by Robert Neill
Margery’s faint nod gave cautious assent. She knew exactly what he meant.
“You and I,” he continued, “have not to live with her. Miles has. Moreover, he’s her son---“
“Yes?”
“He’s a good lad at heart. If you come to think him more under his mother than a lad should be--why then, have charity of thought.”
If she wondered why he thought it needful to say that, she had no chance to ask him; for Miles came up with her cloak and she had to turn to thank him. Then there were friendly partings, with Mistress Crook wordily insistent that she should come again and Anthony quietly confirming that. Then they took leave’ Miles calling gay farewells as he held her stirrup.
He led her down the track by which they had come. He seemed to have grown silent now, but Margery had a clear question to ask She asked it as they crossed the Sabden brook.
“Your uncle spoke to me,” she said, “of a daughter who had died. What was it that took her off?”
“Anne?” he answered. “Poor Anne! Aye, she was my cousin.”
He fell silent again, and Margery began to be irritated. Aye, sir. Your cousin, to be sure. I had guessed as much. But pray, what did she die of?”
“Why, as to that---“ He seemed out of humour. “I cannot well say. It was very sudden. Some said---“
Again he stopped, arid she knew she ought to press this no further. But press it she did, curiosity getting the better of manners.
‘‘What did some say?” she asked bluntly.
“Why, they said so many things that--that I know not what they said.
And at that she had to leave it. She could not in decency press it further, and they toiled up the hill in an awkward silence he disconcerted and she irritated. In the same silence they came to the mam road again, and he turned to the right as was needful if they were to return to Read. But Margery stopped at the turning.
“I’ll not need escort from here, sir,” she told him. “You’ve distance enough m your road to the Rough Lee. My thanks sir for your kindnesses.”
He demurred at that, insisting that it was his plain duty to escort her home, and thus irritating Margery even more. To insist on the duty of it, and speak not at all of the pleasure of it was by no means what she thought proper; and she was wondering how she might best tell him so. She had had quite enough of Miles Nutter for one morning. She thought his aunt pleasant and his uncle charming; but Miles himself, for all his good looks, had fallen in her estimation. She found him a silent and tactless fellow and she faced him now with a steadiness of eye that should have warned him,
“I’ve no wish to have you a slave to duty, sir. I pray you take your leave.”
She thought he was about to expostulate when she saw to her further anger, that he was not even looking at her. He was looking over her shoulder at something beyond, and she turned sharply to see what it was. Then she had to contrive a hasty smile as Richard Baldwin rode up; and Richard Baldwin, she thought, did not look pleased. .
“Good day to you, mistress! And to you, Miles!”
It was civilly said, but his face was impassive and his voice had a chill.
There was exchange of greetings and Margery sought for some softening approach. But Miles Nutter cut her short.
“I’m for the Rough Lee,” he said to Baldwin. “May we ride together?”
“Surely. Then I’ll take leave, mistress. Good day to you!”
He rode off, and Miles, with a flourish of his hat and not another word spoken, rode after him.
Margery sat her horse in silence, furious that he had presumed to do what she had bidden him do. It was a humiliating end to a morning which had once held hope and promise, and her teeth were holding her lip stiffly as she thought of it.
“What the Devil ails the fellow?” she asked herself. And then her lip eased into a smile, and she all but laughed as she perceived how her thoughts had somehow dressed themselves in Roger Nowell’s clothing. It made her feel better, and she was almost good humoured as she turned her horse. But she was thoughtful as she rode home. Questions were pressing upon her. What had happened to Anne Nutter? Why had Miles behaved so oddly? And what irked Richard Baldwin?
It seemed that life in Pendle had its undercurrents; and some of them ran muddily.
Chapter 11: THE CHAPEL-OF-EASE
Her questions were still unanswered when Sunday came; and she was therefore by no means displeased when Roger announced, after breakfast, that he would not ride to Whalley church that day, but would attend. Service at the Newchurch instead. As a Justice, he thought it wise that he should occasionally see and be seen at the Forest church; and what day more proper than this, when a new Churchwarden was to be sworn as successor to the departed Mitton? He put the question as he blew tobacco smoke, and Margery was in haste to agree with him. She had learned that Alice Nutter went to Whalley church alone, and that her husband and son went to the Newchurch.
They rode out together along the Forest road, Roger chatting genially and seeming less out of humour than he had been a week before on the way to Whalley. Margery, remembering the dislike he had expressed for Master Ormerod, asked who the Vicar of the Newchurch might be.
“He’s not a Vicar,” was the answer, “but a Curate only. The Newchurch is in Whalley Parish, being a Chapel-of-Ease--for the ease, that is, of those who dwell too far from Whalley. One called Town has it, and has some grains of sense, if we count by the reckoning proper to Curates. It’s true the rogue preaches, but not so vilely as Ormerod. Wherefore is our Baldwin at thrust of dagger with him.”
His cheerful tone belied his words, and Margery laughed once more at the oddities of her cousin. Then her laughter faded as the thought came that not the least of Roger’s virtues was his knack of knowing when not to ask questions. She had said nothing to him of her ride with Miles Nutter except the bare statement that they had ridden to Anthony Nutter’s house together; and Roger, though his eyebrows had lifted at her sharp tone, had asked no questions. This, she now thought, was a forbearance new to her, and very different from what she would have had from her brothers. They would certainly have questioned her rigorously, asking whom she had met, what had been said, and what had been answered. It had never occurred to her brothers that Margery was of an age to have some thoughts and hopes as private to herself. She smiled now at the thought of the scene that would have followed; for she knew only too well how her family’s tactless prying would have provoked her to a resentment which she could not have voiced openly, and how she would in consequence have turned sullen and evasive, with resulting accusations of stupidity and insolence.
“You smile broadly. May I share it?”
Roger’s bland question, cutting into her reverie, roused her to the present, and at once she became aware that they were passing the spot where she had parted so angrily from Miles Nutter on that mid-week morning. She looked happily across at Roger, appreciating his forbearance, and as they dropped steeply down to the brook she told him the whole tale.
He heard her attentively, and when she had come to an .end she watched him nervously, eager for his comments and yet’ apprehensive lest he think her an idle babbler.
His comment, when it came, had his usual terseness.
“As to young Miles,” he said, “Anthony’s right. The lad’s of good heart but in some fear of his mother. As to Anne Nutter, she died in bed and of I know not what. In which ignorance I stand alone, the rest of Pendle being very sure.”
His sombre tone gave the clue to that, but she had to ask it.
“Saying what?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“You’ve already guessed it. That she died by craft of witches.”
“Oh!” Her mind saw Anthony Nutter’s sad and kindly smile, and she thought this Pendle gossip hideous. Then another question reared before her.
“The Demdikes?” she asked.
“A few say it. But the most say Chattox, mother of that Redfern of the other day.”
She pondered tha
t as they crossed the brook. Then she came to her other problem.
“And what of Master Baldwin?” she asked. “Something had vexed him. But what?”
“That’s less sure. One thing could be that he guessed you’d been at Anthony’s. It was the most likely house for Miles to have come from on that road.”
“But what of that? It’s no improper house to visit, surely?”
“Baldwin might say differently. He’s mighty hot against all papists.”
“Papists?” Margery.had raised her voice in surprise.
“Aye--all but.”
“But surely the Nutters--Miles himself, and his parents---“
“Aye, aye--of the puritan sort. At least Dick is, and Alice says she is. But that’s nothing to it. In this county there’s many a family that’s so split, the half being puritan and the rest being papists. And so it is with the Nutters. We’ve had two of that name taken as Massing Priests, and duly hanged and gutted. So it’s no matter for surprise that Tony and his sister are Church-papists.”
“Church-papists? Meaning what?”
“Is it new to you? A Church-papist is a papist in all things but one--which is that he saves the recusancy fines by some church attendance, rare and grudging. Thus do Anthony and his Margaret, and because of that our Baldwin loves them not. Nor will he smile on their guests. Are you answered?”
“In some sort.” Margery patted her horse’s neck thoughtfully. “How long might it take to gain understanding of this life in Pendle?”
He laughed.
“That I know not. My stay here’s been too short.”
“I believe you, sir.”
Margery answered him feelingly, and she said no more till they had climbed at last to the Newchurch. These Pendle undercurrents were bewildering. She had thought herself well established with Richard Baldwin as an earnest puritan, and now it seemed that that was in jeopardy. And what was she to do? She had no wish to avoid Anthony Nutter to please Richard Baldwin. She liked Anthony, and she wanted to know more of him. Yet she had a liking for stout old Richard too. And Miles? Did his puritan mother object to his visiting his papist uncle? Was that the cause of his awkwardness? And what of Anne Nutter, and this foul tale of witchcraft and the Chattox woman? What lay behind all that? Above all, how was she, Margery, to steer her way through these whirling muddy currents?
The horse-minders hurried to them as they dismounted, and one glance into the Newchurch told Margery that here she was far from Whalley. Here were none of the dignities of a wealthy parish church. Here were no stained glasses and family pews, no memorials and coats-of-arms. Of pews there were only two in this grey little chapel on the hill; there was a simple one near the Altar, free to any of the better sort who might attend; and there was a low box-pew by the West door, where the four churchwardens might sit in watchful dignity. There were benches against the walls for the sick and aged; and that was all. The rest might stand, for there was no ease for the many in this Chapel-of-Ease.
Richard Baldwin, gowned and dignified, and with his black Staff-of-Office in his hand, met them at the door and greeted them as if he were truly pleased that they were there. He led them to the pew by the Altar, and Margery, smiling thanks at him, got a response that came as near to a smile as could be expected of a puritan in church. Evidently she was forgiven.
“I’ll need to leave you,” he said. “With a warden short, there’s a deal to watch.”
He marched off, his feet swishing in the rushes, and at once disappointment came. Dick Nutter arrived, smiling shyly, and sat himself next to Roger. But where was Miles? For Dick Nutter had come alone.
Apparently Roger noted this, for without ado he asked the question.
“Miles?” was the answer. “He’s ridden to Whalley this day with his mother. I know not why.”
This was irritating; and the more Margery considered it, the worse it got. For if Miles had deliberately gone to the unusual church to make a meeting, he would be only too likely to suppose that Margery had done the same. Which was maddening. Not to see him, yet to have him suppose that she had tried to see him, made vexation enough to heighten her colour and set her foot tapping angrily in the rushes.
Then uproar broke out to disturb her thoughts, and she turned sharply; but it was only the Beadle whipping the dogs out of church to let Service begin. Then the Wardens took their seats, watchful by the door lest any should try to leave, and a moment later Master Town, black-gowned and of puritan demeanour, was reading the Sentences; the Service had begun its familiar course. Margery took it easily until Master Town came to his tiny pulpit and gave as his text the ninth verse of the sixth chapter of Galatians. Then she was alert at once. For this verse is an exhortation to good works, as indeed the whole chapter is, and Margery knew well enough that it was from the third chapter, which exalts the power of Faith, that the puritan preachers were wont to draw their texts. It was an odd choice, and she wondered what Richard Baldwin would think of it. She leaned back and prepared to listen with attention.
That she had cause for attention was soon plain. Master Town was no Calvinist. He began conventionally enough, with an onslaught on the corruptions of the Flesh and the pretensions of the Bishop of Rome. This was quite safe; all the Elect could nod approvingly. But before long Master Town was exhorting his flock to be zealous in good works and never weary in well-doing He grew eloquent on this, and soon he was not only commending the doing of good works, but was plainly hinting that here was a road to Grace, even for the graceless. Margery sat bright-eyed and intent, missing nothing of its significance. For this was no Calvinism; it was rank Arminianism, belittling the power of Faith and offering to the many a hope of escape from their predestined doom. It was enough to rouse high anger in any Calvinist, and again Margery wondered how Richard was taking it. She was sorry that he was out of her sight; one glance at his face might have told her what manner of puritan he was.
Roger seemed in no hurry to get away when the Service was done, and Richard Baldwin certainly treated them handsomely. He escorted them out into the churchyard, and he sent a fellow to fetch their horses; then he apologized for leaving them as he went to see the lesser folk out of the church. Roger fell into talk with Dick Nutter, and Margery stood aside, warming in the sunlight and watching the people stream out. Wilsey, the tall, untidy Constable, gave her a wide grin, and then her eyes fastened on a group who were just emerging. Unmistakably, it was old Demdike, of the Malkin Tower, who made the centre of the group, her deep little eyes blinking as they met the light. To her left, supporting her as she walked, was the sullen Alizon; to her right, Squinting Lizzie rolled her unpleasant eyes; the half-witted Jemmy lurched and slobbered behind. A pace after him came Anne Redfern of the fair hair and the blue eyes, but still with the vicious set to her shapely face. Margery looked them over with distaste, sure that they were at the church only from fear of the law and Roger Nowell. Then her interest re-kindled at the sight of a bent and aged woman at Anne Redfern’s side, a woman who went sturdily for her age, peering left and right, and muttering to herself in an unceasing flow of sound. This, surely, must be the Chattox, Anne Redfern’s mother.
Richard Baldwin came out again and threaded through the press to Margery’s side. He eyed her steadily.
“And what,” he asked grimly, “did Mistress Whitaker think of that?”
She knew that he meant the sermon, and she had her answer ready. But before she could voice it there was noisy interruption. There was a stir and bustle in the crowd, and a yell of fury came from Alizon Device as Anne Redfern’s hand slapped viciously across her cheek.
“You goddam bitch!” screamed Alizon, rubbing at her tingling face.
“That’s for a whoring drab! Here’s another!” And Anne Redfern’s hand slapped as viciously into the girl’s other cheek.
Roger Nowell, standing cloaked and hatted by the gate as he waited for his horse, moved swiftly. Three quick strides down the path took him within striking distance. His long muscular arm swung ba
ck, shaking out his whip. Then the thong whistled across the Redfern’s shoulders, exploding there like a thunderclap. The woman screamed like an injured horse and leapt madly away. Alizon, stunned with surprise, wasted a precious second gaping, and when she turned to run she was too late. Roger timed it perfectly, and the lash caught her thighs as she turned; her shrill scream testified to the sting of it.
Margery turned to Richard Baldwin and saw him grimly pleased. Then inspiration came to her.
“There’s a verse in the seventy-eighth Psalm, is there not?” she said. “Nearing the end of the Psalm, I think---“
He stood rigid, clearly searching his memory. Then a slow smile spread over his face as he gave her the quotation:
“He smote his enemies in the hinder parts and put them to a perpetual shame.” Something like a chuckle came from Richard Baldwin. “Well said, mistress, and well remembered too.”
They walked together up towards the gate, and his face sobered as he spoke again.
“But I was asking you,” he-said, “what you thought of the sermon?”
Margery was prompt with her calculated answer.
“Fervid, sir. And eloquent. Yet I thought it smacked somewhat of the Arminian Sectaries.”
She spoke slowly, as though she were thinking it out, and she knew from his face that she had judged well.
Those who came up the sloping path a moment later saw what set them blinking. On the road by the gate above, a smiling girl, gay in orange-tawny and a laced and feathered hat, was mounting a fine grey mare. And at her side, his brown face beaming with goodwill, one hand at her horse’s head and the other holding her stirrup, was that stout old puritan, Richard Baldwin of the mill.
Chapter 12: THE MILL AT WHEATHEAD
Miles Nutter appeared again the next morning.
He appeared, but he could not be spoken to. For this was Monday, and Roger, supported by Nick Banister, was dispensing justice according to custom; and he had clearly taken it for granted that Margery would again be his Clerk. It thus came about that when she looked up after recording a fine of five shillings imposed on John Bulcock, who had been drunk enough to swear at the Constable, she saw through the window the trim and elegant figure of Master Nutter as he rode up to the house. Which was most provoking. For the Justices’ Clerk was busy, and had to set down the complicated story of Elizabeth Carr who maintained that the fourpence a week allowed to her by the Overseers was insufficient; and while Margery was recording the Justices’ decision that Elizabeth Carr should in future have sixpence, she heard again the clop of hooves on the gravel, and, again, through the window, she had a glimpse of Master Nutter’s back as he rode away.