Kate Hardy, page 17
“May I see it?” asked Anne, who at the moment was more concerned with the solution of her personal problems than with Kate’s ideas about psychology.
Kate hesitated and then handed it over with a reluctant air. “It’s terribly rough,” she said. “I haven’t read it over. You may not be able to read my writing.”
Anne took the papers without comment. Another woman, less reasonable, might have asked for verbal information and inquired how the problems had been solved and who was the villain of the piece. Anne was eminently reasonable. She put on a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles and began to read.
“Lily Rannish lived with her grandfather in a small cottage on the Morven estate. She had lived there as long as she could remember. Her grandfather, Abijah, told her that both her parents were dead. Abijah was fond of Lily and very kind to her according to his lights. Sometimes he talked a lot and told her stories of the old days, stories which his grandfather had told him; but at other times he was completely silent and did not speak to her for days on end. In spite of this lonely existence Lily was happy and contented, for she had plenty to do and she liked keeping the little house in order. What she enjoyed most, however, was wandering about the moor, finding little plants and bringing them home and planting them in the garden.
“The days passed very pleasantly until Lily was discovered by the school authorities and her grandfather was informed that the child must attend school. Abijah was furious; he had had no education himself and he did not hold with book-learning; besides, he needed his grand-daughter at home. Lily was reluctant to be educated; books had no charm for her; but in spite of the protests of Abijah and his granddaughter Lily was obliged to go to school. She went as seldom as possible and she learnt as little as she could. This was her way of showing her disapproval of the system of compulsory education, of proclaiming to herself—and perhaps to others—that she was a free agent and not a slave . . .”
Anne looked up and said, “This sounds more like Kate Hardy than Lily Rannish. What does Lily know of compulsory education?”
“More than most people,” retorted Kate. “Lily has sampled it and disapproves.”
“Surely Kate Hardy doesn’t disapprove of it?” exclaimed Anne in horrified tones.
“I hate compulsion in any form,” declared Kate. “I realise children should be educated, but need they be dragged into it by brute force? Isn’t there some other way? Couldn’t they be taught the subjects they like?”
“To the exclusion of other subjects!”
“Surely there’s some way of doing it.”
Anne could think of none. She was a little displeased with Kate. She picked up the manuscript and continued to read.
“The only lesson Lily enjoyed was botany. She was interested in flowers and plants of all kinds; she often found rare specimens on the moor and took them to school. Miss Carlyle told her their names and their habits. If lessons had consisted entirely of nature-studies Lily would not have minded going to school, but unfortunately they did not. Lily deliberately shut her mind to other lessons; she found it was possible to do so by thinking of something else; it was difficult at first, but as time went on it became easier—it became a habit.
“About six months ago Abijah asked Lily if she could write a letter for him. She tore a piece of paper out of a school exercise book and together they composed it. Abijah was surprised to find that his granddaughter was able to write a letter; he was not only surprised but pleased. There was something in this school business after all—not much, perhaps, but a little. Lily was a clever girl. After that Lily wrote another letter for Abijah, she found the task to her taste.
“Soon after the episode of the first anonymous letter Lily suddenly ‘grew up’—this was her own expression, and I feel it describes the change in her psychological condition quite clearly—she grew up and became conscious of herself and other people, became unsatisfied with her lot, began to look at the world with a new and different vision, began to think about the future. What was Lily’s future? Did she intend to live with her grandfather for ever? No; some day she would get married like other girls . . . but would she? That was the question. Her school-fellows despised her, they laughed at her because she was a dunce, because she was dirty and ragged and uncouth. This had not mattered before when she was sufficient unto herself, but now it mattered a good deal. She decided to take more care of her personal appearance. Miss Carlyle noticed that Lily had mended her clothes and looked cleaner and more tidy. But Miss Carlyle was the only person who cared; her school-fellows were just as scornful and unfriendly. Lily became more and more unhappy; she wanted people to like her, but, failing that, she wanted to show them that she was not to be despised. She wanted power. This desire upon Lily’s part was the beginning of all the trouble . . . the desire for power. If people did not like her they must be made to respect her, perhaps even to fear her.
“Lily began her campaign by teaching some of the younger children to play at scatterers, and to make the game more interesting she told them stories about the people they were intended to represent. The stories scared them considerably but they came back for more. Lily had a large repertory of hair-raising stories which she had heard from her grandfather. She retailed them with advantages, and her fame as a story-teller spread rapidly round the school. Many of the older children, who had ignored and scorned her, changed their attitude completely and joined her little group. In a few weeks’ time the children knew a great deal about the bad old days, about witches and warlocks who had pursued their baleful activities in the neighbourhood of Old Quinings and suffered for their sins. They had heard about witches’ covens which had taken place on the moor, not a mile from their homes; they had heard about different kinds of magic; how one witch would make a waxen image of the person she wanted to harm and would transfix it with pins or melt it in a flame; how another would gather herbs and brew potions; and still another would ill-wish her victim and blast him with the power of the evil eye. They listened with bated breath to the list of disorders which afflicted those who were unfortunate enough to incur the displeasure of a witch, ‘their colour fadeth, their flesh rotteth, their speech is benumbed and their senses are bereft.’
“The children were sworn to secrecy (that was part of the ‘game’), but some of them talked in their sleep and their parents spoke to Miss Carlyle about it. Miss Carlyle began to suspect that something was going on, and Lily decided that she must be removed. Having learnt the trick of anonymous letters, Lily composed one for Miss Carlyle and put it into the pocket of her waterproof, which hung in the children’s cloakroom.”
Anne looked up and said, “How on earth did you manage to get all this out of Lily Rannish? She’s practically speechless in school.”
“I squeezed her,” admitted Kate.
“But there’s a great deal here that Lily couldn’t have told you, however hard you squeezed.”
Kate nodded. “I knew a little before and suspected a good deal. Perhaps I imagined some of it, but I had a good solid foundation for my imagination to build on. I think you may take the document as true.”
“It sounds true,” said Anne, looking at the author with increased respect.
The document continued: “There were several children in school who refused to have anything to do with Lily, and amongst these was Tommy Rogers. He was the greatest stumbling-block in Lily’s path. Lily disliked Tommy intensely, for he was everything that she was not, everything that in her heart of hearts she wanted to be. Tommy was clever, he was a favourite with Miss Carlyle and popular with his contemporaries, he was clean and tidy and always neatly dressed, he had a good home and kind parents, he had sisters and brothers as well. It seemed unfair that Tommy should have so much and Lily so little, nothing at all except the power which she had won for herself—and this power, which had seemed so desirable, was now beginning to prove a little irksome. The children had begun to fear Lily. The idea grew that Lily herself was a witch.”
Anne Carlyle put down the manuscript and said, “This is a frightful story!”
“But interesting, isn’t it?” said the author, perhaps a trifle smugly, for to tell the truth it had been a most enthralling story to write: it was so penetrating in its exposure of the quirks of human nature, it was so simple and yet so dramatic. It was Life.
“The idea that Lily was a witch was at first confined to the younger children. They whispered about it amongst themselves, they frightened themselves and one another with little stories, silly little stories concerning Lily’s activities at night. She knew about herbs, of course; she had been seen gathering them at night by the light of the full moon: nightshade, hellebore, foxgloves and precious bane. Someone had seen a hare; it had sat up and looked round, it had peered over its shoulder at the terrified beholder—just like Lily—and then, quite suddenly, it had disappeared. Lily began to get a little frightened of her own reputation; she began to think it was time to stop. But when one has gone too far down the hill, and too fast, it is difficult to stop. Besides, she had two faithful followers who were still enthusiastic about the game. They urged her on, they encouraged her, they besought her to try her hand at a real spell.
“On Thursday afternoon after the other children had gone home, Lily and her two satellites made an image of Tommy Rogers. They made it of candle-grease, which is not an easy medium, and it took them some time to complete their task. The ‘mommet’ was not very like Tommy, but fortunately Lily had managed to obtain a few of Tommy’s hail’s—these were incorporated in the ‘mommet’—so there was no doubt as to whom it was intended to represent. The three conspirators had begun to make their spell in dead earnest. They had fully intended to complete Tommy’s discomfiture by transfixing his image with a pin, but when they saw the completed image lying upon Lily’s desk, ready for the next stage, the last and most important stage in their experiment, their hearts misgave them. They were a little frightened. They assured one another that it was just a game, it could do Tommy no harm (how could it do Tommy any harm?) but in spite of these assurances there was an odd sort of tension in the air, an unpleasant kind of excitement. ‘You do it, Lily,’ said the satellites with one voice, but Lily was reluctant. Lily hesitated. She was still hesitating, pin in hand, when Miss Carlyle came into the schoolroom. There was only one thing to be done: they raised the lid of Lily’s desk and slipped the image inside.
“Lily could not sleep that night; she tossed and turned restlessly. Why had she consented to try the spell? Why had she left the thing in her desk? Miss Carlyle might find it and guess what it was. Somebody else might find it. Towards morning Lily dropped into a very uneasy sleep and dreamt confusedly. All the stories which Abijah had told her and which she had passed on to the other children were jumbled up together in Lily’s dream, and Lily herself was there in the midst of the horrors. It was night and the moon was shining, Old Quinings seemed different to Lily in her dream. The people were different too; they were fierce and noisy, they looked at her with scowling faces and smouldering eyes . . . they pushed her roughly and tore her clothes; they dragged her to the village-green. There Lily saw a huge bonfire blazing, with flames shooting up like red and yellow tongues and black smoke towering into the air. Lily struggled and fought with her captors, ‘No!’ she cried in agonised tones. ‘No, I’m not a witch! It was just a game!’ She was still shouting at the top of her voice when she awoke.
“She was so upset and frightened and miserable that she did not want to go to school, but she had to go, because the image was in her desk. She decided to go to school early, before the other children arrived, to get the image and destroy it. When Lily opened her desk she discovered that the wax had melted and the head of the image had fallen off . . .”
The manuscript slipped from Anne’s hands and fell with a rustle on to the floor. “Tommy is ill!” she exclaimed.
Kate laughed. She could not help it.
“He’s ill,” repeated Anne, looking at her with eyes like saucers.
“Don’t tell me that he’s lost his head!”
“He’s got pains in his head and a temperature,” declared Anne. “He has been in bed since Friday morning.”
“Really, Anne!” cried Kate, trying to control her mirth. “Really, you are a little goose! You’ve been overworking Tommy, of course, stuffing his poor little head to bursting point—no wonder it aches!”
Anne drew her hand across her eyes and smiled uncertainly. “It was silly of me,” she agreed. “It’s your fault for making it so horribly real . . . but even if I don’t believe in Lily’s spell, other people will.”
“Other people mustn’t know. Who’s going to tell them? Not you nor I, and certainly not Lily nor either of her accomplices. The whole thing is over and finished with. You ought to be jumping with joy.”
“Of course I’m glad—and very, very grateful.”
“That’s better,” nodded Kate. “That’s the spirit, Annie. All you’ve got to do now is to go home and find the ‘mommet,’ which, incidentally, is still concealed in Lily’s desk. Lily was too shaken by her discovery to remove it from its hiding-place.”
“What shall I do with it?” asked Anne.
“That’s for you to decide,” declared Kate with a serious air. “I can’t tell you the right procedure, I’m afraid. It might be rather risky to destroy it. Perhaps you had better stick on Tommy’s head, wrap him carefully in cotton-wool and put him in a glass case. How would that do?”
“You are a wretch,” said Anne, smiling.
“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Kate, struck by a brilliant notion. “Your best plan will be to go and ask Richard Morven to lend you a book on witchcraft.”
They both laughed.
“I can—now, can’t I?” said Anne quite cheerfully.
“You must,” replied Kate. “Richard would be hurt if you stopped going to the Manor. He told me the other day that you seemed to be very busy just now. Do go, Anne. He likes you to make use of his books.”
“I will,” said Anne, nodding.
“As for Lily,” continued Kate, “Lily must go away. She must be given a chance to make good. I’m determined on that; the wretched girl has never had a chance. Fortunately I happen to know a man who runs a market-garden. I used to get my vegetables from him when we lived in town. He’ll be delighted to have a girl with green fingers; the fact that she is a reformed witch won’t worry him in the least.”
“I hope she is reformed,” said Anne, laughing quite naturally.
“She’s had a severe lesson,” nodded Kate.
Anne rose to go. She said, “You know, Kate, you remind me a little of old Miss Morven. She used to enjoy arranging other people’s affairs.”
“The Dower House air breeds benevolent autocrats,” replied Kate, who, oddly enough, had been thinking the same thing herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mr. Seager was worried. He was also very angry. The whole thing seemed perfectly clear to him and perfectly fair. Here was Walter Stack, back from the War, having fought for his country and won the D.S.O. into the bargain. Mr. Seager had given him back his old job as he had promised to do; everything was straight and above-board. Mr. Seager was obliged by law to take Stack back, so he had no option in the matter; but the promise counted with Mr. Seager every bit as much as any law made by Parliament—he was that sort of man. Mr. Seager had explained all this to his other workmen not once but several times. He had explained it clearly and patiently, although no explanation should have been necessary, for the men had known all along that Stack was coming back. Reuben Doubleday had been Stack’s special friend and had stepped into Stack’s shoes on the distinct understanding that he was filling them temporarily; and the others—Turner, Curtis and Robinson—knew it too. It wasn’t as if they were getting less pay, either; they were getting exactly the same, yet in spite of this they were discontented. They grumbled and growled and talked amongst themselves and scamped their work. (Mr. Seager would have liked to sack the lot, but how could he? Where would he get other men to fill their places?) And that wasn’t the worst of the business; the worst was they were giving Stack a hell of a time. Stack was looking wretched. If only Stack would go, thought Seager. The man was an excellent workman and could easily find work elsewhere . . . but Seager wasn’t going to advise Stack to leave Old Quinings, because—well, because it wasn’t fair. If Stack wanted to stay here he had every right to stay. Seager had given his promise seven years ago and he intended to keep it . . . Bob Seager was almost as stubborn as Walter Stack.
Seager could do a good deal to lighten Stack’s lot and he did all he could. He arranged the work so that Stack got individual jobs where he could work alone; the Dower House jobs for instance. Miss Hardy was delighted with the work he had done for her, and no wonder—Stack had made a fine job of those shelves. Now Miss Hardy wanted the old barn put in order and it was high time, too. There was a lot of junk in the rafters, and all that would have to be cleared before the rafters could be properly examined and repaired.
“Take the long ladder,” said Seager. “It’s high, that barn is. I’ll come and have a look at the rafters when you’ve got them cleared of rubbish.”
Stack had to carry the ladder from Seager’s workshop to the barn. It would have been natural to send two men with the ladder, but Seager hesitated to give the order, and while he was hesitating Stack shouldered it and walked away. He was strong, thought Seager, watching him as he walked off with the long ladder balanced on his shoulder. Seager tipped his cap forward and scratched his head—a problem, that’s what it was.
The other men had been detailed for other work: two to mend some fencing on the Morven property and two to go up to Miss Crease. She had been pestering Seager for weeks to send her a couple of men to look at her roof. The men stood in Seager’s yard and talked. Doubleday laughed and gestured with his thumb at Stack’s receding figure.
