Cunning Murrell Read Free Page B

would
have none of it, thrust it away angrily, indeed, and moaned anew. “An’ when
I’m dead you’ll arl say ye’re sorry, p’r’aps—no, yow woan’t, you’ll be
glad I’m a-gone!”
    Mrs Banham looked despairingly up at Lingood.
    “She do sit like that,” she said, in a whisper that all could
hear—“she do sit a-dolouring like that arl day an’ night, for bed
she’ll hev none of. And then—fits. Who should putt the ev’l tongue on
the gal thussens? Dedn’ yow see Master Murr’ll? He were comin’, an’ we bin
waitin’ on him.”
    Even as she spoke the latch lifted, and Cunning Murrell was at the door,
umbrella and frail basket on shoulder. At this there was trouble on the
stairs. For the long train of little Banhams, in all stages of undress, the
whole proceedings were matter of intense interest and diversion. But while
those behind pushed forward rebelliously against their seniors, these latter,
though holding to the foremost places, were more disposed to push back;
partly in awe of the wise man whom half the country held in fear, but more in
terror of their mother’s vigorous hand, which had already driven back the
reconnaissance twice in course of the evening. So that instant on Murrell’s
appearance a riot arose on the stairs, a scuffle and a tumble, and, amid a
chorus of small yells, little Jimmy, all ends up, came bursting though the
advance guard, and sprawled on the floor with his shirt about his neck.
    “Ow!” he cried. “Ow! Bobby shoved me downstaers!” And with that Mrs Banham
left jug and smelling-bottle, and seizing Jimmy by a leg and an arm, drove
back the column in panic, and shut the stair-foot door.
    “Good t’ye arl,” said Murrell, in his small, sharp voice. “I see smoke
from your bake-hus, Mrs Banham. Be the fire well rastled?”
    “Ees, an’ I’ll war’nt that’s hot. I’ve arl that yow spoke of, Master
Murr’ll, in the ketchen.”
    Murrell took the iron bottle from the frail, and followed Mrs Banham into
the room behind. There was a sound as of something poured, and a low
conversation.
    Banham looked helplessly about him, and began again: “‘Tare rare fanteegs
we’re in, Steve, sarten to say, an’ it do dunt me arltogither. But the
missis, she—”
    “An’ they be toe as well as finger nails complete?” came Murrell’s quick
voice, as the two returned.
    “Ees, that’s arl as yow told me, Master Murr’ll, an’ here be pins an’
needles.”
    Murrell shovelled them from his palm into the bottle, and dived again into
the frail. Thence he brought dried leaves of four sorts, and these were
stuffed in after the pins; and last went a little heap of horse-nails.
    “Do you screw it hard, Stephen Lingood,” said Murrell, “with your strong
fingers.”
    Lingood took the bottle and screwed the stopper down as far as it would
go.
    “Now ‘tis ready, neighbours,” Murrell squeaked, “an’ you give aer to what
I tell. We go arl to the bake-hus—an’ come you, too, Stephen Lingood,
for true witness. An’ mind you arl,” he went on with gusto, for he enjoyed
the authority his trade gave him, “once the bake-hus door shuts on us, not a
word mus’ one speak. What I hev prepared will putt sore pain an’ anguish on
the hainish witch that hev laid the ill tongue on this house. ‘Tis a strong
an’ powerful spell, an’ ‘haps the witch may be druv to appear before us,
bein’ drawed to the sput in anguish; ‘haps not; ‘tis like that’s a dogged
powerful witch, an’ will stay an’ suffer, an’ not be drawed. But come or
stay, not one word mus’ be spoke, or the spell makes nothen. If come she do,
she’ll speak, with a good axcuse, that’s sarten, that some here may be drawed
to answer, an’ break the spell; or may make count to meddle with the oven; so
heed not her words, nor make one sound. But ‘haps she won’t come.”
    Banham shuffled uneasily, and looked at his wife. But she stooped to Em