Windyridge

Windyridge.

by W. Riley.

CHAPTER I

THE CALL OF THE HEATHER

I am beginning to-day a new volume in the book of my life. I wrote the Prologue to it yesterday when I chanced upon this hamlet, and my Inner Self peremptorily bade me take up my abode here. My Inner Self often insists upon a course which has neither rhyme nor reason to recommend it, but as I am a woman I can plead instinct as the explanation--or shall I say the excuse?--of my eccentric conduct. Yet I don"t think I have ever been quite so mad before as I fully realise that I am now, and the delight of it all is that I don"t care and I don"t repent, although twenty-four hours have pa.s.sed since I impulsively asked the price of my cottage, and found that I could have it, studio and all, for a yearly rental of ten pounds. I have never been a tenant "on my own" before, and the knowledge that I am not going back to the attic bedroom and the hard "easy" chairs of the Chelsea lodging-house which has been my home for the last three years fills me with a great joy. I feel as if I should suffocate if I were to go back, but it is my soul which would be smothered. Subconsciously I have been panting for Windyridge for months, and my soul recognised the place and leaped to the discovery instantaneously.

Yet how strange it all seems: how ridiculously fantastic! I cannot get away from that thought, and I am constantly asking myself whether Providence or Fate, or any other power with a capital letter at the beginning, is directing the move for my good, or whether it is just whimsicalness on my part, self-originated and self-explanatory--the explanation being that I am mad, as I said before.

When I look back on the events of the last three days and realise that I have crossed my Rubicon and burned my boats behind me, and that I had no conscious intention of doing anything of the kind when I set out, I just gasp. If I had stayed to reason with myself I should never have had the courage to pack a few things into a bag and take a third-cla.s.s ticket for Airlee at King"s Cross, with the avowed intention of hearing a Yorkshire choir sing in a summer festival. Yet it seems almost prophetic as I recall the incident that I declined to take a return ticket, though, to be sure, there was no advantage in doing so: no reduction, I mean. Whether there was an advantage remains to be seen; I verily believe I should have returned rather than have wasted that return half. I dislike waste.

That was on Tuesday; on Wednesday I went to the Town Hall and entered a new world. It cost me a good deal in coin of the realm--much more than I had dreamed of--but I got it all back in the currency of heaven before I came away. It may have been my excitable temperament--for my mother, I remember, used to condone my faults by explaining that I was "highly-strung," whatever that may mean--or it may have been the Yorkshire blood in my veins which turned to fever heat as the vast volume of sweet sound rose and fell; one thing is certain, I lost myself completely, and did not find myself again until I discovered that the room was almost bare of people, and realised by the good-humoured glances of the few who remained that I appeared to be more vacant than the room, and was making myself foolishly conspicuous by remaining seated with my head in my hands and that far-away look in my eyes which tells of "yonderliness."

To be quite candid, I am not quite sure that I _did_ find myself; I suspect some tenant moved out and another moved in that afternoon, and I am disposed to think that Airlee explains Windyridge. If I were to attempt to put down in cold words what I heard or what I felt I should fail, and it would seem very ordinary and uninspiring, so I shall not make the attempt. But when I got outside, the noise of the busy city grated on my senses, and the atmosphere--which was really not bad, for the day was bright and sunny--seemed heavy and stifling. I longed for something which I had not previously cared about; I did not understand my yearnings--I do not yet--but I wanted to get away from the wooden pavements, and the granite banks, and the brick warehouses, and the huge hotels, and the smoke and bustle and din, and lay my head in the lap of Nature, and think.

I slept a little, I am sure, but I tossed about a good deal in the cosy little bed of the modest hotel where I took lodging, and when morning came I found my Inner Self still harping on the same string, and more vigorously than ever. Perhaps, if I had been sensible, I should have gone straight to the station, and by this time have been going through the old routine in Bloomsbury and Chelsea, instead of which I made my way into the street after breakfast, and asked a kind-faced clergyman which tramcar would take me farthest away from the turmoil. He was a fatherly man, but his answers were so vague, and he seemed in so much doubt of their reliability, that I disregarded them and accosted a bright young workman who crossed the square a moment later. "A good long ride?" he repeated; "right into the country, eh? Take this car and go to the far end." With this he led me to one which bore the fateful sign "Fawkshill."

It was a lovely day even in the city, warm but not muggy. When I had found an outside seat at the extreme front of the upper deck of the car, the greater part of which was covered, and redolent of tobacco fumes, I made up my mind to enjoy the breeze and the experience. So far as I knew it was just a parenthesis in a chapter of my life, not the beginning of a new volume. In the background of my thoughts there was always Chelsea, though I affected to forget it. Meantime, in the foreground, there was a good deal to make even Chelsea attractive by comparison.

We made our way slowly along the grimy road, with its rows of monotonously uninteresting warehouses, and its endless drays filled with the city"s merchandise. When the warehouses ended the grime remained. We pa.s.sed street after street of brick-built cottages, over which spread a canopy of smoke from a hundred factory chimneys. When the country was reached--if the bleak and sad-looking fields could be called country--the mill chimneys were just as evident. They were everywhere, even on the horizon, and my spirits sank. The villages through which we pa.s.sed were just suburbs, with the thumb-print of the city on them all. Every cottage, every villa, spoke of the mill or the shop. As we neared the terminus I found to my dismay that so far from leaving these things behind we were entering a prosperous-looking little town which was just Airlee on a smaller scale, with its full quota of smoke-producing factories. How I blamed myself for following the advice of the young workman and regretted that I had not trusted the parson!

I had an early lunch at a confectioner"s and then wandered, aimlessly enough, up a quiet road which led away from the town and the tram-lines. It was not very promising at first, but when I had pa.s.sed the last row of houses and found myself hemmed in by green, moss-grown walls, my spirits rose. By and by I reached cross-roads and a broad, white highway, which was manifestly one of the great arteries of this thriving district. It had no attractions for me and I crossed it, and continued my upward path. A sign-post told me that I was on my way to Windyridge.

I was now in a rather pleasant country road, but one which certainly could boast few attractions. Yet I was attracted, perhaps because I could see so little in front of me, perhaps because I could not see a single factory chimney, look where I would.

Fifteen minutes after leaving Fawkshill I had reached the brow of the hill, and my spirits rose with a bound. Just in front of me, on a rising knoll, some fine sycamores and beeches cl.u.s.tered together, guarding the approach to a grey, ivy-coated hall. The rooks cawed dismally in the highest branches of the sycamores, the leaves of which were already beginning to fall. Autumn, apparently, lays her hand in good time upon the foliage in these northern regions, for some of the trees had already grown ruddy at her touch.

When I came to the bend of the road I think my heart stood still for a second or two. There in front of me and to my left--almost, as it seemed, at my feet--were the heather-covered moors, gloriously purple, and the tears came into my eyes. I could not help it; it was so unexpected, and it unlocked too suddenly the chamber where a memory was preserved--a hallowed, never-to-be-forgotten memory.

Years ago, and long before his sufferings ended, my father was leaning back in his chair one day, his hand clasping its arms, as his custom was, when there came into his eyes a look of inexpressible longing, almost of pain. I went and knelt by his side, and pa.s.sed my hand gently through his hair, and asked, "What is it, dad dear?" He drew my face to his and answered sadly--it was little more than a whisper, for he was very weak,--"It was the heather calling me, la.s.sie; I felt its sweet breath upon my cheek for a moment, and longed to fall upon its comfortable breast. But it cannot be; it cannot be!"

That was ten years ago, and now the heather was to call me and I was to respond to the call. How long I stood there, with the tear-drops dimming my vision, I do not know, but presently I became conscious of a village street, if the few houses which straggled back from the roadway could with any propriety be termed a village. I walked along the path and drank in every sight and sound, and thirsted for more. I thought, in the intoxication of that hour, that peace and contentment must be the portion of every dweller in that quiet spot. I know it will not be so, of course. I suppose sorrow and heartache may inhabit that quaint one-storeyed cottage from which the wreath of blue smoke curls so lazily; that the seeds of greed and falsehood and discontent may thrive and grow here, and be just as hateful and hideous as the flowers which fill the gardens around me are bright and beautiful. But for the moment I did not realise this.

A woman was washing the flags at her cottage door, and she smiled upon me as I pa.s.sed. It was my first human welcome to the moors. At the sound of my footsteps a whole regiment of hens flew from the hilly field which was their pasture, and perched in line upon the wall to give me greeting.

I saw no sign of church or inn; no shop save a blacksmith"s, and that was closed. The cottage windows and the little white curtains behind them were spotlessly clean. Within, I caught a glimpse here and there of shining steel and polished bra.s.s which sparkled in the firelight; and the comfort and cosiness of it all appealed to me strongly.

I do not think there are more than a score houses in the village, but before I had come to the end of the street my soul had made the discovery I referred to just now. "Surely," I said to myself, "it is good to be here; this people shall be my people."

It was doubtless a mad thing to say, but I was prospered in my madness.

At the extreme end of the village, just past the little Methodist chapel which by its newness struck a jarring note in the otherwise perfect harmony, I saw a long, low building, of one storey like most of its fellows, roofed with stone, and fronted by a large garden. It was separated by a field-length from its nearest neighbour, and the field was just the side of a hill, nothing more. Two doors gave access to the building, which was apparently unevenly divided into two cottages, for a couple of windows appertained to the one door and one only to the other. A board at the bottom of the garden and ab.u.t.ting upon the road conveyed the information that this "Desirable cottage" was "to let, furnished."

Then and there I gave hostages to fortune. If that cottage was to be had for a sum which came within the limits of my slender purse, it should be mine from that hour. For I saw at a glance that it faced the moors and the sunset; and I vowed that the windows should be always open, so that the breath of the heather might have free entrance.

I pushed aside the little green gate and walked up the tiny path amid a profusion of flowers whose names are as yet unknown to me. I promise myself to know them all ere long: to know their habits and their humours: to learn their secrets and the story of their lives; but that is for the future. Something almost as sweet and dainty as the flowers claimed my attention first.

At the sound of the creaking gate, a dear old lady appeared at the door of the doll"s house which was joined to my cottage and advanced to meet me. She had the pleasantest of faces, and was pink and pretty in spite of her sixty odd years. She wore a cap with strings, in the style of long ago: it was a rather jaunty cap and not devoid of colour. A faded shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, and a white ap.r.o.n protected her neat black frock. I saw at once that she was a nervous little body, yet there was dignity as well as deference in the face which looked smilingly into mine. But the manner of her address took my heart by storm. I had never been accosted in this way before, and I nearly took the old lady in my arms and kissed her. I have done since!

"Yes, love!" she said. It was not an inquiry exactly, though there may have been the faintest note of interrogation in her voice. It was as though I had told her of my desire to rent the cottage, and she was expressing a gratified a.s.sent.

"I see this little house is to let," I began; "may I look at it, and will you tell me all about it?"

"To be sure, love," was the reply. "Now, just come inside my cottage and rest yourself, and I"ll pour you out a cup of tea if you"re in no hurry, for there"s sure to be someone pa.s.sing who will tell Reuben Goodenough to come hither."

"How sweet of you!" I replied. "A cup of tea will be like the nectar of the G.o.ds. I will drink it thankfully."

The inside of that room was a revelation to me. It was, oh, so very, very small--the smallest living-room I am sure that I ever set eyes upon--but so marvellously clean, and so comfortably homelike that I uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as I crossed the threshold.

The ceiling was of oak, with deep, broad, uneven beams of the same material, all dark and glossy with age. The stone floor was covered for the most part with druggeting, whilst a thick rug composed of small cuttings of black cloth with a design in scarlet was laid before the ample hearth. An old oak sideboard, or dresser, nearly filled the wall facing the window, and on its open shelves was an array of china which would make some people I know break the tenth commandment. A magnificent grandfather"s clock, also in oak, with wonderful carving, ticked importantly in one corner, and a capacious cupboard filled another.

The wall decorations consisted of a bright but battered copper warming-pan, which hung perpendicularly from the ceiling, looking like the immense pendulum of some giant clock; and three "pictures" which aroused my interest. Two of them were framed examples of their owner"s skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked in coloured wool--"Mary Jackson, her work, aged 13." The letters of the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmatical figures which I took to represent flowers, completed the one effort, whilst familiar texts of Scripture, after the style of "Thou G.o.d Seest Me," made up the other.

The third frame was of mahogany like the others, and contained a collection of deep, black-edged funeral cards of ancient date.

But the fireplace! My father"s description of a real, old-fashioned Yorkshire range was understood now for the first time, as I saw the high mantelpiece, the deep oven and the wide-mouthed grate and chimney, in which the yellow flames were dancing merrily, covering the whole room with the amber glow which made it so warm and enticing. Through an open door I caught sight of a white counterpane, and found that there was, after all, a wee bedroom built out at the back.

Drawn quite close to the hearthrug was a round deal table covered with a snowy cloth. Two minutes later I was seated there, sipping tea and eating toast, deliciously crisp and hot, and taking my new friend into my confidence.

I confess it pleased me to find that my mad proposal was all as natural as the sunshine to her. The dear old soul never uttered one word of warning or suggestion. She was delighted with the scheme I rapidly evolved and ready to be my willing helper. I won her affection at once when I told her that I was a "Yorkshireman," and she took me to her heart and begged me to let her "mother" me. I lost my own mother before I had learned to value her, and I think I shall like to be "mothered," though I shall be thirty-five in April.

G.o.d bless Mother Hubbard! I must tell how I took the cottage to-morrow.

CHAPTER II

FARMER GOODENOUGH STATES HIS TERMS

A fee of one penny, paid in advance, lent wings to the feet of the small boy who was pressed into my service, and before many minutes had pa.s.sed Farmer Goodenough appeared upon the scene.

He shook hands with me, after Mother Hubbard had performed the ceremony of introduction, and I can feel the warmth of his greeting in my right hand yet. I shall be careful in future when I get to close grips with big, h.o.r.n.y-handed Yorkshire farmers.

I almost regretted that I had felt it necessary to explain the situation to him when I heard his hearty and somewhat patronising laugh, but Mother Hubbard"s previous treatment had emboldened me.

"Well, I do declare, Miss..." he hesitated and looked at me inquiringly, for my hostess had not mentioned my name.

"Grace Holden is my name, and I am unmarried," I said in reply.

"Oh!" he answered--only he p.r.o.nounced it "Aw!"

"Well now, miss, you must excuse _me_, for I mostly speaks straight and no offence meant, and I hope none taken; but isn"t this just a little bit daft-like? "Marry in "aste an" repent at leisure," as t" Owd Book says. I"m thinkin" this"ll be summat o" t" same sort. Hadn"t you better sleep on it, think ye? It"ll happen be a mucky day to-morrow, an" Windyridge "ll hev t" polish ta"en off it."

I have written this down with Mother Hubbard"s a.s.sistance, and I required a little help from her at the time in the interpretation of it. But the farmer"s candour pleased me.