OVER THE MOOR TO ROMANTON
We have had our promised holiday, Mother Hubbard and I, and a right
royal one. On those rare occasions when work may be laid aside and
hard-earned coin expended upon the gratification of the senses, our
younger neighbours turn their steps to Airlee or Broadbeck, and seek
the excitements of the picture palace or the music-hall; their elders
are seldom drawn from the village unless to the solemn festivities of a
"burying."
We spent our day in the great alfresco palace of Nature, amid pictures
of God's painting, and returned at night, tired in body, but with heart
and soul and brain refreshed by unseen dews of heaven's own distilling.
Fortunately we have had a spell of fine, dry weather, with occasional
strong winds--at least, they were strong to me, but the folk about here
dismiss them contemptuously as "a bit of a blow." Had the weather been
wet Mother Hubbard's cherished desire to "take me across the moor" to
Romanton would have had to be postponed indefinitely.
We were to drive as far as "Uncle Ned's" in Mr. Higgins' market cart,
Mr. Higgins having volunteered to "give us a lift," as it was "nowt out
of his way."
We started early, before the morning mists had forsaken the valleys,
and whilst night's kindly tears still sparkled on the face of the
meadows. It was good to lean back, my hand in Mother Hubbard's and my
feet resting on the baskets in the bottom of the cart, and drink in
sight and sound and crisp morning air.
What a peaceful world it was! I thought for a moment of the mad rush
of petrol-driven buses along Holtorn, and the surging tide of sombre
humanity which filled the footpaths there. This had been the familiar
moving picture of my morning experience for more years than I care to
remember, and now--this. Beyond, the meadows and the shawl of mist in
the valley, a long stretch of gold and golden-brown where gorse and
bracken company together, the one in its vigorous and glowing prime,
the other in the ruddy evening of its days, but not a whit less
resplendent.
Overhead, a grey-blue sky, with the grey just now predominating, but a
sky of promise, according to Mr. Higgins, with never a hint of
breakdown. By and by the blue was to conquer, and the sportive winds
were to let loose and drive before them the whitest and fleeciest of
clouds, but always far up in high heaven.
In the distance, just that delightful haze which the members of our
Photographic Society so often referred to as "atmosphere"--a mighty
word, full of mystic meaning.
Here and there we pass a clump of trees, heavily hung with bright
scarlet berries, whose abundance, our conductor informs us, foretells a
winter of unusual severity. "That's t' way Providence provides for t'
birds," he says. It may be so, though I daresay naturalists would
offer another explanation. All the same, it is pleasing to see how the
blackbirds and thrushes enjoy the feast, though they have already
stripped some of the trees bare, and to that extent have spoiled the
picture.
Mr. Higgins was not disposed to leave us to the uninterrupted enjoyment
of the landscape. He is a thick-set little man, on the wrong side of
sixty, I should judge, with a clean top lip and a rather heavy beard;
and I suspect that the hair upon his head is growing scanty, but that
is a suspicion founded upon the flimsiest of evidence, as I have never
yet seen him without the old brown hat which does service Sundays and
weekdays alike.
He jogged along by the side of the steady mare, who never varied her
four-miles-an-hour pace, and who, I am sure, treated her master's
reiterated injunction to "come up" with cool contempt; but he fell back
occasionally to jerk a few disjointed remarks towards the occupants of
the cart.
"Fox," he said, inclining his head vaguely in the direction of a lonely
farm away on the hillside to the right. "Caught him yesterda' ... been
playin' Old 'Arry wi' t' fowls ... shot him ... good riddance."
We made no comment beyond a polite and inquiring "Oh?" and he continued
to be communicative.
"Just swore, did Jake ... swore an' stamped about ... but t' missus ...
now there's a woman for you ... she played Old 'Arry wi' him ... set a
trap herself ... caught him."
Mother Hubbard ventured to surmise that it was the fox which had been
captured and not the husband, and Mr. Higgins acquiesced.
"Nought like women for ... settin' traps," he continued, with a
chuckle, shaking his head slowly for emphasis; "they're all alike ...
barrin' they don't catch foxes... Man-traps mostly ... aye, man-traps."
"That is just like Barjona, love," Mother Hubbard whispered; "he has
never a good word for the women."
"You have managed to evade them so far, Mr. Higgins?" I suggested
meekly.
"Nay ... bad job ... bad job ... been as big a fool as most ... dead
this many a year ... dead an' buried twenty year ... wide awake now ...
old fox now ... no traps ... no, no, no!"
He strode forward to the mare's side again, but I saw him wagging his
head for many a minute as he chewed the cud of his reflections.
Meanwhile Mother Hubbard, with some hesitation and many an apprehensive
look ahead, told me something of his story.
"His mother was a very religious woman, love, but she was no scholar,
though she knew her Bible well. And you know, love, the best of people
have generally their little fads and failings, and she _would_ call all
her boys after the twelve Apostles. At least, love, you understand,
she had four sons--not twelve--but she called the first John because he
was the beloved disciple, and the next James because he was John's
brother. Then came Andrew and afterwards Simon Barjona. They do
say--but you know, love, how people talk--that she would have liked
eleven boys, missing out Judas because he was a thief and betrayed his
Master, but she had only nine children, and five of them were girls.
"I have heard my husband say, love, that when they came to christen the
youngest boy the minister was quite angry, and would not have the
'Barjona,' but the mother was much bent on it, and would not substitute
Peter, which was what the parson suggested. Anyhow, she registered him
in his full name."
"Which name was he called by?" I inquired.
"Oh, Barjona, love, always. And behind his back he is Barjona yet,
though he likes to be called Mr. Higgins. But you may give a man a
good name when you cannot give him a good nature, and he might as well
have been christened Buonaparte for all it has done for him. Oh yes,
love, he is close-fisted, is Barjona, and it is said that his wife was
so tired of his nagging ways that she was quite pleased to go. I'm
sure I thank the Lord that I am not Mrs. Higgins, though they do say in
the village that Widow Robertshaw would have had him this many a year
back."
"But he is an old fox now," I remarked, "and avoids the trap."
It lacked still a couple of hours of noon when Mr. Higgins deposited us
at Uncle Ned's lonely hostelry, and drove off in the company of the
tired mare and his own complacent thoughts. Ten minutes later I had
completely forgotten his existence in the joy of a new experience.
I was there at last! The moors of which I had dreamed so long were a
conscious reality. Before me, and on either hand, they stretched until
they touched the grey of the sky. The glory of the heather was gone,
though sufficient colour lingered in the faded little bells to give a
warm glow to the landscape, and to hint of former splendour. My heart
ached a wee bit to think that I had come so late, but why should I
grudge Nature's silent children their hour of rest? The morning will
come when they will again fling aside the garb of night and deck
themselves in purple. Besides, there was the gorse, regal amid the
sombre browns and olives and neutral tints of the vegetation; and there
were green little pools and treacherous-looking bogs, and the uneven,
stony pathway which made a thin, grey dividing line as far as the eye
could see. What more could the heart of man desire?
How sweet the breath of the air was as it covered my cheeks with its
caresses! I _tasted_ the fragrance of it, and it gave buoyancy to my
body, and the wings of a dove to my soul. I flew back down the years
to the dingy sitting-room which held my sacred memories, and saw dear
old dad painting his moorland pictures in the glowing embers on the
hearth; and I flew upwards to the realms which eye hath not seen, and
was glad to remember that the moors are not included amongst the things
that are not to be.
Then, characteristically, my mood changed. The sense of desolation got
hold of me. I looked for sound of throbbing life and found none: only
tokens of a great, an irresistible Power. It may seem strange, but in
the silence of that vast wilderness I felt, as I had never felt before,
that there must be a God, and that He must be all-powerful. I have not
tried to analyse the emotion, but I know my heart began to beat as
though I were in the presence of Majesty, and a great awe brooded over
my spirit.
Suddenly there was a fluttering of wings in the tangled undergrowth a
few yards away, and as my soul came back to earth I saw a hawk swoop
down and seize its prey, and then I choked. "If I take the wings of
the morning and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth," I said to
myself, "I cannot escape the tragedy of life and death--the mystery of
suffering."
Mother Hubbard put an arm around my waist and looked questioningly into
my eyes, her own being bright with tears. I put my hands upon her
cheeks and kissed her.
"Grace Holden is a goose," I said. "How many hours have I been
standing still or floating about in vacancy? I believe my dear old
Mother Hubbard thought her companion had flown away and left only her
chrysalis behind!"
We moved on, and my spirits came out with the sun and the blue sky.
After all, I fear I am an emotional creature, for I am my father's
daughter, but I think my mother must have been a very practical woman,
and bequeathed to me somewhat of the counterpoise, because on the whole
I am sure I have more common sense than dreaminess.
We had the moor pretty much to ourselves except for the game, which we
rarely saw, and the snipe which frequented the swamps. The one
outstanding recollection of the remainder of our two hours' tramp is of
a young couple (of human beings, not snipe) who came sauntering along,
sucking oranges and throwing the peel on the heath. It seemed like
sacrilege, and I went hot with indignation.
"I feel as if I could swear and stamp around, like the ineffective
Jake," I exclaimed.
"Yes, love," said Mother Hubbard, but I doubt if she understood.
Mother Hubbard was in excellent trim, and I am beginning to think that
there must be a good deal of reserve force in her delicate-looking
little body. She led me to the brow of the hill whence one gets an
unexpected view of the enchanting beauty of the Romanton valley, and
said "There!" with such an air of proud proprietorship, as if she had
ordered the show for my special gratification, that I laughed outright.
I negotiated the steep downward path with difficulty, but she went
steadily on with the assurance of familiarity, pausing at intervals to
point out the more notable landmarks.
We had lunch at one of the large hotels, and if Rose had seen the
spread I ordered she would have had good cause to charge me with
"swankiness," but I was having a "day out," and such occurrences at
Windyridge are destined to be uncommon. Besides, no fewer than three
magazines are going to print my old lady's picture, so the agents have
sent me thirty shillings--quite a decent sum, and one which you simply
_cannot_ spend on a day's frolicking in these regions.
When it was over Mother Hubbard showed me all the lions of the place;
and after we had drunk a refreshing cup of tea at a cafe that would do
no discredit to Buckingham Palace Road we set out on the return journey.
I was tired already, but I soon forgot the flesh in the spirit
sensations that flooded me. We were now traversing the miniature high
road which skirts the edge of the moor, and reveals a scene of quiet
pastoral beauty along its entire length which is simply charming. I
cannot adequately describe it, but I know that viewed in the opalescent
light of the early setting sun it was just a fairy wonderland.
The valley is beautifully wooded, and Solomon and the Queen of Sheba
together were not so gorgeously arrayed as were the trees on the
farther side. A white thread of river gleamed for a while through the
meadows, but was soon lost in the haze of evening.
Comfortable grey farms and red-tiled villas lent a homely look to the
landscape, and at intervals we passed pretty cottages with
old-fashioned gardens, where the men smoked pipes and stood about in
their shirt-sleeves, whilst the women lounged in the gateways with an
eye to the children whose bed-time was come all too soon for the
unwilling spirit.
And, best of all, my journey ended with a great discovery. We had
climbed a steep hill, and after a last long look back over my fairy
valley I set my face to the dull and level fields. Two hundred yards
farther and my astonished eyes saw down below--the back of my own
cottage!
That night no vision of factory chimneys disturbed the serenity of my
sleep, for a haunting fear had been dispelled.