Twelve months were nigh come and gone, and the feast of All-Hallows was
again at hand. Lord William's bride sat in her lonely bower, but her
face was pale, and her eyes red with weeping. The tempter had been
there; and she had not sought for protection against his snares. That
night she was expected to renew her allegiance to the prince of
darkness. Those fearful rites must now bind her for ever to his will.
Such appeared to be her infatuation that it led her to imagine she was
yet his by right of purchase, without being fully conscious of the
impiety of that thought. His own power had been promised to her: true,
she must die; but might she not, a spirit like himself, rove from world
to world without restraint? She thought--so perilously rapid was her
relapse and her delusion--that his form had again passed before her,
beautiful as before his transgression!--"The Son of the Morning!"
arrayed in the majesty which he had before the world was,--ere heaven's
Ruler had hurled him from his throne. Her mental vision was perverted.
Light and darkness, good and evil, were no longer distinguished. Perhaps
it was a dream; but the imagination had becomed diseased, and she
distinguished not its inward operations from outward impressions on the
sense. Her husband was kind, and loved her with a lover's fondness, but
she could not return his affection. He saw her unhappy, and he
administered comfort; but the source of her misery was in himself, and
she sighed to be free?
"Free!"--she started; the voice was an echo to her thought. It appeared
to be in the chamber, but she saw no living form. She had vowed to
renounce the devil and all his works in her rebaptism, before she was
led to the altar, and how could she face her husband?
"He shall not know of our compact."
These words seemed to be whispered in her ear. She turned aside; but saw
nothing save the glow of sunset through the lattice, and a wavering
light upon the floor.
"I would spare him this misery," she sighed. "Conceal but the secret
from him, and I am again thine!"
Suddenly the well-known form of her familiar was at her side.
The following day was All-Hallows-e'en, and her allegiance must be
renewed in the great assembly of his subjects held on that fearful
night.
It was in the year 1632, a period well known in history as having led
to the apprehension of a considerable number of persons accused of
witchcraft. The depositions of these miserable creatures were taken
before Richard Shuttleworth and John Starkie, two of his Majesty's
justices of the peace, on the 10th of February 1633; and they were
committed to Lancaster Castle for trial.
Seventeen of them were found guilty, on evidence suspicious enough under
ordinary circumstances, but not at all to be wondered at, if we consider
the feeling and excitement then abroad. Some of the deluded victims
themselves confessed their crime, giving minute and connected statements
of their meetings, and the transactions which then took place. Justices
of the peace, judges, and the highest dignitaries of the realm, firmly
believed in these reputed sorceries. Even the great Sir Thomas Brown,
author of the book intended as an exposure of "Vulgar Errors," gave his
testimony to the truth and reality of those diabolical delusions. But we
have little need to wonder at the superstition of past ages, when we
look at the folly and credulity of our own.
It may, perhaps, be pleasing to learn that the judge who presided at the
trial respited the convicts, and reported their case to the king in
council. They were next remitted to Chester, where Bishop Bridgeman,
certifying his opinion of the matter, four of the accused--Margaret
Johnson, Frances Dickisson, Mary Spencer, and the wife of one
Hargreaves--were sent to London and examined, first by the king's
physicians, and afterwards by Charles I. in person. "A stranger scene
can scarcely be perceived," says the historian of Whalley; "and it is
not easy to imagine whether the untaught manners, rude dialect, and
uncouth appearance of these poor foresters would more astonish the king;
or his dignity of person and manners, together with the splendid scene
by which they were surrounded, would overwhelm them."
The story made so much noise that plays were written on the subject, and
enacted. One of them is entitled, "The late Lancashire Witches, a
well-received Comedy, lately acted at the Globe on the Bank-side, by the
King's Majesty's Actors. Written by Thomas Haywood and Richard Broom.
_Aut prodesse solent, aut delectare_, 1634."
But our element is tradition, especially as illustrating ancient manners
and superstitions; we therefore give the sequel of our tale as tradition
hath preserved it.
Giles Dickisson, the merry miller at the Mill Clough, had so taken to
heart his wife's dishonesty that, as we have before observed, he grew
fretful and morose. His mill he vowed was infested with a whole legion
of these "hell-cats," as they were called; for in this shape they
presented themselves to the affrighted eyes of the miserable
yoke-fellow, as he fancied himself, to a limb of Satan. The yells and
screeches he heard o'nights from these witches and warlocks were
unbearable; and once or twice, when late at the mill, both he and Robin
had received some palpable tokens of their presence. Scratches and
bloody marks were plainly visible, and every hour brought with it some
new source of annoyance or alarm.
One morning Giles showed himself with a disconsolate face before Lord
William at the Tower; he could bear his condition no longer.
"T'other night," said he, "the witches set me astride o' t' riggin' o'
my own house.[42] It was a bitter cold time, an' I was nearly perished
when I wakened. I am weary of my life, and will flit; for this country,
the deil, I do think, holds in his own special keeping!"
Then Robin stept forward, offering to take the mill on his master's
quittance. He cared not, he said, for all the witch-women in the parish.
He had "fettled" one of them, and, by his Maker's help, he hoped fairly
to drive them off the field. The bargain was struck, and Robin that day
entered into possession.
By a strange coincidence, this transaction happened on the eve of
All-Hallows before mentioned; and Lord William requested that Robin
would on that night keep watch. His courage, he said, would help him
through; and if he could rid the mill of them, the Baron promised him a
year's rent, and a good largess besides. Robin was fain of the offer,
and prepared himself for the strife, determined, if possible, to eject
these ugly vermin from the premises.
On this same night, soon after sunset, the lady of Bernshaw Tower went
forth, leaving her lord in a deep sleep, the effect, as it was supposed,
of her own spells. Ere she departed, every symbol or token of grace was
laid aside;--her rosary was unbound. She drew a glove from her hand, and
in it was the bridle ring, which she threw from her,--when the flame of
the lamp suddenly expired. It was in her little toilet-chamber, where
she had paused, that she might pursue her meditations undisturbed. Her
allegiance must be renewed, and revoked no more; but her pride, that
darling sin for which she raised her soul, must first suffer. On that
night she must be guided by the same laws, and subjected to the same
degrading influence, as her fellow-subjects. At least once a year this
condition must be fulfilled:--all rank and distinction being lost, the
vassals were alike equal in subordination to their chief. On this night,
too, the rights of initiation were usually administered.
The time drew nigh, and the Lady Sibyl, intending to conceal the glove
with the sacred symbol, passed her hand on the table where it had
lain--but it was gone!
* * * * *
In a vast hollow, nearly surrounded by crags and precipices, bare and
inaccessible, the meeting was assembled, and the lady of the Tower was
to be restored to their communion. Gliding like a shadow, came in the
wife of Lord William,--pale, and her tresses dishevelled, she seemed the
victim either of disease or insanity.
Under a tottering and blasted pine sat their chief, in a human form;
his stature lofty and commanding, he appeared as a ruler even in this
narrow sphere of his dominion. Yet he looked round with a glance of
mockery and scorn. He was fallen, and he felt degraded; but his aim was
to mar the glorious image of his Maker, and trample it beneath his feet.
A crowd of miserable and deluded beings came at the beck of their chief,
each accompanied by her familiar. But the lady of Bernshaw came alone.
Her act of renouncement had deprived her of this privilege.
The mandate having been proclaimed, and the preliminary rites to this
fearful act of reprobation performed, the assembly waited for the
concluding act--the cruel and appalling trial: one touch of his finger
was to pass upon her brow,--the impress, the mark of the beast,--the
sign that was to snatch her from the reach of mercy! Her spirit
shuddered;--nature shrank from the unholy contact. Once more she looked
towards that heaven she was about to forfeit,--and for ever!
"For ever!"--the words rang in her ears; their sound was like the knell
of her everlasting hope. She started aside, as though she felt a horrid
and scorching breath upon her cheek, as though she already felt their
unutterable import in the abysses of woe!
Conscience, long slumbering, seemed to awake; she was seized with the
anguish of despair! It seemed as though judgment were passed, and she
was doomed to wander like some rayless orb in the blackness of darkness
for ever. One fearful undefined form of terror was before her; one
consciousness of offence ever present; all idea of past and future
absorbed in one ever-during NOW, she felt that her misery was too heavy
to sustain. A groan escaped her lips, but it was an appeal to that power
for deliverance, who is not slow to hear, "nor impotent to save."
Suddenly she was roused from some deep and overpowering hallucination;
the promises of unlimited gratification to every wish prevailed no more,
the tempter's charm was broken. All was changed; the whole scene seemed
to vanish; and that form, which once appeared to her like an angel of
light, fell prostrate, writhing away in terrific and tortuous folds on
the hissing earth. The crowd scattered with a fearful yell;--she heard
a rush of wings, and a loud and dissonant scream,--and the "Bride of
Bernshaw" fell senseless to the ground.
We leave the conscience-stricken victim whilst we relate the result of
Robin's watch-night at the mill.
He lay awake until midnight, but there was no disturbance; nothing was
heard but the plash of the mill-stream, and the dripping ooze from the
rocks. His old enemies, no doubt, were intimidated, and he was about
commencing a snug nap on the idea--when, lo! there came a great rush of
wind. He heard it booming on from a vast distance, until it seemed to
sweep over the building in one wide resistless torrent that might have
levelled the stoutest edifice;--yet was the mill unharmed by the attack.
Then came shrieks and yells, mingled with the most horrid imprecations.
Swift as thought, there rushed upon him a prodigious company of cats,
bats, and all manner of hideous things, that scratched and pinched him,
as he afterwards declared, until his flesh verily "reeked" again.
Maddened by the torment, he began to lay about him lustily with a long
whittle which he carried for domestic purposes. They gave back at so
unexpected a reception. Taking courage thereby, Robin followed, and they
fled, helter-skelter, like a routed army. Through loop-holes and windows
went the obscene crew, with such hideous screeches as startled the whole
neighbourhood. He gave one last desperate lunge as a parting
remembrance, and felt that his weapon had made a hit. Something fell on
the floor, but the light was extinguished in the scuffle, and in vain he
attempted to grope out this trophy of his valour.
"I've sliced off a leg or a wing," thought he, "and I may lay hold on it
in the morning."
All was now quiet, and Robin, to his great comfort, was left without
further molestation.
Morning dawned bright and cheerful on the grey battlements of Bernshaw
Tower; the sun came out joyously over the hills; but Lord William walked
forth with an anxious and gloomy countenance. His wife had feigned
illness, and the old nurse had tended her through the night in a
separate chamber. This was the story he had learnt on finding her absent
when he awoke. Early presenting himself at the door, he was refused
admission. She was ill--very ill. The lady was fallen asleep, and might
not be disturbed: such was the answer he received. Rising over the hill,
he now saw the gaunt ungainly form of Robin, his new tenant, approaching
in great haste with a bundle under his arm.
"What news from the mill, my stout warrior of the north?" said Lord
William.
"I think I payed one on 'em, your worship," said Robin, taking the
bundle in his hand. "Not a cat said mew when they felt my whittle.
Marry, I spoilt their catterwauling: I've cut a rare shive!"
"How didst fare last night with thy wenches?" inquired the other.
"I've mended their manners for a while, I guess. As I peeped about
betimes this morning, I found--a paw! If cats are bred with hands and
gowden rings on their fingers, they shall e'en ha' sporting-room i' the
mill! No bad luck, methinks."
Robin uncovered the prize, and drew out a bleeding hand, mangled at the
wrist, and blackened as if by fire; one finger decorated with a ring,
which Lord William too plainly recognised. He seized the terrific
pledge, and, with a look betokening some deadly purpose, hastened to his
wife's chamber. He demanded admittance in too peremptory a tone for
denial. His features were still, not a ripple marked the disturbance
beneath. He stood with a calm and tranquil brow by her bed-side; but she
read a fearful message in his eye.
"Fair lady, how farest thou?--I do fear me thou art ill!"
"She's sick, and in great danger. You may not disturb her, my lord,"
said the nurse, attempting to prevent his too near approach;--"I pray
you depart; your presence afflicts her sorely."
"Ay, and so it does," said Lord William, with a strange and hideous
laugh. "I pray thee, lady, let me play the doctor,--hold out thy hand."
The lady was still silent. She turned away her head. His glance was too
withering to endure.
"Nay, then, I must constrain thee, dame."
She drew out her hand, which Lord William seized with a violent and
convulsive grasp.
"I fear me 'tis a sickness unto death; small hope of amendment here.
Give me the other; perchance I may find there more comfort."
"Oh, my husband, I cannot;--I am--I have no strength."
"Why, thou art grown peevish with thy distemper. Since 'tis so, I must
e'en force thy stubborn will."
"Alas! I cannot."
"If not thy hand, show me thy wrist!--I have here a match to it,
methinks. O earth--earth--hide me in thy womb!--let the darkness blot me
out and this blasting testimony for ever!--Accursed hag, what hast thou
done?"
He seized her by the hair.
"What hast thou promised the fiend? Tell me,--or"--
"I have, oh, I fear I have,--consented to the compact!"
"How far doth it bind thee?"
"My soul--my better part!"
"Thy better part?--thy worse! A loathsome ulcer, reeking with the stench
from the pit! Better have given thy body to the stake, than have let in
one unhallowed desire upon thy soul. How far does thy contract reach?"
"All interest I can claim. His part that created it I could not give,
not being mine to yield."
"Lost! lost! Thou hast, indeed, sold thyself to perdition! I'll purge
this earth of witchery;--I'll make their carcases my weapon's
sheath;--hence inglorious scabbard!" He flung away the sheath. Twining
her dark hair about his fingers--"Die!--impious, polluted wretch! This
blessed earth loathes thee,--the grave's holy sanctuary will cast thee
out! Yon glorious sun would smite thee should I refrain!"
He raised his sword--a gleam of triumph seemed to flash from her eye, as
though she were eager for the blow; but the descending weapon was
stayed, and by no timid hand.
Lord William turned, yet he saw not the cause of its restraint. The lady
alone seemed to be aware of some unseen intruder, and her eye darkened
with apprehension. Suddenly she sprang from the couch; a shriek from no
human agency escaped her, and the spirit seemed to have passed from its
abode.
Lord William threw himself on her pale and inanimate form.
"Farewell!" he cried: "I had thought thee honest!--Nay, lost spirit, I
must not say farewell!"
He gazed on his once-loved bride with a look of such unutterable
tenderness that the heart's deep gush burst from his eyes, and he wept
in that almost unendurable anguish. The sight was too harrowing to
sustain. He was about to withdraw, when a convulsive tremor passed
across her features--a trembling like the undulation of the breeze
rippling the smooth bosom of the lake; a sigh seemed to labour heavily
from her breast; her eyes opened; but as though yet struggling under the
influence of some terrific dream, she cried--
"Oh, save me--save me!" She looked upwards: it was as if the light of
heaven had suddenly shone in upon her benighted soul.
"Lost, saidst thou, accursed fiend?--Never until his power shall yield
to thine!"
Yet she shuddered, as though the appalling shadow were still upon her
spirit.--"Nay, 'twas but a dream."
"Dreams!" cried Lord William, recovering from a look of speechless
amazement. "Thy dreams are more akin to truth than ever were thy waking
reveries."
"Nay, my Lord, look not so unkindly on me--I will tell thee all. I
dreamt that I was possessed, and this body was the dwelling of a demon.
It was permitted as a punishment for my transgressions; for I had sought
communion with the fiend. I was the companion of witches--foul and
abominable shapes;--a beastly crew, with whom I was doomed to
associate. Hellish rites and deeds, too horrible to name, were
perpetrated. As a witness of my degradation, methought my right hand was
withered. I feel it still! Yet--surely 'twas a dream!"
She raised her hand, gazing earnestly on it, which, to Lord William's
amazement, appeared whole as before, save a slight mark round the wrist,
but the ring was not there.
"What can this betide?" said the trembling sufferer. She looked
suspiciously on this apparent confirmation of her guilt, and then upon
her husband. "Oh, tell me that I did but dream!"
But Lord William spoke not.
"I know it all now!" she said, with a heavy sob. "My crime is punished;
and I loathe my own form, for it is polluted. Yet the whole has passed
but as some horrible dream--and I am free! This tabernacle is cleansed;
no more shall it be defiled; for to Thee do I render up my trust."
A mild radiance had displaced the wild and unnatural lustre of her eye,
as she looked up to the mercy she invoked, and was forgiven.
Her spirit was permitted but a brief sojourn in this region of sorrow.
Ere another sun, her head hung lifeless on Lord William's bosom;--he had
pressed her to his heart in token of forgiveness; but he held only the
cold and clammy shrine--the idol had departed!
According to the popular solution of this fearful mystery, a demon or
familiar had reanimated her form while she lay senseless at the sudden
and unlooked-for dissolution of the witches' assembly. In this shape the
imp had joined the rendezvous at the mill, and fleeing from the effects
of Robin's valour, maliciously hoped that Lord William would execute a
swift vengeance on his erring bride. But his hand was stayed by another
and more merciful power, and the demon was cast out.
The ring and glove were not found. It was said that Mause Helston had
taken them as a gage of fealty, and dying about the same period, was
denied the rites of Christian burial. Hence may have arisen the belief
which tradition has preserved respecting the Lady Sibyl.
Popular superstition still alleges that her grave was dug where the dark
"Eagle Crag" shoots out its cold bare peak into the sky. Often, it is
said, on the eve of All-Hallows, do the hound and the milk-white doe
meet on the crag--a spectre huntsman in full chase. The belated peasant
crosses himself at the sound as he remembers the fate of "The Witch of
Bernshaw Tower."
[Illustration: LATHOM HOUSE AS IT EXISTED BEFORE THE SIEGE, RESTORED
FROM EXISTING DOCUMENTS.
_Drawn by G. Pickering. Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]