They stood in a group together: the lovers and their father.
‘What be atwixt you and y’r sister then, hey?’
Seth scowled uncomprehendingly. ‘Sister! I daun’t rightly unnerstand you, Mus Noke.’
‘Oh, dauntee?’ said Noke. ‘Well, hearkee here. What be atwixt you and my darter Charity?’
‘Us wanta get married, Mus Noke. That be all.’
Noke eyed him with shrewd hatred. ‘Have ye got her with child then?’
Seth glanced at the woman; then at his questioner; then at the ground. ‘I dunnaw,’ said he. ‘But we’ll wed, whether or no.’
The question was answered. In Noke the storm gathered, shook him body and mind, and found vent at last in a peal of angry laughter. Grinning and roaring, he stared at his new-found son, with love and hate, pride and shame, blazing out of his eyes. Oaths came tumbling with his laughter, and hate rose ascendant. This fellow and his daughter! Murderous jealousy woke again from its uneasy slumber, and now there was new venom in its sting. But with a mighty effort, perhaps the mightiest he had ever made, he controlled his fury that he might say, quietly, and so with the more deadly effect:
‘You be Tisha Bailey’s son, I’ll ’low?’
‘Ay. Tisha Shellett’s son.’
‘She were Tisha Bailey right enough when I got ye. How do, son?’
Seth stared at him in discomfort, thinking him crazy.
‘D’ye hear me?’ cried Noke. ‘Twas I that fathered ye, I’m saying. And this sly slut’s y’r sister. Likes to keep her courten in the family, I rackon.’
Seth found his tongue. ‘That be a countable stupid tale, Mus Noke.’
‘Ha! You daun’t believe me, hey? Then ask this pretty punk o’ yourn. She’ll tell ee.’
‘Tis true enough, Shellett,’ said one of the brothers. ‘Them’s bin maken a gurt fool of ye if ye dunnaw that.’
Seth had heard often enough—too often—the tale that Tom Shellett had been at pains to set going: how he, Seth, came near to being born out of wedlock, owing to Tom’s exceptional talent for seduction. And now this boast recurred to his mind, glittering with falsehood. But it was in Charity’s face that he read his doom: Charity’s face that burned with shame, but shewed no trace of disbelief or astonishment.
‘So tis true, is ut?’ he said, with his eyes searching her. ‘And I maun’t have ye, eh?’
Whether true or not, she believed it, and had believed it from the first. This he now knew. The corruption of that knowledge came crawling into his stomach. She had tricked and betrayed him and taken the heart out of his body. Henceforward his fellows would look askance at him, and there would be a black curse on his soul, and evil luck would follow him to the world’s end. And he could never have her. He saw her now as a false picture of delight, a painted emptiness, lovely and loathsome. But saw her so only with the eye of his dark and stricken mind; for when he looked at her in the flesh, even in this dim evening light, he saw her as he had seen her a score of times before. She was Charity Noke, a hearty handsome wench, whom he had desired for his own, and still desired. And with the knowledge of his continuing desire a great fury entered and possessed him, and jealousy, most avid of Koor’s gods, demanded its ultimate tribute.
‘So I maun’t have ye, eh?’ he repeated thickly. ‘Nor maun’t no other man, I’ll ’low.’
The blade of Ogo’s axe entered her temple, and a murderer ran raging through the wood.
CHAPTER 9
IN WHICH MR BAILEY RECEIVES A TOKEN AND COACHY TIMMS HAS THE LAST WORD
That night is far away and long ago, and the hearts that suffered it are dust. Time, that gave it birth, has now entombed it; oblivion has sealed it up; and a thousand rains have fallen in Glatting Wood. In Marden Fee it was already a legend, one part history to five parts conjecture, on that October evening, two years later, when Mr Bailey and a few of his oldest friends sat watching and waiting for the hour when his seventy-fifth birthday should begin. There were present Mykelborne the wheelwright, Growcock the smith, Sweet the cobbler, Shellett the cowherd, and Coachy Timms the oracle: to say nothing of certain supernumeraries, who, though they could not be excluded from the tavern, had not been admitted to the secret. The five initiates sat side by side, with one eye on the clock. Conversation was moribund; and Mr Bailey, after numerous failures, had at last abandoned his attempts to revive it. It still wanted twelve minutes to eight, and the tension of waiting had begun to tell on everyone, and especially on Mykelborne, who had a particular reason for his agitation. In his corner of the settle, and made conspicuous by his efforts to hide it, was a large roundish object tied up in a red handkerchief. This thing, by its mere presence, dominated the scene; the glances of the five were constantly straying towards it; and after each of such glances they would look hastily at Mr Bailey with guilt shining in their eyes: which guilt, were they so unlucky as to encounter his inquiring gaze, they were quick to replace with a look of innocent unconcern hardly to be distinguished from inanity. Then, so soon as they had stared him down, they would nudge each other and whisper: ‘He ha’n’t seen naun, have a?’ This question was always referred to Mykelborne, who thereupon, five times out of six, took a sharp look at Mr Bailey, and said: ‘Nay, he ha’n’t seen the token, I’ll ’low.’ But the sixth time, his nerves being over-wrought, he replied with indiscreet vigour: ‘And if he ha’n’t, tis no thanks to you, dannel ye! Why must you goo looken at ut every minute!’ ‘I seen you a-looken: that be for why.’ ‘I din look.’ ‘I seen you look.’ ‘Daun’t quarrel, my coneys,’ said Coachy, in high clear tones. ‘Daun’t quarrel at drinken time. Tis ungodly.’ Mr Bailey, who had been aware of the alien object ever since the moment when Mykelborne, with infinite care to be unobserved, had placed it in its corner, was as nervous as the rest; but he made a brave show of ignorance and there was some art in his acting.
‘Now, Abel Sweet,’ said Coachy Timms. ‘Bring out your voice, neighbour, and liven the waiten.’
‘Waiten!’ cried Mykelborne indignantly. ‘Who’s a-waiten?’
‘I dursn’t,’ said Sweet. ‘I just dursn’t sing, Mus Timms, seeing what time tis.’
‘Time!’ cried Coachy, smiling his cherub smile, ‘us daun’t take no account of he, bless us. ‘Bring out your voice, my coney, and let’s hear un. Twill haply ease the minutes by.’
Sweet looked at Mykelborne; both looked at the clock again. Finally Mykelborne nodded judicially. ‘Make ut shart then,’ he stipulated.
With this encouragement, Sweet rose to his feet and began: