Cunning Murrell (23 page)

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.

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.

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 guard 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?”

“There be a gang o’ men gatherin’, sir, at back o’ Castle Hill,” said Mrs
Martin. “What they be arter I ben’t sure of, but I should guess it be a run.
I doan’t think it be to hurt me this time, nor my niece. But there be the
men, sir, an’ ‘tis right yow should know.”

“How many?”

“Eight or nine, an’ more comin’. Very quiet arl of ‘em, an’ waitin’,
seemin’ly, when we left.”

“Come,” said the officer, “quick, the two of you! And no row, mind!”

“Shall I burn a flare, sir?” one man asked.

“Burn your fat head!” snapped the one-eyed chief officer. “Up on the hill,
perhaps. What’s the good of a flare down here, except to scare them off? Get
ahead, you skrimshanked barbers, and shut your jaw!”

They were hurrying back by the way the women had come, and Mrs Martin was
keeping near them, with Dorrily following as best she might. A large run of
smuggled goods had not been known in these parts for years; but the chief
officer knew that Mrs Martin had seen more of coastguard work than most
coastguardsmen—certainly more than any of them he had command of now.
And, as he reasoned, a silent gang of men did not assemble near the coast at
midnight to play at marbles.

NOW Roboshobery Dove, when he had been told that Murrell was
out, but expected back, had promised to come again. He had gone back to the
Castle Inn, but found it closed for the night. So he kept on his way through
the village to his own house. Here he thought to fill an interval with a pipe
and a glass; which indulgences, with the lateness of the hour, caused him to
fall asleep in his chair. He never knew precisely how long he slept, but when
he woke his long clay pipe was lying on the floor in five pieces, and the
candle was smoking and spluttering in its socket.

He rose hastily, took his hard glazed hat, and went out. Plainly it was
very late, but he had promised to call again, and perhaps Cunning Murrell,
night-bird as he was, was waiting for him. So Roboshobery Dove hastened by
what he judged a short cut. That is to say, instead of going by the village
street—wherein, indeed, he feared the familiar sound of his wooden leg
at that hour might raise gossip—he took the paths that led behind the
gardens.

The ways were narrow and crooked, and they made amazing quirks and
circuits round hoppits, by pigsties, and behind cowhouses. But Roboshobery
Dove could have found his way blindfold, and he went over the soft ashes that
made the surface without conscious thought of a turn or an angle; and at last
emerged in the lane a little below the cottages and almost opposite the
stile.

He heard a step, which stopped suddenly; and peering through the dark he
perceived the form of Murrell, and behind him, more distinct, that of Ann
Pett in her print gown. Murrell saw Dove too, but it was too late. He had had
in mind that the old sailor was to return, and had kept open eyes and ears
for him, carefully peeping before venturing out with a tub, and listening for
his step in the village street. But as time went on, and as the tubs, two at
a time, made a higher and higher pile in the ditch, Murrell grew easier,
supposing that Dove must have postponed his visit till to-morrow.

And now, when the house was rid of almost all the smuggled liquor, on a
sudden Roboshobery Dove came silently from the direction opposite that he
might be expected by, and almost ran into him as he carried one of the
barrels. For a moment Murrell thought of turning back; but it was too far,
and with the tub he could not run. He stopped, and Roboshobery Dove came
up.

“Good evenin’, Master Murr’ll, sir,” said Roboshobery. “‘Tis wonnerful
late for a wisit, but—hullo! Axcuse me, but…Why ‘tis!—” He
dropped his voice suddenly…“‘Tis a tub! Well I’m—”

For once Cunning Murrell had not a word to say. He took a step forward,
and another step back, hugging the unlucky tub before him in the manner of a
muff. Roboshobery Dove, who had bent to inspect it, rose erect with many
chuckles. “Well, there!” he said. “To think oft!” and he chuckled again.
“Well, I den’t think—why bless ‘ee, Master Murr’ll, sir, this ben’t one
o’ the things yow was ‘feared o’ breakin’ t’other night, be’t? In the frail
basket, hey? Ha! ha! But ‘tis arl right—yow den’t need to be gastered.
‘Tis many a hundred sich I’ve had in my time, sarten to say. Come, I’ll give
‘ee a hand. Lord love ‘ee, I den’t think ever to handle one agen, that I
den’t, barrin’ one or two o’ my own, kep’ snug. An’ was onny sayin’ a while
ago how easy a run would be now—but I den’t think ‘twould be yow as
would make ‘t, that I den’t! Ha! ha! Come, give us a hoad. Where are ye
puttin’ em? Fetch anoather.”