THE CALLING OF ELSIE
Now, upon this very night of Saturday, the tenth of February, the same
upon which Mr. Ablethorpe had come to see me, Elsie had lighted her
candle early. Jeremy had been generous in the matter of lighting,
though more than once he had proved himself forgetful of food. As the
easiest manner of providing in quantity, he had brought up from Miss
Orrin's store-room a complete box of candles, which he had opened for
her in a summary manner with the back of his knife and the toe of his
boot.
Elsie was therefore able to follow the somnolent progress of the
adventures of the late Nicholas, M.D., a gentleman whose travels had
led him to the Island of Trinidad. In the interests of the "Huttonian
Theory" he had visited its famous pitch lake, on which he had found
cattle grazing peacefully, as on an English meadow. She had just
reached the following passage, and was nodding over it, the lines
running together in the most curious manner, and her head sinking
forward occasionally, only to be caught up with a sharp jerk, and the
passage begun again with renewed determination.
"No scene can be more magnificent than that presented on a near
approach to the north-western coast of Trinidad. The sea is not only
changed from a light green to a deep brown colour, but has in an
extraordinary degree that rippling, confused, and whirling motion which
arises from the violence of contending currents, and which prevail here
in so remarkable a manner, particularly at those seasons when the
Orinoco is swollen with periodical rains, and vessels are frequently
some days or weeks in stemming them, or perhaps are irresistibly borne
before them far out of their destined track."
This was not clear to Elsie, but she had read the passage so often that
the very whirling of these Orinocan currents, confused and rippling as
they were, reacted subtly on her brain. She was just dropping over
when a second and yet more soothing paragraph caught her eyes. (There
is nothing like a volume of old travels for putting one to sleep--no
extra charge for the prescription.)
"The dark verdure of lofty mountains, covered with impenetrable woods
to the very summits, whence in the most humid of climates torrents
impetuously rush through deep ravines to the sea"--this, carefully
followed, beats sheep jumping over a stile all to fits--"between rugged
mountains of brown micaceous schist"--sch--isssst--final recovery--"on
whose cavernous sides the eddying surf dashes with fury. From the
wonderful discoloration and turbidity of the water, Columbus
sagaciously concluded that a very large river was near, and
consequently--consequent-ly--a great continent!"
But to this continent Elsie never attained. She had succumbed to the
sagacity of Columbus, and in a moment more her forehead rested
peacefully upon the work of Mr. Nicholas, M.D., that renowned traveller.
Let a man or a woman learn this passage by heart, so that asleep or
awake he can recall it even when he forgets his own name, and it will
not be labour lost. He will live long in the land. His sleep shall be
sweet, swift, and easy. Like Elsie he will never reach the haven of
Columbus--
"Not poppy nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsie syrrups of the world
Shall ever medicine him to that sweete sleepe"
like to the prose which Mr. Nicholas, M.D., wrote as he approached the
island of Trinidad.
Elsie slept. Time passed. My father filed and sawed in his recess,
muttering to himself, his head nearly through into the dark cupboard;
but one ear cast ever backward for the first grate of Mad Jeremy's key
in the lock of his door.
Before him he could see the thin line of light which was the crack of
the cupboard door. Beyond that sat Elsie with her head on her book,
her mind a thousand leagues away.
But between my father and the sleeping girl there was that bar of iron,
the upper part of which, by reason of some twist, was giving far more
difficulty than the under.
So it came about that, without daring to make himself heard, my father
was a witness of the final scene in the oven chamber behind the monks'
bakehouse. He had a bar of iron against his shoulder and a file knife
in his right hand, but for all that he was helpless to render any
assistance till he should have cut through the thick diagonal of metal,
and so made a way for himself into the dark cupboard.
All at once, my father, lying prone on his breast and sawing at the
obstruction as best he could, with his arms in a most uncomfortable
position for working--being higher than his head--became aware of an
additional light in the room which he could before see only dimly
illuminated by Elsie's candle.
A man had opened the outer fastenings. His dark shadow crossed the
crack of light which was the edge of the cupboard door ajar. There was
also a flash of a brighter light for a moment in my father's eyes,
which was the swinging of the lantern the man carried. He laid his
hand on the young girl's shoulder, and with a cry which went to Joseph
Yarrow's heart, Elsie came back from the Orinoco, to find Mad Jeremy
looking down upon her.
"Sleepin'?" he chuckled, "and over her book, the bonnie bairn! She's a
teacher, a lassie dominie--they tell me. But Jeremy will learn her
something this nicht that is better than a' the wisdom written in the
buiks. Be never feared, lass.
"Ye are the heiress.
And I am the heir."
"But come ye wi' me, lassie, and this nicht we will drink o' the white
wine and the red, till the bottom faa's oot o' the stoup. I promised
it to you that, when I gat the melodeon, I wad play ye the mony grand
tunes--and ye wad dance--dance, Elsie, dance, my bonnie, like a star
through the meadow-mist or a dewdrap on a bit rose-leaf when the west
winds swing the tree!"
All this time Elsie, gazing amazed at the man, rested silent in an
awful consternation. She had never seen Mad Jeremy like this. His
curly hair now hung straight and black. Perspiration stood in beads on
his brow. He breathed quick and heavy, with a curious rattle in the
throat. Slowly Elsie rose to her feet. She stood between my father
and his view of the apartment, as it were, cutting it off. He bit his
hand to keep him from doing or saying anything, knowing himself to be
impotent, and that the best he could do was just to wait. Otherwise,
Mad Jeremy would simply have come round and despatched him first. For
never (says my father) did murder so plainly look out of a man's eyes
as that night in the oven chamber.
Mad Jeremy took Elsie by the wrist.
"Come, lassie," he cried, with a lightsome skip of the foot--for,
indeed, the man could not keep still a moment--"come awa'! The gray
goose is gone, and the fox--the fox, the auld bauld cunnin' fox--is off
to his den-O--den-O--den-O!"
And, with a turn of his lantern, he threw the candle Elsie had left
burning upon the floor, trampled it out fiercely, and then, with one
hand still on Elsie's wrist and the lantern swinging in the other,
strode out, shouting his version of the refrain: "And the fox--the
fox--the auld, yauld, bauld fox, is off to his den-O!"
But my father had been listening keenly for the click of the key in the
lock. He had not heard it. The way to freedom, to help Elsie, lay
open if only--ah, if only that bar would give way. And once more, in a
kind of fury, he precipitated himself upon the stubborn, twisted iron.
Once outside, the freshness of the air fell upon Elsie like a blow in
the face. So long confined below in her cell built of the hard
whinstone of the country outcrops, she had forgotten the grip and
sweetness of the wind which comes over the Cheviots--fresh and sweet
even though it bring with it the snell sting of snow-filled "hopes" and
the long dyke backs ridged with lingering white of last year's storms.
But there a yet greater astonishment awaited her. Jeremy's grip did
not loosen upon her wrist. He led her toward the half-ruined
drawbridge. It was within a few steps of the sham, ivy-grown ruin
where they had emerged.
Before her eyes the house of Deep Moat Grange, all along its first
floor, blazed with the light of a great feast. Beneath and above all
was dark. But the great drawing-room, the weaving-room, and Mr.
Stennis' bedroom seemed all filled with light.
Jeremy, who seemed to have eyes which saw in the dark, led her easily
across the hall, up the staircase, in the completest darkness. Then at
the top he suddenly threw the folding doors open, and with a certain
formal parade of manners, announced: "Miss Elsie Stennis, of Deep Moat
Grange."
Then laughing heartily at his wit, he entered after her, locking the
door and pocketing the key. The large room was still ornamented in the
old style, for the furniture within it had been taken over by Mr.
Stennis when he bought the property. Miss Orrin had arranged wax
candles in all the many-bracketed chandeliers. With some strange idea
of the fitness of things, she had ordered these to be made extra large,
red, and fluted. Jeremy had lighted all these, and the wide saloon,
with its central carpet and waxed borders, was as light as day.
On the table, just undone from its wrappings, lay a tinselled and
silver melodeon of the latest type. It was the same that Mr.
Ablethorpe and I had seen Mad Jeremy buy that evening in our retail
shop, and offer in payment the hundred-pound note.
Jeremy leaped upon the instrument, in three light, silent strides, like
some graceful, dangerous animal. He swung it over his head with
something like a cheer, and at once swept into a tide of melody. Elsie
looked all about her. Nothing had been moved, save that on one of the
sofas was the mark of muddy boots---Jeremy's for certain. For it was
to that place he betook himself now. All the rest of the chamber bore
the mark of Miss Orrin's careful hand, and her worst enemy did not deny
that she was an excellent housekeeper.
"Where is my grandfather?" cried Elsie, in a pause of the stormy music.
Jeremy answered her by a simple cock of the thumb over his shoulder in
the direction of the door of the weaving-room.
"He went ben there a while syne to work a stent at your wedding quilt,
my bonnie lamb!
"Oh, I shall be the bridegroom.
And ye shall be the bride!"
With a sudden lift of hope, Elsie listened for the well-known "caa" of
her grandfather's shuttle. What if only he were there! What if all
the evil were quite untrue--the message that the hateful woman had
brought on her way to school--was he not her own blood, the father of
her mother? Surely he would save her! She moved toward the door with
the instinct to call for help strong within her.
But instantly Mad Jeremy, who had been reclining carelessly on the
sofa, motioned her away.
"Come nearer me," he commanded--"there, on the carpet by the fire,
where Jeremy can see ye. Ah, it's a grand thing to bring hame a bonnie
lass to her ain hoose--her hoose and mine!--
"I'se be the laird o't,
And she'll be the leddy;
She'll be the minnie o't,
And I'se be the daddy!"
Elsie made a dash for the windows, as if to leap out upon the lawn, but
the movements of the maniac were far faster. In the wink of an eyelid
he had laid aside his melodeon and caught her again by the wrist.
"Na, na," he said, "the like o' that will never, never do! There's nae
sense in that ava'! See!"
And leading her to the window he showed her the bars which her
grandfather had caused to be put up to guard his treasures. It was as
difficult to get out of Deep Moat Grange as to get in. That was what
it amounted to, and Elsie recognized it clearly and immediately.
"My grandfather!" she moaned, half crying with pain and disappointment.
"Where is he--I want to speak to my grandfather!"
Jeremy made a mysterious sign to command silence, pointed again over
his shoulder at the door of the weaving-room, and answered--
"He ben there. But Hobby was in nae guid temper the last time I spak'
wi' him. It is better to let him come to a while. He aye does that at
the weavin', when he is nettled at onything!"
"But I do not hear the shuttle," objected Elsie. "How am I to know he
is there--that you are speaking the truth?"
"Oh, he will hae broken a thread--maybe the silver cord--ye ken he was
rinnin' ane through and through, to gar the 'Elsie Stennis' stand oot
bonnie on the web! Ech, ay, the silver cord, the gowden bowl, the
almond blossom--Hobby could weave them a'--terrible grand at the
weavin' is Hobby. But he's an auld man! Maybe he will hae rested a
wee. He has but yae candle. Plenty enough, says you, for an auld man.
He'll hae fa'en asleep amang the bonnie napery, wi' his head on the
beam and his hand that tired it wadna caa the shuttle ony mair!"
Then suddenly the madman took another thought.
"But what am I thinkin' on?" he cried. "The world is not for dune auld
dotards, but for young folk--young folk--braw folk--rich folk like you
and me, Elsie! See to that!"
He drew out the same large pocket-book that had dazzled the eyes of our
shopmen at Yarrow's, and opening it, showed Elsie the rolls and rolls
of notes, all of high denominations unseen before in Breckonside.
"There's a fortune there, lassie," he said, "a' made by Jeremy--every
penny o't by Jeremy, for you and me, hinny! It bocht the melodeon
here, that Hobby wadna gie this puir lad a shilling for. And it will
mak' you the bonniest and the brawest wife i' the parish! Hark ye to
that, Elsie! There's a fair offer for ye, the like o' that ye never
heard! But noo, the nicht is afore us. I will pipe to ye, and ye
shall dance. Oh, but though I say it that shouldna--ye are fell bonnie
when ye dance!
"Jeremy's heart gangs oot to ye then. If onybody was to look at
ye--that much--fegs, Jeremy wad put a knife into him--ay, ay, and the
thing wadna be to dae twice! Oh, there's a heap o' braw lads in
Breckonside that wadna be the waur o' a bluid lettin'! There's that
upsettin' young Joe Yarrow for yin. I saw him the night standin'
watchin' me as I was payin' for the melodeon, as if the siller was
counterfeit! Certes, if Jeremy likit he could buy up the Yarrows ten
times ower, faither and son!"
Then as the madman went off toward the door he lifted his finger with
the half-playful air with which one admonishes a child.
"Jeremy can trust ye?" he queried. "Ay, ay, forbye the windows are
barred, and the granddad has his door locked--that I ken weel. He aye
sleeps best that gate! Bide here like a denty quean--wait for Jeremy.
He will bring in the feast, the grand banquet in the cups o' silver an'
gowd, the white wine and the reid--the best baker's bread, honey frae
the kame, and a' the denty devices o' the King's ain pastry-cook--that
were bocht for coined siller in Breckonside! Then, after the feast ye
shall dance--dance, Elsie, as danced that other bonnie quean they caaed
the dochter o' Herodias. Eh, but she maun hae made thae soldiers of
Herod and thae grand wise-like lords yerk and fidge juist to watch her.
But, for your dance, Elsie lassie. Gin ye be a wise bairn and dance it
bonnie, Jeremy will gie ye, no the half o' his kingdom, but the hale!
Ay, Jeremy's kingdom a' complete!"
And again he slapped his pocket into which he had slipped the fat
pocket-book.
He was gone. Elsie waited one palpitating minute after he had locked
the door. She could hear the sound of his feet descending the stairs.
They died away. She listened yet a while longer, lest, with maniac
cunning, he should return for the purpose of catching her in the act of
disobedience. But the heavy clanging of a door and the screech of the
great key in the lock warned her that it must be now or never.
Elsie flew to the door of the weaving-room. She would find Mr.
Stennis. She would throw herself upon his mercy. She did not
believe--she could not believe that he knew anything of the treatment
she had undergone during the past months.
"Grandfather, grandfather!" she whispered hoarsely, knocking on the
panel. "Open, it is I--Elsie Stennis! Save me, save me!"
But there was no reply--only silence, and the scurry of a rat behind
the wainscot.
She called again, louder than before.
"Grandfather, grandfather! Quick; he will come back! Save me,
grandfather!"
But there was utter silence. Even the rat had found a shelter.
Swiftly Elsie stooped. The doors of the old houses of the date of Deep
Moat Grange have roomy keyholes. Elsie set her eye to the one which
she found empty of a key.
She saw the most part of a bare room--at least, the illuminated square
about the room. She saw her grandfather, his head bowed upon his
work--his frame still with the stillness of death, and the knife which
had done its deadly work lying close by. At his elbow a candle was
flickering itself out. Something dripped, and on the floor a darker
darkness spread itself slowly out. Even as she looked, the flame
rushed upward, like the life of a man which returns not to his
nostrils, and all was blank about her.
Elsie would have fainted, but she heard steps on the stair--swift and
light--the footsteps of Jeremy returning, and she knew that she must
meet him with the smile upon her lips.