Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/Witches and witchcraft
WITCHES AND WITCHCRAFT.
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Some time ago, I fell gradually ill. “You study too much,” said my senior partner, Dr. G. “You don’t take enough exercise,” said an intimate friend in a confidential tone, as if he wouldn’t have any one else know his opinion for the world. “I don’t think you’ll ever get better,” said my old maiden aunt. “It’s all smoking,” said my wife. (We’d been married fifteen years.)
Holding, however, a different opinion from any of them, I determined to follow the ancient maxim, “Physician, heal thyself.” Acting upon it, I prescribed change of air, and quiet; and having announced my intention of leaving the aforesaid partner in charge of the practice, asked general advice as to my future destination.
“Go to Margate,” said one. “No, Brighton,” said another. (These were recommended as quiet places.) “If you take my advice,” said a third, (which I instantly decided not to do), “you’ll stay where you are.”
I heard everything everyone had to say, and then consulted my friend, Dr. G, inwardly resolving that if his advice proved to be in accordance with my inclinations, I should take it, and if it didn’t, I shouldn’t.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “you require quiet.” I agreed with him so far. “You’re knocked up with this blessed town life.” (I put “blessed” for the sake of my lady readers; he used a participle with an entirely opposite meaning.) I nodded again. “You want a few weeks’ quiet rusticating, and I know the very place for you.” I thereupon put myself in his hands, without any reservation. “I know the very spot,” he continued. “It’s a little village, or rather hamlet, in Dshire, where my old nurse lives: she has a cottage to let, I know, and I’ll write about it this very night.”
A few days afterwards I received the following note, in a handwriting more original than legible.
Horned Sur,—[I presume the writer meant honoured]
My dooty to you. Mary Ping wants to tell Mr. W. he can av the ows. My sun will mit you at the stayshun, and tak you there. I’ve got a gurl to waet on you. Mary Ping’s umblest dooty to Dr. G, and thanks him for the rekumendayshun.
I remane yours obeejantley,
Mary Ping.
It was a lovely September morning, when I and my portmanteau started in a cab for the G. W. R. terminus, having previously (myself I mean) wished my wife an affectionate “good-bye,” she having resolved to “stay at home with the children.” Poor little thing! she invariably bullies me when I’m at home, and cries her eyes out about me when I’m absent. I wiped, almost carefully, two or three of her stray tear-drops from my coat-sleeve, and heaving a sigh, took my journey into a far country, like a second prodigal son.
The said journey was uneventful, and would have been pleasant, but for an old woman, my sole companion, who never stopped talking except to eat, and who, when her only listener, wearied with the incessant noise, had feigned to fall asleep, amused herself with soliloquising aloud, as to “who he might be, what made him look so ill, and whether he had a mother.” What odd creatures women are!
It was late when I left the train, and there were still four miles to be traversed, under the guidance of the before-mentioned “sun,” who, after a bird’s-eye view of my portmanteau, had presented himself to me at the station, by pulling my coat-tails and calling out “This way, sir!” The walk seemed interminable, but I was at last safely domiciled in my new residence. The “gurl” received me in a manner that intimated a decided wish to get rid of me as soon as possible, and after producing supper went home with her brother. My wife had particularly enjoined me to “look over the house well” before I retired for the night, as no one could tell what might happen, if I didn’t. She evidently imagined, from the dark hints she dropped, that large numbers of what she termed “robbers” would be secreted in various corners, especially under the bed, their object being to murder me in cold blood, and possess themselves of my few articles of value. Feeling fatigued, however, I was mad enough to risk this great and imminent danger, thinking a good night’s rest would refresh me for the scrutiny. I accordingly went to bed at once, slept soundly till the morning, and then examined my cottage with a minuteness I will not describe here. Suffice it to say, it consisted of four small rooms, all neatly furnished and in an excellent state of repair. The scenery of the place was bold and striking. A noisy brook on one hand, the sea, like a thread of silver, in the remote distance, blue hills in every direction, fields and meadows. My old landlady’s was the only house within easy walking distance; so, with the exception of her “gurl,” who came for a few hours every day, I was as I wished to be, quite alone. The only circumstance of which I felt inclined to complain was the intolerable silence. For hours together I heard no sound but the occasional patter of my little maiden’s feet, or the noise of the before-mentioned brook. When I walked to my bedroom, every stair, in the profound stillness, went off with a loud report like a gun. Even a bird I had brought with me for company seemed, to my disappointment, too much impressed with the solemnity of the place to be able to utter a sound. The third day I caught it with its mouth open, but it shut immediately, with a kind of gasp, its owner evidently alarmed at the shadow of a sound which had inadvertently escaped. Feeling listless and weak, I spent most of my time out of doors, reading and dreaming. I was very near the little town where Coleridge lived when he wrote his sweet “Christabel.” Many an evening I have seen her, in imagination, stealing noiselessly through the trees, the
Clad in a silken rDamsel bright,
Clad in a silken robe of white—
a beautiful embodiment of the poet’s glowing fancy. It may be, in those very fields he first perceived her. It may be, in those very fields he clad his sweet thoughts in sweeter words, destined to entrance the listening world with wonder and admiration.
Well, I had been about three weeks in my “sanctum sanctorum,” when the “gurl,” whom I called Jane, walked into my sitting-room one morning in the middle of breakfast. I forgot to mention before that she was about sixteen years of age, gentle and kind-looking, but had odd methods of performing the most simple actions. When entering a room, for instance, she always gave a dart upon opening the door, as if some one had jerked her from behind, and then waited my pleasure with a look of astonishment, greater even than I experienced on first observing the peculiarity. In this particular instance, not having been summoned, she was doubly nervous, consequently doubly peculiar, and my little breakfast-table being near the door, she jerked against it violently, throwing it to the ground, and scattering the crockery in all directions. We picked it up together, and I asked her in rather an irritated tone what she wanted.
“Please, sir, there’s a boy outside wants to see you.”
“See me?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir; I think they want a doctor, sir; mother told them you was one.”
“By Jove!” I exclaimed, starting up and frightening the poor girl almost into fits, “I’m a lucky fellow—practice down here! Couldn’t have believed it—something to do at last.” Under the influence of my ruling passion, I hurried out, forgetting my breakfast, and found the boy standing at the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Phil Wish, yer honor.”
“What do you want?”
“Please, sir, Ellen’s tuk worse, and her mother don’t think as how she’ll live much longer, she’s quite scrammed, sir.”
I wondered who “Ellen” was, and what “scrammed” meant, but contented myself with signing to him to lead the way. We walked on in the bright early morning, everything looking fair and beautiful. Phil whistled a tune which was quite unknown to me, and I walked alone, idly thinking, and occasionally plucking an ear of corn, and putting it to my mouth. The grass beneath our feet rustled softly as we trod, and the air was laden with the perfume of wild flowers, and the sweet songs of birds. The busy whirr of a threshing-machine mingled with the notes from time to time, and then a distant shout from the already-wearied reapers brought to my mind the days of childhood, when, a “boy among boys,” I chased butterflies in the fields, while my pretty sister (what a strange old creature she was now) gleaned for the children of the poor. We at last came to the brow of a hill, and looking down into the valley, bathed in brightest sunlight, I saw a few white cottages dotted here and there. Phil informed me that “Ellen lived in one of these,” pointing out the identical one with his finger.
“What’s the matter with Ellen?” I asked.
“Dunno, sir,” in a tone which, if it failed to imply he didn’t care, at least proved he was not disposed to be communicative. I wondered what the mystery could be, but thinking whatever it was it would soon be solved, walked on in silence. We at last arrived at a cottage very small and very low, literally covered with honeysuckle. A bird in a wicker cage hung outside the door. Possessed with a contrary demon to mine, it sang loud and incessantly—its little mouth open like a yawning sepulchre, feathers ruffled, and body positively distorted with its unearthly efforts. Hearing footsteps, the old woman appeared and beckoned me inside. I entered, stooping low as I did so. A small room, a very small room, but everything scrupulously neat and clean. A little girl, apparently about three years old, was seated on the floor telling her doll, in an under-tone, “not to make a noise, because mother was ill.” A working-man’s hat and coat hung in one corner, with a cheap photograph of their owner (I don’t know why I felt certain it was his) suspended over them. The shutters of the latticed windows were half closed, producing a quiet subdued light. I walked towards the bed, and softly drew the curtain. The small face, half hidden in the pillow, seemed very young and girlish, the eyes closed, the breath short and hurried. The bird was literally shrieking—I signed to the woman, and she covered the cage. All was quiet. I lifted the pale hand from the coverlid and felt for the pulse—gone.
“How long has she been so?” I asked.
“Since daylight, sir.”
“Ah! she can’t last long.”
The professional phrase escaped involuntarily. I started as I uttered it, and dropped the hand. The movement roused her. The heavy eyelids unclosed: I drew back.
“Is Jack here, mother?”
“No, darling!”
“Ah! I forgot.”
A moment’s pause. Then, in a quick, hurried tone, as if the thought were first impressed upon her mind,
“Mother, am I dying?”
A sob was the only answer. Another pause, longer than the first: then the arm was placed under the pillow for a moment, and drawn forth again.
“Give this to Jack when you see him.”
She tried to move her hand along the bed, and pass its hidden contents to the woman weeping by her side; but ere she could do so, the will that directed it grew weaker still, and left it idle where it lay. I unclosed the almost rigid fingers, and gave to the woman the objects they had clasped—a wedding ring, and a lock of fair hair tied with a blue ribbon.
“Ellen, Ellen! would you like to see your child?”
“Not now!—Poor Jack!—How dark it is, mother!”
I knew by that that it was very near; but the woman, in her ignorance, walked across the room, and opened both the shutters and the window. The bold staring sunlight came rushing, streaming in.
“Mother—mother!”
A deadly change came over the countenance. “I’m here, Ellen. Child—darling—speak!”
Another pause, very, very long, never to be broken by the form lying before us, pale and still. A distant shout of harvest home came strangely on the solemn silence. Ah! truly harvest home! Another drooping soul for the universal harvest! Another wearied heart for the world’s great reaper—Death!
I turned hurriedly away. The child had fallen asleep with the doll by her side, still murmuring in her dreams that “they must keep quiet”—a little rosy face, but strangely like the dead one on the bed. I reclosed the window-shutters, thinking of the light she had found—that great eternal light that will one day dawn on all—covered the pale dead face, and left the woman weeping and in prayer.
CHAPTER II.
My wife says “women are not curious.” This conclusion is not the result of calm, logical reasoning, but proceeds rather from a spirit of firmness, not to say obstinacy, inherent in the sex; which said spirit induces them, not only invariably to deny the possession by themselves of certain questionable characteristics, but also occasionally, on the lex talionis principle, to express their decided belief, that so far from these same peculiar qualities pertaining exclusively to them, they are, in fact, the distinguishing characteristics of the opposite sex. In obedience to this thoroughly womanly principle, my wife says, women are not curious—men are curious—and I the most curious of men.
Without arguing this point, I certainly must confess that I experienced a large amount of the failing in question, after witnessing the scene described in the last chapter; and it was with no small satisfaction, at the prospect of having my curiosity gratified, that I set off the next morning for the old woman’s cottage. She was standing at the door, evidently expecting me.
“Oh, sir, is it you? do walk in!”
I entered, glancing as I did so at the bed where the dead girl was still lying. The woman saw the look, and began weeping bitterly.
“Oh, sir, my poor child!”
I spoke soothingly and calmly.
“Oh, sir, it’s not only losing her! it’s not only losing her! it’s the way—the way!” “The way?” I said inquiringly.
“Yes, sir; but to be sure you don’t know. She was bewitched, sir.”
“Bewitched!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, this long time. She’s been ailing since last year, and it’s been the death of her at last.”
Seeing my continued look of surprise, she “went on,” as she expressed it, “to tell me all about it,” still holding, as she did so, the dead girl’s hand in hers. The story, as nearly as I remember, ran as follows:
“You see, sir, Ellen was my only child, and a good one she was. Many’s the time I’ve told my old man she’d live to be a comfort to me; and so she truly did, nursing me and taking care of me, when he died, for many a long day.” (Here she fondled the dead hand closer still.) “Well, you see sir, she was still quite a child, when a young chap comes to work up at the Squire’s where Ellen took the milk every morning. It wasn’t long after he came that I thought I saw a change in her; she wasn’t so light-hearted like,—as if she had some secret. So, one morning, when she comes in from the Squire’s with the odd look on her face, I turned short at her and says, ‘What’s the matter, Ellen?’
“She reddened, but answered quite boldly,—for she was always as open as the day,—
“‘Why, mother, I think Jack’s very fond of me.’
“‘Fond of you?’ says I; ‘and pray who’s Jack?’
“‘Him that works up at the Squire’s; but you’ll soon see him, mother; he’s coming up to-night.’
“And sure enough he came. He was a handsome spoken young fellow enough. He told me he wanted Ellen, and would take great care of her. He seemed so honest and bright-looking, and Ellen so fond of him, that somehow I couldn’t say ‘No,’ and the end of it was they went to the church, and the parson himself told me he’d never seen a prettier couple. They were just like two doves; he had plenty of work up at the Squire’s—you see he was a bricklayer, sir, and the Squire was having his place done up—and Ellen she took in needlework, and come over every day to help me. They used to live there, sir.” (She pointed to a little cottage close by, now wearing a dreary deserted look.) “They lived there nigh upon two years, sir, till long after the baby was born. Well, sir, my Ellen—though the best tempered girl in the world—was a bit spirited when anything crossed her; and, one morning, Jack and her had a quarrel—the first they’d ever had—it was about her cousin Tom, poor fellow, who’d been her sweetheart before she was married,—and Jack went to work without bidding her good-bye. She was mighty vexed at this, and when I went over I found her crying. I thought Jack was wrong, and was just telling her so, when I heard a knock at the door, which was open, and there was the witch standing looking.”
“What witch?” I asked.
“Why, her that lives in the hut on the hill; there’s only one witch, sir.”
Again the look of astonishment. I signified a satisfaction I was far from possessing, and she continued:
“Well, sir, she was standing staring, and Ellen, thinking she’d heard what we’d been saying, told her sharply to go off; but she didn’t move, so Ellen got up and pushed her out, but not before she had cast an evil look and muttered to herself.
“‘Ellen,’ I said, ‘she’s cast an evil eye on you.’ She looked pale, but said in her hasty way, ‘I don’t care if she has, mother.’
“I felt flurried like, and knew something would come of it; but didn’t say anything to any one.
“When Jack came home that night I talked to him a good deal. He didn’t take much notice at first, but at last he promised to make it up with Ellen. I don’t know, sir, if it ever was made up; may be, you see, the witch wouldn’t let her bring her mind like to do it, for Jack and her were never the same afterwards, and Tom went to the cottage oftener than ever. I used to be quite frightened at Jack’s look, when he’d come in and see them two a-talking together; but I knew poor Ellen was bewitched, and couldn’t help teasing him. The neighbours knew it, too; for, you see, bewitched people have a queer look about the eyes, and grow thin and pale, like Ellen did, till they die quite away. I dreaded Jack finding it out, and it was a long time before he did; for the people didn’t like to talk about it before him, and when he saw them whispering and looking at him, he’d think they were talking of Ellen and Tom, and feel jealous like, and angry. At last, one night, Ellen rushed in to me with her face all pale and trembling:
“‘He’s off, mother!’ says she.
“‘Who, Ellen?’
“She looked quite wild, and pointed to the cottage. I left her fainting-like in a chair, and ran over. He was standing with his white face near the door, putting his things together.
“‘Jack,’ says I, ‘where are you off to?’
“‘Going on the tramp, mother; there’s no more work up at the Squire’s.’
“‘Jack,’ says I, ‘it’s about Ellen—’
“He never moved or answered.
“‘Jack,’ says I, putting my hand on his shoulder, for I began to get fierce, thinking of Ellen and the child, ‘Jack, think of the little one.’
“‘Mother,’ says he, in such a quiet voice, that I didn’t feel frightened any longer at his pale face, ‘mother,’ says he, ‘I’ve heard the neighbours a-talking about what has happened to Ellen, and I know it’s true. Ellen can’t help it, but what’s the use of my stopping here? She’ll be better without me; she looks dying like, before my very eyes, and cares nothing for me, so what’s the good, mother?’
“I let my hand drop from his shoulder; for you see, sir, I knew it was all true, and I couldn’t answer it, though I tried hard. At last I said, “‘Jack! won’t you bid her good-bye?’ For I thought, when it came to kissing her and the child, maybe he wouldn’t go through with it. He went to the window, where he could see her lying in the chair, as I left her, pale and still. A fierce look came over his face, and he muttered something about Tom.
“‘It’s not his fault, Jack!’ says I.
“‘No,’ says he, ‘not his fault—not hers—it can’t be helped—Good-bye, mother!’
“‘Jack!’ I said, ‘for God’s sake, stop! speak to Ellen only one word.’
“He went out of the cottage. I was almost wild. ‘Ellen! Ellen!’ I called out; I rushed over; I shook her; I pointed to Jack in the distance, going farther and farther away; but I couldn’t rouse her, she was quite gone. I watched him go over the hill, without once looking back; and we’ve never seen him since.”
“And Ellen?” I asked.
“Oh, sir! when she came to, she seemed quite mad. She said she’d go after him, and take the child with her. I couldn’t quiet her at all. Then she was very ill for a long time, without any sense, talking about Jack all day and night. The doctor said it was fever, and maybe it was; but we knew who brought it on, though we didn’t tell him. She got better at last, but her eyes looked so large and strange they often frightened me. She just got up one morning, looked about the room, took Jack’s picture, hung it up there with his cap and coat, and told me never to move them till he came back.
“‘Mother,’ says she, ‘I’ve been a wicked girl not to be a better wife to him, and it serves me right. I was too fond of teasing him by talking to Tom. I must tell him all when he comes back.’
“I saw she didn’t know the real reason of his going. It seemed she’d forgotten all about the witch, and didn’t know that if he came back she’d do just the same again. But she thought he’d surely come, and she used to sit for hours in the evening looking over the hill for him; but months passed and he was still away. At last she took to her bed, and never rose again. That’s the way they all do, sir. She laid there for days quite quiet, and the little one nearly always with her. The doctor said it was “consoomshon;” and when I told him about the witch, he shook his head. She was often asleep, but when the cough woke her—for she had a bad cough—she’d be sure to ask directly if Jack had come. Sometimes she’d think he was sitting by her, and she’d talk to him, and tell him how sorry she was about it all, and how she never cared for Tom, and how happy they were going to be now. And then she’d think they were walking in the fields, as they used to do on Sunday evenings, and she’d say how sweet the church bells sounded, and how pretty the little one was growing, and how happy we all four were living in those two little cottages. Then when she got sensible, she’d lie for hours never speaking of him. At last, even I began to watch for him. I thought if he would only come, just to see her once before she went. I used to put the little one up at the window, and tell her to keep on looking over the hill, and p’raps she’d see her father coming, but my heart misgave me all the time—and I was right—he never came, he never came.’
She stayed her story weeping; then turning to the bed:
“She looks happy enough without him now, doesn’t she, sir?”
She drew aside the covering: I gazed long upon the face, so child-like in its sweet simplicity. It wore a look of perfect rest. The slight shade of anxiety I had noticed the day before had passed away, giving place to an expression of calm content like that of a tired child asleep. Hearing no sound, the little one crept up noiselessly, and getting on the bed nestled closely to her mother, the large living eyes bright with a mixed expression of pity, love, and wonder, the little hand stroking the dead face with a fond caressing movement inexpressibly touching. They looked strangely alike, and yet how fearfully different; their long hair mingling lovingly, stirred by the child’s deep breath. I watched reverently, silently, till wearied with her grief, the young one fell into a light slumber. I left them lying there—both asleep—a strange solemn picture of Love and Death, full of the deepest poetry and beauty.
Two days after, poor Ellen was buried, and it was not long before I left the place. Jack had not then returned, and the little one was once more playing noisily with her doll, with no fear now of waking the child-mother at rest for ever. As I passed the cottage for the last time, the bird was singing loudly, as though it had never left off. She told me it was father’s bird: she fed it every morning against he came home: she wondered when that would be: and I, wondering the same—wondering when the erring heart, bursting from the trammels of ignorance and superstition, would return to find its utter desolation—passed on, and left the spot, probably for ever.
This narrative is strictly true—no solitary instance—hundreds of the same kind are continually occurring. The belief in witchcraft is prevalent in most parts of England; nearly every village and hamlet has its “witch.” No malice is expressed, simply a dread of offending her, even unintentionally. The unfortunate beings supposed to have fallen under her evil influence, are considered marked and doomed; their friends still fearing to speak a word against the reputed author of the calamity. In many instances the “bewitched ones” leave their homes never to return, to avoid the misery resulting from a solitary life, so many of their own class, even their old companions, disliking to associate with them. I have been in a village in the south of England, where the second son, a lad of thirteen, had left his home, and gone to seek his fortune, for “hadn’t he had an evil eye cast on him, and couldn’t get on at all?” The poor mother, while mourning for the missing one, never doubting the truth of the matter, but considering it “mighty unlucky.” This belief not only exists among the very poor and the more intelligent labourers, but even many of the better class of farmers, and occasionally thoroughly educated members of the higher ranks of society are infected with it. The latter, however, invariably admit that “cases,” as they term them, have never been known to occur in their particular community. In some instances the belief appears hereditary—a plague spot that can never be washed away.
We boast of being “the latest seed of Time,” we “cry down the past,” we talk of the omnipotence of science and philosophy; and well that we can do so. But is it not strange, that, in spite of all this real or fancied progress—in spite of our nineteenth-century refinement and civilisation—this demon of superstition still remains, lurking in every corner of our land, crushing the minds of its victims in the broad and open day? Is it not more than strange, that they who, by reason of their comparative enlightenment, seem bound to cry it down, to root it out, to trample it under foot with scorn and indignation, are, in fact, its main supporters, not only tolerating the accursed credulity of their poorer and more ignorant brethren, but even countenancing it by their own expressed belief?
Many may say, “How absurd to view it in such a light: I always thought the belief in witches something amusing—a mere nothing.” So—in some respects—it may be. But is it amusing in its consequences? Is it nothing when it destroys the peace of a home? Is it nothing when it proves the ruin of a human life? Above all, is superstition nothing, when it cramps the minds and energies of thousands, preventing the exercise of those great and noble every-day virtues—the glory of our land—the brightest ornament of an English labourer’s home?
Truly we may still go far, very far into the remote distance, and yet not cease to cry, Excelsior!