'DYMCHURCH FLIT'
Just at dusk, a soft September rain began to fall on the hop-pickers. Themothers wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins wereput away, and tally-books made up. The young couples strolled home, two toeach umbrella, and the single men walked behind them laughing. Dan andUna, who had been picking after their lessons, marched off to roastpotatoes at the oast-house, where old Hobden, with Blue-eyed Bess, hislurcher-dog, lived all the month through, drying the hops.
They settled themselves, as usual, on the sack-strewn cot in front of thefires, and, when Hobden drew up the shutter, stared, as usual, at theflameless bed of coals spouting its heat up the dark well of theold-fashioned roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh pieces of coal,packed them, with fingers that never flinched, exactly where they would domost good; slowly he reached behind him till Dan tilted the potatoes intohis iron scoop of a hand; carefully he arranged them round the fire, andthen stood for a moment, black against the glare. As he closed theshutter, the oast-house seemed dark before the day's end, and he lit thecandle in the lanthorn. The children liked all these things because theyknew them so well.
The Bee Boy, Hobden's son, who is not quite right in his head, though hecan do anything with bees, slipped in like a shadow. They only guessed itwhen Bess's stump-tail wagged against them.
A big voice began singing outside in the drizzle:--
'Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead, She heard the hops were doing well, and then popped up her head.'
'There can't be two people made to holler like that!' cried old Hobden,wheeling round.
'For, says she, "The boys I've picked with when I was young and fair, They're bound to be at hoppin', and I'm----"'
A man showed at the doorway.
'Well, well! They do say hoppin'll draw the very deadest; and now Ibelieft 'em. You, Tom? Tom Shoesmith!' Hobden lowered his lanthorn.
'You're a hem of a time makin' your mind to it, Ralph!' The strangerstrode in--three full inches taller than Hobden, a grey-whiskered,brown-faced giant with clear blue eyes. They shook hands, and the childrencould hear the hard palms rasp together.
'You ain't lost none o' your grip,' said Hobden. 'Was it thirty or fortyyear back you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?'
'Only thirty, an' no odds 'tween us regardin' heads, neither. You had itback at me with a hop-pole. How did we get home that night? Swimmin'?'
'Same way the pheasant come into Gubbs's pocket--by a little luck an' adeal o' conjurin'.' Old Hobden laughed in his deep chest.
'I see you've not forgot your way about the woods. D'ye do any o' _this_still?' The stranger pretended to look along a gun.
Hobden answered with a quick movement of the hand as though he werepegging down a rabbit-wire.
'No. _That's_ all that's left me now. Age she must as Age she can. An'what's your news since all these years?'
'Oh, I've bin to Plymouth, I've bin to Dover-- I've bin ramblin', boys, the wide world over,'
the man answered cheerily. 'I reckon I know as much of Old England asmost.' He turned towards the children and winked boldly.
'I lay they told you a sight o' lies, then. I've been into England fur asWiltsheer once. I was cheated proper over a pair of hedging-gloves,' saidHobden.
'There's fancy-talkin' everywhere. _You've_ cleaved to your own partspretty middlin' close, Ralph.'
'Can't shift an old tree 'thout it dyin',' Hobden chuckled. 'An' I be nomore anxious to die than you look to be to help me with my hops to-night.'
The great man leaned against the brickwork of the roundel, and swung hisarms abroad. 'Hire me!' was all he said, and they stumped upstairslaughing.
The children heard their shovels rasp on the cloth where the yellow hopslie drying above the fires, and all the oast-house filled with the sweet,sleepy smell as they were turned.
'Who is it?' Una whispered to the Bee Boy.
'Dunno, no more'n you--if _you_ dunno,' said he, and smiled.
The voices on the drying-floor talked and chuckled together, and the heavyfootsteps went back and forth. Presently a hop-pocket dropped through thepress-hole overhead, and stiffened and fattened as they shovelled it full.'Clank!' went the press, and rammed the loose stuff into tight cake.
'Gently!' they heard Hobden cry. 'You'll bust her crop if you lay on so.You be as careless as Gleason's bull, Tom. Come an' sit by the fires.She'll do now.'
They came down, and as Hobden opened the shutter to see if the potatoeswere done Tom Shoesmith said to the children, 'Put a plenty salt on 'em.That'll show you the sort o' man _I_ be.' Again he winked, and again theBee Boy laughed and Una stared at Dan.
'_I_ know what sort o' man you be,' old Hobden grunted, groping for thepotatoes round the fire.
'Do ye?' Tom went on behind his back. 'Some of us can't abide Horseshoes,or Church Bells, or Running Water; an', talkin' o' runnin' water'--heturned to Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel--'d'you mind the greatfloods at Robertsbridge, when the miller's man was drowned in the street?'
'Middlin' well.' Old Hobden let himself down on the coals by the firedoor. 'I was courtin' my woman on the Marsh that year. Carter to Mus' PlumI was--gettin' ten shillin's week. Mine was a Marsh woman.'
'Won'erful odd-gates place--Romney Marsh,' said Tom Shoesmith. 'I've heardsay the world's divided like into Europe, Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky, Australy,an' Romney Marsh.'
'The Marsh folk think so,' said Hobden. 'I had a hem o' trouble to get mywoman to leave it.'
'Where did she come out of? I've forgot, Ralph.'
'Dymchurch under the Wall,' Hobden answered, a potato in his hand.
'Then she'd be a Pett--or a Whitgift, would she?'
'Whitgift.' Hobden broke open the potato and ate it with the curiousneatness of men who make most of their meals in the blowy open. 'Shegrowed to be quite reasonable-like after livin' in the Weald awhile, butour first twenty year or two she was odd-fashioned, no bounds. And she wasa won'erful hand with bees.' He cut away a little piece of potato andthrew it out to the door.
'Ah! I've heard say the Whitgifts could see further through a millstonethan most,' said Shoesmith. 'Did she, now?'
'She was honest-innocent, of any nigromancin',' said Hobden. 'Only she'dread signs and sinnifications out o' birds flyin', stars fallin', beeshivin', and such. An' she'd lie awake--listenin' for calls, she said.'
'That don't prove naught,' said Tom. 'All Marsh folk has been smugglerssince time everlastin'. 'Twould be in her blood to listen out o' nights.'
'Nature-ally,' old Hobden replied, smiling. 'I mind when there wassmugglin' a sight nearer us than the Marsh be. But that wasn't my woman'strouble. 'Twas a passel o' no-sense talk,' he dropped his voice, 'aboutPharisees.'
'Yes. I've heard Marsh men beleft in 'em.' Tom looked straight at thewide-eyed children beside Bess.
'Pharisees,' cried Una. 'Fairies? Oh, I see!'
'People o' the Hills,' said the Bee Boy, throwing half of his potatotowards the door.
'There you be!' said Hobden, pointing at him. 'My boy, he has her eyes andher out-gate senses. That's what _she_ called 'em!'
'And what did you think of it all?'
'Um--um,' Hobden rumbled. 'A man that uses fields an' shaws after dark asmuch as I've done, he don't go out of his road excep' for keepers.'
'But settin' that aside?' said Tom, coaxingly. 'I saw ye throw the GoodPiece out-at doors just now. Do ye believe or--_do_ ye?'
'There was a great black eye to that tater,' said Hobden, indignantly.
'My liddle eye didn't see un, then. It looked as if you meant it for--forAny One that might need it. But settin' that aside. D'ye believe or--_do_ye?'
'I ain't sayin' nothin', because I've heard naught, an' I've seen naught.But if you was to say there was more things after dark in the shaws thanmen, or fur, or feather, or fin, I dunno as I'd go farabout to call you aliar. Now turn again, Tom. What's your say?'
'I'm like you. I say nothin'. But I'll tell you a tale, an' yo
u can fit it_as_ how you please.'
'Passel o' no-sense stuff,' growled Hobden, but he filled his pipe.
'The Marsh men they call it Dymchurch Flit,' Tom went on slowly. 'Hapyou've heard it?'
'My woman she've told it me scores o' times. Dunno as I didn't end bybelieft in' it--sometimes.'
Hobden crossed over as he spoke, and sucked with his pipe at the yellowlanthorn-flame. Tom rested one great elbow on one great knee, where he satamong the coal.
'Have you ever bin in the Marsh?' he said to Dan.
'Only as far as Rye, once,' Dan answered.
'Ah, that's but the edge. Back behind of her there's steeples settin'beside churches, an' wise women settin' beside their doors, an' the seasettin' above the land, an' ducks herdin' wild in the diks' (he meantditches). 'The Marsh is justabout riddled with diks an' sluices, an'tide-gates an' water-lets. You can hear em' bubblin' an' grummelin' whenthe tide works in em', an' then you hear the sea rangin' left andright-handed all up along the Wall. You've seen how flat she is--the Marsh?You'd think nothin' easier than to walk eend-on acrost her? Ah, but thediks an' the water-lets, they twists the roads about as ravelly aswitch-yarn on the spindles. So ye get all turned round in broad daylight.'
'That's because they've dreened the waters into the diks,' said Hobden.'When I courted my woman the rushes was green--Eh me! the rushes wasgreen--an' the Bailiff o' the Marshes, he rode up and down as free as thefog.'
'Who was he?' said Dan.
'Why, the Marsh fever an' ague. He've clapped me on the shoulder once ortwice till I shook proper. But now the dreenin' off of the waters havedone away with the fevers; so they make a joke, like, that the Bailiff o'the Marshes broke his neck in a dik. A won'erful place for bees an' ducks'tis too.'
'An' old!' Tom went on. 'Flesh an' Blood have been there since TimeEverlastin' Beyond. Well, now, speakin' among themselves, the Marshmen saythat from Time Everlastin' Beyond the Pharisees favoured the Marsh abovethe rest of Old England. I lay the Marshmen ought to know. They've beenout after dark, father an' son, smugglin' some one thing or t'other, sinceever wool grew to sheep's backs. They say there was always a middlin' fewPharisees to be seen on the Marsh. Impident as rabbits, they was. They'ddance on the nakid roads in the nakid daytime; they'd flash their liddlegreen lights along the diks, comin' an' goin', like honest smugglers. Yes,an' times they'd lock the church doors against parson an' clerk ofSundays!'
'That 'ud be smugglers layin' in the lace or the brandy till they couldrun it out o' the Marsh. I've told my woman so,' said Hobden.
'I'll lay she didn't beleft it, then--not if she was a Whitgift. Awon'erful choice place for Pharisees, the Marsh, by all accounts, tillQueen Bess's father he come in with his Reformatories.'
'Would that be a Act o' Parliament like?' Hobden asked.
'Sure-ly! 'Can't do nothing in Old England without Act, Warrant, an'Summons. He got his Act allowed him, an', they say, Queen Bess's father heused the parish churches something shameful. Justabout tore the gizzardsout of I dunnamany. Some folk in England they held with 'en; but some theysaw it different, an' it eended in 'em takin' sides an' burnin' each otherno bounds, accordin' which side was top, time bein'. That tarrified thePharisees: for Goodwill among Flesh an' Blood is meat an' drink to 'em,an' ill-will is poison.'
'Same as bees,' said the Bee Boy. 'Bees won't stay by a house wherethere's hating.'
'True,' said Tom. 'This Reformations tarrified the Pharisees same as thereaper goin' round a last stand o' wheat tarrifies rabbits. They packedinto the Marsh from all parts, and they says, "Fair or foul, we must flitout o' this, for Merry England's done with, an' we're reckoned among theImages."'
'Did they _all_ see it that way?' said Hobden.
'All but one that was called Robin--if you've heard of him. What are youlaughing at?' Tom turned to Dan. 'The Pharisees's trouble didn't techRobin, because he'd cleaved middlin' close to people like. No more henever meant to go out of Old England--not he; so he was sent messagin' forhelp among Flesh an' Blood. But Flesh an' Blood must always think of theirown concerns, an' Robin couldn't get _through_ at 'em, ye see. Theythought it was tide-echoes off the Marsh.'
'What did you--what did the fai--Pharisees want?' Una asked.
'A boat to be sure. Their liddle wings could no more cross Channel than somany tired butterflies. A boat an' a crew they desired to sail 'em over toFrance, where yet awhile folks hadn't tore down the Images. They couldn'tabide cruel Canterbury Bells ringin' to Bulverhithe for more pore men an'women to be burnded, nor the King's proud messenger ridin' through theland givin' orders to tear down the Images. They couldn't abide it noshape. Nor yet they couldn't get their boat an' crew to flit by withoutLeave an' Good-will from Flesh an' Blood; an' Flesh an' Blood came an'went about its own business the while the Marsh was swarvin' up, an'swarvin' up with Pharisees from all England over, striving all means toget _through_ at Flesh an' Blood to tell 'en their sore need.... I don'tknow as you've ever heard say Pharisees are like chickens?'
'My woman used to say that too,' said Hobden, folding his brown arms.
'They be. You run too many chickens together, an' the ground sickens like,an' you get a squat, an' your chickens die. 'Same way, you crowd Phariseesall in one place--_they_ don't die, but Flesh an' Blood walkin' among 'emis apt to sick up an' pine off. _They_ don't mean it, an' Flesh an' Blooddon't know it, but that's the truth--as I've heard. The Pharisees throughbein' all stenched up an' frighted, an' tryin' to come _through_ withtheir supplications, they nature-ally changed the thin airs and humours inFlesh an' Blood. It lay on the Marsh like thunder. Men saw their churchesablaze with the wildfire in the windows after dark; they saw their cattlescatterin' and no man scarin'; their sheep flockin' and no man drivin';their horses latherin' an' no man leadin'; they saw the liddle low greenlights more than ever in the dik-sides; they heard the liddle feetpatterin' more than ever round the houses; an' night an' day, day an'night, 'twas all as though they were bein' creeped up on, and hinted at bysome One or Other that couldn't rightly shape their trouble. Oh, I laythey sweated! Man an' maid, woman an' child, their Nature done 'em noservice all the weeks while the Marsh was swarvin' up with Pharisees. Butthey was Flesh an' Blood, an' Marsh men before all. They reckoned thesigns sinnified trouble for the Marsh. Or that the sea 'ud rear up againstDymchurch Wall an' they'd be drownded like Old Winchelsea; or that thePlague was comin'. So they looked for the meanin' in the sea or in theclouds--far an' high up. They never thought to look near an' knee-high,where they could see naught.
'Now there was a poor widow at Dymchurch under the Wall, which, lackingman or property, she had the more time for feeling; and she come to feelthere was a Trouble outside her doorstep bigger an' heavier than aughtshe'd ever carried over it. She had two sons--one born blind, and t'otherstruck dumb through fallin' off the Wall when he was liddle. They was mengrown, but not wage-earnin', an' she worked for 'em, keepin' bees andanswerin' Questions.'
'What sort of questions?' said Dan.
'Like where lost things might be found, an' what to put about a crookedbaby's neck, an' how to join parted sweethearts. She felt the Trouble onthe Marsh same as eels feel thunder. She was a wise woman.'
'My woman was won'erful weather-tender, too,' said Hobden. 'I've seen herbrish sparks like off an anvil out of her hair in thunderstorms. But shenever laid out to answer Questions.'
'This woman was a Seeker like, an' Seekers they sometimes find. One night,while she lay abed, hot an' aching, there come a Dream an' tapped at herwindow, and "Widow Whitgift," it said, "Widow Whitgift!"
'First, by the wings an' the whistling, she thought it was peewits, butlast she arose an' dressed herself, an' opened her door to the Marsh, an'she felt the Trouble an' the Groaning all about her, strong as fever an'ague, an' she calls: "What is it? Oh, what is it?"
'Then 'twas all like the frogs in the diks peeping: then 'twas all likethe reeds in the diks clipclapping; an' then the great Tide-wave rummelledalong the Wall, an' she couldn't hear proper.
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br /> 'Three times she called, an' three times the Tide-wave did her down. Butshe catched the quiet between, an' she cries out, "What is the Trouble onthe Marsh that's been lying down with my heart an' arising with my bodythis month gone?" She felt a liddle hand lay hold on her gown-hem, an' shestooped to the pull o' that liddle hand.'
Tom Shoesmith spread his huge fist before the fire and smiled at it.
'"Will the sea drown the Marsh?" she says. She was a Marsh-woman first an'foremost.
'"No," says the liddle voice. "Sleep sound for all o' that."
'"Is the Plague comin' to the Marsh?" she says. Them was all the ills sheknowed.
'"No. Sleep sound for all o' that," says Robin.
'She turned about, half mindful to go in, but the liddle voices grievedthat shrill an' sorrowful she turns back, an' she cries: "If it is not aTrouble of Flesh an' Blood, what can I do?"
'The Pharisees cried out upon her from all round to fetch them a boat tosail to France, an' come back no more.
'"There's a boat on the Wall," she says, "but I can't push it down to thesea, nor sail it when 'tis there."
'"Lend us your sons," says all the Pharisees. "Give 'em Leave an'Good-will to sail it for us, Mother--O Mother!"
'"One's dumb, an' t'other's blind," she says. "But all the dearer me forthat; and you'll lose them in the big sea." The voices justabout piercedthrough her. An' there was children's voices too. She stood out all shecould, but she couldn't rightly stand against _that_. So she says: "If youcan draw my sons for your job, I'll not hinder 'em. You can't ask no moreof a Mother."
'She saw them liddle green lights dance an' cross till she was dizzy; sheheard them liddle feet patterin' by the thousand; she heard cruelCanterbury Bells ringing to Bulverhithe, an' she heard the great Tide-waveranging along the Wall. That was while the Pharisees was workin' a Dreamto wake her two sons asleep: an' while she bit on her fingers she saw themtwo she'd bore come out an' pass her with never a word. She followed 'em,cryin' pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, an' that they took an' runneddown to the Sea.
'When they'd stepped mast an' sail the blind son speaks up: "Mother, we'rewaitin' your Leave an' Good-will to take Them over."'
Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut his eyes.
'Eh, me!' he said. 'She was a fine, valiant woman, the Widow Whitgift. Shestood twistin' the ends of her long hair over her fingers, an' she shooklike a poplar, makin' up her mind. The Pharisees all about they hushedtheir children from cryin' an' they waited dumb-still. She was all theirdependence. 'Thout her Leave an' Goodwill they could not pass; for she wasthe Mother. So she shook like a asp-tree makin' up her mind. 'Last shedrives the word past her teeth, an' "Go!" she says. "Go with my Leave an'Goodwill."
'Then I saw--then, they say, she had to brace back same as if she waswadin' in tide-water; for the Pharisees justabout flowed past her--down thebeach to the boat, _I_ dunnamany of 'em--with their wives an' children an'valooables, all escapin' out of cruel Old England. Silver you could hearclinkin', an' liddle bundles hove down dunt on the bottom-boards, an'passels o' liddle swords an' shield's raklin', an' liddle fingers an' toesscratchin' on the boatside to board her when the two sons pushed her off.That boat she sunk lower an' lower, but all the Widow could see in it washer boys movin' hampered-like to get at the tackle. Up sail they did, an'away they went, deep as a Rye barge, away into the off-shore mistes, an'the Widow Whitgift she sat down and eased her grief till mornin' light.'
'I never heard she was _all_ alone,' said Hobden.
'I remember now. The one called Robin he stayed with her, they tell. Shewas all too grievious to listen to his promises.'
'Ah! She should ha' made her bargain beforehand. I allus told my womanso!' Hobden cried.
'No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan, bein' as she sensed theTrouble on the Marshes, an' was simple good-willing to ease it.' Tomlaughed softly. 'She done that. Yes, she done that! From Hithe toBulverthithe, fretty man an' petty maid, ailin' woman an' wailin' child,they took the advantage of the change in the thin airs just about _as_soon as the Pharisees flitted. Folks come out fresh an' shining all overthe Marsh like snails after wet. An' that while the Widow Whitgift satgrievin' on the Wall. She might have beleft us--she might have trusted hersons would be sent back! She fussed, no bounds, when their boat come inafter three days.'
'And, of course, the sons were both quite cured?' said Una.
'No-o. That would have been out o' Nature. She got 'em back _as_ she sent'em. The blind man he hadn't seen naught of anything, an' the dumb mannature-ally, he couldn't say aught of what he'd seen. I reckon that waswhy the Pharisees pitched on 'em for the ferrying job.'
'But what did you--what did Robin promise the Widow?' said Dan.
'What _did_ he promise, now?' Tom pretended to think. 'Wasn't your woman aWhitgift, Ralph? Didn't she say?'
'She told me a passel o' no-sense stuff when he was born.' Hobden pointedat his son. 'There was always to be one of 'em that could see further intoa millstone than most.'
'Me! That's me!' said the Bee Boy so suddenly that they all laughed.
'I've got it now!' cried Tom, slapping his knee. 'So long as Whitgiftblood lasted, Robin promised there would allers be one o' her stockthat--that no Trouble 'ud lie on, no Maid 'ud sigh on, no Night couldfrighten, no Fright could harm, no Harm could make sin, an' no Woman couldmake a fool.'
'Well, ain't that just me?' said the Bee Boy, where he sat in the silversquare of the great September moon that was staring into the oast-housedoor.
'They was the exact words she told me when we first found he wasn't likeothers. But it beats me how you known 'em,' said Hobden.
'Aha! There's more under my hat besides hair!' Tom laughed and stretchedhimself. 'When I've seen these two young folk home, we'll make a night ofold days, Ralph, with passin' old tales--eh? An' where might you live?' hesaid, gravely, to Dan. 'An' do you think your Pa 'ud give me a drink fortakin' you there, Missy?'
They giggled so at this that they had to run out. Tom picked them both up,set one on each broad shoulder, and tramped across the ferny pasture wherethe cows puffed milky puffs at them in the moonlight.
'Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right from when you talked about the salt.How could you ever do it?' Una cried, swinging along delighted.
'Do what?' he said, and climbed the stile by the pollard oak.
'Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,' said Dan, and they ducked to avoid the twolittle ashes that grow by the bridge over the brook. Tom was almostrunning.
'Yes. That's my name, Mus' Dan,' he said, hurrying over the silent shininglawn, where a rabbit sat by the big white-thorn near the croquet ground.'Here you be.' He strode into the old kitchen yard, and slid them down asEllen came to ask questions.
'I'm helping in Mus' Spray's oast-house,' he said to her. 'No, I'm noforeigner. I knowed this country 'fore your Mother was born; an'--yes it'sdry work oasting, Miss. Thank you.'
Ellen went to get a jug, and the children went in--magicked once more byOak, Ash, and Thorn!