The Lancashire Witches (Historical Novel). William Harrison Ainsworth

of the day, while Doctor Ormerod had friends staying with him at the vicarage.

      Soon after midnight, on the morning of the festival, many young persons of the village, of both sexes, had arisen, and, to the sound of horn, had repaired to the neighbouring woods, and there gathered a vast stock of green boughs and flowering branches of the sweetly-perfumed hawthorn, wild roses, and honeysuckle, with baskets of violets, cowslips, primroses, blue-bells, and other wild flowers, and returning in the same order they went forth, fashioned the branches into green bowers within the churchyard, or round about the May-pole set up on the green, and decorated them afterwards with garlands and crowns of flowers. This morning ceremonial ought to have been performed without wetting the feet: but though some pains were taken in the matter, few could achieve the difficult task, except those carried over the dewy grass by their lusty swains. On the day before the rushes had been gathered, and the rush cart piled, shaped, trimmed, and adorned by those experienced in the task, (and it was one requiring both taste and skill, as will be seen when the cart itself shall come forth,) while others had borrowed for its adornment, from the abbey and elsewhere, silver tankards, drinking-cups, spoons, ladles, brooches, watches, chains, and bracelets, so as to make an imposing show.

      Day was ushered in by a merry peal of bells from the tower of the old parish church, and the ringers practised all kinds of joyous changes during the morning, and fired many a clanging volley. The whole village was early astir; and as these were times when good hours were kept; and as early rising is a famous sharpener of the appetite, especially when attended with exercise, so an hour before noon the rustics one and all sat down to dinner, the strangers being entertained by their friends, and if they had no friends, throwing themselves upon the general hospitality. The alehouses were reserved for tippling at a later hour, for it was then customary for both gentleman and commoner, male as well as female, as will be more fully shown hereafter, to take their meals at home, and repair afterwards to houses of public entertainment for wine or other liquors. Private chambers were, of course, reserved for the gentry; but not unfrequently the squire and his friends would take their bottle with the other guests. Such was the invariable practice in the northern counties in the reign of James the First.

      Soon after mid-day, and when the bells began to peal merrily again (for even ringers must recruit themselves), at a small cottage in the outskirts of the village, and close to the Calder, whose waters swept past the trimly kept garden attached to it, two young girls were employed in attiring a third, who was to represent Maid Marian, or Queen of May, in the pageant then about to ensue. And, certainly, by sovereign and prescriptive right of beauty, no one better deserved the high title and distinction conferred upon her than this fair girl. Lovelier maiden in the whole county, and however high her degree, than this rustic damsel, it was impossible to find; and though the becoming and fanciful costume in which she was decked could not heighten her natural charms, it certainly displayed them to advantage. Upon her smooth and beautiful brow sat a gilt crown, while her dark and luxuriant hair, covered behind with a scarlet coif, embroidered with gold; and tied with yellow, white, and crimson ribands, but otherwise wholly unconfirmed, swept down almost to the ground. Slight and fragile, her figure was of such just proportion that every movement and gesture had an indescribable charm. The most courtly dame might have envied her fine and taper fingers, and fancied she could improve them by protecting them against the sun, or by rendering them snowy white with paste or cosmetic, but this was questionable; nothing certainly could improve the small foot and finely-turned ankle, so well displayed in the red hose and smart little yellow buskin, fringed with gold. A stomacher of scarlet cloth, braided with yellow lace in cross bars, confined her slender waist. Her robe was of carnation-coloured silk, with wide sleeves, and the gold-fringed skirt descended only a little below the knee, like the dress of a modern Swiss peasant, so as to reveal the exquisite symmetry of her limbs. Over all she wore a surcoat of azure silk, lined with white, and edged with gold. In her left hand she held a red pink as an emblem of the season. So enchanting was her appearance altogether, so fresh the character of her beauty, so bright the bloom that dyed her lovely checks, that she might have been taken for a personification of May herself. She was indeed in the very May of life—the mingling of spring and summer in womanhood; and the tender blue eyes, bright and clear as diamonds of purest water, the soft regular features, and the merry mouth, whose ruddy parted lips ever and anon displayed two rows of pearls, completed the similitude to the attributes of the jocund month.

      Her handmaidens, both of whom were simple girls, and though not destitute of some pretensions to beauty themselves, in nowise to be compared with her, were at the moment employed in knotting the ribands in her hair, and adjusting the azure surcoat.

      Attentively watching these proceedings sat on a stool, placed in a corner, a little girl, some nine or ten years old, with a basket of flowers on her knee. The child was very diminutive, even for her age, and her smallness was increased by personal deformity, occasioned by contraction of the chest, and spinal curvature, which raised her back above her shoulders; but her features were sharp and cunning, indeed almost malignant, and there was a singular and unpleasant look about the eyes, which were not placed evenly in the head. Altogether she had a strange old-fashioned look, and from her habitual bitterness of speech, as well as from her vindictive character, which, young as she was, had been displayed, with some effect, on more than one occasion, she was no great favourite with any one. It was curious now to watch the eager and envious interest she took in the progress of her sister’s adornment—for such was the degree of relationship in which she stood to the May Queen—and when the surcoat was finally adjusted, and the last riband tied, she broke forth, having hitherto preserved a sullen silence.

      “Weel, sister Alizon, ye may a farrently May Queen, ey mun say” she observed, spitefully, “but to my mind other Suky Worseley, or Nancy Holt, here, would ha’ looked prottier.”

      “Nah, nah, that we shouldna,” rejoined one of the damsels referred to; “there is na a lass i’ Lonkyshiar to hold a condle near Alizon Device.”

      “Fie upon ye, for an ill-favort minx, Jennet,” cried Nancy Holt; “yo’re jealous o’ your protty sister.”

      “Ey jealous,” cried Jennet, reddening, “an whoy the firrups should ey be jealous, ey, thou saucy jade! Whon ey grow older ey’st may a prottier May Queen than onny on you, an so the lads aw tell me.”

      “And so you will, Jennet,” said Alizon Device, checking, by a gentle look, the jeering laugh in which Nancy seemed disposed to indulge—“so you will, my pretty little sister,” she added, kissing her; “and I will ‘tire you as well and as carefully as Susan and Nancy have just ‘tired me.”

      “Mayhap ey shanna live till then,” rejoined Jennet, peevishly, “and when ey’m dead an’ gone, an’ laid i’ t’ cowld churchyard, yo an they win be sorry fo having werreted me so.”

      “I have never intentionally vexed you, Jennet, love,” said Alizon, “and I am sure these two girls love you dearly.”

      “Eigh, we may allowance fo her feaw tempers,” observed Susan Worseley; “fo we knoa that ailments an deformities are sure to may folk fretful.”

      “Eigh, there it is,” cried Jennet, sharply. “My high shoulthers an sma size are always thrown i’ my feace. Boh ey’st grow tall i’ time, an get straight—eigh straighter than yo, Suky, wi’ your broad back an short neck—boh if ey dunna, whot matters it? Ey shall be feared at onny rate—ay, feared, wenches, by ye both.”

      “Nah doubt on’t, theaw little good-fo’-nothin piece o’ mischief,” muttered Susan.

      “Whot’s that yo sayn, Suky?” cried Jennet, whose quick ears had caught the words, “Tak care whot ye do to offend me, lass,” she added, shaking her thin fingers, armed with talon-like claws, threateningly at her, “or ey’ll ask my granddame, Mother Demdike, to quieten ye.”

      At the mention of this name a sudden shade came over Susan’s countenance. Changing colour, and slightly trembling, she turned away from the child, who, noticing the effect of her threat, could not repress her triumph. But again Alizon interposed.

      “Do not be alarmed, Susan,” she said, “my grandmother will never harm you, I am sure; indeed, she will never harm any one; and do not heed