CHAPTER XXXIII
CONFESSION
The ruins of Deep Moat Grange were black and cold--almost level withthe ground, also. For the folk had pulled the house almost stone fromstone, partly in anger, partly in their search for hidden treasure.Elsie was home again in the white cottage at the Bridge End, and myfather was attending to his business quietly, as if nothing hadhappened.
The authorities, of course, had made a great search among thesubterranean passages of the monks' storehouses, without, however,discovering more than Elsie and my father could have told them. Mr.Ablethorpe was still silent. So, being bound by my promise to him, Ijudged it best to hold my peace also.
But in spite of all this, or perhaps because of it, the countrycontinued in a ferment. The deaths of Mad Jeremy and Mr. Stennis,instead of quieting public clamour, made the mystery still moremysterious. The weird sisters remained at liberty, and the wildestreports flew about. None would venture out of doors after dark.Children were told impossible tales of Spring-heeled Jacks inpetticoats, who (much less judicious than the usual bogie--"Black Man,""Hornie Nick," the lord of the utter and middle darkness), confoundedthe innocent with the guilty, and made off with good children asreadily as with children the most advanced in depravity.
Of course, knowing what I knew, I had none of these fears. Iunderstood why Mr. Ablethorpe had arranged for the carrying off ofHonorine, Camilla, and Sidonia. They were, I knew, housed with the"Little Sisters of the Weak-Minded." But to me, as to others, Aphraremained the stumbling-block.
But even this was soon to be removed.
On March the sixteenth, one month and five days after the burning ofthe house of Deep Moat Grange, the sheriff's court of Bordershire washeld in the courthouse at Longtown. My father and I, with many peoplefrom Breckonside, were there, and practically all Bewick to a man. Forgreat interest was felt in a case of night-poaching in which these twofirm friends, Davie Elshiner and Peter Kemp, officially had repeatedlygiven each other the lie.
"There is rank perjury somewhere," commented the sheriff, "but as Icannot bring it home to any particular person, I must discharge theaccused."
A certain subdued hush of various movement ran along the benches, asthe listeners got ready to go. Sheriff Graham Duffus, a red-faced,jolly man, was conferring in hushed tones with the fiscal or publicprosecutor, when two tall young men in irreproachable clerical attirepushed their way up the central passage, kept clear for witnesses by acouple of burly policemen at either end. A woman walked between them.She was tall, veiled, angular, and bore herself singularly erect, evenwith an air of pride.
The murmur of the people changed to an awe-stricken hush, as the womanlifted her veil.
It was Aphra Orrin, and she stood there between Mr. De la Poer and Mr.Ablethorpe!
"My lord," said Mr. Ablethorpe, in a clear and dominating voice, "I andmy friend, Mr. De la Poer, are ordained clergymen of the Church ofScotland, Episcopal. We are not aware of the formula with which weought to approach you, seated as a judge in a court of justice. But weare here because we know of no way more direct to carry out the wishesof this poor woman, whose conscience has been touched, and who by fullconfession, by condemnation, and by the suffering of punishment,desires to make what amends she can for the dreadful iniquities inwhich, for many years, she has been involved."
In a moment all present knew that it was a matter of the mysteries ofDeep Moat Grange.
"Who is this woman?" asked Sheriff Graham Duffus, the jovial airsuddenly stricken from his face. The fiscal had subsided into thedepths of an official armchair. He reclined in it, apparently seatedupon his shoulder blades, and with half-shut eyes watched proceedingsfrom under the twitching penthouse of his brows.
"Her name is Aphra or Euphrasia Orrin," said Mr. Ablethorpe, "and shecomes to make full confession before men, of what she has alreadyconfessed to me concerning the murders in which she has been implicatedat Deep Moat Grange."
"And why," said the sheriff, "did not you yourself immediately informthe justice of your country?"
Mr. Ablethorpe turned upon Sheriff Duffus with a pitying look.
"I was bound," he said simply, "by the secret of the confessional!"
"In Scotland," said the sheriff severely, "we do not acknowledge anysuch obligation. But no matter for that, if now, even thoughdiscreditably late, you have by your influence brought this woman tomake public confession!"
"I take my friend by my side to witness--I take Euphrasia Orrin--I takeHim who hears all confessions which come from the heart, to witnessthat never have I put the least pressure on this poor woman'sconscience! What she is now doing is by her own desire!"
The sheriff shrugged his shoulders, and the ghost of a smile flickeredamong the crafty wrinkles about the corner of the fiscal's mouth. Hiswork was being done for him.
"You refuse the crumb of credit I was willing to allow you," said thesheriff. "Well, I put no limit to what any man's conscience mayprescribe to itself, when once it begins to set up rules for its ownguidance. Let us get to business. What has the woman to say?"
The woman had much to say. It was the early afternoon of mid-Marchwhen Aphra began to speak, and long before she had finished thecourt-keeper and his temporary assistant were lighting the dim gas jetsarranged at wide distances along the wall.
Her crape veil thrown back over a bonnet showing a face, as it were,carven in grey granite, Aphra Orrin stood before her country's justicefingering a brown rosary. Every time she paused, even for a second,one could hear the click of the beads mechanically dropped from nervousfingers. Strong men's ears sang. It was as if the terrible things herlips were relating had been some history of old, long-punished crimes,the record of which she was recalling as a warning. Yet within what ofsoul she had, doubtless the woman was at her prayers.
Not once did she manifest the least emotion or contrition, still lessfear. And she made her recital in the calmest manner, with someoccasional rhapsodical language certainly, but with none of the madnesswhich I should have expected.
She stood up, most like some formal, old-fashioned schoolmistressreciting a piece of prose learned by heart, without animation andwithout interest. The dry click of the beads alone marked theemphasis. The young Anglican priests towered one on either side, andthe quivering silence of the crowded courthouse alone evidenced theterrible nature of the disclosures.
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