The Wicked Squire of Basedale

PART II.

The men, curious to hear what she would say, halted for a moment. Pointing with outstretched hand towards the fuming Squire, their prisoner shouted: “Ye better bid them let me go, for I warn ye, Squire, and mark my words. Remember the water which wets me shall drown you”

” Duck the vile hag until she lacks breath to cry out for mercy !” he screamed in a perfect fury.

So wild, in such a transport of angry passion was the Squire at being thus threatened by—what he was pleased to consider—an old witch-hag, had he not been forcibly detained by the parson and one or two others, would most certainly have committed an assault upon the dame.

However, for the present, he had to be contented with hurling threats after the retreating figure.

“Ease your steps, my masters, the pond will neither dry up or run away. My logs are not so young as they were, nor my feet so nimble,” exclaimed the dame, as the four scoundrels dragged her along.

” We want for ti see ya swim. good mother, an’ we can’t wait,” answered one of the four rascals.

At this sally, there was roar of laughter by all who heard the reply.

They had not far to go; a few minutes and the pond was reached—executioners and victim, the expectant crowd waiting to see one poor old dame cast bodily into a filthy pool.

Once again I warn ye to go your ways, and leave me in peace. I have done ye no harm.”

“Well,” said she, as they seized her by the legs and shoulders, ” let the judgment of this cruel act be upon ye.”

Next moment she was swung head first amongst the weeds and rushes.

Loud and long was the laughter indulged in by a certain of the mob as they watched the poor old soul struggle to the bank side, but when they would have laid hands on her on again to hurl her back their laughter was changed into a wail of woe. They discerned they were powerless to further molest her. Their arms were useless, their power for good or ill, work or play, had gone from them. They were paralysed,
and everyone who had joined in their coarse laugh, to their amazement and dismay, found they possessed not the power to use their lips either for laughter or speech —they had been suddenly struck dumb. Those who had rushed to hurl her back again now fell upon their knees and besought her pardon. They prayed for mercy, with tears rolling down their coarse faces. They implored her to restore the strength once again to their dead and useless limbs.

Heedless of their prayers, she passed on, leaving them helpless cripples, they in their turn cursing the Squire and their own folly.

Late that night the old lady left the village, and, with Dorothy’s consent, took her baby with her.

Dorothy was seen by many people the following day (Saturday) and they remarked amongst themselves how well and contented she looked, considering the terrible ordeal which awaited her on the two following days — of having to stand the church on the Sunday and then walk abroad almost naked the day after.

But on Sunday morning, as the dale folk, by order and invitation of the Squire, flocked from all parts, the news spread like fire that Dorothy Gray had escaped from all degradation and insult. She was dead! Rather than submit to an unjust sentence, she had put an end to her life by poisoning herself.

Many a heart was sad, for they felt to some extent on their had rested her blood. Not one of them amongst all those who had known her for long had dared to raise a protest against the wicked sentence they had heard passed upon her. It had been left to a perfect stranger—an old dame, too—to lift a voice in expostulation and dissent. Oh! but they had been cowards! and they felt ashamed. Home they returned with the conviction in their hearts that the body of Dorothy Gray, whom they had all loved, would be condemned to be buried at the four cross roads, with a stake driven through her gentle, loving breast. They knew the Squire would see that every indignity the body of the poor girl could be subjected to would be fully enforced.

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To return to Sammy. After many adventures, footsore and weary, he at last reached York, very proud in having so far accomplished his task, for Miss Dorothy’s sake. Thanks to the King’s seal, he was not long in finding Captain Arthur.

The Captain at once obtained leave to return home. It was Tuesday evening when he set out on his homeward journey, and when he reached Easingwold night was rapidly closing in.

Just outside, beyond the town street, he overtook an old dame, whom he at once recognised as friend of the stolen hen.

“There is not a moment to waste,” said she, seizing hold of his stirrup strap, and trotting by his side, “Don’t stop, but listen to what I say.

“Can thy steed bear spur to Helmsley?”

He assured her it was still fresh.

“Then spare it not, until its hoofs strike fire on Helmsley’s cobble-stones. There you will find a man with a fresh charger, ready saddled. Say to him, ‘Mally begs the loan of thy steed.’ Speedily change steeds, and just as thou leavest the town thou wilt meet a man with a leashed hound. Say unto him. ‘Mally needs thy hound to run a course.’ And the hound will run in front of thee. Waste thee not a moment, but make thy way to Carlton. Now mark my words. When just beyond the white stone, the hound will set up a hare and give chase. Then follow ! follow! follow! for on thy speed depends the life of thy wife. As a charm against all evil which may assail thee this night, take this and warm it near thy heart (handing him a bundle as she spoke). But bear yet in mind the words, wheresoever the bound may lead thee follow it, but be ye under no pretext beguiled into crossing a bridge, be it great or small, this night.”

As Arthur took the bundle from the dame, he heard a faint cry, and on opening the wraps he discovered a beautiful babe.

” Whose babe is this?” he exclaimed, much bewildered.

“It is thy own son and heir. Now, speed thee on, thy way; its mother hath urgent need for both of you.”

Smiting the steed with her land as she spoke, away he went. The last words he heard the caution, ” Cross not a bridge this night!”

Hardly understanding what the dame meant, he gathered from the serious tone in which she spoke there was danger to the one he loved most on earth. That being so, with the little child held tightly to his breast, be spurred onward, and never drew rein his fagged and blown steed sent the sparks flying as it clattered over Hemsley’s cobble stones. Here, as foretold, he found the man with the noble charger ready saddled. He repeated Mally’s request, changed steeds, and was off without a moment’s delay.

Again was the dame’s prediction proved true, for at the appointed place man with the hound was awaiting his arrival. On before it ran until the hare was put up, and from thence he rode the maddest course man ever rode. Now, for the first time, he realised the wisdom of burdening him with the child. The letter had set forth the great need there for his presence, and that, too, at the earliest moment. The dame again had hinted she was in great danger, and not a single moment must be lost: so he felt in his anxiety to reach her side, had it not been for the precious burden he carried—Dorothy’s bairn! his bairn— the most likely would have broken his neck.

But the bairn he carried warm against his heart bred within him a feeling of restraint. More than once he lost a few precious minutes in fording streams. Why he know not, but he had been cautioned to cross no bridge that night, and neither would he.

The moon had now risen full, brilliant, cold. By its light he presently began to recognise the country he was tearing through. He knew he was approaching the four cross roads on Kildale Moor.

Was it an inspiration which gave birth to the dreadful, the awful thought? It was now midnight, and, under sudden and mysterious circumstances, he was being hurried past the point at which he should have turned towards his own home —hurried past and in the direction of-—where? He felt—he knew it was in the direction of the cross roads? But why ? Surely, surely the fates could not be so cruel as to urge him onward, so that he might find himself at the side of a dishonoured grave?

The thought forced itself upon him that her trouble, whatever it might have been had been more than she could bear alone, and she had taken her life.

He prayed he might arrive in time if such a terrible thing was about to happen, and he swore as he tore along that so long as he lived to wield his sword no living soul should ever commit such an indignity upon the breast of his beloved Dorothy. No rough-hewn blunt-pointed stake should ever disfigure the breast whereon he had pillowed his head, and which had nourished the aim he held in his arms.

Even as this decision formed itself, the hare seemed to double its pace. The hound was equal to the demand made upon it, whilst the noble steed, without a touch of the spurs, sprang forward at a pace which its rider felt could not last for long.

And now, had it been daylight. he knew from where he was he could have seen what was taking place at the cross roads. Even in the brilliant moonlight be fancied he could discern in the far distance a crowd of moving figures. A few moments later he knew it was so, and one only was on horseback.

Afterwards he knew that the mounted figure was his own father; and that he, his own father, had commanded, urged, and sworn by turns that they should lower the body into the grave and drive the stake well home.

There were three reasons which prevented the wicked Squire’s commands being obeyed; firstly, the fearful judgment which had been so speedily visited upon those who had previously done his bidding—and they reasoned if the old dame cared for her when living, she doubtless would watch over her when dead; secondly, those present at the burial were there not, as an idle, careless rabble, but loving, remorseful mourners; and, thirdly, they had decided amongst themselves, if it were possible, Dorothy should have the earth shovelled over her, without any mark of dishonour made upon her body.

Seeing no one would obey his commands, the Squire had leaped from the saddle, lifted the stake, which he himself brought ready pointed, high above his head, with the evil intention of driving it deep within that fair young breast, when a voice cried, “Hold!”

At the sound of that voice, which he recognised, the stake fell to the ground. With one bound he vaulted into the saddle at the very instant that a hare rushed between the legs of his horse, followed the next moment by a hound.

One version has it, is that the hound worried the hare beneath the horse. But this must be incorrect. The other-—which must be nearer the original story—has it that the moment the hare ran under the belly of the Squire’s horse it vanished. The hound followed instantly, and being so furious, at being baulked of its prey, at once worried the horse.

Terrified at this sudden attack, it turned about, galloping rapidly away, altogether beyond the control of its rider. The hound followed the runaway horse and rider and was not seen again.

A moment later Arthur was amongst the mourners. And oh! what a sight met his gaze! There, upon the cold ground, lay his beloved wife by the side of a newly-dug grave.

Turning to those standing round, he exclaimed, through heart-breaking sobs:

“Little did I think you, whom I imagined were my friends and loved her, would thus have treated my wife—my darling Dorothy!”

Raising her in his arms as he knelt upon the ground, he kissed her cold, cold lips.

Then it was, like a flash, that the truth burst upon them. It was whilst thus he knelt that there stood at his side— and it was remarked afterwards that no one observed whence she came—the old dame, Mally.

Resting her hand upon his head, she whispered in his ear: “I once said—

‘For thy deed in my need,
In thy need I’ll help thee.’

And now let me fulfil my promise.”

Taking the child from one of the bystanders, to whom the Captain had surrendered It, Mally laid it upon its mother’s breast, whispering to its father, “Call very gently your wife by her name.”

The bewildered husband did so, and, to his unutterable joy, his beloved Dorothy opened her eyes.

It was a miracle!

“She lives!” they whispered, hardly above their breath.

There was no doubt about it for the mother drew the child still closer to her breast.

“Coats and capes, quick! Cover her up! Hurry her back to her bed. ”

For two days and nights the anxious husband watched by his wife’s couch, and at the expiration of a week Dorothy was pronounced out of danger.

She then confessed that Mally had given her a powder to make her sleep so soundly that she could not be awakened until afternoon on Monday, if then. But doubtless owing to her weakened state the powder had acted more powerfully than intended.

However, all had turned out, if not as quite expected, yet all right.

Little by little—more from outsiders than from his wife—Arthur learnt something of his father’s wicked persecution, and in time he half knew why.

The fourth day after his return a neighbour broke the news to him that the Squire had not been seen or heard of since he galloped away from the cross roads. Every inquiry and search had been made, but no tidings had been heard of him. All that was known was that within an hour of his galloping away from the cross roads his horse had returned to its stall riderless.

When Dorothy heard the news, there came to her mind in in instant the words which her good, kind nurse uttered just before she had been dragged from the presence of her cruel and unjust judge. Had she not almost shouted:

“Think on, Squire, the water which wets me shall drown thee”?

She at once explained so much as was needful to her husband, and bade him to have the pond searched.

The seventh cast of the drag hooks brought the dead body of the missing Squire to shore.

Was it a coincidence? Who can say, but those who found the dead Squire did not fail to note the fact that the lifeless form was discovered lying in the exact spot in which old Mally had been plunged by his orders.

So that old Mally’s words had proved themselves to be more than figurative—they had been fulfilled to the letter.

Thus ended the life of one who by his birth and power which wealth gave him might have accomplished so much good, and wrought so great evil.

Dorothy and her husband lived long and happily together.

Thus ends the story of the wicked Squire. As now rendered, one can readily perceive that much has been altered and much through time forgotten. Indeed, were it possible to compare the story as now given with the original, we should find many mis-statements and wilful alteration of details, as well as unaccountable omissions. In proof of these statements—and remember this applies in a greater or lesser degree to every legend —one of the commands given to the husband, the reader will remember, was: “Cross not a bridge this night.” Now, so far as any interest being attached to this reiterated command is concerned, it need not have been mentioned, because never after is there any exciting incident mentioned as being enacted near to or upon any bridge. That is a part of the original story, which through time has dropped out. Why we do not know. The little child, we are told, was given him as a charm against all evil influences of that night and there is not the least doubt but that in the original story these evils presented themselves, and were overcome, but the story as we have it handed on to us recounts the fact that he had a rattling gallop after a hare in the moonlight encumbered with a baby, and nothing more.

The Squire, in the original, was the monster, it may be a dragon. Again Mally, as we have her, is depicted as having a dual nature. First, she plays the part of a fairy godmother, then in the character of a witch. In the original there were two characters, symbolical of good and evil. Doubtless at one time the hare was an Evil spirit, chased and overcome by Good, the Hound, and it would be at this time (when the hare was being coursed) the real danger in crossing any bridge presented itself. Unfortunately, this pert of the story, which held the greatest interest, is now, I fear, for ever lost. It may be the one word Arthur points to a time long, long ago. Or, again, that may just be nothing more than an empty sound.