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Updated: May 18, 2025
Turning hastily, he beheld another old crone, thin and yellow and wrinkled, and evidently in a high state of displeasure. Obviously this was Martha Pillamon in person. The orchard seemed to be a favourite promenade for the aged women of the neighbourhood. "'Tis lies, 'tis sinful lies," the weak voice went on. "'Tis Betsy Croot is the old witch. She an' her daughter, the dirty rat.
At the same moment Crefton became aware that he was not the only human witness of the scene; a bent and withered old woman, whom he recognized at once as Martha Pillamon, of sinister reputation, had limped down the cottage path to the water's edge, and was gazing fixedly at the gruesome whirligig of dying birds that went in horrible procession round the pool.
"Martha Pillamon is an old witch" was the announcement that met Crefton's inquiring scrutiny, and he hesitated a moment before giving the statement wider publicity. For all he knew to the contrary, it might be Martha herself to whom he was speaking. It was possible that Mrs. Spurfield's maiden name had been Pillamon.
And the gaunt, withered old dame at his side might certainly fulfil local conditions as to the outward aspect of a witch. "It's something about some one called Martha Pillamon," he explained cautiously. "What does it say?" "It's very disrespectful," said Crefton; "it says she's a witch. Such things ought not to be written up."
"It's Martha Pillamon as has done it," chimed in the old mother; "I'll be even with the old toad. I'll put a spell on her." "It must boil in time," protested Crefton, ignoring the suggestions of foul influences. "Perhaps the coal is damp." "It won't boil in time for supper, nor for breakfast to-morrow morning, not if you was to keep the fire a-going all night for it," said Mrs. Spurfield.
"It's true, every word of it," said his listener with considerable satisfaction, adding as a special descriptive note of her own, "the old toad." And as she hobbled away through the farmyard she shrilled out in her cracked voice, "Martha Pillamon is an old witch!" "Did you hear what she said?" mumbled a weak, angry voice somewhere behind Crefton's shoulder.
Crefton hurriedly disclaimed any immediate change of plans; he observed, however, to himself that the earlier heartiness of manner had in a large measure deserted the household. Suspicious looks, sulky silences, or sharp speeches had become the order of the day. As for the old mother, she sat about the kitchen or the garden all day, murmuring threats and spells against Martha Pillamon.
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