CHAPTER XII “MOLL O’ THE GRAVES”

HOLWICK generally pursued the even tenour of its way from year’s end to year’s end, with nothing more eventful than a birth, a death or a marriage. Aline’s adventure therefore, was likely to remain a staple topic of conversation for many years. But now there was a strange feeling in the air as though something further were going to happen. An atmosphere of uneasiness enveloped the place, an atmosphere oppressive like a day before a thunderstorm. It was nothing definite, nothing explicable, but every one seemed conscious of it; it pervaded Holwick, it pervaded Newbiggin on the other side of the river. Ian and the children were particularly aware of it. The placid life of the Tees Valley was to be stirred by things at least as striking as Andrew’s villainy.

It might have been old Moll’s ravings, it might have been the stirrings of religious troubles that had started the apprehension; but there it was, something not immediate but delayed, a presentiment too vague even to be discussed.

One day Thomas Woolridge was walking down from the Hall through the rocky ravine under Holwick Crags. It was a dull grey day with a strong wind, and the rocks seemed to tower up with an oppressive austerity out of all proportion to their size. He was157 in a gloomy frame of mind and kicked at the stones in his path, sullenly watching them leap and bound down the hill.

“Steadily there, neighbour,” said a voice from below, “do you want to kill some one?” and the head of Silas Morgan, the farm-reeve, appeared above the rocks beneath.

“Methinks I should not mind an I did,” answered Thomas, “provided it were one of the right sort. I am tired of slaving away under other folks’ orders. Who are they that they should have a better time than I have, I should like to know?”

“They all have their orders too, man; who do you think you are that you should have it all your own way? There is Master Mowbray, now, who has just set forth to York, because the Sheriff bade him.”

“And a fine cursing and swearing there was too, I’ll warrant ye,” said Thomas. “Master Mowbray doth not mince matters when he starts a-going.”

“No, but he doth not pull a face as long as a base-viol. Thomas, if so be that I had a face like yours, I would put my hat on it and walk backwards. Be of good cheer, you rascal, no one doth as he pleaseth from the Queen’s grace downwards.”

“That may be so, neighbour, but you’ll not deny that some have an unfair share of this world’s gear.”

“No, by my troth, that is so; but I do not see how you are going to set it right. Besides, oddsfish, man! you would never even get as large a share as you do, you lazy varlet, if you got what was meet. I have never seen you do a stroke of work that you could avoid”; and Silas gave Thomas a dig in the ribs.

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“Here now, sirrah, you let me alone,” Thomas said gruffly. “Why should we not all fare alike?”

“All fare alike, old sulky face! Not for me, I thank you. I would not work for a discontented windbag like you. What’s your particular grumble just now?”

“I’m not grumbling.”

“Not at all, you are saying what a happy life it is, and how glad you are to see your fellow creatures enjoying themselves.”

Thomas lifted a stone and threw it, but Silas jumped aside and it flew down the rocks.

“I’m not grumbling so much at the Mowbrays, but at that Gillespie-wench. There have always been Mowbrays up there; but that wench, she has nothing of her own, why should she not addle her bread the same as you or I. One day she had the impertinence to start ordering me about and made old Edward and myself look a pair of fools. The old ass did not mind, but I did and I am not going to forget. I am sick of these craven villagers louting[15] and curtseying at the minx and she no better than any of us. She gets on my nerves, pardy! with her pretty angel face.”

15 The earlier form of curtsey.

“Well, I am glad you admit you are grumbling at something, but you have less cause to grumble at Mistress Aline than any one in Holwick, you graceless loon. So here’s something else to grumble at”; and Silas gave Thomas a sudden push which made him roll over, and then he ran off laughing.

“You unneighbourly ruffian. I’ll pay you out,” said Thomas, as he ruefully picked himself up and started down the steep.

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He went on to the hamlet and, on his way back, he met Aline, who was going down to see Joan Moulton. Beyond all expectations, by getting Audry to sue for her, Aline had arranged that Joan should be moved to Durham and she was going to pay her last visit.

“It’s a fine day, Mistress Aline,” observed Thomas as he reached her. “I hope you are keeping well. The falcon is doing splendidly, I notice. I shall never forget your kindness to me. By the way, I found some white heather the other day, and I meant to tell you I took up the root and transplanted it in your garden.”

“Oh, was that you, Thomas? You are good; I noticed it at once, but somehow I thought it was Mistress Audry’s doings. I love white heather.”

“I am fain it pleaseth you; well, good day, Mistress Aline, there is no time to waste and some of us have to work very hard betimes.”

On the way up to the Hall, just before he reached the crags of the ravine he saw some one else. It was old “Moll o’ the graves.”

“How now, neighbour,” he said, “I have not seen you for a long time, but what’s the good of your hocus pocus? Where’s that fine hank of wool I gave you, and those two cheeses and the boll of meal? That Gillespie bitch is still running round; and you said that before a year was away she would be gone. But Andrew’s little play didn’t work, damn the fellow. She’s alive yet, I tell you,” and he put his hand on the old woman’s shoulder as though to shake her.

“Hands off, you coward,” said the old hag. “Why do you not do your own dirty work? Andrew was worth half a dozen of you. Pah, you devil’s spawn!160 If you touch me I’ll burn your entrails with fire, day and night, and send you shrieking and praying for your own death. But I tell you, that skelpie may not have to die by water. There are other ways of dying than being drowned. I cannot read all the future, but you mark my word, and I have never been wrong yet, she will be gone by the time I named. Little Joan will go as I said; and if we are safely rid of one you need not fear for the other. The stars in their courses fight on our side,” and she laughed an evil laugh. “There is no room in this world for your weak-minded gentle creatures, bah! cowards, worms, with their snivelling pity. Does nature feel pity when the field mouse is killed by the hawk? Does nature feel pity when a mother dies of the plague? Does God feel pity when we starve a child or beat it to death? Let him show his pity for the victims of disease, for the beings he has brought into the world, humpbacked, blind, halt, imbecile, ha! ha! ha! No, the forces on our side are the stronger, and the innocent, the gentle and loving must go. I hate innocence, I hate love; and hate will triumph in the end.

“Do you think I love you, you coward?” and she advanced slowly as though to clutch his throat with her skinny hand, laughing her demoniacal laugh. “You are on our side, but you are a worm;—Thomas, I spit at you, begone.”

Thomas looked at her in terror and slunk away till the old woman’s mocking laughter grew fainter. “Faugh! she was mad—mad—what did it matter? And yet, suppose she took it into her head to put a spell on him, the same as she had done on little Joan!161 What then? But he would be even with Aline yet; Andrew was a clumsy bungler, he would see if he could not secure a more efficient agent.”

Thomas had allowed his imagination to dwell round his grievance against Aline until it had grown to colossal dimensions. She could not even smile on any one without him reckoning it up against her as an offence. The thing was becoming an obsession with him.

But what did the old crone mean? Something certainly was going to happen; did it involve Thomas, or was he himself to be unaffected by the play of forces? The feeling was unpleasant and he could not shake it off.

After meeting Thomas, Aline had gone on to Peter’s cottage. She found that the dying child was weaker than ever, but she still seemed to cling tenaciously to life. She raised herself a little when Aline came in and her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness.

“I shall never see you any more, Aline,” she said. “And I have several things that I want to say to you. They are going to take me away. I know they mean to be kind, yet I would rather have died quietly here. But listen, it is not about that that I want to talk,” the child went on excitedly.

“Hush, dear,” said Aline, taking the small frail hand in her own and stroking it, “you will tire yourself out.”

“Can you put your hand under my pillow, Aline? You will find there a little packet.”

Aline did as she was asked.

“Now undo it.”

She opened the small parcel and found in it half a groat that had been broken in two, a child’s spinning top and a short lock of dark curly brown hair.

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“He was my playmate,” said Joan, “and he used to help me every day to carry the water from the spring up to the house, and he said that when he was a big man he would marry me. I know I am going to die soon and no one loves me but you, so I want to give you my secret.”

“O Joan, darling, you must not talk like that,” and Aline stooped and kissed the sad little face on the pillow, while her tears, in spite of herself, would keep welling up and rolling down her cheeks.

A faint little smile spread over Joan’s face as her thoughts wandered away back to the old times in Kirkoswald and talking half to herself and half to Aline she said: “His name was Wilfred Johnstone. Oh! Wilfred, Wilfred, if only I could kiss you good-bye! but I shall leave your top and the half groat and your dear hair with my beautiful little lady, and some day she may see you and give them back and say good-bye for me.”

“O Aline,” she went on, trying to raise herself as she put her arms round her neck—“give him this kiss for me and say that if I had grown up I would have been his little wife as I promised”; then, pressing a kiss on Aline’s lips, she fell back exhausted on the bed.

“I will do everything you ask,” said Aline, and sat by her for a long time, but the child did not speak again.

At last the evening began to get dark and Aline knew she must be getting home. “Good-bye, sweet Joan,” she said and for the last time printed a kiss on the child’s forehead. “I wish you could have said good-bye,” and she turned to the door.

As she turned Joan’s eyes half opened. “Good-bye,”163 she murmured, and Aline went sadly from the house.

“They are going to take her away from me and I believe I love her even more than Audry, but it is all meant for the best. Oh, I hope and I hope that that horrid old witch was not telling the truth.”

Aline lay awake for a long time that night thinking of Joan and old Moll and wondering how she would find Wilfred Johnstone; and when she slept she still dreamed of her little friend.

The next morning they carried Joan away on a litter. The journey was to be made in three stages of a day each. Aline would have liked to see her off, but unfortunately Master Richard had specially arranged to take the children with him on a long expedition and make an early start, and he did not wish any interference with his plans.

He had been so very kind in making the elaborate arrangements about Joan’s journey and future welfare that Aline did not like to say anything, though it cost her a pang.

They mounted from the old “louping on stone” in the lower courtyard and were not long reaching Middleton. Master Richard had some business in Middleton, and afterward they turned up the left bank of the Tees.

It was another grey day, but the water looked wonderfully beautiful down below them, and Holwick crags rose majestically away to the left. The bleakness of the surrounding country enhanced the richness of the river valley; but the wild spirit of the hills seemed to dominate the whole.

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On the way they passed through the village of Newbiggin. It consisted almost wholly of rude stone cottages and byres. “We have a great deal of trouble here,” remarked Richard Mowbray. “They are a curiously lawless lot; it is not only their poaching but there is much thieving of other kinds. Their beasts too are a nuisance, straying, as they pretend, on our Middleton property. A murrain on them! My tenant there, Master Milnes, is very indignant about it and is sure that it is not accidental. He also makes great complaint about continual damage to the dykes. Mistress Mowbray is determined to have the whole nest of them cleared out.”

“But the village does not belong to you, does it, Cousin Richard?”

“No, there are three properties besides mine that meet there, the Duke of Alston’s, Lord Middleton’s and Master Gower’s.”

“Then how are you going to do anything?”

“Oh, Mistress Mowbray saw Lord Middleton, and he has arranged that his reeve and the Duke’s shall come over to Holwick and meet Master Gower and ourselves. I do not expect there will be any difficulty.”

Aline thought it was rather a high handed proceeding, but she said nothing. She looked at the little cottages and then her thoughts flew over to the cottage on the other side of the river that Joan had just left. She wondered rather pathetically whether nearly all life was sad like her own and Joan’s and Ian’s. Did every one of these cottages mean a sad story? It would certainly be a sad story to be turned out of one’s home. Here was a new trouble for her. “Was it true,”165 she thought, “that all these people were as bad as Cousin Richard supposed?”

Suddenly Audry exclaimed, “Look—there goes old Moll.”

As they overtook her she stopped and shook her staff after them, crying,—“Maidens that ride high horses to-day eat bitter bread upon the morrow.”

Master Mowbray did not catch what she said, but Aline heard and again felt that peculiar shudder that she could not explain.

A week or two later the words came back to her with bitter meaning indeed. Joan safely reached her destination and the first news that came from Durham was hopeful; but shortly afterwards the news was worse and then suddenly came word that she was dead.

Aline put the little packet carefully away in the ambry. She did not tell any one, not even Audry, but some day she hoped to carry out the child’s request. There was too much misery in the world, she must see what she could do. Perhaps she might begin by doing something for the people of Newbiggin. At least she could find out what was the real truth of the case.