THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS.
There was a sound of movement within the house, but no light visible as
they stood at the door. Then a window was cautiously opened, and a voice
called out into the darkness, “Is that you, my lad?” Geoff felt more and
more the little thrill of alarm which was quite instinctive, and meant
nothing except excited fancy; such precautions looked unlike the
ordinary ease and freedom of a peasant’s house. A minute after the door
was opened, and ’Lizabeth Bampfylde made her appearance. She had her
red handkerchief as usual tied over her white cap, and the flash of this
piece of colour and of the old woman’s brilliant eyes were the first
things which warmed the gloom, the blackness and whiteness and mystic
midnight atmosphere. She made an old-fashioned curtsey, with a certain
dignity in it, when she saw Geoff, and her face, which had been somewhat
eager in expression, paled and saddened instantly. The young man saw her
arms come together with a gesture of pain, though the candle she held
prevented the natural clasp of the hands. She was not glad to see him,
though she had sent for him. This troubled Geoff, whom from his
childhood most people had been pleased to see. “You’ve come, then, my
young lord?” she said, with a half-suppressed groan.
“Indeed, I thought you wanted me to come,” he said, unreasonably annoyed
by this absence of welcome; “you sent for me.”
“You thought the lad would be daunted,” said Wild Bampfylde, “and I told
you he would not be daunted if he had any metal in him. So now you’re at
the end of all your devices. Come in and welcome, my young lord. I’m
glad of it, for one.”
Saying this, the vagrant disappeared into the gloom of the interior,
where his step was audible moving about, and was presently followed by
the striking of a light, which revealed, through an open door, the
old-fashioned cottage kitchen, so far in advance of other moorland
cottages of the same kind, that it had a little square entrance from the
door, which did not open direct into the family living-room. This rude
little ante-room had even a kind of rude decoration, dimly apparent by
the light of ’Lizabeth’s candle. A couple of old guns hung on one wall,
another boasted a deer’s head with fine antlers. Once upon a time it had
evidently been prized and cared for. The open door of the room into
which Bampfylde had gone showed the ordinary cottage dresser with its
gleaming plates (a decoration which in these days has mounted from the
kitchen to the drawing-room), deal table, and old-fashioned settle,
lighted dimly by a small lamp on the mantelpiece, and the smouldering
red of the fire. ’Lizabeth closed the door slowly, and with trembling
hands, which trembled still more when Geoff attempted to help her. “No,
no; go in, go in, my young gentleman. Let me be. It’s me to serve the
like of you, not the like of you to open or shut my door for me. Ah,
these are the ways that make you differ from common folk!” she said, as
the young man stood back to let her pass. “My son leaves me to do
whatever’s to be done, and goes in before me, and calls me to serve him;
but the like of you--. It was that, and not his name or his money, that
took my Lily’s heart.”
Geoff followed her into the kitchen. It was low and large, with a small
deep-set window at each corner, as is usual in such cottages. Before the
fire was spread a large rug of home manufacture, made of scraps of
coloured cloth, arranged in an indistinct pattern upon a black
background, and Bampfylde was occupying himself busily, putting forward
a large high easy-chair in front of the fire, and breaking the
“gathered” coals to give at once heat and light. “Sit you down there,”
he said, thrusting Geoff into it almost with violence, “you’re little
used to midnight strolling. Me, it’s meat and drink to me to be free and
aneath the stars. Let her be, let her be. She’s not like one of your
ladies. Her own way, that’s all the like of her can ever get to please
them--and she’s gotten that,” he said, giving another vigorous poke to
the fire. Up here among the fells the fire was pleasant, though it was
the middle of August: and Geoff’s young frame was sufficiently unused to
such long trudges to make him glad of the rest. He sat down and looked
round him with a grateful sense of the warmth and repose. A
north-country cottage was no strange place to young Lord Stanton, and
all the tremour of the adventure had passed from him at the sight of the
light and the homely, kindly interior. No harm could possibly happen in
so familiar an atmosphere, and in such a natural place. Meantime old
’Lizabeth, with a thrill of agitation in her movements which was very
apparent, busied herself in laying the table, putting down a clean
tablecloth, and placing bread, cheese, and milk upon it. “I have wine,
if you like wine better,” she said. “He will get it, but he takes none
himself--nothing, poor lad, nothing. He’s a good son and a good
lad--many a time I’ve thanked God that He’s left me such a lad to be the
comfort of my old age.”
Wild Bampfylde gave a laugh which was harsh and broken. “You were not
always so thankful,” he said, producing out of some unseen corner a
black bottle; “but the milk is better of its kind, being natural, than
the wine.”
“Hush, lad; milk is little to the like of him; but _that’s_ good, for I
have it here for--a sick person. Take something, take something, young
gentleman. You can trust them that have broken bread in your presence,
and sat at your table. Well, if you will have the milk, though it costs
but little, it’s good too; I would not give my brown cow for ne’er a one
in the dales; and eat a bit of the wheaten bread,--it’s baker’s bread,
like what you eat at your own grand house. I would not be so mean as to
set you down, a gentleman like you, to what’s good and good enough for
us. The griddle-cake! no, but you’ll not eat that, my young lord, not
that; it’s o’er homely for the like of you.”
“I am not hungry,” said Geoff, “and I came here, you know, not to eat
and drink, but to hear something you had to tell me, Mrs. Bampfylde--”
“My name is ’Lizabeth--nobody says mistress to me.”
“Well; but you have something to tell me. I left home without any
explanation, and I wish to get back soon, that they--that my mother,”
said Geoff, half-ashamed, yet too proud to omit the apparently (he
thought) childish excuse, since it was true, “may not be uneasy.”
“Your mother? forgive me that did not mind your mother! Oh, you’re a
good lad; you’re worthy a woman’s trust that thinks of your mother, and
dares to say it! Ay, ay--there’s plenty to tell; if I can make up my
mind to it--if I can make up my mind!”
“Was not your mind made up then,” said Geoff with some impatience, “when
in this way, in the night, you sent for me?”
“Oh lad!” cried ’Lizabeth, wringing her hands. “How was I to know you
would come, the like of you to the like of me? I put it on Providence
that has been often contrairy--oh, aye contrairy, to mine and me. I
shouldn’t have tempted God. I said to myself, if he comes it will be the
hand of Heaven. But who was to think you would come? You a lord, and a
fine young gentleman, and me a poor old woman, old as your grandmother.
I thought my heart would have sunk to my shoes when I saw he had come
after a’!”
“I told you he would come,” said Bampfylde, who stood leaning against
the mantelpiece. He had taken his bread and cheese from the table, and
was eating it where he stood.
“Of course I would come,” said Geoff. “I could not suppose you would
send for me for nothing. I knew it must be something important. Tell me
now, for here I am.”
’Lizabeth sat down, dropping into a wooden arm-chair at the end of the
table with a kind of despair, and throwing her apron over her head, fell
a-crying feebly. “What am I to do? what am I to do?” she said, sobbing.
“I have tempted Providence--Oh, but I forgot what was written, ‘Thou
shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.’”
For a minute or two neither of the men spoke, and the sounds of her
distress were all that was audible. Once or twice, indeed, Geoff thought
he heard a faint sound, like the echo of some low wail or moan, come
through the silence. Not the moan itself, but an echo, a ghost of it.
But his companions took no notice of this, and he thought he must be
mistaken. Everything besides was still. The fire by this time had burned
up, and now and then broke into a little flutter of flame; the clock
went on ticking with that measured steady movement which ‘beats out the
little lives of men;’ and the broken sobs grew lower. An impatience of
the stillness began to take possession of Geoff, but what was he to do?
He restrained himself with an effort.
“You should make a clean breast,” said Bampfylde, munching his bread and
cheese as he spoke, with his eyes fixed on the fire, not looking at his
mother. “Long since it would have been well to do it and an ease to your
mind. I would make a clean breast now.”
“Oh, lad, a clean breast, a clean breast!” she said, rocking herself.
“If it was only me it concerned--if it was only me!”
“If it was only you what would it matter?” said the vagrant, with a
philosophy which sounded less harsh to the person addressed than to him
who looked on. “You--you’re old, and you’ll die, and there would be an
end of it; but them that suffer most have years and years before them,
and if you die before you do justice----”
“Then _you_ can tell, that have aye wanted to tell!” she cried with a
hot outburst of indignation mingled with tears. Then she resumed that
monotonous movement, rocking herself again and again, and calmed herself
down. It is not so intolerable to a peasant to be told of his or her
approaching end as it is to others. She was used to plain speech, and
was it not reasonable what he said? “It’s all true, quite true. I’m old,
and I cannot bide here for ever to watch him and think of him--and I
might make a friend, the Lord grant it, and find one to stand by
him----”
“You mean another, a second one,” said her son. He stood through all
this side dialogue munching his bread and cheese without once glancing
at her even, his shoulders high against the mantelpiece, his eyes cast
down.
After a moment’s interval ’Lizabeth rose. She came forward moving feebly
in her agitation to where Geoff sat. “My young lord, if I tell you
_that_ that I would rather die than tell--that that breaks my heart;
you’ll mind that I am doing it to make amends to the dead and to the
living--and--you’ll swear to me first to keep it secret? You’ll swear
your Bible oath?--without that, not another word.”
“Swear!” said Geoff, in alarm.
“Just swear--you can do it as well, they tell me, in one place as
another, in a private house or a justice court. I hope we have Bibles
here--Bibles enough--if we but make a right use of them,” said the old
woman, perplexed, mingling the formulas of common life with the
necessities of an extraordinary and unrealized emergency. “Here is a
Testament, that is what is taken to witness in the very court itself.
You’ll lay your hand upon it, and you’ll kiss the book and swear. Where
are you going to, young man?”
Geoff rose and pushed away the book she had placed before him. He was
half indignant, half disappointed. “Swear!” he said, “do you know what I
want this information for? Is it to lock it up in my mind, as you seem
to have done? I want it for use. I want it to help a man who has been
cruelly treated between you. I have no right to stand up for him,” said
Geoff, his nostrils expanding, his cheeks flushing, “but I feel for
him--and do you think I will consent to put my last chance away, and
hear your story for no good? No indeed; if I am not to make use of it I
will go back again and find out for myself--I don’t want to be told.”
The old woman, and it may be added her son also, stood and gazed upon
the glowing eager countenance of the young man with a mingling of
feelings which it would be impossible to describe. Admiration, surprise,
and almost incredulity were in them. He had not opposed them hitherto,
and it was almost impossible to believe that he would have the courage
to oppose them so decidedly; but as he stood confronting them, young,
simple, ingenuous, reasonable, they were both convinced of their error.
Geoff would yield no more than the hill behind. His very simplicity and
easiness made him invulnerable. Wild Bampfylde burst into that sudden
broken laugh which is with some the only evidence of emotion. He came
forward hastily and patted Geoff’s shoulder, “That’s right, my lad,
that’s right,” he cried.
“You will not,” said old ’Lizabeth; “not swear?--and not hear me?--oh,
but you’re bold--oh, but you’ve a stout heart to say that to me in my
ain house! Then the Lord’s delivered me, and I’ll say nothing,” she said
with a sudden cry of delight.
Her son came up and took her by the arm. “Look here,” he said, “it was
me that brought him. I did not approve, but I did your bidding, as I’ve
always done your bidding; but I’ve changed my mind if you’ve changed
yours. Now that he is here, make no more fuss, but tell him; for,
remember, I know everything as well as you do, and if you will not, I
will. We have come too far to go back now. Tell him; or I will take him
where he can see with his own eyes.”
“See! what will he see?” cried ’Lizabeth, with a flush of angry colour.
“Do you threaten me, lad? He’ll see a poor afflicted creature; but that
will tell him nothing.”
“Mother! are you aye the same? Still _him_, always him, whatever
happens. What has there been that has not yielded to him? the rest of
us, your children as well, and justice and honour and right and your own
comfort, and the young Squire’s life. Oh, it’s been a bonnie business
from first to last! And if you will not tell now, then there is no hope
that I can see; and I will do it myself. I am not threatening; but what
must be, must be. Mother, I’ll have to do it myself.”
When he first addressed her as mother, ’Lizabeth had started with a
little cry. What might be the reason that made this mode of expression
unusual it was impossible to say; but it affected the old woman as
nothing had yet done. She looked up at him with a wondering, wistful
inquiry in her face, as if to ask in what meaning he used the
word--kindly or unkindly, taunting or loving? When he repeated the name
she started up as if the sound stung her, and stood for a moment like
one driven half out of herself by force of pressure. She looked wildly
round her as if looking for some escape, then suddenly seized the
lighted candle, which still burned on the table. “Then if it must be,
let it be,” she said. “Oh, lad! it’s years and years since I’ve heard
that name! you that would not, and him that could not, and her that was
far away; was there ever a mother as sore punished?” But it would seem
that this expression of feeling exhausted the more generous impulse, for
she set down the light on the table again, and dropping into her seat,
threw her apron over her head. “No, I canna do it; I canna do it. Let
him die in quiet. It canna be long.”
The vagrant watched her with a keen scrutiny quite unlike his usual
careless ways. “It’s not them as are a burden on the earth that dies,”
he said. “You’ve said that long--let him die in peace; let him die in
peace. Am I wishing him harm? There’s ne’er a one will hurt _him_. He’s
safe enough. Whoever suffers, it will not be him.”
“Oh, lad, lad!” cried the mother, uncovering her face to look at him. At
’Lizabeth’s age there are no floods of tears possible. Her eyes were
drawn together and full of moisture--that was all, She looked at him
with a passion of reproach and pain. “Did you say suffer? What’s a’ the
troubles that have been into this house to his affliction? My son, my
son, my miserable lad! You that can come and go as you like, that have a
mind free, that have your light heart--oh ay, you have a light heart,
or how could you waste your days and your nights among beasts and wild
things? How can the like of you judge the like of him?”
During this long discussion, to which he had no sort of clue, Geoff
stood looking from one to another in a state of perplexity impossible to
describe. It could not be John Musgrave they were talking of? Who could
it be? Some one who was “afflicted,” yet who had been exempt from
burdens which had fallen in his stead upon others. Young Lord Stanton,
who had come here eager to hear all the story in which he was so much
interested, anxious to discover everything, stood, his eyes growing
larger, his lips dropping apart in sheer wonder, listening; and feeling
all the time that these two peasants spoke a different language from
himself, and one to which he had no clue. Just then, however, in the
dead silence after ’Lizabeth had spoken, the faint sound like a muffled
cry which he had heard before, broke in more loudly. It made Geoff
start, who could not guess what it meant, and it roused his companions
effectually, who did know. ’Lizabeth wrung her hands; she raised her
head in an agony of listening. “He has got one of his ill turns,” she
said. Bampfylde, too, abandoned his careless attitude by the
mantelpiece, and stood up watchful, startled into readiness and
preparation as for some emergency. But the cry was not repeated, and
gradually the tension relaxed again. “It would be but an ill dream,”
said ’Lizabeth, pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes.
Geoff did not know what to do. He was in the midst of some family
mystery, which might or might not relate to the other mystery which it
was his object to clear up; and this intense atmosphere of anxiety awoke
the young man’s ready sympathies. All his feelings had changed since he
came into the cottage. He who had come a stranger, ready to extract what
they could tell by any means, harsh or kind, and who did not know what
harshness he might encounter or what danger he might himself run, had
passed over entirely to their side. He was as safe as in his own house;
he was as deeply interested as he would have been in a personal trouble.
His voice faltered as he spoke. “I don’t know what it is that distresses
you,” he said; “I don’t want to pry into your trouble; but if I can
help you you know I will, and I will betray none of your secrets that
you trust me with. I will say nothing more than is necessary to clear
Musgrave--if Musgrave can be cleared.
“Musgrave! Musgrave!” cried old ’Lizabeth, impatiently; “it’s him you
all think of, not my boy. And what has he lost, when all’s done? He got
his way, and he got my Lily; never since then have I set eyes on her,
and never will. I paid him the price of my Lily for what he did; and was
that nothing? Musgrave! Speak no more o’ Musgrave to me!”
“Oh, mother,” said her son, with kindred impatience, as he walked
towards her and seized her arm in sudden passion; “oh, ’Lizabeth
Bampfylde! You do more than murder men, for you kill the pity in them!
What’s all you have done compared to what John Musgrave has done? and
me--am I nothing? Two--three of us! Lily, too, you’ve sacrificed Lily!
And is it all to go on to another generation, and the wrong to last? I
think you have a heart of stone--a heart of stone to them and to me!”
At this moment there was another louder cry, and mother and son started
together with one impulse, forgetting their struggle. ’Lizabeth took up
the candle from the table, and Bampfylde hastily went to a cupboard in
the corner, from which he took out something. He made an imperative sign
to Geoff to follow, as he hurried after his mother. They went through a
narrow winding passage lighted only by the flickering of the candle
which ’Lizabeth carried, and by what looked like a mass of something
white breaking the blackness, but was in reality the moonlight streaming
in through a small window. At the end of the passage was a steep stair,
almost like a ladder. Already Geoff, hurrying after the mother and son,
was prepared by the cries for what the revelation was likely to be; and
he was scarcely surprised when, after careful reconnoitring by an
opening in the door, defended by iron bars, they both entered hastily,
though with precaution, leaving him outside. Geoff heard the struggle
that ensued, the wild cries of the madman, the aggravation of frenzy
which followed, when it was evident they had secured him. Neither mother
nor son spoke, but went about their work with the precision of long
use. Geoff had not the heart to look in through the opening which
Bampfylde had left free. Why should he spy upon them? He could not tell
what connection this prison chamber had with the story of John Musgrave,
but there could be little doubt of the secret here inclosed. He did not
know how long he waited outside, his young frame all thrilling with
excitement and painful sympathy. How could he help them? was what the
young man thought. It was against the law, he knew, to keep a lunatic
thus in a private house, but Geoff thought only of the family, the
mysterious burden upon their lives, the long misery of the sufferer. He
was overawed, as youth naturally is, by contact with misery so hopeless
and so terrible. After a long time Bampfylde came out, his dress torn
and disordered, and great drops of moisture hanging on his forehead.
“Have you seen him?” he asked in a whisper. He did not understand
Geoff’s hesitation and delicacy, but with a certain impatience pointed
him to the opening in the door, which was so high up that Geoff had to
ascend two rough wooden steps placed there for the purpose, to look
through. The room within was higher than could have been supposed from
the height of the cottage; it was not ceiled, but showed the
construction of the roof, and in a rude way it was padded here and
there, evidently to prevent the inmate doing himself a mischief. The
madman lay upon a mattress on the floor, so confined now that he could
only lie there and pant and cry; his mother sat by him, motionless.
Though his face was wild and distorted, and his eyes gleaming furiously
out of its paleness, this unhappy creature had the same handsome
features which distinguished the family. Young Geoff could scarcely
restrain a shiver, not of fear, but of nervous excitement, as he looked
at this miserable sight. Old ’Lizabeth sat confronting him, unconscious
of the hurried look which was all Geoff could give. She was clasping her
knees with her hands in one of those forced and rigid attitudes almost
painful, which seem to give a kind of ease to pain--and sat with her
head raised, and her strained eyes pitifully vacant, in that pause of
half-unconsciousness in which all the senses are keen, yet the mind
stilled with very excitement. “I cannot spy upon them,” said Geoff, in a
whisper. “Is it safe to leave her there?”
“Quite safe; and at his maddest he never harmed her,” said Bampfylde,
leading the way down-stairs. “That’s my brother,” he said, with
bitterness, when they had reached the living-room again; “my gentleman
brother! him that was to be our honour and glory. You see what it’s come
to; but nothing will win her heart from him. If we should all perish,
what of that? ’Lizabeth Bampfylde will aye have saved her son from
shame. But come, come, sit down and eat a bit, my young lord. At your
age the like of all this is bad for you.”
“For me--what does it matter about me?” cried Geoff; “you seem to have
borne it for years.”
“You may say that: for years--and would for years more, if she had her
way; but a man must eat and drink, if his heart be sore. Take a morsel
of something and a drink to give you strength to go home.”
“I am very, very sorry for you,” said Geoff, “but--you will think it
heartless to say so--I have learned nothing. There is some mystery, but
I knew as much as that before.”
Bampfylde was moving about in the back-ground searching for something.
He re-appeared as Geoff spoke with a bottle in his hand, and poured out
for him a glass of dark-coloured wine. It was port, the wine most
trusted in such humble houses. “Take this,” he said; “take it, it’s
good, it will keep up your strength; and bide a moment till she comes.
She will tell you herself--or if not I will tell you; but now you’ve
seen all the mysteries of this house, she will have to yield, she will
have to yield at the last.”
Geoff obeyed, being indeed very much exhausted and shaken by all that
had happened. He swallowed the sweet, strong decoction of unknown
elements, which Bampfylde called port wine, and believed in as a
panacea, and tried to eat a morsel of the oat-cake. They heard the
distant moans gradually die out, as the blueness of dawn stole in at the
window. Bampfylde, whose tongue seemed to be loosed by this climax of
excitement, began to talk; he told Geoff of the long watch of years
which they had kept, how his mother and he relieved each other, and how
they had hoped the patient was growing calmer, how he had mended and
calmed down, sometimes for long intervals, but then grown worse again;
and the means they had used to restrain him, and all the details of his
state. When the ice was thus broken, it seemed a relief to talk of it.
“He was to make all our fortunes,” Bampfylde said; “he was a
gentleman--and he was a great scholar. All her pride was in him; and
this is what it’s come to now.”
They had fallen into silence when ’Lizabeth came in. Their excitement
had decreased, thanks to the conversation and the natural relief which
comes after a crisis, but hers was still at its full height. She came in
solemnly, and sat down amongst them, the blue light from the window
making a paleness about her as she placed herself in front of it; though
the lamp was still burning on the mantelshelf, and the fire kept up a
ruddy variety of light. She seated herself in the big wooden arm-chair
with a solemn countenance and fixed her eyes upon Geoff, who, moved
beyond measure by pity and reverence, did not know what to think.
“He will have told you,” she said. “I would have died sooner, my young
lord; and soon I’ll die--but, my boy first, I pray God. Ay, you’ve seen
him now. That was him that was my pride; that was the hope I had in my
life; that was him that killed young Lord Stanton and made John Musgrave
an exile and a wanderer. Ay--you know it all now.”