Deep Moat Grange
Page 17
CHAPTER XVII
DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER
Then happened that event which in an hour, as it were, made a man outof a rather foolish boy. The postman comes twice to our doors duringthe day with letters--once for those from the neighbourhood ofBreckonside, once for the mails that come in from London and all thecountries of the world. Not that there were many of these, save nowand then one or two for my father, about hams and flour. I used toannex the stamps, of course--generally from the United States theywere, but once in a while from France.
One dullish December morning, in the early part of the month, my fathergot a letter which seemed to cause him some annoyance. He did notusually refer to his correspondence. But I was standing near him--forafter all, on account of certain business reasons, I had not yet goneto Edinburgh--and I heard him mutter, "I suppose I had better go toLongtown Tryst, or I may never see my money. Still, it is a nuisance.I wish old----"
Here he broke off suddenly, and turning round ordered our man Bob--BobKingsman, to saddle the mare. Then he called out to mother to put upsomething for him, for he had to ride to Longtown, and might be awayall day.
"But, father----" she began.
He waved his hand impatiently.
"It is a money payment," he said, "long outstanding, and if I do notget the man to-day at Longtown Tryst I may say good-bye to my chance ofit."
He scarcely stayed to get the breakfast my mother had prepared. He didnot answer when she pressed upon him this or that as "an extry."However, along with sundry sandwiches, she slid a small "neat" flaskinto the side pocket of his riding-coat--"in case" as she said. Forthis was no habit of my father's.
After that he called me into the yard to receive instructions as tovarious details about the sending out of the vans, and he gave BobKingsman "what for," because he had been so long saddling Dapple.
I can see him now as he rode away. Though a heavy man he rode well,and in fact never looked so well as when on horseback. I can remember,too, that my mother was at an upper window, my bedroom, in fact,whither she had gone to "put things in some sort of order."
My father waved his hand to her, with a more gracious gesture than Ihad ever before seen him use. I answered with my cap. For my mother,as I think, was so taken aback that she withdrew into the house, withsomething of the instinctive shyness of a girl who peeps at hersweetheart from behind the curtain.
Perhaps it was as well. She kept the little love token to herself. Itwas hers, to get out of it what dreary comfort she could, in the terrorand suspense of the days that followed.
* * * * *
Longtown, to the Tryst or Fair of which my father set out, was aboutfourteen miles over the moors--quite, indeed, on the other side of theCheviots. It had thriven because it formed a convenient meeting placefor Scotch drovers and cattle rearers with the buyers from the bigMidland towns, and even from London. Little more than a village initself, it contained large auction marts for lamb sales, horse markets,and the general traffic of an agricultural district. The country folkwent there of a Wednesday, which was its market day. My father's roadlay plainly enough marked across the Common, then by Brom Moor and theDrovers' Slap, a pass through the high, green Cheviots, with a littlebrook running over slaty stones at the bottom--ice-crusted now at theedges, and the water creeping like a slow black snake between thesnow-dusted banks.
We waited up long for my father that night, mother and I. Bob had gonedown to the village--to do some shopping, he said. But I could easilyhave told in what shop to find him--the one in which they don't, as ageneral rule, do up the goods with string and brown paper.
Then in the slow night, I with a book and she with her stocking, mymother and I sat and waited. It would have been nothing very unusualif father had not returned at all that night. He sometimes did this,when business kept him at East Dene or Thorsby. On such occasions hisorders were that we should lock up at eleven and go quietly to bed.Mother mostly let the maid, Grace Rigley, go home to her father's houseat the other end of the village. Indeed, we were always glad when shedid, for it let us have the house to ourselves, a pleasure which peoplewho keep servants all the time never know.
We gave father till twelve that night--why, I do not know--except thatthe hill road was an unusual one for him to travel. And what with thesloughs and quags, the peat-faces and green, shaking bogs, it was notat all a canny country after dark.
I had to keep mother up, too.
"Why did he wave his hand to me this mornin', Joe?" she said, more thanonce; "he didn't use to do that!"
"Oh, he just saw you at the window, mother," I answered her, "andperhaps he thought you were a bit 'touched' at his not fancying hisbreakfast."
"No, Joe," she cried quite sharply; "me 'touched'--with him--never! Heknew better."
"Touched" was, of course, our local word for offended.
Then would mother knit a while, and run again to the door to listen.
"I thought I heard him!" she said. "I am nearly sure."
And there came a kind of white joy upon her face, curious in such anaturally rosy woman with cheeks like apples. But it was only some ofthe van horses moving restlessly or scraping their bedding in thestables.
Now our house with its big, bricked yard, and all the differentout-buildings--stores, coal-sheds, salt-pens, granaries, oil-cake houseand cellars, occupied quite a big quadrangle. At the corner was BobMcKinstrey's room, through which was the only entrance excepting by thebig gate. Bob had two doors, one opening out on a narrow lane, calledStye Alley, where poor people had kept pigs before my father and thelocal authority had made them clear off.
On the other side, Bob's room looked into the yard, so that he couldsee at night that all was right. He could also enter the stable by alittle side door, of which he alone had the key--that is, of course,excepting my father's master key, which he always carried about withhim.
Now I had locked the big double gate myself--the one by which thelorries and vans went and came. I had pushed home the bars. I hadeven gone round to see that Bob had closed his door behind him. Thelock was a self-acting one, but Bob was apt to be careless.
I knew that my father, when he came, would let himself in by the bigyard gate, opening the right-hand half of it to bring in Dapple.
Well, at twelve o'clock mother and I went to bed--I to sleep, but withhalf my clothes on me, in case father wanted anything when he shouldcome. For if he did he made no allowances. Everybody had to be on thejump to get it.
I don't think, however, that mother slept much. Afterwards I heardthat she had never put out her light. It was, I think, about fouro'clock and the moon was setting when I heard a light shower of stonesand sand tinkle on my window.
I made sure that it was father, though what he wanted with me I couldnot imagine. For he always took a pass key with him, and the extrabolts of the house door were never shut when he was out anywhere onbusiness. He never liked any one to interfere with his comings andgoings, you see. So much so that we none of us durst so much as askhim when he got back in the morning, for fear of having our headssnapped off.
It was, however, Bob Kingsman who was below.
"Come down, Joe!" he whispered, "an' dinna let the mistress hear ye!"
I was at his side, with boots over my stockinged feet, almost before Icould get myself awake.
"Is it father come home?" I asked sleepily.
Bob said nothing, but led me round to the stables. And there, nosingthe lock of the inner door, saddled and bridled, stood Dapple, waitingto be let into her own stall.
"Pass your hand over her," said Bob.
The mare was warm, the perspiration and the flecks of foam still uponher. Bob held up his lantern. The bridle was fastened to a plaitedthong of her mane.
And the plait was the same peculiar one which my father had remarked inthe whip lash in the mail cart, the morning of the loss of poor HarryFoster!
* * * * *
By a sort of instinct Bob opened the stable door, and, just as ifnothing had happened, the mare moved to her place. He was going totake off the saddle and undo the reins, but I stopped him. There was agreat fear at my heart, for which after all there did not seem to beany very definite cause.
Father might have gone up to his room without awaking anybody. Thegreat door of the yard was locked. Some one, therefore, must haveunlocked it, let in Dapple, and relocked it. Who but my father couldhave done this? At worst he had met with some accident, and was eventhen dressing a wound or reposing himself.
That is what we said, the one to the other. But I am quite sure thatneither of us believed it, even as the words were leaving our mouths.
Then we heard something that made us both jump--the voice of my mother.She was speaking down from her window. I could see the white frill ofher cap.
"Father," she called out in a voice in which she never spoke to me."Is that you?"
Then in quite another tone, "Who has left the stable door open?"
"Me, mistress--and Joe!" said Bob.
"Then there is something wrong! I am coming down."
And the next moment we could hear her, for she had never undressed,descending the stairway.
"What shall we do--quick--what shall we say?"
Bob Kingsman was never very quick at invention.
"Tell her 'an accident,'" I whispered, "we are going to look forhim--say nothing about the yard door having been opened and shut again."
For even then I felt that the key of the mystery lay there.
My mother took it more quietly than we had hoped. She did not cry out,but to this day I mind the tremulous light of the candle which shecarried in one shaking hand and sheltered with the other. It wentquavering from her breast to her face, and then down again till itmixed with the steady shine of the stable lantern in Bob's hand.
She went into the stable and looked Dapple over carefully, without,however, attempting to touch anything about the mare's trappings.
"There will hae been an accident," she faltered, her tongue almostrefusing its office, "your faither must have been thrown! We will allgo and seek for him. We will waken the village."
"But you are not fit, mother. Bide here quiet in the house--let othersseek--you are never fit."
"Who has my right?" she said, with a suppressed fierceness, verystrange in one so kindly. "I will go out and seek for my man! No oneshall hinder me!"