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Harvard College
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COLLECTION
OF
B R IT IS H A U T H () R. S.
WOL. 541.
LOIS THE WITCH AND OTHER TATES
E. C. GASKELL.
IN 0 N E W () I., U M E.


TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
MARY BARTON - - - - - - -
RUTH . . . . . . . . . . .
NORTH AND SOUTH . . . . .
LIZZIE LEIGH . . . . . . . .
THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ
SYLVIA'S LOVERS . . . . . .
A DARK NIGHT's work . . . .
WIVES AND DAUGHTERS . . . .
CRANFORD . . . . . . . . .
COUSIN PHILLIS AND OTHER TALES
in 1 vol.
in 2 vols.
in 1 vol.
in 1 vol.
in 2 vols.
in 2 vols.
in 1 vol.
in 3 vols.
in 1 vol.
in 1 vol.


L () IS THE WITCH
AND
0THER TALES,
BY
E, G, G A S K E L L,
AUTHoR of “MARY BARTON,” “THE LIFE of
CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ,” ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
-------
. . . .
- . . . . . . . . . .
L E 1 P z I G
B E H N H A R D TA U C H N I T Z.
1861. * * *


HARWARD COLLEGE LISRARY
BY EXCHANGE
JAN, 31, ºto


C O N T E N T S.
LOIS THE WITCH . . . . . . . - - - - - 1
THE GREY WOMAN . . . . . . . . . . 125
THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS . . . . . . . 203
THE HALF-BROTHERS . . . . . . . . . 255
THE CROOKED BRANCH - - - - - - - - 275





LOIS THE WITCH.





LOIS THE WITCH.
Waziq &– S rºº º
CHAPTER I. } !..." º ºg
^3 + ...º.º. tº
In the year 1691, Lois Barclay stood on a little
wooden pier, steadying herself on the stable land, in t
much the same manner as, eight or nine weeks ago,
she had tried to steady herself on the deck of the rock-
ing ship which had carried her across from Old to New
England. It seemed as strange now to be on solid earth
as it had been, not long ago, to be rocked by the sea,
both by day and by night; and the aspect of the land
was equally strange. The forests which showed in the
distance all round, and which, in truth, were not very
far from the wooden houses forming the town of Boston,
were of different shades of green, and different, too, in
shape of outline to those which Lois Barclay knew well
in her old home in Warwickshire. Her heart sank a
little as she stood alone, waiting for the captain of the
good ship Redemption, the kind, rough old sailor, who
was her only known friend in this unknown continent.
Captain Holdernesse was busy, however, as she saw,
and it would probably be some time before he would
be ready to attend to her; so Lois sat down on one of
the casks that lay about, and wrapped her grey duffle
cloak tight around her, and sheltered herself under her
hood, as well as might be, from the piercing wind,
Lois the Witch, etc.,


2 LOIS THE WITCH.
which seemed to follow those whom it had tyrannized
over at sea with a dogged wish of still tormenting them
on land. Very patiently did Lois sit there, although
she was weary, and shivering with cold; for the day
was severe for May, and the Redemption, with store
of necessaries and comforts for the Puritan colonists of
New England, was the earliest ship that had ventured
across the seas.
How could Lois help thinking of the past, and
speculating on the future, as she sat on Boston pier,
at this breathing-time of her life? In the dim seamist
which she gazed upon with aching eyes (filled, against
her will, with tears, from time to time), there rose the
little village church of Barford (not three miles from
Warwick — you may see it yet), where her father had
preached ever since 1661, long before she was born.
He and her mother both lay dead in Barford church-
. and the old low grey church could hardly come
before her vision without her seeing the old parsonage
too, the cottage covered with Austrian roses, and yellow
jessamine, where she had been born, sole child of
parents already long past the prime of youth. She saw
the path, not a hundred yards long, from the parsonage
to the vestry door: that path which her father trod
daily; for the vestry was his study, and the sanctum,
where he pored over the ponderous tomes of the Fathers,
and compared their precepts with those of the authorities
of the Anglican Church of that day — the day of the
later Stuarts; for Barford Parsonage at that time
scarcely exceeded in size and dignity the cottages by
which it was surrounded: it only contained three rooms
on a floor, and was but two stories high. On the first,
or ground floor, were the parlour, kitchen, and back or


LOIS THE WITCH. 8
working kitchen; up-stairs, Mr. and Mrs. Barclay's room,
that belonging to Lois, and the maid-servant's room.
If a guest came, Lois left her own chamber, and shared
old Clemence's bed. But those days were over. Never
more should Lois see father or mother on earth; they
slept, calm and still, in Barford churchyard, careless
of what became of their orphan child, as far a earthly
manifestations of care or love went. And Clemence
lay there too, bound down in her grassy bed by withes
of the briar-rose, which Lois had trained over those
three precious graves before leaving England for ever.
There were some who would fain have kept her
there; one who swore in his heart a great oath unto
the Lord that he would seek her sooner or later, if she
was still upon the earth. But he was the rich heir and
only son of the Miller Lucy, whose mill stood by the
Avon-side in the grassy Barford meadows, and his
father looked higher for him than the penniless daughter
of Parson Barclay (so low were clergymen esteemed in
those days!); and the very suspicion of Hugh Lucy's
attachment to Lois Barclay made his parents think it
more prudent not to offer the orphan a home, although
none other of the parishioners had the means, even if
they had the will, to do so.
So Lois swallowed her tears down till the time came
for crying, and acted upon her mother's words:
“Lois, thy father is dead of this terrible fever, and
I am dying. Nay, it is so, though I am easier from
pain for these few hours, the Lord be praised! The
cruel men of the Commonwealth have left thee very
friendless. Thy father's only brother was shot down
at Edgehill. I, too, have a brother, though thou hast
never heard me speak of him, for he was a schismatic;
~~
\
i
º
1*


4 LOIS THE WITCH.
and thy father and he had words, and he left for that
new country beyond the seas, without ever saying fare-
well to us. But Ralph was a kind lad until he took up
these new-fangled notions, and for the old days' sake
he will take thee in, and love thee as a child, and
place thee among his children. Blood is thicker than
water. Write to him as soon as I am gone — for Lois,
I am going — and I bless the Lord that has letten me
join my husband again so soon.” Such was the selfish-
mess of conjugal love; she thought little of Lois's de-
solation in comparison with her rejoicing over her
speedy reunion with her dead husband! “Write to thine
uncle, Ralph Hickson, Salem, New England (put it
down, child, on thy tablets), and say that I, Henrietta
Barclay, charge him, for the sake of all he holds dear
in heaven or on earth, – for his salvation's sake, as
well as for the sake of the old home at Lester-bridge,
— for the sake of the father and mother that gave us
birth, as well as for the sake of the six little children
who lie dead between him and me, – that he take thee
into his home as if thou wert his own flesh and blood,
as indeed thou art. He has a wife and children of his
own, and no one need fear having thee, my Lois, my
darling, my baby, among his household. Oh, Lois,
would that thou wert dying with me! The thought of
thee makes death sore!” Lois comforted her mother
more than herself, poor child, by promises to obey her
dying wishes to the letter, and by expressing hopes she
dared not feel of her uncle's kindness.
“Promise me” — the dying woman's breath came
harder and harder — “that thou wilt go at once. The
money our goods will bring — the letter thy father
wrote to Captain Holdernesse, his old schoolfellow —
*


LOIS THE WITCH. 5
thou knowest all I would say — my Lois, God bless
thee!”
Solemnly did Lois promise; strictly she kept her
word. It was all the more easy, for Hugh Lucy met
her, and told her, in one great burst of love, of his
passionate attachment, his vehement struggles with his
father, his impotence at present, his hopes and resolves
for the future. And, intermingled with all this, came
such outrageous threats and expressions of uncontrolled
vehemence, that Lois felt that in Barford she must not
linger to be a cause of desperate quarrel between father
and son, while her absence might soften down matters,
so that either the rich old miller might relent, or —
and her heart ached to think of the other possibility—
Hugh's love might cool, and the dear playfellow of her
childhood learn to forget. If not — if Hugh were to
be trusted in one tithe of what he said — God might
permit him to fulfil his resolve of coming to seek her
out before many years were over. It was all in God's
hands, and that was best, thought Lois Barclay.
She was roused out of her trance of recollections by
Captain Holdernesse, who, having done all that was
necessary in the way of orders and directions to his
mate, now came up to her, and, praising her for her
quiet patience, told her that he would now take her to
the Widow Smith's, a decent kind of house, where he
and many other sailors of the better order were in the
habit of lodging, during their stay on the New England
shores. Widow Smith, he said, had a parlour for her-
self and her daughters, in which Lois might sit, while
he went about the business that, as he had told her,
would detain him in Boston for a day or two, before
he could accompany her to her uncle's at Salem. All


6 LOIS THE WITCH.
this had been to a certain degree arranged on ship-
board; but Captain Holdernesse, for want of anything
else that he could think of to talk about, recapitulated
it as he and Lois walked along. It was his way of
showing sympathy with the emotion that made her
grey eyes full of tears, as she started up from the pier
at the sound of his voice. In his heart he said, “Poor
wench! poor wench! it's a strange land to her, and
they are all strange folks, and, I reckon, she will be
feeling desolate. I'll try and cheer her up.” So he
talked on about hard facts, connected with the life
that lay before her, until they reached Widow Smith's;
and perhaps Lois was more brightened by this style of
conversation, and the new ideas it presented to her,
than she would have been by the tenderest woman's
sympathy. -
“They are a queer set, these New Englanders,”
said Captain Holdernesse. “They are rare chaps for
praying; down on their knees at every turn of their
life. Folk are none so busy in a new country, else
they would have to pray like me, with a ‘Yo-hoy!' on
each side of my prayers, and a rope cutting like fire
through my hand. Yon pilot was for calling us all to
thanksgiving for a good voyage, and lucky escape from
the pirates; but I said I always put up my thanks on
dry land, after I had got my ship into harbour. The
French colonists, too, are vowing vengeance for the
expedition against Canada, and the people here are
raging like heathens — at least, as like as godly folk
can be — for the loss of their charter. All that is the
news the pilot told me; for, for all he wanted us to be
thanksgiving instead of casting the lead, he was as
down in the mouth as could be about the state of the


LOIS THE WITCH. 7
country. But here we are at Widow Smith's! Now,
cheer up, and show the godly a pretty smiling Warwick-
shire lass!” -
Anybody would have smiled at Widow Smith's
greeting. She was a comely, motherly woman, dressed
in the primmest fashion in vogue twenty years before,
in England, among the class to which she belonged.
But, somehow, her pleasant face gave the lie to her
dress; were it as brown and sober-coloured as could be,
folk remembered it bright and cheerful, because it was
a part of Widow Smith herself.
She kissed Lois on both cheeks, before she rightly
understood who the stranger maiden was, only because
she was a stranger, and looked sad and forlorn; and
then she kissed her again, because Captain Holder-
messe commended her to the widow's good offices.
And so she led Lois by the hand into her rough, sub-
stantial log-house, over the door of which hung a great.
bough of a tree, by way of sign of entertainment for
man and horse. Yet not all men were received by
Widow Smith. To some she could be as cold and
reserved as need be, deaf to all inquiries save one —
where else they could find accommodation? To this
question she would give a ready answer, and speed
the unwelcome guest on his way. Widow Smith was
guided in these matters by instinct: one glance at a
man's face told her whether or not she chose to have
him as an immate of the same house as her daughters;
and her promptness of decision in these matters gave
her manner a kind of authority which no one liked to
disobey, especially as she had stalwart neighbours within
call to back her, if her assumed deafness in the first
instance, and her voice and gesture in the second,


8 LOIS THE WITCH.
were not enough to give the would-be guest his dis-
missal. Widow Smith chose her customers merely by
their physical aspect; not one whit with regard to their
apparent worldly circumstances. Those who had been
staying at her house once, always came again, for she
had the knack of making every one beneath her roof
comfortable and at his ease. Her daughters, Prudence
and Hester, had somewhat of their mother's gifts, but
not in such perfection. They reasoned a little upon a
stranger's appearance, instead of knowing at the first
moment whether they liked him or no; they noticed
the indications of his clothes, the quality and cut
thereof, as telling somewhat of his station in society;
they were more reserved, they hesitated more than
their mother; they had not her prompt authority, her
happy power. Their bread was not so light, their
cream went sometimes to sleep when it should have
been turning into butter, their hams were not always
“just like the hams of the old country,” as their mother's
were invariably pronounced to be; yet they were good,
orderly, kindly girls, and rose and greeted Lois with a
friendly shake of the hand, as their mother, with her
arm round the stranger's waist, led her into the private
room which she called her parlour. The aspect of this
room was strange in the English girl's eyes. The logs
of which the house was built, showed here and there
through the mud plaster, although before both plaster
and logs were hung the skins of many curious animals,
— skins presented to the widow by many a trader of
her acquaintance, just as her sailor guests brought her
another description of gift — shells, strings of wam-
pumbeads, seabirds' eggs, and presents from the old
country. The room was more like a small museum of


LOIS THE WITCH. 9
natural history of these days than a parlour; and it
had a strange, peculiar, but not unpleasant smell about
it, neutralized in some degree by the smoke from the
enormous trunk of pinewood which smouldered on the
hearth.
The instant their mother told them that Captain
Holdernesse was in the outer room, the girls began
putting away their spinning-wheel and knitting-needles,
and preparing for a meal of some kind; what meal,
Lois, sitting there and unconsciously watching, could
hardly tell. First, dough was set to rise for cakes;
then came out of a corner cupboard — a present from
England — an enormous square bottle of a cordial
called Golden Wasser; next, a mill for grinding cho-
colate — a rare unusual treat anywhere at that time;
then a great Cheshire cheese. Three venison steaks
were cut ready for broiling, fat cold pork sliced up
and treacle poured over it, a great pie something like
a mince-pie, but which the daughters spoke of with
honour as the “punken-pie,” fresh and salt fish brand-
ered, oysters cooked in various ways. Lois wondered
where would be the end of the provisions for hospi-
tably receiving the strangers from the old country. At
length everything was placed on the table, the hot food
smoking; but all was cool, not to say cold, before
Elder Hawkins (an old neighbour of much repute
and standing, who had been invited in by Widow
Smith to hear the news) had finished his grace, into
which was embodied thanksgivings for the past and
prayers for the future lives of every individual present,
adapted to their several cases, as far as the elder could
guess at them from appearances. This grace might
not have ended so soon as it did, had it not been for


10 LOIS THE WITCH.
the somewhat impatient drumming of his knifehandle
on the table with which Captain Holdernesse accom-
panied the latter half of the elder's words.
When they first sat down to their meal, all were
too hungry for much talking; but as their appetites
diminished their curiosity increased, and there was much
to be told and heard on both sides. With all the Eng-
lish intelligence Lois was, of course, well acquainted;
but she listened with natural attention to all that was
said about the new country, and the new people among
whom she had come to live. Her father had been a
Jacobite, as the adherents of the Stuarts were begin-
ning at this time to be called. His father, again, had
been a follower of Archbishop Laud; so Lois had
hitherto heard little of the conversation, and seen little
of the ways of the Puritans. Elder Hawkins was one
of the strictest of the strict, and evidently his presence
kept the two daughters of the house considerably in
awe. But the widow herself was a privileged person;
her known goodness of heart (the effects of which had
been experienced by many) gave her the liberty of
speech which was tacitly denied to many, under penalty
of being esteemed ungodly if they infringed certain
conventional limits. And Captain Holdernesse and his
mate spoke out their minds, let who would be present.
So that on this first landing in New England, Lois
was, as it were, gently let down into the midst of the Pu-
ritan peculiarities, and yet they were sufficient to make
her feel very lonely and strange.
The first subject of conversation was the present
state of the colony – Lois soon found out that, al-
though at the beginning she was not a little perplexed
by the frequent reference to names of places which she


LOIS THE WITCH. 11
naturally associated with the old country. Widow
Smith was speaking: “In county of Essex the folk are
ordered to keep four scouts, or companies of minute-
men; six persons in each company; to be on the look-
out for the wild Indians, who are for ever stirring
about in the woods, stealthy brutes as they are! I am
sure, I got such a fright the first harvest-time after I
came over to New England, I go on dreaming, now
near twenty years after Lothrop's business, of painted
Indians, with their shaven scalps and their war-streaks,
lurking behind the trees, and coming nearer and nearer
with their noiseless steps.”
“Yes,” broke in one of her daughters; “and,
mother, don't you remember how Hannah Benson told
us how her husband had cut down every tree near his
house at Deerbrook, in order that no one might come
near him, under cover; and how one evening she was
a-sitting in the twilight, when all her family were
gone to bed, and her husband gone off to Plymouth on
business, and she saw a log of wood, just like a trunk
of a felled tree, lying in the shadow, and thought no-
thing of it, till, on looking again a while after, she
fancied it was come a bit nearer to the house, and how
her heart turned sick with fright, and how she dared
not stir at first, but shut her eyes while she counted a
hundred, and looked again, and the shadow was deeper,
but she could see that the log was nearer; so she ran
in and bolted the door, and went up to where her
eldest lad lay. It was Elijah, and he was but sixteen
then; but he rose up at his mother's words, and took
his father's long duck-gun down, and he tried the
loading, and spoke for the first time to put up a prayer
that God would give his aim good guidance, and went


12 LOIS THE WITCH.
to a window that gave a view upon the side where
the log lay, and fired, and no one dared to look what
came of it, but all the household read the Scriptures,
and prayed the whole night long, till morning came
and showed a long stream of blood lying on the grass
close by the log, which the full sunlight showed to be
no log at all, but just a Red Indian covered with bark,
and painted most skilfully, with his war-knife by his
side.”
All were breathless with listening, though to most
the story, or such like it, were familiar. Then another
took up the tale of horror:
“And the pirates have been down at Marblehead
since you were here, Captain Holdernesse. 'Twas
only the last winter they landed, – French Papist
pirates; and the people kept close within their houses,
for they knew not what would come of it; and they
dragged folk ashore. There was one woman among
those folk — prisoners from some vessel, doubtless —
and the pirates took them by force to the inland marsh;
and the Marblehead folk kept still and quiet, every
gun loaded, and every ear on the watch, for who knew
but what the wild sea-robbers might take a turn on
land next; and, in the dead of the night, they heard a
woman's loud and pitiful outcry from the marsh, “Lord
Jesu! have mercy on me! Save me from the power of
man, O Lord Jesu!’ And the blood of all who heard
the cry ran cold with terror, till old Nance Hickson,
who had been stone-deaf and bedridden for years, stood
up in the midst of the folk all gathered together in her
grandson's house, and said, that as they, the dwellers
in Marblehead, had not had brave hearts or faith
enough to go and succour the helpless, that cry of a


LOIS THE WITCH. 13
dying woman should be in their ears, and in their
children's ears, till the end of the world. And Nance
dropped down dead as soon as she had made an end
of speaking, and the pirates set sail from Marblehead
at morning dawn; but the folk there hear the cry still,
shrill and pitiful, from the waste marshes, ‘Lord Jesul
have mercy on me! Save me from the power of man,
O Lord Jesul”
“And by token,” said Elder Hawkins's deep bass. ”
voice, speaking with the strong nasal twang of the
Puritans (who, says Butler,
“Blasphemed custard through the nose),”
“godly Mr. Noyes ordained a fast at Marblehead, and
preached a soul-stirring discourse on the words, “Inas-
much as ye did it not unto one of the least of these,
my brethren, ye did it not unto me.' But it has been
borne in upon me at times, whether the whole vision of
the pirates and the cry of the woman was not a device
of Satan's to sift the Marblehead folk, and see what
fruit their doctrine bore, and so to condemn them in
the sight of the Lord. If it were so, the enemy had a
great triumph, for assuredly it was no part of Christian
men to leave a helpless woman unaided in her sore
distress"-
“But, Elder,” said Widow Smith, “it was no vision; ~
they were real living men who went ashore, men who >{
broke down branches and left their footmarks on the
ground.”
“As for that matter, Satan hath many powers, and
if it be the day when he is permitted to go about like
a roaring lion, he will not stick at trifles, but make his
work complete. I tell you, many men are spiritual


14 LOIS THE WITCH,
enemies in visible forms, permitted to roam about the
waste places of the earth. I myself believe that these
Red Indians are indeed the evil creatures of whom we
read in Holy Scripture; and there is no doubt that they
are in league with those abominable Papists, the
French people in Canada. I have heard tell, that the
French pay the Indians so much gold for every dozen
scalps off Englishmen's heads.”
“Pretty cheerful talk this,” said Captain Holder.
nesse to Lois, perceiving her blanched cheek and terror-
stricken mien. “Thou art thinking that thou hadst
better have stayed at Barford, I'll answer for it, wench.
But the devil is not so black as he is painted.”
“Ho! there again?” said Elder Hawkins. “The
devil is painted, it hath been said so from old times;
and are not these Indians painted, even like unto their
father?”
“But is it all true?” asked Lois, aside, of Captain
Holdernesse, letting the elder hold forth unheeded by
her, though listened to, however, with the utmost
reverence by the two daughters of the house.
“My wench,” said the old sailor, “thou hast come
to a country where there are many perils, both from
land and from sea. The Indians hate the white men.
Whether other white men” (meaning the French away
to the north) “have hounded on the savages, or whether
the English have taken their lands and hunting-grounds
without due recompense, and so raised the cruel venge
ance of the wild creatures — who knows? But it is
true that it is not safe to go far into the woods, for
fear of the lurking painted savages; nor has it been
safe to build a dwelling far from a settlement; and it
takes a brave heart to make a journey from one town


LOIS THE WITCH. • 15
to another, and folk do say the Indian creatures rise
up out of the very ground to waylay the English; and
then others affirm they are all in league with Satan to
affright the Christians out of the heathen country over
which he has reigned so long. Then, again, the sea-
shore is infested by pirates, the scum of all nations:
they land, and plunder, and ravage, and burn, and
destroy. Folk get affrighted of the real dangers, and
in their fright imagine, perchance, dangers that are
not. But who knows? Holy Scripture speaks of
witches and wizards, and of the power of the Evil One
in desert places; and even in the old country we have
heard tell of those who have sold their souls for ever
for the little power they get for a few years on earth.”
By this time the whole table was silent, listening to
the captain; it was just one of those chance silences
that sometimes occur, without any apparent reason, and
often without any apparent consequence. But all present
had reason, before many months had passed over, to
remember the words which Lois spoke in answer,
although her voice was low, and she only thought, in
the interest of the moment, of being heard by her old
friend the captain.
“They are fearful creatures, the witches! and yet
I am sorry for the poor old women, whilst I dread
them. We had one in Barford, when I was a little
child. No one knew whence she came, but she settled
herself down in a mud hut by the common side; and
there she lived, she and her cat.” (At the mention of
the cat, Elder Hawkins shook his head long and
gloomily.) “No one knew how she lived, if it were
not on nettles and scraps of oatmeal and such-like food
given her more for fear than for pity. She went double,


16 - Lois THE witch.
always talking and muttering to herself. Folk said she
snared birds and rabbits, in the thicket that came down
to her hovel. How it came to pass I cannot say, but
many a one fell sick in the village, and much cattle
died one spring, when I was near four years old. I
never heard much about it, for my father said it was ill
talking about such things; I only know I got a sick
fright one afternoon, when the maid had gone out for
milk and had taken me with her, and we were passing
a meadow where the Avon, circling, makes a deep
round pool, and there was a crowd of folk, all still —
and a still, breathless crowd makes the heart beat
worse than a shouting, noisy one. They were all
gazing towards the water, and the maid held me up in
her arms to see the sight above the shoulders of the
people; and I saw old Hannah in the water, her grey
hair all streaming down her shoulders, and her face
bloody and black with the stones and the mud they
had been throwing at her, and her cat tied round her
neck. I hid my face, I know, as soon as I saw the
fearsome sight, for her eyes met mine as they were
glaring with fury — poor, helpless, baited creature! —
and she caught the sight of me, and cried out, “Par-
son's wench, parson's wench, yonder, in thy nurse's
arms, thy dad hath never tried for to save me, and
none shall save thee when thou art brought up for a
witch.” Oh! the words rang in my ears, when I was
dropping asleep, for years after. I used to dream that
I was in that pond, all men hating me with their eyes
because I was a witch; and, at times, her black cat
used to seem living again, and say over those dreadful
words.” t
Lois stopped: the two daughters looked at her ex-


LOIS THE WITCH. 17
citement with a kind of shrinking surprise, for the
tears were in her eyes. Elder Hawkins shook his
head, and muttered texts from Scripture; but cheerful
Widow Smith, not liking the gloomy turn of the con-
versation, tried to give it a lighter cast by saying,
“And I don't doubt but what the parson's bonny lass
has bewitched many a one since, with her dimples and
her pleasant ways — eh, Captain Holdernesse? It's
you must tell us tales of this young lass's doings in
England.”
“Ay, ay,” said the captain, “there's one under her
charms in Warwickshire who will never get the better
of it, I’m thinking.”
Elder Hawkins rose to speak; he stood leaning on
his hands, which were placed on the table: “Brethren,”
said he, “I must upbraid you if ye speak lightly;
charms and witchcraft are evil things. I trust this
maiden hath had nothing to do with them, even in
thought. But my mind misgives me at her story.
The hellish witch might have power from Satan to in-
fect her mind, she being yet a child, with the deadly
sin. Instead of vain talking, I call upon you all to
join with me in prayer for this stranger in our land,
that her heart may be purged from all iniquity. Let
us pray.” -
“Come, there's no harm in that,” said the captain;
“but, Elder Hawkins, when you are at work, just pray
for us all, for I am afeard there be some of us need
purging from iniquity a good deal more than Lois
Barclay, and a prayer for a man never does mischief.”
Captain Holdernesse had business in Boston which
detained him there for a couple of days, and during
that time Lois remained with the Widow Smith, seeing
Lois the Witch, etc. 2


18 LOIS THE WITCH.
what was to be seen of the new land that contained
her future home. The letter of her dying mother was
sent off to Salem, meanwhile, by a lad going thither,
in order to prepare her Uncle Ralph Hickson for his
niece's coming, as soon as Captain Holdernesse could
find leisure to take her; for he considered her given
into his own personal charge, until he could consign
her to her uncle's care. When the time came for going
to Salem, Lois felt very sad at leaving the kindly
woman under whose roof she had been staying, and
looked back as long as she could see anything of
Widow Smith's dwelling. She was packed into a rough
kind of country cart, which just held her and Captain
Holdernesse, beside the driver. There was a basket
of provisions under their feet, and behind them hung
a bag of provender for the horse; for it was a good
day's journey to Salem, and the road was reputed so
dangerous that it was ill tarrying a minute longer than
necessary for refreshment. English roads were bad enough
at that period and for long after, but in America the way
was simply the cleared ground of the forest; the stumps of
the felled trees still remaining in the direct line, forming
obstacles, which it required the most careful driving to
avoid; and in the hollows, where the ground was
swampy, the pulpy nature of it was obviated by logs
of wood laid across the boggy part. The deep green
forest, tangled into heavy darkness even thus early in
the year, came within a few yards of the road all the
way, though efforts were regularly made by the inha-
bitants of the neighbouring settlements to keep a cer-
tain space clear on each side, for fear of the lurking
Indians, who might otherwise come upon them un-
awares. The cries of strange birds, the unwonted co-


LOIS THE WITCH. 19
lour of some of them, all suggested to the imaginative
or unaccustomed traveller the idea of war-whoops and
painted deadly enemies. But at last they drew near
to Salem, which rivalled Boston in size in those days,
and boasted the name of one or two streets, although
to an English eye they looked rather more like irregu-
larly built houses, clustered round the meeting-house,
or rather one of the meeting-houses, for a second was
in process of building. The whole place was surround-
ed with two circles of stockades; between the two
were the gardens and grazing ground for those who
dreaded their cattle straying into the woods, and the
consequent danger of reclaiming them.
The lad who drove them flogged his spent horse
into a trot, as they went through Salem to Ralph
Hickson's house. It was evening, the leisure time for
the inhabitants, and their children were at play before
the houses. Lois was struck by the beauty of one wee
toddling child, and turned to look after it; it caught
its little foot in a stump of wood, and fell with a cry
that brought the mother out in affright. As she ran
out, her eye caught Lois's anxious gaze, although the
noise of the heavy wheels drowned the sound of her
words of inquiry as to the nature of the hurt the child
had received. Nor had Lois time to think long upon
the matter, for the instant after, the horse was pulled
up at the door of a good, square, substantial wooden
house, plastered over into a creamy white, perhaps as
handsome a house as any in Salem; and there she was
told by the driver that her uncle, Ralph Hickson,
lived. In the flurry of the moment she did not notice,
but Captain Holdernesse did, that no one came out at
the unwonted sound of wheels, to receive and welcome
2%


20 LOIS THE WITCH.
her. She was lifted down by the old sailor, and led
into a large room, almost like the hall of some Eng-
lish manor-house as to size. A tall, gaunt young man
of three or four and twenty, sat on a bench by one of
the windows, reading a great folio by the fading light
of day. He did not rise when they came in, but look-
ed at them with surprise, no gleam of intelligence
coming into his stern, dark face. There was no woman
in the house-place. Captain Holdernesse paused a
moment, and then said:
“Is this house Ralph Hickson's?”
“It is,” said the young man, in a slow, deep voice.
But he added no word further. -
“This is his niece, Lois Barclay,” said the captain,
taking the girl's arm, and pushing her forwards. The
young man looked at her steadily and gravely for a
minute; then rose, and carefully marking the page in
the folio which hitherto had lain open upon his knee,
said, still in the same heavy, indifferent manner, “I
will call my mother, she will know.”
He opened a door which looked into a warm bright
kitchen, ruddy with the light of the fire over which
three women were apparently engaged in cooking
something, while a fourth, an old Indian woman, of a
greenish-brown colour, shrivelled up and bent with ap-
parent age, moved backwards and forwards, evidently
fetching the others the articles they required.
“Mother,” said the young man; and having ar-
rested her attention, he pointed over his shoulder to
the newly-arrived strangers, and returned to the study
of his book, from time to time, however, furtively
examining Lois from beneath his dark shaggy eye-
brows.


LOIS THE WITCH. 21
º
A tall, largely made woman, past middle life, came
in from the kitchen, and stood reconnoitring the
strangers.
Captain Holdernesse spoke.
“This is Lois Barclay, Master Ralph Hickson's
niece.” -
“I know nothing of her,” said the mistress of the
house, in a deep voice, almost as masculine as her
son's.
“Master Hickson received his sister's letter, did he
not? I sent it off myself by a lad named Elias Well-
come, who left Boston for this place yester morning.”
“Ralph Hickson has received no such letter. He
lies bedridden in the chamber beyond. Any letters
for him must come through my hands; wherefore I
can affirm with certainty that no such letter has been
delivered here. His sister Barclay, she that was Hen-
rietta Hickson, and whose husband took the oaths to
Charles Stuart, and stuck by his living when all godly
men left theirs—”
Lois, who had thought her heart was dead and
cold a minute before at the ungracious reception she
had met with, felt words come up into her mouth at
the implied insult to her father, and spoke out, to her
own and the captain's astonishment:
“They might be godly men who left their churches)
on that day of which you speak, madam; but they
alone were not the godly men, and no one has a right
to limit true godliness for mere opinion's sake.”
“Well said, lass,” spoke out the captain, looking
round upon her with a kind of admiring wonder, and
patting her on the back.
Lois and her aunt gazed into each other's eyes un-
y


22 LOIS THE WITCH.
flinchingly, for a minute or two of silence; but the girl
felt her colour coming and going, while the elder
woman's never varied; and the eyes of the young
maiden were filling fast with tears, while those of
Grace Hickson kept on their stare, dry and un-
wavering.
“Mother!” said the young man, rising up with a
quicker motion than any one had yet used in this
house, “it is ill speaking of such matters when my
cousin comes first among us. The Lord may give her
grace hereafter, but she has travelled from Boston city
to-day, and she and this seafaring man must need rest
and food.”
. He did not attend to see the effect of his words,
but sat down again, and seemed to be absorbed in his
book in an instant. Perhaps he knew that his word
was law with his grim mother, for he had hardly
ceased speaking before she had pointed to a wooden
settle; and smoothing the lines on her countenance,
she said, “What Manasseh says is true. Sit down
here, while I bid Faith and Nattee get food ready;
and meanwhile I will go tell my husband, that one
who calls herself his sister's child is come over to pay
him a visit.”
She went to the door leading into the kitchen, and
gave some directions to the elder girl, whom Lois now
knew to be the daughter of the house. Faith stood
impassive, while her mother spoke, scarcely caring to
look at the newly-arrived strangers. She was like her
brother Manasseh in complexion, but had handsomer
features, and large, mysterious-looking eyes, as Lois
saw, when once she lifted them up, and took in, as it
were, the aspect of the sea-captain and her cousin with


LOIS THE WITCH. 23
one swift searching look. About the stiff, tall, angular
mother, and the scarce less pliant figure of the daughter,
a girl of twelve years old, or there-abouts, played all
manner of impish antics, unheeded by them, as if it
were her accustomed habit to peep about, now under
their arms, now at this side, now at that, making grir
maces all the while at Lois and Captain Holdernesse,
who sat facing the door, weary, and somewhat disheart-
ened by their reception. The captain pulled out to-
bacco, and began to chew it by way of consolation;
but in a moment or two, his usual elasticity of spirit
came to his rescue, and he said in a low voice to
Lois:
“That scoundrel Elias, I will give it him! If the
letter had but been delivered, thou wouldst have had
a different kind of welcome; but as soon as I have
had some victuals, I will go out and find the lad, and
bring back the letter, and that will make all right, my
wench. Nay, don't be downhearted, for I cannot
stand women's tears. Thou'rt just worn out with the
shaking and the want of food.”
Lois brushed away her tears, and looking round to
try and divert her thoughts by fixing them on present
objects, she caught her cousin Manasseh's deep-set
eyes furtively watching her. It was with no unfriendly
gaze, yet it made Lois uncomfortable, particularly as
he did not withdraw his looks after he must have seen
that she observed him. She was glad when her aunt
called her into an inner room to see her uncle, and
she escaped from the steady observance of her gloomy,
silent cousin.
Ralph Hickson was much older than his wife, and
his illness made him look older still. He had never


24 LOIS THE WITCH.
had the force of character that Grace, his spouse, pos-
sessed, and age and sickness had now, rendered him
almost childish at times. But his nature was affec-
tionate, and stretching out his trembling arms from
where he lay bedridden, he gave Lois an unhesi-
tating welcome, never waiting for the confirmation of
the missing letter before he acknowledged her to be
his niece.
“Oh! 'tis kind in thee to come all across the sea
to make acquaintance with thine uncle; kind in Sister
Barclay to spare thee!”
Lois had to tell him that there was no one living
to miss her at home in England; that in fact she had
no home in England, no father nor mother left upon
earth; and that she had been bidden by her mother's
last words to seek him out, and ask him for a home.
Her words came up, half choked from a heavy heart,
and his dulled wits could not take their meaning in
without several repetitions; and then he cried like a
child, rather at his own loss of a sister, whom he had
not seen for more than twenty years, than at that of
the orphan's standing before him, trying hard not to
cry, but to start bravely in this new strange home.
What most of all helped Lois in her self-restraint was
her aunt's unsympathetic look. Born and bred in
New England, Grace Hickson had a kind of jealous
dislike to her husband's English relations, which had
increased since of late years his weakened mind yearned
after them, and he forgot the good reason he had had
for his self-exile, and moaned over the decision which
had led to it as the great mistake of his life. “Come,”
said she, “it strikes me that, in all this sorrow for the


LOIS THE WITCH. 25
loss of one who died full of years, ye are forgetting in
Whose hands life and death are!”
True words, but ill-spoken at that time. Lois
looked up at her with a scarcely disguised indigna-
tion; which increased as she heard the contemptuous
tone in which her aunt went on talking to Elias Hickson,
even while she was arranging his bed with a regard to
his greater comfort.
“One would think thou wert a godless man, by the
moan thou art always making over spilt milk; and
truth is, thou art but childish in thine old age. When
we were wed, thou left all things to the Lord; I would
never have married thee else. Nay, lass,” said she,
catching the expression on Lois's face, “thou art never
going to browbeat me with thine angry looks. I do
my duty as I read it, and there is never a man in
Salem that dare speak a word to Grace Hickson about
either her works or her faith. Godly Mr. Cotton
Mather hath said, that even he might learn of me;
and I would advise thee rather to humble thyself,
and see if the Lord may not convert thee from thy
ways, since he has sent thee to dwell, as it were, in
Zion, where the precious dew falls daily on Aaron's
beard.” *
Lois felt ashamed and sorry to find that her aunt
had so truly interpreted the momentary expression of
her features; she blamed herself a little for the feel-
ing that had caused that expression, trying to think
how much her aunt might have been troubled with
something before the unexpected irruption of the
strangers, and again hoping that the remembrance of
this little misunderstanding would soon pass away.
So she endeavoured to reassure herself, and not to give


26 LOIS THE WITCH.
way to her uncle's tender trembling pressure of her
hand, as, at her aunt's bidding, she wished him good
night, and returned into the outer, or “keeping”-room,
where all the family were now assembled, ready for the
meal of flour cakes and venison-steaks which Nattee,
the Indian servant, was bringing in from the kitchen.
No one seemed to have been speaking to Captain
Holdernesse while Lois had been away. Manasseh
sat quiet and silent where he did, with the book open
upon his knee, his eyes thoughtfully fixed on vacancy,
as if he saw a vision, or dreamed dreams. Faith stood
by the table, lazily directing Nattee in her prepara-
tions; and Prudence lolled against the door-frame,
between kitchen and keeping-room, playing tricks on
the old Indian woman as she passed backwards and
forwards, till Nattee appeared to be in a strong state
of expressed irritation, which she tried in vain to re-
press, as whenever she showed any sign of it, Prudence
only seemed excited to greater mischief. When all
was ready, Manasseh lifted his right hand, and “asked
a blessing,” as it was termed; but the grace became a
long prayer for abstract spiritual blessings, for strength
to combat Satan, and to quench his fiery darts, and at
length assumed, so Lois thought, a purely personal
character, as if the young man had forgotten the oc-
casion, and even the people present, but was searching
into the nature of the diseases that beset his own sick
soul, and spreading them out before the Lord. He
was brought back by a pluck at the coat from Prudence;
he opened his shut eyes, cast an angry glance at the
child, who made a face at him for sole reply, and then
he sat down, and they all fell to. Grace Hickson
would have thought her hospitality sadly at fault, if


LOIS THE WITCH. 27
she had allowed Captain Holdernesse to go out in
search of a bed. Skins were spread for him on the
floor of the keeping-room; a Bible, and a square bottle
of spirits were placed on the table, to supply his wants
during the night; and in spite of all the cares and
troubles, temptations, or sins of the members of that
household, they were all asleep before the town clock
struck ten.
In the morning, the captain's first care was to go
out in search of the boy Elias, and the missing letter.
He met him bringing it with an easy conscience, for,
thought Elias, a few hours sooner or later will make
no difference; to-night or the morrow morning will be
all the same. But he was startled into a sense of
wrong-doing by a sound box on the ear, from the very
man who had charged him to deliver it speedily, and
whom he believed to be at that very moment in Boston
city.
The letter delivered, all possible proof being given
that Lois had a right to claim a home from her nearest
relations, Captain Holdernesse thought it best to take
leave.
“Thou'lt take to them, lass, maybe, when there is
no one here to make thee think on the old country.
Nay, nay! parting is hard work at all times, and best
get hard work done out of hand. Keep up thine heart,
my wench, and I'll come back and see thee next spring,
if we are all spared till then; and who knows what
fine young miller mayn't come with me? Don't go
and get wed to a praying Puritan, meanwhile. There,
there — I’m off! God bless thee!”
And Lois was left alone in New England.


28 LOIS THE WITCH.
CHAPTER II.
It was hard up-hill work for Lois to win herself a
place in this family. Her aunt was a woman of
narrow, strong affections. Her love for her husband,
if ever she had any, was burnt out and dead long ago.
What she did for him she did from duty; but duty
was not strong enough to restrain that little member
the tongue; and Lois's heart often bled at the con-
tinual flow of contemptuous reproof which Grace con-
stantly addressed to her husband, éven while she was
sparing no pains or trouble to minister to his bodily
ease and comfort. It was more as a relief to herself
that she spoke in this way, than with any desire that
her speeches should affect him; and he was too
deadened by illness to feel hurt by them; or, it may
be, the constant repetition of her sarcasms had made
him indifferent; at any rate, so that he had his food
and his state of bodily warmth attended to, he very
seldom seemed to care much for anything else. Even
his first flow of affection towards Lois was soon ex-
hausted; he cared for her because she arranged his
pillows well and skilfully, and because she could pre-
pare new and dainty kinds of food for his sick ap-
petite, but no longer for her as his dead sister's child.
Still he did care for her, and Lois was too glad of
this little hoard of affection to examine how or why it
was given. To him she could give pleasure, but ap-
parently to no one else in that household. Her aunt
looked askance at her for many reasons: the first
coming of Lois to Salem was inopportune, the ex-
pression of disapprobation on her face on that evening


LOIS THE WITCH. 29
still lingered and rankled in Grace's memory; early
prejudices and feelings, and prepossessions of the
English girl were all on the side of what would now
be called Church and State, what was then esteemed
in that country a superstitious observance of the direc-
tions of a Popish rubric, and a servile regard for the
family of an oppressing and irreligious king. Nor is
it to be supposed that Lois did not feel, and feel
acutely, the want of sympathy that all those with
whom she was now living manifested towards the old
hereditary loyalty (religious as well as political loyalty)
in which she had been brought up. With her aunt
and Manasseh it was more than want of sympathy;
it was positive, active antipathy to all the ideas Lois
held most dear. The very allusion, however incident-
ally made, to the little old grey church at Barford,
where her father had preached so long, — the occasional
reference to the tróubles in which her own country had
been distraeted when she left, — and the adherence, in) ,
which she had been brought up, to the notion that the
kin ld do no wrong, seemed to irritate Manasseh º
past endurance. e would get up from his reading, *
his constant employment when at home, and walk
angrily about the room after Lois had said anything
of this kind, muttering to himself; and once he had
even stopped before her, and in a passionate tone bade
her not talk so like a fool. Now this was very dif-
ferent to his mother's sarcastic, contemptuous way of
treating all poor Lois's little loyal speeches. Grace
would lead her on — at least she did at first, till ex-
perience made Lois wiser — to express her thoughts on
such subjects, till, just when the girl's heart was open-
ing, her aunt would turn round upon her with some


30 LOIS THE WITCH.
bitter sneer that roused all the evil feelings in Lois's
disposition by its sting. Now Manasseh seemed, through
all his anger, to be so really grieved by what he con-
sidered her error, that he went much nearer to con-
vincing her that there might be two sides to a question.
only this was a view, that it appeared like treachery
to her dead father's memory to entertain.
Somehow, Lois felt instinctively that Manasseh was
really friendly towards her. He was little in the
house; there was farming, and some kind of mercantile
business to be transacted by him, as real head of the
house; and as the season drew on, he went shooting
and hunting in the surrounding forests, with a daring
which caused his mother to warn and reprove him in
private, although, to the neighbours she boasted largely
of her son's courage and disregard of danger. Lois
did not often walk out for the mere sake of walking,
there was generally some household errand to be trans-
acted when any of the women of the family went
abroad; but once or twice she had caught glimpses of
the dreary, dark wood, hemming in the cleared land on
all sides, – the great wood with its perpetual move-
ment of branch and bough, and its solemn wail, that
came into the very streets of Salem when certain winds
blew, bearing the sound of the pine-trees clear upon
the ears that had leisure to listen. And from all ac-
counts, this old forest, girdling round the settlement,
was full of dreaded and mysterious beasts, and still
more to be dreaded Indians, stealing in and out among
the shadows, intent on bloody schemes against the
Christian people; panther-streaked, shaven Indians, in
league by their own confession, as well as by the po-
pular belief, with evil powers.


LOIS THE WITCH. 31
Nattee, the old Indian servant, would occasionally
make Lois's blood run cold as she and Faith and
Prudence listened to the wild stories she told them of
the wizards of her race. It was often in the kitchen,
in the darkening evening, while some cooking process
was going on, that the old Indian crone, sitting on her
haunches by the bright red wood embers which sent
up no flame, but a lurid light reversing the shadows of
all the faces around, told her weird stories while they
were awaiting the rising of the dough, perchance, out
of which the household bread had to be made. There
ran through these stories *...*. unexpressed
suggestion of some human sacrifice being needed to
complete the success of any incantation to the Evil
One; and the poor old creature, herself believing and
shuddering as she narrated her tale in broken English,
took a strange, unconscious pleasure in her power over
her hearers — young girls of the oppressing º
which had brought her down into a state little differ-
ing from slavery, and reduced her people to outcasts
on the hunting-grounds which had belonged to her fathers.
After such tales, it required no small effort on Lois's
part to go out, at her aunt's command, into the com-
mon pasture round the town, and bring the cattle home
at night. Who knew but what the double-headed
snake might start up from each blackberry-bush—that
wicked, cunning, accursed creature in the service of
the Indian wizards, that had such power over all those
white maidens who met the eyes placed at either end
of his long, sinuous, creeping body, so that loathe him,
loathe the Indian race as they would, off they must go
into the forest to seek out some Indian man, and must
* * * *


32 LOIS THE WITCH.
beg to be taken into his wigwam, ahjuring faith and
race for ever? Or there were spells — so Nattee said
— hidden about the ground by the wizards, which
changed that person's nature who found them; so that,
gentle and loving as they might have been before,
thereafter they took no pleasure but in the cruel tor-
ments of others, and had a strange power given to
them of causing such torments at their will. Once
Nattee, speaking low to Lois, who was alone with her
in the kitchen, whispered out her terrified belief that
such a spell had Prudence found; and when the In-
dian showed her arms to Lois, all pinched black and
blue by the impish child, the English girl began to be
afraid of her cousin as of one possessed. But it was not
Nattee alone, nor young imaginative girls alone, that be-
lieved in these stories. We can afford to smile at them now;
but our English ancestors entertained superstitions of
much the same character at the same period, and with
less excuse, as the circumstances surrounding them
were better known, and consequently more explicable
by common sense than the real mysteries of the deep,
untrodden forests of New England. The gravest
divines not only believed stories similar to that of the
double-headed serpent, and other tales of witchcraft,
but they made such narrations the subjects of preach-
ing and prayer; and as cowardice makes us all cruel,
men who were blameless in many of the relations of
life, and even praiseworthy in some, became, from
superstition, cruel persecutors about this time, showing
no mercy towards any one whom they believed to be
in league with the Evil One.
Faith was the person with whom the English girl


LOIS THE WITCH. 33
was the most intimately associated in her uncle's
house. The two were about the same age, and cer-
tain household employments were shared between them.
They took it in turns to call in the cows, to make up
the butter which had been churned by Hosea, a stiff
old out-door servant, in whom Grace Hickson placed
great confidence; and each lassie had her great spin-
ning-wheel for wool, and her lesser for flax, before a
month had elapsed after Lois's coming. Faith was a
grave, silent person, never merry, sometimes very sad,
though Lois was a long time in even guessing why.
She would try in her sweet, simple fashion to cheer
her cousin up, when the latter was depressed, by telling
her old stories of English ways and life. Occasionally,
Faith seemed to care to listen, occasionally she did not
heed one word, but dreamed on. Whether of the past
or of the future, who could tell? -
Stern old ministers came in to pay their pastoral
visits. On such occasions, Grace Hickson would put
on clean apron and clean cap, and make them more
welcome than she was ever seen to do any one else,
bringing out the best provisions of her store, and
setting of all before them. Also, the great Bible was
brought forth, and Hosea and Nattee summoned from
their work to listen while the minister read a chapter,
and, as he read, expounded it at considerable length.
After this all knelt, while he, standing, lifted up his
right hand, and prayed for all possible combinations of
Christian men, for all possible cases of spiritual need;
and lastly, taking the individuals before him, he would
put up a very personal supplication for each, accord-
ing to his notion of their wants.) At first Lois wondered
at the aptitude of . of his prayers of this de-
Luis the Witch, etc. 3


34 LOIS THE WITCH.
/
|
scription to the outward circumstances of each case;
but when she perceived that her aunt had usually a
pretty long confidential conversation with the minister
in the early part of his visit, she became aware that
he received both his impressions and his knowledge
through the medium of “that godly woman, Grace
Hickson;” and I am afraid she paid less regard to the
prayer “for the maiden from another land, who hath
brought the errors of that land as a seed with her,
even across the great ocean, and who is letting even
now the little seeds shoot up into an evil tree, in which
all unclean creatures may find shelter.”
“I like the prayers of our Church better,” said
Lois, one day to Faith. “No clergyman in England
can pray his own words, and therefore it is that he
cannot judge of others so as to fit his prayers to what
he esteems to be their case, as Mr. Tappau did this
morning.”
“I hate Mr. Tappaul” said Faith, shortly, a pas-
sionate flash of light coming out of her dark, heavy
eVeS.
ye. Why so, cousin? It seems to me as if he were a
good man, although I like not his prayers.”
Faith only repeated her words, “I hate him.”
Lois was sorry for this strong bad feeling; in-
stinctively sorry, for she was loving herself, delighted
in being loved, and felt a jar run through her at every
sign of want of love in others. But she did not know
what to say, and was silent at the time. Faith, too,
went on turning her wheel with vehemence, but spoke
never a word until her thread snapped, and then she
pushed the wheel away hastily and left the room.
Then Prudence, crept softly up to Lois's side. This


LOIS THE WITCH. 35
strange child seemed to be tossed about by varying
moods: to-day she was caressing and communicative,
to-morrow she might be deceitful, mocking, and so in-
different to the pain or sorrows of others that you
could call her almost inhuman.
“So thou dost not like Pastor Tappau's prayers?”
she whispered.
Lois was sorry to have been overheard, but she
neither would nor could take back her words.
“I like them not so well as the prayers I used to
hear at home.”
“Mother says thy home was with the ungodly.
Nay, don't look at me so — it was not I that said it.
I'm none so fond of praying myself, nor of Pastor
Tappau for that matter. But Faith cannot abide him,
and I know why. Shall I tell thee, cousin Lois?”
“No! Faith did not tell me, and she was the right
person to give her own reasons.”
“Ask her where young Mr. Nolan is gone to, and
thou wilt hear. I have seen Faith cry by the hour
together about Mr. Nolan.”
“Hush, child, hush!” said Lois, for she heard
Faith's approaching step, and feared lest she should
overhear what they were saying.
The truth was that, a year or two before, there had
been a great struggle in Salem village, a great division
in the religious body, and Pastor Tappau had been the
leader of the more violent, and, ultimately, the suc-
cessful party. In consequence of this, the less popular
minister, Mr. Nolan, had had to leave the place. And
him Faith Hickson loved with all the strength of her
passionate heart, although he never was aware of the
attachment he had excited, and her own family were
3%


36 LOIS THE WITCH.
too regardless of manifestations of mere feeling to ever
observe the signs of any emotion on her part. But the
old Indian servant Nattee saw and observed them all.
She knew, as well as if she had been told the reason,
why Faith had lost all care about father or mother,
brother and sister, about household work and daily
occupation, nay, about the observances of religion as
well. Nattee read the meaning of the deep smoulder-
ing of Faith's dislike to Pastor Tappau aright; the
Indian woman understood why the girl (whom alone of
all the white people she loved) avoided the old minister,
— would hide in the wood-stack sooner than be called
in to listen to his exhortations and prayers. With
savage, untutored people, it is not “Love me, love my
dog,” they are often jealous of the creature beloved;
but it is, “Whom thou hatest I will hate;” and Nattee's
feeling towards Pastor Toppau was even an exaggera-
tion of the mute, unspoken hatred of Faith.
For a long time, the cause of her cousin's dislike
and avoidance of the minister was a mystery to Lois;
but the name of Nolan remained in her memory whether
she would or no, and it was more from girlish interest
in a suspected love affair, than from any indifferent
and heartless curiosity, that she could not help piecing
together little speeches and actions, with Faith's inter-
est in the absent banished minister, for an explanatory
clue, till not a doubt remained in her mind. And this
without any further communication with Prudence, for
Lois declined hearing any more on the subject from
her, and so gave deep offence.
Faith grew sadder and duller as the autumn drew
on. She lost her appetite, her brown complexion be-
came sallow and colourless, her dark eyes looked hol-


+,OIS THE WITCH. 37
low and wild. The first of November was near at hand.
Lois, in her instinctive, well-intentioned efforts to bring
some life and cheerfulness into the monotonous house-
hold, had been telling Faith of many English customs,
silly enough, no doubt, and which scarcely lighted up
a flicker of interest in the American girl's mind. The
cousins were lying awake in their bed in the great un-
plastered room, which was in part store-room, in part
bedroom. Lois was full of sympathy for Faith that
night. For long she had listened to her cousin's heavy,
irrepressible sighs, in silence. Faith sighed because
her grief was of too old a date for violent emotion or
crying. Lois listened without speaking in the dark,
quiet night hours, for a long, long time. She kept
quite still, because she thought such vent for sorrow
might relieve her cousin's weary heart. But when at
length, instead of lying motionless, Faith seemed to be
growing restless even to convulsive motions of her limbs,
Lois began to speak, to talk about England, and the
dear old ways at home, without exciting much attention
on Faith's part, until at length she fell upon the subject
of Hallow-e'en, and told about customs then and long
afterwards practised in England, and that have scarcely
yet died out in Scotland. As she told of tricks she had
often played, of the apple eaten facing a mirror, of the
dripping sheet, of the basins of water, of the nuts burn-
ing side by side, and many other such innocent ways
of divination, by which laughing, trembling English
maidens sought to see the form of their future husbands,
if husbands they were to have, then Faith listened
breathlessly, asking short, eager questions, as if some
ray of hope had entered into her gloomy heart. Lois
went on speaking, telling her of all the stories that


38 LOIS THE WITCH.
would confirm the truth of the second sight vouchsafed
to all seekers in the accustomed methods, half believ-
ing, half incredulous herself, but desiring, above all
things, to cheer up poor Faith.
Suddenly, Prudence rose up from her truckle-bed
in the dim corner of the room. They had not thought
that she was awake, but she had been listening long.
“Cousin Lois may go out and meet Satan by the
brook-side if she will, but if thou goest, Faith, I will
tell mother — ay, and I will tell Pastor Tappau, too.
Hold thy stories, Cousin Lois, I am afeard of my very
life. I would rather never be wed at all, than feel the
touch of the creature that would take the apple out of
my hand, as I held it over my left shoulder.” The
excited girl gave a loud scream of terror at the image
her fancy had conjured up. Faith and Lois sprang
out towards her, flying across the moonlit room in their
white nightgowns. At the same instant, summoned by
the same cry, Grace Hickson came to her child.
“Hush! hush!” said Faith, authoritatively.
“What is it, my wench?” asked Grace. While
Lois, feeling as if she had done all the mischief, kept
silence.
“Take her away, take her away!” screamed Pru-
dence. “Look over her shoulder — her left shoulder —
the Evil One is there now, I see him stretching over for
the half-bitten apple.”
“What is this she says?” said Grace, austerely.
“She is dreaming,” said Faith; “Prudence, hold
thy tongue.” And she pinched the child severely, while
Lois more tenderly tried to soothe the alarms she felt
that she had conjured up.


LOIS THE WITCH. 39
“Be quiet, Prudence,” said she, “and go to sleep.
I will stay by thee till thou hast gone off into slumber.”
“No, no! go away,” sobbed Prudence, who was
really terrified at first, but was now assuming more
alarm than she felt, from the pleasure she received at
perceiving herself the centre of attention. “Faith shall
stay by me, not you, wicked English witch!”
So Faith sat by her sister; and Grace, displeased
and perplexed, withdrew to her own bed, purposing to
inquire more into the matter in the morning. Lois
only hoped it might all be forgotten by that time, and
resolved never to talk again of such things. But an
event happened in the remaining hours of the night to
change the current of affairs. While Grace had been
absent from her room, her husband had had another
paralytic stroke: whether he, too, had been alarmed
by that eldritch scream no one could ever know. By
the faint light of the rush candle burning at the bed-
side, his wife perceived that a great change had taken
place in his aspect on her return: the irregular breath-
ing came almost like snorts — the end was drawing
near. The family were roused, and all help given that
either the doctor or experience could suggest. But
before the late November morning light, all was ended
for Ralph Hickson.
The whole of the ensuing day, they sat or moved
in darkened rooms, and spoke few words, and those
below their breath. Manasseh kept at home, regretting
his father, no doubt, but showing little emotion. Faith
was the child that bewailed her loss most grievously;
she had a warm heart, hidden away somewhere under
her moody exterior, and her father had shown her far
more passive kindness than ever her mother had done,


40 LOIS THE WITCH.
for Grace made distinct favourites of Manasseh, her
only son, and Prudence, her youngest child. Lois was
about as unhappy as any of them, for she had felt
strongly drawn towards her uncle as her kindest friend,
and the sense of his loss renewed the old sorrow she
had experienced at her own parents' death. But she
had no time and no place to cry in. On her devolved
many of the cares, which it would have seemed inde-
corous in the nearer relatives to interest themselves in
enough to take an active part: the change required in
their dress, the household preparations for the sad feast
of the funeral — Lois had to arrange all under her
aunt's stern direction.
But a day or two afterwards — the last day before
the funeral — she went into the yard to fetch in some
fagots for the oven; it was a solemn, beautiful, starlit
evening, and some sudden sense of desolation in the
midst of the vast universe thus revealed touched Lois's
heart, and she sat down behind the woodstack, and
cried very plentiful tears.
She was startled by Manasseh, who suddenly turned
the corner of the stack, and stood before her.
“Lois crying!”
“Only a little,” she said, rising up, and gathering
her bundle of fagots, for she dreaded being questioned
by her grim, impassive cousin. To her surprise, he
laid his hand on her arm, and said:
“Stop one minute. Why art thou crying, cousin?”
“I don't know,” she said, just like a child questioned
in like manner; and she was again on the point of
weeping.
“My father was very kind to thee, Lois; I do not
wonder that thou grievest after him. But the Lord


LOIS THE WITCH. 41
who taketh away can restore tenfold. I will be as kind
as my father — yea, kinder. This is not a time to
talk of marriage and giving in marriage. But after we
have buried our dead, I wish to speak to thee.”
Lois did not cry now, but she shrank with affright.
What did her cousin mean? She would far rather that
he had been angry with her for unreasonable grieving,
for folly.
She avoided him carefully — as carefully as she
could, without seeming to dread him — for the next
few days. Sometimes she thought it must have been
a bad dream; for if there had been no English lover in
the case, no other man in the whole world, she could
never have thought of Manasseh as her husband; in-
deed, till now, there had been nothing in his words or
actions to suggest such an idea. Now it had been sug-
gested, there was no telling how much she loathed him.
He might be good, and pious — he doubtless was —
but his dark fixed eyes, moving so slowly and heavily,
his lank black hair, his grey coarse skin, all made her
dislike him now — all his personal ugliness and un-
gainliness struck on her senses with a jar, since those
few words spoken behind the haystack.
She knew that sooner or later the time must come
for further discussion of this subject; but, like a coward,
she tried to put it off, by clinging to her aunt's apron-
string, for she was sure that Grace Hickson had far
different views for her only son. As, indeed, she had,
for she was an ambitious, as well as a religious woman;
and by an early purchase of land in Salem village, the
Hicksons had become wealthy people, without any
great exertions of their own; partly, also, by the silent
process of accumulation, for they had never cared to


42 LOIS THE WITCH.
change their manner of living from the time when it
had been suitable to a far smaller income than that
which they at present enjoyed. So much for worldly
circumstances. As for their worldly character, it stood
as high. No one could say a word against any of their
habits or actions. The righteousness and godliness
were patent to every one's eyes. So Grace Hickson
thought herself entitled to pick and choose among the
maidens, before she should meet with one fitted to be
Manasseh's wife. None in Salem came up to her
imaginary standard. She had it in her mind even at
this very time — so soon after her husband's death —
to go to Boston, and take counsel with the leading
ministers there, with worthy Mr. Cotton Mather at their
head, and see if they could tell her of a well-favoured
and godly young maiden in their congregations worthy
of being the wife of her son. But, besides good looks
and godliness, the wench must have good birth, and
good wealth, or Grace Hickson would have put her
contemptuously on one side. When once this paragon
was found, and the ministers had approved, Grace an-
ticipated no difficulty on her son's part. So Lois was
right in feeling that her aunt would dislike any speech
of marriage between Manasseh and herself.
But the girl was brought to bay one day in this
wise. Manasseh had ridden forth on some business,
which every one said would occupy him the whole day;
but, meeting the man with whom he had to transact
his affairs, he returned earlier than any one expected.
He missed Lois from the keeping-room where his
sisters were spinning, almost immediately. His mother
sat by at her knitting — he conld see Nattee in the
kitchen through the open door. He was too reserved


LOIS THE WITCH. 43
to ask where Lois was, but he quietly sought till he
found her—in the great loft, already piled with winter
stores of fruit and vegetables. Her aunt had sent her
there to examine the apples one by one, and pick out
such as were unsound, for immediate use. She was
stooping down, and intent upon this work, and was
hardly aware of his approach, until she lifted up her
head and saw him standing close before her. She
dropped the apple she was holding, went a little paler
than her wont, and faced him in silence.
“Lois,” he said, “thou rememberest the words that
I spoke while we yet mourned over my father. I think
that I am called to marriage now, as the head of this
household. And I have seen no maiden so pleasant in
my sight as thou art, Lois!” He tried to take her
hand. But she put it behind her with a childish shake
of her head, and, half-crying, said:
“Please, Cousin Manasseh, do not say this to me.
I dare say you ought to be married, being the head of
the household now; but I don't want to be married. I
would rather not.”
“That is well spoken,” replied he, frowning a little,
nevertheless. “I should not like to take to wife an
over-forward maiden, ready to jump at wedlock. Be-
sides, the congregation might talk, if we were to be
married too soon after my father's death. We have,
perchance, said enough, even now. But I wished thee
to have thy mind set at ease as to thy future well-
doing. Thou wilt have leisure to think of it, and to
bring thy mind more fully round to it.” Again he
held out his hand. This time she took hold of it with
a free, frank gesture.
“I owe you somewhat for your kindness to me


44 LOIS THE WITCH.
ever since I came, Cousin Manasseh; and I have no
way of paying you but by telling you truly I can love
you as a dear friend, if you will let me, but never as
a wife.”
He flung her hand away, but did not take his eyes
off her face, though his glance was lowering and
gloomy. He muttered something which she did not
quite hear, and so she went on bravely although she
kept trembling a little, and had much ado to keep
from crying. -
“Please let me tell you all. There was a young
man in Barford — nay, Manasseh, I cannot speak if
you are so angry; it is hard work to tell you any how
— he said that he wanted to marry me; but I was
poor, and his father would have none of it, and I do
not want to marry any one; but if I did, it would
be ——.” Her voice dropped, and her blushes told
the rest. Manasseh stood looking at her with sullen,
hollow eyes, that had a gathering touch of wildness in
them, and then he said:
“It is borne in upon me — verily I see it as in a
vision — that thou must be my spouse, and no other
man's. Thou canst not escape what is foredoomed.
Months ago, when I set myself to read the old godly
books in which my soul used to delight until thy com-
ing, I saw no letters of printers' ink marked on the
page, but I saw a gold and ruddy type of some un-
known language, the meaning whereof was whispered
into my soul; it was, “Marry Lois! marry Lois!” And
when my father died, I knew it was the beginning of
the end. It is the Lord's will, Lois, and thou canst
not escape from it.” And again he would have taken


LOIS THE WITCH, 45
her hand and drawn her towards him. But this time
she eluded him with ready movement.
“I do not acknowledge it to be the Lord's will,
Manasseh,” said she. “It is not ‘borne in upon me,’
as you Puritans call it, that I am to be your wife. I
am none so set upon wedlock as to take you, even
though there be no other chance for me. For I do not
care for you as I ought to care for my husband. But
I could have cared for you very much as a cousin –
as a kind cousin.”
She stopped speaking; she could not choose the
right words with which to speak to him of her grati-
tude and friendliness, which yet could never be any
feeling nearer and dearer, no more than two parallel
lines can ever meet.
But he was so convinced, by what he considered
the spirit of prophecy, that Lois was to be his wife,
that he felt rather more indignant at what he con-
sidered to be her resistance to the preordained decree,
than really anxious as to the result. Again he tried to
convince her that neither he nor she had any choice in
the matter, by saying:
“The voice said unto me “Marry Lois, and I said,
“I will, Lord.’”
“But,” Lois replied, “the voice, as you call it, has
never spoken such a word to me.”
“Lois,” he answered, solemnly, “it will speak.
And then wilt thou obey, even as Samuel did?”
“No; indeed I cannot!” she answered, briskly.
“I may take a dream to be truth, and hear my own
fancies, if I think about them too long. But I cannot
marry any one from obedience.”
“Lois, Lois, thou art as yet unregenerate; but I
...A" -
ºw /
- 3. *
~) y'


46 LOIS THE WITCh.
have seen thee in a vision as one of the elect, robed in
white. As yet thy faith is too weak for thee to obey
meekly, but it shall not always be so. I will pray that
thou mayest see thy preordained course. Meanwhile,
I will smooth away all worldly obstacles.”
“Cousin Manasseh! Cousin Manasseh!” cried Lois
after him, as he was leaving the room, “come back. I
cannot put it in strong enough words. Manasseh, there
is no power in heaven or earth that can make me love
thee enough to marry thee, or to wed thee without such
love. And this I say solemnly, because it is better
that this should end at once.”
For a moment he was staggered; then he lifted up
his hands, and said,
“God forgive thee thy blasphemy! Remember
Hazael, who said, ‘Is thy servant a dog, that he should
do this great thing?” and went straight and did it, be-
cause his evil courses were fixed and appointed for him
from before the foundation of the world. And shall
not thy paths be laid out among the godly as it hath
been foretold to me?”
He went away; and for a minute or two Lois felt
as if his words must come true, and that, struggle as
she would, hate her doom as she would, she must be-
come his wife; and, under the circumstances, many a
girl would have succumbed to her apparent fate. Iso-
lated from all previous connections, hearing no word
from England, living in the heavy, monotonous routine
of a family with one man for head, and this man es-
teemed a hero by most of those around him, simply
because he was the only man in the family, - these
facts alone would have formed strong presumptions that
most girls would have yielded to the offers of such a


LOIS THE WITCH. 47
one. But, besides this, there was much to tell upon the
imagination in those days, in that place, and time. It
was prevalently believed that there were manifestations
of spiritual influence — of the direct influence both of
good and bad spirits — constantly to be perceived in
the course of men's lives. Lots were drawn, as guid-
ance from the Lord; the Bible was opened, and the
leaves allowed to fall apart, and the first text the eye
fell upon was supposed to be appointed from above as
a direction. Sounds were heard that could not be ac-
counted for; they were made by the evil spirits not yet
banished from the desert places of which they had so
long held possession. Sights, inexplicable and mys-
terious, were dimly seen — Satan, in some shape, seek-
ing whom he might devour. And at the beginning
of the long winter season, such whispered tales, such
old temptations and hauntings, and devilish terrors,
were supposed to be peculiarly rife. Salem was, as it
were, snowed up, and left to prey upon itself. The
long, dark evenings, the dimly-lighted rooms, the creak-
ing passages, where heterogeneous articles were piled
away out of reach of the keen-piercing frost, and where
occasionally, in the dead of night, a sound was heard,
as of some heavy falling body, when, next morning,
everything appeared to be in its right place — so ac-
customed are we to measure noises by comparison with
themselves, and not with the absolute stillness of the
night-season — the white mist, coming nearer and
nearer to the windows every evening in strange shapes,'
like phantoms, – all these, and many other circum-
stances, such as the distant fall of mighty trees in the ',
mysterious forests girdling them round, the faint whoop
and cry of some Indian seeking his camp, and un-


48 LOIS THE WITCH.
wittingly nearer to the white men's settlement than
either he or they would have liked could they have
chosen, the hungry yells of the wild beasts approaching
the cattle-pens, – these were the things which made
that winter life in Salem, in the memorable time of
1691-2, seem strange, and haunted, and terrific to many:
peculiarly weird and awful to the English girl in her
first year's sojourn in America.
And now imagine Lois worked upon perpetually by
Manasseh's conviction that it was decreed that she
should be his wife, and you will see that she was not
without courage and spirit to resist as she did, steadily,
firmly, and yet sweetly. Take one instance out of
many, when her nerves were subjected to a shock,
slight in relation it is true, but then remember that she
had been all day, and for many days, shut up within
doors, in a dull light, that at mid-day was almost
dark with a long-continued snow-storm. Evening was
coming on, and the wood fire was more cheerful than
any of the human beings surrounding it; the monoto-
nous whirr of the smaller spinning-wheels had been
going on all day, and the store of flax down stairs was
nearly exhausted, when Grace Hickson bade Lois
fetch down some more from the store-room, before the
light so entirely waned away that it could not be found
without a candle, and a candle it would be dangerous
to carry into that apartment full of combustible mate-
rials, especially at this time of hard frost, when every
drop of water was locked up and bound in icy hard-
ness. So Lois went, half-shrinking from the long pas-
sage that led to the stairs leading up into the store-
room, for it was in this passage that the strange night
sounds were heard, which every one had begun to


LOIS THE WITCH. 49
notice, and speak about in lowered tones. She sang,
however, as she went, “to keep her courage up” –
sang, however, in a subdued voice, the evening hymn
she had so often sung in Barford church —
“Glory to Thee, my God, this night —”
and so it was, I suppose, that she never heard the
breathing or motion of any creature near her till, just
as she was loading herself with flax to carry down,
she heard some one — it was Manasseh — say close
to her ear:
“Has the voice spoken yet? Speak, Lois! Has
the voice spoken yet to thee — that speaketh to me
day and night, “Marry Lois?”
She started and turned a little sick, but spoke al-
most directly in a brave, clear manner:
“No! Cousin Manasseh. And it never will.”
“Then I must wait yet longer,” he replied,
hoarsely, as if to himself. “But all submission — all
submission.”
At last a break came upon the monotony of the
long, dark winter. The parishioners once more raised
the discussion whether — the parish extending as it
did — it was not absolutely necessary for Pastor
Tappau to have help. This question had been mooted
once before; and then Pastor Tappau had acquiesced
in the necessity, and all had gone on smoothly for
some months after the appointment of his assistant,
until a feeling had sprung up on the part of the elder
minister, which might have been called jealousy of the
younger, if so godly a man as Pastor Tappau could
have been supposed to entertain so evil a passion.
Lois the Witch, etc. - 4


50 LOIS THE WITCH.
However that might be, two parties were speedily
formed, the younger and more ardent being in favour
of Mr. Nolan, the elder and more persistent — and,
at the time, the more numerous — clinging to the old
grey-headed, dogmatic Mr. Tappau, who had married
them, baptized their children, and was to them literally
as a “pillar of the church.” So Mr. Nolan left Salem,
carrying away with him, possibly, more hearts than
that of Faith Hickson's; but certainly she had never
been the same creature since.
But now — Christmas, 1691 — one or two of the
older members of the congregation being dead, and
some who were younger men having come to settle in
Salem — Mr. Tappau being also older, and, some
charitably supposed, wiser — a fresh effort had been
made, and Mr. Nolan was returning to labour in ground
apparently smoothed over. Lois had taken a keen
interest in all the proceedings for Faith's sake, – far
more than the latter did for herself, any spectator
would have said. Faith's wheel never went faster or
slower, her thread never broke, her colour never came,
her eyes were never uplifted with sudden interest, all
the time these discussions respecting Mr. Nolan's return
were going on. But Lois, after the hint given by
Prudence, had found a clue to many a sigh and look
of despairing sorrow, even without the help of Nattee's
improvised songs, in which, under strange allegories,
the helpless love of her favourite was told to ears
heedless of all meaning, except those of the tender-
hearted and sympathetic Lois. Occasionally, she heard
a strange chant of the old Indian woman's — half in
her own language, half in broken English — droned
over some simmering pipkin, from which the smell


LOIS THE WITCH. 51
was, to say the least, unearthly. Once, on perceiving
this odour in the keeping-room, Grace Hickson sud-
denly exclaimed —
“Nattee is at her heathen ways again; we shall
have some mischief unless she is stayed.”
But Faith, moving quicker than ordinary, said
something about putting a stop to it, and so forestalled
her mother's evident intention of going into the kitchen.
Faith shut the door between the two rooms, and entered
upon some remonstrance with Nattee; but no one could
hear the words used. Faith and Nattee seemed more
bound together by love and common interest, than any
other two among the self-contained individuals com-
prising this household. Lois sometimes felt as if her
presence as a third interrupted some confidential talk
between her cousin and the old servant. And yet she
was fond of Faith, and could almost think that Faith
liked her more than she did either mother, brother, or
sister; for the first two were indifferent as to any
unspoken feelings, while Prudence delighted in dis-
covering them only to make an amusement to herself
out of them.
One day Lois was sitting by herself at her sewing-
table, while Faith and Nattee were holding one of the
secret conclaves from which Lois felt herself to be
tacitly excluded, when the outer door opened, and a
tall, pale young man, in the strict professional habit of
a minister, entered. Lois sprang up with a smile and
a look of welcome for Faith's sake, for this must be
the Mr. Nolan whose name had been on the tongue of
every one for days, and who was, as Lois knew, ex-
pected to arrive the day before.
He seemed half surprised at the glad alacrity with
4%


52 - - - LOIS THE WITCH.
which he was received by this stranger: possibly he
had not heard of the English girl, who was an inmate
in the house where formerly he had seen only grave,
solemn, rigid, or heavy faces, and had been received
with a stiff form of welcome, very different from the
blushing, smiling, dimpled looks that innocently met
him with the greeting almost of an old acquaintance.
Lois having placed a chair for him, hastened out to
call Faith, never doubting but that the feeling which
her cousin entertained for the young pastor was mutual,
although it might be unrecognised in its full depth by
either.
“Faith!” said she, bright and breathless. “Guess
No,” checking herself to an assumed unconscious-
ness of any particular importance likely to be affixed
to her words, “Mr. Nolan, the new pastor, is in the
keeping-room. He has asked for my aunt and Ma-
nasseh. My aunt is gone to the prayer meeting at
Pastor Tappau's, and Manasseh is away.” Lois went
on speaking to give Faith time, for the girl had be-
come deadly white at the intelligence, while, at the
same time, her eyes met the keen, cunning eyes of the
old Indian with a peculicr look of half-wondering awe,
while Nattee's looks expressed triumphant satisfaction.
“Go,” said Lois, smoothing Faith's hair, and kissing
the white, cold cheek, “or he will wonder why no one
comes to see him, and perhaps think he is not wel-
come.” Faith went without another word into the
keeping-room, and shut the door of communication.
Nattee and Lois were left together. Lois felt as happy
as if some piece of good fortune had befallen herself.
For the time, her growing dread of Manasseh's wild,
ominous persistence in his suit, her aunt's coldness,


54 LOIS THE WITCH.
present; and here was he, a young pastor, alone with
a young woman, and he thought — vain thoughts, per-
haps, but still very natural — that the implied guesses
at her character, involved in the minute supplications
above described, would be very awkward in a tête-à-tête
prayer; so, whether it was his wonder or his perplexity,
I do not know, but he did not contribute much to the
conversation for some time, and at last, by a sudden
burst of courage and impromptu hit, he cut the Gordian
knot by making the usual proposal for prayer, and
adding to it a request that the household might be
summoned. In came Lois, quiet and decorous; in
came Nattee, all one impassive, stiff piece of wood,
— no look of intelligence or trace of giggling near
her countenance. Solemnly recalling each wandering
thought, Pastor Nolan knelt in the midst of these three
to pray. He was a good and truly religious man,
whose name here is the only thing disguised, and
played his part bravely in the awful trial to which he
was afterwards subjected; and if at the time, before
he went through his fiery persecutions, the human
fancies which beset all young hearts came across his,
we at this day know that these fancies are no sin. But
now he prays in earnest, prays so heartily for himself,
with such a sense of his own spiritual need and spiritual
failings, that each one of his hearers feels as if a prayer
and a supplication had gone up for each of them.
Even Nattee muttered the few words she knew of the
Lord's Prayer; gibberish though the disjointed nouns
and verbs might be, the poor creature said them
because she was stirred to unwonted reverence. As
for Lois, she rose up comforted and strengthened, as
no special prayers of Pastor Tappau had ever made


LOIS THE WITCH. 55
her feel. But Faith was sobbing, sobbing aloud,
almost hysterically, and made no effort to rise, but lay
on her outstretched arms spread out upon the settle.
Lois and Pastor Nolan looked at each other for an
instant. Then Lois said: ,
“Sir, you must go. My cousin has not been strong
for some time, and doubtless she needs more quiet
than she has had to-day.”
Pastor Nolan bowed, and left the house; but in a
moment he returned. Half, opening the door, but
without entering, he said:
“I come back to ask, if perchance I may call this
evening to inquire how young Mistress Hickson finds
herself?”
But Faith did not hear this; she was sobbing
louder than ever.
“Why did you send him away, Lois? I should
have been better directly, and it is so long since I
have seen him.”
She had her face hidden as she uttered these words,
and Lois could not hear them distinctly. She bent
her head down by her cousin's on the settle, meaning
to ask her to repeat what she had said. But in the
irritation of the moment, and prompted possibly by
some incipient jealousy, Faith pushed Lois away so
violently that the latter was hurt against the hard,
sharp corner of the wooden settle. Tears came into
her eyes; not so much because her cheek was bruised,
as because of the surprised pain she felt at this repulse
from the cousin towards whom she was feeling so
warmly and kindly. Just for the moment, Lois was
as angry as any child could have been; but some of
the words of Pastor Nolan's prayer yet rang in her


56 LOIS THE WITCH.
ears, and she thought it would be a shame if she did
not let them sink into her heart. She dared not, how-
ever, stoop again to caress Faith, but stood quietly by
her, sorrowfully waiting, until a step at the outer door
caused Faith to rise quickly, and rush into the kitchen,
leaving Lois to bear the brunt of the new-comer. It
was Manasseh, returned from hunting. He had been
two days away, in company with other young men be-
longing to Salem. It was almost the only occupation
which could draw him out of his secluded habits. He
stopped suddenly at the door on seeing Lois, and
alone, for she had avoided him of late in every possible
WaV.
“Where is my mother?”
“At a prayer meeting at Pastor Tappau's. She
has taken Prudence. Faith has left the room this
minute. I will call her.” And Lois was going towards
the kitchen, when he placed himself between her and
the door.
“Lois,” said he, “the time is going by, and I cannot
wait much longer. The visions come thick upon me,
and my sight grows clearer and clearer. Only this
last night, camping out in the woods, I saw in my soul,
between sleeping and waking, the spirit come and offer
thee two lots, and the colour of the one was white, like
a bride's, and the other was black and red, which is,
being interpreted, a violent death. And when thou
didst choose the latter the spirit said unto me, ‘Come!'
and I came, and did as I was bidden. I put it on
thee with mine own hands, as it is preordained, if
thou wilt not hearken unto the voice and be my wife.
And when the black and red dress fell to the ground,
thou wert even as a corpse three days old. Now, be


LOIS THE WITCH. 57
advised, Lois, in time. Lois, my cousin, I have seen
it in a vision, and my soul cleaveth unto thee — I
would fain spare thee.”
He was really in earnest — in passionate earnest;
whatever his visions, as he called them, might be, he
believed in them, and this belief gave something of
unselfishness to his love for Lois. This she felt at this
moment, if she had never done so before, and it seemed
like a contrast to the repulse she had just met with
from his sister. He had drawn near her, and now he
took hold of her hand, repeating in his wild, pathetic,
dreamy way:
“And the voice said unto me, “Marry Lois!”
And Lois was more inclined to soothe and reason with
him than she had ever been before, since the first time
of his speaking to her on the subject, — when Grace
Hickson and Prudence entered the room from the
passage. They had returned from the prayer meeting
by the back way, which had prevented the sound of
their approach from being heard.
But Manasseh did not stir or look round; he kept
his eyes fixed on Lois, as if to note the effect of his
words. Grace came hastily forwards, and lifting up
her strong right arm, smote their joined hands in
twain, in spite of the fervour of Manasseh's grasp.
“What means this?” said she, addressing herself
more to Lois than to her son, anger flashing out of her
deep-set eyes.
Lois waited for Manasseh to speak. He seemed,
but a few minutes before, to be more gentle and less
threatening than he had been of late on this subject,
and she did not wish to irritate him. But he did not


58 LOIS THE WITCH.
speak, and her aunt stood angrily waiting for an
anSWer.
“At any rate,” thought Lois, “it will put an end
to the thought in his mind when my aunt speaks out
about it.” -
“My cousin seeks me in marriage,” said Lois.
“Thee!” and Grace struck out in the direction of
her niece with a gesture of supreme contempt. But
now Manasseh spoke forth:
“Yea! it is preordained. The voice has said it,
and the spirit has brought her to me as my bride.”
“Spirit! an evil spirit then. A good spirit would
have chosen out for thee a godly maiden of thine own
people, and not a prelatist and a stranger like this
girl. A pretty return, Mistress Lois, for all our
kindness.”
“Indeed, Aunt Hickson, I have done all I could —
Cousin Manasseh knows it — to show him I can be
none of his. I have told him,” said she, blushing, but
determined to say the whole out at once, “that I am
all but troth-plight to a young man of our own village
at home; and, even putting all that on one side, I
wish not for marriage at present.”
“Wish rather for conversion and regeneration.
Marriage is an unseemly word in the mouth of a
maiden. As for Manasseh, I will take reason with
him in private; and, meanwhile, if thou hast spoken
truly, throw not thyself in his path, as I have noticed
thou hast done but too often of late.”
Lois's heart burnt within her at this unjust accusa-
tion, for she knew how much she had dreaded and
avoided her cousin, and she almost looked to him to
give evidence that her aunt's last words were not true.


LOIS THE WITCH. 59
But, instead, he recurred to his one fixed idea, and
said: -
“Mother, listen! If I wed not Lois, both she and
I die within the year. I care not for life; before this,
as you know, I have sought for death” (Grace shud-
dered, and was for a moment subdued by some recol-
lection of past horror); “but if Lois were my wife I
should live, and she would be spared from what is the
other lot. That whole vision grows clearer to me day
by day. Yet, when I try to know whether I am one
of the elect, all is dark. The mystery of Free-Will
and Fore-Knowledge is a mystery of Satan's devising,
not of God’s.”
“Alas, my son! Satan is abroad among the breth-
ren even now; but let the old vexed topics rest.
Sooner than fret thyself again, thou shalt have Lois to
be thy wife, though my heart was set far differently
for thee.”
“No, Manasseh,” said Lois. “I love you well as
a cousin, but wife of yours I can never be. Aunt
Hickson, it is not well to delude him so. I say, if
ever I 1.1arry man, I am troth-plight to one in Eng-
land.”
“Tush, child! I am your guardian in my dead
husband's place. Thou thinkest thyself so great a prize
that I would clutch at thee whether or no, I doubt
not. I value thee not, save as a medicine for Mamas-
seh, if his mind get disturbed again, as I have noted
signs of late.”
This, then, was the secret explanation of much that
had alarmed her in her cousin's manner: , and if Lois
had been a physician of modern times, she might have
traced somewhat of the same temperament in his sisters


60 LOIS THE WITCH.
as well — in Prudence's lack of natural feeling and
impish delight in mischief, in Faith's vehemence of un-
requited love. But as yet Lois did not know, any
more than Faith, that the attachment of the latter to
Mr. Nolan was not merely unreturned, but even unper-
ceived, by the young minister.
He came, it is true, – came often to the house,
sat long with the family, and watched them narrowly,
but took no especial notice of Faith. Lois perceived
this and grieved over it; Nattee perceived it, and was
indignant at it, long before Faith slowly acknow-
ledged it to herself, and went to Nattee the Indian wo-
man, rather than to Lois her cousin, for sympathy and
counsel.
“He cares not for me,” said Faith. “He cares
more for Lois's little finger than for my whole body,”
the girl moaned uot in the bitter pain of jealousy.
“Hush thee, hush thee, prairie bird! How can he
build a nest, when the old bird has got all the moss
and the feathers? Wait till the Indian has found
means to send the old bird flying far away.” This
was the mysterious comfort Nattee gave.
Grace Hickson took some kind of charge over
Manasseh that relieved Lois of much of her distress
at his strange behaviour. Yet at times he escaped
from his mother's watchfulness, and in such opportu-
nities he would always seek Lois, entreating her,
as of old, to marry him — sometimes pleading his
love for her, oftener speaking wildly of his visions
and the voices which he heard foretelling a terrible
futurity.
We have now to do with events which were taking
place in Salem, beyond the narrow circle of the Hick-


LOIS THE WITCH. 61
son family; but as they only concern us in as far as
they bore down in their consequences on the future of
those who formed part of it, I shall go over the narra-
tive very briefly. The town of Salem had lost by
death, within a very short time preceding the com-
mencement of my story, nearly all its venerable men
and leading citizens — men of ripe wisdom and sound
counsel. The people had hardly yet recovered from
the shock of their loss, as one by one the patriarchs of
the primitive little community had rapidly followed
each other to the grave. They had been beloved as
fathers, and looked up to as judges in the land. The
first bad effect of their loss was seen in the heated dis-
sension which sprang up between Pastor Tappau and
the candidate Nolan. It had been apparently healed
over; but Mr. Nolan had not been many weeks in Sa-
lem, after his second coming, before the strife broke
out afresh, and alienated many for life who had till
then been bound together by the ties of friendship or
relationship. Even in the Hickson family something
of this feeling soon sprang up; Grace being a vehe-
ment partisan of the elder pastor's more gloomy doc-
trines, while Faith was a passionate, if a powerless,
advocate of Mr. Nolan. Manasseh's growing absorp-
tion in his own fancies, and imagined gift of prophecy,
making him comparatively indifferent to all outward
events, did not tend to either the fulfilment of his vi-
sions, or the elucidation of the dark mysterious doc-
trines over which he had pondered too long for the
health either of his mind or body; while Prudence
delighted in irritating every one by her advocacy of
the views of thinkiug to which they were most opposed,
and retailing every gossiping story to the person most


62 LOIS THE WITCH.
likely to disbelieve, and be indignant at what she told,
with an assumed unconsciousness of any such effect to
be produced. There was much talk of the congrega-
tional difficulties and dissensions being carried up to
the general court, and each party naturally hoped that,
if such were the course of events, the opposing pastor
and that portion of the congregation which adhered to
him might be worsted in the struggle.
Such was the state of things in the township when,
one day towards the end of the month of February,
Grace Hickson returned from the weekly prayer meet-
ing, which it was her custom to attend at Pastor Tap-
pau's house, in a state of extreme excitement. On her
entrance into her own house she sat down, rocking her
body backwards and forwards, and praying to herself:
both Faith and Lois stopped their spinning, in wonder
at her agitation, before either of them ventured to ad-
dress her. At length Faith rose, end spoke:
“Mother, what is it? Hath anything happened of
an evil nature?”
The brave, stern, old woman's face was blenched,
and her eyes were almost set in horror, as she prayed;
the great drops running down her cheeks.
It seemed almost as if she had to make a struggle
to recover her sense of the present homely accustomed
life, before she could find words to answer:
“Evil nature! Daughters, Satan is abroad, - is
close to us. I have this very hour seen him afflict two
innocent children, as of old he troubled those who were
possessed by him in Judea. Hester and Abigail Tap-
pau have been contorted and convulsed by him and
his servants into such shapes as I am afeared to think
on; and when their father, godly Mr. Tappau, began


LOIS THE WITCH. 63
to exhort and to pray, their howlings were like the
wild beasts' of the field. Satan is of a truth let loose
amongst us. The girls kept calling upon him as if he
were even then present among us. Abigail screeched
out that he stood at my very back in the guise of a
black man; and truly, as I turned round at her words,
I saw a creature like a shadow vanishing, and turned
all of a cold sweat. Who knows where he is now?
Faith, lay straws across on the door-sill.”
“But if he be already entered in,” asked Prudence,
“may not that make it difficult for him to depart?”
Her mother, taking no notice of her question, went
on rocking herself, and praying, till again she broke
out into narration:
“Reverend Mr. Tappau says, that only last night
he heard a sound as of a heavy body dragged all
through the house by some strong power; once it was
thrown against his bedroom door, and would, doubtless,
have broken it in, if he had not prayed fervently and
aloud at that very time; and a shriek went up at his
prayer that made his hair stand on end; and this morn-
ing all the crockery in the house was found broken
and piled up in the middle of the kitchen floor; and
Pastor Tappau says, that as soon as he began to ask
a blessing on the morning's meal, Abigail and Hester
cried out, as if some one was pinching them. Lord,
have mercy upon us all! Satan is of a truth let
loose.” -
“They sound like the old stories I used to hear in
Barford,” said Lois, breathless with affright.
Faith seemed less alarmed; but then her dislike to
Pastor Tappau was so great, that she could hardly


64 LOIS THE WITCH.
sympathise with any misfortunes that befel him or his
family. -
Towards evening Mr. Nolan came in. In general,
so high did party spirit run, Grace Hickson only to-
lerated his visits, finding herself often engaged at such
hours, and being too much abstracted in thought to
show him the ready hospitality which was one of her
most prominent virtues. But to-day, both as bringing
the latest intelligence of the new horrors sprung up in
Salem, and as being one of the Church militant (or
what the Puritans considered as equivalent to the Church
militant) against Satan, he was welcomed by her in an
unusual manner.
He seemed oppressed with the occurrences of the
day: at first it appeared to be almost a relief to him
to sit still, and cogitate upon them, and his hosts were
becoming almost impatient for him to say something
more than mere monosyllables, when he began:
“Such a day as this, I pray that I may never see
again. It is as if the devils whom our Lord banished
into the herd of swine, had been permitted to come
again upon the earth. And I would it were only the
lost spirits who were tormenting us; but I much fear,
that certain of those whom we have esteemed as God's
people have sold their souls to Satan, for the sake of a
little of his evil power, whereby they may afflict others
for a time. Elder Sherringham hath lost this very day
a good and valuable horse, wherewith he used to drive
his family to meeting, his wife being bedridden.”
“Perchance,” said Lois, “the horse died of some
natural disease.”


LOIS THE WITCH. 65
“True,” said Pastor Nolan; “but I was going on
to say, that as he entered into his house, full of dolour
at the loss of his beast, a mouse ran in before him so
sudden that it almost tripped him up, though an instant
before there was no such thing to be seen; and he
caught at it with his shoe and hit it, and it cried out
like a human creature in pain, and straight ran up the
chimney, caring nothing for the hot flame and smoke.”
Manasseh listened greedily to all this story, and
when it was ended he smote upon his breast, and prayed
aloud for deliverance from the power of the Evil One;
and he continually went on praying at intervals through
the evening, with every mark of abject terror on his
face and in his manner — he, the bravest, most daring
hunter in all the settlement. Indeed, all the family
huddled together in silent fear, scarcely finding any
interest in the usual household occupations. Faith and
Lois sat with arms entwined, as in days before the
former had become jealous of the latter; Prudence
asked low, fearful questions of her mother and of the
pastor as to the creatures that were abroad, and the
ways in which they afflicted others; and when Grace
besought the minister to pray for her and her house-
hold, he made a long and passionate supplication that
none of that little flock might ever so far fall away into
hopeless perdition as to be guilty of the sin without
forgiveness — the Sin of Witchcraft.
Lois the Witch, cte. 5


66 LOIS THE WITCH,
CHAPTER III.
“THE sin of witchcraft.” We read about it, we
look on it from the outside; but we can hardly realize
the terror it induced. Every impulsive or unaccustomed
action, every little nervous affection, every ache or
pain was noticed, not merely by those around the
sufferer, but by the person himself, whoever he might
be, that was acting, or being acted upon, in any but
the most simple and ordinary manner. He or she
(for it was most frequently a woman or girl that was
the supposed subject) felt a desire for some unusual
kind of food — some unusual motion or rest — her hand
twitched, her foot was asleep, or her leg had the
cramp; and the dreadful question immediately sug-
gested itself, “Is any one possessing an evil power over
me, by the help of Satan?” and perhaps they went
on to think, “It is bad enough to feel that my body
can be made to suffer through the power of some
unknown evil-wisher to me, but what if Satan gives
them still further power, and they can touch my soul,
and inspire me with loathful thoughts leading me into
crimes which at present I abhor?” and so on, till the
very dread of what might happen, and the constant
dwelling of the thoughts, even with horror, upon
certain possibilities, or what were esteemed such, really
brought about the corruption of imagination at least,
which at first they had shuddered at. Moreover, there
was a sort of uncertainty as to who might be infected
— not unlike the overpowering dread of the plague,
which made some shrink from their best-beloved with


LOIS THE WITCH. 67
irrepressible fear. The brother or sister, who was the
dearest friend of their childhood and youth, might now
be bound in some mysterious deadly pact with evil
spirits of the most horrible kind — who could tell?
And in such a case it became a duty, a sacred duty,
to give up the earthly body which had been once so
loved, but which was now the habitation of a soul
corrupt and horrible in its evil inclinations. Possibly,
terror of death might bring on confession, and re-
pentance, and purification. Or if it did not, why away
with the evil creature, the witch, out of the world,
down to the kingdom of the master, whose bidding
was done on earth in all manner of corruption and
torture of God's creatures! There were others who,
to these more simple, if more ignorant, feelings of
horror at witches and witchcraft, added the desire,
conscious or unconscious, of revenge on those whose
conduct had been in any way displeasing to them.
Where evidence takes a supernatural character, there
is no disproving it. This argument comes up: “You
have only the natural powers; I have supernatural.
You admit the existence of the supernatural by the
condemnation of this very crime of witchcraft. You
hardly know the limits of the natural powers; how
then can you define the supernatural? I say that in
the dead of night, when my body seemed to all present
to be lying in quiet sleep, I was, in the most complete
and wakeful consciousness, present in my body at an
assembly of witches and wizards with Satan at their
head; that I was by them tortured in my body, be-
cause my soul would not acknowledge him as its king;
and that I witnessed such and such deeds. What the
nature of the appearance was that took the semblance
5*


68 LOIS THE WITCH.
of myself, sleeping quietly in my bed, I know not; but
admitting, as you do, the possibility of witchcraft, you
cannot disprove my evidence.” This evidence might
be given truly or falsely, as the person witnessing
believed it or not; but every one must see what im-
mense and terrible power was abroad for revenge.
Then, again, the accused themselves ministered to the
horrible panic abroad. Some, in dread of death, con-
fessed from cowardice to the imaginary crimes of which
they were accused, and of which they were promised a
pardon on confession. Some, weak and terrified, came
honestly to believe in their own guilt, through the
diseases of imagination which were sure to be en-
gendered at such a time as this.
Lois sat spinning with Faith. Both were silent,
pondering over the stories that were abroad. Lois
spoke first.
“Oh, Faith! this country is worse than ever Eng-
land was, even in the days of Master Matthew Hopkinson,
the witch-finder. I grow frightened of every one, I
think. I even get afeard sometimes of Nattee!”
Faith coloured a little. Then she asked,
“Why? What should make you distrust the Indian
woman?”
“Oh! I am ashamed of my fear as soon as it
arises in my mind. But, you know, her look and
colour were strange to me when first I came; and she
is not a christened woman; and they tell stories of
Indian wizards; and I know not what the mixtures
are which she is sometimes stirring over the fire, nor
the meaning of the strange chants she sings to herself.
And once I met her in the dusk, just close by Pastor
Tappau's house, in company with Hota, his servant —
---,


LOIS THE WITCH. 69
it was just before we heard of the sore disturbance in
his house — and I have wondered if she had aught to
do with it.”
Faith sat very still, as if thinking. At last she
said:
“If Nattee has powers beyond what you and I have,
she will not use them for evil; at least not evil to those
whom she loves.”
“That comforts me but little,” said Lois. “If she
has powers beyond what she ought to have, I dread
her, though I have done her no evil; nay, though I
could almost say she bore me a kindly feeling. But
such powers are only given by the Evil One; and the
proof thereof is, that, as you imply, Nattee would use
them on those who offend her.”
“And why should she not?” asked Faith, lifting
her eyes, and flashing heavy fire out of them at the
question.
“Because,” said Lois, not seeing Faith's glance,
“we are told to pray for them that despitefully use us,
and to do good to them that persecute us. But poor
Nattee is not a christened woman. I would that Mr.
Nolan would baptize her; it would, maybe, take her
out of the power of Satan's temptations.”
“Are you never tempted?” asked Faith, half scorn-
fully; “and yet I doubt not you were well baptized!”
“True,” said Lois, sadly; “I often do very wrong,
but, perhaps, I might have done worse, if the holy
form had not been observed.”
They were again silent for a time.
“Lois,” said Faith, “I did not mean any offence.
But do you never feel as if you would give up all that
future life, of which the parsons talk, and which seems


70 LOIS THE WITCH,
so vague and so distant, for a few years of real, vivid
blessedness to begin to-morrow — this hour, this mi-
nute? Oh! I could think of happiness for which
I would willingly give up all those misty chances of
heaven —”
“Faith, Faith!” cried Lois, in terror, holding her
hand before her cousin's mouth, and looking around in
fright. “Hush! you know not who may be listening;
you are putting yourself in his power.”
But Faith pushed her hand away, and said, “Lois,
I believe in him no more than I believe in heaven.
Both may exist, but they are so far away that I defy
them. Why, all this ado about Mr. Tappau's house
— promise me never to tell living creature, and I will
tell you a secret.” -
“No!” said Lois, terrified. “I dread all secrets.
I will hear none. I will do all that I can for you,
cousin Faith, in any way; but just at this time, I
strive to keep my life and thoughts within the strictest
bounds of godly simplicity, and I dread pledging my-
self to aught that is hidden and secret.”
“As you will, cowardly girl, full of terrors, which,
if you had listened to me, might have been Ressened, if
not entirely done away with.” And Faith would not
utter another word, though Lois tried meekly to entice
her into conversation on some other subject.
The rumour of witchcraft was like the echo of
thunder among the hills. It had broken out in Mr.
Tappau's house, and his two little daughters were the
first supposed to be bewitched; but round about, from
every quarter of the town, came in accounts of sufferers
by witchcraft. There was hardly a family without one
of these supposed victims. Then arose a growl and


LOIS THE WITCH. 71
menaces of vengeance from many a household –
menaces deepened, not daunted by the terror and
mystery of the suffering that gave rise to them.
At length a day was appointed when, after solemn
fasting and prayer, Mr. Tappau invited the neighbour-
ing ministers and all godly people to assemble at his
house, and unite with him in devoting a day to solemn
religious services, and to supplication for the deliver-
ance of his children, and those similarly afflicted, from
the power of the Evil One. All Salem poured out
towards the house of the minister. There was a look
of excitement on all their faces; eagerness and horror
were depicted on many, while stern resolution, amount-
ing to determined cruelty, if the occasion arose, was
seen on others.
In the midst of the prayer, Hester Tappau, the
younger girl, fell into convulsions; fit after fit came
on, and her screams mingled with the shrieks and cries
of the assembled congregation. In the first pause,
when the child was partially recovered, when the
people stood around exhausted and breathless, her
father, the Pastor Tappau, lifted his right hand, and
adjured her, in the name of the Trinity, to say who
tormented her. There was a dead silence; not a
creature stirred of all those hundreds. Hester turned
wearily and uneasily, and moaned out the name of
Hota, her father's Indian servant. Hota was present,
apparently as much interested as any one; indeed, she
had been busying herself much in bringing remedies to
the suffering child. But now she stood aghast, trans-
fixed, while her name was caught up and shouted out
in tones of reprobation and hatred by all the crowd
around her. Another moment and they would have


72 LOIS THE WITCH.
fallen upon the trembling creature and torn her limb
from limb – pale, dusky, shivering Hota, half guilty-
looking from her very bewilderment. But Pastor
Tappau, that gaunt, grey man, lifting himself to his
utmost height, signed to them to go back, to keep still
while he addressed them; and then he told them, that
instant vengeance was not just, deliberate punishment;
that there would be need of conviction, perchance of
confession — he hoped for some redress for his suffer-
ing children from her revelations, if she were brought
to confession. They must leave the culprit in his
hands, and in those of his brother ministers, that they
might wrestle with Satan before delivering her up to
the civil power. He spoke well, for he spoke from
the heart of a father seeing his children exposed to
dreadful and mysterious suffering, and firmly believing
that he now held the clue in his hand which should
ultimately release them and their fellow-sufferers. And
the congregation moaned themselves into unsatisfied
submission, and listened to his long, passionate prayer,
which he uplifted even while the hapless Hota stood
there, guarded and bound by two men, who glared at
her like bloodhounds ready to slip, even while the
prayer ended in the words of the merciful Saviour.
Lois sickened and shuddered at the whole scene;
and this was no intellectual shuddering at the folly and
superstition of the people, but tender moral shudder-
ing at the sight of guilt which she believed in, and at
the evidence of men's hatred and abhorrence, which,
when shown even to the guilty, troubled and distressed
her merciful heart. She followed her aunt and cousins
out into the open air, with downcast eyes and pale
face. Grace Hickson was going home with a feeling


LOIS THE WITCH. 73
of triumphant relief at the detection of the guilty one.
Faith alone seemed uneasy and disturbed beyond her
wont, for Manasseh received the whole transaction as
the fulfilment of a prophecy, and Prudence was excited
by the novel scene into a state of discordant high
spirits.
“I am quite as old as Hester Tappau,” said she;
“her birthday is in September and mine in October.”
“What has that to do with it?” said Faith, sharply.
“Nothing, only she seemed such a little thing for
all those grave ministers to be praying for, and so
many folk come from a distance — some from Boston
they said — all for her sake, as it were. Why, didst
thou see, it was godly Mr. Henwick that held her head
when she wriggled so, and old Madam Holbrook had
herself helped upon a chair to see the better. I wonder
how long I might wriggle, before great and godly folk
would take so much notice of me? But, I suppose,
that comes of being a pastor's daughter. She'll be so
set up there'll be no speaking to her now. Faith !
thinkest thou that Hota really had bewitched her? She
gave me corn-cakes, the last time I was at Pastor
Tappau's, just like any other woman, only, perchance,
a trifle more good-natured; and to think of her being
a witch after all!”
But Faith seemed in a hurry to reach home, and
paid no attention to Prudence's talking. Lois hastened
on with Faith, for Manasseh was walking alongside of
his mother, and she kept steady to her plan of avoiding
him, even though she pressed her company upon Faith,
who had seemed of late desirous of avoiding her.
That evening the news spread through Salem, that
Hota had confessed her sin — had acknowledged that


74 LOIS THE WITCH.
she was a witch. Nattee was the first to hear the in-
telligence. She broke into the room where the girls
were sitting with Grace Hickson, solemnly doing no-
thing, because of the great prayer-meeting in the morn-
ing, and cried out, “Mercy, mercy, mistress, everybody!
take care of poor Indian Nattee, who never do wrong,
but for mistress and the family! Hota one bad wicked
witch, she say so herself; oh, me! oh, me!” and stoop-
ing over Faith, she said something in a low, miserable
tone of voice, of which Lois only heard the word “tor-
ture.” But Faith heard all, and turning very pale,
half accompanied, half led Nattee back to her kitchen.
Presently, Grace Hickson came in. She had been
out to see a neighbour; it will not do to say that so
godly a woman had been gossiping; and, indeed, the
subject of the conversation she had held was of too
serious and momentous a nature for me mploy a
light word to designate it. SThere was all the listening
to and repeating of small details and rumours, in
which the speakers have no concern, that constitutes
gossiping; but in this instance, all trivial facts and
speeches might be considered to bear such dreadful
significance, and might have so ghastly an ending, that
such whispers were occasionally raised to a tragic im-
portance. Every fragment of intelligence that related
to Mr. Tappau's household was eagerly snatched at;
how his dog howled all one long night through, and
could not be stilled; how his cow suddenly failed in
her milk only two months after she had calved; how
his memory had forsaken him one morning, for a minute
or two, in repeating the Lord's Prayer, and he had
eyen omitted a clause thereof in his sudden perturba-
tion; and how all these forerunners of his children's


LOIS THE WITCH. 75
strange illness might now be interpreted and under-
stood — this had formed the staple of the conversation.
between Grace Hickson and her friends. There had
arisen a dispute among them at last, as to how far
these subjections to the power of the Evil One were to
be considered as a judgment upon Pastor Tappau for
some sin on his part; and if so, what? It was not an
unpleasant discussion, although there was considerable
difference of opinion; for as none of the speakers had
had their families so troubled, it was rather a proof
that they had none of them committed any sin. In
the midst of this talk, one, entering in from the street,
brought the news that Hota had confessed all — had
owned to signing a certain little red book which Satan
had presented to her — had been present at impious
sacraments — had ridden through the air to Newbury
Falls — and, in fact, had assented to all the questions
which the elders and magistrates, carefully reading
over the confessions of the witches who had formerly
been tried in England, in order that they might not
omit a single inquiry, had asked of her. More she had
owned to, but things of inferior importance, and partak-
ing more of the nature of earthly tricks than of spiri-
tual power. She had spoken of carefully adjusted
strings, by which all the crockery in Pastor Tappau's
house could be pulled down or disturbed; but of such
intelligible malpractices the gossips of Salem took little
heed. One of them said that such an action showed
Satan's prompting, but they all preferred to listen to
the grander guilt of the blasphemous sacraments and
supernatural rides. The narrator ended with saying
that Hota was to be hung the next morning, in spite
of her confession, even although her life had been pro-


76 LOIS THE WITCH.
$º º
Nº. º * mised to her if she acknowledged her sin; for it was
t
* ...º well to make an example of the first-discovered witch,
* º ane it was also well that she was an Indian, a heathen,
§ whose life would be no great loss to the community.
Grace Hickson on this spoke out. Tt was well that
witches should perish off the face of the earth, Indian
or English, heathen or, worse, a baptized Christian
who had betrayed the Lord, even as Judas did, and
had gone over to Satan. For her part, she wished
that the first-discovered witch had been a member of a
godly English household, that it might be seen of all
men that religious folk were willing to cut off the right
hand, and pluck out the right eye, if tainted with this
devilish sin. She spoke sternly and well. The last
comer said, that her words might be brought to the
proof, for it had been whispered that Hota had named
others, and some from the most religious families of
Salem, whom she had seen among the unholy commu-
nicants at the sacrament of the Evil One. And Grace
replied that she would answer for it, all godly folk
would stand the proof, and quench all natural affection
rather than that such a sin should grow and spread
among them. She herself had a weak bodily dread of
witnessing the violent death even of an animal; but she
would not let that deter her from standing amidst those
who cast the accursed creature out from among them
on the morrow morning.
Contrary to her wont, Grace Hickson told her fa-
mily much of this conversation. It was a sign of her
excitement on the subject that she thus spoke, and the
excitement spread in different forms through her fa-
mily. Faith was flushed and restless, wandering be-
tween the keeping-room and the kitchen, and ques-


LOIS THE WITCH. 77
tioning her mother particularly as to the more extra-
ordinary parts of Hota's confession, as if she wished
to satisfy herself that the Indian witch had really done
those horrible and mysterious deeds.
Lois shivered and trembled with affright at the
narration, and the idea that such things were possible.
Occasionally she found herself wandering off into sym-
pathetic thought for the woman who was to die, ab-
horred of all men, and unpardoned by God, to whom
she had been so fearful a traitor, and who was now, at
this very time — when Lois sat among her kindred
by the warm and cheerful firelight, anticipating many
peaceful, perchance happy, morrows — solitary, shiver-
ing, panic-stricken, guilty, with none to stand by her
and exhort her, shut up in darkness between the cold
walls of the town prison. But Lois almost shrank
from sympathising with so loathsome an accomplice of
Satan, and prayed for forgiveness for her charitable
thought; and yet, again, she remembered the tender
spirit of the Saviour, and allowed herself to fall into
pity, till at last her sense of right and wrong became
so bewildered that she could only leave all to God's
disposal, and just ask that He would take all creatures
and all events into His hands.
Prudence was as bright as if she were listening to
some merry story — curious as to more than her
mother would tell her — seeming to have no parti-
cular terror of witches or witchcraft, and yet to be
especially desirous to accompany her mother the next
morning to the hanging. Luis shrank from the cruel,
eager face of the young girl as she begged her mother
to allow her to go. Even Grace was disturbed and
perplexed by her daughter's pertinacity.


78 LOIS THE WITCH.
“No!” said she. “Ask me no more. Thou shalt not
go. Such sights are not for the young. I go, and I
sicken at the thoughts of it. But I go to show that I,
a Christian woman, take God's part against the devil's.
Thou shalt not go, I tell thee. I could whip thee for
thinking of it.”
“Manasseh says Hota was well whipped by Pastor
Tappau ere she was brought to confession,” said Pru-
dence, as if anxious to change the subject of discus-
Slon.
Manasseh lifted up his head from the great folio
Bible, brought by his father from England, which he
was studying. He had not heard what Prudence said,
but he looked up at the sound of his name. All pre-
sent were startled at his wild eyes, his bloodless face.
But he was evidently annoyed at the expression of
their countenances.
“Why look ye at me in that manner?” asked he.
And his manner was anxious and agitated. His mother
made haste to speak:
“It was but that Prudence said something that
thou hast told her — that Pastor Tappau defiled his
hands by whipping the witch Hota. What evil thought
has got hold of thee? Talk to us, and crack not thy
skull against the learning of man.”
“It is not the learning of man that I study: it is
the word of God. I would fain know more of the na-
ture of this sin of witchcraft, and whether it be, in-
deed, the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost.
At times I feel a creeping influence coming over me,
prompting all evil thoughts and unheard-of deeds, and
I question within myself, ‘Is not this the power of
witchcraft?" and I sicken, and loathe all that I do or


LOIS THE WITCH. 79
say, and yet some evil creature hath the mastery over
me, and I must needs do and say what I loathe and
dread. Why wonder you, mother, that I, of all men,
strive to learn the exact nature of witchcraft, and for
that end study the word of God? Have you not seen
me when I was, as it were, possessed with a devil?”
He spoke calmly, sadly, but as under deep convic-
tion. His mother rose to comfort him.
“My son,” she said, “no one ever saw thee do
deeds, or heard thee utter words, which any one could
say were prompted by devils. We have seen thee,
poor lad, with thy wits gone astray for a time, but all
thy thoughts sought rather God's will in forbidden
places, than lost the clue to them for one moment in
hankering after the powers of darkness. Those days
are long past; a future lies before thee. Think not of
witches or of being subject to the power of witchcraft.
I did evil to speak of it before thee. Let Lois come
and sit by thee, and talk to thee.”
Lois went to her cousin, grieved at heart for his
depressed state of mind, anxious to soothe and comfort
him, and yet recoiling more than ever from the idea of
ultimately becoming his wife — an idea to which she
saw her aunt reconciling herself unconsciously day by
day, as she perceived the English girl's power of sooth-
ing and comforting her cousin, even by the very tones
of her sweet cooing voice.
He took Lois's hand.
“Let me hold it. It does me good,” said he. “Ah,
Lois, when I am by you I forget all my troubles —
will the day never come when you will listen to the
voice that speaks to me continually?"


80 LOIS THE WITCH.
“I never hear it, Cousin Manasseh,” she said, softly;
“but do not think of the voices. Tell me of the land
you hope to enclose from the forest — what manner of
trees grow on it?”
Thus, by simple questions on practical affairs, she
led him back, in her unconscious wisdom, to the sub-
jects on which he had always shown strong practical
sense. He talked on these with all due discretion till
the hour for family prayer came round, which was
early in those days. It was Manasseh's place to con-
duct it, as head of the family; a post which his mother
had always been anxious to assign to him since her
husband's death. He prayed extempore; and to-night
his supplications wandered off into wild, unconnected
fragments of prayer, which all those kneeling around
began, each according to her anxiety for the speaker,
to think would never end. Minutes elapsed, and grew
to quarters of an hour, and his words only became
more emphatic and wilder, praying for himself alone,
and laying bare the recesses of his heart. At length
his mother rose, and took Lois by the hand, for she
had faith in Lois's power over her son, as being akin
to that which the shepherd David, playing on his
harp, had over king Saul sitting on his throne. She
drew her towards him, where he knelt facing into the
circle, with his eyes upturned, and the tranced agony
of his face depicting the struggle of the troubled soul
within.
“Here is Lois,” said Grace, almost tenderly; “she
world fain go to her chamber.” (Down the girl's face
the tears were streaming) “Rise, and finish thy
prayer in thy closet.”
2-


LOIS THE WITCH. 81
But at Lois's approach he sprang to his feet, —
sprang aside.
“Take her away, mother! Lead me not into
temptation. She brings me evil and sinful thoughts.
She overshadows me, even in the presence of my God.
She is no angel of light, or she would not do this.
She troubles me with the sound of a voice bidding me
marry her, even when I am at my prayers. Avauntl
Take her away!”
He would have struck at Lois if she had not shrunk
back, dismayed and affrighted. His mother, although
equally dismayed, was not affrighted. She had seen
him thus before; and understood the management of
his paroxysm.
“Go, Lois! the sight of thee irritates him, as once
that of Faith did. Leave him to me.”
And Lois rushed away to her room, and threw her-
self on her bed, like a panting, hunted creature. Faith
came after her slowly and heavily.
“Lois,” said she, “wilt thou do me a favour? It
is not much to ask. Wilt thou arise before daylight,
and bear this letter from me to Pastor Nolan's lodg-
ings? I would have done it myself, but mother has
bidden me to come to her, and I may be detained un-
til the time when Hota is to be hung; and the letter
tells of matters pertaining to life and death. Seek out
Pastor Nolan wherever he may be, and have speech of
him after he has read the letter.”
“Cannot Nattee take it?” asked Lois.
“No!” Faith answered, fiercely. “Why should
she?”
But Lois did not reply. A quick suspicion darted
Lois the Witch, etc. 6


82 LOIS THE WITCH.
through Faith's mind, sudden as lightning. It had
never entered there before.
“Speak, Lois. I read thy thoughts. Thou wouldst
fain not be the bearer of this letter?”
“I will take it,” said Lois, meekly. “It concerns
life and death, you say?”
“Yes!” said Faith, in quite a different tone of
voice. But, after a pause of thought, she added:
“Then, as soon as the house is still, I will write what
I have to say, and leave it here, on this chest; and
thou wilt promise me to take it before the day is fully
up, while there is yet time for action.”
“Yes! I promise,” said Lois. And Faith knew
enough of her to feel sure that the deed would be done,
however reluctantly.
The letter was written — laid on the chest; and,
ere day dawned, Lois was astir, Faith watching her
from between her half-closed eyelids — eyelids that
had never been fully closed in sleep the livelong night.
The instant Lois, cloaked and hooded, left the room,
Faith sprang up, and prepared to go to her mother,
whom she heard already stirring. Nearly every one in
Salem was awake and up on this awful morning,
though few were out of doors, as Lois passed along
the streets. Here was the hastily erected gallows, the
black shadow of which fell across the street with
ghastly significance; now she had to pass the iron-
barred gaol, through the unglazed windows of which
she heard the fearful cry of a woman, and the sound
of many footsteps. On she sped, sick almost to faint-
ness, to the widow woman's where Mr. Nolan lodged.
He was already up and abroad, gone, his hostess be-
lieved, to the gaol. Thither Lois, repeating the words


LOIS THE WITCH. 83
“for life and for death!” was forced to go. Retracing
her steps, she was thankful to see him come out of
those dismal portals, rendered more dismal for being
in heavy shadow, just as she approached. What his
errand had been she knew not; but he looked grave
and sad, as she put Faith's letter into his hands, and
stood before him quietly waiting until he should read
it, and deliver the expected answer. But, instead of
opening it, he held it in his hand, apparently absorbed
in thought. At last he spoke aloud, but more to him-
self than to her:
“My God! and is she then to die in this fearful
delirium? It must be — can be — only delirium, that
prompts such wild and horrible confessions. Mistress
Barclay, I come from the presence of the Indian
woman appointed to die. It seems, she considered
herself betrayed last evening by her sentence not being
respited, even after she had made confession of sin
enough to bring down fire from heaven; and, it seems
to me, the passionate, impotent anger of this helpless
creature has turned to madness, for she appals me by
the additional revelations she has made to the keepers
during the night — to me this morning. I could
almost fancy that she thinks, by deepening the guilt
she confesses, to escape this last dread punishment of
all, as if, were a tithe of what she says true, one could
suffer such a sinner to live. Yet to send her to
death in such a state of mad terror! What is to be
done?”
“Yet Scripture says that we are not to suffer
witches in the land,” said Lois, slowly.
“True; I would but ask for a respite till the
prayers of God's people had gone up for His mercy,
6#


84 LOIS THE WITCH.
Some would pray for her, poor wretch as she is. You
would, Mistress Barclay, I am sure?” But he said it
in a questioning tone.
“I have been praying for her in the night many a
time,” said Lois, in a low voice. “I pray for her in
my heart at this moment; I suppose, they are bidden
to put her out of the land, but I would not have her
entirely God-forsaken. But, sir, you have not read my
cousin's letter. And she bade me bring back an answer
with much urgency.”
Still he delayed. He was thinking of the dreadful
confession he came from hearing. If it were true, the
beautiful earth was a polluted place, and he almost
wished to die, to escape from such pollution, into the
white innocence of those who stood in the presence of
God.
Suddenly his eyes fell on Lois's pure, grave face,
upturned and watching his. Faith in earthly good-
ness came over his soul in that instant, “and he
blessed her unaware.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, with an action
half paternal — although the difference in their ages
was not above a dozen years — and, bending a little
towards her, whispered, half to himself, “Mistress
Barclay, you have done me good.”
“I!” said Lois, half affrighted – “I done you good!
How?”
“By being what you are. But, perhaps, I should
rather thank God, who sent you at the very moment
when my soul was so disquieted.”
At this instant, they were aware of Faith standing
in front of them, with a countenance of thunder. Her
angry look made Lois feel guilty. She had not


LOIS THE WITCH. 85
enough urged the pastor to read his letter, she
thought; and it was indignation at this delay in what
she had been commissioned to do with the urgency of
life or death, that made her cousin lower at her so
from beneath her straight black brows. Lois explained
how she had not found Mr. Nolan at his lodgings, and
had had to follow him to the door of the gaol. But
Faith replied, with obdurate contempt:
“Spare thy breath, cousin Lois. It is easy seeing
on what pleasant matters thou and the Pastor Nolan
were talking. I marvel not at thy forgetfulness. My
mind is changed. Give me back my letter, sir; it
was about a poor matter — an old woman's life.
And what is that compared to a young girl's
love?”
Lois heard but for an instant; did not understand
that her cousin, in her jealous anger, could suspect the
existence of such a feeling as love between her and
Mr. Nolan. No imagination as to its possibility had
ever entered her mind; she had respected him, almost
revered him — nay, had liked him as the probable
husband of Faith. At the thought that her cousin
could believe her guilty of such treachery, her grave
eyes dilated, and fixed themselves on the flaming
countenance of Faith. That serious, unprotesting
manner of perfect innocence must have told on her
accuser, had it not been that, at the same instant, the
latter caught sight of the crimsoned and disturbed
countenance of the pastor, who felt the veil rent off
the unconscious secret of his heart. Faith snatched
her letter out of his hands, and said:
“Let the witch hang! What care I? She has done
harm enough with her charms and her sorcery on


86 LOIS THE WITCH.
Pastor Tappau's girls. Let her die, and let all other
witches look to themselves; for there be many kinds
of witchcraft abroad. Cousin Lois, thou wilt like best
to stop with Pastor Nolan, or I would pray thee to
come back with me to breakfast.”
Lois was not to be daunted by jealous sarcasm.
She held out her hand to Pastor Nolan, determined to
take no heed of her cousin's mad words, but to bid
him farewell in her accustomed manner. He hesitated
before taking it, and when he did, it was with a con-
vulsive squeeze that almost made her start. Faith
waited and watched all, with set lips and vengeful
eyes. She bade no farewell; she spake no word; but
grasping Lois tightly by the back of the arm, she al-
most drove her before her down the street till they
reached their home.
The arrangement for the morning was this: Grace
Hickson and her son Manasseh were to be present at
the hanging of the first witch executed in Salem, as
pious and godly heads of a family. All the other
members were strictly forbidden to stir out, until such
time as the low-tolling bell announced that all was
over in this world for Hota, the Indian witch. When
the execution was ended, there was to be a solemn
prayer-meeting of all the inhabitants of Salem; minis-
ters had come from a distance to aid by the efficacy of
their prayers in these efforts to purge the land of the
devil and his servants. There was reason to think that
the great old meeting-house would be crowded, and
when Faith and Lois reached home, Grace Hickson
was giving her directions to Prudence, urging her to
be ready for an early start to that place. The stern
old woman was troubled in her mind at the anticipa-


LOIS THE WITCH. 87
tion of the sight she was to see, before many minutes
were over, and spoke in a more hurried and incoherent
manner than was her wont. She was dressed in her
Sunday best; but her face was very grey and colour-
less, and she seemed afraid to cease speaking about
household affairs, for fear she should have time to
think. Manasseh stood by her, perfectly, rigidly still;
he also was in his Sunday clothes. His face, too, was
paler than its wont, but it wore a kind of absent, rapt
expression, almost like that of a man who sees a vision.
As Faith entered, still holding Lois in her fierce grasp,
Manasseh started and smiled; but still dreamily.
His manner was so peculiar, that even his mother
stayed her talking to observe him more closely; he
was in that state of excitement which usually ended in
what his mother and certain of her friends esteemed a
prophetic revelation. He began to speak, at first very
low, and then his voice increased in power:
“How beautiful is the land of Beulah, far over the
sea, beyond the mountains! Thither the angels carry
her, lying back in their arms like one fainting. They
shall kiss away the black circle of death, and lay her
down at the feet of the Lamb. I hear her pleading
there for those on earth who consented to her death.
O Lois! pray also for me, pray for me, miserable!”
When he uttered his cousin's name all their eyes
turned towards her. It was to her that his vision re-
lated! She stood among them, amazed, awe-stricken,
but not like one affrighted or dismayed. She was the
first to speak:
“Dear friends, do not think of me; his words may
or may not be true. I am in God's hands all the same,
whether he have the gift of prophecy or not. Besides,


88 LOIS THE WITCH.
hear you not that I end where all would fain end?
Think of him, and of his needs. Such times as these
always leave him exhausted and weary, when he comes
out of them.”
And she busied herself in cares for his refreshment,
aiding her aunt's trembling hands to set before him
the requisite food, as he now sat tired and bewildered,
gathering together with difficulty his scattered senses.
Prudence did all she could to assist and speed their
departure. But Faith stood apart, watching in silence
with her passionate, angry eyes.
As soon as they had set out on their solemn, fatal
errand, Faith left the room. She had not tasted food
or touched drink. Indeed, they all felt sick at heart.
The moment her sister had gone up stairs, Prudence
sprang to the settle on which Lois had thrown down
her cloak and hood:
“Lend me your muffles and mantle, Cousin Lois.
I never yet saw a woman hanged, and I see not why I
should not go. I will stand on the edge of the crowd;
no one will know me, and I will be home long before
my mother.”
“No!” said Lois, “that may not be. My aunt
would be sore displeased. I wonder at you, Prudence,
seeking to witness such a sight.” And as she spoke
she held fast her cloak, which Prudence vehemently
struggled for.
Faith returned, brought back possibly by the sound
of the struggle. She smiled — a deadly smile.
“Give it up, Prudence. Strive no more with her.
She has bought success in this world, and we are but
her slaves.”
“Oh, Faith!” said Lois, relinquishing her hold of


LOIS THE WITCH. 89
the cloak, and turning round with passionate reproach
in her look and voice, “what have I done that you
should speak so of me; you, that I have loved as I
think one loves a sister?”
Prudence did not lose her opportunity, but hastily
arrayed herself in the mantle, which was too large for
her, and which she had, therefore, considered as well
adapted for concealment; but, as she went towards the
door, her feet became entangled in the unusual length,
and she fell, bruising her arm pretty sharply.
“Take care, another time, how you meddle with a
witch's things,” said Faith, as one scarcely believing
her own words, but at enmity with all the world in
her bitter jealousy of heart. Prudence rubbed her arm
and looked stealthily at Lois.
“Witch, Lois! Witch Lois!” said she at last, softly,
pulling a childish face of spite at her.
“Oh, hush, Prudence! Do not bandy such terrible
words. Let me look at thine arm. I am sorry for
thy hurt, only glad that it has kept thee from disobey-
ing thy mother.”
“Away, away!” said Prudence, springing from her.
“I am afeard of her in very truth, Faith. Keep be-
tween me and the witch, or I will throw a stool at
her.”
Faith smiled — it was a bad and wicked smile —
but she did not stir to calm the fears she had called
up in her young sister. Just at this moment, the bell
began to toll. Hota, the Indian witch, was dead. Lois
covered her face with her hands. Even Faith went a
deadlier pale than she had been, and said, sighing,
“Poor Hotal But death is best.”
Prudence alone seemed unmoved by any thoughts


90 LOIS THE WITCH.
connected with the solemn, monotonous sound. Her
only consideration was, that now she might go out into
the street and see the sights, and hear the news, and
escape from the terror which she felt at the presence
of her cousin. She flew up stairs to find her own
mantle, ran down again, and past Lois before the
English girl had finished her prayer, and was speedily
mingled among the crowd going to the meeting-house.
There also Faith and Lois came in due course of
time, but separately, not together. Faith so evidently
avoided Lois, that she, humbled and grieved, could
not force her company upon her cousin, but loitered a
little behind, – the quiet tears stealing down her
face, shed for the many causes that had occurred this
morning. *
The meeting-house was full to suffocation; and, as
it sometimes happens on such occasions, the greatest
crowd was close about the doors, from the fact that
few saw, on their first entrance, where there might be
possible spaces into which they could wedge themselves.
Yet they were impatient of any arrivals from the out-
side, and pushed and hustled Faith, and after her Lois,
till the two were forced on to a conspicuous place in
the very centre of the building, where there was no
chance of a seat, but still space to stand in. Several
stood around, the pulpit being in the middle, and
already occupied by two ministers in Geneva bands
and gowns, while other ministers, similarly attired,
stood holding on to it, almost as if they were giving
support instead of receiving it. Grace Hickson and
her son sat decorously in their own pew, thereby show-
ing that they had arrived early from the execution.
You might almost have traced out the number of those


LOIS THE WITCH. 91
who had been at the hanging of the Indian witch, by
the expression of their countenances. They were awe-
stricken into terrible repose; while the crowd pouring
in, still pouring in, of those who had not attended the
execution, looked all restless, and excited, and fierce.
A buzz went round the meeting, that the stranger
minister who stood along with Pastor Tappau in the
pulpit was no other than Dr. Cotton Mather himself,
come all the way from Boston to assist in purging
Salem of witches.
And now Pastor Tappau began his prayer, ex-
tempore, as was the custom. His words were wild and
incoherent, as might be expected from a man who had
just been consenting to the bloody death of one who
was, but a few days ago, a member of his own family;
violent and passionate, as was to be looked for in the
father of children, whom he believed to suffer so fear-
fully from the crime he would denounce before the
Lord. He sat down at length from pure exhaustion.
Then Dr. Cotton Mather stood forward: he did not
utter more than a few words of prayer, calm in com-
parison with what had gone before, and then he went
on to address the great crowd before him in a quiet,
argumentative way, but arranging what he had to say
with something of the same kind of skill which Antony
used in his speech to the Romans after Caesar's murder.
Some of Dr. Mather's words have been preserved to
us, as he afterwards wrote them down in one of his
works. Speaking of those “unbelieving Sadducees”
who doubted the existence of such a crime, he said:
“Instead of their apish shouts and jeers at blessed
Scripture, and histories which have such undoubted
confirmation as that no man that has breeding enough


92 LOIS THE WITCII,
to regard the common laws of human society will offer
to doubt of them, it becomes us rather to adore the
goodness of God, who from the mouths of babes and
sucklings has ordained truth, and by the means of the
sore-afflicted children of your godly pastor, has revealed
the fact that the devils have with most horrid opera-
tions broken in upon your neighbourhood. Let us
beseech Him that their power may be restrained, and
that they go not so far in their evil machinations as
they did but four years ago in the city of Boston,
where I was the humble means, under God, of loosing
from the power of Satan the four children of that
religious and blessed man, Mr. Goodwin. These four
babes of grace were bewitched by an Irish witch; there
is no end to the narration of the torments they had to
submit to. At one time they would bark like dogs, at
another purr like cats; yea, they would fly like geese,
and be carried with an incredible swiftness, having but
just their toes now and then upon the ground, some-
times not once in twenty feet, and their arms waved
like those of a bird. Yet at other times, by the hellish
devices of the woman who had bewitched them, they
could not stir without limping, for, by means of an
invisible chain, she hampered their limbs, or, some-
times, by means of a noose, almost choked them. One
in especial was subjected by this woman of Satan to
such heat as of an oven, that I myself have seen the
sweat drop from off her, while all around were mode-
rately cold and well at ease. But not to trouble you
with more of my stories, I will go on to prove that it
was Satan himself that held power over her. For a
very remarkable thing it was, that she was not per-
mitted by that evil spirit to read any godly or religious


LOIS THE WITCH. 93
book, speaking the truth as it is in Jesus. She could
read Popish books well enough, while both sight and
speech seemed to fail her when I gave her the Assem-
bly's Catechism. Again, she was fond of that prela-
tical Book of Common Prayer, which is but the Roman
mass-book in an English and ungodly shape. In the
midst of her sufferings, if one put the Prayer-book into
her hands it relieved her. Yet mark you, she could
never be brought to read the Lord's Prayer, whatever
book she met with it in, proving thereby distinctly that
she was in league with the devil. I took her into my
own house, that I, even as Dr. Martin Luther did,
might wrestle with the devil and have my fling at him.
But when I called my household to prayer, the devils
that possessed her caused her to whistle, and sing, and
yell in a discordant and hellish fashion.”
At this very instant, a shrill, clear whistle pierced
all ears. Dr. Mather stopped for a moment:
“Satan is among you!” he cried. “Look to your-
selves!” And he prayed with fervour, as if against a
present and threatening enemy; but no one heeded
him. Whence came that ominous, unearthly whistle?
Every man watched his neighbour. Again the whistle,
out of their very midst! And then a bustle in a corner
of the building, three or four people stirring, without
any cause immediately perceptible to those at a dis-
tance, the movement spread, and, directly after, a
passage even in that dense mass of people was cleared
for two men, who bore forwards Prudence Hickson,
lying rigid as a log of wood, in the convulsive position
of one who suffered from an epileptic fit. They laid
her down among the ministers who were gathered
round the pulpit. Her mother came to her, sending


94 LOIS THE WITCH.
~
up a wailing cry at the sight of her distored child
Dr. Mather came down from the pulpit and stood over
her, exorcising the devil in possession, as one accus-
tomed to such scenes. The crowd pressed forward in
mute horror. At length, her rigidity of form and
feature gave way, and she was terribly convulsed —
torn by the devil, as they called it. By-and-by the
violence of the attack was over, and the spectators
began to breathe once more, though still the former
horror brooded over them, and they listened as if for
the sudden ominous whistle again, and glanced fear-
fully around, as if Satan were at their backs picking
out his next victim.
Meanwhile, Dr. Mather, Pastor Tappau, and one
or two others were exhorting Prudence to reveal, if she
could, the name of the person, the witch, who, by in-
fluence over Satan, had subjected the child to such
torture as that which they had just witnessed. They
bade her speak in the name of the Lord. She whis-
pered a name in the low voice of exhaustion. None
of the congregation could hear what it was. But the
Pastor Tappau, when he heard it, drew back in dis-
may, while Dr. Mather, knowing not to whom the name
belonged, cried out, in a clear, cold voice,
“Know ye one Lois Barclay; for it is she who hath
bewitched this poor child?”
The answer was given rather by action than by
word, although a low murmur went up from many.
But all fell back, as far as falling back in such a crowd
was possible, from Lois Barclay, where she stood, -
and looked on her with surprise and horror. A space
of some feet, where no possibility of space had seemed
to be not a minute before, left Lois standing alone, with


LOIS THE WITCH. 95
every eye fixed upon her in hatred and dread. She
stood like one speechless, tongue-tied, as if in a dream.
She a witch! accursed as witches were in the sight of
God and man! Her smooth, healthy face became con-
tracted into shrivel and pallor, but she uttered not a
word, only looked at Dr. Mather with her dilated, ter-
rified eyes.
Some one said, “She is of the household of Grace
Hickson, a God-fearing woman.” Lois did not know
if the words were in her favour or not. She did not
think about them, even; they told less on her than on
any person present. She a witch! and the silver glit-
tering Avon, and the drowning woman she had seen in
her childhood at Barford, – at home in England, –
were before her, and her eyes fell before her doom.
There was some commotion — some rustling of papers;
the magistrates of the town were drawing near the
pulpit and consulting with the ministers. Dr. Mather
spoke again:
“The Indian woman, who was hung this morning,
named certain people, whom she deposed to having
seen at the horrible meetings for the worship of Satan;
but there is no name of Lois Barclay down upon the
paper, although we are stricken at the sight of the
names of some 73
An interruption—a consultation. Again Dr. Mather
spoke:
“Bring the accused witch, Lois Barclay, near to
this poor suffering child of Christ.”
They rushed forward to force Lois to the place
where Prudence lay. But Lois walked forward of
herself.
“Prudence,” she said, in such a sweet, touching


96 LOIS THE WITCH.
voice, that, long afterwards, those who heard it that
day, spoke of it to their children, “have I ever said
an unkind word to you, much less done you an ill turn?
Speak, dear child. You did not know what you said
just now, did you?”
But Prudence writhed away from her approach, and
screamed out, as if stricken with fresh agony.
“Take her away! take her away! Witch Lois,
witch Lois, who threw me down only this morning, and
turned my arm black and blue.” And she bared her
arm, as if in confirmation of her words. It was sorely
bruised.
“I was not near you, Prudence!” said Lois, sadly.
But that was only reckoned fresh evidence of her dia-
bolical power.
Lois's brain began to get bewildered. Witch Lois!
she a witch, abhorred of all men! Yet she would try
to think, and make one more effort.
“Aunt Hickson,” she said, and Grace came forwards
— “am I a witch, Aunt Hickson?” she asked; for her
aunt, stern, harsh, unloving as she might be, was truth
itself, and Lois thought — so near to delirium had she
come — if her aunt condemned her, it was possible
she might indeed be a witch.
Grace Hickson faced her unwillingly.
“It is a stain upon our family for ever,” was the
thought in her mind.
“It is for God to judge whether thou art a witch.
or not. Not for me.”
“Alas, alas!” moaned Lois; for she had looked at
Faith, and learnt that no good word was to be ex-
pected from her gloomy face and averted eyes. The
meeting-house was full of eager voices, repressed, out


LOIS THE WITCH. 97
of reverence for the place, into tones of earnest mur-
muring that seemed to fill the air with gathering sounds
of anger, and those who had at first fallen back from
the place where Lois stood were now pressing forwards
and round about her, ready to seize the young friend-
less girl, and bear her off to prison. Those who might
have been, who ought to have been, her friends, were
either averse or indifferent to her; though only Pru-
dence made any open outcry upon her. That evil child
cried out perpetually that Lois had cast a devilish spell
upon her, and bade them keep the witch away from
her; and, indeed, Prudence was strangely convulsed
when once or twice Lois's perplexed and wistful eyes
were turned in her direction. Here and there girls,
women uttering strange cries, and apparently suffering
from the same kind of convulsive fit as that which had
attacked Prudence, were centres of a group of agitated
friends, who muttered much and savagely of witch-
craft, and the list which had been taken down only the
night before from Hota's own lips. They demanded
to have it made public, and objected to the slow forms
of the law. Others, not so much or so immediately in-
terested in the sufferers, were kneeling around, and
praying aloud for themselves and their own safety, until
the excitement should be so much quelled as to enable
Dr. Cotton Mather to be again heard in prayer and ex-
hortation.
And where was Manasseh? What said he? You
must remember, that the stir of the outcry, the accusa-
tion, the appeals of the accused, all seemed to go on at
once amid the buzz and din of the people who had
come to worship God, but remained to judge and up-
braid their fellow-creature. Till now Lois had only
Lois the Witch, etc. 7


98 LOIS THE WITCH.
caught a glimpse of Manasseh, who was apparently
trying to push forwards, but whom his mother was
holding back with word and action, as Lois knew she
would hold him back; for it was not for the first time
that she was made aware how carefully her aunt had
always shrouded his decent reputation among his fellow-
citizens from the least suspicion of his seasons of ex-
citement and incipient insanity. On such days, when
he himself imagined that he heard prophetic voices, and
saw prophetic visions, his mother would do much to
prevent any besides his own family from seeing him;
and now Lois, by a process swifter than reasoning, felt
certain, from her one look at his face, when she saw it,
colourless and deformed by intensity of expression,
among a number of others all simply ruddy and angry,
that he was in such a state that his mother would in
vain do her utmost to prevent his making himself con-
spicuous. Whatever force or argument Grace used, it
was of no avail. In another moment he was by Lois's
side, stammering with excitement, and giving vague
testimony, which would have been of little value in a
calm court of justice, and was only oil to the Smoulder-
ing fire of that audience.
“Away with her to gaol!” “Seek out the witches!”
“The sin has spread into all households!” “Satan is
in the very midst of us!” “Strike and spare not!” In
vain Dr. Cotton Mather raised his voice in loud pray-
ers, in which he assumed the guilt of the accused girl;
no one listened, all were anxious to secure Lois, as if
they feared she would vanish from before their very
eyes; she, white, trembling, standing quite still in the
right grasp of strange, fierce men, her dilated eyes only
wandering a little now and then in search of some piti-


LOIS THE WITCII. 99
ful face — some pitiful face that among all those
hundreds was not to be found. While some fetched
cords to bind her, and others, by low questions, sug-
gested new accusations to the distempered brain of
Prudence, Manasseh obtained a hearing once more.
Addressing Dr. Cotton Mather, he said, evidently anxious
to make clear some new argument that had just sug-
gested itself to him: “Sir, in this matter, be she witch
or not, the end has been foreshown-to me by the spirit
of prophecy. Now, reverend sir, if the event be known
to the spirit, it must have been foredoomed in the coun-
cils of God. If so, why punish her for doing that in
which she had no free will?”
“Young man,” said Dr. Mather, bending down from
the pulpit and looking very severely upon Manasseh,
“take care! you are trenching on blasphemy.”
“I do not care. I say it again. Either Lois
Barclay is a witch, or she is not. If she is, it has been
foredoomed for her, for I have seen a vision of her
death as a condemned witch for many months past —
and the voice has told me there was but one escape for
her, Lois — the voice you know ——” In his ex-
citement he began to wander a little, but it was touch-
ing to see how conscious he was that by giving way
he would lose the thread of the logical argument by
which he hoped to prove that Lois ought not to be
punished, and with what an effort he wrenched his
imagination away from the old ideas, and strove to
concentrate all his mind upon the plea that, if Lois was
a witch, it had been shown him by prophecy; and if
there was prophecy there must be foreknowledge; if
foreknowledge, foredoom; if foredoom, no exercise of
7%


100 LOIS THE WITCII,
free will, and, therefore, that Lois was not justly amen-
able to punishment. º
On he went, plunging into heresy, caring not —
growing more and more passionate every instant, but
directing his passion into keen argument, desperate
sarcasm, instead of allowing it to excite his imagination.
Even Dr. Mather felt himself on the point of being
worsted in the very presence of this congregation, who,
but a short half-hour ago, looked upon him as all but
infallible. Keep a good heart, Cotton Mather! your
opponent's eye begins to glare and flicker with a ter-
rible yet uncertain light — his speech grows less co-
herent, and his arguments are mixed up with wild
glimpses at wilder revelations made to himself alone.
He has touched on the limits, – he has entered the
borders of blasphemy, and with an awful cry of horror
and reprobation the congregation rise up, as one man,
against the blasphemer. Dr. Mather smiled a grim
smile, and the people were ready to stone Manasseh,
who went on, regardless, talking and raving.
“Stay, stay!” said Grace Hickson — all the decent
family shame which prompted her to conceal the mys.
terious misfortune of her only son from public know-
ledge done away with by the sense of the immediate
danger to his life. “Touch him not. He knows not
what he is saying. The fit is upon him. I tell you
the truth before God. My son, my only son, is mad.”
They stood aghast at the intelligence. The grave
young citizen, who had silently taken his part in life
close by them in their daily lives – not mixing much
with them, it was true, but looked up to, perhaps, all
the more — the student of abstruse books on theology,
fit to converse with the most learned ministers that
2-
*
* ,
º


LOIS THE WITCH.
101 zºº -
P. Henal, J
ever came about those parts — was he the same with –
the man now pouring out wild words to Lois the witch,
as if he and she were the only two present! A solu-
tion of it all—occurred to them. He was another victim.
Great was the power of Satan! Through the arts of , , \
the devil, that white statue of a girl had mastered the -, -
soul of Manasseh Hickson. So the word spread from
mouth to mouth. And Grace heard it. It seemed a
healing balsam for her shame. With wilful, dishonest
blindness, she would not see — not even in her secret
heart would she acknowledge, that Manasseh had been
strange, and moody, and violent long before the Eng-
lish girl had reached Salem. She even found some
specious reason for his attempt at suicide long ago.
He was recovering from a fever — and though tolerably
well in health, the delirium had not finally left him.
But since Lois came, how headstrong he had been at
times! how unreasonable! how moody! What a strange
delusion was that which he was under, of being bidden
by some voice to marry her! How he followed her
about, and clung to her, as under some compulsion of
affection! And over all reigned the idea that, if he
were indeed suffering from being bewitched, he was
not mad, and might again assume the honourable º
position he had held in the congregation and in the %.
town; when the spell by which he was held was • *
.*.s.º.º.º. ...". *
and encouraged it in others, that Lois Barclay had sº * * *
bewitched both Manasseh and Prudence. And the #.
consequence of this belief was, that Lois was to be ** .*.
tried, with little chance in her favour, to see whether 29 * *
she was a witch or no; and if a witch, whether she **
would confess, implicate others, repent, and live a life


102 LOIS THE WITCH.
of bitter shame, avoided by all men, and cruelly treated
by most; or die impenitent, hardened, denying her
crime upon the gallows.
And so they dragged Lois away from the congrega-
tion of Christians to the gaol, to await her trial. I
say “dragged her,” because, although she was docile
enough to have followed them whither they would, she
was now so faint as to require extraneous force — poor
Lois! who should have been carried and tended
lovingly in her state of exhaustion, but, instead, was
so detested by the multitude, who looked upon her as
an accomplice of Satan in all his evil doings, that they
cared no more how they treated her than a careless
boy minds how he handles the toad that he is going to
throw over the wall.
When Lois came to her full senses, she found her-
self lying on a short hard bed in a dark square room,
which she at once knew must be a part of the city
gaol. It was about eight feet square, it had stone
walls on every side, and a grated opening high above
her head, letting in all the light and air that could
enter through about a square foot of aperture. It was
so lonely, so dark to that poor girl, when she came
slowly and painfully out of her long faint. She did so
want human help in that struggle which always super-
venes after a swoon; when the effort is to clutch at
life, and the effort seems too much for the will. She
did not at first understand where she was; did not
understand how she came to be there, nor did she care
to understand. Her physical instinct was to lie still
and let the hurrying pulses have time to calm. So
she shut her eyes once more. Slowly, slowly the re-
collection of the scene in the meeting-house shaped


LOIS THE WITCH. 103
itself into a kind of picture before her. She saw
within her eyelids, as it were, that sea of loathing faces
all turned towards her, as towards something unclean
and hateful. And you must remember, you who in the
nineteenth century read this account, that witchcraft was
a real terrible sin to her, Lois Barclay, two hundred
years ago. The look on their faces, stamped on heart
and brain, excited in her a sort of strange sympathy.
Could it, oh God! — could it be true, that Satan had
obtained the terrific power over her and her will, of
which she had heard and read? Could she indeed be
possessed by a demon and be indeed a witch, and yet
till now have been unconscious of it? And her excited
imagination recalled, with singular vividness, all she had
ever heard on the subject — the horrible midnight sacra-
ment, the very presence and power of Satan. Then
remembering every angry thought against her neigh-
bour, against the impertinences of Prudence, against the
overbearing authority of her aunt, against the per-
severing crazy suit of Manasseh, the indignation — only
that morning, but such ages off in real time — at Faith's
injustice; oh, could such evil thoughts have had devilish
power given to them by the father of evil, and, all un-
consciously to herself, have gone forth as active curses
into the world? And so, on the ideas went careering
wildly through the poor girl's brain — the girl thrown
inward upon herself. At length, the sting of her
imagination forced her to start up impatiently. What
was this? A weight of iron on her legs — a weight
stated afterwards, by the gaoler of Salem prison, to
have been “not more than eight pounds.” It was well
for Lois it was a tangible ill, bringing her back from
the wild illimitable desert in which her imagination


104 LOIS THE WITCH.
was wandering. She took hold of the iron, and saw
her torn stocking, — her bruised ankle, and began to
cry pitifully, out of strange compassion with herself.
They feared, then, that even in that cell she would
find a way to escape. Why, the utter, ridiculous im-
possibility of the thing convinced her of her own in-
nocence, and ignorance of all supernatural power; and
the heavy iron brought her strangely round from the
delusions that seemed to be gathering about her.
No! she never could fly out of that deep dungeon;
there was no escape, natural or supernatural, for her,
unless by man's mercy. And what was man's mercy
in such times of panic? Lois knew that it was no-
thing; instinct more than reason taught her, that panic
calls out cowardice, and cowardice cruelty. Yet she
cried, cried freely, and for the first time, when she found
herself ironed and chained. It seemed so cruel, so
much as if her fellow-creatures had really learnt to hate
and dread her — her, who had had a few angry thoughts,
which God forgive! but whose thoughts had never gone
into words, far less into actions. Why, even now she
could love all the household at home, if they would
but let her; yes, even yet, though she felt that it was
the open accusation of Prudence and the withheld
justifications of her aunt and Faith that had brought
her to her present strait. Would they ever come and
see her? Would kinder thoughts of her, — who had
shared their daily bread for months and months, –
bring them to see her, and ask her whether it. were
really she who had brought on the illness of Prudence,
the derangement of Manasseh's mind?
No one came. Bread and water were pushed in by
some one, who hastily locked and unlocked the door,


LOIS THE WITCH. 105
and cared not to see if he put them within his pri-
soner's reach, or perhaps thought that physical fact
mattered little to a witch. It was long before Lois
could reach them; and she had something of the
natural hunger of youth left in her still, which prompted
her, lying her length on the floor, to weary herself
with efforts to obtain the bread. After she had eaten
some of it, the day began to wane, and she thought
she would lay her down and try to sleep. But before
she did so, the gaoler heard her singing the Evening
Hymn —
Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light.
And a dull thought came into his dull mind, that she
was thankful for few blessings, if she could tune up her
voice to sing praises after this day of what, if she were
a witch, was shameful detection in abominable prac-
tices, and if not — Well, his mind stopped short at
this point in his wondering contemplation. Lois knelt
down and said the Lord's Prayer, pausing just a little
before one clause, that she might be sure that in her
heart of hearts she did forgive. Then she looked at
her ankle, and the tears came into her eyes once
again, but not so much because she was hurt, as be-
cause men must have hated her so bitterly before they
could have treated her thus. Then she lay down, and
fell asleep.
The next day, she was led before Mr. Hathorn and
Mr. Curwin, justices of Salem, to be accused legally
and publicly of witchcraft. Others were with her,
under the same charge. And when the prisoners were
brought in, they were cried out at by the abhorrent
crowd. The two Tappaus, Prudence, and one or two


106 LOTS THE WITCH.
other girls of the same age were there, in the char-
acter of victims of the spells of the accused. The pri-
soners were placed about seven or eight feet from the
justices, and the accusers between the justices and
them; the former were then ordered to stand right be-
fore the justices. All this Lois did at their bidding,
with something of the wondering docility of a child,
but not with any hope of softening the hard, stony look
of detestation that was on all the countenances around
her, save those that were distorted by more passionate
anger. Then an officer was bidden to hold each of
her hands, and Justice Hathorn bade her keep her
eyes continually fixed on him, for this reason — which,
however, was not told to her — lest, if she looked on
Prudence, the girl might either fall into a fit, or cry
out that she was suddenly and violently hurt. If any
heart could have been touched of that cruel multitude,
they would have felt some compassion for the sweet
young face of the English girl, trying so meekly to do
all that she was ordered, her face quite white, yet so
full of sad gentleness, her grey eyes, a little dilated by
the very solemnity of her position, fixed with the intent
look of innocent maidenhood on the stern face of Justice
Hathorn. And thus they stood in silence, one breath-
less minute. Then they were bidden to say the Lord's
Prayer. Lois went through it as if alone in her cell;
but, as she had done alone in her cell the night be-
fore, she made a little pause, before the prayer to be
forgiven as she forgave. And at this instant of hesita-
tion — as if they had been on the watch for it — they
all cried out upon her for a witch, and when the clamour
ended the justices bade Prudence Hickson come for-
wards. Then Lois turned a little to one side, wishing


LOIS THE WITCH. 107
to see at least one familiar face; but when her eyes fell
upon Prudence, the girl stood stock-still, and answered
no questions, nor spoke a word, and the justices de-
clared that she was struck dumb by witchcraft. Then
some behind took Prudence under the arms, and would
have forced her forwards to touch Lois, possibly esteem-
ing that as a cure for her being bewitched. But
Prudence had hardly been made to take three steps
before she struggled out of their arms, and fell down
writhing as in a fit, calling out with shrieks, and
entreating Lois to help her, and save her from her tor-
ment. Then all the girls began “to tumble down like
swine” (to use the words of an eye-witness) and to cry
out upon Lois and her fellow-prisoners. These last
were now ordered to stand with their hands stretched
out, it being imagined that if the bodies of the witches
were arranged in the form of a cross they would lose
their evil power. By-and-by Lois felt her strength
going, from the unwonted fatigue of such a position,
which she had borne patiently until the pain and weari-
ness had forced both tears and sweat down her face,
and she asked in a low, plaintive voice, if she might
not rest her head for a few moments against the
wooden partition. But Justice Hathorn told her she
had strength enough to torment others, and should
have strength enough to stand. She sighed a little,
and bore on, the clamour against her and the other
accused increasing every moment; the only way she
could keep herself from utterly losing consciousness
was by distracting herself from present pain and
danger, and saying to herself verses of the Psalms as
she could remember them, expressive of trust in God.
At length she was ordered back to gaol, and dimly


108 LOIS THE WITCH.
understood that she and others were sentenced to be
hanged for witchcraft. Many people now looked
eagerly at Lois, to see if she would weep at this doom.
If she had had strength to cry, it might — it was just
possible that it might — have been considered a plea
in her favour, for witches could not shed tears, but she
was too exhausted and dead. All she wanted was to
lie down once more on her prison-bed, out of the reach
of men's cries of abhorrence, and out of shot of their
cruel eyes. So they led her back to prison, speechless
and tearless.
But rest gave her back her power of thought and
suffering. Was it, indeed, true that she was to die?
She, Lois Barclay, only eighteen, so well, so young, so
full of love and hope as she had been, till but these
little days past! What would they think of it at home
— real, dear home at Barford, in England? There
they had loved her; there she had gone about, singing
and rejoicing all the day long in the pleasant meadows
by the Avon side. Oh, why did father and mother
die, and leave her their bidding to come here to this
cruel New England shore, where no one had wanted
her, no one had cared for her, and where now they
were going to put her to a shameful death as a witch?
And there would be no one to send kindly messages
by to those she should never see more. Never more!
Young Lucy was living, and joyful — probably think-
ing of her, and of his declared intention of coming to
fetch her home to be his wife this very spring. Possi-
bly he had forgotten her; no one knew. A week be-
fore, she would have been indignant at her own dis-
trust in thinking for a minute that he could forget.
Now, she doubted all men's goodness for a time; for


LOIS THE WITCH. 109
those around her were deadly, and cruel, and relent-
less.
Then she turned round, and beat herself with angry
blows (to speak in images), for ever doubting her lover.
Oh! if she were but with him! Oh! if she might but
be with him! He would not let her die; but would
hide her in his bosom from the wrath of this people,
and carry her back to the old home at Barford. And
he might even now be sailing on the wide blue sea,
coming nearer, nearer every moment, and yet be too
late after all.
So the thoughts chased each other through her head
all that feverish night, till she clung almost deliriously
to life, and wildly prayed that she might not die; at
least, not just yet, and she so young!
Pastor Tappau and certain elders roused her up
from a heavy sleep, late on the morning of the follow-
ing day. All night long she had trembled and cried,
till morning light had come peering in through the
square grating up above. It soothed her, and she fell
asleep, to be awakened, as I have said, by Pastor
Tappau.
“Arise!” said he, scrupling to touch her, from his
superstitious idea of her evil powers. “It is noonday.”
“Where am I?” said she, bewildered at this un-
usual wakening, and the array of severe faces all gazing
upon her with reprobation.
“You are in Salem gaol, condemned for a witch.”
“Alas! I had forgotten for an instant,” said she,
dropping her head upon her breast.
“She has been out on a devilish ride all night long,
doubtless, and is weary and perplexed this morning,”
whispered one, in so low a voice that he did not think


110 Lois THE witch.
she could hear; but she lifted up her eyes, and looked
at him, with mute reproach.
“We are come,” said Pastor Tappau, “to exhort
you to confess your great and manifold sin.”
“My great and manifold sin!” repeated Lois to her-
self, shaking her head.
“Yea, your sin of witchcraft. If you will confess,
there may yet be balm in Gilead.”
One of the elders, struck with pity at the young
girl's wan, shrunken look, said, that if she confessed,
and repented, and did penance, possibly her life might
yet be spared.
A sudden flash of light came into her sunk, dulled
eye. Might she yet live? Was it yet in her power?
Why, no one knew how soon Ralph Lucy might be
here, to take her away for ever into the peace of a
new home! Life! Oh, then, all hope was not over —
perhaps she might still live, and not die. Yet the truth
came once more out of her lips, almost without any
exercise of her will.
“I am not a witch,” she said.
Then Pastor Tappau blindfolded her, all unresist-
ing, but with languid wonder in her heart as to what
was to come next. She heard people enter the dungeon
softly, and heard whispering voices; then her hands
were lifted up and made to touch some one near, and
in an instant she heard a noise of struggling, and the
wellknown voice of Prudence shrieking out in one of
her hysterical fits, and screaming to be taken away and
out of that place. It seemed to Lois as if some of her
judges must have doubted of her guilt, and demanded
yet another test. She sat down heavily on her bed,
thinking she must be in a horrible dream, so compassed


LOIS THE WITCH. 111
about with dangers and enemies did she seem. Those
in the dungeon—and by the oppression of the air she
perceived that they were many — kept on eager talk-
ing in low voices. She did not try to make out the
sense of the fragments of sentences that reached her
dulled brain, till, all at once, a word or two made her
understand they were discussing the desirableness of
applying the whip or the torture to make her confess,
and reveal by what means the spell she had cast upon
those whom she had bewitched could be dissolved. A
thrill of affright ran through her; and she cried out,
beseechingly:
“I beg you, sirs, for God's mercy sake, that you do
not use such awful means. I may say anything — nay,
I may accuse any one if I am subjected to such tor-
ment as I have heard tell about. For I am but a
young girl, and not very brave, or very good, as some
are.”
It touched the hearts of one or two to see her
standing there; the tears streaming down from below
the coarse handkerchief tightly bound over her eyes;
the clanking chain fastening the heavy weight to the
slight ankle; the two hands held together as if to keep
down a convulsive motion.
“Look!” said one of these. “She is weeping. They
say no witch can weep tears.”
But another scoffed at this test, and bade the first
remember how those of her own family, the Hicksons
even, bore witness against her.
Once more she was bidden to confess. The charges,
esteemed by all men (as they said) to have been proven
against her, were read over to her, with all the testi-
mony borne against her in proof thereof. They told


112 LOIS THE WITCH.
her that, considering the godly family to which she
belonged, it had been decided by the magistrates and
ministers of Salem that she should have her life spared,
if she would own her guilt, make reparation, and sub-
mit to penance; but that if not, she, and others con-
victed of witchcraft along with her, were to be hung
in Salem market-place on the next Thursday morning
(Thursday being market day). And when they had
thus spoken, they waited silently for her answer. It
was a minute or two before she spoke. She had sat
down again upon the bed meanwhile, for indeed she
was very weak. She asked, “May I have this hand-
kerchief unbound from my eyes, for indeed, sirs, it
hurts me?”
The occasion for which she was blindfolded being
over, the bandage was taken off, and she was allowed
to see. She looked pitifully at the stern faces around
her, in grim suspense as to what her answer would be.
Then she spoke:
“Sirs, I must choose death with a quiet conscience,
rather than life to be gained by a lie. I am not a
witch. I know not hardly what you mean when you
say I am. I have done many, many things very wrong
in my life; but I think God will forgive me them for
my Saviour's sake.”
“Take not His name on your wicked lips,” said
Pastor Tappau, enraged at her resolution of not con-
fessing, and scarcely able to keep himself from strik-
ing her. She saw the desire he had, and shrank away
in timid fear. Then Justice Hathorn solemnly read
the legal condemnation of Lois Barclay to death by
hanging, as a convicted witch. She murmured some-
thing which nobody heard fully, but which sounded
-
/


LOIS THE WITCH. 113
like a prayer for pity and compassion on her tender
years and friendless estate. Then they left her to all
the horrors of that solitary, loathsome dungeon, and
the strange terror of approaching death.
Outside the prison walls, the dread of the witches,
and the excitement against witchcraft, grew with fear-
ful rapidity. Numbers of women, and men, too, were
accused, no matter what their station of life and their
former character had been. On the other side, it is
alleged that upwards of fifty persons were grievouly
vexed by the devil, and those to whom he had imparted
of his power for vile and wicked considerations. How
much of malice, distinct, unmistakable personal malice,
was mixed up with these accusations, no one can now
tell. The dire statistics of this time tell us, that fifty-
five escaped death by confessing themselves guilty, one
hundred and fifty were in prison, more than two hun-
dred accused, and upwards of twenty suffered death,
among whom was the minister I have called Nolan,
who was traditionally esteemed to have suffered through
hatred of his co-pastor. One old man, scorning the
accusation, and refusing to plead at his trial, was, ac-
cording to the law, pressed to death for his contumacy.
Nay, even dogs were accused of witchcraft, suffered the
legal penalties, and are recorded among the subjects of
capital punishment. One young man found means to
effect his mother's escape from confinement, fled with
her on horseback, and secreted her in the Blueberry
Swamp, not far from Taplay's Brook, in the Great
Pasture; he concealed her here in a wigwam which he
built for her shelter, provided her with food and cloth-
ing, and comforted and sustained her until after the
delusion had passed away. The poor creature must,
Lois the Witch, etc. 8


114 LOIS THE WITCH.
however, have suffered dreadfully, for one of her arms
was fractured in the all but desperate effort of getting
her out of prison.
But there was no one to try and save Lois. Grace
Hickson would fain have ignored her altogether. Such
a taint did witchcraft bring upon a whole family, that
generations of blameless life were not at that day
esteemed sufficient to wash it out. Besides, you must
remember that Grace, along with most people of her
time, believed most firmly in the reality of the crime
of witchcraft. Poor, forsaken Lois, believed in it her-
self, and it added to her terror, for the gaoler, in an
unusually communicative mood, told her that nearly
every cell was now full of witches; and it was possible
he might have to put one, if more came, in with her.
Lois knew that she was no witch herself; but not the
less did she believe that the crime was abroad, and
largely shared in by evil-minded persons who had
chosen to give up their souls to Satan; and she shud-
dered with terror at what the gaoler said, and would
have asked him to spare her this companionship if it
were possible. But, somehow, her senses were leaving
her, and she could not remember the right words in
which to form her request, until he had left the place.
The only person who yearned after Lois — who
would have befriended her if he could—was Manasseh :
poor, mad Manasseh. But he was so wild and out-
rageous in his talk, that it was all his mother could do
to keep his state concealed from public observation.
She had for this purpose given him a sleeping potion;
and, while he lay heavy and inert under the influence
of the poppy-tea, his mother bound him with cords to
the ponderous, antique bed in which he slept. She


LOIS THE WITCH. 115
looked broken-hearted while she did this office, and
thus acknowledged the degradation of her first-born —
him of whom she had ever been so proud.
Late that evening, Grace Hickson stood in Lois's
cell, hooded and cloaked up to her eyes. Lois was
sitting quite still, playing idly with a bit of string
which one of the magistrates had dropped out of his
pocket that morning. Her aunt was standing by her
for an instant or two in silence, before Lois seemed
aware of her presence. Suddenly she looked up, and
uttered a little cry, shrinking away from the dark
figure. Then, as if her cry had loosened Grace's
tongue, she began:
“Lois Barclay, did I ever do you any harm?”
Grace did not know how often her want of loving-
kindness had pierced the tender heart of the stranger
under her roof; nor did Lois remember it against her
now. Instead, Lois's memory was filled with grateful
thoughts of how much that might have been left
undone, by a less conscientious person, her aunt had
done for her, and she half stretched out her arms as
to a friend in that desolate place, while she an-
swered: —
“Oh no, no! you were very good! very kind!”
But Grace stood immovable.
“I did you no harm, although I never rightly knew
why you came to us.”
“I was sent by my mother on her death-bed,”
moaned Lois, covering her face. It grew darker every
instant. Her aunt stood, still and silent.
“Did any of mine ever wrong you?” she asked,
after a time.
“No, no; never, till Prudence said — — Oh, aunt,
8%


116 LOIS THE WITCH.
do you think I am a witch?” And now Lois was
standing up, holding by Grace's cloak, and trying to
read her face. Grace drew herself, ever so little, away
from the girl, whom she dreaded, and yet sought to
propitiate.
“Wiser than I, godlier than I, have said it. But,
oh, Lois, Lois! he was my first-born, Loose him from
the demon, for the sake of Him whose name I dare
not name in this terrible building, filled with them who
have renounced the hopes of their baptism; loose Ma-
nasseh from his awful state, if ever I or mine did you
a kindness!”
“You ask me for Christ's sake,” said Lois. “I can
name that holy name — for oh, aunt! indeed, and in
holy truth, I am no witch; and yet I am to die — to
be hanged! Aunt, do not let them kill me! I am
so young, and I never did any one any harm that I
know of.”
“Hush! for very shame! This afternoon I have
bound my first-born with strong cords, to keep him
from doing himself or us a mischief – he is so frenzied.
Lois Barclay, look here!” and Grace knelt down at
her niece's feet, and joined her hands as if in prayer
— “I am a proud woman, God forgive me! and I
never thought to kneel to any save to Him. And now
I kneel at your feet, to pray you to release my chil-
dren, more especially my son Manasseh, from the spells
you have put upon them. Lois, hearken to me, and I
will pray to the Almighty for you, if yet there may be
mercy.”
“I cannot do it; I never did you or yours any
wrong. How can I undo it? How can I?” And she


LOIS THE WITCH. 117
wrung her hands in intensity of conviction of the in-
utility of aught she could do.
Here Grace got up, slowly, stiffly, and sternly.
She stood aloof from the chained girl, in the remote
corner of the prison cell near the door, ready to make
her escape as soon as she had cursed the witch, who
would not, or could not, undo the evil she had wrought.
Grace lifted up her right hand, and held it up on high,
as she doomed Lois to be accursed for ever, for her
deadly sin, and her want of mercy even at this final
hour. And, lastly, she summoned her to meet her at
the judgment-seat, and answer for this deadly injury
done to both souls and bodies of those who had taken
her in, and received her when she came to them an
orphan and a stranger.
Until this last summons, Lois had stood as one who
hears her sentence and can say nothing against it, for
she knows all would be in vain. But she raised her
head when she heard her aunt speak of the judgment-
seat, and at the end of Grace's speech she, too, lifted
up her right hand, as if solemnly pledging herself by
that action, and replied:
“Aunt! I will meet you there. And there you will
know my innocence of this deadly thing. God have
mercy on you and yours!”
Her calm voice maddened Grace, and making a
gesture as if she plucked up a handful of dust off the
floor, and threw it at Lois, she cried:
“Witch! witch! ask mercy for thyself — I need
not your prayers. Witches' prayers are read backwards.
I spit at thee, and defy thee!” And so she went
away.
Lois sat moaning that whole night through. “God


118 LOIS THE WITCH.
comfort me! God strengthen me!” was all she could
remember to say. She just felt that want, nothing
more, — all other fears and wants seemed dead within
her. And when the gaoler brought in her breakfast
the next morning, he reported her as “gone silly;" for,
indeed, she did not seem to know him, but kept rocking
herself to and fro, and whispering softly to herself,
smiling a little from time to time.
But God did comfort her, and strengthen her too.
Late on that Wednesday afternoon, they thrust another
“witch” into her cell, bidding the two, with oppro-
brious words, keep company together. The new comer
fell prostrate with the push given her from without;
and Lois, not recognizing anything but an old ragged
woman lying helpless on her face on the ground, lifted
her up; and lo! it was Nattee — dirty, filthy indeed,
mud-pelted, stone-bruised, beaten, and all astray in her
wits with the treatment she had received from the mob
outside. Lois held her in her arms, and softly wiped
the old brown wrinkled face with her apron, crying
over it, as she had hardly yet cried over her own sor-
rows. Four hours she tended the old Indian woman
— tended her bodily woes; and as the poor scattered
senses of the savage creature came slowly back, Lois
gathered her infinite dread of the morrow, when she
too, as well as Lois, was to be led out to die, in face
of all that infuriated crowd. Lois sought in her own
mind for some source of comfort for the old woman,
who shook like one in the shaking palsy at the dread
of death — and such a death.
When all was quiet through the prison, in the deep
dead midnight, the gaoler outside the door heard Lois
telling, as if to a young child, the marvellous and sor-


LOIS THE WITCH. 119
rowful story of one who died on the cross for us and
for our sakes. As long as she spoke, the Indian
woman's terror seemed lulled; but the instant she
paused, for weariness, Nattee cried out afresh, as if
some wild beast were following her close through the
dense forests in which she had dwelt in her youth.
And then Lois went on, saying all the blessed words
she could remember, and comforting the helpless Indian
woman with the sense of the presence of a Heavenly
Friend. And in comforting her, Lois was comforted;
in strengthening her, Lois was strengthened.
The morning came, and the summons to come forth
and die came. They who entered the cell found Lois
asleep, her face resting on the slumbering old woman,
whose head she still held in her lap. She did not seem
clearly to recognize where she was, when she awakened;
the “silly” look had returned to her wan face; all she
appeared to know was, that somehow or another,
through some peril or another, she had to protect the
poor Indian woman. She smiled faintly when she saw
the bright light of the April day; and put her arm
round Nattee, and tried to keep the Indian quiet with
hushing, soothing words of broken meaning, and holy
fragments of the Psalms. Nattee tightened her hold
upon Lois as they drew near the gallows, and the
outrageous crowd below began to hoot and yell. Lois
redoubled her efforts to calm and encourage Nattee,
apparently unconscious that any of the opprobrium,
the hootings, the stones, the mud, was directed towards
her herself. But when they took Nattee from her arms,
and led her out to suffer first, Lois seemed all at once
to recover her sense of the present terror. She gazed


__ 120 LOIS THE WITCH.
wildly around, stretched out her arms as if to some
person in the distance, who was yet visible to her, and
cried. - oice that thrilled through all
who heard it, “Mother!” Directly afterwards, the body
of Lois the Witch-swung in the air, and every one
stood, with hushed breath, with a sudden wonder, like
a fear of deadly crime, fallen upon them.
The stillness and the silence were broken by one
crazed and mad, who came rushing up the steps of the
ladder, and caught Lois's body in his arms, and kissed
her lips with wild passion. And then, as if it were
true what the people believed, that he was possessed
by a demon, he sprang down, and rushed through the
crowd, out of the bounds of the city, and into the dark
dense forest, and Manasseh Hickson was no more seen
of Christian man.
The people of Salem had awakened from their fright-
ful delusion before the autumn, when Captain Holder-
nesse and Ralph Lucy came to find out Lois, and bring
her home to peaceful Barford, in the pleasant country
of England. Instead, they led them to the grassy grave
where she lay at rest, done to death by mistaken men.
Ralph Lucy shook the dust off his feet in quitting Salem,
with a heavy, heavy heart; and lived a bachelor all his
life long for her sake.
Long years afterwards, Captain Holdernesse sought
him out, to tell him some news that he thought might
interest the grave miller of the Avonside. Captain
Holdernesse told him that in the previous year, it was
then 1713, the sentence of excommunication against the
witches of Salem was ordered, in godly sacramental


LOIS THE WITCH. 121
meeting of the church, to be erased and blotted out,
and that those who met together for this purpose
“humbly requested the merciful God would pardon
whatsoever sin, error, or mistake was in the application
of justice, through our merciful High Priest, who
knoweth how to have compassion on the ignorant, and
those that are out of the way.” He also said that
Prudence Hickson — now woman grown — had made
a most touching and pungent declaration of sorrow and
repentance before the whole church, for the false and
mistaken testimony she had given in several instances,
among which she paticularly mentioned that of her
cousin Lois Barclay. To all which Ralph Lucy only
answered:
“No repentance of theirs can bring her back to
life.” -
Then Captain Holdernesse took out a paper, and
read the following humble and solemn declaration of
regret on the part of those who signed it, among whom
Grace Hickson was one:
“We, whose names are undersigned, being, in the
year 1692, called to serve as jurors in court of Salem,
on trial of many who were by some suspected guilty of
doing acts of witchcraft upon the bodies of sundry per-
sons; we confess that we ourselves were not capable to
understand, nor able to withstand, the mysterious de-
lusions of the powers of darkness, and prince of the air,
but were, for want of knowledge in ourselves, and better
information from others, prevailed with to take up with
such evidence against the accused, as, on further con-
sideration, and better information, we justly fear was


122 LOIS THE WITCH.
insufficient for the touching the lives of any (Deut. xvii.
6), whereby we fear we have been instrumental, with
others, though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring upon
ourselves and this people of the Lord the guilt of in-
nocent blood; which sin, the Lord saith in Scripture,
he would not pardon (2 Kings, xxiv. 4), that is, we
suppose, in regard of his temporal judgments. We do,
therefore, signify to all in general (and to the surviving
sufferers in special) our deep sense of, and sorrow for,
our errors, in acting on such evidence to the condemning
of any person; and do hereby declare, that we justly
fear that we were sadly deluded and mistaken, for which
we are much disquieted and distressed in our minds,
and do therefore humbly beg forgiveness, first of God
for Christ's sake, for this our error; and pray that God
would not impute the guilt of it to ourselves nor others;
and we also pray that we may be considered candidly
and aright by the living sufferers, as being then under
the power of a strong and general delusion, utterly un-
acquainted with, and not experienced in, matters of that
nature.
“We do heartily ask forgiveness of you all, whom
we have justly offended; and do declare, according to
our present minds, we would none of us do such things
again on such grounds for the whole world; praying you
to accept of this in way of satisfaction for our offence,
and that you would bless the inheritance of the Lord,
that he may be entreated for the land.
“Foreman, THOMAS FISK, &c.”
To the reading of this paper Ralph Lucy made no
reply save this, even more gloomily than before:


- LOIS THE WITCH. 123
“All their repentance will avail nothing to my Lois,
nor will it bring back her life.”
Then Captain Holdernesse spoke once more, and
said that on the day of the general fast, appointed to
be held all through New England, when the meeting-
houses were crowded, an old, old man with white hair
had stood up in the place in which he was accustomed
to worship, and had handed up into the pulpit a written
confession, which he had once or twice essayed to read
for himself, acknowledging his great and grievous error
in the matter of the witches of Salem, and praying for
the forgiveness of God and of his people, ending with
an entreaty that all then present would join with him
in prayer that his past conduct might not bring down
the displeasure of the Most High upon his country, his
family, or himself. That old man, who was no other
than Justice Sewall, remained standing all the time that
his confession was read; and at the end he said, “The
good and gracious God be pleased to save New Eng-
land and me and my family.” And then it came out
that, for years past, Judge Sewall had set apart a day
for humiliation and prayer, to keep fresh in his mind a
sense of repentance and sorrow for the part he had
borne in these trials, and that this solemn anniversary
he was pledged to keep as long as he lived, to show
his feeling of deep humiliation.
Ralph Lucy's voice trembled as he spoke: “All this
will not bring my Lois to life again, or give me back
the hope of my youth.” -
But — as Captain Holdernesse shook his head (for
what word could he say, or how dispute what was so


124 LOIS THE WITCH.
evidently true?) — Ralph added, “What is the day,
know you, that this justice has set apart?”
“The twenty-ninth of April.”
“Then on that day will I, here at Barford in
England, join my prayers as long as I live with the
repentant judge, that his sin may be blotted out and
no more had in remembrance. She would have willed
it so.” z


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THE GREY WOMAN.
[THE story I am going to relate is true as to its
main facts, and as to the consequence of those facts
from which this tale takes its title.]
There is a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many
people resort for coffee, according to the fashion which
is almost national in Germany. There is nothing par-
ticularly attractive in the situation of this mill; it is on
the Mannheim (the flat and unromantic) side of Heidel-
berg. The river turns the mill-wheel with a plenteous
gushing sound; the out-buildings and the dwelling-
house of the miller, form a well-kept, dusty quadrangle.
Again, further from the river, there is a garden full of
willows, and arbours, and flower-beds, not well kept,
but very profuse in flowers and luxuriant creepers,
knotting and looping the arbours together. In each of
these arbours is a stationary table of white painted
wood, and light, movable chairs of the same colour
and material. -
I went to drink coffee there with some friends in
184—. The stately old miller came out to greet us,
as some of the party were known to him of old. He
was of a grand build of a man, and his loud musical
voice, with its tone friendly and familiar, his rolling
laugh of welcome, went well with the keen bright eye,


128 - THE GREY WOMAN.
the fine cloth of his coat, and the general look of sub-
stance about the place. Poultry of all kinds abounded
in the mill-yard, where there were ample means of
livelihood for them strewed on the ground; but not
content with this, the miller took out handfuls of corn
from the sacks, and threw liberally to the cocks and
hens that ran almost under his feet in their eager-
ness. And all the time he was doing this, as it were
habitually, he was talking to us, and ever and anon
calling to his daughter and the serving-maids to bid
them hasten the coffee we had ordered. He followed
us to an arbour, and saw us served to his satisfaction
with the best of everything we could ask for, and then
left us to go round to the different arbours and see
that each party was properly attended to; and as he
went, this great, prosperous, happy-looking man whistled
softly one of the most plaintive airs I ever heard.
“His family have held this mill ever since the old
Palatinate days, or rather, I should say, have pos-
sessed the ground ever since then; for two successive
mills of theirs have been burnt down by the French.
If you want to see Scherer in a passion, just talk to
him of the possibility of a French invasion.”
But at this moment, still whistling that mournful
air, we saw the miller going down the steps that led
from the somewhat raised garden into the mill-yard;
and so I seemed to have lost my chance of putting
him in a passion.
We had nearly finished our coffee, and our “kuchen,”
and our cinnamon cake, when heavy splashes fell on
our thick, leafy covering; quicker and quicker they
came, coming through the tender leaves as if they
were tearing them asunder; all the people in the garden


THE GREY WOMAN. 129
were hurrying under shelter, or seeking for their car-
riages standing outside. Up the steps the miller came
hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover every
one left in the garden, and followed by his daughter,
and one or two maidens, each bearing an umbrella.
“Come into the house — come in, I say. It is a
summer-storm, and will flood the place for an hour or
two, till the river carries it away. Here, here.”
And we followed him back into his own house.
We went into the kitchen first. Such an array of
bright copper and tin vessels I never saw; and all the
wooden things were as thoroughly scoured. The red
tile floor was spotless when we went in, but in two
minutes it was all over slop and dirt with the tread
of many feet, for the kitchen was filled, and still the
worthy miller kept bringing in more people under his
great crimson umbrella. He even called the dogs in,
and made them lie down under the tables.
His daughter said something to him in German,
and he shook his head merrily at her. Everybody
laughed.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She told him to bring the ducks in next; but
indeed if more people come we shall be suffocated.
What with the thundery weather, and the stove, and
all these steaming clothes, I really think we must ask
leave to pass on. Perhaps we might go in, and see
Frau Scherer.”
My friend asked the daughter of the house for per-
mission to go into an inner chamber, and see her
mother. It was granted, and we went into a sort of
salon, overlooking the Neckar; very small, very bright,
and very close. The floor was slippery with polish;
Lois the Witch, etc. 9


130 THE GREY WOMAN.
long, narrow pieces of looking-glass against the walls
reflected the perpetual motion of the river opposite; a
white porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned orna-
ments of brass about it; a sofa, covered with Utrecht
velvet, a table before it, and a piece of worsted-worked
carpet under it; a vase of artificial flowers; and, lastly,
an alcove with a bed in it, on which lay the paralysed
wife of the good miller, knitting busily, formed the
furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be
seen in the room; but, sitting quiet, while my friend
kept up a brisk conversation in a language which I
but half understood, my eye was caught by a picture
in a dark corner of the room, and I got up to examine
it more nearly.
It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty;
evidently of middle rank. There was a sensitive re-
finement in her face, as if she almost shrank from the
gaze which, of necessity, the painter must have fixed
upon her. It was no over-well painted, but I felt that
it must have been a good likeness, from this strong
impress of peculiar character which I have tried to
describe. From the dress, I should guess it to have
been painted in the latter half of the last century. And
I afterwards heard that I was right.
There was a little pause in the conversation.
“Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is?”
My friend repeated my question, and received a
long reply in German. Then she turned round and
translated it to me.
“It is the likeness of a great aunt of her husband's."
(My friend was standing by me, and looking at the
picture with sympathetic curiosity.) “See! here is the
name on the open page of this Bible, “Anna Scherer,


THE GREY WOMAN. 131
1778.’ Frau Scherer says there is a tradition in the
family that this pretty girl, with her complexion of
lilies and roses, lost her colour so, entirely through
fright, that she was known by the name of the Grey
Woman. She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in
some state of life-long terror. But she does not know
details; refers me to her husband for them. She thinks
he has some papers which were written by the original
of that picture for her daughter, who died in this very
house not long after our friend there was married.
We can ask Herr Scherer for the whole story if you
like.”
“Oh yes, pray do!” said I. And, as our host
came in at this moment, to ask how we were faring,
and to tell us that he had sent to Heidelberg for car-
riages to convey us home, seeing no chance of the
heavy rain abating, my friend, after thanking him,
passed on to my request.
“Ah!” said he, his face changing, “the aunt Anna
had a sad history. It was all owing to one of those
hellish Frenchmen; and her daughter suffered for it —
the cousin Ursula, as we all called her when I was a
child. To be sure the good cousin Ursula was his
child as well. The sins of the fathers are visited on
their children. The lady would like to know all about
it, would she? Well, there are papers — a kind of
apology the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her
daughter's engagement — or rather facts which she
revealed, that prevented cousin Ursula from marrying
the man she loved; and so she would never have any
other good fellow, else I have heard say my father
would have been thankful to have made her his wife.”
All this time he was rummaging in the drawer of an
9%


132 THE GREY WOMAN.
old-fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a
bundle of yellow MSS. in his hand, which he gave to
my friend, saying, “Take it home, take it home, and if
you care to make out our crabbed German writing, you
may keep it as long as you like, and read it at your
leisure. Only I must have it back again when you
have done with it, that's all.”
And so we became possessed of the manuscript of
the following letter, which it was our employment,
during many a long evening that ensuing winter, to
translate, and in some parts to abbreviate. The letter
began with some reference to the pain which she had
already inflicted upon her daughter by some unex-
plained opposition to a project of marriage; but I
doubt if, without the clue with which the good miller
had furnished us, we could have made out even thus
much from the passionate, broken sentences that made
us fancy that some scene between the mother and
daughter — and possibly a third person – had oc-
curred just before the mother had begun to write.
“Thou dost not love thy child, mother! Thou
dost not care if her heart is broken!” Ah, God! and
these words of my heart-beloved Ursula ring my ears
as if the sound of them would fill them when I lie a-
dying. And her poor tear-stained face comes between
me and everything else. Child! hearts do not break;
life is very tough as well as very terrible. But I will
not decide for thee. I will tell thee all; and thou
shalt bear the burden of choice. I may be wrong; I
have little wit left, and never had much I think; but
an instinct serves me in place of judgment, and that
instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri must never


THE GREY WOMAN. 133
be married. Yet I may be in error. I would fain
make my child happy. Lay this paper before the
good priest, Schriesheim, if, after reading it, thou hast
doubts which make thee uncertain. Only I will tell
thee all now, on condition that no spoken word ever
passes between us on the subject. It would kill me
to be questioned. I should have to see all present
again.
My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the
Neckar, where thy new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives.
Thou rememberest the surprise with which we were
received there last vintage twelvemonth. How thy
uncle disbelieved me when I said that I was his sister
Anna, whom he had long believed to be dead, and
how I had to lead thee underneath the picture, painted
of me long ago, and point out, feature by feature, the
likeness between it and thee; and how, as I spoke, I
recalled first to my own mind, and then by speech to
his, the details of the time when it was painted; the
merry words that passed between us then, a happy
boy and girl; the position of the articles of furniture
in the room; our father's habits; the cherry-tree, now
cut down, that shaded the window of my bedroom,
through which my brother was wont to squeeze him-
self, in order to spring on to the topmost bough that
would bear his weight, and thence would pass me back
his cap laden with fruit to where I sat on the window-
sill, too sick with fright for him to care much for
eating the cherries.
And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to
be his sister Anna, even as though I were risen from
the dead. And thou rememberest how he fetched in
his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was


134 THE GREY WOMAN.
come back to the old home once more, changed as I
was. And she would scarce believe him, and scanned
me with a cold, distrustful eye, till at length — for I
knew her of old as Babette Müller — I said that I
was well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for
what they had to give. And then she asked — not
me, but her husband — why I had kept silent so
long, leading all — father, brother, every one that
loved me in my own dear home — to esteem me dead.
And then thine uncle (thou rememberest?) said he
cared not to know more than I cared to tell; that I
was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in
his old age, as I had been in his boyhood. I thanked
him in my heart for his trust; for were the need for
telling all less than it seems to me now I could not
speak of my past life. But she, who was my sister-
in-law still, held back her welcome, and, for want of
that, I did not go to live in Heidelberg as I had
planned beforehand, in order to be near my brother
Fritz, but contented myself with his promise to be a
father to my Ursula when I should die and leave this
weary world.
That Babette Müller was, as I may say, the cause
of all my life's suffering. She was a baker's daughter
in Heidelberg — a great beauty, as people said, and,
indeed, as I could see for myself I, too — thou
sawest my picture — was reckoned a, beauty, and I
believe I was so. Babette Müller looked upon me as
a rival. She liked to be admired, and had no one
much to love her. I had several people to love me
— thy grandfather Fritz, the old servant Katchen,
Karl, the head apprentice at the mill — and I feared
admiration and notice, and the being stared at as the


THE GREY WOMAN. 135
“Schöne Müllerin” whenever I went to make my
purchases in Heidelberg.
Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Katchen
to help me in the housework, and whatever we did
pleased my brave old father, who was always gentle
and indulgent towards us women, though he was stern
enough with the apprentices in the mill. Karl, the
oldest of these, was his favourite; and I can see now
that my father wished him to marry me, and that
Earl himself was desirous to do so. But Karl was
rough-spoken, and passionate — not with me, but
with the others — and I shrank from him in a way
which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came thy
uncle Fritz's marriage; and Babette was brought to
the mill to be its mistress. Not that I cared much for
giving up my post, for, in spite of my father's great
kindness, I always feared that I did not manage well
for so large a family (with the men, and a girl under
Katchen, we sat down eleven each night to supper).
But when Babette began to find fault with Katchen, I
was unhappy at the blame that fell on faithful ser-
vants; and by-and-by I began to see that Babette was
egging on Karl to make more open love to me, and,
as she once said, to get done with it, and take me off
to a home of my own. My father was growing old,
and did not perceive all my daily discomfort. The
more Karl advanced, the more I disliked him. He
was good in the main, but I had no notion of being
married, and could not bear any one who talked to
me about it.
Things were in this way when I had an invitation
to go to Carlsruhe to visit a schoolfellow, of whom I
had been very fond. Babette was all for my going;


136 THE GREY WOMAN.
I don't think I wanted to leave home, and yet I had
been very fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But I was
always shy among strangers. Somehow the affair was
settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my father
had made inquiries as to the character and position of
the Rupprechts. They learned that the father had
held some kind of inferior position about the grand
duke's court, and was now dead, leaving a widow, a
noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom was
Sophie, my friend. Madame Rupprecht was not rich,
but more than respectable — genteel. When this was
ascertained, my father made no opposition to my
going; Babette forwarded it by all the means in her
power, and even my dear Fritz had his word to say
in its favour. Only Katchen was against it — Kat-
chen and Karl. The opposition of Karl did more to
send me to Carlsruhe than anything. For I could
have objected to go; but when he took upon himself
to ask what was the good of going a-gadding, visiting
strangers of whom no one knew anything, I yielded
to circumstances — to the pulling of Sophie and the
pushing of Babette. I was silently vexed I remember,
at Babette's inspection of my clothes; at the way in
which she settled that this gown was too old-fashioned,
or that too common, to go with me on my visit to a
noble lady; and at the way in which she took upon
herself to spend the money my father had given me
to buy what was requisite for the occasion. And yet
I blamed myself, for every one else thought her so
kind for doing all this; and she herself meant
kindly, too.
At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It
was a long day's journey, and Fritz went with me to
*- 2-


THE GREY WOMAN. 137
Carlsruhe. The Rupprechts lived on the third floor
of a house a little behind one of the principal streets,
in a cramped-up court, to which we gained admittance
through a doorway in the street. I remember how
pinched their rooms looked after the large space we
had at the mill, and yet they had an air of grandeur
about them which was new to me, and which gave me
pleasure, faded as some of it was. Madame Rupprecht
was too formal a lady for me; I was never at my
ease with her; but Sophie was all that I had recol-
lected her at school: kind, affectionate, and only
rather too ready with her expressions of admiration
and regard. The little sister kept out of our way;
and that was all we needed, in the first enthusiastic
renewal of our early friendship. The one great object
of Madame Rupprecht's life was to retain her position
in society; and as her means were much diminished
since her husband's death, there was not much com-
fort, though there was a great deal of show, in their
way of living; just the opposite of what it was at my
father's house. I believe that my coming was not too
much desired by Madame Rupprecht, as I brought
with me another mouth to be fed; but Sophie had
spent a year or more in entreating for permission to
invite me, and her mother, having once consented,
was too well bred not to give me a stately welcome.
The life in Carlsruhe was very different from what
it was at home. The hours were later, the coffee was
weaker in the morning, the potage was weaker, the
boiled beef less relieved by other diet, the dresses
finer, the evening engagements constant. I did not
find these visits pleasant. We might not knit, which
would have relieved the tedium a little; but we sat in


138 THE GREY WOMAN.
a circle, talking together, only interrupted occasionally
by a gentleman, who, breaking out of the knot of men
who stood near the door talking eagerly together, stole
across the room on tiptoe, his hat under his arm, and,
bringing his feet together in the position we called the
first at the dancing-school, made a low bow to the lady
he was going to address. The first time I saw these
manners I could not help smiling; but Madame Rup-
precht saw me, and spoke to me next morning rather
severely, telling me that, of course, in my country
breeding I could have seen nothing of court manners,
or French fashions, but that that was no reason for
my laughing at them. Of course I tried never to smile
again in company. This visit to Carlsruhe took place
in '89, just when every one was full of the events
taking place at Paris; and yet at Carlsruhe French
fashions were more talked of than French politics.
Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought a great deal of
all French people. And this again was quite different
to us at home. Fritz could hardly bear the name of
a Frenchman; and it had nearly been an obstacle to
my visit to Sophie that her mother preferred being
called Madame to her proper title of Frau.
One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and long-
ing for the time when we might have supper and go
home, so as to be able to speak together, a thing for-
bidden by Madame Rupprecht's rules of etiquette, which
strictly prohibited any but the most necessary conversation
passing between members of the same family when in
society. I was sitting, I say, scarcely keeping back
my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen came in,
one of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole
party, from the formal manner in which the host led


THE GREY WOMAN. 139
*
him up, and presented him to the hostess. I thought
I had never seen any one so handsome or so elegant.
His hair was powdered, of course, but one could see
from his complexion that it was fair in its natural
state. His features were as delicate as a girl's, and
set off by two little “mouches,” as we called patches
in those days, one at the left corner of his mouth, the
other prolonging, as it were, the right eye. His dress
was blue and silver: I was so lost in admiration of
this beautiful young man, that I was as much surprised
as if the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the
lady of the house brought him forwards to present him
to me. She called him Monsieur de la Tourelle, and
he began to speak to me in French; but though I
understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself to
reply to him in that language. Then he tried Ger-
man, speaking it with a kind of soft lisp that I thought
charming. But before the end of the evening I became
a little tired of the affected softness and effeminacy of
his manners, and the exaggerated compliments he paid
me, which had the effect of making all the company
turn round and look at me. Madame Rupprecht was,
however, pleased with the precise thing that displeased
me. She liked either Sophie or me to create a sensa-
tion; of course she would have preferred that it should
have been her daughter, but her daughter's friend was
next best. As we went away I heard Madame Rup-
precht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating civil
speeches with might and main, from which I found out
that the French gentleman was coming to call on us
the next day. I do not know whether I was more
glad or frightened, for I had been kept upon stilts of
good manners all the evening. But still I was flat-


140 THE GREY WOMAN.
tered when Madame Rupprecht spoke as if she had
invited him, because he had shown pleasure in my so-
ciety, and even more gratified by Sophie's ungrudging
delight at the evident interest I had excited in so fine
and agreeable a gentleman. Yet, with all this, they
had hard work to keep me from running out of the
salon the next day, when we heard his voice inquiring
at the gate on the stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They
had made me put on my Sunday gown, and they them
selves were dressed as for a reception. When he was
gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated me on
the conquest I had made; for, indeed, he had scarcely
spoken to any one else, beyond what mere civility
required, and had almost invited himself to come in
the evening to bring some new song, which was all
the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame Rupprecht had
been out all morning, as she told me, to glean infor-
mation about Monsieur de la Tourelle. He was a pro-
priétaire, had a small château on the Vosges moun-
tains; he owned land there, but had a large income
from some sources quite independent of this property.
Altogether, he was a good match, as she emphatically
observed. She never seemed to think that I could
refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I
believe she would have allowed Sophie a choice, even
had he been as old and ugly as he was young and
handsome. I do not quite know — so many events
have come to pass since then, and blurred the clear-
ness of my recollections — if I loved him or not. He
was very much devoted to me; he almost frightened
me by the excess of his demonstrations of love. And
he was very charming to everybody around me, who
all spoke of him as the most fascinating of men, and


THE GREY WOMAN. 141
of me as the most fortunate of girls. And yet I never
felt quite at my ease with him. I was always relieved
when his visits were over, although I missed his pre-
sence when he did not come. He prolonged his visit
to the friend with whom he was staying at Carlsruhe,
on purpose to woo me. He loaded me with presents,
which I was unwilling to take, only Madame Rupprecht
seemed to consider me an affected prude if Irefused them.
Many of these presents consisted of articles of valuable
old jewellery, evidently belonging to his family; by ac-
cepting these I doubled the ties which were formed around
me by circumstances even more than by my own con-
sent. In those days we did not write letters to absent
friends as frequently as is done now, and I had been
unwilling to name him in the few letters that I wrote
home. At length, however, I learned from Madame Rup- -
precht that she had written to my father to announce
the splendid conquest I had made, and to request his
presence at my betrothal. I started with astonishment.
I had not realised that affairs had gone so far as this.
But when she asked me, in a stern, offended manner,
what I had meant by my conduct if I did not intend
to marry Monsieur de la Tourelle — I had received
his visits, his presents, all his various advances without
showing any unwillingness or repugnance — (and it
was all true; I had shown no repugnance, although I
did not wish to be married to him, at least, not so soon)
— what could I do but hang my head, and silently
consent to the rapid enunciation of what now remained
for me to do if I would not be esteemed a heartless
coquette all the rest of my days.
There was some difficulty, which 1 afterwards
learnt that my sister-in-law had obviated, about my


142 THE GREY WOMAN.
betrothal taking place from home. My father, and
Fritz especially, were for having me return to the mill,
and there be betrothed, from thence be married. But
the Rupprechts and Monsieur de la Tourelle were
equally urgent on the other scale; and Babette was
unwilling to have the trouble of the commotion at the
mill; and also, I think, a little disliked the idea of the
contrast of my grander marriage with her own. Alas!
if all were but known and foreseen!
So my father and Fritz came over to the betrothal.
They were to stay at an inn in Carlsruhe for a fort.
night, at the end of which time the marriage was to
take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle told me he had
business at home which would oblige him to be absent
during the interval between the two events; and I was
very glad of it, for I did not think that he valued my
father and my brother as I could have wished him to
do. He was very polite to them; put on all the soft,
grand manner, which he had rather dropped with me;
and complimented us all round, beginning with my fa-
ther and Madame Rupprecht, and ending with little
Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned
church ceremonies which my father insisted on; and I
fancy Fritz must have taken some of his compliments
as satire, for I saw certain signs of manner by which
I knew that my future husband, for all his civil words,
had irritated and annoyed my brother. But all the
money arrangements were liberal in the extreme, and
more than satisfied, almost surprised, my father. Even
Fritz lifted up his eyebrows and whistled. I alone did
not care about anything. I was bewitched, in a dream,
a kind of despair. I had got into a net through my
own timidity and weakness, and I did not see how to


THE GREY WOMAN. * 143
get out of it. I clung to my own home-people that
fortnight as I had never done before. Their voices,
their ways were all so pleasant and familiar to me,
after the constraint in which I had been living. I might
speak and do as I liked without being corrected by
Madame Rupprecht, or reproved in a delicate, compli-
mentary way by Monsieur de la Tourelle. One day I
said to my father that I did not want to be married,
that I would rather go back to the dear old mill; but
he seemed to feel this speech of mine as a dereliction
of duty as great as if I had committed perjury; as if,
after the ceremony of betrothal, no one had any right
over me but my future husband. And yet he asked
me some solemn questions; but my answers were not
such as to do me any good.
“Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man
that should prevent God's blessing from resting on thy
marriage with him? Dost thou feel aversism or re-
pugnance to him in any way?”
And to all this, what could I say? I could only
stammer out that I did not think I loved him enough;
and my poor old father saw in this reluctance only the
fancy of a silly girl who did not know her own mind,
but who had now gone too far to recede.
So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privi-
lege which Madame Rupprecht had used no end of ef.
forts to obtain for us, and which she must have thought
was to secure us all possible happiness, both at the
time and in recollection afterwards. We were mar-
ried; and after two days spent in festivity at Carlsruhe,
among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade
goodby for ever to my dear old father. I had begged
my husband to take me by way of Heidelberg to his


144 THE GREY WOMAN.
old castle in the Vosges; but I found an amount of de
termination, under that effeminate appearance and
manner, for which I was not prepared, and he refused
my first request so decidedly that I dared not urge it.
“Henceforth, Anna,” said he, “you will move in a dif.
ferent sphere of life; and though it is possible that you
may have the power of showing favour to your rela-
tions from time to time, yet much or familiar inter-
course will be undesirable, and is what I cannot allow."
I felt almost afraid, after this formal speech, of asking
my father and Fritz to come and see me; but I did
beg them to pay me a visit ere long, when the agony
of bidding them farewell overcame all my prudence.
But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at
home, of different kinds of life, of my being a French-
woman now. Only my father broke out at last with a
blessing, and said, “If my child is unhappy — which
God forbid — let her remember that her father's house
is ever open to her.” I was on the point of crying
out, “Oh! take me back then now, my father! — oh,
my father!” when I felt, rather than saw, my husband
present near me. He looked on with a slightly con-
temptuous air, and taking my hand in his, he led me
weeping away, saying that short farewells were always
the best when they were inevitable.
It took us two days to reach his château in the
Vosges, for the roads were bad and the way difficult
to ascertain. Nothing could be more devoted than he
was all the time of the journey. It seemed as if he
were trying in every way to make up for the separa-
tion which every hour made me feel the more complete
between my present and my former life. I seemed as
if I were only now wakening up to a full sense of


THE GREY WOMAN. 145
what marriage was, and I dare say I was not a cheer-
ful companion on the tedious journey. At length
jealousy of my regret for my father and brother got
the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so much
displeased with me that I thought my heart would
break with the sense of desolation. So it was in no
cheerful flame of mind that we approached Les Rochers,
and I thought that perhaps it was because I was so
unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On one side
the château looked like a raw new building, hastily
run up for some immediate purpose, without any growth
of trees or underwood near it, only the remains of the
stone used for building, not yet cleared away from the
immediate neighbourhood, although weeds and lichens
had been suffered to grow near and over the heaps of
rubbish; on the other were the great rocks from which
the place took its name, and rising close against them,
as if almost a natural formation, was the old castle,
whose building dated many centuries back.
It was not large or grand, but it was strong and
picturesque, and I used to wish that we lived in it
rather than in the smart half-furnished apartment in the
new edifice, which had been hastily got ready for my
reception. Incongruous as the two parts were, they
were joined into a whole by means of intricate pas-
sages and unexpected doors, the exact positions of
which I never fully understood. M. de la Tourelle led
me to a suite of rooms set apart for me, and formally
installed me in them, as in a domain of which I was
sovereign. He apologised for the hasty preparation
which was all he had been able to make for me, but
promised, before I asked, or even thought of complain-
ing, that they should be made as luxurious as heart
Lois the Witch, etc. 10


I46 THE GREY WOMAN.
could wish before many weeks had elapsed. But when
in the gloom of an autumnal evening I caught my own
face and figure reflected in all the mirrors which showed
only a dim and mysterious background in the dim light
of the many candles which failed to illuminate the
great proportions of the half-furnished salon, I
clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged to be taken
to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage,
he seemed angry with me, although he affected to
laugh, and so decidedly put aside the notion of my
having any other rooms but these, that I trembled in
silence at the fantastic figures and shapes that my
imagination called up at peopling the background of
those gloomy mirrors. There was my boudoir, a little
less dreary — my bedroom, with its grand and tar-
nished furniture, which I commonly made into my
sitting-room, locking up the various doors which led
into the boudoir, the salon, the passage — all but one,
through which M. de la Tourelle always entered from
his own apartments in the older part of the castle.
But this preference of mine for occupying my bedroom
annoyed M. de la Tourelle, I am sure, although he did
not care to express his displeasure. He would always
allure me back into the salon, which I disliked more
and more from its complete separation from the rest
of the building by the long passage into which all the
doors of my apartment opened. This passage was
closed by heavy doors and portières, through which I
could not hear a sound from the other parts of the
house, and, of course, the servants could not hear any
movement or cry of mine unless expressly summoned.
To a girl brought up as I had been in a household
where every individual lived all day in the sight of


THE GREY WOMAN. . 147
every other member of the family, never wanted either
cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship,
this grand isolation of mine was very formidable; and
the more so, because M. de la Tourelle, as landed
proprietor, sportsman, and what not, was generally out
of doors the greater part of every day, and sometimes
for two or three days at a time. I had no pride to
keep me from associating with the domestics; it would
have been natural to me in many ways to have sought
them out for a word of sympathy in those dreary
days when I was left so entirely to myself, had they
been like our kindly German servants. But I disliked
them, one and all; I could not tell why. Some were
civil, but there was a familiarity in their civil’ty which
repelled me; others were rude, and treated me more
as if I were an intruder than their master's chosen
wife; and yet of the two sets I liked these last the
best. The principal male servant belonged to this
latter class. I was very much afraid of him, he had
such an air of suspicious surliness about him in all he
did for me; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke of him
as most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes
struck me that Lefebvre ruled his master in some
things; and this I could not make out. For, while M.
de la Tourelle behaved towards me as if I were some
precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, and
petted, and indulged, I soon found out how little I, or,
apparently, any one else, could bend the terrible will
of the man who had on first acquaintance appeared to
me too effeminate and languid to exert his will in the
slightest particular. I had learnt to know his face
better now; and to see that some vehement depth of
feeling, the cause of which I could not fathom, made
10%


148 THE GREY WOMAN.
his grey eye glitter with pale light, and his lips con-
tract, and his delicate cheek whiten on certain occa-
sions. But all had been so open and above board at
home, that I had no experience to help me to unravel
any mysteries among those who lived under the same
roof. I understood that I had made what Madame
Rupprecht and her set would have called a great mar-
riage, because I lived in a château with many servants,
bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I under-
stood that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me
in his ways — proud of my beauty, I dare say (for
he often enough spoke about it to me) – but he was
also jealous, and suspicious, and uninfluenced by my
wishes, unless they tallied with his own. I felt at
this time as if I could have been fond of him too, if
he would have let me: but I was timid from my child-
hood, and before long my dread of his displeasure
(coming down like thunder into the midst of his love,
for such slight causes as a hesitation in reply, a
wrong word, or a sigh for my father), conquered my
humorous inclination to love one who was so hand-
some, so accomplished, so indulgent and devoted. But
if I could not please him when indeed I loved him,
you may imagine how often I did wrong when I was
so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his com-
pany for fear of his outbursts of passion. One thing
I remember noticing, that the more M. de la Tourelle
was displeased with me, the more Lefebvre seemed
to chuckle; and when I was restored to favour, some-
times on as sudden an impulse as that which occa-
sioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look askance at
me with his cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice
at such times he spoke most disrespectfully to M. de


THE GREY WOMAN. 149
la Tourelle. I have almost forgotten to say that, in
the early days of my life at Les Rochers, M. de la
Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent pity at my weak-
ness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the salon,
wrote up to the milliner in Paris from whom my cor-
beille de marriage had come, to desire her to look out
for me a maid of middle age, experienced in the toi-
lette, and with so much refinement that she might on
occasion serve as companion to me. This was rather
a risk, it is true, but it answered well, as I have good
reason to say. A Norman woman, Amante by name,
was sent to Les Rochers to fill the situation. She was
tall and handsome, though upwards of forty, and some-
what gaunt. But on first seeing her, I liked her; she
was neither rude nor familiar in her manners, and had
a pleasant look of straightforwardness about her that
I had missed in all the inhabitants of the château, and
had foolishly set down in my own mind as a national
want. Amante was directed by M. de la Tourelle to
sit in my boudoir, and to be always within call. He
also gave her many instructions as to her duties in
matters which, perhaps, strictly belonged to my de-
partment of management. But I was young and inex-
perienced, and thankful to be spared any responsibi-
lity.
I dare say it was true what M. de la Tourelle said
— before many weeks had elasped — that, for a great
lady, a lady of a castle, I became sadly too familiar
with my waiting-maid. But you know that by birth
we were not very far apart in rank: she was the
daughter of a Norman farmer, I of a German miller;
and, besides, that my life was so lonely! It almost
seemed as if I could not please my husband. He had


150 THE GREY WOMAN.
written for some one capable of being my companion
at times, and now he was jealous of my free regard
for her — angry because I could sometimes laugh at
her original tunes and amusing proverbs, while when
with him I was too much frightened to smile.
From time to time families from a distance of some
leagues drove through the bad roads in their heavy
carriages to pay us a visit, and there was an occa-
sional talk of our going to Paris when public affairs
should be a little more settled. These little events
and plans were the only variations in my life for the
first twelve months, if I except the alterations in M. de
la Tourelle's temper, his unreasonable anger, and his
passionate fondness.
Perhaps one of the reasons that made me take
pleasure and comfort in Amante's society was, that
whereas I was afraid of everybody (I do not think I
was half as much afraid of things as of persons),
Amante feared no one. She would quietly beard Le-
febvre, and he respected her all the more for it; she
had a knack of putting questions to M. de la Tourelle,
which respectfully informed him that she had detected
the weak point, but forbore to press him too closely
upon it out of deference to his position as her master.
And with all her shrewdness to others, she had quite
tender ways with me; all the more so at this time
because she knew, what I had not yet ventured to tell
M. de la Tourelle, that by-and-by I might become a
mother, that wonderful object of mysterious interest to
single women, who no longer hope to enjoy such
blessedness themselves.
It was once more autumn; late in October. But I
was reconciled to my habitation; the walls of the new


THE GREY WOMAN. 151
part of the building no longer looked bare and deso-
late; the débris had been so far cleared away by M.
de la Tourelle's desire as to make me a little flower-
garden, in which I tried to cultivate those plants that
I remembered as growing at home. Amante and I
had moved the furniture in the rooms, and adjusted it
to our liking; my husband had ordered many an article
from time to time that he thought would give me plea-
sure, and I was becoming tame to my apparent im-
prisonment in a certain part of the great building, the
whole of which I had never yet explored. It was
October, as I say once more. The days were lovely,
though short in duration, and M. de la Tourelle had
occasion, so he said, to go to that distant estate the
superintendence of which so frequently took him away
from home. He took Lefebvre with him, and possibly
some more of the lackeys; he often did. And my
spirits rose a little at the thought of his absence; and
then the new sensation that he was the father of my
unborn babe came over me, and I tried to invest him
with this fresh character. I tried to believe that it
was his passionate love for me that made him so
jealous and tyrannical, imposing, as he did, restrictions
on my very intercourse with my dear father, from
whom I was so entirely separated, as far as personal
intercourse was concerned.
I had, it is true, let myself go into a sorrowful re-
view of all the troubles which lay hidden beneath the
seeming luxury of my life. I knew that no one cared
for me except my husband and Amante; for it was
clear enough to see that I, as his wife, and also as a
parvenue, was not popular among the few neighbours
who surrounded us; and as for the servants, the women


152 THE GREY WOMAN.
were all hard and impudent-looking, treating me with
a semblance of respect that had more of mockery than
reality in it, while the men had a lurking kind of fierce-
ness about them, sometimes displayed even to M. de
la Tourelle, who on his part, it must be confessed, was
often severe even to cruelty in his management of them.
My husband loved me, I said to myself, but I said it
almost in the form of a question. His love was shown
fitfully, and more in ways calculated to please himself
than to please me. I felt that for no wish of mine
would he deviate one tittle from any predetermined
course of action. I had learnt the inflexibility of those
thin, delicate lips; I knew how anger would turn his
fair complexion to deadly white, and bring the cruel
light into his pale blue eyes. The love I bore to any
one seemed to be a reason for his hating them, and so
I went on pitying myself one long dreary afternoon of
that absence of his of which I have spoken, only some-
times remembering to check myself in my murmurings
with thinking of the new unseen link between us, and
then crying afresh to think how wicked I was. Oh,
how well I remember that long October evening!
Amante came in from time to time, talking away to
cheer me — talking about dress and Paris, and I
hardly know what, but from time to time looking at
me keenly with her friendly dark eyes, and with se-
rious interest, too, though all her words were about
frivolity. At length she heaped the fire with wood,
drew the heavy silken curtains close; for I had been
anxious hitherto to keep them open so that I might see
the pale moon mounting the skies, as I used to see her
— the same moon — rise from behind the Kaiser
Stuhl at Heidelberg; but the sight made me cry, so


THE GREY WOMAN. 153
Amante shut it out. She dictated to me as a nurse
does to a child.
“Now, madame must have the little kitten to keep
her company,” she said, “while I go and ask Marthon
for a cup of coffee.” I remember that speech, and the
way it roused me, for I did not like Amante to think
I wanted amusing by a kitten. It might be my pe-
tulance, but this speech — such as she might have
made to a child — annoyed me, and I said that I had
reason for my lowness of spirits — meaning that they
were not of so imaginary a nature that I could be di-
verted from them by the gambols of a kitten. So,
though I did not choose to tell her all, I told her a
part; and as I spoke I began to suspect that the good
creature knew much of what I withheld, and that the
little speech about the kitten was more thoughtfully kind
than it had seemed at first. I said that it was so long
since I had heard from my father; that he was an old
man, and so many things might happen — I might
never see him again — and I so seldom heard from
him or my brother; it was a more complete and total
separation than I had ever anticipated when I married,
and something of my home and of my life previous to
my marriage I told the good Amante; for I had not
been brought up as a great lady, and the sympathy
of any human being was precious to me.
Amante listened with interest, and in return told me
some of the events and sorrows of her own life. Then,
remembering her purpose, she set out in search of the
coffee, which ought to have been brought to me an
hour before; but in my husband's absence my wishes
were but seldom attended to, and I never dared to give
orders.


154 THE GREY WOMAN.
Presently she returned, bringing the coffee and a
great large cake.
“See!” said she, setting it down. “Look at my
plunder. Madame must eat. Those who eat always
laugh. And, besides, I have a little news that will
please madame.” Then she told me that lying on a
table in the great kitchen were a bundle of letters,
come by the courier from Strasburg that very after-
noon; then, fresh from her conversation with me, she
had hastily untied the string that bound them, but had
only just traced out one that she thought was from Ger-
many, when a servant-man came in, and with the start
he gave her she dropped the letters, which he picked
up, swearing at her for having untied and disarranged
them. She told him that she believed there was a
letter there for her mistress; but he only swore the
more, saying that if there was it was no business of
hers, or of his either, for that he had the strictest orders
always to take all letters that arrived during his mas-
ter's absence into the private sitting-room of the latter
— a room into which I had never entered, although it
opened out of my husband's dressing-room.
I asked Amante if she had not conquered and
brought me this letter. No, indeed, she replied, it was
almost as much as her life was worth to live among
such a set of servants; it was only a month ago that
Jacques had stabbed Valentin for some jesting talk.
Had I never missed Valentin — that handsome young
lad who carried up the wood into my salon? Poor
fellow! he lies dead and cold now, and they said in
the village he had put an end to himself, but those of
the household knew better. Oh! I need not be afraid;
Jacques was gone, no one knew where; but with such


THE GREY WOMAN. 155
people it was not safe to upbraid or insist. Monsieur
would be at home the next day, and it would not be
long to wait.
But I felt as if I could not exist till the next day
without the letter. It might be to say that my father
was ill, dying — he might cry for his daughter from
his death-bed! In short, there was no end to the thoughts
and fancies that haunted me. It was of no use for
Amante to say that after all she might be mistaken,
that she did not read writing well, that she had but a
glimpse of the address; I let my coffee cool, my food
all became distasteful, and wrung my hands with im-
patience to get at the letter, and have some news of my
dear ones at home. All the time Amante kept her im-
perturbable good temper, first reasoning, then scolding.
At last she said, as if wearied out, that if I would con-
sent to make a good supper, she would see what could
be done as to our going to Monsieur's room in search
of the letter, after the servants were all gone to bed.
We agreed to go together when all the house was still,
and look over the letters; there could be no harm in
that; and yet, somehow, we were such cowards we dared
not do it openly and in the face of the household.
Presently my supper came up — partridges, bread,
fruits, and cream. How well I remember that supper.
We put the untouched cake away in a sort of buffet,
and poured the cold coffee out of the window, in order
that the servants might not take offence at the apparent
fancifulness of sending down for food I could not eat.
I was so anxious for all to be in bed, that I told the
footman who served that he need not wait to take
away the plates and dishes, but might go to bed. Long
after I thought the house was quiet, Amante, in her


156 THE GREY WOMAN.
caution, made me wait. It was past eleven before we
set out, with cat-like steps and veiled light, along the
passages, to go to my husband's room and steal my
own letter, if it was indeed there; a fact about which
Amante had become very uncertain in the progress of
our discussion.
To make you understand my story, I must now try
to explain to you the plan of the château. It had been
at one time a fortified place of some strength, perched
on the summit of a rock, which projected from the side
of the mountain. But additions had been made to the
old building (which must have borne a strong re-
semblance to the castles overhanging the Rhine), and
these new buildings were placed so as to command a
magnificent view, being on the steepest side of the rock,
from which the mountain fell away as it were, leaving
the great plain of France in full survey. The ground-
plan was something of the shape of three sides of an
oblong; my apartments in the modern edifice occupied
the narrow end, and had this grand prospect. The front
of the castle was old, and ran parallel to the road far
below. In this were contained the offices and public
rooms of various descriptions, into which I never pene-
trated. The back wing (considering the new building,
in which my apartments were, as the centre) consisted
of many rooms, of a dark and gloomy character, as the
mountain-side shut out much of the sun, and heavy pine
woods came down within a few yards of the windows.
Yet on this side — on a projecting plateau of the rock
— my husband had formed the flower-garden of which
I have spoken; for he was a great cultivator of flowers
in his leisure moments.
Now my bedroom was the corner room of the new


THE GREY WOMAN. 157
buildings on the part next to the mountain. Hence I
could have let myself down into the flower-garden by
my hands on the window-sill on one side, without
danger of hurting myself; while the windows at right-
angles with these looked sheer down a descent of a
hundred feet at least. Going still farther along this
wing, you came to the old building; in fact, these two
fragments of the ancient castle had formerly been at-
tached by some such connecting apartments as my hus-
band had rebuilt. These rooms belonged to M. de la
Tourelle. His bed-room opened into mine, his dressing-
room lay beyond; and that was pretty nearly all I knew,
for the servants, as well as he himself, had a knack of
turning me back, under some pretence, if ever they
found me walking about alone, as I was inclined to do,
when first I came, from a sort of curiosity to see the
whole of the place of which I found myself mistress.
M. de la Tourelle never encouraged me to go out alone,
either in a carriage or for a walk, saying always that
the roads were unsafe in those disturbed times; indeed,
I have sometimes fancied since that the flower-garden,
to which the only access from the castle was through
his rooms, was designed in order to give me exercise
and employment under his own eye.
But to return to that night. I knew, as I have
said, that M. de la Tourelle's private room opened out
of his dressing-room, and that out of his bedroom, which
again opened into mine, the corner-room. But there
were other doors, of course, into all these rooms, and
these doors led into a long gallery, lighted by windows,
into the inner court. I do not remember our consulting
much about it; we went through my room into my hus-
band's apartment through the dressing-room, but the


158 THE GREY WOMAN.
door of communication into his study was locked, so
there was nothing for it but to turn back and go by
the gallery to the other door. I recollect noticing one
or two things in these rooms, then seen for the first
time by me. I remember the sweet perfume that hung
in the air, the scent bottles of silver that decked his
toilet-table, and the whole apparatus for bathing and
dressing, more luxurious even than those which he had
provided for me. But the room itself was less splendid
in its proportions than mine. In truth, the new build-
ings ended at the entrance to my husband's dressing-
room. There were deep window recesses in walls eight
or nine feet thick, and even the partitions between the
chambers were three feet deep; but over all these doors
or windows there fell thick, heavy draperies, so that I
should think no one could have heard in one room what
passed in another. We went back into my room, and
but into the gallery. We had to shade our candle from
a fear that possessed us, I don't know why, lest some
of the servants in the opposite wing might trace our
progress towards the part of the castle unused by any
one except my husband. Somehow, I had always the
feeling that all the domestics, except Amante, were
spies upon me, and that I was trammelled in a web of
observation and unspoken limitation extending over all
my actions.
There was a light in the upper room; we paused,
and Amante would have again retreated, but I was
chafing under the delays. What was the harm of my
seeking my father's unopened letter to me in my hus-
band's study? I, generally the coward, now blamed
Amante for her unusual timidity. But the truth was,
... had far more reason for suspicion as to the proceed-


THE GREY WOMAN. 1.59
ings of that terrible household than I had ever known
of I urged her on, I pressed on myself; we came to
the door, locked, but with the key in it; we turned
it, we entered; the letters lay on the table, their white
oblongs catching the light in an instant, and revealing
themselves to my eager eyes, hungering after the words
of love from my peaceful distant home. But just as I
pressed forwards to examine the letters, the candle
which Amante held, caught in some draught, went out,
and we were in darkness. Amante proposed that we
should carry the letters back to my salon, collecting
them as well as we could in the dark, and returning all
but the expected one for me; but I begged her to return
to my room, where I kept tinder and flint, and to
strike a fresh light; and so she went, and I remained
alone in the room, of which I could only just distinguish
the size, and the principal articles of furniture: a large
table, with a deep overhanging cloth, in the middle,
escritoirs and other heavy articles against the walls; all
this I could see as I stood there, my hand on the table
close by the letters, my face towards the window, which,
both from the darkness of the wood growing high up
the mountain-side and the faint light of the declining
moon, seemed only like an oblong of paler purpler
black than the shadowy room. How much I remembered
from my one instantaneous glance before the candle went
out, how much I saw as my eyes became accustomed
to the darkness, I do not know, but even now, in my
dreams, comes up that room of horror, distinct in its
profound shadow. Amante could hardly have been gone
a minute before I felt an additional gloom before the
window, and heard soft movements outside — soft, but


160 THE GREY WOMAN.
resolute, and continued until the end was accomplished,
and the window raised.
In mortal terror of people forcing an entrance at
such an hour, and in such a manner as to leave no
doubt as to their purpose, I would have turned to fly
when first I heard the noise, only that I feared by any
quick motion to catch their attention, as I also ran the
danger of doing by opening the door, which was all
but closed, and to whose handlings I was unaccustomed.
Again, quick as lightning, I bethought me of the hiding-
place between the locked door to my husband's dress-
ing-room and the portière which covered it; but I gave
that up, I felt as if I could not reach it without scream-
ing or fainting. So I sank down softly, and crept under
the table, hidden, as I hoped, by the great deep table-
cover, with its heavy fringe. I had not recovered my
swooning senses fully, and was trying to reassure my-
self as to my being in a place of comparative safety, for,
above all things, I dreaded the betrayal of fainting,
and struggled hard for such courage as I might attain
to by deadening myself to the danger I was in by in-
flicting intense pain on myself. You have often asked
me the reason of that mark on my hand; it was where,
in my agony, I bit out a piece of flesh with my relent-
less teeth, thankful for the pain, which helped to numb
my terror. I say I was but just concealed when I heard
the window lifted, and one after another stepped over
the sill, and stood by me so close that I could have
touched their feet. Then they laughed and whispered;
my brain swam so that I could not tell the meaning of
their words, but I heard my husband's laughter among
the rest — low, hissing, and scornful — as he kicked
something heavy that they had dragged in over the


THE GREY woMAN. 161
floor, and which lay near me; so near, that my hus-
band's kick, in touching it, touched me too. I don't
know why — I can't tell how — but some feeling, and
not curiosity, prompted me to put out my hand, ever
so little, and feel in the darkness for what lay spurned
beside me. I stole my groping palm upon the clenched
and chilly hand of a corpse!
Strange to say, this roused me to instant vividness
of thought. Till this moment I had almost forgotten
Amante; now I planned with feverish rapidity how I
could give her a warning not to return; or rather, I
should say, I tried to plan, for all my projects were
utterly futile, as I might have seen from the first. I
could only hope she would hear the voices of those who
were now busy in trying to kindle a light, swearing
awful oaths at the mislaid articles which would have
enabled them to strike fire. I heard her step outside
coming nearer and nearer; I saw from my hiding-place
the line of light beneath the door more and more dis-
tinctly; close to the door her footstep paused; the men
inside — at the time I thought they had been only two,
but I found out afterwards that there were three—paused
in their endeavours, and were quite still, as breathless
as I, I suppose. Then she slowly pushed the door open
with gentle motion, to save her flickering candle from
being again extinguished. For a moment all was still.
Then I heard my husband say, as he advanced towards
her (he wore riding-boots, the shape of which I knew
well, as I could see them in the light).
“Amante, may I ask what brings you here into my
private room?”
He stood between her and the dead body of a man,
from which ghastly heap I shrank away as it almost
Lois the Witch, etc. 11


162 THE GREY WOMAN.
touched me, so close were we all together. I could not
tell whether she saw it or not; I could give her no
warning, nor make any dumb utterance of signs to bid
her what to say — if, indeed, I knew myself what would
be best for her to reply.
Her voice was quite changed when she spoke; quite
hoarse, and very low; yet it was steady enough as she
said, what was the truth, that she had come to look for
a letter which she believed had arrived for me from
Germany. Good, brave Amante! Not a word about me.
M. de la Tourelle answered with a grim blasphemy and
a fearful threat. He would have no one prying into his
premises; madame should have her letters, if there were
any, when he chose to give them to her, if, indeed, he
thought it well to give them to her at all. As for
Amante, this was her first warning, but it was also her
last; and, taking the candle out of her hand, he turned
her out of the room, his companions discreetly making
a screen, so as to throw the corpse into deep shadow.
I heard the key turn in the door after her; if I had ever
had any thought of escape it was gone now. I only
hoped that whatever was to befal me might soon be
over, for the tension of nerve was growing more than I
could bear. The instant she could be supposed to be
out of hearing, two voices began speaking in the most
angry terms to my husband, upbraiding him for not
having detained her, gagged her — nay, one was for
killing her, saying he had seen her eye fall on the face
of the dead man, whom he now kicked in his passion.
Though the form of their speech was as if they were
speaking to equals, yet in their tone there was some-
thing of fear. I am sure my husband was their superior,
or captain, or somewhat. He replied to them almost as


THE GREY WOMAN. 163
if he were scoffing at them, saying it was such an ex-
penditure of labour having to do with fools; that, ten to
one, the woman was only telling the simple truth, and
that she was frightened enough by discovering her master
in his room to be thankful to escape and return to her
mistress, to whom he could easily explain on the mor-
row how he happened to return in the dead of night.
But his companions fell to cursing me, and saying that
since M. de la Tourelle had been married he was fit
for nothing but to dress himself fine and scent himself
with perfume; that, as for me, they could have got him
twenty girls prettier than me, and with more spirit in
them. He quietly answered that I suited him, and that
was enough. All this time they were doing something
– I could not see what — to the corpse; sometimes
they were too busy rifling the dead body, I believe, to
talk; again they let it fall with a heavy, resistless thump,
and took to quarrelling. They taunted my husband with
angry vehemence, enraged at his scoffing and scornful
replies, his mocking laughter. Yes, holding up his poor
dead victim, the better to strip him of whatever he
wore that was valuable, I heard my husband laugh just
as he had done when exchanging repartees in the little
salon of the Rupprechts at Carlsruhe. I hated and
dreaded him from that moment. At length, as if to
make an end of the subject, he said, with cool deter-
mination in his voice.
“Now, my good friends, what is the use of all this
talking, when you know in your hearts that if I sus-
pected my wife of knowing more than I chose of my
affairs she would not outlive the day? Remember
Victorine. Because she merely joked about my affairs
in an imprudent manner, and rejected my advice to
-
1.1%


164 THE GREY WOMAN. w
keep a prudent tongue, to see what she liked, but ask
nothing and say nothing, she has gone a long journey
— longer than to Paris.”
“But this one is different to her; we knew all that
Madame Victorine knew, she was such a chatter-box;
but this one may find out a vast deal, and never breathe
a word about it, she is so sly; but some fine day we
may have the country raised, and the gendarmes down
upon us from Strasburg, and all owing to your pretty
doll, with her cunning ways of coming over you.”
I think this roused M. de la Tourelle a little from
his contemptuous indifference, for he ground an oath
through his teeth, and said, “Feel! this dagger is sharp,
Henri. If my wife breathes a word, if I am such a
fool as not to have stopped her mouth effectually before
she can bring down gendarmes upon us, just let that
good steel find its way to my heart. Let her guess but
one tittle, let her have but one slight suspicion that I
am not a “grand propriétaire,’ much less imagine that I
am a chief of chauffeurs, and she follows Victorine on
the long journey beyond Paris that very day.”
“She’ll outwit you yet; or I never judged women
well. Those still silent ones are the devil. She'll be
off during some of your absences, having picked out
some secret that will break us all on the wheel.”
“Bah!” said his voice; and then in a minute he
added, “Let her go if she will. But, where she goes,
I will follow; so don't cry before you're hurt.”
By this time, they had nearly stripped the body;
and the conversation turned as to what they should do
with it. I learnt that the dead man was the Sieur de
Poissy, a neighbouring gentleman, whom I had often
heard of as hunting with my husband. I had never


THE GREY WOMAN, 165
seen him, but they spoke as if he had come upon them
while they were robbing some Cologne merchant, tor-
turing him after the cruel practice of the chauffeurs, by
roasting their feet in order to compel them to reveal
any hidden circumstances connected with their wealth,
of which the chauffeurs afterwards made use; and this
Sieur de Poissy coming down upon them, and re-
cognising M. de la Tourelle, they had killed him, and
brought him hither after nightfall. I heard him, whom
I called my husband, laugh his little light laugh as he
spoke of the way in which the dead body had been
strapped before one of the riders, in such a way that
it appeared to any passer-by as if, in truth, the murderer
were tenderly supporting some sick person. Her re-
peated some mocking reply of double meaning, which
he himself had made to some one who made inquiry.
He enjoyed the play upon words, softly applauding his
own wit. And all the time the poor helpless out-
stretched arms of the dead lay close to his dainty boot!
Then another stooped (my heard stopped beating), and
picked up a letter lying on the ground — a letter that
had dropped out of M. de Poissy's pocket — a letter
from his wife, full of tender words of endearment and
pretty babblings of love. This was read aloud, with
coarse ribald comments on every sentence, each trying
to exceed the previous speaker. When they came to
some pretty words about a little Maurice, their little
child away with its mother on some visit, they laughed
at M. de la Tourelle, and told him that he would be
hearing such woman's drivelling some day. Up to that
moment I think I had only feared him, but his un-
natural, half-ferocious reply made me hate even more
than I dreaded him. But now they grew weary of


166 THE GREY WOMAN.
their savage merriment; the jewels and watch had been
apprised, the money and papers examined; and ap-
parently there was some necessity for the body to be
interred quietly and before daybreak. They had not
dared to leave him where he was slain for fear lest
people should come and recognise him, and raise the
hue and cry upon them. For they all along spoke as
if it was their constant endeavour to keep the im-
mediate neighbourhood of Les Rochers in the most
orderly and tranquil condition, so as never to give
cause for visits from the gendarmes. They disputed a
little as to whether they should make their way into
the castle larder through the gallery, and satisfy their
hunger before the hasty interment, or afterwards. I
listened with eager feverish interest as soon as this
meaning of their speeches reached my hot and troubled
brain, for at the time the words they uttered seemed
only to stamp themselves with terrible force on my
memory, so that I could hardly keep from repeating
them aloud like a dull, miserable, unconscious echo;
but my brain was numb to the sense of what they said,
unless I myself were named, and then, I suppose, some
instinct of self-preservation stirred within me, and
quickened my sense. And how I erected my ears,
and nerved my hands and limbs, beginning to twitch
with convulsive movements, which I feared might
betray me. I gathered every word they spoke, not
knowing which proposal to wish for, but feeling that
whatever was finally decided upon, my only chance of
escape was drawing near. I once feared lest my
husband should go to his bedroom before I had had
that one chance, in which case he would have most
likely perceived my absence. He said once that his
/~


THE GREY woMAN. 167
hands were soiled (I shuddered, for it might be with
life-blood), and he would go and cleanse them; but
some bitter jest turned his purpose, and he left the
room with the other two — left it by the gallery
door. Left me alone in the dark with the stiffening
corpse!
Now, now was my time if ever; and yet I could not
move. It was not my cramped and stiffened joints that
crippled me, it was the sensation or that dead man's close
presence. I almost fancy — I almost fancy still — I heard
the arm nearest to me move; lift itself up, as if once
more imploring, and fall in dead despair. At that fancy
– if fancy it were — I screamed aloud in mad terror,
and the sound of my own strange voice broke the
spell. I drew myself to the side of the table farthest
from the corpse, with as much slow caution as if I
really could have feared the clutch of that poor dead
arm, powerless for evermore. I softly raised myself up,
and stood sick and trembling holding by the table, too
dizzy to know what to do next. I nearly fainted, when
a low voice spoke, when Amante, from the outside of
the door, whispered, “Madame!” The faithful creature
had been on the watch, had heard my scream, and
having seen the three ruffians troop along the gallery
down the stairs, and across the court to the offices in
the other wing of the castle, she had stolen to the door
of the room in which I was. The sound of her voice
gave me strength; I walked straight towards it, as one
benighted on a dreary moor, suddenly perceiving the
small steady light which tells of human dwellings, takes
heart, and steers straight onward. Where I was, where
that voice was, I knew not; but go to it I must, or
die. The door once opened — I know not by which


168 THE GREY WOMAN.
of us — I fell upon her neck, grasping her tight, till
my hands ached with the tension of their hold. Yet
she never uttered a word. Only she took me up in
her vigorous arms and bore me to my room, and laid
me on my bed. I do not know more; as soon as I
was placed there I lost sense; I came to myself with a
horrible dread lest my husband was by me, with a
belief that he was in the room, in hiding, waiting to
hear my first words, watching for the least sign of the
terrible knowledge I possessed to murder me. I dared
not breathe quicker, I measured and timed each heavy
inspiration; I did not speak, nor move, nor even open
my eyes, for long after I was in my full, my miserable
senses. I heard some one treading softly about the
room, as if with a purpose, not as if for curiosity, or
merely to beguile the time, some one passed in and out
of the salon; and I still lay quiet, feeling as if death
were inevitable, but wishing that the agony of death
were past. Again faintness stole over me, but just as
I was sinking into the horrible feeling of nothingness I
heard Amante's voice close to me, saying,
“Drink this, madame, and let us begone. All is
ready.”
I let her put her arm under my head and raise me,
and pour somewhat down my throat. All the time she kept
talking in a quiet measured voice, unlike her own, so
dry and authoritative; she told me that a suit of her
clothes lay ready for me, that she herself was as much
disguised as the circumstances permitted her to be, that
what provisions I had left from my supper were stowed
away in her pockets, and so she went on, dwelling on
little details of the most common-place description, but
never alluding for an instant to the fearful cause why


THE GREY WOMAN. 169
flight was necessary. I made no inquiry as to how she
knew, or what she knew. I never asked her either
then or afterwards, I could not bear it — we kept our
dreadful secret close. But I suppose she must have
been in the dressing-room adjoining, and heard all.
In fact, I dared not speak even to her, as if there
were anything beyond the most common event in life
in our preparing thus to leave the house of blood by
stealth in the dead of night. She gave me directions
— short condensed directions, without reasons — just
as you do a child; and like a child I obeyed her. She
went often to the door and listened; and often, too, she
went to the window, and looked anxiously out. For
me, I saw nothing but her, and I dared not let my
eyes wander from her for a minute; and I heard no-
thing in the deep midnight silence but her soft move-
ments, and the heavy beating of my own heart. At
last she took my hand, and let me in the dark, through
the salon, once more into the terrible gallery, where
across the black darkness the windows admitted pale
sheeted ghosts of light upon the floor. Clinging to her
I went; unquestioning — for she was human sympathy
to me after the isolation of my unspeakable terror. On
we went, turning to the left instead of to the right,
past my suite of sitting-rooms where the gilding was
red with blood, into that unknown wing of the castle
that fronted the main road lying parallel far below.
She guided me along the basement passages to which
we had now descended, until we came to a little open
door, through which the air blew chill and cold, bring-
ing for the first time a sensation of life to me. The
door led into a kind of cellar, through which we
groped our way to an opening like a window, but
-


170 THE GREY WOMAN.
which, instead of being glazed, was only fenced with
iron bars, two of which were loose, as Amante evidently
knew, for she took them out with the ease of one who
had performed the action often before, and then helped
me to follow her out to the free open air.
We stole round the end of the building, and on
turning the corner — she first — I felt her hold of me
tighten for an instant, and the next step I too heard
distant voices, and the blows of a spade upon the heavy
soil, for the night was very warm and still.
We had not spoken a word; we did not speak
now. Touch was safer and as expressive. She turned
down towards the high road; I followed. I did not
know the path; we stumbled again and again, and I
was much bruised; so doubtless was she; but bodily
pain did me good. At last we were on the plainer
path of the high road.
I had such faith in her that I did not venture to
speak, even when she paused, as wondering to which
hand she should turn. But now, for the first time, she
spoke:
“Which way did you come when he brought you
here first?”
I pointed, I could not speak.
We turned in the opposite direction; still going
along the high road. In about an hour, we struck up
to the mountain side, scrambling far up before we even
dared to rest; far up and away again before day had
fully dawned. Then we looked about for some place
of rest and concealment: and now we dared to speak
in whispers. Amante told me that she had locked the
door of communication between his bedroom and mine,
and, as in a dream, I was aware that she had also


THE GREY woMAN. 171
locked and brought away the key of the door between
the latter and the salon.
“He will have been too busy this night to think
much about you — he will suppose you are asleep —
I shall be the first to be missed — but they will only
just now be discovering our loss.”
I remember those last words of hers made me pray
to go on — I felt as if we were losing precious time
in thinking either of rest or concealment; but she
hardly replied to me, so busy was she in seeking out
some hiding-place. At length, giving it up in despair,
we proceeded onwards a little way; the mountain side
sloped downwards rapidly, and in the full morning light
we saw ourselves in a narrow valley, made by a stream
which forced its way down. About a mile lower down
there rose the pale blue smoke of a village, a mill-
wheel was lashing up the water close at hand, though
out of sight. Keeping under the cover of every
sheltering tree or bush, we worked our way down past
the mill, down to a one-arched bridge, which doubtless
formed part of the road between the village and the
mill.
“This will do,” said she; and we crept under the
space, and climbing a little way up the rough stone-
work, we seated ourselves on a projecting ledge, and
crouched in the deep damp shadow. Amante sat a
little above me, and made me lay my head on her lap.
Then she fed me and took some food herself; and
opening out her great dark cloak, she covered up every
light-coloured speck about us; and thus, shivering and
shuddering, yet feeling a kind of rest through it all,
simply from the fact that motion was no longer impe-
rative, and that during the daylight our only chance of


172 THE GREY WOMAN.
safety was to be still. But the damp shadow in which
we were sitting was blighting, from the circumstance
of the sunlight never penetrating there, and I dreaded
lest, before night and the time for exertion again came
on, I should feel illness creeping all over me. To add
to our discomfort it had rained the whole day long,
and the stream, fed by a thousand little mountain
brooklets, began to swell into a torrent, rushing over
the stones with a perpetual and dizzying noise.
Every now and then I was wakened from the pain-
ful doze into which I continually fell, by a sound of
horses' feet over our head: sometimes lumbering heavily
as if dragging a burden, sometimes rattling and gal-
loping, and with the sharper cry of men's voices
coming cutting through the roar of the waters. At
length day fell. We had to drop into the stream,
which came above our knees as we waded to the
bank. There we stood, stiff and shivering. Even
Amante's courage seemed to fail.
“We must pass this night in shelter, somehow,”
said she. For indeed the rain was coming down piti-
lessly. I said nothing. I thought that surely the end
must be death in some shape; and I only hoped that
to death might not be added the terror of the cruelty
of men. In a minute or so she had resolved on her
course of action. We went up the stream to the mill.
The familiar sounds, the scent of the wheat, the flour
whitening all the walls — all reminded me of home,
and it seemed to me as if I must struggle out of this
nightmare and waken, and find myself once more a
happy girl by the Neckar side. They were long in
unbarring the door at which Amante had knocked; at
length an old feeble voice inquired who was there, and


THE GREY WOMAN. 173
what was sought? Amante answered shelter from the
storm for two women; but the old woman replied, with
suspicious hesitation, that she was sure it was a man
who was asking for shelter, and that she could not let
us in. But at length she satisfied herself, and unbarred
the heavy door, and admitted us. She was not an un-
kindly woman, but her thoughts all travelled in one
circle, and that was, that her master, the miller, had
told her on no account to let any man into the place
during his absence, and that she did not know if he
would not think two women as bad; and yet that as
we were not men, no one could say she had disobeyed
him, for it was a shame to let a dog be out such a
night as this. Amante, with ready wit, told her to let
no one know that we had taken shelter there that
night, and that then her master could not blame her;
and while she was thus enjoining secrecy as the wisest
course, with a view to far other people than the miller,
she was hastily helping me to take off my wet clothes,
and spreading them, as the brown mantle that had
covered us both, before the great stove which warmed
the room with the effectual heat that the old woman's
failing vitality required. All this time the poor creature
was discussing with herself as to whether she had dis-
obeyed orders, in a kind of garrulous way that made
me fear much for her capability of retaining anything
secret if she was questioned. By-and-by she wandered
away to an unnecessary revelation of her master's
whereabouts: gone to help in the search for his land-
lord, the Sieur de Poissy, who lived at the château just
above, and who had not returned from his chase the
day before; so the intendant imagined he might have
met with some accident, and had summoned the neigh-


174 THE GREY WOMAN.
bours to beat the forest and the hill-side. She told us
much besides, giving us to understand that she would
fain meet with a place as housekeeper where there
were more servants and less to do, as her life here was
very lonely and dull, especially since her master's son
had gone away — gone to the wars. She then took
her supper, which was evidently apportioned out to her
with a sparing hand, as, even if the idea had come into
her head, she had not enough to offer us any. For-
tunately warmth was all that we required, and that,
thanks to Amante's cares, was returning to our chilled
bodies. After supper the old woman grew drowsy,
but she seemed uncomfortable at the idea of going to
sleep and leaving us still in the house. Indeed she
gave us pretty broad hints as to the propriety of our
going once more out into the bleak and stormy night;
but we begged to be allowed to stay under shelter of
some kind, and at last a bright idea came over her,
and she bade us mount by a ladder to a kind of loft,
which went half over the lofty millkitchen in which we
were sitting; we obeyed her — what else could we do?
— and found ourselves in a spacious floor, without
any safeguard or wall, boarding, or railing, to keep us
from falling over into the kitchen in case we went too
near the edge. It was, in fact, the store-room or garret
for the household. There was bedding piled up, boxes
and chests, mill sacks, the winter store of apples and
nuts, bundles of old clothes, broken furniture, and many
other things. No sooner were we up there than the old
woman dragged the ladder by which we had ascended
away with a chuckle, as if she was now secure that we
could do no mischief, and sat herself down again once
more, to doze and await her master's return. We


THE GREY WOMAN. 175
pulled out some bedding, and gladly laid ourselves
down in our dried clothes and in some warmth, hoping
to have the sleep we so much needed to refresh us and
prepare us for the next day. But I could not sleep,
and I was aware from her breathing that Amante was
equally wakeful. We could both see through the cre-
vices between the boards that formed the flooring
into the kitchen below, very partially lighted by
the common lamp that hung against the wall near
the stove on the opposite side to that on which we
Were.
By-and-by there were voices outside; an angry
knocking at the door, and the old woman, with a start,
roused herself up to go and open it for her master,
who came in, evidently half drunk, and, to my sick
horror, followed by Lefebvre, apparently as sober and
wily as ever. They were talking together as they
came in, disputing about something; but the miller
stopped the conversation to swear at the old woman
for having fallen asleep, and, with tipsy anger, and
even with blows, drove the poor old creature out of
the kitchen to bed. Then he and Lefebvre went on
talking -- about the Sieur de Poissy's disappearance.
It seemed that Lefebvre had been out all day, along
with other of my husband's men, ostensibly assisting
in the search; in all probability trying to blind the
Sieur de Poissy's followers by putting them on a wrong
scent, and also, I fancied, from one or two of Lefebvre's
sly questions, combining the hidden purpose of dis-
covering us.
Although the miller was tenant and vassal to the
Sieur de Poissy, he seemed to me to be much more in
league with the people of M. de la Tourelle. He was


176 THE GREY WOMAN.
evidently aware in part of the life which Lefebvre and
the others led; although, again, I do not suppose he
knew or imagined one-half of their crimes; and also, I
think, he was seriously interested in discovering the
fate of his master, little suspecting Lefebvre of murder
or violence. He kept talking himself, and letting out
all sorts of thoughts and opinions; watched by the keen
eyes of Lefebvre gleaming out below his shaggy eye-
brows. It was evidently not the cue of the latter to
let out that his master's wife had escaped from that
vile and terrible den; but though he never breathed
a word relating to us, not the less was I certain he was
thirsting for our blood, and lying in wait for us at
every turn of event. Presently he got up and took
his leave; and the miller bolted him out, and stumbled
off to bed. Then we fell asleep, and slept sound and
long.
The next morning, when I awoke, I saw Amante,
half raised, resting on one hand, and eagerly gazing,
with straining eyes, into the kitchen below. I looked
too, and both heard and saw the miller and two of his
men eagerly and loudly talking about the old woman,
who had not appeared as usual to make the fire in the
stove, and prepare her master's breakfast, and who
now, late on in the morning, had been found dead in
her bed; whether from the effect of her master's blows
the night before, or from natural causes, who can say?
The miller's conscience upbraided him a little, I should
say, for he was eagerly declaring his value for his
housekeeper, and saying how often she had spoken of
the happy life she led with him. The men might have
their doubts, but they did not wish to offend the miller,
and all agreed that the necessary steps should be taken


THE GREY WOMAN. 177
for a speedy funeral. And so they went out, leaving
us in our loft, but so much alone, that, for the first time
almost, we ventured to speak freely, though still in a
hushed voice, pausing to listen continually. Amante
took a more cheerful view of the whole occurrence than
I did. She said that, had the old woman lived, we
should have had to depart that morning, and that this
quiet departure would have been the best thing we
could have had to hope for, for that, in all probability,
the housekeeper would have told her master of us and
of our resting-place, and this fact would, sooner or later,
have been brought to the knowledge of those from
whom we most desired to keep it concealed; but that
now we had time to rest, and a shelter to rest in,
during the first hot pursuit, which we knew to a fatal
certainty was being carried on. The remnants of our
food, and the stored-up fruit, would supply us with
provision; the only thing to be feared was, that some-
thing might be required from the loft, and the miller
or some one else mount up in search of it. But even
then, with a little arrangement of boxes and chests,
one part might be so kept in shadow that we might yet
escape observation. All this comforted me a little; but,
I asked, how were we ever to escape? The ladder was
taken away, which was our only means of descent. But
Amante replied that she could make a sufficient ladder
of the rope lying coiled among other things, to drop us
down the ten feet or so — with the advantage of its
being portable, so that we might carry it away and
thas avoid all betrayal of the fact that any one had
ever been hidden in the loft.
In fact, during the two days that intervened before
we did escape, Amante made good use of her time.
Lois the Witch, etc. 12


178 The GREY woman.
She looked into every box and chest during the man's
absence in his mill; and finding in one box an old
suit of man's clothes, which had probably belonged to
the miller's absent son, she put them on to see if they
would fit her; and when she found that they did, she
cut her own hair to the shortness of a man's, made me
clip her black eyebrows as close as though they had
been shaved, and by cutting up old corks into pieces
such as would go into her cheeks, she altered both the
shape of her face and her voice to a degree which I
should not have believed possible.
All this time I lay like one stunned; my body
resting, and renewing its strength, but I myself in an
almost idiotic state. Else surely I could not have taken
the stupid interest which I remember I did in all
Amante's energetic preparations for disguise. I ab-
solutely recollect once the feeling of a smile coming
over my stiff face as some new exercise of her clever-
ness proved a success.
But towards the second day, she required me too
to exert myself; and then all my heavy despair re-
turned. I let her dye my fair hair and complexion
with the decaying shells of the stored-up walnuts, I
let her blacken my teeth, and even voluntarily broke a
front tooth the better to effect my disguise. But through
it all I had no hope of evading my terrible husband.
The third night the funeral was over, the drinking
ended, the guests gone; the miller put to bed by
his men, being too drunk to help himself. They
stopped a little while in the kitchen, talking and
laughing about the new housekeeper likely to come; and
they too went off, shutting, but not locking the door.


THE GREY WOMAN. 179
Everything favoured us: Amante had tried her ladder
on one of the two previous nights, and could, by a
dexterous throw from beneath, unfasten it from the
hook to which it was fastened when it had served its
office; she made up a bundle of worthless old clothes
in order that we might the better preserve our character
of a travelling pedlar and his wife; she stuffed a hump
on her back, she thickened my figure, she left her own
clothes deep down beneath a heap of others in the chest
from which she had taken the man's dress which she
wore, and with a few francs in her pocket — the sole
money we had either of us had about us when we
escaped — we let ourselves down the ladder, unhooked
it, and passed into the cold darkness of night again.
We had discussed the route which it would be well
for us to take while we lay perdues in our loft. Amante
had told me then that her reason for inquiring, when
we first left Les Rochers, by which way I had first
been brought to it, was to avoid the pursuit which she
was sure would first be made in the direction of Ger-
many; but that now she thought we might return to
that district of country where my German fashion of
speaking French would excite least observation. I
thought that Amante herself had something peculiar in
her accent, which I had heard M. de la Tourelle sneer
at as Norman patois; but I said not a word beyond
agreeing to her proposal that we should bend our steps
towards Germany. Once there, we should, I thought,
be safe. Alas! I forgot the unruly time that was over-
spreading all Europe, overturning all law, and all the
protection which law gives.
How we wandered — not daring to ask our way
— how we lived, how we struggled through many a
12%


180 THE GREY WOMAN.
danger and still more terrors of danger, I shall not tell
you now. I will only relate two of our adventures
before we reached Frankfort. The first, although fatal
to an innocent lady, was yet, I believe, the cause of
my safety; the second I shall tell you, that you may
understand why I did not return to my former home,
as I had hoped to do when we lay in the miller's loft,
and I first became capable of groping after an idea of
what my future life might be. I cannot tell you how
much in these doubtings and wanderings I became at-
tached to Amante. I have sometimes feared since lest
I cared for her only because she was so necessary for
my own safety; but, no! it was not so; or not so only,
or principally. She said once that she was flying for
her own life as well as for mine; but we dared not
speak much on our danger, or on the horrors that had
gone before. We planned a little what was to be our
future course; but even for that we did not look for-
ward long; how could we, when every day we scarcely
knew if we should see the sun go down? For Amante
knew or conjectured far more than I did of the atrocity
of the gang to which M. de la Tourelle belonged; and
every now and then, just as we seemed to be sinking
into the calm of security, we fell upon traces of a pur-
suit after us in all directions. Once I remember —we
must have been nearly three weeks wearily walking
through unfrequented ways, day after day, not daring
to make inquiry as to our whereabouts, nor yet seem
purposeless in our wanderings — we came to a kind
of lonely road-side farrier's and blacksmith's. I was
so tired, that Amante declared that come what might
we would stay there all night; and accordingly she
entered the house, and boldly announced herself as a


THE GREY WOMAN. 181
travelling tailor, ready to do any odd jobs of work
that might be required, for a night's lodging and for
food for herself and wife. She had adopted this plan
once or twice before, and with good success; for her
father had been a tailor in Rouen, and as a girl she
had often helped him with his work, and knew the
tailors' slang and habits, down to the particular whistle
and cry which in France tell so much to those of a
trade. At this blacksmith's, as at most other solitary
houses far away from a town, there was not only a
store of men's clothes laid by as wanting mending
when the housewife could afford time, but there was a
-natural craving after news from a distance, such news
as a wandering tailor is bound to furnish. The early
November afternoon was closing into evening, as we
sat down, she cross-legged on the great table in the
blacksmith's kitchen, drawn close to the window, l
close behind her, sewing at another part of the same
garment, and well scolded by my seeming husband
from time to time. All at once she turned round to
speak to me. It was only one word, “Courage!” I
had seen nothing; I sat out of the light; but I turned
sick for an instant, and then I braced myself up into
a strange strength of endurance to go through I knew
not what.
The blacksmith's forge was in a shed beside the
house, and fronting the road. I heard the hammers
stop plying their continual rhythmical beat. She had
seen why they ceased. A rider had come up to the
forge and dismounted, leading his horse in to be reshod.
The broad red light of the forge-fire had revealed the
face of the rider to Amante, and she apprehended the
consequence that really ensued.


182 THE GREY WOMAN.
The rider, after some words with the blacksmith,
was ushered in by the man into the house-place where
We Sat.
“Here, good wife, a cup of wine and some galette
for this gentleman.”
“Anything, anything, madame, that I can eat and
drink in my hand while my horse is being shod. I
am in haste, and must get on to Forbach to-night.”
The blacksmith's wife lighted her lamp more has-
tily; Amante had asked her for it five minutes before.
How thankful we were that she had not more speedily
complied with our request! As it was, we sat in dusk
shadow, pretending to stitch away, but scarcely able to
see. The lamp was placed on the stove, near which
my husband, for it was he, stood and warmed himself.
By-and-by he turned round, and looked all over the
room, taking us in with about the same degree of in-
terest as the inanimate furniture. Amante cross-legged,
fronting him, stooped over her work, whistling softly
all the while. He turned again to the stove, impa-
tiently rubbing his hands. He had finished his wine
and galette, and wanted to be off.
“I am in haste, my good woman. Ask thy hus-
band to get on more quickly. I will pay him double
if he makes haste.”
The woman went out to do his bidding; and he
once more turned round to face us. Amante went on
to the second part of the tune. He took it up, whistled
a second for an instant or so, and then the blacksmith's
wife re-entering, he moved towards her, as if to receive
her answer the more speedily.
“One moment, monsieur — only one moment.
There was a nail out of the off fore-shoe which my
/~


THE GREY WOMAN. 183
husband is replacing; it would delay monsieur again,
if that shoe also came off.” º
“Madame is right,” said he, “but my haste is
urgent. If madame knew my reasons, she would pardon
my impatience. Once a happy husband, now a deserted
and betrayed man, I pursue a wife on whom I lavished
all my love, but who has abused my confidence, and
fled from my house, doubtless to some paramour; car-
rying off with her all the jewels and money on which
she could lay her hands. It is possible madame may
have heard or seen something of her; she was accom-
panied in her flight by a base, profligate woman from
Paris, whom I, unhappy man, had myself engaged for
my wife's waiting-maid, little dreaming what corruption
I was bringing into my house!”
“Is it possible?” said the good woman, throwing
up her hands.
Amante went on whistling, a little lower, out of
respect to the conversation.
“However, I am tracing the wicked fugitives; I am
on their track” (and the handsome effeminate face
looked as ferocious as any demon's). “They will not
escape me; but every minute is a minute of misery to
me, till I meet my wife. Madame has sympathy, has
she not?” -
He drew his face into a hard, unnatural smile, and
then both went out to the forge, as if once more to
hasten the blacksmith over his work.
Amante stopped her whistling for one instant.
“Go on as you are, without change of an eyelid even;
in a few minutes he will be gone, and it will be over!"
It was a necessary caution, for I was on the point
of giving way, and throwing myself weakly upon her


184 THE GREY WOMAN.
neck. We went on; she whistling and stitching, I
making semblance to sew. And it was well we did so;
for almost directly he came back for his whip which
he had laid down and forgotten; and again I felt one
of those sharp, quick-scanning glances, sent all round
the room, and taking in all.
Then we heard him ride away; and then, it had
been long too dark to see well, I dropped my work,
and gave way to my trembling and shuddering. The
blacksmith's wife returned. She was a good creature.
Amante told her I was cold and weary, and she in-
sisted on my stopping my work, and going to sit near
the stove; hastening at the same time her preparations
for supper, which in honour of us, and of monsieur's
liberal payment, was to be a little less frugal than or-
dinary. It was well for me that she made me taste a
little of the cider-soup she was preparing, or I could
not have held up in spite of Amante's warning look,
and the remembrance of her frequent, exhortations to
act resolutely up to the characters we had assumed,
whatever befel. To cover my agitation Amante stopped
her whistling, and began to talk; and by the time the
blacksmith came in she and the good woman of the
house were in full flow. He began at once upon the
handsome gentleman who had paid him so well; all his
sympathy was with him, and both he and his wife only
wished he might overtake his wicked wife, and punish
her as she deserved. And then the conversation took
a turn, not uncommon to those whose lives are quiet
and monotonous; every one seemed to vie with each
other in telling about some horror, and the savage and
mysterious band of robbers called the Chauffeurs, who
infested all the roads leading to the Rhine, with Schin-


THE GREY WOMAN. 185
derhannes at their head, furnished many a tale which
made the very marrow of my bones run cold, and
quenched even Amante's power of talking. Her eyes
grew large and wild, her cheeks blanched, and for once
she sought by her looks help from me. The new call
upon me roused me. I rose and said with their per-
mission my husband and I would seek our bed, for
that we had travelled far and were early risers. I
added that we would get up betimes, and finish our
piece of work. The blacksmith said we should be
early birds if we rose before him; and the good wife
seconded my proposal with kindly bustle. One other
such story as those they had been relating, and I do
believe Amante would have fainted.
As it was, a night's rest set her up; we arose and
finished our work betimes, and shared the plentiful
breakfast of the family. Then we had to set forth
again; only knowing that to Forbach we must not go,
yet believing, as was indeed the case, that Forbach lay
between us and that Germany to which we were di-
recting our course. Two days more we wandered on,
making a round, I suspect, and returning upon the
road to Forbach, a league or two nearer to that town
than the blacksmith's house. But as we never made
inquiries I hardly knew where we were, when we came
one night to a small town, with a good large rambling
inn in the very centre of the principal street. We had
begun to feel as if there were more safety in towns
than in the loneliness of the country. As we had
parted with a ring of mine not many days before to a
travelling jeweller, who was too glad to purchase it far
below its real value to make many inquiries as to how
it came into the possession of a poor working tailor


186 THE GREY WOMAN.
such as Amante seemed to be, we resolved to stay at
this inn all night, and gather such particulars and in-
formation as we could to direct our onward course.
We took our supper in the darkest corner of the
salle-à-manger, having previously bargained for a small
bedroom across the court, and over the stables. We
needed food sorely; but we hurried on our meal from
dread of any one entering that public room who might
recognise us. Just in the middle of our meal the public
diligence drove lumbering up under the porte cochère,
and disgorged its passengers. Most of them turned
into the room where we sat, cowering and fearful, for
the door was opposite to the porter's lodge, and both
opened on to the wide-covered entrance from the street.
Among the passengers came in a young fair-haired
lady, attended by an elderly French maid. The poor
young creature tossed her head, and shrank away from
the common room, full of evil smells and promiscuous
company, and demanded in German French to be taken
to some private apartment. We heard that she and
her maid had come in the coupé, and probably from
pride, poor young lady! she had avoided all association
with her fellow-passengers, thereby exciting their dis-
like and ridicule. All these little pieces of hearsay
had a significance to us afterwards, though at the time
the only remark made that bore upon the future was
Amante's whisper to me that the young lady's hair was
exactly the colour of mine, that she had cut off and
burnt in the stove in the miller's kitchen in one of her
descents from our hiding-place in the loft.
As soon as we could we struck round in the shadow,
leaving the boisterous and merry fellow-passengers to
their supper. We crossed the court, borrowed a lantern


THE GREY WOMAN. 187
from the ostler, and scrambled up the rude steps to our
chamber above the stable. There was no door into it;
the entrance was the hole into which the ladder fitted.
The window gave into the court. We were tired and
soon fell asleep. I was wakened by a noise in the
stable below. One instant of listening, and I wakened
Amante, placing my hand on her mouth, to prevent
any exclamation in her half-roused state. We heard
my husband speaking about his horse to the ostler. It
was his voice. I am sure of it. Amante said so too.
We dared not move to rise and satisfy ourselves. For
five minutes or so he went on giving directions. Then
he left the stable, and softly stealing to our window,
we saw him cross the court and re-enter the inn. We
consulted as to what we should do. We feared to ex-
cite remark or suspicion by descending and leaving our
chamber, or else immediate escape was our strongest
idea. Then the ostler left the stable, locking the door
on the outside.
“We must try and drop through the window – if,
indeed, it is well to go at all,” said Amante.
With reflection came wisdom. We should excite
suspicion by leaving without paying our bill. We were
on foot, and might easily be pursued. So we sat on
our bed's edge, talking and shivering, while from
across the court the laughter rang merrily, and the
company slowly dispersed one by one, their lights
flitting past the windows as they went up-stairs and
settled each one to their rest.
We crept into our bed, holding each other tight,
and listening to every sound, as if we thought we were
tracked, and might meet our death at any moment. In
the dead of night, just at the profound stillness pre-


188 THE GREY WOMAN.
ceding the turn into another day, we heard a soft,
cautious step crossing the yard. The key into the
stable was turned — some one came into the stable —
we felt rather than heard him there. A horse started
a little, and made a restless movement with his feet,
then whinnied recognition. He who had entered made
two or three low sounds to the animal, and then led
him into the court. Amante sprang to the window with
the noiseless activity of a cat. She looked out, but
dared not speak a word. We heard the great door
into the street open — a pause for mounting, and the
horse's footsteps were lost in distance.
Then Amante came back to me. “It was hel he
is gone!” said she, and once more we lay down trem-
bling and shaking.
This time we fell sound asleep. We slept long
and late. We were wakened by many hurrying feet,
and many confused voices; all the world seemed awake
and astir. We rose and dressed ourselves, and coming
down we looked around among the crowd collected in
the court-yard, in order to assure ourselves he was not
there before we left the shelter of the stable.
The instant we were seen two or three people
rushed to us.
“Have you heard? — Do you know? — That
poor young lady — oh, come and see!” and so we
were hurried, almost in spite of ourselves, across the
court and up the great open stairs of the main building
of the inn, into a bed-chamber, where lay the beauti-
ful young German lady, so full of graceful pride the
night before, now white and still in death. By her
stood the French maid, crying and gesticulating.
“Oh, madame! if you had but suffered me to stay
th


THE GREY WOMAN. 189
with you! Oh! the baron, what will he say?” and so
she went on. Her state had but just been discovered;
it had been supposed that she was fatigued, and was
sleeping late, until a few minutes before. The surgeon
of the town had been sent for, and the landlord of the
inn was trying vainly to enforce order until he came,
and from time to time drinking little cups of brandy,
and offering them to the guests, who were all as-
sembled there, pretty much as the servants were doing
in the court-yard.
At last the surgeon came. All fell back, and
hung on the words that were to fall from his lips.
“See!” said the landlord. “This lady came last
night by the diligence with her maid. Doubtless a
great lady, for she must have a private sitting-
room” -
“She was: Madame the Baroness de Roeder,” said
the French maid.
– “And was difficult to please in the matter of
supper, and a sleeping-ro, m. She went to bed well,
though fatigued. Her maid left her —”
“I begged to be allowed to sleep in her room, as
we were in a strange inn, of the character of which
we knew nothing; but she would not let me, my
mistress was such a great lady.”
– “And slept with my servants,” continued the
landlord. “This morning we thought madame was
still slumbering, but when eight, nine, ten, and near
eleven o'clock came, I bade her maid use my pass-key
and enter her room —”
“The door was not locked, only closed. And
here she was found — dead, is she not, monsieur? —
with her face down on her pillow, and her beautiful


THE GREY WOMAN. 191
landlord and ostler for the possession of the keys of
the stable and porte cochère. In short there was no
doubt as to the murderer, even before the arrival of
the legal functionary who had been sent for by the
surgeon; but the words on the paper chilled every one
with terror. Les Chauffeurs, who were they? no one
knew, some of the gang might even then be in the
room, overhearing, and noting down fresh objects for
vengeance. In Germany I had heard little of this
terrible gang, and I had paid no greater heed to the
stories related, once or twice about them in Carlsruhe
than one does to tales about ogres. But here in their
very haunts I learnt the full amount of the terror they
inspired. No one would be legally responsible for any
evidence criminating the murderer. The public prose-
cutor shrank from the duties of his office. What do I
say? Neither Amante nor I, knowing far more of the
actual guilt of the man who had killed that poor
sleeping young lady, durst breathe a word. We made
as though we were wholly ignorant of everything, we
who might have told so much. But how could we?
we were broken down with terrific anxiety and fatigue,
and above all the knowledge that we above all were
doomed victims; and that the blood, heavily dripping
from the bed-clothes on to the floor, was dripping thus
out of the poor dead body, because when living she
had been mistaken for me.
At length Amante went up to the landlord, and
asked permission to leave his inn, doing all openly
and humbly, so as to excite neither ill-will nor suspicion.
Indeed, suspicion was otherwise directed, and he will-
ingly gave us leave to depart. A few days afterwards
we were across the Rhine, in Germany, making our


192 The Grer WOMAn.
way towards Frankfort, but still keeping our disguises,
and Amante still working at her trade.
On the way, we met a young man, a wandering
journeyman, from Heidelberg. I knew him, although
I did not choose that he should know me. I asked
him, as carelessly as I could, how the old miller was
now? He told me he was dead. This realisation of
the worst apprehensions caused by his long silence
shocked me inexpressibly. It seemed as though every
prop gave way from under me. I had been talking
to Amante only that very day of the safety and com-
fort of the home that awaited her in my father's house;
of the gratitude which the old man would feel towards
her, and how there, in that peaceful dwelling, far
away from the terrible land of France, she should find
ease and security for all the rest of her life. All this
I thought I had to promise, and even yet more had I
looked for for myself. I looked to the unburdening of
my heart and conscience by telling all I knew to my
best and wisest friend. I looked to his love as a sure
guidance as well as a comforting stay, and, behold, he
was gone away from me for ever!
I had left the room hastily on hearing of this
sad news from the Heidelberger. Presently, Amante
followed.
“Poor madame,” said she, consoling me to the best
of her ability. And then she told me by degrees
what more she had learned respecting my home, about
which she knew almost as much as I did, from my
frequent talks on the subject both at Les Rochers and
on the dreary, doleful road we had come along. She
had continued the conversation after I left, by asking
about my brother and his wife. Of course, they lived


THE GREY WOMAN. 193
on at the mill, but the man said (with what truth I
know not, but I believed it firmly at the time), that
Babette had completely got the upper hand of my
brother, who only saw through her eyes and heard
with her ears. That there had heen much Heidelberg
gossip of late days about her sudden intimacy with a
grand French gentleman who had appeared at the mill,
— a relation, by marriage — married, in fact, to the
miller's sister, who, by all accounts, had behaved
abominably and ungratefully. But that was no reason
for Babette's extreme and sudden intimacy with him,
going about everywhere with the French gentleman;
and since he left (as the Heidelberger said he knew
for a fact) corresponding with him constantly. Yet
her husband saw no harm in it all seemingly; though,
to be sure, he was so out of spirits, what with his
father's death and the news of his sister's infamy, that
he hardly knew how to hold up his head.
“Now,” said Amante, “all this proves that M. de la
Tourelle has suspected that you would go back to the
nest in which you were reared, and that he has been
there, and found that you have not yet returned; but
probably he still imagines that you will do so, and has
accordingly engaged your sister-in-law as a kind of in-
formant. Madame has said that her sister-in-law bore
her no extreme good-will; and the defamatory story he
has got the start of us in spreading will not tend to in-
crease the favour in which your sister-in-law holds you.
No doubt the assassin was retracing his steps when we
met him near Forbach, and having heard of the poor
German lady, with her French maid and her pretty
blonde complexion, he followed her. If madame will
still be guided by me — and, my child, I beg of you
Lois the Witch, etc. 13


194 THE GREY WOMAN.
still to trust me,” said Amante, breaking out of her
respectful formality into the way of talking more natural
to those who had shared and escaped from common
dangers — more natural, too, where the speaker was
conscious of a power of protection which the other did
not possess – “we will go on to Frankfort, and lose
, ourselves, for a time, at least, in the numbers of people
who throng a great town; and you have told me that
Frankfort is a great town. We will still be husband
and wife; we will take a small lodging, and you shall
housekeep and live in-doors. I, as the rougher and the
more alert, will continue my father's trade, and seek
work at the tailors' shops.”
I could think of no better plan, so we followed this
out. In a back street at Frankfort we found two
furnished rooms to let on a sixth story. The one we
entered had no light from day; a dingy lamp swung
perpetually from the ceiling, and from that, or from the
open door leading into the bedroom beyond, came our
only light. The bedroom was more cheerful, but very
small. Such as it was, it almost exceeded our pos-
sible means. The money from the sale of my ring
was almost exhausted, and Amante was a stranger in
the place, speaking only French, moreover, and the
good Germans were hating the French people right
heartily. However, we succeeded better than our hopes,
and even laid by a little against the time of my con-
finement. I never stirred abroad, and saw no one, and
Amante's want of knowledge of German kept her in a
state of comparative isolation.
At length my child was born – my poor worse
than fatherless child. It was a girl, as I had prayed


THE GREY WOMAN. 195
for. I had feared lest a boy might have something of
the tiger nature of its father, but a girl seemed all my
own. And yet not all my own, for the faithful Amante's
delight and glory in the babe almost exceeded mine; in
outward show it certainly did.
We had not been able to afford any attendance
beyond what a neighbouring sage-femme could give, and
she came frequently, bringing in with her a little store
of gossip, and wonderful tales culled out of her own ex-
perience, every time. One day she began to tell me
about a great lady in whose service her daughter had
lived as scullion, or some such thing. Such a beautiful
lady! with such a handsome husband. But grief comes
to the palace as well as to the garret, and why or
wherefore no one knew, but somehow the Baron de
Roeder must have incurred the vengeance of the terrible
Chauffeurs; for not many months ago, as madame was
going to see her relations in Alsace, she was stabbed
dead as she lay in bed at some hotel on the road. Had
I not seen it in the Gazette? Had I not heard? Why
she had been told that as far off as Lyons there were
placards offering a heavy reward on the part of the
Baron de Roeder for information respecting the murderer
of his wife. But no one could help him, for all who
could bear evidence were in such terror of the Chauf-
feurs; there were hundreds of them, she had been told,
rich and poor, great gentlemen and peasants, all leagued
together by most frightful oaths to hunt to the death
any one who bore witness against them; so that even
they who survived the tortures to which the Chauffeurs
subjected many of the people whom they plundered,
dared not to recognise them again, would not dare, even
did they see them at the bar of a court of justice; for,
13%


196 TTIE GREY WOMAN.
if one were condemned, were there not hundreds sworn
to avenge his death?”
I told all this to Amante, and we began to fear that
if M. de la Tourelle, or Lefebvre, or any of the gang
at Les Rochers, had seen these placards, they would
know that the poor lady stabbed by the former was the
Baroness de Roeder, and that they would set forth again
in search of me.
This fresh apprehension told on my health and
impeded my recovery. We had so little money we
could not call in a doctor, at least, not one of the phy-
sicians in established practice. But Amante found out
a young doctor for whom, indeed, she had sometimes
worked; and offering to pay him in kind, she brought
him to see me, her sick wife. He was very gentle and
thoughtful, though, like ourselves, very poor. But he
gave much time and consideration to the case, saying
once to Amante that he saw my constitution had ex-
perienced some severe shock from which it was probable
that my nerves would never entirely recover. By and
by I shall name this doctor, and then you will know,
better than I can describe, his character.
I grew strong in time — stronger, at least. I was
able to work a little at home, and to sun myself and
my baby at the garret-window in the roof. It was all
the air I dared to take. I constantly wore the disguise
I had first set out with; as constantly had I renewed
the disfiguring dye which changed my hair and com-
plexion. But the perpetual state of terror in which I
had been during the whole months succeeding my
escape from Les Rochers made me loathe the idea of
ever again walking in the open daylight, exposed to the
sight and recognition of every passer-by. In vain


THE GREY WOMAN. 197
Amante reasoned — in vain the doctor urged. Docile
in every other thing, in this I was obstinate. I would
not stir out. One day Amante returned from her work,
full of news — some of it good, some such as to cause
us apprehension. The good news was this; the master
for whom she worked as journeyman was going to send
her with some others in a great house at the other side
of Frankfort, where there were to be private theatricals,
and where many new dresses and much alteration of
old ones would be required. The tailors employed
were all to stay at this house until the day of represen-
tation was over, as it was at some distance from the
town, and no one could tell when their work would be
ended. But the pay was to be proportionately good.
The other thing she had to say was this: she had
that day met the travelling jeweller to whom she and I
had sold my ring. It was rather a peculiar one, given
to me by my husband; we had felt at the time that it
might be the means of tracing us, but we were penniless
and starving, and what else could we do? She had
seen that this Frenchman had recognised her at the
same instant that she did him, and she thought at the
same time that there was a gleam of more than common
intelligence on his face as he did so. This idea had
been confirmed by his following her for some way on
the other side of the street; but she had evaded him
with her better knowledge of the town, and the increas-
ing darkness of the night. Still it was well that she
was going to such a distance from our dwelling on the
next day; and she had brought me in a stock of pro-
visions, begging me to keep within our doors, with a
strange kind of fearful oblivion of the fact that I had


198 TTTP GREY WOMAN.
never set foot beyond the threshold of the house since I
had first entered it — scarce ever ventured down the
stairs. But, although my poor, my dear, very faithful
Amante was like one possessed that last night, she
spoke continually of the dead, which is a bad sign for
the living. She kissed you — yes! it was you, my
daughter, my darling, whom I bore beneath my bosom
away from the fearful castle of your father — I call
him so for the first time, I must call him so once again
before I have done — Amante kissed you, sweet baby,
blessed little comforter, as if she never could leave off.
And then she went away, alive.
, Two days, three days passed away. That third
evening I was sitting within my bolted doors — you
asleep on your pillow by my side—when a step came
up the stair, and I knew it must be for me; for ours
were the topmost rooms. Some one knocked; I held
my very breath. But some one spoke, and I knew it
was the good Doctor Voss. Then I crept to the door,
and answered,
“Are you alone?” asked I.
“Yes,” said he, in a still lower voice. “Let me in.”
I let him in, and he was as alert as I in bolting and
barring the door. Then he came and whispered to me
his doleful tale. He had come from the hospital in the
opposite quarter of the town, the hospital which he vi-
sited; he should have been with me sooner, but he had
feared lest he should be watched. He had come from
Amante's death-bed. Her fears of the jeweller were
too well-founded. She had left the house where she
was employed that morning, to transact some errand
connected with her work in the town; she must have


THE GREY WOMAN. 199
been followed, and dogged on her way back through
solitary woodpaths, for some of the wood-rangers be-
longing to the great house had found her lying there,
stabbed to death, but not dead; with the poignard again
plunged through the fatal writing, once more; but this
time with the word “un” underlined, so as to show the
assassin was aware of his previous mistake.
Numéro Un.
Comment les Chauffeurs sevengent. w
They had carried her to the house, and given her
restorations till she had recovered the feeble use of her
speech. But, oh, faithful dear friend and sister! even
then she remembered me, and refused to tell (what no
one else among her fellow workmen knew), where she
lived or with whom. Life was ebbing away fast, and
they had no resource but to carry her to the nearest
hospital, where, of course, the fact of her sex was made
known. Fortunately both for her and for me, the
doctor in attendance was the very Doctor Woss whom
we already knew. To him, while awaiting her con-
fessor, she told enough to enable him to understand the
position in which I was left; before the priest had heard
half her tale Amante was dead.
Doctor Voss told me he had made all sorts of dé-
tours, and waited thus, late at night, for fear of being
watched and followed. But I do not think he was.
At any rate, as I afterwards learnt from him, the Baron
Roeder, on hearing of the similitude of this murder with
that of his wife in every particular, made such a search
after the assassins, that, although they were not dis-
covered, they were compelled to take to flight for the
time. -


200 THE GREY WOMAN.
I can hardly tell you now by what arguments Dr.
Voss, at first merely my benefactor, sparing me a por-
tion of his small modicum, at length persuaded me to
become his wife. His wife he called it, I called it;
for we went through the religious ceremony too much
slighted at the time, and as we were both Lutherans,
and M. de la Tourelle had pretended to be of the re-
formed religion, a divorce from the latter would have
been easily procurable by German law both ecclesias-
tical and legal, could we have summoned so fearful a
man into any court.
He took me and my child by stealth to his modest
dwelling; and there I lived in the same deep retire-
ment, never seeing the full light of day, although when
the dye had once passed away from my face my hus-
band did not wish me to renew it. There was no need;
my yellow hair was grey, my complexion was ashen-
coloured, no creature could have recognised the fresh-
coloured, bright-haired young woman of eighteen months
before. The few people whom I saw knew me only as
Madame Voss; a widow much older than himself whom
Dr. Voss had secretly married. They called me the
Grey Woman.
He made me give you his surname. Till now you
have known no other father — while he lived you
needed no father's love. Once only, only once more,
did the old terror come upon me. For some reason
which I forget I broke through my usual custom and
went to the window of my room for some purpose,
either to shut or to open it. Looking out into the street
for an instant, I was fascinated by the sight of M. de
la Tourelle, gay, young, elegant as ever, walking along


THE GREY WOMAN. 201
on the opposite side of the street. The noise I had
made with the window caused him to look up; he saw
me, an old grey woman, and he did not recognise me!
Yet it was not three years since we had parted, and
his eyes were keen and dreadful like those of the
lynx.
yº, told M. Voss, on his return home, and he tried
to cheer me, but the shock of seeing M. de la Tourelle
had been too terrible for me. I was ill long months
afterwards.
Once again I saw him. Dead. He and Lefebvre
were at last caught; hunted down by the Baron de
Roeder in some of their crimes. Dr. Voss had heard
of their arrest; their condemnation, their death; but he
never said a word to me, until one day he bade me
show him that I loved him by my obedience and my
trust. He took me a long carriage journey, where to
I know not, for we never spoke of that day again; I
was led through a prison, into a closed court-yard, where,
decently draped in the last robes of death, concealing
the marks of decapitation, lay M. de la Tourelle, and
two or three others, whom I had known at Les
Rochers.
After that conviction Dr. Voss tried to persuade me
to return to a more natural mode of life, and to go out
more. But although I sometimes complied with his
wish, yet the old terror was ever strong upon me, and
he, seeing what an effort it was, gave up urging me at last.
You know all the rest. How we both mourned
bitterly the loss of that dear husband and fathcr — for
such I will call him ever — and as such you must con-
sider him, my child, after this one revelation is over.


202 THE GREY WOMAN.
Why has it been made, you ask. For this reason,
my child. The lover, whom you have only known as
M. Lebrun, a French artist, told me but yesterday his
real name, dropped because the blood-thirsty republi-
cans might consider it as too aristocratic. It is Maurice
de Poissy.
------


THE D00M OF THE GRIFFITHS,





THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
CHAPTER I.
I HAVE always been much interested by the tradi-
tions which are scattered up and down North Wales
relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the
national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into
the feeling which makes the Welsh peasant still look
upon him as the hero of his country. There was great
joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality,
when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford,
some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to be
“Owain Glendwr.” It was the most proudly national
subject that had been given for years.
Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted
chieftain is, even in the present days of enlighten-
ment, as famous among his illiterate countrymen for his
magical powers as for his patriotism. He says him-
self — or Shakspeare says it for him, which is much
the same thing —
“At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
Of burning cressets . . . . . . . . .
- . I can call spirits from the vasty deep."
And few among the lower orders in the principality would
think of asking Hotspur's irreverent question in reply.
Among other traditions preserved relative to this
part of the Welsh hero's character, is the old family


206 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
prophecy which gives a title to this tale. When Sir
David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born
in Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth,
there was one with him whose name Glendwr little
dreamed of having associated with his enemies. Rhys
ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his
more than brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir
David Gam might be forgiven, but one whom he had
loved, and whom had betrayed him, could never be
forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read in the human
heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the loath-
ing and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of
bitter remorse. The mark of Cain was upon him.
But before he went forth — while yet he stood a
prisoner, cowering beneath his conscience before Owain
Glendwr – that chieftain passed a doom upon him and
his race:
“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt
pray for death. Thou shalt live on beyond the natural
term of the live of man, the scorn of all good men.
The very children shall point to thee with hissing
tongue, and say, ‘There goes one who would have shed
a brother's blood!’. For I loved thee more than a
brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to
see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms,
perish by the sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each
generation shall see their lands melt away like snow;
yea, their wealth shall vanish, though they may labour
night and day to heap up gold. And when nine
generations have passed from the face of the earth,
thy blood shall no longer flow in the veins of any
human being. In those days the last male of thy race
shall avenge me. The son shall slay the father.”
/-


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 207
Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glen-
dwr's speech to his once-trusted friend. And it was
declared that the doom had been fulfilled in all things;
that, live in as miserly a manner as they would, the
Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous — indeed,
that their worldly stock diminished without any visible
cause.
But the lapse of many years had almost deadened
the wonder-inspiring power of the whole curse. It was
only brought forth from the hoards of Memory when
some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family;
and in the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy
was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of the Griffiths
of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the
death of a brother, became an heiress — to no con-
siderable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the
prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her hus-
band removed from his small patrimonial estate in
Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caenarvonshire, and
for a time the prophecy lay dormant.
If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth you pass by
the parochial church of Ynysynhanarn, situated in a
boggy valley running from the mountains, which
shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay.
This tract of land has every appearance of having been
redeemed at no distant period of time from the sea,
and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon
such marshes. But the valley beyond, similar in cha-
racter, had yet more of gloom at the time of which I
write. In the higher part there were large plantations
of firs, set too closely to attain to any size, and re-
maining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance.
Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly had


208 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
died, and the bark had fallen down on the brown soil
neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly
appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim
light which struggled through the thick boughs above.
Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed a more open,
though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked
dank and overhung by sea-fog through the greater
part of the year, and even a farm-house, which usually
imparts something of cheerfulness to a landscape, failed
to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of
the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by
right of his wife. In the higher part of the valley was
situated the family mansion, or rather dwelling-house,
for “mansion,” is too grand a word to apply to the
clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square
and heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to
ornament necessary to distinguish it from the mere
farm-house.
In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her hus-
band two sons — Llewellyn, the future Squire, and
Robert, who was early destined for the Church. The
only differenee in their situation, up to the time when
Bobert was entered at Jesus College, was that the
elder was invariably indulged by all around him, while
Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that
Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh
parson who was nominally his private tutor; while
occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of en-
forcing Robert's diligence, telling him that, as he had
his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning.
There is no knowing how far the very irregular edu-
cation he had received would have carried Robert
through his college examinations; but, luckily for him


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 209
in this respect, before such a trial of his learning came
round, he heard of the death of his elder brother, after
a short illness, brought on by a hard-drinking bout. Of
course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemed
quite as much of course, now that there was no neces-
sity for him to “earn his bread by his learning,” that
he should not return to Oxford. So the half educated,
but not unintelligent, young man continued at home,
during the short remainder of his parent's lifetime.
His was not an uncommon character. In general he
was mild, indolent, and easily managed; but once tho-
roughly roused, his passions were vehement and fearful.
He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in
common hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger
— so much did he dread losing his self-control. Had
he been judiciously educated, he would, probably, have
distinguished himself in those branches of literature
which call for taste and imagination, rather than any
exertion of reflection or judgment. As it was, his
literary taste showed itself in making collections of
Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock
of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr.
Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which
I write.
There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which
I have omitted to note, and which was peculiar among
his class. He was no hard drinker; whether it was
that his head was very easily affected, or that his par-
tially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and
its attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-
and-twenty Robert Griffiths was habitually sober — a
thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a
Lois the Witch, etc. 14


210 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
churlish, unsocial being, and passed much of his time
in solitude.
About this time, he had to appear in some case that
was tried at the Caernarvon assizes; and while there,
was a guest at the house of his agent, a shrewd,
sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had
charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though
he remained only a few days at her father's house,
they were sufficient to decide his affections, and short
was the period allowed to elapse before he brought
home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths
was a gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her
husband, of whom, nevertheless, she stood something in
awe, partly arising from the difference in their ages,
partly from his devoting much time to studies of which
she could understand nothing.
She soon made him the father of a blooming little
daughter, called Augharad after her mother. Then
there came several uneventful years in the household
of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and
all declared that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs.
Griffiths bore the son and heir. His birth was soon
followed by his mother's death: she had been ailing
and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed
to lack the buoyancy of body and mind requisite to
bring her round after her time of trial. Her husband,
who loved her all the more from having few other
claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her
early death, and his only comforter was the sweet little
boy whom she had left behind. That part of the
Squire's character, which was so tender, and almost
feminine, seemed called forth by the helpless situation
of the little infant, who stretched out his arms to his


212 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
considering how far they were healthy for so young a
mind.
Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the
prophecy which was to be fulfilled in his generation.
He would occasionally refer to it when among his
friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer
to his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong
imagination rendered him peculiarly impressible on
such subjects; while his judgment, seldom exercised or
fortified by severe thought, could not prevent his con-
tinually recurring to it. He used to gaze on the half-
sad countenance of the child, who sat looking up into
his face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so in-
quiringly, till the old legend swelled around his heart,
and became too painful for him not to require sym-
pathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to the
child seemed to demand fuller vent than tender words;
it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for
the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told
the legend, in a half-jesting manner, to his little son,
when they were roaming over the wild heaths in the
autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or while they
sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mys-
terious relics that gleamed strangely forth by the
flickering fire-light. The legend was wrought into the
boy's mind, and he would crave, yet tremble to hear
it told over and over again, while the words were in-
termingled with caresses and questions as to his love.
Occasionally his loving words and actions were cut
short by his father's light yet bitter speech — “Get
thee away, my lad; thou knowest what is to come of
all this love.”
When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 213
or twelve, the rector of the parish in which Bodowen
was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire Griffiths
to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many
congenial tastes with his parishioner, and was his only
intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he succeeded in
convincing the Squire that the unnatural life Owen was
leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly was
the father wrought to part from his son; but he did
at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor,
then under the management of an excellent classic.
Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the
rector had given him credit for, when he affirmed that
the lad had been completely stupified by the life he
led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to the
school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it
was famous. But he was not popular among his school-
fellows. He was wayward, though, to a certain degree,
generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle,
except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar
in character to those of his father) forced their way.
On his return from school one Christmas time, when
he had been a year or so at Bangor, he was stunned
by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was about
to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing
near Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters;
but Owen thought of the many slights with which he
had requited the patient Augharad, and he gave way
to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control
over his words, he kept expressing to his father, until
the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the
repeated exclamations of “What shall we do when
Augharad is gone?” “How dull we shall be when
Augharad is married!” Owen's holidays were pro-


214 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
longed a few weeks, in order that he might be present
at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over,
and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the
boy and his father really felt how much they missed
the quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so
many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their
daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the
household seemed to miss the spirit that peacefully
kept it in order; the servants roamed about in search
of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer
the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheer-
ful, the very fires burned dim, and were always sink-
ing down into dull heaps of gray ashes. Altogether
Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also
the mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a
selfish parent.
Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen
usually received one during his half-yearly absences
from home, and occasionally his father paid him a
visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a
letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and
then he was astounded by the intelligence that his
father was married again.
Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more
disastrous in its effects upon his character because it
could find no vent in action. Independently of the
slight to the memory of the first wife, which children
are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had
hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the first
object of his father's life. They had been so much to
each other; and now a shapeless, but too real some-
thing had come between him and his father there for
ever. He felt as if his permission should have been


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 215
asked, as if he should have been consulted. Certainly
he ought to have been told of the intended event.
So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter,
which had so much increased the bitterness of Owen's
feelings.
With all this anger, when Owen saw his step-
mother, he thought he had never seen so beautiful
a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the
bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married
her. Her manners, to the Welsh lad, who had seen
little of female grace among the families of the few an-
tiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fas-
cinating that he watched her with a sort of breathless
admiration. Her measured grace, her faultless move-
ments, her tones of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated
with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his
father's marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that
the cloud was between him and his father; that the
hasty letter he had sent in answer to the announcement
of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion
was ever made to it. He was no longer his father's
confidant — hardly ever his father's companion, for
the newly-married wife was all in all to the Squire,
and his son felt himself almost a cipher, where he had
so long been everything. The lady herself had ever
the softest consideration for her stepson; almost too
obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes, but still
he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning
advances. There was a watchful glance of the eye
that Owen once or twice caught when she had ima-
gined herself unobserved, and many other nameless
little circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of
want of sincerity in his stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought


216 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
with her into the family her little child by her first
husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one
of those elfish, observant, mocking children, over whose
feelings you seem to have no control: agile and mis-
chievous, his little practical jokes, at first performed
in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward pro-
ceeding to a malicious pleasure in suffering, really
seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious no-
tion of some of the common people that he was a fairy
changeling. e
Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he be-
came more observant. He saw, even in his occasional
visits at home (for from school he had passed on to
college), that a great change had taken place in the
outward manifestations of his father's character; and,
by degrees, Owen traced this change to the influence
of his stepmother; so slight, so imperceptible to the
common observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire
Griffiths caught up his wife's humbly advanced opi-
nions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them as his
own, defying all argument and opposition. It was the
same with her wishes; they met with their fulfilment,
from the extreme and delicate art with which she in-
sinuated them into her husband's mind, as his own.
She sacrificed the show of authority for the power. At
last, when Owen perceived some oppressive act in his
father's conduct toward his dependants, or some unac-
countable thwarting of his own wishes, he fancied he
saw his stepmother's secret influence thus displayed,
however much she might regret the injustice of his
father's actions in her conversations with him when
they were alone. His father was fast losing his tem-
perate habits, and frequent intoxication soon took its


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 217
usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the
spell of his wife upon him. Before her he placed a
restraint upon his passion, yet she was perfectly aware
of his irritable disposition, and directed it hither and
thither with the same apparent ignorance of the ten-
dency of her words.
Meanwhile Owen's situation became peculiarly mor-
tifying to a youth whose early remembrances afforded
such a contrast to his present state. As a child, he
had been elevated to the consequence of a man before
his years gave any mental check to the selfishness
which such conduct was likely to engender; he could
remember when his will was law to the servants and
dependants, and his sympathy necessary to his father:
now he was as a cipher in his father's house; and the
Squire, estranged in the first instance by a feeling of
the injury he had done his son in not sooner acquaint-
ing him with his purposed marriage, seemed rather to
avoid than to seek him as a companion, and too fre-
quently showed the most utter indifference to the
feelings and wishes which a young man of a high and
independent spirit might be supposed to indulge.
Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of
all these circumstances; for an actor in a family drama
is seldom unimpassioned enough to be perfectly obser-
vant. But he became moody and soured; brooding
over his unloved existence, and graving with a human
heart after sympathy.
This feeling took more full possession of his mind
when he had left college, and returned home to lead
an idle and purposeless life. As the heir, there was
no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too
much of a Welsh squire to dream of the moral ne-


218 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
cessity, and he himself had not sufficient strength of
mind to decide at once upon abandoning a place and
mode of life which abounded in daily mortifications; yet
to this course his judgment was slowly tending, when
some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bo-
dowen.
It was not to be expected that harmony would
long be preserved, even in appearance, between an un-
guarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and
his wary stepmother, when he had once left college,
and come, not as a visitor, but as the heir to his
father's house. Some cause of difference occurred,
where the woman subdued her hidden anger sufficiently
to become convinced that Owen was not entirely the
dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there
was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations
did this show itself; but in moody reserve on Owen's
part, and in undisguised and contemptuous pursuance
of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was
no longer a place where, if Owen was not loved or
attended to, he could at least find peace, and care for
himself: he was thwarted at every step, and in every
wish, by his father's desire apparently, while the wife
sat by with a smile of triumph on her beautiful lips.
* So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, some-
times roaming about on the shore or the upland, shoot-
ing or fishing, as the season might be, but oftener
“stretched in indolent repose” on the short, sweet grass,
indulging in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would
fancy that this mortified state of existence was a dream,
a horrible dream, from which he should awake and
find himself again the sole object and darling of his
father. And then he would start up and strive to shake


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 219
off the incubus. There was the molten sunset of his
childish memory; the gorgeous crimson piles of glory
in the west, fading away into the cold, calm light of
the rising moon, while here and there a cloud floated
across the western heaven, like a seraph's wing, in its
flaming beauty; the earth was the same as in his child-
hood's days, full of gentle evening sounds, and the
harmonies of twilight — the breeze came sweeping
low over the heather and blue-bells by his side, and
the turf was sending up its evening incense of perfume.
But life, and heart, and hope were changed for ever
since those bygone days!
Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of
the rocks on Moel Gést, hidden by a stunted growth
of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general observa-
tion, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his
feet, and a straight precipice of rock rising just above.
Here would he sit for hours, gazing idly at the bay
below with its back-ground of purple hills, and the
little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing white in the
sunbeam, and gliding on in such harmony with the
quiet beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out an
old school-volume, his companion for years, and in
morbid accordance with the dark legend that still lurked
in the recesses of his mind — a shape of gloom in
those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth
in distinct outline — would he turn to the old Greek
dramas which treat of a family foredoomed by an
avenging Fate. The worn page opened of itself at
the play of the GEdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt
with the craving of disease upon the prophecy so nearly
resembling that which concerned himself. With his
consciousness of neglect, there was a sort of self-flattery


220 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
in the consequence which the legend gave him. He
almost wondered how they durst, with slights and in-
sults, thus provoke the Avenger.
The days drifted onward. Often he would vehe-
mently pursue some sylvan sport, till thought and feel-
ing were lost in the violence of bodily exertion. Occa-
sionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house,
such as stood by the unfrequented wayside, where the
welcome, hearty though bought, seemed so strongly to
contrast with the gloomy negligence of home – unsym-
pathizing home. -
One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-
twenty), wearied with a day's shooting on the Clenneny
Moors, he passed by the open door of “The Goat” at
Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted
him, poor self-exhausted man, as it has done many a
one more wretched in worldly circumstances, to step
in, and take his evening meal where at least his pre-
sence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in
that little hostel. A flock of cheep, amounting to some
hundreds, had arrived at Penmorfa, on their road to
England, and thronged the space before the house.
Inside was the shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling
to and fro, with merry greetings for every tired drover
who was to pass the night in her house, while the
sheep were penned in a field close by. Ever and anon,
she kept attending to the second crowd of guests, who
were celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was
busy work to Martha Thomas, yet her smile never
flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had finished his even-
ing meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had
done him good, and was to his mind, and a word of
intelligence that the, wedding-folk were about to dance


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 221
in the kitchen, and the harper was the famous Edward
of Corwen.
Owen, partly from good-natured compliance with
his hostess's implied wish, and partly from curiosity,
lounged to the passage which led to the kitchen — not
the every-day, working, cooking kitchen which was
beyond, but a good-sized room where the mistress sat
when her work was done, and where the country people
were commonly entertained at such merry-makings as
the present. The lintels of the door formed a frame
for the animated picture which Owen saw within, as he
leaned against the wall in the dark passage. The red
light of the fire, with every now and then a falling
piece of turf sending forth a fresh blaze, shone full
upon four young men who were dancing a measure
something like a Scotch reel, keeping admirable time
in their rapid movements to the capital tune the harper
was playing. They had their hats on when Owen first
took his stand, but as they grew more and more
animated they flung them away, and presently their
shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot
where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause
followed any remarkable exertion of agility, in which
each seemed to try to excel his companions. At length,
wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the harper
gradually changed to one of those wild, inspiring natio-
nal airs for which he was so famous. The thronged
audience sat earnest and breathless, and you might have
heard a pin drop, except when some maiden passed
hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy look, through
to the real kitchen beyond. When he had finished
playing his beautiful theme on “The march of the men
of Harlech,” he changed the measure again to “Tri


222 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
chant o' bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and imme-
diately a most unmusical-looking man began chanting
“Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas, which
were soon taken up by another, and this amusement
lasted so long that Owen grew weary, and was think-
ing of retreating from his post by the door, when some
little bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the
room, by the entrance of a middle-aged man, and a
young girl, apparently his daughter. The man advanced
to the bench occupied by the seniors of the party, who
welcomed him with the usual pretty Welsh greeting,
“Pa sut mae dy galon?” (“How is thy heart?”) and
drinking his health, passed on to him the cup of ex-
cellent cwrw, The girl, evidently a village belle, was
as warmly greeted by the young men, while the girls
eyed her rather askance with a halfjealous look, which
Owen set down to the score of her extreme prettiness.
Like most Welsh women, she was of middle size as to
height, but beautifully made, with the most perfect yet
delicate roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap
was carefully adjusted to a face which was excessively
pretty, though it never could be called handsome. It
also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval
shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in com-
plexion, with dimples in cheek and chin, and the most
scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that were too short to
meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the
most defective feature; but the eyes were splendid.
They were so long, so lustrous, yet at times so very
soft under their thick fringe of eyelash! The nut-brown
hair was carefully braided beneath the border of delicate
lace: it was evident the little village beauty knew how
to make the most of all her attractions, for the gay


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 223
colours which were displayed in her neckerchief were
in complete harmony with the complexion.
Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused,
by the evident coquetry the girl displayed, collecting
around her a whole bevy of young fellows, for each of
whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some
attractive look or action. In a few minutes, young
Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, brought thither
by a variety of idle motives, and as her undivided at-
tention was given to the Welsh heir, her admirers, one
by one, dropped off, to seat themselves by some less
facinating but more attentive fair one. The more Owen
conversed with the girl, the more he was taken; she
had more wit and talent than he had fancied possible;
a self-abandon and thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed
full of charms; and then her voice was so clear and
sweet, and her actions so full of grace, that Owen was
fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking
into her bright, blushing face, till her uplifted flashing
eye fell beneath his earnest gaze.
While it thus happened that they were silent —
she from confusion at the unexpected warmth of his
admiration, he from an unconsciousness of anything but
the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance — the
man whom Owen took for her father came up and ad-
dressed some observation to his daughter, from whence
he glided into some common-place yet respectful re-
mark to Owen, and at length engaging him in some
slight, local conversation, he led the way to the account
of a spot on the peninsula of Penthryn where teal
abounded, and concluded with begging Owen to allow
him to show him the exact place, saying that when-
ever the young Squire felt so inclined, if he would


224 TIME DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
honour him by a call at his house, he would take him
across in his boat. While Owen listened, his attention
was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the
little beauty at his side was refusing one or two who
endeavoured to draw her from her place by invitations
to dance. Flattered by his own construction of her
refusals, he again directed all his attention to her, till
she was called away by her father, who was leaving the
scene of festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen of
his promise, and added,
“Perhaps, Sir, you do not know me. My name is
Bllis Pritchard, and I live at Ty Glas, on this side of
Moel Gést; any one can point it out to you.”
When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly
prepared for his ride home; but, encountering the
hostess, he could not resist asking a few questions
relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She
answered shortly but respectfully, and then said rather
hesitatingly –
“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tripheth
tebyg y naill i'r llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb
ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei geirda' (Three things are
alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup without
drink, a fine woman without her reputation.)” She
hastily quitted him, and Owen rode slowly to his un-
happy home.
Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was
shrewd, and keen, and worldly; yet he was good-
natured, and sufficiently generous to have become
rather a popular man among his equals. He had been
struck with the young Squire's attention to his pretty
daughter, and was not insensible to the advantages to
be derived from it. Nest would not be the first peasant


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 225
girl, by any means, who had been transplanted to a
Welsh manor-house as its mistress; and, accordingly,
her father had shrewdly given the admiring young
man some pretext for further opportunities of seeing
her.
As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her fa-
ther's worldliness, and was fully alive to the superior
station of her new admirer, and quite prepared to
slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then
she had something more of feeling in her reckoning;
she had not been insensible to the earnest yet compa-
ratively refined homage which Owen paid her; she had
noticed his expressive and occasionally handsome
countenance with admiration, and was flattered by his
so immediately singling her out from her companions.
As to the hint which Martha Thomas had thrown out,
it is enough to say that Nest was very giddy, and that
she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great
love of admiration, or, to use a softer term, she loved
to please; men, women, children, all, she delighted to
gladden with her smile and her voice. She coquetted,
and flirted, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh
courtship, till the seniors of the village shook their
heads, and cautioned their daughters against her ac-
quaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too fre-
quently been on the verge of guilt.
Even at the time, Martha Thomas's hint made but
little impression on Owen, for his senses were other-
wise occupied; but in a few days the recollection thereof
had wholly died away, and one warm glorious sum-
mer's day, he bent his steps toward Ellis Pritchard's
with a beating heart; for, except some very slight
flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been touched;
Lois the Witch, etc. 15


226 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
his thoughts, his fancy had been otherwise en-
gaged.
Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks
of Moel Gést, which, indeed, formed a side to the low,
lengthy house. The materials of the cottage were the
shingly stones which had fallen from above, plastered
rudely together, with deep recesses for the small oblong
windows. Altogether, the exterior was much ruder
than Owen had expected; but inside there seemed no
lack of comforts. The house was divided into two
apartments, one large, roomy, and dark, into which
Owen entered immediately; and before the blushing
Nest came from the inner chamber (for she had seen
the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to make
some alteration in her dress), he had had time to look
around him, and note the various little particulars of
the room. Beneath the window (which commanded a
magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete with
drawers and cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich
dark colour. In the farther part of the room, Owen
could at first distinguish little, entering as he did from
the glaring sunlight, but he soon saw that there were
two oaken beds, closed up after the manner of the
Welsh: in fact, the dormitories of Ellis Pritchard and
the man who served under him, both on sea and on
land. There was the large wheel used for spinning
wool, left standing on the middle of the floor, as if in
use only a few minutes before; and around the ample
chimney hung flitches of bacon, dried kids'-flesh,
and fish, that was in process of smoking for winter's store.
Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father,
who had been mending his nets down below, and seen
Owen winding up to the house, came in and gave him


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 227
a hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, down-
cast and blushing, full of the consciousness which her
father's advice and conversation had not failed to in-
spire, ventured to join them. To Owen's mind this
reserve and shyness gave her new charms.
It was too bright, too hot, too anything, to think
of going to shoot teal till later in the day, and Owen
was delighted to accept a hesitating invitation to share
the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard
and dry, oat-cake, slips of the dried kids'-flesh broiled,
after having been previously soaked in water for a few
minutes, delicious butter and fresh buttermilk, with a
liquor called “diod griafol” (made from the berries of
the Sorbus aucuparia, infused in water and then fer-
mented), composed the frugal repast; but there was
something so clean and neat, and withal such a true
welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so
much. Indeed, at that time of day the Welsh squires
differed from the farmers more in the plenty and rough
abundance of their manner of living than in the refine-
ment of style of their table.
At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh
gentry are not a whit behind their Saxon equals in the
expensive elegances of life; but then (when there was
but one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there
was nothing in Ellis Pritchard's mode of living that
grated on the young Squire's sense of refinement.
Little was said by that young pair of wooers dur-
ing the meal: the father had all the conversation to
himself, apparently heedless of the ardent looks and
inattentive mien of his guest. As Owen became more
serious in his feelings, he grew more timid in their ex-
pression, and at night, when they returned from their
15%


228 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
shooting-excursion, the caress he gave Nest was almost
as bashfully offered as received.
This was but the first of a series of days devoted
to Nest in reality, though at first he thought some
little disguise of his object was necessary. The
past, the future, was all forgotten in those happy days
of love.
And every worldly plan, every womanly wile was
put in practice by Ellis Pritchard and his daughter, to
render his visits agreeable and alluring. Indeed, the
very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to
attract the poor young man, to whom the feeling so
produced was new and full of charms. He left a home
where the certainty of being thwarted made him chary
in expressing his wishes, where no tones of love ever
fell on his ear, save those addressed to others, where
his presence or absence was a matter of utter indif.
ference; and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to
the little cur which, with clamorous barkings, claimed
a part of his attention, seemed to rejoice. His account
of his day's employment found a willing listener in El-
lis; and when he passed on to Nest, busy at her wheel
or at her churn, the deepened colour, the conscious
eye, and the gradual yielding of herself up to his
lover-like caress, had worlds of charms. Ellis Pritchard
was a tenant on the Bodowen estate, and therefore had
reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young
Squire's visits secret; and Owen, unwilling to disturb
the sunny calm of these halcyon days by any storm at
home, was ready to use all the artifice which Ellis
suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor
was he unaware of the probable, nay, the hoped-for
termination of these repeated days of happiness. He


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 229
was quite conscious that the father wished for nothing
better than the marriage of his daughter to the heir of
Bodowen; and when Nest had hidden her face in his
neck, which was encircled by her clasping arms, and
murmured into his ear her acknowledgment of love, he
felt only too desirous of finding some one to love him
for ever. Though not highly principled, he would not
have tried to obtain Nest on other terms save those of
marriage: he did so pine after enduring love, and
fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore
to his, when they had taken the solemn oaths of ma-
trimony.
There was no great difficulty attending a secret
marriage at such a place and at such a time. One
gusty autumn day, Ellis ferried them round Penthryn
to Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become
future lady of Bodowen.
How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless
girls become sobered by marriage! A great object in
life is decided; one on which their thoughts have been
running in all their vagaries, and they seem to verify
the beautiful fable of Undine. A new soul beams out
in the gentleness and repose of their future lives. An
indescribable softness and tenderness takes place of
the wearying vanity of their former endeavours to at-
tract admiration. Something of this sort took place in
Nest Pritchard. If at first she had been anxious to
attract the young Squire of Bodowen, long before her
marriage this feeling had merged into a truer love than
she had ever felt before; and now that he was her
own, her husband, her whole soul was bent toward
making him amends, as far as in her lay, for the.
misery which, with a woman's tact, she saw that he


230 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
-
had to endure at his home. Her greetings were
abounding in delicately-expressed love; her study of
his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress,
her time, her very thoughts.
No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-
day with a thankfulness which is seldom the result of
unequal marriages. No wonder that his heart beat
aloud as formerly when he wound up the little path to
Ty Glas, and saw – keen though the winter's wind
might be — that Nest was standing out at the door to
watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle
flared in the little window as a beacon to guide him
aright.
The angry words and unkind actions of home fell
deadened on his heart; he thought of the love that
was surely his, and of the new promise of love that a
short time would bring forth, and he could almost
have smiled at the impotent efforts to disturb his
peace.
A few more months, and the young father was
greeted by a feeble little cry, when he hastily entered
Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence of a sum-
mons conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale
mother, smiling, and feebly holding up her babe to its
father's kiss, seemed to him even more lovely than the
bright gay Nest who had won his heart at the little
inn of Penmorfa.
But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the
prophecy was nigh at hand!


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 231
CHAPTER II.
IT was the autumn after the birth of their boy: it
had been a glorious summer, with bright, hot, sunny
weather; and now the year was fading away as sea-
sonably into mellow days, with mornings of silver
mists and clear frosty nights. The blooming look of
the time of flowers was past and gone; but instead
there were even richer tints abroad in the sun-coloured
leaves, the lichens, the golden-blossomed furze: if it
was the time of fading, there was a glory in the
decay.
Nest, in her loving anxiety to surround her dwelling
with every charm for her husband's sake, had turned
gardener, and the little corners of the rude court before
the house were filled with many a delicate mountain-
flower, transplanted more for its beauty than its rarity.
The sweetbrier bush may even yet be seen, old and
gray, which she and Owen planted a green slipling
beneath the window of her little chamber. In those
moments Owen forgot all besides the present; all the
cares and griefs he had known in the past, and all
that might await him of woe and death in the future.
The boy, too, was as lovely a child as the fondest
parent was ever blessed with; and crowed with delight,
and clapped his little hands, as his mother held him
in her arms at the cottage-door to watch his father's
ascent up the rough path that led to Ty Glas, one
bright autumnal morning; and when the three entered
the house together, it was difficult to say which was
the happiest. Owen carried his boy, and tossed and
played with him, while Nest sought out some little
--


232 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
article of work, and seated herself on the dresser
beneath the window, where now busily plying the
needle, and then again looking at her husband, she
eagerly told him the little pieces of domestic intelli-
gence, the winning ways of the child, the result of
yesterday's fishing, and such of the gossip of Penmorfa
as came to the ears of the now retired Nest. She
noticed that, when she mentioned any little circum-
stance which bore the slightest reference to Bodowen,
her husband appeared chafed and uneasy, and at last
avoided anything that might in the least remind him
of home. In truth, he had been suffering much of
late from the irritability of his father, shown in trifles
to be sure, but not the less galling on that account.
While they were thus talking, and caressing each
other and the child, a shadow darkened the room, and
before they could catch a glimpse of the object that
had occasioned it, it vanished, and Squire Griffiths
lifted the door-latch and stood before them. He stood
and looked — first on his son, so different, in his
buoyant expression of content and enjoyment, with his
noble child in his arms, like a proud and happy father,
as he was, from the depressed, moody young man he
too often appeared at Bodowen; then on Nest — poor,
trembling, sickened Nest! — who dropped her work,
but yet durst not stir from her seat on the dresser,
while she looked to her husband as if for protection
from his father.
The Squire was silent, as he glared from one to
the other, his features white with restrained passion.
When he spoke, his words came most distinct in their
forced composure. It was to his son he addressed
himself:


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 233
“That woman! who is she?”
Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in
a steady, yet quiet voice:
“Father, that woman is my wife.”
He would have added some apology for the long
concealment of his marriage; have appealed to his
father's forgiveness; but the foam flew from Squire
Owen's lips as he burst forth with invective against
Nest: —
“You have married her! It is as they told me!
Married Nest Pritchard yr buten! And you stand
there as if you had not disgraced yourself for ever and
ever with your accursed wiving! And the fair harlot
sits there, in her mocking modesty, practising the
mimming airs that will become her state as future lady
of Bodowen. But I will move heaven and earth before
that false woman darken the doors of my father's house
as mistress!”
All this was said with such rapidity that Owen
had no time for the words that thronged to his lips.
“Father!” (he burst forth at length) “Father, who-
soever told you that Nest Pritchard was a harlot told
you a lie as false as hell! Ay! a lie as false as hell!”
he added, in a voice of thunder, while he advanced a
step or two nearer to the Squire. And then, in a lower
tone, he said:
“She is as pure as your own wife; nay, God help
me! as the dear, precious mother who brought me
forth, and then left me — with no refuge in a mother's
heart — to struggle on through life alone. I tell you
Nest is as pure as that dear, dead mother!”
“Fool — poor fool!"
At this moment the child — the little Owen — who


234 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
had kept gazing from one angry countenance to the
other, and with earnest look, trying to understand what
had brought the fierce glare into the face where till
now he had read nothing but love, in some way
attracted the Squire's attention, and increased his
wrath.
“Yes!” he continued, “poor, weak fool that you
are, hugging the child of another as if it were your
own offspring !” Owen involuntarily caressed the
affrighted child, and half smiled at the implication of
his father's words. This the Squire perceived, and
raising his voice to a scream of rage, he went on:
“I bid you, if you call yourself my son, to cast
away that miserable, shameless woman's offspring; cast
it away this instant — this instant!”
In his ungovernable rage, seeing that Owen was
far from complying with his command, he snatched the
poor infant from the loving arms that held it, and
throwing it to its mother, left the house inarticulate
with fury.
Nest — who had been pale and still as marble
during this terrible dialogue, looking on and listening
as if fascinated by the words that smote her heart —
opened her arms to receive and cherish her precious babe;
but the boy was not destined to reach the white refuge of .
her breast. The furious action of the Squire had been
almost without aim, and the infant fell against the
sharp edge of the dresser down on the stone floor.
Owen sprang up to take the child, but he lay so
still, so motionless, that the awe of death came over
the father, and he stooped down to gaze more closely.
At that moment, the upturned, filmy eyes rolled con-
vulsively — a spasm passed along the body – and


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 235
the lips, yet warm with kissing, quivered into ever-
lasting rest.
A word from her husband told Nest all. She slid
down from her seat, and lay by her little son as corpse-
like as he, unheeding all the agonizing endearments
and passionate adjurations of her husband. And that
poor, desolate husband and father! Scarce one little
quarter of an hour, and he had been so blessed in his
consciousness of love! the bright promise of many
years on his infant's face, and the new, fresh soul
beaming forth in its awakened intelligence. And there
it was; the little clay image, that would never more
gladden up at the sight of him, nor stretch forth to
meet his embrace; whose inarticulate, yet most elo-
quent cooings might haunt him in his dreams, but would
never more be heard in waking life again! And by
the dead babe, almost as utterly insensate, the poor
mother had fallen in a merciful faint — the slandered,
heart-pierced Nest! Owen struggled against the sick-
ness that came over him, and busied himself in vain
attempts at her restoration.
It was now near noon-day, and Ellis Pritchard came
home, little dreaming of the sight that awaited him;
but, though stunned, he was able to take more effectual
measures for his poor daughter's recovery than Owen
had done.
By-and-by she showed symptoms of returning sense,
and was placed in her own little bed in a darkened
room, where, without ever waking to complete con-
sciousness, she fell asleep. Then it was that her hus-
band, suffocated by pressure of miserable thought,
gently drew his hand from her tightened clasp, and
printing one long soft kiss on her white waxen fore-


236 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
head, hastily stole out of the room, and out of the
house.
Near the base of Moel Gést—it might be a quarter
of a mile from Ty Glas — was a little neglected solitary
copse, wild and tangled with the trailing branches of
the dog-rose and the tendrils of the white bryony.
Toward the middle of this thicket lay a deep crystal
pool — a clear mirror for the blue heavens above —
and round the margin floated the broad green leaves of
the water-lily, and when the regal sun shone down in
his noonday glory the flowers arose from their cool
depths to welcome and greet him. The copse was
musical with many sounds; the warbling of birds re-
joicing in its shades, the ceaseless hum of the insects
that hovered over the pool, the chime of the distant
waterfall, the occasional bleating of the sheep from the
mountaintop, were all blended into the delicious har-
mony of nature.
It had been one of Owen's favourite resorts when
he had been a lonely wanderer — a pilgrim in search
of love in the years gone by. And thither he went, as
if by instinct, when he left Ty Glas; quelling the up-
rising agony till he should reach that little solitary
spot.
It was the time of day when a change in the aspect
of the weather so frequently takes place; and the little
pool was no longer the reflection of a blue and sunny
sky; it sent back the dark and slaty clouds above, and,
every now and then, a rough gust shook the painted
autumn leaves from their branches, and all other music
was lost in the sound of the wild winds piping down
from the moorlands, which lay up and beyond the


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 237
clefts in the mountain-side. Presently the rain came
on and beat down in torrents.
But Owen heeded it not. He sat on the dank
ground, his face buried in his hands, and his whole
strength, physical and mental, employed in quelling
the rush of blood, which rose and boiled and gurgled
in his brain as if it would madden him.
The phantom of his dead child rose ever before him,
and seemed to cry aloud for vengeance. And when
the poor young man thought upon the victim whom he
required in his wild longing for revenge, he shuddered,
for it was his father!
Again and again he tried not to think; but still the
circle of thought came round, eddying through his
brain. At length he mastered his passions, and they
were calm; then he forced himself to arrange some
plan for the future.
He had not, in the passionate hurry of the moment,
seen that his father had left the cottage before he was
aware of the fatal accident that befell the child. Owen
thought he had seen all; and once he planned to go to
the Squire and tell him of the anguish of heart he had
wrought, and awe him, as it were, by the dignity of
grief. But then again he durst not — he distrusted his
self-control — the old prophecy rose up in its horror
— he dreaded his doom.
At last he determined to leave his father for ever;
to take Nest to some distant country where she might
forget her first-born, and where he himself might gain
a livelihood by his own exertions.
But when he tried to descend to the various little
arrangements which were involved in the execution of
this plan, he remembered that all his money (and in


238 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
this respect Squire Griffiths was no niggard) was
locked up in his escritoire at Bodowen. In vain he
tried to do away with this matter-of-fact difficulty; go
to Bodowen he must; and his only hope — nay his
determination — was to avoid his father.
He rose and took a by-path to Bodowen. The
house looked even more gloomy and desolate than usual
in the heavy down-pouring rain, yet Owen gazed on it
with something of regret — for sorrowful as his days in
it had been, he was about to leave it for many, many
years, if not for ever. He entered by a side-door,
opening into a passage that led to his own room, where
he kept his books, his guns, his fishing-tackle, his
writing-materials, etc.
Here he hurriedly began to select the few articles
he intended to take; for, besides the dread of inter-
ruption, he was feverishly anxious to travel far that
very night, if only Nest was capable of performing the
journey. As he was thus employed, he tried to conjecture
what his father's feelings would be on finding that his
once-loved son was gone away for ever. Would he
then awaken to regret for the conduct which had driven
him from home, and bitterly think on the loving and
caressing boy who haunted his footsteps in former days?
Or, alas! would he only feel that an obstacle to his
daily happiness — to his contentment with his wife,
and his strange, doting affection for her child — was
taken away? Would they make merry over the heir's
departure? Then he thought of Nest — the young
childless mother, whose heart had not yet realized her
fullness of desolation. Poor Nest! so loving as she
was, so devoted to her child — how should he console
her? He pictured her away in a strange land, pining


240 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
*
*
the ground; in fact, the lad was half-stunned, half-
frightened, and thought it best to assume insensibility.
Owen — miserable Owen — seeing him lie there
prostrate, was bitterly repentant, and would have
dragged him to the carved settle, and done all he could
to restore him to his senses, but at this instant the
Squire came in.
Probably, when the household at Bodowen rose
that morning, there was but one among them ignorant
of the heir's relation to Nest Pritchard and her child;
for secret as he had tried to make his visits to Ty
Glas, they had been too frequent not to be noticed,
and Nest's altered conduct — no longer frequenting
dances and merry-makings — was a strongly corrobo-
rative circumstance. But Mrs. Griffiths' influence reigned
paramount, if unacknowledged, at Bodowen, and till
she sanctioned the disclosure, none would dare to tell
the Squire.
Now, however, the time drew near when it suited
her to make her husband aware of the connection his
son had formed; so, with many tears, and much seem-
ing reluctance, she broke the intelligence to him —
taking good care, at the same time, to inform him of
the light character Nest had borne. Nor did she con-
fine this evil reputation to her conduct before her mar-
riage, but insinuated that even to this day she was a
“woman of the grove and brake” — for centuries the
Welsh term of opprobrium for the loosest female char-
acters.
Squire Griffiths easily tracked Owen to Ty Glas;
and without any aim but the gratification of his furious
anger, followed him to upbraid as we have seen. But
he left the cottage even more enraged against his son


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 241
than he had entered it, and returned home to hear the
evil suggestions of the stepmother. He had heard a
slight scuffle in which he caught the tones of Robert's
voice, as he passed along the hall, and an instant
afterwards he saw the apparently lifeless body of his
little favourite dragged along by the culprit Owen —
the marks of strong passion yet visible on his face.
Not loud, but bitter and deep were the evil words
which the father bestowed on the son; and as Owen
stood proudly and sullenly silent, disdaining all excul-
pation of himself in the presence of one who had
wrought him so much graver — so fatal an injury —
Robert's mother entered the room. At sight of her na-
tural emotion the wrath of the Squire was redoubled,
and his wild suspicions that this violence of Owen's to
Robert was a premeditated act appeared like the proven
truth through the mists of rage. He summoned the do-
mestics as if to guard his own and his wife's life from
the attempts of his son; and the servants stood wonder-
ing around — now gazing at Mrs. Griffiths, alternately
scolding and sobbing, while she tried to restore the lad
from his really bruised and half-unconscious state; now
at the fierce and angry Squire; and now at the sad and
silent Owen. And he – he was hardly aware of their
looks of wonder and terror; his father's words fell on
a deadened ear; for before his eyes there rose a pale
dead babe, and in that lady's violent sounds of grief
he heard the wailing of a more sad, more hopeless
mother. For by this time the lad Robert had opened
his eyes, and though evidently suffering a good deal
from the effects of Owen's blows, was fully conscious
of all that was passing around him.
Had Owen been left to his own nature, his heart
Lois the Witch, etc. 16


242 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
would have worked itself to doubly love the boy whom
he had injured; but he was stubborn from injustice,
and hardened by suffering. He refused to vindicate
himself; he made no effort to resist the imprisonment
the Squire had decreed, until a surgeon's opinion of
the real extent of Robert's injuries was made known.
It was not until the door was locked and barred, as if
upon some wild and furious beast, that the recollection
of poor Nest, without his comforting presence, came
into his mind. Oh! thought he, how she would be
wearying, pining for his tender sympathy; if, indeed,
she had recovered the shock of mind sufficiently to be
sensible of consolation! What would she think of his
absence? Could she imagine he believed his father's
words, and had left her, in this her sore trouble and
bereavement? The thought maddened him, and he
looked around for some mode of escape.
He had been confined in a small unfurnished room
on the first floor, wainscoted, and carved all round,
with a massy door, calculated to resist the attempts of
a dozen strong men, even had he afterward been able
to escape from the house unseen, unheard. The win-
dow was placed (as is common in old Welsh houses)
over the fire-place; with branching chimneys on either
hand, forming a sort of projection on the outside. By
this outlet his escape was easy, even had he been less
determined and desperate than he was. And when he
had descended, with a little care, a little winding, he
might elude all observation and pursue his original in-
tention of going to Ty Glas.
The storm had abated, and watery sunbeams were
gilding the bay, as Owen descended from the window,
and, stealing along in the broad afternoon shadows,


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 243
made his way to the little plateau of green turf in the
garden at the top of a steep precipitous rock, down the
abrupt face of which he had often dropped, by means
of a well-secured rope, into the small sailing-boat (his
father's present, alas! in days gone by) which lay
moored in the deep sea-water below. He had always
kept his boat there, because it was the nearest available
spot to the house; but before he could reach the place
— unless, indeed, he crossed a broad sun-lighted piece
of ground in full view of the windows on that side of
the house, and without the shadow of a single sheltering
tree or shrub—he had to skirt round a rude semicircle
of underwood, which would have been considered as a
shrubbery had any one taken pains with it. Step by
step he stealthily moved along — hearing voices now,
again seeing his father and stepmother in no distant
walk, the Squire evidently caressing and consoling his
wife, who seemed to be urging some point with great
vehemence, again forced to crouch down to avoid being
seen by the cook, returning from the rude kitchen-
garden with a handful of herbs. This was the way the
doomed heir of Bodowen left his ancestral house for
ever, and hoped to leave behind him his doom. At
length he reached the plateau — he breathed more
freely. He stooped to discover the hidden coil of rope,
kept safe and dry in a hole under a great round flat
piece of rock: his head was bent down; he did not see
his father approach, nor did he hear his footstep for
the rush of blood to his head in the stooping effort of
lifting the stone; the Squire had grappled with him
before he rose up again, before he fully knew whose
hands detained him, now, when his liberty of person
and action seemed secure. He made a vigorous
16#


244 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
struggle to free himself; he wrestled with his father
for a moment — he pushed him hard, and drove him
on to the great displaced stone, all unsteady in its
balance.
Down went the Squire, down into the deep waters
below — down after him went Owen, half consciously,
half unconsciously, partly compelled by the sudden ces-
sation of any opposing body, partly from a vehement
irrepressible impulse to rescue his father. But he had
instinctively chosen a safer place in the deep seawater
pool than that into which his push had sent his father.
The Squire had hit his head with much violence
against the side of the boat, in his fall; it is, indeed,
doubtful whether he was not killed before ever he sank
into the sea. But Owen knew nothing save that the
awful doom seemed even now present. He plunged
down, he dived below the water in search of the body
which had none of the elasticity of life to buoy it up;
he saw his father in those depths, he clutched at him,
he brought him up and cast him, a dead weight, into
the boat, and, exhausted by the effort, he had begun
himself to sink again before he instinctively strove to
rise and climb into the rocking boat. There lay his
father, with a deep dent in the side of his head where
the skull had been fractured by his fall; his face
blackened by the arrested course of the blood. Owen
felt his pulse, his heart — all was still. He called him
by his name.
“Father, father!” he cried, “come back! come
back! You never knew how I loved you! how I could
love you still — if – oh God!”
And the thought of his little child rose before him.
“Yes, father,” he cried afresh, “you never knew how he


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 245
fell — how he died! Oh, if I had but had patience
to tell you! If you would but have borne with me
and listened l And now it is over! Oh father! father!”
Whether she had heard this wild wailing voice, or
whether it was only that she missed her husband and
wanted him for some little every-day question, or, as
was perhaps more likely, she had discovered Owen's
escape, and come to inform her husband of it, I do not
know, but on the rock, right above his head, as it
seemed, Owen heard his stepmother calling her hus-
band.
He was silent, and softly pushed the boat right
under the rock till the sides grated against the stones,
and the overhanging branches concealed him and it
from all not on a level with the water. Wet as he was,
he lay down by his dead father the better to conceal
himself; and, somehow, the action recalled those early
days of childhood — the first in the Squire's widow-
hood — when Owen had shared his father's bed, and
used to waken him in the morning to hear one of the
old Welsh legends. How long he lay thus — body
chilled, and brain hard-working through the heavy pres-
sure of a reality as terrible as a nightmare — he never
knew; but at length he roused himself up to think of
Nest. -
Drawing out a great sail, he covered up the body
of his father with it where he lay in the bottom of the
boat. Then with his numbed hands he took the oars,
and pulled out into the more open sea toward Cric-
caeth. He skirted along the coast till he found a
shadowed cleft in the dark rocks; to that point he
rowed, and anchored his boat close in land. Then he
mounted, staggering, half longing to fall into the dark


246 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
waters and be at rest — half instinctively finding out
the surest foot-rests on that precipitous face of rock,
till he was high up, safe landed on the turfy summit
He ran off, as if pursued, toward Penmorfa; he ran
with maddened energy. Suddenly he paused, turned,
ran again with the same speed, and threw himself prone
on the summit, looking down into his boat with straining
eyes to see if there had been any movement of life —
any displacement of a fold of sail-cloth. It was all
quiet deep down below, but as he gazed the shifting
light gave the appearance of a slight movement. Owen
ran to a lower part of the rock, stripped, plunged into
the water, and swam to the boat. When there, all was
still — awfully still! For a minute or two, he dared
not lift up the cloth. Then reflecting that the same
terror might beset him again — of leaving his father
unaided while yet a spark of life lingered—he removed
the shrouding cover. The eyes looked into his with a
dead stare! He closed the lids and bound up the jaw.
Again he looked. This time he raised himself out of
the water and kissed the brow.
“It was my doom, father! It would have been
better if I had died at my birth!”
Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He
swam back, dressed, and set off afresh for Penmorfa.
When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis Pritchard
looked at him reproachfully, from his seat in the darkly-
shadowed chimney corner.
“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind
(i. e., station) would not have left his wife to mourn
by herself over her dead child; nor would one of our
kind have let his father kill his own true son. I've a
good mind to take her from you for ever.”


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 247
“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously
at her husband; “he made me tell him part, and
guessed the rest.”
She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was
alive. Owen stood before Ellis Pritchard.
“Be silent,” said he, quietly. “Neither words nor
deeds but what are decreed can come to pass. I was
set to do my work, this hundred years and more. The
time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have
done what was foretold of me for generations!”
Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy,
and believed in it in a dull, dead kind of way, but
somehow never thought it would come to pass in his
time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment,
though he mistook Owen's nature so much as to believe
that the deed was intentionally done, out of revenge
for the death of his boy; and viewing it in this light,
Ellis thought it little more than a just punishment for
the cause of all the wild despairing sorrow he had seen
his only child suffer during the hours of this long
afternoon. But he knew the law would not so regard
it. Even the lax Welsh law of those days could not
fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire
Griffiths' standing. So the acute Ellis thought how he
could conceal the culprit for a time.
“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was
your doom, not your fault;” and he laid a hand on
Owen's shoulder.
“You’re wet,” said he, suddenly. “Where have you
been? Nest, your husband is dripping, drookit wet.
That's what makes him look so blue and wan.”
Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half
stupified with crying, and had not understood to what


248 THE Doom OF THE GRIFFITHs.
Owen alluded, when he spoke of his doom being ful-
filled, if indeed she had heard the words.
Her touch thawed Owen's miserable heart.
“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms;
“do you love me still — can you love me, my own
darling?” f
“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears.
“I only love you more than ever, for you were my
poor baby's father!”
“But, Nest — Oh, tell her, Ellis' you know.”
“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She's had enough
to think on. Bustle, my girl, and get out my Sunday
clothes.”
“I don't understand,” said Nest, putting her hand
up to her head. “What is to tell? and why are you
so wet? God help me for a poor crazed thing, for I
cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your
strange looks! I only know my baby is dead!” and
she burst into tears.
“Come, Nest! go and fetch him a change, quick!”
and as she meekly obeyed, too languid to strive further
to understand, Ellis said rapidly to Owen, in a low,
hurried voice,
“Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak
low, lest she hear! Well, well, no need to talk about
how he died. It was sudden, I see; and we must all
of us die; and he'll have to be buried. It's well the
night is near. And I should not wonder now if you'd
like to travel for a bit; it would do Nest a power of
good; and then — there's many a one goes out of his
own house and never comes back again; and — I trust
he's not lying in his own house — and there's a stir
for a bit, and a search, and a wonder — and, by-and-


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 249
by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. And that's
what you'll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all.
Nay, child, better stockings nor those; find the blue
woollens I bought at Llanrwst fair. Only don't lose
heart. It's done now and can't be helped. It was the
piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tu-
dors, they say. And he deserved it. Look in yon
cradle. So tell us where he is, and I'll take heart of
grace and see what can be done for him.”
But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the
peat fire as if for visions of the past, and never heeding
a word Ellis said. Nor did he move when Nest brought
the armful of dry clothes.
“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impa-
tient.
But he neither spoke nor moved.
“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, be-
wildered.
Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two,
till, on his daughter's repetition of the question, he
said,
“Ask him yourself, Nest.”
“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down
and bringing her face to a level with his.
“Don’t you know?” said he, heavily. “You won't
love me when you do know. And yet it was not my
doing. It was my doom.”
“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking
up; but she caught a gesture from Ellis urging her to
go on questioning her husband.
“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened.
Only let me know the worst.”


250 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breath-
less.
“My father is dead, Nest.”
Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp.
“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her
babe.
“God forgive me!” said Owen.
“You did not —” Nest stopped.
“Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom.
How could I help it? The devil helped me — he
placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped into
the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was
nearly drowned myself. But he was dead — dead —
killed by the fall!”
“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said
Ellis, with hungry eagerness.
“No, he is not; he lies in my boat,” said Owen,
shivering a little, more at the thought of his last
glimpse at his father's face than from cold.
“Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!” pleaded
Nest, to whom the death of the old man was simply a
horror with which she had nothing to do, while her
husbands discomfort was a present trouble.
While she helped him to take off the wet garments
which he would never have had energy enough to
remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing food, and
mixing a great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He
stood over the unfortunate young man and compelled
him to eat and drink, and made Nest too taste some
mouthfuls — all the while planning in his own mind
how best to conceal what had been done, and who had
done it; not altogether without a certain feeling of
vulgar triumph in the reflection that Nest, as she stood


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 251
there, carelessly dressed, dishevelled in her grief, was
in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than which Ellis
Pritchard had never seen a grander house, though he
believed such might exist.
By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out
all he wanted to know from Owen, as he ate and
drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen to dilute
the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was
done, if meal it could be called, Ellis knew all he cared
to know.
“Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack
up what needs to go with you, for you and your hus-
band must be half way to Liverpool by to-morrow's
morn. I'll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing-
boat, with yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous
part, I'll return with my cargo of fish, and learn how
much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe hidden in
Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you
may stay quiet till your time comes for returning.”
“I will never come home again,” said Owen, dog-
gedly. “The place is accursed!”
“Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but
an accident, after all! And we'll land at the Holy
Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old cousin of
mine, the parson, there — for the Pritchards have
known better days, Squire — and we'll bury him there.
It was but an accident, man. Hold up your head!
You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen
with children, and I'll live to see it.”
“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my
race, and the son has murdered his father!”
Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for


252 TLIE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
hurrying them off. The fire was extinguished, the
door was locked.
“Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle
while I guide you down the steps.” But her husband
bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest gave
her father the bundle (already loaded with such things
as he himself had seen fit to take), but clasped another
softly and tightly.
“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a
low voice.
Her father did not understand her; her husband
did, and placed his strong helping arm round her waist,
and blessed her.
“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But
where?” and he looked up at the storm-tossed clouds
coming up from windward.
“It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head
round to speak to his companions at last. “But never
fear, we'll weather it!” And he made for the place
where his vessel was moored. Then he stopped and
thought a moment.
“Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions.
“I may meet folk, and I shall, maybe, have to hear
and to speak. You wait here till I come back for
you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of
the path.
“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen.
She took her little dead son out from under her
shawl; they looked at his waxen face long and tenderly;
kissed it, and covered it up reverently and softly.
“Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my
father's spirit had been near us, and as if it had bent
over our poor little one. A strange chilly air met me


THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS. 253
as I stooped over him. I could fancy the spirit of our
pure, blameless child guiding my father's safe over the
paths of the sky to the gates of heaven, and escaping
those accursed dogs of hell that were darting up from
the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes since.”
“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him
in the darkness of the copse. “Who knows what may
be listening?”
The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror,
till they heard Ellis Pritchard's loud whisper. “Where
are ye? Come along, soft and steady. There were
folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and
madam in a fright.”
They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and
embarked on board Ellis's boat. The sea heaved and
rocked even there; the torn clouds went hurrying over-
head in a wild tumultuous manner. -
They put out into the bay; still in silence, except
when some word of command was spoken by Ellis, who
took the management of the vessel. They made for
the rocky shore, where Owen's boat had been moored.
It was not there. It had broken loose and disap-
peared.
Owen sat down and covered his face. This last
event, so simple and natural in itself, struck on his
excited and superstitious mind in an extraordinary
manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so
to say, by laying his father and his child both in one
grave. But now it appeared to him as if there was
to be no forgiveness; as if his father revolted even
in death against any such peaceful union. Ellis took
a practical view of the case. If the Squire's body was
found drifting about in a boat known to belong to his


254 THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.
son, it would create terrible suspicion as to the manner
of his death. At one time in the evening, Ellis had
thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the Squire
in a sailor's grave; or, in other words, to sew him up
in a spare sail, and weighting it well, sink it for ever.
He had not broached the subject, from a certain fear of
Owen's passionate repugnance to the plan; otherwise,
if he had consented, they might have returned to Pen-
morfa, and passively awaited the course of events, se-
cure of Owen's succession to Bodowen, sooner or later;
or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had
happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away
for a short time, and return when the buzz and the
talk was over.
Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary
that they should leave the country for a time. Through
those stormy waters they must plough their way that
very night. Ellis had no fear — would have had no
fear, at any rate, with Owen as he had been a week,
a day ago; but with Owen wild, despairing, helpless,
fate-pursued, what could he do?
They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were
never more seen of men.
The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark
ruins; and a Saxon stranger holds the lands of the
Griffiths.


THE HALF-BROTHERS.





THE HALF-BROTHERS.
My mother was twice married. She never spoke of
her first husband, and it is only from other people that
I have learnt what little I know about him. I believe,
she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to
him: and he was barely one-and-twenty. He rented
a small farm up in Cumberland, somewhere towards
the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too young and in-
experienced to have the charge of land and cattle:
anyhow, his affairs did not prosper, and he fell into ill
health, and died of consumption before they had been
three years man and wife, leaving my mother a young
widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to
walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more
by the lease, with half the stock on it dead, or sold off
one by one to pay the more pressing debts, and with
no money to purchase more, or even to buy the pro-
visions needed for the small consumption of every day.
There was another child coming, too; and sad and
sorry, I believe, she was to think of it. A dreary
winter she must have had in her lonesome dwelling,
with never another near it for miles around; her sister
came to bear her company, and they two planned and
plotted how to make every penny they could raise go
Lois the Witch, etc. 17


258 THE HALF-BROTHERS,
as far as possible. I can't tell you how it happened
that my little sister, whom I never saw, came to
sicken and die; but, as if my poor mother's cup was
not full enough, only a fortnight before Gregory was
born the little girl took ill of scarlet fever, and in a
week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just
stunned with this last blow. My aunt has told me
that she did not cry; aunt Fanny would have been
thankful if she had; but she sat holding the poor wee
lassie's hand, and looking in her pretty, pale, dead
face, without so much as shedding a tear. And it was
all the same, when they had to take her away to be
buried. She just kissed the child, and sat her down in
the window-seat to watch the little black train of
people (neighbours — my aunt, and one far-off cousin,
who were all the friends they could muster) go wind-
ing away amongst the snow, which had fallen thinly
over the country the night before. When my aunt
came back from the funeral, she found my mother in
the same place, and as dry-eyed as ever. So she
continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow,
his coming seemed to loosen the tears, and she cried
day and night, day and night, till my aunt and the
other watcher looked at each other in dismay, and
would fain have stopped her if they had but known
how. But she bade them let her alone, and not be
over-anxious, for every drop she shed eased her brain,
which had been in a terrible state before for want of
the power to cry. She seemed after that to think of
nothing but her new little baby; she hardly appeared
to remember either her husband or her little daughter
that lay dead in Brigham churchyard — at least so


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 259
aunt Fanny said; but she was a great talker, and my
mother was very silent by nature, and I think aunt
Fanny may have been mistaken in believing that my
mother never thought of her husband and child just
because she never spoke about them. Aunt Fanny
was older than my mother, and had a way of treating
her like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind,
warm-hearted creature, who thought more of her
sister's welfare than she did of her own; and it was on
her bit of money that they principally lived, and on
what the two could earn by working for the great
Glasgow sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my
mother's eye-sight began to fail. It was not that she
was exactly blind, for she could see well enough to
guide herself about the house, and to do a good deal
of domestic work; but she could no longer do fine
sewing and earn money. It must have been with the
heavy crying she had had in her day, for she was but
a young creature at this time, and as pretty a young
woman, I have heard people say, as any on the country
side. She took it sadly to heart that she could no
longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and
her child. My aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded
her that she had enough to do in managing their cottage
and minding Gregory; but my mother knew that they
were pinched, and that aunt Fanny herself had not as
much to eat, even of the commonest kind of food, as
she could have done with; and as for Gregory, he was
not a strong lad, and needed, not more food — for he
always had enough, whoever went short — but better
nourishment, and more flesh-meat. One day — it was
aunt Fanny who told me all this about my poor
17%


260 THE HALF-PROTTIERS.
mother, long after her death — as the sisters were
sitting together, aunt Fanny working, and my mother
hushing Gregory to sleep, William Preston, who was
afterwards my father, came in. He was reckoned an
old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and he
was one of the wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had
known my grandfather well, and my mother and my
aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat down,
and began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable;
my aunt Fanny talked, and he listened and looked at
my mother. But he said very little, either on that
visit, or on many another that he paid before he spoke
out what had been the real purpose his calling so
often all along, and from the very first time he came
to their house. One Sunday, however, my aunt Fanny
stayed away from church, and took care of the child,
and my mother went alone. When she came back,
she ran straight up-stairs, without going into the
kitchen to look at Gregory or speak any word to her
sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart
was breaking; so she went up and scolded her right
well through the bolted door, till at last she got her to
open it. And then she threw herself on my aunt's
neck, and told her that William Preston had asked
her to marry him, and had promised to take good
charge of her boy, and to let him want for nothing,
neither in the way of keep nor of education, and that
she had consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal
shocked at this; for, as I have said, she had often
thought that my mother had forgotten her first hus-
band very quickly, and now here was proof positive of
it, if she could so soon think of marrying again. Be-


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 261
sides, as aunt Fanny used to say, she herself would
have been a far more suitable match for a man of
William Preston's age than Helen, who, though she
was a widow, had not seen her four-and-twentieth
summer. However, as aunt Fanny said, they had not
asked her advice; and there was much to be said on
the other side of the question. Helen's eyesight
would never be good for much again, and as William
Preston's wife she would never need to do anything, if
she chose to sit with her hands before her; and a boy
was a great charge to a widowed mother; and now
there would be a decent, steady man to see after him.
So, by-and-by, aunt Fanny seemed to take a brighter
view of the marriage than did my mother herself, who
hardly ever looked up, and never smiled after the day
when she promised William Preston to be his wife.
But much as she had loved Gregory before, she seemed
to love him more now. She was continually talking
to him when they were alone, though he was far too
young to understand her moaning words, or give her
any comfort, except by his caresses.
At last William Preston and she were wed; and
she went to be mistress of a well-stocked house, not
above half-an-hour's walk from where aunt Fanny
lived. I believe she did all that she could to please
my father; and a more dutiful wife, I have heard him
himself say, could never have been. But she did not
love him, and he soon found it out. She loved
Gregory, and she did not love him. Perhaps, love
would have come in time, if he had been patient
enough to wait; but it just turned him sour to see how
her eye brightened and her colour came at the sight of


262 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
that little child, while for him who had given her so
much, she had only gentle words as cold as ice. He
got to taunt her with the difference in her manner, as
if that would bring love; and he took a positive dis-
like to Gregory, - he was so jealous of the ready love
that always gushed out like a spring of fresh water
when he came near. He wanted her to love him more,
and perhaps that was all well and good; but he wanted
her to love her child less, and that was an evil wish.
One day, he gave way to his temper, and cursed and
swore at Gregory, who had got into some mischief, as
children will; my mother made some excuse for him;
my father said it was hard enough to have to keep
another man's child, without having it perpetually held
up in its naughtiness by his wife, who onght to be al-
ways in the same mind that he was; and so from little
they got to more; and the end of it was, that my
mother took to her bed before her time, and I was
born that very day. My father was glad, and proud,
and sorry, all in a breath; glad and proud that a son
was born to him; and sorry for his poor wife's state,
and to think how his angry words had brought it on.
But he was a man who liked better to be angry than
sorry, so he soon found out that it was all Gregory's
fault, and owed him an additional grudge for having
hastened my birth. He had another grudge against
him before long. My mother began to sink the day
after I was born. My father sent to Carlisle for doctors,
and would have coined his heart's blood into gold to
save her, if that could have been; but it could not.
My aunt Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought
that Helen did not wish to live, and so just let her-


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 263
self die away without trying to take hold on life; but
when I questioned her, she owned that my mother did
all the doctors bade her do, with the same sort of un-
complaining patience with which she had acted through
life. One of her last requests was to have Gregory laid
in her bed by my side, and then she made him take
hold of my little hand. Her husband came in while
she was looking at us so, and when he bent tenderly
over her to ask her how she felt now, and seemed to
gaze on us two little half-brothers, with a grave sort of
kindliness, she looked up in his face and smiled, almost
her first smile at him; and such a sweet smile! as more
besides aunt Fanny have said. In an hour she was
dead. Aunt Fanny came to live with us. It was the
best thing that could be done. My father would have
been glad to return to his old mode of bachelor life,
but what could he do with two little children? He
needed a woman to take care of him, and who so fit-
ting as his wife's elder sister? So she had the charge
of me from my birth; and for a time I was weakly, as
was but natural, and she was always beside me, night
and day watching over me, and my father nearly as
anxious as she. For his land had come down from
father to son for more than three hundred years, and
he would have cared for me merely as his flesh and
blood that was to inherit the land after him. But he
needed something to love, for all that, to most people,
he was a stern, hard man, and he took to me as, I
fancy, he had taken to no human being before – as
he might have taken to my mother, if she had had no
former life for him to be jealous of. I loved him back
again right heartily. I loved all around me, I believe,


264 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
for everybody was kind to me. After a time, I over-
came my original weakliness of constitution, and was
just a bonny, strong-looking had whom every passer-by
noticed, when my father took me with him to the
nearest town.
At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tender-
ly-beloved of my father, the pet and plaything of the
old demestic, the “young master” of the farm-labourers,
before whom I played many a lordly antic, assuming
a sort of authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not,
on such a baby as I was.
Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt
Fanny was always kind to him in deed and in action,
but she did not often think about him, she had fallen
so completely into the habit of being engrossed by me,
from the fact of my having come into her charge as a
delicate baby. My father never got over his grudging
dislike to his stepson, who had so innocently wrestled
with him for the possession of my mother's heart. I
mistrust me, too, that my father always considered him
as the cause of my mother's death and my early de-
licacy; and utterly unreasonable as this may seem, I
believe my father rather cherished his feeling of alie-
nation to my brother as a duty, than strove to repress
it. Yet not for the world would my father have grudged
him anything that money could purchase. That was,
as it were, in the bond when he had wedded my mo-
ther. Gregory was lumpish and loutish, awkward and
ungainly, marring whatever he meddled in, and many
a hard word and sharp scolding did he get from the
people about the farm, who hardly waited till my fa-


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 265
ther's back was turned before they rated the stepson.
I am ashamed — my heart is sore to think how I fell
into the fashion of the family, and slighted my poor
orphan step-brother. I don't think I ever scouted him,
or was wilfully ill-natured to him; but the habit of be
ing considered in all things, and being treated as some-
thing uncommon and superior, made me insolent in my
prosperity, and I exacted more than Gregory was al-
ways willing to grant, and then, irritated, I sometimes
repeated the disparaging words I had heard others use
with regard to him, without fully understanding their
meaning. Whether he did or not I cannot tell. I am
afraid he did. He used to turn silent and quiet —
sullen and sulky my father thought it; stupid, aunt
Fanny used to call it. But every one said he was
stupid and dull, and this stupidity and dullness grew
upon him. He would sit without speaking a word,
sometimes, for hours; then my father would bid him
rise and do some piece of work, maybe, about the farm.
And he would take three or four tellings before he
would go. When we were sent to school, it was all
the same. He could never be made to remember his
lessons; the schoolmaster grew weary of scolding and
flogging, and at last advised my father just to take him
away, and set him to some farm-work that might not
be above his comprehension. I think he was more
gloomy and stupid than ever after this, yet he was not
a cross lad; he was patient and good-natured, and would
try to do a kind turn for any one, even if they had
been scolding or cuffing him not a minute before. But
very often his attempts at kindness ended in some mis-
Chief to the very people he was trying to serve, owing


266 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
to his awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a
clever lad; at any rate, I always got plenty of praise;
and was, as we called it, the cock of the school. The
schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but
my father, who had no great learning himself, saw little
use in much for me, and took me away betimes, and
kept me with him about the farm. Gregory was made
into a kind of shepherd, receiving his training under
old Adam, who was nearly past his work. I think old
Adam was almost the first person who had a good
opinion of Gregory. He stood to it that my brother
had good parts, though he did not rightly know how
to bring them out; and, for knowing the bearings of
the Fells, he said he had never seen a lad like him.
My father would try to bring Adam round to speak of
Gregory's faults and shortcomings; but, instead of that,
he would praise him twice as much as soon as he found
out what my father's object was.
One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and
Gregory nineteen, I was sent by my father on an
errand to a place about seven miles distant by the road,
but only about four by the Fells. He bade me return
by the road, whichever way I took in going, for the
evenings closed in early, and were often thick and
misty; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic and
bedridden, foretold a downfall of snow before long. I
soon got to my journey's end, and soon had done my
business; earlier by an hour, I thought, than my father
had expected, so I took the decision of the way by
which I would return into my own hands, and set off
back again over the Fells, just as the first shades of
evening began to fall. It looked dark and gloomy


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 267
enough; but everything was so still that I thought I
should have plenty of time to get home before the
snow came down. Off I set at a pretty quick pace.
But night came on quicker. The right path was clear
enough in the day-time, although at several points two
or three exactly similar diverged from the same place;
but when there was a good light, the traveller was
guided by the sight of distant objects, – a piece of rock,
— a fall in the ground — which were quite invisible to
me now. I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took
what seemed to me the right road. It was wrong,
however, and led me whither I knew not, but to some
wild boggy moor where the solitude seemed painful,
intense, as if never footfall of man had come thither to
break the silence. I tried to shout, — with the dimmest
possible hope of being heard — rather to reassure my-
self by the sound of my own voice; but my voice came
husky and short, and yet it dismayed me; it seemed
so weird and strange in that noiseless expanse of
black darkness. Suddenly the air was filled thick with
dusky flakes, my face and hands were wet with snow.
It cut me off from the slightest knowledge of where I
was, for I lost every idea of the direction from which I
had come, so that I could not even retrace my steps;
it hemmed me in, thicker, thicker, with a darkness
that might be felt. The boggy soil on which I stood
quaked under me if I remained long in one place, and
yet I dared not move far. All my youthful hardiness
seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of
crying, and only very shame seemed to keep it down.
To save myself from shedding tears, I shouted —
terrible, wild shouts for bare life they were. I turned


268 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
sick as I paused to listen; no answering sound eame
but the unfeeling echoes. Only the noiseless, pitiless
snow kept falling thicker, thicker — faster, faster! I
was growing numb and sleepy. I tried to move about,
but I dared not go far, for fear of the precipices which,
I knew, abounded in certain places on the Fells. Now
and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my
voice was getting choked with tears, as I thought of
the desolate, helpless death I was to die, and how little
they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright fire,
wotted what was become of me, — and how my poor
father would grieve for me—it would surely kill him —
it would break his heart, poor old man! Aunt Fanny
too — was this to be the end of all her cares for me?
I began to review my life in a strange kind of vivid
dream, in which the various scenes of my few boyish
years passed before me like visions. In a pang of
agony, caused by such remembrance of my short life,
I gathered up my strength and called out once more, a
long, despairing, wailing cry, to which I had no hope
of obtaining any answer, save from the echoes around,
dulled as the sound might be by the thickened air.
To my surprise, I heard a cry — almost as long, as wild
as mine — so wild that it seemed unearthly, and I
almost thought it must be the voice of some of the
mocking spirits of the Fells, about whom I had heard
so many tales. My heart suddenly began to beat fast
and loud. I could not reply for a minute or two. I
nearly fancied I had lost the power of utterance. Just
at this moment a dog barked. Was it Lassie's bark
— my brother's collie? — an ugly enough brute, with
a white, ill-looking face, that my father always kicked


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 269
whenever he saw it, partly for its own demerits, partly
because it belonged to my brother. On such occasions,
Gregory would whistle Lassie away, and go off and
sit with her in some outhouse. My father had once or
twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor collie
had yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and
had relieved himself of his self-reproach by blaming
my brother, who, he said, had no notion of training a
dog, and was enough to ruin any collie in Christendom
with his stupid way of allowing them to lie by the
kitchen fire. To all which Gregory would answer no-
thing, nor even seem to hear, but go on looking absent
and moody.
Yes! there again! It was Lassie's bark! Now or
never! I lifted up my voice and shouted “Lassie!
Lassie! For God's sake, Lassie!” Another moment,
and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and
gambolling with delight round my feet and legs, look-
ing, however, up in my face with her intelligent, appre-
hensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might greet her with a
blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried
with gladness, as I stooped down and patted her.
My mind was sharing in my body's weakness, and I
could not reason, but I knew that help was at hand.
A gray figure came more and more distinctly out of
the thick, close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory
wrapped in his maud.
“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck,
unable to speak another word. He never spoke much,
and made me no answer for some little time. Then
he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear


270 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
life — we must find our road home, if possible; but
we must move or we should be frozen to death.
“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I.
“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful
now. The snow blinds me, and I am feared that in
moving about just now, I have lost the right gait
homewards.”
He had his shepherd's staff with him, and by dint
of plunging it before us at every step we took —
clinging close to each other, we went on safely enough,
as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but
it was slow, dreary work. My brother, I saw, was
more guided by Lassie and the way she took than
anything else, trusting to her instinct. It was too dark
to see far before us; but he called her back continually,
and noted from what quarter she returned, and shaped
our slow steps accordingly. But the tedious motion
scarcely kept my very blood from freezing. Every
bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and
then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense
cold. My brother bore it better than I, from having
been more out upon the hills. He did not speak,
except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not
complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing
OVer me.
“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone. I
remember, I suddenly became dogged and resolved.
Sleep I would, were it only for five minutes. If death
were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory
stood still. I suppose, he recognised the peculiar
phase of suffering to which I had been brought by the
cold.


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 271
“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We
are no nearer home than we were when we started,
as far as I can tell. Our only chance is in Lassie.
Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down
on this sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close
under it, lad, and I'll lie by thee, and strive to keep the
warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten aught about thee
they'll know at home?”
I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber,
but on his repeating the question, I pulled out my
pocket-handkerchief, of some showy pattern, which
Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me — Gregory took it,
and tied it round Lassie's neck.
“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the
white-faced, ill-favoured brute was off like a shot in
the darkness. Now I might lie down — now I might
sleep. In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being
tenderly covered up by my brother; but what with I
neither knew nor cared — I was too dull, too selfish,
too numb to think and reason, or I might have known
that in that bleak bare place there was nought to wrap
me in, save what was taken off another. I was glad
enough when he ceased his caress and lay down by me.
I took his hand.
“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay to-
gether thus by our dying mother. She put thy small,
wee hand in mine — I reckon, she sees us now; and
belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God's will
be done.”
“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to
him for warmth. He was talking still, and again about


272 THE HALF-BROTHERS,
our mother, when I fell asleep. In an instant — or
so it seemed — there were many voices about me —
many faces hovering round me — the sweet luxury of
warmth was stealing into every part of me. I was in
my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say, my
first word was “Gregory?”
A look passed from one to another — my father's
stern old face strove in vain to keep its sternness; his
mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly with unwonted
tears.
“I would have given him half my land — I would
have blessed him as my son, — oh God! I would have
knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive my hard-
ness of heart.”
I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain,
catching me back to death.
I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks, after-
wards. My father's hair was white when I reco-
vered, and his hands shook as he looked into my
face.
We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not
speak of him; but he was strangely in our thoughts.
Lassie came and went with never a word of blame;
nay, my father would try to stroke her, but she shrank
away; and he, as if reproved by the poor dumb
beast, would sigh, and be silent and abstracted for a
time.
Aunt Fanny — always a talker — told me all.
How, on that fatal night, my father, irritated by my
prolonged absence, and probably more anxious than he
cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even


THE HALF-BROTHERS. 273
beyond his wont, to Gregory: had upbraided him with
his father's poverty, his own stupidity which made his
services good for nothing — for so, in spite of the old
shepherd, my father always chose to consider them.
At last, Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out
with him — poor Lassie, crouching underneath his
chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time before,
there had been some talk between my father and my
aunt respecting my return; and when Aunt Fanny told
me all this, she said she fancied that Gregory might
have noticed the coming storm, and gone out silently
to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were
running about in wild alarm, not knowing whither to
go in search of me — not even missing Gregory, or
heeding his absence, poor fellow – poor, poor fellow!
— Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round
her neck. They knew and understood, and the whole
strength of the farm was turned out to follow her, with
wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and everything that
could be thought of I lay in chilly sleep, but still
alive, beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I
was covered over with my brother's plaid, and his
thick shepherd's coat was carefully wrapped round my
feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves — his arm thrown
over me — a quiet Smile (he had hardly ever Smiled
in life) upon his still, cold face.
My father's last words were, “God forgive me my
hardness of heart towards, the fatherless child!”
And what marked the depth of his feeling of re-
pentance, perhaps more than all, considering the pas-
sionate love he bore my mother, was this: we found
Lois the Witch, etc. 18


274 THE HALF-BROTHERS.
a paper of directions after his death, in which he de-
sired that he might lie at the foot of the grave, in
which, by his desire, poor Gregory had been laid with
OUR MOTHER.


THE CR00KED BRANCH,
18's


THE CROOKED BRANCH.
Not many years after the beginning of this century,
a worthy couple of the name of Huntroyd occupied a
small farm in the North Riding of Yorkshire. They
had married late in life, although they were very young
when they first began to “keep company” with each
other. Nathan Huntroyd had been farm servant to
Hester Rose's father, and had made up to her at a time
when her parents thought she might do better; and so,
without much consultation of her feelings, they had
dismissed Nathan in somewhat cavalier fashion. He
had drifted far away from his former connections, when
an uncle of his died, leaving Nathan — by this time
upwards of forty years of age — enough money to
stock a small farm, and yet have something over to
put in the bank against bad times. One of the con-
sequences of this bequest was, that Nathan was looking
out for a wife and housekeeper, in a kind of discreet
and leisurely way, when, one day, he heard that his
old love, Hester, was — not married and flourishing,
as he had always supposed her to be — but a poor
maid-of-all-work, in the town of Ripon. For her father
had had a succession of misfortunes, which had brought
him in his old age to the workhouse; her mother was
dead; her only brother struggling to bring up a large
family; and Hester herself, a hard-working, homely-


278 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
looking (at thirty-seven) servant. Nathan had a kind
of growling satisfaction (which only lasted for a minute
or two, however) in hearing of these turns of Fortune's
wheel. He did not make many intelligible remarks to
his informant, and to no one else did he say a word.
But, a few days afterwards, he presented himself,
dressed in his Sunday best, at Mrs. Thompson's back
door in Ripon.
Hester stood there, in answer to the good sound
knock his good sound oak stick made; she with the
light full upon her, he in shadow. For a moment there
was silence. He was scanning the face and figure of
his old love, for twenty years unseen. The comely
beauty of youth had faded away entirely; she was, as
I have said, homely-looking, plain-featured, but with
a clean skin, and pleasant, frank eyes. Her figure was
no longer round, but tidily draped in a blue and white
bedgown, tied round her waist by her white apron-
strings, and her short red linsey petticoat showed her
tidy feet and ankles. Her former lover fell into no
ecstasies. He simply said to himself, “She'll do;” and
forthwith began upon his business.
“Hester, thou dost not mind me. I am Nathan, as
thy father turned off at a minute's notice, for thinking
of thee for a wife, twenty year come Michaelmas next.
I have not thought much upon matrimony since. But
Uncle Ben has died, leaving me a small matter in the
bank; and I have taken Nab-end Farm, and put in a
bit of stock, and shall want a missus to see after it.
Wilt like to come? I'll not mislead thee. It's dairy,
and it might have been arable. But arable takes more
horses nor it suited me to buy, and I'd the offer of a


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 279
tidy lot of kine. That's all. If thou'lt have me, I'll
come for thee as soon as the hay is gotten in.”
Hester only said, “Come in, and sit thee down.”
He came in, and sat down. For a time, she took
no more notice of him than of his stick, bustling about
to get dinner ready for the family whom she served.
He meanwhile watched her brisk, sharp movements,
and repeated to himself, “She'll do!” After about
twenty minutes of silence thus employed, he got up,
saying:
“Well, Hester, I’m going. When shall I come
back again?”
“Please thysel', and thou’ll please me,” said Hester,
in a tone that she tried to make light and indifferent;
but he saw that her colour came and went, and that
she trembled while she moved about. In another mo-
ment Hester was soundly kissed; but when she looked
round to scold the middle-aged farmer, he appeared so
entirely composed that she hesitated. He said:
“I have pleased mysel', and thee too, I hope. Is
it a month's wage, and a month's warning? To-day
is the eighth. July eighth is our wedding day. I have
no time to spend a-wooing before then, and wedding
must na take long. Two days is enough to throw
away, at our time o' life.”
It was like a dream; but Hester resolved not to
think more about it till her work was done. And when
all was cleaned up for the evening, she went and gave
her mistress warning, telling her all the history of her
life in a very few words. That day month she was
married from Mrs. Thompson's house.
The issue of the marriage was one boy, Benjamin.
A few years after his birth, Hester's brother died at


280 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
Leeds, leaving ten or twelve children. Hester sor-
rowed bitterly over this loss; and Nathan showed her
much quiet sympathy, although he could not but re-
member that Jack Rose had added insult to the bitter-
ness of his youth. He helped his wife to make ready
to go by the waggon to Leeds. He made light of the
household difficulties, which came thronging into her
mind after all was fixed for her departure. He filled
her purse, that she might have wherewithal to alleviate
the immediate wants of her brother's family. And as
she was leaving, he ran after the waggon. “Stop,
stop!” he cried. “Hetty, if thou wilt — if it wunnot
be too much for thee — bring back one of Jack's
wenches for company, like. We've enough and to
spare; and a lass will make the house winsome, as a
man may say.”
The waggon moved on; while Hester had such a
silent swelling of gratitude in her heart, as was both
thanks to her husband, and thanksgiving to God.
And that was the way that little Bessy Rose came
to be an inmate of the Nab's-end Farm.
Virtue met with its own reward in this instance,
and in a clear and tangible shape, too, which need not
delude people in general into thinking that such is the
usual nature of virtue's rewards. Bessy grew up a
bright, affectionate, active girl; a daily comfort to her
uncle and aunt. She was so much a darling in the
household that they even thought her worthy of their
only son Benjamin, who was perfection in their eyes.
It is not often the case that two plain, homely people
have a child of uncommon beauty; but it is so some-
times, and Benjamin Huntroyd was one of these ex-
ceptional cases. The hard-working, labour-and-care-


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 281
marked farmer, and the mother, who could never have
been more than tolerably comely in her best days, pro-
duced a boy who might have been an earl's son for
grace and beauty. Even the hunting squires of the
neighbourhood reined up their horses to admire him,
as he opened the gates for them. He had no shyness,
he was so accustomed to admiration from strangers,
and adoration from his parents from his earliest years.
As for Bessy Rose, he ruled imperiously over her heart
from the time she first set eyes on him. And as she
grew older, she grew on in loving, persuading herself
that what her uncle and aunt loved so dearly it was
her duty to love dearest of all. At every unconscious
symptom of the young girl's love for her cousin, his
parents smiled and winked: all was going on as they
wished, no need to go far afield for Benjamin's wife.
The household could go on as it was now; Nathan
and Hester sinking into the rest of years, and relin-
quishing care and authority to those dear ones, who,
in process of time, might bring other dear ones to share
their love.
But Benjamin took it all very coolly. He had
been sent to a day-school in the neighbouring town —
a grammar-school, in the high state of neglect in which
the majority of such schools were thirty years ago.
Neither his father nor his mother knew much of learn-
ing. All that they knew (and that directed their choice
of a school) was, that they would not, by any possibi-
lity, part with their darling to a boarding-school; that
some schooling he must have, and that Squire Pollard's
son went to Highminster Grammar School. Squire
Pollard's son, and many another son destined to make
his parents' hearts ache, went to this school. If it had


282 THE CROOKED BRANCH,
not been so utterly bad a place of education, the simple
farmer and his wife might have found it out sooner.
But not only did the pupils there learn vice, they also
learnt deceit. Benjamin was naturally too clever to
remain a dunce, or else, if he had chosen so to be,
there was nothing in Highminster Grammar School to
hinder his being a dunce of the first water. But, to
all appearance, he grew clever and gentleman-like. His
father and mother were even proud of his airs and
graces, when he came home for the holidays; taking
them for proofs of his refinement, although the practi-
cal effect of such refinement was to make him express
his contempt for his parents' homely ways and simple
ignorance. By the time he was eighteen, an articled
clerk in an attorney's office at Highminster, — for he
had quite declined becoming a “mere clodhopper,”
that is to say a hard-working, honest farmer like his
father — Bessy Rose was the only person who was
dissatisfied with him. The little girl of fourteen in-
stinctively felt there was something wrong about him.
Alas! two years more, and the girl of sixteen worship-
ped his very shadow, and would not see that aught
could be wrong with one so soft-spoken, so handsome,
so kind as Cousin Benjamin. For Benjamin had dis-
covered that the way to cajole his parents out of
money for every indulgence he fancied, was to pretend
to forward their innocent scheme, and make love to
his pretty cousin Bessy Rose. He cared just enough
for her to make this work of necessity not disagreeable
at the time he was performing it. But he found it
tiresome to remember her little claims upon him, when
she was no longer present. The letters he had pro-
mised her during his weekly absences at Highminster,


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 283
the trifling commissions she had asked him to do for
her, were all considered in the light of troubles; and,
even when he was with her, he resented the inquiries
she made as to his mode of passing his time, or what
female acquaintances he had in Highminister.
When his apprenticeship was ended, nothing would
serve him but that he must go up to London for a
year or two. Poor Farmer Huntroyd was beginning
to repent of his ambition of making his son Benjamin
a gentleman. But it was too late to repine now. Both
father and mother felt this, and, however sorrowful they
might be, they were silent, neither demurring nor as-
senting to Benjamin's proposition when first he made
it. But Bessy, through her tears, noticed that both
her uncle and aunt seemed unusually tired that night,
and sat hand-in-hand on the fireside settle, idly gazing
into the bright flame, as if they saw in it pictures of
what they had once hoped their lives would have been.
Bessy rattled about among the supper things, as she
put them away after Benjamin's departure, making
more noise than usual — as if noise and bustle was
what she needed to keep her from bursting out crying
— and, having at one keen glance taken in the posi-
tion and looks of Nathan and Hester, she avoided
looking in that direction again, for fear the sight of
their wistful faces should make her own tears overflow.
“Sit thee down, lass — sit thee down. Bring the
creepie-stool to the fireside, and let's have a bit of
talk over the lad's plans,” said Nathan, at last rousing
himself to speak. Bessy came and sat down in front
of the fire, and threw her apron over her face, as she
rested her head on both hands. Nathan felt as if it
was a chance which of the two women burst out cry-


284 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
ing first. So he thought he would speak, in hopes of
keeping off the infection of tears.
“Didst ever hear of this mad plan afore, Bessy?”
“No, never!” Her voice came muffled, and changed
from under her apron. Hester felt as if the tone, both
of question and answer, implied blame, and this she
could not bear.
“We should ha’ looked to it when we bound him,
for of necessity it would ha’ come to this. There's
examins, and catechizes, and I dunno what all for him
to be put through in London. It's not his fault.”
“Which on us said it were?” asked Nathan, rather
put out. “Thof, for that matter, a few weeks would
carry him over the mire, and make him as good a lawyer
as any judge among 'em, Oud Lawson the attorney told
me that, in a talk I had wi' him a bit sin. Na, na!
it's the lad's own hankering after London that makes
him want for to stay there for a year, let alone two.”
Nathan shook his head.
“And if it be his own hankering,” said Bessy,
putting down her apron, her face all aflame, and her
eyes swollen up, “I dunnot see harm in it. Lads
aren't like lasses, to be teed to their own fireside like
th' crook younder. It's fitting for a young man to go
abroad and see the world afore he settles down.”
Hester's hand sought Bessy's, and the two women sat
in sympathetic defiance of any blame that should be
thrown on the beloved absent. Nathan only said:
“Nay, wench, dunna wax up so; whatten's done's
done; and worse, it's my doing. I mun needs make
my bairn a gentleman; and we mun pay for it.”
“Dear uncle! he wunna spend much, I'll answer


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 285
for it; and I'll scrimp and save i' th' house to make it
good.”
“Wench!” said Nathan, solemnly, “it were not
paying in cash I were speaking on: it were paying in
heart's care, and heaviness of soul. Lunnon is a place
where the devil keeps court as well as King George;
and my poor chap has more nor once welly fallen into
his clutches here. I dunno what he'll do when he gets
close within sniff of him.”
“Don’t let him go, father!” said Hester, for the
first time taking this view. Hitherto she had only
thought of her own grief at parting with him. “Father,
if you think so, keep him here, safe under our own
eye.” -
“Nay!” said Nathan, “he's past time o' life for
that. Why, there's not one on us knows where he is
at this present time, and he not gone out of our sight
an hour. He's too big to be put back i' th' go-cart,
mother, or kept within doors with the chair turned
bottom upwards.”
“I wish he were a wee bairn lying in my arms
again. It were a sore day when I weaned him; and
I think life's been gettin' sorer and sorer at every turn
he's ta'en towards manhood.”
“Coom, lass, that's noan the way to be talking.
Be thankful to Marcy that thou'st getten a man for
thy son as stands five foot eleven in's stockings, and
ne'er a sick piece about him. We wunnot grudge him
his fling, will we, Bess, my wench? He'll be coming
back in a year, or maybe a bit more; and be a' for
settling in a quiet town like, wi' a wife that's noan so
fur fra' me at this very minute. An' we oud folk, as


286 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
we get into years, must gi’ up farm, and tak a bit on
a house near Lawyer Benjamin.”
And so the good Nathan, his own heart heavy
enough, tried to soothe his womenkind. But of the
three, his eyes were longest in closing; his apprehen-
sions the deepest founded.
“I misdoubt me I hanna done well by th’ lad. I
misdoubt me sore,” was the thought that kept him
awake till day began to dawn. “Summat's wrong
about him, or folk would na look at me wi' such
piteous-like een when they speak on him. I can see
th’ meaning of it, thof I'm too proud to let on. And
Lawson, too, he holds his tongue more nor he should
do, when I ax him how my lad's getting on, and
whatten sort of a lawyer he'll mak. God be marciful
to Hester an' me, if th’ lad's gone away! God be
marciful! But maybe it's this lying waking a' the night
through, that maks me so fearfu'. Why, when I were
his age, I daur be bound I should ha’ spent money
fast enoof, i' I could ha’ come by it. But I had to arn
it; that maks a great differ'. Well! It were hard to
thwart th' child of our old age, and we waitin' so long
for to have 'un!” .
Next morning, Nathan rode Moggy, the cart horse,
into Highminster to see Mr. Lawson. Anybody who
saw him ride out of his own yard, would have been
struck with the change in him which was visible, when
he returned; a change, more than a day's unusual ex-
ercise should have made in a man of his years. He
scarcely held the reins at all. One jerk of Moggy's
head would have plucked them out of his hands. His
head was bent forward, his eyes looking on some un-
seen thing, with long unwinking gaze. But as he drew


THE CROOKED BRANCh. 287
near home on his return, he made an effort to recover
himself.
“No need fretting them,” he said; “lads will be
lads. But I didna think he had it in him to be so
thowtless, young as he is. Well, well! he'll maybe
get more wisdom i' Lunnon. Anyways it's best to cut
him off fra such evil lads as Will Hawker, and such-
like. It's they as have led my boy astray. He were
a good chap till he knowed them — a good chap till
he knowed them.”
But he put all his cares in the background when he
came into the houseplace, where both Bessy and his
wife met him at the door, and both would fain lend a
hand to take off his greatcoat.
“Theer, wenches, theer! ye might let a man alone
for to get out on's clothes! Why, I might ha' struck
thee, lass.” And he went on talking, trying to keep
them off for a time from the subject that all had at
heart. But there was no putting them off for ever;
and, by dint of repeated questioning on his wife's part,
more was got out than he had ever meant to tell —
enough to grieve both his hearers sorely! and yet
the brave old man still kept the worst in his own
breast.
The next day Benjamin came home for a week or
two, before making his great start to London. His
father kept him at a distance, and was solemn and
quiet in his manner to the young man. Bessy, who
had shown anger enough at first, and had uttered
many a sharp speech, began to relent, and then to feel
hurt and displeased that her uncle should persevere so
long in his cold, reserved manner, and Benjamin just
going to leave them. Her aunt went, tremblingly


288 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
busy, about the clothes-presses and drawers, as if
afraid of letting herself think either of the past or the
future; only once or twice, coming behind her son, she
suddenly stooped over his sitting figure, and kissed his
cheek, and stroked his hair. Bessy remembered after-
wards — long years afterwards — how he had tossed
his head away with nervous irritability on one of these
occasions, and had muttered — her aunt did not hear
it, but Bessy did —
“Can't you leave a man alone?”
Towards Bessy herself he was pretty gracious. No
other words express his manner: it was not warm, nor
tender, nor cousinly, but there was an assumption of
underbred politeness towards her as a young, pretty
woman; which politeness was neglected in his authori-
tative or grumbling manner towards his mother, or his
sullen silence before his father. He once or twice
ventured on a compliment to Bessy on her personal
appearance. She stood still, and looked at him with
astonishment.
“How's my eyes changed sin last thou sawst them,”
she asked, “that thou must be telling me about 'em i.
that fashion? I'd rayther by a deal see thee helping
thy mother when she's dropped her knitting-needle and
canna see i' th' dusk for to pick it up.”
But Bessy thought of his pretty speech about her
eyes long after he had forgotten making it, and would
have been puzzled to tell the colour of them. Many a
day, after he was gone, did she look earnestly in the
little oblong looking-glass, which hung up against the
wall of her little sleeping-chamber, but which she used
to take down in order to examine the eyes he had
praised, murmuring to herself, “Pretty soft grey eyes,


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 289
Pretty soft grey eyes!” until she would hang up the
glass again with a sudden laugh and a rosy blush.
In the days, when he had gone away to the vague
distance and vaguer place — the city called London–
Bessy tried to forget all that had gone against her
feeling of the affection and duty that a son owed to his
parents; and she had many things to forget of this
kind that would keep surging up into her mind. For
instance, she wished that he had not objected to the
home-spun, home-made shirts which his mother and she
had had such pleasure in getting ready for him. He
might not know, it was true — and so her love urged
— how carefully and evenly the thread had been
spun: how, not content wilh bleaching the yarn in the
sunniest meadow, the linen, on its return from the
weaver's, had been spread out afresh on the sweet
summer grass, and watered carefully night after night
when there was no dew to perform the kindly office.
He did not know — for no one but Bessy herself did
— how many false or large stitches, made large and
false by her aunt's failing eyes (who yet liked to do
the choicest part of the stitching all by herself), Bessy
had unpicked at night in her own room, and with
dainty fingers had restitched; sewing eagerly in the
dead of night. All this he did not know; or he could
never have complained of the coarse texture; the old-
fashioned make of these shirts; and urged on his mo-
ther to give him part of her little store of egg and
butter money in order to buy newer-fashioned linen in
Highminster.
When once that little precious store of his mother's
was discovered, it was well for Bessy's peace of mind
that she did not know how loosely her aunt counted
Lois the Witch, etc. 19


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 291
She was all ready, her things laid out on the bed; but
she could not accompany him without invitation.
The little household tried to close over the gap as
best they might. They seemed to set themselves to
their daily work with unusual vigour; but somehow
when evening came there had been little done. Heavy
hearts never make light work, and there was no telling
how much care and anxiety each had had to bear in
secret in the field, at the wheel, or in the dairy. For-
merly he was looked for every Saturday; looked for,
though he might not come, or if he came, there were
things to be spoken about, that made his visit any-
thing but a pleasure: still he might come, and all
things might go right, and then what sunshine, what
gladness to those humble people! But now he was
away, and dreary winter was come on; old folks' sight
fails, and the evenings were long, and sad, in spite of
all Bessy could do or say. And he did not write so
often as he might — so every one thought; though
every one would have been ready to defend him from
either of the others who had expressed such a thought
aloud. “Surely!” said Bessy to herself, when the
first primroses peeped out in a sheltered and sunny
hedge-bank, and she gathered them as she passed
home from afternoon church — “surely, there never
will be such a dreary, miserable winter again as this
has been.” There had been a great change in Nathan
and Bessy Huntroyd during this last year. The spring
before, when Benjamin was yet the subject of more
hopes than fears, his father and mother looked what I
may call an elderly middle-aged couple: people who
had a good deal of hearty work in them yet. Now
– it was not his absence alone that caused the
19+


292 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
change — they looked frail and old, as if each day's
natural trouble was a burden more than they could
bear. For Nathan had heard sad reports about his
only child, and had told them solemnly to his wife, as
things too bad to be believed, and yet, “God help us,
if indeed he is such a lad as this!” Their eyes were
become too dry and hollow for many tears; they sat
together, hand in hand; and shivered, and sighed, and
did not speak many words, or dare to look at each
other: and then Hester had said:
“We mauna tell th’ lass. Young folks' hearts
break wi' a little, and she'd be apt to fancy it were
true.” Here the old woman's voice broke into a kind
of piping cry, but she struggled, and her next words
were all right. “We mauna tell her; he's bound to
be fond on her, and may-be, if she thinks well on him,
and loves him, it will bring him straight!”
“God grant it!” said Nathan.
“God shall grant it!” said Hester, passionately
moaning out her words; and then repeating them,
alas! with a vain repetition.
“It's a bad place for lying, is Highminster,” said
she at length, as if impatient of the silence. “I never
knowed such a place for getting up stories. But Bessy
knows nought on, and nother you nor me belie'es 'em;
that's one blessing.”
But if they did not in their hearts believe them,
how came they to look so sad, and worn, beyond what
mere age could make them?
Then came round another year, another winter, yet
more miserable than the last. This year, with the
primroses, came Benjamin; a bad, hard, flippant young
man, with yet enough of specious manners and hand-


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 293
some conntenance to make his appearance striking at
first to those to whom the aspect of a London fast
young man of the lowest order is strange and new.
Just at first, as he sauntered in with a swagger and
an air of indifference, which was partly assumed, partly
real, his old parents felt a simple kind of awe of him,
as if he were not their son, but a real gentleman; but
they had too much fine instinct in their homely natures
not to know, after a very few minutes had passed, that
this was not a true prince.
“Whatten ever does he mean,” said Hester to her
niece, as soon as they were alone, “by a' them maks
and wearlocks? And he minces his words as if his
tongue were clipped short, or split like a magpie's.
Hech! London is as bad as a hot day i' August for
spoiling good flesh; for he were a good-looking lad
when he went up; and now, look at him, with his
skin gone into lines and flourishes, just like the first
page on a copy-book!”
“I think he looks a good deal better, aunt, for
them new-fashioned whiskers!” said Bessy, blushing
still at the remembrance of the kiss he had given her
on first seeing her — a pledge, she thought, poor girl,
that, in spite of his long silence in letter-writing, he
still looked upon her as his troth-plight wife. There
were things about him which none of them liked,
although they never spoke of them, yet there was also
something to gratify them in the way in which he
remained quiet at Nab-end, instead of seeking variety,
as he had formerly done, by constantly stealing off to
the neighbouring town. His father had paid all the
debts that he knew of, soon after Benjamin had gone
up to London; so there were no duns that his parents


294 THE CRooked BRANCH,
knew of to alarm him, and keep him at home. And
he went out in the morning with the old man, his
father, and lounged by his side, as Nathan went round
his fields, with busy yet infirm gait, having heart, as
he would have expressed it, in all that was going on,
because at length his son seemed to take an interest
in the farming affairs, and stood patiently by his side,
while he compared his own small galloways with the
great short-horns looming over his neighbour's hedge.
“It's a slovenly way, thou seest, that of selling th’
milk; folk don't care whether it's good or not, so that
they get their pint-measure full of stuff that's watered
afore it leaves th' beast, instead o' honest cheating by
the help o' th' pump. But look at Bessy's butter, what
skill it shows! part her own manner o' making, and
part good choice o' cattle. It's a pleasure to see her
basket, a packed ready for to go to market; and it's
noan o' a pleasure for to see the buckets fu' of their
blue starch-water as yon beasts give. I'm thinking they
crossed th' breed wi' a pump not long sin’. Hech! but
our Bessy's a cleaver canny wench! I sometimes think
thou'lt be for gie'ing up th' law, and taking to th’ oud
trade, when thou wedst wi' her!” This was intended
to be a skilful way of ascertaining whether there was
any ground for the old farmer's wish and prayer that
Benjamin might give up the law, and return to the
primitive occupation of his father. Nathan dared to
hope it now, since his son had never made much by
his profession, owing, as he had said, to his want of a
connexion: and the farm, and the stock, and the clean
wife, too, were ready to his hand; and Nathan could
safely rely on himself never in his most unguarded mo-
ments to reproach his son with the hardly-earned


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 295
hundreds that had been spent on his education. So the
old man listened with painful interest to the answer
which his son was evidently struggling to make; cough-
ing a little, and blowing his nose before he spoke.
“Well! you see, father, law is a precarious liveli-
hood; a man, as I may express myself, has no chance
in the profession unless he is known — known to the
judges, and tiptop barristers, and that sort of thing.
Now, you see, my mother and you have no acquaint-
ance that you may call exactly in that line. But luckily
I have met with a man, a friend, as I may say, who
is really a first-rate fellow, knowing everybody, from
the Lord Chancellor downwards; and he has offered me
a share in his business — a partnership in short —”
He hesitated a little. -
“I’m sure that's uncommon kind of the gentleman,”
said Nathan. “I should like for to thank him mysen;
for it's not many as would pick up a young chap not
o' th' dirt as it were, and say, ‘Here's hauf my good
fortune for you, sir, and your very good health.” Most
on 'em, when they're gettin' a bit o' luck, run off wi'
it to keep it a' to themselves, and gobble it down in a
corner. What may be his name, for I should like to
know it?”
“You don't quite apprehend me, father. A great
deal of what you've said is true to the letter. People
don't like to share their good luck, as you say.”
“The more credit to them as does,” broke in
Nathan.
“Ay, but, you see, even such a fine fellow as my
friend Cavendish does not like to give away half his
good practice for nothing. He expects an equiva-
lent.”


296 THE CRookED BRANCH,
“An equivalent,” said Nathan: his voice had dropped
down an octave. “And what may that be? There's al-
ways some meaning in grand words, I take it, though
I'm not book-learned enough to find it out.”
“Why, in this case the equivalent he demands for
taking me into partnership, and afterwards relinquish-
ing the whole business to me, is three hundred pounds
down.”
Benjamin looked sideways from under his eyes to
see how his father took the proposition. His father
struck his stick deep down in the ground, and leaning
one hand upon it, faced round at him.
“Then thy fine friend may go and be hanged.
Three hunder pound! I'll be darned an' danged too, if
I know where to get 'em, if I’d be making a fool o'
thee an’ mysen too.”
He was out of breath by this time. His son took
his father's first words in dogged silence; it was but
the burst of surprise he had led himself to expect, and
did not daunt him for long.
“I should think, sir —”
“Sir” — whatten for dost thou “sir' me? Is them
your manners? I'm plain Nathan Huntroyd, who never
took on to be a gentleman; but I have paid my way
up to this time, which I shannot do much longer, if I'm
to have a son coming an' asking me for three hunder
pound, just meet same as if I were a cow, and had
nothing to do but let down my milk to the first person
as strokes me.”
“Well, father,” said Benjamin, with an affectation
of frankness, “then there's nothing for me, but to do as
I have often planned before; go and emigrate.”
T--


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 297
“And what?” said his father, looking sharply and
steadily at him.
“Emigrate. Go to America, or India, or some
colony where there would be an opening for a young
man of spirit.”
Benjamin had reserved this proposition for his trump
card, expecting by means of it to carry all before him.
But, to his surprise, his father plucked his stick out of
the hole he had made when he so vehemently thrust
it into the ground, and walked on four or five steps in
advance; there he stood still again, and there was a
dead silence for a few minutes.
“It 'ud, may-be, be th' best thing thou couldst do,”
the father began. Benjamin set his teeth hard to keep
in curses. It was well for poor Nathan he did not look
round then, and see the look his son gave him. “But
it would come hard like upon us, upon Hester and me,
for, whether thou'rt a good 'un or not, thou'rt our flesh
and blood, our only bairn, and if thou'rt not all as a
man could wish, it's, may-be, been the fault on our
pride i' thee. — It 'ud kill the missus if he went off to
Amerikay, and Bess, too, the lass as thinks so much
on him!” The speech, originally addressed to his son,
had wandered off into a monologue — as keenly listened
to by Benjamin, however, as if it had all been spoken
to him. After a pause of consideration, his father turned
round: “Yon man — I wunnot call him a friend o'
yourn, to think of asking you for such a mint o' money
— is not th' only one, I'll be bound, as could give ye
a start i' the law? Other folks 'ud, may-be, do it for
less?”
“Not one of 'em; to give me equal advantages,”
said Benjamin, thinking he perceived signs of relenting
ºr


298 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
“Well, then, thou mayst tell him, that it's nother
he nor thee as 'll see th' sight o' three hunder pound
o' my money. I'll not deny as I've a bit laid up again
a rainy day; it's not so much as thatten though, and
a part on it is for Bessy, as has been like a daughter
to us.”
“But Bessy is to be your real daughter some day,
when I've a home to take her to,” said Benjamin; for
he played very fast and loose, even in his own mind,
with his engagement with Bessy. Present with her,
when she was looking her brightest and best, he behaved
to her as if they were engaged lovers: absent from her,
he looked upon her rather as a good wedge, to be driven
into his parent's favour on his behalf. Now, however,
he was not exactly untrue in speaking as if he meant
to make her his wife; for the thought was in his mind,
though he made use of it to work upon his father.
“It will be a dree day for us, then,” said the old
man. “But God 'll have us in his keeping, and 'll may-
happen be taking more care on us i' heaven by that
time than Bess, good lass as she is, has had on us at
Nab-end. Her heart is set on thee, too. But, lad, I
hanna gotten the three hunder; I keeps my cash i' th'
stocking, thou knowst, till it reaches fifty pound, and
then I takes it to Ripon Bank. Now the last scratch
they'r, gi'en me, made it just two hunder, and I hanna
but on to fifteen pound yet i' the stockin', and I meant
one hunder an' the red cow's calf to be for Bess, she's
ta'en such pleasure like i' rearing it.”
Benjamin gave a sharp glance at his father to see
if he was telling the truth; and, that a suspicion of the
old man, his father, had entered into the son's head,
tells enough of his own character.


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 299
“I canna do it—I canna do it, for sure – although
I shall like to think as I had helped on the wedding.
There's the black heifer to be sold yet, and she'll fetch
a matter of ten pound; but a deal on't will be needed
for seed-corn, for the arable did but bad last year, and
I thought I would try — I'll tell thee what, lad! I'll
make it as though Bess lent thee her hunder, only thou
must give her a writ of hand for it, and thou shalt have
a' the money i' Ripon Bank, and see if the lawyer
wunnot let thee have a share of what he offered thee
at three hunder, for two. I dunnot mean for to wrong
him, but thou must get a fair share for the money. At
times I think thou'rt done by folk; now, I wadna have
you cheat a bairn of a brass farthing; same time I
wadna have thee so soft as to be cheated.”
To explain this, it should be told that some of the
bills which Benjamin had received money from his
father to pay, had been altered so as to cover other
and less creditable expenses which the young man
had incurred; and the simple old farmer, who had
still much faith left in him for his boy, was acute
enough to perceive that he had paid above the usual
price for the articles he had purchased.
After some hesitation, Benjamin agreed to receive
this two hundred, and promised to employ it to the
best advantage in setting himself up in business. He
had, nevertheless, a strange hankering after the ad-
ditional fifteen pounds that was left to accumulate in the
stocking. It was his, he thought, as heir to his father;
and he soon lost some of his usual complaisance for
Bessy that evening, as he dwelt on the idea that there
was money being laid by for her, and grudged it to
her even in imagination. He thought more of this


300 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
fifteen pounds that he was not to have, than of all the
hardly-earned and humbly-saved two hundred that he
was to come into possession of Meanwhile Nathan
was in unusual spirits that evening. He was so
generous and affectionate at heart, that he had an
unconscious satisfaction in having helped two people
on the road to happiness by the sacrifice of the greater
part of his property. The very fact of having trusted
his son so largely, seemed to make Benjamin more
worthy of trust in his father's estimation. The sole
idea he tried to banish was, that, if all came to pass as
he hoped, both Benjamin and Bessy would be settled
far away from Nab-end; but then he had a child-like
reliance that “God would take care of him and his
missus, somehow or anodder. It wur o’ no use looking
too far ahead.”
Bessy had to hear many unintelligible jokes from
her uncle that night; for he made no doubt that
Benjamin had told her all that had passcd, whereas
the truth was, his son had said never a word to his
cousin on the subject.
When the old couple were in bed, Nathan told his
wife of the promise he had made to his son, and the
plan in life which the advance of the two hundred was
to promote. Poor Hester was a little startled at the
sudden change in the destination of the sum, which
she had long thought of with secret pride as “money
i' th' bank.” But she was willing enough to part
with it, if necessary, for Benjamin. Only, how such a
sum could be necessary, was the puzzle. But even
this perplexity was jostled out of her mind by the
overwhelming idea, not only of “our Ben” settling in
London, but of Bessy going there too as his wife.


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 301
This great trouble swallowed up all care about money,
and Hester shivered and sighed all the night through
with distress. In the morning, as Bessy was kneading
the bread, her aunt, who had been sitting by the
fire in an unusual manner, for one of her active
habits, said:
“I reckon we maun go to th’ shop for our bread,
an' that's a thing I never thought to come to so long
as I lived.”
Bessy looked up from her kneading, surprised:
“I’m sure, I'm noan going to eat their nasty stuff.
What for do ye want to get baker's bread, aunt?
This dough will rise as high as a kite in a south
wind.” -
“I’m not up to kneading as I could do once; it
welly breaks my back; and when thou'rt off in London,
I reckon we maun buy our bread, first time in
my life.”
“I’m not a-going to London,” said Bessy, kneading
away with fresh resolution, and growing very red,
either with the idea or the exertion.
“But our Ben is going partner wi' a great London
lawyer, and thou know'st he'll not tarry long but what
he'll fetch thee.”
“Now, aunt,” said Bessy, stripping her arms of the
dough, but still not looking up, “if that's all, don't
fret yourself. Ben will have twenty minds in his head
afore he settles, eyther in business or in wedlock. I
sometimes wonder,” she said, with increasing vehe-
mence, “why I go on thinking on him; for I dunnot
think he thinks on me, when I'm out o' sight. I've a
month's mind to try and forget him this time when he
leaves us — that I have!”


302 The CROOKED BRANCH,
“For shame, wench! and he to be planning and
purposing all for thy sake. It wur only yesterday as
he wur talking to thy uncle, and mapping it out so
clever; only thou seest, wench, it'll be dree work for
us when both thee and him is gone.”
The old woman began to cry the kind of tearless
cry of the aged. Bessy hastened to comfort her; and
the two talked, and grieved, and hoped, and planned
for the days that now were to be, till they ended, the
one in being consoled, the other in being secretly
happy.
Nathan and his son came back from Highminister
that evening, with their business transacted in the
roundabout way, which was most satisfactory to the
old man. If he had thought it necessary to take half
as much pains in ascertaining the truth of the plausible
details by which his son bore out the story of the
offered partnership, as he did in trying to get his
money conveyed to London in the most secure manner,
it would have been well for him. But he knew
nothing of all this, and acted in the way which satis-
fied his anxiety best. He came home tired, but
content; not in such high spirits as on the night
before, but as easy in his mind as he could be on the
eve of his son's departure. Bessy, pleasantly agitated
by her aunt's tale of the morning of her cousin's true
love for her — what ardently we wish we long believe
— and the plan which was to end in their marriage—
end to her, the woman, at least–Bessy looked almost
pretty in her bright, blushing comeliness, and more
than once, as she moved about from kitchen to dairy,
Benjamin pulled her towards him, and gave her a kiss.
To all such proceedings the old couple were wilfully


304 THE CROORED BRANCH.
He was gone; and they turned into the house, and
settled to the long day's work without many words
about their loss. They had no time for unnecessary
talking, indeed, for much had been left undone, during
his short visit, that ought to have been done; and they
had now to work double tides. Hard work was their
comfort for many a long day.
For some time, Benjamin's letters, if not frequent,
were full of exultant accounts of his well-doing. It is
true that the details of his prosperity were somewhat
vague; but the fact was broadly and unmistakably
stated. Then came longer pauses; shorter letters,
altered in tone. About a year after he had left them,
Nathan received a letter, which bewildered and irri-
tated him exceedingly. Something had gone wrong —
what, Benjamin did not say — but the letter ended
with a request that was almost a demand, for the re-
mainder of his father's savings, whether in the stocking
or the bank. Now, the year had not been prosperous
with Nathan; there had been an epidemic among cattle,
and he had suffered along with his neighbours; and,
moreover, the price of cows, when he had bought
some to repair his wasted stock, was higher than he
had ever remembered it before. The fifteen pounds
in the stocking, which Benjamin left, had diminished
to little more than three; and to have that required of
him in so peremptory a manner! Before Nathan im-
parted the contents of this letter to any one (Bessy and
her aunt had gone to market on a neighbour's cart
that day), he got pen and ink and paper, and wrote
back an ill-spelt, but very implicit and stern negative.
Benjamin had had his portion; and if he could not
make it do, so much the worse for him; his father had


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 305
no more to give him. That was the substance of the
letter.
The letter was written, directed, and sealed, and
given to the country postman, returning to Highminster
after his day's distribution and collection of letters,
before Hester and Bessy came back from market. It
had been a pleasant day of neighbourly meeting and
sociable gossip: prices had been high, and they were
in good spirits, only agreeably tired, and full of small
pieces of news. It was some time before they found
out how flatly all their talk fell on the ears of the
stay-at-home listener. But, when they saw that his
depression was caused by something beyond their
powers of accounting for by any little every-day cause,
they urged him to tell them what was the matter.
His anger had not gone off. It had rather increased
by dwelling upon it, and he spoke it out in good re-
solute terms; and, long ere he had ended, the two
women were as sad, if not as angry, as himself. In-
deed, it was many days before either feeling wore
away in the minds of those who entertained them.
Bessy was the soonest comforted, because she found
a vent for her sorrow in action; action that was half
as a kind of compensation for many a sharp word that
she had spoken, when her cousin had done anything to
displease her on his last visit, and half because she
believed that he never could have written such a letter
to his father, unless his want of money had been very
pressing and real; though how he could ever have
wanted money so soon, after such a heap of it had
been given to him, was more than she could justly
say. Bessy got out all her savings of little presents
of sixpences and shillings, ever since she had been a
Lois the Witch, etc, 20


308 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
“It's a letter — it's from you to Benjamin, it is —
and there's words written on it, “Not known at the
address given;” so they've sent it back to the writer—
that's you, uncle. Oh, it gave me such a start, with
them nasty words written outside!”
Nathan had taken the letter back into his own
hands, and was turning it over, while he strove to
understand what the quick-witted Bessy had picked
up at a glance. But he arrived at a different con-
clusion.
“He’s dead!” said he. “The lad is dead, and he
never knowed how as I were sorry I wrote to 'un so
sharp. My lad! my lad!” Nathan sat down on the
ground where he stood, and covered his face with his
old, withered hands. The letter returned to him was
one which he had written, with infinite pains and at
various times, to tell his child, in kinder words and at
greater length than he had done before, the reasons
why he could not send him the money demanded.
And now Benjamin was dead; nay, the old man im-
mediately jumped to the conclusion that his child had
been starved to death, without money, in a wild, wide,
strange place. All he could say at first was:
“My heart, Bess — my heart is broken!” And he
put his hand to his side, still keeping his shut eyes
covered with the other, as though he never wished to
see the light of day again. Bessy was down by his
side in an instant, holding him in her arms, chafing
and kissing him.
“It's noan so bad, uncle; he's not dead; the letter
does not say that, dunnot think it. He's flitted from
that lodging, and the lazy tykes dunna know where to
find him; and so, they just send y' back th’ letter, in-


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 309
stead of trying fra' house to house, as Mark Benson
would. I've always heerd tell on south country folk
for laziness. He's noan dead, uncle; he's just flitted,
and he'll let us know afore long where he's getten to.
May-be it's a cheaper place, for that lawyer has cheated
him, ye reck'let, and he'll be trying to live for as little
as he can, that's all, uncle. Dunnot take on so, for it
doesna say he's dead.”
By this time, Bessy was crying with agitation, al-
though she firmly believed in her own view of the case,
and had felt the opening of the ill-favoured letter as a
great relief. Presently she began to urge, both with
word and action upon her uncle, that he should sit no
longer on the damp grass. She pulled him up, for he
was very stiff, and, as he said, “all shaken to dithers.”
She made him walk about, repeating over and over
again her solution of the case, always in the same
words, beginning again and again, “He’s noan dead;
it's just been a flitting,” and so on. Nathan shook his
head, and tried to be convinced; but it was a steady
belief in his own heart for all that. He looked so
deathly ill on his return home with Bessy (for she
would not let him go on with his day's work), that his
wife made sure he had taken cold, and he, weary and
indifferent to life, was glad to subside into bed and the
rest from exertion which his real bodily illness gave
him. Neither Bessy nor he spoke of the letter again,
even to each other, for many days; and she found
means to stop Mark Benson's tongue, and satisfy his
kindly curiosity, by giving him the rosy side of her
own view of the case.
Nathan got up again, an older man in looks and
constitution by ten years for that week of bed. His


310 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
wife gave him many a scolding on his imprudence for
sitting down in the wet field, if ever so tired. But
now she, too, was beginning to be uneasy at Benjamin's
long-continued silence. She could not write herself,
but she urged her husband many a time to send a
letter to ask for news of her lad. He said nothing in
reply for some time: at length, he told her he would
write next Sunday afternoon. Sunday was his general
day for writing, and this Sunday he meant to go to
church for the first time since his illness. On Saturday
he was very persistent against his wife's wishes (backed
by Bessy as hard as she could), in resolving to go into
Highminster to market. The change would do him
good, he said. But he came home tired, and a little
mysterious in his ways. When he went to the shippon
the last thing at night, he asked Bessy to go with him,
and hold the lantern, while he looked at an ailing
cow; and, when they were fairly out of the earshot of
the house, he pulled a little shop-parcel from his pocket
and said:
“Thou'lt put that on ma Sunday hat, wilt 'ou, lass?
It'll be a bit on a comfort to me; for I know my lad's
dead and gone, though I dunna speak on it, for fear o'
grieving th' old woman and ye.”
“I’ll put it on, uncle, if – But he's noan dead.”
(Bessy was sobbing.)
“I know — I know, lass. I dunnot wish other folk
to hold my opinion; but I'd like to wear a bit o' crape,
out o' respect to my boy. It 'ud have done me good
for to have ordered a black coat, but she'd see if I had
na' on my wedding-coat, Sundays, for a she's losing
her eyesight, poor old wench! But she'll ne'er take


312 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
with each. But she lost her youth in a very few
months; she looked set and middle-aged long before
she ought to have done; and rarely smiled and never
sang again.
All sorts of new arrangements were required, by
the blow which told so miserably upon the energies of
all the household at Nab-end. Nathan could no longer
go about and direct his two men, taking a good turn
of work himself at busy times. Hester lost her interest
in her dairy; for which, indeed, her increasing loss of
sight unfitted her. Bessy would either do field work,
or attend to the cows and the shippon, or churn, or
make cheese; she did all well, no longer merrily, but
with something of stern cleverness. But she was not
sorry when her uncle, one evening, told her aunt and
her that a neighbouring farmer, Job Kirkby, had made
him an offer to take so much of his land off his hands
as would leave him only pasture enough for two cows,
and no arable to attend to; while Farmer Kirkby did
not wish to interfere with anything in the house, only
would be glad to use some of the out-buildings for his
fattening cattle.
“We can do wi' Hawky and Daisy; it'll leave us
eight or ten pound o' butter to take to market i' sum-
mer time, and keep us fra' thinking too much, which is
what I’m dreading on as I get into years.”
“Ay,” said his wife. “Thou'll not have to go so
far afield, if it's only the Aster-Toft as is on thy hands.
And Bess will have to gie up her pride i' cheese, and
tak’ to making cream-butter. I'd allays a fancy for
trying at cream-butter, but th' whey had to be used;
else, where I come fra', they'd never ha' looked near
whey-butter.”


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 313
When Hester was left alone with Bessy, she said,
in allusion to this change of plan: –
“I’m thankful to the Lord that it is as it is: for I
were allays feared Nathan would have to gie up the
house and farm altogether, and then the lad would na'
know where to find us when he came back fra' Merikay.
He's gone there for to make his fortune, I'll be bound.
Keep up thy heart, lass, he'll be home some day; and
have sown his wild oats. Eh! but thatten's a pretty
story i' the Gospels about the Prodigal, who'd to eat
the pigs' vittle at one time, but ended i' clover in his
father's house. And I'm sure our Nathan 'll be ready
to forgive him, and love him, and make much of him,
may-be a deal more nor me, who never gave in to's
death. It 'll be liken to a resurrection to our Nathan.”
Farmer Kirkby, then, took by far the greater part
of the land belonging to Nab-end Farm; and the work
about the rest, and about the two remaining cows, was
easily done by three pairs of willing hands, with a
little occasional assistance. The Kirkby family were
pleasant enough to have to deal with. There was a
son, a stiff, grave bachelor, who was very particular
and methodical about his work, and rarely spoke to
any one. But Nathan took it into his head that John
Kirkby was looking after Bessy, and was a good deal
troubled in his mind in consequence; for it was the
first time he had to face the effects of his belief in his
son's death; and he discovered, to his own surprise,
that he had not that implicit faith, which would make
it easy for him to look upon Bessy as the wife of
another man, than the one to whom she had been
betrothed in her youth. As, however, John Kirkby
seemed in no hurry to make his intentions (if indeed


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 315
When Bessy brought the milk in from their own
cows, towards half-past five o'clock, Nathan bade her
make the doors, and not be running out i' the dark
and cold about other folk's business; and, though Bessy
was a little surprised and a good deal annoyed at his
tone, she sat down to her supper without making a re-
monstrance. It had long been Nathan's custom to look
out the last thing at night, to see “what mak’ o'
weather it wur;” and when, towards half-past eight, he
got his stick and went out — two or three steps from
the door, which opened into the house-place where they
were sitting – Hester put her hand on her niece's
shoulder and said:
“He’s gotten a touch o' the rheumatics, as twinges
him and makes him speak so sharp. I didna like to
ask thee afore him, but how's yon poor beast?”
“Very ailing, belike. John Kirkby wur off for th’
cow-doctor when I cam in. I reckon they'll have to
stop up wi't a night.”
Since their sorrows, her uncle had taken to reading
a chapter in the Bible aloud, the last thing at night.
He could not read fluently, and often hesitated long
over a word, which he miscalled at length; but the
very fact of opening the book seemed to soothe those
old bereaved parents; for it made them feel quiet and
safe in the presence of God, and took them out of the
cares and troubles of this world into that futurity
which, however dim and vague, was to their faithful
hearts as a sure and certain rest. This little quiet
time — Nathan sitting with his horn spectacles; the
tallow candle between him and the Bible, and throwing
a strong light on his reverent, earnest face; Hester
sitting on the other side of the fire, her head bowed in


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 317
and bunches of honesty in the fireplace; the best chest
of drawers, and a company-set of gaudy-coloured china,
and a bright common carpet on the floor; but all failed
to give it the aspect of the homely comfort and delicate
cleanliness of the house place. Over this parlour was
the bedroom which Benjamin had slept in when a boy
— when at home. It was kept still in a kind of
readiness for him. The bed was yet there, in which
none had slept since he had last done, eight or nine
years ago; and every now and then, the warming-pan
was taken quietly and silently up by his old mother,
and the bed thoroughly aired. But this she did in her
husband's absence, and without saying a word to any
one; nor did Bessy offer to help her, though her eyes
often filled with tears, as she saw her aunt still going
through the hopeless service. But the room had
become a receptacle for all unused things; and there
was always a corner of it appropriated to the winter's
store of apples. To the left of the house-place, as you
stood facing the fire, on the side opposite to the win-
dow and outer door, were two other doors; the one on
the right led into a kind of back kitchen, and had a
lean-to roof, and a door opening on to the farm-yard
and back premises; the left-hand door gave on the
stairs, underneath which was a closet, in which various
household treasures were kept, and beyond that the
dairy, over which Bessy slept; her little chamber
window opening just above the sloping roof of the
back kitchen. There were neither blinds nor shutters
to any of the windows, either up stairs or down; the
house was built of stone, and there was heavy frame.
work of the same material round the little casement
windows, and the long, low window of the house-place


3.18 THE CROOKED BRANCH,
was divided by what, in grander dwellings, would be
called mullions.
By nine o'clock this night of which I am speaking,
all had gone up stairs to bed: it was even later than
usual, for the burning of candles was regarded so much
in the light of an extravagance, that the household kept
early hours even for country-folk. But, somehow, this
evening, Bessy could not sleep, although, in general,
she was in deep slumber five minutes after her head
touched the pillow. Her thoughts ran on the chances
for John Kirkby's cow, and a little fear lest the dis-
order might be epidemic, and spread to their own cattle.
Across all these homely cares came a vivid, uncomfort-
able recollection of the way in which the door latch
went up and down, without any sufficient agency to
account for it. She felt more sure now, than she had
done down stairs, that it was a real movement and no
effect of her imagination. She wished that it had not
happened just when her uncle was reading, that she
might at once have gone quick to the door, and con-
vinced herself of the cause. As it was, her thoughts
ran uneasily on the supernatural; and thence to Ben-
jamin, her dear cousin and playfellow, her early lover.
She had long given him up as lost for ever to her, if
not actually dead; but this very giving him up for ever
involved a free, full forgiveness of all his wrongs to
her. She thought tenderly of him, as of one who might
have been led astray in his later years, but who existed
rather in her recollection as the innocent child, the
spirited lad, the handsome, dashing young man. If
John Kirkby's quiet attentions had ever betrayed his
wishes to Bessy — if indeed he ever had any wishes
on the subject — her first feeling would have been to


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 319
compare his weather-beaten, middle-aged face and figure
with the face and figure she remembered well, but
never more expected to see in this life. So thinking,
she became very restless, and weary of bed, and, after
long tossing and turning, ending in a belief that she
should never get to sleep at all that night, she went off
soundly and suddenly.
As suddenly was she wide awake, sitting up in bed,
listening to some noise that must have awakened her,
but which was not repeated for some time. Surely it
was in her uncle's room — her uncle was up; but, for
a minute or two, there was no further sound. Then
she heard him open his door, and go down stairs, with
hurried, stumbling steps. She now thought that her
aunt must be ill, and hastily sprang out of bed, and
was putting on her petticoat with hurried, trembling
hands, and had just opened her chamber door, when
she heard the front door undone, and a scuffle, as of the
feet of several people, and many rude, passionate words,
spoken hoarsely below the breath. Quick as thought
she understood it all — the house was lonely — her
uncle had the reputation of being well-to-do — they
had pretended to be belated, and had asked their way
or something. What a blessing that John Kirkby's
cow was sick, for there were several men watching with
him! She went back, opened her window, squeezed
herself out, slid down the lean-to roof, and ran barefoot
and breathless, to the shippon:
“John, John, for the love of God, come quick;
there's robbers in the house, and uncle and aunt 'll be
murdered!” she whispered, in terrified accents, through
the closed and barred shippon door. In a moment it
was undone, and John and the cow-doctor stood there,


320 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
ready to act, if they but understood her rightly. Again
she repeated her words, with broken, half-unintelligible
explanations of what she as yet did not rightly under-
stand.
“Front door is open, say'st thou?” said John, arm-
ing himself with a pitchfork, while the cow-doctor took
some other implement. “Then I reckon we'd best
make for that way o' getting into th’ house, and catch
'em all in a trap.”
“Run! run!” was all Bessy could say, taking hold
of John Kirkby's arm, and pulling him along with her.
Swiftly did the three run to the house, round the corner,
and in at the open front door. The men carried the
horn lantern they had been using in the shippon, and,
by the sudden oblong light that it threw, Bessy saw
the principal object of her anxiety, her uncle, lying
stunned and helpless on the kitchen floor. Her first
thought was for him; for she had no idea that her aunt
was in any immediate danger, although she heard the
noise of feet, and fierce subdued voices up stairs.
“Make th' door behind us, lass. We'll not let 'em
escape!” said brave John Kirkby, dauntless in a good
cause, though he knew not how many, there might be
above. The cow-doctor fastened and locked the door,
saying, “There!” in a defiant tone, as he put the key
in his pocket. It was to be a struggle for life or
death, or, at any rate, for effectual capture or desperate
escape. Bessy kneeled down by her uncle, who did
not speak nor give any sign of consciousness. Bessy
raised his head by drawing a pillow off the settle and
putting it under him; she longed to go for water into
the back kitchen, but the sound of a violent struggle,
and of heavy blows, and of low, hard curses spoken


322 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
it again began. She was aware of it by some subtle
vibration of the air, rather than by touch or sound.
She was sure that he who had been close to her one
minute as she knelt, was, the next, passing stealthily to-
wards the inner door which led to the staircase. She
thought he was going to join and strengthen his ac-
complices, and, with a great cry, she sprang after him;
but, just as she came to the doorway, through which
some dim portion of light from the upper chambers
came, she saw one man thrown down stairs with such
violence that he fell almost at her very feet, while the
dark, creeping figure glided suddenly away to the left,
and as suddenly entered the closet beneath the stairs.
Bessy had no time to wonder as to his purpose in so
doing, whether he had at first designed to aid his
accomplices in their desperate fight or not. He was an
enemy, a robber, that was all she knew, and she sprang
to the door of the closet, and in a trice had locked it
on the outside. And then she stood frightened, pant-
ing in that dark corner, sick with terror lest the man
who lay before her was either John Kirkby or the cow-
doctor. If it were either of those friendly two, what
would become of the other — of her uncle, her aunt,
herself? But, in a very few minutes, this wonder
was ended; her two defenders came slowly and heavily
down the stairs, dragging with them a man, fierce,
sullen, despairing — disabled with terrible blows, which
had made his face one bloody, swollen mass. As for
that, neither John nor the cow-doctor were much more
presentable. One of them bore the lantern in his teeth,
for all their strength was taken up by the weight of
the fellow they were bearing.
“Take care,” said Bessy, from her corner; “there's


THE CROOKED BRANCH, 325
“Bessy, Bessy they'll be back directly; let me out,
I say! For God's sake, let me out!” And he began to
kick violently against the panels.
“Hush, hush!” she said, sick with a terrible dread,
yet with a will strongly resisting her conviction. “Who
are you?” But she knew – knew quite well.
“Benjamin.” An oath. “Let me out, I say, and
I'll be off, and out of England by to-morrow night,
never to come back, and you'll have all my father's
money.”
“D'ye think I care for that?” said Bessy, vehe-
mently, feeling with trembling hands for the lock; “I
wish there was noan such a thing as money i' the
world, afore yo'd come to this. There, yo're free, and
I charge yo' never to let me see your face again. I'd
ne'er ha' let yo' loose but for fear o' breaking their
hearts, if yo' hanna killed them already.” But, before
she had ended her speech, he was gone — off into the
black darkness, leaving the door open wide. With
a new terror in her mind, Bessy shut it afresh – shut
it and bolted it this time. Then she sat down on the
first chair, and relieved her soul by giving a great and
exceeding bitter cry. But she knew it was no time
for giving way, and, lifting herself up with as much
effort as if each of her limbs was a heavy weight, she
went into the back kitchen, and took a drink of cold
water. To her surprise, she heard her uncle's voice,
saying feebly:
“Carry me up, and lay me by her.”
But Bessy could not carry him: she could only help
his faint exertions to walk up stairs; and, by the time
he was there, sitting panting on the first chair she
could find, John Kirkby and Atkinson returned. John


326 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
came up now to her aid. Her aunt lay across the bed
in a fainting fit, and her uncle sat in so utterly broken-
down a state that Bessy feared immediate death for
both. But John cheered her up, and lifted the old
man into his bed again, and, while Bessy tried to com-
pose poor Hester's limbs into a position of rest, John
went down to hunt about for the little store of gin,
which was always kept in a corner cupboard against
emergencies.
“They've had a sore fright,” said he, shaking his
head, as he poured a little gin and hot water into their
mouths with a teaspoon, while Bessy chafed their cold
feet; “and it and the cold have been welly too much
for 'em, poor old folk!”
He looked tenderly at them, and Bessy blessed
him in her heart for that look. -
“I maun be off. I sent Atkinson up to th’ farm
for to bring down Bob, and Jack came wi' him back
to th' shippon for to look after tother man. He began
blackguarding us all round, so Bob and Jack were
gagging him wi' bridles when I left.”
“Ne'er give heed to what he says,” cried poor Bessy,
a new panic besetting her. “Folks o' his sort are al-
lays for dragging other folks into their mischief. I'm
right glad he were well gagged.”
“Well! but what I were saying were this. Atkin
son and me will take t'other chap, who seems quiet
enough, to th’ shippon, and it 'll be one piece o' work
for to mind them, and the cow; and I'll saddle old bay
mare and ride for constables and doctor fra' High-
minster. I’ll bring Dr. Preston up to see Nathan and
Hester first, and then I reckon th' broken-legged chap


328 THE CROOKED BRANCH,
ber morning was long in coming; nor did she perceive
any change, either for the worse or the better, before
the doctor came, about eight o'clock. John Kirkby
brought him; and was full of the capture of the two
burglars.
As far as Bessy could make out, the participation
of that unnatural Third was unknown. It was a relief,
almost sickening in the revulsion it gave her from her
terrible fear, which now she felt had haunted and held
possession of her all night long, and had in fact pa-
ralysed her from thinking. Now she felt and thought
with acute and feverish vividness, owing no doubt, in
part, to the sleepless night she had passed. She felt
almost sure that her uncle (possibly her aunt too) had
recognised Benjamin; but there was a faint chance
that they had not done so, and wild horses should
never tear the secret from her, nor should any inad-
vertent word betray the fact that there had been a
third person concerned. As to Nathan, he had never
uttered a word. It was her aunt's silence that made
Bessy fear lest Hester knew, somehow, that her son
was concerned.
The doctor examined them both closely; looked
hard at the wound on Nathan's head; asked questions
which Hester answered shortly and unwillingly, and
Nathan not at all: shutting his eyes, as if even the
sight of a stranger was pain to him. Bessy replied in
their stead to all that she could answer respecting
their state; and followed the doctor down stairs with a
beating heart. When they came into the house-place,
they found John had opened the outer door to let in
some fresh air, had brushed the hearth and made up
the fire, and put the chairs and table in their right


332 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
from this loving, piteous manner, that her aunt was
conscious. Her aunt's face looked blankly up into his,
tears slowly running down from her sightless eyes,
while from time to time, when she thought herself un-
heard by any save him, she would repeat such texts
as she had heard at church in happier days, and
which she thought, in her true, simple piety, might
tend to console him. Yet, day by day, her aunt grew
more and more sad.
Three or four days before assize-time, two sum-
monses to attend the trial at York were sent to the old
people. Neither Bessy, nor John, nor Jane, could un-
derstand this; for their own notices had come long be-
fore, and they had been told that their evidence would
be enough to convict.
But alas! the fact was, that the lawyer employed to
defend the prisoners had heard from them that there
was a third person engaged, and had heard who that
third person was; and it was this advocate's business
to diminish, if possible, the guilt of his clients, by
proving that they were but tools in the hands of one
who had, from his superior knowledge of the premises
and the daily customs of the inhabitants, been the
originator and planner of the whole affair. To do this
it was necessary to have the evidence of the parents,
who, as the prisoners had said, must have recognized
the voice of the young man, their son. For no one
knew that Bessy, too, could have borne witness to his
having been present; and, as it was supposed that
Benjamin had escaped out of England, there was
no exact betrayal of him on the part of his accom-
plices.
Wondering, bewildered, and weary, the old couple


THE CROOKED BRANCH. 333
reached York, in company with John and Bessy, on
the eve of the day of trial. Nathan was still so self-
contained, that Bessy could never guess what had
been passing in his mind. He was almost passive
under his old wife's trembling caresses; he seemed
hardly conscious of them, so rigid was his de-
In eanour.
She, Bessy feared at times, was becoming childish;
for she had evidently so great and anxious a love for
her husband, that her memory seemed going in her
endeavours to melt the stonyness of his aspect and
manners; she appeared occasionally to have forgotten
why he was so changed, in her piteous little attempts
to bring him back to his former self.
“They'll, for sure, never torture them when they
see what old folks they are!” cried Bessy, on the
morning of the trial, a dim fear looming over her mind.
“They'll never be so cruel, for sure!”
But “for sure” it was so. The barrister looked up
at the judge, almost apologetically, as he saw how
hoary-headed and woful an old man was put into the
witness-box, when the defence came on, and Nathan
Huntroyd was called on for his evidence.
“It is necessary, on behalf of my clients, my lord,
that I should pursue a course which, for all other
reasons, I deplore.”
“Go on!” said the judge. “What is right and
legal must be done.” But, an old man himself, he
covered his quivering mouth with his hand as Nathan,
with grey, unmoved face, and solemn, hollow eyes,
placing his two hands on each side of the witness-box,
prepared to give his answers to questions, the nature
of which he was beginning to foresee, but would not


334 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
shrink from replying to truthfully; “the very stones”
(as he said to himself, with a kind of dulled sense
of the Eternal Justice) “rise up against such a
sinner.”
“Your name is Nathan Huntroyd, I believe?”
“It is.”
“You live at Nab-end Farm?”
“I do.”
“Do you remember the night of November the
twelfth?’”
“Yes.”
“You were awakened that night by some noise, I
believe. What was it?”
The old man's eyes fixed themselves upon his
questioner, with the look of a creature brought to bay.
That look the barrister never forgets. It will haunt
him till his dying day.
“It was a throwing up of stones against our win-
dow.”
“Did you hear it at first?”
“No.”
“What awakened you then?”
“She did.”
“And then you both heard the stones. Did you
hear nothing else?”
A long pause. Then a low, clear “Yes.”
“What?”
“Our Benjamin asking us for to let him in. She
said as it were him, leastways.”
“And you thought it was him, did you not?”
“I told her” (this time in a louder voice) “for to
get to sleep, and not to be thinking that every drunken


336 THE CROOKED BRANCH,
Nathan nodded ascent, and even that counsel was
too merciful to force him to put more into words.
“Call Hester Huntroyd.”
An old woman, with a face of which the eyes were
evidently blind, with a sweet, gentle, careworn face,
came into the witness-box, and meekly curtseyed to
the presence of those whom she had been taught to
respect — a presence she could not see.
There was something in her humble, blind aspect,
as she stood waiting to have something done to her
— what, her poor troubled mind hardly knew — that
touched all who saw her, inexpressibly. Again the
counsel apologized, but the judge could not reply in
words; his face was quivering all over, and the jury
looked uneasily at the prisoners' counsel. That gen-
tleman saw that he might go too far, and send their
sympathies off on the other side; but one or two
questions he must ask. So, hastily recapitulating
much that he had learned from Nathan, he said, “You
believed it was your son's voice asking to be let in?”
“Ay! Our Benjamin came home, I'm sure; choose
where he is gone.”
She turned her head about, as if listening for the
voice of her child, in the hushed silence of the court.
“Yes; he came home that night — and your hus-
band went down to let him in?”
“Well! I believe he did. There was a great noise
of folk down stair.”
“And you heard your son Benjamin's voice among
the others?”
“Is it to do him harm, sir?” asked she, her face
growing more intelligent and intent on the business in
hand.


338 THE CROOKED BRANCH.
son, my only child, as called out for us t' open door,
and who shouted out for to hold th’ oud woman's
throat if she did na stop her noise, when hoo’d fain
ha’ cried for her niece to help. And now yo’ve truth,
and a' th' truth, and I'll leave yo' to th' Judgment o'
God for th’ way yo’ve getten at it.”
Before night the mother was stricken with paralysis,
and lay on her death-bed. But the broken-hearted go
Home, to be comforted of God.
THE END.


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