I
When farmer Badge died, his widow kept on at Walna, and some people
thought the world of her, same as I always did, but some was a bit
frightened, because of her great gifts. Charity Badge certainly did know a
terrible lot more than every-day folk, which was natural in the daughter
of a white witch; but she weren't no witch herself--neither black nor
white--and, as she often said to me: "'Tis only my way of putting two and
two together that makes the difference between me and the other women
round about these parts."
Walna was a poor little bit of a place up the Wallabrook Valley, and when
Charity died it all went to pieces, for there was none to take it again.
Tramps slept there till the roof fell in, and then the hawks and owls took
it over; but fifty years agone she flourished and did pretty well there,
one way and another, though 'twas more by the people that visited her for
her wisdom than anything she made out of the tumble-down farm. More'n a
cow or two she never had no cattle, and the last sheep to Walna went to
pay for farmer Badge's coffin.
I was a maiden then and worked for Mrs. Badge, so I comed to see a lot
about her and marked her manner of life. Half the things she did was
thought to be miracles by the Postbridge people, yet if you saw the
workings of 'em from inside, you found that, after all, they was only
built on common sense. Still, I'll grant you that common sense itself is a
miracle. 'Tis only one in a million ever shows it; and that one's pretty
near sure to be a woman.
Charity was a thin, brown creature--birdlike in her ways, with quick
movements, quick hands, and quick eyes. She never had no childer, and
never wanted none. In fact, she was pretty well alone in the world after
her husband died. There was a lot of Badges, of course, and still are; but
she never had no use for them, nor them for her.
And now I'll tell the story of Sarah White and Mary Tuckett and Peter
Hacker, the master of Bellaford.
Sarah was a lone creature up fifty year old, and she come along to Mrs.
Badge one fine day with a proper peck of troubles. She crept down the path
to Walna from Merripit Hill, like a snail with a backache, and weren't in
no case at all for merriment; yet the first thing she heard as she come in
was laughter; and the first thing she seed was pretty Mary Tuckett sitting
on Mrs. Badge's kitchen table, swinging her legs, and eating bits of raw
rhubarb out of a pie as my mistress was trying to make.
Mary was a beauty, and a bit too fond of No. 1, like most of that sort.
"'Tis too bad," she said to the new-comer, "ban't it too bad, Mrs. White?
Here's Charity, well known for the cleverest woman 'pon Dartymoor, won't
tell me my fortune or look in her crystal for me, though I be offering her
a two-shilling piece to do so."
"You go along," said Charity. "Don't you waste no more of my time, and let
your fortune take care of itself. It don't want a wise woman to tell the
fortune of such a lazy, good-for-nought as you."
Then Mary went off laughing, and poor Mrs. White began her woes.
"I could have told that woman something as would have changed her laughter
to tears," she began. "But time enough for that. Can you list to me for an
hour, Charity? I'm in cruel trouble, look where I will, and if there's any
way out, I'll be very glad to pay good money to know it."
"Let me put the paste 'pon this here pie, then I'll hear what you've got
to grumble at," answers the wise woman; and five minutes later she sat
down and folded her hands and shut her eyes and heard what Sarah had got
to tell.
"When my husband was alive, he worked for Peter Hacker's father at
Bellaford, and lived in a little cottage on a newtake field a mile from
Bellaford Farm. Old Hacker often said to my husband that when he'd paid
rent for fifty year for the cottage, he'd let him have it for his own.
'Twas common knowledge that he intended to do it. But now, with my husband
dead in his grave--and he died just six months after he'd paid his
fiftieth year of rent, poor soul!--Peter Hacker have told me that the
cottage ban't to be mine at all, and that 'tis all rubbish, and not a
contract. I tell him that the ghost of my poor Thomas will turn his hair
grey for such wickedness; but you know Peter Hacker. Hard as the nether
millstone, and cruel as winter--with women. Very different, though, if a
brave man beards him. Now he's dunning me for two years' rent, and even
when I told him all that hangs on my keeping the cottage, he won't change
or hold to the solemn promise his father made my husband. In fact, he'll
turn me out at midsummer."
"And what do hang on your keeping the house?" asked Charity.
Mrs. White sniffed and cooled her tearful eyes with her handkercher.
"Johnny French hangs on it," she said, "We'm keeping it close till next
autumn, but he wants for to marry me, and we'm both lonely souls, and
we've both lost a good partner; and so it falls out very suent and
convenient like that we should wed. But now he hears tell as I ban't to
have the cottage, he's off it. He won't hear of marrying if there's no
cottage. So the fag end of my life's like to be ruined one way or
another."
"Let's see," says Charity, in her slow, quiet way. "Firstly, Peter
Hacker's dunning you for two years' rent and will turn you out if you
don't pay it; and secondly, he refuses to be bound by what his father
promised your Thomas long years afore you married; and thirdly, you'm
tokened to old Johnny French; but he won't take you if you're not to have
the cottage free gratis and for ever."
"That's how 'tis; and, as if all this misfortune wasn't enough I've just
heard of the death of my only brother, Nathan Coaker, in Ireland."
"That terrible handsome man, as had all the girls by the ears in
Postbridge afore he went off?"
"Yes--only thirty-five--killed steeple-chasing. He was a huntsman, you
know, and a great breaker of hosses. And now one's broke him. Dead and
buried, and nought for me but his watch and chain and a bill from his
undertaker. It happened in Ireland three weeks ago; and I've only heard
tell to-day; and I thought if Mary Tuckett knowed, 'twould soon have
turned her laughter into tears, for she was cruel fond of him, and wept an
ocean when he went. In fact, they was tokened on the quiet unknown to her
father, and Nathan hoped to marry her some day and little knew she'd
forgot all about her solemn promise."
"I'm very sorry for you. I'll think about this. It don't look hopeful, for
Peter Hacker's very hard all through where women are concerned. There's no
milk of human kindness in him, and he don't like me. He thinks--poor
fool--that I overlooked his prize bullock, that died three days afore
'twas to start to the cattle show."
"He might be tenderer, for he's only human, after all," said Mrs. White.
"He's courting that very girl that was here a minute agone. In fact, they
be plighted, I believe. It do make me bitter when I think upon it, for my
poor Nathan's sake. She had sworn to marry my brother, remember, for
Nathan told me so, and, no doubt, he counted upon it to the end of his
days. But out of sight out of mind with her sort. Peter's riches have made
her forget Nathan's beautiful face. And now he's in his grave."
"Stop!" says Charity. "You'm running on too fast. Let me think a minute.
There's a lot here wants sifting. Let's come to business, my dear, and
stick to the point. You want your cottage and you want Johnny French. What
will you give me if I get your cottage for 'e out of Peter?"
Mrs. White was known to have saved a little bit, or, rather, her late
husband had for her. He was a lot older than her, and had thought the
world of her.
"I'll give 'e a five-pound note," she said at last.
"And what if I get Johnny French up to the scratch also?"
"If you do one, you'll do t'other," said Sarah. "He depends on the
cottage, and won't take me without it, but be very willing to have both
together. Still, I'll meet you gladly if there's anything you can do, and
the day I'm wed I'll give you another five-pound note, Charity. And well
you'll have earned it, I'm sure."
"So much for that then. And now, what like was your brother? Let's talk of
him," said Mrs. Badge. "I'm awful sorry for you--'tis a great loss and a
great shock. Horsemanship do often end that way."
Sarah was a thought surprised that t'other should shift the conversation
so sudden; but she felt pretty full of her dead brother and was very well
content to talk about him.
"A flaxen, curly man, with a terrible straight back, and a fighting nose
and blue eyes. He hunted the North Dartmoor Hounds and every girl in these
parts--good-looking and otherwise--was daft about him. They ran after him
like sheep. There was a terrible dashing style to him, and he knowed the
way to get round a female so well as you do the way to get round a corner.
They worshipped him. Just a thought bowed in the legs along of living on
hosses. A wonder on hossback, and very clever over any country. Great at
steeple-chasing also, but too heavy for the flat--else he'd been a jockey
and nothing else. And he would have married Mary Tuckett years ago if her
father had let him. But old Tuckett hated Nathan worse than sin and dared
Mary to speak with him or lift her eyes to him if they met. So away he
went to Ireland; but not before that girl promised to wait for ever, if
need be."
They talked a bit longer; then Mrs. Badge said a deep thing.
"Look here: don't tell nobody that your brother be dead for the minute.
Keep it close, and if you must tell about it, come up here and tell me.
I'll listen. But not a word to anybody else until I give the word."
"Mayn't I tell Johnny French?"
"Not even him," declared Mrs. Badge. "Not a single soul. I've got a reason
for what I say. And now be off, Sarah, and let me think a bit."
With that Mrs. White started; but she hadn't reached the tumble-down gate
of Walna--in fact, 'twas the head of an old iron bedstead stuck there and
not a gate at all--when Charity called after her.
"Go brisk and catch up that girl Mary Tuckett," she said. "Tell her, on
second thoughts--for her good and not for mine--that I'll do what she
wants. Go clever and brisk, and you'll over-get her afore she's home
again."
So Mrs. White trotted off, and very soon found Mary looking over a hedge
and helping a young man to waste his time, according to her usual custom
when there was a coat about.
But Sarah gave her message, and fifteen minutes later Mary was back along
with Mrs. Badge.