Mr. Robson's first business was to examine Andrew King, a perfectly honest, well-behaved lad, whom he had known from his cradle. He was candid—up to a point. He had found her on the top of Knapp Fell, he said; she had been with others, who ill-treated her. What others? Others of her sort. Fairies, he said, who lived up there. He pressed him about this. Fairies? Did he really believe in such beings? Like all country people he spoke about these things with the utmost difficulty, and when confronted by worldly wisdom, became dogged. He said how could he help it when here was one? Mr. Robson told him that he was begging the question, but he looked very blank. To the surprise of the minister, old King—old George King, the grandfather—had no objections to make to the suggestion of fairies on Knapp Fell. He could not say, there was no telling; Knapp was a known place; strange things were recorded of the forest. Miranda, his daughter-in-law, was always a self-contained woman, with an air about her of being forewarned. He instanced her, and the minister asked her several questions. Being pressed, she finally said, "Sir, my son is as likely right as wrong. We must all make up our own minds." There that matter had to be left.
Andrew said that he had followed the fairies from the tarn on Lammer Fell into Knapp Forest. They had run away from him, taking this girl of his, as he supposed, with them. He had followed them because he meant to have her. They knew that, so had run. Why did he want her? He said that he had seen her before. When? Oh, long ago—when he had been up there alone. He had seen her face among the trees for a moment. They had been hurting her; she looked at him, she was frightened, but couldn't cry out—only look and ask. He had never forgotten her; her looks had called him often, and he had kept his eyes wide open. Now, when he had found her again, he determined to have her. And at last, he said, he had got her. He had had to fight for her, for they had been about him like hell-cats and had jumped at him as if they would tear him to pieces, and screamed and hissed like cats. But when he had got her in his arms they had all screamed together, once—like a howling wind—and had flown away.
What next? Here he became obstinate, as if foreseeing what was to be. What next? He had married her. Married her! How could he marry a fairy on the top of Knapp Fell? Was there a church there, by chance? Had a licence been handy? "Let me see her lines, Andrew," Mr. Robson had said somewhat sternly in conclusion. His answer had been to lift up her left hand and show the thin third finger. It carried a ring, made of plaited rush. "I put that on her," he said, "and said all the words over her out of the book." "And you think you have married her, Andrew?" It was put to him ex cathedrâ. He grew very red and was silent; presently he said, "Well, sir, I do think so. But she's not my wife yet, if that's what you mean." The good gentleman felt very much relieved. It was satisfactory to him that he could still trust his worthy young parishioner.
Entirely under the influence of Miranda King, he found the family unanimous for a real wedding. To that there were two objections to make. He could not put up the banns of a person without a name, and would not marry a person unbaptised. Now, to baptise an adult something more than sponsors are requisite; there must be voluntary assent to the doctrines of religion by the postulant. In this case, how to be obtained? He saw no way, since it was by no means plain to him that the girl could understand a word that was said. He left the family to talk it over among themselves, saying, as he went out of the door, that his confidence in their principles was so strong that he was sure they would sanction no step which would lead the two young people away from the church door.
In the morning Miranda King came to him with a report that matters had been arranged and only needed his sanction. "I can trust my son, and see him take her with a good conscience," she told him. "She's not one of his people, but she's one of mine; and what I have done she can do, and is willing to do."
The clergyman was puzzled. "What do you mean by that, Mrs. King?" he asked her. "What are your people? How do they differ from mine, or your husband's?"
She hesitated. "Well, sir, in this way. She hasn't got your tongue, nor my son's tongue."
"She has none at all," said the minister; but Miranda replied, "She can talk without her tongue."
"Yes, my dear," he said, "but I cannot."
"But I can," was her answer; "she can talk to me—and will talk to you; but not yet. She's dumb for a season, she's struck so. My son will give her back her tongue—by-and-by."