









                        Chapter XXIII
                              
                    The Northern Fire-box
                    and Dead Men's Tales


That night Hazel could not get to sleep.  Perhaps this was
due to having noticed something that afternoon that made her
vaguely uneasy.  The evenings were beginning to be chilly,
and, shortly before supper, she had gone up to Master
Nathaniel's room to light his fire.  She found the widow and
one of the maidservants there before her, and, to her
surprise, they had brought down from the attic an old
charcoal stove that had lain there unused for years, for
Dorimare was a land of open fires, and stoves were
practically unknown.  The widow had brought the stove to the
farm on her marriage, for, one her mother's side, she had
belonged to a race from the far North.
   On Hazel's look of surprise, she had said casually, "The
logs are dampish to-day, and I thought this would make our
guest cosier."
   Now Hazel knew that the wood was not in the least damp;
how could it be, as it had not rained for days?  But that
this should have made her uneasy was a sign of her deep
instinctive distrust of her grandfather's widow.
   Perhaps the strongest instinct in Hazel was that of
hospitality -- that all should be well, physically and
morally, with the guests under the roof that she never
forgot was hers, was a need in her much more pressing than
any welfare of her own.
   Meanwhile, Master Nathaniel, somewhat puzzled by the
outlandish apparatus that was warming his room, had got into
bed.  He did not immediately put out his candle; he wished
to think.  For being much given to reverie, when he wanted
to follow the sterner path of consecutive thought, he liked
to have some tangible object on which to focus his eye, a
visible goal, as it were, to keep his feet from straying
down the shadowy paths that he so much preferred.
   To-night it was the fine embossed ceiling on which he
fixed his eye -- the same ceiling at which Ranulph used to
gaze when he had slept in this room.  On a ground of a rich
claret colour patterned with azure arabesques, knobs of a
dull gold were embossed, and at the four corners clustered
bunches of grapes and scarlet berries in stucco.  And though
time had dulled their colour and robbed the clusters of many
of their berries, they remained, nevertheless, pretty and
realistic objects. 
   But, in spite of the light, the focus, and his desire for
hard thinking, Master Nathaniel found his thoughts drifting
down the most fantastic paths.  And, besides, he was so
drowsy and his limbs felt so strangely heavy.  The colours
on the ceiling were getting all blurred, and the old knobs
were detaching themselves from their background and shining
in space like suns, moons, and stars -- or was it like
apples -- the golden apples of the West?  And now the
claret-coloured background was turning into a red field -- a
field of red flowers, from which leered Portunus, and among
which wept Ranulph.  But the straight road, which for the
last few months had been the projection of his unknown,
buried purpose, even through this confused landscape
glimmered white... yet, it looked different from usual...
why, of course, it was the Milky Way!  And then he knew no
more.
   In the meantime Hazel had been growing more and more
restless, and, though she scolded herself for foolishness,
more and more anxious.  Finally, she could stand it no more:
"I think I'll just creep up to the gentleman's door and
listen if I can hear him snoring," she said to herself. 
Hazel believed that it was a masculine peculiarity not to be
able to sleep without snoring.
   But though she kept her ear to the keyhole for a full two
minutes, not a sound proceeded from Master Nathaniel's
room.  Then she softly opened the door.  A lighted candle
was guttering to its end, and her guest was lying, to all
appearance, dead, whilst a suffocating atmosphere pervaded
the room.  Hazel felt almost sick with terror, but she flung
open the casement window as wide as it would go, poured half
the water from the ewer into the stove to extinguish its
fire, and the remainder over Master Nathaniel himself.  To
her unspeakable relief he opened his eyes, groaned, and
muttered something inaudible.
   "Oh, sir, you're not dead then!" almost sobbed Hazel. 
"I'll just go and fetch you a cup of cordial and get you
some hartshorn."
   When she returned with the two restoratives, she found
Master Nathaniel sitting up in bed, and, though he looked a
little fuddled, his natural colour was creeping back, and
the cordial restored him to almost his normal condition.
   When Hazel saw that he was really himself again, she sank
down on the floor and, spent with terror, began to sob
bitterly.
   "Come, my child!" said Master Nathaniel kindly, "there's
nothing to cry about.  I'm feeling as well as ever I did in
my life... though, by the Harvest of Souls, I can't imagine
what can have taken me.  I never remember to have swooned
before in all my born days."
   But Hazel would not be comforted: "That it should have
happened, here, in my house," she sobbed.  "We who have
always stood by the laws of hospitality... and not a *young*
gentleman, either... oh, dearie me; oh, dearie me!"
   "What do you blame to yourself, my child?" asked Master
Nathaniel.  "Your hospitality is in no sense to blame if, 
owing perhaps to recent fatigues and anxieties I should have
turned faint.  No, it is not you that are the bad host, but
I that am the bad guest to have given so much trouble."
   But Hazel's sobs only grew wilder.  "I didn't like her
bringing in that fire-box -- no I didn't!  An evil
outlandish thing that it is!  That it should have happened
under *my* roof!  For it *is* my roof... and *she'll* not
pass another night under it!" and she sprang to her feet,
with clenched fists and blazing eyes.
   Master Nathaniel was becoming interested.  "Are you
alluding to your grandfather's widow?" he asked quietly.
   "Yes, I am!" cried Hazel indignantly.  "Oh! she's up to
strange tricks, always... and none of her ways are those of
honest farmers -- no fennel over our doors, unholy fodder in
our granary... and in her heart, thoughts as unholy.  I saw
the smile with which she looked at you at dinner."
   "Are you accusing this woman of actually having made an
attempt on my life?" he asked slowly.
   But Hazel flinched before this point-blank question, and
her only answer was to begin again to cry.  For a few
minutes Master Nathaniel allowed her to do so unmolested,
and then he said gently, "I think you have cried enough for
to-night, my child.  *You* have been kindness itself, but it
is evident that I am not very welcome to your grandfather's
widow, so I must not inflict myself longer upon her.  But
before I leave her roof there is something I want to do, and
I shall need your help."
   Then he told her who he was and how he wanted to prove
something against a certain enemy of his, and had come here
hoping to find a missing clue.
   He paused, and looked at her meditatively.  "I think I
ought to tell you, my child," he went on, "that if I can
prove what I want, your grandmother may also be involved. 
Did you know she had once been tried for the murder of your
grandfather?"
   "Yes," she faltered.  "I've heard that there was a
trial.  But I thought she was proved innocent."
   "Yes.  But there is such a thing as a miscarriage of
justice.  I believe that your grandfather *was* murdered,
and that my enemy -- whose name I don't care to mention till
I have more to go upon -- had a hand in the matter.  And I
have a shrewd suspicion that the widow was his accomplice. 
Under these circumstances, will you still be willing to help
me?"
   Hazel first turned red, and then she turned white,and her
lower lip began to tremble.  She disliked the widow, but had
to admit that she had never been unkindly treated by her,
and, though not her own kith and kin, she was the nearest
approach to a relative she could remember.  But, on the
other hand, Hazel belonged by tradition and breed to the
votaries of the grim cult of the Law.  Crime must not go
unpunished; moreover (and here Hazel subscribed to a still
more venerable code) one's own kith and kin must not go
unavenged.
   But the very vehemence with which she longed to be rid of
the widow's control had bred a curious irrational sense of
guilt with regard to her; and, into the bargain, she was
terrified of her. 
   Supposing this clue should lead to nothing, and the widow
discover that they had been imagining?  How, in that case,
should she dare to face her, to go on living under the same
roof with her?
   And yet... she was certain she had tried to murder their
guest that night.  How dared she?  How dared she?
   Hazel clenched her fists, and in a little gasping voice
said, "Yes, sir, I'll help you."
   "Good!" said Master Nathaniel briskly.  "I want to take
old Portunus's advice -- and dig under that herm in the
orchard, this very night.  Though, mind you, it's just as
likely as not to prove nothing but the ravings of a crazy
mind; or else it may concern some buried treasure, or
something else that has nothing to do with your
grandfather's murder.  But, in the case of our finding a
valuable bit of evidence, we must have witnesses.  And I
think we should have the lawman of the district with us; who
is he?"
   "It's the Swan blacksmith, Peter Pease."
   "Is there any servant you trust whom you could send for
him?  Someone more attached to you than to the widow?"
   "I can trust them all, and they all like me best," she
answered.
   "Good.  Go and wake a servant and send him off at once
for the blacksmith.  Tell him not to bring him up to the
house, but to take him straight to the orchard... we don't
want to wake the widow before need be.  And the servant can
stay and help us with the job -- the more witnesses the
better."
   Hazel felt as if she was in a strange, rather terrible
dream.  But she crept up to the attic and aroused one of the
unmarried labourers -- who, according to the old custom,
slept in their master's house -- and bade him ride into Swan
and bring the blacksmith back with him on important business
concerning the law.
   Hazel calculated that he should get to Swan and back in
less than an hour, and she and Master Nathaniel crept out of
the house to wait for them in the orchard, each provided
with a spade.
   The moon was on the wane, but still sufficiently full to
give a good light.  She was, indeed, an orchard thief, for
no fruit being left to rob, she had robbed the leaves of all
their colour.
   "Poor old moon!" chuckled Master Nathaniel, who was now
in the highest of spirits, "always filching colours with
which to paint her own pale face, and all in vain!  But just
look at your friend, at Master Herm.  He *does* look
knowing!"
   For in the moonlight the old herm had found his element,
and under her rays his stone flickered and glimmered into
living silver flesh, while his archaic smile had gained a
new significance.
   "Excuse, me, sir" said Hazel timidly, "but I couldn't
help wondering if the gentleman you suspected was... Dr.
Leer."
   "What makes you think so?" asked Master Nathaniel
sharply. 
   "I don't quite know," faltered Hazel.  "I just --
wondered."
   Before long they were joined by the labourer and the
law-man blacksmith -- a burly, jovial, red-haired rustic of
about fifty.
   "Good evening," cried Master Nathaniel briskly, "I am
Nathaniel Chanticleer" (he was sure that the news of his
deposition could not yet have had time to travel to Swan)
"and if my business were not very pressing and secret I
would not, you may be sure, have had you roused from your
bed at this ungodly hour.  I have reason to think that
something of great importance may be hidden under this herm,
and I wanted you to be there to see that our proceedings are
all in order," and he laughed genially.  "And here's the
guarantee that I'm no masquerader," and he removed his
signet ring and held it out to the blacksmith.  It was
engraved with his well-known crest, and with six chevrons,
in token that six of his ancestors had been High Seneschals
of Dorimare.
   Both the blacksmith and the labourer were at first quite
overwhelmed by learning his identity, but he pressed a spade
into the hand of each and begged them to begin digging
without further delay.
   For some time they toiled away in silence, and then one
of the spades came against something hard.
   It proved to be a small iron box with a key attached to
it.
   "Out with it! out with it!" cried Master Nathaniel
excitedly.  "I wonder if it contains a halter!  By the Sun,
Moon and Stars, I wonder!"
   But he was sobered by a glimpse of poor Hazel's scared
face.
   "Forgive me, my child," he said gently, "my thirst for
revenge has made me forget both decency and manners.  And,
as like as not, there will be nothing in it but a handful of
Duke Aubrey crowns -- the nest-egg of one of your
ancestors."
   They unlocked the box and found that it contained nothing
but a sealed parchment package, addressed thus:
   
                  "To the First Who Finds Me."
   
   "I think, Miss Hazel, it should be you who opens it. 
Don't you agree, Master Law-man?" said Master Nathaniel. 
So, with trembling fingers, Hazel broke the seal, tore open
the wrapper, and drew out a sheet of writing.
   By the light of the blacksmith's lanthorn they read as
follows:
   
      I, Jeremiah Gibberty, farmer and law-man of the
   district of Swan-on-the-Dapple, having ever been a merry
   man who loved his joke, do herein crack my last, this
   side of the Debatable Hills, in the hopes that it will
   not lie so long in the damp earth as to prove but a lame
   rocket when the time comes to fire it off.  And this is
   my last joke, and may all who hear it hold their sides,
   and may the tears run down their cheeks.  I, Jeremiah 
   Gibberty, was wilfully murdered by my second wife,
   Clementina, daughter of Ralph Baldbreeches, sailor, and
   an outlandish woman from the far North.  In the which
   crime she was aided by her lover, Christopher Pugwalker,
   a foreigner who called himself an herbalist.  And I know
   by sundry itchings of my skin which torment me as I write
   and by my spotted tongue that I have been given what the
   folks who know them call death-berries.  And they were
   boiled down to look like mulberry jelly, offered to me by
   my dear wife, and of which I ate in my innocence.  And I
   bid him who finds this writing to search for a little
   lad, by name Peter Pease, the son of a tipsy tinker.  For
   this little lad, having an empty stomach and being greedy
   for pence, came to me but an hour ago with a basket full
   of these same death-berries and asked me if I should like
   to buy them.  And I, to test him, asked him if he thought
   there was a blight in my orchard that I should be so hard
   put to it for fruit.  And he said he thought we must like
   them up at Gibberty's for he had seen the gentleman who
   lived with us (Christopher Pugwalker) but a week since,
   gathering them.  And if Christopher Pugwalker should
   leave these parts, then let the law search for a dumpy
   fellow, with nut-brown hair, a pug-nose freckled like a
   robin's egg, and one eye brown, the other blue.  And in
   order that my last joke may be a well-built one, I have
   tested the berries I bought from the little lad, though
   it wrung my heart to do so, on one of the rabbits of a
   certain little maid, by name, Marjory Beach, the daughter
   of my carter.  And I have done so because she, being
   seven years old and a healthy lass, runs a good chance of
   being still this side of the hills when someone digs up
   this buried jest.  And if she be alive she will not have
   forgotten how one of her rabbits took to scratching
   itself, and how its tongue was spotted like a snake, and
   how she found it lying dead.  And I humbly beg her pardon
   for having played such a cruel trick on a little maid,
   and I ask my heirs (if so be any of them be still alive)
   to send her a fine buck rabbit, a ham, and ten gold
   pieces.  And, though I am law-man and could put them
   under arrest before I die, yet, for a time, I hold my
   hand.  Partly because I have been a hunter all my life,
   and as the hare and deer are given their chance to
   escape, so shall they have theirs; and partly because I
   should like to be very far on my wanderings down the
   Milky Way before Clementina mounts Duke Aubrey's wooden
   horse; because I think the sound of her strangling would
   hurt my ears; and, last of all, because I am very weary. 
   And here I sign my name for the last time.
                                          JEREMIAH GIBBERTY.
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