CHAPTER X.

JANE.

"Oh, memory, creature of the past! Why dost thou haunt me still? Why thy dark shadow o'er me cast, My better thoughts to chill?

I spread my fingers to the sun, No stain of blood is there; Yet oh! that age might see undone, The deeds that youth would dare!"

ANON.

Mrs. Marks had returned home. Her mother was dead, and she had brought back Jane as she had threatened, much to Matthew's intense disgust. He was afraid of his wife's tongue, but had been so long accustomed to hear it going, that he could not understand a woman who could keep hers quiet, and sit the whole day long by the fire-side, scarcely saying a word, in his own favourite corner too,--seldom lifting her eyes from her knitting. As he watched the progress of the socks she was making, he vowed in his own mind never to wear them when they were finished, believing as many of the ignorant in his class of life do, that they would be bewitched, and cause him to meet with some harm, perhaps fulfil Goody Grey's prophecy that some one in the cottage was going to die.

He found it more difficult than ever to resist the temptation of going to the "Brampton Arms," now that his home was even more uncomfortable than it used to be. How could he seat himself at the other corner of the fire-side, and smoke his pipe, with his sister-in-law's eyes so constantly and intently fixed on him? Matthew longed to see Goody Grey to ask for a new charm to spirit away Jane and her unholy presence, which was a constant irritation to him. Meanwhile he had twice tried the effect of the charm and each time apparently without the slightest success; as not only had Mrs. Marks eyes, but her tongue also, flashed ten thousand furies at his extraordinary silence, while Jane, to whom during the storm he looked for sympathy, sat perfectly heedless, and mindful only of her dreadful knitting.

William Hodge was still with the Marks', when he heard of the poaching affray and its consequences. His mind was at once filled with alarm, and he determined on going into Standale. What if his son should be one of the men taken, and now lodged in the jail there?

Hodge kept very quiet at first, and talked it over with Mrs. Marks,--who had returned a few days after,--and at length made up his mind to go to the town and gain a sight of the two men; but this was easier said than done, he had to wait quietly until they were brought up before the magistrates; when he returned to the cottage with the satisfactory intelligence that neither bore the slightest resemblance to his son Tom. Still he was more certain than ever that Tom was down there, for on mentioning his name casually to the landlord of the inn where he had put up, a man seated in the bar had turned round suddenly, eyed him keenly, and asked him to join him 'in a glass.' This, Hodge, who had his wits about him, was not slow to do, and both played at cross questions with the other, and tried to find out where each came from, and where bound to; but each proved a match for his fellow in cunning and sharp-sightedness, and they parted mutually dissatisfied, certain in their own minds that each could have revealed something of interest in which they both took part, had he so willed it.

A few days after Hodge's return, as he was going across the fields, he again met with his acquaintance of the inn, who passed him close by without renewing their former intimacy, indeed, without a word or greeting of any kind, as though they were strangers, and now met for the first time. Hodge thought he must have been mistaken in his man; but no--a second and yet a third time, he met him on different days; and now Hodge was convinced he was right--they had met before; but why this apparent forgetfulness on his part? Why this perpetual crossing of his path? Hodge grew uneasy, perhaps the man was employed as a spy to watch him? If it was so, there was nothing for it but to return home; but the thought of his wife's sorrowful face, as he should tell her of his fruitless search, deterred him, and he waited yet another day, hoping that a few hours might disclose his son's whereabouts, and unravel the mystery of his absence; but no, the days crept on, and still found him as far from the clue as ever, while he never stirred from the cottage without seeing his mysterious friend, or it might be enemy, either close by or in the distance, too far off to distinguish his features; but there was the unmistakable slouching walk, awkward gait, and broad-brimmed hat.

"Mrs. Marks, Ma'am," said Hodge one day, when they were alone, with only Jane in the chimney-corner for company, and she was supposed to be just nobody, "I've come across that man again, and I don't like the look things are taking--I think they look sort of queer. I never done no harm to nobody, why should this chap follow me about like a dog? I'm beginning to think he's a kind of spying to find out what my business is down here, leastways, I can't see what else brings him so often in my road."

"Why not up and ask him, like a man?" exclaimed Mrs. Marks.

"Well, Ma'am, you see, that's just what I would like to do. Many's the time I've had it in my heart; but somehow I'm afeard to."

"Afraid! Well, Mr. Hodge, I thought you'd more pluck. I know there's few men would frighten me, if I was in your place. Good Lord! what's the world coming to when all the men's so chicken-hearted!" said she, indignantly.

"And the women so uppish!" retorted Hodge, somewhat angrily. "I wouldn't be afraid to knock him down with one blow of my fist," and he stretched out his strong muscular arms, and clenched his knuckles, "if he came to me openly and insulted me; but it's this underhand way of going to work that bothers me. I'd like to pick a quarrel with him, Ma'am, that I would, and bad luck to his walks for the future, if I did; that's all!"

"If those are your opinions, William Hodge, I'm sorry I spoke. I've never set eyes on the man myself; but I think you're over-suspicious, maybe."

"Not a bit too much so. What for should he come across me wherever I go. I saw him the other night as Matthew and I came home. It was broad moonlight, and he was hidden away under the shade of the trees, just before you come to the mile-stone; but I saw him for all that, and so I do most every time I set foot outside the cottage. What the devil can he want with me? and why was I such a born fool as to tell my real name?"

"That's it," said Jane, from the chimney-corner, as if talking to herself. "It's the devil puts all the badness into our hearts."

"Don't mind her," said Mrs. Marks, seeing Hodge looked startled. "She understands nothing, and is only talking to herself. And now what do you mean to do?"

"I must go home agin, as wise as I was when I came."

"And without a word of Tom? Why Mrs. Hodge will nigh break her heart."

"It can't be helped. I've done all I can. You see, I've been thinking this man may be a kind of spy of the Squire's, and on the look-out for Tom, and if so, I may do him more harm than good by staying here. Who knows? perhaps he's guessed I'm Tom's father, and so thinks, by dodging me, to catch him, so, you see, I'd best be on the road home; he won't learn nothing there, save a cracked crown, if he comes that way meddling."

"I tell you what it is," said Mrs. Marks, "you go along home, and leave me to ferret it all out. I've never said nothing all this time you've been racking your brains, and walking about most over the whole country, till I should think you knew every stone and stick in it. I warrant a few weeks don't go over my head before I get at the bottom of it all. You men think yourselves mighty clever; but, after all, there's nothing like getting a woman to help you over the stile."

"Well, Mrs. Marks, I believe you're most right. It's certain I couldn't leave the business in better hands. I know you'll do the best you can for me."

"Of course I will, there's my hand on it. And now just point out this chap in the wide-awake, and I'll be bound to say I'll find out every secret concerning him. And if he knows anything about Tom, why I'll find that out, too; so just rest easy in your own mind, and keep quiet, and bid Mrs. Hodge do the same; and take my advice, and be off home to-morrow--you won't do no good down here, only harm."

And home Hodge went.

A few days after his departure, as Matthew was lounging at the turnpike gate, who should pass through but Goody Grey. As she came in sight at the turn of the hill, Matthew began to prepare his thoughts as to what he should say to her. She would be sure to ask about the success of the charm; he felt proud at the idea of being able to tell he had not added to the number of stones in the box, but on the contrary two had been thrown away. What a fortunate thing for him Mrs. Marks was out, he could talk to Mrs. Grey without a chance of her shrill voice calling him and bidding him attend to his business, and not be gossiping out there.

"Good morning, Mrs. Grey," began he, taking up a position so as to command a view of the whole road by which the enemy, in the shape of his wife, should first come in sight on her way home.

"The same to you," replied she civilly, and was passing on, when--

"I've tried the charm, Ma'am," said Matthew, mysteriously.

"The what?" asked she sharply.

"The charm, Mrs. Grey. The box with the gravel in it, that you give me."

"True, I had forgotten. What was the result?"

"If you mean what good did it do, why then it just did no good at all," said Matthew, sorrowfully.

"How often have you tried it?"

"Twice, Ma'am, I'm proud to say; and a hard matter I found it, going so nigh the Public, that I could most smell the baccy, and hear the drawing of the beer; but there I stuck to the 'structions yer give me, and turned back home agin, but only to hear my wife's tongue going faster and sharper than ever."

"I dare say, at first, it may be so; but persevere, and in the end your wife will be silenced."

"I wish I could think so," he replied; "but I'm afraid, Ma'am, her tongue have been going so long now, that nothing 'cept a miracle won't stop it."

"Is Mrs. Marks at home?"

"No, Ma'am, she's out. And that's another thing bothers me, she's taken to going out all hours now, no matter what kind of weather 'tis. It's a puzzle to me where she goes to, tramping about in the mud."

"Well, I cannot help you there," replied Goody Grey, "her tongue I might stop, but not her actions, you must look to those yourself."

"And so I mean to, Mrs. Grey, so I _will_," said Matthew, determinately. "I only thought so this very day, as I was leaning on this very gate, just before I saw you."

"It is a wise resolution, but fools see wisdom or learn it sometimes."

"Don't you begin that old story agin, Ma'am, nor say one word about the trees that's going to fall; for I can't abide it, and don't want to know nothing about what's going to happen. Death's near enough for us all, but we don't want to be knowing when he's going to knock us up."

"Where there's a storm there's sure to be a wreck," said she.

"Stop there, Ma'am," replied Matthew, "and don't be after looking that way at the cottage. What do yer see?"

"I saw the face of a woman at the window."

"No, that yer couldn't," replied he, "Mrs. Marks is out!"

"Are you sure she is out?"

"Lord save yer, Mrs. Grey, in coorse I am. Didn't I watch her out? and wouldn't I have heard her voice calling out after me, long afore this," and Matthew grinned at the very idea.

"Who was it then?"

"Yer couldn't have seen no one. There's only crazed Jane in the place, and she don't never move out of the chimbly corner for no one. She's no curiosity, like Mrs. Marks says I have."

"Who is crazed Jane? Where does she come from? and what does she in your cottage?"

"Just nothing save to be knitting all day long, and follering me about with her big eyes. She's my wife's sister, yer see, and is living with us, she don't need no charm to keep her tongue quiet. She's just the only woman I ever met as could, saving yer presence, Ma'am; and is every bit as knowing as yerself, and could tell yer a deal if yer liked."

"About what?"

"About whatever yer liked to ask her. It's my belief she could tell the weather just every bit as well as yerself. If yer'd lost anything she'd know where to clap eyes on it again, just as yer did the bit of copper t'other day, and a deal of other things as don't cross my mind now."

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" exclaimed Goody Grey fiercely. "If I did--I'd tear her very heart out, if she didn't tell me."

And she passed on, leaving Matthew horrified at her words. He watched her all the way down the road, which she traversed with a quick, hasty step, striking her staff defiantly into the ground as she went, until the turn of the road took her out of his sight.

"What a fearful body she is!" thought he, as he turned into the cottage.

But there his horror and astonishment was still further increased at finding crazed Jane lying in a heap on the floor.

At first he was for rushing to her aid; but on second thoughts, he reached his hat off the peg, and darted out of the cottage. There taking to his heels he ran as fast as his legs could carry him along the road Goody Grey had taken.

"For the love of Heaven!" said he overtaking her, "come back!"

"Come back!" exclaimed she, "and what for should I come back?"

"To take away the curse and witcheries yer've put upon Jane; or she'll die."

"What are you raving about? What have I to do with Jane and her curses?"

"Yer know well what I mean, Ma'am; yer've most killed her with yer evil eye. I know yer're a fearful 'ooman, and a wise 'un too, but for the love of Heaven don't leave her like that, but come back."

"You're a fool!" replied Mrs. Grey, "I've no more power over her than a fly," and she passed on, bidding him seek his wife's help.

And again Matthew started off faster than before to find Mrs. Marks, with an inward malediction on Goody Grey.

He was scarcely out of sight ere she halted;--hesitated--then turned back with rapid steps towards the cottage.

Jane had fallen near the window from which Goody Grey had seen her gazing, and lay almost under it, so as to be entirely concealed from the broad glare of its light. She lay on her side with one arm across her face. Her visitor gently moved away the arm, and looked at her. It was but a momentary glance, and the fainting woman rested, as I have said, away from the light. Was it this made Goody Grey fail in recognizing her? or was it the sharp, pinched features, and worn haggard face, with those deep furrows ploughing it so roughly in every direction.

Filling a jug with water, Goody Grey lifted Jane, and tried to force some down her throat, then dashed the rest over her face and forehead, but her efforts at restoring life were useless, and after a few more ineffectual attempts she left her, and went and seated herself by the fire, thinking perhaps it would be but neighbourly to remain and await Mrs. Marks's return.

Not many minutes elapsed ere Jane opened her eyes, and the first object they rested on was the old woman's face and figure, as she sat looking at the fire, her profile fully marked out, and apparent to Jane's gaze, whose face assumed a terrified, horror-stricken look, as she almost glared at her, seemingly too fascinated or frightened to look away.

Evidently Jane's memory served her better than Goody Grey's did, for she recognized her, although the old woman did not, and after a minute or two she sat up on the floor, and clasping arms round her knees, buried her face in them and groaned aloud.

Goody Grey started and turned at the sound, then rose and went over to her.

"Are you better?" she asked kindly, "you've had a long faint."

Jane made no answer, only moaned and shivered from head to foot.

"You are too cold to drink this water. Is there no brandy anywhere that I can get you? Try and get up, and I will help you over to the fire."

It was astonishing to hear the gentle, almost soft, sweet voice with which she spoke, so different from her usual harsh, sharp manner. But the more gentle she was, the less Jane seemed to like it, never raising her head or answering a word, but moaning and rocking herself backwards and forwards as she sat; and Goody Grey, seeing words or deeds, however well meant, were alike wasted upon her, rose to go; saying as she did so,--

"I'm sorry to see you so sullen, woman. Have you never a word of thanks to give me?"

But Jane continued silent as before.

"Well, well," she muttered, in something of her old, impatient, sharp voice, as she stepped across the threshold of the door. "That fool said she was a 'dafty.'" Then in a milder, almost sorrowful tone, she added "it is better to be crazed than broken-hearted."

Jane raised her head as she caught the last sound of Goody Grey's voice; then, as the last foot-fall died away, she got up stealthily, and closed and bolted the cottage door.