“Damn it!” said Cunning Murrell aloud, and almost dropped at the word; for he was a devout man, and scrupulous in his words, as was becoming in one with so exact an acquaintance with their power in spells, charms, conjurations, exorcisms, prayers, and maledictions. He paused with the shock, his gaze still fixed on the hat. Then he reached and snatched it, and ran down the lane after the girl.
He caught her at the stile, just beyond the cottages. “Here!” he said abruptly, thrusting the sixpence into her hand; and instantly hurried back.
He flung his hat on the table, kicked open the back door, and shouted fiercely: “Ann Pett! Be yow goin’ to leave this pail o’ watter slummuckin’ about here arl day? Will ‘ee pitch it away, or wait till I come an’ pitch it over ‘ee?”
Ann Pett came, submissive and soapy, and carried the pail away. She perceived that her father’s ill temper was increasing, though it was no part of her nature to wonder why.
X. — PROFITLESS DIPLOMACY
IT was Murrell’s habit to take much of his sleep at day, and it was his faculty to take it when opportunity offered. It was now late in the afternoon, and for a little while he debated within himself whether he should lie on his bed above, or doze merely where he sat. But there was more business for him, and he had scarce resolved on a nap in his chair when a heavy step was stayed without, and the door shook with the thump of a fist.
“Come in!” cried Cunning Murrell. And with that the door opened, and Steve Lingood looked in on the little old man, curled in repose amid his cobweb of dusty herbs.
“Good day t’ ye, Stephen Lingood,” said Murrell, with that dignity that characterised his dealings and conversation with the villagers; though he remembered with some misgiving that he had not yet paid the smith for the bottle used in the relief of Em Banham from witchcraft.
“Good day, Master Murrell,” Lingood answered, in his deliberate tones; “I come on a small matter o’ business.”
Murrell was not reassured by the expression, but he motioned toward a chair, and Lingood sat, putting his fur cap on his knee.
“’Tis to consult about a matter in your line,” he said, “that I should like done, an’ will pay for, o’ course. Pay for high.”
Plainly Steve Lingood felt some embarrassment in opening the matter, and now he paused to pull out from his pocket, rather awkwardly, a small canvas bag, which clinked as he set it on the table. Murrell watched him with much satisfaction; not so much because of the money — though, of course, that was something just now — as because of inward triumph to see the independent young smith, least deferential among the villagers, coming at last to acknowledge his powers, and to beg for his aid.
“’Tis as regards Mrs Martin,” Lingood began, and Murrell’s eyes sharpened, though he said nothing. “As regards Mrs Martin,” Lingood repeated, unmistakably ill at ease; “she fare not very well...Nor her niece...”
Murrell would say nothing to help him out, so presently the smith went on. “She fare bad, more in mind than body, an’ when her son is away at the war it come ill to be held up for a witch.”
“It come ill, Stephen Lingood, for any woman to make compact with the devil an’ use evil sparrits to bring grief on her neighbours.”
This was not a proposition that Lingood was prepared to dispute with an adept, and, rubbing his cap along his thigh thoughtfully, he sought to find a way round it. “Perhaps,” he said, cautiously, “there might be some mistake.”
“Mistake? An’ whose mistake? Hev you come here, young Stephen Lingood, to teach me my mistakes in my lawful arts that I was master in before your father was born?”
Lingood felt desperately that he was near wrecking the whole negotiation. The last thing he desired was to anger the cunning man. He hastened to apologise, as well as he was able. “I meant no offence. Master Murr’ll,” he explained, “still less to doubt your larnin’. ’Twould be beyond me to teach anything out o’ my own trade, an’ you more than anybody. I did but offer that you might find yourself that some mistake — I den’t say mistake o’ yours — that some mistake might ha’ crep’ in from wrong information or a mistellin’ o’ the gal’s trouble or what not. An’ what I come to say is” — here his talk grew firmer— “if there hev been any such mistake, you can find that mistake as nobody else could; an’ for the findin’ o’ that mistake I am willin’ to pay high; pay private, o’ course, an’ say not a word to nobody.”
“How much?” There was no asperity in Murrell’s voice now, nor in his manner, but a quiet intentness.
Lingood dropped a hand on the canvas bag.
“Would five pound satisfy ye?” he asked.
“Five pound for findin’ some mistake in the provin’ o’ Sarah Martin to be a witch — an’ givin’ it out, arterwards, that she were no witch, I suppose?”
“Ay, just so,” responded the smith, beginning to feel successful. “Givin’ it out, plain, of course, among the neighbours, so as she an’ Dorri — her niece, won’t be put to more pain an’ shame such as has been.”
“Ah!...I s’pose, though,” said Murrell blandly, “’twould be much the same to you an’ Mrs Martin — an’ her niece — if I give it out plain among the neighbours that she be no witch, without troublin’ to find out any mistake first, eh?”
“Ay, that o’ course,” Lingood replied readily, glad to see the cunning man rising so well. “You needn’t give yourself needless trouble. I’d ha’ said it before, onny I thote you mightn’t like it put like that. So long as you give it out an’ put ‘em straight with the village, that’s enough, an’ I’ll pay five pound willin’.”
“Steve Lingood,” said Cunning Murrell, with an odd grin, “I fear you be a deep fellow.”
The smith chuckled quietly and rubbed his fur cap over his knee again. “Ah,” he said, “deep as may be, I shoon’t like to make a match with ‘ee, Master Murr’ll. But I’m right glad we unnerstand one another, an’ what we say together” — he lifted the fur cap and crumpled it tight in his hand— “is close an’ private, you may depend.”
“Of course,” Murrell assented, still with the odd grin; “close an’ private, o’ course. That be a very lib’ral offer, Steve Lingood, an’ I doubt whether you ben’t even more lib’ral than deep. I den’t guess you so rich a man, neither.”
“Ha! well,” the smith laughed, light of heart at his triumph, “you den’t guess far wrong, for I’d be put to it to find arl of another five pound at this minute!”
“That be so, eh? Then so much the more lib’ral, the more amazin’ lib’ral. Some persons — thoteful persons — might say so much the more — the more — eh?”
Murrell’s face was thrust forward toward the smith’s, and the grin persisted, with cattish fixedness.
Lingood felt a vague shock, a sudden rush of blood. So that he must needs gulp before he said: “The more what?”
“The more — the more” — Murrell scratched his chin with his forefinger as he spoke, but the grin relaxed not a shade— “the more — what do the gals an’ boys call it? — the more in love!”
Lingood sat back as though from a blow in the face, and his brown cheeks were stricken white. He said nothing, but gulped again, and Murrell clapped hands to knees and laughed indeed, this time with enjoyment. “Come,” he said, “I doubt summat o’ your deepness after arl, though nothen o’ your lib’ral’ty; givin’ five pound for love of another man’s promised wife!”
Lingood’s face regained something of its normal hue, and then grew dark and flushed; he spoke with a dryness of the throat, and a twitch of the mouth. “I den’t think to let that be known, Master Murr’ll,” he said, “though ’twould be a lie if I denied it. ’Tis pain enough, an’ not what a man’s proud of; an’ but for you I’d ha’ lived an’ died an’ nobody ‘d guessed of it. That bein’ so I make count with you, as an honest man, to keep my secret, even as I do keep yours. An’ to make tight the bargain we made” — his hand trembled now as he took up the canvas bag and groped in it with his fingers— “
the five pound be here, an’—”
“The bargain we made!” Cunning Murrell sprang to his feet, hands clenched, and eyes aflame. “Boast of no bargain made with me, Stephen Lingood! I make no bargains with the devil, nor with his messengers! Yow come here with money in your hand to buy my undyin’ soul! To bribe me to lie an’ blaspheme, that a wicked witch may work her devilish arts among good Christian people with no hindrance! Take up your money, Stephen Lingood, that the devil hev given you to tempt me with, an’ much good may it do ye! For I be the devil’s master, and no money shall make me his sarvant!”
Lingood was giddy with amaze. What was this? By all his simple lights the negotiations had gone on admirably, with the most neighbourly agreement and success, except for Murrell’s divination, by inexplicable means, of its inmost occasion. And now, with all settled and done, and the agreed payment in act of passing...!
“Take your money, Stephen Lingood, and do you beware yourself an’ guard your own soul ‘gainst the witch the devil hev sent to entice you! He do chose his time well — sendin’ you with your money on a day when I feel need of it to pay what I owe you!”
Lingood gasped, and somehow got on his feet. “’Tis— ’tis beyond me,” he said, with slow wonder, “to see you turn that way, Master Murr’ll!”
“Ay, much be beyond yow, I make no doubt, deep fellow as you be.” The cunning man’s excitement vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and now he turned about as though to busy himself among bottles and jars on the shelf beyond the fireplace. “You hev your answer, Stephen Lingood, and as for what I owe you, this day I cannot pay; though if you will you may take summat for it, or for pledge. Yow can take the clock.”
“I den’t come to ask for money,” Lingood answered heavily. “You can pay when you please, an’ I want no pledge. I came to beg a little mercy for two lone women, an’ it seems you take it ill...Well, I’m sorry, an’ I’ll go, an’ leave my secret with ye.”
Murrell made no answer, but gave his attention to the bottles and jars; and the smith went his way moodily into the lane.
When he was gone, Murrell called from the back door to his daughter: “There be more o’ that bacon left, Ann, ben’t there?”
“Yes, near hafe the hock.”
“Well, get yow a good double plateful ready, with taters an’ bread, as soon as’t be dark.”
“To take out with ‘ee like las’ night?”
“What for doan’t you mind, Ann Pett, an’ keep your noisy mouth shut about my consarns!”
Murrell’s temper was fated not to be allowed to soften this day. “Do yow get what I want, an’ hoad your tongue.” And he shut the door.
The sky was flushing with the sunset, and a shed shut the light from the little back window, so that in the room it already grew dusk; but there was light enough for Murrell to add two more to his heap of notes: Dor. Brooker left in troubel with babby by Saml. Gill; and: Stephn. Lingood do long secret for Dy. Thorn.
XI. — SOUNDS IN THE WIND
HER aunt’s sleeplessness added to the concern Dorrily felt for her at this time. More than once, waking in the night, she had found the place vacant beside her, and once her search had only ended in the garden, where she found Jack’s mother walking; so that she quickly grew into a habit of light sleep, and was alert to feel Mrs Martin’s absence at any hour of the night.
All unwitting of Lingood’s attempt to corrupt Cunning Murrell’s integrity on their behalf, they went to bed early as usual that evening. Dorrily may have slept an hour, or perhaps less, when she awoke with a start at a sharp report. She sat up, and saw that her aunt was already awake and half dressed, and was crouching at the little window that looked across the lane to Castle Hill. Ere she could reach her side there came another loud crack, as of a gun, and Mrs Martin said, “’Tis shots. Maybe the coastguard.” And taking up a shawl she left the room.
Dorrily had learned not to attempt to hinder or dissuade at these times, so she hastened to provide herself with some necessary clothing, and followed. Mrs Martin went out of the cottage, down into the lane, and straight across to Castle Hill; and when Dorrily emerged she saw her already on the near slope.
There was a south-east wind, a little high for the time of year, and broken cloud, of every degree of thickness and thinness, came steadily across the sky under the three-quarter moon, throwing across marsh and hill sometimes black shadow and sometimes clear white light, with dusky obscurity between. Dorrily overtook her aunt at the shoulder of the mound, where a heap of grey old wall stood, and took her arm. “Aunt Sarah,” she said, “I am here. Come with me.” And, as the woman turned to look at her, “’Tis I, Dorry,” she added. “Let us go back.”
“’Tis no night for a run, this,” Sarah Martin said, looking across the wide dark water and up at where the moon shone mistily through white cloud. “I wonder what guard John an’ Reuben be on?”
Her mind was on the two men dead twelve years since, and Dorrily was wise enough to disturb the poor head as little as possible. “No,” she said, “’tis no night for a run with a moon like that, an’ if there be no run all guards are alike; they’ll take no harm.”
“But I heard shots, I tell ‘ee. Dorry, I hope they ben’t on the watter!”
“’Tis the same to them, watter or land,” the girl answered, with an odd after-thought of the truth in the words. “’Tis a still night on watter, as you may see.”
“But I heard shots. Hark!”
Both listened. The wind was steady from over water and marsh, and carried sound far, even while it confused it. From Sea Reach there came no noise but the hum of the wind itself; but lower on the hill or by the marsh edge there was the faintest regular sound, sometimes almost inaudible, but regular still. The two women turned ear to the wind and Dorrily watched her aunt’s eyes anxiously.
“Hear!” Mrs Martin said, pointing down hill. “’Tis horses — bein’ led!”
“Strayed on the marsh, Aunt Sarah, an’ some one bringing them in, that’s all.”
For a moment they listened, and it seemed that the sound receded. Then a sudden noise from below the mound made them turn.
A man went running pell mell up the lane, a stable lantern tumbling and swinging from one hand. He looked neither to right nor to left, but scampered madly, the lantern banging and clanking from thigh to forearm. It would seem to be a bolt of sheer terror, though at what it were hard to say, save for the ghostly reputation of the spot; for nobody pursued him. And there was barely time to see that he wore a smock frock, and had the appearance of a farm hand, ere he vanished at the bend.
Again Dorrily urged return, this time with more persuasion. “’Tis no run,” she argued, “else the guard would burn lights, an’ we should see an’ hear all from here. You’re losin’ your rest an’ ‘haps takin’ a chill for nothen. That’s nothen but a great lout runnin’ from his shadow, an’ ’tis all quiet now. Come back, do ‘ee.”
Her aunt sighed, and turned with her down the path. “Ah,” she said, “’tis anxious waitin’ for them a-nights.”
They were well over the crest when a dark figure rose out of a clump of bush and broken masonry twenty yards from where they had stood. It was a man, a tall man, whose back was so toward what light there was that no witness could have sworn to him as Golden Adams. He peered over the shoulder of the mound after the women, and satisfied that they were gone, crept along the almost obliterated line of the curtain wall toward the south tower.
The cottage door was closed again, quiet and dark. The shattered towers beyond the mound frowned and paled by turns, as the clouds governed the moonlight, and Cunning Murrell, nearing the castle stealthily by the meadows above the lane, heard no more than the rustling of the leaves, nor added to it the least sound himself.
XII. — SHADOWS ON THE HILL
AS Lingood passed the Castle Inn, on his way from Murrell’s, he could hear laughter and talk in the parlour, where candles were being lighted. But he was in no mood to join the company, and so he kept hi
s way to the smithy.
Prentice was in the parlour, however, and Banham and Dan Fisk. Also Abel Pennyfather, a small farmer, though a large and wide person; and two or three more, including the colourless man, burdened with the never-completed story of the balloon that fell in Barling in eighteen hundred and twenty-eight.
“Tarkin’ o’ Barl’n’,” said Abel Pennyfather, cutting short the balloon man just before he got to the date, “just look ‘ee here at this stick. See’t? Now I lay a penny yow don’t know, none on ye, what that stick is, nor where it kim from?”
Most of them did, having heard the story before, but nobody ventured to say so except the injured balloon man, who, stung to rebellion against Pennyfather’s big voice and loud manner, began: “Why, ees, sarten to say, that onny be—”
“That stick,” roared Pennyfather, banging it on the flat of the table— “that stick be a thistle. Nothen but a common rank oad thistle. An’ I ha’ had that stick twelve year. An’ I lay a penny you dunno where it kim from. Well, when oad Wilker had Burton’s farm, yow never see sich a farm in arl your born days; never. Darty fiel’s! La! I’d think so. Nobody never knowed what a darty fiel’ was that hent seen oad Bob Wilker’s. Yow coon’t tell whether ‘twere beans or carlock he were growin’— ‘cept ‘twere nigh arl carlock. Carlock an’ dog grass an’ thistles! Lud! Why folk kim miles to see’t, ‘twere such a sight. Well, I looks over into a wheat fiel’ one day, an’ there ‘tarl were; such a foison o’ thistles an’ carlock an’ muck as yow never see — thistles high as a man, very nigh. So, sez I, I’ll just take a look over that fiel’, I sez, and find the true champion among they thistles. So I looks an’ I looks, but dang ‘tarl they be arl so woundly big I coon’t make ch’ice. But, sez I, I’ll take away one with me for cur’os’ty. So I cuts it close down, an’ a deadly fine bit o’ timber ‘twere. Why, sez I, that ‘ud make a good warlkin’ stick! An’ a warlkin’ stick I made it! Ha! ha!”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 117