“MOLL O’ THE GRAVES”
Holwick generally pursued the even tenour of its way from year’s end
to year’s end, with nothing more eventful than a birth, a death or a
marriage. Aline’s adventure therefore, was likely to remain a staple
topic of conversation for many years. But now there was a strange
feeling in the air as though something further were going to happen. An
atmosphere of uneasiness enveloped the place, an atmosphere oppressive
like a day before a thunderstorm. It was nothing definite, nothing
explicable, but every one seemed conscious of it; it pervaded Holwick,
it pervaded Newbiggin on the other side of the river. Ian and the
children were particularly aware of it. The placid life of the Tees
Valley was to be stirred by things at least as striking as Andrew’s
villainy.
It might have been old Moll’s ravings, it might have been the stirrings
of religious troubles that had started the apprehension; but there it
was, something not immediate but delayed, a presentiment too vague even
to be discussed.
One day Thomas Woolridge was walking down from the Hall through the
rocky ravine under Holwick Crags. It was a dull grey day with a strong
wind, and the rocks seemed to tower up with an oppressive austerity out
of all proportion to their size. He was in a gloomy frame of mind and
kicked at the stones in his path, sullenly watching them leap and bound
down the hill.
“Steadily there, neighbour,” said a voice from below, “do you want to
kill some one?” and the head of Silas Morgan, the farm-reeve, appeared
above the rocks beneath.
“Methinks I should not mind an I did,” answered Thomas, “provided it
were one of the right sort. I am tired of slaving away under other
folks’ orders. Who are they that they should have a better time than I
have, I should like to know?”
“They all have their orders too, man; who do you think you are that you
should have it all your own way? There is Master Mowbray, now, who has
just set forth to York, because the Sheriff bade him.”
“And a fine cursing and swearing there was too, I’ll warrant ye,” said
Thomas. “Master Mowbray doth not mince matters when he starts a-going.”
“No, but he doth not pull a face as long as a base-viol. Thomas, if
so be that I had a face like yours, I would put my hat on it and walk
backwards. Be of good cheer, you rascal, no one doth as he pleaseth
from the Queen’s grace downwards.”
“That may be so, neighbour, but you’ll not deny that some have an
unfair share of this world’s gear.”
“No, by my troth, that is so; but I do not see how you are going to set
it right. Besides, oddsfish, man! you would never even get as large
a share as you do, you lazy varlet, if you got what was meet. I have
never seen you do a stroke of work that you could avoid”; and Silas
gave Thomas a dig in the ribs.
“Here now, sirrah, you let me alone,” Thomas said gruffly. “Why should
we not all fare alike?”
“All fare alike, old sulky face! Not for me, I thank you. I would
not work for a discontented windbag like you. What’s your particular
grumble just now?”
“I’m not grumbling.”
“Not at all, you are saying what a happy life it is, and how glad you
are to see your fellow creatures enjoying themselves.”
Thomas lifted a stone and threw it, but Silas jumped aside and it flew
down the rocks.
“I’m not grumbling so much at the Mowbrays, but at that
Gillespie-wench. There have always been Mowbrays up there; but that
wench, she has nothing of her own, why should she not addle her bread
the same as you or I. One day she had the impertinence to start
ordering me about and made old Edward and myself look a pair of fools.
The old ass did not mind, but I did and I am not going to forget. I am
sick of these craven villagers louting[15] and curtseying at the minx
and she no better than any of us. She gets on my nerves, pardy! with
her pretty angel face.”
[15] The earlier form of curtsey.
“Well, I am glad you admit you are grumbling at something, but you
have less cause to grumble at Mistress Aline than any one in Holwick,
you graceless loon. So here’s something else to grumble at”; and Silas
gave Thomas a sudden push which made him roll over, and then he ran off
laughing.
“You unneighbourly ruffian. I’ll pay you out,” said Thomas, as he
ruefully picked himself up and started down the steep.
He went on to the hamlet and, on his way back, he met Aline, who was
going down to see Joan Moulton. Beyond all expectations, by getting
Audry to sue for her, Aline had arranged that Joan should be moved to
Durham and she was going to pay her last visit.
“It’s a fine day, Mistress Aline,” observed Thomas as he reached her.
“I hope you are keeping well. The falcon is doing splendidly, I notice.
I shall never forget your kindness to me. By the way, I found some
white heather the other day, and I meant to tell you I took up the root
and transplanted it in your garden.”
“Oh, was that you, Thomas? You are good; I noticed it at once, but
somehow I thought it was Mistress Audry’s doings. I love white heather.”
“I am fain it pleaseth you; well, good day, Mistress Aline, there is no
time to waste and some of us have to work very hard betimes.”
On the way up to the Hall, just before he reached the crags of the
ravine he saw some one else. It was old “Moll o’ the graves.”
“How now, neighbour,” he said, “I have not seen you for a long time,
but what’s the good of your hocus pocus? Where’s that fine hank of wool
I gave you, and those two cheeses and the boll of meal? That Gillespie
bitch is still running round; and you said that before a year was away
she would be gone. But Andrew’s little play didn’t work, damn the
fellow. She’s alive yet, I tell you,” and he put his hand on the old
woman’s shoulder as though to shake her.
“Hands off, you coward,” said the old hag. “Why do you not do your own
dirty work? Andrew was worth half a dozen of you. Pah, you devil’s
spawn! If you touch me I’ll burn your entrails with fire, day and
night, and send you shrieking and praying for your own death. But I
tell you, that skelpie may not have to die by water. There are other
ways of dying than being drowned. I cannot read all the future, but
you mark my word, and I have never been wrong yet, she will be gone by
the time I named. Little Joan will go as I said; and if we are safely
rid of one you need not fear for the other. The stars in their courses
fight on our side,” and she laughed an evil laugh. “There is no room in
this world for your weak-minded gentle creatures, bah! cowards, worms,
with their snivelling pity. Does nature feel pity when the field mouse
is killed by the hawk? Does nature feel pity when a mother dies of the
plague? Does God feel pity when we starve a child or beat it to death?
Let him show his pity for the victims of disease, for the beings he
has brought into the world, humpbacked, blind, halt, imbecile, ha! ha!
ha! No, the forces on our side are the stronger, and the innocent, the
gentle and loving must go. I hate innocence, I hate love; and hate will
triumph in the end.
“Do you think I love _you_, you coward?” and she advanced slowly
as though to clutch his throat with her skinny hand, laughing her
demoniacal laugh. “You are on our side, but you are a worm;--Thomas, I
spit at you, begone.”
Thomas looked at her in terror and slunk away till the old woman’s
mocking laughter grew fainter. “Faugh! she was mad--mad--what did it
matter? And yet, suppose she took it into her head to put a spell on
him, the same as she had done on little Joan! What then? But he would
be even with Aline yet; Andrew was a clumsy bungler, he would see if he
could not secure a more efficient agent.”
Thomas had allowed his imagination to dwell round his grievance against
Aline until it had grown to colossal dimensions. She could not even
smile on any one without him reckoning it up against her as an offence.
The thing was becoming an obsession with him.
But what did the old crone mean? Something certainly was going to
happen; did it involve Thomas, or was he himself to be unaffected by
the play of forces? The feeling was unpleasant and he could not shake
it off.
After meeting Thomas, Aline had gone on to Peter’s cottage. She found
that the dying child was weaker than ever, but she still seemed to
cling tenaciously to life. She raised herself a little when Aline came
in and her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness.
“I shall never see you any more, Aline,” she said. “And I have several
things that I want to say to you. They are going to take me away. I
know they mean to be kind, yet I would rather have died quietly here.
But listen, it is not about that that I want to talk,” the child went
on excitedly.
“Hush, dear,” said Aline, taking the small frail hand in her own and
stroking it, “you will tire yourself out.”
“Can you put your hand under my pillow, Aline? You will find there a
little packet.”
Aline did as she was asked.
“Now undo it.”
She opened the small parcel and found in it half a groat that had been
broken in two, a child’s spinning top and a short lock of dark curly
brown hair.
“He was my playmate,” said Joan, “and he used to help me every day to
carry the water from the spring up to the house, and he said that when
he was a big man he would marry me. I know I am going to die soon and
no one loves me but you, so I want to give you my secret.”
“O Joan, darling, you must not talk like that,” and Aline stooped and
kissed the sad little face on the pillow, while her tears, in spite of
herself, would keep welling up and rolling down her cheeks.
A faint little smile spread over Joan’s face as her thoughts wandered
away back to the old times in Kirkoswald and talking half to herself
and half to Aline she said: “His name was Wilfred Johnstone. Oh!
Wilfred, Wilfred, if only I could kiss you good-bye! but I shall leave
your top and the half groat and your dear hair with my beautiful little
lady, and some day she may see you and give them back and say good-bye
for me.”
“O Aline,” she went on, trying to raise herself as she put her arms
round her neck--“give him this kiss for me and say that if I had grown
up I would have been his little wife as I promised”; then, pressing a
kiss on Aline’s lips, she fell back exhausted on the bed.
“I will do everything you ask,” said Aline, and sat by her for a long
time, but the child did not speak again.
At last the evening began to get dark and Aline knew she must be
getting home. “Good-bye, sweet Joan,” she said and for the last time
printed a kiss on the child’s forehead. “I wish you could have said
good-bye,” and she turned to the door.
As she turned Joan’s eyes half opened. “Good-bye,” she murmured, and
Aline went sadly from the house.
“They are going to take her away from me and I believe I love her even
more than Audry, but it is all meant for the best. Oh, I hope and I
hope that that horrid old witch was not telling the truth.”
Aline lay awake for a long time that night thinking of Joan and old
Moll and wondering how she would find Wilfred Johnstone; and when she
slept she still dreamed of her little friend.
The next morning they carried Joan away on a litter. The journey was
to be made in three stages of a day each. Aline would have liked to
see her off, but unfortunately Master Richard had specially arranged
to take the children with him on a long expedition and make an early
start, and he did not wish any interference with his plans.
He had been so very kind in making the elaborate arrangements about
Joan’s journey and future welfare that Aline did not like to say
anything, though it cost her a pang.
They mounted from the old “louping on stone” in the lower courtyard and
were not long reaching Middleton. Master Richard had some business in
Middleton, and afterward they turned up the left bank of the Tees.
It was another grey day, but the water looked wonderfully beautiful
down below them, and Holwick crags rose majestically away to the left.
The bleakness of the surrounding country enhanced the richness of the
river valley; but the wild spirit of the hills seemed to dominate the
whole.
On the way they passed through the village of Newbiggin. It consisted
almost wholly of rude stone cottages and byres. “We have a great deal
of trouble here,” remarked Richard Mowbray. “They are a curiously
lawless lot; it is not only their poaching but there is much thieving
of other kinds. Their beasts too are a nuisance, straying, as they
pretend, on our Middleton property. A murrain on them! My tenant there,
Master Milnes, is very indignant about it and is sure that it is not
accidental. He also makes great complaint about continual damage to the
dykes. Mistress Mowbray is determined to have the whole nest of them
cleared out.”
“But the village does not belong to you, does it, Cousin Richard?”
“No, there are three properties besides mine that meet there, the Duke
of Alston’s, Lord Middleton’s and Master Gower’s.”
“Then how are you going to do anything?”
“Oh, Mistress Mowbray saw Lord Middleton, and he has arranged that his
reeve and the Duke’s shall come over to Holwick and meet Master Gower
and ourselves. I do not expect there will be any difficulty.”
Aline thought it was rather a high handed proceeding, but she said
nothing. She looked at the little cottages and then her thoughts flew
over to the cottage on the other side of the river that Joan had just
left. She wondered rather pathetically whether nearly all life was sad
like her own and Joan’s and Ian’s. Did every one of these cottages
mean a sad story? It would certainly be a sad story to be turned out
of one’s home. Here was a new trouble for her. “Was it true,” she
thought, “that all these people were as bad as Cousin Richard supposed?”
Suddenly Audry exclaimed, “Look--there goes old Moll.”
As they overtook her she stopped and shook her staff after them,
crying,--“Maidens that ride high horses to-day eat bitter bread upon
the morrow.”
Master Mowbray did not catch what she said, but Aline heard and again
felt that peculiar shudder that she could not explain.
A week or two later the words came back to her with bitter meaning
indeed. Joan safely reached her destination and the first news that
came from Durham was hopeful; but shortly afterwards the news was worse
and then suddenly came word that she was dead.
Aline put the little packet carefully away in the ambry. She did not
tell any one, not even Audry, but some day she hoped to carry out the
child’s request. There was too much misery in the world, she must see
what she could do. Perhaps she might begin by doing something for the
people of Newbiggin. At least she could find out what was the real
truth of the case.