Baring-Gould Sabine
Cheap Jack Zita
CHAPTER XXIX
A DEAL
WHEN Zita was beyond earshot, she looked over her shoulder, and said to Drownlands, 'I call that mean.'
She walked on, then halted, changed her hand on the bridle, and, gazing about, said, 'You could free yourself of him in no other fashion, so you swear his life away. But you have to reckon with me before it comes to that. I will go into court and swear against you. What I shall swear to will be the truth; your oath will bind you to lies.'
'I refuse to strive with you in words,' retorted Drownlands. 'A woman is always victor with such weapons.'
'What? you prefer flails?—those are your weapons,' exclaimed Zita, clenching her fist and holding her arm extended before her. 'I know well why you are set against Mark Runham. You think that he is something in some way to me, and that I am much to him. It is because of this that you pursue him. It is because of me that you twist the rope round his throat. But you are wrong altogether. I will not say that Mark is nothing to me. He was kind to me once; kind when my heart was tender, because my father was just buried. But I am nothing to Mark. He mocks at me. He sneers and laughs at the Cheap Jack girl. He does not love me; and, moreover, he is bound to another.'
'Mark bound to another? Who is that?'
'Nay, it is his affair, and he has not given me leave to tell his secrets. But you may guess.'
Drownlands' face testified his surprise.
'I cannot guess,' he said, after a long pause.
'Well,' said Zita, 'father's word was true, that in such matters men are blind. We girls see—and I ought to see, for Mark has not played me fair. He did let me think he fancied me; but I think so no more. He has made me angry with him, and I am angry with him still. But there is a step beyond which I will not go. If I could punish him I would—but not with the rope or Botany Bay. You know that he came into your house in a friendly mind, and with kind intent. You know that he was not in league with that topsy-turvy general public. I shall hate and despise you, as I thought I could hate and despise no man, if you swear falsely against him.'
'He has stood between us,' said Drownlands.
'He has not done so,' retorted Zita. 'Your own deeds lie between us, not Mark Runham. The events of that night lie between us as a wall of ice reaching up to heaven, that can neither be climbed nor undermined. Listen to me, master. I hate to be mean; but if you drive me to desperation, if I see no other way to save Mark's life, I will do even that which is mean.'
'What is that? I do not understand.'
'I have no wish to do it. I shall hate myself if I do it. You were good to my poor father, and to me. When all was dark and cold about me, you opened to me your house and fireside. You have harboured me, my horse, and the van. I would not speak a word to mortal man of what I know. They might tear the flesh off my bones with fiery pincers, and my mouth would remain shut. I owe you an infinite debt of gratitude, and I would repay it. But there is one thing I cannot do—I cannot suffer you to send Mark to the gallows. Rather than do that, I will speak, and tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about the two flails.'
Drownlands was silent. His face had changed to a clay colour, and his lips were tightly drawn on his teeth.
'And if it be any comfort to you to know this,' pursued Zita, as she opened the hand extended before her: 'if you will drop this charge against Mark, retract every word you have said in his disfavour, I will swear to you to have nothing more to do with Mark all your days upon earth. He shall be to me no other than a stranger. I will stop my ears against him if he should try to speak to me flattering words. I will turn my head away if the fancy takes him to look at me with kindly eyes. There, Ki Drownlands, I have made you an offer now. I threw a menace at you just now.'
She had stayed the horse. She stood in the midst of the drove, upright, her foot planted before her, her head raised, one arm lifted to the horse's head, the other extended before her with hand outspread. She had nothing on her head save her chestnut hair flying in the cold north wind. Her side-turned face was colourless and sallow.
'Come, Ki Drownlands. When I make an offer, I mean it. When I make a threat, I mean that too. Will you take my offer? It is not Cheap Jack Zita who will go back from her word.'
'Be it so, then.'
'It is a deal?'
'Yes—a bargain.'
'Here is my hand,' said Zita, dropping the bridle. 'A deal is a deal.'
CHAPTER XXX
IN COURT
A FEW days were allowed to pass to obtain fresh captures. On a keen, frosty morning, those taken by the constable and the military, to the number of nearly forty persons, were brought before the magistrates for the preliminary examination. It had been resolved that a Special Commission should be appointed to try the prisoners on the capital charges of burglary, arson, robbery, and tumultuous assembling to the disturbance of the peace, and the commission of acts of violence. The object of the magistrates on the present occasion was to sift the cases, and deal at once with those of a light nature, and remand such as were serious.
The magistrates were in force at the courthouse, and proceedings had begun before Ki Drownlands arrived in a light gig, with Zita at his side.
On reaching the court, the girl was surprised to see a constable issue from the door, and in loud tones call the name of Ephraim Beamish.
'Well,' said she, 'those magistrates must be a set of innocents if they order Pip to be summoned in the streets of Ely. Do they suppose he would come here to be caught? Pip will put his distance between himself and the magistrates, as he did t'other day when the dragoons were on the drove. He did not stay for them then, and he won't come for the calling now.'
On entering the court Zita looked about her. She was affected with a qualm of nervousness, and her colour was heightened. She had never been in a court of justice before; but when she discovered that the hall was crowded, she held up her head, breathed freely, and her spirits recovered their elasticity.
'It's my own general public again,' said she; 'I am not afraid any more.'
'Ephraim Beamish makes no answer to his name,' said the clerk of the court.
'We will proceed with the case against Ephraim Beamish,' said the chairman; 'and the Bench hopes that the constables will not be remiss in their duty, nor relax their efforts to obtain possession of his body, and lodge him in prison—that is, should his case be proved.'
The evidence produced did satisfy the Bench that Beamish should be remitted to the hands of the Special Commission.
Then Mark Runham was called, and at once placed in the dock.
Zita looked at him. She could see that he was not altogether confident that his innocence would be acknowledged. He strove to disguise his anxiety, but ineffectually. He was bewildered at the charge laid against him, and troubled at finding himself in a novel and unpleasant situation.
The depositions having been read over, Hezekiah Drownlands, of Prickwillow, was ordered to stand in the witness-box, for it was he who had lodged information against Mark.
Zita immediately elbowed her way to the front, and, resting her elbow on the rail that limited the portion of the court accessible to the public, looked steadily into the face of the master. She was resolved to check and correct his statements, so that they should not tell unfavourably against the prisoner. Drownlands noticed her, but refrained from meeting her eye. He gave his evidence with hesitation and confusedly, for he had laid information against Mark Runham, and was now seeking to minimise the charge and weaken the force of his own accusations.
'I was in my office,' said Drownlands, 'on that same evening, and was talking with—with Zita there,'—he pointed with his thumb towards the girl, but without looking at her,—'when I heard the voices of the rioters.'
'Stay a moment,' said the chairman, interposing. 'Who may this Zita be?'
The chairman was a merry, red-faced man, a gentleman who had been brother to a former Dean, and had obtained from that Dean a lease of a large tract of ecclesiastical property for ninety-nine years at a nominal rent, and who resided and had become wealthy in Ely.
'I refer,' said Drownlands, 'to that young woman. She lives in my house.'
The eyes of the Bench and of the audience were directed towards the girl.
'Oh!' said the chairman. 'Rather young for a housekeeper, eh?'
'She is not my housekeeper.'
'In what capacity, then, may we regard her as residing with you?'
Drownlands hesitated.
'Come, come! Don't be reticent, Mr. Drownlands.'
'I really cannot say.'
'Shall we say she is a sort of—ahem—companion?'
A titter ran through the court.
'I am a lodger,' said Zita. 'I pay my way.'
'Silence!' ordered the chief constable.
'You shall speak in your turn,' said the chairman, 'and no doubt you will be able to give us valuable evidence, but you must not interrupt, you understand.' Then, turning to the witness, and chuckling and becoming purple with his suppressed laughter, the chairman said, 'Very well, Mr. Drownlands, go on. We commend your taste. You were talking with your pretty companion, or lodger.'
A laugh ran through the court, in which all joined save the clerical members of the bench, who looked grave and shook their heads.
Zita coloured, and looked about her angrily. Mark's face was pale, and his eyes were lowered.
'I was talking with her in my office,' continued Drownlands, 'when the mob entered my stackyard with torches, and threatened to burn my ricks and break into my house. Mark Runham was with them.'
'Did he threaten you?'
'A great many voices were raised. I could not distinguish one from another. There was a waggon, and Aaron Chevell, Harry Tansley, and Isaac Harley were in it, and Tansley held a gun.'
'Never mind about Tansley now. I see in your deposition that Mark Runham entered your house. Was it so?'
'Yes. He came to my door and knocked. Then Zita let him in.'
'But,' interrupted the chairman, 'what you say now, witness, is not in agreement with your information. You deposed that he had feloniously entered your house.'
'He came to ask for money.'
'Yes, that may be; but if he knocked and was admitted, he cannot be said to have feloniously entered your premises.'
'I don't know about that. I gave no orders that he should be let in. She took it on herself, and went down and unbarred the door, and brought him up to the office. When there he asked for money—for twenty pounds.'
'No, gentlemen,'exclaimed Zita, 'it was not so. He told the master that he advised him to pay the money lest the men should do mischief. He asked for nothing.'
'Silence, if you please,' said the chairman; 'your turn will come presently, and then we will listen to your story. Proceed, Mr. Drownlands. You say now that Mark Runham, the accused, was let into your house by the pretty companion—or lodger. He did not break in. The information is incorrect.'
'I don't understand lawyers' jargon,' said Drownlands sullenly. 'All I know is that Mark Runham came in and asked for twenty pounds, and said that if I did not pay it, the men would burn my ricks as they had those of Gaultrip. I know that blows were struck at my door, and I heard threats that the men would break in, and a brick was thrown at me through the window.'
'That took place whilst Mark was in the room,' said Zita.
'Silence there!' shouted the constable.
'If that girl will intervene, and will not be quiet, let her be put out of the court,' said Sir Bates Dudley, who was on the bench.
'I'll be quiet,' said Zita; 'but when one hears lies, it is hard not to contradict—it is hard—tremenjous.'
'Go on, Mr. Drownlands,' said the chairman.
'They threatened, if I would not pay the twenty pounds, that they would burst in at the door, or by the windows, and take two hundred.'
'Who? The accused?'
'No, not the accused; the others. He was in my office, speaking with me.'
'But we do not want to hear what the others said—at least not now. We are considering the case of Mark Runham. He is a farmer—a landowner, I believe?'
'Yes, he is.'
'And you think it likely that such an one would put himself at the head of a lawless rabble, to wreck farms and extort money from his fellow-landowners?'
'He demanded twenty pounds of me.'
'Well, go on with your story. You refused the money?'
'I did so at first, but in the end I was forced to pay it.'
'Forced? Did the prisoner employ violence?'
'No; the rabble outside threatened to burn all down unless I paid. I put the money into the prisoner's hand.'
'After that he left your house?'
'He took ten pounds also from Zita.'
'No; I offered them to him to save my van!' exclaimed the girl.
'Another word of interruption, and you are turned out of court,' said the chairman. 'Constable, stand by her, and if she opens her mouth again, clap your hand over it, or stuff your pocket-handkerchief down her throat.'
'I will do so, your worship.'
'That is all you have to say, witness?'
'Yes. I have nothing more, except that Runham gave cake and ale to the rioters.'
'You saw him do so?'
'No. I heard he had regaled them.'
'That is no evidence.' Then the chairman turned to Mark Runham and said, 'Has the accused any questions he would like to put to witness?'
'Yes,' said Mark. 'I inquire of him whether I did not protest that I came merely as a neighbour and a friend.'
'A friend?' exclaimed Drownlands. 'No Runham can be a friend to me, nor I a friend to him.'
'That is no answer to his question,' said the chairman.
'He said something of the sort,' Drownlands admitted.
'Did I not say,' pursued Mark, 'that Gaultrip had refused at the outset to pay blackmail, and that in the end, when his rick was blazing, he gave way, and that I had run on ahead to advise you as a neighbour not to provoke to outrage an irritated and unreasonable rabble?'
'Yes, you said that; but how was I to know you were not acting for the rioters? You gave them cake.'
'Come,' said the magistrate occupying the chair, 'we will hear now what that lively young woman has to say. She clearly is bursting with desire to tell us all she knows. Put her in the witness-box.'
As Drownlands left the place he had occupied, Zita stepped into his room at the instigation of the constable. She looked up at the Bench with a cheery countenance, and then round at the public that crammed every available space.
'Your name?'
'Zita.'
'Yes, that is well enough as far as it goes, but we want your surname also.'
'Father said we were Greenways. But nobody never called him nothing but "Cheap Jack."'
'And your profession or calling? A companion?'
The court tittered. A clown in the public portion of the hall guffawed.
Zita raised herself erect and said, 'A Cheap Jack.'
'A Cheap Jill, I should say,' observed the red-faced chairman, laughing at his own feeble joke, whereupon the Bench smiled, the clerk of the court and the constables laughed, and the public roared.
The magistrate went on, 'If you are a Cheap Jack or Jill, how come you to be at Mr. Drownlands' house? Is your father with you?'
'My father is dead,' replied Zita. 'That is just why I am at Prickwillow.'
'Then I presume you are a roving Jill in quest of a Jack?'
'It is the place of the Jacks to run after the Jills,' said Zita; 'not that I want one, thank you.'
'Hush! Hush! No impertinence to the Bench.'
'Beg pardon, I thought the impertinence came from the Bench to me.'
The sally produced some merriment. When it was subdued, the magistrate in the chair assumed a grave manner, and inquired in a different tone—
'So you are staying at Mr. Drownlands' house? In what capacity?'
'I am a Cheap Jack,' said Zita. 'I have my van there, and horse, and all my goods. We got stuck in the mud of the droves, when on our way to Littleport, the night of Tawdry Fair. Father was took ill and died. So I am lodging at Prickwillow, and I pay for my lodging in blacking-brushes and slop-pails.'
'You are not, then, in any menial capacity—not receiving wages?'
'I am a Cheap Jack, laid by the heels through mud and frost,' answered Zita. 'It is true I have sewn on some buttons for Master Drownlands, and have hemmed the linen, and he gives me house-room for my van and me and the horse, till the dry weather comes and we can move away.'
'Well, enough of that. Tell us what you know about the events of the sixteenth.'
'First of aw—aw—all,' interposed Sir Bates Dudley, who sat on the right of the chairman. 'She has been put on her oath. Had we not bet—tet—tet—er ascertain if she is aware of the nature of an oath?'
'Ah, to be sure! I suppose you were brought up as a Cheap Jack?'
'Always—since I was a baby.'
'And not in the most virtuous and godly manner, I fear?'
'I beg pardon, sir?'
Here the constable interposed. He stooped and said in Zita's ear, 'Address the Bench as "your worships."'
'I beg pardon, your worships. My father brought me up. There was not a better man anywhere.'
'Then—do you understand the nature of an oath?'
'Father didn't swear but very little—off an' on like—and mostly at Jewel, who was sometimes very provoking. But nothing like the man with the merry-go-round—he swore awful.'
'I do not mean that. Do you comprehend that you have solemnly promised to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and that you have called Heaven to witness that it is so?'
'Yes,' said Zita, with a sigh; 'but it is hard—tremenjous.'
'What?—hard to speak the truth?'
'Yes, your worship—because of the general public. You never was a Cheap Jack, was you, your worship?'
'No. Oh dear no, never—never!'
'I thought so. I never saw you at any of the fairs, but there was a man who swallowed knives like that gentleman at your side.'
'Never mind about that.'
'I was going to say, sir, that as you never was a Cheap Jack, you can't understand what the feelings of one is, when she sees the general public afore her eyes. There comes a sort of swelling of the heart, and a desire of the mind to launch out into wonderful tales, and a longing to make the General Jackass believe that black is white, and chalk is cheese, that what is broken is sound, and what is old is new. But I will do my best. I'll shut my eyes and try to forget the general public, and fancy I'm with father in the van, for then I always said straight out what was true.'
The winter sun streamed in at the south window over against Zita and flooded her as she stood in the witness-box. She had a scarlet and yellow flowered kerchief round her neck and over her shoulders, the white chip bonnet with black ribbons hardly contained her luxuriant, shining hair. The sun blazed in her face, flushing her ripe cheeks, making very June cherries of her lips, and adding a solar twinkle to the sparkle of intelligence and wit indwelling in her honest but roguish eyes. She stood as upright as a wand, her hands resting on the rail before her, and her head thrown back.
The chairman bent to Sir Bates Dudley and whispered—
'What a good-looking wench it is!'
'Is she, indeed?' said the canon. 'You don't mean to say so.'
It did not comport with ecclesiastical, certainly not with canonical, decorum and dignity to know whether a girl were good-looking or not.
The chairman turned to the magistrate on his left and made the same remark. This magistrate was a layman, a retired admiral, who had come to live in Ely because his daughter was married to an official there. His name was Abbott. There was no etiquette in Her Majesty's Navy against observing good looks. He replied, 'Thunderingly so, Christian.'
Christian was the chairman's name.
'I'll speak the truth,' said Zita; 'though it is against nature—just as it was against nature for that little fat gentleman to ride yesterday; but he did it, because he ought.'
A roar of laughter at the expense of Sir Bates Dudley.
'Go on,' said the chairman, hardly controlling himself—the lay members of the Bench loved to have a joke at the expense of the clerical members. 'Tell your story, and tell it truthfully, or you'll get yourself into difficulties.'
'I mean to,' said Zita.
Then she gave the narrative of the events of the evening of the riot in their order, with such lucidity and simplicity, and so frankly, that the truth of her story was stamped on every sentence. Now and then some odd remark, some allusion to her van or goods, or to the horse, provoked a laugh, and she kept Bench and public in good humour.
'I really think,' said Mr. Christian, 'that we may dismiss the case against young Runham. If my brother magistrates agree with me'—He looked round and met with nods of approval. 'The charge against Mark Runham seems to be a mistake. There is actually nothing in it, and the Bench sincerely regrets that, through a misunderstanding, and possibly through an excess of zeal on the part of Mr. Drownlands, you, Mark Runham, should have been placed in the position you have. Constable, discharge him.'
'Thank you, gents,' said Zita. 'You've done right, and I'm glad of it. As I came here, I heard that you had given orders for Pip to be called. I did think you then a set of ninnies—but now'—
'That will do. You can leave the witness-box.'
'No, sir—your worship, not yet. I have not quite said all I want to say. I am very much obliged that you have listened to reason and have let Mark go. And, your worships, there are six of you on the bench. I have got just six toasting-forks in stock—the beautifullest toasting-forks that ever you saw. They have red japanned handles and brass mounts, and fold up small, like telescopes, into the handle. And if your worships will do me the favour of coming to Prickwillow, I'll furnish every one of you with a toasting-fork.'
'That will do; leave the witness-box.'
'And, your worships, if you will pass over poor Pip Beamish,—he's not right in his head,—I'll let you have a real epergne to raffle for between you.'
'Constable, remove that girl. Turn her out of the court,' ordered the chairman, red with laughter.
'I pity the man she chooses as her husband,' said Christian behind his hand to Abbott, when his order was being carried out.
'Or Drownlands, whose companion she is,' whispered the admiral. 'No—hang it!' said Mr. Christian. 'No more of that. I am sure that girl is as straight as a whistle. You cannot look in her honest face and hear her cheery voice and not swear she is as good and clean as gold. 'Pon my life, Abbott, I have a mind to go for my toasting-fork. What say you? You are an old acquaintance, as you heard,—swallowed knives at the fair,—will you go?'
