The Tale of Applebeck Orchard (16 page)

Miles knocked several times, and then resorted to shouting, “Is anybody at home?” The door was opened at last by a slender, pale young girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her yellow hair was parted in the middle and plaited in two thick braids. She wore a plain dress of dark gray stuff, a dirty white apron, and clogs that seemed a size too large for her. Miles thought that she looked frightened, as if she were not accustomed to strangers coming to the house.

Saying as little as possible, the girl directed him out to the barn, where he found Adam Harmsworth bent over the broken wooden shaft on a farm cart. He was a thickset, swarthy man with a heavy black beard, broad shoulders, and muscled forearms. He dropped his wooden maul and scowled as the captain greeted him. The two had met only once, when the captain had ruled against him in a dispute over a horse. Neither had forgotten.

“Why’ve thi come?” Harmsworth growled, his face and neck reddening.

“I’m sure you know,” the captain said mildly.

“ ’Tis about t’ footpath, ain’t it?”

“Exactly. I have had a preliminary look into the history of the Applebeck Footpath, Mr. Harmsworth. Parish records show that it has been in continuous public use since before the first trees were planted in the orchard over a hundred years ago. You yourself have permitted its use every day during the ten years you have owned this property. I should therefore like to request that you take down the barricades and—”

“I ain’t takin’ down those barr’cades,” Harmsworth said flatly. He bent over and picked up a long, narrow piece of wood meant to serve as a shaft, and brandished it. “Just last week, t’ haystack was burnt down to t’ ground by trespassers in t’ orchard. If they’d stay on t’ path and behave like decent folk, that ’ud be one thing, an’ I’d leave ’em to it. But they left t’ path an’ put a match to me haystack. T’ constable sez he doan’t have a clue as to who dunnit.” He flailed the air with the shaft as if he were fending off dragons. “Well, I know who dunnit, I do. ’Twas Major Ragsdale an’ his rabble o’ Ramblers.”

“If you have evidence—” the captain began, but was cut off.

“I doan’t need no evvy-dence!” Mr. Harmsworth cried, dancing an irate jig. “What I need is for Ragsdale an’ his gang to be locked up in gaol for burnin’ me haystack. Why ain’t they, I wants to know! Why?”

Now, if you suspect that Mr. Harmsworth is a man of limited aptitudes (and perhaps even a little comic in his enthusiasms), I must caution you. His schooling ended early, he reads little beyond an occasional newspaper, and his imagination is confined to what is in front of him. But he is clever with his hands, he understands the needs of his farm and orchard, and he has a very strong sense of the rightness of his cause. He must not be underestimated.

Not liking the wild way Mr. Harmsworth was swinging the shaft, the captain stepped back. “I appreciate your concern,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “The burning of a haystack is a serious crime, and it is regrettable that the constable has not yet been able to identify the culprit.” He thought briefly of old Thomas Beecham and wondered if it would be a good idea to interview him again—himself. Beecham was really the most likely suspect, in spite of what Harmsworth said.

“I’ve stopped up t’ path an’ it stays stopped until Ragsdale an’ his mob are in gaol,” Mr. Harmsworth snarled. “An’ even then I may not feel like unstoppin’ it. Folks can just go round by t’ road. Won’t hurt ’em to walk a few steps farther. Ol’ Bertha Stubbs can walk off some of her fat.” He straightened. “Now, I’ll thank thi to get out of my barn, Cap’n Woodcock. There is nae more to be said. Be off.”

Mr. Harmsworth might be full of bluster, but behind his rant the captain heard a dangerous menace. It was time to lay down the law.

“There is certainly more to be said,” he replied firmly. “And more to be done. You cannot take the law into your own hands, Mr. Harmsworth. It would be in your own interest and in the best interest of the community if you would remove the barrier.”

Mr. Harmsworth thrust out his chin defiantly. “And if I doan’t?”

“Then you can expect trespassers,” the captain said regretfully. “Sooner, rather than later, I should expect. The constable will be here to maintain order, but—”

“Trespassers,” snorted Mr. Harmsworth contemptuously. “That ’ud be Ragsdale’s hooligans, I’d reckon.” He narrowed his eyes. “They ’ud love to try an’ take down me blockade, they would.”

“The constable will be here to maintain order and make any necessary arrests,” the captain said stiffly. “When the case comes before me, as justice of the peace, I will review the matter and make a ruling.” He paused. “I am giving you fair warning, Mr. Harmsworth. As things stand now, and unless you can show cause to the contrary, I am inclined to reopen the path.”

Mr. Harmsworth spit on the ground. “And I’m givin’ thi fair warnin’, Mr. Captain Justice of t’ Peace Woodcock,
sir
.” He raised his fist. “If anybody comes onto me land to take down me fence, he’d better come ready fer trouble. I was a keeper onct, and t’ son of a keeper, and I’ve got m’self a good shotgun. I knows how to use it, too. So if tha values thi health, keep off. An’ that goes for t’ constable, too.”

Captain Woodcock frowned. A former military man himself, with more experience of war than he liked to remember, he hated it when someone threatened to take up arms against other men. But he only said, coolly, “You’re attempting to intimidate a representative of the Crown?”

“I sart’nly am.” Mr. Harmsworth smiled with grim satisfaction. “An’ it gives me a great deal o’ pleasure to do it, that it does.” He picked up his wooden maul in one huge fist and the board in the other. “Be off!”

The captain left, shaking his head at the stubbornness of the man and wishing that the whole matter would simply evaporate.

Adam Harmsworth, quite satisfied that he had won this battle, if not the war, went back to his work on the farm cart.

Neither man noticed the slender girl in the dark gray dress who had crept to the back of the barn and stood there, her ear pressed against a crack in the wooden boards, listening, her eyes widening and her breath coming faster at the mention of the gun. And when the captain left, she followed him a little way, keeping to the shadow of the shrubbery, but keeping close, as if she might be hoping to catch him up.

The captain was walking with angry strides, and she had to run. She was nearly within reach of him by the time he came to the dooryard gate and was opening her mouth to call out to him. From our vantage point, watching beside the path, I can’t help but wonder. What would have happened had she spoken, had he turned, had they talked?

Would she have told him something that would have kept everyone from being involved in actions they could not resist but would inevitably come to regret?

Does she know anything that might keep a gun from being fired, and someone from being hurt—or even possibly killed?

And most important, what sort of courage is required for a girl so young to step forward and speak to a stranger—to a justice of the peace, an official representative of the Crown, the symbol of law and order in the land? Does she have it in her? If not now, will she be able to find it?

These questions certainly deserve an answer, but I’m sorry to tell you that we’re not going to hear it—at least, not at the moment. But stories are often like this, aren’t they? The entire outcome of a tale can hang on a single word, spoken or withheld. And life—well, it’s just the same. One movement, one smile, one shake of the head—a very small thing can change the course of an event, or a nation, or history, or what have you, in a very large way.

And that is exactly what happened at this moment. For just as the girl was stepping forward to call out to the captain to please stop, she was prevented by the sound of a window flung open and a shrill, strident voice shouting: “Gilly! Stop that hangin’ about like a gawky goose! Whyn’t tha in here moppin’ t’ floor, like tha’rt told?”

If the captain heard the woman’s shout, he did not give a sign. Perhaps he was too occupied with his angry thoughts to hear anything else but the words in his head—what he should have said to Mr. Harmsworth, what he was going to say the next chance he got, and so forth. I’m sure you can imagine all that he was thinking, for it’s very much the same thing we’ve all thought after we’ve been in a heated argument with someone and find ourselves thoroughly out of temper.

But the girl heard. She bit her lip angrily, narrowed her eyes, and with dragging feet, went into the house.

And whatever she was going to say went unsaid—at this moment, at least, which I think is a great pity. It’s clear that Gilly has something on her mind and wants very badly to talk to someone. It’s too bad she isn’t able to talk to Captain Woodcock.

10

At Applebeck Farm

If you don’t mind, let’s follow the girl into the house. Gilly Harmsworth is an important character in our story, and I think it’s time we got acquainted with her, and with her uncle and aunt as well. What we know so far is only what we have heard from Margaret Nash, who had the girl as a student. Gilly is an orphan, Miss Nash said, and hopes to find another place to work—and presumably, to live—away from Applebeck Farm.

It’s not hard to think why she wants to get away. The old farmhouse, while it may once have been a comfortable home to a loving family, is not that kind of house now. Sadly neglected, it is in dire need of painting, the windows require repair (one pane is broken, another is mended with cardboard), and the cracked roof slates and chimney caps should be replaced. I subscribe to the belief that the exterior of a house tells us much about the condition of life within, so I don’t hold out high hope for the Harmsworths.

The inside is just as dark and gloomy and forbidding as the outside. A meager coal fire burns in the stone fireplace, under an iron kettle half-filled with potato-and-mutton soup, the main course for today’s dinner. The blue slate floor is bare of rugs or carpets, the wallpapered walls are dingy and smoke-stained, and the furniture—awkwardly placed and either too large or too small to fit comfortably into the room—looks as if it would like to run away somewhere and hide. There is a scrap of curtain at the window to filter the western sun, but no pictures on the walls nor pretty china on the shelves, no vases of flowers nor pieces of framed fancywork nor polished brasses. There are no books except for the Bible—no, that’s wrong, for there is one other, although it is hidden away.
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck
, by Miss Beatrix Potter, which Gilly won in the school spelling contest, is a dearly loved possession, almost as dear as the photograph of her mother and brother, in a tarnished silver frame beside her bed. But she has never told her uncle or aunt about Miss Potter’s book, fearing it might be taken away from her. So she keeps it under the straw pallet that serves as her mattress.

The stairs are steep, narrow, and uncarpeted. Upstairs are two bedrooms, each with a single window: Mr. Harmsworth sleeps in one room, Mrs. Harmsworth in the other. On the upstairs landing is a wooden ladder to the attic, where Gilly sleeps, in the narrow room, scarcely wider than her narrow cot, that was once occupied by the unfortunate madwoman, locked away by her husband. I doubt if Gilly knows about that poor mother, or about the child who drowned. If the Harmsworths know, they wouldn’t likely have told her. And if she wonders who carved the desperate words in the wooden windowsill or drew the ugly pictures on the wall of her tiny attic room, she hasn’t asked.

But you and I, looking at those words and drawings, might very well understand why the villagers believe that Applebeck Orchard is haunted, if not by unquiet spirits, then by failed dreams, sad recriminations, and a despairing sense of loss. But the ghost itself must be real, for a great many people have seen it, including Gilly. She doesn’t always go to sleep when she is bid to bed, you see. On nights when the moon is bright, she reads her book beside her casement window, or simply looks out and marvels at the moon turning the orchard to a shimmering silver.

So whenever Gilly sees the ghostly figure in a black bonnet and long gray cloak drift out of the willows along the beck and move gracefully, almost floating along the footpath, carrying an old-fashioned candle lantern, she is less afraid than intrigued, feeling that the spirit is as much a part of the orchard as the moon and the silvery trees. She watches the figure—a woman, surely—as it becomes completely transparent, then takes form again, and at last fades formlessly, silently into the rising mist, like a waking dream. Gilly imagines that there is a certain sadness about her—the Gray Lady, she calls her—and loneliness. Yes, loneliness and deep regret, as if she is searching for a thing she has lost and still dearly loves. Once, when the Gray Lady raised her bent head and looked straight up at the window where Gilly crouched, she fancied that she glimpsed a faint, wistful smile in the shadow of the bonnet. And when one black-mitted hand was raised in a gesture of greeting, Gilly raised her own in return, as though there were a bond between herself—the lonely child alone in the attic—and the lonely creature in the gray cloak.