“Nay, nay, child, you threatened me just now, and talked of your father, and punishing me as a witch. Ah, ah! I didn’t deserve it.”
“That was only because I was peevish and fretful, Mother Goodhugh,” cried the girl appealingly; “for it is so hard to find both the men of your heart go to her straight, and leave you behind as a thing of naught.”
“Both the men – both?” cried Mother Goodhugh, with a hoarse chuckle, “Go to, go to, wicked girl; will not one suffice?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I’d give up Captain Gil, mother, but I cannot bear to see this new one go over to her too. You must help me – you shall.”
“Heyday, my dearie, what can I do? And besides, you laugh at my potions. I am not a witch, child, only a wise woman, who works hard to find out what herbs gathered at vital times can do. But I know nothing at all – nothing at all. Try something mixed by good Dame Beckley, thy mother; she can distil you something, I’ll warrant ye.”
“No, no, Mother Goodhugh; how can I tell her of my fainting heart, and my sighs for a loving man. Fie! Who tells her mother of such things? Come, help me.”
“Nay, child, it is of no use. Go to some one else.”
“But you must help me, mother,” cried the girl, appealingly.
“Nay, child, I cannot; and besides, to do what you will is costly. Many’s the long and weary time Master Abel Churr has spent in watching to get for me the toadweed when it blossomed at midnight, just at the moment when its flowers opened, and before the dew had time to wet it once. And heavily have I paid him for the earliest shoots of dog’s mercury, and the roots of the peavetch grown in a dripping rill. Nay, child, I lose by thy coming here. Go ask some one else to help thee. I can do no more.”
“Yes, yes, you will help me, Mother Goodhugh,” cried the girl, thrusting a small gold piece into her hand. “Come, haste and prepare me something.”
“Nay, child, I’m weary of it all,” said Mother Goodhugh, making an offer to return the piece. “The toil to my brain is terrifying, and I lay awake o’ nights after thinking of it all, and wondering whether it be wicked, and what’s to become afterward of my sinful soul, for doing such things. Suppose through helping you to your lovers I am kept from joining my poor dear husband who’s now in Heaven. Ah, no, I’ll have no more to do with thee.”
For answer Anne Beckley gave her foot an impatient stamp, and sought for and found a couple of silver crowns, which she added to the gold piece, and pressed into the old woman’s hand, which closed upon them like a hawk’s claw upon some tiny partridge chick; and a grim smile of satisfaction came upon her face.
“Well, well, well, I suppose I must, dearie; and if I go to perdition for it all you’ll have to pay for getting me prayed for when I’m dead. Now, then, what be I to do?”
“Give me the nine-drop distilment again, mother, and I will try it; but, if it fails this time, I’ll never trust thee more. I’ll, I’ll – there, I’ll have thee put in prison for a witch.”
“Then not a drop will I give thee,” cried the old woman, passionately. “Go, get your own lovers as you can. Ah! you cannot; for if I be punished as a witch I’ll ill-wish you; I’ll put such a spell upon you that men shall avoid you to the end of your days. You shall grow thin and old, and dry and yellow, and shall never know the joys of a pair of manly arms pressing you to a throbbing breast; you shall never taste the sweet kisses of love; and, instead of your lips pouting red and warm for more, they shall grow thin, and dry, and white, and cracked in your lonely, childless old age. I’ll curse you – I’ll – ”
“No, no, Mother Goodhugh, dear Mother Goodhugh,” cried the girl, catching at her arm. “I did but jest. I’ll never say word to a soul, but keep all your secrets, and you shall have money and presents from the Moat; only help me, mother – only give me the means to win him.”
“Him? – Whom?” cried Mother Goodhugh, sharply.
“Sir Mark,” faltered Anne, with her face growing crimson.
“Why not Captain Gil Carr?” replied Mother Goodhugh. “But there,” she continued, going into an inner room, and keeping on talking aloud till she returned with a little clumsily shaped phial, which she held with great care and reverence as she passed it to her visitor. “There, take care of it, child; every drop is worth a gold piece; but you have been disappointed, and I want to make thee happy.”
The visitor, while professing utter disbelief in such matters, snatched eagerly at the little phial, and hid it in her bosom.
“Now something else,” she cried. “You are so close and hard to deal with. Do something more.”
“What would you have me to do?” said the woman. “Shall I tell you of your future?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the girl.
“Sit on the stool then, there in the centre of the room,” said the old woman; “and whatever you see or hear do not speak or move, or I would not answer for the consequences; it might be dumbness, or craziness, or even death.”
Smiling scornfully, to hide a shudder, Anne Beckley did as she was bid; and as she seated herself the old woman closed and drew a rough curtain across the door, and over the little window, leaving only a few silver streaks of light to penetrate; and then, as there was utter silence as well, her visitor heard a voice that came apparently from a great distance say softly: —
“Things to come – things of the future – things of the many years. I see a house in its bright garden burned up and destroyed, the blast of powder, and the shrieks of the wounded; and I see a church, with a wedding-party coming away, and the face of the man is hidden, but the garb is that of an officer, and the face of the maid is that of Sir Thomas Beckley’s child.”
The voice ceased, and Mistress Anne, whose eyes had been tightly closed, opened them again, and saw that the cottage was light once more, and that Mother Goodhugh was by her side.
“Whose face was it?” whispered the girl, half scornfully, half in awe.
“The voice spake not,” said the woman, solemnly. “Come and see.”
Anne Beckley felt a slight shrinking, but she rose directly, and followed the old woman, who led her out at the back of the cottage, plunging directly into the thick forest, and leading her by an overgrown track farther and farther into its depths. Every now and then the girl had to pause to free her dress from some briar or thorn which held her tightly, and for the most part she had to proceed at a slow walk, stooping the while to avoid the leaf-laden branches which in their wealth of summer foliage bowed down to bar her way.
With intervals of stopping, Anne Beckley followed her guide for quite an hour, during which time the old woman had kept on, evidently following certain marks on trees which she carefully scanned.
“I will go no further, mother,” cried Anne, throwing herself on a great mossy block of stone which overhung a tiny, trickling stream, and wiping her dewy forehead.
“Yes, you will, dearie,” said the old woman, with a meaning smile. “You’d go further than this to meet your love. You are hot and tired now. Come down here and have a drink.”
She dragged the branches aside with tender hand, and lightly bent back the tall bracken, so as to make a way for the girl, who rose wearily, and, following the old woman, found herself in a shady hollow between the rocks which rose far above her head, while at her feet lay a clear pool of cool delicious water, over which she bent, and was in the very act of dipping in her hand to fill her soft white palm, and drink, when she fancied she saw in the mirror-like surface the old woman’s fingers extended to thrust her in, and in a flash she seemed to see her object, namely, to murder her for her money and trinkets.
She started up, but only to see Mother Goodhugh smiling at her, and, ashamed of her fears, she drank, and turned to proceed. At the same time she felt, though, how completely she was at her companion’s mercy. No one knew where she had come, or had seen her enter the cottage; and now in the