“No.”
“It’s full of Prastes. Ye can’t throw a stone but ye hit one. And hit one—hit all. They’re as proud and lofty as the Murrays themselves. The only wan I know is Adam Praste—the others hold too high. He’s the black shape and quite sociable. But if ye want to see how the world looked on the morning after the flood go into his barnyard on a rainy day. Look a-here, gurrl dear”—Old Kelly lowered his voice mysteriously—“don’t ye ever marry a Praste.”
“Why not?” asked Emily, who had never thought of marrying a Priest but was immediately curious as to why she shouldn’t.
“They’re ill to marry—ill to live with. The wives die young. The ould lady of the Grange fought her man out and buried him but she had the Murray luck. I wouldn’t trust it too far. The only dacent Praste among them is the wan they call Jarback Praste and he’s too ould for you.”
“Why do they call him Jarback?”
“Wan av his shoulders is a l’il bit higher than the other. He’s got a bit of money and doesn’t be after having to work. A book worrum, I’m belaving. Have ye got a bit av cold iron about you?”
“No; why?”
“Ye should have. Old Caroline Praste at the Grange is a witch if ever there was one.”
“Why, that’s what Ilse said. But there are no such thing as witches really, Mr. Kelly.”
“Maybe that’s thrue but it’s better to be on the safe side. Here, put this horseshoe-nail in your pocket and don’t cross her if ye can help it. Ye don’t mind if I have a bit av a smoke, do ye?”
Emily did not mind at all. It left her free to follow her own thoughts, which were more agreeable than Old Kelly’s talk of toads and witches. The road from Blair Water to Priest Pond was a very lovely one, winding along the gulf shore, crossing fir-fringed rivers and inlets, and coming ever and anon on one of the ponds for which that part of the north shore was noted—Blair Water, Derry Pond, Long Pond, Three Ponds where three blue lakelets were strung together like three great sapphires held by a silver thread; and then Priest Pond, the largest of all, almost as round as Blair Water. As they drove down towards it Emily drank the scene in with avid eyes—as soon as possible she must write a description of it; she had packed the Jimmy blank book in her box for just such purposes.
The air seemed to be filled with opal dust over the great pond and the bowery summer homesteads around it. A western sky of smoky red was arched over the big Malvern Bay beyond. Little grey sails were drifting along by the fir-fringed shores. A sequestered side road, fringed thickly with young maples and birches, led down to Wyther Grange. How damp and cool the air was in the hollows! And how the ferns did smell! Emily was sorry when they reached Wyther Grange and climbed in between the gateposts whereon the big stone dogs sat very stonily, looking grim enough in the twilight.
The wide hall door was open and a flood of light streamed out over the lawn. A little old woman was standing in it. Old Kelly seemed suddenly in something of a hurry. He swung Emily and her box to the ground, shook hands hastily and whispered, “Don’t lose that bit av a nail. Goodbye. I wish ye a cool head and a warm heart,” and was off before the little old woman could reach them.
“So this is Emily of New Moon!” Emily heard a rather shrill, cracked voice saying. She felt a thin, claw-like hand grasp hers and draw her towards the door. There were no witches, Emily knew—but she thrust her hand into her pocket and touched the horseshoe-nail.
XXIII
Deals with Ghosts
“Your aunt is in the back parlor,” said Caroline Priest. “Come this way. Are you tired?”
“No,” said Emily, following Caroline and taking her in thoroughly. If Caroline were a witch she was a very small one. She was really no taller than Emily herself. She wore a black silk dress and a little string cap of black net edged with black ruching on her yellowish white hair. Her face was more wrinkled than Emily had ever supposed a face could be and she had the peculiar grey-green eyes which, as Emily afterwards discovered, “ran” in the Priest clan.
“You may be a witch,” thought Emily, “but I think I can manage you.”
They went through the spacious hall, catching glimpses on either side of large, dim, splendid rooms, then through the kitchen end out of it into an odd little back hall. It was long and narrow and dark. On one side was a row of four, square, small-paned windows, on the other were cupboards, reaching from floor to ceiling, with doors of black shining wood. Emily felt like one of the heroines in Gothic romance, wandering at midnight through a subterranean dungeon, with some unholy guide. She had read The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest before the taboo had fallen on Dr. Burnley’s bookcase. She shivered. It was awful but interesting.
At the end of the hall a flight of four steps led up to a door. Beside the steps was an immense black grandfather’s clock reaching almost to the ceiling.
“We shut little girls up in that when they’re bad,” whispered Caroline, nodding at Emily, as she opened the door that led into the back parlour.
“I’ll take good care you won’t shut me up in it,” thought Emily.
The back parlour was a pretty, quaint old room where a table was laid for supper. Caroline led Emily through it and knocked at another door, using a quaint old brass knocker that was fashioned like a chessy-cat, with such an irresistible grin that you wanted
