"That'll do. Thank you."

The ball was safely stored in Stephen's pocket, and he hastened to the Castle. At the gate he met his brother.

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Osbert. "There's Orme of the Fen run off, because I gave him a scolding for his impudence: and it is his turn to watch to-night. I have not a minute to go after him; I don't know whatever to do."

Stephen grasped the opportunity.

"I'll go after him for you, if you'll get me leave for a couple of days or more. I have a bit of business of my own I want to see to, and I can manage both at once--only don't tell Anania of it, or she'll worry the life out of me."

Osbert laughed.

"Make your mind easy!" said he. "Go in and get you ready, lad, and I'll see to get you the leave."

Stephen turned into the Castle, to fetch his cloak and make up a parcel of provisions, while Osbert went to the Earl, returning in a few minutes with leave of absence for Stephen. To the great satisfaction of the latter, Anania was not at home; so he plundered her larder, and set off, leaving Osbert to make his excuses, and to tell her just as much, or as little, as he found convenient. Stephen was sorely tempted to go first to Bensington, but he knew that both principle and policy directed the previous search for Orme. He found that exemplary gentleman, after an hour's search, drinking and gambling in a low ale-booth outside South Gate; and having first pumped on him to get him sober, he sent him off to his work with a lecture. Then, going a little way down Grandpont Street, he turned across Presthey, and coming out below Saint Edmund's Well, took the road to Bensington.

The journey was accomplished in much shorter time than on the previous occasion. As Stephen came up to the Witch's hut, he heard the sound of a low, monotonous voice; and being untroubled, at that period of the world's history, by any idea that eavesdropping was a dishonourable employment, he immediately applied his ear to the keyhole. To his great satisfaction, he recognised Ermine's voice. The words were these:--

"'I confess to Thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that Thou hiddest these things from the wise and prudent, and revealedst them unto little children. Even so, Father; for this was well-pleasing before Thee. All things are to Me delivered from My Father; and none knoweth the Son save the Father; neither the Father doth any know, save the Son, and he to whom the Son is willing to reveal Him. Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are burdened, and I will refresh you. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

"Did He say that, now, dearie?" asked the voice of the White Witch.

"Eh, it sounds good--it does so! I'm burdened, saints knows; I'd like to find a bit o' rest and refreshing. Life's a heavy burden, and sin's a heavier; and there's a many things I see are sins now, that I never did afore you came. But how am I to know that He's willing?"

"Won't you come and see, Mother?" said Ermine softly.

"Husht! Bide a bit, my dear: there's a little sound at the door as I don't rightly understand. Maybe--"

In another moment the wicket opened, and Haldane's face looked out upon Stephen.

"Good evening, Mother!" said Stephen, holding up the ball of grey wool.

"Ay, you got it, did you? Come in--you're welcome."

"I hope I am," replied Stephen, going forward. Ermine was no longer hidden behind the screen, but seated on the form in the chimney-corner.

On her calm fair brow there was no scar visible.

"Ay, ain't she a fine cure!" cried the old woman. "That's white mallows, that is, and just a pinch of--Well, I'd best tell no tales.

But she's a grand cure; I don't hide her up now. n.o.body'd ever guess nought, from the look of her, now, would folks? What think you?"

"No, I hope they wouldn't," answered Stephen: "leastwise they sha'n't if I can help it."

Haldane laid her hand on his arm impressively.

"Stephen, you must take her away."

"I'll take her fast enough, if she'll go, Mother; but why? I reckoned she was as safe here as she could be anywhere."

"She _was_," said Haldane significantly. "She won't be, presently. I don't tell my secrets: but the Wise Woman knows a thing or two. You'd best take her, and waste no time: but it must not be to Oxford. There's folks there would know her face."

"Ay, to be sure there are. Well, Mother, I'll do your bidding.

Where'll she be safest?"

"You'd best be in London. It's the biggest place. And when a man wants to hide, he'll do it better in a large town than a little place, where every body knows his neighbour's business."

"All right!" said Stephen. "Ermine!"--and he went up to her--"will you go with me?"

Ermine lived in an age when it was a most extraordinary occurrence for a woman to have any power to dispose of herself in marriage, and such a thing was almost regarded as unnatural and improper. She held out her hand to Stephen.

"I will go where the Lord sends me," she said simply. "Dear Mother Haldane saved my life, and she has more right to dispose of me than any one else. Be it so."

"When folks are wed, they commonly have gifts made them," said Haldane with a smile. "I haven't much to give, and you'll think my gift a queer one: but I wish you'd take it, Ermine. It's Gib."

"I will take Gib and welcome, and be very thankful to you," answered Ermine in some surprise. "But, Mother Haldane, you are leaving yourself all alone. I was afraid you would miss me, after all these weeks, and if you lose Gib too, won't you be lonely?"

"Miss you!" repeated the old woman in a tremulous voice. "Miss you, my white bird that flew into my old arms from the cruel storm? Sha'n't I miss you? But it won't be for long. Ay! when one has kept company with the angels for a while, one's pretty like to miss them when they fly back home. But you'd best take Gib. The Wise Woman knows why. Only I don't tell all my secrets. And it won't be for long."

Haldane had been laying fresh sticks on the embers while she spoke. Now she turned to Stephen.

"She'd best have Gib," she said. "He's like another creature since she came. She'll take care of him. And you'll take care of her. I told you last time you were here as I'd do the best for her, not for you.

But this is the best for both of you. And maybe the good Lord'll do the best for me. Ermine says He's not above keeping a poor old woman company. But whatever comes, and whatever you may hear, you bear in mind that I did my best for you."

"Ay, that I'm sure you've done, Mother," replied Stephen warmly. "As for Gib, I'll make him welcome for your sake; he looks rather comfortable now, so I think he'll get along."

It certainly was not too much to say that Gib was another creature.

That once dilapidated-looking object, under Ermine's fostering care, had developed into a sleek, civilised, respectable cat; and as he sat on her lap, purring and blinking at the wood-fire, he suggested no ideas of discomfort.

"Ay, I've done my best," repeated the old woman with a sigh. "The Lord above, He knows I've done it. You'd best be off with the morning light.

I can't be sure--Well, I mustn't tell my secrets."

Stephen was inclined to be amused with the Wise Woman's reiteration of this a.s.sertion. What fancy she had taken into her head he could not guess. It was some old-womanly whim, he supposed. If he could have guessed her reason for thus dismissing them in haste--if he had seen in the embers what she saw coming nearer and nearer, and now close to her very door--wild horses would not have carried Stephen away from the woman who had saved Ermine.

Haldane's bidding was obeyed. The dawn had scarcely broken on the following morning, when Stephen and Ermine, with Gib in the arms of the latter, set forth on their journey to London. Haldane stood in her doorway to watch them go.

"Thank G.o.d!" she said, when she had entirely lost sight of them. "Thank G.o.d, my darling is safe! I can bear anything that comes now. It is only what such as me have to look for. And Ermine said the good Lord wouldn't fail them that trusted Him. I'm only a poor ignorant old woman, and He knows it; but He took the pains to make me, and He'll not have forgot it; and Ermine says He died for me, and I'm sure He could never forget that, if He did it. I've done a many ill things, though I'm not the black witch they reckon me: no, I've had more laid to my charge than ever I did; but for all that I'm a sinner, I'm afeared, and I should be sore afeared to meet what's coming if He wouldn't take my side. But Ermine, she said He would, if I trusted myself to Him."

Haldane clasped her withered hands and looked heavenwards.

"Good Lord!" she said, "I'd fain have Thee on my side, and I do trust Thee. And if I'm doing it wrong way about, bethink Thee that I'm only a poor old woman, that never had no chance like, and I mean to do right, and do put things to rights for me, as Thou wouldst have 'em. Have a care of my darling, and see her safe: and see me through what's coming, if Thou wilt be so good. Worlds o' worlds, Amen."

That conclusion was Haldane's misty idea of the proper way to end a prayer [Note 1]. Perhaps the poor pet.i.tion found its way above the stars as readily as the choral services that were then being chanted in the perfumed cathedrals throughout England.

She went in and shut the door. She did not, as usual, shake her straw bed and fold up the rug. A spectator might have thought that she had no heart for it. She only kept up the fire; for though summer was near, it was not over-warm in the crazy hut, and a cold east wind was blowing.

For the whole of the long day she sat beside it, only now and then rising to look out of the window, and generally returning to her seat with a muttered exclamation of "Not yet!" The last time she did this, she pulled the faded woollen kerchief over her shoulders with a shiver.

"Not yet! I reckon they'll wait till it's dusk. Well! all the better: they'll have more time to get safe away."

The p.r.o.nouns did not refer to the same persons, but Haldane made no attempt to specify them.

She sat still after that, nodding at intervals, and she was almost asleep when the thing that she had feared came upon her. A low sound, like and yet unlike the noise of distant thunder, broke upon her ear.