I AM SUSPECTED OF THE BLACK ART
"Vibart!"
The word had been uttered close behind me, and very softly, yet I
started at this sudden mention of my name and stood for a moment with
my hammer poised above the anvil ere I turned and faced the speaker.
He was a tall man with a stubbly growth of grizzled hair about his lank
jaws, and he was leaning in at that window of the smithy which gave
upon a certain grassy back lane.
"You spoke, I think!" said I.
"I said, 'Vibart'!"
"Well?"
"Well?"
"And why should you say 'Vibart'?"
"And why should you start?" Beneath the broad, flapping hat his eyes
glowed with a sudden intensity as he waited my answer.
"It is familiar," said I.
"Ha! familiar?" he repeated, and his features were suddenly contorted
as with a strong convulsion, and his teeth gleamed between his pallid
lips.
My hammer was yet in my grasp, and, as I met this baleful look, my
fingers tightened instinctively about the shaft.
"Familiar?" said he again.
"Yes," I nodded; "like your face, for it would almost seem that I have
seen you somewhere before, and I seldom forget faces."
"Nor do I!" said the man.
Now, while we thus fronted each other, there came the sound of
approaching footsteps, and John Pringle, the Carrier, appeared,
followed by the pessimistic Job.
"Marnin', Peter!—them 'orseshoes," began John, pausing just outside
the smithy door, "you was to finish 'em 's arternoon; if so be as they
bean't done, you bein' short'anded wi'out Jarge, why, I can wait."
Now, during this speech, I was aware that both his and Job's eyes had
wandered from my bandaged thumb to my bare throat, and become fixed
there.
"Come in and sit down," said I, nodding to each, as I blew up the fire,
"come in." For a moment they hesitated, then John stepped gingerly
into the smithy, closely followed by Job, and, watching them beneath my
brows as I stooped above the shaft of the bellows, I saw each of them
furtively cross his fingers.
"Why do you do that, John Pringle?" said I.
"Do what, Peter?"
"Cross your fingers."
"Why, ye see, Peter," said John, glancing in turn at the floor, the
rafters, the fire, and the anvil, but never at me, "ye see, it be just
a kind o' way o' mine."
"But why does Job do the same?"
"An' why do 'ee look at a man so sharp an' sudden-like?" retorted Job
sullenly; "dang me! if it aren't enough to send cold shivers up a
chap's spine—I never see such a pair o' eyes afore—no—nor don't want
to again."
"Nonsense!" said I; "my eyes can't hurt you."
"An' 'ow am I to know that, 'ow am I to be sure o' that; an' you wi'
your throat all torn wi' devil's claws an' demon's clutches—it bean't
nat'ral—Old Amos says so, an' I sez so."
"Pure folly!" said I, plucking the iron from the fire, and beginning to
beat and shape it with my hammer, but presently, remembering the
strange man who had spoken my name, I looked up, and then I saw that he
was gone. "Where is he?" said I involuntarily.
"Where's who?" inquired John Pringle, glancing about uneasily.
"The fellow who was talking to me as you came up?"
"I didn't see no fellow!" said Job, looking at John and edging nearer
the door.
"Nor me neither!" chimed in John Pringle, looking at Job.
"Why, he was leaning in at the window here, not a minute ago," said I,
and, plunging the half-finished horseshoe back into the fire, I stepped
out into the road, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
"Very strange!" said I.
"What might 'e 'ave been like, now?" inquired John.
"He was tall and thin, and wore a big flapping hat."
John Pringle coughed, scratched his chin, and coughed again.
"What is it, John?" I inquired.
"Why, then, you couldn't 'appen to notice—'im wearin' 'is 'at—you
couldn't 'appen to notice if 'e 'ad ever a pair o' 'orns, Peter?"
"Horns!" I exclaimed.
"Or a—tail, Peter?"
"Or even a—'oof, now?" suggested Job.
"Come," said I, looking from one to the other, "what might you be
driving at?"
"Why, ye see, Peter," answered John, coughing again, and scratching his
chin harder than ever, "ye see, Peter, it aren't nat'ral for a 'uman
bein' to go a-vanishin' away like this 'ere—if 'twere a man as you was
a-talkin' to—"
"Which I doubts!" muttered Job.
"If 'twere a man, Peter, then I axes you—where is that man?"
Before I could answer this pointed question, old Joel Amos hobbled up,
who paused on the threshold to address some one over his shoulder.
"Come on, James, 'ere 'e be—come for'ard, James, like a man."
Thus adjured, another individual appeared: a somewhat flaccid-looking
individual, with colorless hair and eyes, one who seemed to exhale an
air of apology, as it were, from the hobnailed boot upon the floor to
the grimy forefinger that touched the strawlike hair in salutation.
"Marnin', Peter!" said Old Amos, "this yere is Dutton."
"How do you do?" said I, acknowledging the introduction, "and what can
I do for Mr. Dutton?" The latter, instead of replying, took out a
vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face.
"Speak up, James Dutton," said Old Amos.
"Lord!" exclaimed Dutton, "Lord! I du be that 'ot!—you speak for I,
Amos, du."
"Well," began Old Amos, not ill-pleased, "this 'ere Dutton wants to ax
'ee a question, 'e du, Peter."
"I shall be glad to answer it, if I can," I returned.
"You 'ear that?—well, ax your question, James Dutton," commanded the
old man.
"W'y, ye see, Amos," began Dutton, positively reeking apology, "I du be
that on-common 'ot—you ax un."
"W'y, then, Peter," began Amos, with great unction, "it's 'is pigs!"
"Pigs?" I exclaimed, staring.
"Ah! pigs, Peter," nodded Old Amos, "Dutton's pigs; 'is sow farrowed
last week—at three in the marnin'—nine of 'em!"
"Well?" said I, wondering more and more.
"Well, Peter, they was a fine 'earty lot, an' all a-doin' well—till
last Monday."
"Indeed!" said I.
"Last Monday night, four on 'em sickened an' died!"
"Most unfortunate!" said I.
"An' the rest 'as never been the same since."
"Probably ate something that disagreed with them," said I, picking up
my hammer and laying it down again. Old Amos smiled and shook his head.
"You know James Dutton's pigsty, don't ye, Peter?"
"I really can't say that I do."
"Yet you pass it every day on your way to the 'Oller—it lays just
be'ind Simon's oast-'ouse, as James 'isself will tell 'ee."
"So it du," interpolated Dutton, with an apologetic nod, "which,
leastways, if it don't, can't be no'ow!" having delivered himself of
which, he buried his face in the belcher handkerchief.
"Now, one evenin', Peter," continued Old Amos, "one evenin' you leaned
over the fence o' that theer pigsty an' stood a-lookin' at they pigs
for, p'r'aps, ten minutes."
"Did I?"
"Ay, that ye did—James Dutton see ye, an' 'is wife, she see ye tu, and
I see ye."
"Then," said I, "probably I did. Well?"
"Well," said the old man, looking round upon his hearers, and bringing
out each word with the greatest unction, "that theer evenin' were last
Monday evenin' as ever was—the very same hour as Dutton's pigs
sickened an' died!" Hereupon John Pringle and Job rose simultaneously
from where they had been sitting, and retreated precipitately to the
door.
"Lord!" exclaimed John.
"I might ha' knowed it!" said Job, drawing a cross in the air with his
finger.
"An' so James Dutton wants to ax ye to tak' it off, Peter," said Old
Amos.
"To take what off?"
"Why, the spell, for sure." Hereupon I gave free play to my amusement,
and laughed, and laughed, while the others watched me with varying
expressions.
"And so you think that I bewitched Dutton's pigs, do you?" said I, at
last, glancing from Old Amos to the perspiring Apology (who immediately
began to mop at his face and neck again). "And why," I continued,
seeing that nobody appeared willing to speak, "why should you think it
of me?"
"W'y, Peter, ye bean't like ordinary folk; your eyes goes through an'
through a man. An' then, Peter, I mind as you come a-walkin' into
Siss'n'urst one night from Lord knows wheer, all covered wi' dust, an'
wi' a pack on your back."
"You are wrong there, Amos," said I, "it was afternoon when I came, and
the Ancient was with me."
"Ah! an' wheer did 'e find ye, Peter?—come, speak up an' tell us."
"In the Hollow," I answered.
"Ay, 'e found 'ee in the very spot wheer the Wanderer o' the Roads 'ung
'isself, sixty an' six years ago."
"There is nothing very strange in that!" said I.
"What's more, you come into the village an' beat Black Jarge throwin'
th' 'ammer, an' 'im the strongest man in all the South Country!"
"I beat him because he did not do his best—so there is nothing strange
in that either."
"An' then, you lives all alone in that theer ghashly 'Oller—an' you
fights, an' struggles wi' devils an' demons, all in the wind an' rain
an' tearin' tempest—an' what's most of all—you comes back—alive; an'
what's more yet, wi' devil-marks upon ye an' your throat all tore wi'
claws. Old Gaffer be over proud o' findin' ye, but old Gaffer be
dodderin'—dodderin' 'e be, an' fulish wi' years; 'e'd ha' done much
better to ha' left ye alone—I've heerd o' folk sellin' theirselves to
the devil afore now, I've likewise heerd o' the 'Evil Eye' afore
now—ah! an' knows one when I sees it."
"Nonsense!" said I sternly, "nonsense! This talk of ghosts and devils
is sheer folly. I am a man, like the rest of you, and could not wish
you ill—even if I would—come, let us all shake hands, and forget this
folly!" and I extended my hand to Old Amos.
He glanced from it to my face, and immediately, lowering his eyes,
shook his head.
"'Tis the 'Evil Eye'!" said he, and drew across upon the floor with his
stick, "the 'Evil Eye'!"
"Nonsense!" said I again; "my eye is no more evil than yours or Job's.
I never wished any man harm yet, nor wronged one, and I hope I never
may. As for Mr. Dutton's pigs, if he take better care of them, and
keep them out of the damp, they will probably thrive better than
ever—come, shake hands!"
But, one by one, they edged their way to the door after Old Amos, until
only John Pringle was left; he, for a moment, stood hesitating, then,
suddenly reaching out, he seized my hand, and shook it twice.
"I'll call for they 'orseshoes in the marnin', Peter," said he, and
vanished.
"Arter all," I heard him say, as he joined the others, "'tis summat to
ha' shook 'ands wi' a chap as fights wi' demons!"