Deep Moat Grange

  Produced by Al Haines

  [Frontispiece: "Mr. Ablethorpe put up his hand to command silence.]

  DEEP MOAT GRANGE

  By

  S. R. CROCKETT

  HODDER & STOUGHTON

  LONDON

  MCMVIII

  _Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome and London_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  THE EMPTY MAIL GIG

  CHAPTER II

  POACHER DAVIE

  CHAPTER III

  THE BAILIFF OF DEEP MOAT GRANGE

  CHAPTER IV

  THE GOLDEN FARMER

  CHAPTER V

  WE MEET DAFT JEREMY

  CHAPTER VI

  THICKER THAN WATER

  CHAPTER VII

  FAMILY DISCIPLINE

  CHAPTER VIII

  MISS APHRA'S CURATE

  CHAPTER IX

  ELSIE'S VISITOR

  CHAPTER X

  THE BROM-WATER MYSTERY

  CHAPTER XI

  THE IRON TRAPDOOR

  CHAPTER XII

  THE BRICKED PASSAGE

  CHAPTER XIII

  MEYSIE'S BAIRNS

  CHAPTER XIV

  BROWN PAINT--VARNISHED!

  CHAPTER XV

  THE MYSTERY OF MYSTERIES--A GIRL

  CHAPTER XVI

  MR. MUSTARD'S FIRST ASSISTANT

  CHAPTER XVII

  DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE HUNTERS OF MEN

  CHAPTER XIX

  I HOOK MY FISH

  CHAPTER XX

  CONCERNING ELSIE

  CHAPTER XXI

  A JACKDAW'S TAIL FEATHER

  CHAPTER XXII

  ELSIE'S DIARY

  CHAPTER XXIII

  WITHIN THE MONKS' OVEN

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE BREAKING DAM

  CHAPTER XXV

  A LETTER FROM JOSEPH YARROW, SENIOR, TO HIS SON JOSEPH YARROW, JUNIOR

  CHAPTER XXVI

  COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY

  CHAPTER XXVII

  HARRIET CAW ON CLERICAL CELIBACY

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  SATURDAY, THE TENTH OF FEBRUARY

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE CALLING OF ELSIE

  CHAPTER XXX

  HOW ELSIE DANCED FOR HER LIFE

  CHAPTER XXXI

  THE HERO PLAYS SECOND FIDDLE

  CHAPTER XXXII

  "THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOOT THE HOOSE"

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CONFESSION

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  JEREMY ORRIN, BREADWINNER

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE WITNESSING OF MISER HOBBY

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  THE HOUSE OF DEATH

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  I AM HEROIC

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  A FIT OF THE SULKS

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  THE THING THAT SCRATCHED

  CHAPTER XL

  WANTED--A PENNY IN THE SLOT

  CHAPTER I

  THE EMPTY MAIL GIG

  I was only a young fellow when these things began to happen among us,but I remember very well the morning when it first came out about theBewick carrier. He was postman, too, but had got permission to keep ahorse and cart so that he might make a good little bit by fetchingparcels and orders from town. Town to us meant East Dene, and Bewick,to which Harry went, lay away to the east among the woods and hills.It was a lonesome place, Bewick, and, indeed, is still, though now theyhave got a railway coming within eight miles or so. But the mystery ofthe Moat Wood happened before there was any talk of railways.

  Harry Foster was his name--the carrier's, I mean--and a common oneenough in Northumberland. Many a ride have I gotten on his cart, whichwas a light one on springs--blue body, orange shafts, panelled withred, and the shafts lined red. You could tell the cart anywhere. Atleast any of the Breckonside boys could, quite a mile away. And if itwas too far to see the cart, there was no mistaking Dappled Bess, thecarrier's horse, which was bright orange colour with white patches,like the circus pony the clown rides. You've seen that pony. Theyhave one like that in every circus that has ever come to our town, andthere's few that pass Breckonside--Seager's, and Lord George's, andBostock's, the Original and the Real Original, both, and in old days,so my father tells me, Wombwell's itself. Oh, a great place forcircuses is Breckonside!

  I will tell you about it. Breckonside, where I live, is a good bigvillage about ten miles from the big town of East Dene, where there aredocks and a floating landing-stage, and a jail--everything modern andup to date--with railways and electricity cars, and a theatre everynight almost, and tramcars that you can hang on behind, and mostlyeverything that makes a boy happy--that is, for a day.

  But still, give me Breckonside for steady. Why, there's only onepoliceman in Breckonside, and he owes my father for his grocer'sbill--oh, ever so much! I shall not tell how much, but he knows that Iknow. More than that, he always tells his wife what he is going to do,and where he is going to go, and she tells Mrs. Robb, her neighbourover the hedge, and Mrs. Robb tells Mrs. Martin, and Mrs. Martin'sTommy tells me, or else I lick him. So we know. We like our policemanin Breckonside. He can make lovely whistles out of bore-tree, and hisname is Codling.

  You can see the sea from Breckon Hill, which is wooded to the top, onlyby climbing up a tree. And away to the north, Scotland way, you canmake out the hills called Cheviots, like a long, low, blue cloud.

  But about the Bewick carrier, Harry Foster, the thing is just this, andit is a Mystery. I saw the red and blue cart come in--the piebald ponylame, and the splashboard all leaves and blood, but no Harry Foster tobe seen anywhere.

  It was catechism morning, when the school had to go in half an hourearlier, and the Dissenter folk could keep away their children, if theyliked; and that always made Mr. Mustard, our schoolmaster, verymad--hopping, indeed. He did not admire Dissenters anyway, at the bestof times, because they had voted against him when he wanted to beparochial officer, or something. And it was just gall and squirm wood(as Elsie said) for him to see Ned Tiger, the Wesleyan minister's son,playing "plunkie" and "ringi" with marbles, when he, Henry PowellMustard, a good Churchman and parish clerk, had to be teachingcatechism to half-empty benches. He would glower and rap with his caneon the desk, and find fault--all the time with an eye on Ned Tiger (hisreal name was Wheatly) and Ben Overton, who was a Baptist, and PeterMcNab and Sandy Auld (who, as you can see by their names, werePresbyterians, and hit anybody who called them Dissenters, being of theScotch kirk and good fighters).

  Mr. Mustard taught us our duty, how to walk humbly in our sphere, andso forth, with a supple cane, and he whipped the girls, too, till Istopped him. But that comes after. He whipped us all that morning,without forgetting one, and at every good shot of Ned Tiger's alley-tawhe would scowl worse than ever and discover one more unfortunate towallop.

  Yet he was a good teacher, and made good scholars; kind, too--out ofschool, that is. But as we only met him _in_ school, and with a blackfrown running across-ways between his eyes, we declined to believe inhis kindness of heart, at any price.

  "You are my subjects, great and little, bad or good," he used to preachto us. "In Breckonside school only the king, the head of the Church,is greater than I. Like him, I reward the virtuous, and I punish thenaughty!"

  We thought within us that virtue must be scarce in Breckonside school.For as yet but few of the rewards had come our way. Of punishmentsthere was never any lack, as our skins well knew.

  "Some rascals were in my garden last night," said Mr. Mustard, "to theoverturning of my potted geraniums. The size of his boot was a numbersix, like what are sold at Provost Yarrow's shop. I will flog all theboys with number six boo
ts bought at The Shop, unless the culpritconfesses. Show boots."

  We showed them, putting them, as commanded, on the wooden desks with aclatter that made the ink leap in the dirty bottles. We did that onpurpose.

  "Quiet, boys, till I compare them," said Mr. Mustard. "Stand out,you--Tommy Bottle--you have on number six!"

  Tommy Bottle dug his knuckles into his eyeholes and whined: "Please,sir, I was----"

  "Don't answer me, sir!" cried Mr. Mustard; "how dare you? Bring me thelong cane!"

  "But, please, sir, I----"

  "Thomas Bottle, your punishment is doubled!" shouted the master,bringing the pointer down across Tommy's legs, as a kind of "lick and apromise." He needn't. Tommy knew well enough what was coming.

  "If you please, Mr. Mustard," I called out, "it was me that soldTommy's father that pair of boots this morning in my father's shop, soTommy couldn't have broken your flowerpots last night, with these bootson his feet!"

  "Eh, what!" cried the master, turning upon me; "well, Tommy is excused.But the rest----"

  The others provided with our sixes were, to wit, Frederick Allen, WidowAllen's boy; Bob Grey, Eben Pringle, and Dorky Cobb--all poor boys.

  But before punishment began I put my own before the master's eyes._They were number sixes_.

  "If you punish Fred and Bob and Eben and Dorky, you must whip me, too,Mr. Mustard," I said. "And I shall have to tell my father, and hewon't like it, because nobody will come any more to our shop to buyboots, if they are to be punished for it at school!"

  I always called him Mr. Mustard, because I was the only boy in theschool who dared do it, and I knew he hated it. But, you see, he wasafraid of my father. Most people in Breckonside were afraid of myfather.

  So I got them off at that time; but presently the master welted BobGrey for making a noise, though he knew perfectly well it was I who haddone it. And the lesson was not over before he had got even with thelot of them--Fred and Eben and Dorky and all--except me, of course.

  I was always first on my bench; and that was the highest in the school.You see, I wore the best coat, and Mr. Mustard got all his provisions,his stationery, his coals, his bacon from my father's shop; and he wassupposed to settle his account once a year. He gave my father a littlehoney in exchange, when it was the time to draw the sections off fromthe hives, but he never paid very much money.

  So I could stay away from school when I liked, and so long as my fatherdid not find out, no harm ever came. Mr. Mustard never asked aquestion. He took it for granted that I had been sent somewhere tolook after some of my father's little businesses. The boys knew this,and used to get me to take them into school if they were late or hadbeen "kipping"--girls, too, sometimes; though they did not play truantregularly, as we did. It was a good thing in Breckonside to be myfather's son.

  Just after Scripture reading and catechism, if the vicar did not cometo examine us--which was not often--we had half an hour's play, whilethe "Dissenters" had multiplication table and Troy weight, to keep themaware of themselves. So, while Mr. Mustard was rubbing his spectaclesand telling us not to be longer away than half an hour, I took out myquill gun and cut a smart pellet with the end of it out of a slice ofpotato. Then I cut another with the opposite muzzle, and with mypretty, tiny ramrod I shot it under the desk. It took the end of Mr.Mustard's nose neatly, making a red bull's-eye, for which Freddy Allenwas promptly whipped, because his mother was a widow and had noinfluence with the School Committee.

  Now I had promised _my_ mother to go to school that day, and not makemy father angry again. Well, I had been to school, and had been _dux_of the catechism, which was surely enough glory and honour for one day.So soon, therefore, as we got out I made a rush down the street towardsthe bridge where was Elsie's house--a little cottage by the bridge end,all covered over with Virginia creeper and roses, though Nancy Edgar,the "outworker" with whom she lived, was quite poor, and the neighbourssaid it was a disgrace that she should make such a flaunting show, forall the world as if she was rich and could afford to buy plants from anursery-man. But everything that Nancy had given her, or found thrownout as of no use, seemed to do with her, and grew to a marvel.

  "I expect it is because I love them!" she said. But privately Ithought it was because of Elsie. She was ever such a nice girl, ElsieStennis, and I had kept friends with her, steady, ever since she cameto Breckonside from Thorsby. For she is a town girl, Elsie, and herfather and mother are dead. But no nonsense about her--no love andstuff. She was what they call pretty, too, but not set up about it inthe least, the way girls get. You would have liked her just as I did.Nearly every one did--except her grandfather.

  Well, when I got to Nance Edgar's cottage, which stands back a bit fromthe road, with a joiner's yard at one side, and the road to Bewickstretching away on the other, I saw Elsie at the gable window. She hada book in her hand, her finger between the leaves. "Come down, Elsie,"I called up to her. "I'm not going to school to-day. Come and see thenew greenhouses they are building over at Rushworth Court. I can getyou a ride in a dogcart all the way. Our man Jake is going with acargo of paint. Father has the order."

  But Elsie wouldn't. She said that it was all very well for me, who wasgoing to be as rich as ever was, to "kip," but that she meant to learn,even though Mr. Mustard was a brute.

  I said that was nonsense, and that I would give her half of all I had.At any rate I urged her to come down now. And just at that moment as Iwas speaking, she pointed over my shoulder. From the gable window shecould see something I could not.

  "Do look--what's that?" she cried. And her voice sounded pale.

  It was Harry Foster's wagon, and I could see in a minute that somethingwas wrong. Oh, it was easy to see that, even for a boy. My ears sungand I felt suddenly old. But by a sort of instinct I got the piebaldpony by the bridle, which was trailing among her forefeet. And I couldsee she had been down, too. Her knees showed that. Poor Dappled Bessnever tried to get away. She had terror in her eye, quite like a humanit was. And she seemed to limp with all her feet at once. I was sorryfor Bess. She and I were friends, you see. I used to ride her aboutin our pasture on Sundays, to keep her from feeling lonesome.

  But it was Elsie who cried out. She had looked inside the mail cart.

  "There's blood!" she gasped. "O Joe!"

  She didn't faint just when she was needed to do something, though shedid put her hand to her eyes, and, faith, I don't blame her. She cameand said very quietly: "I'll take the horse's head, Joe--you look. Ican't!"

  Then I looked; and just as soon as I put my foot on the step I turnedsick. But I didn't let on, being a big fellow and getting on forseventeen. There was a big, darkish pool, sort of half dried, underthe seat, and there were cuts that had been made with an axe scatteredall about, even on the soaky bottom of the cart. The whip had been cutright off three or four inches above the black japanned holder, and thelash lay over the splashboard of the trap, which was all reddened, too,and half covered with leaves. I saw some flyfisher's hooks stuck inthe leather apron. There were no mail bags, no parcels for BewickUpton--nothing at all in the post trap except what I have told. And itwas quite enough for me. I got down, and we all took the road to thepolice station as quick as the pony could limp. I did this because Iknew it was the proper place to go--not because old Silver-buttonsCodling was the least good.

  And in the crack of a thumb I had the whole village after me--askingquestions, and wanting to look. But I kept going on, calling out tothe folk to get out of the way.

  Then my father came, and I stopped for him, and he looked the trap allover very carefully, as if it were something he was going to take at avaluation.

  Then he said out loud: "This is a bad business; this is no accident.It looks to me like murder!"

  "MURDER!"

  The vicar had bustled up. He and my father almost tied for the firstplace in Breckonside, and so it was a settled thing that if my fatherthought one thing, the vicar, without any ill feeling,
would take theopposite view.

  "And why, Mr. Yarrow, why, may I ask? An accident is much moreadmissible--in this quiet parish. The horse has run away. See howlame he is, and the postman has cut wildly with an axe or other sharpweapon in order to--to--to rid himself of the furious animal--to getloose, in short, a foolish thing to do, I admit, but in suchcircumstances--I do not see----"

  "No, Mr. Alderson, that is just it, you do not see," said my father."There is this whip handle cut through six inches from the holder; whatdo you make of that?"

  "Well," said the vicar, looking for arguments in defence of hisparochial quiet, "there is the lash. There has been an accident, yousee. Perhaps poor Harry went suddenly out of his mind. There isinsanity in the family. He may have cut himself. That would accountfor the--the substance of a fluid nature resembling blood, and also forthe lash cut from the butt of the whip!"

  My father took the stained thong in his fingers. It was curiouslybraided, plait laid over plait, rather flat than round, and exceedinglyneat.

  "This is not the lash of Harry Foster's whip," he said. "I ought toknow, because I sold him the whip. This is a worked lash, and if Imistake not I know the fingers that wrought that pattern."