“Oh! I thought Beguildy’d learnt ye. A very sinful man is that. Soaked
in sin like a sheep in raddle. It wunna be any manner use for ’im to
yammer at the doors o’ Paradise and say, ‘Wesh me and I shall be whiter
than snow.’ For I tell ye not the Judge of all could clane ’im, even if
He could spare the time to it. Ah! A wicked old man is the Wizard. I do
believe he lives by sucking folks’ life away in the mid of night. Ah!
sucks their blood, he does. They seyn he goes to the churchyard and digs
folk up to steal their bwones and grind ’em for his spells. They seyn he
fetches little children whome in his bag, and makes a meal of ’em. Oh,
he be the wickedest man since Punty Pilate, no danger!”
By this, the elder children were roaring with fright, and Missis Callard
called out from the top of the stair—
“Feyther-law, what be saying now? Hold thy noise!”
Mister Callard came in then, and said I’d best take pot-luck, seeing it
was tea-time. So when we’d had our tea, I told them about Jancis.
“So ’er run away!” says Mister Callard. “In this weather. Well, by gum!”
“Gum!” says his missus.
“Broke her time!” says Callard.
“Time!” says his missus, sorrowful.
“Nobody ever broke their time when _I_ was a lad,” said the old man.
“They darstna. They’d have been put in the stocks.”
“And you be sure it inna anything to do with Weaver?”
“Weaver!” says Missis Callard, grievous.
“Weaver! Weaver!” shouted the children, and it seemed to me as if they
praised his name.
“I be as sure of that as I’m sure that I breathe,” I said.
“And she’s promised to your brother?”
“Ah. They’ll be wed come Harvest Home.”
“Then,” says Mister Callard, “the missus shall give the girl a trial.”
“Trial!” echoes Missis Callard in a hopeless sort of way, as if she
thought that was what Jancis would be.
They agreed to take Jancis for six months, and to give her three pound,
which was a deal for them to offer. So I went back in high feather. Next
day Gideon said we could have Bendigo, so I drove Jancis to Callard’s,
stopping at Beguildy’s on the way, to break the news to the old man.
Oh, dear me, but he was in a passion! And the worst of it was, that he
blamed it all on to Gideon, who had nought to do with it at all.
“I’ll be even with that brother of yours for this,” he says. “Ah! A very
aggravating man. His dad was the same. I couldna plan out anything or
set my hand to any work but he’d come and knock it down, tiddly-bump.
And young Sarn’s the same. Look at the way he’s let and hindered me over
the young squire!”
But Missis Beguildy was pleased.
“And you shall come whome at the end of hay harvest, Jancis,” she said,
“to make your wedding clo’es. And the wedding shall be at Michaelmas.
The Glory roses’ll be in their second blooming then, and you shall have
’em for your nosegay.”
“I tell ye,” says Beguildy, “as Sarn shanna take her. You can tell un so
from me, Prue Sarn. Thwarted I wunna be. I’ve cursed the man by fire and
watter, and cursed he’ll surely be. Tell un neither with the ring nor
without it shall he take my wench.”
“Well, good day to you, Mister Beguildy,” I said. For I thought it was
time to drive on.
“Prue,” said Jancis as we drove through the water meadows between Plash
and Callard’s Dingle, “what for did ye knife Grimble’s dog and take on
the way you did about Weaver?”
She looked up at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and I beat Bendigo
cruel so as to be busy about summat. The poor old nag gave a half look
round, and my conscience pricked me, but what was I to do?
“Folk be saying it was a very out-of-the-ornary thing for a girl to do
for a stranger. Ah! even as far as Grimble’s they knew it was you,
though neither Grimble nor the missus told ’em, for they didna like to
speak of it, being beaten over it. But everybody knows in all the
country round by this.”
She kept on looking and looking at me, and the red-scarlet was burning
like fire in my cheeks. I kept on thrashing Bendigo, and we went over
the tumps and marshy bits at such a wallop as never was.
Jancis gave a little laugh, very knowing and aggravating.
“Poor owd Bendigo’s done nought,” she says.
“I want to get there,” I answers, foolish-like.
“Oh, I’ll be bound you’ll get there,” she says. Then she was quiet for a
bit, though she watched me all the while.
“I wonder,” she said after a time, “what Weaver ud think if he knew?”
“He couldna know,” I said. “He was in a swound.”
“He met hear tell! And I wonder what he’d think if it came to his ears
that Prue Sarn had foughten for un like a tiger?”
“He’d think nought. Everybody do know I’m sorry for the afflicted.”
“Well, but he inna what you’d call one of the afflicted, Mister
Woodseaves inna. He’s the best wrestler in these parts, and a right
proper man.”
“He was afflicted when Grimble’s Toby got ’im by the throat, wunna he?”
“Ah. But why must it be Prue Sarn that did save him? And why must she
take his yead to her bosom so kind and all? Not but what he’s got very
nice brown hair, and silky. I was used to notice it when he was writing
the letters for me. And that Felena thinks so too. She does fairly
tarment him, market days.”
“What a brazen piece! What does she do?”