On the verge of the Castle Clough, a deep and winding dingle, once
shaded with venerable oaks, are the small remains of the Castle of
Hapton, the seat of its ancient lords, and, till the erection of Hapton
Tower, the occasional residence of the De la Leghs and Townleys. Hapton
Tower is now destroyed to its foundation. It was a large square
building, and about a hundred years ago presented the remains of three
cylindrical towers with conical basements. It also appears to have had
two principal entrances opposite to each other, with a thorough lobby
between, and seems not to have been built in the usual form,--that of a
quadrangle. It was erected about the year 1510, and was inhabited until
1667. The family-name of the nobleman--for such he appears to have
been--of whom the following story is told, we have no means of
ascertaining. That he was an occasional resident or visitor at the Tower
is but surmise. During the period of these dark transactions we find
that the mansion was inhabited by Jane Assheton, relict of Richard
Townley, who died in the year 1637. Whoever he might be, the following
horrible event, arising out of this superstition, attaches to his
memory. Whether it can be attributed to the operations of a mind just
bordering on insanity, and highly wrought upon by existing
delusions,--or must be classed amongst the proofs, so abundantly
furnished by all believers in the reality of witchcraft and demoniacal
possession, our readers must determine as we unfold the tale.
Lord William had seen, and had openly vowed to win, the proud maiden of
Bernshaw Tower. He did win her, but he did not woo her. A dark and
appalling secret was connected with their union, which we shall briefly
develop.
Lady Sibyl, "the proud maiden of Bernshaw," was from her youth the
creature of impulse and imagination--a child of nature and romance. She
roved unchecked through the green valleys and among the glens and
moorlands of her native hills; every nook and streamlet was associated
with some hidden thought "too deep for tears," until Nature became her
god,--the hills and fastnesses, the trackless wilds and mountains, her
companions. With them alone she held communion; and as she watched the
soft shadows and the white clouds take their quiet path upon the hills,
she beheld in them the symbols of her own ideas,--the images and
reflections,--the hidden world within her made visible. She felt no
sympathy with the realities--the commonplaces of life; her thoughts were
too aspiring for earth, yet found not their resting-place in heaven! It
was no grovelling, degrading superstition which actuated her: she sighed
for powers above her species,--she aspired to hold intercourse with
beings of a superior nature. She would gaze for hours in wild delirium
on the blue sky and starry vault, and wish she were freed from the base
encumbrances of earth, that she might shine out among those glorious
intelligences in regions without a shadow or a cloud. Imagination was
her solace and her curse; she flew to it for relief as the drunkard to
his cup, sparkling and intoxicating for a while, but its dregs were
bitterness and despair. Soon her world of imagination began to quicken;
and, as the wind came sighing through her dark ringlets, or rustling
over the dry grass and heather bushes at her side, she thought a spirit
spoke, or a celestial messenger crossed her path. The unholy rites of
the witches were familiar to her ear, but she spurned their vulgar and
low ambition; she panted for communion with beings more
exalted--demigods and immortals, of whom she had heard as having been
translated to those happier skies, forming the glorious constellations
she beheld. Sometimes fancies wild and horrible assaulted her; she then
shut herself for days in her own chamber, and was heard as though in
converse with invisible things. When freed from this hallucination,
agony was marked on her brow, and her cheek was more than usually pale
and collapsed. She would then wander forth again:--the mountain-breeze
reanimated her spirits, and imagination again became pleasant unto her.
She heard the wild swans winging their way above her, and she thought of
the wild hunters and the spectre-horseman:[41] the short wail of the
curlew, the call of the moor-cock and plover, was the voice of her
beloved. To her all nature wore a charmed life: earth and sky were but
creatures formed for her use, and the ministers of her pleasure.
The Tower of Bernshaw was a small fortified house in the pass over the
hills from Burnley to Todmorden. It stood within a short distance from
the Eagle Crag; and the Lady Sibyl would often climb to the utmost verge
of that overhanging peak, looking from its dizzy height until her soul
expanded, and her thoughts took their flight through those dim regions
where the eye could not penetrate.
One evening she had lingered longer than usual: she felt unwilling to
depart--to meet again the dull and wearisome realities of life--the
petty cares that interest and animate mankind. She loathed her own form
and her own species:--earth was too narrow for her desire, and she
almost longed to burst its barriers. In the deep agony of her spirit she
cried aloud--
"Would that my path, like yon clouds, were on the wind, and my
dwelling-place in their bosom!"
A soft breeze came suddenly towards her, rustling the dry heath as it
swept along. The grass bent beneath its footsteps, and it seemed to die
away in articulate murmurs at her feet. Terror crept upon her, her bosom
thrilled, and her whole frame was pervaded by some subtle and mysterious
influence.
"Who art thou?" she whispered, as though to some invisible agent. She
listened, but there was no reply; the same soft wind suddenly arose, and
crept to her bosom.
"Who art thou?" she inquired again, but in a louder tone. The breeze
again flapped its wings, mantling upwards from where it lay, as if
nestled on her breast. It mounted lightly to her cheek, but it felt
hot--almost scorching--when the maiden cried out as before. It fluttered
on her ear, and she thought there came a whisper--
"I am thy good spirit."
"Oh, tell me," she cried with vehemence: "show me who thou art!"--a mist
curled round her, and a lambent flame, like the soft lightning of a
summer's night, shot from it. She saw a form, glorious but indistinct,
and the flashes grew paler every moment.
"Leave me not," she cried; "I will be thine!"
Then the cloud passed away, and a being stood before her, mightier and
more stately than the sons of men. A burning fillet was on his brow, and
his eyes glowed with an ever-restless flame.
"Maiden, I come at thy wish. Speak!--what is thy desire."
"Let thought be motion;--let my will only be the boundary of my power,"
said she, nothing daunted; for her mind had become too familiar with
invisible fancies, and her ambition too boundless to feel either awe or
alarm. Immediately she felt as though she were sweeping through the
trackless air,--she heard the rush of mighty wings cleaving the
sky,--she thought the whole world lay at her feet, and the kingdoms of
the earth moved on like a mighty pageant. Then did the vision change.
Objects began to waver and grow dim, as if passing through a mist; and
she found herself again upon that lonely crag, and her conductor at her
side. He grasped her hand: she felt his burning touch, and a sudden
smart as though she were stung--a drop of blood hung on her finger. He
unbound the burning fillet, and she saw as though it were a glimpse of
that unquenchable, unconsuming flame that devoured him. He took the
blood and wrote upon her brow. The agony was intense, and a faint shriek
escaped her. He spoke, but the sound rang in her ears like the knell of
hopes for ever departed.
For words of such presumptuous blasphemy, tradition must be voiceless.
The demon looked upwards; but, as if blasted by some withering sight,
his eyes were suddenly withdrawn.
* * * * *
What homage was exacted, let no one seek to know.
After a pause, the deceiver again addressed her; and his form changed as
he spoke.
"One day in the year alone thou shalt be subject to mischance. It is the
feast of All-Hallows, when the witches meet to renew their vows. On this
night thou must be as they, and must join their company. Still thou
mayest hide thyself under any form thou shalt choose; but it shall abide
upon thee until midnight. Till then thy spells are powerless. On no
other day shall harm befall thee."
The maiden felt her pride dilate:--her weak and common nature she
thought was no longer a degradation; she seemed as though she could
bound through infinite space. Already was she invested with the
attributes of immateriality, when she awoke!--and in her own chamber,
whither the servants had conveyed her from the crag an hour before,
having found her asleep, or in a swoon, upon the verge of the precipice.
She looked at her hand; the sharp wound was there, and she felt her brow
tingle as if to remind her of that irrevocable pledge.
Lord William sued in vain to the maid of Bernshaw Tower. She repulsed
him with scorn and contumely. He vowed that he would win her, though the
powers of darkness withstood the attempt. To accomplish this impious
purpose, he sought Mause, the witch's dwelling. It was a dreary hut,
built in a rocky cleft, shunned by all as the abode of wicked and
malignant spirits, which the dame kept and nursed as familiars, for the
fulfilment of her malicious will.
The night was dark and heavy when Lord William tied his steed to a rude
gate that guarded the entrance to the witch's den. He raised the latch,
but there was no light within.
"Holloa!" cried the courageous intruder; but all was dark and silent as
before. Just as he was about to depart he thought he heard a rustling
near him, and presently the croaking voice of the hag close at his ear.
"Lord William," said she, "thou art a bold man to come hither after
nightfall."
He felt something startled, but he swerved not from his purpose.
"Can'st help me to a bride, Mother Helston?" cried he, in a firm voice;
"for I feel mightily constrained to wed!"
"Is the doomed maiden of Bernshaw a bride fit for Lord William's bosom?"
said the invisible sorceress.
"Give me some charm to win her consent,--I care not for the rest."
"Charm!" replied the beldame, with a screech that made Lord William
start back. "Spells have I none that can bind her. I would she were in
my power; but she hath spell for spell. Nought would avail thee, for she
is beyond my reach; her power would baffle mine?"
"Is she too tainted with the iniquity that is abroad?"
"I tell thee yea; and my spirit must bow to hers. Wouldst wed her
now--fond, feeble-hearted mortal?"
Lord William was silent; but the beautiful form of the maiden seemed to
pass before him, and he loved her with such overmastering vehemence that
if Satan himself had stood in the gap he would not have shrunk from his
purpose.
"Mause Helston," said the lover, "if thou wilt help me at this bout, I
will not draw back. I dare wed her though she were twice the thing thou
fearest. Tell me how her spell works,--I will countervail it,--- I will
break that accursed charm, and she shall be my bride!"
For a while there was no reply; but he heard a muttering as though some
consultation were going on.
"Listen, Lord William," she spoke aloud. "Ay, thou wilt listen to thine
own jeopardy! Once in the year--'tis on the night of All-Hallows--she
may be overcome. But it is a perilous attempt!"
"I care not. Point out the way, and I will ride it rough-shod!"
The beldame arose from her couch, and struck a light. Ere they separated
the morning dawned high above the grey hills. Many rites and
incantations were performed, of which we forbear the disgusting recital.
The instructions he received were never divulged; the secrets of that
night were never known; but an altered man was Lord William when he came
back to Hapton Tower.
On All-Hallows' day, with a numerous train, he went forth a-hunting. His
hounds were the fleetest from Calder to Calder; and his horns the
shrillest through the wide forests of Accrington and Rossendale. But on
that morning a strange hound joined the pack that outstripped them all.
"Blow," cried Lord William, "till the loud echoes ring, and the fleet
hounds o'ertake yon grizzled mongrel."
Both horses and dogs were driven to their utmost speed, but the strange
hound still kept ahead. Over moor and fell they still rushed on, the
hounds in full cry, though as yet guided only by the scent, the object
of their pursuit not being visible. Suddenly a white doe was seen,
distant a few yards only, and bounding away from them at full speed. She
might have risen out of the ground, so immediate was her appearance. On
they went in full view, but the deer was swift, and she seemed to wind
and double with great dexterity. Her bearing was evidently towards the
steep crags on the east. They passed the Tower of Bernshaw, and were
fast approaching the verge of that tremendous precipice, the "Eagle
Crag." Horse and rider must inevitably perish if they follow. But Lord
William slackened not in the pursuit; and the deer flew straight as an
arrow to its mark,--the very point where the crag jutted out over the
gulf below. The huntsmen drew back in terror; the dogs were still in
chase, though at some distance behind;--Lord William only and the
strange hound were close upon her track. Beyond the crag nothing was
visible but cloud and sky, showing the fearful height and abruptness of
the descent. One moment, and the gulf must be shot:--his brain felt
dizzy, but his heart was resolute.
"Mause, my wench," said he, "my neck or thine!--Hie thee; if she's over,
we are lost!"
Lord William's steed followed in the hound's footsteps to a hair. The
deer was almost within her last spring, when the hound, with a loud
yell, doubled her, scarcely a yard's breadth from the long bare neb of
that fearful peak, and she turned with inconceivable speed so near the
verge that Lord William, in wheeling round, heard a fragment of rock,
loosened by the stroke from his horse's hoof, roll down the precipice
with a frightful crash. The sudden whirl had nearly brought him to the
ground, but he recovered his position with great adroitness. A loud
shriek announced the capture. The cruel hound held the deer by the
throat, and they were struggling together on the green earth. With
threats and curses he lashed away the ferocious beast, who growled
fiercely at being driven from her prey. With looks of sullenness and
menace, she scampered off, leaving Lord William to secure the victim. He
drew a silken noose from his saddle-bow, and threw it over the panting
deer, who followed quietly on to his dwelling at Hapton Tower.
At midnight there was heard a wild and unearthly shriek from the high
turret, so pitiful and shrill that the inmates awoke in great alarm. The
loud roar of the wind came on like a thunder-clap. The tempest flapped
its wings, and its giant arms rocked the turret like a cradle. At this
hour Lord William, with a wild and haggard eye, left his chamber. The
last stroke of the midnight bell trembled on his ear as he entered the
western tower. A maiden sat there, a silken noose was about her head,
and she sobbed loud and heavily. She wrung her white hands at his
approach.
"Thy spells have been o'ermastered. Henceforth I renounce these unholy
rites; I would not pass nights of horror and days of dread any longer.
Maiden, thou art in my power. Unless thou wilt be mine,--renouncing
thine impious vows,--for ever shunning thy detested arts,--breaking that
accursed chain the enemy has wound about thee,--I will deliver thee up
to thy tormentors, and those that seek thy destruction. This done, and
thou art free."
The maiden threw her snake-like glance upon him.
"Alas!" she cried, "I am not free. This magic noose! remove it, and my
promise shall be without constraint."
"Nay, thou arch-deceiver,--deceiver of thine own self, and plotter of
thine own ruin,--I would save thee from thy doom. Promise, renounce, and
for ever forswear thy vows. The priest will absolve thee; it must be
done ere I unbind that chain."
"I promise," said the maiden, after a deep and unbroken silence. "I have
not been happy since I knew their power. I may yet worship this fair
earth and yon boundless sky. This heart would be void without an object
and a possession!"
She shed no tear until the holy man, with awful and solemn
denunciations, exorcised the unclean spirit to whom she was bound. He
admonished her, as a repentant wanderer from the flock, to shun the
perils of presumption, reminding her that HE, of whom it is written that
He was led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be _tempted_ of the
devil,--HE who won for us the victory in that conflict, taught _us_ in
praying to say, "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
She was rebaptized as one newly born, and committed again to the keeping
of the Holy Church. Shortly afterwards were united at the altar Lord
William and Lady Sibyl. He accompanied her to Bernshaw Tower, their
future residence,--becoming, in right of his wife, the sole possessor of
those domains.
* * * * *