Eric, A Waif: A Story of Last Century
Emma Leslie
9781465546104
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
So the old witch is dead, and Dame Willoughby may hope to raise a whole brood of chickens, and Farmer Sawyer need not fear his cheese will be spoiled; and the speaker lifted his broad-brimmed tattered hat, and wiped the perspiration from his brow, looking expectantly at the landlord of The Magpie as he did so. "That news is worth a horn of ale, isn't it, Master Tyler?" he asked, when he found it met with little response. "Humph! The news might have been better, and it might have been worse. The poor woman was a stranger in these parts, I'll allow, but that was all that could be proved against her. Where's the boy?" added the landlord, with a little more interest. "Him they call Eric? Did ever an English-born lad have such a name as that?" said the other in a grumbling tone, as he slowly raised the horn of ale to his lips before answering the landlord's question. "He'll be up there with his mother, I suppose; the two were always together." "Poor little chap, he'll find the world a hard place, I'm afraid, now his mother has gone." "Serve 'em right. They should ha' bided in their own parish, and not come poking their noses where they wasn't wanted," said the other. The landlord made no reply to this, for he knew the man did but express the sentiment of the whole neighbourhood in the words he had spoken. Summerleigh was a quiet, self-contained little village on the edge of Epping Forest, far enough from London to be very jealous of the intrusion of strangers if they stayed more than a night at the inn, unless they happened to be visitors at the Hall. So when the poor woman came with her only son, a lad of ten, to occupy the little cottage that had stood tenantless so long on the edge of the forest clearing, the whole parish was stirred to discover who she was and why she came there. She said herself that it was for the fresh air of the forest; but nobody believed this, any more than they believed that fresh air made any difference to people's health; they chose to believe any but this simple reason for seeking a home in their locality. They soon discovered that she was poor, but industrious, for mother and son worked in the garden early and late, selling the herbs they raised, and also salves and lotions made from them, until the rumour spread somehow, that the knowledge she possessed of the healing qualities of herbs and simples growing about the forest had not been gained by any good means. In other words, she was a witch, and people professed to be afraid of buying her salves. Then another overheard her singing a hymn one day to the hum of her spinning-wheel as she sat at work, and this was held to be proof that she was a Methodist, which was quite as bad as being a witch, and equally punishable by law, at the time of which we write. That Mrs. Hunter had not sought to make friends among her gossiping neighbours was sufficient for either or both of these charges to be deemed capable of proof, by those who openly declared they hated all strangers, so that it was not wonderful that she lived an isolated life. That she did not mind this, but seemed to find her boy Eric an all-sufficient companion and friend, was another wonder to Summerleigh, and one it bitterly resented; for there was small scope for persecuting a woman so independent as Mrs. Hunter, especially as they were glad to buy her herbs, because they could not get them so good anywhere else.
