There was once an orphan girl, far away in a little village on the edge
of the moors. She lived in a hovel thatched with reeds, and this was
the poorest and the last of all the houses, and stood quite by itself
among broom and whins by the wayside.
From the doorway the girl could look across the wild stretches of the
moorland; and that was pleasant enough on a summer day, for then the
air is clear and golden, and the moor is purple with the bloom of the
ling, and there are red and yellow patches of bracken, and here and
there a rowan tree grows among the big grey boulders with clusters of
reddening berries. But at night, and especially on a winter night, the
darkness was so wide and so lonely that it was hard not to feel afraid
sometimes. The wind, when it blew in the dark, was full of strange and
mournful voices; and when there was no wind, Mary could hear the cries
and calls of the wild creatures on the moor.
Mary was fourteen when she lost her father. He was a rough idle
good-for-nothing, and one stormy night on his way home from the tavern
he went astray and was found dead in the snow. Her mother had died
when she was so small a child that Mary could scarcely remember her
face. So it happened that she was left alone in the world, and all she
possessed was a dog, some fowls, and her mother's spinning wheel.
But she was a bright, cheerful, courageous child, and soon she got from
the people of the village sufficient work to keep her wheel always
busy, for no one could look into her face without liking her. People
often wondered how so rude and worthless a fellow could have had such a
child; she was as sweet and unexpected as the white flowers on the bare
and rugged branches of the blackthorn.
Her hens laid well, and she sold all the eggs she could spare; and her
dog, which had been trained in all sorts of cunning by her father,
often brought her from the moors some wild thing in fur or feathers
which Mary thought there was no harm in cooking.
Her father had been too idle and careless to teach her anything, and
all that she could recollect of her mother's instruction was a little
rhyme which she used to repeat on her knees beside the bed every night
before she went to sleep.
And this was the rhyme:
_God bless this house from thatch to floor,_
_The twelve Apostles guard the door,_
_And four good Angels watch my bed,_
_Two at the foot and two the head._
_Amen._
[Illustration: "_And four good Angels watch my bed_"]
Though she was all alone in the world, and had no girl of her own age
to make friends with, she was happy and contented, for she was busy
from morning till night.
And yet in spite of all this, strange stories began to be whispered
about the village. People who happened to pass by the old hut late at
night declared that they had seen light shining through the chinks in
the window-shutter when all honest people should have been asleep.
There were others who said they had noticed strange men standing in the
shadows of the eaves; they might have been highwaymen, they might have
been smugglers--they could not tell, for no one had cared to run the
risk of going too near--but it was quite certain that there were
strange things going on at the hut, and that the girl who seemed so
simple and innocent was not quite so good as the neighbours had
imagined.
When the village gossip had reached the ears of the white-headed old
Vicar, he sent for the girl and questioned her closely. Mary was
grieved to learn that such untrue and unkind stories were told about
her. She knew nothing, she said, of any lights or of any men. As soon
as it was too dusky to see to work she always fastened her door, and
after she had had her supper, she covered the fire and blew out the
rushlight and went to bed.
"And you say your prayers, my daughter, I hope?" said the Vicar kindly.
Mary hung down her head and answered in a low voice, "I do not know any
proper prayers, but I always say the words my mother taught me."
And Mary repeated the rhyme:
_God bless this house from thatch to floor,_
_The twelve Apostles guard the door,_
_And four good Angels watch my bed,_
_Two at the foot and two the head._
_Amen._
"There could not be a better prayer, dear child!" rejoined the Vicar,
with a smile. "Go home now, and do not be troubled by what idle
tongues may say. Every night repeat your little prayer, and God will
take care of you."
Late that night, however, the Vicar lit his lantern and went out of
doors, without a word to any one. All the village was still and dark
as he walked slowly up the road towards the moor.
"She is a good girl," he said to himself, "but people may have observed
something which has given rise to these stories. I will go and see
with my own eyes."
The stars were shining far away in the dark sky, and the green plovers
were crying mournfully on the dark moor. As he passed along the
lantern swung out a dim light across the road, which had neither walls
nor hedges.
"It is a lonely place for a child to live in by herself," he thought.
At last he perceived the outline of the old hovel, among the gorse and
broom, and the next moment he stopped suddenly, for there, as he had
been told, a thread of bright light came streaming through the shutters
of the small window. He drew his lantern under his cloak, and
approached cautiously. The road where he stood was now dim, but by the
faint glimmer of the stars he was able to make out that there were
several persons standing under the eaves, and apparently whispering
together.
The Vicar's good old heart was filled with surprise and sorrow. Then
it suddenly grew hot with anger, and throwing aside his cloak and
lifting up the lantern he advanced boldly to confront the intruders.
But they were not at all alarmed, and they did not make any attempt to
escape him. Then, as the light fell upon their forms and faces, who
but the Vicar was struck with awe and amazement, and stood gazing as
still as a stone!
The people under the eaves were men of another age and another world,
strangely clothed in long garments, and majestic in appearance. One
carried a lance, and another a pilgrim's staff, and a third a
battle-axe; but the most imposing stood near the door of the hut, and
in his hand he held two large keys.
In an instant the Vicar had guessed who they were, and had uncovered
his head and fallen on his knees; but the strangers melted slowly away
into the darkness, as if they had been no more than the images of a
dream. And indeed the Vicar might have thought that he really had been
dreaming but for the light which continued to stream through the chink
in the shutter.
He arose from his knees and moved towards the window to peep into the
hut. Instantly an invisible hand stretched a naked sword across his
path, and a low deep voice spoke to him in solemn warning:
"It is the light of Angels. Do not look, or blindness will fall upon
you, even as it fell upon me on the Damascus road."
But the aged Vicar laid his hand on the sword, and tried to move it
away.
"Let me look, let me look!" he said; "better one glimpse of the Angels
than a thousand years of earthly sight."
Then the sword yielded to his touch and vanished into air, and the old
priest leaned forward on the window-sill and gazed through the chink.
And with a cry of joy he saw a corner of the rude bed, and beside the
corner, one above the other, three great dazzling wings; they were the
left-hand side wings of one of the Angels at the foot of the bed.
Then all was deep darkness.
The Vicar thought that it was the blindness that had fallen upon him,
but the only regret he felt was that the vision had vanished so
quickly. Then, as he turned away, he found that not only had he not
lost his sight, but that he could now see with a marvellous clearness.
He saw the road, and even the foot-prints and grains of sand on the
road; the hut, and the reeds on the hut; the moor, and the boulders and
the rowan-trees on the moor. Everything was as distinct as if it had
been--not daylight, but as if the air were of the clear colour of a
nut-brown brook in summer.
Praising God for all His goodness he returned home, and as he went he
looked back once and again and yet again, and each time he saw the
twelve awful figures in strange clothing, guarding the lonely thatched
hovel on the edge of the moor.
After this there were no more stories told of Mary, and no one even
dared speak to her of the wonderful manner in which her prayer was
answered, so that she never knew what the old Vicar had seen. But late
at night people would rather go a great way round than take the road
which passed by her poor hut.