Mayroyd of Mytholm. A romance of the Fells

Chapter I. Doubt And Perplexity

The sun was high in the heavens when John Mayroyd and David Robley left Mytholm for the fells, in search of the unfortunate Shep. Both were in quiet mood, and, smoking incessantly as they went along, spake little. To Mayroyd, at least, half the interest of the expedition was lost ; he could not keep his thoughts from wandering back to the scene in Burrell's bed-room. What he had seen and heard there weighed upon him with a heavy load. VOL. III. B He had never thought his conduct could be misconstrued ; that there were any who could imagine, much less dare to say, that he had underhand motives — selfish ends of the basest sort — in befriending Alison Pellet. His own conscience acquitted him, but still the sting of Burrell's taunt remained, and would remain, aye, as long as he lived. His own injury kept him from dwelling on the more puzzling question of Alison's guilt or innocence ; for, although he had boldly declared to David that he did not believe her anything but pure, still there remained the indirect assurance of her mother, and the tell-tale evidence of that little red shoe.

Damning evidence, and, not considering the characters of those who had given it, conclusive — so it had seemed to Mayroyd at the first, but, during the walk home, his trustful mind had found grounds for hope. As for David — wrung with the dread news that Mayroyd had told him — his thoughts ran all to Salterlee — longing, yearning to see Alison herself, and learn from her lips all the truth. Know it he must. He persuaded himself they had nothing to fear from the truth. All the sorrow was the accompaniment of false hood — cruel falsehood, yet such as must all be cleared away ere he took her to be his wife. Mayroyd's advice, he owned, was good, always had been. But for him, in his wild passion, he would have gone and offered the girl his heart at once, proudly scorning to so much as own, by a doubt, the existence of a doubt in her.

Now he saw that it was not only a duty he owed to himself, but one he owed to her much more, as his future wife, to clear the misunder standing, and stop the mouth of scandal for ever. b By this they were on the moor, and making their way to the mountain cave. Old Abe was just returning on his shaggy pony, accompanied by half-a-dozen dogs, from his day's round the fell— his fell, where his flocks pastured. Inquiring the object of their journey, and being told, he required little persuading to accompany them. But there were the pony and dogs. *• And what o' them, pray ? Towser," he added, " thou can be waddlin' down to Whipdale Bottom ; and you, Boxer," addressing the oldest cur, " see if you can't find a fell hare, long i' the leg and short i' the lugs; and, if you find one, meet me at the gate wid it.

Now, then, off you beggars ! " and, dismounting, he made a dash among the dogs with his fist, and away they went, scampering in all directions, while the pony began to graze by the side of the track. What a blessing is a merry heart ! One that can smile under every difficulty. One who knows how to sympathise, but knows much better how to cheer. One who can see the trouble in your mood, and, without even asking you what it is, sets himself at once to create a diversion that shall be effective, and draw you out of yourself, like the misanthropic snail, who complained, as he lay rolled up in his shell, that the sun never shone now, and never would again. With joke and crack he beguiled the way, and it was not long before all three were deeply engaged arguing the point, viz. whether Tyson's Ringwood or Jobson's Slink was the better hound at a cold scent.

What mattered it if it was trivial, and what if Abe had to argue against his own convic tions ? he knew what he was doing, and he knew when Mayroyd got excited and David aggressive that his object was attained. " What matters ! " he said to himself ; " it's all in a lifetime, and what's the use of moulderin' and groanin' when you might just as weel sing." They arrived at the cave at length. It was evident no one had been there since they left, for the tallow dips they had used still lay, where they had dropped them, at the mouth of the cave, when Shep so sud denly disappeared. Picking up one cf these, and motioning to his friends to do likewise, Mayroyd prepared to enter. The others followed him, and at length stood in the pool at the mouth of the den. Here they stayed to light their tapers and their pipes; then, with Mayroyd leading, they advanced up the bed of the stream, their shadows cast on the impenetrable gloom, looking like weird giants as they struggled unsteadily on.

Since they entered none had spoken a word, but now Old Abe, who was the last, stopped, and, holding his torch aloft, looked round. The scene was weird and unearthly in the extreme. The roof was low, damp, and thickly-studded with stalactites, in which as it seemed were myriad reflections of his torch. On each side the cave widened out, but the view was obstructed by the nume rous jnllars, some massive and straight as a sculptured shaft, others contorted and irregular, and others fluted or screened by a filmy tissue of immaculate white, ivory like lace. It seemed as if it had been the work of some mighty master of craft — for there was order, or at least there seemed to be ; an intricate arrangement, that would require a lifetime to unravel and under stand, but was yet suggestive and alluring.

Wrapt in auiazement Old Abe stood speech less, while the others not missing him left him far behind. At length Mayroyd stopped. He had passed beauties innumer able without seeing them, but here, faced as he was by what appeared to him an enormous wedding-cake, ready to be placed on the festal board, in all its garniture of tissue and spangled fretwork, he stood amazed. David too looked round, and at once gave vent to a cry of admiration. ■' Look ! " he cried, and holding the torch aloft in his left hand pointed far away to the left. It was a glorious, a thrilling sight. Adown a long vista of parallel columns that grew shorter and nearer as they receded, the light of their torches fell on a sheet of rippleless water, black and limpid, in its depth reflecting the columns, the sparkling stalactites above, and the yellow light of the candles over all.

As they stood lost in enchantment a sound like the tolling of a musical bell smote their ears, borne through the silent hall. It startled them, but not for long ; as directly after they heard Old Abe, though speaking to himself, say, " Cush ! that's bell-metal — it must be." He had struck at what he could make out to be nothing else but a priest in miniature, robed for service, on a ledge above him, with uplifted hand preach ing to a congregation — evidently standing amid a grove of trees. Slowly he drew up. -•I'll tell you what," he said; "this place caps all. I never saw nowt like it ; but I'll tell you what — it strikes me we're i' the spot Sam Skirrow ligs in." The charm was broken at once. " It is the very place, I dare venture," said Mayroyd. " For sure it is," added Abe. "We must have missed the spot where the lad was tied," said David, looking round.

"Aye, we've passed it; it was just off the side, wasn't it?" So quietly leaving the rest of the cave for future exploration they turned back. They found the bracken-bed and the broken ring where the lad had been fastened. Shep was not there — they did not expect him to be. Full of the new thoughts the discovery had given them, assured that at last they had found the place where Sam Skirrow was thrown, they quietly left the cave and went home. There they talked the matter over and made an agreement to go at some favourable opportunity and thoroughly explore the mysterious hall. As evening descended they started off for Salterlee. Mayroyd's thoughts had flown back there, and David's too. As for Old Abe, when he felt inclined to go to the Red Buck, and he often did, he could always find an errand.

So together they started on the long, pleasant mountain walk to the village. Inside the Red Buck all was silent. The old dame was knitting at the table, sitting where she could see down the narrow pas sage out at the front door which stood wide open. The three entered and took their seats about the grate, in which a smoulder ing peat passed for fire. It is perhaps note worthy that whenever we enter a room — a familiar room — we invariably face the fire place, be it cheery with ruddy glow or black with cold neglect. The force of habit no doubt accounts for this — our jolly English habit of seeing as well as feeling the genial heat. Our continental brethren lose half the pleasure — they are content to feel. We, with all our faults and want of love for luxury, consider that the gratification of two senses is better than the gratification of one, at least so far as regards this matter of warming ourselves.

Three humming pints soon appeared on the board, and to the gratified amazement of all the landlady generously gave each a sprinkling of pepper. " What'll happen next, I wonder!" said Abe. " Has the cow cauved, missus ? " " What, because I've given you a smatterin' o' pepper ? " " Gi'en ! " said Abe. " It's the first time you ever gave owt i' your life, I'll be boun'." " Why, be thankful if I start noo," said the dame, as she resumed her knitting. " You'll ha' come to see hoo Burrell's gettin' on I lay, Mayroyd ? " she continued, addressing that person. " Aye ! Ha' you heard owt?" "Nay, nowt par ticular. Only he's gay bad by all accounts." " Oh ! he'll be all reet in a day or two," said Abe. " T' blues is bad to bide, but they're no killin' matter." "Is he in bed?" asked David, shyly. " I fancy he will be noo," she said.

" He had one of his tan trums this morn, sacked nearly all his sar vants, and went on like one possess." " There's else forbye the blues matter wi' him," said Abe, and shook his head ominously. "It's bad to bide when a fello' gets to be his age, afore he finds it out that. he's a fool. When a fello' turns into forties it's ower late to turn anodder leaf and begin afresh ! " " Aye," assented Mayroyd. " It is a sad case for any man who doesn't find himself out before then. But some folks never do find themselves out at all. They live happy-go-lucky lives. They ' take the good of every day and hope for more to morrow ' ; but hoping is all they do ; they neither say thank you for what they receive nor ask for what they want. Useless lives. One wonders why such creatures are put in the world at all ; but then they do say, - It takes all sorts to make a world.' " " I'll tell you what," said the old dame, " Burrell has had all he wantit to make him a man but one thing."

" What's that ? " asked Mayroyd. " Trouble," said the old woman, quietly. " He's had all his own way, and he's spoilt. Aye, like a spoilt bairn ! " Just then Jod Bragg entered, flushed and elate. " Just the man I wanted to see," he exclaimed, addressing Mayroyd ; and straightway ordering a pint and generously inviting all to drink up, he began his relation of the scenes he and his friend Alec had been movers in at the Old Hall. To say that Mayroyd and Robley were amused is to say very little — both laughed very heartily. In the midst of their mirth the dame coming in with the beer whispered, " Hush ! There's Alison going past to Tyson's." "Who?" shouted Jod, heed lessly ; then scornfully, *' What of her ? What is she when she is reckoned up ? Cush ! the idea o' tellin' decent chaps like me and Maister Mayroyd and Robley there to hush while yon thing gets past."

He paused to drink. " I'll tell you all what she is," he said. " Thou'd best keep thy mooth shut," said Mayroyd. -' What, for a hussy like yon ? Our old gaffer's flame ? " he went on. Mayroyd looked at David, and he saw Jod would not be allowed to say many more words in the same strain. " Get a pint of ale into you, Jod," said he, "and hold your tongue." "Comes to summat," said Jod, not to be stopped, " when a lass like yon wi' a bairn — a chance '' Before he could finish he was borne down to the floor, and David Robley pinned him there. It would have gone hard with him, too, but for Mayroyd and Old Abe, who pulled him away bodily like a mauled sheep from the clutch of a bear. David ramped in his ungovernable livid rage, and seemed as if he would have torn poor Jod to atoms. But Jod, like a crest fallen, broken-winged game-bird, went the shortest way home out of his enemy's reach.

When things were calmer the dame told them how Jod came to think and say what he did. The information only made the case worse. Burrell, it seemed, had placed the stigma of disgrace on Alison. Un wittingly, perhaps, but it amounted to the same thing, Jod had put two and two together, and in his unsteady state had concluded that the surmises he had long felt were true. " It's a pity ever Burrell cam' here," said the dame ; "he was never meant for a place o' this sort." Whatever Mayroyd thought on this point he kept to himself. After a good deal of study, which — thanks to the disappearance of Old Abe to the sanctum of old Walt, to consult him upon an ailing beast, and the reverie of David Robley — was undisturbed, he left for the Old Hall, determined to know all or beard the lion in his den.

David knew where he had gone and sat silent, paying little heed to the garrulity of the landlady, thinking deeply. At last he, too, rose and walked out into the still night air, leaving his last pint almost untasted. VOL. lit. c

Chapter II. Freedom

A sleepless night gave place at length to day, and, weary and haggard, Alison rose from her bed to face the difficulties she knew full well she would that day have to meet. Decided that she could no longer remain under the same roof as covered her persecutor, she was not decided how she was to leave it, and whither she was to go. It seemed to her as if there was no place for her in the world. Other girls had uncles and aunts who were always glad to see them. She had none. Save Burrell and FREEDOM. her mother, not a relative in the world. Had she not ? For almost the first time she asked herself this question. Had her father, whom she had never known, no relatives ? Hitherto his name had been seldom men tioned in her ears ; and the few times he had been mentioned by her mother it had always struck her that he must have been a being detested while he lived, forgotten and neglected soon as dead.

In her child hood she had, as other orphans, questioned her mother of the parent who was gone ere she could know him, and had been answered invariably that he was in Heaven, — a place which seemed to her at that time a very dreadful place, since, so far as she was taught, it was at the best a decorated prison, holding within its golden gates the object of her love and yearning. Mary Pellet, it was probable, had vague notions of what it is herself. Whenever she had c2 occasion to speak of it it seemed as if she did so with reluctance and a fear that made her anxious to ignore it; maybe, because self-conscious that it was a place which, although she hoped to go to when she had done with earth, her chosen path was scarcely leading to. But now in her straits Alison asked this question of herself.

She could not answer it, but surely her mother could ! It was at the mid-day meal — dinner — that the first opportunity occurred. Burrell was not there. After satisfying himself with drink, he had tottered back to bed, from which he had so angrily risen when, in a lapse of delirium, he had recognised his happy bed-fellow, Jod, and was now deep in a drunkard's sleep. Once or twice in the morning she had seen her mother, but till now no words had passed between them. Steeling herself to the inevitable, FREEDOM. her mother asked her in a conversational way how she had slept, and if she did not feel well. Alison, controlling herself, listened and answered abstractedly. "Mother!" she said at last, " where is my father's grave?" The question took Mary Pellet somewhat aback, but she answered coolly enough, "At Longtown.

Haven't I told you before? " " It is so long since I have forgotten," said Alison, playing with her fork. *• What makes you ask that now ? '.' went on her mother. "What was he — a gentleman ? " " No," was the short answer. "What then?" "He was connected with the Ordnance Survey, one of the gangers of sappers and miners." " What's that ? " asked Alison, wonderingly. " They came from London to map out the district." " From London ! " thought Alison. " He was an adventurer. He made love to me, and said he was well enough off. followed him against my friends' wishes. We were married at Gretna. He died just after you were born, and it was as well," she finished. " You never saw any of his relations, then?" "No, never heard he had any," was the matter-of-fact reply. The last hope was shattered, and she relapsed into silence, while her mother left the room.

The servants came to clear away, and then she thoughtfully retired to her own little sitting-room. What could she do ? Nothing. She must stay where she was. There was no alternative. Of course she must. If she went away, what would the villagers say, " Good shutness to bad rubbish ; " that was what they would say. Rumour would develop into certainty. No ; she must stay where she was. What ? And bear the unjust burden ? Yes, for her sake ; for her mother, whose offspring she felt fully assured the mysterious child must be. FREEDOM. After an afternoon of thought and sorrow, that was what she confessed to herself must be her fate. The heavy ominous twilight of a joyless life. Hope must be crushed. Anticipated joy blurred out. Plans for the future all ruthlessly torn to fragments and cast from her, as one casts the fragments of a useless letter torn to infinitesimal pieces in a fit of wanton languor.

She knew not why, but it was so, nevertheless. She felt a repugnance to going out. It seemed as if she could never face the villagers again. And yet why not ? She was innocent ! In very truth, yes. In her resolution to bear the blame of another's sin, however, she must be "guilty." In the eyes of all she must be guilty. She knew that. She knew that her conviction had taken place years ago. In the eyes of the villagers the divulgence of the secret child would only fall as the fulfilment of expectancy. They would shake their heads and say, " Just as I expected," or, " What else could one expect ? " And then, assured of her guilt, they would cease to persecute her— to scandalise her. Her mother was not speaking without knowledge when she said, " That when once she had married Burrell the gossips would turn from scorn and derision to flattery and fawning."

To acknowledge, by silence, this child as hers was to do the same thing. Was it ? She had not thought of that before. Utterly overcome at the thought she could rest no longer. What, oh, what was she to do ? She was perplexed. One of the servants brought her tea, and she sipped it slowly and without relish. She heard Burrell's voice at last, and the sound, roused her to action. She could not bear to see him ; she loathed him doubly now. Hastily throwing a shawl about her, FREEDOM. she passed out into the deepening twilight. She could see a light in Ally Tyson's room, and, with a ray of comfort beaming thence, soothing her sorrows, she went to see her only friend. " David Robley and John Mayroyd are at the Red Buck," was Mrs. Tyson's greeting. Alison blushed, and, making an excuse for being late, asked if Ally was awake.

"Yes; of course I am," came a winning voice down the twisted staircase. Alison mounted up rapidly. "How's Mr. Robley?" asked Ally. " I heard mother say he was at the Red Buck. I hope he doesn't drink, Alison ? " " Not much, I think," said Alison. " You think I thought you would have known by this," laughed Ally, quietly. Catching sight of her friend's shadowed countenance, she asked, suddenly, " Alison, what ever is the matter — are you ill ? " The solicitous tones touched Alison deeply. She broke into tears — " Alison " — and the invalid tried to rise — " come to me. Come ! something is the matter. Tell me what it is." But she could not. The friend's simple allusions to David Robley had opened up a fountain of feeling she had crushed until now, though she hardly knew at what a cost. Her friend was troubled deeply.

" Come, Alison," she pleaded, " let me comfort you now." And she stretched her thin white hands above the coverlet to Alison's bowed head, which, as she sat on the floor, rested disconsolately on the edge of the bed, her tear-filled eyes gazing into " what might have been " — full of a speechless sorrow. "Won't you tell me ? " pleaded Ally, more earnestly, while tears welled in her own eyes. Her emotion roused Alison, and, turning her face, she tried to smile through her tears. It was in vain. Her friend's sorrow calmed hers, however, and, FREEDOM. rising, she stroked the white brow and the thin brown hair above it. " You mustn't be troubled, Ally, if I am," she said, as she kissed her tenderly. " Oh, Alison ! " sobbed the invalid, " I know what troubles you ! " Alison looked at her friend wonderingly, the tears forgetting to flow.

" I know your sorrow, Alison. Mother has told me ; but " — suddenly throwing her arms about Alison's neck — " they lie ! they lie ! " she repeated, and the two girls mingled their tears. It was long before they could calm them selves. In Alison's grief there mingled fear. Her worst surmises were fulfilled — she was a town's talk. She had calculated on that ; she knew it was inevitable, but she did not know until now how hard it was to bear. " You must go away, Alison," said Ally, at length — *' go away, and never come back." "•What the future has in store' — do you remember, Ally ? Do you envy me now ? " asked Alison, bitterly. "God only knows what is best," was the quiet answer; "I have ceased repining." "No; the future has nothing for me," murmured Alison. " I envy you." "Oh, don't say that."

"The future you cannot know. We must trust and do right, and let the future remain veiled. It may be brighter than you think, even for you." " How can it be bright — how can it ever clear ? " said Alison. " It is dark — very dark," whispered her friend. " Woman's sin is never forgotten." " But I have not sinned," cried Alison ; " the guilt is not mine." " You have elected to bear it, Alison." "Elected?" "Yes." The look in her friend's eyes assured her that she knew all. "It is noble, Alison — but it is cruel. God help you to bear it bravely." Tears drowned the last words. " Ally," said Alison, " it must be kept a secret." FREEDOM. "Yes, until truth discovers it. I shall be dead then." " Good-night. I am weary." It was late when Alison left the house — so late that David Robley, who had been watching for her, had concluded that he must have missed her while he chatted with the blacksmith.

She walked quickly down the road, full of her own sorrow. She hesitated at the gate. A loud harangue was going on in the sitting-room. Words that stung her deeply she plainly heard. Heard Burrell lie an awful lie ! She crept up silently, a feeling of rage swelling in her heart. John Mayroyd was there. She heard him swear to stand by her ; she heard him give Burrell the lie, and more, she heard a soft, oily, viper-like voice speaking disparagingly of her — the voice of the Rev. Harve Jannock. She stood there unable to move. Never again would she enter that door. She burst into a flood of tears. All the world was dark — everything against her. Only Mayroyd ! He stood up for her— aye, although from his words she gathered that he assumed her guilty. There was comfort in having him on her side.

She was not utterly alone. " Thou has blighted her life — ruined her ! " she heard Mayroyd say, and the rest seemed a confused babble. " Alison ! " a voice startled her as she leaned at the gate. It was Mayroyd's — she lifted a stricken face to his. " Poor lass ! " he ejaculated, feelingly — so feelingly that the tones caused Alison to weep. " Come home with me," said Mayroyd; "you are home less now. You can go there no more." Alison seemed to heed him not. " Hollo, John ! I thought you were never coming " — and David Robley, catching sight of Alison, broke off. " Don't be alarmed, David. I'm only trying to persuade her to come home wi' me." " And she will. Won't FREEDOM. you, Alison ? " " Well, I'll leave you to per suade her, David. You'll succeed better than I. I'll call at the Red Buck, an' if you look in as you pass I'll be ready to go home wi' you.

Now, Alison," he went on, addressing the girl, " you know you are welcome. You know you can stay here no longer. Come, and it will be out of slavery into freedom. Make her consent, David," he added, as he turned away. Left alone with her lover, Alison felt calmer. For a moment David said nothing. He looked at her with love and pity in his eyes. Never had she seemed so lovely to him as now. " Come, Alison." he said at length. Slowly turning to him and looking up to his manly face, she asked in trembling tones, "Do you know all, David?" Kissing her tenderly, " Did I not promise you — did I not tell you before, Alison ? " he answered, in his great love. "Things are different now," she said. "Not to me, Alison," he said. " You are still the same pure girl you were then." The look in his eyes assured her, and the sound of the door opening decided her.

They stood under the shadow of the limes until the priest passed by. Then they walked up the quiet village street together. David slipped into the Red Buck and was out in a moment. John May royd followed them at a respectful distance, evidently enjoying his pipe, and oblivious of the two before him. After they had got upon the moor, however, he drew up. " I'm going to be left out in the cold no longer," he said. " It is lonety, and you can court all night if you like after we get home.'' Alison laughed lightly. She could not have explained it; but she did feel strangely happy. The clear, crisp night-air blew coolly on her heated brow, and played with her light tresses, breathing liberty into her FREEDOM. soul. Under her feet the soft mossy carpet of the moorland felt like velvet. On either side the mountains loomed away, hid up to the shoulders in swathes of mist, lit up on the summits with the last lingering almost undefinable halo of the longvanished sun refracted from light clouds above.