Cunning Murrell (22 page)

Dorrily shook her head. “No, Master Lingood,” she said, mournfully enough,
“‘tis not money—at any rate for the present.”

“Then what?”

She looked up at his face, then down on the ground, and at last fixed her
eyes on the bushes visible to the side of him. Somehow, now, it seemed harder
to talk of the urgent, the pressing trouble than she had thought. “Poor
aunt,” she said at length, “be very bad.”

“Ill? Sick?”

“Well enough in health, but strange in the head with her troubles, an’
helpless as a child. An’ then—Master Lingood, folk be so cruel to
us!”

“Damn ‘em!” Lingood burst out with a stamp. “What ha’ they done?”

“‘Tis not that they’ve done much but talk, though that be bad enough. But
she be terrified they might swim her—the Leigh chaps have talked of it,
I’m told. An’—O, Master Lingood, arl sorrows come at once! ‘Tis said
there can be no pension for her, an’ Master Cloyse do talk o’ pullin’ down
the cottage an’ turnin’ her out with nowhere to go. An’ arl is on me, Master
Lingood, an’ it be too much for a poor girl!”

Lingood clenched his jaw, fidgeted his feet, shut and opened his fists.
The strain was hard to bear.

“‘Tis arl on me, Master Lingood, and which way to turn I can’t tell, an’ I
be sick an’ ill with it. An’—an’ there be only one way I can see.”

“What way?”

Dorrily’s wan cheeks flushed. “There be somebody wantin’ to marry me,” she
said.

Lingood caught a quick breath. Then, as well as something in his throat
would let him, he asked: “What—now? Since…?”

Dorrily nodded. She was pale again now, paler than ever.

Lingood was pale, too, though she did not look up to see it. “Well,” he
said slowly, and with some touch of bitterness in his voice; “so you think
that be the way then? Maybe—”

She lifted her eyes with so much in them of anguish and reproach that he
stopped. “O, ‘tis terrible. Master Lingood,” she cried, “an’ I don’t like
him! But I must do’t, mustn’t I?”

Lingood had never before found speech so hard and so slow. “I don’t see,”
he said. “Why?”

“What can I do? O, Master Lingood, I hate him; but ‘tis keep and shelter
for her, an’ protection, an’ ‘haps then his father’ll let her stay
here—at least till she mends—an’—”

“His father?”

Dorrily nodded quickly, with a faint and momentary flush. “‘Tis young Sim
Cloyse,” she said quietly. And then, a little at a time, with the fewer tears
because of the desperate resignation that had grown upon her, she told the
story of yesterday’s interview. “‘Tis bad for me bitter bad. Master Lingood,”
she concluded, simply and sadly; “an’ I sicken to think of it. But I must,
mustn’t I?”

Lingood could bear it little longer. Heart and brain alike seemed
bursting. “Den’t you—think,” he gasped; “Den’t you—think—o’
friends—that might help ‘ee?”

“O, Master Lingood, you’re kind—kind friends—you an’ Master
Dove; an’ the chief officer’s a good gentleman to us. But what can ‘ee do
more than ye have? You be kind—over kind; but this—these things
ye can’t help; ‘tis for me only. An’ I must, Master Lingood, I must!”

“Ye shan’t!” Lingood burst out, for he could hold it no more. “Ye shan’t!
I won’t see’t—can’t! Dorrily Thorn, I love ‘ee myself—God forgive
me for sayin’ it at such a time! But true ‘tis, an’ now you know’t.
Unnerstand!” he steadied himself sharply before the wondering
gaze—“unnerstand! I’m not askin’ ye. I wouldn’t treat ye so at this
time. I leave that. But the other you shall not do—I will see no such
evil thing!”

Dorrily could only gaze and wonder. But her load was
lightening—lightening at every word. This strong man was taking her
doubts on himself, and resolving them.

“Now,” the smith went on, “let us hev no mistake. Young Sim Cloyse hev
asked you to marry him, an’ you hate to think oft. Now, be that the full
truth, an’ not a thote kep’ back?”

It was an injury to doubt her, and the tone of her answer said as
much.

“An’ Mrs Martin don’t know?”

“No—nothen. I doubt if she’d understand.”

“Very well. I will take your answer to Sim Cloyse. Unless you’d rather
tell him yourself?”

Dorrily shook her head. Truly she shrank from another experience of young
Sim’s courtship.

“‘Tis settled, then, an’ I’ll see you’re troubled no more. For what I said
about myself—‘tis said now an’ can’t be unsaid, though ‘twas forced
from me. But you may be easy as to that, too; for never again will I speak of
it, unless some time, when your trouble be nothen but a thing remembered, you
make it known to me I may: unless you wear a rose in your hair again, as I
saw you last year at Bennett’s harvestin’.”

She stood alone in the garden, and Steve Lingood was tramping up the lane.
It seemed a dream—a dream that put all thought to rout, though a dream
that had its under-mutter of doubt and sorrow. There went Stephen Lingood,
striding up the lane, till the steps were heard no more; and here stood she
in a whirl of amaze, though incongruously calm—even slow of
understanding.

“Dorrily Thorn, I love ‘ee myself!…A rose—a rose in your hair
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.