Cunning Murrell by Arthur Morrison

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little more than he had intended; the girl’s brain had galloped ahead of him.
But perhaps this were the most merciful end for her pitiful
romance—short and sharp though it might be.
    She did not faint, for that was not the habit of a Leigh girl. But she lay
back in the chair, and rolled her head in an agony of tears. Cunning Murrell
feared that he must do more than earn his sixpence ere he could be rid of
her. He put a bottle of oil of hartshorn to her nose, and he rubbed her
forehead. But the fit of grief did not last long. She was not of the sort who
could afford to waste time in useless “dolouring.” Presently she shifted the
baby to her other arm, kissed it, and wiped her eyes with her apron. Then she
rose and said simply: “Thank ‘ee kindly, Master Murrell. ‘Tis a cruel hard
blow, but I must a-bear it for the child’s sake, for’t hev no other friend,
no more than I.”
    She took a screw of paper from her pocket, and unfolding it, revealed a
sixpence and some coppers. She put the sixpence on the table corner, folded
the paper over the halfpence, and returned it to her pocket. “I take it kind
you chargin’ low to poor people,” she said, “an’ I wish I could pay more. I
hope ‘tis enough?”
    “O ay, ‘tis enough,” Murrell answered brusquely, picking up the money;
“‘tis accordin’ to means, as I tell ‘ee.” And he opened the door.
    The girl shifted the baby back to her right arm and went out into the
lane, no more of her grief visible than was betrayed by a fitful tear or two,
overrunning from full eyes as she went.
    Cunning Murrell opened his hand and looked at the sixpence, turned his
eyes up toward the Dutch clock, and scratched his cheek. Then he looked at
the sixpence again, and then at his hat.
    “Damn it!” said Cunning Murrell aloud, and almost dropped at the word; for
he was a devout man, and scrupulous in his words, as was becoming in one with
so exact an acquaintance with their power in spells, charms, conjurations,
exorcisms, prayers, and maledictions. He paused with the shock, his gaze
still fixed on the hat. Then he reached and snatched it, and ran down the
lane after the girl.
    He caught her at the stile, just beyond the cottages. “Here!” he said
abruptly, thrusting the sixpence into her hand; and instantly hurried
back.
    He flung his hat on the table, kicked open the back door, and shouted
fiercely: “Ann Pett! Be yow goin’ to leave this pail o’ watter slummuckin’
about here arl day? Will ‘ee pitch it away, or wait till I come an’ pitch it
over ‘ee?”
    Ann Pett came, submissive and soapy, and carried the pail away. She
perceived that her father’s ill temper was increasing, though it was no part
of her nature to wonder why.
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X. — PROFITLESS DIPLOMACY
    IT was Murrell’s habit to take much of his sleep at day, and
it was his faculty to take it when opportunity offered. It was now late in
the afternoon, and for a little while he debated within himself whether he
should lie on his bed above, or doze merely where he sat. But there was more
business for him, and he had scarce resolved on a nap in his chair when a
heavy step was stayed without, and the door shook with the thump of a
fist.
    “Come in!” cried Cunning Murrell. And with that the door opened, and Steve
Lingood looked in on the little old man, curled in repose amid his cobweb of
dusty herbs.
    “Good day t’ ye, Stephen Lingood,” said Murrell, with that dignity that
characterised his dealings and conversation with the villagers; though he
remembered with some misgiving that he had not yet paid the smith for the
bottle used in the relief of Em Banham from witchcraft.
    “Good day, Master Murrell,” Lingood answered, in his deliberate tones; “I
come on a small matter o’ business.”
    Murrell was not reassured by the expression, but he motioned toward a
chair, and Lingood sat, putting his fur cap on his knee.
    “‘Tis to consult about