Legends of Lancashire 11

Legends of Lancashire 11

“Mamma! mamma!” he cried, “take me to your arms, cover me up in

your bosom; you wont kill me, mamma? Oh! leave me not here to die!”

 

There was a mournful upbraiding in the boy’s accents, and his

mother burst into tears, and rushed forward to raise him, when, all

at once, he sprang from the ground. Again he was changed; his hair

stood erect, his mouth was stretched to an unnatural width, and he

ran to her, howling like a dog. In a moment the servant struck him

down. Bitterly did the mother weep to see her child bleeding on the

floor, and yet, she dared not touch him. “He is possessed!” she

exclaimed, “aye, that is the fate which the witch foretold!”

 

“My lady,” said Roger, “pardon me for what I am about to mention.

He has been bewitched into a disease which must be fatal to

himself, and to all whom he bites. Your security, and that of my

master, lies only in his destruction.”

 

“Never!” was the indignant, but sorrowful reply.

 

The boy once more regained his own appearance, and called piteously

for his mother. He put his little hands to his mouth, and when he

gazed upon them, they were all suffused with blood! He burst into

tears.

 

“Mamma, kiss the blood away from my lips. Wipe this love ringlet,

or papa wont play with it. Oh! cool my lips. Take the fire out of

them. Mamma, mamma! must I die? Who took me out of your bosom, to

lie here?”

 

Every word fell, like a child’s curse, upon the ear of Emily.

 

“Oh Roger! good Roger,” implored the lady,--“what can be done?”

 

The boy attempted to rise, but his strength seemed gone, and his

head dashed itself violently upon the floor. His mother fell down

senseless. Roger rushed from the room, to bring water to sprinkle

upon her face. In a moment he returned,--and there a scene was

presented to his eyes, which nothing in after-life could curtain

from his mind. Both lay lifeless. The countenance of the mother

was mangled and bloody, and her boy’s teeth were in her cheek. As

soon as she had fallen, the boy had crept to her, under the same

infernal influence as before, and, fortunately, she never awoke

from insensibility.

 

Meanwhile let us leave the dead, and follow the living. The reader

is not asked to dry his tears after the mournful spectacle, and put

off his sackcloth, and don singing robes and smiles, for soon the

curtain may be raised from the same scene, to exhibit on the same

stage, another victim.

 

William Morden, when out of the sight of his wife, came in view of

the object of his pursuit. Unlike the aged, the hag avoided not the

many elevations of sharp rock, on her path. After passing them, for

a moment she would linger, and looking back, and howling, motion

him, with a wild plunge of her arm, to follow. The scenery became

more bleak and desolate, as if nothing in animal or vegetable life

could flourish near her abode. Not a sound was heard; her steps

were hurried, but silent. They were approaching the cave, which

was formed in the old channel of the brook, and which was supposed

to be the outlet of a subterraneous passage leading from the abbey

into a deep wood, which skirted and concealed the bank. Amidst the

trees strange lights seemed to move, and the witch, by their flash,

was enabled to expose her malignant and hellish countenance to the

gaze of Morden. She stood still and he advanced. From the folds of

the cloak in which she was wrapped, she drew her hand, and pointed

to a deep ravine, at a short distance from the cave. She muttered

some incantations, raised her eyes, as if to invisible agents in

the air, and exclaimed, “Slaves! ye know my power! Shew him--shew

him what a word, escaping from my lips, has done. Now, fool!” and

she grasped his hands for a moment, “gaze there--and tremble.”

 

Morden started, as lurid lights gleamed in a mass, over him. He

stumbled down the declivity, and fell, his head striking against

his lifeless steed! Unearthly shrieks of laughter saluted him, and

as he sprung to his feet, the witch, surrounded by flames, was

waving her arms in fiendish joy. He once more found himself on the

path close beside her. All again was darkness, and now he heard

the witch enter the cave. He prepared to follow her. The entrance

was small, and could only admit him by crawling through. His face

came in contact with the jutting rocks, and he imagined that around

his neck the hag had placed her hands, to strangle him. He crept

in, but saw nothing. No object could be distinguished, until,

on a floor far below him, he beheld a few embers burning on the

hearth, and a form walking around, and by its shadow intercepting

the light. The ground was damp beneath his hands, and the very

worms were crawling over them, and thus early claiming connexion,

by twining around them the marriage ring of the grave. He knew

not how to let himself down into the interior. The light from

the embers, meanwhile, was gradually increasing; and at length he

recognized the witch rubbing her hands over them. Her head was

uncovered, and her long grey locks were flung back from a brow

black and wrinkled. He could not remove his eyes from her, and

every moment he expected that she would arise, and curse him with

her arts. She lighted a taper, and placed it upon a small coffin,

and sung a death dirge; at every interval, when she paused for

breath, making the most unnatural mirth. The lid of the coffin

slowly arose, as she removed the taper, and a beautiful boy raised

his face, so pale and deadly, over which golden locks curled,

like young spirits. His sweet blue eyes met those of Morden; his

little hands were pressed together, and his lisping voice said,

mournfully,--“Father!”

 

Morden sprang down, when, with a wild shriek, the witch turned

upon him, and attempted to mimic the tones in which the fond word

“father” had been breathed. He prepared to rush upon her, when

every limb was powerless. He could not move, and yet all his

senses were intensely active and awake. He beheld the coffin again

closed, and glad now would he have been, could he have returned

to his home, to assure himself of his child’s safety. The witch

began some awful and unholy rites, as she lowered the coffin into

a hole dug beside the embers, and then over the spot, after her

incantations had been muttered, sprung up a mossy tomb-stone, with

this inscription,--

 

Edward Morden,

AGED

FIVE YEARS.

1643.

 

She kindled another taper, when a larger coffin seemed to be placed

before her by invisible hands. The lid was raised; and there

Morden beheld his Emily, as beautiful now, amidst all the horrors

of witchery and death, as when that face was revealed in the

moonlight, on their nuptial night, slumbering so happily, to gaze

upon which he had kept himself awake. But soon the features became

clouded and black; aye, and blood--blood was seen upon them, and

horrible gashes.

 

“Embrace her!” exclaimed the witch, “embrace her. How beautiful!

What a sweet crimson! Fool! thy wife blushes! fly to her!”

 

He started forward, and fell upon the coffin, but the lid was

closed. A long fit of insensibility was over him. Dreams still more

revolting than the realities he had now beheld, kept him bound.

 

He awoke--but far different was the scene. A sigh which had been

nursed in the dream, now found __EXPRESSION__, and instantly a movement

was heard, in a distant part of the cave; and a female bent over

him, and perfumed his burning brow. Wild was the beauty beaming

from her eyes; but soft and earthly was the hand which took his. He

gazed silently upon her. She seemed scarcely to have entered upon

girlhood, and yet Morden thought that she never could have been

younger, and never, for the future, could be older. She spoke not;

but her lips uttered strange sounds of the most thrilling music.

She gently raised and led him to a couch, as soft as dreams. The

air around breathed fragrance, and vibrated song. Invisible roses

seemed to fall upon his brow and hands. So brilliant, and yet

shadowy, was the light, that he could not gaze far around. Light

seemed to be a boundary to itself, and no walls intercepted the

vision.

 

“Who art thou?” was the exclamation of Morden, “and where am I?

How have I been brought here? This is not the cave to which I

came;--and where is the foul witch who so tormented me with her

dark spells?”

 

“There cometh light after darkness,” replied his beautiful

companion, “and joy after sorrow. What makes the love of one being

so pleasant? Because it is nursed amidst the storms of hate. Love

cares not for a palace; to sit, travel, and sleep, amidst gold and

diamonds. The tomb is the home where it is most beautiful; and were

two mortals, who cling to each other, to dwell there, it would be

love’s paradise. As they sat beneath the shade of the cypress, how

rapturous would their thoughts and words be; and oh! how true! At

eve, as they walked together over graves, how confiding would they

be! And at the midnight hour, when the wind howled, and ghosts

flitted around them, how sweet the sleep of the two lovers, with a

tomb-stone for their pillow!”

 

Each word thrilled through the soul of Morden.

 

“Mysterious angel!” he cried, “tell me thy name and abode!”

 

The young being dismissed the melancholy which, whilst she spoke,

had rested on her countenance, and smiled. Her deep blue eyes gazed

upon him, and, in the intoxication of the moment, he recollected

not his own inquiry. But soon, thoughts of home and Emily, came

into his mind, and checked others which were rising. He turned away

from her, when she asked,--

 

“Would’st thou see the past?”

 

“Yes,” eagerly returned Morden. “Oh! could I once more behold her

whom an untimely fate bore from me!”

 

She took from the table a golden cup, encircled with flowers, and

throwing a liquid drop, which she had poured out on her hand,

away in the distance; instantly, amidst music, with the bass of a

profound calm, there arose before his eyes a strange scene. There

were the haunts of his boyhood, the bower in the garden, and even

the ivy-covered seat, on which was the plumed cap his mother’s

hands had made; the gentle stream, with his book and fishing-rod

lying on the bank; and last of all was himself, smiling, the actor

in each. A pure mist arose before him, as in the bower he was

placing the cap over his shining curls; bright eyes gleamed in it,

and as it vanished, there stood his only sister! She appeared to be

the gentler type of himself, and sweet was her beauty, though it

was the beauty of Genius and Power. The mist descended, and hovered

over them, as they were singing the lays of their own happiness,

and shrouded both. It once more rolled away. There was seen a

mourner, near a rose-scattered grave! The mourner was known to

Morden long before he raised his features from the earth:--it was himself, at the grave of his sister!