Chapter XI: The Dolls

"Jar," said Mrs. Weekes, "you be getting on home to fifty years old, and since I first slapped your breech, when you'd been in the world a matter of six months, you and me have never had no grave difference of opinion."

"What then?" asked the man.

Sarah Jane was spending a soft May evening at the cottage of Mary; but, not desiring to be in her presence, Jarratt left them and went to see his mother. For some time Hephzibah had expressed a desire for private conversation with him, and now Jarratt gave her the opportunity. But quickly he regretted it. Rumour had reached his mother's ears, and she felt very agitated to learn that some strange and most unusual event was pending. Only whispers and hints had reached her, and since such shadowy insinuations were specially offensive to her mind, she commanded her son before her and ordered him to be plain.

"What then?" repeated Jarratt.

"Then 'twould be an everlasting shame and misfortune if we fell out now--you in your prime and me with my white hair and coming to the end of my days. You've never hid much from me that I know of, and nothing that I didn't find out if I wanted to. So don't try now. There's all manner of beastly whisperings in the air; and you be in them. Wherever I go to have a talk, people say, 'What's this here thing Mr. Jarratt be up to?' And when I tell 'em I don't know, they shut their mouths and change the subject."

"So much the better. It don't concern you, anyway."

"You can say that! But it do concern me, and I will know the truth of it. From all I hear it concerns everybody called Weekes; for the credit of a family be of some account, though 'tis only a family of dormice, like your father's family. I was born a Mudge; and that's a lasting blessing to me; and you've got my blood in you and ban't going to demean it, I should hope."

"If old Huggins have been talking--or William Churchward either, I'll wring their necks!"

"Jar," answered his mother. "'Tis an old saying, and true as old, that Satan finds mischief for idle hands. Hard luck you've had of late, and to my cost I know it; but because you've been forced to wait and use patience, and haven't had the usual chances to be busy, that ban't no reason why for you should use your time ill. Guy Fawkes and angels! Isn't the world full of chances to do right? Better bide home and nurse the babbies than go out to do other folks a wrong turn."

"When I'm hit, I hit back."

"I don't know nothing about the parties, and don't want to know. If a man's hurt you, hit him back from the shoulder so hard as you know how. But this--this thing I hear. Even if 'tis true, and some poor unhappy girl have made a slip--good God Almighty!--you ban't a coward to lift your hand to a woman, be you?"

"What d'you know, and what don't you know?" he asked.

"I don't know no names, and 'twasn't Val, nor yet Adam Churchward's son who told me that you'd got a plot afoot. Philip Weekes it was who heard it--your own father; and very properly he put the thing afore me. There's a middle-aged spinster down to Little Lydford, that Bill Churchward be rather silly after, and she've screwed a bit of news out of him seemingly. She's one of them nasty 'have you heard?' sort of women, always with a bit of news on her lips--generally untrue. And she told your father that you and another here and there was caballing and hatching up a cruel joke at the expense of a certain man and woman very well known round these parts. I hope 'tis a lie, and I hope you'll tell me 'tis. Then I'll go early to market next Friday and stop at that female's house, and say a thing or two as'll be worse than a mustard poultice to her mean heart."

"Better mind your own business. There's a bit of fun in the air--that's all. Sometimes a nod's as good as a wink to a blind hoss. There's a few self-righteous, damned fools about that won't be any the worse for hearing a thing or two they don't know."

"I don't like to hear you tell that way, and I wish to God you was busier about your own affairs; then you wouldn't be stirring on other people's. Are you the man to set this wrong right? Ax yourself that afore you go farther."

"Yes, I am."

"For my sake, Jar, think better of it."

"Too late now."

"Tell me about it, then."

"You'll know soon enough. 'Tis only a joke, when all's said. We are going to let the rough truth loose for once, and tell a psalm-smiting fool a thing or two he don't know seemingly. Or, if he do know and have winked at it, for his own ends, then so much the more shame to him. Anyway, he shan't think Lydford be in the dark--not after next Monday night."

"You won't tell me what's doing?"

"Go to that field called 'Thornyside,' what miller Taverner owns up above the gorge, presently after nightfall, if you want to know any more. I'll let you hear when the day is fixed. 'Tis only following out an ancient custom. You like the old ways and you like buryings, so the business will just suit you."

"One of them mock funerals!"

"Just so."

"Then you're going to show up a bit of secret sin as you've found out--is that it?"

"If it is?"

Mrs. Weekes was much concerned.

"For my son to meddle in such work as that!" she gasped.

"'Tis fun, I tell you. Damn it all, be I to live my dreary days without never a joke or a laugh to make life better worth? If you knowed a half or a quarter of the dull dog's life I lead now and the hardships I've had of late, you'd be only too glad for me to amuse myself sometimes."

"Don't think to fool me," she said. "You ban't the sort of man--no better than a savage monkey--who'd do a thing like this for fun. You've got your reasons. You be going to strike an enemy."

"Leave it at that, then, since you're so clever."

"Will he leave it at that? I should judge what you be wanting just now are friends, Jar, not enemies. You are going to hurt a man in a terrible tender place. And if you can't make good this charge--what then?"

"I've thought of that. I'm not attacking any man; I'm punishing a man for attacking me. I want money. I go to a chap who is rolling in it. I beg for a trifling loan, and he refuses, for no reason but unkindness and want of charity. 'Tis he has made me his enemy. And now I'll show him up. He's either a blind fool, or else a knave--and the world shall know it one way or t'other."

Mrs. Weekes partly read the remark.

"He's a husband, then, and you be going to let folk know he's--what? wronged or wronging?"

"Go to Jacob Taverner's field and find out," he answered. "I'll say no more at all upon the subject. 'Twill all be done very decently and in order, I promise you. There be those about who remember the same thing often in the past."

"And so do I," said Hephzibah, "and also what comed of one of those May games. A man had another man's life for it after the funeral was over, and the murderer swung in Exeter gaol, though recommended to mercy. You mind what you're doing--else your childer may be orphans and your wife a widow afore hay harvest."

Philip Weekes appeared at this moment, and Jarratt took himself off. He did not go home, but visited the field of Jacob Taverner already mentioned. It lay upon the southern side of Lyd, and Weekes crossed the river by the bridge over the gorge, then entered the croft, climbed its steep side, and knocked at the door of a cowshed which stood in one corner. It was locked from inside, and light and the sound of voices issued from the chinks of the wooden building.

"Who be that?" cried somebody.

"Me--Weekes," answered Jarratt.

The door opened, and he entered, to find three men. One was busy about a strange task; the other two sat on empty cider-barrels and watched him.

"It's getting out," said Weekes. "One of you fools--or else some of the singing boys--have been chattering. 'Tis you, I believe, William, for my father heard it down to Little Lydford from that old maid you'm so fond of."

William Churchward looked up from his work on the ground. He dropped a bundle of long straw and assured Weekes that he must be mistaken.

"I only just said, in a vague way, that one of them famous funerals of the living was on hand, and advised her to be up at Taverner's field on a night I'd let her know."

Jacob Taverner, another of the company, also spoke.

"All the same, we must let the people hear about it. We want all Lydford there on the night, else the fun's spoiled. The more the merrier, surely. It must be blazed abroad."

"In reason. But there's some won't hold with it, and will try to stop it at the last moment."

"They can't," declared old Huggins. "Take care of your pipe, Jacob, or else you'll set William's straw alight and spoil all. They can't stop you, Jarratt, because you'll be 'pon private land. 'Tis Jacob's field, and nobody in the kingdom--not the Queen of England's self--have the power to say what Jacob shall not do on his own ground. The constable may be allowed in to keep the peace, and that's all."

"When will you have the dolls done, William?" asked Mr. Taverner.

Young Churchward desisted from his labour, rose to his feet, and with an artist's eye regarded two headless dummies upon which he was engaged. They were of full human proportions and represented a male and female. The man's image showed a long and thin figure. It wore brown leggings, riding breeches, and a Norfolk jacket. Spurs were attached to its boots, and from its hand, modelled in putty and painted, there hung a hunting-stock.

"What fashioned tie did the man use to wear?" inquired William.

"Red as often as not," answered Weekes.

"I've nearly done him. The legs loll out too much yet, but when young Prowse have knocked up the coffin, we'll fit him in all natural as life."

Then he pointed to the other puppet.

"That's the very daps of _her_ round shape," whispered 'the Infant' aside to Weekes, and Jarratt nodded.

"It is," he admitted.

Then he remembered what his mother had said and turned away with a qualm. Anon he fortified his spirit and sneered at himself.

"'Tis a good joke, sure enough. Won't hurt nobody really. But 'twill make a certain psalm-singing fool of a husband come down a peg or two. And well the man deserves it."

For his own comfort Weekes made this remark.

"How if the man breaks your head?" asked Taverner.

"Two can play at that game."

"When be us to know the parties?" piped Mr. Huggins. "I'm all on fire to hear who 'tis."

"You leave that to me," answered William. "When you see their heads stuck on, you'll know who they be well enough. I've had to take Jarratt's word for the man; but the woman everybody in Lydford will swear to, or I'm no painter."

"Be the putty dried out, 'Infant'?" asked Weekes.

"Very nearly. I've got the paints mixed and a fine lot of corded rope the very colour of----"

"Stop! That'll tell 'em!" cautioned the elder.

Then William rose and whispered to the senior conspirator.

"And the very thing for the eyes--a piece of luck. I was wandering along thinking of 'em, when what should I see in a rubbish heap but a broken plate--blue as the sky! I've chipped a pair of eyeballs and put the pupils in."

He showed enthusiasm for his unlovely task, and Weekes encouraged him.

Then Churchward returned to his dummy and filled the nether garments of the male figure with straw.

"Mustn't have too much," he said, "for by all accounts he's a thin man--a mere skeleton of a man."

Mr. Huggins rose.

"I be going, souls," he said. "These here lifeless carpses be getting to make me go goose-flesh along the spine. That true to life--that cruel true they be--that I shall dream bad dreams about 'em if I sit here gloating any more. They be a masterpiece of horror and dreadfuller without their heads than with 'em. I'll ax you to see me up the hill, Jacob, for 'tis a very difficult task for me to breast it alone at my age."

"So I will, then," answered Taverner. "And we'll drop into Noah Pearn's at the top."

"Spirits 'twill be for me, if anything," said Valentine. "I'm a bit down-daunted along of this gashly spectacle, and I'm almost sorry now I called upon my memory to help. 'Twill vex somebody for certain, and at my great age us ought to rise above politics. 'Tis a terrible gift of likeness-making the 'Infant' have got; but for my part I'd sooner be a common man, wi'out any such devilish cleverness."

"Don't you fear," said William. "Nobody will pull your old nose."

The painter, quite oblivious of the grave issues behind this outrage, pursued his operations in a light and cheerful spirit. Once taken in hand, he became exceedingly interested in his bizarre task; and now he had grown enthusiastic. He regarded the dolls as an advertisement of neglected talents, and he was only sorry that so much careful work must presently be buried in the earth. But he hoped it might be possible to dig his masterpieces up again.

At home, under lock and key, he had fashioned two heads of putty. One, albeit still unpainted, indubitably resembled Sarah Jane; the other--a shrunken visage, with eyes made of grey slate and high cheek-bones, represented the farmer, Hilary Woodrow. A mass of bright tow hair fell about the female face; the male puppet wore a round hat. Presently William intended to paint these effigies up to the colour of life. Sarah Jane he had secretly studied when she came to visit his sister. Her pure, bright skin, just beginning to take the kiss of the sun as he warmed the spring again, he already knew. As for the male doll, putty-colour came almost near enough to the cadaverous deterioration of the original.

"How long will it be afore all's ready?" asked Jarratt.

"A matter of three days. I'll bring the heads up in a basket an hour before the show. Taverner's going to look after the torches, and Dicky Prowse fetches up the coffins after dark Sunday."

"I'm only thinking of the man. Monday's the best day for him. He goes into Tavistock often of a Monday, and comes home by Lydford way. The point is to hit on a night when he'll be passing by here just at the proper moment. We must made dead sure of him. If he don't actually come face to face with the funeral, half the fun's out of it."

William Churchward assented to this opinion.

"I'd dearly like to coax her here also; but perhaps that would be a thought too rough," he said.

"Yes, we can't do that. I'm not desirous to hurt her at all. 'Tis him I'm aiming at--just to let the gas out of him a bit and larn him that he ain't under the special care and charge of Providence, but have to share the rough edge of things along with his betters."

William nodded.

"Of course you've got proof positive," he said.

"I have--my own eyes and another pair. Besides that I've got her, come to think of it. You know her fashion. 'Tis true, I reckon, that she never told it; but when 'tis blowed, she won't deny it, whatever the farmer might be tempted to do. Anyway, he's at death's door, so we shan't hurt him."

"If 'twas a thing of yesterday, I should be rather frightened of the job," confessed William. "But seeing the matter's five years old and more--what's the odds to any sensible person?"

"Quite right. If they let it hurt 'em--more fools them. Anyway, the man's no friend to me, or anybody else, for all his cant. He's brought this on himself."

"There--that's about all I can do for this pair of legs," said William. "Now we'll lock up and be gone. Come and see 'Sarah Jane.' You'll want to kiss her when I've painted her!"