I could soon do,” said the witch quietly.
“Really? O, do; anyhow — I don’t care — so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. Endorfield?”
“Nothing so mighty wonderful in it.”
“Well, but how?”
“By witchery, of course!” said Elizabeth.
“No!” said Fancy.
“’Tis, I assure ye. Didn’t you ever hear I was a witch?”
“Well,” hesitated Fancy, “I have heard you called so.”
“And you believed it?”
“I can’t say that I did exactly believe it, for ’tis very horrible and wicked; but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!”
“So I am. And I’ll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick Dewy.”
“Will it hurt him, poor thing?”
“Hurt who?”
“Father.”
“No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly.”
Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on:
“This fear of Lizz — whatever ’tis —
By great and small;
She makes pretence to common sense,
And that’s all.
“You must do it like this.” The witch laid down her knife and potato, and then poured into Fancy’s ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up from the corner of her eye into Fancy’s face with an expression of sinister humour. Fancy’s face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative proceeded. “There,” said Elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and another potato, “do that, and you’ll have him by-long and by-late, my dear.”
“And do it I will!” said Fancy.
She then turned her attention to the external world once more. The rain continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. Judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way.
Chapter IV
The Spell
Mrs. Endorfield’s advice was duly followed.
“I be proper sorry that your daughter isn’t so well as she might be,” said a Mellstock man to Geoffrey one morning.
“But is there anything in it?” said Geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to the right. “I can’t understand the report. She didn’t complain to me a bit when I saw her.”
“No appetite at all, they say.”
Geoffrey crossed to Mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. Fancy welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her.
“I be’n’t much for tea, this time o’ day,” he said, but stayed.
During the meal he watched her narrowly. And to his great consternation discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl — that she cut herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than about one-tenth of the slice. Geoffrey hoped she would say something about Dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. But nothing was said, and in due time Geoffrey departed again for Yalbury Wood.
“’Tis to be hoped poor Miss Fancy will be able to keep on her school,” said Geoffrey’s man Enoch to Geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up ant-hills in the wood.
Geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly into the earth as usual, waiting for Enoch to say more. “Well, why shouldn’t she?” said the keeper at last.
“The baker told me yesterday,” continued Enoch, shaking out another emmet that had run merrily up his thigh, “that the bread he’ve left at that there school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; that ‘twould so! And afterwards I had a pint o’ small down at Morrs’s, and there I heard more.”
“What might that ha’ been?”
“That she used to have a pound o’ the best rolled butter a week, regular as clockwork, from Dairyman Viney’s for herself, as well as just so much salted for the helping girl, and the ‘ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity d’last her three weeks, and then ’tis thoughted she throws it away sour.”
“Finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along.” The keeper resumed his gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any such attentions when their master was reflecting.
On Saturday morning a note came from Fancy. He was not to trouble about sending her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not want them. Later in the day Geoffrey went to Casterbridge and called upon the butcher who served Fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father’s account.
“I’ve called to pay up our little bill, Neighbour Haylock, and you can gie me the chiel’s account at the same time.”
Mr. Haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill.
Probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions that the quality of shortness in a butcher’s bill was a cause of tribulation to the debtor. “Why, this isn’t all she’ve had in a whole month!” said Geoffrey.
“Every mossel,” said the butcher —"(now, Dan, take that leg and shoulder to Mrs. White’s, and this eleven pound here to Mr. Martin’s)— you’ve been treating her to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, Mr. Day?”
“Only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as I am alive — I wish I had!”
“Well, my wife said to me —(Dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a time; better go twice)— my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, ‘Miss Day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather that spolit so much for us; for depend upon’t,’ she says, ‘she’ve been trying John Grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.’ ’Tis little, of course, at the best of times, being only for one, but now ’tis
