“Dorrily Thorn, I love ‘ee myself!...A rose — a rose in your hair again.”...
XXII. — THE BOTTLE AGAIN
ROBOSHOBERY DOVE learned all of Lingood’s talk with Dorrily that the smith chose to tell him, and was disappointed when it turned out that young Sim Cloyse was not to be found that day; for he had hoped for a little fun. But what Lingood told him of Mrs Martin’s state resolved him to make occasion to speak to Cunning Murrell again.
Meanwhile, Murrell had been at odds with his erudition. The return and aggravation of Em Banham’s trouble had perplexed him: to say nothing of the other visitations on the house of Banham. It was natural to suppose that Mrs Martin was still the evil influence, though by all the rules of his art her power over Em Banham, at least, should have been dissipated by the bursting of the witch-bottle.
In the privacy of his dwelling he gave certain hours to trials and inquisitions of divers sorts. First he cast a horoscope. He took a sheet of paper, and on it he drew a figure like a small game of hopscotch. In the central square he wrote Em Banham’s name, and the date of her birth; and then, aided by a dog’s-eared nautical almanack, he proceeded to bespeckle the outlying lines with figures and symbols, till the whole figure was cast, and all the twelve houses of the heavens were tenanted in the fitting manner. This done, he made a column of notes, with similar symbols, beneath; and scratched his head vehemently.
After some minutes he began another horoscope, this time writing in the middle the date of Em Banham’s first seizure; and, completing the illumination in the same manner as the first, fell to scratching his head again. Then he made a third, with the date of the affliction of Banham’s horse as the central fact. If he had not been ignorant of the old sow’s birthday he might have added a fourth.
Cunning Murrell frowned, and gnawed the feather end of his pen. Then he took another sheet of paper, and began a trial by geomancy. He screwed up his eyes, and made many rows of strokes. Then he counted the strokes, and placed opposite the end of each row one or two noughts, till the noughts could be separated into four symmetrical figures. Counting this way and that among the noughts, he built up other similar groups, till at last there were fifteen, the final three being placed apart, as judge, right witness, and left witness. Then nothing remained but to pull out a little manuscript book from the drawer, look out in its pages the evidence of the witnesses and the decision of the judge, fall again to scratching the head, and begin a fresh sheet of paper with a new row of strokes.
In a little while half a dozen groups of judges and witnesses littered the table, and Cunning Murrell glared blankly from one to another. He had never devoted so many tests to one matter before, nor found a case quite so perplexing. He reached a Bible from a shelf, plunged his finger between the leaves at random, stared at the text next the finger, and tried again. And finished up with another horoscope, with Mrs Martin’s name in the middle, and the date and place of her birth turned out from among the heap of notes wherein he had noted every birthday he could hear of since first he was an adept.
Cunning Murrell got on his feet and walked about the little room, twining his fingers in his white hair; and when he encountered his chair on the way he kicked it over, and saluted Ann Pett, who peeped in because of the noise, with angry objurgation. For it was the amazing fact that not one of his subtle operations produced a result in any way concordant with the triumphant issue of the bottle-bursting experiment. More, they disagreed among themselves in a most irregular manner. Plainly some disturbing element must be at work; and since he was wholly unaided, and the sciences were infallible, the disturbing element must be at work on himself. It was his faith that none but a man of guiltless life might practise his arts with effect; and he wondered what lapse he had made that should place him, the devil’s master, within reach of evil influence; till after reflection he felt some doubt of the strict morality of smuggling.
But he devoted himself with the more care to preparations for the proper use of the second bottle. This, at any rate, should operate so as to leave no doubt, and at the least to break the evil spell that hung over the Banhams. He chose the bottle with care from the three that Lingood had made, and purified it with many washings in curious liquids, and last by fire; having written the conjuration for the day on paper, and inserted it so that it might be consumed in the interior He scratched pentacles and other signs on it — all strictly according to day and hour — with a steel point. And everything his arts suggested having been done, he carried the bottle to Banham’s, with his frail and his herbs.
The evening was dark. It was, as Murrell had reminded Cloyse, a moonless night, though stars were many and bright. The village was very quiet, for almost everybody was already long in bed. But the Banhams were waiting anxiously in the muddled keeping-room, just as they had been waiting for the other trial a few weeks back; and the crowd of little Banhams pushed and contended on the stairs.
Preparations were made as before, even so far as the driving upstairs of the little Banhams, and the shutting of the stair-foot door on them. But in the kitchen Murrell shut himself alone for a few minutes, with the pins and needles and the finger nails and the rest. For with them also he had resolved to take uncommon precautions.
“Now, neighbours,” said Murrell, as he emerged from the kitchen, screwing down the stopper, “to-night I make strong war on the evil powers that do oppress this house, and more particular your darter. Well will yow remember that I did it before, though the relief, by a strange happenin’, did not last as it should. That do but prove how mighty and powerful were the spells agen yow. This time I hev made such preparations as nothen can withstand. I hev never before made so sarten and so sure with every conjuration an’ word o’ power known to my strong an’ lawful arts. We go now to the bake-hus agen, an’ once more I tell ‘ee there mus’ be no word spoke. Agen I tell ‘ee, the sore pain an’ anguish that will be putt upon the hellish witch may draw that witch in agony unto us. If she doan’t come, an’ ’tis common they doan’t, the greater will be the pain an’ the anguish; but if she do, as well she may, so powerful as be my spells, agen I tell ‘ee, not a word. No matter which she may speak to or what she may say to cause the spell to break, not one mus’ answer, or her punishment stops that instant. Joseph Banham, bring yow the candle.”
Em, who to-day had been chiefly drowsy and peevish, now broke out: “Mother, I woan’t be near the bake-hus door, for I’ll be deadly feared when Mrs Mart’n do come in. I woan’t go unless yow arl do sit atween! I woan’t!”
“’Tis arl right, deary,” her mother answered, coaxing her. “Us will arl go atween if yow want. She den’t hurt ye before, an’ ’tis sarten she cain’t now. Come then, an’ us’ll soon see ye cured for good.”
Em rose with a sulky shake, and the party turned to the back door. “Now,” said Murrell, with his hand on the latch, “not anoather word.”
They passed out in procession, Murrell, Mrs Banham, Em, Mag, Dick, and last, and least in importance, except for the rushlight he carried, Banham himself. Once they were clear, the stairfoot door opened, and all the little Banhams came down into the keeping-room and the kitchen to listen. Though they dared go no farther.
The bake-house was warm, and the fire glowed. Murrell motioned the party to their places, sending Em and her mother to the far side, away from the entry, and keeping the rest, as well as possible, from the direct front of the oven door. This settled, he raked the fire, and flung on more wood. And when the flames rose and sang aloud, he flung in the bottle, shut the latch, and crouched with the others.
For a while there was gaping silence, and six staring faces distorted with shadow. Breaths were held, and every eye was fixed on the oven door. Then there arose within the fire the faint singing noise that they had heard before — the sound that had then told Steve Lingood of a tiny vent at the stopper of the bottle. But this time the smith had taken good care that the vent should be there, and that it should be a vent sufficient to make a serious explosion unlikely.
So that now the singing noise grew louder as they waited, and still louder.
Every ear was strained to catch any new sound, but for a while there was nowhere anything but the loud whistle from the bottle; and they waited still. Then, sharp and clear, came the click of the gate without, just as it had done before; and straightway every staring face turned to its neighbour, and Em caught fast hold of her mother.
The gate slammed to; and then came the footfalls. For a moment they stopped, near the front of the house; and then they were heard again, nearer, and growing louder as they came...Slowly nearer, and gradually louder, till they stopped at the bakehouse door; and the latch rose with a sudden click that sent up each heart with a jump.
Every eye was on the door, and Em trembled, gripping her mother with all her strength. Cunning Murrell raised his hand to keep the silence unbroken, and turned as the door opened. There on the threshold stood a thin, worn, rusty woman. She put her pale face forward, and looked about the bakehouse. And she was Ann Pett.
“Yow be wanted,” said Ann Pett to her father. “Can yow come?”
Cunning Murrell had been stooping, but now he went backward and sat, his back against the brick pier of the oven, and his face a blanker figure of amazement than any other in that place. The Banhams squeezed their lips together, and bulged their eyes like hobgoblins. Mrs Banham clapped her hand to Em’s mouth.
“Yow be wanted, I say,” repeated Ann Pett.
A flush of rage crossed Murrell’s face. “Ann Pett!” he screamed, “what ha’ yow been at?”
Ann Pett was all vacant incomprehension, but a sense of injustice stirred Banham to unwonted ire. “Yow’ve stopped her punishment!” he cried indignantly, pointing with his finger in Murrell’s face. “I woan’t pay a farden! ‘Taren’t fair, Master Murr’ll! Yow’ve bruck the spell ‘cause she be your darter!”
Cunning Murrell sprang to his feet, and seized Ann Pett by the wrist. “What ha’ ye been at, woman?” he screamed again.
An angry clamour filled the bakehouse, and Em set up a run of horrible shrieks. And in the midst of it all the bottle burst. It was not a great explosion, this time, and it did not blow off the oven door. The whistle ended with a loud thud, and dust, smoke, and a great stink burst out at the cracks. But it checked the hubbub for a moment, and while attention was given to the oven Murrell was gone.
XXIII. — A FAULT PURGED
CUNNING MURRELL dragged the unhappy Ann Pett home, gripping her by the wrist, and hissing fierce reproach as he went. She, terrified and bewildered, could but gasp and protest incoherently. He pushed her through the cottage door, shut and buttoned it behind him, and flung her down before him. “Down, woman, on your knees!” he cried, “an’ confess what devil’s work yow ha’ been at! Yow, my own child, of arl the world! What ha’ ye done, witch?”
“I den’t — I ben’t — I toad yow...Let my arm alowan!”
“What ha’ ye done?”
“I tell ‘ee yow be wanted — Master Dove — he kim here — yow’ll break my arm!”
“Master Dove? Where be Master Dove?”
“O, I dunno! He kim here — let go my arm, do ‘ee! — he kim here an’ arksed for ‘ee. An’ he said he’d be back agen, an’ would I find an’ tell ‘ee. An’ I goed to Banham’s, an’ young Bobby toad me you were in the bake-hus. An’ yow’ll break my arm, I tell ‘ee!”
Murrell let the wrist drop, and glared at her, hard and gloomy. “Things hev been wrong with me o’ late,” he said, “an’ my curis arts an’ calc’lations hev failed o’ their end; ‘twere plain to me that some evil influence were near — I den’t judge it so near as my own darter. If yow hev meddled in devilish things, ‘twere a sorrow to yow that ever yow were born! Darter or not, there shall be no mercy for ‘ee!”
“I ha’n’t done nothen! I be innocent as — as — as that!” Ann Pett protested tearfully, pointing at the nearest article of furniture, which was the big chest of books and papers.
“That I will try, Ann Pett,” said Murrell sternly. “Give of your hair!”
He seized the miserable wisp of mouse-grey hair that was twisted in a small knot behind her head, pulled it loose, and snipped off a lock with scissors from the mantelpiece. This done, he singed some of the hair at the candle-flame, and put it, with the rest, into a shallow pot with water.
For some little while he watched it. Then he turned and said: “The hair trial do favour yow, an’ at anoather time I would carl’t enough. But I must try yow further. Can ‘ee say the Lord’s Prayer? Keep ‘ee kneelin’.”
By this time a little recovered, though agitated still, Ann Pett managed to repeat the whole prayer without omission, a feat notoriously impossible for any witch; and Murrell was in some way appeased. He made still another test, however, in which a bible took part; and then told his daughter to get off her knees.
“’Tis plain,” he said, more mildly, “that the fault be not with yow. But it stand plainer than ever that there be a fault, an’ I fear ’tis my own. I have siled my hands with a matter o’ low honour, or no honour at arl, an’ my virtue be gone out o’ me till I mend it. Ann Pett! Come yow now an’ help me.”
He rose and opened the door. Without all was dark and silent, and, after a look each way, he returned and seized a tub where it was hidden behind bunches of herbs. “Take yow anoather,” he commanded Ann Pett, “an’ bring’t after me to the stile.”
He carried the tub before him, hooking his fingers at each end. Carried thus it was no slight load for a man of his smallness and age, and it impeded his legs. But he reached the stile quickly enough, set the tub on the upper step on the farther side, climbed over, and put it in the ditch. Then he took the second tub that Ann Pett had brought after him, and bestowed that with the first; and so began the purification of his house.
XXIV. — IN THE QUEEN’S NAME
THE day passed quietly with Dorrily Thorn after Lingood had gone, and Mrs Martin, much the better for resting in her bed, was so tranquil and so reasonable that her outburst of the night would almost seem to have been nothing but an impossible nightmare. And at dark she went to bed quietly again, and slept soundly.
Dorrily also slept, though uneasily, and with an apprehension of being awakened again. And, indeed, she was awakened, though not in the same way as before. She grew vaguely aware that the place beside her was vacant, and sitting up, she saw her aunt at the window, of which the casement stood wide open. Dorrily slipped out of bed and came to her aunt’s side.
“Hush!” The woman raised her hand and whispered. “Look over the lane, Dorry, to the hollow behind Castle Hill. D’ ye see ‘em?”
It was a dark night, and at first Dorrily was disposed to suspect some delusion. But she looked intently, and presently could distinctly make out a group of men — perhaps half a dozen — very quiet, and, it would seem, waiting. As she looked she saw another shadowy figure join them from the rising meadow beyond, and there was still another coming. And now — for there was no wind — she could just catch the mutter of quiet talk among them.
The village was deep in sleep long ago. Why should these men collect just here at this time of night? For a moment a vague fear seized Dorrily that perhaps they were come to maltreat the poor woman by her side.
“See ‘em?” Sarah Martin whispered in her ear, “What be they chaps out for at this bull’s-noon time? ’Tis for no good, I count.”
They watched a few seconds more, and saw another man come over the meadow. Then Mrs Martin rose to her feet.
“I be going out,” she said, “by the back.” And she began to hurry on some of her clothes. Whether or not to restrain her Dorrily hardly knew. “Goin’ where?” she whispered.
“Goin’ to the guard. Whatever it be ’tis well they should know.” Sarah Martin spoke calmly and rationally, and with a clearer note of intelligence than Dorrily had heard in her voice for weeks. She, too, began to dress. At any rate she must not let her aunt go out alone. And after all if this were a hostile crowd nothing nearer than the g
uard could save them.
It was but a matter of seconds to clothe themselves sufficiently for the needs of the warm summer night, and soon the back door was shut quietly behind them. Mrs Martin led with a silence and a discretion that surprised Dorrily, used of late to nurse and humour her aunt almost as she would a child. She picked a way that was everywhere invisible from the lane, skirted the hills among she broken coppice, and only came into the open beyond sight of the lane end among the broken foot-hills.
Hadleigh Castle stood high on the left, each tower a mere black bulk among the stars; and soon it was behind them. Sarah Martin knew the patrols of old, and was making for the nearest man, and at such a swift walk that Dorrily had a difficulty in keeping near her. Once she stopped and listened, and though to Dorrily the night seemed void of human sound, her aunt whispered that she could hear the footsteps of more than one man, and that it meant that the chief officer was visiting guard.
They hurried on breathlessly. It was long since Sarah Martin had had occasion to traverse these parts, even by day, yet she took her way among quags and hillocks without a mistake, and without a pause to look for the way. Presently they came on a made path, raised a little from the marsh, and here they stayed again to listen. The sound of steps was distinct and near now, and Mrs Martin ran along the path, calling aloud: “Guard! guard!” with Dorrily at her heels.
“Here!” cried the man, coming to meet them. “What is it?”
“Hev the chief officer been here?”
“Why, ’tis Mrs Martin!” the man said, peering into her face. “Ay, the chief hev just left. Gone Leigh way. D’ ye want him?”
“Ay, quick, an’ no time to waste. Carl him.”
The coastguardsman blew two low notes on his whistle, and began walking sharply along the path, the women keeping by his side. Soon the chief officer was heard returning, and a man with him.
“Well, well?” said the officer sharply, “what now?”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 126