Part 24 (1/2)
”Ey needna be afeerd o' owt happenin to ye, mother,” said Jem, patting the cat's back. ”Tib win tay care on yo.”
”Eigh, eigh,” replied Elizabeth, bending down to pat him, ”he's a trusty cat.” But the ill-tempered animal would not be propitiated, but erected his back, and menaced her with his claws.
”Yo han offended him, mother,” said Jem. ”One word efore ey start. Are ye quite sure Potts didna owerhear your conversation wi' Mistress Nutter?”
”Why d'ye ask, Jem?” she replied.
”Fro' summat the knave threw out to Squoire Nicholas just now,” rejoined Jem. ”He said he'd another case o' witchcraft nearer whoam. Whot could he mean?”
”Whot, indeed?” cried Elizabeth, quickly.
”Look at Tib,” exclaimed her son.
As he spoke, the cat sprang towards the inner door, and scratched violently against it.
Elizabeth immediately raised the latch, and found Jennet behind it, with a face like scarlet.
”Yo'n been listenin, ye young eavesdropper,” cried Elizabeth, boxing her ears soundly; ”take that fo' your pains-an that.”
”Touch me again, an Mester Potts shan knoa aw ey'n heer'd,” said the little girl, repressing her tears.
Elizabeth regarded her angrily; but the looks of the child were so spiteful, that she did not dare to strike her. She glanced too at Tib; but the uncertain cat was now rubbing himself in the most friendly manner against Jennet.
”Yo shan pay for this, la.s.s, presently,” said Elizabeth.
”Best nah provoke me, mother,” rejoined Jennet in a determined tone; ”if ye dun, aw secrets shan out. Ey knoa why Jem's goin' to Malkin-Tower to-neet-an why yo're afeerd o' Mester Potts.”
”Howd thy tongue or ey'n choke thee, little pest,” cried her mother, fiercely.
Jennet replied with a mocking laugh, while Tib rubbed against her more fondly than ever.
”Let her alone,” interposed Jem. ”An now ey mun be off. So, fare ye weel, mother,-an yo, too, Jennet.” And with this, he put on his cap, seized his cudgel, and quitted the cottage.
CHAPTER VII.-THE RUINED CONVENTUAL CHURCH.
Beneath a wild cherry-tree, planted by chance in the Abbey gardens, and of such remarkable size that it almost rivalled the elms and lime trees surrounding it, and when in bloom resembled an enormous garland, stood two young maidens, both of rare beauty, though in totally different styles;-the one being fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a snowy skin tinged with delicate bloom, like that of roses seen through milk, to borrow a simile from old Anacreon; while the other far eclipsed her in the brilliancy of her complexion, the dark splendour of her eyes, and the luxuriance of her jetty tresses, which, unbound and knotted with ribands, flowed down almost to the ground. In age, there was little disparity between them, though perhaps the dark-haired girl might be a year nearer twenty than the other, and somewhat more of seriousness, though not much, sat upon her lovely countenance than on the other's laughing features. Different were they too, in degree, and here social position was infinitely in favour of the fairer girl, but no one would have judged it so if not previously acquainted with their history. Indeed, it was rather the one having least t.i.tle to be proud (if any one has such t.i.tle) who now seemed to look up to her companion with mingled admiration and regard; the latter being enthralled at the moment by the rich notes of a thrush poured from a neighbouring lime-tree.
Pleasant was the garden where the two girls stood, shaded by great trees, laid out in exquisite parterres, with knots and figures, quaint flower-beds, shorn trees and hedges, covered alleys and arbours, terraces and mounds, in the taste of the time, and above all an admirably kept bowling-green. It was bounded on the one hand by the ruined chapter-house and vestry of the old monastic structure, and on the other by the stately pile of buildings formerly making part of the Abbot's lodging, in which the long gallery was situated, some of its windows looking upon the bowling-green, and then kept in excellent condition, but now roofless and desolate. Behind them, on the right, half hidden by trees, lay the desecrated and despoiled conventual church. Reared at such cost, and with so much magnificence, by thirteen abbots-the great work having been commenced, as heretofore stated, by Robert de Topcliffe, in 1330, and only completed in all its details by John Paslew; this splendid structure, surpa.s.sing, according to Whitaker, ”many cathedrals in extent,” was now abandoned to the slow ravages of decay. Would it had never encountered worse enemy! But some half century later, the hand of man was called in to accelerate its destruction, and it was then almost entirely rased to the ground. At the period in question though partially unroofed, and with some of the walls destroyed, it was still beautiful and picturesque-more picturesque, indeed than in the days of its pride and splendour. The tower with its lofty crocketed spire was still standing, though the latter was cracked and tottering, and the jackdaws roosted within its windows and belfry. Two ranges of broken columns told of the bygone glories of the aisles; and the beautiful side chapels having escaped injury better than other parts of the fabric, remained in tolerable preservation. But the choir and high altar were stripped of all their rich carving and ornaments, and the rain descended through the open rood-loft upon the now gra.s.s-grown graves of the abbots in the presbytery. Here and there the ramified mullions still retained their wealth of painted gla.s.s, and the grand eastern window shone gorgeously as of yore. All else was neglect and ruin. Briers and turf usurped the place of the marble pavement; many of the pillars were festooned with ivy; and, in some places, the shattered walls were covered with creepers, and trees had taken root in the crevices of the masonry. Beautiful at all times were these magnificent ruins; but never so beautiful as when seen by the witching light of the moon-the hour, according to the best authority, when all ruins should be viewed-when the long lines of broken pillars, the mouldering arches, and the still glowing panes over the altar, had a magical effect.
In front of the maidens stood a square tower, part of the defences of the religious establishment, erected by Abbot Lyndelay, in the reign of Edward III., but disused and decaying. It was sustained by high and richly groined arches, crossing the swift mill-race, and faced the river. A path led through the ruined chapter-house to the s.p.a.cious cloister quadrangle, once used as a cemetery for the monks, but now converted into a kitchen garden, its broad area being planted out, and fruit-trees trained against the h.o.a.ry walls. Little of the old refectory was left, except the dilapidated stairs once conducting to the gallery where the brethren were wont to take their meals, but the inner wall still served to enclose the garden on that side. Of the dormitory, formerly const.i.tuting the eastern angle of the cloisters, the sh.e.l.l was still left, and it was used partly as a grange, partly as a shed for cattle, the farm-yard and tenements lying on this side.
Thus it will be seen that the garden and grounds, filling up the ruins of Whalley Abbey, offered abundant points of picturesque attraction, all of which-with the exception of the ruined conventual church-had been visited by the two girls. They had tracked the labyrinths of pa.s.sages, scaled the broken staircases, crept into the roofless and neglected chambers, peered timorously into the black and yawning vaults, and now, having finished their investigations, had paused for awhile, previous to extending their ramble to the church, beneath the wild cherry-tree to listen to the warbling of the birds.
”You should hear the nightingales at Middleton, Alizon,” observed Dorothy a.s.sheton, breaking silence; ”they sing even more exquisitely than yon thrush. You must come and see me. I should like to show you the old house and gardens, though they are very different from these, and we have no ancient monastic ruins to ornament them. Still, they are very beautiful; and, as I find you are fond of flowers, I will show you some I have reared myself, for I am something of a gardener, Alizon. Promise you will come.”
”I wish I dared promise it,” replied Alizon.
”And why not, then?” cried Dorothy. ”What should prevent you? Do you know, Alizon, what I should like better than all? You are so amiable, and so good, and so-so very pretty; nay, don't blush-there is no one by to hear me-you are so charming altogether, that I should like you to come and live with me. You shall be my handmaiden if you will.”