FEBRUARY
"The Hag is astride
This night for to ride,
The devil and she together,
Through thick and through thin,
Now out, and now in,
Though ne'er so foule be the weather."
HERRICK'S _Hesperides_.
Some weeks had passed, and I had been away from home. Rain had
fallen, and the snow had vanished like a dream--the first dawn of
spring had come. Not spring as we know her in the South of France or
in Southern Italy--gorgeous, gay, debonair--but shy, coy, and timid.
The spring of the North is like a maiden of the hills, timid and
reserved, yet infinitely attractive, what our French friends would
call "une sensitive."
There was, as yet, very little appearance that winter "brear Winter,"
as Spenser calls him, was routed and obliged with his legions of
frost and snow, to fly before the arrival of youth and life, and the
breath of triumphant zephyrs. A spring in the North is chiefly
proclaimed by the voice of the stormcock in some apple tree, by the
green peering noses of snowdrops, and here and there a crimson tassel
on the hazel tree and larch; but, above all, by the splendour of
golden and purple lights which come and go across the hillsides and
athwart wood and coppice. The turf, as I walked along, I noticed was
moist and soft, and oozed up under my feet. February fill-dyke, as
she is called, had come in due order, and in appointed form. Little
puddles glistened on the drive, and for all the patches here and
there of blue, there were leaden shadows and grey clouds, and it was
wise, if you wandered abroad, to have at hand the protecting
influence of an umbrella. I walked up the back drive, till I stood
before the well of our patron saint.
[Sidenote: THE "HOLY ONE OF WENLOCK"]
Long centuries ago the holy and beautiful daughter of Merewald, King
of Hereford, according to old tradition, came here and founded a
nunnery. The story runs that St. Milburgha, pursued by the
importunities of a Welsh prince, found a refuge at Wenlock, and
gathered round her a community of devoted women.
Tradition tells the story of how the saint fled on one occasion to
Stoke, a hamlet in the Clee Hills. The legend says that she fell
fainting from her milk-white steed as she neared a spring there. As
she did so she struck her head against a stone, causing blood to flow
freely from the wound. At that time, about the middle of February,
some countrymen were occupied in sowing barley in a field which was
called the Placks, and seeing the lovely lady in so sad a plight,
they ran to her assistance.
"Water," she wailed, but none seemed at hand. Then St. Milburgha bade
her steed strike his hoof against the rock, and, believed the
hagiologists, water, clear, wonderful and blessed, leapt forth at her
command. As it flowed, the lady is reported to have said: "Holy
water, flow now, and from all time." Then she stretched forth her
hands and blessed the fields where the barley had been sown, and
immediately, before the astonished eyes of all beholders, the grain
burst forth into tender blades of grass. Then St. Milburgha turned to
the countrymen.
"The wicked prince," she said, "and his pack of bloodhounds are close
upon me, therefore I must fly." And she bade them adieu, but not till
she had told them to sharpen their scythes, for the reaping of the
barley should take place that night.
All came to pass as the Blessed One had foretold, for as the
countrymen were busy reaping their grain, the heathen prince and his
followers arrived on the scene.
But the labourers were true and faithful hearts, and neither threats
nor promises could extract from them in what direction the Lady
Milburgha had fled.
When the prince saw that the peasants had begun to reap the grain
that had been sown the self-same day, a great awe fell upon him and
his lords, and he vowed that it was a vain and foolish thing to fight
against the Lord, and his anointed.
Other old writers tell how the river Corve, at the voice of God,
saved Lady Milburgha; and how, as soon as she had passed over its
waters, from an insignificant little brooklet it swelled into a
mighty flood which effectually barred the prince's progress. Amongst
other incidents mentioned by Saxon chroniclers, we hear that St.
Milburgha drove away the wild geese from the plots of the poor. Many
are the legends of the beautiful Shropshire saint that are still
cherished in the wild country between the Severn and the Clee. She
was as fair as she was good, it was said, and old writers told how,
when a veil once fell from her head in the early morning sunshine, it
remained suspended in the air until replaced by her own hand, and how
she wrought a miracle by prayer and brought back to life the son of a
poor widow; while all the while, a mystic and sacred flame burnt
beside her, a visible manifestation of her sanctity, for all to see.
[Sidenote: THE SAINT'S WELL]
I thought of all these beautiful old legends, fairy-stories of grace,
they seemed to me, as I wandered up the back lane and paused before
the saint's well at Wenlock, which is still said to cure sore eyes.
As I stopped to gaze down upon the deep well below, I noticed that
the little wicket gate was open, and that a child with a little jug
was about to descend the stairs to fetch what she termed in the
Shropshire tongue, "a spot o' water."
"Have you no water at home, my child, that you come here?" I asked.
"Oh yes," replied the little maiden, Fanny Milner by name, "there be
a hougy drop in our well after the rains; but grandam says I must get
some from here, or she'll never be able to read her chapter come
Sunday afternoon, with glasses or no glasses. Grandam says as it have
a greater power of healin' than ever lies in doctor's messes, or than
in bought stuffs neither. It be a _blessed_ water, grandam says, and
was washed in by a saint--and when saints meddle with water, they
makes, grandam says, a better job of it than any doctor, let him be
fit to burst with learning."
I smiled at the apple-cheeked little lass's quaint talk, and helped
her to fill her jar. The belief in the healing powers of the old well
lingers on, and many of the inhabitants of Much Wenlock are still of
opinion that water fetched from St. Milburgha's well can cure many
diseases, and particularly all malign affections of the eyes.
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the holy wells of many
Welsh and Shropshire wells degenerated into Wishing wells. They then
lost their sacred character, and became centres of rural festivities.
It is said that at Much Wenlock on "Holy Thursday," high revels were
held formerly at St. Milburgha's well; that the young men after
service in the church bore green branches round the town, and that
they stopped at last before St. Milburgha's well. There, it is
alleged, the young maidens threw in crooked pins and "wished" for
sweethearts. Round the well, young men drank toasts in beer brewed
from water collected from the church roof, whilst the women sipped
sugar and water, and ate cakes. After many songs and much merriment,
the day ended with games such as "Pop the Green Man down," "Sally
Water," and "The Bull in the Ring," which games were followed by
country dances, such as "The Merry Millers of Ludlow," "John, come
and kiss me," "Tom Tizler," "Put on your smock o' Monday," and
"Sellingers all."
Such was the custom at Chirbury, at Churchstoke, and at many of the
Hill wakes, and from lonely cottage and village hamlets the boys and
girls gathered together, and danced and played in village and town.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Frith._
THE RED WALLED GARDEN.]
After shopping in the town, I entered the little old red-walled
garden where my annuals blossom in the lovely long June days. All
looked sad and brown, and "packed by" for rest, as Burbidge calls it.
I noticed, however, a few signs of returning life. The snowdrops had
little green noses, which peered above the ground, and here and there
the winter aconites had bubbled up into blossom. What funny little
prim things they were with their bonnets of gold, and their frills of
emerald green. I noted, also, that the "Mezeron-tree," as Bacon calls
it, was budding. How sweet would be its fragrance a few weeks later,
I thought, under the glow of a warm March sun.
I passed along, and looked at a line of yellow crocuses. The most
beautiful of all crocuses, veritable lamps of fire in a garden, are
those known as the Cloth of Gold. The golden thread was full of
promise, but as yet no blossom was expanded. How glorious they would
be when they opened to the sunshine. There is indeed almost heat in
their colour, it is so warm and splendid.
[Sidenote: MANY-COLOURED STARLINGS FLIT]
As I stood before these signs of dawning life, two starlings flitted
across the garden. How gay they were in their brilliant iridescent
plumage! The sun, as they passed me, struck the sheen of their backs,
and they seemed to shine a hundred colours, all at once. I tried to
count the colours that the sun brought forth in them, gold, red,
green, blue, gray and black with silver lights; but as I named the
colours, words seemed bald and inadequate to describe the beauty and
mutability of their hundred tints, for, as they moved, each colour
changed, dissolved, reappeared and vanished, to grow afresh in some
more wonderful and even more exquisite tint. And then suddenly the
sun was obscured behind a cloud, and my starlings, that seemed a
minute ago to hold in their plumage the beauty of the sun and the
moon and of the stars, became in a twinkling poor brown, everyday,
common little creatures. Like Ashputtel when the charm was gone, they
looked common little vulgar creatures, and as they flew over the wall
into the depths of the ivy on the ruined church, I wondered why I had
ever admired them.
Starlings, some fifty years ago, were often kept as pets. Burbidge
has told me that they are the cleverest mimics that breathe, being
"born apes," so to speak. Now, however, my old friend declares, "none
will do with them, for nobody cares for nought but popinjays, and
then they must have the colours of a gladiolus married to the voice
of a piano." So the English starling is no longer a village pet. A
few minutes later, and Burbidge told me that a spray of Chionodoxa
Luciliæ was out.
I peered round and I saw some little hard china like buttons, folded
tight in a sheath, and beyond, a cluster of bronze noses, about a
quarter of an inch above the ground. How lovely they will be, I
thought, all these delicate spring flowers. All blue, and all
wonderfully beautiful from the deep sapphire blue of the Chionodoxa
Sardensis, to the pale lavender of the dainty and exquisite Alleni.
Yes, the world is alive, I said, and laughed; for I knew that spring
must come in spite of snows and frosts, that the breath of life had
gone forth, mysterious, wonderful, the miracle of all the miracles,
and that the joy of spring and the glory of summer must come, as
inevitably as death and winter.
I turned and inspected a large bed of Chinese Peonies. I moved a
little of the protecting bracken placed there by the loving hand of
Burbidge, and peeped into the litter. Yes, they too, had heard the
call of spring. A few shoots had pierced through the soil, and they
were of the richest blood-red colour, like the shoots of the
tea-roses on the verandah of our hotel at Mentone. They were of the
deepest crimson, with a light in them that recalled the splendour of
a dying sun. Then I covered up the shoots quickly for fear of night
frosts, but with hope in my heart, for everywhere I knew the earth
must burst into bud and blossom; and as I listened to the storm-cock
in the plantation, I rejoiced with him in the lengthening days, and
in the growing sunshine.
[Sidenote: A JOYOUS CHAFFINCH]
I passed out of the garden, and walked down the stone stairs, through
the old wrought-iron gate, that is said to have belonged to the house
where the Rye House Plot was hatched. Just outside, and perched on a
silver holly, I saw a lovely cock chaffinch. A second later, he was
strutting gaily up and down on the grass! What a grand fellow he was,
with his lavender head, his greenish-grey back, his salmon breast,
and the brilliant white bars on his wings! What a cheery,
light-hearted little creature! "Joyeux comme un pinson," the French
say, and he is certainly the most light-hearted of English birds. The
Twink, or Bachelor bird he is often nicknamed, for when winter comes,
many of the cocks stretch their wings and fly off to foreign parts
and leave the hens behind. The pied-finch is his name in the village.
By nature a most joyous bird, the pied-finch is the last of the
summer singers, singing gaily into July, when the thrush and
blackbird are mute. I stood and watched him as he hopped about the
sward. He took no notice that I was near, for the Bachelor bird is
very fearless and curiously little apprehensive, or timid. All of a
sudden, I turned round and saw my great hound Mouse behind me.
"Mouse!" I cried, and with a bound she was beside me. For the first
twenty-four hours after my return, Mouse is miserable out of my
sight. She always gives me a boisterous welcome, and will not leave
me for a moment. She sniffs at my boxes, watches me out of the corner
of her eye, and wanders round me, trying often in a foolish, dumb way
to block my passage, if she thinks I wish to leave the room.
Panting, and running behind my dog, followed Bess.
"Mums," she said, "we couldn't think where you was gone. We hunted
everywhere. 'Like enough,' Burbidge said, 'you was hunting for
flowers.' But don't bother about little spikes and green things, for
Mouse and I want you badly."
"Hals is coming," continued Bess, "and this time without his
crab-tree governess. Burbidge says, 'Give me a Fräulein to turn the
cream sour;' and declares that 'You could make vinegar out of her!'"
"Well, then, my dear," I said, "you and Hals can thoroughly enjoy
yourselves, for you will be alone."
"Yes," answered Bess, "for when I saw Hals I said, 'Nothing but old,
old clothes--clothes that will nearly want gum to stick them on, and
that won't mind any mud.'"
"Did you enjoy yourself at Hals' birthday?" I asked, for on that
eventful day I was away.
"I should think I did, mamsie," and Bess's eyes glistened at the
recollection. "There was no conjurer, but the dearest little white
dog in the world, that did tricks, and he knew more tricks than a pig
at a fair, Nana said; and after that Cousin Alice, Miss Jordan, read
us some stories and poetry. First of all, she sang us such nice old
songs about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary,' 'Little Boy Blue,' and 'I
saw Three Ships come Sailing,' and then she went on reading poetry.
She read us the 'Ancient Mariner,' and 'Sister Helen,' and I sat on
her knee; but Hals wouldn't sit on his mother's, because he said
people were looking, and boys had better sit on their own chairs. And
'Sister Helen' was quite real, and made me feel creepy, creepy. It
was all about two sisters--they hated some one, and made an image,
and they dug pins into it, and then they repeated bad words, and the
person for whom it was meant got iller and iller and died; and Hals
and me we liked it." So, chattering all the way, Bess and I regained
the house.
"Will there be cake--my favourite cake?" inquired Bess, "the one that
Hals likes best of all, with apricot jam and chocolate on the top?"
"Yes," I answered, "and Auguste has promised to make it himself. But
only one helping. You must try and be wise, little girl."
"I must try," said Bess, but not very hopefully.
Half an hour later and Hals arrived, without Fräulein Schliemann. We
all felt relieved; the two children embraced hurriedly, as if life
was all too short to get in all the fun of an afternoon spent in each
other's company; and then Bess said, "You can go now," sharply to the
little maid who had brought him over. "We don't want to be unkind,
but we want to be quite, quite alone, please;" then, thinking that
she had not been quite courteous, Bess ran impetuously out of the
room. "Poor thing!" she explained to me a minute after, "she must
read, because she cannot play; she cannot help it;" and Bess gave
Jane a story-book.
"You will find that very amusing," I heard her say through the open
door. "It is all about a naughty girl, but she couldn't help being
naughty, 'cause it was her nature."
Then Jane went up to the nursery, and a minute later Bess and Harry
bounced off together. Before leaving me she whispered something into
his ear.
An hour later and Fremantle rang the bell for tea.
[Sidenote: A GREAT, GREAT SECRET]
After a few moments of waiting Bess and Hals reappeared. They
whispered loudly, but I pretended not to hear what they said, for
Bess told me with flashing eyes that they had a great, great secret.
"The greatest secret, Mum Mum, that we ever had in our lives."
Their faces looked scarlet, and as to their hands, it is hard to say
of what colour they were originally. It was, however, Bess's special
_fête_, so I said nothing tactless about cleanliness, nor did I
allude to whispering being against the canons of good manners; for
there are moments when a mother should have eyes not to see, and ears
not to hear, and as a wise friend once said to me, "half the wisdom
of life is knowing when to be indulgent."
I need not have feared any excess on the part of the children as
regarded the cake and the jam, for they hardly ate any, and Auguste's
_chef d'oeuvre_ had only two small slices cut out of it.
Bess, I saw, was under the influence of some great excitement. She
could hardly sit still a moment, and fidgeted on her chair
repeatedly, till I feared she would topple backwards, chair and all.
At last tea was over, and grace was said, and the two children,
breathless, and absorbed, begged leave to go off.
"Yes," I answered, "but not out of doors; for, see, it is raining,
and I promised your mother, Hals, that you should not get wet."
"Oh no, it's nothing to do with puddles," cried Bess. "But, mum, may
I take some pins from your pincushion? Nurse won't let me have as
many as I want. And then will you say that nobody--nobody is to go
near us?"
"Very well," I answered, "only don't do anything that is really
wrong."
Bess avoided my gaze, and did not answer, and a minute later I heard
the two children scuttle up the newel staircase, and shortly after
heard the muffled sound of voices in the old tower of the Abbey that
a Lawley is said to have erected in the middle of the seventeenth
century.
[Sidenote: THE FAIRY-STORY]
About half an hour after, the children returned to me in the chapel
hall. Bess, I noticed, looked white and fagged, and both children
seemed exhausted by their play, whatever it was, so I made them sit
quiet, fetched my embroidery, and began to tell them a fairy-story. I
meandered along the paths of fiction. I fear my story had but little
plot, but it had fiery dragons, wild beasts, a fairy prince, and a
beautiful fairy princess, and, in the background, a wicked ogre. And
as I talked, the children sat entranced.
"You see," I said, as I heard the front-door bell ring, and heard the
tramp of horses outside, "the prince was to have everything, all that
his heart could wish--dogs, the golden bow and arrows, the azure
ball, and the deathless crimson rose--as long as he restrained his
temper, and never gave way to fits of violent passion. But if he
swore at his old nurse, Ancoretta, or struck the goat-herd, Fritz, or
even pinched the goose-girl, Mopsa, palace, dogs, bow, ball and rose
were all to disappear like a flash of lightning, and he was to become
again the poor little bare-legged village lad. Then the princess was
to be carried off by fiery dragons, and never return till he,
Florizel, had been able to grow good and pitiful again, and to do
some lowly, humble service to some poor old dame that everybody else
despised, and was unkind to."
At this point of my story, Fremantle entered and announced the
carriage.
"Go on, go on," cried the children in one breath. "We want to hear
what happened!"
But I answered, shaking my head, "How Prince Florizel was rude to his
tutor, ungrateful to his old nurse, and beat his faithful
foster-brother, Fritz, is another story, as Mr. Kipling would say;
and all this you must wait to hear in the second volume of my mind,
which will appear on Easter Monday, when Hals shall come over, if his
mother can spare him, and we three will all sail off in fairy barks
with silken sails to the far and happy land of Fancy."
So Harry departed, attended by Jane, and Bess sat on in silence
looking hard into the fire, and then early, and of her own accord,
pleaded fatigue and slipped off to bed.
Just as I was finishing dinner I saw old Nurse Milner standing in the
doorway.
"Nothing wrong, nurse?" I asked, starting up.
"Nothing very wrong," answered old Nana, cautiously; "leastways, Miss
Bess is not ill, but she seems out of sorts and won't say her prayers
to-night, and will keep throwing herself about, till I think she's
bound to fall out of bed. I have asked her what's the matter, but
she's as secret as a state door. She and Master Harry have been up to
some tricks, I'll be bound, for I don't hold to children playin' by
themselves, as if they were nothing but lambkins in a meadow. You
can't tell what they won't be up to, but this you may be sure of, to
childers left by themselves, mischief is natural sport." And old Nana
glared, and made me feel very small.
"No great harm done this time," I said, and went upstairs.
"What's the matter, little girl?" I asked. I took a little hot,
feverish hand and pressed her to tell me why she would not say her
prayers.
At first Bess was sullen--turned her head away, and would not speak;
but she could not resist my kiss, and at last confession bubbled up
to her lips.
[Sidenote: A LITTLE MAID'S CONFESSION]
"Mama," she exclaimed vehemently, "I have been wicked, very
wicked--wicked as an ogre or a she-dragon. Can you love me really and
truly when you know what I've done--really love me again?"
"I am sure I can," I answered, "only tell me. When I know, I can help
you."
Bess buried her head against my shoulder, and then rambled on rather
incoherently--
"Do you remember what I told you about Hals' birthday--how there
wasn't a conjurer but a white dog, and how, after the tricks were
done, Miss Jordan read us stories and told us poems? Well, there was
one bit of poetry that I wish I had never heard, nor Hals either, and
that was Sister Helen, because it has made me very wicked. It has
made me think of how I could pay out Fräulein. We both hate her, she
does nothing but punish; not punish you to make you good, but to make
you horrid. Hals catches it for not washing his hands, for not
brushing his hair, for not putting on his coat, for losing his
blotting-paper, for dropping his pencil. Everything means a
punishment with Fräulein. She pounces on him like a cat, and she has
him everywhere." Then, after a pause, Bess began again. "Hals and I
thought we would punish her, too--once and for all."
"Yes, Bess," I inquired; "but what did you do?"
"Mum, I was very naughty," replied my little girl, tearfully.
"To-day, Hals and I went upstairs, up to the tower, and I got a
dustpan and two candle-ends, and we lighted some sticks and some
paper in the dustpan--I stole some matches out of papa's room--and
then we melted up the wax."
"And then, Bess?"
"Then, when the wax was sticky and horrid, we stuck pins into it, and
I said, 'Please, God, let Fräulein die.' And Hals did not want to say
it, but I made him, for I said I wouldn't have God angry with only me.
"And then I called out, 'Let her die, God, in horrid pain, like the
snake last year that Burbidge killed and that wouldn't die straight
off; and then, dear Lord, let her go to hell and be kept there ever
afterwards.' But Hals wouldn't say that, because he had heard
Parsons, their stud groom, say you must give every beggar a chance,
so he bargained that she should come out one day and have some
chocolates. To which I said, if the Lord lets her out of hell, it
shall be only common chocolates, not like those that Uncle Paul
brought me back from Paris. Then Hals agreed, Mum Mum; only he said,
for all she was a German woman, the chock was not to be too nasty,
seeing that she would only have some once a year.
"Then Hals wanted to go away; but I said he shouldn't till we had
done the whole job.
"Then he and I blew out the fire and stamped upon the wax, and it was
quite soft and squashy and I pricked my foot; but nurse does not
know, for Eliza bathed me to-night, and Eliza did not notice."
"And after that?" I asked.
"Oh," sobbed Bess, "you will be very angry."
"Never mind, go on," I said.
"Then," said Bess, steeled to the point, in a penetrating broken
chirp, "after that I told Hals we must say bad words, for I knew that
bad words can do a great deal. But Hals couldn't think of any, so I
called him a muff and a milksop, and I told him to repeat after me
all that I said."
[Sidenote: HOW COULD I BE SO NAUGHTY?]
"What did you say?"
"Mama, I called out 'damn' three times."
"My dear, what a dreadful word! How did you know it?"
"Oh, once I heard Uncle Paul say it when he ran a nail in his boot;
and once I remembered that Crawley said it when he got his foot
caught in a gate-post out riding, and I have never forgotten it. And
worse," continued Bess, "I called out, 'hell! hell! hell!' and then I
was frightened; but I didn't let Hals see it, or he would have said
girls were only funks after all."
"Well, little girl, you have done wrong, and you know it; for it is
always wicked to curse anybody, and mean to pray that some evil may
befall them. But," I added, as I saw Bess's tear-stained little face,
"I am sure you're sorry; for think what a terrible thing it would be
if anything dreadful happened to Fräulein, and if you thought your
wicked words had brought it about."
Bess's composure by this time had quite broken down, she broke out
into a passionate fit of tears.
"Why don't you beat me, why don't you shake me, or do something?" she
cried.
"My poor little girl," I answered, and I took her in my arms and
prayed God that He would purify my little girl's heart, and give her
a pure white soul.
At last Bess's sobs grew less violent, and she lay quiet.
"Do you feel better now?" I asked.
"Yes," came back from Bess; "for the curses, Mum Mum, seem to have
gone out of the room and to be dying away. Before you came, the whole
place seemed full of them, and eyes, great horrid eyes, seemed to be
looking at me everywhere, and I couldn't rest, do what I would."
"Now you can sleep," I said with a smile, "and I will sit by you till
all the evil spirits are gone, and guard you."
So I sat on without speaking, and held Bess's hands till the dustman
of children's fancy came with his sandbags and threw the sand of
kindly oblivion into my little maiden's eyes, and she fell asleep.
Then softly and as delicately as I could, I untwined the little
network of fingers that had twined themselves so cunningly around
mine, and gave little Bess a parting kiss as I glided out of the room.
When I returned to the chapel hall I found a letter from Constance.
In a postscript she told me that the idea of the quilt was taking
form.
"From 'Gerard's Herbal' I have chosen," she wrote, "the King's
Chalice, or Serins' Cade; the Dalmatian Cap; the Guinny Hen; the
Broad-leaved Saffron; Goat's Rue, or the Herb of Grace; Ladies'
Smock; Golden Mouse-ear; Solomon's Seal; Star of Bethlehem; Sops in
Wine; Ales-hoof; Wolf's Bane and Golden Rod. I give you all the old
names. On a scroll I propose round the quilt or 'bed hoddin,' as
Shropshire folks would call it, to work wise and beautiful words
about sleep;" and her letter ended with an appeal to me, to help her,
by finding some apt saws and quotations for this purpose. Of course I
will; what a delightful excuse for looking through the poets, I said
to myself.
I looked at the old Dutch clock. Ten minutes, I said, before going to
bed. Ten minutes, ten golden minutes, when it is not a duty to do
anything, or a matter of reproach to be idle. The fire was dying
softly down. I saw all faintly by the dim light of the lamp--the dark
panelling, the two Turners, the old Bohemian bench, the stern outline
of the altar, and outside the still night.
[Sidenote: THE COMPANY OF SAINTS]
"Are you not afraid to sit by yourself?" a somewhat foolish friend
once asked me. "I should be terribly alarmed of ghosts."
"Afraid of holy spirits?" I remember answering. "No crime is
associated with Wenlock. There is only an atmosphere of prayer and
saintliness there, a fragrance from holy lives rising up to God in
perpetual intercession; surely such thoughts should make nobody
uneasy or unhappy."
"I don't know," my friend had replied. "But lancet windows, I know,
always make me creepy--and living in a church," she added
inconsequently, "would be almost as bad as having a house with a
curse. I am sure I should always be dreaming of finding a walled-up
skeleton, or something mediæval and uncomfortable."
At which we had both laughed, and I confessed that I liked being left
to my angels and my prayers, and that it was good to believe that one
had a soul, and that all the forces of God's world were not comprised
in steam, the Press, and electricity.
Then, as I sat on, my mind reverted to the little child, sleeping, I
hoped, peacefully upstairs. "Poor little impetuous Bess," I said to
myself, "I trust some day she will not break her heart against the
bars of earth. She wills, and wants, so strongly when the fit is on
her, and then afterwards, remorse, sorrow, and despair."
The child is the father of the man, and in my mind's eye I saw my
little maiden as she would be in womanhood--dark, passionate,
devoted, generous, impulsive, with a golden heart, but self-willed
and not easy to guide. Heaven grant her pathway may not lie across
many briars, and that I may be able to protect, and water the
flowers, in the garden of her soul.
All education is a hard matter, and we parents are often like
children groping in the dark. It takes all that mother and father can
do, friends and contemporaries, and, after all, in Burbidge's homely
language, is often "a parlous and weedy job." We so often give the
wrong thing to our children, and, what is worse, the wrong thing out
of love and affection. We so often, as Montaigne wrote, "stuff the
memory and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and
void." We are too often knowing only in what makes present knowledge,
"and not at all in what is past, no more than which is to come." We
do not think sufficiently of the development and growth of character.
Above all, few fathers and mothers try simply to make their children
good men and women, without which all is lost; for, as the great
essayist said, "all other knowledge is hurtful to him or her who has
not the science of goodness."
We must not be afraid of emotion, at least, not of right emotion; nor
must we be shy of offering our highest tributes of admiration to
honour, virtue, and real greatness. We must not be ashamed to mention
honourable deeds, and we must teach our children that honourable
failure is better than dishonourable success.
Life is not all an armchair for youth to rest in, or a country of
roast larks even for the youngest, and there are higher and better
things even than having "a good time." Such were the thoughts that
flashed through my brain as I lighted my yellow Broseley-ware
candlestick and went up the oak stairs to bed.
---------------------
The next day, as soon as I had finished breakfast, I got a message
from our old gardener, Burbidge, to the effect that he wished to
speak to me, and that at once.
[Sidenote: BROTHER BEN IS "OVERLOOKED"]
I found the old man in the long lower passage of the monks.
"What is it?" I asked. "Nothing wrong in the garden?"
"Not so bad as that; but 'tis about my brother as I've come."
"Your brother, Burbidge?" I repeated. "I did not even know that you
had one."
"Well," replied Burbidge, "'tisn't often as I speak of him, and 'tis
twenty year agone since I've seen 'im, for when folks be hearty yer
needn't trot round the country like a setter to see 'em; but now as
Benjamin is old and in danger, I think as I'd better have a day off,
and go and see him."
"Where does he live?" I asked.
"At Clun, just outside the town," was Burbidge's reply. "He's been
there these seventy year, and more. When he were quite a lad he lived
at Bridgnorth, but over seventy year he have a-lived with Farmers
Benson--first with Farmer James, then with his son Joshua, and lastly
with his grandson, Farmer Caleb. Benjamin he have a-buried two wives
and thirteen childer, and the berrial of the lot have a-come upon him
like tempest in summer. But he have allus kept hale and hearty--till
this year."
"Has Benjamin been able to work all these years?" I inquired.
"Of course he 'ave," replied Burbidge, scornfully. "Of course he did,
till he war _overlooked_."
"Overlooked?" I said, and turned to Burbidge puzzled.
After a pause, Burbidge, seeing that I did not realize the full
importance of his statement, repeated, "Overlooked, and by a _black_
witch too." And then he lowered his voice and added, "For all their
education, parsons, newspapers and what not, there be black witches,
and some of 'em has hearts as black as hell, and can suck the very
life out of a fellow."
"But surely your brother doesn't believe that _now_?"
"Doesn't he," answered Burbidge. "My brother knows better than to
disbelieve in devils and witches. You don't catch him going against
the Word of God like that. Yer might as well try to stir a puddin'
with an awl, or to repeat a verse of Hebrew under a moonless sky, as
tear up the old belief in the old Shropshire folk. The devil he won't
go out of Shropshire for all the papers daily, and weekly, as ever
town people read or write; no, not even to make place for trains, and
motors. He 'ave his place here, and he'll keep his wenches, the
witches, near him."
"But what has happened to your brother?" I asked, as soon as I could
get a word in.
"Why, just the same as has been happening for years, and thousands of
years to others, and which will happen, whether Shropshire be ruled
by a king or a queen, and which be Gospel truth whatever they say,
and which may come dwang-swang to any Christian man."
And thereupon I heard the story of how old Benjamin Burbidge had been
bewitched. I listened amazed, for the tale was more like an incident
in some witch's trial in James I.'s time than a story of modern life.
[Sidenote: BECKY SMOUT, THE WITCH]
"Yer must know," continued our old gardener, "as Benjamin war
waggoner at Bottomly Farm--and he have a-been so for years and years.
And a fine team his war--a team of roans and all mares--to get foals
off at the close. Well, and fat they war, and for all he war old,
horse and harness Benjamin minded surely. His horses were to him like
gold, and he put in elbow grease as if he war a lusty lad of twenty
in minding 'em. Well, one day his granddaughter Sally, who keeps
house for him, war mixin' meal for the poultry, when up comes Becky
Smout as they call her there, an old gangrel body, weazen, dark as
walnut juice, and the look of a vixen in her eyes. Some folks say she
came to Shropshire on a broomstick, and some seventy year agone from
Silverton on the Clee-side. 'Tis a land of witches that Clee Hill,
and allus have been a stronghold of the devil, as old Parson Jackson
used to say. When Becky saw the poultry meat, her belly craved for
it. Her held out both hands ape-like and her cried out, 'Let it be a
howgy sup, my wench.' But Sal war in a temper it seems. 'Let be,' she
sang out; 'dost think I've nought to do but to cram thy belly as if
thee were a yule-tide hog;' and folks say with both bowl, and spoon,
Sal flung out in a fanteag, because it seems Benjamin had promised
her for her own gewgaws what her could make by the sale of the fat
hens and the widdies come Christmas. And Becky her let her rage and
never, they say, spoke one single word, but looked at her darkly,
speered round, and wrote some devil's characters in the dust outside
the door; and as she passed down the lane they heard her laughin',
laughin' like an ecall on an April morning, fit to split her sides in
half. The next morning, when Sal got out to feed her poultry, she
picked up the speckled hen, and a morning or two arter she found the
yellow cock all stiff and cold with a kind of white froth round his
mouth. And after that, her war all of a tremble, war Sal. Her began
to hear voices, and to see things as folks shouldn't see, and to hear
bits of noises everywhere. And a kind of sweat seemed to ooze out
from her hands and feet, and her felt cold and hot all to a time, and
the doctor's physic did her no good, nor could any of Mrs. Benson's
draughts ease her. And they sent her off to the sea to stay with a
sister at Rhyl; but Sal her came back queerer than ever, and her
wouldn't speak, but would sit gaping and blinking as if her couldn't
mak' nothin' out, nor understood nought. And all the while Becky
would prance about aunty-pranty, and speer over the hedge, and laugh
and jabber and talk a heathen tongue."
"What is that?" I asked.
"_Why, their own tongue._"
"What is it like?"
"Oh, never you ask, marm," replied Burbidge sternly. "No pure-minded
woman ever spoke that tongue, but witches they take to it like
widdies" (ducklings) "to a horse pond. And for all Ben had cried
'Fudge,' and 'You don't catch an old fox nappin',' as he did at the
first when Sal were overtaken, he got mighty fidgety and couldn't
stop still. He took to dropping his pipe, wud begin a story and then
wud break off and laugh afore the joke was come, and his speech got
queer like Sal's, and at last he could bear it no longer, and he went
off to Becky. And he took a golden guinea that he had had off the
first Mrs. Benson, her as they called madam, for folks said that she
war a parson's daughter, and that she had given him for pulling her
lad out of a brook over seventy years agone, and that he valued like
the apple of his eye, and he pulled out the guinea from his waistcoat
pocket and he said 'This be yourn,' to Becky, 'if for the love of God
you'll take the curse off me and mine.' But her wudn't, wudn't Becky,
and her only laughed and laughed, same as an ecall in the Edge wood.
And then Ben ran out frightened, so that his legs seemed to give
under him, same as a hop shoot that has no stake, and he came home
jabbering, crying, and laughing like a frightened child, and nobody
could do nought with him.
[Sidenote: BURBIDGE SEEKS HIS BROTHER]
"Farmer Benson, he tried to do what he could as _maister_; but
Benjamin had lost all respect, and laughed at him same as if he had
been his gossip. Nor could any of his childers bring him to reason,
neither Frank nor Moses, his grown sons who live at Wolverhampton,
and have families of their own. So at last Mrs. Benson, her has
a-wrote to me, to come and try what I can do. And seeing that Ben and
I we be true brothers, and he so down in his luck, I thought as I'd
like to go and see him, and look in at a Craven Arms bit of a show of
a few spring things, and so get a holiday and a sight of poor Ben at
the same time, if so be I can be free to-day."
I assured Burbidge that he was quite free, as he expressed it, and I
trusted that he would find his brother better than he expected. "Only
make him believe that Becky Smout is an impostor," I said, "and has
no real power to injure him or his granddaughter, and all will go
well."
But at this advice Burbidge solemnly shook his head.
"They ideas does for the Quality," he grumbled, "but workin' folks
know better. Us wouldn't hold such creeds if they warn't deadly
real." And so saying, my old friend clumped down the mediæval
passage, and I was left thinking how little Shropshire was changed,
in spite of board schools and daily papers, from the Shropshire of
the Stuarts.
A minute later and I heard a child's voice close to my elbow, and saw
a little girl, Susie Rowe by name. "You here, Susie?" I said, and
asked the reason of her visit.
I was told "that grandam was but poorly," and Susie begged for a bit
of tea and a drop of broth. "Grandam doesn't know," added Susie,
blushing, "for her don't hold to begging; but Betty Beaman, the old
body what lives with her, her says, 'Hasten up, my maid, and bring
her something nice from the Abbey.'"
"Of course," I answered, "Mrs. Harley shall have anything I have."
And I called to Auguste to fill the basket with good things.
He filled a little can with milk, got a packet of tea and filled a
gallipot with _crême de Volaille_ from the larder. Susie passed me a
few minutes later, weighed down by her basket, but all smiles, and
she promised she would tell her grandmother to expect a visit from me
in the course of the afternoon.
Just before luncheon my little maiden appeared. She was sad, and
silent, and I did not allude to what had taken place yesterday; but
at luncheon-time I told her I was going to Homer, and invited her to
ride Jill whilst I walked.
It was a lovely afternoon, sweet and almost warm, but there was
little sunshine. All was enveloped in a soft grey mist. We walked
along the lanes, Jill nosing me at intervals for lumps of sugar.
Mouse was of the party, and ran backwards and forwards very pleased
and gay. A pony is always a pleasure to a dog; it seems to give state
and importance to a walk. Tramp and Tartar scampered ahead, and
sniffed and skurried round, and up, and down the high banks that
skirted the track.
At length we reached the lane that turns off from the Wenlock Road,
and Farley Dingle, and we stood on the top of the edge before dipping
down into the valley to the little hamlet below known as Homer.
[Sidenote: BANISTER'S COPPICE]
I stopped to look at, and admire the view; even in the subdued light
of a grey winter's day it was enchantingly beautiful. The little
cottages of Homer clustered in a circle at my feet, whilst round them
nestled orchards of apple trees and damsons, which last would soon be
out in a mist of white blossom, like a maze of stars on a frosty
night. Far away I saw Harley church, the woods of Belswardine, the
smoke of Shrewsbury lying like a mantle of vapour on the distant
plain, and to the west rose the great hills of Carodoc and the Long
Mynde, whilst immediately before me stretched the ill-fated spot
known as Banister's Coppice.
It was here, according to old tradition, that the unfortunate Duke of
Buckingham, in Richard III.'s reign, was betrayed by his faithless
steward at his house at Shinewood. The story ran that the duke's
cause did not prosper, and that his Welsh allies melted away, so that
he, finding himself hard pressed by the royal forces, and not able to
collect fresh troops, hurriedly disbanded his followers and fled to
the house of his servant Banister, or Banaistre, as he was called by
some of the old chroniclers.
Buckingham thought, having conferred great benefits on his servant,
that he could count upon his loyalty; but Banister was tempted by the
great reward, £1000, offered by the king for his master's
apprehension, and told "Master Mytton," then sheriff, where he was
concealed.
The duke, according to the old story, lay in a ditch near the house,
on the outskirts of the coppice, disguised, it is said, in the smock
of a countryman, and was arrested at night by John Mytton, who came
over from the old hall at Shipton, with a force of armed men. When
Buckingham knew that his arrest was due to the treachery of his
servant, he broke forth and cursed his faithless steward in the most
awful, and terrible manner. He cursed his goings in, and goings out,
the air he breathed, the liquor he drank, and the very bread he ate,
and with the same curse, he cursed all his family. According to
tradition, they all ended miserably.
An old writer declares, "Shortly after Banister had betrayed his
master, his son and heir waxed mad, and died in a boar's stye; his
eldest daughter, of excellent beauty, was suddenly stricken of a foul
leprosy; his second son became very marvellously deformed in his
limbs, whilst his youngest son was drowned 'and strangled' in a very
small puddle of water. And Banister himself, when he became of
extreme old age, was found guilty of a murder, and was only saved by
the intervention of the clergy, to whom he had paid large sums. As
for the £1000, the king," says the same old writer, "gave him not one
farthing, saying 'that a servant who had been so untrue to so good a
master, would be false to all other.'"
Shinewood House--for the old manor of the duke's time has gone--I
could not see, but I knew the place, and as I looked across wood and
meadow, all the old story and its tragedy came back to me. Some
writers say that Buckingham was executed at Shrewsbury, but
Shakespeare and Sir Thomas More declare that he was executed at
Salisbury on the feast of All Souls.
[Sidenote: A VISIT TO DONKEYLAND]
Bess and I walked down the cart-track and looked below. Five or six
donkeys were browsing on the scant herbage, for every one at Homer
keeps a donkey, and the common name of the hamlet is Donkeyland.
After a few minutes' walking, we left the main track, and made our
way to a little homestead that nestles close against the hill, and is
surrounded by a bower of fruit trees. As we turned through the wicket
a band of dark-eyed children quitted the little school and greeted
us. The children looked as if they belonged to another race than
those at Much Wenlock. They had dark, almost black eyes, and swarthy
skins. I have been told that in the end of the eighteenth century a
gang of gipsies came and settled at Homer, built huts for themselves,
married and settled there; and that is why the good folks of Homer
seem of a different race from the rest of the neighbourhood. I paused
before knocking at the cottage door, and begged Fred, the groom who
had followed us, to take my little maiden for a ride, and bring her
back in half an hour.
"Mayn't I come in?" asked Bess.
"Not to-day, for Mrs. Harley is really ill," I answered. "Take the
dogs, and come back presently."
Bess and her pony, followed by Tramp and Tartar, vanished, and old
Betty opened the cottage door. All was irreproachably clean. The
brass warming-pan over the chimney piece shone like gold, and the
old-fashioned dresser was garnished with spotless blue and white
china. There was a mug or two of lustre-ware, a few embroidered
samplers on the walls, and a pot or two of budding geraniums behind
the windows. Upon the hob a copper kettle hissed gaily.
I asked after Mrs. Harley, the owner of the cottage. But Betty shook
her head. "She 'ave a-heard the Lord's call," she replied; "but she's
ready--been ready this forty years, and her wants to go."
A minute later I found myself by my old friend's bedside. She had a
wonderful face, this old village woman. Through it shone the inner
light which once to see is never to forget. I sat down by her, at a
sign from Betty, and asked her how she did.
For all answer Mrs. Harley smiled.
"I fear you suffer?"
"That does not matter," came back from her, "for I am going home."
The room was a plain little room with old oak beams across the
ceiling, the covering on the bed was old and worn, there were only
the barest necessities of life, and yet as I sat watching my old
friend, I could almost hear the sound of angels' wings.
In spite of pain, long nights of sleeplessness, and a long and weary
illness, my old friend's face glowed with happiness, and in her eyes
was that perfect look of peace, which remains as a beacon to every
pilgrim who has ever met it. I offered to read to Mrs. Harley, but
she declined.
"No readin', dear, for I can hear Him myself. There's no need now to
speak or pray, I'm goin' Home. I, what be so tired." Then she thanked
me for coming, and asked me with an ethereal smile about "the little
one. Mak' her grow up worth havin'," she added seriously. "Every
child is made in the image of God, and it isn't parents as ought to
deface His image. 'Tisn't only book learning, and fine dressing, as
will make her a lady, but you'll do yer best," and she patted my hand
affectionately.
[Sidenote: TWO OLD FRIENDS]
Then my old friend began to talk of her past life, of her early
marriage, "fifty years agone," with a right God-fearing man; of her
happy married life, and then, calmly and bravely, of her joyous and
approaching death.
"I am going Home," were her last words, and I shall never forget the
exquisite certainty of her tone, as I left the room and followed
Betty downstairs.
A minute later, and Betty and I found ourselves in the little kitchen
below.
"I shall miss her terrible," she said in a husky voice. "Nell and I,
years and years agone, were scholards together when old Madam
Challoner taught in the little white house yonder, afore the new
school was built. We growed up and we married, the same year. Her got
a good man; I got a beauty, and a bad one. When Harley died, he left
his missus the cottage, garden, a few fields, and a tight bit of
money. Soon after her was left a widow, I went to see her, for
Marnwood Beaman, my man, he fell off a waggon, dead drunk, and was
killed, and I was left without a penny. I couldn't do much, for I had
got cripply ever since I had got the rheumatics, so I made up my mind
it war to the poor-house I war bound. One day (when I had stomached a
resolution to carry this through, and it costs the poorest body a lot
to do), I went, as I said, to see Nell afore I spoke to the overseer.
"When I got in, Nell, her comed up to me and her says, 'What ails
thee, Betty?' for my eyes were red and bulgy. Then I told her what
war on my mind, and that for all my cottage war a poor place, it went
sadly against the grain to leave it and to have a mistress to knopple
over me, and give me orders same as if I war a little maid at school.
"Then," added Betty, "Nell her brought me the greatest peace as I
have ever felt.
"Her said, with one of her grand smiles, and sometimes, for all her
war but poor folk, Nell looked a born duchess, but with a bit of an
angel too, 'Don't you think, Betty, of leaving and goin' to the
poor-house or any other institution, but stay you at home with me.
Pick up your duds and us two will live together, for my daughter be
married.
"'I don't want exactly a serving wench, nor a daughter, nor a sister,
but some one as is betwixt and between, and a bit of all three. Thee
can work a bit, give thee time, and we can crack an old tale together
after tea; I shan't be timid with thee, nor thee of me. Us shall be
just two old folks goin' down the hill together--and the getting down
shall be natural, and friendly. I can take thy hand, and thou canst
take mine.'
"And her did give me a hand," exclaimed old Betty, warmly, "a hand
that has kape me safe all these years; and I bless the Lord for such
a true and good friend."
We sat on in silence, and I could not but think how sweet, and loyal,
had been the friendship of these two old people. Suddenly Betty got
up and poked the fire.
"Last time as yer war callin'," she said, "yer asked me, mam, what I
could say about that Nanny Morgan, her as war a known witch. Nell
won't name her, for her says Nan was given up to the devil, and all
his works, and that her has something else to think of. But since yer
are wishful to know, and the little lady is not here, I'll tell yer
what I can.
[Sidenote: THE STORY OF THE WITCH]
"Nanny Morgan was the daughter of Richard Williams, and she war born
and bred in a little house up at Westwood, on the way to Presthope.
Yer must often have seen the place, as yer go to Five Chimneys. Nan
war a fine, strapping lass when first I remembered her. Dark, tall,
with steel-grey eyes. Her got into trouble when quite a maid for
having a finger in the pie of robbing Mrs. Powell at Bourton. Her was
tried at Shrewsbury for the robbery, and lay in prison, they said, a
long time. When her got out of prison her own people wouldn't harbour
her, they said, and she went and lived with the gipsies. There she
learnt card tricks, tellin' of fortunes, and took to wandering and
unchristian ways. Us didn't see her at Wenlock for a long while, but
one day she turned up at Wenlock Market on a Monday, and told a
friend that her had taken 'dad's old house' and meant to settle down
and bide in the old place.
"Her called herself then Nanny Morgan, though who Morgan war I never
rightly knew, most like some tinker man. Anyway, her went to
Westwood, and there her lived, told fortunes by cards and by
hand-readin', sold love drinks, and was hired out as a curser--and of
all the cursers, there war none that could curse with Nan. For her
cursed the goin's in and the goin's out of folks, the betwixt and
between, the side-ways and slip-slaps, till, as they said, there
wasn't foot-room for folks to stand on, nor a thimbleful of air for a
creature to breathe, that hard could Nanny curse.
"She was terrible to meet," continued Betty. "Once as I war walkin'
back to Homer after marketing at Wenlock, I looked up and Nan was
full in my road, straight against the sky. How her had comed there, I
don't know, but there her war, terrible fierce and sudden, and her
great eyes seemed to look through and through me, and I fair quailed
before her, as they say a partridge does afore a hawk. Every one war
feared of Nanny," added old Betty, "for they felt before her as
innocent as a child, and what war there as she couldn't do to them?
"Nan lived on at Westwood and none dared say her nay, or to refuse
her ought, and all the while she went on practising devil's arts,
till her got her death."
"How was that?" I asked.
"Well, it war years agone." And Betty thought for a moment and then
added, "'Twas in the year 1857 that Nan got her deserts.
"There war a young lodger as had a bed at Nan's, and Nan took to him
terrible, and the lovinger her got the more he held back; and the
witch played with 'um same as a cat does with a mouse, and wouldn't
let 'un off to marry his own sweetheart. So one evening, he went into
Wenlock, and he bought a knife, and he stole back to her house, and
she called him soft like a throstle. Then while she stirred her pot,
he stabbed her to get free of her love philters. When Mr. Yates, who
war mace-bearer and barber, comed up, he found Nan, they said, lying
in a pool of blood, but they durst not undress her for fear of
getting witch's blood, and we all know that that is a special
damnation.
"Her led a bad life, did Nan," pursued old Betty; "her kept a swarm
of cats, and one she called Hellblow and another Satan's Smile, and
her had a box of toads to work mysteries with, and these, they said,
would hop at night, and leer and talk familiar as spirits, and
besides these, there war a pack of wicked books. You yourself, mam,
have her card-table where her used to sit. One leg of it higher than
the rest, and the ledge below, was where her wickedest toad used to
perch--it as they called 'Dew,' and that had been bred up on
communion bread, to reveal secrets. Sometimes, I've heard, Nan would
fall a-kissin' that toad and whisper to it all sorts of unclean
spells. I couldn't abear the table. It might fall to speaking itself
at nights, and then the devil only knows what it would say."
There was a pause, and then old Betty went on to say--
"After Nan war buried, the books one and all war brought down to the
Falcon's Yard Inn and burnt publicly. So that war her end, and a
wickeder woman never lived."
As the sound of Betty's last words died away, I heard the noise of
horses' feet gaily trotting up the lane.
"That will be my Bess," I said, "and as the twilight is beginning, I
must return." Then I begged that Susie might come and tell me if
there is anything I could send for Mrs. Harley, and we passed out of
the door.
[Sidenote: THE FIRST FLOWERS OF THE YEAR]
As we neared the wicket, Bess called out, "Look, look, and see what I
have found. Three snowdrops all white, a hazel nut-tail, and a nice
sticky bud of a horse-chestnut; but never mind anything but the
snowdrops, for they bring luck, Nana says."
I took the first flowers of the year; what a dazzling white they
were! And I recalled, as I held them, the old legend of the "white
purification" as it was once called.
"And to think," said Betty, smiling and noting our joy over the
flowers, "as I haven't a blow to give my pretty," and she smiled at
Bess; "but us has nought in blow, save a bud or two of the damsons,
and I dursn't pull it, for folks say, him as pulls fruit blossom
deserves the same as her as burns bread-crumbs, and I wouldn't bring
her any ill-chance."
Then I passed out of the little cottage precincts. I saw old Betty
still holding the gate, a dim figure with a red shawl. Bess blew her
a kiss, the dogs barked furiously; even Mouse joined in her deep bell
notes, and once more we were under way on our own homeward journey.
A soft grey mist gathered round us, with the growing darkness. All
was very still after a few minutes, and the only sound that we heard
was the baying of a dog in the distance at some lonely farm.
Far away in the west gleamed a golden light. Once we passed a brown
figure of some labouring man returning to his cottage, and as we
neared a thicket of budding blackthorn we were greeted by the voice
of a throstle singing his evening hymn. I carried my flowers
reverently, for were they not the first promise of spring, the smile,
as it were, of the scarce known year?
"Mum," said Bess, as I lifted her off Jill's back, "could you spare
me one of the snowdrops to keep in my own nursery?"
I nodded acquiescence.
"Because," pursued the child, "I should like one. Just one. It would
help me, I think, to keep away eyes, and bad words, and perhaps might
make me good and happy. Nan says they used to bring in snowdrops to
make the children good, let me try, too."