Chapter XIII The Hamlet of St. Mary’s
It was but a tiny village nestling in the midst of moors and fells. The river Eden ran through it, and all around was the richest verdure, woods and plantations, such as can only be seen in Westmorland, one of the smallest but also one of the most fertile counties in England.
It was just before harvest time—the golden corn waved over many an acre. A tiny church stood with its white turret just under the hill-side; beside it was the vicarage, and there for many a year the Rev. John Ewan had dwelt and ministered to a scattered moorland flock. He had come there as a young man with a young wife. She lay in the little churchyard, and of their three children there remained but one, a girl of sixteen summers, who kept house and served her father with untiring devotion. She had never been beyond the radius of the three counties which bound Westmorland, and she had no ambition to wander. She had no companion save her father; she rode and walked with him. He had taught her all she knew, and that was considerably more than most girls, for the winters were long and the days short, and in the evening, over the fireside, she read much, and she listened to her father as he spoke to her of things of the past. She knew much of the history of England; it was a passion with her, and she had ever been a rigid loyalist, as her father was.
Strange to tell, throughout the Civil War this little village and its minister had been left unmolested, and yet it was at no great distance from Appleby; but then it was such a little place, and the farmhouses were so scattered. Often during those days of internal warfare they had seen men on horseback, Roundheads and Royalists alike, ride in hot haste through the village, and Jessie had longed for them to stop. She would have dearly loved to speak with them, but they passed on. There was nothing to tempt them in the dozen low thatched cottages which clustered together; there was no inn for them to halt at for refreshment, so they invariably rode on. Almost at the top of the hill, beyond which the moorlands stretched, there was an old farmhouse. No one knew to whom by rights it belonged. Some said it was part of the De Lisle estate; others that it was tithe land, and the vicar could lay claim to it. Be that as it may, it had been long uninhabited, when one morning a serving-man stopped at the vicarage gate and asked to see the minister.
He was shown into a room with great rafters across the ceiling and walls lined with books. At a table in the centre, at his desk, sat the vicar. He was a man something over forty, with a handsome, clever face, but with a look of abstraction in his eyes not unusual in one who lives far away from the world and its doings. This morning he had two companions, a big sheep-dog and Jessie, the latter curled up in an arm-chair deep in her book.
“A man wants to see you, sir,” said the woman servant, opening the door just wide enough to put in her head.
“Show him in, Mary,” answered the vicar; and a big man in a rough brown jerkin, leggings, coarse stockings, and hob-nailed shoes entered, holding his cap in his hand. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, with a mass of brown hair and a somewhat reddish beard.
He came up and stood at the vicar’s table. As he did so he laid a letter before him.
“My mistress has sent me with this,” he said; “will you please read it, sir, and give me your answer.”
The vicar looked at the man.
“It seems to me I have seen you before,” he said.
The man shook his head.
“It is many a long day since I have been in these parts,” he said.
“Then you have been in these parts before?” asked the vicar.
“Will you read the letter, sir, because I have left the missus in the wood out yonder,” he answered shortly, adding, “We have travelled all the way from London, and shall be glad to have a roof over our heads.”
Jessie twisted herself round, looked at the man, then rose, saying quickly:
“There is no room in this village, and no inn; you must go farther on to Dearham.”
The man looked at her, a queer smile lighting up his rugged face.
“There be the Holt, missie, I ween.”
“The Holt!” exclaimed Jessie; “people don’t go to the Holt, do they, Father?”
During this conversation the vicar was reading the letter which had been given to him. It consisted of four pages of close writing, and the vicar’s face changed more than once while he was mastering its contents.
When he had finished he laid the letter down and rested his head in his hands.
“Well, sir?” said the man anxiously.
“I will go back with you, my man,” he said.
“Jessie,” he continued, “the key of Holt Farm is on the nail; take it, go quickly and open the house.” And without another word he and the man went out together.
Jessie rose, took the key, whistled, and went to the door, the sheep-dog at her heels.
“Where be you going, miss?” asked Mary, looking out from the half-open kitchen door.
“I am going to Holt Farm,” she answered, “to open it.”
“What for? It was aired last Monday,” said Mary.
“Father told me to go,” answered Jessie; and with that she left the house, went through the garden and the adjoining churchyard, crossed a low stone bridge which spanned the river a few yards lower down, and began climbing the hillside.
It was pretty steep, but she did not feel it; she had been born among the hills, and fells, and dales. The dog bounded before her, sniffing the balmy air, odorous with the scent of the heather and the multitudinous wild flowers which grew on the hillside. It was a good walk before she reached the wicket-gate, and, lifting the latch, went into the farm garden.
A gravel path led up to the house. There were no weeds, no overgrowth of any sort, as is often the case in an uninhabited homestead.
He had never given any reason for his doing so, but the vicar had himself kept the place in order, had had repairs done when necessary, and had seen that the garden was trim and neat, and that every week the windows were thrown open. The house was literally buried in trees, so that till you came close up to it you could not see more than the outline of a building. There had been no clearance made for the last fifteen years, and the boughs of the elm-trees touched the windows.
It was not a large place: a stone house with a deep porch in the centre, on either side of which were long low windows, with lozenge-shaped panes of glass. On the first and only story were two similar windows, that was all; but the house extended far back, looking out upon a somewhat large court-yard, in which there were stables and outhouses, as was common in farmhouses.
Jessie turned the big key in the door; it opened immediately, and she entered a small, square hall. It was red-tiled and furnished with some oak chairs, and a great clock of the kind we nowadays call a grandfather’s clock. From this hall a staircase led to the upper rooms. On either side of the hall were doors, which Jessie now threw open. The one on the right hand showed a long, low, oak-panelled room, with a large fireplace, a great oak table in the centre, a sideboard, and a dresser, upon which were arranged plates, and dishes, and great pewter mugs.
Evidently this was the dining-hall and kitchen in one, for beyond was the scullery. Everything was spotlessly clean, save for a light covering of dust. The door on the other side of the hall led into a parlour, which was furnished with unusual luxury for those days. The sofas and easy-chairs were covered with a delicately faded chintz. There were taborets and small tables, scattered here and there, of highly-polished oak, upon which stood vases and big bowls of old china. A pair of virginals occupied one corner of the room, and beside them, on a stool, lay an unstrung guitar. It was a room which conjured up dreams. Who had dwelt there? What gentle soul had once touched those now broken cords, or let her fingers run over the notes of the virginals? There were portraits also on the walls, not many; but two attracted the eye at once. They represented a young man in full court dress of the time of Charles I, and a young girl, a child almost, in a white satin gown, with strings of pearls round her neck, and her fair, golden hair in curls about her forehead.
Jessie from her childhood had always loved this room. Once or twice she had asked her father whom these pictures represented, and what was the story of this house where no one dwelt, but he had answered:
“I cannot tell you, Jessie. I was a young man when I came here. I only saw the mistress once—when she was dying. Don’t ask me anything more, child!”
So she had dreamt of many things, and made pictures to herself of those who had once lived in those rooms.
Upstairs there were two bed-rooms with great beds in them, one shrouded in damask, the other in white dimity.
Looking out of the window she saw her father and the man coming up towards the house leading three horses. On two of them women were riding on pillions; the other one had no rider, but instead a girl was running on in front. She had thrown off her cloak, for although it was early morning the day was warm, and she was bareheaded.
Jessie went out into the porch, and, looking down at this girl, saw that her face and figure were unlike any she had ever seen before. She resembled a lily, tall and willowy, with golden hair, upon which the sun now glinted, and with a face so sweet that at a distance it might have been an angel’s.
She was evidently impatient, for she ran quickly on in front of the others. Once she paused and looked back, and Jessie heard her call out:
“Is it up there—all the way up there?”
And her father, raising his hat, had answered her:
“Yes, up there, my child.”
In a short time she had reached the wicket-gate, caught sight of Jessie in the porch, and laughed at her, such a glad, merry laugh, which seemed to bring joy with it, and stir up all the echoes in the old house!
Jessie started. Could it be that she heard that laugh re-echoed from somewhere? But she had no time to listen; her hands were taken, and rosy lips pouted to kiss her.
“You have come to welcome us!” exclaimed the girl. “That is good of you. Oh, I am so glad to be here; I am so tired!”
“One would not think so,” returned Jessie; “you have come so quickly.”
“Of course, of course I came quickly, because I am so tired,” was the merry answer. “Let me see.” And she pushed her way past Jessie and ran straight into the parlour.
“Oh, how sweet! how pretty!” she exclaimed. “I thought it would be ugly and desolate. Patience would not tell me; she said she had seen Holt Farm long long ago, and verily it looks as if someone had just gone out and left it for us. Oh, I shall be so happy here, so happy!” And she let herself fall into a great arm-chair, which seemed to swallow her up.
Just at that moment the vicar and Patience reached the house. The vicar lifted Patience down, and, turning, said to Rolfe, the man-servant:
“Take the horses round to the back. I will come and show you the way to the stables.”
“Thank you kindly, sir, I know the way,” answered Rolfe. “You had better get down here,” he added, speaking to the serving-woman, and he lifted her to the ground; but she was stiff with her long journeyings, and would have fallen if he had not steadied her.
“Lack-a-day!” she exclaimed, “I hope this is the end of our journeyings. A poor place, and a lonely one! Why, man, we might be murdered up here and no one be any the wiser!”
“Have no fear; you will not be murdered,” said Rolfe, and, taking the three horses by their reins, he led them away.
Patience had entered the house. Her face was very white, her eyes full of tears, as she stood inside the parlour door looking around her.
Agnes, when she saw her, sprang up.
“Patience, you never told me it was so beautiful! It is the loveliest little place I have ever seen.”
“It is a very humble home,” said Patience, “but it is home.”
“I have never had a home before,” said Agnes, “only big rambling palaces. I shall love this; it breathes of love.” And, taking Jessie’s hand, she said, “Take me, show me everything.”
Jessie looked at her father. This impetuous young person was a revelation to them both; life was so still and calm at St. Mary’s, for so the hamlet was called. A little way down the river there had once been a chapel, dedicated to the Virgin. It formed part of an old convent, but the convent and chapel had been destroyed in the time of Henry VIII; a few stones only remained to show where it had been, but the name of St. Mary’s had remained to the hamlet.
“Well,” said Agnes, “are you not going to show me anything?” And she frowned at Jessie.
“Yes, yes! Come, I will show you all!” Jessie answered quickly, as if she were bound to obey this newcomer.
“First tell me your name.”
“My name is Jessie,” was the answer.
“And mine is Agnes. That will do; now, Jessie, come along.” And the young feet pattered away over the tiled floors, through the kitchen and scullery, out into the court-yard, then up the stairs, and through the bed-rooms, awakening echoes where there had been a long silence.
Patience looked up at the vicar.
“Have I done well?” she asked.
“I think you have done well and wisely,” he answered.
“And you, is it well with you? How beautifully you have kept the place. It is just as we left it.”
“I have done my best,” the vicar answered; “it has been a labour of love. I thought you would bring the child home one day.”
“It is time I did,” she answered.