IN WHICH SIR JOHN RECEIVES A WARNING
Sir John, watching the retreat of their discomfited assailants, and
lost in admiration of Sir Hector’s might and prowess, was roused by a
touch, and beheld old Penelope, who, finger on lip, led him to a dark
corner whence a narrow, precipitous stair mounted, up which she climbed,
beckoning him to follow. Thus Sir John presently found himself in a small
chamber bright with sun, the shattered panes of its wide lattice very
neatly mended with oiled paper; and, glancing about, he marvelled within
himself, for the place wore an air of refinement wholly unexpected, from
the narrow carved bedstead to the few heavily framed pictures on the
walls. And she herself seemed to have undergone some subtle change, for,
when she spoke, her voice was less harsh and her dialect less pronounced:
“Here, young master, is where old Pen, the witch, sleeps a-nights, but
very often lays awake an’ has her truthful dreams and sees visions of
what was, and is, and will be. For when all the world sleeps an’ only
she is waking because she so wills, then the thoughts of the sleepin’
multitudes gather about her an’ she sees an’ knows an’ has her dreams.
So, sit ye down, young master—so! Now mark what I says! The Downs
hereabouts be full o’ souls, spirits o’ folk as died long an’ long ago;
their bodies be dust, ages old, but their spirits do live—I can feel ’em
arl about me when I tramp so far, the souls o’ the Strange Folk as nobody
remembers or knows aught about ... there be pits where they lived an’
graves where their dust lies buried ... ’tis the dust o’ the unnumbered
dead as goes to make the sweet grass, an’ herbs, an’ flowers ... folk as
lived an’ loved an’ died, ages agone, folk as did good and evil in their
day, but the silent hills do keep arl their secrets fast hid—’specially
Windover!”
“Ah!” said Sir John softly, though his eyes grew suddenly keen. “Pray,
why Windover?”
“Because ’tis o’ Windover as you’ve been thinkin’ so much.”
“Faith and that’s true enough!” he answered.
“The Long Man o’ Wilmington do ha’ seen many a fearsome thing in his
length o’ days, but he’ll never tell naun ... there be a patch o’ grass
on Windover as hath been warmed wi’ a man’s life-blood ere now, but
Windover’s kep’ the secret an’ will do till the end o’ time.”
“You mean the cruel murder of Roger Hobden, I think?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Then, Penelope, if you know any tittle of truth that may help discover
his murderers, I beg you speak.”
“His murderers, young sir?”
“Aye, there were three concerned in it, as I imagine, and yet ’tis but
imagination, for proof there is none ... so if you know, or can aid me——”
“No,” she cried fiercely—“no! And wherefore mix y’self in the black
business—why?”
“For many reasons,” he answered thoughtfully. “Mayhap because I am an
idler and the matter puzzles me, mayhap because I think Justice hath been
cheated too long, or mayhap because I have reasons to suspect——”
“Hush!” she cried. “Name no names! What I know I do know, but ’twouldn’t
be no good to your court lawyers; they would but laugh at an old woman’s
dreams.... But for yourself ... ah, for yourself, young master, let
be—let be, I tell ’ee!” And, reaching out suddenly, she seized his arm
and shook it so that he wondered at the strength of her aged fingers.
“Let be!” she repeated, her voice sinking to a pleading whisper. “The
Downs hereaways has many secrets, an’ who be you t’ expect to learn what
they bean’t nowise willin’ to tell? So ha’ done, young sir, you bean’t
old enough to die yet awhile——”
“To die?” repeated Sir John, startled by her tone and the fixed intensity
of her look.
“Die!” She nodded. “Them as seeks murderers seeks death, for Murder will
murder to hide murder.”
“And you think that in attempting to solve this mystery I run a certain
danger, Penelope?”
“I know it!” she answered.
“None the less, I feel I must attempt it ... the poor girl vanished,
you’ll remember, and was never heard of more.”
“An’ never will be!”
“And,” said he, frowning, “there may be other such hateful doings.”
“For sure!” She nodded again. “Hundreds—thousands, ’till the world grows
better!”
“Shall I succeed in this quest?”
“No!”
“Wherefore not, Penelope?”
“Because you’ll tak’ up wi’ a better thing!”
“What do you mean?”
“Love!”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John, and became thoughtful awhile. “Shall I succeed in
my love, think ye?” he questioned at last.
“Only when Hope be dead.”
“Penelope,” said he, smiling as he leaned to touch her clasped hands,
“how much of all this is pure guesswork?”
“Aye me,” she sighed, “you be tur’ble like your father afore ye——”
“My”—Sir John sat up and blinked—“my father, say you?”
“Aye, sure,” she sighed; “he would never believe, never be warned! Happen
if he had—ah, if only he had, ’tis like he wouldn’t ha’ died so young,
away off in the cruel French wars, Sir John.”
“You—you know me?” he stammered.
“Aye, indeed, Sir John!”
“When did you recognise me?”
“’Twas when ye picked up my cabbage for me, sir.”
“And how did you know?”
“Happen ’twas y’r eyes ... or a memory o’ the years ... or happen because
o’ my dreams, an’ I ... just knew.”
Sir John, leaning back in his chair, viewed her with a new respect.
“Penelope,” said he, “thou’rt a strange and wonderful woman!”
“So they stone me, sir, an’ call me ‘witch’!”
“Aye,” he sighed, “because the vulgar cannot love anything different to
themselves.... And you knew my father?”
“In a better day, long an’ long ago!” she answered, lifting her head
proudly and holding his regard with her strangely bright old eyes. “He
was a great and noble gentleman!” So saying, she rose suddenly, and,
drawing a small key from her bosom, opened a drawer and took thence two
miniatures, one of which she studied awhile with bowed head ere she
handed it to Sir John; it was a thing of exquisite artistry, set within a
gold frame; the picture of a manly face, square-chinned, firm-lipped, but
with eyes soft and tender as a woman’s.
“I never saw this picture of my father, Penelope.”
“Nobody has!” she answered. And now she gave him the other picture,
whose gold, strangely cut and battered, framed a face of extraordinary
beauty—black-haired, deep-eyed, low-browed, full and vivid of mouth—the
face of a girl passionate with life and eager youth, yet dominated by an
expression of resolute strength and courage.
“Why, Penelope!” said he in awed voice—“O Penelope, this—this was
yourself!”
“Aye, that was me,” she answered; “’twas ’ow I looked long ago ... when
the world was younger an’ kinder.”
“And why is the case so battered? See, the gold is cut quite through in
one place!”
“Aye, so it be!” said old Penelope very softly, and stood with the
miniature in her hand, turning it over and over in her bony fingers and
on her face a light that was not wholly of the sun. Then, with a sudden
gesture, she turned and locked the portraits away.
“Hark!” said she; “d’ye hear aught?” From somewhere beneath arose a
fearsome puffing and blowing, accompanied by a ceaseless splashing. “That
be Jarge Potter a-washin’ hisself!” she explained. “Which do mean as him
an’ Sir Hector will be wantin’ their hot grog; they never fancies tea.”
“Penelope,” said Sir John, “will you keep my identity secret a while
longer?”
“Why, for sure, Mus’ Derwent!” she answered, and then suddenly caught his
hand, holding it fast while eyes and voice pleaded anew: “Let be, Sir
John! Let blood answer blood, but keep you out of it....”
“Nay, Penelope,” he answered gently, “I would remind you that poor Roger
Hobden was my horse-boy years ago and taught me to steal apples——”
“And I bid ye let be!” she whispered passionately. “The evil as they
wrought shall foller them as did it! What if they be never dragged to
Justice, Roger will be avenged, one day.... I know it, so keep you clear
o’ them, sir, for your sake and your dead father’s!”
Sir John was silent awhile then, stooping reverently, raised those old,
work-roughened hands that clasped his so eagerly, and touched them with
his lips.
“Oh!” she sighed; and feeling how she trembled, he looked up to see her
eyes brimming with tears. “Ah, sir,” she whispered, “’tis almost as I
were young again an’ the world a better place!”
“Pray heaven it shall be so!” he answered very gravely and, opening the
door, followed her down the dark and narrow stair.