Deep Moat Grange

by S. R. Crockett

A JACKDAW'S TAIL FEATHER

One of the first mornings after the coming of the Caw girls—just as we were all sitting late over our breakfast, having waited for Constantia (Harriet was always on wing with the lark)—Grace Rigley came up the back stairs, shuffling her feet and rubbing her nose with her apron for manners, and told my mother that there was a gamekeeper man who was very anxious to see her down in the kitchen.

"Go, Joseph!" said my mother. "See what he wants. I cannot be fashed with such things at such a time."

She had been listening to Harriet's lively lisp and mimicry of Constantia's many aspirants. But that did not matter. I went down, and there, sitting on the edge of a chair—he had evidently just sat down—was Peter Kemp, the gamekeeper at Rushworth Court, where my father had been so long building greenhouses and doing other contracting jobs.

"Hello, Peter Kemp!" I said. "What brings you here so early in the morning?"

The man seemed a little bit scared; but whether because of his errand, or because I had come in at an inopportune time, or just that he felt a little awkward, I cannot say.

"Why, this, Master Joe!" he said, holding out something that looked like a rook's feather, but smaller and with a thicker quick.

The bottom of the quill had been cut away very deftly, and plugged with something white—bread crumbled between the fingers, I think. The plug had evidently been removed before, and as I looked curiously at it the gamekeeper said—

"I did that, Master Joe. You see, I had never seen the like before."

Out of the hollow quill I drew a spiral of paper, like what people used to light pipes with—spills, they call them—only quite little, for such pipes as fairies might smoke. And there, written in my father's hand, in a sort of reddish-grey ink, were the words—

"To whoever finds this.—Please to inform Mrs. Yarrow, Breckonside, that her husband has been assaulted, carried off and confined, to compel him to sign papers. Otherwise not unkindly——"

It broke off there, as if something had occurred to bring the writing to a close.

"How did you get this, Peter?" I asked of the Rushworth gamekeeper.

"I will tell you, Joe." (It was marvellous with what suddenness people resumed the "Joe," after calling me "Mister"—or "Master," at least.) "I got 'un off the tail of a jackdaw when I was thinnin' out them rooks up at our old ellums by the hall. Jackdaws flock with them sometimes, you know, Joe."

"But that's no jackdaw's feather," I said; for, indeed, it was much bigger.

Peter Kemp scratched his head.

"No, Joe, it ain't," he said; "and that made me wonder myself. It's a rook's wing feather; but, true as truth, it was sticking out of the daw behind, like the tail of a comet. Perhaps it was that which made me pepper him. It sort of drew the eye, like."

"Well," I told Peter, "that's a message from my father. He's hid somewhere—kept hidden, that is—against his will."

"So I was thinkin'," said Peter Kemp uneasily.

"Have you any idea where?"

"Why, no, Joe," he answered slowly. "You see, the daw was with the rooks scratchin' about in a plowed field near the ellums, and it might have come from anywhere. There's no sayin'. But there's one thing, Joe, them jackdaws is all for old castles and church steeples and such-like. If your father wrote that and tied it to the jackdaw's tail—as is likely—he will be in some o' them places—up a steeple of a church, most like; nobody goes there. Thank 'ee, no, Joe. I'd do more than that for Mr. Yarrow, if only I knew how. But I'll keep a bright look-out for daws with extra tail feathers. If any come along, Peter Kemp'll spend a cartridge or two on them that old Sir Eddard 'll never miss."

I hardly knew how to break the tidings to my mother, or whether to tell her Peter's news at all or not. But, luckily, she was interested in some tale that Harriet was telling. She was laughing, too, which somehow grated on me. I can't tell why, for I now had good reason to know that my father was alive and apparently, in no immediate danger.

Well, I slipped out, and went through the fields into the woods behind Mr. Mustard's school. I knew that Elsie would soon be coming, and if only she were minded to help, she had the levellest head of anybody; and I would rather take her advice than that of any minister in the place—especially after hooking down the Hayfork Parson like a smoked ham off the wall, a thing which lessens your respect for the clergy, if indulged in.

Well, I saw her coming, and I stood right in the way, just beyond the turn, well out of sight of old Mustard, for I knew he would be all fixed and ready to give Elsie her morning lesson. But the funny thing was that she didn't seem to see me at all, and would have passed by, reading out of a book, like a train that doesn't stop at a station. But I stood right slam in front, and taking the book—"snatching it rudely," she said afterwards—I held out the little unrolled scrap which Peter the gamekeeper had fetched in his jackdaw's quill. I had the quill, too, in my jacket pocket, in case she should want to see that.

"There," I said, "be all the 'outs' with me you like afterwards—I can't help girls' tempers—but if you want to help save my father, you read that."

And I believe, just because I took her sharp like that without whining to be forgiven and twaddle of that kind, her hand closed on the paper, and she read it.

"Where did you get this?" she asked just as I had done myself from Peter Kemp. So I told her all about it—everything there was to tell, and smartly, too. For I knew she was very late; we should have old Mustard's weasely muzzle snowking down the lane after us. This was no grandfather's clock, puss-in-the-corner game, this.

So I put off no time, and Elsie never remembered about wading into me about the Caw girls, but just wrinkled her brow and thought like a good one. She was death on thinking, Elsie; I never met her match. I was a fool to her; and in spite of what father says, I am not generally taken for one, either.

At last it came—the wisdom over which Elsie had knit her brows.

"If I were you, I would have another turn at that drain—the one you told me about going up with Mr. Ablethorpe," she said; "and likewise take a look at the ruin near which we saw Mr. Stennis get down from his horse."

I told Elsie that I had no stomach for going alone. The oily curls and big knife of Mad Jeremy had weaned me from the love of adventure.

"I will go, if you will, Elsie," I said, thinking this to be impossible.

For one instant her eyes flashed, and I felt sure she was going to say: "Take your caws and crows and rooks, and get them to go with you!"

However, whether it was that she caught the imploring look in my eyes, or from some secret relenting within herself, I do not know; but she suddenly put out her hand, clasped mine for a moment, and said—"I will come on Saturday. There!"

She was gone, and not a whit too soon; for I had hardly got back behind the hedge among the trees when old Mustard poked his bent shoulders and red, baldish head round the corner, looking for her. But he saw nothing; for Elsie was coming along, already deep in her book. He waited for her, smiling like a hyena, and they went up to the school together.

Saturday was the day after to-morrow, and when I thought of Elsie's promise, and the hope of finding my father without any other person in the world to help us, I snapped my finger and thumb like a pistol shot, and cried as loud as I could—

"That for old Mustard! Wait till Saturday!"

All the same, I thought it best for the moment to say nothing at all about the matter to my mother. Indeed, I looked out for Peter Kemp on my way up the village and swore him to secrecy. He said that nobody knew about it but Tommy Bottle, who was now dog-boy and cartridge-filler at Rushworth Court. The gamekeeper said that he was all right. And he was. For Tommy Bottle knew me, and also that I would flay him alive if he told anything I wanted him not to.

I was, if one may say so in the circumstances, jubilant. I don't know that I had loved my father more than just average. He never gave me much chance, you see. But I liked to think of him so strong and ready. And, above all, I thought with pride of his coming back, and finding that I had kept everything in good order, with the help, of course, of John Brown, our good cashier, in the office, and Bob Kingsman in the yard.

But after all, between Thursday and Saturday there is always Friday. And all sorts of superstitious people call that an unlucky day. Now, I never could see any difference myself. A day on which I lost money through a hole in my pocket, or got a cut finger, or got caught at the cupboard, or had a headache, was "an unlucky day, whether it happened to be Monday or Friday. And Sunday was Sunday, and the worst of all, mostly; for if mother caught me in a secluded crib reading what she called a "novelle," she marched me straight up to my father, who whaled me proper—not that he cared himself, but just to satisfy mother's conscience and for disturbing him in his after-dinner nap.

But, at all events, there was this Friday, which proved to be unlucky or not—just as you look at it. At any rate, it was with that day that there began the solving of the real mystery of Deep Moat Grange, which had puzzled Breckonside in general, and me in particular, for so long.

Somehow I made sure that Elsie would be looking out for me at the same corner of the road on Friday morning, just where I had met her the day before. At any rate, I did not doubt but that she would have it in her head. And I was such a fool that it pleased me, like a cat stroked on the back, to think that Elsie was thinking about me.

It was all right having Harriet and Constantia in the house, though. And not at all like what Elsie had feared. They were really very good to mother. And Harriet being always merry, and Constantia all the time wanting things done for her, it was good for mother, and took her mind more off her trouble.

Besides, you can't really keep on being angry with a pair of pretty girls about a house. They brighten things wonderfully. The very sight of them does, and you can't help it. And though both of them together were not worth an Elsie, nor half so pretty, yet they laughed more, and being town girls, of course they had any amount of nice dresses, pretty blouses, belts for the waist, and lace for their necks; while Elsie had just a white turn-over collar like a boy, and a broad brown leather belt for her blue serge dress. I gave her that belt, and she always wore blue serge, because she said that, with good brushing, she could make a not Sunday dress look almost like a Sunday one.

Well, as I say, of course all the Caws that ever were could never be like Elsie. But still it is a wonder and a marvel to me to think how much I liked having them in the house. Harriet was as merry as a grig whatever that may be; they don't live in our parts—and pretty, too, with a piquant expression that was never twice the same. She always looked as if she were going to cheek you. And that interested you, because, not being a boy, it put you in a fret to know how she was going to set about it this time. If she had been a boy, she would have got pounded—sound and frequent.

And then Constantia! She was more "keepsake" girl than ever, and slopped about all over our plain furniture like the "window-sill" girl, and the "Romney" girl, and the "chin-on-elbows" girl—that was Cinderella. But Constantia was always dressed to the nines—no holes in her dress, and not a very big one even where her waist came through. Oh, she was a Miss Flop from Floptown if you like! But lovely, I tell you! How everybody stared, as if they had never seen a girl with curls and big eyes that looked as if they were going to cry! They called them "dewy"—dewy, indeed! She kept an onion in her handkerchief on purpose. Once it fell out, and rolled right under the sofa. I nailed it, and in a minute had "dewy" eyes, too—right before her nose. There were gentlemen calling, too—your lawyer fellows with cuffs and dickeys! She said I was a horrid beast, but Harriet was quite jolly about it. She never "dewied" any, but kept laughing all the time. And if it had not been for thinking about Elsie and my father, she would have got a fellow to like her in time. She was the right sort. But the funny thing was, that of the two Elsie rather took to Constantia. She never could abide Harriet. Now, I was quite different.

Now, I know all this about girls' likes and dislikes is as tangled as can be. I asked Mr. Ablethorpe about it once. And he let on that he understood all about it; but when I asked him to explain, he said that he was bound by the "professional secret."

Which was all right, as a way of getting out of it. But as for understanding about girls, and what they like and don't, that was more than a bit of a stretcher, if one may say such a thing of a parson.

Well, on Friday morning, as I was coming down from my room, ready to go out and meet Elsie, just at the corner where stood the clock—which, as the books say, has been previously referred to in these memoirs—I came on Harriet rigged out in the smartest little dusting dress—the kind of thing that costs three shillings to buy and three pounds to make. She had her sleeves rolled up, because her arms were dimply, and she was sweeping crumbs into a dustpan. There had not been a crumb in that spot to my knowledge for ten years, but that made no matter. She was just tatteringly pretty—yes, and smart. I like that sort of girl, nearly as much as I dislike a loll-about, siesta-with-ten-cushions-and-a-spaniel girl—I mean Constantia.

Well, up jumps Harriet from her knees—quite taken aback she was—and makes believe to roll down her sleeves; but with a dustpan and a crumb-brush, of course you can't. And so she said—

"Do them for me."

And what was a fellow to do? He can't say "No," and look a fool—feel one, too! So I up and did it—rolled the sleeves both down, slow movement, and slid in the buttons careful—at least, I thought so. But not, as it seemed, careful enough for Harriet. For in getting the second button at the wrist through the buttonhole I took up a bit of the skin, and then, if you please, there was a hullabaloo. You never did see! I expected mother or Constantia every minute. Harriet pretended that it hurt, and that I had done it on purpose. Silly! If I had wanted to do anything to her on purpose, it wouldn't have been a footy little thing like that. Oh, no! I'd have given her something to remember me by. But it was all the same to Harriet, and, if you will believe me, she would not be satisfied till I had "kissed it better."

Just think what an ass I looked! I didn't want a bit to do it—indeed, I was as mad as blitz. But, to get rid of her, I did at last. And it was not so bad, only she bent down and kissed me, too, whispering that it was all right now. And just then Constantia popped her head over the banisters and said:

"Ah-ha, you two! Very pretty, indeed!"

And I had a face on me like fire as I went down the two flights of stairs in three hops.

How I stamped and raged when I got outside! To be kissed by a girl—well, that's nothing to cry about, if nobody sees and you had not your mind filled with another girl, especially the former. But to get caught, and by that Constantia! I believed she had been watching from the beginning, the nasty, floppy, hang-her-out-on-a-clothes-line "keep-saker" that she was!

Worse than all, she made me miss Elsie that Friday morning, for I saw her boot tracks in the snow as soon as I got to our corner. I had fixed india-rubber heels on her boots, so I knew. She said that that sort kept her drier, but I knew very well that it was to make her taller than Harriet Caw, whom she hated.

If she had only known why I was late! But, after all, what is the use of giving pain to others unnecessarily? It was contrary to my nature and against my principles. So I resolved that I would not tell Elsie about my buttoning Harriet's sleeve, or, indeed, anything. My great aim in life had always been Elsie's peace of mind. Besides, I don't think she would have taken my explanation in good part. There are some things that Elsie doesn't seen fitted to understand.