Deep Moat Grange

  CHAPTER XXXI

  THE HERO PLAYS SECOND FIDDLE

  Now, while Elsie was dancing the hours away in desperate danger of herlife and to the peril of her reason, Mr. Ablethorpe and I had not beenidle. That is, so far as was within our power to act or our knowledgeto foresee. He had allowed me to judge of the state of the rings whichhad been passed through the furnace. I was still uncertain of theirportent till he produced an oval plaque with the mark V.R. upon it. Itwas of brass, and had doubtless formed part of the single leathern sackwhich Harry Foster kept open so as to take on to Bewick anything whichmight be committed to his care _en route_.

  There could be no doubt. We had found the murderer of HarryFoster--that is, we had only to find who made the bread at Deep MoatGrange in order to be sure of him. It was, indeed, a known thing that,save on a rare occasion, the Moat Grange people made their ownbread--but whether in the shape of griddle-cakes, soda scones, orproperly baked oven loaves, no one knew. But Mr. Ablethorpe and I weresure there would be no more difficulty. More than that we meant tofind out--the clew was the first one which had really promised well,and we meant to follow it. That very night we got ready to go, eventhough Mr. Ablethorpe ought now to have been at home, preparing for hisSunday services, instead of doing detective business across country onthe strength of a few calcined rings and a brass plate.

  * * * * *

  It was about this time that my father, with torn and bleeding hands,was working desperately at the bar of iron. His knife was worn to astump, but the open door of Elsie's cell tempted him with a terriblesense of the unknown which was passing outside. Besides, he could nottell at what moment Jeremy might return, and, shutting the door, shutoff at the same time his hopes of escape and of helping Elsie, whom hesaw already in the grasp of the midnight assassin.

  Now if I were writing this to show what a hero I was, I should, ofcourse, have put my own part in the forefront. But as I was at thetime little better than a boy who does what he can, and it really wasmy father who helped Elsie the most--and had done for some time--I amnot going to take away the credit from him. Mine is the proper sort offather, that a fellow can be proud of. I think I would have done allthat he did if I had been there and had his chances. But then Iwasn't, and I hadn't. So Mr. Ablethorpe and I had just come along asbest we might--almost, but not quite, the day after the fair.

  It was just before daybreak when my father worked his way through thebar, and the fragments fell outward--stonework, plaster, cut iron--allinto the little cupboard. Of course, he had been working by the senseof touch for hours. Many a time he had drawn the rough home-made fileraspingly across his wrist and hands. His face was stained withdungeon mud, his hair uncropped and matted, his beard tangled, and, asmy mother said afterwards--

  "If Mad Jeremy was a waur-looking creature than you, Joseph Yarrow, Iam none surprised that he frighted ye a' oot o' your leggings andknee-breeks!"

  When my father came out through the chamber which had so long beenElsie's he groped about to find the entrance, his heart thumping--so heowned to me--against his ribs lest the way should have been shut by themadman, and he no better off than he had been before--nay, infinitelyworse, for the handiwork of the night would be sure to be discovered.He had worked in the dark--furiously--without thought of covering uphis traces. But he had brought with him the iron bar which had beenhis means of direct communication with Elsie from cell to cell.

  It was cold weather, and the first drive of February wind as he stoodup in the ivy-covered ruin was, as my father expressed it, "like a dashof water in the face to a man." The next instant he was through thecrumbling walls, startling the bats and sparrows with a shower ofdebris, and lo! there before him he saw the house of Deep MoatGrange--in a blaze!

  Now comes out the deep and abiding loyalty of the man who had a namefor little else than driving a bargain hardly and keeping it to thedeath. Perhaps, though, he looked upon it as that. Elsie hadsupported him, fed him, given him drink, furnished him with tools, andso now, though most men would have gone straight back to Breckonside toseek for assistance, Joseph Yarrow--of whom I am proud to call myselfthe son--struck right across the bridge and tore across the lawn amongthe lily clumps straight for the front door of the burning house.

  The staircase and hall were already filled with a stifling reek, but myfather could hear above him the crackling and dull roar of the flames,hungry--like many wild beasts.

  It was not dark, for the chamber door above was open, and the light ofthe conflagration was reflected through. But plump in the middle ofthe staircase my father encountered a man. It was Mad Jeremy going outserenely enough, carrying the candle in one hand, and his preciousmelodeon in the other. He saw my father. My father saw him. With oneintent to fight and slay they rushed at each other--Jeremy's wildscreech mingling with my father's roar as of a charging bull.

  Neither got home. My father's iron bar would doubtless have broken themadman's skull, but that, with his usual agility, he leaped to theside. Jeremy smashed the heavy candle over my father's head, and fledupstairs, not because he was afraid for himself, but in order toprotect the melodeon from the blow he saw coming.

  "Ye shall na get it," he shouted. "It's nane o' yours. I paid goodmoney for it ower the counter o' your ain shop!"

  And he fled upward through the flames, which seemed to wrap him roundwithout doing any harm. They seemed his element.

  * * * * *

  As I say, Mr. Ablethorpe and I came just too late. We had seen fromafar the burning house--at least, we had seen the "skarrow" in thesky--the Grange itself lying (as all the world knows) at the verybottom of Deep Moat Hollow, with the pond on one side and the woods allabout.

  But once on our way, we had made haste, as indeed had many another.However, we started earlier than the others, though my father, livingas it were next door, was far before any of us. Indeed, had it notbeen for him---- Well, I will go on with my tale.

  We rushed across the drawbridge, which, just as he had done, we founddown. We followed him across the lily plots. Right in the middle Mr.Ablethorpe came a cropper. I was on the look-out. It was not thefirst time that I had played at hide-and-seek there in difficultcircumstances, though never with the windows above crackling and theflames licking the ivy and dry Virginia creeper off the walls, and thesmoke so thick that the landscape was almost blotted out by it.

  I arrived, a little in front of the Hayfork Parson, on the threshold ofthe door of Deep Moat Grange. And that is why I was the first towelcome a pair of Lazaruses risen from the dead--one, a girl,apparently truly dead, held in the arms of the wildest and most savageman I had ever beheld, upon whose shoulder her head reclined, and inwhose menacing right hand was a rough bar of iron, pointed like achisel.

  I think he did not see well. Or, coming out of all that strangeness ofthe night, and the smoor and choking swirl of the smoke, he did notknow his own son. At any rate, he rushed at me with Elsie still in hisarms and the iron bar uplifted.

  But Mr. Ablethorpe interposed from the flank, and catching him aboutthe waist, disarmed him.

  "Mr. Yarrow!" he cried, "this is Joseph, your own son!"

  My father blinked at me a moment, vaguely. Then, quite suddenly, hethrust Elsie into my arms.

  "There," he said, "take her. Be good to her. She calls you her'Dearest Joe.' You will never deserve half your luck--you will neverknow it. But as sure as my name is Joseph Yarrow, I will take it uponme to see that you behave yourself decently well to that girl."

  He was pretty much of a brick--father. At least, though he was only agrocer, I don't know anybody else's father I would change him for. AndElsie says so, too. I think, however--between ourselves--that he'sjust a bit gone on Elsie himself, and thinks I'm not half good enoughfor her.

  Well, I'm not! I don't deny the fact; and as for Elsie--she encouragesus both in the belief.