Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  “The grave lay a bit high, with a little bank down to the fence by the lane, like as you know; an’ in the mornin’ ’twas plain to see where the creature had come from, for there on the side of the bank was new-dug earth, an’ that earth burrowed straight down into the grave. And in the burrow, sir, in the hole, when they broke it open an’ raked it—”

  Roboshobery Dove bent across and whispered the last grisly words of his tale: words I would rather not write.

  THE TORN HEART

  I.

  IT is a most notorious fact that on Christmas Day the power of all witchcraft withers to naught; charms and spells turn to empty sounds; imps and familiars cease to walk the earth; their evil works are cut short at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, and resume no more till the next midnight strikes. Thinking again, I may be disposed to admit that perhaps the fact is less notorious now and here than it was in Essex in the first half of the last century, when Cunning Murrell guarded that lusty county against the powers of darkness, and when the fact I have mentioned was very notorious indeed, and so were a hundred other facts of the same sort.

  There was a Christmas Eve in those times when winter had begun in a fickle, shifty fashion that sadly bothered all living things. There had been a frost or two toward the end of November, and then a spell of warm weather — really warm weather, that brought out primroses everywhere, while here and there a monthly rose, recovering from its late discouragement, struggled into blossom again; and the birds, after a little puzzled hesitation, took spring for granted and set to work to keep abreast of the times. Then in the middle of December there came another nip of frost, and again fine weather; so that neither birds nor flowers could guess what to be at; till at last the matter was settled by a light fall of snow two days from Christmas, with a hard frost quick upon it.

  On the afternoon of that Christmas Eve, Leigh church door stood sometimes shut and sometimes open, for the church was being decked with holly and bay, and though the party within were apt to push close the door at an incoming draught, still there were goings and comings, and there were moments when light was wanted just within. Standing by the porch under the dial, one might look out over the tumbled old red roofs of Leigh, and so across the great estuary of the Thames, wide and silver-grey for miles, till one could say no more whether he were looking on salt sea or on winter sky, except where a duller line of grey declared the place of the Kentish hills. Nearer, and to the right, lay the dun marshes; and Canvey Island stretched beyond them, flat and dull, like dead weed on the water.

  The light began to fail, and all the greys and browns to draw together in a universal dusk, save here on the hills and among the roofs below, where little drifts and settlements of snow lingered in rifts and crannies. Within the old church it grew wholly dark, and the last few branches were set in place by the light from a tin lantern which had been provided by the forethought of Abel Robgent — a forethought which he was at great pains to expound, now that it had been justified by the event.

  “Ah!” said Abel sagaciously, a dozen times to every living soul in the church, “Ah! I knowed it! ‘‘Twill be past blind man’s holiday ‘fore we’re done,’ says I, ‘an’ I’ll hev the lantern.’ ‘No,’ says Tom Bundock, “taren’t needful.’ But yow den’t know, Tom, an’ I did!”

  Abel Robgent’s lantern went at last bobbing and smelling down the aisle, casting random patches of light now on the tall pews, now on the faces of his companions; anon waking the glints of holly and bay-leaf over their heads, and at last flinging a ray across the ancient alms-box by the door, and calling into sight its sprawled lettering, “I PRAYS YOV THE PORE REMEMBER.”

  And so the party found themselves in the dusk without. Far away in the midst of the great blank that was sky and sea, the Nore light was twinkling, and there was a light in more than one window down the hillside. Joanna Bell was of the party, with others who sang in the choir — Nat Prentice, in particular, as well as Tom Bundock and ‘Tilda Coates, and several more. It had been matter of great interest during the afternoon to observe that something seemed to have gone awry between Joanna Bell and Nat Prentice, promised lovers as they were known to be. For Joanna had been seen to turn away, with elaborate and stately care, from any part of the church in which Nat was busy. It was noticed also that if Joanna needed help to reach beyond stretch of her own finger-tips, or to cut a stout branch, it was to Tom Bundock she turned, and that with a look and a smile, as the observers judged, more than adequate to so casual an occasion. The female observers, that is to say; for in these matters the men are dull dogs, and it is doubtful if one among them — except Tom Bundock himself — were aware of what was matter of great interest among the girls. Even Nat Prentice, they perceived, took the thing with surprising coolness; and, indeed, if the kindness — tenderness, the spiteful might say — of ‘Tilda Coates could console him, then he had consolation in plenty.

  Was it a break-off, or nothing but a chance tiff? Some judged the question answered by what they saw at the churchyard gate. There Joanna lingered a moment to gaze, as it seemed, across the sea at the Nore Light; but when Nat Prentice came briskly up the path toward her she brought herself back quickly enough to immediate concerns, and turned away with a lift of the head and a jerk of the shoulder not to be mistaken.

  Nat stood for a moment as she sailed off into Chess Lane, and then took his way down-hill alone: not alone for long, however, for it was seen that he and ‘Tilda Coates turned into the street below together.

  Nor did Joanna long walk unattended. She trod Chess Lane with a valiant smile about her little mouth, but with a strange, full glint in her eyes. Thirty yards she had gone along the narrow path, when she turned at a quick footfall behind her. It was Tom Bundock, made bold by an afternoon of especial favour.

  “Ha! I den’t guess yow’d go Chess Lane way,” grinned Tom Bundock.

  “Well, and what then?”

  Tom Bundock’s grin narrowed, and his eyes widened. For the girl’s voice was nothing less than savage, and her face made such a contrast with the countenance that had been so often turned on him that afternoon that poor Tom, never quick-witted, was reduced to a gape and a stammer.

  “I — I — just thote I’d step along homeways with ‘ee,” he said at last.

  “Then you won’t; so go back!”

  Tom stood blinking, and she stamped impatiently. “Go back, I say!” she repeated. “Or, if this is your way, then go on alone and leave me. Go on — one way or the other!”

  Tom Bundock rubbed his glazed hat back and forth on his head, and lurched aside with a rudimentary effort at an independent flourish.

  “Ho, ho! Arl right,” he said with a glance first down the lane, then up, and then behind again. “Arl right; I’m agoin’ fast enough!” And he lurched and clumped away back toward the church, his hands in his pockets.

  Joanna watched him go, and then resumed her walk. Chess Lane was a narrow path bordering the edge of the hills, with the Rectory grounds on one side and the drop to Leigh and the sea on the other. It is gone now, — the Rectory garden swallowed it long ago — but in those times it was a favourite walk, being kept hard and dean with crushed cockle-shell, and having a bench or two beneath the overhanging trees. Joanna found it empty, however, at this time and season, as was to be expected. She walked another thirty yards, with fire in her eyes, and no smile; and then she flung down on a bench and burst into a fit of crying.

  It was cruel — it was wicked of Nat to behave so. Why didn’t he come after her, as that fool Tom Bundock had done? Why didn’t he come after her and beg forgiveness, and make it up? As to what he was to beg forgiveness for, that was a detail she did not stay to consider, for she had trouble enough as it was. Nat had turned his back on her — or at least he had not seemed to mind when she turned hers on him, which was very much the same thing. And then that fat, ugly, designing ‘Tilda Coates!...Here Joanna’s passion did injustice to ‘Tilda Coates, who, whatever she may have had of designs — and of reasonable
plumpness — was not ugly.

  As for herself, Joanna, what had she done to merit all this bitterness? Nothing at all. When she had essayed to give proof and flavour to her dominion over Nat Prentice by the natural process — offering him cause for jealousy — his jealousy had refused to be roused; or at any rate he would not let it be seen, which was even more annoying, because perverse. This had been some days ago, and since then she had gone further — who could help it? If only he had grown visibly angry it would have been something, but it would seem that a pointed slight merely cooled him. Thus she had driven him farther and farther from her, and now she could find no way to bring him back. To-day she had even gone so far as to prefer that stupid lout Tom Bundock, and if that would not reach Nat, what could be done with such a man? Though indeed what she had done was little more than sheer self-defence, with ‘Tilda Coates going on so. And poor Joanna’s sobs broke out afresh.

  She had made almost sure of him, at the churchyard gate. She had stood looking out over the sea to give him a chance of coming up with her. Of course, when he came, she had turned away from him — that was the proper thing, after what had occurred; and she had walked across to Chess Lane, instead of taking her usual way down Church Hill, so that he might be observed to follow humbly after her, full in the public eye. But he had done nothing of the sort; he had openly and shamelessly disregarded her, and it was not Nat but Tom Bundock who had come clumping along the cliff at her heels. It was wicked and cruel, and so she sat and cried herself quiet again.

  With her quietness came a little sober thought. What should be done? What could be done except — yes, there was an expedient. Joanna sat up and wiped her eyes, and gazed out into the far darkness. All the weapons in her own armoury were used and blunted, but — there was Cunning Murrell.

  The cunning man was the common refuge of all whose troubles had grown beyond their management. Joanna’s own mother, now lying in the churchyard she had just left behind her, had been cured of a “sending,” which involved sores on the leg, by the skill of Murrell. A cow bewitched or a man or woman “overlooked” — any such task was easy play to Cunning Murrell, as was likewise the cure of agues or fits; and as for charms to bring back a straying lover — why, Essex was alive with just such lovers, brought to heel and safely married by the arts of the wise man. He was not only doctor for beast and man, but the hammer and scourge of all witches, and in that matter a needful blessing enough; for there were witches, and would be, in Leigh for a hundred years to come; three there would be in Hadleigh for ever, and as many as nine in Canewdon. This thing could not be doubted, for Cunning Murrell had said it himself.

  The thought brought a flash of light into Joanna’s mind. There was the explanation — the unimpeachable explanation. ‘Tilda Coates had trafficked with a witch, and was drawing away Nat Prentice with a love-charm! Most surely that was the truth, for what other explanation could answer the circumstances?

  That was enough. For a witch’s work all remedy lay with Cunning Murrell. Joanna rose, put away her handkerchief and went on her way at a quicker pace. At the top of a path leading down the hill she paused a moment, with a doubt whether or not to go home first. But that might hinder her enterprise, and at any rate there was the old housekeeper to tend her father if he needed it. So she passed the turning and hurried on through the Tikle Field, beyond the Rectory grounds, over the stile, and so out toward Lapwater Hall and the road to Hadleigh.

  Lapwater Hall was a place to be passed after dark at a run, with the face averted, by one who knew the tale of the ghost, as Joanna did; but beyond that no more than brisk walking was needed. The whole walk, first to last, was two miles; and then, in a dump of trees, Joanna found the beginning of Hadleigh village, and Murrell’s cottage hard by.

  It was one of a row in the lane to the left that led down to the Castle and the marshes below it. Joanna’s steps slackened as she neared the little black house, and soon they stopped; for now she realised that to make a resolve to consult the cunning man was one thing, and easy; while to knock boldly at his door and pour her troubles in his ear was another, and harder. She turned and shrank into the shadow of a tree that overhung a fence on the opposite side of the lane.

  A light burned in Murrell’s keeping-room, and the blind of the little window was fringed with the shadows of the herbs that hung within. It would seem that the wise man was at home; but to venture into his house and there to tell that strange old man all the tale of her baffled coquetry — that seemed a venture beyond Joanna’s courage. She turned her money over in her pocket, and wondered if it were enough; and she thought of forcing herself into the business by a rush across the lane and a thump at the door which would take her into the middle of things willy-nilly. But no; she could not do it. If only Murrell had been a woman!

  As the wish crossed her mind the little door opened, and there, indeed, a woman stood, with Cunning Murrell lighting her out. The sharp-faced little old man carried a candle, which he shaded with the disengaged hand; and by its light Joanna saw the girl on the step, and knew her face. It was ‘Tilda Coates!

  Murrell’s client bade him good night and vanished in the dark of the lane; Murrell himself retreated and closed the door; and Joanna Bell was left amazed.

  Here was ‘Tilda Coates’s abettor, then — Cunning Murrell! Here was the secret spring of the whole trouble— ‘Tilda Coates had got her charm of Murrell himself; and now, there could be no doubt, had come up by the shorter way over the hill-slopes to renew and confirm it for the dance to-night at Pettles’s, at Tarpots Hall.

  Murrell’s aid, then, was out of the question; it was enlisted on the side of the enemy. And against Murrell what could avail?

  But perhaps — perhaps...The charm might be well enough, but might not ‘Tilda Coates herself be vulnerable? Joanna grew the more dangerous as she saw her case the more desperate.

  II.

  IT was no inconsiderable part of Joanna’s affliction that she could not go to the dance at Tarpots Hall that night. It was not for lack of invitation, but because Nat had said that he was going before she had announced her own decision in the matter. This left her no choice but to reply that she should stay away. Of course that only meant that she must be entreated, that Nat should be submissive and disconsolate, and so forth; thereupon she would have graciously relented, and all would have been well. But no — there was no doing anything with Nat: he would not see it.

  And it was not to be a common dance in a cleared barn either, for Tarpots Hall had a fine great parlour. Indeed, the place had been something more than a mere farmhouse once, and Mrs. Pettles, the farmer’s wife, was persistent — even heroic — in maintaining the name Tar-pots Hall intact, in face of a scandalous general tendency to shorten it to mere “Tarpots.” And at Tarpots Hall everybody — everybody worth mentioning — would be dancing to-night, except Joanna Bell. Truly, Joanna’s cup of bitterness was running over.

  Back to Leigh she went by the way that ‘Tilda Coates had come. It was, indeed, the shorter way, when one remembered that the wet places on the lower slopes were now frozen hard. But it was a dark and broken path, and needed knowledge; also Joanna had no desire just now for the company of ‘Tilda Coates, who was picking her own way no great distance ahead. So that the shorter journey advantaged Joanna very little, and the clock at the stairfoot struck seven as she lifted the latch of her father’s house in Leigh Strand.

  It was a gabled structure of timber and plaster, with a garden about and behind it, which climbed some part of the hill-slope. In the keeping-room the old skipper sat propped among pillows in a chair, with rheumatism for his main interest in life, and, as a consequence, with little either of ability or inclination to interfere in his daughter’s concerns.

  This evening he observed nothing unusual in Joanna, such being the blindness of man and the absorbency of rheumatism, and he scarcely troubled even to comment on her lateness for tea. He took it for granted that she would leave again in an hour or two for Tarpots Hall, since —
very naturally — she had told him nothing of her difficulties and misfortunes: troubles which would have been beyond the old sailor’s comprehension. And when, indeed, she did leave a little before nine, he thought nothing of the fact that she went straight from her bedroom to the street, calling her good night from the front door, beyond a vague guess that she must be in a hurry, and a listless wonder that Nat Prentice had not called. In fine, he had been accustomed all his life to let the womenkind have their way unquestioned in the house, just as he had always made sure of his own way aboard his schooner.

  But Joanna’s reason for not showing herself to her father was simply that even he must have noticed that she was wearing her ordinary workaday clothes under her cloak and hood, and might have asked questions which she would have preferred not to answer. Nevertheless, it was toward Tarpots Hall that she first turned her steps; but that was mainly because the house was on the way to another place.

  She went a circuit to avoid observation, leaving the village by its western end, mounting to the Tilde Field, and thence skirting Leigh with a wide sweep. So she came to Tarpots Hall, where it stood on the high ground, with its lighted windows looking out over the marshes and toward the sea.

  In the east over the sea and the Nore the rising moon lined the clouds with hazy light; and the snowdrifts on the hills, the trees skirting the fields inland, and the barns and fences about the farmhouse, took form but slowly out of the gloom. Joanna had thought to skirt the farm as she had skirted the village, but — the parlour lights shone red through the drawn curtains, and human nature was not to be denied. Fiddles were going apace in the house and feet were stamping, but without not a living soul was visible. Joanna climbed a gate into the hoppit and stole across to the nearest red-curtained window.