Chapter XIV: Part 14

"There, there, my dear, I've done. I'll try and persuade Sir Mark to stay. I'm sure it would do him good, though I don't want him. It always seems to me that that terrible explosion sent a regular jar through what Master Furton, the Queen's chirurgeon, called the absorbens. If he were my son, I should certainly make him take a spoonful of my conserve of elder night and morning, and drink agrimony tea three times a day. In cases where there is the slightest touch of fever there is nothing--bless the girl, why she has gone, when did she go out of the room?"

Mistress Anne had gone away directly after her last imperious utterance of the word "mother," and walked straight to her father's room.

She had left Dame Beckley busy over her herbal, and she now found her father also on study bent, his book being a kind of magistrates' _vade mecum_ of those days on the subject of witchcraft, and the author his Majesty the King.

"What are you reading, father?" she said, making him start as she came suddenly behind him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"His Majesty's book, my dear."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, my dear, it behoves me as a justice of the peace to be well informed of his Majesty's views respecting the heinous sin of witchcraft, and to know how I should comport myself and deal with so foul a creature in case, at any future time--"

"Mother Goodhugh should be brought before you?"

"Yes, exactly," said the baronet. "My dear Anne, I'd give almost everything I possess for your clear discerning head."

"Never mind my head, father," she said, with a half-laugh; "I want to speak to you about more important things."

"Yes, my dear, certainly. But won't you sit down? You worry me when you tower over me so, and threaten, and preach at me. Do sit down, child, pray."

"Nay, father, you can hear what I have to say without my seating myself."

"Yes, my dear," said Sir Thomas, humbly.

"Let Mother Goodhugh be, father."

"But, my child, she is a most pestiferous witch."

"For the present, father. For the present, let her be."

"Well, my dear, if you wish it, of course--"

"I do wish it, father."

"How odd, my dear, that you should come to say that, when I was studying up the matter."

"I did not come to say that, father," said Anne; "but to speak to you about our guest."

"Yes, my dear, he has been here now six weeks since that disaster."

"Seven weeks, father."

"Well, my child, seven weeks if you like; and he has sent back those soldier fellows and his own attendants, and seems to have settled himself down. I mean to tell him that he had better--"

"Stay here till his health is quite recovered, father."

"Nay, indeed, my child, after his grossly neglectful behaviour to us, I feel ready at any time to send him away."

"But you will do no such thing, father. Sir Mark is your guest, and an important officer of his Majesty."

"An' if he had not been I should very soon--"

"Your good treatment of so important a gentleman may mean something in the future. It is always well, father, to have friends at Court."

"Yes, yes, my child, but to leave us in so scurvy a way, and take up his abode with old Cobbe."

"That has nothing to do with the matter, father. Ask him to stay."

"But, Anne, my child."

"Father, I insist upon your forcing him to stay."

"Force," said Sir Thomas; "ah, there'll be no need of that. The job will be to force him to go. But surely, child, thou'lt never think of setting thy cap at him after his engagement with the founder's child?"

"I? Set my cap! Oh, father," she cried, with a weak giggle, "that is too good. I absolutely hate him."

"Then I'll tell him we wish him--"

"To stay as long as he can, father. Go at once."

"But, my dear, he is going to-morrow. He told me so when he was on his way to the moat to fish, and I told him I was glad to hear it."

"You told him that, father?" cried Anne, with flashing eyes.

"Indeed I did," said Sir Thomas.

"Then go at once," cried Anne, imperiously, "and bid him stay."

"But it will be like eating my words, my child."

"Go eat them, then," cried the girl; "and quickly. Say that you were but jesting."

"And that you specially wished--"

"No, father. Are you mad? Say what thou wilt, and canst; but mind this--Sir Mark must stay."

Sir Thomas grumbled, but he had to go, and he went, and very easily persuaded Sir Mark to give up his project of leaving the Moat next day, and so it came about that about an hour later, when Mistress Anne was wandering, book in hand, in the pleasaunce, beneath the sun-pleached trees, where the soft turf was dappled with sunshine and shade, she accidentally came upon Sir Mark, moody and thoughtful, busy over his favourite occupation of trying to persuade one of the ancient carp in the moat to swallow a hook concealed in a lump of paste, a lure of which the said carp fought exceedingly shy.

If Sir Mark had been told a month before that he would become an angler--one of those patient beings who go and seat themselves on the banks of a piece of water and wait till a fish chooses to touch their bait--he would have laughed them to scorn.

All the same, though, he had gone to Sir Thomas Beckley's, very much shocked at the sudden termination of his matrimonial project, and had taken to his bed, where he stayed some days.

He told himself that he was heart-broken; that he would never look upon woman's face again; that he would pay a pilgrimage yearly to Mace's grave, and live and die a heart-broken anchorite.

On the sixth day he arose and wrote a despatch concerning the state of Jeremiah Cobbe's manufactures, retiring certain proposals that he had made concerning the supply of guns and powder to his Majesty's forces. Later on he found that it would not be necessary to seize on Captain Carr, and later still followed the news that Gil had left those parts.

On the hearing of this he told himself that he could give full vent to his sorrow, which he did, taking at the same time a good deal of nutriment to counterbalance his sighs and tears.

Then, being a satisfactory moping pursuit for one so cut to the heart, he took to fishing week after week for the carp in the great moat; and after, on this particular day, trying in vain for one particularly heavy monster, he sighed very loudly--so loudly that it seemed to be echoed, and, looking sadly up, his eyes fell upon Mistress Anne, reading as she walked beneath the trees.

It was but a momentary glance, for she turned away directly after, and he sighed again, for he foresaw an interview with another lady as Dame Beckley came bustling to his side.

It was one way of showing his grief: A curious way of showing it; but every one has his peculiarities, and Sir Mark elected to dress himself more gorgeously than of old.

Sable had a prominent place in his costume, but it was largely relieved with gold lace and white linen, so that the angler who rose from his seat on the green bank of the old moat seemed, from the elegantly plumed hat to the shining rosetted shoes, more like one dressed for a ball or Court gathering than a man prepared to land the slippery carp or wriggling eel.

Dame Beckley was very nervous over her task, but she managed to acquit herself pretty well, and Sir Mark received her request that he should stay with a saddened smile that seemed to say all things were alike to him now.

"If my presence will give you pleasure, madam," he said with a sigh, "I will stay, though you will find me sorry company, I fear."

Sir Mark applied a delicate lace handkerchief to his eyes, and spread around a faint odour of musk, before applying a fresh lump of paste to his great hook, and casting it once more between the water-lilies.

"Plague on the man," said Dame Beckley to herself; "it is not a pleasure to me. I wish, though," she added musingly, "he would let me administer some of my simples. I could make him hearty and well."

Sir Mark sighed again when he was left alone, and began to pity himself for his sufferings. Somehow he did not feel much sorrow for the young life that had been so suddenly cut off. His sorrow was for him who was to have been a bridegroom, and who would have succeeded to a goodly property with his handsome wife. This was the more important to him, as his little patrimony had been pretty well squandered, and his tailor was an extensive creditor who was eager to be paid.

"Yes," he said, "I'll stay. Poor woman, she wishes it, and, until my brain recovers from this dreadful shock, I am as well here as anywhere. Besides, I cannot well go back till I see my way to obtain some money."

Just then a great carp came slowly sailing along through the deep clear water, and rose amongst the stems of the water-lilies, as if to get a better glance with its big round eyes at the gorgeous object in black velvet, puffed with white satin and laced with gold, seated so patiently upon the bank.

"I begin to think now," said Sir Mark, as he gazed back at the carp, whose great round golden scales suggested coins, "that I have made a mistake. I might have had fair Mistress Anne."

The carp glanced down for a moment at the lump of paste, and shook its tail at it, its head being too rigid. The bait was not to its taste, so it rose higher and stared with its great round expressionless eyes, while it gasped with its big thick lips.

"Two hundred pounds for wedding garments of my own," he said, gazing back at the carp. "Twenty-five pounds for that new sword with the silver ornaments to the hilt, and five pounds for those white crane's plumes for my hat; and now they are useless. I cannot have them altered to wear now without spoiling them, and unless I marry soon that money is all thrown away."

He sighed again very softly, for he was exceedingly sorry for himself, as he thought of the founder's thousands.

"You are a lucky fellow," he continued, addressing the carp; "you always swim about clad in golden armour, and pay nothing for the show. True, I have not paid for mine, but I suppose that some day I shall be obliged."

Just then the carp smacked its lips as it thrust its nose above the water, gave its tail a lazy flap, and turned itself endwise so as to face Sir Mark, who gazed full at its fat gasping mouth, puffy eyes, and generally inane expression.

"What becomes of the old Beckleys?" said Sir Mark. "One might fancy that they all went to animate the bodies of the carp in this moat, for yon fish bears a wondrous resemblance to the baronet. I wonder whether he is as well clothed in golden scales. By all that's holy, here he is."

For, unnoticed on the soft velvety grass, Sir Thomas Beckley had come slowly up, looking in effect much more like the great carp than might have been considered possible, for his head was so charged with his daughter's mission that it seemed to force his mouth open, and his eyes from his head, while, as he came close up, he gasped two or three times, opening and shutting his lips without making a sound.

"Fishing, Sir Mark?" he said at last, for want of something better to say. "You have captured one, I suppose?"

"No, Sir Thomas," said his guest with a sigh. "Faith, an' I do not care to catch the poor things. I find in angling a change from dwelling on my sad thoughts. You never catch them, I suppose?"

"No," was the reply, "I never do. My father once caught one."

"Indeed!" said Sir Mark, yawning, for it was a peculiarity of Sir Thomas Beckley that he made everyone with whom he came into contact yawn.

"Yes," continued Sir Thomas. "It was during a very hot summer, and the moat was nearly dry. I remember it well."

"You seem to have an excellent recollection, Sir Thomas."

"I have, Sir Mark, I have," said the baronet pompously. "The great carp had somehow been left in a tiny pool whence he could not escape, so my father caught him."

"But not with a hook, Sir Thomas--he did not angle."

"Marry, sir, but he did. He'd have gone in after it but for the mud, which would have sullied his trunk hose and velvet breeches of murrey colour, so he had a kitchen meat hook tied to a long pole, and caught the big fish fairly."

"Indeed, Sir Thomas? It must have been an exciting scene."

"My father was a great man, Sir Mark."

"Great and rich, Sir Thomas?"

"Very, Sir Mark."

"Then I have been doing wrong," thought Sir Mark. "This old idiot here must have inherited all the old man's money, unless--. Did your brothers much resemble him, Sir Thomas?" he said aloud.

"Brothers, sir? I never had a brother. I was an only child."

"Indeed! But I might have known. Sir Thomas, this is a fitting time to thank you for your hospitality. I may not have another chance before I go."

"But you will not go yet, Sir Mark. I was about to press you to stay with us yet a while--till your health is more restored. You look pale and ill as yet, Sir Mark."

"Really, Sir Thomas? Thanks for your kindly concern, but I must go and try to recover elsewhere. Your good lady, Dame Beckley, has been trying to persuade me to stay, but I think my visit here has been too long already."

"Nay, nay," cried Sir Thomas, "we cannot spare you yet. You must think us very unfeeling if, after your terrible loss, you are not almost forced to stay here and recover. Not a word more, Sir Mark, not a word."

Sir Mark, however, endeavoured to put in several words, but was checked by his host, who left him afterwards, strutting away with a fat smile upon his countenance, and a belief in his heart that he had been doing some very hospitable act, Mistress Anne's commands being for the time entirely forgotten.

"That is settled then," said Sir Mark, as he kneaded a fresh piece of paste for the carp. "Perhaps in a few weeks I may find out some way of raising money, that is, when my heart has grown less sore."

He threw out his bait, and then settled himself with his back against a tree, to take a quiet nap, when, in a sheltered nook, where four huge hawthorns formed a kind of bower, he once more saw Mistress Anne busily reading, and, thinking that he ought to tell her of his intention to stay, he rose to saunter to her side.

Volume 3, Chapter IX.

HOW MASTER PEASEGOOD SAID HIS PRAYERS AND PAID A VISIT.

There was a deep, singular humming sound coming from the open window of Master Peasegood's cottage, and, as this noise passed through the big cherry-tree, it seemed to be broken up like a wind through a hedge, and to be somewhat softened. A stranger would not have known what it was, unless he had listened very attentively; and then he would have found that it was Master Peasegood saying his prayers.

"Sum--sum--sum--sum--sum--sum--sum--sum." It sounded like a gigantic bumble-bee. Then a few distinct words. Then "sum--sum--sum--sum--sum," again; and you would hear, "Lead us not into temptation'--sum--sum-- sum--especially with strong ales--sum--sum--sum--sum--sum--oh! Lord, I am so fleshly and so fat--sum--sum--sum--sum--I cannot do as I preach-- sum--sum--sum--sum--I am a sadly hardened and weak man, oh! Lord--sum-- sum--sum--sum; but I try to live at peace, and do to others as I would they should do unto me--sum--sum--sum--sum--Amen. Mistress Hilberry, I'm going out. Bring me my ale."

Master Peasegood was refreshed in mind, and proceeded to refresh himself in body, feeling at peace with the whole world, including Mother Goodhugh and all her works.

Mistress Hilberry came in, looking sour, but, as her eyes lit on the jovial face before her, some of its amiability was reflected back upon her own; and, finally, as the stout parson drank up his great jug of ale with the heartiest of enjoyment, she almost smiled.

"How thou dost take to thy ale!" she said.

"Ay, how naturally we do take to all bad habits, Mistress Hilberry; but a man cannot be perfect, and the possession of one wicked little devil may keep out seven devils, all much worse. I don't think it would be right to be quite good, Mistress Hilberry, so I take my ale."

"If thou never take nothing worse, master," said Mistress Hilberry--who was in a good temper--"thou wilt do;" and she seized the empty vessel and went out.

"Hah!" sighed Master Peasegood, taking his pipe off the mantel-piece, and looking at it ruefully, "I talked to her about one little devil, and, lo! here is another. That makes two who possess me, if King Jamie's right. I'll just have a little of the devilish weed before I go out. Nay, resist the devil, and he will flee from thee. Go, little devil, back to thy place, and let's see what our good Protestant King does say."

He put back the pipe, and took from his scantily-furnished shelves a copy of his Majesty's Counterblast against Tobacco, seated himself comfortably, and began to read.

Master Peasegood's countenance was a study: for what he read did not seem to agree with him. He frowned, he pursed up his lips, he nodded, he shook his head; and at last, after half-an-hour's study, he dashed the book down upon the floor, doubled his fist, and brought it heavily upon the table.

"If this book had not been written by our sovereign lord, James the First, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, as it says in the dedication to my Bible--and what a thumping lie it is--I should say that it was the work of one of the silliest, most dunder-headed, and bumble-brained fools who ever walked God's earth. Tchah, tchah, tchah, tchah. I don't believe the pipe's a little devil after all.

"Here! I must be off," he said, with a sigh. "There's work to be done. I'll go see my poor old friend Cobbe, and try and comfort him in his trouble.

"Nay, I will not; it will be like running right into temptation. He'll bring out pipes and ale.

"But he is in trouble sore, and I have not been of late. I must go--

"`Into temptation.'

"Nay, it cannot be into temptation, for it is to do good works. The ale is not a devil of possession, after all.

"Mistress Hilberry, I'm going down to Jeremiah Cobbe, if any one should call."

"All right, master," she said; and the stout parson rolled out, and sauntered down to the cottage the founder occupied now.

"Ah! Master Cobbe," he cried, "I've been remiss in visiting you these last few weeks, but I'm glad to see thee look so well."

"Well? Master Peasegood," said the founder, sadly. "Nay, I am not well. Perhaps I am, though--perhaps I am. I have been busy lately, very busy. A goodly store of cannon and ammunition has been sent off to his Majesty this past week."

"Ay, so I hear," said the parson.

"But sit down, man. Hey, Mrs Croftly, bring a flagon of ale and the pipes and tobacco. Master Peasegood will sit down here in the garden with me this evening."

"That I will," was the hearty response.

A table was placed on one side, and the two friends sat down, drank heartily to one another, and then filled, lit their pipes, and smoked in silence for awhile.

"There's a nice view from here, Master Cobbe," said the parson at last.

"Ay, there is," said the founder; and a longing painful look came upon his deeply-lined face, as he thrust back his rough, white hair and sighed.

"A very pretty view. You like this spot?"

"Yes," said the founder, slowly, as he pointed with the stem of his little pipe to an opening in the forest beyond the ruins of the Pool-house. "Do you see yon patch of rock where the martins have made their nests?"

"Surely, surely," said Master Peasegood.

"There is a good-sized hole there, friend Peasegood."

"Yes, I see," said Master Peasegood, nodding, "though my eyes are not what they were."

"That place was made by the shell fired from my big howitzer when my poor girl applied the match."

"Poor child!" said Master Peasegood, sadly, and for some time the two men sat and smoked in silence.

"Shall you ever build up the house again, Master Cobbe?" said the parson at last.

The founder turned upon him almost fiercely, and seemed about to utter some angry word; but he calmed down, took the parson's fat hand in his, shook it, and released it.

"Nay," he said, "let it rest; let it rest."

"I did not want to hurt your feelings, Master Cobbe," said the parson; "but I thought it would be better for it and for thee. You must be growing richer than before."

"Yes; and what good is it?" said the founder, bitterly. "Of what use is money to me? I only work and toil to keep my mind at rest. Nay, nay, I cannot build the old place up; let it be. Besides," he added dryly, "Mother Goodhugh says it is cursed."

"Hang Mother Goodhugh--or burn her," cried the parson impetuously. "A wicked, cursing, old hag. She had better mend her ways, or Sir Thomas will be laying her by the heels. He swore he would months ago, but I persuaded him not. She had been following and abusing Mistress Anne."

"Ay, poor soul--poor soul, she is mad from her grief, and it makes her curse. Ah! parson, many's the time I could have gone about cursing too. Poor soul--poor soul! let her rest."

"I see you have been very busy with the garden again."

"Ay; it is getting to be what it was. The trees have shot forth once more, and the flowers bloom. She loved that garden, parson--dearly."

"Ay; and the old house too, Master Cobbe. Build it up, man; build it up."

"Nay, not a stone. It is cursed--cursed."

"Bah! Stuff, man. Away with such folly. It is no more cursed than it is haunted, as the people say."

The founder started, and gazed strangely at his friend.

"Do they say it is haunted?"

"Yes; such folly. Two or three people have sworn to me that they have heard shrieks."

"Parson," said the founder hoarsely, as he laid his hand on the other's sleeve; "they are right; I once heard them too."

"What?" said Master Peasegood, laughing, "the owls?"

"Nay, I should know the cry of an owl, man. It is not that. Time after time I've stood there in the forest, and heard the wild cry just at dark when everything is still."

"Nay, nay," said Master Peasegood, "the dead don't cry for help, neither do the angels in heaven; and if there's truth in all we believe, man, our little Mace's looking down upon us, an angel among God's best and dearest ones."

The old man's head went down upon his hand at this, and he sat in silence for some time, while, with his eyes misty and dim, Master Peasegood leaned back in his chair, and smoked with all his might.

The silence was broken by the founder holding out his hand to his visitor, and shaking it warmly.

"Thankye, parson, thankye," he said. "What you say ought to be true; and I hope she forgives me for my vanity and pride."

"Poor child! It was a mistake, Master Cobbe, but let it rest. They say our gay spark, Sir Mark, is going to comfort himself by wedding Mistress Anne."

"Ay? Indeed?" said the founder. "I did hear something of the kind, but I paid little heed."

"I hear it as a fact, Master Cobbe."

"Well, let him," said the founder. "He should be a rich man, too, by this time, for he has made money from me as well as I have from the King. Don't talk of it, though; it makes me dwell upon the past."

They smoked on for a time without speaking, and then, with a patient, piteous aspect in his face, the founder turned to his visitor.

"I've been a wicked man, parson," he said.

"So we all are," said Master Peasegood, bluffly. "I always sinned from a desire for the good things of this life. I love goodly food, and good ale, and good tobacco now; and I shall go on sinning to the end," he added, taking a hearty draught.

"I have been harsh and hard, and I've not done my duty here, Master Peasegood; and these punishments have come upon me for my sins."

"Stuff, stuff!" cried Master Peasegood. "I won't sit and hear it. Don't talk of your Maker as if he were some petty, revengeful man like us, ready to visit every little weakness upon our heads with a misfortune, or to pay us for being good boys with a slice of bread and honey. Out on such religious ideas as that, Master Cobbe, and think of your God as one who is great and good. Bah! It aggravates me to hear and see people fall down and worship the ugly image they have set up in their hearts, one that every work of the Creator gives the lie to for its falsity and cruel wrong. Bear your burden, Jeremiah Cobbe, like a man. It is not in us to know the ins and outs of God's ways; and it is a wicked and impious sin for people to say this is a judgment, or that is a judgment, and to pretend to know what the All-Seeing thinks and does. You say you've been a wicked man, Master Cobbe."

"Yes, yes," said the founder sadly; "and I have but one hope now, and that is that I may see my darling once again."

"Amen to that," said Master Peasegood; "but, as to your wickedness, I wish every man was as wicked, and hot-tempered, and true-hearted, and generous, and frank, and industrious, and forgiving as thou art, Jeremiah Cobbe; and--Will you have that ale flagon filled again? Much talking makes me dry."

The founder smiled, and called for Croftly's wife, who replenished the flagon, bobbed a curtsey to the parson, and re-entered the cottage.

"I like you, Jeremiah Cobbe," continued Master Peasegood, after setting down the flagon with a satisfied sigh; "but don't be superstitious, man, like our sovereign master the King, who has written a book to hand down his wisdom to posterity."

"Indeed!" said the founder, whose thoughts were evidently far away.

"Yes, indeed," said Master Peasegood; "and it's all about witches and warlocks and the like. That piece of idiot spawn has gotten itself down here into Sir Thomas's hands; and, as I told thee, he was very near laying that foolish old woman Mother Goodhugh by the heels. Now she hates me like poison, because I laugh at her and tell the people she is a half-crazed old crone. Last time I saw her we quarrelled, for I told her she was a wretched old impostor, for cheating the poor people as she did. Ha! ha! ha! and then she defied and cursed me, and said she'd go to Father Brisdone and turn Roman Catholic. I told her to go, and he'd curse her for cursing, for it is his trade, and she has no right to handle such tools at all."

"Poor weak woman," said the founder. "She is more to be pitied than blamed. I suppose she thinks in her heart that I am the cause of all her woes."

"Ay, poor soul, but it's partly vanity, friend Cobbe. She likes to set up for a prophetess, a sort of diluted Deborah, and to make the people believe in her. There, you must go and see her. If I go to her, being the good man of the parish, she will have naught to say to me. Now, you being a wicked man, may have more influence than I."

"I influence? Nay, man; she'll fall a cursing if I go nigh her cot."

"Let her curse. Her words won't hurt thee, man. Go to her, and give her money--thou hast enough--bid her get away far enough from this place to somewhere safe; and when there, tell her to live a decent life and forget her silly trickstering and stuff. It's a fine opportunity for thee, Jeremiah Cobbe. It's just the sort of revenge thou lik'st to take on an enemy. Go and pour coals of fire on her head, for I'm sure this place isn't safe for such as she."

"Would Sir Thomas imprison her?" said the founder.

"Sir Thomas is so good and honest a justice of the peace, and so great a lover of the words of his Majesty the King, who made him the baronet he is, that he would set up a stake, scatter Dame Beckley's dried simples and herbs around it, heap it with goodly faggots, and burn Mother Goodhugh for a witch while the Roehurst people would look on."

"Thinkest thou this, Master Peasegood?"

"I'm sure of it," said the parson, dashing down his pipe in his anger. "Jeremiah Cobbe, it makes me as mad as Moses to see what fools the people are. We have just got rid of the superstitions of Rome, sir, and we go at once and set up the golden calf of witchcraft, and worship it, from our ruler to the humblest peasant in his realm. By my word, Master Cobbe, an' I had had the two tables in my hands like the old prophet, I'd not have broken them on the rocks, but upon the thick-boned skulls of my erring folk."

"Not worship the idol--condemn it, Master Peasegood," said the founder, smiling.

"Well, but we believe it," cried the other. "Out upon us all, but we are sorry-fools."

"I'll go and do this thing, Master Peasegood," said the founder, after musing for a few minutes.

"That's right; I knew thou would'st."

"But maybe she will not go."

"Then take her, like the angels did Lot of old, and thrust her out of the place. Tell her Roehurst will prove a Sodom to her if she does not go, for i' faith she'll go to the flames, in spite of all I can do or say."

"I'll go to her this very evening, Master Peasegood."

"Then I will go my way," cried the parson; and, paying one more attention to the flagon, he rose, shook hands, and left.

Volume 3, Chapter X.

HOW MOTHER GOODHUGH FARED ILL AT JUSTICE'S HANDS.

By chance it happened that Anne Beckley had extended her walk towards the woods and had strolled farther than she had intended. Fate led her into the narrow lane where she had rested in Gil Carr's arms when Mace and Sir Mark had been witnesses of the scene.

She smiled now as she seated herself upon the bank, and thought of the changes that had taken place, for she was shortly to become Mark Leslie's wife.

How the time had passed, she thought, and how cleverly she had won Sir Mark from his gloom and despondency to become at first grateful, then loving, and at last--so she believed--so infatuated with her, that she could do with him as she pleased.

If some unkind friend had told her that her father's money and estates had anything to do with the match, she would have rejected the suggestion with scorn, and then gone to her mirror, to examine the sit of her ruffle, to give a slight touch to her painted cheeks, and perhaps add another ornamental patch to her chin.

Sir Mark was in town now, preparing for the bridal, and Anne's heart was joyful within her, as she thought of the coming ceremony. For years she had been dreaming of and hoping for wedlock, and at last she was to be a wife--a lady of title--Dame Anne Leslie, and her eyes sparkled with the pleasure of the thought.

The spot she had chosen for her reverie, though, brought up thoughts that made her sigh. There, close by where she was seated, Gil Carr had held her in his arms; and she sighed as she recalled how fondly she believed that she had loved him. And where was he now?

A year had rolled by since he set sail, and no news of either him or his followers had reached Roehurst since; and as she thought of this the events of that terrible time came crowding back.

"Poor Mace!" she said, softly; "I am sorry I hated you so much; and poor Gil Carr, he was a proper youth. Alack! What change one lives to see!"

She felt half disposed to continue her walk, and go on as far as the Pool-house; but a slight shudder ran through her nerves at the thought. Somehow the ruins had a repelling influence upon her, and she shrank from going near, feeling that she had been to blame for what had taken place on that terrible night.

"I don't think I'll go," she said softly; and she was about to rise and return, when she became aware that some one was standing close behind her, and, starting up, she found herself face to face with Mother Goodhugh, who had advanced as quietly as a cat.

"Mother Goodhugh!" she cried in a startled voice.

"Yes, my dearie, it be Mother Goodhugh. What can I do for thee, my beauty bird?"

"Nothing, mother," replied Anne sharply. "Nothing, my dearie?" said the old woman laughing. "Nay, surely you want some help of the poor old woman who works to help you. Is it a new lover, my dear?"

"I have told thee I do not want anything, mother," cried Anne peevishly.

"Nay, then, come on to my cottage, where we can talk. Thou has not been to see me for months and months."

"Nay, mother, I'll come no more. Good day, I must get me home."

"Stay, child," cried Mother Goodhugh, clutching at her dress; "I want to talk to thee of him. Come to my place."

"Loose me this instant, mother," cried Mistress Anne, indignantly. "How darest thou lay thy hands on me?"

"Only because we are sisters, dearie."

"Sisters?"

"Ay, dearie; don't we practise the art together. But hist, hist, come to my cottage and let us talk."

"Not a step will I go," cried Anne, angrily.

"Nay, is it so? Ah, she has gotten what she wanted by my help--a brave, fine husband, and now she throws me by."

"Cease thy talk about those childish follies. I am sick of them."

"Ay, child, yes; thou art sick of them now, but when thou wast hungry for thy love nothing was too good for Mother Goodhugh then."

"Out upon thee! Did I not pay thee well for thy silly mummeries?"

"Pay me well?" cried Mother Goodhugh. "Nay; what were a few paltry gold pieces for such a husband as I gained for thee?"

"You gained for me?" cried Anne, contemptuously.

"Ay, to be sure, I gained for thee, mistress; and now thou hast him safe I be thrown aside. Not once hast thou been to me these many months."

"I tell thee I have done with such follies," cried Anne contemptuously. "I have paid thee, and there the matter ends."

"Oh, nay, mistress, it does not. Thou hast thy lover, and so had poor Mace Cobbe, and the wedding was to be next day; but I prophesied that she should not have the man of thy choice, and what came to pass?"

"Mother Goodhugh," said Anne, turning pale, "if I thought thou had'st anything to do with that misfortune at the Pool thou should'st be handed over to my father for punishment according to thy deserts."

"And would she who helped me be punished too?"

"If thou had'st accomplices, yes."

"Sweet mistress, then we will go to prison, thou and I, together, for we made our plans to stay the wedding of Mace Cobbe."

"It is false; I had nothing to do with thy plans," cried Anne excitedly.

"Had'st thou not better come to my cottage, mistress?" said Mother Goodhugh.

"Nay, I have done with thee and thy ways. I'll come there no more."

"But thou wilt pay me for winning thee a husband."

"Pay thee?" cried Anne contemptuously. "What should I pay thee?"

"A hundred golden pounds, mistress," cried the old woman, whose eyes sparkled at the very mention of so much money.

"A hundred pence," cried Anne. "Go, get you gone, old crone. I'll never part with a piece again for thy follies."

"Have a care, mistress," cried the old woman excitedly, for her anger was getting the better of her reason. "Thou art not Mark Leslie's wife as yet, and some accident might happen to thee, too."

"Mother Goodhugh," cried Anne, "have a care. Thou art a marked woman."

"I will have a care, my dearie, that if I am to suffer, thou shalt suffer too. I can place thee in prison if I am touched, so beware-- beware."

"Vile old hag," cried Anne angrily; "Speak a word against me, and you shall bitterly repent it."

"Rue it, eh! We'll see; we'll see," cried the old woman, shaking her stick after the girl, as she hurried back, uneasy enough in her mind to suffer acutely, for Mother Goodhugh might throw obstacles in the way. She shuddered at the bare thought of what had happened on the eve of Mace's wedding, but determined to risk all.

"If she speaks, no one will believe her," cried Anne laughing. "She shall be seized for a witch, and she dare not charge me with helping her, for if she did it would only be accusing herself, and that she dare not do. Neither dare I let her be at liberty till I am dear Mark's wife. After this she may do her worst."

Full of this intent--for now that the old woman had obtruded herself once more upon her path, she really feared her--Anne hurried back towards the Moat, feeling anything but secure while Mother Goodhugh was at liberty. Her mind had been too much occupied of late during Sir Mark's long visits to trouble herself about the old woman, and whatever thought she had had of the terrible night at the Pool-house had been gradually allowed to grow dull. The great thing had been that the wedding had been stayed, but, now that she thought the matter over, she felt sure that Mother Goodhugh had been guilty of some desperate deed; and to bring it home to herself--if the old woman would do such a thing for gain, might she not do it for revenge?

Anne shuddered and her brow grew cloudy as she felt that she could not set Mother Goodhugh aside as one that she need not fear. Sir Mark was not yet her husband, and what if some terrible catastrophe were to happen to prevent the wedding.

"I should go mad," she muttered; and she paused to think whether it would be better to try a bribe.

"She wants too much money, and if I did silence her now she would be pestering me with claims for more, and threaten and harass me. No, mother; you have opened the battle again, so now let us see which of us is the stronger."

Hurrying to her father's room lest her mind should change, Anne had a long colloquy with him, introducing the subject of witchcraft incidentally.

"Sir Mark tells me, father, that his Majesty strongly approves of efforts being made to keep down witches in this country."

"Yes, my dear, so I heard Sir Mark say," replied Sir Thomas, putting on his carplike visage, and gaping and panting at his daughter, as his eyes stood out wide and round.

"Why should you not do something to commend yourself to the King?"

"But what could I do, child?" said Sir Thomas.

"True, there is nothing you could, unless you arrested Mother Goodhugh."

"You forbad it once, but the very thing!" cried Sir Thomas, eagerly.

"But she is not a witch," said Anne, dubiously.

"Nay, my child, but, according to his Majesty's book, she has all the signs of a witch in her."

"Indeed, father?"

"Yes, child, I have studied it all well, and can show you a dozen points wherein she answers to a witch. Anne, my child, she shall be seized and examined."

"I don't think I would, father. Such women are sure to say more than is quite true, and spit their venom at random. Better let her rest in peace."

"Nay, child, she shall be examined, and, if she says too much, she shall be gagged. I am not a man to be trifled with by a known and practised witch."

Next day Mother Goodhugh returned to her cottage from one of her many absences in the forest, full of bitterness against Mistress Anne.

"Does she think she be going to play with me?" muttered the old woman. "Not she. I be not frightened of her threats now. Let her speak if she dares. I could tell strange tales against her if I liked, and I'll be paid. One hundred golden pounds she shall give me, or she shall not marry him; nay, that she shall not. Mother Goodhugh is stronger than they think." She chuckled, as she walked sharply up and down the little room, shaking her stick and then thumping the end upon the floor. "Nice tales could I tell. Mistress Anne Beckley would look well as my companion, and ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho! What would the fine, gay, gallant Sir Mark say to his sweet if he knew of the tricks and plans she had carried out. There would be an end to the wedding, and she dare not speak. What do you want here?"

"I came to see thee, Mother Goodhugh," said the founder, who had just raised the latch, and stood in the doorway.

"To see me," cried the old woman, fiercely. "What! hast come to be cursed again? But no, no, no; go away, man, go away, away," she said hurriedly, as she fell a trembling. "I don't want thee here."

"Mother Goodhugh," said the founder, sadly, "thou hast always looked upon me as an enemy."

"Yes, a bitter, cruel enemy," she cried, flinching from him. Then, with a malignant grin, she added, "But thou hast had to suffer too, Master Cobbe, and to know what it is to gnaw thy heart with pain."

"Yes, yes, woman, I know all that," said the founder, hastily; "but let us not talk of the by-gone, but of the future."

"What is my future to thee, Mas' Jeremiah Cobbe?" cried the old woman, suspiciously. "Go thy ways, and let me go mine."

"I came to tell thee that there is danger for thee, Mother Goodhugh. They say that thou'rt a witch, and I came to bid thee go hence to some place where thou art not known."

"Who will harm me?" cried the old woman.

"Maybe Sir Thomas will have thee put in prison."

"She daren't do it--she daren't do it," cried the old woman, fiercely. "I defy her--I defy her."

"The law dare do a good deal, Mother Goodhugh," said the founder, sadly. "But take my advice: go from hence. I have ready for thee twenty gold pounds; they will keep thee for some time, and when they are gone I will give thee more. But go, and go at once, before it is too late."

The old woman's fingers were held out crooked and trembling to grasp the money, her eyes twinkling with eagerness; but ere the founder could place the coins therein she seemed to make a tremendous effort over herself, and snatched back her hands.

"Nay," she cried, "I will not go. Thou for one would'st get rid of me, and Mistress Anne hath sent thee, but I'll not be baulked of my revenge."

"I came not from Mistress Anne, good mother. It was from a talk with Master Peasegood that I came to-day."

"Yes, yes, I know," cried the old woman exultingly, "from Mas' Peasegood, her friend. So I am to be sent away on a beggar's pittance, and forego my revenge. She be a clever girl, but she can't outwit me."

"I understand not thy sayings, mother," said the founder, wearily; "I only bid thee get hence, for the sake of thy poor dead husband and thy boy."

The founder said the words in all kindness, but they transformed Mother Goodhugh into a perfect fury; her eyes flashed, the foam stood upon her lips, and, mouthing and gibbering in impotent rage, she pointed to the door.

"Go," she shrieked at last, "and tell them who sent thee that Mother Goodhugh will stay in her place and defy them. Bid Mistress Anne have a care, and tell her that if Mother Goodhugh stands at the stake it will be back to back with the mincing, painting, and patching madam who came and bade her curse and destroy her rival at the Pool-house; who planned its destruction; who is a worse witch than I. Tell her all this, for I'll stay and defy her. Bid her do her worst."

"Silence, woman!" cried the founder, who gazed at her, horrified and startled at this outburst; "thou art mad."

"Mad? Ay, mad, if thou wilt; but wait and see. Tell her I'll stay-- tell her I'll stay and defy her. She don't know Mother Goodhugh yet, Jeremiah Cobbe; so wait and see."

"I shall not have long to wait, then," said the founder, gloomily. "It is thy own fault, woman, and God forgive thee for thy cursing and thy lies."

Mother Goodhugh had literally driven him from her room, to stand at the doorway fiercely gesticulating and threateningly waving her stick; but, as the founder spoke and drew back from her, a complete change came over the old woman: her eyes grew fixed, her jaw dropped, the stick fell from her hand, and she clung to the door-post, turning of a deadly white, for at that moment Sir Thomas Beckley, looking red, important, and accompanied by the village constable, a couple of assistants with a cart, and some dozen or two of the people, came slowly to the door.

The rustic constable held a document in his hand, which he tried to read to the woman, and dismally failed from want of erudition, even though prompted by Sir Thomas. He mumbled out, though, something about the heinous sin of witchcraft; and sovereign lord and King.

Then thrusting the document into his rough doublet, he caught the old woman by the wrist.

"No, no," she shrieked in agony, all her defiance gone, as she found herself face to face with the horrible reality. "No, no, I will not go."

"Come, thou must, Mother Goodhugh," said the constable; "and I warn thee that if thou begin'st any cursing against me and my men it will be the worse for thee."

"I will not go; I am innocent, Sir Thomas. Pray, Sir Thomas, don't let him. A poor weak widow woman. Pray, pray don't."

"An anointed witch thou art," said the justice, pompously. "Away with her."

"Nay, nay, Sir Thomas," cried the founder. "She is no witch; only a silly, half-mad creature."

"Yes, that he right," cried Mother Goodhugh, clinging frantically to one of the doorposts, "mad--mad with trouble, good Sir Thomas."

"Nay, woman, thy witchcrafts have stunk in my nostrils this many a day, and there is a long list of crimes for thee to expiate at the stake."

"Shame, Sir Thomas!" cried the founder, indignantly; "if any one has cause against her it is I."

"Yes, yes, good Sir Thomas, hear him. I have cursed him more than any. Oh, pray, pray."

"Pray," cried the justice; "pray to thy familiars, woman! Take her along."

"This is monstrous," cried the founder, indignantly.

"Hold thy peace, Master Cobbe," said Sir Thomas, impatiently; "and if thou dost interfere it will be at thy peril. Take her away, men, take her away."

"No, no! no, no!" shrieked the horrified woman, before whose affrighted face the faggot and stake already loomed. "Mas' Cobbe, save me--for pity's sake, save me. I be not a witch. I only cursed in the naughtiness of my heart. Help me, Mas' Cobbe; for thy dear child's sake, help me, and I'll tell thee all. I will not go. I will not go."

The founder sprang forward to her help, but he was unarmed, and Sir Thomas drew his sword and placed himself before the prisoner.

"I warn thee, Master Cobbe," he cried, "that this is a legal seizure. Stand back, sir, stand back. Quick, men, do your duty."

It was a horrible scene, for the old woman clung to her door, and had to be literally torn away by the men, who, adding coarseness to the superstition of their superiors, felt no mercy for one whom they looked upon as being leagued with the powers of ill.

And now that the wise woman's reign was over, and she was held to be harmless, those who had feared and sought counsel of her rose up to spit on the shivering form that was being dragged along the ground towards the tail of the cart. For we were a fine and manly race in the good old times, and those who represented us at Roehurst made no scruple about reviling and kicking the quivering, helpless creature, who struggled hard as she was dragged by the wrists, her clothes torn, her hair dishevelled, and her old white face looking from one to the other for the help that none would give.

"Out upon the witch!" they shrieked and yelled, drowning the poor wretch's hoarse cries for mercy. "Burn her! Burn her!" rose in chorus; and the founder strove hard to reach her, but he was kept back by the increasing crowd, for the news that Mother Goodhugh was to be taken for a witch soon spread, and men, women, and children came panting up to join in execrating the helpless wretch.

Faint and exhausted, they bound her hands behind her back and her ankles tightly together, before, amidst tremendous shouting and yelling, she was lifted by four strong men, and literally thrown into, the cart, which was then set in motion, with Sir Thomas following behind with his sword drawn, and the people going before and crowding after, as the wheels sank down first on one side in the ruts, then on the other, revealing the wretched woman, who was now goaded to desperation, and had struggled up into a kneeling position, which she could hardly maintain for the rolling of the cart.

Every time she was nearly thrown down the crowd yelled with delight: and on some rustic genius throwing a clod of earth at her, his example was followed, and the poor wretch knelt there cowering from the shower of missiles sent into the cart.

At last she contrived to get her wrists loosed from the ill-tied cords; and, holding the cart-side with one hand, she raised the other, and shrieked out anathema after anathema against her persecutors, uttering such horrible curses against them that the less bold shrank away and the stoutest began to quail. But Mother Goodhugh's reign of cursing was nearly at an end; for, as the founder indignantly watched the proceedings, a great lad close by him picked up and hurled a lump of sand-rock at the wretched creature, striking her full in the temple, and, amidst a shout of triumph, the miserable woman fell stunned and bleeding to the bottom of the cart.

"That were a good hurl, master," cried the lout, with a broad grin.

"Yes," said the founder, fiercely, "and so was that!"

As he spoke, he struck the great, broad-faced fellow straight in the cheek, and he rolled over into one of the cart-ruts, whilst the procession with Mother Goodhugh, fortunately insensible now to pain, turned a corner of the winding lane, and passed out of the founder's sight.

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

HOW ROEHURST KEPT FETE FOR A WEDDING AND A DEATH.