Complete Story. Browne’s House,

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue XXIII, 9 June 1900, Page 1062

Complete Story. Browne’s House,

By the

In the depths of the moors, many miles from any highway, in a spot from which neither house nor tree can be seen, nothing but purple sweeps of heather, and rocky tors bleached in passing lights, stood once a low reed thatched cottage or rather farmhouse, though indeed its size 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 itself has fallen, yet the gaping fireplace formed of granite blocks remains standing. There are indications of enclosures about the structure, but wild nature has surmounted the walls and reasserted itself where was once some sort of tillage. Although, judging from the dilapidation and the lichened condition of the stones, one could have supposed that this edifice 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 occupying and the destruction of -Browne's house.” Few indeed have seen the ruin, for it is so remote a spot that only the shepherd, the rush cutter, and the occasional fisherman approach it. On the ordnance survey, faint indications of enclosures are given on the spot, but no name is attached. Yet evert moorman. if asked what these ruins are. will tell you that it is the wreck of "Browne's House. “But who was Browne?" I once inquired. "Du n know —zur." was the reply. "What in the name of wonder induced a man to settle in such a place, where not a sound is to be. heard save the call of the curlew and the scream of the peewit?” "What lead'n to zettle there, zur? Well—now I reekn t' w ere a woman.” "A woman!” I was astounded. "What woman could have fancied so desolate, so solitary a spot?” "Oh. I reckon '(weren't the woman as liked it. ’twere Browne went there cos of a woman.” "Thon you do know something about Browne?” "I don't know nothin' of who he wur. 1 knew what a did. and what became of "n. But who he wur—that I never 'eard.” But if 1 give the story in broad dialect it w ill hardly be generally understood. and as it did not come all at once. I ut in snippets, nor all from the same person. I shall tell it in my own way. without interruption. At the beginning of this century — within the first twenty years of it—a m: n of the name of Riebeck Browne, of whose existence hitherto none on the moor had known, and who certainly did not 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. The waste, it is true, was not without an owner, the Prince of Wales. But the period was not one in which he was likely to interfere. The conelusion of the European War. with Waterloo, was followed by a period of great internal distress and discontent 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 navy 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 agriculturist. A good deal of land fell out of cultivation. When, accordingly’, a man began to enclose and to build, the agents of the Prince Regent, if even they heard of it. which is very unlikelv. would not interfere: the moorland was absolutely worthless as it was. ami might be made of some value by his labours When it was so. then would be the time to interfere. So Browne, who at first had thrown up a rude shod for his own accommodation. proceeded to set up hedges, then to build walls, and to rear a small, but habitable dwelling house.

REV. S. BARING-GOULD.

(Author of “Mehalah,” etc.)

He did it almost entirely by his own labour. He had a horse; and for his walls he employed no mortar. Everything he required except timber was at hand—stone, moss, and th&tch. The rafters he was eonstrained to bring from a distance, as also the sticks of furniture wherewith he made his rooms habitable. Riebeck Browne was a* broad-set man with dark hair beginning to be grizzled, an overhanging forehead and dark, deep-set eyes. His face was frightfully disfigured by a sabre cut from the nose across the cheek 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 communicate with no one except in cases of necessity. That he was a handy man was indubitable. but that is a quality possessed by all sailors. What surprised moormen was the dexterity with which he was able to manipulate large blocks of granite. They have acquired a really extraordinary skill in this particular, but it was to them wonderful that a man who never in his life had had to deai with granite masses should he so ready to make them tractable.

No sooner was •‘Browne’s House * rendered habitable than the man brought thither a young and peculiarly beautiful wife, a fai . blue-eyed, floss silk-haired being, of the purest complexion, like the rose of June. Her eyes were not of the pale blue that has so little expression in it. but deep blue as indigo, the blue of the sailor's jacket who fights for his king. But few saw her. very few indeed. Occasionally at long intervals, Riebeck took her in his little light cart over the moor to the nearest market town —nearest! save the mark! — that which was least distant—when she had shopping to do that he could not possibly execute for hen Browne had a cow as well as his horse: and the cow gave occupation to his wife.

Once, the pretty young woman ventured alone some three miles thence over trackless waste to the nearest dwelling, that of a shepherd and his wife: she bad gone to them about some difficulty in her management of

baking, and desired advice. The shepherd’s wife took occasion to “pump” her. But she could not get much from Browne's wife, except that her name was Selena; that she did not at all relish her lonely situation; and that time hung heavy on her hands. The shepherd’s wife was a shrewd woman, and Selena allowed it to transpire that Browne over-awed her, that he was jealous, mistrusted his 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 thenee. and drawn out the truth by questions. She never revisited the cottage, though she had promised to do so. The shepherd’s wife accordingly one day made a journey to Browne’s House, and saw the young wife there—but Browne himself was present, and before him she could say but little, and get hold of no further particulars. 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 communicated what she knew. Browne, so it came to be said, had set up his habitation on the moors because he was a jealous man. and he feared losing his wife, if he did not keep her away from being seen by men. and seeing those who 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 10 fish and shoot on the moors. One day at the close of the year when he was out blackcock and snipe shooting, he approached Browne's House. Whereupon Browne came out on him. and he also carried a gun. “What are you doing here?” asked the settler. “Shooting, as you see.” “But I object to your shooting here.” “On what grounds? This is not your land.” “I object. I shoot here myself. The only meat I get is from what I bring down. Take yourself elsewhere.” “I have leave from the Duchy to shoot when I like- and 1 shall accordingly go where I like.” “Please yourself,” returned Browne, “but I tell you —I go out shooting myself. You see I do—here is my gun. Look at my arm—my hand. Do you' see a sabre cut across the wrist? Well, that makes my muscles

jerk and kink «trangely. I’m not a good shot. Leastways —I eau hit when 1 take aim unless my nerve kinks. If it kinks my shot goes ? can’t be answerable where." This was said with a sinister look in his dark eyes. "Come, old man," said the sportsman, "the moor is wide enough for both of us. We need not quarrel." "I'm not an old man," retorted Riebeek; “what makes you cast that in my face?’* “Your grizzled hair.” "That comes of trouble. 1 am not old. Y'ou said that for a reason. What are you after here?” ••I have told you—game. Blackcock, snipe, hares—anything."’ "Anything—that includes a great deal.” “Not much on the moor. All is grist that eomes to my mill.” Riebeek looked at him with eyes like heated skewers boring into him. "Young chap!” laughed the sportsman, "let me into your house, and give me a cup of milk. ” "No—never," shouted Browne, mid sprang to his door, stood at it, and raised his gun. "Oh! 1 force my way nowhere, where not agreeable,” said the gentleman. "Farewell. Manners do not grow here like moss.” "Then don’t come here to look for what you know you will not find.” When the sportsman sat in the country inn where he made his quarters, and talked of his experience that day, "Gad!” said he, “I believe that Browne was afraid of my seeing 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 pent fire. “Her’s a terrible jealous man, be Browne, that her is.” "I'd like to see the pretty young woman,” said the sportsman; “they say she is uncommonly pretty.” "Aye—so they say. but I ha’n’t zeed her, hev you, Jones?” "Can’t zay 1 ’ev,” replied the man addressed, “but Moses, he hev cast an eye on her.” "What be ’er like, then, Moses?” "I.oramussy. I seed her about two mile off—that’s all. I can’t say.”

“I should like to see her—and I daresay I shall make a push and get a sight some day," said the sportsman. Now during the winter Riebeek Browne found the means of somewhat ingratiating himself with the inhabitants of the Moor and its outshoots, lie had established a still, and he manufactured — of course without license—a good ileal of a raw spirit, that he was able to dispose of in the farms and taverns and cottages wherever he went. The price he asked was so moderate, and a fiery spirit was in such request, that Browne’s visits were greatly desired, and the demand was so great that he could not supply it rapidly enough. What can a moorman do in the long winter nights? He has no newspaper, no books, no occupation, no society, lie must drink to make the time pass. He must drink to keep away the blues, when he hears the wind howling round his house, and the spirits of the dead crying and sobbing at his window pane, because he sits over a glowing fire, and they are cold without—ever wandering in the wind. No gauger was likely to pass his way. A gauger seen at a distance of two miles is not dangerous. Every token of a still can be done away with before he 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 he buys it? No—Browne was safe enough in his manufacture and in his traffic. He had no fears on that score. His fears were concerning his wife. He knew that he was an old man for her. He knew that he was ugly, disfigured by his scar. He knew that he was a man without bright spirits and lacking an engaging manner. Was it likely that a pretty, butter-fly-like girl such as Selena could really love him. and remain true to him? Not if she were among men whom she eould contrast with her husband. His only safety was to retain her in seclusion. The poor thing suffered during the winter especially, but also through the long, cold spring, and the dripping, foggy autumn, when 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 ehurch was nearer than fourteen miles - and these to a large extent over wastes where were bogs and mires, and not a track, where to lose the way was to lie lost altogether. To be eut off absolutely from all society save that of Riebeek was injsiuppoi table. She had said ,8.11 she had to say. he had said all he cared to say. They sat. they ate together in silence. And Rieback giew gl-omy and angry. She was sulking, he thought. She was turning against him. She was thinking of someone whom she had known in the past, and to whom now her heart reverted. His suspiciousness was to her a daily torment. In the dense fog it was so easy for some one to steal to the house unpereeived. He was obliged to be away, vending his spirits: and when he returned. he tortured her with questions. He peered about, as though expecting to find traces of a visitor, a footprint in the mud at the door, a cap dropped—any trifle on which to feed his jealousy. When he visited farmhouses, the wives would sometimes enquire after Selena. He thought they were acting in complicity with some one. Tinmen found out. his weakness and taunted him. or said foolish things to excite his jealousy. "You don’t happen to have seen him?" asked a farmer with a very red face and white whiskers, as he winked at his wife. "Whom?” "Oh. only a young man who wot axin’ his way to Browne’s. House. But mossy on me—whether he wanted to zee you or the missus. 1 can’t mind. It hev gone out o' my head." "What sort of a yoang man?" ask ed Riebeek, growing purple. "Sort—well, a fine figure of a man. well set up. and wi’ mutton chop whiskers—looked military. I take it.” "For shame.” said the farmer’s wife, nudging her husband, "how can you go on like that. Tom Eva?” Then to Riebeek. "Don’t y" 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."

But Riebeek went away believing. With March, fishing began. It was cold on the moor, but the rivers and streams were full, brawling down over the granite boulders. The grass was burnt drab, the fetn had not begun to sprout, only th.- rushions of moss were green where water welled up. With the fishing season apjieared the young sjiortsman. whipping the pools for trout. Riebeek saw him— but the valley in which was the nearest river was not close to his settlement, and so long as the young fellow r-tnainnl by tin river side, Browne was co a ent. But then what guarantee had he that the fisher would be satisfied to remain in pursuit of trout only? One day he did eaten sight of the sjmrtsman walking over the moor from the valley in the direction of his habitation; but when the hitter sawBrowne, he bent aside, struck across a hill as though he had abandoned one river and was going to try his luck in another stream. Browne was convinced that he had purposed to visit his house. On one occasion Riel>eck was constrained to be absent from home not for a day only. He had lost 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 she was lamght was not possible. His wife was nervous at the thought of being left alone at night so many miles from anyone. She was nor without superstitious fears. But there was no help for it—Browne comIrated her alarm, and hade her keep a light burning the whole night through. So he departed and haggled over and secured a very good cow, and drove her from the town to the upland moors. She could not travel fast. He was forced to accommodate his pace to hers. On the second day about noon h<reached the shepherd’s hut. The shepherd’s wife came out. "My word. Mister Browne, you’ve gotten a beauty this time. He do look as if he'd give a fine brave lot of milk.”

In the West of England ths personal pronouns od not express sex. A cock is she or her, and a cow —as you see -is a He. •"She’ll do,” said Browne. "And if I might make that bowld. What did you give for ’n?” “My memory ain’t good,” answered Browne, “if I was to tell you I might tell you wrong.” “Oh,” said the woman, a bit nettled. “By the ways. Afore I forget it, there was a young man here—yesterday. axin’ if you was at home, and the way to Brow lie's House.” “A young man?” “’Ees, I reckon.” “And you told him?" “In coorse I did. It’s not 1 as ’ud be uncivil to a gemman.” “A gentleman — that fisherman, I daresay." “Might be—very like. I reckon. I’ve never see’d he nigh enough to be sure. It may ha' been he.” Browne turned livid, then purple. He thrust the cow along the way. down to the river, and across the ford. “Asked the way to Browne's House!” he said. “That fishing and Hiooting chap knows Browne’s House well enough, and the way to it. But he said that to the woman to deceive her. It is he! He knew I should be away ” On crossing the river at the ford, he left the cow to pasture. He was now out of sight of the woman at the shepherd's cot. and he could run without Iteing seen. He did run. He ascended the flank of the moor, hurried over the tableland and saw his cottage in the distance. He shaded his eyes from the sun. He did not see smoke rising from the chimney. The wind blew directly towards him. If the fire was burning he would inevitably smell the peat. He snuffed the air and smelt nothing. On reaching his house, he entered—it was empty, but on the table lay a letter. lie took it up and turned it about. He was speechless. The earth reeled under him. The walls seemed to bow and fall on him. He could not read. He was a wholly unlettered man. But be knew what the words must be that 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 out again. Should he take the letter to the nearest farm and have it deciphered for him? What go to Tom Eva? Ask him to read out to him that he was disgraced, deserted. dishonoured? The story would spread —lie would be jeered at. pitied by some, rejoiced over by others. And where was she? Where was he who carried her off? He had no means of discovering. Over that trackless waste they might escape in any direction unseen. Should he go round the country enquiring who had noticed his runaway wife? He could not do that. He would not do that. So he 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 was no more thought of. So days passed. One afternoon late, as the red evening sun was painting the moor-side Vermillion. Rielieek Browne lay with his gun on a rock above the river, that foamed and brawled below—his head, his heart tortured ami burning, when he saw—his wife come down towards the ford, on her way home. He set his teeth. She was returning to see his humiliation. may l>e to take away some little trifles she had left behind. She was returning to flout him. to tell him that she left him for ever. Mad with rage, with jealousy, with pain—he discharged his- gun at her — and she fell. In that wilderness none heard the shot, save 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 stones, with a bullet through the heart. There was a hue and cry. Browne could nowhere Is- found. His house was 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 siimill trading vessel bound for the West Indies, whither she would bring a cargo of sugar for Bristol. One of the men wns thick set with very grey hair, a heavy brow, and n great gash across one side of his face.

“Said he to his mate, “I suppose you’re a bit of a scholar, eh? You can read written letters as well as them that be in print.” “To be sure I can. Tom Lonely. I can write for you to your sweetheart, er read her letter to you.” "Oh! 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 chnp I knowed once — his wife ran away from him. and after that he took to drink and died o’ delirium tremesjous. Here’s her letter as she wrote when she ran away.” He unfolded a crumpled sheet. “Can von now pick that out for me. Bill?” "To be sure I can.” "Read away, then.” “ ‘Dear Riebeck’—that's how it begins. A coorious sort of a name. Then it goes on. ‘Mother is took bad. and has sent brother to bring me to her. She says she wants particular to see me. So don’t be frightened and angry if I’m away. I shall be back as soon as I can. I know you can’t read, so take this to someone who can read it for you.' Well, I’m blowed.” said the sailor. “This don’t look much like a wife runnin’ 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 watch sang out. “Man overboard.” Tom Lonely was missed. Had he cast himself into the sea? It came to lie said, afterwards, that his real name was not Lonely, but Browne.