CHAPTER XXIV. A TALE FROM THE HEART OF THE NIGHT.
Lomax, feeling a sudden desire to stretch his legs, set off at five of an October afternoon to walk to Ludworth. His mother was staying at Gorsthwaite for a day or two, and there was no chance of Kate's feeling lonely if he were late in getting back. Though it was fine enough overhead when he set off, he found it heavy-going on the rutty old packroad, superseded long ago by the good hard road that leads past the stoups and Sorrowstones Spring. The rains had been heavy of late; already the clouds were thickening again as he gained Tinker's Pool, and not a trace of the moon was to be seen.
Repairing, sharp-set, to the White Swan for one of the solid meals which that hostelry affected, he chanced to meet a horse-dealer of his acquaintance in the bar; the dealer had a neat little bay for sale, and Griff was in need of another horse. It was agreed, finally, that the bay should be brought to Gorsthwaite the next morning for inspection, and Griff began to talk of starting off again. But a look out-of-doors made him think twice about it. The night showed black as pitch, and rain was coming down in bucketsful.
"You'll none be crossing the moor to-night, Mr. Lomax?" said the dealer, peering over his shoulder.
"I must, sometime; but it might be as well to wait a bit and see if it lifts. We'll have another drink, at any rate."
At the end of an hour or so the rain slackened pace, and the moon tried hard to elbow her way through the clouds. Griff, grown impatient of sitting in the musty bar-room, would hear of no more delay.
"My advice to you, sir, is—keep to the new road through Cranshaw; it'll be fearful dark the other way, and ankle-deep in water," was the dealer's parting injunction.
Griff decided to take his advice. The way was a good two miles further round, but it was better, on a night like this, to have solid ground underfoot. The sky cleared for awhile as he mounted the hill; ahead of him, shining white under the full moon, stood the first of the stoups. His thoughts went back to the father who had died on this very road—to the father whom he could barely remember, who yet had stood to him throughout life as a wonderful example of tenderness, strength, and devotion. He recalled how, when he was sixteen, he had heard an old scandal raked up, to the effect that this perfect father of his had brought old Mother Strangeways' daughter to shame; how he had leaped up, his face on fire, and knocked down the man who had thought it manly to sneer at the father in the son's presence; how he had gone straightway to his mother, and blurted out what had happened; how she had wept over him, and comforted him, and told him the whole truth of the matter.
He drew near to Sorrowstones Spring; so full had he been of the old-time sadness that he had scarcely noted the quick return of clouds and rain. A vivid lightning flash awakened him; hot-foot came the thunder in pursuit; from Cranshaw far ahead of him to Ludworth in his rear, the meeting of moor and sky seemed to be one rolling line of din. Then all was still, save for the rain, the cries of frightened grouse. He pushed on. Sorrowstones Spring was close on his left now. He could hear the wind swirling round the rickety chimney-stack.
On a sudden there came a cry that was neither of wind nor bird—a harsh, protracted wail that sliced through the tempest like a knife-stroke. No words could be heard—only that inarticulate wail—yet Lomax knew that blasphemy was abroad; he felt the skin creep on his scalp, and his sodden cap seemed to lift itself clean off his head. He came to a halt and listened; sweat and rain joined issue and rolled down his face; in all his life he had never, till now, known what real fear meant. The wind and the rain grew quieter, the wailing louder. He traced it to the cottage, and, just because his legs would scarce carry him for fright, he forced himself to draw near.
"It was her daughter that was mixed up with father's name," he muttered, remembering on the sudden who it was that lived here.
He did not know whether it were sheer obstinacy that dragged him to the door, or the instinct to help a fellow-creature in need, or whether some overmastering ghostly force were at work; but he could not draw back now. He felt for the sneck of the door, found it after a moment's groping, and pushed his way into the cottage. For a moment he could see nothing for the peat-smoke; his eyes smarted, and the reek crept down to the bottom of his throat and set him coughing till he was hoarse. The wailing had ceased, but still the silence seemed pregnant with that sense of blasphemy. Gradually his vision cleared; he could see a farthing rushlight, almost burnt through, guttering in a dirty bottle-neck. Beyond the candle was a huddled heap of straw and blanket and human hair—something bright gleamed out from the tangled hair, something skinny and brown scratched up and down the blanket. Dazed as he was, it was some time before he grasped that this was Mother Strangeways, that the little bright circles were eyes, that the twitching object was her lean right hand. Swiftly his thoughts went back to that other hag who had pressed her lips to his just without Roddick's door. Could they be the same?—But he had little time for reflection. A crackling laugh came from the bed in the corner. Mother Strangeways was lifting herself to a sitting posture, and her shrivelled bosom showed through the tattered nightgown that made pretence of covering her.
"Griff Lummax—his father's son—an' he's come to shrive me i' th' latter end!" she mocked. "Hast 'a nowt to say for thyseln, lad? I war praying, a while back, to set een on thee afore I deed, an' th' devil he's answered my prayer, an' there tha stands as quiet as th' grave I'm bound for."
The old homely turns of speech helped to pull Griff together. It was flesh and blood he had to deal with, at any rate, and that was so much to the good.
"I heard your cries as I was passing, and came in to help you. What can I do for you?" he asked.
"Do? Nowt, nowt, I say, save come a step or two nearer, so as I haven't to shout to mak myseln heärd. I'm sickening to my deäth, Griff Lummax, an' afore I fetched thee out o' th' dark an' th' storm, th' pain war fit to drive me crazy. But tha's come, lad, an' I'll dee happy yet. Step closer, I tell thee!"
He halved the distance between himself and the bed; nearer he could not force himself to go just yet.
"What do you want?" he muttered.
Mother Strangeways watched him warily. She worked her arms up and down, as if testing their strength; she measured the distance between them, as if she were bent on reaching him with her bony fist. The glitter in her eyes failed to a cunning softness, while the lines of her mouth grew hard.
"I can't talk loud, lad; bend ower me," she whispered.
He made himself come to the bedside, and stooped to hear what she had to say. In a twinkling her fingers were clawing at his throat. Death-ridden as she was, the old hatred gave the woman a nervous strength of grip. Half-strangled, Griff felt for her hands, and seized them, and forced them down.
"So that's your game, is it?" he laughed. "A pretty specimen of a dying woman you are, Mother Strangeways."
Just that touch of fight had strung up his nerves to their normal pitch.
She lay back on the bed, a little stream of red trickling from her mouth. Griff stood and watched her, not knowing what to say or do, until at last she spoke in a quavering voice.
"It war truth I spoke, Griff Lummax, when I said I war deeing. Another hour—a half-hour, mebbe—'ull see me ready for th' coffin. I tried to kill thee, then, lad, but tha worsted me. Tha'd best be going thy ways, an' leave me to it."
Surely, Griff thought, there was no pretence this time. The pallor on her face, with the bluish tint dusting it here and there, could mean nothing short of death. How could he leave her there to wrestle with the end?
"Mother Strangeways," he said roughly, "I bear you no malice. What's done is done, and you must square the reckoning when you get to the other side. Can I ease the journey for you a bit?"
She turned over on her side and looked at the rushlight, which, like herself, was sputtering to an end. She pointed to the cupboard, then to the candle and back again. Griff, obeying her gesture, took a bundle of rushlights from the bottom shelf of the cupboard, lit one and rammed it tight in the bottle-neck.
"Ay," muttered the old woman, "that's th' tale, fro' generation to generation. Th' owd light dees, an' out it's chucked, an' in goes th' smooth-faced young un. An' it's little fowk think o' th' light that's gone, so only they've getten a fresh un to show 'em their way. But there's summat wrang, Griff Lummax—ay, grievous wrang—when th' young uns is ta'en first, an' th' owd uns fizzle on to th' last drop o' greäse. It's nigh on five an' thirty year sin' th' bonny lass went under-sod; why warn't it me that war ta'en? Why warn't it me, I say?" she screamed. "Doan't come to me an' crack o' thy God A'mighty, what taks young lassies i' their prime an' leaves th' owd 'uns to rot i' their skins for grief an' worry."
She sank back, weak with the effort, and the ooze ran faster from her mouth. She lay quiet for awhile, but the workings of her face showed that she was thinking hard. And her thoughts were with the daughter who had died in childbirth—childbirth to a nameless father.
The memory roused her old set purpose, forgotten for the moment. The cunning came into her eyes again, and the twitching of her hands began afresh.
"I'm sooin gone," she said; "tha can keep me a two or three minutes longer, if tha will."
"Ay, that I will! What have I to do?"
"Wend to th' cupboard again. Tha'll find a green bottle there; fetch it."
Griff found the bottle, and put it into her hands.
"There's a little mug on th' table," she muttered.
He turned to get the mug, and Mother Strangeways, quick as a flash, brought the bottle down on his skull. It smashed into little bits, and a spirt of blood broke through Griff's close-cropped hair. The hag laughed, and hugged herself into her blankets.
"I've sworn to do for th' lot on ye, an' tha'll be wi' thy father sooin!" she croaked.
Griff retreated to the wall. He meant to see this play played through, but it was as well to take due precautions. The cut on his head was of no great depth, luckily, and the bleeding soon stopped.
"Mother Strangeways," he said, "you didn't count on a Lomax having a thick skull. That's where you made a mistake. It takes a bigger bottle than that to kill the old breed off."
Mother Strangeways had never been one to doubt fatality, and she gave up the fight. It was clear that Griff would outlive her. She lay on her back and cursed till the man grew cold with horror. Then she half rose and leaned on her elbow.
"May tha be cursed, Griff Lummax, till hell is too cold to hold thee; an' thy childer after thee, till hell-fire hes getten th' lot o' ye. Amen."
The fire was burning low, and Griff, anxious not to let uncanny notions get the better of him, turned his attention to replenishing it from the peat-stack in the corner opposite the bed; but all the while he kept the tail of one eye on the old woman's doings. Then he dropped into the solitary chair that the room possessed, and listened to the howling of the wind in the chimney-stack. Only Mother Strangeways' stertorous breathing broke the silence within.
"Griff Lummax," she called at last.
"Well?"
"I've a tale to tell thee."
"I'm listening."
"Tha minds how thy father war lost on Cranshaw Moor, mony a year back?"
"Ay, I mind it."
"That's what th' tale is about. Listen, lad; it's bonny telling. Five an' twenty year back come a neet like this as brought thee here. It blew, an' it blew, an' th' snaw war thick on th' grund i' place o' rain. I war sitting ower th' fire, thinking on th' daughter that war gone, an' ill-wishing th' man 'at hed killed her, when there comes a knock to th' door. I oppens it wide, an' who should stand on th' door-stun but th' man I'd been ill-wishing—Joshua Lummax, lad, thy father. He taks a two or three steps inside, and his eye cotches mine fair and square, same as if he'd bin as honest as he'd like fowk to think him. He'd crossed fro' Ludworth, seemingly, an' th' snaw war that thick 'at he couldn't tell which war th' highroad an' which war th' moor; he mun ha' been dazed wi' th' white, or he'd ha' known, seeing he'd getten so far, that he'd nobbut to keep on straight as iver his nose 'ud lead him. But he didn't know, an' he'd come to Mother Strangeways to leärn." She paused, laughing quietly. "I leärned him, lad. I set him straight into th' heart o' th' moor, an' I knew 'at he war sartin sure to walk into a bog or dee o' th' cold. Well, he missed th' bog, it 'ud seem, for they fund him stiff an' stark a two mile fro' th' cottage here. When I heärd th' news, I saw th' sun for th' first time sin' th' lass dee'd, an' 'One,' says I to myseln; 'I'll bide th' Lord's gooid time for th' rest.' But I war ta'en wi' th' rheumatiz afore tha war rightly growed up, Griff, an' I could no ways get at thee, as I mud ha' done wi' health an' strength to help me. Eh, lad, lad, but I made fooil's play wi' my chances this neet! There's nowt I want on earth, nowt I pray for, but just to see thee an' thy mother ligging stiff an' stark one beside t' other."
Griff had risen, and stood dumbly watching the interlude which death allowed this sorry victim. He could not grasp it at first. His father's death seemed a topic of far-away interest; his mind had room only for the figure of this strenuous witch, with the candle-light glimmering on her eager, wasted face.
There was a long silence between them, until Mother Strangeways let a moan escape her. The pain was gripping her heart-strings now, but she had to say her say. On her face was the transfiguration that comes to any who fight with death, be they good or vile.
"Tha's nowt to say, lad? Tha stands there like a witless nat'ral, an' tha listens to th' tale I've getten to tell. Well, hod thy whisht for awhile; it 'ull be thy turn next."
She clapped one hand on her breast with a shriek; but the spasm passed, and she resumed her talk, Griff listening dizzily the while.
"I warn't allus like tha's known me. I war a God-fearing wife once, an' a mother 'at yearned to her babby. Mary war my first an' my last, an' it seemed 'at she'd ta'en all th' love I hed to gie. There war nowt but Mary i' my mind when I wakened i' th' morn, an' nowt but Mary at my heart when I coddled her up for th' neet. Then—tha knows th' rest; lad, can tha wonder 'at I sent thy father to his deäth?" she finished, half in fury, half in pleading.
Still Lomax could not grip the full meaning of the thing. He grew dreamily awake to the fact that some one was taking his father's name in vain, and he knew that he must defend him.
"Father never touched your girl," he said hoarsely. "Has it taken you all these years to learn the truth? Did you never see Captain Laverack hanging round your cottage, nor see the lust in his face? Laverack it was that led her wrong; he was a friend of father's till then, and he used to stay at the Manor. He left soon after—fled the country for awhile, because of other things he was mixed up with—and your girl put it all on father's shoulders, thinking to get help from him when the child was born."
The woman on the bed was following Griff closely.
"Laverack! Laverack!" she muttered, shutting her eyes. "Where hev I heärd th' name lately?"
"Laverack has come back to these parts and bought Frender's Folly," said Griff.
Mother Strangeways peered across the smoke reek.
"Come nearer, lad; I want to see thy een—nay, I'm ower far gone to try my pranks again," she added, seeing him hesitate.
He came close and she watched his eyes.
"Is't truth tha'rt speaking, Griff Lummax?"
"Truth? Ay, bitter truth."
"I believe thee. Thowts come thranging back now; I niver thowt to pitch on Laverack, for all th' lass war busy wi' his name while she lay a-child-bed. But I see it now, I see it now." She sprang up in bed and clutched him by the arm. "Griff, if tha's getten ony love for thy own mother, think on me; think what it meäns, lad, to lose a daughter an' see th' man what killed her go free. Kill him, Griff; he's not aboon three mile away this very minute, an' there's no snaw to stop thee. Run hot an' fast, an' tak him by t' throat, an' say Mother Strangeways sent ye."
She was growing delirious now. Still Griff could not throw off the full weight of his stupor. Instinctive stubbornness was his only ally.
"I won't," he said bluntly.
"Tha might ha' childer o' thy own, lad—bonny wenches 'at war biding th' time of a gooid man's coming; think what it meäns, an' if tha's getten ony bowels o' compassion, help a deeing woman to her rights."
"I won't, curse you!"
Her voice grew coaxing. Death might win her, to have and to hold, in a very few moments; but meanwhile the ruling passion would let her take no rest.
"I'm reckoned poor, Griff, because I lives i' a poor way. But wend to th' cupboard once again, an' tha'll find summat worth heving—summat bright an' gold, fastened up i' a worsted stocking. Tak it all, lad, if tha'll wend to Frender's Folly, an' do what mun be done."
At last Griff awoke to reality. He saw it all now. This woman on the bed had murdered his father; why was he dallying with justice? The hatred that had kept up Mother Strangeways for close on five and thirty years, the quick lust for vengeance that had sent Joshua Lomax to his grave—they had Joshua's son in their grasp now. He made a step towards the bed, then stopped; between him and his father's murderess sounded the death-rattle in the woman's throat, driving him back, stunning him with a sense of some power beyond his ken.
The rushlight guttered in its stand. The shadows came out of their corners, and played with the ruddy glow from the peats. The wind sang for rain in the chimney-stack. As any frightened youngster might have done, Griff bent his head, and trembled before the majesty of Death, and sobbed for the littleness of his understanding.