THE MERCY OF LA MEFFRAYE

It was a strange night that which the three Scots spent in the little house standing back from the street of Saint Philbert on the gloomy edges of the forest of Machecoul.  The hostess, indeed, was unweariedly kind and brought forth from her store many dainties for their delectation.  She talked with touching affection of her poor husband, afflicted with these strange fits of wolfish mania, in the paroxysms of which he was wont to tear himself and grovel in the dust like a beast.

This she told them over and over as she moved about setting before them provend from secret stores of her own, obviously unknown or perhaps forbidden to Caesar Martin.

Wild bee honey from the woods she placed before them and white wheaten bread, such as could not be got nearer than Paris, with wine of some rarer vintage than that out of the cripple’s resinous pigskin.  These and much else La Meffraye pressed upon them till she had completely won over the Lord James, and even Malise, easy natured like most very strong men, was taken by the sympathetic conversation and gracious kindliness of the wife of poor afflicted Caesar Martin of Saint Philbert.  Only Sholto kept his suspicion edged and pointed, and resolved that he would not sleep that night, but watch till the dawn the things which might befall in the house on the forest’s border.

Yet it was conspicuously to Sholto that La Meffraye directed most of her blandishments.

Her ruddy face, so bright that it seemed almost as if wholly covered with a birthmark, gleamed with absolute good nature as she looked at him.  She threw off the black veil which half concealed her strange coiffure of green toadstool-coloured hair.  She placed her choicest morsels before the young captain of the Douglas guard.

“’Tis hard,” she said, touching him confidentially on the shoulder, “hard to dwell here in this country wherein so many deeds of blood are wrought, alone with a poor imbecile like my husband.  None cares to help me with aught, all being too busy with their own affairs.  It falls on me to till the fields, which, scanty as they are, are more than my feeble strength can compass unaided.  Alone I must prune and water the vines, bring in the firewood, and go out and in by night and day to earn a scanty living for this afflicted one and myself.  You will hear, perchance, mischief laid to my charge in this village of evil speakers and lazy folk.  They hate me because I am no gadabout to spend time abusing my neighbours at the village well.  But the children love me, and that is no ill sign.  Their young hearts are open to love a poor lone old woman.  What cares La Meffraye for the sneers of the ignorant and prejudiced so long as the children run to her gladly and search her pockets for the good things she never forgets to bring them from her kitchen?”

So the old woman, talking all the time, bustled here and there, setting sweet cakes baked with honey, confitures and bairns’ goodies, figs, almonds, and cheese before her guests.  But through all her blandishments Sholto watched her and had his eyes warily upon what should befall her husband, who could be seen lying apparently either asleep or unconscious upon the bed in an inner room.