“but all my years have seemed so long;
and toil like mine is wondrous dreary;
and every body thinks me strong:
and i’m aweary.”
m.a. chaplin.
“heigh-ho! it’s a weary life, gib—a weary life!”
the words came from an old woman, and were addressed to a cat. neither of them was an attractive-looking object. the old woman was very old, having a face all over minute wrinkles, a pair of red eyes much sunken, and the semblance of a beard under her chin. the cat, a dark tabby, looked as if he had been in the wars, and had played his part valiantly. his coat, however, was less dilapidated than the old woman’s garments, which seemed to be composed mainly of disconnected rags of all colours and shapes. she sat on a three-legged stool, beside a tiny hearth, on which burned a small fire of sticks.
“nobody cares for us, gib: nobody! they call me a witch—the saints know why, save that i am old and poor. i never did hurt to any, and i’ve given good herb medicines to the women about; and if i do mutter a few outlandish words over them, what harm does it do? they mean nothing; and they make the foolish girls fancy i know something more than they do, and so i get a silver penny here, or a handful of eggs there, and we make shift to live.”
she spoke aloud, though in a low voice, as those often do who live alone; and the cat rose and rubbed himself against her, with a soft “me-ew!”
“well, gib! didst thou want to remind me that so long as thou art alive, i shall have one friend left? poor puss!” and she stroked her uncomely companion.
“how the wind whistles! well, it is cold to-night! there’ll be nobody coming now to consult the wise woman. we may as well lie down, gib—it’s the only warm place, bed is. holy saints! what’s that?”
she listened intently for a moment, and gib, with erect tail, went to the door and smelt under it. then he looked back at his mistress, and said once more,—“me-ew!”
“somebody there, is there? a bit frightened, i shouldn’t wonder. come in, then—there’s nought to fear,”—and she opened the crazy door of her hut. “well, can’t you come in—must i lift you up? why, what—mary, mother!”
half lifting, half dragging, for very little strength was left her, the old woman managed to pull her visitor inside. then she bolted the door, and stooping down, with hands so gentle that they might have been an infant’s, softly drew away from a young scarred face the snow-saturated hair.
“ay, i see, my dear, i see! don’t you try to speak. i can guess what you are, and whence you come. i heard tell what had happened. don’t you stir, now, but just drink a drop of this warm mallow tea—the finest thing going for one in your condition. i can’t give you raiment, for i’ve none for myself, but we’ll see to-morrow if i can’t get hold o’ somewhat: you’ve not been used to wear rags. i’ll have ’em, if i steal ’em. now, don’t look at me so reproachful-like! well, then, i’ll beg ’em, if it worries you. oh, you’re safe here, my dear! you’ve no need to look round to see if no villains is a-coming after you. they’ll not turn up in these quarters, take my word for it. not one o’ them would come near the witch’s hut after nightfall. but i’m no witch, my dearie—only a poor old woman as god and the blessed saints have quite forgot, and folks are feared of me.”
“the lord never forgets,” the parched lips tried to say.
“don’t he? hasn’t he forgot both you and me, now?”
“no—never!”
“well, well, my dear! lie still, and you shall tell me any thing you will presently. have another sup!—just one at once, and often—you’ll soon come round. i know some’at about herbs and such-like, if i know nought else. see, let me lay this bundle of straw under your head; isn’t that more comfortable, now? poor thing, now what are you a-crying for?—does your face pain you bad? i’ll lay some herbs to it, and you won’t have so much as a scar there when they’ve done their work. ay, i know some’at about herbs, i do! deary me, for sure!—poor thing, poor thing!”
“the lord bless you!”
“child, you’re the first that has blessed me these forty years! and i never hear that name. folks take me for one of sathanas’ servants, and they never speak to me of—that other. i reckon they fancy i should mount the broomstick and fly through the chimney, if they did. eh me!—and time was i was a comely young maid—as young and well-favoured as you, my dear: eh dear, dear, to think how long it is since! i would i could pull you a bit nearer the fire; but i’ve spent all my strength—and that’s nought much—in hauling of you in. but you’re safe, at any rate; and i’ll cover you up with straw—i’ve got plenty of that, if i have not much else. them villains, to use a young maid so!—or a wife, whichever you be. and they say i’m in league with the devil! i never got so near him as they be.”
“i am a maid.”
“well, and that’s the best thing you can be. don’t you be in a hurry to change it. come, now, i’ll set on that sup o’ broth was given me at the green house; you’ll be ready to drink it by it’s hot. well, now, it’s like old times and pleasant, having a bit o’ company to speak to beside gib here. what’s your name, now, i wonder?”
“ermine.”
“ay, ay. well, mine’s haldane—old haldane, the wise woman—i’m known all over oxfordshire, and berkshire too. miles and miles they come to consult me. oh, don’t look alarmed, my pretty bird! you sha’n’t see one of them if you don’t like. there’s a sliding screen behind here that i can draw, and do by times, when i want to fright folks into behaving themselves; i just draw it out, and speak from behind it, in a hollow voice, and don’t they go as white!—i’ll make a cosy straw bed for you behind it, and never a soul of ’em ’ll dare to look in on you—no, not the justice himself, trust me. i know ’em: lords, and constables, and foresters, and officers—i can make every mother’s son of ’em shiver in his shoes, till you’d think he had the ague on him. but you sha’n’t, my dear: you’re as safe as if the angels was rocking you. maybe they’ll want to come with you: but they’ll feel strange here. when you can talk a bit without hurting of you, you shall tell me how you got here.”
“i lost my way in the snow.”
“well, no wonder! was there many of you?”
“about thirty.”
“and all served like you?”
“yes, except my brother: he was our leader, and they served him worse. i do not think the children were branded.”
“children!”
“ay, there were eight children with us.”
“one minds one’s manners when one has the angels in company, or else maybe i should speak my mind a bit straight. and what was it for, child?”
“they said we were heretics.”
“i’ll be bound they did! but what had you done?”
“my brother and some others had preached the gospel of christ in the villages round, and further away.”
“what mean you by that, now?”
“the good news that men are sinners, and that jesus died for sinners.”
“ah! i used to know all about that once. but now—he’s forgotten me.”
“no, never, never, mother haldane! it is thou who hast forgotten him. he sent me to thee to-night to tell thee so.”
“gently now, my dear! keep still. don’t you use up your bit of strength for a worthless old woman, no good to any body. there ain’t nobody in the world as cares for me, child. no, there ain’t nobody!”
“mother haldane, i think christ cared for you on his cross; and he cares for you now in heaven. he wanted somebody to come and tell you so; and nobody did, so he drove me here. you’ll let me tell you all about it, won’t you?”
“softly, my dear—you’ll harm yourself! ay, you shall tell me any thing you will, my snow-bird, when you’re fit to do it; but you must rest a while first.”
there was no sleep that night for mother haldane. all the long winter night she sat beside ermine, feeding her at short intervals, laying her herb poultices on the poor brow, covering up the chilled body from which it seemed as if the shivering would never depart. more and more silent grew the old woman as time went on, only now and then muttering a compassionate exclamation as she saw more clearly all the ill that had been done. she kept up the fire all night, and made a straw bed, as she had promised, behind the screen, where the invalid would be sheltered from the draught, and yet warm, the fire being just on the other side of the screen. to this safe refuge ermine was able to drag herself when the morning broke.
“you’ll be a fine cure, dearie!” said the old woman, looking on her with satisfaction. “you’ll run like a hare yet, and be as rosy as robin-run-by-the-hedge.”
“i wonder why i am saved,” said ermine in a low voice. “i suppose all the rest are with god now. i thought i should have been there too by this time. perhaps he has some work for me to do:—it may be that he has chosen you, and i am to tell you of his goodness and mercy.”
“you shall tell any thing you want, dearie. you’re just like a bright angel to old mother haldane. i’m nigh tired of seeing frightened faces. it’s good to have one face that’ll look at you quiet and kind; and nobody never did that these forty years. where be your friends, my maid? you’ll want to go to them, of course, when you’re fit to journey.”
“i have no friends but one,” said the girl softly: “and he is with me now. i shall go to him some day, when he has done his work in me and by me. as to other earthly friends, i would not harm the few i might mention, by letting their names be linked with mine, and they would be afraid to own me. for my childhood’s friends, they are all over-sea. i have no friend save god and you.”
when ermine said, “he is with me now,” the old woman had glanced round as if afraid of seeing some unearthly presence. at the last sentence she rose—for she had been kneeling by the girl—with a shake of her head, and went outside the screen, muttering to herself.
“nobody but the snow-bird would ever link them two together! folks think i’m sathanas’ thrall.”
she put more sticks on the fire, muttering while she did so.
“‘goodness and mercy!’ eh, deary me! there’s not been much o’ that for the old witch. folks are feared of even a white witch, and i ain’t a black ’un. ay, feared enough. they’ll give me things, for fear. but nobody loves me—no, nobody loves me!”
with a vessel of hot broth in her hands, she came back to the niche behind the screen.
“now, my dearie, drink it up. i must leave you alone a while at after. i’m going out to beg a coverlet and a bit more victuals. you’re not afeared to be left? there’s no need, my dear—never a whit. the worst outlaw in all the forest would as soon face the devil himself as look behind this screen. but i’ll lock you in if you like that better.”
“as you will, mother haldane. the lord will take care of me, in the way he sees best for me, and most for his glory.”
“i’ll lock you in. it’ll not be so hard for him then. some’at new, bain’t it, for the like o’ me to think o’ helping him?”
ermine answered only by a smile. let the old woman learn to come nigh to god, she thought, however imperfectly; other items could be put right in time.
it was nearly three hours before haldane returned, and she came so well laden that she had some work to walk. a very old fur coverlet hung over her left arm, while on her right was a basket that had seen hard service in its day.
“see you here, dearie!” she said, holding them up to the gaze of her guest. “look you at all i’ve got for you. i didn’t steal a bit of it—i saw from your face you wouldn’t like things got that way. here’s a fine happing of fur to keep you warm; and i’ve got a full dozen of eggs given me, and a beef-bone to make broth, and a poke o’ meal: and they promised me a cape at the green house, if i bring ’em some herbs they want. we shall get along grandly, you’ll see. i’ve picked up a fine lot of chestnuts, too,—but them be for me; the other things be for you. i’ll set the bone on this minute; it’s got a goodly bit o’ meat on it.”
“you are very good to me, mother haldane. but you must take your share of the good things.”
“never a whit, my dearie! i got ’em all for you. there, now!”
she spread the fur coverlet over ermine, wrapping her closely in it, and stood a moment to enjoy the effect.
“ain’t that warm, now? oh, i know where to go for good things! trust the wise woman for that! can you sleep a while, my dear? let me put you on a fresh poultice, warm and comforting, and then you’ll try, won’t you? i’ll not make no more noise than gib here, without somebody comes in, and then it’s as may be.”
she made her poultice, and put it on, covered ermine well, made up the fire, and took her seat on the form, just outside the screen, while ermine tried to sleep. but sleep was coy, and would not visit the girl’s eyes. her state of mind was strangely quiescent and acquiescent in all that was done to her or for her. perhaps extreme weakness had a share in this; but she felt as if sorrow and mourning were as far from her as was active, tumultuous joy. calm thankfulness and satisfaction with god’s will seemed to be the prevailing tone of her mind. neither grief for the past nor anxiety for the future had any place in it. her soul was as a weaned child.
as haldane sat by the fire, and ermine lay quiet but fully awake on the other side of the screen, a low tap came on the door.
“enter!” said haldane in a hollow voice, quite unlike the tone she used to ermine: for the wise woman was a ventriloquist, and could produce terrifying effects thereby.
the visitor proved to be a young woman, who brought a badly-sprained wrist for cure. she was treated with an herb poultice, over which the old woman muttered an inaudible incantation; and having paid a bunch of parsnips as her fee, she went away well satisfied. next came a lame old man, who received a bottle of lotion. the third applicant wanted a charm to make herself beautiful. she was desired to wash herself once a day in cold spring water, into which she was to put a pinch of a powder with which the witch furnished her. while doing so, she was to say three times over—
“win in, white! wend out, black!
bring to me that i do lack.
wend out, black! win in, white!
sweet and seemly, fair to sight.”
the young lady, whose appearance might certainly have been improved by due application of soap and water, departed repeating her charm diligently, having left behind her as payment a brace of rabbits.
a short time elapsing, before any fresh rap occurred, haldane went to look at her patient.
“well, my dear, and how are you getting on? not asleep, i see. look at them rabbits! i can make you broth enough now. get my living this way, look you. and it’s fair too, for i gives ’em good herbs. fine cures i make by times, i can tell you.”
“i wondered what you gave the last,” said ermine.
the old woman set her arms akimbo and laughed.
“eh, i get lots o’ that sort. it’s a good wash they want, both for health and comeliness; and i make ’em take it that way. the powder’s nought—it’s the wash does it, look you: but they’d never do it if i told ’em so. mum, now! there’s another.”
and dropping her voice to a whisper, haldane emerged from the screen, and desired the applicant to enter.
it was a very handsome young woman who came in, on whose face the indulgence of evil passions—envy, jealousy, and anger—had left as strong a mark as beauty. she crossed herself as she stepped over the threshold.
“have you a charm that will win hearts?” she asked.
“whose heart do you desire to win?” was the reply.
“that of wigan the son of egglas.”
“has it strayed from you?”
“i have never had it. he loves brichtiva, on the other side of the wood, and he will not look on me. i hate her. i want to beguile his heart away from her.”
“what has she done to you?”
“done!” cried the girl, with a flash of her eyes. “done! she is fair and sweet, and she has won wigan’s love. that is what she has done to me.”
“and you love wigan?”
“i care nothing for wigan. i hate brichtiva. i want to be revenged on her.”
“i can do nothing for you,” answered haldane severely. “revenge is the business of the black witch, not the wise woman who deals in honest simples and harmless charms. go home and say thy prayers, maiden, and squeeze the black drop out of thine heart, that thou fall not into the power of the evil one. depart!”
this interview quite satisfied ermine that haldane was no genuine witch of the black order. however dubious her principles might be in some respects, she had evidently distinct notions of right and wrong, and would not do what she held wicked for gain.
other applicants came at intervals through the day. there were many with burns, scalds, sprains, or bruises, nearly all of which haldane treated with herbal poultices, or lotions; some with inward pain, to whom she gave bottles of herbal drinks. some wanted charms for all manner of purposes—to make a horse go, induce plants to grow, take off a spell, or keep a lover true. a few asked to have their fortunes told, and wonderful adventures were devised for them. after all the rest, when it began to grow dusk, came a man muffled up about the face, and evidently desirous to remain unknown.
the white witch rested her hands on the staff which she kept by her, partly for state and partly for support, and peered intently at the half-visible face of the new-comer.
“have you a charm that will keep away evil dreams?” was the question that was asked in a harsh voice.
“it is needful,” replied haldane in that hollow voice, which seemed to be her professional tone, “that i should know what has caused them.”
“you a witch, and ask that?” was the sneering answer.
“i ask it for your own sake,” said haldane coldly. “confession of sin is good for the soul.”
“when i lack shriving, i will go to a priest. have you any such charm?”
“answer my question, and you shall have an answer to yours.”
the visitor hesitated. he was evidently unwilling to confess.
“you need not seek to hide from me,” resumed haldane, “that the wrong you hold back from confessing is a deed of blood. the only hope for you is to speak openly.”
the silence continued unbroken for a moment, during which the man seemed to be passing through a mental conflict. at length he said, in a hoarse whisper—
“i never cared for such things before. i have done it many a time,—not just this, but things that were quite as—well, bad, if you will. they never haunted me as this does. but they were men, and these—get rid of the faces for me! i must get rid of those terrible faces.”
“if your confession is to be of any avail to you, it must be complete,” said haldane gravely. “of whose faces do you wish to be rid?”
“it’s a woman and a child,” said the man, his voice sinking lower every time he spoke, yet it had a kind of angry ring in it, as if he appealed indignantly against some injustice. “there were several more, and why should these torment me? nay, why should they haunt me at all? i only did my duty. there be other folks they should go to—them that make such deeds duty. i’m not to blame—but i can’t get rid of those faces! take them away, and i’ll give you silver—gold—only take them away!”
the probable solution of the puzzle struck haldane as she sat there, looking earnestly into the agitated features of her visitor.
“you must confess all,” she said, “the names and every thing you know. i go to mix a potion which may help you. bethink you, till i come again, of all the details of your sin, that you may speak honestly and openly thereof.”
and she passed behind the screen. one glance at the white face of the girl lying there told haldane that her guess was true. she knelt down, and set her lips close to ermine’s ear.
“you know the voice,” she whispered shortly. “who is he?”
“the bishop’s sumner, who arrested us.”
“and helped to thrust you forth at the gate?”
ermine bowed her head. haldane rose, and quickly mixing in a cup a little of two strong decoctions of bitter herbs, she returned to her visitor.
“drink that,” she said, holding out the cup, and as he swallowed the bitter mixture, she muttered—
“evil eye be stricken blind!
cords about thy heart unwind!
tell the truth, and shame the fiend!”
the sumner set down the cup with a wry face.
“mother, i will confess all save the names, which i know not. i am sumner of my lord of lincoln, and i took these german heretics four months gone, and bound them, and cast them into my lord’s prison. and on sunday, when they were tried, i guarded them through the town, and thrust them out of the east gate. did i do any more than my duty? there were women and little children among them, and they went to perish. they must all be dead by now, methinks, for no man would dare to have compassion on them, and the bitter cold would soon kill men so weak already with hunger. yet they were heretics, accursed of god and men: but their faces were like the faces of the angels that are in heaven. two of those faces—a mother and a little child—will never away from me. i know not why nor how, but they made me think of another winter night, when there was no room for our lady and her holy child among men on earth. oh take away those faces! i can bear no more.”
“did they look angrily at thee?”
“angry! i tell you they were like the angels. i was pushing them out at the gate—i never thought of any thing but getting rid of heretics—when she turned, and the child looked up on me—such a look! i shall behold it till i die, if you cannot rid me of it.”
“my power extends not to angels,” replied haldane.
“can you do nought for me, then?” he asked in hopeless accents. “must i feel for ever as herod the king felt, when he had destroyed the holy innocents? i am not worse than others—why should they torture me?”
“punishment must always follow sin.”
“sin! is it any sin to punish a heretic? father dolfin saith it is a shining merit, because they are god’s enemies, and destroy men’s souls. i have not sinned. it must be satan that torments me thus; it can only be he, since he is the father of heretics, and they go straight to him. can’t you buy him off? i ’ll give you any gold to get rid of those faces! save me from them if you can!”
“i cannot. i have no power in such a case as thine. get thee to the priest and shrive thee, thou miserable sinner, for thy help must come from heaven and not from earth.”
“the priest! shrive me for obeying the bishop, and bringing doom upon the heretics! nay, witch!—art thou so far gone down the black road that thou reckonest such good works to be sins?”
and the sumner laughed bitterly.
“it is thy confession of sin wherewith i deal,” answered haldane sternly. “it is thy conscience, not mine, whereon it lieth heavy. who is it that goeth down the black road—the man that cannot rest for the haunting of dead faces, or the poor, harmless, old woman, that bade him seek peace from the church of god?”
“the church would never set that matter right,” said the sumner, half sullenly, as he rose to depart.
“then there is but one other hope for thee,” said a clear low voice from some unseen place: “get thee to him who is the very head of the church of god, and who died for thee and for all christian men.”
the sumner crossed himself several times over, not waiting for the end of one performance before he began another.
“dame mary, have mercy on us!” he cried; “was that an angel that spake?”
“an evil spirit would scarcely have given such holy counsel,” gravely responded haldane.
“never expected to hear angels speak in a witch’s hut!” said the astonished sumner. “pray you, my lord angel—or my lady angela, if so be—for your holy intercession for a poor sinner.”
“better shalt thou have,” replied the voice, “if thou wilt humbly rest thy trust on christ our lord, and seek his intercession.”
“you see well,” added haldane, “that i am no evil thing, else would good spirits not visit me.”
the humbled sumner laid two silver pennies in her hand, and left the hut with some new ideas in his head.
“well, my dear, you’ve a brave heart!” said haldane, when the sound of his footsteps had died away. “i marvel you dared speak. it is well he took you for an angel; but suppose he had not, and had come round the screen to see? when i told you the worst outlaw in the forest would not dare to look in on you, i was not speaking of them. they stick at nothing, commonly.”
“if he had,” said ermine quietly, “the lord would have known how to protect me. was i to leave a troubled soul with the blessed truth untold, because harm to my earthly life might arise thereby?”
“but, my dear, you don’t think he’ll be the better?”
“if he be not, the guilt will not rest on my head.”
the dark deepened, and the visitors seemed to have done coming. haldane cooked a rabbit for supper for herself and ermine, not forgetting gib. she had bolted the door for the night, and was fastening the wooden shutter which served for a window, when a single tap on the door announced a late applicant for her services. haldane opened the tiny wicket, which enabled her to speak without further unbarring when she found it convenient.
“folks should come in the day,” she said.
“didn’t dare!” answered a low whisper, apparently in the voice of a young man. “can you find lost things?”
“that depends on the planets,” replied haldane mysteriously.
“but can’t you rule the planets?”
“no; they rule me, and you too. however, come within, and i will see what i can do for you.”
unbarring the door, she admitted a muffled man, whose face was almost covered by a woollen kerchief evidently arranged for that purpose.
“what have you lost?” asked the wise woman.
“the one i loved best,” was the unexpected answer.
“man, woman, or child?”
“a maiden, who went forth the morrow of saint lucian, by the east gate of oxford, on the dorchester road. if you can, tell me if she be living, and where to seek her.”
haldane made a pretence of scattering a powder on the dying embers of her wood-fire. (note 1.)
“the charm will work quicker,” she said, “if i know the name of the maiden.”
“ermine.”
haldane professed to peer into the embers.
“she is a foreigner,” she remarked.
“ay, you have her.”
“a maiden with fair hair, a pale soft face, blue eyes, and a clear, gentle voice.”
“that’s it!—where is she?”
“she is still alive.”
“thanks be to all the saints! where must i go to find her?”
“the answer is, stay where you are.”
“stay! i cannot stay. i must find and succour her.”
“does she return your affection?”
“that’s more than i can say. i’ve never seen any reason to think so.”
“but you love her?”
“i would have died for her!” said the young man, with an earnest ring in his voice. “i have perilled my life, and the priests say, my soul. all this day have i been searching along the dorchester way, and have found every one of them but two—her, and one other. i did my best, too, to save her and hers before the blow fell.”
“what would you do, if you found her?”
“take her away to a safe place, if she would let me, and guard her there at the risk of my life—at the cost, if need be.”
“the maid whom you seek,” said haldane, after a further examination of the charred sticks on the hearth, “is a pious and devout maiden; has your life been hitherto fit to mate with such?”
“whatever i have been,” was the reply, “i would give her no cause for regret hereafter. a man who has suffered as i have has no mind left for trifling. she should do what she would with me.”
haldane seemed to hesitate whether she should give further information or not.
“can’t you trust me?” asked the young man sorrowfully. “i have done ill deeds in my life, but one thing i can say boldly,—i never yet told a lie. oh, tell me where to go, if my love yet lives? can’t you trust me?”
“i can,” said a voice which was not haldane’s. “i can, stephen.”
stephen stared round the hut as if the evidence of his ears were totally untrustworthy. haldane touched him on the shoulder with a smile.
“come!” she said.
the next minute stephen was kneeling beside ermine, covering her hand with kisses, and pouring upon her all the sweetest and softest epithets which could be uttered.
“they are all gone, sweet heart,” he said, in answer to her earnest queries. “and the priests may say what they will, but i believe they are in heaven.”
“but that other, stephen? you said, me and one other. one of the men, i suppose?”
“that other,” said stephen gently, “that other, dear, is rudolph.”
“what can have become of him?”
“he may have strayed, or run into some cottage. that i cannot find him may mean that he is alive.”
“or that he died early enough to be buried,” she said sadly.
“the good lord would look to the child,” said haldane unexpectedly. “he is either safe with him, or he will tell you some day what has become of him.”
“you’re a queer witch!” said stephen, looking at her with some surprise.
“i’m not a witch at all. i’m only a harmless old woman who deals in herbs and such like, but folks make me out worse than i am. and when every body looks on you as black, it’s not so easy to keep white. if others shrink from naming god to you, you get to be shy of it too. men and women have more influence over each other than they think. for years and years i’ve felt as if my soul was locked up in the dark, and could not get out: but this girl, that i took in because she needed bodily help, has given me better help than ever i gave her—she has unlocked the door, and let the light in on my poor smothered soul. now, young man, if you’ll take an old woman’s counsel—old women are mostly despised, but they know a thing or two, for all that—you’ll just let the maid alone a while. she couldn’t be safer than she is here; and she’d best not venture forth of the doors till her hurts are healed, and the noise and talk has died away. do you love her well enough to deny yourself for her good? that’s the test of real love, and there are not many who will stand it.”
“tell me what you would have me do, and i’ll see,” answered stephen with a smile.
“can you stay away for a month or two?”
“well, that’s ill hearing. but i reckon i can, if it is to do any good to ermine.”
“if you keep coming here,” resumed the shrewd old woman, “folks will begin to ask why. and if they find out why, it won’t be good for you or ermine either. go home and look after your usual business, and be as like your usual self as you can. the talk will soon be silenced if no fuel be put to it. and don’t tell your own mother what you have found.”
“i’ve no temptation to do that,” answered stephen gravely. “my mother has been under the mould this many a year.”
“well, beware of any friend who tries to ferret it out of you—ay, and of the friends who don’t try. sometimes they are the more treacherous of the two. let me know where you live, and if you are wanted i will send for you. do you see this ball of grey wool? if any person puts that into your hand, whenever and however, come here as quick as you can. till then, keep away.”
“good lack! but you won’t keep me long away?”
“i shall think of her, not of you,” replied haldane shortly. “and the more you resent that, the less you love.”
after a moment’s struggle with his own thoughts, stephen said, “you’re right, mother. i’ll stay away till you send for me.”
“those are the words of a true man,” said haldane, “if you have strength to abide by them. remember, the test of love is not sweet words, but self-sacrifice; and the test of truth is not bold words, but patient endurance.”
“i’m not like to forget it. you bade me tell you where i live? i am one of the watchmen in the castle of oxford; but i am to be found most days from eleven to four on duty at the osney gate of the castle. only, i pray you to say to whomsoever you make your messenger, that my brother’s wife—he is porter at the chief portal—is not to be trusted. she has a tongue as long as the way from here to oxford, and curiosity equal to our mother eve’s or greater. put yon ball of wool in her hand, and she’d never take a wink of sleep till she knew all about it.”
“i trust no man till i have seen him, and no woman till i have seen through her,” said haldane.
“well, she’s as easy to see through as a church window. ermine knows her. if you must needs trust any one, my cousin derette is safe; she is in saint john’s anchorhold. but i’d rather not say too much of other folks.”
“o stephen, mother isel!”
“aunt isel would never mean you a bit of harm, dear heart, i know that. but she might let something out that she did not mean; and if a pair of sharp ears were in the way, it would be quite as well she had not the chance. she has carried a sore heart for you all these four months, ermine; and she cried like a baby over your casting forth. but uncle manning and haimet were as hard as stones. flemild cried a little too, but not like aunt isel. as to anania, nothing comes amiss to her that can be sown to come up talk. if an earthquake were to swallow one of her children, i do believe she’d only think what a fine thing it was for a gossip.”
“i hope she’s not quite so bad as that, stephen.”
“hope on, sweet heart, and farewell. here’s mother haldane on thorns to get rid of me—that i can see. now, mother, what shall i pay you for your help, for right good it has been?”
haldane laid her hand on stephen’s, which was beginning to unfasten his purse—a bag carried on the left side, under the girdle.
“pay me,” she said, “in care for ermine.”
“there’s plenty of that coin,” answered stephen, smiling, as he withdrew his hand. “you’ll look to your half of the bargain, mother, and trust me to remember mine.”
note 1. the ordinary fire at this time was of wood. charcoal, the superior class of fuel, cost from 5 shillings to 10 shillings per ton (modern value from six to twelve guineas).
