Читать книгу: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», страница 20

In his eagerness he caught the founder by the arm, but the latter turned upon him furiously, mad as he was with rage against himself as much as with the suppliant, whom he struck heavily across the face, and then strode away.

Gil staggered back as much from surprise as from the weight of the blow, and the blood in a hot flush of passion suffused his face.

“For thy sake, darling,” he said, calming down, “for thy sake. There, Master Cobbe, I have done my duty as a man; if blood be shed in what follows, I wash my hands of it; for ’fore God I swear, that if I fail in one way, I’d kill my darling at the altar before she should become that fellow’s wife.”

“Captain – quick – this way, Captain!” cried a voice in a hasty whisper.

“What is it, Croftly?”

“This way, skipper. Here in at this furnace-mouth; it is open behind. Follow me.”

“What for, man?” cried Gil, sternly, as he saw the grimy face of Croftly at the opening to one of the great brick smelting-furnaces now void and cold.

“Sir Mark, with a dozen men be surrounding the place.”

Gil’s hand flew to his sword, but he let it fall.

“Nay,” he said, “we must have the wisdom of the serpent here. We’ll try that first, and if it fails – the sword.”

Entering the furnace, then, Croftly helped him into a black passage beyond, which let them pass between two vast stacks of charcoal to the rough track into the forest, which Gil reached unseen, while Sir Mark, with a dozen men, searched the powder-sheds and furnaces in vain.

How Mother Goodhugh went to Work

“Thou wicked old hag,” cried Anne Beckley, angrily, as she stood in Mother Goodhugh’s cottage. “Here have I, against my better sense, trusted to thee, and laid bare the secrets of my heart, and for what?” Mother Goodhugh smiled maliciously. “To make thee rich with gold pieces while thou hast done naught but mock at me and laugh.”

“Nay, sweet Mistress,” said the old woman, “I smiled not at thee. I thought of what had passed.”

“And what had passed?”

“Thou hast not known thine own heart, and one day it has been set on Captain Culverin, and another day on the gay young knight of London.”

Anne gave her foot an impatient stamp.

“What is that to thee?”

“Naught, sweet Mistress, with the beautiful eyes and lips. Ah, would I were a man and young,” said the wily old flatterer. “But it be much to spells. The spirits will not be mocked at. Thou comest to me and sayest, ‘Mix me powerful philtres that shall win Sir Mark’s love’, and, when thou dost administer it according to the form I gave, thy thoughts be all the while on Culverin Carr. How canst blame me if they do not act!”

Anne stamped on the floor again.

“I don’t care,” she cried. “What did you promise me? Was it not that I could win the love of either.”

“Ay,” said Mother Goodhugh; “and I worked hard; but Mistress Mace Cobbe worked hard too, and had better luck.”

“Don’t mention her wretched name.”

“But I must, sweet child. How her beautiful eyes fire up and sparkle!” she said, as if to herself. “She be a white witch, and weaves powerful spells with her father’s wealth. For his money helps her to buy costly things my pittance will not touch.”

“I have given thee crowns and pounds,” cried Anne.

“All spent on thee and thy philtres,” returned Mother Goodhugh. “Then Abel Churr has been taken away through the tricks of that white witch Mace, who has forced Culverin Carr to slay him, that I might not battle against her. Ah, fair Mistress Anne, she be a potent witch.”

“Then she shall be burned,” cried Anne Beckley, savagely. “I have but to swear against her before my father, the justice, of her goings on, and she would be seized and pinioned and tortured.”

“And serve her duly,” cried the old woman, with malicious glee.

“Even as I could have thee seized, Mother Goodhugh,” cried Anne, “if I so willed.”

“Nay, but thou would’st not be so cruel to one who has served thee so well.”

“Served me so well?” cried Anne, fiercely. “What have you done?”

“Tried to win thee lovers,” said Mother Goodhugh, whining.

“Ay, and Gilbert Carr treats me with scorn, and Sir Mark marries that thing – that creature, Mace Cobbe.”

“Nay,” cried the old woman, “it be not so.”

“But it is so,” cried Anne, “and I am scorned by both. I heard Sir Mark talking the wedding over with Master Peasegood, and it will be at the Pool.”

“Both scorned thee!” cried Mother Goodhugh, raising her hands; “and thou so beautiful to the eye, and I’ll warrant me so sweet to the touch. She be a powerful witch indeed.”

“Then I’ll denounce her for one!” cried Anne, passionately; and the old woman’s face lit up with glee, but became serious directly after, as she grew thoughtful.

“Nay, child, it would be in vain.”

“But this marriage shall not be.”

“Why not wed Captain Culverin?”

“Hideous old fool, I tell thee he scorns me!” cried the passionate woman. “He loves that wretched creature. I’ll denounce her, that I will. I’d like to see her burn.”

“She deserves it, too, child; but it would be in vain. Sir Mark and his men and Culverin Carr and his men would defend her. She has witched them to her side.”

“But the wedding must not be.”

“Nay, it shall not, then,” cried the old woman.

Anne Beckley walked up and down the little room for a few minutes, and then with an ugly look disfiguring her handsome, weak face, she stopped short before the old woman.

“Dost know how they served the old woman over at Morbledon?” she said, with a malicious smile.

“Yes, yes,” cried Mother Goodhugh, hastily; “I heard.”

“They tied her neck and heels, and threw her into the pond to see if she would swim.”

“Yes, yes; the idiots and fools.”

“They nearly drowned her. Eh? Does that touch thee, Mother Goodhugh?” said Mistress Anne, maliciously, as she saw the old woman fall a-trembling.

“Yes, yes, yes. It was very cruel.”

“And then she was committed to prison on my father’s warrant, and perchance she will be burned at the stake.”

“Nay, nay, it be too horrible,” said the old woman, whose face was now blanched with terror.

“It is only what they’d do to thee, Mother Goodhugh, if I denounced thee for witches’ practices.”

“Then I’d denounce thee, too!” cried the old woman, turning upon her like the trampled worm.

“And, if you did, who would believe thee, thou wrinkled, ugly, spiteful crone, who goest cursing through the village, and evil-eyeing all around? Denounce me? Ha, ha, ha!” cried the girl, throwing back her head as her eyes flashed, and she looked really handsome; “Do I look like a witch?”

“No, no, no, dearie, you are lovely as woman can be,” cried the old crone.

“Then I’ll get thee burned for deceiving me!” cried Anne.

“Nay, child, nay,” cried the old woman, piteously; “thou would’st not be so cruel.”

“I can, and I will,” cried the girl, stamping her foot. “I have been a fool to listen to thee, and thou hast taken advantage of me to get my money, and laughed at my weakness because I was sick with love; but I’m not such a fool as to be unable to get revenge. Mother Goodhugh, I’d come to see thee burnt.”

“Nay, nay,” cried the old woman, grovelling on the floor before her; “don’t talk so, dearie, it be too horrible.”

“A great stake and a chain, and faggots piled round thee, and the fire blazing, and Mother Goodhugh roasting. Ha, ha, ha! it would be a gay revenge on an old witch.”

“Nay, child, nay, but I be not a witch,” cried the old woman, who seemed palsied with dread.

“Then why did’st profess to me that thou wast?” cried Anne, striking her again and again, the old woman only cowering down as she received the blows, and piteously begging her tormentor not to denounce her. “Thou deceived’st me scores of times, and I, fool that I was, listened, and was befooled more and more. Now, hark ye, Mother Goodhugh, I have thee tight. Thou canst not win their love for me, but thou can’st get me revenge. Look here: stop that wedding.”

“I will, child; I will, dearie.”

“You shall!” cried Anne. “Mind this: I warn you. If that wedding takes place, and Mace Cobbe becomes Dame Leslie – ”

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the old woman.

“I’ll denounce thee as a witch, and laugh to scorn any accusations or railings against me; and I’ll come and spit at thee as thou burnest at the stake.”

“Oh!” half shrieked the old woman, tearing at her bosom as she heard the other’s words, and felt their power. Then, recovering herself, she began to fawn upon her visitor.

“Have no fear, dearie. The wedding shall not be. I can stay it – I can stay it. I have but to lift up my hand, and it is done.”

“I believe thee not!” cried Anne, “but I warn thee. If that wedding takes place, pray to all thy familiars to save thee, or flee from here, for if not I’ll have thee dragged to the stake and burned. Thou knowest that I can,” she said, as she turned to go.

“Yes, child – yes, dearie.”

“Then remember!”

Anne went out of the cottage as she said the last words, and, as Mother Goodhugh thought of the atrocities that had been committed against weak old women who had professed some occult art, she shivered, and in imagination saw the flames rising round her withered limbs.

“She could do it, she could do it,” she cried piteously. “But I’ll stop it: I’ll stop it. The house is cursed, and the wedding shall not be; for I can stop it, and I will.”

Left alone to her thoughts, Mother Goodhugh began to suffer from a fit of terror, which completely gained the mastery over her, as she recalled all that she knew about the terrible sentences passed upon reputed witches. There was something fascinating in being able to gain the fear of the common people, and to be looked up to as a kind of prophetess; but she avowed now that the price paid was very dear. She had won many triumphs, and been looked up to as a wise woman, but if she were denounced as a witch, those who had feared and paid her for her utterances would turn upon her, for she was ready to own how seldom her prophetic promises had come true.

One in a hundred, however, was quite sufficient to keep up her character; and when there were failures there were always some side utterances that could be brought to bear to soften defeat or turn the matter to her advantage. And so for years she had managed to keep up the character of a wise woman, and amass no inconsiderable amount of the rustic people’s savings, for there was always something upon which she could be consulted, and, in spite of her fears, she sat hugging herself upon her success as she thought of this.

“What be I to do?” she muttered; “and how be I to go to Cobbers house? If I go I shall be sent away. Why be not Abel Churr here to help me?”

In spite of her efforts to fight back her dread, the recollections of the death scenes she had heard described made her tremble, and, when a hasty step was heard outside, she rose with a cry of horror, and darted towards the inner chamber, but paused on the threshold, as she heard a woman’s voice repeat her name.

“Mother Goodhugh, Mother Goodhugh!”

“Yes; who be it?” she said, and, tottering to the door, she opened the latch with trembling hand to as it were admit a ray of light to her breast, for the visitor brought hope.

It was Janet.

“Well, child,” she said, “and why have you come?”

“Don’t ask me yet, mother,” whispered the girl, hurrying in, and helping to close the door. “If Mas’ Cobbe knew I be come here he would half kill me.”

“Of course, of course, child! It be very wrong to come and visit poor Mother Goodhugh. Aren’t you afraid I should curse you, child?”

“Oh no, mother!” cried the girl, who, now that she was inside, recovered herself. “I want you to bless me.”

“Ah, child, and how?”

“Oh, mother,” giggled the girl, “you know. How do young women want to be blest?”

“With a husband, eh, dearie?” said the old woman with a cunning leer, as she scanned Janet’s pretty, weak face, and thought about how her good fortune had played into her hands by sending her a tool with which, if she were skilful, she could work her ends.

“But thou should’st not make me say it out loud, mother,” said Janet, with another giggle; “but, when there be so much courting and love-making up at home, how can a girl help thinking about such things?”

“Ay, truly, dear, how indeed! But why should not so bonnie a maiden win a husband, I should like to know.”

“What, as Mistress Mace?” said Janet, pouting.

“Nay, as Mistress Janet,” said the old woman, chuckling. “Well, well, and who is it to be, and what can I tell thee?”

“I want – I want to know – ”

“Ay, ay, speak out, dearie.”

“I want to know,” faltered Janet, glancing at the door of the inner room and then at that of the entrance, “I want to know – Oh, I daren’t ask it,” she said, turning red and pale by turns.

“Thou would’st know the name of thy husband.”

“Ay, how could you tell that?” cried the simple girl.

“Such things be as plain to me as if they were written in a book. Sit down there,” she cried, pointing to a stool in the middle of the room.

Janet hesitated, but the old woman took up her crutch-handled stick and struck the floor imperiously, with the result that the girl took the seat, and Mother Goodhugh drew a rough circle round her as she stood behind the stool.

“I want to go back now; I must go back now,” said the girl, with trembling voice.

“Thou canst not go now until the spell is off,” whispered Mother Goodhugh, as she thrust her hand into a capacious pocket and took out a ball of glass, lined inside with some white metal, which gave it the appearance of a convex mirror.

“Shall I see anything very dreadful, and will it pook me?” faltered the girl.

“I hope not, but I cannot promise,” said Mother Goodhugh. “Sit quite still, and if anything dreadful comes I will answer for it that thou be not hurt much.”

Janet’s heart throbbed as she saw the old woman come before her and go down upon her knees, her face convulsed, and lips moving rapidly; then, holding the glass in both hands, her brow puckered as she gazed straight into it.

“What be this I see?” she cried in a hoarse voice; “a dark, tall, sun-browned man with pointed beard, half soldier, half sailor, who looks upon thee with eyes full of scorn.”

“Has he dark grey eyes, mother?” whispered Janet, in an awe-stricken voice.

“Ay, child, and a dashing, roving look.”

“It be Culverin Carr,” muttered the girl, pressing her hand to her throbbing heart.

“And now I see an old rough, grey man, big, and harsh, and stark, who would wed thee, but I know him not, for he keeps his head away.”

“Mas’ Wat Kilby!” muttered Janet, with a sigh.

“And now I see another, who is at thy feet, child; a handsome man in silk and velvet, who looks prayerfully in thy face, and asks thee to let him love thee.”

“Tell me more of him!” cried Janet, eagerly.

“I can see but little more, child, only that he has white hands with rings upon them, and a sword is hanging to his belt. He looks a handsome and a courtly youth, such as we have not in these parts here.”

“’Tis Sir Mark,” said Janet to herself.

“He looks love to thee, but a woman of thy size and shape steps in between thee, and tears him away.”

“What be she like?” cried Janet.

“I cannot see, child, for her head be turned away, but surely it be thee, from the turn of the head. How be this? Thou tightest against thyself.”

“Nay, ’tis Mistress Mace Cobbe. Let me look.”

“Thou art right; it be thy young mistress; and see, the gallant tries to reach thee, and her hand be raised to strike, and – How strange!”

“What be it, mother?”

“The glass has grown dim, as if a black shadow had passed over it, and I can see no more. Try thou, my child.”

“Nay, nay, I dare not; it be too terrifying!” cried Janet, thrusting back the crystal.

“’Tis better not,” said the old woman. “It be dangerous at times. There, child, I can tell thee no more to-day.”

“But tell me, mother, what can I do? Pray give me your help.”

“Help, child! How can I help thee?”

“It be all so true,” whispered Janet. “He loves me, and she has come between us, and I hate her. What shall I do?”

“Does she love him?”

“I think so. I don’t know.”

“What could I do to help her?” muttered Mother Goodhugh, as if communing with herself, but loud enough for the silly girl to hear. “I could give her a philtre that would turn her own love for this gallant to hate, and so comfort her poor suffering heart. See, child,” she said aloud, “I will give thee a potion that thou shalt take a little at a time in every meal; and, at the end of a week, thou shalt feel so strong a hatred of this lover of thine that thou shalt feel perfect rest. Will that do?”

“No, no!” cried Janet; “I don’t want to – Yes, yes!” she cried, as an idea seemed to flash across her brain, and Mother Goodhugh’s eyes sparkled as she saw how well her plans would be carried out by the foolish girl who, she felt sure, would administer the drops to Mace in place of to herself; and, going into the inner room, she remained away for some few minutes before returning to Janet, and, pressing a little bottle in her hand —

“Take that, child, but let no soul know whence thou hadst it.”

“Trust me for that, mother,” cried Janet, joyously. “What shall I pay you?”

“Pay me, child!” cried the old woman. “Nothing, dearie; I am no old money-getting witch, but a simple, decent woman, who does these things for love. There, dearie, give me a bonny kiss of those red lips, and go thy way; Mother Goodhugh will help thee again if thou should’st come.”

“But mother,” said Janet, glancing back at the door.

“Yes, child, yes?”

“Will this act quickly and soon?”

“Yes, child; why?”

Janet reddened and hesitated, while the old woman’s eyes seemed to search her through and through.

“Speak to me at once, child. But just as thou wilt, I can read thy thoughts, I know,” and she laughed maliciously.

“Oh, mother!” cried Janet, bursting into tears.

“I think thou hast been very wicked, Janet.”

“Nay, mother, I could not help it; I tried so hard to be good.”

“My duty should be to tell Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe.”

“Nay, nay, mother, he’d drive me hence, and Mas’ Peasegood would make me stand out before all the people in the church. Nay, good mother, give me something, pray. Sir Mark’s stout followers be rude wicked men. And Mas’ Wat Kilby, too,” she sobbed.

“I’ve given thee that which will help thee – I can do no more,” said Mother Goodhugh, sternly.

“Now thou’rt angered with me, mother,” pouted the girl. “I wish I had not come and told thee, that I do.”

“Tchah! she says, fold me,” laughed the old woman, “when I knew as well as all the world will soon know, Janet, an’ thou do not use my philtre.”

Janet turned pale.

“Pray forgive me, mother, I’ll use the drops.”

“Ay, go and use them, and through them win a husband, child. Then all will be well.”

“Yes, yes, mother!” cried Janet, eagerly.

“There, I forgive thee; but get thee a husband quick. Kiss me, child. Now go.”

The girl eagerly pressed her ripe red mouth to the pale and withered lips of the old woman, and then, after a glance outside to see that she was not watched, she hurried back towards the Pool, while Mother Goodhugh stood looking after her, and softly rubbed her hands.

“If aught should happen,” she muttered, “the girl dare not speak, for I gave her the stuff to take herself. It would be her doing, and the wedding would not take place. But what would Mistress Anne Beckley say?”

She stood thinking for a few minutes before she spoke again.

“Nothing. She dare say nothing. But I be a witch, be I, madam? Have a care, then, for thyself. If one of two people is to die, why should it be I? But we shall see, we shall see: there be time enough yet.”

End of Volume II

How the Witch said there should be no Wedding

“That Mother Goodhugh must have a care of herself,” said Sir Thomas a day or two later; and Anne let fall her work upon her knee to listen to her father’s words.

“And pray why?” said Dame Beckley, who was shaking up some strange infusion of herbs in a bottle.

“I hear strange things of her,” said Sir Thomas; “things that, as a justice, I shall be bound to stay.”

“And why?” said the dame, as she took out the stopper and had a long sniff at the contents of the bottle.

“Because they savour of witchcraft and the use of spells. His Majesty has opened a stem commission against such dealings, and as one whom he has delighted to honour I feel bound to show my zeal.”

“Fiddle-de-dee!” cried Dame Beckley; “show thy zeal by growing wiser, Thomas. Smell that!”

As the dame held the bottle beneath her lord’s nose, Anne glided out of the room, and made her way towards Mother Goodhugh’s cot, where she found the old woman ready to meet her with a suspicious look, and, with a feeling of gratified malice, told her of the words her father had let drop.

“But you could stay him, dearie,” said the old woman, with a look of terror which she could not conceal.

“Yes. But tell me – what have you done?”

“Wait, dearie, wait,” whispered the old woman. “The wedding will never be.”

“But it takes place in four days!” cried Anne. “Sir Mark actually dared to come over and tell my father.”

“And he told thee, dearie?”

“Nay, he told my mother, and she told me.”

“Four days,” said the old woman trembling; “four days. The time be short, but it will do. I tell thee the wedding will never be.”

“Can I believe thee this time, Mother Goodhugh?” cried the girl excitedly.

“Give me thy word as a lady, that I shall not be ill-treated by thy father and his people, and I swear to you the wedding shall never be.”

“There is my hand,” said Anne; and, as the old woman held it, there was a strange look on the girl’s face as she bent down and Mother Goodhugh whispered to her for a few minutes, after which she hurried from the cottage.

“And they call me witch, and think me ready to do any evil!” she muttered as she gazed after the girl; “while that young, fairly-formed creature has a heart full of devilry such as never entered mine. But it must be done – it must be done.”

She sat brooding over her cold hearth till evening: and then, as soon as it was dark, put on her cloak, took her stick, and walked cautiously to the Pool-house, where she succeeded in getting to the kitchen window unperceived, reaching in and touching Janet on the shoulder with her stick as she sat nodding near it in her chair.

The girl started, and as her eyes fell upon the face of the visitor her lips parted to utter a cry, but the peculiar look on the old woman’s face seemed to fascinate her, and she sat back gazing at her as Mother Goodhugh climbed in at the casement, and stood by her side.

“Wh-what do you want?” faltered the girl.

“I’ve come to see thee, dearie,” said the old woman, smiling. “I want to know how you be getting on.”

“But you must not stay here!” cried Janet, making an effort to recover herself. “If master knew he would drive me hence.”

“Go and tell him, then, child,” said Mother Goodhugh mockingly. “Go and tell him that Mother Goodhugh has come to ask thee about thy love affairs, and the philtre she gave thee. What? You will not? He, he, he, he! What a strange girl you are.”

“But you must not stay!” cried Janet in alarm. “If you were found here master would never forgive me.”

“He is sitting smoking and drinking in his parlour, dearie, and never comes this way after dark.”

“Yes, yes, he does!” cried the girl; “he comes sometimes to go down to the powder-cellar with a lantern.”

“What, through that door?” said Mother Goodhugh, pointing.

“Nay, nay! That be the beer cellar. That be the way to the powder-cellar,” she said, pointing to a massive door, down a couple of steps. “That be the first door, and there be another farther on at the end of the passage.”

“Lawk adear!” said Mother Goodhugh, “and aren’t you afraid, when they bring the stuff down?”

“They never bring it through here,” said the girl. “They let the little barrels down through a hole covered with a flat stone outside there amongst the trees, and master goes along with Tom Croftly to take it, in their slippers, and then comes back and locks it up.”

“Ay, and I’ll be bound to say always carries the keys in his pocket, eh!”

“No,” said the girl, shaking her head. “They hang on a nail in the passage by the door.”

“There, I don’t want to know about the powder, dearie,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “Oh, the horrible stuff! I always begin to curse when I hear it mentioned, so we won’t talk about it. I came to see you, and talk about love, and – ”

“But you mustn’t stop, indeed you mustn’t stop,” whispered Janet. “Suppose Mistress Mace should come?”

“But she won’t come, dearie. She’s in the corner of the parlour window with the handsome young spark from town.”

“How do you know?” cried Janet. “How do I know, child! He-he-he! Do you think there’s anything I don’t know? You came to me because I was the wise woman, eh?”

“Ye-es,” faltered the girl. “Well, didn’t you expect me to be wise, child, eh?”

Janet shrank as far away from her as she could, and stared at her, round of eye and parted of mouth.

“Look here, dearie,” whispered the old woman, “don’t try to deceive me. I’m such a good friend, but such a bad enemy. You wouldn’t like to make me angry, and set me cursing and ill-wishing you.”

“N-no,” faltered Janet, who began to be horribly frightened of the penetrating eyes that seemed to read her inmost thoughts.

“No, of course you would not. How often dids’t say Mas’ Cobbe went down into the powder-cellar?”

“Only once a month,” said the girl, “when they’ve finished working.”

“Then he’ll be going down directly?”

“Oh, no; they finished there last week, and it will be three weeks, just,” faltered Janet.

“Dear me, will it?” said the old woman. “But, as I was saying, it would be so horrible if I cursed you, though it is not me, my dear, but something in me that does it. It be an evil spirit,” she whispered, “and I’ve known girls as handsome as you lose their round, red cheeks, and soft, smooth skin, and their eyes have grown sunken, and their foreheads wrinkled. It be very horrible, my dear, but I couldn’t help it.”

Janet tried to get up and go away, but her visitor’s fierce, sharp eyes seemed to hold her back in her seat, a fact which Mother Goodhugh well knew and rejoiced in.

It was the only pleasure the old woman had, and she felt at times like this how it recompensed her for the dread she felt of the stringent laws. A curious smile played round her thin lips, and Janet shuddered as the old woman leaned forward till her face was close to that of her victim.

“How is the love going on, dearie?” she whispered.

“Don’t – ask – me,” faltered the girl.

“You didn’t take the stuff, dearie, to give yourself ease?”

“How – how did you know?”

“How did I know? He-he-he!” laughed the old woman, with a cacchination that was enough to freeze the girl’s blood. “I know, child, and you can’t deceive me. Why didn’t you take it?”

“I – I was afraid,” stammered Janet. “Mary Goodsell took some once, but it killed her and her baby too.”

“Afraid? Stuff! Afraid to give yourself ease when Mistress Mace was torturing you by her love-makings with the fine spark who played with you, and pretended to love you.”

“He didn’t pretend,” said the girl, indignantly. “He did love me till she came between.”

“Ah, yes, child, I suppose so; but she be a white witch and very strong, and she would come between and master him. She could lead him wherever she liked, and win him to love her with her spells. Don’t trouble your poor, dear heart about him any more, my child, but take the drops, and be happy.”

“I – I don’t think I dare,” faltered the girl.

“Dare? Pish! child, you be too brave and handsome a girl not to dare. It be a pity, too, that she should have come between,” said Mother Goodhugh, musingly. “Ah! I have known cases where handsome, noble gentlemen have come down into country places and seen village girls, not so beautiful as thou, child, and married them, and taken them away; and a few years after they have come back looking fine ladies, with their diamonds, and jewels, and carriages, and servants.”

Janet’s eyes sparkled as this indirect piece of flattery went on.

“I’ll take it,” she said hastily; “I’ll take it.”

“Take it? Of course you will, dearie!” cried Mother Goodhugh; “and now look here, my child. I want something of thine to complete a little spell I have at work. Thou hadst a ribbon round thy neck when thou earnest to me.”

“Yes,” said Janet, “a red one; Mas’ Wat Kilby gave it to me.”

“Nay, then, child, that will not do. I only want an inch cut from it by thy left hand; but if it be tainted by an old man’s love it would not do. Let me see. Thou hast not anything given thee by the young court gallant?”

“No,” said the girl. Then, with a hasty glance around, she whispered “I have a piece of lace he gave to Mistress Mace, and which she would not wear.”

“That will do, child; go, get me the tiniest scrap of that, and I will weave a spell that shall bring thee happiness and peace.”

Janet rose and opened the door, and listened.

“They be all in the room,” she whispered, as she closed the door again.

“That be well. Be quick, child, and let me get out of this place.”

“Thou wilt not move while I am gone.”

“Nay, nay, child, not I; but harkye, leave the door ajar while thou art gone up stairs, so that if I hear a step that be not thine I may flee.”

Janet looked doubtful for a moment, and then turned to go.

“I need not bring the whole piece?” she whispered.

“Faith, no, child; I’ll not rob you of it. The tiniest scrap be all I want. It must be something that the knight has touched.”

Janet nodded, and slipped out of the room, but ere she reached the staircase Mother Goodhugh was at the passage door listening; and, as the last stair creaked beneath the weak girl’s tread, the old woman had glided into the passage, peered about by the light of the rush-candle burning on a stand, and uttered a grunt of disappointment. The next moment, though, she saw what she wanted, in the shape of a couple of keys hanging high up, close to the ceiling; and, stepping on a chair, she just reached them, and, lightly crept back along the passage to sit down in the kitchen, panting from exertion and excitement combined.

Before she could compose herself Janet was back, too much excited herself to notice the old woman’s hurried breathings.