Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  “It faded,” he repeated. “It faded when I was most in need of it. And only God knows how I needed it.”

  “Frank! What are you saying to me?” She was on her feet now in agitation. “What made you think such---”

  “Is it not true?” His voice cut her short. “Is it not true you’ve shown me naught but coldness since?”

  That stopped her. She knew only too well that she had shown him coldness, and she groped wildly for words that could explain.

  “What did you suppose?” he asked suddenly. “That I came to you hunting fortune?”

  “Fortune?” This, she thought, was madness, but at least it could be denied. “Fortune, do you say? What fortune should you find with me, that have none?”

  His eye swept over her taffeta and damask, and seemed to linger on the pearls in her collar.

  “You’re kin to an Esquire of fine estate,” he said slowly. “And I, a younger son.”

  Margery stared wildly, her thoughts all chaos. It was all so plausible, and she had just remembered that even Alice Nutter had made the same mistake. She struggled for control.

  “Frank,” she said urgently. “Understand, if you please, that I’m heir to nobody and nothing. My father’s gone, and my family’s poor. I’ve less place in the world than you yourself.”

  It was his turn to stand silent, and again he looked her over.

  “You’re not so attired,” he said doubtfully.

  “Nor are you.”

  Her retort was instant, and it drew the flicker of a smile from him. Margery saw it, and the sight of it increased her urgency.

  “Attire and purse don’t always march together,” she told him. “You should know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then listen. You can either give me the lie to my face, or you can accept it that I did not at any time suppose you to have come to me for fortune. Now which is it?”

  She was indignant, and her tone showed it. He had sense enough not to flout her.

  “I accept it,” he said at once, and Margery sighed with relief. But at once he returned to his point.

  “Then why did you show me such coldness? And so suddenly? You’ll hardly deny the fact of it?”

  Margery’s relief vanished. She had no good answer to that, and she stood silent under his searching eyes.

  “Do you deny the fact of it?”

  His voice was insistent, and she knew she must answer. “I deny coldness,” she said at last. “I can’t deny some--some change of manner. There were difficulties.”

  “What difficulties?”

  That deepened her perplexity. She could hardly tell him she had feared he might learn too much of the Southworth affair. Yet what else could she say?

  “May I not be trusted?”

  His quiet question went to the root of it. That was precisely what had made her wary. But how could she explain that? Then he shifted the point of his attack.

  “That day I met you,” he said, “that day I picked you from the leaves and the papist rode away--had you known this Southworth before that day?”

  Margery’s eyes narrowed. This was coming very near home, and it touched on secrets that were Roger’s as much as hers.

  “Had you known him before?”

  He was very quiet and very firm, and Margery felt she was trapped. This was not to be evaded easily.

  “Had you known him before? Look at me.”

  There was nothing for it then but the truth.

  “Yes,” she said as she lifted her eyes to his. “But once only.”

  He ignored that and pressed his attack.

  “Did you know, when you came upon me that day, that it was the papist Southworth who rode beside me?”

  Again she was too closely under his eye to evade it.

  “I ... I thought it might be,” she admitted unhappily.

  “And did you intend--what followed?”

  He waited watchfully, but this time it was Margery who attacked.

  “Will you tell me why you put such motives on me? Why do you use me with such uncharity?”

  She said it in desperation, and to her surprise and her unspeakable relief, it disconcerted him. He looked at his feet uneasily and when he spoke his tone had changed.

  “I have some shame of it,” he said. He looked her over doubtfully, almost as if he were wondering whether he might go on. Margery pounced on it.

  “Your name’s Frank.”

  She said it quickly, and again the half-smile nickered as his memory took the point. It seemed to hearten him.

  “You shall have the truth of it then,” he said. “I’ve said I’ve some shame of it, and it’s not as I like it. But here it is. I went to Westby knowing you’d be here at Christmas, and having it in mind to visit you and sort these things. But half a week back, there was a vexing tale brought me by Tom Lister. I hated to hear a tale of you, Margery, but---“

  “What was this tale?”

  Her voice rang sharply, and that was by intention. He seemed to be on the defensive now, and she meant to keep him there. But his voice still came steadily.

  “The tale was this. There’s a woman at Westby, it seems, who has some connections in Pendle. A rustic woman. She swills the dairy and gives some hand in the house. She made a Christmas visit to her folk in Pendle, and being returned to Westby she dropped some gossip by Tom Lister’s ear.”

  “Gossip, do you say? And of me?”

  There was something of anger in Margery’s voice now, and apparently it was not lost on him. He was almost diffident when he resumed.

  “Aye, of you. Tom Lister told me as a confidence---“

  “Confidence? Gossip as a confidence? And of me? Here’s a fine tale! But pray continue. What was this tale of me?”

  “Just this: that you knew this Southworth of old, and that you had given him aid and comfort before; that you spilled from your horse before me with deliberate intent; and that all that followed was deception. That was the tale.”

  He ended and stood waiting while icy quiet gripped the little room. Margery stood rigid while the chill crept about her. This tale was wicked. It was too deadly and too exact to be chance. Here was malice, precise, calculated, and informed.

  “And did you credit that of me?”

  Margery’s voice was very clear and steady. The secret cold of Pendle had come into this fire-lit room, and the chill of it had cooled her wits. Her mind was working icily now, and she had remembered young Jennet’s tale of Anne Redfern, hidden in the brush and hurrying to the Rough Lee. She was beginning to understand.

  “Did you credit that of me?”

  She repeated it, and he stirred uneasily, finding it hard to meet her eye.

  “It ... it fitted,” he said at last.

  “How?” She almost snapped the question.

  “I had thought--I had even told you--that day we met, that you were not so hurt as you made appearance to be. Also----“

  “Yes?”

  “It fitted in another way. You kept me amused. You kept me dreaming--till I was back from Lathom and the papist safe to ground.”

  “That’s not the tale you told just now.” Margery sounded brisk and confident. “You say I changed when you were back from Lathom. First it’s because you lacked advancement. Now it’s because a papist’s safe to ground. You leave me giddy.”

  But he was hard to put to silence. He was plainly ill at ease, but he persisted.

  “At the least,” he said, “you’ve admitted some change of manner, and you’ve not said whence it came. Moreover---“

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve admitted knowing this Southworth, and guessing it was he who rode beside me. And as I’ve said, you seemed more hurt than you were. It fits snug to the woman’s tale. Am I at fault for raising it? Also---“

  “Yes? What more?”

  “Even from the first, you kept it hid from me that you knew this man and had ridden at me with a guess. There’s some dishonesty in that.”

  He came to an end,
and then he waited quietly. Margery’s thoughts ran clearly. She must give him the explanation now. It was all too clear and too dangerous to allow of evasions, and on no account must he detect her in some shifty tale. All that remained was to cling tight to Roger’s secrets while letting go her own.

  “All that is true.” She said it with a smile, and she hoped her voice was steady. “It’s more true than I like, and you shall hear how it came to be. One question first---“

  “Yes?”

  “Who is this woman who swills Tom Lister’s dairy?” “Jennet Preston’s her name. I know no more of her.”

  “And her folk in Pendle?”

  “That’s beyond my knowledge, I never heard their names.” She nodded and seated herself once more in the elbow-chair.

  She must seem at ease now, and she went about it calmly. She smoothed her kirtle and examined her finger-tips thoughtfully. When she looked up at him she was smiling, and she spoke clearly and easily.

  “As I’ve said, I had met this Southworth once before, though that was not by my contriving. It’s true also that I gave him some comforts then. That was because He was then in some distress of wind and weather, and I ... I was soft of heart. I saw you and him by chance that afternoon, and it’s true I supposed it to be him who rode with you.”

  She paused and her eyes searched his face; but it stayed impassive and betrayed nothing.

  “I saw you by chance, and I rode into your path with no clear intent at all. But I was hoping . . . hoping for I know not what.”

  “For his escape?”

  “In some manner, yes. You’ll remember that I had not met you then. But I had met this Southworth and had some small esteem of him---“

  “As had I, escort though I was.”

  “You?” She stared at him in surprise. “You also?”

  “I also.” He was half smiling at her surprise. “And, at the least, drawing’s a vile thing---“

  “It’s hideous. But Frank, do you mean you . . . you understand?”

  “In some sort, yes. Which is to say I understand that you might have a sympathy for this fellow. But what of your fall from a horse?”

  She laughed openly.

  “You may acquit me of that. I don’t yet know how it chanced. The beast went from under me, and then--and then you were there, and maltreating me most grievously.”

  It was his turn to laugh.

  “I did you no hurt. But could you not have told me of these things?”

  “Tell you? How could I have told you? You were a stranger to me, and I did not dare. And I’ve said enough now to be clapped behind bars if you speak it out at Lathom.”

  “I’ll not do that.”

  The ring in his voice put his sincerity past mistake, and Margery, seeing a chance to make an end, went on quickly.

  “I’d no thought then of what it would bring to you. I didn’t think of that when we rode in Pendle. I didn’t think of it in the mist when you rode for Lathom. But when you were back, and I learned what I’d brought upon you--and I knew there was deceit, and I dared not speak of it---Oh, don’t you see? I could not look you in the face--and you say you marked a coldness!”

  She stopped and was staring, moist-eyed, into the fire when he answered quietly:

  “I seem to have done you some injustice. Yet one thing more. It’s finished now, is it? There’ll be no more with this Southworth?’’

  She turned to him with relief. That, at least, could be answered.

  “I have not seen him, nor heard of him, from that day to this. And I neither wish to nor expect to. He came and went and is gone. I’m no papist, Frank, and no deceiver either, when it’s not forced upon me.”

  His hand was on her shoulder as she came to her feet, her face very close to his. He spoke softly.

  “It’s ended then. For which, thank God! And now we may be back as when---“

  “As when we rode in Pendle.”

  “Aye. In heart and mind.” He took both her hands in his. “There’s one thing lacking, though.” “What’s that?”

  “Advancement. I’m in no good case to wed, nor even to have thought of it.”

  “Frank! What matters---“

  “I’m in no case to wed. So on that I’ve no more to say--tonight. Let’s pray the world will mend.”

  His hand was under her chin, and in silence he turned her face to his and drew her close.

  Roger Nowell, coming quietly into the parlour he thought private to himself, discovered his mistake and was gone without being heard.

  Chapter 30: EAST WIND IN PENDLE

  The wind was from the East.

  It came with an icy touch, and the track rang hard beneath the horses as they came down the road from Gisburn, down past the Malkin Tower, and so into Pendle Forest. Roger, muffled in his cloak, with his hat pulled low and his chin buried in his scarf, watched warily for ice, and showed no desire for talk. Nor did Margery. She rode at his side, muffled as he was, and she shivered. No cloak was wholly proof against that wind; worse still, her ears were freezing and her nose was dripping; her fingers were too numbed for the proper drying of her nose, and she herself was too chilled to care for dignity. If Christmas led to this, then Christmas was to be deplored.

  She had had a surfeit of Christmas. There had been Christmas Eve, and then the Twelve Days of it; and by the seventh night, Margery had had enough, physically and mentally, of eating and drinking, of romping and dancing. By the tenth night she had been longing for the quiet of Pendle and the cool wind on the Hill; now she had got the wind, and she was heartily wishing she had not. This was not at all the return she had pined for.

  She had not even got Frank Hilliard at her side. He had ridden for Warwickshire after all, though by no means at his own wish. He had stayed at Marton for three days, and had meant to stay the Twelve; certainly there had been no talk of his returning to Westby. But on the third day there had come a letter from his father, urgently carried by a servant. The news of the trouble Frank had found at Lathom, so his father wrote, had much distressed his mother, who was, moreover, already grieving because her only brother had recently broken his neck from a stumbling horse; and Frank’s letter, on top of that, had been too much for her. She was much disordered, and Frank’s immediate return might be her best medicine. He was therefore to make all speed home, despite any engagements he might have.

  He had brought the letter gloomily to Margery, who had promptly told him he must go; then he had carried it to Roger, who had told him the same, and in more peremptory terms; and he had ridden the next morning, leaving for Margery a void which no junketings could fill. It was, she had told herself, a lot better than it might have been, for suspicions and resentments were gone; but a void it remained, and nothing at Marton could fill it. And now, in this wind, she had forgotten even the void; all she could think of at this moment was shelter, food, and a warm fireside. Only once did her mind stir from present discomforts, and that was when they passed the Malkin Tower; that reminded her that she must see young Jennet again, and as soon as might be; she had a question or two for Jennet.

  She had not long to wait. The next day was a Wednesday, and, cold or no cold, Roger thought it his duty to join Nick Banister at Altham. Margery saw to it that he was filled with hot ale before he left, and then she pulled her cloak over her gown and went out on the gravel to see him off. She waved him away and then scampered back to the door, clutching tightly at cloak and gown with freezing fingers; and there was Jennet, sprung from nowhere and leaning against the lintel. Margery did not argue; she was too cold for that; she swept Jennet in front of her and hurried her into the snug warmth of the parlour.

  Jennet huddled on the hearth and wriggled herself as close to the fire as she could. Margery, warming outstretched hands, looked the child over and was shocked. Her small body was blue with cold; her face was pinched and drawn, her thin legs were twitching, and there was a glaze in her cheeks that hinted at hunger carried to a far degree. Margery forgot her chilled hands and became
busy. She found hot milk, and cake, and the apple tart that Jennet loved; she found honey and spread it on the tart; she found sugar--sugar from the Indies, at a price that kept it under lock and key--and stirred it into the milk. Jennet said nothing; but she flung herself at everything that came, and by the time Margery thought she had had enough for the moment, she was lying flat on the floor and grunting with pleasure.

  Margery looked her over and was satisfied. Jennet was certainly looking better, but that might not last when she was out in the wind again. The child was not clothed for such weather; she was barelegged and barefooted, and her rustic smock was of a thin frieze, threadbare with age.

  “Jennet.” The child rose to her knees as Margery spoke. “What do’you wear under your smock?”

  Jennet said nothing, but she quickly lifted the smock and showed that she had nothing at all under it. Margery shivered. No wonder this child looked blue.

  There was in an attic a great chest of painted elm which Roger had shown her when she had been seeking oddments for her kirtles; but it contained more than oddments, for it was mainly a store of old clothes left from the days when there had been children in the house. Roger had told her that she might help herself, and she chose to regard that permission as still valid. She helped herself liberally, and she soon had Jennet clothed with warmth and decency; there was a woollen undersmock, a petticoat, and an oversmock of red serge; and Jennet was almost preening herself when she came down the stair again. Margery gave her more milk and regarded her with a satisfaction qualified by the thought that the clothes were almost certainly damp. But that, she thought, could not be helped, and damp clothes would be better than no clothes; at least, Margery hoped they would. Then she sought an opening for talk.

  “You should have had the clothes for Christmas, Jennet.”

  “They’d have nicked ‘em,” said Jennet darkly.

  “Nicked?” This was new to Margery.

  “Thieving bitches.”

  “Who were?”

  “At Christmas.”

  Margery paused to think this out. Jennet’s thoughts ran quickly, and she was sparing of words; but Margery thought she had the drift of it.