Deep Moat Grange

by S. R. Crockett

CONCERNING ELSIE

Now, I liked Mr. Ablethorpe, but after he had wrestled like that with his conscience, just to tell me that he knew nothing about the matter—well, I could have gone back and felled him. Why, his old conscience couldn't have made more fuss if he had known all about the murder—the hiding of the body—of a score of bodies, indeed. But then, with consciences, a fellow like me can't tell. It's like love, or sea-sickness, or toothache. If a fellow has never had them, he's no judge of the sufferings of those who have.

And that's what I always say to people when I hear of some new caper of the Hayfork Parson, or Rev. De la Poer, or any of that lot. "It's conscience," I say. "It takes them like that. It's uncommon, I grant, in Breckonside, but they've got it. So take a back seat, boys, and wait till the flurry's over!"

I am not going to go into detail of the search for my father, because what with the search for Harry Foster, and my father, and all that is yet to come, the book would just be all about folk trying to find out the mystery of the house on the farther side of the Deep Moat, and coming back, as they say in Breckonside, with their finger in their mouth.

Briefly, then, everybody searched and searched, but all to no purpose. Mad Jeremy was proved to have been miles away, and Mr. Stennis safe in Edinburgh, dining with his lawyer. He came home as full of rage as he could stick, and he threatened to bring actions for "effraction" and breaking open of lock-fast places, trespass, damage to property, and I don't know what all. But none of these things came to anything.

He threatened, but did not perform. And as for me, in those days I had enough to do with my mother, who had fallen into a frail state of both mind and body—she who had been so robust. And if it had not been for Elsie, who took care of her, coming to our house to do it, and even biding the night, I don't know what would have become of my mother.

You see, she had never believed that anything serious had really happened to my father, or that he was dead. And when any one tried to argue her out of it, she said: "Tell me, then, who it was that let the mare into the yard?"

And we dared not give her the answer that was uppermost in all our minds—that it was the murderer who had done it with my father's master-key.

I did not see much of Elsie, though she was in the same house with me, for I had the business to attend to, just as if my father was there—to take his place, I mean. Because I knew that he would wish it, so that if he came back he would be proud not to be able to put his finger on anything, and say, "This has suffered in your hands, Joe!"

Of course, I had men from Scotland Yard, and others searching for a long time. But they did no good except to prove that my father had left the fair at Longtown in good time, carrying with him (what was very curious) not the money in gold or notes, but a cheque payable to bearer on the bank at Thorsby. Well, that cheque had never been presented. This was fatal to our theory. For if my father had been killed for booty, he could only have had an old silver watch on him, with the guard made of porpoise bootlaces, and perhaps five or six shillings in silver; because he always gave trysts and fairs and markets a bad name, especially those so near the border as Longtown. They gathered, he declared, all the riffraff of two countries, besides all the Molly Malones and cutpurses that ever were born to be hanged.

This was all that could be got out of these wise men from London for the money I spent—my father's money, rather. They never traced him beyond half-way, where, at a lonely inn on the Crewe Moss, he had stopped to drink a cup of coffee and break a bite of bread before going farther.

Oh, I tell you that our big house, with its bricked yard, and all the fine, new outhouses, barns, storages for grain and fodder, was a lonesome place those days! And how much more lonesome the nights! I tell you that, after the men had gone home, the horses been foddered and bedded down in the stable, and the doors were locked (except the big centre one, which my mother would not allow to be touched), Bob Kingsman and I went about with a permanent crick in each of our necks, got by looking over our shoulders for a thing with a master-key, that could let in horses, and open doors, and leave no tracks behind it on the snow. It lurked in the dark when we turned corners, and many's the time we felt it spring on our shoulders out of the dusk of the rafters.

My, but Bob was scared! Me, too, when it came to pass—as it often did—that mother, in her moanings and wailings, sent me down to the yard gate to look for father. If anybody had spoken too suddenly to me then, I should have dropped. And as for Bob Kingsman, he slept in his little room with shuttered windows on both sides and barricaded doors, besides a perfect armoury of deadly weapons ready to his hand. He nearly shot himself more than once, monkeying with them.

I used to tell him that it was all nonsense. For, at any rate, a ghost wouldn't care for repeating rifles, or even 12-inch guns, let alone his old horse pistols, that would go off but one time in four.

But he only said, "Fudge, Joe! Ghosts don't need master-keys. They use keyholes, as a rule."

To which I answered that they couldn't put Dapple through a keyhole, as she, at least, was not a ghost, but hearty, and taking her oats well. He did not know exactly what to reply to this, but contented himself with saying, with the true Bob Kingsman doggedness—

"Well, if he comes, I will plug him."

"Then," said I, "if so be you do, see that it isn't the master you are loosing off at!"

For somehow it struck me that, after all, my father might have his reasons for keeping out of the way. He told us so little of his affairs, and I was always a great one for mysteries, anyway. If there was none about a thing, I didn't mind making up one. It didn't strain me any!

Yet now, when I come to think of it, these days with Elsie were very happy ones. Not that I got much out of it, but just the happiness of being in the same house with her. She was seldom out of my mother's room, except when she went downstairs to bring something—such as a soothing drink or a cloth-covered, india-rubber bag with hot water for her feet in the cold weather. Elsie slept in a little child's cot with a folding-down end at the foot of my mother's big bed. It was one of mother's queer ways about this time that she expected my father back all the time, and always had his place made down and his night things laid out every evening.

It was nice, though, to meet Elsie on the stairs. I dare say you have not forgotten how frequently, with an Elsie in the house, or any one like her, young people are apt to meet on the stairs, particularly at the dusky corner where the grandfather's clock is—you remember the place, just where you cannot be seen, either from above or below.

Of course, Elsie was cross with me, and said that she would go back to Nance's if I did not behave—that I ought to be thinking of other things, which was true enough. But, for all that, she did not alter her times of coming and going up and down the stairs, and she knew I had a watch. Ah, well, such days pass all too soon! But they are good while they last. And now, when I lie awake, I like to think it all over, taking every single time by itself. We were very young and very innocent then. We did not know what was the matter with us. As for Elsie, she would have boxed my ears if I had dared to tell her that I was in love with her; and I would have blushed to say the word.

She was my comrade, my friend, especially my sister—which is always a good lead with a nice girl. At least, I have found it so. Girls—the nice ones, I mean—are always longing to be somebody's sister—that is, if they have no brothers of their own. Then they know more about it, and are not nearly so keen. Actual brothers and sisters clout each other and fight like fun; but the kind of brother you can be to a nice girl sends poetry and flowers to his sister, and it is all right.

They drop the brothering after a bit, though. At least, that has been my experience—when, as it were, fraternity has served its purpose. Then I used to crib poems out of Keats and Byron and L.E.L., and change them about a bit to fit the "dear sister" dodge. And it worked first rate. Nobody ever found me out. And they asked no questions, because it was all so dreadful mysterious and romantic, and made their little hearts go pit-a-pat to have such a poetic brother. I was glad they did not ask me what I meant, because I never knew in the least myself.

However, this by the way of it.

It was first class to have Elsie right in the house, and a whole shelf-full of poetry down in the parlour cupboard, which father had taken over as part payment for a bad debt. The debt must have been a pretty bad one indeed for father to do such a thing. I think he meant some day to give them to the village library at Breckonside, but always put it off.

They came in as handy now as a hole in an orchard wall. And Elsie wondered why I had never shown myself quite so clever at school. I could easily have told her the reason, but didn't.

I had not found the shelf of poetry then, which father always kept locked. Besides, I did not want to muss up Elsie's young instincts, which were sprouting beautiful.

This was all very well, but the end of the Christmas holidays was approaching, when Elsie would need to go back to her teaching at Mr. Mustard's. I did not like to think about that. For not only would Elsie have to go back to the little Bridge End house where Nance Edgar lived, but I should have the whole care of my mother, which was no light matter.

And so I would have had; but one day old Mrs. Caleb Fergusson arrived. She had known mother from the time they were little girls together, and my mother called her Susy. And when she had heard all about the uselessness of Grace Rigley, our maid-of-all-work, who, really, said my mother, "was so handless that she dropped everything—worse than a man-body in a house!—and dirty!—and not to be trusted to rise in the morning!—and no washer, bless you! But oh, the trouble o' servant lassies in the country! Certes, it's enough to turn your hair grey! And grey mine would have been but that I ken my poor good-man is coming back, and it would never do for him to find me worn lookin' and aged like!"

And mother tried her best to smile. And I was as sorry as if it had all been my fault, just to see her.

Well, there was nothing but talk of this kind between Mistress Caleb Fergusson from the Common Farm and my mother. And I thought they were settled for hours, as comfortable as two old hens chunnering among the warm dust by a bankside. So, as I got pretty tired of such talk, I sneaked out, and made a pretence to look at the firm's books—though John Brown, our cashier, knew all about them a thousand times better than I did. From there I stepped over to the packing and despatching department, where I put off the best part of an hour.

For though I can stand the steady ditter-clatter of old folks' tongues for a good while in the dark—when I can sit near Elsie and, if she will let me (as a brother) hold her hand—it takes me all I know to put in ten minutes of it in broad daylight, my poor mother with her eye on me (her only hope and pride!), and telling the Pride every other minute for goodness' sake not to fidget in his seat!

Well, what I am going to tell is almost unbelievable. But when I came in, there in the little room that had been my father's office—which he had placed at the right hand of the entrance door, and as far away from the kitchen as possible, on account of Grace Rigley and her like—sat Elsie.

She was crying, yes, fit to break her heart. She had her hat on, too, and the little bag of things she had fetched over from Nance Edgar's was at her feet. I couldn't think what in the mischief had happened. All was as peaceful as Sunday afternoon when I went out, and now—this!

Well, I went up to Elsie and wanted to take her in my arms to comfort her, the way that brothers—except our kind—never dream of doing. But she rose and pushed me off, sobbing harder all the time, and the tears simply rolling down. I never knew before that a girl had such a water supply behind her eyes. Elsie had just fair cisterns full. She didn't cry often, that's a fact; but when she did—well, Brom Water rose, and they put it in the Border Advertiser along with the extraordinary duck's egg and Major Finn's big gooseberry.

But though I can make fun now, you take my word for it, it was no fun then.

"Elsie, Elsie," I said, "tell me what is the matter?"

But she only sobbed the more, and searched deep into her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. But all in vain. I suppose she had packed her own. I offered her mine, but as I had used it some time for a penwiper, for easing up the lids of tar barrels, for putting under my knee when setting rat traps, and getting game out afterwards, perhaps it was as well she did not accept.

But I put it to you, if she need have thrown it on the office carpet and stamped on it. But I was of a forgiving nature. I only said, "Dear sister, tell me—do tell me—all about it?"

And I tried to remember some poetry; but that was jolly difficult without the book. Besides, you can't remember the changes you have made to suit the brother and sister business, and it won't run smooth a bit.

However, Elsie saved me trouble by saying: "None of that, if you please, Mr. Joseph Yarrow! Here are your poems. They may come in handy for the young ladies who are coming to look after your mother. I have heard all about it—Miss Harriet Caw and Miss Constantia. You can be their brother as much as ever you like, and use all the poems over again for all I care!"

And with that she threw the "poems" right in my face, and was out of the door before I could shut my mouth, which was fairly gasping with astonishment—like a fish's just out of the water. And so would yours to have all that happen when you have only been out of doors putting off time till Elsie would come down to the kitchen to get mother's beef-tea from Grace Rigley at ten-past eleven!

But there was no brother-and-sistering in the corner of the stairway that day, waiting for grandfather's clock to strike twenty-four. I simply stood and gaped. For I had not, on my honour, the least idea what it was all about. I knew, of course, that when girls or women folk get things into their heads, it is better to let them get better of themselves. But this was quite beyond me. I gave it up. Now, can you get the hang of it without being told?

I did not go after Elsie. Because—first I knew it was better to let her settle a little. More than that, I could not go racing after her all down the village street; and, lastly, I heard my mother calling. Not that I would have minded that so much, except for the two first reasons. I knew she had Mrs. Caleb Fergusson with her. But, as it was, I went up to see.

The two old ladies were sitting as cosily as possible. It was my mother who spoke.

"Susan and I have just been talking," she said, "and as Elsie will have to go back to the school to her teaching, I see nothing for it but that Meysie Caw's daughters should come here in her place. It is a big house this, and a lonely one. And forbye, I think Elsie is far from well. For I called her in and explained everything to her, and out she went without answering a word or even saying how pleased she would be to ken that I was well taken care of."

"More than that," said Mistress Caleb; "she has just gone down the street with a bundle as fast as if she had wings. I am doubting that there must be something lichtsome about Elsie Stennis. She may tak' after her minnie that ran off wi' a sodjer man. Eh, the lilt o' the bagpipes and the tuck o' the drum, but they rin i' the blood! There's me mysel', I canna see a regiment gang by, route marchin' out o' Newcastle, but I look at my auld man and think how Caleb wad hae lookit in a red coat!"

Then, because I was not going to have Elsie miscalled, even by my mother, I explained how that Elsie had been compelled to go back to Mr. Mustard's, and how rather than grieve her with a formal parting, she had chosen to go off alone.

"I think, mother," I said—hypocritically, I own it—"that Elsie was feared that you would be for offering something for her work."

"And, indeed," said my mother, "what for not? I had as muckle in my mind. Who deserves it better, after all that she has done for me?"

This was a better spirit, but it was necessary that I should hold mother's manifestation of affection well in leash also, or she was quite capable of putting on her bonnet and going off to the Bridge End—where she would have heard another story from Elsie.

"Elsie's young and shy, mother," I said, to put her off; "but she has a real affection for you. And if she thought you expected her to take siller for her work here—it would hurt her sore. She did it for love."

"I doubt it not," said Mistress Caleb, a little dry like—what we call "cut" in our part of the country—"and so will Meysie Caw's bairns do the like. They will do all that Elsie Stennis did, and as ye say, Mr. Joseph, all for love—whilk is a silly word to use. They are brave workers, both of them; and it will be more fitting to have two young lassies in a house than one."

"And what for that?" I said, bristling up at once.

"Oh," said Mrs. Caleb, "they will be able to do more work!"

I knew very well that this was not what she meant, but I was obliged to be content; for Susan Fergusson of the Common Farm was far more subtle in her talk than any laddie of eighteen.

"And now," she went on, "I will be takin' my road. Master Joe here will convoy me a bit. The twa lassies will be over early i' the morning. You can tell that great lazy nowt, Bob Kingsman, to come for their bits o' traps wi' a cairt in the afternoon."

I walked with her out of the town, and all the way Susan Fergusson entertained me with an account of the many good qualities of Meysie's bairns. And I could see very well that, once installed, she did not mean that they should quit our big and comfortable house in a hurry. And the thought of Elsie nearly drove me out of my mind, to think what she would say and do when she heard of it.

Not that I could say I disliked the girls in any way—at least, not Harriet Caw. No man can really in his heart dislike a girl like Harriet.

And that was the most dangerous symptom of all—just what the Hayfork Parson would have called the natural, double-dealing, deceitful heart of man.