"GOODY GREY."
"A poore widow, some deal stoop'n in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cottage
Beside a grove standing in a dale.
This widow which I tell you of my Tale
Since thilke day that she was last a wife
In patience led a full simple life;
For little was her cattle and her rent."
CHAUCER.
The country round Brampton was singularly beautiful and picturesque. A
thick wood skirted the park on one side, and reached to the edge of the
river that wound clearly, brightly, and silently through the valley
beyond, and at length lost itself after many turnings behind a
neighbouring hill, while hills and dales, meadows, rich pastures and
fields were seen as far as the eye could reach, with here and there
cottages scattered about, and lanes which in summer were scented with
the fragrance of wild flowers growing beneath and in the hedges, their
blossoms painting the sides with many colours, and were filled with
groups of village children culling the tiny treasures, but now were cold
and deserted.
To the right, in a shady nook, stood the village church, quiet and
solemn, its spire just overtopping some tall trees near, and its
church-yard dotted with cypress, yew, and willow trees, waving over
graves old and new.
Further on was the village of Brampton, containing some two or three
hundred houses, many of them very quaint and old-fashioned, but nearly
all neat and tidy, the gardens rivalling one another in the fragrance
and luxuriance of their flowers.
In the wood to the left, and almost hidden among the trees, stood a
small thatched cottage with a look of peculiar desolate chilliness; not
a vestige of cultivation was to be seen near it, although the ground
round about was carefully swept clear of dead leaves and stray sticks,
so that an appearance of neatness though not of comfort reigned around.
It seemed as if no friendly hand ever opened the windows, no step ever
crossed the threshold of the door, or cheerful voice sounded from
within. Its walls were perfectly bare, no jasmine, no sweet scented
clematis, no wild rose ever invaded them; even the ivy had passed them
by, and crept up a friendly oak tree.
Within might generally be seen an old woman sitting and swaying herself
backwards and forwards in a high-backed oak chair, and even appearing to
keep time with the ticking of a large clock that stood on one side of
the room, as ever and anon she sang the snatches of some old song, or
turned to speak to a large parrot perched on a stand near: a strange
inhabitant for such a cottage. Her face was very wrinkled and somewhat
forbidding, from a frown or rather scowl that seemed habitual to it. Her
hair was entirely grey, brushed up from the forehead and turned under
an old fashioned mob cap, the band round the head being bound by a piece
of broad black ribbon. A cheap cotton dress of a dark colour, and a
little handkerchief pinned across the bosom completed her attire.
The floor of the room was partly covered with carpet; the boards round
being beautifully clean and white. A small table stood in front of the
fire-place, and a clothes' press on the opposite side of the clock,
while on a peg behind the door hung a bonnet and grey cloak. The only
ornaments in the room, if ornaments they could be called, were a feather
fan on a shelf in one corner, and by its side a small, curiously-carved
ivory box.
The owner of the cottage was the old woman just described. Little was
known about her. The villagers called her "Goody Grey," probably on
account of the faded grey cloak she invariably wore in winter, or the
shawl of the same colour which formed part of her dress in summer. The
cottage had been built by Mr. Linchmore's father, just before his
death, and when completed, she came and took up her abode there; none
knowing who she was or where she came from; although numberless were the
villagers' conjectures as to who she could be; but their curiosity had
never been satisfied; she kept entirely to herself, and baffled the
wisest of them, until in time the curiosity as well as the interest she
excited, gradually wore away, and they grew to regard her with
superstitious awe; as one they would not vex or thwart for the world,
believing she had the power of bringing down unmitigated evil on them
and theirs; although they rarely said she exercised any such
dark power. The children of the village were forbidden to wander in the
wood, although "Goody Grey" had never been heard to say a harsh word to
them, nor indeed any word at all, as she never noticed or spoke to them.
The little creatures were not afraid of her, and seldom stopped their
play on her approach as she went through the village, which was seldom.
Unless spoken to, she rarely addressed a word to any one. Strangers
passing through Brampton looked upon her--as indeed did the inmates at
the Park--as a crazy, half-witted creature, and pitied and spoke to her
as such, but she invariably gave sharp, angry replies, or else never
answered at all, save by deepening if possible the frown on her brow.
As she finished the last verse of her song, the parrot as if aware it
had come to an end flapped his wings, and gave a shrill cry. "Hush!"
said she, "Be still!"
Almost at the same instant, the distant rumble of wheels was heard
passing along the high road which wound though a part of the wood near.
She rose up, went to the window, and opened it, and leaning her head
half out listened intently. Her height was about the middle stature, and
her figure gaunt and upright.
She could see nothing: the road was not distinguishable, but the sound
of the carriage wheels was plainly heard above the breeze sighing among
the leafless trees. She listened with an angry almost savage expression
on her face.
"Aye, there they come!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full
height, "there they come! the beautiful, the rich, and the happy.
Happy!" she laughed wildly, "how many will find happiness in that house?
Woe to them! Woe! Woe! Woe!" and she waved her bony arms above her head,
looking like some evil spirit, while, as if to add more horror to her
words, the bird echoed her wild laugh.
"Ah, laugh!" she cried, "and so may you too, ye deluded ones, but only
for awhile: by-and-by there will be weeping and mourning and woe, which,
could ye but see as I see it, how loath would ye be to come here; but
now ye are blindly running your necks into the noose," and again her
half-crazed laugh rang through the cottage. "Woe to you!" she repeated,
closing the window as she had opened it. "Woe to you! Woe! Woe!"
Ere long the excitement passed away, or her anger exhausted itself; and
she gradually dropped her arms to her side and sank on a bench by the
window; her head dropped on her bosom, and she might be said to have
lost all consciousness but for the few unintelligible words she every
now and again muttered to herself in low indistinct tones.
Presently she rose again, opened the clothes-press, and took out some
boiled rice and sopped bread, which she gave to the parrot.
"Eat!" said she in a low, subdued tone, very different to her former
wild excited one, "Eat, take your fill, and keep quiet, for I'm going
out; and if I leave you idle you're sure to get into mischief before I
come back."
The bird, as she placed the rice in a small tin attached to his perch,
took hold of her finger with his beak, and tried to perch himself upon
her hand. She pushed him gently back and smoothed his feathers, "No,
no," said she. "It's too cold for you outside, you would wish yourself
at home again, although you do love me, and are the only living thing
that does." And another dark expression flitted across her face.
She put on the bonnet and grey cloak, and taking a thick staff in her
hand, went out.
The air was cold and frosty. The snow of the day before had melted away,
and the ground in consequence of the thaw and subsequent frost was very
slippery; but she walked bravely and steadily on, with the help of her
staff, scarcely ever making a false step. At the outskirts of the wood
was a small gate leading on to a footpath which ran across the park,
making a short cut from the valley to the village. Here she paused, and
looked hastily about her.
Now Goody Grey had never been known or seen to enter the Park, yet she
paused evidently undecided as to which path she should pursue, the long
or the short one. At length she resolved upon taking the long one; and
shaking her head she muttered, "No, no; may be I'll be in time the other
way;" and on she went as steadily as before, on through the village and
up by the church-yard; nor stayed, nor slackened her walk until she
gained the large gates and lodge of Brampton Park; then she halted and
gazed up the road.
Notwithstanding the time it had taken to come round, probably half an
hour, yet the carriage she had heard approaching in the distance had
only just reached the bottom of the hill, the road taking a long round
after leaving the wood. It came on slowly, the coachman being evidently
afraid to trust his horses over the slippery road. Slowly it approached,
and eagerly was it scanned by the old woman at the gates. Presently it
was quite close, and then came to a stand still, while the great lodge
bell rang out; and Goody Grey advanced to the window, and looked in.
On one side sat two rather elderly ladies; on the other an effeminate
looking young man and a girl. These were evidently not the people she
expected to see, for a shade of vexation and disappointment crossed her
face. After scanning the countenances of each, she fixed her eyes on the
young girl with an angry, menacing look, difficult to define, which the
latter bore for some moments without flinching; then turning her head
away, she addressed one of the ladies sitting opposite her.
"Have you no pence, Mamma? Pray do give this wretched being some, and
let us get rid of her."
"I do not think I have, Frances, nor indeed if I had would I give her
any. I make a point of never encouraging vagrants; she ought to be in
the Union, the proper place for people of her stamp. I have no doubt she
is an impostor, she looks like it, there are so many about now; we are
overrun with them."
"Well, Mamma, if you won't give her any, pray desire Porter to drive on.
What is he waiting for?"
"My dear, they have not opened the gates. There goes the bell again."
"Really, Alfred," said the girl, turning towards the young man at her
side, "one would think you were dumb, to see you sitting there so
indifferent. I wonder you have not more politeness towards Miss Tremlow
if you have none for your mother and sister. Do not you see?" continued
she, taking the paper he was reading from his hand and holding it so as
to partly screen her face. "Do not you see what an annoyance this
dreadful old woman is to us?"
He yawned and stretched himself, giving at the same time a side glance
at Goody Grey, as if it was too much trouble to turn his head. "Ha! yes.
Can't say I admire her. What does she want?"
"Want! We want her sent away, but one might as well appeal to a post as
you."
"I shall not exert my lungs in her behalf; but you are wrong as regards
your polite comparison of 'post,'" and, putting down the window, he gave
a few pence into the old woman's hand, intimating at the same time that
he should be under the painful necessity of calling the porter;--and he
pointed to the man at the gates--unless she moved away.
"Take my blessing," said she, in reply. "The blessing of an old woman--"
"There, that will do. I do not want thanks."
"And I do not thank you," replied she, putting both hands on the window
so as to prevent its being closed. "I don't thank you. I give you my
blessing, which is better than thanks. But I have a word for you;" she
pointed her finger at Frances Strickland, "and mark well my words, for
they are sure to come to pass. Pride must have a fall. Evil wishes are
seldom fulfilled. Beware! you are forewarned. And now, drive on!" she
screamed to the coachman, striking at the same moment one of the horses
with the end of her staff; it plunged and reared violently, the other
horse became restive, and they set off at full speed up the avenue.
Fortunately, the road was a gradual ascent to the house, for had there
been nothing to check their mad career, some serious accident might have
happened; as it was, one of the windows was broken against the branch of
a tree, the carriage narrowly escaping an upset on a small mound of
earth thrown up at the side of the road.
The travellers were more or less alarmed. Miss Tremlow, who was seated
opposite Alfred, seized hold of him, and frantically entreated him to
save her, until he was thrown forward almost into her lap--"All of a
heap," as that lady afterwards expressed herself--as the carriage
swerved over against a tree, when she gradually released her hold, and
sank back into a state of insensibility.
"I hope she is dead!" said Alfred, settling himself once more in his
place by his sister, and rubbing his arm.
"Dead!" echoed his mother. "Who is dead?"
"Only that mad woman next you in the corner; there! let her alone,
mother; don't, for Heaven's sake, bring her round again, whatever you
do. I have had enough of her embraces to last me a precious long time."
The horses now slackened their speed, and were stopped by some of the
Hall servants not far from the door.
Mr. Linchmore was at the steps of the Terrace, and helped to lift out
Miss Tremlow, who was carried into the house still insensible; while
Mrs. Strickland, who had been screaming incessantly for the last five
minutes, now talked as excitedly about an old witch in a grey cloak;
while Frances walked into the house scarcely deigning a word, good, bad,
or indifferent to any one--her pale face strangely belying her apparent
coolness--leaving her brother to relate the history of their
misadventure.