Deep Moat Grange

by S. R. Crockett

Mingled with all this, there was a curious deference toward me, wholly new in my experience. The villagers called me "Mister Joseph," instead of "Joe," as had been their wont. They consulted me as to the steps to be taken—without, however, any very great idea of acting upon what I had to advise. Indeed, that morning, there did not seem to be but the one thing to do—that was, to go as quickly as possible to Deep Moat Grange, and lay hands upon the whole uncanny crew Mr. Stennis had gathered about him there.

It was the earliest grey of the December morning—which is to say, little better than night—when we descended the slopes of Brom Common, crossed the road, and entered into the woods which surrounded Deep Moat Grange. Not without considerable difficulty could I induce the searchers to extinguish their lanterns. And there were more than one of these hunters of men who would have been glad of any excuse to turn back now—-men, too, who had been the bravest of the brave when the familiar sights and sounds of the village street compassed them about.

Several of the searchers kept looking over their shoulders and examining the branches of the trees curiously, as if afraid that Mad Jeremy might suddenly descend upon their shoulders from these tossing arms netted so blackly between them and the sky.

The dead leaves scuffed and crisped under foot. Sometimes a roosting bird, disturbed in its slumbers, or an early-questing, wild creature scurried away into the underbrush. It was an eerie journey, and it was with a breath of relief that I found myself stopped at the Moat, with the water sleeping beneath, black and icebound for want of a current. The drawbridge was up, and at first it seemed that we had come to the end of our tether. But a little testing and scrambling showed me that the Moat was covered with ice strong enough to support us all, going over carefully and one by one.

Presently we stood on the edge of the wide, green lawn, now hard and dark beneath our feet, the blades of grass stiff with frost and breaking under our tread like tiny icicles. Between us and the dusky shadow of the house, set against the waking gloom of the eastern sky, there were only the black mounds of Miss Orrin's garden, where the Lent lilies had waved so bravely in those spring days when first Elsie and I had looked upon Deep Moat Grange.

There were about twenty of us, variously armed. I had a pistol and a Scottish dirk. There were two or three rifles, about a dozen shotguns, many old swords, and even a pitchfork or two in lieu of better. If the courage of the men had been as good as their armament, we might have assaulted a fortress by way of a forlorn hope. But concerning this courage I had my doubts. For Breckonside was like most other villages. The men were good enough, but valued their own skins a great deal more than anybody else's—even that of their natural chief, my father.

Still I did not doubt but that they would do their best. For one thing they dared not turn back. They had to stick to the pack, and, after all, two was the extent of the number of foes they would have to face—one of whom was old. But then the other was that terrifying legend of the village and all the country round, Mad Jeremy himself.

Still numbers give, if not strength, at least confidence. Indeed, the men moved so closely together, that I was in constant fear of some weapon of war going off and giving warning to our foes within the dark house.

What we needed was a leader. And after I had guided them across the ice of the Moat, somehow I slipped into that position myself. I was at least the person most concerned. I never before knew that I loved my father—not particularly, that is. And, perhaps, after all it was only blood-kinship that did it. At any rate, I felt a new sensation steal upon me—a steady, cold determination to be revenged on any one who had harmed him—to find out all about it and bring the miscreant to justice—even to kill him if I could. Yes, there is no use denying it. I knew the verse, "Vengeance is Mine—I will repay!" Which is very true, but is an impossible thing to say at a time like that. No doubt in the long run He will, and does, but it seems too long to wait.

There was not a light to be seen anywhere about the house of the Moat. The crisp wind of earliest dawn made a dry sough among the evergreens of the shrubbery. The tall chimney clusters were black against the sky, and beneath them and about the overgrown porch the ivy leaves clattered bonely like fairy castanets.