“But she has existence,” I remonstrated. “That is the prime cause of her trouble; she has too much of it; she can’t die.”
“There is no evidence of her existence,” argued Palmer. “You, Solomon, tell me how far back your registers go in Brentor Church.”
“Back, I reckon, to about 1680.”
“Very well, then they contain no record of her birth and baptism. Now you cannot be hung for killing a person of whose existence there is absolutely no legal evidence. The law won’t touch us if we do burn her.”
“But—but,” I said, crying and snuffling, “she is your own flesh and blood.”
“That may be, but that is no reason against her cremation. My own Margaret stands infinitely nearer to me, and her interests closer to my heart, than the person and welfare of a remote ancestress. As the banns have been called, Foggaton shall go to my daughter and to no one else. In three weeks’ time Margaret shall be Mrs. Rosedhu.” He spoke very firmly.
“Father, dear father, how can you be so cruel to me?” cried Margaret. “Do y’ look what an atomy Mr. Rosedhu be come to?”
The burly yeoman paid no heed to his daughter’s protest, knowing, no doubt, its unreality. He said to me, “Look y’ here, George Rosedhu, you’ve had my daughter’s name coupled wi’ yourn in the church today, and read out before the whole congregation, without axing my leave or hers. I won’t have her made game of even by a man o’ substance like you, so her shall marry you before December comes, whether you like it or not.”
“Oh, Mr. Palmer, sir,” I pleaded, “how can you think to force your daughter into nuptials which must be distasteful to her?”
“Don’t you trouble your head about that. Margaret knows which side her bread is buttered. She can distinguish between clotted cream and skim milk.”
“Besides,” I argued, “I am bound by the most solemn engagements to my Margery. I have promised to settle Foggaton on her.”
“You cannot,” shouted the farmer of Quether. “The thing is impossible. You cannot marry a woman who has no existence in the eye of the law. The only Margaret Palmer of Quether of whom the law has cognizance is she who now stands before you. She has been baptized, vaccinated, and confirmed. What more do you want to establish her existence? Whereas, what documentary proof can the other Margery produce that she exists? There is but one Margaret Palmer of Quether in this nineteenth century; that’s flat.” He slapped the table, and then, with the air of one administering a crushing argument, he added, “Now, tell me, is it possible for a man to marry a woman from whom he is removed by from two to three centuries? Answer me that.”
“Put in that bald way,” I said, “it does seem unreasonable; but in these Radical-Gladstone-Chamberlain times one does not know where one stands. All the lines of demarcation between the possible and the impossible are wiped out, reason and fact do not jump together.”
“I leave you to digest that question,” answered Palmer triumphantly. He saw I was pushed into a corner. Then he went out, along with Solomon Davy.
I do not think that Margaret objected to be left to meet Margery. I noticed her pluming and bridling like a game-cock before an encounter, She stroked down the folds of her gown, and pursed up her lips, and now and then shot out her tongue from between her lips, as I have seen a wasp test his sting before stabbing me. I was getting uneasy for Margery and was myself uncomfortable. I said, “Miss Margaret, will you be so good as to pick me up my handkercher; it is lying there on the floor, and I be so cruel bad took with the lumbagie that I can’t bend to take it myself.”
She complied with my request somewhat surlily. Then I said, “Would you mind, now, just uncorking that bottle there on the shelf, and putting a drop or two on a lump of sugar, and giving it me. My hands be that shaky I cannot put it in my mouth myself, and I’ve no teeth to hold it by. The drops be ipecacuanha, and be good for bronchitis.”
“No, I won’t do it, you nasty old man.”
“Then, miss, will you rub my spine with hartshorn and oil? You’ll find a bottle of the mixture on the sideboard, and a bit of flannel in the cupboard.”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” she said, testily.
“You won’t, miss? Then please to take me up in your arms and carry me to bed. Margery does it. She is very kind and considerate; she begrudges me no trouble, and feeds me out of a spoon.”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” she said again, in short, angry tones, and with an air of supreme disgust.
‘‘I am sorry for it,” said I. That was Gospel truth. I knew that when the two women met such a storm of words would rage as would wreck my poor nerves, and I wanted to be in bed and out of it, before the hurricane broke loose.
“You’ll have to do all this for me,” I said, “when you become Mrs. Rosedhu. A very old person needs just as much attention as a baby. I know that, for I’ve gone through it myself; I’ve done the nursing. Why will you not leave me alone, and allow Margery to marry me? She will take care of me; she kisses and fondles me. Will you?”
“You disgusting old scarecrow and atomy, certainly not.”
“An atomy—scarecrow and atomy—what next will you call me? Yet you want to marry me!”
“You fool!” said Margaret, shortly. “I put up with you for the sake of Foggaton.”
“It’s the same with Margery,” I said; “but she put it more pleasantly. Her manners are better than yours; but then she belongs to the old school—the good old school!” I sighed.
What I said made her angry. She did not like to have comparisons drawn between herself and her remote great aunt, to her own disadvantage.
“I suppose I am to have a voice in the matter,” I went on; “and though I have liked you very much, Margaret, yet I like the other Margery better. One thing in her favour is—she is older than you.”
‘‘You are not going to have her—who has drained life and spirit out of you. Do you think I will allow it? Don’t you see I bear her a grudge? She has turned the fresh and hale George who courted me into a shrivelled old man. It would have been a pleasure to have young George, it is a penance to have the old one. I owe her that, and I shall scratch her eyes out when we meet.”
‘‘Whatever you do,” I pleaded, “do not hurt her. Your father has made a dreadful threat. I hope he will not execute it.”
“There she comes!” exclaimed Margaret Palmer, starting to her feet in a tremor of delight. “I hear her step on the walk.”
“Throw the hearthrug over me,” I entreated, “I cannot bear to be agitated. Toss the table-cover above the hearthrug, all helps to deaden the sound.”
Margaret complied with my request. Here again my narrative must present an appearance of incompleteness. I cannot describe what I neither saw nor heard during the interview between Margaret and Margery, because I was buried under a heavy sheepskin rug and a thick, coloured, damask table-cover on the top of that. I have no imagination, and I only relate what I actually saw and heard. I saw nothing, and what I heard resembled the jangling of pots and pans when a host of maids are going after a swarm of bees. Of words I could distinguish none, till after awhile the hearthrug and table-cover slipped off, owing to my coughing a great deal, the dust out of the hearthrug having got into my bronchial tubes. Then I saw a sight which filled me with dismay.
My room was full of men and boys, with their caps and hats on. Their faces were flushed and eager; savage delight danced in their eyes. One had a pitch-fork, several had sticks, one was armed with a flail. Head and shoulders above the rest stood Farmer Palmer, keeping back the mob that crowded In at the door. In the front of all, as if in a cockpit, opposite each other, stood the two Margarets, red in face, blazing in temper, their tongues going, their eyes sparkling, their hands extended. I will say that poor Margery acted solely on the defensive. She held up her arms in self-protection. Margaret had driven her nails into her cheek and a red streak down the side showed that she had drawn blood.
“See, see!” exclaimed the younger Margaret, “the witch
! her power is broken. The blood is running.”
This is a popular belief. If you can draw blood from a witch, her power—at least over you—is at an end.
My poor Margery gazed with alarm at the crowd of red, threatening faces that looked at her. She shrank from the sticks, the clubs, the pitchfork and flail. She drew behind me, as if I, broken down into premature old age, could defend and assist her. I raised my shrill pipe in entreaty, but my words were without effect. Those horrible faces glowered at Margery with the savagery of dogs surrounding a hare they are about to tear to pieces. The fear of witchcraft blotted all human compassion out of their hearts.
Suddenly a red light blazed in at the window. The evening had fallen fast and it was now dark.
“Look! look there!” shouted Farmer Palmer. “Look there, you witch, at the bed made for you. There are plenty of faggots to heap over you should you complain of the cold,”
Margery uttered a scream of terror and clutched my chair, whilst she cowered on the floor behind it.
“Oh, George!” she cried in her agony of dread, “save me! save me! They cannot kill me but they can fry and burn me! Then I shall live on—on—on, a scorched morsel, not like a human being.”
“My darling,” I answered, “I can do nothing against all these men.” I, however, made a desperate attempt. “I am master in this house,” I cried in my shrill old tones; “no one has any right within the doors without my permission, and I order you all to go away peaceably and to leave me alone.”
The men and boys, led by Palmer, laughed and did not budge an inch. There came a shout from outside.
“Bring out the witch, and let her burn!”
There is an innate cruelty in human nature which neither Christianity, nor education, nor teetotalism will eradicate. I always thought the peasantry of the West of England wonderfully gentle, kindly, and free from brutality, and yet—scratch the man and the beast appears—here were my peaceable, tender-hearted countrymen ravening for the life of a poor woman, really pretty, and as good-dispositioned and without malice as an angel. I knew that they would gloat over her anguish in the fire, that they would poke up the fuel to make her burn more thoroughly—they would do so without compassion; not really because they thought her a witch, but because Farmer Palmer had told them they might burn her without fear of the law.
A fresh heap of fuel had been tossed upon the pyre, and the flame spouted up to heaven. A roar from the boys without. ‘‘Bring her out! Let her burn!”
Poor Margery covered her eyes with her hands to shut out the terrible light.
“Oh, George, George!” she cried, “save me, and I will give you back some of your youth and strength again.”
“Stand back,” thundered Palmer, as the circle of men contracted about her, and hands were thrust forth to grasp and tear her from my chair. “Do you hear me? She has offered to recover our friend Rosedhu.”
“You cannot do it, my poor darling,” I said.
“Oh, save me, George, and I will indeed.”
“You hear her,” shouted Palmer. “Stand back, and let her fulfil what she has undertaken.”
Then Margaret put in her voice. She was afraid that her rival would escape. “No, father, do not trust her. She can do nothing. She is a witch, and wants to cast spells over you all. Take her away, boys, and pitch her Into the fire. Don’t listen to a word she says, however hard she prays to be let go.”
“Into the flames with her!” shouted the men, and stepped forward. “That is the place for such as she.”
“Fair play, my lads,” said Palmer, and with his strong arm he drove the rabble back. “As for you, Margaret, don’t you interfere. Now then, you—Margery—or whatever you call yourself, stand up and come forward. None shall hurt you if you really recover Rosedhu of his age and incapicity. But, mind you, if you fail, I swear that with this cudgel I will break every bone in your body, and then throw you into the fire with my own arms.”
Margery quivered and cried out at the threat.
“Are you going to do it or not?” asked Palmer.
Poor Margery, feeling the necessity for prompt action, if she would save herself from terrible torture, rose from her crouching posture and stole tremblingly forward.
“Stand out o’ the road, boys,” shouted Palmer; “clear away with you,” and with his stick he swept a circle round Margery and me.
“Oh, George,” she said, with tears of mortification in her blue eyes, “I am sorry to do it. I wouldn’t if I could; I really wouldn’t. But I cannot help myself. These cruel men do so scare me. We might have been so comfortable together; I’d have nursed you into your grave quite beautiful and convenient like, and then I’d have had Foggaton to myself, and it would have gone so well for all parties. But now, you see, that blessed arrangement you managed so nicely for me won’t come to nothing because of the wickedness of evil men, who walk about like unto roaming and roaring lions seeking whom they may devour. I cannot help myself, George. You’ll do me the justice to say it were against my will and under compulsion. There, give me your two hands into mine.”
She took my hands and stood opposite me, holding them at arms’ length, and looking into my eyes. Poor thing! her lips trembled, and the tears stood on the lids and overflowed and trickled down her soft red cheeks. It was a sore trial and disappointment to her, but she bore it like a Christian, and never cast a word of bitterness at those who forced her to it. And to think what a sacrifice she was making! Those rude creatures knew nothing of that, and could not appreciate the greatness of her self-sacrifice. I submitted, because I saw that in this way only had I the means of rescuing her.
As she held my hands, I felt as if streams of vital force were flowing from her up my arms into my body. The aching in my bones ceased. My legs became stronger, my head lighter and more erect; I could see better, and hear better. I began to smell the peat burning on the hearth, I felt an inclination to draw Margery on to my knees and kiss her; but when I looked at her, the desire passed, she was waning as I waxed. She grew older, the colour left her cheek, her eyes became dim; then, all at once I sprang to my feet and shook off her hands.
“Enough Margery, enough,” I said. “You have restored to me sufficient of my strength and health, the rest I freely make over to you. Now for the rest of you.”
My voice was full and loud as that of Palmer himself. “Every one of you listen to me. This is my house, and an Englishman’s house is his castle. Leave this room, leave my land at once, or I prosecute every man jack of you for burglary and trespass. Good Lord! Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am? This is Foggaton, and I am a Rosedhu. Gladstone and Chamberlain and that Harcourt fellow haven’t brought matters quite so far yet that every dirty radical may come inside a landed proprietor’s doors and snap his finger under his nose.”
I snatched the stick out of Palmer’s hand and went at the men with it. Not one ventured to show me his face. I saw a sudden change of posture, and a crush and rush out of my door and down my little passage. “You bide here, Palmer,” I said: “and Margaret also. But as for all this ragtag and bob-tail that you have brought in, I’ll make a clean sweep of them in a jiffy.”
“It is all very well, Rosedhu,” said Palmer, folding his arms, and setting his legs wide apart. “You have got rid of the rabble, and you are right to do so if you choose. But you do not get rid of me and Margaret so fast. The banns have been called between my daughter and you; I take no account of the other, she has no legal existence.”
I was silent, and looked from Margery to Margaret.
“Besides,” Palmer went on, “you may not think so much of her now. In appearance she is old enough to be your grandmother.”
Certainly Margery looked aged, a hale woman, but still old—too old to be thought of as a bride at the hymeneal altar. Margaret was young and pretty; I wish she had not been quite so young and opened such an alarming vista of possibilities. But then I looked at myself in a glass opposite, and saw that I was gray-headed and on the turn
down the hill of life. That was an advantage.
“There is one thing,” I said musingly; “in the matter of amiability there is no comparison. Margery is as good—”
“We will have no comparisons drawn,” interrupted Palmer, as the girl darted a look at me that plainly said, “You shall suffer for this someday.”
“Hold out your fist like a man and say you will take my daughter for better, for worse, and make her Mistress of Foggaton within the month. The first time of asking took place today.”
“Let us say in another couple or three years,” said I, with the principle of the family at heart.
“No,” answered Palmer curtly. “Within the month. Unless you consent to that—into the fire the old hag goes.”
“Oh, Palmer!” I exclaimed, “you passed your word to her that she should be spared.”
“No, no. I said that unless she restored you I would break every bone of her body and throw her into the flames myself. I will certainly not touch her with my stick, nor commit her myself to the flames, but I will let the men outside deal with her as they like. I see what it is, there is no security for you from the witchcrafts of that old hag till there is another woman in this house. That woman must be my daughter, and when she is here I defy all the witches that dance on Cox Tor, and all the pretty wenches of Devonshire to get so much as one foot inside the door.”
“Father!” protested Margaret. “My dear, I know it.”
“Well, you need not say it.”
“Give me a twelvemonth’s grace,” I entreated.
“No, not above twenty days.”
A howl from without—a fresh faggot was cast on the fire. The pyre was not on my ground but on a bit of waste adjoining the lane, and as I am not lord of the manor I have no rights over it. That the rascals knew.
Poor Margery laid hold of my arm.
Margaret at once intervened and thrust her aside. “You do not touch him again.”
“You see,” laughed the father, “it is as I said. Come, your hand.”
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 5