HARRIET CAW ON CLERICAL CELIBACY
(_Narrative continued by Joe Yarrow, Junior_)
I have put my father's writing, just as it came from his hand, into
this place. It will give a better idea of the uncertain condition of
those two, sequestrated underground, than any mere description. I will
now go on to tell how things were going at Breckonside.
Our house in the village had a name. It was called "The Mount," but
for the most part of people it was "Yarrow's." Just "Yarrow's." The
house had, of course, a different entrance from the shop, and the
retail shop again was quite distinct from the wholesale business. For
most of the small dealers in the villages between Breckonside and
Longtown, besides many even toward the bigger towns of East Dene and
Thorsby, were dependent on my father for their supplies. You see, he
had his finger upon the state of everybody's purse, and could give
longer credit, and in a more human way, than the great firms who
depended upon their yearly turnover, and must have their money every
three months.
Still, on the whole, I know no man who was more generally respected
than my father. He was essentially a business man, but he mixed much
kindness therewith. To find him had been my continual desire. Along
with Peter Kemp and Davie Elshiner, both apt at the search of the
woods, I had explored every ruin within a distance of five miles of
Breckonside. We discovered nothing. No second jackdaw, trailing an
extra tail feather, came within reach of Peter's gun. Indeed, my
father was otherwise employed than in bird catching. Events were
hastening fast along in that underground tunnel which had been
discovered and utilized by Mad Jeremy Orrin and his master, Hobby
Stennis.
About this time Mr. Ablethorpe came pretty often to see us. He liked,
I think, to explain his views to Constantia Caw, who languished up at
him with eyes each the size of a pigeon's egg. He even fetched Mr. De
la Poer to help in the task of proving to the two girls that there was
only one apostolic succession, and that they--Mr. Ralph Ablethorpe and
Cecil De la Poer--had it.
Mr. De la Poer was a tall, slim, lantern-jawed young man, with a dense
mass of straight black hair, which gave him the look of a popular actor
of the new Shakespearean Society, university extension sort. But for
all that he had strong views, Mr. Cecil De la Poer, in matters
connected with his profession. Not an ounce of hypocrisy about him any
more than the Hayfork. For instance, he confided to Miss Harriet Caw,
who up to that moment had listened to him with considerable sympathy,
real or assumed, that he was firmly resolved never to marry.
Whereupon the young woman got up in the most sprightly, stage
milkmaidish manner, caught her gown on both sides, swept him the
approved courtesy and sang--
"'Nobody axed you, sir,' she said, 'sir,' she said,
'sir,' she said;
'Nobody axed you, sir,' she said."
Then she went to her sister, and pretending to weep, took Constantia by
the hand, saying, "Come away, Stancy--it is all over. They won't marry
us--they have taken a vow not to!"
"I wish," said Constantia, looking severely at her sister, "that you
would not be so ridiculous. I was quite interested in what Mr.
Ablethorpe was telling me about--about the council of--council
of--whatever--it--was!"
Harriet had got hold of a handkerchief by this time, and was sobbing
most desolately into it. She had deftly taken it out of Mr. De la
Peer's tail pocket, where a bit of it generally showed.
"He says it is against the true faith," she said, pointing out the
culprit, who stood in an entirely correct attitude, though entirely
conscious that he was looking a fool. His hair fell about his brow in
dense masses, and he looked tragic.
"And I never asked him," continued Harriet; "I would scorn such an
action. I dare you to say that I did!"
The unhappy Mr. De la Poer was mute, as indeed he might well be, before
such treatment of his person and theories.
"And, O Constantia, it's all because we are two simple little London
girls," she said, "that they have been playing with our young
affections!"
Harriet heaved a sigh, and then swiftly turned on the culprit.
"And how about Peter's wife's mother, lying sick of a fever?" she cried
triumphantly. "I suppose that you don't set up to be any better than
him? And if he had a wife's mother, surely he had a wife, too? Come
on, Stancy, you see he has not a word to say. I have a mother, too,
and if she were here, she would not permit her daughter to be thus
insulted. She would have his eyes out with her knitting needles--the
crochet ones with the hooks on the top!"
"I shall not do any such thing, Harriet," said her sister calmly. "I
think you are very absurd. Please don't mind her, Mr. De la Poer. Sit
down, and help Mr. Ablethorpe to explain about the Council of Trent,
while Harriet gets Grace Rigley waked up to the idea that she is to
bring in tea for four."
But Mr. De la Poer had had enough. He had never been so treated in his
life before, and somehow, even Mr. Ablethorpe's exposition of the
Council of Trent was not quite the same thing with Mr. De la Poer
sitting sulking there with his palms pressed between his knees and his
eyes noting the pattern on the carpet.
So the two young men went out, and it was not till he was on his
bicycle, and mounting the hill toward Over Breckonton, that Mr. De la
Poer began to find excuses for that inexcusable girl. After all,
brought up as she had been in a Presbyterian household, without any
training, even in the catechism, what could one expect, he thought.
Well, as he entered his lonely lodgings, to find the fire out and the
smell of the hastily trimmed paraffin lamp turned low on the table, I
suppose he thought that it might have done no harm if, after all, he
had waited for tea in the comfortable house at "Yarrow's." And as he
was pouring the water into a cup of cocoa--which, when tasted, turned
out to be lukewarm and tasting of coal oil--maybe Mr. De la Poer began
to think that a bright young person in a house to see to things in
general would be a decided acquisition--as a sister.
Since, however, owing to the prejudices of society, it would be
difficult to propose this arrangement to Miss Harriet Caw and her
parents, Mr. De la Poer finished his butterless bread (he was severe
with himself in matters of fasting), and arranged a paper shade cut
from a church newspaper, so that it fell at the right angle. He then
set himself dolefully enough to compose a Sunday's sermon, which, as
may be supposed, did not enliven the scanty company of Over
Breckontoners who listened to it on Sunday.
After he was gone, Mr. Ablethorpe came round to the office to see me.
Our office was at the right of the shop, as it were, connecting the
wholesale and the retail departments, having a window looking into
each. My father was great on keeping his whole establishment under his
own eye.
Now, I had charge of the shop books during the temporary absence of Mr.
Brown, who did not, indeed, concern himself much with anything so petty
as the retail department. But I felt very grand indeed. You see, I
had never given up hope of seeing my father walk in with his sharp,
decided tread, and ask to see the ledger. Then he would find
everything posted, and that would be my triumph.
"I have come to see you, Joseph," said Mr. Ablethorpe; "I have
something to say to you which I have been pondering over for a long
time."
I began to wonder if he had changed his mind about marrying, and was
actually going to ask me for Constantia's hand. This made me feel more
"Head of the House" than ever.
But it was something quite different, and Mr. Ablethorpe brought me
down to earth again with a whop, as if I had fallen from the store
rafters.
"I have been able to arrange about the three poor creatures, Honorine,
Camilla, and Sidonia Orrin. They will be in safety with the Good
Sisters of the Weak-minded at Thorsby. There is, therefore, no longer
any object in withholding from you my confidence. I am morally certain
that carrier Harry Foster has been foully murdered, and his body
concealed. Further, my dear, dear boy, I fear that I cannot now give
you much hope of a different fate for your father----"
"There I differ from you," said I stoutly.
"I am glad to hear it," he said quietly; "but I should like to know the
reason of your confidence."
"Because of the message; because my father is so strong and brave; and
because--because I am certain he is not dead! And then Elsie!"
He lifted his hand as if to pray me not to go into that question. At
this I fired up.
"I have heard many things," he began; "a man in my position does!"
"Never anything against Elsie!" I was heated, and shouted.
"Certainly not! Though of another communion she has always----"
"Well, then, say no more"--I stamped my foot--"she has suffered the
same fate as my father. That accursed house has something to do with
it. As yet I do not know what. But something! She has not gone away
from Breckonside without letting her friends know. I will not listen
to that from you or any other man, Mr. Ablethorpe!"
"You will not have to listen to it," said he gently, clapping me
meanwhile on the far shoulder. "You are a good fellow, Joe, and I am
proud to count myself among your friends. You have a sort of sneaking
liking for the Old Hayfork, haven't you, Joe?"
That was the way he spoke. A fellow one couldn't be waxy with long. I
told him Yes. And I think he knew how much I liked him by what it cost
me to get it out.
"Yes, Joe, we do very well," he went on, "and I dare say you have not
forgotten the time I sent you up the drain pipe, and the little rings
you found?"
The matter had never wholly slipped my memory, though, of course, the
losing of my father and Elsie one after the other--mystery piled on
mystery, as it were--had made me think less often about it.
I told him so.
"Well," said he, "I know more about it now, though--as you say--not yet
all. It is necessary to wait a little before I have all the strings in
my hands. This, however, I will tell you. The little rings you found
were those of the mail bags which were stolen out of Harry Foster's
cart! They had been half fused in a furnace and afterwards hidden in
the place where you found them."
"But--but----" I faltered. "Do you think that--that Harry Foster was
there too--up there where I went--in the tunnel which led from the
Backwater?"
He shook his head.
"No," he said, "the rings had passed through some sort of a furnace.
So almost certainly would poor Harry."
He paused for a moment, but I knew full well what he was thinking--it
was about my father.
"But why not hand the whole over to the police, if you know all that
about the people at Deep Moat Grange?"
He laid his hand on mine and patted it.
"I learned long ago not to confound the innocent with the guilty," he
said. "Besides, it is only now that even I begin to see little more
clearly. And the police did little enough when they were here. I
suppose you would have me deliver the rings to old Codling, and see him
crawl up the tunnel as you did?"
I saw that it was no use to contradict Mr. Ablethorpe for the present.
He had still the detective fever upon him, and his manoeuvring had been
for the purpose of getting the poor "naturals" out of harm's way, when
he should be ready to denounce the guilty.
"By the way," he said, "do you know that for the moment I am at a
standstill? Old Hobby Stennis has gone off on one of his journeys.
And till he comes back I can do nothing. Your friend of the snaky
curls is in sole possession of the Grange. Miss Orrin has disappeared.
It must be a sweet spot! Hello, what's that?"
And through the window of the retail shop, now bright with the extra
lighting of Saturday night, we saw Mad Jeremy. He was bending over
several melodeons which Tom Hunt, our first shopman, had handed down to
him, picking up one with a knowing air, trying the keys and stops, his
ringlets falling about his ears, a cunning smile on his lips, and his
little, quick, suspicious eyes darting this way and that to see whether
or not he was observed.
At last his choice fell on a most gorgeous instrument, one that had
just come in. He asked the price, chaffed a a while for the form, and
then, drawing out a fat, well-filled pocket-book, slapped down in
payment a Clydesdale bank-note for a hundred pounds!