by Hilda Lewis
“Try to sleep a little,” Hester said, “if only in your chair!” She put a shawl about his knees and went out shutting the door behind her.
Joan Flower said, amused yet sharp, “Sleep or wake—it is all one! When I speak you must listen; and I care not which way it is.”
“I prefer to listen awake,” he said. “But let us have a little light!” He held a spill to the fire and lit the candles upon his table. But the light flickered and danced before his eyes and he was forced to shut them; so after all he could not have said, afterwards, whether she had spoken to him out of a dream and out of a dream he had answered.
“It was a good thing,” Joan Flower said, “that you were at home the day they took us.”
“I was just back from the Castle,” he told her. “I had tied up the nag and come into my study—this very room, as you say.” He covered his face with his hand, remembering the women driven before the mob. How wild and fierce they had looked, all three; and how afraid, even the thin, brown girl, for all she carried her head high. In that first moment his heart was broken for them.
And then, suddenly he had thought, They are guilty. They carry their guilt in their faces. He had tried to put the thought from him—they were yet to be judged.
He searched their faces as they stood before him.
The girl Margaret had the look of a sullen child, a lost abandoned child—a child that knows its own guilt. The younger girl had a wicked look; wicked and vicious—he could believe anything of her. As for the mother—he knew guilt when he saw it. There she stood, the blood dripping from the cut above her eye, clotting the tangle of her grey and ragged hair; and more blood upon her trembling, sunken mouth. He had a sudden unwelcome memory of a dark and merry eye, a gay riband threaded through dark curls . . . and a priest turning to smile as she went by; a priest that was also a man.
But though guilt proclaimed itself louder than words, it must yet be proved and the words spoken. Meanwhile they had been cruelly mishandled. They could hardly stand upon their feet, even the girl Philip for all her pride.
He had motioned them to sit and then the mob had broken into an uproar. He had stilled them with uplifted hand, waiting for the women to sit.
“Oh you were courteous to us, priest,” Joan Flower said. “But you were not kind. When you looked at us I knew that though you would not allow yourself to judge us till the hour came, still you had already judged us.
But Meg, the simpleton, did not know it. She was even smiling a little. Seeing your gentleness and your courtesy, she took heart, thinking, poor fool, that all would turn to mercy and forgiveness.”
“As it did . . . for her,” he reminded her.
“But not in the way she fancied in her poor, dim mind. She did not know then that the way to mercy—if so you can call it—lay through prison and torment and the grave. But I was not deceived; and Philip was not deceived. We knew that justice tempered with gentleness is more to be feared than the desire for justice alone. For your merciful man is not to be deceived. Always he will remember that mercy belongs first to those that have been sinned against.
Before ever you asked a question or we had answered it, I knew we were doomed; judged and condemned.
I sat down upon your chair—this chair where I sit now. Poor folk use stools and no back to them; in fear of death I sat upon your chair and my body took comfort from it.
But those that dragged us here were not pleased to see us sitting, as it might be, at our ease. They crowded about your table; and those that could not get within stood in the doorway. The room was full of them; and their eyes were cruel; and they could not leave staring at us, as though, if they took their eyes away, we should vanish into thin air.
Then, priest, you told them to go. But at that, the noise of their anger broke out again—the air was full of ugly sound; but all I could make out was one word, one word only. And it was enough . . .
You held out your hand for silence; and when they would not at once be quietened you cried out quick and loud—for you are not at all a patient man, nor will be until the day you die—‘You have brought these women to me for judgment, why then do you take it upon yourself to judge?’
Tom Simpson stood rubbing his back as though he felt the saddle gall; he looked at Philip and could not take his frightened eyes away. Even then she had but to crook her little finger; she could still play stoat to his rabbit.
‘Witch!’ Mother Simpson cried out sharp and sudden.
‘They are yet to be judged,’ you said, priest. But you forgot that already you had judged us.
‘We shall judge them!’ she screamed out, ‘we whose farms they have ruined, whose children they have bewitched. They shall be judged in the good old way!’
Swim, swim! At the sound I felt myself shake and your chair with me.
Swim, swim! A glass upon your table sang and broke.”
“It was a glass of Venice,” Samuel Fleming said. “Beautiful and costly. Francis brought it for me and I treasured it for his sake. We tried to put it together again, Hester and I; but—” he spread his hands.
“Now I am sorry for your glass,” she said sweetly. “But then I was glad. I took it for a sign from the Master. I did not know then that we should be broken as your glass was broken.
At the noise of the breaking I looked at Philip, but her eyes were fixed upon Tom’s face; they pierced him as though they were splinters of glass. He put out a hand and trembled and leaned against his mother and so stood drooping as though he were a figure of wax set by the fire. He could not look away.
As for Meg, she gave no sign at all. She lay stiff against her chair and her eyes were half-open and no sight to them, like the eyes of the dead.
And now since no black man appeared, horns and hoof, to carry us away, and no smell of brimstone neither, they took courage again. Swim, swim! My flesh crept at the sound. Already I felt the water bearing me upward, my body straining and pressing downward, forcing myself to sink; and still I floated, spinning round light as a feather. And I could see the hands stretched towards me, waiting to tear my flesh. For, priest, when the hunt is up your good people are wild beasts.”
He nodded, sighing; and she smiled at this so small agreement between them.
“Swim, swim! The sound beat upon us like stones.
‘They shall be judged by the law of the land and in no other way,’ you said.
‘To swim a witch is lawful; and more—it is the judgment of God. Let God judge!’ Mother Simpson cried out and made a step towards Philip. And the crowd moved with her.
You said nothing, priest. But you stood up and came from behind the table—this table . . .” Her shadowy hand went out and moved gently along the table’s edge. “You stood before us; between us and the mob . . . a man not young nor strong; but your will was strong enough to hold them back.
‘You have brought these women to me,’ you said. ‘And they shall be judged. But not by me alone. I will summon the justices.’
Patchett stepped forward. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘give us the witches. We are not willing to leave them here.’
‘Do you fear the Devil will carry them off—and me with them?’ you asked. And then I heard you laugh.” And even now her voice held wonder. “A strange sound in all that beastliness and fear.”
“Yes, I laughed,” Samuel Fleming said. “But I did not feel like laughing. They were—as you say—wild beasts. But worse, worse. Creatures made in the likeness of God, desecrating that likeness with evil passions. Had I not laughed, I must have wept.”
“The sound of your laughing cooled them suddenly—like a dish of cold water full in the face. Then Patchett whose child they said I had bewitched . . .”
“And did you bewitch him, Joan Flower?”
“I have answered that charge already; yet I will answer it yet again. I did not bewitch the child. Patchett said, ‘Sir, we are not
willing; yet we leave them in your hands.’
‘Good hands, I hope, friends,’ you said. And, ‘They had better be!’ a woman cried out but who it was I could not see. And so they went; but had you not held them with your will they would have turned, even then, and taken us.”
Joan Flower shivered though her body had nothing more to fear.
“And when they were gone,” she said, “you turned to us and you were courteous; but it was a cold courtesy. We were already judged; and rightly judged. And, because of that, I wanted the comfort of a friendly word, a friendly smile . . . a little human warmth. ‘Sir,’ I said; but you held up your hand forbidding me as you had forbidden them.
‘You must say nothing until you speak to the justices—all of us together. And, indeed, it is wise to say nothing now but to consider among yourselves the danger in which you stand.’
It was good advice, priest. Yet had you looked on us with a little kindness, it would have helped us more; but you did not mean to help us. You looked at us as though it sickened you to breathe the air we breathed.”
“I remember,” he said. “And I am ashamed. It was as though a dog besought my pity. But you were a human soul that had destroyed others.”
“We had not yet been judged,” she reminded him again.
“The guilt of all three was clear to be seen. Those very things that had pleaded your innocence, now cried out your guilt. There was that air about you. Fear—yes; but no surprise nor any anger. You, Joan Flower, knew your sins and accepted them. And Margaret knew hers; she fainted beneath the burden of her conscience. And, most of all, Philippa. She not only accepted her sins, she gloried in them; she filled the air with wickedness. How could I look upon you with kindness? I said, ‘I shall lock this door and no-one shall come at you to do you hurt. When the justices come you shall be told.’ ”
“You went out,” Joan Flower said, “and we heard the key turn in the lock. Philip laughed out at the sound.”
“I heard her,” he said. “I thought she might be a little mad.”
“‘Now we are trapped indeed,’ Philip said and she laughed again. Margaret did not even raise her head at the sound; her eyes stared upon the floor.
‘You have not much faith,’ Philip told her and could not, it seemed, stop laughing. ‘Well, what happens to you is your own concern. As for me—the Master will stand by my side.’
‘I should not be too sure of that!’ I said, very slow. ‘He did not accept your godling.’
‘He did not deny it!’ she said very quick and her eyes were green as poison.
‘He did not accept it,’ I said again. ‘The child was left to die and its body given for our common purposes.’
‘It is not true,’ she said . . . but she left her laughing.
‘It is true. I would not tell you before, but now we are in mortal danger and it behoves us to face facts.’ And then I said, ‘I think there is no help except in ourselves. There is but one thing to do. Deny. Deny. Deny; or it is the rope and the noose for us, all three.’ And I looked full at Philip.
‘I deny nothing,’ she said. ‘It is the truth we must tell, even if your tale of my godling be true—which I much doubt, seeing your eagerness to lie and lie again!’
‘But if it should be true?’ I asked. ‘If I can prove it true?’
‘I should not listen. The Master knows best. He does but try us now; and we must walk carefully lest we anger Him. Happen what will, we must never deny Him!’
She stood there stiff and hard with the strength of her will, and the weight of my years fell heavy upon me though they were not so many as years go. Meg took in her breath; a queer sound, as though she wept without tears. ‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘I am afraid. The Master will betray us. I cannot believe on Him any more. Our mother is right. We must deny everything. There is no help except in ourselves. Why should anyone help us, least of all God? We have sinned against Him and against men; and I have sinned most of all—for I killed my child.’ And her body shook with harsh, tearless sobs.
I tried to hush her then, for who knew but someone listened? But Philip said, ‘Let her speak!’ She turned to Meg. ‘If you do not believe in the Master any more, why then He will certainly abandon you. And God will not help you; nor, as you say, could you expect it, since you have renounced your part in him. Between the Devil and God you will fall between stools . . . and the stools are heaven and hell. But courage, sister, trust in the Master to whose glory you have sacrificed your child; and He will save you.’
Margaret said nothing; she went on staring out of her empty eyes.
‘He will never let them hang us,’ Philip said. ‘I know it. I am his love and shall be his Coven Maiden also. I shall never hang; no, nor anyone that is strong in his faith.’
‘Daughter,’ I told her, ‘I think we have made our first step towards death. And, when we are near our death, many things become plain. In the Master’s promise of eternal happiness I no longer believe; nor that we shall ever dance again upon our sacred ground. But that we shall dance upon air—if we do not deny Him—of that I am very sure.’
I heard Meg’s breath go grating through her chest; she dragged herself along the floor and knelt at Philip’s feet. ‘Deny, deny!’ and the words were a whisper in her throat. ‘Sister, have mercy!’ and she caught at Philip’s skirt. Philip pulled herself away, and, even before she spoke, I knew it was all useless. ‘I am neither judge nor god to show mercy. I am my Master’s faithful servant; and—let the time be far or near—shall be till I die.’
‘Until I die . . . I die . . . I die,’ Margaret repeated and there was no sound to her voice. ‘I am afraid to die . . . and all my sins upon me.’
Phillip turned her back upon us both and went over to the window and stood looking out upon the garden—this window, priest, this garden. Meg lay crouched upon the floor and whispered her fears to it. Once I went over and touched her upon the shoulder; she jumped at that and began to tremble afresh and could not stop herself. I would have helped her to her feet that she might rest again in the comfort of her chair, but she was cold as the dead and as heavy and I was forced to leave her.
Hour after hour dragged itself away. How long? I do not know. There was a ringing in my head and my thoughts were not clear. Once I thought I heard the church bell. Time to pray! And even while I thought to guess the time from that, it changed its tune and tolled instead. And so I listened to think who might be dead—young or old; but it stopped and there was no sound, no sound at all, except the wild ringing in my own head and the sound of tick, tick, ticking, like the lantern clock at Belvoir. But there was no clock, priest; it was the sound of my own sick heart ticking my life away.
Nothing moved in the room, except once when Philip dropped to her knees by the window; and still she stared out upon your garden. Once I went across and stood by her; there was nothing but a robin bobbing about in the snow. And I had thought to see her familiar or mine come with help, or at the least, some message of hope. But nothing; nothing.”
Joan Flower drifted over to the window. “It all looked so pretty, much as it does now—bare branches and that great dark tree; yes, and a robin bobbing about in the snow. And yet it was different; hollow and empty; shut away from time, shut away from life . . . because of our fear.
I came back from the window,” she moved again and stood in the old place facing him at the desk, “but my feet dragged like lead; there was a weariness upon me like the weariness of death. I sat upon your chair—yes, priest, the chair where you sit now. There were papers on your table; your sermon, maybe—a Christmas sermon of peace and goodwill. But I could not read it; and if I had been able, it would have brought me no comfort. For, in spite of all your fine talk, there was neither goodwill nor forgiveness for us; nor any peace save in the grave . . . and not even there for me.
I put my head down on your papers and so remained. I would have wept then had I
been let; but I had no tears. And it seemed to me—eyes all dry and straining to weep—that all the tears I should have shed over the years, gathered themselves together in a cloud; and the cloud pressed upon my head and upon my heart; and I thought I must die of the pain.
But the pain was not without its use. Pain dulls the mind, priest, so that you are no longer so very afraid; and, it wearies you, so that you sleep awhile . . . but the dreams are not pleasant.
I think I must have slept among the papers of your desk, for I started, presently, at the turning of a key.
It was your gardener stood there, the same gardener that, even now, sweeps the snow from the path.” She waved a translucent hand towards the window.
“He carried three bowls of soup, one above the other; but there was no bread.
‘Does your master fear we shall choke ourselves with bread and cheat the gallows?’ Philip asked, bitter, though still she smiled with her mouth. But he made no answer; no doubt he had been so commanded.”
Samuel Fleming nodded.
“I drank my soup; it was good soup—the soup Mistress Davenport sends to those who are sick and likely to die. I remembered it; and it took my pleasure from the soup. Philip drank hers greedily; but though Meg lifted the bowl to her lips she could not swallow; she was forced to set it down and the soup slid and slopped with the trembling of her hands.
I felt stronger for my soup; but the fear that had lifted a little, and the pain, came back stronger, too. I went over and stood again by Philip at the window. The snow lay white and untouched. It was pure as heaven . . . cold as heaven. And, as I stood there, your door locked upon us, it came upon me that soon we should be shut within the dark and narrow cell; and I wondered how it would feel when they put the rope about my neck. My hand went up to my throat; and I remembered that a man about to be hanged will feel now and again at his throat. I took it as an omen of death; and terror fell upon me there in your pleasant room . . . with the door locked fast as any prison cell. I forgot my weariness then; and I ran over and beat upon the door until my hands bled; but no-one answered.