Chapter 47

Gregory had once encountered it unexpectedly, face to face, but he did not then follow--surprise and timidity preventing him. He, however, resolved that, should another opportunity occur, he would track the spectre to its haunt, and by that means find out the opening and situation of the mine.

He now crept slowly towards the crag, behind which the figure had retired. Looking cautiously round the point, he again saw the dim spectral form only a few yards distant. Suddenly he heard a low whistle, and the next moment the mysterious figure had disappeared--not a vestige could be traced. He thrust his huge head between the boughs for a more uninterrupted survey, but nothing was seen, save the bare escarpment of the rock, and the low bushes, behind which the phantom had, a moment before, been visible. Though somewhat daunted, he crept closer to the spot, but darkness was fast closing around him, and the search was fruitless.

"Humph!" said the disappointed treasure-hunter audibly; "daylight and a stout pole may probe the mystery to the bottom. I'll mark this spot."

"Mark this spot," said another voice at some distance, repeating his words like an echo. The rock was certainly within "striking distance," and it might have been this accident which lent its aid to the delusion.

Gregory could not withstand so apparently supernatural an occurrence. He took to his heels, driven fairly off the field; nor did he look behind him until safely entrenched before a blazing fire in the kitchen at Waddington Hall.

"Out, ill-favoured hound!" said a serving wench, who was stirring a blubbering mess of porridge for supper. But Gregory was not in the humour to reply: he sat with one long lean hand under his chin, the other hung down listlessly to his heels, which were drawn securely under the stool on which he sat. His thoughts were not on the victuals, though by long use and instinct his eyes were turned in that direction.

"Thee art ever hankering after the brose, thou greedy churl!" continued the wench, wishful to goad him on to some intemperate reply.

But Gregory was still silent. At this unwonted lack of discourse, Janet, who generally contrived to bring his long tongue into exercise, was not a little astonished. It needed no great wit, any time, to set him a-grumbling; for neither kind word nor civil speech had he for kith or kin, for man or maid.

Looking steadfastly towards him, she struck her dark broad fists upon her hips, and, in a loud and contemptuous laugh, abruptly startled the cynic from his studies. He eyed her with a grin of malice and vexation.

"Thou she-ape, I wonder what first ye'arn made for; the plague o' both man and beast,--the worst plague that e'er Pharaoh waur punished wi'. Screech on; I'll ha' my think out, spite o' thy caterwauling."

"Thou art a precious wonder, Master Crab. Squirt thy verjuice, when thou art roasting, some other way. I wonder what man-ape thy mother watch'd i' the breeding. She had been special fond o' children, I bethink me."

"And what knowest thou o' my dame's humours, thou curl-crop vixen?" said Gregory, unwarily drawn forth again from his taciturnity. "How should her inclinations be subject to thy knowledge?"

"She rear'd thee!" was the reply.

Two other hinds belonging to the household, who were watching the issue of the contest, here joined in a loud clamour at the victory; and Gregory, dogged with baiting, became silent, scowling defiance at his foe.

Waddington Hall was at that period a building of great antiquity. Crooks, or great heavy arched timbers, ascending from the ground to the roof, formed the principal framework of the edifice, not unlike the inverted hull of some stately ship. The whole dwelling consisted of a thorough lobby and a hall, with a parlour beyond it, on one side, and the kitchens and offices on the other. The windows were narrow, scarcely more than a few inches wide, and, in all probability, not originally intended to contain glass.

The chimneys and fireplaces were wide and open; the apartments, except the hall, low, narrow, and inconvenient, divided by partitions of oak, clumsy, and ill-carved with many strange and uncouth devices. The hall was, on the right of the entrance, lighted by one long low window; a massy table stood beneath. The fireplace was on the opposite side, occupying nearly the whole breadth of the chamber. A screen of wainscot partitioned off the lobby, carved in panels of grotesque workmanship. Beyond the hall was the parlour, furnished as usual with an oaken bedstead, standing upon a ground-floor paved with stone. In this dormitory, the timbers of which were of gigantic proportions, slept Master Oliver and Mistress Joan Tempest,--the latter not a little given to that species of uxorious domination which most wives, when they apply themselves heartily to its acquisition, rarely fail to usurp.

"Here," says Dr Whitaker (this being the general style of building for centuries, and scarcely, if at all, deviated from),--"here the first offspring of our forefathers saw the light; and here too, without a wish to change their habits, fathers and sons in succession resigned their breath. It is not unusual to see one of these apartments now transformed into a modern drawing-room, where a thoughtful mind can scarcely forbear comparing the past and present,--the spindled frippery of modern furniture, the frail but elegant apparatus of a tea-table, the general decorum, the equal absence of everything to afflict or to transport, with what has been heard, or seen, or felt, within the same walls,--- the logs of oak, the clumsy utensils, and, above all, the tumultuous scenes of joy or sorrow, called forth, perhaps, by the birth of an heir, or the death of an husband, in minds little accustomed to restrain the ebullitions of passion.

"Their system of life was that of domestic economy in perfection. Occupying large portions of his own domains; working his land by oxen; fattening the aged, and rearing a constant supply of young ones; growing his own oats, barley, and sometimes wheat; making his own malt, and furnished often with kilns for the drying of corn at home, the master had pleasing occupation in his farm, and his cottagers regular employment under him. To these operations the high troughs, great garners and chests, yet remaining, bear faithful witness. Within, the mistress, her maid-servants, and daughters, were occupied in spinning flax for the linen of the family, which was woven at home. Cloth, if not always manufactured out of their own wool, was purchased by wholesale, and made up into clothes at home also."[58]

This is a true picture of the simple habits of our ancestors, and will apply, with little variation, to the scene before us.

Here might be seen the carved "armoury,"--the wardrobe, bright, clean, and even magnificent. On the huge rafters hung their usual store of dried hams, beef, mutton, and flitches of bacon. In the store-room, great chests were filled to the brim with oatmeal and flour. All wore the aspect of plenty, and an hospitality that feared neither want nor diminution.

In one corner of the hall at Waddington sat Mistress Joan, her only daughter Elizabeth, and two or three female domestics.

They had been spinning, trolling out the while their country ditties with great pathos and simplicity.

Being nigh supper-time, the group were just loitering in the twilight ere they separated for the meal.

"Come, Elizabeth," said her mother, "lay thy gear aside; the strawberries are in the bowl, and the milk is served. Supper and to bed, and a brisk nap while morning."

The dame who addressed her was a perfect specimen of the good housewife in the fifteenth century. She wore a quilted woollen gown, open before, with pendant sleeves, and a long narrow train; a corset, fitted close to the body, unto which the petticoats were attached, and a boddice laced outside. She wore the horned head-dress so fashionable towards the close of the fourteenth century, and at that time still in use, giving the head and face no slight resemblance to the ace of hearts. An apron was tied on with great care, ornamented with embroidery of the preceding century. Her complexion, was dark but clear, and her eyebrows high and well-arched. Her mouth was drawn in, raised slightly on one side,--a conformation more particularly apparent when engaged in scolding the maids, or in other similar but indispensable occupations.

Her gait was firm, and her person upright. Her age--ungallant historians we must be--was verging closely upon sixty; yet her hair, turned crisp and full behind her head-dress, showed slight symptoms of the chill which hoar and frosty age, sooner or later, never fails to impart.

Elizabeth Tempest was young, but of a staid and temperate aspect, almost approaching to that of melancholic. Her complexion, pale and sallow; her eye full, dark, and commanding, though occasionally more languor was on it than eyes of that colour are wont to express. She wore a long jacket of russet colour, and a crimson boddice. Her hair, turned back from her brow, hung in dark heavy ringlets below the neck, which, though not of alabaster, was exquisitely modelled. In person she was tall and well-shapen, and her whole manner displayed a mind of no ordinary proportions. She was well-skilled in household duties, her mother having an especial desire that her daughter should be as notable and thrifty as herself in domestic arrangements.

"Elizabeth," or "Elspet," as she was indiscriminately called, cared little about her reputation touching these important functions. She could sing most of the wild legendary ballads of the time; her rich full voice had in it a sadness ravishingly tender and expressive, more akin to woe, and the deep untold agony of the spirit, than to lightness and mirth, in which she rarely indulged.

"Give us one of thy ditties ere supper," said the dame, who was just then laying aside her implements in the work-press. "I wonder thy father does not return. The roofs of Bashall ring with louder cheer than our own, I trow. He is playing truant for the nonce, which is dangerous play at best."

"Is he now at our cousin Talbot's?" inquired the maiden, with a look of more than ordinary interest.

"If he be not on the way back again," returned the dame, as though wishful to repress inquiry.

"The woods are not safe so late and alone. Comes he alone, mother?"

"Alone! Ay,--and why spierest thou?" The dame looked wistfully, though but for a moment, on her daughter; then changing her tone, as if to recommend a change of subject, she cried--

"Come, ha' done, Elspet; we will wait no longer than grace be said. Now to thy song."

The maiden began as follows:--

1. "There sits three ravens on yon tree, Heigho! There sits three ravens on yon tree, As black, as black, as they can be. Heigho, the derry, derry, down, heigho.

2. "Says the first raven to the other, Heigho! Says the first raven to the other, 'We'll go and eat our feast together.' Heigho, &c.

3. "'It's down in yonder grass-grown field, Heigho! It's down in yonder grass-grown field, There lies a dead knight just new killed.' Heigho, &c.

4. "There came a lady full of woe, Heigho! There came a lady full of woe, And her hands she wrung, and her tears did flow. Heigho, &c.

5. "She saw the red blood from his side, Heigho! She saw the red blood from his side,-- 'And it was for me my true love died!' Heigho, &c.

6. "'Oh, cruel was my brother's sword, Heigho! Oh, cruel, cruel, was his sword, But sharper the edge of one scornful word.' Heigho, &c.

7. She laid her on his bosom cold, Heigho! She laid her on his bosom cold, While adown his cheek her tears they rolled. Heigho, &c.

8. "No word she spake, but one sob gave she, Heigho! No word she spake, but one sob gave she: Said the ravens, 'Another feast have we, And long shall thy rest and thy slumbers be.' Heigho, the derry, derry, down, heigho!"

At the concluding stanza in walked Oliver Tempest, who, as if to avoid notice, sat down, without uttering a word, in a dark corner at the opposite side of the hall. He looked moody, and wishful to be alone. Joan, for a while, forbore to interrupt his reverie, and the females finished their evening repast in silence.

"Is Sir Thomas Talbot yet returned from the Harringtons?" inquired the dame soon after, with an air of assumed carelessness.

"He returned an hour only ere I departed."

Another pause ensued.

"And his son Thomas, comes he back from the Pudsays of Bolton? Does the gentle Florence[59] look on him kindly, or is the wedding yet delayed?"

"I know not," was the brief reply. After a short pause he continued--"The wanderer has left Bolton, I learn, and, 'tis said, he bides at Whalley."

Here he cast a furtive look at the domestics, and then at his wife, as though wishful to ascertain if others had understood this intimation.

"Nay, some do boldly affirm that he has been seen i' these very woods," continued he, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"Which Heaven forefend!" said the wary dame. "I would not that he should draw us down with him to the same gulf wherein his fortune is o'erwhelmed. No luck that woman ever brought him from o'er sea, and now she's gone"--

"They say that she hath escaped to Flanders," said Oliver, hastily interrupting her.

"I wish he had been so fortunate," said the dame; "what says our cousin Talbot?"

"Hush, dame; our plans are not yet ripe. But more of this anon."

Elizabeth listened with more interest than usual. Every word was eagerly devoured, and with the last sentence she could not forbear inquiring--

"And Edmund?--surely Edmund Talbot is not"--

"What?" sternly inquired her father; "what knowest thou of--? Said I aught whereby thou shouldst suspect us?"

"Hush, thou foolish one," said the more cautious dame; "thy thought alone was privy to it, and so no more. There be others listening."

The moonbeams now crept softly into the chambers, whither, too, crept the weary household; the master and his wife remaining for a short time together in the hall, apparently in earnest discussion. But Elizabeth retired not to her couch. She passed softly through the courtyard, looking round as though in search of some individual. This proved to be the hunchback Gregory, whom she found esconced behind a peat-stack in marvellous profundity of thought. With a soft step, and one finger raised to her lips, she gently tapped him upon the shoulder.

Looking round, he saw her gesture and was silent.

"Gregory, art thou honest?" she inquired, in a whisper.

"Why, an' it be, Mistress Elspeth, when it suits with my discretion; that is, if discretion be none the worse for it, eh?"

"Thou art ever so, Gregory; and yet"--

"If ye want honesty, eschew a knave, and catch a fool by the cap. None but fools worry and distemper themselves with this same pale-faced whining jade, that will leave 'em i' the lurch at a pinch, Dame Honesty, forsooth. More wit, more wisdom; and there is a plentiful lack of wit in your honest folk," continued the cynic, as though pursuing a train of thought to its ultimate development.

"Gregory, thou art not the rogue thee seems. I think beneath that rough and captious speech there lurks more honesty than thou art willing to acknowledge. Thou hast been angered with baiting until thou wouldst run at every dog that comes into the paddock, though he fawned on thee, and were never so trusty and well-behaved."

Gregory was silent. He looked upwards to the bright moon and the quenched orbs that lay about her path. Again Elizabeth whispered, first looking cautiously around--

"Wilt do me a service?"

"Ay, for hire," he quickly answered.

"If thine errand is done faithfully, thou mayest get more largess than thou dream'st of."

"Ye want a spoon belike, that ye soil not your delicate fingers?"

"Ay, Gregory, an' thou wilt, we 'll first use thee."

"And then the spoon shall be broken, I trow. Well, if I am a spoon, I'll be a golden one, and I shall be worth something when I'm done with. Understand ye this, fair mistress?"

"Yes, knave; and thou shalt have thy reward."

"What! I shall swing the highest, eh?"

"Peace; I want a messenger. Take this."

"Not treason, I trow," said Gregory, as he eyed the billet with a curious but hesitating glance.

"Go by the nearer path to the wood. Where the road divides to the ford and the farther pastures; take the latter, then turn to the right, where the old fir-tree rises above the rock. Walk carefully through the bushes at the base of the crag. Near unto a sharp angle of the rock thy path will be stayed by a fallen tree. Grasp this with both hands, and whistle thrice. I know thou canst be trusty and discreet. Yet remember thy life is in my power shouldst thou fail." She paused, pointing significantly at the billet. "Now hasten. Bring back, and to me only, what shall be committed to thy care. I will expect thee at my window by midnight."

Now it so happened that this precise spot was identified to Gregory's apprehensions with the very place where his attention had that night been directed by the mysterious disappearance of the grey man of the mine. He would certainly have preferred making his second visit by daylight; but needs must when a woman drives, especially when that woman is a mistress, and gold is the goad. Besides he might perchance get a glimpse of the treasure; and his pockets were wide and his gripe close. Thus stimulated to the adventure, he addressed himself to perform her behest.

The night was singularly clear, and the shadows lay on his path, still and beautifully distinct. As he hastened onwards the wood grew darker and more impervious. Here and there the moonbeams crept fantastically through the boughs, like fairy lamps glimmering on his path. Sometimes, preternaturally bright, the wood seemed lit up as though for some magic festival. He followed the directions he had received, pausing not until he saw the dark fir-tree rearing its broad crest and gigantic arms into the clear and twinkling heaven. It looked like the guardian genius of the place,--a huge monster lifting its terrific head, as though to watch and warn away intruders. Beside this was the rock where his adventure must terminate.

With more of desperation than courage he scrambled through the bushes. Not daring to look behind him--for he felt as though his steps were dogged, an idea for which he could not account--he made his way with difficulty by the crag until he came to a fallen tree that had apparently tumbled from the rock. Laying hold of the trunk he whistled faintly. It was answered; an echo, or something even more indistinct, gave back the sound. His heart misgave him; but he stood committed to the task, and durst not withdraw. Again he whistled, but louder than before, and again it was repeated. With feelings akin to those of the condemned wretch when he drops the fatal handkerchief, he sounded the last note of the signal. His breath was suspended. Suddenly he felt the ground give way beneath his feet, and he was precipitated into a chasm, dark, and by no means soft at the nether extremity.

This was a reception for which he was not prepared. He had sustained a severe shock; but luckily his bones were whole. Recovering from his alarm, he heard a low jabbering noise, and presently a light, which, it seems, had been extinguished by his clumsiness, was again approaching.

The intruder saw, with indescribable horror, a hideous black dwarf bearing a torch. He was dressed in the Eastern fashion. A soiled turban, torn and dilapidated, and a vest of crimson, showed symptoms of former splendour that no art could restore. This mysterious being came near, muttering some uncouth and unintelligible jargon; while the unfortunate captive, caught like a wolf in a trap, looked round in vain for some outlet whereby to escape. The only passage, except the hole through which he had tumbled, was completely filled by the broad, unwieldy lump of deformity that was coming towards him. The latter now surveyed him cautiously, and at a convenient distance, croaking, in a broken and foreign accent--

"What ho! Prisoner, by queen's grace. Better stop when little door shall open. Steps, look thee, for climb; hands and toes; go to."

Gregory now saw that steps, or rather holes, were cut in the sides of the pit wherein he had fallen, or rather been entrapped. These he ought to have used when the trap-door was let down; and he remembered his mistress's caution, to hold fast by the tree. There were, however, no means of escape that way, as the door had closed with his descent.

The ugly thing before him was ten times more misshapen than himself; and at any other time this flattering consideration would have restored him to comparative good-humour.

He was not in the mood now to receive comfort from any source. He felt sore and mightily disquieted. Limping aside, he angrily exclaimed--

"Be'st thou the de'il, or the de'il's footman, sir blackamoor? I'd have thee tell thy master to admit his guests in a more convenient fashion. Hang me, if my bones will not ache for a twelvemonth. My back is almost broke, for certain."

Here the other bellowed out into a loud laugh, pointing to Gregory's back, then surveying himself, and evidently with congratulation at his own more imaginary prepossessing appearance.

"Sir knight," said the black dwarf, "what errand comes to our mighty prince?"

"Tut! if it be his infernal kingship ye mean, I bear not messages to one of his quality."

"Thee brings writing in thy fist. Go to!"

"From a woman, fallen in love wi' thee, belike. Well, quit me o' woman's favours, say I, if this be of 'em."

"Well-a-day, sir page," cried the grinning Ethiop, whose teeth looked like a double row of pearls set in a border of carnelian, "my mistress be a queen: I do rub the dust on thy ugly nose if that red tongue wag more, for make bad speech of her. Go to, clown!"

"Ill betide thee for a blackamoor ape," said Gregory, his courage waxing apace when his fears of the supernatural began to subside; "and wherefore? Look thee, Mahound, though my mistress sent me to such a lady-bird as thou art, Master Oliver shall know on't. Thou hast won her with spells and foul necromancie; but I've commandment from him to catch all that be poaching on his lands. Thou art i' the mine, too, as I do verily guess; therefore I arrest thee i' the king's name, as a lifter of his treasure, and a spoiler of our good venison."

Gregory, being stout-limbed, and of a more than ordinary strength for his size, proceeded forthwith to execute his threat; but the dwarf, with a short shrill scream, gave him a sudden trip, which again laid the officious dispenser of justice prostrate, without either loosing the torch from his hand, or seeming to use more exertion than would have thrown a child.

"Ah, ah, there be quits. Lie still; go to; lick thy paws. Know, dog, I'm body to the queen!"

"Body o' me, I think thee be'st liker fist and crupper. I would I had thee in a cart at holiday-time, and a rope to thy muzzle," said the astonished Gregory. He had dropped his billet in the scuffle, which the dwarf seized, opening it without ceremony.

"A message. Good; stay here, garbage; I be back one, two, t'ree," and away straddled the black monster along the passage. Turning suddenly, before he was aware, into another avenue, leading apparently far into the interior, Gregory was left once more in total darkness. He heard the sound of retreating footsteps, but not a glimmer was visible, and he feared to follow lest he might be entangled in some inextricable labyrinth. He recollected to have heard a vague sort of tradition, that a subterraneous passage once led from the hall to the Ribble bank, whereby the miners had in former days kept their operations secret.