Now I will tell you a story of a very foolish woman, whose curiosity got the better of her, and of how she was punished.
The old woman's Christian name was Joan. I will not tell her surname, for it does not make any difference to the story, and there may be some of her descendants left who would not like it to be known. Joan was housekeeper to Squire Lovell. The name of his house shall be kept a secret too, but I will tell you this much, that he lived a few miles out of Penzance.
Now one Saturday afternoon it fell out that Joan wanted to go to Penzance Market to get herself a pair of shoes, and to buy some groceries and several Christmas things for the house, for it was Christmas Eve, and the Squire had a lot of folks coming to supper that very night. So, the weather being fine, Joan started off soon after her twelve o'clock dinner, to walk into Penzance to market. Having, though, a great fancy for company, and loving a little gossip, she thought she would step in on her way to see if her friend Betty Trenance was going to market too. It would be so nice to have each other's company on the way.
Now many persons in those parts told some very queer stories about Betty Trenance, and amongst themselves some called her a witch, and were afraid of her. Joan, though, argued that if she was a witch, there was all the more reason for keeping friendly with her. And if one did not offend Betty, she was always ready to give one a cup of tea, or do anything to oblige one.
Betty lived down at Lamorna Cove, which was a little way out of Joan's road, but she did not mind that if she could get Betty's company. She walked quickly, though, for the days were short, and she had a long way to go, and to be back in time to cook the Squire's supper. On her way she met two of Betty's elder children carrying baskets of fish on their backs, and down in the Cove she saw all the younger ones at play with the limpets and crabs in the rock-pools, and paddling about in the water. But she could not stay to watch them, for she had no time to spare, so she hurried on to the cottage.
When she got there, though, to her astonishment she found the front door was closed and fastened, not only latched either, but bolted! This was such an unusual thing in those parts, that Joan was quite startled. At first she thought something must really have gone amiss, then she comforted herself by deciding that Betty had already started for the market, and had locked the children out to keep them from ransacking the place. Just, though, as she had settled all this in her mind, and was about to turn away, the sound of voices reached her, and voices talking very earnestly, too.
Joan looked round her nervously, the voices sounded quite near to her, but there was no sight or sign of any living thing except some seagulls, and Betty's old black cat.
What did it all mean? Joan was frightened, but her curiosity made her stay and try to get to the bottom of the mystery. She stood quite still and listened very closely. Yes, there were the voices again, plainly enough, but where? She tiptoed close up to the door and placed her ear against the keyhole. This time she heard Tom Trenance's voice quite distinctly,—Tom was Betty's husband. He was talking very earnestly to someone too, more earnestly than she had ever heard him speak in her life before, but, try as she would, she could not make out to whom he was speaking, nor what he was saying.
This was more than inquisitive Joan could endure. She must know what was going on in that cottage, or she would know no peace day or night, for thinking about it. So she made up her mind to knock and knock until those inside were obliged to come to the door, but first of all she thought she would have a peep in through the finger-hole by the latch. So she stooped down and put her eye to the hole, and there she saw Tom sitting on the settle, and after all it was only Betty that he was talking to.
Betty was standing beside him with a little box in her hand, from which she took something that looked like ointment, which she smeared over her husband's eyes, and all the time she did it she seemed to be mumbling some verses or something that sounded like a charm. There seemed to be other voices as well, though, and to Joan's great annoyance she could not see from whence they came.
All this put old Joan in a fearful flutter. People had always told her that Betty was a witch, and that Tom had the power of the evil eye, and now she began to believe them. You would not have thought so to look at him, for though they were very piercing, they were handsome hazel eyes, clear and kind-looking,—unless he was angered, and then—
Completely mystified, and more inquisitive than ever, Joan went round to the window by the chimney, to see if from there she could hear what they were saying; but it was of no use. The door of the cottage was on the landward side, and the windows of the cottage were to seaward, and round the kitchen window was a great bush of honeysuckle and 'Traveller's Joy,' which prevented anyone's getting quite close, and what with the sound of the sea, the singing of the birds, and the shouting of the children below, one might as well have been a mile off, for all one could hear!
Back tiptoed Joan again, and sat down on the bench outside the house to think, but her curiosity would not let her keep still, so up she jumped again, and peeped through the door once more. This time she saw that Tom was standing up, preparing to come out; so not wanting to be caught prying, she tapped at the door, and lifting the latch at the same time, walked in as if she had but that moment arrived. She was so excited by what she was doing that she did not notice that the door opened quite easily now. She went in so quickly, too, that she was just in time to see Betty push something under the dried ferns at the back of the chimney.
After saying "good day," and hearing what she had come for, Tom went out, leaving them to make their plans by themselves, but Betty, though she seemed pleased to see her friend, could not be persuaded to go to market with her. She was very sorry, she said, but she was very bad, she had not been well for days, and she still had a good day's work to get through making ready for Christmas. She was not too busy, though, to make a cup of tea, and Joan must stay and have one with her, and away she bustled to the talfat,[1] where she had a special case of tea put away. This was Joan's opportunity, and she seized it. As soon as Betty's back was turned, she whipped the pot of ointment out from under the ferns, stuck her finger in it, and popped the pot back again, in no time. But no sooner had she touched her eye with the ointment than, oh! such a pain shot through it, she very nearly shrieked aloud. It was as though a red-hot knitting needle had been run right through her eyeball! And, oh, the smarting and the burning that followed! To prevent a sound escaping her she had to hug and squeeze herself with all her might, she dared not open her lips to speak, and the tears poured down her cheeks like rain.
It was lucky for her that Betty had some trouble in dragging the chest of tea from under the bed, for if she had come back quickly she could not have helped seeing what Joan had been doing. By the time she returned, though, the worst of the pain was over, and keeping up her hand to that side of her face, Joan managed to conceal the injured eye, and Betty was too busy with her fire and her kettle to be very observant.
"I'm glad you came in to have a cup with me, and drink my health, it being Christmas Eve and all," said Betty as they drew up to the table. Then, having drunk each other's health, they had a third cup to drink the health of the children, for, as Joan said, "there wasn't a healthier, handsomer family in the whole parish." Then they drank the health of the mermaids, for it is always wise to be civil to them, and after that Joan rose to go.
Before she could go, though, she felt she must manage to open her injured eye, which still watered and smarted a good deal. So she rubbed it and blinked and winked until at last she managed to part the lids,—when, lo and behold! to her amazement and alarm she saw that the house, which she had thought empty save for herself and Betty, was simply thronged with Little People!
There was not a spot that was free of them! They were climbing up the dressers, hanging on to the beams, swinging on the fishing nets, hanging across them, playing pranks on the clock, on the table, and the mantelpiece, sliding down the saucepan handles, riding races on mice,— they were everywhere, in fact, and up to every kind of game.
They were all very beautifully dressed. Most of the little men wore green velvet, trimmed with scarlet, and their long green caps, which most of them were waving frantically, had long scarlet feathers in them. They all wore little red boots, too, and large silver spurs,—at least, large for fairies.
The ladies were very consequential little people indeed, and swept about in their long-trained gowns as though they were Court ladies at a Drawing-room. On their little shoes they had diamond buckles, and their great steeple-crowned hats were garlanded with beautiful flowers. Such flowers as are seldom seen on Christmas Eve, but the Little People have gardens under the sea where the flowers bloom in wonderful beauty all the year round. Fishermen see them sometimes on moonlight nights, when the water is clear and the wind calm, and if they listen closely they can hear exquisite fairy music floating across the waters from bay to bay.
Back in the corner by Betty's wood heap were a lot of Spriggans, poor depressed little creatures, dirty and sullen-looking. They were not lively like the others, for you know they have to guard the Fairy treasures all the year round, and they get no fun at all, as other fairies do. So they are naturally not very lively.
While Joan was standing gazing, open-mouthed, bewildered by what she saw, strains of the most beautiful music reached her ears, and gradually a change began to come over the whole house. It was no wonder that she thought her head was turned! The music came nearer and nearer, and mingling with it was the tramp of hundreds of little feet; at last it came quite close, and through the window marched a regiment of robins as unconcernedly as a regiment of soldiers entering their barracks. Quite gravely they stepped down from the window, marched across the room, and flew up to the beam, where they perched themselves in perfect order, and began to sing as hard as they possibly could. In a moment or two they were followed through the window by a regiment of wrens, and then by a regiment of Little People, all playing on every kind of musical instrument ever invented, and on a number made out of reeds, and shells, such as had never been seen before or since.
Stepping down gracefully from the window to the floor, the band, followed by numbers of little ladies and gentlemen, carrying branches of herbs and flowers, marched with stately tread past old Betty Trenance, bowed to her in a most respectful manner in passing, then arranged themselves in perfect order behind her. Last of all came another troop of fairies, and these took the herbs and flowers brought by the little ladies and gentlemen and placed them in Betty's apron.
"These are what she makes her salves and ointments of," thought Joan to herself; "no wonder she is thought so clever."
This done, all the other fairies who had been playing about the house came down to the floor and joined the new-comers. Such a crowd never was seen! No sooner had the flowers and herbs been heaped in Betty's lap than another troop of fairies came forward with fox-glove bells full of dyes, which they poured over Betty's dress, when in a moment her russet gown was changed to the softest white velvet, her apron to the filmiest lace, edged all round with a delicate fringe of harebells and snowdrops. Other fairies outlined the quilted 'diamonds' of her petticoat with silver cord.
When her dress had been transformed in this way, all the troop of Little People came forward with dainty bunches of flowers to complete her toilet, sweet wild flowers they were, delicate speedwells and forget-me-nots with their fresh green, and their innocent blue eyes; the warm scarlet pimpernel, violets, snowdrops, heather bells, and ladies' white petticoats. Some of each and every kind of flower we find in the lanes and hedges. The little ladies stitched a small nosegay in each 'diamond' of Betty's petticoat, and every nosegay was different. The tiniest flowers of all they laid on sprays of feathery moss, others had background of graceful ferns, or delicate grass. Around the hem of the skirt were sprays of pink and white dog-roses, while the bodice was wreathed with tiny pink and white convolvulus. Sparkling at Betty's throat were such brilliant jewels that Joan had to look away, her eyes were so dazzled.
The strangest part of all this was that Betty did not seem in the least surprised at what was going on, and was apparently quite unaware that Joan was watching her.
As soon as the gown was completed, another group of the clever little creatures clambered up to the top of the high-backed chair in which Betty was seated, and began to arrange her hair. Some had quaint little pots in their hands from which they poured delicate perfumes over Betty's head,— Joan picked up one of the pots, which they threw aside when empty, and found to her astonishment that it was only a poppy head. Then they carefully arranged every curl and wave of Betty's hair, until she looked as beautiful as a queen, and as dignified and stately, too; for Betty, though a mischievous witch, was not at all like our ideas of one. She was as clean as a new pin, and as neat and tidy as anyone could be. Her features were unusually handsome, and her thick dark hair, which reached the ground when she sat down, was full of the prettiest curls and waves.
As soon as the last curl was arranged, and her tire-maidens satisfied, they placed a spray of jessamine amongst her tresses, and jumped down, their task completed.
All this time the music was playing the most bewitching melodies.
Very soon after this Joan began to have a feeling that Betty wished her gone. The Little People, too, were making signs that she could not fail to understand, and such hideous grimaces at her, too, that made her long to box their ears. Of course, neither Betty nor the fairies knew that she had used the Fairy Ointment, and could see them, and to save herself from being found out, she bade her friend 'goodbye' with all speed.
When Joan got outside, though, she could not resist one more sly peep in, just to make sure she had not been dreaming. So down went her eye to the finger-hole again, but all she saw was the kitchen, with its sanded floor and bright turf fire, the key-beam with the nets hanging across it, and Betty stitching away as fast as her fingers could fly.
"This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard tell of," said Joan to herself. "I'll have another look."
Down went her eye again, but the right one this time, and, lo and behold! there was the kitchen turned into a splendid banqueting hall, hung around with tapestry representing everything that had ever happened in the world. The talfat-rail was turned into a balcony hung with pale blue satin, where sat a number of little ladies and gentlemen watching the dancing which was going on below. The costumes of all were magnificent, the cottage was as beautiful as a bit of Fairyland, and seated on a golden chair of state under a velvet canopy was Betty Trenance looking as royal as a queen.
Betty, though, seemed to be keeping a sharp eye on the door, and as she had a crowd of wicked little piskies about her, Joan thought it wise to get away to safer quarters. So off she hurried, but as she went she met numbers of fairies all hurrying away to Betty's cottage, while from the rocks below came the doleful wail of the mermaids, and all was so uncanny Joan was glad to hurry along as fast as she knew how. She was really scared by this time, and the light was growing dim, for it was already past three o'clock.
Once arrived at Penzance, Joan did her marketing quickly, but by the time she had finished she was very tired and very hungry, for she had had nothing to eat since twelve o'clock dinner, and had been trudging about for hours. So, having a piece of saffron cake in her basket, she turned into an inn in Market Jew Street, to get something to drink with it, and a place to sit down for a while to rest.
When she got there she found the house so crowded that she had to sit on a bench outside, and here she met a lot of friends, and had a thorough good gossip. They drank each other's health too, and passed the compliments of the season, until Joan remembered all of a sudden that she ought to have been on her way home by that time, for the Squire would be very angry if she were not there to see to things for the supper-party.
Up she jumped in a great flurry, and had said 'good-bye' all round when she suddenly remembered that she had not yet bought several of the things she had come to town on purpose to get. She was dreadfully vexed, but there was no time to stay and think about it, she had just to hurry back into the market and make her purchases as quickly as possible.
At last she had really bought everything, and was about to leave, when unfortunately some wonderful bargains caught her eye, and it did seem to her sinful to go away without taking a glance at them when she might never have such a chance again. So she lingered by the stalls, and wandered up and down having a good look at everything, when whom should she see doing the very same thing but Tom Trenance!
He did not see Joan, so she thought she would go up and speak to him, and ask if he was going home soon, for it would be nice to have his company on the way. He was so busy, though, darting about from stall to stall, that Joan could never get up to him. But she could see what he was doing, and the sight made Joan's blood boil with indignation! He was helping himself to everything that took his fancy! Yarn, stockings, boots, spoons, clothing, until the wonder was that he could manage to stow the things away.
The oddest part of all, though, was that nobody seemed to see him. Joan looked again and again to make sure she was not dreaming, but no, he was there right enough, and pocketing things as fast as he could, right under the stall-keepers' very noses, and they paying no heed whatever to him!
Joan could bear it no longer! She could not stand by and see such wickedness going on; it made her blood boil with indignation. So over she bustled and touched him on the arm.
"Tom Trenance," she cried, "I'm downright ashamed of 'ee! I wonder you ain't above carrying on such dishonest ways, and you with children to set an example to! I didn't think you capable of such wickedness."
Tom for a minute looked, and was too much taken aback to speak. But he quickly recovered himself. "Why, Joan," he said, taking no notice of her accusations, "I take it very kind and neighbourly of 'ee to come up and speak. What sharp eyes you've got! Now which of them did you 'appen to catch sight of me with?"
"Which? Why, both, of course," cried Joan, but she put up her hand first over one and then over the other, and found she could only see Tom with the right one. "Why, no, I can't see 'ee with both," she cried in astonishment. "The left one don't seem to be a bit of good!"
"The right one is it?" said Tom, and his look went through her like a gimlet. Then, pointing his finger at it, he muttered:—
"Thou wicked old spy—
Thou shalt no more see me,
Nor peep nor pry
With that charméd eye."
And at that very moment a sharp pain shot through her right eye. It was so sharp that she screamed aloud, and from that moment she never could see with it again.
Yelling, and pressing her fist into her throbbing eyeball, she rushed hither and thither, calling to people to come and help her, and to go and catch Tom Trenance, all in one breath; but as they could not see Tom,—nor could she, either, now,—they unkindly said the poor soul was crazy, which, of course, was most unjust and cruel of them, and shows what mistakes people can make.
Of course, it was the Fairy Ointment on her eye which enabled her to see so much, and it was that same ointment which rendered Tom Trenance invisible to everyone but to her.
How poor Joan ever found her way back to Market Jew Street again she never could tell, but when she did arrive there she had, of course, to stay a little while and tell her sad story, so that it was really quite late and dark before she started for home; and then, what with the darkness and her blindness she could only crawl along. She groped her way painfully down Voundervoor and over the Green, stumbling over the ruts and sandy banks until she was very nearly driven crazy. Through only being able to see with her left eye, she kept bearing away to the left side of the road, and I cannot tell you how many times she fell into the ditch, marketing and all! And so afraid was she of falling into the sea, and so close did she keep to the other side of the road away from it, that at last she went right through the hedge and fell over into a place called 'Park-an-Shebbar!'
Luckily one of the farm-boys was in the field, and helped her up and picked up her parcels for her; then, seeing how bad she was, he took her into the house to rest and recover, for she seemed quite dazed by that time. There they gave her something to bring her round, and presently she began to feel better and able to go on again.
By this time she was very anxious to get home, so the lad helped her over the stream and set her on the right road once more. This time Joan stepped out briskly, for she was really very troubled about the Squire's supper, and all the people who were expected to it. If she did not get home soon, they would have arrived first, and, oh, how angry the Squire would be!
By the time, though, that she got to the top of Paul Hill, she was so tired she felt she could not go another step without a rest, so, though she could badly spare the time, she dropped with a sigh of relief on to a soft green spot, when, oh! what a shriek she gave! for the soft green spot was a duck-pond covered with duck-weed! How she got out of the pond she could never tell, but she did and crept over to the other side of the road, where she fell back on the hedge quite exhausted.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she moaned, "I'm nearly dead. Oh, if only I'd got our old Dumpling here to give me a lift; or any other quiet old horse I'd be thankful for. I shall never reach home to-night on my two feet, I'm sure, they are ready to drop off already!"
Barely had she uttered her wish when there by the roadside stood an old white horse, cropping quietly away at the brambles and dead ferns. How he came there I can't tell you. Whether he had been there all the time without her seeing him, or whether he came by magic, no one can say, but there he was.
Many persons in Dame Joan's place would have been afraid to mount him, fearing witchcraft, or fairies' pranks, but Joan was too tired to have many scruples. So up she got and untied his feet, for he was hobbled, put the rope round his head, and then managed somehow to clamber up on his back, basket and all. It was hard work, but she got settled after a bit, then picking up the rope, called to him to start.
"Gee wug! gee wo!" she called, "get up, you lazy old faggot!" and she hammered away at his side with her heels with all her might—and her shoes were none of the daintiest! but in spite of her coaxings and her threats, her kicks and her thumps, the old horse did not move an inch.
"Come up, can't you! Gee wug, come here!" She beat him and kicked him again until she was really too tired to move hand or foot; then, when she had given up in despair, the tiresome creature made a start. But such a start! he went at a slow snail's pace, and try as Joan would she could not make him go faster.
At last, though, when she reached the top of a hill, there came from the valley below the cry of hounds, devil's hounds they must have been, for no others would be out at that time of night. As soon as the sounds reached the old horse's ears, he pricked them up, whinnied loudly, and with a toss of his head and a fling of his tail started away like any young colt.
Away, away, uphill and downhill they tore as fast as the wind. Joan clung to the horse's mane with both hands, and yelled and yelled to him to stop. She might as well, though, have held her breath. All her marketing flew out of her basket, her precious beaver hat was carried away, her shawl was whisked off her back! On and on the old horse tore, jumping over everything that came in his way, until Joan was nearly flung from his back. Presently, too, to her horror she saw that the creature was growing bigger and bigger, and higher and higher; soon he shot up above the trees, then he was as high as the church tower. Poor Joan, perched on his back, grew sick, giddy, and terrified. She was afraid now to slip off lest she should be dashed to pieces, and was afraid to stay there lest she should fall off.
For miles and miles they travelled like this, until at last they came to Toldave Moor, on the further side of which there was, Joan knew, a deep black pool, and for this pool, to Joan's horror, the monster galloped straight!
"If I don't slip off now, I shall surely be drowned outright!" thought poor Joan, for the pond was deep, she felt her powers were failing her; her hands were numb, her limbs cramped. She knew she could not swim. "Better a dry death than a wet one, it will save my clothes, anyway!" So, letting go her hold of the creature's mane, she was about to let herself slide down, when the wind caught her and carried her right off the horse's back. They were going at a terrific rate, and the wind was very keen on the moor; it lifted her right up in the air, high above the horse, and then, just as she thought she was going to disappear through the clouds, she was dropped plump into the rushes by the edge of the very pool itself.
At the same moment the air became filled with the most awful clamour, such yells and cries, and terrible laughter as no living being had ever heard before. Poor old Joan thought her last hour had really come, and gave herself up for lost, for when she looked round she saw the fearful great creature she had been riding, disappearing in the distance in flames of fire, and tearing after it, helter-skelter, pell-mell, was a horrible crew of men and dogs and horses. Two or three hundred of them there must have been, and not one of the lot had a head on his shoulders.
Joan would have screamed, too, if she had not been stricken dumb with fright; so, very nearly scared to death, trembling with cold and fear, there she lay until they had disappeared.
How she scrambled out of her soft, damp resting-place she could never tell, but she did, somehow, and got as far as Trove Bottom, though without any shoes, for they had come off in the ditch. Her shawl was gone, too, and all her marketing, and, worst of all, her precious broad-brimmed beaver hat.
There was a linhay down at the Bottom, where Squire Lovell kept a lot of sheep, and into that Joan crept, and lay down, and from sheer exhaustion fell asleep and slept till morning. How much longer she would have slept no one knows, but on Sunday mornings it was the Squire's habit to go down and look over his sheep, and on this Sunday, though it was Christmas Day, he visited them as usual.
His entrance with his boys and his dogs and his flashing lantern woke old Joan with a start, and so certain was she that they were the horse, and the huntsmen, and their hounds come again, that she sprang up in a frenzy of terror. "Get out, get out!" she cried, "let a poor old woman be!" But instead of the hollow laugh of the huntsmen, it was the Squire's voice that answered her.
"Why, here's our poor old lost Joan!" he cried, amazed, "and frightened out of her wits, seemingly! Why, Joan," he said, "whatever have you been spending the night out here for? We've been scouring the country for you, for hours!"
"Oh, Master!" she cried, almost in tears as she dropped trembling at his feet, "for the sake of all the years I've served 'ee from your cradle up, do 'ee let me die in peace, and bury me decent!" and then, her tongue once set going, she poured out all the long tale of the dreadful things that had happened to her since she set out for Penzance Market.
How long she would have talked no one knows, but the Squire sent for his men, and between them they carried her home, and warmed and fed and comforted her, for she was black and blue, wet to the skin, and half frozen. However, with all their care she soon recovered, and when she was dry, and warm, and rested she poured out all her adventures and disasters.
To her astonishment, though, and anger and pain, they refused to believe a word of it. They did not pity her a bit; they even laughed at her. Indeed, they tried to make her believe that the enchanted steed was only the miller's old white horse, that the demon huntsman and his hounds were no more nor less than her own son John riding across the moor with the dogs, in search of her, that her lost eye must have been scratched out by a 'fuz'-bush; and so they went on pooh-poohing the whole of her story,— which was very nearly the most aggravating thing of all she had had to bear.
One thing, though, Joan had not told them, and that was about her stealing the Fairy Ointment, or they would have known that she had been pisky-led that night, by order of the Fairies, as a punishment, and would one and all have agreed that she richly deserved it.
[1] A 'talfat' is a raised floor at one end of a cottage, on which a bed is placed. Sometimes it is divided off by a wooden partition, but more often there is only a bar, to prevent the sleeper falling out of bed.
One of the greatest feast-days in Cornwall, and the most looked forward to, is St. Picrons' Day, which falls just before Christmas. It is the special day of the tinners and streamers, their greatest holiday in the year, and on it they have a great merry-making. Picrons was the discoverer of tin in Cornwall, so they say, so, of course, it is the bounden duty of those who earn their living by it, to keep up his day with rejoicings.
It is not of St. Picrons, though, that I am going to tell you, but of John Sturtridge, a streamer, and what befell him one year when he had been keeping up St. Picrons' Day.
He had been up to the 'Rising Sun' to the great supper that was always held there, and to the merry-making after it, and had enjoyed himself mightily. Enjoyed himself so much, in fact, that he did not greatly relish having to turn out, when both were ended, and face a long walk home.
It was a bitterly cold night, and the road was a lonely one, all across Tregarden Downs. However, it had to be faced, and nothing was gained by putting it off, so John started, and at first he got along pretty well. True, he found the roads very puzzling, and difficult to follow, but that may have been the fault of the moonlight, or the will-o'-the-wisps. Anyhow, if he did not get on very rapidly, he got on somehow, and presently reached the Downs.
Now Tregarden Downs is a horribly wild, uncanny stretch of country, a place where no one chooses to walk alone after nightfall, and, though John was in a cheerful mood, and did not feel at all frightened, he quickened his steps, and pulled hot-foot for home and bed. He kept a sharp eye on the cart-tracks, too, for he had no fancy for going astray here as he had done in the lanes. Whether, though, he did go a little astray or not, no one can say, but all of a sudden what should he come upon right across his path, but a host of piskies playing all sorts of games and high jinks under the shelter of a great granite boulder.
Whatever John's feelings may have been at the sight of them, the piskies were not troubled by the sight of John. They were not in the least alarmed, the daring little imps. They only burst into roars of wicked laughter, which pretty nearly scared the wits out of poor John, and made him take to his heels and run for his life! If only he could get off the Downs, he thought, he would be safe enough, but the Downs, of which he knew every yard, seemed to-night to stretch for miles and miles, and, try as he would, he could not find his way off them. He wandered round and round, and up and down, and to and fro, until at last he was obliged to admit to himself that he did not know in the least where he was, for he could not find a single landmark to guide him.
It is a very unpleasant thing to lose yourself on a big lonely Down, on a bleak winter's night, but it is ten times more unpleasant when you are pursued all the way by scores of mischievous little sprites, who shriek with laughter at you all the time, and from sheer wickedness delight in leading you into all the marshy places, the prickily 'fuz'-bushes, and rough boulders they can find, and nearly die of laughter when you prick or bump yourself, or get stuck in the mud.
John was thoroughly frightened, and thoroughly out of temper, and was meditating how he could punish his little tormentors, when suddenly from all sides rose a shrill cry. "Ho and away for Par Beach! Ho and away for Par Beach! Ho and away for Par Beach!"
Hardly knowing what he was doing John shouted, too. "Ho and away for Par Beach!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and almost before he had said the words he was caught high up in the air, and in another minute found himself on the great stretch of sands at Par. As soon as they had recovered their breath the piskies all formed up in rings and began to dance as fast as their little feet could move, and John with them.
"Ho and away for Squire Tremaine's cellar!" The shrill cry rang out again, even as they danced. John again repeated the cry, and in a flash found himself in the cellars at Heligan,—Squire Tremaine's place,—with his mischievous little companions swarming all over them. John felt no fear of them now. He joined them in all their pranks, and had a good time running from cask to cask, and bottle to bottle, opening everything and tasting the contents of most.
John at last became so confused he could not remember who he was or where he was; in fact, he was so confused and so sleepy that when the piskies called out, "Ho and away for Par Beach!" try as he would he could not speak, so the piskies flew off, and John was left behind alone.
John did not mind it in the least, at first, for it was much more pleasant in the shelter of the cellar, with plenty of wine to warm him, than it would be out on the desolate sands at Par, where the wind blows keenly enough to take one's ears off. John did mind, though, the next morning, when the butler came and discovered him. He was groping his way between two rows of casks, trying to find his way to Luxulyan, he explained to the butler, but the butler, instead of putting him in the right road, led him at once to Squire Tremaine's study, where John told the wonderful story of his adventures.
Strangely enough, though, neither the Squire nor anyone else would believe a word of them, and without any consideration for poor John's feelings, they popped him into Bodmin Jail almost as quickly as the piskies and he had popped into the cellar. And worse still, before much time had elapsed, they tried him, convicted him, and sentenced him to be hanged.
Poor John! Here was a dreadful state of affairs, and all brought on an innocent man by those wicked piskies! There was no escape either, or hope of reprieve, for people were not so tender-hearted in those days as in these, and a man was not only sentenced to death for a trifle, but no one ever took any trouble to get him off.
Well, the fatal day came, and John was brought to the gallows, where a large crowd was gathered to see the execution; and there stood John, with the clergyman imploring him to confess, and free his mind of a load of falsehood; and the hangman waiting with the noose in his hand, waiting to slip it over poor John's head, when suddenly a beautiful little lady, dressed in white and silver, appeared in the midst of the crowd gathered at the gallows-foot.
No one saw her come, no one knew how she got there; but without a word from her, not knowing, indeed, why they did so, every man, woman, and child stood back and left a clear pathway for her right up to the scaffold.
There she paused, and stood, with her eyes fixed on the prisoner, who, however, did not see her, for he was too frightened to notice anything that was going on around him—until, "Ho and away for France!" rang out a sweet voice, which John recognized in a moment. With the sound of it his poor dazed senses returned, and the spirit to seize the chance of escape offered him.
"Ho and away for France!" he yelled. There was no danger of his not being able to shout this time! And then, before anyone there could collect his senses, the officers of justice saw their prisoner whisked away from out of their very grasp, and John was in France long before the executioner and the chaplain, the jailers and the crowd, had ceased gaping stupidly at each other.
More than two hundred years ago there lived in the parish of St. Teath, a poor labouring man called Jefferies, and this man had one daughter, called Anne. Anne was a sweetly pretty girl, and a very intelligent one, too; but she was a terrible hoyden. She shocked all the old ladies in the village, and all the prim people, dreadfully, and instead of being ashamed, she seemed to glory in it.
Everyone wondered how she came to have such a spirit, and whom she took after, for her mother was as quiet and meek a little woman as ever was born, and always had been; while her father was a stern, silent man, who looked upon his flighty daughter as a thorn in his side, a cross laid upon him for his good. But the fact remains that Anne was the most daring of all the young people in the parish, doing things that even the boys were afraid to do, for she had no fear, nothing awed her, and there was nothing she would not attempt.
In those days the fairies and piskies, witches and goblins of all sorts were all over the land, and everyone knew it, and was more or less in awe of them. The young people appealed to the fairies for everything, to be helped in their work, to get love-draughts, to be made beautiful, and to know their fortunes. At the same time they all, except Anne, would have been scared to death if they had caught sight of one. Anne, indeed, often boldly declared that she longed to see them, and would love to have a talk with them; and she made up her mind that she would, too, and when once Anne had got an idea into her head, she generally managed to carry it out.
So, without saying anything to anyone, she went out every evening as soon as the sun was gone down, and wandered about looking into the fox-glove bells, and under the ferns, examining the Fairy Rings and every other likely spot, singing:—
Fairy fair and fairy bright,
Come and be my chosen sprite!
For though she had got a very good and true sweetheart, named Tom, she had a great fancy for a fairy one. Perhaps she was thinking of the lovely presents that people said the fairies gave, or perhaps she thought that she would like to live in a palace, and be dressed in silks and velvet, none of which things could poor Tom give her, of course.
On moonlight nights Anne crept away by herself to the banks of the stream which ran through the valley, and here, walking against the current, she would sing:—
Moon shines bright, water runs clear,
I am here, but where's my fairy dear?
She sang it wistfully enough to touch the heart of any fairy, but though she went on for a long time repeating all the charms she knew, and trying, by every means she could think of, to please the Little People, and though she often nearly put her hand on one during her searches, the Little People never showed themselves to her.
They noticed her, though, and were only biding their time.
One beautiful warm summer's day, Anne, having finished her housework early, took her knitting and went and sat in an arbour at the foot of the garden, for she never could bear to be cooped up indoors if she could possibly get out. She had not been sitting there very long when she heard a rustling amongst the bushes, but she took no notice of it, for she felt it was sure to be her lover, coming to have a talk with her; and now that she was so possessed with the thought of a fairy lover, she had ceased to care for poor Tom, and was extremely cool and off-hand with him.
So, at the sound of the rustling, even when it was repeated, she did not even raise her eyes from her knitting, or turn her head.
Presently, though, the bushes were rustled more violently, and then someone gave a little laugh. Anne moved this time, for the laugh was certainly not Tom's laugh.
A lane ran along at the back of the arbour, a lane which one had to pass down to get to the garden gate, and it was from here that the laugh came. Anne peeped carefully out through the trellis-work and bushes to try to see who it was who was laughing at her, but not a sign of any living being could she see. She felt annoyed, for it is extremely unpleasant to feel that someone is looking at you through a peep-hole, and making game of you.
Anne grew so vexed she could not keep her vexation to herself. "Well," she said aloud, feeling sure it was Tom who was trying to tease her, "you may stay there till the moss grows over you, before ever I'll come out to you."
A burst of laughter, peculiarly sweet and ringing, greeted her words. "Oh," she thought to herself, "whoever can it be? I'm certain sure Tom could never laugh like that. Who can it be, I wonder?"
She felt really nervous now, for there was something unnatural about it all, but she tried to reassure herself by thinking that nothing could happen to her in broad daylight such as it was then. Besides which, she did not know of anyone who wished to harm her, for she was a favourite with everyone in the village. She waited anxiously, though, to see what would happen next.
She went on with her knitting, seemingly paying no heed to anything, but her ears were strained to catch the least sound, and when, after a little while, the garden gate was softly opened and closed again, she heard it distinctly, and glancing up to see who was coming, she saw to her astonishment, not Tom, or anyone else she knew, but six little pisky gentlemen, handsome little creatures, with pleasant smiles and brilliantly shining eyes.
To her astonishment they did not seem at all disturbed at seeing her, but came up and ranged themselves in a row before her and bowed to the ground. They were all dressed alike in green knickerbockers and tunics, edged with scarlet, and tiny green caps, and one, the handsomest of the lot, had a beautiful red waving feather at one side of his. They stood and looked at Anne and smiled, and Anne, not at all frightened now, but pleased, smiled back at them. Then he with the red feather stepped in front of the others, and bowing to her in the most courtly manner, addressed her with a charming friendliness which set her at ease at once.
Whether this strange little gentleman was really attracted by her charms, or whether he acted in the same way to every pretty girl he met, one cannot say, but he certainly looked at Anne very affectionately and admiringly, and poor Anne's heart was captured at once. She was certain there never had been such a charming little gentleman before, nor ever could be again, nor one with such good taste.
Stooping down she held out her hand, whereupon the little gentleman stepped into it, and Anne lifted him to her lap. From her lap he soon climbed to her shoulder, and then he kissed her, and not only kissed her once, but many times, and Anne thought him more charming than ever. Presently he called his companions, and they climbed up and kissed Anne, too, and patted her rosy cheeks, and smoothed her hair. But while one of them was patting her cheek, he ran his finger across her eyes, and Anne gave a terrible scream, for with his touch she felt as though a needle had been run through her eyeballs, and when she tried to open them again she found she was blind.
At the same moment she felt herself caught up in the air, and for what seemed to her a very long time she was carried through it at a tremendous rate. At last they came to a stop, whereupon one of the Little Men said something which Anne could not understand, and, behold, her eyesight at once came back!
And now, indeed, she had something to use it on, for she found herself in what seemed to be a perfectly gorgeous palace, or rather two or three palaces joined together, all built of gold and silver, with arches and pillars of crystal, large halls with walls of burnished copper, and beautiful rooms inlaid with precious marbles. Outside was a perfect paradise of a garden, filled with lovely flowers, and trees laden with fruit or blossom. Birds were singing everywhere, such rare birds, too! Some were all blue and gold, others a bright scarlet, then again others shone like silver or steel. There were large lakes full of gold and silver fish, and marble fountains throwing jets of water high into the air. Here and there were dainty bowers covered with roses, and filled within with soft moss carpets and luxurious couches. Walking about everywhere in this lovely place were scores of little ladies and gentlemen, dressed in rich silks and velvets, and with precious stones sparkling and flashing from their fingers, their hair, their shoes, indeed they seemed to sparkle all over, like flowers covered with dewdrops. Some strolled along the walks, others reclined in the bowers, some floated in little scarlet or ivory boats on the lakes, others sat under the blossoming trees. There seemed, indeed, no end to them, and to Anne's great astonishment, neither they nor her six companions seemed small now, also, to her great delight, she was dressed as beautifully as any of them, and wore as beautiful jewels. Though she did not know it, she had shrunk to their size, and a very lovely little fairy she made.
Her gown was of white silk, with a long train bordered all round with trails of green ivy, and over her shoulders she wore a long green silk cloak with a little scarlet hood. Her hair looked as though it had been dressed by a Court hairdresser, and amidst the puffs and curls sparkled emeralds and diamonds, like trembling stars. Her little green slippers had silver heels, and diamond buckles on the toes, round her waist hung a diamond girdle, on her neck, too, and fingers gems sparkled and flashed with every movement.
Oh, how proud and delighted Anne did feel, and how eagerly she hoped that she might always live like this! Instead of having one cavalier as most of the ladies had, she had six, but the one with the red feather was her favourite, and hour by hour he and Anne grew more deeply in love with one another.
Unfortunately, though, the other five began to grow very jealous, and they kept such a watch on Anne and her friend, that the poor lovers had no chance to get away and talk by themselves, or exchange even a look, or a kiss, or a handclasp.
However, when people are determined they usually succeed in the end, and one day Anne and her handsome lover managed to slip away unobserved. Hand in hand they ran to a garden which lay at some little distance from the others, one that was seldom used, too, and where the flowers grew so tall and in such profusion that they soon were completely hidden amongst them.
Here they made their home, and here they lived for a time as happily as any two people could who loved each other more than all the world beside.
Alas, though, their happiness was too great to last! They had not been in their beautiful retreat very long, when one day they heard a great noise and disturbance, and to Anne's dismay the five little men followed by a crowd of fairies, equally angered, burst in on them. They had traced the lovers to the garden, and even to the lily-bell in which they had made their home. With drawn swords and faces full of anger, they surrounded the lily and commanded the lovers to come down. Nearly mad with jealousy as they were, they heaped the most cruel and insulting speeches on the poor little pair.
Furious with indignation Anne's lover sprang down, sword in hand, and faced his attackers, but what could one do against such odds? His sword was knocked out of his hand, he himself was overpowered by the numbers who hurled themselves on him. For a while he fought desperately, his back to the wall, his courage unfailing, but the blows fell on him so fast and furious, that in a few minutes he lay bleeding and lifeless at poor Anne's feet.
What happened next Anne never knew. She remembered looking down on her dead lover through eyes almost blind with tears, she remembered seeing his blood staining her dainty green slippers, and splashing her gown, then someone passed a hand over her eyes, and she could see nothing. She was as blind as she had been once before.
All about her she heard strange noises, like the whirring and buzzing of numberless insects; she felt herself being carried through the air at a terrific rate, until her breath was quite taken away,—then she was placed on a seat, and in a moment her sight came back to her.
She was back in the arbour where she had first seen the fairies, but, instead of six little men, she now saw about six-and-twenty big men and women all staring at her with frightened eyes and open mouths.
"She's very bad," they were whispering, "poor maid, she do look ill! 'Tis a fit she's had, and no mistake!" Then seeing her open her eyes and look about her, they crowded nearer. "Why, Anne, child, you've been in a fit, haven't 'ee?"
Anne lifted her arm and looked at it and her hand; there was not a single jewel on either. She glanced down over her gown,—it was of linsey-woolsey, not silk or velvet. She closed her eyes again that they might not see the tears that sprang to them.
"I don't know if I've been in a fit," she said wearily, but to herself she added sadly, "I know, though, that I've been in love."