Deep Moat Grange

THE CALLING OF ELSIE

Now, upon this very night of Saturday, the tenth of February, the same upon which Mr. Ablethorpe had come to see me, Elsie had lighted her candle early. Jeremy had been generous in the matter of lighting, though more than once he had proved himself forgetful of food. As the easiest manner of providing in quantity, he had brought up from Miss Orrin's store-room a complete box of candles, which he had opened for her in a summary manner with the back of his knife and the toe of his boot.

Elsie was therefore able to follow the somnolent progress of the adventures of the late Nicholas, M.D., a gentleman whose travels had led him to the Island of Trinidad. In the interests of the "Huttonian Theory" he had visited its famous pitch lake, on which he had found cattle grazing peacefully, as on an English meadow. She had just reached the following passage, and was nodding over it, the lines running together in the most curious manner, and her head sinking forward occasionally, only to be caught up with a sharp jerk, and the passage begun again with renewed determination.

"No scene can be more magnificent than that presented on a near approach to the north-western coast of Trinidad. The sea is not only changed from a light green to a deep brown colour, but has in an extraordinary degree that rippling, confused, and whirling motion which arises from the violence of contending currents, and which prevail here in so remarkable a manner, particularly at those seasons when the Orinoco is swollen with periodical rains, and vessels are frequently some days or weeks in stemming them, or perhaps are irresistibly borne before them far out of their destined track."

This was not clear to Elsie, but she had read the passage so often that the very whirling of these Orinocan currents, confused and rippling as they were, reacted subtly on her brain. She was just dropping over when a second and yet more soothing paragraph caught her eyes. (There is nothing like a volume of old travels for putting one to sleep – no extra charge for the prescription.)

"The dark verdure of lofty mountains, covered with impenetrable woods to the very summits, whence in the most humid of climates torrents impetuously rush through deep ravines to the sea" – this, carefully followed, beats sheep jumping over a stile all to fits – "between rugged mountains of brown micaceous schist" – sch – isssst – final recovery – "on whose cavernous sides the eddying surf dashes with fury. From the wonderful discoloration and turbidity of the water, Columbus sagaciously concluded that a very large river was near, and consequently – consequent-ly – a great continent!"

But to this continent Elsie never attained. She had succumbed to the sagacity of Columbus, and in a moment more her forehead rested peacefully upon the work of Mr. Nicholas, M.D., that renowned traveller.

Let a man or a woman learn this passage by heart, so that asleep or awake he can recall it even when he forgets his own name, and it will not be labour lost. He will live long in the land. His sleep shall be sweet, swift, and easy. Like Elsie he will never reach the haven of Columbus —

"Not poppy nor mandragora,Nor all the drowsie syrrups of the worldShall ever medicine him to that sweete sleepe"

like to the prose which Mr. Nicholas, M.D., wrote as he approached the island of Trinidad.

Elsie slept. Time passed. My father filed and sawed in his recess, muttering to himself, his head nearly through into the dark cupboard; but one ear cast ever backward for the first grate of Mad Jeremy's key in the lock of his door.

Before him he could see the thin line of light which was the crack of the cupboard door. Beyond that sat Elsie with her head on her book, her mind a thousand leagues away.

But between my father and the sleeping girl there was that bar of iron, the upper part of which, by reason of some twist, was giving far more difficulty than the under.

So it came about that, without daring to make himself heard, my father was a witness of the final scene in the oven chamber behind the monks' bakehouse. He had a bar of iron against his shoulder and a file knife in his right hand, but for all that he was helpless to render any assistance till he should have cut through the thick diagonal of metal, and so made a way for himself into the dark cupboard.

All at once, my father, lying prone on his breast and sawing at the obstruction as best he could, with his arms in a most uncomfortable position for working – being higher than his head – became aware of an additional light in the room which he could before see only dimly illuminated by Elsie's candle.

A man had opened the outer fastenings. His dark shadow crossed the crack of light which was the edge of the cupboard door ajar. There was also a flash of a brighter light for a moment in my father's eyes, which was the swinging of the lantern the man carried. He laid his hand on the young girl's shoulder, and with a cry which went to Joseph Yarrow's heart, Elsie came back from the Orinoco, to find Mad Jeremy looking down upon her.

"Sleepin'?" he chuckled, "and over her book, the bonnie bairn! She's a teacher, a lassie dominie – they tell me. But Jeremy will learn her something this nicht that is better than a' the wisdom written in the buiks. Be never feared, lass.

"Ye are the heiress.And I am the heir."

"But come ye wi' me, lassie, and this nicht we will drink o' the white wine and the red, till the bottom faa's oot o' the stoup. I promised it to you that, when I gat the melodeon, I wad play ye the mony grand tunes – and ye wad dance – dance, Elsie, dance, my bonnie, like a star through the meadow-mist or a dewdrap on a bit rose-leaf when the west winds swing the tree!"

All this time Elsie, gazing amazed at the man, rested silent in an awful consternation. She had never seen Mad Jeremy like this. His curly hair now hung straight and black. Perspiration stood in beads on his brow. He breathed quick and heavy, with a curious rattle in the throat. Slowly Elsie rose to her feet. She stood between my father and his view of the apartment, as it were, cutting it off. He bit his hand to keep him from doing or saying anything, knowing himself to be impotent, and that the best he could do was just to wait. Otherwise, Mad Jeremy would simply have come round and despatched him first. For never (says my father) did murder so plainly look out of a man's eyes as that night in the oven chamber.

Mad Jeremy took Elsie by the wrist.

"Come, lassie," he cried, with a lightsome skip of the foot – for, indeed, the man could not keep still a moment – "come awa'! The gray goose is gone, and the fox – the fox, the auld bauld cunnin' fox – is off to his den-O – den-O – den-O!"

And, with a turn of his lantern, he threw the candle Elsie had left burning upon the floor, trampled it out fiercely, and then, with one hand still on Elsie's wrist and the lantern swinging in the other, strode out, shouting his version of the refrain: "And the fox – the fox – the auld, yauld, bauld fox, is off to his den-O!"

But my father had been listening keenly for the click of the key in the lock. He had not heard it. The way to freedom, to help Elsie, lay open if only – ah, if only that bar would give way. And once more, in a kind of fury, he precipitated himself upon the stubborn, twisted iron.

Once outside, the freshness of the air fell upon Elsie like a blow in the face. So long confined below in her cell built of the hard whinstone of the country outcrops, she had forgotten the grip and sweetness of the wind which comes over the Cheviots – fresh and sweet even though it bring with it the snell sting of snow-filled "hopes" and the long dyke backs ridged with lingering white of last year's storms.

But there a yet greater astonishment awaited her. Jeremy's grip did not loosen upon her wrist. He led her toward the half-ruined drawbridge. It was within a few steps of the sham, ivy-grown ruin where they had emerged.

Before her eyes the house of Deep Moat Grange, all along its first floor, blazed with the light of a great feast. Beneath and above all was dark. But the great drawing-room, the weaving-room, and Mr. Stennis' bedroom seemed all filled with light.

Jeremy, who seemed to have eyes which saw in the dark, led her easily across the hall, up the staircase, in the completest darkness. Then at the top he suddenly threw the folding doors open, and with a certain formal parade of manners, announced: "Miss Elsie Stennis, of Deep Moat Grange."

Then laughing heartily at his wit, he entered after her, locking the door and pocketing the key. The large room was still ornamented in the old style, for the furniture within it had been taken over by Mr. Stennis when he bought the property. Miss Orrin had arranged wax candles in all the many-bracketed chandeliers. With some strange idea of the fitness of things, she had ordered these to be made extra large, red, and fluted. Jeremy had lighted all these, and the wide saloon, with its central carpet and waxed borders, was as light as day.

On the table, just undone from its wrappings, lay a tinselled and silver melodeon of the latest type. It was the same that Mr. Ablethorpe and I had seen Mad Jeremy buy that evening in our retail shop, and offer in payment the hundred-pound note.

Jeremy leaped upon the instrument, in three light, silent strides, like some graceful, dangerous animal. He swung it over his head with something like a cheer, and at once swept into a tide of melody. Elsie looked all about her. Nothing had been moved, save that on one of the sofas was the mark of muddy boots – Jeremy's for certain. For it was to that place he betook himself now. All the rest of the chamber bore the mark of Miss Orrin's careful hand, and her worst enemy did not deny that she was an excellent housekeeper.

"Where is my grandfather?" cried Elsie, in a pause of the stormy music. Jeremy answered her by a simple cock of the thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door of the weaving-room.

"He went ben there a while syne to work a stent at your wedding quilt, my bonnie lamb!

"Oh, I shall be the bridegroom.And ye shall be the bride!"

With a sudden lift of hope, Elsie listened for the well-known "caa" of her grandfather's shuttle. What if only he were there! What if all the evil were quite untrue – the message that the hateful woman had brought on her way to school – was he not her own blood, the father of her mother? Surely he would save her! She moved toward the door with the instinct to call for help strong within her.

But instantly Mad Jeremy, who had been reclining carelessly on the sofa, motioned her away.

"Come nearer me," he commanded – "there, on the carpet by the fire, where Jeremy can see ye. Ah, it's a grand thing to bring hame a bonnie lass to her ain hoose – her hoose and mine! —

"I'se be the laird o't,And she'll be the leddy;She'll be the minnie o't,And I'se be the daddy!"

Elsie made a dash for the windows, as if to leap out upon the lawn, but the movements of the maniac were far faster. In the wink of an eyelid he had laid aside his melodeon and caught her again by the wrist.

"Na, na," he said, "the like o' that will never, never do! There's nae sense in that ava'! See!"

And leading her to the window he showed her the bars which her grandfather had caused to be put up to guard his treasures. It was as difficult to get out of Deep Moat Grange as to get in. That was what it amounted to, and Elsie recognized it clearly and immediately.

"My grandfather!" she moaned, half crying with pain and disappointment. "Where is he – I want to speak to my grandfather!"

Jeremy made a mysterious sign to command silence, pointed again over his shoulder at the door of the weaving-room, and answered —

"He ben there. But Hobby was in nae guid temper the last time I spak' wi' him. It is better to let him come to a while. He aye does that at the weavin', when he is nettled at onything!"

"But I do not hear the shuttle," objected Elsie. "How am I to know he is there – that you are speaking the truth?"

"Oh, he will hae broken a thread – maybe the silver cord – ye ken he was rinnin' ane through and through, to gar the 'Elsie Stennis' stand oot bonnie on the web! Ech, ay, the silver cord, the gowden bowl, the almond blossom – Hobby could weave them a' – terrible grand at the weavin' is Hobby. But he's an auld man! Maybe he will hae rested a wee. He has but yae candle. Plenty enough, says you, for an auld man. He'll hae fa'en asleep amang the bonnie napery, wi' his head on the beam and his hand that tired it wadna caa the shuttle ony mair!"

Then suddenly the madman took another thought.

"But what am I thinkin' on?" he cried. "The world is not for dune auld dotards, but for young folk – young folk – braw folk – rich folk like you and me, Elsie! See to that!"

He drew out the same large pocket-book that had dazzled the eyes of our shopmen at Yarrow's, and opening it, showed Elsie the rolls and rolls of notes, all of high denominations unseen before in Breckonside.

"There's a fortune there, lassie," he said, "a' made by Jeremy – every penny o't by Jeremy, for you and me, hinny! It bocht the melodeon here, that Hobby wadna gie this puir lad a shilling for. And it will mak' you the bonniest and the brawest wife i' the parish! Hark ye to that, Elsie! There's a fair offer for ye, the like o' that ye never heard! But noo, the nicht is afore us. I will pipe to ye, and ye shall dance. Oh, but though I say it that shouldna – ye are fell bonnie when ye dance!

"Jeremy's heart gangs oot to ye then. If onybody was to look at ye – that much – fegs, Jeremy wad put a knife into him – ay, ay, and the thing wadna be to dae twice! Oh, there's a heap o' braw lads in Breckonside that wadna be the waur o' a bluid lettin'! There's that upsettin' young Joe Yarrow for yin. I saw him the night standin' watchin' me as I was payin' for the melodeon, as if the siller was counterfeit! Certes, if Jeremy likit he could buy up the Yarrows ten times ower, faither and son!"

Then as the madman went off toward the door he lifted his finger with the half-playful air with which one admonishes a child.

"Jeremy can trust ye?" he queried. "Ay, ay, forbye the windows are barred, and the granddad has his door locked – that I ken weel. He aye sleeps best that gate! Bide here like a denty quean – wait for Jeremy. He will bring in the feast, the grand banquet in the cups o' silver an' gowd, the white wine and the reid – the best baker's bread, honey frae the kame, and a' the denty devices o' the King's ain pastry-cook – that were bocht for coined siller in Breckonside! Then, after the feast ye shall dance – dance, Elsie, as danced that other bonnie quean they caaed the dochter o' Herodias. Eh, but she maun hae made thae soldiers of Herod and thae grand wise-like lords yerk and fidge juist to watch her. But, for your dance, Elsie lassie. Gin ye be a wise bairn and dance it bonnie, Jeremy will gie ye, no the half o' his kingdom, but the hale! Ay, Jeremy's kingdom a' complete!"

And again he slapped his pocket into which he had slipped the fat pocket-book.

He was gone. Elsie waited one palpitating minute after he had locked the door. She could hear the sound of his feet descending the stairs. They died away. She listened yet a while longer, lest, with maniac cunning, he should return for the purpose of catching her in the act of disobedience. But the heavy clanging of a door and the screech of the great key in the lock warned her that it must be now or never.

Elsie flew to the door of the weaving-room. She would find Mr. Stennis. She would throw herself upon his mercy. She did not believe – she could not believe that he knew anything of the treatment she had undergone during the past months.

"Grandfather, grandfather!" she whispered hoarsely, knocking on the panel. "Open, it is I – Elsie Stennis! Save me, save me!"

But there was no reply – only silence, and the scurry of a rat behind the wainscot.

She called again, louder than before.

"Grandfather, grandfather! Quick; he will come back! Save me, grandfather!"

But there was utter silence. Even the rat had found a shelter.

Swiftly Elsie stooped. The doors of the old houses of the date of Deep Moat Grange have roomy keyholes. Elsie set her eye to the one which she found empty of a key.

She saw the most part of a bare room – at least, the illuminated square about the room. She saw her grandfather, his head bowed upon his work – his frame still with the stillness of death, and the knife which had done its deadly work lying close by. At his elbow a candle was flickering itself out. Something dripped, and on the floor a darker darkness spread itself slowly out. Even as she looked, the flame rushed upward, like the life of a man which returns not to his nostrils, and all was blank about her.

Elsie would have fainted, but she heard steps on the stair – swift and light – the footsteps of Jeremy returning, and she knew that she must meet him with the smile upon her lips.

CHAPTER XXX

HOW ELSIE DANCED FOR HER LIFE

The white and gold walls of the drawing-room of Deep Moat Grange, though tarnished by time, and with spots of mould beginning to outline themselves again for want of Aphra Orrin's careful hand, gave back gaily enough the mellow glow of a hundred candles all of wax.

"Dance, Elsie woman!" cried Mad Jeremy, emptying a tumbler at a gulp. "But first drink ye also, lassie. That will bring back your bonnie colour! What has come to ye, bairn? Ye are pale as a bit snaw-drap that sets its head through a wreath at a dyke-back. But red, red, red as ony rose shall ye be, I'se warrant ye! Dance, lassie, dance!"

And with a jingle of bells he struck in the "Reel o' Bogie." Elsie did no more than set her lips to her glass. But she obeyed, for Jeremy was in no mood to be countered. Then, taking up her gown daintily on both sides, as the dance ordains, she danced it alone. And every time as she turned, her eyes caught the door of the weaving-room, and the heart within her became as water for what she had seen through that little black mark of exclamation which was the keyhole.

Yet somehow the situation stirred her, too. There is a vast deal of desperate courage in a woman. A man laughs at this because he is exempt from the fears of mice and minor creeping things. He may as well think, as he often does, the better of himself, on the strength of the beard on his chin. But in the desperate passes of life, woman is apt to lead the forlorn hopes. And why should she not? Her kind have been accustomed to them ever since, in the forlorn coppices outside Eden, one Eve gave birth to her firstborn, and called him – being, like a woman, deceived – "My possession."

And with the blank midnight pressing against the huge windows of the facade, and the white lights and red candle stems reflected a thousand times in the sullen moat, Elsie danced. The irregular wind moaned about the house, and as the brand-new melodeon whined and crew, flinging a weird rhythm to the tremulous candle flames, something like the fast-running "Broom o' the Cowdenkynwes," "Logan Braes," "Green Grows the Rushes," or "Bonnie Dundee," emerged. Elsie danced to them all. She danced as the fluted candles burned down nearer to their sockets.

And all the while, now with one leg on the table, and swinging his body to the time of the music, or crouched in a corner nursing his melodeon against him as if he were a beast ready for the spring, Jeremy beat the measure with his foot.

Sometimes he would spring up and sing a stave which struck him, in a high, screeching voice – sometimes drain a cup of wine or spirits out of the nearest bottle, stopping in the midst to wave the half-filled glass about his head, and complete his chant. Sometimes it went like this —

"His mother from the window looked,With all the longing of a mother;His little sister, weeping walkedThe greenwood path to meet her brother."They sought him east, they sought him west,They sought him a' the forest thorough;They only saw the cloud o' nicht,They only heard the roar of Yarrow!"

Then, as the night went past, Elsie prayed for the time to go faster. She saw the candles blink and dwindle; she saw the windows stand out more blankly. In her brain there grew up a fear of the dark, after the light should be extinguished, when she should find herself alone with that wild being who had murdered her grandfather. Her hope was in the morning light. If she could only dance till then!

Well it was for her that, as a child, she had danced, as a gnat over a pool, as a butterfly among the flowers of the garden. Light of foot, and ready, she had learned all as by nature. And now, with the candles going out one by one, and the bitterness of death rising like a tide in her heart – barred in, the door locked, utterly forsaken – she had yet to smile and dance – dance and dance – to the lilt and stress of Mad Jeremy's noisy instrument.

The jangle of bells thrilled her as he struck with a clash as of steel weapons into "Roy's Wife of Aldevaloch," or an irony of fiendish laughter as he shouted the refrain of "Duncan Grey," lifting a hand fleeringly from the German-silver keys, with a glance of terrible import.

"Ha, ha, the wooin' o't!"

It was, indeed, a memorable wooing, but Elsie smiled and danced tirelessly, her young body lithe and swift to the turn, her feet nimble and dainty. The last tune pleased the madman. With a "Hooch" of triumph, he sprang to his feet, marching up and down the room, playing all the time with desperate energy.

"This beats fiddlin'!" he cried. "The Herodias quean was leaden-footed to you, lassie! And noo Jeremy will play ye something o' his ain; and you, wee Elsie, shall dance to the movin' o' the speerit! Wave your airms and smile, Elsie, for I am the laird, and ye are the leddy!"

With one spring, he landed featly on the tall mantelpiece, where, mopping and mowing, swinging his instrument now high over his head, and now lower than his knees, Mad Jeremy seemed more like the sculptured gargoyle of some devil come alive than anything of human stock or human mothering.

The fire was black out, but on the hearth the shape of the burned violin lay in a black heap like a dead, dangerous beast. For the head and neck had twisted themselves back as if in agony, the black pegs looking as if they could sting. They seemed to watch the door of the weaving room into which their destroyer had gone. And certainly they had not been unavenged. For their sake, the madman's knife had bitten deep and keen. There was little need now for the head to twist itself as the tightening strings had pulled it, as the fire had left it. All was wiped out. And, as if in recognition of the fact, its master stirred the black ashes with his toe before he struck into a wild saturnalia of sound, to which Elsie danced like a Bacchante, with the last remnants of her girl's strength.

It was still far from the dawn, which is a laggard in February throughout Scotland. The red candles began to go out one by one. Fear surged tumultuous in Elsie's heart – as, indeed, well it might – to find herself thus shut up with the murderer of her grandfather, whose dead body she knew lay behind the nearest door, and the red candles going out one by one.

There remained only the huge centre one, a special purchase of Aphra's. And still the madman grimaced, crossing and uncrossing his legs on the high mantel-piece. Still he swung his instrument – still he called on Elsie to dance. But now the girl was utterly fatigued. Without a sign of giving way, something seemed to crack somewhere – in her head, perhaps, or about her heart. She sank unconscious on the floor in a heap.

Mad Jeremy halted in the middle of a bar; bent forward to look at the girl to see whether or no she was pretending. Then, leaping down from the mantel-shelf with the same graceful ease as he had mounted, he strode to the last great red candle, fit for a cathedral altar, which Aphra had set in the central candelabra. He took it down, and, after one keen look at the girl, he stepped over her prostrate body, on his way to resume his beloved melodeon, which he had left behind him when he had leaped down.

A smile of infinite cunning wreathed his lips.

"Baith the twa," he muttered, the smile widening to a grin. "She's a bonnie lassie, ay! and if Jeremy had ony thocht o' marryin' she wad be the lass for him. But it's safer no! Baith the twa will be best dead. That will mak' the last of the Stennises gang tegither. She shall have a braw burial. There shall never be sic a Baalfire as Jeremy will licht for her – and weel she is deservin' o't. For she danced blithe and brawly, even unto the breakin' o' the day!"