HOUNDS PASTURE

Otago Witness, Issue 3757, 16 March 1926, Page 7

HOUNDS PASTURE

By

I* ( Copyright.—For the Witness.) CHAPTER I.—THE HOUND HOWLS. The glow of the moon, new rising in the east, rounded the grotesque rocks on the moor’s brow with amber aureoles of flame to make them awesome things. Then, slanting to fret the hoar frosted ling with lemon and amethyst light, it sent the shadows packing from Thorroldan Priory, and etched that ancient dwelling place against the sand dunes and the evening sea ... it was then that a hound howled, tninly. The sound whimpered about the boulders of the hill where it sloped down to the stump of basalt on which the priory was founded. It moaned across the marshes near the dunes, and travelled low along the sand flats which bound the squat cliff from the sighihg late November sea. So, over moor and marshlands, pasture, sand-waste, sea, and shore the sound sent down from the field lying between the priory and the hill’s brow fulfilled in its strange compass a prophecy long known to the Tliorrolds of Tliorroldan in the Wapentak of Thewle. And wherever that cry was heard after it rushed a silence that was more awesome than the sound. In that silence John Barnaby entered the wide, Tudor kitchen of the house. Old Ben Igod looked up at him in surprise. “ Wliat’s tli’ want, lad ? Hast-a finished milkin’ b’now?”

Barnaby, tall, shaggy-headed, and w r ise-eyed for all liis 20 years, smiled and answered in his slow wav:

“I haven’t been milking; you know that as well as I. What is it, Ben? Must ye have an excuse to say something—eh? You heard the hound then ? ”

“Aa ’eard nowt—Aa ’card nowt, v’ flaysome muckment thou! ” Igod snarled the words, but his eves betrayed that he lied. “ Comin i’ t’ house wi’ y’ boggart tales, Aa’s noan bahn t’ listen to ’em! Get thee lazy idle wavs dahn t’ laithes, Aa tell tha, and gie a hand wi’t’ milking! ” “ I’m not giving a hand with any milking in this house again, Benjamin Igod! ” Barnaby’s eyes were mere slits, and an inscrutable smile was on his lips. “ For the matter o’ that I don’t intend to do another scrap o’ work about t’ priory either. I’m finished, Igod; you understand—finished! ”

Old Igod put down his beer and the rarebit he had been eating with a clatter. The rarebit fell and was scattered among cinders; the pewter pot cockled on a poker until the steel rolled away and unbalanced it to send its contents pooling on the wide hearth. The older servant got out of his chair by the fireside, and shakily walked across to a corner of the kitchem Grappling among o uns and whipstocks he found what he sought: a thick ash-plant. Barnaby watched his every movement with the same cool and inscrutable smile on his face that had animated it since his entrance.

Igod faced him at last with the ashplant firmly gripped in his quivering right hand. The fierce eyes of him glared from under shaggy and iron-grey brows into the calmer eyes of the youngster. His jutting lower lip looked blue, and made the aspect of his face a thing of evil.

“Happen thou’ll tell t’ maister what y’ve just tell’t me ? ” Igod hissed the words. “ Y’ll tell t’ Thorrold as ’ow y* bahn t’ dew no more work fer ’im—eh?” He raised the ash-plant threateningly. “Thou’ll mebbe tell t’ maister hah Aa elahted y’ across t* ’cad wi’ this as weel —eh? Like this, sitlia—like this Venomously the stick switched down, intended for young Barnaby’s head. Then all w r as uproar in a moment. Barnaby caught the fall of the thing in his suddenly cupped hands as a cricketer does a ball. He swung it out of Igod’s grasp and flung it at the fire, where it scattered cinders far and wide, and rattled against the fallen pewter mug. This done, he grasped at Igod as though at a slipping sack, and with his full strength hurled the old man across the kitchen after the stick. “I’ve waited 15 years for that,” he thundered to the fallen tyrant. “ Fifteen—long—years, Ben Igod—dosta hear ? ” He took a cheap cigarette from his pocket and calmly lit it. “ And now y’ see I’m me own maister. I’m doing no more work in this house, I’ve said, and neither you nor any man breathing will alter that decision.”

“Your education, John Barnaby,” came a steely voice from behind him, “has rid you of dialect, it seems, as effectively as it has of common sense! Since when have you decided, as you say, on all this? A very pretty play, I'm sure, but—er—not convincing. I think I’ll still have the Measure of seeing you cleaning out stables, my ebullient John Barnaby—even milking the cows.” “Not between this and the time they clutter ye about with a shroud, Thorrold” The rebel did not so much as ■love his head as he spoke the words.

Vincent Cornier

He had guessed that the sound of the scuffle bad brought Thorrold from his study—an inevitable act on the part of a man vastly more tyrannical than Igod at his worst. “ Y’see what’s happened to Igod ? 1)’ ye want it t’ happen t’ you as well—eh ? ”

“Ye abandoned imp o’ ’ell, y'! ” Igod almost screamed the words as he got up from the hearthside. “ Dost-a kuaw t’ wheer y’ setting up y’ lip—ye—ye spaw n o’ Beelzebub, ye! Thou’s a-talking t’ Thorrold, thou muckment! Wliativer y’ does t* me—tha’ inun remember y’ obedience t’ pastors and masters and all set i* authority ower ye.” It was so strange that almost pitiful adherence to a creed of service uttered by the vanquished Igod that something very akin to contrition softened John Barnaby’s hard eyes. He looked now on Igod as on a strange new' animal, and puckered his brows. Then he smiled and turned on Thorrold of Tliorroldan Priory.

“A man shot a wild duck in Hound’s Pasture, sir,” he said, “ not more than

an hour agone . . . that’s why I’m telling you that in future I live here—not in the kitchens either, —and do not intend to work for you as a servant any more.”

He could not have caused more consternation in that house had he loosed off a pistol in the faces of the men who heard him. Those peculiar words and the mysterious message they conveyed to Thorrold and Igod were quite as devastating in their effect.

CHAPTER lI.—BARNABY’S STRANGE STORY.

Igod fell back among the cinders and remained there, pale and ludicrous. Thorrold went blue for a moment, then the colour ebbed and ebbed, to leave his twitching cheeks looking like a waxen mask. “ A—a man shot a duck ? ” he mouthed. “ Who—v ho told you to —to use those words—to me ? ” “ The man who shot it.” “And—who is he?”

“ I’ve no doubt but he’ll be coming to tell you soon, Thon old,” Barnaby grinned.

“ What’s tha’ sav—w hat’s that y’ tellin’? Yon feller’s cornin’ ’ere . . .

to t’ priory ? ’ “Keep quiet, Igod! ” That was Thorrold. “ I think I’m quite capable of asking my ow T n questions, thank you. You tell me, Barnaby, that—that a man ” “ Aw—don’t w aste your breath,” was Barnaby’s insolent re joinder. “ I’ll tell you all you want to know in your study —not in the kitchen.” “ You—you impertinent dog ” “ Keep your insults to yourself, Thorrold. . . We’ll go to the study now!” And Thorrold did as lie was bade. Together master and rebellious servant left the kitchen for that room. A girl rose from the depths cf a saddlebag chair as they entered. Tall, fairhaired and lithe, as befitted a woman of that old Saxon breed of the lands about the sea Thewle, she looked wide-eyed at her grandfather’s sullen face and in John Baruaby’s mocking eyes. “ Tell me,” she began, “ whatever has gone wrong, grandad? Has Igod ” “ I—l’ll tell you all about this distressing affair later, Dorothy,” Thorrold answered. “ For the time being please leave Barnaby and me here alone.” Dorothy Thorrold, still w’onderstruck, was about to obey when: “ I think not,” snapped John Barnaby. “You —you’ll stay here, Miss Dorothy —ii you please. What I have to say may interest you as well.” “ Barnaby, how—how dare you ? ” That was Miss Thorrold; old Thorrold seemed to shrink within himself and to lose all power of utterance. The girl haughtily lifted her head and made to pass John Barnaby without , another glance. Her face, flushed, looked more beautiful in that moment than ever Barnaby had known it. “You’ll tell her she must stay, Thorrold,” said he. And for the second time on that November night the master of Thorroldan obeyed his servant. So great was the wonder of it all that Dorothy Thorrold made no further effort to resist. Very quietly she regained her seat; the old man and the young man stood. “I was going across Hound’s Pasture about an hour ago,” Barnaby began his story measuredly, “ when I met a stranger carrying a gun. He’d evidently been doun on t* foreshore wild-fowling—-no harm in that, o’ course. He had a matter of half a dozen birds in his bag, and was busy at the moment rubbing hia fingers about t’ crop of a duck he seemed rarely interested in. “ So interested he was,” Barnaby smiled, “that he didn’t hear me closing up to him. I meant to ask him on whose land he thought he was trespassing—and if he’d shot that bird in t’ priory limits. “Well, t’ cut a long story short, I never had time t* get more’n a word or so out of my mouth. He whipped round

on me when I started to speak, and ‘ Who in the name of the Lord are you, lad ?* he asked. Those were his very words, sir and Miss Dorothy.”

There was silence for a few moments, then:

“ Now, t* funny thing about t’ whole job is this—when that man spoke to me I thought, mad-like, as though it was myself that was talking. His voice aud my voice are no more different than twro peas i’ a pod be different. “ However, we had a bit crack ”

“ What about, Barnaby—what about ?” Thorrold was trembling now'. He reached for his stick and plumped heavily into his chair beside the table. His eyes were wild.

“ Never you mind * what about,’ master! ” Barnaby was slyly smiling. “ Maybe ye’ll learn that all in good time; but while he and I were talking . . .

the hound howled! ” Thorrold closed his eyes and bit at his lower lip; he looked like death. His grand-daughter gripped hard on the arms of the chair.

“This stranger didn’t seem in any way upset by the howl,” Barnaby smilingly went on. “In fact, he just laughed. ‘ I suppose you’ve heard of the ghost hound of the Thorrold family m* bov?’ was wliat lie asked me. I told him

‘ Yes.’ And lie laughed again, and sent me doun t’ the house with a message for you—you’ve heard it once, but I’ll give

ye it again. . . . ‘Tell your master.’ he said, ( that a man shot a duck in Hound’s Pasture. He’ll understand. . .

You might also tell him iat the same gentleman thinks he might as w'ell shift his quarters from Thewle Inn to Thorroldan Priory. He’d be very pleased to have rooms made ready for him to-night and his luggage transferred from the inn to the priory.’ And”—Barnaby smiled again—“l’ve got the job o’ looking after him. It’ll be quite a change for me after tlie way you and that damned beast Igod lia’ handled me, y’ know'. . . . Oh, by the way, this

stranger told me to thank you for all the trouble lie’s putting you to —in anticipation! ”

CHAPTER 111 : “ . YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND!”

There was a sound of Igod’s protesting voice and two men’s footsteps outside. Barnaby, still smiling, walked over to the door of the study and opened it wide. “Come in. Mr Magerison,’ he said. “Mr Thorrold would like to see that duck vou show'ed me!”

The stranger announced as Magerison walked straight into the study without removing his hat. His gun was still under his arm, and liis pipe gripped aggressively between his teeth. He smiled as old Benjamin Igod stiffly arranged himself behind liis master’s chair and glow’ered. Magerison flung a duck, newly killed, on the studv table.

“Good evening, Mr Thorrold,” he murmured. “John Barnaby evidently has informed you that I intend to stay with you awhile in this—ah—delightful place ”

“You—you scoundrel! Who are you? What do you want? How dare you come into my house and act in this way?” Thorrold was livid with rage, and he shook in his chair. Dorothy, his grand daughter, cowered back in hers. Her face was like chalk, and she stared at Magerison, fascinated. As yet he had not seen her. “Igod”—Thorrold addressed the old man venomously,—“get on the ’plione and ring up the Thewde police office. I’ll put an end to this!” “Igod will not be such a fool,” said the smiling stranger. “In fact Igod would not dare to be such a fool. . . .

I’ve paid my footing; the Thorrolds will now take in their first paying guest! You understand?”

“Paid your footing—you—you rogue! Wuat d’ you mean?” Magerison pointed to the wild duck.

“ Just w’liat I say,” he answered—then caught sight of Miss Thorrold. For one baffling moment he looked wild-eyed with sudden pleasure, and moved a step or so toward her. Then as she drew herself up proudly, and regarded him as she might have done a deadly and loathsome reptile, his face masked dow r n from pleasure and recognition to portray humiliation and anger. He clawed the wildfowl from the table.

“ I—l’ll not tronble to change my quarters after all,” he muttered. “ I—l didn’t know ”

Dorothy Thorrold spoke then: “ O please, Mr Magerison, don’t mind my humble presence in the priory. Don’t let me influence your—blackmailing plans one way or another. You said you would stay with us—stay, if my grandfather permits! ” And she smiled. Thorrold looked from his grand-daugh-ter to Magerison, from Magerison to Barnaby, from Barnaby to the wild duck on the table.

“ I—l shall be very—pleased, Mr Magerison, to—to have you for a while as—my guest,” he mumbled at last. “ Maister—maister, sew'er-li y’r noan goin’t’ let a black-’earted trashment like yon into t* priory alongside ”

“ Remember your place, Igod. Y'ou heard what I said.” Thorrold looked like a man who had taken poison. “ See to Mr Magerison’s baggage being removed from the inn to his—liis rooms.”

Dorothy Thorrold looked about her blankly, lost for a moment in the bewildering march of the strange events. Then she recovered her poise and added mockery to the sting of Magerison’s welcome to the ancient place of her family:

“ I’m sure, Mr Magerison,” she smiled, “ you’ll be very comfortable here—l suppose I must say that in approved style to you as our paving guest.” Magerison looked very steadily into her blazing and mocking eyes. He bowed.

“ I gave you the chance of ridding your ltouse of my—my evil presence,” lie quietly returned, “ but your pride took the wrong path for you, Miss Thorrold. Really, all things considered, you acted just too quickly, don’t you think?” She did not deign answer, but her colour went again. “As it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me—and my man, Barnaby, for some considerable time.” “Really?” Dorothy Thorrold was mistress of herself once more. Still mocking: “So you’ve already decided on the length of your stay? ‘Some considerable time ’ is intriguing, but rather vague, don’t you think?” Smiling she challenged him for the last time. “Tell me, to be precise, just how long is this ‘ considerable time ’ to be, Mr Magerison ?” Magerison carefully stuffed liis pipe with tobacco, and did not attempt tc answer. Glancing sidelong at Thorrold’s face, smiling a little at its profound expression, lie conjured with the w'aiting silence as though to torment the old man and liis granddaughter the more. “We’re waiting for an answer, sir,” at length Thorrold .of Thorroldan Priory snapped. “The question was plain enorgli!” “And so is my answer. ‘A considerable time * was rather vague, as you said, Miss Thorrold. To be quite definite, I’m staying here just so long as you please.” “As I please! And—and wliat have I to do with the length of your stay?” “Oh, quite a lot.” Magerison smiled. “You see, I intend to remain here . . .

just so long as my wife permits.” “Your wife permits?” Dorothy Thorrold started and coloured. “I—l did cot know you were married. You never told me that when ” “Do—do you two know one another?” Old Thorrold quivered in his chair and attempted to rise, then sank back, confounded by the look in his granddaughter’s eyes. He was suddenly very silent.

Magerison ignored him utterly. “I never said I was married,” he told the girl. “But—but ”

“I said just as long as my wife permits,” be smoothly returned. “Allow me, then, to introduce myself in a new character” —he bowed—“your future husband, Miss Thorrold!”

John Barnaby laughed. (To be continued.)