Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  “Dreadful--from your father?”

  “Yes. He’s taken it hard.”

  “Meaning that he’s resentful.”

  “Yes. You see---“

  “Towards me also?”

  “No.” Grace managed a smile. “No, not to you, Margery. He says you spoke the truth, and had no part in what else was done.”

  “Will someone enlighten me?”

  Frank asked it quietly, and Margery understood at once. She had told him briefly of yesterday’s proceedings, but these undercurrents ran deeper than that. A moment of further thought showed her that he might safely be told, for nothing in this touched Christopher Southworth. But before she could speak, the door swung open and Richard Baldwin came stamping in.

  “Ha!” he said. “I thought I heard voices. Master Hilliard, you are welcome here. And what of you, mistress? Are you still among our friends?”

  “I hope so. Is there reason why I should not be?”

  He considered that thoughtfully before he answered, and Margery waited anxiously, realizing that in his usual blunt fashion he had come to essentials at once.

  “No,” he answered slowly. “We’ve no quarrel with you, neither I nor mine. You bore true witness and took no other part.”‘

  She made no pretence of misunderstanding him. She must come to the matter some time and it might as well be now. But she had the scent of his humour and she spoke a little nervously.

  “I’m charged with some messages,” she said. “Messages from my cousin and also from Master Banister--particularly Master Banister.”

  She watched him keenly. She saw the shade of doubt in his eye, and she was pleased with herself for having had the wit to use Nick Banister’s name. Evidently he still had some respect for it.

  “Is it so?” There was suspicion in his voice. “You’d best come to my parlour then.”

  He led to the door, and Margery had a word for Grace.

  “Enlighten Frank for me,” she said, and then she followed to the parlour.

  “These messages?” he said curtly.

  He made no prelude, and Margery caught nothing of promise in his tone. She looked round quickly, and at once she observed the open Bible on the table in front of him. She craned her neck as she seated herself, and saw that it was open at the hundred-and-ninth Psalm--significant reading. Then she realized that he was waiting.

  “My cousin and Master Banister,” she began. She hesitated, and then plunged on with a fine disregard of detail. “It seems that they are but little removed from you in the way they view this Demdike. It’s a difference only as to how her works may best be brought home to her.”

  His hand slapped the Bible angrily, but she went on quickly, giving him no chance of courteous interruption. She surprised herself with the tale she made of it. She reminded him of his treatment of Elizabeth Device, and she mentioned Roger’s approval of it. Then, mixing Roger and Nick Banister into one she told him of their belief that Demdike had indeed set out to cast a charm; she glossed over their doubts of the potency of the charm, and hurried on to credit Roger with a dictum about giving a witch rope enough to hang herself. She represented the whole affair as a mere difference of policy, and then she drew once more on her imagination for a wholly fictitious quotation from Roger: ‘Better send her to the Summer Assize and have her hang, than send her at Lent to be acquitted.’ She was pleased with that, as having the true ring of Roger in it, and on the whole she thought she had kept surprisingly near the truth. She looked at Richard with some satisfaction, and as a final shot she invented a warning message from Roger, bidding him have a special care of Grace.

  He looked her over coldly.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “He thinks the Demdike may have disliked being sworn to the stocks.”

  “She did.” There was satisfaction in his tone at last. “And the whelp even more. I was at trouble to visit them as they sat. I’d some hopes the people would have stoned them and thus made an end, but I should have known better.” He smiled bitterly. “There were some three-score folk a-watch, and all but one were too frightened of the Demdike power to lift a finger.”

  “And the one?”

  “Some honest soul--I could not learn his name--had hung a dead cat from the whelp’s neck. It’s guts were laid open and spilled upon her. She spat her curses at the stink.” He smiled again. “Did I say I could not learn the fellow’s name?”

  “You said so.”

  “Yet I made a guess. There was a smile on our Constable that set me thinking. I’ll say it for Harry Hargreaves, papist though he is, that he knows what’s proper for a witch.”

  Then the smile faded and his eyes were hard again.

  “So I don’t doubt their malice, and I’ll have a care for Grace. There was not the need to warn me. Yet it was well intended, and you may take my thanks to Master Nowell for that thought. And bid him in his turn look to you, mistress. You, also, bore testimony against the abhorred of God.”

  At least he had spoken of thanks to Roger. Margery seized on that and pressed it further, speaking urgently of Roger’s helpful goodwill. He pondered that darkly before he gave answer.

  “That he has goodwill, I’ll believe” he said at length. “That it’s helpful, I see no reason to believe. He’s a deal too tender to the ungodly. They could have been sent to the Lent Assize, and if anything of proof was lacking it might have been had.”

  “But how, if you please?”

  “There’s juice in the driest apple if it be but pressed enough. So with these women. They were not so much as swum.”

  “Swum?”

  “Aye, in the nearest water. It’s a cleansing way with witches. If they float, there’s proof of guilt. If they sink, there’s hope of drowning. And either way the world’s the cleaner.”

  And there he left it. He rose and said he must be back in the mill, and there was nothing for Margery to do but accept that. But she was not wholly dissatisfied; at least there was some hope, and all might yet be well if there was no more alarm of witches. And at that her satisfaction faded, for of course there would be more alarm of witches; if a cow died, or a rick took blaze, if even the ale were sour, the Demdike hand could be seen by a man who meant to see it. And then? He had given warning that he would trust in the Lord of Hosts--which meant, as Margery supposed, that he would follow his impulse and believe it to be the will of God. That was the way of puritans, as she well knew. It was at the centre of their creed that each should read his Bible and decide for himself what the will of God might be; and not every man could be trusted to decide with sense in such dark and tangled causes. Margery’s heart sank at the thought of a Demdike killed, and Roger committing Richard Baldwin for the trial of his life at Lancaster. If Richard were hanged at Lancaster, it could even be on Margery’s testimony. She stood in the doorway, looked across at Grace, and felt sick.

  Grace, however, looked happier. She had apparently got quickly to good terms with Frank, and they were sitting on opposite sides of the hearth, chattering easily. And at once Margery disturbed their harmony. She felt that in her present mood, and with her present thoughts, she must get out of this house. She could not, this day, sit at dinner with Richard Baldwin and think of what he might soon provoke; so she told Frank they must be going, and he was not pleased. Grace looked disappointed, and that made Margery feel selfish; but she stuck to it, feeling that to stay would be more than she could bear, and a rather sulky Frank went in search of the horses. Margery took the chance of a word with Grace.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s not the day to linger. Everyone’s at odds with someone, and who’s to say what may come next?”

  “I know.” Grace spoke soberly. “It may be better soon.” “I hope so. I fear Frank’s not pleased.”

  “No. But Margery---“

  “Yes?”

  “Have a care for him. There’s such a web of hatred here.”

  “Here?”

  “In Pendle, I mean. Miles had a word to say---�
�

  “Miles?” Margery was almost startled. Yesterday’s affair had so filled her mind that she had all but forgotten the Rough Lee, but this reminder brought her to the alert at once; it was not safe to forget the Rough Lee.

  “What did Miles say?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not very much, and even that not plain. But I did glean that Alice Nutter had not thought to see your Frank on Sunday. She supposed him gone from Pendle.”

  “So I’ll believe. But what more?”

  ‘Nothing that’s sure. But---“

  “Go on.”

  “Miles thought his mother was displeased--and something more than displeased. She said little, it seems, but Miles knows her ways.”

  “I’m getting to know them myself. So you think there’s mischief brewing?”

  “Yes. And if that woman brews it---“

  Grace broke off quickly as Frank was heard walking the horses to the door. But enough had been said to send a second cloud over Margery’s thoughts and to deepen her gloom to something like despair. Everyone she knew in Pendle seemed to be in trouble or in danger, and most of them must look to themselves; but Frank Hilliard must be her special care, since ail that touched him lay at her own door. She was asking herself now if she had not a duty to get him out of Pendle, and brooding darkly on that, she stayed in her thoughts and let him do without her talk.

  They passed through Barley, and as they left it behind and made down the Pendle Water, Margery’s thoughts came swiftly to earth. Coming along the wooded road, moving wearily, with bent head and tapping stick, was old Demdike, the dark-haired Alizon slouching with her. Both looked to the ground as the horses went past, and Margery kept her eyes to the front. But then she yielded to temptation and turned her head for a quick look; and at once she regretted it, for it gave her a glimpse, which she did not quickly forget, of two faces turned to her, the one lined and old and the other young and vicious, but both alike twisted in a living hurting hate.

  “And who the Devil may those be?”

  Frank’s voice came from her side to disturb the thought, and she remembered with surprise that he had not seen these two before; he had heard of them but he had not seen them, and he showed a quick interest when he learned who they were.

  “I wish I’d known sooner,” he said. “I’d have viewed them the more keenly as we passed.”

  He looked across at Margery, and this time she could not avoid his eye.

  “What’s the truth of it?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Truth of what?”

  “Of all these tales. Of what you told me yesterday, and of what Grace yonder had to say to me this morning. What’s behind it all?”

  Margery hesitated. She wanted to talk. She wanted to talk to someone of all this, and she wanted to talk to him in particular; and she knew, too, that talk of such sort might do much to ease the stiffness that was growing between them. But caution was alive in her, and Roger’s warning words were clear in her mind. True, he had been speaking mostly of the Southworth affair, but Margery well knew that confidences, once started, have a way of running on; and her very liking for Frank, the very temptation she felt to talk deeply with him now, gave warning that here was a path that might prove both steep and slippery. And she was too tired and strained to think as quickly and clearly as she would need to in such a talk.

  She thought she could not risk it, and she put him off with vague words. At once she saw the resentment in his eyes, and she guessed that his wish to draw her into talk had sprung as much from friendship as from curiosity; and in rejecting that, she had in a sense rejected him. Her unhappiness grew, and his matched hers. Silence came upon them, and they rode home with hardly a spoken word.

  It was a relief when Roger told her that he had written to his son-in-law, Tom Heber, accepting the invitation for Christmas that Tom had brought them at Martinmas. They would spend the Twelve Days out of Pendle, said Roger. The break would be good for both of them; and.as for Frank, he might come with them if he chose; he would be sure of welcome at Marton.

  But Frank would have none of it. He said stiffly that there was not the need for it; he lacked neither friends nor kin, and he would betake himself to his own folk. He was very proper and dignified when he added that there should be no delay in his departure from Read.

  Roger made no comment, but all expression had faded from his face as he remarked that Frank must decide that for himself. And Margery, who had no illusions about Frank’s attitude, was now in such a humour that she was almost glad of it.

  Chapter 26: TAFFETA AND VELVET

  Frank kept to his resolution. He left the next morning, riding unattended in a cold grey mist. Once again Margery stood outside the door to see him go, but this time her feelings were different. His farewell when he rode to Lathom had been warm and hopeful; today his civilities had a chill that matched the mist. He expressed no regret, and said nothing of seeing her again; he did not even say where he was going. He thanked Roger courteously for kindness done, spoke a formal word of thanks to Margery, and then rode away. Margery stood in the mist, silent and lonely, nursing the helpless feeling that something had gone from her, as it need not have gone if the fates had dealt a little kinder; that, she thought, was the way of things under Pendle Hill.

  “What was it that set you at such odds?”

  Roger’s voice startled her. She had not guessed that he was still behind her on the gravel, and her memory flashed to that other morning when he had done the like.

  “Odds?” she repeated vaguely.

  “Aye--like dogs and a baited bear.’

  He took her arm and led her into the parlour where the fire glowed red and hot ale steamed before it; and at once she thought of Frank, with his face cold in the mist, and she shivered in the radiant warmth.

  “What ails you, lass?”

  The kindness in his voice broke her guard, and she found herself clinging to him while she groped for the hand kerchief which was meant for airs and graces. Roger was too wise to interfere; he left her to it and became lost in the proper spicing of his heated ale. Soon she had recovered herself, and she watched him affectionately as he sipped critically at the spiced October. And suddenly she was pouring out the story.

  “A thought too much cinnamon,” was his comment as she ended. “So you think this to be the last of him?”

  She stared at him as he delicately sifted powdered ginger into the ale to correct the cinnamon.

  “I ... I hardly know.”

  It had occurred to her that Roger was taking this very calmly ; and since Roger was assuredly not callous, it followed that Roger must see some hopes.

  Tell me,” she said fiercely, “tell me what I may think.”

  “A dangerous venture, that.” He sipped the ale again and seemed satisfied. “But you’ve done well. Here’s an uncertain world, and there’s more wisdom in silence than in talk. Apart from which, he’ll not prize you the less for it when pique’s died down.”

  His calmness was the right medicine. It infected Margery and she began to think clearly again.

  “That might be. But I’ve to see him again first. And I do not know so much as the way he rides.”

  “North,” said Roger promptly. “I heeded his going.”

  “North, was it? But whither?”

  “Where you will.” He sipped his ale placidly. “There’s but one true road here. You may ride into the Forest or you may ride out of it. He rode in.”

  “So?” Margery’s voice was eager.

  “Again, what you will. Myself, I remember that the Forest road leads to Gisburn--and the Listers are his kin.”

  “The Listers?”

  “Of Westby, hard by Gisburn. A pleasant spot.” Roger reached for his boots. “And finely placed--ten miles short of Marton, on the road that we must ride.”

  And suddenly Margery took to laughing. Roger said nothing, but he watched her warily as he tugged his boots on.

  “You think he’ll visit Marton?” she asked him suddenl
y.

  “Who knows? But it’s no long ride. Nor need he lack a reason if he should seek one.”

  “How?” She was cool again now.

  “Family greetings.” He pulled his cloak about his shoulders. Jane Lister is a Heber. She’s Tom’s sister. That might be convenient. And now I’m for Altham. Curse these Wednesdays!”

  He was away at that, and for an hour Margery was buoyant. But the mood did not last when she was alone, with no one to talk with and nothing to do. Soon she began to despond; by afternoon she was moping, and by nightfall she was a misery. She had hardly a greeting for Roger when he returned, and she sat through supper in a black silence, trying to tell herself that it was all for the best since she had certainly had a duty to get Frank out of Pendle.

  Roger seemed to notice nothing, though twice, when she looked up suddenly, she found his eyes upon her. But later, as he sat lazily with his wine, he startled her by asking suddenly whether azure would suit him. For a moment she doubted if she had heard him fully.

  “Azure,” he repeated calmly as she shook her wits together and sat up. “It’s a colour, is it not? I think of a new doublet.”

  Margery began to get interested. She was always interested in clothes. But why a new doublet? And she was quite sure that azure would not suit Roger.

  “May I . . . may I know what it’s for?” she asked doubtfully.

  “For Marton. What else? We’ll be there the Twelve Days, and with junketings each night. Am I to be the same throughout, like a seed-time scarecrow?”

  But Roger got no answer to that. It had occurred to Margery that here was a problem that did not touch Roger only, and her mind was running hastily through the contents of her wardrobe. She stared at him in consternation, and gave herself to estimating his mood. Then she stood with her hair under the candles, gave him her most crinkling smile, and told him in urgent accents that she must herself have some new clothes for the occasion, if she were not to bring disgrace on him, his house and his family. She watched him anxiously as his sardonic eyebrows rose, and then, seeing no displeasure there, she hastened to state her needs. The flame-satin kirtle was all but finished, and that would be well enough as far as it went; but she would need at least one more kirtle and a new gown too. She had only the flowered sarcenet, and that was getting known. Besides, it would not go with flame satin. Scarlet would be the best, she thought. Scarlet was the most useful of all colours---