[Contents]CHAPTER V.Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther[48]corner of his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was about to address.“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself had appeared to further his studies.“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of a friar coming to thee at midnight.”Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore all the externals of a mortal about him.“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh, discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think differently!”“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face; “nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken unawares.”“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body[49]at the same time, from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth, and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner, with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall; his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible, except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign contempt—“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this morning?” He waited for a reply.“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it, though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie, being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily. He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of[50]Durham, to urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know, that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have, however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible, the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always go much beyond—“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do in it?”“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and incantations? Thinkest thou——”“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art he professed. To undertake the barren[51]task of convincing him of his error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic, had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy, answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been wandering over.“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them withal?”The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s knees.“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father. ’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers. Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his veneration for thy skill. Exert thy[52]power over him; he is weak, and thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell, and may powerful spirits aid thee!”The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face, and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of the seeming friar.The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy. His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural course of[53]things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr. Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.[54]
[Contents]CHAPTER V.Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther[48]corner of his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was about to address.“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself had appeared to further his studies.“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of a friar coming to thee at midnight.”Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore all the externals of a mortal about him.“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh, discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think differently!”“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face; “nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken unawares.”“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body[49]at the same time, from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth, and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner, with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall; his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible, except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign contempt—“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this morning?” He waited for a reply.“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it, though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie, being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily. He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of[50]Durham, to urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know, that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have, however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible, the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always go much beyond—“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do in it?”“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and incantations? Thinkest thou——”“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art he professed. To undertake the barren[51]task of convincing him of his error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic, had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy, answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been wandering over.“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them withal?”The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s knees.“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father. ’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers. Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his veneration for thy skill. Exert thy[52]power over him; he is weak, and thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell, and may powerful spirits aid thee!”The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face, and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of the seeming friar.The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy. His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural course of[53]things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr. Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.[54]
CHAPTER V.Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther[48]corner of his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was about to address.“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself had appeared to further his studies.“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of a friar coming to thee at midnight.”Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore all the externals of a mortal about him.“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh, discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think differently!”“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face; “nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken unawares.”“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body[49]at the same time, from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth, and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner, with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall; his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible, except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign contempt—“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this morning?” He waited for a reply.“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it, though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie, being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily. He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of[50]Durham, to urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know, that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have, however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible, the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always go much beyond—“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do in it?”“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and incantations? Thinkest thou——”“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art he professed. To undertake the barren[51]task of convincing him of his error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic, had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy, answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been wandering over.“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them withal?”The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s knees.“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father. ’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers. Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his veneration for thy skill. Exert thy[52]power over him; he is weak, and thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell, and may powerful spirits aid thee!”The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face, and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of the seeming friar.The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy. His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural course of[53]things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr. Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.[54]
The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther[48]corner of his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.
The person who came thus to have midnight converse with him, stooped his head and body to enter the low and narrow doorway, and halted with his head thrust forward within it to contemplate the object he was about to address.
“Ancient Fenwick,” said he, after a pause of some moments.
Fenwick started at the sound of the voice, and looked towards the little doorway. A pair of keen eyes glared upon him from beneath a dark cowl; and, plunged as he had been in the mysteries of conjuration, it is not wonderful that he should have believed that the Devil himself had appeared to further his studies.
“Avaunt thee, Sathanas!” exclaimed he, speaking with the alternate sides of his mouth, and drawing himself yet more up into the corner—“I say unto thee, Sathanas, avaunt?”
“What?” said the figure, creeping into the place, and seating himself on the floor opposite to him, “what! Master Ancient Fenwick, dost thou wish to conjure up the Devil, and yet art afraid to look on him? I weened that thou hadst been a man of more courage than to be afraid of a friar coming to thee at midnight.”
Fenwick made an exertion to compose himself, seeing his visitor bore all the externals of a mortal about him.
“And what dost thou see in me,” said he, in his usual harsh, discordant, and sepulchral utterance, “that may lead thee to think differently!”
“Umph, why, nothing—nothing now,” said the monk, bending his brows, and throwing a penetrating glance from under them into the Ancient’s face; “nothing now, but methought, for a conjuror, thou wert rather taken unawares.”
“And who art thou, who thus darest to disturb my privacy?” demanded Fenwick, somewhat sternly, and advancing his body[49]at the same time, from the more than ordinarily constrained attitude he had assumed.
The monk drew up his lips so as to display a set of long, white teeth, and raising his eyelids so as to show the white of his eye-balls, he glared at the Ancient for some time, and then slowly pronounced in a deep voice, “The Devil! what wouldst thou with me now?”
In a paroxysm of terror, Fenwick again drew himself up in his corner, with a force as if he would have pressed himself through the very wall; his teeth chattered in his head, and he sputtered so vehemently with the alternate corners of his mouth, that his words were unintelligible, except that of “Sathanas,” frequently repeated. The monk relaxed his features, and, with a scornful laugh, and a look of the most sovereign contempt—
“So,” said he, “thou must confess now that I proved thy courage to be in my power. I banished it with a look and a word. But ’tis not with thy courage I have to do at present; ’tis thy cunning I want.”
“Art thou then verily no devil?” demanded the Ancient, doubtingly.
“Tush, fool, I am a poor monk of the order of St. Francis; so calm thy craven fears, and listen to me.” He paused for some moments, to give Fenwick time to recollect himself, and when he saw that the latter had in some degree regained his composure: “Now listen to me, I say. Thou knowest doubtless that the Bishop of Durham came to Norham Castle this morning?” He waited for a reply.
“I did hear so,” answered the Ancient, “when I went down to take food.”
“Knowest thou what he came about?” demanded the Franciscan.
“I know not, I inquired not,” replied the Ancient.
“Then I will tell thee,” proceeded the Franciscan—“Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the noble Hotspur, has stooped to fix his affection on the Lady Eleanore de Selby; he has deigned to court her for his bride, and has met with ready acceptance from her father. Not sufficiently sensible of this his great condescension, the lady has treated his high offer with neglect—with indifference. Her father, a weak man, though eager for so splendid an alliance, hath allowed himself to be trifled with by the silly girl, who hath done all she could to oppose it, though to the sacrifice of her own happiness. But Sir Rafe Piersie, being too much love-stricken, abandoneth not the demoiselle so easily. He therefore availeth himself of his ally the Bishop of[50]Durham, to urge, through him, his suit with the lady, and to endeavour to stir up Sir Walter to a more determined bearing with his daughter, should she continue in her obstinacy. I shall not tell how I know, yet I do know, that the lady treated the proposals of the Bishop, as well as the name and person of the renowned Piersie, with contempt. His efforts to rouse Sir Walter de Selby to the assertion of his rights as a father, have, however, been more successful. The old man, who passionately desireth great connexion, even became irritated against her obstinacy. But Sir Rafe Piersie, wisely considering that a peaceful religious pastor was not the fittest instrument for his purpose, judgeth it right to put hotter and more efficient irons in the work. Unknown to the Bishop, and unknown to every one, therefore, he hath deputed me to seek thee and to urge thee to aid his plans. Now, Master Ancient Fenwick, thou hast the whole intricacies of the affair; thou understandest me, dost thou not?”
The Franciscan paused for a reply, and tried to read the face of him he was addressing; but it was in vain he tried it, for, except when very strongly excited by the passion of fear, or something equally forcible, the features of the Ancient were at all times illegible. After twisting and smacking the alternate corners of his mouth, which was always his prelude to speaking, and which even his actual utterance did not always go much beyond—
“Well,” said he, “and what can I do in this matter? What can magic do in it?”
“Magic!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “pshaw, fool that thou art, thinkest thou that thou canst impose upon me as thou dost on the common herd of mankind?—on one who hath dived into the arcana of nature as I have done? Thinkest thou that an active mind like mine hath not searched through all the books of these divinals—hath not toiled by the midnight lamp, and worked with their uncouth and horrible charms and incantations? Thinkest thou——”
“Hast thou so, brother?” exclaimed the Ancient, eagerly interrupting him; “hast thou in truth studied so deeply?” Then throwing his body earnestly forward, “Perhaps thou wilt clear up some small difficulties that have arisen in my path towards perfection in the invaluable art.”
The Franciscan paused. He saw at once that he had so far mistaken his man. The Ancient, whilst engaged in deceiving others, had also succeeded in deceiving himself, and was in truth a believer in the art he professed. To undertake the barren[51]task of convincing him of his error was foreign to the Franciscan’s present purpose; and seeing that Fenwick, in his eagerness for an accession to his knowledge of magic, had mistaken the contemptuous expressions he had thrown out against it for the approbation and eulogy of an adept, he deemed it best to permit him to continue in his mistake, nay, rather to foster it. He therefore commenced a long and very mystical disquisition on necromancy, answering all his questions, and solving all his doubts, but in such a manner, that although Fenwick, at the moment, firmly believed they were solved, yet, when he afterwards came to look back into his mind, he could find nothing there but a vast chaos of smoke and ashes, from which he in vain tried to extract anything tangible or systematic.
But this is not to our point. The Franciscan gained all he wanted, in acquiring a certain ascendancy over his mind by pretended superiority of knowledge—an ascendancy which he afterwards hoped to bring to bear towards the object of his mission; and to this object he gradually led the Ancient back from the wide waste of enchantment he had been wandering over.
“Thou art indeed much more learned in the sublime art than I did at first suppose thee,” said the Franciscan at length, gravely; “thy study hath been well directed; and now that I have poured the mere drop of knowledge I possessed into the vast ocean flowing in thy capacious head, thou art well fit to be my master. Some of those ingredients I talked of are of high price; thou must buy them with gold.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwick; “but where shall I find gold to buy them withal?”
The Franciscan groped in the canvas pouch that hung at his girdle of ropes, and, drawing forth a leathern bag, with a weight of broad gold pieces in it, he threw it down on the floor between the Ancient’s knees.
“There!” said he; “Sir Rafe Piersie sends thee that; ’tis to secure thee as his friend. Use thine art magic in his favour, to incline the haughty damosel to his wishes. Thou mayest do much with her father. ’Tis well known that the old knight looketh with awe upon thy powers. Thou art thyself aware that thou canst bend him as thou wilt; he doth hold thee as his oracle. Work upon his fears, then; work upon him, I say, to compel this marriage—a marriage the which is so well calculated to gratify his desire of high family alliance. He is ignorant that thou knowest of the negotiation; to find that thou dost, when he supposes that it is only known to the chief parties, will increase his veneration for thy skill. Exert thy[52]power over him; he is weak, and thou mayest easily make him thy slave. Stimulate him to firmness, to severity, nay, if necessary, to harshness with his daughter. Thou knowest ’tis for his happiness, as well as for the happiness of the silly damosel, that she should be coarted. Then do thy best to screw him up to the pitch of determination that may secure her yielding. I leave it to thyself to find out what schemes and arguments thou must employ. The world lies if thou canst not invent enow to make him do as thou wouldst have him. Remember, the Piersie is thy friend, as thou mayst do him proper service. There are more bags of broad pieces in the same treasury that came from. And now I leave thee to the hatching of thy plans. Let them be quickly concerted, and speedily put in execution, for your Piersie never was famous for patience. Farewell, and may powerful spirits aid thee!”
The Franciscan gathered up his grey gown, drew his cowl over his face, and, creeping on hands and knees to the door, disappeared in a moment.
The Ancient remained for some minutes in stupid astonishment, with his back against his corner, and his vast length of limbs stretched across the floor. He almost doubted the reality of the vision that had appeared to him. He drew up his knees to his mouth, and the leathern bag appeared. He thought of the Devil as he seized it; and, as he poured the glittering gold into his broad palm, he almost expected to see the pieces change into dried leaves, cinders, slates, or some such rubbish. Twice or thrice the thought recurred that it might have been the Great Tempter himself who had visited him. The hour—the place—the difficulty of anything mortal reaching him there, through all the intricacies of a well-watched garrison—the great knowledge displayed by the unknown—all contributed to support the idea that his visitor was something more than man. Then, on the other hand, he remembered the friar’s bare feet, that were certainly human. He again looked at the broad pieces of gold; they were bright, and fresh, and heavy as he poised them. His confidence that they were genuine became stronger, and he slipped them into the bag, and the bag into an inner pocket of his black jerkin, resolving that they should be the test of the reality of the seeming friar.
The Ancient had been for many years plunged in the study of necromancy. His uncouth appearance, and awkward ungainly port, rendered him so unfit for the gay parade of war, that Sir Walter de Selby had more than once refused him that promotion to which he was entitled in the natural course of[53]things, and of which he had been very ambitious. This rankled at his heart, and made him shun his fellows, slight the profession of arms, and take to those studies that, in so superstitious a period, met with the readiest belief and reverence, and from which he hoped to discover the means of gratifying both his ambition and his avarice. His necromantic fame, increased by tales hatched or embellished by the fertile imaginations of weak and superstitious minds, rapidly grew among all ranks; and Sir Walter de Selby was as firm a believer in his powers as the meanest soldier under his command. He readily excused the Ancient from all duty; so that, being thus left to the full and undisturbed possession of that solitary cap-house he had himself selected for his habitation, he became so immersed in his work that he rarely left it, except when driven by hunger to seek food. Living so entirely secluded as he did, it is not to be wondered at that he had hardly seen a female face. As for Lady Eleanore, he had never beheld her since her childhood, until a few days previous to the time we are now speaking of, when, having been led by some extraordinary accident beyond the walls of the keep, he had met her by chance in the court-yard; and the young lady was alarmed by the appearance of the strange monster, who blocked up her way to the bridge, and stood surveying her with his horrible eyes, that she fled from him precipitately. It must be admitted, then, that he was but little calculated to produce any favourable change on her mind in behalf of Sir Rafe Piersie, unless, indeed, it were by the art magic. With that brave old soldier of fortune, Sir Walter de Selby, he was much more likely to be successful, since the chief wish of his heart was that his daughter and his wealth should be the means of allying him with some family eminent for the grandeur of its name, as well as for its power and influence. It was a grievous disappointment to him that he had had no son; but as he had been denied this blessing, he now looked forward to having a grandson, who might give him good cause to be proud, from the high rank he should be entitled to hold in the splendid galaxy of English chivalry. He was far from being without affection for his daughter; yet his affection was in a great measure bottomed upon these his most earnest wishes and hopes; and of all this the Ancient, Mr. Haggerstone Fenwick, was very sufficiently aware.[54]