Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

A little further on a snake that had been sunning itself on a stump raised its head, uttered a low hiss, and glided rapidly away amidst the dense undergrowth; while again, a few yards further on, she came upon a short thick adder, lying right in her path, and apparently very careless about leaving it.

It was remarkable now that Anne Beckley displayed no fear of the wild animals she met. She had started at the blackbird’s rustle, believing that she was watched, but on seeing the reptiles, now that there was no Sir Mark to whom she might cling for support, she broke off a slight hazel branch, and cut sharply at the adder where it lay; and as it raised its head and struck at her she cut it again and again till she had disabled it, and ended by crushing its head in the earth.

Then throwing aside her stick she hastened on, but the exertion had made her warm, and seating herself upon a mossy part of the bank she stayed to rest in the cool damp shade, beneath a great oak-tree.

Before she had been seated there many minutes she became aware of a slight movement in the grass, and, as she watched, a long lithe weasel bounded into sight, stopped, with its neck stretched up and head erect, watching her; but as she did not move the animal ran up the bank and crept down a mouse-hole, so small that it seemed impossible for it to have passed.

There was something about that weasel that attracted Anne, who remained watching the little hole, till all at once a mouse in an apparent state of collapse was thrust out, the neck and body of the weasel followed, and away the long thin creature bounded into the thick grass and disappeared.

A minute later there came a robin to settle upon a twig, and watch her with its great round eyes, but the loud chink-chink of a blackbird sent the robin away, and the orange-billed bird hopped down into the lane and began poking and peering about among the leaves till it secured a snail, in the dampest, darkest, spot, which unfortunate it bore into the path and hammered upon a stone till the shell was broken, when the soft-bodied snail was daintily picked out, swallowed, and the blackbird flew away.

Almost before Mistress Anne had noticed that the blackbird was gone, the robin came back to gaze at the intruder, with its head on one side, and then made a flit to where the leaves upon the moist bank had been disturbed by the blackbird. Here the robin’s quick eyes had spied out a large lobworm hastily making its escape, under the impression that there was danger below.

This long worm the robin seized and bore, writhing and twining, in its bill to the path, where it set down its prize, but only to seize it again and give it a series of fierce nips from end to end, accompanying each nip with a sharp shake to stop the twining, which, however, was not entirely done, for when the little redbreast seized its victim by the head there was a slight undulating motion going on – a movement continued as the bird began rapidly to gulp it down.

This feat seemed to fascinate Mistress Anne, who watched the last bit of tail disappear, the robin having succeeded in taking down a worm nearly twice its own length; such a feat, indeed, as a man would have accomplished had he made a meal of a serpent some ten or eleven feet long, swallowing it, writhing and twisting, whole.

“How cruel Nature is!” said Mistress Anne, in a low thoughtful voice, and as she spoke there was a strange light in her eyes. “Everything for its own pleasure seems to kill what it wills. Why should I not be cruel too?”

She laughed then – a curious unpleasant laugh; and rising, the robin flitted away over the low undergrowth, apparently none the heavier for its meal, and there was a sharp rustle and a bound in the grass.

Mistress Anne Beckley seemed now to be too much occupied by her thoughts to pay much heed to the objects she passed as she walked slowly on.

Once more she said softly, “Why should not I be cruel too?” Then she laughed in a very unpleasant way, and half-closed her eyes.

About a mile farther, and in a very solitary place by an opening in the sandstone rock that rose in front, she stopped before a low, thatched cottage, glanced to right and left hastily, and then opening the rough gate, passed between a couple of rows of old-fashioned flowers, pushed the door, and entered the low-ceiled, homely room, with its bricked floor and open fireplace, where, in spite of the heat, a few sticks of wood were smouldering between the firedogs.

Quite in the chimney-corner, and seated upon a stool so low that her chin was brought in close proximity to her knees, was a hard-featured gaunt woman of sixty, dressed in widow’s weeds of a very homely kind, but scrupulously clean. The muslin kerchief and cap she wore were white as snow, and her grey hair was tidily smoothed back. But, in spite of her neat look, there was something repulsive about the woman’s face – a look of low cunning that played about her thin lips, which were drawn in at the corners, while she had a habit of bringing her thick grey eyebrows down over her eyes so as almost to conceal them, though, as you looked at her, you felt that she was scrutinising you severely from behind the shaggy grey fringe, and judging you from a hidden point of view.

She rose from her seat as Mistress Anne entered, and welcomed her with a smile, half defiant, half fawning.

“I’m so glad to see thee again, dearie,” she said, in a harsh voice. “What can I do for thee now?”

“I don’t know,” cried the visitor, sharply; “but look here, Mother Goodhugh, mind this: my father is a justice, and if you play foul games with me I have only to complain to have you seized and punished as a witch.”

“Me a witch, dearie? Oh, fie! I never pretended to be, only helped you to a little of my knowledge when you came to me.”

“I believe your knowledge is all nonsense,” cried the girl, angrily. “What good has it done?”

“Ah, it is impossible to say,” replied the woman, looking furtively at her visitor; “and you may not have given him the potion at a lucky time. I know it was right, my dear,” she added, in a low, mysterious whisper. “I gathered the herbs myself, and distilled them every one. You don’t know: you can’t tell. He may love you very dearly, and only be holding back from fear of your high place. Was not your father made a titled man just then?”

“Yes,” replied the visitor. “Then that was it,” cried the woman, triumphantly. “Depend upon it, mistress, you have him safe.”

“But he is always with her – always, Mother Goodhugh; and when we meet he has only a contemptuous kind of laugh for me.”

“That means nothing, dearie. It may be only the man’s spirit fighting against his heart. I can’t think, lovey, but what you have him safe. How many times has he had the drink?”

“Nine.”

“And nine drops each time?”

“Yes, as nearly as I could drop them. My hand shook so.”

“Ah,” cried the woman, eagerly, “what did I tell thee? Nine drops nine times dropped make eighty-one, and eight and one are nine.”

“Yes,” said Anne Beckley.

“Did I not warn thee that any mistake would spoil the spell?”

“Yes, but that could not matter.”

“Ah, that is not for me to say,” replied the woman. “But there, sit ye down, dearie, and I’ll do what I can for you. If it wasn’t that you love him I’d say to you let him go on in his terrifying ways, and wed her if he will. She belongs to an accursed race, and would bring him never good.”

“But she shan’t marry him!” cried Anne, with flashing eyes. “I hate her, Mother Goodhugh, and would sooner see her dead. She’s a witch. I’m sure she’s a witch.”

“And why are you sure, lovey?”

“Because – because – she bewitches men to her, and holds them by her side. I have tried, oh, so hard, but I cannot.”

“Nay, child, nay, but you can, though not so strongly; for you do it by good, while she does it by ill.”

“But I can’t, Mother Goodhugh,” cried the girl, petulantly.

“Ah, but you do,” said the woman, who began to walk up and down the brick floor, muttering and talking as if to herself. “She must, she must, for she is very beautiful and good. She has but to wish it over the nine drops to win the hearts of as many lovers as her heart desires.”

“But, Mother Goodhugh,” whispered Anne, whose heart was open enough to a little insidious flattery, “I did try so hard, and it seemed to do no good; and now a great officer has come to the Moat, and he had to go down to the Pool-house.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know,” said Mother Goodhugh, “and she has witched him, too. Yes; she sits with him and reads to him, and smiles softly in his face, and she’ll win him to her ways, no doubt. But you don’t care for that, child. Let her win him, and it will settle the love, and leave brave, stout Captain Gil for you.”

“But I do care, mother; – I won’t have it – I can’t bear it. She does all this to spite me, and it drives me nearly mad. You must give me something that shall bring him back. Oh, pray, pray, help me.”

“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 depths of the forest, did the old woman wish her evil, the thick bushes and brambles would conceal her body, and the rapid growth soon hide all signs of footsteps that might be tracked.

“Now, lovey,” said the old woman, “I am going to trust you to have sense to do as you are bid. You must shut your eyes tightly, and neither look nor speak till you hear his voice.”

“Shall I hear it?” faltered Anne.

“Yes, for sure,” cried the old woman, imperiously. “Now close your eyes and obey me in all I say. If you do not, I will not answer for what may happen.”

“I – I’ll go back now. I am weary,” faltered Anne.

“Too late,” cried the old woman, clutching her hand tightly. “Shut your eyes. There, now not a word.”

Anne obeyed to the letter, and for fully half-an-hour felt herself half dragged up and down rugged ground, past masses of stone, and through bushes; and more than once her fears nearly made her open her eyes.

At last, when she could bear the suspense no longer, there was a pause, and Mother Goodhugh placed her hands upon her shoulders, pressed her down upon a block of stone, and whispered in her ear: —

“Keep your eyes close; do not speak or move, and you will hear his steps ere long, and he will speak to thee.”

“In the flesh?” whispered the girl, hoarsely.

“How can I tell in or out of the flesh, but he will come.”

“But who, Mother Goodhugh, who?” whispered the girl.

“I know not. It may be Captain Gil: it may be the gallant at the Pool: all I know and can tell is that the man who touches you – ”

“Touches?”

“Yes, touches you, is or will be your lover. Hush! Not a word.”

Anne half made a spring to rise, but something seemed to hold her back in her seat, and with palpitating heart she sat trembling as she heard a faint rustling noise indicating that Mother Goodhugh was going back into the forest; and, unable at last to combat the feeling of lonesomeness and dread, but at the same time unwilling to break what she felt was a spell by opening her eyes, she whispered hastily – “Mother – mother, are you there?” She sank back the next moment bedewed with cold clammy perspiration, for there seemed to arise a strange low whispering of many voices, which passed, came back, and died away in the distance, leaving her in the midst of a silence that was profound.

How the Spell began to work

It was terrible work to sit there in that profound silence, listening and wondering where she was; and at last it was with a feeling of relief that Anne awoke to the fact that she must be out in the daylight; for suddenly the mournful caw of a rook passing far overhead fell upon her ear.

Then the place did not seem so solitary, for a wandering wind swept softly by her, stirring the leaves which rustled together, as it cooled her cheek, and soon after there was the pleasant chirp of a woodland bird, followed by the familiar little prattle of the yellow-hammer.

She began now to realise that she must be in some deep ravine, one of the many that gashed the primeval forest, and felt half ready to laugh at her fears, as she uttered a short cough, which came back repeated strangely from the opposite wall of the rock.

“Frightened by an echo,” she muttered, “and – oh, what a weak-pated fool am I, and how I do let that wicked old beldame play upon me. It is absurd. She has no such power as she pretends; and here have I let her bring me here to sit like a shallow-brained, love-sick girl, with my eyes shut, waiting to see my lover. Eyes shut! How can I see my love. I’ll open them. Nay; there may be truth in the spell after all, and, if there is, why should I spoil it when I have gone so far. I wonder whether he will come. How my poor heart beats!”

“Coo – coo – oo – oo. Coo – coo – coo – coo – coo – oo,” came from somewhere far below.

“That’s a lover’s cry,” she said, half laughing, to herself; “but he will not come to me in the form of a dove, unless my heart’s set on Jupiter himself. How absurd I am.”

Quite a quarter of an hour passed away, and still with a wonderful power over her desires she sat upon the piece of sandrock waiting for the fulfilment of Mother Goodhugh’s promises.

“I’ll wait no longer,” she cried at last, petulantly. “I cannot keep my eyes closed like this. Where am I? How am I to find my way back home? Oh, what a sorry idiot am I! I’ll open my eyes at once, and put an end to this mystery. Hark, what’s that?”

A low doleful wail was heard overhead, and as she listened it was repeated.

“It was a seamew,” she whispered, “and that wicked hag must have brought me nearer the shore. What’s that?”

She bent down a little, listening, for she fancied that she heard a voice, but the sound was not repeated. Then there was a gentle rustle of a leaf, as if some rabbit had passed by, but still she kept her eyes closed, with a lingering faith that the old woman’s words might prove true, and all the while her heart went throb throb against the flask containing the love philtre in her bosom.

All silent as the grave once more, and she trembled as she heard her own voice.

“I’ll count a hundred,” she whispered to herself, “and then – ”

She did not finish her sentence, but began slowly under her breath to count one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on right away, heedless of a faint rustle repeated again and again, close at hand, and she went on getting slower and slower in a disappointed manner, as she reluctantly felt that she must keep her word, and open her eyes; and at last it was, “Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, and – Help, help, help! Oh!”

Mistress Anne’s voice was smothered, and she felt herself tightly held by strong hands. For as she came to the end of her counting task, and sharply opened her eyes, it was to gaze at a broad handkerchief held by two brown hands, drawn tightly across the next moment and secured behind her head, while a second stifled her cries as it was tied over her mouth.

“There, my little birdie,” said a rough voice, “that will stop your singing for the present. If you can’t breathe, give a kick, and we’ll ease it off. There, there, don’t struggle like that, or you’ll rumple your plumage.”

“Got her, lads?” said another voice.

“Got her, ah! I see her sitting on the stone there, fast asleep, crope up the bank, and off with my handkerchief, and clapped it over her eyes, while Morgan covered her mouth.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Help her to old Wat, I think,” said the first voice. “He always wants a wife.”

“Nay, lads; I shall keep her myself. Steady, lass! it’s no use to struggle.”

Anne Beckley’s heart sank within her breast as she wondered into whose hands she had fallen, and she trembled so that she could scarcely stand. The conversation that ensued the next moment, though, served as a stimulus, and she waited with bated breath, and without struggling, as the principal speaker considered the question, holding her tightly the while by the arm.

“Where be going to take her?” said a fresh voice.

“Oh, up yonder,” was the reply.

“Nay, nay; that won’t do. The skipper won’t stand these games, my lad.”

“The skipper!”

Those two words sent a thrill of hope through the heart of the girl as she asked herself could it be Captain Gil.

“Yes, yes; it must be,” she thought directly after; and these were some of the rough, adventurous men of whom she heard whispers at the Moat – the crew of bold, daring fellows, who sailed round the world and braved all dangers, even laughing at the laws; for one of Captain Gil’s men had been taken before her father for some offence, and when the worthy baronet was about to condemn him to fine and imprisonment, amercing him in coin as well as time, he had leaned forward and whispered that in the justice’s ears which had made him reconsider the case and dismiss the prisoner in the end.