ELSIE'S DIARY
(_Written in her French Exercise Book by Miss Elsie Stennis._)
I left home on Friday morning at about the usual time--perhaps five
minutes sooner. It was a fine morning--wintry, bright, just enough
snow underfoot to crisp the road, and enough tingle in the air to make
the buds of the willows glitter with rime.
I was reading as I walked. I always do on my way to school, having
learned when quite a girl. It gets over the road. Besides, if you
don't want particularly to see any one--that is a reason.
Not that I was expecting to see anybody--least of all Joe Yarrow. He
had his "Caws"--let him be content. That was what I was saying to
myself. But just at the corner where there is a square inset--or
outset--in which they crack stones with a hammer to mend the bad
places, I slackened a little. There was such an interesting piece in
the French grammar--all about the rules for the conversational use of
"en" and "y"--that I went a bit slower, just to make it out. The sense
was difficult to follow, you know.
Besides, I heard a noise like the sound of footsteps behind me. I knew
that it could only be that donkey Joe, broke loose from his rookery;
so, of course, I did not turn round, nor make the least sign. Why
should I, indeed? I am not Harriet Caw.
But I heard a voice, which I knew in a minute was not Joe's, calling
out--
"Miss Stennis! Miss Stennis!"
That made me turn, as, of course, it would any one, just to see who it
could be.
And it was Miss Orrin--the elder one they call Aphra. You never saw
such a change in any woman. She looked like a minister's widow, or
some one of good family, living quietly and dressed in mourning. She
had a black dress--fine silk, it was, quite real--of an old fashion,
certainly, but no more so than you see at hydropathics and other places
to which old solitary ladies come for the purpose of talking over their
infirmities with one another. I was once at the Clifton one with
mother--oh, so long ago, before leaving Wood Green! But I seem to
remember these times better than things more recent. I really can't
help telling about it, though I am wasting my paper, I know. I used to
think there was nothing funnier in the world than to see two very deaf
old ladies, neither taking the trouble to listen to the other,
lecturing away to each other--only agreeing with the nods of each
other's head. One would be talking about the Primrose League at her
native Pudley-in-the-Hole, and the other--the learned one--about the
internal state of South Nigeria, as illustrated by the fact that her
grandson had not seen an ordained clergyman for four years!
"Think what his spiritual condition must be by this time, my dear!
Such things ought not to be allowed in a Christian country, under the
flag of England!"
"No, indeed," agreed the other, who had not heard a word. "Of course,
it was all the doing of that Gladstone. Even one of the lecturers who
came to speak to us, he was all for work among the lower classes. As
if we could admit the like of them into our League--people who have
strikes, wear red ties, and read Socialist papers! Really, dear, it
was expecting too much, though he was an archbishop's son!"
"Yes; and my grandson wrote home for books to read--to be sent out by a
friend, an officer on a river gunboat--I think his name was Judson.
His life has been written by somebody whose books I don't consider at
all suitable for James. And so I went down to the Curates' Aid and got
a list of everything likely to be of service to one who for four years
had been devoid of all means of grace. But I fear they never reached
my poor James. For when he came home, and I asked him about them, he
did not seem ever to have read any of them. But I dare say it was that
Judson's fault. With these naval officer men you never can tell. I
dare say the sailors divided them up among themselves on the voyage
out!"
"Exactly. What we wanted, was, of course, to keep our League select.
No one very swell, but well connected, and all most careful about
appearances----"
"And my grandson in Nigeria brought home a lot of crocodiles and a rare
postage stamp, or a rare crocodile and a lot of postage stamps--I am
not sure which. Anyway, I would not have it. I said he could not keep
both in my house. He must give either to the Zoo. But I don't
know----"
And so on. It was fun, and now I like to remember it, though it does
fill up the pages of my note-book even when I am writing very small.
Still, it is always something to do.
Well, Miss Orrin was dressed just like these ancient hydropathickers.
Only, she was as alert as a fox and as demure as a mouse, in spite of
being in a kind of mourning, with a big jet crucifix on a thick jet
chain. That was the only thing about her that was not as sober and
serious as a fifty-year-old tombstone. She had such a lot of jet
ornaments about her, all cut into symbolic shapes, that she moved with
a clitter-clatter, just like a little dog walking on a chain with
fal-de-rals on its collar.
But, withal, she had such a grave air that I never once thought of
laughing. Miss Aphra was not a person to laugh at in the gayest of
times.
"Miss Stennis," she said, "I know you have not been well received at
the house of your nearest relative. I am acquainted with all the
long-continued ill-usage so unjustly dealt out to your mother and
yourself. Long have I tried my best to bring your grandfather to a
better frame of mind. But he is a dour old man--indurated, impervious
to good influence. But what I was unable to do all these years, the
near approach of death has brought about. When the angel Israfel
passes upon his wings of darkness, then the heart hears and is afraid!"
At these last words she showed a countenance as it were transfigured.
It was the first glimpse of her former madness that I observed about
the woman.
"But what do you wish me to do?" I asked, knowing well that she would
not seek me without a purpose.
"Your grandfather, Mr. Howard Stennis, is dying," she said solemnly.
"He has had a stroke, and may pass away at any moment. Two doctors
from Longtown and East Dene have come all the way to visit him. They
give no hope. But he gets no rest, crying out constantly that he
cannot die without seeing you. And you must come instantly. I am here
to beseech you. Behold in me the spirit of a father pleading for a
daughter's forgiveness."
She seized me by the arm. In a sudden access of terror, I wrenched
myself free, and instantly Miss Orrin began to sob. She sank on her
knees before me.
"I know I have no right to ask," she said. "You have been shamefully
treated, and have no need to forgive. But as you hope for pardon
yourself, hasten and come to your grandfather, that he may hear you
pardon him before he dies. If not, the sin of his uneasy spirit will
be upon your head! Besides"--her voice dropped to a whisper--"there is
something that he wishes to confess to you concerning your mother. It
is on his conscience. He cannot die without telling you. Come--come!
By the forgiveness you hope for yourself, or for those dear to you, I
bid you come!"
I lifted her up, and obeying a sudden impulse, I turned with her down
the lane which led from the corner where she had surprised me, away
from the school-house. I cannot tell you how I came to do it. I had
expected--why, I know not--some one else to meet me there. Well, I
suppose I may say--Joe Yarrow. And the thought that he was
philandering his time away with those Caws made me ready for almost
anything.
Besides, I had been to Moat Grange House before. I knew that Mr.
Ablethorpe went there regularly, and that he had services with the poor
mad folk. So I was not nearly so afraid of Aphra Orrin as I had been.
It was bright and clear still, though the morning was overcasting a
little, as we passed through the meadows. There is a private road most
of the way till you enter the woods of Deep Moat. The people of the
Moat Grange, therefore, never had any need to cross Brom Common or go
the way that we had always taken--Joe and I--on our expeditions and
researches.
All the way Miss Orrin talked incessantly of my grandfather, of how
that he had been like a saviour to her poor sisters and herself,
receiving them when they would have been shut up in an asylum, and of a
certainty would have died there. She spoke also of his kindness to
herself.
"They call him the Golden Farmer," she said. "And of a truth that is
what he has been to us, for his heart is of pure gold."
I ventured to suggest that the folk of the countryside held a very
different opinion of Mr. Stennis. But I could not have made a more
unfortunate remark. In a moment the fire of madness flashed up from
her eyes. The colour fled her lips. Her fingers twitched as if drawn
by wires. She was again the mad woman I had seen leading the
procession of the little coffins. "The folk of the countryside!" she
screamed. "Ranging bears, wild beasts of the field! Oh, I could tear
them to pieces! Gangs of evil beasts, slow bellies, coming here
roaring and mouthing, trampling my lily beds, uprooting everything,
laying waste the labour of years. Oh, I would slay them with my
hands--yes, root out and destroy, even as Sodom and as Gomorrah!"
And suddenly lifting up her hands with the action of a prophetess
inspired, she chanted--
O daughter of Babylon,
Near to destruction,
Bless'd shall he be that thee rewards
As thou to us hast done.
Yea, happy, surely, shall he be,
Thy tender little ones,
Who shall lay hold upon, and them
Shall dash against the stones.
I trembled, as well I might, at the fury I had unwittingly kindled.
We were now in the woods, the main travelled road far behind us, a
complexity of paths and rabbit tracks all about, and before us a green
walk, dark and clammy, upon which the snow had hardly yet laid hold.
On one side rose up the wall of an ancient orchard, which they said had
been planted and built about by the monks of old. On the other was the
moat, still frozen, only divided from us by an evergreen fence,
untrimmed, thick, and high, probably contemporary with the orchard.
Suddenly, at the entrance to this green tunnel, Aphra Orrin turned and
grasped me by both wrists. Her face, as it glowered down at me, had
become as the face of a fiend seen fresh from the place of the Nether
Hate.
"Jeremy, Jeremy!" she cried. And at the sound of her voice it came to
me that of a certainty I had fallen into a trap. This was not the road
to the House of Deep Moat. I ought to have known better. I had been
drawn hither solely to be murdered. I tried to scream, but could not.
As in a dream, when one is chased by terrible things out of the
Unknown, speech left me. I felt my knees weaken. And, indeed, had I
been as strong as ever I was in my life, of what use would my strength
have been? For there, at the entrance of the green tunnel, stood Mad
Jeremy, smiling and licking his lips.
Meantime Aphra Orrin held me, shaking me to and fro as a terrier might
a rat. She was as strong as most men--stronger, indeed, with the
madness that was in her.
"Slay the daughter of Babylon! Slay her! Slay, and spare not!" she
cried.
And while I stood thus, trembling violently, with that dreadful woman
gripping my wrists so that she hurt them, Jeremy came leisurely up with
his hands in his pockets--sauntering is the word that will best express
it. He bent down and looked at me. For he was very tall. And I
looked up at him with, I dare say, wide and terrified eyes. How
indeed, could they be otherwise?
"Where is your knife?" cried Aphra Orrin. "Quick! Make an end--do as
with the others! This is the last seed of iniquity. She will take
from us our riches--all that should be ours--hard earned, suffered for,
all that lies under the green turf--all you have won, Jeremy, and I
have paid for twice over with weary nights of penance. That old man
would steal it from us, from us who gained it for him, to give it all
to this pretty china doll he calls his granddaughter!"
Had it been the will of Aphra Orrin at that moment, the opportunity
would have been wanting for me to fill this copybook with these notes,
to pass the weary time. For she loosened one hand, and snatched at the
knife in Mad Jeremy's belt--the same we had once seen in his teeth when
he swam the Deep Moat to get at Joe and me.
But happily, or so it appeared at the time, Mad Jeremy was in another
humour. He thrust his sister off, and, as it seemed, with the lightest
jerk of one hand he took me out of her clutches.
"Na, na," he said; "this dainty queen is far ower bonnie for a man like
me to be puttin' the knife into as if she were a yearling grice. The
knife for the lads that winna pay the ransom, if ye like. But a bonnie
lass, and the heiress to a' the riches at the Grange--auld Hobby's
hoards--I tell ye, her and me will do fine, Aphra! Let her be, Sis, or
you and me will quarrel. Ay, ay, and maybe ye will find oot what the
blade o' my gully knife is for. We will see if ye hae ony bluid o'
your ain in your veins, Sis--you that's sae fond o' seein' the colour
o' ither folks'!"
"Never--never! You lie, Jeremy!" cried Aphra. "I know nothing about
that. I swear I am ignorant. As to Elsie Stennis, I did but jest. At
any rate, she must not see her grandfather. He is in a foolish mood,
and might take us from house and manor, roof and shelter, house and
bedding--ay, all that by right belongs to us. Besides"--here she moved
up closer to her brother--"she knows too much. She might prove a
telltale, and then you, Jeremy, would be hanged--hanged by the neck
till you were dead!"
She repeated the words with a space between each, sinking her voice
till it ended in a hoarse whisper.
"Na, na!" cried Jeremy. "I but helpit the puir craiturs oot o' their
misery. They cried na long. And then they wad be that pleased to hae
nae mair trouble, but juist to lie doon agang the lily beds and forget
a' the cares o' the warl'!"
"Hush, hush, Jeremy!" cried Aphra. "Think what you are saying,
brother. But bethink yourself, brother dear, you must make an end now.
The girl has heard too much, and that from your own lips."
Mad Jeremy ran his fingers through his long, glossy ringlets with
something like a smirk.
"Na, na," he said, "I can better that! She shall bide in the cove
behind the muckle oven, where three times a week Jeremy bakes the
bread. She will be fine and warm there. Nothing to do but set her
soles against the waa', and in a trice she will be as comfortable as a
ha'penny breakfast roll. No like yin I could name--ha, ha!--freezin'
in the----"
But this time Aphra fairly sprang upon him, putting her hand over his
mouth to stop his speech.
"Oh, that I should be troubled with fools that know not their own
folly," she cried--"I, that have given more than my life, almost my
soul, for these poor things, my sisters and my brother, yet who will
not be guided by me!"
Mad Jeremy laughed cunningly, or rather, perhaps, emitted a cackling
sound.
"Be guided by you, Aphra?" he said. "No, and I don't think! Jeremy
may be mad, but he kens a trick worth two of that. He will keep this
little ladybird safe--oh, very safe, till the wedding dress is ready!
Heiress if you like, sister. But then Jeremy will be the heir. And a
bonnie, bonnie bride he will hae into the bargain. Come your ways,
hinny--come your ways!"
He spoke to me with a curious, caressing voice, bowing low like a
dancing master, with his broad bonnet in his hand, and making all sorts
of ludicrous gestures to prove that I would be safe with him.
I did not know what to do. From the woman I had nothing to expect but
a knife at my throat, and yet to accompany Mad Jeremy! That I could
not do.
Suddenly I screamed aloud at the top of my voice, hoping that some one
would hear me and come to my assistance. But Mad Jeremy only put his
arm about me and covered my mouth with one great hairy paw.
"Gently then, lass--nane o' that, noo! It wanna do," he said, not
angrily at all, but rather like one soothing an infant; "ye see there's
nae workers in the fields thae winter days. And if there were hail
armies, they wad kep wide o' the Deep Moat Wood, for they hae seen
Jeremy gang in there a gye wheen times--ech, aye!"
And picking me up in his arms as easily as a babe, Mad Jeremy carried
me into an ivy-covered ruin, and after that all was a labyrinth of
passages and tunnels till I found myself in the place where I wrote
these notes.