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IT MAY BE TRUE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY
MRS. WOOD.
VOL. II.
London:
T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE,
1865.
[THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.]
IT MAY BE TRUE.
CHAPTER I.
NEWS FROM HOME
"The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man."
LONGFELLOW.
It was just sunset as Matthew the pikeman went out to receive toll from
some one passing, or rather coming quickly up to the gate.
It was market day at Brampton, so Matthew had to keep his ears open, and
his wits about him, for generally he had a lazy post, with scarcely half
a dozen calls during the day.
A spare thin man was the occupier of the light cart now coming fast
along the road; who as he drew near the gate threw the pence--without
slackening his horse's pace--at least a foot from where the other was
standing.
"There's manners for you!" said Matthew, stooping to look for the money,
"chucks the ha'pence to me as though I was a thief. Hates parting with
'em, I 'spose."
"Or hates touching you with the ends of his fingers," said a voice at
his side.
"Good evening to yer, Mrs. Grey," said he, civilly rising and looking
up, "Well, I'm blessed if I can find that last penny," and he counted
over again those he held in his hand, "I'll make him give me another,
next time I sets eyes on him, I know."
"What's this?" said Goody Grey, turning something over with her stick.
"That's it, and no mistake. Why I'd back yer to see through a brick
wall, Ma'am."
"There!" said she, not heeding his last remark, and pointing out the
cart going slowly up a neighbouring hill, "he's too proud to shake hands
with his betters, now. Pride, all pride, upstart pride, like the rest of
the fools in this world. And he used to go gleaning in the very fields
he now rides over so pompously."
"Can yer call that to mind, Mrs. Grey?" asked Matthew, eyeing her keenly
and searchingly.
"Call it to mind! What's that to you? I never said I could, but I know
it for a truth."
"Folks say there's few things yer don't know," replied Matthew, somewhat
scared at her fierce tone.
"Folks are fools!"
"Some of 'em; not all. Most say yer knows everything, and can give
philters and charms for sickness and heart-ache and the like."
"Folks are fools!" repeated she again.
"Well I know nothing, nor don't want to; but," said he, dropping his
voice to a whisper, "if yer could only give me a charm to keep _her_
tongue quiet," and he pointed with his thumb meaningly over his
shoulder in the direction of the cottage, "I'd bless yer from the bottom
of my heart as long as I live."
"What blessing will you give me?"
Matthew considered a moment, as the question somewhat puzzled him. Here
was a woman who had apparently neither kith nor kin belonging to her,
one who stood, as far as he could see, alone in the world. How was he to
give her a blessing? She had neither children, nor husband to be kind or
unkind to her; she might be a prosperous woman for aught he or the
neighbours knew, or she might be the very reverse. She never seemed to
crave for sympathy from anyone, but rather to shun it, and never allowed
a question of herself on former days to be asked, without growing angry,
and if it was repeated, or persisted in, violent.
Presently Matthew hit upon what he thought a safe expedient. "What
blessing do yer most want?" he asked cunningly.
"None! I want none."
"I'll give yer one Ma'am all the same. Most of us wish for something,
and I'll pray that the one wish of yer heart, whatever it is, yer may
get."
"How dare you wish me that?" she said in a fierce tone, "how dare you
know I've any wish at all?"
"'Cos I do. That's all," replied Matthew sullenly.
"Who told you? Speak! Answer!"
"Good Lord! Mrs. Grey, ma'am; how you scare a man. Who should tell me? I
don't know nothing at all about yer; how should I? All I know is that
most folks has wishes of some kind or another; nobody's satisfied in
this world, and in course you ain't, and so I just wished yer might be,
that's all; there's no great harm in that, is there?"
"I told you folks were fools; but I think you are the biggest fool of
the lot."
"Come, come, don't let's have words. I didn't mean to vex yer, you're a
lone woman with not a soul to stand by yer, and the Lord knows what
you've got on yer mind."
Then seeing her eyes flashed again he hastened to change the subject.
"It's a fine evening, anyhow," said he.
"We shall have rain."
"Rain!" and Matthew looked up overhead, but not a vestige of a cloud or
sign of a storm could he see.
"Yes, rain, heavy rain, like the weeping of a stricken, woeful heart."
And she was passing on; but Matthew could not let her go so; he must
have the charm, even at the risk of offending her again. He had thought
of it for days past, it was the one wish of his heart; he had longed and
sought for this opportunity and it must not slip through his fingers
thus, so he said meekly, but still rather doubtfully,
"Well it may be going to rain; yer know a deal better than I do, and I
won't gainsay yer? we shall know fast enough afore night closes in. And
now Mrs. Grey will yer give me the charm?"
"You don't need any charm."
"Can't be done without," said he decidedly. "I've tried everything else
I know of, and it ain't no use," said he despairingly.
"Well," said Goody Grey, after a moment's consideration, "do you see
this box?" and she took a small box out of her pocket and filled it with
some of the fine gravel from his garden, whilst Matthew looked eagerly
on as if his life depended on it. "When next you are on your road to the
Brampton Arms, and are close to the yew tree which grows within a
stone's throw of the door, _turn back_, and when you reach home again
take the box out of your pocket and throw away one of the stones, and
don't stir forth again, save to answer the 'pike, for the rest of the
evening."
"And then?" questioned Matthew.
"Then there's nothing more to be done, except to sit quiet and silent
and watch your wife's face."
"Where I shall see ten thousand furies, if I don't answer her."
"You are a man, what need you care? Do as I bid you every time you are
tempted to go to the Public-house; never miss once until the box is
empty. Then bring it back to me."
"And suppose I miss. What then?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why; what if when I finds myself so near the door of the Public--you
see, ma'am, it's a great temptation--I turns in and gets a drop afore I
comes home?"
"Then you must add another stone instead of taking one away, and don't
attempt to deceive me, or the charm will work harm instead of good."
Deceive her; no. Matthew had far too much faith in the charm to do that;
there was no occasion for her fears.
"And is this the only charm you know of?" he asked.
"The only one. When the box is empty the cure is certain; but remember
the conditions, a silent tongue and not a drop of drink; the breaking of
either one of these at the time when the charm is working, and a stone
must be added."
"The box'll never be empty in this world," said he, with a deep sigh;
"but I'll try. My thanks to yer all the same, ma'am."
"You can thank me when you bring back the box. How is Mrs. Marks?"
"Pretty tidy, thank yer," but he looked crestfallen, notwithstanding his
assertion. "I never know'd her ill; she's like a horse, always ready for
any amount of work, nothing knocks her up."
"Sometimes the trees we think the strongest, wither the soonest," said
Goody Grey passing on, while Matthew leant against the gate and counted
the stones in the box.
"There's eight of them," said he. "I wish it had been an uneven number,
it's more lucky. Eight times! More than a week. It'll never be
empty--never!" then he looked up and watched Goody Grey almost out of
sight, and as he did so her last words came across him again.
What did she mean by them? Did she mean that his old woman was going to
die? Then he considered if he should tell her, and whether if he did
she would believe it, and take to her bed at once, and leave him in
quiet possession of the cottage and his own will; somehow his heart
leaped at the thought of the latter, although he shook his head sadly
while the former flashed through him.
"There's mischief abroad somewhere, Mrs. Marks," said he, entering the
cottage.
"Was when you was out," retorted she; "but it's at home now, and likely
to remain so for to-night."
"Who was talking of going out? I'm sure I wasn't. I never thought onc't
of it, even."
"Best not, for you won't as long as I know it. You were drunk enough
when the young master passed through the 'pike to last for a precious
sight to come; you're not going to make a beast of yourself to-night if
I can help it."
Mrs. Marks was scrubbing the table down. She was one of those women who,
if they have no work to do, make it. She was never idle. Her house, or
rather cottage--there were only four rooms in it--was as clean as a new
pin; not a speck of dirt to be seen, and as to dust, that was a thing
unknown; but then she was always dusting, scrubbing, or sweeping.
Matthew hated the very sight of a brush or pail, and would have grumbled
if he dared; but he dared not; he was thoroughly henpecked. Had he been
a sober man this would not have been the case; but he was not, and he
knew it, and she knew it too; and knowing his weak points she had him at
her mercy, and little enough she showed him. He answered her fast enough
sometimes, but he dared not go in opposition to her will, even when he
came reeling home from the Public-house. Appearances were too against
him: he being small and thin, she a tall, stout, strong-looking woman.
Certainly the scrubbing agreed wonderfully with her, and there seemed
little prospect of Goody Grey's prophecy being verified.
"Who was it passed through the 'pike, just now?" asked she.
"White; as owns the Easdale Farm down yonder, with no more manners than
old Jenny out there--the donkey,--she lets her heels fly, but I'm
blessed if this chap don't let fly heels and hands both."
"Chap!" reiterated Mrs. Marks, "where's your manners? He's a deal above
you in the world."
"May be. But Goody Grey don't say so. She says he was no better nor a
gleaner time gone by."
"She!" replied Mrs. Marks, contemptuously. "What does she know about it?
She's crazed!"
"Crazed! no more nor you and I. She's a wise woman, and knows a deal
more than you think."
"I am glad of it," said Mrs. Marks sneeringly, "for it's a precious
little I think of either her or her sayings."
"She went through the 'pike same time as 'other did, and told me all
about him."
"Why don't you be minding your own business, instead of talking and
gossiping with every tom-fool you meet."
"She's no woman to gossip with, or fool either; she made me tremble and
shake again, even the fire don't warm me," said he, lighting his pipe
and settling himself in the chimney corner.
"I'll take your word for her having scared you. There's few as couldn't
do that easy enough."
Matthew's hand went instinctively into his pocket; he could scarcely
refrain from trying the effect of the charm, but it was growing dusk,
and he was afraid that for that night at least it was too late.
"Wait a bit," said he in a low voice, "Wait a bit;" but his wife heard
him.
"Was that what she said?" asked she.
"No, she said--" and Matthew took the pipe out of his mouth so that he
might be heard the plainer, "she said; 'all trees wither the first as
looks fat and strong.' That's what she said."
"Trees fat and strong! Are you muddled again?"
"No, I'm not," replied he doggedly, "that's what she said, and no
mistake; the very words, I'll take my oath of it; and if you don't see
the drift of 'em I do."
"Let's hear it."
"Well," said Matthew solemnly, "she meant one or t'other of us was going
to die," and he looked her full in the face to see how she would take
it, expecting it would alarm her as it had done him.
Mrs. Marks put down the scrubbing brush, and resting her arms on the
table returned his gaze.
"Oh! you poor frightened hare," she said, "So you think you are going to
die, do you? Well I'd have more spirit in me than to list to the words
of a mad woman."
His astonishment may be better guessed at than described. He had so
entirely made up his mind that his wife was the one Goody Grey had so
vaguely hinted at, that he never deemed it possible any one could think
otherwise; least of all Mrs. Marks herself: he glanced downwards at his
thin legs, then stretched out his arms one after the other and felt
them, as if to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake, and that he
really was the spare man he imagined.
"No, you're deceiving yourself," said he, "I'll declare it wasn't me she
meant. She said fat, I call it to mind well; and I'm as thin as the sign
post out yonder and no mistake."
Then he glanced at the stout, strong arms of his wife, now fully
developed with her determined scrubbing. "If she meant anyone," said he
decidedly, "she just meant you!"
"Me!" screamed Mrs. Marks, "Is it me you are worriting yourself about,
you simpleton? There, rest easy; I'm not afraid of her evil tongue; not
that I suppose I've longer to live than other folks: I'm ready to go
when my time comes and the Lord pleases; but I'm not to be frightened
into my bed by Mrs. Grey or any woman in the parish. No, she's come to
the wrong box for that. I'll hold my own as long as I have the strength
for it, and am not to be ousted by any one; not I!" and Mrs. Marks
nearly upset the pail in her violence, as she swept the scrubbing brush
off the table into it.
"Hulloa!" cried a voice, as the latch of the door was lifted, and a
stout strong-looking man entered with a good-humoured, cheerful face.
"Anybody at home? How are you Mrs. Marks? I'm glad to see you again, and
you too," he said, grasping and shaking Matthew's hand heartily.
"It's William Hodge of Deane!" said she in surprise, "Who'd have thought
of seeing you down here, and what brings you to these parts?"
"Business," replied the other laconically.
"Something to do with the Smithy, eh?" questioned Matthew.
"Just so."
"You still keep it on, of course."
"Of course."
"There don't stand there cross-examining in that way," called Mrs.
Marks, as she opened a cupboard at the further end of the room, "but
attend to your own business, and just go and draw some ale, while I get
a bit of bread and cheese ready. Supper won't be served up yet," said
she apologetically, returning and spreading a clean snow white cloth on
the table; "but you must want a mouthful of something after your long
journey."
"I can't wait supper, I'm in too great a hurry; thank yer all the same."
"Are you going further on?" asked Matthew, coming in with the ale.
"No. I'm to put up at the Brampton Arms for the night, or may be two--or
perhaps three," he replied.
"I'm sorry for that," said Mrs. Marks. "I hate the very name of the
place. They're a bad set, the whole lot of 'em."
"That don't signify a rap to me. I shan't have nothing to do with any of
'em so long as they let's me alone, that's all I care about. I shan't
trouble 'em much 'cept for my bed."
"And now for a bit of news about home," said Mrs. Marks, as her visitor
began his supper, or rather the bread and cheese she had set before
him. "How are they all down at Deane? And how's mother?"
"I'm sorry to say I've no good news of her; she've been ailing some
time, and the doctor's stuff don't do her no good; he says she'll go off
like the snuff of a candle. But there, she's precious old now, and well
nigh worn out. I've a letter from your sister Martha--Mrs.
Brooks--telling yer all about it;" and he searched and dived into his
deep pockets for it, and then handed it to her.
"Is Jane as queer as ever?" asked Matthew, in a low voice, as his wife
was perusing the letter.
"Yes, worse nor ever, I think; scarce ever opens her lips, and stares at
yer awful, as though she had the evil eye."
"I always thought she had; she wor as strange a woman as ever I set eyes
on."
"Well!" said Mrs. Marks, looking up from her letter, "I suppose I must
say yes. Perhaps you'll just look in, Mr. Hodge, when the time comes
for you to go back to Deane, and I'll give you the answer."
"I won't fail," replied he.
"What are yer going to say yes to?" asked Matthew.
"Martha says mother's dying, and she wants to know what's to become of
Jane, and if she can't come here."
"Here!" exclaimed Matthew. "The Lord save us."
"Save you from what?" asked Mrs. Marks angrily.
"From having a crazed creature in the house. Who knows but what she
might burn the house down about us; Mr. Hodge says she ain't no better
in the head than she used to be."
"If she was ten times as bad as she is, she should come. It's a sin and
a shame to hear you talk so of your own wife's sister and she nowhere to
go to, and the cottage big enough to hold her."
"Why can't your sister Martha take her?"
"Just hear him talk," said she, derisively, "and Martha with more
children than she knows what to do with; and a husband as is always
ailing. Why you've no more charity in you than a miser; there, go and
draw some more ale, and have done with your folly. Least said is soonest
mended."
Mrs. Marks had two sisters and a mother living at Deane, some forty, or
it might be more miles, from Brampton. Martha, the youngest, was
married, and blessed--as is too often the case with the poor, or those
least able to afford it--with nine children, and a sick husband; the
latter worked hard enough when his health permitted, but then there was
no certainty about his being able to earn wages. A cold caught and
neglected had given him a fever and ague, and the least chill brought on
a return of it. His wife, almost as energetic a woman as her sister,
Mrs. Marks, but with a more mild and even temper, earned a living by
washing, and did the best she could to keep them all; and her management
certainly did her credit, her house being as clean as Mrs. Marks',
although not so constantly scrubbed or washed.
The other sister, Jane, lived with her mother, an old woman of
seventy-five, who, until now, had borne her age well, and looked
certainly some ten years younger, but then she had always enjoyed the
best of health; was up betimes in the morning, summer and winter, and
about her small farm and dairy, which she managed better than most did
with half-a-dozen hands to help them.
Ever busy, and uncommonly active, her illness was totally unlooked for,
and least expected by Mrs. Marks, who read and re-read her sister's
letter several times, to assure herself there was no mistake; that she
really was struck with paralysis and not expected to survive many days,
and then what was to become of Jane? Jane, who was so totally dependent
on others, who lived as it were on sufferance, rarely doing work, or
helping her mother in any way, or interesting herself in any one single
thing. If she willed it she worked, if not, she remained idle; her
mother never grumbling or finding fault, while the girl who helped her
was severely rated as an idle good-for-nothing if any one portion of her
daily work was neglected.
There were days when Jane would milk the cows, churn the butter, even
scour out the dairy itself, and work willingly and well--she had been
out to service in her youth--but these days were few and far between;
she usually roamed about at her will, sometimes half over the parish, or
else sat at home perfectly quiet and silent knitting, she never did any
other kind of needlework; or if unemployed she would clasp her hands
together over her knees, her eyes either fixed on vacancy, or restlessly
wandering to and fro, to all appearance, as the neighbours said, not
exactly a daft woman, but one whose mind was afflicted, or had been
visited with some heavy calamity, the weight of which bore her to the
ground, and was at times more than she had strength to bear or battle
against.
Such was the sister Mrs. Marks had determined on befriending, there
being little doubt she would carry out her intention, notwithstanding
Matthew's decided aversion to it; and that Jane would ere long be in
quiet possession of the one spare room in the cottage.
William Hodge, her present visitor, also came from Deane, and kept the
small blacksmith's shop, or parish smithy. He had two sons, one a
good-for-nothing, ne'er-do-weel. Also, well probably a sorrow and
constant anxiety to his parents, who had been absent from home now for
several months, and at his wife's earnest solicitations Hodge had come
down to Brampton to seek him, they having heard accidentally of his
being there or somewhere in the neighbourhood.
"How's Mrs. Hodge, and your sons?" asked Mrs. Marks, as Matthew went off
once more for the ale.
"Sons!" he repeated. "Ah! there's the rub, you've hit the right nail on
the head now. Richard, as works the smithy is as good a lad as ever
breathed; but Tom's turned out bad, and between you and I, 'tis he I've
come all this way to look after. I'd turn my back upon him and have
nothing more to do with him; but there, one can't always do as one
wishes."
"Is Tom down here?"
"I've heerd so."
"What's he doing?"
"No good, that you may be sure," replied he, "since he's here on the
sly. I'm afeard he's got into bad company, and gone along with a
terrible bad lot. The old woman thinks he's turned poacher, and most
worrits and frets herself to death about it; so I've come to try and
find him, and get him back home again, that is if I can. It'll most
break his mother's heart if I don't."
"God grant he isn't with them as murdered poor Susan's husband?"
"Amen," replied he solemnly.
"One of 'em got hanged for that, God rest his soul, though he deserved
it; but there's lots of 'em about; they say the gang is more desperate
like since then, and have vowed to have their vengeance on Mr. Grant,
the Squire's head keeper, but there, it don't do to tell yer all this;
bad news comes fast enough of itself; we'll trust and hope Tom isn't
with none of these."
"Well, we've all got our troubles," said Mrs. Marks again, seeing he
made no reply. "I begin to think those as has no children is better off
than those as has 'em."
"Ye've less trouble, no doubt of it."
"Less trouble! oh, I've mine to bear as well as the rest of yer; why
there's Matthew, with no more spirit in him than a flea, and all through
drink. He'll go off to the public, though 'tis half a mile and more
away, whenever my eyes isn't on him."
"That's bad."
"Bad! It's worse than bad. Here's mother dying, Jane not to be trusted
to come here alone, and Matthew not able to take care of himself no more
than a baby! How I'm to manage to get to Deane I don't know, nor can't
see neither how it's to be done."
"If I was you, I'd go somehow. They'll think badly of you if you don't,
and as for Marks, leave him to get drunk as oft as he likes, for a
treat; I'll wager my life on it, he'll be sober when he sees your face
again, my word on it."
This, to Hodge's mind, was satisfactory reasoning enough; but not so to
Mrs. Marks. She would like to know who was to take care of the 'pike,
during her absence, if Matthew was unable to do so? This was a question
Hodge had not foreseen, and when asked, could not reply to. However,
after a little more talking, they came to the friendly arrangement that
Mrs. Marks should start on the morrow for Deane; Hodge, in the
meanwhile, keeping house with Marks, while she was absent; her stay,
not under any circumstances whatever, to extend beyond a week.
It was an arrangement that satisfied both parties, as on considering the
matter over, Hodge thought it was just as well he did not put up at the
inn for any length of time, his being there might be noised abroad, and,
although he intended passing under a feigned name, still Tom might
easily recognise a description of him, be on the alert, and keep aloof
until all was quiet again.
Mrs. Marks gave him sundry pieces of advice as to how he was to manage
while she was at Deane, and among other things, cautioned him to beware
of trusting Marks too much about Tom.
"If you take my advice," said she, "you won't tell him a word about him,
that's if you want it kept quiet, I never trust him with a secret. He's
the man for you if you want a bit of news spread, why it would be all
over the parish in--well, I'd give him an hour's start, then I'd walk
after him, and hear it all over again from everybody's mouth I met. It's
ten times worse when he's got a drop of drink in him, then he'll talk
for ever, and you'll may-be hear more than you care to, so mind, I
caution you to be wary."
"I shan't wag my tongue, if you don't," replied Hodge.
"I!" exclaimed Mrs. Marks, indignantly. "I mind my own business, which
I've plenty of, I can tell you, and don't trouble my head about other
people's; let everybody take care of their own, which it's my belief
they don't, or there wouldn't be so many squabbles going on in the
village at times."
"You're a wise woman, Mrs. Marks."
"True for you," said Matthew, returning, "I'll back her agin a dozen
women, twice her size."
"Hold your tongue, you simpleton," said his wife, "and give me the ale
here; you've been a precious time drawing it. What have you been about?"
added she, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Been about? Why just tilting the barrel, there ain't enough left to
drown a rat in."
"Why don't you say a mouse, or som'ut smaller still. If I'd had my
senses about me, I'd never have trusted you within a mile of it," said
she, handing the mug to Hodge.
"I'll swear I arn't tasted a drop. I'd scorn to drink on the sly,"
replied Marks, attempting to look indignant, and glancing at his
visitor.
"There, don't straiten your body that way, and try to look big, you meek
saint, you! as scorns to drink on the sly, but don't mind telling a lie
straight out; there ain't anybody here as believes you, leastways I
don't. Why Mr. Hodge," said she, taking the empty mug from his hand,
"you'd think I was blessed with the best husband as ever breathed,
instead of the greatest rogue. Why you'd be a villain, Marks, if it
warn't for knowing your wife's eye's always on you. You're afeard of it,
you know you are."
"I'm a devilish deal more afeard of som'ut else; a 'ooman's eye only
strikes skin deep, but her tongue do rattle a man's bones and make his
flesh creep," muttered Matthew, turning away.
"There don't settle yourself in the chimney corner again, but come and
help Mr. Hodge on with his great-coat. Hear to the wind how it's rising;
'tis a raw cold night outside, I take it."
"It's drenching with rain," said Hodge, as he stepped over the threshold
and pulled up the collar of his coat preparatory to facing the rain,
which was coming down in torrents.
"Rain!" exclaimed Matthew, as his wife closed the door on her visitor.
"Who'd have thought it? But there, _she_ said it would rain. Oh! she's a
true prophet, is Goody Grey, and no mistake. I said she was a fearful
'ooman, and know'd most everything. The Lord save and deliver us, and
have mercy upon us! for we none of us know," and he glanced at Mrs.
Marks, "what's going to happen. Good Lord deliver us from harm."
"There go and put the pot on to boil for supper," said Mrs. Marks,
turning on him sharply, "and don't stand there a chaunting of the
psalms'es."
And with deep sighs and many inward groans, Matthew went and did his
wife's bidding, but the psalms seemed uppermost in his mind that night;
he seemed to have them at his fingers' ends.