How the Witch said there should be no Wedding.
“That Mother Goodhugh must have a care of herself,” said Sir Thomas a day or two later; and Anne let fall her work upon her knee to listen to her father’s words.
“And pray why?” said Dame Beckley, who was shaking up some strange infusion of herbs in a bottle.
“I hear strange things of her,” said Sir Thomas; “things that, as a justice, I shall be bound to stay.”
“And why?” said the dame, as she took out the stopper and had a long sniff at the contents of the bottle.
“Because they savour of witchcraft and the use of spells. His Majesty has opened a stem commission against such dealings, and as one whom he has delighted to honour I feel bound to show my zeal.”
“Fiddle-de-dee!” cried Dame Beckley; “show thy zeal by growing wiser, Thomas. Smell that!”
As the dame held the bottle beneath her lord’s nose, Anne glided out of the room, and made her way towards Mother Goodhugh’s cot, where she found the old woman ready to meet her with a suspicious look, and, with a feeling of gratified malice, told her of the words her father had let drop.
“But you could stay him, dearie,” said the old woman, with a look of terror which she could not conceal.
“Yes. But tell me—what have you done?”
“Wait, dearie, wait,” whispered the old woman. “The wedding will never be.”
“But it takes place in four days!” cried Anne. “Sir Mark actually dared to come over and tell my father.”
“And he told thee, dearie?”
“Nay, he told my mother, and she told me.”
“Four days,” said the old woman trembling; “four days. The time be short, but it will do. I tell thee the wedding will never be.”
“Can I believe thee this time, Mother Goodhugh?” cried the girl excitedly.
“Give me thy word as a lady, that I shall not be ill-treated by thy father and his people, and I swear to you the wedding shall never be.”
“There is my hand,” said Anne; and, as the old woman held it, there was a strange look on the girl’s face as she bent down and Mother Goodhugh whispered to her for a few minutes, after which she hurried from the cottage.
“And they call me witch, and think me ready to do any evil!” she muttered as she gazed after the girl; “while that young, fairly-formed creature has a heart full of devilry such as never entered mine. But it must be done—it must be done.”
She sat brooding over her cold hearth till evening: and then, as soon as it was dark, put on her cloak, took her stick, and walked cautiously to the Pool-house, where she succeeded in getting to the kitchen window unperceived, reaching in and touching Janet on the shoulder with her stick as she sat nodding near it in her chair.
The girl started, and as her eyes fell upon the face of the visitor her lips parted to utter a cry, but the peculiar look on the old woman’s face seemed to fascinate her, and she sat back gazing at her as Mother Goodhugh climbed in at the casement, and stood by her side.
“Wh-what do you want?” faltered the girl.
“I’ve come to see thee, dearie,” said the old woman, smiling. “I want to know how you be getting on.”
“But you must not stay here!” cried Janet, making an effort to recover herself. “If master knew he would drive me hence.”
“Go and tell him, then, child,” said Mother Goodhugh mockingly. “Go and tell him that Mother Goodhugh has come to ask thee about thy love affairs, and the philtre she gave thee. What? You will not? He, he, he, he! What a strange girl you are.”
“But you must not stay!” cried Janet in alarm. “If you were found here master would never forgive me.”
“He is sitting smoking and drinking in his parlour, dearie, and never comes this way after dark.”
“Yes, yes, he does!” cried the girl; “he comes sometimes to go down to the powder-cellar with a lantern.”
“What, through that door?” said Mother Goodhugh, pointing.
“Nay, nay! That be the beer cellar. That be the way to the powder-cellar,” she said, pointing to a massive door, down a couple of steps. “That be the first door, and there be another farther on at the end of the passage.”
“Lawk adear!” said Mother Goodhugh, “and aren’t you afraid, when they bring the stuff down?”
“They never bring it through here,” said the girl. “They let the little barrels down through a hole covered with a flat stone outside there amongst the trees, and master goes along with Tom Croftly to take it, in their slippers, and then comes back and locks it up.”
“Ay, and I’ll be bound to say always carries the keys in his pocket, eh!”
“No,” said the girl, shaking her head. “They hang on a nail in the passage by the door.”
“There, I don’t want to know about the powder, dearie,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “Oh, the horrible stuff! I always begin to curse when I hear it mentioned, so we won’t talk about it. I came to see you, and talk about love, and—”
“But you mustn’t stop, indeed you mustn’t stop,” whispered Janet. “Suppose Mistress Mace should come?”
“But she won’t come, dearie. She’s in the corner of the parlour window with the handsome young spark from town.”
“How do you know?” cried Janet. “How do I know, child! He-he-he! Do you think there’s anything I don’t know? You came to me because I was the wise woman, eh?”
“Ye-es,” faltered the girl. “Well, didn’t you expect me to be wise, child, eh?”
Janet shrank as far away from her as she could, and stared at her, round of eye and parted of mouth.
“Look here, dearie,” whispered the old woman, “don’t try to deceive me. I’m such a good friend, but such a bad enemy. You wouldn’t like to make me angry, and set me cursing and ill-wishing you.”
“N-no,” faltered Janet, who began to be horribly frightened of the penetrating eyes that seemed to read her inmost thoughts.
“No, of course you would not. How often dids’t say Mas’ Cobbe went down into the powder-cellar?”
“Only once a month,” said the girl, “when they’ve finished working.”
“Then he’ll be going down directly?”
“Oh, no; they finished there last week, and it will be three weeks, just,” faltered Janet.
“Dear me, will it?” said the old woman. “But, as I was saying, it would be so horrible if I cursed you, though it is not me, my dear, but something in me that does it. It be an evil spirit,” she whispered, “and I’ve known girls as handsome as you lose their round, red cheeks, and soft, smooth skin, and their eyes have grown sunken, and their foreheads wrinkled. It be very horrible, my dear, but I couldn’t help it.”
Janet tried to get up and go away, but her visitor’s fierce, sharp eyes seemed to hold her back in her seat, a fact which Mother Goodhugh well knew and rejoiced in.
It was the only pleasure the old woman had, and she felt at times like this how it recompensed her for the dread she felt of the stringent laws. A curious smile played round her thin lips, and Janet shuddered as the old woman leaned forward till her face was close to that of her victim.
“How is the love going on, dearie?” she whispered.
“Don’t—ask—me,” faltered the girl.
“You didn’t take the stuff, dearie, to give yourself ease?”
“How—how did you know?”
“How did I know? He-he-he!” laughed the old woman, with a cacchination that was enough to freeze the girl’s blood. “I know, child, and you can’t deceive me. Why didn’t you take it?”
“I—I was afraid,” stammered Janet. “Mary Goodsell took some once, but it killed her and her baby too.”
“Afraid? Stuff! Afraid to give yourself ease when Mistress Mace was torturing you by her love-makings with the fine spark who played with you, and pretended to love you.”
“He didn’t pretend,” said the girl, indignantly. “He did love me till she came between.”
“Ah, yes, child, I suppose so; but she be a white witch and very strong, and she would come between and master him. She could lead him wherever she liked, and win him to love her with her spells. Don’t trouble your poor, dear heart about him any more, my child, but take the drops, and be happy.”
“I—I don’t think I dare,” faltered the girl.
“Dare? Pish! child, you be too brave and handsome a girl not to dare. It be a pity, too, that she should have come between,” said Mother Goodhugh, musingly. “Ah! I have known cases where handsome, noble gentlemen have come down into country places and seen village girls, not so beautiful as thou, child, and married them, and taken them away; and a few years after they have come back looking fine ladies, with their diamonds, and jewels, and carriages, and servants.”
Janet’s eyes sparkled as this indirect piece of flattery went on.
“I’ll take it,” she said hastily; “I’ll take it.”
“Take it? Of course you will, dearie!” cried Mother Goodhugh; “and now look here, my child. I want something of thine to complete a little spell I have at work. Thou hadst a ribbon round thy neck when thou earnest to me.”
“Yes,” said Janet, “a red one; Mas’ Wat Kilby gave it to me.”
“Nay, then, child, that will not do. I only want an inch cut from it by thy left hand; but if it be tainted by an old man’s love it would not do. Let me see. Thou hast not anything given thee by the young court gallant?”
“No,” said the girl. Then, with a hasty glance around, she whispered “I have a piece of lace he gave to Mistress Mace, and which she would not wear.”
“That will do, child; go, get me the tiniest scrap of that, and I will weave a spell that shall bring thee happiness and peace.”
Janet rose and opened the door, and listened.
“They be all in the room,” she whispered, as she closed the door again.
“That be well. Be quick, child, and let me get out of this place.”
“Thou wilt not move while I am gone.”
“Nay, nay, child, not I; but harkye, leave the door ajar while thou art gone up stairs, so that if I hear a step that be not thine I may flee.”
Janet looked doubtful for a moment, and then turned to go.
“I need not bring the whole piece?” she whispered.
“Faith, no, child; I’ll not rob you of it. The tiniest scrap be all I want. It must be something that the knight has touched.”
Janet nodded, and slipped out of the room, but ere she reached the staircase Mother Goodhugh was at the passage door listening; and, as the last stair creaked beneath the weak girl’s tread, the old woman had glided into the passage, peered about by the light of the rush-candle burning on a stand, and uttered a grunt of disappointment. The next moment, though, she saw what she wanted, in the shape of a couple of keys hanging high up, close to the ceiling; and, stepping on a chair, she just reached them, and, lightly crept back along the passage to sit down in the kitchen, panting from exertion and excitement combined.
Before she could compose herself Janet was back, too much excited herself to notice the old woman’s hurried breathings.
“I’ve got it,” she cried, producing a handsome piece of lace. “I must cut some off here. Be quick; I be in such a fright for fear some one should come.”
“That will do, dearie,” said the old woman, tearing off a scrap from one end. “There, put it away, and let me begone. Take the drops, child, and give thyself ease. You don’t care for such love as his.”
Janet did not reply, but gladly opened the door to get rid of her unwelcome visitor, who stepped out into the dark night, and hurried away across the little bridge, and into the lane, where she turned to shake her stick at the peaceful-looking house, with its lighted windows.
“Now we shall see—now we shall see!” she cried. “Two ways open, and my sayings coming to pass. There will be no wedding now.”