CHAPTER XVIII

WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT

[Illustration: 146.jpg Illustrated Capital]

Although wellnigh the end of March, the wind blew wild and piercing,

as I went on foot that afternoon to Mother Melldrum's dwelling. It was

safer not to take a horse, lest (if anything vexed her) she should put

a spell upon him; as had been done to Farmer Snowe's stable by the wise

woman of Simonsbath.

The sun was low on the edge of the hills by the time I entered the

valley, for I could not leave home till the cattle were tended, and

the distance was seven miles or more. The shadows of rocks fell far and

deep, and the brown dead fern was fluttering, and brambles with their

sere leaves hanging, swayed their tatters to and fro, with a red look on

them. In patches underneath the crags, a few wild goats were browsing;

then they tossed their horns, and fled, and leaped on ledges, and stared

at me. Moreover, the sound of the sea came up, and went the length of

the valley, and there it lapped on a butt of rocks, and murmured like a

shell.

Taking things one with another, and feeling all the lonesomeness, and

having no stick with me, I was much inclined to go briskly back,

and come at a better season. And when I beheld a tall grey shape, of

something or another, moving at the lower end of the valley, where the

shade was, it gave me such a stroke of fear, after many others, that my

thumb which lay in mother's Bible (brought in my big pocket for the sake

of safety) shook so much that it came out, and I could not get it in

again. “This serves me right,” I said to myself, “for tampering with

Beelzebub. Oh that I had listened to parson!”

And thereupon I struck aside; not liking to run away quite, as some

people might call it; but seeking to look like a wanderer who was come

to see the valley, and had seen almost enough of it. Herein I should

have succeeded, and gone home, and then been angry at my want of

courage, but that on the very turn and bending of my footsteps, the

woman in the distance lifted up her staff to me, so that I was bound to

stop.

And now, being brought face to face, by the will of God (as one might

say) with anything that might come of it, I kept myself quite straight

and stiff, and thrust away all white feather, trusting in my Bible

still, hoping that it would protect me, though I had disobeyed it. But

upon that remembrance, my conscience took me by the leg, so that I could

not go forward.

All this while, the fearful woman was coming near and more near to me;

and I was glad to sit down on a rock because my knees were shaking so. I

tried to think of many things, but none of them would come to me; and I

could not take my eyes away, though I prayed God to be near me.

But when she was come so nigh to me that I could descry her features,

there was something in her countenance that made me not dislike her. She

looked as if she had been visited by many troubles, and had felt them

one by one, yet held enough of kindly nature still to grieve for others.

Long white hair, on either side, was falling down below her chin; and

through her wrinkles clear bright eyes seemed to spread themselves upon

me. Though I had plenty of time to think, I was taken by surprise no

less, and unable to say anything; yet eager to hear the silence broken,

and longing for a noise or two.

“Thou art not come to me,” she said, looking through my simple face, as

if it were but glass, “to be struck for bone-shave, nor to be blessed

for barn-gun. Give me forth thy hand, John Ridd; and tell why thou art

come to me.”

But I was so much amazed at her knowing my name and all about me, that I

feared to place my hand in her power, or even my tongue by speaking.

“Have no fear of me, my son; I have no gift to harm thee; and if I had,

it should be idle. Now, if thou hast any wit, tell me why I love thee.”

“I never had any wit, mother,” I answered in our Devonshire way; “and

never set eyes on thee before, to the furthest of my knowledge.”

“And yet I know thee as well, John, as if thou wert my grandson.

Remember you the old Oare oak, and the bog at the head of Exe, and the

child who would have died there, but for thy strength and courage, and

most of all thy kindness? That was my granddaughter, John; and all I

have on earth to love.”

Now that she came to speak of it, with the place and that, so clearly, I

remembered all about it (a thing that happened last August), and thought

how stupid I must have been not to learn more of the little girl who had

fallen into the black pit, with a basketful of whortleberries, and

who might have been gulfed if her little dog had not spied me in the

distance. I carried her on my back to mother; and then we dressed her

all anew, and took her where she ordered us; but she did not tell us

who she was, nor anything more than her Christian name, and that she was

eight years old, and fond of fried batatas. And we did not seek to ask

her more; as our manner is with visitors.

But thinking of this little story, and seeing how she looked at me, I

lost my fear of Mother Melldrum, and began to like her; partly because I

had helped her grandchild, and partly that if she were so wise, no need

would have been for me to save the little thing from drowning. Therefore

I stood up and said, though scarcely yet established in my power against

hers,--

“Good mother, the shoe she lost was in the mire, and not with us. And we

could not match it, although we gave her a pair of sister Lizzie's.”

“My son, what care I for her shoe? How simple thou art, and foolish!

according to the thoughts of some. Now tell me, for thou canst not lie,

what has brought thee to me.”

Being so ashamed and bashful, I was half-inclined to tell her a lie,

until she said that I could not do it; and then I knew that I could not.

“I am come to know,” I said, looking at a rock the while, to keep my

voice from shaking, “when I may go to see Lorna Doone.”

No more could I say, though my mind was charged to ask fifty other

questions. But although I looked away, it was plain that I had asked

enough. I felt that the wise woman gazed at me in wrath as well as

sorrow; and then I grew angry that any one should seem to make light of

Lorna.

“John Ridd,” said the woman, observing this (for now I faced her

bravely), “of whom art thou speaking? Is it a child of the men who slew

your father?”

“I cannot tell, mother. How should I know? And what is that to thee?”

“It is something to thy mother, John, and something to thyself, I trow;

and nothing worse could befall thee.”

I waited for her to speak again, because she had spoken so sadly that it

took my breath away.

“John Ridd, if thou hast any value for thy body or thy soul, thy mother,

or thy father's name, have nought to do with any Doone.”

She gazed at me in earnest so, and raised her voice in saying it, until

the whole valley, curving like a great bell echoed “Doone,” that it

seemed to me my heart was gone for every one and everything. If it were

God's will for me to have no more of Lorna, let a sign come out of the

rocks, and I would try to believe it. But no sign came, and I turned to

the woman, and longed that she had been a man.

“You poor thing, with bones and blades, pails of water, and door-keys,

what know you about the destiny of a maiden such as Lorna? Chilblains

you may treat, and bone-shave, ringworm, and the scaldings; even scabby

sheep may limp the better for your strikings. John the Baptist and his

cousins, with the wool and hyssop, are for mares, and ailing dogs, and

fowls that have the jaundice. Look at me now, Mother Melldrum, am I like

a fool?”

“That thou art, my son. Alas that it were any other! Now behold the end

of that; John Ridd, mark the end of it.”

She pointed to the castle-rock, where upon a narrow shelf, betwixt us

and the coming stars, a bitter fight was raging. A fine fat sheep, with

an honest face, had clomb up very carefully to browse on a bit of juicy

grass, now the dew of the land was upon it. To him, from an upper crag,

a lean black goat came hurrying, with leaps, and skirmish of the horns,

and an angry noise in his nostrils. The goat had grazed the place

before, to the utmost of his liking, cropping in and out with jerks, as

their manner is of feeding. Nevertheless he fell on the sheep with fury

and great malice.

The simple wether was much inclined to retire from the contest, but

looked around in vain for any way to peace and comfort. His enemy stood

between him and the last leap he had taken; there was nothing left him

but to fight, or be hurled into the sea, five hundred feet below.

“Lie down, lie down!” I shouted to him, as if he were a dog, for I had

seen a battle like this before, and knew that the sheep had no chance of

life except from his greater weight, and the difficulty of moving him.

[Illustration: 150.jpg “Lie down!” I shouted]

“Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!” cried Mother Melldrum, mocking me, but

without a sign of smiling.

The poor sheep turned, upon my voice, and looked at me so piteously that

I could look no longer; but ran with all my speed to try and save him

from the combat. He saw that I could not be in time, for the goat was

bucking to leap at him, and so the good wether stooped his forehead,

with the harmless horns curling aside of it; and the goat flung his

heels up, and rushed at him, with quick sharp jumps and tricks of

movement, and the points of his long horns always foremost, and his

little scut cocked like a gun-hammer.

As I ran up the steep of the rock, I could not see what they were doing,

but the sheep must have fought very bravely at last, and yielded his

ground quite slowly, and I hoped almost to save him. But just as my head

topped the platform of rock, I saw him flung from it backward, with a

sad low moan and a gurgle. His body made quite a short noise in the air,

like a bucket thrown down a well shaft, and I could not tell when it

struck the water, except by the echo among the rocks. So wroth was I

with the goat at the moment (being somewhat scant of breath and unable

to consider), that I caught him by the right hind-leg, before he could

turn from his victory, and hurled him after the sheep, to learn how he

liked his own compulsion.