Lord Maskelyne's Daughter. A story of the Northern Border ... Author's edition

Front matter

LORD MASKELYNE'S DAUGHTER. LOED MASKELYNE'S DAUGHTER 2\ Stovi} of the Northern Æorocr. BY ROSA MACKENZIE KETTLE, f K lfi AUTHOR OF 'THE RANGER'S LODGE,' ' LA EELLE MARIE,' 'OVER THE FURZE,' 'HILLESDEN ON THE MOORS,' ETC, ETC, ETC. ' Fly from the crowd and dwell with steadfastness ; Suffice thine own estate, though it be small ; For horde brings hate and climbing doubtfulness ; Covet no more than God behoves thee fall ; Pressure breeds malice, wealth is sought by all. Rule well thyself if thou would'st others lead, And Truth shall delivere, it is no drede.' AUTHOR'S EDITION. LONDON : JAMES WEIR, 283, REGENT STREET 1880. [All Rights Reserved.']

Preface

. I cannot send forth this new story, in which entirely fresh ground is trodden, forming, as it does, the thirteenth volume of the " Author's Edition of Eosa Mackenzie Kettle's Works," without a few words of thanks to my unknown critics in London and in the country. To one especially, whose eloquent notices were in themselves most poetical, the late George Gil fillan, I owe the deepest gratitude ; and I must always regret, although his successors treat me most kindly, that I can no longer receive his cordial congratulations. Living as I do among the Dorset heaths and fir-woods, my books, like myself, might have vi

PREFACE.

. remained in obscurity, had it not been for the cordial recognition of such merit as they kindly judged them to possess by the gentle men connected with the press; especially the Editors of "The Saturday Eeview," "The Queen," "Vanity Fair," "The Examiner," " Public Opinion," " Court Journal," " Dundee Advertiser," "Scotsman," and the very able writers in the " Derby Mercury " and " Derby shire Courier," "Halifax Guardian," "Dorset County Chronicle," and other London and Pro vincial papers — all strangers to me except through the medium of my books Another class of my countrymen and women, to whom I desire to record my gratitude, com prises the toilers and workers in England, Scotland and Ireland, who enjoy my books and often thank me for them. Their approbation of my romantic tales is a proof that they are true to nature. The best reward of my labour, which has always been one of love, is to know that the sick and sorry — the weary and heavy-

PREFACE.

. laden — love my works ; and that they may be found, but are seldom left on the shelves, in Working Men's Institutes, Public and Free Libraries, in Yorkshire cottages, and the picturesque, but, alas, often comfortless abodes of Southern and West - Country agricultural labourers and fishermen. " La Belle Marie," which will form the four teenth volume of this series, is now printed in some parts from my original manuscript. It contains many true anecdotes of smuggling as it was practised at the close of the last and commencement of the present century on the south-western coast, as well as of the daring deeds of the bold contraband traders of Hurst monceaux, and other Sussex villages, — a trade now almost passed away, but well remembered still. If encouraged and assisted as I have hitherto been, I hope to bring out in the same cheap but durable form another dozen volumes of " Author's Edition," which will include " Lewell

PREFACE.

. Pastures," a romance of the Welsh Borderland ; " Over the Furze," a chronicle of Dorset ; " Sir Frederick Derwent," a Devonshire Tale — and any new stories which I may write; and I sincerely trust that my principal object, which is to afford healthy recreation to English men and women, girls and boys, may be fulfilled. Bosa Mackenzie Kettle. Heathside, April, 1880. a 1 PAET THE FIEST. SOUTH OF THE CHEVIOTS. Old Hills, grey Hills, could answering voice from out your stone awake, From quarries deep, from boggy flats, what memories would up-break ! What tales of days far back and lost, lost in the haze of time — Could ye but speak, what strange romance of battles, love and crime ! What thought the Roman, looking back from heathery summits down On spreading tent — where standeth now, perchance, an embryo town] What thought he, gazing down the road that Cæsar'.s legions wrought .

Dreamed he of mightier victory, gained by the great conqueror—Thought . Old Hills, where once the Briton crouched 'neath trees that stand no more ; 'Neath giant shade of pine and oak, of larch and sycamore ; Dreamed he — that painted savage, then — dreamed he in tranquil sleep Of other use for all his wool than wearing skins of sheep . Saw he the busy mills, or heard, far-off, the bellowing forge, And all the busy industries that fill our hill-side gorge . And we, their children, know we half that shall be in the time When we are dust— but ye, old Hills, shall yet be in your prime ?" Maria F. Newall. >feK'

Chapter I

" Tweed said to Till, ' What gars ye rin sae still V Till said to Tweed, ' Though ye rin wi' speed And I rin slaw, Yet where ye drown ae man, I drown twa." ' I wish I could make you see the great Moors on the English side of Carter Fell as they appeared to me when I was a lad, scarcely big enough to ride the huge cart-horses belonging to the Northumbrian farm where I was reared. That is the right word — I was not brought up tenderly, as the poorest peasant's son may be at his mother's knee, but reared, like the young colts which kicked out at me viciously. 1—2 I have seen a great deal of the Northern Moors since that time, but then I had nothing by which to measure them. Infinite space seemed to lie around me, steeped in mist or bathed in moonlight. As I crept under some stone-heap to eat my frugal meal, with sharp showers driving past and over my lowly shelter, the rolling waste around me, bounded by the clouded heavens, was the only world I knew.

When I was twelve years old, my prospects brightened. My father's sister, the only one who survived him, came to take care of her orphan nephew. She had been living with a lady near Jed burgh — a distant connection — as trusted friend and companion ; and as, on the Scottish side of the Border, family ties count more than in England, the dif ference in their social state was almost forgotten. Aunt Jessica at once took possession of a small homestead on the verge of the Moor, where her parents and my own had resided ; and from that hour till her death we lived happily there together. This little property, dwelling-house, crofts, orchard and garden, belonged to me ; and my Aunt cleared off a mortgage which a succession of bad harvests had obliged my father to lay upon the small farm wliich also called him master.

As a reward for faithful service, my Aunt's former mistress and friend had left her a sufficient legacy to make her independent, and enough remained when the debt on my inheritance was cleared off to enable her to purchase some adjoining land. For a time, however, I continued to work for Farmer Hurst; going home in the evenings, and always spending the Sabbath under our own roof. I can see my Aunt still, as plainly as ever ; for my boyish pictures were few and strongly painted. She was a tall, thin, elderly woman, of grave aspect ; who moved about quietly, and seldom spoke or smiled, and always wore, winter and summer, morning and evening, a large black bonnet. It was a pleasant shade, she said, in the hot summer days, when she was scarcely ever indoors ; and in the wild weather, which often rattled our old casement panes and shook the walls of our dwelling on the Northern Moors, it kept off draughts.

To this beloved relative I owe the greater part of my boyish acquirements ; all the scholarship which did not come to me self-taught or from my free com munion with nature. Jessica Forbes was a great reader. On the shelf in the parlour were, besides our Bibles, Prayer and Hymn-books, several volumes which had been gifts from her kind friend and mistress, and some which she had purchased for herself. I believe I could re peat most part of their contents now— some of them from end to end— but I will spare you even their names. You might laugh at the simple catalogue ; and to me it is sacred. I question whether any books I have since read have taught me as much as I learned while tending sheep on the hill-side, with the volume spread open on the grass; spelling it word for word, and arriving at some meaning or other as I pondered over each page.

In the long winter evenings my Aunt taught me to write and keep accounts. I had no other teacher. Over and over again as I lay among the everlasting hills I read the Book of Job. When it grew too dark to distinguish the letters, I used to look up at the sky and try to guess which was Arcturus and many a shining constellation, wondering what was meant by their shouting for joy. A star shooting from the zenith seemed to answer me. Another and another August or November meteor followed in the gloaming. A planet trembled above the hill-top. I seemed to realise that there was a joy beyond the joys of earth in those realms of light. The stars were my clock, and I wanted no com pass as I wended my darkling way home. Each point of light had a name by which I knew it as well as if I had studied astronomy for years.

Some times I bit upon the right one, either learning it from the Bible or through some chance observation. Be that as it may, right or wrong, I read the heavens — as I read my Aunt's books — from end to end and then back again, and I never forgot the lesson. One other thing I learnt, worth all that life has taught me since. I got it by heart, and I have never forgotten it. That wonderful story which began when shepherds, like those who tended flocks on the Moor, saw the bright star in the East. "Was it the one I so often watched rising above the great green hill, crowned by a camp, where I had read that a great battle was once fought . I thought so, and that was enough, since no one troubled himself to contradict me. That wonderful story of One humbly born, to all appearance, like myself, and with nowhere to lay His head, yet growing to be greater than the greatest earthly monarch; now carrying the tender lambs who gave me so much trouble on February nights ; now bearding the conquerors of the world and the High Priest of God's chosen people.

From the Manger of Bethlehem to the Cross on Calvary ; from the dread temptation hour in the desert to the struggle in the Garden, where He was left alone to bear His burden, I followed Him step by step, syllable by syllable, picturing to myself tbe Hills of Judea, the Fords of Jordan, the stable, with the lowing sweet-breathed kine, the mighty darkness like that which sometimes fell upon me suddenly among the bills ; I went on making every image real by the force of an uncorrupted fancy, and comparing what I read with what I saw, alone with Nature, on the Moors. The Saviour's parables came home to me like the words of a parent. The seed dropped on stony ground ! Why, it lay all around us — arid, ungrateful to the tiller. — The wandering sheep, sought for and found at last with pain and difficulty, therefore more valued than all the fold which went not astray.

How often I had searched the lone wild bills bordering on the waste, for stragglers from the flock ! Even before I understood their meaning the pictures were plainly before me, and I puzzled out the rest ; diving deep into their hidden significance, as those alone decipher mysteries who read few books and think upon them long and often, as I did in the silence of the hills, with the light shining down upon the page from heaven uninterrupted, making illumination in the heart. There were men working upon the farm from whom I took likenesses for the Saviour's followers. One who bore patiently with me, and sometimes ex plained the meaning of a difficult passage, was John, the beloved disciple. Another, a young man who kept the books straight for Farmer Hurst, I fancied to be like Matthew, busy with the collection of customs.

Another I named Peter — rash but generous — a word and a blow — all passion one minute, penitence the next. The carter, crafty and designing, who often made me suffer for some fault or negligence of his own, laying blame where it was not due and avoiding it himself, was Judas, coward and traitor, deceiving a kind master. Just as the stars had their names and attributes, the men around me were classed. Jacob and Esau, Abraham and Isaac, had their prototypes at the sheep-shearings ; and in our late harvests I fancied I saw Ruth gleaning among the sheaves, and Boaz telling the young men to treat her kindly : but our rustic damsels did not get such plentiful store as the fair Moabitess, as they followed in the wake of Farmer Hurst's labourers, and the carts bearing home the corn from the fields bordering on the stony Moors.

The grand simple words of Scripture called up images familiar to me on all sides. The river in the desert was the rushing arrowy stream, one of the tributaries of the Tyne, which flowed down from the Cheviots LORD MASKELSNE'S DAUGHTER: through the Moor. " The shadow of a great rock in a weary land ;" — well, there was the great cairn which had sheltered me in many a tempest, and the green hill where the ancient Britons had shed so much blood that it was said to have fertilised the soil and made it ever verdant. The fatted calf — the rustic merry-making — the Prodigal's return — how I acted them all over to myself; as I lay dreamily watching the small black-faced sheep cropping the short sweet grass on the Moor, or the red short-horned cattle drinking deep at the shady pool under the birch trees, near our own door.

This small property which owned me for its master, partly moorland, was divided, or, as we say in Northumberland, " marched " by heath banks from the neighbouring uncultivated waste. Much larger properties, varying in extent, lay around us; and almost every description of scenery, from the rude Moors, scattered over with cairns and tumuli, to the softly falling verdant meadows and swiftly flowinf streams wandering through them, or lost between steep banks crowned by waving ash and bendinc birch. The scarlet-berried rowan-trees glowing above the red tiles of our house formed in autumn a combina tion as pretty and cheerful as any of which I had read, belonging to Southern vales, in my story-books ; with my Aunt's bee-hives basking in sunshine on the slope, and the water glancing through the bending boughs that lay almost in the stream.

That late season in the north seemed more like summer than the earlier months, which were often marred by deluges of rain, after the bitterly cold easterly winds of spring following our long snowy winters. Here and there, through the trees, glimpses were caught of the distant Cheviots, and of a nearer range of hills, through which the river found its way to us. Though our soil was in parts thin and cold, with patches of purple heath on the hill-sides, and often bogs and morasses vividly green below, parts of the low ground were fertile and well-wooded. The harvests were gathered in earlier in our district than in most others as near the northern border. Perhaps the method of farming was old-fashioned. Men like our good neighbour, Farmer Hurst, abjured new ideas and reverenced the wisdom of their fore fathers ; but, after all, with such startling variations of soil and climate as we were favoured with on the borders of the stony moor, it was more than doubt ful whether plans adopted in wealthy, fertile Eng lish counties would have answered better than the system of rotation of crops taught by experience of many stormy unfavourable seasons, as well as under propitious skies such as sometimes, but not frequently, lightened and brightened our labour.

Certainly, I have never seen or tasted mellower apples than grew on the espalier trees which bordered our garden walks. Our fruit did not ripen early, but it was excellent ; and the abundant moisture of the earlier summer months fostered our crops, whilst the short but bril liant later season enabled us to bring the golden grain in and garner it safely and with joy. There was a kindly fellow-feeling too, in those days, between the larger and smaller proprietors, and between master and man, tenant and landholder, which is scarcely to be found now. We helped each other, and lent a hand willingly till all our stores were gathered in, and the long cold winter of the north fell upon us ; when no man could work, and the cold snow and biting frost lay over vale and hill, and covered still more deeply the wide waste moorland.

Chapter II

" No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled brook below was still; No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem. " The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew ; Far from us, ere the day was done, The wooded hills shut out the sun. " But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified ; A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare." J. G Whittier. Many a trick was played upon me in my boyhood by the rough hinds at the Manor Farm. The worst of all — for which I have to thank the man I had named Judas — was one which nearly maimed and blinded me for life. There was a wall-eyed colt, bred on Farmer Hurst's land, as vicious as it was ugly, that lashed and kicked out at everyone who had occasion to go near him. The master sent him to be sold for what he would fetch at a Fair in the neighbourhood, but no one would buy him at any price ; so the man, whose craft and greed had made me liken him to the false apostle, was forced to bring back the brute, in a temper as surly as its own.

Now, as ill-luck would have it, I had gone, after work was over, to look at the booths; and our Judas caught sight of me just after meeting with an acquaint ance who invited him to accompany him to a tavern, which hung out its lights temptingly to loiterers on the highway. The man stopped me, and swore that our master's orders were that if he saw me he was to tell me to take the colt home, if no one bought him, as I managed him better than anyone. This unusual piece of flattery tickled my boyisli vanity. I mounted bravely; but what with the lights of a carriage on the road, and the unsteady driving and riding of numerous parties returning from the Fair, the colt lost what little sense it had ever possessed, and fairly ran away with me. I had little power over him, for there was only the halter round his neck and the mane to hold on by, so I dun" for the bare life as he whisked round dark corners of the well-known road home ; dashing against farmers' <n"3 and traps, and assailed with blows and curses from foot-passengers, till, completely maddened, the cross grained brute banged me up against a gate-post and unseated me, lashing out viciously as I lay helpless on the country road ; first kicking me on the leg, just below tbe knee, then within an inch of my right eye, and leaving me quite insensible.

Crash, crash ! What was the terrible sound that roused me from the only swoon into which I have ever fallen ? A mountain seemed to be rolling to wards and hanging over me — flashing lights blinded my weak sight. In vain I tried to drag myself out of the way — to cry out ; all I could do was to lift up my arm with a feeble moan. The horses, more humane and with a quicker instinct than their careless, probably sleepy, driver, swerved wildly, bringing the carriage up against the bank; the coachman woke himself up and swore fiercely. The carriage window was let down sharply — for, after all, it was only some gentlefolk coming back from a ball or dinner in the town — and an authoritative voice inquired what was amiss 1 The footman swung himself down from the rumble, and condescendingly investigated the dark heap in the roadway, which had frightened the horses.

" Only a boy, my lord, a poor labouring boy," I : heard him say, as he went nearer to the window. "A country lad asleep — most likely tipsy — going home from the horse-fair." " Oh, don't leave the poor boy there !" I heard a voice say softly, inside the carriage ; "open the door. Let me get out and see if he is hurt." " No, no !" responded a sterner voice, and the next minute a man's tall shadow was thrown across the road. The servant took one of the carriage-lamps and held it over me whilst his master examined, not un kindly, into my wounded condition. The face bent over me scrutinisingly, though not young, was a very handsome one, with flexible lips, now strongly compressed, fair hair and complexion. I saw the at first indifferent, haughty, well-nigh dis gusted expression change suddenly with a start, as I looked up at him and tried to speak, to a kindlier expression as regarded myself; but his manner of directing the servants was arrogant and impatient.

The carriage was drawn up close, and I was lifted into it. Faint as I was, I remember fearing lest tbe blood slowly oozing from the wound in my forehead should stain the lining of the vehicle, or still more the white dress of its occupant ; but the young lady seemed to have no such fears as she drew my aching head on her knee and bathed my throbbing brows with some cooling essence which revived me. I felt her tears dropping on my hand, but not a word was spoken. When we stopped at the turnpike, I was recog nised by the man who kept it as Jessica Forbes's nephew, who worked at tbe Home Farm, belonging to the Lord of the Manor. Again I fancied that the strange gentleman's countenance changed, and that his fair complexion grew paler; and as the light, which he desired might be brought out, flashed on my face, be looked at me searchingly : but he only said quietly, " I know the place !" and directed the coach man to drive to the turn in the road where our lane under the birch-trees led down to the cottage by the mill-stream.

While we waited the young lady had asked for some water ; and, dipping her handkerchief in it, had carefully wiped the blood from my temple, and kept the cool cambric pressed against it. Oh, what relief from agony ! I thought that she was an angel, like tbe one that helped Hagar and Ishmael in the wilderness, and I longed to see what angels were like ; but I caught only a glimpse of her face, pale, and, as I have since learnt to call it, " most divinely fair " — less haughty than her father's, if, as I naturally supposed, her companion in the travelling-carriage stood in tbat relation towards her. Those soft hands were still busy with their labour of love and charity when we reached the corner of the road. At tbe turn of the lane, a couple of hundred yards from our door, the horses were pulled up sharply, and the gentleman let himself out immediately, desiring the coachman to wait for him.

I wondered that we had not driven farther. My wounds pained me excessively, and I chafed at the unnecessary delay. Aunt Jessica was no fine lady, needing, as he had said when be left us, preparation for the sight of blood. I had seen her tend worse injuries than mine without flinchiug. I was wrong, however, for several minutes elapsed — it seemed an age to my boyish impatience — before she came running down the road. He followed her slowly, and she was quite white with terror and grief; so what he had said did not seem to have pacified her. Her face looked much younger and fairer than usual. I suppose ber bonnet had fallen off, and I liked her much better without it. At all events, she seemed like a mother to the poor, sick, weary lad who was waiting for her so anxiously. The young lady had bound the wet handkerchief round my head, and told me to keep it.

I have it to this day. When my aunt washed it out the next morning, we saw that it was very fine, and delicately embroidered with French work, as she called it, round the edge. In one corner there was the initial M., encircled by a wreath of daisies. I am afraid the pretty dress must have borne marks of the close con tact with the roughly-clad wounded lad whom the young lady had nursed so kindly ; for the blood had poured fast while my head rested on her knee. The gentleman, when I was lifted from the carriage, had bidden her authoritatively not to think of alighting ; and I heard him call out to the servants, after he had belped my aunt to carry me home : " Drive slowly. I will follow !" He did not come inside our gate ; where our kind neighbour, Mrs. Brand, was standing, waiting to see if she could be of assistance.

She was always ready to help anyone who needed care and kindness, and often sat up with me at night when Aunt Jessica was weary and overwrought. In the intervals of sharp pain, which, for the first time in my life, kept me awake, I often wondered where the home of that fair gentle lady might be, and whether I should ever see ber again. 2—2

Chapter III

"From out the darkness where we trod, We gazed upon the hills of God, Whose light seemed not of moon or sun ; We spoke not, but our thought was one. " We paused; as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before, And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear." The Purer Faith.— J. G. Whittier. My long illness must have been a sore trial to my Aunt, but she bore it patiently. Though we lived frugally, there was no parsimony in our wonted manner of existing; and now many unaccustomed luxuries were provided for me. One of my greatest indulgences was an entirely new set of books, which Aunt Jessica brought down from her own bedroom, when at last I began slowly to recover and was allowed to make use of my sight. While my eyes were weak she sat and read to me, sometimes out of the Bible or devotional books, at others from some book of poetry.

One afternoon, while we were thus occupied, my Aunt was suddenly called away. Our poor neigh bour, Mrs. Brand, was in terrible grief, her husband having met with a severe accident. The volume happened to be laid down within my reach, and after waiting some time, I took it up and looked at it. This particular book had a pretty, light-coloured binding, I discovered, under the neat linen cover, and on the title-page was written flowingly, but in a man's characters, very unlike the names inscribed in most of our books, " Jessie, from Bertie," with a date thirty years back. I put the volume down exactly in the place from which I had lifted it, before my Aunt's return ; and some instinct in my boyish heart, which I should have found it difficult to explain, prevented my asking the grey-haired woman a single question.

I was inquisitive enough on all other subjects. Over and over again I inquired whether the gentle man and lady who brought me home in their carriage, had ever asked after me. The reply was always, " No," in the coldest possible tone ; and when I wanted my Aunt to tell me how it happened that the : gentleman knew that she lived at the Farm near tbe Mill-stream, under the birch-trees, and wbat it was he said to her at first which startled her so much, I got no reply at all. Most boys know what it is to have their curiosity baffled, and Jessica Forbes was a silent woman. I have never known anyone who spoke less often ; but when she did, and especially when she read aloud to me, her voice was low and pleasant. In her girlhood she had been well in structed, and she had afterwards had much practice in reading to her invalid mistress.