the burning brightness of the western horizon, and Grace Ashton
pointed out the beautiful but fleeting hues of the landscape around
them. Her companion, however, was engrossed by another object. Before
them was an eminence marking the horizon to the north-west, though not
more than a good bowshot from where they stood. Between this and
their present standing was a little grassy hollow, through which the
brook we have described trickled rather than ran, amidst moss and
rushes, rendering the ground swampy and unsafe. On this hill stood
"Robin Hood's coit-stones;" and on the largest, called the
"marking-stone," a wild-looking and haggard figure was crouched. Her
garments, worn and tattered, were of a dingy red; and her cap, or
_coiffure_ as it was then called, was of the same colour. Her head was
bent forward beyond the knee, as though she were listening towards
the ground, or was expecting the approach of the individuals who now
came suddenly, and to themselves unexpectedly, in view. Her figure, in
the glow of that rich autumnal sky, looked of the deepest crimson, and
of a bloody and portentous aspect.
"What strange apparition is yonder," said Gervase Buckley, "on the
hill-top there before us? Beshrew me, Grace, but it hath an evil and a
rancorous look."
But Grace, along with a short scream of surprise, betrayed, too, her
recognition of the object, and clung with such evident terror to her
companion that he turned from the object of his inquiries to gaze on
his mistress.
"What!" said he, "hath yonder unknown such power? Methinks it hath
moved thee strangely. Speak, Grace; can that hideous appearance in any
way be linked with our destiny?"
"I am ignorant as thou. But its coming, as I have heard, always
forebodes disaster to our house. Hast not heard of a Red Woman that
sometimes haunts this neighbourhood? I never saw her until now, but
I've heard strange and fearful stories of her appearing some years
ago, and blighting the corn, poisoning the cattle, with many other
diabolical witcheries. She is best known by the name of 'Mother
Red-Cap.'"
"I've heard of this same witch in my boyhood. But what should we fear?
She is flesh and blood like ourselves; and, in spite of the prevailing
belief, I could never suppose power would be granted to some,
generally the most wicked and the most worthless, which from the rest
of mankind is capriciously withholden."
"Hush, Gervase; thou knowest not how far the arch-enemy of mankind may
be permitted to afflict bodily our guilty race. I could tell thee such
tales of yonder creature as would stagger even the most stubborn of
unbelievers."
"I will speak to her, nevertheless. Tarry here, I prithee, Grace. It
were best I should go alone."
"Oh, do not--do not! None have sight of her, as I've heard, but
mischief follows. What disaster, then, may we not expect from her evil
tongue? I shudder at the anticipation. Stay here. I will not be left;
and I cannot cross this dangerous swamp."
Buckley was, however, bent on the adventure. His natural curiosity,
inflamed by forbidden longing after the occult and the mysterious, to
which he was too prone, even though sceptical as to their existence,
rendered him proof against his mistress' entreaties.
Probably from situation, or rather, it might be, the distance was
judged greater than in reality it proved, but the form before them
looked preternaturally enlarged, and as she raised her head her arms
were flung out high above it like withered and wasted branches on each
side. Trembling in every limb, Grace clung to her lover, and it was
after long persuasion that she suffered him to lift her over the
morass, and was dragged unwillingly up the hill. As though she were
the victim of some terrible fascination, her eyes were constantly
riveted on the object. A raven wheeled round them, every moment
narrowing the circle of its flight, and the malicious bird looked
eager for mischief.
As they approached nearer to the summit, this ill-omened thing, after
having brushed so close that they felt the very breath from its wings,
alighted beside the Red Woman, who hardly seemed to notice, though
well aware of their proximity.
They paused when several paces distant, and she rose up suddenly,
extending both arms, apparently to warn them from a nearer approach.
Her skinny lips, rapidly moving to and fro, and her dark withered,
bony, and cadaverous features, gave her more the appearance of a
living mummy or a resurrection from the charnel-house than aught
instinct with the common attributes of humanity.
Buckley was for a moment daunted. The form was so unlike anything he
had ever seen. He was almost persuaded of the possibility that it
might be some animated corpse doomed to wander forth either for
punishment or expiation. Her lips still moved. A wild glassy eye was
fixed upon them, and as she yet stood with extended arms, Gervase,
almost wrought to desperation, cried out--
"Who art thou? Thy business here?"
A hollow sound, hardly like the tones of a human voice, answered in a
slow and solemn adjuration--
"Beware, rash fools! None approach the Red Woman but to their
undoing."
"I know no hindrance to my free course in this domain. By whose
authority am I forbidden?" said he, taking courage.
"Away--mine errand is not to thee unless provoked."
"Unto whom is thy message?"
"To thy leman--thy ladye-love, whom thou wilt cherish to thine hurt.
Leave her, ay, though both hearts break in the separation."
"I will not."
"Then be partaker of the wrath that is just ready to burst upon her
doomed house."
"I told thee," said Grace, "she is the herald of misfortune! What woe
does she denounce? What cruel judgment hast thou invoked upon our
race?" cried she to this grim messenger of evil.
"Evil will--evil must! I will cling to ye till your last sustenance be
dried up, and your inheritance be taken from ye."
"Her fate be mine," said Buckley, indignantly. "Her good or evil
fortune I will share."
"Be it so. Thou hast made thy choice, and henceforth thou canst not
complain."
She stretched out her two hands, one towards Clegg Hall, the abode of
the maiden, and the other towards Buckley, her lover's paternal roof,
from which a blue curl of smoke was just visible over the rising
grounds beneath them.
"A doom and a curse to each," she muttered. "Your names shall depart,
and your lands to the alien and the stranger. Your honours shall be
trodden in the dust, and your hearths laid waste, and your habitations
forsaken."
In this fearful strain she continued until Buckley cried out--
"Cease thy mumbling, witch. I'll have thee dealt with in such wise thy
tongue shall find another use."
Turning upon him a look of scorn, she seemed to grow fiercer in her
maledictions.
"Proud minion," she cried, "thou shall die childless and a beggar!"
The cunning raven flapped his great heavy wings and seemed to croak an
assent. He then hopped on his mistress' shoulder, and apparently
whispered in her ear.
"Sayest thou so?" said the witch. "Then give it to me, Ralph."
The bird held out his beak, and out popped a plain gold ring.
"Give this to thy mother, Dame Buckley. Say 'tis long since they
parted company; and ask if she knows or remembers aught of the Red
Woman. Away!"
She threw the ring towards them. Both stooped to pick it up. They
examined it curiously for a short space.
"'Tis a wedding-ring," said Buckley, "but not to wed bride of mine.
Where was this"----
He stopped short in his inquiry, for lifting up his eyes he found the
donor was gone!
Neither of them saw the least trace of her departure. The stone
whereon she sat was again vacant. All was silent, undisturbed, save
the night breeze that came sighing over the hill, moaning and
whistling through the withered bent and rushes at their feet.
The shadows of evening were now creeping softly around them, and the
valley below was already wrapped in mist. The air felt very chill.
They shuddered, but it was in silence. This fearful vision, for such
it now appeared to have been, filled them with unspeakable dread.
Gervase yet held the ring in his hand. He would have thrown it from
him, but Grace Ashton forbade.
"Do her bidding in this matter," said she. "Give it thy mother, and
ask counsel of the sage and the discreet. There is some fearful
mystery--some evil impending, or my apprehensions are strangely
misled."
They returned, but he was more disturbed than he cared to acknowledge.
He felt as though some spell had been cast upon him, and cowed his
hitherto undaunted spirit.
They again wound down beside the rivulet into the meadows below, where
the mist alone pointed out the course of the stream. The bat and the
beetle crossed their path. Evil things only were abroad. All they saw
and felt seemed to be ominous of the future. As they passed through a
little wicket to the hall-porch, Nicholas Buckley the father met them.
"Why, how now, loiterers? The cushat and the curlew have left the
hill, and yet ye are abroad. 'Tis time the maiden were at home and
looking after the household."
"We've been hindered, good sir. We will just get speech of our dame,
and then away home with the gentle Grace. Half-an-hour's good speeding
will see her safe."
"Ay--belike," said the old man. "Lovers and loiterers make mickle
haste to part. Our dame is with the maids and the milkpans i' the
dairy."
The elder Buckley was a hale hearty yeoman, of a ruddy and cheerful
countenance. A few wrinkles were puckered below the eyes; the rest of
his face was sleek and comfortably disposed. A beard, once thick and
glossy, was grown grey and thin, curling up short and stunted round
his portly chin. Two bright twinkling eyes gave note of a stirring and
restless temper--too sanguine, maybe, for success in the great and
busy world, and not fitted either by education or disposition for its
suspicions or its frauds. Yet he had the reputation of a clever
merchant. Rochdale, even at that early period, was a well-known mart
for the buyers and sellers of woollen stuffs and friezes. Many of the
most wealthy merchants, too, indulged in foreign speculations and
adventures, and amongst these the name of Nicholas Buckley was not the
least conspicuous.
They passed on to the dairy, where Dame Eleanor scolded the maids and
skimmed the cream at the same moment, by way of economy in time.
"What look ye for here?" was her first inquiry, for truly her temper
was of a hasty and searching nature; somewhat prone, as well, to
cavilling and dispute, requiring much of her husband's placidity to
furnish oil for the turbulent waters of her disposition.
"Thou wert better at thy father's desk than idling after thine
unthrifty pleasures: to-morrow, maybe, sauntering among the hills with
hound and horn, beating up with all the rabble in the parish."
"Nay, mother, chide not: I was never made for merchandise and
barter--the price of fleeces in Tod Lane, and the broad ells at
Manchester market."
"And why not?" said the dame, sharply; "haven't I been the prop and
stay of the house? Haven't I made bargains and ventures when thou hast
been idling in hall and bower with love-ditties and ladies' purfles?"
She was now moved to sudden choler, and Gervase did not dare to thwart
her further--letting the passion spend itself by its own efforts, as
he knew it were vain to check its torrent.
Now Dame Eleanor Buckley was of a sharp and florid
countenance--short-necked and broad-shouldered, her nose and chin
almost hiding a pair of thin severe lips, the two prominences being
close neighbours, especially in anger. In truth she guided, or rather
managed, the whole circle of affairs; aiding and counselling the
speculations of her husband, who had happily been content with the
produce and profit of his paternal acres, had not his helpmate, who
inherited this mercantile spirit from her family, urged her partner to
such unwonted lust and craving for gain.
A huge bundle of keys hung at her girdle, which, when more than
usually excited, did make a most discordant jingle to the tune that
was a-going. Indeed, the height and violence of her passion might be
pretty well guessed at by this index to its strength.
When the storm had in some degree subsided, Gervase held up the ring.
"What's that, silly one? A wedding-ring!"
She grew almost pale with wrath. "How darest thou?--thee!--a ring!--to
wed ere thou hast a home for thy pretty one. Ye may go beg, for here
ye shall not tarry. Go to the next buckle-beggar! A pretty wedding
truly! When thou hast learned how to keep her honestly 'twill be time
enough to wed. But thou hast not earned a doit to put beside her
dower, and all our ready moneys, and more, be in trade; though, for
the matter o' that, the pulling would be no great business either. But
I tell thee again, thy father shall not portion an idler like thyself
and pinch his trade. Marry, 'tis enough to do, what with grievous sums
lost in shipwrecks, and the time we have now to wait our returns from
o'er sea."
She went on at this rate for a considerable space, pausing at last,
more for lack of breath than subject-matter of discourse.
"Mother," said he, when fairly run down; "'tis not a purchase--'tis a
gift."
"By some one sillier than thyself, I warrant."
"I know not for that; I had it from a stranger."
"Stranger still," she replied sharply, chuckling at her own conceit.
"Look at it, mother. Know you such a one?"
The dame eyed it with no favour, but she turned it over with a curious
look, at the same time lifting her eyes now and then towards the
ceiling, as some train of recollection was awakening in her mind.
"Where gat ye this?" said Dame Eleanor, in a subdued but still
querulous tone.
"On the hill-top yonder."
"Treasure-trove belongs to Sir John Byron.[21] The lord of the manor
claims all from the finders."
"It was a gift."
"Humph. Hast met gold-finders on the hills, or demons or genii that
guard hidden treasure?"
"We've seen the Red Woman!"
Had a sudden thunder-clap burst over them, she could not have been
more startled. She stood speechless, and seemingly incapable of reply.
Holding the ring in one hand, her eyes were intently fixed upon it.
"What is it that troubles you?" said Gervase. "Yon strange woman bade
me give you the ring, and ask if so be that you remembered her."
The dame looked up, her quick and saucy petulance exchanged for a
subdued and melancholy air.
"Remember thee! thou foul witch? ay long, long years have passed; I
thought thy persecutions at an end; thy prediction was nigh forgotten.
It was my wedding-ring, Gervase!"
"More marvellous still."
"Peace, and I'll tell thee. Grace Ashton, come forward. I know thine
ears are itching for the news. Well, well, it was when thou wast but a
boy, Gervase, and I remember an evening just like this. I was standing
by the draw-well yonder, looking, I now bethink me, at the dovecot,
where I suspected thieves; and in a humour somewhat of the sharpest, I
trow. By-and-by comes, what I thought, an impudent beggar-woman for an
alms. Her dress was red and tattered, with a high red cap to match. I
chided her it might be somewhat harshly, and I shall not soon forget
the malicious look she put on. 'I ask not, I need not thy benison,'
she said; 'I would have befriended thee, but I now curse thee
altogether:' and stretching out her shrivelled arm, dry and bare, she
shook it, threatening me with vengeance. Suddenly, or ere I was aware,
she seized my left hand, drew off my wedding-ring; breathing upon it
and mumbling a spell, she held it as though for me to take back, but
with such a fiendish look of delight that I hesitated. All on a sudden
I remembered to have heard my grandmother say that should a witch or
warlock get your wedding-ring, and have time to mutter over it a
certain charm, _so long as that ring is above ground_ so long misery
and misfortune do afflict the owner. Lucky it was I knew of this, for
instead of replacing it I threw it into the well, being the nearest
hiding-place. And happy for me and thee it was so near; for, would you
believe, though hardly a minute's space in my hand, the black heifer
died, the red cow cast her calf, and a large venture of merchandise
was wrecked in a fearful gale off the gulf. I had no sooner thrown it
into the well than the witch looked more diabolical than ever. 'It
will come again, dame,' said she, 'and then look to it;' and with this
threat she departed. But what am I doing? If it be the ring, which I
doubt not, I've had it o'er long in my keeping. Even now disaster may
be a-brewing; and is there not a richly-freighted ship on its passage
with silks and spices? I'll put it out of her reach this time anyhow.
No! I'll hide it where never a witch in Christendom shall poke it
out."
Dame Eleanor went to the little burn below. Stooping, she scooped a
hole in the gravel under water; there she laid the ring, and covered
it over with stones.
"Thou'rt always after some of thy megrims, dame," said the elder
Buckley, who had been watching her from the porch. "Some spell or
counter-charm, I'se warrant."
With a look of great contempt for the incredulity of her spouse, she
replied--
"Ay, goodman, sit there and scoff your fill. If't hadn't been for my
care and endeavours you had been penniless ere now. But so it is, I
may slave night and day, I reckon. The whole roof-tree, as a body may
say, is on my shoulders, and what thanks? More hisses than thanks,
more knocks than fair words."
Never so well pleased as when opportunity was afforded for grumbling,
the dame addressed herself again to her evening avocations.
Pondering deeply what should be the issue of these things, Gervase set
out with Grace Ashton to her house at Clegg Hall, a good mile distant.
Evening had closed in--a chill wind blew from the hills. The west had
lost its splendour, but a pure transparent brightness filled its
place, across which the dark wavy outline of the high moorlands rested
in deep unvarying shadow. In these bright depths a still brighter star
hung, pure and of a diamond-like lustre, the precursor, the herald of
a blazing host just rising into view.
As they walked on, it may well be supposed that the strange
occurrences of the last few hours were the engrossing theme of their
discourse.
"My mother is a little too superstitious, I am aware," said Gervase;
"but what I have witnessed to-night has rendered me something more
credulous on this head than aforetime."
"I don't half like this neighbourhood," said his companion, looking
round. "It hath an ill name, and I could almost fancy the Red Woman
again, just yonder in our path."
She looked wistfully; it was only the mist creeping lazily on with the
stream.
They were now ascending the hill towards Beil or Belfield, where the
Knights Templars had formerly an establishment. Not a vestage now
remains, though at that period a ruinous tower covered with ivy, a
gateway, and an arch, existed as relics of their former grandeur.
"Here lived the Lady Eleanor Byron," said Grace, pointing to the old
hall close by, and as though an unpleasant recollection had crossed
her. She shuddered as they passed by the grim archway beneath the
tower. Whether it was fancy or reality she knew not, but as she looked
curiously through its ivied tracery she thought the Red Woman was
peering out maliciously upon them. She shrank aside, and pointed to
the spot; but there was nothing visible save the dark and crumbling
ruins, from which their steps were echoed with a dull and sullen
sound.
The night wind sighed round the grey battlements, and from its hidden
recesses came moans and whispers--at least so it seemed to their
heated imaginations.
"Let us hasten hence," said Grace; "I like not this lonely spot. There
was always a fear and a mystery about it. The tale of the invisible
sylphid and Eleanor Byron's elfish lover haunts me whenever I pass by,
and I feel as though something was near, observing and influencing
every movement and every thought."
"Come, come, a-done I pray. Let not fear o'ermaster reason, else we
shall see bogles in every bush."
Above the gateway, in the little square tower now pulled down, was a
loophole, nearly concealed by climbing shrubs, which rendered it easy
for a person within to look out without being observed. As they passed
a low humming din was heard. Then a rude ditty trolled from some not
unskilful performer. The lovers stayed to listen, when a dark figure
issued out of the gateway singing--
"The bat haunts the tower,
And the redbreast the bower,
And the merry little sparrow by the chimney hops,
Good e'en, hoots master owl,
To-whoo, to-whoo, his troll,
Sing heigho, swing the can with"----
"What, thee, Tim! Is that thy stupid face?" said Gervase, breaking in
upon his ditty, and right glad to be delivered from supernatural
fears, though the object of them proved only this strolling minstrel.
"Thou might as well kill us outright as frighten us to death."
He that stood before them was one of those wandering musicians that
haunt fairs and merry-makings, wakes, and such like pastimes; playing
the fiddle and jewtrump too at weddings and alehouses; in short, any
sort of idleness never came amiss to these representatives of the old
Troubadours. A tight oval cap covered his shaggy poll; he was clad in
a coarse doublet or jerkin slashed in the fashion of the time, while
his nether integuments were fastened in the primitive mode by a wooden
skewer. He could conjure too, and play antics to set the folks agape;
but as to his honesty, it was of that dubious sort that few cared to
have it in trust. He was apt at these alehouse ditties--many of them
his own invention. He knew all the choicest ballads too, so that his
vocation was much akin to the _jogleurs_ or _jongleurs_ of more
ancient times, when Richard of the Lion's Heart and other renowned
monarchs disdained not "_the gentle craft of poesie_."
Wherever was a feast, let it be a wedding or a funeral, Tim, like the
harpies of old, scented the meat, and some of his many vocations were
generally in request.
This important functionary now stood whistling and singing by turns
with the most admired unconcern.
"What's thy business here?" cried Gervase, approaching him.
"The maid was fair, and the maid was coy,
But the lover left, and the maid said 'Why?'
Sing O the green willow!"
"Answerest thou me with thy trumpery ditties? I'll have thee put i'
the stocks, sirrah."
"Oh, ha' mercy, master! there's naught amiss 'at I know. I'm but
takin' roost here wi' the owls an' jackdaws a bit, maybe for want o'
better lyin'."
"It were hard to have a better knack at lying than thou hast already.
Hast gotten the weather into thy lodgings? When didst flit to thy new
quarters?"
"Th' hay-mow at Clegg is ower savoured wi' the new crop, an' I want
fresh air for my studies."
"Now art thou lying"----
"Like a lover to his sweetheart," said Tim, interrupting him, and
finishing the sentence.
"Peace, knave! There's some mischief i' the wind. Thou'rt after no
good, I trow."
"What te dickons do I ail here? Is't aught 'at a man can lift off but
stone wa's an' ivy-boughs? Marry, my little poke man ha' summut else
to thrive on nor these."
"There's been great outcry about poultry an' other farmyard
appendances amissing of late, besides eggs and such like dainties enow
to furnish pancakes and fritters for the whole parish. Hast gotten
company in thy den above there?"
"Jacks an' ouzles, if ye like, Master Gervase. Clim' up, clim' up,
lad, an there'll be a prial on us. Ha, ha! What! our little sweetheart
there would liefer t' be gangin.' Weel, weel, 'tis natural, as a body
may say--
"One is good, and two is good,
But three's no company."
"Answer me quick, thou rogue. Is there any other but thyself yonder
above?"
"When I'm there I'm not here, an' when I'm here"----
"Sirrah, I'll flog the wind out o' thy worthless carcase. Hast any
pilfering companions about thee? I do smell a savoury
refection--victuals are cooking, or my nose belies its office."
"Fair speech, friend, wins a quiet answer; a soft word and a smooth
tongue all the world over. What for mayn't I sup as well as my
betters?"
"As well?--better belike. There's no such savour in our hall at
eventide, nor in the best kitchen in the parish."
"It's not my fau't, is't?"
"By'r lady, there's somebody in the chamber there. I saw the leaves
fluttering from the loophole. Villain, who bears thee company?"