BROWNE'S HOUSE.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume XXXV, Issue 11594, 21 July 1900, Page 5

BROWNE'S HOUSE.

« n I [BY THE REV. S. BARING-GOULD] 8I si Author of 'Mehalah,' &o. « n In the depth of the moors, many g Inlles from any highway, In a spot from whioh neither house nor tree can h be seen, nothing but purple sweepß of heather, and rooky tors, bleaohed in passing lights, stood once a reedthatched cottage or rather farmhouse, though indeed Us siz9 hardly justified its being considered as the latter. 'It Is now a complete ruin. Mounds Of stone and moss alone Indicate that a dwelling stood there. The chimney lttelf has fallen, yet the gaping fireplace formed of granite blocks remains standing, There are indications of enclosures •bout the structure, but wild nature hat surmounted the walla and reasserted itself where was ones some sort of tillage. Although, judging from the dilapidation and the llohoned oondition of the stoneß, one oould have supposed that the edifioe- was of great antiquity, yet it is not so by any means. There are those still alive who remember when the chimney fell; and who had heard of both the building, the oooupying and the destruction of ' Browne's house.' Few, indeed, hare seen the rnio, for It is in so remote a spot that only the shepherd, tbe rush cutter, and the occasional fisherman approaohdt. On the ordnanoe survey, faint Indies, tiona of enclosures are given on the ■pot, but no name is attached. Yet every moorman, if asked what these fuins are, will tell you that it is the I wreok of ' Browne's House.' I 'But who was Browne?' I onoe in- I quired. ' Dan know— cur,' was the reply. ' What In the name of wonder induced ■ man to settle in suoh a place, where not a sound \b to be heard save tbe call of the ourlew and the soream of the peewit P' « 'What lead'n to zettle there, zur? Well— now I reckon t'were a woman.' 'A woman!' I was astounded. ' What woman could have fanoied sa deaolato, so solitary a spot ? ' ' Oh, I reckon 'tweren't the woman as liked it; 'twere Browne went there oos of a woman.' 1 Then you do know something about Browne P' - ' I don't know nothin' of who he wur. I knew what he did, and what became of him. But who he war— that I never 'card.' But if I give the story in broad dialect it will hardly be generally understood, and as it did not oomb all at once, but ia snippets, nor all from the same person, I shall tell it In my own way withont interruption, At the beginning of this century— Within the first twenty years of it— a man of the name of Eiebeok Browne, of whose existence hitherto none on the moor bad known, and who certainly did tot belong to the district, began to enclose and build in this solitude, without asking leave of anyone ; for there was no one to say him nay. Toe waste, It is true, was not without an owner, the Prince of Wales. But the period was not one in whioh he was likely to Interfere. The conclusion of the European War, with Waterloo, was followed by a period of great internal distress and diaoontent. Trade languished through the exhaustion of the Continental nations, and their consequent inability to purchase our goods; soldiers and sailors had been discharged from army and iiavy and were adrift without means of obtaining a livelihood. Land fell enormously in value— and a succession of poor seasons damped the ardour of the agrionltnraliat, A good deal of land fell out of cultivation. When, accordingly, a man began to enclose and to build, tbe agents of the Prince Regent, if even they heard of it, whioh is very unlikely, would not ln» terfere; the moorland was absolutely worthless as it was, and might be made of some value by his labors. When It was so, then would be the time to interfere. So Browne, who at first had thrown •- np a rude shed for his own aooommodaI tlon, proceeded to set up hedges, then to build walls, and to rear a small but habitable dwelling-house. He did it almost entirely by. bis own labor. He had a horse ; and for his walls he employed no mortar. Everything he required exoept timber wan at hand— stone, moss, and thatch. The rafters he was constrained to bring from A distance, as also the sticks of furniture wherewith be made his rooms habitable. Rlebeck Browne was a broad-set man with dark hair beginning to be grizzled, an overhanging forehead and dark deepset eyes. His face was frightfully disfigured by a sabre cut from the nose across the oheek to the lower jaw. It was supposed that he had been at sea, but whether in the navy or in a privateer, none knew. He was very reserved, and would say nothing about himself. Indeed he would oommunioate with no one exoept In oases of necessity. That be was a handy man was indubitable, but that is a quality possessed by all sailors. What surprised moormen was the dexterity with whioh he was able to manipulate large blocks of granite. They have acquired a Really extraordinary skill in this partioular, but it was to them wonderful that a man who never in his life had had to ; deal with granite masses should be' so ready, to make them tractable. ■No sooner was 'Browne's House' rendered habitable than the man brought thither a young and peculiarly I beautiful, wife, a fair blue-eyed, floss silk haired being, of ths purest complexion like the rose of June. Heeyes were not of the pale blue that hax so little expression in it, but deep blue as indigo, the blue of the sailor's jaoket who fights for his king. Bnt few saw her, very few indeed. OcoasiontlU long intervals, Eiebeok took ••- .-• "' little light oart over **- - 1 * ln hlB nearest marks' ' - ac moor to the the m«.r>" '' - town— nearest ! aave g- -"'..— "that whioh was least distant — when she had shopping to do that he oould not possibly execute for her. Browne had a oow as well as a horse ; and the oow gave occupation to hiß wife. 0 cc, the p-etty young woman venturri alone some three miles thence ■>v-r traoklesti wa-te to the nearest dwelling, that of a shepherd and hi* wlf« ; the bad g< ne to them about some difficulty in her management of biking, and desired advice. The shepherd's wife took oooaaion to ' pump ' her. But she could not get much from Browne's wife, exoept that her name was Selena ; tbat the did not at all relish her lonely situation ; and that time hung heavy on her bands. The shepherd's wife was a shrewd woman, and Selena allowed it to transpire that Browne overawed her, that he waß jealous, mistrusted bis own power of holding her affections, that he idolised her, and that he was a terrible man to go against. That was the one and only time when Browne's wife visited the cottage. By some means Browne must have learned that she had been there, possibly his wife ' had told him, perhaps he may have seen her returning tbenoe, and drawn out the truth by questions. She never revisited the oottage, though she had promised to do ao. The sbepherd'a wife accordingly one day made a journey to Browne's House, and Baw the yonng wife there— but Browne himself waa present, and before him she oould say but little, and get hold of no farther particulars. s She went away, and although she also lived in a solitary place, she did not remain there, but went to where other people lived, and to them she oommanioated what she knew. Browne, so it came to be said, had set np his habitation on the moors because he was a jealous man, and he feared losing his wile, if he did not keep her away from being seen by men, tnd seeing those that were handsomer and more engaging than himself. This impression was deepened by the following circumstance : - There was a young man, a gentleman, who was wont to fish and shoot on tbe moors. - One- day, at the olose of the year, when he was out blackcock and snipe shooting, he approached Browne's ,•■ House. Whereupon Browne osme oat to him; and he also carried a gun. a ■ 'What are you doing hereP' a«ked J_ , the settler. • 'Shooting, as you see.' . 'But lob jeot to your shooting here.' ' 'Od what gronnds P This is not yonr "' ;»l pbjeot, I shoot here myself . The

nly moat I get ia from what I bring < own. Take yourself elsewhere.' ' 'I have leave from the Duchy to hoot when I like— and I shall acoordugly go where I like.' 'Please yourself,' retorted Browne, bat I tell you— l go out shooting ayaelf. Yon see I do— here is my gun. jook at my arm— my hand. Do you cc a sabre out soross the wrlat P Well -that makes my mußolos jerk and kink trangely, I'm not a good shot, Leastpaya—l can hit when 1 take aim unless ny nerve kinks. If it kinks, my shot ;oes — I oan't be answerable where.' This was said with a einister look in lis dark eyes. ■ Dome old man,' said the iportsman, the moor is wide enough for both of is. We need not quarrel.' I ' I'm not an old rriSb,' retorted Rie- I beok, ■ what makes you oast that in my I Eace P 1 ' Tour grizzled hair.* 'That comes of trouble. I am not old. You said that for. a reason. What aro you after here P' ' I have told you— game. Blnokcook, - snipe, bares— anything.' ' Anything— that includes a great deal.' ' Not much on the moor. All ii grist that cornea to my mill.' Rlebeok looked at him with eyes like heated skewera boring into him. 1 Young ohap !' laughed the sportsman, ' let me into your house, and give me a cup of milk.' 'No— never,' shouted Browne, and • sprang to his door, stood at it and raised his gun. ' Oh ! I force my iray nowhere where not agreeable,' ssid the gentleman. ■ ' Farewell. Manners do not grow here like moss.' 'Then don't come here looking for ' what you can't find.' When the sportsman sat in the country Inn where he made his quarters and talked of his experience that day, ' Gad ! ' said be, ' I believe that Browne waa afraid of my Being his pretty wife, and he actually supposed I had gone ■ over the moors to get a peep at her.' ' Very likely,^ assented those who sat smoking and drinking around the peat fire. ' Her's a terrible jealous man, be I Browne, that her is.' I 'I'd like to see the pretty young I woman/ said the sportsman, ' they say she is uncommonly pretty,' ' Ay— so they say, but I ha'n't zeed her, hey you, Jones 1 ' ■Oan't zay I 'cv,' replied the man addressed. 'But Moses, he hey oast an eye on her.' ' What be 'er like then, Moses P ' 'Loramussy. I seed her about two miles off — that's all. I oan't say.' ' I should like to see her — and I dare say I shall make a push and get a sight some day,' said the sportsman. Now during the winter Riebeok Brown found the meanß of somewhat ingratiating himself with the inhabitants of the Moor and its outshoots. He had established a still, and he maafaotured —of oourse without licence— a good deal of raw spirits, and that he was able to dispose of in the farms and taverns and cottages wherever he went. The prioa he asked for was so moderate, and a fiery spirit was in auoh request, that Browne's visits were greatly desired, and the demand was so great that he oould not supply it rapidly enough. What can a moorman do in the long winter nights'? He has no newspapers no books, no occupation, no society. He must drink to make the time psbs. He must drink to keep away the blues, when he hears the wind howling round his house, and the spirits of the dead oryiog and sobbing at his window pane because he sits over a glowing fire, and they are oold without— ever wandering iv the wind. No gauger was likely to pasß his nay. A gauger seen at a distance of two miles is not dangerous. Every token of a still oan be done away with bsfore ha comes to the door. And there was no fear of betrayal. Who, that drinks spirits bought cheap, would be so arrant a fool as to betray the man from whom be buys it P No— Browne was safe enough in his manufacture and in his traffic He had no fears on that score, his fears ware concerning his wife. He knew that he was an old man for her. He knew that he was ugly, disfigured by hia soars. He know that he was a man without bright spirits and lacking an engaging manner. Was it likely that a pretty butterflylike girl suoh as Selena oould really love him, and remain true to him P Not if she were among, men whom she oould contrast with her husband, His only safety was to retain her in aeolusion. The poor thing suffered during the winter especially, but also through the long, oold spring, and the drippling foggy autumn, where for weeks the sun was not visible, and the air was dense with vapour -and the moor sodden and oozing at every tread. She never went to church. No ohuroh was nearer than fourteen miles— and these to a large extent over wastea where were bogs and mires, and not a traok, where to loose the way was to be lost altogether. To be out off absolutely from "all society save that of Riebeok was io'aup. portable. She had said all the had to Bay, he had Biid all ho oared, to say They sat, they ate altogether. In silenoe! a.nd Eiebeok grew gloomy and angry. She w»b sulking, he thought. She was turning against him. She was thinking of someone whom she had known in the past, to whom now her heart reverted. Hia suapioiousness to her was to her a dally torment. In the dense fog it wag co easy for someone to steal to the house nnperoeived. He was obliged to ba »way, vending his spirits j and when ua returned he tortnred her with questions. He peered about, as though expecting to find traces of a visitor, a footprint in the mud at Ihe door, a oap dropped any trifle on whioh to feed his jealousy When be visited farmhouses, itua wives would sometimes enquire after Selena. He thought they were aotine ia complicity with some one. The men found out his weakness snd taunted him. or said foolish things to exoite hta jealousy. __ .' uon't happen to have seenh'^P' ' dsked a farmer with a very red fao^ Bn d j white whiskers, as he winked, at his wife. 'WhomP' ' Oh, only a young man who were axln' his way to Browne's House. Bat mussy on me— whether who wanted to zee you or the missus, I can't mind. It hey gone out o' my head.' ' What sort of a young man ? ' asked Riebeok, growing purple. 'Sort— well, a fine figure of a man, well Bet up, and wi' mutton chop whiskers — looked military, I take it.' ' For shame,' said the farmer's wife, nudgiog her husband, ' how can you go on like that Tom Eva ] ' Then to Riebeok, 'Don't y 1 mind he. It's all his nonsense. There ain't been no young man here. Not like to be this weather. Don't believe a word of It.' Bat fteibeok went away believing. With Maroh, fishing began. It was oold on the moor, but the rivers and streams were full, brawliDg down ovec the granite boulders. The grass was burnt drab, the fern had not beg un to eprout, only the cushions of moss were green where water welled up. With the fishing season appeared the young sportsman, whipping the pools for trout. Eiebeok saw him— bat the valley in whioh was the nearest river wasnotolois to his settlement, and so long as the yonng fellow remained by the river Bide Browne was content. But, then, what guarantee had he that the fisher would be satisfied to remsin In pursuit of trout only? One day he did catoh sight of the Bportsman walking over the moor from the valley in the direction of hia habitation ; but when the latter saw Browne, he bent aside, struok aoross a hill as though he had abandoned one river and was going to try his luck in another stream. Browne was oonvinoed that he bad proposed to visit his house. On one occasion Riebeok was onnßtrained to be absent from home not for a dsy only, He had lot his cow through milk fever, and he must go to market and buy another. But to bring his new purchase home the same day that Abe was bought was not possible. His wife was neivous at the thought of being left alone at night so many miles from anyone. She was not without superstitious fears. But there was no help for it— Browne oom bated her alarm, and bade her keep a light burning the whole night through. J£So he departed and haggled over and secured a very good oow, and drove her borne from town to the upland moors. She could not travel fast. He was foroed lo aoo^mmodate hie pace to bers. On the seoond day about noon he ' reached the shepherd's hat. The j shepherd's wife came out. j , 'My word, Mr Browne, you've gotten • a beauty this time. He do look as if ; he'd give a fine brave lot of milk,' , .* i

I In tre West of England tbe personal I Dronoima do not express sex. A cook ia ehe or her, and a cow — as you use—in c, Ho. i 1 She'll do,' said Browne. < 1 And if II might make that bowld. What did you give fot'a P i 'My memotj ' ain't good,' answered I Browne, 'It I was to tell yon I might i tell you wrong.' r ' Oh,' aaid the woman, a bit nettled. * 'By the ways. Afore I forget it, there waa a young man here— yeßterday, asm' f if you was at home, and the way to Browne's House.' ' A young man P ' ' 'Eea. I reckon.' 'And you told him P' 'In oooree I did. It's not laa 'nd be uncivil to a gemman.' ' A gentleman— that fisherman, 1 I dareßay.' 'Might be— very like, I reoktn. I've I never seed he nigh enough to be sure. I It may ha' been he.' I \ Browne turned livid, then purple. He i thrußt the cow along the way, down to P the river, and aorosa the ford. ' Asked the way to Browne's House I ' "I he eald. 'That fishing and shooting I ohap know ■ Browne'* House wll enough I and the way to it. But he said that to the woman to deoeive her. It is he I He knew I should be away ' I Oa crossing the river at the ford, he I left the cow to pasture. He was now I out of sight of the woman at the shepherd's oot, and he could run without a being seen. He did run. He ascended * the flank of the moor, hurried over the i tableland, and saw his cottage in the ' distance. He shaded his eyes from the teun. He did not see smoke rising from the chimney. The wind blew direotly r towards him. If the fire was burning * he would Inevitably smell the peat. He (nutted the air and smelt nothing. On reaching his house, he entered— — it was empty, but on the table lay a letter. He 'took it up and turned it about. He was speechless; The earth reeled under him. The walls seemed id, to bow and fall on him. He could not read. He waa wholly an unlettered man. But he knew what the words must be ls tbat were contained in that folded piece of paper. Selena had taken advantage - - of his absence to run away— and not alone. He crumpled the paper in his hand. Then he smoothed it ont again. Should he take the letter to the nearest farm and have It deciphered for him P What —go to Tom Eva? Ask him to read out to him that he was diagraoed, deserted, dishonored P The story would spread— he would be jeered at, pitied by some, rejoioed over by others. And —where waa she P Where was he who carried her off P He had no means of discovering. Over that trackless waste they might eaoapa In any dlreotion unseen. Should he go round the oountry enquiring who had noticed his runaway wife? He oould not do that. He would not do that. So be prowled about, like an evil spirit, consumed with rage, hate, lust after revenge, shame, desperation. He took his gun with him, wherever he went. As to the cow she waa no more thought of. i |So days passed. I [One afternoon late, as the red evening s'nn was painting the moor aide vermillion, Biebeok Browne lay with his . gun on a rook above the river, that I foamed and brawled below— his bead, his heart tortured and burning, when he eaw — iji a w ife oome down towards tbe ford, on her way home. He set hiß teeth i "She was returning, to see his humiliations, may be to take away some little trifles she had left behind. She was returning to flout him. To tell him that Bhe left him for ever. Mad with rage, with jealousy, with pain— he discharged his gun at her,— ahe fell. In that wildernesß none heard the shot, aave the shepherd's wife, who lived over the brow opposite, but she gave no heed to It. Not till next morning was the corpse found— lying by the stepping atones, with a bullet through her heart. There was a hue and 'cry. Browne oould nowhere be found. His house waa deserted. He was not seen on the moors again. * # # # * It fell out that a couple of months after this event, two seamen were standing together in converse on board a small trading vessel bound for the West Indies, whither ahe would bring a oargo of sugar for Bristol. One of the men waa thick set with very grey hair, a heavy brow, and a great gash across one aide of his face. Said he to his mate, ' I suppose you're a bit of a Boholar— eh P You oan read written letteiß as well as them tbat be in print.' •To be sure I oan, Tom Lonely. I can write for you to your sweetheart, or read her letter to you.' 'Ohl' replied the man, who was called Tom Lonely. ' It's no sweetheart's letter — not as I knows by. It was one addressed to a chap I knowd once— his wife ran away from him, and after that he took to drink and died o' delirlnm tremeojous. Here's her letter as she wrote when she ran away.' He unfolded a crumpled eheet. ' Can you now plok that oat for me, Bill P ' 'To be sure I oan.' ' Read away then.' * y Dear Biebeok.'— that's how it begins. A oooriouß sort of a name. Then it goes on. ' Mother is took bad, and has sent brother to bring me to her. She aays she wants particularly to ccc me, so don't be frightened and angry if I'm away. I shall be baok as soon aB I can. I know you can't read, so take this to someone who oan read it for you,' Well, I'm blowd,' said the sailor. 'This don't look much like a wife running away.' ' I think I've got hold o' the wrong letter,' said the man who had entered under the name of Tom Lonely. He had turned deadly pale. That night, the watoh sang out, ' Man overboard.' Tom Lonely was missing? It osme to be said afterwards, that his real name was not Lonely, but Browne, [The Ekd.]