The Water of the Wondrous Isles - William Morris (book club suggestions .txt) 📗

thing that shall avail me much, to have a friend who is so much older than I, so that nought can come between us, of the love of men and other griefs. Yea, now, said the dame, smiling somewhat sadly; now do I see the water standing in thine eyes, and thy voice quavers. Is it so, thou lovely kind damsel, that thou hast been grieved by love of a man? Who then may prevail in love if thou prevail not? And she fell to fondling Birdalone’s hand; but Birdalone said: It is over-long to tell of all my life, mother, though I be so young; but now I will do as thou badest me, and tell thee somewhat of my days when I was little.

And therewith she fell to telling her of her days in the House under the Wood, and the witch and her surliness and grimness, and of her love of the wild things, and how she waxed there. And she spake a long while, for the memory of those days seemed to lead her along, as though she verily were alive now in them; and the woman sat before her, gazing on her lovingly, till Birdalone stayed her tale at last and said: Now have I told thee more than enough of a simple matter, and a life that was as that of a wild creature of the woods. Now shalt thou, mother, tell me somewhat of thee, and what was thy grief of Utterhay: for thou shalt find that the telling thereof shall solace thee. Ah! so think young folk, said the woman sadly, because there are many days left for them to hope in. But though the telling of my sorrow be a fresh sorrow to me, yet shalt thou hear it. It is but of the loss of my babe; but she was of all babes the fairest and the sweetest.

Then she fell to telling Birdalone all that concerning the witch at Utterhay and the poor-wife that ye have heard in the beginning of this book, until the time when she left the house to buy meat for the witch; for she herself was the said poor-wife. And then she told how she came back again and found her guest gone and the child withal; and though she had wept for love of Birdalone, she wept not at telling of this grief, but told it as a tale which had befallen some other one. And she said: And so when I had done running up and down like a wild thing, and asking of the neighbours with lack of breath and fierceness of speech who had taken my child away from me; and when I had gone up to the wood and even some way into it, and when I had wandered up and down again, and night was falling, I came back at last again to my poor house so weary with my woe, that I scarce knew what had befallen me. And there upon the board lay the victual and drink which I had brought, and the money which the witch had given unto me; and despite of grief, hunger flamed up in me at the sight, and I threw myself on to it and ate and drank, and so came to myself, that is, to my grief. But the next day I ran about hither and thither, and wearied folk with my asking and my woe; but it was all of none avail. The child was gone away from me. There is little more to tell of me, sweet lady. If I were to live, needs must I take the poor price of my little one, to wit, the witch’s money, and deal with folk for my livelihood; wherefore I bought me cloth and silks, having now the wherewithal, and set to work on broidery, for even then was I a cunning needlewoman. So were God and the saints good to me, and inclined the folk to me, that they were good and piteous, and I lacked not work nor due livelihood; but after a while I wearied of Utterhay, where my dear child should have been running about before my feet; and having by this time gotten a little money together, and being exceeding deft in my craft, I came on hither to live, and, praise be to St. Ursula! I have found it easy to live: and praise be to Allhallows withal that I have found thee, who art so kind and lovely; and thou by seeming of the very age my child should be if she be living: or how old art thou, dear lady?

Birdalone laid her hand on her breast, and she was turned pale, but she said in a low voice: I deem that I am of twenty summers.

Then they both sat silent, till Birdalone might master the fluttering of her heart, and she said: Now meseems I have a memory even earlier than those I told thee erst. A woman took me out of a basket and set me on the back of an ass, and I looked about, and I was in a grassy lawn of the woods; and I saw a squirrel run up a tree-trunk before me, and wind round the tree and hide him; and then I stretched out my hands and cried out to him; and then came the woman unto me, and gave me wood-strawberries to eat out of her hand.

Brake out the poor-wife thereat, pale and trembling: Tell me now, my child, hast thou any memory of what the woman was who set thee on the ass and gave thee the strawberries? Birdalone looked on her, and scanned her face closely, and then shook her head, and said: Nay, it was not thou, mother. Nay, surely; nay, surely, said the woman; but think again. Said Birdalone, speaking slowly: Was it my mistress then? She was a tall woman, somewhat thin and bony, with goodly red hair and white-skinned,