CHAPTER XIII
But now her nose is thin,And it resteth on her chinLike a staff.And a crook is in her tack,And a melancholy crackIn her laugh.
But now her nose is thin,And it resteth on her chinLike a staff.And a crook is in her tack,And a melancholy crackIn her laugh.
But now her nose is thin,And it resteth on her chinLike a staff.And a crook is in her tack,And a melancholy crackIn her laugh.
But now her nose is thin,
And it resteth on her chin
Like a staff.
And a crook is in her tack,
And a melancholy crack
In her laugh.
o. wendel holmes.
F
FAITH had finished her story, and looked up. It was surely some time since Martin had moved away? She looked round and found she did not recognise her surroundings: wandering along with Martin, she was accustomed to leave the leadership to him. Now that she was alone she had not the smallest idea which way led to her father’s cottage; so she called Martin’s name. Out it went upon the soft September air, the long-drawn “Martin” of her call. Then again, and again. And at the third or fourth time of hearing her own voice wandering far intothe deep, still woods, Faith began to fear. To fully realise your loneliness, if you are feeling lonely, you have only to call aloud some familiar name several times, and receive no reply. It is curious how uncomfortable the silence following may grow. Faith soon was looking over her shoulder, then hastening her steps, stopping altogether, only to break into a little run; and soon her thoughts were filled with stories of these very woods. Wasn’t it here that Dan’l Widdon, and Harry Hawk, had been walking on their way home from the fair, when they heard the sound of skirling and groans? and surely it was by this dark stream that her old Grandmother had seen the wan face of a drowned babe, float up beneath her pitcher, like some pale lily, while she stooped to draw water from the stream? Oh, why had she let Martin wander away? surely it is in these thick woods that Mother Midnight has her dwelling, she who can change into a hare if she will, who flies out when the wind huffles, and flaps her cloak at your window pane? She keeps toads in her bosom—yes, the children say so, and she gathers sparks from her black cat to make charms.... Faith’s heart was pounding in her ears, and she stood petrified, for now a figure flitted by among the trees. Therewas not so much as the snap of a dry twig beneath the tread to reassure her, and it was a cloaked figure; yes, there it was again. A cloaked figure, deeply hooded, leaning on a stick; now Saints and Martyrs preserve us! it is the witch herself.
“Who be you, my dear?”
It was said in a voice that had the sound of a wicket gate with a rusty hinge to it.
“I be main glad to see but a little maid before me—I, who have to live among the shadows, and to hide from the light. When I heard your footfall on the dead leaves I had to shrink away, for how should I know if it might not be the persecutors? but it’s you that seem to be feared, my dear, it’s you that seem to be feared.”
Faith was reassured, although still frightened. “Arn’t you Mother Midnight?” she asked.
“Well, by some called Mother Midnight, it be true. But only poor old Granny Gather-stick all the time.”
Her nose and chin almost met, and her face was a network of tiny wrinkles. Her mouth was like the hole to a wren’s nest, except when it was closed, and then it shut down into a straight, hard line. Her eyes were set deep under a furrowed brow, and her grey elf-locks blew about her.
Not a very pleasant appearance you will say; perhaps not, but then her voice was another matter.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,
Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,
As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,
Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
When Faith listened to her talking, her fear disappeared. And Granny Gather-stick liked to talk.
“Do’ee come up here, my dear, and tell me where ye d’ live, and you can sit before my fire,” she said.
“Is your cottage near here, then?”
“Only a step or two across the water, but not my own cottage, child, that you see from the road. No, this to which I be going is just one of my homes. For those who live in hiding must make a shelter where they can.”
“Why do you live in hiding?” asked Faith.
“Because of the evil in men’s hearts, my dear. Not content with killing each other, and quarrelling, and drinking, and all the many sports and wickednesses that inflame the hearts of men, they must even turn aside from their gay paths to hunta poor old woman, and to spin lies about her like a net.”
As Granny Gather-stick said these words, Faith saw she had her hand against the hole of a tree that grew beside a thick tangle of underwood. And drawing a little bolt aside, a tiny door opened that appeared like a hurdle set thick with bramble and autumn leaves.
Faith stepped after Granny into the opening, and found herself in the dearest little room imaginable. It was about the size of a large cupboard, and the walls were hurdles with brambles and leaves outside, but hung with rough matting within. A hole in the roof let out the smoke of the log fire, burning low in a heap of grey ashes on the ground. The floor was swept clean and bare, showing the brown earth hard and trodden, and a log or two served for chairs; and in the middle was a little round table, holding a cup and a plate. A tripod held the kettle, and on the plate upon the table lay a great golden piece of honeycomb, its sweetness stealing slowly from its sides.
Faith exclaimed with pleasure and sat down upon a log. “Granny, what a lovely little house.” As she spoke she heard Martin’s voice calling her.Nearer and nearer the sound travelled, till soon he was by the door.
“Now call to him, my dear, and let us see if the birds have given Granny a good hiding lesson.”
“Here I am!” called Faith.
“Where?”
“Here!”
“Where?”
“Find me.”
Martin’s steps went hither and thither through the wood, till at last Faith opened the door, and soon they were all three in the tiny hut with very little room surrounding, but happy, listening to Granny’s talk. She sat at her table sorting herbs. “Milkwort or Hedge-hyssop against the cough. Borage brings courage for purging melancholy, and to fortify the heart. The Plantain for its healing juices. St. John’s Wort against lightning and evil charms. Colchicum for rheumatism, and the like.... Here are Black Archangel and Key-of-Spring, Love-in-a-tangle, and Witch’s-tree; Grave-of-the-Sea and Golden Greeting, Lad’s-love, and Rue.
“Here be Arum roots; I put these aside—they be for stiffening lawn with the starch I make from them—starch to stiffen the fine ruffs of the greatlords and ladies; and the Arums themselves we call Lords and Ladies hereabout, though some call them Wake Robin, too.
“Hedge Woundwort or Sickleweed, or Carpenter’s Herb, that has ‘All Heal’ for a name. The Iris, called by the gipsies the Eye of Heaven, pleasant to the skin when made into a paste, as I know how. And here’s Corn Fever-few to cool the blood, and Rest Harrow to restore reason.”
The children watched her dividing and tying them into bunches with thread, then suspending the fragrant sprigs against the hurdled walls to dry. Her hands moved nimbly, and her voice sounded pleasantly, as she murmured the names of the flowers, while she worked.
And so it came to be a happy custom with the children to seek her out in her cottage, or in her wren-houses, as they came to call her little hidden huts. And she would have a story for them. Sometimes they were rhymed ballads, of the kind such as Tamlane, or the Merry Goshawk, sometimes they were the stories of her dreams.
She would say, “You midden believe all that old Granny tells, my dear, when she tells her dreams. Sometimes I d’ think they may be what happened to me long ago, but what can I know about it?Why, once I was given King Solomon’s Seal for my wisdom, in a dream.”
“When was that?” cried the children; “please tell us!”
And in the next chapter you may read the story in her dream.