The History of David Grieve Part 2

'Your mither wor a Papist? an your feyther wor Sandy Grieve. Ay, ay--I've yeerd tell strange things o' Sandy Grieve's wife,' he said slowly.

Suddenly Louie, who had been lying full length on her back in the sun, with her hat over her face, apparently asleep, sat bolt upright.

'Tell us what about her,' she said imperiously.

'Noa--noa,' said the old man, shaking his head, while a sort of film seemed to gather over the eyes, and the face and features relaxed--fell, as it were, into their natural expression of weak senility, which so long as he was under the stress of his favourite illusions was hardly apparent. 'But it's true--it's varra true--I've yeerd tell strange things about Sandy Grieve's wife.'

And still aimlessly shaking his head, he sat staring at the opposite side of the ravine, the lower jaw dropping a little.

'He knows nowt about it,' said David, roughly, the light of a sombre, half-reluctant curiosity, which had arisen in his look, dying down.

He threw himself on the gra.s.s by the dogs, and began teasing and playing with them. Meanwhile Louie sat studying 'Lias with a frowning hostility, making faces at him now and then by way of amus.e.m.e.nt. To disappoint the impetuous will embodied in that small frame was to commit an offence of the first order.

But one might as well make faces at a stone post as at old 'Lias when his wandering fit was on him. When the entertainment palled, Louie got up with a yawn, meaning to lounge back to the farm and investigate the nearness of dinner. But, as she turned, something caught her attention. It was the gleam of a pool, far away beyond the Downfall, on a projecting spur of the moor.

'What d' yo coe that bit watter?' she asked David, suddenly pointing to it.

David rolled himself round on his face, and took a look at the bluish patch on the heather.

'It hasna got naw name,' he said, at a venture.

'Then yo're a stoopid, for it has,' replied Louie, triumphantly.

'It's t' _Mermaid_ Pool. Theer wor a Manchester mon at Wigsons'

last week, telling aw maks o' tales. Theer's a mermaid lives in 't--a woman, I tell tha, wi' a fish's tail--it's in a book, an he read it out, soa _theer_--an on Easter Eve neet she cooms out, and walks about t' Scout, combin her hair--an if onybody sees her an wishes for soomthin, they get it, sartin sure; an--'

'Mermaids is just faddle an nonsense,' interrupted David, tersely.

'Oh, is they? Then I spose books is faddle. Most on 'em are--t'

kind of books yo like--I'll uphowd yo!'

'Oh, is they?' said David, mimicking her. 'Wal, I like 'em, yo see, aw t' same. I tell yo, mermaids is nonsense, cos I _know_ they are. Theer was yan at Hayfield Fair, an the fellys they nearly smashed t' booth down, cos they said it wor a cheat. Theer was just a gell, an they'd stuffed her into a fish's skin and sewed 'er up; an when yo went close yo could see t' stuffin runnin out of her. An theer was a man as held 'er up by a wire roun her waist, an waggled her i' t' watter. But t' foak as had paid sixpence to coom in, they just took an tore down t' place, an they'd 'a dookt t' man an t'

gell boath, if th' c.o.o.nstable hadn't coom. Naw, mermaids is faddle,'

he repeated contemptuously.

'Faddle?' repeated 'Lias, interrogatively.

The children started. They has supposed 'Lias was of doting and talking gibberish for the rest of the morning. But his tone was brisk and as David looked up he caught a queer flickering brightness in the old man's eye, which showed him that 'Lias was once more capable of furnis.h.i.+ng amus.e.m.e.nt or information.

'What do they coe that bit watter, 'Lias?' he inquired, pointing to it.

'That bit watter?' repeated 'Lias, eyeing it. A sort of vague trouble came into his face, and his wrinkled hands lying on his stick began to twitch nervously.

'Aye--theer's a Manchester man been cramming Wigsons wi tales--says he gets 'em out of a book--'bout a woman 'at walks t' Scout Easter Eve neet,--an a lot o' ninny-hommer's talk. Yo niver heer now about it--did yo, 'Lias?'

'Yes, yo did, Mr. Dawson--now, didn't yo?' said Louis, persuasively, enraged that David would never accept information from her, while she was always expected to take it from him.

'A woman--'at walks t' Scout,' said 'Lias, uncertainly, flus.h.i.+ng as he spoke.

Then, looking tremulously from his companions to the pool, he said, angrily raising his stick and shaking it at David, 'Davy, yo're takin advantage--Davy, yo're doin what yo owt not. If my Margret were here, she'd let yo know!'

The words rose into a cry of quavering pa.s.sion. The children stared at him in amazement. But as Davy, aggrieved, was defending himself, the old man laid a violent hand on his arm and silenced him. His eyes, which were black and keen still in the blanched face, were riveted on the gleaming pool. His features worked as though under the stress of some possessing force; a s.h.i.+ver ran through the emaciated limbs.

'Oh! yo want to know abeawt Jenny Crum's pool, do yo?' he said at last in a low agitated voice. 'n.o.bbut look, my lad!--n.o.bbut look!--an see for yoursen.'

He paused, his chest heaving, his eye fixed. Then, suddenly, he broke out in a flood of pa.s.sionate speech, still gripping David.

'_Pa.s.son Maine! Pa.s.son Maine!_--ha yo got her, th' owd woman?

Aye, aye--sure enough--'at's she--as yo're aw drivin afore yo--hoont.i.t like a wild beeast--wi her grey hair streamin, and her hands tied--Ah!'--and the old man gave a wild cry, which startled both the children to their feet. 'Conno yo hear her?--eh, but it's enough to tear a body's heart out to hear an owd woman scream like that!'

He stopped, trembling, and listened, his hand hollowed to his ear.

Louie looked at her brother and laughed nervously; but her little hard face had paled. David laid hold of her to keep her quiet, and shook himself free of 'Lias. But 'Lias took no notice of them now at all, his changed seer's gaze saw nothing but the distance and the pool.

'Are yo quite _sure_ it wor her, Pa.s.son?' he went on, appealingly. 'She's n.o.bbut owd, an it's a far cry fro her bit cottage to owd Needham's Farm. An th' chilt might ha deed, and t'

cattle might ha strayed, and t' geyats might ha opened o'

theirsels! Yo'll not dare to speak agen _that_. They _might_?

Ay, ay, we aw know t' devil's strong; but she's eighty-one year coom Christmas--an an--. Doan't, _doan't_ let t' childer see, nor t' yoong gells! If yo let em see sich seets they'll breed yo wolves, not babes! Ah!'

And again 'Lias gave the same cry, and stood half risen, his hands on his staff, looking.

'What is it, 'Lias?' said David, eagerly; 'what is 't yo see?'

'Theer's my grandfeyther,' said 'Lias, almost in a whisper, 'an owd Needham an his two brithers, an yoong Jack Needham's woife--her as losst her babby--an yoong lads an la.s.ses fro Clough End, childer awmost, and t' c.o.o.nstable, an Pa.s.son Maine--Ay--ay--yo've doon it!

Yo've doon it! She'll mak naw moor mischeef neets--she's gay quiet now! T' watter's got her fa.s.st enough!'

And, drawing himself up to his full height, the old man pointed a quivering finger at the pool.

'Ay, it's got her--an your stones are tied fa.s.st! Pa.s.son Maine says she's safe--that yo'll see her naw moor--

While holly sticks be green, While stone on Kinder Scoot be seen.

But _I_ tell yo, Pa.s.son Maine _lees!_ I tell yo t' witch ull _walk_--t' witch ull _walk!_'

For several seconds 'Lias stood straining forward--out of himself--a tragic and impressive figure. Then, in a moment, from that distance his weird gift had been re-peopling, something else rose towards him--some hideous memory, as it seemed, of personal anguish, personal fear. The exalted seer's look vanished, the tension within gave way, the old man shrank together. He fell back heavily on the stone, hiding his face in his hands, and muttering to himself.

The children looked at each other oddly. Then David, half afraid, touched him.

'What's t' matter, 'Lias? Are yo bad?'

The old man did not move. They caught some disjointed words,--'cold--ay, t' neet's cold, varra cold!'

''Lias!' shouted David.

'Lias looked up startled, and shook his head feebly.

'Are yo bad, 'Lias?'

'Ay!' said the old schoolmaster, in the voice of one speaking through a dream--'ay, varra bad, varra cold--I mun--lig me down--a bit.'