The days passed swiftly on in the lonely little valley where Jeremiah
Cobbe had cast his lot. The trees flourished, and the wondrous variety
of wild-flowers, for which that part of the Sussex weald has always been
famed, succeeded each other, and made gay the banks and shaughs, while
beneath the spreading oaks and beeches in the great forest the verdant
carpet was always bright. The many streamlets went on carving their way
through the yellow sandrock, and fell in a thousand tiny cascades, whose
soft spray moistened the fronds of the luxuriant ferns. All was
beautiful, for nature seemed there never to resent the fact that the
ironmaster's workers delved ore from the hill-side, cut down the woods
and burned them to charcoal, and then melted the iron to run in orange
streams in the deftly-formed moulds for howitzer, culverin, or simple
gun. There had been accidents, when, with a sudden roar, some
powder-shed had blown up, blasting the herbage and leaves around; but a
few showers and the bright hot sun soon restored all to its pristine
state, and, embowered in trees, the works sent up their charcoal fumes
without poisoning the air, or doing more harm than the saline breezes
that swept over the hills from off the sea.
Mistress Anne Beckley, with Sir Thomas, and at times with Dame Beckley
herself, was a constant attendant at the Pool with simples and wonderful
decoctions of camomile, agrimony, balm, and bitter cress, all of which
the dame declared were certain to subdue the fever in Sir Mark's brain;
but somehow they did not, and he lingered on at the Pool-house,
listening to the nightingales, gathering wild-flowers, refusing to see a
leech, and declaring that he only wanted time.
He was not confined to his bed, but lounged on couch and easy chair, or
walked slowly in the garden, languid and pale, with his arm supported in
a sling, receiving with a patient smile the sympathising glances of
Mistress Anne, who fawned upon him and tenderly watched his every
change.
But he could not leave the Pool-house, and shook his head sadly when,
urged by his daughter, Sir Thomas protested that the invalid ought to be
brought back to the Moat.
Dame Beckley's preparations did not seem to do the good she anticipated;
still they did some, for, being composed of so much water and vegetable
juices, they must have had beneficial effects upon the roses and other
plants around his bedroom window--plants which the young courtier duly
moistened from the vessel sent to him. Otherwise fared the wine, for of
that he partook liberally, as well as of Jeremiah Cobbe's strong drinks.
It must have been from dissatisfaction with her mother's treatment of
the patient that one day,--after a visit to the Pool-house, in whose
quiet cool parlour she had found Sir Mark lying back in an easy chair
with a snowy pillow beneath his head, and with Mace seated near reading
to him at his wish from a little book of ballads written by one Sir
Thomas Wyatt,--Mistress Anne, instead of going straight back home, sent
the serving-man, who was her guardian, to spend an hour with the men at
the mill, and herself turned down a narrow winding track almost
overgrown with bearbind, briony, and grass.
"I hate her," she said to herself, as she set her teeth and drove her
nails into her palms. "I saw--I saw her looking at me with triumph
flashing out of her wicked eyes; and I'll kill her, I'll poison her,
before she shall beat me again. If he would only get well--if he would
only get well."
A slight rustle on her left made her start, but it was only a blackbird
bursting through the dense mass of tangled growth that rose like a vast
hedge on either side of the winding track, from which the wanton
brambles and lithe boughs kept thrusting across young shoots like
friendly hands to grasp each other and join in claiming the rugged lane
as their own by conquest's right.
A little further on a snake that had been sunning itself on a stump
raised its head, uttered a low hiss, and glided rapidly away amidst the
dense undergrowth; while again, a few yards further on, she came upon a
short thick adder, lying right in her path, and apparently very careless
about leaving it.
It was remarkable now that Anne Beckley displayed no fear of the wild
animals she met. She had started at the blackbird's rustle, believing
that she was watched, but on seeing the reptiles, now that there was no
Sir Mark to whom she might cling for support, she broke off a slight
hazel branch, and cut sharply at the adder where it lay; and as it
raised its head and struck at her she cut it again and again till she
had disabled it, and ended by crushing its head in the earth.
Then throwing aside her stick she hastened on, but the exertion had made
her warm, and seating herself upon a mossy part of the bank she stayed
to rest in the cool damp shade, beneath a great oak-tree.
Before she had been seated there many minutes she became aware of a
slight movement in the grass, and, as she watched, a long lithe weasel
bounded into sight, stopped, with its neck stretched up and head erect,
watching her; but as she did not move the animal ran up the bank and
crept down a mouse-hole, so small that it seemed impossible for it to
have passed.
There was something about that weasel that attracted Anne, who remained
watching the little hole, till all at once a mouse in an apparent state
of collapse was thrust out, the neck and body of the weasel followed,
and away the long thin creature bounded into the thick grass and
disappeared.
A minute later there came a robin to settle upon a twig, and watch her
with its great round eyes, but the loud _chink-chink_ of a blackbird
sent the robin away, and the orange-billed bird hopped down into the
lane and began poking and peering about among the leaves till it secured
a snail, in the dampest, darkest, spot, which unfortunate it bore into
the path and hammered upon a stone till the shell was broken, when the
soft-bodied snail was daintily picked out, swallowed, and the blackbird
flew away.
Almost before Mistress Anne had noticed that the blackbird was gone, the
robin came back to gaze at the intruder, with its head on one side, and
then made a flit to where the leaves upon the moist bank had been
disturbed by the blackbird. Here the robin's quick eyes had spied out a
large lobworm hastily making its escape, under the impression that there
was danger below.
This long worm the robin seized and bore, writhing and twining, in its
bill to the path, where it set down its prize, but only to seize it
again and give it a series of fierce nips from end to end, accompanying
each nip with a sharp shake to stop the twining, which, however, was not
entirely done, for when the little redbreast seized its victim by the
head there was a slight undulating motion going on--a movement continued
as the bird began rapidly to gulp it down.
This feat seemed to fascinate Mistress Anne, who watched the last bit of
tail disappear, the robin having succeeded in taking down a worm nearly
twice its own length; such a feat, indeed, as a man would have
accomplished had he made a meal of a serpent some ten or eleven feet
long, swallowing it, writhing and twisting, whole.
"How cruel Nature is!" said Mistress Anne, in a low thoughtful voice,
and as she spoke there was a strange light in her eyes. "Everything for
its own pleasure seems to kill what it wills. Why should I not be cruel
too?"
She laughed then--a curious unpleasant laugh; and rising, the robin
flitted away over the low undergrowth, apparently none the heavier for
its meal, and there was a sharp rustle and a bound in the grass.
Mistress Anne Beckley seemed now to be too much occupied by her thoughts
to pay much heed to the objects she passed as she walked slowly on.
Once more she said softly, "Why should not I be cruel too?" Then she
laughed in a very unpleasant way, and half-closed her eyes.
About a mile farther, and in a very solitary place by an opening in the
sandstone rock that rose in front, she stopped before a low, thatched
cottage, glanced to right and left hastily, and then opening the rough
gate, passed between a couple of rows of old-fashioned flowers, pushed
the door, and entered the low-ceiled, homely room, with its bricked
floor and open fireplace, where, in spite of the heat, a few sticks of
wood were smouldering between the firedogs.
Quite in the chimney-corner, and seated upon a stool so low that her
chin was brought in close proximity to her knees, was a hard-featured
gaunt woman of sixty, dressed in widow's weeds of a very homely kind,
but scrupulously clean. The muslin kerchief and cap she wore were white
as snow, and her grey hair was tidily smoothed back. But, in spite of
her neat look, there was something repulsive about the woman's face--a
look of low cunning that played about her thin lips, which were drawn in
at the corners, while she had a habit of bringing her thick grey
eyebrows down over her eyes so as almost to conceal them, though, as you
looked at her, you felt that she was scrutinising you severely from
behind the shaggy grey fringe, and judging you from a hidden point of
view.
She rose from her seat as Mistress Anne entered, and welcomed her with a
smile, half defiant, half fawning.
"I'm so glad to see thee again, dearie," she said, in a harsh voice.
"What can I do for thee now?"
"I don't know," cried the visitor, sharply; "but look here, Mother
Goodhugh, mind this: my father is a justice, and if you play foul games
with me I have only to complain to have you seized and punished as a
witch."
"Me a witch, dearie? Oh, fie! I never pretended to be, only helped you
to a little of my knowledge when you came to me."
"I believe your knowledge is all nonsense," cried the girl, angrily.
"What good has it done?"
"Ah, it is impossible to say," replied the woman, looking furtively at
her visitor; "and you may not have given him the potion at a lucky time.
I know it was right, my dear," she added, in a low, mysterious whisper.
"I gathered the herbs myself, and distilled them every one. You don't
know: you can't tell. He may love you very dearly, and only be holding
back from fear of your high place. Was not your father made a titled
man just then?"
"Yes," replied the visitor. "Then that was it," cried the woman,
triumphantly. "Depend upon it, mistress, you have him safe."
"But he is always with her--always, Mother Goodhugh; and when we meet he
has only a contemptuous kind of laugh for me."
"That means nothing, dearie. It may be only the man's spirit fighting
against his heart. I can't think, lovey, but what you have him safe.
How many times has he had the drink?"
"Nine."
"And nine drops each time?"
"Yes, as nearly as I could drop them. My hand shook so."
"Ah," cried the woman, eagerly, "what did I tell thee? Nine drops nine
times dropped make eighty-one, and eight and one are nine."
"Yes," said Anne Beckley.
"Did I not warn thee that any mistake would spoil the spell?"
"Yes, but that could not matter."
"Ah, that is not for me to say," replied the woman. "But there, sit ye
down, dearie, and I'll do what I can for you. If it wasn't that you
love him I'd say to you let him go on in his terrifying ways, and wed
her if he will. She belongs to an accursed race, and would bring him
never good."
"But she shan't marry him!" cried Anne, with flashing eyes. "I hate
her, Mother Goodhugh, and would sooner see her dead. She's a witch.
I'm sure she's a witch."
"And why are you sure, lovey?"
"Because--because--she bewitches men to her, and holds them by her side.
I have tried, oh, so hard, but I cannot."
"Nay, child, nay, but you can, though not so strongly; for you do it by
good, while she does it by ill."
"But I can't, Mother Goodhugh," cried the girl, petulantly.
"Ah, but you do," said the woman, who began to walk up and down the
brick floor, muttering and talking as if to herself. "She must, she
must, for she is very beautiful and good. She has but to wish it over
the nine drops to win the hearts of as many lovers as her heart
desires."
"But, Mother Goodhugh," whispered Anne, whose heart was open enough to a
little insidious flattery, "I did try so hard, and it seemed to do no
good; and now a great officer has come to the Moat, and he had to go
down to the Pool-house."
"Yes, yes, I know, I know," said Mother Goodhugh, "and she has witched
him, too. Yes; she sits with him and reads to him, and smiles softly in
his face, and she'll win him to her ways, no doubt. But you don't care
for that, child. Let her win him, and it will settle the love, and
leave brave, stout Captain Gil for you."
"But I do care, mother;--I won't have it--I can't bear it. She does all
this to spite me, and it drives me nearly mad. You must give me
something that shall bring him back. Oh, pray, pray, help me."
"Nay, nay, child, you threatened me just now, and talked of your father,
and punishing me as a witch. Ah, ah! I didn't deserve it."
"That was only because I was peevish and fretful, Mother Goodhugh,"
cried the girl appealingly; "for it is so hard to find both the men of
your heart go to her straight, and leave you behind as a thing of
naught."
"Both the men--both?" cried Mother Goodhugh, with a hoarse chuckle, "Go
to, go to, wicked girl; will not one suffice?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I'd give up Captain Gil, mother, but I cannot bear to see
this new one go over to her too. You must help me--you shall."
"Heyday, my dearie, what can I do? And besides, you laugh at my
potions. I am not a witch, child, only a wise woman, who works hard to
find out what herbs gathered at vital times can do. But I know nothing
at all--nothing at all. Try something mixed by good Dame Beckley, thy
mother; she can distil you something, I'll warrant ye."
"No, no, Mother Goodhugh; how can I tell her of my fainting heart, and
my sighs for a loving man. Fie! Who tells her mother of such things?
Come, help me."
"Nay, child, it is of no use. Go to some one else."
"But you must help me, mother," cried the girl, appealingly.
"Nay, child, I cannot; and besides, to do what you will is costly.
Many's the long and weary time Master Abel Churr has spent in watching
to get for me the toadweed when it blossomed at midnight, just at the
moment when its flowers opened, and before the dew had time to wet it
once. And heavily have I paid him for the earliest shoots of dog's
mercury, and the roots of the peavetch grown in a dripping rill. Nay,
child, I lose by thy coming here. Go ask some one else to help thee. I
can do no more."
"Yes, yes, you will help me, Mother Goodhugh," cried the girl, thrusting
a small gold piece into her hand. "Come, haste and prepare me
something."
"Nay, child, I'm weary of it all," said Mother Goodhugh, making an offer
to return the piece. "The toil to my brain is terrifying, and I lay
awake o' nights after thinking of it all, and wondering whether it be
wicked, and what's to become afterward of my sinful soul, for doing such
things. Suppose through helping you to your lovers I am kept from
joining my poor dear husband who's now in Heaven. Ah, no, I'll have no
more to do with thee."
For answer Anne Beckley gave her foot an impatient stamp, and sought for
and found a couple of silver crowns, which she added to the gold piece,
and pressed into the old woman's hand, which closed upon them like a
hawk's claw upon some tiny partridge chick; and a grim smile of
satisfaction came upon her face.
"Well, well, well, I suppose I must, dearie; and if I go to perdition
for it all you'll have to pay for getting me prayed for when I'm dead.
Now, then, what be I to do?"
"Give me the nine-drop distilment again, mother, and I will try it; but,
if it fails this time, I'll never trust thee more. I'll, I'll--there,
I'll have thee put in prison for a witch."
"Then not a drop will I give thee," cried the old woman, passionately.
"Go, get your own lovers as you can. Ah! you cannot; for if I be
punished as a witch I'll ill-wish you; I'll put such a spell upon you
that men shall avoid you to the end of your days. You shall grow thin
and old, and dry and yellow, and shall never know the joys of a pair of
manly arms pressing you to a throbbing breast; you shall never taste the
sweet kisses of love; and, instead of your lips pouting red and warm for
more, they shall grow thin, and dry, and white, and cracked in your
lonely, childless old age. I'll curse you--I'll--"
"No, no, Mother Goodhugh, dear Mother Goodhugh," cried the girl,
catching at her arm. "I did but jest. I'll never say word to a soul,
but keep all your secrets, and you shall have money and presents from
the Moat; only help me, mother--only give me the means to win him."
"Him?--Whom?" cried Mother Goodhugh, sharply.
"Sir Mark," faltered Anne, with her face growing crimson.
"Why not Captain Gil Carr?" replied Mother Goodhugh. "But there," she
continued, going into an inner room, and keeping on talking aloud till
she returned with a little clumsily shaped phial, which she held with
great care and reverence as she passed it to her visitor. "There, take
care of it, child; every drop is worth a gold piece; but you have been
disappointed, and I want to make thee happy."
The visitor, while professing utter disbelief in such matters, snatched
eagerly at the little phial, and hid it in her bosom.
"Now something else," she cried. "You are so close and hard to deal
with. Do something more."
"What would you have me to do?" said the woman. "Shall I tell you of
your future?"
"Yes, yes," cried the girl.
"Sit on the stool then, there in the centre of the room," said the old
woman; "and whatever you see or hear do not speak or move, or I would
not answer for the consequences; it might be dumbness, or craziness, or
even death."
Smiling scornfully, to hide a shudder, Anne Beckley did as she was bid;
and as she seated herself the old woman closed and drew a rough curtain
across the door, and over the little window, leaving only a few silver
streaks of light to penetrate; and then, as there was utter silence as
well, her visitor heard a voice that came apparently from a great
distance say softly:--
"Things to come--things of the future--things of the many years. I see
a house in its bright garden burned up and destroyed, the blast of
powder, and the shrieks of the wounded; and I see a church, with a
wedding-party coming away, and the face of the man is hidden, but the
garb is that of an officer, and the face of the maid is that of Sir
Thomas Beckley's child."
The voice ceased, and Mistress Anne, whose eyes had been tightly closed,
opened them again, and saw that the cottage was light once more, and
that Mother Goodhugh was by her side.
"Whose face was it?" whispered the girl, half scornfully, half in awe.
"The voice spake not," said the woman, solemnly. "Come and see."
Anne Beckley felt a slight shrinking, but she rose directly, and
followed the old woman, who led her out at the back of the cottage,
plunging directly into the thick forest, and leading her by an overgrown
track farther and farther into its depths. Every now and then the girl
had to pause to free her dress from some briar or thorn which held her
tightly, and for the most part she had to proceed at a slow walk,
stooping the while to avoid the leaf-laden branches which in their
wealth of summer foliage bowed down to bar her way.
With intervals of stopping, Anne Beckley followed her guide for quite an
hour, during which time the old woman had kept on, evidently following
certain marks on trees which she carefully scanned.
"I will go no further, mother," cried Anne, throwing herself on a great
mossy block of stone which overhung a tiny, trickling stream, and wiping
her dewy forehead.
"Yes, you will, dearie," said the old woman, with a meaning smile.
"You'd go further than this to meet your love. You are hot and tired
now. Come down here and have a drink."
She dragged the branches aside with tender hand, and lightly bent back
the tall bracken, so as to make a way for the girl, who rose wearily,
and, following the old woman, found herself in a shady hollow between
the rocks which rose far above her head, while at her feet lay a clear
pool of cool delicious water, over which she bent, and was in the very
act of dipping in her hand to fill her soft white palm, and drink, when
she fancied she saw in the mirror-like surface the old woman's fingers
extended to thrust her in, and in a flash she seemed to see her object,
namely, to murder her for her money and trinkets.
She started up, but only to see Mother Goodhugh smiling at her, and,
ashamed of her fears, she drank, and turned to proceed. At the same
time she felt, though, how completely she was at her companion's mercy.
No one knew where she had come, or had seen her enter the cottage; and
now in the depths of the forest, did the old woman wish her evil, the
thick bushes and brambles would conceal her body, and the rapid growth
soon hide all signs of footsteps that might be tracked.
"Now, lovey," said the old woman, "I am going to trust you to have sense
to do as you are bid. You must shut your eyes tightly, and neither look
nor speak till you hear his voice."
"Shall I hear it?" faltered Anne.
"Yes, for sure," cried the old woman, imperiously. "Now close your eyes
and obey me in all I say. If you do not, I will not answer for what may
happen."
"I--I'll go back now. I am weary," faltered Anne.
"Too late," cried the old woman, clutching her hand tightly. "Shut your
eyes. There, now not a word."
Anne obeyed to the letter, and for fully half-an-hour felt herself half
dragged up and down rugged ground, past masses of stone, and through
bushes; and more than once her fears nearly made her open her eyes.
At last, when she could bear the suspense no longer, there was a pause,
and Mother Goodhugh placed her hands upon her shoulders, pressed her
down upon a block of stone, and whispered in her ear:--
"Keep your eyes close; do not speak or move, and you will hear his steps
ere long, and he will speak to thee."
"In the flesh?" whispered the girl, hoarsely.
"How can I tell in or out of the flesh, but he will come."
"But who, Mother Goodhugh, who?" whispered the girl.
"I know not. It may be Captain Gil: it may be the gallant at the Pool:
all I know and can tell is that the man who touches you--"
"Touches?"
"Yes, touches you, is or will be your lover. Hush! Not a word."
Anne half made a spring to rise, but something seemed to hold her back
in her seat, and with palpitating heart she sat trembling as she heard a
faint rustling noise indicating that Mother Goodhugh was going back into
the forest; and, unable at last to combat the feeling of lonesomeness
and dread, but at the same time unwilling to break what she felt was a
spell by opening her eyes, she whispered hastily--"Mother--mother, are
you there?" She sank back the next moment bedewed with cold clammy
perspiration, for there seemed to arise a strange low whispering of many
voices, which passed, came back, and died away in the distance, leaving
her in the midst of a silence that was profound.
Volume 1, Chapter VIII.