JEREMY ORRIN, BREADWINNER
"I had a younger brother, dear to me far above my life" (this was Aphra
Orrin's beginning). "He was the youngest of all--left to me in guard
by a father who feared in him the wild blood of my mother. For my
father had married a gipsy girl whose beauty had taken him at a village
merrymaking. In the Upper Ward they do not understand that kind of
_mesalliance_ in a schoolmaster. And so, for my mother's sake, he had
to leave his schoolhouse, after fighting the battle against odds for
many years.
"He died rich in his new occupation of cotton spinner, but he knew that
the blood of my mother ran in all of us. Once, in a great snowstorm
when the schoolhouse was cut off from all other houses--it was in the
days soon after Jeremy (the youngest of us all) was born, my father
awakened to find my mother leaning over him, the wood axe in her hand,
murder in her eye. He had only time to roll beneath the bed, and seize
her by the feet, pulling her down and so mastering her. He had to keep
his mad wife, my mother, six days in the schoolhouse, with only himself
for guard, till she could be taken to the asylum, where she died.
"After this shock my father soon followed her to the grave, and I was
left with three poor girls on my hands, who could do nothing for
themselves in the world--hardly even what I told them--and with Jeremy
my brother. If it had not been for Jeremy, I might have managed
better. But he spoiled it all. He was wild from his youth. The least
opposition would arouse him to ungovernable fury. He would, like my
mother, take up a knife, an axe, or whatever was at hand, and strike
with incredible swiftness and strength.
"After we had lost our money--after _I_ had lost it, that is--my own
and my family's--it became my duty to provide for them more than ever.
I had lost it, because richer people had revenged on me and on these
four helpless ones my poor father's too rapid success. So I had no
right to be squeamish as to means of vengeance on the rich.
"But while we were in the midst of some sad dreamy days at Bristol,
Jeremy began to bring home money, for which he either would or could
give no account. Nevertheless, I could not be sure which of the two it
was. He was so wayward that if I ventured to ask for an explanation
that would be a sufficient reason for his refusing it.
"I began, however, to notice that within a day or two after Jeremy's
flush periods, there was always a hue and cry in the papers--a sailor
robbed and his body found floating in the dock, a 'long course' captain
knocked on the head, and the ship's money missing. Now Jeremy could
never be kept away from the docks. Jeremy had plenty of money. Jeremy
only laughed when I asked him how he earned so much without a trade.
"'I can play the fiddle!' he would answer, jeering at me.
"Yet, because there was no other money, and I could not let my sisters
(who at least had done no wrong) suffer, I used what he brought. For
neither, I was sure (and the thought comforted me), had Jeremy done
wrong, _because the mad can do no crime_. The worst the law can do, is
only to shut them up. And in the meantime the money was most
convenient."
Here she paused, and a sort of groan ran all round the courthouse, as
the meaning and scope of the woman's revelation began to dawn upon the
packed audience. Aphra Orrin, being in her senses, had employed the
madman, her brother, to murder right and left that the wants of her
brood might be met!
There arose a hoarse mingled shout: "Tear her to pieces!" before which,
however, Aphra never blanched. But the sheriff was on his feet in a
moment. The fiscal commanded silence, ordering the court officer to
apprehend all who disobeyed. For the wise lawyer could see well ahead,
and knew that as yet they were only at the beginning of mysteries.
When silence was restored Euphrasia Orrin continued without losing a
moment, neither amazed nor alarmed at the manifestation.
"At Bristol I perceived that all this would certainly end in an
unpleasant discovery--yes, unpleasant" (she repeated the word as if in
response to the threatening murmurs!). "I was not responsible for my
poor brother, but I thought it would be well to remove him to a place
where there were no docks and fewer temptations. I bethought myself of
Leeds. We went there, but somehow Jeremy never took to Leeds. He
wandered off by himself to London, associating with horse-coupers and
gipsies by the way. Suddenly he disappeared. I heard no more of him
till at our famine-bare garret a letter arrived containing a hundred
pounds in Bank of England notes--and an address." Miss Orrin put her
hand into a trim little reticule which was attached to her waist, and
drew out a single sheet of paper, on which was written in a sprawling
hand: "_H. Stennis, Pattern Designer and Weaver, Burnside Cottage,
Breckonside, Bordershire, N.B._"
At this moment I noticed that Mr. Ablethorpe had for the first time
left the side of the speaker--though Mr. De la Poer continued to stand
on attention, his shoulder almost touching the dark veil which fell
away to one side of Aphra's face, and threw into relief her determined
chin. Mr. Ablethorpe was speaking to my father. My astonishment was
still greater when I saw my father rise quietly and leave the
courthouse. With a crook of his finger he summoned Rob Kingsman, and,
without either of them paying the least attention to me, both left the
room. Then I was certain that my father did not wish to attract
attention by calling me away. Perhaps, also, he wanted first-hand
evidence of what happened after he was gone. Anyway, he did not put
himself at all out of the way at the thought of leaving me in the lurch
at Longtown with the night falling. It was, of course, different from
what it had been before the burning of Deep Moat Grange. People began
to go the roads freely again.
Once more Mr. Ablethorpe took up his position. The sheriff had stopped
taking notes, so absorbed was he in what he heard. As for the fiscal,
he had never attempted to take any. He was enjoying the situation.
This confession in open court was a thing unknown in his experience,
and he was chiefly afraid lest the sheriff, little accustomed to this
sort of thing, and probably anxious to get home for dinner, should cut
short the sederunt.
"At this point," said Mr. Ablethorpe, who in a way assumed the position
of counsel for his strange penitent. "I would put into your lordship's
hands papers of some importance. They came from Dr. Hector, some of
them, and some out of the safe in the cellar of the Grange."
The sheriff was not in the best of humours.
"I consider all this most irregular," he growled--"a court of justice
is not a scene in a theatre!"
But Fiscal McMath, who was infinitely the stronger man of the two in
character and conduct, turned upon him with a kind of snarl.
"Don't sink the ship for the extra happorth of tar, skipper," he said,
in a low voice (which, however, sitting near, I could just catch),
"give them rope--give them rope! We have been a long time at the job
without hanging them!"
At this the sheriff was silent, only motioning Mr. Ablethorpe to give
the papers to Mr. McMath.
Our fiscal, next to my father the best-known man in the county, was a
greyish, grave man with twinkling eyes, mutton-chop side whiskers, a
little, sly, tip-titled nose, with a dry bloom on the top of it, as if
he liked his spirits neat. He never smiled, yet he was always smiling.
His mouth, when about his duties, would be grave as that of
Rhadamanthus, while within an inch of it a wrinkle twitched merrily
away. His eyes could reprove a too light-hearted witness, or frown
down an improperly jovial defendant, all the while that a
mischief-loving sprite, hovering within, held his sides at the
unseasonable jesting.
On this occasion, however, it was gravely enough that Mr. McMath
adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and proceeded to read.