Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/454

12, 1860.] “The way?” I said inquiringly.

“Yes, sir; but to be sure you don’t know. She was bewitched, sir.”

“Bewitched!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, this long time. She’s been ailing since last year, and it’s been the death of her at last.”

Seeing my continued look of surprise, she “went on,” as she expressed it, “to tell me all about it,” still holding, as she did so, the dead girl’s hand in hers. The story, as nearly as I remember, ran as follows:

“You see, sir, Ellen was my only child, and a good one she was. Many’s the time I’ve told my old man she’d live to be a comfort to me; and so she truly did, nursing me and taking care of me, when he died, for many a long day.” (Here she fondled the dead hand closer still.) “Well, you see sir, she was still quite a child, when a young chap comes to work up at the Squire’s where Ellen took the milk every morning. It wasn’t long after he came that I thought I saw a change in her; she wasn’t so light-hearted like,—as if she had some secret. So, one morning, when she comes in from the Squire’s with the odd look on her face, I turned short at her and says, ‘What’s the matter, Ellen?’

“She reddened, but answered quite boldly,—for she was always as open as the day,—

‘Why, mother, I think Jack’s very fond of me.’

‘Fond of you?’ says I; ‘and pray who’s Jack?’

‘Him that works up at the Squire’s; but you’ll soon see him, mother; he’s coming up to-night.’

“And sure enough he came. He was a handsome spoken young fellow enough. He told me he wanted Ellen, and would take great care of her. He seemed so honest and bright-looking, and Ellen so fond of him, that somehow I couldn’t say ‘No,’ and the end of it was they went to the church, and the parson himself told me he’d never seen a prettier couple. They were just like two doves; he had plenty of work up at the Squire’s—you see he was a bricklayer, sir, and the Squire was having his place done up—and Ellen she took in needlework, and come over every day to help me. They used to live there, sir.” (She pointed to a little cottage close by, now wearing a dreary deserted look.) “They lived there nigh upon two years, sir, till long after the baby was born. Well, sir, my Ellen—though the best tempered girl in the world—was a bit spirited when anything crossed her; and, one morning, Jack and her had a quarrel—the first they’d ever had—it was about her cousin Tom, poor fellow, who’d been her sweetheart before she was married,—and Jack went to work without bidding her good-bye. She was mighty vexed at this, and when I went over I found her crying. I thought Jack was wrong, and was just telling her so, when I heard a knock at the door, which was open, and there was the witch standing looking.”

“What witch?” I asked.

“Why, her that lives in the hut on the hill; there’s only one witch, sir.”

Again the look of astonishment. I signified a satisfaction I was far from possessing, and she continued:

“Well, sir, she was standing staring, and Ellen, thinking she’d heard what we’d been saying, told her sharply to go off; but she didn’t move, so Ellen got up and pushed her out, but not before she had cast an evil look and muttered to herself.

‘Ellen,’ I said, ‘she’s cast an evil eye on you.’ She looked pale, but said in her hasty way, ‘I don’t care if she has, mother.’

“I felt flurried like, and knew something would come of it; but didn’t say anything to any one.

“When Jack came home that night I talked to him a good deal. He didn’t take much notice at first, but at last he promised to make it up with Ellen. I don’t know, sir, if it ever was made up; may be, you see, the witch wouldn’t let her bring her mind like to do it, for Jack and her were never the same afterwards, and Tom went to the cottage oftener than ever. I used to be quite frightened at Jack’s look, when he’d come in and see them two a-talking together; but I knew poor Ellen was bewitched, and couldn’t help teasing him. The neighbours knew it, too; for, you see, bewitched people have a queer look about the eyes, and grow thin and pale, like Ellen did, till they die quite away. I dreaded Jack finding it out, and it was a long time before he did; for the people didn’t like to talk about it before him, and when he saw them whispering and looking at him, he’d think they were talking of Ellen and Tom, and feel jealous like, and angry. At last, one night, Ellen rushed in to me with her face all pale and trembling:

‘He’s off, mother!’ says she.

‘Who, Ellen?’

“She looked quite wild, and pointed to the cottage. I left her fainting-like in a chair, and ran over. He was standing with his white face near the door, putting his things together.

‘Jack,’ says I, ‘where are you off to?’

‘Going on the tramp, mother; there’s no more work up at the Squire’s.’

‘Jack,’ says I, ‘it’s about Ellen—’

“He never moved or answered.

‘Jack,’ says I, putting my hand on his shoulder, for I began to get fierce, thinking of Ellen and the child, ‘Jack, think of the little one.’

‘Mother,’ says he, in such a quiet voice, that I didn’t feel frightened any longer at his pale face, ‘mother,’ says he, ‘I’ve heard the neighbours a-talking about what has happened to Ellen, and I know it’s true. Ellen can’t help it, but what’s the use of my stopping here? She’ll be better without me; she looks dying like, before my very eyes, and cares nothing for me, so what’s the good, mother?’

“I let my hand drop from his shoulder; for you see, sir, I knew it was all true, and I couldn’t answer it, though I tried hard. At last I said, ‘Jack! won’t yousaid, ‘Jack! won’t you [sic] bid her good-bye?’ For I thought, when it came to kissing her and the child, maybe he wouldn’t go through with it. He went to the window, where he could see her lying in the chair, as I left her, pale and still. A fierce