Part 1

DORSET DEAR

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

IN A NORTH COUNTRY VILLAGE THE STORY OF DAN A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL MAIME O’ THE CORNER FRIEZE AND FUSTIAN AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS MISS ERIN THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS YEOMAN FLEETWOOD PASTORALS OF DORSET FIANDER’S WIDOW NORTH, SOUTH, AND OVER THE SEA THE MANOR FARM CHRISTIAN THAL LYCHGATE HALL

DORSET DEAR

_IDYLLS OF COUNTRY LIFE_

BY M. E. FRANCIS (MRS. FRANCIS BLUNDELL)

“Vor Do’set dear, Then gi’e woone cheer, D’ye hear? woone cheer!”

--WILLIAM BARNES

[Illustration]

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK LONDON AND BOMBAY 1905

_These stories originally appeared in_ Country Life, The Graphic, Longman’s Magazine _and_ The Illustrated London News. _The Author’s thanks are due to the Editors of these periodicals for their kind permission to reproduce them._

To the Memory OF LADY SMITH-MARRIOTT, KIND NEIGHBOUR AND TRUE FRIEND.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

WITCH ANN 1

A RUNAWAY COUPLE 28

POSTMAN CHRIS 43

KEEPER GUPPY 60

THE WORM THAT TURNED 89

OLF AND THE LITTLE MAID 109

IN THE HEART OF THE GREEN 127

THE WOLD STOCKIN’ 149

A WOODLAND IDYLL 168

THE CARRIER’S TALE 192

MRS. SIBLEY AND THE SEXTON 207

THE CALL OF THE WOODS 222

THE HOME-COMING OF DADA 246

THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW 256

THE SPUR OF THE MOMENT 279

“A TERR’BLE VOOLISH LITTLE MAID” 296

SWEETBRIAR LANE 317

WITCH ANN.

Ann Kerley had lived in great peace and contentment for more than seventy-three years. Her neighbours considered her a good plain ’ooman, who always had a kind word for every one, and was so ready to do a good turn for another body as heart could wish. But, lo and behold! one fine morning old Ann Kerley awoke to find herself a witch.

The previous day had been sultry and wild, with spells of fierce sunshine that smote down upon honest people’s heads as they toiled in cornfield or potato-plot, bringing out great drops of sweat on sunburnt faces, and forcing more than one labourer to supplement the shade and comfort of his broad chip hat by a cool moist cabbage leaf. Withal furious gusts of wind rose every now and then--storm-wind, old Jan Belbin said, and he was considered wonderful weather-wise--wind that set the men’s shirt-sleeves flapping for all the world like the sleeves of a racing jockey, and blew the women’s aprons into the air, and twisted the maids’ hats round upon their heads if they so much as crossed the road to the well. Yet this wind would drop as suddenly as it had sprung up; the land would lie all bathed in fiery heat, and a curious sense of uneasiness and expectancy would seem to pervade the whole of Nature. The very beasts were disquieted in their pasture; the corn stood up straight and stiff, each ear, as it were, on the alert; not a leaf stirred in hedgerow or tree-top; and then “all to once,” as Jan Belbin pointed out, the storm-wind sprang up again, tossing the golden waste of wheat hither and thither like a troubled sea, and making every individual branch and twig creak and groan.

Twilight was at last closing in with brooding stillness, and a group of lads, who had been working for an hour or two in the allotments, gathered idly round the gate, gossiping, and some of them smoking, before proceeding homewards. It was too dark, as Joe Pilcher declared, to see the difference between a ’tater and a turnip, and ’twas about time they were steppin’ anyways. He was in the act of relating some interesting anecdote with regard to last Saturday’s practice in the Cricket field, when he broke off, and pointed up the stony path which led past the allotments.

“Hullo! Whatever’s that?” he cried.

The bent outline of a small figure could be seen creeping along the irregular line of hedge. It was apparently hump-backed, and wore a kind of hood projecting over its face.

“’Tis a wold hag, seemin’ly,” said Jim Ford, craning forward over the top rail.

“There!” cried Joe, “I took it for a sprite, but I don’t know as I shouldn’t be just so much afeared of a witch any day. It be a witch, sure.”

“Don’t be a sammy,” interposed an older man. “’Tis nothin’ but some poor wold body what has been gatherin’ scroff. They’ve felled a tree up-along in wood, an’ she’ve a-been a-pickin’ up all as she can lay hands on for her fire. There, ’tis wold Ann Kerley. I can see her now. She’ve a-got a big nitch o’ sticks upon her back, an’ she do croopy down under the weight on’t, an’ she’ve a-tied her handkercher over her bonnet, poor body, to keep it fro’ blowin’ away. There’s your hag for you, Joe!”

“I be afeared, I say,” insisted Joe, feigning to tremble violently. He considered himself a wag, and had quite a following of the village good-for-noughts. “’Tis a witch, sartin sure ’tis a witch. Don’t ye go for to overlook I, Ann Kerley, for I tell ’ee I won’t a-bear it!”

As the unconscious Ann drew nearer he squatted down behind the gate-post, loudly announcing that he was that frayed he was fair bibbering. Two or three of the others made believe to hide themselves too, pretending to shiver in imitation of their leader; and peering out like him between the bars of the gate.

Such unusual proceedings could not fail to attract the old woman’s attention, and she paused in astonishment when she reached the spot.

“Why, whatever be to do here?” she inquired.

Joe uttered a kind of howl, and burrowed into the hedge.

“She be overlookin’ of we,” he shouted. “The witch be overlookin’ of we.”

“Don’t ye take no notice, my dear woman,” said Abel Bond, the man who had before spoken. “They be but a lot o’ silly bwoys a-talkin’ nonsense.”

“Witch!” cried Joe.

“Witch! witch!” echoed the rest.

Ann looked from one to the other of the grinning faces that kept popping up over the rail, and disappearing again.

“Whatever be they a-talkin’ on?” she gasped.

“You be a witch, Ann,” cried Joe. “If you was served right you’d be ducked in the pond. E-es, that you would.”

A small boy, fired with a desire to distinguish himself, picked up a clod of earth, and flung it at her with so true an aim that it grazed her cheek.

“Take that, witch!” he cried.

Joe, not to be outdone, threw another; pellets of earth and even small pebbles began to assail the old woman from the whole line.

Abel Bond promptly came to the rescue, knocking the ringleaders’ heads together, and impartially distributing kicks and cuffs among the remainder.

“Bad luck to the witch!” cried the irrepressible Joe, wriggling himself free; and the shout was taken up by the rest, even as they dodged the avenger.

“Bad luck, yourself,” retorted poor Ann, trembling with wrath and alarm. “I’m sure nar’n o’ ye do deserve such very good luck arter insultin’ a poor wold ’ooman what never did ye no harm.”

And she went on her way, grumbling and indignant.

But when she had reached her own little house in the “dip,” and had walked up the flagged path between the phlox bushes and the lavender, and pussy had come rubbing against her legs in greeting, her anger cooled; and by the time her kettle had begun to sing over a bright wood fire, and she had laid out her modest repast of bread and watercress, she fairly laughed to herself.

“Lard! they bwoys be simple!” she said. “They did call I a witch, along o’ my havin’ tied my handkercher over my head. Abel did give it to ’em, but I reckon he didn’t hurt ’em much. Bwoys! there, they do seem so hard as stoones very near. ‘Witch!’ says they. Well, that’s a notion.”

She chuckled again, and set down a saucer of milk for the cat to lap.

“They’ll be callin’ you a witch next, puss,” said she laughing.

Ann carried her bucket to the well as usual next morning, feeling rather more cheerful than was her custom. Rain had fallen shortly after daybreak, but the sky was now clear and limpid, and the air cool. On her way to the well her attention was caught by a loud clucking in her neighbour’s garden, and looking across the dividing hedge she descried a hen violently agitating herself inside a coop, while a brood of yellow downy ducklings some few hours old paddled in and out of a pool beside the path.

“Well, of all the beauties!” cried Ann, clapping her hands together until the bucket rattled on her arm; “why, Mrs. Clarke, my dear, you must have hatched out every one--’tis a wonderful bit o’ luck.”

“E-es, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Clarke, “hatchin’ out so late an’ all. I hope I may do well wi’ ’em.”

“I hope so, that do I,” agreed Ann heartily, and hobbled on towards the well.

One or two women were there, who responded to her greeting with a coldness which she did not at once realise.

“Fine rain this marnin’,” she remarked cheerfully, as her bucket went clattering down the well; “we’ve had a good drop to-year, haven’t we? Farmers may grumble, but, as I do say, ’tis good for the well. We’ll be like to draw a bit less chalk nor we do in the dry seasons. There be all sarts in our well, bain’t there? Water an’ chalk, an’ a good few snails. There, when I do hear folks a-talkin’ about the Government doin’ this an doin’ that, I do say to myself, I wish Government ’ud see to our well.”

Usually such a sally would have been applauded, but, to poor old Ann’s astonishment and chagrin, her remark was received on this occasion in solemn silence. To hide her discomfiture she peered into the moss-grown depths of the well.

“Don’t ye go a-lookin’ into it like that, Ann,” cried a vinegary-faced matron in an aggressive tone. “Chalky water, e-es, an’ water wi’ snails in’t is better than no water at all. ’Tis sure--’tis by a long ways.”

“Ah, ’tis!” agreed the others, eyeing Ann suspiciously.

She straightened herself and looked round in surprise.

“I never said it wasn’t,” she faltered. “Why do ye look at me so nasty, Mrs. Biles?”

“Oh, ye don’t know, I s’pose?” retorted Mrs. Biles sourly. “How be your ’taters, Ann Kerley, this marnin’?”

“Doin’ finely, thanks be,” said poor Ann, brightening up, as she considered the conversation was taking a more agreeable turn.

“Not blighted, I s’pose?” put in a little fat woman who had hitherto been silent.

“Not a sign o’ blight about ’em,” said Mrs. Kerley joyfully. “There, I did just chance to look at ’em when I did first get up, an’ they’re beautiful.”

“That’s strange,” remarked Mrs. Biles, with a meaning sniff. “Every single ’tater at the ’lotments be blighted, they do tell I. Mrs. Pilcher did say when her husband went up there this marnin’ he could smell ’em near a quarter of a mile away.”

“Dear, to be sure!” groaned Ann, sympathetically, being quite willing to condone any little asperities of temper on the part of folks suffering from such a calamity. “’Tis a terr’ble pity, Mrs. Biles. There, ’tis along o’ the ’lotments layin’ out so open like, I d’ ’low. Now my bit o’ garden be sheltered.”

The little fat woman, usually a meek sort of body, snorted fiercely.

“’Tisn’t very likely as your garden ’ud suffer, Mrs. Kerley,” she cried, in a voice that trembled with wrath. “Your garden is safe enough--an’ so was the ’lotments till yesterday.”

“Well, I be pure sorry, I’m sure,” said Ann, looking from one to the other in bewilderment. “’Tis just as luck would have it, I s’pose.”

“Luck, indeed!” cried Mrs. Biles meaningly. “There’s them as went by yesterday as wished bad luck, an’ bad luck did come.”

Ann fairly gasped. Mrs. Biles threw out her hand warningly.

“Take your eyes off I, Mrs. Kerley. Take ’em off, I say! I bain’t a-goin’ to have ’ee overlookin’ of I, same as you did do to poor Joe Pilcher--’tis well if the poor bwoy don’t die of it.”

Ann obediently dropped her eyes, a nightmare-like sensation of oppression overwhelming her.

“I d’ ’low ye won’t deny ye did overlook Joe Pilcher,” went on Mrs. Biles; “there, ye did no sooner turn your back yesterday, nor the lad was took wi’ sich a bad pain in his innards that he went all doubly up same as a wold man.”

“Well, that’s none o’ my fault,” expostulated Ann warmly, for even a worm will turn. “He’ve a-been eatin’ summat as disagreed wi’ he.”

“Nothin’ o’ the kind!” cried the women in chorus.

“It comed so sharp as a knife,” added one, “all twisty turny.”

“The poor bwoy did lie upon the floor all night,” put in another, “a-pankin’ and a-groanin’ so pitiful. ‘Ann Kerley has bewitched I,’ says he. E-es, the bwoy come out wi’ the truth. ‘’Tis Mother Kerley what has overlooked I,’ says he.”

“Well,” returned Ann vehemently, “I never did nothin’ at all to the bwoy. ’Tis nonsense what you do talk, all on you. He’ve a-been eatin’ green apples--that’s what the matter wi’ he.”

“Green apples!” exclaimed Mrs. Biles, with shrill sarcasm. “Dear, to be sure, if a bwoy was to be upset every time he ate a green apple, there wouldn’t be a sound child in village. He hadn’t had above five or six, his mother did say herself, an’ he can put away as many as fourteen wi’out feelin’ the worse for it. Ye must agree ’tis very strange, Ann--there, ye did say out plain for all to hear: ‘Bad luck, yourself,’ says you to the innercent bwoy. ‘Ye won’t be like to have such very good luck, nar’n o’ you,’ says you, an’, sure enough, there be the ’taters blighted, an’ there be the poor bwoy upset in’s inside.”

“I didn’t really mean it, neighbours,” faltered Ann, looking piteously round. “I was a bit vexed at the time, an’ when the lads did start a-floutin’ me wi’ stones an’ that, and a-callin’ ill names and a-wishin’ me bad luck, I just says back to ’em, quick like, ‘Bad luck, yourself!’ an’ ’twasn’t very like they’d have good luck; but I didn’t mean it in my heart--not me, indeed. The Lard sees I hadn’t no thought o’ really wishin’ evil to nobody--that I hadn’t, neighbours. You don’t believe I did have, do ’ee now, Mrs. Whittle?”--turning in despair to the little woman on her right--“you, what has knowed I sich a many year--you did ought to know I wouldn’t wish no harm to nobody.”

Mrs. Whittle looked sheepish and uncomfortable. Despite the sinister aspect of things, her heart melted at her old crony’s appeal.

“Why, I scarce can believe it,” she was beginning, when Mrs. Biles struck in:--

“Deny it if you can, Ann Kerley. There’s the ’taters blighted, an’ there’s the bwoy took bad, an’ it’s you what wished ’em ill-luck. What can ye make o’ that, Mrs. Whittle? Ye’ll ’low ’tis strange.”

Mrs. Whittle shook her head dubiously, and Ann, deprived, as she thought, of her only ally, threw her apron over her head, and wept behind it.

“Don’t ’ee take on, Mrs. Kerley, that’s a dear,” said Mrs. Whittle, softening once more. “’Twas maybe a chance thing. You did say them words wi’out thinkin’ an’ they did come true to be a warnin’ to ’ee. We do all do wrong sometimes; this ’ere did ought to be a warnin’ to all on us.”

“I’m sure ’twill be a lesson to I,” sobbed Ann inarticulately. “So long as I do live I’ll never say such things again. ’Twas very ill-done o’ me to ha’ spoke wi’out thought, sich a wold ’ooman as I be, an’ so near my end an’ all, an’ the Lard has chastised I. I can’t do more nor say I’m sorry, an’ I hope the A’mighty ’ull forgive me.”

“There, the ’ooman can’t say no fairer nor that,” said Mrs. Whittle, looking round appealingly; “she can’t do more nor repent.”

“Oh, if she do repent it’ll be well enough,” said Mrs. Biles darkly. “’Tis to be hoped as she do repent. But by all accounts ’tis easier for to begin that kind o’ work nor to leave it off again.”

She turned on her heel with this parting innuendo, and, taking up her full bucket, walked away. The others followed suit, and Ann, left alone, sobbed on for a moment or two with a feeling akin to despair, and then, drawing down her apron, wiped her eyes with it sadly, wound up her pail from the depths where it had lain forgotten, and made her way homewards.

For days afterwards she was ashamed to show her face, and rose at extraordinarily early hours in order to procure her supply of water, and crept out of her own quarters at dusk to make her necessary purchases.

One morning, about a week after the affair at the allotments, when Ann sallied forth as usual for water, she paused incidentally to look over her neighbour’s gate. The hen-coop was still in view, the hen cackling, and the ducklings waddling up and down the path. But how few of them there were! Only three! What could have become of the others? Possibly they were squatting at the back of the coop. She was craning her head round in order to ascertain if this were the case, when a window in Mrs. Clarke’s house was thrown open, and that lady’s voice was heard in angry tones:--

“I’ve catched you at it, have I? I’ve catched you at it! Well, you did ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ann Kerley. To try an’ do me a mischief--me, as has been sich a good neighbour to ’ee.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” returned Ann, backing away from the gate, and raising dim, distracted eyes.

“I’ve catched you in the very act,” continued Mrs. Clarke vehemently. “Says I to myself when the ducklin’s kep’ a-droppin’ off like that, ‘I wonder if it can be Ann?’ says I, an’ then I thinks, ‘No, it never can be Ann; her an’ me was always friends,’ I says. Ah, you ungrateful, spiteful creetur’!”

An arm, clad in checked flannelette, was here thrust forth, and the fist appertaining thereto emphatically shaken.

“I’m sure,” protested the unfortunate Ann, staggering back against her own little gate, “I don’t know whatever you can mean by such talk, Mrs. Clarke; I never touched your ducks. I be a honest ’ooman, an’ I wouldn’t take nothin’ what didn’t belong to I.”

“I don’t say you stole ’em,” retorted Mrs. Clarke, “but I say you overlooked ’em, an’ that’s worse; a body ’ud know what to be at if ’twas only a thief as was makin’ away wi’ ’em, but when ’tis a witch--Lard, whatever is to be done? I couldn’t ha’ thought ye’d ha’ found it in your heart to go striking down they poor little innercent things. What harm did they do ye? Sich beauties as they was. But there, ye must go gettin’ up in the very dummet that ye mid overlook the poor little creetur’s, so that, one after another, they do just croopy down an’ die.”

“Mrs. Clarke,” said Anne, solemnly and desperately, “I can’t tell how sich a thing did come about--I can’t indeed. ’Tis no fault o’ mine, I do assure ye. I wouldn’t ha’ had they poor little duck die for anything. I never wished ’em ill. I was admirin’ of ’em. I never had no other thought.”

“Well, see here,” returned Mrs. Clarke, somewhat mollified. “Don’t ye look at ’em at all, that’s a good ’ooman. Maybe ’tis no fault o’ yourn, but ’tis very strange, Mrs. Kerley, what do seem to have come to you to-year. You do seem to bring bad luck, though you midn’t do it a-purpose.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” protested Ann, “an’ I can’t believe, Mrs. Clarke, as a body can do bad wi’out knowin’ it.”

“Well, ’tis queer, I d’ ’low,” agreed her neighbour, “but when a body sees sich things for theirsel’s as do happen along o’ you, they can’t but believe their own eyes. Ye mind that there bar-hive what Mr. Bridle got last month?”

“E-es,” returned Ann feebly, “I mind it well. I never see sich a handsome contrivance nor so clever. Mr. Bridle showed it to I.”

“E-es, I d’ ’low he did,” agreed the other, with a certain triumph. “I d’ ’low ye was a-lookin’ at it a long time.”

“I was,” confessed Ann, with a sinking heart.

Mrs. Clarke nodded portentously. “That’s it,” she said. “The bees be all dead, Mrs. Kerley. Bridle, he did say to I yesterday, ‘I couldn’t think,’ says he, ‘whatever took the bees. I had but just moved them out of the wold skip and they did seem to take to the bar-hive so nice,’ he says, ‘an’ now they be all a-dyin’ off so quick as they can. I couldn’t think,’ he says, ‘what could be the reason, but I do know now. I do know it was a great mistake to ha’ brought Ann Kerley up to look at ’em.’”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried the last-named poor old woman, wringing her hands, “do he really think I did hurt ’em?”

“He do, indeed,” said Mrs. Clarke firmly. “There, my dear, it do seem a terr’ble thing, but you be turned into a witch seemin’ly, whether it be against your will or whether it bain’t.”

Ann stood motionless for a moment, her hands squeezed tightly together, her face haggard and drawn.

“I think I’ll go indoor a bit,” she said, after a pause. “I’ll go indoor an’ set me down. I don’t know what to do. Mrs. Clarke----?”

“E-es, my dear. There, you needn’t look up at I so earnest--I can hear ’ee quite well wi’out that.”

Ann turned away with an impatient groan, and went staggering up her path. The other looked after her remorsefully.

“Bide a bit, Mrs. Kerley, do ’ee now. What was ye goin’ to ax I?”

“I was but goin’ to ax,” faltered Ann, still with her face averted, “if you’d be so kind as to fetch I a drop o’ water this marnin’ when you do go to get some for yoursel’. There, I don’t some way feel as if I could face folks--an’ there mid be some about. ’Tis gettin’ a bit late now.”

“E-es, sure; I could do it easy,” agreed Mrs. Clarke eagerly. “I could do it every marnin’--’tisn’t a bit more trouble to fill two pails nor one. An’ ’t ’ud be better for ee, Ann, my dear, not to go about more nor you can help till this ’ere visitation wears of.”

“’T ’ull never wear off,” said Ann gloomily, as she walked unsteadily away.

Now, as Mrs. Clarke subsequently remarked, those words of Ann’s made her fair bibber, same as if a bucket of cold water were thrown down her back. She was full of compassion for her neighbour, and, though she was willing to believe that the strange, unpleasant power of which she had suddenly become possessed was unwelcome to her and unconsciously used, she was nevertheless forced to agree with Mrs. Biles that that didn’t make the thing no better, and that the more Ann Kerley kept herself to herself the safer it would be for all parties.