THE WEAVER OF BASKETS
I
Before the storm broke that drove Causleen and Hardcastle into shelter
of the foresters’ hut, Long Murgatroyd had been poaching up the moor. He
knew all about the uses of a wire looped at both ends and set across the
tracks the grouse took to their drinking-places; and he laughed as he
gathered his spoils together and turned for home.
“They’re Hardcastle’s birds,” he chuckled, “and they’ll taste sweeter in
the pot for that.”
He had got half down the moor when the first of the tempest struck him,
and he ran for the lower country as fast as his great legs would take
him. He reached the first pasture only to be blinded by the swirl of
snow, so that he had to creep forward, feeling his way. His hands
touched stone at last, and he worked his way round to the lee side of a
bield-wall, built two-sided to shelter ewes from the north wind and the
bitter east. In the angle of this he dozed and shivered through the
storm; and afterwards, when the moon shone out on thawing snow, he
picked and slushed his way downhill to Garsykes.
His way lay past the foresters’ hut, and as he went by he halted,
astonished to see its window shining crimson out across the snow.
Peering in, he saw Causleen there beside the hearth, and no one else.
Drenched to the skin, hungry and shivering, Long Murgatroyd laughed—as
he had laughed when he snared Hardcastle’s birds on the moor. There was
shelter here, and a log-fire, and a lass to share the warmth with him—a
bonny lass, and a prime favourite up at Logie these last days, if all
folk said was true.
He opened the door, to find Hardcastle rise in menace, to see Storm
bristling at him in rage that seemed gigantic. He banged the door home
and fled. By instinct of the hunted he knew they would catch him in this
hindering broth of snow and water. So he doubled back into the wood. The
snow made silence under his feet. The black firs hid him from the moon.
He was lost utterly to Hardcastle and Storm.
Murgatroyd watched the moon pale in the dawning sky, and the sun leap
ruddy to the top of old Pengables Hill, before he came in sight of
Garsykes. It was a tedious way for one spent with fright and hunger, and
he lumbered down into the hollow, and looked about him at the closed
doors of the village—especially at the inn-sign, “The Poacher’s Rest,”
that swayed cracked and dirty in the breeze.
He went in at last, and a flaunting, big-breasted woman answered his
call.
“Oh, ye, Long Murgatroyd!” she said, her arms akimbo. “What d’ye want?”
“A dollop of rum, and summat to eat.”
Widow Mathison pointed to a row of figures on the door. “Nay, you’ll
ruin me. I’m for ever chalking up your slate till I’m tired of you and
your debts.”
Murgatroyd drew out a brace of grouse from some hidden pockets and
slapped them on the table. “Keep ’em awhile, widow, till they’re like to
drop to bits. You relish ’em that way.”
“Hardcastle’s birds? Ay, they’ll be toothsome.”
She busied herself now, with entire goodwill, about the fire; and
Murgatroyd looked up by and by from a steaming dish of eggs and bacon.
“You’d wipe out your chalks against me, widow, if I told you what I saw
in Logie Woods. But, there, I’m not for telling.”
“What did ye see?”
“Nay, another noggin o’ rum wouldn’t draw it from me. There was
Hardcastle of Logie in the woodmen’s hut.”
“Was there?” asked the widow, filling his glass afresh.
Murgatroyd took a wide gulp at the measure, and drained it. He was cold
and weary.
“Not if you filled it afresh—and thank you, widow, for it does drive
the wet out o’ one’s bones.”
“Hardcastle was in the hut,” said the woman.
“Aye, he was, in front of a cosy fire, and the pedlar’s lass with him,
sitting on his knee. I saw ’em through the window as I went by.”
Widow Mathison gave a screech of glee. “For a woman-hater, he frames
fairish well.”
“Fairish well,” agreed Murgatroyd, with a maudlin leer. “There she was,
and there he was. You wouldn’t say aught could alter that—would you,
now? I opened the door, and I listened—and dang me if they weren’t
cooing like a pair o’ cushats. And she a pedlar’s brat. And him with his
mucky pride.”
The door swung open, and a squat fellow entered, sallow-faced and
touzled.
“There’s water in plenty hereabouts,” said the widow, after a shrewd
glance at him; “but it seems to run to waste. One man could lead Jake
Bramber to it, but twenty couldn’t make him wash.”
“I wasn’t thinking of water specially,” growled Jake.
“You wouldn’t be. It’s the itch i’ your throat that bothers you at this
time o’ day. And there’s your tally, side by side with Murgatroyd’s. I’m
tired of chalking up your owings.”
“That’s easy mended, widow. Stop chalking ’em.”
She bridled at his effrontery, but drew him a measure. Then, “Tell him,
Murgatroyd,” she said.
Long Murgatroyd told him what he had seen in the foresters’ hut, and
with repetition the tale gathered volume, till all the Garsykes swine
had garbage to wallow in for many a day to come.
“Nita Langrish will laugh herself to bits when she hears this,” said
Jake.
“I’m not so sure,” broke in the widow. “Nita may fool you men of
Garsykes—_if_ you’re men, which I begin to doubt—but Hardcastle
escaped her. So she wants him. I’ve known her since she toddled, and
that was always her way. Near died o’ crying for the moon, when she was
three years old. It’s always the thing she hasn’t Nita longs for.”
“That’s true,” snarled Jake. “Awhile since she was making her baskets on
the Brigg. ‘Jake,’ says she, ‘you’ve a way with dogs.’ ‘I have,’ says I.
‘It’s a birth-gift. They like as they love me, same as if I was one o’
them.’ And then she told me to put hemlock into a ball o’ meat and take
it up to Logie. Hardcastle’s dog would be waiting for him at the gate,
said Nita. So I went, and friendlied Roy. And I was a sick man, I tell
you, coming home. To poison a dog—it doesn’t bide thinking of—but Nita
made me do it.”
Long Murgatroyd rose suddenly to his big, shammocky height. He was
shaken by a storm of passion.
“She’s the devil and all among us, with her basket-making and her eyes
on all four sides at once to fool us. I’ve done with Nita.”
“No,” said the widow. “You’ve never done with such as Nita.”
And now feet began to patter up and down the cobbled street. Garsykes
Folk were late to wake, for their work lay mainly with night-time tasks
of poaching and robbery.
The woman beckoned Long Murgatroyd out of doors. He followed her with
unsteady, shambling feet, and soon they had a company of unwashed folk
about them, listening to the widow’s ribald laughter.
“There’s news from Logie,” she said. “Tell ’em, Murgatroyd, as you told
it Jake.”
Long Murgatroyd propped himself against the wall, and looked about him
with a clown’s solemnity.
“It’s about Hardcastle o’ Logie.”
“Damn him,” snarled a thin, wolfish man. “He goes abroad as if we’d put
no token on him.”
“Don’t you worry, my lad,” said Murgatroyd. “We’ll know where to find
him nowadays. He’ll not wander far from pedlar’s brat.”
So then he told them what he believed by now that he had seen in the
foresters’ hut; and such a storm of applause greeted him that he left
the friendly shelter of the wall behind him, and talked at large as he
strutted to and fro across the street. No tale such as this had come to
Garsykes for many a year, and for the moment they half-liked the Master
of Logie, because he was a backslider like themselves.
When the tale was done, and the folk began to get about their ways, Nita
Langrish came among them. Used as they were to her young beauty, going
among them from day to day, they never ceased to marvel that such as she
had grown out of Garsykes mire.
Fresh from her morning bath in a pool she knew of up the fells, gowned
in soft grey that clung about her slender body, she stood like a
creature from some other world among the tattered women of the village.
“Is there news from Logie?” she asked, in her pleasant voice. “They told
me Hardcastle would be up the moor yesterday, so I persuaded one of ours
to take an errand for me.”
“There’s not what you might call news from Logie,” laughed Widow
Mathison, “but Murgatroyd here has word of Hardcastle.”
Long Murgatroyd faced her, and old hunger, old dismay found sudden vent.
“He’s out of your reach, Nita,” he snarled.
“He always was,” said Nita gently, “after I sent him out.”
“Same as you’ve sent all of us, one by one?”
“When you tried to come too close.”
She stood there, soft as this morning that followed a night of grim
tempest—a radiant thing, knowing herself mistress of them all.
“Well. Hardcastle’s tied to another apron-string. She’s a bonnie lass,
too, as I glimpsed her in the woodmen’s hut. They made a picture,
sitting by the fire as if they’d set up housekeeping together.”
A wild-rose flush leaped to Nita’s cheeks. “Who was it?” she asked.
“The pedlar’s lass. He’s chosen dark and trusty this time, as the saying
is. None of your yellow-haired women again for him, says Hardcastle—and
I don’t wonder.”
Nita took up the challenge. “You saw them in the hut?”
“Aye. I opened the door to creep in for shelter, and Hardcastle was
there.”
“And you ran for your life? To be sure, you’d not forget what he did to
you at the pinfold. None of your masters of Logie again for you, if you
can help it—and I don’t wonder.”
Her mimicry, the quickness of her answer, raised such a storm of
laughter against Murgatroyd that he gave up the contest; but presently
he followed, as she went by the field-track that led to Logie Brigg, and
overtook her.
“Nita, my lass,” he said, “you’ve got to stay and listen.”
“Have I?”
“Aye, like it or no, you have.”
In his face she saw the baffled hunger that she had brought to many men.
His voice was rough and harsh, but there was pleading in it—a
headstrong pleading that it was her life’s delight to thwart.
“Well?”
“It’s this way. I’m sick and tired o’ my days. Naught matters, save
you—you and your devilments.”
“I’ve baskets to weave. All up and down the Dale they’re asking for
Nita’s baskets. There’s no time to care for men.”
He put out a savage hand, to draw her to him. She did not seem to spring
aside, yet suddenly she stood far away, putting her smiling spells on
him afresh.
“Nita,” he said, sombre and hungry-eyed, “I’m not of the fanciful sort;
but summat or somebody is whispering at my ear. One of us two is going
to die of your devilry—and I don’t care a tinker’s damn which it is, so
long as it comes soon.”
Across Nita’s young vigour, her joy in torturing men for pastime, a
little, cold wind began to play. Long Murgatroyd was sobered. He was in
dead earnest, and his big, uncouth face was lit as with some fire of
prophecy.
Then her mood passed. “It will be you to die of it, I think,” she said,
and laughed at him as she took her way to Logie.
II
Rebecca was busy in her kitchen up at Logie on the afternoon of the
great snowstorm. She was thinking how wise she had been to send Causleen
“just to get a bit of colour into her cheeks” when the sky began to
darken, till she could scarcely have seen to ply her rolling-pin but for
the ruddy hearth-glow. Now and then she turned on the great, brindled
cat curled up inside the fender
“You’re a grand ’un for bringing bad weather,” she said, “and that’s why
I named you Jonah. You never sit close to the fire but it means a
storm.”
The cat stretched himself, and licked his handsome fur, and dozed again.
It was odd to him that human folk had so little knowledge of weather.
“Just Jonah, you—and an idle vagabones at that I’ve a mind to sweep you
out of my kitchen with the thick end of a besom.”
Jonah heard the threat without disturbance. He knew the way of Rebecca’s
weather, too.
She went on with her pastry-making. The Master had a big body to be
filled, and a sweet tooth for pastry after he’d had his fill of strong
meats. Men were all alike. Feed ’em and fill ’em, and they’d be lambs
about a house. And Rebecca never guessed why her hand was light at the
work—and the pastry light, by that token. She had never a man to care
for, except Hardcastle of Logie, and it was a joy to wear herself to the
bone for him.
The wind got up and snarled, as it snarled by the Strith when Hardcastle
and Causleen listened to the vanguard of the storm piping low through
Logie Wood. And then there came the crying of the wild-geese, winging
high above the house.
Rebecca dropped her rolling-pin, and went out into the wind-gusts and
the greying light. She was at prayer, of her own sort.
“The Gabble-Rachet always brought me luck,” she said. “It’s that I live
for.”
Flight after flight went overhead, with ceaseless uproar. Rebecca was no
longer the practical, deft-handed housekeeper at Logie. She was as
Causleen and old Donald had seen her, when the pedlar showed baby-wear
among the litter of his pack, and she went wild.
She thought of the lad who was to have married her in the far-off time,
of his death because he would pay no toll to Garsykes. The man who
killed him had died while the Gabble-Ratchet screeched overhead. Years
afterwards his son broke his neck to the self-same music. Luck was in
for her, and out for Garsykes, at such times.
She had crossed the stable-yard and gone into the field beyond, to get
clearer sight of the wild-geese; and when the last of them had hurried
by, she looked about her. There were signs in plenty of the storm to
come. Just as the brindled cat had sought the fender, sheep were
hurrying to cover of the wall. Rooks, feeding tranquilly an hour since
in upland oat-stubble, sped homeward. In the high thorn-edge,
storm-cocks, that love a tilt at harsh weather, cried lustily.
Rebecca looked far down the field, and saw a speck move up it. The speck
took man’s shape by and by. A scud of snow was following him up the
hill, and by his shammocky stride she was sure he hailed from Garsykes.
This puzzled her. An attack in force on Logie she could have understood,
but it was not like the Wilderness Folk for one of them to come alone
into a hostile country.
The snow-scud overtook and hid him for awhile. Then again she saw him
plodding up, and she could distinguish now a bulky sack that swayed
about his shoulders. With a grim face, and a grimmer heart, Rebecca
waited. Jonah the cat, hugging the fire indoors, had claws to show in
time of need. So had she.
The gale was up in earnest, and snow thickened fast about the man who
hurried up the field. Soon he began to blunder this way and that through
the blinding maze, and a sharp, bitter cry rang up-wind.
“Damn Nita Langrish. She sent me into this.”
Rebecca laughed with eerie gentleness. The man came from Garsykes, as
she had guessed, and Nita had sent him on an errand. Already he was
hidden by the on-driving wall of snow, and so much for him. The
wild-geese had flighted to-day, and Logie’s luck was in.
So intent the woman was on nursing vengeance that the storm was on her,
too, before she found a thought for her own safety. Though scarcely
twenty yards from the gate that led into the stable-yard, it took long
to find it; and afterwards, close to her own kitchen, wind and snow
played blind-man’s-buff with her before she found the door, and opened
it, and had to use all her lean, hard strength to close it against the
in-leaping storm.
Jonah still slept tranquilly inside the fender, dreaming of rats to be
hunted in the stables when good weather came again. Rebecca’s glance
rested on him, lying plump and sleek there, and wrath descended on her.
She snatched a besom up, and gave him the thick end of it with zest, as
she had promised not long since in idle banter.
“That’s what I give to vagabones,” she said, and thwacked him again.
Jonah sprang to the top of the big chair beside the hearth, and spat at
her. His fur was stiff, like an angry dog’s, and he swept down a
wild-cat’s paw at her.
“Getting to be your own man again?” said Rebecca. “Well, it’s time you
did, now the rats creep up from Garsykes.”
With that she took up her rolling-pin and went on with the pastry-making
as quietly as if nothing had disturbed the work; but her thoughts were
with the man she had watched creeping up the field. A glance at the
window showed panes crusting ever thicker as the snow drove at them, and
a hard smile played about her lips.
The brindled cat eyed her with wrath that cooled by slow degrees. He
washed himself all over, as if to clear away the besom’s touch, and
stood on the chair-top in sullen dignity. Then suddenly he jumped to the
floor and up to Rebecca’s shoulder at a bound. They could never quarrel
for long, these two.
“At your cantrips again,” said Rebecca calmly, “as if you were
kitten-high—and resting all your great, idle weight on a woman that
won’t put up with such-like nonsense.”
The cat stayed where he was, and presently Rebecca began to talk to him.
“There’s a Garsykes Man out yonder, Jonah. It must be cold lying. He’ll
never taste kitchen-warmth again, or the crisp of an apple-pasty.”
Jonah purred against her withered cheek, and watched the rolling-pin go
up and down.
“I can see him now as he came up the pasture. The snow overtook him, and
he wambled like a drunken man, and dropped. There’ll be his burial-mound
above him—a biggish mound by this time. So there’s another of the foul
brood gone.”
From within-doors—loud as the wind was screaming at the
windows—Rebecca heard a fretful cry steal down the passage.
“It’s the pedlar,” she grumbled. “Good sakes. I’d forgotten he was all
on his lonesome—his legs forsaking him, and all.”
Donald was striving pitifully to rise when she reached the long-settle.
“Where’s Causleen?” he pleaded. “I feel an old, old man, buried out of
sight, when she’s not near.”
Rebecca wondered, too, where Causleen was. The Master was out in the
storm, but he knew every barn and bield-wall of his country, and would
find shelter somehow. Causleen was a stranger. It might be that she had
met the same white death that the Garsykes Man had found. And she had
sent her out.
“She’ll be here by and by,” she said, pity stirring at her gnarled old
heart.
Donald’s glance wandered to the pike that had gone to Flodden Field and
back, and again he tried to rise. “There was so much I had to tell her.
You’re kind, and bid us stay at Logie—but there’s rust of Jaimie the
King’s blood up there. I cannot eat or sleep within the house. Causleen
knows I cannot—and she will not come.”
“Now I’m tucking the blankets round you,” said Rebecca, her hands deft
and gentle, “and I’m telling you to get to sleep, or give me a reason t’
other way.”
Donald yielded to the warmth and rest; and in his dozing his heart
leaped into his lips, and he told in few, poignant words what the years
behind had meant to him.
“The long, grey roads—the footsore roads—selling Pedlar’s Balsam to
other folk—it’s a weary life. There’s no time for the pedlar to balsam
his own feet.”
And so they watched beside him through the night, Rebecca and the
brindled cat. From time to time the woman crossed to the window, to see
if there were any sign of the storm’s abating. There was none, and her
fears for Causleen increased. Yet she could do nothing, and fell asleep
at last in the chair drawn up beside the settle.
The day was up when she awoke. A glance at Donald showed him lying in
childlike slumber, with Jonah curled up on the blankets; and Rebecca
went out into the sunlight, scanning the lower slopes in search of the
Master or Causleen. They did not come, though the thaw had opened out
wide tracks of green between the drifts.
In her long time at Logie, Rebecca had never known a tempest so quick to
come and go. A wind swift and bitter from the east had driven her
indoors last night. Now a warm, playful breeze played against her face.
The gold and crimson glory of the autumn woods reared itself above great
scuds of snow that melted almost as they fell. And everywhere there was
the cry of waters, big and little; for every dingle of the pastures was
a running beck, and all the glens were rivers, bank-top high with
snow-broth.
Rebecca heard the rooks come clamouring to their sycamores and ancient
nests—heard a throstle pipe a stave or two, as if he scented spring
after this wild October night—and knew then that the storm would not
return for many days. Rooks and the thrushes were old in weather-lore.
Still the Master did not come, nor Causleen, and Rebecca wondered if the
Gabble-Ratchet had brought luck to Logie, after all. The pedlar’s girl
meant little to her, but if Hardcastle was dead—if never again she
would sew buttons on for him, or cook his meals, or bear with his gusty
temper—it was near her time to be done with this world and its
foolishness.
Rebecca glanced downhill again, and when still no sign of life showed
between the brimming waters, her thoughts turned to the man from
Garsykes who had been overtaken by the storm last night. She crossed the
stable-yard and went down the field on the far side of it till she
reached a pile of melting snow. Out of the mound showed a man’s two
hands, limp and glistening-wet.
No spark of pity or horror touched Rebecca. With fierce, exultant
patience she watched the snow-shroud crumble, till now his arms showed
to the sunlight, then his lean neck with the mouldy kerchief tied about
it.
Sun and south wind between them were busy with the melting, and
presently the man’s face showed. It had been a coarse face, lined with
slyness; but snow and death had washed it, and it carried a strange look
of peace.
The sack he had carried lay beside him. She opened it, and knew at last
the object of his journey. It was filled with pine-logs, twigs and
resin. These and the tinder-box in his pocket were enough to set Logie
flaming from end to end of its grey gables.
The dead man could tell her nothing now; but he had told all yesterday
when, baffled by the storm, he cursed Nita Langrish for bringing him
into this. Rebecca pieced the tale together with shrewd vision. There
was none from this to Langstrothdale who garnered news like Nita the
basket-weaver. Men passed her as she sat on the bridge-wall, her fingers
slender almost as the withies she plaited. They stayed for gossip with a
maid known through the Dale to be a maddener of men, and she ’ticed
their news from them.
Nita had learned, no doubt, that the Master was from home, and had sent
up this poor, dead fool to fire the house. Rebecca stirred the body with
her foot, in grudging pity. Then the peace in his face—the still
unalterable peace—brought wrath and brimstone round her once again.
“You’ve found too soft an end,” she grumbled—“too soft by half, my
lad.”
She was still standing there, the feud raw at her heart, when Causleen
and the Master came up together from their vigil in the foresters’ hut.
“You’re safe, then, the pair of you,” she said. “I was fearing for the
pedlar’s girl. She’s not used to our rough country.”
Causleen was ashamed of her own shame, as she heard Hardcastle tell how
he had met her just in time—heard Rebecca’s blunt thankfulness that
they had found a hut to spend the night in, safe from the worst blizzard
ever known on Logie-side. Why had her pride taken fire because
Hardcastle had saved her life? Why had she stooped to think of gossip
and dishonour, when these two saw the past night as a fight against
weather—a fight won by Logie?
Then Causleen saw the muddled heap that yesterday had been a man—saw
the wet face and hands, the pitiful, threadbare clothes.
“What is it?” she asked.
“One from Garsykes that’s dead,” said Rebecca tranquilly.
“Poor pedlar. What does he carry in that big pack of his?”
“Enough to burn Logie down from roof to cellar. But he’s dead. And the
Master’s quick. It’s Logie’s turn this time.”