Roboshobery Dove walked on a little way, eyeing the girl furtively as he went. Then he remarked, “But ’tis sartin he be a woundly clever man — woundly clever. Why, the way he do with warts fair beat a man — looks at ‘em, an’ they go. An’ when Susan Jecks’s gown were stole off t’ hedge he charmed the thief for to bring it back there quick an’ soon — anyhow three mornin’s arter. Yes, ’tis sarten he be a woundly clever man.”
Dorrily stopped and turned. “Why, Master Dove,” she said, “you don’t tell me that you believe it, too?”
The surprise and pain in her face and voice afflicted the old sailor with some confusion and a touch of shame. “Lord bless ye,” he answered, hastily! “den’t say that. No, no. But it’s like that Master Murr’ll, so deadly clever as he be, hev got hisself that mixed up with the devil that he doan’t ollis know how he do stand. There aren’t never been no little thing — no little ill-wishin’, nor nothin’ as might — as might—”
“Nothing at all, Master Dove,” Dorrily interrupted, “nothing but that we’re lone women, an’ our man be away on the seas fightin’ an’ offerin’ his life for such as mistrust us.”
Roboshobery stared for a moment, and then burst out, “Good gal! good gal!” with three slaps of great weight on Dorrily’s shoulder. “Good gal! So he be, an’ yow be a good mate for him. Don’t yow give two thotes to none of ‘em, damn ‘em! I den’t mean more than make an inquiration. Why I fit the French myself — so high! So high!”
For by Roboshobery’s system of ratiocination any misgiving as to Mrs Martin was quieted by the reflection that her son was fighting his country’s enemies; was set altogether at rest by the consideration that he himself had once done the same thing; and was swept wholly out of existence by the fact of his inferior stature at the time. So he stumped off cheerfully to take his station at the castle loop-hole, and Dorrily made for home.
Her aunt was nowhere in the cottage nor in the garden, nor could Dorrily see signs of her in any place visible therefrom, till she descended into the small hoppit across the lane, beyond which lay the castle barn; and then she saw that the door of the crazy old shed stood open.
In a flash she remembered the day when neighbours had found her aunt there, when she was newly a widow. Dorrily hurried across the hoppit, and there indeed stood her aunt in the barn, with her face turned upward, steadily regarding the beam from which the man had hanged himself forty years back.
“Aunt, here is a letter — from Jack.”
The woman made no sign till the words were repeated, and then she merely turned dull eyes on her niece and said: “‘Twere here that Masterman hanged himself, after leavin’ the black cottage an’ sayin’ he’d be back soon. D’you ever hear him now?...I wonder if ’tis arl peace with such?”
“Come away, aunt,” the girl cried, catching her by the arm. “See? This is a letter from Jack. Come away and read it.”
Mrs Martin drew her hand down over forehead and eyes, and said: “A letter? O ay, from my boy Jack, at the wars. ’Twould seem he be still livin’, then.”
She followed Dorrily quietly, and presently was spelling out her letter with placid interest.
IX. — AMAZEMENT AND A PAIL
LEIGH STRAND — which was the older and more proper name of the High Street — was an amazing lesson in mediaeval domestic architecture. Its southern side was built on the seashore, and high water set the back yards and outhouses awash. The conformation of the shore settled, roughly, the contour of the street on this side, with violent modifications occasioned by the fact that no two houses were of the same size, nor had a common line of frontage; the contour of the north side was settled on the principle of complete disagreement with that of the south. The houses pushed their gables in every possible direction, an irresolute crowd; some interiors were attained by perilous ascent of brick steps, worn and broken, others by a precipitous flounder through a low doorway and down a doubtful stair. There was no brick house from end to end, and rain-leaks, in roofs and elsewhere, were stopped with daubings of pitch, patches of which diversified every red roof in sight; for it would seem to be a principle that everything in Leigh, no matter what, must be repaired, when repair was needed, exactly as if it were a boat. The floor of the street was mere dirt — usually mud — and the upper storeys overshadowed it all day. It was here, near the little square where boats were beached, and where linen fluttered all day from lines stretched over the water, that old Sim Cloyse’s house stood, with a narrow alley at its side and a view of a tumbledown shed standing black against the shining sea that lay beyond. It was a larger house than most thereabout, heavily framed and quaintly gabled, and it was one of those the entrance whereof involved descent.
The door opened briskly, and Cunning Murrell appeared in the opening, back foremost. Old Sim Cloyse was showing him out with no waste of ceremony.
“Then you’ll make no terms, nor say nothen?” the little man asked.
“Nothen at arl,” Cloyse answered stolidly. He was a broad-faced, small-eyed man, with an expression, if it could be called one, of wooden passivity. He stood in his shirt sleeves, stout and clumsy, with one hand in a trousers pocket and the other on the door-handle. “Nothen at arl. An’ as for terms, there aren’t nothen to make terms about.”
Murrell retreated up one step, and said: “Your Sheppy pardner—”
“Pardner in Sheppy?”
“Ay, in Sheppy, though Essex born—”
“Got no pardner nowhere.” The door came a little closer.
“Your pardner,” Murrell shrilled on persistently, “hev left it with me to deal by way o’ lawful spell an’ conjuration with arl that use him ill, or do make unfair use of common property, hid or not; an’ arl do know my powers for heal or for hurt, whether by—”
“Dunno what yow mean.” And the door was shut in Cunning Murrell’s face.
He stood for a second, dumbfounded; and then turned up the street, with an angry frown on his face.
He was defied and set at naught. To him it was amazing. In all his world his word was gospel, and people trembled before him. Not a thief in Essex who had stolen linen from a hedge or a watch from a drunken man’s pocket but would hasten to restore his plunder at the threat of Murrell’s subtle sciences; not a man or woman with a bewitched or bedevilled child, or cow, or churn, or horse, but was certain of delivery at the hands of Cunning Murrell. His own belief in his miraculous powers was sincere enough, despite the tricks and dodges wherewith he sustained his credit. He was seventh son of a seventh son, which was a sufficient foundation for his confidence, though the acquiescence of his neighbours and the deference they gave him would have been enough to generate it, with no other foundation whatever. In all his previous meddlings among the affairs of the people about him he had never known his threats of thaumaturgic punishment to fail. And now he was stolidly set at naught, put aside, disregarded. His keenest hints, his astutest questions fell helpless before the blockish impenetrability of old Sim Cloyse. It was a new experience for Murrell, and an exasperating. Nevertheless he might have felt in some degree comforted if he could have seen Cloyse’s face the instant the door had closed between them. For it burst into a figure of extreme and rather ludicrous alarm, though the emotion was not in the least of a superstitious character.
As Cunning Murrell, however, spite of his subtle learning, was unable to see through the door behind him, he went his way in moody anger, and emerged from Leigh at the Strand end, where a path led up among the rank grasses of the hills toward Hadleigh.
It was early indeed for Murrell to be abroad, and the day was not propitious. He reached home with his temper no whit softened, and he found his belated dinner of bacon and potatoes, cold, greasy, and uninviting. “Ann Pett!” he called — for he always signalised bad temper by giving his daughter her full name by marriage— “Ann Pett! I will not hev this dinner. Rumball hev killed a sheep; go get me a sweetbread.”
Ann Pett came in from the back, wiping soapy hands on her apron. Then
she held out one, with the remark, “I han’t got but a ha’penny.”
Murrell’s jaw fell. “Nothen but a ha’penny!” he repeated. “Yow den’t tell me ‘twere runnin’ so low.” His hand went by instinct to his pocket, though he knew already that nothing was there. Then he flung his hat on the table, and sat down before the greasy bacon. “Get about your washin’, woman,” he commanded.
Ann Pett vanished, and her father set about his dinner with what appetite he might. He was exposed to such pecuniary surprises by his habit of disregarding money matters, for he was so much of an artist as to love his trade for itself, and for the power and consideration it won him; so that he would rather meddle and mystify for nothing than not meddle at all. Else he might have been a man of some affluence, as affluence went in Hadleigh. But now it was plain that a little money must be raised somehow, and Cunning Murrell pushed aside his plate at last with a sigh for the philosopher’s stone that was beyond the reach of his arts, and a hope for an early client.
He pulled open a drawer, crammed with papers, every one crowded with his tiny crabbed writing, many with straggling figures — horoscopes, sigils, and figures of geomancy; for indeed he worked by all the rules of art as much as by his native acuteness, and here and in his great chest of books and notes was represented the outcome of many years of conscientious study. On some of those papers which were illuminated by no figures, conjurations and prayers were written, all conceived in the most devout spirit of white magic, and all calling down divine wrath on the devil and his agents and all their doings, downsittings and uprisings; and on others were recorded all and any the most commonplace particulars wherewith he might have become acquainted, of the circumstances, family relations, and matters of private life of every sort, of anybody whatsoever. For all these things there was no order, no index — nothing but their native confusion. Nevertheless it was a matter of habit or instinct with Murrell to put his hand on the note he needed with scarce a second’s groping, whether in the great chest or in any of the brimming boxes and drawers in the place.
He pushed aside the heaped papers, and drew from under them a thin book of straggling manuscript, of octavo size, scrawled throughout with uncouth figures of seals, sigils, pentacles, characters, and intelligences; set about thick with faded writing, some his own, some that of the forgotten necromancer whose property the book had been originally. Here were the conjurations and considerations proper to every day and night of the week and every month of the year; and it was his way to keep them in memory by conning them over at odd times. He had put his heavy iron-rimmed goggles on his nose, and turned the yellow page where the sunlight through the little casement fell on it, when there was a timid click at the latch. Murrell pursued his study, his mouth noiselessly forming the words as he went; for it was his daughter’s business to attend the door. But plainly she did not hear, and presently, lifting his eyes, he perceived dimly through the curtains that some short figure, probably a woman’s, was receding irresolutely from the step. Now Murrell’s most profitable clients among the women were not uncommonly the most timid, and he must not lose this one. So, letting go his dignity, and keeping his reproof of Ann Pett for a more favourable moment, he rose and opened the door.
A young woman in a print gown and white sunbonnet stood without, carrying a baby. A fair though a commonplace young woman, with an anxious and sorrowful face. Murrell’s sudden appearance before her, terrible in large goggles, increased her discomposure, and she receded another step, murmuring indistinct apologies.
“Is’t for askin’ or healin’ you’re come?” he asked, in the mild tone wherewith he encouraged the diffident. Though, indeed, he knew the girl, as it was his way to know, or to know of, everybody; and he had the means for a good guess at her errand; albeit what he knew did not warrant the hope of great profit.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Master Murr’ll,” the girl said, with an effort, “’tis a question I do want to ask.”
“Come yow in, my child, an’ I will try my best.”
Murrell stood aside to admit her, but still she hesitated. Even more faintly than before she asked: “How much do ‘ee charge?”
“’Tis but what you can afford,” the cunning man replied. Plainly it was a poor customer, as he had feared. “The skill God hev given me be for rich an’ poor, an’ they pay by count o’ their means, from golden guineas down to — to sixpences.” He judged it useless to put the minimum higher.
The girl followed him in, timorous still, and the baby coughed and wailed weakly in the pungent air, laden with the dust of a thousand drying herbs. “Sit you down, now, an’ tell me your name an’ the question you ask,” Murrell said, taking pen and paper.
“Dorcas Brooker,” the girl said, and paused.
Murrell wrote the name, and waited.
“’Tis about — about my young man.” She looked down at her knees, and her face took on a heavy flush.
“Ah!” Despite himself there was a dry touch in Murrell’s voice. He had been pretty certain of it; and what was coming now he knew well enough.
“I want to know where he be, an’ when he will come to me.”
“Name?” asked the old man.
“Samuel Gill.”
“Whereof?”
“Leigh. But he hev been in Sheppy of late, though I get no word of him.”
Needless questions both, but Murrell noted the answers carefully, all the same. Then he looked up, and pointed with his pen at the baby. “And that?” he queried.
Her head drooped lower, and she lifted the baby as though to hide her face, till their cheeks touched, and she kissed the child passionately twice or thrice, so that the little voice woke again in a feeble cry.
“His?”
She lifted her face, all tear-stained, for a moment, and wailed, “Ees! ees it be!” and dropping her head again she rocked the child to and fro. “An’ O, it be a bitter shame an’ sorrow for a poor gal!”
Murrell, who had had more than twenty children of his own, and had lost and forgotten nearly all of them long ago, scratched his head with the feather end of his pen and turned to the drawer full of papers that he had lately shut. The note he had made from Golden Adams’s information as to Gill lay at the top, and it was so new in his memory that there was scarce need to put it among the leaves of the book of conjuration and read it again. Howbeit he did so, and read the note: Saml. Gill of Leigh gone from Sheppy now and left Portsmouth by shipp for West Indes.
“Come,” Murrell exclaimed as he rose to his feet and slipped the book back in the drawer; “come, wipe eyes, Dorcas Brooker, for yow need them clear to see what I shall show yow.”
He went to the back door and called to Ann Pett for a pail of water. For some moments there was the clank of the pail and the creak and thud of a neighbouring pump, and then Ann Pett came, worn and dull as ever, and slow with her burden. Murrell took it, and set it down where the sunlight fell on the rocking water in dancing shapes. Then he took a bottle from a shelf, and poured from it a black liquid, which spread on the surface as oil would, showing a slight iridescence.
“Stand you here,” Murrell requested of the girl, who was watching him wistfully; “stand you here an’ look down into that.”
She bent her head, and Murrell, standing by her, placed a hand on each side of her forehead.
Presently said Murrell: “D’ye see anything?”
“I see the watter,” answered the girl innocently.
“Ah — you see the watter, the wide watter, the great, stormy ocean. Look well on it an’ tell me what you see.”
“No — yes...I think I see a something.”
“You see something on the sea, rockin’ an’ plungin’ an’ drivin’ before the wind. What is it?”
“A ship! Ay, a ship!” the girl cried, with sudden excitement. “I see’t! ’Tis a ship, an’ he be in it, an’ it go drivin’, drivin’ in the gale!”
Her breath came short, and Murrell held her close by the forehead, for she seemed unsteady, though s
he clasped the baby firmly still.
“O, I see’t drivin’ an’ drivin’,” she cried, “an’ the waves curlin’ over it! An’ I see ’tis arl dark before it — no, ’tis a rock, a great black rock! It be on it! O God, ’tis a wreck! O!”
Murrell took his hands from her head and caught her about the waist, letting her back into a chair and steadying the child in her arms. This was a little more than he had intended; the girl’s brain had galloped ahead of him. But perhaps this were the most merciful end for her pitiful romance — short and sharp though it might be.
She did not faint, for that was not the habit of a Leigh girl. But she lay back in the chair, and rolled her head in an agony of tears. Cunning Murrell feared that he must do more than earn his sixpence ere he could be rid of her. He put a bottle of oil of hartshorn to her nose, and he rubbed her forehead. But the fit of grief did not last long. She was not of the sort who could afford to waste time in useless “dolouring.” Presently she shifted the baby to her other arm, kissed it, and wiped her eyes with her apron. Then she rose and said simply: “Thank ‘ee kindly, Master Murrell. ’Tis a cruel hard blow, but I must a-bear it for the child’s sake, for’t hev no other friend, no more than I.”
She took a screw of paper from her pocket, and unfolding it, revealed a sixpence and some coppers. She put the sixpence on the table corner, folded the paper over the halfpence, and returned it to her pocket. “I take it kind you chargin’ low to poor people,” she said, “an’ I wish I could pay more. I hope ’tis enough?”
“O ay, ’tis enough,” Murrell answered brusquely, picking up the money; “’tis accordin’ to means, as I tell ‘ee.” And he opened the door.
The girl shifted the baby back to her right arm and went out into the lane, no more of her grief visible than was betrayed by a fitful tear or two, overrunning from full eyes as she went.
Cunning Murrell opened his hand and looked at the sixpence, turned his eyes up toward the Dutch clock, and scratched his cheek. Then he looked at the sixpence again, and then at his hat.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 116