Again and again I asked the old farmer to go over it once more, and I cross-examined him upon all the particulars of his tale in a manner which would really have offended some people of my acquaintance. He, however, was not only not offended, but pleased at the perseverance with which I questioned him.
He told me the story, in fact, so often, that I got to know it nearly by heart; and I think it is one which I ought to relate for the benefit of a world, in which, as far as I can see, belief of any kind, and certainly belief in witches and the like, will shortly be extinct.
The parish of Mersham has long been known as a favourite resort of queer people of the kind of whom I am speaking. It is a very long, narrow parish: much narrower, of course, at some parts than others.
Its north end runs into and beyond the park of Mersham Hatch – that is, the west side of the park, the east side being in the parishes of Brabourne and Smeeth. The south part of the parish joins Bilsington and Aldington, and on the south west you are very close upon the Ruckinge and Orlestone big woods – so close that I am not sure whether a portion of that vast tract of woodland does not actually lie within the boundaries of the parish of Mersham. Be that as it may, it is a wild part of the world, and just the very sort of place in which you would fancy witches and their confederates to abound. Whether you fancy it or not, however, beyond all doubt such was the case, in the good old times of which I speak.
No one ever dreamed of being out at night in those parts if he could possibly help it. The roads were wretchedly bad, full of deep ruts and big stones, with ditches inconveniently exposed on either side, and bushes jutting out from the adjoining woods in the most awkward manner for the traveller.
But it was not the badness of the roads which deterred people from moving about at night, or towards evening, but something much worse, namely the strange and terrible beings who frequented the locality.
All kinds of rumours were current with respect to witch meetings, and gatherings held by wicked creatures, upon which, if a mortal man of ordinary mould happened to come, he ran a terrible risk of some dreadful misfortune happening to him and his, shortly afterwards.
Cottages were few and far between: there was scarce a public house to be found in the neighbourhood, save one or two which had an evil reputation as the haunt of smugglers and outlawed men.
No gentleman's house was near, and Bilsington Priory had passed away with all its holy train of priests, and nothing was to be seen of their former glory, and no vestige of themselves either, unless it was true that a monk walked occasionally round the walls with ghostly tread, and moaned, deeply and sadly, as he compared the past with the present. In short, it was a wild, weird country, and wild, weird people dwelt there.
From Aldington Knoll, right away down to the other side of Ham-street, the thick woods contained a class of beings who, if they lived there nowadays, would be a horror to all Christian men, and an intolerable nuisance to the Kent County Constabulary. There were, however, honest men there, as everywhere else; and, although for the most part such people preferred to dwell nearer Mersham-street or immediately below the church, yet the scattered cottages further south were not altogether without inmates, who, having nowhere else to live, lived there.
John Gower was one of these, a respectable middle-aged man, who won his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was proud of the name of a Kentish labourer.
John had married early in life, lost his wife after the birth of their fourth child, and remained a widower ever since. Although he could neither read nor write, he was blessed with good common sense, and was able to give his children plain and sensible advice, which might serve them, he said, in as good stead as book-learning, if they would only lay it to heart and act upon it.
His eldest girl, Mary, was as good a girl as you would meet in a day's journey. She had her good looks (as most Mersham girls have), but she had that which is even better than good looks, an even temper and a good disposition. She was about seventeen when our story begins; her brother Jack, between fifteen and sixteen, was away at work "down in the sheers" (shires), as the neighbours called all other counties but their own; and two little ones, Jane, under fourteen, and Billy, just twelve, were at home, the former helping her sister as well as she could, and the latter doing such odd jobs as could be found for him, and doing no more mischief than a boy of his age could help.
The cottage in which they lived was very near the big woods – too near to be pleasant for anyone who feared witches or wizards – and it must be confessed that John Gower was not without his fears.
He had various horse-shoes nailed up about his premises to keep the evil creatures off, and he carefully barred his doors and windows every night, not knowing what might happen if any of them were left open. He could tell of strange cries heard in the woods at night, and if you suggested that they might proceed from owls, he shook his head sadly and gravely, as one who knew better, and grieved over your doubting spirit.
But in spite of his fears and precautions, and the strange locality in which he lived, Gower could not be called otherwise than a cheerful man. He worked all day, got home as soon as he could, was pleasant and happy with his children (of whom he was very fond), and was certainly of a contented disposition, and one who made the best of the world and took things as he found them.
Such was he and such was his family at the time that the occurrences took place which I am about to relate.
Some years before the date at which our story commences, there had lived at the extreme south of the parish of Mersham a woman of the name of Betty Bartlet. She was not only a reputed witch, but the fact of her being so was testified to by a great number of credible witnesses who had either suffered in their own persons from her evil power, or had seen and heard things which could not have been had she been an ordinary and Christian woman.
She lived to a very great age – nobody knew exactly how old she was when she died; and, although the rumours respecting her career caused the clergyman of the Parish to entertain serious doubts as to the course he should pursue, she was eventually carried to Mersham churchyard to be therein interred.
But if I am correctly informed – and I obtained my information from highly respectable people – there were strange and terrible doings at her funeral.
She was carried on a waggon, from the cottage in which she had breathed her last, as far as the bridge over the river Stour, which flows, as all the world knows, a few hundred yards south of the church. There, from some unknown cause, the horses would not cross the bridge; and it was told me that they seemed quite exhausted with the short journey – little over three miles – which they had performed.
So the people unharnessed them from the waggon, placed all that remained of old Betty on the shoulders of eight stout bearers, and marched forward towards the churchyard. But not only was their burden wondrously heavy, but it seemed to grow heavier as they went on, and they had the greatest difficulty in making their way up the short hill, and so round to the right towards the churchyard. And just before they got to the gate, why or wherefore nobody could tell, one of the bearers stumbled, and in doing so tripped up another, and down came the whole concern with a great crash upon the ground. Everything connected with their burden suddenly disappeared: a vast cloud of black dust arose and blew all over the place, and out of the dust flew a great black bird, with a strange and awful croak, with which it terribly frightened the bystanders and bearers, as it flew off directly in the contrary direction to the churchyard.
What happened immediately afterwards Farmer Barrett never heard, or, at least, he never told me, but nobody ever doubted that the old witch had flown off in the shape of the black, fearsome bird, being unable to enter the holy ground of the churchyard. Be this as it may, the ancient woman left behind her three daughters, who had all inherited their mother's wickedness, and were witches every one of them. Their actual names were Betty, Jane, and Sarah, but they were popularly known as Skinny, Bony, and Humpy, the two elder sisters being thin and gaunt, whilst the youngest was shorter, and had a species of hump between her shoulders.
Every one in Mersham, and, for the matter of that, in the adjoining parishes also, knew these three sisters by sight, and avoided them as much as possible. No conceivable misfortune ever happened in that neighbourhood that was not attributed to their influence, and all that went wrong was immediately laid at their door.
The sisters were well aware of the awe with which the neighbours regarded them, and took good care that it should not diminish, never losing an opportunity of frightening those simple people with whom they came in contact. They lived in a long, low cottage – scarcely worthy of the name of cottage – so miserable was it both as regards the outside building and the inside accommodation. The roof was of thatch, and the dwelling itself was at one end built of Kentish rag-stone, but badly constructed, and all the rest of it was composed entirely of wood, and apparently afforded but poor shelter against wind and rain.
The women lived mostly at the stone-built end of their house, for there was their kitchen, such as it was; but very little was known of the interior of this place, inasmuch as nobody came near it who could possibly go another way. It was situate, however, barely half a mile from John Gower's cottage, a fact which caused him and his no little annoyance, inasmuch as the three Crones of Mersham, as they were usually called, were not the best of neighbours, and never very particular as far as other people's property was concerned.
Now John Gower had a great number of relations; in fact there was and is an old proverb in his native parish, to the effect that "if you know the Gowers, you know all Mersham;" and certainly the knowledge would to this day make you acquainted with a large quantity of people.
They were none of them rich relations, certainly, unless you might have applied that adjective to the wife of a certain Farmer Long who lived a few miles off, and whose husband might certainly be said to be thriving.
Sally Long was a stout, comfortable-looking dame, who could not fairly have found fault if you had called her fat, but who, unlike most fat people, was not gifted with the best of tempers. If all reports were true, she led her husband rather a life of it, and scolded pretty equally all her household. She had no children, and her husband's son by a former wife being a trifle weak in the head, and for that reason generally known by the name of "Simple Steenie," there was no one to dispute her authority in house, yard or farm.
These worthy people lived in the parish of Aldington, and although John Gower was no looker after dead men's shoes, and a man who would have scorned to bow down before any one for the sake of their wealth, he thought it was but right and fair towards his children to encourage them to maintain friendly relations with his distant cousin, Dame Long.
She had noticed the children more than once, when they were quite little things; and when a woman of a certain age, with no children of her own, notices the children of other people, who happen to be her own relations, there is no telling what may come of it. So the boys had orders to take their caps off and the girls to drop a respectful curtsey whenever they passed Mrs. Long, and any little act of civility which they could possibly perform was never forgotten.
Now it happened that someone, many years ago, had given to the Gower family a very particular cat. When I use the word "particular," I do not mean to imply a very strict or fastidious cat, but one that was particular in the sense of being different from the general run of cats, which was certainly true of this individual cat.
She was jet black, which you will say is not at all uncommon; but Farmer Barrett always maintained that no cats that he ever heard of were so jet and so glossy as the Gower cats. She was a magnificent animal: her whiskers unusually long, her tail splendidly bushy, her body beautifully and symmetrically made, and her head, in size, shape, and the intelligence which was displayed upon her face, little short of perfection.
This cat lived until a great age, and nobody exactly knew when or where it died. To tell the truth there was always a legend in the Gower family that it never did die, at least not in their cottage, but that it disappeared on the very day of old Betty Bartlet's death.
I do not know – for Farmer Barrett could not tell me, though I asked him more than once – how they connected the two events, but nevertheless they had this legend, if so I may call it.
But whatever happened to this cat, of one thing there is certainly no doubt, namely, that during her lifetime she several times went through the ceremony of kittening, and that her race seemed by no means likely to be extinct. Her kittens were always black, always very glossy and always remarkably clever and intelligent, and people were always glad to get a kitten of the Gower breed.
So when, upon a fine summer's morning, one of the descendants of the famous animal of which I have spoken was found by John Gower with a little family of four kittens around her, he and his children were not displeased at the addition to their household. And when, after a few days, one of these kittens appeared to be developing into an animal more comely and more sprightly than the rest, the worthy man thought it would be a proper and becoming compliment upon his part if he made a present of it to good Mrs. Long.
So he told Mary that she should take it up in a little basket the very next day, give his "duty" to "old aunt Sally" (for so they called her in the cottage when they spoke of her among themselves, though it was always "Mrs. Long" when they spoke to her) and ask her acceptance of the gift. Mary made her preparations accordingly. She could not go up to the farm in the morning, for she had the rooms to "do," the house to sweep, father's dinner to get ready and carry to him, and a number of little jobs to get done which it was necessary to finish before she could feel herself at liberty to go out.
At last, however, every duty seemed to have been discharged, as is always the case, at some time or other, if people will only set themselves at work to do resolutely that which they have before them to do, instead of sitting down with folded hands and sighing over the prospect of it.
It must have been between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when Mary found that she could get away with a clear conscience. Then she put on her little straw hat, donned her grey cloak, put the kitten in a little basket with a little hay for it to lie on, and called her brother Billy to come with her, wisely thinking this the most likely way to keep him out of mischief.
It was a truly glorious afternoon, such as an English summer's afternoon often is.
"Talk to me about foreign countries," as Farmer Barrett often used to say, snapping his fingers audibly, "that for your furrineerers; there an't no land like old England, to my mind;" and, being myself old and prejudiced, I confess that I am very much of the good old farmer's opinion.
It is very charming, no doubt, to roam through foreign lands, and there is doubtless much to admire. When I shut my eyes and muse over beautiful views that I have seen, many such come back to me with pleasing memories.
I see the sparkling Rhine with castle-crowned heights, and scenery world-worshipped for its varied beauty; I gaze with a delight tempered with awe upon the mighty snow-clad mountains of life-breathing Switzerland; I sit upon the shores of the sea of seas, the Mediterranean, and I cast my eyes upon its waters of eternal blue; and, most wonderful sight of all, I stand upon the plateau opposite the Cascatelle at Tivoli, and, with the waterfall and town on one side, Adrian's Villa nestling below on the left, and the hills behind, look out over the vast Campagna with its ever-changing lights, see Rome – grand, glorious Rome – in the far distance, and feel carried out of myself and away from all ideas of mere earth and earthly things as I lose all individuality of being in the absorbing contemplation of a beauty so divinely sublime.
And then – as the magic power of thought enables me to move faster than railroads, steamers, or electric telegraphs – I suddenly transport myself to a quiet, homely, English scene upon a summer's afternoon; and I think to myself that neither the Rhine, Switzerland, nor Italy can produce anything more pleasing to the eye, more soothing to the senses, or more entirely enjoyable to any person capable of enjoyment, and not given to despise the beauties of scenery merely because they can be seen at home without hurrying off to foreign lands.
Such a summer's afternoon fell on this particular day of which we are now speaking. There was hardly a breath of air, but the woods having got their shady green dress on, kept off the heat of the sun from the traveller on the road which intersected them. It was very warm, though, and very still; and you might hear the voices of the woodland birds, singing in notes which seemed somewhat subdued, as if the heat forbade the songsters to exert themselves to their full strength.
But, warm as it was, there was a very pleasant feeling in the air. Nature seemed to be basking in the sun and thoroughly enjoying herself – the rabbits hopped across the road as quietly as if there were no such things as weasels in the world, and keepers had never existed: the old jay flitted heavily from tree to tree, her hard note softened down to a low guttural sound – all insect life was on the move, and every living being seemed to delight in the genial weather.
Of course, under these circumstances, Mary and Billy Gower did not walk very fast. On the contrary, they rather dawdled, for Billy saw now and then a butterfly, now and then a birds' nest, and was constantly tempted to leave the road and dive into the woods on either side, whilst his sister did not like to hurry on and leave him, and saw no reason for particular haste.
They passed along for some way without adventure, until Aldington Knoll came in sight, although they were still in the shady lanes of their own parish. Then, on turning a corner, they came suddenly upon two figures approaching them from the opposite direction, that is to say, as if they had come from Aldington Knoll. The children needed no second glance to tell them that they were in the presence of two of the Mersham crone. "Lanky" and "Skinny" were the lovely pair whom they had the good fortune thus to meet, and the children felt by no means comfortable when they saw them. Mary, indeed, being now seventeen, and hardly to be deemed a child any longer, felt no babyish fear at the sight of the old women. She was, as I have said, a good sort of girl, and one who tried to do her duty; and she had a feeling within her (as such people generally have) that as long as she did so, no great harm would be allowed to happen to her.
But, as for little Billy, who had occasionally been threatened, when naughty, that he should be given to the crones, he could by no means be restrained from great manifestations of fear. He trembled greatly as soon as he saw the two, clutched hold of his sister's gown, and begged her to turn back and run away, as they were still forty or fifty yards from the old women. This, however, would have been contrary to Mary's sense of right.
She had been sent by her father to perform a certain duty, and that duty, come what would, she meant to discharge, unless prevented by superior force. So she trudged on steadily along the road, and her brother accompanied her, probably because he thought it the least of two evils, and was too much terrified to run away. As they neared the two crones, they could not but feel that there was nothing either prepossessing or agreeable in the appearance of the latter.
Their clothes were untidy and ill-fitting: each had a kind of hood half drawn over her head; but not sufficiently so as to conceal her decidedly ugly features, whilst a certain wild, haggard look, which sat upon their faces, was anything but calculated to put the traveller at his ease. They walked, or rather crawled, along one side of the road, and close behind them followed a gaunt cat, which, if formerly black, was now gray with age, and which wore upon its face the same haggard look which was so plainly discernible upon those of the hags themselves.
Mary and Billy walked quietly on, and were just passing these strange beings, and really beginning to hope they might be allowed to do so without interruption, when they were suddenly pulled up by the harsh voice of the crone nearest to them, who called out "Stop!" in a voice harsher than the croak of a raven, but with such a tone of authority that no thought of disobeying her entered the head of either of those she addressed even for a single moment.
"Stop, young people!" she said a second time; "whither away so fast this afternoon?"
Mary civilly replied, "We are going up to Farmer Long's, ma'am; father sent us."
"Ah!" replied the crone; "going up to Farmer Long's for father, are ye, my chickens? Fine times, forsooth, when John Gower's children go visiting instead of minding their business at home. But pray, what have you got in that basket, my pretty Minnikin?"
"Only a kitten, ma'am, that father is going to give to Aunt Sal – I mean to Mrs. Long," replied the girl.
"Only a kitten!" cried the other crone, who had not yet spoken; "only a kitten, indeed! and how does John Gower the labourer have kittens to give away, I should like to know? Our poor old Grimalkin here has lost a kitten lately – I wonder whether this can be the same, strayed over to John Gower's house. If he had a kitten to give away, he might have thought of his poor neighbours, methinks, instead of the rich farmer's wife!"
When Mary heard these words she begin to tremble for the safety of her kitten, for as I have already remarked, the Crones of Mersham were not famous for distinguishing clearly between other people's property and their own.
So she made reply very quickly in these words: "Please, ma'am, this kitten can't be your cat's, because we've known it ever since it was born, and its mother too, and it has never been out of our charge yet."
"No matter, no matter," said the crone in a testy voice; "let me see it, and I shall soon know all about it."
Mary did not dare refuse, nor would it have been of much use if she had done so.
The crone stretched out her long, skinny hand, and lifting the basket-lid, saw the little black kitten; which, immediately that it saw her, crouched down in the corner of the basket and uttered a low moaning sound.
"Poor little thing!" said the old hag. "Poor little thing! I can hardly see it so. Look, sister Jane!" and the other crone came and peered also into the basket, whilst the kitten continued to crouch and moan.
"The very image of our grimalkin, I do declare!" cried the second crone after a moment. "It must be hers – there can be no doubt at all about it."
So saying, she put her hand down and stroked the back of the kitten, as if about to take it out of the basket.
As soon as she touched it, however, the little animal, young as it was, appeared to go into a paroxysm of fear and fury; it growled and spit, made as if it would spring out of the basket, and suddenly inflicted a severe scratch on the hand which was about to seize it.
The old woman's face immediately became distorted with rage, and as she hastily withdrew her hand, she fixed her eyes steadily upon the kitten, muttering at the same time some words which the children could not understand, but which sounded in their ears like anything but a prayer. Neither of the crones, however, tried further to interfere with the kitten, but begged of the children to give them money, saying that they were nearly starving.
Billy of course had nothing, and Mary only a penny, but she thought it best to give that for fear of being bewitched if she refused; so, sorrowfully enough, the poor child drew out her only coin and placed it in the hand of one of the hags, who grinned frightfully by way of thanks, and allowed the children to proceed on their way – although before they did so they could not help noticing the strange conduct of grimalkin, who threw herself on the side of the road, turned over and over, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and appeared to be convulsed with laughter at all that had occurred.
Mary and Billy, however, glad to have got away from the old women, hurried forward towards Farmer Long's dwelling.
But now the conduct of the kitten became inexplicable. Up to the time of their meeting the crones, it had behaved like a decent little animal of tender years, nestling quietly in its basket, and giving no trouble to anybody.
It now took quite a different course. It moaned and whined as if it wanted to get out – it pushed against the basket, first on one side and then on the other, as if trying to force its way through, and behaved in all respects as if it was a mad kitten, – although, as I never saw a mad kitten, I am not sure how they do behave exactly – but this was Farmer Barrett's expression, and a man of his years and experience was not likely to be wrong.
But more than this, although the kitten was young and small, and had therefore been very light and easy to carry, scarcely had the children passed the crones than its weight seemed to increase vastly, and it became four times as heavy as before, until poor Mary's arm quite ached with carrying it.
Billy, seeing her trouble, advised her to turn it out into the woods; but Mary would not do this, being determined to obey her father's orders, so she trudged steadily on until they came to the farm to which they had been sent.
There they asked if Mrs. Long was at home, and were presently ushered into the presence of that good lady, to whom they told the object of their visit. She received them very graciously, and expressed herself much pleased with John Gower's attention in sending her the kitten, saying that she had always desired to have one of that breed.
They opened the basket, and she was going to take the creature out, when it looked her straight in the face, and she drew back her hand at once.
"Lawkes! child!" she said to Mary; "how the thing's eyes do shine! Like live coals of fire, I do declare. I never seen such eyes in all my born days, that I never did!"
As she spoke, the kitten saved her the trouble of removing it from the basket by jumping out of its own accord on to the table, where it sat glowering at the party, and making a low noise between a purr and a growl, until Mrs. Long brought it some milk, with which it proceeded to regale itself, and the children, having had a slice of cake each, and been duly charged with the good lady's thanks to their father, took their departure, and reached the cottage without further adventure.
Now I verily believe that the doings of that kitten at Farmer Long's farm were of such a wonderful and unheard of character that a whole book, and a very amusing book, too, might be written about them. But people did not write many books in those days, and Farmer Barrett could not recollect many particulars about this part of his story. At all events, there can be no doubt (to use his own expression) that the animal's "tantrums" were extraordinary; the cream was constantly devoured, and the best cream-jug broken on one occasion, in order to get at it; the milk was for ever being upset; the marks of dirty paws were daily to be seen on clean table cloths, or on the counterpanes of beds just made, and, in short, just wherever they ought not to be.
Mrs. Long's best cap, having mysteriously disappeared one afternoon, was seen in the kitten's clutches upon the hearthrug, a perfect wreck of a cap, and useless for ever afterwards. Then the perverse little animal appeared to entertain a strong and marked partiality for young ducks and chickens, which she ruthlessly murdered whenever she could lay her paws upon them, neglecting to touch any of the rats upon which her energies might have been much more beneficially employed.
Day by day depredations were committed, all of which were attributed to the kitten, and most of which were probably perpetrated by her. From the moment of her arrival at the farm, nothing seemed to prosper with the Longs.
Everything turned out just the reverse way to that which they had hoped, and it really seemed as if some evil spell had been cast upon them. Looking calmly back upon the whole history, I have no doubt at all but that the crones had bewitched the kitten when they met the children on that memorable afternoon, and that to this must be attributed all that afterwards occurred.
However this may be, it was certainly an unlucky day for the Longs when that kitten came upon their premises, and that they very soon found out.
Still, people do not always put the saddle upon the right horse immediately, and they did not at first believe that the animal had anything to do with their ill-luck. Mrs. Long, however, who had an eye to business, could not stand the constant inroad upon her ducks and chickens, to say nothing of the cream-jug, and the loss of her cap very nearly brought matters to a climax.
She might perhaps, however, have borne it a little longer, had not an event occurred which was really beyond anybody's bearing. One morning, when the worthy couple were at breakfast, the kitten calmly jumped on to the table, seized a piece of bacon which the farmer was about to place upon his own plate, and deliberately carried it off.