Chapter X: Part 10

'Oh, my aunt, if you could only understand!' cried the princess, wringing her hands. 'I dared not excite the king's suspicions or I should never have escaped! I swear it by the ashes and the soul of the phoenix which were then in my pocket! Tell her, Bird of Wisdom, that what I say is true.'

'It is! It is!' exclaimed the phoenix eagerly. 'But now what we have to do is to go in search of Amazan. I will despatch unicorns in all directions, and I hope before many hours to be able to tell you where he is.'

The phoenix was as good as his word. At length one of the unicorns learned that Amazan was in China. Without losing a moment they set out, and arrived, travelling through the air, in the short space of eight days, but only to find that they had again missed him by a few hours. The emperor would gladly have kept Formosante to show her the wonders of his country, but as soon as he heard her story and how all this misery had its root in a kiss given out of pure fidelity, he saw that the one thing he could do for the princess was to discover for her the road which Amazan had taken.

* * * * *

From that day began a series of journeys such as no Babylonish princess had ever gone through during the thirty thousand years of the monarchy. There was not a kingdom either in Asia or in Europe that Formosante did not visit, and in spite of the fact that she had no room in her mind for any thought except the finding of Amazan (who had invariably left but a few hours before), she was forced to pick up some new ideas on the way. Strange things she saw which her father, King Belus, would never have believed to exist: a country in which the young king had made an agreement with his subjects that the farmer and the noble might sit side by side and make their own laws; another kingdom in which one man had power to prevent any law from being passed by the rest of the assembly; a third in which the will of one queen had changed the face of the world as if by magic, though, perhaps, if the princess had returned for a second visit, she might not have felt so certain that the changes would last. Once it was only a thick fog off an island called Albion which prevented her vessel from meeting the one containing Amazan, but at length they both found themselves in a province bordering on the Mediterranean, where Formosante, driven to despair by a rumour that Amazan was faithless to her, was looking out for a ship that might take her to Babylon.

As usual, she trusted to the phoenix to make all her arrangements, and the people in whose house she was living having overheard the bird speaking to her, at once imagined she was a witch and locked her and her maid Irla in their rooms. They would have seized the phoenix also, but at the sound of the key being turned he quickly flew out of the window and started in search of Amazan. After these long months of wandering the bird and its master met on the road which runs from north to south, and at first their joy was such that even the princess was forgotten. But not for long.

'And Formosante, where is she?'

'A prisoner, alas! on suspicion of being a witch, and you know what that means,' answered the phoenix, with tears in his eyes.

Amazan _did_ know, and for an instant was frozen with horror as the vision flashed across his mind of Formosante tied to a stake and the flames gathering round her. Then he aroused himself, and gave the phoenix some orders. In two hours help came, and Amazan was kneeling at the feet of the princess.

So, united at last, we will leave them.

_THE ADVENTURES OF FIRE-DRILL'S SON_

Here is another story of the Tlingit Indians, and in these stories you will often find the Raven playing the part of friend and helper, just as the Fox does in Japan, and Brer Rabbit in 'Uncle Remus.' The Raven is always kinder than anybody else, besides being cleverer, and those who take his advice can never go wrong.

One day the Raven was flying about, and he saw a girl sitting with her baby in the woods, and he stopped to talk to her.

'That is a fine little boy of yours,' he said, cocking his head on one side.

'Yes, he is,' replied the girl; 'but I wish he was old enough to get food for us. It is so many years to wait.'

'That is easily cured,' said the Raven. 'You have only to bathe him every day in the cold spring at the back of these rocks, and you have no idea how quickly he will grow up.' So the girl bathed him every morning in the pool and let the water from the rock pour over him, and it was surprising how soon he was able to help her in work of all kinds as well as to shoot with his bow and arrows.

* * * * *

'Why are we all alone with grandmother?' he inquired at last, for he was fond of asking questions. 'Did you never have friends like other people, and have those houses over there always stood empty?' Then they told him that once a large tribe had lived at that place, but they had gradually gone away to hunt or to fish and had never come back. Only the woman and the girl and the baby remained behind.

After this the boy was quiet for a time, and for a while he was content to stay at home, only going out in the mornings to bring back a bird from the forest for their dinner. But at length he said to his mother: 'If I could only paddle in the lake, I could catch you fish and water-fowl; but all the canoes here are old and broken.'

'Yes; you must not go out in them. You will get drowned,' answered she, and the boy went sadly to his mat to sleep.

As he slept, his father, whose name was Fire-drill, appeared to him and spoke:

'Take one of those old canoes into the woods and cover it with bushes. It does not matter how worn-out it seems to be; do as I tell you.' Then the boy got up and did as his father bade him, and went home again.

Early next day he ran quickly to the place where the canoe was hidden, but found that the old one full of holes had vanished, and a new one, packed with everything he could need, was in its place. While he was admiring it, his father stood before him, and pulled the root of a burnt tree out of the ground, which he turned into a little dog. It was called Gant or 'Burnt,' and could smell things miles away, and, though it was so small, it was as strong as a bear. After that, Fire-drill gave his son a fresh bow and arrows and a great club.

Then the boy remembered what his grandmother had said, and he carried the canoe and his father's presents to the wigwam.

'I am going away,' he told his mother, 'and may be absent two days or much longer. Take care of this fire-stick, or else if the fire goes out, how will you make it again? Hang it in a safe place high on the ceiling, and if I am killed, it will fall. So you will know. And now farewell.' Thus speaking he climbed into the canoe and pushed off.

* * * * *

As he went he saw from afar another canoe coming to meet him, with a man paddling it.

'That is the man who killed all my mother's friends,' thought he, and he told it to his dog, his club, his bow and his arrows, for they had the gift of magic and could understand his language.

By this time the man had drawn near, and the boy saw that he had only one eye, which was placed in the middle of his face, and that he was more than commonly tall.

'Is it you, my nephew?' asked he, and the boy answered:

'Yes; it is I.'

'Where did you come from?'

'From my uncle's village.'

Then the man read what the boy had in his mind and said:

'It was not I who killed your uncles and your mother's friends; it was the East Wind and the North Wind.'

But the boy did not trust the man's words, and knew that in his heart he wished him evil. And while he was thinking this the big man said to him:

'Let us exchange arrows.'

'Not so,' replied the boy. 'My arrows are better than yours.' And his words were true, for they were all different, and pointed with different things. The point of one was a porcupine quill, and of another bark, but the best of all was called Heart-stopper, because the moment it touched a man's body his heart ceased to beat.

'My arrows are pointed with sea-urchins; behold how they move,' said the man; but again it was not true what he told the boy, for the points were made of weed.

'My arrows are not like that,' answered the boy. 'They are only good for shooting birds;' but though he did not trust the man, he never guessed that his desire was to get Heart-stopper. They talked for some time longer, and at length the boy lost patience and cried out:

'You call yourself my uncle, yet you made away with my mother's friends. Now know that you will never make away with me like that.'

His words angered the one-eyed man, and, quick as lightning, they both held their arrows in their hands; but the boy was the quickest, and with the help of the dog, soon killed his enemy. Then he burned the body, and paddled on still further, never thinking that his mother at home was wondering why he did not come back.

At last he heard a voice calling to him. 'That is another bad man,' said he; but he paddled to the place where the sound came from, and found a cliff rising straight out of the water. In the middle of the cliff was an opening with a circle of red paint round it, and devil-clubs fastened to a ring which was driven into the rock.

'Come in! Come in!' cried the voice, and the boy entered and saw a woman there with a knife in each hand. He guessed who she was, and said to her:

'I have seen your husband;' but she took no heed of his words, and begged him again to enter and she would give him some food before he went on his way.

'I do not like that sort of food,' he answered as soon as he had seen it; and she exclaimed, 'Well! if you want to quarrel let us fight till one of us is killed.'

'Willingly!' replied the boy, and he heard her go to the rock at the entrance and sharpen the knives in her hands. When she had finished she threw one of them at him, but he jumped aside and it stuck in the stool where he had been sitting. Then he seized the knife and threw it at her, and it stuck in her heart and she died. He let her lie where she fell, and lifting his eyes he noticed with dismay that the hole at the end of the cave was quickly growing smaller and smaller. Hastily he snatched up some ermine skins that lay on the ground and tied two or three in his hair, and shrank himself till he managed to get into one of them, and squeezed through the entrance just before it closed entirely. Once out of the cave he shot some deer and brought them down in his canoe to his mother and his grandmother, who had spent their time in grieving over him and wondering if they would ever see him again.

'I am all right,' he said to them when he got home; 'and I have slain the people who put your friends to death.'

* * * * *

But in spite of his words, he did not know yet for certain whether the man and woman he had killed had been the murderers of his uncles also, and that he was determined to find out. So he soon went back into the forest and began hunting again. From afar he saw smoke rising up, and he walked towards it till he came to a house. At the door was Old Mole-woman, and very old she was, but her face looked kind and honest and the boy felt he might have faith in her.

'What is it you want, grandson?' said she, politely, and the boy answered:

'I am seeking for the slayer of my uncles.'

'It is not easy to get at them,' she replied. 'It was the hawks that did it, and first you have to find their nests which are very high up, and next you must wait till the old birds go away, and only the young ones are left.'

Thus spoke Old Mole-woman, and the boy thanked her and set off to find the nests.

It took him a long time, but at length he discovered them; then he hid himself and waited till the parent birds flew off and the young ones were alone. After that, the boy came out of his hiding-place and climbed up the tree and said to the little birds:

'What do you live on?' and the little birds led him to a place that was full of human skulls, and answered, 'That is what we live on.'

'How long will your father and mother be away?' asked the boy.

'Till daybreak; but you will not be able to see them, because they come in clouds. My mother flies over the mountain in a yellow cloud, and my father in a black cloud.'

'Well, I am going now,' said the boy, 'and take care that you do not tell them that I have been here, or I will kill you.'

'Oh, no, no! We will be sure not to tell,' cried the little birds, fluttering their wings in a fright.

Just as it was getting light the boy saw the yellow cloud coming, and by and bye he made out the mother-bird carrying a dead body in her beak. He aimed an arrow at her and she fell dead at the foot of the tree, and the body fell with her. Soon after, he saw the black cloud coming fast, and when it reached the nest the father flew out of it and said to the little ones:

'Where is your mother?'

'Our mother dropped the body she was carrying and fell down after it,' answered they, and as they spoke the boy hit him with an arrow, and he fell to the ground also.

Then the boy cried up to the little birds: 'You must never kill people any more, or live on human flesh. I will go and get food for you until you are strong enough to look after yourselves,' and he went out hunting, and he and his dog killed some pigs and brought them to the little birds. And when the little birds grew to be big birds, they killed the pigs for themselves by letting stones fall on their heads, and never more did they eat anything else. After that the boy went back to Old Mole-woman.

* * * * *

'I have killed the birds,' said he, 'and because you have helped me, I have brought you some food which will last you a long time. Now I must hurry home to my mother and grandmother.'

Very glad they were to see him again, and for some time he stayed with them and collected grease for candles and provisions of all sorts, enough to last for many, many years. When this was done he said to his mother: 'Mother, I am going to leave you for ever, for I was not meant to be with you always, and I have finished that which I set myself to do. If what is hanging overhead should fall, you will know that I am dead. But as long as it remains where it is, do not trouble about me.'

With that he went out.

As he walked along the path, the son of Fire-drill beheld someone in front striding very fast; and the boy chased him till he came first to the Mink people and then to the Marten people. Both of them begged him to stay with them and help them, but he would not, and hurried on after the figure he had seen ahead of him, whose name was Dry-cloud. But when Fire-drill's son came to the Wolf people they begged him so hard to stop that at last he agreed to do so for a while; besides he was very tired, and wanted to rest.

The Wolf Chief thought much of the boy, and they had great talk together. One day a large company of the Wolf tribe was present, and they spoke of the beasts which could run the fastest.

'The swiftest of all is the mountain goat,' said one; 'and it can jump from rock to rock, and none can come up with it. To-morrow,' he added, turning to the boy, 'we are going to hunt them, and if you are there with us you will see if there is any animal that can outrun a mountain goat.'

'I will be there,' answered the boy.

So they started in the morning and hastened to the place, and each tried to be the first to kill one of the goats. But Fire-drill's son's dog got there before any of them, and killed many goats and the rest galloped away out of reach. Then the Wolves went up and carried the dead goats back to their people, and much ashamed they were that the dog had slain them all and they, the noted hunters, had got nothing.

'Men will speak ill of us if they know of this day's work,' said the Wolves, whispering together. 'How can we get the better of this son of Fire-drill?'

Now one, cleverer than the rest, thought of a plan, and he bade the others cut a quantity of the long stringy creepers that grow on the mountains, and make them into hoops. These hoops they were to roll down the sides of the mountains, and jump backwards and forwards through them, when they were at full speed. It was a good game for their purpose, because anyone who touched the side of the hoops would be cut in two, because of the sharp edges.

But the dog guessed this, and said to the boy: 'Friend, do not go near those people who are playing. You know nothing of the game, and those things may kill you.'

'No; I will not play with them, but let us watch them,' answered the boy, and they watched them for some time, till the boy said to the dog:

'You take one of those rings and throw it up in the air as high as you can.' And the dog took it in his mouth, and stood on his hind legs and threw it upwards with all his might, and he threw it so high that it never came down again but stayed up round the moon, where you may still see it any night that there is going to be a change in the weather.

And as soon as he heard this that the dog had done, the Wolf Chief called the rest of the Wolves, and bade them treat the son of Fire-drill as a friend, 'for,' said he, 'he is a wonderful fellow.'

* * * * *

A little while after, Fire-drill's son and the wolf went away together. When they had gone a short distance, the wolf raised his head and looked about him.

'Some strange creature walks about here,' he exclaimed suddenly. 'Take my advice and do not try to follow him or he will have your life.'

And though he did not say so, the boy felt it was Dry-cloud that the wolf meant.

'Don't be afraid for me,' he answered; 'I only play with him. Well I know that it is impossible to kill him, but it is also impossible for him to kill me; but follow him I must, for this my father bade me.'

So they set off after Dry-cloud, and curious to say, the swift-footed wolf was forced to run with all his might, while the boy did not seem to himself to be walking faster than usual. Indeed, so rapid was their pace that if in crossing a stream the wolf got his tail wet, he was too tired to shake it himself, and he cried till the boy shook it for him. In this manner they travelled till they came to a house where an old woman lived, and this was the end of their journey for that time, as Dry-cloud lived near by also and they could watch him in peace. And while they were there Fire-drill's son saw a girl whom he thought he would like for his squaw, and he married her and they had a baby. But when the baby was born the father shook his head and said to his wife:

'This is going to be a very bad boy.'

* * * * *

And the fire-stick is still hanging on his mother's ceiling.

[_Tlingit story._]

_THE STRANGE STORY OF ELIZABETH CANNING_

Are you fond of puzzles? I am. And here is a mystery which all sorts of people have been seeking to explain for a hundred and fifty years, and nobody, not even the lawyers who have studied it, can make up their minds. So now it is your turn to try.

In the year 1752 Elizabeth Canning was a girl of seventeen, the eldest of a family of five children. Her mother was a widow and very poor, so she was glad when Elizabeth or Betty, as her friends called her, was old enough to go out to service. Betty was a steady, hard-working young woman, and the neighbours who had known her from a baby were all ready to help her and to get her a suitable place.

Her first master was a respectable man who kept a tavern, and in his house she lived for eighteen months. But she did not serve the customers, or come into the rooms where they drank. She then left to go as servant to a carpenter and his wife named Lyon, in Aldermanbury in the City of London, not very far from her own home. The Lyons were also old acquaintances of Mrs. Canning, and had known Elizabeth since she was two. Now she was grown up; a rather short, pleasant-looking girl with a fresh complexion marked with small-pox, but not pretty.

Elizabeth had been with the Lyons for three months, and had pleased them so well that they promised her a holiday on New Year's Day 1753, to go to see her uncle and aunt, living behind the London Docks. So on New Year's Day, the girl got up earlier than usual, in order to get her work over as soon as possible. When everything was done, she went up to her attic and took her best clothes out of a chest. She was a long time dressing, but when she stepped out into the street, she felt herself as smart as any maid in London in her purple gown, black petticoat, white apron, a muslin handkerchief folded across her chest, blue stockings, and neat leather shoes. On her head she wore a small, flat, white chip hat bound with green.

On her way to the Docks she stopped at her mother's, and said that as she had in her pocket thirteen shillings given her that morning by her mistress--probably they were her wages--she would ask her aunt Mrs. Colley to come out with her and buy a cloak. Mrs. Canning made her put the half-guinea in a box, as so small a thing might easily get lost, and then, after presenting each of the children with a penny a piece, except a naughty little brother who had 'huffed her,' she gaily bade them all good-bye and went her way, arriving at her uncle's house about twelve o'clock. Here she had dinner, tea, and supper at seven when her uncle returned from work--for Colley, poor man, had no holiday--and at last, without the cloak which for some reason was never bought, Elizabeth started back to Aldermanbury, the Colleys walking with her as far as Houndsditch. There they said good-night to her soon after nine, and returned home.

As far as we can tell, the Lyons must have expected her back quite early in the evening, for when nine o'clock struck from the church tower close by, the carpenter grew uneasy, and went round to Mrs. Canning to see if Betty was there. No; her mother had not seen her since the morning, but was sure she would be in directly, and Mr. Lyon would most likely find her at home when he got back. But at ten he paid the good woman another visit, saying he could not imagine what had kept the girl; and at last Mrs. Canning, 'frightened out of her wits' as she herself says, sent three of the children out into the fields to look for Elizabeth, and the apprentice went down to the Docks to inquire if she was still at her uncle's. It was now midnight, and the Colleys were so fast asleep that the apprentice had some difficulty in rousing them to listen to his errand.

'Betty here?' they asked. 'Why, we left her in Houndsditch hours ago.'

But they do not seem to have felt any alarm till the following morning when the young man knocked again, and informed them that they could gain no news of the missing girl.

Inquiries were made and advertisements were placed in the paper; all in vain. To be sure, a 'gentlewoman in an oil-shop' in Bishopsgate declared that she had heard a 'young voice scream out of a coach' on the night of January 1; but as she 'did not know whether it was a man's or a woman's voice,' her information was not of much use. However, vague though it was, Mrs. Canning caught at it eagerly and put it into the advertisement. As to what had become of her daughter, she guessed something different every day. Perhaps she had been kidnapped, or she might have been murdered, or have had an attack of illness.

Some years before, part of the ceiling of a garret had fallen on Elizabeth's head and hurt her, so that if anything frightened her she was apt to lose her sense of what was going on for a while. Naturally when the girl was lost her mother remembered this and dreaded lest she should have fallen down in some strange place unconscious. Every idea that could come into a person's mind--every accident likely or unlikely that had ever befallen anybody--was, we may feel certain, discussed in the month of January 1753 by Mrs. Canning and her neighbours.

She had almost given up hope, and was even in the act of praying to see her daughter's ghost, when Elizabeth at last came. But _what_ an Elizabeth! The apprentice, when he hastened to the door on hearing the latch lifted, did not recognise the girl, and thought it was a woman who had called to ask her way. Then the truth suddenly dawned on him and he cried out, 'Betty has come home'; but as she entered, nearly bent double and walking sideways holding her hands before her, her mother took her to be indeed the ghost she had prayed for, and, shrieking 'Feel her! Feel her!' sank down in a fit.

It was the apprentice and not Mrs. Canning who attended to Elizabeth and placed her in the chimney-corner, where she sat exhausted and to all appearance nearly dead. Her mother's first act on recovering from her fit was to send, not for the doctor but for the neighbours, and so many flocked to see the lost girl, that in two minutes the room was full, and the apprentice had to stand at the door to keep fresh people out. Of course it was long before anyone thought of putting Elizabeth to bed, and giving her something to eat or drink; instead they plied her with questions as to where she had been and what she had been doing, and how she had got in that dreadful condition. To these she replied, telling the same tale which she repeated to Alderman Chitty upon oath two days later.

On the following morning an apothecary was summoned, and attended her for a week till a doctor was called in, and he for some days thought very badly of her chance of living.

But weak and ill as she might be, two days after her return home she 'was brought' before Alderman Chitty to tell her story. And this was what she said:

After her uncle and aunt had left her in Houndsditch, she was passing along the wall which surrounded the lunatic asylum of Bedlam, into Moorfields, when she was suddenly attacked by two men who took all her money from her pocket, and then stripped off her gown and hat. She struggled and tried to scream, but a handkerchief was quickly thrust into her mouth, and she was told that if she made any noise they would kill her. To show that they spoke the truth, one of them did indeed give a blow on the head, and then they took her under the arms and dragged her along Bishopsgate till she lost her senses, as she was apt to do when frightened. She knew no more till she found herself in a strange place which she had since learned was a house at Enfield Wash, about eleven miles from Aldermanbury. By this time it was about four in the morning of January 2.

In the kitchen in which she recovered consciousness were several people, among them an old woman who asked her if she would stay with her instead of returning home. To this Elizabeth replied No; she would not, as she wanted to go back to her mother at once. The old woman looked very angry at her answer, and pushed her upstairs into a room, where she cut her stay-laces, and took the stays themselves away. She then told her there was bread and water for her if she was hungry, but that was all she would get; adding that the girl had better be quiet, for if she attempted to scream out, she herself would come in and cut her throat.

Having said this, the old woman went away locking the door behind her, and that was the last the girl saw of any human creature for four weeks, except the eye of a person who peeped through the keyhole.

Left alone, Elizabeth looked about for the food which was provided for her, and found there were some pieces of bread about as much as a 'quartern loaf'--and three-quarters of a gallon of water or a little more, in a pitcher. She had besides a penny mince-pie that she had bought while she was at her uncle's the day before, and intended as a present for her little brother; for, as she said to her mother, the boy had 'huffed her,' and she had not given him a penny like his sisters, so the mince-pie was to make up.

At this point Chitty seems to have stopped her, and asked her to describe the room in which she was imprisoned and to tell him what it contained. There was but little furniture of any sort in it, she answered. An old stool or two, an old chair and an old picture over the chimney. The room itself had two windows, facing north and east, one of which was entirely boarded up; but the other, though there were some boards on it, was mostly glass. It was through the window at the end of the room that she escaped about half-past three on the afternoon of Monday January 29, dropping on to the roof of a shed built against the house, and so to the ground.

She knew, it appears, that the road which ran past the house was the one leading from London into Hertfordshire, because she recognised the coachman who had carried parcels for her mistress many a time. Thus, when she escaped, tearing her ear as she did so on a nail outside the window, she had no difficulty in starting in the right direction for London, though after a short distance she became confused, and had to ask the way of several people. She ended by saying that she arrived at home about ten o'clock very weak and faint, and that her mother gave her some wine, which however she was unable to swallow.

Now in those times both lawyers and judges were apt to be very careless, and according to our ideas, very dishonest, and Chitty seems to have been no better than the rest. He took, he says, a few notes of the interview with Elizabeth for his own memorandum, but 'not thinking it would have been the subject of so much inquiry later, did not take it so distinct as he could wish.' Even this paper which he did show was not what he had written down at the time when the girl was telling her story, but something that he had pieced together from her own account and that of various other people who had been present at her mother's two nights before, and had gone with her to the Alderman. So that no court of law in these days would have thought that Alderman Chitty's account given more than a year later, of what Elizabeth told him, was to be trusted. In the end, however, Chitty, who declares he had examined her for an hour and asked her 'many questions not set down' in his paper, granted a warrant for the arrest of one Mother Wells at Enfield Wash, for assaulting and robbing her. Elizabeth herself expressly says she 'could tell nothing of the woman's name,' though 'she believed she should know her;' but one of Mrs. Canning's visitors on the night of the girl's arrival, who was acquainted with Enfield, was certain that the house described could only be that in which Mother Wells lived, and on his information Chitty allowed the warrant for her arrest to be made out.

This man, Robert Scarrat, seems to have put to Elizabeth a great many questions which never occurred to the Alderman. He asked her, for instance, to describe the woman who had cut off her stays, and she replied that she was 'tall, black and swarthy, and that two girls, one fair and one dark, were with her.' This answer surprised him; it was not what he expected. Mother Wells was not a tall, swarthy woman, and he said at once that it could not have been Mother Wells at all, as the description was not in the least like her.

On Thursday February 1, Elizabeth was put into a coach and drove with her mother and two other women to Mother Wells' house in Enfield Wash, where they were met by the girl's two masters and several friends. The object of the visit was to prove if the description given by her of the room, in which she was confined, was correct, and if she could pick out from a number of persons the woman who had cut off her stays and locked her up. As to how far the room, as seen by Elizabeth's friends, at all resembled what she had told them, it is impossible to be certain. It assuredly was very different from the place which Alderman Chitty swore she had described, containing a quantity of hay, old saddles, and other things that the girl had apparently not noticed, even though she had been there a month; while there was no old picture above the mantelpiece--nothing, indeed, but cobwebs--and there was no grate, though she had sworn she had taken out of it the bedgown or jacket she had come home in. Besides,--and this was more serious--there was not a sign of the pent-house on which, she said, she had jumped after tearing away the boards at the north window; and one of the witnesses declared that you had only to push open the _east_ window to get out of it with perfect ease, and that he himself had leaned out and shaken hands with his wife, who was standing on the ground which rose on that side of the house. But then the witnesses were not at all agreed among themselves what Elizabeth had _really_ said, so again we are unable to make up our minds what to believe.

After she had seen the room, she was taken into the parlour where eight or ten people were sitting, and it is curious that now everyone tells the same tale. On one side of the fireplace sat Mother Wells, and on the other Mary Squires.

Mary Squires was a gipsy, tall and swarthy, very ill made and extraordinarily ugly, and altogether a person whom it would be impossible to forget. At the time of Elizabeth's entrance she was sitting crouched up, with a white handkerchief on her head such as women often wore, and over it a hat, while a short pipe was in her hand. Several more persons were on the same side of the room, in a sort of circle round the fire.

Elizabeth glanced towards them. Her eyes rested first on Mother Wells and then looked past her.

'That is the woman who cut off my stays,' she said, pointing to the gipsy. At these words Mary Squires rose and came up to the girl, throwing aside her hat and handkerchief as she did so.

'Me rob you?' she cried. 'I hope you will not swear my life away, for I never saw you. Pray, madam, look at this face; if you have once seen it you must remember it, for God Almighty I think never made such another.'

'I know you very well,' answered Elizabeth; 'I know you too well, to my sorrow.'

'Pray, madam, when do you say I robbed you?'

'It was on the first day of this New Year,' replied Elizabeth.

'The first day of the New Year?' cried the gipsy. 'Lord bless me! I was an hundred and twenty miles away from this place then, at Abbotsbury in Dorsetshire, and there are a hundred people I can bring to prove it.'

But no one at that time paid any attention to her words, or thought of allowing her to prove her innocence. Elizabeth, with two girls found in Mother Wells' house, were examined before Henry Fielding, the novelist, author of 'Tom Jones,' then a magistrate of London, who showed, according to his own account, gross unfairness in dealing with the matter, and by him the case was sent for trial at the Old Bailey.

Elizabeth repeated the story she had told from the first, with the result that the gipsy was condemned to be hanged, and Mother Wells to be branded on the hand and to go to prison for six months. Luckily, however, for them, the president of the court that tried them was the Lord Mayor Sir Crispe Gascoigne, a man who had more sense of justice and fair play than many of his fellows. He did not feel sure of the truth of Elizabeth's tale, and never rested till both the old women were set at liberty.

This made the mob very angry. They were entirely on Elizabeth's side, and more than once attacked the Lord Mayor's coach. Other people were just as strong on behalf of the gipsy, and things even went so far that often the members of the same family declined to speak to each other.

Then came Elizabeth's turn. In April 1754 she was arrested on a charge of perjury or false swearing, and sent to stand her trial at the Old Bailey. Now was Mary Squires' opportunity for calling the 'hundred people' to prove that she, with her son George and daughter Lucy, was down at Abbotsbury in Dorsetshire, on January 1, 1753, at the moment that she was supposed to be cutting off the stays of Elizabeth Canning at Enfield Wash! And if she did not quite fulfil her promise, she actually _did_ summon thirty-six witnesses who swore to her movements day by day from December 29, 1752, when all three Squires stopped at an inn at South Parret in Dorsetshire, to January 23, 1753, when Mary begged for a lodging at Page Green. Now Page Green was within two or three miles of Enfield Wash, where the gipsy admitted she had stayed at Mother Wells' house for ten days before Elizabeth Canning had charged her with robbery. Her denial of the accusation was further borne out by a man and his wife, who appear in the reports as 'Fortune and Judith Natus' (he was quite plainly called 'Fortunatus' after the young man with the fairy purse), both of whom declared upon oath that they had occupied the room in which Elizabeth stated she had been confined, for ten or eleven weeks at that very time, and that it was used as a hayloft.

Mary Squires had called thirty-six witnesses to 'prove an _alibi_'--in other words, to prove that she had been present somewhere else; but Elizabeth's lawyers produced twenty-six, stating that they had seen her about Enfield during the month when Elizabeth was lost. This was enough to confuse anybody, and many of the witnesses on both sides were exceedingly stupid. To make matters worse and more puzzling, not long before a law had been passed to alter the numbering of the days of the year. For instance, May 5 would suddenly be reckoned the 16th, a fact it was almost impossible to make uneducated people understand. Indeed, it is not easy always to remember it oneself, but it all helps to render the truth of Elizabeth's tale more difficult to get at, for you never could be sure whether, when the witnesses said they had seen the gipsy at Christmas or New Year's Day, they meant _Old_ Christmas or _New_ Christmas, _old_ New Year's Day or _new_ New Year's Day. Yet certain facts there are in the story which nobody attempts to contradict. It is undisputed that a young woman, weak and with very few clothes on, was met by four or five persons on the night of January 29, 1753, on the road near Enfield Wash, inquiring her way to London, or that on the very same night Elizabeth Canning arrived at home in Aldermanbury, in such a state that next morning an apothecary was sent for. Nor does anyone, as we have said, deny that she picked out the gipsy from a number of people, as the person who assaulted her. All this is in favour of her tale. Yet we must ask ourselves what possible motive Mary Squires could have had in keeping a girl shut up in a loft for four weeks, apparently with a view of starving her to death? Elizabeth was a total stranger to her; she was very poor, so there was no hope of getting a large ransom for her; and if she had died and her kidnapping had been traced to Mary Squires, the gipsy would have speedily ended her days on the gallows.

On the other hand, if Mary Squires did not know Elizabeth Canning, Elizabeth equally did not know Mary Squires, and we cannot imagine what reason Elizabeth could have had in accusing her falsely. Only one thing stands out clear from the report of the trial, and that is, that Elizabeth was absent during the whole of January 1753, and that she very nearly died of starvation.

'Guilty of perjury, but not wilful and corrupt,' was the verdict of the jury, which the judge told them was nonsense. They then declared her guilty, and Elizabeth was condemned to be transported to one of his Majesty's American colonies for seven years.

We soon hear of her as a servant in the house of the Principal of Yale University, a much better place than any she had at home. At the end of the seven years she came back to England, where she seems to have been received as something of a heroine, and took possession of L500 which had been left her by an old lady living in Newington Green. She then sailed for America once more, and married a well-to-do farmer called Treat, and passed the rest of her life with her husband and children in the State of Connecticut.

Up to her death, which occurred in 1773, she always maintained the truth of her tale.

Was it true?

The lawyers who were against Elizabeth said, at her trial, that as soon as she was found guilty, the secret of where she had been would be revealed.

It never was revealed. Now several persons must have known where Elizabeth was; all the world heard her story, yet nobody told where she had been. If the persons who knew had not detained and ill-used the girl, there was nothing to prevent them from speaking.

Yet to the end we shall ask, why _did_ Mary Squires keep her at Enfield Wash--if she _did_ keep her?

_MRS. VEAL'S GHOST_

Now you are going to hear a ghost story published, but he says, not written, by Daniel Defoe the author of 'Robinson Crusoe.' If you read it carefully, you will find how very curious it is.

Miss Veal, or as she was then called according to custom, Mrs. Veal, was an unmarried lady of about thirty living with her only brother in Dover. She was a delicate woman, and frequently had fits, during which she would often stop in the middle of a sentence, and begin to talk nonsense. These fits probably arose from not having had enough food or warm clothes in her childhood, for her father was not only a poor man but also a selfish one, and was too full of his own affairs to look after his children. One comfort, however, she had, in a little girl of her own age, named Lodowick, who often used to bring her neighbour half of her own dinner, and gave her a thick wadded tippet to wear over her bare shoulders.

Years passed away and the girls grew to women, meeting as frequently as of old and reading together the pious books of the day, 'Drelincourt upon Death' being perhaps their favourite. Then gradually a change took place. Old Veal died; the son was given a place in the Customs, and his sister went to keep house for him. She was well-to-do now, and had no longer any need of a friend to provide her with food and clothes, and little by little she became busy with her new life, and forgot the many occasions on which she had exclaimed gratefully to her playfellow, 'You are not only the best, but the only friend I have in the world, and nothing shall ever loosen our friendship.' Now she visited in the houses of people who were richer and grander than herself and sought out her old companion more and more seldom, so that at length when this story begins, two years and a half had passed by without their having seen each other.

Meanwhile, though Mrs. Veal, in spite of a few love affairs, had remained a spinster, her friend had married a Mr. Bargrave, and a very bad match he proved, for the way in which he ill-used his wife soon became known to everyone. They left Dover about a year after Mrs. Bargrave's last visit to Mrs. Veal, and several months later they settled in Canterbury.

* * * * *

It was noon, on September 8, 1705, and Mrs. Bargrave was sitting alone in an armchair in her parlour, thinking over all the misery her husband had caused her and trying hard to feel patient and forgiving towards him. 'I have been provided for hitherto,' she said to herself, 'and doubt not that I shall be so still, and I am well satisfied that my sorrows shall end when it is most fit for me.' She then took up her sewing, which had dropped on her lap, but had hardly put in three stitches when a knocking at the door made her pause. The clock struck twelve as she rose to open it, and to her profound astonishment admitted Mrs. Veal, who had on a riding dress of silk.

'Madam,' exclaimed Mrs. Bargrave, 'I am surprised to see you, for you have been a stranger this long while, but right glad I am to welcome you here.' As she spoke, she leaned forward to kiss her, but Mrs. Veal drew back, and passing her hand across her eyes, she answered:

'I am not very well;' adding after a moment, 'I have to take a long journey, and wished first to see you.'

'But,' answered Mrs. Bargrave, 'how do you come to be travelling alone? I know that your brother looks after you well.'

'Oh, I gave my brother the slip,' replied Mrs. Veal, 'because I had so great a desire to see you before I set forth.'

'Well, let us go into the next room,' said Mrs. Bargrave, leading the way to a small room opening into the other. Mrs. Veal sat down in the very chair in which Mrs. Bargrave had been seated when she heard the knocking at the door. Then Mrs. Veal leaned forward and spoke:

'My dear friend, I am come to renew our old friendship, and to beg you to pardon me for my breach of it. If you can forgive me, you are one of the best of women.'

'Oh! don't mention such a thing,' cried Mrs. Bargrave. 'I never had an unkind thought about it, and can most easily forgive it.'

'What opinion can you have had of me?' continued Mrs. Veal.

'I supposed you were like the rest of the world,' answered Mrs. Bargrave, 'and that prosperity had made you forget yourself and me.'

After that they had a long talk over the old days, and recalled the books they had read together, and what comfort they had received from Drelincourt's Book of Death, and from two Dutch books that had been translated, besides some by Dr. Sherlock on the same subject. At Mrs. Veal's request, Mrs. Bargrave brought Drelincourt's discourses down from upstairs, and handed it to her friend, who spoke so earnestly of the consolations to be found in it that Mrs. Bargrave was deeply touched. But when Mrs. Veal assured her that 'in a short time her afflictions would leave her,' Mrs. Bargrave broke down and wept bitterly.

'Are you going away and leaving your brother without anyone to look after him?' asked Mrs. Bargrave as soon as she could speak.

'Oh no! my sister and her husband had just come down from town to see me, so it will be all right,' answered Mrs. Veal.

'But why did you arrange to leave just as they arrived?' again inquired Mrs. Bargrave. 'Surely they will be vexed?'

'It could not be helped,' replied Mrs. Veal shortly, and said no more on the subject.

After this, the conversation, which continued for nearly two hours, was chiefly carried on by Mrs. Veal, whose language might have been envied by the most learned doctors of the day. But during the course of it Mrs. Bargrave was startled to notice Mrs. Veal draw her hand several times across her eyes (as she had done on her entrance), and at length she put the question, 'Mrs. Bargrave, don't you think I look much the worse for my fits?'

'No,' answered Mrs. Bargrave, 'I think you look as well as ever I saw you.'

'I want you to write a letter for me to my brother,' then said Mrs. Veal, 'and tell him to whom he is to give my rings, and that he is to take two gold pieces out of a purse that is in my cabinet, and send them to my cousin Watson.' Cousin Watson was the wife of a Captain Watson who lived in Canterbury. As there seemed no reason that Mrs. Veal should not write the letter herself, the request appeared rather odd to Mrs. Bargrave, especially as then and afterwards it was the custom for people to leave rings to their friends in their wills. These rings contained little skulls in white enamel, and the initials in gold of the dead.