Mist Over Pendle (33 page)

“So I’ll believe. But what more?”

‘Nothing that’s sure. But---“

“Go on.”

“Miles thought his mother was displeased--and something more than displeased. She said little, it seems, but Miles knows her ways.”

“I’m getting to know them myself. So you think there’s mischief brewing?”

“Yes. And if that woman brews it---“

Grace broke off quickly as Frank was heard walking the horses to the door. But enough had been said to send a second cloud over Margery’s thoughts and to deepen her gloom to something like despair. Everyone she knew in Pendle seemed to be in trouble or in danger, and most of them must look to themselves; but Frank Hilliard must be her special care, since ail that touched him lay at her own door. She was asking herself now if she had not a duty to get him out of Pendle, and brooding darkly on that, she stayed in her thoughts and let him do without her talk.

They passed through Barley, and as they left it behind and made down the Pendle Water, Margery’s thoughts came swiftly to earth. Coming along the wooded road, moving wearily, with bent head and tapping stick, was old Demdike, the dark-haired Alizon slouching with her. Both looked to the ground as the horses went past, and Margery kept her eyes to the front. But then she yielded to temptation and turned her head for a quick look; and at once she regretted it, for it gave her a glimpse, which she did not quickly forget, of two faces turned to her, the one lined and old and the other young and vicious, but both alike twisted in a living hurting hate.

“And who the Devil may those be?”

Frank’s voice came from her side to disturb the thought, and she remembered with surprise that he had not seen these two before; he had heard of them but he had not seen them, and he showed a quick interest when he learned who they were.

“I wish I’d known sooner,” he said. “I’d have viewed them the more keenly as we passed.”

He looked across at Margery, and this time she could not avoid his eye.

“What’s the truth of it?” he demanded suddenly.

“Truth of what?”

“Of all these tales. Of what you told me yesterday, and of what Grace yonder had to say to me this morning. What’s behind it all?”

Margery hesitated. She wanted to talk. She wanted to talk to someone of all this, and she wanted to talk to him in particular; and she knew, too, that talk of such sort might do much to ease the stiffness that was growing between them. But caution was alive in her, and Roger’s warning words were clear in her mind. True, he had been speaking mostly of the Southworth affair, but Margery well knew that confidences, once started, have a way of running on; and her very liking for Frank, the very temptation she felt to talk deeply with him now, gave warning that here was a path that might prove both steep and slippery. And she was too tired and strained to think as quickly and clearly as she would need to in such a talk.

She thought she could not risk it, and she put him off with vague words. At once she saw the resentment in his eyes, and she guessed that his wish to draw her into talk had sprung as much from friendship as from curiosity; and in rejecting that, she had in a sense rejected him. Her unhappiness grew, and his matched hers. Silence came upon them, and they rode home with hardly a spoken word.

It was a relief when Roger told her that he had written to his son-in-law, Tom Heber, accepting the invitation for Christmas that Tom had brought them at Martinmas. They would spend the Twelve Days out of Pendle, said Roger. The break would be good for both of them; and.as for Frank, he might come with them if he chose; he would be sure of welcome at Marton.

But Frank would have none of it. He said stiffly that there was not the need for it; he lacked neither friends nor kin, and he would betake himself to his own folk. He was very proper and dignified when he added that there should be no delay in his departure from Read.

Roger made no comment, but all expression had faded from his face as he remarked that Frank must decide that for himself. And Margery, who had no illusions about Frank’s attitude, was now in such a humour that she was almost glad of it.

Frank kept to his resolution. He left the next morning, riding unattended in a cold grey mist. Once again Margery stood outside the door to see him go, but this time her feelings were different. His farewell when he rode to Lathom had been warm and hopeful; today his civilities had a chill that matched the mist. He expressed no regret, and said nothing of seeing her again; he did not even say where he was going. He thanked Roger courteously for kindness done, spoke a formal word of thanks to Margery, and then rode away. Margery stood in the mist, silent and lonely, nursing the helpless feeling that something had gone from her, as it need not have gone if the fates had dealt a little kinder; that, she thought, was the way of things under Pendle Hill.

“What was it that set you at such odds?”

Roger’s voice startled her. She had not guessed that he was still behind her on the gravel, and her memory flashed to that other morning when he had done the like.

“Odds?” she repeated vaguely.

“Aye--like dogs and a baited bear.’

He took her arm and led her into the parlour where the fire glowed red and hot ale steamed before it; and at once she thought of Frank, with his face cold in the mist, and she shivered in the radiant warmth.

“What ails you, lass?”

The kindness in his voice broke her guard, and she found herself clinging to him while she groped for the hand kerchief which was meant for airs and graces. Roger was too wise to interfere; he left her to it and became lost in the proper spicing of his heated ale. Soon she had recovered herself, and she watched him affectionately as he sipped critically at the spiced October. And suddenly she was pouring out the story.

“A thought too much cinnamon,” was his comment as she ended. “So you think this to be the last of him?”

She stared at him as he delicately sifted powdered ginger into the ale to correct the cinnamon.

“I ... I hardly know.”

It had occurred to her that Roger was taking this very calmly ; and since Roger was assuredly not callous, it followed that Roger must see some hopes.

Tell me,” she said fiercely, “tell me what I may think.”

“A dangerous venture, that.” He sipped the ale again and seemed satisfied. “But you’ve done well. Here’s an uncertain world, and there’s more wisdom in silence than in talk. Apart from which, he’ll not prize you the less for it when pique’s died down.”

His calmness was the right medicine. It infected Margery and she began to think clearly again.

“That might be. But I’ve to see him again first. And I do not know so much as the way he rides.”

“North,” said Roger promptly. “I heeded his going.”

“North, was it? But whither?”

“Where you will.” He sipped his ale placidly. “There’s but one true road here. You may ride into the Forest or you may ride out of it. He rode in.”

“So?” Margery’s voice was eager.

“Again, what you will. Myself, I remember that the Forest road leads to Gisburn--and the Listers are his kin.”

“The Listers?”

“Of Westby, hard by Gisburn. A pleasant spot.” Roger reached for his boots. “And finely placed--ten miles short of Marton, on the road that we must ride.”

And suddenly Margery took to laughing. Roger said nothing, but he watched her warily as he tugged his boots on.

“You think he’ll visit Marton?” she asked him suddenly.

“Who knows? But it’s no long ride. Nor need he lack a reason if he should seek one.”

“How?” She was cool again now.

“Family greetings.” He pulled his cloak about his shoulders. Jane Lister is a Heber. She’s Tom’s sister. That might be convenient. And now I’m for Altham. Curse these Wednesdays!”

He was away at that, and for an hour Margery was buoyant. But the mood did not last when she was alone, with no one to talk with and nothing to do. Soon she began to despond; by afternoon she was moping, and by nightfall she was a misery. She had hardly a greeting for Roger when he returned, and she sat through supper in a black silence, trying to tell herself that it was all for the best since she had certainly had a duty to get Frank out of Pendle.

Roger seemed to notice nothing, though twice, when she looked up suddenly, she found his eyes upon her. But later, as he sat lazily with his wine, he startled her by asking suddenly whether azure would suit him. For a moment she doubted if she had heard him fully.

“Azure,” he repeated calmly as she shook her wits together and sat up. “It’s a colour, is it not? I think of a new doublet.”

Margery began to get interested. She was always interested in clothes. But why a new doublet? And she was quite sure that azure would
not
suit Roger.

“May I . . . may I know what it’s for?” she asked doubtfully.

“For Marton. What else? We’ll be there the Twelve Days, and with junketings each night. Am I to be the same throughout, like a seed-time scarecrow?”

But Roger got no answer to that. It had occurred to Margery that here was a problem that did not touch Roger only, and her mind was running hastily through the contents of her wardrobe. She stared at him in consternation, and gave herself to estimating his mood. Then she stood with her hair under the candles, gave him her most crinkling smile, and told him in urgent accents that she must herself have some new clothes for the occasion, if she were not to bring disgrace on him, his house and his family. She watched him anxiously as his sardonic eyebrows rose, and then, seeing no displeasure there, she hastened to state her needs. The flame-satin kirtle was all but finished, and that would be well enough as far as it went; but she would need at least one more kirtle and a new gown too. She had only the flowered sarcenet, and that was getting known. Besides, it would not go with flame satin. Scarlet would be the best, she thought. Scarlet was the most useful of all colours---

“Also the most expensive, is it not?” said Roger blandly. “But go on.”

Margery blinked. It was; but she had not expected Roger to know that. But he had told her to go on, so she went on. The second kirtle, she explained, could be of white. White, she said, was always attractive---“

“It denotes innocence, does it not?” said Roger, with a wooden face. And Margery nearly choked. Roger knew too much.

“Yes,” she had to answer. “I . . . I’ve been told it does.”

“Very proper. For a young girl. But pray continue.”

She continued hurriedly, thinking it better not to linger on this. The point was, she said, that a scarlet gown could be worn with either kirtle--the flame or the white.

“To speak again of this white,” said Roger, halting her in full flood. “What’s it to be made of?”

Margery steadied herself. Then she took a deep breath and told him she had always thought white looked best in damask. She watched him anxiously when she had said that, hoping he would not know that damask cost even more than satin. He had no right to know that, of course, but it was well not to be too sure --with Roger.

“Certainly the best,” he agreed dryly. “That’s why it’s worn at the Court. What of the gown?”

Margery bit her lip. It sounded very much as if Roger did know about damask. So she spoke cautiously about the gown. Of course it would look best in velvet--scarlet velvet. That would be specially good with white--and warm too, if the nights should be chilly.

“What if there’s a fire in the house?” said Roger.

She pulled a face at that and admitted that a good taffeta might do. A silk taffeta was always sweet and cool. Then, thinking she had better make some concession, she admitted that peach was a good colour, and a cheaper dye than scarlet.

“Will peach go with flame?” demanded Roger suddenly. And a startled Margery hastily collected her wits and agreed that it would not. Scarlet, she said, it would have to be.

“Scarlet,” said Roger like an echo. “Taffeta or velvet?”

“Velvet,” said Margery promptly, and Roger laughed, and asked, as blandly as ever, if that was all.

Margery, who was beginning to feel nervous, had to admit that it was not. Of course the other things were trifles, but gown and kirtle did need accessories. There would have to be some collars, a girdle or two, a few petticoats and---

But Roger cut her short. He was not, he said, a tire-woman, and he would not have her reduce him to that rank. She might sort these matters with herself, or with Anne Sowerbutts, or with the Devil if she pleased. But tomorrow he would ride with her to Preston, where she might harry the mercers like a plague from Egypt. Meantime, she would do well to get pen and ink, and list her needs--if, indeed, there was paper enough to carry the tale of them. Then he laughed as he saw he was wasting his breath. Margery was already hunting for the ink-horn.

Her pen was still scratching when the fire had burned hollow and the first of the candles began to gutter, and her head was still a whirl of details when Roger made an end and hounded her off to bed. She turned on the stair, as her custom now was, her carrying-candle in one hand and her sheaf of notes in the other, and she bade him good night as he stood looking up at her. She smiled happily upon him, for the troubles of the day had flown; nor did her excited mind pause to ask what meaning might lie in the inscrutable smile that nickered on his face.

She was too busy to mope in the days that followed. The work at Preston took longer than she had expected, and there was a night spent at the
Angel
before all was done, all things bought, and sempstresses found who would undertake so long a task in so short a time. They would be hard put to it, she thought, as she made little drawings to illustrate her notes; for Roger had seemed in a melting mood, and he had remembered without its being hinted to him that the next week would see her birthday. On pretext of that, she had got not only the white damask and the scarlet velvet, but the taffeta too, in a rich, warm shade of orange. So there were two gowns to be made, as well as the damask kirtle, and as she must certainly have them different the sheaf of notes had to be expanded.