The old woman kept Midsummer's Day like a fast. In the annals of her life it was marked as a day of doom, a day when her spirit came into touch with the supernatural, when her heart wept tears, though her eyes were dry. Its return each year brought the past back to her, the wild past when adventure came riding to the door, and no one need go out to seek it. Sometimes she could reach back through the dusty years, and feel her flesh grow young and warm, and know that she, and the Annas Lynn of twenty, were one. But at other times, the eyes that she fixed upon those ancient scenes were old and cold, and she failed to make the dry bones live.

One Midsummer's Day in her youth she had stood on the fells and seen a phantom army pa.s.s. This happened three years before the rebellion of 1745. Some of the village folk saw the apparition also, but none of them recognised the leader of it, mounted on a black horse. A year later she again saw the phantom army. It seemed to move along the top of the fells--a train of marching men, gun-carriages and baggage. Then the mists came down and hid it.

Next year, Joel Hart--the Jacobite Joel Hart--had led a little company over the hills into Scotland to welcome Prince Charles Edward back to his rightful inheritance. Though another man's wife, Annas Lynn had wept for the handsome cavalier. Months of disaster followed; the haughty lady of Forest Hall had given birth to a son; but Culloden had been fought, and there was no hope for the rebels. It was then that the lady came a suppliant to Annas Lynn, whom she had scorned in the past, guessing that more than a kindly feeling lay between her husband and her. But the house was full of soldiers, and Joel had ventured home to see his child before fleeing to France. She prayed that Annas would hide him till the search was over.

For a day and a night he lay hidden in the wool-barn, undetected by even the keen eyes of David Lynn. Then on Midsummer's Eve the Northern Lights had played for an hour above Thundergay as they had played before Lord Derwent.w.a.tter was beheaded thirty years previously. "Derwent.w.a.tter's Leets," the fell-folk had called the aurora since that night. Annas watched the great bars shoot and fade with despair in her heart, for she felt sure that Joel was doomed, and he was shot by soldiers on the lookout for him the following evening.

Upon these scenes the old woman dwelt every Midsummer's Day.

She lay in the four-poster, shut in from distracting sounds and sights by the curtains. Could Lucy have been so bold as to peer between them, many a strange expression flitting across the old face would not only have astonished, but startled her. For her great-grandmother could hate and love with a mighty pa.s.sion. Sometimes she bore a strange likeness to herself as she had looked when she bade Joel good-bye, and he slipped out of the wool-barn into the dark night. She had been tall and fair in those days--like Barbara--but with a jewel glittering in each eye. Or, again, her face might reflect that look of misery with which she had watched his dead body being carried past the farm on a spruce-bough early the next morning. Or her expression might change to one that recalled her hatred of David Lynn, her husband, when he had stood by and commended the soldiers for their deed of blood. From that day to this, though he had long been laid in his grave, she thought of him with aversion. She had spurned her children, and her children's children, because they took after him in looks and character. Not till Barbara was born, and another Joel Hart bore the form and features of his ill-fated grandfather, did her heart warm again to human affection.

She remembered that to-day was Joel's birthday. It was one more coincidence, which led her to regard Midsummer's Day with superst.i.tion.

She looked upon the young man as a message from the other world, and she gave him her blessing. When she died, her wealth was to be divided between him and her great-grandchildren. She knew that he was hard-up now, but money had grown so dear to her, that she could not part with it till she must, even for a lost love's sake. By tortuous paths the human soul travels away from the generous impulses of youth, and reaches, in old age, a place where it had never thought to be!

To-day her memory had been acute, and she had suffered. She felt that she had been consorting with the living and not the dead--though they had died long ago; three-score years and ten were wiped out.

Pulling back the curtains, she called to Lucy.

"Go down to Forest Hall and tell Joel I want him," she said.

"He's but now gone up the dale with Timothy Hadwin," replied Lucy.

"Keep a watch for him returning and bring him in. It's a long while since he came to Greystones to see the old woman, though, doubtless,"

she peered into the girl's face, "doubtless he's often been at the bridge philandering with a young one."

"Indeed, no, you're mistaken, great-granny."

It was evening when Joel came, bringing with him half a dozen trout strung on a withy. He found Mistress Lynn in a talkative mood; he caught a glimpse of the white flesh of her youth peeping out from under the hard old mail of age.

She talked to him of his grandfather and the wild times of the Rebellion. She made the past live. She told him how the village was full of soldiers and spies. She pointed to the wool-barn door, at the other side of the pa.s.sage, and bade him look in, and he would see it now as it was then, with the fleeces piled up, waiting for market-day, but at that time a hunted man was hiding among them.

Barbara, sitting by the window darning, listened intently. The old tale was an Iliad to her. She found in it the same elements of greatness, of romance and poetry, as in the stories of Homer. The pa.s.sions roused were deep pa.s.sions, the sorrows suffered were real sorrows. Her great-grandmother, the ill-fated man, the lady of Forest Hall, had not lived in vain, for they had felt down to the depths of their natures.

This was the essence of true poetry. Barbara thought that, if she had had the learning, and the genius, she would have made an Iliad out of the old woman's story for the fell-folk.

The wool-barn door still stood open. The stone flags, the oaken rafters, the brandereth on the hearth--the place had always been used for baking and brewing, as well as the storing of fleeces--were the same as those which Joel Hart, the Jacobite, had looked upon among the last things he had seen on earth. Doubtless, during the day and night he had spent there, they had become engraved upon his brain. A man could still hide among the sheep's wool.

Then Mistress Lynn unlocked the bridewain and showed Joel an old horse-pistol with rusty stains upon it--which were his grandfather's blood. In a fit of generosity she gave him a sovereign as a birthday gift.

Joel had listened to her tale with wandering attention. His own troubles were too absorbing for him to give much heed to this story of long ago.

Although his mind had recovered its balance, and he was no longer haunted by the fear of going mad, yet it had not gained serenity. He felt that he was choking in a narrow way, and could discover no turning.

The unlocking of the bridewain roused him. He took the sovereign, fingered it restlessly, thinking of the h.o.a.rd from which it came.

"When I's dead, lad, thee shall have many like it," said the old woman.

The impulse was on him to tell her, there and then, about the snare into which he had got his feet, to throw himself upon her compa.s.sion, and beg for her aid. But he controlled this feeling, for Barbara and Lucy were present, and he was too proud to unburden himself before them.

"It's ill waiting for dead folk's shoes," said Lucy. "I wish you'd give us some of it to enjoy while you're here to teach us how to spend it aright."

"Dead folk's shoes, when they're well-lined, are verra comfortable things to step into, my la.s.s," retorted the old woman, taking no notice of the other part of her pet.i.tion.

"I'm of Lucy's opinion," said Joel. "I'd have great pleasure in drinking your health with it now, great-granny."

She looked up with a certain suspicious light in her eyes.

"You've got a sovereign," she said coldly; "how many more do you want?"

He laughed uneasily.

"As many as your kind heart could spare a poverty-stricken fellow like me."

"In good time, my lad, all in good time."

Barbara also lifted her eyes and gave the young man a long and serious look; then she dropped them without comment.

Joel smiled sourly. If Mistress Lynn's money was to do him any good, he must have it now. Later would be too late.

Timothy Hadwin had cast out the evil spirit with which he had been possessed. He had wakened in the morning free from its baleful influence, but he had neglected to fill its vacant place with a better one. He had let himself drift. All through the day the old man had striven to rouse him, but he could make nothing of Joel. His mood varied from flippant to sullen, but a serious interest in, or a manly att.i.tude towards life, he seemed to be incapable of attaining.

Now he sat gazing on the bridewain, thinking of what it contained, and wondering if Mistress Lynn would lend him some money. But even as the thought pa.s.sed through his mind, he dismissed it. She would want to know all about his ways and means, his follies and sins; she would search the most secret places of his heart if he once gave her the opportunity, and there was much he would be ashamed for any eye to see.

The old woman sent him to the spring to bring her a mug of fresh water, for she was thirsty. As he stood in the gloaming with the dark farm buildings all about him, and the sycamores shuffling overhead, and the water gurgling at his feet, his eyes burnt, and he wetted his dry lips with his tongue. He filled the mug and drank, filled it a second time and drained it again. He was a.s.sailed by temptation. Could he not, by some means, antic.i.p.ate the old woman's decree concerning the disposal of her money? A third of it was to be his--she had said so. Could he not have it now? It profited her nothing laid up in blue linen bags. It would bring salvation to him. The matter was not difficult to accomplish. Fate seemed to have thrown the chance at him, nay, had prepared it and laid it before him ready to be carried out. He had a sleeping-draught in his pocket which Timothy Hadwin had given him. The old man had been reluctant, but he had insisted. If he dropped it into the cup of water, Mistress Lynn would drink it without thinking. And if she did discover a faint, curious taste, she would imagine it due to the state of the spring, grown round as it was with water-weeds. He could hide, as his grandfather had done, among the fleeces, and then, when night came, and Barbara and Lucy were safe asleep upstairs, what could be easier than to slip out and open the bridewain unnoticed and unheard?

He had seen Mistress Lynn hide the key under her pillow.

He put the idea from him with distaste: even though he promised himself that he would take no more than his share, that he would repay it some day, he could not help feeling it a cowardly act for a man to contemplate and that man the master of Forest Hall.

He filled the cup and returned towards the house. But on the way he paused. The darkness of his future appalled him; he was undone if he could not meet those debts of honour. Where could he hope to get the money if not here? And such a chance was not likely to come his way again. He had no time to argue the whole question over once more: he had been away too long already.

Mistress Lynn drank the water unsuspiciously. Old Camomile was too wise to put the powerful drug he had given Joel the night before into such weak hands. The young man was strong, and would sleep soundly enough, when he learnt to regulate his life like a Christian gentleman.

CHAPTER VII

MIDNIGHT

"Great-granny has been very generous--for her," said Lucy, as she bade Joel good-night in the copse below the house. "Fancy her giving you a whole sovereign! Doesn't it make you feel rich? I wish she'd give me one!"

"All in good time, Lucy, all in good time," he replied, mimicking the old woman's voice.

"She was sharp, wasn't she, when we hinted we'd like to have some of her money to spend now? But you're not as badly off as you say, eh, Joel?"

"I told you my luck was changing," he answered somewhat irritably, but he would not meet her eyes, for although it was too dark for them to see each other clearly, he fancied that she might be able to read his mind.