moving about at night, or towards evening, but something much worse,
namely the strange and terrible beings who frequented the locality.
All kinds of rumours were current with respect to witch meetings, and
gatherings held by wicked creatures, upon which, if a mortal man of
ordinary mould happened to come, he ran a terrible risk of some
dreadful misfortune happening to him and his, shortly afterwards.
Cottages were few and far between: there was scarce a public house to
be found in the neighbourhood, save one or two which had an evil
reputation as the haunt of smugglers and outlawed men.
No gentleman's house was near, and Bilsington Priory had passed away
with all its holy train of priests, and nothing was to be seen of their
former glory, and no vestige of themselves either, unless it was true
that a monk walked occasionally round the walls with ghostly tread, and
moaned, deeply and sadly, as he compared the past with the present. In
short, it was a wild, weird country, and wild, weird people dwelt
there.
From Aldington Knoll, right away down to the other side of Ham-street,
the thick woods contained a class of beings who, if they lived there
nowadays, would be a horror to all Christian men, and an intolerable
nuisance to the Kent County Constabulary. There were, however, honest
men there, as everywhere else; and, although for the most part such
people preferred to dwell nearer Mersham-street or immediately below
the church, yet the scattered cottages further south were not
altogether without inmates, who, having nowhere else to live, lived
there.
John Gower was one of these, a respectable middle-aged man, who won his
bread by the sweat of his brow, and was proud of the name of a Kentish
labourer.
John had married early in life, lost his wife after the birth of their
fourth child, and remained a widower ever since. Although he could
neither read nor write, he was blessed with good common sense, and was
able to give his children plain and sensible advice, which might serve
them, he said, in as good stead as book-learning, if they would only
lay it to heart and act upon it.
His eldest girl, Mary, was as good a girl as you would meet in a day's
journey. She had her good looks (as most Mersham girls have), but she
had that which is even better than good looks, an even temper and a
good disposition. She was about seventeen when our story begins; her
brother Jack, between fifteen and sixteen, was away at work "down in
the sheers" (shires), as the neighbours called all other counties but
their own; and two little ones, Jane, under fourteen, and Billy, just
twelve, were at home, the former helping her sister as well as she
could, and the latter doing such odd jobs as could be found for him,
and doing no more mischief than a boy of his age could help.
The cottage in which they lived was very near the big woods--too near
to be pleasant for anyone who feared witches or wizards--and it must be
confessed that John Gower was not without his fears.
He had various horse-shoes nailed up about his premises to keep the
evil creatures off, and he carefully barred his doors and windows every
night, not knowing what might happen if any of them were left open. He
could tell of strange cries heard in the woods at night, and if you
suggested that they might proceed from owls, he shook his head sadly
and gravely, as one who knew better, and grieved over your doubting
spirit.
But in spite of his fears and precautions, and the strange locality in
which he lived, Gower could not be called otherwise than a cheerful
man. He worked all day, got home as soon as he could, was pleasant and
happy with his children (of whom he was very fond), and was certainly
of a contented disposition, and one who made the best of the world and
took things as he found them.
Such was he and such was his family at the time that the occurrences
took place which I am about to relate.
Some years before the date at which our story commences, there had
lived at the extreme south of the parish of Mersham a woman of the name
of Betty Bartlet. She was not only a reputed witch, but the fact of her
being so was testified to by a great number of credible witnesses who
had either suffered in their own persons from her evil power, or had
seen and heard things which could not have been had she been an
ordinary and Christian woman.
She lived to a very great age--nobody knew exactly how old she was when
she died; and, although the rumours respecting her career caused the
clergyman of the Parish to entertain serious doubts as to the course he
should pursue, she was eventually carried to Mersham churchyard to be
therein interred.
But if I am correctly informed--and I obtained my information from
highly respectable people--there were strange and terrible doings at
her funeral.
She was carried on a waggon, from the cottage in which she had breathed
her last, as far as the bridge over the river Stour, which flows, as
all the world knows, a few hundred yards south of the church. There,
from some unknown cause, the horses would not cross the bridge; and it
was told me that they seemed quite exhausted with the short
journey--little over three miles--which they had performed.
So the people unharnessed them from the waggon, placed all that
remained of old Betty on the shoulders of eight stout bearers, and
marched forward towards the churchyard. But not only was their burden
wondrously heavy, but it seemed to grow heavier as they went on, and
they had the greatest difficulty in making their way up the short hill,
and so round to the right towards the churchyard. And just before they
got to the gate, why or wherefore nobody could tell, one of the bearers
stumbled, and in doing so tripped up another, and down came the whole
concern with a great crash upon the ground. Everything connected with
their burden suddenly disappeared: a vast cloud of black dust arose and
blew all over the place, and out of the dust flew a great black bird,
with a strange and awful croak, with which it terribly frightened the
bystanders and bearers, as it flew off directly in the contrary
direction to the churchyard.
What happened immediately afterwards Farmer Barrett never heard, or, at
least, he never told me, but nobody ever doubted that the old witch had
flown off in the shape of the black, fearsome bird, being unable to
enter the holy ground of the churchyard. Be this as it may, the ancient
woman left behind her three daughters, who had all inherited their
mother's wickedness, and were witches every one of them. Their actual
names were Betty, Jane, and Sarah, but they were popularly known as
Skinny, Bony, and Humpy, the two elder sisters being thin and gaunt,
whilst the youngest was shorter, and had a species of hump between her
shoulders.
Every one in Mersham, and, for the matter of that, in the adjoining
parishes also, knew these three sisters by sight, and avoided them as
much as possible. No conceivable misfortune ever happened in that
neighbourhood that was not attributed to their influence, and all that
went wrong was immediately laid at their door.
The sisters were well aware of the awe with which the neighbours
regarded them, and took good care that it should not diminish, never
losing an opportunity of frightening those simple people with whom they
came in contact. They lived in a long, low cottage--scarcely worthy of
the name of cottage--so miserable was it both as regards the outside
building and the inside accommodation. The roof was of thatch, and the
dwelling itself was at one end built of Kentish rag-stone, but badly
constructed, and all the rest of it was composed entirely of wood, and
apparently afforded but poor shelter against wind and rain.
The women lived mostly at the stone-built end of their house, for there
was their kitchen, such as it was; but very little was known of the
interior of this place, inasmuch as nobody came near it who could
possibly go another way. It was situate, however, barely half a mile
from John Gower's cottage, a fact which caused him and his no little
annoyance, inasmuch as the three Crones of Mersham, as they were
usually called, were not the best of neighbours, and never very
particular as far as other people's property was concerned.
Now John Gower had a great number of relations; in fact there was and
is an old proverb in his native parish, to the effect that "if you know
the Gowers, you know all Mersham;" and certainly the knowledge would to
this day make you acquainted with a large quantity of people.
They were none of them rich relations, certainly, unless you might have
applied that adjective to the wife of a certain Farmer Long who lived a
few miles off, and whose husband might certainly be said to be
thriving.
Sally Long was a stout, comfortable-looking dame, who could not fairly
have found fault if you had called her fat, but who, unlike most fat
people, was not gifted with the best of tempers. If all reports were
true, she led her husband rather a life of it, and scolded pretty
equally all her household. She had no children, and her husband's son
by a former wife being a trifle weak in the head, and for that reason
generally known by the name of "Simple Steenie," there was no one to
dispute her authority in house, yard or farm.
These worthy people lived in the parish of Aldington, and although John
Gower was no looker after dead men's shoes, and a man who would have
scorned to bow down before any one for the sake of their wealth, he
thought it was but right and fair towards his children to encourage
them to maintain friendly relations with his distant cousin, Dame Long.
She had noticed the children more than once, when they were quite
little things; and when a woman of a certain age, with no children of
her own, notices the children of other people, who happen to be her own
relations, there is no telling what may come of it. So the boys had
orders to take their caps off and the girls to drop a respectful
curtsey whenever they passed Mrs. Long, and any little act of civility
which they could possibly perform was never forgotten.
Now it happened that someone, many years ago, had given to the Gower
family a very particular cat. When I use the word "particular," I do
not mean to imply a very strict or fastidious cat, but one that was
particular in the sense of being different from the general run of
cats, which was certainly true of this individual cat.
She was jet black, which you will say is not at all uncommon; but
Farmer Barrett always maintained that no cats that he ever heard of
were _so_ jet and so glossy as the Gower cats. She was a magnificent
animal: her whiskers unusually long, her tail splendidly bushy, her
body beautifully and symmetrically made, and her head, in size, shape,
and the intelligence which was displayed upon her face, little short of
perfection.
This cat lived until a great age, and nobody exactly knew when or where
it died. To tell the truth there was always a legend in the Gower
family that it never _did_ die, at least not in their cottage, but that
it disappeared on the very day of old Betty Bartlet's death.
I do not know--for Farmer Barrett could not tell me, though I asked him
more than once--how they connected the two events, but nevertheless
they had this legend, if so I may call it.
But whatever happened to this cat, of one thing there is certainly no
doubt, namely, that during her lifetime she several times went through
the ceremony of kittening, and that her race seemed by no means likely
to be extinct. Her kittens were always black, always very glossy and
always remarkably clever and intelligent, and people were always glad
to get a kitten of the Gower breed.
So when, upon a fine summer's morning, one of the descendants of the
famous animal of which I have spoken was found by John Gower with a
little family of four kittens around her, he and his children were not
displeased at the addition to their household. And when, after a few
days, one of these kittens appeared to be developing into an animal
more comely and more sprightly than the rest, the worthy man thought it
would be a proper and becoming compliment upon his part if he made a
present of it to good Mrs. Long.
So he told Mary that she should take it up in a little basket the very
next day, give his "duty" to "old aunt Sally" (for so they called her
in the cottage when they spoke of her among themselves, though it was
always "Mrs. Long" when they spoke _to_ her) and ask her acceptance of
the gift. Mary made her preparations accordingly. She could not go up
to the farm in the morning, for she had the rooms to "do," the house to
sweep, father's dinner to get ready and carry to him, and a number of
little jobs to get done which it was necessary to finish before she
could feel herself at liberty to go out.
At last, however, every duty seemed to have been discharged, as is
always the case, at some time or other, if people will only set
themselves at work to do resolutely that which they have before them to
do, instead of sitting down with folded hands and sighing over the
prospect of it.
It must have been between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when
Mary found that she could get away with a clear conscience. Then she
put on her little straw hat, donned her grey cloak, put the kitten in a
little basket with a little hay for it to lie on, and called her
brother Billy to come with her, wisely thinking this the most likely
way to keep him out of mischief.
It was a truly glorious afternoon, such as an English summer's
afternoon often is.
"Talk to me about foreign countries," as Farmer Barrett often used to
say, snapping his fingers audibly, "_that_ for your furrineerers; there
an't no land like old England, to my mind;" and, being myself old and
prejudiced, I confess that I am very much of the good old farmer's
opinion.
It is very charming, no doubt, to roam through foreign lands, and there
is doubtless much to admire. When I shut my eyes and muse over
beautiful views that I have seen, many such come back to me with
pleasing memories.
I see the sparkling Rhine with castle-crowned heights, and scenery
world-worshipped for its varied beauty; I gaze with a delight tempered
with awe upon the mighty snow-clad mountains of life-breathing
Switzerland; I sit upon the shores of the sea of seas, the
Mediterranean, and I cast my eyes upon its waters of eternal blue; and,
most wonderful sight of all, I stand upon the plateau opposite the
Cascatelle at Tivoli, and, with the waterfall and town on one side,
Adrian's Villa nestling below on the left, and the hills behind, look
out over the vast Campagna with its ever-changing lights, see
Rome--grand, glorious Rome--in the far distance, and feel carried out
of myself and away from all ideas of mere earth and earthly things as I
lose all individuality of being in the absorbing contemplation of a
beauty so divinely sublime.
And then--as the magic power of thought enables me to move faster than
railroads, steamers, or electric telegraphs--I suddenly transport
myself to a quiet, homely, English scene upon a summer's afternoon; and
I think to myself that neither the Rhine, Switzerland, nor Italy can
produce anything more pleasing to the eye, more soothing to the senses,
or more entirely enjoyable to any person capable of enjoyment, and not
given to despise the beauties of scenery merely because they can be
seen at home without hurrying off to foreign lands.
[Illustration: MARY AND BILLY MEET THE CRONES.--P. 305]
Such a summer's afternoon fell on this particular day of which we are
now speaking. There was hardly a breath of air, but the woods having
got their shady green dress on, kept off the heat of the sun from the
traveller on the road which intersected them. It was very warm, though,
and very still; and you might hear the voices of the woodland birds,
singing in notes which seemed somewhat subdued, as if the heat forbade
the songsters to exert themselves to their full strength.
But, warm as it was, there was a very pleasant feeling in the air.
Nature seemed to be basking in the sun and thoroughly enjoying
herself--the rabbits hopped across the road as quietly as if there were
no such things as weasels in the world, and keepers had never existed:
the old jay flitted heavily from tree to tree, her hard note softened
down to a low guttural sound--all insect life was on the move, and
every living being seemed to delight in the genial weather.
Of course, under these circumstances, Mary and Billy Gower did not walk
very fast. On the contrary, they rather dawdled, for Billy saw now and
then a butterfly, now and then a birds' nest, and was constantly
tempted to leave the road and dive into the woods on either side,
whilst his sister did not like to hurry on and leave him, and saw no
reason for particular haste.
They passed along for some way without adventure, until Aldington Knoll
came in sight, although they were still in the shady lanes of their own
parish. Then, on turning a corner, they came suddenly upon two figures
approaching them from the opposite direction, that is to say, as if
they had come from Aldington Knoll. The children needed no second
glance to tell them that they were in the presence of two of the
Mersham crone. "Lanky" and "Skinny" were the lovely pair whom they had
the good fortune thus to meet, and the children felt by no means
comfortable when they saw them. Mary, indeed, being now seventeen, and
hardly to be deemed a child any longer, felt no babyish fear at the
sight of the old women. She was, as I have said, a good sort of girl,
and one who tried to do her duty; and she had a feeling within her (as
such people generally have) that as long as she did so, no great harm
would be allowed to happen to her.
But, as for little Billy, who had occasionally been threatened, when
naughty, that he should be given to the crones, he could by no means be
restrained from great manifestations of fear. He trembled greatly as
soon as he saw the two, clutched hold of his sister's gown, and begged
her to turn back and run away, as they were still forty or fifty yards
from the old women. This, however, would have been contrary to Mary's
sense of right.
She had been sent by her father to perform a certain duty, and that
duty, come what would, she meant to discharge, unless prevented by
superior force. So she trudged on steadily along the road, and her
brother accompanied her, probably because he thought it the least of
two evils, and was too much terrified to run away. As they neared the
two crones, they could not but feel that there was nothing either
prepossessing or agreeable in the appearance of the latter.
Their clothes were untidy and ill-fitting: each had a kind of hood half
drawn over her head; but not sufficiently so as to conceal her
decidedly ugly features, whilst a certain wild, haggard look, which sat
upon their faces, was anything but calculated to put the traveller at
his ease. They walked, or rather crawled, along one side of the road,
and close behind them followed a gaunt cat, which, if formerly black,
was now gray with age, and which wore upon its face the same haggard
look which was so plainly discernible upon those of the hags
themselves.
Mary and Billy walked quietly on, and were just passing these strange
beings, and really beginning to hope they might be allowed to do so
without interruption, when they were suddenly pulled up by the harsh
voice of the crone nearest to them, who called out "Stop!" in a voice
harsher than the croak of a raven, but with such a tone of authority
that no thought of disobeying her entered the head of either of those
she addressed even for a single moment.
"Stop, young people!" she said a second time; "whither away so fast
this afternoon?"
Mary civilly replied, "We are going up to Farmer Long's, ma'am; father
sent us."
"Ah!" replied the crone; "going up to Farmer Long's for father, are ye,
my chickens? Fine times, forsooth, when John Gower's children go
visiting instead of minding their business at home. But pray, what have
you got in that basket, my pretty Minnikin?"
"Only a kitten, ma'am, that father is going to give to Aunt Sal--I mean
to Mrs. Long," replied the girl.
"_Only_ a kitten!" cried the other crone, who had not yet spoken;
"_only_ a kitten, indeed! and how does John Gower the labourer have
kittens to give away, I should like to know? Our poor old Grimalkin
here has lost a kitten lately--I wonder whether this can be the same,
strayed over to John Gower's house. If he _had_ a kitten to give away,
he might have thought of his poor neighbours, methinks, instead of the
rich farmer's wife!"
When Mary heard these words she begin to tremble for the safety of her
kitten, for as I have already remarked, the Crones of Mersham were not
famous for distinguishing clearly between other people's property and
their own.
So she made reply very quickly in these words: "Please, ma'am, this
kitten can't be your cat's, because we've known it ever since it was
born, and its mother too, and it has never been out of our charge yet."
"No matter, no matter," said the crone in a testy voice; "let me see
it, and I shall soon know all about it."
Mary did not dare refuse, nor would it have been of much use if she had
done so.
The crone stretched out her long, skinny hand, and lifting the
basket-lid, saw the little black kitten; which, immediately that it saw
her, crouched down in the corner of the basket and uttered a low
moaning sound.
"Poor little thing!" said the old hag. "Poor little thing! I can hardly
see it so. Look, sister Jane!" and the other crone came and peered also
into the basket, whilst the kitten continued to crouch and moan.
"The very image of our grimalkin, I do declare!" cried the second crone
after a moment. "It _must_ be hers--there can be no doubt at all about
it."
So saying, she put her hand down and stroked the back of the kitten, as
if about to take it out of the basket.
As soon as she touched it, however, the little animal, young as it was,
appeared to go into a paroxysm of fear and fury; it growled and spit,
made as if it would spring out of the basket, and suddenly inflicted a
severe scratch on the hand which was about to seize it.
The old woman's face immediately became distorted with rage, and as she
hastily withdrew her hand, she fixed her eyes steadily upon the kitten,
muttering at the same time some words which the children could not
understand, but which sounded in their ears like anything but a prayer.
Neither of the crones, however, tried further to interfere with the
kitten, but begged of the children to give them money, saying that they
were nearly starving.
Billy of course had nothing, and Mary only a penny, but she thought it
best to give that for fear of being bewitched if she refused; so,
sorrowfully enough, the poor child drew out her only coin and placed it
in the hand of one of the hags, who grinned frightfully by way of
thanks, and allowed the children to proceed on their way--although
before they did so they could not help noticing the strange conduct of
grimalkin, who threw herself on the side of the road, turned over and
over, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and appeared to be convulsed with
laughter at all that had occurred.
Mary and Billy, however, glad to have got away from the old women,
hurried forward towards Farmer Long's dwelling.
But now the conduct of the kitten became inexplicable. Up to the time
of their meeting the crones, it had behaved like a decent little animal
of tender years, nestling quietly in its basket, and giving no trouble
to anybody.
It now took quite a different course. It moaned and whined as if it
wanted to get out--it pushed against the basket, first on one side and
then on the other, as if trying to force its way through, and behaved
in all respects as if it was a mad kitten,--although, as I never saw a
mad kitten, I am not sure how they _do_ behave exactly--but this was
Farmer Barrett's expression, and a man of his years and experience was
not likely to be wrong.
But more than this, although the kitten was young and small, and had
therefore been very light and easy to carry, scarcely had the children
passed the crones than its weight seemed to increase vastly, and it
became four times as heavy as before, until poor Mary's arm quite ached
with carrying it.
Billy, seeing her trouble, advised her to turn it out into the woods;
but Mary would not do this, being determined to obey her father's
orders, so she trudged steadily on until they came to the farm to which
they had been sent.