THE BREAKING DAM
(_The Narrative continued by Joe Yarrow._)
I have given this part of Elsie's diary in full, as she wrote it out,
both because she was so far from the truth as to what was happening
above ground, and because her style of writing is so literary--far
before mine, with words that I should have to look out in the
dictionary.
Why, of course, there was no end of a rumpage. The whole country rose.
It is the third time that tells. You never saw anything like it.
Farmers and their men flocked in from the field, and took shot guns and
hay forks, or tied scythes to poles, making ugly enough weapons. The
village of Breckonside emptied itself. It chanced that a little boy,
Frankie Leslie, on his way to school, had seen "eour teacha," as he
called Elsie, in the company of a tall woman in black going through the
pastures towards the woods of the Deep Moat.
That was enough. That was evidence at last. There was to be no
pausing this time. The place was to be ransacked, if not sacked. And
what would have happened to the poor mad sisters if it had not been for
the presence of mind of Mr. Ablethorpe, it is better not surmising. I
don't believe that the idea of compelling witches by torture to release
their victims is extinct--at least, not in such a place as Breckonside.
That mob of angry men and furious women which flocked out towards the
house of the Golden Farmer would have taken to the red-hot knitting
needle and the flat-irons as naturally as their ancestors two hundred
years ago on Witches' Hill, a little beyond the Bridge End. They would
have burned, too, only that they were afraid of the police--I don't
mean old Codling, but the real police, who would come up from East Dene
and Longtown.
I had seen the first surprise about the empty mail gig which had been
escaladed by the murderers of poor Harry Foster. I had seen the
midnight levy when my father's mare came home without him. But far
beyond either was the sight of that silent flood of people, at the noon
of a winter's day, when in the ordinary course of things they would
have been sitting down to dinner: breaking barriers, throwing down
gates, and spreading over the fields in the direction of Deep Moat
Grange! It fairly took the breath from me.
Once I had even been a leader at that sort of thing. I had found the
traces of the crime that had been committed in the case of poor Harry.
I had been my father's son on the second occasion. People had deferred
to me. Even Ebie the blacksmith, with his fore-hammer over his
shoulder, had asked my advice. But now I was nobody. No one was
anybody. A force which no one could control had been set in motion. I
understood better what is that Democracy of which they speak. It is
the setting in motion of destructive forces, always most dangerous when
most silent.
The idea in the hearts of all was that this must end. There was no
saying whose turn might come next. So the rush was made in the
direction of that sinister house in the depths of the woods, surrounded
by its moat, and looking out upon the gloomy pond, dark grey under the
shadow of the pines.
But those of Breckonside who had imagined that there was nothing but
processioning and incensing about Mr. Ablethorpe had their opinions
considerably altered that day. Mr. De la Poer was with him. They had
been--I forget the word--confessing or cross-examining each other. Oh,
no, spiritually directing each other--that is the correct phrase. And
when the roar of the village rising _en masse_ against its formidable
neighbours of the Grange came to their ears, they had just got the job
done for the month, and were sitting down to a good cup of tea, which
Miss Ablethorpe, the Hayfork's sister, had brewed for them.
Immediately divining the cause, Mr. Ablethorpe dashed across the
fields, leaving Mr. De la Poer to act as a drag to the armed villagers.
It was evident that he had been successful in his mission; for when the
mob poured over the drawbridge, which was hospitably down as if to
invite them across, they found at Deep Moat Grange a house empty,
swept, and garnished.
In the house they found spotless chambers, which testified to the good
housekeeping of Miss Aphra Orrin--full pantries, well-filled larders,
the milk standing to cream on the stone slabs of the dairy, butter in
lordly dishes on great squares of Parton slate, the quietest, the most
innocent house in all the parish of Breckonside.
Nor did they find anything suspicious in all the chambers of the house,
though they went everywhere--into Mr. Stennis's workroom, which had the
windows tightly barred, but which, when thrown open, revealed nothing
but a spare wooden settle in a corner, and on a wonderful hand loom a
half-worked pattern, such as only Hobby could weave, with crowns of
flowers, roses and lilies, and on a scroll the words: "To Elsie
Stennis, on her marriage. The gift of her affectionate grandfather."
But the rest was wanting. I stood and wondered as the tide ebbed away
to other rooms--first to whom Elsie Stennis was to be married, and
whether the inscription on that half-woven wedding present had anything
to do with her disappearance in company with the granite-faced woman as
reported by Frankie Leslie on his way through the meadows.
I even went so far as to suspect Mr. Ablethorpe. He had always been
fond of Elsie. He had always protected her enemies, those whose
interest it was to deprive her of her heritage. Perhaps his very
pretence of celibacy was only a cover for a deeper design of getting
hold of the riches of the Golden Farmer!
But all the turmoil, and the thundering blows of the fore-hammer
wielded by Ebie McClintoch discovered nothing--not one of the mad
sisters, not their leader and protectress, Miss Orrin, not Mad Jeremy
himself. And, of course, no one expected to see anything of Mr.
Stennis. He would be far away, as usual, with an alibi obviously
provided on purpose.
Most of all, the silence of the place was disquieting. The door of the
barn was open. Within, all trace of the ridiculous gauds of a former
time had disappeared. It had been restored carefully, with knowledge
and discretion, to its first use as a chapel. A crucifix hung above
the communion table. The twin sets of commandments, written in gold on
blue, were against the wall on either side. The Bible, on the little
lectern, behind a gilt eagle no bigger than a sparrow, was open at the
lesson for the day. The Breckonside people, though in their
Presbyterian hearts condemning such signs and symbols, paused
open-mouthed, taken with a kind of awe, and as Mr. De la Poer dropped
on one knee to make his altar reverence, all filed out bareheaded and a
little ashamed of themselves.
None thought of going farther. Though I knew very well that behind the
hanging of dull purple at the lectern was the door by which Mr.
Ablethorpe had saved his strange parishioners, and so cheated the hasty
angers of Breckonside.
Nor did I tell them of it. Somehow I was no longer a leader. And deep
in my heart I felt sure that if Elsie were indeed there, Mr. Ablethorpe
would give his life rather than that any harm should come to her.
Besides Elsie and I had been so many times in danger of our lives, in
that very place even, that I knew somehow she would come back to me
unhurt. At any rate, the actual prison house where she was hidden was
far beyond our ken. None of us thought of searching on the other side
of the moat, where was the underground oven of the Cistercians, in
which Elsie (as she has already told) was interned.
Perhaps I did wrong in not revealing the secret of the passage. But
then if there had been bloodshed--and our folk were quite in the mood
for it--the death or ill-usage of these poor innocents (I do not speak
of Miss Orrin or Mad Jeremy) would have been on my head. On the whole,
I am still convinced that I acted wisely. And I am sure also that Mr.
Ablethorpe did so. For he had, there was no doubt, hurried the sisters
Honorine, Camilla, and Sidonia, with their eldest sister Miss Orrin,
from the chapel where he had known he would be sure to find them at
that hour, by the passage along which I had chased him, and had finally
hidden them safely in the range of underground buildings that had been
the store and treasure-houses of the monks in the days of the border
moss-troopers. For then each good wife of a peel tower sent her
husband to "borrow" from the holy clerks of the Moated Abbey as often
as the larder and money bag were empty. And her way was a woman's way.
She served him at dinner time with only this--a clean spur upon an
empty plate, which being interpreted meant, "If thou would'st eat, good
man of mine, rise and ride."
They lived in dangerous territory, these good monks, and it is small
wonder if after their departure the moated island kept its repute. The
very wealth of "hidie-holes" conduced to deeds that feared the light.
Mad Jeremy in his outcast days had sheltered there. He had explored
them, and that knowledge had been abundantly utilized since the
purchase of the Grange by Mr. Stennis. The whole situation was most
favourable for his traffic, and even now when its good repute was blown
upon, the Cistercian abbots' "hidie-hole" still showed itself capable
of keeping its secrets.
Our Breckonsiders were proverbially slow of belief, but they could not
get over the facts. There before us was the house of Deep Moat, all
open to the eye, silent like a church on week days, prepared as for
visitors from floor to roof tree. And nothing to be found, neither
there, nor in the numerous out-buildings of which Mr. Bailiff Ball, a
man of approven probity, had the charge.
There was nothing for it therefore but to go home. Or rather the
villagers had almost arrived at that decision when Miss Orrin, escorted
by Mr. Ablethorpe, walked suddenly into the midst of the crowd of armed
country folk.
Her appearance caused an angry roar, pikes and scythes were raised
against her. But the presence of a clergyman, the dignity of even an
alien cloth, made them turn away a little shamefacedly. Mr. Ablethorpe
put up his hand to command silence.
"My friends," he said, "I have lived among you long enough to know that
you will offer no indignity to a woman. Miss Orrin is here of her own
wish to explain to you all that may be necessary. She does not, of
course, make herself responsible for the words or actions of all other
members of her family, but so far as she is concerned she is ready to
explain."
"Where is Elsie Stennis? Murderess! Burn the witch! The she-devil!"
These cries, among others, broke from the crowd, and Miss Orrin was
well advised not to attempt any long parley.
"Come with me," she said, "and I will satisfy you! But go gently. For
the master of this house is very ill and the doctor is with him even
now."
Whereupon she opened with a key a door in the weaving chamber of Mr.
Stennis, a door which I had taken for that of a large iron safe, and
conveyed us into a smaller chamber, with a barred window looking across
the moat. Here Mr. Stennis lay on a bed, very pale and haggard, and
with him, his hand upon the sick man's wrist, was Dr. Hector of
Longtown, a man whom every one knew and respected--all the more so
because of a brusque manner and an authoritative speech that caused
people to place great confidence in his judgments.
He looked up astonished and rose to his feet, evidently very angry.
"Hello," he said, "what's this? What right have you to come
masquerading here with your pitchforks and hedging tools? Out of this,
or I'll put my lancet into some of you! I'll wager that I will let
more blood in five minutes than you with your entrenching tools in a
week--ay, and take it from the right spot, too!"
He followed the defeated Breckonsiders to the door, made a gesture as
if to hasten a few laggards with the toe of his boot, and remarked
aloud to Miss Orrin: "I thought you had more sense than to encourage
this sort of thing!"
"Me encourage it!" cried Miss Orrin, indignantly facing him--"you are
under a great mistake, sir!"
"Well, out of this, anyway, all of you," said Dr. Hector. "I will not
have it. If my patient's repose is broken into again, tell them I am
armed--I will take my horsewhip to the pack of them!"
And curiously enough the crowd of justicers melted more quickly merely
with the shame of looking a good man in the face, and before his
horsewhip of righteous indignation, than it would have done before Mad
Jeremy, armed to the teeth.
"I went this morning to the school where Miss Elsie Stennis teaches,"
said Miss Orrin, "and I gave her a message that her grandfather was ill
and wishful to see her. Dr. Hector is a witness that such was Mr.
Stennis's urgent desire. I merely executed it, and all that I know
further is that Miss Stennis has not yet complied with that request."
"Our Frankie saw teacher with you on the meadow pasture at nine this
morning," interrupted a gaunt woman with the bent shoulders of the
outdoor worker and a look of poverty on her face.
"Then your Frankie lied!" retorted Miss Orrin sharply.
And after this direct challenge it needed both Mr. Ablethorpe and Mr.
De la Poer to restore order. But the fury of Frankie's mother
contrasted so ill with Miss Orrin's glacial calm, that it seemed
possible enough that "Frankie" had indeed invented the little
circumstance to add to his importance, after hearing of the loss and
disappearance of "teacher."
"Moreover," said Miss Orrin, "since Mr. Stennis is too ill to have his
bedchamber and house invaded in this way, in future Dr. Hector will
arrange for special protection from the police at Longtown. And after
this warning let any one cross the moat at their peril."
There was no more to be done. Aphra Orrin had beaten us completely.
The baffled tide ebbed back the way it came, and Deep Moat Grange was
left alone once more with the secrets it had been successful in
guarding in the teeth of a whole countryside in arms and aroused to a
high pitch of curiosity.
The two clergymen waited behind, but the sick man would have nothing to
do with them, declaring his intention, if he must, of dying as a good
Presbyterian. He was the most intractable of invalids, even
threatening to break a bottle over Dr. Hector's head if, as he
proposed, he should venture to bring with him from Longtown a minister
of his own denomination.
"Hobby Stennis is none so ill as that," he said stoutly, "if only I had
my will in a safe place, and had seen the little lass, who is all my
kith and kin, I would ask no more from doctor or minister in this
world."
"I will take charge of the will myself if no better may be," said Dr.
Hector. And so, none saying him nay, he rode back to Longtown with the
holograph in his breast pocket, jesting with two farmers riding that
way as he went. Had he only known, a few sheets of a folio account
book covered with close writing in the hand of Mr. Stennis was
considerably more dangerous to carry about with him than the latest
discovered high explosive!
It was with considerable astonishment that on the evening of his next
visit to Deep Moat Grange, about midway between the edge of the woods
and the lonely alehouse where my father had alighted, Dr. Hector was
suddenly aware of a noose of rope which circled about his neck with a
whiz. The next moment he was dragged from his horse. He lay
unconscious for an hour on the road, and then coming to himself turned
and walked back to Longtown, very stiff and very angry, but conscious
of no other loss than that of several copies of prescriptions which he
kept in his breast pocket.
"What they can want with these, I don't know," said the vindictive
doctor. "I only hope they will take them all together. There was a
triple dose of strychnine in one which I wrote for Garmory's dog!"
Now Miss Orrin was a clever woman, and she grasped at once the immense
moral value of having the support of Mr. Ablethorpe and his friend and
spiritual director Mr. De la Poer. It was quite evident that for the
sisters the situation at Deep Moat Grange would no longer be tenable.
Mr. Stennis might die any day. The Longtown doctor gave little hope of
ultimate recovery. The will had been removed out of Aphra's reach.
True, she might possibly induce the old man to make another,
disinheriting his granddaughter. If Elsie died in her prison,
doubtless sooner or later all would be found out. There were other
things also.
It came as the happiest of solutions, therefore, to the strenuous head
of the Orrin family, when, a few days after, Mr. Ablethorpe proposed to
charge himself with the care of the three "innocents"--Honorine,
Camilla, and Sidonia. He knew of a convent, the good sisters of which
gave up their lives to the care of women mentally afflicted. Aphra
refused point blank any such assistance for herself, even temporarily.
But for her sisters she rejoiced openly, and was indeed, after her
fashion, really grateful to the two young clergymen who had taken up
the cause of the witless and the friendless.
"I know why you do this," she said, "it is that you may clear the board
of those who have neither art nor part in the evil. Then you will
strike the more surely. I do not blame you, Mr. Ablethorpe, But for
me, I will not go with my sisters, who have done nothing--known
nothing. If the guilty are to suffer--and if the guilty are indeed my
brother and my master--then I will stand in the dock by their side. No
one shall ever say that Aphra Orrin went back on a friend, or refused
her full share of responsibility. All the same, Mr. Ablethorpe--and
you, Mr. De la Poer--I am grateful from my heart for what you are doing
for my poor sisters. For me, I am neither mad nor irresponsible--only
as the more notable sinner, in the greater need of your ghostly
counsels!"