The Manor-house was a small gabled building, set deep among orchards
and lush grass. It was built of flint and stone in chequers, and was
one of those buildings (you see them close to old mills and barns, in
the southern counties) that have a face. Yes, a countenance bearing
an expression of their character, whereas most houses have merely
outsides.
This house, when the moon shone on it, looked mysterious and unreal.
The windows gleamed silver green, like old armour, dinted, and the
whole fabric appeared as though it had no true context with the earth.
But when the day bathed it in golden sunshine, laying the shadows
of its gables sharply black against its roof, then it appeared
positively to hold the ground it stood on, and would stand so
square at you, as to almost dominate the bright garden that bunched
it close. Its walls would give back the sunshine in warm washes
of colour, while the pigeons crooned and sidled on the roof. The
house-martins built their mud nests against it, more wonderful than
the nests of swallows, for they choose the sheer wall for nesting
purposes, whereas the swallows must build upon a ledge. To and fro
these house-martins would fly, weaving a black-and-white flicker of
pointed wings, with sudden encounters, and sweet creedling beneath
the eaves. And in front of the house on the lawn there grew a
mulberry tree, with a great limb laid down upon the ground, so that
it looked as if it felt how old it was, and liked leaning that way,
to rest.
The cows wrenched the long grass in a meadow so close to the windows,
that any one within doors could easily see them and be rested by
their movements of reposeful content. Beyond this paddock again was
a church, with a roof orange with lichen-growth, and grey walls,
ivy-clad.
So now you may imagine this Manor-house and its surroundings, and
call it by any well-loved name you like.
In this house dwelt the man the children were in search of, a man
named Miles Coverdale. He was a doctor of learning, not of medicine,
and lived a quiet life among his books. He it was who translated the
Bible, carrying out the work that William Tyndall began. The people
loved him for his charity and neighbourliness, and would often bring
their disputes to him, content to abide by his word.
Martin, arriving at the door, pulled with all his might at the bell.
A little rusty, buried tinkle sounded grudgingly, far away in the old
house. He pulled again--wasn’t every moment of importance? But the
bell only gave the same inarticulate reply as if it had just turned
round to go to sleep again, and couldn’t be troubled to sound.
There are moments in life when we put forth the strength of Thor to
attain some object, and the giant of circumstance, just as did the
giant in the Norse legend, merely says, “Was that an acorn brushed my
brow?”
At last, however, the door opened, and a shrill voice began to scold.
“Now then, just you step away off this threshold, and don’t come
ringing off the roof of the house, enough to make the rafters fall to
pieces! Any one would think the rats and mice were enough, let alone
children to make a racket. Lord bless us and save us, and mud enough
on the shoon to muck the whole place up, let alone the door-mat and
the stonen steps. Now, do’ee just go right away with ye, and doant
let me so much as see the corner of your----”
“Now, now, now,” said a quiet voice behind the shrillness of the
other, “what is it, Keziah? Your kitchen’s feeling lonely without
you; I’ll attend to this.”
And the children saw the fine face, and kind smile of Miles
Coverdale, as he stood behind his shrewish old serving-maid. Keziah
turned, muttering some cross apologies, and disappeared down the
stone passage, leaving, like the widening wake of a ship in quiet
waters, a trail of grumbling talk.
But the children at once began to tell their story, and they had come
to the right house. Soon all three were entering the village. Faith
sickened as they neared the angry sound again, and saw a crowd by the
edge of the horse-pond.
“Now we’ll teach ’ee how to count the stars, Mother! They be all
shown in the water come nightfall, and the toads, and the loach, and
the newts can feed upon ’ee, and come by their own,” said one voice.
“Sim as if the very water wouldn’t look at her, she be that dead
heavy to bear,” said another.
“Who be it, then,” cried a third, “as come over Double-Dyke Farm and
witched the cows dead?”
“Who was it charmed my churn so the butter wouldn’t come?” cried
a shrill voice; “no, not if I turned me arms off! Ah, the nesty,
spiteful crittur, she knowed as how my daughter wasn’t near; she
thought she’d make me lose my butter.”
“Sink or swim, sink or swim,” cried other voices; “to feed the evil
sperrits and the mud-worms, we don’t want no better than she.”
There was a scramble, a clumsy rush forward, and Martin saw old
Granny half lifted, half dragged, amid the tumult, her eyes closed,
her mouth set. The blood was welling out upon her forehead, dyeing
the whiteness of her hair. Never before had he felt such sudden
strength of wrath within him. He leaped forward with a cry. But the
doctor was already speaking to them, already the voices of the crowd
were lessening; they were inclining to attend.
The children held their breath while they heard his voice raised in
expostulation; and soon it was the only voice heard.
“You may not understand why I am here speaking to you, you may think
me wrong. But I have lived among you now for thirty years; and in
all that time I have loved this village, and its folk, and there
is not so much as a tree that I have not, at one time or another,
blessed for the shade it has given, or a stream that I have not
walked beside, and loved for its kindly uses and clear way. And all
through these years there has come nothing before me of the cruelty
of human nature. Its folly I have seen, and its sorrows, its failure
to fulfil its own wayward desires, for even in the stress of vigorous
life, man does not often rightly know what he would have. But I have
one desire now before me, and these are the words of an old man--the
words of one who says, how shall I go down to my grave comforted if
I see this woman killed? This woman who has dwelt as my neighbour
all these years, who has given to such as have asked, of her store
of knowledge and wisdom. Are there not many here among you who have
known her help? Has she not ministered to your children? Drown her,
and you are allowing the very spirits you think her possessed by, to
strive and gain an evil victory in your souls. Show mercy to her, and
God Himself will be with you, and I shall not have asked a kindness
of you now, in vain.”
The village folk muttered among themselves, some turning as if about
to go. Others stood in knots, appearing dissatisfied, and repeating
the charge that she was a witch. But a voice here and there asserted
itself, chiefly the voices of women, and these spake good.
“She gave me good yerbs, when my little maid lay dying; ay, and I
went to her--she didden come to me.”
“She never put her hand to anybody else’s business, as I know on, not
unless they d’ go and ask her to. It’s all sorts that go to make a
world, that’s certain. She midden have our ways, and we midden have
hers, but there! she be flesh and blood, and I d’ know as how she’d
have hurt a body, not if a body went to leave her to herself-like.”
“Well, I know one thing,” cried a shrill voice, “she washed my baby
what died o’ the plague-spots, yes, washed ’un and lay’d ’un out
fine, when there wasn’t so much as one of ye who’d come nigh me, and
me like to die.”
This woman thrust her way through the crowd; she was young, and her
eyes were alight and eager. She went to the prostrate figure of the
old woman lying upon the ground.
“Look up! look up! Granny--see the sky and the birds! Look up, poor
soul, you midden die, no, no, not to-day, nor yet to-morrow; we’ve
got place for more o’ the likes o’ you. You come round again, poor
soul, you open your eyes. Lord! Lord! you midden die.”
She said this in a kind, comfortable murmur, her hands laid on the
old woman’s brow. Now supporting her head, now chafing her listless
hands, as she lay where they had left her, by the water. And the
great tears of love and pity ran from her eyes, falling on her
tattered garments.
Miles Coverdale waited till the last lingerer in that angry crowd had
left the scene, and even after they had all dispersed, he stood lost
in meditation.
“Why do the heathen so furiously rage together, and the people
imagine a vain thing?” he murmured, as he turned his steps towards
the Manor-house. Then the children heard the heavy oak door shut
behind him, as he disappeared from their sight.
* * * * *
Mrs. Inchbald ceased speaking, and there was silence for a space.
Then someone asked--
“What became of the old woman?” and somebody else said,
“Did she die?”
Mrs. Inchbald replied--
“Look at the Nasmyth, and you will find the answer there, my dears.”
The children rose, and crowded round the picture, looking at it with
interested eyes. And what did they see?
They saw a figure in a red cloak and a yellow kerchief, on the
river-path leading to the pointed house.
And they cried out severally--
“She’s still there!”
“She didn’t die!”
“I see her!”
And if you look you will see they are right.