered. In this village, many years afterwards, lived an
old man, whose daily walk was to the cliff. From that height he would
gaze until the last hue of evening died upon the waves. He then
returned, with a vacant and down-cast look, sad and solitary, to his
dwelling. He was buried there in the churchyard; and a plain-looking
stone, with the initials C. M., still marks the spot called THE
STRANGER'S GRAVE.
[16] Many a fertile acre has been covered with
sand and rendered useless which might have been preserved by
sowing on its confines the seeds of this plant. The Dutch have
profited by a knowledge of its efficacy; Queen Elizabeth
prohibited the extirpation of it. As soon as it takes root a
sandhill gathers round it; so that wherever it is planted it
gives a peculiar character to the coast. This grass or reed is
manufactured into mats, baskets, &c. A legislative enactment,
however, in 1742, was issued for its preservation. The Scottish
Parliament likewise protected it, together with _Elymus
arenarius_, or upright sea-lyme grass.
[Illustration: THE DEAD MAN'S HAND]
THE DEAD MAN'S HAND.
"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of grey,
Thy own true love appears."
--PERCY'S _Reliques_.
Bryn Hall, the scene or rather the solution, of the following
tradition, is now demolished. It was the ancient seat of the
Gerards, by virtue of marriage between William Gerard, about
the year 1280, with the daughter and sole heir of Peter de
Bryn. It was built in a quadrangular form with a spacious
courtyard, to which admittance was gained by a narrow bridge
over the moat surrounding the whole fabric. The gatehouse was
secured by massy doors well studded with iron; a
curiously-carved porch led to the great hall, where, on the
chimney-piece, were displayed the arms of England, not older
than the reign of James I. A railed gallery ran along one side,
on which persons might stand to observe the entertainments
below without mingling in them. It was supported by double
pillars in front of pilasters, forming arches between,
profusely ornamented by rich carved work. Most of these
decorations, together with the carved wainscots, were taken to
embellish Garswood Hall, near Ashton, a few miles distant,
where the family resided after their removal.
In the windows were some armorial bearings of painted glass, the
first quarterings beginning with the Leighs of Lyme, instead of
Gerard or Bryn, as might have been expected. Here was a Roman
Catholic chapel, and a priest who continued long after the
family had departed, having in his custody the hand mentioned
in the following pages. It is still kept by them, or rather by
the priest, who now resides at Garswood. Preserved with great
care in a white silk bag, it is still resorted to by many
diseased persons, and wonderful cures are said to have been
wrought by this saintly relic. It is called the Hand of Father
Arrowsmith--a priest who is said to have been put to death at
Lancaster for his religion in the time of William III. When
about to suffer, he desired his spiritual attendant to cut off
his right hand, which should then have the power to work
miraculous cures on those who had faith to believe in its
efficacy. Not many years ago, a female, sick of the smallpox,
had it lying in bed with her every night for six weeks, in order
to effect her recovery, which took place. A poor lad, living in
Withy Grove, Manchester, afflicted with scrofulous sores, was
rubbed with it; and though it has been said he was miraculously
restored, yet, upon inquiry, the assertion was found incorrect,
inasmuch as he died in about a fortnight after the operation.
Not less devoid of truth is the tradition that Arrowsmith was
hanged for witnessing a good confession. Having been found
guilty of a misdemeanour, in all probability this story of his
martyrdom and miraculous attestation to the truth of the cause
for which he suffered was contrived for the purpose of
preventing the scandal that might have come upon the Church
through the delinquency of an unworthy member.
One of the family of the Kenyons attended as under-sheriff at
the execution; and it is said that he refused the culprit some
trifling favour at the gallows, whereupon Arrowsmith denounced
a curse upon him--to wit, that whilst the family could boast of
an heir, so long they should never want a cripple: which
prediction was supposed by the credulous to have been literally
fulfilled.
What a strange and appalling history would be that of superstition!
how humiliating, how degrading to the boasted dignity of our nature!
In all ages this teeming source of error has yielded abundantly all
varieties of phantasms--the sublime, the solemn, the horrible, and the
ridiculous--a mildew, a blight, on the fairest blossoms of truth; an
excrescence; a coat of rust, which eateth as a canker, and makes
religion, which was given as a blessing and a boon to our perishing
race, a burden and a curse. And yet neither good nor evil is unmixed.
Such is the nature even of our most baneful impressions that instances
do arise where good may come from so corrupt a source. The connection
between material and immaterial, between mind and matter, so operates,
that sometimes, and in proportion to the strength of the impression, a
change is wrought by the mere control of the mind over the bodily
functions.
To this operation may be ascribed the wonder-workings of these latter
days. We do not question the effects thereby produced; but totally,
unhesitatingly, deny the cause. Imagination at times doth so usurp the
mastery over the animal and bodily faculties, that she has been known
to suspend their ordinary processes, and to render the frame
insensible even to the attacks of pain itself.
In one of the northern divisions of the county--we know not the
precise situation, nor is it needful to our purpose that we
inquire--there dwelt a comely maiden, who, at a period of little more
than twenty summers from her birth, found herself in the undisturbed
possession, if not enjoyment, of an abundant income, with a domain of
more than ordinary fertility and extent. Her parents dying during the
period of her youth, she, as the only offshoot of the family, held her
dominion uncontrolled. That the possessor of such an abundant stock of
liberty should wish to wear a chain is verily a marvel not easily
resolved. But so it was; and she seemed never so well pleased as when
the links were firmly riveted. The forging of this invisible chain was
a work performed in secret. She felt her thrall, but she sighed not to
be free! For, alas! a grievous malady had seized her. The light of her
eyes--a brisk and winning gallant, in the shape of a male cousin--had
departed. He went out to the wars, as was reported, and Ellen refused
to be comforted. He knew not, peradventure, of her liking towards him.
He was of a different creed, moreover--a Catholic--and she had, in the
sovereignty of her caprice, treated him with something of
petulance--he thought scorn. What a misfortune, that two fond hearts
should have wanted an interpreter!
She sat one evening in her bed-chamber, and Bridget her maid, a little
Roman Catholic orphan, who had served her from a child, was busily
engaged in preparing her mistress for the night's repose. Now Bridget
was a zealous believer in saints, miracles, and the like; and Ellen
would often disport herself gently on the subject.
"I wish I could believe in thy legends and thy saints' gear; it would
verily be a comfortable disposition of my thoughts in all extremity to
have a hope of a special interference."
"And why not?" said Bridget, who confessed thrice a-year, and knew the
marvellous histories of a dozen saints by rote.
"Because," said her mistress, "I did not imbibe thy faith with my
mother's milk as thou hast done. 'Tis part of thy very nature, wench;
and thou couldst not but act in conformity thereto."
"There have we the better of our birthright. But, nevertheless, those
who repent and turn to the true faith have the same privileges; yet it
is hard, as well it may be, to bend their stubborn nature to this
belief. How comfortable to have one's sins struck from the calendar,
and to know that we are holy again as a little child, besides ailments
of the body innumerable that are cured whenever we can bring our faith
to its full exercise!"
"Well, Bridget, if I were a good Catholic as now I am an unbeliever
and heretic, dost think that St Somebody, or whoever I might take a
fancy to for the purpose, would be propitiated by a few prayers and
genuflexions, and restore me to health and--and"----
She faltered in her speech; the banter died away on her lips; memory
gave a sudden twinge, and her heart grew dark under the dim cloud that
was passing over.
"I'd answer for it, if you were a good Catholic, that Father O'Leary
would cure you as readily as he did Davy Dean's sow, that went mad,
and bit her master."
"But seeing that I am neither a good Catholic nor even Davy Dean's
sow, is there a saint in the whole calendar would think it worth while
to work a miracle on such a wicked unbeliever as I am?"
"There's one way, as I've heard tell; that if ye take a sprig of St
John's wort, and say three _credos_ over it and a _paternoster_, and
lay it under your pillow, you shall dream of the remedy by which a
cure may be wrought."
Ellen did not immediately reply to this suggestion, for she thought
that no special revelation was needed to point out a remedy.
"I would give the world if I had it to know what my cousin William is
doing," said she in a musing fit, as though some sudden fancy had
crossed her.
"And why may you not?" said the ready-witted maid; "yea, as sure as St
Peter's at Rome, and that's not to be gainsaid either by Turk or
infidel."
"What, dost thou learn these crotchets in thy creed?" said Ellen.
"Nay," replied the other, "it is a bit of conjuration not enjoined by
the Church; a kind of left-handed intercourse which we get by stealth
from other guess-folk, I reckon, than the holy saints."
"Am I to dream of this too?"
"Why, nay; you may be wide awake for that matter; but you must just
take a phoenix feather in one hand, a cockatrice tooth in your mouth,
and breathe on the glass, when, as the breath departs, they say your
true love will appear therein."
"But he is not my true love, wench; and so I may not bind him with
such spell, mayhap."
"How know ye that, fair mistress?"
"Go to; thou dost wound and vex me with thy questions. Hath he not
been gone these five months, and never a word, good or bad, hath been
rendered to me? Nay, did he not, ere he went, so deport himself with
most cold and supercilious arrogance, and even with neglect and
disdain?"
"Because in your own bright self, lady, he had the first example; for
of all the gay sparks that fluttered about you there was never a one
o' them that had to endure such chilling looks and so haughty a
bearing as were usually reserved for him."
"Hold thy tongue; thou dost presume too much, methinks, upon thy
former freedoms, wench. I like not such unguarded speech."
Bridget was silent at this rebuke; and, whatever was uppermost in her
thoughts, no more was said that night.
The following days Ellen was much worse. The disease appeared to be
rapidly gaining strength, and the maiden seemed doomed to an early
grave.
"And isn't it a silly thing for one like you to die so soon?" said
Bridget; "I can ask for you, what I would not have the face to ask for
myself."
Ellen smiled. The hectic flush was apparently on her cheek; and the
fever that fed it was on her vitals; at least, so said the village
chroniclers by whom it was told.
What was the precise nature of the request that Bridget made the next
Sunday from her patron saint, we know not; but she seemed mightily
occupied therewith; and if ever there was faith in such an
intercessor, Bridget felt assured that her patron would intercede on
behalf of her mistress, though a heretic and unbeliever. But St
Bridget was told, in all likelihood, that Ellen must necessarily be a
convert to the true faith should a miracle be wrought in her favour.
The following morning Bridget was early at the bedside of her
mistress, with a countenance more than usually indicative of some
important communication. But Ellen was the first to break silence.
"I have had a strange dream last night."
"So I guessed," said Bridget, with a face of great importance; "and
what said the holy saint, my good kind patron?"
"Bless thy silly face, it was no woman saint that I saw."
Bridget looked sad and chop-fallen at this intimation; she was fearful
that her prayers were unheeded.
"There came, as I thought in my dream," said Ellen, "a long-robed
priest to my bedside."
"Sure enough, then, St Bridget--blessings on her wherever she
be!--sent him."