One Snowy Night

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER NINE.

  THE SECRET THAT WAS NOT TOLD.

  "Thine eye is on Thy wandering sheep; Thou knowest where they are, and Thou wilt keep And bring them home."

  Hetty Bowman.

  "So you've really come back at last! Well, I did wonder what you'd goneafter! Such lots of folks have asked me--old Turguia, and Franna, andAunt Isel, and Derette--leastwise Leuesa--and ever such a lot: and Icouldn't tell ne'er a one of them a single word about it."

  Anania spoke in the tone of an injured woman, defrauded of her rights bythe malice prepense of Stephen.

  "Well," said Stephen calmly, "you may tell them all that I went after myown business; and if any of them thinks that's what a man shouldn't do,she can come and tell me so."

  "Well, to be sure! But what business could you have to carry you out ofthe town for such a time, and nobody to know a word about it? Tell methat, if you please."

  "Don't you tell her nought!" said Osbert in the chimney-corner. "If youwent to buy a new coat, she'll want to know where the money was minted,and who sheared the sheep."

  "I'll finish my pie first, I think," answered Stephen, "for I am rathertoo hungry for talk; and I dare say she'll take no harm by that."

  He added, in mental reservation,--"And meantime I can be thinking whatto say."

  "Oh, _you_ never want to know nought!" exclaimed Anania derisively."Turguia, she said you were gone after rabbits--as if any man in hissenses would do that in the snow: and Aunt Isel thought you were off ona holiday; and Franna was certain sure you were gone a-courting."

  Stephen laughed to himself, but made no other reply.

  "Baint you a-going to tell me, now?" demanded Anania.

  "Aunt Isel wasn't so far out," said Stephen, helping himself to a secondwedge of pie.

  "And Franna?"

  Anania was really concerned on that point. She found Stephen veryuseful, and his wages, most of which he gave her, more than paid for hisboard. If he were to marry and set up house for himself, it woulddeprive her of the means to obtain sundry fashionable frivolitieswherein her soul delighted. Stephen was quite aware of these facts,which put an amusing edge on his determination to keep the truth fromthe inquisitive gossip.

  "Franna?" he repeated. "Did you say she thought I'd gone aftersquirrels? because I've brought ne'er a one."

  "No, stupid! She said you'd gone a-courting, and I want to know who."

  "You must ask Franna that, not me. I did not say so."

  "You'll say nothing, and that's the worst of signs. When folks won'tanswer a reasonable question, ten to one they've been in some mischief."

  "I haven't finished the pie."

  "Much you'll tell me when you have!"

  "Oh, I'll answer any reasonable question," said Stephen, with a slightemphasis on the adjective.

  Osbert laughed, and Anania was more vexed than ever.

  "You're a pair!" said he.

  "Now, look you here! I'll have an answer, if I stand here whileChristmas; and you sha'n't have another bite till you've given it. Didyou go a-courting?"

  As Anania had laid violent hands on the pie, which she held out of hisgrasp, and as Stephen had no desire to get into a genuine quarrel withher, he was obliged to make some reply.

  "Will you give me back the pie, if I tell you?"

  "Yes, I will."

  "Then, I'd no such notion in my head. Let's have the pie."

  "When?" Anania still withheld the pie.

  "When what?"

  "When hadn't you such a notion? when you set forth, or when you cameback?"

  "Eat thy supper, lad, and let them buzzing things be!" said Osbert."There'll never be no end to it, and thou mayest as well shut theportcullis first as last."

  "Them's my thoughts too," said Stephen.

  "Then you sha'n't have another mouthful."

  "Nay, you're off your bargain. I answered the question, I'm sure."

  "You've been after some'at ill, as I'm a living woman! You'd have toldme fast enough if you hadn't. There's the pie,"--Anania set it up on ahigh shelf--"take it down if you dare!"

  "I've no wish to quarrel with you, Sister. I'll go and finish my supperat Aunt Isel's--they'll give me some'at there, I know."

  "Anania, don't be such a goose!" said Osbert.

  "Don't you meddle, or you'll get what you mayn't like!" was the conjugalanswer.

  Osbert rose and took down a switch from its hook on the wall.

  "You'll get it first, my lady!" said he: and Stephen, who never had anyfancy for quarrelling, and was wont to leave the house when such notunfrequent scenes occurred, shut the door on the ill-matched pair, andwent off to Kepeharme Lane.

  "Stephen, is it? Good even, lad. I'm fain to see thee back. Art onlyjust come?"

  "Long enough to eat half a supper, and for Anania to get into more thanhalf a temper," said Stephen, laughing. "I'm come to see, Aunt, ifyou'll give me another half."

  "That I will, lad, and kindly welcome. What will thou have? I've a fatfish pie and some cold pork and beans."

  "Let's have the pork and beans, for I've been eating pie up yonder."

  "Good, and I'll put some apples down to roast. Hast thou enjoyed thyholiday?"

  "Ay, middling, thank you, if it hadn't been so cold."

  "It's a desperate cold winter!" said Isel, with a sigh, which Stephenfelt certain was breathed to the memory of the Germans. "I neverremember a worse."

  "I'm afraid you feel lonely, Aunt."

  "Ay, lonely enough, the saints know!"

  "Why doesn't Haimet wed, and bring you a daughter to help you? Mabel'sa bit too grand, I reckon."

  "Mabel thinks a deal of herself, that's true. Well. I don't know.One's not another, Stephen."

  "I'll not gainsay you, Aunt Isel. But mayn't `another' be better thannone? Leastwise, some others,"--as a recollection of his amiablesister-in-law crossed his mind.

  "I don't know, Stephen. Sometimes that hangs on the `one.' You'llthink it unnatural in me, lad, but I don't miss Flemild nor Derette as Ido Ermine."

  "Bless you, dear old thing!" said Stephen in his heart.

  "O Stephen, lad, I believe you've a kind heart; you've shown it in amany little ways. Do let me speak to you of them now and again! Youruncle won't have me say a word, and sometimes I feel as if I shouldburst. I don't believe you'd tell on me, if I did, and it would relieveme like, if I could let it out to somebody."

  "Catch me at it!" said Stephen significantly. "You say what you've amind, Aunt Isel: I'm as safe as the King's Treasury."

  "Well, lad, do you think they're all gone--every one?"

  "I'm afraid there's no hope for the most of them, Aunt," said Stephen ina low voice.

  "Then you do think there might--?"

  "One, perhaps, or two--ay, there _might_ be, that had got taken insomewhere. I can't say it isn't just possible. But folks would beafraid of helping them, mostly."

  "Ay, I suppose they would," said Isel sorrowfully.

  Stephen ate in silence, sorely tempted to tell her what he knew. Hadthe danger been for himself only, and not for Ermine, he thought heshould certainly have braved it.

  "Well!" said Isel at last, as she stood by the fire, giving frequenttwirls to the string which held the apples. "Maybe the good Lord ismore merciful than men. _They_ haven't much mercy."

  "Hold you there!" said Stephen.

  "Now why shouldn't we?--we that are all sinners, and all want forgiving?We might be a bit kinder to one another, if we tried."

  "Some folks might. I'm not sure you could, Aunt Isel."

  "Eh, lad, I'm as bad a sinner as other folks. I do pray to be forgivenmany a time."

  "Maybe that's a good help to forgiving," said Stephen.

  "So you're back from your holiday?" said Haimet, coming in, and flinginghis felt hat on one of the shelves. "Well, where did you go?"

  "Oh, round-about," replied Stephen, taking his last mouthful of beans.

  "Did you go Banbury way?"
/>
  "No, t'other way," answered Stephen, without indicating which other way.

  "Weather sharp, wasn't it?"

  "Ay, sharp enough. It's like to be a hard winter.--Well, Aunt, I'm muchobliged to you. I reckon I'd best be turning home now."

  "Weather rather sharp there too, perhaps?" suggested Haimet jocosely.

  "Ay, there's been a bit of a storm since I got back. I came here to getout of it. I'm a fair-weather-lover, as you know."

  Stephen went home by a round-about way, for he took Saint John'sanchorhold in the route. He scarcely knew why he did it; he had an ideathat the sight of Derette would be an agreeable diversion of histhoughts. Too deep down to be thoroughly realised, was a vagueassociation of her with Ermine, whose chief friend in the family she hadbeen.

  Derette came to the casement as soon as she heard from Leuesa who wasthere.

  "Good evening, Stephen!" she said cordially. "Leuesa, my maid, while Ichat a minute with my cousin, prithee tie on thine hood and run for acheese. I forgot it with the other marketing this morrow. What arecheeses now? a halfpenny each?"

  "Three a penny, Lady, they were yesterday."

  "Very good; bring a pennyworth, and here is the money."

  As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Derette turned to Stephen with achanged expression on her face.

  "Stephen!" she said, in a low whisper, "you have been to see after_them_. Tell me what you found."

  "I never said nought o' the sort," answered Stephen, rather staggered byhis cousin's penetration and directness.

  "Maybe your heart said it to mine. You may trust me, Stephen. I wouldrather let out my life-blood than any secret which would injure them."

  "Well, you're not far wrong, Derette. Gerard and Agnes are gone; theylie under the snow. So does Adelheid; but Berthold was not buried; Ireckon he was one of the last. I cannot find Rudolph."

  "You have told me all but the one thing my heart yearns to know.Ermine?"

  Stephen made no reply.

  "You have found her!" said Derette. "Don't tell me where. It isenough, if she lives. Keep silence."

  "Some folks are hard that you'd have looked to find soft," answeredStephen, with apparent irrelevance; "and by times folk turn as soft asbutter that you'd expect to be as hard as stones."

  Derette laid up the remark in her mind for future consideration.

  "Folks baint all bad that other folks call ill names," he observedfurther.

  Derette gave a little nod. She was satisfied that Ermine had found arefuge, and with some unlikely person.

  "Wind's chopped round since morning, seems to me," pursued Stephen, asif he had nothing particular to say. "Blew on my back as I came up tothe gate."

  Another nod from Derette. She understood that Ermine's refuge lay southof Oxford.

  "Have you seen Flemild?" she asked. "She has sprained her wrist sadly,and cannot use her hand."

  "Now just you tell her," answered Stephen, with a significant wink,"I've heard say the White Witch of Bensington makes wonderful cures withmarsh-mallows poultice: maybe it would ease her."

  "I'll let her know, be sure," said Derette: and Stephen took his leaveas Leuesa returned with her purchase.

  He had told her nothing about Ermine: he had told her every thing.Derette thanked God for the--apparently causeless--impulse to mentionher sister's accident, which had just given Stephen the opportunity toutter the last and most important item. Not the slightest doubtdisturbed her mind that Ermine was in the keeping of the White Witch ofBensington, and that Stephen was satisfied of the Wise Woman's kindtreatment and good faith. She was sorry for Gerhardt and Agnes; but shehad loved Ermine best of all. As for Rudolph, if Ermine were safe, whyshould he not be likewise? Derette's was a hopeful nature, not given tolook on the dark side of any thing which had a light one: a tone of mindwhich, as has been well said, is worth a thousand a year to itspossessor.

  Leuesa returned full of excitement. A wolf had been killed only threemiles from the city, and the Earl had paid the sportsman fourpence forits head, which was to be sent up to the King--the highest price evergiven for a wolf's head in that county. The popular idea that Edgarexterminated all the wolves in England is an error. Henry Second paidtenpence for three wolves' heads [Pipe Roll, 13 Henry Second], and HenryThird's State Papers speak of "hares, wolves, and cats," in the royalforests [Close Roll, 38 Henry Third].

  The days went on, and Stephen received no summons to the Wise Woman'shut. He found it very hard to keep away. If he could only have knownthat all was going on right! But weeks and months passed by, and allwas silence. Stephen almost made up his mind to brave the witch'sanger, and go without bidding. Yet there would be danger in that, forAnania, who had been piqued by his parrying of her queries, watched himas a cat watches a mouse.

  He was coming home, one evening in early summer, having been on guardall day at the East Gate, when, as he passed the end of Snydyard (nowOriel) Street, a small child of three or four years old toddled up tohim, and said--

  "There! Take it."

  Stephen, who had a liking for little toddlers, held out his hand with asmile; and grew suddenly grave when there was deposited in it a ball ofgrey wool.

  "Who gave thee this?"

  "Old man--down there--said, `Give it that man with the brown hat,'" wasthe answer.

  Stephen thanked the child, threw it a sweetmeat, with which his pocketwas generally provided, and ran after the old man, whom he overtook atthe end of the street.

  "What mean you by this?" he asked.

  The old man looked up blankly.

  "I know not," said he. "I was to take it to Stephen the Watchdog,--that's all I know."

  "Tell me who gave it you, then?"

  "I can't tell you--a woman I didn't know."

  "Where?"

  "A bit this side o' Dorchester."

  "That'll do. Thank you."

  The ball was safely stored in Stephen's pocket, and he hastened to theCastle. At the gate he met his brother.

  "Here's a pretty mess!" said Osbert. "There's Orme of the Fen run off,because I gave him a scolding for his impudence: and it is his turn towatch to-night. I have not a minute to go after him; I don't knowwhatever to do."

  Stephen grasped the opportunity.

  "I'll go after him for you, if you'll get me leave for a couple of daysor more. I have a bit of business of my own I want to see to, and I canmanage both at once--only don't tell Anania of it, or she'll worry thelife out of me."

  Osbert laughed.

  "Make your mind easy!" said he. "Go in and get you ready, lad, and I'llsee to get you the leave."

  Stephen turned into the Castle, to fetch his cloak and make up a parcelof provisions, while Osbert went to the Earl, returning in a few minuteswith leave of absence for Stephen. To the great satisfaction of thelatter, Anania was not at home; so he plundered her larder, and set off,leaving Osbert to make his excuses, and to tell her just as much, or aslittle, as he found convenient. Stephen was sorely tempted to go firstto Bensington, but he knew that both principle and policy directed theprevious search for Orme. He found that exemplary gentleman, after anhour's search, drinking and gambling in a low ale-booth outside SouthGate; and having first pumped on him to get him sober, he sent him offto his work with a lecture. Then, going a little way down GrandpontStreet, he turned across Presthey, and coming out below Saint Edmund'sWell, took the road to Bensington.

  The journey was accomplished in much shorter time than on the previousoccasion. As Stephen came up to the Witch's hut, he heard the sound ofa low, monotonous voice; and being untroubled, at that period of theworld's history, by any idea that eavesdropping was a dishonourableemployment, he immediately applied his ear to the keyhole. To his greatsatisfaction, he recognised Ermine's voice. The words were these:--

  "`I confess to Thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that Thou hiddestthese things from the wise and prudent, and revealedst them unto littlechildren. Even so, Father; for this was well-pleasing
before Thee. Allthings are to Me delivered from My Father; and none knoweth the Son savethe Father; neither the Father doth any know, save the Son, and he towhom the Son is willing to reveal Him. Come unto Me, all ye that labourand are burdened, and I will refresh you. Take My yoke upon you, andlearn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart; and ye shall find restunto your souls.'"

  "Did He say that, now, dearie?" asked the voice of the White Witch."Eh, it sounds good--it does so! I'm burdened, saints knows; I'd liketo find a bit o' rest and refreshing. Life's a heavy burden, and sin'sa heavier; and there's a many things I see are sins now, that I neverdid afore you came. But how am I to know that He's willing?"

  "Won't you come and see, Mother?" said Ermine softly.

  "Husht! Bide a bit, my dear: there's a little sound at the door as Idon't rightly understand. Maybe--"

  In another moment the wicket opened, and Haldane's face looked out uponStephen.

  "Good evening, Mother!" said Stephen, holding up the ball of grey wool.

  "Ay, you got it, did you? Come in--you're welcome."

  "I hope I am," replied Stephen, going forward. Ermine was no longerhidden behind the screen, but seated on the form in the chimney-corner.On her calm fair brow there was no scar visible.

  "Ay, ain't she a fine cure!" cried the old woman. "That's whitemallows, that is, and just a pinch of--Well, I'd best tell no tales.But she's a grand cure; I don't hide her up now. Nobody'd ever guessnought, from the look of her, now, would folks? What think you?"

  "No, I hope they wouldn't," answered Stephen: "leastwise they sha'n't ifI can help it."

  Haldane laid her hand on his arm impressively.

  "Stephen, you must take her away."

  "I'll take her fast enough, if she'll go, Mother; but why? I reckonedshe was as safe here as she could be anywhere."

  "She _was_," said Haldane significantly. "She won't be, presently. Idon't tell my secrets: but the Wise Woman knows a thing or two. You'dbest take her, and waste no time: but it must not be to Oxford. There'sfolks there would know her face."

  "Ay, to be sure there are. Well, Mother, I'll do your bidding.Where'll she be safest?"

  "You'd best be in London. It's the biggest place. And when a man wantsto hide, he'll do it better in a large town than a little place, whereevery body knows his neighbour's business."

  "All right!" said Stephen. "Ermine!"--and he went up to her--"will yougo with me?"

  Ermine lived in an age when it was a most extraordinary occurrence for awoman to have any power to dispose of herself in marriage, and such athing was almost regarded as unnatural and improper. She held out herhand to Stephen.

  "I will go where the Lord sends me," she said simply. "Dear MotherHaldane saved my life, and she has more right to dispose of me than anyone else. Be it so."

  "When folks are wed, they commonly have gifts made them," said Haldanewith a smile. "I haven't much to give, and you'll think my gift a queerone: but I wish you'd take it, Ermine. It's Gib."

  "I will take Gib and welcome, and be very thankful to you," answeredErmine in some surprise. "But, Mother Haldane, you are leaving yourselfall alone. I was afraid you would miss me, after all these weeks, andif you lose Gib too, won't you be lonely?"

  "Miss you!" repeated the old woman in a tremulous voice. "Miss you, mywhite bird that flew into my old arms from the cruel storm? Sha'n't Imiss you? But it won't be for long. Ay! when one has kept company withthe angels for a while, one's pretty like to miss them when they flyback home. But you'd best take Gib. The Wise Woman knows why. Only Idon't tell all my secrets. And it won't be for long."

  Haldane had been laying fresh sticks on the embers while she spoke. Nowshe turned to Stephen.

  "She'd best have Gib," she said. "He's like another creature since shecame. She'll take care of him. And you'll take care of her. I toldyou last time you were here as I'd do the best for her, not for you.But this is the best for both of you. And maybe the good Lord'll do thebest for me. Ermine says He's not above keeping a poor old womancompany. But whatever comes, and whatever you may hear, you bear inmind that I did my best for you."

  "Ay, that I'm sure you've done, Mother," replied Stephen warmly. "Asfor Gib, I'll make him welcome for your sake; he looks rathercomfortable now, so I think he'll get along."

  It certainly was not too much to say that Gib was another creature.That once dilapidated-looking object, under Ermine's fostering care, haddeveloped into a sleek, civilised, respectable cat; and as he sat on herlap, purring and blinking at the wood-fire, he suggested no ideas ofdiscomfort.

  "Ay, I've done my best," repeated the old woman with a sigh. "The Lordabove, He knows I've done it. You'd best be off with the morning light.I can't be sure--Well, I mustn't tell my secrets."

  Stephen was inclined to be amused with the Wise Woman's reiteration ofthis assertion. What fancy she had taken into her head he could notguess. It was some old-womanly whim, he supposed. If he could haveguessed her reason for thus dismissing them in haste--if he had seen inthe embers what she saw coming nearer and nearer, and now close to hervery door--wild horses would not have carried Stephen away from thewoman who had saved Ermine.

  Haldane's bidding was obeyed. The dawn had scarcely broken on thefollowing morning, when Stephen and Ermine, with Gib in the arms of thelatter, set forth on their journey to London. Haldane stood in herdoorway to watch them go.

  "Thank God!" she said, when she had entirely lost sight of them. "ThankGod, my darling is safe! I can bear anything that comes now. It isonly what such as me have to look for. And Ermine said the good Lordwouldn't fail them that trusted Him. I'm only a poor ignorant oldwoman, and He knows it; but He took the pains to make me, and He'll nothave forgot it; and Ermine says He died for me, and I'm sure He couldnever forget that, if He did it. I've done a many ill things, thoughI'm not the black witch they reckon me: no, I've had more laid to mycharge than ever I did; but for all that I'm a sinner, I'm afeared, andI should be sore afeared to meet what's coming if He wouldn't take myside. But Ermine, she said He would, if I trusted myself to Him."

  Haldane clasped her withered hands and looked heavenwards.

  "Good Lord!" she said, "I'd fain have Thee on my side, and I do trustThee. And if I'm doing it wrong way about, bethink Thee that I'm only apoor old woman, that never had no chance like, and I mean to do right,and do put things to rights for me, as Thou wouldst have 'em. Have acare of my darling, and see her safe: and see me through what's coming,if Thou wilt be so good. Worlds o' worlds, Amen."

  That conclusion was Haldane's misty idea of the proper way to end aprayer [Note 1]. Perhaps the poor petition found its way above thestars as readily as the choral services that were then being chanted inthe perfumed cathedrals throughout England.

  She went in and shut the door. She did not, as usual, shake her strawbed and fold up the rug. A spectator might have thought that she had noheart for it. She only kept up the fire; for though summer was near, itwas not over-warm in the crazy hut, and a cold east wind was blowing.For the whole of the long day she sat beside it, only now and thenrising to look out of the window, and generally returning to her seatwith a muttered exclamation of "Not yet!" The last time she did this,she pulled the faded woollen kerchief over her shoulders with a shiver.

  "Not yet! I reckon they'll wait till it's dusk. Well! all the better:they'll have more time to get safe away."

  The pronouns did not refer to the same persons, but Haldane made noattempt to specify them.

  She sat still after that, nodding at intervals, and she was almostasleep when the thing that she had feared came upon her. A low sound,like and yet unlike the noise of distant thunder, broke upon her ear.She sat up, wide awake in a moment.

  "They're coming! Good Lord, help me through! Don't let it be very badto bear, and don't let it be long!"

  Ten minutes had not passed when the hut was surrounded by a crowd. Anangry crowd, armed with sticks, pitchforks, or anything that could betur
ned into a weapon--an abusive crowd, from whose lips words of hateand scorn were pouring, mixed with profaner language.

  "Pull the witch out! Stone her! drown her! burn her!" echoed on allsides.

  "Good Lord, don't let them burn me!" said poor old Haldane, inside thehut. "I'd rather be drowned, if Thou dost not mind."

  Did the good Lord not mind what became of the helpless old creature,who, in her ignorance and misery, was putting her trust in Him? Itlooked like it, as the mob broke open the frail door, and roughly hauledout the frailer occupant of the wretched hut.

  "Burn her!" The cry was renewed: and it came from one of the twopersons most prominent in the mob--that handsome girl to whom Haldanehad refused the revenge she coveted upon Brichtiva.

  "Nay!" said the other, who was the Bishop's sumner, "that would beirregular. Burning's for heretics. Tie her hands and feet together,and cast her into the pond: that's the proper way to serve witches."

  The rough boys among the crowd, to whom the whole scene was sport--andthough we have become more civilised in some ways as time has passed,sport has retained much of its original savagery even now--gleefullytied together Haldane's hands and feet, and carried her, thus secured,to a large deep pond about a hundred yards from her abode.

  This was the authorised test for a witch. If she sank and was drowned,she was innocent of the charge of witchcraft; if she swam on thesurface, she was guilty, and liable to the legal penalty for her crime.Either way, in nine out of ten cases, the end was death: for very fewthought of troubling themselves to save one who proved her innocenceafter this fashion. [Note 2.]

  The boys, having thus bound the poor old woman into a ball, lifted herup, and with a cry of--"One--two--three!" flung her into the pond. Atthat moment a man broke through the ring that had formed outside theprincipal actors.

  "What are you doing now? Some sort of mischief you're at, I'll bebound--you lads are always up to it. Who are you ducking? If it's thatcheat Wrangecoke, I'll not meddle, only don't--What, Mother Haldane!Shame on you! Colgrim, Walding, Oselach, Amfrid!--shame on you! What,_you_, Erenbald, that she healed of that bad leg that laid you up forthree months! And _you_, Baderun, whose child she brought backwell-nigh from the grave itself! If you are men, and not demons, comeand help me to free her!"

  The speaker did not content himself with words. He had waded into thepond, and was feeling his way carefully to the spot where the victimwas. For Mother Haldane had not struggled nor even protested, butaccording to all the unwritten laws relating to witchcraft, hadtriumphantly exhibited her innocence by sinking to the bottom like astone. The two spectators whom he had last apostrophised joined him ina shamefaced manner, one muttering something about his desire to avoidsuspicion of being in league with a witch, and the other that he "didn'tmean no harm:" and among them, amid the more or less discontentedmurmurs of those around, they at last dragged out the old woman, untiedthe cords, and laid her on the grass. The life was yet in her; but itwas nearly gone.

  "Who's got a sup of anything to bring her to?" demanded her rescuer."She's not gone; she opened her eyes then."

  The time-honoured remedies for drowning were applied. The old woman wasset on her head "to let the water run out;" and somebody in the crowdhaving produced a flask of wine, an endeavour was made to induce her toswallow. Consciousness partially returned, but Haldane did not seem torecognise any one.

  "Don't be feared, Mother," said the man who had saved her. "I'll lookafter you. Don't you know me? I am Wigan, son of Egglas thecharcoal-burner, in the wood."

  Then Mother Haldane spoke,--slowly, with pauses, and as if in a dream.

  "Ay, He looked after me. Did all--I asked. He kept them--safe, and--didn't let it--be long."

  She added two words, which some of her hearers said were--"Good night."A few thought them rather, "Good Lord!"

  Nobody understood her meaning. Only He knew it, who had kept safe thetwo beings whom Mother Haldane loved, and had not let the hour of hertrial and suffering be long.

  And then, when the words had died away in one last sobbing sigh, Wiganthe son of Egglas stood up from the side of the dead, and spoke to thegazing and now silent multitude.

  "You can go home," he said. "You've had your revenge. And what was itfor? How many of you were there that she had not helped and healed?Which of you did she ever turn away unhelped, save when the malady wasbeyond her power, or when one came to her for aid to do an evil thing?Men, women, lads! you've repeated the deed of Iscariot this day, foryou've betrayed innocent blood--you have slain your benefactor andfriend. Go home and ask God and the saints to forgive you--if they evercan. How they sit calm above yonder, and stand this world, is more thanI can tell.--Poor, harmless, kindly soul! may God comfort thee in Hisblessed Heaven! And for them that have harried thee, and taken thylife, and have the black brand of murder on their souls, God pardon themas He may!"

  The crowd dispersed silently and slowly. Some among them, who had beenmore thoughtless than malicious, were already beginning to realise thatWigan's words were true. The sumner, however, marched away whistling atune. Then Wigan, with his shamefaced helpers, Erenbald and Baderun,and a fourth who had come near them as if he too were sorry for the evilwhich he had helped to do, inasmuch as he had not stood out to preventits being done, lifted the frail light corpse, and bore it a little wayinto the wood. There, in the soft fresh green, they dug a grave, andlaid in it the body of Mother Haldane.

  "We'd best lay a cross of witch hazel over her," suggested Baderun. "Ifthings was all right with her, it can't do no harm; and if so be--"

  "Lay what you like," answered Wigan. "I don't believe, and never did,that she was a witch. What harm did you ever know her do to any one?"

  "Nay, but Mildred o' th' Farm, over yonder, told me her black cowstopped giving milk the night Mother Haldane came up to ask for a sup o'broth, and she denied it."

  "Ay, and Hesela by the Brook--I heard her tell," added Erenbald, "thather hens, that hadn't laid them six weeks or more, started laying likemad the day after she'd given the White Witch a gavache. What call youthat?"

  "I call it stuff and nonsense," replied Wigan sturdily, "save that bothof them got what they deserved: and so being, I reckon that God, whorewards both the righteous and the wicked, had more to do with it thanthe White Witch."

  "Eh, Wigan, but them's downright wicked words! You'd never go to say asGod Almighty takes note o' hens, and cows, and such like?"

  "Who does, then? How come we to have any eggs and milk?"

  "Why, man, that's natur'."

  "I heard a man on Bensington Green, one day last year," answered Wigan,"talking of such things; and he said that `nature' was only a fool'sword for God. And said I to myself, That's reason."

  Wigan, being one of that very rare class who think for themselves, wasnot comprehended by his commissionary tours, had been to this man'sheart as a match to tinder.

  "Ay, and he said a deal more too: but it wouldn't be much use tellingyou. There--that's enough. She'll sleep quiet there. I'll just goround by her hut, and see if her cat's there--no need to leave thecreature to starve."

  "Eh, Wigan, you'd never take that thing into your house? It's herfamiliar, don't you know? They always be, them black cats--they'reworse than the witches themselves."

  "Specially when they aren't black, like this? I tell you, she wasn't awitch; and as to the cat, thou foolish man, it's nought more nor lessthan a cat. I'll take it home to Brichtiva my wife,--she's not sowhite-livered as thou."

  "Eh, Wigan, you'll be sorry one o' these days!"

  "I'm as sorry now as I can be, that I didn't come up sooner: and I don'tlook to be sorry for aught else."

  Wigan went off to the empty hut. But all his coaxing calls of "Puss,puss!" proved vain. Gib was in Ermine's arms; and Ermine was travellingtowards London in a heavy carrier's waggon, with Stephen on horsebackalongside. He gave up the search at last, and went home; chargingBrichtiva that if Gib should make a call on her, she
was to be carefulto extend to him an amount of hospitality which would induce him toremain.

  But Gib was never seen in the neighbourhood of Bensington again.

  "What wonder?" said Erenbald. "The thing was no cat--it was a foulfiend; and having been released from the service of its earthlymistress, had returned as a matter of course to Satan its master."

  This conclusion was so patent to every one of his neighbours that nobodydreamed of questioning it. Morally speaking, there is no blindness sohopelessly incurable as that of the man who is determined to keep hiseyes shut. Only the Great Physician can heal such a case as this, andHe has often to do it by painful means.

  "Christ save you!" said Isel, coming into the anchorhold one evening, afortnight after Stephen's disappearance. "Well, you do look quiet andpeaceful for sure! and I'm that tired!--"

  "Mother, I am afraid you miss me sadly," responded Derette, almostself-reproachfully.

  "I'm pleased enough to think you're out of it, child. Miss you? Well,I suppose I do; but I haven't scarce time to think what I miss. There'sone thing I'd miss with very great willingness, I can tell you, andthat's that horrid tease, Anania. She's been at me now every day thisweek, and she will make me tell her where Stephen is, and what he's goneafter,--and that broom knows as much as I do. She grinds the life outof me, pretty nigh: and what am I to do?"

  Derette smiled sympathetically. Leuesa said--

  "It does seem strange he should stay so long away."

  "Anania will have it he is never coming again."

  "I dare say she is right there," said Derette suddenly.

  "Saints alive! what dost thou mean, child? Never coming again?"

  "I shouldn't wonder," said Derette quietly.

  "Well, I should. I should wonder more than a little, I can tell you.Whatever gives you that fancy, child?"

  "I have it, Mother; why I cannot tell you."

  "I hope you are not a prophetess!"

  "I don't think I am," said Derette with a smile.

  "I think Ermine was a bit of one, poor soul! She seemed to have somenotion what was coming to her. Eh, Derette! I'd give my best gown toknow those poor things were out of Purgatory. Father Dolfin says weshouldn't pray for them: but I do--I can't help it. If I were a priest,I'd say mass for them every day I lived--ay, I would! I never couldunderstand why we must not pray for heretics. Seems to me, the morewrong they've gone, the more they want praying for. Not that _they_went far wrong--I'll not believe it. Derette, dost thou ever pray forthe poor souls?"

  "Ay, Mother: every one of them."

  "Well, I'm glad to hear it. And as to them that ill-used them, let themlook to themselves. Maybe they'll not find themselves at last in such acomfortable place as they look for. The good Lord may think thatcruelty to Christian blood [Note 3]--and they were Christian blood, noman can deny--isn't so very much better than heresy after all. Hope hedoes."

  "I remember Gerard's saying," replied Derette, "that all the heresies inthe world were only men's perversions of God's truths: and that if menwould but keep close to Holy Scripture, there would be no heresies."

  "Well, it sounds like reason, doesn't it?" answered Isel with a sigh.

  "But I remember his saying also," pursued Derette, "that where one manfollowed reason and Scripture, ten listened to other men's voices, andten more to their own fancies."

  Dusk was approaching on the following day, when a rap came on the doorof the anchorhold, and a voice said--

  "Leuesa, pray you, ask my cousin to come to the casement a moment."

  "Stephen!" cried Derette, hurrying to her little window when she heardhis voice. "So you have come back!"

  "Shall I go now, Lady, for the fresh fish?" asked Leuesa, veryconveniently for Stephen, who wondered if she good-naturedly guessedthat he had a private communication to make.

  "Do," said Derette, giving her three silver pennies.

  As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Stephen said--"I am only here fora few hours, Derette, and nobody knows it save my Lord, you, and mybrother. I have obtained my discharge, and return to London with thedawn."

  "Are you not meaning to come back, Stephen? Folks are saying that."

  "Folks are saying truth. I shall live in London henceforth. Butremember, Derette, that is a secret."

  "I shall not utter it, Stephen. Truly, I wish you all happiness, but Icannot help being sorry."

  There were tears in Derette's eyes. Stephen had ever been morebrotherly to her than her own brothers. It was Stephen who had beggedher off from many a punishment, had helped her over many a difficulty,had made her rush baskets and wooden boats, and had always had asweetmeat in his pocket for her in childhood. She was grieved to thinkof losing him.

  "You may well wish me happiness in my honeymoon," he said, laughingly.

  "Are you married? Why, when--O Stephen, Stephen! is it Ermine?"

  "You are a first-rate guesser, little one. Yes, I have Ermine safe; andI will keep her so, God helping me."

  "I am so glad, Steenie!" said Derette, falling into the use of the oldpet name, generally laid aside now. "Tell Ermine I am so glad to hearthat, and so sorry to lose you both: but I will pray God and the saintsto bless you as long as I live, and that will be better for you than ourmeeting, though it will not be the same thing to me."

  "`So glad, and so sorry!' It seems to me, Cousin, that's no inaptpicture of life. God keep thee!--to the day when--Ermine says--it willbe all `glad' and no `sorry.'"

  "Ay, we shall meet one day. Farewell!"

  The days passed, and no more was seen or heard of Stephen in Oxford.What had become of him was not known at the Walnut Tree, until oneevening when Osbert looked in about supper-time, and was invited to stayfor the meal, with the three of whom the family now consisted--Manning,Isel, and Haimet. As Isel set on the table a platter of little pies,she said--

  "There, that's what poor Stephen used to like so well. Maybe you'llfancy them too, Osbert."

  "Why do you call him poor Stephen?" questioned Osbert, as heappropriated a pie. "He is not particularly poor, so far as I know."

  "Well, we've lost him like," said Isel, with a sigh. "When folks vanishout of your sight like snow in a thaw, one cannot help feeling sorry."

  "Oh, I'm sorry for myself, more ways than one: but not so much forStephen."

  "Why, Osbert, do you know where he is, and what he's doing?"

  "Will you promise not to let on to Anania, if I tell you?"

  "Never a word that I can help, trust me."

  "Her knowing matters nought, except that she'll never let me be if shethinks I have half a notion about it. Well, he's gone south somewhere--I don't justly know where, but I have a guess of London way."

  "What for?"

  "Dare say he had more reasons than he gave me. He told me he was goingto be married."

  "Dear saints!--who to?"

  "Didn't ask him."

  Isel sat looking at Osbert in astonishment, with a piece of pietransfixed on the end of her knife.

  "You see, if I did not know, I shouldn't get so much bothered with folksasking me questions: so I thought I'd let it be."

  That Osbert's "folks" might more properly be read "Anania," Isel knewfull well.

  "Saints love us!--but I would have got to know who was my sister-in-law,if I'd been in your place."

  "To tell the truth, Aunt, I don't care, so long as she is a decent womanwho will make Stephen comfortable; and I think he's old enough to lookout for himself."

  "But don't you know even what he was going to do?--seek another watch,or go into service, or take to trade, or what?"

  "I don't know a word outside what I have just told you. Oh, he'll beall right! Stephen has nine lives, like a cat. He always falls on hisfeet."

  "But it don't seem natural like!"

  Osbert laughed. "I suppose it is natural to a woman to have morecuriosity than a man. I never had much of that stuff. Anania's gotenough for both."

  "Well, I'm free t
o confess she has. Osbert, how do you manage her? Ican't."

  "Let her alone as long as I can, and take the mop to her when I can't,"was the answer.

  "I should think the mop isn't often out of your hand," observed Haimetwith painful candour.

  "It wears out by times," returned Osbert drily.

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  Note 1. "Into the worlds of worlds" is the Primer's translation of "_insaecula saeculorum_."

  Note 2. That witchcraft is no fable, but a real sin, which men havecommitted in past times, and may commit again, is certain from HolyScripture. But undoubtedly, in the Middle Ages, numbers of personssuffered under accusation of this crime who were entirely innocent: andthe so-called "white witches" were in reality mere herbalists anddealers in foolish but harmless charms, often consisting in a kind ofnursery rhyme and a few Biblical words.

  Note 3. The wrong of cruelty to men and women, as such, whether theywere Christians or not, had not dawned on men's minds in the twelfthcentury, nor did it till the Reformation. But much pity was oftenexpressed for the sufferings of "Christian blood," and a very fewpersons had some compassion for animals.