The Watchman of Orsden Moss

By J. Monk Foster

"The Watchman of Orsden Moss" by J. Monk Foster. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 4066338080653

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J. Monk Foster

The Watchman of Orsden Moss

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4066338080653

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.—THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.

CHAPTER II.—PEACE WITH HONOUR.

CHAPTER III.—A FAMILY GATHERING.

CHAPTER IV.—AARON SHELVOCKE EXPLAINS.

CHAPTER V.—THE NEW SQUIRE OF ORSDEN GREEN.

CHAPTER VI.—A FAIR YOUNG WAYFARER.

CHAPTER VII.—THE MAIDEN IN TROUSERS.

CHAPTER VIII.—THE OFFER OF LINDON PATTINGHAM.

CHAPTER IX.—THE WINNING OF THE MOSS.

CHAPTER X.—THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS.

CHAPTER XI.—ONLY A PIT BROW LASSIE.

CHAPTER XII.—THE WOOING OF LEVI.

CHAPTER XIII.—THE MEETING ON THE MOSS.

CHAPTER XIV.—AN UNINTENTIONAL EAVESDROPPER.

CHAPTER XV.—LEVI BECOMES MYSTERIOUS.

CHAPTER XVI.—AN UNCOUSINLY COMPACT.

CHAPTER XVII.—TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.

CHAPTER XVIII.—LETTICE IS HUMILIATED.

CHAPTER XIX.—THE RIFT IN THE LUTE.

CHAPTER XX.—NAOMI TAKES MAT INTO HER CONFIDENCE.

CHAPTER XXI.—AARON WARNS HIS NEPHEW.

CHAPTER XXII.—THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.

CHAPTER XXIII.—ACCIDENT OR MURDER?

CHAPTER XXIV.—WHERE THE DEAD MAN SLEPT.

CHAPTER XXV.—THE FINDING OF THE JURY.

CHAPTER XXVI.—THE NEW MASTER OF ORSDEN MOSS.

CHAPTER XXVII.—THE FLIGHT OF THE HEIR.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—THE NEW WATCHMAN.

CHAPTER XXIX.—THE FIRST LINK IN THE CHAIN.

CHAPTER XXX.—THE WOMAN IN BLACK.

CHAPTER XXXI.—PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN.

CHAPTER XXXII.—THE COMING OF MR. VARNIE.

CHAPTER XXXIII.—BEHIND THE WALL.

CHAPTER XXXIV.—MINING AND COUNTER-MINING.

CHAPTER XXXV.—THE PROSTRATION OF LETTICE FORRESTER.

CHAPTER XXXVI.—THE WATCHMAN TURNS KIDNAPPER.

CHAPTER XXXVII.—THE MESSAGE OF THE TRAMP.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.—THE VANISHMENT OF LETTICE.

CHAPTER XXXIX.—AN UNDERGROUND PRISON.

CHAPTER XL.—THE RAT IN THE TRAP.

CHAPTER XLI.—NAOMI'S FINAL ANSWER.

CHAPTER XLII.—THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

CHAPTER XLIII.—MAT SHELVOCKE EXPLAINS.

THE END

CHAPTER I.—THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.

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When the tram rumbled slowly into the little station of Orsden Green the only passenger that alighted was a stranger to the pompous, red-faced, thick-girthed little Stationmaster, standing on the platform, and the poor-looking, attenuated porter who was hovering about the white gate leading from the platform, to collect tickets if any were forthcoming.

As he stepped out of the carriage the solitary passenger glanced around him with the air of one unaccustomed to the place, stared at the new red-brick station-house in a quietly curious way, regarded the pursy, uniformed official as if he were half-inclined to venture some enquiries, and then seeing the waiting, would-be collector of tickets and the open gate, walked slowly towards them, drawing his voucher from his waistcoat as he went forward.

How far is the village of Orsden Green from here? the man queried, as he handed his railway ticket to the porter.

About a mile, sir, the long-legged, anaemic-looking railway servant answered readily. When you get to the highroad turn to the left and you can't miss it if you go right on. You are a stranger about these 'ere parts, sir?

You are right, my man, I'm a stranger, the traveller returned, with the ghost of a repressed smile flickering for an instant about the corners of his eyes. I suppose now there will be no place in the village where one could put up for a day or two?

There's only the Black Boar, sir; but both the landlord and his wife are nice folk, an' I daresay they'd make you comfortable. Anyway, if you was thinkin' of stoppin' you might see, sir.

Thank you, I will. Very warm, isn't it? Here's a drink. Good afternoon, my man.

Thanks. Good day, Sir; turn to the left, mind.

Passing through the open gate the stranger went along the downward slope of smooth cinders, and in a few moments was standing in the country lane over which the railway ran. Without pausing the man set out at a rapid pace to the left, went beneath the stone archway, and passing a newly whitewashed farmstead, gave a hearty Fine afternoon, Mr. Brodrick, to a burly, grey-bearded farmer he met coming out of the farmyard.

The farmer stared hard at the stranger, grunted back some indistinct response, and then turned to follow the other with his eyes. But the man who had come by train to the small station at Orsden Green trudged on in stolid unconcern, drawing an old briar from his vest pocket, ramming down the dust and tobacco with a thick, brown finger, and soon big puffs of pungent smoke-wreaths were rising from his lips to eddy and melt away on the summer air.

The stolid wayfarer was a common enough looking individual. He seemed to be about five-and-fifty years of age, was of medium height and goodish build, with blunt, intelligent features, whitish hair, and iron-grey beard. He had fine eyes of greyish-blue, and they were keen and clear as those of a man in his twenties; and his garments and general bearing were such as one might expect to find in a respectable member of the working classes.

Still smoking stolidly, and trudging measuredly, the pedestrian came to the summit of a gentle brow up which he had been pacing. Here he paused, drew out a red cotton handkerchief removed his soft felt hat, and mopped his perspiring countenance.

Then his eyes swept the whole of the surrounding countryside, and the altered look in the depths of those grey-blue eyes betokened some regret and much quiet enjoyment. He appeared at that moment as a man might be expected to look when at length, after years of dreaming, the Land of Promise lay before his eyes.

The view upon which the stranger was gazing was a somewhat fair one to find in the heart of Lancashire, within a score of miles of the greatest seaport in the world, and about a similar distance from the Capital of Cotton.

Before the man, as he paused there, pleased and perspiring, the white dusty highway stretched away in a gentle declivity, between tall, straggling, blossom-laden hedgerows, behind which were pleasant expanses of cultivated fields. A quarter of a mile away, where the road vanished from his sight, knots of scattered houses marked the centre of the village of Orsden Green, and the square tower of grey-brown stone, rising high above the tallest chimneys in the place, denoted the whereabouts of the sacred ground wherein the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept in peace.

To the east of the village the green lands swept upward for half a mile or more, slowly at first, then sharply, till the crest of the Bispham Hills was reached. Almost on the top of the green ridge a white farmhouse stood out clearly, and the great sails of the slowly revolving windmill were vividly silhouetted against the blue of the summer skies, and could be seen in Coleclough, the nearest town, which was just five miles away.

On the highest point of the undulating sweep of green upland a low, roughly constructed pile of unhewn stones indicated the site of the old Bispham Beacon, whereon, in days long fled, watch-fires had flared forth when danger had threatened the land.

The whole of the countryside lying on the western side of Orsden Green was flat, and only commonly interesting. There were many fields and a few farmhouses, a green lane or two, and paths across the wheat-fields and grass lands, and here and there a clump of trees.

Orsden Moss and Orsden Hall were close by the village. The former was a barren stretch of turfy moor upon which nothing grew save rushes, marsh marigolds, and a hundred other vagabond plants useless to the husbandman. Now and again, in past years, ineffectual attempts at cultivation had been made, and in times more remote still the moss had supplied the villagers with peat for their cottage fires.

Orsden Hall was situated on the edge of the moss, where the ground rose somewhat and the soil was better. It was a tumble-down affair now, but had been a residence of some pretensions and consequence when a few of the Orsden Green folks were lads and lasses. There were clumps of trees about the house, a big, rambling old orchard behind it, a neglected lawn and flower patches in front, and the whole was surrounded by a tall, ragged, untrimmed hedge of hawthorn and hazel, over and about which the fragrant, yellow-blossomed honeysuckle and the white-chaliced bindweed clambered still and flourished in their seasons.

Standing there on the summit of the high-road the upper windows of the Hall were just visible to the resting and reconnoitring wayfarer, and as his keen grey eyes swept over them for an instant a most forbidding scowl blackened his countenance. Then his gaze was hurriedly withdrawn, and flashing eastward to the foot of the green shelving upland rested upon the only really black spot in that wide expanse of summery greenness.

This was the Orsden Green Colliery; but one might have peered about in vain for the towering head-gear of heavy baulks of timber that usually guards the entrance to a mine. The colliery was worked by means of a tunnel, or day-eye, driven under the range of hills, and for twenty or thirty years had furnished more or less—generally less—employment to the male portion of the villagers.

The wayfarer's eyes rested on the engine-house, office, heaps of coal and dirt, the tram-line running northward to the railway siding, with a look of recognition in them. It was evident he knew the old-fashioned, antiquated colliery, and it was evident also that the recollection revived no bad memories such as those the sight of the Hall had recalled.

Just the same old spot that I have carried with me all these years, the man murmured to himself as he pursued his way villagewards. Not a single thing seems to have changed. There's not a new house added to those I recollect—not one of them missing. But what of the folk who lived in the cottages when I went away? Are they unchanged too? And is that miserable-natured, flinty-souled old scoundrel still alive and at the Hall? Well, well, I shall learn soon enough now. And the others? What has become of them—Matthew, Luke, and poor Judith?

The man's voice trembled just a little as those names fell slowly one after the other from his tongue, and a generous moisture gathered in his sharp eyes. The sight of the peaceful-looking village had sent his thoughts back with a rush to the incidents and happenings of many years before—the little delights and petty annoyances which then made up the sum of his life, and the one foolish adventure which had driven him outlawed and outcast abroad.

And now he was back again in the green, sleepy village wherein he first drew the breath of life, and the ban which had been placed on him in early manhood hung over him still, now that he had topped the hill of life and was slowly and gracefully sliding towards the black gulf of men named Death.

But thoughts of the ban gave our friend no deep concern. If the face of the land had changed imperceptibly, he knew that he might expect changes in those who had known him in his youthful days. Of all those whom he had left behind, and remembered still, how many were in the land of the living now? Not many, he felt assured; and, if a few remained, would they be able to recall his name even, much less recognise him?

Thinking of these things, the man went down the falling high road, and when the first cottage was at hand he came face to face with the first of the villagers. He knew that cottage well, and paused a score of yards away to take stock of it again. It was a low house of stone, and stood by itself, with a strip of garden surrounded by a closely trimmed hedge of privet, in which was set a small white wicket. Then he noticed a tall, girlish figure at the little gate, and he resumed his walk.

The girl was at the wicket still when he approached. Somehow the pedestrian was minded to speak to the village maiden, and when he was opposite her he drew up, and with a clumsy attempt at civility half-raised his hat, saying—

You must excuse me, my girl, but isn't this Orsden Green?

It is, Sir, the girl said, readily.

And where is the Black Boar?

Just a few strides further on. You can't miss it, for there's a big drinking-trough for the horses before the door.

Thank you very much! He lifted one foot to take himself away when another thought stayed his progress. You'll excuse me, he said, awkwardly, but perhaps you can tell me if any one of the name of Shelvocke lives in the village?

Shelvocke! she cried, and her eyes sparkled, her lips parted with a smile. Yes, Sir; there are several in the village. I myself am one of them!

You?

His eyes lit up with a new, a sudden interest, and he regarded the budding specimen of womanhood critically. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and olive-skinned, had good features, and a tall, graceful, well-developed figure for one of seventeen. In a few years she would be a beauty of the dark, imperious type. While he regarded her he was speaking.

The Shelvocke I had in my mind, miss, he said slowly, was a man of the name of Aaron—Aaron Shelvocke. Perhaps you wouldn't know him. He was a mate of my own once, but that was some twenty-five or thirty years since.

Oh, he's been dead ever so long, Miss Shelvocke answered lightly, as she ran a brown lissom hand along the sheaf of dusky tresses hanging down her back.

Dead! Well, well! I thought I'd look him up as I was passing this way, miss. Surely he wasn't related to you in any way, was he?

I believe he was, Sir, she replied. Of course I never knew him, but I have heard my father talk about him. Uncle Aaron was a bit wild, as you must know, if he was a friend of yours; and when he went away to Australia or New Zealand they never heard from him afterwards.

But how did they get to know that Aaron was dead?

Somebody brought the news of his death. He was killed, I believe, by somebody at the gold-diggings.

Poor old Aaron! Poor old Aaron! the man said sympathetically. To think that I should only think of looking you up after all these years to find you dead—dead and buried in a foreign country. And so he was killed at the gold-diggings? Well, well; Aaron always was a wild roving sort of chap. But I was fond of him for all that. Your Uncle Aaron wasn't a bad sort, my girl!

Perhaps not, but he got a bad name, didn't he?

Nothing worse than poaching! Nothing worse than that! the stranger exclaimed warmly. And so your father was one of my old friend's brothers, was he? Now, which of them, miss, for I believe there were two or three brothers?

My father's name is Luke Shelvocke, the girl answered, not without some pride; and he is, or was, the Underlooker, and Manager as well, of the Orsden Green Colliery over there.

I don't remember him; but I'm glad to hear that one of poor Aaron's relatives is alive. And so, Miss Shelvocke, I understand that your father isn't the Manager of the old colliery now?

No, Sir! And a faint frown flickered across the girl's strong and darkly handsome face.

Retired, I dare, say, through age?

Oh, no! The colliery is stopped for good, and folks are saying it will never be reopened again.

Indeed! How's that?

The people who owned it—the Vanshaws—have all gone to wreck and ruin, and the whole of the place is to be sold up. That is the reason, Sir; and I believe the sale is to take place on Monday next.

How sad! How sad, to be sure! the man muttered commiseratingly, and the girl, whose eyes were on the speaker, wondered how it was that the look on his face was entirely out of accord with the tones in which he spoke. That will be a bad job for all the villagers, I suppose? he said.

It will, Sir; but I for one shall be glad to get away from this dull place!

Is your father thinking of moving, then?

He hasn't said so yet, but I hope he will! Why should he stay here when there is no further work for him!

Just so. I dare say he is in the house now.

Oh, no; he is at the colliery, where they are paying off all the work-people for the last time. I must be off now to get his dinner ready or I shall catch it. Good afternoon, Sir. She half-turned from the gate.

One moment, my girl, he cried. Tell your father, will you, that an old friend of his brother's was enquiring about Aaron. I may see him before I go away, as I intend to stay in the village for a day or two. I shall put up at the Black Boar, don't you call it?—if I can get no other place.

Shall I give him your name? she queried, with her fine black eyes fixed full on his own grey ones.

Of course—I'd quite forgot. Say Mr. Brown—Mr. Israel Brown, of Preston—was asking about his brother Aaron.

She nodded her bare, dusky head quickly, he nodded more gravely, and then they parted; she made her way to household affairs, he went thoughtfully towards the village inn.

A bonny wench that, and a smart one, too, he murmured to himself as he went along. And so Luke is alive and kicking yet. I wonder if he is as miserly and religious as he used to be? And those other Shelvockes the wench spoke of? Who are they? Very likely some of the children of Matthew and Judith. Well, well!

---

CHAPTER II.—PEACE WITH HONOUR.

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The man who had called himself Mr. Israel Brown, and given his address as Preston, had made his way to the Black Boar, and, as the obliging porter had suggested, had succeeded in obtaining apartments there for such time as he might require them.

The inn was of the low, roomy, rambling character so often encountered in village hostelries of an antique date, for the Black Boar had been a fully-licensed house when stage coaches were common and railways were just being talked of. It stood by itself, and back from the highway a score or more of yards, the space in front being paved with the slippery round-topped cobbles to be met with now in country places only.

Behind the house was a great expanse of greensward, kept carefully and set apart for the lovers of the gentle art of bowling; and the green was much frequented not only by the villagers, but by driving parties from Coleclough. Beyond the bowling green was a pleasant orchard, and pretty stretches of cultivated land; and as the green itself was surrounded on three sides by a tall hedgerow, white with blossom, the place looked attractive enough when, some hours after his arrival, Mr. Israel Brown, of Preston, sauntered out of his quarters for a smoke in the open air.

Sauntering round the green our friend came upon a bench set under a low, thickly-foliaged sycamore. Here he seated himself and proceeded to fill his pipe, and, that object accomplished, he lit it and puffed away placidly, his eyes following the movements of the trundlers of the woods, whose cheery voices raised in play floated to him on the soft summer air.

Mr. Israel Brown had been sitting there for perhaps a dozen minutes when his glance, straying around the wide square of green turf, chanced to fall upon the figure of a new-comer, a man, who was standing at that end of the green nearest to the public-house.

Instantly Mr. Israel Brown became very excited in his quiet way, and deeply interested. His keen, greyish-blue eyes were riveted upon that tall, gaunt, stooping, one-armed figure, with its ragged beard of whity-red tint, and its general air of indigent age. His pipe was withdrawn from his lips, and allowed to expire, the air of placid contentment had flown from his face and left it almost pallid, and his whole demeanour bespoke one who had been surprised greatly and considerably alarmed.

Almost as quickly as he had lost his spirits Mr. Brown regained them. With a low laugh at his own discomposure he put his fears away, struck a match, relit his pipe, and smoked away stolidly as before. But his eyes were still bent upon that gaunt, dilapidated-looking figure; and even as he dropped the glowing match he was aware that the man who had attracted his notice was coming his way.

He waited wondering, but no longer fearful, and nearer and nearer the man drew on the narrow path of gravel which ran alongside the bowling green. Then he was near at hand, was standing with a servile, apologetic bearing near the wooden bench upon which Mr. Brown was still smoking.

I beg yore pardin, Sir, the one-armed man began, but may I ax if you might be Mester Brown?

I might be, my man, said the man addressed merrily, and may I ask who you may be?

Owd Dan Coxall, at yore sarvice, sir!

And what can I do for you, Mr. Dan Coxall?

Well, sir, the older man replied, as he seated himself on the vacant end of the bench with the slow stiffness of a rheumatic subject, Mester Challis, th' landlord, were tellin' me that you was askin' a lot of questions abeawt O'sden Green, sir!

So I was; and the landlord was good enough to suggest to you, Mr. Dan Coxall, that you were the very man to tell me all I wanted to know about the place and its folks?

That's jus' it, sir.

Well, I shall be much obliged if you will. But suppose we have a drink first?

Thanky, sir! Mahne's a pahnt o' ale—here, Betsy, wench!

The servant came at Coxall's call, took their orders, supplied the refreshments, and then, when the liquid had been sampled, and each other's health toasted, Israel Brown remarked,

And now, Dan, let me begin my questioning by asking how long you have lived at Orsden Green?

A' my life. I were int' village nigh on sixty-nine 'ears, an' I never was eawt on't.

You must have known a few of the Vanshaws then—the Squires of Orsden Green, as they were called?

I should think I did know some on 'em! Why, sir, I were gamekeeper for Squire Vanshaw ten 'ears afore I lost this 'ere arm in his sarvice; but it's more nor fahve an' twenty 'ear sin' neaw! Th' fust Squire Vanshaw I knowed were Mester Drake Vanshaw, him as nearly ruint th' estate wi' racin' an' gamblin'. Then there were his brother, as was cawd Miser Vanshaw, and when he deed (died) soon after I lost this 'ere limb—here the speaker held up the remnant of the stump—his son, y'ung Mansford Vanshaw, came on, and he were a rare plucked un he were.

What was there remarkable about this Mansford Vanshaw, Dan? Brown asked, as the old gamekeeper paused and buried his face in the mouth of his pint pot.

Well, sir, Dan resumed, as he wiped his lips with his knotted brown knuckles, it were lahke this 'ere. The Miser Squire was a reg'lar stric' soart, an' he made his son Mansford to toe th' mark jus' lahke a pore ev'ryday Christian. The y'ung felly stood it gradely weel, too, till his fayther popped off, an' then begun to shake a loose leg, an' no mistake abeawt it. He took after his uncle, Drake Vanshaw; an', bit by bit, ev'rythin' owd Miser Vanshaw left behint him his son has made ducks an' drakes on! The last bit or two will be getten shut on nex' Monday afternoon. But there's not much neaw, Sir. Once, I've heerd mi fayther say, that the Vanshaws ownt ev'rythin' for two miles on every sahde o' O'sden. An' neaw——

And now, the other broke in with an oath, the whole cursed race of them is wiped out of the country. Well, let them go. Why should you and I grumble, Dan? They were no good to anybody. Even you, who, you say, lost a limb in their service, are left now to live upon your old friends or die in the workhouse.

Oh, th' owd Squire didn't trate me so badly, Coxall returned with a wag of his head. When I lost mi arm he fo'nd me a job up at th' ha', an' when Ben Rufford cocked up his toes I geet his place as watchman at th' colliery, which I kept till to-day.

And now that the colliery is stopped you are thrown out of work, I suppose, Dan?

That's so, mester; but if some'dy buys th' place I dersey I may get my owd shop back again.

I hope so, Dan! Are you empty? Well, tell your friend, Betsy, to repeat our dose.

A little later, Mr. Israel Brown returned to the attack he was making on Dan Coxall's stores of village lore.

And this Mansford Vanshaw, Dan—what has become of him? Is he dead, or alive still?

He's kickin' yet, they say, somewheer in Lunnun; but he went to smash a few months sin', an' those as he was owin' money to has bin' carryin' th' place on. They're tired on't it seems; an' th' whole job lot will swap honds nex' Monday.

Well, if the place is sold, I hope the colliery will be restarted, and that you are put back in your old shop as night-watchman.

Thanky, Sir! Yore good health.

I suppose, Dan, after a pause, the man resumed, that you wouldn't remember a family of the name of Melvocke—no, Shelvocke, I am sure it was—that once lived in the village some twenty or thirty years ago?

I should think I do! was the emphatic rejoinder. Why, Mester Brown, it was one o' that theer very fam'ly that caused me to looas this arm.

Indeed!

It were so. That was a rare plucked 'un, and they ca'ed him Aaron—big A, little a r o n. He weren't a'together a bad soart, wasn't Aaron, but he geet mixed up wi' a bad lot o' pooachers, had a row wi owd Miser Vanshaw, was sacked fro' the colliery, an' went to the devil afore he flew his kite.

"And was this same Aaron Shelvocke, as you call him, really responsible for the loss of