Dove dropped his arms, fearing he had offended. “I beg your pardon, Master Murrell,” he said humbly. “I den’t guess yow wanted it kep’ private. Though I should ha’ guessed, yow bein’ true keeper o’ so many folks’ secrets.”
“’Tis arl right, an’ no secret,” Murrell replied, not greatly reassured by the terms the other used. “’Tis but something I be feared o’ breakin’.” And he hastened to his door, Dove following, all unconscious of the agitation he was causing.
For Murrell remembered the old sailor’s frequentings of the castle ruins with the telescope, and, apprehensive already, began to wonder if he had discovered anything. At the door he turned at bay, and asked, sharply: “Anything yow’re wantin’ o’ me. Master Dove?”
“Well, yes,” Dove answered. “I was thinkin’ o’ gettin’ yow to ‘tend to a little thing; for the good o’ the village, so to putt it.”
“Stay there then a minute.” Murrell went in at the door and shut it behind him. Presently he opened it again, and let Dove in.
Roboshobery had never been in the room before, and now he stared about him mightily. Murrell glanced hastily round, fearful that some tub — for there were a dozen in that very room — might not be effectually concealed; and then, with something of his common authority, he said: “Sit yow down, Master Dove, an’ open your business.”
“’Tis well knowed, Master Murr’ll, sir,” Roboshobery began, when the shiny hat was put away under his chair; “’tis well knowed as there be three witches in Hadleigh — ollis.”
Cunning Murrell was relieved; it seemed that Dove was not come to persist in sly jokes about those tubs, after all. So he answered, “Ay, ’tis so.”
“Yow hev said so yourself, Master Murr’ll.”
“Yes, I hev.”
“An’ ’tis no doubt they do ill in the village.”
“No doubt at arl.”
“There be a many evil things they do, doubtless,” Roboshobery went on; for he had resolved to be very artful. “Doubtless many a thing as yow’d know, Master Murr’ll, sir, an’ even oathers ‘ud know, but as I wouldn’t hear of myself; ‘cause when I’m not in my garden, I stay much up at the Castle pickin’ up little bits o’ noos of a different sort.” And he winked and nodded genially, for he felt that he was establishing friendly and confidential terms with the wise man.
Now what did that mean? Was it a hint? Murrell’s doubts revived.
“Consekence it do seem to me that summat should be done,” Roboshobery went on. “An’ there can be no doubt but what yow be the onny man in this warld equal to the job. Lord, Master Murr’ll, how the devil must tremble afore yow!”
There was a cautious complacence in Murrell’s face, but he said nothing.
“An’ I hoad a wager he do get to arl sort o’ tricks to spile your charms and oather business performances. Ay, that I lay.”
“I be the devil’s master, Master Dove,” said Murrell, “an’ tricks of his go for nothen with me.”
“Ay, sarten to say. ’Tis a mighty poor chance he stand with yow, Master Murr’ll, as be well knowed. But he do delude oathers, I count.”
“No doubt he do.”
“Ah, ’tis what I been thinkin’, an’ ’tis well to hev yow bear me out, Master Murr’ll, sir.” Roboshobery Dove’s strategy was developing. “Now putt the case, Master Murr’ll, that the devil do get to deludin’ some pusson. Putt it that the pusson be bewitched or under an ill star, or what not, an’ that pusson comes to yow for your strong an’ powerful help. ’Twould be needful, I take it, for that pusson to mention partic’lars, an’ figures, and dates o’ birth, an’ one thing an’ another for yow to make your calc’lations an’ spells.”
“Yes.”
“An’ in course, if them partic’lars an’ figures an’ what not was arl wrong, they would spile your calc’lations and charms, an’ putt ‘em out o’ reckonin’.”
“Well, yes,” Murrell admitted, as he could not help it. “Yes, no doubt that might be.” But he began to suspect the drift of the argument.
“So that if that pusson was deluded by the devil to mistake his partic’lars, yow might come to nat’ral miscountin’s, an’ ‘haps lay the mischief to a wrong party.”
Murrell frowned and shuffled uneasily. “I say,” he persisted, “the devil’s tricks go for nothen with me.”
“Ay ’tis a doubtless thing. Master Murr’ll. But what I were goin’ to say were this. There be three witches in Hadleigh, an’ ’twould be well to find them arl. Now ’tis without doubt that yow, Master Murr’ll, so larned as yow be, must hev some way o’ findin’ ‘em arl alone — off your own bat, so to say it — an’ without dependin’ any way on the partic’lars give by oather people, which the devil like as not hev been playin’ his darty tricks on.”
“There be sarten curis arts that I might use,” Cunning Murrell replied. “But why d’ye wish it?”
“I would offer, of course, to pay proper for the calculations,” Dove went on, ignoring the question for the moment, “if yow will accept of it; as is onny right and proper, for we read the labourer be worthy of his hire; though I mean no offence. Master Murr’ll, sir, in sayin’ labourer, an’ would not think to putt yow among sich for a moment. An’ ‘haps, Master Murr’ll, sir, yow will tell me what the charge would be, so that I may make arl right in adwance.”
“Yow ha’n’t told me yet,” Murrell said quietly, “why ’tis yow want this done. Why should yow pay for the general good? You ben’t bewitched yourself, be yow?”
“Lord bless ‘ee, no, Master Murr’ll — never better in my life. An’ I was a-goin’ to say. Master Murr’ll, sir, that if, besides the proper payment, a little supply o’ good brandy be acceptable — yow know, the oad sort” — here Dove winked and jerked his thumb backward, to Murrell’s sudden alarm, in a direction not so far out from where some tubs were— “the oad sort, yow know — why yow shall hev it. Though ‘haps yow’ve arl you want. Still, there’t be, if yow like, an’ welcome.” And Roboshobery Dove winked and jerked his thumb again in the same direction.
It would seem that this man must know something. But Murrell kept his countenance and repeated: “Yow ha’n’t told me yet, Master Dove, why yow want this done.”
“Master Murr’ll, sir!” Roboshobery exclaimed, suddenly catching the little man’s hand and shaking it; “Master Murr’ll, what I hev said will make plain the great respect I hoad yow in. We unnerstan’ one anoather, Master Murr’ll, don’t us?” And he winked once more. “That bein’ said, I don’ mind tellin’ yow ’tis mos’ly on account o’ Mrs Martin, poor young Jack Martin’s mother.”
“How on account of her?”
“I’ll tell ‘ee — with arl respect, mind. ’Tis sarten truth that there be three witches in Hadleigh, for that yow hev found by your own conjurin’s, Master Murr’ll, an’ putt forth. But when yow find Mrs Martin a witch, ’tis on partic’lars give by Mrs Banham, as the devil may hev deluded; as the devil must hev deluded. Master Murr’ll; ‘cause why? Here be young Jack Martin, Master Murr’ll, killed like a brave man, a-fightin’ the deadly Rooshans; an’ I taught him his cutlass drill meself. Now, is it possible his mother be a witch? Why, stands to reason not! ‘Tain’t in natur! The devil hev muddled the partic’lars. Master Murr’ll!”
Murrell heard this speech first with a frown, then with a pursing of the lips, and last with something not unlike a twinkle. “An’ how do this make with oather witches?” he asked.
“Plain enough, Master Murr’ll. If yow find the true three ‘twill make arl right, an’ mistakes will be putt aside. An’ now ’tis so plain as the devil must ha’ muddled the partic’lars! Why, what can ‘ee say arter what’s happened? Her boy be killed, I tell ‘ee, fightin’ the Rooshans! An’ I fit the French meself, when I was that high, damme!”
Roboshobery Dove in his excitement forgot all his awe of Cunning Murrell, raised his voice, and banged his fist on Cunning Murrell’s table. The wise man shook his head and smiled gently, though with one more quick glan
ce at where the tubs lay hid. “I doubt your reasonin’, Master Dove,” he said, “but I will see what I can do. I want no payment from yow now, at any rate.”
“Yow will try’t, Master Murr’ll, will ‘ee?”
“I will consider of it. Master Dove, though ‘twill make no difference to Mrs Martin. I doubt anythin’ can help her — even repentance be denied to witches.”
“But I tell ‘ee, Master Murr’ll, sir, her boy—”
Murrell raised his hand. “That I hev heard a’ready. Master Dove, an’ ’tis no need to say’t again. I will consider of what other yow say; but as to Mrs Martin, she will be well an’ truly tried once more. Banham’s girl be sore afflicted, an’ the trial be to make again, an’ soon. Then we shall see how near truth your fancy takes yow.”
Dove scratched his head dubiously and asked: “Will’t be done arl by yourself. Master Murr’ll, without no other party’s partic’lars?”
“Ay, it will. An’ with the best preparation my curis an’ powerful arts can give.”
Roboshobery Dove thought for a moment, and decided that on the whole nothing better could be expected. If only the preliminaries were safeguarded he was confident that any test of Mrs Martin, according to proper rule, must end in her triumphant acquittal. So he said: “Thank ‘ee. Master Murr’ll, sir, thank ‘ee. If yow’ll do’t arl yourself ‘twill end right, sarten to say. I don’t know what Banham may be payin’, an’ ’tis not my business. But if there be any little extra performance as would make more sure, an’ would come dearer, why I’m your man to pay’t. We mus’ take arl care, Master Murr’ll, when there be danger to a poor widow in trouble.”
“Yes, yes,” Murrell answered testily, “arl care will be taken, o’ course, and there be no need for yow to interfere.” He would have been still sharper of tongue were it not that the matter of the tubs still lay heavy on his mind. “An’ tell me, Master Dove,” he said, “what the noos may be yow gather at the Castle?”
“Noos? Why, the war. Prizes brote in to go to Chatham, an’ that. An’ the craft goin’ up an’ down.”
“Nothen more?”
“Nothen more? Why no, nothen partic’lar; barrin’ any little chance neighbour’s business as might pass under my nose. But what might yow be thinkin’ of?”
“O, nothen, nothen,” Murrell answered with impatience. “Nothen at arl. ’Tis enough. Master Dove.”
XX. — A GALLANT OFFER
THE chief officer of the Leigh Coastguard disappeared behind the Castle hill, and presently could be seen striding down the lower slopes and over the marsh to his station.
He had received the news of Jack Martin’s death that morning, and had lost no time in setting out for the black cottage. Martin had been one of his best and steadiest men, and the chief officer wished to do the family any service that was in his limited powers. He was a neglected lieutenant with a savage manner and one eye, and ere he had started out he had raked through his pockets and his desk, and had spent a quarter of an hour of calculation over the little heap of money thus collected: making careful count of the period to next pay-day, and resolving on the smallest sum that would carry him through to that occasion. This settled, the little heap had been separated into two, whereof the larger had been rolled up in a piece of paper, and the other shovelled back into his breeches-pocket. For he knew that Jack Martin’s half-pay, which his mother had been receiving, must stop now. He also knew that any other sum which might have been his would be long enough finding its way through a maze of forms and systems ere it reached Hadleigh; for he had had his own experiences of “the authorities.”
For this last reason — perhaps in some small degree from his want of habit in expressing himself unaided by threats and oaths — he had said little at his visit; for he knew that it would have been foolish to suggest any hope of pension allowance, which was at the discretion of the Admiralty. But he offered to draw up the needful petition, and to back it with his own recommendation, little as that might avail. Also, since he had some idea of Mrs Martin’s unpopularity, he desired her to let him know if there were any effort to molest her a thing he would see prevented.
Mrs Martin had received him with instinctive respect for his uniform, but with a hazy dullness that seemed the sign of stupidity or indifference. Indeed, save for two intervals of relief in quiet tears, this had been her manner since Dorrily had carried the news to her, and the girl had been more perplexed and troubled thereat than she would have been at any violent explosion of grief.
The chief officer had spoken to Dorrily alone after leaving the cottage, learning more of the attitude of the villagers, and repeating his offer of help. Then he had quickly stepped back into the keeping-room, dumped something down on the table, and stalked off, glaring arrogantly with his one eye, and frowning mightily.
Now he was growing a smaller spot on the green marsh, and Dorrily, worn and broken, turned to her aunt again. The girl’s face was already thin, and her eyes were sunken. Her constant watching and anxiety had so kept her own grief pent up, and at the same time had so weakened her physically, that she was in dread of an utter breakdown, and did not dare to think.
At her appearance Mrs Martin looked up with a strange stealthiness in her face. “He den’t know, did he?” she asked.
Dorrily could not understand.
“You know,” her aunt went on, with a touch of impatience, “He den’t know I was a witch, did he?”
“No, deary,” the girl answered, reassuringly, smoothing back the hair from the thin face; “he wouldn’t believe such wicked things of you.”
The woman chuckled — an odd, displeasing chuckle, that affected her niece like a sudden chill.
“No, no, he den’t know. An’ he’ll bring the guard up if they try to swim me, Dorry.” She chuckled again. “That,” she said, “takes away the danger. ’Tis a wonnerful thing to be a witch an’ hev the Queen’s men at carl to keep yow safe when the folk come to swim ‘ee!”
“Don’t talk so, auntie dear,” Dorrily pleaded, dismayed at this new fancy. “We know you be a true woman, an’ no such hainish thing!”
But Mrs Martin only said “Ah!” shook her head, and chuckled again. And presently, as Dorrily was at some small task in the back room, her aunt’s voice, strained and changed and crazy, burst out:
In summer time, when flowers do spring,. An’ birds sit on the tree — e — e
With that the tuneless voice broke down, and soon, after a chuckle or two more, she was silent. So she sat for a while, and at last fell asleep.
Such sleep as she got now she took chiefly in the daytime. Dorrily closed the door softly, came into the garden, and sat on a little bench that Jack had made, in a place where dog-rose and honeysuckle, growing at the meadow’s edge, hung over the fence and made a nook. She bent forward and covered her face with her hands. Presently tears ran between her fingers and dropped on her apron, and soon there came sobs. Till now the full relief of weeping had been denied her, for her aunt needed constant care and watching; but now the solace was unchecked, and truly she had need of it. For the world was bad, bitter bad to Dorrily, and she was tried almost beyond her strength. To have been one of two bereaved women who could have mourned together and comforted one another would have been comparative happiness. To have been wholly alone would have been bad enough. But as she was, alone and not alone, alone to bear the pain of two, and to keep guard and service by the twisted mind that till lately she had looked to for government and support — this was a heavy load indeed.
In a little while the tears brought her a certain calmness, and she remembered that the world was not wholly cruel. Roboshobery Dove and Steve Lingood were kind enough, and the chief officer of the Leigh guard, who terrorised his men, and was called a Tartar and a tyrant, had come of his own accord, though he had never spoken a word to either her aunt or herself before, had offered help, and had left money behind him on the table. Dorrily was doubtful about the money. She could not be ungrateful, and, indeed, they were poor enough,
and the end of things in that respect she could not see. Yet she had a certain pride, and here again she felt her weakness and the lack of her aunt’s responsibility.
Busy with her doubts, she had not heard his step; but now a shadow fell across the path, and she looked up to behold young Sim Cloyse.
He stood awkwardly enough before her, and there was in his face a mixture of smirking propitiation and sly confidence, ill covered by an assumption of sympathy, that was not agreeable to the eye. Yet Dorrily was in no state to consider him critically, and she saw nothing but the sympathy.
“Yow mustn’t cry too much,” said young Sim Cloyse. “Though ’tis but nat’ral, sarten to say.”
Dorrily bent her head again.
“There be no carl to be ashamed o’ cryin’,” he went on encouragingly. “Though ‘haps it be arl for the best.”
This seemed a shameful thing to say, at first hearing; and yet — it was a pious sentiment, after all.
“I hope Mrs Mart’n ben’t very bad?”
“Yes, she be,” Dorrily answered sorrowfully, “so bad that she frightens me.”
“’Tis pity,” Sim pursued, with elaborate sympathy. “An’ folk ben’t very kind to her, I hear tell.”
“O they be cruel — bitter cruel,” Dorrily exclaimed passionately. “They say ill things of her even now.”
“Ay — that she be a witch, I do hear. ’Tis arl wrong, doubtless, but they do say’t. Ben’t yow afeard they might hurt her some day — try to swim her, or what not?”
“I’ve thote it, an’ so has she, but there’s been no offer to do such a thing yet. ’Twould be too wicked cruel. Master Cloyse, wouldn’t it? You don’t think they’d do it, do you?”
Young Sim looked at the cottage roof, with a sidelong peep at the girl’s urgent face. “I hev heared talk o’ such things, down at Leigh,” he said, “an’ they be a rough lot, some on ‘em. But there— ‘haps ’tis no more than talk.”
Plainly Dorrily was distressed anew. Young Sim paused thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then said: “I’m afeared she won’t get no pension.”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 124