Agent Hoby had never been more astonished in his life than when he returned hot and angry and found him still there. It was the last thing he had expected. “You little villain!” he cried, shortening his whip in his hand, and spurring his horse on to the strip of turf, which then, as now, bordered the road— “how dare you tell lies to the Commons’ Commissioners?”
He turned and rode in. — Page 9.
There was a slender gap in the wall behind the heap of stones, and the lad fell back into this, still clutching his missile in his hand. “I told no lies!” he said, looking defiantly at the angry man. “You asked me for Squire Patten, and I sent you to him — to the churchyard!”
One of the men behind Hoby chuckled grimly; and Hoby himself, who had ridden with Cromwell at Naseby, and looked the Robber Prince in the eyes, held his hand. “You little whelp!” he said, half in anger and half in admiration. “It is easy to see what brood you come of! I have half a mind to lash your back for you! Be off to your mammy, and bid her whip you! My hand is too heavy.”
With that, taking no further notice of the boy, he turned and rode in through the gate. The aspect of the house, the quality of the herbage, the size of the timber, the lack of stock, all claimed at once his agent’s eye, and rendered it easy for him to forget the incident. He grumbled at the sagacity of the Roundhead troopers, who had lain a night at Pattenhall before Marston Moor, and swept it as bare as a board. He had a grunt of sympathy to spare for Squire Patten, who, sore wounded in the same fight, had ridden home to die three days later. He gave a thought even to young Patten, who had forfeited the last chance of saving his sequestrated estate by breaking his parole, and again appearing in arms against the Parliament. But of the lad crawling slowly along the path behind him he thought nothing. And the boy, young as he was, felt this and resented it.
When the party presently reached the house, and the few servants who remained came out obsequiously to receive them, the boy felt his loneliness and sudden insignificance still more keenly. He saw stirrups held, and heard terms of honor passing; and he crept away to the hayloft to give vent to the tears he was too proud to shed in public. Safe in this refuge, he flung himself down on the hay and showed himself all child; now sobbing as if his heart was broken, and now clenching his little fists and beating the air in impotent passion.
The solitude to which he was left showed that he had good cause for his grief. No one asked for him, no one sought him, who had lately been the most important person in the place. The loft grew dark, the windows changed to mere patches of grey in the midst of blackness. At any other time, and under any other circumstances, the child would have been afraid to remain there alone. But grief and indignation swallow up fear, and in the darkness he called on his dead father and mother, and felt them nearer than in the day. Young as he was, the child could remember a time when his absence for half an hour would have set the house by the ears, and started a dozen pairs of legs in search of him; when loving voices, silent now forever, would have cried his name through yard and paddock, and a score of servants, whom death and dearth had not yet scattered, would have rushed to gratify his smallest need.
No wonder that at the thought of those days, and of the loving care and gentle hands which had guarded him from hour to hour, the solitary child crouching in the hay and darkness cried long and passionately. He knew little of the quarrel between King and Commons, and nothing of Laud or Strafford, Pym or Hampden, Ship-money or the New Model. But he could suffer. He was old enough to remember and feel, and compare past things with present; and understanding that today his father’s house was passing into the hands of strangers, he experienced all the terror and anguish which a sense of homelessness combined with helplessness can inflict. Lonely and neglected he had been for some time now; but he had felt his loneliness little (comparatively speaking) until to-day.
Agent Hoby had finished his supper. Stretching his legs before the empty hearth in the attitude of one who had done a day’s work, he was in the act of admonishing Gridley the butler on his duty to his new master, when he became aware of a slight movement in the direction of the door. The panelled walls of the parlor in which he sat swallowed up the light, and the candles stood in his way. He had to raise one above his head and peer below it before he could make out anything. When he did, and the face of the lad he had seen by the gate grew as it were out of the panel, his first feeling was one of alarm. He started and muttered an exclamation, thinking that he saw amiss; and that either the October he had drunk was stronger than ordinary, or there was something uncanny in the house. When a second look, however, persuaded him that the boy was there in the flesh, he gave way to anger.
“Gridley!” he said, knitting his brows, “who is this, and how does he come to be here? Is he one of your brats, man?”
“One of mine?” the butler answered stupidly.
“Ay, one of yours! Or how comes he to be here?” the agent answered querulously, sitting forward with a hand on each arm of his chair, and frowning at the boy, who returned his gaze with interest.
The butler looked at the lad as if he were considering him in some new light, and hesitated before he answered. “It is the young master,” he said at last.
“The young what?” the agent exclaimed, leaning still farther forward, and putting into the words as much surprise as possible.
“It is the young master,” Gridley repeated sullenly. “And he is here in season, for I want to know what I am to do with him.”
“Do you mean that he is a Patten?” Hoby muttered, staring at the lad as if he were bewitched.
“To be sure,” Gridley answered, looking also at the boy.
“But your master had only one son? Those were my instructions.”
“Two,” said the butler. “Master Francis—”
“Who is with Duke Hamilton in Scotland, and if caught in arms in England will hang,” rejoined the agent, sternly. “Well?”
“And this one.”
Hoby glared at the boy as if he would eat him. To find that the estate, which he had considered free from embarrassing claims, was burdened with a child, annoyed him beyond measure. The warrants under which he acted overrode, of course, all rights and all privileges; in the eye of the law the boy before him had no more to do with the old house and the wide acres than the meanest peasant who had a hovel on the land. But the agent was a humane man, and in his way a just one; and though he had been well content to ignore the malignant young reprobate whom he had hitherto considered the only claimant, he was vexed to find there was another, more innocent and more helpless.
“He must have relations,” he said at last, after rubbing his closely cropped head with an air of much perplexity. “He must go to them.”
“He has none alive that I know of,” the butler answered stolidly. He was a high-shouldered, fat-faced man, with sly eyes.
“There are no other Pattens?” quoth Hoby.
“Not so much as an old maid.”
“Then he must go to his mother’s people.”
“She was Cornish,” Gridley answered, with a slight grin. “Her family were out with Sir Ralph Hopton, and are now in Holland, I hear.”
Repulsed on all sides, the agent rose from his chair. “Well, bring him to me in the morning,” he said irritably, “and I will see what can be done. His matter can wait. For yourself, however, make up your mind, my man; go or stay as you please. But if you stay it can only be upon my conditions. You understand that?” he added with some asperity.
Gridley assented with a corresponding smack of sullenness in his tone, and taking the hint, bore off the boy to bed. Soon the few lights, which still shone in the great house that had so quietly changed masters, died out one by one; until all lay black and silent, except one small room, low-ceiled, musty, and dark-panelled, which lay to the right of the hall, but a step or two below its level. This room was the butler’s pantry and sleeping-chamber. The plate which had once glittered on its shelves, the silver flagons and Sheffield cups, the spi
ce bowls and sugar-basins, were gone, devoted these five years past to the melting-pot and the Royal cause. The club and blunderbuss which should have guarded them remained, however, in their slings beside the bed; along with some show of dingy pewter and dingier blackjacks, and as many empty bottles as served at once to litter the gloomy little dungeon and prove that the old squire’s cellar was not yet empty.
In the midst of this disorder, and in no way incommoded by the close atmosphere of the room, which reeked of beer and stale liquors, the butler sat thinking far into the night. On the table beside him, which had been cleared to make room for it, lay an open Bible; but as he never consulted its pages or even looked towards it, we may assume that it lay there rather for show than use, and possibly had been arranged for the express purpose of catching the eye of Master Hoby should he push his inquiries as far as this apartment.
Heedless or forgetful of it, Gridley now sat staring into vacancy, with a dark expression on his face. Now and again he bit his finger-nails as if some problem of more than ordinary importance occupied his thoughts. His aspect too was changed in sympathy with the dark hours of the night. Tear and anticipation, greed and cunning, peered from behind the mask of sly composure which he had worn in the parlor. He had now the air of a man who would and dare not, and then again who would not shrink at risks. At last he rose with his mind made up, and creeping to the door secured it. With a stealthy glance round, he next extinguished the light, plunging the room into darkness. After that he was still to be heard shuffling about for some time, but of his actions or the business on which he was bent nothing could be known for certain. Only once a rich ringing sound as of metal on metal surprised the silence, and hanging on the air — for an eternity as it seemed to his alarmed ear — died reluctantly in the hollows of the pewter flagons on the shelf. It was nothing, it was the merest tinkle, it could scarcely have awakened the suspicions of the most critical listener. But the man who made the sound and heard the sound was a coward with an evil conscience; and for a full minute after the last echo had whispered itself away, he crouched on the floor, with the cold dew on his brow and his hand shaking. After that, silence.
Little Jack Patten, awaking suddenly as the first glimmer of dawn entered his room, found the butler standing by his side. The boy would have cried out, not knowing him in the half light, but Gridley muttered his name, and enjoining silence with a finger on his lip, sat down on the pallet by the lad’s side.
“What is it?” Jack said, sitting up. The man’s cautious and apprehensive air, no less than the gloom which still filled the room and rendered objects indistinct, scared him.
“Hush!” the butler answered in a low voice, “and listen to me, Jack. I have been thinking about you. You know this house is not yours any longer. It will be shut up, and there will be none but Roundheaded soldiers here, and the man below will be master. You don’t want to stay here and eat his bread?”
The boy shook his head. But, even as he shook it, the tears rose to his eyes. For where was he to go? Yesterday’s events, his friendlessness and helplessness, recurred to his mind in a rush of bitter memories.
“Would you like to come away with me?” Gridley muttered, keenly watching the effect of his words.
Jack peered at him doubtfully. The butler had not been so kind to him of late as to give this proposal an air of complete naturalness. The manner and the tone of it were strange even in the child’s judgment. “Where are you going?” he asked cautiously.
“To my home,” said the butler, licking his lips, as if they were dry.
“It is on the moors, is it not?”
The butler nodded. “Above Pateley?”
“It is many a mile above Pateley — up, up, up; ay, miles above it.”
The child’s eyes glistened at that. The moors were his fairyland. He had passed many and many a happy hour in dreaming of the marvellous things which lay beyond the purple hills to westward; the rugged broken line behind which the sun went down each day in a glory of crimson or orange. That line, he knew, was the beginning of the moors. The blue distance beyond it he had peopled with his own visions of giants and dwarfs, and witches and warlocks, and added besides all the tales which passed current in Pattenhall and the low country of doings in t’ moors. He knew the moor people kept to themselves and were wild and savage, inhabiting hills a mile high and valleys miles in depth; and he longed to visit them and see these things for himself. His eyes dried quickly as he listened to Gridley, and eagerly asked, “Above Pateley?” which was the boundary of his known world, “miles and miles above Pateley, Gridley?”
“Ay, up Skipton way.”
“Is that in the heart of the moors, Gridley?”
“There is no other heart,” the butler answered gruffly, “unless, maybe, it is Settle. And it is Settle side of Skipton.”
“Are you going now?” the lad said impulsively, standing up straight in his bed, with his brown eyes staring and his fair cheeks glowing with anticipation and excitement.
“This very minute.”
“I’ll come with you! You will let me dress, Gridley?”
“Ay, dress quickly. We must be away before any one is awake.”
“I’ll be quick!” Jack answered.
He was too young to see anything strange in the hurry and secrecy of such a departure. The troubles of the times had made him familiar with abrupt comings and goings. He trembled, it is true, as he stole down the dark staircase on tiptoe and clinging to the butler’s hand; but it was with excitement, not fear. He felt no surprise at finding one of the great plough-horses standing saddled in its stall; nor did the size of the wallets which he saw behind the saddle arouse any doubt or suspicion in his mind. Gridley’s haste to be gone, the trembling which seized the butler as they crossed the farmyard, the frequent glances he cast behind him until the road was fairly gained, seemed to the boy natural enough. All Jack knew was that he was leaving his enemies behind him. They had killed his father and exiled his brother. Naturally he feared and hated them. He was too young to understand that he stood in no peril himself, but that on the contrary his proper disposal had caused Master Hoby the loss of at least an hour’s sleep.
Before it was fairly light the fugitives were already a mile away. The boy rode behind Gridley, clinging to a strap passed round the latter’s waist; and the two jogged along comfortably enough as far as the body was concerned, though it was evident that Gridley’s anxiety was little if at all allayed. They shunned the highway, and went by hedge paths and bridle-roads, which avoided houses and villages. When the sun rose the two were already five or six miles from Pattenhall, in a country new to the lad, though sufficiently like his own to whet his curiosity instead of satisfying it.
“How far are we from the moors, Gridley?” he asked as often as he dared, for the butler’s temper seemed uncertain. “Shall we be there to breakfast?”
“Ay, we’ll be there to breakfast,” was the usual answer.
And presently, to the boy’s delight, the country began to trend upwards, the path grew steeper. The coppices and hedgerows, the clumps of elms and oaks and beeches, which had hidden the higher prospects from his eyes, and almost persuaded him that he was making no progress, began to grow more sparse; until at last they failed altogether, and he saw before him a rising slope of marsh and moorland, swelling here and there into rocky ridges, between which the sycamores and ashes grew in stunted bunches. Above he raised his eyes to a heaven wider and more open than that to which he was accustomed; while lark beyond lark, soaring each higher than the other, seemed striving which should celebrate most fitly the balmy air and warm sunshine which flooded all.
“Are these the moors, Gridley?” the boy asked with delight.
“These, the moors?” the man answered, with the first smile he had allowed himself that morning. “You wait a bit, and you’ll see!”
His tone was not encouraging, but as he hastened to give the lad his breakfast and a drink of beer, Jack passed over the change of manner, and
rocking himself from side to side, as far as the strap would let him, went merrily upwards, munching as he rode. Over Pateley Bridge and Pateley moors they went, and upwards still to Bewerley Fell, whence they saw the Riding stretched like a picture behind them. Jack fancied, but that was, impossible, that he could see the chimneys and the great oak at Pattenhall. Leaving Bewerley they skirted Hebdon Moor on the north side, rising here so high that Jack could see nothing on either hand but horrid crags, and ridges of grey limestone and vast slopes of grey rock. Here, too, there was little turf and no heather, but only stone-crop and saxifrages, with cruel quagmires and bogs in the hollows. The very sky seemed changed. It grew dark and overcast, and clouds and mist gathered round the travellers, hiding the path, yet disclosing from time to time the huge brow of Ingleborough or the flat head of Penighent. The wind moaned across the grey steeps, and a small rain began to fall and quickly wet them to the skin.
The boy shuddered. “Are these the moors?” he asked.
“Ay, these are the moors!” his companion answered grimly. “And moorland weather. Yon’s the High Moors and Malham Tarn. Your eyes are young. Do you see a grey spot in the nook to the right, yonder, two miles away! That is Little Howe, and we are bound for it.”
“Who lives there?” Jack answered, as he looked drearily over the desolate upland.
“My brother,” the butler answered, with a touch of ferocity in his tone. “Simon Gridley, he is called, and you will know him soon enough.”
CHAPTER II.
MALHAM HIGH MOORS.
Still nearly an hour elapsed before the tired horse stopped at the door of the small grey dwelling which Gridley had pointed out. The house, a rough farmstead of four rooms, stood high in a nook of the moor, facing Ingleborough. A few yew-trees filled the narrowing dell behind it with black shadow; a low wall of loose stones which joined one ridge to another formed a fold before it. The clatter of hoofs, as the horse climbed the rocky slope leading to the house, brought out a man and woman, who, leaning on this wall, watched the couple approach.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 237
