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Updated: June 1, 2025
"That am I secure," replied Amphillis, smiling, and kissing the goldsmith's daughter. "And an old uncle belike?" pursued Mr Altham, kissing her in his turn. "Assuredly, dear Uncle; but I pray, how came you hither?" "Dat shall I tell you," said Mrs Altham, "for oderwise you shall not know what good uncle you have.
That it would, should, might, or could, be anything but a pleasure, never occurred either to the Archbishop or to Mr Altham. They would not have belonged to their century if it had done so. It was the afternoon of the ninth of March. No answer had been received from the Duke, and Perrote had almost lost hope. The Countess petulantly declined to allow any religious conversation in her chamber.
Sir Edward Bromley and Sir James Altham, who were then on the northern circuit, reached Lancaster on the sixteenth of August. In the meantime, "Old Demdike," after a confession of most awful crimes, had died in prison. All the others were put on trial.
The effort was unsuccessful, as the estate was found to be covered by prior securities; and Lord Altham, in a fury, ordered his wife back to Dunmain, while he remained behind in the Irish capital. On his return his spite against her seemed to have revived, and not only did he insult her in his drunken debauches, but contrived an abominable plot to damage her reputation.
In their father's presence these observations were omitted, and Mr Altham had but a faint idea of what his orphan niece endured at the hands or rather the tongues of his daughters, who never forgave her for being more gently born than themselves.
In the Lancashire cases, Justice Altham, whose credulity knew hardly any bounds, grew suddenly "suspitious of the accusation of this yong wench, Jennet Device," who had been piling up charges against Alice Nutter. The girl was sent out of the room, the witches were mixed up, and Jennet was required on coming in again to pick out Alice Nutter. Of course that proved an easy matter.
Before she answered, a shadow fell between her and the light; and Amphillis looked up into the kindly face of Archbishop Neville. The Archbishop had delayed his further journey for the sake of the dying Countess, whom he wished to see again, especially if his influence could induce her son to come to her. He now addressed himself to Mr Altham. "Master Altham, as I guess?" he asked, pleasantly.
The act of Ricarda Altham was far more shocking in the eyes of a lady in the fourteenth century than in the nineteenth. The falsehood she had told was the same in both cases; or rather, it would weigh more heavily now than then.
Mr Altham rose, as in duty bound, in honour to a priest, and a priest who, as he dimly discerned by his canonicals, was not altogether a common one. "He, and your humble servant, holy Father." "You be uncle, I count, of my cousin Amphillis here?" "Sir! Amphillis your cousin!" "Amphillis is my cousin," was the quiet answer; "and I am the Archbishop of York."
Mr Altham considered that question with pursed lips and hands in his pockets.
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