‘Romeo and Juliet was two lovers, as lived a long time ago in a place called Verona. I don’t know where it is,’ she added quickly, to stave off the imminent question already on the boy’s lips. ‘Somewhere abroad, wheer Bonyparty is. Juliet’s name was Capulet, an’ Romeo’s was Montague, an’ the Capilets and the Montagues hated each other so as they could niver meet wi’out havin’ a bit of a turn-up one with another. They was as bad as the Reddys an’ the Mountains, only i’ them daysen folks allays wore swords an’ daggers, so’s when they fowt they mostly killed each other. Well, one night old Capilet gi’en a party, an’ asked all his friends, an’ everybody wore masks, so’s they didn’t know half the time who they was a-talkin’ tew, as was the fashion i’ them times, an’ Romeo, he goes, just for divilment, an’ he puts on a mask tew, so as they didn’t know him, else they’d ha’ killed him, sure an’ certain. An’ theer he sees Juliet, an’ she was beautiful, an’ he falls plump in love wi’ her, an’ she falls in love wi’ him, an’ they meets o’ nights, i’ the moonlight, on the window-ledge outside her room, but they had to meet i’ secret, ‘cause the two fam’lies was like cat an’ dog, an’ there’d ha’ been awful doin’s if they’d been found out. Well, old Capilet—that was Juliet’s feyther—he finds a husband for Juliet, a nice chap enough, a count, like Lord Barfield, on’y younger an’ likelier. An’ Juliet, she gets welly mad, because she wants to marry Romeo. And then, to mek matters wuss, Romeo meets one o’ Juliet’s relations, a young man named Tybalt, as hates him like pison, an’ they fowt, an’ Romeo killed him. Well, the Capilets was powerful wi’ the king as ruled in Verona, like Joseph used to be with Pharaoh in the Holy Land, my dear, an’ Romeo, he has to run away an’ hide himself, else p’raps they’d ha’ hung him for killin’ Tybalt, though it was Tybalt as begun the fight, so poor Juliet’s left all alone. An’ her marriage day’s a-gettin’ near, and old Capilet, he’s stuck on her marryin’ the count, an’ the day’s been named, and everything provided for the weddin’. Well, Romeo takes a thought, an’ goes to a friar, a kind o’ priest, as was a very book-learned man, and asks if he can help him. And at first he says no, he can’t, an’ Romeo gets that crazed, he’s goin’ to kill himself, but by an’ by he thinks of a plan. He gives Juliet a bottle o’ physic stuff to send her to sleep, and make her look as if she was dead. Then her relations ‘ll be sure to bury her i’ the family vault, an’ he’ll write to Romeo to come back to Verona i’ the night-time an’ take her out o’ the vault, an’ goo away quiet wi’ her till things have blown over, an’ they can come back again. An’ Juliet takes the physic, an’ everybody thinks her dead, her father, an’ her mother, an’ her old nuss, an’ Paris—that’s the name of the gentleman as they wanted her to marry—an’ there’s such a hullabaloo an’ racket as niver was. An’ they buried her i’ the vault, wi’ all her relations, an’ the old friar thinks as it’s all a-comin’ straight. But the letter as he’d writ to Romeo niver reaches him, an’ Romeo hears as how Juliet’s really dead, and he buys a bottle o’ pison, an’ comes to Juliet’s grave i’ the night-time, an’ there he meets Paris, as has come to put flowers there an’ pray for Juliet’s soul, knowin’ no better and lovin’ her very dear. An’ him an’ Romeo fights, and Romeo kills him, an’ opens the vault, an’ go’s in, an’ theer’s Juliet, lyin’ stiff an’ stark, because the physic ain’t had time to work itself off yit. An’ he kisses her, an’ cries over her, and then he teks the pison, and dies. An’ just as he’s done it, Juliet wakes up, and finds him dead, and she takes his knife, an’ kills herself, poor thing, an’ that’s the hend on ‘em.’
The old sentimentalist’s eyes were moist, and her voice choked, as she concluded her legend. It was the first love-story Dick had ever heard, and in pity at the beautiful narrative, which no clumsiness of narration could altogether rob of its pathos, he was crying too. There is no audience like an impressionable child, and the immortal story of love and misfortune seemed very pitiful to his small and tender heart.
‘Why, theer! theer! Dick! It’s only a story, my dear, wrote in a book,’ said Mrs Jenny. ‘It most likely ain’t true, an’ if it is, it all happened sich a time ago as it’s no good a-frettin’ about it. Why, wheeriver did you get all them warts? ‘She took one of the hands with which Dick was rubbing his eyes. ‘You should have ‘em looked tew, they quite spile your hands. I must get Rufus Smith to have a look at ‘em. You know who we’m agoin’ to see, don’t you? You’ve heard tell o’ the Dudley Devil, Dick?’
‘Yes,’ said Dick. ‘Ichabod goes to him for his rheumatism.’
‘It’s on’y a step away. That’s his cottage, over there. We’ll get him to charm the warts away.’
A hundred yards farther on Mrs. Jenny checked the pony, and, dismounting from the vehicle, bade Dick tie him to an elder-shoot and follow her. They went through a gap in a ruinous hedge, and traversed a furzy field, at the farther side of which stood the wizard’s hut, a wretched place of a single story, with a shuttered window and a thatched roof full of holes and overgrown with weeds. As they approached the door a mighty clatter was audible within, and Mrs. Jenny held the boy’s hand in a tightened grasp, fearful of devilry. As they stood irresolute to advance or retreat, a big cat dashed out at the doorway with a feline imprecation, and the wizard appeared, revengefully waving a stick, and swearing furiously.
‘Cuss the brute,’ he said, ‘the divil’s in her, sure an’ sartin’.’
It seemed not unlikely to the onlookers, the cat being the wizard’s property, and therefore, by all rule and prescription, his prompter and familiar. She was not of the received colour, however, her fur being of a rusty red. But as she raised her back, and spat at her master’s visitors from under her chubbed tail, she looked demoniac enough for anything. And from the fashion in which, her anathema once launched, she sat down and betook herself to the rearrangement of her ruffled coat, it might have been conjectured that it was not purely personal to them, but that they were attacked merely as types of the human race, whose society she and her master had forsworn.
‘Cuss her!’ reiterated the wizard. ‘Where’s her got tew? My soul, what’s this?’
He peered with a short-sighted terror-stricken scowl on Mrs. Jenny and her charge, as if for a moment the fancy had crossed him that his refractory familiar had taken their shapes. His gray lips muttered something, and his fingers worked oddly as he took a step or two forward, clearly outlined in the cold winter sunshine against the black void beyond his open door.