The cautious Mumchance considered it would be imprudent to interfere with the obsequies.
“After all, your Worship,” he said to Master Polydore, “the Law has had his blood, and if it will mean a little peace and quiet she can do without his corpse.”
The next day many of the ’prentices and artizans went on strike, and several captains of merchant vessels reported that their crews showed signs of getting out of hand.
Master Polydore was terrified out of his wits, and Mumchance was inclined to take a very gloomy view of the situation: “If the town chooses to rise the Yeomanry can do nothing against them,” he said dejectedly. “We ain’t organized (if your Worship will pardon the expression) for trouble—no, we ain’t.”
Then, as if by a miracle, everything quieted down. The strikers, as meek as lambs, returned to their work, the sailors ceased to be turbulent, and Mumchance declared that it was years since the Yeomanry had had so little to do.
“There’s nothing like taking strong measures at once,” Master Polydore remarked complacently to Master Ambrose (whom he had taken as his mentor in the place of Endymion Leer). “Once let them feel that there is a strong man at the helm, and you can do anything with them. And, of course, they never felt that with poor old Nat.”
Master Ambrose’s only answer was a grunt—and a rather sardonic smile. For Master Ambrose happened to be one of the few people who knew what had really happened.
The sudden calm was due neither to a miracle, nor to the strong hand of Master Polydore. It had been brought about by two humble agents—Mistress Ivy Peppercorn and Hazel Gibberty.
One evening they had been sitting in the little parlour behind the grocer’s shop over the first fire of the season.
As plaintiff and principal witness in the unpopular trial, their situation was not without danger. In fact, Mumchance had advised them to move into Lud till the storm had blown over. But, to Hazel, Lud was the place where the widow was buried, and, full as she was of western superstitions, she felt that she could not bear to sleep enclosed by the same town walls as the angry corpse. Nor would she return to the farm. Her aunt had told her of Master Nathaniel’s half-joking plan to communicate with her, and Hazel insisted that even though he had gone behind the Debatable Hills it was their clear duty to remain within reach of a message.
That evening Mistress Ivy was waxing a little plaintive over her obstinacy. “I sometimes think, Hazel, your wits have been turned, living so long with that bad bold woman … and I don’t wonder, I’m sure, poor child; and if my poor Peppercorn hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened to me. But there’s no sense, I tell you, in waiting on here—with the hams and bacon at home not cured yet, nor the fish salted for winter, nor your fruit pickled or preserved. You’re a farmer on your own now, and you shouldn’t forget it. And I wish to goodness you’d get all that silly nonsense out of your head. A message from the Mayor, indeed! Though I can’t get over its being him that came to see me, and me never knowing, but giving him sauce, as if he’d been nothing but a shipmate of my poor Peppercorn’s! No, no, poor gentleman, we’ll never hear from him! Leastways, not this side of the Debatable Hills.”
Hazel said nothing. But her obstinate little chin looked even more obstinate than usual.
Then suddenly she looked up with startled eyes.
“Hark, auntie!” she cried. “Didn’t you hear someone knocking?”
“What a girl you are for fancying things! It’s only the wind,” said Mistress Ivy querulously.
“Why, auntie, there it is again! No, no, I’m sure it’s someone knocking. I’ll just go and see,” and she took a candle from the table; but her hand was trembling.
The knocking was audible now to Mistress Ivy as well.
“You just stay where you are, my girl!” she cried shrilly. “It’ll be one of these rough chaps from the town, and I won’t have you opening the door—no, I won’t.”
But Hazel paid no attention, and, though her face was white and her eyes very scared, she marched boldly into the shop and called, “Who’s there?” through the door.
“By the Sun, Moon and Stars and the Golden Apples of the West!” came the answer.
“Auntie! Auntie!” she cried shrilly, “it’s from the Mayor. He has sent a messenger, and you must come.”
This brought Mistress Ivy hurrying to her side. Though she was not of an heroic character, she came of good sturdy stock, and she was not going to leave her dead brother’s child to face the dangers of the unseen alone, but her teeth were chattering with terror. Evidently the messenger was growing impatient, for he began beating a tattoo on the door and singing in a shrill sweet voice:
“Maids in your smocks
Look well to your locks
And beware of the fox
When the bellman knocks.”
Hazel (not without some fumbling, for her hands were still trembling) drew the bolts, lifted the latch,
