CHAPTER XIII.—­THE TWO FAMILIARS.

After seeing Richard depart on his perilous mission to Malkin Tower, Mistress Nutter retired to her own chamber, and held long and anxious self-communion.  The course of her thoughts may be gathered from the terrible revelations made by Mother Demdike to Alizon.  A prey to the most agonising emotions, it may be questioned if she could have endured greater torment if her heart had been consumed by living fire, as in the punishment assigned to the damned in the fabled halls of Eblis.  For the first time remorse assailed her, and she felt compunction for the evil she had committed.  The whole of her dark career passed in review before her.  The long catalogue of her crimes unfolded itself like a scroll of flame, and at its foot were written in blazing characters the awful words, JUDGMENT AND CONDEMNATION!  There was no escape—­none!  Hell, with its unquenchable fires and unimaginable horrors, yawned to receive her; and she felt, with anguish and self-reproach not to be described, how wretched a bargain she had made, and how dearly the brief gratification of her evil passions had been purchased at the cost of an eternity of woe and torture.

This change of feeling had been produced by her newly-awakened affection for her daughter, long supposed dead, and now restored to her, only to be snatched away again in a manner which added to the sharpness of the loss.  She saw herself the sport of a juggling fiend, whose aim was to win over her daughter’s soul through her instrumentality, and she resolved, if possible, to defeat his purposes.  This, she was aware, could only be accomplished by her own destruction, but even this dread alternative she was prepared to embrace.  Alizon’s sinless nature and devotion to herself had so wrought upon her, that, though she had at first resisted the better impulses kindled within her bosom, in the end they completely overmastered her.

Was it, she asked herself, too late to repent?  Was there no way of breaking her compact?  She remembered to have read of a young man who had signed away his own soul, being restored to heaven by the intercession of the great reformer of the church, Martin Luther.  But, on the other hand, she had heard of many others, who, on the slightest manifestation of penitence, had been rent in pieces by the Fiend.  Still the idea recurred to her.  Might not her daughter, armed with perfect purity and holiness, with a soul free from stain as an unspotted mirror; might not she, who had avouched herself ready to risk all for her—­for she had overheard her declaration to Richard;—­might not she be able to work out her salvation?  Would confession of her sins and voluntary submission to earthly justice save her?  Alas!—­no.  She was without hope.  She had an inexorable master to deal with, who would grant her no grace, except upon conditions she would not assent to.

She would have thrown herself on her knees, but they refused to bend.  She would have prayed, but the words turned to blasphemies.  She would have wept, but the fountains of tears were dry.  The witch could never weep.