His pale plump face wore a look of concern.
“I’ll be bound he has not brought those mittens,” thought I as I called my mistress.
But I was wrong. He laid them on the top of his tray as Mrs. Firth approached. They were certainly handsome: grey with blue diamonds in lines, and the letters M.F. in blue on the wrist. Mrs. Firth exclaimed with pleasure, and even Mr. Firth, as he came to the door to pay for them, put his hand in his pocket without much reluctance. Gracie drew one mitten over her small hand.
“Why not a pair for the young lady?” said the pedlar quickly.
“Well—can you take the measures?” said Mr. Firth. “Her hand is small, you know.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the pedlar, producing a tape measure from his pocket. “It will be a few weeks before I can bring them, sir; I expect to be up that way next week, but then they must be specially knitted, you understand. Now let me see: the letters are G.F., I think?”
I wondered a little that he knew Gracie’s name so well, but no doubt, I thought, he had heard it said last time he called on us. He was shrewd, he missed nothing to his advantage—and even as I thought this, he gave me another instance of it. No sooner had he written down the measurements of Gracie’s hand in a little book he carried than the look of concern dropped over his face like a curtain.
“But what am I about?” he said in a grieved tone. “Here am I foolishly plying my trade and forgetting my real errand.” (Aye, and you will always forget an errand till you have done your own trade, I thought.) “I was at Clough End this morning, and I grieve to tell you, Mistress Firth, that I have ill news for you.”
“My father?” cried Mrs. Firth, turning pale and clutching at her heart.
“Even so. He has a fever.”
“But why have they not sent for me?” cried Mrs. Firth.
“There is talk of sending for you tomorrow,” said the pedlar soberly. “But if I were you, mistress—” He paused.
“Yes? Yes?”
“I would go today. After all, Mr. Sykes is elderly.”
“He will be seventy come Michaelmas.”
“And being widowed—”
“Oh, Stephen, I should never have left him.”
“Nay, Meg,” muttered Mr. Firth.
“Who is nursing him? How long has he had fever?”
“On these points I am not altogether certain,” said the pedlar thoughtfully.
“I must go to him,” said Mrs. Firth with decision. “Stephen, I must go to him at once.”
“And so you shall, love,” said Mr. Firth heartily. “We’ll set off now. Tom, go and saddle Bess. Put a pillion seat on her. Jeremy, if I’m not back by Friday night you must go to market yourself on Saturday. Mr. Gledhill will pass you into the hall.”
“How shall I get the piece to Halifax, master?” whined Jeremy.
“Carry it on your shoulder,” snapped Mr. Firth. “I’ve fetched many a piece that way myself. Now, Meg, as to Gracie—there’s no need to trail the child all that way to a house of sickness.”
“Mr. Sykes would no doubt like to have a last look at his grand-daughter,” put in the pedlar. “Not that it will be his last, we hope,” he added hastily as Mrs. Firth broke into a wail.
“She might catch the fever,” said I.
“That’s true enough, Tom.”
“We can’t leave her here,” wailed Mrs. Firth.
“That’s certain,” agreed the pedlar.
“Mrs. Gledhill will take her for a night or two,” said Mr. Firth. “We’ll leave her at Gledhill’s on the way.”
“I don’t want to go to Gledhill’s,” cried Gracie, clinging to her father’s arm.
It struck me that while I thought Mrs. Firth’s devotion to her father rather foolish, Gracie’s devotion to her father seemed natural. Mrs. Firth must have been a child once, I thought, surprised.
“Now, no silly work, Gracie,” said Mr. Firth firmly. “Run off and help your mother to collect night-gear and that.”
“Can I help at all?” offered the pedlar.
“No, thankee. I’m obliged to you for the message,” said Mr. Firth, giving him a florin.
“Then I’ll be on my way. May I express the hope that you will find Mr. Sykes less ill than you fear,” said the pedlar.
He bowed politely and withdrew. We could see his scarlet stockings twinkling down the lane.
For the next half-hour there was a great bustle. Mrs. Firth was busy upstairs about clean linen for herself and Gracie; Mr. Firth changed into his market clothes and gave Jeremy instructions enough to last for a month. He hurried out to the tenters and felt the piece there.
“The weather’s set fine for the night, I reckon,” he said. “So you can leave the cloth out till morning, just to finish it off drying and stretching, like. Of course if the weather should change, bring it in.”
“I will, master,” said Jeremy obsequiously.
Meanwhile, I saddled Bess and brought her to the door.
“Hurry, Meg, hurry,” cried Mr. Firth impatiently, pacing up and down the yard. “’Twill be dark before we reach Glough End if you don’t make haste.”
This was true enough, for we were now in September, the sun would set about half-past six and to call at Mr. Gledhill’s house in Barseland would take them a good twenty minutes out of their way, for he lived on the far side of the hill, facing towards Halifax.
At last they were off, Mrs. Firth riding Bess with Gracie pillion behind, and her husband leading the mare.
I felt downhearted as I saw them vanish round the turn of the lane, for the thought of spending some days alone with Jeremy was not agreeable to me. Sandy, who was lying on the wall in his usual sunny corner, seemed to feel the same; he turned his head and watched them with unusual attention, flicking the end of his tail, which hung over the wall, back and forth in a disturbed and dissatisfied fashion, and when I went over to have a word with him he gazed up at me from his great green eyes with an anxious pleading look and uttered a faint mew.
“Never mind, Sandy,” said I, stroking his head. “She’ll come back soon.”
For it was Gracie to whom he gave his love—if indeed a cat can truly love anyone but himself; they are haughty withdrawn little animals.
“Dost mean to work today or not, Tom Leigh?” called Jeremy from the porch. “Just let me know.”
However, Jeremy was very pleasant for the rest of the afternoon. While he was weaving he was silent, for the clack of the shuttle makes it difficult to hear voices, but when we paused for our drinking he became quite talkative, telling me all about Mrs. Firth’s father and Clough End.
“No wonder she went there quick when she thought he was dying,” he said. “She’s his only daughter, his heiress, tha knows. She was after her own.”
This seemed to me very unjust, for Mrs. Firth’s concern for her father most clearly sprang from affection. But I said nothing, not wanting to provoke him, and he went on:
“It’s a big place, is Glough End. They weave four or five pieces a week, and finish them themselves—raise them and crop them and all that.”
“I know nothing of that end of cloth-making,” said I.
“Tha knows nowt about owt, far as I can see,” said Jeremy. “Sithee—wouldst like to try thy hand at weaving, Tom?”
“Not while Mr. Firth’s away,” said I.
“Afraid of breaking an end?” sneered Jeremy.
I said nothing, and after a moment he recovered his temper, and went on about Mr. Sykes.
“If he should die,” he said, “Meg Firth would inherit Clough End, and she and Stephen would likely go and live there. How wouldst like that, eh, Tom?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
For indeed I was perplexed. To see a new place is always attractive, and in a bustling big house such as Clough End sounded to be, there might be other apprentices and I should be less lonely. But when I thought of leaving Upper High Royd, to my surprise I found my heart sink. I had grown fond of the place, the hous
e and the beck and the trough, and Bess and Daisy and Sandy, and the heather moorland and the strong winds and the great hills rolling around. I did not wish to say anything to Jeremy about this, however; he would only sneer.
“They won’t sell Upper High Royd, though,” said Jeremy, wagging his head. “They’ll keep it for Gracie and the man she weds. Happen tha means to be him, eh, Tom Leigh?”
I was furious. That Gracie’s name should be bandied about like this by a man like Jeremy put me in a real rage. I know I crimsoned. But I bit back the hot words which sprang to my lips, and picking up our mugs, went out of the workshop without saying a word. When I returned Jeremy was weaving, and I picked up my cards and we said no more.
The hours went on, the sun set, we gave up work and went downstairs. The wind began to rise and moan a little about the house. I made a good fire, fed Sandy, lighted the candles and got our supper, and we ate it very comfortably, though I was vexed that Jeremy took Mr. Firth’s chair. There was no harm in it, perhaps, but I do not like to do behind folks’ backs what you would not do before their faces. I let Sandy out—it was a fine night, with moonlight off and on; the moon almost full but with clouds chasing sometimes across its face.
When I came back to the hearth, I don’t know why it was, but I felt suddenly uneasy. It was Jeremy’s look, I think; as he lounged in Mr. Firth’s chair he had such an air of triumph. There was no reason for this that I could see, but I was sure Jeremy had a reason, and it would be a bad one. It struck me how alone we were, how far from any other house, how long the night would be, how completely I was in Jeremy’s power. He was not a strong-looking man, being thin and weedy in body, but his arms were like iron from throwing the shuttle all day long, and I had seen him carry a piece of cloth (which would weigh about twenty pounds) over his shoulder a mile uphill, without being in the least breathless or put about. His eyes gleamed as he looked at me sideways, and that sneering smile of triumph again curved his thin lips. I was just thinking how glad I was that Gracie was safe with Mr. Gledhill when he spoke.
“Be off with you to your bed, Tom Leigh.”
I was glad enough to think of being out of his company, but I felt so sure everything he wished was evil that I resisted.
“It’s early yet, Jeremy,” I said, looking at the tall clock in the corner, which lacked a minute of nine.
“Happen. But I’m tired of the sight of you. Be off now.”
“Sandy’s still out.”
“I’ll let him in.”
At this moment there came a not very loud crash from outside, as if the wind were banging an open door or window.
“I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy, starting up. “Now, art going to do as th’art told and get off to bed, or shall I make thee?”
His look was so ugly that I went straight for the stairs, pausing only to light my candle at the fire and pick up my two volumes of Robinson Crusoe. The clock struck nine as I put my foot on the step.
The wind was now howling about the house and causing all kinds of shuffling and cracking noises, but I lay comfortably in bed and read again about Crusoe’s clothes: his high goatskin cap, his jacket and breeches of goatskin and his umbrella. I read about his fence, and his bed, and his grapes, and then reached the page when he suddenly came upon the print of a man’s naked foot on the sandy shore of his island. Crusoe was terrified, and I am not ashamed to say that so was I. For such was Mr. Defoe’s skill in the writing, that, though I had read it before, I felt all Crusoe’s fright at finding this evidence of a man’s presence on an island he had thought to be uninhabited. Crusoe fled to the house he had made for himself, in fear, and I turned uneasily in my bed and tried to keep my eyes from the shadows in the workshop corners.
It was just at this moment that I heard a very faint mew and a scratching at my door.
“It is Sandy,” I said to myself, and felt quite comforted, and went to the door to let him in.
I raised the latch and pulled on the door. It did not yield. I gave a harder tug, but the door did not stir. I stooped and gazed at the handle and the space between door and jamb, and saw what was wrong: I was locked in. Just at this moment I heard a soft whisper from below, and the voice was the pedlar’s.
Then suddenly I saw the reason and nature of the thing, and could not imagine how I had been such a blind stupid fool as not to see it before. Jeremy and the pedlar were the thieves who stole cloth from the tenters. Jeremy hated me because my presence crossed his plans; he wanted me out of the house; all his unkindness to me was to get rid of me, to maim me, to cause Mr. Firth to break my indentures, to drive me into running away. Jeremy’s strange gestures at the tenters, the first day I came to Upper High Royd, had been warnings to the pedlar to stay away. When the pedlar came to the house the first time, Jeremy had pushed me downstairs so that he should see me and give up the plan of enticing Mr. and Mrs. Firth away from Upper High Royd that day—it was Jeremy who had sighed with relief when the pedlar told Mrs. Firth her father was in good health.
For the message of his illness to-day was false without a doubt. (The pedlar’s urging that Gracie should be taken to see her grandfather showed his true motive: to get all the Firths out of the house.) The thieves had grown tired of waiting for me to be got rid of—or rather, the pedlar and the other accomplice had grown tired; that was what they were all arguing about when Mr. Defoe had seen them at the Rose and Crown. Jeremy had made one last attempt to get rid of me, leaving me behind in the Old Cock stable, hoping I would run away. But when I turned up—how furious Mr. Gledhill’s rescue of me must have made him—he decided to risk the danger of my presence and lock me in. The tenters were out of sight of the workshop windows. And the pedlar, a man with a licence to sell, always travelling about, was just the person to arrange the cloth’s sale. Yes, it was all clear; everything that had perplexed me about Jeremy was now explained.
And here was I, alone in the house with two thieves, Mr. Firth away, his cloth under his apprentice’s care. If I was to be his “good and faithful servant”, as my indentures said, I must try to prevent the theft.
The mewing at my door had now ceased; Sandy no doubt had given me up and gone away.
I dressed, as quickly and quietly as I was able, putting on my jacket to cover the white of my shirt, but leaving off my clogs, as they would clatter on the stones of the yard.
The house door closed softly. I listened with all my ears, and thought I heard quiet footsteps going towards the far end of the house.
But there was only one way to make sure. I waited a few moments to give Jeremy and the pedlar time to be out of earshot; then I unbolted the taking-in doors and swung them back. I unwound the rope and let it slide over the pulley till the hook was nearly at the ground, then fastened it round the staples. I drew the rope towards me, grasped it firmly with both hands, swung out and descended it hand below hand.
I cannot pretend that this descent was comfortable or that I performed it well. Each time I had to move one hand I was afraid of falling, never having done anything like this before. To avoid this fear, I tried at one moment to slide down the rope, but this took the skin off my palms and left them very sore. For a moment I hung helpless in mid-air, sweating—I do not deny it—with fear. At last I found that if I clasped the rope between my feet much weight was taken off my hands, and after that I did pretty well, except that I caught one foot in the curve of the hook when I reached it and could not at first get free. I fell to the ground and hopped about, following the rope as it swayed, but at length managed to release myself and stood safe on the ground in my stockinged feet.
I crept round the back of the house and clambered very softly—this is not easy on these mortarless West Riding walls—over the wall at the side of the tentercroft. The moon had escaped from its clouds and was riding high, shedding a bright silver light over house and fields. The scene was very beautiful but somehow rather eerie, because of the deep black shadows cast by buildings and walls. For one of these black shadows, however, I was very gra
teful; it stretched along the side of the tentercroft wall and enabled me to crawl along towards the tenters, unseen. I kept my face down, so that the moonlight should not shine white upon it, as I approached. Yes, there they were: Jeremy unhooking the cloth, the pedlar standing by; each grumbling at the other.
“Can’t you hurry, man?” said the pedlar. “In this moonlight we can be seen a mile away.”
“It were you who chose to do it tonight,” growled Jeremy.
“I was tired of waiting.”
“I were only trying to get rid o’ that nuisance of a lad.”
“He’s perfectly safe locked up in the workshop. He’ll help to support your own tale of not having heard any sounds in the night. Come, man, make haste!”
“If you want more haste you can help to make it,” snarled Jeremy. “Take your coat off and give me a hand.”
“Oh, very well,” said the pedlar, shrugging. “Where shall I start work, eh?”
“Go back to the beginning and take cloth off top nails—I’ve taken it off bottom row, back there.”
The pedlar stepped towards me, so that for a moment my heart was in my mouth. I buried my head in my arms on the ground and lay absolutely still for what seemed the longest moment of my life. I heard soft shuffling sounds as the pedlar took off his coat, and then a clink—the brass buttons, I guessed, had struck against the wall as he threw the coat aside. This clinking sounded very near, and I own I was afraid.
“Ouch!” cried the pedlar of a sudden.
I ventured to raise my head a very little. Having often helped Jeremy or Josiah to take a piece off the tenters and knowing its difficulties, I could not help being amused at the pedlar’s lack of skill—he had torn one of his fingers on the tenter nails. He had this finger in and out of his mouth, shaking it and sucking it, and was dancing with the pain, and loosing off a string of oaths when his mouth was free.
“Make less noise, will you?” said Jeremy. “And pay more heed. It’s going to take us all night to get twelve yards off, if you go on like this.”
“We’ll take the whole eighteen yards; it’s not worth stealing less.”
The Adventures of Tom Leigh Page 9
