"The next case is a strange one," said Sir Richard Barton, Justice of
the Peace, sitting on the bench by his friend, the famous Judge who
was holding court for Market Farborough.
"How is it strange?" asked the Judge, whose face showed ruddy and
strong beneath his white wig.
"It is an accusation of witchcraft," answered Sir Richard, "and that
is a serious thing in these days. Yet it seems the woman has a good
heart and harms nobody."
"Beneficent witchcraft!" said the Judge--"that is a rarity indeed.
What do you make of it?"
"I am against all superstition," said Sir Richard solemnly; "it brings
disorder. For religion we have the clergy, and for justice the
lawyers, and for health the doctors. All outside of that partakes of
license and unreason."
"Yet outside of that," mused the Judge, "there are things that neither
clergy nor lawyers nor doctors can explain. Tell me, what do people
think concerning this witch?"
"The strict and godly folk," answered Sir Richard, "reckon her a
scandal to the town and an enemy of religion. They are of opinion that
she should be put away, whether by hanging or drowning, or by shutting
her in a madhouse. But many poor people have an affection for her,
because she has helped them."
"And you?" asked the Judge.
Sir Richard looked at him keenly. "I can better tell," said he, "when
you have seen her yourself and heard her story."
"That is plainly my duty," said the Judge. "Clerk, call the next
case."
As the clerk read the name of the accused and the charge against her,
the eyes of the Judge were fixed curiously upon the prisoner at the
bar, as if he sought for something forgotten.
Tall and dark, with sunburned face and fearless eyes, she stood
quietly while her way of life was told; her dwelling, since the death
of her parents, in a cottage on the heath beyond the town; her comings
and goings among the neighbours; her wonderful cures of sick animals
and strange diseases, but especially of little children. There were
some who testified that she was wilful and malicious; yet it appeared
they could only allege she had withheld her cure, saying that it was
beyond her power. The doctor was bitter against her, as an unlawful
person; and the parson condemned her, though she came often to church;
"for," said he, "the Scripture commands us, 'Thou shalt not suffer a
witch to live.'"
The face of the Judge was troubled. "Tell me," he said, leaning
forward and speaking gravely, "are you a witch?"
"Not for evil, my Lord," answered the woman simply, "but I have a
healing gift."
"How do you work your cures?" he asked. "What do you to the children?"
"I open the windows of the room where they lie," she answered.
The face of the Judge relaxed, and his eyes twinkled kindly. "And
then?" said he.
"I throw the black draught out of the window and tell the children a
tale of the Garden of Good Dreams."
"Is that all?" said the Judge, shading his face with his hand.
"No, my Lord," replied the woman. "When the children are near to
sleep, I put my charm in their hands."
"Whence had you this charm?" he said. "And what is it?"
"I pray your Lordship," cried the woman, "ask me not, for I can never
tell."
"Let me see it," said the Judge, with a smile.
So the woman, trembling and reluctant, drew a dark-red ribbon from her
breast, and at the end of it a packet of fine linen bound closely with
white silk. She laid it before the Judge. He broke the silken thread
and unrolled the linen, fold after fold, until he came to a yellow
piece of paper with writing on it, and in the paper a crooked sixpence
of King James.
The coin and the scrap of paper lay in his hand as he looked up and
met the shrewd questioning eyes of Sir Richard.
"Yes," answered the Baron Harcourt in a low voice, "you have seen the
coin before, and now you may read what is written on the paper."
"Now I know," said Sir Richard, shaking his head, "what charm you gave
to the woman and her child forty years ago. Was I not right? It was a
deception."
"Who knows?" said the Baron Harcourt cheerfully. "It has not failed
to-day. Fortune has favoured Faith."
He turned to the clerk. "Make record that this case is dismissed for
want of evidence against the accused. The woman has done no harm. The
court is adjourned."
"And my charm," said the woman eagerly--"oh, my Lord, you will give me
back my charm?"
"That I must keep for you," he said with kindness, as to a child. "But
you may still open the windows, and throw out the black draught, and
tell the children of the Garden of Good Dreams. Trust me, that will
work wonders."